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.
The limit of all this relatively methodical patience and good humor is, apparently, taking that joke seriously enough to afford it any delay. It warrants an amused look, a slanting smile, and neither it or the bandage bound round Flint's palm stops him from insinuating his fingers between one layer of fabric and the next.
"I think I'll survive."
Sitting there at the edge of the narrow bed listening to John read from that little book, the quality of his attention very sharp; the soft curve of his shoulders and the companionable air of rolling those joints—this is some combination of both those things. Thoughtful fingers. Studious.
Breath seeps from John, the warmth of Flint's hand giving way to the graze of bare skin, drawing out a deep exhale.
On either side of his thigh, John's hands grasp the mattress, wrinkle the bedding beneath his grip.
A hum of assent, steady in spite of that tightening grip: "I expect you're resourceful enough to make do."
Case and point.
A sudden flash of memory: John's knees on his own crumpled coat in an even narrow room at an absurdly late hour of night. This is not that. Looking into Flint's face, struck more so by his expression now than even the presence of his fingers slipped beneath seams, John is very aware of the difference. How far they've come together. It punches the breath out of him.
Maybe it's the pleasant tenor of the night—all that ridiculous dancing, the evening discussing books, standing in the back of Bastien's gift exchange drinking warm spiced wine from a battered cup while Artemaeus suffered theft after theft. The bad music. The crisp night air. The vodka and its earthy undertone. Or maybe he too perceives the distance laid between this narrow room and that cramped let one in Kirkwall. Or maybe, for all that John standing so near to where he kneels now hadn't been conceived as an act, there's some impulse to tinge this with the color of one: to be steady and sure as John's fingers tighten over the coverlet or as his breathing sharpens.
Whatever the cause, there's a fine sense of satisfied control to both the hand at John's hip and the one inside his clothes. Not unaffected—how firm his grip twisting the undone trouser waist at John's side is, bandaged hand or not bandaged hand—, just predaciously attentive.
A breath of laughter, even as John casts about for his neighbors.
"Redvers Keen decided to occupy the room beside mine."
If this has caused John any particular concern, evidence of it doesn't filter through to his voice now.
"An Averesch farther down, and the Seeker alongside him," John continues, easy over the words as he looks into Flint's face, moderating his own breath in response to the intent he finds there. "A handful of Rifters, who seem to have gone."
Who can tell for certain, with Rifters? They may well be in Kirkwall or off on some errand. The accounting comes to: three others, who may or may not be in their rooms tonight.
He doesn't recall seeing anything of the man in the Gallows' festivities; and if he were Redvers, he'd have found some more friendly company for the evening. As if it really matters. The benefits of making a bed in a prison—thick walls, heavy doors, no one to hear your mumbles of conversation (or anything else for that matter).
So two sure hands, all dextrous fingers and the scruff of soft bandage edges, shift warm skin and layers of fabric. Touching him inside his clothes becomes touching him outside of them, the point of Flint's attention evenly divided between the work and
It is not the direction John expected the conversation to flow in.
Nor is it such a straightforward topic. Antiva hooks into a number of potential items, all spinning out in different directions.
A hand having lifted from the bed to cover Flint's at his hip, thumb running along the fine bones and scarring where Flint has grasped so tight over the bend of his thigh, the question doesn't stall but it does slow the motion as John's brow draws into a faint wrinkle.
"Antiva?" John echoes, prompting. He could certainly guess at what Flint's intention is, but in the moment—
Something in the fixed point of his fascination chips harmlessly off the question in the tenor of John's answer. Flint laughs. The sound is low. It's good to be reminded that, for all his gifts, John Silver is no telepathist.
(To be reminded how unnecessary some of this gravity is.)
"Antiva," Flint assures him, as if that's any kind of answer.
Helpfully, Flint punctuates it with shifting cloth free and bowing his head to the task he's set himself to with all the reverence of a dedicated layman. His breath is warm. He's certain with his scuffed grip. In Antiva, in that aching palazzo bed, he'd been so eager to invite John's fingers past his teeth. There's a clear echo in the set of his mouth here. In how willing he is to sink down onto him.
While it is no answer at all, the laugh Flint prefaces that repetition with is engaging all on its own. In spite of his own curiosity, the flashpaper-catch of impulse that wants to unravel this point down to it's intended meaning, John grins back to him.
Wait isn't vocalized; it lives as a suggestion, coloring the punch of sound John gives in response. Were they doing this differently, it might be possible to carry on conversation in parallel to the way they come together. Instead, John's hand flexes tight over Flint's at his thigh, breath hitching through that first application of his mouth. The kneejerk impulse to draw back is entirely nonsensical, but it snags in him regardless, rattling alongside the leap of arousal in his gut.
Says, after a long, breathless moment, "Alright," as if their conversation has come to a conclusion, matter settled. In a way it has been. John doesn't intend to stop him for further questions.
Is that how you want me, he'd meant. Or, let him do what he'd all but promised to do. Or maybe, a line drawn from the miscellaneous punctures they'd suffered in that apothecary to the bandages secured around his palms now; they should really make more of an effort to avoid incurring bodily harm when the result is so consistently fumbling with their cocks while trying to avoid bleeding all over the bedclothes. Or some broader affirmation. If he can make good on the promise of his mouth, why not every other interest they have tangled up in that place?
Easy, he's told John. Slow. He's not much for following his own advice. So here is the rough press of his thumb at John's hip, and the supportive curve of half handicapped fingers, and some low murmur of sound rumbling between his tongue and softer skin. Alright, John says and the answering shift of Flint's shoulders between his knees is unambiguously fixated.
(The taste that had wet his appetite as John had stood there reading to him where he kneels now remains thick on the tongue, and warm at the nape of his neck.)
They have spoken of this before. Flint has spoken of this to him before, among other possibilities that they've set quietly into slips of space between them.
Invoking Antiva brings more readily the recollection of Flint's hands on his skin, drawing sodden cloths down his thigh as John's fingers had dug in at his hip. The glancing swipe of his fingers just above the abrupt end of his leg, clearing away blood. What it had felt like, to have Flint touching him there in a way wholly divorced from a healer's clinical examination.
It's not dissimilar to this moment as he moves to accommodate Flint, answer the dig of his hands with the splay of his thighs. Between them, they've shed next to nothing; John is near fully dressed. Flint has dispensed with his heavy fur mantle. But the narrow focus of Flint's attention has the same effect as being laid bare.
The catch of his fingers at Flint's shoulder, then his nape might be meant to echo the instruction Flint's so often given him. His thumb hooks beneath the collar of Flint's tunic, a light touch as a counterpoint to the heat of Flint's mouth. No words come, just the rasp of John's breath and the intensity of his own observation, watching the flex of muscle in Flint's shoulders and play of candlelight across his face.
That shape of fingers warrants some answer. It manifests in the crook of his jaw and length of his neck—Flint flexing against the touch at the base of his skull like a domesticated animal curves toward the hand it likes best. A low sound transmitted by tongue and skin; a lag in the thing that hasn't yet become true rhythm anyway.
It's pleasantly uncomplicated, this rasp of fingertips, and John's breathing, and the edge of some metal button pressed hard at his sun beaten and freckled wrist. Here is some soft creak of leather, and the medicinal tang of the salve secured under bandages, and the reassuring blunted pressure of swallowing down, and the idle invasion of fingertips moving deeper past the edges of open clothes. John's attention is as present as the hand on the back of his neck is, or the accommodating spread of his knees. It's the edge of the bed checking him. It can be slow. It can be whatever John's hand wants it to be.
Flint certainly isn't preoccupied with pinning him under a cautionary palm and thumb. No, if John is trusting him with some measure of space (vulnerability), then he can't fathom not making use of it. Instead, satisfied with his place, Flint's spare hand slips from its command of trouser waistbands and the edge of John's pocket to—
somewhere else, clarified by the heavy metal clink of a belt being undone. The room is small; like all sounds captured inside of it, this one too is distinct.
“Take your time,” has nothing at all to do with the low burn coiling in John’s body, stoked to smolder in his belly. It has very little to do with John at all. It is everything to do with all the things he has gleaned from Flint, caught in his face when he invoked the idea of this. Antiva, yes. The press of his fingers at Flint’s mouth, the way he had looked back at John then. But it is also what had passed between them in floors above, sequestered behind the door of the bedroom on the other side of his office. John recalls those murmurs. He is thinking of them as his fingers settle into place, as his thumb sets against the hinge of Flint’s jaw.
Slowly doesn’t necessarily follow hand in hand.
“Make what you wish of it,” is instructive, John’s voice thick over the words on the way to something which sounds contradictory: “Don’t finish without me.”
How rare it is, for John to be bidden sit still, allow himself to be taken apart. Yes, he is afforded such a view. But as ever: what John can see, he inevitably wishes to touch.
The hitch of response is easily discernable—some catch of breath dragging at the heat of him and a lower, rougher noise like—
Flint's laugh rasps in his wet mouth when he pulls off John to look at him. Nevermind his lingering hand turned in between layers of fabric and pressed in close to hold him low against the tips of unbandaged fingers. There is something pleased and sharp eyed both in his countenance as he tips his face up.
(Maybe, suggests the clink of some faraway belt buckle, his other hand has also contrived to remain occupied.)
But if there's something he means to say then it fails to manifest. Instead, Flint's gleaming pale eye scrapes up the length of John; he breathes out heavy through his nose, once, and when he bends to kiss him and take him into his mouth again there is something crowding and fervent in the slope of his shoulder and the accompanying squeeze of fingers. What would he make of it is an easy prompt. He wants to give in the way that lines against the tongue of an able reader do—vulnerable and pliant.
In that slip of a break, Flint's face tipped up and John's gaze tipped down, the impulse to bend to catch him up in a kiss is near to compulsive. John feels the words like honey, warm in his mouth: Come here.
He has never been refused, even when the request is fraught, when it comes on the heels of long, miserable days or prolonged, exhausting absences. John might say it now. He might tip the trajectory towards some other thing, if he did.
His thumb presses briefly to the corner of Flint's mouth instead, while Flint looks up at him. And then his hand slides along his cheek, accommodating as Flint occupies himself once more.
As with all things, John knows how to fashion a performance. He could pluck up the threads of one now; there is a way to turn a show into a shield, deflecting any sign of some vulnerable, true thing. The instinct flickers, extinguishes as John lays a palm back to the base of Flint's skull in an application of light, unnecessary pressure. No, this is not for show. If John meant to deflect, he is years too late for it.
"Yes," is absent encouragement, ragged at the edges. John's hand flexes over his thigh, warding against the possibility of any inopportune spike of pain from exhausted muscle. "Like that."
Nothing matters but what John saw in his face, how it is applied now in the work at hand. It is good, but what Flint takes from it (what John gives up in the midst of it) is better, more important to kindle between them.
He thrills to the encouragement, a low curling noise catching at the roof of his mouth for the touch of fingers and the rasp audible in John's voice. It's the sort of tactile incentive that urges closer, and deeper, and more, even while draped in some patient tenor.
Moderating that impulse takes effort. Even then, there's very little that's guarded or cautious about how Flint relents to draw his mouth up and off him again. Rather the opposite is true—all this bruised want make naked in its denial, the wet slide of lips and tongue make sharper and more specific for the brief interim in which they've been held back. The shallow stroke and squeeze of fingers fills the gap, reassurance and temptation both. Flint presses closer between the two of John's knees. That undone belt buckle rasps hungrily too.
To call the pattern Flint falls into a rhythm would be disingenuous, but it isn't not that. His touch is light. He doesn't hesitate to draw up to drag in a breath, or is shy with the searching press of tongue when he goes back to him. There a kind of broad pleasure in how narrow the space between them is. In making it real and physical by sinking low enough to coax some reflexive clench out of himself. Shuddering through it.
Yes, like this. This is how we wants him—entirely and willing, in this comedically small room. There's an uncritical ease to it. Unembarrassed. Comfortable. The sound he makes around him is thick with satisfaction and unvarnished by any sense of shame.
The heel of John's boot scuffs past the crumpled fur of discard mantle, braces on stone. (A fleeting awareness of this unevenness, a disorienting echo of movement coming to nothing but the flex of one thigh.) John's thighs glance off his shoulders, pressing in and away in counterpoint to the grip of John's hand. His fingers flex tighter at Flint's nape, not enough to inhibit movement or disturb Flint's ministrations, but enough to betray a reaction, encourage him back when Flint draws away.
"Again," on the heels of that sound. John cannot ask for much else, when Flint is so thoroughly occupied otherwise.
But here too is an enduring truth: John is so completely enamoured with all parts of Flint, yes, but there is something particularly vital about what he puts voice to, what sounds he makes. John can feel the tenor of it set into his bones, run hot through his body just as sure as the work of Flint's hands and mouth have done.
There is ease to this. John has the sense of it, how Flint gives over to it, how John might give over further to him. It isn't a surprise; they have been partners for such a long time now. Self-awareness prickles only at the very edges of his thoughts, crowded further away as John's attention narrows down to the flexing muscle of Flint's shoulders, the unchecked, straightforward attention focused in on John in return. Flint is so close, wedged there on his knees. Inescapably so.
Again. It's an easy request to which to capitulate. That John asks at all might almost be unnecessary—the crowding points of contact between shoulders and knees and the dig and squeeze of fingers and the pressing shape of him against the invitation of his tongue could inspire low sounds all on their merit. It's gratifying to be this close.
But there's something tender and naked in the asking. It prickles at the nap of his neck under the light weight of John's hand. It runs warm down into the clench of his belly and then is drawn lower still by the easy stroke of Flint's own fingers over himself. He answers with a groaning rasp, some heavy exhale through the nose, and a reedier scraped pant as he draws all the way up and off him again.
There's enough spit slick to turn the slide of calloused fingers smooth—a diversion as Flint's face cants up. Kiss him, says the sway of his shoulders, and the straightening line of his back and the wanting shape of his mouth as he leans up and invades nearer to make it as simple as the rest of this.
Of course John will bend to meet him. There is no hesitation at all. John is already bowing down to meet him, even before Flint's head tips up. He resettles his palm, sliding down to the nape of Flint's neck to encourage him into John's space, hold him there, as they kiss. It is very open, slow and thorough and yes, this too is easy. John's breath is shredded, hitching into Flint's mouth at the slide of his fingers, underscored by the scrape of teeth. His opposite hand has lifted to find Flint's cheek, frame his face as a low groan of sound rattles out of him into their kiss.
Between them, there is a murmur of sound. Not a word, not properly formed, but it gives the impression of encouragement. The kind of thing which means to urge him on, permissive as John's fingers press down hard at the nape of Flint's neck. Not necessarily to lift him, dredge him from his place, but telegraph all that John wants, make clear whatever the kiss and grasping clutch of his fingers haven't already communicated.
Again for whatever heated, hitching response Flint might have for him, covetous of these small things. It is Satinalia. John is allowed a request or two.
That sound passed out of John and into his mouth is like a thing to be swallowed, taken into the body and all it's heat absorbed. Something to prompt a scraping of teeth and the bitter press of tongue. It is easy, unhurried, but no part of this kiss or the grasping of hands, or the nearness of bodies, or the demanding want motivating them could be categorized as shallow. If there were a way to arrange two bodies in order to fully reduce the delineation between them, it might be achieved with this same ravenous patience. As it is, the blatant encouragement thrills. The press of fingers at the back of his neck and cheek glow with the same persistence as that vodka in the bottom of a tin cup; yes, fill him with that sensation too.
A battered breath. A low scraping growl to suit the discarded fur mantle. A groan that aches. Flint trades those back to him, either directly into a kiss or just rough over the space between them where John's hands have anchored him.
Give him another pillow, or a thick pile carpet, or just younger knees and he might seriously consider lingering there. Things being what they are—(his appetite being what it is)—, the set of his teeth slants briefly rough, first at John's mouth and then twisting to scrape across the exposed skin of his nearest wrist. He turns further into the curve of that palm, mouth hot as he first bites at the knuckle of John's thumb and then hotter as he takes the digit in past his lips in abrupt pantomime of the more delicate stroke of fingertips.
On another night, they might have ascended the stairs. They know the merits of a bigger room, the bed situated within it. (But for fuck's sake, the bed's big enough not to put you on your knees—) But there is no reason to suggest it; John understands all the converging pieces of their present arrangement. They are where they wish to be. It matters that they are here, in John's room which has never seen a visitor in all his time occupying it. It matters that Flint is positioned so. It matters that John has sat where bidden, that he has bent to Flint so immediately.
His knuckle is still stinging as he pushes his thumb down over Flint's tongue.
He hasn't gone far, remains bracketed by John's thighs and hands. The unsteady pull of John's breathing is impossible to hide, even if he were so inclined. His boot knocks along Flint's calf, unconsciously seeking further purchase to wind them more securely together.
"Look at you," is unsteady too, composure fraying by degrees under Flint's ministrations. But for all the shallow rasp of these words, they are so colored by affection, with wanting, want so deep and made so plain as John hooks him closer by mouth and jaw. None of it is tempered in this moment. John's breath is shallow, obvious when he puts his teeth to the bristle of Flint's jaw.
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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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"I think I'll survive."
Sitting there at the edge of the narrow bed listening to John read from that little book, the quality of his attention very sharp; the soft curve of his shoulders and the companionable air of rolling those joints—this is some combination of both those things. Thoughtful fingers. Studious.
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On either side of his thigh, John's hands grasp the mattress, wrinkle the bedding beneath his grip.
A hum of assent, steady in spite of that tightening grip: "I expect you're resourceful enough to make do."
Case and point.
A sudden flash of memory: John's knees on his own crumpled coat in an even narrow room at an absurdly late hour of night. This is not that. Looking into Flint's face, struck more so by his expression now than even the presence of his fingers slipped beneath seams, John is very aware of the difference. How far they've come together. It punches the breath out of him.
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Maybe it's the pleasant tenor of the night—all that ridiculous dancing, the evening discussing books, standing in the back of Bastien's gift exchange drinking warm spiced wine from a battered cup while Artemaeus suffered theft after theft. The bad music. The crisp night air. The vodka and its earthy undertone. Or maybe he too perceives the distance laid between this narrow room and that cramped let one in Kirkwall. Or maybe, for all that John standing so near to where he kneels now hadn't been conceived as an act, there's some impulse to tinge this with the color of one: to be steady and sure as John's fingers tighten over the coverlet or as his breathing sharpens.
Whatever the cause, there's a fine sense of satisfied control to both the hand at John's hip and the one inside his clothes. Not unaffected—how firm his grip twisting the undone trouser waist at John's side is, bandaged hand or not bandaged hand—, just predaciously attentive.
"I don't remember. Who else stays on this floor?"
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"Redvers Keen decided to occupy the room beside mine."
If this has caused John any particular concern, evidence of it doesn't filter through to his voice now.
"An Averesch farther down, and the Seeker alongside him," John continues, easy over the words as he looks into Flint's face, moderating his own breath in response to the intent he finds there. "A handful of Rifters, who seem to have gone."
Who can tell for certain, with Rifters? They may well be in Kirkwall or off on some errand. The accounting comes to: three others, who may or may not be in their rooms tonight.
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He doesn't recall seeing anything of the man in the Gallows' festivities; and if he were Redvers, he'd have found some more friendly company for the evening. As if it really matters. The benefits of making a bed in a prison—thick walls, heavy doors, no one to hear your mumbles of conversation (or anything else for that matter).
So two sure hands, all dextrous fingers and the scruff of soft bandage edges, shift warm skin and layers of fabric. Touching him inside his clothes becomes touching him outside of them, the point of Flint's attention evenly divided between the work and
John's face when he prompts, "Antiva?"
(He could theoretically do this differently.)
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Nor is it such a straightforward topic. Antiva hooks into a number of potential items, all spinning out in different directions.
A hand having lifted from the bed to cover Flint's at his hip, thumb running along the fine bones and scarring where Flint has grasped so tight over the bend of his thigh, the question doesn't stall but it does slow the motion as John's brow draws into a faint wrinkle.
"Antiva?" John echoes, prompting. He could certainly guess at what Flint's intention is, but in the moment—
There is enough to keep track of.
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(To be reminded how unnecessary some of this gravity is.)
"Antiva," Flint assures him, as if that's any kind of answer.
Helpfully, Flint punctuates it with shifting cloth free and bowing his head to the task he's set himself to with all the reverence of a dedicated layman. His breath is warm. He's certain with his scuffed grip. In Antiva, in that aching palazzo bed, he'd been so eager to invite John's fingers past his teeth. There's a clear echo in the set of his mouth here. In how willing he is to sink down onto him.
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Wait isn't vocalized; it lives as a suggestion, coloring the punch of sound John gives in response. Were they doing this differently, it might be possible to carry on conversation in parallel to the way they come together. Instead, John's hand flexes tight over Flint's at his thigh, breath hitching through that first application of his mouth. The kneejerk impulse to draw back is entirely nonsensical, but it snags in him regardless, rattling alongside the leap of arousal in his gut.
Says, after a long, breathless moment, "Alright," as if their conversation has come to a conclusion, matter settled. In a way it has been. John doesn't intend to stop him for further questions.
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Easy, he's told John. Slow. He's not much for following his own advice. So here is the rough press of his thumb at John's hip, and the supportive curve of half handicapped fingers, and some low murmur of sound rumbling between his tongue and softer skin. Alright, John says and the answering shift of Flint's shoulders between his knees is unambiguously fixated.
(The taste that had wet his appetite as John had stood there reading to him where he kneels now remains thick on the tongue, and warm at the nape of his neck.)
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Invoking Antiva brings more readily the recollection of Flint's hands on his skin, drawing sodden cloths down his thigh as John's fingers had dug in at his hip. The glancing swipe of his fingers just above the abrupt end of his leg, clearing away blood. What it had felt like, to have Flint touching him there in a way wholly divorced from a healer's clinical examination.
It's not dissimilar to this moment as he moves to accommodate Flint, answer the dig of his hands with the splay of his thighs. Between them, they've shed next to nothing; John is near fully dressed. Flint has dispensed with his heavy fur mantle. But the narrow focus of Flint's attention has the same effect as being laid bare.
The catch of his fingers at Flint's shoulder, then his nape might be meant to echo the instruction Flint's so often given him. His thumb hooks beneath the collar of Flint's tunic, a light touch as a counterpoint to the heat of Flint's mouth. No words come, just the rasp of John's breath and the intensity of his own observation, watching the flex of muscle in Flint's shoulders and play of candlelight across his face.
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It's pleasantly uncomplicated, this rasp of fingertips, and John's breathing, and the edge of some metal button pressed hard at his sun beaten and freckled wrist. Here is some soft creak of leather, and the medicinal tang of the salve secured under bandages, and the reassuring blunted pressure of swallowing down, and the idle invasion of fingertips moving deeper past the edges of open clothes. John's attention is as present as the hand on the back of his neck is, or the accommodating spread of his knees. It's the edge of the bed checking him. It can be slow. It can be whatever John's hand wants it to be.
Flint certainly isn't preoccupied with pinning him under a cautionary palm and thumb. No, if John is trusting him with some measure of space (vulnerability), then he can't fathom not making use of it. Instead, satisfied with his place, Flint's spare hand slips from its command of trouser waistbands and the edge of John's pocket to—
somewhere else, clarified by the heavy metal clink of a belt being undone. The room is small; like all sounds captured inside of it, this one too is distinct.
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Slowly doesn’t necessarily follow hand in hand.
“Make what you wish of it,” is instructive, John’s voice thick over the words on the way to something which sounds contradictory: “Don’t finish without me.”
How rare it is, for John to be bidden sit still, allow himself to be taken apart. Yes, he is afforded such a view. But as ever: what John can see, he inevitably wishes to touch.
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Flint's laugh rasps in his wet mouth when he pulls off John to look at him. Nevermind his lingering hand turned in between layers of fabric and pressed in close to hold him low against the tips of unbandaged fingers. There is something pleased and sharp eyed both in his countenance as he tips his face up.
(Maybe, suggests the clink of some faraway belt buckle, his other hand has also contrived to remain occupied.)
But if there's something he means to say then it fails to manifest. Instead, Flint's gleaming pale eye scrapes up the length of John; he breathes out heavy through his nose, once, and when he bends to kiss him and take him into his mouth again there is something crowding and fervent in the slope of his shoulder and the accompanying squeeze of fingers. What would he make of it is an easy prompt. He wants to give in the way that lines against the tongue of an able reader do—vulnerable and pliant.
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He has never been refused, even when the request is fraught, when it comes on the heels of long, miserable days or prolonged, exhausting absences. John might say it now. He might tip the trajectory towards some other thing, if he did.
His thumb presses briefly to the corner of Flint's mouth instead, while Flint looks up at him. And then his hand slides along his cheek, accommodating as Flint occupies himself once more.
As with all things, John knows how to fashion a performance. He could pluck up the threads of one now; there is a way to turn a show into a shield, deflecting any sign of some vulnerable, true thing. The instinct flickers, extinguishes as John lays a palm back to the base of Flint's skull in an application of light, unnecessary pressure. No, this is not for show. If John meant to deflect, he is years too late for it.
"Yes," is absent encouragement, ragged at the edges. John's hand flexes over his thigh, warding against the possibility of any inopportune spike of pain from exhausted muscle. "Like that."
Nothing matters but what John saw in his face, how it is applied now in the work at hand. It is good, but what Flint takes from it (what John gives up in the midst of it) is better, more important to kindle between them.
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Moderating that impulse takes effort. Even then, there's very little that's guarded or cautious about how Flint relents to draw his mouth up and off him again. Rather the opposite is true—all this bruised want make naked in its denial, the wet slide of lips and tongue make sharper and more specific for the brief interim in which they've been held back. The shallow stroke and squeeze of fingers fills the gap, reassurance and temptation both. Flint presses closer between the two of John's knees. That undone belt buckle rasps hungrily too.
To call the pattern Flint falls into a rhythm would be disingenuous, but it isn't not that. His touch is light. He doesn't hesitate to draw up to drag in a breath, or is shy with the searching press of tongue when he goes back to him. There a kind of broad pleasure in how narrow the space between them is. In making it real and physical by sinking low enough to coax some reflexive clench out of himself. Shuddering through it.
Yes, like this. This is how we wants him—entirely and willing, in this comedically small room. There's an uncritical ease to it. Unembarrassed. Comfortable. The sound he makes around him is thick with satisfaction and unvarnished by any sense of shame.
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"Again," on the heels of that sound. John cannot ask for much else, when Flint is so thoroughly occupied otherwise.
But here too is an enduring truth: John is so completely enamoured with all parts of Flint, yes, but there is something particularly vital about what he puts voice to, what sounds he makes. John can feel the tenor of it set into his bones, run hot through his body just as sure as the work of Flint's hands and mouth have done.
There is ease to this. John has the sense of it, how Flint gives over to it, how John might give over further to him. It isn't a surprise; they have been partners for such a long time now. Self-awareness prickles only at the very edges of his thoughts, crowded further away as John's attention narrows down to the flexing muscle of Flint's shoulders, the unchecked, straightforward attention focused in on John in return. Flint is so close, wedged there on his knees. Inescapably so.
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But there's something tender and naked in the asking. It prickles at the nap of his neck under the light weight of John's hand. It runs warm down into the clench of his belly and then is drawn lower still by the easy stroke of Flint's own fingers over himself. He answers with a groaning rasp, some heavy exhale through the nose, and a reedier scraped pant as he draws all the way up and off him again.
There's enough spit slick to turn the slide of calloused fingers smooth—a diversion as Flint's face cants up. Kiss him, says the sway of his shoulders, and the straightening line of his back and the wanting shape of his mouth as he leans up and invades nearer to make it as simple as the rest of this.
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Of course John will bend to meet him. There is no hesitation at all. John is already bowing down to meet him, even before Flint's head tips up. He resettles his palm, sliding down to the nape of Flint's neck to encourage him into John's space, hold him there, as they kiss. It is very open, slow and thorough and yes, this too is easy. John's breath is shredded, hitching into Flint's mouth at the slide of his fingers, underscored by the scrape of teeth. His opposite hand has lifted to find Flint's cheek, frame his face as a low groan of sound rattles out of him into their kiss.
Between them, there is a murmur of sound. Not a word, not properly formed, but it gives the impression of encouragement. The kind of thing which means to urge him on, permissive as John's fingers press down hard at the nape of Flint's neck. Not necessarily to lift him, dredge him from his place, but telegraph all that John wants, make clear whatever the kiss and grasping clutch of his fingers haven't already communicated.
Again for whatever heated, hitching response Flint might have for him, covetous of these small things. It is Satinalia. John is allowed a request or two.
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A battered breath. A low scraping growl to suit the discarded fur mantle. A groan that aches. Flint trades those back to him, either directly into a kiss or just rough over the space between them where John's hands have anchored him.
Give him another pillow, or a thick pile carpet, or just younger knees and he might seriously consider lingering there. Things being what they are—(his appetite being what it is)—, the set of his teeth slants briefly rough, first at John's mouth and then twisting to scrape across the exposed skin of his nearest wrist. He turns further into the curve of that palm, mouth hot as he first bites at the knuckle of John's thumb and then hotter as he takes the digit in past his lips in abrupt pantomime of the more delicate stroke of fingertips.
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His knuckle is still stinging as he pushes his thumb down over Flint's tongue.
He hasn't gone far, remains bracketed by John's thighs and hands. The unsteady pull of John's breathing is impossible to hide, even if he were so inclined. His boot knocks along Flint's calf, unconsciously seeking further purchase to wind them more securely together.
"Look at you," is unsteady too, composure fraying by degrees under Flint's ministrations. But for all the shallow rasp of these words, they are so colored by affection, with wanting, want so deep and made so plain as John hooks him closer by mouth and jaw. None of it is tempered in this moment. John's breath is shallow, obvious when he puts his teeth to the bristle of Flint's jaw.
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