Together
The last part of my Mordred and Galahad fic. Author's notes at the end explain where I see them going for the rest of their lives. If it's too painful for you, imagine a happy ending. I'd love to, but I can't see it happening
Title: Together
Author:
weepingwillow9
Disclaimer: I have no claim to owning Merlin, though Elaine and Galahad are mine
Characters: Galahad (OC), Mordred
Pairings: Mordred/Galahad
Warnings: Angst, abusive relationship
Spoilers: Nope, no spoilers
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1712
Summary: "We'll fix each other, right?"
Three boyfriends later, Galahad’s begun to realise the truth of it.
Life’s a bitch.
He loves Mordred, still, and won’t ever find someone else he can care for while he’s still stuck on Mordred. Because no one else really has a chance against that.
And Galahad doesn’t really know how to get over Mordred, since the spectacular break-up didn’t do it.
And now, after Mordred’s words, which might be lies but Galahad can’t help himself believing on some level, he wonders if there might be a chance that Mordred loves him.
But it will never work. Galahad wants domesticity. Mordred wants sex that hurts, in more ways than one. Galahad has his physics, Mordred his power and plans for world domination. Their lives don’t fit as well as their hearts.
And that’s without looking at how impossible it is for Mordred to show what he feels, and how Galahad could never cope with that. How Mordred would lose it every now and then and do something just to make Galahad hurt, and never apologise for it, no matter how sorry he really was. Galahad doesn’t know if he’d be strong enough for that.
But since the loving Mordred isn’t going away, and it isn’t getting any better, Galahad finds him.
When the door opens, he’s surprised to see Mordred in a suit. It’s the last thing he expected, black suit trousers, white shirt with the top two buttons undone, no tie, jacket discarded. Mordred runs a hand through his hair, the only sign that he’s shaken in the slightest. Galahad feels he’s achieved something to get that far.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“You’d better come in.”
Mordred doesn’t hold the door, just leads Galahad into the kitchen.
“So. Suit?”
“I work in marketing.”
“Ah.”
What he doesn’t tell Galahad is that it’s just a front, a way to make money while carrying out his plans to seize power over as much as he can.
“Drink?” Mordred asks.
“Water, please,” Galahad asks. Mordred gives him wine. Galahad drinks it anyway. Silently.
“What’re you doing here?” Mordred asks, finally, “It’s been fourteen months.”
“You counted.”
“How could I not? I knew you’d come eventually.”
But looking at Mordred, at his eyes just slightly wider than usual, the way he leans against the counter as if searching for support, Galahad can tell that he didn’t. He doesn’t dispute it, though. Gives Mordred what little control over the situation he can find.
“I came.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you, and while you make me miserable, it’s better than the miserable of you not being there.”
Mordred moves then, knocks the wine glass from Galahad’s hands, backs him up against the fridge and bears down on him, pressing their lips together desperately.
“We need to talk,” Galahad says, when Mordred pulls back for air, because he refuses to let this turn into a repeat of before.
“No, we need to fuck.”
Mordred pulls Galahad to him again, crushingly tight, kissing his lips until they tingle, licking and biting and sucking them until Galahad’s sure they’ve lost their shape, moulded themselves to Mordred’s will. He gives as good as he gets, panting into Mordred’s mouth when they can kiss no longer, clinging onto his shoulders like they’re the only things stopping him falling.
“Fine, but we’re doing things differently. I’ll teach you.”
“Just get into the fucking bed,” Mordred instructs, and Galahad lets himself be pulled away, out of the kitchen and down the hall. Mordred never takes his eyes off Galahad, like he’s convinced that if he does Galahad will disappear, or run away.
Mordred pushes Galahad back, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt and pulling up, covering his still muscled and firm chest with kisses. Galahad fights to get him upright again, so he can reach Mordred’s shirt buttons, undoing the cuffs where Mordred’s hands grip his hips. Instead, Mordred just steps back when he’s done with Galahad’s chest and black and blue bites blossom all over it.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, and Galahad’s skin tingles where Mordred used to draw runes.
“Yeah, but this time you’re mine too.” Mordred’s eyes flick up to Galahad’s, wide and hot and blazing. Galahad wonders briefly if that’s the end of it all, if Mordred can’t cope with equality in this. And then Mordred pulls his shirt off over his head and Galahad grins, going to him, hanging his arms over Mordred’s shoulders and crossing them behind his neck.
“Love you.”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll fix each other, right?”
“Gala… you’re talking.”
Galahad giggles, suddenly far too happy.
“Yes,” Mordred breathes, into his ear, and Galahad pulls back to kiss him, on the mouth, his jaw, down his neck. Mordred moans, just quietly, so Galahad keeps going, sucking down between his collarbones while Mordred reaches, flailing, desperate, for his jeans, thumbing the button open and tugging on the zip, letting them slide down Galahad’s thin legs.
“Missed you,” he sighs. Galahad leans up and kisses his lips again, chaste until Mordred opens for him.
“You too,” he admits, letting his hands slide down Mordred’s back, unbuckling his belt and leaving it hanging in the belt loops, and undoing his trousers, pushing them down. Mordred was already barefooted, so Galahad toes off his socks, pulling Mordred back towards the bed by his hips.
Mordred does away with both their underwear, leaning Galahad back to lie on the bed. He whispers a few words, and his eyes glow in the darkness, floating foil condom packets and lube out of his wardrobe. Just to show off, he tears off an individual packet with magic. Galahad laughs and snatches the lube from the air.
“Open up, Mor.”
Mordred wonders briefly if he’s gone insane. He’s never bottomed for anyone before, because he has to be in control. He gets off on the power as much as anything else. But he lies down next to Galahad, almost obediently, and holds his knees wide open.
Galahad can read the tension, the uncertainty, in every move Mordred makes. And maybe this was a bad idea, but he can’t go back on it now. So he kneels between Mordred’s legs, kisses up from the base of his cock and sucks it in, slowly, holding Mordred’s hips flush against the bed until he calms, relaxes, lets Galahad touch his hole with a slicked up finger. Galahad pushes in so very slowly, so Mordred can get used to the feeling of it. And then Mordred goes quiet.
Galahad looks up at him, afraid, but all that shows on his face is a look of shock. Galahad moves his finger slightly, and Mordred gasps.
“There,” he says, in explanation, so Galahad brushes it again.
Galahad adds another finger, sucking Mordred down at the same time. He makes quick work of opening Mordred up, knowing how impatient he can be, how a moment of lucidity could stop it all. And then he pulls away and rolls them over, slicking himself up.
Mordred takes a moment to look at Galahad. Properly look at him, registering the sheer hotness of it all, the adoration shining up from Galahad. He once thought it a weakness, but now. Now, he’s not so sure.
He wants it. Wants it all, wants to give himself to Galahad and take all he’s offered. Preferably more, too. So he sinks down onto Galahad, listening as the shattered moans from both of them wash over him.
“Come here, you.”
Mordred goes, leaning forwards, letting Galahad wrap his arms around his back and hold him there, reach up to kiss him, sucking on his lip, and then his tongue, and not letting go.
And then their hips shift, and Mordred moves, thighs tensing. Galahad follows him, thrusting up, meeting awkwardly until they have a rhythm of lift and push and give, an echo of moans that goes on and on, faster, until Galahad comes and Mordred lets go around him, over him.
“Don’t make me leave,” Galahad begs, when Mordred pulls out of him, lies down next to him.
“Stay,” is Mordred’s answer, so Galahad curls up to him and holds him tight, positioning Mordred’s arms around him.
“And that is cuddling lesson one,” he murmurs, just before he falls asleep, happier than he’s been for years. Perhaps ever.
---
They wake with the dawn, Mordred first. When his eyes first open, he doesn’t understand what’s going on. There’s a warm weight on his chest, another between his legs, the tickle of hair on his neck. And then he remembers. Galahad. Pretty, sexy, wonderful, Galahad. His Galahad. The love of his fucking life, come back to him.
Mordred brings his arms around to hold him, softly, so as not to wake him. But the breathing pattern changes, and Galahad sighs. Strokes his hand across Mordred’s stomach. Breathes in and out again.
“What time is it, Mor?” he murmurs.
“Early. Go back to sleep, love.”
But Galahad doesn’t. He presses a kiss, right over Mordred’s heart.
“Mine,” he whispers.
“Yours. Sleep, Gala.”
Galahad nuzzles into Mordred’s chest. He knows it’s a bad idea to ask. Knows that Mordred could easily throw him out for it. Knows that it might be a commitment too far. But Galahad wants something more to tie them together, something substantial that Mordred can’t just ignore and back out of. He wants Mordred, for better or for worse. He wants his forever with Mordred, though he knows it will probably end before the growing old together. When one of them finds something they want more than the other; world domination or close to it for Mordred, perhaps kids for Galahad. He knows it will never be till death do them part.
Still, right now Galahad is warm and happy, wrapped up in Mordred and the smell of him and sex, bathed in warm dawn light, and everything feels just about as perfect as it gets. And he wants, so he asks.
“Marry me,” he murmurs, into Mordred’s skin, so quiet that he thinks the pale expanse has soaked it all up, hidden it from them both.
Mordred presses a kiss to the top of his head. He’s heard, and he wants it, too, a safety net so the two of them don’t end before it’s completely necessary.
“Yes.”
AN:
Galahad and Mordred find a house together, and get married. Galahad teaches Mordred to show how he loves, but sometimes it slips, in arguments, in bed when Mordred’s had a bad day and turns self-centred. He tries, though.
They walk out on each other. Mordred because it will hurt Galahad, Galahad because he tires of being hurt intentionally. But they’ll always come back. (Calls of Galahad, are you safe? will always send him back again. Because then he’ll remember that Mordred really cares. Mordred only really needs the sound of Galahad’s voice, and he’ll be through the door again, guilty.)
The house will have three bedrooms. In one, will be their bed and most of their things. Another will be the Study, or Galahad’s room. There will be a futon in there, for if he needs his space and wants to sleep there. He’ll work there, and it will be his alone. Mordred will know not to invade it. There will be the Music Room, too, so called because it will be soundproofed. But it will never be used for instruments; it will be Mordred’s work room, where he goes to practice spells. He will have a bed there too, in case he needs to let off some steam and sleep alone.
They won’t function as an ordinary couple. There will be long periods apart where Galahad goes to film documentaries or Mordred goes away on supposed business trips. But they will love each other and that, largely, will be enough. They’ll have more sex than should really be allowed, more arguments too, and love each other so fiercely they think they’ll burn of it. But it will all be alright.
That is, until Mordred dies. When his demise comes, it will be surprisingly anticlimactic. The news will come with a police officer and a commiserative pat on the back.
Mordred, still alive, will watch Galahad as he cries, near come back time after time because his protection of Galahad is backfiring on him. But he’ll watch Galahad move on, watch him visit the smooth black tombstone, watch him cry to it and stutter out confused tangles of love and no and Mor, don’t know how I can, without you. But eventually, Galahad will redecorate the house, adopt two beautiful children, have a few brief flings (even one with the police officer who brought the news) and never truly love again. Still, at the age where most parent’s children would be in their early twenties, Galahad will be an incredible father, and Mordred will be so, so proud.
The plans that he had thought to save Galahad from will never really take off, and by the time he realises this it will be too late. So he will keep going, because he can’t return to Galahad. Not now, not ever. Though, when the cancer gets back to Galahad, he’ll sit by his bed, and hold his hand, and kiss him one last time before he blinks out of the world.
Title: Together
Author:
weepingwillow9
Disclaimer: I have no claim to owning Merlin, though Elaine and Galahad are mine
Characters: Galahad (OC), Mordred
Pairings: Mordred/Galahad
Warnings: Angst, abusive relationship
Spoilers: Nope, no spoilers
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1712
Summary: "We'll fix each other, right?"
Three boyfriends later, Galahad’s begun to realise the truth of it.
Life’s a bitch.
He loves Mordred, still, and won’t ever find someone else he can care for while he’s still stuck on Mordred. Because no one else really has a chance against that.
And Galahad doesn’t really know how to get over Mordred, since the spectacular break-up didn’t do it.
And now, after Mordred’s words, which might be lies but Galahad can’t help himself believing on some level, he wonders if there might be a chance that Mordred loves him.
But it will never work. Galahad wants domesticity. Mordred wants sex that hurts, in more ways than one. Galahad has his physics, Mordred his power and plans for world domination. Their lives don’t fit as well as their hearts.
And that’s without looking at how impossible it is for Mordred to show what he feels, and how Galahad could never cope with that. How Mordred would lose it every now and then and do something just to make Galahad hurt, and never apologise for it, no matter how sorry he really was. Galahad doesn’t know if he’d be strong enough for that.
But since the loving Mordred isn’t going away, and it isn’t getting any better, Galahad finds him.
When the door opens, he’s surprised to see Mordred in a suit. It’s the last thing he expected, black suit trousers, white shirt with the top two buttons undone, no tie, jacket discarded. Mordred runs a hand through his hair, the only sign that he’s shaken in the slightest. Galahad feels he’s achieved something to get that far.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“You’d better come in.”
Mordred doesn’t hold the door, just leads Galahad into the kitchen.
“So. Suit?”
“I work in marketing.”
“Ah.”
What he doesn’t tell Galahad is that it’s just a front, a way to make money while carrying out his plans to seize power over as much as he can.
“Drink?” Mordred asks.
“Water, please,” Galahad asks. Mordred gives him wine. Galahad drinks it anyway. Silently.
“What’re you doing here?” Mordred asks, finally, “It’s been fourteen months.”
“You counted.”
“How could I not? I knew you’d come eventually.”
But looking at Mordred, at his eyes just slightly wider than usual, the way he leans against the counter as if searching for support, Galahad can tell that he didn’t. He doesn’t dispute it, though. Gives Mordred what little control over the situation he can find.
“I came.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you, and while you make me miserable, it’s better than the miserable of you not being there.”
Mordred moves then, knocks the wine glass from Galahad’s hands, backs him up against the fridge and bears down on him, pressing their lips together desperately.
“We need to talk,” Galahad says, when Mordred pulls back for air, because he refuses to let this turn into a repeat of before.
“No, we need to fuck.”
Mordred pulls Galahad to him again, crushingly tight, kissing his lips until they tingle, licking and biting and sucking them until Galahad’s sure they’ve lost their shape, moulded themselves to Mordred’s will. He gives as good as he gets, panting into Mordred’s mouth when they can kiss no longer, clinging onto his shoulders like they’re the only things stopping him falling.
“Fine, but we’re doing things differently. I’ll teach you.”
“Just get into the fucking bed,” Mordred instructs, and Galahad lets himself be pulled away, out of the kitchen and down the hall. Mordred never takes his eyes off Galahad, like he’s convinced that if he does Galahad will disappear, or run away.
Mordred pushes Galahad back, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt and pulling up, covering his still muscled and firm chest with kisses. Galahad fights to get him upright again, so he can reach Mordred’s shirt buttons, undoing the cuffs where Mordred’s hands grip his hips. Instead, Mordred just steps back when he’s done with Galahad’s chest and black and blue bites blossom all over it.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, and Galahad’s skin tingles where Mordred used to draw runes.
“Yeah, but this time you’re mine too.” Mordred’s eyes flick up to Galahad’s, wide and hot and blazing. Galahad wonders briefly if that’s the end of it all, if Mordred can’t cope with equality in this. And then Mordred pulls his shirt off over his head and Galahad grins, going to him, hanging his arms over Mordred’s shoulders and crossing them behind his neck.
“Love you.”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll fix each other, right?”
“Gala… you’re talking.”
Galahad giggles, suddenly far too happy.
“Yes,” Mordred breathes, into his ear, and Galahad pulls back to kiss him, on the mouth, his jaw, down his neck. Mordred moans, just quietly, so Galahad keeps going, sucking down between his collarbones while Mordred reaches, flailing, desperate, for his jeans, thumbing the button open and tugging on the zip, letting them slide down Galahad’s thin legs.
“Missed you,” he sighs. Galahad leans up and kisses his lips again, chaste until Mordred opens for him.
“You too,” he admits, letting his hands slide down Mordred’s back, unbuckling his belt and leaving it hanging in the belt loops, and undoing his trousers, pushing them down. Mordred was already barefooted, so Galahad toes off his socks, pulling Mordred back towards the bed by his hips.
Mordred does away with both their underwear, leaning Galahad back to lie on the bed. He whispers a few words, and his eyes glow in the darkness, floating foil condom packets and lube out of his wardrobe. Just to show off, he tears off an individual packet with magic. Galahad laughs and snatches the lube from the air.
“Open up, Mor.”
Mordred wonders briefly if he’s gone insane. He’s never bottomed for anyone before, because he has to be in control. He gets off on the power as much as anything else. But he lies down next to Galahad, almost obediently, and holds his knees wide open.
Galahad can read the tension, the uncertainty, in every move Mordred makes. And maybe this was a bad idea, but he can’t go back on it now. So he kneels between Mordred’s legs, kisses up from the base of his cock and sucks it in, slowly, holding Mordred’s hips flush against the bed until he calms, relaxes, lets Galahad touch his hole with a slicked up finger. Galahad pushes in so very slowly, so Mordred can get used to the feeling of it. And then Mordred goes quiet.
Galahad looks up at him, afraid, but all that shows on his face is a look of shock. Galahad moves his finger slightly, and Mordred gasps.
“There,” he says, in explanation, so Galahad brushes it again.
Galahad adds another finger, sucking Mordred down at the same time. He makes quick work of opening Mordred up, knowing how impatient he can be, how a moment of lucidity could stop it all. And then he pulls away and rolls them over, slicking himself up.
Mordred takes a moment to look at Galahad. Properly look at him, registering the sheer hotness of it all, the adoration shining up from Galahad. He once thought it a weakness, but now. Now, he’s not so sure.
He wants it. Wants it all, wants to give himself to Galahad and take all he’s offered. Preferably more, too. So he sinks down onto Galahad, listening as the shattered moans from both of them wash over him.
“Come here, you.”
Mordred goes, leaning forwards, letting Galahad wrap his arms around his back and hold him there, reach up to kiss him, sucking on his lip, and then his tongue, and not letting go.
And then their hips shift, and Mordred moves, thighs tensing. Galahad follows him, thrusting up, meeting awkwardly until they have a rhythm of lift and push and give, an echo of moans that goes on and on, faster, until Galahad comes and Mordred lets go around him, over him.
“Don’t make me leave,” Galahad begs, when Mordred pulls out of him, lies down next to him.
“Stay,” is Mordred’s answer, so Galahad curls up to him and holds him tight, positioning Mordred’s arms around him.
“And that is cuddling lesson one,” he murmurs, just before he falls asleep, happier than he’s been for years. Perhaps ever.
---
They wake with the dawn, Mordred first. When his eyes first open, he doesn’t understand what’s going on. There’s a warm weight on his chest, another between his legs, the tickle of hair on his neck. And then he remembers. Galahad. Pretty, sexy, wonderful, Galahad. His Galahad. The love of his fucking life, come back to him.
Mordred brings his arms around to hold him, softly, so as not to wake him. But the breathing pattern changes, and Galahad sighs. Strokes his hand across Mordred’s stomach. Breathes in and out again.
“What time is it, Mor?” he murmurs.
“Early. Go back to sleep, love.”
But Galahad doesn’t. He presses a kiss, right over Mordred’s heart.
“Mine,” he whispers.
“Yours. Sleep, Gala.”
Galahad nuzzles into Mordred’s chest. He knows it’s a bad idea to ask. Knows that Mordred could easily throw him out for it. Knows that it might be a commitment too far. But Galahad wants something more to tie them together, something substantial that Mordred can’t just ignore and back out of. He wants Mordred, for better or for worse. He wants his forever with Mordred, though he knows it will probably end before the growing old together. When one of them finds something they want more than the other; world domination or close to it for Mordred, perhaps kids for Galahad. He knows it will never be till death do them part.
Still, right now Galahad is warm and happy, wrapped up in Mordred and the smell of him and sex, bathed in warm dawn light, and everything feels just about as perfect as it gets. And he wants, so he asks.
“Marry me,” he murmurs, into Mordred’s skin, so quiet that he thinks the pale expanse has soaked it all up, hidden it from them both.
Mordred presses a kiss to the top of his head. He’s heard, and he wants it, too, a safety net so the two of them don’t end before it’s completely necessary.
“Yes.”
AN:
Galahad and Mordred find a house together, and get married. Galahad teaches Mordred to show how he loves, but sometimes it slips, in arguments, in bed when Mordred’s had a bad day and turns self-centred. He tries, though.
They walk out on each other. Mordred because it will hurt Galahad, Galahad because he tires of being hurt intentionally. But they’ll always come back. (Calls of Galahad, are you safe? will always send him back again. Because then he’ll remember that Mordred really cares. Mordred only really needs the sound of Galahad’s voice, and he’ll be through the door again, guilty.)
The house will have three bedrooms. In one, will be their bed and most of their things. Another will be the Study, or Galahad’s room. There will be a futon in there, for if he needs his space and wants to sleep there. He’ll work there, and it will be his alone. Mordred will know not to invade it. There will be the Music Room, too, so called because it will be soundproofed. But it will never be used for instruments; it will be Mordred’s work room, where he goes to practice spells. He will have a bed there too, in case he needs to let off some steam and sleep alone.
They won’t function as an ordinary couple. There will be long periods apart where Galahad goes to film documentaries or Mordred goes away on supposed business trips. But they will love each other and that, largely, will be enough. They’ll have more sex than should really be allowed, more arguments too, and love each other so fiercely they think they’ll burn of it. But it will all be alright.
That is, until Mordred dies. When his demise comes, it will be surprisingly anticlimactic. The news will come with a police officer and a commiserative pat on the back.
Mordred, still alive, will watch Galahad as he cries, near come back time after time because his protection of Galahad is backfiring on him. But he’ll watch Galahad move on, watch him visit the smooth black tombstone, watch him cry to it and stutter out confused tangles of love and no and Mor, don’t know how I can, without you. But eventually, Galahad will redecorate the house, adopt two beautiful children, have a few brief flings (even one with the police officer who brought the news) and never truly love again. Still, at the age where most parent’s children would be in their early twenties, Galahad will be an incredible father, and Mordred will be so, so proud.
The plans that he had thought to save Galahad from will never really take off, and by the time he realises this it will be too late. So he will keep going, because he can’t return to Galahad. Not now, not ever. Though, when the cancer gets back to Galahad, he’ll sit by his bed, and hold his hand, and kiss him one last time before he blinks out of the world.