A Shot Across the Bow

Flynn loiters on the promenade, perched comfortably on its stone balustrade with a bottle of this season's Mildenhall mead on hand. It's a good way to unwind from a decent day's work, getting tipsy while the sun spreads itself across the horizon and sets the clouds and sea afire. It won't be long before the Snug Harbor starts getting lively. This is his favourite time of day—the quick breath before a deep dive.

Already the harbourfront is bustling with adventurers and off-duty soldiers alike. He spies a likely pack of officers approaching through the throng, heading back to their ship, and he hops to his feet in anticipation. He's on the money: he spies some conspicuous red hair amongst the blue and gold livery. Usually he'd prefer to buttonhole Shaw when he's alone, but he's got a good buzz going on, and hey, the night is still young.

Shaw's expression shifts subtly from stiff trepidation to a dissuading frown as he approaches, but Flynn's made it his mission to annoy the blazes out of him and so he is undeterred. He passes Shaw without acknowledgement, waits a beat so Shaw has time to feel relieved about it, then swings around and lands a hearty smack on his behind.

He's not got much going on back there; Flynn's hand stings with the impact. He shakes it out, swearing under his breath.

Shaw keeps on walking for a pace or three, then slows down and says to his fellows with remarkable poise, "Go on ahead. I'll catch up later."

He turns and heads back towards Flynn. He seems calm, give or take his customary glower, but Flynn reckons he's dying a thousand deaths on the inside and so he's in for a lot of trouble. Helpless laughter bubbles out of him. "I'm going to be honest with you, mate. That was like slapping a brick wall," he says.

Shaw catches Flynn by the shoulder and keeps walking. "Come with me, please."

"Absolutely no give at all." Flynn has to skip a little to keep up, even though he's at least a hand taller than Shaw. "I think I might've broken something."

"Then you've started your evening as it's likely to go on."

Shaw marches him along the sea wall, through the narrow labyrinthine streets of Mariner's Row and to his house: a single-room, slightly untidy affair that Flynn is pretty certain he's never mentioned the location of. "Done a little snooping, have you?" he says, crouching down to get eye-level with the latch. He shimmies the lock with his belt knife. The door jolts open. "A bit of poking around in my business?"

"It's my job to know these things," Shaw replies. "Don't you have a key?"

"Lost it in a wager," Flynn says. "Fortunately the guy landed a stretch in Tol Dagor before he could kick me out, so I'm good for ten to fifteen years." He pauses. "If I didn't accidentally spring him along with your emissary, that is." He nips in ahead to make sure he's left nothing embarrassing or incriminating lying around, scoots some of last week's smallclothes under his bed, and decides Shaw will just have to deal with the dust bunnies.

Shaw closes the door behind him. The room falls dark; the last of the dusk light tumbles through the window and lies in a fading pale square over the floor and the bed.

"So, ah." Flynn expects the punishment will fit the crime here, but the thought of Shaw trying to put him over his knee threatens to send him into new fits of laughter. He will have a hard time pretending to be contrite if it's the case. "Listen. I thought to myself as I was about to do it: Flynn, this is a stupid thing to do."

"And yet you did it anyway."

"I certainly did." He offers Shaw an utterly unrepentant smile.

Shaw nods, though remains unmoved. "Take off your coat," he says.

Flynn does as he is told for now, unbuckling his sword belts and throwing his duster onto his unmade bed. He rolls his shoulders, because he gets the feeling he should loosen up for this. In the meantime, Shaw has taken his gloves off, though he hasn't set them aside.

With an open palm, he indicates a spot on the floor in front of him. "Would you kneel for me, Captain?" he says.

Not exactly what Flynn was expecting, but it holds all kinds of promise. Too easy, though. He shrugs. "I don't know, what do you think?"

Shaw swats him across the face with his gloves—a brisk flick, not too hard but enough to leave a gratifying sting in its wake. He rests a hand on Flynn's shoulder and puts his weight on it.

"It wasn't a suggestion," he says.

"This what turns your crank, is it?" Flynn says. He cannot stop grinning. "Should've known." He sinks to the floor like deadweight in an attempt to disguise the fact he's already at half-mast and hiking.

"I'm not the one who solicited this." Shaw's tone is conciliatory. He nudges Flynn's knees apart with the side of his boot and Flynn spreads for him willingly. "Very good," Shaw says. "Hold these for now."

He hands Flynn his gloves. The leather is warm and butter-soft, worn smooth across the ridge of the palms from years of Shaw handling his weaponry. Flynn clutches them in both hands and heat rises in his face.

"I'm going to give you four strokes," Shaw says in his precise way, low and calm but brooking no argument. "One for every officer that was present, and one for your lack of discretion. Do you understand?"

"Yep, yep," Flynn says. "Question."

Shaw takes a deep breath that is for all intents and purposes a sigh. "Yes?"

"Where?"

"On the promenade, when you—"

"No, I mean, where's the slap happening." He gets it, of course, and Shaw knows that he gets it, because he closes his eyes and Flynn can tell it's because he wants to roll them.

"You're making me old, Fairwind." Shaw takes Flynn's chin in one hand, tilting his face to him.

Flynn gazes up at him fondly. "You're already old."

Shaw's hand comes down immediately, swift but at a glancing angle that clips his cheek. A shot across the bow. He's holding Flynn's face firmly enough that he can't flinch away, and a slow warmth spreads across his skin. It's much more demure than the one that's bolted straight between his legs.

"Oops," Flynn says, and guffaws. There's being punched in the face mid-drunken brawl, then there's this, apparently.

Shaw raises an amused eyebrow and gives Flynn's crotch a nudge with the toe of his boot. He doesn't say anything about it, instead backhanding him across the other cheek before he can enjoy it too much. The sharp sound of the impact fills the room.

Flynn wipes his mouth. That one stung, but it's hardly cooled him off. "Are you sure you only want to give me four?" he says. His face is hot and prickling, his breath coming in fluttery bursts, and as far as he's concerned, he's barely been touched. When he runs a hand up the inside of Shaw's thigh he discovers that, for all his measured responses, Flynn is not alone in finding this an enlightening activity.

"For now." Shaw gently catches Flynn's wrist. "Hands to yourself, Captain."

Flynn leans back and beams up at him. Shaw's mouth thins and he slaps Flynn again, firm and sure, hard enough to make his cheek burn and all the rest. A heartfelt groan rises in him this time, and he lets it out because he's got no reason to keep such a thing to himself. They're both here for a purpose, after all, and he doesn't miss the way it makes Shaw wet his lips. Shaw takes a handful of his hair and eases his head back. He does it as though to distract, but immediately undermines himself by stroking the crest of Flynn's cheekbone with his knuckles.

"Last one," he says. "Are you ready?"

"When you are," Flynn says, but Shaw doesn't deliver right away. He pets Flynn's face a while longer instead, stroking his jaw, his fingers rasping over Flynn's stubble. He smooths his hair back until Flynn's eyes want to drift shut. He braces himself against Shaw's thighs, his fingers curling into his leather tassets. It's coming. He knows it's coming.

Shaw brushes his fingertips to Flynn's lips. His expression keeps its usual grave cast, but there's a flush crawling up from under the high neck of his uniform. Flynn kisses his fingers and tips him a wink, and as though it were a cue, or a taunt, Shaw lifts his hand away and returns it at speed, cracking across Flynn's face with a crisp shock of pain that he can taste in his back teeth. It quickly fades, spreading into a tingling heat. He savours it as it washes over him, like he'd savour any other rare luxury he'd bartered hard for.

"You took that well," Shaw says, approval colouring his voice. "Gloves, please."

Part of Flynn wants to keep them since he reckons he could probably coax a couple more slaps out of him over it, but in an act of purest benevolence he instead hands them back without a fuss. He knows he's grinning like an idiot; his heart feels as high as the tide and as full as the moon. He lets loose a deep, satisfied sigh. "Most fun I've had without descending into moral turpitude," he says lazily, resting his cheek against Shaw's thigh. Though, speaking of which. "Say. Can I suck your dick?"

Shaw pauses halfway through pulling on a glove.

"Don't try to tell me you're not thinking about it."

"Actually," Shaw says, "I'm wondering why I thought this would have any appreciable impact on your behaviour."

"So, is that a yes?" Flynn says, and laughs when Shaw cuffs him around the ear, then goes to unfasten his breeches for him.