GetLaid25-Bedivere-"Losing My Religion"
Title: Losing My Religion
Author: Lady Bedivere
Fandom: Arthurian
Pairing: Bedivere/Sagramore
Rating: PG-13
Words: 454
Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I do not own Sir Bedivere or any Arthurian Legends.
Summary: Maybe it is real anger, but perhaps it's something else.
Notes/Warnings: Implied nudity/sex, lots of Welsh swearing.
Rarely was Bedivere ever angry, truly angry, no matter how cruel or harsh his words might get. However, Sagramore could see no hint of mercy or laughter hidden in the other man’s eyes now as they stared at each other across the room. The look was animal, enraged.
“You half-breed twll tin,” he said in a slow growl that was far wore than a shout. However he sat and did not move, not toward the mess of clothes on the floor at his feet, not toward the swords lying by the door. He just stared, his fury boiling in the gaze he fixed on Sagramore’s face.
Sagramore leaned against the wall, he arms crossed, his face set in a casual expression. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you-” he started.
“No, you were trying to console yourself over that shinach you can’t stop mooning over and I happened to be there.” All traces of Bedivere’s well-affected courtly accent were gone, overtaken by the wild Welsh burr he strove so carefully to hide in company.
“That’s hardly fair, Bedwyr-”
“Don’t call me that!” he spat. The violence of the words made Sagramore reach reflexively for the sword at his side, which of course, was not there. Clenching and unclenching his fist instead, Sagramore exhaled slowly.
“This had nothing to do with pity or consolation, yours or mine. I like variety.”
“Tired of the sea salt, thought you’d try something more rustic?” said Bedivere bitterly.
“At least admit you enjoyed it?” asked Sagramore.
“Cer i grafu,” replied Bedivere.
Had there been a trace of anything but anger in Bedivere’s eyes, Sagramore would have laughed. Instead, he relaxed as best he could and sank back more against the wall. “Last night you thought it was a good idea.”
“Last night I was so drunk I didn’t know the difference between you and the Virgin Mother.”
“Then pretend it was her, not me.”
“Sacreligious cachgi.”
“Says the one who thinks all religion is a farce.”
“Religion is. God isn’t, whoever he, or she, or they, might be.”
“Maybe it was this.”
The look in Bedivere’s eyes changed. No longer anger, it was something Sagramore had never seen before, and somehow he got the impression it was something he should be far more afraid of than the anger it had replaced.
“Yours maybe. Not mine,” he said very quietly.
Slowly, Sagramore moved past the other man and gathered his clothes from the mess on the floor. He dressed silently, picking up his sword last. He opened the door halfway and started to go when the voice behind him spoke again.
“No. Stay.”
As Sagramore quietly shut the door again, the bells of the distant church began to toll for mass.
Author: Lady Bedivere
Fandom: Arthurian
Pairing: Bedivere/Sagramore
Rating: PG-13
Words: 454
Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I do not own Sir Bedivere or any Arthurian Legends.
Summary: Maybe it is real anger, but perhaps it's something else.
Notes/Warnings: Implied nudity/sex, lots of Welsh swearing.
Rarely was Bedivere ever angry, truly angry, no matter how cruel or harsh his words might get. However, Sagramore could see no hint of mercy or laughter hidden in the other man’s eyes now as they stared at each other across the room. The look was animal, enraged.
“You half-breed twll tin,” he said in a slow growl that was far wore than a shout. However he sat and did not move, not toward the mess of clothes on the floor at his feet, not toward the swords lying by the door. He just stared, his fury boiling in the gaze he fixed on Sagramore’s face.
Sagramore leaned against the wall, he arms crossed, his face set in a casual expression. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you-” he started.
“No, you were trying to console yourself over that shinach you can’t stop mooning over and I happened to be there.” All traces of Bedivere’s well-affected courtly accent were gone, overtaken by the wild Welsh burr he strove so carefully to hide in company.
“That’s hardly fair, Bedwyr-”
“Don’t call me that!” he spat. The violence of the words made Sagramore reach reflexively for the sword at his side, which of course, was not there. Clenching and unclenching his fist instead, Sagramore exhaled slowly.
“This had nothing to do with pity or consolation, yours or mine. I like variety.”
“Tired of the sea salt, thought you’d try something more rustic?” said Bedivere bitterly.
“At least admit you enjoyed it?” asked Sagramore.
“Cer i grafu,” replied Bedivere.
Had there been a trace of anything but anger in Bedivere’s eyes, Sagramore would have laughed. Instead, he relaxed as best he could and sank back more against the wall. “Last night you thought it was a good idea.”
“Last night I was so drunk I didn’t know the difference between you and the Virgin Mother.”
“Then pretend it was her, not me.”
“Sacreligious cachgi.”
“Says the one who thinks all religion is a farce.”
“Religion is. God isn’t, whoever he, or she, or they, might be.”
“Maybe it was this.”
The look in Bedivere’s eyes changed. No longer anger, it was something Sagramore had never seen before, and somehow he got the impression it was something he should be far more afraid of than the anger it had replaced.
“Yours maybe. Not mine,” he said very quietly.
Slowly, Sagramore moved past the other man and gathered his clothes from the mess on the floor. He dressed silently, picking up his sword last. He opened the door halfway and started to go when the voice behind him spoke again.
“No. Stay.”
As Sagramore quietly shut the door again, the bells of the distant church began to toll for mass.