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[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. ]

[He's being given exactly what he asked for and it's driving him beyond his own limits, grunts turning to louder cries the more Marcus is pounding into him. The room feels like it's spinning in his peripherals and it might as well be for how hard he feels Marcus' cock delve into him and it hurts, it really starts to hurt, but the constant pressure against his prostate makes his legs kick out and tears spark to his eyes. He's scratching up the back of Marcus' back once the shirt is hanging loose off one shoulder, nails grazing and digging in half moons as he's as desperate for a hold of him as Marcus is of him in turn.

The closer and closer he comes to losing it, the harder he presses his head back against the mattress and scrunches up his eyes. Tears sit on his pale lashes but don't trail down his face and he feels the tremble move through him seconds before his orgasm slams into him like a truck. His whole body jerks, quick and sudden, and he clamps tight against Marcus - every muscle in his body flexing and contracting tight. He gets a momentary cramp in his leg from how hard he's tightened up before it relaxes, a hot wash down his limbs sparking out from his gut as cum splatters up against his belly and smears between them in the motions that follow.

Tate can't catch his breath at first, feeling equal parts overwhelmed to crushed and his lip trembles with the next gasp that slips into him. He likes this feeling - of being used for Marcus' pleasure as well as them asserting their feelings so physically. He whimpers again, flexing his legs and letting out another choked noise as he eggs Marcus on to keep going, to get him to blow his load and join him in the afterglow.]

[ Marcus doesn't realize that Tate's blown his load, at first. He's so focused on giving him what he wants, on making Tate feel good, feel satisfied, no matter how much physical strain it puts Marcus through, that when Tate tightens down on him and pushes Marcus over the edge, he drowns out Tate's climax with his own. He cries out, sharp and loud, this intense, voice-cracking scream that he's embarrassed to have made as soon as he's made it, and he slams his body flush to Tate's, connecting the two of them as deeply and as closely as possible. He comes hard, full body convulsions and choked, staggering cries, tears fogging up his vision while he unloads shot after shot after shot of cum into Tate's body. He blows so much that it starts to scare him, the raw, physical feeling of draining his balls dry so intense and so immense that he thinks he might have broken something, but he feels too insanely, impossibly good to care, even if he has. He floods Tate, feeling cum spill out of him and drip down his thighs onto the sheets long before he's finished shooting, his hips spasming with furious, robotic slams, until Marcus finally, finally feels exhausted.

He drops down, shuddering hard, pulling Tate into whatever boneless, needy hug he can get from him, shivering through the aftermath of his orgasm, all his heightened sensitivity making him shudder and moan through his cooldown. He doesn't know where he is for a second, disoriented and dizzy while Tate's little flexes and choked noises barely register in his head, and when enough time has passed that Marcus finally feels like he has some strength or some control over his senses again, he steadily, slowly starts to move.

Marcus pushes himself up, leering down at Tate, and when his eyes rake down his chest, sees the slow, lethargic rise and fall of Tate's breaths, and sees the splattering of cum on his stomach - ]

Did you come?

[ He grins. He grins pretty wide, actually, revitalized, if only a little. He's still in Tate, but he gradually pulls out and rolls onto his back beside him, trying to catch his breath. He's flushed read and looks like he's been running through the desert for days, but when he rolls his head to the side, he's smiling, proud and excited. Tate came. Tate totally came. He needs the confirmation, but - there's an excited, boyish pride in his voice when he speaks up again, innocent and happy and stupidly drunk. ]

Did I just make you come?

[It's infectious, the look on Marcus' face when he stares at him from next to him on the bed. Tate's caught in near-breathlessness still, but shows a half smile in return. He laughs soon after, still too winded to really make more than another wheezing noise before he looks down at his chest and strokes his fingers through the cum on his skin, smearing it like paint. He looks at Marcus again and his face is pink, flushing a bit deeper when he nods his head.]

Yeah.

[He came alright - feeling Marcus keep ramming into him even after he had, it was a phenomenal moment. Not the hardest or most painful sex he's ever had, but it was... unique in a way that's no true replication of anything he had before. It was... the first time he's been fucked by his significant other, and the first time ever being fucked by his boyfriend. His stomach does another little flop and his dick twitches one last drop down the side of itself before he's wincing a bit as he shifts his hips.

Tate reaches for Marcus' hand and guides it back toward himself, slipping it down between his legs to feel the wetness as it leaks out of him. He hopes it's not a step too far - but he wants him to feel just how full he made him, just like he can see how sweaty and well fucked Tate's become from such a short period of rutting together. He presses his cheek to the mattress, staring sidelong at Marcus.]

All of that you just put inside me. That's - it's hot.

[He laughs again, still breathy and light.]

I don't - I usually don't come that fast, okay? You just... you got me good.

[ Hearing Tate confirm that he came leaves Marcus bright-eyed and openly confident in a way that he's never really been, at least in recent memory. He laughs, smug like he's achieved something, and wriggles around on his back to get comfortable in bed, gazing up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. He could use a smoke, but for once, it's not because he needs one - it'd just be a nice way to cap off the evening before he inevitably passes out. ]

I didn't think I'd make you come at all, let alone... fast. I wasn't sure I'd compare to any of the other guys you'd been with.

[ It's an insecurity thing - Marcus is a good looking dude with a decent-sized dick and a willingness to please, but he's new to this and still, despite everything, thinks of himself as straight. He shrugs, still smiling, though it's starting to get more faded as his cooldown hits and his exhaustion takes over whatever heat he's got left over. He needs a shower, but he's aching too much to move, and even when he drags his hand down his face and yawns against his palm, he feels like he's moving way too much.

He tilts his head and looks at Tate, sleepy but happy, and when Tate takes his hand and guides it down, Marcus goes with it, completely okay with whatever might happen next. When Tate lets him feel his load, fucking shows him what he's done to him, Marcus sharpens up a little more, waking up again. He swallows, listening close, and nods, slowly, dick stirring in some half-hearted attempt to come to life again. If Tate's not careful, Marcus is gonna want to fuck him again. ]

I've never shot a load that hard. Felt like my fucking soul was leaving my body.

[ He holds eye contact with Tate as his finger circles the mess he made in him, and then slowly, gently presses back inside. He watches Tate's reaction as his finger sinks deep, down to one knuckle, then the next, moving onto his side so he can more easily fuck Tate with his fingers while they talk. His fingers are long enough to make it easy to reach Tate's prostate, moving in deep and seeking it out, toying with him despite the exhaustion, just to make him squirm. ]

... Well - I can think of a time that came close, but - that was in a dream, so it doesn't count. A dream about you, actually.

[ Tate's lips on his cock, the TV static changing and fading out between shows as time crawls on at an unknowable pace. Yeah - that dream came close. ]

You never told me y-you dreamt about me.

[Tate's teeth click together involuntarily in the middle of that sentence, all on account of Marcus' finger probing around inside him. His knees twitch toward one another and he wants to squeeze around his finger but fights the urge, his hole twitching nonetheless as cum continues to run out of him - especially with Marcus' finger moving into him. He bites his lip and squirm he does, hand slipping to hold Marcus' wrist like he's not sure if he wants to encourage him or pull him back. He feels hyper-sensitive, and shudders before rolling onto his side.

He keeps his leg shifted in a way to keep allowing Marcus to finger him and the cum to slide down the crook of his ass, but he pivots himself to face Marcus in a way where he can pull his face closer for another lazy kiss. He's not thinking about the time in the motel room, nor does he really want to delve into the reality of that 'dream' should it start to come back to the forefront of his mind. He could make a half dozen reassurances to Marcus that he fucked him just as good as anyone else has, but instead he just hungrily kisses him and seeks to slink against him for support, arm draped over him.]

You were really, really good. I wanted that... for a long time.

[Tate's aware how obvious his feelings were, how blatant his attraction was. So this is vindicating.]

Wanted you.

[ Marcus smiles, soft and still borderline proud, when Tate stammers over what he's trying to say. He fingers him deeper, curls a knuckle when he fucks into him so he can hold his finger directly against his prostate while they talk, applying gentle but forceful pressure, unrelenting. Whatever he wanted to say about the dream slips his mind when Tate kisses him, Marcus closing his eyes completely as a show of easy, relaxed trust, tasting Tate with his tongue while he sinks into the mattress. He keeps the kiss going, languid and relaxed, until he needs to breathe again, then just mumbles whatever dumb shit he can think of to keep the conversation going. ]

Maybe I just didn't want to scare you off before I figured some shit out.

[ That's not how Marcus thought he felt, but now that it's out there, slipped out of him unprompted, he wonders if maybe it is. He's implying that he's figured out whatever it is that's been confusing him, but - he's knuckle-deep in another guy's ass, cum running down his fingers, and he's still, in the back of his mind, thinking about the girls he knew back home and the identity he made for himself as someone who needed them. He doesn't know who he is. Selfish and a little delusional, maybe, but he always knew that.

Marcus sighs against Tate and slowly, slowly slides his fingers out of him, drying them on the sheets. He presses his hand to Tate's hip and gently pushes him back, guiding him to roll over onto his other side. ]

Here - move.

[ When Tate's facing away from him, Marcus moves in close, hooking an arm around his waist and pulling him in as close as possible. He's half-hard, his dick resting against Tate's ass, his chest to Tate's back as he threads their legs together. He rearranges the pillows beneath both of their heads to get them more comfortable and then pulls Tate even closer, spooning him from behind and settling in like he could sleep here. He doesn't ask if this is okay, or if he can stay the night in Tate's bed, or anything - but he does hope Tate's okay with being the little spoon. ]

[Tate has a moment where he's feeling pulled between two places - the heady desire to sleep and then the simmering under the surface is the lazy sense of lust that's kept stoked by Marcus' finger. He could fuck himself on his knuckle, milk some more cum from his cock and further enjoy the afterglow but things shift and he's instructed to roll over. It takes a moment, but he does, grunting softly as he feels an all too familiar dull pain inside him as he settles on his side and feels Marcus wrap his arm around him.

That gesture alone is - the spooning - is something Tate has a gut reaction to. He curls his arm over Marcus' and presses his back soundly against him, stretching not unlike a cat bathing in the sun. He's perfectly at rest, feeling someone's protective weight behind him. He pulls the sheet over their lower halves and nuzzles his face into a shared pillow, breathing in deep. He stares off to the side of the room, fingers tracing over Marcus' knuckles as his heartbeat slows and everything feels... good.]

Stay just like this.

[He wants that assurance, that comfort.]

[ Marcus can do that. He nods, pulling Tate closer and synchronizing their breaths, the slow rise and fall of Marcus's chest balanced perfectly against Tate's spine. He kisses the back of Tate's shoulder, soft and instinctive, feeling a mild flare up of regret once he's done - like that's too much, or too gay, or too forced, all romantic and sweet in a way Marcus doesn't believe himself to be. He doesn't think about that for long. Couldn't if he wanted to. ]

M'kinda tired.

[ He presses his nose against Tate and plans on saying something else, but the buzz of the wind outside and the soft warmth of a genuine, living person to curl up against, lulls him into a relaxed slumber he's never felt before. There's no paranoid, frantic wake ups in the middle of the night, checking his shoes to make sure they haven't been stolen - there's no nauseating, alarming cold, chilling his bones and bringing him closer to death. He just feels warm. Safe. He doesn't need to force himself to sleep - it just happens. ]

[Similarly for Tate who had his own dose of homelessness in the rioting Down not too long ago, he isn't jerking awake at the slightest sound nor is he plagued with nightmares and ghoulish dreams that send him snapping back to reality with a full body flinch. He's able to rest, feeling secure in someone's arms and in a place he knows and trusts. There's not a thing that can touch them in this moment and Tate's usually cool skin warms, color stays in his features as he closes his eyes and falls into a deep, dark pit of sleep. He falls so soundly that he doesn't wake after his usual three to four hours. He sleeps longer, as long as he can, delving deep into the afternoon of the next day before he's ready to get up.

When he does stir, it's sluggish to start. His eyelids are heavy and his lashes bat together a few times before the world comes into focus around him. Instinctively he feels for Marcus' arm around him, waking further when it's not still there and he slowly starts to turn over. He's relieved to brush up against Marcus a bit while doing so - skin on skin is warm. All the aches of yesterday are gone - Tate feels fine, rejuvenated even, and when he's flipped over to face Marcus he's not sure what to say. Marcus is still there but he can't tell how long he's been awake.]

Hey.

[Tate pulls his pillow down a bit further under his head, nuzzling into it but despite the sluggish demeanor, his eyes are much more alert. He's quite awake now internally, head focusing in on Marcus - wondering if he has regrets, maybe. Or somewhere else he'd rather be right now. Yet he stayed, right? He could've snuck off at any point last night if he really wanted to.]

What time is it? I didn't - mean to sleep that long.

[ Marcus has been awake for a while, now. Sleeping this close to nature reminds him of home in ways that sleeping in a warm, comfortable bed with someone who likes him simply doesn't, so when he stirred awake in the early hours of the morning, he was too disoriented to do anything but lay there. He stayed up for an hour or two, alternating between looking at Tate, spiraling down a cynical staircase of anxious thoughts and self-doubt, and looking at porn on his phone, then got up long enough to hit the bathroom and change out of his crumpled dress-shirt into one of Tate's tees, still naked from the waist down when he snuck back under the covers.

When Tate wakes up, Marcus isn't sure how to start the conversation. That hey gets met with a soft, slightly unsure smile - he doesn't have his arm draped over Tate's chest anymore, but he's still laying close enough to him to practically share a pillow, and it's hard to know if that kind of intimate proximity is still welcome in the light of day. He sits up, though, running his hand back through his hair, still pretty fatigued. He needs a shower. ]

Two. Maybe a little later.

[ He shrugs, dropping his hand down to hook around the back of his neck, self-conscious. His voice is still rusty and low, as if he's only been awake a few minutes, instead of the hours he has been. ]

You were really out. Blondie was barking for, like, twenty minutes. You didn't even stir.

Guess I needed it.

[That's what people say, right? What Derek might've said to him in that warm, affectionate way after witnessing Tate sleep just as long in the crook of his arm. Sleeping 'til two isn't something he usually does but he can't deny feeling well rested, rubbing his knuckle against the inner corner of his eye as he starts to sit up. The sheet pools around his hips but Tate doesn't seem to mind being exposed - he looks down at himself and thinks about how he needs a shower too. And maybe something to eat.

Swiping his hair back, Tate brings one of his legs under him in a half-cross and looks at Marcus for a long moment. It's not a scrutinous look, just something effortless and gentle. Like he can really study him now in the light of day, after everything they did yesterday, crashing together. He hopes it'll hold through, what they agreed on, but he's not sure how to breach that. But he does drop his gaze to the shirt Marcus is wearing, blinking his expression more into focus with a touch of a smile on his lips.]

You've got good taste in bands.

[Ha ha ha.]

You hungry?

[ It takes Marcus a second to realize that Tate's talking about his shirt, but he looks down, sees Nirvana looking back at him upside-down, and just shrugs with one shoulder, smiling unapologetically. He'd rather be a thief than sit around all day in cum-stained clothes. Tate asks if he's hungry and Marcus just flops back onto the mattress, squirming around until he's comfortable like it's his own bed. ]

I'm always hungry. I can wait, though.

[ He looks up at Tate, too relaxed to feel awkward. If Tate had woken up an hour earlier, Marcus would have been pretty deep in his anxiety, but Marcus always swings unpredictably between moods - right now, rather than being angry at nothing or self-absorbed or pessimistic or a million other things he can be, he's just happy to see Tate. Might be because Tate's still naked, if what he says next is anything to judge by. ]

More horny than hungry.

[ He's trying not to make that sound like an invitation, but - come on, it clearly is. ]

Oh, yeah?

[It wasn't Tate's first thought upon waking up but he's nothing if not someone who bends to the will of those he likes and adores, so if Marcus wants to get off, then Tate wants to be the one who helps him get there. It makes him feel like he's got a purpose when he's able to do that for people - for Marcus - so he lifts his brows ever so slightly, eyes widening with interest. 'More horny than hungry' is an easy problem to solve, and he's already shifting closer.

Cold pizza or something scrounged together over a camping stove can wait, easily enough. Tate's pushing away the sheet and freeing his legs from it, turning more toward Marcus to show just how compliant he is to the idea. He doesn't want to seem desperate or - slutty, or whatever Marcus might think of him but... he just wants to be something for him. He reaches out, hand on Marcus' thigh.]

What d'you wanna do?

[ Marcus has never been in this kind of relationship before, where getting access to physical and emotional intimacy is as easy as asking for it. He wasn't completely expecting Tate to play along, thinking, if anything, he would just laugh, tell him to give him a few minutes to wake up, and then circle back to this in an hour or two, if at all. When Tate actually touches him, Marcus looks kind of surprised, in that easily startled, doe-eyed inexperienced way of his. He didn't really have anything in mind, but now that he has a chance - ]

Blow me?

[ That just kind of spills out of him, Marcus chuckling a little when he asks for it, propping himself up on his elbows. He's hopeful, looking at Tate like he's fully expecting him to say no. ]

Only if you make breakfast.

[Seems like it could be a fair trade - he's not giving in too easy, even though he is, and he's putting some responsibility on Marcus in turn. Truth be told, Tate'd blow him either way - even if he refused - which again underlines how pathetic he is in wanting to cement something with someone but hey. We're not talking fatal flaws here, just a good ol' fashioned blowie. Tate's done countless of those, several much more transactional than this and... well. Marcus' always seemed to like them.

Tate shifts over, nudging Marcus to part his legs to allow him the sliver of space to slide in to. It's kind of weird to see him in only a shirt and nothing else - but he doesn't even lift the hem of it out of the way, and goes to start pumping Marcus from the base of his cock in easy, languid strokes. He's waiting for the agreeance before he parts his lips, but also - despite working to get Marcus hard:]

I kinda wanna shower first too. Deal?

[ Oh, wow, no, Marcus isn't making breakfast. He screws up his face, totally disregarding the idea despite the fact that he offered, last night, to make Tate dinner if the pizza wasn't good enough. But he might change his mind soon enough - once Tate has his hands on him, Marcus is immediately affected, mood changing like the stupid, overly impressionable animal he is. He smiles, horny and relaxed, spreads his legs a little, closing his eyes to just enjoy the feeling of Tate getting him off, and he's dazed and barely paying attention when Tate says he wants to shower first. It takes a second for him to process the words, but he frowns, snapping his eyes open when eh does. ]

You're gonna get me hard and then tell me I have to wait?

[ Said like Tate's putting him through unspeakable hardship. Marcus sighs, rolls his ear against his shoulder like he has to really work through the decision to let Tate shower, but ultimately, reluctantly agrees that it's a good idea. ]

Let me shower with you. Then - you know. Ruin it, by cumming on your face.

You come on my face, I'll come on yours.

[He tips his head as if to agree, and then pushes away from the mattress with his knuckles down against it. He's let go of Marcus after getting him hard - or nearly so, at least - but once he's up and on his feet he's the one holding out his hand. Tate'll wait to haul Marcus to his feet before he reaches to strip his shirt off of him, dropping it down to the bed to stay relatively clean before he's nodding to the stairs and heading down. Marcus may have wandered around earlier to use the restroom but the shower itself is a hanging contraption outside that is now at least quite a bit better than it used to be.

Cobain mewls from one of the crossbeams overhead, watching two stark naked boys with a swish of her tail - and hops down to the kitchen below when Tate walks by her food dish. He throws a scattering of loose kibble in it before turning to a shelf near the bathroom, pulling two towels off it before waiting to direct Marcus outside to the back deck. The wood is warm from the sun and he nods to the shower.]

It starts off pretty cold but if you ask nice, I'll keep you warm like you want.

[ Ugh, again, no. Marcus has that same scrunched up, dismissive face when Tate says he'll come on him - he's not horny or lonely enough to even consider it. Still, he rolls up onto his feet and willingly raises his arms when Tate pulls off his t-shirt, but he keeps it close so he can wear it again when their shower is over. If asked, he'll deny any sentimentality he might feel, or whatever - he'll just say he doesn't have anything else to wear on hand.

Considering Marcus used to take baths in public fountains, or else waited for it to rain before he could shower, he's not all that bothered by where Tate leads him. He crowds under the showerhead and shivers when he feels the wind on his ass, and he makes the rookie mistake of standing directly beneath the water when Tate turns it on. He hisses and steps out of the spray, immediately shivering, holding his arms over his chest. ]

Jesus fucking Christ.

[ That's not just cold, that's cold. Marcus shifts his weight to his other foot and considers stepping back inside until the water heats up, but he doesn't want to look like a pussy, so - he just waits for Tate to go under first, fully intending on making good on that offer to keep him warm. ]

[Tate doesn't say anything to Marcus' scrunched up face, but he's still thinking about it when out on the deck. Just in an absent way, where it plagues his thoughts as he hangs the towels over the railing a few steps from the showerhead and snorts at Marcus' reaction to the temperature. Tate's always been one to loves teaming hot, near scalding showers, so he knows this isn't ideal but when he steps under the water it's without a flinch. It's cold, like ice, but so is death and he's felt that more times than most could ever dream of. Water drips down his skin and he slicks back his hair, feeling the water already start to warm with the help of the heating system that Derek rigged up.

He adjust the dials, adding more warmed water to the mix - it won't get as hot as he'd like it to, but it's much more bearable within a minute. He looks back to Marcus and beckons him in with a wave of his hand, a bar of soap and a few bottles on a hanging shelf also propped against a tree trunk. Very nature-like, with the smell of the woods and the water seeming more like rain once you close your eyes.]

Warm water won't last too long so. Be quick.

[ Marcus is dragging his feet now, acting like he's above this, or - more appropriately phrased - like it's beneath him. He steps under the water, still shivering, more because he's been bundled up in sheets all day rather than because the weather's cold, and he shuts his eyes as he lets rivers run down his face. He takes up more space than he means to, but he steps aside for Tate when he lathers up, scrubbing his skin with soap and rinsing his hair with shampoo. He's slightly self-conscious - without the heat of explicit, sexually charged energy between them, it feels like Tate have more reason to criticize the scars covering every inch of Marcus's body, or at least be curious enough about them to ask probing questions - but that doesn't make him rush through this any more than he already is. He washes the soap off of his hands, looking at Tate through one eye. ]

I still want a place of my own, you know. An apartment, or something. Don't cheap out on the water heater there like you did here.

[ Marcus finishes cleaning up before long, but standing under the water feels... nice, and there's still a part of him that hopes Tate might get on his knees for him before they're done out here, but he's not in a rush to ask him to. Instead, he tilts his chin up, beckoning Tate closer. ]

Turn around. I'll do your back.

[Tate's watching Marcus as he showers a bit, his eyes indeed following a few raised lines on his skin but not in any intrusive way. Much rather he looks at the scars like they're just another interesting part of him, nothing Tate hasn't really seen before. He's butchered and been butchered, blood and guts and little faded scars are nothing but signs of an interesting story to Tate. He looks up when he talks, hand raised to skim over the curve of Marcus' arm before he nods his head and turns around.

Facing away from Marcus, Tate feels the water run down his back and the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes, arms hanging at his sides as he leans into the idea of letting Marcus take care of him for just a second. Just like the face Marcus made, Tate hasn't forgotten about the promise of a blowjob either - he'll have to get to that too, but first:]

Do you like any of your scars? Or hate any in particular?

[He asks absently, blinking away some water off his lashes.]

I don't hate mine even though I think I should.

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