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There’s barely any time. It could be their last night on land, their last chance with a bed big enough for both of them, and as bone-tired as Flint is from head to toe, he presses himself into John’s body and drinks in every detail.
It’s raining. The pitter-patter’s loud on the roof, less daunting then at sea, still maybe a sign that everything’s for naught. Flint’s too big on manifesting his own destiny to care much for omens. He draws his fingertips down John’s bare arm, tracing tanned skin in the rain-dappled moonlight. He’d thought the sound might’ve already lulled John to sleep, but John shifts into him. John’s back is broad against his chest, slick with sweat from the grueling heat. The blankets are rough beneath them, none over them. That means that Flint can see everything. He takes the time to look. To feel. He buries his face in John’s long hair and breathes in the scent of him, musky and thick, cloying, a little bit of spice and dirt and something else exotic. The arm beneath them moves under John’s body, and Flint curls around his stomach, holding him close.
John betrays the faintest hitch of breath and nothing else. He doesn’t say anything. He’s so good with his words—deadly, even—and maybe it’s for the best that he doesn’t turn them on his captain. Flint doesn’t say anything either. John’s the one person who can strike him speechless. Sometimes he doesn’t trust himself around his wayward quartermaster. He wants to roll John over, press their foreheads together, and say thank you, but he’d probably growl something cruel instead.
His other arm drapes over John’s side. He curls his fingers into the chiseled jut of John’s hip and follows it down to the smooth v between his legs, over into the mat of dark curls. John’s head tilts back, a quiet groan of anticipation snaking out of him, but Flint dances around his cock for the prize underneath.
He closes his hand over John’s sac, thumb petting the stretched skin, and lets the heat seep into his palm. John’s hips shift just a fraction. Flint rolls both balls around his fingers, gently kneading them, then gives a little tug, just to see if John will let him.
John squirms but stays. Flint noses enough black waves away from his neck to brush a kiss over his shoulder. Flint squeezes lightly, earning a ragged mewl.
He’s in a mood just to feel. Touch. Savour John’s glorious body and map out every last beautiful millimeter. He’s too tired to do it right. He doesn’t have the energy to lick the salt off John’s skin or even share a languid kiss, but he finds the strength to twist his fingers, to toy with John’s sac in rhythmic strokes and staccato tugs. It should come with more than that—Flint wants to hiss into John’s ear. He knows he’s been difficult, always has been, but worse than usual lately—he’s a monster barely hanging on. He knows he wouldn’t be alive if John weren’t holding on to his hand, keeping him from falling into the abyss below. John’s difficult too, cunning and troublesome and loyal but not blindly—and ultimately, he’s still there, following Flint into the storm, and he deserves to know that Flint does see that. Flint wants to say thank you. He wants John to know that he’s grateful despite all the growls and glares. But he doesn’t have the words, so he settles for flattening himself along John’s back and manipulating John’s taut balls in his talented hands.
He used to be able to make Thomas come from that alone. John’s a very different man. He indulges Flint, allowing the long, unorthodox attention. He’s tired too, Flint knows. Too tired to roll on top of Flint or spread his thighs for Flint to mount him. He just lies there and lets Flint touch him, so Flint does, wrapping his whole hand around John’s pretty balls.
He runs his teeth along the shell of John’s ear, and as he drags his fingers and pinches just above the orbs, John exhales low and murmurs, “Are you going to touch my cock?”
Honestly, Flint might not have. He’s semi hard against John’s sculpted backside but imagines he’ll fall asleep that way. He evenly counters, “Do you want me to?”
John hums, like he’s unwilling to surrender, but they both know it means yes. So Flint obliges. He gives a final squeeze and pulls his hand away while John shivers in his arms. Flint licks his own palm, tasting John on it, and reaches back to hold John’s shaft.
Already half-hard, John doesn’t take long. Flint strokes him in full, hard movements, twisting and teasing, pausing to play with his foreskin and press against his slit. He arches into it and starts to unabashedly hump Flint’s hand. His hips rolls like the ocean, smooth and strong, artful and intoxicating. John comes with a little grunt and one hand over Flint’s.
Silence lilts through the darkness. Only John’s heavy breathing breaks it. The air stinks of seed on top of sweat, of two feverish bodies, grown men fresh from hard labour in the sun. It all feels a little easier, or at least less doomed, with John at his side. Flint withdraws and rolls over to wipe his hand on the bed sheets—they’re ruined anyway. Then he sidles back up to John and cocoons around him, grateful to have ultimately found the most valuable treasure.