katabasis | [psl] dos rowdy boys

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.

If some flicker of smug satisfaction finds its way into the lines of his face in answer for all that exasperation in Marcus', then it makes only a brief showing before growing thick and heavy under the cool touch of oil. Rough, he says, but the slow slide of his fingers promises only the good kind of ache that Flint can feel in the length of his spine and tangled low in his belly where Marcus' softly curving palm settles.

He lets his eyes slide shut and breathes out a long, quiet note. It's correspondingly gentle, some thing prone to restlessness tamed by the deep fit of fingers. A muscle tight in his thigh under his own hand eases and some subconsciously taut line in his chest and shoulders slackens. It is a less fraught, but otherwise not so far divorced a sense of settling as the line of his body in a low backed chair, in a cramped and shadow heavy tent with the cold of the Anderfels night nipping at the canvas and pen set aside by near to hand.

It is easier to want Marcus to stay here when they are in this room with all its space and the adjoining apartment besides. It is a less irrational desire. An easily explicable impulse.

(Fuck, his fingers feel good.)

Flint tilts his chin back to his chest. Draws a short, easy breath and opens his eyes again. Gaze twitching from the hand on his abdomen up to Marcus' face.

"I can bend you over the arm of my chair," has the tender tenor of an offering. Sounds like praise.

Flint will feel the slight pressure of Marcus' leaning back against the tangle of cloth catching his ankles, the repositioning of the hand at his abdomen. All the best to watch what he's doing, the tight press of his hand where fingers are pushed in, a fleeting glance up at that triangle of skin and beard where Flint has his chin tilted up from relaxing back on the table.

Plenty of inexplicable impulses to go around. Like how he would like to kiss that spot made so vulnerable to him, as he had considered the gravity-pull of desire back in the Anderfels, to fold over Flint's shoulder, to nuzzle in behind his ear where the velvety rasp of shaven down hair had started to get bristlier, or to slide his hand down between the other man's legs.

He lets out a breath as Flint speaks again, but keeps his eyes trained on his hand. Less distractible now that he can brace for it. Withdrawing fingers for the pleasure of pushing them back in, teasing himself with that potential of sensation.

The hand he has resting slides up, Marcus moving in that little bit closer. Catches the edge of Flint's tunic rumpled high on his chest, dragging it up further until its gathered between thumb and forefinger, and then caught beneath where he leans his palm down against the table just over Flint's shoulder, fabric snaring up along the seams, pinning. His other hand is caught between them, necessarily, but it doesn't stop him from continue those slow, deep strokes of his fingers, hips tilted just enough to make room.

"I think I would like that," he says. That tinge of haughtiness must be on purpose. "If you're prepared to make me."

Tangled between those two points, pinioned by his own garments and the work of Marcus' hands, Flint laughs. It's a low, rough sound. Pleasantly graveled under the influence of those slow, achingly deep strokes and the oil slicked sense of friction. Nevermind his untouched cock heavy and leaking in the crook of his hip, or the clumsy tangle linen and leathers, or the fact that he is flat on his back and holding himself open with a hand. In that not quite narrow space, the shadow of Marcus' arm across him faded thin by the daylight, Flint sounds very certain when he says, "I can make you."

He can make Marcus beg for it, and it could be both more and less of a game than the one they'd played in that back corridor in Cumberland. Bend him over the chair and see that Marcus kept his cheek pressed to it's opposing arm. Pin his wrists in against the small of his back. Then, between intervals of hard fucking, he might simply withdraw. Wait. Test his own patience.

But that's not what they're doing now. So he is honest about the greedy shifting of heels and flexing lines of muscle so that the next time Marcus fucks his fingers into him, he can chase the stroke of them with the cant of his hip.

That laugh runs through him, catches and embers. An irritant, prickling over his skin. Not the kind of aggravation that makes Marcus want to withdraw; rather, his hand pushes firm, and he fends off the desire to haul Flint into a chastising kind of kiss in favour of instead keeping him laid flat. Feels the answering twist in Flint's body, the press of his heels.

It recalls something of Cumberland too, this. That slanted okay, of playing along, and the distant sense of a hand resting low on his boot.

It's a distinct shift when Marcus buries his fingers in deeply once more, and works him. Opening him, coaxing muscle into relenting, into obedience, with those little stroking presses that have more to do with the crooking of his fingers than a rhythm Flint can match or eke more out of, but also doesn't need to.

"And I can make you," he murmurs, an echo in rougher brogue. Eyeline dragging back up from that hot, tight juncture between them. Heat, there, a sharper edge than a moment ago. Another slow stroke of his hand. "I could make you come just like this, on my fingers. And then fuck you while you're still spilling."

His other hand relents, sliding back down his chest. Stopping shy of Flint's cock. "Do you want that?" he asks. "Or do you want my cock more?"

If he'd asked before beginning to earnestly work him open, Flint might have rumbled some low note of smug satisfaction over just the asking of the question. For having successfully goaded him to it like a dog nips at heels to steer. But here, with his breath having grown a little slanted with the effort of not making some other rougher sound under the changed tenor of the press and stretch of Marcus' fingers, there is a distinct appeal to the offering. Less so the semantics of the thing—though yes, he could make him come like this, having been made panting and anxious for the shape of Marcus' cock. More, here is a invitation that he choose how naked to make himself. That he do so under Marcus' strict observation.

He can feel the flush in his own skin. Some vulnerable twist in his belly and a twinge of an ache behind the ribs that could become a deeper thrum if his grip on it were to slip. The urge to let it.

His hand slides halfway from the inside of his thigh in the direction of his knee. Preparing to make space. Spare hand wandering in a similar direction as if he needs both hands to do it.

"I want you in me," Flint tells him, thick and greedily capitulating. "I want to hold me down and make me come on your cock. It's all I've thought of."

It's exactly what Marcus wishes to hear, for all that there would have been satisfaction, too, in patiently working Flint with his hands alone, to be of that specific kind of sober while the other man is not. Yes, that would have been good as well, but that he says otherwise brings about a renewed flush of desire that would have it no other way.

Satisfyingly spoken, unqualified and bare, and then this last thing tagged at the end of it. Triggering a different kind of rush. It's all I've thought of, and Marcus would like more information. Where, and when, and for how long? But he can sense that shift of Flint's hand, the subtle widening of the space he is in. Laying here, for him, warm and wanting, and there is nothing for it but to give in.

His hand twists, massaging taut muscle into relaxing for him. His other hand moves, briefly resting over Flint's on his own thigh—a gentle and encouraging application of pressure.

Both hands withdrawing at the same time, the careful withdraw of the one between them. Less patient, Marcus tugs down his loosened trousers, gathering himself into palm and running a slick hand over his own erection. He hasn't been touched so directly but he hardly needs to, thickly hard and eager. Handles Flint by the hips to pull him in closer, that little bit past the edge of the table, and makes no hesitation in pressing the hard shape of himself against him, in shifting his hips to slide against the run-off slickness of oil.

"I imagined it, while we were away," he murmurs, his eyes set down on the sight of that between them. A subtle burr of humour in his tone, but not because he isn't being serious. "Wondered if that little desk of yours could have taken you bent over it. How well the tie on the tent would have kept everyone at bay."

He reaches for the pitcher, taking it up again.

"I doubt it," he says, a dry rasp over having been tugged close, and that intimate line that Marcus' cock presses heavily along. "That desk is a piece of shit."

Sharp-eyed and eager, made sluggish only by how thick his blood is running, Flint's attention sways after the pitcher's trajectory with that quality of a predator tracking movement in the undergrowth. He only doesn't tighten his legs about Marcus because it would be counterintuitive to cinch him too close now—

"Though the bed is solid." He can't help himself. His hand slips across his thigh to his cock, less to touch himself as to hold it low so he might watch the oil be spilled between them. Some humor curling absently at the edge of his timbre, though his eyes fail to lift and punctuate it. "You might have set there and I'd have ridden you if I knew you could go about it quietly."

This is a pretty lie. If not that, an aggressive revision. But one that they can indulge between them, surely.

It earns a subtle spread of a smile from him, eyes likewise set on his task. Careful, a minor application of oil onto his hand and cock, the naturally cool temperature against warm skin earning a small breath in. The next time Marcus moves his hips, its with an even more luxurious slide of flesh—first alongside Flint's cock, and then using his hand to redirect himself to press his length down against him, between the starting curves of buttocks exposed from the lift of thighs.

Slightly tempted to defend how quiet he can be, but maybe there's something compelling in Flint deciding otherwise, even in the parameters of fantasy. Certainly, he prefers not to be.

His breathing is coming thicker, now, but he's held off long enough that he can eke out some satisfaction by rubbing himself against Flint, even as it simultaneously serves to degrade his patience. Tugs the front of his shirt out of the way with spare hand on the way to laying hand against open thigh.

"But then I might not've had you like this," a murmur, as he sets cockhead against worked muscle. Spreads Flint that bit more open with hand and cock both as he rubs subtle circles against him. Yes, taking his time, dragging this out. Keyed into everything about 'this', from the weight of the other man's breath to the way his cock might twitch.

So much for contriving to secure Marcus' silence, what with there just being the one heavy door between them and the rest of the Gallows to contend with

he finds he doesn't much mind. This low murmur of conversation doesn't have legs long enough to travel far, and the door is heavy, and here is the hot, teasing shape of Marcus' cockhead. So what does he really care about small threats to discretion?

Such as the low humming noise that rumbles in his own chest, not laugh or sigh or needy demand but something lower and thicker and entirely satisfied with being had like this. The slick smear of oil painted against his cock, and wet between his legs; that eager twitch of muscle in his thighs, and the heavy pull of Marcus' breathing. Even the provocation of this not-penetration. He can already feel his pulse in his cock, slick beading; if it weren't for these delays, he might be too close to actually enjoy the fucking Marcus means to give him.

"Don't underestimate my appetite," is as terse a correction as he can make it, attention skipping sharply up to rake across Marcus' face. Some slant of humor blooms only after. And then kinder, a bizarrely tender reminder as Flint moves his hand to circle fingers round the base of himself— "You're meant to be holding me down."

This reminder is barely done by the time Marcus is moving his hand up from where he'd been pressing Flint's thigh, but gains some certainty on the way. A grasp curling around Flint's wrist, something firm and controlling in it. He's done plenty of pinning down in the past, usually in the demanding heat of things, and here it's with more purpose that he tugs Flint's hand away from his own cock, turns it.

Sets it against the table, pins it there. "I take that to mean when the time comes," he says, "you won't need your hands to see yourself off."

Reflexively tender in return rather than sharp, meant to be as bluntly assuring as the weight bearing down on that wrist. Pushes himself inside of Flint just shallowly, enough that he can move his hand off himself without concern of slipping out. Goes to repeat this gesture, finding Flint's other wrist, muscling it down next to him. There, he can lean his weight, a rasp of an exhale out of him as he slowly glides his cock inside of Flint. Fucking finally. No pretense, for a moment, of prioritising Flint's pleasure over his own as that warmth envelops him.

"I'd like to see that," he says, mid-stroke, voice tight in his throat. Pushes in the rest of the way.

That euphoric ache thrills hot in the blood, heady as the taste of smoke in Marcus' mouth can be. And if there were any question as to how Flint intends to handle being pinned, this must answer it: the eager flattening of hands on the table top, fingertips searching briefly for purchase and wrists flexed but in no way resistant to the weight being applied against them. Something in line between these sinews and the open sway of his thighs. The faint, encouraging dig of boot heels bearing down.

As Marcus comes to fill him, Flint exhales out a raw hitched breath. Clenches. Then gives—a sudden easing. There, says the slackening in his spine and the unwinding flinch of muscle across his chest. Fuck. That's what he'd wanted.

Breathes in, full. Flinches it softly out.

His gaze is heavy as it falls back down from the ceiling beams to Marcus. Flicks restlessly there across his scarred features, and to his mouth, and his hair bound still and his pale blue eye made warm in the daylight.

"I trust you with it," he says, a panting laugh. If he does need a hand, Marcus will give it to him.

There are some magpie tendencies he's going to have to (fail to) resist, collecting these bits and pieces. I trust you with it and it's all I've thought about and even the eager splay of Flint's fingers against the table or the slackening line of posture once Marcus is deep in him. Morsels to be collected and admired later, like a ring or a deliberate bruise, to be laden with meaning, to be pared back down.

Marcus' hands squeeze, more affectionate than domineering in the short pulse of it. Yes, he will give that to him. But if he can compel Flint to ask nicely first, that would be enjoyable too.

Moves, then. Sharp eye contact hazing through those first few strokes, deep but tight and controlled to start with, making himself accustomed to it. There is a delightful amount of leverage and force available to him with his feet on the ground, leaning that little bit over as though consulting one of those expensive maps being shoved to the side, and it seems a shame not to take good advantage of it.

A firmer stroke, then, the solid impact of his hips against Flint's seat, sparks warm and bright in his blood. "Flint," murmured on the back of a quiet groan, soft if not for that broken off consonant at the end of his name. "Fuck you feel good."

Quietly.

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