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.
The sound of echoed breaths and moans from beneath him, and then legible words snagging hooks into him, have him lift his head again. Eye contact fleeting, eyes shutting, focus in the pull at his brow at the feeling of arousal narrowing, burning into something else. The rough sounds out of him gain a little more lift, a little more helplessness in the way they're dragged out from his chest.
Flint is right, he's almost there, and it's an exercise in indulging dragging it out until he can't, which doesn't take so very long. Fingers tighten, muscle lashing to bone, the twitch and spasm both visible and not and certainly felt, and the silent hitch in his throat that follows the groan shuddered from him. It's lazy, the last few strokes of motion, finishing, but he looks at Flint then, hands slipping from shoulders to balances against and clutch loosely at the covelet.
Maybe the polite thing to do would be for Marcus to extend his arms, reverse back, free Flint of their tangle and the oppressive presence of him above him.
He doesn't do that. Stays inside him as one elbow bends and the other buckles, having worked harder. Manages not to completely fall on top of Flint, a controlled lowering that is no less heavy once there. Head still lifted, though, and the landing of an imprecise kiss is fainter, first more nuzzle against whiskers than anything else as he catches his breath.
Those last few sounds hook up under his ribs, something in the upward crack of them wrenching at his guts. It doesn't figure high on the list of immediate sensations, just one of a half dozen sharper hotter things as Marcus spills into him. As he crumples. As the weight collapses by degrees and then sloughs fully down. But in the slowly sprawling aftermath, as the rough cant of their breathing saws along similar tracks and the ache that's ground itself into the joints of his hips from the high, close press of knees and thighs makes itself apparent—
He becomes slowly more aware of it, that tight fist of feeling behind his ribs and the useless way it shivers in answer to the clumsy shape of Marcus's mouth the longer the distance between them remains compressed past the point of identification. He turns, reflexive, toward the heavy drag of Marcus' breathing. That's not a kiss either, not really. Just a bump of nose and jaw, breathing fed thick into the place where it promises to mingle most directly with Marcus'.
But sloppier, and less thoughtful still is the shape of his hand having untangled from the coverlet to gracelessly conform to Marcus's side. Scuffing fingers. The aimlessly reassuring set of a thumb. When Flint opens his mouth to impose the slow probe of his tongue, it is more automatic than the slip of his knees and the aching sound he rasps out as the extremity of the angle slips toward easing.
Heart racing slower, from gallop to canter to a more sluggish clip. Content to rest in this in-between space until he feels Flint's mouth press closer and more intent against his own, opens to it, and there is a quiet insensible sound out of Marcus because he is not quite done making them either, although nearly. The last comes when he shifts his hips in accommodation to the settling of Flint's legs, the slickly shared feeling of decoupling.
Kisses Flint again when he resettles, and it is warm and wet in a characteristic way but also gentle and lazy and feels new for that, as does Flint's hand on his side, and this particular level of sodden contentment that he'd shucked off with some efficiency the last time. You're bleeding on me.
Marcus moves, but not far. An adjustment of getting a leg on the other side of Flint's, a distribution of his weight partially onto the mattress hip first, but still half on top. Not enough to dislodge that hand unless Flint lets it be dislodged. For his part, he rests the sole of his foot against an ankle.
"What's in the envelope?" in a voice still rough at the edges.
In an hour, he's going to be stiff and tender in places he hasn't been stiff and tender in for some time. Already that ache in his hips doesn't go away even after Marcus had slid free of him and the reshuffle of bodies has allowed all the joints in his legs to loosen. Though the pressure—Marcus's body weight half splayed across him—helps with the more immediate cringe of stiffness from over flexed sinew, to say nothing of the fact that the throb of sensation is a little like the bruise bitten in under his clavicle. Not unwelcome.
Flint's hand is still on Marcus' side, more lax now that the slant and gravity allows for simply resting there instead of requiring a more active effort. He is content for the moment to just be heavy and wring out, and to have Marcus in the same state on top of him.
The low rumble of an answer doesn't hold any real shape at first. Just an automatic sound that yes, he's heard the question, preceding the actual summoning of an answer—
"Ask me something else."
(Is arguably more diplomatic than None of your business. Chalk it up to post-coital bliss.)
A slight scoff in return for that, felt low at Flint's neck. Jeez. This close, if they wish to do more than simply lay in a state of pretending at sleep, such as talk, Marcus has to duck his chin, sinking a little more on the mattress.
The drape of his arm over Flint's torso coils in, hand finding a place to be, high on his chest. The brush of fingertips against fresh bruising is too light to aggravate it beyond a faint tickle of contact. There is the urge to draw his hand down and trail his fingers through the by now smeared speckles of fluid lower down, not quite backed off from the kinds of instincts that draw him in while ensnared in stupid arousal, greedy want.
Instead, his hand goes upwards. There is a deeper scar at Flint's shoulder that he traces instead, parcelled in with his question, "Where did this one come from?"
When Flint had asked him something similar, it had been to distract him. This is sort of like that.
As if the scuff of fingers there at his shoulder has reminded him of his other limbs, Flint's hand comes unhooked from the head of the bed and the angle of his elbow draws sluggishly down. The reddish mark of applied pressure has already more or less faded, smuggled in among freckles and some natural undertone of the skin.
"A crossbow shot from another Nascere man," he says after a moment.
If Marcus does mean to distract him—from the overlap of bodies, the casual sling of limbs, the fact that he should presently be looking to shake free in order to clean himself up before the loose jointed satisfaction of not doing that and instead loitering here in the heat of the bed and the closeness of bare skin cements itself into a semi-permanent state—, then this is the best mark to question. It requires some consideration, given how it would be impolitic to tell a man whose day he regularly controls that he came by the scar during a mutiny.
(Almost as impolitic, say, as having said man put his cock in him.)
"He'd an interest in taking possession of my ship. I disagreed." Illustrative. "The other half is on the other side," is radically moreso for a throw away remark and a vague twitch of the shoulder in question. The disagreement had apparently occurred at close enough rang that the bolt had been happy to punch all the way through him.
Marcus lifts his head at this opener to get a better look at what kind of mark such a thorough crossbow strike leaves behind. Lowers back down.
His fingers flatten out, the shift from the light brush of the tips of them to the warm settling. It is barely conscious, this playing at conversation, the excuses to touch, where it is just as easily a point of curiousity, a touch that doesn't need an excuse anyway. Of course, having his first question rejected and finding a new one does, to some extent, tell on them both.
This is all still a matter of convenience. No sense in pushing it beyond those boundaries.
"I knew someone who said that marks like that are a sign of good luck," he says. "Given you've still your arm and your life, he might have a point." The last word, punctuated with the idle tap of fingertip to skin.
And maybe insensitive to whatever potential delicacy may be attached to the thing. But Marcus had fought in a war, and has probably seen children he all but raised killed for it. Even lacking that—death is a very ordinary. Under the warm flat of Marcus' palm, it hardly occurs to him not to treat the subject with some degree of flippancy.
"Bad luck for the man with the crossbow, in any case."
A small tilt of the face in Marcus' direction. Were the room darker, this motion might serve to cloak the line of Flint's attention entirely. But the lamplight is warm, and the shadows only wading depth. His study is heavy. More firm than the hand idle across Marcus' side is despite being half lidded.
There's nothing very offended in the rough little exhale of agreement at this first part. Aye, knew. In its way, the point still stands, to the detriment of past purveyors of wisdom and reassurance, and mutineers, although Marcus hasn't asked if this Nascere man had been a friend, first, before he was an enemy.
The question is only just forming when Flint asks his, drawing Marcus' focus up from the hazy nothing he'd been looking at while talking, thinking. It is the sort of question so rarely asked that it feels a little like if he'd pushed his fingers firmer against that bruise, and again, there is nothing very offended in the meandering conclusion of wondering if his question had, inadvertently, felt the same way.
Still. No ripple of defense from him, just a brief study back before he answers.
"I didn't catch their name," which he could always leave it at, if he wanted. "A Templar with a tower shield. I remember them standing over someone, and me, striking them with rock and flame. It was enchanted, the shield, and it repelled it back towards me, I'm told."
And then the wisdom, the reassurance. Out of order, in the telling. Messy, like that day.
Or maybe he is just curious, and has spent the last measure of time in strict study of the man's face. Noting to scar because he is staring at it, and because it takes on a deeper pitch when Marcus is sweating and a flush of exertion has worked up into the face.
(But, maybe: a little tender to the touch, too. That veering point of conversation Marcus had suffered in the hot, cramped tavern before this when Flint had decided to be done discussing something.)
Said knee raises a little, in the midst of the incidental tangle he's arranged them into. Thinks, first, of the wrap of Flint's hand around in, inviting him into bed before he'd put it into words. Marcus draws in a breath, a little like ah, yes, the knee, and a trace flicker of humour gives him away.
"Fell off a horse."
He'd wondered if Flint does anything purposelessly, to the conclusion that the answer is 'no', but it does not profoundly change the way he engages in return. Perhaps that will be a mistake. For now, Marcus glances down the length of them both. Turning his thigh to illustrate the jagged few inches. "If you ever want to make a grown man beg for his life, get something sharp just under there." Reaching, indicating where the scar curves to kneecap.
Hand laying down on Flint's chest again, leg folding back down. "Do you miss it?"
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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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Flint is right, he's almost there, and it's an exercise in indulging dragging it out until he can't, which doesn't take so very long. Fingers tighten, muscle lashing to bone, the twitch and spasm both visible and not and certainly felt, and the silent hitch in his throat that follows the groan shuddered from him. It's lazy, the last few strokes of motion, finishing, but he looks at Flint then, hands slipping from shoulders to balances against and clutch loosely at the covelet.
Maybe the polite thing to do would be for Marcus to extend his arms, reverse back, free Flint of their tangle and the oppressive presence of him above him.
He doesn't do that. Stays inside him as one elbow bends and the other buckles, having worked harder. Manages not to completely fall on top of Flint, a controlled lowering that is no less heavy once there. Head still lifted, though, and the landing of an imprecise kiss is fainter, first more nuzzle against whiskers than anything else as he catches his breath.
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He becomes slowly more aware of it, that tight fist of feeling behind his ribs and the useless way it shivers in answer to the clumsy shape of Marcus's mouth the longer the distance between them remains compressed past the point of identification. He turns, reflexive, toward the heavy drag of Marcus' breathing. That's not a kiss either, not really. Just a bump of nose and jaw, breathing fed thick into the place where it promises to mingle most directly with Marcus'.
But sloppier, and less thoughtful still is the shape of his hand having untangled from the coverlet to gracelessly conform to Marcus's side. Scuffing fingers. The aimlessly reassuring set of a thumb. When Flint opens his mouth to impose the slow probe of his tongue, it is more automatic than the slip of his knees and the aching sound he rasps out as the extremity of the angle slips toward easing.
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Kisses Flint again when he resettles, and it is warm and wet in a characteristic way but also gentle and lazy and feels new for that, as does Flint's hand on his side, and this particular level of sodden contentment that he'd shucked off with some efficiency the last time. You're bleeding on me.
Marcus moves, but not far. An adjustment of getting a leg on the other side of Flint's, a distribution of his weight partially onto the mattress hip first, but still half on top. Not enough to dislodge that hand unless Flint lets it be dislodged. For his part, he rests the sole of his foot against an ankle.
"What's in the envelope?" in a voice still rough at the edges.
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Flint's hand is still on Marcus' side, more lax now that the slant and gravity allows for simply resting there instead of requiring a more active effort. He is content for the moment to just be heavy and wring out, and to have Marcus in the same state on top of him.
The low rumble of an answer doesn't hold any real shape at first. Just an automatic sound that yes, he's heard the question, preceding the actual summoning of an answer—
"Ask me something else."
(Is arguably more diplomatic than None of your business. Chalk it up to post-coital bliss.)
wow a horny icon that finally feels appropriate
The drape of his arm over Flint's torso coils in, hand finding a place to be, high on his chest. The brush of fingertips against fresh bruising is too light to aggravate it beyond a faint tickle of contact. There is the urge to draw his hand down and trail his fingers through the by now smeared speckles of fluid lower down, not quite backed off from the kinds of instincts that draw him in while ensnared in stupid arousal, greedy want.
Instead, his hand goes upwards. There is a deeper scar at Flint's shoulder that he traces instead, parcelled in with his question, "Where did this one come from?"
When Flint had asked him something similar, it had been to distract him. This is sort of like that.
thanks @ whoever directed that episode
"A crossbow shot from another Nascere man," he says after a moment.
If Marcus does mean to distract him—from the overlap of bodies, the casual sling of limbs, the fact that he should presently be looking to shake free in order to clean himself up before the loose jointed satisfaction of not doing that and instead loitering here in the heat of the bed and the closeness of bare skin cements itself into a semi-permanent state—, then this is the best mark to question. It requires some consideration, given how it would be impolitic to tell a man whose day he regularly controls that he came by the scar during a mutiny.
(Almost as impolitic, say, as having said man put his cock in him.)
"He'd an interest in taking possession of my ship. I disagreed." Illustrative. "The other half is on the other side," is radically moreso for a throw away remark and a vague twitch of the shoulder in question. The disagreement had apparently occurred at close enough rang that the bolt had been happy to punch all the way through him.
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His fingers flatten out, the shift from the light brush of the tips of them to the warm settling. It is barely conscious, this playing at conversation, the excuses to touch, where it is just as easily a point of curiousity, a touch that doesn't need an excuse anyway. Of course, having his first question rejected and finding a new one does, to some extent, tell on them both.
This is all still a matter of convenience. No sense in pushing it beyond those boundaries.
"I knew someone who said that marks like that are a sign of good luck," he says. "Given you've still your arm and your life, he might have a point." The last word, punctuated with the idle tap of fingertip to skin.
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And maybe insensitive to whatever potential delicacy may be attached to the thing. But Marcus had fought in a war, and has probably seen children he all but raised killed for it. Even lacking that—death is a very ordinary. Under the warm flat of Marcus' palm, it hardly occurs to him not to treat the subject with some degree of flippancy.
"Bad luck for the man with the crossbow, in any case."
A small tilt of the face in Marcus' direction. Were the room darker, this motion might serve to cloak the line of Flint's attention entirely. But the lamplight is warm, and the shadows only wading depth. His study is heavy. More firm than the hand idle across Marcus' side is despite being half lidded.
"Who split your face?"
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The question is only just forming when Flint asks his, drawing Marcus' focus up from the hazy nothing he'd been looking at while talking, thinking. It is the sort of question so rarely asked that it feels a little like if he'd pushed his fingers firmer against that bruise, and again, there is nothing very offended in the meandering conclusion of wondering if his question had, inadvertently, felt the same way.
Still. No ripple of defense from him, just a brief study back before he answers.
"I didn't catch their name," which he could always leave it at, if he wanted. "A Templar with a tower shield. I remember them standing over someone, and me, striking them with rock and flame. It was enchanted, the shield, and it repelled it back towards me, I'm told."
And then the wisdom, the reassurance. Out of order, in the telling. Messy, like that day.
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(But, maybe: a little tender to the touch, too. That veering point of conversation Marcus had suffered in the hot, cramped tavern before this when Flint had decided to be done discussing something.)
"And the knee?"
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"Fell off a horse."
He'd wondered if Flint does anything purposelessly, to the conclusion that the answer is 'no', but it does not profoundly change the way he engages in return. Perhaps that will be a mistake. For now, Marcus glances down the length of them both. Turning his thigh to illustrate the jagged few inches. "If you ever want to make a grown man beg for his life, get something sharp just under there." Reaching, indicating where the scar curves to kneecap.
Hand laying down on Flint's chest again, leg folding back down. "Do you miss it?"
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