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.
It's what he wanted, when he asked his way around fucking Flint again—the specifically heavy silence of the bedroom, along with the embracing comfort of mattress and bedclothes, remembered from when last he was here, how nice that was to be fucked in it. There could be some theatre here too (if by 'theatre', one means actions done with a little performance but none of the lie) but it feels like there is a chance for less of it. Just muscle pulled taut under skin, and those sounds out of Flint, groans allowed to come thick and untethered rather than negotiated past closed teeth and tight breaths.
He can sense Flint bracing himself back in that pleasing way. Marcus would have been content to fuck Flint into the mattress if he'd gone docile and receptive, if it seemed to please him to be so, but there's a different thrill to feel those minor efforts to meet him, a barrier between himself and the give of the bed.
Keeps that hand spread against Flint's chest, the other wrangling low at the hip. Slow, stroking motions, caught here in half-embrace, half-draped across the back of him. Grazes the occasional kiss along the meat of shoulder, sometimes soft and formless, sometimes a scrape of tooth and tongue, not quite committed enough to leave any marks.
Eventually, a readjustment, some shiver of restless energy, needing more. Getting both knees on the outside of Flint's legs, a more secure straddling while keeping hips tilted, staying buried. Chest raising up, hand braced on mattress, the other staying steady at the hip, encouraging Flint to meet him by that minor lifting fraction. From there, Marcus can look down and watch if he cares to, both the slide of his own erection disappearing into Flint's body as well as the curve of his spine, the vulnerable flex of his shaved neck.
Can move a little faster, a panting gust of appreciation for it at pursuing that desired friction, followed by broken off sounds on each ensuing exhale.
He's easily motivated to raise his hips by the half degree afforded to him. The sensation of it, that fraction of depth, is so rewarding that without thinking he allows his braced forearms to give and lowers his chest in counter to it in an effort to eke out a little more. It's a matter of shifting hip more than it is knees or real elevation, but with his freshly shaven cheek laid on the bed linens and the support of Marcus' hand it seems like a kind of leverage. At the very least, it gives him the leeway necessary to actually feel the rocking friction against his cock every time he is pressed down into the mattress.
And if he turns his face just a little further, he can catch sight of fragments of Marcus moving above him. The muscle corded across his elbow and his wrist where his hand has braced against the mattress. The barely there shadow of him that moves across the bed in the candlelight.
There's something restless in it: the rise and fall of his temple and the shift of his shoulders. Here is the bared line of his throat as his head tilts back, groan thickening; here the curve of shoulders as his face drops again and he pants the sluggish syllables of Marcus' name against the coverlet.
Watching the line of Flint's back buckle forwards sends a lurch through him, a low down clench that coils tight. Threatens the integrity of stamina and patience, but also: exactly the right kind of kick he was after, the same kind of dizzy heart-skip that a sudden gallop inspires.
Not as drastic a change as that, in reality, but Marcus' panting is coming a little quicker until he reins it into something that matches the long strokes of his cock through that cleft of slick flesh, the clutching heat it meets once buried. The little broken off pieces of his name, barely heard where Flint smothers them into the bedclothes. Sweating now too, felt where the insides of his thighs rub against Flint's outer.
Sets his weight properly on his knees, drags his hand along the line of Flint's torso to his other hip. "I have you," murmured, breathed. "I have you."
His hands firm up, holding Flint's hips in that tilt, starts fucking down into it with more earnestness. Longer strokes, quicker, the impact of flesh meeting flesh all of a less punishing rhythm than he's set before, but closer to that than the slowly burning languid pace with which they'd started.
The strike of skin on skin paired with the rasp of Marcus' voice passes over him like a warm hand might stroke across his shoulders. Touch his neck and jaw. Wedging tight and hot into him, the knotted sensation in his belly clenching in sympathy. It is good. He'd needed Marcus' hand before, but like this—being driven, aching to be filled and getting it, each stroke forcing his sensitive cock across the bedclothes and biting a low catching sound out of him—he can see himself coming undone without. So long as Marcus keeps fucking him, and keeps telling him how good it is, he can see himself spilling hot into the covers and being happy to lay in it while continuing to be used.
The fragmented thought makes Flint groan out, warm and heavy into the thin summer blanket, and he curves reflexively into the hands at his hips.
"Fuck, like that," is a heavy pant, half obscured until he turns his face up from the blanket. "Maker—" That too drawn thick, not reedy. Something searching in the twist of muscle. When Marcus comes inside him, it's possible he might collapse heavily forward. Flint wants to be ready to draw him into a messy kiss across his shoulder if he does. "You're deep."
An affirming groan follows, a pulse of his hands clenching harder at Flint's hips before regulating. He could tuck his hand up under the other man, could tug at his cock, but also: no he couldn't. His hands are set so firmly, that rigid way tendons pull when chasing the brink of release, and any reconfiguring would see a break in what he's doing and he feels like it all might come undone if he were to pause.
So Marcus doesn't, keyed only into any twinge or cue from Flint that requires he do differently, and detecting neither. Vision hazing into tangles of eyelashes where his eyelids go hooded, then refocusing sharp and sudden to pick up bright and vivid details, like the trickle of sweat down Flint's ribs, the furl of his brow where he's twisted around enough for Marcus to see his face.
"Good," likewise panted. "You take me so well. So good."
Easy, for those words and other nonsense to spill from him, as if aware a little of the way they can replace kisses and strokes, grasps and fleeting eye contact. It works on him, works on him now, for all that the only part of Flint touching him is what he's touching himself. Words wend their way through, get a hold of him and squeeze.
For that matter, he could touch himself if he cared to. It would be easy to snake a hand into that space and grasp after the stiff shape of his cock, letting the long downward press of Marcus work it through his fingers on the way across the mattress. But there's little impulse to. The rasp of the bedclothes provides an echoed tease of friction, and the fucking—that catch of sweating skin and the weight striking down and the hot syllable slurred shape of Marcus' brogue—is plenty. Licks into him. Makes all the small hairs at the back of his neck prickle and encourages a rapid unwinding of braced tensions.
It's obvious when he stops going taut in reply to the stroke of Marcus and just starts taking it, the breath groaning and catching out of him as he's fucked down. It feels good, he must tell him, because it does. That he wants him inside of him. That he should spill into him. How thick Marcus seems, and how well he's filling him, and lower less clarified notes of approval as the sweat rasps between their thighs and that rhythmic jolt presses like a third hand at the small of his back.
He doesn't want to finish just yet. But if he did, he might be more sharply aware of Marcus' hands on him. The press and pull of bodies against the mattress. The clumsy arrangement of his own hands, one forearm having worked itself senselessly under his own chin so that when Marcus makes him moan he can feel the scrape of it in his throat against his own skin.
That desire for clarity almost manages to render some. There is a crisply defined moments where the senses tune sharp and he can listen to himself. The close up blur of the coverlet thickens into folds. Marcus' breathing feels like a pant pressed close to the ear. It occurs to him then that there is a low rocking whine from the bed frame, and maybe it had started when Marcus had worked up onto his knees, only that it's been all but devoured by their own sounds. Flint's attention makes to chase it, to ferret out the detail and sink his teeth into it. Divining the shape of it so sweet in the mouth that he groans out around it, definition scattering into broader forms as he starts to come in thick clutching pulses of muscle.
The creak from the bedframe doesn't relent, throughout. The heavy panting breathing, the rub of skin. Midway, a shift in hands: one sliding inwards, pressing into the curve of Flint's back, and the other finding a firm anchor at his shoulder. Held onto, pressed down.
A shift in breathing, an edge of desperation to it, a notching up in its intonation. Because it is plain enough to Marcus, the moment Flint starts, and it wrenches something sideways in him, wishing to sink into the sound of the groan that heralds it, or gather in closely to feel the way his body goes taut in the places that need to, but more than that, it tilts the ground out from under him, slides him to that inevitable finish.
Compulsion replacing intent, as Marcus fucks him through to his own climax which comes not a few more seconds after the whine in Flint's ears settles in that afterspace. The groans that fall from Marcus' mouth are shuddered out, stops and starts. Not choked back or strangled down, just clumsy, far more occupied with the sudden unravelling of his orgasm than moderating his breathing.
Long seconds where he goes still and buried hard inside of Flint, save for those fine pulses and twitches, muscles tensing across thigh and hip. Hands that had gone hard and demanding now loosening, leaving behind red where his fingers had bit in. A sound that starts with F, either Flint's name or something else, lost on the exhale.
And yes, buckling down, the hand at Flint's back slipping round to the ribs.
They'd been bitingly tender seconds, very aware of the warm oil slide and the burn of gripping fingers—not too wrung out from the effects of orgasm to be ignorant of the sensation of these things. Merely absorbing them, scraped raw by the sudden specificity. He finds he is equal parts satisfied and grateful as Marcus turns halting and twitching, and ultimately comes down across him with the long line of his weight and the flattened palms of easing hands.
Flint, driven flat to his belly and gone slack there in the loose jointed space of post-climax, groans under the press. For all that his cock might be spent, the sensation of being filled is still significant. Even if it wasn't, all the sweat and trembling exertion spent between them prickles at the senses in a way that would seem to require a mark of approval.
Hence: under Marcus, Flint turns his face. Clumsily lifts and shifts his shoulder by that half degree. He'd mapped out this angle before; the spare measure of height Marcus has on him makes soliciting a kiss not impossible.
Marcus slides his hand up from the ribs, around, bracing up under that shoulder when he feels Flint begin to twist around that half-measure. Recognises it for what it is and makes a rough sound of approval and gratitude, shifting that hand further up under to help brace against Flint's jaw as he moves to meet him.
The kiss he presses to his mouth is familiar, having traded a good number of them in these close moments after. A little loose and lazy but earnest, and he gives a growled sounding rumble of satisfaction for the sense of it while still buried in Flint. It strokes the ego like a petting hand compelling a cat to stretch, languishing under it.
Affection, too, in the press of the kiss and the lay of his hand. His other arm loosely folds up around Flint's torso, a cozier kind of embrace than they typically enjoy.
It's not dissimilar from having Marcus stood behind him with a hand wrapped about his chest. It should put him immediately in the mind of a cobalt burnished evening in a low tent, the cool arid night of the Anderfels kept at bay by the canvas and the candlelight and, briefly, another body shifting close. This, he should think, should be what he'd wanted then.
But he doesn't think of that tent in the Anderfels here amidst the loose shape of Marcus' arms, under that lazy pressing kiss while ensconced in the rumpled sex warm bedclothes. Because it isn't what he'd wanted then. Nevermind what he'd said about riding Marcus on the cot, he'd just wanted that closeness with all their clothes still on and the sensation of being a familiar shape under the fan of someone's fingers. Not chaste, and not platonic. Just—
Not lying in a bed, smelling of sweat and sex and very satisfied with it. The two things are unrelated points, and the one doesn't draw the eye to the other (at present, at least) just because the shape that Marcus' arm bends to happens to be similar.
He kisses him slowly and a half dozen times, though dividing them into distinct parcels is less effective than just marking the fact of mouth against mouth for some measure as the sweat cools on the back of his neck. Then Flint slackens. He lets himself lay his cheek back on the linens, and huffs out a heavy breath that isn't a laugh but also is near to one.
"That was good," he says, plain under Marcus' weight. A more rational tenor, stripped of the insensible impulse that trends in the direction of complimenting Marcus' dick.
If Marcus feels some spark of warmth at these words, it isn't (this time) from some swell of ego or pure self-satisfaction. Under him, Flint relaxes, murmurs that, and there's a private warm curling grasp lodged somewhere beneath the ribcage, the pleasure in having no small part in putting Flint in this state, to say nothing of himself, the state Flint has put him in in return.
He lifts his chin, grazes a kiss across Flint's temple, and sets about reordering them both. A hand tucking down to guide himself out, carefully, although there is little to help the natural twinge of it, that feeling of coolness where run-off fluid finds sweat drying on the skin. He's come to cherish, just a little, the small indignities around these entanglements. Of making a mess of a bed and laying in it, both figuratively and otherwise.
On that note, he doesn't stray far. He returns an arm wound around Flint, and while he slides his weight off of the other man's back, he settles near, a leg still half draped over the backs of his thighs. Not quite willing to let him out from his grasp just yet, nor broaden too much the space they've created.
"Still is," he says, easing himself down with an arm folded beneath his head, mostly to get it out of the way, and also to lay as Flint is laying. Resting in that sudden uncoiling of tension, where muscles are still second-guessing whether they can relax, while his bones are heavy already.
"Mm," he says, where 'Mm' is a low rumble of something like agreement and a way of rationalizing not moving much at all even as Marcus shifts over. He is pleasantly sticky with sweat, and Marcus' orgasm, and whatever dregs of his own that his body has managed to produce. Moving now will only serve to transmute those things into registering as an irritant instead of the clinging sensations of being well fucked.
Anyway, there is the sprawl of Marcus' leg across him to consider.
Flint shifts his face on the prop of his forearm, fingers idly gathering the pillow edge flattened under his weight closer in. His other hand comes clumsily unfolded from where he'd allowed his arm to buckle and his touch, when it finds the back of Marcus' neck, has a heavier cuffing quality more than it does tenderness. But a little of that too, along with a bite of sluggish humor—patting him like a horse.
The following snort of an exhale is not properly horse-like, just sluggishly humoured. Heavily cuffing with a little bit of affection is plainly acceptable, eyes closing for an extended few moments as Marcus lays there and breathes. And if he does that, then the drape of arm and leg can see almost incidental, a convenient kind of position to settle into. His hand does curl in loosely, scuffing the backs of his knuckles against Flint's shoulderblade.
"What do you want to do now?" he asks, a murmur in the laziest pronunciation with a subtle slant of suggestion that it's almost a joke. Like Fuck, again could possibly be on the table, permitting time. (Did they fuck and sleep and read straight through supper? Maybe. The greater lightsource in the room are the candles, to Marcus' estimation.)
Maybe if they get six or so hours of laying here, opportunity will again present itself.
Here, a lower thicker sound becoming a huff of breath—a laugh made all lazy across his forearm and into the worn warm surface of the pillow halfway under him. That hand remains set across the back of Marcus' neck, too loosely strung to bother with removing it and nowhere better to really fit his arm between them even if he weren't.
"I don't have any idea," Flint says, an easy rumble momentarily untroubled by the concept of time and ordering it. This is a considerable concession whether the man next to him realizes it or not. But give him a moment to think. He may be able to scrape together something to consider given a few more seconds spent idle on his belly.
The long breath out of Marcus is sympathetic to this answer. The curled hand resting lightly on Flint's back flattens out, unobtrusively feeling out swoop of bone and muscle. A kind of patting, although it could nearly feel like a means of keeping his hand occupied or of taking opportunity to feel something interesting over rather than transmitting intent. Feeling out scar tissue, following it with a fingertip.
Seven hours at a push, maybe.
Except there is a very satiated looseness in limb and spine, giving no indication of being left wanting, or being very interested in moving for the next few minutes. The hand absently left on the back of his neck is a comfortable weight of contact, satisfying the impulse to seek out more of that.
(But it might be nice to roll Flint backwards and pursue more long, lazy kisses, to tangle up together and soak up whatever's left. If Marcus craved it a little more, he might insist upon it. If he hadn't already indulged in so much, maybe. Extended gestures of intimacy without the purpose being to fuck soon after.
No, he'll lay here rather than flip Flint around where he's laying so comfortably and heavy on his belly. The impulse tucked away, expressed in the bend of knee, the turn of his hand.)
There's something stupid and boyish about this—irresponsible and lazy, this alignment of bodies in the midst of rumpled bedclothes and the casual lay of limbs and palms and cheeks against angled forearms. It feels a little like sunlight on the back of the neck. The prickle of salt air and the sway of a hammock. He allows himself to loiter in that seductively idle space for—
However long. It is not an incidental period of time in which his breathing evens and lengthens and the blurred edge quality of satisfaction is permitted to regulate and gently sharpen back in the direction of reality in which the bed is a little over warm, and the clinging of sweat and come chafes a little. And where, eventually, a more conscious working of thought finds him.
Flint breathes in and out a heavy half dozen measures. Then he draws his hand from the back of Marcus' neck and unfolds his other arm, making to lever himself partly up from the twist of the pillow. Partly over, up onto his side (facing Marcus rather than away) so he might examine the mess they've made of him and the bed.
A huffed out breath, a laugh. This is fucking absurd.
Consciousness bristles in Marcus at that first sign of Flint stirring—not that either of them were sleeping, but there had been a comfortable sort of trance-like quality to this idleness that means that when Flint's breathing changes, Marcus' awareness of it rises lazily to meet him. The equivalent of a lounging dog swiveling an ear in that direction, otherwise unmoving.
Doesn't otherwise move until Flint does, and then folds his leg back, draws his arm in. Eyeline pricking up to Flint's face as he sits up some, and then down to follow Flint's.
An echoed sound, fainter.
His legs draw across the covers as he raises up to sit. "Here," he says, but moves off, bare foot finding the ground and avoiding the strewn about boots, gaiters, pants, shirts—also absurd—in pursuit of where he last remembers Flint keeping water in the room.
There is indeed a pitcher loitering by the basin and a cloth there as well—both idly arranged (and the one half emptied) with the affect of having been thoughtlessly set aside. Flint had probably shaved his cheek there not so very many hours ago.
Meanwhile in the bed, the man himself rolls further over onto his back and props himself on both elbows where he might survey the wreck they've made of the room (or, the lithe line of Marcus' body as he crosses it). That is he going to be pleasantly stiff come morning, is a vague thought, having worked every muscle from hooking calf to curving shoulder after having spent a number of weeks in transit doing nothing at all of consequence.
"They'll be suspicions in the laundry," is a joke, and also true.
That does earn a laugh (both on account of being a joke and also true), a dryly smokey chuckle as Marcus empties the pitcher into the basin, barely above the sound of water splashing. It's warm enough in the room that he doesn't feel compelled to heat it, bare skin prickling pleasantly in the contrasting coolness from skin contact and sweat-warm sheets, so just collects the cloth and picks up the basin to draw it nearer.
He lifts his chin towards the side table, indicating Flint should make himself useful and clear a space.
"Glad ones," he suggests. "Good tidings, if the Commander of Riftwatch is finding some spare time for himself."
Fucking each other is good for morale, is all he's saying.
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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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He can sense Flint bracing himself back in that pleasing way. Marcus would have been content to fuck Flint into the mattress if he'd gone docile and receptive, if it seemed to please him to be so, but there's a different thrill to feel those minor efforts to meet him, a barrier between himself and the give of the bed.
Keeps that hand spread against Flint's chest, the other wrangling low at the hip. Slow, stroking motions, caught here in half-embrace, half-draped across the back of him. Grazes the occasional kiss along the meat of shoulder, sometimes soft and formless, sometimes a scrape of tooth and tongue, not quite committed enough to leave any marks.
Eventually, a readjustment, some shiver of restless energy, needing more. Getting both knees on the outside of Flint's legs, a more secure straddling while keeping hips tilted, staying buried. Chest raising up, hand braced on mattress, the other staying steady at the hip, encouraging Flint to meet him by that minor lifting fraction. From there, Marcus can look down and watch if he cares to, both the slide of his own erection disappearing into Flint's body as well as the curve of his spine, the vulnerable flex of his shaved neck.
Can move a little faster, a panting gust of appreciation for it at pursuing that desired friction, followed by broken off sounds on each ensuing exhale.
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And if he turns his face just a little further, he can catch sight of fragments of Marcus moving above him. The muscle corded across his elbow and his wrist where his hand has braced against the mattress. The barely there shadow of him that moves across the bed in the candlelight.
There's something restless in it: the rise and fall of his temple and the shift of his shoulders. Here is the bared line of his throat as his head tilts back, groan thickening; here the curve of shoulders as his face drops again and he pants the sluggish syllables of Marcus' name against the coverlet.
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Not as drastic a change as that, in reality, but Marcus' panting is coming a little quicker until he reins it into something that matches the long strokes of his cock through that cleft of slick flesh, the clutching heat it meets once buried. The little broken off pieces of his name, barely heard where Flint smothers them into the bedclothes. Sweating now too, felt where the insides of his thighs rub against Flint's outer.
Sets his weight properly on his knees, drags his hand along the line of Flint's torso to his other hip. "I have you," murmured, breathed. "I have you."
His hands firm up, holding Flint's hips in that tilt, starts fucking down into it with more earnestness. Longer strokes, quicker, the impact of flesh meeting flesh all of a less punishing rhythm than he's set before, but closer to that than the slowly burning languid pace with which they'd started.
"Oh, fuck," groaned out. "Fuck that's good."
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The fragmented thought makes Flint groan out, warm and heavy into the thin summer blanket, and he curves reflexively into the hands at his hips.
"Fuck, like that," is a heavy pant, half obscured until he turns his face up from the blanket. "Maker—" That too drawn thick, not reedy. Something searching in the twist of muscle. When Marcus comes inside him, it's possible he might collapse heavily forward. Flint wants to be ready to draw him into a messy kiss across his shoulder if he does. "You're deep."
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So Marcus doesn't, keyed only into any twinge or cue from Flint that requires he do differently, and detecting neither. Vision hazing into tangles of eyelashes where his eyelids go hooded, then refocusing sharp and sudden to pick up bright and vivid details, like the trickle of sweat down Flint's ribs, the furl of his brow where he's twisted around enough for Marcus to see his face.
"Good," likewise panted. "You take me so well. So good."
Easy, for those words and other nonsense to spill from him, as if aware a little of the way they can replace kisses and strokes, grasps and fleeting eye contact. It works on him, works on him now, for all that the only part of Flint touching him is what he's touching himself. Words wend their way through, get a hold of him and squeeze.
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It's obvious when he stops going taut in reply to the stroke of Marcus and just starts taking it, the breath groaning and catching out of him as he's fucked down. It feels good, he must tell him, because it does. That he wants him inside of him. That he should spill into him. How thick Marcus seems, and how well he's filling him, and lower less clarified notes of approval as the sweat rasps between their thighs and that rhythmic jolt presses like a third hand at the small of his back.
He doesn't want to finish just yet. But if he did, he might be more sharply aware of Marcus' hands on him. The press and pull of bodies against the mattress. The clumsy arrangement of his own hands, one forearm having worked itself senselessly under his own chin so that when Marcus makes him moan he can feel the scrape of it in his throat against his own skin.
That desire for clarity almost manages to render some. There is a crisply defined moments where the senses tune sharp and he can listen to himself. The close up blur of the coverlet thickens into folds. Marcus' breathing feels like a pant pressed close to the ear. It occurs to him then that there is a low rocking whine from the bed frame, and maybe it had started when Marcus had worked up onto his knees, only that it's been all but devoured by their own sounds. Flint's attention makes to chase it, to ferret out the detail and sink his teeth into it. Divining the shape of it so sweet in the mouth that he groans out around it, definition scattering into broader forms as he starts to come in thick clutching pulses of muscle.
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A shift in breathing, an edge of desperation to it, a notching up in its intonation. Because it is plain enough to Marcus, the moment Flint starts, and it wrenches something sideways in him, wishing to sink into the sound of the groan that heralds it, or gather in closely to feel the way his body goes taut in the places that need to, but more than that, it tilts the ground out from under him, slides him to that inevitable finish.
Compulsion replacing intent, as Marcus fucks him through to his own climax which comes not a few more seconds after the whine in Flint's ears settles in that afterspace. The groans that fall from Marcus' mouth are shuddered out, stops and starts. Not choked back or strangled down, just clumsy, far more occupied with the sudden unravelling of his orgasm than moderating his breathing.
Long seconds where he goes still and buried hard inside of Flint, save for those fine pulses and twitches, muscles tensing across thigh and hip. Hands that had gone hard and demanding now loosening, leaving behind red where his fingers had bit in. A sound that starts with F, either Flint's name or something else, lost on the exhale.
And yes, buckling down, the hand at Flint's back slipping round to the ribs.
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Flint, driven flat to his belly and gone slack there in the loose jointed space of post-climax, groans under the press. For all that his cock might be spent, the sensation of being filled is still significant. Even if it wasn't, all the sweat and trembling exertion spent between them prickles at the senses in a way that would seem to require a mark of approval.
Hence: under Marcus, Flint turns his face. Clumsily lifts and shifts his shoulder by that half degree. He'd mapped out this angle before; the spare measure of height Marcus has on him makes soliciting a kiss not impossible.
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The kiss he presses to his mouth is familiar, having traded a good number of them in these close moments after. A little loose and lazy but earnest, and he gives a growled sounding rumble of satisfaction for the sense of it while still buried in Flint. It strokes the ego like a petting hand compelling a cat to stretch, languishing under it.
Affection, too, in the press of the kiss and the lay of his hand. His other arm loosely folds up around Flint's torso, a cozier kind of embrace than they typically enjoy.
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But he doesn't think of that tent in the Anderfels here amidst the loose shape of Marcus' arms, under that lazy pressing kiss while ensconced in the rumpled sex warm bedclothes. Because it isn't what he'd wanted then. Nevermind what he'd said about riding Marcus on the cot, he'd just wanted that closeness with all their clothes still on and the sensation of being a familiar shape under the fan of someone's fingers. Not chaste, and not platonic. Just—
Not lying in a bed, smelling of sweat and sex and very satisfied with it. The two things are unrelated points, and the one doesn't draw the eye to the other (at present, at least) just because the shape that Marcus' arm bends to happens to be similar.
He kisses him slowly and a half dozen times, though dividing them into distinct parcels is less effective than just marking the fact of mouth against mouth for some measure as the sweat cools on the back of his neck. Then Flint slackens. He lets himself lay his cheek back on the linens, and huffs out a heavy breath that isn't a laugh but also is near to one.
"That was good," he says, plain under Marcus' weight. A more rational tenor, stripped of the insensible impulse that trends in the direction of complimenting Marcus' dick.
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He lifts his chin, grazes a kiss across Flint's temple, and sets about reordering them both. A hand tucking down to guide himself out, carefully, although there is little to help the natural twinge of it, that feeling of coolness where run-off fluid finds sweat drying on the skin. He's come to cherish, just a little, the small indignities around these entanglements. Of making a mess of a bed and laying in it, both figuratively and otherwise.
On that note, he doesn't stray far. He returns an arm wound around Flint, and while he slides his weight off of the other man's back, he settles near, a leg still half draped over the backs of his thighs. Not quite willing to let him out from his grasp just yet, nor broaden too much the space they've created.
"Still is," he says, easing himself down with an arm folded beneath his head, mostly to get it out of the way, and also to lay as Flint is laying. Resting in that sudden uncoiling of tension, where muscles are still second-guessing whether they can relax, while his bones are heavy already.
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Anyway, there is the sprawl of Marcus' leg across him to consider.
Flint shifts his face on the prop of his forearm, fingers idly gathering the pillow edge flattened under his weight closer in. His other hand comes clumsily unfolded from where he'd allowed his arm to buckle and his touch, when it finds the back of Marcus' neck, has a heavier cuffing quality more than it does tenderness. But a little of that too, along with a bite of sluggish humor—patting him like a horse.
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"What do you want to do now?" he asks, a murmur in the laziest pronunciation with a subtle slant of suggestion that it's almost a joke. Like Fuck, again could possibly be on the table, permitting time. (Did they fuck and sleep and read straight through supper? Maybe. The greater lightsource in the room are the candles, to Marcus' estimation.)
Maybe if they get six or so hours of laying here, opportunity will again present itself.
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"I don't have any idea," Flint says, an easy rumble momentarily untroubled by the concept of time and ordering it. This is a considerable concession whether the man next to him realizes it or not. But give him a moment to think. He may be able to scrape together something to consider given a few more seconds spent idle on his belly.
Make it eight or so hours.
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Seven hours at a push, maybe.
Except there is a very satiated looseness in limb and spine, giving no indication of being left wanting, or being very interested in moving for the next few minutes. The hand absently left on the back of his neck is a comfortable weight of contact, satisfying the impulse to seek out more of that.
(But it might be nice to roll Flint backwards and pursue more long, lazy kisses, to tangle up together and soak up whatever's left. If Marcus craved it a little more, he might insist upon it. If he hadn't already indulged in so much, maybe. Extended gestures of intimacy without the purpose being to fuck soon after.
No, he'll lay here rather than flip Flint around where he's laying so comfortably and heavy on his belly. The impulse tucked away, expressed in the bend of knee, the turn of his hand.)
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However long. It is not an incidental period of time in which his breathing evens and lengthens and the blurred edge quality of satisfaction is permitted to regulate and gently sharpen back in the direction of reality in which the bed is a little over warm, and the clinging of sweat and come chafes a little. And where, eventually, a more conscious working of thought finds him.
Flint breathes in and out a heavy half dozen measures. Then he draws his hand from the back of Marcus' neck and unfolds his other arm, making to lever himself partly up from the twist of the pillow. Partly over, up onto his side (facing Marcus rather than away) so he might examine the mess they've made of him and the bed.
A huffed out breath, a laugh. This is fucking absurd.
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Doesn't otherwise move until Flint does, and then folds his leg back, draws his arm in. Eyeline pricking up to Flint's face as he sits up some, and then down to follow Flint's.
An echoed sound, fainter.
His legs draw across the covers as he raises up to sit. "Here," he says, but moves off, bare foot finding the ground and avoiding the strewn about boots, gaiters, pants, shirts—also absurd—in pursuit of where he last remembers Flint keeping water in the room.
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Meanwhile in the bed, the man himself rolls further over onto his back and props himself on both elbows where he might survey the wreck they've made of the room (or, the lithe line of Marcus' body as he crosses it). That is he going to be pleasantly stiff come morning, is a vague thought, having worked every muscle from hooking calf to curving shoulder after having spent a number of weeks in transit doing nothing at all of consequence.
"They'll be suspicions in the laundry," is a joke, and also true.
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He lifts his chin towards the side table, indicating Flint should make himself useful and clear a space.
"Glad ones," he suggests. "Good tidings, if the Commander of Riftwatch is finding some spare time for himself."
Fucking each other is good for morale, is all he's saying.
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