Title: If You Haven't Got Anything Nice To Say
Character/s: Mordred, Galahad, and a rugby team
Summary: Mordred finds himself watching something he shouldn't, listening to something he shouldn't
Warnings: Relationship bordering on abusive, definitely controlling, Mordred being a Peeping Tom
Word Count: 999
Author's Notes: Because I promised...
Mordred doesn’t know what takes him to the changing rooms after the game. But for whatever reason, he ends up there, in a tree so handily planted that he can lie on a branch and stare through the opening in the top of the clouded glass window to look down on the showers.
It’s not really a surprise that he’s there. He’s had ninety minutes of watching a hot, sweaty, running Galahad, and since when was running so sexy? Anyway, there’s that and the fact that rugby is a contact sport, so pretty much all of the two teams have had their chance to touch Galahad, and in a scrum there’s no way that Mordred can keep track of him, make sure that it’s all above board. Because no hands are allowed anywhere near Galahad’s cock except Mordred’s. Or there will be pain, and possibly horrific curses, even if they are on Galahad’s team.
And now, since Galahad never knew that Mordred was there, he’s alone, while Galahad is surrounded by guys he assures Mordred are straight. Mordred has his suspicions otherwise, especially when they’re all half naked together, and the sound of the slapping of a towel reaches him, followed by an outraged cry that’s definitely Galahad’s voice. Mordred watches as the captain chases Galahad around the shower block, and near growls.
He’d head down straight after that to get Galahad out of there, if not for the one comment.
“Hey, Gala, how come your boyfriend wasn’t here to watch us win?”
Mordred doesn’t move, so still that he might be part of the tree himself.
“He doesn’t really like sport,” Galahad says, and Mordred can almost hear the shrug.
“Neither does Claire,” someone else tells him, “You should ask him.”
“I don’t think there’s any point.”
Galahad comes back into view, getting under the spray, and Mordred’s so distracted he nearly misses the slump of his shoulders that always betrays Galahad’s sadness.
“You deserve better,” one of the boys Mordred knows is close to Galahad tells him. And Mordred knows it’s true, but he can’t quite bring himself to let go. Galahad deserves someone who can tell him how much he loves him, who can find a way to take care of him, who can support him and tell him how proud they are. Just feeling it and keeping it all locked away isn’t enough for someone like Galahad.
Mordred tunes into the conversation again as someone else seems to be criticising Galahad’s choice in men.
“…the freak’s barely at school, and when he is he’s smoking. He’ll fail his exams, and you’re going to uni. He’s got no friends, and you’re fucking popular. It won’t-”
Galahad rounds on him, eyes blazing, only a towel wrapped around his middle.
“Don’t you fucking dare. He’s what I want, and if you can’t be happy for me I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know you. And for your information, Mordred’s not your typical perfect boyfriend, but I’m in love with him. That’s not something even you can trivialise.”
The captain starts trying to calm them down, but Mordred doesn’t stay to watch. If he hadn’t had a hard on for Galahad from the first five minutes of the game he’d have one now. And he can’t stay away.
When the changing rooms door slams against the wall, the team fall silent. None of them want to contend with a seething Mordred. He crosses the room uninhibited to a still shaking Galahad, pushing him hard up against the wall tiles to kiss him, biting his lips almost punishingly sharp. Galahad just tugs him closer, arms wrapped around Mordred’s waist, bringing him in to hide Galahad from the team.
The captain tries coughing to separate them, but it has no effect. Instead, he starts clearing the team out.
It takes five agonising minutes of shifting his hips against Galahad’s, fucking his mouth with his tongue, until they’re all gone. Someone thinks to lock the door behind them, which is just as well, since Mordred’s too far gone to do it himself.
And then Mordred throws, tears even, his clothes off, stopping only to empty his jeans pockets of the condom and lube packets he’d put there before. He’d known it would end this way. Things between them usually do. He’d just thought he’d get Galahad home, or at least in a classroom, or a car, before they gave in.
He pushes Galahad back under the spray, opening him without so much as a kiss of build-up. He’s quick, and probably doesn’t prepare enough, but Galahad doesn’t seem to care, tugging Mordred in closer, one hand resting on his hip, the other on his chest.
The condom slides on in a matter of seconds, and then Mordred has one of Galahad’s legs wrapped around his waist, and he braces Galahad against the tiles, pushing in. Galahad’s arms wrap around him, and he shivers with the pain of it, mixed with the pleasure, drawing Mordred in closer. They move together, Mordred in silence, Galahad choking off each of his moans. When Mordred strokes down over Galahad’s chest, barely touching his cock, he comes, head tipped back into the spray. It blinds him, but still Mordred buries his head in Galahad’s shoulder, disguising it with a bite there, to hide his face as he comes undone.
Still pressed together as he recovers, Mordred steals another kiss from Galahad, messy and wet, sucking on his tongue when it flits over to Mordred’s mouth. Galahad moans, turning into a whine when Mordred leaves him, binning the condom and cleaning up.
Galahad’s towel is soaked by the time it’s dried them both. They dress in silence, and Galahad can’t help but glance over at Mordred.
Finally, he breaks the silence.
“That’s why I don’t come and watch your games.”
Galahad doesn’t really know what part of what just happened he’s referring to, but he presses into Mordred’s side as they leave, keeping him close.