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.
Hard, is the answer. That brush of contact, incidental or otherwise against the rigid line of his cock gone nail driving stiff from the weight of Marcus bearing down into him, sends a flush of sensation racing through him. Draws free a hungry pant that's mostly naturally crushed into how sweet and sharp that kiss is. Prompts the straying of his hands—following to Marcus' sides, his shoulders; finding a warm palm to wrap a out the curve of Marcus' neck, strands of his undone hair incidentally tangling in the touch.
The kiss he returns to him is hungry and unhurried both. The shape of his hand slips to catch up against the line of Marcus' jaw and fingers curl softly about his ear; tongue pressing after Marcus' mouth, its own lazy pass at invasion.
The weight is good. All the points of contact aligned between them are warm and secure. And when he sets his teeth to Marcus' bottom lip, it's a gentle thing. Moreso given the probe of tongue that follows that shallow scrape.
There's a softish sound from Marcus at that combination of hand curling there and the press of Flint's tongue, lips parting invitingly only to get gently nipped, and he presses back with a kiss that chases after that licking touch with a soft, growled sound. The lower ache of need can be held where it is, at bay, to give way to the lazy press of bodies, and slow kisses. Mainly still, but the occasional shift of his hip invites a stroke of their erections together, as if to restoke something.
Prior conversation is, at this stage, a distant memory, and so is the clutch of anxiety he'd felt that evoked it, and again when Flint brought it back. Doesn't feel like a future concern, either.
"You could lay on your front," he suggests, after a kiss is broken off, and he can nest these words and individual kisses both into the bristle along Flint's jawline. "And I could have you that way." A different kind of forcefulness, if one less directly dictatorial than hands over wrists. Still, the tone of his voice is only that, a suggestion, rather than some hopeful spark or a tone that plays at demand. It would be equally nice to have Flint lift and part his thighs for him again.
If there's anything absurd about the prospect that they might lay these slow coaxing kisses on one another in the immediate aftermath of Marcus filling his mouth much less the nipping exchange prior to it, then it hardly shows in the lay of Flint's hands, or how he is happy enough to be haphazardly pinned by the point of Marcus' hip. How easily he turns his face by a half degree to indulge the wandering of lips against his jaw. These things are in line with what he'd wanted. His desires aren't so mutable as to have lost track of that.
So, in the aftermath of that suggestion:
A low murmur of sound, acknowledgement. The kiss that chases sluggishly after Marcus' mouth only get as far as the corner it, albeit not for lack of trying from either the angle of his face or the hand draped loosely across the back of the other man's neck. Rolling over will mean sacrificing the closely laid shapes of their cocks, giving hot skin for the scuff of the bed clothes across his front. It will mean, given the opportunity to get his knees slightly under him from the starter, that he might rock himself back into whatever Marcus chooses to give him.
Given the barest fragmentary thought in that direction, the next sound out of him is a lower huff of agreement and an upward nudge of the hip. All right, then. Let him over.
So begins a low ember of new interest for agreement, Marcus grazing a kiss back across Flint's mouth first. This, too, is what he wanted. That want had broadened by some significant degrees in the wake of momentary unsteadying, but finding that Flint plainly desires the same anyway, it's an easy thing to ride it straight through its centre.
Moves, rising back to hands and knees, shuffling backwards to give Flint room. Wanders out a hand as soon as the other man moves, a needlessly guiding clasp to the hip, a smoothing of his palm up along spine, desirous of maintaining contact. A squeeze about the back of the neck, an appreciative sweep of a look down the shapes of the back of him, shoulders and waist, ass and vulnerable backs of the thighs.
Not rough is a directive that appeals almost as much as its opposite in the moment, a thing in keeping with heavy kisses and even the negotiating of his cock down Flint's throat. It promises something slow and unhurried and indulgent in some other way, and so Marcus is patient about letting the other man settle, and matter-of-fact about touching him once he has—first, wetting his fingers against the flat of his tongue, and then bringing them down to ease over the crease between Flint's buttocks.
Going a little carefully, conscious of tender skin. It's almost an asking thing, the rub of fingertips, precise before it flattens out a little, and he can reach between Flint's legs to give him a cursory palming over.
There is something about that roving hand moving from hip to neck that serves as an anchor—a reassuring weight defining the shape of the warm air around them. Without it, this turning might prickle vulnerably at the base of his skull. But here is Marcus' hand wrapped over that space, the soft rasp of the linens and the creak of the bed groaning under the shift of weight. A pillow can be drawn easily in, and a knee shifted to preserve a scrap of leverage for himself (and space, there, for Marcus' hand to move through).
His sigh under the influence of those fingers is easy and low, the slant of his shoulders turning by the few degrees necessary to glance back in Marcus' direction. Less to entice him—that hardly seems necessary at this juncture—and entirely to make a brief attempt at studying him there. The line of Marcus' neck and shoulder, the hook of his collarbones and the corded shape of muscle in his arm is appealing even when only viewed in part. And the close arrangement of bodies more than makes up for what he can't see.
Maybe, given a few moments, he will settle all the way down onto the flat of his belly and it will be good to feel weight press in back over him. But for the moment—
"Marcus," is coaxing.
how can this truly be the gay pirate show if i can't have icons for this scenario
The formless palming over of cock and balls sures up enough to give a brief squeeze, and whether it's assuring or teasing or appreciative is probably too fine a difference to tell from just the flat of warm palm, the stroke of fingers. All, maybe, but also for the simple pleasure of it. It's appealing to do so. It's appealing to hear Flint say his name, coaxing him, in the same neighbourhood as less articulate sounds being murmured against his cock.
The texture and timbre of Flint's voice has that affect, a tactile thing no matter where. There have been a small collection of instances where some hook in Flint's tone in some configuration of words in perfectly professional contexts has summoned some quiet, warm twinge that put Marcus to mind of what they might do later when free of that context. It's a more potent thing to experience when it's on purpose.
Less problematically, behind closed doors. Which they are now. So it's fine.
His other hand lifts from that grasp at the neck to help spread him open a little as he draws those fingers back to work him over some. A negligent 'mm' in response, and then, familiar, that tug of impulse. Mattress shifting at some repositioning, shoulder limned in candlelight sinking down lower. It may take away from some of the shock of the feeling of warm, wet tongue rasping a stripe over tender flesh pressed by fingers, but not all of it, even when it happens a second time.
It's startling. Not for the heat or the sensitivity of it (not just for that), but in its intimacy—the jerked tight coiling sensation in the instant he'd recognized the trajectory of Marcus' slanting shoulder, and the flushing release of that tension under the stroke of tongue all running so closely together than it hardly qualifies as anticipation or the relief of it. But the stark familiarity of the thing, turning something private into something exposed and shameless, sends a hot pulse through him. Moves high behind the ribs and closes like a warm hand on his cock.
The sound he makes is wordless, though ends in a harsh consonant like it ought to have been something. In the closed room, the light drawn down about them, it hangs thick in the air. Not that they've been particularly quiet for some minutes now. But there's a pleasantly sharp ache in these noises. Reflexive. They strike an abrupt, cutting tenor, the sound of an involuntarily flexed muscle or the rounding curve of a shoulder as Flint drops his face against the braced line of his freckled forearm.
Fuck's sake, but it would be easy to beg like this— he doesn't think, briefly waylaid by the charge of arousal devised by Marcus' fingers and tongue.
It is overwhelmingly satisfying, to kick that kind of sound out of Flint. The indication of an unexpected but pleasurable thing, the unconsidered reflex that pushes it out of his throat. Marcus doesn't pause over it, but the next breath out of him has an edged hum of satisfaction, pressed in intimately. Wetter, here, a more deliberate application of saliva while that other hand grasps Flint's cheek firmer, fingertips dimpling skin.
That slick slide of tongue is replaced with the stronger rub of fingertips, pushing one in, a little shallow on first contact and then a little deeper. Affords him a moment to glance up the length of Flint, noting the rise of shoulders where his head has bowed down.
Then, another bolder licking follows, an insistent press of contact that revels both in the unchecked intimacy of itself as well as his sense of Flint buckling under it. It doesn't feel to him, in the moment, like a tease or an attempt to forestall what will come next. Borderline proprietorial, while his own arousal through its momentary neglect is made into something more patient than urgent, achingly stiff though he is.
But really, it's that sound out of Flint, sparking through him, and Marcus knows no inclination to immediately move to some next thing while he's still enjoying the result of this one.
He'll have more of them, either in reply to the saliva slicked press of that finger (which is almost a relief in how straightforward it is) or to the insistent shape of his tongue—rough, panting sounds rasping loudly in that close space between where Flint has hung his head and the twisted coverlet.
Torn between the impulse to leverage the set of his knee to rock back into the blunt heat and to simply relax all pretense and let himself slide belly down to the mattress where Marcus might have him however he wishes, he lands somewhere between the two: his cheek slips free of that supportive forearm to breathe thick out against the linen pillow cover, the most ragged of them half smothered; and a hand reaching back to help hold himself open, though the shape of Marcus' palm has a satisfying pull to it and he already feels more ready to receive him than he would have had he not been fucked hard once already.
(A passing thought for that first orgasm he'd taken, and the mess he'd been left with both between his legs and otherwise. The sense of it must, the thought supplies, linger for the tongue.)
"Fuck," is a low, emphatic noise. Sounds like Fuck that feels good, or Fuck, more.
Saline bitterness, mingled evidence of sweat and sex. It certainly doesn't feel as though any part of this is found to be objectionable, an approving rasped breath hot across the skin for sensing Flint grabbing at himself. Under Flint's hand, the next lick is shallowly penetrative, pressing in tighter.
At that low sound out of him, Marcus is near to dredging specificity out of Flint. Another night, maybe. Many things being reserved for other nights.
Another night when Marcus isn't still feeling that clutch of arousal that hasn't lightened since Flint first swallowed around him, and other things, abstractions and alterations of this arrangement between them through things said and pointedly unsaid, but really that first thing. Still, he can linger here a bit more, and alternate between the direct push of his fingers (two, now), working spit inside of him, and the tease and balm of his tongue.
A sense of withdraw, finally, the brush of shaven cheek against skin, a sort of reflexive distribution of saliva off his face while Marcus slightly clumsily arranges himself back onto his knees. His hand passes over Flint's, an encouraging press to hold there as he reaches for the pot of oil by the table.
"Good?" is a question, voice a little rough and quiet in the throat. It's a question about readiness more than seeking approval, in the direct prompting tone of it.
In reply, the uncurling flex of shoulders and the raising angle of Flint's temple. A twist of the ribs so he might fire a pointed look directly back across his shoulder. If there were less smoky heat, any shortage of naked arousal painted thick in the lines of his face, there might be a tinge of exasperation to be found there. Good. Obviously. Fuck's sake, Marcus, put that cock in him.
Want and readiness hums in the skin, and his hand studded with rings (having had no reason to strip them) keeps himself helpfully open to receive the slick spill of oil from the pot and the appealingly blunt sense of Marcus' cock following after the intimate press of his tongue.
So instead, finding the shape of Marcus there behind him and the hungry look hanging about his person an effective aphrodisiac, he says, "Yes," and it is a low scrape of sound. Emphatic. Would he tell him, Marcus had asked, if it were too much? But it isn't.
Thankfully, Marcus hadn't really paused over it, collecting the pot up as he meets that look lanced across the shoulder, likewise too transparently aroused to make some kind of amused microexpression in return. Wolfishly expectant, instead, of the answer granted him. The pair of them both a little out of order in a pleasing sort of mirror, in Marcus' opinion.
His hand returns to palm over Flint's seat, the push of his thumb helping along exposure in the moment before there's the cool impact of oil over warmed skin. A little excess, maybe, enough to trickle, but gathered then with his fingers to spread it over his own cock. The sound of slick flesh sliding together along with a grunt of a breath out of him is more than enough to telegraph to Flint what he can't twist around enough to see.
The pot set back down, a cleaner hand finding a place to lay on Flint's back. It's a nice back. Slides down, urging his hips up by a fraction where he has that knee slightly under him.
All the better for Marcus to lean in, to direct the blunt head of his cock in against where his fingers and mouth had worked the other man over. Uses it to smear around oil, to push inside of him just a shallow amount. A long breath out of Marcus sounds both relieved and anticipatory, and then a closing in on of warm body, mattress creaking as the action that has him press Flint down into the bed with his hips is the same that has his cock sliding slickly into him.
Not rough, not fast. Maybe it all feels a little tender, but it happens easy anyway, slow and thorough. His hand lays against a freckled forearm, a pulse of feeling expressed in gripping fingers.
He was breathing hard, he thinks, before this inexorable pressing down and into him—the residual effect of that same cock being eased down his throat and having never quite found a moment afterward to regulate. Later, this disorganized sense where he is willing to briskly divest of any reasonable reservation (not his dignity; those are two different things) in favor of being made hungry and satisfied both will feature prominently on that list he keeps and examines in his head. How complicated all of this very simple desire is made by how easily he's swept up in it.
The thing is, it should be too much. By rights, his hands should have maintained that bracing shape and he should have warded Marcus' off. A small measure of restraint tonight might have naturally curbed some of the confusion at the edges of this. Trimmed it back into a shape easily discerned, even when felt in the dark. Their night should be over already. Instead, he has forgotten about ordering these things and setting them all to moving in the correct, sensible direction. Instead, he is being pressed prone into the mattress and groaning thankfully as Marcus moves into him.
It is tender. But in that good, mixed way where the body's ache just feels like wanting. A suitable match with the pinch and strain he'd felt while swallowing Marcus down, nevermind however slowly they'd gone about that. Makes him shiver, his own cock trapped there against the bed linens and his hand holding himself open slipping.
Having (willingly) lost the leverage of that knee, he instead makes to find some off the prop of his forearms as if that hand having found its way to the one has played an encouraging role in the decision to raise his shoulders by a half degree, and press a welcoming arch into his spine.
This second time is meant to be slower and lazier, easier for having been satisfied once already. But there's something to this that's dirtier and more sharply felt than being held down and fucked on the table in the other room. Making filthy promises to Marcus with all his clothes still on had been honest, not theater, but "Fuck, you feel good," has an anxious, panting quality to it that he can feel in his marrow.
The sound out of Marcus is an answering one, less articulate but no less expressive. Flint feels good and Marcus feels good being in him and that is, anyway, sort of the point of all of this.
And having him this way allows for a broader surface area of contact, legs in a tangle and Marcus near laying over Flint, though he keeps his weight distributed between his knees and hands, even if he can do this, which is insinuate himself close enough to lay a slightly bitey kiss up around shoulder and back of the neck, and slide a hand around to skim over Flint's chest where lifted shoulders allow. Leaves behind oily tracks.
Minor reconfiguration sees him laying a leg on the outside of Flint's, digging a knee into the mattress as he makes for a shallow withdraw. Then, there, a rhythm can be worked out, a thrusting in that presses Flint down into the bed and only barely relieves him in between. Panting breath felt high at Flint's back, that edge of vocalisations carried on them more characteristic of later stages of fucking than this early, but perhaps it's no wonder.
This hasn't escaped his examination, no matter what Flint had advised. Of a cautious kind, even. He recalls (has recalled, isn't recalling now) some youthful entanglements where his partner had been patient in explaining that liking to fuck someone was different from—
Well. Liking them otherwise. That wishing to be in their presence could be solely motivated by wanting them in bed. That it could feel very similar. You'd hope to have figured these things out, twenty years on.
Confusion is for later, but cultivated in these moments. The way the sounds of Flint's pleasure and the things he says pulse through him in all kinds of directions, not just one, or his own early impulse to hold onto him closely in the gratification intimacy of having a person to put his arms around. Maybe that could be just anyone. Maybe that couldn't be just anyone.
Simple is for now. "You feel so good on my cock," is murmured, a learned habit of sharing the things that cross his mind. Panting them out as he fucks him, a hand down to clutch at his hips. "So perfect."
It's sweet to the ear, his own answering sound rich on the tongue—like the bite of sharp liquor, and the sour smoky taste of Marcus' mouth. The weight, and the slide of hands and cock, and the warm pant of breath across the back of his neck all put him in the mind of that silver cigarette case; or rather of the cigarettes inside it which Marcus smokes down to snubbed ends, these presumably saved to see that the unburnt leaf can be reused when next he makes to fill the case. Thin papers worked between fingers or a hip pulled in under a hand, and nothing wasted.
It's true that in the narrowly traded lack of space between them, there is little in the way of moving in encouraging counterpoint to be done. But Flint does brace up, eager to make himself into a stop against which Marcus might work. Fingers close into fists on the coverlet. Muscle and sinews through shoulder and biceps flex and give in sympathy to those closely buried thrusts.
Like this, when it's slow and there is no creak of the bedframe or the rhythmic knocking of a headboard against cheap plaster, no papers being crushed or instruments rattling in tin cups, and no cut of the wind or the rasping of tent canvas beaten by rain, this slick slide of bodies and the catch of breathing weighs heavy and near in the room. The groans fall out of him. They pool thick in the linens about them and cling to the skin on the back of his forearms. They are sweat down the curved line of his spine, running between his shoulder blades and pooling in the small of his back where he can feel the receipt of Marcus' cock best. They are as oily as Marcus' fingertips, as clinging as a stripe of spit rubbed across a cheekbone.
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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.
no subject
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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The kiss he returns to him is hungry and unhurried both. The shape of his hand slips to catch up against the line of Marcus' jaw and fingers curl softly about his ear; tongue pressing after Marcus' mouth, its own lazy pass at invasion.
The weight is good. All the points of contact aligned between them are warm and secure. And when he sets his teeth to Marcus' bottom lip, it's a gentle thing. Moreso given the probe of tongue that follows that shallow scrape.
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Prior conversation is, at this stage, a distant memory, and so is the clutch of anxiety he'd felt that evoked it, and again when Flint brought it back. Doesn't feel like a future concern, either.
"You could lay on your front," he suggests, after a kiss is broken off, and he can nest these words and individual kisses both into the bristle along Flint's jawline. "And I could have you that way." A different kind of forcefulness, if one less directly dictatorial than hands over wrists. Still, the tone of his voice is only that, a suggestion, rather than some hopeful spark or a tone that plays at demand. It would be equally nice to have Flint lift and part his thighs for him again.
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So, in the aftermath of that suggestion:
A low murmur of sound, acknowledgement. The kiss that chases sluggishly after Marcus' mouth only get as far as the corner it, albeit not for lack of trying from either the angle of his face or the hand draped loosely across the back of the other man's neck. Rolling over will mean sacrificing the closely laid shapes of their cocks, giving hot skin for the scuff of the bed clothes across his front. It will mean, given the opportunity to get his knees slightly under him from the starter, that he might rock himself back into whatever Marcus chooses to give him.
Given the barest fragmentary thought in that direction, the next sound out of him is a lower huff of agreement and an upward nudge of the hip. All right, then. Let him over.
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Moves, rising back to hands and knees, shuffling backwards to give Flint room. Wanders out a hand as soon as the other man moves, a needlessly guiding clasp to the hip, a smoothing of his palm up along spine, desirous of maintaining contact. A squeeze about the back of the neck, an appreciative sweep of a look down the shapes of the back of him, shoulders and waist, ass and vulnerable backs of the thighs.
Not rough is a directive that appeals almost as much as its opposite in the moment, a thing in keeping with heavy kisses and even the negotiating of his cock down Flint's throat. It promises something slow and unhurried and indulgent in some other way, and so Marcus is patient about letting the other man settle, and matter-of-fact about touching him once he has—first, wetting his fingers against the flat of his tongue, and then bringing them down to ease over the crease between Flint's buttocks.
Going a little carefully, conscious of tender skin. It's almost an asking thing, the rub of fingertips, precise before it flattens out a little, and he can reach between Flint's legs to give him a cursory palming over.
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His sigh under the influence of those fingers is easy and low, the slant of his shoulders turning by the few degrees necessary to glance back in Marcus' direction. Less to entice him—that hardly seems necessary at this juncture—and entirely to make a brief attempt at studying him there. The line of Marcus' neck and shoulder, the hook of his collarbones and the corded shape of muscle in his arm is appealing even when only viewed in part. And the close arrangement of bodies more than makes up for what he can't see.
Maybe, given a few moments, he will settle all the way down onto the flat of his belly and it will be good to feel weight press in back over him. But for the moment—
"Marcus," is coaxing.
how can this truly be the gay pirate show if i can't have icons for this scenario
The texture and timbre of Flint's voice has that affect, a tactile thing no matter where. There have been a small collection of instances where some hook in Flint's tone in some configuration of words in perfectly professional contexts has summoned some quiet, warm twinge that put Marcus to mind of what they might do later when free of that context. It's a more potent thing to experience when it's on purpose.
Less problematically, behind closed doors. Which they are now. So it's fine.
His other hand lifts from that grasp at the neck to help spread him open a little as he draws those fingers back to work him over some. A negligent 'mm' in response, and then, familiar, that tug of impulse. Mattress shifting at some repositioning, shoulder limned in candlelight sinking down lower. It may take away from some of the shock of the feeling of warm, wet tongue rasping a stripe over tender flesh pressed by fingers, but not all of it, even when it happens a second time.
dear jon steinberg—
The sound he makes is wordless, though ends in a harsh consonant like it ought to have been something. In the closed room, the light drawn down about them, it hangs thick in the air. Not that they've been particularly quiet for some minutes now. But there's a pleasantly sharp ache in these noises. Reflexive. They strike an abrupt, cutting tenor, the sound of an involuntarily flexed muscle or the rounding curve of a shoulder as Flint drops his face against the braced line of his freckled forearm.
Fuck's sake, but it would be easy to beg like this— he doesn't think, briefly waylaid by the charge of arousal devised by Marcus' fingers and tongue.
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That slick slide of tongue is replaced with the stronger rub of fingertips, pushing one in, a little shallow on first contact and then a little deeper. Affords him a moment to glance up the length of Flint, noting the rise of shoulders where his head has bowed down.
Then, another bolder licking follows, an insistent press of contact that revels both in the unchecked intimacy of itself as well as his sense of Flint buckling under it. It doesn't feel to him, in the moment, like a tease or an attempt to forestall what will come next. Borderline proprietorial, while his own arousal through its momentary neglect is made into something more patient than urgent, achingly stiff though he is.
But really, it's that sound out of Flint, sparking through him, and Marcus knows no inclination to immediately move to some next thing while he's still enjoying the result of this one.
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Torn between the impulse to leverage the set of his knee to rock back into the blunt heat and to simply relax all pretense and let himself slide belly down to the mattress where Marcus might have him however he wishes, he lands somewhere between the two: his cheek slips free of that supportive forearm to breathe thick out against the linen pillow cover, the most ragged of them half smothered; and a hand reaching back to help hold himself open, though the shape of Marcus' palm has a satisfying pull to it and he already feels more ready to receive him than he would have had he not been fucked hard once already.
(A passing thought for that first orgasm he'd taken, and the mess he'd been left with both between his legs and otherwise. The sense of it must, the thought supplies, linger for the tongue.)
"Fuck," is a low, emphatic noise. Sounds like Fuck that feels good, or Fuck, more.
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At that low sound out of him, Marcus is near to dredging specificity out of Flint. Another night, maybe. Many things being reserved for other nights.
Another night when Marcus isn't still feeling that clutch of arousal that hasn't lightened since Flint first swallowed around him, and other things, abstractions and alterations of this arrangement between them through things said and pointedly unsaid, but really that first thing. Still, he can linger here a bit more, and alternate between the direct push of his fingers (two, now), working spit inside of him, and the tease and balm of his tongue.
A sense of withdraw, finally, the brush of shaven cheek against skin, a sort of reflexive distribution of saliva off his face while Marcus slightly clumsily arranges himself back onto his knees. His hand passes over Flint's, an encouraging press to hold there as he reaches for the pot of oil by the table.
"Good?" is a question, voice a little rough and quiet in the throat. It's a question about readiness more than seeking approval, in the direct prompting tone of it.
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Want and readiness hums in the skin, and his hand studded with rings (having had no reason to strip them) keeps himself helpfully open to receive the slick spill of oil from the pot and the appealingly blunt sense of Marcus' cock following after the intimate press of his tongue.
So instead, finding the shape of Marcus there behind him and the hungry look hanging about his person an effective aphrodisiac, he says, "Yes," and it is a low scrape of sound. Emphatic. Would he tell him, Marcus had asked, if it were too much? But it isn't.
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His hand returns to palm over Flint's seat, the push of his thumb helping along exposure in the moment before there's the cool impact of oil over warmed skin. A little excess, maybe, enough to trickle, but gathered then with his fingers to spread it over his own cock. The sound of slick flesh sliding together along with a grunt of a breath out of him is more than enough to telegraph to Flint what he can't twist around enough to see.
The pot set back down, a cleaner hand finding a place to lay on Flint's back. It's a nice back. Slides down, urging his hips up by a fraction where he has that knee slightly under him.
All the better for Marcus to lean in, to direct the blunt head of his cock in against where his fingers and mouth had worked the other man over. Uses it to smear around oil, to push inside of him just a shallow amount. A long breath out of Marcus sounds both relieved and anticipatory, and then a closing in on of warm body, mattress creaking as the action that has him press Flint down into the bed with his hips is the same that has his cock sliding slickly into him.
Not rough, not fast. Maybe it all feels a little tender, but it happens easy anyway, slow and thorough. His hand lays against a freckled forearm, a pulse of feeling expressed in gripping fingers.
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The thing is, it should be too much. By rights, his hands should have maintained that bracing shape and he should have warded Marcus' off. A small measure of restraint tonight might have naturally curbed some of the confusion at the edges of this. Trimmed it back into a shape easily discerned, even when felt in the dark. Their night should be over already. Instead, he has forgotten about ordering these things and setting them all to moving in the correct, sensible direction. Instead, he is being pressed prone into the mattress and groaning thankfully as Marcus moves into him.
It is tender. But in that good, mixed way where the body's ache just feels like wanting. A suitable match with the pinch and strain he'd felt while swallowing Marcus down, nevermind however slowly they'd gone about that. Makes him shiver, his own cock trapped there against the bed linens and his hand holding himself open slipping.
Having (willingly) lost the leverage of that knee, he instead makes to find some off the prop of his forearms as if that hand having found its way to the one has played an encouraging role in the decision to raise his shoulders by a half degree, and press a welcoming arch into his spine.
This second time is meant to be slower and lazier, easier for having been satisfied once already. But there's something to this that's dirtier and more sharply felt than being held down and fucked on the table in the other room. Making filthy promises to Marcus with all his clothes still on had been honest, not theater, but "Fuck, you feel good," has an anxious, panting quality to it that he can feel in his marrow.
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And having him this way allows for a broader surface area of contact, legs in a tangle and Marcus near laying over Flint, though he keeps his weight distributed between his knees and hands, even if he can do this, which is insinuate himself close enough to lay a slightly bitey kiss up around shoulder and back of the neck, and slide a hand around to skim over Flint's chest where lifted shoulders allow. Leaves behind oily tracks.
Minor reconfiguration sees him laying a leg on the outside of Flint's, digging a knee into the mattress as he makes for a shallow withdraw. Then, there, a rhythm can be worked out, a thrusting in that presses Flint down into the bed and only barely relieves him in between. Panting breath felt high at Flint's back, that edge of vocalisations carried on them more characteristic of later stages of fucking than this early, but perhaps it's no wonder.
This hasn't escaped his examination, no matter what Flint had advised. Of a cautious kind, even. He recalls (has recalled, isn't recalling now) some youthful entanglements where his partner had been patient in explaining that liking to fuck someone was different from—
Well. Liking them otherwise. That wishing to be in their presence could be solely motivated by wanting them in bed. That it could feel very similar. You'd hope to have figured these things out, twenty years on.
Confusion is for later, but cultivated in these moments. The way the sounds of Flint's pleasure and the things he says pulse through him in all kinds of directions, not just one, or his own early impulse to hold onto him closely in the gratification intimacy of having a person to put his arms around. Maybe that could be just anyone. Maybe that couldn't be just anyone.
Simple is for now. "You feel so good on my cock," is murmured, a learned habit of sharing the things that cross his mind. Panting them out as he fucks him, a hand down to clutch at his hips. "So perfect."
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It's true that in the narrowly traded lack of space between them, there is little in the way of moving in encouraging counterpoint to be done. But Flint does brace up, eager to make himself into a stop against which Marcus might work. Fingers close into fists on the coverlet. Muscle and sinews through shoulder and biceps flex and give in sympathy to those closely buried thrusts.
Like this, when it's slow and there is no creak of the bedframe or the rhythmic knocking of a headboard against cheap plaster, no papers being crushed or instruments rattling in tin cups, and no cut of the wind or the rasping of tent canvas beaten by rain, this slick slide of bodies and the catch of breathing weighs heavy and near in the room. The groans fall out of him. They pool thick in the linens about them and cling to the skin on the back of his forearms. They are sweat down the curved line of his spine, running between his shoulder blades and pooling in the small of his back where he can feel the receipt of Marcus' cock best. They are as oily as Marcus' fingertips, as clinging as a stripe of spit rubbed across a cheekbone.
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