FIC: Their Mouths Were Fire
Jan. 26th, 2008 01:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mharificTitle: Their Mouths Were Fire
Author: Mhari
Fandom: Arthurian
Pairing: Galahad/Mordred
Rating: R
Words: 200
Disclaimer: The words are mine, the characters are everyone's.
Summary: Chastity has got to be less frustrating.
Notes/Warnings: Title is from "The Dream of Sir Galahad" by Madison Cawein; somewhat blasphemously, but no more so than the story is, really.
"Don't you ever wonder?" Mordred says, between blind kisses in the dark, and Galahad finds breath to say: "What?"
"Precious innocent." Another kiss. "Your father and mine. Heredity's funny, isn't it?"
"--You're filthy."
"True. But you like it."
He doesn't, but he can't find the words, not with Mordred's hands where they are. Instead he pushes him back against the wall, harder than he should. Mordred is older, but slighter and less strong; he gasps as he hits the stone.
Why am I here, Galahad thinks desperately, through the pounding of his blood. What they do together is bad enough ("You can always confess," Mordred says, taunting him) but worse is that he loses his temper in it, becomes rough and vindictive as Mordred himself. He's never so close to hating the man as when they're entangled in what the world calls love.
Worst of all is that he hardly cares. Heat washes through him like fury; he pushes closer, covers Mordred's mouth with his, the only thing that ever stops the words. He can't think beyond the next instant, he's blind and deaf with it, except that Mordred calls on God as he comes, and for once sounds sincere.
Author: Mhari
Fandom: Arthurian
Pairing: Galahad/Mordred
Rating: R
Words: 200
Disclaimer: The words are mine, the characters are everyone's.
Summary: Chastity has got to be less frustrating.
Notes/Warnings: Title is from "The Dream of Sir Galahad" by Madison Cawein; somewhat blasphemously, but no more so than the story is, really.
"Don't you ever wonder?" Mordred says, between blind kisses in the dark, and Galahad finds breath to say: "What?"
"Precious innocent." Another kiss. "Your father and mine. Heredity's funny, isn't it?"
"--You're filthy."
"True. But you like it."
He doesn't, but he can't find the words, not with Mordred's hands where they are. Instead he pushes him back against the wall, harder than he should. Mordred is older, but slighter and less strong; he gasps as he hits the stone.
Why am I here, Galahad thinks desperately, through the pounding of his blood. What they do together is bad enough ("You can always confess," Mordred says, taunting him) but worse is that he loses his temper in it, becomes rough and vindictive as Mordred himself. He's never so close to hating the man as when they're entangled in what the world calls love.
Worst of all is that he hardly cares. Heat washes through him like fury; he pushes closer, covers Mordred's mouth with his, the only thing that ever stops the words. He can't think beyond the next instant, he's blind and deaf with it, except that Mordred calls on God as he comes, and for once sounds sincere.