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Fahye's state of mental stability = up by a few points from last night
By some freakish glitch in the fabric of reality, I managed to escape today's classes without homework. Mrs Clark was very nice and pointed out that t1 = p and t2 = q and then all the conics questions made SENSE and I felt very silly.
Started playing around with House Music, but I need to convince Alli to replace I Love The Nightlife because it's crap to sing to. I foresee a great weekend of fiddling with mp3s ahead.
English essay is sort-of-only-not-really planned out, now I just have to write the bloody thing. Guh. I can see this being a very last-minute job.
One of my destressing actions last night was to scribble some more Mordred/Galahad, which upon rereading is the biggest piece of trite shit ever. Editing hasn't helped much. I'm not going to taint![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mercurial_wit with it, but I need people to tell me why it's so appalling and what I can do about it. Or tell me that I'm overreacting. Or feel sorry for abused!Galahad. Or something.
*throws it to the masses*
I only just worked out in time that Caxton hadn't invented the printing press yet. Out by a few years, dammit. Arthur's extensive library just shrank somewhat.
~
“Mordred.” Galahad’s face was tight with pain, but he held out his uninjured right hand to stop the other from entering. “If we enter there, with this injury and your reputation for violent games, can you imagine the stories that will get back to your father? And it’s bad enough for my father that I’m living here, without rumours of you mistreating me. They don’t need another excuse to fight.”
Mordred’s hands clenched around the book he still held, and he nodded quickly before stepping back. It was good, he supposed, that one of them could still think clearly. He just had a nagging feeling that it was meant to be him.
The hissing gasp that Galahad made as the bones were set flew straight to Mordred’s head, and his blood seemed to run alternatively hot and cold. Nobody had the right to do that to his toy. Nobody.
His thoughts hadn’t progressed much from that point ten minutes later, when the door opened again.
They will regret it. They will –
“Mordred?” Galahad’s low voice stopped him in his tracks from where he had been pacing back and forth. “That book doesn’t deserve all that abuse, you know.”
And you think you do?
But Mordred was silent as he looked down at the book, the painstakingly-crafted pages of which he had been systematically tearing out, crumpling and throwing to the floor. “Oh.”
“Those things are expensive,” Galahad said expressionlessly, rubbing the bandages on his now-splinted wrist.
“Do you think I care?” His mouth twisted and the book fell to the floor with an empty thud.
“Sometimes it’s very difficult to tell whether or not you care, my lord.” Galahad’s voice was the soft, shielded one he used with everyone but Mordred, and his eyes were fixed carefully on the stones at his feet.
They stood like that for almost a minute, Mordred’s eyes refusing to register the hollowly impersonal look on Galahad’s face and his mind running over and through all possible responses to the unasked question. None of them seemed to quite work. Eventually he sighed and took a few steps to stand in front of the younger man.
“I’m a selfish person, Galahad,” he said. The du Lac looked up, his face still closed but with a faint tinge of hurt. Mordred gave the closest he could to a smile, and brushed his hand across the front of Galahad’s neck. “I don’t care for anything that isn’t mine.”
Galahad’s own hand rose to cover the place where the collar lay tight against his skin. “And the things that are yours?” he said very softly.
“I will kill those who touch them,” Mordred said, his voice deathly flat.
Galahad’s expression finally changed, flying into fear and apprehension. “Mordred, no –“
“Am I lying to you, Galahad?” Deeply ironic and openly hostile. Mordred’s hands snaked to the boy’s waist and pulled him in.
“You never lie,” Galahad whispered numbly, looking up and down the corridor and trying to pull away. “But you can’t just –“
“Are you telling me what I can and cannot do, Galahad?” he asked quietly.
“No, my lord.” Dangerously close to sarcasm. “But –“
“Good.” Mordred’s grip was a vice, and he cut off the protestations by crushing Galahad’s lips with his own. The du Lac started to twist angrily but stopped abruptly as his wrist banged against the wall, and all his attempts at speech were forcibly banished. Some small part of his mind insisted that this was too public, they would be discovered, and if he didn't do something then murder would be committed on his account - but most of him was so used to surrendering to Mordred that he found himself subsiding and desperately returning the kiss.
Mordred’s head rang with a mix of lust and furious anger against the filthy excuses for human beings that had marred his possession. It was easier to think, now, clearer; he didn’t have to worry about the relationship or lack thereof he had with Galahad, it was enough to know that someone else had dared to hurt something that was his.
And as he caught Galahad’s lip sharply between his teeth the boy made that hissing gasp again, but this one ran down Mordred’s spine and into his hands and he held Galahad even tighter against him and kissed him again and again and again until the anger had subsided a little.
But it wasn’t gone, and Mordred Pendragon was very patient when it came to revenge.
~
I have become addicted to Latino music.
*blinks*
And it always makes me think of Lestat, now.
By some freakish glitch in the fabric of reality, I managed to escape today's classes without homework. Mrs Clark was very nice and pointed out that t1 = p and t2 = q and then all the conics questions made SENSE and I felt very silly.
Started playing around with House Music, but I need to convince Alli to replace I Love The Nightlife because it's crap to sing to. I foresee a great weekend of fiddling with mp3s ahead.
English essay is sort-of-only-not-really planned out, now I just have to write the bloody thing. Guh. I can see this being a very last-minute job.
One of my destressing actions last night was to scribble some more Mordred/Galahad, which upon rereading is the biggest piece of trite shit ever. Editing hasn't helped much. I'm not going to taint
mercurial_wit with it, but I need people to tell me why it's so appalling and what I can do about it. Or tell me that I'm overreacting. Or feel sorry for abused!Galahad. Or something.*throws it to the masses*
I only just worked out in time that Caxton hadn't invented the printing press yet. Out by a few years, dammit. Arthur's extensive library just shrank somewhat.
~
“Mordred.” Galahad’s face was tight with pain, but he held out his uninjured right hand to stop the other from entering. “If we enter there, with this injury and your reputation for violent games, can you imagine the stories that will get back to your father? And it’s bad enough for my father that I’m living here, without rumours of you mistreating me. They don’t need another excuse to fight.”
Mordred’s hands clenched around the book he still held, and he nodded quickly before stepping back. It was good, he supposed, that one of them could still think clearly. He just had a nagging feeling that it was meant to be him.
The hissing gasp that Galahad made as the bones were set flew straight to Mordred’s head, and his blood seemed to run alternatively hot and cold. Nobody had the right to do that to his toy. Nobody.
His thoughts hadn’t progressed much from that point ten minutes later, when the door opened again.
They will regret it. They will –
“Mordred?” Galahad’s low voice stopped him in his tracks from where he had been pacing back and forth. “That book doesn’t deserve all that abuse, you know.”
And you think you do?
But Mordred was silent as he looked down at the book, the painstakingly-crafted pages of which he had been systematically tearing out, crumpling and throwing to the floor. “Oh.”
“Those things are expensive,” Galahad said expressionlessly, rubbing the bandages on his now-splinted wrist.
“Do you think I care?” His mouth twisted and the book fell to the floor with an empty thud.
“Sometimes it’s very difficult to tell whether or not you care, my lord.” Galahad’s voice was the soft, shielded one he used with everyone but Mordred, and his eyes were fixed carefully on the stones at his feet.
They stood like that for almost a minute, Mordred’s eyes refusing to register the hollowly impersonal look on Galahad’s face and his mind running over and through all possible responses to the unasked question. None of them seemed to quite work. Eventually he sighed and took a few steps to stand in front of the younger man.
“I’m a selfish person, Galahad,” he said. The du Lac looked up, his face still closed but with a faint tinge of hurt. Mordred gave the closest he could to a smile, and brushed his hand across the front of Galahad’s neck. “I don’t care for anything that isn’t mine.”
Galahad’s own hand rose to cover the place where the collar lay tight against his skin. “And the things that are yours?” he said very softly.
“I will kill those who touch them,” Mordred said, his voice deathly flat.
Galahad’s expression finally changed, flying into fear and apprehension. “Mordred, no –“
“Am I lying to you, Galahad?” Deeply ironic and openly hostile. Mordred’s hands snaked to the boy’s waist and pulled him in.
“You never lie,” Galahad whispered numbly, looking up and down the corridor and trying to pull away. “But you can’t just –“
“Are you telling me what I can and cannot do, Galahad?” he asked quietly.
“No, my lord.” Dangerously close to sarcasm. “But –“
“Good.” Mordred’s grip was a vice, and he cut off the protestations by crushing Galahad’s lips with his own. The du Lac started to twist angrily but stopped abruptly as his wrist banged against the wall, and all his attempts at speech were forcibly banished. Some small part of his mind insisted that this was too public, they would be discovered, and if he didn't do something then murder would be committed on his account - but most of him was so used to surrendering to Mordred that he found himself subsiding and desperately returning the kiss.
Mordred’s head rang with a mix of lust and furious anger against the filthy excuses for human beings that had marred his possession. It was easier to think, now, clearer; he didn’t have to worry about the relationship or lack thereof he had with Galahad, it was enough to know that someone else had dared to hurt something that was his.
And as he caught Galahad’s lip sharply between his teeth the boy made that hissing gasp again, but this one ran down Mordred’s spine and into his hands and he held Galahad even tighter against him and kissed him again and again and again until the anger had subsided a little.
But it wasn’t gone, and Mordred Pendragon was very patient when it came to revenge.
~
I have become addicted to Latino music.
*blinks*
And it always makes me think of Lestat, now.
no subject
*staaaaares*
no subject
Is it Mordred? Shit, girl, *I* love Mordred. And he's an abusive son of a bitch. Go figure.
no subject
SQUEE :O!! Total love.
no subject
Here. (http://www.livejournal.com/users/fahye/134215.html)
and here. (http://www.livejournal.com/users/mercurial_wit/10824.html)
Also - vampire ficcage, I don't know if you've read it yet but I always like hearing your views on my VC stuff...
Here. (http://www.livejournal.com/users/mercurial_wit/11242.html)
no subject
Oh, I so love you. Teh Squee-eth.
Excuse me, I need to wallow.
*runs off to read fic with as much dignity as random happy squealing allows*