26. 26.
26.
W armth enveloped Folke from behind. Two strong legs settled on either side of his, and arms hooked around his abdomen to ease him back, hay rustling and crunching under their combined weight. He wasn’t sure if Finlay’s aim was to trap, but Folke couldn’t say he disliked resting against that solid chest. To run his hands over denim-clad thighs. To have a chin settle on his shoulder, and a nose inhale, deeply, against the side of his neck.
“I’ve been sweating, Fin.”
Another deliberate intake of sweat-tinged air. “You smell divine.” And a discerning, open-mouthed kiss to his exposed skin. “And taste exquisite .”
Folke squirmed, wordlessly conveying that he was not to be distracted. Lips ceased their journey up to his ear, pressed one last kiss just behind it.
“Are you familiar with the Twelve Shrieking Barghests?” Finlay asked.
Folke did not refrain from tutting. “Of course I am. I can even tell you about their variations based on region, if you’d like.”
“No need, Precious. I believe you.”
Another pause, and a sigh. Folke bit down a flare of impatience. He needed to give Finlay time to gather his thoughts. Although why he had to do so whilst mouthing the shell of his ear, Folke wasn’t sure—and hated that it roused him so.
“Well,” Finlay began. Voice low, exhales tickling his skin. “They exist. Some variation of it, anyway.”
Were it not for fingers stroking down his chest and lips now caressing his nape, Folke might have brought his elbows down into Finlay’s abdomen.
“I know,” Finlay added, as though sensing Folke’s disbelief. “And no, I’m not trying to make a fool of you.”
Folke’s turn to huff. In exasperation, as hands journeyed down to his crotch. Kneaded. Too effective in distracting him. “You’re tell–telling me that–that these Barghests are what I’ve been hearing, what I killed with a nail , and what has been killing my sheep?”
“Yeah, Precious. ”
“Aren’t they the heralds of catastrophe?”
Folke slammed his hands over the backs of Finlay’s, stopping him from stroking his member through the slacks, earning him an annoyed tongue-click. Regardless, Finlay ceased his groping. Held his hands instead.
“They are. And that’s why we’re here, to stop this area from disappearing into the ground.”
Strangely, Folke’s instinct was to believe him. Every thread of information gained through fear and confusion, woven into place. A tapestry still incomplete, but far clearer than he could have hoped for.
Nevertheless. . .
Folke said, “Sinkholes are common here.”
“Sinkholes that have no identifiable cause?”
He couldn’t argue with that. However, he could argue, “The Barghests are supposed to announce their arrival through—”
“Shrieking,” Finlay cut in.
With each shriek drawing the catastrophe nearer.
“It’s a metaphor for howling winds. Storms, in other words. We try to stop them before their eleventh call.”
The eleventh, summoning. . .
“The Ruck,” Folke murmured.
A thousand, humanoid creatures. Pallid, claw-like hands digging into earth until fingers bled and bone wore down and the ground gave way. Heralded by ghostly shrieks that would echo across stretches of land. Until the twelfth and final cry, when regions would fold into the earth, returned to dirt.
“And you, Darach, and Thomas, you’ve stopped that from happening?”
“We’re trying.”
The air brushing past Folke’s ear induced a guilty shiver, Finlay’s exhaustion plain. He leant back further, taking Folke with him. Held tight, he rested his head against a shoulder, content to be trapped there.
Finlay had grown still, and Folke silent. Idly picking at a snag in well-worn denim, its threads rolling across the pad of his thumb.
Eventually, “There’s only so much we can do to banish them back into the ground. Lightning works well—”
Folke lifted his head, comprehension reverberating within. “ You’re the cause of the lightning?”
Seemed he’d caught Finlay off-guard. His hands paused where they stroked over Folke’s stomach.
“ I’m not,” said Finlay, simply.
That left either Darach, or Thomas—nevermind how . Darach’s words of, “I’m no ordinary man,” rang inside Folke’s ears, more clearly than the sheep bells outside.
Serpent .
What was a serpent, other than just that?
Otherworldly things.
There were wolf-skins and Barghests and serpents that could invoke the anger of the sky.
No, not a serpent so literally. It had to be—
“Stop.”
The clangour of his thoughts careened to a standstill. Folke moved sideways. Away from Finlay, as if that would stop him from being able to sense the goings on of Folke’s mind. The fretting that had to stink worse than his sweat.
“Don’t question it further. Give Darach a chance to explain.”
Folke palmed an itch on his chin, defeated and unsure. What was he meant to say now?
I believe you?
Or, I need to think about this?
Right away, Folke knew he wouldn’t choose disbelief. Too many suspicions and too much evidence to permit continued ignorance. He readied himself to say so—
“Don’t tell Darach I’ve already told you this much.”
Folke frowned. “But—”
No arguing permitted. Finlay slipped out from under him. Swift, spilling Folke into hay. He grunted, his searching hands caught in a hold. Pinned above his head. Knees nudged his thighs apart and body heat blanketed.
“Enough talking now,” Finlay said, exhales pawing the bridge of Folke’s nose. “Yeah?”
What was there to do but utter his agreement?
A firm mouth sealed over his, locking Folke within a hungry kiss. A demanding tongue plunged in, sliding over his own, along the roof of his mouth, over his teeth. The attention diverted to his lower lip. Nipped and sucked, while hips ground down, hard denim milling the soft wool of his slacks, doing little to hide Folke’s eagerness.
He pushed against the restraining grip, longing to touch. Huffed, when Finlay refused to release him, the one-handed hold on his wrists steadfast. With the other, Finlay worked to undo trouser buttons, deft in the way fingers pried Folke’s cock out from confinement and wrapped around to squeeze.
His gasp was quickly devoured, that hand taking opportunity with the upward thrust of his hips to move lower. Toyed with his scrotum. Dipped beyond. Fingertip teasing his entrance with the promise of diving in—then drew away.
Folke tore the kiss apart, nose pressing into his raised arm as he panted for air. Tested the hold again. Opened his mouth to demand Finlay release him, but teeth clamped around his neck, near the jaw. Not enough to hurt, yet .
“Still want me to be yours?” Finlay growled around his feverish skin, tongue slick as it moved with each muffled word. “Now that you know?”
A strong hand returned to work up and down Folke’s erection with a swiftness that reduced his thoughts to noils. The swell of pleasure had him moaning into the sleeves of his chore coat, the wave of climax nearing already.
Then the hand left him, and Folke bucked with desperation, the head of his cock merely grazing Finlay’s clothes .
“Answer me.”
“You said no more talking!” Folke kicked his legs out before he wrapped them around strong thighs, pulling Finlay in. He wrenched free his arms and twisted his fingers into wool. Unsure of what he was trying to accomplish, only knowing he wanted friction and Finlay.
Who had yet to let go.
Teeth dug further into his neck, reminding.
“Obviously, I want you,” Folke snarled against the pain. “Your diluted wolf blood hasn’t put me off!”
Laughter puffed against his neck, and his anger washed away as quickly as it had crested. Replaced by something else, intense in the way it flooded his chest. Finlay’s mirth was hoarse and abrupt. Unique, filling Folke’s heart with joy and longing and need. He clawed at the strong jaw, whispered a plea, pulling Finlay away from his neck and into a kiss. Deep and urgent and conveying things Folke couldn’t put into words.
The kiss broke and he was ready to complain, his mouth parting—to gasp, as Finlay yanked his slacks past his hips, hurried. Folke’s rubber boots thudded somewhere, his trousers following, the clasp’s metal buttons hitting wood flooring. Firm hands grasped the underside of his legs, pushed them up until his knees were flush to his chest.
“Hold your legs.”
Unthinking, Folke followed the command. Wrapped his arms under his knees and secured his fingers together. Something warm and wet trickled onto Folke’s cheek near his exposed entrance, a finger pushing the rapidly cooling slickness straight against the whorl. Teased it, pressed in. Folke dragged his tongue over his lower lip, tenderised from Finlay’s attention.
“Fuck, you’re a picture right now.”
Folke shushed him.
Resulting in a scolding huff, and that finger shoved further in without warning. More spit trickled. Another finger joined, reducing Folke to noises that, at any other time, would've embarrassed him. Sweat loosened the lock of his hold, his legs parting as they flopped down.
Not even the sound of paper rustling and skin slickening drew Folke out of the needy pit he’d fallen into. Suspenders snapped, clasp buttons popped. Finlay shuffled closer. Pressed his hot, lubricious member against Folke, whose hands immediately swung from his own hair to grasp at hips.
He expected roughness, but Finlay went slow. Entered with a harsh suck of breath and a heated, drawn-out, “ Fuck .”
Folke dug fingernails into denim. The heels of his restless feet, still socked, catching jabs of hay before he entrapped Finlay with his legs. Every increment that filled him evoked startled gasps, muted against that firm mouth, having returned with renewed hunger. Hands stroking his face and hair soon rounded his neck, Finlay’s arms entwining Folke. Not once did he stop kissing, even as he fully inserted himself, swallowing every one of Folke’s stutters and keens.
When those powerful hips moved, they remained slow. Steady, but gentle, thin lips caressing Folke’s until his head became feverish with more than just lust. The scent of Finlay. For once not smouldering, but of leather and the beginnings of musk. His husky voice. The way he panted and swore into his mouth.
The pace picked up, the loft echoing with slaps of slickened skin and the scratch of hay. With grunts and breathy moans. Folke brought his touch back to a pronounced jaw, but Finlay moved further away for better leverage, each of his thrusts filling Folke in a way he was beginning to love. Growing hastier, going deeper. The urgency now lacing Finlay’s lust-heavy groans the talebearer that he was close.
Folke’s mouth parted around raucous gasps once a hand took hold of his cock. Finlay angled his thrusts in that way. That terrible, glorious way that made his head spin and a breathy, “ Fin ,” spill from his lips. Bedashing his partially exposed stomach with pleasure. Several staggered thrusts, deep into him, before Finlay withdrew, his guttural moan bolstered by hot lashings across Folke’s skin, blending their climax. Leaving him flexing and shuddering around the abrupt emptiness.
A crushing weight collapsed atop him. Humid breath over his lips preceded a sloppy, lazy kiss, then the weight rolled off and Folke grunted his appreciation. Could only lie there, legs and arms spread, catching his breath better than Finlay in the hay beside him.
They laid there in silence. Folke satiated and Finlay, he thought, equally so, eventually rolling into Folke’s side to deliver a firm kiss to his jaw with a hum. It sounded pleased.
“How no one has scooped you up yet will forever baffle me,” Finlay rasped, his mouth paying close attention to Folke’s neck, fingers brushing sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. “You’re pretty as a picture.”
“You know that means nothing to me, right?” Folke reached to slide his palm across Finlay’s side. Underneath the shirt, he took note of defined muscles, secretive in feeling over the scars.
Scars left by Darach.
Darach had marked Finlay. Did that mean he belonged to Darach, too?
Throaty amusement vibrated the rib cage under his fingertips.
“Yeah. Well, it means plenty to me.”
Discarding surreptitiousness, Folke focused on mapping raised bolts of lightning to memorise their paths. Subtle, but innumerable. Festooning a muscular chest, a nipple. Hardened from the riffle of cool air reaching into the loft. Gooseflesh accompanied the textures, and a faint shiver.
Folke shifted closer, delighting in how a strong arm wrapped around and held him.
He shouldn’t ask, but, “Is that all that matters to you, looks?”
“Hm.”
Folke didn’t much care for Finlay’s silence, or the way his throat bobbed under Folke’s lips. As if hesitant to be honest.
“It’s fine,” Folke muttered, aware of his glum tone but unable to help it, “I didn’t expect you to fall for my sociable personality.”
“In my position,” Finlay said, unusually subdued, “I never thought I’d get much more than the occasional fuck. If I was lucky. Don’t get to meet many people in my line of work.”
Darach had said this was rare for them. How unfortunate for the two they didn’t get along much as comrades, let alone as lovers.
“I never expected much out of the few people we did meet.” Finlay brought his hand up to stroke the back of Folke’s head, down to his nape. Back up. Down. Turning it into a habit.
It felt. . .
Amoristic.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” Finlay added.
His touch felt incongruous to his words, furrowing Folke’s brows. How was he meant to respond?
“I don’t from you, either,” he heard himself say. A statement that felt dishonest, regret nipping his heart already.
A grunted puff whisked Folke’s hair. Finlay murmured, “There aren’t any promises I can make past agreeing to be yours. I hope that’s good enough.”
They belonged to each other, they had agreed to it. If only Folke knew what that fully entailed. If only that meant he wouldn’t have to worry about never again being with Darach and Finlay, once they left.
There was nothing else he could think to say, and so Folke remained quiet. Closed his eyes against the sting of hurt and disappointment already creeping up on him. Forced himself to savour the soothing caress of Finlay’s hand.
Bleating eventually prompted him to sit up. A shiver dashed his frame, sweat and pleasure long since cooled. Hazily, Folke searched his immediate area with open palms, hoping to find something to wipe himself down with.
“Here.”
Skin-warmed fabric draped over his thighs. Soft and ribbed—the undershirt, but not cotton. When Folke reached over, his fingertips connected with bare skin. He dragged his touch over Finlay’s wide chest, delighting in the whispers of hair and the way it rose and fell with heavy breaths not yet caught. Wandered to scarring again, tracing its intricate pattern. Stopped, once Finlay’s hand covered his and pushed it away.
Leaving no room for doubt. Finlay was touchy about his scars.
“When do you think they’ll be back?” Folke took the undershirt to wipe away both sweat and come. Handed it back, Finlay’s reluctance obvious in how long it took him to accept it.
“They’re already back.” Finlay groaned, hay soughing under his feet.
“What? How do you—Oh.”
Hear more clearly.
Seemed like an understatement.
Rubber boots thudded the floor beside him, his slacks draped over his forearms. Folke dressed. Picked away clinging straw. The haze of lust cleared, his thoughts now snagging on details divulged .
Maybe he could ask Darach about the rest.
His legs were unsteady while he threw several bales from the loft. And while climbing down the ladder. Something that appeared to amuse Finlay. His laughter following as Folke wobbled to continue where he’d left off. His schedule, yet again, kicked into the dust.
“Go,” Finlay said, his hand rounding Folke’s waist. “I’ll finish up in here.”
Folke scoffed, but turned, unable to resist the lure of arms pulling him flush against an overheated, half-naked body. “You don’t even know what needs doing.”
“Fill the pen up with fresh hay. Bring the old out on the pile outside. Refresh troughs with food and water. Anything else?”
No, not really.
And it stung, the way Finlay made it sound like it was nothing.
The kiss delivered to his forehead didn’t soothe.
“Go on.” Finlay released him with a smack to his backside. “Your sheep will be fine.”
Folke wanted to argue, it’s the only thing I’m good for.
Voiced, “It’s all I have.”
And hated himself for it. Busied toeing dirt out from the soles of his boots, while Finlay remained silent. His eyes were on Folke, he could feel them.
“That’s not true anymore, is it?”
Folke mulled on that. “It will be again, once you and Darach leave.”
No response forthcoming, even though Folke stood there waiting for one. Eventually, he turned. Walked away. Grazed the top of Needle’s tombstone, as always.