23. Folly

How foolish can a lifemark be, when Yarrow's every touch is already branded into Folly's soul? Folly groans into a kiss, each of Yarrow's breaths warming him from the inside out.

This is a delay. A distraction. Folly's happy to wait for later if the moments in between taste like this.

Yarrow's stomach tenses beneath Folly's touch. He explores lower, tracing muscle through supple leather. That… might be a problem. Yarrow isn't shirtless like last night. His belt buckle looks complicated. Folly's going to fumble with it, which is mildly embarrassing, and probably spill the invisibility powder everywhere. Not only will that ruin the plan to kill Moriath, it'll make the sex weirder than Folly's prepared for today, and?—

"Breathe," Yarrow says, with a fond laugh. He kneads Folly's ass. "Can I tie you up again?"

Gods, Yarrow's hands are so big, massaging into Folly's muscles. "Yes. Um. I liked that."

"Perfect, because I liked it too," Yarrow purrs into his ear. "I like knowing you're exactly where I want you. Exactly where I put you. Because you want to be good for me. You want to belong to me."

A whine catches in Folly's throat. His hips jerk instinctively against Yarrow.

With a gentle pat, Yarrow lets go of Folly's ass. The measuring rope appears in his hand as a hungry smile sharpens his face. Doubling over the rope, Yarrow says, "Set your robe aside, then turn around and give me your wrists."

Folly's relief at the order is almost embarrassing. How pathetic he must be, so afraid of fumbling with a belt buckle that he'd rather be bound and helpless.

But Yarrow doesn't think he's pathetic. Yarrow calls Folly brilliant and clever and brave. Yarrow closes behind Folly and growls, "Summer's tits, you're so fucking hot."

Elsewhere is a meadow in bloom. Trees circle their small patch of earth, as if offering privacy from the endless fog beyond. The air is warm and clear. The ground is steady. Folly sways, overcome with need, as Yarrow loops the rope around his left wrist. The soft material is cool compared to Yarrow's hands, but Folly feels it as an extension of the wild fae's touch.

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 is the 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?"

The loss of Yarrow's hand doesn't break Folly's immersion. He obeys, still floating inside himself, guided by Yarrow's words, anchored by the rope around his wrists.

Yarrow speaks above wet, quickening sounds. "You're so fucking gorgeous. I can't say that enough. I've never wanted someone more than you, Folly. I need to paint your pretty face with my come, so you know who you belong to. I need—fuck, Folly."

He breaks off in a groan, and the first pulse lands on Folly's left cheek. It drips as the second falls half on his lower lip, half in his mouth. The strong taste startles Folly, in a pleasant, distant way. Holding still is easy, even as the third shot glazes his tongue.

Yarrow's ragged breath fills the clearing. Folly keeps his eyes closed as blunt fingertips whisper against his cheekbone. Then Yarrow pushes his thumb into Folly's open mouth. Swipes the come from Folly's tongue and smears it across his lower lip. Up onto his cheek.

"That may have been too good an idea," Yarrow says, breathless. "I'm going to be thinking about you like this every day. Are you hard, sweetheart? Do you want to come?"

The question yanks Folly back into his body. His eyes fly open, as his own desire screams for attention.

Yarrow's stare is ravenous, his cock still hard. He nudges Folly aside just enough to sit at the base of the tree. Folly scrambles clumsily into Yarrow's lap, nearly falling without the use of his arms. But Yarrow holds him steady, tugging until Folly straddles Yarrow's broad thighs.

Each movement is delicious torture until Yarrow unlaces Folly's trousers. Yarrow's hand on his cock is pure, thoughtless pleasure. Whimpering, Folly collapses forward. His come-smeared face presses against Yarrow's chest. All he can do is shudder and rock as Yarrow strokes their cocks together.

He comes almost instantly, orgasm barely discernible from his previous bliss. Yarrow strokes Folly through it, right to the edge of overstimulation, until Yarrow comes again too.

They collapse together, and Folly melts into wordless contentment. Yarrow simply holds him, heedless of the mess. Folly's never felt so treasured. So beloved.

Asking for a lifemark would be insane.

So would giving this up.