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"Someone ought to bend him over and fuck him hard," is what Arno had said to Jamis who knows how many days ago now. About his captain. About Remy Bonnaire.
How disgusting. How rude. How insulting. Talking about the man who Jamis would follow anywhere: who he would lay down his life for. A man who he trusts more than anyone, and whose trust he betrayed. But he's a man who seems to have… something going on with Arno, whatever that may be. As much as it appears friendly, it makes Jamis's blood boil that Arno could allegedly be so close to Remy and talk about him like that. Such a vile thing to say. Disrespectful to the highest degree.
Yet Jamis hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. It's been sitting in the back of his mind, unobtrusive but unignorable. Annoying: like a seagull caught in the rigging, but ultimately something that has an easy solution. Just don't think about it anymore.
He's been doing a good job of it, but that all changes in an instant.
It's supposed to be simple: friendly. Helping relieve some stress. Remy's just been so stressed recently. It doesn't have to mean anything.
But Jamis's hands are on Remy's back, digging into tense muscle, when Remy lets out a moan that sends a crude flood of white-hot heat rushing down Jamis' body. The flame starts in his chest, flows into his lungs: his veins. Fuses with his very marrow. It settles too easily in his cock, half-hard and twitching. His heart jack-rabbits— blood encased in strands of magma, searing thin rivulets into his muscles.
He instinctively pushes Remy forward until Remy's shoulders rest on the desk in front of him.
A tense noise escapes from Remy's mouth. "J-Jamis?" he says: more of an inhale of breath than a word. Hollow boned— a songbird stuck in his throat. His head turns the slightest amount and their gazes meet. There's something in his widened eyes—
Surprise? Fear?
Attraction?
Another bolt of lightning shoots through Jamis's nervous system. The rest of him is stuck in place, spirals forming in his vision as his body refuses to cooperate.
Before he even realizes what he's done, he's fled: escaping into the deafening wind whipping in the courtyard outside. Ascendant moonlight seeps into his skin, clammy and shaking. There's a scent on the breeze of wood fire and cinnamon, red wine and rum: cloying and lecherous, overwhelming as his feet pound into the ground below, dirt flying listlessly. Every step emphasizes his waning breath, and his stomach presses uncomfortably against the bottom of his diaphragm.
Jamis's hands meet a stone wall— where, he doesn't know. He can barely see past one foot in front of himself. Rock scrapes against his palms, worn and rugged from years of hard labor and even more years of a ruffian's sensibilities: a sea of blurry memories flooded with images of women and alcohol.
Now, however, with every moment that goes by his thoughts are only filled with: Remy, Remy, Remy. Remy's back, Remy's skin— eyes as black and shining as striated onyx. His lips, parted and plush. The dark, shuddering crimson overtaking his face and dusting the top of his ears. Something deep-rooted in his chest: tendrils coiling and blooming around those things which are hidden deepest inside.
Jamis reaches a hand down to his trousers, the other steady on the wall.
"Someone ought to—"
He finds his cock fully rigid and aching against his undergarments. Roughly palming at himself, he lets out a groan. He shouldn't be thinking like this— feeling like this. What the fuck is wrong with him? Remy is his friend— his superior, his brother in arms. Someone Jamis looks up to for his strength, his poise.
But he can't stop himself. The bell can't be unrung: Remy's moans trapped in an endless echo in his head. His hand pushes down the waistband of his pants, wrapping a tight fist around his cock.
"— bend him over—"
The heft, the heat of it is familiar: sensitive skin pulsing beneath his fingers like a second heartbeat. He can't help but thrust his hips forward, seeking primal relief. Every passing second floods his body with more want, more need, as he makes long, slow strokes up and down his length. When he looks down, he's flushed a fervid red color— the tip slippery and already dripping precome. He uses the viscous slick to coat himself, making the glide easier while he fucks his own hand.
It's just stress relief. It doesn't have to mean anything.
Jamis' breath hitches as he twists his wrist upward around the head of his cock: ragged, desperate.
"— and fuck him hard."
His mind is abruptly a thousand miles away, or perhaps just up a nearby flight of stairs. Creased cotton parchment maps have turned to smooth cotton sheets on top the largest bed he's ever seen. Lush, brightly patterned pillows litter the fabric that rests beneath his shins as he kneels. Air hangs heavy with incense, a hedonistic humidity punctuated by sweat and curling smoke. The mattress dips under his weight: their weight.
In front of Jamis, torso flush with the bed, back curved at an impossible angle, ass high in the air, is Remy— speared open on Jamis's cock. The tempo is brutal, slamming into him with deliciously loud slaps of Jamis's pelvis against Remy's ass cheeks. Their intermingling moans blend together in a seamless harmony; a singular being made of zealous desire.
One of Jamis's hands presses Remy's shoulder down, the other caressing his waist. Remy's back is covered in small freckles: constellations dotted along ley lines of wiry muscle. They shift as his body is jolted back and forth— his hips complimenting Jamis's own forward momentum. Deeper, deeper.
"Hnn, fuck," Remy whines, muffled slightly by the bedding below. His arms stretch out straight, nails clawing into the linens. They bunch beneath his fingers: clutched, determined to hold onto the one thing that can keep him tethered to reality. "Ah… mm!—"
Remy, soft and pliant, melts under Jamis's palms. A candle close to smouldering: burning flame flickering along his flesh. Almost fully, completely fallen into a world that only knows gratuitous pleasure— wrapping a velvet-lined blanket of himself over Jamis's rigid cock.
Tongue caught high on his palate, Jamis whispers, "Gods, Remy—"
His hand on Remy's waist grips tighter. Rugged fingers lay flat on svelte skin. There's a resistance to it: muscle laying underneath to prevent Remy from cracking open. Jamis moves the hand pressing Remy's shoulder to his hip, rubbing over the sharp, jutting bone.
The panting grows louder as Remy turns his head against the sheets, twisting to look back to Jamis. His irises are made of a midnight haze, glazed over as if covered by a film: pupils blown wide. Gossamer eyelashes flutter as his mouth opens. When their eyes meet, his body clenches: tightening around Jamis. The sensation only spurs Jamis's hunger— chasing the endlessly raging wildfire nestled in his stomach.
"Jamis," Remy moans. He inhales in bursts before breathing out short ha ha has. "Fuck me harder."
And who is Jamis to defy a direct order? He says, something rumbling low in his chest, "Aye, captain."
Another mewl rips itself from Remy's throat as the words settle into him.
Jamis moves faster, and his vision shifts back to reality as his hand scrapes brusquely against solid rock. It stings as he pushes into it— abrasion from expected pressure. His long hair hangs limp on his shoulders and his forehead, sticking to damp skin like a bur. But he continues to work his hand up and down his shaft, sweat starting to drip off onto the ground below. It's a fever like none he's ever felt: every thought made of molten glass, bubbling and expanding from blown, pointed breath.
Then Remy is beneath him again, his skin tinted pink from exertion. Spit pools at the side of his lips as they've spread wide. Bowed, and plumped, almost like they've been bitten— and Jamis wonders which one of the two them marked Remy's face. Jamis wants to know what it tastes like: Remy's mouth, the moisture on his flesh. Wants to know what Remy is beneath it all, and consume it. It's sure to be deep: heady. Tobacco laced with mugwort, or white pine banded by iron and saturated with saltwater.
Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Jamis suddenly tastes blood. Acrid, metallic liquid rests thick on his tongue. He repeats, "Fuck, hah— Remy," and the noise thunders in his ears. An admission of guilt: but not regret. Signal fire with no smoke. Just a thought escaping into the air for all to witness.
A blush covers all of Remy's face and ears. It bleeds into his neck, his collarbone: cascades down his body, every inch displaying their throes of passion. The warmth surrounds Jamis's cock: tight, and slick. But he knows it's just his mind playing tricks on him. It's an unasked for projection of desire. There is no bed, no burning incense, no dewy skin connecting with skin— no Remy.
Jamis's vision pushes back further, to his time in a dream that filled him with a dense, thrumming feeling when he awoke. Remy, undressing in front of a furnace: covered only by socks held up with lacing and shirt cut high at his hips. Jamis remembers the feeling of skin, of exhilaration: of a dam holding back rapids from escaping, but there still being cracks in the wall. Even the slap on his face, while it left no real mark, ached pleasantly when his eyes opened.
Is this what he's really wanted all along? Not Ludovica, not another one night stand— the helm of his heart and his mind steered by his noble captain? Safe harbor held in each other's bodies? He already laid an offering of himself down at Remy's altar many years ago: a fossilized talisman of devotion. All he's ever desired is a space carved out for him next to a person he can call home.
"Jamis, I'm gonna— I'm gonna come," Remy whimpers. His voice catches high in his throat, the words almost completely swallowed. He constricts again around Jamis: the motion matched with the tightening of Jamis's fist.
Fuck— it's just not enough. He wishes it was real: that the grip on his cock was supple, and hot, and needy. That it was cradling him, and that he could cradle it in return. That it was something— someone he could kiss and hold close. But not just any someone.
"Remy," Jamis says again, like invoking the name enough times will make it come true. "Remy—"
His hand is not even a salve to a burn nor a needle and thread to a ripped seam. It's a stopgap: temporary in the way of an eye of a storm. Bold fingertips and a frantic palm could never compare. Jamis's eyes squeeze shut, trying to commit the vision to memory. Remy shoved into the mattress and holding on for dear life, Jamis's hands caressing bare skin hard enough to bruise it, labored breathing overtaking them: lust borne of sworn fealty.
Remy's beautiful like this. Completely in the moment, safe from watching eyes; it's just their bodies, the plush bed beneath, and everything that's always remained unsaid between them.
He knows he's close himself: his muscles contracting with a vice-like grip. Working his cock feverishly, a mellow, fuzzy feeling spreads from his pelvis up into his stomach.
Voice hoarse and nails raking into the sheets, Remy says, "Nngh, Gods— fuck. I'm… I'm coming, ah!—"
Every single one of Jamis's nerve endings goes haywire at the image of Remy coming untouched on his cock.
Jamis's own orgasm cleaves through him like an arrow to the heart: tearing straight out the other side of his chest. He moans as his spend shoots onto the wall in front of him in thick, white ropes. Waves upon waves of pleasure creep up and down his spine, extremities pleasantly tingling as they tense and release in the currents.
And still, with every thought— Remy, Remy, Remy. He can't escape it: but does he even want to?
When his hand finally slows, cock softening in his palm, Jamis opens his eyes. He's met with solid rock: grey, and lifeless. Looking toward his pelvis, he sees his come dripping in dark lines down the stone. It will fade eventually, but Jamis knows that it will leave a lasting mark on himself. His forehead lifts up, and then collides with the wall. It sparks a sharp spike of pain into his skull and his neck, settling uncomfortably behind his sternum.
"Fuck," he groans. "Fuck." He tucks himself back into his trousers, wiping the come off his hand. What the hells did he just do? After he moves away from the wall he looks at his hand. The palm that kept him aloft is scraped red and raw, small shards of gravel digging into him; his other, still sticky.
But even after all this, his hunger isn't satiated— Remy's moans still ensnared in his mind. He can feel it: a deep, tense ache in his bones, even coming down from the high, chest burning like a coal fire. It's something that he's left unquestioned for a long time. Now it seems all he has is questions.
As he starts to settle back into his body, more and more images continue to bleed into his mind. Remy riding him, his hair held tight in Remy's hand; himself kneeling on the floor, palms running up Remy's thighs; Remy underneath him, head tucked close to Remy's sternum while Remy sinks teeth into his neck. He tries to push the thoughts away, but the wind keeps gifting them back to him. An endless loop cycling tightly through his head.
When he gets back to Arno's room, Remy isn't there.
Time passes as slow as sand in a misshapen hourglass. After what seems like an eternity, Remy returns to their quarters, and Jamis is still awake: pretending not to be. Remy climbs into bed, and the only sounds between them are their breathing, their heartbeats, and the low, humming noise of the patrons of the Starfall on the floor below.
The night stands still, suspended like the carcass of a butterfly pinned behind a glass pane.
When dawn finally breaks, something in Jamis breaks along with it.