Character/s: Mordred, Galahad
Summary: He has runes inked all across his skin
Warnings: Only really the usual for these two; rough sex, angst
Word Count: 674
Author's Notes: Mordred was perfect on this week's episode. Absolutely perfect. So I had to write about these boys. I had to.
He has runes inked all across his skin. They all began the same bright blue ink, but the older tattoos, the ones on the top of his arms and a small one on his side, have faded to black. It’s a monotone of colour, making patterns swirl over his skin, shifting and changing with the movement of his muscles.
Galahad trails a finger over them, fascinated. He follows the lines, careful, tender. Mordred touches one and it glows in a brighter blue, as if his skin housed a light within it and the tattoos allowed it to show transparent, to let the light through. Or so Galahad thinks, at least.
“Would you like one?” Mordred asks, softer ever than Galahad expected of him.
“Yes,” Galahad surprises himself by saying. He never thought he’d be willing to go through the pain for something purely vain and external (for he has no magical use for them like Mordred) but he finds it’s more than that. It’s the connection to Mordred he wants, the similarity between them, a physical bond like a ring or a token, only more permanent.
“Come back here the same time tomorrow,” Mordred tells him, “But go now, there are things to prepare.”
Galahad allows himself to indulge in one quick kiss, and then he leaves Mordred to his work.
When he reaches Mordred’s room the next day, it’s a little cleaner than usual. The bed is stripped of its blankets, and a table is set up next to it; with a book, a bowl of hot water, a bowl of ink and a needle. Mordred motions for him to lie on the bed, so Galahad takes off his shirt and does. Mordred almost has to catch his breath, but not quite.
“It’ll be on your hip,” he tells Galahad, and he nods. Mordred passes him a small strip of leather.
“Bite down on this,” he says, “I can ease the pain, but not completely.”
Galahad nods, and takes the leather in his mouth, and waits. Mordred doesn’t hesitate before beginning the tattoo, and Galahad loses sense of time and anything really but pain not long after that. He hears Mordred’s voice murmuring words that fall flat on his ears, and sometimes the pain eases.
Hours it seems later, there is no new pain. Instead, a sharp ache at his hip, and a spiral drawn into the swollen skin, the opposite direction to Mordred’s.
Mordred leans in and puts his mouth to the edge of the inflamed skin.
“Perfect,” he whispers, and perhaps he doesn’t think Galahad can hear, “Beautiful.”
He pulls Galahad’s trousers lower, shifts them off completely, and takes his cock in his mouth. And while the pain is still there, it doesn’t seem to matter with Mordred’s fingers on his skin and his mouth around him, warm and wet and welcoming. Galahad moans, cut short when Mordred pulls back.
He reaches into the drawer under the table, pulls out a bottle of oil, and coats his fingers. He opens Galahad roughly and quickly, the sting when the stretch is too fast barely noticeable above the pain of the tattoo. And then Mordred is pushing in, slamming his hips into Galahad’s, staring between his eyes and the tattoo.
Because it’s a mark of ownership, and that alone drives Mordred insane; that Galahad let him brand him. But more than that, unbeknownst to Galahad he weaved magic into the mark, linking it with his own tattoos, so he can feel Galahad wherever he is, heal him when he needs it, take care of him always. And it’s that thought, that Galahad is his to keep and his to protect, that really wrenches his orgasm from him, harsh and all-consuming. Galahad has already come, and it just shows how far gone Mordred was that he didn’t notice that when it happened. He slumps over the unhurt side of Galahad’s chest, and he breathes him in, and he waits for sleep to come.
And with it morning, and the first view of the tattoo.