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.
There, a quick bruise in the collection of scars, freckles, ink that speckles Flint's torso. Unselfconscious, Marcus licks over it once before moving on, meeting the rise of chin and the look tipped his way. There is only a moment to indulge it, a look back that suggests the other man is the insufferable one, actually, before he captures Flint in a kiss, the edge of a growled out sound muffling itself there.
It is an immediately deep kiss, the kind of hunger that they've felt and shared before. But slower, now that Marcus has him, bracketing Flint's jaw in the splay of his fingers, a demanding kind of pressure of his thumb up under chin. The rest of him is similarly oppressive, settling heavy on top, twisted just enough to have that leg pushed up between Flint's, to be able to move and angle down deliberate against his cock when he feels Flint work himself in return.
That feeling like missing a step in the dark, only the lurch is more thrill than anything else. Of pushing, of finding unexpected welcome upon doing so, and then only feeling compelled to push more. The pressure of Flint's hands on his sides has him get an arm up under one of them, using his advantage of being on top to go and press it down against the mattress with only a brief break in his kiss.
Marcus had been tempted, in the moments before Flint had other ideas, to push the other man down and suck his cock at his own leisure. There is something of that in this, of pressing him flat to the bed, of kissing deeply, of encouraging the simmer of frustration between them with the tip of his hips, the nudge of his thigh. Just this, while he has him, just for now.
There, a small measure of resistance against having his hand pinned—a flex of tendons, the jump of muscle. It's no real struggle; just the outline of it, testing against the boundary. Elbows trapped in the tangle of a coat, not wanting to be free of the restriction but enamored with the sensation of restriction and the appearance of taxing patience.
In counterpoint, his free hand skips roughly free of Marcus's side. Snakes between them and up to catch at the nape of his neck and snarl him by some fistful of hair. Flint's grip is unhurried, not pulling; very like the hands that have caught him, this one is sure and demanding. If Marcus is going to steer him by the jaw and kiss him like that and be so heavy overtop him, then his hand is going to be there to hold him to it.
To say is comes with any kind of rhythm would be an overstatement. Marcus presses; Flint shifts against him at irregular intervals, well fed by the low catch in his belly that punctuates the friction, until he kicks his second leg free of its pant leg with a blind thwap of the garment against the floorboards.
He's followed instructions, says the sharp catch of teeth at Marcus' mouth.
Flint's teeth catch; Marcus lifts his head with a short sharp breath, still within the bounds of the grip to his hair. It feels like long minutes of this, them variously snared together, teeth and fists and muscle as though the point of true tension weren't wrapped up in over-sensitive flesh, thick-blooded pulses in bared throats. Marcus could make it longer minutes, could push Flint into wresting free out of impatience or goading him again into some new thing,
but he does have wants, ones that range deeper than a memory of a messy tangle in a tent, sense-recollection dwindling down and down to just a few bright sparks. He remembers how recklessly good it was to insensibly fuck Flint's hand, panting onto his shoulder. Remembers less the aches and hurt that had helped reduce him to that state.
There's another nudge of a kiss, still a little hard and sharp-edged, a coarse rake of teeth across bottom lip, but brief. Studying Flint's face after, thinks he can kind of imagine the angles of his face beneath the hair grown coarse around his mouth and chin, for all that he hasn't been shy about enjoying the texture of its presence. He does, also, know the man's first name, but the latter falls so easily from his mouth.
Presently, he says, "I want to fuck you." The hand that has Flint's wrist against the bed tightens, loosens.
It twists something high in his belly, the rolling sensation of a deck slanting underfoot to sudden heel. The strain of cables. Between them, their breathing in thickly hot gusts is as tangled as the rest of their arrangement. He is sweating and his mouth is tender from the scrape of teeth. Somewhere nearby, above the circle of Marcus' fingers, his hand absently twists while here Flint looks at him. Studies right back the hard cut of scarred skin and the rough bristle of fine hairs around the mouth that had been
(asking questions as if they had any business carrying on conversation)
sucking his cock.
If he'd wanted hands and tongue and Marcus' mouth, there are a dozen places between that basement tavern and this muggy room where they might have done that. Any number of narrow alleys. Any gloomy doorway into which they might have tucked themselves. He could have had Marcus on his knees there too, fucked over his tongue and smeared spit and come across his swollen mouth. Might have even solicited that same slack look he'd earned— however many minutes ago.
But instead he's taken them here, and has paid for the privilege of a bed to be pinned to. He wants Marcus to fuck him in it.
This close, it's easier to make out the fine and easily missed details of what constitutes almost a smile out of Marcus.
Satisfaction more than amusement, but not none of that. Yes, he thinks he can muster the courtesy of two bits. The hand at Flint's wrist loosens, slides down the pale stripe of inner arm and negligently pins his elbow as he goes to rise up off of him, presuming that he in turn will be let go of to make certain arrangements. The shock of balmy air opens up between them that, nevertheless, is not as intensely warm as skin on skin.
"Move," a nudge of a knee encouraging Flint further up the mattress. Their feet, still dangling over the edge. As Marcus rises to hands and knees, he indulges in a scrape of a look over the other man, from the flex of his shoulder down to that thatch of coarse hair around stiff cock and the tops of his thighs. A frank appraisal for all he hadn't gotten to see yet in totality, before turning his focus for the bedside table.
Still sort of kneeling over the other man even as he twists around on all fours to locate the oil, but it does afford Flint a view of how his handiwork had come along, stippled scar tissue ending in its hook.
There are other scars on Flint's person, including a slash so fortunately placed down the length of a thigh that it had probably been miraculous he'd avoided either bleeding to death from the artery living so close under the skin or hadn't lost that aforementioned stiff cock. But none of the marks on display, save maybe for the wine dark bruise sucked into place beneath Flint's clavicle and starkly visible there as he slips his elbow free and hoists himself fully up into the bed, is likely to be as compelling as is that hooked line left high under Marcus' arm.
No, the sight of that thing satisfies. Lodges low in him and sticks there. A shame Marcus hadn't been trapped and traveling with one of Riftwatch's more competent healers; and also clearly neither of them are strangers to incurring marks from their work, so what harm is there in liking the look of that one?
And then his attention is twisting away, focus briefly dropping to see about making himself actually comfortable there in the bed with its rasping mattress and thin coverlet. When he settles, knees drawn toward an accommodating angle, the crook of his arm is returned (helpfully) more or less to the angle at which it'd originally been pinned. A proving tilt of the chin. His free hand reaching after Marcus' cock heavy between them. This is not a game, but also—yes it is.
Some satisfactory responses follow the simple press of Flint's hand to him; the twitch of interest up through to the root of him, an instinctive flex of muscle, thighs and abdomen, all timed with Marcus' focus returning, hand glistening. Some excess is left to drip over himself and Flint's hand in a calculated tip of his palm, a deliberately slow breath out at the immediate sensation of warm oil and rough hand.
A cut of a look up, which could be admonishment, given games. But not really, no cut of irony or humour in his expression. Taking in the sight of Flint like this on his back, arm bent, thighs open, golden lamplight where shadow pools only subtle where it doesn't touch. There is something to be said about being in bed with someone as battered as he is, but it is also true that this is well subordinate to how good Flint looks like this, how much Marcus may think about the next time they encounter each other fully dressed, as if he could reach beneath leathers and sweat-stiff linen and find warm lamplight.
He tucks his hand up between the other man's legs, slick palm giving a brief, not-truly-perfunctory feeling over, thumb tracing smooth over soft warm skin as his fingers press in close. It has been a little while since he's gotten this far with a man, but there's familiarity in the smooth pressure of fingertips, coaxing against resistant muscle.
His other hand lays on Flint's thigh, a thumb negligently tracing that line of deep scarring.
The reach necessary to continue touching Marcus becomes quickly inconvenient to the rest of this. But given their aim and the reflexively sensitive hitch toward the warm touch between his legs, it seems likely he may be forgiven the temporary abandonment in favor of letting oil flicked fingers fall back to own cock.
It is, by necessity, slow. Sweat prickling, and the slow return of a heavier cant of breathing. The low not quite sound that meets the first measure of penetration, and an eventual turning of his not-pinned wrist and the higher hitch of his arm that reaches to secure a grip on the edge of the mattress above him. Looking at him—watching the set of Marcus' brow and the filaments of shadow cast across his face by the fall of loose hair—it's not, actually, difficult to relax into the persuasive shape of his fingers and oil slick palm. They've moved past the point where his impulse would be to sharpen against it.
It takes relatively little before the easy lick of satisfaction in him—broadly painted in his bearing as Flint had drawn himself farther up onto the mattress, as if Marcus stating a want has been some kind of achievement—has slipped off. The difference to wanting to be fucked and being fucked drawn in lines of flexing muscle and a softening shape of the mouth. The thoughtlessly higher hitch of knees and tipped chin, and the meandering of slick fingers from cock to the inside of his thigh where a forefinger might set at Marcus' wrist.
Marcus doesn't need Flint's hand on his cock, anyway, to feel his own pulse at the base of it, watching the other man make those fine, thoughtless adjustments, minor responses in the set of his mouth, the turn of his hand at the edge of the mattress. Or to feel tight resistance against fingertips that slip by it smooth and oiled, the promising heat encircling them. He does not consider it contradictory for there to have been rough handling prior and then this, and the pad of his thumb working some sensitive spot at the crease of Flint's thigh, purposelessly, as an aside.
Gentle pressure through his other hand, helping Flint raise his knee up and aside. Slowly, that sense of invasion becomes more specific, the stroke of fingers sinking deeper, playing at fucking him just like this, but also, not quite. No, there's a task here, and he wants to get to the end of it.
He could ask, maybe. See if Flint would say it, that he wants Marcus to fuck him, play at denial and reward—and not just that Marcus should, or could stand to get on with it, or does he need to be shown how, which parts go where. A clear and verbalised confession of desire, preferably with either of his names on Flint's tongue. The impulse towards seeking that is largely unformed, and so is the impulse to be sated, instead, with the way this desire is articulated in everything except words stated out loud.
Eventually, Marcus draws his fingers out of him. Excess oil smeared on his own cock in the same motion of getting it in hand, leaning forwards, pressing Flint's knee higher. The sound of his breathing, heavier, by the time Flint can feel the blunter pressure of him, slipping against.
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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.
no subject
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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It is an immediately deep kiss, the kind of hunger that they've felt and shared before. But slower, now that Marcus has him, bracketing Flint's jaw in the splay of his fingers, a demanding kind of pressure of his thumb up under chin. The rest of him is similarly oppressive, settling heavy on top, twisted just enough to have that leg pushed up between Flint's, to be able to move and angle down deliberate against his cock when he feels Flint work himself in return.
That feeling like missing a step in the dark, only the lurch is more thrill than anything else. Of pushing, of finding unexpected welcome upon doing so, and then only feeling compelled to push more. The pressure of Flint's hands on his sides has him get an arm up under one of them, using his advantage of being on top to go and press it down against the mattress with only a brief break in his kiss.
Marcus had been tempted, in the moments before Flint had other ideas, to push the other man down and suck his cock at his own leisure. There is something of that in this, of pressing him flat to the bed, of kissing deeply, of encouraging the simmer of frustration between them with the tip of his hips, the nudge of his thigh. Just this, while he has him, just for now.
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In counterpoint, his free hand skips roughly free of Marcus's side. Snakes between them and up to catch at the nape of his neck and snarl him by some fistful of hair. Flint's grip is unhurried, not pulling; very like the hands that have caught him, this one is sure and demanding. If Marcus is going to steer him by the jaw and kiss him like that and be so heavy overtop him, then his hand is going to be there to hold him to it.
To say is comes with any kind of rhythm would be an overstatement. Marcus presses; Flint shifts against him at irregular intervals, well fed by the low catch in his belly that punctuates the friction, until he kicks his second leg free of its pant leg with a blind thwap of the garment against the floorboards.
He's followed instructions, says the sharp catch of teeth at Marcus' mouth.
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but he does have wants, ones that range deeper than a memory of a messy tangle in a tent, sense-recollection dwindling down and down to just a few bright sparks. He remembers how recklessly good it was to insensibly fuck Flint's hand, panting onto his shoulder. Remembers less the aches and hurt that had helped reduce him to that state.
There's another nudge of a kiss, still a little hard and sharp-edged, a coarse rake of teeth across bottom lip, but brief. Studying Flint's face after, thinks he can kind of imagine the angles of his face beneath the hair grown coarse around his mouth and chin, for all that he hasn't been shy about enjoying the texture of its presence. He does, also, know the man's first name, but the latter falls so easily from his mouth.
Presently, he says, "I want to fuck you." The hand that has Flint's wrist against the bed tightens, loosens.
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(asking questions as if they had any business carrying on conversation)
sucking his cock.
If he'd wanted hands and tongue and Marcus' mouth, there are a dozen places between that basement tavern and this muggy room where they might have done that. Any number of narrow alleys. Any gloomy doorway into which they might have tucked themselves. He could have had Marcus on his knees there too, fucked over his tongue and smeared spit and come across his swollen mouth. Might have even solicited that same slack look he'd earned— however many minutes ago.
But instead he's taken them here, and has paid for the privilege of a bed to be pinned to. He wants Marcus to fuck him in it.
"You'd better have two bits."
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Satisfaction more than amusement, but not none of that. Yes, he thinks he can muster the courtesy of two bits. The hand at Flint's wrist loosens, slides down the pale stripe of inner arm and negligently pins his elbow as he goes to rise up off of him, presuming that he in turn will be let go of to make certain arrangements. The shock of balmy air opens up between them that, nevertheless, is not as intensely warm as skin on skin.
"Move," a nudge of a knee encouraging Flint further up the mattress. Their feet, still dangling over the edge. As Marcus rises to hands and knees, he indulges in a scrape of a look over the other man, from the flex of his shoulder down to that thatch of coarse hair around stiff cock and the tops of his thighs. A frank appraisal for all he hadn't gotten to see yet in totality, before turning his focus for the bedside table.
Still sort of kneeling over the other man even as he twists around on all fours to locate the oil, but it does afford Flint a view of how his handiwork had come along, stippled scar tissue ending in its hook.
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No, the sight of that thing satisfies. Lodges low in him and sticks there. A shame Marcus hadn't been trapped and traveling with one of Riftwatch's more competent healers; and also clearly neither of them are strangers to incurring marks from their work, so what harm is there in liking the look of that one?
And then his attention is twisting away, focus briefly dropping to see about making himself actually comfortable there in the bed with its rasping mattress and thin coverlet. When he settles, knees drawn toward an accommodating angle, the crook of his arm is returned (helpfully) more or less to the angle at which it'd originally been pinned. A proving tilt of the chin. His free hand reaching after Marcus' cock heavy between them. This is not a game, but also—yes it is.
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A cut of a look up, which could be admonishment, given games. But not really, no cut of irony or humour in his expression. Taking in the sight of Flint like this on his back, arm bent, thighs open, golden lamplight where shadow pools only subtle where it doesn't touch. There is something to be said about being in bed with someone as battered as he is, but it is also true that this is well subordinate to how good Flint looks like this, how much Marcus may think about the next time they encounter each other fully dressed, as if he could reach beneath leathers and sweat-stiff linen and find warm lamplight.
He tucks his hand up between the other man's legs, slick palm giving a brief, not-truly-perfunctory feeling over, thumb tracing smooth over soft warm skin as his fingers press in close. It has been a little while since he's gotten this far with a man, but there's familiarity in the smooth pressure of fingertips, coaxing against resistant muscle.
His other hand lays on Flint's thigh, a thumb negligently tracing that line of deep scarring.
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It is, by necessity, slow. Sweat prickling, and the slow return of a heavier cant of breathing. The low not quite sound that meets the first measure of penetration, and an eventual turning of his not-pinned wrist and the higher hitch of his arm that reaches to secure a grip on the edge of the mattress above him. Looking at him—watching the set of Marcus' brow and the filaments of shadow cast across his face by the fall of loose hair—it's not, actually, difficult to relax into the persuasive shape of his fingers and oil slick palm. They've moved past the point where his impulse would be to sharpen against it.
It takes relatively little before the easy lick of satisfaction in him—broadly painted in his bearing as Flint had drawn himself farther up onto the mattress, as if Marcus stating a want has been some kind of achievement—has slipped off. The difference to wanting to be fucked and being fucked drawn in lines of flexing muscle and a softening shape of the mouth. The thoughtlessly higher hitch of knees and tipped chin, and the meandering of slick fingers from cock to the inside of his thigh where a forefinger might set at Marcus' wrist.
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Gentle pressure through his other hand, helping Flint raise his knee up and aside. Slowly, that sense of invasion becomes more specific, the stroke of fingers sinking deeper, playing at fucking him just like this, but also, not quite. No, there's a task here, and he wants to get to the end of it.
He could ask, maybe. See if Flint would say it, that he wants Marcus to fuck him, play at denial and reward—and not just that Marcus should, or could stand to get on with it, or does he need to be shown how, which parts go where. A clear and verbalised confession of desire, preferably with either of his names on Flint's tongue. The impulse towards seeking that is largely unformed, and so is the impulse to be sated, instead, with the way this desire is articulated in everything except words stated out loud.
Eventually, Marcus draws his fingers out of him. Excess oil smeared on his own cock in the same motion of getting it in hand, leaning forwards, pressing Flint's knee higher. The sound of his breathing, heavier, by the time Flint can feel the blunter pressure of him, slipping against.
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wow a horny icon that finally feels appropriate
thanks @ whoever directed that episode
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🎀