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[ Marcus's heart is beating faster than it ever has, a constant, jackrabbit drum against Tate's fingertips as he grazes his hand over his chest. He's a little scared to progress things further than they already have - the fear of being seen, being caught, as anything other than straight and closed-off and hard to reach is scaring him more than anything else - but he can't really help himself, either.

Tate kisses the corner of his lips and Marcus greedily follows it with a more direct kiss of his own. Tate touches the small of his back, and Marcus rolls his spine away from the couch, leaning up to silently ask for more contact. When Tate kisses him for real, again, Marcus holds his hand on the back of Tate's neck to prevent him from moving far away when he breaks it off again. They're still nose to nose when Tate tells him he likes him, Marcus still overheating, his red, glassy eyes sharper and more focused than they were when Tate came home. ]

I like you, too.

[ He swallows, rearranging his grip on Tate's neck to anchor him closer. He closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together, losing himself in the intimacy he's always wanted and never had. This is his first real, reciprocated crush, and he's coming into this as someone who always believed guys and girls can't just be friends - the fact that he was friends with Tate before he spent all week missing him makes him feel like Tate's something special, whether that's true or not. ]

I only like you. There's nobody else I think about the way I think about you.

Good. I want this - us - to be special.

[Tate thinks about a lot of other people in special ways, unique to the situation he's in with them. He likes Harley like a puppy dog, walking around in her shadow in the most pathetically deprived of ways. He follows Derek around pining for his attention, ever jealous of his relationship with Stiles but trying to rely on being family or pack as not to feel shut out. He knows Derek loves him and what he has with him is unique, and special. But Tate's a selfish kid who can talk himself into believing anything if it helps him get others to do the same, so this feels justified. After all, he's never had something with anyone here that feels quite like this. Like... a real relationship, even just a hint of it.

After the hiccup with contracts, Tate's felt more vulnerable than he ever wanted to let on. Getting Marcus to sign with him was relieving, for two reasons: one, he wasn't facing the constant pressure to find someone else - a new person, but the second reason was the bigger one. It showed Derek he was capable of finding someone else on his own, which Tate now feels is a pressure on his shoulders to keep Marcus around. A secondary point to that pressure is the fact he wants to keep Marcus around, desperately. He doesn't want to be perceived as a failure again, doesn't want to lose what he's now got. He's more obsessed than ever about it and flavoring it with a genuine crush is just making it beyond dangerous for him. He's never, ever going to let go now.

He kisses Marcus softly once more, letting their foreheads stay resting together before he leans back. He starts to lay back, pulling Marcus with him, just wanting to stretch out on the couch with someone's weight holding him down. That way he won't blow away in an errant wind and ruin it all. He's persistent, tugging at Marcus and shifting accordingly to get him to lay slotted over him against the lumpy cushions of the sofa.]

I want us to be something.

[ Maria kissed Marcus to shut him up after he called her out for sending him to his death through some manipulative, fucked up effort to sic him on Chico. Saya kissed Marcus to keep him from flinging himself off of a belltower and Barbara Salinger-ing himself all over the pavement, all for the sake of her grade. Both times, Marcus knew he was being desperate, knew he was being needy, to react as he did with hopeful, saccharine fantasies of romance and togetherness and being fixed; but his knees buckled, his heart swelled, and when Tate tells him he wants to be something with him - with him, of all fucking people - Marcus feels the same way. Doesn't matter if he's straight or not. Doesn't matter if Tate's a pill-pushing, blood-soaked psychopath, riddled with all the same issues as he is. He wants him. Marcus could cry. ]

I want that too.

[ His voice is a soft, whining whisper, like his heart hurts too much for his vocal chords to work at full strength. He doesn't need to be pulled into Tate when he moves - he follows him willingly, leaning over him with his hand on the arm of the sofa for balance, his legs tangled up in Tate's and their chests inches away from touching. There's something about this position that secures what Marcus wants. Any brief flirtation he and Tate have had with being physical feels more real, now, sharpened and in higher focus. Marcus leaning over him like this triggers something masculine and heteronormative in him, and with how soft Tate's hair is, his lips are, he doesn't feel like he's straying too far from what he thinks romance is supposed to be.

A lot has happened this week. Things he won't tell Tate about. When he holds Tate's chin between his fingers and looks down at him like he could just take him, he's not thinking about all of that. ]

Do you want to be my first?

[Tate's happy to feel the subtle weight of Marcus settle over him. He's in a mood where that feels safe and secure, where he doesn't have to be the guardian so to speak and is able to be taken care of like the childish romantic he is at heart. He likes both roles, swapping through them, but he likes to know that with Marcus he can be either. And knowing what he knows about their relationship thus far, he has no qualms of falling to one side for Marcus' benefit either. And that's exactly what he's doing now, stretched out on his back and looking up at Marcus with wide, dark and attentive eyes.

'Do you want to be my first?'

The words spark that tightness in his chest to momentarily squeeze tighter still, a delightful sense of joy and excitement budding under the surface. He's tired and worn out and even still, he pivots in toward that with a sudden inhale and a hard swallow of anticipation. He nods his head to start, lifting his hand to thread it back through Marcus' hair affectionately. His other hand rests against his side, one leg sliding up to rub thigh to thigh with him.]

Yeah.

[He speaks ever so softly.]

Here or upstairs? Whichever you want.

[ Marcus doesn't have it in him to be smooth the way a lot of other people in this city are. He can parrot lines he's read in comics, or say the shit he's overheard from movies and shows playing on analog TVs inside houses adjacent to the gutters he used to sleep in, but Marcus just speaks from the heart, either clumsy and honest or inspired by the image he wants to maintain for himself. Right now, he's speaking from a bit of both. ]

Upstairs. I want to do this right, you know? Make you feel special.

[ There's as much affection and romance in that as there is a deeply hidden jealousy; Tate was casual and practiced when he blew Marcus in the park, and that was fine, that was hot, but Marcus still felt bitter and begrudging, frustrated that he couldn't give Tate anything he hadn't already gotten from someone else. If Tate wants him, Marcus wants to play to that. He wants to find what he can do for Tate that nobody else can, and if this can mean something, then - that's gotta be a start.

Marcus peels back from Tate, slowly, at first, like he doesn't want to leave, but once he's on his feet he holds his hand out to Tate to help him up. He takes the lead as best as he can, heading up to the loft first, sitting down on the bed when he gets there, arm out again for Tate's hand. ]

Come here.

Mmm.

[Tate smiles to that, looking a bit more lively in the face now that someone's thinking of him - how he wants things to be, putting care into this budding relationship in a way Tate's always yearned to receive. He wets his lips after Marcus has shifted away, reaching to take his hand and stand back up on two not so solid feet. He's tired still, but he'd rather die than admit it - he wants to enjoy this moment with Marcus and have it be something solidified. He follows him up to the loft, feeling half in a daze, but his grin splits into a wider smile full of teeth.

He falls to rest next to Marcus, fingers tracing up the outer edge of his outstretched forearm before he sinks into the crook of it and leans up against Marcus to re-invade his personal space. He puts his lips to his again, kissing him warm and sound, more fire behind it now that they've set out the groundplan for what they're aiming to do and where they want to do it. He opens the front of Marcus' shirt with blind, fumbling fingers and works it off his shoulders with little tugs without breaking liplock.]

[ There's still novelty for Marcus in kissing Tate; every press of their lips together feels electric, shocks of nerves and energy lighting him up and making him smile in stupid, goofy ways. He's still not used to this - used to anyone, let alone a guy, let alone a guy who likes him back - and there's still a lot of fumbling, teenage awkwardness in how he kisses Tate in return. He trembles, sometimes, like he is now. He takes sharp, quick breaths, still not used to relaxing enough to breathe through each kiss. He's burning up from the inside because of Tate, and when Tate gets his shirt open, Marcus feels dizzy, too focused on touching Tate to care about shrugging his shirt off. ]

Do we need - uh -

[ He pulls back before Tate does, lips as pink as his cheeks, his fingers curled in Tate's collar just to brush his knuckles against his neck. He tugs on Tate's shirt, laughing at himself for even asking this, seeing as he's pretty sure he knows the answer already. Where they are - Tate being dead - there's enough for Marcus to know that this is a fucking stupid question, and it feels like a weird thing to ask as he tugs on Tate's shirt and starts pulling it up over his arms. ]

I mean - protection? Or...

No, I mean - unless you want it.

[Tate's words are muttered between a string of kisses, planted on Marcus' mouth and along his jaw and neck, distracted sucks of skin as he helps him out of his shirt and discards it next to the mattress they're on. His fingers skim over Marcus' warm skin, touching over his chest and ribs before he's taking another breath and a break away from giving him a hickey to elaborate. He doesn't need or worry about condoms - doesn't think he has once here which is probably not the greatest thing but he's never caught anything or cared about being messy. But maybe Marcus does?

He leans back a bit, using his thumbs to pull up his own t-shirt overhead. With it still threaded on his arms he looks at Marcus, and nods toward the side of the bed. A short bedside table (a milk crate repurposed,) holds a battery lantern on it's upturned side while inside the crate itself is a scattering of other objects. Lube is among them.]

I'd like you to come in me, though. If that's - what you want. Lube's there too.

[ No - Marcus doesn't care about being messy, either, and if he'd been getting laid back home, even back before he'd gotten into King's, he would have been as careless as he is now. Would have fucked anyone if it meant fifteen minutes of warmth, inside and out. He just wants to do this right, needy as he is to make himself something special to Tate. He shakes his head, telling Tate that he doesn't want protection when Tate asks if he does, and swivels to an almost comical stop when Tate asks him to come in him. His jaw drops and a shiver runs down his spine, and there's an added urgency in him when he starts pulling Tate's shirt off the rest of the way, pushing him onto his back against the mattress. ]

I bet you talk to all the guys like that.

[ He's trying to capture some of his normal wry, above-it-all attitude with a joke, smiling lopsided in an attempt to look more controlled than all his pre-fuck jitters have made him. It's partly an honest question, partly an attempt to fish for Tate to convince him that he's special, and party just a dumb, ironic contribution, making fun of guys who say things like that while being one himself. He leans down and kisses Tate on the neck before reaching over him for the lube, sitting up on his knees after leaving it beside the mattress so he can unthread his belt. He feels like he should be slower, or - sexier, or something, but he just rushes to get down to his boxers, then tugs on Tate's waistband to urge him to keep stripping, too. ]

It's not the same.

[What he says to other people and how he acts - he can talk slutty to Derek but it's more for fun rather than the blatant actual need the way he wants to let Marcus know it is now. He likes being something for someone else, likes being able to give the people he loves a fantasy they want - to scratch their itches. But this is something he wants. Yes, in part because he wants Marcus to like, adore and need him just as much but in this moment he's able to tell himself that it's also a need he has too. He wants to feel Marcus' first as physically as possible.

He writhes out of his pants, pushing them down and stripping to naked with another nudge of his boxers; it's a bit hard to get them down past his knees but it's a work in progress, interrupted by the way he puts his hands on and off Marcus again. He rests his hand against Marcus' knee when finally kicking his jeans away, leaving a pile of strewn clothes around the loft - and lounging against his worn down mattress fully naked, other hand stroking his own cock while his eyes follow Marcus' hands.]

I've never dated... a guy before. We're - that's what we're doing, right?

[ Marcus watches Tate, hawk-like and desperate, hanging on every syllable, every pause. He briefly feels a little overwhelmed by the responsibility and the commitment that comes from what Tate is asking, some small, minimal shot of gay panic mixing with his general inability to comfortably tie himself down, but if he didn't want this, he wouldn't be here. If he didn't like the look of Tate like this - spread out underneath him, naked and vulnerable and wrapped up in bed like he's a gift to Marcus - then... ]

You haven't officially asked me to be your boyfriend yet.

[ Marcus spreads his hand flat against Tate's chest, pushing him flat on his back and leaning on him while he strips down the rest of his clothes, barely thigh to thigh as he peels his boxers down his ankles. He's just in his shirt, still hanging on him unbuttoned, as he straddles Tate's waist and curls his hand around his cock. He squeezes the base, strokes himself in long, slow pulls, and swallows the nerves in his throat that might have prevented him from saying what he wants to say next. ]

But I wouldn't say no if you did.

[Marcus' hand against his sternum makes him feel hornier still, settling back without a hint of protest and keeping his eyes on every little movement Marcus makes. He watches him handle his cock with a soft inhale, tilting his chin upward a bit as his own hips lift to the subtle pressure of Marcus' weight on top of him. He murmurs a pleasured noise and his cock grows harder, and it's pretty fucking funny to have his head full of awkward romance while his body is screaming for some filthy physicality.

Tate plants both hands on Marcus' hips, sliding down his thighs and stroking his skin gently while the word boyfriend bounces around inside his skull. He feels that same stupid shameful pull inside his chest, a closeted boy's nervousness something he knows is stupid in the wake of two years fucking anyone and everyone without any of that hesitance. But he's always avoided labels and this feels like a label - one he would never have been able to accept if he hadn't felt normalized to it, hadn't met people like Derek who made it seem like nothing at all to be afraid of.]

So I have to say it, huh.

[He smiles a bit, tongue caught between his teeth.]

Be, ah... be my boyfriend then. Or whatever.

[ Marcus's laughter always seems a little mean, even on the few occasions when it isn't intended to be. His smile is sharp and pointed, his voice immature but razor-sharp and perpetually cynical. When Tate smiles up at him, Marcus laughs in response, instinctive and casual, and it could sound kind of mocking, if he wasn't so clearly enamored. If his face wasn't still flushed, hair matted down to his forehead with sweat, his dick rock-hard in his hand. Beneath all the devilish good looks, Marcus is still just an adoring teenage boy who values the company of someone he likes over anything else. ]

Yeah, alright. "Or whatever".

[ He's doing his best to sound casual, but the thrill of what he's saying, what they're committing to, is undeniable. Marcus drags his fingertips down the center of Tate's chest, following a straight line down to his cock, dragging the base of his palm against the tip in one brief, teasing touch. He curls his fingers around the head of Tate's dick and laughs again, in a more nervous, exploratory way, still innocently unused to touching another guy like this, even this far in. He pulls his lips in and searches out eye contact, taking a breath to steady himself. ]

... You get very many chances to get off when you were stuck in the down?

Jerked off to pass the time once or twice. Spent the rest of the time missing home.

[And the implication being that Marcus is included in that, with Tate's words punctured with a sigh as even the slightest touch has him rolling his hips. Eventually he might realize he answers this with subtle manipulation through what he avoids saying, or what he hints at, but it's not as intentionally manipulative as it could be. He just doesn't see a reason to tell Marcus about any drug induced or boredom afflicted hook ups that happened while he was trying to clear his mind and not see shadows creep in from his peripherals.

He reaches to touch his hand against Marcus' wrist, feather soft caresses despite his wish to just pull his palm toward the base of his cock and to forcefully get him to just start jerking him off. He's leaking a small bit of pre from the anticipation, and gestures to the lube bottle - he might as well be proactive here, in whatever ways he can. His fingers crook to ask for it silently.]

Did you... ?

Yeah. The city... made sure we all distracted each other.

[ Marcus is being just as manipulative as Tate, only a little more intentional. He doesn't necessarily think of himself as malicious, for trying to make Tate question what Marcus has been up to without him, but truthfully, he does want to give Tate a reason to be jealous or insecure. That is, after all, how Marcus feels about him; needy and small, an unfillable vacuum of self-doubt. If he can't get to sleep without getting anxious thinking about Tate with other people, he wants Tate to feel the same about him.

He gets the lube, as requested, sitting up with straight posture for the added height, holding the bottle by the cap between two fingers. He leans back when Tate takes it, swallowing slowly as he drops both hands to Tate's thighs, quietly adding pressure in a silent request for him to part his legs a little. He shrugs with one shoulder, acts like he's still being casual. ]

But I just kept wishing I was with you.

[The one thing that keeps Tate from being too upset with this subtle game of back and forth is that Marcus did just say this would be his first - something he hasn't shared with anyone else, something that Tate can covet as his own. He can't control if Marcus chooses to fuck other people later but he thinks they'll fall into an easy way of avoiding the topic if need be, just like they're skirting around things now. Tate meets his gaze for a moment and then nods, approving of what he said as he opens the cap of the lube and spreads his legs.

He doesn't know how to make this particularly provocative so he just focuses on what needs to be done - he takes the lead in getting his fingers slick, and reaching down to coat himself just enough to take the bite away from what they'll do next. It's strange being the more experienced one and receiving. He would've done better to loosen himself up or to lead Marcus into trying it, but he can bear whatever'll come from avoiding it and instead reaches to start sliding lube up the side of Marcus' cock as he jerks him off slowly, swiveling to properly coat him.]

Well now you have me. And I want to feel you in me - stretching me open.

[His voice is thick, coming from the back of his throat before he swallows hard and encourages Marcus to make the next move. He wants him to feel in control, even though a part of his brain tells him this would've been better if he'd been on top - riding him, letting him lay back and just enjoy this like he had the blowjobs. But Tate's got faith in him.]

I want to feel you fuck me nice and hard.

[ Considering how brand new this is to Marcus, Tate could do anything and it would be provocative for him. His eyes widen the second Tate coats his fingertips with lube, and when he sees his fingers disappear between his legs to get himself ready, Marcus's dick twitches, a heavy flow of pre running a river down his shaft. He's red again, looking stunned stupid when Tate tells him what he wants. This all comes easy to Tate, but Marcus feels like he's gonna choke on his own heart. ]

Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I-- fuck, yeah.

[ Marcus's confidence crumbles in the wake of Tate's ease, and he stumbles over whatever slick response he wanted to make. This close to what they're doing, he's back to feeling desperate and too out of his own head to do anything but what he needs to do. He shuffles forward on his knees and holds his breath, the feeling of Tate's fingers around his dick bringing him closer to his climax already. Marcus reaches out and gingerly grabs Tate's wrist to stop him from moving too fast, the lube heightening his already heightened sensitivity to insane degrees. If they're not careful, this'll stop before it even starts.

He clears his throat, taking his hand from Tate's wrist when he's sure he's calmed down enough, and drops his still trembling hand down to Tate's hole, lungs burning. He's not looking at Tate's face, when he tentatively circles the edge of Tate's entrance with careful, curious fingers, focused instead on watching what he's doing. He's uncharacteristically shy, when he adds that first bit of pressure, not enough to push inside but just enough to tease. Marcus looks up, seeking reassurance. ]

Is this going to be... I mean, I don't want to hurt you.

[Tate lets out a little noise when Marcus' fingers skim over his hole, the tight muscle flexing in response - the subtlest of touches feeling just as heightened to him as they do to Marcus. It's strange, he's had his ass pummeled before and yet these feather soft first touches have him breathing shaky and feeling like his knees are weak. It's the romanticization, the... fact that it's a first. Their first. He can put more stock into it like that and it hypes it up in his head, making it feel ridiculously good.

He lolls back his head again, lifting his hips in little rocks, waiting for more touch to come - and stroking his own dick while he waits, slow and steady after taking his hand away from Marcus'. He's got a mix of their pre and lube on his palm and a jumpy, jittery feeling in his chest. Shit, why does he feel like a total fucking virgin right now?]

I'm... I'll be tight, but it's fine. I like it, and you won't hurt me. I'll tell you to stop if I need you to.

[He will not.]

Otherwise I'm good.

[ That's all the reassurance Marcus needs. He nods, knowing that Tate has a far better grasp on this shit than he does - truth be told, he's more worried about doing something stupid or embarrassing and killing the mood than he is about hurting Tate, but guidance is guidance. Marcus takes a soft, steadying breath, then slowly presses forward, stretching Tate open around one finger, sinking into the warm, tight heat of his body. Marcus swallows and shifts his weight to his other knee, slowly fucking Tate with a slender, tentative touch, so much more gentle, appreciative and full of clumsy, human need than anything the city normally throws at Tate. ]

You... fuck, you really are.

[ Marcus laughs again, nervous, yes, but - excited. Tate's fucking tight, and Marcus's cock is achingly hard, knowing he'll be able to feel him soon. As his initial nerves start to even themselves out, Marcus gets more eager, more thrilled. He adds another finger, shuffling forward until his knees are at the back of Tate's thighs, and he leans down, his other hand beside Tate's shoulder. He brings his nose close to Tate's, fingers probing deeper, like a part of Marcus wants to see if he can get Tate off with his hand alone. ]

Hold onto me? I want...

[ He wants to feel close. Connected. Wants to feel Tate's arm around his neck, keeping him tethered. ]

Sh-Shit, yeah - okay.

[Tate's got a bit of a shiver from the way Marcus' fingers are slipping into him, digits slender but long reaching and the crook of his knuckles feels particularly good grazing into him at the angle they are. He knows he's tight because he still feels the friction, aches to feel just how tight he'll be around Marcus' cock - that hot, burning feeling of nearly too much something he's already anticipating enjoying. Maybe there will come a time he explains just why he's so tight - the strange logic of always reverting to a dead form, how he'll never stay loose permanently. But that might cut away at the moment, the illusion of something here and so he doesn't voice any of it.

He's got that thick feeling still sitting at the back of his throat and he rolls his hips, and uses one hand to hold back his leg by the thigh to let Marcus sink closer. His arm slips around him, cupping to the back of his neck and then dragging his fingers across the spread of his shoulders - wishing he'd gotten his shirt off entirely but instead twisting into it for a tight and sound grip. He kisses him again, hot and slow, using his tongue to lavish at his, breathing hot against his lips and jaw.]

I want you in me, Marcus.

[ Marcus is the same as any horny teenager; even if he thinks he should prep Tate more than he has, he sure as fuck can't deny an offer like that. He's not as good at dirty talk as Tate, but he's twice as affected by it, and the rapid, consenting nod is enough to show how eager he is. He withdraws his fingers and lines himself up with Tate, hand around the shaft of his cock while he presses the head against Tate's hole, and there's a second, maybe more, where he tries to ground himself for what he's about to do. There's another fluttering feeling of cold feet at the back of his mind when he realizes he's about to lose his virginity to a guy, but that doesn't stop him from quickly, suddenly snapping his hips forward. ]

Nn.

[ He enters Tate hard and fast, sinking the head of his dick into Tate's hole and feeling the tight grip of his body light up every nerve he has. Marcus tries to exhale but doesn't have the breath for it, eyelids shuddering as he scrunches them up tight, and as he feels fireworks bursting through him, he tries to think of the right thing to say.

But words don't come to him. Instinct has him driving his dick deeper, stretching Tate out inch by inch until Marcus feels so purely, purely fucking good that he has to stop himself from fucking into him any further, just in case he blows his load before he even gets a chance to go balls deep. Marcus is trembling again, full-body shivers and quiet, out of control moans sputtering out of him in awkward, unbidden, almost ugly pulses, and as Marcus sweats and follows up one of Tate's kisses with another of his own, he thinks he should be doing something different. Holding Tate by the waist, maybe, stroking his dick in time with his thrusts, or something. Some alpha pornography shit, instead of this ecstatic, teenage desperation he has in spades.

Rather than try to act good enough, though, Marcus just does what feels natural to him - he craves the intimacy, the connection, that he can only get through real, solid, emotional touch, and even if he's not going to be the best Tate's ever had, even if he's not going to measure up to the standards Marcus has in his own head, this still means the world to him, and he wants it to mean the world to Tate, too. Marcus snakes one of his arms beneath Tate's upper back and grips his opposing shoulder from behind, resting his entire body weight against Tate's chest while his other hand slips up to the back of Tate's head, fingers curling in his hair. He holds Tate close, a full, solid embrace, and slowly, slowly thrusts forward, not stopping until Tate is completely, fully taken. ]

Edited 2021-05-06 04:50 (UTC)

[Tate lets out a low moan when he starts to feel Marcus enter him, his cock pressing in for a long beat before breaching his hole in a way that makes his dick twitch and throb in response. He can feel how tight he is around him, the pressure of insertion making him want to instinctively shrink back and away before the instinct is smothered down and ignored. It's not as easy as it could be if they had more time and more lube, but it doesn't hurt in any way Tate finds unpleasant. Much rather, the friction has him red faced and panting, clutching on to Marcus like he's his lifeline.

His hand slides down his back before he regrips his shirt, twisting and pulling at the back panel as their bodies meld together more soundly. Marcus keeps entering him, slow and steady and unavoidable, and Tate's breathing is stiff and stuttered - his chin pressing in against Marcus' neck, lips grazing over it as they fall flush with one another. His legs ache a bit and he pinches them to either side of Marcus, thigh trembling as he lifts it to hook his legs around his waist to keep them as closely tethered as possible.]

Fffuck.

[He repeats the word a few times, smothered against his skin as he kisses Marcus' throat and tries to get his body to work in rolling tandem. He wants to feel him really start to pound into him, encouraging him with a hand gripping at the back of his head, twisting into the dark strands of his hair and grazing his nails along his scalp. Everything feels dialed up to eleven and Tate moans again, slutty through parted lips, filling the silence of the treehouse with more grunts and sighs alongside wet, lewd noises.]

Harder.

[ Marcus already feels like he's reached some kind of exhausting, physical limit. He's gone days without sleep before, he's ran rooftop to rooftop to get away from the cops, he's dealt with a million primeval torture methods at the hands of King's instructors, but he doesn't think his muscles have screamed out this much in a good few years. Marcus is tense and aching in a way that feels fucking amazing, his body alight and focused with effort, and he doesn't think he'll be able to fuck Tate as hard as he needs it, but christ, he's gonna try.

He raises his hips, pulling out of Tate in a frustratingly slow drag, burying his face into Tate's shoulder and sinking his teeth in hard against his skin. He slams his hips forward, hard enough to make the loft feel as if it's shaking, his fingers gripping the small hairs on the back of Tate's neck while Marcus makes a half-moan, half-sob of pleasure into the bitemark he's leaving in Tate's skin. Marcus's shirt blankets the two of them, keeping them private and hidden behind the soft, white curtain hanging off of Marcus's body, and Marcus just feels - intimate. Close.

He tries to pick up the pace, but it's a struggle, when he's willing himself with all he has not to come. Another slow, slow drag out, like the windup before a firework blows, and then Marcus hammers his body back into Tate's, bottoming out with one hard grunt that makes his teeth sink tighter into his neck. He squeezes Tate close in the tightest bear hug he can give, and only reluctantly separates from him when the heat and the sweat are starting to get too much.

He sets both of his hands down in the mattress beside Tate's head, still angling himself as close as possible, nose to nose without crushing Tate entirely into the bed. He takes a breath, eyes open and staring into the black-brown depths staring back at him, and tries to find a grinding, staggering rhythm, moving at a slow, erratic pace without giving Tate a chance to breathe. He fucks Tate with unsteady, needy thrusts, speeding up faster when he starts getting desperate to come and slowing down when he wills himself off the edge. Marcus is making small, exerted sounds of effort and pleasure, quiet moans and swearwords and grunts interspersed with I's and Tate's, his fingers curled up vice-tight in the sheets. ]

[It's interesting, how they find their rhythm together and it's not like anything Tate's felt before. No practiced ease, no too-clumsy ruining of a moment. They manage it despite coming into this particularly inexperienced with their roles (Tate being a mentor who doesn't know how to be one from this angle, what to encourage or do as the supposedly more experienced of the two,) and it feels astonishingly fantastic. Tate grunts and gasps, feeling each hard thrust like a bullet to the chest that makes him squeeze around Marcus' cock with a flex of muscle and an involuntary flip of his gut. Then he's pulling out again, slow but sweet, and Tate's moans start becoming looser and looser.

When not staring into Marcus' eyes, he's staring the ceiling behind him. He thinks he sees stars shining through the woodwork despite it being impossible, and he shuts his eyes tight enough to keep on seeing those little sparks of color on his eyelids. His heels slip against the mattress and sheets when his legs slip away from Marcus, alternating between using that leverage to push up against his thrusts and also hooking his calves back around the small of his back to keep himself wholly speared on his dick. It's clumsy and Tate doesn't have a lot of strength to push with - tired as he was but also so much more used to someone fucking him being able to manhandle him the way they want.]

You're - You're gonna make me come like this, fuck.

[Marcus is focusing on holding back but Tate isn't, he's letting each warm and pleasurable wave wash over him and careen him closer to the peak. He's shuddering as a red hot flush spirts down his neck from his face, as sweat makes his skin sheen and he groans more and more audibly as Marcus' teeth bite into his flesh. He wants him to sink them in, to tear into the muscle and bone. He starts to plead with him, for that - 'harder, more- more- more' and for him to keep fucking into him. For him to give Tate more of himself, and to keep him on the cusp because as his voice becomes more of a cry, the closer he is already.]

Sh-Shit, yeah. C'm- c'mon.

[He's starting to tremble, shallow breathing coming in little wheezing breaths.]

[ Marcus isn't skilled or experienced enough to give Tate what he wants while holding back the need to come, but again, he's just a stupid, horny teenager getting laid for the first time - how can he say no? He's fucking something impossibly hot and slippery and tight, someone is giving him that, so he can't resist doing exactly as he's told, can't resist getting more. He stops fucking Tate just long enough to brace his knees in the bed and move his hands to Tate's shoulders, holding on tight like he's treating them as if they were a set of handlebars, and when his fingernails bite into the teethmarks he left there, he starts moving his hips again.

Marcus's breaths are shaky and heated as he fucks Tate faster. Harder. He grunts through grit teeth and feels sweat running down his face, getting in his hair, and focuses on the discomfort in his spine and the strain in his bones to stop himself from getting lost in how fucking good this all feels. Every begging, pleading word from Tate only urges Marcus on - he's visibly hit his limit, his breaths loud and undignified as he slams his cock into Tate with all the strength he has, the mattress squeaking and straining almost as much as he is, but Marcus doesn't stop, doesn't let himself hit some dead plateau before he's done. He grunts, bites the inside of his cheek, fucks Tate harder and faster still, hands slipping from Tate's shoulder, balls slapping against Tate's ass, eyes stinging, voice raspy and desperate and completely unchained. ]

F-Fuck-- fuck--

[ He doesn't stop. He gives more, throwing his body forward like he's running a marathon, and when Marcus really, really starts to piston into Tate, pounding against him in fierce, animalistic slams, he throws off one half of his shirt and leaves it hanging from one arm, his now free hand pressing into Tate's chest again, slipping as it searches for purchase it can't find. Marcus cries out as he holds onto Tate, head bowed forward, and just-- fucks, brutal and relentless until he's seeing stars, riding the edge of his orgasm and keeping himself from spilling over with the most extreme steel-will restraint he's ever had. ]

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