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.
When it comes, it's that heavy kind of sleep that suppresses all dreams to little more than half formed fragments. Memory or the whims of the subconscious are only ghosts of things sighted through thick banks of fog, too ephemeral to close fingers around and too transitory to warrant much concern. He dreams of— someone. Doing something. Somewhere. The sensation of being low on the belly of a ship, removed from both the tang of fresh salt air and the sensation of the sea's chop. Low down, into the darkness of the hold; only in his dream, that place is dry and unfetid. It is the warm, regular counter weight to the overhead sway of something larger and higher and far more delicate.
He does rouse early. There is a certain grey quality to the light coming through the slit windows, and he is naked under rucked sheets. If there is work to be done with regard to extracting a limb or two from under the weight of his companion, Flint sets about it carefully enough not to trouble him.
Slipping from the bed he washes his face and cleans his teeth. Refits all the rings on his fingers and the post in his ear. Dresses in an old shirt worn soft and stiff blackened trousers. And there is the belt, and the knife, and the glass shoved in between his belly and the leather band, and the boots donned one after another.
There is no dreaming of falling. There won't be for some months, while grey matter slow digests this solitarily unique flash of experience, deep below the surface.
Mages, of course, go about this whole thing differently. Dreams. That his own sleeping mind is as inky-black as the dark room he'd been so content in when he was barely awake is, on some level, a deliberate thing. Warm, sightless but textured, and refusing to stray very far from where he was when he fell asleep.
Marcus' limbs are stubbornly heavy, and too unconscious to protest or cling as Flint carefully escapes them. Only once the mattress shifts with the changing of weight and pressure, the sheets pull along with him as he moves, turning his back, settling back in. Slowly, senses stir, until he finds that he is cognizant to his surroundings, his own slack weight in a relatively comfortable bed, and that he is listening to the sounds of rustling, the gentle scuff of a boot heel set against the floor as leather is tugged, laces managed.
Probably alerts Flint to his presence with the thick drawing in of breath, held through a stretch of spine and legs as he shifts to his back. Murmurs something that is probably Trade.
There is a chair near the window, inconvenient to the apartment's door and therefore rarely used save from the purpose of reading books by the dying dregs of daylight, or like this—sitting here, half bent as he tightens various laces. Here, the sound from the bed's occupant draws him short. Prompts a pause. The soft rasping work of his hands quiets.
His attention fixes there on the bed. And then, he slowly resumes tugging tight and tying the laces of first one boot and then the other. When he rises, it's with a creak of furniture joints.
There is a coat laid across the chair back. Flint draws it free, and shrugs into it.
By the time Flint is on his feet and negotiating arms into coat sleeves, Marcus is preoccupied with rubbing thumb and forefinger into his eyesockets. His other arm loosely splayed across the broad space Flint had been laying, and draws in feel out the edge of the sheets he is still half-under as he slowly, lazily, makes his way to the surface.
Enough to evaluate Flint through the close press of eyelashes. Dressed. Then, assess the quality of light at the window. Early.
Another murmur. This one manages some crisper edges to the words as he says, "Morning," which also has enough tone to it to make it a greeting rather than just an observation.
It's an attractive picture: Marcus Rowntree all long lines in his bed, half under a sheet slightly twisted sheet with his hair loose across the pillow, and only something like three parts awake. If he is being square with himself, and this morning he is, it's the sort of thing that makes him want to clamber back into bed.
Instead he adjusts the lay of his shirt collar under that of the coat.
"Morning."
Checks his pockets. Lays a hand briefly at his belt buckle. The unconscious rituals of a man who is preparing to walk out the door.
There's evaluation in the flicker of a look over Flint, trying to judge if it's by accident that Marcus should wake to find him close to out the door, or there's some design in it. It's a neutral sort of arithmetic, while he shifts a little to lean against pillows and backboard.
Grunts at this news. There's the fleeting and completely senseless impulse to calculate whether he could get to a similar state of readiness as the other man in time to accompany him, but it dismantles itself under the barest pressure of sense.
Says, "I don't," from his sprawl, voice sleep-rough and creaky.
He moves then, tracking around the bed to the side table. There is a stack of papers there he should pocket to bring with him. Saying as he goes, "Matthias has work outside Kirkwall and won't be in the office, but one of the servants will tidy near ten."
Here are those papers, extracted from under a slim book. He folds them in half with a crinkling rasp.
The corner of Marcus' mouth hooks upwards that small degree, and he stays unmoving as Flint tracks around he bed, up until he has his papers.
At which point, he pulls himself nearer, nothing about the action implying he intends to leave the mattress but nearer all the same. He doesn't fuss with the sheets, still dressed in cotton drawers that he doesn't feel too brazen as he pulls in closer.
"Alright," he says. Noted. Settling there on this side of the mattress, "And when are you next free of your obligations?"
Not too brazen, no, though Flint's attention slides in his direction anyway as he tucks the folded papers into an interior coat pocket. Good question, says some slant of his brow and the faint pulling at the corner of his mouth behind freshly trimmed auburn whiskers.
"I've an hour or two in the afternoon, but I don't mean to return here." Wasted effort, catching the ferry to and from. Beyond that—
"Otherwise, I can't say. Scouts suggest we've Venatori lingering in the Vinmark foothills. I might go take a look and see what can be done about digging them out. But I trust you've plenty to do."
Surely there are duties that Marcus has mentally assigned himself even if he hasn't yet quite made the changes on paper.
Talk of news from scouts and Venatori and foothills patter off of his own barely-awake fog, some twinge of complaint at the brow that is more directed at his attempt to focus than the man speaking to him directly. Almost against his will, Marcus recalls some communications that had crossed his desk with the city guard alongside some sideways comment about a missed shift or two.
Generally opaque, Flint probably has enough context to interpret the emergence of these thoughts in the subtle changes to Marcus' expression as he rests his head back against the board.
"If I manage my desk before you see about them, I wouldn't mind hunting something." You know, if Flint is offering.
A flicking glance sums Marcus up there against the bed's heavy headboard, the sheet across his thighs. It's a measuring look—the sort of consideration given over to a man recently out of a sick bed more than it is anything else.
The coat is twitched closed to lay flat across his shoulder.
"Let me know when you've done that." Is not a yes, is not a no.
Marcus' eyeline stays even where he's tilted it up to watch Flint's face. Catches that, or something like it, which in turn may read on his face, a slightly lifted eyebrow.
But no comment. Instead, he says, "Aye Commander," which has some trace of humour to it. Then, he wanders a hand out to that edge of coat, snaring it between two curled fingers in the express invitation for some parting gesture.
His mouth thins. The impression is one of put upon severity, as the alternative is to find the nipping of those two fingers pleasing and if he were to put on a crooked smile now it would be difficult to strip it from his features before he left the offices.
But he does drift in that required step. Sidles sideways at the behest of curled fingers, knee bumping in at the edge of the mattress. The flick of fingers. The back of his forefinger making contact with Marcus' wrist and scuffing purposefully against it—a smaller, more intimate gesture somewhat than bending down and kissing him would be.
His hand turns under that touch, comes to secure a loose grasp at the sleeve once Flint is bending to meet him. Lifts his chin for it, considering the resonance of the satisfied, happy thrum he feels at something asked for and given. And the touch to his hand, and the line Flint's mouth made of itself a moment ago. And even that skeptical glancing over.
Opens his hand without dropping it away once the kiss is done, sinking an inch or two more back into bed. He will move off well before ten, leaving behind sheets that aren't crumpled too suspiciously, with his personal self in decent enough order, with the intent of clawing his way through paperwork before the sun has turned over.
But he will definitely sleep in enough to enjoy it, says the slack line of his body, a crease at the corner of the eye.
The intention is easily recognizable. (He himself has done similar in the face of being abandoned in a reasonably comfortable bed by someone with a more stringent appointment schedule.) It prompts a sniff and a rough pat to the side of Marcus' thigh as Flint straightens away. The gesture is not entirely dissimilar from the Anderfels, Flint shoving Buggie's great head away to keep the griffon from nibbling at his sleeves, only to reward the bad behavior with scratching behind the ear feathers.
Spoiled bastard.
He moves off without further word, fetching sword belt and blade up from their idle posting on the way out the door. Marcus is bright enough to know how to make use of the room should he require anything from it without direction.
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no subject
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.
no subject
(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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
He does rouse early. There is a certain grey quality to the light coming through the slit windows, and he is naked under rucked sheets. If there is work to be done with regard to extracting a limb or two from under the weight of his companion, Flint sets about it carefully enough not to trouble him.
Slipping from the bed he washes his face and cleans his teeth. Refits all the rings on his fingers and the post in his ear. Dresses in an old shirt worn soft and stiff blackened trousers. And there is the belt, and the knife, and the glass shoved in between his belly and the leather band, and the boots donned one after another.
no subject
Mages, of course, go about this whole thing differently. Dreams. That his own sleeping mind is as inky-black as the dark room he'd been so content in when he was barely awake is, on some level, a deliberate thing. Warm, sightless but textured, and refusing to stray very far from where he was when he fell asleep.
Marcus' limbs are stubbornly heavy, and too unconscious to protest or cling as Flint carefully escapes them. Only once the mattress shifts with the changing of weight and pressure, the sheets pull along with him as he moves, turning his back, settling back in. Slowly, senses stir, until he finds that he is cognizant to his surroundings, his own slack weight in a relatively comfortable bed, and that he is listening to the sounds of rustling, the gentle scuff of a boot heel set against the floor as leather is tugged, laces managed.
Probably alerts Flint to his presence with the thick drawing in of breath, held through a stretch of spine and legs as he shifts to his back. Murmurs something that is probably Trade.
no subject
His attention fixes there on the bed. And then, he slowly resumes tugging tight and tying the laces of first one boot and then the other. When he rises, it's with a creak of furniture joints.
There is a coat laid across the chair back. Flint draws it free, and shrugs into it.
no subject
Enough to evaluate Flint through the close press of eyelashes. Dressed. Then, assess the quality of light at the window. Early.
Another murmur. This one manages some crisper edges to the words as he says, "Morning," which also has enough tone to it to make it a greeting rather than just an observation.
no subject
Instead he adjusts the lay of his shirt collar under that of the coat.
"Morning."
Checks his pockets. Lays a hand briefly at his belt buckle. The unconscious rituals of a man who is preparing to walk out the door.
"I have an appointment in Kirkwall," he says.
no subject
Grunts at this news. There's the fleeting and completely senseless impulse to calculate whether he could get to a similar state of readiness as the other man in time to accompany him, but it dismantles itself under the barest pressure of sense.
Says, "I don't," from his sprawl, voice sleep-rough and creaky.
no subject
He moves then, tracking around the bed to the side table. There is a stack of papers there he should pocket to bring with him. Saying as he goes, "Matthias has work outside Kirkwall and won't be in the office, but one of the servants will tidy near ten."
Here are those papers, extracted from under a slim book. He folds them in half with a crinkling rasp.
no subject
At which point, he pulls himself nearer, nothing about the action implying he intends to leave the mattress but nearer all the same. He doesn't fuss with the sheets, still dressed in cotton drawers that he doesn't feel too brazen as he pulls in closer.
"Alright," he says. Noted. Settling there on this side of the mattress, "And when are you next free of your obligations?"
no subject
"I've an hour or two in the afternoon, but I don't mean to return here." Wasted effort, catching the ferry to and from. Beyond that—
"Otherwise, I can't say. Scouts suggest we've Venatori lingering in the Vinmark foothills. I might go take a look and see what can be done about digging them out. But I trust you've plenty to do."
Surely there are duties that Marcus has mentally assigned himself even if he hasn't yet quite made the changes on paper.
no subject
Talk of news from scouts and Venatori and foothills patter off of his own barely-awake fog, some twinge of complaint at the brow that is more directed at his attempt to focus than the man speaking to him directly. Almost against his will, Marcus recalls some communications that had crossed his desk with the city guard alongside some sideways comment about a missed shift or two.
Generally opaque, Flint probably has enough context to interpret the emergence of these thoughts in the subtle changes to Marcus' expression as he rests his head back against the board.
"If I manage my desk before you see about them, I wouldn't mind hunting something." You know, if Flint is offering.
no subject
A flicking glance sums Marcus up there against the bed's heavy headboard, the sheet across his thighs. It's a measuring look—the sort of consideration given over to a man recently out of a sick bed more than it is anything else.
The coat is twitched closed to lay flat across his shoulder.
"Let me know when you've done that." Is not a yes, is not a no.
no subject
But no comment. Instead, he says, "Aye Commander," which has some trace of humour to it. Then, he wanders a hand out to that edge of coat, snaring it between two curled fingers in the express invitation for some parting gesture.
no subject
But he does drift in that required step. Sidles sideways at the behest of curled fingers, knee bumping in at the edge of the mattress. The flick of fingers. The back of his forefinger making contact with Marcus' wrist and scuffing purposefully against it—a smaller, more intimate gesture somewhat than bending down and kissing him would be.
But sure that too. Why not.
no subject
Opens his hand without dropping it away once the kiss is done, sinking an inch or two more back into bed. He will move off well before ten, leaving behind sheets that aren't crumpled too suspiciously, with his personal self in decent enough order, with the intent of clawing his way through paperwork before the sun has turned over.
But he will definitely sleep in enough to enjoy it, says the slack line of his body, a crease at the corner of the eye.
no subject
Spoiled bastard.
He moves off without further word, fetching sword belt and blade up from their idle posting on the way out the door. Marcus is bright enough to know how to make use of the room should he require anything from it without direction.