Oliver gives him a rhythm at first, pulling back on the inhale, lashing out as he exhales. Marcus matches his breath with the way he sways, the low grunts and groans. Marcus’s prick hangs heavy, a thin drip trailing to the bed. Oliver keeps the rhythm while Marcus escapes from his head, sinks further into his own space.

Then he begins to vary. Holding back, delaying until Marcus whines low in his throat, then delaying all over again. Two strikes quickly, across the shoulders instead of the arse, drawing the tips of the leather down Marcus’s spine and up again. Tickling as well as lashing, listening for the sound of the low whine, the guttural groans.

Marcus twists, pulls against the ties on his wrists.

Oliver paints stripes across his back, peppers welts across his thighs.

“Fuck….”

Oliver hesitates at the one word, the strands hanging just above Marcus’s back. Marcus bows, head down and back arched, breath rushing fast.

Marcus never speaks when he’s down. Never.

Oliver rests a hand on his shoulder, leans in close. “Marc. Color.”

No response.

Oliver’s fingers trail down Marcus’s spine; Marcus shouts, twisting against his touch as he hits the base of his back, near the thick knot of scarring.

“Fuck, red.”

Oliver drops the cat on the floor, vanishes the blindfold. He scrambles to get the ties undone, drags Marcus to lie on his side as Oliver lies facing him. Oliver frames his face with his hands, lightly touches his eyelids. “Open up.” Oliver keeps his tone low. “Marc, come on, look at me. What’s wrong?”

“Fuck.” Marcus’s breath rasps too fast, shivers setting in. “Fuck. I just… fuck.”

Oliver summons the blankets, wraps them around Marcus tightly. He gathers him close, tugs him so that Oliver can sit against the headboard, Marcus cradled as much as he can on Oliver’s lap. “Shh,” Oliver whispers. “It’s okay. Wherever your head is, you’re not there, Marc. You’re here. With me. Our bed. Our house. It’s 2008. You’re here. With me.”

Marcus’s fingers bite into Oliver’s arm, digging in and clinging to him. Oliver pets his back, rubs circles into the nape of his neck. Waits for the breathing to calm. When a breath shudders out without being gasped back in, Oliver leans down, presses a kiss to Marcus’s forehead. “Hey,” Oliver says softly.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marcus mutters. “Fuck. Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Oliver cuts him off. “If you needed to stop, we stop. That’s what red is for, and you don’t have to tell me why if you don’t want to.”

“You sure?” Marcus’s gruff voice is uncertain, and Oliver knows that even now, ten years after the war, there are still things buried deep in his mind and heart.

“I’m sure.” Oliver tugs a little at the blanket. “Mind sharing the blanket now? I’m getting cold out here.” When Marcus moves, Oliver is able to tug the wrap free and slip under the covers.

Marcus rolls over obligingly to be the little spoon, letting Oliver press close behind him. They’re almost the same height—Marcus is only a couple inches taller—but Oliver feels sometimes as if he’s half the size. Marcus is broad, thickly packed muscle, while Oliver is rangy. Like this, though, it doesn’t matter. He can toss one leg over Marcus’s, press his hand against his stomach while he rests his forehead against Marcus’s back. His fingers slide across Marcus’s skin, still sticky with the residue from his leaking cock.

Marcus whines softly, pushes his hips back against Oliver. It presses the plug into Oliver’s hip, pushing it into Marcus, and Marcus groans.

“Color,” Oliver murmurs into Marcus’s shoulder, as his hand slides lower, and he wraps his fingers around the base of Marcus’s thick cock.

“Green.” Marcus’s voice is rough, his hips shifting to press into Oliver’s touch. “Fuck, feels good. I don’t des—”