In the midst of blood pushing thick through veins, there's a small curl of amusement. That may well be so, and would explain a few things, and how fortunate.
And as for the rest—
"I do," murmured, panted out. "I will. I'll do that."
And they'll both be wanting each other the whole time it takes him to get there, he's sure. But at least for right now, this is something, and it isn't simply a quick form of cheap relief, not with the way Flint's voice seems to pair with his own hand, seems to run down his back.
"I can tell," is true. Though it's only once he's said it that Flint consciously notes having recognized the thickening shape of Marcus' voice. Something in the way the man's tongue handles the edges of words that has already been rubbing at him, as at home against his cheek as Marcus pressing a panting and open mouthed kiss would be there.
It breeds a terrible impulse in him to be coaxing and needy both. Mercifully (nevermind that it doesn't feel so in the moment), he's short the necessary friction to get completely ridiculous. So, instead—
"It would be my hand on you, were I there. I'd want you to fuck into my fingers and come undone on them. I like having you on me."
There's a yes edged into breath, broadly affirming, agreeing. Not quite yearning, no room for that, and it's enough that Marcus does fuck his hand some, muscles pulling taut across the body, heel digging.
Yes, as in it would be, and yes, he would, and yes, he likes that too. Has liked it since he had it, imposing himself, welcomed.
"Flint," and, "I need," tumble out of him, before resolving into, "Can I come," in place of seeking out the affirming twitch and encouragement of work rough fingers that don't belong to him.
He could say no. He could ask him to hold off. Just a few moments longer. More—he could tell him now to stop touching himself at all, and deny him entirely the relief of spilling over. It wouldn't be impossible, he senses, to talk him down from the buzzing edge of it. If he instructed him to, Marcus would comply.
The certainty of that thought is sweet and biting as cheap liquor on the tongue, sufficiently satisfying in the short term to relegate the urgency to something considered rather than acted on. Besides, if he were to make Marcus stop, he would want to actually watch him squirm and rather than just knowing about it. Nevermind that it would be cruel to deny him at this distance where there's so little he might do to make up for it.
Encouragement, permission, whatever it is, is nearly enough to trigger the thing. The sound out of him is close, quiet, growled and grateful.
Not long, though. Some heavily weighted seconds of heightened breath, carrying quiet vocalisation that he half-consciously makes more pronounced for Flint's benefit, or at least, treating it like giving himself permission to let himself make them, to push past an instinct for silence. Then, the familiar clench, a flood of heat pulled out of him.
Through the crystal, it sounds like a hitch in sound and breathing, and then release, a punched out groan too open to be gritted out, that distinct blend of impact and relief. Tapers, rougher edge returning through gritted teeth, coarse through the throat, something predatorily satiated in its timbre.
And then the simplicity and silliness of the whole thing sets back in. He is alone in this room, on this cheap bed, having fucked nothing but his own palm, and will have to clean himself up, all of this just has the next breath out sound more amused than anything else.
It's an indulgence to shift the blue crystal nearer to his ear so he might listen to the break and hitch and the scrape of Marcus' groaning in as granular detail as is possible. Close enough that he can almost feel the texture of it warm against the skin, thick in the blood; that he can imagine the slick heat of Marcus' climax and the expanding shape of his ribs as he breathes in.
And out, wolfish first. And then less untethered, the sound of giving muscle and gentling tension and something more sensible moving to fill the space.
In the division office at the top of the Gallows tower, Flint unwinds his fingers from the chair arm before he slides the crystal back to his cheek. Half hard, obviously; half wound, the knot in his belly thick.
Still, there's something easy (if rough; not without humor) in the slant of his voice, and maybe Marcus can hear the tug at the corner of his mouth when he asks, "All right?"
Breathy, still, quiet, shaped a little with a half-cocked smile. "I'm good." Very good, the implication.
Now it would be that hazy period of time where he, where they, can get away with finishing kisses, lingering hands. Insisting himself against Flint, curling over him, trying not to be too conscious of the degrees by which they touch each other, or do not.
Shifting, but not by much. A slightly less sprawled position on the bed, picking the crystal back up. "You might like to try that sometime," is all texture, decidedly bedroom, as if they were laying together. Just the crystal, resting in hand and nearer his mouth.
His answering "Mm," is a throaty rasp, fingers turning to absently trace across the edge of the chair's arm. Here, higher up on it where the wood cedes to upholstery and padding, is a loose stitch in want of picking. It's a wonder he didn't find it earlier.
"I'll keep it in mind." These intervals of not being conveniently to hand for one another being something of a frequent occurrence. If he were to cup the crystal close enough and be very mindful of how far any sound carries, it's possible they might employ a similar practice should they ever find themselves in a Riftwatch encampment restless and needy for a fuck.
(He might like that, despite an ordinary skepticism when it comes to any reliance on the crystals—something teasing in the possibility of playing this game with considerably less than four days' riding stretched out between them.)
But no protest, just a hum of a sound after, and an, "Alright," and some lazily drawn breath suggesting a comfortable shift in position. "Just don't expect I'll be all finished with it by the time I'm back, then." It's a long book. Marcus should probably not try to get any of it done in the saddle.
"It should, yes." But maybe he'll avoid adjusting his belt for the next few pages anyway, lest the minor friction from the shift of troiser fabric and the weight about his midsection prove distracting.
(The thread comes loose, and is twisted between the fingers.)
"That would explain why it's taken four days to only get so far as south of Porthan."
Miraculous that Marcus hasn't been put to work by opportunistic highway bandits if not roving Venatori, at that pace. Think of that, the semantics of the thing, and not the satisfied burr clinging to the edge of Marcus' timbre.
(But that too—something smug creeping in under the half clench of arousal in an effort to substitute what won't be relieved. The novelty of talking a man into coming isn't lost on him.)
"That we're trading our time for favours and not gold, I think, is the reason."
Diplomacy is the worst. And while an entirely uneventful caravan is the ideal, it's no small amount of restlessness that's put him in this specific state. Now, the promise of at least two more days of plodding progress lays ahead of him, full of people who do not wish to deal with him overmuch and the feeling being mutual, and if the Maker sees fit to arrange for trouble on the road to give him something to distract himself with—
Well, Marcus wouldn't curse His name for it or anything. He plays, idle, with the fold in the cover by the glowing crystal. Speaking of distraction, it feels inevitable that he should think again, a little, in fragments, of their last conversation. Of Flint having not made up his mind. Or affection and conversation.
But even if there were a fully formed means of inquiring after it all, doing so over crystal doesn't hold the same appeal as managing to fuck over it. So,
"If you think of any emergencies that demand our return, I'll convey it to the rest."
"I'm afraid you may be trapped, barring some legitimate chance effort by our enemies." But who knows. The Gallows is not impenetrable. Maybe this is the week the Venatori make a move against it.
"But I'll keep you at the forefront of my mind should we find ourselves in need of an extra hand here."
The loose thread having come away and been subsequently rolled into a little ball, it's summarily flicked away now—lost into the long shadows of the room, incidental. Small talk aside, they're meant to say goodnight now.
"You did sound good," Flint tells him instead, a more sensible assessment.
On the other side of the crystal, a pause. Then, an adjustment—the slide of skin on fabric, and fainter than that, the creak of a loosened rope beneath.
"So you weren't just saying all that," Marcus asks, even though the intonation isn't querying. Faintly tinged in amusement, but more gratified than mocking, if such a thing can be picked apart. He adds, so as not to go misunderstood, "I liked it."
"That's generally preferable to the reverse," he says, some humorous slant in it. Just fractionally guarded, largely a nipping remark back at fingertips. No, he wasn't just saying it(, you prick).
What is not evident in this sound is Flint's shifting of the blue crystal to between both sets of fingertips, and the idle winding of it round until the cord laced about it catches and begins to coil in around the stone's top.
"We should consider going back to one of those let rooms. You're meant to be loud in them."
A faint spark of satisfaction for that barely detectable bristle doesn't quite catch on anything, certainly not enough for the crystal to convey. Maybe the channeling of exhale, louder for going through the nose.
Pausing over the next thing. Considering it, as Marcus considers the links in the fine chain attached to his crystal. "We should," on not too much of a delay. Come find him, he'd said, upon his return to the Gallows. That feels deliberate, feels on purpose, guards him against assuming something about this idea. "We might wish to intend on it instead of hope to meet in the same tavern.
"When you were due back from the Anderfels behind us," he continues. "I'd intended to ask you along into Kirkwall with me."
There isn't so much length to the cord. It loops gently round and round as the blue crystal is turned between fingertips. Flint winds it until it reaches the cord's knotted end, and then reverses its rotation. Lets the length of cord reel back out, then sends it looping back up on the opposite lay.
"Mm," is not without a trace of amusement. It acts as a placeholder for silence where any length of pause would seem to be less than preferable.
"I suppose you have a particular tavern in mind, then."
"I've been trying the Buckler, lately," Marcus says, a shrug in his voice. Kirkwall has no absence of near identical taverns, likely half of them dependent on the same handful of breweries. But, "I've not seen much of Riftwatch there, and it gets rowdier earlier than most. We won't want to linger."
Which is, clearly, a credit to it. "There's the Oak and Ivy, in Hightown," he adds, almost a dare. "Has its own rooms. If you're paying."
"I'm sure their rates are entirely reasonable," is mild, and sounds identical to 'Fuck off, Rowntree.' Meanwhile, the crystal has reached the end of its cord again.
"I know a passable boarding house that won't turn away early guests."
Somewhere else, in equally sedate golden lantern light, a brief gleam of teeth, a snatch of a smile.
"Passable," Marcus repeats, but then, "Alright," that follows is leaves off any teasing that might cling to his tone. A lifted knee, heel settled on the mattress. A thumb idly sketching over the hooked scar just next to it. "Will you want that, when I get back in? Or should I still come interrupt whatever it is I find you doing."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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And as for the rest—
"I do," murmured, panted out. "I will. I'll do that."
And they'll both be wanting each other the whole time it takes him to get there, he's sure. But at least for right now, this is something, and it isn't simply a quick form of cheap relief, not with the way Flint's voice seems to pair with his own hand, seems to run down his back.
"Fuck, Flint, I'm close."
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It breeds a terrible impulse in him to be coaxing and needy both. Mercifully (nevermind that it doesn't feel so in the moment), he's short the necessary friction to get completely ridiculous. So, instead—
"It would be my hand on you, were I there. I'd want you to fuck into my fingers and come undone on them. I like having you on me."
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Yes, as in it would be, and yes, he would, and yes, he likes that too. Has liked it since he had it, imposing himself, welcomed.
"Flint," and, "I need," tumble out of him, before resolving into, "Can I come," in place of seeking out the affirming twitch and encouragement of work rough fingers that don't belong to him.
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The certainty of that thought is sweet and biting as cheap liquor on the tongue, sufficiently satisfying in the short term to relegate the urgency to something considered rather than acted on. Besides, if he were to make Marcus stop, he would want to actually watch him squirm and rather than just knowing about it. Nevermind that it would be cruel to deny him at this distance where there's so little he might do to make up for it.
He won't even make him say please.
"Go on. I want to hear it."
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Not long, though. Some heavily weighted seconds of heightened breath, carrying quiet vocalisation that he half-consciously makes more pronounced for Flint's benefit, or at least, treating it like giving himself permission to let himself make them, to push past an instinct for silence. Then, the familiar clench, a flood of heat pulled out of him.
Through the crystal, it sounds like a hitch in sound and breathing, and then release, a punched out groan too open to be gritted out, that distinct blend of impact and relief. Tapers, rougher edge returning through gritted teeth, coarse through the throat, something predatorily satiated in its timbre.
And then the simplicity and silliness of the whole thing sets back in. He is alone in this room, on this cheap bed, having fucked nothing but his own palm, and will have to clean himself up, all of this just has the next breath out sound more amused than anything else.
Maybe crystals aren't so bad.
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And out, wolfish first. And then less untethered, the sound of giving muscle and gentling tension and something more sensible moving to fill the space.
In the division office at the top of the Gallows tower, Flint unwinds his fingers from the chair arm before he slides the crystal back to his cheek. Half hard, obviously; half wound, the knot in his belly thick.
Still, there's something easy (if rough; not without humor) in the slant of his voice, and maybe Marcus can hear the tug at the corner of his mouth when he asks, "All right?"
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Breathy, still, quiet, shaped a little with a half-cocked smile. "I'm good." Very good, the implication.
Now it would be that hazy period of time where he, where they, can get away with finishing kisses, lingering hands. Insisting himself against Flint, curling over him, trying not to be too conscious of the degrees by which they touch each other, or do not.
Shifting, but not by much. A slightly less sprawled position on the bed, picking the crystal back up. "You might like to try that sometime," is all texture, decidedly bedroom, as if they were laying together. Just the crystal, resting in hand and nearer his mouth.
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"I'll keep it in mind." These intervals of not being conveniently to hand for one another being something of a frequent occurrence. If he were to cup the crystal close enough and be very mindful of how far any sound carries, it's possible they might employ a similar practice should they ever find themselves in a Riftwatch encampment restless and needy for a fuck.
(He might like that, despite an ordinary skepticism when it comes to any reliance on the crystals—something teasing in the possibility of playing this game with considerably less than four days' riding stretched out between them.)
"And you should stop skipping pages in my book."
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But no protest, just a hum of a sound after, and an, "Alright," and some lazily drawn breath suggesting a comfortable shift in position. "Just don't expect I'll be all finished with it by the time I'm back, then." It's a long book. Marcus should probably not try to get any of it done in the saddle.
"What were you doing, before my messaging?"
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Which is true. More or less.
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He can do this all day.
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"Field correspondence."
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Dry, nipping, "That'll help." Unless someone else is also using official channels of communication for illicit entertainment.
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"It should, yes." But maybe he'll avoid adjusting his belt for the next few pages anyway, lest the minor friction from the shift of troiser fabric and the weight about his midsection prove distracting.
(The thread comes loose, and is twisted between the fingers.)
"I take it you ride out first thing."
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"Aye, though it implies the caravan can be mustered as quickly as 'first thing'. I've nearly finished chapters during all that."
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Miraculous that Marcus hasn't been put to work by opportunistic highway bandits if not roving Venatori, at that pace. Think of that, the semantics of the thing, and not the satisfied burr clinging to the edge of Marcus' timbre.
(But that too—something smug creeping in under the half clench of arousal in an effort to substitute what won't be relieved. The novelty of talking a man into coming isn't lost on him.)
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Diplomacy is the worst. And while an entirely uneventful caravan is the ideal, it's no small amount of restlessness that's put him in this specific state. Now, the promise of at least two more days of plodding progress lays ahead of him, full of people who do not wish to deal with him overmuch and the feeling being mutual, and if the Maker sees fit to arrange for trouble on the road to give him something to distract himself with—
Well, Marcus wouldn't curse His name for it or anything. He plays, idle, with the fold in the cover by the glowing crystal. Speaking of distraction, it feels inevitable that he should think again, a little, in fragments, of their last conversation. Of Flint having not made up his mind. Or affection and conversation.
But even if there were a fully formed means of inquiring after it all, doing so over crystal doesn't hold the same appeal as managing to fuck over it. So,
"If you think of any emergencies that demand our return, I'll convey it to the rest."
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"But I'll keep you at the forefront of my mind should we find ourselves in need of an extra hand here."
The loose thread having come away and been subsequently rolled into a little ball, it's summarily flicked away now—lost into the long shadows of the room, incidental. Small talk aside, they're meant to say goodnight now.
"You did sound good," Flint tells him instead, a more sensible assessment.
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"So you weren't just saying all that," Marcus asks, even though the intonation isn't querying. Faintly tinged in amusement, but more gratified than mocking, if such a thing can be picked apart. He adds, so as not to go misunderstood, "I liked it."
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What is not evident in this sound is Flint's shifting of the blue crystal to between both sets of fingertips, and the idle winding of it round until the cord laced about it catches and begins to coil in around the stone's top.
"We should consider going back to one of those let rooms. You're meant to be loud in them."
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Pausing over the next thing. Considering it, as Marcus considers the links in the fine chain attached to his crystal. "We should," on not too much of a delay. Come find him, he'd said, upon his return to the Gallows. That feels deliberate, feels on purpose, guards him against assuming something about this idea. "We might wish to intend on it instead of hope to meet in the same tavern.
"When you were due back from the Anderfels behind us," he continues. "I'd intended to ask you along into Kirkwall with me."
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"Mm," is not without a trace of amusement. It acts as a placeholder for silence where any length of pause would seem to be less than preferable.
"I suppose you have a particular tavern in mind, then."
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Which is, clearly, a credit to it. "There's the Oak and Ivy, in Hightown," he adds, almost a dare. "Has its own rooms. If you're paying."
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"I know a passable boarding house that won't turn away early guests."
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"Passable," Marcus repeats, but then, "Alright," that follows is leaves off any teasing that might cling to his tone. A lifted knee, heel settled on the mattress. A thumb idly sketching over the hooked scar just next to it. "Will you want that, when I get back in? Or should I still come interrupt whatever it is I find you doing."
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