Merlin Morgana Dresses Novels & Stories

Morgana stepped away from him and smoothed the front of her white silk gown. She looked radiant. The fitted dress hugged her slender waist before flowing gracefully over elegant curves. Flowers were woven through her dark hair, and confidence shone in every smile she gave the crowd. Only then did I notice the wedding ring already resting on her finger. A wave of dizziness crashed over me. My knees almost gave out beneath me. "Morgana." My voice shook. "What is this?" She lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "It looks exactly like what it is, Ophelia."

Agatha addressed Morgana without hesitation, "Morgana, your complexion seems unusually pale today. Do share the name of your foundation; I simply must try it." Morgana's laughter echoed through the chamber, a chilling melody of mockery and malice. "Ah, Agatha, my dear," she cooed, her voice dripping with artificial warmth and a dark allure. Her gaze, piercing and devoid of all kindness, locked with Agatha's. "Such potential squandered in your sister's shadow." A sly smile curved Morgana's lips as she leaned closer, the air around them growing thick with her brewing enchantments. "The power you hold, it's potent, raw—familiar to my own. Join me, Agatha. Together, we're destined to reign supre

At the edge of the unnamed gods who lined up behind Hilda was Morgana Le Fay and she as well took upon a different clothing, from that she has been seen on previously. Her long and overflowing hair was split in two and plaited. One flowed at her back and the other was brought over her shoulder and her breast. She had a crown, more like a thiara, which was pushed back a bit from her hair line. Her neck was engulfed by the metal bits of a neck choker which wrapped itself around her. They were seven bits of metals forged into one. The garment which now she was seen in was of the colour grey and behind her was a large sigil drawn and floating from her neck area and above. The sigil as it was see

He noticed her facial expressions change, her lips which always stood same without moving except when she was talking began to take the form of a sneer. It must be a bad memory she recalled. It must be someone she remembered. This gave him more conviction, it made his belief skyrocket higher. She was Morgana, she could be. She might be. He thought. He moved away a bit when he saw her dressing. She was wearing her white blazers on top the gown she had worn. She looked beautiful. Like a swan. He thought when he came out and watched her leave. She always wore white and regardless of how she repeated the same color everyday on different designs of clothings, she always looked beautiful in each a

I should have been excited—this was something I had dreamed of, something I wanted—but a strange unease settled deep in my chest, like a whisper of warning I couldn’t quite hear. Morgana, Ivy, and Kora were in my room, helping me prepare. The ceremonial dress I wore was a deep crimson, the fabric flowing around me like a river of blood—bold, untamed, and alive. It clung to my form like it knew me, fitted at the bodice with delicate embroidery that shimmered like flame when the light caught it. Intricate patterns of gold thread traced ancient runes across the sleeves and neckline, symbols of unity, strength, and fate. The skirt fanned out in layers of silk and velvet, trailing behind me like

Laila says reluctantly, looking in the mirror's reflection at the companion who has been with her day and night in recent days. Morgana's hands have been painted with henna, and her dress has a beaded neckline, small sleeves with a sheer, flowing fabric that goes down to her feet, leaving her hands free, a veil adorned with gemstones, and a crown securing Morgana's red curls in an updo. The billowing fabric of the dress covers her legs and feet, and it's adorned with countless pieces of jewelry. "Ah, now you're ready. My God, you look so beautiful," Laila says, moved.

"That's how long it will take me to reach you if something goes wrong. Five seconds. Remember that." "I will." The Meridian was exactly as I remembered—all glass and chrome and expensive minimalism, the kind of place where investment bankers closed deals and celebrities hid behind dark glasses. I arrived exactly at noon to find Morgana already seated at a corner table, visible from the street but positioned to see everyone who entered. She looked perfect, as always. Hair glossy and artfully styled, makeup flawless, wearing a dress that probably cost more than my car. And the fake pregnancy bump was convincing—expertly padded to suggest four months, positioned just right under the flowing fab

He finished talking to her, and then his phone rang, thankfully, she couldn’t get to add anything else. “Yeah? I have the file, let me go and check it,” Aramis was probably going to see his office so soon after his steps faded away, I exited the bathroom in blue shorts and a purple crop top. I walked out of the bedroom to go after him and see his reaction when I spotted something unusual and stopped in the midsteps. I saw Morgana leaving the mansion wearing a black gown and barefoot. She even looked hesitant when she rushed out. Instead of going after Aramis, I changed my route and went after her instead.

She looked remarkably calm for a woman whose knees were still shaking from orgasms so strong, seismic equipment had surely felt the tremors. Scrubbed face, hair whisked back in a single, severe braid down her back. Nothing sexy…if she didn’t include Alyssa’s tight purple submissive-maiden leather get-up in the picture. That, unfortunately, was hard to ignore. She wasn’t about to go prowling through Jack’s closet for something else to wear. Too intimate. Chewing her lip, Morgan hesitated. She couldn’t afford to have the bastard to think the outfit was the closest thing to an engraved invitation for sex. Maybe if she gave off her best get lost vibes, he’d buy a clue. If not…

And it was Luna's funeral; why would she dress extravagantly like that, and in red, for that matter? “Morgana always dresses in red.” Victor’s first daughter replied, joining us on her feet. I folded my hands together in perplexity. Unsure of what she meant by ‘she always dresses in red’. Even if she loved red so much she could have made an exception on a day like this. “I can’t wear other colors of dresses. It’s like a psychological disease.” She said, bowing her head slightly. For a moment, I was speechless. Was it like a rare disease or what?