"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.
Minor, reflexive protest coils down through Marcus' body at this new manhandling, but only that. Lets his spine bend as urged—Flint's hands are convincing—while he wrangles a grip at the other man's forearm. Something that moderates and holds him to it, both.
And also, all at once, overtaken by the impulse to bite or suck at gripping fingers, or kiss his palm, or wrench that hand down all the way to his cock so he has a fist to fuck, a white-hot streak of want for some form of acting on, imposing on, that he still can't quite get to. Thoughts of later, soon are too rational, but even a complaining, growled out sound has that desperate, wanting edge, just as felt as heard against the edge of Flint's hand.
It is good. It's too much, which is also good, to be bent over and had, for the mutual gratification of it. To feel barely himself, or at least, a version far removed from the man composedly negotiating for a room downstairs, or even the one later rationalising obeying a directive like come here.
So when he says, "Fuck you," growled and gritted teeth, it's hard to miss the way he also sounds delighted, something crooked and mirthful in the next gust of breath.
Fuck, but he likes the sound of that. It is light and biting, and easy in the way that is reflexive and thoughtless. Untethered, which to his ear qualifies as good. Flint's fingers flex briefly tighter, closing firmly around that high point of Marcus's neck—
When he pulls back, it's all the way. Cock slipping from the hot clutch of him, hand skirting from Marcus's shoulder to
Well. Not to steer himself. But ready to do so.
"Don't you want me?" Would've sounded more severe a few minutes ago. Here, it has the shape of a firm hand and a laughing mouth. This a game they are playing, it says. They are both well acquainted with what they're hungry for.
It's a game they are playing, and so he anticipates something, some reprisal. The starting squeeze to his neck feels like it might centre itself there, breath compressing in his lungs for the moment it takes for Flint's fingers to loosen once more
and leave him in a rush of rasped complaint as Flint pulls back and out completely. The immediate ache is physical, a clenching feeling in the absence of that filling. The hand he has caught on Flint's arm squeezes as he is spoken to, Marcus closing his eyes for the irrational rushing throb of arousal, blood thick in the veins.
Gentles his hand, but keeps that hold. His other, braced on the chair, squeezing tighter in turn.
"Yes," he pants. A subtle movement through his body, an asking gesture. "Yes."
It is an exercise in restraint not to fill him then. To instead just rub up against him, cock sliding heavily across Marcus's ass—teasing himself nearly as much as he is Marcus.
Nearly.
"Ask me for it." Fingers tighten softly both there under Marcus's chin and the flexing shape of that counter grip, and here at his hip where his other hand has wandered. But, because they are negotiating and not just doling out strict orders: "Ask me to fuck you, and I promise you can have me however you want after."
A small press, head of his cock catching to spread him. He'll be so good for him. He might even say please.
The quicker inhale at that blunt feeling of Flint pressing in close is entirely involuntary, stupidly anticipating, breath released again in a soft, panting vocalisation as it has been doing since Marcus could feel the other man teasing him. Teasing him with the prospect, the shape of him pressing against flesh made warm and sensitive, but also with how achingly hard he feels, how easy for him to give them both what they want.
He will think of the ways he wants to have Flint. Or maybe he won't, maybe it'll simply be a blank space with which to ruthlessly fill with the first impulse he has as soon as he's able to act on it. For now, there's something in that offer that soothes. Does the work for him.
And so Marcus says, "Please," without the word 'beg' spoken out loud. Voice that rough texture, a few degrees above a whisper, but not mumbled. "Please fuck me, Flint. I need it."
And that feels true. To return to that state of being driven hard, of being told how good he is for it. For it to be as rough and indelicate as it is pleasurable. "I need it," repeated.
He can feel it in his fingertips. In the skin that passed from thumb and forefinger that is crooked against Marcus's throat to feel the hum of his answer, the shape of the thing sparking hot across the skin. Twisting like a hook in the belly, an urge that is both violent and sympathetic. He wants to close his fingers around the sound. He wants to press an aching, tender kiss to the nape of Marcus's neck and tell him how sweet it is. Instead, he presses back into the heat of him. Burying himself deep with a panted murmur feels like the marriage of those two impulses.
He only lingers there for a moment, cock heavy and tight for the desire of it. Please, Marcus had said, and he can feel it in the hum between his ears. So he looses his grip on the man's neck, finds a place for both hands at his hips instead, and straightens with a rock of heels and a groan of the floorboards.
When Flint resumes fucking him—launching brisklg back into that hard, biting pace—, it is easier from this vantage to make sure he's pulling Marcus back into his cock as much as he is driving into him.
It feels like reward, that first initial pushing back into him. Marcus' answer is breathily approving, does his part in answering it by rocking his weight back just a little as if he could lean there. There, is barely audible, and as Flint's hand leaves off his throat, he drapes himself deeper across the chair arms. There will be some bruising, probably, from the worn-down leather of that angle of furniture, of a kind Flint barely has to induce or Marcus had to ask for.
But pressing hard against where it's gotten tender feels satisfying, as does the bracket of Flint's grip at his hips. That pace begins again, and the first groan out of Marcus is louder than the previous ones, sharper, and from there, there's very little he can do to strangle any of it back. Pants out sentiments. Maker and that's good and like that and don't stop.
And here, it doesn't matter who might hear, below or around. All that exists is this chair, Flint's hands and cock, the strength of him snapped through where hip strikes thigh and the tug he feels of being driven that small fraction backwards, the floor beneath bare feet.
With one arm collapsed across the chair arm, taking his weight, Marcus can reach back and grasp Flint's hip, feeling him, his movement and warmth. His hand rests there without dictating anything, just gathers what it can between splayed fingers.
Eventually, there's a more urgent clip to his breathing. A desperate edge that has everything to do with the feeling of his own cock beneath him, that sense of eager strain. Abdominal muscles clenching, thighs tense. The sound out of Marcus is rough and needful when he goes to take his hand back from Flint's hip to tuck it beneath himself.
That litany of encouragement spurs one of his own, each hard strike into him promoting a fuck hissed between teeth or a low, desire thick groaning. He is sweating—pricking all over from the close clutching sensation around his cock, and the rough catch of hips, and the lines of muscle that flex and shiver in Marcus's back at he's fucked. The nape of the other man's neck. The ruck through look of his hair. The color that's come hot up into the skin. Fuck, Marcus is good like this. If he could stand here and fuck him all day like this—
His hand closes roughly at Marcus's elbow, sliding to his wrist. There is an unflinching demand in how he forces that arm back. And then further, pinning the offending wrist across the small of Marcus's back with a strict, punctuating thrust.
"Wait for me," is a low, almost gentling pant, as if the rigid sense of demand is untenable in this way too—an impulse to answer those needy cries with something tender. "I'm close. I'm so close"—Maker, he really is—"and I need your cock in me."
Just a little more. Just the thought makes him clench tight and warm, a bowstring taut quality aching in his thighs that he needs Marcus to fuck out of him. He wants to be stretched by the shape of him. To watch as Marcus gathers himself up from being spread this thin.
With a hard, biting pant, Flint pulls abruptly from him. Closes his hand hard around his cock and works himself roughly with a fist, his other hand gripping Marcus's wrist tight to the point of cruelty. When he comes, it's like he promised to: spilling in hot pulses across where he's used Marcus so well.
The tight shape made by his own arm pressed down by demanding hand—has that hackling, uncomfortable restriction to it without the possibility of true painful twinges. Flint is careful and sure and unrelenting in the ways Marcus knew he would be, and so the sound out of him in response, strain and complaint, has no real pain to it, no real protest. The other man may as well have squeezed his cock for the way he reacts, and a flood of warmth courses through him at that short, sharp thrust.
Doesn't abate. The quality of Flint's voice simmers in him, assurance and need. Tension ekes out of Marcus' shoulder, submitting to that clasp and demand, both equally convincing.
He would like to say something. Encouraging, dirty, dictating, flattering. The words stumble over themselves and there is swiftly no need for them at all, and he hopes it is enough—believes it is enough—for him to simply be like this, to be grasped and bent and used, to have asked for it and hungrily accepted it. A spike of excitement pierces through him as he feels Flint withdraw, and his cock aches in both jealousy and sympathy when that compulsive squeeze constricts painfully about his wrist.
The next breath shivers out of him at that wet strike of come against sensitive skin, where it will mingle with oil and then, further down the thigh, sweat.
Stays there, patient, breathing hard. Determined to let Flint decide when he is done with him before that waiting tension lashes through.
The only halfway sensible press of his cock through the slick mess he has made, wringing the shivers of orgasm from himself as he guides too sensitive skin against that come and oil and sweat. This, punctuated by a throaty satisfied panting. A hitch and catch of breathing and hip, the last vestiges of being wound too tight to think straight. As the more finite points of the room reshape themselves around them, his attention sharpens to absorb the shape Marcus has been pressed into. To map the red marks on his shoulders, and hips, and the line of muscle cut sharply from the bend of his forearm. The details are soothing, where moments ago they'd been an overwhelming bombardment. The slick sheen of sweat. The effects of breathing pulling at his ribs. The shape of Marcus's thighs, and the proper of his arm across the chair's arm. These things can be categorized, and sorted, and logged.
Eventually, his grip abates by slow degrees. A hand returns to steady Marcus at his hip, and his fingers rover from wrist to elbow to bicep. Finding Marcus's neck again, that thumb presses. Palm square, calloused fingers admiring the dimpling of flesh.
The noise he makes is like praise—a low, thick rumble of satisfaction that feels as it it hums all the way through him.
"You're so good like this." A gentle pulse of squeezing fingers. A beat of heavy quiet, drawn dense, slowly becomes, "Are you ready?"
If Flint decided to spend whole minutes just like this, Marcus isn't certain he could have brought himself to stop him. Content, first, to feel so intimately the last of Flint finishing, muscles releasing and breath evening out, and what he imagines to be the realigning of coherent thought, sobriety.
He is doing something similar. Not relaxing, not possible. Unmooring, maybe. Resurfacing.
Like when Flint's grasp loosens, and Marcus keeps that arm in place until Flint's hand smooths up to the elbow, and now he shifts, a small hiss of a breath for repositioning, though he hadn't been held like that for too long. Bracing his palm against the edge of the chair seat, a slow formless cataloguing of which muscles to relax and which to reengage as he rumbles a contented sound for Flint's hand roving up to his neck.
Praise goes straight to his cock, if not before it flickers somewhere beneath the ribs. Realises, finally, that he can do whatever he wants, and as he pants out an affirmative sound at Flint's question, Marcus pushes himself back out of his bend. Tucks a hand down to squeeze about the base of his cock, both relieving and calming.
The chair is shoved forward and away some several inches, a jarring scrape of wood on wood. Reaches back to grasp at Flint in the same motion of turning to face him, and maybe the other man will catch the sight of a teeth shown in a crooked, bright smile before they are felt in a hard kiss.
What does he expect? An abrupt surging up from under his hand, maybe. Grasping hands and a hard bite. Maybe, honestly, nothing specific whatsoever, being too satisfied and sobering to have bothered to conjure Marcus's possible trajectory as opposed to just letting whatever it is happen. It will be good, whatever the semantics—a rare span of mental quiet, the thing in him that urgently sinks it's teeth into thinking and overthinking glutted into momentary hibernation.
Certainly he doesn't anticipate that flashing smile, so starkly laid as to be disorienting, the details of the thing parsed only after Marcus has crushed their mouths together. And then it's too late to voice the laugh that rises involuntarily in him, relegating the thing to a clenched tight and unexpectedly bright sensation behind the ribs that he must simply live with as his hand, which has apparently followed Marcus up by the shoulder, makes to clasp that hard kiss closer.
A hand becomes an arm, roughly looping high around Marcus's shoulders. Caught and catching, kissed and kissing, and an entirely different kind of relieved for it.
It isn't a punishing thing, this kiss, but not merciful; hunger, demand that Flint open to him. Revenge is not the impulse, even if he might have imagined it would be, if he'd done any imagining. Reward cleaves nearer, but isn't so selfless as that, real personal want in scrape of teeth across bottom lip, the slide of his tongue. His hand comes up to grasp at the back of Flint's neck, holding him there, while his arm cinches tight around the waist.
Gives a hot gust of satisfied breath in the break between kissing at the feeling of his cock pressing now against warm skin. Feels no shame at all for pressing there deliberately, tight between them, the trace remains of oil that Flint had stroked there easing some friction.
That sudden, joyful feeling only eases under the pressure of arousal rather than disappearing entirely. The hand clasped at Flint's neck moves to clasp at his jaw, thumb sweeping across his chin as if to encourage opening to those deep, needing kisses, then lays at his bottom lip as Marcus breaks it off, barely.
"You're going to be good for me, now?" has some mirth to it, but expects an answer all the same.
Maybe it isn't a surprise that Flint would be willing and eager to suffer that scraping of teeth and the hard clasp of hands, or that he would brace himself to accept that close press of bodies and the hard line of Marcus against his hip. Like making no protest to Marcus pinning him, like lying in a cheaper and dirtier rented room on his back and being hungry for a good fuck, like being amenable to getting on his knees. But here, in that drawn near circle of limbs and shoulders and pressing hips, the break between kisses being marginal, there is something more warm than ravenous in the slant in his breathing. A curving, satisfied quality to the line of his mouth where it flinches reactively to the set of teeth.
Will he be good for him?
The narrowest point of contact, so close that it is eyelashes and the dark circles under eyes and a gleam of daylight from the windows reflected. Flint bites his mouth. Not gentle, entirely smug.
"No," mumbled much closer and kinder, the hook of his arm quite warm against the back of Marcus's neck. "But try anyway."
A thought laden in affection, fierce and willing to be goaded. To soothe the bite to his own mouth with a chiding kiss before breaking it off, an assessing and keen scrape of eye contact.
The hand at Flint's jaw reorients so he can press his thumb up under the other man's chin, and this is one point of pressure Marcus uses to go and bully him backwards. Aware of the tangle of trousers and boots around Flint's knees and ankles and only caring about in as much as the wind of his arm around his waist will ensure he stays upright.
If Flint will not be good for him, then there's no need to bother with verbalising orders and expecting obedience. Marcus will instead force him along those few feet across to the bed, and once there, he will push Flint to turn around. A hand catches up high at his back, and the other will reach down to snag at hem of lowered pants. He will have him kneel on the edge of the mattress and fuck him with his boots on.
All of this, communicated in wrangling, a rough, "Kneel up," to demonstrate intent.
He scuffs along, half bullied and half steered in that sluggish, unserious way of a man who has selected to play at obstinance because it satisfies the thing he is eager for: Marcus's hands on him, firm and demanding. And because Marcus's impulse to shed his boots early wasn't incorrect; they do get in the way, this tangle of trousers and leather hobbling. Regardless: he is steered, he is turned, and he is pressed to the edge of the mattress.
"Do you mean to leave marks on me?" he asks, shoulders flexing back against the shape of Marcus' hand planted at his back. One knee shifting up to the mattress edge, face half turning so he might glance back after Marcus.
But they did agree on this much—that Marcus could have him how he wanted—, so he doesn't require further shoving to fetch his second knee up into the bed. He leans faintly forward, the fingertips of one hand scuffing the blankets after the pretense of balancing himself.
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no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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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And also, all at once, overtaken by the impulse to bite or suck at gripping fingers, or kiss his palm, or wrench that hand down all the way to his cock so he has a fist to fuck, a white-hot streak of want for some form of acting on, imposing on, that he still can't quite get to. Thoughts of later, soon are too rational, but even a complaining, growled out sound has that desperate, wanting edge, just as felt as heard against the edge of Flint's hand.
It is good. It's too much, which is also good, to be bent over and had, for the mutual gratification of it. To feel barely himself, or at least, a version far removed from the man composedly negotiating for a room downstairs, or even the one later rationalising obeying a directive like come here.
So when he says, "Fuck you," growled and gritted teeth, it's hard to miss the way he also sounds delighted, something crooked and mirthful in the next gust of breath.
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When he pulls back, it's all the way. Cock slipping from the hot clutch of him, hand skirting from Marcus's shoulder to
Well. Not to steer himself. But ready to do so.
"Don't you want me?" Would've sounded more severe a few minutes ago. Here, it has the shape of a firm hand and a laughing mouth. This a game they are playing, it says. They are both well acquainted with what they're hungry for.
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and leave him in a rush of rasped complaint as Flint pulls back and out completely. The immediate ache is physical, a clenching feeling in the absence of that filling. The hand he has caught on Flint's arm squeezes as he is spoken to, Marcus closing his eyes for the irrational rushing throb of arousal, blood thick in the veins.
Gentles his hand, but keeps that hold. His other, braced on the chair, squeezing tighter in turn.
"Yes," he pants. A subtle movement through his body, an asking gesture. "Yes."
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Nearly.
"Ask me for it." Fingers tighten softly both there under Marcus's chin and the flexing shape of that counter grip, and here at his hip where his other hand has wandered. But, because they are negotiating and not just doling out strict orders: "Ask me to fuck you, and I promise you can have me however you want after."
A small press, head of his cock catching to spread him. He'll be so good for him. He might even say please.
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He will think of the ways he wants to have Flint. Or maybe he won't, maybe it'll simply be a blank space with which to ruthlessly fill with the first impulse he has as soon as he's able to act on it. For now, there's something in that offer that soothes. Does the work for him.
And so Marcus says, "Please," without the word 'beg' spoken out loud. Voice that rough texture, a few degrees above a whisper, but not mumbled. "Please fuck me, Flint. I need it."
And that feels true. To return to that state of being driven hard, of being told how good he is for it. For it to be as rough and indelicate as it is pleasurable. "I need it," repeated.
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He only lingers there for a moment, cock heavy and tight for the desire of it. Please, Marcus had said, and he can feel it in the hum between his ears. So he looses his grip on the man's neck, finds a place for both hands at his hips instead, and straightens with a rock of heels and a groan of the floorboards.
When Flint resumes fucking him—launching brisklg back into that hard, biting pace—, it is easier from this vantage to make sure he's pulling Marcus back into his cock as much as he is driving into him.
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But pressing hard against where it's gotten tender feels satisfying, as does the bracket of Flint's grip at his hips. That pace begins again, and the first groan out of Marcus is louder than the previous ones, sharper, and from there, there's very little he can do to strangle any of it back. Pants out sentiments. Maker and that's good and like that and don't stop.
And here, it doesn't matter who might hear, below or around. All that exists is this chair, Flint's hands and cock, the strength of him snapped through where hip strikes thigh and the tug he feels of being driven that small fraction backwards, the floor beneath bare feet.
With one arm collapsed across the chair arm, taking his weight, Marcus can reach back and grasp Flint's hip, feeling him, his movement and warmth. His hand rests there without dictating anything, just gathers what it can between splayed fingers.
Eventually, there's a more urgent clip to his breathing. A desperate edge that has everything to do with the feeling of his own cock beneath him, that sense of eager strain. Abdominal muscles clenching, thighs tense. The sound out of Marcus is rough and needful when he goes to take his hand back from Flint's hip to tuck it beneath himself.
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His hand closes roughly at Marcus's elbow, sliding to his wrist. There is an unflinching demand in how he forces that arm back. And then further, pinning the offending wrist across the small of Marcus's back with a strict, punctuating thrust.
"Wait for me," is a low, almost gentling pant, as if the rigid sense of demand is untenable in this way too—an impulse to answer those needy cries with something tender. "I'm close. I'm so close"—Maker, he really is—"and I need your cock in me."
Just a little more. Just the thought makes him clench tight and warm, a bowstring taut quality aching in his thighs that he needs Marcus to fuck out of him. He wants to be stretched by the shape of him. To watch as Marcus gathers himself up from being spread this thin.
With a hard, biting pant, Flint pulls abruptly from him. Closes his hand hard around his cock and works himself roughly with a fist, his other hand gripping Marcus's wrist tight to the point of cruelty. When he comes, it's like he promised to: spilling in hot pulses across where he's used Marcus so well.
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Doesn't abate. The quality of Flint's voice simmers in him, assurance and need. Tension ekes out of Marcus' shoulder, submitting to that clasp and demand, both equally convincing.
He would like to say something. Encouraging, dirty, dictating, flattering. The words stumble over themselves and there is swiftly no need for them at all, and he hopes it is enough—believes it is enough—for him to simply be like this, to be grasped and bent and used, to have asked for it and hungrily accepted it. A spike of excitement pierces through him as he feels Flint withdraw, and his cock aches in both jealousy and sympathy when that compulsive squeeze constricts painfully about his wrist.
The next breath shivers out of him at that wet strike of come against sensitive skin, where it will mingle with oil and then, further down the thigh, sweat.
Stays there, patient, breathing hard. Determined to let Flint decide when he is done with him before that waiting tension lashes through.
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The only halfway sensible press of his cock through the slick mess he has made, wringing the shivers of orgasm from himself as he guides too sensitive skin against that come and oil and sweat. This, punctuated by a throaty satisfied panting. A hitch and catch of breathing and hip, the last vestiges of being wound too tight to think straight. As the more finite points of the room reshape themselves around them, his attention sharpens to absorb the shape Marcus has been pressed into. To map the red marks on his shoulders, and hips, and the line of muscle cut sharply from the bend of his forearm. The details are soothing, where moments ago they'd been an overwhelming bombardment. The slick sheen of sweat. The effects of breathing pulling at his ribs. The shape of Marcus's thighs, and the proper of his arm across the chair's arm. These things can be categorized, and sorted, and logged.
Eventually, his grip abates by slow degrees. A hand returns to steady Marcus at his hip, and his fingers rover from wrist to elbow to bicep. Finding Marcus's neck again, that thumb presses. Palm square, calloused fingers admiring the dimpling of flesh.
The noise he makes is like praise—a low, thick rumble of satisfaction that feels as it it hums all the way through him.
"You're so good like this." A gentle pulse of squeezing fingers. A beat of heavy quiet, drawn dense, slowly becomes, "Are you ready?"
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He is doing something similar. Not relaxing, not possible. Unmooring, maybe. Resurfacing.
Like when Flint's grasp loosens, and Marcus keeps that arm in place until Flint's hand smooths up to the elbow, and now he shifts, a small hiss of a breath for repositioning, though he hadn't been held like that for too long. Bracing his palm against the edge of the chair seat, a slow formless cataloguing of which muscles to relax and which to reengage as he rumbles a contented sound for Flint's hand roving up to his neck.
Praise goes straight to his cock, if not before it flickers somewhere beneath the ribs. Realises, finally, that he can do whatever he wants, and as he pants out an affirmative sound at Flint's question, Marcus pushes himself back out of his bend. Tucks a hand down to squeeze about the base of his cock, both relieving and calming.
The chair is shoved forward and away some several inches, a jarring scrape of wood on wood. Reaches back to grasp at Flint in the same motion of turning to face him, and maybe the other man will catch the sight of a teeth shown in a crooked, bright smile before they are felt in a hard kiss.
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Certainly he doesn't anticipate that flashing smile, so starkly laid as to be disorienting, the details of the thing parsed only after Marcus has crushed their mouths together. And then it's too late to voice the laugh that rises involuntarily in him, relegating the thing to a clenched tight and unexpectedly bright sensation behind the ribs that he must simply live with as his hand, which has apparently followed Marcus up by the shoulder, makes to clasp that hard kiss closer.
A hand becomes an arm, roughly looping high around Marcus's shoulders. Caught and catching, kissed and kissing, and an entirely different kind of relieved for it.
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Gives a hot gust of satisfied breath in the break between kissing at the feeling of his cock pressing now against warm skin. Feels no shame at all for pressing there deliberately, tight between them, the trace remains of oil that Flint had stroked there easing some friction.
That sudden, joyful feeling only eases under the pressure of arousal rather than disappearing entirely. The hand clasped at Flint's neck moves to clasp at his jaw, thumb sweeping across his chin as if to encourage opening to those deep, needing kisses, then lays at his bottom lip as Marcus breaks it off, barely.
"You're going to be good for me, now?" has some mirth to it, but expects an answer all the same.
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Will he be good for him?
The narrowest point of contact, so close that it is eyelashes and the dark circles under eyes and a gleam of daylight from the windows reflected. Flint bites his mouth. Not gentle, entirely smug.
"No," mumbled much closer and kinder, the hook of his arm quite warm against the back of Marcus's neck. "But try anyway."
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A thought laden in affection, fierce and willing to be goaded. To soothe the bite to his own mouth with a chiding kiss before breaking it off, an assessing and keen scrape of eye contact.
The hand at Flint's jaw reorients so he can press his thumb up under the other man's chin, and this is one point of pressure Marcus uses to go and bully him backwards. Aware of the tangle of trousers and boots around Flint's knees and ankles and only caring about in as much as the wind of his arm around his waist will ensure he stays upright.
If Flint will not be good for him, then there's no need to bother with verbalising orders and expecting obedience. Marcus will instead force him along those few feet across to the bed, and once there, he will push Flint to turn around. A hand catches up high at his back, and the other will reach down to snag at hem of lowered pants. He will have him kneel on the edge of the mattress and fuck him with his boots on.
All of this, communicated in wrangling, a rough, "Kneel up," to demonstrate intent.
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"Do you mean to leave marks on me?" he asks, shoulders flexing back against the shape of Marcus' hand planted at his back. One knee shifting up to the mattress edge, face half turning so he might glance back after Marcus.
But they did agree on this much—that Marcus could have him how he wanted—, so he doesn't require further shoving to fetch his second knee up into the bed. He leans faintly forward, the fingertips of one hand scuffing the blankets after the pretense of balancing himself.
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