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Conducting business at the brothel is unavoidable in Nassau.
Flint doesn’t mind, as such, but he certainly isn’t interested in what’s on offer there. He also doesn’t mind having a reputation for his lack of interest, doesn’t mind that the island talks about his Puritan woman and the house he keeps with her. It saves complication, and he finds the idea of paying for company distasteful.
The same apparently cannot be said for John Silver. Only the day before, Silver had nearly been killed for the information he possessed; now he’s supposed to be something like a prisoner, yet here he is stumbling happily down the stairs, a half-naked girl clutching his elbow and shaking in fits of giggles. The girl gives Silver a kiss and a playful swat as he makes for the door, and another calls a farewell to him from the balcony. Silver turns to shout back to her, but catches sight of Flint instead. Their eyes meet.
Flint didn’t realize he’d been watching. He covers it with a sneer.
“Oh, hello Captain!” Silver says with a cheerful smile. Flint thinks if they were closer, the fool might actually have clapped him on the back.
“Enjoying yourself?” Flint’s words drip with a disdain that doesn’t seem to faze Silver at all. He saunters to the door, holding it open for Flint as if they were leaving together; Flint considers turning back to the interior, but he’d clearly been on his way out, so he brushes past Silver into the dark street.
“Oh yes, enjoying myself most thoroughly,” Silver says fervently, following Flint out the door. He is flushed, probably with drink; his clothing is slightly askew and his mass of curls tousled. “Though not as much as the fine ladies of Nassau, I should like to hope. I’m told I’m very good with my mouth.”
Flint rolls his eyes. “Is that so?” Again it's scornful, but he’s aware the reply lacks the biting edge he’d been aiming for. This isn’t exactly the way men usually boast, and he wonders if Silver knows how it sounds. He refuses to picture what the man would look like—what he might have looked like only minutes ago—on his knees between some girl’s thighs, his clever tongue curling up into her wet folds. Neither does he picture what Silver would look like lost to his own pleasure, brought to release in one of the upstairs rooms while Flint sat just below, none the wiser.
Silver leers, batting his absurd eyelashes, and Flint realizes he might have been staring again. "Why, Captain? You wanna find out?"
Irritation prickles hot under Flint’s skin; it always rankles when this is treated as a joke, used as mockery. Silver is clearly just trying to rile him—it’s a bluff designed to make Flint recoil, but that is not a game he means to lose. He’s been drinking as well, and perhaps that’s why he doesn’t take the prudent course and walk away. Why instead he finds himself advancing, a shark-like smile on his face, until Silver is backed against the wall of the brothel. He braces his arms on either side of Silver’s shoulders, looming but not quite touching, boxing him in. At this proximity Silver reeks of sex, and Flint can see his chest rise and fall, feels the heat of his quick breath.
“You should be careful what you’re offering, Mr. Silver,” Flint purrs, low and menacing. He leans in, bringing their lips close in a dark mimicry of the moment before a kiss. “One day, someone might take you up on it.”
Silver’s mask finally slips, revealing a painfully young face. His lips part and he swallows nervously, eyes darting to either side as though looking for an escape, no longer a charming rogue but a boy out of his depth, and terrified of the consequences he has provoked.
Flint should feel victorious, but he doesn’t. He just feels empty and aggravated, and tired of scaring people. Why is this something he would treat like a threat, a weapon? It wouldn’t have been nearly so bad if he hadn’t, for a moment, wanted to see something entirely else in Silver’s face. He snarls and huffs, stalking away as the beginnings of a headache press around his temples.
***
Flint wants to forget that it ever happened. But, in the way typical of awkward memories, it refuses to fade. What had he been thinking, to open that door even a crack? He wishes desperately he could take it back, but now that he’s glimpsed Silver in that context he cannot stop seeing him— the light catching on his dark hair, the sinuous grace with which he moves, the sparkle of his too blue eyes as he speaks enthusiastically to the men. As he performs for them, because it's clear that’s what it is: Silver is always performing, throwing everything into his character. Flint cannot resist watching, enraptured by each practiced movement of Silver’s elegantly constructed dance.
Silver watches him back, none too subtly. They have every reason to be wary of each other, and perhaps that’s all it is.
Except that Silver keeps touching him.
At first Flint thinks he is imagining it, understandably hyperaware of their interactions after the encounter outside the brothel. But no, Silver is doing it on purpose. He sidles up to Flint at the ship’s rail to make some remark, and stands so close that their hips touch; he hands over a manifest for review, and their fingers brush. It keeps happening, and each instance could be an accident, any intent behind it denied. Taken together, it's more than Flint has been touched by anyone other than Miranda for years, and it unbalances him. His body is becoming a patchwork of these small, unacknowledged intimacies. They linger on his skin, and alone in his bunk when sleep will not come he feels their echoes.
The most simple explanation is that Silver is trying to manipulate him—a clumsy attempt at seduction in hopes that Flint will be more inclined to spare his life. However, it lacks the brazen confidence of Silver’s performances. The way his eyes dart anxiously up to Flint’s face after each seemingly accidental touch, and then immediately skitter away, speaks to something else entirely.
The game reaches a breaking point one evening when Silver brings a tray of food to Flint's cabin, so that he can work uninterrupted through the evening meal. Silver could easily have sent someone else, the cook usually doesn't deliver such things personally. But, predictably, he comes himself. And predictably, he leans far closer than is necessary as he sets the tray on the desk, letting a hand graze Flint's arm as he withdraws.
Abruptly, Flint decides that this has gone far enough. He has no idea why Silver is doing this, or how far he will take it, but Flint knows he is vulnerable here and this cannot continue unchecked. His hand shoots out to catch Silver’s wrist. Silver freezes like a startled deer, peering up with blue eyes wide.
Flint rises deliberately from his seat to claim the full advantage of his height, while keeping Silver’s wrist trapped tight in his grip.
“Mr. Silver,” he says, keeping his voice neutral. “I believe I gave you a warning. A warning you seem to be going out of your way to ignore. Would you care to tell me why that is?”
Silver’s wrist flexes slightly in the circle of his fingers, and Flint can feel the pulse racing just under the surface of delicate skin. However, the expression on Silver’s face now isn’t fear, or at least, not the flavor of fear that Flint expected. Instead of revulsion, there is a horrifying vulnerability there, Silver's expression cracked open to reveal a flicker of hope.
“Did you mean it?” Silver asks, voice a bare whisper.
The question leaves Flint speechless, thoughts scattered. He hesitates a moment too long and Silver starts speaking again. “Because I had just— I mean I wondered–” Silver babbles, trying to pull away. “—but I completely understand if I misinterpreted, we had both been drinking, don’t worry I won’t bring it up again I—”
“Stop,” Flint says, and Silver instantly falls silent. Much as he should send Silver away, he cannot help but remember what it was like to feel that trepidation himself, to be so scared of judgment, of being wrong. He is still holding Silver’s wrist, and he strokes his thumb over the warm, yielding skin. Silver’s breath catches.
“It would be unwise,” Flint says. It's true, and he doesn’t mean it to sound like a concession, but he realizes too late that anything other than outright denial implies an invitation.
Silver’s face splits into a grin, triumphant and bright as sunlight, as if Flint has given him the most wondrous gift. He is far too close and steps closer still, bravado returning in full force as looks up at Flint and says, with all his practiced cheek, “But Captain, I am known for making terribly unwise decisions.”
There’s not enough air in the room, not enough room in Flint's brain to parse the situation. He needs space to think. He cannot possibly just bed Silver, or anyone for that matter; it’s not a decision to be taken lightly. But the intensity of Silver’s gaze is exhilarating and Flint is caught, hypnotized. Absurdly, the only thought left in his mind as he leans forward is that eyes cannot possibly be that blue.
The kiss is softer than Flint would have expected; Silver's lips part under his, tongue darting out tentatively, and he deepens the kiss on instinct, exploring, tasting. It's so different, the way Silver moves, the shape of his mouth, novel and full of intoxicating potential. Silver hums into the kiss, an appreciative, almost amused sound; Flint feels him smiling again.
Flint pulls back a little to study him, curious.
“It's just… different,” Silver says, echoing Flint’s own thoughts. More than anything, Silver sounds intrigued. He raises a hand to Flint’s jaw, stroking fingertips over his beard, then drops it to rest flat against his chest, a bit hesitant, as if he cannot believe he’s permitted.
“You’ve really never…?” Flint asks.
“No,” Silver admits. “I’ve wanted to though. Just never had a good opportunity.”
“And this strikes you as a good opportunity?” Flint asks dryly.
Silver’s eyes travel deliberately up and down Flint’s body; it's been a long time since anyone has looked at him with such open hunger. “Very,” he answers, voice dark and rough like velvet and Flint shivers. Silver may be inexperienced, but he certainly isn’t shy.
Flint knows all too well what he is. A thief. A liar. A born performer who has all but told Flint he plans to manipulate him, and it would be beyond stupid to trust this as a genuine overture. But it's been so very long, and the bulge between Silver’s legs isn’t a lie, nor is the flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes have darkened.
How would Flint even extricate himself from the situation? He’s already admitted to it, already kissed Silver.
The damage is done. Would going further really make it any worse? It's the thinnest form of justification, but Flint clings to it.
“Whatever game you are playing on this ship, this isn’t part of it, agreed?” Flint demands. He expects a protest or denial, at least some flippant comment, but Silver just meets his eyes and nods. “And it won’t serve you as blackmail,” Flint feels a need to add, more for the principle of it than anything else, because whatever Silver is doing here he doesn’t really think it's that.
“Fuck’s sake, you always make people work this hard for it?” Silver asks, exasperated laughter in his voice. “Will you please kiss me again already?”
Flint does, melding their lips together hungry and urgent. He buries his hands in curls that have no right to be so soft, and Silver surges forward to press every inch of their bodies together. Hands slide down to cup Flint's ass, and Silver rubs his hard cock into answering arousal.
“Oh, fuck,” he mutters against Flint’s mouth, breathless, and then does it again, clearly reveling in the sensation. Flint bites back a groan, already aching for what will come next, though hell if he knows what that’s going to be. He has a sense of responsibility here, to make Silver's first time pleasurable, to appear competent at least, but in truth he is unmoored even by these first touches.
It’s Silver who pulls back and asks, hopefully, “Bed?” He’s already shrugging off his jacket, pulling the hem of his shirt out of his trousers, undressing as if it's nothing. Whatever Flint had pictured—he's pictured quite a bit, if he’s honest with himself—it had involved stolen, frantic moments, half clothed against the desk or the wall. Even over the rail of the ship, in more fevered imaginings, and yet bed has implications he’s not sure he’s ready for.
Neither does it feel right to refuse, not when Silver is so plainly happy about this and really there’s no reason not to go about it properly. When the thought strikes that it’s what Thomas would have wanted, it's surprisingly more bittersweet than painful.
Still, this part is awkward. Flint thinks that just sucking Silver’s cock would feel a lot less vulnerable than the almost domestic intimacy of unlacing his heavy boots and toeing them off, laying aside his belt—and stripping involves a lot more disarming these days than it did with Thomas; he almost laughs at that as he places a second, hidden knife on top of the sword, pistol, and dagger he has already discarded—but as soon as he lifts his shirt over his head Silver is pushing him down to the bed, climbing atop him to straddle his hips.
They’re both naked only to the waist. Flint doesn’t mind taking this in stages, but he’s surprised at what it implies; surprised again a moment later by Silver’s mouth trailing hot kisses down his neck and chest, as if he wants nothing more than to taste Flint’s skin. The ends of loose curls brush maddeningly against him, soft and feather-light, while hands skim the muscled planes of his torso.
Caught off guard and painfully unaccustomed to such treatment, Flint is left gasping, twisting his hands in the sheets, wondering how he’s lost control of the situation so quickly and whether this could be some well crafted manipulation after all. He cannot suppress a groan at the wet flick of tongue against a pebbled nipple and Silver raises his head at the sound, looking startled at the effect he’s had. His expression smooths quickly back into a self satisfied smirk, but it's enough to assure Flint that it is the confidence, rather than the inexperience, that is being feigned. Silver applies his mouth once more and Flint makes himself relax and accept the strangeness of being discovered, mapped by Silver’s questing touch.
Despite Flint’s efforts, the passivity quickly becomes unbearable. It gives him too much space to become tangled in his thoughts, and he must at all costs avoid thinking about what this will mean when he has to face Silver tomorrow. Worse, as Silver nips gently at his flank, traces over the rise of a hip bone, he finds himself remembering how it used to be. In a different life, a life that feels like a dream. How the first time with Thomas was almost sacred, the trust and friendship between them already so deep that touch had felt like a natural completion of their bond.
Flint knows that what he had with Thomas was singular, not the normal course of things. Years ago, soon after arriving in Nassau, he’d tried to find satisfaction with other men. He’d done it more in a pointless effort to prove he had broken away from the constraints of English society than from any genuine desire. The rough, anonymous touches that had resulted probably would have thrilled him before he had known Thomas; after they just left him feeling empty, bringing less satisfaction than his own hand and his memories. But at least those encounters had never felt like a betrayal.
This is different. It’s an exploration in service of pleasure for its own sake rather than a quick drive for release, and Flint hates the comparisons it invites. He doesn’t know Silver, doesn’t trust him, and it's unfair that his mouth feels as good as Thomas’s did, unfair that he can draw the same reactions from Flint’s treacherous body, that he presumes to treat it with tenderness. What has possessed him to allow someone from this life so far into the most private aspects of his experience? It’s all a mistake, and now—
“What’s wrong?” Silver’s voice cuts into the mounting panic.
Flint realizes he’s become distracted, gaze unfocused, still but for the too quick rise and fall of his chest. He looks down to see uncertainty in Silver’s wide blue eyes, along with poorly concealed hurt, and feels a stab of guilt. This isn’t Silver’s fault—he’s only himself, and has no way to know he’s sharing space with a ghost.
“It’s nothing,” Flint says unconvincingly. Immediately, he can see Silver retreat into himself, the wheels turning in his head as he tries to figure out what he did wrong. “It’s not you,” he amends, which is at least true but not enough; he’d been right earlier, Thomas would have wanted him to do this, and to enjoy it. Thomas would never have felt that finding pleasure with another could diminish what they had shared. Flint doesn’t quite know how to get this back on track, but he resolves to try.
Silver clearly wants to smooth over the moment as well, and he’s far more adept at the task. He shrugs as though unconcerned, though his eyes are still guarded. “If you say so,” Silver says, keeping his voice light. He’s kneeling between Flint’s legs, and runs a hand up the inside of one of his still clothed thighs with a flirtatious smile. “I’ll just have to give you something to focus on.” He hesitates for only the barest moment before palming Flint’s erection, feeling the shape of him through the constraining fabric, applying gentle pressure.
Flint doesn’t have to feign the low moan that draws from him, but neither does he restrain it as he normally would, and Silver looks satisfied again; he repeats the movement and pleasure sparks bright up Flint’s spine; he pushes into the touch. Emboldened, Silver moves to open his trousers; he fumbles with the laces, and Flint takes over for him, gesturing vaguely at Silver’s own clothed lower half, a clear indication: you too then.
Flint refuses to be nervous; Silver has no idea that this is the first time in God knows how long, and he’s not about to make it clear. This isn’t intimate, and if he’s going to get through it he has to find a way to fuck a pretty young man without being sent into a crisis. He bluffed his way into being a pirate captain, surely he can manage this. Flint rids himself quickly of the trousers and settles back onto the bed to watch Silver appraisingly.
Silver has risen to his knees to undress as well but he pauses in mid-motion, fingers caught in his waistband, and stares down at Flint wide eyed, taking him in as though cataloging every detail. Flint burns under his roving gaze, no longer from trepidation but feeding off the hunger it contains.
The moment he sees he has Flint’s full attention, though, Silver resumes stripping. He pushes the already unfastened cloth of his trousers slowly over the sharp jut of his hip bones and lets it fall, making a show of revealing himself.
Flint’s eyes widen. He knows he’s well enough endowed himself in comparison to most men, but Silver—it’s certainly no wonder he has a high opinion of himself. The impressive length of his cock rises full and flushed from a thatch of dark hair, the swollen head already shining with a drop of moisture. Silver takes hold of it, stroking leisurely, swiping a thumb over the tip, and his hands are big but his fingers don’t quite close around it. Flint in no way intends to let Silver fuck him, but he cannot help but imagine how it would feel, to be split open on that thick shaft, to ride it and be so completely filled— Silver is smirking at him, and he realizes he’s been staring open-mouthed.
He’s tempted to touch, but Silver moves first, reaching forward to lightly brush his fingertips against Flint’s cock, which jumps eagerly at the contact. They gasp in unison at this small touch, a first bridge crossed. A slow, fascinated smile spreads across Silver’s face as he traces the pulse of a vein along the underside; he gently cups balls starting to ache from prolonged arousal, then wraps his fingers loosely around the shaft, as if testing the feel in his hand.
Flint watches as he explores, apparently enraptured. Their eyes meet, and Silver flushes.
“Different,” Silver says with a small shrug, as if he’s been caught out at something.
“I imagine so,” Flint replies with a wry, self-deprecating snort.
“No that’s not— I just… it’s good,” Silver stammers, rushing to clarify. Then, “I’ve wanted to,” he declares, painfully sincere for a moment. He moves his hand carefully on Flint’s cock, sliding the sheath of silky skin up and down. “Show me how you like it?”
Flint wraps his hand over Silver’s, adjusting the grip, firming it—he has not, perhaps, been in the habit of being gentle with himself these last years. Silver strokes him experimentally and he bites back a groan.
“Mm, that’s it, is this how you touch yourself?” Silver’s voice is mesmerizing, all smooth confidence again, and it flows over Flint rich as fine wine, coursing along his nerves. “Is this what you think about when you do it?”
“Arrogant shit,” Flint mutters, because he's not quite far gone enough to admit that it is.
Silver continues undeterred, ignoring the gruff response in favor of the way Flint’s cock twitches with interest. “I do,” Silver confesses. “I don’t think you know the effect you have, Captain.” Hearing his title spoken in this context thrills Flint more than he would have imagined. It's not welcome self knowledge, but fuck, he wants to hear it again anyway. “I’ve thought about it every time since that night. Wondered what you would have done to me, if you hadn't stopped. I know you wanted to.”
Flint’s breath catches, enticed by the image of Silver bringing himself off to the same thoughts that have tormented him. He schools his tone carefully before he speaks, trying not to show Silver the power of his voice. As if he doesn’t know. “Hm, is that so? And now that you’re here, what is it that you’re hoping for?”
“As much as you’re willing to provide, I imagine,” Silver says, too nonchalant.
Flint raises an eyebrow.
“Yes, I do know what I’m asking for.” There's mild exasperation in Silver's tone. “Yes, I would very much like for you to fuck me.”
“Christ, the first time?” Flint looks at him, bemused. “You don’t do things by half measures, do you?”
“Are you suggesting there’s going to be another time?” Silver asks. He’s still stroking Flint’s cock while they speak, and it's very distracting.
“No—”
“Then yes, I want you to. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
“Well I wouldn’t exactly say that.”
Silver gives him a withering look.
“Yes, all right but—”
“I want you to.” Silver says with finality. Then he shifts tactics, makes his words breathy, coy, looks up at Flint through his dark lashes. “Want to feel you inside me, Captain,” he purrs, deliberate, knowing his effect. “Do you want me to beg you for it?”
Now that it's been raised, Flint realizes he very much does want to hear Silver beg; he remains stubbornly silent, refusing to admit the desire.
He remembers Silver’s words, what you would have done to me, the mixture of fear and arousal in his eyes. If they’re going to play games, it's time for it to be on Flint’s terms.
Flint grins, knowing it looks feral, then in one fluid movement flips Silver onto his back and pins him with the full length of his body. Silver has no defensive instincts whatsoever, and he’s easy to restrain. Flint clasps his wrists in one hand above his head, and brings their faces close together, almost menacing. “I’ll fuck you if I damned well please." Flint grinds down into him in a demonstrative thrust and he glories in at last feeling the hot press of Silver’s cock against his own. “And your begging won’t make a bit of difference.”
Silver’s eyes darken and he makes a strangled noise, and Flint knows he has not misjudged. Silver struggles in a way that is almost entirely performative, serving only to create delicious friction that makes them both groan. Silver is used to being in control of proceedings, from what Flint can tell, and he is well aware of the appeal of having that control taken away.
“I think you’ve a mistaken impression of your situation here, boy,” Flint growls, soft and threatening, and relishes the way Silver whimpers. “I have indulged you because it pleases me to do so, but do not forget who I am. You understand me?”
Silver swallows, nods. Flint tightens the grip on his wrists enough to hurt, just a bit. “Try again.”
“Yes, Captain,” Silver gasps, and Flint would be uncertain about this—Christ, he’s never considered being this way with a lover, bringing this version of himself into it—but Silver is shifting under him, wanton in his eagerness; their cocks slide together easily now with how much he’s leaking, and Flint suspects he can guess the nature of some of the man’s fantasies.
“A few nights ago, you made certain claims about your skills.” Flint brings his free hand up to thumb Silver’s full bottom lip. “Tell me, was that all talk?”
“No, Captain,” Silver murmurs in answer. His tongue steals out to lick the pad of Flint’s thumb, then sucks the tip of it into his mouth and it might as well be Flint’s cock for the thrill that runs through him at the sensation.
“Show me,” Flint commands, his voice rough. “If I’m satisfied, maybe you’ll get what you want.” He releases Silver’s wrists, and rolls off of him, coming to rest half reclining on the bed, arching an expectant eyebrow.
Silver shifts to settle between Flint's legs, and examines his cock with frank interest; he licks his lips and his throat bobs as he swallows, seeming to gather himself. Then he leans over and brushes his lips across the head. It jerks and throbs at the first touch as if imbued with a mind of its own, and Silver makes a satisfied little noise. He licks at it, tasting, before taking the head in his mouth, lips carefully covering his teeth; he sucks, then tongues at the slit and Flint groans, fighting not to buck his hips.
Emboldened Silver lowers his head, trying to swallow him down deep. Immediately he chokes and gags, pulls back sputtering, his eyes watering.
Flint is going to apologize, but before he can open his mouth Silver's distress has turned to laughter. “Fucking hell,” he says, a rueful grin on his face, "Harder than it looks, that. And here I thought I’d been paying attention all these years.” Then Flint is laughing too. It’s impossible not to—Silver brings such an infectious lightness to this that it reminds Flint of being with Miranda, as they used to, before everything. It makes him stroke Silver’s hair affectionately.
“Don’t worry,” Flint says, still smiling. “Takes practice.” Then he pushes his hand into Silver’s curls and tightens his grip, tilting Silver’s face up so their eyes meet. His tone drops back into one of soft command. “Try again.”
The smile fades from Silver’s face and his eyes darken a degree. He licks his swollen lips. “Yes Captain.”
Flint doesn’t remove his hand, but neither does he exert pressure. Silver lowers his head readily to the task, taking it slower now, exploring Flint's cock, learning. He swirls his tongue around the tip, then draws back the foreskin and licks just under the head, and when Flint shudders and curses he does it again, and again, only moving on when Flint's hands are twisting in the sheets with the effort of his keeping still. Silver moves lower, tonguing ever so gently at Flint’s balls, watching his reaction and the feeling coils deep inside him, almost too much but gloriously intimate.
Silver licks a long swath up the underside of his cock and takes it in his mouth again. He sucks and massages with his tongue while his hand wraps around the base, finding a rhythm. It's sloppy, but Silver is a quick study and it feels so good to be touched this way again that Flint soon loses himself in it.
“Fuck, that’s it boy, I knew you’d be good at it,” Flint grinds out, barely recognizing his own voice. “I think next time I’ll come in your mouth.” The incautious words slip unbidden from his lips but he cannot bring himself to care, not when Silver is moaning low and needy around his cock and he can feel the vibrations of it. “But that’s not what you want now, is it?” Flint tugs Silver’s head up, and his mouth makes an obscene noise as it pulls free of his cock. “Is it?” he asks again, and Silver shakes his head. “You think you’ve earned it?”
“Please.” Silver’s voice is hoarse and he’s beautifully undone, mouth bruised and shining wet, expression hazy with lust. After a moment, he pulls himself together and looks up at Flint with a hint of a smirk. “Have I?”
Flint snorts, refusing to dignify that with an answer. He looks forward to tearing away the rest of Silver’s composure.
“Lie on your back,” he orders. “Spread your legs, knees bent.” He withdraws from the bed to rummage for a jar of oil in a cabinet, not looking back, confident he will be obeyed. He is not disappointed; when he returns Silver is displayed beautifully, hips angled up to present his entrance. He has a hand wrapped around the thick, flushed shaft of his cock, stroking himself as he watches Flint approach.
Flint kneels between his legs and knocks his hand away, admonishing. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”
“No, Captain,” Silver says without a hint of remorse, mischief in his eyes.
For a moment, Flint thinks perhaps he should demand an apology. Their games must have gone to his head, because he imagines telling Silver he’ll be punished for his insolence, imagines laying him out and striking the firm, enticing swell of his backside, and his cock twitches between his legs. It would be too much now, when he has other plans, but he suspects Silver would welcome it. The troublesome phrase next time arises again in his mind, and he defers it by unscrewing the lid of the jar and dipping his fingers in the oil.
He smears it over the puckered bud of Silver’s entrance, circling sensitive flesh, watching the reaction. Silver gasps at the contact, but doesn’t pull away, and so Flint works a finger into him. Even that feels almost impossible, Silver’s body so tight around one slim digit that Flint cannot imagine how his cock will possibly fit; a shiver runs up his spine at the thought of being squeezed in that vise like heat. Slowly, carefully, he begins to move his finger in and out, stretching just a bit. Silver hisses at the intrusion, but it's not entirely a sound of pain, and in moments he is pushing back, whimpering. Flint slides another finger in, giving Silver time to adjust before continuing to open him.
“Fuck, more,” Silver says, wriggling impatiently on Flint’s hand. “Do it already, you’re not going to break me.”
Flint looks at him skeptically. “And you say you’ve never done this before?”
“Said I’d never been with a man,” Silver corrects, breathless but looking smug. “You are, presumably, at least aware that the fairer sex is possessed of fingers?”
Flint chokes on a laugh. “Jesus Christ. Yes, I suppose they are.”
“Just—just fuck me? I want it.” Silver’s eyes flicker away and then back up to Flint’s face, and he bites his lip.
Silver’s cock is still hard and flushed, leaking eagerly against his stomach, but he’s clenched too tight around the fingers inside him, tense in a way that is going to make this difficult, and Flint feels sure that some of his bravado is covering for apprehension.
“I told you I’ll fuck you when I’m ready,” Flint growls, and shifts his focus. He leaves his hand where it is but stills its movement, rising up over Silver’s body to nip at his collarbone instead. He mouths gently up the side of Silver’s neck, grazing the sensitive shell of his ear.
“Relax,” Flint whispers. “Trust me?”
It's a stupid thing to ask, but he kisses Silver gently, like he would a proper lover, and hopes he understands. Slowly Silver seems to unfurl, becoming pliant under the kiss, and the pressure around Flint’s hand eases somewhat. Flint rewards that with a crook of his fingers, searching, humming in satisfaction when he touches the place that draws a high pitched whine. He rubs gently at it and watches Silver’s face turn beautifully open, full of unstudied pleasure as he finally lets go and surrenders to this.
Flint keeps working him, adding another finger and watching fascinated as Silver arches his back and clutches a fistful of his own hair with one hand, murmuring a litany of filthy obscenities. His cock pulses hard, gushing so much fluid it almost looks like he’s beginning to spend, though it clearly offers no relief from the mounting urgency of his arousal. Flint has rarely seen anyone so lost to pleasure, and suddenly he’s impatient, consumed by a need to have Silver this way. He withdraws his hand and the way Silver’s clear blue eyes snap up to his in panic at the loss, a tortured whimper issuing from his parted lips, fills Flint with a rush of heady power strong as any he feels commanding his ship.
He kneels between Silver’s legs, keeping their gazes locked, stroking over the taut, quivering muscles of Silver’s torso with one hand and guiding his cock forward with the other. He rubs it along the slick cleft of Silver’s ass, letting the tip catch on his entrance and teasing him with just the promise of penetration. Silver squirms up against the head of Flint’s cock, rubbing his loosened hole against it, trying to work it inside but Flint holds him firmly to the bed with a hand splayed wide across his hipbone. He’s unbearably beautiful in his need, skin glistening golden in the candlelight, biting his lip, raven dark curls disheveled around him.
“You want it?” Flint asks, though it couldn’t be more obvious.
“So now— you want me to beg— after all?” Silver pants, breathless and grinning.
Flint just digs his fingers into Silver’s hip and looks down at him expectantly, covering the sudden intense need to hear it confirmed, how desperate Silver is for this.
“Yes, please fuck yes,” Silver whines, relenting. “Please Captain, want you in me, God you fucking tease do it.” Silver is straining for him, and after a final stroke to smooth the slick oil over his length, Flint rocks his hips forward. Even well prepared, Silver’s body offers some resistance before yielding and allowing the head of Flint’s cock to breach the ring of muscle.
Flint stills, breathing deeply. Silver, in contrast, is all frantic movement, quivering and clenching around the sudden penetration, raking blunt nails over Flint’s chest.
“Oh God,” Silver gasps. “Oh God, fuck that’s… fuck...” He looks to Flint wide-eyed as if for confirmation, adjusting to the sensation of being filled like this for the first time.
Flint feels unsteady, struck by the magnitude of what he has just done and overcome by the silky squeeze around his cock. He leans forward to rest his slick brow against Silver’s, stroking his cheek with the back of a hand. “That’s good,” Flint murmurs reassuringly into the small space between their lips. “You’re doing so well.”
Silver makes a small, pleased noise, and Flint has to fight the urge to push just a little further into the welcoming grip of his body, instead joining their mouths in a sweet, slow kiss, giving him time.
Just as the stillness is becoming unbearable, Silver starts to shift under him; it's a minute press, hips grinding forward, seeking more. “Please,” he whispers, barely audible, ragged and desperate.
Flint sinks in slowly, only in part to avoid causing pain. He draws it out, relishing the gradual descent into the scorching, constricting heat of Silver’s body; he cups the side of Silver’s face, holding his eyes and demanding his attention, making sure he feels every bit of this. When he’s buried to the hilt, Flint stills. He means to speak again, to return to their banter—that what you need, boy? made to take a cock, aren’t you?—but suddenly he finds he can’t. It’s all too much. Being inside a man after so long brings a flood of strong emotion only enhanced by blue eyes shining up at him, brimming with wonder and vulnerability. He gathers Silver into his arms and kisses his hair, breathing in his scent, just holding him as endless moments pass.
Again it's Silver who moves at last, rocking in a testing motion, acclimating. Then his movements gain confidence, and Flint grinds into him, picking up his rhythm, finally letting himself follow the deep instinct to take as each thrust sends tremors of sheer ecstasy through his entire being and how did he live without this for so long? Fuck it's so good. This last he’s said out loud without meaning to, but he repeats it just to see the look of rapture on Silver’s face at the praise.
Silver snaps his hips up so that Flint's cock drives deep on each thrust. “More,” he’s chanting, over and over, “Fuck, yes more,” and he isn’t begging now, but rather demanding, taking; he wraps his legs around Flint's waist and grasps his hips hard enough to leave marks, pulling him into the maelstrom of his need.
Flint meets the onslaught with savage joy, driving into Silver and kissing him open mouthed and messy, swallowing the frantic, high pitched sounds torn from his throat. Flint rises to his knees, abandoning restraint because it's clear Silver can take this, fuck, clear that he loves it. Silver's keening cries have become incoherent, his voice cracking; he’s sweaty and panting, face contorted, no longer the pretty picture of desire he likes to present but frenzied with it, wild and overcome.
Flint fucks him hard, grunting with the effort, thighs trembling and for blissful moments the rest of the world falls away. Nothing matters but chasing the building pleasure, and the feel of Silver tensing around him, borne up with him in the escalating euphoria of impending climax. Silver's neglected cock slaps heavy against his belly, but far gone as he is he still doesn't touch himself, either obeying Flint’s earlier command or perhaps just too overwhelmed. Flint wants to see if he can come like this, can feel him striving toward it, desperate. But as Flint's own need becomes irrepressible he relents, takes hold of Silver’s straining arousal, stroking a few firm times from root to tip. Silver bucks wildly into the touch, his whole body seizing and clamping impossibly tighter as he spends between them, sobbing with the force of it.
Silver falls back to the bed almost insensible, whimpering and utterly shattered. He watches Flint through fluttering half lidded eyes, still moaning weakly, urging him on, eager for his pleasure as well. That pleasure is too close to be denied, so impossibly close that release is inevitable; the last spasms of Silver’s body begin to push him over the edge, his balls tightening with the rising tide of it; on impulse, instead of sinking deep, Flint withdraws, pumping his throbbing cock furiously. He holds Silver’s gaze as he comes with a shout, spilling in hot pulses over Silver’s stomach and chest so that he is covered with their combined seed, perfectly, gorgeously debauched.
Flint falls forward over him and rolls to the side, gasping. Time stretches strangely as they lay together, breaths slowing, in surprisingly companionable silence. Reality must inevitably reassert itself, but for these stolen moments Flint feels light, as if a weight he’s been bearing for so long he’d forgotten its presence has been lifted. Rocked gently by the sea, hazy in the afterglow of orgasm and the warmth and comfort of a body against his, he could almost sleep.
He won’t. Of course. He shifts and turns his head to Silver, who is watching him with a contented smile. “Fuck,” Silver breathes, voice coming out thick. He rests one hand on Flint’s chest, idly carding through the curls there. “It always like that?”
“No,” Flint says, with a huff of amusement. “Not always.” He is about to make a sardonic comment about the transparent effort to elicit compliments, when to his surprise Silver’s hand moves to cup his jaw and he brings their mouths together in a soft, languorous kiss.
“Thank you,” Silver murmurs against his lips when they break apart.
Flint doesn’t know what to say to that, but he offers a small nod of acknowledgment. Silver is an absolute mess, it occurs to Flint to wonder if anyone has noticed how long he’s been here, or will make note of his state coming out. He rises, and returns to offer Silver a cloth and a pitcher of water before setting about retrieving his own clothes.
Silver looks down at himself, bemused. “Fucking Christ,” he mutters, casting Flint a look as he washes, though his voice is more amused than truly displeased. “Not usually on this side of things.”
“You’d be complaining more otherwise,” Flint says dryly, pulling on his shirt. “Especially on a ship. Believe me, this is the more dignified outcome.”
Silver laughs, a bright, musical sound to which Flint is still unaccustomed. “A true gentleman, then,” he quips, reaching for his trousers. He lacks his usual grace as he stumbles back into his discarded clothes, still a bit dazed in the aftermath and looking conspicuously well fucked. He helps himself to a drink from the bottle on Flint’s desk, then passes it over when Flint pointedly clears his throat and holds out a hand.
Flint is surprised by how easy they still are with each other. Instead of the anxiety and regret he would have predicted, he’s suffused with deep relaxation, a heavy, boneless lassitude he rarely feels absent the accompanying blood and pain of the aftermath of battle.
Still. Flint has not entirely lost sight of reality, and he feels a need to be very clear. “Silver?”
Silver, who had been making to leave, turns back with a question in his eyes.
“It doesn’t change anything,” Flint says. “About your situation here.” The words seem ungracious after what has happened, and he’s stabbed by a pang of regret as they emerge.
“Of course not, Captain,” Silver says readily, eyes wide and sincere, brow slightly wrinkled. “Why would it?”
Flint can’t quite tell if he’s being teased, and decides he probably deserves it if he is.
This is still dangerous, but it's hard to see Silver as a threat just now, tousled and sated, smiling at him like they share a marvelous secret. “Sleep well, Captain,” he says softly, and slips out into the night.
Flint is left to contemplate his perplexing lack of regret, and the unavoidable fact that Silver will be on his ship for weeks yet. Pleasant anticipation curls low in his belly. They’ve already crossed this line, perhaps there’s no harm in continuing to indulge for a while longer.