Borrowing Without Asking

The pavement here is uneven and has gathered puddles in the evening rain. There are no lanterns to reflect in their murky surfaces in the roughest part of Dampwick Ward, and nor are there guards to come splashing through them should anyone require some aid.

The Ward's buildings are constructed close together and on top of one another; oxidising copper roofed structures salvaged from old ship hulls, interlinked with gangways and rope ladders. It's a warren lined with anchor flukes and fisherman's nets, waiting to ensnare any hapless creature who has wandered into its maze.

Fiddle music and stamping and raucous shouting pours out of the Kelp Club as Tandred Proudmoore strides past. A pack of spivs and toughs are haggling outside over who know what, escalating brinksmanship in the flex of muscled arms and the subtle flash of steel. Their eyes follow him even as they continue to barter among themselves.

He is conspicuous here, in his noble's clothes.

The longcoat and its pips mark him as an officer of the Admiralty, but he's under no illusion that it offers any kind of protection from the likes of the Scrimshaws. His pulse is elevated to the beat of the music and his breath can't seem to make it past the knot in his throat, even once he's past the club and its watchful clientele.

The street here is a dead end, save for a narrow alleyway that cuts between the stone walls of two buildings. It's inky dark beneath the overhang of their eaves and only wide enough for one man, who knows how long, and is exactly the kind of place a fellow might expect to be accosted.

But then, so is outside of the Kelp Club, should one wander past a second time, looking confused and lost. A good way to be outnumbered and herded into the deadest of ends.

The night sky presses down on him. A shiver of apprehension works its way down his spine. He lifts his chin and forges on.

A half dozen paces into the alley he senses someone behind him. He quickens his pace, and so does the person following. Just another reveller on his way home, he tells himself, even as a chilling certainty descends. He regrets the last beer he had before parting company from his crew at the Salt and Shanty. It's left a spin to his head and a stale aftertaste that's hard to swallow.

The man is right behind him, far too close to be polite. Before Tandred can explain it away to himself, a hand grabs the back of his neck and shoves him against the rough stone wall.

Adrenaline paralyses him, sending him into a dull, useless panic. Every drill he'd learned at the Academy, and any advantage he might've gleaned from them, sinks into that fear and vanishes.

His belt is loosened and there's a clatter nearby. His sabre, tossed to the alleyway cobbles.

"Well, hello," a warm voice purrs in Tandred's ear. His wrists are yanked together and deftly bound behind his back. "What's a nice-looking lad like you doing in a place like this?"

"Let go of me," he barks out. He manages to sound more confident than he feels, but in a situation like this, a little bravado isn't out of the question. He regains the presence of mind to struggle. All his scuffling earns him is another rough shove. His cheek grazes the coarse bricks.

"That's not an answer now, is it? All right, then. Let's not bother with the small talk."

His hand clamps over Tandred's mouth. Leather gloves, fingerless, salt-stained, by the taste. A sailor for certain, not that it narrows things down around here. Another hand searches its way beneath Tandred's coat and finger-walks down one tense thigh. It strokes back up the inseam of his trousers, halting just short of being improper.

His intentions are clear. A sweat breaks on Tandred's forehead.

"I'll cut to the chase. A fine fellow like you deserves better than a quick fumble in this filthy rat's nest. So, I reckon you and I should find somewhere a bit more comfy, yeah?"

The man, frighteningly amiable, kisses his ear. Tandred does not shiver. He shudders. He's dry-mouthed but only because his future is suddenly a lot more uncertain than it had been ten minutes ago. He tries to shout for help but it's muffled against the man's hand, so he bares his teeth and tries to bite instead. The man tightens his grip, pressing his fingers into Tandred's cheek.

"The harder you struggle, the harder this will be for you," the man says in a chiding sing-song, leaning into him hip to chest. Something firm nudges against the back of Tandred's thigh. It could be the hilt of a cutlass, but Tandred doesn't think so. "And things are already hard enough, don't you think? Come on now, mate. Be reasonable."

The man steps back. He hauls Tandred away from the wall and turns him around, holding him at arms length. The man's lower face is hidden by a kerchief. Not Scrimshaw colours, but that's no reassurance. He gives Tandred such an intent once-over he half expects him to check his teeth.

"Listen—I know a place," he says, and with an aggressively dashing wink, heaves Tandred over his shoulder.

Tandred kicks out, tries to knee the man in the chest and manages a wordless shout before his breath is knocked out of him, but the only response is the splash of his captor's feet though the shallow puddles, the cheerful cadence of fiddle music, and his own startled howl echoing back to him from Dampwick's narrow winding streets.

The place is a ship moored on the northernmost part of Boralus: the drydocks, where vessels are to be careened for scraping and repair. Not much activity up this end of things at this time of night. Nobody to notice a commotion, or to hear someone crying out. Every step Tandred's captor takes across the gangplank is a step closer to an unsavoury fate.

He's tried struggling. The first attempt earned him a stinging slap over the back of the thighs that he can still feel like a hot brand. The second, the whisper of a knife being drawn and a muttered threat that it wouldn't be a slap next time if he didn't settle down.

His captor's hands nestle in the back of Tandred's knees, keeping him balanced as he's carried aboard. One still holds the knife. Tandred can feel the flat of its blade press against his thigh on every other step. In the captain's cabin, one of those large hands travels beneath the tails of his coat to feel the curve of his backside, mapping it like uncharted land about to be conquered.

"Don't touch me," Tandred says from between clenched teeth. His captor only laughs and gives his arse a pat. In other circumstances, it might have been a nice laugh, a welcome flirt. In other circumstances, Tandred wouldn't be here.

The man crouches, depositing Tandred back onto his feet. It's done gently enough to feel patronising, like he is some delicate cargo the man expects will break.

Consignment, property, contraband. A means to some means. "Is it gold you want?" Tandred asks.

A raised brow is all he gets. The man barely shifts his attention from peeling off his gloves.

"I can get you more gold than you could spend in a lifetime."

After a contemplative silence, the man says, "Appreciate the offer, but it's not what I have a hankering for. You know how it is when something takes your fancy."

The cabin is lit by a single storm lantern set to a low flame. The man's loose hair is a burnished red in its meagre light. A good a name as any, if Tandred has to call him something. He hasn't earned anything less trite. Tandred sways on his feet—the remnants of the evening's drink, his short breath after having Red's shoulder digging under his ribcage, the knowledge that he's in an acutely dangerous situation and has no recourse for help, nor avenue to help himself.

A man who already has what he wants is a difficult man to bargain with.

"I was serious. Don't you know who I am?" he says anyway. He hates the way it sounds and how he sounds saying it; he should have known it'd come off as imperious. Not the right tack for folks like this.

"Oh, I know exactly who you are," Red says. "I mean, that's the appeal. Imagine the Lord Admiral's face when the rumours start flitting around."

He catches Tandred's chin, ruffling his fingers through his beard. By the squint of his grey eyes, he's smiling behind the kerchief, impressed with himself and what he's getting away with.

"Imagine. Proudmoore's last son, bending over for a pirate," he says.

Tandred bristles. "I'll not bend for—"

"You'll bend over for me or I will bend you over myself, sunshine," Red says. His thumb brushes Tandred's lower lip. "I'll enjoy it the same whether you like it or not."

He sounds friendly enough about it. The hands he's laying on Tandred's person are equally friendly. Here, with the pair of them alone and with no risk of interruption, he's confident about groping for Tandred's crotch. At the first glancing touch Tandred jerks and tries to angle himself away, but his balance is precarious with his hands behind his back. His pulse rabbits in this throat.

Red snakes an arm around his waist to keep him steady. It traps him closer to his body, his heat, the particular scent of him.

"Don't," Tandred says, firm and sharp as he again tries to deflect his questing hand.

Red pauses a moment, then persists once more. "Why not?" he says, chasing and catching, giving Tandred a squeeze through his clothes. "Feels to me like you don't mind all that much."

Tandred hisses. He's partially aroused. Involuntarily, just stimulation from the way he was carried, that's all—but, mortifyingly, his cock twitches at Red's touch.

That laugh again. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Red rubs along the outline of Tandred's cock, encouraging him to stiffen further. His thick fingers shape the fabric of his trousers around it, then thumb open the buttons to pull him out and work at him. With a catch of his breath, he springs to full hardness, right into Red's waiting palm. It happens so fast he feels lightheaded.

"My, my." Red is clearly pleased with his haul. "Not bad, Proudmoore."

Tandred flushes despite himself. There's a terrible appeal to his attention, and some vicious little part of him is ready to call himself pathetic for it. An equally vicious part of him is curious to know what Red might do to him next.

"It might even finish your old dear off," Red muses, giving Tandred an idle stroke, "knowing who you belong to. Who Kul Tiras will belong to."

"I'll never belong to the likes of you."

Red goes still. Tandred swallows with difficulty, his throat tight.

"I wouldn't be so sure. I intend to take my time with you, and once I'm done..."

"She would disown me before she'd let any of that happen." Tandred chokes the words out. He is deeply tempted to rut into Red's hand but refuses to give him the satisfaction. "One of the other houses will rule instead. May as well let me go."

"Don't believe you, sorry." Red tightens his grip and does something with the angle of his wrist. Tandred fails to bite back a gasp. "She wouldn't give up on her last kid like that. Too much baggage, I reckon. Oh, that was a nice noise, mate. Do it again."

"No," Tandred says. "Stop it."

Red's hand falters. "But you're having so much fun," he says and picks up again, fingers teasing over the head of Tandred's cock, spreading the precome as it wells up. Rough, slick, relentless. "All right, I'll make you sing myself. Let's have you, then—over the captain's table. What do you think?"

It's a rhetorical question. He swings Tandred around and shoves him face-down onto the heavy oak desk that dominates the cabin. Instinct drives Tandred to try to catch himself even though his hands are still bound behind his back. He wrenches his shoulder for his effort and his impact scatters a drift of charts. Panic spikes in him, clutching in his chest so tight he can't even make a sound.

It's no secret that this is what Red had in mind, but that doesn't mean he's ready for it.

Red flips the tails of his coat out of the way and tugs his trousers and underclothes down to his ankles. They pull tight when Red kicks his feet further apart, hobbling him. His cock aches where it's crushed between the desk and his stomach.

"I think what I'm going to do," Red says, and spits. It dribbles into the cleft of Tandred's arse. He jolts when Red touches him there and thrashes to get away from what's coming next, but Red leans his forearm across Tandred's back, pinning him down as he steadily pushes a finger into him. "Shh—hey, just relax. You'll like this, I promise. Listen, what I'm going to do, is..."

Red crooks his finger. It wrenches a long, shuddering gasp from deep in Tandred's chest, and he curses before he can stop himself. His cock throbs unbearably.

"Got a bit of a dirty mouth, have we? Nice. Let's hear some more of that." Red draws his finger out and spits again, though this time something much thicker rubs between his cheeks, spreading the saliva about.

No mistaking what it is. Tandred's face flushes hot and he struggles beneath the press of Red's arm. He dredges up some anger from somewhere. "Don't you fucking dare." He means to shout it, but his voice is hoarse. "Don't you fucking—who do you think you—"

"You know who I am," Red growls in his ear. "And you know what I'm going to do."

He grips the nape of Tandred's neck and flattens his face against the desk while he guides the head of his cock. He's breached steadily, slowly, a razor-edge of friction that makes him sweat and grit his teeth. Red runs his hand down Tandred's spine as he pushes inside, bringing it to rest in the small of his back. A strange gesture, as though he's trying to soothe, the way a lover might.

Then he props a knee up on the desk for leverage and takes him with a string of rough thrusts, fucking into him as deep as he can get until his cock is thoroughly inside him. Each rock of his hips forces a shallow sob out of Tandred. He tries to arch his back, though whether he's leaning into the terrible bloom of pleasure or away from it, he doesn't know.

Either way Red forces him back down and keeps him down. His shirt must have ridden up because Tandred can feel the soft give of his belly where his body's pressed over his bound hands, the coarse hair that trails over it.

Red waits until Tandred is still again, pliant beneath him, and then slides completely out of him.

"What I'm going to do is ruin you for whatever sweet filly you mother wants you to marry," Red mutters, pushing into him again. He's big enough it makes Tandred's fingers clench, his thighs shake. "Whatever dapper young lordling."

He presses his forehead against Tandred's shoulder blade and grinds into him so hard it feels like he's trying to put them both through the desk. Tandred can only try not to make high desperate sounds in the back of this throat, and fail. He feels a hand comb through his hair, then his head is pulled back. His shoulders lift with it, angling his whole body so his muscles strain and the edge of the desk bites into the top of his thighs, but he doesn't care. He's sweat-damp and panting and achingly full, so close and so determined to not let go until he's made to, but—

"You'd be a good husband," Red says into his ear. "A good husband to them, wouldn't you, Proudmoore? Try your best anyway. Be kind, attentive, caring."

Ah, tides. This poor sod. This poor, sweet, silly sod.

"That's enough," Tandred says, as gently as someone in his position can manage.

Red lowers him back down, his hand relaxing in Tandred's hair to rest warm over the curve of his head. "You'd be dutiful," he carries on. "Treat them right, because that's how you are. Spoil them, because you can. But, see, I'm gonna spoil you."

A slow withdrawal, and then a quick, jarring thrust back in. His voice keeps catching.

"I'm spoiling you, so when you take them to bed—"

"Flynn—"

"You won't be able to think of anything but this. Anyone else. Anyone but me."

"Flynn. Pack it in now, mate."

Flynn packs it in.

He lets out a long shaky breath and gets off him, pulling out in a slow halting slide that makes Tandred shiver. A moment later Tandred's wrists are freed with a tingling rush of blood to his fingers. He lets his hands flop to his sides while he rides out the pins and needles and catches his breath.

It'll be a while before his heart calms down.

Flynn strokes his hair, tucking it behind his ear, and follows with a brush of his face with his knuckles. "Sorry," he says. "You all right?"

"I didn't stop for me." Tandred shifts back with a grunt; his legs seem to have forgotten what they're for, but Flynn catches him and guides him to sit on the bunk, settling him amidst the messy blankets. It's far too much effort to pull his trousers up, so he kicks them off instead, along with his boots, and shrugs his coat away. Already starting to feel the ache. It'll stay with him for a few days.

Flynn leans over him, bracing his arms either side of Tandred's bare thighs. He seems uncertain of himself, swallowing hard enough that Tandred hears his throat click.

Tandred tugs the kerchief out of the way, cradles his face and kisses him, easy but insistent, until he lets out another long breath and relaxes, nuzzling in to it. If either of them were going to come a cropper from this, he hadn't expected it to be Flynn, though perhaps that was naïve of them both.

"Strike a nerve?"

"Might've." Flynn bumps his forehead against Tandred's, his eyes turned down. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips at what he sees. He leans back enough to lose his shirt. "Later, though, eh? I started something that looks like it needs finishing off."

If that's going to be the way of it, far be it from Tandred to complain. "Is that so?" he says, and lets Flynn hook his arm behind a knee to manhandle him onto his back. "You'll never get away with it, you varlet."

His arms fall above his head, wrists crossed. Flynn pins them there one-handed. He cocks his head. "Varlet?"

"Bastard?"

"Bit more colour."

"Rapscallion?"

"Better," Flynn says, leans on Tandred's hip and pushes inside him in a long, ruthless stroke.

"Brute," Tandred gasps, and arches against him. He puts a token effort into trying to free his wrists, mostly for showmanship. The teethmarks he worries into the crook of his neck, less so. Flynn's grip tightens; he drops his forehead against Tandred's shoulder. Tandred can feel him trying not to laugh.

"I don't think you're gonna get out of this one, Captain Proudmoore."

"Aye, seems not." Tandred crosses his ankles in the small of Flynn's back and lets his thrusts rock him. The bunk complains in rhythm. "Ah—you've got me well and truly, you salty cur. I'm yours for the taking."

For all the on-the-nose theatrics, it garners exactly the response Tandred hoped: Flynn gets his knees under him, rolls Tandred's hips up off the mattress and drives into him until he's seeing so many stars he could navigate his way home, if he weren't there already. He presses his heels in when he feels Flynn is close, giving him no choice but to finish inside him.

He gusts out a breathy moan and—tides, just keeps going, working a hand between them to bring Tandred off in rough quick strokes. It makes him come spectacularly, straining against the confines of Flynn's body until Flynn tumbles onto his side as best he can in the narrow bunk, panting.

"All right, okay," Flynn says, once he's caught his breath. There's a slick sheen of sweat on his shoulders and arms, gleaming in the low light. Tandred kisses the salt from the curve of his biceps, tracing his tongue along the crude line of a tattoo.

"Hope that cleared some things up," he says.

"Might've." Flynn stares up at the cabin's ceiling for a moment longer, his chest rising and falling, then he turns his head and gives Tandred a smile. Not the wide grin he flashes around everywhere. The other, quiet one. The one that's for Tandred alone.

It never fails to put words on the tip of Tandred's tongue, but it's difficult to make promises without knowing if he can keep them. Flynn will always have his attention, even though he should know better, but all it would take is some diplomatic catastrophe, some imperative to strengthen house bonds—oh, but he wants to toss those possibilities into the depths.

If he were to sail away from it all, his return uncertain, how many people would truly be surprised?

"You get that little crease in your forehead when you're thinking," Flynn says. He tips Tandred's face to him with one finger and kisses him lazily.

"Aye, thinking," Tandred says tartly enough, though returning the kiss with enough sweetness to offset it, "about the part where you implied I was so desperate I'd ally with pirates after nothing but a good lay."

"Stroke of improvisational genius if you ask me." Flynn nudges at his cheek with his nose. "I mean—I meant to imply I'd screw your brains clean out of your head, but your take has merit."

A laugh bubbles up without Tandred's permission. "You're a cheeky bastard."

Flynn turns his head to look at him, then with some laborious effort and with a forgivable lack of coordination, reaches over to tap him on the nose. "True. But, sorry to say, I'm your cheeky bastard."

"That you are," Tandred murmurs, stretching, feeling his muscles complain beautifully. The stress has drained out of him. He feels loose, airy.

"So," Flynn says. "Thinking about kicking up a fuss in the Shark next week. Someone should probably be ready to subdue a rowdy freebooter."

Tandred gives him a look.

"Of course," Flynn goes on, "the tables could turn at any moment. A lone captain, strapping and handsome as he is, thinking he can march a dangerous man like that into custody? Well, who's to say what might happen next—"