If there was anything that could be said for him at that moment it was that he, Flynn Fairwind, knew he fucked up. He knew it even before the 7th Legion soldiers had kicked down the door to his apartment (unnecessary) and fastened his wrists behind his back with comically large handcuffs (again, unnecessary) to escort him to his hearing in a tucked away corner of Proudmoore Keep.
King Greymane was there, arms crossed and positively fuming with a very noticeable chunk of hair missing from his head and Tides, it was hard not to laugh.
Despite knowing that he’d perhaps crossed a line by organizing a late night party while right and properly soused with a number of other bored crewmates to carry out an experiment to see whether or not the state of the old Gilnean king’s hair in his human form affected his Worgen fur, he didn’t actually feel a single shred of remorse for his actions. To be totally fair, he wasn’t the one who had gone after him with the clippers once Greymane had slipped into an unguarded nap.
Oh, but he sort of wishes he was.
It’s only now, standing in Spymaster Shaw’s office, does he actually realize just how badly he’s fucked up. Unbeknownst to him at the time, Shaw had actually been the one to vouch for him when he was in holding and if it weren’t for him he’d be crammed into some stuffy cell with five other blokes per square foot down below Proudmoore Keep. Shaw eyes him down, unblinking, with a stare that could freeze over the harbor in an instant.
“You should be kissing my boots for what I did for you,” Shaw tells him evenly. If Shaw had been the type to be outwardly angry Flynn might have been able to deal with it. He has all kinds of routines choreographed for The Shouting Superior-type that have worked for him more often than not in the past. This, though; Shaw’s emotionless, calm and controlled demeanor; he has absolutely no idea how to proceed with.
He’s still sorting through his mental flashcards of suitable responses when Shaw speaks again.
“Did I not make myself clear, Captain?”
The aforementioned mental flashcards slip from his fingers and scatter across his mind, never to see the light of day again. He almost makes a catastrophic mistake as he opens his mouth to ask what, pray, the fuck he means by that but then Shaw taps the toe of his boot very deliberately on the wooden plank flooring and Flynn’s eyes are immediately drawn to it. When he nervously darts his gaze back up to Shaw’s to judge how serious he is, he has to suppress a shudder. There’s no hint of anything amiable in the flinty expression the spymaster gives him; nothing that gives him even the barest suggestion that this is all an elaborate joke. His gaze stagnates on Shaw for too long, apparently, and Shaw raises his brows precisely and so minutely that Flynn would have missed it if he weren’t so focused on his face right now.
Spymaster Shaw isn’t the type of man that seemed inclined to ask for anything twice. He’s not asking him, anyway. Flynn crosses over to his side of the desk as slowly and deliberately as he can, holding his breath the entire way as he does, still not sure that this is what he means. Shaw watches him every step of the way, his green eyes intense and unrelenting even as Flynn lowers himself onto his knees before him. He almost waits for permission until he remembers that Shaw already told him what was expected of him off the bat and flits his gaze down to the proffered boot.
He wonders if he’s the first one that Shaw’s ever propositioned this with. With the ease that Shaw holds himself with, it's difficult to tell. He doesn’t know what possibility he prefers more. The first, the fifth, the tenth— he has absolutely no idea.
He doesn’t know exactly how he’s supposed to act in this situation. He doesn’t know what role he’s supposed to be playing here and how grateful he’s expected to act in the face of such an offer so instead of trying to guess he simply does what he’s told. He plants a chaste kiss to the tip of the steel-capped toe, a barest brush of lips, and he knows that’s not what Shaw wants from him. It’s nowhere near good enough. On his next attempt he opens his mouth and presses it to the toe once more, watching his hot breath mist on the metal surface and when he shifts his mouth over to run his tongue over where his lips once were, he shudders at the taste of the polished boot on his taste buds and the sound of the soft exhale above him. It’s not good, of course— it’s definitely not something he could find himself ordering at a tavern alongside a platter of sweet yams— but it definitely has an affect on him all the same.
Getting Flynn hard probably wasn’t Shaw’s original intention but it makes no difference either way because that’s what happens. It comes upon him so suddenly that he doesn’t even realize it until he smacks his lips wetly on the side of the leather and his cock twitches uncomfortably against the lacing of his trousers. He’s overcome with the desire to lick every inch of Shaw’s boot all the way up to his knees but he doesn’t think he’s allowed. His mouth waters at the mere thought of it and bites off the tail end of a groan and mostly, he’s surprised with himself. When was this something he began to want?
“Really, Captain?” Shaw asks and Flynn feels his neck burning in shame for being so transparent. “From this?”
It’s definitely not what Shaw wants, Flynn already knows. He’s going to reprimand him, scold him, punish him, and when Flynn’s dick jumps again it’s nearly painful. Tides below, what had gotten into him? Shaw must have dunked his boot in a vat of aphrodisiacs before he got here because there was simply no way he could possibly be this horny for something so unsexy in every way. The other man shifts above him to adjust the angle of his legs and Flynn willingly chases after him. Nefarious spy trickery was at play here, for sure. There was no possible way—
“Take care of it,” Shaw tells him and it’s not fair because he doesn’t sound even a fraction as out of control as Flynn feels right now. “It’s clearly distracting you.”
He almost looks up at him to once again be a judge of Shaw’s seriousness on the matter but stops himself before he can crane his neck up too far and plays it off like he was simply adjusting his position to mouth at the laces on his shin. There’s a fear, there, that if he meets the other man's eyes that this will all be over. He gasps despite himself and then gasps again when he palms over his cock in his trousers. Without thinking too hard about it he unlaces the catches, pulls himself free, and gives himself a rough stroke that makes him moan against the leather of Shaw’s boot. He kisses his way to the side of his calf, feeling it tense under his lips, and trails his tongue along the decorative filigree lining his boots and hells, how was he already so close?
Between brisk strokes he ponders if the spymaster is anywhere near as affected as he is. If he chanced drawing a hand higher up and along the inseam of his tight leather pants, what would he find there? More than likely he would find him soft as he can’t be anything other than disgusted by Flynn’s submissive display but there was still a chance, however small, that he was rock-solid and trapped against his thigh by the tight leather and leaking over the show Flynn was putting on for him. There was also a possibility that he had already taken himself in hand and was jerking himself silently to this and if Flynn was good he might even let him swallow his cock down his throat and milk him of everything he has. The image is so visceral in his mind and he cums from it right then and there, spilling over his fingers and onto the toe of Shaw’s boot with a drawn out moan that he can’t even hope to keep quiet. He barely even has enough time to catch his breath before the spymaster speaks again.
If it were humanly possible Flynn’s cock might spring back to life just from that but since it isn’t his dick gives him one last weak twitch before throwing in the towel. He doesn’t hesitate as he leans lower with a pleasant heaviness settling in his limbs and returns his lips to where this all began on the tip of Shaw’s boot, grimacing at the taste of his own cum on his tongue. Cum, while usually somewhat of a delicacy for him, doesn’t quite have the same level of appeal when it’s his own. Still, he cleans it all off with his lips and tongue and only then does he realize that Shaw never told him he had to clean it like this. It had just been instinctual. For all he knows, Shaw could be holding out a rag for him.
Once he’s done he finally dares to sit back on his haunches with the intent to finally meet the heavy gaze he can feel burning through his skin like a brand but skids to a halt as his eyes catch on the crotch of his pants. Apparently, even as disciplined as the spymaster was, he couldn’t completely control his body’s natural reactions and was deliciously hard in his leathers. He’s made no move to free himself or even to loosen the front of them to give himself some relief from how uncomfortable it must be, arms still laying flat on the armrests of his chair and Flynn licks his lips partly from thirst and partly from… well, thirst. Shaw hasn’t given him permission, however, so he does nothing.
Did this little exercise actually give him some form of discipline? He shudders at the thought.
“Have you learned your lesson, Captain Fairwind?” Shaw asks evenly, sounding as if he isn’t affected by this at all despite how hard he is and Flynn finally tears his eyes away from the scrumptious package that’s so close yet so far.
The question nearly takes him aback because he doesn’t know what lesson this could possibly impart on him. To be completely honest, he doesn’t even remember why he was brought here in the first place. When he catches the spymaster’s eye again he’s pleased to see that the man’s fair complexion has undermined his authority and does little to disguise the flush of his cheeks. Oh, he must be fuming about that. Flynn graciously decides not to revel in it for too long because he knows Shaw is waiting for an answer so he lies as deferently as he can before Shaw has him shot from a cannon or whatever punishment he deems appropriate for refusing to answer a superior officer. “Yes.” And then, thinking on his feet: “Sir.”
He had been hoping for a reaction but of course, Shaw doesn’t give him anything besides a disbelieving lift of his brow. He realizes belatedly that people call him sir day in and out and it would hardly be helpful for Shaw if he got hot and bothered every time someone spoke to him with a modicum of respect. That, and people are more inclined to call him master, of all things. If anything, it actually seems to affect Flynn more than it does Shaw. There’s nothing he can do about it right now anyway with his dick down for the count and Shaw being… well, Shaw. He’ll just have to add that to his late-night wank material.
Flynn’s not sure what he expects next but it certainly isn’t the Spymaster reaching out a gloved hand to run his knuckles along Flynn’s cheekbones in a startlingly intimate gesture. “Good,” Shaw says with a voice that’s softened around the edges and Flynn holds his breath for reasons unknown to him until Shaw gives him a light pat on the cheek and nods towards the door behind him. “You may leave.”
“Wait,” Flynn says, shuffling closer between his legs and daring to lay a hand on the inside of his thigh just below his erection as if it might give him the illusion of subtlety. Shaw raises an unimpressed brow at his hand before shifting back up to his face. “There must be something else I can do before I leave, sir.” Flynn lays it on thick and easily falls into the coquettish role, looking up at him through his lashes all the while.
“No,” Shaw deadpans, not even batting an eye and it’s probably one of the worst and most heart-wrenching things the man has ever said to him. Telling him he was uncivilised and flagrantly disrespectful to the chain of command in his icy tones was one thing. Then there were all the other things that he couldn’t really remember right now because nothing can compare to a refusal of this magnitude.
“Just to be clear, you’re saying I can’t suck your cock?” He asks anyway just to be sure they’re both talking about the same thing.
For whatever reason, Flynn is desperate. “How do I— what do I have to do for you to consider it?”
A disbelieving scoff escapes from Shaw then and judging by the way one side of his moustache quirks upwards, it’s probably his version of a laugh. Or, at least, something close to it. He feels somewhat proud of himself for getting a genuine reaction from the other man even if it’s at his expense.
“You hardly deserve it,” Shaw says down to him as if it’s an honor to have his dick in your mouth and Flynn catches his bottom lip in his teeth because fuck, it just might be. The Spymaster bats his hand off of his thigh and nods again towards the door behind him and Flynn actually finds himself sitting back in an act of obedience. If he had ever tried to tell anyone that he, Captain Flynn Fairwind, had been taught to be obedient, they would laugh their tits off.
Flynn awkwardly gets to his feet using Shaw’s desk for leverage which Shaw watches him do distastefully as if he— oh right, he does have cum on his hand. He mutters out a half-hearted apology and wipes off the remnants with the edge of his shirt that had gotten untucked out of his pants and situates himself, lacing up his pants as much as he cares to and fixing his belt. He feels strangely satisfied by this experience, having both learned something and gotten himself off in the process, but he also believes he could be more satisfied had things gone his way. Oh, well.
Shaw sighs as Flynn sulks towards the doorknob and shows him a little pity. “Captain Fairwind,” Shaw starts, looking fantastically annoyed for someone who’s just gotten a man to lick the cum from his boots. Now that he thinks about it, however, he’s not exactly sure what the metric for that would be. “If you can keep yourself out of trouble,” he continues on slowly, pulling Flynn from his useless introspection, “I might consider it.”
Flynn takes a second to process what Shaw says to him and, spirits lifted, gives him the most dazzling smile from his repertoire. “Consider me a changed man, sir!” He says, pulling the door open and escaping into the hallway before Shaw has the chance to rescind his offer.
When Flynn finally leaves his office, he feels on top of the world, capable of doing anything and anyone—
—and then promptly finds himself in detainment not even two days later over a dispute with a salted beef vendor on the promenade. He wasn’t technically involved and had just found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Honest. He’d swear it on his mother’s soul.
He’s picking at his fingernails with manacled wrists, bored out of his mind as he waits for the 7th Legion to finish getting the true story out of the other guy so he can just go home and he jumps when he hears keys jangle against the cell bars and unlocks the door. “I told you it wasn’t me, so why did—”
Spymaster Shaw stands there with keys in hand and whatever Flynn was going to argue with what he had assumed was a random 7th Legion soldier dies on his tongue. It’s funny, in a way, how a man who’s nearly a head shorter and half of his width can still manage to loom over him. It probably doesn’t help that he’s sitting down.
“If you’d rather not be a part of our particular arrangements it’s much easier to just say so.” Though there’s no sign of it on his face, there are definite notes of smugness in his voice. What an absolute bastard of a man.
He puts his hands up in defense though it’s made markedly more difficult with the heavy manacles secured over his wrists. “This shouldn’t count.”
Shaw makes a non-committal hum in response and gives him one last judgmental look before leaving the way he came, letting the gate swing open behind him with a clang.
Once enough time has passed, Flynn passes through it meekly and vows to behave himself for at least the next week.