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"Honey! I'm home!"
Farleigh sways into the library of Saltburn as if he's just come back from his long day of managing yet another fashion show of his prestigious designers brand to Oliver casually awaiting with dinner; a dutiful husband and a committed host of their residence.
Well. Farleigh does attend the fashion shows, indeed, but as an assistant merely or in reality a glorified errand boy to a bitchy Donatella wannabe deeming herself the second coming of a flower power glory return (Farleigh often hates himself for showing support, and worse, actually earning money on this dreadfully kitsch brand but hey, he did worse things to earn a buck and slutting himself in various ways might be in the end in his genome, oh what can you do, but to follow through and do justice to divine talent the Almighty anoints you with). But Oliver hasn't been awaiting him, neither casually nor at all and definitely not as a dutiful husband, most certainly a committed host to this place. Not their place.
"Are you lost, Farleigh?" he's lounging on the sofa, reading Byron's anthology, wearing a flimsy, satin, blue robe, he believes belonged to Elspeth before, showing his thighs a distracting amount, to which Farleigh pretends not to pay any attention as he moves briskly towards the bar to fix himself a drink.
"I told you, baby. This is my home and I always come back," he pours himself a glass of vodka and leans against the counter to eye Oliver with a cheerful provocation (not assess the way his jaw grew sharper, more regal, he wears his hair now in tamed, elegant waves and his eyes, God, these haunting eyes seem to pierce even deeper with a hypnotic blue, rattling a challenge from you, luring you in to come and play and pick him apart some more. No, Farleigh doesn’t do that, at all. Thank you very much. Jesus, fuck. Farleigh really tries not to find himself a slut, in general, but for these eyes, in particular, at this very moment or maybe at all. Okay, that’s a blatant lie, considering being one is in his genome. But the emphasis is on trying, so cut him some slack, for fuck’s sake).
"You know what else always comes back? Cockroaches,” Oliver hums, his fingers now playing with the leather of the cover of the volume opened on his lap and Farleigh remembers what those wicked fingers can do inside him and he's fighting a losing battle with slut shaming of self. And it's really been too long. Not without fingers inside him, mind you. But without those fingers. Which makes him even more pathetic and probably even more of a slut.
Fucking hell. A horny student gets a fuck of his life with some adventurous kink discovery ("Mhmm, you're taking me so well, love. Looks like you were made for me. That tight ass and me balls deep in. Next time I will tie you up to smack some more discipline into you and watch you come as you barely count to three.") from some fucking creepy nerd that happens to be really good at buttons pushing ("Good boy. Come for daddy.") one goddamn time and all of a sudden he's cooked like some weak European goose.
He shakes off the gravity pulling him towards very fresh memories of sounds, smells and sensations, as if 15 years haven't passed and he was just yesterday shamelessly moaning under Oliver for more with muffled by his fingers closing on his throat and his tongue licking inside his mouth rather unconvincing fuck yous and I hate yous . And moves towards the sofa, nursing the glass with liquid courage and a folder of documents under his arm.
"I must admit, Ollie, I'm impressed. The Cindarella got the castle, fucked over the wicked sisters and killed the stepbitch in the happy fucking ever after," he plops nonchalantly next to Oliver then and leans closer, purring last words close to his face, with their legs and arms touching, Farleigh almost welcoming that familiar, heady closeness with an audible sigh of longing."Or is it Pinocchio getting his wish and finally becoming the real boy here?"
Oliver smiles almost fondly, tracing Farleigh's mouth with his eyes slowly, lazily, the pull grows and the resistance weakens and hey, Farleigh never claimed to have any strong will against sweet temptations (which Oliver turned out to be the very fucking definition of, boohoo).
"You're under the impression that we are in a fairytale, Farleigh?"
"If Edgar Allan Poe wrote ones?" it's a teasing question coming in a breath shared from one mouth to other, as they sway close together in an undefined magnetism, drawing bodies more and more in unison, and making Farleigh want to climb his fucking lap and ride him here and there. There are endless patches of that pale skin under the blue satin to mark with his nails as Oliver would fuck him, slow and deep or fast and brutal. And an outline of his cock visible right here to sit on and claim. Jesus.
"What does it make you in this setting then, darling?" Oliver almost nuzzles him and the hum coming from his throat feels like a caress of lips.
"The heir to 50 percent of this place," Farleigh stops the swaying dance between them, by taking the massive volume from Oliver's hands and replacing it with a folder he's brought with himself, leaning slightly away from the suffocating closeness and saying from around the rim of his glass."Now, that's a whole lot more interesting read for you, Ollie."
He settles comfortably against the pillows, on the other side of the sofa, taking his shoes off, to sit cross-legged like he's already been living in this place for a while, belonging in possessive ownership and watches Oliver read the papers while sipping on his drink.
The robe on Oliver's chest is disheveled, flashing patches of his pale chest (Farleigh always regretted not having a chance to mark it. Their fuck was so relentless and almost violent and they fucking wanted to have each other in pieces so bad Farleigh came all over his stomach with nails digging into these gloriously contracting back muscles with incoherent curse words litany mumbled to Oliver's hand choking him and his fingers inside his mouth). The hem of the satin piece starts slipping from the freckled shoulder and Farleigh is ready to fucking combust, dipping fingers in the contents of his glass to lick on the sharpening taste of vodka dissolving on his tongue with the heat of ache.
"Hmm, truly fantastical narrative here, Farleigh. You really went for Disney there, rather then Poe, I see" Oliver throws the stack of papers onto the nearby coffee table dismissively, casting Farleigh amused expression, making his eyes shine wickedly and pin you down with playful intentions. Oliver's gaze lingers on Farleigh's fingers now sucked on slowly from the layer of the alcohol remaining.
"I'm glad you're so entertained by it but I still took the liberty to have my things delivered to your bedroom by good ol' Duncan, baby."
Oliver leans back casually against the opposite end of the sofa, as they face each other now, eyes locked on lips with longing.
"Tell me, Farleigh. In what universe do you expect me to sign these and just let you have rights to half of my residence," the way Oliver is sprawled, reveals way too much of temptations for Farleigh's taste (his collarbone, his massive thighs Farleigh dreams of biting into as he fucking finally gets to suck him off and be chocked by his dick, preferably yanked by the hair the entire time and praised for his commitment with wrecked moans around "good boys" or "baby boys"). He chucks the rest of the vodka down and puts the empty glass next to the folder to crawl closer to Oliver very deliberately on his knees.
"Oh, pretty boy. You didn't think I'm just gonna crawl into a hole of poverty and struggles, watch you win and hail the new king from a distance with the rest of the rabble. Oh no," he starts tracing the edge of Oliver's robe, almost touching skin as he watches his lips greedily." I know exactly what currency you used to buy Saltburn and it is fucking dripping in red," he brings himself closer with his palms traveling to Oliver's thighs now, and whispers to the shell of his ear. "I think the grey of the prison suit will nicely bring out the colour of your eyes, Ollie."
Oliver remains unaffected. On the outside. That is his trade mark, thick layer of defensive distraction made of cold stone, Farleigh knows hides the boiling volcano of repression burning bright and insatiable. That night he fucked him through the orgasm and then brought another one with his greedy mouth around Farleigh's oversensitive dick still managing to take more from him, as Farleigh came the second time in tears and spasms of painful ecstasy proved it. Not to mention him very effectively and unflinchingly committing murders of passion. So, now, seeing him stay so pleasantly composed against Farleigh's ministrations stirs the hum of anticipation in his already growing arousal.
"You have a really fucked up imagination, Farleigh," Oliver replies, matter-of-factly, with hands no longer idle, tracing Farleigh's arms and slowly going for his neck, to close on it but with a caress against which Farleigh swallows a needy sigh.
"I have my moments in this department and I can show you later on. I brought some toys with me for that. But you murdering auntie Elspeth isn't on the agenda of this particular sex scenario. It is, however, documented on cameras installed by Duncan in the castle and made into many insurance copies the location of whom will forever be my sweet, dirty secret, baby," Farleigh strains over the last words as Oliver's grip on his neck tightens sending the rush of heat to his already embarrassingly hard dick. The gasp he releases settles on Oliver's parted mouth he then licks on, to have a taste of their shared ache and tension.
And Oliver rasps, demanding. "Take off your pants, Farleigh," not releasing the hold on him at all.
"Fuck...," Farleigh whimpers, unconvincing, still, with his trembling hands going for a zipper of his jeans to wriggle them down his thighs, shamelessly eager. ".. you," he finishes, as his dick jumps into the attention to Oliver's infuriatingly sexy chuckle.
"Oh no, the other way round," and then he tuts, rebuking. "Such a needy boy," with mouth teasing the behind of Farleigh's ear to drink the warm cry scattering in the air. "Now, finger yourself."
And Farleigh moves his fingers to Oliver's mouth, to watch him open up and swallow him, coat him with saliva and suck on the digits to the spasms of his dick now raging hard between his legs.
"Fuck, Ollie, Jesus Christ," there's not much will left in Farleigh to keep to pretences and he whines, already arching for if, his other hand clutching on the upholstery of the sofa, desperate not to come like an inexperienced woobie just from the feeling of Oliver's wicked tongue twirling around the tips of his fingers provocatively.
And then, his definite groan follows. "Do it now," and fucking makes him drip.
Farleigh lifts himself on his ankles to start stretching himself, with the grip on his neck now possibly leaving marks to pulsate and to remind him, later, of the way Oliver looks at him with hunger and feels against him with longing for what's to come.
He speaks, voice low and heavy. "Why not the entire Saltburn. Why only half, then?"
Farleigh breathes heavily, fucking working himself in and out with these infuriatingly hot blue eyes seeing everything and devouring everything, with lips parted and moist.
"I told you. I don't hate you."
Oliver releases the hold on him, then, making Farleigh almost cry in disappointment and says, sharp and disciplining. "Now, stop, Farleigh and put your mouth on me."
Farleigh's throat goes dry and needy and he almost dives for Oliver with greed of a perched man on a desert. But with the last trembles of his pride and his stubborn will he manages to confine the desire and move lazily instead, bowing without tearing his eyes from Oliver's face, sharing a challenge and a competitive tension. And he untangles the robe on his waist to reveal the prize waiting there for him, coated in precum to lick on like on the creamiest layer of a birthday cake.
Fuck. He’s pathetic. And he’s so gone for Oliver.
Because he does. Lick on his dick like the richest, most sinful dessert, Registers the movement of Oliver's body in giddiness. The way he arches to have more of the sensation of his tongue flattening on the silkiness to map the veins of the shaft and the wetness of the crown.
"Fucking hell, Farleigh. You're such a cockslut," Farleigh doesn't miss the way Oliver's fingers clutch the surface of the sofa and his voice sounds weakened and smaller. The expanse of his neck bent drives him insane. Makes him leak like a schoolboy and he realises that he's so fucking gone for this boy that he could come with his dick in his mouth just watching him take it, he himself, untouched.
Farleigh releases him with an obscenely loud pop to laugh breathless to the inside of his thigh, grazing it with teeth. "Only for you, baby."
Oliver grabs a fistful of his hair, then and pulls Farleigh to his level to swallow the gasp of a surprise from his wet with his dick mouth. "Liar."
They are almost kissing and Farleigh tries to tease them into it, a playful tongue on Oliver's bottom lip.
"Oh they all tried but nobody does it for me the way you do, baby."
Oliver stops him with fingers inside, letting Farleigh bite on the digits and smile around them invitingly and then jerk closer into Oliver's arms under the sudden penetration of his stretched rim.
Oliver chuckles darkly with another instruction."Now come here and show me. Show me how much you missed this. Show me how you chased that high with others in vain."
"Yes, daddy," Farleigh hums to Oliver's ear, busy tongue and teasing teeth and then, with jeans still wrapped around his thighs he settles clumsily but with eagerness making up for everything else on Oliver's lap to guide him inside himself. Back home.
Where he belongs.
Where they belong.
He thinks, in the end.
"Fuck, so tight, so good. Farleigh," the way Oliver sounds, mouthing Farleigh's bopping Adam's apple almost does him in. Something wrecked. Something vulnerable. Something aching. Digging his fingers into the furniture underneath like holding on not to fall into the abyss of the oblivion they both are for each other.
"Looks like others don't do it for you the same way I do, too, Ollie," Farleigh's fingers weave into the black curls. With almost tenderness of intimacy. Familiarity and recognition.
Oliver now smacks his ass and grips it with his palm almost viciously, to Farleigh's rather ungrateful yelp Oliver still licks on like it's a delicacy when he demands, edges of hoarseness around the firmness of his tone. "Move. Fuck yourself on me like a cockslut you are."
The way he breathes it out heavily, the way he jerks with his dick inside, the way his eyes are hooded and feverish it all drips with desperation, but something delicate too. Almost a confession. Almost an endearment. Underlined with possessiveness. Dripping with singular want for the other and the other only.
All them.
Farleigh does. Moves sinuous, slow and cherishing at first but doesn't manage to stop the avalanche on time, to Oliver's grip on his ass, desperate and nudging, he rides him with fervor, then, foreheads touching like it's about tenderness, tongues meeting in sloppy animalistic kisses, no, it's not tenderness but most primal desire to only exist inside the other. Farleigh arches, clinging to Oliver's nape and Oliver marks the expanse of his neck with seals of ownership.
"How many? How many had you like this?" he groans to Farleigh's ear, licking behind it, mouthing it with hot breath.
"Wouldn't you want to know," Farleigh teases with a smile into his hair, wrapped around Oliver like a babe carried by a guardian, like he depends on his protection, like he holds onto him or holds him close, like he's something dear and cherished.
Oliver then moves, sneakily and efficiently like a wild cat. Lifts Farleigh up, changing the angle to their mingled moans and throws Farleigh on his back, to lock his hands in an iron grasp of his own and slip into him with doubled force. To have him bend and break and seek it more, as he slips back in with his dick. To home, to that belonging and to undoing familiarity between them.
"You're going to come just from my cock, Farleigh. My cock in you. My cockslut. My, my, mine," Oliver grunts confessions into Farleigh's chest, his forehead, his mouth. Like visceral kisses as he fucks into him, mercilessly, desperately, hungrily. His wrists immobilised, Farleigh feels the marks of Ollie's fingers shaping. Under his skin, too. Soaking into his bloodstream almost. There are teeth on his neck with Farleigh almost pleading him to break skin and suck him dry and the feeling of being so full, overflowing with Oliver and Oliver only, claiming him from the outside and the inside with vicious thrusts of his hips and thirsty mouth tattooing him with their story.
Farleigh is speaking. Saying words he can't yet hear. A prayer, maybe. A vow, too. Something in between. Something theirs and theirs only.
"Yours, fucking yours, yours, yours."
When he comes, it's Oliver's eyes peering into his, magnetic, hypnotic, addictive, but tender, too in understanding and togetherness of them, that do it more than his dick stretching him so deliciously to the brink, to the point of breaking, until he does break into pieces with Oliver's seal on each of them.
*
He comes round (maybe he passed out maybe he drifted into sleep, a terrifyingly exposing statement of intimacy between them) to Oliver lying atop of him. Like a babe would. On his chest. Breathing slowly like he's asleep, trusting and comfortable. And domesticated. There's so much peace after the storm and closeness after violence, Farleigh melts into it and hums to the mess of black locks tickling his nose.
Oliver then rasps to where Farleigh heart settles into stable rhythm. "So, was this a proposal Farleigh?"
Farleigh chuckles in response with fucking fondness, hands drawing patterns on Oliver's now naked back, adoring the shape of it, the almost statuesque form of it. "What? You don't think I'd make a perfect trophy husband?"
Oliver lifts his head up to cast him a smirky gaze. "It might just be your vocation, Farleigh."
"Yeah, I think it just might," their lips are close and it would be so easy to kiss, a chaste brush of it, with affection, with completion. But maybe that's why they don't. To keep things hidden, unspoken, in between the lines. Wrapped in safe pretences.
For now.
Oliver goes back to lie with his face on Farleigh's chest to disperse the danger of reveal between them and to bury it deeper, he adds. "You know I might try to kill you anyway."
Farleigh strokes his head like savouring that stillness of a wild cat some more and concludes without conviction. "Oh I'm counting on it, Oliver."
And maybe this is their I do. And maybe this is their I love you. And maybe this is their till death do us apart.
And so be it.