katabasis | [psl] dos rowdy boys

There sound Marcus makes in reply is a rough, breathy, I see-adjacent sound, but there is something arresting in the clear flick of Flint's eyeline, the tipping up of his chin and tilt at the axis of his head. Answered swiftly, demand met with more demand as Marcus presses him into yielding, tongue sweeping a territorial, asking kiss.

The hand snagged at Flint's front sweeps further up, over pectoral and as high as collarbone, as if intent on getting his shirt off of him but doing nothing to let up from the kiss, and then more occupied getting his thigh up further until it presses in at the juncture of Flint's, boot heel raised off the ground with a too-quiet creak of leather.

Warring wants, and Marcus disinclined to order them save to allow whatever competing thing wins out first. Right now, it's a deeper kiss, and grasping hand, and the pressing intimacy that is deliberate in its application.

Edited (what if i never made mistakes again) 2023-05-25 09:42 (UTC)

As reward for these things, a low huffing pant and a kind of willing pliance under the interrogation of Marcus' tongue. Warm heat radiating between them, and the unmistakable stirring of Flint's cock against that press of thigh.

It's a kind of relief to be handled so. Some hungry thing in him tasting a few grains of satisfaction; not satiated by any means, but reminded that there's no requirement to chase the thing down to see how quickly he can sink his teeth down and be glutted with pleasure. Better, this flexing against the alignment of Marcus's hip and thigh, and that vague trace of burnt tobacco on his tongue.

Though this noted lack of urgency doesn't entirely translate to the scuff of his hands—gripping at Marcus' hips for a moment only to slide around him. Hands questing up under the shirt to follow the line of his spine and the surrounding net of musculature. Feeling out the planes of warm skin, half bracing to both pull him closer. He has his own list of slightly disparate wants to indulge, none of these things entirely incompatible only undirected.

That initial bite of urgency has settled, like the snapping jaws of a hound closing over proffered bone and now all that's left is to worry at it. They've successfully caught one another, and there is time to enjoy that fact.

But no, not no urgency. The warm simmer of it in the inwards pull of breath as Marcus feels Flint's hands slide up his back, keeping him close, and then the inviting yield of parted lips under his own. The teasing at and testing of urgency in the other man, maybe, as Marcus without even a little pretense sets about encouraging the stiffening length he feels against his thigh and hip with a deliberate rub of friction, a careful but firm shift up from knee to hip.

He gets a hand up at Flint's chin, a thumb pushing at the bone to tilt it further up so he can get his mouth at the crook of his throat. The flat of his tongue tasting the subtle salt layered onto skin, a pressured kiss chasing after where nerve endings typically thrum under contact.

Can imagine fucking him like this, boots on the ground and sunlight in the windows and a few inches of metal back there on the door separating them from the rest of the Gallows. The thought has warmth pool heavy in his gut, fantasy and probability a potent combination.

Strange, how the subtle tug of rucked up layers about his shoulders and Marcus' own shirt caught across his hands can feel more illicit than being fully stripped might. And between them, a low rasp of fabric where trouser leg catches at inseams with the unsubtle rock of hip and thigh between them—the answering press as reflexive as the thickening draw of breath under the warm heat of Marcus' mouth. Small hairs prickling in reply. Fingertips pressing encouragingly at shoulder blades.

Turning his face a degree farther, he catches teeth at the edge of Marcus' thumb. Follows with some minor press of tongue, and a warm breath designed to invite before coaxing the digit in past his teeth and over his tongue.

A low hum from him like the creak of leathers, and the wind touched ripple of paper on the not so distant desk, and the faint shiver of the papers being gently crumpled here.

Marcus absently teases the edge of his thumb against bottom lip, teeth, the flutter of breath, just for a second's more delay before he slides that digit into the warm-wetness opened to it. Lifts his head up from where he'd been nuzzled into neck, watching as he dips his thumb in deeper, stroking tongue, encouraging, the splay of the rest of his hand a heavy presence fanned against Flint's cheek.

Continues to work them both lower down, where he has Flint's hips pinned between his own and the heavy table edge. Impossible that it doesn't go both ways, the thickening out of his own cock in a more apparent shape against Flint's hip where they lock together in these little rocking motions. Breath catching, sitting higher in his chest.

His other hand has found a place at Flint's exposed side, the backs of his fingers teasingly light in the way they scuff up over ribs, chest, then down his belly. Fingers getting an inch under waistband at the front.

"Sit up," he says after some moments of this, only prepared to move his hips just enough to allow it.

He's slow to follow instruction, first scuffing his teeth at the base of Marcus' thumb—thrilling at being studied—before relenting to allow for it to slip free. It's unnecessary to wet his lips in the aftermath but the impulse sees it done anyway, a heavy scuff of breath in that space between them which is only half clutched close. Taking a moment for his own study, close and keen, scraping across the heat in Marcus' face like he might devour it by looking.

His hands slip grudgingly free. Reaching behind himself, Flint shoves back various heretofore neatly arranged pages and shifts the inch or two necessary to slither out from between the hard edge of the table and the arousing shape of Marcus' heavy cock and up onto the edge of the table. Not quite graceful, but not quite clumsy either. He grumbles a low complaint which the heavy table echoes. Rattles pencils in their cup. Crumples some old map that's probably worth more than the both of them.

A heavy boot hooks promptly in around the back of a knee.

"It won't be practical to keep two people on it," he rasps, heel pressing (as if Marcus needs encouragement to fit himself in between his knees). "The ballista."

A grunt out of Marcus that is both a response to the demand of a boot at the back of his leg—capitulating, moving into that space where his groin can press where the base of Flint's is open to him just at the edge of the table—and also something amused in it for shoptalk.

"Mmhm," he agrees, hands moving to Flint's sides, spanning palm back over stomach. "If it's accounted for in guard rotations, we can see that a second man is mustered in an emergency."

He closes his hand over belt buckle, putting both to the work of undoing it, eyes down to this task. Admiring there the evidence of thickened flesh tucked into a curve of fabric, as the sound of sliding leather and clicking metal joins with the familiar tug Flint will feel of another person unfastening his belt, and opening his pants. Nothing fast in it, a patient manipulation of buckle and buttons.

"We might need to take some time to consider the viability," in conclusion, a darting look back up. Amusement to be read in eyes too, their shade of pale blue brighter in sunlight. Not warmer for it, but clearer.

It's tempting to hook his other heel round, but he defers in favor of extracting a few more pages out from under him and ensuring there's nothing sharp waiting to stab him should, say, he at any point be somewhat less upright. Accomplishing this without actually looking very far away from Marcus, his attention handily snagged by the clink and ease of belt. The mutual rasping of fabric. His fingers itching after Marcus's shirt hem.

Though that too is permitted to remain as it is. Later, maybe. After they've fucked around mostly dressed and the heavy knot of anticipation in his belly has relaxed somewhat, maybe then he will strip him. Chase him into the adjacent room and make some patient study of Marcus' naked body while there is still some daylight to do it by. But here, he restrains himself to smoothing the shirt's neck and feeling out the cut of muscle and sinew through the light summer fabric.

(Marcus' eyes are very blue. He's occasionally given to forgetting, given the quality of light that often plagues this particular kind of nearness between them.)

"Mm," sounds suspicious in that dry glancing way which suggests some buried sense of humor. Were they less close, his attention might sway down between them to measure the progress. "At some length."

The quiet sound of rustled pages and items being scuffed aside are their own kind of sensory thrill. The inherent misbehaviour of fucking around like this here, which maybe at one point might have felt a little like Marcus in specific getting away with something, but now feels like they both are, and the pleasure of that. In lockstep with this little joke they're doing.

"Aye," dry, quiet. Turning his hand on his wrist so that he can comfortably push it into Flint's pants, a blunt gathering of his cock beneath his drawers, refining that grasp to feel the defined shape of him through that thin barrier of fabric.

There will come a point where he will get impatient with negotiating around clothing, but only in the same way where one wants to move past teasing and play. Not immediately. Pleasure sparking off the idle, distanced sense of his shirt hem being toyed with, of the texture where Flint's fingers smooth along his neck and shoulder. Some fussy embroidery almost invisible to the eye, slate grey on grey.

He squeezes his hand, with the purpose of watching Flint react. Loosens it, rubs, letting the friction of cloth do some of the work.

It might be a subtle reaction, were the points of contact not so intimate and if Marcus were less acquainted with the tenor of Flint's breathing and the particular way he is sometimes prone to some absent slanting down of the chin. The contact figures in the length of his spine, a faint rolling back of the shoulders as if to settle himself, and the slow spread of color that had begun to turn the exposed skin of his throat flush red. A soft scuff of an exhale which sounds tempered but is mostly small for having been tangled up in the sparking sensation of the contact. The squeeze. The friction of fingers and fabric, and the shivering assurance of a fucking.

Maybe he will hook his other boot behind Marcus' second knee after all. And plant a hand on the table top to steady himself so he might lean back by that half degree which seems required to give the work of Marcus' hand more space in which to operate. So that he can watch a little more easily the flex of sinew in wrist. Give himself a little leverage to press his himself encouragingly after the shape of those fingers.

Meanwhile, his other hand drifts from shoulder to chest. From chest to catching after the loosened waist of Marcus's pants and the line of his undone belt. Finding the belt buckle, he makes to draw the strap free with a tugging rasp of leather nipping at fabric.

Subtle reactions are about what Marcus expects and is keen to make note of. Satisfaction for each little shift in breathing or slip of eyeline, the higher colour encroaching across skin. The way Marcus' attention shifts from Flint's eyes to his mouth, chin, throat, the pull of fabric there in his leaning back. Feeling his own arousal like a knifetwist at the distinct sensation of Flint angling up for more of the press of his palm.

His attention splits as Flint moves his hand, and captures his belt. Tightening followed by loosening. Doesn't let up his own attentions, thumb feeling out cockhead to rub just beneath it while his other hand pulls aside more fabric so as not to catch against it.

Warmth, an over-sensitive spark of it that carries straight up from that second hooking of boot against leg. Loosely bracketed here in a suggestion of what else they could be doing.

Another squeeze, careful but firm. A second of thought zithering off in a different direction, of recalling how deliberately he'd been summoned here, and had Flint already felt himself warming in anticipation after sending that summons, and waiting? Or even before that? More than that, has there been some moment in the warm night hours when they've not been together that blood had thickened in veins, either encouraged or unbidden, and he'd occupied some fragment of thought when it did?

There is still the barest sheen of spit on his thumb, right up to the base, not quite offering enough lubrication at this point when he lets the first knuckle slip beneath fabric to touch Flint's cock with his skin. A tease of it, edge over blunt end.

Had he? Had there been hours in the day between stripping the Anderfels camp and the long traipse southward to meet the ship, and fighting the Waking Sea currents to arriving here in the Gallows in which to think and be frustrated? Between the three dozen things which require doing in any given day, had he found some fragment of his attention occupied by the memory of Marcus knelt between his knees or, more, stood behind him in that low tent? To consider how comfortable it had been. To be irritated at the length of time required to see to the ship once they'd arrived in Kirkwall harbor, resentful of those last minutes of delay before he might finally strip all the sand and sweat and grime and salt off his skin and then come eagerly nipping after Marcus' attention.

He breathes out a long, quiet exhale for that direct point of contact. A muscle flexing in his thigh; the faint reflexive shifting of hip to meet and encourage that touch. His gaze drops, briefly, to the shape of Marcus' fingers, and then sways back to his face, gratified to be the subject of the that study. To have procured it just by suggesting he wanted it.

Without looking away, the freed belt is set aside on the table with a click from it loose buckle. Rather than lean back in, Flint allows himself shift further back. Lowering to an elbow with a crinkle of papers, he employs his spare hand to rucking the worn soft hem of his own shirt higher.

That listing backwards and tugging back up of shirt fabric is rewarding with a hand, warm and heavy, palming its way up the centre of the other man's torso. A light amount of pressure implies the possibility of pushing him down flat, but for now just rests in place. There's been plenty of times that Marcus has gotten to look at Flint under his clothes and that simple fact won't stop him from doing so again.

The light is different, too, bringing up more naturally blushing hues than the way firelight renders everything gold and shadow. Freckles, scars, fresh bruises, dispersal of hair of a slightly darker tone than what prickles his jaw, and soft, inviting skin. Rather than helping Flint all the way out of the garment, as if whether or not he does isn't immediately relevant to him, Marcus ducks down. Touches more to the lower curve of rib and muscle in a damp, formless kiss. Further up, grazes teeth over nipple, followed by the brush of wet tongue, the warm rasp of breathing.

His other hand operates in the space he's made more cramped, briefly, but determined anyway to get Flint's cock out properly, and wrap his fingers around it.

Edited (sometimes 4 hours later you want to make your words better) 2023-05-27 03:38 (UTC)

It's the right kind of warm, and wet, and close. Sends a shivering flush of heat melting down through his center, clutching low in his belly in time with the curl of fingers about him. Just the suggestion of being covered makes his mouth water, and so here is his spare hand finding the back of Marcus' neck. Urging him closer. Flint leans the series of degrees up across his forearm so he might insist on kissing him.

That too is warm, and wet. All tongue and the heated exhale that otherwise feels too loud and is too keen to simply pass into the open air rather than feeding directly into the other man's mouth. And then a second kiss is required; and then a third, punctuated by some catch of teeth and a thicker noise that rumbles under the palm.

"Marcus," is so low. It comes with a dig of heels and catching fingers. See; he can steer with a thumb moving to press under the jaw too. The daylight leaves fine bright filaments amidst Marcus' dark hair. Paints edges where there are none.

Impossible not to bend to it, that urge for a kiss. Marcus does, pressing in close, letting his appreciation for that contact convey itself in a sound muffled between them, eagerly open to it, eagerly tasting. Breath catching at graze of teeth, and unable to stop himself from a small and needy pushing forwards of his hips, table edge lower down beneath Flint's seat, strained fabric.

His eyes slide open at the sound of his name, heavy on Flint's tongue, the pressing up against his jaw. Abruptly aware of this, the tangle they've made of themselves, and himself half-draped on Flint.

And still has fist fitted around Flint's cock between them, rubbing his thumb up its sensitive underside almost thoughtlessly. That dig of heels. All these asking things. His spare hand comes down to curl up around a thigh, testing digging up under the back of it.

"Don't worry," he says, letting characteristically crooked form of smile play sharp at the corners of his mouth. "I'm not letting you leave this table unfucked."

An emphatic squeeze of both his hands. "Oil?"

Edited 2023-05-27 04:22 (UTC)

This assurance and question both prompt twin thrills in the blood. It pushes the heavy thud of his pulse into the flesh between Marcus' squeezing fingers, thigh and cock both—these grasping points of contact a thing his body hums after.

A grunt. He half turns his face, hand slipping from Marcus' neck as he makes to gesture with chin and shoulder toward the cold fireplace.

"There's a pot there," he says, must mean the slim pewter pitcher with its covered lid and spout loitering near the end of the mantel, prudently waiting to refill the lamps pinched in about the room.

Even so, it feels like a great imposition to loosen the set of his heels. Moreso to not chase after Marcus with a hot kiss, so he at least allows himself to indulge in this second one before he looses the hook of his boots.

The kiss is a thrill too, not entirely cockwards. Something in his chest that lightens and aches at the same time for the ease of it, the sense of a person reaching for him, the sweetness inherent when it comes to parting kisses, even if the parting is a scant several moments while he finds some lubrication for an imminent fucking. Marcus presses back into it, a lick of contact that he could languish in longer if he wanted.

Well, he does want, but there are competing wants. He nips a bite at Flint's lip before pushing himself into better posture, hands withdrawing. One snags at the waistband of his own pants reflexively as he makes for the mantel.

There, Flint has some moments alone, half a moment more of Marcus deciding whether to take a helping there into his hand or taking the little pitcher back with him, opting for the latter.

In those moments alone, it would be simple to begin to feel slightly absurd. Nearly on his back on the heavy work table among a scattering of official Riftwatch business, his boots not touching the ground, shirt rucked high and cock laid out over his belly, he is very prone in the daylight. Exposed. Revealed in his willingness to be slightly ridiculous in pursuit of Marcus' hands on him, and his mouth on him. His cock in him.

But in the moment, it seems entirely rational. Or irrational, but in the thrilling sense where they are both being stupid, and he is taking pleasure in dredging Marcus down with him to the level of fucking across furniture that isn't meant to be fucked across. Propped on an elbow, watching as Marcus moves to fetch that tin pitcher as directed, Flint purposefully neglects to touch himself (though the impulse to do so buzzes just under the skin). Instead, he watches him with his undone fastenings, the shape of Marcus' tailored clothes grown relaxed about him for their lack of buttoned buttons and tucked in hems. The effect is pleasantly undone; ragged, without the metal taste of blood from some scratch earned on the field to underscore it. Appealing in the sense that—

He likes it. When the things the other man's wants have made him impatient enough that they're written clearly in him. He could study that for some time here in the daylight and be fascinated.

(I want you, he had said, and Flint has fucked himself into his hand thinking of the ache in those syllables.)

He could take off his boots. Work out of his trousers without leaving the table. Strip off his shirt. Instead, in that interim, Flint waits with bridled eagerness. When Marcus returns to him, he welcomes him back with the satisfies hook of both boots, the clench of thighs, and the searching slant of his mouth. A parting kiss being one thing, and a welcoming one being another.

It's a compelling sight to come back to. And it's not unlikely that had Flint occupied himself with stripping further, or touching himself, that would make for an equally attractive tableau. Satisfying, though, to find Flint waiting for him, half-undone and draped so, the dangle of boot soles over the floor, cock hard where Marcus had handled it out into the air and left there against his belly. Some small, dangerous nip of feeling, possessive.

Then the flex of thighs and nudge of boot heels, ushering Marcus back where he, today, belongs. Rewards him by lean in to kiss Flint's mouth, pitcher set on the table in favour for being able to press in close, wind his arms around Flint's tilted torso, revel in the crush of this impractical kind of closeness.

(At one point, he might have felt like it would be some kind of private joke for the next time he's in this office and being dispensed orders over a map laid on this table, or maybe he'd have avoided the thought altogether. Now it feels a little more on purpose. That he has sought something out just as much as Flint has maneuvered him. That he won't be alone in feeling some warm little tug, in the future, at inappropriate sense-memory.)

Marcus feels a hand down to Flint's knee, as the kiss they're sharing shallows. Further down, judging the boot situation, if there are gaiters to remove or a great amount of lacings to undo. Probably.

Comes back up instead and begins loosening Flint's pants further, clinking buckle and metal as he makes to tug at waistband.

He's not unhelpful, leaning back against elbows in an effort to accommodate the tug with a shifting hip and tightening heels. That this is clumsy, and that they would be better served if he were to roll over and have Marcus take him from behind isn't lost on him. To say nothing of the perfectly comfortable bed a mere room removed. But there is something toothsome in the graceless shape of this that converts stupidity into a compelling intoxicant. They are being ridiculous. It's good.

(There are gaiters with their sets of buckles, but mercilessly few laces under those. Can't have everything.)

"Marcus," Flint says, gruff and low in lieu of pursuing his mouth further. That would be counterproductive in this moment. "I want your fingers."

Marcus works trousers down, enjoying the peeling back of rough layers to naked skin. Out from under Flint, then further, backing up enough to jerk the fabric layers down to Flint's knees. Glances up at his name, the desire spoken out loud. There's been pleasure to be had in Flint baiting him, telling him he's fucking around or asking if he needs to be shown his way around in bed, and it doesn't feel unlikely that he never will again.

But open demand—well, not even a demand, a declaration that makes no demands at all, really, that bypasses something, brushing past the possibility of aggravation. A different kind of enthusiasm to give the thing being requested.

And takes his time anyway. Marcus works Flint's trousers down lower. Catching on the tops of gaiters and boots, a trapping tangle of garments being handled out of order that only doesn't feel accidental until Marcus then steps into that loop of legs and linen and leather. They are, indeed, being ridiculous, and Marcus seems pleased about it as he pushes one of Flint's thighs open that bit wider, thumb pressing into the paler skin of the inner curve of muscle.

The pitcher is right there, too, but for the moment he just brings his hand up, and closes his mouth around two fingers long enough to coat them in a thin sheen of saliva. Lingers the tips of them near his mouth on withdraw as he tells Flint to, "Show me," where the press of his hand at inner thigh emphasises the point.

The sound he makes isn't some low pant, but rather is closer to a laugh. A growl of humor for the heavy slough of linen and leathers about the tops of his calves, and Marcus having insinuated himself in the space afforded them; for the press of the palm and loitering saliva slick fingers. You shit, it says. Though maybe it's tinged too with a more smug thing as, if he hefts his ankles a little higher, extraction from the loop of legs and sloppily handled clothes suddenly becomes a considerable imposition. I have you.

(Not as if Marcus seems keen to remove himself.)

With a faint upward tilt of the chin and a crinkle of abused papers, his elbow give one after another and Flint allows himself to lay flat across the broad expanse of the heavy work table. To raise his ankles with a scuff of cloth and a soft dig of heel, drawing Marcus a few degrees nearer by necessity so that between the higher hook of his legs and the encouraging weight of that hand, he might expose himself more readily for Marcus' touch.

Or his own. Flat on his back, Flint mirrors that press of fingers into his own mouth and drawing them free gleaming. Pointedly presses a further tongue of spit across his fingertips, his attention dropping briefly from Marcus' face to be sure that they're dripping with it, before he reaches down between them. Bypassing the curve of his cock, he finds himself with slicked fingers. Rubs warm spit across hotter, wanting skin.

His answer to growl and shift is a quieter thing, some warm twinge of humour that only doesn't last because

well, all the rest, which becomes sharper edged by the time Flint is complying. Marcus' focus naturally drops down to reaching hand, knowing an immediate and deeply physical pulse of want that says to him that ideally he should be fucking Flint two minutes ago. Easy. Bridling himself to spend a moment watching the flex of forearm and wrist with cock nestled against, while fingers reach.

He sets about extracting the two rings off his own fingers as he watches, the silver signet with geometric pattern stamped into the square knuckle of it, and the looted black band that some tangle of his brain cannot quite think of as anything other than having been personally gifted as opposed to equitably offloaded. These are twisted free and then set down in the loop his belt makes on the table.

Rewets fingers, a slightly less patient gathering of saliva from tongue to the crook of them. One hand handles Flint in an almost negligent sense, the base of his cock and balls under the spread of palm, and then the other, a slide of damp pressure that follows after how Flint had touched himself. Rubbing, there, that give of muscle, a flick of a glance up and then back down. A shallow breaching only, first, let up again in favour of teasing attention.

He studies that—the working off of easily recognizable rings from fingers, and the direction in which Marcus' attention flits, and the shape of Marcus' mouth about his own fingers—with a low, potent kind of heat. Sharp, the sort of hungry fixation that might ordinarily be cast in the shadow of their bodies but here is laid out in starkly bright shades of blue-green by the angle of the daylight.

Ceding that space between his legs to Marcus' hand comes easily, a most willing surrender of territory as Flint's hand moves instead of the inside of his own thigh so he might keep himself spread for those fingers. For that slow circling touch and that easing press, wet and hot and brief enough that it elicits a heavy exhale.

But he is getting what he wants. Or will soon. With Marcus set here between the tangle of his legs readying to fuck him, he finds himself in possession of a shocking capacity for patience. It should take more than a few weeks of abstinence to whittle his frustration to the sharp point he's carried around with him these past days, but just this assurance has served to blunt it. He can be satisfied by this. The pulse of arousal in his cock under the careless sprawl of Marcus' hand and the wet smear of fingers; the faint hitch and pressing of heels, and the crinkle of abused paper under his shoulders, and the flex of tendons and muscle in Marcus' wrist that inevitably draws down the eye.

"Tell me how you're going to want it," he says, a thick murmur through some heavy rasp of breath. Gaze flitting back up to scrape across Marcus' face. Teasing attention. "When I put my cock in you again."

He's stood straight-backed between Flint's open thighs, a position of his own making in which they're both caught but one of them far more vulnerable than the other. Solid against the tugs from the tangle of cloth behind him and feeling little sparks of satisfaction for it. He has his hand up between Flint's legs, teasing an exceptionally private strip of skin and muscle, and his own cock beginning to ache where it rests beneath and presses against loosened fabric, a kind of willful neglect on Marcus' part that is made possible and desired when granted this kind of control. How fast or how slow they get to his own satisfaction is under his dictatorship, as much as Flint can encourage and demand and even beg.

And so when Flint says that instead, some flung out allusion to something else entirely catching him off-guard, it could almost be exasperating if not for the way it runs hot through him, a clench of feeling and a sharp look back over at Flint's face. Exasperating for that, maybe. The short breath out through his nose communicates as such.

The pause over an answer communicates the rest. The fingers working Flint go gentle and still, and Marcus lifts his other hand to collect the pitcher. He tips a modest trickle down into that tangle, distributes the oil over his fingers by smearing them against Flint, an expected kind of mess.

"Rough," he finally says, quietly, and then slides his fingers into Flint, a slow but ceaseless sinking in deeply. Pitcher set down during, and his other hand is warm and gentle where it lands on the other man's abdomen. Stays there.

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