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—
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.
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.
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.
He lets that soothe him, the hand at his neck, its course down his back. Lets that reassure him, the firm shape of Flint pressing in close, its reminder a signalled sympathy for his own aching state. Marcus lets his head bow forward for a moment while keeping tension set through his shoulders. He doesn't want to be calm, necessarily, he doesn't want to relax or be comfortable, but there is something in him that requires some measure of it to accept the absence of a specific kind of control. The loose hand at his braced elbow forming a fist, the grip at the chair seat relaxing, tensing.
And so when he feels the cool strike of oil spill between Flint's fingers and trickle off down his back and hip, he's sober enough to know a nip of both irritation and amusement, enough to cast an accusing glance back past his shoulder just as Flint reaches for his cock.
Complaint is replaced with a rasped groan out for a hot, slick hand curling around and tugging at him. A laugh is panted out at clear instruction, dissolves again into another wanting sound as he's squeezed.
"Mm," is a low note hummed thick from the base of his throat, unexpectedly rich with fondness. He likes it when Marcus laughs, even that rough panted out kind—maybe especially that kind. The sound of it hooks pleasantly behind the ribs, knots warm somewhere high in his belly. Better still that it comes at the heels of a glare, in the wake of sharp teeth and minor grappling. Good, too, as a counter weight to that shivering line of tension through shoulder and bicep. Flexing muscle, the too clear gleam in the man's eye.
"I think you'll manage." He gives him a last squeeze for emphasis.
Then oil slick fingers paint a track back through the thatch of hair and across his hip. It's a good reason to make space, that hand (and because he doesn't care to stain his trouser front with the oil marks). As Flint straightens, he shifts the set of his feet absently wider in the fashion of bracing against the striking of a running sea against a ship's bow. Sways that half steps back so he can get a good look at Marcus, the sheen of oil on skin, the spread of him under both hands. Fingers digging approvingly at the curve of Marcus' ass.
"I'm not going to touch your cock again unless you ask me to." Instead he'll rub oil across muscle, coaxing. Off hand bracing at the small of Marcus' back. "And if you can hold yourself together until I finish, I'll let you fuck me after."
Flint pulls his hand away, and its absence is not immediate relief. Gravity and the rush of blood flow where pressure no longer exists is a different kind of prickling sensation, and Marcus keeps an answering groan checked between his teeth.
Keeps his focus forward and down as Flint moves, touches him, knows the way he's being looked at based off that approving grasp. Marcus lets go of a subtle hum of approving sound at that rub of oil, as if completely forgetting having been precious about the mess a moment ago, and a more welcome degree of relaxing bleeds out from the spine. Legs adjusting, a wider stance, in unconscious desire for balance and conscious desire for being touched.
And then his attention sharpens, remaining still and quiet as a proposition occurs behind, overhead. Rule making. That first twist of anticipation then clenches abrupt and hard and hot in him, this last promise heady enough as a prospect to feel it like a physical twitch at the base of his cock.
Immediately hungry. Immediately makes the task at hand all the more difficult. But also—
"Then I'll fuck you after," is in the same tone of things thus far; a little bitey, warm, low. Considers, and then adds, "I want you to stop me from touching myself during," and he isn't running so hot enough not to be aware of how it isn't something he'd ever normally say to another man, if not for the way Flint has, in the past, made his desires so plain, so easily.
Negotiations. The immediate mental image summoned by what is essentially a counter offer has a clarity made crisp and sharp edged with desire. He will need to steal Marcus' hand and fold the arm behind his back. Pin it there. Grip his wrist and and shoulder hard, and fuck him between those two points while Marcus either keeps himself balanced or just allows himself to be driven across the chair.
Anticipation for the thing twists in him. It's an eagerness that is calculated and rational except for how it is neither.
His attention snaps back then from roving hungrily up the long line of the other man's back. Returns abruptly to where Marcus is waiting for him, a fingertip teasing reflexively.
"I can do that." Pressing a slick finger into the heat of Marcus is relief and goading both, his own cock aching jealously. "I can hold you to it."
The rumble of sound he makes could be at either the promise being given to him or that sense of intrusion, keyed into wanting and welcoming it by teasing fingertip. Or both.
Considers the position he's in, the worn down leather on the chair that digs where he's bent, the slightly uneven sense of one wooden leg fractionally shorter than the other three, the pleasant absurdity of being had over this thing when there is a perfectly serviceable bed with apparently clean sheets within view. And imagines tumbling Flint into it after, pressing him down. A good reward for, at best, good enough behaviour.
"Good," murmured approval. Agreed and signed. There's an ember of pleasure burning away that is somehow both satisfied and anticipatory, and it burns a little higher than down deep in that aching pool of arousal. Up about and beneath the ribcage, twinging affection. The tone to his one-worded answer could normally come before a kiss, to the mouth or whatever available body part was in reach.
That, too, can all wait. An unspoken reward beneath plainly stated negotiations.
It sounds very like praise, the sensation of which washes warm over him. It is not dissimilar from the linking of fingers, or from the feeling of Marcus's chest rising and falling as he breathes in and out under the comfort of Flint's palm. Grounding, in the sense that it tethers the less coherent urge to touch and fuck to something steady.
Good. He presses fingers into him, patient despite himself. It can be slow. He doesn't need to drive into him just yet. Better to save that. It's only after the first drizzle has begun to run thin and he has fetched the little brass vessel back to spill a further generous measure across hot skin and between searching fingers that he finds a more reasonable resting place for the pot. Seeks out Marcus' bicep with his free hand to pin him in his present position, murmurs a low message of encouragement—That's it, Marcus. Open for him—, and begins to earnestly stretch him.
Slow does not appear to mean some easing back off intensity. Or perhaps it does, because he's not shifting about and growling out of impatience or stimulation or both, but all the same. There is care and attention behind the unceasing pressure of fingers gently, slowly coaxing muscle, and beneath him, Marcus can feel his own erection as a heavy and stubborn thing. Bites back any impulse to tell Flint to get on with it.
Because he will. Is. Here, the pinning of his arm to keep him in place, that low murmur, a rush of warmth somewhere low in his belly. Relaxes lower into his bending beneath Flint's hands, sinking out of that stubborn angle he'd locked himself into with a longer, deeper breath out. A shiver of tension flexing through him as Flint's fingers find the right angle, arm lifting against that hand and relaxing again.
Finally, a proper groan as fingers push at him, stretch him. Hips raised and angled for it.
Says, "Are you going to come in me?" and it's not quite a taunt, voice thicker than it was some moments ago when he'd made demands. A sort of genuine curiousity behind whatever nipping quality there is to the question. While questions can still be asked.
It's that shiver and give of muscle as the tension eases from Marcus's shoulder that he's looking for. He can feel it through the heel of his hand and in his elbow joint. Low in his cock, and a squeeze in his chest that is something like approval and pride both. This giving over by degrees, the stubborn bite easing and flexing in pieces under the sturdy restraint of a hand and the coaxing press of fingers is good. Familiar. Sympathetic, and so heavy on the tongue that it feels like something he could sink his teeth into.
"No."
There are rules now, and if Marcus wants something so badly then he will need to bargain for it. Even if he feels the impulse to ask, Do you want me to. Instead, easing fingers free, Flint rubs across his entrance. The touch is demonstrative and testing both. A soft creak of floorboards marks the shifting of his weight.
"I'm going to come here where I can see it on you."
It's the kind of answer that feels like a comforting grip set against a bruise—comfortable and sure but twinging. And asked for, he knows. Breath catches out of rhythm at that feeling of Flint easing his fingers back out of him, Marcus feeling his focus sharpen out of that near-haze at his sense of Flint adjusting himself behind him. Posture, stance.
Nods at that elaboration. He can understand the appeal. (Puts him to mind of the sense of run-off oil that had escaped Flint's hand, trickled and teased bare skin, pleasingly messy. Feels a twinge of anticipation.)
"Then I want marks," is the counter offer, "to see on me later."
Perhaps there would have been anyway, given recent banter over sleeves in the summer. He might have imagined that to speak it out loud might diminish the appeal, but here, there's some perverse enjoyment for saying so, for granting permission, making the thing about to happen while already aching for it.
"You might have said so before I set aside my belt," has a tinge of humor to it, that too a kind of testing—taking the lead and measuring how far the sentiment stretches (in either direction; the prospect stirs both interest and reservation low in his belly). But where he has Marcus anchored with a hand, his fingers tighten to a squeeze. Relent, but only to shift up by an inch or two and there reassert his grip.
He can do marks.
And he can press his fingers back to him, this time backed by the slant of his hip against which his forearm has been braced. Only a little more of this. He will have some sigh out of Marcus or rise of the hip soon, and know by the sound or angle that it's time to demand more of him.
Marcus' answering breath out has a mirrored tinge of humour, a pause hooked into it as he orders his thoughts around some internal assessment and says, "My mistake," and curls his hand in as Flint reasserts that grip on his arm. Yes, those marks, imprinted where fingers will hold him securely.
And there is little room for further imagining as fingers press against him, and his thoughts reorient towards the more singular desire for Flint's cock. But there is always room for imagining later, the nebulous list of desires that contracts and lengthens on any given day. His own appetite for sharp, stinging, marking. The sounds he'd try not to make. Better, the ones Flint would try not to make.
Later. The rough sound out of him is quiet, and the chair creaks a little in its joints as he readjusts the stance of his feet, which has gotten wider almost unconsciously, only aware of it now the way it engages some other muscle up near the hip.
Again, the quiet urge to express impatience. Again, this time, tamped down, save for the way he tries to make himself ready.
There is something in the spread of his stance, or in the small of Marcus's back, or in the feel of the muscle running through his arm. Or maybe it is, simply, the easing of fingers pressing into him that says it. Regardless, when the point comes it seems clearly communicated with or without any demand from the man under him.
And then what was patient becomes significantly less so. A sudden urgent clenching across the senses and through his core wrenches at his attention. Sees his fingers slipping brusquely from that close heat to loosing the buttons.
"Be still," a strict command, pressing with the hard heel of his hand before Flint briefly unravels his hand hold so he cna use both hands. To yank the hem of his shirt free, pull the garment over his head and discard it. To unfasten his trousers, unlace cording, and lay the stiff line of his erection out first into the clench of his fingers and then across the waiting cleft of Marcus's ass. Smothering his cock there between skin and palm, and pressing reflexively into the narrow space.
He is breathing hard. He is not entjrely certain when he started. But once more with the oil now, spilled through fingers and across hot skin and heedlessly speckling Marcus' skin. Leaning forward to set the brass pot into the safety of the chair's seat means leaning across Marcus. Means grinding very close, his hand snatching back at the man's shoulder. Thumb riding to the nape of his neck, fingers pulsing closed.
There is a sympathetic heaviness to Marcus' own breathing, but he casts a crooked kind of smile at nothing for listening to the same in Flint's, the hasty rustle of fabric. He is still as commanded, a sweep of tingling across the skin for that brief moment in time where all that is touching him is the chair, the floor, and his sense of Flint's naked body warm and near.
Closes his eyes at that firm press of the other man's erection, hot skin and cooler oil. Head bowing forward, first, at that hand seeking his neck, the press of Flint's body leaning across him. Stretching, in only subtle ways, and muscle working through a shoulder as he sets a bracing hand. A slight shift backwards, meeting some of that pressure.
"That's it," murmured, during all this. Maybe some ghost of that smile curled into his tone, but only to warm it. Rolling his head back up, feeling that tight clench of a grip there. His accent, thicker and muggy already, although perhaps they've been here for some time. Hours, maybe. "Take it, Flint."
He bears down with that thumb, the heel of his hand. Checking. Don't tell him what to do, it says, though it might matter more if he didn't shift promptly against him. If oil slick fingers didn't working between them to fit himself in close. He drops his attention for just the moment to check himself—no, longer than that; to watch as Marcus begins to give to the blunt pressure, breath drawn in thick with raw appreciation for the feel of him.
Slowly, a swelling ache for the pretense. A floorboard creaks underfoot and the chair arm murmurs a soft complaint.
And then his second hand, callouses gone artificially soft from the oil on them, finds Marcus's other shoulder. Leaves gleaming fingerprints, the precursor to reddened points of pressure, as Flint sinks heavily into him. It's only once he's bottomed out, flush hip to thigh, that the hand on Marcus' neck rides higher to catch at the base of his skull and force his head down.
There's a rush that feels physical as Flint clamps his hands down, the pressure of his cock pushing that small ways into him to begin with, the pinpoint pressure of that thumb at his nape. In these small little ways, as if the reflexive fight in him is being worked down, subdued, something gentler than strangled and firmer than coaxed. It's almost like gratitude, the feeling that manages to release in him in just the same moment as Flint pushing in deeply.
Marcus' moan is low and unchecked. He's been well worked and the ease with which Flint can bury himself feels somehow more specifically intrusive than if he'd had to work harder just now. Sweat immediately speckling across his skin, and a deep thrum of pleasure making his hips jerk against nothing.
A grunt as his head is pressed down, a small flicker of tension coiling through the shoulders. Easing, submitting to it.
"I want it hard," is murmured, quiet, but not shy, rough with desire. "I want you to fuck me hard."
It pulses through him. Prompts a heavy, aching pant to tangle low like a knot in the throat. Good. Marcus is so fucking good like this, all shivering and soft clenching muscle taking and giving. Kissing him after is going to be sweet. He can almost taste the tang of it on his tongue, feel the quick draw of Marcus's breath on his face. And when they are finished here, they will go to that bed and trade the sentiment. Put marks on him. Come on him.
He jostles closer. Rough hands renew their purchase, thrilled for the way the body under them answers to the press of fingers and cock. These are the last flexings to identify the boundaries of the space, and then Flint does what they both want. Draws back and surges hard down into the brace of his hands. And again, that heady strike of skin. And again, a driving rhythm that comes from the coil of pleasure made by the not deferential bend of Marcus's neck.
Flint leans heavy over him to fuck him down, each urgent thrust punctuated by an appreciative groaning that spills over to fill the room. Fuck, it's good. Takes his cock so well. The jolt of a shoulder in the tight palm of his hand made by a demanding thrust. "Feel that?" Again. "How easy you are to fill."
He's ready for it, that first surging thrust. Has been. But his answering groan is sharp, knocked out of him. And again, and then the third is a richer, anticipating, appreciative sound, that of a person getting what they want. That fast and sudden filling, and the bracketing force of hands at his shoulders, the bodily jolt of it knocking through him. Eager fingers digging into muscle, the sound of the impact, of Flint's groans above and behind.
The chair judders once beneath him before a minor reset of feet and his own grip on the thing steadies the arrangement.
Panting, as Flint speaks, leans in, against. Marcus' agreeing sound stumbles over that emphasising jolt, tapers into a moan. "Aye," breathed out. Absurd, to feel a flush of pleasure for that praise, but it runs hot and high through him anyway. "Aye, fuck it feels good."
Eventually, he will want to touch his own cock. He will try to. Already, that low urgent ache feels like a hand squeezing him already, at odds with the reality of a lack of friction and pressure. For now, it's enough to cling to the chair, to lift his hips in the most helpful way he can, to feel his own arousal tug under its own weight as Flint fucks down into him.
The recursive shape of it is instantly rewarding. He wants him—to fuck into him and to listen to the sounds that come tumbling free; and Marcus is getting what he'd asked for, and wants more; and the one bites at the heels of the other until it's unclear who is asking and who is giving. It sets a pulsing ache going behind the ribs that first clenches tight and then unravels with each satisfied noise Marcus makes or hitch of hip that meets him, then twists close again. And again, more or less in sympathy to the brisk pace.
Meanwhile his grip asserts, then shifts, clamping tight again across the yoke of Marcus's shoulders or moving to brace against the plane of his upper back—restless and satisfied in proportion so long as he can bear him down through elbow and hip, purposefully careless of what the chair's arm will tolerate in favor of driving him hard and heavy where Marcus is braced against it. He takes him like that for some uncalculated measure, the click of the too short chair leg against the floorboards too quiet to parse from the heavy draw of breath, eager praise—Good, take him like that—, and the catch of bodies coming roughly together.
Then his hands turn to grasping: heavy to the curve between shoulder and neck, and grasping up under Marcus's jaw to force his face up with that pressing thumb rather than pulling at his hair to do the same. Urging him to raise shoulders and chest, hungry for the curve it presses into his back.
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(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."
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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.
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"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.)
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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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And so when he feels the cool strike of oil spill between Flint's fingers and trickle off down his back and hip, he's sober enough to know a nip of both irritation and amusement, enough to cast an accusing glance back past his shoulder just as Flint reaches for his cock.
Complaint is replaced with a rasped groan out for a hot, slick hand curling around and tugging at him. A laugh is panted out at clear instruction, dissolves again into another wanting sound as he's squeezed.
"No promises," but he does try to stay still.
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"I think you'll manage." He gives him a last squeeze for emphasis.
Then oil slick fingers paint a track back through the thatch of hair and across his hip. It's a good reason to make space, that hand (and because he doesn't care to stain his trouser front with the oil marks). As Flint straightens, he shifts the set of his feet absently wider in the fashion of bracing against the striking of a running sea against a ship's bow. Sways that half steps back so he can get a good look at Marcus, the sheen of oil on skin, the spread of him under both hands. Fingers digging approvingly at the curve of Marcus' ass.
"I'm not going to touch your cock again unless you ask me to." Instead he'll rub oil across muscle, coaxing. Off hand bracing at the small of Marcus' back. "And if you can hold yourself together until I finish, I'll let you fuck me after."
See. Long enough.
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Keeps his focus forward and down as Flint moves, touches him, knows the way he's being looked at based off that approving grasp. Marcus lets go of a subtle hum of approving sound at that rub of oil, as if completely forgetting having been precious about the mess a moment ago, and a more welcome degree of relaxing bleeds out from the spine. Legs adjusting, a wider stance, in unconscious desire for balance and conscious desire for being touched.
And then his attention sharpens, remaining still and quiet as a proposition occurs behind, overhead. Rule making. That first twist of anticipation then clenches abrupt and hard and hot in him, this last promise heady enough as a prospect to feel it like a physical twitch at the base of his cock.
Immediately hungry. Immediately makes the task at hand all the more difficult. But also—
"Then I'll fuck you after," is in the same tone of things thus far; a little bitey, warm, low. Considers, and then adds, "I want you to stop me from touching myself during," and he isn't running so hot enough not to be aware of how it isn't something he'd ever normally say to another man, if not for the way Flint has, in the past, made his desires so plain, so easily.
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Anticipation for the thing twists in him. It's an eagerness that is calculated and rational except for how it is neither.
His attention snaps back then from roving hungrily up the long line of the other man's back. Returns abruptly to where Marcus is waiting for him, a fingertip teasing reflexively.
"I can do that." Pressing a slick finger into the heat of Marcus is relief and goading both, his own cock aching jealously. "I can hold you to it."
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Considers the position he's in, the worn down leather on the chair that digs where he's bent, the slightly uneven sense of one wooden leg fractionally shorter than the other three, the pleasant absurdity of being had over this thing when there is a perfectly serviceable bed with apparently clean sheets within view. And imagines tumbling Flint into it after, pressing him down. A good reward for, at best, good enough behaviour.
"Good," murmured approval. Agreed and signed. There's an ember of pleasure burning away that is somehow both satisfied and anticipatory, and it burns a little higher than down deep in that aching pool of arousal. Up about and beneath the ribcage, twinging affection. The tone to his one-worded answer could normally come before a kiss, to the mouth or whatever available body part was in reach.
That, too, can all wait. An unspoken reward beneath plainly stated negotiations.
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Good. He presses fingers into him, patient despite himself. It can be slow. He doesn't need to drive into him just yet. Better to save that. It's only after the first drizzle has begun to run thin and he has fetched the little brass vessel back to spill a further generous measure across hot skin and between searching fingers that he finds a more reasonable resting place for the pot. Seeks out Marcus' bicep with his free hand to pin him in his present position, murmurs a low message of encouragement—That's it, Marcus. Open for him—, and begins to earnestly stretch him.
Just enough. Just until he eases.
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Because he will. Is. Here, the pinning of his arm to keep him in place, that low murmur, a rush of warmth somewhere low in his belly. Relaxes lower into his bending beneath Flint's hands, sinking out of that stubborn angle he'd locked himself into with a longer, deeper breath out. A shiver of tension flexing through him as Flint's fingers find the right angle, arm lifting against that hand and relaxing again.
Finally, a proper groan as fingers push at him, stretch him. Hips raised and angled for it.
Says, "Are you going to come in me?" and it's not quite a taunt, voice thicker than it was some moments ago when he'd made demands. A sort of genuine curiousity behind whatever nipping quality there is to the question. While questions can still be asked.
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"No."
There are rules now, and if Marcus wants something so badly then he will need to bargain for it. Even if he feels the impulse to ask, Do you want me to. Instead, easing fingers free, Flint rubs across his entrance. The touch is demonstrative and testing both. A soft creak of floorboards marks the shifting of his weight.
"I'm going to come here where I can see it on you."
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Nods at that elaboration. He can understand the appeal. (Puts him to mind of the sense of run-off oil that had escaped Flint's hand, trickled and teased bare skin, pleasingly messy. Feels a twinge of anticipation.)
"Then I want marks," is the counter offer, "to see on me later."
Perhaps there would have been anyway, given recent banter over sleeves in the summer. He might have imagined that to speak it out loud might diminish the appeal, but here, there's some perverse enjoyment for saying so, for granting permission, making the thing about to happen while already aching for it.
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He can do marks.
And he can press his fingers back to him, this time backed by the slant of his hip against which his forearm has been braced. Only a little more of this. He will have some sigh out of Marcus or rise of the hip soon, and know by the sound or angle that it's time to demand more of him.
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And there is little room for further imagining as fingers press against him, and his thoughts reorient towards the more singular desire for Flint's cock. But there is always room for imagining later, the nebulous list of desires that contracts and lengthens on any given day. His own appetite for sharp, stinging, marking. The sounds he'd try not to make. Better, the ones Flint would try not to make.
Later. The rough sound out of him is quiet, and the chair creaks a little in its joints as he readjusts the stance of his feet, which has gotten wider almost unconsciously, only aware of it now the way it engages some other muscle up near the hip.
Again, the quiet urge to express impatience. Again, this time, tamped down, save for the way he tries to make himself ready.
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And then what was patient becomes significantly less so. A sudden urgent clenching across the senses and through his core wrenches at his attention. Sees his fingers slipping brusquely from that close heat to loosing the buttons.
"Be still," a strict command, pressing with the hard heel of his hand before Flint briefly unravels his hand hold so he cna use both hands. To yank the hem of his shirt free, pull the garment over his head and discard it. To unfasten his trousers, unlace cording, and lay the stiff line of his erection out first into the clench of his fingers and then across the waiting cleft of Marcus's ass. Smothering his cock there between skin and palm, and pressing reflexively into the narrow space.
He is breathing hard. He is not entjrely certain when he started. But once more with the oil now, spilled through fingers and across hot skin and heedlessly speckling Marcus' skin. Leaning forward to set the brass pot into the safety of the chair's seat means leaning across Marcus. Means grinding very close, his hand snatching back at the man's shoulder. Thumb riding to the nape of his neck, fingers pulsing closed.
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Closes his eyes at that firm press of the other man's erection, hot skin and cooler oil. Head bowing forward, first, at that hand seeking his neck, the press of Flint's body leaning across him. Stretching, in only subtle ways, and muscle working through a shoulder as he sets a bracing hand. A slight shift backwards, meeting some of that pressure.
"That's it," murmured, during all this. Maybe some ghost of that smile curled into his tone, but only to warm it. Rolling his head back up, feeling that tight clench of a grip there. His accent, thicker and muggy already, although perhaps they've been here for some time. Hours, maybe. "Take it, Flint."
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Slowly, a swelling ache for the pretense. A floorboard creaks underfoot and the chair arm murmurs a soft complaint.
And then his second hand, callouses gone artificially soft from the oil on them, finds Marcus's other shoulder. Leaves gleaming fingerprints, the precursor to reddened points of pressure, as Flint sinks heavily into him. It's only once he's bottomed out, flush hip to thigh, that the hand on Marcus' neck rides higher to catch at the base of his skull and force his head down.
"Tell me you want it hard."
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Marcus' moan is low and unchecked. He's been well worked and the ease with which Flint can bury himself feels somehow more specifically intrusive than if he'd had to work harder just now. Sweat immediately speckling across his skin, and a deep thrum of pleasure making his hips jerk against nothing.
A grunt as his head is pressed down, a small flicker of tension coiling through the shoulders. Easing, submitting to it.
"I want it hard," is murmured, quiet, but not shy, rough with desire. "I want you to fuck me hard."
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He jostles closer. Rough hands renew their purchase, thrilled for the way the body under them answers to the press of fingers and cock. These are the last flexings to identify the boundaries of the space, and then Flint does what they both want. Draws back and surges hard down into the brace of his hands. And again, that heady strike of skin. And again, a driving rhythm that comes from the coil of pleasure made by the not deferential bend of Marcus's neck.
Flint leans heavy over him to fuck him down, each urgent thrust punctuated by an appreciative groaning that spills over to fill the room. Fuck, it's good. Takes his cock so well. The jolt of a shoulder in the tight palm of his hand made by a demanding thrust. "Feel that?" Again. "How easy you are to fill."
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The chair judders once beneath him before a minor reset of feet and his own grip on the thing steadies the arrangement.
Panting, as Flint speaks, leans in, against. Marcus' agreeing sound stumbles over that emphasising jolt, tapers into a moan. "Aye," breathed out. Absurd, to feel a flush of pleasure for that praise, but it runs hot and high through him anyway. "Aye, fuck it feels good."
Eventually, he will want to touch his own cock. He will try to. Already, that low urgent ache feels like a hand squeezing him already, at odds with the reality of a lack of friction and pressure. For now, it's enough to cling to the chair, to lift his hips in the most helpful way he can, to feel his own arousal tug under its own weight as Flint fucks down into him.
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Meanwhile his grip asserts, then shifts, clamping tight again across the yoke of Marcus's shoulders or moving to brace against the plane of his upper back—restless and satisfied in proportion so long as he can bear him down through elbow and hip, purposefully careless of what the chair's arm will tolerate in favor of driving him hard and heavy where Marcus is braced against it. He takes him like that for some uncalculated measure, the click of the too short chair leg against the floorboards too quiet to parse from the heavy draw of breath, eager praise—Good, take him like that—, and the catch of bodies coming roughly together.
Then his hands turn to grasping: heavy to the curve between shoulder and neck, and grasping up under Marcus's jaw to force his face up with that pressing thumb rather than pulling at his hair to do the same. Urging him to raise shoulders and chest, hungry for the curve it presses into his back.
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