Marcus' other arm catches around Flint's torso on the way up, reflexively offering some stability in the ascent while his other hand, less helpfully, keeps a grip on his coat. Kisses him, too, before he is completely steady, a hungry and even appreciative rake of teeth and tongue. Neither shy nor hesitant about where Flint's mouth has been, and greedily soaking up bodily contact through their respective layers.
But lazy, too, no urgent rush into it despite the insistence. Pulling him in and close so they can be heavy against one another. The sconce light stable.
Kiss breaks just as Marcus unwinds his arm just as he can tuck his hand between them. A sliver of eye contact as he seeks out the shape of Flint's cock through his pants, equal parts measuring for himself how much Flint enjoyed those last few minutes, untouched below the shoulders, as well as testing. Thumb pressing, encouraging, mouth an inch away from mouth.
The cinch close of that arm and the unhurried, sharp kiss—his free hand has already risen to settle at Marcus' shoulder before this adjustment occurs. His grip flexes absently there as that hand slides between them, the low drag of breathing thickening in that narrow measure.
He is more than half hard, and reactive to the touch. His thumb presses in lieu of some encouraging angling of the hip. And then, despite the prompting of all these parts, the hand at Marcus' ribs slips. Wandering to his elbow. Catches after his forearm and finds some arresting grip on Marcus' wrist.
The kiss he presses to that too-close mouth is less open, slower still. It comes with the more assertive press of his weight, broadly effective at discouraging the hand between them. Closer was better, suggests the hand that passes from Marcus' shoulder to his lay at his neck, thumb at the warm strip of bare skin above the edge of that dark silk tie. He'll have that instead.
It is somewhere between instinct and play that there is a subtle twist of resistance up from wrist to elbow, hand discouraged aside in the press of bodies. Fingers flex, relax, relenting in the circle of Flint's grip upon being kissed again. Slower, shallower.
The markers of winding down. He makes a small rough sound of protest for this concept, registering his complaint against Flint's mouth, felt under the thumb resting up under his jaw which tilts to accommodate both it and the kiss being shared. The hand he has hooked at Flint's coat coming to rest an arm around him in a comfortable hold around the waist.
Closer, then. It doesn't take too long before the intimate press of them seeks out, again, the feeling of Flint's more than half hard cock, as if it's personally aggravating to know of its existence and to do nothing for it. The edge of a bite on gentle, shallow kiss.
Prompts a low scolding hum and the easy press of his thumb at Marcus' jaw; maybe there's a bite back of sarcasm to the way the stroke of his thumb there is near to the same motion that Marcus had practiced only a few moments ago. Or maybe he just wants to do it, a secretly gentle little placating touch. Or maybe it's both. Regardless his grip on Marcus' wrist softens, but doesn't peel away.
Instead, that gentle, shallow kiss breaks slowly and he draws the fraction back necessary to catch at some sliver of eye contact. A rough burr in the back of his throat from the press of Marcus' cock—
"Leave off." Evidently he's finished with being ordered about, but not yet quite done with giving them himself. "Make it up to me after."
This time, a little sharpness and clarity has returned to Marcus' expression, meeting that close blur of eye contact as if to doubt that Flint will deny him,
followed by Flint denying him, but the latter half of it gets a response, some semi-laugh on the exhale that has no parry to it. Acceptance. He leans back against the wall, wrist turning in that softened grasp around it before judging it a thing he can slip free from. And does, hand raised to push back between them, but this time at his chest, palm turned in.
Nudging the tail of his necktie back into his waistcoat, while the arm he has bracketed around Flint's waist withdraws a little, hand laying somewhere at his side. Easier escape.
"Then you'd best mind your dance card," he says, a thick-accented murmur in the space between them that is still intimate.
In reply—a low snort, some mark of humor splashing across his face, and the flexing further backward out of that tangled up space. Not so far as to fully disengage from the press of bodies, but turning subtly in that direction as Flint's hands move to Marcus' shoulders. He gives the rumpled, slightly mislaid lapels of the jade colored coat a tug to set them more squarely back into place.
"I'll take it under advisement."
A brief glance between them to the lowest undone buttons of Marcus' waistcoat, but these apparently are beyond the bounds of Flint's current generosity. Instead of addressing them, he leans back in. Finds Marcus' mouth, and applies a last kiss there—a warm breath, an easy scrape of teeth—before sliding free of the hand at his side and drawing his own away.
Marcus will have to do his own buttons. Flint has a sword to fetch up off the ground and lash back to his hip.
There is no expectation for buttons being done to feel a loss for their neglect, and might have done a small roughhouse shove if Flint'd attempted it, because he's kissed instead. Receptive, as if anticipating it.
Marcus hadn't read so much into the gentle thumbing at his jaw, some awareness of the way they both might play at affection and tenderness alongside everything else, whether because it feels nice to do or because it's a joke. Certainly humour in the reordering of his coat. The kiss, though, the quick and thoughtless scrape of it across his mouth, neither as tender as they've ever been nor certainly as firm, but,
well, something in it feels like a finger catching a bruise and pressing, somewhere deeper set in his chest. Leaving behind a warm, twinging impression. Flint moves away and Marcus steps out from the space he's been occupying to give the other man better room to collect his sword, hands going down to do up buttons, pants and waistcoat both.
"I'm going to smoke," is his stated intention, some reflexive freeing them of the obligation to linger together down the hallway. And, because he is also declaring his intention to further shirk his duties, he adds, "And then I'll be good."
"All right," he says, yoinking the sword from the floor with a soft rattle of metal in its sheath. It's strap is turned about, the edge of his cost flicked back, and the buckle fed back in under the width of his belt.
"See that you're not long, or someone will start to wonder if there's some actual matter to concern themselves with. Half that room is made up of Cumberland merchants and they're already prone to spooking at shadows."
(Probably, it doesn't help that Riftwatch sent their notorious pirate captain to deal with them. The half of the room that hasn't been chasing his heels all evening has been glaring at him from across the hall. But that's Diplomacy's problem, not his.)
The buckle of the sword clips into place with a snap of soft metal. The coat tail is set to rights. Nevermind that he may need a few minutes to himself before he's really fit to go wandering back down to the hall. If he walks briskly enough back along the corridor and starts working through the semantics of cornering that Orlesians naval officer for a second more interesting conversation, the issues of his trouser fit and the warm, purposefully unsatisfied thing living behind his ribs will resolve themselves.
It's not necessary that Marcus hang back, at least on the level of physiology, but he wants to, and nods along at this directive as he retrieves the case from an internal pocket. Creates heat between pinched fingers, lighting the end, the subtle smell of burning paper and leaf a parting gesture as Flint goes.
Marcus isn't long, slotting back into the crowd and minimally entertaining whatever conversation finds him. No further rescue attempts, and if there are any moments where his attention snares on the familiar set of black coat over familiar shoulders, the bare slope of the back of a neck or the glint of sword guard, it's brief enough to escape Flint's attention. Probably anyone else's.
He drinks too much as the night wears on. There will be no entertaining making good on promises of Later, but he is at least a little certain that Flint is equally finished for the evening. So there's that.
Not so drunk that he can't get himself out of fine clothes without rumpling them to hell, nor to escape the thought, not for the first time while sinking into sleep, how pointlessly stupid it is that he find himself sleeping alone.
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But lazy, too, no urgent rush into it despite the insistence. Pulling him in and close so they can be heavy against one another. The sconce light stable.
Kiss breaks just as Marcus unwinds his arm just as he can tuck his hand between them. A sliver of eye contact as he seeks out the shape of Flint's cock through his pants, equal parts measuring for himself how much Flint enjoyed those last few minutes, untouched below the shoulders, as well as testing. Thumb pressing, encouraging, mouth an inch away from mouth.
no subject
He is more than half hard, and reactive to the touch. His thumb presses in lieu of some encouraging angling of the hip. And then, despite the prompting of all these parts, the hand at Marcus' ribs slips. Wandering to his elbow. Catches after his forearm and finds some arresting grip on Marcus' wrist.
The kiss he presses to that too-close mouth is less open, slower still. It comes with the more assertive press of his weight, broadly effective at discouraging the hand between them. Closer was better, suggests the hand that passes from Marcus' shoulder to his lay at his neck, thumb at the warm strip of bare skin above the edge of that dark silk tie. He'll have that instead.
no subject
The markers of winding down. He makes a small rough sound of protest for this concept, registering his complaint against Flint's mouth, felt under the thumb resting up under his jaw which tilts to accommodate both it and the kiss being shared. The hand he has hooked at Flint's coat coming to rest an arm around him in a comfortable hold around the waist.
Closer, then. It doesn't take too long before the intimate press of them seeks out, again, the feeling of Flint's more than half hard cock, as if it's personally aggravating to know of its existence and to do nothing for it. The edge of a bite on gentle, shallow kiss.
no subject
Instead, that gentle, shallow kiss breaks slowly and he draws the fraction back necessary to catch at some sliver of eye contact. A rough burr in the back of his throat from the press of Marcus' cock—
"Leave off." Evidently he's finished with being ordered about, but not yet quite done with giving them himself. "Make it up to me after."
no subject
followed by Flint denying him, but the latter half of it gets a response, some semi-laugh on the exhale that has no parry to it. Acceptance. He leans back against the wall, wrist turning in that softened grasp around it before judging it a thing he can slip free from. And does, hand raised to push back between them, but this time at his chest, palm turned in.
Nudging the tail of his necktie back into his waistcoat, while the arm he has bracketed around Flint's waist withdraws a little, hand laying somewhere at his side. Easier escape.
"Then you'd best mind your dance card," he says, a thick-accented murmur in the space between them that is still intimate.
no subject
"I'll take it under advisement."
A brief glance between them to the lowest undone buttons of Marcus' waistcoat, but these apparently are beyond the bounds of Flint's current generosity. Instead of addressing them, he leans back in. Finds Marcus' mouth, and applies a last kiss there—a warm breath, an easy scrape of teeth—before sliding free of the hand at his side and drawing his own away.
Marcus will have to do his own buttons. Flint has a sword to fetch up off the ground and lash back to his hip.
no subject
Marcus hadn't read so much into the gentle thumbing at his jaw, some awareness of the way they both might play at affection and tenderness alongside everything else, whether because it feels nice to do or because it's a joke. Certainly humour in the reordering of his coat. The kiss, though, the quick and thoughtless scrape of it across his mouth, neither as tender as they've ever been nor certainly as firm, but,
well, something in it feels like a finger catching a bruise and pressing, somewhere deeper set in his chest. Leaving behind a warm, twinging impression. Flint moves away and Marcus steps out from the space he's been occupying to give the other man better room to collect his sword, hands going down to do up buttons, pants and waistcoat both.
"I'm going to smoke," is his stated intention, some reflexive freeing them of the obligation to linger together down the hallway. And, because he is also declaring his intention to further shirk his duties, he adds, "And then I'll be good."
no subject
"See that you're not long, or someone will start to wonder if there's some actual matter to concern themselves with. Half that room is made up of Cumberland merchants and they're already prone to spooking at shadows."
(Probably, it doesn't help that Riftwatch sent their notorious pirate captain to deal with them. The half of the room that hasn't been chasing his heels all evening has been glaring at him from across the hall. But that's Diplomacy's problem, not his.)
The buckle of the sword clips into place with a snap of soft metal. The coat tail is set to rights. Nevermind that he may need a few minutes to himself before he's really fit to go wandering back down to the hall. If he walks briskly enough back along the corridor and starts working through the semantics of cornering that Orlesians naval officer for a second more interesting conversation, the issues of his trouser fit and the warm, purposefully unsatisfied thing living behind his ribs will resolve themselves.
no subject
Marcus isn't long, slotting back into the crowd and minimally entertaining whatever conversation finds him. No further rescue attempts, and if there are any moments where his attention snares on the familiar set of black coat over familiar shoulders, the bare slope of the back of a neck or the glint of sword guard, it's brief enough to escape Flint's attention. Probably anyone else's.
He drinks too much as the night wears on. There will be no entertaining making good on promises of Later, but he is at least a little certain that Flint is equally finished for the evening. So there's that.
Not so drunk that he can't get himself out of fine clothes without rumpling them to hell, nor to escape the thought, not for the first time while sinking into sleep, how pointlessly stupid it is that he find himself sleeping alone.