Character/s: Mordred, Galahad
Summary: He'd do just about anything Mordred said
Warnings: Um... drugs, dub-con, bondage, angst, removal of free will
Word Count: 827
Author's Notes: Well, this is for hogwartsvixxxen who very strongly hinted she wanted me writing these two. Hope you like it!
“It’s a tradition,” Mordred says, waving the shrivelled black-brown thing under Galahad’s nose. It looks to have the consistency of leather, and Galahad recoils from it, but Mordred smells it like it’s heaven.
“After you’re knighted you get to take it. And you’re knighted now.” He gestures to the sword belted around Galahad’s waist, the white surcoat with its Pendragon crest. Galahad smiles at the reminder, but doesn’t take the whatever-it-is.
“I don’t think I should.”
“Take it,” Mordred instructs, popping it onto his own tongue, “Take the mushroom from me.”
Mordred closes in, wraps his arms around Galahad’s waist, tugging him so their bodies press flush together. He thinks he can feel Galahad’s racing heart even through the mail, knows he can stare down into the widened eyes, and knows he’s right. Galahad wants this.
And he does, he’d do just about anything Mordred said, so he reaches up, tongue slipping out to try to catch the mushroom. But he’s clumsy, and it almost drops, so Mordred pushes in, manoeuvring the transferral and lengthening the kiss, caught up in Galahad’s lips and the warmth of his mouth.
“Chew it,” he says, when he pulls back. Galahad does, and nothing changes for a while. Mordred kisses him again and he doesn’t question it, just takes what he can get.
Until the night dissolves into blurred colours and sounds falling like spilt paint, bright and strong. The world seems to spin around him, and Galahad remembers just lying on something and staring at the colours, the sensations. And Mordred. Mordred is always there. Which is strange, because Mordred never cared, never wanted to know.
When Galahad comes to consciousness again he feels mildly nauseous. He groans, and shuts his eyes.
He aches. In… strange places. And he can’t really move, tied in place. He’s completely naked, and he forces his eyes open to realise he’s not in his own room. He doesn’t recognise the ceiling.
One more thing. There’s something wet on his calf, and it’s moving. He shudders away as much as his bound wrists and ankles will allow, a little panicked, the still almost swirling colours in his vision bringing up images of horrible, leech-like creatures.
It’s Mordred’s voice, and it’s coming from near the foot of what Galahad guesses is a bed. When it stops, the wetness begins again, moving up his leg.
“I can’t stop myself,” Mordred says, when Galahad shivers, “You taste too good.”
His face comes into view, hair dishevelled, eyes still sharp, but perhaps not so much as usual. He leans in close, kissing Galahad, and Galahad finds himself kissing back. When Mordred shifts against him, he realises he’s hard, and he’s not exactly sure what to do with that. This feels surreal, like another vision brought on by the mushroom, and Galahad hadn’t realised he wanted Mordred so much. But even as they go on, his view strengthens, opaques.
“I want to do it again,” Mordred says, pressing the words with kisses into Galahad’s neck.
“What did we do?” he asks, confused but beginning to guess.
“We fucked. You want to come again?”
Mordred kisses down over his chest, and Galahad finds himself straining against his bounds, trying to reach for more, more, more.
Afterwards, Mordred undoes the knots tying him to the bed, using the strips of cloth to tie their wrists together. Galahad opens his mouth to ask, but Mordred hushes him.
Mordred imbues the cloth with golden light, lines of magic. When he unties the cloth, the power remains.
“You’re mine,” Mordred says, pushing Galahad back down to the bed again, covering him so all he can see, all he can feel, all he can smell and hear and taste is Mordred, like an armour against the outside world. Galahad nods, and holds him close, and affirms the ownership. Because it’s a metaphor, a euphemism for something that Mordred can’t bring himself to say, surely.
It is that, in part. But there’s more to the declaration, now.
Galahad never realises just how real it is. At least, not for a long time.
It’s suicide, and Galahad knows it. Even as the King screams at him to stop he charges. Because he knows what Mordred will do, and he can’t warn anyone, can’t stop him. Galahad wants out, and if he can take the current threat to Camelot with him, then all the better.
His sword pierces the crystal that holds the enchantment over Camelot, and the force of the explosion throws him backwards, off his horse, snapping his neck when he hits the ground, pulling him into the comforting embrace of death.
When Galahad wakes, the warmth and light of death is gone; replaced with the dank darkness of a tomb. Mordred clings to his arm, face clogged with tears and mucus. From strain, or from genuine mourning, Galahad doesn’t know.
“It worked,” he whispers, “All these years, and it worked.”