A glance, a partial pivot, hands pausing their task as Marcus tracks Flint across the room. The rest of the Gallows has been choked off from them, now, by a span of lightlessness and some closed doors. Nerves raw enough that the sound of wood settling into its frame prickles heat across skin, in the same way that a less-than-glancing look across the bed does too.
Marcus opens his trousers, pushes them down, steps out. The absence of frantic hungry pace means he can go layer by layer, smallclothes still in place as he folds the article lengthwise, drapes it over his shirt.
Now he moves to crest the other edge of the bed, nudging the mattress with a knee as if flirting with getting on it. Probably, in this past while that they've been, to one another, that man they are fucking, there have been enough instances that Flint (unlike most) can attest that Marcus is capable of smiling, sort of, and it is always like this: a replacement for a laugh, and thus brief, crooked, a showing of teeth, mostly gone again by the time he speaks to the thing that encouraged it.
"You'd win too easily," which is probably a reference to the long evening that led him here, but also something in line with these small capitulations he's been making already.
He tugs at a tie, loosens himself of this last layer, nudged aside. It's been a minute since he's been afforded the privacy of simply this much, travel and field work being as it is, where an undressing is done with practicality in mind, no lingering in in-between states. Sleeping with your boots on. The breath out of him is for that much, never mind the subject at hand, and now he kneels onto the mattress edge, a hand skimming down over himself.
"And I want that, besides," to be clear, refocusing in his look across at Flint. Easy to play at somehow doing someone else a favour, or some kind of settling for what he might be too tired to do instead. No, there is a want, there, formless though it'd been until he could find himself at Flint's door, or between his feet.
Crooked, barely there smile. The naked line of Marcus' body and the shadow of his loose hair. The shape of his hand as he palms himself over. These aren't unfamiliar things, but they're usually things observed from a too close vantage or influenced by the sluggish haze of recent orgasm. All glimpsed detail, no broad impressions. None of them painted in this murky light, in the room that's his more than any place in the South is.
Flint pulls free of his second boot, leaving its heel stuck in the U-shaped jaws of the boot jack.
"Then keep touching yourself," comes across as mild instruction. Not a demand, but not irrational given how much work he has to do to catch up with Marcus' present state.
His attention diverts by degrees and in parts, some series of glancing flicks back in Marcus' direction keeping him posted there at the peripheral of Flint's focus even as he makes to unclasp his belt and moves away from the bed rather than toward it. Hooks the belt thoughtlessly on the end of the nearby dressing screen.
Instruction, mild as it is, has a way of encouraging the thing it is asking for. A deep warm twinge of feeling, and Marcus closing his hand firmer in response to twitch and pulse. Settles there in his kneeling on the bed, silent assent.
His own assigned task means there's no need to break up his focus, and so he does not, a scrape of eye contact breaking off to track, instead, hands bending the leather of a belt, the slide of it from its loops. And all they do next.
Touching himself is, first, almost vague in its handling, his spare hand finding a place against his abdomen, fingers tucking towards where his thigh joins it. His other hand sures up, soon enough, fingers seeking out those specifically sensitive points, palm squeezing. He'd been already stirred up by the time Flint had entered the room, a slow thickening out of arousal under gentle hands at his face, undoing buckles, the texture of trouser fabric under his palm, warm from the thigh beneath it.
Left to his own devices, he might have gone over there. Helped Flint out of his things, both for a desire to touch as well as the common instinct to assist in dictating the pace of something. Doing as suggested, instead, giving up control of that too, left with his own hands, the sight of what he wants some feet away. Conversationally speaking—
Marcus can go whole ferry rides with one other colleague without feeling compelled to strike up conversation. It is silent, here, and the only thing on his end to break it is a heavier draw in his breathing.
The lapse into quiet suits more than conversation would have anyway, an intent quality about it that prickles at back of his warm neck as Flint roves to the shaving table with its dry basin and mostly stowed kit. He's in no rush to sort through the miscellany there for the bottle of mild oil made for cleaning and sharpening razors. Instead, with Marcus's attention on him like a warm, close pant of an exhale, he takes a few moments to work the rings from his fingers. Stows them at the bottom of the basin where he will easily encounter them come morning.
Only then does he make some paltry rearrangement of the items in the table, locate the bottle in question, and pivot back toward the bed. A step in that direction is close enough to underhand the stoppered bottle into bed with Marcus.
Touch yourself, he'd said. The significant look he splits between Marcus and the bottle implies the suggestion that the definition of that be somewhat expanded while he peels out of his stockings. Pulls his shirt hem free of his waistband, and over his head, and is mindful about seeing the article neatly folded once he's of it.
There's a small span of time where the only sounds in the room are that of rings being set down, the clinking of items being pushed around by fingers in no rush at all, and the slowly thickening quality of Marcus' breathing.
Maybe less this last thing. Maybe that's just him, aware of himself, the flow of blood beneath his skin, the specificity of his focus hazing out to a more broad spread across Flint's turned back, but still forward motivated. Sharpening when Flint steps nearer, meeting his eyes, casting down towards his hands, barely enough time to draw conclusions about the item he's collected before it lands on the covers.
His hand stills, and the look he tips back has a sharpness to it, not quite able to make it something more amused than heated. A pause that considers this addendum.
Maintains that look over turned shoulder as he reaches to collect the bottle, and then down at his task. Spilling enough to coat his fingers, a penny-sized more filling his palm, some of which is palmed over his cock, but only a little. The re-stoppered bottle is negligently pressed back to the covers as Marcus leans forward, distributing some weight onto hand, arm kept straight. Sinking a little lower with the spread of his legs as he reaches between them.
The panting exhale is, he is more certain, audible to the both of them.
It sounds like a hot, grasping hand feels. Were he less capable of patience when he decides to be, the low rasp of Marcus breathing out might drive him to the bedside. Instead, he pauses a moment to watch him outright, studying the lay of muscle across shoulder and the sinew in the supporting arm. The angle of Marcus' face, and the point of his attention, and the untouched sway of his cock.
Once the folded shirt has been laid aside across the high arch of the dressing screen, Flint's hand wanders to grasp at himself through the heavy waxed linen of his trousers. Half self satisfying, half illustrative for Marcus' benefit. If he pulls the fabric taut under his palm, the shape of his arousal—interested since before Marcus dropped to his knees, thickening further as he'd leaned across his knee—is plainly displayed.
Soon, very soon, he is going to strip out of the rest of his clothes and gravitate to the bed. When he arrives there, he will have had to have sorted what he wants from the jumble of impulses crowding hot and insistent up from behind his ribs as he watches the flex through Marcus' forearm.
Somewhere in there, he lifts his head enough to register the set of Flint's look on him, but only for a moment. Marcus' focus instead sinks down to the spread of Flint's hand on himself, the visible shadow and shape of a hard or hardening cock beneath the fabric. It does appear to be of benefit, gaze lingering there in a clear deriving of pleasure and want, the angle of his hips shifting a little to eke something from the press of his wrist beside his cock.
It isn't really all about what his own hand is doing to himself. It's this, a controlled sinking down from braced hand to elbow to help the angle, the pressure the positioning puts in hips, back, the press of internal organs giving an edge to his breathing. Flint's regard like a hand on him. The absence of pretense, displayed like this. All of these feeding into the thing that aches and grips at him.
But it's also a little about what his own hand is doing, the utility of slicking himself over, and now followed by a small, breathy sound out of him as he breaches himself, necessarily shallow.
He might have expected himself to complain, demand Flint get his kit the rest of the way off and come over here, but in the moment, there's no instinct to do so. Impatience its own stimulus. The belief that Flint will, anyway, just as he needs him to.
He holds himself there for a few moments, observation keen enough to cut while he works himself slowly over. Not really in time with anything, rythmn as of yet something of a foreign concept in this, but sympathetic to the heavy shape of Marcus' breathing and the lines his body have bent toward. He looks good in that arrangement—thrillingly exposed, clearly eager despite this apparent willingness to allow these checks of instruction and distance. Given the luxury of a little more time—
(Why is it always more? How hungry he is to lay down with Marcus and stay there for longer than is remotely rational)
—and no threat of shorting the man sleep, he might revel a little longer in the role of goading voyeur if it meant the opportunity to study more of those shifting adjustments. To listen to the soft slant of Marcus' breathing. As it is, somewhere in there, Flint unbuttons and shirks his trousers. Folds those too despite the want nipping at the back of his neck, and pretends at patience when it comes to unlacing his drawers.
But eventually, divested of his last stitch, there is no further pretense with which to keep himself so far away. Naked, he roves in to the bed. Bumps the mattress with his thighs and shifts a knee up to set himself just there at the edge of the mattress. A foot still planted on the carpet. A soft pop from some joint of the furniture from his halfway applied weight. Not quite clambering in to meet Marcus, but touching his hard cock with an intermittent hand as he makes to rescue that bottle from out of the blankets.
"Come here," he tells him. "Come give me your mouth."
Marcus' spare hand digs fingers into the covers as Flint sets about folding his pants, setting it aside, patiently unlacing his drawers. Has drawn his other hand back, some, palming over between his legs to soothe the ache nested there at the base of his cock, anticipatory sharpness in the way his focus roves over exposed skin, naked thighs and the angle of bone at hip, Flint's hand touching himself. The creak of furniture of additional weight, an odd thrill.
Come here, he had told Flint once prying from him some form of obedience, to verbalise a kind of begging for the privilege of pleasuring him. The echo of these things is not perfect but does create something of a continuity, a trade, some slow cycle of revenge and gratification at the same time. He is not being made to state the things he wants (only freely expressing it in so many words, after Flint had, consciously or no, made it easy to do so), but show it.
Feels that as keenly as the weight of his own erection as he makes to move that bit closer on all fours. Eager to touch, to enact upon, a glance up that is cursory in its intent as he reaches out to brace a hand at Flint's hip.
Marcus' mouth finds a place to be, first, at the soft skin beside the base of Flint's cock, an open mouthed kiss that feels a little like there is pleasure in tasting, in being intimately close to his body in the press of it. Backs up to collect blunt cockhead into his mouth after grazing up the length of it.
There is a pretense of control in all of it. Not exerting it—not controlling—, only in possession of the thing. The bolted division office door. His bristled assessment. The plain question he'd put to Marcus, and the broad square of his hand at the man's jaw. The certain unbuckling of armor. The low tang of whiskey in the mouth. The hand that, now, finds the crown of Marcus' head, and the shift up of Flint's knee so as to almost kneel there across the edge of the bed, the crook of hip and flexed thigh a ready support for any grasping hand. Mostly: the low rumble of approval that answers the wet heat of Marcus' mouth.
The slow half press of hip and the curl of fingers into a loose fist about Marcus' hair is more suggestion than anything. Coaxing. Not demanding anything of him, but offering. If Marcus wants something other than then that immediate indolent fucking, he might easily draw short. Pull back. Dictate the depth and rhythm on his own. Past that initial tangle of fingers in his hair, Flint makes no effort to hold him to it.
Instead, his hand moves grasping and exploratory to feel over the planes of shoulders and back. The bottle is opened and fingers made slick and soft. It is not impossible, if he presses close into the hot shape of Marcus' mouth, to reach down the length of him to run oiled fingers across where they both want his cock to be.
For a moment, Marcus stays where he is, a shallow application of his mouth on Flint, the curl of his tongue and the probing temptation of something deeper in the subtle sink forward playing a little at coaxing something more out of the other man. Tasting the beginning of bitter-salt barely there at the tip. The feeling of fingers loosely tangled in his hair and the light flexing forwards. Removes his mouth entirely, but only for as long as it takes to catch his breath, wet his lips.
Flint's hand finds his back, its peeking scars, and musculature that both seems out of place on a mage but matches the use of heavy polearm-like focus and the kinds of tasks Flint knows him capable of, labour and battle both. More direct, hands on skin, than written report, spoken order. There is a slight shift through the line of his body that communicates pleasure for this contact, the adjustment of a knee against covers.
An answering rumbled sound in the moment before Marcus ushers Flint's cock back into his mouth, and this time deeper. A firmer stroke, at first reveling in the slick absence of friction of cock across tongue, and then following suggestion, a deeper sinking in, nudging towards fitting him more snugly towards the start of his throat, breath held.
Fingers gripping tighter, where palm comes to rest on that angled thigh.
His exhale is a low scudding breath, thick in the throat. A grumbling vocalization that murmurs into a lower fragment of appreciation, Flint's hand shifting to stroke and then softly squeeze encouragingly at the back of Marcus' neck. All that heat, the tight clutch of it, tangles low and heavy in his gut. Feels, briefly, like Marcus has wrapped his hand tightly around some more intimate part of him than the meat of his naked thigh.
It draws the eye, demanding that he at least attempt to divide his attention between the angle of Marcus' brow; how closely fit he is; the valley of the man's spine in the fit planes of his back; the curve of it; rocking oil slicked fingertips across the heat of his entrance.
It's intoxicating, two handed work. Impulsive and measured in combination. When his hand roves from Marcus' shoulder to curl into the narrow space between his cheek the inside of his own thigh, that's thoughtless. When Flint begins to shallowly press fingers into him, that's intent. Somewhere between those two points: a muggy, overheated kind of custody. Good, it says. That's good.
There is a certain too muchness to that dense feeling of Flint's cock crowding the cavern of his mouth, his throat, that corresponds well with the press and push of fingers, which, shallow as it is, is too much for that too. A deep zither of pleasure between both points wrenches a sound out of him, the kind of pitched moan that normally comes later in this kind of encounter, that mix of open-mouthed and muffled. Feeling his palm prickle with sweat where he grips onto Flint, and unconscious to the fist he's made where the other balances on the bed.
It raises hackles, partly, the part of him that gets great pleasure from rolling Flint over, from making him make these sounds. An uncomfortable bristle of feeling that nevertheless coexists with the needy twitch of untouched cock, the prickle of sweat down the insides of his thighs that part needlessly for the hand at his ass.
Stays for as long as its tolerable. Stays until after it is tolerable, and then Marcus pulls back with a rush, a choked out groan, or a groaned out choking, insensible to thick saliva smeared on Flint's hand and cock and his own mouth.
That flex and pull, the catch of sound that jerks around and then off him, bursts hot across the skin. It sends a flushed ripple of appetite rushing through the ears and draining down into the pit of his belly. Nevermind that the wrench back mostly unseats the fingers he's pressing into him; when he jostles after Marcus, it's not to reassert that touch but to wrap his saliva slick fingers under his jaw. Coax his face up so that Flint can bend to kiss him as if he means it like a reward. Or because he wants more of Marcus' mouth, sloppy as it is. Or because there's an impulse to chase where his cock has been with his tongue while his other hand leaves oily fingerprints on whatever skin is most convenient.
When he eventually breaks back from the kiss, it's slow. Occurs in miserly stages which culminates in a low groan of praise across Marcus' mouth—
"If you turn around, I'll fuck you," rasped warm and wet against the corner of his lip.
Flint bends to kiss him, tilting his face, and Marcus answers it greedily, not quite ready for it but yielding anyway. His arm comes up, hooks around the other man's shoulder and neck, holds him in place. Here, he can catch hold of him, chests mapped together, though he has buckled into a half-kneeling sit to answer the other man.
He does not find himself consciously counting seconds in the boarding rooms they rent, just as he'd ignored the urgency of social engagement in that one half-lit hallway, but maybe below the surface, there is a quiet sense of limited time, of behaving accordingly. Here, the prospect of diminishing hours of sleep is even more abstract, and lends itself to more luxury, as if he really could just hold onto Flint and soak up this sort of attention and press it back in return for as long as they wish. Gathering himself, some, from one state to another.
Necessary, then, for Flint to rasp that at his mouth, and it's ungenerous of Marcus to grunt and say, "Promises," voice a little hoarse, but in the spirit of a bite to the lip, something goading in it. As if these words don't pulse through him, cockwards.
Detaches. Moves. Turning as suggested, a hand making a pass over his own cock before settling both palms to the soft surface he is on. Ready to shift back if Flint means to stay mostly standing, or make room if he senses him joining properly on the bed.
Something like a laugh, rasped thick and tangled in the ribs (but, crucially, not substituted with a terse crooked smile), chases that nipping remark and Marcus' twisting shoulder. Flint's hands follow too, flowing from neck to arm, hip to thigh. A greedy tinge to the press of fingers as Marcus reorients himself acting as a precursor to the creak of the bed as Flint drops his knee to the mattress and climbs in after him. Tired, he doesn't actively decide but feels, of even that much pretense of distance.
He crowds in, hands grasping and exploratory at Marcus' hip, his shoulder. Catching the back of his neck and giving it a soft squeeze as if he means to orient himself with the possible handholds on offer to him. Touching Marcus' flank with one hand while unearthing the bottle from the rumpled folds of the coverlet. There is sweat starting at the back of his own neck and between his shoulder blades; they've already made a mess of this, a gleam of oil in a thin track up Marcus's back. The viscous remnant of choke thick saliva spread across the back of his hand. Further beads of oil, now. Soon, the hot spill of orgasm (the thought of which sends a twinge through his cock, keen to be buried).
They are close enough together that the motion of Flint's slicked palm across his cock plays faintly in some scuff of knuckles against Marcus' skin even before he pulls a little more flush. Turns his hand. Presses oil smooth fingers to him, and from this more convenient angle makes to slowly sink knuckle deep.
It's pleasing, the feeling of hands following him, the rough edge of the laugh he'd evoked, the sink of the mattress of a warm body sharing space. Satisfying, yes, because of the distance previously maintained, and now he is being touched and the thing he wants is imminent, but something else that is simple and comfortable in it. Familiar. The hand at his neck which both feels like a testing grasp for their positioning but also
it creaks, that feeling, like something little-used inside of him. Maybe if it wasn't for the heady churn of arousal, the nagging grip of it that shivers anticipatorily at the sense of Flint slicking his cock behind him, part of him would be glad for simple nearness, warmth, welcome. The feeling of reward and praise branded into lips swollen from kissing.
No real separation between these wants. Tangled together, twinging, affection and arousal both. Stupid, and impossible to discourage.
With exception to changes in breathing, Marcus had reflexively clamped down on making noise for touching himself. Here, as Flint touches him, slides his fingers inside of him, it's an easier thing to vocalise around a sigh out, wanting to encourage, indicate that a thing is good and that he wants more of it.
It is encouraging. The sounds Marcus makes pass warm across the skin, prompting some tangled shivering feeling to clench and pull. Anticipation. And something like satisfaction. A low buzz in recognition of this very candid form of wanting.
For how straightforward they have ostensibly been with one another—plainly eager for a fuck in those rented rooms; willing to play at begging, to be goading and demanding—, there should be nothing at all in this that warrants special consideration with all its dirty urgency playing at methodical patience. But like the gleam of something with genuine value draws the eye, this threads in close. Tugs familiar and tight.
Buoyed by the approval, Flint fucks him slowly open on oil slick fingers while his other hand wanders—palming at Marcus' ass, catching at a hip. Gives his own cock a fleeting series of strokes while studying the slant of Marcus' shoulder and the dip of his neck from behind, pulse hot in his throat and breathing thick with it. Drawing fingers free and spreading him with an appreciative murmur, Flint settles on his haunches. Leans low over to spit into the seam of Marcus' buttocks. Fucks that into him with a press of fingers.
There seems to be no other means of breathing that isn't heavy, slow, audible in each drawing out. The position, maybe, but also the things being done to him, the careful meditative quality of it. Tense along spine, shoulders, the spread of his thighs, but only in service to staying so positioned, head bowing low on his neck at one point as his spine arches, body language keyed in to indulgence.
A deep, warm shiver at the feeling of fingers clutching at and spreading him, followed by a small but full twitch at that low, intimate shock of wetness striking him, the passing of breath and then the fullness of fingers once again sliding in. This evokes another groan, shuddered out, hands clenching as he moves just a little with it.
Warm all over, the hot pool of arousal down low in his body coursing out in a sudden flush. He presses back against Flint's hand without thought.
"Flint," Marcus says. It's not impatience that moves him to say, "I want your cock," just that, voice rough edged and quiet, head lifting.
It draws a long, heavy exhale from out of him. Prompts his spare hand to flatten there at the small of Marcus's back, thumb stroking after the line of his spine. Fingers splayed. Steadying him. Or checking himself, fingers twitching briefly deeper into the expectant heat of Marcus' body.
"All right," is a low panting assent, something in it tender and prickling greedily at the proposition as if it were a surprise and not their clearly stated intent. Good, that Marcus wants it. Because he keenly wants to give it to him.
His fingers ease free. Gathering Marcus' thigh and hip in hand, he shifts back close. Lays the hard line of his cock against him, and moves briefly there. But it's a brief urge toward friction—not teasing, just the impulse to rub himself on Marcus. Given a moment or two to reorder his sensibilities, that slow slick slide is replaced by the blunt press of Flint's cockhead. This too has a lingering air of impatience disguised as the opposite: the low scud of thick breathing; the easing, grasping, soothing shape of his hands on Marcus as he finally sinks into him; the achingly measured spread as he finally pushes into him, a slow inevitble burial.
Arousal prickles after those oddly filthy feelings, the slide of fingers leaving him again, that nudge of initial contact. If not for the hand at his back, maybe he might have tried to move back with Flint's movement against, to repeat that statement through the press of his body, patience worn to tatters from all this patient handling, methodical unbuckling, clothes folding. These things he has basked in, that aggravate.
Marcus stays still, instead, attention roving aimlessly over this other half of the room when every other sense he has feels attuned to what is occurring behind him.
It has never struck him as pertinent information to inform Flint of how few times he's done this with another man, and fewer still in a proper bed, and never in a real residence. Once or twice, maybe, in roadside inns, but namely in tents, hasty dark corners, in the dirt. Spit and strain. He wouldn't be surprised if Flint likewise had equally patchwork history. He doesn't think on it now save to recall the feeling of this from however long its been, an absent minded smoothing of a fold in the covers under his palm that might betray a nervous energy if caught.
A smoothing he immediately ruins under the grasp of his fist. Gusts out a long breath as he feels Flint enter him, the necessary slowness that is still torturous for its virtues. Another low animal groan, louder this time, that is nevertheless relieved in a way that must strike familiar.
More torturous: that he pauses, drawn necessarily short by the strangling heat of that sound, the crackling edge of it catching him like a glancing blow. Not hesitating. Reining an impulse in, if the way Flint's hands shift and grasp at Marcus's hip or curve round to press flush to his abdomen, are any indication. Easy, easy (fuck, he feels good).
When the urge to gather Marcus roughly to him passes, he resumes that measured untentative press with a low rumble of approval. Shifts closer, presses tight, that ragged edged noise still loud in his ears in the quiet, half dark room. And eventually, the margin between them folds entirely shut. He does pull on him then, making to hold him tight and groaning out a bristling pant for that last measure of space. Not rocking into him—nowhere else to do—, just cinching Marcus as close as two bodies go.
Eventually, he will slide a hand up to the back of Marcus' neck and coax him down to press his cheek low to the coverlet. Or he will reach forward and grasp him by both shoulders, ready handholds off which to fuck hard and fast into him. But for the moment, hands sure but unequivocally lenient, he is mindful of that taut, too-tight sensation. And maddening though it is, when he moves again it's just as slow. Just as start stop, aching with want for some give to tell him Yes, more, harder.
Another choked sound, this time more closed throated, teeth clenched, as Flint pulls him back the rest of the way. The sound Flint makes, the feeling of their bodies pressing together, the certainty that the other man is as deep in him as he can go, all these things shiver through him almost independent from the overwhelming feeling of the thing at the core of it.
Slowly acclimating, in time for the need for more begins to rise. The somewhat unnatural sensation of not being in possession of control over the thing they are doing, not in a way that could be meaningful, nor does he want to wrest it back. Flint's hands feel good on him, and so too is the feeling of being subject to their certainty.
Even at that slow pull. Without anticipating what Flint wants from this, as if for all he knows Flint would keep this pace forever, Marcus slides his hands out from under him, lowering down onto forearms and elbows with a slight buckle of strength, and shuddering under the feeling for that change in angle. The senseless twitch and tilt of his hips, as if there was anything to rut against.
"Maker," he lands on, breathed out. "More, Flint, fuck me."
It such a compelling invitation. Turns the tight feeling low in his belly over, and clenches hard. A shiver of want that roils up and through and over him. The partly collapsed line of Marcus' body and the sweat glowing hot across the back of his shoulders is so distinctly appealing. The scratch of his voice is a ruthless hook.
In answer, the lay of Flint's hands move to more firmly bracket Marcus in, grip burying tight in the bent crook of hip and thigh. Then, because he is as desperate to answer that appeal as Marcus was to pose it, he makes to claw up from that sluggish, languorous pace. Not hurried, but definitive. The abrupt, blunt catch of hips and the thickly satisfied sound it triggers.
It feels sweet to press down into him. To hold him fixed and fill him up with his cock and to allow the brittler things tangled up in the impulse to flatten into a drone in the ear. A few measured, experimental thrusts and then that carefully allotted sense of patience slides sideways. Is pressed thin by the friction. Fuck him, Marcus asks; he doesn't need to ask a second time.
The pace he sets to answer him is heavy, composed of long strokes and a rough pop of hip that strikes skin to skin. Encourages that hot, recursive sense of driving Marcus just far enough out of balance that bottoming out in him becomes easy and necessary. An outlet for the rough, too-warm scrape of his breathing.
Here, in the closed tight apartments with its heavy door and thick walls made to insulate some Tevinter magister from the misery of the Gallows, Flint grunts a low sharp noise. Catches rough over, "Fuck, Marcus. You're tight," and never really quiets again—breathing out low panting notes of affirmation as he fucks steadily into him.
Marcus' answering groan stands in for something mirrored in return. About Flint's cock size, maybe, or how hard he is, and how good he feels, but it will just have to live in that space, the serrated sounding blank where words might have gone.
Plenty of affirmation to be found in the hissed out fuck that had fallen from his mouth as Flint had chosen a pace, the subtle flex of muscle in response to the firm clutch of hands at his hips. No need to drive backwards or tempt Flint any further beyond keeping his legs open, his mouth open, letting his breaths come heavy and warm, carrying those small, punched out sounds on impact.
There is something relatively spare about it in comparison to previous tangles, with steady hands and cock and the striking of hips against his rear. Different from the clawing and the kisses and the graze of teeth and hot breath. Nothing under his own hands but the covelet. It's in this that Marcus sinks for as long as he can bear it, soaking in the deep fucking he is getting but also the sounds out of Flint, discordant with his own.
Marcus body twists just slightly, enough to check his balance and reach back, a hand that covers one of Flint's in an off-angled clasp, more articulate than he is capable of in the moment. It's good, keep going.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Marcus opens his trousers, pushes them down, steps out. The absence of frantic hungry pace means he can go layer by layer, smallclothes still in place as he folds the article lengthwise, drapes it over his shirt.
Now he moves to crest the other edge of the bed, nudging the mattress with a knee as if flirting with getting on it. Probably, in this past while that they've been, to one another, that man they are fucking, there have been enough instances that Flint (unlike most) can attest that Marcus is capable of smiling, sort of, and it is always like this: a replacement for a laugh, and thus brief, crooked, a showing of teeth, mostly gone again by the time he speaks to the thing that encouraged it.
"You'd win too easily," which is probably a reference to the long evening that led him here, but also something in line with these small capitulations he's been making already.
He tugs at a tie, loosens himself of this last layer, nudged aside. It's been a minute since he's been afforded the privacy of simply this much, travel and field work being as it is, where an undressing is done with practicality in mind, no lingering in in-between states. Sleeping with your boots on. The breath out of him is for that much, never mind the subject at hand, and now he kneels onto the mattress edge, a hand skimming down over himself.
"And I want that, besides," to be clear, refocusing in his look across at Flint. Easy to play at somehow doing someone else a favour, or some kind of settling for what he might be too tired to do instead. No, there is a want, there, formless though it'd been until he could find himself at Flint's door, or between his feet.
no subject
Flint pulls free of his second boot, leaving its heel stuck in the U-shaped jaws of the boot jack.
"Then keep touching yourself," comes across as mild instruction. Not a demand, but not irrational given how much work he has to do to catch up with Marcus' present state.
His attention diverts by degrees and in parts, some series of glancing flicks back in Marcus' direction keeping him posted there at the peripheral of Flint's focus even as he makes to unclasp his belt and moves away from the bed rather than toward it. Hooks the belt thoughtlessly on the end of the nearby dressing screen.
no subject
His own assigned task means there's no need to break up his focus, and so he does not, a scrape of eye contact breaking off to track, instead, hands bending the leather of a belt, the slide of it from its loops. And all they do next.
Touching himself is, first, almost vague in its handling, his spare hand finding a place against his abdomen, fingers tucking towards where his thigh joins it. His other hand sures up, soon enough, fingers seeking out those specifically sensitive points, palm squeezing. He'd been already stirred up by the time Flint had entered the room, a slow thickening out of arousal under gentle hands at his face, undoing buckles, the texture of trouser fabric under his palm, warm from the thigh beneath it.
Left to his own devices, he might have gone over there. Helped Flint out of his things, both for a desire to touch as well as the common instinct to assist in dictating the pace of something. Doing as suggested, instead, giving up control of that too, left with his own hands, the sight of what he wants some feet away. Conversationally speaking—
Marcus can go whole ferry rides with one other colleague without feeling compelled to strike up conversation. It is silent, here, and the only thing on his end to break it is a heavier draw in his breathing.
no subject
Only then does he make some paltry rearrangement of the items in the table, locate the bottle in question, and pivot back toward the bed. A step in that direction is close enough to underhand the stoppered bottle into bed with Marcus.
Touch yourself, he'd said. The significant look he splits between Marcus and the bottle implies the suggestion that the definition of that be somewhat expanded while he peels out of his stockings. Pulls his shirt hem free of his waistband, and over his head, and is mindful about seeing the article neatly folded once he's of it.
no subject
Maybe less this last thing. Maybe that's just him, aware of himself, the flow of blood beneath his skin, the specificity of his focus hazing out to a more broad spread across Flint's turned back, but still forward motivated. Sharpening when Flint steps nearer, meeting his eyes, casting down towards his hands, barely enough time to draw conclusions about the item he's collected before it lands on the covers.
His hand stills, and the look he tips back has a sharpness to it, not quite able to make it something more amused than heated. A pause that considers this addendum.
Maintains that look over turned shoulder as he reaches to collect the bottle, and then down at his task. Spilling enough to coat his fingers, a penny-sized more filling his palm, some of which is palmed over his cock, but only a little. The re-stoppered bottle is negligently pressed back to the covers as Marcus leans forward, distributing some weight onto hand, arm kept straight. Sinking a little lower with the spread of his legs as he reaches between them.
The panting exhale is, he is more certain, audible to the both of them.
no subject
Once the folded shirt has been laid aside across the high arch of the dressing screen, Flint's hand wanders to grasp at himself through the heavy waxed linen of his trousers. Half self satisfying, half illustrative for Marcus' benefit. If he pulls the fabric taut under his palm, the shape of his arousal—interested since before Marcus dropped to his knees, thickening further as he'd leaned across his knee—is plainly displayed.
Soon, very soon, he is going to strip out of the rest of his clothes and gravitate to the bed. When he arrives there, he will have had to have sorted what he wants from the jumble of impulses crowding hot and insistent up from behind his ribs as he watches the flex through Marcus' forearm.
no subject
It isn't really all about what his own hand is doing to himself. It's this, a controlled sinking down from braced hand to elbow to help the angle, the pressure the positioning puts in hips, back, the press of internal organs giving an edge to his breathing. Flint's regard like a hand on him. The absence of pretense, displayed like this. All of these feeding into the thing that aches and grips at him.
But it's also a little about what his own hand is doing, the utility of slicking himself over, and now followed by a small, breathy sound out of him as he breaches himself, necessarily shallow.
He might have expected himself to complain, demand Flint get his kit the rest of the way off and come over here, but in the moment, there's no instinct to do so. Impatience its own stimulus. The belief that Flint will, anyway, just as he needs him to.
no subject
(Why is it always more? How hungry he is to lay down with Marcus and stay there for longer than is remotely rational)
—and no threat of shorting the man sleep, he might revel a little longer in the role of goading voyeur if it meant the opportunity to study more of those shifting adjustments. To listen to the soft slant of Marcus' breathing. As it is, somewhere in there, Flint unbuttons and shirks his trousers. Folds those too despite the want nipping at the back of his neck, and pretends at patience when it comes to unlacing his drawers.
But eventually, divested of his last stitch, there is no further pretense with which to keep himself so far away. Naked, he roves in to the bed. Bumps the mattress with his thighs and shifts a knee up to set himself just there at the edge of the mattress. A foot still planted on the carpet. A soft pop from some joint of the furniture from his halfway applied weight. Not quite clambering in to meet Marcus, but touching his hard cock with an intermittent hand as he makes to rescue that bottle from out of the blankets.
"Come here," he tells him. "Come give me your mouth."
no subject
Come here, he had told Flint once prying from him some form of obedience, to verbalise a kind of begging for the privilege of pleasuring him. The echo of these things is not perfect but does create something of a continuity, a trade, some slow cycle of revenge and gratification at the same time. He is not being made to state the things he wants (only freely expressing it in so many words, after Flint had, consciously or no, made it easy to do so), but show it.
Feels that as keenly as the weight of his own erection as he makes to move that bit closer on all fours. Eager to touch, to enact upon, a glance up that is cursory in its intent as he reaches out to brace a hand at Flint's hip.
Marcus' mouth finds a place to be, first, at the soft skin beside the base of Flint's cock, an open mouthed kiss that feels a little like there is pleasure in tasting, in being intimately close to his body in the press of it. Backs up to collect blunt cockhead into his mouth after grazing up the length of it.
no subject
The slow half press of hip and the curl of fingers into a loose fist about Marcus' hair is more suggestion than anything. Coaxing. Not demanding anything of him, but offering. If Marcus wants something other than then that immediate indolent fucking, he might easily draw short. Pull back. Dictate the depth and rhythm on his own. Past that initial tangle of fingers in his hair, Flint makes no effort to hold him to it.
Instead, his hand moves grasping and exploratory to feel over the planes of shoulders and back. The bottle is opened and fingers made slick and soft. It is not impossible, if he presses close into the hot shape of Marcus' mouth, to reach down the length of him to run oiled fingers across where they both want his cock to be.
no subject
Flint's hand finds his back, its peeking scars, and musculature that both seems out of place on a mage but matches the use of heavy polearm-like focus and the kinds of tasks Flint knows him capable of, labour and battle both. More direct, hands on skin, than written report, spoken order. There is a slight shift through the line of his body that communicates pleasure for this contact, the adjustment of a knee against covers.
An answering rumbled sound in the moment before Marcus ushers Flint's cock back into his mouth, and this time deeper. A firmer stroke, at first reveling in the slick absence of friction of cock across tongue, and then following suggestion, a deeper sinking in, nudging towards fitting him more snugly towards the start of his throat, breath held.
Fingers gripping tighter, where palm comes to rest on that angled thigh.
no subject
It draws the eye, demanding that he at least attempt to divide his attention between the angle of Marcus' brow; how closely fit he is; the valley of the man's spine in the fit planes of his back; the curve of it; rocking oil slicked fingertips across the heat of his entrance.
It's intoxicating, two handed work. Impulsive and measured in combination. When his hand roves from Marcus' shoulder to curl into the narrow space between his cheek the inside of his own thigh, that's thoughtless. When Flint begins to shallowly press fingers into him, that's intent. Somewhere between those two points: a muggy, overheated kind of custody. Good, it says. That's good.
no subject
It raises hackles, partly, the part of him that gets great pleasure from rolling Flint over, from making him make these sounds. An uncomfortable bristle of feeling that nevertheless coexists with the needy twitch of untouched cock, the prickle of sweat down the insides of his thighs that part needlessly for the hand at his ass.
Stays for as long as its tolerable. Stays until after it is tolerable, and then Marcus pulls back with a rush, a choked out groan, or a groaned out choking, insensible to thick saliva smeared on Flint's hand and cock and his own mouth.
Gasps a breath, still holding Flint's thigh.
no subject
When he eventually breaks back from the kiss, it's slow. Occurs in miserly stages which culminates in a low groan of praise across Marcus' mouth—
"If you turn around, I'll fuck you," rasped warm and wet against the corner of his lip.
no subject
He does not find himself consciously counting seconds in the boarding rooms they rent, just as he'd ignored the urgency of social engagement in that one half-lit hallway, but maybe below the surface, there is a quiet sense of limited time, of behaving accordingly. Here, the prospect of diminishing hours of sleep is even more abstract, and lends itself to more luxury, as if he really could just hold onto Flint and soak up this sort of attention and press it back in return for as long as they wish. Gathering himself, some, from one state to another.
Necessary, then, for Flint to rasp that at his mouth, and it's ungenerous of Marcus to grunt and say, "Promises," voice a little hoarse, but in the spirit of a bite to the lip, something goading in it. As if these words don't pulse through him, cockwards.
Detaches. Moves. Turning as suggested, a hand making a pass over his own cock before settling both palms to the soft surface he is on. Ready to shift back if Flint means to stay mostly standing, or make room if he senses him joining properly on the bed.
no subject
He crowds in, hands grasping and exploratory at Marcus' hip, his shoulder. Catching the back of his neck and giving it a soft squeeze as if he means to orient himself with the possible handholds on offer to him. Touching Marcus' flank with one hand while unearthing the bottle from the rumpled folds of the coverlet. There is sweat starting at the back of his own neck and between his shoulder blades; they've already made a mess of this, a gleam of oil in a thin track up Marcus's back. The viscous remnant of choke thick saliva spread across the back of his hand. Further beads of oil, now. Soon, the hot spill of orgasm (the thought of which sends a twinge through his cock, keen to be buried).
They are close enough together that the motion of Flint's slicked palm across his cock plays faintly in some scuff of knuckles against Marcus' skin even before he pulls a little more flush. Turns his hand. Presses oil smooth fingers to him, and from this more convenient angle makes to slowly sink knuckle deep.
no subject
it creaks, that feeling, like something little-used inside of him. Maybe if it wasn't for the heady churn of arousal, the nagging grip of it that shivers anticipatorily at the sense of Flint slicking his cock behind him, part of him would be glad for simple nearness, warmth, welcome. The feeling of reward and praise branded into lips swollen from kissing.
No real separation between these wants. Tangled together, twinging, affection and arousal both. Stupid, and impossible to discourage.
With exception to changes in breathing, Marcus had reflexively clamped down on making noise for touching himself. Here, as Flint touches him, slides his fingers inside of him, it's an easier thing to vocalise around a sigh out, wanting to encourage, indicate that a thing is good and that he wants more of it.
no subject
For how straightforward they have ostensibly been with one another—plainly eager for a fuck in those rented rooms; willing to play at begging, to be goading and demanding—, there should be nothing at all in this that warrants special consideration with all its dirty urgency playing at methodical patience. But like the gleam of something with genuine value draws the eye, this threads in close. Tugs familiar and tight.
Buoyed by the approval, Flint fucks him slowly open on oil slick fingers while his other hand wanders—palming at Marcus' ass, catching at a hip. Gives his own cock a fleeting series of strokes while studying the slant of Marcus' shoulder and the dip of his neck from behind, pulse hot in his throat and breathing thick with it. Drawing fingers free and spreading him with an appreciative murmur, Flint settles on his haunches. Leans low over to spit into the seam of Marcus' buttocks. Fucks that into him with a press of fingers.
no subject
A deep, warm shiver at the feeling of fingers clutching at and spreading him, followed by a small but full twitch at that low, intimate shock of wetness striking him, the passing of breath and then the fullness of fingers once again sliding in. This evokes another groan, shuddered out, hands clenching as he moves just a little with it.
Warm all over, the hot pool of arousal down low in his body coursing out in a sudden flush. He presses back against Flint's hand without thought.
"Flint," Marcus says. It's not impatience that moves him to say, "I want your cock," just that, voice rough edged and quiet, head lifting.
no subject
"All right," is a low panting assent, something in it tender and prickling greedily at the proposition as if it were a surprise and not their clearly stated intent. Good, that Marcus wants it. Because he keenly wants to give it to him.
His fingers ease free. Gathering Marcus' thigh and hip in hand, he shifts back close. Lays the hard line of his cock against him, and moves briefly there. But it's a brief urge toward friction—not teasing, just the impulse to rub himself on Marcus. Given a moment or two to reorder his sensibilities, that slow slick slide is replaced by the blunt press of Flint's cockhead. This too has a lingering air of impatience disguised as the opposite: the low scud of thick breathing; the easing, grasping, soothing shape of his hands on Marcus as he finally sinks into him; the achingly measured spread as he finally pushes into him, a slow inevitble burial.
no subject
Marcus stays still, instead, attention roving aimlessly over this other half of the room when every other sense he has feels attuned to what is occurring behind him.
It has never struck him as pertinent information to inform Flint of how few times he's done this with another man, and fewer still in a proper bed, and never in a real residence. Once or twice, maybe, in roadside inns, but namely in tents, hasty dark corners, in the dirt. Spit and strain. He wouldn't be surprised if Flint likewise had equally patchwork history. He doesn't think on it now save to recall the feeling of this from however long its been, an absent minded smoothing of a fold in the covers under his palm that might betray a nervous energy if caught.
A smoothing he immediately ruins under the grasp of his fist. Gusts out a long breath as he feels Flint enter him, the necessary slowness that is still torturous for its virtues. Another low animal groan, louder this time, that is nevertheless relieved in a way that must strike familiar.
no subject
When the urge to gather Marcus roughly to him passes, he resumes that measured untentative press with a low rumble of approval. Shifts closer, presses tight, that ragged edged noise still loud in his ears in the quiet, half dark room. And eventually, the margin between them folds entirely shut. He does pull on him then, making to hold him tight and groaning out a bristling pant for that last measure of space. Not rocking into him—nowhere else to do—, just cinching Marcus as close as two bodies go.
Eventually, he will slide a hand up to the back of Marcus' neck and coax him down to press his cheek low to the coverlet. Or he will reach forward and grasp him by both shoulders, ready handholds off which to fuck hard and fast into him. But for the moment, hands sure but unequivocally lenient, he is mindful of that taut, too-tight sensation. And maddening though it is, when he moves again it's just as slow. Just as start stop, aching with want for some give to tell him Yes, more, harder.
no subject
Slowly acclimating, in time for the need for more begins to rise. The somewhat unnatural sensation of not being in possession of control over the thing they are doing, not in a way that could be meaningful, nor does he want to wrest it back. Flint's hands feel good on him, and so too is the feeling of being subject to their certainty.
Even at that slow pull. Without anticipating what Flint wants from this, as if for all he knows Flint would keep this pace forever, Marcus slides his hands out from under him, lowering down onto forearms and elbows with a slight buckle of strength, and shuddering under the feeling for that change in angle. The senseless twitch and tilt of his hips, as if there was anything to rut against.
"Maker," he lands on, breathed out. "More, Flint, fuck me."
no subject
In answer, the lay of Flint's hands move to more firmly bracket Marcus in, grip burying tight in the bent crook of hip and thigh. Then, because he is as desperate to answer that appeal as Marcus was to pose it, he makes to claw up from that sluggish, languorous pace. Not hurried, but definitive. The abrupt, blunt catch of hips and the thickly satisfied sound it triggers.
It feels sweet to press down into him. To hold him fixed and fill him up with his cock and to allow the brittler things tangled up in the impulse to flatten into a drone in the ear. A few measured, experimental thrusts and then that carefully allotted sense of patience slides sideways. Is pressed thin by the friction. Fuck him, Marcus asks; he doesn't need to ask a second time.
The pace he sets to answer him is heavy, composed of long strokes and a rough pop of hip that strikes skin to skin. Encourages that hot, recursive sense of driving Marcus just far enough out of balance that bottoming out in him becomes easy and necessary. An outlet for the rough, too-warm scrape of his breathing.
Here, in the closed tight apartments with its heavy door and thick walls made to insulate some Tevinter magister from the misery of the Gallows, Flint grunts a low sharp noise. Catches rough over, "Fuck, Marcus. You're tight," and never really quiets again—breathing out low panting notes of affirmation as he fucks steadily into him.
no subject
Plenty of affirmation to be found in the hissed out fuck that had fallen from his mouth as Flint had chosen a pace, the subtle flex of muscle in response to the firm clutch of hands at his hips. No need to drive backwards or tempt Flint any further beyond keeping his legs open, his mouth open, letting his breaths come heavy and warm, carrying those small, punched out sounds on impact.
There is something relatively spare about it in comparison to previous tangles, with steady hands and cock and the striking of hips against his rear. Different from the clawing and the kisses and the graze of teeth and hot breath. Nothing under his own hands but the covelet. It's in this that Marcus sinks for as long as he can bear it, soaking in the deep fucking he is getting but also the sounds out of Flint, discordant with his own.
Marcus body twists just slightly, enough to check his balance and reach back, a hand that covers one of Flint's in an off-angled clasp, more articulate than he is capable of in the moment. It's good, keep going.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
me, seeing my 800 typos: womp
we'll fix it in post
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)