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He takes Flint’s hand at first, then lets Flint guide him, one arm braced against the small of his back. He needs the freedom to clutch at his crutch with both hands, because the forest floor is littered in roots and rocks that threaten his stability. John’s whole world feels unstable. He thought his kind couldn’t lose limbs just like that, but he’s so much more vulnerable than he once imagined.
Captain James Flint is where he’s most vulnerable. Yet, as soon as the battle’s over, they’re hobbling off together. John would be clinging to Flint’s wrist if Flint weren’t already touching him. The rest of the men are left behind to clean up the atrocities. They’d probably like their captain’s guidance. But John’s just so amazed and grateful that Flint’s still alive to let Flint out of his sight again.
He keeps wanting to make sure Flint stays alive, maybe not invulnerable, but at least harder to kill. Except he knows Flint doesn’t want that curse. So John bites back the desire to feed him a swell of his own blood and watch his eyes turn red, so the two of them can watch the centuries turn together.
Flint grunts, “That’s far enough,” and John stops moving. He shuts his eyes, hearing the wind, the low breeze rustling the leaves and the call of far-off birds, animals in the underbrush and human clatter in the distance. Nothing, no one close enough to hear them. Flint’s hand leaves his shoulder, falling away, and he opens his eyes.
Flint treks to a thick tree in front of John and turns around, backing up against it. He looks exhausted, sore and bruised, too spent for this sort of nonsense, though he’d be working twice as hard back on the battlefield. Part of dragging him away was to force a reprieve. The rest was just John needing it.
John swings his crutch forward and quickly closes the gap between them, until he can feel Flint’s body heat more than the humid weather. His hand lifts to Flint’s face, thumb gently rifling through the crusted blood on his hairline.
John brings the finger to his mouth and closes his lips around it, sucking hard. The rush of blood across his tongue makes his eyes flutter—it’s been far too long. He couldn’t afford to drain anyone before such a big battle. But the blood on his thumb isn’t Flint’s, which is a tremendous relief—head wounds are so dangerous—but also means it doesn’t taste half so good as it could. No one tastes quite like Flint.
Flint’s still breathing hard from the exertion, and his eyes follow each of John’s fingers as they tap his lower lip. John murmurs, “You’re too reckless.”
Flint snorts. That’s an understatement, and John’s not much better. “You took me all the way out here to tell me that?”
John keeps telling himself he’ll drag Flint away for another quiet time to talk. He feels like he understands Flint better than anyone, better than Flint understands him, but Flint’s mind is so complex that there’s still so much more to unravel. A lot more to soothe. He’s a beast that constantly needs tempering. But John’s not in a mood to talk.
He was just in a mood to inhale Flint’s scent and rejoice that he’s still breathing. Staring at him alters that desire. Smelling his sweat and musk isn’t quite enough. John wants to taste him too, to run both hands over his muscular frame and listen to him moan. John settles for bringing his lips to Flint’s cheek.
They’re not normally so tender. But Flint’s not usually drenched in blood. John spreads his mouth open across Flint’s salty skin and sucks that blood away, hungrily lapping over it. John chips the drying flakes onto his tongue and laps over the fresh liquid. He tilts to taste it all, teeth grazing the edge of Flint’s ginger mustache. John gently presses his tongue between the hairs and licks that clean too, unable to help himself.
Flint, surprisingly, doesn’t stop him. There’s no impatient sigh or cruel teasing. Flint just turns his face to give John better access, and when John passes under his chin, Flint tries for a kiss.
John dodges it in the interest of making it to the other side, where he licks a red trail off Flint’s jaw and rifles through his beard. Flint grunts and tilts up, bearing the whole of his throat. John stifles a needy groan and goes to town on it.
If he were smart, he wouldn’t take his time—time’s never on their side, and there’s so much more going on than just John’s need for Flint. It’s been long enough for the desire to be sharp but the instinct not necessary—he doesn’t need to lick every last drop off Flint’s sweaty skin. He does it anyway. He locks his mouth around the flesh of Flint’s earlobe and presses Flint harder into the tree, leaning full against him. Flint doesn’t complain. He hooks his chin over John’s shoulder and just lets John play.
It’s good. So good. Not quite as good as the blood in Flint’s veins, because that’s ecstasy—a tangy, ripe drink that never fails to get John hard. He’s come every time he’s drunk from Flint, and he can feel that interest stirring in him—his hips grinding slowly against Flint’s front. Flint usually gets hard too. Usually comes with John does. John can feel the telltale bulge rising to meet him. He rocks his body into it and rubs his tongue right under Flint’s ear. Flint’s earrings have escaped the spray, but John tugs each one in his teeth anyway, just to hear Flint’s breath hitch. One of Flint’s arms loosely wraps around John, hand gradually groping down to squeeze his ass.
John presses back into it, moaning low, and ducks his head to trace along Flint’s clavicle. His tunic’s open enough for John to lick down his deep V. A smattering of hair pokes up between spills, occasionally catching in John’s teeth, but he just spits it out on the forest floor and keeps going. Flint’s other hand tangles through his hair, making a fist and holding him down. He could probably break free of that hold if he wanted to, even though Flint’s wildly strong. John doesn’t want to fight it. He obediently licks what he can reach of Flint’s chest until it’s slick with spit and nothing else.
His hand absently paws at Flint’s side. He closes around Flint’s wrist and jerks that towards his mouth, turning to taste it—Flint lets John kiss his palm like a reverent prayer. John noses into the creases there, laps over the heel, wriggles his tongue between each digit and starts shoving them into his mouth—he sucks Flint’s fingers one at a time, swallowing avidly around them. There’s dirty under Flint’s nails, a plethora of mess beyond the blood, but it’s all a part of Flint’s make-up, so John swallows it down. Even when the taste’s bitter, it’s delicious, because it tastes of Flint. If John could, he’d eat all his meals right off Flint’s body.
He kisses down Flint’s forearm afterwards, right to where the sleeves’ rolled up. His arms are smeared even worse than his face. Which works for John. Every so often, his tongue will drag across broken skin, and a pliant whine will shiver out of him—misery for Flint’s wound and delight at the taste of the fresh blood. John laps over those cuts particularly long afterwards, because he’s built to heal, saliva ready to stitch back together the wounds his fangs open up, and he lends that to Flint. He’s suggested helping Howell before, at least for little things, but Flint absolutely refused to let him lick another man.
John doesn’t think of anyone but Flint as he switches to the other arm and worships it. He trails his tongue right from knuckle to elbow and whimpers at Flint’s side. He needs the tunic gone so he can keep going, so he can kiss and lick and love on every part of Flint’s beautiful body. There won’t be much blood under his clothes, just what little has seeped through, but John’s already mostly sated and now just enjoying dessert.
Flint pants above him, “Jesus. Why don’t you just eat my clothes already?”
John snorts into the hollow of Flint’s elbow. He could almost be tempted to, if they shared the taste of Flint’s skin. He can’t directly eat Flint, isn’t that kind of monster, but is thirsty for all the liquid that oozes out of him. John takes his last lick down Flint’s lifeline.
Then he straightens out to smash his red-stained lips against Flint’s mouth, and Flint grunts but takes it. He keeps his hold of John, kneading John’s asscheeks through his trousers. John wriggles his tongue all over Flint’s mouth, still hungry for more.
It isn’t until he’s nearly humped himself to completion that he finally lets Flint breathe, pulling back enough to suck his jaw again. Flint gasps and groans, trembling at John’s touch.
He mutters the last thing John wants to hear—“We should get back.”
John knows it’s true. He doesn’t want it to be true. He wants to be free of the whole war and somewhere safe and private, with Flint still holding onto him. With James holding onto him. They may as well be completely different people.
John’s already trapped in the same struggle. He begrudgingly wipes his mouth off on his sleeve, hoping his fangs recede before they get back to the others—they make everyone but Flint nervous.
He thinks they might make Flint excited. Maybe later. John knows he should really have a surgeon look over the both of them.
He turns back the way he came. Flint helps John go, repaying the favour of cleaning him up.