Word Drabbles: Mordred/Galahad Crackfic.
So, I got bored, and I was in the mood for my non-OTP crack pairing of choice: Mordred/Galahad. I bothered my boyfriend Finn to toss me a few words. Naturally, being the genius he is, he gave me words I'd never heard of before. XD I'll edit these in as I write them. My brain stopped after "tope".
Susurrus.
Voices carried on the back of the midnight breeze. Maiden Lane was stirring furtively, the coquettish giggles of maids mingling with the drunken slurring of knights. It was easy to get lost here, in this gauzy world of pleasure and secrets. Everyone was too busy with their own doings to notice the susurrus of the odd ones among them.
"We'll be caught," Galahad murmured in tones of disapproval, even as hands larger than his own and marked with heathen symbols groped along his chest. His partner chuckled and shook back dark curls, flashing a brazen grin.
"Not likely," he replied in the rich voice of a man in his prime, "No one here is concerned with anything beyond their own pavilion. Unless we remain 'til morning, we'll not be seen." Galahad crinkled his brow and poked out his bottom lip in clear skepticism.
He whispered back, "Fine. If I do this, you'll be coming with me to confession in the morning, Sir Mordred." At this, Mordred barked a laugh loud enough that a heartbeat of silence followed after; Galahad froze in terror. "Hush!"
"You must be joking. We shall do this, and I'll not be coming to confession with you in the morning, nor ever." Again, he showed a smile that bordered arrogance, and the next moment found their mouths pressed together. Then their bodies, as if they had once been one. There was another whisper from Galahad.
"Sinner." The laughter was softer this time, punctuated by another kiss.
"Aren't we all."
Tope.
When Mordred was drunk, Galahad found himself at a loss. To deal with the man when he was sober was challenge enough; full of drink, it was nearly impossible. He was unpredictable - here, full of rage; there, full of sorrow. Alternately, he would hit Galahad and cry on his shoulder. Fear froze the blood in the younger knight's veins whenever the wine or the mead was within reach, but what could he do? Mordred was seven years his senior, and the stronger of them by far. All he ever found himself capable of was praying in silence. Praying that it would be weeping tonight, and not hitting; praying that he would pass out before it got too bad; praying that God would forgive them both in the end.
He had three new bruises in the morning.
Jeremiad.
Forthcoming.
Phantasmagoria.
Forthcoming.
Susurrus.
Voices carried on the back of the midnight breeze. Maiden Lane was stirring furtively, the coquettish giggles of maids mingling with the drunken slurring of knights. It was easy to get lost here, in this gauzy world of pleasure and secrets. Everyone was too busy with their own doings to notice the susurrus of the odd ones among them.
"We'll be caught," Galahad murmured in tones of disapproval, even as hands larger than his own and marked with heathen symbols groped along his chest. His partner chuckled and shook back dark curls, flashing a brazen grin.
"Not likely," he replied in the rich voice of a man in his prime, "No one here is concerned with anything beyond their own pavilion. Unless we remain 'til morning, we'll not be seen." Galahad crinkled his brow and poked out his bottom lip in clear skepticism.
He whispered back, "Fine. If I do this, you'll be coming with me to confession in the morning, Sir Mordred." At this, Mordred barked a laugh loud enough that a heartbeat of silence followed after; Galahad froze in terror. "Hush!"
"You must be joking. We shall do this, and I'll not be coming to confession with you in the morning, nor ever." Again, he showed a smile that bordered arrogance, and the next moment found their mouths pressed together. Then their bodies, as if they had once been one. There was another whisper from Galahad.
"Sinner." The laughter was softer this time, punctuated by another kiss.
"Aren't we all."
Tope.
When Mordred was drunk, Galahad found himself at a loss. To deal with the man when he was sober was challenge enough; full of drink, it was nearly impossible. He was unpredictable - here, full of rage; there, full of sorrow. Alternately, he would hit Galahad and cry on his shoulder. Fear froze the blood in the younger knight's veins whenever the wine or the mead was within reach, but what could he do? Mordred was seven years his senior, and the stronger of them by far. All he ever found himself capable of was praying in silence. Praying that it would be weeping tonight, and not hitting; praying that he would pass out before it got too bad; praying that God would forgive them both in the end.
He had three new bruises in the morning.
Jeremiad.
Forthcoming.
Phantasmagoria.
Forthcoming.