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.
There is a over warm moment, Marcus' fingers pressed close and the weight of his own cock heavy in the crook of his hip, that the demand catches at the top of his throat. He's ready. They must both know it. It must be plain in the lay of his hip and the catch of muscle at the underside of his arm; in his face and the dig of fingers helping to spread his thigh. Were it him pressed between Marcus' legs, knuckle deep in him, he might wait to hear it. He might make him beg for it. He might want to hear Rowntree crack before he indulged in pressing his cock slowly into him.
This though, the relief of that blunt pressure, is so specific that it must read in the pliable quality of Flint's knee and the hand the catches at Marcus'. The tired pant and the slow, encouraging slant of his hip as they sink gradually into one another.
The curse that falls out of him, Fuck, is rough edged. Unambiguous.
Breathing shallows out into negligent, less-controlled pants, if still quiet in the space between them, as Marcus moves. Further over Flint, hand moving from where they're both guiding that leg so that he can matter-of-factly hook his arm up beneath bent knee, and press Flint into that necessary fold. A pressure that both angles his hips and pins them to the mattress, compresses muscle wound tight.
Easing in, still, that acute sense of penetration, the unceasing burn and pressure of it, is rivaled almost by the weight of Marcus bearing down. Free arm resting on the mattress beside Flint as he settles properly on top, and what manners he might have demonstrated in not having the other man beg for his cock is almost undone by this particular heavy and unrelenting seeing that he gets it, to the hilt.
Maker, he does not say, catching his breath, poised here like this. Watching Flint's face just for somewhere to put his gaze until focus narrows, clarifies. Leans in, teases a kiss against open lips, but pulls back before Flint can make more of it.
Thighs flex, pulling back some short amount, before settling back in. And again.
That strict boxing in—the tight clutch of the muscle in his thigh, stretched taut under the inexorable weight and press of Marcus sinking into him; the arm that comes to rest beside him; and the sensation of not-quite touching, hot air constricting—burns hot. Digs its claws in. Disassembling. Too close and not close enough, the shape of Marcus' seating himself deep enough to press flush shockingly intimate. By the time he parses the impulse to chase the temptation of that kiss, it's gone.
It's possible that the sound he makes is a complaint over something withheld. But more likely it's the scraped thin precursor to something else as that pressure relents. He holds that thing there, tight and high in the width of his ribcage as Marcus finds his pace. While his fingers catch at the top edge of the mattress or close in the crook of his knee (as if the bullish weight of Marcus's fit there against it isn't enough).
But again. And more after. And at some interval, the thing tangled thick in his chest escapes him in a punched out groan and the rest comes sluggishly after. Bubbles up through the crack formed by the cut of it. No words, just shapes with knocked blunt edges.
(They should have fucked on hands and knees, his head bowed and Marcus' hand heavy at the back of his neck. He'd want to kiss him less.)
How good it is to earn these sounds of Flint. How satisfying. Compelling, the way groans creak roughly out from the man's chest at each rocking forward over him, in him. It doesn't spur Marcus on, not yet, but does encourage the steadiness of the pace he finds, a slow and deep stroking of motion. The silence of the room containing all these individual noises, friction and the mattress crunching and breathed out groans.
Another nearly-kiss presses to Flint's mouth, just off-centre, graduating to his jaw, his own hair helpfully tossed to one side, out of the way. Closer still, teeth finding pierced earlobe as he had felt an impulse to do however many days ago it's been, that a subtle warning of blunt-sharp pressure before it relents to warmer suction. Lower down, mouth finding a spot to bite-kiss high on Flint's throat, and there, a growled groan through his teeth.
Eventually, this patient grinding will have to graduate to something more committed, and he will have to make space for it, but Marcus indulges first in this particular tangle, close and sensory. Mostly quiet, still, but his breathing coming out of him in short, quick pants that feel hot and humid against Flint's throat.
His hand finding Flint's bicep on that raised arm, fingers splayed in a fan over it. Oil and sweat both liable to leave a sheen.
The flinch from that set of teeth is distinct in how it serves as a precursor to a lower, thicker sound and the twitch of various corded muscles. The heat of his body around the press of Marcus' cock. Against the hand wrapped across his arm and the weight pinning him. It's a vulnerable, reactive thing.
Less so—or maybe, plainly, just as much—are his fingers slipping from behind his knee to come grasping after the nape of Marcus' neck. There is something blunt and demanding about the shape of his hand there. The muscling in of his brow; the twist and duck of his chin so he might insist on having Marcus' mouth.
It's a rough kiss, clumsy and not really aiming to be anything more than a means to set those gusts of short, panting breaths nearer to his mouth than his throat. But if he wanted to, he could catch Marcus' lip in his teeth like this. Or touch the same with the imploring heat of his tongue. Or just feed him the rasp of some impatient sound directly. Or, say, all three in a succession that's as slow as this grinding set in and against him is.
"Marcus." The hand slips to his chin, forming a forceful bracketing of thumb and fingers. "Stop fucking around."
There is an inarticulate groaned sound at his name, and the push of his chin upwards. What, communicated through eyes half-hooded, mouth parted, fresh bitten.
Not quite configured to push that hand away, with one arm keeping Flint's leg bent and the other braced there on the other side. He twists his face aside instead, a small coil of restless motion that is still on the way, probably, to doing as asked in so many words, still does not completely disguise the way these specific digs both sting and stimulate. Shoulders tensing, pushing.
It's by a matter of degrees, the difference. A slightly less claustrophobic press of bodies, but also more weight settled on the hand braced on Flint's arm, and here, head raised rather, chest lifted. Graceless transition from one state to another, these subtle redistributions of positioning so he can move easier. No injury to watch, no exhaustive day of combat and travel settling like lead in his muscles.
It is sudden, maybe spiteful, the way the next stroke of movement withdraws further, thrusts in deeply. The tight sliding friction of it compels a sound out of Marcus, holding there for a second, and then again. Again, setting this other pace, this one of not fucking around. His other hand finds the mattress, still keeping Flint's leg caught, keeping him stretched open and caught beneath him.
Better? is not what he says, but is maybe communicated in a hazy snag of eye contact.
There is something in that redistribution of weight, the heaviness of the hand anchored over his arm, that has sparked hot and runs thick in the blood even before the rougher stroke that follows it. Anticipation chews hungry in his belly, and it doesn't need more than the time Marcus takes to readjust to chew through that crisp moment of clarity achieved by the controlling set of his hand. Which has slipped to find a new post flat below the base of Marcus' neck, so that when he begins to move on this new heading Flint can feel it there too through the wrist and against his forearm.
Better both is and isn't immediate. It's tight, and less intimate than that close press of bodies and Marcus' breath gone hit and crooked at the underside of his jaw. But the sting and that first real strike of skin on skin yanks at a cinched tight knot in him. In the span of a few thrusts, the bitter pleasure of it becomes obvious from the furrowing set of his brow and the rounding of a shoulder. The press of his free hand which is not discouragement. The panted, 'Fuck, there you go,' as if this were some point on which Marcus had required convincing and now must be praised for.
He's not in the position to press back so much as he is to brace up and take it. But that suits, and he does—bizarrely aware of the creak of the ropes strung beneath the mattress, and the sheen of sweat on Marcus that gleams in the lamplight, and how warm and close the air is beside that and the dull thump of the low bedframe clipping plaster. More aware of all that, somehow, than the crook forced in him to accommodate this. The way he does hitch, faintly, into meeting him. The heavy draw of his breathing advancing to clenched groans and sharp sounds under the heady influence of it.
It is easy to get completely consumed in something like the feeling of tight-hot clench and pressure around him, of the slippery ease of burying deep and the sharp collision of flesh. If before all of this, Marcus might have imagined what fucking Flint would be like, there might be some uncharitable desire for the event to be broken down into abstraction, into a convenient warm body, the accommodating flex of muscle wringing him to a swift close. Quick and dirty, but good for its quickness and dirtiness.
He probably would not have thought he'd like that, the flat of the other man's hand on his chest, or even notice it. He might have thought they'd be doing this on their hands and knees, his hand on the back of Flint's neck, instead of this, being glad that they can see each other, the kiss-sized bruise on the other man's chest. Wouldn't have anticipated knowing a bright thrill for praise, regardless of its need, being aware that a good sound fucking is enjoyable. The thump of wood on plaster. All the small details of the thing, beyond the blunt edged pleasure of his cock in another man's ass.
But you know, that too. Soon, his own groans mingle in the air with Flint's. Less punched out of him, instead following along the sensation of pushing in and down, knees set firm into the mattress. Force slow traded for some swiftness, the itch of friction too good to disregard.
Something untangled. Flint can be trusted to keep his knees up, if it means Marcus can reach between them, curl a hand around the head of the other man's cock, let the natural motion of what they're doing do some of the work.
Somewhere, adjacent to or below this room, there may be neighbors who might have begun to consider the possibility that they'd be spared the obligation to listen to the thump of a bed and the dulcet sounds of a less than furtive illicit fuck. But apparently not. Not with that quickening pace and the sound of Marcus' gratification from it acting as its own frictive, vibrating warm and close into the palm of his hand.
He buckles into that contact, flinching reactively toward it. It's the good kind of excess. If Marcus were closer, he might kiss him for it. Instead—yes, he can be trusted to keep his knees up. And to add to that not quiet air of panting and groaning, sound rattling willingly free between Marcus' driving hip and hand in coarse exhales and the snapped growls of 'Fuck' and 'There' rather than Harder or More, as he's already getting what he might ask for.
And it is obvious when the effect starts to narrow close in, buzzing and hot, about and over him—a slow slide characterized not by the further crumpling but the opposite. The tension in his bicep under Marcus's tight grip giving and the catch of shoulders beginning to flatten. Something vulnerable not in the upward tilt of his chin and the exposure of his throat, but in the lack of pretense. That he lets himself stop looking at Marcus to open under him.
As good an encouragement as any direct order or begging might bring, watching Flint wind up taut beneath him, flinch towards him, against him. Warm all over, feeling sweat break away in cool trickles down his back, across his ribs, at his own slow clench of closing in. He only doesn't stop looking at Flint because if he did stop looking at Flint, it would be easy to buckle under, end it sooner than he wishes to.
The fingers clasping Flint's arm will probably leave some bruising, ashy grey, as if that tinge of smoke scent Marcus carries with him had pronounced itself differently.
His other hand is gentler, but not gentle. Assured at the slippery remains of oil smeared over Flint's cock and his own palm, Marcus can make a tight fist, and twist his wrist around to tug at him, muscle-memory doing a lot of work in the wringing him out but it can't be said it feels negligent, the tight ring of fingers, the press of his thumb, or the way he says, "That's it," quieter than his groans, that rasp, more on par with his panting. "That's it, Flint," again, sharp Starkhaven consonants thicker in the moment.
Easily lost in the thump of bed frame or Flint's own pulse thickly pumping in his throat, but maybe not.
Maybe not, though the hiss of encouragement is translated sluggishly in the ear. Plucks at the clench of muscle in his abdomen and warrants some answer in the form of a crackling groan and the slip of his hand moving from the base of Marcus' neck to the muscle strung between shoulder and chest. Fingertips pressing hard into the flex and pull of it which works the hand closed tight around his cock.
Easy, he wants to tell himself. Instead the hand at the top edge of the mattress has shifted—not far, just a turn of the wrist—to catch more directly at the wall. Brace there, which only serves to diminish the give previously afforded by the sway of the bed and the mattress and their bodies on it. The abrupt catch in the palm of his hand and the joint of his elbow ekes some fraction more from the friction. Wrings a degree less give under the press of bodies jostled together.
It's obvious when Flint clips past needing to be coaxed; some repeated spasm low in his belly clutches at Marcus pressing into him and shudders into his hand, terminating in a twisted catch of not quite sound. The thick pulse in his throat ceding abruptly into the buzzing pulse of release as he spills from Marcus' fist.
There's a hitch, a halt, Marcus pressing down deep and intimate as Flint shudders through finishing, indulging in that flex and pressure. The movement of his hand also interrupted at that initial patter before it continues, the kind of massaging jerk of motion that borders on too much during those bright, teetering seconds, a sweep of his palm that collects the result into his palm and makes the whole thing easier, wringing him out.
Hand stilling, and then something absurdly affectionate and out of place in the stroke of a thumb up the slicked underside of the appendage its holding. Then, moving, anchoring at Flint's shoulder, a subtle shift of Marcus over him that carefully doesn't dislodge the way they're hinged together.
If Flint gets a second to breathe between this and Marcus continuing to fuck him, it's incidental. He holds him there, as though Flint were going anywhere, and resumes that driving pace with an even more single-minded focus. The hand that had bore Flint's arm down against the mattress shifts to mirror the other, a cupped grip to his shoulder, letting him feel the even weight of him spread across the mantle of his chest.
Harsh breathing, and a small vocalisation on each one out, head bending on neck.
Whether because it's inconvenient to struggle against a pinned shoulder to keep it there or because the raked through sensation of orgasm has loosened the joint of his elbow too far to bother, his arm falls away. Fingers make to tangle in the worn thin coverlet as Marcus' weight redistributes, though he's not quite fumbled his grip tight before the clipping thump of the bed resumes hot in the ear and the low more than a pant, not quite a groans come catching back out of him. Loose enough through the lines of him that he makes it easy to be fucked down into, taut sinews and muscle worked into pliable, accommodating angles for diving against even as the sensation of it all strikes too hot and too tender.
Pinned there, his chin sways down to rest heavy on his chest. The lamp on the table is low enough that even given their crumpled close forms, he can clearly watch how Marcus works against him. Parse the sheen of sweat and the lick of come on his belly, the heavy hang of the other man's head. All of it overly sharp to the eye, the hot air thick in the middle of them, and the shared ache of noise between them both crisp against the skin and indistinct.
After, were he to think of it, he will have trouble sorting which noises belonged to who. Which is absurd, because only one of them seems likely to throatily rasp out anything like "Fuck, Marcus," or "You're almost there. Just come in me."
Is not quiet; is thick, but perfectly legible in the humid room.
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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.)
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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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There is a over warm moment, Marcus' fingers pressed close and the weight of his own cock heavy in the crook of his hip, that the demand catches at the top of his throat. He's ready. They must both know it. It must be plain in the lay of his hip and the catch of muscle at the underside of his arm; in his face and the dig of fingers helping to spread his thigh. Were it him pressed between Marcus' legs, knuckle deep in him, he might wait to hear it. He might make him beg for it. He might want to hear Rowntree crack before he indulged in pressing his cock slowly into him.
This though, the relief of that blunt pressure, is so specific that it must read in the pliable quality of Flint's knee and the hand the catches at Marcus'. The tired pant and the slow, encouraging slant of his hip as they sink gradually into one another.
The curse that falls out of him, Fuck, is rough edged. Unambiguous.
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Easing in, still, that acute sense of penetration, the unceasing burn and pressure of it, is rivaled almost by the weight of Marcus bearing down. Free arm resting on the mattress beside Flint as he settles properly on top, and what manners he might have demonstrated in not having the other man beg for his cock is almost undone by this particular heavy and unrelenting seeing that he gets it, to the hilt.
Maker, he does not say, catching his breath, poised here like this. Watching Flint's face just for somewhere to put his gaze until focus narrows, clarifies. Leans in, teases a kiss against open lips, but pulls back before Flint can make more of it.
Thighs flex, pulling back some short amount, before settling back in. And again.
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It's possible that the sound he makes is a complaint over something withheld. But more likely it's the scraped thin precursor to something else as that pressure relents. He holds that thing there, tight and high in the width of his ribcage as Marcus finds his pace. While his fingers catch at the top edge of the mattress or close in the crook of his knee (as if the bullish weight of Marcus's fit there against it isn't enough).
But again. And more after. And at some interval, the thing tangled thick in his chest escapes him in a punched out groan and the rest comes sluggishly after. Bubbles up through the crack formed by the cut of it. No words, just shapes with knocked blunt edges.
(They should have fucked on hands and knees, his head bowed and Marcus' hand heavy at the back of his neck. He'd want to kiss him less.)
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Another nearly-kiss presses to Flint's mouth, just off-centre, graduating to his jaw, his own hair helpfully tossed to one side, out of the way. Closer still, teeth finding pierced earlobe as he had felt an impulse to do however many days ago it's been, that a subtle warning of blunt-sharp pressure before it relents to warmer suction. Lower down, mouth finding a spot to bite-kiss high on Flint's throat, and there, a growled groan through his teeth.
Eventually, this patient grinding will have to graduate to something more committed, and he will have to make space for it, but Marcus indulges first in this particular tangle, close and sensory. Mostly quiet, still, but his breathing coming out of him in short, quick pants that feel hot and humid against Flint's throat.
His hand finding Flint's bicep on that raised arm, fingers splayed in a fan over it. Oil and sweat both liable to leave a sheen.
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Less so—or maybe, plainly, just as much—are his fingers slipping from behind his knee to come grasping after the nape of Marcus' neck. There is something blunt and demanding about the shape of his hand there. The muscling in of his brow; the twist and duck of his chin so he might insist on having Marcus' mouth.
It's a rough kiss, clumsy and not really aiming to be anything more than a means to set those gusts of short, panting breaths nearer to his mouth than his throat. But if he wanted to, he could catch Marcus' lip in his teeth like this. Or touch the same with the imploring heat of his tongue. Or just feed him the rasp of some impatient sound directly. Or, say, all three in a succession that's as slow as this grinding set in and against him is.
"Marcus." The hand slips to his chin, forming a forceful bracketing of thumb and fingers. "Stop fucking around."
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Not quite configured to push that hand away, with one arm keeping Flint's leg bent and the other braced there on the other side. He twists his face aside instead, a small coil of restless motion that is still on the way, probably, to doing as asked in so many words, still does not completely disguise the way these specific digs both sting and stimulate. Shoulders tensing, pushing.
It's by a matter of degrees, the difference. A slightly less claustrophobic press of bodies, but also more weight settled on the hand braced on Flint's arm, and here, head raised rather, chest lifted. Graceless transition from one state to another, these subtle redistributions of positioning so he can move easier. No injury to watch, no exhaustive day of combat and travel settling like lead in his muscles.
It is sudden, maybe spiteful, the way the next stroke of movement withdraws further, thrusts in deeply. The tight sliding friction of it compels a sound out of Marcus, holding there for a second, and then again. Again, setting this other pace, this one of not fucking around. His other hand finds the mattress, still keeping Flint's leg caught, keeping him stretched open and caught beneath him.
Better? is not what he says, but is maybe communicated in a hazy snag of eye contact.
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Better both is and isn't immediate. It's tight, and less intimate than that close press of bodies and Marcus' breath gone hit and crooked at the underside of his jaw. But the sting and that first real strike of skin on skin yanks at a cinched tight knot in him. In the span of a few thrusts, the bitter pleasure of it becomes obvious from the furrowing set of his brow and the rounding of a shoulder. The press of his free hand which is not discouragement. The panted, 'Fuck, there you go,' as if this were some point on which Marcus had required convincing and now must be praised for.
He's not in the position to press back so much as he is to brace up and take it. But that suits, and he does—bizarrely aware of the creak of the ropes strung beneath the mattress, and the sheen of sweat on Marcus that gleams in the lamplight, and how warm and close the air is beside that and the dull thump of the low bedframe clipping plaster. More aware of all that, somehow, than the crook forced in him to accommodate this. The way he does hitch, faintly, into meeting him. The heavy draw of his breathing advancing to clenched groans and sharp sounds under the heady influence of it.
Yes. Better.
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He probably would not have thought he'd like that, the flat of the other man's hand on his chest, or even notice it. He might have thought they'd be doing this on their hands and knees, his hand on the back of Flint's neck, instead of this, being glad that they can see each other, the kiss-sized bruise on the other man's chest. Wouldn't have anticipated knowing a bright thrill for praise, regardless of its need, being aware that a good sound fucking is enjoyable. The thump of wood on plaster. All the small details of the thing, beyond the blunt edged pleasure of his cock in another man's ass.
But you know, that too. Soon, his own groans mingle in the air with Flint's. Less punched out of him, instead following along the sensation of pushing in and down, knees set firm into the mattress. Force slow traded for some swiftness, the itch of friction too good to disregard.
Something untangled. Flint can be trusted to keep his knees up, if it means Marcus can reach between them, curl a hand around the head of the other man's cock, let the natural motion of what they're doing do some of the work.
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He buckles into that contact, flinching reactively toward it. It's the good kind of excess. If Marcus were closer, he might kiss him for it. Instead—yes, he can be trusted to keep his knees up. And to add to that not quiet air of panting and groaning, sound rattling willingly free between Marcus' driving hip and hand in coarse exhales and the snapped growls of 'Fuck' and 'There' rather than Harder or More, as he's already getting what he might ask for.
And it is obvious when the effect starts to narrow close in, buzzing and hot, about and over him—a slow slide characterized not by the further crumpling but the opposite. The tension in his bicep under Marcus's tight grip giving and the catch of shoulders beginning to flatten. Something vulnerable not in the upward tilt of his chin and the exposure of his throat, but in the lack of pretense. That he lets himself stop looking at Marcus to open under him.
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The fingers clasping Flint's arm will probably leave some bruising, ashy grey, as if that tinge of smoke scent Marcus carries with him had pronounced itself differently.
His other hand is gentler, but not gentle. Assured at the slippery remains of oil smeared over Flint's cock and his own palm, Marcus can make a tight fist, and twist his wrist around to tug at him, muscle-memory doing a lot of work in the wringing him out but it can't be said it feels negligent, the tight ring of fingers, the press of his thumb, or the way he says, "That's it," quieter than his groans, that rasp, more on par with his panting. "That's it, Flint," again, sharp Starkhaven consonants thicker in the moment.
Easily lost in the thump of bed frame or Flint's own pulse thickly pumping in his throat, but maybe not.
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Easy, he wants to tell himself. Instead the hand at the top edge of the mattress has shifted—not far, just a turn of the wrist—to catch more directly at the wall. Brace there, which only serves to diminish the give previously afforded by the sway of the bed and the mattress and their bodies on it. The abrupt catch in the palm of his hand and the joint of his elbow ekes some fraction more from the friction. Wrings a degree less give under the press of bodies jostled together.
It's obvious when Flint clips past needing to be coaxed; some repeated spasm low in his belly clutches at Marcus pressing into him and shudders into his hand, terminating in a twisted catch of not quite sound. The thick pulse in his throat ceding abruptly into the buzzing pulse of release as he spills from Marcus' fist.
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Hand stilling, and then something absurdly affectionate and out of place in the stroke of a thumb up the slicked underside of the appendage its holding. Then, moving, anchoring at Flint's shoulder, a subtle shift of Marcus over him that carefully doesn't dislodge the way they're hinged together.
If Flint gets a second to breathe between this and Marcus continuing to fuck him, it's incidental. He holds him there, as though Flint were going anywhere, and resumes that driving pace with an even more single-minded focus. The hand that had bore Flint's arm down against the mattress shifts to mirror the other, a cupped grip to his shoulder, letting him feel the even weight of him spread across the mantle of his chest.
Harsh breathing, and a small vocalisation on each one out, head bending on neck.
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Pinned there, his chin sways down to rest heavy on his chest. The lamp on the table is low enough that even given their crumpled close forms, he can clearly watch how Marcus works against him. Parse the sheen of sweat and the lick of come on his belly, the heavy hang of the other man's head. All of it overly sharp to the eye, the hot air thick in the middle of them, and the shared ache of noise between them both crisp against the skin and indistinct.
After, were he to think of it, he will have trouble sorting which noises belonged to who. Which is absurd, because only one of them seems likely to throatily rasp out anything like "Fuck, Marcus," or "You're almost there. Just come in me."
Is not quiet; is thick, but perfectly legible in the humid room.
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wow a horny icon that finally feels appropriate
thanks @ whoever directed that episode
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🎀