23. 23.
23.
F olke could only sit as he was. Rinsed and sweat-slick, still filled. Clinging to the collars of a dampened shirt. Not that Darach appeared to mind, caressing his back, the palms gentle in their strokes and the kisses to his temple delicate. Only once the breeze rustling in through the window turned his skin cold did Darach move him. His member slipped out, leaving Folke flexing around the void and the distinct trickle of cooling seed. Strong arms held on until his legs behaved. Another kiss delivered to his lips, soft and chaste, before the telltale signs of Darach redressing filled the room.
Folke steadied himself with a hand on the table and tried not to grimace at the fluid trickling down his legs. Finlay’s amusement rolling into his ears suggested he’d done a poor job of it.
Arms encircled, Folke now in an embrace that was warm, comforting, and intoxicating with smoke and arousal.
He licked his lips, hand drifting up to stroke over stubble. “You, now?”
God, why did he have to sound so unsure?
“No, sweetheart, not tonight.”
An endearment that warmed Folke’s chest.
Finlay added, “Don’t get me wrong, I want to.” A kiss to the bridge of his nose, right between the eyes. “But I think your ass has taken about as much as it can for one day.”
Folke huffed, still breathless. “What about your uhm—” He ran an open palm down Finlay’s stomach, to his groin. Cupping the bulge through finely woven wool.
With an appreciative groan, “My what, Precious?”
“ This . Your manhood. Don’t you need some relief?”
An odd noise whirred up. Finlay’s body quaked with wheezing laughter .
“My manhood ?”
Bringing heat to swarm Folke’s neck and face.
“I’m not going to be vulgar.”
“You have duck butter dripping from your asshole, and you don’t want to be vulgar.”
“Oh, my God.”
Folke squirmed to get out of the hold. Succeeded only in turning around, backside resting against Finlay’s crotch. Another lust-laden groan, muffled by the side of Folke’s neck.
“It’s a cock, Precious. And I will gladly take your mouth on it.” More kisses, quickly delivered to the ball of his shoulder. “If you’re up for it.”
“Alright,” Folke said, unsure, wondering if he ought to remind Finlay that he likely wouldn’t be very good at it. Nothing like what Darach had done.
Darach’s voice came from a short distance away, “I’ll ah. . .clean up.”
He approached, and Folke tilted his head up, dampening his lips with another lick. A soft grunt, holding a note of delight. Then a kiss, lingering. Sweet and full of yearning at once.
When Darach broke away, something fluttered over Folke’s head.
“Ye can use this, mo leannan.”
Cotton-blend fabric and musk clinging to its fibres. Darach’s shirt. As the man stepped away and the door clicked shut, Folke was left to wonder what he was meant to do with it. He had his own clothes, somewhere.
“Here.” Finlay released him to snatch the article out of Folke’s hands.
Then firmly wedged it between his cheeks.
Folke yelped, stumbling away.
Oh .
“I don’t want to—”
Spoil something he could have kept and treasured.
Too late now.
“Where are my clothes?” Folke mumbled with a grimace, awkwardly returning to the table for support, shirt still trapped.
“What makes you think you get to be dressed while you give my cock a tongue bath?”
Something about the imperative tone lured Folke right back into Finlay’s hold. Received with a domineering kiss that stretched into louche strokes of tongues and hands down each other’s bodies. Tugging at the undershirt and easing it up over Finlay’s muscular stomach earned Folke a grunt of approval. Finlay released his lower lip from its captive suck. Settled his hands atop Folke’s head. Applied pressure.
“Get on your knees.”
Folke did. Used Finlay’s hips for support and ignored the way his knees protested against the hard flooring. He waited, restless, for instructions. Finlay remained quiet but for the pops of buttons.
A thick, hot shaft fell across Folke’s face. His flinch was met with a chuckle.
“Sorry, Gorgeous.”
Fingers grasped his hair when he tried to move away. Held him in place. “No. You look too good with my cock there.” Several smacks of the length to his cheek brought an unexpected thrill to roll down Folke’s back. “Way too fucking good. Open your mouth. ”
Again, Folke did as asked. He’d tried it for Darach and not minded it in the slightest. Hadn’t even spared it much thought, the instinct to draw Finlay into his mouth as natural as it had been with Darach.
Salty notes of arousal pushed over his tongue. The head smooth, hotter than the inside of his own mouth. Finlay’s hoarse moan and restraining grip on his hair encouraged Folke to take more of him in. As much as he could, recalling Darach doing the same for him. How good it felt. Although he struggled with its curve. Upward, slightly to the right.
Folke rubbed his palms over a powerful waist, his fingertips over veins, sinew, and scars. Eventually dared to go lower, gliding his touch along the base of the hard length.
Finlay’s. . . cock .
So indecent.
At Finlay’s grumbled, “Use your tongue,” Folke complied, wiggling it over veins and silken skin. Lapped at the head, favouring its smoothness, the divot at its very tip. Took note of the lack of foreskin. Secured his mouth over it again, and tried to take him deeper. Folke didn’t get very far, but it seemed Finlay enjoyed that, regardless, his grip on Folke’s hair edging toward painful.
“Less teeth, baby.”
Oh.
Folke would have apologised, though speaking with his mouth full of. . . cock was definitely vulgar.
He drew away to gasp for air, unintentionally swallowing traces of pre-come. Fingers eased from his head, tips tracing down either side of his face. A thumb stroked the corner of his mouth, Finlay’s ragged breaths reaching Folke where he knelt.
Gruffly, “I want to fuck your mouth.” Before Folke could do anything at all, Finlay continued, “I’m going to be rough. Alright? I just—I just need —”
“Alright.”
Darach had been a little rough and he’d come out of it still in one piece. Finlay could, too, and Folke was certain he’d be fine. He tried to smile, encouragingly.
A hand wrapped around the back of Folke’s head, the other thumbing his mouth to open wider.
Folke steeled himself.
Finlay gave him a subtle warning.
He remained ill prepared for the sudden lunge into the back of his throat. Folke twisted away with a grotesque cough. Given a few moments to recover before Finlay held him in place again. Before that large cock shoved past his lips, back into his mouth.
Folke’s hands flew to strong thighs. He dug his nails into fine fabric, squeezing his eyes shut against the invasion. Choked within moments, just as Finlay pulled out. Folke panted for air, eyes watering. Kept his mouth open. Waiting. Fingers were delicate in the way they combed through his hair. One tapped the tip of his nose, playfully .
That length pushed back in, straining his jaw. Pulled out, whipped him across the lips. Hands cupped the shaft against his cheek. Rubbed the saliva-slick length over his entire face. Took advantage of his gasped shock and thrust back into his mouth. Going further each time until his throat clenched and gagged around the intrusion.
Given more time to breathe, to recover. To ease off his entrenched nails.
Finlay drove back in. Going so far as to move Folke’s head for him, now piloted by both hand and forearm. Finlay’s lewd moans and croaked approvals became increasingly restless, his thrusting, too.
Then, a swear. Drowning out Folke’s strangled grunts and coughs.
Finlay pulled away, leaving Folke panting and on aching knees. Flinching, when fluid dashed across his face. Rapidly cooling strings clinging to his nose and cheek, some of it caught by his tongue, still out.
“Swallow it.” A rasped command, along with a firm tap to the underside of Folke’s chin.
Hesitantly, Folke locked his lips around the fluid dancing over his tongue. His throat revolted the moment he swallowed. He tilted away, failing to conceal his retching, unsure how to feel about the breathless chuckle floating over the top of his head.
Although the kiss pressed to his temple he didn’t mind, nor the touch to his hair. Or the way Finlay knelt right before him. His faint sigh whisking Folke’s face, now clasped in both hands. Brought in for a kiss that lingered, deepened with an unexpected swipe of tongue, lapping at remnants of pleasure.
Alluringly vulgar.
“Something I’ve noticed,” Finlay murmured once he broke away to wipe the climax clinging to Folke’s skin, forearm hairs tickling.
Folke cleared his throat, lowering to sit on the floor. “What. . .is it?”
Again with the quavering selfhood.
“You don’t touch yourself.”
Whatever he’d expected to hear, that wasn’t it.
Folke sat there with a man’s come on his face, the savoury notes of it still tarrying in his mouth. Completely bare, with a shirt between his cheeks to catch another man’s climax decanting from his backside. None of which brought heat to his face quite like the idea of touching himself in front of others did.
“What’s the problem?” Folke asked in a strained mutter, reaching across the floor in search of his clothes. Becoming rigid with mortification when the shirt fluttered from between his legs in a hail of plastic buttons pelting wood flooring.
“No problem. It’s just peculiar.” Luxuriously soft wool draped over Folke’s shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong,” Finlay continued, “it’s hot as hell you come without touching yourself. I’m just wondering, any particular reason?”
Folke caressed the merino jumper, unsure how to respond. If he even ought to.
“I never really have, beyond experimenting in my youth.”
Aside from that one time as an adult, where he realised a distinct lack in sexual desire .
Finlay crooned with interest, although said nothing else. Only draped the rest of Folke’s pyjamas over his shoulder.
“Come on,” he said once Folke had redressed, taking hold of his right hand. “We’ll be more comfortable in the front room. Fire’s going.”
“I know.” He wondered if that’s where Darach had gone. He didn’t appear to be in the dining room any longer.
Out in the hallway, Folke let his hand slip free of Finlay’s, drawn to the sound of metal bouncing over iron. A rolling boil within the kettle, but no whistle.
“Darach?”
“Folke.” Said with a warmheartedness that weakened his knees. “Peppermint tea?”
He made no attempts to hide the smile stretching his mouth, heart aflutter with the need to reach out, to grasp a hand that might have already been held out for him. Fingers curled around his own, the touch warm and ennobling. Folke stumbled through the half-twirl Darach led him in, until the edge of the worktop stopped him by the small of his back. A tut, then cloth pressed to his face, dampened to clean.
“I was thinking,” Darach murmured, gently wiping Folke’s mouth. “Maybe ye’d like to join me tomorrow for my early morning walk?”
“Yes!” Folke blurted around the fabric, delight swooping his chest. “With the Garments?”
He tried not to read into the brief pause.
“Dinnae see why no’.”
“Whyte.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Folke asked. “They haven’t been out in a bit, but I don’t want to risk them.”
Two. Only two left.
The squall of loss was swift to reclaim its place in his heart.
He leant out of Darach’s fussing, overcome with the need to drift outside, to the barn. Away from two men who did not yet know they had laid claim to someone who blithely lost all.
“It’ll be alright, sweet Folke.”
A kiss between the brows eased his frown, pulling his focus back to Darach, their hands still clasped in an unmoving dance. Another hand joined, cupping his jaw, nudging Folke to turn his head toward Finlay. His thumb stroked Folke’s cheek. A slight catch of roughened skin had Folke wondering when he’d cut his thumb, and on what.
“It’s been. . .quiet, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe.”
“He’ll be safe wi me,” Darach hissed.
So ferociously it frightened Folke.
“That’s not the fucking point, now is it?” Finlay growled.
Folke stepped away from both, freeing his hand to reach for the cupboard holding the mugs. At least there were plenty of mugs .
“You’re going to risk his sheep just to get him alone?”
“I’m no’ risking anyone—” Darach continued in Gaelic.
His mug with the chip, the one Folke preferred, wasn’t in there.
Finlay was quick to counter. Also in Gaelic.
Folke searched around the sink, fingertips grazing things drying on the side. Including his chipped mug. He squeezed past Darach, who became increasingly agitated, and located the tin of peppermint tea in the pantry. He picked at the elastic band around it. Waited, briefly, for the two to finish arguing.
They didn’t.
Becoming ever more ireful, their voices rising to volumes Thomas would surely hear. If asleep, they would wake him.
“Why don’t we all go?” Folke cut in once a moment presented itself. Slight shifts, and silence. Mercifully. “Invite Thomas, too. It’ll be good for him. Three men to keep an eye on me and my last two sheep.”
That had come out a touch bitter.
Finlay exhaled, frustrated. “It’s fine, you can go.”
“Make no mistake,” Folke said, unable to keep the terseness from his voice, “I can go wherever I like.”
Much gentler, “O’ course, ye can, mo leannan—”
“Whether it’s with or without you,” Folke impelled. “I’d prefer to be with both of you at once. I said both and I meant it, but there’s so much disdain between you that I can smell it. So,” he walked back to the stove, set the tin down on the worktop with a resolute thunk , “you can take turns.”
Silence but for the pounding of Folke’s heart for his daring.
“Split it by days, half days. Whatever suits you. You never even gave me a choice, so now deal with this one.”
Folke wanted to drop down and crawl under the space he knew existed between floor and cooker. His hair stood on end, back bored into by two sets of eyes. He needed to hide the shake in his hands, occupying them by hunting for the mote spoon.
The hold rounding Folke’s neck came without warning, his body freezing over despite Darach’s warmth pressing into his back. Both arms entwined Folke, pulling him close against that wide chest. A kiss dropped to the back of his head, well away from the abrasion.
“I’m sorry.” Murmured to the side of his face.
Darach nosing his ear should have melted any need to tremble.
It only worsened.
“Hey.” Finlay’s hands found Folke’s hips as Darach guided him to turn. “Fuck, Precious. We’ll—”
“Try to get on,” Folke said, hating the tremulousness in his voice. “I’m not used to this!” Said too loudly. “I don’t like it.” Said too quietly. “Will you please just— try ?”
“Alright, I’ll try,” said Finlay, thumbs firm in the way they stroked Folke’s hip-bones.
“Aye.” Darach squeezed him tight .
“Good,” Folke gasped, legs turning to liquid. “You can start by calling each other by your given names.”