katabasis | [psl] dos rowdy boys

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."

While we're wishing for things.

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.

"You'll be good for me."

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."

This won't take long.

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.

For all that talk if being badly behaved, he lets him. Lets him bully him down to elbows, and lower, making a noise that sounds like protest even as he allows Marcus's hand to find purchase. The groan that jerks out of him for it and the rest of that bearing down weight is dense and involuntary, hot and half smothered against the coverlet. For the first time in some minutes, he thinks if his own cock trapped against the mattress, and feels a twinge of something like desire and regret. If he were hard still, he might feel their weight pressed tight across his erection. Be worked to completion that way, hardly touched.

Not today.

Today, Marcus is close and he just wants to listen to the man talk in that low way with all his constants grown thick. It's good to hear it in his voice as readily as he can feel the lighting spark of pleasure in himself where it pools into the curve forced at the small of his back.

"Good," half panted, vibrating against the restraint. Sounds like praise more than it does encouragement. And there is room, just barely, to turn his face a fraction and bite at the heel of Marcus's palm.

"Ah," interrupts the heavy breaths and longer moans, half-laughing at the unexpected graze of teeth. Jerks his hand back and resettles it at Flint's neck. Could be fun, sometime, to cover that mouth with hard fingers, or hook them in across the teeth, a fleeting kind of impulse he doesn't act on today. Close, as said.

And the fact that this is for him, that he has been nettled and goaded by that sober centre in Flint's voice, sharpness in his glances back, that the other man is somewhere different than himself, not as stupid with arousal as he feels and maybe less likely to tolerate it, enjoy it. This, understood at some instinctive level, and so he braces a shoulder instead and only reprimands the biting with the growl edging his near-laugh, a hard clasp.

Satisfied before satiation. A surging sense of that, fucking down into him, the enthusiastic thump of the bedframe that's now begun to clip the wall as Marcus bears more of his weight down onto it, onto Flint. Breathing high and tight, slowly coming to obsess over the slick-friction he is rubbing his cock through, coaxing himself along, while other details come in bright and vivid—where sweat is still yet to dry at the centre of Flint's back, where his freckled skin dimples beneath the set of Marcus' fingers, the shape of the edge of his brow, and down lower, the compression of soft flesh when Marcus' hips meet him, the sight of his own cock nestled in between.

Flint likes it when he comes in him, and so Marcus does that, burying in and fingers digging as he does so, a quick breath in and a shuddered groan out. Another on the next breath, more relieved, lower and guttural. A hard tremor down the leg still set with a foot to the floor, and then a few last strokes of movement, chasing the last of it with a few panting sighs. When his fingers loosen, it takes effort.

Even like this, overly aware of the semantics of the thing—the knocking of the bed frame, and the chafing of his trousers where they're folded back across the tops of his boots, and the hard dig of fingers—, he is aware of that heavy wanting quality lodged under the skin. Laced between ribs. Cinched tight around the vital pieces of him and clenching briefly tighter and closer as Marcus buried himself. Less for the heat, the press and the spill of orgasm, and more for those shuddered out sounds. If they were a thing he could set his teeth against, he would. Surely they would taste sweet.

As it is, they melt over him. Linger hot in the ear, and flow through to the thing thing lives warm and high behind the ribs. That knot, which refuses to come unwound no matter his efforts to disassemble it.

Flint doesn't heft his shoulders or lift his cheek from the worn thin coverlet (the bed linens, it occurs to him, smell vaguely of tobacco smoke). Instead, he just untangles an arm, crooks an elbow, and lazily claps his hand down overtop of the one Marcus has applied to his neck.

Good, says the pulsing grip of fingers.

That hand has gentled by the time Flint has reached for it, gripped it. It doesn't take too much strain, in this configuration, for Marcus to lower himself and follow impulse, to press a kiss across the spread of the other man's knuckles.

Finally, that foot leaves the floor, and they've made it properly to bed. Marcus is close, hips angled to stay buried for the moment, coming to lay against him and fold Flint in, off his knees, down onto his side. Cinches an arm across his torso and presses his chest in tight against the other man's back, giving a satisfied grumble of sound. Sooner over later, Marcus knows, they will disentangle, they will not sleep here, they will not entertain the possibility of some kind of third round.

But this seems to be a good afternoon to get what one wants, and he wants this for a minute, face pressed close at an angle at the back of Flint's neck as he calms down, heart slowing.

"That was good," murmured.

It's the right direction to collapse in. For the moment, it is difficult to imagine what it would feel like to be fully apart from one another. Surely they've been touching one another for hours, give or take that spare moment required for Marcus to fetch the little brass oil pot. This drawing close, one expanse of bare sweating skin against the other, makes more sense than slipping free of each other would. Just like they are not, really, so interwoven that it would be impossible to make sense of his limbs, but for the moment it seems unimportant to be concerned with whose knee and heel overlaps whose thigh and calf, or how he is going to escape from the tangle of his trousers and boots in anything like a timely fashion.

Instead: A low grunt of acknowledgement, half for the simple pleasure of Marcus's voice rumbling there against his neck and back as it is for the this assessment. Yes. It was good.

"Wanting something looks good on you," he says, a hand shifting heavily to set loose jointed fingers at the joint of Marcus's elbow. Skimming idly to his wrist.

A breath pulls in, is let go of in a spread of warmth across the skin.

"Giving it to me looks good on you," a counter, and therefore innately playful for it, but Marcus presses the sentiment into place with a nudge of his chin. Hand turning at the wrist as if to receive Flint's, should it wander that far, but otherwise—

He should feel content. Bodily he does, wanting for nothing. And then that sense of hunger, of wanting, that Flint has in the past warned him against, and so when affection builds through the chest, between the bones, it burns. He can lay here and simmer in it, and it isn't unpleasant, especially given the intimate press of bodies, of sore muscles and more acute aches, easily twinged with even minute adjustments.

Eventually, "I've not been that way before with anyone," quietly.

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