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.
He will note the marks on his wrist when unbuttoning a sleeve, and check the ones patterned along his shoulder in a looking glass, the near-incidental bruising at his hip bone when he opts to fuck his own hand tomorrow morning, glance over the telltale fingerprints at the throat before he covers it with a necktie. It would be selfish of him not to reward Flint with some of the same.
To reward himself with knowing they are there. Here, Marcus' hand is flat against Flint's back, and then shifts to find a grasp at the back of his neck. Not unfamiliar, the configuration of palm and fingers, the faint bite of them as he squeezes.
"I mean to leave marks on you," he confirms. His other hand scuffs along Flint's side, down over muscle, to hip, as if testing out the ways in which he might grip onto the other man, soon enough. "You've earned them."
That hand leaves, only to return in the form of an open palmed, not-too-serious smack against Flint's ass, if no less sudden or loud for it.
"Stay," before he moves off to fetch, again, that pot of oil.
The abrupt crack of the palm scuffs a grunt of surprise out of him, a panting exhale that is more laugh than it isn't. It all sounds (and feels) more like praise than it does discipline. Prickles across the back of the neck, a distinct kind of pleasure warm in the absence of Marcus's hand. His mouth feels tender from the scrape of teeth, and it is incredible how keen a body can be to be touched even after it has been so well satisfied.
(But he wants Marcus to touch him. He wants to be fucked. So maybe satisfied doesn't actually yet apply.)
One hand flattens on the bed as Marcus moves away. His other hand strays to the button high at the top of his boot's gaiter, beginning to loose the row of them even as his attention remains across his shoulder, fully half turned there on his knees so he might admire the figure Marcus cuts in the daylit room. The flex of muscle across shoulder and through forearm, the appealing jut of his erection, and the sheen of sweat. An impulse: to search out any evidence of his own release on him.
"The next time we do this, I want you to ride me."
Wrangling back control, including some amount of self-control, hasn't meant perfect composure. Flint's hand had already ruined the neat combing Marcus had tied his hair into and he hasn't tried to fix it, just as he's ignored the arcing trickle of oil run from his back to his hip, or smeared in close between his thighs, or the mess so deliberately made of him in those last moments. Still breathing a little high in the chest as he moves back for the bed, meeting that look.
Also unself-conscious about all of it in a way he was not when they began. He can nearly feel it, Flint watching him, noting whatever he wants about his naked form. It must be good, when that's the thing he says next.
The pot is set down, first, Marcus reaching for Flint, touching his waist from behind. Leaning in, ignoring what's happening with that gaiter, and yes, stiff cock nudging in close, but momentarily less important than the open mouthed kiss he bends to place on Flint's shoulder. A hand shifting around to slide up over his chest, fingertips tracking through sparse hair, over muscle. Flint now mostly naked and able to be touched properly. If he wasn't desperate to fuck,
well, he is, but soon he will be satisfied, and he will be convincing about how quickly Flint should leave for his next appointment when they could instead be wrapped around each other.
"Then I'll ride you," Marcus murmurs against shoulder. Another kiss, which leaves off with the graze of teeth. Impossible to tell if there's a smile in it, but more apparent in his voice when he adds, "And finish down your throat."
Marcus Rowntree drives a hard bargain, says the amused (wanting) huff of breath Flint exhales, the gentle shifting of knees on the mattress, a faint adjustment in the angle of his shoulder—a reflexive adjustment designed to meet and match that closeness. To enable him to twist partially over, fingers skirting up from buttons to find Marcus's arm, the shape of Flint's profile nudging in after that warm, scraping kiss. It is not impossible to demand a kiss like this across his shoulder. It is only offset, and composed predominantly of hot breath.
There's something in this that aches keen and warm under the hand Marcus has at his chest. That he can press all those marks that will become bruises into Marcus's skin, and his reward for ir is to linger here for just a moment under the man's warm hands and gently goading mouth is—
Easy. Good. Makes him want to lean into that pressed flat palm and to bare the back of his neck to Marcus's teeth.
"Any hour now, Rowntree," he says instead, fingers squeezing softly closed around his elbow.
His hand skims up from Flint's chest to curl around his chin, directing him into that kiss he's angling for, leaning in obligingly to deliver it. It should be hard and biting, maybe, as a response. Instead, Marcus only briefly keeps Flint's bottom lip in his teeth for a moment before releasing it, almost sweet.
But then hands reorient, once again seeking a hold at the base of Flint's neck, and the other snatches up at the bicep. Marcus guides Flint forwards to bend at the waist and find balance on all fours, the mattress low slung enough that, with only some minor effort, they'll fit together comfortably without Marcus needing to clamber on behind him. And he feels like fucking while standing, desirous of that leverage he felt from Flint after having bent to it for what was surely seven or eight hours.
He tends to the second gaiter, then, loosening the top so they can at least ruck Flint's trousers down past the knees. "Concerned that if I take too long, you'll work yourself up again?" Marcus asks, as he places a hand on a buttock and squeezes appreciatively.
There's a slight sounds like a you problem to his tone. It'd sound more nipping if he didn't still instead sound roughed around the edges.
A low grumbled murmur becomes "If you take that long, I'm leaving you here with your hand."
As far as threats go, it would stick more effectively without him shifting purposefully back into the shape of Marcus's hand, or rocking his weight from one knee to the other to help push the tangle of his trousers down past them.
But Marcus won't make him wait. He's reasonably certain of it, warm anticipation pricking over cooling sweat. And that he can be here on all fours and be fully cognizant of the working parts of his own desire rather than wholly wound up in them has a calming, steadying effect made more sure still by the hand at his neck. He is not, actually, impatient. Or even thinking of the hour, really. It's only that
That warm, rich sensation high in his chest hasn't abated with orgasm, and it knows what it wants. Marcus's hands, and his attention, and the rough edged amusement that bites in at the edge of his timbre when he is goaded and nipped and cajoled. So:
"If we're not going to make good use of this bed, you shouldn't have bothered paying for it."
Marcus is collecting the oil pot up as Flint speaks, the hand he has resting on him warm and stable. This last bit of grumbling is rewarded with a soft exhale, a laugh to it, and Marcus squeezes that hand again, letting his fingers dig in. "They'll charge us the same for the chair," agreeable.
Moves his hand, tucking fingertips more intimately as he goes to splash oil down on palm and fingers. Encourages it against Flint, then, rubbing it between the cleft of his ass. When Marcus' other hand returns, its to grip and spread him, fingers getting to that initially gentle work of feeling over sensitive skin, the tight ring of muscle in need of convincing.
If his own arousal had eased off its edge long enough for him to make rejoinders, Marcus can feel how easily encouraged it will be to return to that desperate state. He can't help the heavier quality to his next exhale for simply touching Flint this way, for pushing a fingertip against his entrance and feeling the give when he applies a little force.
"You did this well for me," feels like it may as well be said, more sober than in the throes of being fucked.
That smooth slide of oiled fingers sends a shiver moving through and under skin, a flexing and easing of muscle. He is too sober to flush under the contact or from being spread open to make it easy, but there is something about the rational semantics of this which sticks to the ribs regardless. This is going to be one of those hard, thorough fucks and he is going to be very aware of it.
A warm, pulling breath says—
"You're welcome."
He tilts his face. The angle is too severe to actually make eye contact, but the laughing wrinkle in his cheek running down into the bristle of his beard is evident enough.
Behind Flint, the sound of Marcus pulling a patient breath in—maybe for nipping comments, or for his own steadying, or both. The pulse of a hand squeezing. Insufferable, this man.
That hand roves restlessly to the small of Flint's back, a light pressure, barely counting as a warning to the slow but thorough easing in of a slickly coated finger, past the knuckle until curled fingers press skin. The stroke of easing out, back in, a diligent working of muscle that isn't designed to coax or tease any other part of Flint besides the part being directly touched.
"Tell me when you're ready for me," Marcus says. His roving hand lifts away, and then there's another little trickle of oil, and the sense of it gathered, pushed inside with slowly easing fingers. Something practical about it, if not for the depth of each long stroke, if not for the knowledge that that sense of practicality
well, he imagines it's part of it. Part of a daytime fuck in a let room. He watches with heavy attention, the sight of two fingers disappearing inside of Flint, the sheen of oil, and then lets his attention wander up over naked back, sloped shoulders, the slice of profile just visible.
That press earns a long breath drawn in, filling and then emptying his lungs almost in tandem with the push and subsequent withdrawal of fingers. For a measure, Flint's face remains turned by that quarter measure—chin all but set to his shoulder, daylight glancing off the flicker of pale eyelashes.
The deliberate quality of the touch hums through him, a steadiness to the push and stretch that sets his teeth on edge and warms across the back of his neck. He is too sober for the thing in his belly to grow tight and tangled from it; instead, his ear is tuned very carefully to the faint shifting through the mattress under his weight, and the shape of Marcus's breathing, and the sound of oiled friction passing against and through him.
Eventually: a sigh and the comfortable buckling of an elbow, leaning partway down against his folding arm to encourage the length of those strokes.
"Maybe I will use my belt on you next time," an idle murmur.
That partial collapse is rewarded with a clean hand sliding down the line of his spine, fanning across the shoulder. It's an exercise in patience, not only to work Flint open under careful, thorough fingers, but to wait for word of readiness as well. Patience that is aggravated by this illustration as to how Marcus will fuck him, how hot and tight he feels around his fingers. By talk of what might be done to him in the future.
The pleasing queue of next times. It has Marcus deviate ever so, let his fingers sink in and stay to press at that point of inner pressure.
"If I do poorly here?" is less idle if also a murmur, tone low and amused and no less heavy for it. Fingers twist, that other hand skimming back down to grip at Flint's hip. "Or well?"
The warm breath that answers has a laughing quality to it, thick and and curling at the margins as it scuffs across Flint's bent forearm. Underpinning it: a flex and give of muscle passing from the small of his back down to across the curve of shoulders. That twist aches. And that deep press—
"As a reward." A rise of shoulders, a slant up of the chin. It's a small shift, but the faint scrape of friction (or the impression of it, motivated by meeting the shape of Marcus's fingers and knuckles) is compelling. This all still somehow feels a little like being in control. Like knowing that if he were to lay the angle of his hip a particular degree and tell Marcus to give him something, he might still have it remanded.
A long, unquiet breath out, and the continued working of his hand. Marcus' attention catches on little flexes of muscle, the shifts in body language, the feeling against his hand when Flint adjusts. And, somewhat removed from the thick feeling of hard flesh and blood and his own pulse, an inner clench that could almost be anxious if he wasn't still so in dire need of relief.
Not anxiety for the prospect. No, there's an almost predictable twinge of bodily interest and he can imagine Flint would count on it, sympathise with it. Something else. Something about having laid a part of himself out so plainly that it can be spoken to so confidently. And perhaps he ought not to've. Perhaps—
Perhaps, fuck it, perhaps they want the same things.
He pushes in close enough that his cock can press against Flint's skin in a warm and needy stripe of contact, trace oil giving some slide to it. Marcus does not move his fingers, does not stop those slow and thorough working him, but finds some space to press in alongside. Yes, he will be good for him.
It's good—to recognize the wanting quality that sees Marcus's cock move alongside his knuckles, the barely-slicked friction of it hot against sensitive skin; to listen to the shape of his breathing, ear tuned very sharp for it; to be here on his knees in the burnished daylight of early autumn filtering in from the little window high in the wall above them, the strange combination of sated and hungry all together. He wants to feel him; mostly, there is the sharp desire to have Marcus because he knows Marcus wants it. And there is that recursive loop again: the satisfaction of wanting, and being wanted, of giving something he is eager to give.
He doesn't count the seconds. Can't say whether it takes more time because he is relatively clear headed, or less because of the ease of muscle and sinew post-orgasm. But eventually, the sound of oil slick fingers and the weight of Marcus's cock, and some impatience for the bite of being fucked, gets its teeth in him. A slow uncoiling. Hands finding the mattress again, and planting. Elbows straightening to see him back to being closer to all fours.
(The angle will be better this way. At least to start.)
On the next stroke, Flint moves purposefully back to meet it. Is satisfied with the thrumming tug it sets low in his belly enough to say, "All right. Give me your cock."
At this directive, Marcus lets his chin tip up as if to release some of the tension gathered up around the shoulders. Patience, clenching through. Slowly, moving his fingers. Keeping his cock pressed close, a gentle rubbing under the press of his hand and a shift of his hips.
Rubbing the excess of oil onto himself until he can feel his skin moving slick against Flint's, and then the barest creak of wooden floorboard under his heel as he leans back to look down where they'll join together. Silent, keeping a hold of his breath as he places himself, only to let it out in a heavier stream as he slowly sinks in, without pause. Marcus' hand goes to Flint's hip in time for him to sink in close and tight.
The hand that closes at Flint's shoulder, the curve near his neck, is sturdy, and will leave behind clear fingerprints of oil eventually. "Don't tell me how to do this," Marcus says, a curl of humour still present despite the breathlessness, the ragged edge, like a worn smile. "Just tell me how you like it."
For emphasis: a small withdraw and push, hip connecting to seat. Hand at the hips, squeezing.
He does laugh then, the sound thick—as full as he feels for that extra push, his own weight shifting reflexively back to meet the press. The squeeze of fingers. The hand curved high on his shoulder. A shiver passing through tender skin becomes, "I'm not sure I can work with a man who balks at taking orders."
But here, the half turn of his head. Tucking his chin roughly against his shoulder, close to that sturdy grip Marcus has on him, Flint roughly scuffs the prickle of his bristled check across the tips of those firmly holding fingers. Something like tenderness and apology both in the gesture, his breath warm. He's a prick, he knows.
So:
"I like to be driven down." Not often. Not always. But Marcus doing it after being so willing under him? He might like that.
Marcus' fingers loosen, straighten out to meet that touch, before resetting.
And in reply, a rough, breathy acknowledgment. Noted, this warm sound says, while still relishing that feeling of being buried this way, of that hot pressure that feels earned. His grip shifts, palm bracing a little more inward, closer to the base of his neck, and there it braces as Marcus pulls out enough to make the thrust back in jolting and satisfying. It would be easy to push down, bully that hard slope back into Flint's spine.
Or rather, it will be, though for now he holds him in place. The breath leaves his lungs in a rasped sound in the moment after, and then begins again in these long strokes. Not looking to jolt him, not the same kind of hard fucking he'd enjoyed moments ago, but there is a greedy tug to Marcus' hands where they are anchored at Flint's body, a satisfying fullness to where his hips press in close each time, and an indulgence to how much he can get away with pulling back without needing his hands to reset.
Rasps and breaths and sighs are quick to thicken into less spare, more indulgent sounds. Fuck you feel good, murmured between. So good, Flint.
The ache of it is keen, a grasping kind of quality not fully eased by the slick of oil or the long, steady strokes Marcus has taken up. It's good like a pressed bruise sometimes is—like when one has noticed the discoloration of broken blood vessels and can't help but place a thumb over it. The prickle of it flutters low through his belly. Passes through him like the sensation of clenched teeth and lungs overfilling with crisp, cold air.
A held breath he only half recognizes as his own becomes a hard exhale. The set of his shoulders rolls forward, hip flexing to adjust the angle at which Marcus fills him. He allows himself to drop his head, neck lengthening under the suggestion of Marcus's hand.
It is, actually, good. That it isn't precisely what he asked for—though surely Marcus will give that to him—doesn't alter that fact, the warm shape of the praise laying pleasantly across the skin. In exchange, a worn even drag of breathing swells to, That's right, and, warm as a hand at the back of a neck, Come on, Marcus, and
"I like when you come in me," a low nipping cadence to this claim. "I like when you fuck down and let me feel it."
But he'll make it take as long as he can. To draw it out while Flint is giving him this. He smooths his hand up the slope of Flint's bent neck, regripping higher, thumb wedged up near the hinge of his jaw from behind. A panting sound agrees with Flint, that he likes those things too, and that wound tight feeling in him slowly beginning to loosen at the same time as muscles draw tense, tenser.
Marcus will give that to him. Applies pressure, pushing Flint's shoulders down. To have him buckle down to the elbows, maybe lower, maybe plant a hand flat against his face and into the covers if Flint will allow it.
The mattress dips beneath where he braces a knee against the edge of it, tangled in closer while the hand at Flint's hip guides, grasps. Powering over, bearing down, giving a grunt as he feels that angle shift. There, Marcus can have him pinned down properly, and the sense of it rushes like hot blood through him.
"I'm close," isn't quite apologetic—he's been close, Flint knows—but it is a warning.
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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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To reward himself with knowing they are there. Here, Marcus' hand is flat against Flint's back, and then shifts to find a grasp at the back of his neck. Not unfamiliar, the configuration of palm and fingers, the faint bite of them as he squeezes.
"I mean to leave marks on you," he confirms. His other hand scuffs along Flint's side, down over muscle, to hip, as if testing out the ways in which he might grip onto the other man, soon enough. "You've earned them."
That hand leaves, only to return in the form of an open palmed, not-too-serious smack against Flint's ass, if no less sudden or loud for it.
"Stay," before he moves off to fetch, again, that pot of oil.
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(But he wants Marcus to touch him. He wants to be fucked. So maybe satisfied doesn't actually yet apply.)
One hand flattens on the bed as Marcus moves away. His other hand strays to the button high at the top of his boot's gaiter, beginning to loose the row of them even as his attention remains across his shoulder, fully half turned there on his knees so he might admire the figure Marcus cuts in the daylit room. The flex of muscle across shoulder and through forearm, the appealing jut of his erection, and the sheen of sweat. An impulse: to search out any evidence of his own release on him.
"The next time we do this, I want you to ride me."
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Also unself-conscious about all of it in a way he was not when they began. He can nearly feel it, Flint watching him, noting whatever he wants about his naked form. It must be good, when that's the thing he says next.
The pot is set down, first, Marcus reaching for Flint, touching his waist from behind. Leaning in, ignoring what's happening with that gaiter, and yes, stiff cock nudging in close, but momentarily less important than the open mouthed kiss he bends to place on Flint's shoulder. A hand shifting around to slide up over his chest, fingertips tracking through sparse hair, over muscle. Flint now mostly naked and able to be touched properly. If he wasn't desperate to fuck,
well, he is, but soon he will be satisfied, and he will be convincing about how quickly Flint should leave for his next appointment when they could instead be wrapped around each other.
"Then I'll ride you," Marcus murmurs against shoulder. Another kiss, which leaves off with the graze of teeth. Impossible to tell if there's a smile in it, but more apparent in his voice when he adds, "And finish down your throat."
While we're wishing for things.
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There's something in this that aches keen and warm under the hand Marcus has at his chest. That he can press all those marks that will become bruises into Marcus's skin, and his reward for ir is to linger here for just a moment under the man's warm hands and gently goading mouth is—
Easy. Good. Makes him want to lean into that pressed flat palm and to bare the back of his neck to Marcus's teeth.
"Any hour now, Rowntree," he says instead, fingers squeezing softly closed around his elbow.
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But then hands reorient, once again seeking a hold at the base of Flint's neck, and the other snatches up at the bicep. Marcus guides Flint forwards to bend at the waist and find balance on all fours, the mattress low slung enough that, with only some minor effort, they'll fit together comfortably without Marcus needing to clamber on behind him. And he feels like fucking while standing, desirous of that leverage he felt from Flint after having bent to it for what was surely seven or eight hours.
He tends to the second gaiter, then, loosening the top so they can at least ruck Flint's trousers down past the knees. "Concerned that if I take too long, you'll work yourself up again?" Marcus asks, as he places a hand on a buttock and squeezes appreciatively.
There's a slight sounds like a you problem to his tone. It'd sound more nipping if he didn't still instead sound roughed around the edges.
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As far as threats go, it would stick more effectively without him shifting purposefully back into the shape of Marcus's hand, or rocking his weight from one knee to the other to help push the tangle of his trousers down past them.
But Marcus won't make him wait. He's reasonably certain of it, warm anticipation pricking over cooling sweat. And that he can be here on all fours and be fully cognizant of the working parts of his own desire rather than wholly wound up in them has a calming, steadying effect made more sure still by the hand at his neck. He is not, actually, impatient. Or even thinking of the hour, really. It's only that
That warm, rich sensation high in his chest hasn't abated with orgasm, and it knows what it wants. Marcus's hands, and his attention, and the rough edged amusement that bites in at the edge of his timbre when he is goaded and nipped and cajoled. So:
"If we're not going to make good use of this bed, you shouldn't have bothered paying for it."
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Moves his hand, tucking fingertips more intimately as he goes to splash oil down on palm and fingers. Encourages it against Flint, then, rubbing it between the cleft of his ass. When Marcus' other hand returns, its to grip and spread him, fingers getting to that initially gentle work of feeling over sensitive skin, the tight ring of muscle in need of convincing.
If his own arousal had eased off its edge long enough for him to make rejoinders, Marcus can feel how easily encouraged it will be to return to that desperate state. He can't help the heavier quality to his next exhale for simply touching Flint this way, for pushing a fingertip against his entrance and feeling the give when he applies a little force.
"You did this well for me," feels like it may as well be said, more sober than in the throes of being fucked.
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A warm, pulling breath says—
"You're welcome."
He tilts his face. The angle is too severe to actually make eye contact, but the laughing wrinkle in his cheek running down into the bristle of his beard is evident enough.
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That hand roves restlessly to the small of Flint's back, a light pressure, barely counting as a warning to the slow but thorough easing in of a slickly coated finger, past the knuckle until curled fingers press skin. The stroke of easing out, back in, a diligent working of muscle that isn't designed to coax or tease any other part of Flint besides the part being directly touched.
"Tell me when you're ready for me," Marcus says. His roving hand lifts away, and then there's another little trickle of oil, and the sense of it gathered, pushed inside with slowly easing fingers. Something practical about it, if not for the depth of each long stroke, if not for the knowledge that that sense of practicality
well, he imagines it's part of it. Part of a daytime fuck in a let room. He watches with heavy attention, the sight of two fingers disappearing inside of Flint, the sheen of oil, and then lets his attention wander up over naked back, sloped shoulders, the slice of profile just visible.
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The deliberate quality of the touch hums through him, a steadiness to the push and stretch that sets his teeth on edge and warms across the back of his neck. He is too sober for the thing in his belly to grow tight and tangled from it; instead, his ear is tuned very carefully to the faint shifting through the mattress under his weight, and the shape of Marcus's breathing, and the sound of oiled friction passing against and through him.
Eventually: a sigh and the comfortable buckling of an elbow, leaning partway down against his folding arm to encourage the length of those strokes.
"Maybe I will use my belt on you next time," an idle murmur.
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The pleasing queue of next times. It has Marcus deviate ever so, let his fingers sink in and stay to press at that point of inner pressure.
"If I do poorly here?" is less idle if also a murmur, tone low and amused and no less heavy for it. Fingers twist, that other hand skimming back down to grip at Flint's hip. "Or well?"
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"As a reward." A rise of shoulders, a slant up of the chin. It's a small shift, but the faint scrape of friction (or the impression of it, motivated by meeting the shape of Marcus's fingers and knuckles) is compelling. This all still somehow feels a little like being in control. Like knowing that if he were to lay the angle of his hip a particular degree and tell Marcus to give him something, he might still have it remanded.
"You'll be good for me."
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Not anxiety for the prospect. No, there's an almost predictable twinge of bodily interest and he can imagine Flint would count on it, sympathise with it. Something else. Something about having laid a part of himself out so plainly that it can be spoken to so confidently. And perhaps he ought not to've. Perhaps—
Perhaps, fuck it, perhaps they want the same things.
He pushes in close enough that his cock can press against Flint's skin in a warm and needy stripe of contact, trace oil giving some slide to it. Marcus does not move his fingers, does not stop those slow and thorough working him, but finds some space to press in alongside. Yes, he will be good for him.
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He doesn't count the seconds. Can't say whether it takes more time because he is relatively clear headed, or less because of the ease of muscle and sinew post-orgasm. But eventually, the sound of oil slick fingers and the weight of Marcus's cock, and some impatience for the bite of being fucked, gets its teeth in him. A slow uncoiling. Hands finding the mattress again, and planting. Elbows straightening to see him back to being closer to all fours.
(The angle will be better this way. At least to start.)
On the next stroke, Flint moves purposefully back to meet it. Is satisfied with the thrumming tug it sets low in his belly enough to say, "All right. Give me your cock."
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Rubbing the excess of oil onto himself until he can feel his skin moving slick against Flint's, and then the barest creak of wooden floorboard under his heel as he leans back to look down where they'll join together. Silent, keeping a hold of his breath as he places himself, only to let it out in a heavier stream as he slowly sinks in, without pause. Marcus' hand goes to Flint's hip in time for him to sink in close and tight.
The hand that closes at Flint's shoulder, the curve near his neck, is sturdy, and will leave behind clear fingerprints of oil eventually. "Don't tell me how to do this," Marcus says, a curl of humour still present despite the breathlessness, the ragged edge, like a worn smile. "Just tell me how you like it."
For emphasis: a small withdraw and push, hip connecting to seat. Hand at the hips, squeezing.
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But here, the half turn of his head. Tucking his chin roughly against his shoulder, close to that sturdy grip Marcus has on him, Flint roughly scuffs the prickle of his bristled check across the tips of those firmly holding fingers. Something like tenderness and apology both in the gesture, his breath warm. He's a prick, he knows.
So:
"I like to be driven down." Not often. Not always. But Marcus doing it after being so willing under him? He might like that.
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And in reply, a rough, breathy acknowledgment. Noted, this warm sound says, while still relishing that feeling of being buried this way, of that hot pressure that feels earned. His grip shifts, palm bracing a little more inward, closer to the base of his neck, and there it braces as Marcus pulls out enough to make the thrust back in jolting and satisfying. It would be easy to push down, bully that hard slope back into Flint's spine.
Or rather, it will be, though for now he holds him in place. The breath leaves his lungs in a rasped sound in the moment after, and then begins again in these long strokes. Not looking to jolt him, not the same kind of hard fucking he'd enjoyed moments ago, but there is a greedy tug to Marcus' hands where they are anchored at Flint's body, a satisfying fullness to where his hips press in close each time, and an indulgence to how much he can get away with pulling back without needing his hands to reset.
Rasps and breaths and sighs are quick to thicken into less spare, more indulgent sounds. Fuck you feel good, murmured between. So good, Flint.
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A held breath he only half recognizes as his own becomes a hard exhale. The set of his shoulders rolls forward, hip flexing to adjust the angle at which Marcus fills him. He allows himself to drop his head, neck lengthening under the suggestion of Marcus's hand.
It is, actually, good. That it isn't precisely what he asked for—though surely Marcus will give that to him—doesn't alter that fact, the warm shape of the praise laying pleasantly across the skin. In exchange, a worn even drag of breathing swells to, That's right, and, warm as a hand at the back of a neck, Come on, Marcus, and
"I like when you come in me," a low nipping cadence to this claim. "I like when you fuck down and let me feel it."
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But he'll make it take as long as he can. To draw it out while Flint is giving him this. He smooths his hand up the slope of Flint's bent neck, regripping higher, thumb wedged up near the hinge of his jaw from behind. A panting sound agrees with Flint, that he likes those things too, and that wound tight feeling in him slowly beginning to loosen at the same time as muscles draw tense, tenser.
Marcus will give that to him. Applies pressure, pushing Flint's shoulders down. To have him buckle down to the elbows, maybe lower, maybe plant a hand flat against his face and into the covers if Flint will allow it.
The mattress dips beneath where he braces a knee against the edge of it, tangled in closer while the hand at Flint's hip guides, grasps. Powering over, bearing down, giving a grunt as he feels that angle shift. There, Marcus can have him pinned down properly, and the sense of it rushes like hot blood through him.
"I'm close," isn't quite apologetic—he's been close, Flint knows—but it is a warning.
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