Leave an Opening

Wretched city, Stormwind. Far too much cliff and not enough water.

If Flynn had his way, he'd sink half of it into the ocean. Turn the walls into colonnades of coral, drown the screaming survivors and make their bones like coral, too. Let their eyes turn to pearls for him to thieve. He's half surprised he's not been allowed, all things considered, but perhaps in time. Perhaps, as a reward, if he's good.

He's never been good at being good, but luckily the definition has shifted. He wipes his palms on the front of his coat but it's already as messy as his hands are, so he sighs and begins to stomp his way up the absurd number of stone steps leading from the docks towards the city proper. Once they were smooth and evenly laid. Shaw's old flame had seen to that, and so Flynn takes some petty satisfaction in their ruin. Now they've been pried up by tendrils of corruption and bulging fleshy tumours, and one misstep would tumble an unwary individual down their perilous, bone-breaking heights. They'd land with a smack and a crack. Flynn can imagine it perfectly. He grins to himself and keeps climbing, humming a working shanty in time with his steps.

Yep, he'd sink this city given half the chance. Then he could sail all the way up to Old Town and not have to do this blasted hike from the docks. At least he can take a shortcut across where the cathedral used to be. It's kind of charming, clambering over the scorched brick, looking for bits of colourful glass. They shine so prettily and slice so ragged.

At the top of the stairs he stops for a breather, hands on his hips. Someone's lurking in the shadows nearby. Not Shaw. One of his prowling murdercrew, though not here on his behest, judging from the soft hush of a blade being drawn. This one doesn't know better, and that's gonna hurt him.

Flynn whistles cheerfully and runs a hand through the hair floating into his face, leaving an opening for a dagger to slip deep between his ribs. He inhales sharply. Perfect, beautiful.

"Oh!" he gasps, "I'm wounded!" He coughs dark blood onto his assailant. Some of it dribbles into his beard. Messy, but that's okay. Shaw likes it best when he turns up rough and battered and tasting of charnel.

With a grunt, the assassin twists his blade.

Blood oozes warmly down Flynn's side. He flops into the man's arms, hand pressed to his forehead and eyes rolling back into his skull. "Alas! I am defeated. Take me to your master."

The assassin drops him immediately. Rude. He senses the man hovering over him, menacingly shadowy and faceless yet exuding an air of confusion.

"I mean Shaw, void for brains," Flynn says from face-down on the cobbles, and with all the contempt that has inspired in him. "Take me to Shaw."

The man bends over him, and Flynn laughs when he's stabbed a second time, right in the kidney. Trying to make sure he bleeds out on the way there, but more fool him. He keeps laughing when he's grabbed by the ankle, though by the time he's dragged over the first bridge towards Old Town, a trail of gore left in his wake, he's made the executive decision to pass the time by passing out.

"You've made a mess of my floor," Shaw says, crouched next to him, arms folded on his knees and leant so far over his hair brushes the varnished parquet. One amber eye watches him steadily. Flynn expects he's been at this a while, waiting patiently for him to come round. He can sit very still for a very long time, like a spider in its web.

"Technically, your man did." Flynn flashes Shaw a toothy grin as he's rolled onto his back. "Hello, gorgeous."

"Don't give me that." Shaw sounds as dry as ever, but Flynn can tell he's pleased by the way his hand lingers on Flynn's stomach while he peels his coat out of the way—even if he doesn't take much care where the lining's glued itself to his stab wound. It starts bleeding anew. Shaw sucks on his teeth. "Nasty," he says approvingly and smears the welling blood around with two fingers.

"Had worse."

"I can make it worse for you." Shaw's fingernails catch on the edge of the wound.

It makes Flynn's breath hitch. "Sounds horrible. I'm in."

He arches and wiggles a bit, encouraging Shaw to sit astride his thighs to keep him down; his tentacles immediately lash themselves around Shaw's calves, securing him like deck cargo. They seem to think it's gonna be a rough ride, and he's not going to disagree. Shaw spares them the slightest eyebrow raise, then leans over to kiss Flynn on the mouth, slow and indulgent as he strokes at the wound. It feels how moonshine tastes, burning fire and a heady rush, the hint of oblivion, and Flynn's dick hoists the topsails in record time. If that wasn't enough, Shaw catches his lower lip and bites down, just as he presses his thumb into the laceration and steadily eases inside of him.

It's perfectly excruciating. Flynn's eyes flutter shut and a pathetic sound escapes him, reedy and thin what with the breath being punched out of him. He bucks, seeking some friction for his aching dick even though he knows any relief on that end of things won't bring the right kind of satisfaction.

Shaw withdraws his thumb then forces it in again, deeper, opening Flynn up, the rent in his skin tearing wider. He's bleeding profusely, wet and warm and thick and slick and sticky. The smell catches him in the back of the throat. His mouth waters.

"Now who's gorgeous," Shaw says.

He wrenches his eyes open and gazes up at Shaw, at his searing frown and blood-smudged lips and cheekbones sharp enough to kill a man. "Still you," he says and takes the answering dig of his thumb with a decadent groan. "That hurts like a bastard, mate."

"Does it?" Shaw says so sympathetically that Flynn knows he's really in for it. "Is this better?"

He drags his thumb out slowly and instead pushes two warm fingers into him. Flynn arches into it with a guttural sigh. It feels as though Shaw's fingers could slot between his ribs, like he might break them and work his whole hand in there, up behind his ribcage to grab his heart. Flynn would happily let him. His heart pounds at the thought, fat with salt-saturated blood and ready to burst at Shaw's touch.

But Shaw just turns his wrist and hooks his fingers into his flesh and tugs, and Flynn breaks into a cold sweat. His nails scrape and fresh blood wells up, drooling down his side. It feels like he's being flayed. Flynn's just amazed he can bleed at all, seeing as most of it has relocated south.

"Oh, I'm gonna die," he says with a dreamy sigh.

"You can hope," Shaw says. He keeps curling his fingers into him and dragging them out again, lingering so that Flynn can feel in great detail the care and attention with which he is administering this damage to his person. He always was a romantic. Flynn slips his hand to the back of his neck and croons something sentimental in his ear, and the next thrust of Shaw's fingers goes deep.

Flynn groans and rolls his hips, and Shaw rocks his whole hand against him in time. It's nothing like being fucked but his dick is past caring. He's sopping anyway. Every move chafes against his damp trousers in a sweet high note of something that would be discomfort if the rest of him wasn't lit up with divine agony.

His tentacles relinquish the goods, unfurling to twitch against the bloody wooden floor so he can grab Shaw by the shoulders and push him further down his body. Shaw looks up at him over the expanse of his chest, eye half-lidded and wicked in a way that sends adoration thrumming through Flynn's veins. He doesn't seem inclined to give Flynn's dick the attention it wants, though. He puts his mouth to the wound instead. His tongue flicks over it, light at first, tracing out the edges of the laceration, but then more firmly, licking at the swollen ragged flesh, sucking it into his mouth—then he slips his chain entirely and pushes his tongue into him.

"Oh, tides—that's filthy," Flynn somehow manages while Shaw tonguefucks him like he's got his face in the pillows and his arse in the air. Shaw laughs, shifts so that he can get in deeper with wet sucking bloody noises. His collarbone digs behind the head of Flynn's straining dick, vicious even through the fabric of his trousers, and that's it, Flynn's vision blacks at the edges and he comes hard enough it all but snaps his spine.

Shaw sees him through it, looming over him and holding him down by the neck as his orgasm wracks its way through him. His thumb digs into the soft triangle of skin beneath his chin. Blood is vivid on his teeth and drips from the neat point of his beard, his eye bright as he listens to Flynn choke on his own spit.

"There, now," he murmurs, once Flynn's done sobbing delightedly. He lets go of Flynn's neck to brush the sweaty hair from his face. His other hand works his leathers open. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Oh, it was." Flynn heaves a contented sigh as Shaw rubs the head of his cock against his wound, letting it slip along the raw edges and stir up fresh eddies of pain. He swallows. "It was. Are you, ah. You're not gonna put that in there, are you?"

Regrettably, or mercifully, he is not. At the mere suggestion, Shaw's breath shudders out of him. His cock throbs against Flynn's tenderised flesh, and a moment later he feels Shaw spill hot all over his stomach. Flynn cackles at him, though Shaw's more interested in rolling onto his side and catching his breath than admonishing him for his teasing.

He rolls back again with a squelch. "You really have ruined my floor."

"Pff. Just paint the rest of it."

"Wherever will I get that much blood?" Shaw asks with mock concern, as sounds of combat drift up from the compound below.

"Haven't the foggiest." Flynn sits up with some effort, examining the utter carnage that's been wrought across his middle. It's gratifyingly messy and sore, but it'll sort itself out, probably. He idly mixes Shaw's come with the blood glistening on his stomach. "I'm sure you'll think of something. Perhaps your guest might have a suggestion."

"Perhaps. I'll go… enquire." Shaw is on his feet in one neat, efficient motion. He shakes his hand, spattering blood into Flynn's face, then rests it on the pommel of his dagger. With a tilt of his head, he watches the lazy stir of Flynn's fingers. His eye glints. "I won't be long. Then we'll see to that wound on your back."

"You're a darling," Flynn says, and blows Shaw a kiss; he catches it as he slides into the shadows.