Entry tags:
FIC: Blood and Nameles Wine (M'ways)
TITLE: Blood and Nameless Wine
FOR:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dopplegl, because his War gorgeous and scary and ever-so cool
BETA:schiarire, rebootfromstart
FANDOM: Milliways - Arthurian/Good Omens
PAIRING: War/Mordred
RATING: Um. It's War and it's Mordred, so there is rough sex and blood and...ah, hell. R?
WORDS: 1,053
Blood and Nameless Wine
He’d sought solace from her again, of course. The pain didn’t go away. If anything, after he said goodbye without saying goodbye and watched the (his) boys toddle off, innocently following their mother to their assured deaths, the pain got worse.
(he knew they would die, woke up sweating one night and screaming and he never dreamed false)
It felt like dying all over again, only this time it was worse.
So he came back to her, numb and aching, and she smiled with red lips and watched with tiger-orange eyes that were a darker version of his dragonhawk-gold. She’d poured the expensive red whose name he never did catch, and when she laughed the sound was full of swords and barbed arrows. Then she kissed him.
It felt like dying all over again, only this time he wanted it. This time as he died he kissed her back with a mouth that tasted of iron and copper and death and victory and power and failure and sorrow and glory. She’d smiled, of course, against his lips when they caught their breaths, but he didn’t care.
He just kissed her again, because she tasted of expensive wine and violence and the sharp copper of new blood and that’s all the complexity he could deal with at the moment. He kissed her, rough and not without skill, he kissed her and when she broke away he didn’t give her a chance to move back because he lifted her up off his lap with his long-fingered hands and shoved her back against the table to kiss her again.
(she could have vanished, easily, leaving nothing but a memory of violence and blood and nameless wine; she could have vanished, but she didn’t)
One thing lead to another, as they do when alcohol and a table is involved, and after he had stopped (drowning in her tastetouchmouth) kissing her enough to realize that there are rules here, and damned if the first person he had to arrest was himself, both of them somehow managed to make their way up the stairs and to a room that neither had owned or seen or cared about. He’d shoved her against the door, slamming it shut, but she’d just gasped and arched against him and wrapped her long legs around his waist.
He didn’t stop and think until after that first time. After he just lay there on the sweat-and-blood stained sheets, watching the ceiling, his thoughts as the scratches on his pale chest bled and stung, after she’d slowed down and leaned forward to her rest her head against his and kiss his lips and slid off, after the first flush of sexviolencelust. No, in that hazy, painful afterglow (and don’t your eyes always burn when they come back into the light) he felt the first stirrings of guilt for betraying the golden-haired knight somewhere in the floors above him.
Was it betrayal, though? If he hadn’t been Destiny’s bitch or Death’s solider or Desire’s whatever or Despair’s…if he hadn’t been human and thus the Endless’, and if she and her fellow Riders’ had had people, well, he’d be hers. He was hers already, in a way. Milady, he called her, though not during sex. Milady, who wasn’t his goddess or his whore or anything else, just her red-lipped-orange-eyed-auburn-haired self.
And, fuck it, it probably didn’t count as cheating if the other person wasn’t human, did it? All right, it did, but he didn’t feel guilty about it. Not really. After all, he had fucked the Antichrist, right? And didn’t seem to have any regrets other than the whole trickery thing.
So, yeah, it was petty, but at the thought of the blue-eyed blond son of Lucifer, his body tightened and reacted with a barely acknowledged hatred. She just smiled lazily at that, and kissed a scar on his shoulder. He didn’t feel it, not really, he was too busy remembering the feeling of his fist connecting with his jaw, of those damned ribs shattering under his blows. And as he remembered, balling the sheets into his fists, she laughed at his rage and left bloody marks from her tongue as she made her slow, sensuous way down his lean, lanky body. Past the death scar, past the wound from an ax that sent him into a near fatal fever when he was sixteen, past the blue tattooed ram’s skull made from human ones on his abdomen that he got when he was eighteen and drunk with his best mate, past all that to where she could lick his hard cock with her cat-like tongue.
He’d gasped, of course, because he was dead, not a eunuch, and then groaned and arched his back. But this wasn’t what he wanted. As clever as her mouth was, as much as her tongue and the slick hotness of her mouth was sending him to heaven (Hell, really, because nothing angelic could do that), he still had thoughts of his – his - golden-haired knight fucking that stupid smug bastard and it was driving him crazy.
“No,” he gasped, fisting a hand into her thick, true-auburn hair. “No!” Stronger, this time, and he yanked her head up. She licked her lips and smirked.
“Learnt a new word, have we?”
“Fuck off,” he told her, roughly, as she laughed again (what put her in such a fucking good mood?). He pulled her up and forwards, too fast and too rough, but that’s all right because they found each other’s mouths fairly quickly and he rolled them over to fuck her into the mattress.
And this time when it was over, when they caught their breaths somewhat and were luxuriating in bodies that ached, he leaned across and gently kissed her lips.
“Thank you,” he said in his soft, ever-mocking drawl, although it was somewhat rough now. Propping himself up on one elbow, he looked her up and down with sharp golden eyes and grinned his oddly boyish grin.
“You’re quite the lady, War,” the dead prince informed her before fading from view. War smiled, and stretched her arms across her head, smug as the cat who stole the double whipped cream (half the fun is in the stealing).
It was the first, and only time, that Mordred ever called her by her true name.
Fin.
FOR:
dopplegl, because his War gorgeous and scary and ever-so coolBETA:
schiarire, rebootfromstartFANDOM: Milliways - Arthurian/Good Omens
PAIRING: War/Mordred
RATING: Um. It's War and it's Mordred, so there is rough sex and blood and...ah, hell. R?
WORDS: 1,053
He’d sought solace from her again, of course. The pain didn’t go away. If anything, after he said goodbye without saying goodbye and watched the (his) boys toddle off, innocently following their mother to their assured deaths, the pain got worse.
(he knew they would die, woke up sweating one night and screaming and he never dreamed false)
It felt like dying all over again, only this time it was worse.
So he came back to her, numb and aching, and she smiled with red lips and watched with tiger-orange eyes that were a darker version of his dragonhawk-gold. She’d poured the expensive red whose name he never did catch, and when she laughed the sound was full of swords and barbed arrows. Then she kissed him.
It felt like dying all over again, only this time he wanted it. This time as he died he kissed her back with a mouth that tasted of iron and copper and death and victory and power and failure and sorrow and glory. She’d smiled, of course, against his lips when they caught their breaths, but he didn’t care.
He just kissed her again, because she tasted of expensive wine and violence and the sharp copper of new blood and that’s all the complexity he could deal with at the moment. He kissed her, rough and not without skill, he kissed her and when she broke away he didn’t give her a chance to move back because he lifted her up off his lap with his long-fingered hands and shoved her back against the table to kiss her again.
(she could have vanished, easily, leaving nothing but a memory of violence and blood and nameless wine; she could have vanished, but she didn’t)
One thing lead to another, as they do when alcohol and a table is involved, and after he had stopped (drowning in her tastetouchmouth) kissing her enough to realize that there are rules here, and damned if the first person he had to arrest was himself, both of them somehow managed to make their way up the stairs and to a room that neither had owned or seen or cared about. He’d shoved her against the door, slamming it shut, but she’d just gasped and arched against him and wrapped her long legs around his waist.
He didn’t stop and think until after that first time. After he just lay there on the sweat-and-blood stained sheets, watching the ceiling, his thoughts as the scratches on his pale chest bled and stung, after she’d slowed down and leaned forward to her rest her head against his and kiss his lips and slid off, after the first flush of sexviolencelust. No, in that hazy, painful afterglow (and don’t your eyes always burn when they come back into the light) he felt the first stirrings of guilt for betraying the golden-haired knight somewhere in the floors above him.
Was it betrayal, though? If he hadn’t been Destiny’s bitch or Death’s solider or Desire’s whatever or Despair’s…if he hadn’t been human and thus the Endless’, and if she and her fellow Riders’ had had people, well, he’d be hers. He was hers already, in a way. Milady, he called her, though not during sex. Milady, who wasn’t his goddess or his whore or anything else, just her red-lipped-orange-eyed-auburn-haired self.
And, fuck it, it probably didn’t count as cheating if the other person wasn’t human, did it? All right, it did, but he didn’t feel guilty about it. Not really. After all, he had fucked the Antichrist, right? And didn’t seem to have any regrets other than the whole trickery thing.
So, yeah, it was petty, but at the thought of the blue-eyed blond son of Lucifer, his body tightened and reacted with a barely acknowledged hatred. She just smiled lazily at that, and kissed a scar on his shoulder. He didn’t feel it, not really, he was too busy remembering the feeling of his fist connecting with his jaw, of those damned ribs shattering under his blows. And as he remembered, balling the sheets into his fists, she laughed at his rage and left bloody marks from her tongue as she made her slow, sensuous way down his lean, lanky body. Past the death scar, past the wound from an ax that sent him into a near fatal fever when he was sixteen, past the blue tattooed ram’s skull made from human ones on his abdomen that he got when he was eighteen and drunk with his best mate, past all that to where she could lick his hard cock with her cat-like tongue.
He’d gasped, of course, because he was dead, not a eunuch, and then groaned and arched his back. But this wasn’t what he wanted. As clever as her mouth was, as much as her tongue and the slick hotness of her mouth was sending him to heaven (Hell, really, because nothing angelic could do that), he still had thoughts of his – his - golden-haired knight fucking that stupid smug bastard and it was driving him crazy.
“No,” he gasped, fisting a hand into her thick, true-auburn hair. “No!” Stronger, this time, and he yanked her head up. She licked her lips and smirked.
“Learnt a new word, have we?”
“Fuck off,” he told her, roughly, as she laughed again (what put her in such a fucking good mood?). He pulled her up and forwards, too fast and too rough, but that’s all right because they found each other’s mouths fairly quickly and he rolled them over to fuck her into the mattress.
And this time when it was over, when they caught their breaths somewhat and were luxuriating in bodies that ached, he leaned across and gently kissed her lips.
“Thank you,” he said in his soft, ever-mocking drawl, although it was somewhat rough now. Propping himself up on one elbow, he looked her up and down with sharp golden eyes and grinned his oddly boyish grin.
“You’re quite the lady, War,” the dead prince informed her before fading from view. War smiled, and stretched her arms across her head, smug as the cat who stole the double whipped cream (half the fun is in the stealing).
It was the first, and only time, that Mordred ever called her by her true name.
Fin.