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A Sweet Disorder

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Gwen finds a quiet spot in the corner and slides into the booth. She likes this part of the shop best, where it looks more like a library or a bookstore than a cafe. There's enough room in her seat to sit comfortably cross-legged and the fairy lights strung up around the room soften all the harsh corners. The music from the used record and other sundries section of the shop is just loud enough to contribute to the ambient noise in the cafe and Gwen happily pulls a notebook and two pens from her messenger bag.

Before she can start writing, the tread of boots sound on the wooden steps that lead to her corner and Gwen can't help but look up and smile.

"Hello, lovely," Morgana says and places a mug and dish at Gwen's elbow. "You're looking very writerly today."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment and say thank you."

"It definitely is. And I think it's the scarf, very smart."

Gwen shakes her head and glances down at the frothy, purple and blue paisley scarf she threw on that morning to make a tee shirt and jeans look a bit more like a proper work outfit. Morgana always does this, makes her feel suddenly more aware of herself, self-conscious for a moment and then oddly pleased with her own smiles and words and manner of dress.

"Thank you," Gwen says again, this time nodding at the cup of Earl Grey and plate of biscuits. "Are you going to drift off and do manager things tonight? Or can you finish early?"

Morgana fingers the edge of Gwen's scarf, then touches her hair, brief and soft and intimate. "I have about an hour of work to do, then I'm handing it all over to Arthur in the hopes it cures his latest obsession with organizational methods."

Gwen just laughs and decides she really doesn't want to know what they're attempting this time at the shop; keeping her office and creative writing group organized is enough.

Three cups of tea, one plate of assorted biscuits, and two Dylan records later, Gwen has four pages of ideas mapped out for her latest project. Morgana's presence is a gentle hum at the back of her thoughts, a quick press of a warm hand to her shoulder, a shared smile over the bergamot-scented steam of her refilled mug.

By the end of the hour, the hum has become a soft pulse of need. Gwen packs up her bag, brings her dishes to the front of the cafe, and rests a hand at the small of Morgana's back when she stands at Gwen's side.

"Back to yours?" Morgana asks. Her hair's tied up in a messy bun and she's rolled the sleeves of her black button-up shirt to her elbows. Only Morgana can pull this off quite right -- her hair mussed, her shirt two sizes too big, a frayed rip at the knee of her skinny jeans -- and look polished.

Wild civility, Gwen thinks, touches her tongue to her lips at the sight of the dark tendrils that tickle the back of Morgana's neck, and says, "Yes."

And again, "Yes," when she can finally shut the door of her flat behind them and press her face to the back of Morgana's neck. "Two weeks is too long."

"I know," Morgana says, and sighs, low and sweet at the back of her throat. It's been two weeks since Gwen's heard that sound, two weeks since they've found time to be this: together, alone.

Gwen's lips move from the soft tendrils at the nape of Morgana's neck to just behind her ear, where she breathes lightly to pull another deep sigh from Morgana. They're quiet and still for a moment, so close that Gwen can feel the beat of Morgana's heart against her body.

Then Morgana turns in Gwen's arms, smiles in that ridiculously coy way she has, and then -- then -- the quiet moment snaps between them and they are kissing, rough and wet and needy. Morgana's hands are all over Gwen, tugging off her scarf and sliding up under her shirt, warm palms on her stomach and her breasts and nimble fingers unclasping her bra.

Gwen waits until she has Morgana bare shoulders and breasts in front of her, then she pulls the clip from her hair. She loves this moment -- the scent of tea and coffee and books and patchouli-vanilla perfume oil on Morgana's skin, her long, dark hair curling around her breasts and brushing the tips of her tight, pink nipples. Gwen cups her hands around Morgana's breasts, brushes her thumbs over and over the tips of her nipples until she knows from Morgana's short, sharp breaths that she's wet and needy.

Her own longing is a shivering, desperate sensation, the uncontrollable desire to be touched and filled. Gwen grabs Morgana's hand, guides it between her thighs, and rubs herself against the firm press of Morgana's thumb to the seam of her jeans.

"Here," she says, voice high with need, "now, just..."

Morgana smiles again, and there's some fumbling with buttons and zippers and Gwen thinks maybe they ought to find the bedroom or the floor, but then there is the slide of warm fingers into her jeans and --

-- and oh. Oh, god, there's not time for anything else but this, the rise of her breath and scent of Morgana's hair in her face and the pounding of blood through her body. Morgana touches her just right, not gently or carefully, but firm and almost rough, and there is a wildness between them, one they catch and control only with fretted whispers and jagged kisses.

Gwen comes fast and hard, biting kisses against Morgana's lips. Afterwards, she kisses her more tenderly, whispering broken lines of poetry against the corner of her mouth and the curve of her collarbone.

She kisses Morgana like she can erase the time they spend apart and alone.