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in which I blab about 'In The Court of Cloaks and Daggers'
Mordred = uberbastard!Brian Kinney =D
Gorgeous, manipulating, selfish and a total slut. Gets himself a blond boyfriend/plaything. Falls in love with said boyfriend. Denies this fact heavily.
We were going to have an Ethan character, but Mordred would have just killed them. Thus ruining the entire storyline. Poor 'Ala.
Mordred cornered the boy after dinner, stepping unobtrusively up to his side and curling his fingers firmly about one slender wrist.
“Come with me,” he hissed into his ear.
The boy’s eyes were impressively unreadable. “No.” He tried to pull his wrist away, but Mordred held fast.
“Do you want to make a scene?” he asked pointedly, eyes flicking to the crowded hall. The boy glared in response and set his lips in a thin line, but allowed Mordred to pull him into a corridor.
“What?” he said, voice flat.
Mordred laughed. “Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting this. I know how you watch me. You couldn’t keep yourself away forever.”
“I was managing just fine,” came the tight reply.
“I doubt that.”
“If it was so inevitable, why did you bother to approach me?” the boy snapped.
“I got bored waiting.” Mordred smiled nastily and tipped his head to the side.
“Go harass someone else.” The boy started to move off.
“What if I just want you?” Mordred asked softly.
The boy laughed, hollow and quiet. “I doubt that also.” He turned and kept walking.
The Pendragon moved fluidly and stood in his path. “Don’t run away so soon.”
“Move, Mordred.” The same flat voice, and a flat glare to match.
“So familiar.” Mordred’s eyes narrowed and in one harsh movement he pinned the other boy to the wall. “Do not give me orders.”
The boy’s lips formed a disquieting smile, and he stood frozen against the cool bricks. “Sorry, my lord.” His voice was quiet and formal, but the odd smile didn’t leave his face.
“You should know better,” Mordred said sharply. He held him in place for a few moments, then stood back abruptly. “Come with me.” It was on the very edge of being an order, but a strange undercurrent of constructed ritual held it back.
“Why should I?”
“Because you want to.”
“I do?” Tentatively challenging, and in direct denial of the hopeless desire in the boy’s eyes.
“You do. I know you.”
“And yet that’s not a good enough reason.” His voice was almost sad.
“I can give you what you want,” Mordred said softly, hand once again clasping the other’s wrist.
“You have no idea what I want.” The boy’s eyes were carefully empty.
“Oh?” And Mordred’s grip tightened to the point of pain, nails digging into the skin. There would be bruises in the morning.
The boy’s eyes rested on where Mordred held his wrist, and then he lifted them to meet the Pendragon’s dark gaze, something like wonder in his face.
“You understand.”
Mordred tugged sharply, pulling the boy to him. “Like I said. I know you.”
The boy’s free hand lifted and ran through dark curls. “I hate you so much,” he whispered, his finger now tracing the side of Mordred’s face.
“Are you quite certain that’s the word you meant to use, pretty one?” the Pendragon said, sounding almost amused.
“Dead certain,” said Galahad du Lac. And kissed him.
I have 348 words of utter crap which might one day become part of an English essay. Bah.
Gorgeous, manipulating, selfish and a total slut. Gets himself a blond boyfriend/plaything. Falls in love with said boyfriend. Denies this fact heavily.
We were going to have an Ethan character, but Mordred would have just killed them. Thus ruining the entire storyline. Poor 'Ala.
Mordred cornered the boy after dinner, stepping unobtrusively up to his side and curling his fingers firmly about one slender wrist.
“Come with me,” he hissed into his ear.
The boy’s eyes were impressively unreadable. “No.” He tried to pull his wrist away, but Mordred held fast.
“Do you want to make a scene?” he asked pointedly, eyes flicking to the crowded hall. The boy glared in response and set his lips in a thin line, but allowed Mordred to pull him into a corridor.
“What?” he said, voice flat.
Mordred laughed. “Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting this. I know how you watch me. You couldn’t keep yourself away forever.”
“I was managing just fine,” came the tight reply.
“I doubt that.”
“If it was so inevitable, why did you bother to approach me?” the boy snapped.
“I got bored waiting.” Mordred smiled nastily and tipped his head to the side.
“Go harass someone else.” The boy started to move off.
“What if I just want you?” Mordred asked softly.
The boy laughed, hollow and quiet. “I doubt that also.” He turned and kept walking.
The Pendragon moved fluidly and stood in his path. “Don’t run away so soon.”
“Move, Mordred.” The same flat voice, and a flat glare to match.
“So familiar.” Mordred’s eyes narrowed and in one harsh movement he pinned the other boy to the wall. “Do not give me orders.”
The boy’s lips formed a disquieting smile, and he stood frozen against the cool bricks. “Sorry, my lord.” His voice was quiet and formal, but the odd smile didn’t leave his face.
“You should know better,” Mordred said sharply. He held him in place for a few moments, then stood back abruptly. “Come with me.” It was on the very edge of being an order, but a strange undercurrent of constructed ritual held it back.
“Why should I?”
“Because you want to.”
“I do?” Tentatively challenging, and in direct denial of the hopeless desire in the boy’s eyes.
“You do. I know you.”
“And yet that’s not a good enough reason.” His voice was almost sad.
“I can give you what you want,” Mordred said softly, hand once again clasping the other’s wrist.
“You have no idea what I want.” The boy’s eyes were carefully empty.
“Oh?” And Mordred’s grip tightened to the point of pain, nails digging into the skin. There would be bruises in the morning.
The boy’s eyes rested on where Mordred held his wrist, and then he lifted them to meet the Pendragon’s dark gaze, something like wonder in his face.
“You understand.”
Mordred tugged sharply, pulling the boy to him. “Like I said. I know you.”
The boy’s free hand lifted and ran through dark curls. “I hate you so much,” he whispered, his finger now tracing the side of Mordred’s face.
“Are you quite certain that’s the word you meant to use, pretty one?” the Pendragon said, sounding almost amused.
“Dead certain,” said Galahad du Lac. And kissed him.
I have 348 words of utter crap which might one day become part of an English essay. Bah.
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Is it a pretty collar?
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