14. Things you said after you kissed me for Tristhad please? Or Hannigram.
Thought I’d try my hand at some Tristhad for the first time. Enjoy, ducks!
He aims a shove squarely into the older man’s chest.
“Don’t do that again.”
Tristan laughs from his belly, barely stirred off his feet.
“Or what, little soldier?”
Galahad frowns, but it comes out as a pout, a sweet curve that matches the turn of his curls.
“I hate it when you call me that.”
“Yes,” Tristan says, “but you don’t hate it when I do this.”
He steps in again, mouth brushing against the hair that licks Galahad’s forehead.
“But I won’t do it again,” he whispers to Galahad’s temple, “unless you ask me.”
Light fingers brush in a ghost of a touch against the ends of Galahad’s tunic, sweeping in teasing flicks against his thigh. Tristan feels Galahad shudder against him, but he stiffens his spine and knocks the older knight’s hand away.
“Stop it,” he mutters, and Galahad feels his lips still burning with the remnant of the rough kiss that had been pressed against him.
Tristan raises large hands in mock submission, a knowing grin dancing about his mouth.
“As you command, little soldier,” he says, and turns to leave the clearing.
Galahad watches him, the way his broad shoulders shift with surprising grace, the way his hair hangs messy and softly kisses his shoulders. He wonders how long he has watched Tristan in this way, if he always has. He wonders what stubbornness will truly accomplish, in the end, when they are as like to die as not before they grow old.
“Wait,” he says, and Tristan stops but does not turn.
They stand together in the snow, flecks of white drifting and waltzing around them in lazy circles. Galahad breathes and watches the white fog pass his lips, wishes Tristan was a few feet closer to taste it.
He imagines striding to the older man and crushing his mouth against him, wonders how Tristan’s rough tongue would feel slipping along his own. He wonders if those broad, terrible hands would leave bruises when they clutch at him.
He decides he doesn’t want to wonder anymore.
“Tristan,” he whispers, his voice a slight fragment in the cold, “turn around.”
He does so, slowly, breathing low and matching his. His eyes burn like coals despite the frost around them.
Tristan looks at him like he is a precious thing and Galahad feels an unwanted blush heat his cheeks. The older man cocks his head in question but does not speak a word.
“Kiss me,” Galahad breathes, but it is he who moves, he who takes bounding steps towards Tristan as he is caught up and held in his arms. His feet lift from the ground and he gasps laughing into Tristan’s mouth despite himself.
They drown each other in hot, furious kisses that melt with the snow into soft languid things, slow brushes of noses to cheeks and little hands tangling in wild straggly hair.
“You madden me,” Galahad says into Tristan’s growling mouth, “have you always done so?”
Tristan bites at each of his lips in turn, squeezing warmth around the younger man’s waist.
“Yes,” he says hotly against his skin, “and I shall until I die.”
Snow falls in silence around them, a little less cold now, but they pay the chill no mind. They take heat from each other instead, smiling secrets as they embrace and vow under watchful stars.