Keenly aware of the tripping hazard his coat's become, he's slow to be driven—a hand bracing at Marcus' shoulder, knuckles at his waist turning to press, and neither particularly interested in pushing back hard enough to either stop him or break off the hurried, inelegant catch of mouths and teeth. He kicks the coat (and its pocket full of furtive intelligence reports) away. If he cedes ground then—and he does—, he drags Marcus with him more or less by the belt. Or by the hot draw of breath across his mouth, or the fist closed round Marcus' shirt collar while he staggers up against the palm at his back.
The room is small, warns creaking floorboards. They'll clip into the edge of the bed if they're not careful.
—Isn't a hazard he's much concerned with as he pulls the hem of Marcus' shirt free and makes to gather it up, hand over fist, in an effort to fully strip him of it. And though it makes little sense to be louder here in this little room than in a tent far removed from everything, he is. Breath thick, a hitch of sound for grappling hands and hip. Marcus' is so warm in the sticky heat of the room.
"Are you sucking my cock, or do I have to show you how that's meant to go?"
It is pleasing, this clumsy dance. There's no smirk or half-cocked smile out of Marcus to convey this, but it's evident in eager kisses, the pinch of the way his fingers curl against bare flesh and rough cloth, the small vocalisations at that more insistent tug of his belt. The relief of his own urgency met with the same in kind, the same bristled impatience.
The shirt comes off, and Marcus releases his grasping to help it along. No blood and grime, bandaging or fresh wounds. At some point, Flint will see or find with his fingers the end of the stripe of a closed scar at his side and the way it ends in a fishhook shape stamped into skin, just out of easy reach of Marcus' own fingertips.
It means, too, that Flint says that, and hasn't yet anchored his hands back onto Marcus, and so Marcus places his own hands on Flint's chest and shoves.
Not away. Not violently, in spite of the spark of irritation that catches, feeds heat with more heat. The bed is right there, catching on the backs of legs, frame shuddering into the wall under the abrupt distribution of weight. Marcus does not tip into Flint where he is has been forced into a sit.
Considers, then drops down instead, a knee settling on the floor. Hooks a hand up Flint's ankle, the other addressing the buckles that latch there.
"Is that what you want?" lacks the same pettiness as the shove moments ago. "To show me?"
Yes, says the heat of his own tongue thick in his mouth. No, says the thrill that clenches low in his belly as Marcus drops to his knee.
The place where the bed frame had racked his calves smarts, the dullest pulse through gaiters and boots. And here, under his weight and a braced hand, the packed mattress crunches and rasps with every small motion as he surrenders those buckles into Marcus' possession. Were they somewhere else, he might have some concern for the wall's immediate future. But they're in a cheap let room so obviously for one purpose that the proprietor had intimated that they'd owe her two bits should any of the lamp oil go missing. There is a near contractual obligation to chip the plaster.
(It's flattering lamplight; Rowntree nearly looks good enough that he might dismiss the indignity of being forced into the bed. Nearly.)
"I'm not certain you know to mind your teeth." Though he's unbuckling his belt already, peeling away his knife with it.
The boot comes free after one false tug and doubling back to locate the neglected buckle. Tumbled aside with a soft thump. Maybe there's a room right below this one, and they are creating the most predictable of stories from above between the sound of scuffing steps, the shudder of the bed, the sound of a boot falling away.
The breath out of Marcus has a laugh quality to it without actually being so. His hands go to the other boot, giving it the same treatment, a little swifter now having completed the first. Unhurried, despite the distinct tug of want he knows when Flint's hands travel to his own belt. Glint of said teeth in the nearly-smile that pulls at his lip.
"Aye." Admittedly.
The next boot loosens, laces tugged. It comes free to the sound of belt loosening free of itself. His other knee meets the ground.
He'd suspected as much, says the look floated in Marcus' direction from under the heavy shadow of his brow—aforementioned green eye gleaming bright in the bare light. He loosens the topmost fastening of his trousers.
Giving that hand over after to satisfy that request is a favor rather than simple cooperation. As if Marcus had asked rather than told him to do it.
If he was certain he wasn't going to be asked again if he requires instruction (and if he didn't in himself feel a taut thread of anticipation, shivering under its own tension), Marcus might be inclined to glance again over the rings that decorate the other man's knuckles. Maybe there is a future where they are lying quietly, and he singles one out between his fingers and turns it a little, and inquires about its origins. Might scoff if he is told of a Lowtown marketplace and not a rich man on a bloodied ship deck.
But he can't be sure of that (and he does feel that), and so it's just a brief rake of focus, a stalling second as he accepts that hand by pressing his palm the back of his wrist, fingers curling up and around.
Leans in then, first the graze of his mouth against the meat of Flint's palm, a small and damp kiss that trails up along the length of his thumb. No further delay, then, to coax the tip of it into his mouth past his teeth, teeth that don't bite but stay, into the softer heat of his mouth up to the first knuckle.
The shape of Marcus' parting lips, the gentle kiss of teeth across flesh, and the wet heat that welcomes his thumb makes for a weight that pools instant and heavy in the gut. In the lamplight, the trace track of saliva on his gleams with the same low shine as the beaten silver ring elsewhere on his hand does—flickering as the tendons in Flint's wrist flex and he presses deeper by a soft, selfish degree.
It's not tentative. There is something immediately eager in the heat of his face and the slowed breath Flint dredges in. Just slow. Thumb running speculatively across Marcus' lower edge of teeth; drawing free to touch drag at his lip, and then pressing back all in some meditative motion. Anticipatory.
It's easy to imagine— the obvious. But the reverse too, where is taking fingers into his own mouth. Pressing his tongue up against the natural seam between them, and growing gradually restless with the desire to have Marcus' cock in him.
(They might have done this in that tent. Not that first night, but the one following where Marcus had been stiff with bruising and sore from the battery of his injury and testing it. With relatively little effort, Flint might have rolled over and made needing it perfectly clear.)
With a low crunch of protest from the mattress, Flint's other hand shifts from supporting him there to touching Marcus's hand at his wrist. Fleeting to his chin where he might catch him and control him, and at last pushing farther back into Marcus' hair to free it from its cord.
For all the biting that has led to this moment, there is a pliancy and patience to the feeling of Flint's thumb sliding back out from his mouth, against his teeth and lip, pressing back in. There, Marcus meets him, a subtle pushing forward to accept it deeper before Flint can get there first, mouth closing more firmly around. The quiet, unseen slide of his tongue, along with a brazen tilting up of eye contact.
He keeps that one hand where it is, braced firm around Flint's wrist. The other has already landed gently on Flint's knee, incidental, but now comes alive in a broad-palmed slide of contact up his thigh, thumb digging ever so into the inner.
A subtle shake of his head helps along releasing his hair, a working day of having it tied impressing a kink into its wave.
These subtle checks and balances. Kneeling between the other man's feet and finding some measure of control, of demand. Greed in the suction impressed around Flint's thumb, demonstration though this is. He hasn't let himself wonder very much if Flint is the kind of man who prefers to wrangle and hold down, or allow a tending to, or something in between, and he knows no preference other than to find out soon.
But there is something to be said about simmering in the restlessness, first. To give a small, quiet, contented hum against the other man's hand on the withdraw, as if he were remotely contented.
It would be absurd not to be aware of how those things—Marcus looking directly up at him, and the close press of a hand, the soft noise he makes—feeds the heat trapped between the back of his neck and shirt collar. It's warm in the room, and the humidity of that mouth prompts the prickle of sweat. The sinking of his pulse behind his ribs in tandem with a flare of exasperation—Marcus' smugness at once rankling and satisfyingly flattering.
There would be little point in the show if he didn't want to be rewarded for it.
So the shift of his feet on the floor is small, but it jostles the set of Flint's hip and thighs. Makes for a reflexive twitch toward the picture Marcus' fingers and tongue are painting for him even as his thumb makes to coax its way back in the wake of that small sound. The grip Flint's off hand finds in Marcus' hair isn't tight or pulling; but it's firm, holding there as he works the rough shape of his thumb back over teeth and tongue in exploratory pantomime. It stays there, knuckles a steady presence, even when he otherwise makes to pull back and free himself so he might hurry through undoing the rest of his buttons.
The hand at Flint's thigh gentles beneath that flex upwards, in time with that last gentle invasion, the stroke of the pad of his thumb against curled tongue. This time there's no bowing forward when Marcus is held so, just his mouth pliant beneath pressure, and capturing through tight warmth rather than teeth. Losing patience for his own overture by the time Flint is drawing his hand away.
Marcus reaches for the other man's pants as Flint's thumb slides free, swallowing around the emptiness as he gets ahead of him, taking over the opening of buttons. No tease to it, no coy delay, but staying unhurried. It would be altogether too much ammunition to give if he were to accidentally snap loose a button in his efforts to take Flint's cock out.
And that he leaves to Flint, in part for the angle, in part so he can push shirt fabric back up a ways off the other man's stomach, the hem caught against his thumb so he palm can lay warmly. Paler down here than the freckled, sun-warm skin of Flint's muscled forearms or the back of his neck. Or a shoulder turned in, in the odd shadows of a tent.
If it should feel like being exposed, vulnerable in the imperfect light of the room, he spares no thought for it—something direct and unselfconscious about the act of drawing himself free. Marcus' palm is warm and his mouth is wet, and the thumb he touches himself with is slick with the man's spit. With a hand anchored yet in Marcus' hair, he palms over himself between them. An anticipatory show in its own right, this brief preamble of slow strokes and squeezes. A ring catching light, a twitch of tension under Marcus' palm.
But it isn't delaying. When his hand shifts from Marcus' hair, it's to catch at his chin. Calloused fingertips at the soft underside of his jaw, thumb playing briefly at invasion in order to smear the faintly damp heat inside Marcus' cheek onto his lip but largely to draw him that necessary degree in the right direction so he might offer him his cock.
No request, no sharp word. Just the press of fingers and the flex of full breathing. A low, unquiet sound of encouragement that suggests whatever habit had subdued him in a tent doesn't extend to cheap boarding house rooms. It's hot. He's sweating in his clothes, and he wants Marcus to look at him.
There's been a sort of bridled patience, and an unselfconsciousness in return for his own observation, glittering rings and drag of fingers over the thick length of Flint where shirt has been pushed out of the way, trousers opened. The is a hint of a pull where Flint has his hand anchored in Marcus' hair, more lateral in the way his head tips rather than forwards, a means of testing without truly trying to be rid of that hand as he watches. There is a pace and a space that a door with a latch creates, maybe, or a second encounter.
At the touch to his chin, against and in his mouth, a harsher breath leaves him, closing his eyes for a moment. A subtle coil through his shoulders with the intention to let himself be guided, but first looks up at him after that sound from Flint. The texture of it and the warm impression of it, its weight carried through eye contact, nearly as effective as if Flint had abandoned this exercise in favour of reaching down to touch his cock.
Good thing he doesn't. Marcus leans into that hand, into that warm space between them, mouth parting so that he can meet the blunt head of Flint's cock first with the flat of his tongue before taking him in, a small rough sound of want wrapping around it, warm and wet.
Moreso than the heat and the press of tongue, the thrill of contact that is wet and warm, that faint noise that vibrates across him sends a shivering flex of desire coursing thick through him. There is something about the transparency of it, unvarnished by much in the way of arrogance and so very ready to take him in, that fractures into some buzzing blood hot in the ear sensation. Flint's thick exhale as Marcus takes him deeper is something like relief—a tight strung cord dropping a loop and finding some unanticipated slack.
The hand at Marcus's jaw lingers, fingers pressed close. But the hand supporting the angle of all this strays, moving instead to catch at the bed where he might support himself on a locked elbow. Trusting that between them they can manage without, even as his fingers rove from jaw to neck, press back up into Marcus' hair. Restless. Or a strategic mapping of handholds while the starting pace and tenor of this is left to the man between his splayed knees.
Certainly he watches him like it's all worth study, attention heavy and fixed. Not relieved at all, actually. Just being rewound.
Flint relaxes backwards, and Marcus takes up that little more space. An arm moving to slide over a thigh and rest there, hooked at the elbow, wrist lax. The other hand gives up its clutch of shirt fabric to skim back down his abdomen, palm flat, over softer skin and tighter muscle, over nicks and scrapes. Settles there, lower.
Incidental. His focus is here, that taut thread of eye contact now broken. The tip of his head beneath Flint's roaming hand is entirely reflexive, lending room for touching, but not waiting for direction as he keeps his mouth tight and hot around the head of Flint's cock. Deeper, then, slow and indulgent strokes of movement, as if the pleasure Marcus might wrangle from this motion is his own, in the stimulation of flesh sliding over his tongue, filling his mouth.
Under lamplight, there's the glimmer of saliva gathering fast at the corner of his mouth, obscene in the sheen of it left behind on Flint's cock when he lifts his head before lowering it again. His eyes had half-hooded for the moment, too obviously in distraction to be mistaken as shyness. Nothing shy in the probing pressure of his tongue, the contented stream of breath through his nose on the withdraw.
At Flint's hip, fingers hook into his waistband, simply holding on.
The fervent start-stop pace of it burns slowly up the back of neck, bright and sharp and twitching in anticipation for whatever Marcus may next do with his tongue. Or shivering at the prospect of slipping free, watching the line of Marcus' neck and the pull at his scarred cheek in accommodating him. He is so fucking devout about it that the impulse, Flint imagines, to sink down into the mattress and simply let him do as he pleased with his loosely hooked wrist and all might be a sympathetic one.
Instead, his hand closed slowly in a fistful of Marcus' loose hair. A gentle restraint, as far as these things go, so he might hold him and slide free. Press the hot line of his wet cock in a slow thrust along Marcus' cheek so as to leave a debauched track of saliva there. Breathes out a thick jab of a noise as he finds his way back and the restraint of closed fingers softens to simply wrapping heavy at the base of Marcus' skull—controlling in the way a look is, persuasive only for as long as Marcus wants it to be, as Flint braces himself to fuck shallowly into his mouth.
This too is intent and distracted in equal measure. Rhythm meandering. Whether he urges him low or draws nearly free to submit himself to the goading of Marcus' tongue motivated by whatever urge seems most relevant. Or by what Marcus seems the most satisfied to give him, all the while painting the room with the thick sound of heavy breathing and sounds that are not quiet but are too low and short to carry far.
The sound he makes is either for the firmed grip in his hair or the way Flint's cock slides free of his mouth, or both, and a little like he'd kept it held in his throat by the time it loosens. There is a loose and open quality to his expression, save for the slight knot of focused tension at his brow. Twisting slightly on the axis enough to graze his mouth along Flint's cock just as the other man works it back between his lips. Minding his teeth.
Quieter than the sound Flint makes is the one that eases out of him at that first feeling of movement, but more intimately felt. For a time, it's this, submitting to the firm suggestion that Flint's hand makes at the back of his skull, accepting the rhythmic invasion pushing up into his mouth held pliant and receptive.
A hand slithers back down Flint's thigh, disappears down, taking away the gentle weight of his arm. A soft grunt of Marcus suggests that his hand has found some other occupation, although there isn't any telltale rattle of belt, still lashed around his waist. Just a private easing, subtle friction of thumb through fabric, which probably does not actually relieve him very much at all.
Eventually, gentle push back against Flint's hand, mouth coming up and off but not away. His other hand cups around to keep his cock close as Marcus licks down the length of it, open and gentle kisses down towards the softer base, softer tongue and the slight grain of his cheek. No particular motivation towards intent or pace besides doing what he wants, maybe for as long as Flint will stand it.
Not for much longer. Though the image of Marcus so low between his legs is nearly as stimulating as the more direct use of his mouth, and the scuff of cheek and fingers is good, and the ease with which it all happens humming over the skin— he is thinking of the abandoned territory across his thigh where that arm had been hooked. The occupation of the hand that's slipped out of sight. Marcus' pale shoulder, an easy handhold, and having seen him fully naked but maybe not in the way he'd wanted to. It had been very close in that tent, and the light poor.
Not for much longer. A long moment spent between cupped palm and tender mouth, then there is a rasp from the bedclothes as Flint shifts off the support of his elbow and a gathering from the hand that's fallen to the crook of Marcus' neck and shoulder. He leans in, crowding. Two hands now to draw Marcus away and up, to turn the angle of his face in a direction that makes pressing a muggy, slack kiss onto his mouth easy.
No teeth in it, unhurried despite how firm Flint's hands are. An impulse to take slow advantage of being over him and that loosened quality in Marcus' face to kiss him heavy and close. To see if that look in his face lingers after, and tell him, "Take the rest of your things off."
The firmness of Flint's hands guiding him is at first necessary, drawn away from a thing he was achieving with not-quite single-minded focus enough that there is an initial reflex of resistance. But his face tips up and the sound he makes at first contact against Flint's mouth is appreciative. Caught, relenting. Lips parting to it, kissing back and breathing slow, eyes closing. His hand still loosely on the other man's cock, still loosely against his own, only thinking of moving by the time the kiss breaks.
His expression hasn't changed save for the pinprick of attention, needle fine in proximity. If there is an exposure or a vulnerability to it, he minds it as little as Flint had minded his own partial undressing, soft underbellies. It does also mean there are less defenses for Flint's words to slip by, evoking a low down churn of anticipation.
The implications of feeling his cock twitch in response to being told to do something will have to be reconciled another time.
For now, Marcus' hands finally move. Sits back a little, feeling out the buckles of his boots. Small, brisk tugs loosen them. Maybe the spell will break in a second, but it has yet to by the time he's freed himself of his boots, and his hands make for his belt, knee rising to get up.
Take your things off, he'd instructed, but here as Marcus makes to clamber upright Flint's hands find his bicep or side or both—first to help him up and then falling to unbutton buttons before Marcus has even totally divested himself of the belt. Helpful. Very aware of the rasp of his sweat stiff shirt edge against the back of his own neck, and the heavy blood thick feeling in his pulse that he can see reflected in Marcus' face, and the close shape of him cock and the desire to touch him.
That last one sees Flint's hand in pressing between undone buttons, leaving the arguably more clumsy work of actually shucking the garments to Marcus while he sees to reacquainting himself with the feel of him in hand. Were the bed lower, the angle simply slightly more cooperative— instead, too impatient not to touch and too sure to be hurried and grasping about it, a gathering of slick spit smeared onto his spare hand which promptly becomes less spare as he falls to some slow, stroking rythmn.
They won't stay like this for long, he knows. And wouldn't want to. But for the measure of a few strokes in a hot, windowless room, aware of Marcus' naked body and attention fixed toward the look in his eye anyway, there is something that clenches close and feels right in it.
says the slightly sardonic edge to the sound he makes, a vocal breath out that is far more taken with the sensation of a warm hand laying on him, stroking him, than registering complaint. Chin tipping up briefly at the slanted ceiling, head loose on neck and one hand caught at his waistband, working it down where layers of fabric gather midthigh. More topographical information revealing itself in better light, the carving up of scar tissue from inside his knee and up to his thigh, a few inches.
This is temporary, but he's also content to let the last of his garments gather at his ankles for the moment if it means not yet stopping Flint from touching him. Even with having been rid of his shirt for some whole minutes, the prickle of the air against now bared skin under dense cloth feels like some more minor variant to the rough texture of Flint's hand.
He has a hand resting on the other man's shoulder, some measure of balance as he picks one foot up out of his trousers, tugged further down underfoot.
Fingers clutch, dragging at shirt fabric. Possible revenge for the tangle they're in, Marcus follows impulse to make it that bit worse, hand over hand pulling the tunic up off Flint's back, over his shoulders and head. Remembering the sensation of close contact of skin on skin, a keener motivation than simply sharing some indignity.
Either way, the duck of Flint's head is obliging and the clumsy tangle of dark fabric bunched high at the tops of his arms is temporary. Releasing Marcus to strip the shirt the rest of the way from him is a matter of practicality, baring with any sense of vulnerability freckled skin, arbitrary marks of permanent ink, and a series of stark scars snared at his shoulder and across the width of his chest, a hacked mark down the back of a rounded shoulder, a dark peppering over the ribs. Skin is an inconsequential thing. Nevermind that he would prefer to see all of Marcus'.
He paints his fingers in spit a second time. Takes hold of Marcus again and resumes the coaxing pull on his cock with one hand while the other wraps heavy above that scarred knee, applying pressure there to encourage him nearer. Which is considerate. He could be using his other hand to communicate the same demand.
Knowledge of being goaded does not (at least, for Marcus) immediately cancel out the goading and its effectiveness. The rough breath out of him has that hint of exasperation and growl, followed by movement—stepping out of his pants completely and lifting that knee, finding a place for it against the crunchy mattress next to Flint's thigh.
Ignoring that hand on his cock, now, in favour of bullying into Flint's space, half in his lap save for the way an arm that comes up around his torso and a tipped shoulder pushes him backwards and down. Catching raised chin in hand on the way, the pressure of a thumb against his cheek as Marcus bow his head, the unverbalised fuck you delivered in a hard kiss as the bed shivers beneath a sudden onset of activities.
"Tell me when you manage your trousers," in between a kiss that rakes down to Flint's jaw. Fingers against the stippled scarring at Flint's side, a set of blunt claws, and the now-familiar sharp edge of teeth at his shoulder, in the midst of the balm of warm mouth.
There. That thing he'd been hungry for—the scrape of teeth and the bluntly rough press of fingers, all of it characterized by some looming promise of weight being pressed over him. He answers with a grunt and a pleased growl that isn't quite a laugh, kind or otherwise. That it becomes a hiss under the scratch of teeth and nails is
Not going to stop him from catching back at Marcus' hip. And then, inevitably, his own. Abandoning the pretense of repeating the exploration shared in that tent between them now, his attention falls instead to lifting himself clumsily in that forcefully narrowed space. Beginning the halting process of working the heavy linen free even as some catch of teeth makes him twist.
Maybe this is what he'd wanted. For Rowntree to be exasperated.
(The heat and the sting in equal measure surely only adds something in addition to that.)
In the heat of his mood, Marcus knows a brief and sharp thrill for the sense of Flint struggling beneath him, even if the present challenge is to undress himself rather than correct their positions. He doesn't interfere but also doesn't help, setting instead on the bare skin he's revealed.
Maybe Marcus had noticed the blotch of reddened bruising sometime after the night in the tent, as now he presses his mouth somewhere high against Flint's chest. Applies pressure enough to draw blood to surface in those small, fine ways, enough to leave behind something winedark and lurid for the next few days. The hand splayed at Flint's side is hard, warm, but gentler in the arcing stroke of his thumb.
Presses in close once he can tell progress as been made, an imprecise intimacy. Here they are again, but different, more tangled, less injured, the elevation of a bed and the warmth in the open air, the possibility of a palmful of lamp oil for only two bits.
Marcus lifts his head, shifting around enough to nudge a bare thigh between Flint's.
Despite the galvanizing mark making (it earns a hiss, that; a throaty sound and the twitch forward of shoulders), and the heat of bare skin pressed close, and here—the shape of a thigh where he's been left wanting in the wake of Marcus' mouth—, there's an impulse to slacken under it. A certain irresponsibility in the prospect of just giving Marcus whatever he can be goaded into caring to take that appeals.
Here they are again. He'd not struggled much over being put on his back then either.
So maybe, when wrestling with the bunched fabric has become a challenge to overcome by blindly fishing with a foot until something catches and he can peel himself free, he does that. Hands catching at up Marcus' sides, sliding to his ribs. Not quite high enough to lay his thumbs over similar scars. And shifting now, either in the effort to finish the work of divesting of his clothes or to work himself against the press of Marcus' thigh. Or both. Certainly the set of his chin and the look he gives Marcus in that narrowed space, the low gust of a heavy exhale, appears like, See, it was a good idea.
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The room is small, warns creaking floorboards. They'll clip into the edge of the bed if they're not careful.
—Isn't a hazard he's much concerned with as he pulls the hem of Marcus' shirt free and makes to gather it up, hand over fist, in an effort to fully strip him of it. And though it makes little sense to be louder here in this little room than in a tent far removed from everything, he is. Breath thick, a hitch of sound for grappling hands and hip. Marcus' is so warm in the sticky heat of the room.
"Are you sucking my cock, or do I have to show you how that's meant to go?"
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The shirt comes off, and Marcus releases his grasping to help it along. No blood and grime, bandaging or fresh wounds. At some point, Flint will see or find with his fingers the end of the stripe of a closed scar at his side and the way it ends in a fishhook shape stamped into skin, just out of easy reach of Marcus' own fingertips.
It means, too, that Flint says that, and hasn't yet anchored his hands back onto Marcus, and so Marcus places his own hands on Flint's chest and shoves.
Not away. Not violently, in spite of the spark of irritation that catches, feeds heat with more heat. The bed is right there, catching on the backs of legs, frame shuddering into the wall under the abrupt distribution of weight. Marcus does not tip into Flint where he is has been forced into a sit.
Considers, then drops down instead, a knee settling on the floor. Hooks a hand up Flint's ankle, the other addressing the buckles that latch there.
"Is that what you want?" lacks the same pettiness as the shove moments ago. "To show me?"
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The place where the bed frame had racked his calves smarts, the dullest pulse through gaiters and boots. And here, under his weight and a braced hand, the packed mattress crunches and rasps with every small motion as he surrenders those buckles into Marcus' possession. Were they somewhere else, he might have some concern for the wall's immediate future. But they're in a cheap let room so obviously for one purpose that the proprietor had intimated that they'd owe her two bits should any of the lamp oil go missing. There is a near contractual obligation to chip the plaster.
(It's flattering lamplight; Rowntree nearly looks good enough that he might dismiss the indignity of being forced into the bed. Nearly.)
"I'm not certain you know to mind your teeth." Though he's unbuckling his belt already, peeling away his knife with it.
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The breath out of Marcus has a laugh quality to it without actually being so. His hands go to the other boot, giving it the same treatment, a little swifter now having completed the first. Unhurried, despite the distinct tug of want he knows when Flint's hands travel to his own belt. Glint of said teeth in the nearly-smile that pulls at his lip.
"Aye." Admittedly.
The next boot loosens, laces tugged. It comes free to the sound of belt loosening free of itself. His other knee meets the ground.
"Give me your hand," he says.
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Giving that hand over after to satisfy that request is a favor rather than simple cooperation. As if Marcus had asked rather than told him to do it.
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But he can't be sure of that (and he does feel that), and so it's just a brief rake of focus, a stalling second as he accepts that hand by pressing his palm the back of his wrist, fingers curling up and around.
Leans in then, first the graze of his mouth against the meat of Flint's palm, a small and damp kiss that trails up along the length of his thumb. No further delay, then, to coax the tip of it into his mouth past his teeth, teeth that don't bite but stay, into the softer heat of his mouth up to the first knuckle.
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It's not tentative. There is something immediately eager in the heat of his face and the slowed breath Flint dredges in. Just slow. Thumb running speculatively across Marcus' lower edge of teeth; drawing free to touch drag at his lip, and then pressing back all in some meditative motion. Anticipatory.
It's easy to imagine— the obvious. But the reverse too, where is taking fingers into his own mouth. Pressing his tongue up against the natural seam between them, and growing gradually restless with the desire to have Marcus' cock in him.
(They might have done this in that tent. Not that first night, but the one following where Marcus had been stiff with bruising and sore from the battery of his injury and testing it. With relatively little effort, Flint might have rolled over and made needing it perfectly clear.)
With a low crunch of protest from the mattress, Flint's other hand shifts from supporting him there to touching Marcus's hand at his wrist. Fleeting to his chin where he might catch him and control him, and at last pushing farther back into Marcus' hair to free it from its cord.
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He keeps that one hand where it is, braced firm around Flint's wrist. The other has already landed gently on Flint's knee, incidental, but now comes alive in a broad-palmed slide of contact up his thigh, thumb digging ever so into the inner.
A subtle shake of his head helps along releasing his hair, a working day of having it tied impressing a kink into its wave.
These subtle checks and balances. Kneeling between the other man's feet and finding some measure of control, of demand. Greed in the suction impressed around Flint's thumb, demonstration though this is. He hasn't let himself wonder very much if Flint is the kind of man who prefers to wrangle and hold down, or allow a tending to, or something in between, and he knows no preference other than to find out soon.
But there is something to be said about simmering in the restlessness, first. To give a small, quiet, contented hum against the other man's hand on the withdraw, as if he were remotely contented.
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There would be little point in the show if he didn't want to be rewarded for it.
So the shift of his feet on the floor is small, but it jostles the set of Flint's hip and thighs. Makes for a reflexive twitch toward the picture Marcus' fingers and tongue are painting for him even as his thumb makes to coax its way back in the wake of that small sound. The grip Flint's off hand finds in Marcus' hair isn't tight or pulling; but it's firm, holding there as he works the rough shape of his thumb back over teeth and tongue in exploratory pantomime. It stays there, knuckles a steady presence, even when he otherwise makes to pull back and free himself so he might hurry through undoing the rest of his buttons.
Apparently the demonstration passes muster.
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Marcus reaches for the other man's pants as Flint's thumb slides free, swallowing around the emptiness as he gets ahead of him, taking over the opening of buttons. No tease to it, no coy delay, but staying unhurried. It would be altogether too much ammunition to give if he were to accidentally snap loose a button in his efforts to take Flint's cock out.
And that he leaves to Flint, in part for the angle, in part so he can push shirt fabric back up a ways off the other man's stomach, the hem caught against his thumb so he palm can lay warmly. Paler down here than the freckled, sun-warm skin of Flint's muscled forearms or the back of his neck. Or a shoulder turned in, in the odd shadows of a tent.
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But it isn't delaying. When his hand shifts from Marcus' hair, it's to catch at his chin. Calloused fingertips at the soft underside of his jaw, thumb playing briefly at invasion in order to smear the faintly damp heat inside Marcus' cheek onto his lip but largely to draw him that necessary degree in the right direction so he might offer him his cock.
No request, no sharp word. Just the press of fingers and the flex of full breathing. A low, unquiet sound of encouragement that suggests whatever habit had subdued him in a tent doesn't extend to cheap boarding house rooms. It's hot. He's sweating in his clothes, and he wants Marcus to look at him.
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At the touch to his chin, against and in his mouth, a harsher breath leaves him, closing his eyes for a moment. A subtle coil through his shoulders with the intention to let himself be guided, but first looks up at him after that sound from Flint. The texture of it and the warm impression of it, its weight carried through eye contact, nearly as effective as if Flint had abandoned this exercise in favour of reaching down to touch his cock.
Good thing he doesn't. Marcus leans into that hand, into that warm space between them, mouth parting so that he can meet the blunt head of Flint's cock first with the flat of his tongue before taking him in, a small rough sound of want wrapping around it, warm and wet.
Shallow, and then a little less so.
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The hand at Marcus's jaw lingers, fingers pressed close. But the hand supporting the angle of all this strays, moving instead to catch at the bed where he might support himself on a locked elbow. Trusting that between them they can manage without, even as his fingers rove from jaw to neck, press back up into Marcus' hair. Restless. Or a strategic mapping of handholds while the starting pace and tenor of this is left to the man between his splayed knees.
Certainly he watches him like it's all worth study, attention heavy and fixed. Not relieved at all, actually. Just being rewound.
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Incidental. His focus is here, that taut thread of eye contact now broken. The tip of his head beneath Flint's roaming hand is entirely reflexive, lending room for touching, but not waiting for direction as he keeps his mouth tight and hot around the head of Flint's cock. Deeper, then, slow and indulgent strokes of movement, as if the pleasure Marcus might wrangle from this motion is his own, in the stimulation of flesh sliding over his tongue, filling his mouth.
Under lamplight, there's the glimmer of saliva gathering fast at the corner of his mouth, obscene in the sheen of it left behind on Flint's cock when he lifts his head before lowering it again. His eyes had half-hooded for the moment, too obviously in distraction to be mistaken as shyness. Nothing shy in the probing pressure of his tongue, the contented stream of breath through his nose on the withdraw.
At Flint's hip, fingers hook into his waistband, simply holding on.
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Instead, his hand closed slowly in a fistful of Marcus' loose hair. A gentle restraint, as far as these things go, so he might hold him and slide free. Press the hot line of his wet cock in a slow thrust along Marcus' cheek so as to leave a debauched track of saliva there. Breathes out a thick jab of a noise as he finds his way back and the restraint of closed fingers softens to simply wrapping heavy at the base of Marcus' skull—controlling in the way a look is, persuasive only for as long as Marcus wants it to be, as Flint braces himself to fuck shallowly into his mouth.
This too is intent and distracted in equal measure. Rhythm meandering. Whether he urges him low or draws nearly free to submit himself to the goading of Marcus' tongue motivated by whatever urge seems most relevant. Or by what Marcus seems the most satisfied to give him, all the while painting the room with the thick sound of heavy breathing and sounds that are not quiet but are too low and short to carry far.
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Quieter than the sound Flint makes is the one that eases out of him at that first feeling of movement, but more intimately felt. For a time, it's this, submitting to the firm suggestion that Flint's hand makes at the back of his skull, accepting the rhythmic invasion pushing up into his mouth held pliant and receptive.
A hand slithers back down Flint's thigh, disappears down, taking away the gentle weight of his arm. A soft grunt of Marcus suggests that his hand has found some other occupation, although there isn't any telltale rattle of belt, still lashed around his waist. Just a private easing, subtle friction of thumb through fabric, which probably does not actually relieve him very much at all.
Eventually, gentle push back against Flint's hand, mouth coming up and off but not away. His other hand cups around to keep his cock close as Marcus licks down the length of it, open and gentle kisses down towards the softer base, softer tongue and the slight grain of his cheek. No particular motivation towards intent or pace besides doing what he wants, maybe for as long as Flint will stand it.
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Not for much longer. A long moment spent between cupped palm and tender mouth, then there is a rasp from the bedclothes as Flint shifts off the support of his elbow and a gathering from the hand that's fallen to the crook of Marcus' neck and shoulder. He leans in, crowding. Two hands now to draw Marcus away and up, to turn the angle of his face in a direction that makes pressing a muggy, slack kiss onto his mouth easy.
No teeth in it, unhurried despite how firm Flint's hands are. An impulse to take slow advantage of being over him and that loosened quality in Marcus' face to kiss him heavy and close. To see if that look in his face lingers after, and tell him, "Take the rest of your things off."
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His expression hasn't changed save for the pinprick of attention, needle fine in proximity. If there is an exposure or a vulnerability to it, he minds it as little as Flint had minded his own partial undressing, soft underbellies. It does also mean there are less defenses for Flint's words to slip by, evoking a low down churn of anticipation.
The implications of feeling his cock twitch in response to being told to do something will have to be reconciled another time.
For now, Marcus' hands finally move. Sits back a little, feeling out the buckles of his boots. Small, brisk tugs loosen them. Maybe the spell will break in a second, but it has yet to by the time he's freed himself of his boots, and his hands make for his belt, knee rising to get up.
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That last one sees Flint's hand in pressing between undone buttons, leaving the arguably more clumsy work of actually shucking the garments to Marcus while he sees to reacquainting himself with the feel of him in hand. Were the bed lower, the angle simply slightly more cooperative— instead, too impatient not to touch and too sure to be hurried and grasping about it, a gathering of slick spit smeared onto his spare hand which promptly becomes less spare as he falls to some slow, stroking rythmn.
They won't stay like this for long, he knows. And wouldn't want to. But for the measure of a few strokes in a hot, windowless room, aware of Marcus' naked body and attention fixed toward the look in his eye anyway, there is something that clenches close and feels right in it.
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says the slightly sardonic edge to the sound he makes, a vocal breath out that is far more taken with the sensation of a warm hand laying on him, stroking him, than registering complaint. Chin tipping up briefly at the slanted ceiling, head loose on neck and one hand caught at his waistband, working it down where layers of fabric gather midthigh. More topographical information revealing itself in better light, the carving up of scar tissue from inside his knee and up to his thigh, a few inches.
This is temporary, but he's also content to let the last of his garments gather at his ankles for the moment if it means not yet stopping Flint from touching him. Even with having been rid of his shirt for some whole minutes, the prickle of the air against now bared skin under dense cloth feels like some more minor variant to the rough texture of Flint's hand.
He has a hand resting on the other man's shoulder, some measure of balance as he picks one foot up out of his trousers, tugged further down underfoot.
Fingers clutch, dragging at shirt fabric. Possible revenge for the tangle they're in, Marcus follows impulse to make it that bit worse, hand over hand pulling the tunic up off Flint's back, over his shoulders and head. Remembering the sensation of close contact of skin on skin, a keener motivation than simply sharing some indignity.
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He paints his fingers in spit a second time. Takes hold of Marcus again and resumes the coaxing pull on his cock with one hand while the other wraps heavy above that scarred knee, applying pressure there to encourage him nearer. Which is considerate. He could be using his other hand to communicate the same demand.
Tilting his chin. Looking up into Marcus' face—
"Do you need to be told to get into bed?"
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Ignoring that hand on his cock, now, in favour of bullying into Flint's space, half in his lap save for the way an arm that comes up around his torso and a tipped shoulder pushes him backwards and down. Catching raised chin in hand on the way, the pressure of a thumb against his cheek as Marcus bow his head, the unverbalised fuck you delivered in a hard kiss as the bed shivers beneath a sudden onset of activities.
"Tell me when you manage your trousers," in between a kiss that rakes down to Flint's jaw. Fingers against the stippled scarring at Flint's side, a set of blunt claws, and the now-familiar sharp edge of teeth at his shoulder, in the midst of the balm of warm mouth.
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Not going to stop him from catching back at Marcus' hip. And then, inevitably, his own. Abandoning the pretense of repeating the exploration shared in that tent between them now, his attention falls instead to lifting himself clumsily in that forcefully narrowed space. Beginning the halting process of working the heavy linen free even as some catch of teeth makes him twist.
Maybe this is what he'd wanted. For Rowntree to be exasperated.
(The heat and the sting in equal measure surely only adds something in addition to that.)
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Maybe Marcus had noticed the blotch of reddened bruising sometime after the night in the tent, as now he presses his mouth somewhere high against Flint's chest. Applies pressure enough to draw blood to surface in those small, fine ways, enough to leave behind something winedark and lurid for the next few days. The hand splayed at Flint's side is hard, warm, but gentler in the arcing stroke of his thumb.
Presses in close once he can tell progress as been made, an imprecise intimacy. Here they are again, but different, more tangled, less injured, the elevation of a bed and the warmth in the open air, the possibility of a palmful of lamp oil for only two bits.
Marcus lifts his head, shifting around enough to nudge a bare thigh between Flint's.
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Here they are again. He'd not struggled much over being put on his back then either.
So maybe, when wrestling with the bunched fabric has become a challenge to overcome by blindly fishing with a foot until something catches and he can peel himself free, he does that. Hands catching at up Marcus' sides, sliding to his ribs. Not quite high enough to lay his thumbs over similar scars. And shifting now, either in the effort to finish the work of divesting of his clothes or to work himself against the press of Marcus' thigh. Or both. Certainly the set of his chin and the look he gives Marcus in that narrowed space, the low gust of a heavy exhale, appears like, See, it was a good idea.
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wow a horny icon that finally feels appropriate
thanks @ whoever directed that episode
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🎀