In the narrowness of that room, Flint's laugh has some low curling quality to it—easy and unselfconscious, the scud of breath warm there as his smile crinkles briefly wider.

(The press of his fingers across John's thigh moderates by a spare half degree in response to the grip on his arm—automatic and undeterred both.)

"That's generous," is rasped in that narrow space opened between them. It carries that same air of humor and a more sonorous blood heavy note as Flint lingers momentarily upright. That roguishness should spark so naturally in his kohl smeared face is nearly parodic given his professional occupation, but surely it's in no way incongruous with this place between John's knees, or the pleasant threat in Not tonight, or the hand at the back of his neck. He wants these things. Of course he should be smug about having made off with them.

Then, this last flash of teeth drawn amiably back, he makes good on the promise of that slanting shoulder and guiding hand. This too is a relief. The satisfied sound Flint makes first at the crown of him and then lower in pursuit of more is like the groaning of a line under tension. How gratifying it is to do what one is meant to.