And without an immediate break of his fingers from Flint's face. When he does lift them, they come away with traces of charcoal. Levering himself back a step, creating space between them with a minor motion of his hand stalling any upward movement from him.
"Catch," he instructs, lobbing the pouch back to Flint before gathering the papers.
It's a short walk back. John reclaims his seat alongside Flint. Stretches out his knee, pins the papers to his thigh as he sets his crutch to the side.
"By all accounts, it's good quality. Possibly better than the contents of that bottle."
The tossed pouch is caught thoughtlessly in both hands, but the sting produced by the battered palms under the bandages can't amount to much; his grimace has faded long before John rejoins him.
"Thank fuck one of us knows how to make himself some friends." How else would they stay in liquor and smoke?
Shifting on the edge of the mattress, Flint sets the pair of books farther aside and twists in toward him—a leg hauled up between them, ankle hooked idly over knee. The line of his shin with its heavy gaiter presses passively along the length of John's thigh. With the pouch balanced in the crook of the bent knee and a section of papers pilfered off John, Flint sets to rolling. It's a companionable sort of arrangement, unhurried and softened considerably by the lateness of the hour. Rounded shoulders, bent neck, the rasp of rough fingertips on delicate paper.
It's a pleasant arrangement, both of their respective positions and in activity. Watching the work of Flint's hands, John casts his thoughts back to the collected items left for him.
"Aside from the vodka?"
A tough act to follow.
"Gwenaëlle's anticipating the possibility of us finding trouble in Orlais, and given us something to spend to get ourselves out of it," John relates, fingers coming to rest at the bend of Flint's knee, above the gaiter. "And Petrana's given me a pair of goblets that might serve us better in your quarters."
A pair of goblets to go with the bottle she'd given him, more likely than not. Flint sniffs appreciatively—funny—, and licks the newly rolled joint to seal it. It's set neatly near the lay of John's fingers and a second rolling paper is unstuck from the stack.
"The usual bottle collection." Add in the Rivaini spiced wine, and some evening they might take a tour of Thedas all without leaving the comfort of the division office. "A letter opener. New shirts and cufflinks, and proof that Byerly hasn't yet talked himself out of this idea of settling Tevinter slaves in Ferelden. I'm beginning to suspect Bastien must be something of a secret agitator."
There's an easy cadence to this—sorting the leaf from the pouch and onto the paper, continuing to roll while he talks.
Not that he's disappointed to be the recipient of pilfered utensils, but there is some humor in observing Riftwatch's gift-giving habits.
"You might be right, about Bastien," follows after, as John's thumb begins idly passing back and forth along the wrinkled seam of Flint's trousers. Lightly enough, so as not to disturb the yield of his work. "I'd be interested to find out for certain, if I can manage it this year."
"Maps of both regions. Good ones, made recently. A little too broad to be useful for what we're likely to find ourselves doing there, but the sentiment is obvious."
If Bastien were some kind of reformist, maybe Yseult can be cracked after all. The two of them are something like friends, aren't they? —Is a passing thought, at once both too unformed and too obvious to be worth saying aloud.
A humming consideration for that unspoken connective tissue. If there is a way in, perhaps it is through Bastien. It is a clearer path forward than attempting to divine Darras Rivain’s leanings.
“I’ve a mind to try a few things this year to sway Fereldan perceptions of the northward world. It’s enough of a reason to impose on Bastien.”
And perhaps tease out some clarity.
Byerly at least has been drawn into clearer focus. And it is a relief that in some way he’s been brought around to rely upon.
John can be of so little use in that room where Flint is so often outnumbered. It still rankles, years later.
"To say nothing of our favorite spinster in Denerim," is idle, off the cuff and less relevant than, "He's sentimental. You might lean on that too," is.
Speaking of sentiment—
"Have you heard from her?"
It's not a question rooted in this matter of Antiva having broken off it's associations with Tevinter trade and subsequent concern for the continued commitment of various anti-Tevene movements in the country now that they have ostensibly won what they were angling for, or for the part Madi might play to act as a counterweight to their satisfaction. Flint does, on occasion, receive his own mail.
A skipped beat, in which the play of John's thumb at the bend of Flint's knee does not falter, nor does his expression necessarily shift. But it is akin to pressing down upon a bruise and finding it still aches. It requires a moment to regulate, in which John observes the work of Flint's hands and the play of shadow in concert with the charcoal on his face, before John's head tips towards the trunk in the corner of the room which still sits open, on his way to—
"Yes, some weeks ago."
A broad measure of time. (In the trunk there is a slim packet of letters tied together in twine. Not the sum of a correspondence, but an indicator of sentiment in what has been kept, what couldn't be fed into the fire.)
"I imagine the disruptions in trade will require some adjustment in our usual choice of courier."
His low hum carries some note of assent. That's not surprising, it says. These days, it seems travel on the Minanter and the Waking Sea is treacherous in every direction.
"I heard a rumor,"—look at him, being industrious—"That an agent of a particular large cat native to Antiva has been sniffing around Kirkwall as of late. If you're amenable, I might suggest that we arrange to hunt it down and see whether it knows a reliable raven."
Flint seals another joint and aligns it with its predecessor.
A rumor tugs a smile onto John's face, amusement rising first to meet the opening phrase.
What follows tempers that smile, softens his expression for the offer set out for him. It would be safe, wouldn't it, to assume that some effort was expended in the gathering of this information?
"I am," is such a foregone conclusion. Of course he is. "I imagine the hunt might even be a welcome occupation for our evenings in the new year."
Not that John anticipates it to be the kind of search that requires an extended period of time. Kirkwall is a large city, yes, but they've inhabited it for such a long time.
"Thank you," is quieter, John's eyes intent on Flint's face. The cycling run of his thumb at Flint's knee has stilled, but his hand remains in place.
It's the quieting of that thumb and the tenor of real gratitude that draws his attention up from the next square of paper and the pouch. Flint meets that eye; tips his head faintly in substitute of a shrug. He has two good ears for listening. There's little reason that only John should be expected to keep one to the ground.
He doesn't say you're welcome. Instead, after a moment's fixed study, Flint tilts his face by a farther degree. He taps his cheek encouragingly. He'll cash this favor in for a kiss directly, thank you.
What a thing it is, to find himself in such a place. What a thing it is to be wanted, cared for, to be recipient of these minor demonstrations of affection.
John's hand remains still, the lay of his hand turning bracing as he leans forward over their legs. Lifts a palm to the bristle of Flint's cheek so he might kiss him, first at his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth. Lingering over the act because they can. The hour is late, yes, but dawn is far off and neither of them have anywhere more pressing to be than here.
There are nights where John might make him ask, aloud and properly. But not tonight. John kisses him a third time, directly, fully, his thumb moving over Flint's cheek as he does.
It prompts an answering smile, wolfish and smug, that manifests a wrinkle in his cheek and turns Flint's mouth slanting under that series of kisses. Don't reward bad behavior like this, John. It only encourages him.
"Careful," is a faux grumble in the narrow space that forms when that last kiss softens. Somewhere between them, the back of Flint's hand has set against John's middle. Presumably, he still has a square of the rolling paper between his fingers.
A low scoff of a laugh stands in for a more tangible reply.
"Have done with it," comes as a close murmur. John has not ceded any space in answer to the nudge of knuckles at his chest; his weight still remains braced over Flint's knee so he might hold his place. "Three is enough."
Two would be enough, but if the work is already part-way to completion—
On the subject of honoring hooliganism, Flint noses into that barely there space. Kisses the corner of John's mouth where his whiskers are thinnest. What's he to do? Argue? That seems unlikely.
"Let me finish this one."
Otherwise John's bedclothes will have filaments of allegedly quality elfroot stuck in them forever, for which there are far better uses.
In the moment, satisfied with Flint's acquiescence if not the delay, John heeds the pressure of the hand at his middle. Straightens back into his own space, enough to that he might swing his booted foot up from the floor to attend its laces.
John has loosened the rest of his attire in minor ways. Laces hanging open at his throat. Belt set aside. Coat returned to it's peg beside the door. But he'd been prepared to leave this room, and so hadn't truly bothered to make himself comfortable.
"There's a tin in the drawer beside you," he advises. Flint's handiwork remains undisturbed on his thigh, but presumably the two completed joints and their emerging fellow will have to be relocated along with rolling papers and pouch.
"In the drawer," is an echo of confirmation as he reorients the rolling paper and makes to finish his work.
For all that this isn't his vice, he's patient enough with the delicacy of the work that it doesn't take him long to finish what he'd started and go rustling around for this aforementioned tin while John pulls various laces open.
"That wasn't your gift." Valuable as this bit of repeated heresay may prove to be. "Unless you don't care for the actual thing, in which case—"
Click, says the tin. It and the pouch.with the remaining unrolled elfroot are tucked back into their drawer.
"Unlikely," for the possibility of not caring for whatever item waits for him several floors up. "You've managed a decent streak these past few years."
Though there is something in that too, isn't there? What Flint's chosen for him. The coat on its peg, for instance.
Perhaps earlier he might have considered instead: what a thing it is, to be so known.
Bare foot returned to the floor, John's attention turns back to Flint. Considers the bed beneath them with some humor; if the mattress in the Forces adjoining quarters alone hadn't illustrated the utility of a featherbed—
"Decent," is all pretend offense, pantomime of a wound that quickly falls away in favor of, "Pass me that fur," as his hand finds the space above John's knee.
It's a briefly firm handhold by which Flint levers himself to his feet so he might shed his dark coat more easily. In the lamplight, the coat is almost more green than black. Some subtle two toned pattern in the alternating directionality of the fabric's weave is briefly illuminated then gone again as the heavy garment is gathered and folded over the back of the nearby armchair, the peg with the dark blue coat hanging from it being a full two steps away and apparently therefore wildly out of bounds.
The black fur is laid in a neat line on the floor before John, and Flint doesn't bother with any of his other laces or buttons or the heavy buckle of his belt before getting down on his knees.
It's a handsome coat. John might have said so, were he not provided with such an immediate distraction.
What mystery is there, when the black fur is set out along the stone floor, as to what Flint's intentions might be for the evening?
But still, when the assumption is made real, John's breath draws briefly sharp at the picture this moment makes.
"A concession for your hands?" carries along humor, in spite of the expression on John's face: Want, of a type so wholly specific to Flint himself. He reaches down for him regardless of the counterproductivity in the motion, so he might touch his face, tip his head back to be kissed before any other thing occurs.
"Something like that," has that same low scuff of humor before it's folded into the kiss.
He's in no hurry, and the look in John's face and the eager shape of his hands would be motivating not to be even if he were. But surely even the Imperial Chantry has something to say about idle hands. There's little reason not to make use of them to carefully encourage the shift of thighs and knees, to coax him a little closer by his trouser's waistband or by simply jostling into the space afforded even while under the shape of John's mouth.
"Best have the pillow too," Flint says there.
Concessions. But he's arguably already made enough reckless decisions with his body parts for one evening and this fucking stone floor—
One hand breaks from Flint's face to reach over and back, snag one of the plush pillows from the head of the bed. There may have been little John could do about the mattress, but the pillows could certainly be remedied.
Awareness is prickling through his body, an undercurrent sparking along beneath the more straightforward thing, the part of him that very simply wants, is contented with Flint's hands on him and his mouth readily accesible.
The rest—
It is more complex, tangling in his stomach as Flint's fingers adjust the lay of his thighs, catch at his waistband, all these minor things reminding John of where they are going. Of his fingers in Flint's mouth in Antiva.
"We might consider carpet, while we're making demands regarding your quarters," John tells him, so light in spite of all other things catching alight in his face, of his fingers that had not left Flint's cheek even when he'd bent away to retrieve the pillow.
"We might consider the possibility that I'm getting old," is punctuated with an aggrieved sidelong look.
Unlikely though the fact is, he knows.
He has to shift back from between John's thighs (and from the hand at his cheek) to consult the stone floor and the arrangement of the pillow and the fur, but does it all more or less one handed. One hand remains secure in it's placement high at the seam between hip and thigh, equal parts counterbalance and selfishness. For all this easy humor and self-deprecation, the sharp edge of his attention blunted by familiarity, that point of contact still seems necessary.
Once all due deference afforded his kneecaps, Flint settles back.
"Now,"—wolf's grin, black smudged over skin, good spirits lurking low in his face—"Let's see how far we can get with my fingertips."
Dextrous enough for leaf and rolling papers will do for buttons and laces at the very least.
So pinned by that hand at his thigh, urged and nudged to Flint's satisfaction, John does have a moment to consider the prospect of being more or less at his mercy. Of being recipient of all these ministrations, of Flint's attention. There is a focus to it that allows for reaction, but—
It is a specific way of being laid bare that has nothing to do with the short work Flint is making of his laces.
"There's still time to seek a healer," is absolutely a joke.
If there was a point in which they might have considered such a thing, it likely came and went in that short span of time before Flint stepped over the threshold to this room.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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And without an immediate break of his fingers from Flint's face. When he does lift them, they come away with traces of charcoal. Levering himself back a step, creating space between them with a minor motion of his hand stalling any upward movement from him.
"Catch," he instructs, lobbing the pouch back to Flint before gathering the papers.
It's a short walk back. John reclaims his seat alongside Flint. Stretches out his knee, pins the papers to his thigh as he sets his crutch to the side.
"By all accounts, it's good quality. Possibly better than the contents of that bottle."
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"Thank fuck one of us knows how to make himself some friends." How else would they stay in liquor and smoke?
Shifting on the edge of the mattress, Flint sets the pair of books farther aside and twists in toward him—a leg hauled up between them, ankle hooked idly over knee. The line of his shin with its heavy gaiter presses passively along the length of John's thigh. With the pouch balanced in the crook of the bent knee and a section of papers pilfered off John, Flint sets to rolling. It's a companionable sort of arrangement, unhurried and softened considerably by the lateness of the hour. Rounded shoulders, bent neck, the rasp of rough fingertips on delicate paper.
"Other notable offerings?"
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"Aside from the vodka?"
A tough act to follow.
"Gwenaëlle's anticipating the possibility of us finding trouble in Orlais, and given us something to spend to get ourselves out of it," John relates, fingers coming to rest at the bend of Flint's knee, above the gaiter. "And Petrana's given me a pair of goblets that might serve us better in your quarters."
Considering how they tend to divide their time.
"And you?"
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"The usual bottle collection." Add in the Rivaini spiced wine, and some evening they might take a tour of Thedas all without leaving the comfort of the division office. "A letter opener. New shirts and cufflinks, and proof that Byerly hasn't yet talked himself out of this idea of settling Tevinter slaves in Ferelden. I'm beginning to suspect Bastien must be something of a secret agitator."
There's an easy cadence to this—sorting the leaf from the pouch and onto the paper, continuing to roll while he talks.
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Not that he's disappointed to be the recipient of pilfered utensils, but there is some humor in observing Riftwatch's gift-giving habits.
"You might be right, about Bastien," follows after, as John's thumb begins idly passing back and forth along the wrinkled seam of Flint's trousers. Lightly enough, so as not to disturb the yield of his work. "I'd be interested to find out for certain, if I can manage it this year."
Orchestrate it, more like.
"What proof?"
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If Bastien were some kind of reformist, maybe Yseult can be cracked after all. The two of them are something like friends, aren't they? —Is a passing thought, at once both too unformed and too obvious to be worth saying aloud.
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“I’ve a mind to try a few things this year to sway Fereldan perceptions of the northward world. It’s enough of a reason to impose on Bastien.”
And perhaps tease out some clarity.
Byerly at least has been drawn into clearer focus. And it is a relief that in some way he’s been brought around to rely upon.
John can be of so little use in that room where Flint is so often outnumbered. It still rankles, years later.
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Speaking of sentiment—
"Have you heard from her?"
It's not a question rooted in this matter of Antiva having broken off it's associations with Tevinter trade and subsequent concern for the continued commitment of various anti-Tevene movements in the country now that they have ostensibly won what they were angling for, or for the part Madi might play to act as a counterweight to their satisfaction. Flint does, on occasion, receive his own mail.
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"Yes, some weeks ago."
A broad measure of time. (In the trunk there is a slim packet of letters tied together in twine. Not the sum of a correspondence, but an indicator of sentiment in what has been kept, what couldn't be fed into the fire.)
"I imagine the disruptions in trade will require some adjustment in our usual choice of courier."
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"I heard a rumor,"—look at him, being industrious—"That an agent of a particular large cat native to Antiva has been sniffing around Kirkwall as of late. If you're amenable, I might suggest that we arrange to hunt it down and see whether it knows a reliable raven."
Flint seals another joint and aligns it with its predecessor.
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What follows tempers that smile, softens his expression for the offer set out for him. It would be safe, wouldn't it, to assume that some effort was expended in the gathering of this information?
"I am," is such a foregone conclusion. Of course he is. "I imagine the hunt might even be a welcome occupation for our evenings in the new year."
Not that John anticipates it to be the kind of search that requires an extended period of time. Kirkwall is a large city, yes, but they've inhabited it for such a long time.
"Thank you," is quieter, John's eyes intent on Flint's face. The cycling run of his thumb at Flint's knee has stilled, but his hand remains in place.
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He doesn't say you're welcome. Instead, after a moment's fixed study, Flint tilts his face by a farther degree. He taps his cheek encouragingly. He'll cash this favor in for a kiss directly, thank you.
my irl lol
What a thing it is, to find himself in such a place. What a thing it is to be wanted, cared for, to be recipient of these minor demonstrations of affection.
John's hand remains still, the lay of his hand turning bracing as he leans forward over their legs. Lifts a palm to the bristle of Flint's cheek so he might kiss him, first at his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth. Lingering over the act because they can. The hour is late, yes, but dawn is far off and neither of them have anywhere more pressing to be than here.
There are nights where John might make him ask, aloud and properly. But not tonight. John kisses him a third time, directly, fully, his thumb moving over Flint's cheek as he does.
✨
"Careful," is a faux grumble in the narrow space that forms when that last kiss softens. Somewhere between them, the back of Flint's hand has set against John's middle. Presumably, he still has a square of the rolling paper between his fingers.
"You'll ruin my work."
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"Have done with it," comes as a close murmur. John has not ceded any space in answer to the nudge of knuckles at his chest; his weight still remains braced over Flint's knee so he might hold his place. "Three is enough."
Two would be enough, but if the work is already part-way to completion—
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On the subject of honoring hooliganism, Flint noses into that barely there space. Kisses the corner of John's mouth where his whiskers are thinnest. What's he to do? Argue? That seems unlikely.
"Let me finish this one."
Otherwise John's bedclothes will have filaments of allegedly quality elfroot stuck in them forever, for which there are far better uses.
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In the moment, satisfied with Flint's acquiescence if not the delay, John heeds the pressure of the hand at his middle. Straightens back into his own space, enough to that he might swing his booted foot up from the floor to attend its laces.
John has loosened the rest of his attire in minor ways. Laces hanging open at his throat. Belt set aside. Coat returned to it's peg beside the door. But he'd been prepared to leave this room, and so hadn't truly bothered to make himself comfortable.
"There's a tin in the drawer beside you," he advises. Flint's handiwork remains undisturbed on his thigh, but presumably the two completed joints and their emerging fellow will have to be relocated along with rolling papers and pouch.
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For all that this isn't his vice, he's patient enough with the delicacy of the work that it doesn't take him long to finish what he'd started and go rustling around for this aforementioned tin while John pulls various laces open.
"That wasn't your gift." Valuable as this bit of repeated heresay may prove to be. "Unless you don't care for the actual thing, in which case—"
Click, says the tin. It and the pouch.with the remaining unrolled elfroot are tucked back into their drawer.
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"Unlikely," for the possibility of not caring for whatever item waits for him several floors up. "You've managed a decent streak these past few years."
Though there is something in that too, isn't there? What Flint's chosen for him. The coat on its peg, for instance.
Perhaps earlier he might have considered instead: what a thing it is, to be so known.
Bare foot returned to the floor, John's attention turns back to Flint. Considers the bed beneath them with some humor; if the mattress in the Forces adjoining quarters alone hadn't illustrated the utility of a featherbed—
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It's a briefly firm handhold by which Flint levers himself to his feet so he might shed his dark coat more easily. In the lamplight, the coat is almost more green than black. Some subtle two toned pattern in the alternating directionality of the fabric's weave is briefly illuminated then gone again as the heavy garment is gathered and folded over the back of the nearby armchair, the peg with the dark blue coat hanging from it being a full two steps away and apparently therefore wildly out of bounds.
The black fur is laid in a neat line on the floor before John, and Flint doesn't bother with any of his other laces or buttons or the heavy buckle of his belt before getting down on his knees.
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What mystery is there, when the black fur is set out along the stone floor, as to what Flint's intentions might be for the evening?
But still, when the assumption is made real, John's breath draws briefly sharp at the picture this moment makes.
"A concession for your hands?" carries along humor, in spite of the expression on John's face: Want, of a type so wholly specific to Flint himself. He reaches down for him regardless of the counterproductivity in the motion, so he might touch his face, tip his head back to be kissed before any other thing occurs.
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He's in no hurry, and the look in John's face and the eager shape of his hands would be motivating not to be even if he were. But surely even the Imperial Chantry has something to say about idle hands. There's little reason not to make use of them to carefully encourage the shift of thighs and knees, to coax him a little closer by his trouser's waistband or by simply jostling into the space afforded even while under the shape of John's mouth.
"Best have the pillow too," Flint says there.
Concessions. But he's arguably already made enough reckless decisions with his body parts for one evening and this fucking stone floor—
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Awareness is prickling through his body, an undercurrent sparking along beneath the more straightforward thing, the part of him that very simply wants, is contented with Flint's hands on him and his mouth readily accesible.
The rest—
It is more complex, tangling in his stomach as Flint's fingers adjust the lay of his thighs, catch at his waistband, all these minor things reminding John of where they are going. Of his fingers in Flint's mouth in Antiva.
"We might consider carpet, while we're making demands regarding your quarters," John tells him, so light in spite of all other things catching alight in his face, of his fingers that had not left Flint's cheek even when he'd bent away to retrieve the pillow.
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Unlikely though the fact is, he knows.
He has to shift back from between John's thighs (and from the hand at his cheek) to consult the stone floor and the arrangement of the pillow and the fur, but does it all more or less one handed. One hand remains secure in it's placement high at the seam between hip and thigh, equal parts counterbalance and selfishness. For all this easy humor and self-deprecation, the sharp edge of his attention blunted by familiarity, that point of contact still seems necessary.
Once all due deference afforded his kneecaps, Flint settles back.
"Now,"—wolf's grin, black smudged over skin, good spirits lurking low in his face—"Let's see how far we can get with my fingertips."
Dextrous enough for leaf and rolling papers will do for buttons and laces at the very least.
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It is a specific way of being laid bare that has nothing to do with the short work Flint is making of his laces.
"There's still time to seek a healer," is absolutely a joke.
If there was a point in which they might have considered such a thing, it likely came and went in that short span of time before Flint stepped over the threshold to this room.
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