I have some cleanup here to do. 488 post. I may delete a lot of them.... I’m not sure if I’ll be Mordred on this blog or delete everything, keep the blog and be another fate character
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“You kiss me with your mouth wide open like you’re not afraid of swallowing poison. I taste the good and bad in you and want them both. We call this bravery.”
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bloodied knuckles | tear stained cheeks | rust | a busted lip | claws | fangs | a bloody nose | chattering teeth | a dark space underneath the bed | scratching noises on a wall | creaking metal | fog | dancing under moonlight | blood dripping lips | heavy breathing in the dark | a feeling of unexplained dread | a figure in a dark corner | dirty peeling wallpaper | a bloody handprint on the wall | sobbing in the dark | bite marks on the skin | eerie whispers | a hood covering a stranger’s eyes | the growl of a hidden animal | the sound of a blade being sharpened | a deep, dark forest | walking on the streets alone at night | a cobweb-filled, abandoned building | eyes darting in paranoia | a heavy beating pulse | the feeling of being trapped | struggling to get out a scream | boards covering broken windows | a quiet graveyard | a gas station in the middle of nowhere | a road that never ends | heavy fog rolling in | the scent of blood in the air | eerie old photographs | walking along traintracks at night | a chill going up the spine | gathering crows | a dusty, dimly lit study | mist over a deserted cobblestone street | ghost towns | shadows around a campfire | the sound of chanting |church bells tolling | an orange harvest moon | a broken down carnival | a dirty stuffed animal abandoned | wiping bloody hands on fabric | nightmares | waking up in a panic | a power outage | heavy lightning storms | a secret trap door | the feeling of being watched | fear from trauma | a ouija board set out on a table | an eerie doll | a scream of anguish and pain | withered plants | a room that’s been forgotten and gathered dust | owl eyes in the dark | curled, dead tree branches | a ritual altar | flickering candles | a lantern held up in the dark | fear of being followed | creaking floorboards | repressed, horrible memories|clenched teeth | soft, echoing piano keys | an old book covered in dust | many pairs of glaring eyes | stumbling in pitch black darkness | being stranded in the middle of nowhere | tarot cards on a table | a trail of blood.
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Gareth is going suprise her half brother with a kiss on the forehead. "Happy Kiss day, Mordred."
Well, someone is definitely in the “holiday” spirit. Actually, the whole lot of them were. All of this affection was leaving our crimson knight nauseated but he dare not act out in violence, lest this day was sanctioned by Arthur. Confused and curious, Mordred shifts his gaze from the sight of all the “kissers” on the streets to his brother and asks, “What’s the meaning of this, Sir Gareth? Did the king ordain this day as “Kiss Day? If so, why?”
I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. I did not like to be touched because I craved it too much. I wanted to be held very tight so I would not break.
Your father would most definitely say that Mordred's eyes are a beautiful shade.
Did Mordred have to accept the sun’s compliment because their words always carried such a scintillating emanation? Or could they accept it for themselves? Has anything ever been beautiful about them? Was it even right to even pose that last question…? To even think it?
The king is always right, Mordred thought. But beautiful—me? What a great laugh and snarl the crimson knight would’ve had had this not been this man. He wished this was another person, anybody would’ve been better than Arthur. Never Arthur.
With everyone else, he was free to attack, free to dismiss, free to accept, free to defend, and free to insult. None of that could happen here—he wasn’t free to possess freewill and it pained him to face that conflict from within. How is he suppose to take a simple damn compliment? He figured Arthur would never go mad… Madness… Madness, that’s for lesser men and for a thought like to even for form defined you as a blasphemer.
Maybe it was the cider. The devil’s drink. Even the king was susceptible to inebriation. But no, .. no. To dabble that far wasn’t his forte. But what would Mordred know? He doesn’t exactly having the luxury of knowing his father’s vices… Father… Father. . Father!
Wait, what did he say!?
Did he just…?!
… Alabaster lips twitched abjectly, then subconsciously twisted & folded in—if his teeth bit down any harder a red film would hurt the faux image of perfection his mother made him into. No, he couldn’t have heard that right (his palpitating heart told him otherwise). Since when was he claimed? Never one for meditation but for his sanity his lids had to come to a tight shut so he can think on this—think on how to respond.
Thankfully, there was hardly shame that was brought upon Mordred, for these chambers hosted just the two of them and he’d be damned if he exposed any sort of weakness to anybody that wasn’t King Arthur. He has always been religious in maintaining a powerful persona. It was never a beautiful job but he never cared to be beautiful. And yet… the king found something that was.. beautiful—in his… son?
Powerful and beautiful are two different beasts. The self-proclaimed king executioner took pride in their work ethic—he excelled in the thriller and horror. He did his best to serve those genres cold to those that deserved it. Imperfections? Ugliness? Heinous acts? Mordred embraced it all—he glorified his self-demonizing position, because it was to his belief, that the king should remain perfect. If there was anything that had to be ugly it had to be the hounds that answered his beck-and-call.
Yes… that’s right..
The king’s hounds.
That’s all Mordred thought he should ever amount to. Bark and bite—such is the dogma “man’s best friend” Arthur’s extensions should have. The faux son only thought that he should be higher than the position, should Arthur accept him as his heir.
At the time, he didn’t.
He turned his back on Mordred. Nothing was present on his beautiful face. Mordred was desperate. Desperate to see happiness, acknowledgement, love—something to make his day brighter. That may have been selfish on his part. It may have been disgusting for how he approached the king with news he thought was great. It must have been, because… the king didn’t express none of what Mordred was looking for.
Hell, his reaction didn’t even promote bitterness, hate, anger, nothing! He was unreadable that day but if it was one thing Mordred was certain of… it was that despite their blond locks and their identical emerald eyes.. he was just.. ugly.
And after he concluded he was just a ugly creature that should never know love, his emotions grew into a beast of their own. His resolve, his sense of duty, his love, he decided to he will dedicate it all to ending the king and making him happy at the same time. He will be proud of the might—the power of love—his fake son will come to bear in the time of his unholy insurrection. He would conquer his land, his heart, his emotions. Arthur will know who he was!
But what the hell was this?!
Did Arthur know of these thoughts he never spoke aloud? Did he want to end Mordred now before he had the chance? Did he.. wish to mock him? Mordred finally reopens his eyes and stared at the king for a second, trying to read the unreadable, and failed. He did sense… there was genuineness there, present on Camelot’s Sun’s face. But he just couldn’t grasp why would he want to acknowledge the ugly now.. It just made no sense.
Finally, the knight’s lips divorced to let out a sigh, his eyes swept from his original visage (it’s hard to keep eye contact like this. Please forgive me, my king.) and stared at the ground. “T-thank you, fat—my king. I’m… uncertain why you feel that way, I don’t know what I done to deserve such praise but I accept your compliment nonetheless. M-may I be excused?” In the end, Mordred concluded he wouldn’t take this compliment because of the possibility of this being the true feeling’s of the king, he would accept the words because it was the king, a king… he has a obligation to. He was obligated to take—accept— these words.
@imperterritus || ATTRACTIVE FEATURES || Not accepting.
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a clawed hand waves dismissively, a sigh escaping her. with a shake of her head, she turns to look at the blonde again with her smirk still evident on her lips. ❛ & here i remember you saying, ‘i’m not mad’. ❜
( What an annoying bitch. She was making it difficult for Saber to not see her head go bye-bye off her terribly pretty neck. )
...I’m not! You’re just unbearable company. At this point, your carcass would be far more tolerable.
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