katabasis | [psl] dos rowdy boys

More movement, the mattress dipping where he puts some weight on a knee. The shift of the arm he has folded under him stretching out and up some, elbow to mattress to raise him up and over. The tickle of his breath at Flint's chest has a quality of a laugh to it. Presses a kiss where there's thicker muscle, lower still.

"No," has that same slanted quality, but sounds sure of itself, as he presses another kiss down. No, Marcus isn't demanding anything beyond what's already been suggested. His hand doesn't move much lower, but idles there, the sweep of his thumb feeling softer skin.

In answer, a low skeptical sounding hum and the gentle adjusting of his hip. It's an automatic kind of flexion, a delicate tensing and untensing of muscle under the motion of Marcus' thumb.

Somewhere in there—the straying of his hand, Flint's fingers playing up across the curve of Marcus' shoulder. In the dark, given the muggy quality of the moonlight through the weather and narrow slot window both, he is just a smudge of something lighter in a black field. But the sense under his fingertips is quite solid. Reassuringly so.

"Then I'll let you," he tells him.

A hummed sound, satisfied with that answer, and his hand moves. Most of him moves, really, knees negotiating some territory around Flint's legs, the brief press of skin below the cuffs of soft breeches. A climb further down, the wandering path of those kisses continuing, although this one is a little clumsier, breathed through, sharply warm and damp.

This feels a little more like making up for lost time when Marcus was on the road as opposed to near dead or bedridden. The curl of satisfaction he feels certainly suggests itself as an answer to it. Scent and taste and feel instead of only sound, and that they lack sight doesn't feel like a lack, exactly, but a natural extension of the thing.

His hand moves, slipping down to palm over the front of Flint's breeches. Something negligent in it, as if not just in search for the shape of the other man's cock as he is interested in feeling it through the texture of soft cotton, feeling the stitch that runs there.

It lends a thick sense to the air, that dark. He is very aware of Marcus moving through it, as if he might sense the eddies of small currents in it caused by the shifting of covers or the warm trail left by a mouth over skin; his own elbow shifting as his hand remains light at the other man's bare shoulder; the way the room's air grows denser with breathing, an low exhale swirling in phosphorescent reply to the shape of Marcus' hand as it finds him through soft fabric.

I'll put my hands on you, he'd told Marcus nearly a week ago by crystal. He'd meant it. They were meant to find a room after a few drinks, and there he would have made a proper through study of every part of the other man in the lamplight—some abstract intent to see if Marcus could be made to ask for it ('Can I come?' he'd asked, and Flint has given the scraped sound of it serious thought in the interim).

So, in a sense, it should feel like wasted mental effort to lay here now in the dark with just his fingers at Marcus' shoulder, or to shift his hand to the more braced of the man's biceps where he might assert a grip, gently squeezing. To be touched, but only barely touching. But then he had thought, maybe, when they laid here in this bed tonight that he might just fit himself intimately close to Marcus and simply fall asleep in his company, and that prospect had seemed something of an even substitute for the other. He can touch him tomorrow. He can sleep next to him without needing to fuck first the day after. They have already been composing a list, and presently continue to have the luxury of adding to it.

"Do you still want me to be rough with you?"

The rustle of sheets follows more cool air against bare skin, push aside properly as Marcus settles between Flint's thighs. It is a satisfying place to be. Giving thought as to why sounds like a strenuous activity when compared to simply finding that satisfaction, expressing it in a low breath out in tandem with the squeeze to his arm, and the luxurious press of his hand about the shape of Flint's cock through the cotton.

There's a version of events where he might have felt this was in some way necessary towards staying the night, an obligation he happens to have hunger for. There's another version of events where he clutches so fiercely to the opportunity to simply sleep alongside Flint without any of this. But maybe it was in the way Flint breathed against his neck as they stood embracing or the gentle kiss to his palm or the scrape of razor against a basin edge or some other vague moment in between everything,

well, it doesn't feel as though he is stealing something for himself. Getting away with it. The future is an ink-dark room, with a warm bed and hands that know the way, and it nearly wasn't.

His hand has moved for the ties at Flint's breeches when this is said, and his answer is, first, a textured exhale. Evaluates the minor twinge he feels at the notion, so he can only say, "Yes," as he loosens the tie. And then, "Sometimes," a little wry, before landing a kiss very low on Flint's abdomen.

He makes room for him, shifting heels and knees to offer up the space Marcus requires. It's simple to do once freed of the coverlet. Is as practical as the untying of laces.

A soft pulse of fingers at Marcus' arm answers that warm kiss. And low in his belly, a keen stirring of interest that responds to the press of Marcus' palm.

"Sometimes," is a low echo of agreement. "For the best. I can't have you coming into these rooms and leaving wearing bruises every time or the company will start to resent me."

"And you," has something like a rejoinder in it. A flashed smile, crooked, showing teeth, if unseen at this moment. The firmer tug and loosening of drawstrings. "You can't have your sleeves down all summer."

Angles around his hand, fingers sliding beneath loosened fabric. Splays them, drawing fabric down where it catches at the wrist as he gathers Flint's cock into that loose grasp. It's thoughtful, that silence, punctuated by the brush of his mouth nearby, barely a kiss into the crook of Flint's hip.

Eventually, "Do they know?"

"Probably," comes after a long beat. It has less to do with the question than it does with the soft pull of fabric and the direct heat of Marcus' hand.

"No one's said anything of it to me, but that means less than nothing. Gossip is more prolific than certainty."

If the healer who'd met them in that narrow Kirkwall ash and debris strewn yard had said nothing, then maybe her partner on the griffon has. And if not then, perhaps a member of Forces he'd sent searching for Marcus to begin with. Or the servants who'd been working in the makeshift infirmary talking to the girls in the laundry who have seen suspect evidence of certain indiscretions. Or, or, or.

(They have been quiet, yes, but maybe not especially subtle.)

A soft shiver, a thicker inhale. His thumb pressing against Marcus' shoulder.

This is absorbed, considered, find it doesn't start to twist in him when it might have done. Maybe the change of things or the languid mood in the dark or simply the idea of entertaining the implication is both too exhausting and inconvenient. That sound of Flint's breath, the press of his thumb, seem to say: and that's alright.

Turns his head enough to brush his mouth against the side of Flint's wrist, as if to say the same. And if there is some small thrill of satisfaction that, in spite of their echoed agreement that discretion is necessary not so long ago and in spite of the wisdom of it, he feels at the idea of something known, it feels a little like the way he does when considering the shadows of fingertip-bruises on Flint's arm or throat or hip. An impulse towards leaving a mark.

Working Flint's breeches down, until they gather high about the thighs. The contrast between cooler air and warm breath, maybe headier in the dark, maybe the same. Marcus grips Flint in a more specific curl of fingers, a gentle and encouraged squeeze before his mouth makes contact, bringing the head of Flint's cock between his lips, against the slick warmth of his tongue.

That wet heat is greeted with a soft hiss in between the teeth. For the sensation of it is stark in the unlit room, with the shape of Marcus' shoulder shifting under his fingertips like a tether line to secure himself by.

For a moment, anyway. Then, spurred on, his hand shifts to fleet blindly along the line of the other man's neck and cheek. Fingers scuffing at a temple, pushing back loose hair in a motion that is both helpful and tangling. Later, maybe, the muscle in his forearm will tighten an encourage some desired effect. But for the time behind, the weight of his hand is soft and he lets himself be comfortable in this patient, slowly wound state.

Yes, the company probably does know (or thinks they know, which amounts to the same thing). But here in a dark room with the sense of Marcus settled heavy and low between his thighs (or just here, with Marcus in his bed at all), it hardly matters. Maybe it won't for some weeks yet, either.

"That's it," a low murmur, thumb gentle at Marcus' hairline.

There is a contented sound timed with the touch of Flint's hand to his face, into his hair. Attuned to the sound of changing breath and low murmurs. Clutches at him, low in his belly.

Fingers tighter around the base of him, not checking him but holding, and Marcus lowers his head to take more into his mouth. Thrills for the familiar eroticism of that weight against his tongue, the inherently uncomfortable fullness of the task. Draws back up, wetting his lips with gathered saliva before taking him back in with a languorous slide slick warmth.

The task is simple, occupying, the sort of thing that cuts short critical thinking or reflection and whittles it right down to instinct. Pares back wants and desires to their most basic forms. The desire to give, to be praised, to taste the other man, to hold him between his jaws.

He works him with slow, deliberate strokes of movement. Breaks away, half-grasps him in hand to drag his tongue down to the base before coaxing him back in. The dirty sound of it louder for the darkness.

There is something, too, to be said for the strength of the mind's eye. The picture it conjures of Marcus there is all sharp edged in its imagined shape. He has seen what the man looks like with a cock in his mouth before—that heavy, contended quality writ broad in his features. In the dark, with only the slick sounds of his mouth, the rasp of breathing and bedclothes, it is natural to fix that image to the forefront. To think of those rough, aching noises Marcus has sometimes made between his cock and his fingers, and for the thought to hook low and hot under Marcus' touch.

"That's good, Marcus." There is a low, warm burr at the edge it. Fingers pushing back through hair, flexing across the crown of his head.

Tomorrow, he thinks. They could meet in Lowtown; there will be some hour where he might step away in the afternoon. If Marcus found the place, he could hurry to it and they could have a quick fuck in the daylight of some let room. He could watch him then; see how closely the picture in his head still trues up with reality.

The answering sound Marcus makes stands in for something like praise in return, whatever that might be. His voice, his hand, his cock. Laying back, letting him.

Marcus moves his hand off Flint's cock to smooth up across his belly, his chest, at the same time as he takes him deeper. A progressive nudging to fit him intimately in his mouth, towards his throat, as deep as he'll tolerate tonight. His fingers curl there against Flint's skin as he holds him like that for those quick few breaths before drawing back with patient slowness. Breathing, there, Flint shallow against his tongue, a slightly raspier breath out.

Lingers there, lips closing just around the crown of him, the curl of his tongue a quiet, private tease of touch that seems to feel out shape and texture and that beading hint of moisture.

The weight of the hand across his chest, the texture of fingers and palm pressing in combination with that deeper, tighter sense of Marcus' mouth— he breathes out a low, panted sound as it eases. The weight of his hand lightening, a shiver threading its way through his center in answer to the flick of tongue.

Slowly, the closing of fingers on Marcus' hair. Gets a grip on him. Rather than hitch his hip up, he makes a hitched sound. Coaxing. An encouraging press of the hand.

And in counter (or maybe in compliment), his spare hand shifting in from out of the dark. It fits across Marcus' there at his chest, covering it.

The hand under Flint's stretches, fingers flattening, like an animal being pressed into calm. Easy, to curl them back against to fit against Flint's palm.

Meanwhile, Marcus bows his head to that encouraging pressure, the sharper clutch of the hand. Lowers around Flint's cock, a long stroke of motion, slower to lift away, but not stopping, taking him back in again. Tasting and testing and teasing, beneath that gentle asking motion, turning to something more dedicated.

The arm he has folded to balance himself can shift enough for him to grip Flint's hip, otherwise refusing to move the hand Flint has covered as if it were pinned there.

He can feel his own pulse against his ribs pressing up to meet the palm of Marcus' hands. Or that is the draw of his breath, lungs swelling in answer to the more earnest shape of Marcus' mouth. The heat of his tongue. The sensation of his bending under the closed grip of his hand. There is something collaborative in this despite how settled he is across the mattress. Marcus takes him into his mouth; his wrist tenses. His fingers on both hands cinch briefly tighter, and then they do it over again.

There is sweat prickling at the base of his throat, half inspired by the slicked sounds that have come to fill the dark narrowed space. Fuck, his mouth is good; and so is the hand at his hip, and the eagerness with which Marcus has sought this out when they might have only laid next to one another. It clenches low in the belly. Rings softly in the ear.

"Close," sounds like warm, rasping praise more than it does a warning, though they could make this last longer if they wanted. He could coax Marcus' mouth up off him until that tightening sensation wound down enough to start over again. Later.

(Later, he can have Marcus sit in a chair for him and give this back to him. Lay his cheek across the crook of the man's hip and thigh and slowly stroke his cock, or suck him in intervals.)

Marcus' hand at Flint's hip tightens, a pulse of pressure. Hard to interpret it as anything other than a good, or maybe permission.

Doesn't take him in really deep, they're not quite situated for that, but keeps him there, not-quite-shallow, mouth pulling him in slow, wet movements. Keen to see him over like this, while soaking up the way Flint's voice changes when he's near, the thrum of tension through open thighs, the pulse of Flint's hand tightening, releasing, tightening.

His own cock is stiff within his drawers and he isn't thinking about whether he'll consider it a nuisance in a moment or pleasantly uncomfortable, but he is, too, thinking of later. The pleasant falsehood that this is all some exchange of favours, of having lost count at some point. They want each other too much for it to have meaning.

Marcus gives a thoughtless and quiet groan around Flint's cock at some shiver of warmth passing through him, from the twinge of his hair tugged, down through his centre.

That hum of sound radiates up and through him, a liquid kind of heat. There is something in how none of this is particularly hurried that sits pleasantly against the skin. All intent and want, but stripped of any impatient jangling of nerves or then vibrant kind of urgency that puts a hungry metal taste on the tongue.

They should be, shouldn't they? Urgent, and needy, and clinging to this thing that had almost ended so unceremoniously. It is a balm, actually, to feel little need to grasp unnecessarily after Marcus in the dark. The weight is enough. The hand flat on his chest is enough. The direct heat of his mouth is—

Plenty capable. With a low note that vibrates against the shape of there fingers, he spills hot over the lay of Marcus' tongue. A clenching fist gentles.

His hands tighten as he feels Flint spasm underneath him, and feels a strong inner jerk of warmth at that hot pulse inside his mouth. He stays as is, swallowing shallow around Flint until he can hear the tone of the next breath out. Releases him, then, his own breathing that little bit shallow, rasping, mindlessly pressing a clumsy kiss intimate into the crook of hip and thigh and pelvis, eyes closed in the dark.

Unhurried. No rush to rise up and curl against him, although this is what he will surely do. He rests his head a moment against the other man's thigh instead, basking a little in that inevitably niggling feeling of neglected arousal.

Turns his hand, grasping after Flint's properly.

That unraveling of tension sags the joint of a knee. It relaxes the angle of a wrist, and somewhere in the dark the room widens back to its original dimensions rather than some clutched close space carved out just to fit them. Fingers smooth free of their tangle in Marcus' hair, clasp roughly at the angle of his jaw. Tuck loose strands of hair back behind the curve of an ear, and then just lingers clumsily there as Flint's other hand laces fingers and weighs heavily with Marcus' at the line of his sternum.

He spends the sharpened edge of his attention on this: Marcus' hand in his, and the shape of the other man's breathing across his hip; feeling the prickle of sweat and listening to the hum winding down through his blood.

They lay like this for what feels like a long, wordless interim.

Then, a slow exhale. A low rumbling that is acknowledgement, or praise, or an invitation which vibrates against Marcus' knuckles. The hand flopped across the side of his face finds a more reliable place for Flint to set his fingers where he might coax Marcus up from his efforts.

Come here, he doesn't say, though the sentiment is in the twitching points of contact and the long settled line of flint's body in the unlit room.

It's a good and satisfying interim. Laying there, feeling his pulse thick in his throat, chest, cock, feeling it thin back out, feel blood shift and settle. The taste of bitter-salt ebbing away as he swallows again, content for his hand to be tangled with Flint's, to feel loose fingers and palm against his face.

Stirs when that changes, setting against his jaw. Pushes the folded up arm beneath himself so that he can raise back up, ignoring (or rather, forgetting) the tangle of cotton around Flint's thighs in pursuit of moving to meet him.

Lays heavily across him, bodies warm, turning his face to kiss clumsily at fingers halfway there.

A murmuring of sound, warm and satisfied, approves of the rearrangement. Hand shifting—first to encourage that lay of Marcus' kiss, and then to take him by the chin and helpfully guide him the rest of the way so that Flint might grumble a low note of affirmation directly against his mouth. A lazy arm is slung about Marcus' shoulders in loose welcome, and the kiss that materializes is content to be slow and easy.

(Somewhere, tucked inside that loose jointed sensation and the pleasant thrumming of post-orgasm working it's way through muscle and sinew, there is that tight knot behind his ribs. Yanked a little nearer now, a full sensation high in his chest. Not painful. Just pressing enough not to escape notice.)

"Good work," is a thick breath out in close space. Humor curling at the edges. Punctuated by a gentle nipping at a lower lip.

That gets a murmured, "Thanks," that matches that small curl of humour, dry and quick. Chasing that nipped touch with reinstating a close kiss, sweetly shallow without being particularly chaste. Marcus settles himself once it breaks, the line of his body sinking against Flint's, shoulders relaxed beneath the loose yoke of that arm.

It'll be too warm. It is too warm, but it's a welcome amount of too warm, open air prickling at skin that's a little damper than it was a moment ago. Still, after a second, Marcus reaches down to snag the rumpled edge of sheet, pulls it higher over them about the waist before resettling, now more alongside than on.

Lays there, silent. Still. It feels silent and still inside as well, which has not been so for the last few days.

Settling there in that half press of warm skin, cool bed linens, and the prickle of stilled air, he listens to the shape of Marcus' breathing for a long measure. Here, there is some small shifting point of contact that rasps gently as one of them exhales and the other does the reverse. And he can feel the beat of his own pulse falling. Can sense angles and weight relaxing into place, and lets it happen.

Later, he will think to twist his legs free of the cotten breeches. For the present, he has forgotten about them more or less entirely.

"You're welcome," he says, what feels like full minutes later and largely just to feel the rumble of it against Marcus' skin in the rapidly fading space between being not being asleep, and being asleep.

Marcus' reply is a rasped out sound, a retort. Be quiet, like a gentle nip without actually getting his teeth involved, perfectly still in the tangle of sheet, limbs, cooling sweat and his own arousal slowly, slowly draining out of him into a warm pool of sensation. The rum helps, loose about the ribs where he pulls in a deeper breath and lets it out in a slow and satisfied stream.

True sleep will take its time. He doesn't long for it. It's good, laying here in the dark, hazily attuned to his surroundings. When Flint frees himself of his breeches, Marcus shifts just enough to accommodate. Does his part in another tugging adjustment of sheets, settling back into this pleasant tangle that doesn't cling too tightly.

There's been no talk of when he will leave in the morning. He's wondered before if Flint only dozes lightly so that when that first shard of barely cast sunlight comes, he's best positioned to shake Marcus from his sheets in good time. Unless the man has a naturally attuned sense of pre-dawn, which is always possible. It doesn't feel as though it matters, but he thinks on it as he listens for the shift of Flint's breathing, for the sense of him drifting away.

Regardless, he won't take long to follow.

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