The hand at Flint's throat doesn't remove itself, but does sort of open up, turn at the wrist, a gesture that's at a loss before it resettles.
But with a lack of a quick verbal reply, there's no choice but to consider it. Whether that in the asking Flint to caution him against some instinct in him, it's acted as a veil instead, obscuring but not hiding. Marcus' intent focus lowers, a furl of protest at his brow as he tries to match the things Flint is saying to the fretful tangle occurring beneath the surface.
(He should sit up. They should be dressed. He's not sure it helps his case to be like this, holding onto Flint like driftwood—)
"I know there are boundaries," finally, hand gentle where it lays. Not negligent or forgotten, either, palm shaped to the column of throat, fingertips set where hair textures scalp behind the ear. Not moving, just warm. "In theory, there are. It's a little like moving through darkness, finding them, or finding where they aren't. I asked what I asked because I don't want to give you cause to bring them in closer."
Back to Flint's eye, instead of where his gaze had wandered lower. "I'm trying to not be too reckless with you. It's all reckless enough as it is."
Dissatisfaction. It feels like an inverted way of naming it, that ache, but not wrong for it.
Hard to say in what direction the twinge of frustration that rises in him moves. Just that it is there, oily on the surface of everything else. Something to be accounted for as he submits to the hand curved close about his neck, its gentle pressure of fingers, and to Marcus' examination and the arrangement of his weight as it lays not really over but not really beside him either. As he weighs up his own reply, determined to be even handed.
This rationale Marcus has provided is neither particularly unfair or unhonest, however much it might rankle at a vulnerable piece of him prone to bristling. There is a difference between this and indictment, even if it feels very much like the latter. And much as he might bite back, sink his teeth in over it— then where would they be? Not on their way to fucking again tonight, at the very least.
So: checking himself. Fingers pressing like a reflex where his hands remain laid on Marcus' bare skin.
"My intention isn't to be difficult," he says in that same direct way. "But we are being careless." Reckless. Fucking behind the thin barrier of a bolted door and kissing slow and soft and unhurried here in this bed are, in some sense, on equal footing in that respect.
"I don't know that any close examination can practically be done without having the extent of that carelessness brought into the light alongside the rest of it."
Once, they shared a bed and pointed out each others scars and asked for the story that produced them. Since, there hasn't been complete reticence around the terrain underneath the skin, but there's a lot to be desired. The way Marcus looks at Flint now in that close space seems to search for it, would like to get fingernails beneath the seam of that direct and factual tone of voice and crack it open.
But the severity of it ebbs. The arm of the hand holding Flint's throat unfolds, some, a more generous splay of weight across Flint's chest.
"Alright," he says. Alright, forget examination. "Then let me," and another stop, before some internal shiver of hackles discards the notion of needing permission. "I'll keep coming back." His thumb swoops down the edge of Flint's jaw. "And looking for you across alehouses and stealing into your tent and oversleeping here in the morning. I'll wonder if a summons is to file a late report or because you want me to touch you and try for the latter as long as the door's locked."
All murmured rather seriously, but there is some fleck of amusement, or trying to evoke the same. "Until you tell me to stop in no uncertain terms, and even then, you might need to do it twice." His fingers press. "Agreed?"
The fact that they are negotiating this at all means he should tell him to do so. Stop him, and put their clothes back on, and send Marcus out with the understanding that the next time they see one another that there will be no more of this.
So yes, apparently. He is looking to please him to an effort to keep him here in this room, in this bed with his warm hand at the base of his throat. To ensure that Marcus is willing to come back and to do all of this blind feeling around in the dark regardless of sharp things he might knick his fingers against. It's an absurd half measure and, Flint thinks, outrageously selfish.
(This is, objectively, not the sort of talk that occurs between two people who sometimes fuck because they've an itch for scratching and a convenient body available with which to do so. To say nothing of the fact that these past weeks have had the marked affect of aggravating that impulse—forgetting the long stretches in which he has not had a body convenient to hand, and to be suddenly and constantly ravenous given the barest reminder that such tastes can be satisfied.
It's all I've thought of, he'd said, which is more true than not. He isn't so stupid as to not made note of these things.)
"So long as you tell me when you've finished with it," he says, even handed.
It's simple to the point of stupidity, these parameters: to say when and continue pouring until. But the tension that had clawed in when he'd first felt Flint's hand turn to stay him— doesn't leave, but changes. Relief, as if having only been half aware of some source of discomfort and then being rid of it. Freeing.
"Aye," Marcus says, and means it. It's only fair.
His hand turns, though he hardly needs to tip Flint's face towards him very far when he pulls himself up that short distance. It isn't a hard and fast kiss, nor tentative for the lack—pleasure found in the gentle approach of it.
If he senses there was some near miss, a potential for Flint deciding that they ought to end this now if it necessitates any level of negotiation, then it doesn't manifest in the lay of his hand or the press of his mouth. Something that's been crafted through rough-handling need not be considered as fragile as that.
He answers. Of course he does. This is the whole point, isn't it? To be relieved by how the pressure slackens when they stop talking and resume this play of hands and mouths. Slowly, first. And then, his fingers tightly faintly over where his hands have settled about Marcus, not really dredging him down but intimating the shape of holding him a little closer. Kissing him slightly harder. Not hurried, just—
Insistent, as if they're meant to be proving something.
This is what he wants. The warm shape of Marcus aligned near to him, and the sharp taste of his mouth, and the lingering scent of the tobacco he smokes ingrained in the taste of him and in his skin. What is so fucking difficult about that? (And, more, why is the prospect of letting it go so irritating? There are other people they both could be fucking.)
He kisses him a second time, marginally less demanding if not half so slack as he'd been before Marcus had slipped from the bed to begin with. So, very close, as if on the way to a third—
"Can we get on to the part where you use my mouth now, then?"
At that faint pressure, Marcus pushes in closer. Bare skin, needless warmth, lips parting in answer to a harder kiss. Proving something in return.
There are other people they could both be fucking. That Marcus scarcely had for a long stretch of time before biting down on the chance of it with Flint means—what, really? Nothing, in that if they were to end this, he could find someone if he truly wanted to, or simply return to that prior state. But he's not insensible to the fact that by now, having compromised something, he thinks it would hurt. A more complicated rending apart than just abandoning one convenient lay for another.
It had been happiness, that curl of warm feeling in resting comfortably beside, pencil scratchings and too-sweet rum coating his mouth. Naming it so feels like a threat to its existence, capable of winking out.
There's the tip of Marcus' head that implies he'd been prepared to begin a deeper kiss, but catches Flint's words. "Mm," he says, a brief spread of a smile, and kisses him anyway, just shallower, and letting his teeth catch against his bottom lip, a silent sort of yes please. "How do you want me?"
A question with an answer that comes considerably more easily than all these others, though it is obfuscated by Flint's hand first shifting up after Marcus' chin. Catching him, he holds him there for a moment—not actually a kiss, but so close to his mouth (with the appealing stinging sensation in his lower lip) to nearly qualify.
"Here," he tells him. This too is plain and straightforward. "I want you to kneel over me."
He wants to be bracketed in by Marcus' knees and calves; to be caught, or implied to be, between him and the headboard; to feel Marcus press down after him. That might satisfy.
His next breath out sounds like agreement, and a shiver to it, a fresh spark of arousal for a compelling suggestion, the way it's delivered so near to his mouth, the bracket of the hand at his chin. Pushes past the catch of it to nudge a final kiss against his mouth, and then withdrawing.
There'd been some several seconds in the past conversation when there'd almost been something like self-consciousness for the way they'd both managed to strip down first before engaging in mutual existential crisis, and navigate the possibility of something breaking. Even during their first tangle, essentially strangers in the ways that mattered, he hadn't felt overly conscious like that for shedding his clothing. A reflexive modesty only for close quarters.
All this to say: it hasn't completely dispersed, that unbidden sense of exposure, but it doesn't clutch at him anxiously or have him pause. It is, instead, a pleasing tingle of discomfort in the moment when Marcus goes to kneel up, hand smoothing across Flint's chest before resting some weight against his shoulder, moving to straddle. Grips himself while they both adjust, encouraging that slow rethickening of blood and flesh.
Well. Maybe not so slow, now that he's here, looking down at Flint. A minor, vain instinct to discern whether what he sees is enjoyable in return.
Later, when the room has gone fully dark, that dissatisfaction will again come creeping up through the awareness Flint has for his own body among the bed linens. He will think for a long time, turning the pieces of this over in the mind in a way he has disallowed himself to do. Not intentional, exactly, in his obsessive review; merely compulsory, he will be unable to keep himself from it.
But for the moment, the impulse can be dressed in other colors. If there is a sense of lingering vulnerability in the flesh, it can be assigned to Marcus' weight at his shoulder and being cast in the shadow of his body as he shifts in over him; if there is something restless and buzzing in him, it can be the pleasant kind of anxious anticipation that comes from putting himself in a position where he will be relatively obligated to rely on the good will of his partner. The sense of some easing tension can be for so readily getting what he'd asked for.
Even so, having shifted faintly higher up into the rearranged pillows from between Marcus' knees by those half degrees necessary to free up some partial range of motion in his shoulders, this might make for slightly claustrophobic quarters were some part of him not in some way still keen to justify himself. This is perfectly permissible. Preferable, even, to how he might have had to arrange himself otherwise to accomplish this. It's very easy this way to swing his attention between Marcus' face down to the work of his hand, and there is something intent in the press of Flint's fingers high on the outside of Marcus' thighs for it.
He would say if it were too much.
Instead, with a low rumbling note of something like approval, he mostly allows himself a few moments to watch the shape of Marcus' hand and the rousing of his cock in it. To test flicking his attention upward, scraping over the line of his Marcus' body to look him in the face. When he does finally shift, it's to slide a hand from thigh to hip, and then moving to replace Marcus' hand with his own.
Marcus' focus shifts from Flint's face to his hands, an eager flick of transition. Abruptly desiring to watch that, maybe just as much as it will be appealing to note the stretch of warm mouth around him. Maybe more, given his latest obsession for watching Flint handle things, much less himself. His own hand shifts back as Flint's fingers move in under his, setting somewhere high on his thigh, something like a mirror to his Flint had held himself for him, on the table.
Easier not to worry as much, with blood redirected to cock, thought redirected to the slow winding up of tension, but admittedly—
He will probably not analyse very much tonight at all. He may even feel satisfied for something uneven having been smoothed out, content in the knowledge that something has been said out loud and can't be taken back. Here, kneeling over Flint, there is no flicker of concern that some advantage is being taken as that contented rumble out of the other man shivers through him, and that they can safely continue this slow trade of want and give and take. Flint will say if something is too much. When he is too much.
That Marcus allows Flint to set a pace is a matter of courtesy in the moment, and the absence of urgency he feels for having already gotten off not so long ago. Nice to kneel here and be touched, his hand wandering over Flint's arm and shoulder, letting his breath thicken in his lungs and fall heavier from him.
The pace in question being set is not so much slow as it is almost casually exploratory—taking advantage of the navigation room afforded by the lack starving edge to their appetite, transmuting the whir of consideration humming in the back of his head to testing the ways of touching and stroking Marcus instead. There is little reason not to linger here for a few moments, hand playing at the length of Marcus' cock and his attention sliding from the thickening shape of it up to the other man's face. A series of stolen glances that moves between the two, somehow slightly sensing illicit regardless of the direction they move in.
So: a calloused thumb works softly at the underside of Marcus' cockhead, unaided by spit or oil and rendered light in deference to that fact. And the gentle circling of fingers, quietly teasing at restriction. Some soft, insistent squeeze and stroke that somehow mirrors the trajectory of Marcus' hand at his bicep and shoulder.
When Flint does make to use his mouth, the hand lingering at Marcus' thigh presses in mute encouragement to draw him nearer to the effect that he might taste there at the base of him. Breath in the smell of his body and press a wet, hot kiss to the sensitive skin of his balls where the bristle of beard might be most effective while Flint's hand continues to work the rest of him close across the line of his cheek.
This is all easily done; readily given, selfishly taken.
His expression in these little stolen glances is mild, eyes cast down to watching Flint's hand work him over, the occasional twinge of tension that corresponds imperfectly with the feel of a thickened pulse under the skin, a small flex of tension up the thigh where he sways just a little into that teasing rub of thumb up under him, a squeeze against palm.
Moves in closer once silently asked for, and the feeling of Flint's mouth, that open kiss between his legs and the rough friction of beard are enough of a dial twist to evoke a sound out of him, a breathy grunt of pleasure. His hand grows harder at Flint's shoulder. The sound of his other palm gently meeting the edge of the headboard, steadying.
Unable to help the slight nudge forward of his hips, sliding cock through hand and against cheek, all still a little dry and tentative and necessarily gentle but the friction does something for him too. A contrast to the slicker spread of tongue, velvety warm breath. He still smells of sex and sweat, they both do, but it's hard to be self-conscious for this fact after being ushered in so insistently.
The hand at Flint's shoulder roves to the back of his neck, his head, the gentle presence of blunt nails, biting and approving.
It's reassuring. That low noise and the soft creak of the bed under the weight of Marcus' hand finding purchase on it; the dig of fingernails and the prickle of sensation and the flush they inspire; the appeal of that minor friction between fingers and across his face. Despite the implied vulnerability of this place between Marcus' knees, it all feels very like being in control. This is all at his discretion. Soon, when Marcus is fucking his mouth, it will be because he let him do it.
In the way his hand made its examination of him, so too does Flint's mouth. Kissing and licking there at the base of him with only a glance in the direction of a real rythmn, letting the gentle scrape of his whiskers be put to work. When he does turn his head, tongue sliding unhurried up the underside of Marcus' length to tease these gently sucking kisses at the sensitive place his thumb had previously circled, it's in part to slick him sufficiently so that the next time he invites that slide of cock across his cheek it will go more easily. Leave a faintly damp stripe across his face made for glinting in yellow candlelight.
This lazy combination of hand and cheek and tongue, fleeting glances that steal up to watch Marcus from beneath the shape of his cock, continues for a wandering, patient interval. Until it becomes clear—moving to taste there at the pleasantly bitter tip of him only to revert back to kissing elsewhere—that if Marcus wants past his lips, he's going to be required to ask for it.
There's a part of him more than willing to linger here, soaking up the attention of warm mouth, precise hands, catching the occasional snare of eye contact. That knife-edge of teasing, the roving of Flint's mouth without an obvious pattern he can anticipate. He can rely on this, the slide of his cock against the other man's cheek, but that isn't the same as hot-wet-pressure that, slowly, he feels himself starting to need.
Above Flint's head, Marcus grips the headboard that little bit tighter at that fleeting taste of it, warm mouth against the end of his cock where he's started leaking, and there's the (potentially) satisfying sign of muscles tensing up his thighs and abdomen, anticipating. And then that touch roves away, and the short breath out of Marcus has an edge of frustration bitten back.
He rolls his head back on his neck, soaking up those differently directed kisses and licks, the luxurious tease of it. The hand he has cupped at the back of Flint's head had slackened some, neglected, but comes back alive as he looks back down, moving around to palm across jaw and cheek, the silvery evidence of saliva there a match for the shine of it on his own swollen skin, small patches nested around the base of himself.
"Flint," has an asking tone, a match for the small, needing shifts of his hips he's started making.
It draws the eye up, that sound. From under the shape of Marcus' hand moving to touch him, mouth warm and tongue wet alongside those narrow flexing movements, Flint catches his eye. Lifts his chin by an absent degree, a thin limn of pride glinting there with the trace shine of spit. Not nuzzling into the palm of Marcus' hand, but certainly encouraged by it.
It would be easy to play coy and see that asking thing turned into a real question. To hum some soft question of a sound against sensitive skin like blowing in the ember of Marcus' frustration to make it glow. But he doesn't actually want to. He wants Marcus moving between his lips and over his tongue, and that hand gripping at the back of his neck. He wants him to know that he wants him; that he is inviting it rather than indulging him. That Marcus isn't wrong—this does stir something low and tight in him.
So instead, attention trained high on Marcus' face, he parts his lips. Rubs the shape of that cockhead briefly across the eager flat of his tongue and murmurs a low note of encouragement that's echoed in the coaxing press of fingers at Marcus' thigh.
Satisfying, in this moment, to be so invited. His eyes hood under the feeling of flat tongue working against the same spot that had evoked that little spark of frustration, the mild reverberation of sound from Flint's throat and the press of fingers. His hand slides backwards just enough for fingers to curl up beneath Flint's ear, before Marcus pushes his cock past parted lips.
The heavy pant out of him is nearly loud in the quiet room, as is the creak of mattress and bed in response to slightly redistributed weight, a knee nudged higher. Immediately swept up in the impulse to list more heavily forwards, to lean against the headboard and fuck down Flint's throat, but reflexive restraint locks in. Just carefully pushes in enough to fill the other man's mouth, and holds there with the plain desire to be sucked.
It could be differently humiliating to be as plainly eager as he is, but the tenor of dialogue never quite skewed it that way. No, it's simply good to be wanted and to show up for that want, where his eagerness is not managed but counted on.
When he draws back, it's only shallowly, only for the purpose of seeing how Flint treats that freedom, attention dipping back down. Thumb skirting along the line of his cheek, freshly shaved.
He's good about it—exceedingly ready for that first slow invasion past his teeth. Offering up a press of tongue and a faint dig of thumb at the muscle of Marcus' thigh, that guiding hand settling unobtrusively at the spit slicked base of his cock. Would, even, be prepared to swallow thickly about the shape of him if not for—
The noise Flint makes for that shallow withdrawal is low and murmuring, a rumble deep at the base of his throat. Not protest, really, but adjacent to it. Warm and desirous, the precursor to a searching tongue and the faint shifting of shoulders and chin. His face in the cup of Marcus' hand and under his thumb shifting to chase after his cock by a half degree.
For the weight of him is good against the tongue, and so too that sensation of weight and the fingers wrapping toward the back of his neck. But most of all, being observed like this prickles hot at the senses. It's tempting to do nothing but raise his eyes to study Marcus above him. To observe the line of his arm extending toward the headboard to grip at its edge outside the scope of his vision, and to study the lay of his expression, and to do whatever he might in order to encourage another one of those heavy catches of breath.
Instead, he allows his attention to lower to the lay of his own hand slanted there across Marcus' abdomen. To let his eyes slide closed and surrender a dense groan of his own about him.
That noise out of Flint corkscrews something hot through Marcus—both of them, that initial rumble of near-complaint and then deeper still, that low sound that wraps around him as warmly as tongue and lips. Observes this, the shape he makes of Flint's mouth and cheek, the lay of pale eyelashes as eyes close, the gathering of saliva at the corner of his mouth. His thumb strokes down to that edge, a tactile sense of his observation.
Then, his hand shifting back to wrap a little firmer at the back of Flint's neck. Near subconscious responses to cues of surrender and permission compelling Marcus towards a little more handling as he sinks his cock in back where it was before. Draws it out, and then in again, rolling shallow motions that is almost a tease in itself. For both of them.
Flexes his fingers, a reassuring squeeze, before Marcus sinks in deeper. Slowly, still, carefully, attuned to any twinge that asks him to stop or move backwards—but there is a functional empathy that feels necessary to this arrangement, making that note of hunger in Flint's tone a familiar and understandable thing. With a longer, serrated-edged groan out of him, Marcus seeks to slide in about as deeply as is practical, hand steady against Flint, the other becoming more white-knuckled around wooden edge above.
Fuck, it's a good sound. Runs hot all the way through him, liquid and coiling low in the belly. Clutching at his cock with a grip that feels like the steady hand lain there at the back of his neck. That it accompanies that deeper, fuller press serves to make the head ring. Makes something in him jump and squeeze, swallowing compulsively.
Teasing preparations and desire or no, he lasts only briefly at that depth before the hand on Marcus's abdomen insists that he relent. The wet sound of cock sliding free is loud in his ear, slick with the thick saliva of the would be gag. To balance it, his hand moves automatically to spread the mess down Marcus' length. To stroke him there—once, twice—until his breath has become less slanted, and he's ready to try again.
It comes more easily the second time. Most things do.
His answering arousal for that moment, the fluttering sensation of throat swallowing close round him, feels like a rush, a tingling of nerve endings of the backs of his legs, pooling in his chest. A twinned hot-white stream of feeling that slithers in one part to the base of his cock, and the other to his ego, despite all this talk of selfishness. It's simply pleasing.
Marcus lets in a sharp breath as Flint's hand works him over so suddenly slippery and hot, and feels and sees the cue that they might do that again. Breathing shallowed out, Marcus obliges, the sound out of him likewise coming easier, looser, the spread of his hand up the back of Flint's neck briefly grasping as they close in that tight space between them.
"Fuck," whispered at the edge of it. Withdraws again, shuddering through that feel of relented pressure, as potent as the squeeze of it. "Should've reckoned I'd start on your mouth and not want to leave it," less whispered, brogue characteristically thicker for the effort of articulation, and not immediately letting Flint respond with a shallow slide back in, before relenting, hand gentling, stroking. "It's so good."
There's something to be said about how the demanding dimensions of this strip back any thought that isn't directly informed by the pattern of depth and withdrawal. The faint strain of muscle across his chest for the grasping lay of his own hands is an answer to the jostled nearness of the bracket of the other man's knees, and that driven by Marcus' hip, and the whole of the arrangement motivated by what he wants from Flint's mouth in a way that's both flattering and thrillingly taxing. The immediacy of it serves to crowd back any other line of thinking. Makes it easy, when Marcus draws free of him, to laugh—a low, breathless and self-satisfied sound as his hand takes over the work his mouth has only very temporarily been relieved from.
Next time, he wants to say under the gentle rasp of Marcus' palm and the soft stroke of his thumb. There's a heavy, fucked out look about him as he raises his eyes back up to Marcus' face. Next time, they can make a game of this. Make similar demands on one another until they're both a little used and tender. But the list of ways he wants him next is getting crowded and too long to parse, so what he says instead is—
"But I want you," which is achingly true, even if it's characteristically at odds with the tease of his tongue finding Marcus' slit or the encouraging shift of his spare hand at his thigh. Just give him a little more of this first.
Flint is answered with a hummed out sound from Marcus, hand roaming down along the line of the other man's jaw. Thumb smoothing up through where excess saliva has wetted his chin, teases at his bottom lip, then catches against that row of teeth. Gentle but firm, prising Flint's mouth back open—needlessly, with Flint so ready to take him back in, but he does it anyway, thumb slipping back over lip as he replaces it with a smooth sliding forwards of his cock.
Once more then, at least, Marcus teasing at it before telegraphing intent with a subtle listing forwards. His hand leaves off from Flint, coming to join the other at the headboard just for the feel of it, of resting his weight yoked across his shoulders as he slides his cock in deep, as he fucks Flint's face by those fractional degrees. It would be very good to come down his throat, and for all of the way his breath has that shivered edge to it, it would take a little bit more doing.
Which would be good too, if not for how But I want you has seared through him so sweetly. This is indulgence only, and he is slow to withdraw, glancing down in hopes of seeing more of that loose expression of Flint's face, a hand dipping back down to guiding them both to disengage.
That untethered fucking, unchecked by any point of contact laid nearer to where Marcus slides heavily into him, burns hot and bright across the senses. Pressing, and immediate, and strangling in the way the feels like gratification rather than punishment. It blurs the sharp point of his awareness, and demands the reflexive swallowing jerks of muscle and sinew that he wouldn't want to control.
Yes, there is something laid open in the lines of his expression as Marcus withdraws. And his throat clenches hot after the shape of him, the clutching sound he makes after at least partially involuntary—choking and wet, clinging and so subsequently missing the invasive press once it's relented.
Sometime—not tonight—he would like to be fucked like this. To have that hand at the back of his neck holding him close, and to be partially smothered against the crook of Marcus' hip. To feel the thick pulse orgasm so intimately that it's a sensation and not a taste.
Tonight, though: he groans as Marcus slips beyond his lips, thick saliva bridging briefly between them and then breaking to spill across his chin. He remembers, all at once, that he was two hands with which to run his palms high across Marcus' thighs. Grasps after his ass. Rumbles some low pant of approval.
Those hands on him feel good, solid. Like he'd pushed Flint beneath the surface and this is a sign he hadn't done so too far. Praise, too, if he wishes to read it like that, while Marcus wills the slightly frantic physical impulses in him, the ones that wish to seek back out that hot-tight-wet sensation, to abate. Keen edge of arousal dulling but not leaving, given a moment to breathe. Hands coming back down off the headboard, gathering around Flint's jaw, a somewhat strange but pleasant configuration of an embrace.
Moves, backing down Flint's body, kneeling steps and steadying hands. Pursuing the single-minded aim to kiss him while he's still a little breathless, keen for contact that is messy and wanting, to feel the texture of those rumbled, panting sounds. And, he also has it in mind to roll Flint onto his stomach and have him while pushed right down, and so kissing, Flint touching him, will be suspended for a time.
Not now, though. Marcus kisses him deeply in that way that is not unselfconscious for following the path his cock had just taken but deliberate for it, a hand settled between neck and shoulder. Straddling him, deliberate in the way he lays their hips together, using his own spit-slicked cock to gauge how hard Flint is by now with a press of contact.
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no subject
But with a lack of a quick verbal reply, there's no choice but to consider it. Whether that in the asking Flint to caution him against some instinct in him, it's acted as a veil instead, obscuring but not hiding. Marcus' intent focus lowers, a furl of protest at his brow as he tries to match the things Flint is saying to the fretful tangle occurring beneath the surface.
(He should sit up. They should be dressed. He's not sure it helps his case to be like this, holding onto Flint like driftwood—)
"I know there are boundaries," finally, hand gentle where it lays. Not negligent or forgotten, either, palm shaped to the column of throat, fingertips set where hair textures scalp behind the ear. Not moving, just warm. "In theory, there are. It's a little like moving through darkness, finding them, or finding where they aren't. I asked what I asked because I don't want to give you cause to bring them in closer."
Back to Flint's eye, instead of where his gaze had wandered lower. "I'm trying to not be too reckless with you. It's all reckless enough as it is."
Dissatisfaction. It feels like an inverted way of naming it, that ache, but not wrong for it.
no subject
This rationale Marcus has provided is neither particularly unfair or unhonest, however much it might rankle at a vulnerable piece of him prone to bristling. There is a difference between this and indictment, even if it feels very much like the latter. And much as he might bite back, sink his teeth in over it— then where would they be? Not on their way to fucking again tonight, at the very least.
So: checking himself. Fingers pressing like a reflex where his hands remain laid on Marcus' bare skin.
"My intention isn't to be difficult," he says in that same direct way. "But we are being careless." Reckless. Fucking behind the thin barrier of a bolted door and kissing slow and soft and unhurried here in this bed are, in some sense, on equal footing in that respect.
"I don't know that any close examination can practically be done without having the extent of that carelessness brought into the light alongside the rest of it."
no subject
But the severity of it ebbs. The arm of the hand holding Flint's throat unfolds, some, a more generous splay of weight across Flint's chest.
"Alright," he says. Alright, forget examination. "Then let me," and another stop, before some internal shiver of hackles discards the notion of needing permission. "I'll keep coming back." His thumb swoops down the edge of Flint's jaw. "And looking for you across alehouses and stealing into your tent and oversleeping here in the morning. I'll wonder if a summons is to file a late report or because you want me to touch you and try for the latter as long as the door's locked."
All murmured rather seriously, but there is some fleck of amusement, or trying to evoke the same. "Until you tell me to stop in no uncertain terms, and even then, you might need to do it twice." His fingers press. "Agreed?"
no subject
So yes, apparently. He is looking to please him to an effort to keep him here in this room, in this bed with his warm hand at the base of his throat. To ensure that Marcus is willing to come back and to do all of this blind feeling around in the dark regardless of sharp things he might knick his fingers against. It's an absurd half measure and, Flint thinks, outrageously selfish.
(This is, objectively, not the sort of talk that occurs between two people who sometimes fuck because they've an itch for scratching and a convenient body available with which to do so. To say nothing of the fact that these past weeks have had the marked affect of aggravating that impulse—forgetting the long stretches in which he has not had a body convenient to hand, and to be suddenly and constantly ravenous given the barest reminder that such tastes can be satisfied.
It's all I've thought of, he'd said, which is more true than not. He isn't so stupid as to not made note of these things.)
"So long as you tell me when you've finished with it," he says, even handed.
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"Aye," Marcus says, and means it. It's only fair.
His hand turns, though he hardly needs to tip Flint's face towards him very far when he pulls himself up that short distance. It isn't a hard and fast kiss, nor tentative for the lack—pleasure found in the gentle approach of it.
If he senses there was some near miss, a potential for Flint deciding that they ought to end this now if it necessitates any level of negotiation, then it doesn't manifest in the lay of his hand or the press of his mouth. Something that's been crafted through rough-handling need not be considered as fragile as that.
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Insistent, as if they're meant to be proving something.
This is what he wants. The warm shape of Marcus aligned near to him, and the sharp taste of his mouth, and the lingering scent of the tobacco he smokes ingrained in the taste of him and in his skin. What is so fucking difficult about that? (And, more, why is the prospect of letting it go so irritating? There are other people they both could be fucking.)
He kisses him a second time, marginally less demanding if not half so slack as he'd been before Marcus had slipped from the bed to begin with. So, very close, as if on the way to a third—
"Can we get on to the part where you use my mouth now, then?"
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There are other people they could both be fucking. That Marcus scarcely had for a long stretch of time before biting down on the chance of it with Flint means—what, really? Nothing, in that if they were to end this, he could find someone if he truly wanted to, or simply return to that prior state. But he's not insensible to the fact that by now, having compromised something, he thinks it would hurt. A more complicated rending apart than just abandoning one convenient lay for another.
It had been happiness, that curl of warm feeling in resting comfortably beside, pencil scratchings and too-sweet rum coating his mouth. Naming it so feels like a threat to its existence, capable of winking out.
There's the tip of Marcus' head that implies he'd been prepared to begin a deeper kiss, but catches Flint's words. "Mm," he says, a brief spread of a smile, and kisses him anyway, just shallower, and letting his teeth catch against his bottom lip, a silent sort of yes please. "How do you want me?"
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"Here," he tells him. This too is plain and straightforward. "I want you to kneel over me."
He wants to be bracketed in by Marcus' knees and calves; to be caught, or implied to be, between him and the headboard; to feel Marcus press down after him. That might satisfy.
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There'd been some several seconds in the past conversation when there'd almost been something like self-consciousness for the way they'd both managed to strip down first before engaging in mutual existential crisis, and navigate the possibility of something breaking. Even during their first tangle, essentially strangers in the ways that mattered, he hadn't felt overly conscious like that for shedding his clothing. A reflexive modesty only for close quarters.
All this to say: it hasn't completely dispersed, that unbidden sense of exposure, but it doesn't clutch at him anxiously or have him pause. It is, instead, a pleasing tingle of discomfort in the moment when Marcus goes to kneel up, hand smoothing across Flint's chest before resting some weight against his shoulder, moving to straddle. Grips himself while they both adjust, encouraging that slow rethickening of blood and flesh.
Well. Maybe not so slow, now that he's here, looking down at Flint. A minor, vain instinct to discern whether what he sees is enjoyable in return.
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But for the moment, the impulse can be dressed in other colors. If there is a sense of lingering vulnerability in the flesh, it can be assigned to Marcus' weight at his shoulder and being cast in the shadow of his body as he shifts in over him; if there is something restless and buzzing in him, it can be the pleasant kind of anxious anticipation that comes from putting himself in a position where he will be relatively obligated to rely on the good will of his partner. The sense of some easing tension can be for so readily getting what he'd asked for.
Even so, having shifted faintly higher up into the rearranged pillows from between Marcus' knees by those half degrees necessary to free up some partial range of motion in his shoulders, this might make for slightly claustrophobic quarters were some part of him not in some way still keen to justify himself. This is perfectly permissible. Preferable, even, to how he might have had to arrange himself otherwise to accomplish this. It's very easy this way to swing his attention between Marcus' face down to the work of his hand, and there is something intent in the press of Flint's fingers high on the outside of Marcus' thighs for it.
He would say if it were too much.
Instead, with a low rumbling note of something like approval, he mostly allows himself a few moments to watch the shape of Marcus' hand and the rousing of his cock in it. To test flicking his attention upward, scraping over the line of his Marcus' body to look him in the face. When he does finally shift, it's to slide a hand from thigh to hip, and then moving to replace Marcus' hand with his own.
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Easier not to worry as much, with blood redirected to cock, thought redirected to the slow winding up of tension, but admittedly—
He will probably not analyse very much tonight at all. He may even feel satisfied for something uneven having been smoothed out, content in the knowledge that something has been said out loud and can't be taken back. Here, kneeling over Flint, there is no flicker of concern that some advantage is being taken as that contented rumble out of the other man shivers through him, and that they can safely continue this slow trade of want and give and take. Flint will say if something is too much. When he is too much.
That Marcus allows Flint to set a pace is a matter of courtesy in the moment, and the absence of urgency he feels for having already gotten off not so long ago. Nice to kneel here and be touched, his hand wandering over Flint's arm and shoulder, letting his breath thicken in his lungs and fall heavier from him.
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So: a calloused thumb works softly at the underside of Marcus' cockhead, unaided by spit or oil and rendered light in deference to that fact. And the gentle circling of fingers, quietly teasing at restriction. Some soft, insistent squeeze and stroke that somehow mirrors the trajectory of Marcus' hand at his bicep and shoulder.
When Flint does make to use his mouth, the hand lingering at Marcus' thigh presses in mute encouragement to draw him nearer to the effect that he might taste there at the base of him. Breath in the smell of his body and press a wet, hot kiss to the sensitive skin of his balls where the bristle of beard might be most effective while Flint's hand continues to work the rest of him close across the line of his cheek.
This is all easily done; readily given, selfishly taken.
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Moves in closer once silently asked for, and the feeling of Flint's mouth, that open kiss between his legs and the rough friction of beard are enough of a dial twist to evoke a sound out of him, a breathy grunt of pleasure. His hand grows harder at Flint's shoulder. The sound of his other palm gently meeting the edge of the headboard, steadying.
Unable to help the slight nudge forward of his hips, sliding cock through hand and against cheek, all still a little dry and tentative and necessarily gentle but the friction does something for him too. A contrast to the slicker spread of tongue, velvety warm breath. He still smells of sex and sweat, they both do, but it's hard to be self-conscious for this fact after being ushered in so insistently.
The hand at Flint's shoulder roves to the back of his neck, his head, the gentle presence of blunt nails, biting and approving.
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In the way his hand made its examination of him, so too does Flint's mouth. Kissing and licking there at the base of him with only a glance in the direction of a real rythmn, letting the gentle scrape of his whiskers be put to work. When he does turn his head, tongue sliding unhurried up the underside of Marcus' length to tease these gently sucking kisses at the sensitive place his thumb had previously circled, it's in part to slick him sufficiently so that the next time he invites that slide of cock across his cheek it will go more easily. Leave a faintly damp stripe across his face made for glinting in yellow candlelight.
This lazy combination of hand and cheek and tongue, fleeting glances that steal up to watch Marcus from beneath the shape of his cock, continues for a wandering, patient interval. Until it becomes clear—moving to taste there at the pleasantly bitter tip of him only to revert back to kissing elsewhere—that if Marcus wants past his lips, he's going to be required to ask for it.
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Above Flint's head, Marcus grips the headboard that little bit tighter at that fleeting taste of it, warm mouth against the end of his cock where he's started leaking, and there's the (potentially) satisfying sign of muscles tensing up his thighs and abdomen, anticipating. And then that touch roves away, and the short breath out of Marcus has an edge of frustration bitten back.
He rolls his head back on his neck, soaking up those differently directed kisses and licks, the luxurious tease of it. The hand he has cupped at the back of Flint's head had slackened some, neglected, but comes back alive as he looks back down, moving around to palm across jaw and cheek, the silvery evidence of saliva there a match for the shine of it on his own swollen skin, small patches nested around the base of himself.
"Flint," has an asking tone, a match for the small, needing shifts of his hips he's started making.
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It would be easy to play coy and see that asking thing turned into a real question. To hum some soft question of a sound against sensitive skin like blowing in the ember of Marcus' frustration to make it glow. But he doesn't actually want to. He wants Marcus moving between his lips and over his tongue, and that hand gripping at the back of his neck. He wants him to know that he wants him; that he is inviting it rather than indulging him. That Marcus isn't wrong—this does stir something low and tight in him.
So instead, attention trained high on Marcus' face, he parts his lips. Rubs the shape of that cockhead briefly across the eager flat of his tongue and murmurs a low note of encouragement that's echoed in the coaxing press of fingers at Marcus' thigh.
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The heavy pant out of him is nearly loud in the quiet room, as is the creak of mattress and bed in response to slightly redistributed weight, a knee nudged higher. Immediately swept up in the impulse to list more heavily forwards, to lean against the headboard and fuck down Flint's throat, but reflexive restraint locks in. Just carefully pushes in enough to fill the other man's mouth, and holds there with the plain desire to be sucked.
It could be differently humiliating to be as plainly eager as he is, but the tenor of dialogue never quite skewed it that way. No, it's simply good to be wanted and to show up for that want, where his eagerness is not managed but counted on.
When he draws back, it's only shallowly, only for the purpose of seeing how Flint treats that freedom, attention dipping back down. Thumb skirting along the line of his cheek, freshly shaved.
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The noise Flint makes for that shallow withdrawal is low and murmuring, a rumble deep at the base of his throat. Not protest, really, but adjacent to it. Warm and desirous, the precursor to a searching tongue and the faint shifting of shoulders and chin. His face in the cup of Marcus' hand and under his thumb shifting to chase after his cock by a half degree.
For the weight of him is good against the tongue, and so too that sensation of weight and the fingers wrapping toward the back of his neck. But most of all, being observed like this prickles hot at the senses. It's tempting to do nothing but raise his eyes to study Marcus above him. To observe the line of his arm extending toward the headboard to grip at its edge outside the scope of his vision, and to study the lay of his expression, and to do whatever he might in order to encourage another one of those heavy catches of breath.
Instead, he allows his attention to lower to the lay of his own hand slanted there across Marcus' abdomen. To let his eyes slide closed and surrender a dense groan of his own about him.
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Then, his hand shifting back to wrap a little firmer at the back of Flint's neck. Near subconscious responses to cues of surrender and permission compelling Marcus towards a little more handling as he sinks his cock in back where it was before. Draws it out, and then in again, rolling shallow motions that is almost a tease in itself. For both of them.
Flexes his fingers, a reassuring squeeze, before Marcus sinks in deeper. Slowly, still, carefully, attuned to any twinge that asks him to stop or move backwards—but there is a functional empathy that feels necessary to this arrangement, making that note of hunger in Flint's tone a familiar and understandable thing. With a longer, serrated-edged groan out of him, Marcus seeks to slide in about as deeply as is practical, hand steady against Flint, the other becoming more white-knuckled around wooden edge above.
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Teasing preparations and desire or no, he lasts only briefly at that depth before the hand on Marcus's abdomen insists that he relent. The wet sound of cock sliding free is loud in his ear, slick with the thick saliva of the would be gag. To balance it, his hand moves automatically to spread the mess down Marcus' length. To stroke him there—once, twice—until his breath has become less slanted, and he's ready to try again.
It comes more easily the second time. Most things do.
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Marcus lets in a sharp breath as Flint's hand works him over so suddenly slippery and hot, and feels and sees the cue that they might do that again. Breathing shallowed out, Marcus obliges, the sound out of him likewise coming easier, looser, the spread of his hand up the back of Flint's neck briefly grasping as they close in that tight space between them.
"Fuck," whispered at the edge of it. Withdraws again, shuddering through that feel of relented pressure, as potent as the squeeze of it. "Should've reckoned I'd start on your mouth and not want to leave it," less whispered, brogue characteristically thicker for the effort of articulation, and not immediately letting Flint respond with a shallow slide back in, before relenting, hand gentling, stroking. "It's so good."
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Next time, he wants to say under the gentle rasp of Marcus' palm and the soft stroke of his thumb. There's a heavy, fucked out look about him as he raises his eyes back up to Marcus' face. Next time, they can make a game of this. Make similar demands on one another until they're both a little used and tender. But the list of ways he wants him next is getting crowded and too long to parse, so what he says instead is—
"But I want you," which is achingly true, even if it's characteristically at odds with the tease of his tongue finding Marcus' slit or the encouraging shift of his spare hand at his thigh. Just give him a little more of this first.
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Once more then, at least, Marcus teasing at it before telegraphing intent with a subtle listing forwards. His hand leaves off from Flint, coming to join the other at the headboard just for the feel of it, of resting his weight yoked across his shoulders as he slides his cock in deep, as he fucks Flint's face by those fractional degrees. It would be very good to come down his throat, and for all of the way his breath has that shivered edge to it, it would take a little bit more doing.
Which would be good too, if not for how But I want you has seared through him so sweetly. This is indulgence only, and he is slow to withdraw, glancing down in hopes of seeing more of that loose expression of Flint's face, a hand dipping back down to guiding them both to disengage.
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Yes, there is something laid open in the lines of his expression as Marcus withdraws. And his throat clenches hot after the shape of him, the clutching sound he makes after at least partially involuntary—choking and wet, clinging and so subsequently missing the invasive press once it's relented.
Sometime—not tonight—he would like to be fucked like this. To have that hand at the back of his neck holding him close, and to be partially smothered against the crook of Marcus' hip. To feel the thick pulse orgasm so intimately that it's a sensation and not a taste.
Tonight, though: he groans as Marcus slips beyond his lips, thick saliva bridging briefly between them and then breaking to spill across his chin. He remembers, all at once, that he was two hands with which to run his palms high across Marcus' thighs. Grasps after his ass. Rumbles some low pant of approval.
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Moves, backing down Flint's body, kneeling steps and steadying hands. Pursuing the single-minded aim to kiss him while he's still a little breathless, keen for contact that is messy and wanting, to feel the texture of those rumbled, panting sounds. And, he also has it in mind to roll Flint onto his stomach and have him while pushed right down, and so kissing, Flint touching him, will be suspended for a time.
Not now, though. Marcus kisses him deeply in that way that is not unselfconscious for following the path his cock had just taken but deliberate for it, a hand settled between neck and shoulder. Straddling him, deliberate in the way he lays their hips together, using his own spit-slicked cock to gauge how hard Flint is by now with a press of contact.
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how can this truly be the gay pirate show if i can't have icons for this scenario
dear jon steinberg—
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