katabasis | [psl] dos rowdy boys

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.

He does—awash in that prickling too much sensation. Jolted clear and bright by the firm catch on skin on skin and the demanding, smoothed over friction of being filled. From somewhere behind his ribs, a rumble of an answer: he feels good because Marcus has made him warm and eager, hungry to please.

Because saying so sends a rush of heat through him that colors the flex of muscle in naked thighs, and the softly explicit invitation of a tilting hip. Because it's tempting to slacken all the way into the sensation of it. To just let Marcus fuck him, ankles with their boots and heavy tangle of clothes nestled about him; hands flexing across the table top under the steady shape of Marcus' grip with each stroke, and the rattle of his breathing growing thicker in his throat. Even the cut of that name lays hot and warm across the skin like an intimate thing that belongs to him instead of something pretended.

Instead, that low curl of sound finds its way to, "Then give me more," coaxing and gentle and desirous of the hard rhythm Marcus might grant him if he asks for it.

'Aye' is barely said, more of a shape in the next breath out than an articulated thing.

Scrapes a look over Flint, first, now that he has himself buried in the other man to the hilt. Soaks in the appealing terrain of bared chest, that distinctly attractive uninterrupted line from torso down naked hip to thigh, the drying evidence of where Marcus had gotten his mouth on him between fits of conversation, a streak of moisture where the leaking end of Flint's cock has shifted on his skin, all of these things he can admire while he still has sense to do so. The brightness of the room sparing him no detail.

Briefly entertains how they might do this where Marcus can enjoy all of that with more than just looking at it. Some other creative tangle. Strict instruction. Rope, maybe. How much pressure and particularity can they apply to this thing they have between them before it breaks? Why is it that when he's granted something, his impulse is to push past it for more?

It's only a flicker of forward thought before he is inevitably drawn back to the present: the unyielding tightness around his cock, the nudge of bootheels behind him, the hook that Flint's quiet coaxing has put in him. Adjusts his feet, slightly, the crumpled loop of his own trousers about the knees not so restricting that he can't.

Begins anew, longer strokes now that he has the sense of it, each terminating with that firm jolting impact before withdraw. Feels a thrill for it immediately, a grateful groan scraped out of him in the midst of this more demanding pace.

He'd determined, at some point, to do this quietly. To revel in the shifting of crumpled paper, prickling at the soft rasp of fabric and the friction of his shoulder on the hard surface of the table amidst some sharper pant and huff of breathing. Not so concerned with it to outright make the demand of Marcus, but aware (distantly) of the possibility of what might be heard in the corridor beyond that bolted door, and preferring to keep some measure of control over the whole arrangement. To be secret with it. To guard it to such a degree that only he (and Marcus, presumably, though they've discussed how it would be better if he didn't) can scrutinize it.

But that sound tumbling out of Marcus catches so sweetly against the ribs and in the ear. Puts Flint immediately to mind of having had him in his bed, and fucking those low wanting sounds out of him while his hand traveled the length of Marcus' back and shoulders. And how quiet they'd been that first time in spite of the instructive scrape of teeth and the scent of blood sticky in the air, and how irreplicable that seems (because it would require a certain degree of reserve he would dislike now that they've divested of the pretense).

It scrapes at something raw in him.grown tender under this new pace he's encouraged and Marcus has been pleased to set for him. Strikes a hitched cord in his breathing that comes out as a heavy groan, some formless sentiment of encouragement.

Does let himself slacken then, vulnerable in this position where his only leverage is the lay of his heels, and the heavy weight of his attention roving across Marcus' face and the working line of his shoulder left tantalizing obscure by his shirt, and what he might say as Marcus fucks hot into him.

In that flush space that likes to imagine itself as clear headed but isn't, it's easy to melt over into less formless praise—'Fuck, that's it,' and 'Make me come for you,' and other absurdities in low panting murmurs between this hard strike of skin—and to twist his wrist in Marcus' grip, fingers chasing after the fabric of his sleeve.

Edited 2023-05-30 16:46 (UTC)

It's a tight turn for Flint's wrist, but possible to achieve despite the steady weight bearing down, the increasingly rigid curl of his fingers. Marcus is sparing a little thought to being quiet—not silent, no, and if one were stood right by that heavy door and listened carefully, it probably wouldn't be so difficult to discern the activities happening behind it—but less so for the potential for bruising under his hands. At least, it would take some doing to determine the identity of the culprit, if Flint were to wear his sleeves rolled tomorrow.

Not that Marcus wishes to harm him, not anymore that he wishes to compromise him, but there is a certain amount of undoing occurring, an unravelling, that has those small, rusty vocalisations chase after exhales, has the tendons in his fingers creak.

That pace lessens for a moment in favour of sliding in deeply, pressing in tight enough that it could almost count as embrace. Not still, little grinding motions revelling in that nearness that both frustrate and relieve. By now, there is maybe a hair or two out of place from its neatly brushed arrangement, a warm flush crept up past shirt collar, but some inner settling that has eyeline steer sharper than it was a moment ago up the length of Flint. Hands resitting somewhere higher on Flint's forearms.

A languid motion, a glance down to chase the sight of longer withdraw, firm thrust back in, resuming those littler motions. Tempting to just give Flint everything he wants, him having given up control so sweetly, and maybe it's the fact they both know Marcus will, inevitably, that compels him to linger here, where it's warm and tight and teasing, where the pressing in of heels will do nothing for either of them.

That resetting—it isn't so far, but it slips the edge of the shirt sleeve out of his reach. There is something aching and thrilling both in being denied the scrap of a handhold. If the clamp on his wrist had been less severe, he might have managed to scuff his fingers in against the flexed tendons running in under Marcus' wrist. Might have coaxed his grip fractionally lower with it. Had wanted, maybe, to sway Marcus into grasping after his hand. But the frustration of uselessness, able only to return his hand to pressing against the table top, burns low in his belly. Makes his cock ache, pleased to be rebuffed. It's what he'd originally asked for. To be slightly pushed rather than entirely indulged.

Though he digs with his heels regardless, making as if he might find some effective angle of the hip by which to eke out some additional friction or depth out of this slower, fuller pace (though there's little of either to be had). Grinds out a quiet complaint of protest that's only half genuine. There is some jittering thrill to have Marcus cinched so close and to be so full of him, and to still be made to be dissatisfied. It implies future relief.

Attention keen and bright, hungrily chasing the angles Marcus paints over him—(admiring that flush up his neck that shows in the daylight, and the darker tint of his scarred face, and the curve of his neck and angle of his brow as he bows his head to watch how they can be made to fit together)—, Flint's voice rasps thickly in that not quite narrowed space between them: "Stay." Stop start. "Just a moment. You feel good in me."

Satisfying, in some rich, low way—the bullying in of Flint's heels to no effect, that noise of half-complaint, capitulation in the turn of his hands, and the innate sense that the frustration being evoked is not being badly received. He holds there, and then cuts loose a dry-sounding breathed out laugh. It is both natural and expected that Flint might turn what Marcus doing into a request of his own.

But Marcus nods anyway, a breathed out agreeing sound, because he does feel good in him, doesn't he, the comfortable squeeze and ache of it a shared thing that for now overrides that biting desire for friction. Just for a little bit.

Eases that some with a small starting motion, stilling again.

"I'm going to make you come while I fuck you," he says, that hint of breathlessness mixed in with characteristic quiet gravel-tone. "I'm not going to stop when you do." Mirrored points of contact, his thumbs sweep an affectionate, gentle arc where they lay against the inner of Flint's arms. "It'll be tempting, though. The way you look when you do."

Another small, pressing thrust of contact. "Maybe next time."

He's already flush with it, some natural predisposition toward going red cloaked under freckled, sun-worn skin. But he can feel a further heat bloom in his neck and face here. Twitching with arousal for the appealing shape of these promises, yes (next time), but hardly registering this reflexive jerk of arousal over the intense flare of satisfaction that has cracked open, high and unanticipated, in his chest.

The circle of his legs tighten about Marcus, though it accomplishes effectively nothing except for warm press of skin. There, a slanting hook tugging at the corner of Flint's mouth behind the strictly tamed bristle of fresh trimmed red whisker. He shouldn't laugh, but nearly does, and the brief flashing smile that does bolt across his face is pleased. Not in the low, thoroughly fucked way, or in the arrogant bearing of teeth sense. Rather, it finds all the wrinkles in Flint's face and is warm as crinkled paper in that dust speckled daylight for the instant it fully lives there.

"Mm," a thick throaty hum, curled at the edges with approval and the lingering glint of that genuine and simple pleasure sparked off something Marcus has said or done. "I'll tolerate it."

The sight of that smile, the almost laugh behind it, could nearly be mistaken as that second thing, and there is a twinged moment where Marcus might. A reflexive near-closing off in defense of the idea of being laughed at, and he supposes that's possible, that this thing they are sharing could suddenly curdle into something else with the wrong thing spoken, the wrong button pushed, a moment spent too long and lingering. But it's only that, managing not to properly flinch before he registers it as something warmer.

Present and simmering in that sound Flint makes, the welcoming, tightening circle of Flint's legs around his waist, the clear pulse of arousal thick in the blood. The searching quality of his own forward focus gentles. Trust re-settling, so when Flint says that, Marcus' mouth hooks into something nearer a smile.

Prick, it suggests, affectionately.

They could really use another little splash of oil, but his hands stay stubborn where they are, and by the time he begins moving again, the excess of it eases the path, just with that hint of friction. Fucks Flint in slower, luxurious slides, almost all the way out before pushing back in, knowing better now the way that feels, for Flint had done that to him and he'd liked it. Slowly, easing his way back up to those shorter, faster, harder motions.

Well, not too slowly. It's easy to fall back into that rhythm, the driving pulse of his own arousal demanding it, the promise of getting himself off from that quick friction. He can hold back from buckling, but not from working closer to it, and Flint can feel each impact for its earnest want.

That warm, buckled tight sensation in his chest refuses to abate even as Marcus works himself slowly back up to pace. Even as Flint allows the line of his spine to settle out and the cant of his chin to ride up, the pitch of his breathing swelling thick around the pleasure that comes sizzles up through the skin in answer to the push of Marcus cock and that thing riding up behind the ribs to the very base of his throat. He is aware of it tugging at him, that heady drunken feeling. Can feel it warm in his face and threatening to spill out of him in some further flash of teeth.

Instead, it finds an outlet in a heavy satisfied pant and the pattern of soft hitching breaths that follows after. The groans that ache in the same fashion as a good bruise. If there are marks left behind on wrists and forearms after this, he will find a secret thrill in them for as long as the shadows linger and the twinge lives in the joint as he signs his name to reports, and to orders, and all the miscellaneous papers that cross his desk and demand it.

In the mean time, he watches Marcus in intervals, catching glances and indulging in brief flickers of examination out from under heavy eyelids and pale eyelashes. It would be difficult, says that warm knot in his throat, to be more endeared to him than he is in this moment of earnest, wanting friction.

"Marcus," is more catching murmur than it is a proper naming. "Give me your hand."

His breath comes in heavy panting sighs, out of step with Flint's own hitched inhales but mingling anyway, this open room filled with their unmatched heavy breathing. Empty of some of the more open throated groans they might indulge in in Lowtown letting rooms, but it doesn't feel like restraint, exactly, no sense of concealing something from one another.

Impossible to do that in the light of day, the occasionally hooking snare of eye contact, the slick, muted sound of the thing they are doing. If the angles were better, he would kiss Flint here, soak up those hitched, grating sounds, chase down the lingering evidence of a smile and crush it possessively. It might almost be worth them both coming and being done with it so he can.

It is half of why Marcus doesn't hesitate when Flint asks this of him. Grand schemes of begging frittering apart, something too soft embering in the other man's tone to be resisted. He lifts his hand off forearm and curls fingers around Flint's cock. Judges that the sheen of oil is now too spare to be of much use, and has no interest in fussing with the pitcher. Just breaks what he's doing long enough to lower his head, some, and spit down into that grasp.

Closes it into a fist, a few errant tugs before picking back up with fucking. That, he'll make good on, focus returning to this hard sprint of motion, hand formed into a tight thing that Flint can fuck into.

Not so negligent as all that. Marcus isn't closing his eyes, isn't solely consumed with his own pleasure, instead watching that tangle of appendages and then back up to Flint's face, sharply interested. "Come on," he murmurs. "Give it to me. I want it."

He should raise his liberated hand from the tabletop and go grasping after some part of Marcus in return. An elbow. A shoulder. He might, at the very least, fold his arm and tangle fingers in the dark shirt fabric bunched in around his own neck and about his shoulders. A small handhold for himself, and not so much of a betrayal to this thing they're doing even if someone were petty enough to keep track. Instead, forearm loosed, he is diligent even as that filthy shock of spit is worked in across the aching, sensitive shape of his cock. A flex of muscle keeps his hand pressed flat to where it had been pinned while Marcus fucks the rest of the resolve out of him. Does it really count as having been restrained if the recipient is so very grateful for it?

Though, for all that he has felt that thick sense of himself cinched close at the bottom of the belly for what feels like since they began this, it takes a few moments of tight fist, and of being so hungrily filled, that demanding friction, and Marcus' handsomely warm instruction pooling over him to

—Fuck, it feels good to be touched and studied and wanted; a heavy flutter and clench of the pulse that he can feel against the shape of Marcus' hand as much as in his own throat. When he tilts his chin restlessly back down, attention cutting to watch the shape of Marcus' hand and the catch of their bodies together, it's impossible to say what of the wet gleam smeared over his cock has been the drooling precursor to his own release and what is the rubbed out flecks of Marcus' eager spit.

groan out, that knot of fondness in his throat tangling with the hot throb of debauched arousal that becomes the first clutch of orgasm. That thrilled contraction of muscle and tightening blood felt sharply against the hard catch of Marcus fucking roughly past it. With a winded curse that is all its hard bitten consonants and the color high in his face, he spills in thick, unfolding pulses from out of that goading fist up across the twitching plane of his naked belly.

His hand, the one Marcus still has set against Flint's arm, tightens harshly. An outlet of something while his other works Flint over, slippery and clutching and dedicated to seeing him off. Tears his focus off Flint's face to openly admire the lash of that heavy fluid across his skin, of having brought it about and wrung it from him.

Soon, Flint's obediently set arm is once again pinned down with a little squeeze of sticky fingers—good, this gesture seems to say. And this time, his palm maps closer against Flint's when Marcus leans there as he continues to fuck into him, as unrelenting as promised while Flint twitches through the last of it. Satisfaction heightening where he'd already enjoyed having the man pinned down under hands and cock, however willingly, and now to have it while Flint is still red-faced and gasping and dirty, for as long as Marcus needs him to be.

Which. Is not dreadfully long. That there is any more time spent in this state is a fact of will alone. A low sounding groan is briefly strangled in his throat at that first throb of warning, something like concentration knotted in his brow.

If pressed, he might say it's that he wishes Flint to become sensible to the moment too, wanting to feel the last dig of bootheels behind him or the curl of fingers or some quiet order or flattery or even just a last connecting scrap of eyeline, as if he needed any other reward than what an orgasm might do for him.

He doesn't get the bite of boot heels. Instead, a reactive tightening in Flint's chest has his shoulders rolling forward and a tight clench passing low through his belly—the kind of overtaxed flinch about that relentless fucking and the sound of Marcus edging close that is as good as it is too much. Feels, for a moment, like that euphoric high tide mark of orgasm might come up and smother him in spite of the part of him that is already becoming ordered and sensate.

Which of those things—the one that just wants to be driven down into that sharply humming sensation by Marcus' weight, or the one clawing back out from under it—motivates the rough grasp of fingers at Marcus' wrist and the heel of his palm, a handhold so clumsily oriented that it might not actually qualify. It's clinging to something either way.

Arguably there's something of that in scattered track of his attention too as it passes from where their bodies are tangled closest, to his spent cock and the proof of it, the loose neck of Marcus' shirt and the flush color at the underside of the jaw above it. He can't look at him like this except when they're hungrily touching one another, and the desire to examine is so sharp that is might actually sober him if not for that raw jolt passing through him with each hard catch of Marcus pressing in close between his thighs.

This is too much thinking; he must be aware already when he meets Marcus' eye, even if he doesn't feel or look it.

Just as clumsily, the way Marcus shifts his hand a little further down towards that grasp. Probably almost stamps it back down flat without really meaning it, but Flint's fingers can still curl and he can settle their palms together and that feels good to do, and important somehow, even as the narrowness of his desire focuses down, sharpens.

The serrated edge of his breathing is now the most prominent noise in the office, the small noises it hooks out of him. It is not the most quiet he's been, having managed some gritted teeth discretion in the back halls of the palatial Cumberland venue, but some reflexive effort made here amongst crinkled paper and officious furniture. The hand at Flint's arm turns as he meets Flint's eye, something more like holding on than holding down, a slight buckle in posture as the sand begins to shift out from under him.

The sharp breath in would normally come with some rough sound, but it only barely escapes him, punched out and then chest tight as he pushes in deep and holds there. Stop, and start, and stop again as he orgasm rakes through, makes the muscles through his arms and shoulders lash taut to bone. Maybe Flint can feel the pulse and ache and twitch that transpires unseen between them. Marcus certainly can.

Gentles all over, hands weakening but not leaving. Mastering his breathing, a shift of his hips having him tug free of Flint before he can think about it but not distancing himself any further. Scrapes his focus back up to Flint's face. Doesn't physically pull at him, but want is stamped plainly there and he hardly needs to.

The empty ache of Marcus' cock slipping free, the easing of the crushed tight grip of fingers, and the regulating catch of ragged edged breathing—some inverse echo of satisfaction marks the relenting of these things like the pale empty spaces left on plaster walls in the wake of hangings having been stripped from them. A kind of hollowed out space that indicates another thing by the shape of its absence. Satisfaction dimming down from the boil of orgasm, appetite slaked.

By degrees, at the very least.

Somewhere in there, the glaze over Flint's attention has peeled mostly back and is now only represented by a well exercised sense of heaviness about him. A slackening in the lay of his legs about Marcus, if not an outright unraveling. And for a moment while he measures his own breathing and mentally marks that well used, slick sensation low between his legs and it's remnant across his own belly, he just returns that focus. Watching, keen, like there is something there he would like to memorize for later reference.

Patiently then, evidently of the opinion that Marcus' hands no longer are in the business of restraining him, he lifts his nominally free hand from the table. Forearm flexing under the loosened grip over it, hand lifting to mirror that touch near Marcus' own elbow. Finding a soft grip over his shirt sleeve, sluggish and easy both. A gentle thumb. Curled fingers and bumping knuckles.

As for his other hand, Flint makes no effort to reorient or extract it.

Just a second to breathe, and then he should go and fetch some water, once he navigates the trapping tangle he's made of legs and trousers. Let Flint up from his back and the table. Just another second of this and that's what he will do.

A second longer, still. Marcus hand resting on Flint's settles more specifically than before, thumb tracking the curve of his palm in absent mirror of the application of the same against his arm. On that side, his hand turns, catching up under Flint's elbow, the tight fold of shirt sleeve over muscle. Don't underestimate my appetite, Flint had said.

So Marcus doesn't, and pulls at that arm, a request that is also an offer, to help Flint ease up to sit.

For just a moment, he's slow to answer to that pull on account of it requiring—

With a low exhale, Flint lets his heels slide the rest of the way slack. That Marcus isn't fully freed by it is reliant on the merits of that absurd trap he's put himself into the middle of. And mostly, because supportive and pulling grip or no, he is heavy and has been lying here for some minutes. Hauling himself upright necessitates turning his other hand over out of Marcus' fingers and planting it in order to lever up from the table.

Marcus remains planted where he is, standing near flush to table edge with Flint's knees apart on either side. The hand Flint has to abandon turns and rests on his hip, the other falling from elbow once Flint is settled to smooth along his side.

And he's kissed, of course. Barely time for spine to settle into upright column before Marcus tips his head to catch his mouth against Flint's, some small, contented sound hummed there. It isn't lost on him that even when they shared a whole bed in the privacy of these quarters, even if they'd laid together in loose contact and slept that way, there'd been some amount of detaching, stabilising, the permeable space between them that atomises at first contact slowly reconstituting itself.

It isn't conscious, the aim to delay that a little longer with kisses and affirming touches, but sought out regardless. A delay, too, to having to contend with tangled clothing and the feeling of gathered slickness in and around his groin and the slight film of sweat now layered between his shirt cloth and back, which, right now, are more satisfying sensations than anything else.

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