Soujin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2008-06-19 02:32 am
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2008-06-19 02:32 am
"And the Lips that Say 'Come On, Taste Us'..."
Okay! A random scattering of writey things that I do NOT totally hate, as this is a kind of total about-face from usual.
Firstly, weird Sagramordred for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mhari, in which Mordred flails and Sagramore does not really succeed in making things better.
"For Christ's sake--"
"Shut up." Mordred grits his teeth. "Shut up. Put your clothes on and get out. I don't want you here." He gets up--he's already dressed, did it while Sagramore was sleeping. "You won't admit what he's done, fine. Be like my father. Be blind and stupid and dissemble and hide from everything that should be addressed, and you'll watch it all go to hell, just as he's doing, refusing the truth until he gets every single one of my brothers killed--"
"I know, I know we don't agree." There's in Sagramore's voice a note of pleading, soothing and pleading, as if Mordred were a child to be talked down from a tantrum, and Mordred jerks away from him when Sagramore reaches out.
"Oh, ay, we don't agree."
"But you needn't send me away, just the same. My morals aren't compromised."
"You don't have any, that's why," he says, venomously, although Sagramore's said it a hundred times before and it's never been an insult.
"Yes, I know."
"I'm not going to lie down with you every night knowing you think I'm a fool and a traitor, damn you! I'm in the right. He let that self-righteous bastard kill them all, every one of them, for nothing--was it Gaheris who was making love to his Queen at night? Did Gaheris deserve to lie in his own damned blood in pieces because he wasn't enough of a man to agree to watch her burn? Who in hell do you think is at fault? Me? I don't have them any more."
"You have me," Sagramore says, softly.
"I have you. A sickly whore who'll take me to bed on sentiment."
"Sentiment is worth nothing?" with that slight smile that means he's trying to evade, to make Mordred laugh and relax and cease to question him; but Mordred is angry, is far too angry, and will not let him smile his way out of the fact that he stands by Arthur, stands by Arthur when Mordred has loved him for years--
"I don't want you," he says.
"Hu barat--"
"No. Don't you dare. Don't you throw that at me."
"As long as we're reserving our epithets, I decline to be called a whore." Still smiling.
"God and Jesus. You're a whore. You're a whore and you have no loyalties, and when I need you--"
"You need me?"
"Not any more."
Sagramore gets to his feet, in that slowish, pleasant way he has, as though movement is a comfortable task, and offers both his hands. "I want to do something for you. I know we don't agree, absolutely I know it, but at least I can lie down with you, and if that's worth something I'm more than happy--you know I love you, Sir. You know I do."
He has resolve, he has no intention of letting Sagramore win him over, but he takes his hands for a moment--Sagramore's grip is firm and strong, and his skin is shady, and Mordred's is pale, and Mordred is too angry to notice whether he's warm or cold, but Sagramore's hands are cold. Sagramore's hands are always cold, and his eyes are always tired.
"You're betraying me," Mordred says. It comes out desperate.
"No, no, nem, I swear I'm not. I only do what I think is right, but I love you, you know I love you. If you fight him I'll find you afterward. I don't hold grudges, I don't try to change your mind."
"You'll fight against me."
Sagramore makes a small grimace, a wince of a smile. "Well, yes, I will do that. But when it's over I won't remember that I did."
"God. Christ."
"Here--," Sagramore says, and kisses him, softly, warmly. Mordred feels it better than he did last night; last night was hot and fervent and he was blind with fury and he doesn't remember it, but he feels every part of this kiss, and Sagramore tugging him gently close, and it feels so good. He remembers why he's always relied on Sagramore, because Sagramore understands him, and makes him feel well, and safe, and not alone, because Sagramore is what he called Mordred--true-friend, heart's friend--he remembers that.
And he also remembers how he is betrayed, and how he will be alone. Gawain is dead. Gareth and Gaheris and Agravain are dead, and their children, and Sagramore, after all these deaths, still won't stand by him. The kiss doesn't change that. It doesn't make him any less alone; and all his self-control comes back.
When Sagramore draws away he touches Mordred's hair, smoothing it down--he likes to do that. "There," he says. "There. You know I love you."
Mordred leans forward, slipping his arms about him, leaning his chin on Sagramore's shoulder, which is a little difficult because Sagramore is taller. Against him Sagramore relaxes, and suddenly his hand snakes out and he catches a handful of Sagramore's curly hair and pulls, hard, pulls his head back. Sagramore hisses his breath through his teeth.
"You're my Judas, lover."
Sagramore jerks away. "Damn it! Mordred, for Jesu's sake, pity's sake--"
"Get out, damn you. I don't want you."
This time he listens. He searches for his clothes hastily and dresses, wordlessly, not looking at Mordred, and then he goes from the room.
Mordred sits down on the bed, puts his head in his hands, and does nothing at all.
~~~
Also, photofics! All Arthurian. Are you surprised? (No.)
[Mordred/Gwenhwyfach, red]
When he comes home the first time, unhurt, his face sunburned red and his hands sore from holding reins, but no injury done to him by any other man, she sits down on the bed and cries with relief, never mind what he thinks.
~~~
[Ragnelle, tight]
Ragnelle doesn't have a favourite among her children, loving them all equally, but none of them, not even Guinglain, who has her blood, makes her feel as close to her home as Florence does when he puts his arms tight around her and she smells the dark rich warmth of the forest in his hair.
~~~
[Mordred/Gaheris, thin]
His whole body is thin and graceless, moreso even than Mordred remembers, when he comes back from exile, but his kisses are the same, hungry, desperate, his mouth still as cold as a winter sea.
~~~
[Mordred/Gwenhwyfach/Gawain, reflect]
Mordred's face reflects Gawain's, and both of them reflect their mother; and yet when Gwenhwyfach is lying between them she knows one from the other by the subtle graces of their bodies, Gawain's stronger, wider, warmer, Mordred's lithe and beautiful, and knows that neither of them are like Morgause.
~~~
[Sagramore/Courfeyrac, fair]
Sagramore speaks beautifully, in a flow of words Courfeyrac can't understand, but which are glorious against his skin and murmured into his hair, until it's too much and he bursts out in French, part profanity and part endearment, his fingers tight on Sagramore's shoulders; Sagramore laughs, his breath heavy and drowsy with love-making, and says, "That's fair, that's fair."
Firstly, weird Sagramordred for
mhari, in which Mordred flails and Sagramore does not really succeed in making things better."For Christ's sake--"
"Shut up." Mordred grits his teeth. "Shut up. Put your clothes on and get out. I don't want you here." He gets up--he's already dressed, did it while Sagramore was sleeping. "You won't admit what he's done, fine. Be like my father. Be blind and stupid and dissemble and hide from everything that should be addressed, and you'll watch it all go to hell, just as he's doing, refusing the truth until he gets every single one of my brothers killed--"
"I know, I know we don't agree." There's in Sagramore's voice a note of pleading, soothing and pleading, as if Mordred were a child to be talked down from a tantrum, and Mordred jerks away from him when Sagramore reaches out.
"Oh, ay, we don't agree."
"But you needn't send me away, just the same. My morals aren't compromised."
"You don't have any, that's why," he says, venomously, although Sagramore's said it a hundred times before and it's never been an insult.
"Yes, I know."
"I'm not going to lie down with you every night knowing you think I'm a fool and a traitor, damn you! I'm in the right. He let that self-righteous bastard kill them all, every one of them, for nothing--was it Gaheris who was making love to his Queen at night? Did Gaheris deserve to lie in his own damned blood in pieces because he wasn't enough of a man to agree to watch her burn? Who in hell do you think is at fault? Me? I don't have them any more."
"You have me," Sagramore says, softly.
"I have you. A sickly whore who'll take me to bed on sentiment."
"Sentiment is worth nothing?" with that slight smile that means he's trying to evade, to make Mordred laugh and relax and cease to question him; but Mordred is angry, is far too angry, and will not let him smile his way out of the fact that he stands by Arthur, stands by Arthur when Mordred has loved him for years--
"I don't want you," he says.
"Hu barat--"
"No. Don't you dare. Don't you throw that at me."
"As long as we're reserving our epithets, I decline to be called a whore." Still smiling.
"God and Jesus. You're a whore. You're a whore and you have no loyalties, and when I need you--"
"You need me?"
"Not any more."
Sagramore gets to his feet, in that slowish, pleasant way he has, as though movement is a comfortable task, and offers both his hands. "I want to do something for you. I know we don't agree, absolutely I know it, but at least I can lie down with you, and if that's worth something I'm more than happy--you know I love you, Sir. You know I do."
He has resolve, he has no intention of letting Sagramore win him over, but he takes his hands for a moment--Sagramore's grip is firm and strong, and his skin is shady, and Mordred's is pale, and Mordred is too angry to notice whether he's warm or cold, but Sagramore's hands are cold. Sagramore's hands are always cold, and his eyes are always tired.
"You're betraying me," Mordred says. It comes out desperate.
"No, no, nem, I swear I'm not. I only do what I think is right, but I love you, you know I love you. If you fight him I'll find you afterward. I don't hold grudges, I don't try to change your mind."
"You'll fight against me."
Sagramore makes a small grimace, a wince of a smile. "Well, yes, I will do that. But when it's over I won't remember that I did."
"God. Christ."
"Here--," Sagramore says, and kisses him, softly, warmly. Mordred feels it better than he did last night; last night was hot and fervent and he was blind with fury and he doesn't remember it, but he feels every part of this kiss, and Sagramore tugging him gently close, and it feels so good. He remembers why he's always relied on Sagramore, because Sagramore understands him, and makes him feel well, and safe, and not alone, because Sagramore is what he called Mordred--true-friend, heart's friend--he remembers that.
And he also remembers how he is betrayed, and how he will be alone. Gawain is dead. Gareth and Gaheris and Agravain are dead, and their children, and Sagramore, after all these deaths, still won't stand by him. The kiss doesn't change that. It doesn't make him any less alone; and all his self-control comes back.
When Sagramore draws away he touches Mordred's hair, smoothing it down--he likes to do that. "There," he says. "There. You know I love you."
Mordred leans forward, slipping his arms about him, leaning his chin on Sagramore's shoulder, which is a little difficult because Sagramore is taller. Against him Sagramore relaxes, and suddenly his hand snakes out and he catches a handful of Sagramore's curly hair and pulls, hard, pulls his head back. Sagramore hisses his breath through his teeth.
"You're my Judas, lover."
Sagramore jerks away. "Damn it! Mordred, for Jesu's sake, pity's sake--"
"Get out, damn you. I don't want you."
This time he listens. He searches for his clothes hastily and dresses, wordlessly, not looking at Mordred, and then he goes from the room.
Mordred sits down on the bed, puts his head in his hands, and does nothing at all.
~~~
Also, photofics! All Arthurian. Are you surprised? (No.)
[Mordred/Gwenhwyfach, red]
When he comes home the first time, unhurt, his face sunburned red and his hands sore from holding reins, but no injury done to him by any other man, she sits down on the bed and cries with relief, never mind what he thinks.
~~~
[Ragnelle, tight]
Ragnelle doesn't have a favourite among her children, loving them all equally, but none of them, not even Guinglain, who has her blood, makes her feel as close to her home as Florence does when he puts his arms tight around her and she smells the dark rich warmth of the forest in his hair.
~~~
[Mordred/Gaheris, thin]
His whole body is thin and graceless, moreso even than Mordred remembers, when he comes back from exile, but his kisses are the same, hungry, desperate, his mouth still as cold as a winter sea.
~~~
[Mordred/Gwenhwyfach/Gawain, reflect]
Mordred's face reflects Gawain's, and both of them reflect their mother; and yet when Gwenhwyfach is lying between them she knows one from the other by the subtle graces of their bodies, Gawain's stronger, wider, warmer, Mordred's lithe and beautiful, and knows that neither of them are like Morgause.
~~~
[Sagramore/Courfeyrac, fair]
Sagramore speaks beautifully, in a flow of words Courfeyrac can't understand, but which are glorious against his skin and murmured into his hair, until it's too much and he bursts out in French, part profanity and part endearment, his fingers tight on Sagramore's shoulders; Sagramore laughs, his breath heavy and drowsy with love-making, and says, "That's fair, that's fair."
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