Crooked Truce

“Left cuff,” Euan said, holding it where Niall could see. “Do you want it?”

“Yes.”

Niall offered his left wrist. Euan wrapped the leather around it, kept the joint straight, and fastened the buckle. He checked the space beneath the strap, then the colour of Niall’s hand.

“Any pressure?”

“No.”

“Right cuff?”

“Yes.”

That buckle took a fraction longer. Niall watched it close with such concentration that Euan felt the old engineering part of himself answer: every sound structure depended upon inspections made without embarrassment. A fastening was not trustworthy because it looked secure. It was trustworthy because somebody checked it.

The joining strap lay between Niall’s cuffed wrists. Euan held it up.

“This will keep your hands before you,” he said. “You will be able to lift them, turn them, and give your signal. I can remove it in one movement. Do you want it?”

Niall’s throat worked beneath the collar. He did not retreat from the question.

“Yes,” he said. “I want to be bound.”

Euan fastened the first buckle.

“Still yes?”

“Yes.”

He fastened the second.

“Still yes?”

“Yes.”

The final buckle closed with a small metallic click. Euan checked every strap once more: collar, left cuff, right cuff, joining strap. One at a time. No element was permitted to become invisible merely because it had already been chosen.

Then he stepped back, giving Niall room to feel the shape of what they had made.

“You are collared because you asked,” Euan said. “You are bound because you asked. Either fact can change if you say so.”

Niall looked down at his restrained hands, then up again.

“No change.”

“Good.” Euan let the next instruction remain with him, rather than taking it by force of habit. “Tell me your next request.”

“I want you to tell me where to kneel,” Niall said. “And I want to serve you.”

Euan considered him for a moment, collar dark against his pale throat, cuffed hands held before him with no attempt to make their position decorative.

“Define service.”

Colour climbed Niall’s face. He looked at the joined cuffs, then returned his attention to Euan. “I want to undress you. I want to use my mouth on you.” He paused, gathered himself, and continued. “I want you to stop me if I start trying to perform instead of choosing.”

“That is a sensible condition.” Euan’s manner remained measured, though something in his chest had eased. “Do you want that now?”

“Yes.”

“And your safeword?”

“Cairn.”

“If I ask whether you are well, answer plainly. If you need to pause, say so. You do not earn anything by enduring discomfort.”

“I understand.”

Euan indicated the padded platform. “Kneel there, please.”

Niall crossed the small room and lowered himself onto the platform. The old tile walls enclosed him in blue and white squares, each repaired seam like a mark in an old map. He settled back on his heels, cuffed hands resting on his thighs. There was nothing theatrical in the pose. That was what made it affect Euan so severely. Niall had asked for a place. Euan meant to give him one.

“May I remove your jacket?” Euan asked.

“Yes.”

He unbuttoned it, lifted it from Niall’s shoulders, and placed it over the chair. The shirt beneath had creased at the waist and elbows. Niall looked less assembled without the dark wool around him, though the collar gave him a new, deliberate line.

“Look at me,” Euan said.

Niall did.

“There is no required standard for this. You are not being graded. You may enjoy it. You may change your mind.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you like that form of address?”

A small pause. “Yes, sir. For tonight.”

“Good.” Euan stepped closer. “Take off my shoes.”

Niall did so with the care of somebody handling a small piece of machinery. The cuffs made the task slower. He worked the laces loose with his fingertips, loosened the leather, and lifted each shoe away. Euan remained still, allowing the service to take its proper time. When Niall set the shoes side by side beneath the chair, he looked up as if awaiting a verdict.

“Thank you,” Euan said. “Do you want to continue?”

“Yes.”

“Remove my jacket.”

Niall rose enough to reach him. His bound hands made a clumsy business of the buttons, and Euan felt the urge to help. He let the urge pass. Niall had not asked to be rescued from difficulty. When the jacket came free, Niall folded it over the chair back with neat attention.

“Your shirt as well?” Niall asked.

“That is my choice to make.” Euan let the correction sit without cruelty. “Ask again.”

“May I remove your shirt, sir?”

“Yes.”

The shirt came off more easily. Euan stood bare from the waist up in the amber lamp-light, old scars pale at one shoulder, chest hair silvering at the edges. Niall’s attention travelled over him with an openness that had none of the old anxious calculation. He was looking because he wanted to look.

Euan touched the front of the collar with one finger. “You asked to use your mouth on me. Do you still want that?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me where.”

“On your cock.”

“Good. Do you want to touch it with your hands first?”

“Yes.”

“Then you may.”

Euan opened his trousers and stepped out of them. Niall’s eyes lowered again. His hands, held close by the joining strap, worked carefully at the waistband of Euan’s underwear. When Euan’s cock came free, already hard, Niall’s composure altered. Not vanished; altered. His mouth opened slightly. He placed both cuffed hands around Euan’s shaft and held him with an almost reverent steadiness.

“Does this remain what you want?” Euan asked.

“Yes.”

“Then use your mouth.”

Niall bent forward. He kissed the inside of Euan’s thigh first, then took the blunt head of him between his lips. His mouth was cautious at the beginning, warm and precise, learning what Euan liked through the changes in his breathing rather than assuming. Euan let one hand rest at Niall’s nape only after asking permission.

“Yes,” Niall said. “You can hold me there.”

Euan’s palm settled against him, not directing yet, simply present. Niall took more, inch by inch, his throat opening around the length of Euan’s cock. The collar pressed lightly against his skin as he moved. His cuffed hands stayed at Euan’s hips, fingers flexing whenever he needed to steady himself.

“Less?” Euan asked.

“No.”

“More?”

Niall lifted his eyes. “A little more.”

Euan gave him that much. He guided the pace with a light pressure at Niall’s nape, then stopped before wanting could become a demand. Niall drew back, lips wet, pupils wide.

“You are close,” Niall said.

“I am.” Euan’s thumb rested beside the collar buckle. “Would you like me to come in your mouth?”

Niall looked startled by the directness, then pleased. “Yes. I would.”

Euan watched him consider the answer again, watched the tiny act of choosing take place behind his face.

“Do you still want it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Euan moved once more into Niall’s mouth. Niall accepted him without haste, keeping his hands at Euan’s hips, his body upright despite the awkward restraint. Euan gave him a few slow thrusts, then stopped again.

“Cairn if you need out.”

Niall made a sound of assent around him.

Euan came with a low sound that he did not attempt to disguise. Niall held him through it, swallowed when Euan’s release filled his mouth, then eased back at once when Euan removed his hand from his neck.

For several seconds, neither man moved. Niall sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth with the back of one cuffed hand. He looked faintly dazed, though not unhappy.

“Water?” Euan asked.

“Yes, please.”

Euan poured from the glass bottle on the shelf and held the cup while Niall drank. He did not make a praise of the act. He waited until Niall finished, set the cup aside, and asked, “Do you want more sexual contact?”

Niall’s answer came quicker this time. “Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to undress me.” His face coloured again. “I want your hands on me.”

“Where?”

“My chest. My cock.” He drew in a careful breath. “And I want you to prepare me. I think I want you inside me.”

Euan crouched before him. “You think?”

“I want you inside me,” Niall corrected. “But I want to go slowly.”

“Good.” Euan put a hand on Niall’s knee. “May I take off your shirt?”

“Yes.”

He undid each button, working around the cuffs, then drew the shirt away. Niall’s body had the lean, exact build of someone who spent his days bent over fine work: narrow waist, light hair across his chest, a small scar near one hip. Euan had noticed all of it before. Notice was not entitlement.

“May I touch your chest?”

“Yes.”

His hand covered Niall’s sternum, then moved over one nipple, pinching gently only after Niall gave another yes. Niall’s head tipped back. A sound escaped him, startled and pleased.