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That damn skirt was going to be the death of him.
Tristan didn’t care what Galahad called it (and to be honest, he had no idea, because he hadn’t been paying attention), it was a skirt. And a short one, at that.
Tristan was fairly certain that when they started out on this mission it had been knee-length. A nice, respectable length for a skirt, if one was going to wear one. The longer they rode across the countryside, however, the shorter the skirt became, until Tristan was nearly falling off his horse from the sight of creamy white thighs. He had no idea how no one else noticed.
And no one else’s skirts had gotten shorter, either, he’d checked. For no other reason than to compare, to make sure he wasn’t losing his damn mind or seeing things after endless hours in the saddle.
But even after rest, after rest less nights of thinking about that damn thing, there it was again, every morning, riding far too damn high to be decent when Galahad bent to pick up his pack, or crouched by a stream to cup water into his hands to drink.
“You will chafe,” Tristan told him one morning, when their horses were standing near as they saddled them. “Then you won’t be able to ride. And I, for one, cannot stand another five years of your complaining if you do.”
Galahad’s look was dismissive, the easy, uncaring attitude of youth. It was, on occasion, difficult to remember that he had finally ventured into manhood with the rest of them. No wonder he kept the beard.
“I haven’t yet, have I?” Galahad said, and then rose onto his toes to check something. The skirt rose with him, as if specifically defying Tristan, and Tristan had needed to turn back to his own horse lest he do something embarrassing, such as yank it back down. Or, more horrifyingly, up .
Come nightfall, the boy’s stance had developed a bit of a falter, but he had no complaints. He sat by the fire, one knee drawn up, and Tristan knew that if he shifted just an inch, he’d flash the lot of them. Something had to be done. Otherwise, it’d be nothing more than a belt by morning.
If that were the case, he’d beat the boy with it.
Tristan was often the last to retire, comfortable staring into the fire long after the others had settled into bed. It was one of the few times he could get some peace and quiet, away from his brothers, away from his thoughts. He watched as one by one they took their leave and retired to rest.
One by one, all save for Galahad, who seemed determined to out-wait Tristan this evening.
He’d shifted his legs to stretch out before him, a far less scandalous position but one that reinforced Tristan’s belief that the garment was much too short.
Without a word, Tristan rose to get another log for the fire, passing behind Galahad as he did. On his way back, having tossed the wood to the coals, he snared a hand in the young man’s hair, tilting his head back until blue eyes met brown and Tristan sighed a deliberate breath through his nose.
“What are you doing?”
Galahad grinned up at him. The expression had fangs, a wolf in the woods. He’d always been a bit of a feral, wild thing. “I’m keeping warm by the fire. And yourself?”
Tristan’s grip tightened. Galahad’s eyelids fluttered, only a brief moment, but noticed nonetheless.
“You’ve been doing it on purpose,” Tristan mused, “You’ve been trying to provoke me.”
“And here you stand, provoked.” Galahad drew his knee up again, long and slow. The skirt shifted, rode the length of his thigh to settle over his hips. All it would take was for one of them to shift, just a bit, and Tristan would see his undergarments.
Galahad spread his thighs. He was not wearing undergarments.
He really did want to beat him with a belt then. Several. So that those pale thighs wore the marks of his displeasure, welts and lines, scratches, bite marks, bruises -
"Get up."
"Why?"
Tristan just tugged his hair harder, Galahad groaning at the feeling and pushed against the earth with his heels to stand. When they were facing each other - Galahad a head shorter than his brother in arms - Tristan sniffed.
He was aiming for displeasure. For disinterest. For anything that wasn't arousal that pooled hot and heady in his groin.
"You first." Tristan finally said, relaxing his grip enough to slip his hand to the back of Galahad's neck instead. "Why?"
“If you can’t figure it out, I’m going to be sorely disappointed.”
“If you keep up your taunting, you’re going to be sore. ”
Galahad smirked, merriment and intrigue both written across his face. “Is that the game we’re playing? Already? One would think you’d take me to bed first , before we started to get creative.” He shifted, a step closer into Tristan’s space, enough for Tristan to scent him, earth and musk and heat. Tristan’s mouth went dry.
“Have you ever just asked for something in your life, pup?”
“Why should I, when driving you to distraction is so much more fun?”
It was not that Tristan had never thought about it. On the contrary, he’d thought about it far too much, sometimes in the beds of other men. It had always seemed a bad idea, to court a member of their group this way, to paint over brotherly bonds with something much different, and risk destroying the whole family, should things go badly.
Absolutely none of that mattered when Galahad was up on his toes, licking his way into Tristan’s mouth as if it was all he could ever possibly want.
Tristan tightened his grip and kissed him back. Rough for his frustration, deep for his need, and Galahad returned it just as fervently, groaning into their mouths and bringing up a hand to grasp against Tristan's armor.
"I'm surprised Arthur hasn't disciplined you already, distracting his scout as you are," Tristan told him, brow up.
"Tell me one time Arthur has noticed me," Galahad replied, amused. "I exist, and I'm a number. If my brother speaks it's for the two of us. And I," he pressed nearer again, grasping Tristan's free hand to guide it to the hem of his damn skirt, "want this, and you, all to myself."
Tristan could not help himself. He couldn’t even say he’d tried . His hand slid up, and the skirt slid with it, until he found himself tucking the hem into the waistband, holding fabric up and out of the way. Galahad was a pale thing to begin with, but here was skin untouched by the sun, despite the boy’s best efforts. Tristan’s hand curved over Galahad’s rear, cupping one full cheek firmly. Galahad ducked his head against Tristan’s neck with a helpless laugh.
“If you have me here,” Galahad whispered against Tristan’s skin, “Then someone will surely notice, and we will ride out tomorrow to the sound of teasing and mock disapproval. They will never let it go.”
“You should scurry along then, pup,” Tristan said, his voice low, gravelly, more affected than he’d ever heard himself, “I find you’ve exhausted all my patience.”
Galahad pulled back, laughter in his eyes, teeth digging into his plump lower lip. When he reached to untuck his skirt, Tristan swatted his hand away.
“Leave it. This was where you were bound to end up regardless, with the way you’ve been pinning it.”
Galahad's grin wrinkled his nose, made him look even younger than he was. A goddamn temptation in human form, that boy.
Tristan watched him walk away, revealed, now, and shameless in it. He watched Galahad stop by Tristan's tent - always out farther than the others - look over his shoulder, and duck to slip inside. Tristan didn't take long to follow him.
And he kissed him before Galahad could say another damn word, grasping the younger man and tugging him nearer, catching both their balance as Galahad crawled into Tristan's lap and gripped his braids. His cock pushed up the leather that barely covered him, shameless in that too, and Tristan groaned, hooking a hand over Galahad's shoulder to guide him down harder against him.
"Wanton thing," he praised, nipping Galahad's throat before kissing lower, reaching to find the straps holding his vest fastened. "You'll wake the whole camp when I take you."
Galahad’s breathing stuttered. He rocked hard in Tristan’s lap, seeking pleasure faster than Tristan could give it to him. Tristan’s hand came down sharp against his skin, a red hand print over Galahad’s pale backside. Galahad looked at him through hooded eyes, eager and wanting.
“Greedy,” Tristan told him, stripping him of his vest, of all his garments but the thrice-damned skirt.
“You don’t sound disappointed.”
Tristan freed the hem of his skirt, hiding away his tempting thighs and thickening cock. It draped over Galahad, tenting obscenely. “I never said I was.” He rolled them, quick enough to drive the breath from Galahad. He looked up at Tristan through a mess of curls, teeth bared as if to fight back. Tristan hoped he would, if only so Tristan could be that much rougher with him.
"Do I need to put you in your place here, too?"
"Yes." Galahad made to move, to wriggle free from beneath the man who pinned him, laughing low when Tristan pressed him down all the harder. Galahad could feel his cock through his pants, just as eager.
When Tristan pressed a hand over the younger's throat he grinned. "Show me what my place is in your bed."
"Needy," Tristan chastened, tightening his hold for a moment before releasing him to give Galahad the chance to move. Strong thighs clung to Tristan, a deliberate kick almost enough to upend him and reverse their positions. "I want you pliant."
"Make me."
Another sharp slap against Galahad's ass, the boy immediately spreading his legs to arch up for more.
"I want you hungry."
Galahad surged up to grab Tristan's hair, setting his teeth to his throat in a play at predation. Tristan yanked him back and kissed him hard instead, his other hand down between them working his pants open.
"I want you begging."
"Please," Galahad replied, the sound turning high in his throat. "Tristan, please, I need it."
Tristan draped himself over Galahad, using his weight to pin him down. One hand dug blindly through his pack, the other hooked under Galahad’s knee, lifting it up and spreading him wide.
He bit over Galahad’s pale throat, bruising him just under his jaw, impossible to hide. Tristan would have them the subject of teasing regardless, would have everyone know he’d claimed Galahad for his own.
Galahad the Chaste, Galahad the Pure. They’d all had a joke or two at the boy’s expense over the years, and Tristan groaned against his skin at the realization, nearly upending the bottle of oil all over his bedroll.
“Have you been waiting for me, pretty thing?”
"You were taking so damn long," Galahad groaned, setting his booted foot to Tristan's thigh. He grasped the hem of the skirt and watched him. "Every time you pinned me in the training ring. When you taught me to ride, sitting behind me and adjusting my posture. Did you not notice that I would sleep near you, always, when we shared lodgings in winter?"
"I noticed."
"Then why not have me then?"
"Because a pup shows its teeth when it's ready," Tristan replied, leaning nearer to press their foreheads together, turning his nose against Galahad's in a nuzzle. "And I wanted to see if there were others."
"No others."
Tristan grinned. "By choice?"
"Not if you had waited any goddamn longer." Galahad muttered, jerking back when slick fingers moved behind his balls, a teasing, seeking massage against him. He flushed beautifully, so pale he was.
"Will there be?"
"That depends on how good you are."
Tristan pulled a gasp from him with just his fingers, two of them rubbing shallowly inside him. “With the mouth you have on you, boy, we should have tried another game first.” He cupped Galahad’s jaw with his free hand, rubbing his thumb at the corner of his mouth. Galahad had bitten down on his lip, eyes squeezed shut as Tristan gently tried to ease in further. “If you stay so tense it will hurt.”
“I know that,” Galahad snapped back, but the tightness did not ease from his body.Tristan pulled his fingers out, drizzled more oil over them, and tried again with just the one. This one could find a place for itself inside Galahad, despite the nervousness that trembled through him. Tristan nuzzled up under his chin, planting kisses along his jaw until Galahad shuddered, body relaxing involuntarily.
“That’s it,” Tristan told him, “Open up for me, let me fill you.”
Galahad glared at him, the effect somewhat ruined by the ruddiness of his cheeks, and the little moan he gave when Tristan finally got a second finger into him and curled them over his prostate.
His back arched up off the ground, hands clinging in tight fists to whatever they'd managed to grab.
"Stubborn thing," Tristan told him fondly, kissing his sternum, down Galahad's tight stomach. He lifted the skirt just enough to duck his head beneath, mouth circling Galahad's cock in deep, hot pressure.
Galahad cursed, bringing a hand up to his mouth to keep the sounds inside. He could talk, and did, and would, but if he woke the camp they wouldn't get this. Not now, possibly not ever again. And that couldn't happen.
His eyes rolled back as Tristan sucked him, as his fingers spread and curled within him, stretching Galahad for what was to come. And he wanted it. He did. He'd been dreaming of it for months, how Tristan would feel against him, how his mouth would taste, how his rough accent - still there despite years away from his homeland - would curl over Galahad's name when no one else was there to hear.
"God," he managed, thighs trembling where they were spread wide for Tristan to tease him between.
“Will you scream for me?” Tristan asked, fingers dragging one more time over Galahad’s sweet spot as he pulled them out. Galahad shook, heels digging in to the bedroll. “When I’m inside you, will you cry out my name?”
“You’re entirely too full of yourself,” Galahad gasped.
“I assure you, it’s well-earned.” The head of Tristan’s cock dripped with how much he’d slicked it. Galahad’s tempting little skirt would be ruined, stained with oil and the remnants of their lovemaking.
“Do it,” Galahad pleaded, reaching up to grasp tightly at Tristan’s shoulder, “Just do it.”
Bare skin against Tristan’s clothes, dark curls fanning out around his face, Tristan had never seen anything so lovely. He pressed forward, slow, steady, inch by inch while Galahad groaned and tried so hard to be still.
It hurt, as much as Galahad would never admit it, it hurt and it was hard to breathe and Tristan's lips soft against his cheek made him want to cry. He breathed when he was told to, shuddering gasps, spread his legs wider when Tristan pushed all the way in and sat back to admire him.
Galahad trembled. Attempted to glare up at him. But Tristan's smile was warm, not teasing, and when he set his fingers to Galahad's stomach, just gently, and spread them to hold him still as he pulled out and thrust back in again at a languid pace, Galahad moaned.
He felt so goddamn full.
Tristan took his time getting Galahad used to this, the motion and pressure and sensation of it all, before wrapping his arms around his slight form and pulling him up to sit in his lap.
" Oh ," it was deeper, like this, spread him so wide Galahad bit his cry into Tristan's shoulder. He clung for a moment, centering himself, allowing Tristan's rough fingers to draw over his back, up into his hair.
"I taught you to ride," Tristan told him, amused. "So ride."
Galahad blinked at him.
"I'll correct your posture should it waver." Tristan assured him.
Galahad’s face was hot. He braced both his hands on Tristan’s shoulders, rolling his hips tentatively. Tristan filled him entirely, ground up against all his sensitive places. Galahad’s cock was dripping, pressed against the rough fabric of Tristan’s clothing.
“A little more,” Tristan coaxed. He grasped Galahad’s hips, guiding him to rise up, and then drop back down. It very nearly hurt, an odd form of hurt than included pleasure, thoroughly intertwined, impossible to separate. Galahad whimpered and did it again, and again, until Tristan stopped guiding him and started touching him instead. Rough fingers pinching at Galahad’s nipples, trailing soft touches down his sides, toying at the head of his cock. Galahad did cry out this time, bringing a pleased smirk to Tristan’s lips.
His thighs trembled and ached. Galahad felt the stretch with every shaking roll of his hips, and he knew that he would feel Tristan inside him even after he was gone. He would ache for him, would never be able to go without this again. If Tristan wouldn’t have him, Galahad would kill the man himself. “More,” he demanded, begged , catching the corner of Tristan’s lips in a crooked kiss.
“Not satisfied, pup?” Tristan laughed. “It’s not enough to seek your own pleasure?” He bucked his hips up sharply, enjoying the noise that spilled ragged from Galahad’s lips. Somebody was surely awake by now, with how desperately eager Tristan’s boy was becoming.
"More," he demanded again, petulant, even as his cheeks flamed with arousal and embarrassment, even as his voice pulled eager and loud when Tristan's cock brushed that place within him again, sending sparks up and down his spine. Even as he rode Tristan as Tristan had told him to, and never wanted it to end.
"I'll watch, tomorrow," Tristan promised him, "as you saddle your horse. As you mount. As you try to sit still, remembering me, remembering this. How you cried so shamelessly for more ."
Galahad cursed and wrapped his arms around him, holding on and using it as leverage to meet every thrust that pressed into him. It was a rough taking. A claiming. Exactly what he'd wanted.
"Tristan -"
In answer, he dropped his hand to palm Galahad's cock, spreading the slick precome over him, giving him friction to thrust against as he worked himself desperately closer.
"Louder."
"What?"
"My name," Tristan told him, kissing another bruise dark to the boy's cheek as he thrust up deep and held Galahad still, just his hand working him closer and closer. "Louder. Let them hear."
Galahad shook his head, curls catching on his wet lips until he buried his face against Tristan's chest again. He wanted to, which was the worst thing.
The next time Galahad dropped down, Tristan held him there, fingers digging bruises into his hips. “You’ll scream for me, pup,” he teased, tugging at Galahad’s ear with his teeth, “You’ll let the whole camp hear your pleasure or you won’t get any.”
Galahad whined, wriggling in Tristan’s grasp and sobbing out his frustration when it got him nowhere. He dug his nails into Tristan’s arms, retribution for the unjust punishment, and gave Tristan a sharp nod. “Okay,” he whispered, “Okay, alright, anything you want, just please .”
Tristan tipped him backwards onto the bedroll, hefting one knee over his shoulders so that Galahad was spread embarrassingly open, skirt rolling up, exposing the place where they joined to Tristan’s pleased gaze. He looked positively hateful as he tangled his fingers in Tristan’s hair, hauling him down against him. “I’ll scream for you,” he hissed in Tristan’s ear, “But you had better give me good reason.”
Galahad bit hard at Tristan’s jaw, leaving a bruise of his own, a mark Tristan would bear with pride. Tristan rocked his hips forward, drove into Galahad so roughly that he was shoved up the bedroll, half off it and completely uncaring, head thrown back to cry out in breathy pleasure.
Tristan's own breathing was stuttered. Galahad was beautiful beneath him in his pleasure. Still stroppy as a pony, still stubborn. He still had teeth and claws and a cruel tongue but oh, to tame those would be a particular pleasure.
He turned Galahad to him again to kiss, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth before setting his hands on either side of Galahad's head and taking him harder. Turning his hips to hit that spot in him, over and over, punishing it until Galahad's voice broke on a cry and he fisted his cock, jerking himself to orgasm.
"Please," he groaned, voice growing louder. "Please, Tristan, God -"
"Again," Tristan coaxed, so close himself, now, that it didn't matter if Galahad obeyed. But he wanted him to. He wanted the boy aching for him and for this, eager to please and fight him all the way.
" Tristan -"
There, that pitch, that choked breath, those eager, pressing fingers that yanked Tristan down to a rough kiss again. He stilled, pulsing his release into Galahad, kissing him ardently, desperately.
When they had both caught their breath enough, Tristan nuzzled him, a claiming thing on its own. Though his next kiss was softer.
"Are you satisfied now?" He asked, amused.
Galahad stretched beneath him, languid and pleased, but with a flush of embarrassment Tristan hoped he never outgrew. In the morning, Galahad would hate him, both for the discomfort he felt while riding and the playful mockery he would no doubt endure. But come evening, Tristan was certain he could earn his affections again, with lips and tongue set to his thighs, and then higher.
“Mmm,” Galahad hummed, with a playful, sleepy smile, “I’m not certain. I may need a few more rides to decide if I’ll keep you or not.”
Tristan laughed, trailing kisses down his throat. “You troublesome, insatiable, spoiled little thing. I’ll have you limping by the time I’m done with you.”
Galahad tangled his fingers in Tristan’s hair, holding him against his neck. “That’s the idea.”