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When Vane threw himself at Flint, and they went crashing together to the dusty floor of Eleanor Guthrie’s upstairs parlor, Flint truly believed that one of them was going to die. Otherwise, maybe he wouldn’t have let it happen. But, certain that there could be no consequences, he’d let things get… out of hand.
Flint couldn’t say whether violence made all men hard, but he suspected it wasn’t uncommon. How could it not? The way combat sent blood pounding through the veins, heightened all of the senses, it seemed only natural that his cock would thicken between his legs as he fought. There was a reason this was spoken of as bloodlust, and that was how he felt it, an urge to dominate and destroy at least as strong as the desire for sex ever was. And while part of him reviled that urge, or at least wished to, in truth he felt sure it was the very thing that made him nearly unbeatable.
And then there was the physical intimacy of fighting another man, the grappling that pressed every inch of strong, solid bodies together, so viscerally alive, so close---far closer than any other circumstances would allow. The pushing and striving, the sweat, the cries and grunts that could be effort, or pain, or something else.
For a long time, the joys of fighting and fucking had been entwined in Flint’s head. The lust for violence had been almost easier to accept; it was certainly less vilified than his other desires, which he hadn’t even dared put a name to. After all, the way battle raised mens’ passions was an accepted fact of war, used as an excuse for all kinds of atrocities. Hennessey’s words were an echo through his life: All men have it, but yours is darker, wilder. It's what makes you a good officer. Perhaps it was perverse, but he had once thought this must be why his pulse quickened for men, why he found himself excited by their closeness; the brutality which so enthralled him must have generalized, become associated with strong male bodies in themselves.
Thomas had shown him otherwise, shown him that his desire for men existed apart from that darkness and could be a thing of love and joy, tenderness even. Then he had thought that perhaps he had simply been channeling his appetites toward bloodshed, and with these urges teased apart from each other, with his thirst for love and companionship slaked, perhaps his fervor for violence would fade.
It didn’t work like that. He wanted both.
Since coming to Nassau Flint hadn’t permitted himself to indulge his desire for intimacy, unwilling to make himself vulnerable again as he had with Thomas. And so combat became his sole joy of the flesh. He reveled in it, in letting go of his constant, careful grip on himself. It was the only time when anything ever felt like enough, felt like it could be commensurate with the chaos constantly swirling inside him, threatening to erupt.
And it made him so fucking hard.
Fighting Vane was an experience unto itself. Over the years they had circled each other, sometimes with grudging respect and sometimes with open enmity, avoiding direct confrontation. On the few occasions they’d come to blows it had been largely posturing, the both of them allowing their crews to drag them apart. Neither knew who would win, in a true contest.
Now the time had come to find out. Of course Vane would make it personal, would come down from the fort and fight man to man.
Vane attacked like an enraged beast, and before Flint fully realized what was happening he was pinned to the floor, barely holding off the massive dagger Vane was attempting to sink into his flesh. The sharp pain of the impact drove away the much deeper agony of his thoughts of Thomas, and it felt like deliverance. Time slowed until it oozed by like cold molasses, and Flint’s mind, which had been in such turmoil a moment ago, was instantly emptied of anything but the blade descending toward his throat and the hot, heavy press of Vane’s body crushing into him.
Blood sang in Flint’s veins, waking the familiar, glorious fury. He hooked one leg around the back of Vane’s knee, snarling as he surged up hard through his other hip, throwing Vane off balance so he could roll atop him. He carried the momentum of the motion through his upper body, throwing his weight against Vane’s arm to pin it above their heads and send the dagger skittering away.
Now Flint was above Vane, chest to chest, their faces inches apart. Exhilarated at his triumph, he bared his teeth in a feral grin and pulled Vane up by the shoulders, then slammed him back to the floor so that his head bounced off the boards with a satisfying crack. Vane grunted and bucked up in an effort to shove Flint off of him, and instinctively Flint pushed him back down with a forceful movement of his hips, his upper body occupied in the restraint of struggling arms. If he rubbed himself against Vane just a bit, it was an aggressive action, an animal show of dominance. Except that suddenly he registered what he was pressing into, felt the unmistakable column of rigid flesh trapped against his own rock-hard cock, and fuck Vane was big---
Flint lost concentration only for an instant, but it was more than enough for Vane to break free from his grip and then they were grappling again, each trying to gain purchase, and somehow Vane’s thigh slid between Flint’s legs and instead of bringing it up to do damage Vane was grabbing the firm swell of his ass and pulling him closer and he was rocking forward against it. Vane’s erection pressed into his hip and there could be no more pretending that this was incidental, what might happen to anyone in the heat of the moment; for seconds that seemed like an eternity they thrust against each other in a frenzy of lust and pain.
What the fuck was this?
Flint looked into Vane’s face and saw fierce hunger there, the joy of something unleashed; for an insane moment he thought they were going to kiss. Then Vane jerked his head forward so that it connected with Flint’s nose with a resounding crunch. Flint grunted and snarled as the pain blossomed, once again throwing his body into the fight, managing to land an elbow to Vane’s kidney even as blood started to flow freely.
Vane fought with every part of his body now, and God but he was strong, all sinewy muscle, tensing and coiling as he twisted; the blows of his fists landed hard and true, sending bright flashes of pure, clean pain through Flint, every one stoking the heat building inside him. Grappling desperately, they crashed together down the first flight of stairs and fought their way back up, neither giving an inch, exulting in it, drinking in the power of each other’s bodies. Flint couldn’t remember ever being so evenly matched with anyone, and he had never felt more alive.
Then Vane gained the upper hand and Flint was pinned again, this time with hands around his throat, cutting off the air to his lungs. Vane growled as he rubbed his cock into Flint’s again, and suddenly Flint was so fucking close, the edges of his vision darkening as he rutted up against Vane, fuck he was going to come, he was going to die, he couldn’t breathe and he needed more. In one final, wild heave he threw Vane off balance and rolled with him, gasping for air and straining for release and victory and---
A deafening shot cracked through the air and they rolled quickly apart, jolted out of their private world to stare up into Eleanor’s face like children who had been caught with their hands in the sweet jar.
What could Flint do but continue as if it hadn’t happened? He pulled himself up, gasping, his whole body a mass of pain and frustration, angling himself as best he could to hide the evidence of his arousal. If his skin was flushed, his eyes fevered, he hoped it would be written off as the aftermath of the fight.
The meeting that followed was surreal for any number of reasons. Flint’s skin prickled under Miranda’s scrutinizing gaze; familiar as she was with him, he wondered how much she might see. Wondered if Vane was having the same uncomfortable reaction to Eleanor’s presence. What madness had possessed them? Strangely, Flint found that there was no great change in the tension between himself and Vane. He wasn’t even really that surprised. He’d known, after all, that they were very alike.
When he next brought himself off, it was to thoughts of being pinned down, breathless under Vane’s hard body.
***
The next time Flint saw him, Vane was being escorted into the public square in Charles Town. He looked completely unperturbed, despite being nominally in custody, and moved with easy grace to sit next to Flint on the gallows.
“Figured, if anyone is going to make a trophy of you, it really ought to be me,” Vane had said, and his low, gravelly voice had vibrated through Flint, strangely soothing, an assurance that he wasn’t alone here anymore. He couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have as an ally at that moment.
“Let’s remind them that they were right to be afraid,” Flint had said, and the look Vane had given him in return set his blood alight.
They cut a swath of destruction through the city, a whirlwind of savagery, their glittering swords arcing in a deadly, graceful dance. They moved instinctively to protect each other, each driving the other onward, fighting as two halves of the same whole. For those glorious moments they were indestructible, raging gods of war and chaos, making the world cower before them. The brutal power flowed through Flint like molten gold, strong enough to fight the cold pain of loss and grief.
Sooner than he'd have liked it was over, and his awful new reality came crashing down upon him.
***
Flint found some satisfaction in demolishing the city, watching it collapse into rubble and ash at his command. It wasn’t nearly enough to calm the turmoil in his soul. He thought of Miranda, one moment alive, screaming, furious, and the next still as stone, the life snatched from her body. He remembered sinking his sword into Peter Ashe, how easily his flesh had given way to the thrust of the blade. The look in Peter's eyes as he was finally forced to reckon with what he had unleashed, and the light in those eyes going out while Flint forced his gaze to Miranda’s body.
That was what Flint needed. He needed to look into Peter’s face and kill him a dozen more times, in a dozen more ways. He needed to hunt down every last member of the colonial militia and slaughter them one by one, needed to kill anyone who even thought of aligning themselves with the hateful power of England.
But there was no possibility for that right now, caged as he was on this ship. And so he stood frozen at the railing, grief and fury hollowing him out until nothing was left but a shell, porcelain-hard, brimming with grief and fury. He hardly dared speak to his crewmen, not sure he could pretend to be anything other than a raging beast.
He thought of taking refuge in his cabin, getting so drunk that he would have no choice but to sink into unconsciousness. But he had ordered that Silver be put there. Silver, who was still unconscious and growing feverish. Flint couldn't possibly face the great welling of emotion which had threatened to choke him when he'd looked at Silver’s prone form. That Silver, who professed to be driven only by self-interest, had made such a sacrifice, remained loyal even through torture by Vane’s men while someone like Peter Ashe had---
Even as rage boiled up in Flint again, his mind caught on something. Vane’s men. Who had come to steal the ship. Vane, who was still here.
As soon as he thought it, he knew what he wanted. Needed.
Flint didn’t let himself think as his feet carried him to the door of Vane’s cabin, one of the several intended for officers on the ship. He knocked, barely waiting for an answer before stalking in.
Vane rose to meet him, face unreadable. It was the first time they’d been alone since Eleanor’s. They squared off in the middle of the cabin, eyes locked, and Flint felt his pulse quicken.
“You and I have unfinished business,” he said.
Vane raised an eyebrow. “That so?” He took another step forward, crowding into Flint’s space. It might have been an aggressive gesture, or an intimate one.
Now that Flint was here, he didn’t know how to start. Didn’t even know if they were of the same mind about what this was to be, although the way Vane’s eyes darkened, the way his chest rose and fell just a little too quickly…
“You,” Flint said softly, a deadly edge to his voice, “tried to steal my fucking ship.” He sank into a defensive stance, sidestepping slightly and turning in, instinctively looking for advantage even as excitement surged through him.
Vane moved in the other direction, and they circled each other like predators. “You owe me the fucking ship,” Vane purred, voice like a lover’s caress.
Flint moved first, lunging hard and fast for Vane, who ducked to the side and twisted, using Flint’s unchecked momentum to send them both crashing into the wall. He pinned Flint with a forearm to his chest, pressing their bodies flush. It all happened in an instant, and provided Flint with all of the confirmation he needed. He gave himself only a moment to savor the feel of Vane’s hardness against his own before he let his whole body drop and threw his weight forward, knocking Vane off balance, and then they were fighting savagely, crashing to the floor in a mad tangle of limbs and fists.
The relief was immense; a stifling weight lifted, and Flint could breathe again as he poured everything into the struggle. At first the lust was secondary, simply something it was a relief not to have to hide as he slaked the much stronger thirst for violence. They were extraordinarily well-matched, neither able to maintain the upper hand for long, and slowly Flint’s body began to exhaust itself. Some of the frenzied, destructive energy burned off, leaving in its wake something deeper, more complex.
Their assaults grew less vicious. Grunts of effort became carnal groans as the rocking of Flint’s hips turned rhythmic, and lost the illusion of being an attempt to buck Vane off. Instead of pushing Vane away, Flint realized he was clutching him closer, and Vane was rubbing wantonly against him in turn, an echo of the position in which they’d been interrupted just days ago.
Vane smelled of cigar smoke and rum, and an animal musk that sent a fresh wave of desire through Flint, the urge to hurt becoming an urge to take, to claim, to sink his teeth into flesh and bury his cock so deep in Vane that nothing else would matter. For a moment he seriously considered the possibility of fucking Vane---God, how that would be---but he shook off the thought as soon as it came to him.
Instead he grabbed a fistful of braided hair and pulled hard, watching with satisfaction as Vane’s cool blue eyes widened a fraction, then wrenched Vane’s head down and brought their mouths together in a brutal kiss. He’d thought Vane might shy away from this, but he threw himself into it, making it another kind of battle, a ravenous contest of teeth and tongues fighting for dominance, mimicking the push and slide of their still clothed cocks. It was so good, a simple, bestial joining, and part of him wanted to come like this, couldn’t bear the thought of stopping even for a moment. But he wanted more.
Flint bit Vane’s bottom lip hard, so hard that he tasted the salt and iron of blood, and as Vane cried out against his mouth he surged upward, rolling them so that they were side by side. It granted him enough space to get his hands between their bodies and he moved to undo the fastenings of Vane’s absurdly tight trousers, eager to touch bare skin. He paused for a moment to look into Vane’s face, not sure what obscure rules the man might be operating under. Vane leered at Flint and grabbed his hand, shoving it hard into the large bulge at his crotch.
Flint pulled open the constraining fabric and Vane’s cock sprang free, just as satisfying as he had imagined, flushed a dark red and so thick his fingers almost couldn’t meet when they wrapped around it. He gave it an experimental tug and Vane groaned low in his throat, so he did it again, reveling in the feel of another man’s prick in his hand, after so fucking long---he shoved that thought down. Vane was thrusting up into his fist; it felt like silk-covered steel, stoking his own desire.
Vane let out a strangled curse and reached for Flint, freeing his cock as well. He took it in his big, calloused hand and stroked it, sending lightning through Flint’s body, making him cry out loud and desperate before he could stop himself, his body tensing and shuddering.
Before Flint could adjust to the feel of Vane’s touch it was gone. Vane pushed him to the deck again, was climbing atop him, mounting him; he spat in his hand and rubbed it over their cocks, saliva mixing with sweat and precome so that they slid together easily. Their mouths met once more, rough kisses muffling the noises of building pleasure as they thrust against each other. Flint tangled his hand in Vane’s hair again, pulled his head back to expose the column of his neck and bit him hard, because he could, and because as good as this was he craved the viciousness of how it had been before, the feeling of losing himself.
Vane snarled at the pain and slammed Flint’s head down, pinning him by the neck, restricting the flow of air to his lungs. Flint moaned and writhed desperately under him, prick throbbing.
Vane lowered his head. “Yeah,” he breathed into Flint’s ear, tightening his grip on Flint’s throat. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
It was a struggle to breathe as the pressure of Vane’s hand increased, and Flint began to fight against it, at the same time frantically driving his hips up against Vane, pleasure growing even as dark spots began to dance before his eyes, and fuck, yes, this was what he needed.
“That’s it,” Vane growled. “You better hope I choose to let go.”
And Flint was coming in hot, hard pulses, his climax tearing through him as he choked out strangled cries, spending himself against Vane’s powerful body until there was nothing left. Vane released his throat and reached his hand between them instead, stroking himself roughly and then he was coming too, sinking his teeth into Flint’s still clothed shoulder to stifle a shout.
They broke apart and Flint lay gasping on the hard deck for long moments, shaking with aftershocks, slowly returning to himself. He felt utterly drained, exhausted, his thoughts a dull, distant buzz. When he was sure he could stand he pulled himself up, still dazed and somewhat unsteady. His throat hurt when he swallowed. He wordlessly put his clothes back in something resembling order, and watched Vane do the same.
They stood and looked at each other. Flint very much hoped he saw some measure of understanding in Vane’s face, and gave him a small nod of acknowledgment.
“You still can’t have the fucking warship,” he said, and walked out of the cabin.