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.
The warmth of Marcus's grasping hand should be incidental. The rest of him is hot, and clutching, and keeps rewarding him with those minor catching sounds in the hitch of Marcus' breathing. But the twisting line of his body, the muscle that pulls across shoulder and through his upper arm to accommodate the reach draws the eye. Some jump of heat passes through him in the response to it, the shape of Marcus' palm, the look of him spread out under him.
The hand under Marcus' stays put, loathe to wander away from the point of contact and eager still for the security of that hand hold. His other hand, though. It sets to roving—scuffing up the curved line of Marcus' back, stroking absently at ribs (not thinking of the scar left there, but chasing the familiar space by impulse), flirts briefly with securing a grip at the crook of neck and shoulder. It is good.
As they go, the regularity of that pace loosens. Meandering with the same mapping spirit as his wandering hand, Flint finds that grip at Marcus' shoulder. Drives a little harder and faster into him, pulling him back onto his cock between those hands to the appreciative creak of the bedframe. This, for some unmeasured hot sprint, and then slows. Eases up on him. Hand slips, returning to Marcus' hip so that when Flint draws back and fully out of him he has a hand to help himself along if necessary when it comes to shallowly fucking back into him. This, too, a handful of times: pulling out only to sink back in, the thrill of it in how much more inviting the slide is.
It isn't asking what Marcus wants, or even inviting him to beg for it. Just testing based on impulse. Chasing some desire to see how he takes it, and to measure the responsive flex and pull of him.
It's a faint pulse of a thought, that it would be nice to feel Flint's hands on him when it can be differently appreciated, not just in these white-hot moments of twisting arousal. To give it in return. In the slow simmer towards a thing, perhaps, or even removed from it entirely. He thinks it because it's nice, here, the width of a palm against his back, the stroke of fingers, showing it just a little in the subtle arcing after it. And then he doesn't think much about that at all.
When that grip secures, and Flint begins fucking him in that quick-hard manner, Marcus' hand grips tight over the one it is holding, eyes closed and breath coming faster. Without attention to his cock, the prospect of coming from that alone feels remote, abstract, if not strictly impossible, but then the climb towards it slows down, the loosening of that grip and the loss of that friction getting a half-growled sound out of him that is both relief and complaint.
The change of pace comes with a low, hazy glance backwards down the length of him, shuddering after the feeling of that longer stroke, the moment of loss only to be filled again. On the second, third stroke, he pulls a knee slightly forward, giving himself some leverage to push back against Flint. This does all feel easier than it has felt before, and there's some luxuriating in it, a slow but restless fucking back against him for a few long pulls of breath.
That hand on Flint sures up, aligning angle with a brief press of fingertips in the grooves of knuckles before finding a grasp somewhere high where wrist meets hand. A forceful tug with the intent to bring that hand up under him, to the warm, rigid, leaking curve of his cock.
He puts up little in the way of resistance, following the tug at his wrist to snake his hand around Marcus. Lays his fingers about him, and collects the taut shape of him into his palm. That the angle of wrist and hand necessary is less than agreeable to the lay of elbow seems for the moment a negligible point, though is renders the touch more groping than strictly productive. It's a relief to feel him between the fingers. To squeeze and pull in no particular rhythm just for the sake of touching him while Marcus fucks himself back, or while he presses in close, or some combination of the two that's become too mixed up to parse.
The thought of that illegible want, gone blurred and crooked between them, makes him shiver. Prompts the hand left at Marcus' hip to draw him tight in, greedy enough for the sensation of being knit flush that he's willing to forgo more these shallow, grinding strokes in and across each other. Watching, gaze heavy and wandering and trying to observe too many points at once, until his attention settles at the twist of Marcus' shoulder. The curve of his neck and the lay of his cheek. The hot flush of color in him.
With a low, murmuring noise of complaint, Flint reaches for him. Slips the hand from Marcus' waist to grasp after his shoulder again—
"I want to look at you." Shift over, says the squeeze of his fingers at Marcus' cock. Let him touch him better.
It's a relief to be touched, even semi-uselessly. For Flint to feel him like this, to know with the vivid press of his cock to palm the state he is in. The firm grip Marcus has on Flint's wrist gentles as he's fondled, running palm up to his elbow, resting back into that tugging in until they are pressed tightly together, lifting up some on straight arm to help it. That knife-edge place of his body craving resolution, release, and the desire to put it off, to stay caught right here.
He glances back. Abdominal muscles tensing, flexing into that squeeze. Nods, a murmur of sound that doesn't resolve into words.
Which doesn't convey the immediate fiery pulse of want. He wants to look. He wants to be looked at. Shifts as urged, folding a leg down to lay his hip and shoulder onto the bed and then twist around, a slow and careful rearrangement of limbs, hand dipping down to reflexively handle himself, a loose grasp at the base of his erection once on his back.
Staying close, brushing the inside of his leg against Flint's outer, anticipating the other man's own rearrangement in the tangle they want between them.
He's going to do that—rearrange. Work back into him, settle between Marcus' legs and bury himself back in that promising heat. But before he gets to catching up Marcus' knee or hauling him by the crook of hip and thigh up into his lap and onto his throbbing cock, Flint leans down to him.
In that remote tent where what they'd done has been intended for easy dismissal, there had been biting and scratching. The tang on blood on the air from Marcus' side. The desperate grasp of fingers. Here when Flint indolently stretches in over him, trapping their cocks together between them in the effort to find Marcus' mouth and steer him into a kiss with the press of a thumb at the bristly plane of his unshaven jaw, the whole arrangement has the tenor of a well worked muscle being stretched to avoid strain. Sloy. Relieved to be kissing him, and already growing impatient for the kiss that follows after this one.
A hand works between them. With some aching pull, Flint gathers their cocks together so as to rut softly once, twice, against Marcus through the loose circle of his fingers with a low pant of satisfaction. He's meant to be looking and this isn't that. Only give him a moment, and he'll remember his intent to spread Marcus open and watch how he comes undone on him.
Marcus' hands raise on instinct as Flint pushes into his space, both of them coming to lay on either side of Flint's face by the time he is kissed. Warmly receptive to it with a breathed out sound of approval, as if it's been as many weeks as he's been away since the last kiss as opposed to a minutes. Head lifting a little to keenly meet the next, hands then migrating to shoulder, to back of the neck.
Chin tipping up with a groan at the direct contact of hand and cock against him. Chases another kiss with a hungry rasp of sound, if not quite backed up by bite and aggression, more soft and warm, loose and overworked.
"I want you," murmured against auburn bristle. "Fuck, I want you."
It doesn't have the tenor of an impatient spurring, no real implicit get on with it sharp in the middle. More confessional, as if there's more to the thought, like often or all the time or more than I ought, the slight texture of complaint to it. He's not sure there have been many in his life he would even allow to push him to his current state, the desperate ache of it, the open quality of his need.
There haven't been many in his life for all kinds of reasons, of course, but then, Flint should be among the worst of his choices. But it never does feel that way, as soon as the other man puts his hands on him.
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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.
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(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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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The hand under Marcus' stays put, loathe to wander away from the point of contact and eager still for the security of that hand hold. His other hand, though. It sets to roving—scuffing up the curved line of Marcus' back, stroking absently at ribs (not thinking of the scar left there, but chasing the familiar space by impulse), flirts briefly with securing a grip at the crook of neck and shoulder. It is good.
As they go, the regularity of that pace loosens. Meandering with the same mapping spirit as his wandering hand, Flint finds that grip at Marcus' shoulder. Drives a little harder and faster into him, pulling him back onto his cock between those hands to the appreciative creak of the bedframe. This, for some unmeasured hot sprint, and then slows. Eases up on him. Hand slips, returning to Marcus' hip so that when Flint draws back and fully out of him he has a hand to help himself along if necessary when it comes to shallowly fucking back into him. This, too, a handful of times: pulling out only to sink back in, the thrill of it in how much more inviting the slide is.
It isn't asking what Marcus wants, or even inviting him to beg for it. Just testing based on impulse. Chasing some desire to see how he takes it, and to measure the responsive flex and pull of him.
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When that grip secures, and Flint begins fucking him in that quick-hard manner, Marcus' hand grips tight over the one it is holding, eyes closed and breath coming faster. Without attention to his cock, the prospect of coming from that alone feels remote, abstract, if not strictly impossible, but then the climb towards it slows down, the loosening of that grip and the loss of that friction getting a half-growled sound out of him that is both relief and complaint.
The change of pace comes with a low, hazy glance backwards down the length of him, shuddering after the feeling of that longer stroke, the moment of loss only to be filled again. On the second, third stroke, he pulls a knee slightly forward, giving himself some leverage to push back against Flint. This does all feel easier than it has felt before, and there's some luxuriating in it, a slow but restless fucking back against him for a few long pulls of breath.
That hand on Flint sures up, aligning angle with a brief press of fingertips in the grooves of knuckles before finding a grasp somewhere high where wrist meets hand. A forceful tug with the intent to bring that hand up under him, to the warm, rigid, leaking curve of his cock.
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The thought of that illegible want, gone blurred and crooked between them, makes him shiver. Prompts the hand left at Marcus' hip to draw him tight in, greedy enough for the sensation of being knit flush that he's willing to forgo more these shallow, grinding strokes in and across each other. Watching, gaze heavy and wandering and trying to observe too many points at once, until his attention settles at the twist of Marcus' shoulder. The curve of his neck and the lay of his cheek. The hot flush of color in him.
With a low, murmuring noise of complaint, Flint reaches for him. Slips the hand from Marcus' waist to grasp after his shoulder again—
"I want to look at you." Shift over, says the squeeze of his fingers at Marcus' cock. Let him touch him better.
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He glances back. Abdominal muscles tensing, flexing into that squeeze. Nods, a murmur of sound that doesn't resolve into words.
Which doesn't convey the immediate fiery pulse of want. He wants to look. He wants to be looked at. Shifts as urged, folding a leg down to lay his hip and shoulder onto the bed and then twist around, a slow and careful rearrangement of limbs, hand dipping down to reflexively handle himself, a loose grasp at the base of his erection once on his back.
Staying close, brushing the inside of his leg against Flint's outer, anticipating the other man's own rearrangement in the tangle they want between them.
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In that remote tent where what they'd done has been intended for easy dismissal, there had been biting and scratching. The tang on blood on the air from Marcus' side. The desperate grasp of fingers. Here when Flint indolently stretches in over him, trapping their cocks together between them in the effort to find Marcus' mouth and steer him into a kiss with the press of a thumb at the bristly plane of his unshaven jaw, the whole arrangement has the tenor of a well worked muscle being stretched to avoid strain. Sloy. Relieved to be kissing him, and already growing impatient for the kiss that follows after this one.
A hand works between them. With some aching pull, Flint gathers their cocks together so as to rut softly once, twice, against Marcus through the loose circle of his fingers with a low pant of satisfaction. He's meant to be looking and this isn't that. Only give him a moment, and he'll remember his intent to spread Marcus open and watch how he comes undone on him.
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Chin tipping up with a groan at the direct contact of hand and cock against him. Chases another kiss with a hungry rasp of sound, if not quite backed up by bite and aggression, more soft and warm, loose and overworked.
"I want you," murmured against auburn bristle. "Fuck, I want you."
It doesn't have the tenor of an impatient spurring, no real implicit get on with it sharp in the middle. More confessional, as if there's more to the thought, like often or all the time or more than I ought, the slight texture of complaint to it. He's not sure there have been many in his life he would even allow to push him to his current state, the desperate ache of it, the open quality of his need.
There haven't been many in his life for all kinds of reasons, of course, but then, Flint should be among the worst of his choices. But it never does feel that way, as soon as the other man puts his hands on him.
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me, seeing my 800 typos: womp
we'll fix it in post
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