katabasis | [psl] dos rowdy boys

A low rumbling Mm of acknowledgment for this, Marcus' rota schedule and the treatment of the ring both. The latter is light enough to be weightless once it's been transferred to his pocket, but he is sharply aware of its presence. Or rather, its lack on his finger, and the residual murmur of heat that prickles after the work of Marcus' hands all the same.

"How did you come by that?"

He nods to the mottled bruise.

From Flint's coat pocket, his hand can travel around up high on his side, his back, a light smoothing over fabric that is held and suspense as Flint asks that question. Marcus glances, lifting at the elbow to check the bruise's progress.

"Sparring," he says. "Told them not to be too easy on me."

A necessary sort of stipulation, when returning from a period of recovery and not so many days from the injury itself. At least, it is to him. Now, Marcus winds his arms around Flint and pulls himself in close, the pressing of his own naked form against Flint's clothed one too tempting to hold in reserve for much longer.

Aware, in a way that seems to spark along his spine and itch under the skin, how Flint has neglected to touch him yet. This is one way to stop himself from forcing the other man to do so. Or asking. It's a little of both.

He makes room for it—shifting his hands out of the way, laying the pommel of his sword over so it doesn't catch cool and discouraging at Marcus' hip.

Close in like this, it is tempting to kiss him. For it would be easy to do. He only needs to turn his face and go looking for it in order to catch at Marcus' mouth. Instead, a hand shifts up to catch the man by the cheek and chin, and to turn his face by that necessary degree while bracing with calloused thumb and the heel of his hand to forestall any actual kiss from materializing.

Warming in his layers against the long line of Marcus' naked body, Flint maintains that glint of eye contact. Asks, "Did you win?"

The next breath out of Marcus comes as a warmer pant before he can help it, tension taut at the edges of his expression. The deep, warm shiver that drains directly downwards. The hand at Flint's back clutches his coat in quiet demand. Does not bully him any more than that, even when a latent instinct demands he do so, leverage back the advantage. It's held in check as much by the calloused thumb braced at his chin than any amount of willpower.

Flicks eye contact back into place when he feels it from Flint, and the corner of his mouth turns up, a hint of teeth. "Sure," would be a no.

A certain flexing of the brow and a twitch at the corner of Flint's mouth suggests some flickering amusement—oh, sure—, but that is the extent of his humor. It fails to materialize further into a laugh, or a breath related to one, and the press of his thumb remains certain there at Marcus' chin. He is not, honestly, terribly interested in relenting that point just yet. Hardly moments through the door, and he finds he is loathe to squander the leverage that's fallen so instantly to hand.

(But soon, certainly. The desire to kiss him has been rattling around in the back of his head for some hours since the possibility of this room seemed likely to become a reality, and he isn't so stubborn as to restrict himself entirely from a carefully meditated decision. It is only a matter of timing.

It wouldn't be unpleasant to apply teeth to skin either.)

"Do you want a rematch, or for me to be gentle with you?"

His own desire is growing claws. Something about the alien sense of rougher outer layers against his bare skin, and belt and buckle, the edge of a boot near his ankle. The very real hunger to shake loose Flint's hand and press him to the door, and the very real ache of warmth when he doesn't. Following that, the sense of his own stiffening, which will become more apparent between them, and sooner, than whatever may be happening for Flint beneath lacing and layers.

So it's a relief to be asked how it is he would prefer to be fucked, and to feel his own certainty in one answer over the other. The knowledge, too, that afterwards, he's sure Flint can be corralled into gentleness.

And if there is some equal desire for rough treatment matched only by what must come after, he can pick through that tangle once properly sated.

"As long as you don't go easy either," and that edge of a smile hasn't faded yet, "I'll take the match."

Earns a brisk and biting kiss as a reward, pressed there at Marcus' mouth between thumb and forefinger. It's brief. Sharp. Cut short in favor of a hot breath gusting very close. Good, he doesn't say before muscling in.

He presses. Shoulder and hip, the heel of his hand—an abrupt flexing of checked energies well suited to driving. Not to the bed. He has little interest in it, and it's four paces too far removed besides. But here is the chair, more easily reached and equally satisfying a prospect to the hot pulse that runs through him at the taste of Marcus' mouth.

This brief, sharp kiss gets a grunt of encouragement, and an initial pressing forward to chase down more of it, the opportunity to answer it properly, by the time Flint is muscling in. The hand Marcus has in a fist at Flint's coat tightens for balance as he's moved backwards, and then reorients, finds a place to brace his palm at his bicep.

Doesn't try to drive him right back, but offers that resistance. Something for them both to press against as he's walked backwards, to keep them close. Behind him, wooden chair legs jar against the floor as its arm is knocked behind him, a short scrape, sharper over the sounds of breathing.

Goes to anchor a grip at the back of Flint's neck, a second go at pressing his mouth to the other man's, past the press of fingers, a wanting sound half-growled there.

It raises the small hairs on the back of the neck, that noise. Tugs roughly at the quality of his breathing, and demands to be indulged in the shape of a rough kiss. So he allows it. Kisses or is kissed with an insistent fierceness, the hand at Marcus' chin moving all at once from restraining to requiring. Here, it says. Give me your mouth like this.

And a boot toe insinuating between the brace of feet, knee and thigh following. Pressing close to the shape of him, keen to ride up against the stirring form of Marcus' cock and all that naked skin.

How does he want him? Close, and hungry, and biting at tender skin. Goading enough that it will be easy to leave the dark ghosts of restraining hands on a wrist or a thigh.

There is a clear pleasure in kissing and being kissed, a stream of breath through the nose, lips parting, fingertips digging a firmer line at Flint's neck. Answering that implicit demand in the way Flint's hand lays by giving, pliant and hot, and then tasting, and then biting, the slide of a tongue giving way to a stinging nip to Flint's mouth, one that's felt a moment or two after teeth release him.

But also, right before: his thighs parting to allow Flint's to press up against him. Marcus breathes in sharp as his cock touches linen, leather, the warm muscle beneath. It hasn't taken long for flesh to thicken and stiffen, where a fuck over the crystals only half counts as far as attention paid goes. The reality of Flint's body against him, strong and solid and familiar,

well, it's what he's wanted. All week, all morning.

The other hand wrangled in Flint's coat lets go and dips underneath it, up around the back of his ribs, some bid for further intimacy, a threat to shirt fabric to come free of the waistband. That's about when Marcus bites him, and pants out a breath that isn't very apologetic at all against his jaw in another half-kiss.

The sting is clarifying. It strips back headier muggy impulses that might be broadly satisfied by any kind of contact or encouraging slant of weight at all. By any kiss, or press of tongue, or hot breath, or grasp of fingers at shirt fabric. Instead, it demands the kind of specificity that comes from a hand snagging at Marcus' hip, and fingers straying from chin and jaw into the other man's unbound hair.

The latter makes for an obvious point of leverage. His fingers tangling there by the fistful, and giving a firm checking yank designed to lever up the angle of Marcus' chin and expose the line of his neck. Stop biting, you shit, isn't a particularly convincing sentiment when the hard nip of teeth comes with a thrill of arousal twitching warm in the nonexistent space between them, or when Flint retaliates in kind at the soft skin to be found under Marcus' jaw.

But if there is something combative to teeth and tongue, then there is a collaborative slant to the cinching in of his other hand. It works in sympathy to the close circle of Marcus' arm to keep them pressed flush, and encouraging the urging of his knee.

All of it makes very little use of the daylight.

It's a shock, the sharpness of that yank, even when he can sense it coming with the certain way Flint gets his fingers tangled, firms up his grip. The breath he draws in is a gasp, and then teeth catch at the exposed underside of his jaw, it's let out again in a rush of growled out breath that is both reactive as well as satisfied, the muscles that had tensed defensively across shoulders and neck all relaxing under hard hands, warm mouth, blunt teeth.

There's been nothing enjoyable about the process of healing, the culmination of injury. Here, where senses muddled together and something that should be unpleasant is made good, that makes sense. But there is also a pleasing contrast to this from the gentle handling and coddling of healers, concern and care, soft bedsheets, hazy half-dozing. The brightness of teeth and a hot breath searing across his neck.

And beneath that, the sudden clenching of basic pleasure. The circle of his arm around Flint pulsing tighter. Giving in a little, enough to angle his hips to more deliberately press his hardening cock against raised thigh and hip.

"Are we waltzing or fucking?" is perhaps not so convincing when all of that is taken into consideration, the eager line of his body or the stiff shape of his cock, the satisfaction nestled in his tone. Still, a differently biting quality, the digging of his fingers against the nape of Flint's neck.

A hot gust of breath answers, some abrupt note of humor lingering at its edge. But rather than smile—or maker forbid, laugh—he nips at Marcus' earlobe. Sets his teeth and lingers warm and close against the angle of the man's neck until the impulse to laugh is burned off by the close press of bodies. It doesn't take but a few seconds. And when it has gone, his grip on Marcus' hip has relented in favor of insinuating between them to squeeze at the swollen line of his cock in that narrow space across his thigh. That he is just there, undressed and ready to be touched, is a fine pointed thrill.

It's brief, though. And then his fingers are unraveling from Marcus' hair and abandoning the stiff length of his cock in favor of shoulders. Flint half twists, restless in the close hold. Pushes with the heels of both hands, goading, to the effect of—

"Turn round," has a low snap of a demand.

When Flint's hand finds his cock, squeezes, it's almost a little counterintuitive that pleasure could be expressed in Marcus being quiet. The rasped-edged quality of his breathing and grunts of encouragement and complaint suddenly lifting in favour of a slower, quieter breath in, an even breath out. Marcus' hands—at the back of Flint's neck, tangled up in his shirt enough to have pulled the tail of it loose beneath his coat—both clenching as if to rein the impulse to react otherwise.

Then his hair is released and he can look at Flint again. Tempting to hunt out another kiss, demonstrate either a lesson learned or ignored, eyes bright with intent.

Instead, his shoulders are pushed and he broadens the gap between them, and there's a moment where he can consider the proposition. A flicking glance over, as if to ask if the prick in front of him truly intends to fuck him with his clothes on, and then his hands relent. Lingering a little to enjoy those points of contact before Marcus surrenders them, and turns around.

There is that long tenuous moment with his hands braced that he considers what he will do if Marcus disobeys. Give him another urging and biting kiss, maybe. Or, find a further fistful of the man's hair and see whether he might bend to being forced over. That he ultimately requires no further convincing, skeptical glances not withstanding, spurs a jolt of satisfaction to course low into his belly where it clenches, hot and tight, at the very base of him.

Some days ago, weeks ago, he made specific promises about touching Marcus. He has been thinking on it since—that he would like to put his hands over him in the interests of finding the places Marcus like to be touched, and the hand holds to which he relents to being pressed down and fucked under.

No, he is not going to fuck him with his clothes on. He is going to crowd back into Marcus's space in them though, pressing in against the long line of his back. He's hot now, plenty stiff inside the restriction of his trousers, and the close set of bodies is sparking and relief both. Flint breathes heavy at the back of Marcus' neck as he coils one arm in around his chest. Given a moment to inelegantly lick wet saliva into a palm, his other arm cinches close round after in order to reclaim his grip on Marcus' cock.

There's a late shiver across his shoulders, crossways then down, where he's anticipating something. A grasping hand, another directive. The close pressing in of Flint's body is both unexpected and fiercely welcome. Fabric, metal, and that warm line of his erection. Not the first time in as many minutes that he's known that discomforting twist that aches low in him for this imbalance, the contrast of cooler air where he's exposed, the close warmth where he isn't.

Marcus, first, closes his eyes at that new sense of warm slickness as Flint closes his hand around him. His hand lands high on the other man's wrist, the other reaching back to find a hold of his coat. Looks down, then, at the configuration they make, or at least what he can see of it—dark fabric and pale skin, the more flushed colour of his cock between Flint's fingers in broad daylight.

It's fine. He can be difficult later. For now, there is a satisfied breath out for the sensation of being gripped, held, and a demand in the closing of his own fingers.

It feels good to have Marcus here like this, set in the rough circle of his arms with the width of his shoulders a sturdy line against him. He is warm, and smells faintly of the morning's work, and the grasp of fingers closing about the wrist is—

Encouraging. Here is the reverse of that pretend version of what they might have done in a slanting Anderfels camp tent. Daylight instead of the press of lamplight. Marcus close before him rather than behind, naked skin warm against his cheek and under his fingers. Fanning his hand wide across Marcus' chest, he tightens his other fingers. A squeeze, a stroke—slowly and then less so, as his off hand shifts from Marcus' chest to his neck.

It's a driving touch, equal parts restless and expectant and pinning. Likes the proxy feel of it: his cock pressed close and Marcus thick in the fingers; and how easy it is to kiss the bare slope of his neck and shoulder; the pulse in his jugular pressed in under fingertips.

Those points of contact feel at work with one another. Stroking, pressing, and his pulse between both. Marcus lifts his chin, a small jerk of motion that does more exposing than protecting. In Flint's hand, his cock twitches eagerly after the last quicker pull of slick palm. In Flint's hand, the rough grunt out of Marcus is felt as light reverberation.

A fine flexing up through the hip, with his heel lifting off the ground as tension pulls up through that leg, is a kind of stalled impulse to push against Flint's hand. And again. Marcus doesn't lean right back into the other man, because he is stopping himself from doing so—but there's an amount of balancing felt in a tug where Marcus has a grasp on his coat, low and behind.

The next throttled sound from him is restless complaint, as if the lack of flesh to sink his teeth into or knead and squeeze with his fingers (or, otherwise, kiss with warm mouth like the touches against his own shoulder, or mumble against a similar expanse, that feels good) is a problem. The deliberate driving forwards of arousal. How much long enough is going to mean.

A tight squeeze at the base of his cock answers, and is mirrored in the marginally gentler press of fingers circling Marcus' neck. What, it asks, doesn't he want Flint to touch him?

(As if the restless sense of Marcus between his hands isn't satisfying. If he had an hour more than he does, he might see how far that impatience could be drawn out. There is real appeal in the unsettled line of Marcus' knee, and the ineffective balancing pull his fingers exert at the coat edge.)

Crowding in a half step closer (a half step that doesn't actually exist, save in the sense of what the modest measure of friction down for his own arousal), he sets his teeth briefly to bare skin. Gusts out a warm breath as he strokes Marcus once, twice more, pleased with the weight of him in his fingers—

All right. His grip loosening at all points.

"Fetch the oil for me."

If the checking squeeze at the base of his dick has a question in it, the panted out breath in response answers it with a yes. And maybe, if those strokes continued, Marcus might become convinced that to be held by the throat and made to come that way was what he wanted all along, actually, and when hands loosen and Flint tells him to do something, a sense of loss tugs through him like redirected blood flow.

Quickly snared back up. Something in the neighbourhood of a laugh at the next rougher breath before that evens out, the hand clutching Flint's arm loosening, then tightening.

Feels Flint's arms still around him, hands loosely holding. His cock, too, hard enough to be felt. Marcus lets go of of that coat edge, slipping that hand further back until the tips of his fingers feel the firm ridge of him through trouser fabric. Yes, he wants that too. Yes, they will need oil at some point.

"Say please," is quiet but even, and does a decent task by not betraying the half-smile crooking his mouth.

The low sound he makes could be for the hand that slides between them. Or it might be—

"No," rasped at Marcus' shoulder, and punctuated with a nip. Not without a slant of humor, or lacking a soothing press of tongue after.

(His unemployed hand is making for the buckle of his sword belt. Easing it.)

That little sting to his shoulder has it curling forwards, before Marcus relaxes it again, and back between them splays his fingers and lets the flat of his hand feel Flint over just briefly. The grunt he makes is to the tune of thought not.

"Some day," and pulls away.

Walks across the room to the side table, reflexively gripping himself in a loose clasp. There's an unlit lantern hanging off the wall, so its supply must be near. Not immediately available on the surface, so he rattles the drawer open, and fishes out the small brass pot wedged in the back, knowing a small amount of irritation for this extra step.

Listening, all the while, to the loosening of leather, and imagining that he can feel Flint's eyeline on him like under-skin warmth, whether or not he's looking. That he can sense still where teeth had marked his shoulder and under his jaw. Considering the weight of the object he's been compelled to go fetch and the tension between wanting something he must push back against to have it insisted on him harder.

So by the time he's returning, he has some intent to push the object into Flint's hand and kiss him again while he's still in reach to be kissed, all bitey demand for more.

He does watch as Marcus crosses the room, attention knife keen on the shape of the other man in the daylit space and appetite sharpening under every footstep. He should have followed him, his cock says. Or steered him over to the side table and bent him over it until they were ready to rummage around in a drawer.

But watching him move— it would be good, is an abrupt thought, to touch himself while Marcus got himself off. To watch him from a vantage point designed to see broad strokes rather than the fine details of his face up close.

By the time Marcus makes it back to him, Flint has shucked sword, and spyglass, and belt knife in practiced order. The heavy belt at his middle has been discarded. Boots excepting (they do get in the way), he has successfully stripped down to fabric layers. All thing considered, he is more or less prepared for the stinging kiss that finds him there. It feels right. He bites back into it, demanding with a hot pant, the press of tongue, and a spare hand moving to catch at a shoulder that Marcus deepen it. If he has his way, these kisses will be intermittent at best.

Because, eventually: fingers find a fistful of the hair at the nape of Marcus' neck, and making to steer him. Flint is untroubled by the specifics of how Marcus accomplishes it—where, and how he cares to brace himself—, so long as the desired effect of bullying him to bend by some degree across the chair is accomplished.

It does feel right. It also feels exciting, the way that press of contact is so quick to ignite, teeth and tongue and short breaths. The subtle change in being of a height, even slightly tipped in Flint's favour, is the sort of thing he notices now because of what he has asked for, what they both have, for the ways in which sometimes they fuck around with rules and behaviours. It's the sort of thing he's noticed before when it's been in his favour, and enjoyed the advantage, exploited it.

But it's also a pleasing novelty, the finely different angle with which he might catch Flint's lip between his teeth or cock his head to taste his mouth, hands grasping. Pressing himself in tight against warm solid body, its now softer layers.

It also means that when Flint gets his hand back in his hair and steers him away, there really is something to protest. Something worth a sharp sting of pain when he balks, initially, panting and mouth parted, even while that warm ache low in him becomes sharp and keen.

But there, he turns as steered, buckles. Lifting an arm to brace just at the elbow against the far arm of the chair, his other hand catching at the edge of the seat, bent but muscles locked against complete collapse.

Edited 2023-11-11 06:09 (UTC)

There's a real pulsing thrill for it when he goes. Fingers tight in hair become a hand at the back of Marcus' neck, becomes the slight squeeze of fingers that say, Good, through calloused fingertips and the weight of a square palm. Praise can be a short, rasped breath, and the hand traveling from neck to shoulders, and back along the curved line of a spine. The readiness with which Flint steps close with a boot's heavy tread to make his arousal known against him.

It is tempting just to touch him like this: a wandering hand and the close press of cock to the obligingly bent shape of Marcus across the chair. But he suspects the endurance of someone's patience—his, maybe—, and so instead tips a measure of viscous oil across his hand splayed there at the small of Marcus' back. A little rude: not particularly concerned with how far it might travel, only that it slicks his fingers and palm so that when he finds Marcus' cock again, it is easier to give him a series of encouraging strokes and squeezes.

The small brass pot is set on the chair arm.

"Mind you don't spill that," is clear instruction.

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