There's something nearly compliant in the way his chin tip so readily up under the heat of Marcus' mouth, and the hand pinning his arm, and the weight of the friction riding between them, and the intimate sound of his name there on another man's tongue. If not for the confident driving stroke of his hand moving roughly between them, it might constitute as a kind of surrendering impulse. If Marcus weren't Marcus, maybe. Or, no—if this were a bed and not a padded bedroll on the hard ground and they weren't constrained by the limitations of a tent and spit and impatience and a line of stitches. It would be tempting then to make more of the cock presently pushing so eagerly into the tight shape of his fingers.
(It has been long time since he was wrestled onto his back and kissed so hungrily, and the wanting thing that sparks and pulls at him in response is very broad in its tastes.)
So instead, the touch of his hand with its ring bands worn fever warm acts equal parts demanding—stroking him first in brisk, unflinching pulls—and exploratory—gathering them both up and squeezing those blunt heads flush so that his thumb can smear the slick there equally between them and when Marcus fucks into his hand it ripples all the way through him—and selfish—breaking over to pull at himself with the same expectant hand.
It's restless, but not unfocused. Not teasing or testing him or merely taking pleasure from the intimate sliding points of contact while they breathe in heavy bursts and he twists to find Marcus' mouth again. His hand wraps around them again, a clever finger insinuated between rigid flesh to afford some definitive friction to them both. "Come on, Rowntree," is rough, the burr of an order thick in the throat.
The kiss-bite he leaves behind at Flint's throat is not focused enough to draw bruising blood to the surface, complex desire whittling down to simpler things. Overridden when Flint turns his head, demands a kiss, nothing in Marcus resistant to tipping his chin towards it in another round of hungry contact as he moves, groans, flexes his fingers in against bicep held to the bedroll.
There's a world where this thing they are doing is more frustrating than pleasurable, where he'd be almost too distracted by what they aren't doing to be this single-minded. But perhaps it's been a while since he's found someone who—
Well. Something about proclivities, perhaps, the demanding rake of teeth and tongue.
And then that, rough voiced semi-order, like a swift boot kick over the line. The ridge of knuckle against his cock, the rough friction of Flint's pant legs against hips, thighs.
Maybe, the one way that the Circles can also be like a ship is how one learns to be quiet when fucking around. Marcus wouldn't know, anyway, because being on ships is the worst. He isn't quiet, though. Nor is he loud, as he never is, but the shuddered, breathy gasp out of him (directed there at Flint's shoulder as his back curves, head bowing) isn't held at bay through habit or reflex, a rough groan following that initial spark of release as his whole body tenses, as he spills between them.
The hand at Flint's arm stiffly straightens out from the hard clutch of fingers.
The tension that draws up in him is so distinct that even if Marcus were quiet enough to suit the strict confines of any shared quarters, if there were no raw scrape in the tenor of his breathing or caught groan breathed out rough near the skin, he would recognize the edge of this before the first hot pulse strikes his belly. But that he isn't silent is so gratifying that it might be that more than the heat of his release, or the pleasure of the friction, or the satisfaction or demanding something from Marcus and having it done that dredges the answering pant out of him. Strikes at clenched shape of close like a hammer on red steel.
Pulse thick in his neck, bicep jumping under the release of fingers, he keeps his hand moving to wring the dregs of Marcus' climax from him. Smears the heavy slick of it over and between them. Can't help but to fuck himself repeatedly up against the mess of it with a tight coil of muscle and the scrape of boot heels. There's nothing languid in it; rewarding himself with the distinct pleasure of impatience and wanting something in a way that isn't easy to mistake.
So maybe it is long practice that keeps Flint constrained to the gutteral series of groans that are little more than punched out exhale. Or maybe there's only so much transparency that he's capable of, and it's all used by the curving line of his body under Marcus threatening to raise his shoulders from the bedroll and by the squeeze of fingers as he comes after him.
Marcus is still half in it as Flint bucks beneath him, momentary euphoria and spasming muscle. Still breathing heavy, the last lingering prickles of pleasure from where he'd been worked over in the moments after still warm under his skin. He doesn't give Flint room but does respond in muted ways, the cant of his hips responding to the short jerks of motion.
A word, not quite making it out between his teeth. Maybe Flint's name, again. Maybe a curse.
Stays close, either way, drinking in the feeling of taut muscle and motion, the rise and fall of harsh breathing, the strain of response kept wrangled in the barrel of the other man's chest. Grunts at the feeling of flexing fingers, and even in the ashy leavings of his climax, feels a distinct embering at the sensation of Flint coming against him.
Then, Maker, he is in a world of pain. All at once, ache and sharper punishment beneath the strained padding at his side all clock back into his notice. He doesn't think he pulled any stitches (he hopes) but the next breath that leaves him is a rasp of a laugh, self-deprecating.
Still laying heavy on top of Flint. There'll come a moment when they will shuffle back into respective dynamic, and do it dirty and half-naked and kiss-swollen, and maybe it's already here. Marcus, uncaring, lifts his hand from Flint's arm to direct him into a kiss before the last of his rough breathing steadies.
The crooked rasp of that laugh glances off him, sliding out from between them nearly unregistered. More occupying: the senseless buzz in his ear, and how warm Marcus' weight is, and the urge to continue to stroke himself through the prickling after effects in that barely there space between them. When guided, Flint is still drawn halfway taut and perfectly ready to indulge that kiss.
Then, he does groan—a low rattling exhale fed roughly into Marcus' mouth while wired tight muscle goes slowly slack. Hand slipping to flatten between in the mess between them. Heels sliding, knees giving, thighs sprawling in that way that is thoughtlessly open in its accommodation.
(Not tomorrow, when the rain does prove out and there is no use traveling very far from this camp even if Marcus weren't knocked every shade of black and blue, but the day after when the bleak weather has cleared and they find themselves moving down out of the foothills and into the valley below them. Flint will attribute his sore shoulders and neck from sleeping on the ground, and will bow his head to pick out a footpath through the rock slope and there will be faint dark spots formed from his own fingers dug in around the back of his neck.)
It takes some effort to unravel his arm from behind his head. It takes less to catch Marcus behind the ear and keep kissing him. Once or twice, formless—
"You're bleeding on me." He doesn't actually know that's true.
Flint's question is met with a third kiss, lazy and something dismissive in the half-growled sound that presses there. Hand splayed against the other man's throat and head tipped according to the catch up high on his own. Cooling off, slowly, laying here, dense and warm. Long seconds later, a break.
Marcus shifts aside, hip finding bedroll, a careful untangling of limbs as the absence of his weight must feel a little like a vise being let out. Rather than settle in against Flint's side, as something bonedeep calls for him to do, mess and all, he moves at a roll to sit up. Lifts an elbow to check for bleeding, satisfied that there is nothing there, and sets about removing his boots to better accommodate shucking his legs free of the tangle of his clothing.
The absence of heavy breathing, heart beats, underscored by a fresh lashing of rain against the canvas.
Companionably, his hip still presses against Flint's, an amount of assumptive weight. Otherwise, they are where they started, almost, the broad span of Marcus' back to him as he loosens buckles.
By contrast, Flint beside him is in no hurry to wrench himself upright. The withdrawal of weight and heat verges at the very edge of— not disappointment. But leaves him with the mess they've made, literally and figuratively, and the moment he shifts up off the ground is the one where he will need to begin to account for himself. To clean himself up and extract himself from his present occupation of Marcus' bedroll, find his shirt and be pricked by the first unavoidable thoughts toward strategy
—(they will not speak of this once they've made their return to Kirkwall; and, what is the implication in this? Nothing, except that occasionally there are certain impulses that are more distracting to ignore than to in some fashion satisfy)—
and he would like, for a few seconds more, to delay all that. So he lets himself give into that space. Straightens his legs. Settles his breathing. With the hand that has avoided the mess their release, Flint rubs his brow with the back of his wrist. Scuffs the palm absently back across close shorn scalp, and listens from inside the shadow of his wrist to the slap of rain on tent canvas and the rasping of clothing coming off and buckles being unbuckled.
Where they remain touching is warm, but the sweat on bare skin cools quickly.
Boots off, clothes after, Marcus sits for a moment, back curved forward and head bowing down to release some of the tension that had knotted up through to neck. Head pleasantly empty of niggling thoughts of what this will be, tomorrow, a week from now, or in the next five minutes, some kind of assurance in the notion that the specificity of this moment is unlikely to repeat itself.
Never mind that Marcus would not be able to a recall a time when, after one encounter with someone remaining in close proximity to him, he didn't pursue a second.
Anyway, there is one problem to address, and the more direct solution occurs to him immediately.
He is not usually very concerned for getting clean immediately in the wake of making a mess, especially in favour of laying still in a sweaty tangle for however long the other party will stand it, but these are close quarters and he can feel the day entire clinging to him, not just the last few moments. Brief calculations occur before he is moving without a word, unhurried but determined in his rolling aside onto all fours, up onto his feet, barely, and disappearing out of the tent, an ass that is even paler than the rest of him vanishing out into wild rain.
When he returns, it will be no great surprise to find that Flint has relocated from Marcus' bedroll to his own. That he has made some progress to cleaning himself up, or has at least slipped back into his shirt and redone his various lacings and buttons (though the altered resting place of the waterskin suggests otherwise). The lantern burning on the tent floor had cast some part this in shadows through the soaked tent canvas.
If he's doomed to chafe, then it can be blamed on the dirt and sweat as much as anything else. In the meantime, he folds his coat over into a thing to rest his head and doesn't bother to peel from out of his boots.
"You don't carry a book with you, do you?" he asks when Marcus and his white ass return.
(Appreciate that he didn't just go rummaging around to answer his own question.)
Marcus returns drenched, tense against the cold dousing he'd willingly taken, hand moving from where he'd taken some minimum effort to keep the padded bandaging dry, ish. A huff of breath at the relief from being out from under it again as he makes for his now empty bedding. Cleaner. Still some streaks of grime where limited mobility on one side had meant leaving behind, but it'll keep.
Rakes wet hair from his face, which sends a slightly inconsiderate spattering of water following the flick of it. Reaches for torn, soiled shirt.
Glances to Flint. "A book?" he asked, like Flint may as well have asked him if he'd packed some fine silverware. Folding over his shirt, looking for a patch that isn't bloodied. At least one side of it, and one sleeve. This, Marcus uses to remove the layer of wet from his body.
Fortunately, there's an extra shirt in there somewhere. He asks, "No, why?"
Why? Because he was considering eating it. "For reading," he says instead, propping the bundled coat at one end of his stolen bedroll.
It's not the first time since being cut off that he's wished his things had been on the wrong side of the rock slide with them, but it is maybe the most acute—the thought for the little volume of essays he'd been halfway through more pressing, mostly, than any glancing observation of Marcus' naked body as he wicks wet rain from it.
Stripping back at the top layer of the folded canvas, Flint moves to shift in under it with boots and all. Something definitive in it. When they make camp again in the following days, he will have decided, mostly, not to shoulder over to Marcus' side of the tent's narrow confines to press him with further biting kisses, or to reassert the mark made on the other man's throat, or to continue fucking around for whatever duration of time cutting through this backcountry is required of them, secure in the knowledge that there is quite literally nothing better to do and no one better to do it with.
(Mostly. Any sailor understands that boredom is an incredible inventor.)
He lays out on his back, shifting until he finds the patch of ground which pokes back at him the least.
yes, that certainly makes sense. It will occur to Marcus tomorrow, in the fourth long waking hour of trying not to move too much to aggravate his injury, listening to rain slice over canvas and not even hungry enough to be occupied with the dilemma of their dwindling rations, that a book would be nice to read.
And when Flint chooses not to press back through boundaries, letting invisible walls brick back up between them, Marcus opts not to breach them either. In part because he would prefer not to suffer rejection, sensing its potential, but also some sense that there's wisdom in not making more of what they started. Eventually, the rain lets up.
Eventually, they will be back in Kirkwall, with a new knot of scarring to recall this particular excursion by.
For now, Marcus silently finishes drying himself, to the best of his ability, paying particular attention to his feet, which will be going back into his boots. Ties his hair into an orderly bundle with only a breath of complaint for the motion it requires. The sound of fabric as he dresses himself, and then lays down.
The flooding in of shadow, with the lantern's extinguishing, is so thick as to be nearly tactile.
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no subject
(It has been long time since he was wrestled onto his back and kissed so hungrily, and the wanting thing that sparks and pulls at him in response is very broad in its tastes.)
So instead, the touch of his hand with its ring bands worn fever warm acts equal parts demanding—stroking him first in brisk, unflinching pulls—and exploratory—gathering them both up and squeezing those blunt heads flush so that his thumb can smear the slick there equally between them and when Marcus fucks into his hand it ripples all the way through him—and selfish—breaking over to pull at himself with the same expectant hand.
It's restless, but not unfocused. Not teasing or testing him or merely taking pleasure from the intimate sliding points of contact while they breathe in heavy bursts and he twists to find Marcus' mouth again. His hand wraps around them again, a clever finger insinuated between rigid flesh to afford some definitive friction to them both. "Come on, Rowntree," is rough, the burr of an order thick in the throat.
no subject
There's a world where this thing they are doing is more frustrating than pleasurable, where he'd be almost too distracted by what they aren't doing to be this single-minded. But perhaps it's been a while since he's found someone who—
Well. Something about proclivities, perhaps, the demanding rake of teeth and tongue.
And then that, rough voiced semi-order, like a swift boot kick over the line. The ridge of knuckle against his cock, the rough friction of Flint's pant legs against hips, thighs.
Maybe, the one way that the Circles can also be like a ship is how one learns to be quiet when fucking around. Marcus wouldn't know, anyway, because being on ships is the worst. He isn't quiet, though. Nor is he loud, as he never is, but the shuddered, breathy gasp out of him (directed there at Flint's shoulder as his back curves, head bowing) isn't held at bay through habit or reflex, a rough groan following that initial spark of release as his whole body tenses, as he spills between them.
The hand at Flint's arm stiffly straightens out from the hard clutch of fingers.
no subject
Pulse thick in his neck, bicep jumping under the release of fingers, he keeps his hand moving to wring the dregs of Marcus' climax from him. Smears the heavy slick of it over and between them. Can't help but to fuck himself repeatedly up against the mess of it with a tight coil of muscle and the scrape of boot heels. There's nothing languid in it; rewarding himself with the distinct pleasure of impatience and wanting something in a way that isn't easy to mistake.
So maybe it is long practice that keeps Flint constrained to the gutteral series of groans that are little more than punched out exhale. Or maybe there's only so much transparency that he's capable of, and it's all used by the curving line of his body under Marcus threatening to raise his shoulders from the bedroll and by the squeeze of fingers as he comes after him.
no subject
A word, not quite making it out between his teeth. Maybe Flint's name, again. Maybe a curse.
Stays close, either way, drinking in the feeling of taut muscle and motion, the rise and fall of harsh breathing, the strain of response kept wrangled in the barrel of the other man's chest. Grunts at the feeling of flexing fingers, and even in the ashy leavings of his climax, feels a distinct embering at the sensation of Flint coming against him.
Then, Maker, he is in a world of pain. All at once, ache and sharper punishment beneath the strained padding at his side all clock back into his notice. He doesn't think he pulled any stitches (he hopes) but the next breath that leaves him is a rasp of a laugh, self-deprecating.
Still laying heavy on top of Flint. There'll come a moment when they will shuffle back into respective dynamic, and do it dirty and half-naked and kiss-swollen, and maybe it's already here. Marcus, uncaring, lifts his hand from Flint's arm to direct him into a kiss before the last of his rough breathing steadies.
no subject
Then, he does groan—a low rattling exhale fed roughly into Marcus' mouth while wired tight muscle goes slowly slack. Hand slipping to flatten between in the mess between them. Heels sliding, knees giving, thighs sprawling in that way that is thoughtlessly open in its accommodation.
(Not tomorrow, when the rain does prove out and there is no use traveling very far from this camp even if Marcus weren't knocked every shade of black and blue, but the day after when the bleak weather has cleared and they find themselves moving down out of the foothills and into the valley below them. Flint will attribute his sore shoulders and neck from sleeping on the ground, and will bow his head to pick out a footpath through the rock slope and there will be faint dark spots formed from his own fingers dug in around the back of his neck.)
It takes some effort to unravel his arm from behind his head. It takes less to catch Marcus behind the ear and keep kissing him. Once or twice, formless—
"You're bleeding on me." He doesn't actually know that's true.
no subject
Marcus shifts aside, hip finding bedroll, a careful untangling of limbs as the absence of his weight must feel a little like a vise being let out. Rather than settle in against Flint's side, as something bonedeep calls for him to do, mess and all, he moves at a roll to sit up. Lifts an elbow to check for bleeding, satisfied that there is nothing there, and sets about removing his boots to better accommodate shucking his legs free of the tangle of his clothing.
The absence of heavy breathing, heart beats, underscored by a fresh lashing of rain against the canvas.
Companionably, his hip still presses against Flint's, an amount of assumptive weight. Otherwise, they are where they started, almost, the broad span of Marcus' back to him as he loosens buckles.
no subject
—(they will not speak of this once they've made their return to Kirkwall; and, what is the implication in this? Nothing, except that occasionally there are certain impulses that are more distracting to ignore than to in some fashion satisfy)—
and he would like, for a few seconds more, to delay all that. So he lets himself give into that space. Straightens his legs. Settles his breathing. With the hand that has avoided the mess their release, Flint rubs his brow with the back of his wrist. Scuffs the palm absently back across close shorn scalp, and listens from inside the shadow of his wrist to the slap of rain on tent canvas and the rasping of clothing coming off and buckles being unbuckled.
Where they remain touching is warm, but the sweat on bare skin cools quickly.
no subject
Never mind that Marcus would not be able to a recall a time when, after one encounter with someone remaining in close proximity to him, he didn't pursue a second.
Anyway, there is one problem to address, and the more direct solution occurs to him immediately.
He is not usually very concerned for getting clean immediately in the wake of making a mess, especially in favour of laying still in a sweaty tangle for however long the other party will stand it, but these are close quarters and he can feel the day entire clinging to him, not just the last few moments. Brief calculations occur before he is moving without a word, unhurried but determined in his rolling aside onto all fours, up onto his feet, barely, and disappearing out of the tent, an ass that is even paler than the rest of him vanishing out into wild rain.
He'll be back shortly.
no subject
If he's doomed to chafe, then it can be blamed on the dirt and sweat as much as anything else. In the meantime, he folds his coat over into a thing to rest his head and doesn't bother to peel from out of his boots.
"You don't carry a book with you, do you?" he asks when Marcus and his white ass return.
(Appreciate that he didn't just go rummaging around to answer his own question.)
no subject
Rakes wet hair from his face, which sends a slightly inconsiderate spattering of water following the flick of it. Reaches for torn, soiled shirt.
Glances to Flint. "A book?" he asked, like Flint may as well have asked him if he'd packed some fine silverware. Folding over his shirt, looking for a patch that isn't bloodied. At least one side of it, and one sleeve. This, Marcus uses to remove the layer of wet from his body.
Fortunately, there's an extra shirt in there somewhere. He asks, "No, why?"
no subject
It's not the first time since being cut off that he's wished his things had been on the wrong side of the rock slide with them, but it is maybe the most acute—the thought for the little volume of essays he'd been halfway through more pressing, mostly, than any glancing observation of Marcus' naked body as he wicks wet rain from it.
Stripping back at the top layer of the folded canvas, Flint moves to shift in under it with boots and all. Something definitive in it. When they make camp again in the following days, he will have decided, mostly, not to shoulder over to Marcus' side of the tent's narrow confines to press him with further biting kisses, or to reassert the mark made on the other man's throat, or to continue fucking around for whatever duration of time cutting through this backcountry is required of them, secure in the knowledge that there is quite literally nothing better to do and no one better to do it with.
(Mostly. Any sailor understands that boredom is an incredible inventor.)
He lays out on his back, shifting until he finds the patch of ground which pokes back at him the least.
"See to the lantern before you sleep."
no subject
yes, that certainly makes sense. It will occur to Marcus tomorrow, in the fourth long waking hour of trying not to move too much to aggravate his injury, listening to rain slice over canvas and not even hungry enough to be occupied with the dilemma of their dwindling rations, that a book would be nice to read.
And when Flint chooses not to press back through boundaries, letting invisible walls brick back up between them, Marcus opts not to breach them either. In part because he would prefer not to suffer rejection, sensing its potential, but also some sense that there's wisdom in not making more of what they started. Eventually, the rain lets up.
Eventually, they will be back in Kirkwall, with a new knot of scarring to recall this particular excursion by.
For now, Marcus silently finishes drying himself, to the best of his ability, paying particular attention to his feet, which will be going back into his boots. Ties his hair into an orderly bundle with only a breath of complaint for the motion it requires. The sound of fabric as he dresses himself, and then lays down.
The flooding in of shadow, with the lantern's extinguishing, is so thick as to be nearly tactile.