Exactly where I want you. Exactly where I put you.
Yarrow ties a quick knot, forming a secure cuff, then loops Folly’s other wrist. “Is this comfortable?”
Thoughts muddled, cock aching in his trousers, Folly wants to agree. But mindless agreement isn’t what Yarrow wants. Pulling his wrists so close together strains Folly’s shoulders. Just slightly, but enough that being tied too long will hurt.
Which Folly might not mind, but they have a shapestealer to hunt tomorrow. And taking Yarrow’s stamina into account… “An inch or two looser?”
Yarrow adjusts the length between his wrists. “Better?”
Folly rolls his shoulders. “Perfect.”
“You’re so tense, little human.” Yarrow ties the second cuff, then traces Folly’s arms. Every touch awakens nerves Folly never dreamed could be so sensitive. “I’d like to spend a day loosening you up. See how much further I can push you if you’re truly relaxed. But today…” Yarrow kisses Folly’s shoulder. “Would you kneel for me?”
This isn’t an order, and the question leaves Folly dazed. He almost resents Yarrow for turning this into a choice. For being so gods-damned considerate, asking while Folly’s back is turned, so Folly can have emotions without worrying what his face looks like.
He’s knelt for Yarrow before, in a moonlit glade, under imagined duress. His own damaged history taught him nothing came for free. That his own body was at once worthless and the most valuable coin he could trade.
Folly turns around. The long tail of rope snakes along the grass. Yarrow leans against a new-grown tree. His axe sits on the ground nearby. His bronze horns glint in the sourceless light.
He looks, for a moment, just as nervous as Folly.
Clumsy without his arms for balance, Folly drops to one knee, then the other. Dewdrops soak through his trousers, and anticipation burns through his veins. This isn’t a trade. Folly doesn’t lose anything.
“Thank you,” Yarrow murmurs, before his cocky grin returns. “You have the prettiest mouth I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s all the beautiful lies you tell.”
Folly squirms at the praise. Somehow, each word feels truer when Yarrow towers over him. “I don’t think it works like…”
Yarrow unbuckles his belt. The clink echoes. Folly wets his lips as Yarrow draws out his cock.
He hadn’t gotten the best look at it last night. He’d felt it, of course.
“Someday, I want to bury this in your throat.” Settling against the tree, knees slightly bent, Yarrow gives his shaft a stroke. “I want you to taste me for weeks. Today… I want your mouth, but don’t take me in.”
Folly wets his lips. That’s different. Something he hasn’t practiced. Which means he’s likely to fail at it. This would be so much easier if Yarrow just fucked his face, and Folly didn’t have to?—
Yarrow’s hand slides into Folly’s hair, and Folly’s mind goes quiet.
The firm, gentle grip covers the side of his head. Warmth flows from scalp to shoulders, unlocking all the tension from his neck. His bound hands unclench from fists he hadn’t known were tightening, and his breath flows like Elsewhere’s sighing breeze.
“So good for me,” Yarrow says softly, and pulls Folly onto his cock.
The head kisses a smear of precome onto Folly’s cheek, before Folly’s nose presses into the base of Yarrow’s cock. A clean, musky scent surrounds him. Sparse hairs tickle his lips. Yarrow’s cock burns hot against his cheek.
That’s all Folly can think about. The quiet inside is such a relief. Folly isn’t worried about disappointing anyone. He isn’t worried about lifemarks or saying goodbye or finding the shapestealer. He simply exists, treasured in Yarrow’s grasp.
“Open your mouth,” Yarrow says, then rubs his shaft against Folly’s open lips. Precome slicks the movement, salty and strangely, pleasantly sweet. “Give me your tongue.”
Yarrow groans deeply as Folly complies.
Saliva wets Folly’s lips, then slides down his chin. It’s messy and unseemly and Folly doesn’t care. He’s still fully dressed. Yarrow’s only unlaced his trousers. But this quiet bliss isthe most safely vulnerable Folly’s ever been. He moves where Yarrow moves him. Kneels where Yarrow wants him.
His hands remain soft in their bindings, never reaching for anything, because he has everything he needs.
“Suck on the tip,” Yarrow rasps. “Let me see you.”
Folly suckles obediently. He blinks up, eyes watering, and Yarrow groans. His cock jerks against Folly’s lips, like he’s barely holding back from thrusting deep. Precome pulses onto Folly’s tongue, flavoring his every breath.
“Gorgeous.” Yarrow’s grip eases. He strokes Folly’s hair, then lets go. “Can you open your mouth and close your eyes?”
