The Silence on Sacred Shores

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On the sixth day gone, Gab feels a thrum of magic he knows as well as he knows his own.

Tense as an overfilled sail and his skin prickling with this distant kiss of Xeheia's gifts, he lopes along the bowsprit, one fist wrapped around a line and the other a leash for the brewing storm, and scans the horizon while visibility is still decent. His braid lashes in the baying wind, an electric tension making the hair along his arms crackle.

Moments later, his intuition pays off.

The sky flares bright as day, lightning flashing across the firmament like a whip across a back. Each swift strike converges on a single point, where smoke begins to rise in a thickening dark column until it looks like it's holding up the stormclouds.

Finally.

"All hands!" he bellows. "Haul out the main top bowline and hard over to starboard!"

The prow of the Screaming Squall rises under a heaving wave, groaning as it alters course. Gab flings his arms wide like he can embrace the ocean entire, plunging into its deepest trenches and at one with the stormclouds together as he embraces his trance, lets the gale loose and lifts the Umbra in grey lurching arches. Sweat courses down his back as he drives the Fury's magic into the Squall's black sails until its timbers creak, the masts strain, the winds howl and shriek through its inhuman figurehead.

Soon the distant smoke resolves into a guttering ship, its sails and freebooter pennants eaten up by flame and its blackened hull taking on water.

Gab bares his teeth. An Imperial ship wouldn't have been this careless with such a volatile prize. Then again, an Imperial ship wouldn't have been stupid enough to steal from Xeheia in her own waters. While they leave the freebooters to their business as a rule—as close to honour among thieves as they get—if they push, then the fold ain't interested in being proportionate when they shove back.

The Squall's drawn close enough that he can smell it now: ozone and ash and crisped fat. Close enough to brace abox and come to with hooks and lines readied. No need for a broadside volley.

Revenge has been well and truly wreaked.

He untethers a line for himself, kicks off and lets it whip through its blocks. With a buffeting from the Fury's magic, he arcs through the rain and lands aboard the foundering vessel ahead of the rest of the crew.

Bodies are strewn about like sacks of ballast. Some are split like a rough-handled sandbag, some charcoaled, some still clutching their steel as though a sword could've saved their sorry hides. Most of them are smoking. The air is alight with cinders and choked with the stink of damp, smouldering wood and seared meat. Blood sticks to the soles of Gab's bare feet as he makes his way over the charred deck.

In the midst of this bloody consecration, Hugo sits in his shirtsleeves, cross-legged with his arms behind his back, frowning as if caught by a stray thought. He looks up at Gab's approach with eyes as black as a starless sky.

"Better late than never," he says, an eldritch flourish coiling through his words.

"Talking about me or you?" Gab's shrug encompasses the dead freebooters, the scorched foredeck, lightning burns forking over wood and flesh alike. " 'Cause I didn't think these little fish would give you any trouble."

Hugo tries to toss his soaked hair out of his face. It clings to the slant of his cheek. "And here I thought you'd decided that captaincy suited you more than first mate does and had seized the opportunity presented to you."

"I do learn best by doin'," Gab says, and laughs at the look on Hugo's face when he wedges a hand into his armpit to hoist him up. His shirt and hair are sodden with rain and sea and sweat, face streaked with ash, mouth and stubbled chin smeared with blood, and he's awash with enough magic that it tugs at Gab's own ebbing trance. He comes to his feet with a stumble he quickly compensates for and that Gab graciously ignores. "Tempting as it was to leave you to the tender mercies of these bilge chuggers, ain't no way for a Furysworn to go out. Would besmirch the fold's reputation."

"Forfend the thought." Hugo sighs when Gab rests a hand on the back of his neck, leaning in to briefly touch their foreheads together. The dark coils of his magic ripple on the edge of Gab's consciousness. Wreathed in Xeheia's glory, he's a conduit of decadent power that drags Gab towards the Fury's domain as sure as a deep-sea maelstrom, and it's tempting to plunge back in and meet him there—but Hugo steps away as the rest of the crew swarm the deck around them.

"There were minor complications, hence—this." Hugo tips his head, indicating his tableau of slaughter. The ship creaks ominously and begins to list as some spirketing gives way in its bowels. He grimaces, a quick flash of bloody teeth. "I'd rather discuss it in more agreeable surroundings, if it's all the same to you. Now, if you could..."

He turns side-on, finally letting Gab see the obvious: his wrists are shackled. The iron manacles are held apart with a solid bar instead of a chain; Hugo's availed himself of a ring of keys but can't reach to unlock himself. Gab himself couldn't have contrived something more guaranteed to piss him off, so he hopes Hugo was expecting his bark of laughter.

"Always so easily amused, Berthelot," Hugo says mildly as Gab takes the keys from him, grinning.

"We'll see how funny you find them later."

"Yeah, yeah, like you ain't clapped me in worse." Gab tries one key and then another in the oddly misshapen lock, then pauses, connecting this to the reddened skin around Hugo's wrists that he'd taken to be chafing. "You try to lightning these off?"

Hugo rolls his shoulders, the movement restricted by both the cuffs and Gab's proximity. "I was experiencing a certain amount of frustration at the time."

"Now you know how it feels." Gab leaves it up to Hugo as to whether he means the thrill of an electric shock or some obstinate bondage, instead turning his attention to finessing the key until it catches the tumblers and grants Hugo his freedom. "Did you get the charts at least?"

Hugo doesn't answer straight away, rubbing at his wrists as he inspects a nearby knot of bodies, selecting one in particular to shove with his boot-heel until it slumps over like a sack of rocks. He tugs some flattened rolls of vellum from an inside coat pocket.

"Yes," he says, folding them out.

"Still don't see why you had to be the one to fetch them." Gab hustles in close to cast his eye over the charts as well. New Imperial escort routes for merchant convoys that they'd been fixing to acquire, only the freebooters had beaten them to it. Bold little fuckers might've been ready to burn 'em if the Squall tried to take them back by force, but they'd been receptive enough to a parley flag being hoisted.

"Don't be sour. You know why."

" 'Cause I would've torn them to pieces?"

Here's where Hugo would usually grace him with an extravagant roll of his eyes. Instead, his expression turns to lead, and he remains steadfastly intent on the charts. After a moment he says, "I had hoped to be more diplomatic about it, but they left me little choice."

And sure, Hugo had explained it at length and more than once: a Furysworn makes for a high risk, high reward bargaining chip for a freebooter crew to curry favour with the navy, but a regular acolyte is just a lethal pain in the ass to be gotten rid of post-haste. Something about the whole situation still don't hang right to Gab, but before he can mount a proper interrogation, Hugo finally flicks his benthic gaze from the charts to Gab's face, sharply assessing for all that it looks like he's not slept since he let himself be captured, and hauls the conversation onto a different tack.

"I trust you kept things in hand in my absence," he says, rolling the charts.

"Nothin' I couldn't handle, and Cammy would've had my back if there was. Prefer to leave the captaining to you, though, all things on balance."

Hugo smiles an odd, tight smile, and taps the charts against Gab's chest until he takes them for safekeeping.

---

On boarding the Squall, Michele immediately snatches Hugo away in order to tally his vertebrae or flush his sinuses or whatever xe insists is necessary to fulfil xyr esoteric surgeonly duties, leaving Gab a free moment to round up some food, heave in a half-barrel tub of cold saltwater and a basin of hot fresh, shake the lanterns awake, and then restlessly pace the captain's quarters.

It wasn't like the freebooters hadn't done just what Hugo'd said they would: hove anchor and scram as soon as they had him on board. The most dangerous double-cross they could've conceived with the most dangerous hostage they could've chosen—besides Gabriel himself, of course. And it wasn't like Gab was in any doubt that Hugo could handle the situation with both hands manacled behind his back. Part of his appeal, after all.

He plucks an overripe grape from the board of vittles he'd commandeered from the galley and bursts it on his tongue.

It's just that, for someone with his particular martinet tendencies, Hugo's been real eager to put him in charge lately.

He's spared the frustration of chasing those thoughts in useless circles by the man himself making an entrance, if a shirtless and beleaguered one. He has the air of someone who has just endured a great indignity, and Gab's pretty sure it ain't all about being kidnapped.

Gab tongues grape skin out from between his back teeth, grinning. "Sawbones check you still got all your teeth and toes?"

"Xe was quite thorough, as usual."

Hugo strips out of his remaining clothes without ceremony. Seeing his lean and naked self in the lamplight, a ripening storm of bruises on his ribs and his bondmark twining inky pathways over his back and shoulders, the novelty of beard scruff on his face, Gab has half a mind to skip the niceties and heave him straight into bed—and loudly set his quarters to rights after a week of eerie stillness —but before he can make a move to those ends, Hugo dips a hand into the half-barrel of cold saltwater.

So Gab lets the dark tide of the Fury swell in him instead, diving readily into the undertow and seeking out the spark of Hugo's presence. Xeheia's power is limitless but a man is not, and though Hugo's taking pains to hide that he's flagging, it's clear as the night sky to Gab. He's managing to draw only a rivulet of magic that won't do shit, so Gab summons him a deluge. The hair on his arms prickles up at the sensation of his power surging into another's bond, intimate like a warm breath on the nape of his neck.

The air splits and floods with the sharp scent of ozone; a burst of lightning scintillates over the surface of the water, bathing the room in a staccato of green light and then dissipating. Steam thickens the air.

"Thank you," Hugo says in that careful way he does sometimes, like a bit of gratitude is a confession of some sort.

Gab waves it off, dragging the heavy chair from behind Hugo's ostentatious desk and over to the makeshift bathtub. Meantime, Hugo settles into it with a groan. It ain't no mineral pool; the water only comes to the crest of his hip and he has to sit with his knees up against his chest, but here in the middle of the ocean, it's a luxury. One Gab's inclined to partake in, too, so he dips his feet into the blissfully hot water, eeling them either side of Hugo's narrow ass and contributing a groan of his own.

Hugo mutters an imprecation under his breath. "You could at least wait until I'm done before you wash your feet in my bathwater." "Be cold by then, won't it."

"That's your problem, not mine."

"Yeah, and I'm solvin' it."

Gab laughs at Hugo's snort of disdain, scooping water over his back and watching its occasional diversion over the groove of an old scar as it trickles down his spine. He hunches over with his arms slung around his knees while he lets Gab sluice the grime from places he can't easily reach. There's a washcloth, but right now Gab would rather use his hands, skin on skin, palms following the water down the weaving arms of the Fury's mark. Moisture makes the dark ink of Hugo's back glisten like a live thing in the cabin's cool lanternlight.

Hugo scrubs his face with a few cupped handfuls of water, then abides calmly as Gab makes heavy weather of reaching around to his front, fingers gliding up his lean belly and over the twinned scars on his chest, something he'd cheerfully admit is as much a lustful indulgence as it is a bid at cleanliness. Hugo's shoulders lift in the occasional deep breath that borders on a sigh, slowly relaxing sideways until he's all but leaning against Gab's leg.

Gab plucks at a blood-stiff spike of hair. "You want this soaped through?"

"I can do it myself."

"Sure, but that ain't what I asked."

Hugo leans all the way back, resting his head in Gab's lap to wordlessly gaze up at his face, eyes as bright as sea-glass and darting back and forth like he's searching for something there. Gab tucks his chin against his chest to stare right back. The room is quiet but for ship-noises, the creak of timbers, the thunder of the ocean rushing past the hull, and he has that feeling he gets sometimes in moments like this, when his heart makes a fist in his chest and air feels like water in his lungs. A feeling like he is fucked six ways through all seven hells and back.

But then Hugo sits forward again and nods briskly, and if the clench in Gab's chest doesn't ease, at least he doesn't have to try so hard to keep it off his face.

He ladles a double-handful of water over Hugo's head, which is pretty good for getting the mood back where it ought to be, though there's still a weird tension Gab can't pin down. He doesn't think it's him, what with his instigating being taken in the usual stride: Hugo clicks his tongue in mild admonition, sluicing both water and hair out of his face with both hands and smoothing them back over his head.

"So, how did it go tits up? Regale me." Gab gathers Hugo's hair, heavy with water and clinging to his calloused palms, and sets about loosening the blood matted in it, soaking and rinsing until the water in the tub turns murky. He drags his fingers over Hugo's scalp and rubs behind his ears, just to feel the bone-deep shudder he can't rein in.

"Two mistakes," Hugo says on an exhale, fingers tapping the edge of the tub. He shivers again as Gab scrapes his nails down the nape of his neck. "On their part, they mistook my restraint for weakness. On mine, I hadn't anticipated shackles that I couldn't get myself out of. I couldn't reach my focus and spent... some time on the brink of trance, so close I could almost touch it. But not quite."

His voice is low and even, but a flicker of his exasperation manages to wear through. Gab can't blame him. That kinda situation can put a man in a desperate state. Speaking from experience, Fury take them both, it's a bit like being edged for days on end. All tension and no release.

"Truly, it would have gone better for them if they hadn't noticed and tried to distract me from it."

Hugo's fingers go still. "Unfortunately for them, they thought putting the boot in would suffice."

"Ha." Gab rubs a sliver of saltwater soap between his palms. Must have been some divine euphoria Hugo had felt, kicked headlong into Xeheia's embrace after striving towards it so fiercely. He would have liked to have seen the magnificence of him unleashed, and not just the aftermath. "I guess that rancid seaweed heap Eloi's lessons were good for something after all."

"Galling, isn't it." A flash of dark amusement breaks through Hugo's pensive mood. "But it was the catalyst I needed, even if it is something of a bear to breathe deeply at the moment."

"Suppose you're just gonna have to breathe shallow when I blow you, then."

A tidy pause. "I suppose so."

Gab grins as he strokes the lather through Hugo's hair, getting it thick with foam then rinsing until the water runs clear of both soap and lingering blood. Hugo's hands rest under the water and atop Gab's feet, thumbs stroking as he works. The soap is one Hugo always barters for at Orlynthe's markets whenever they drop anchor there, for a given value of barter—there's not a merchant on the Hollow Coast that dares demand more than the first price a chosen of Xeheia offers. It has a herbal scent that has pretty much a direct line to Gab's libido these days. The blood, well. That ain't his.

A shimmer of silver remains at Hugo's temple even after one last rinse. Not suds like Gab first thought. He frowns and winds a single hair around his finger to pluck it. "Think your escapade turned you grey," he says, holding it in front of Hugo's face.

Hugo takes it between finger and thumb, more sombre about it than Gab would have expected even if he does wryly say, "More likely it was you."

With a low chuckle, Gab wedges his toes under Hugo's backside and nudges until he gets the message and hauls his wet ass out of the tub. He vacates Hugo's chair as well, half watching with interest as Hugo towels off, half laying out his weapons of choice for this evening: soap, brush, oils, strop, and his ivory-handled razor.

Hugo wraps the towel around his waist and reclaims his chair, sitting back as though Gab's gonna stand behind him and shave him like a common barber. He's happy to disabuse him of this notion by straddling his lap, his feet flat on the floor either side of the chair, his thighs pinning Hugo where he sits. This finally jars Hugo halfways out of his saturnine mood, earning him a glimmer of a smile and a swat on the ass.

Thus apprised of his growing interest in the situation, Gab reaches for the oil, warming a splash between his hands. Hugo's eyes slide shut at the first stroke of his palms across his bristly cheeks, and he takes a deep, satisfied inhale through his nose, hands idly curling against Gab's thighs.

All the tensions that keep him crisp give up their hold as Gab works light circles over his skin, his mouth relaxing from its stern lour, the perpetual crease between his eyebrows smoothing out, his shoulders rounding. It's a singular alchemy, and one Gab won't ever tire of. No more than he'll tire of the thrill when he gets Hugo smiling proper, or when he levels a glare like Gab's about to be on the receiving end of a nonchalant disembowelling.

So nobody could blame him for getting more self-indulgent. Not with Hugo looking like the most pleasurable death imaginable, in Gab's unbiased opinion, so he strokes Hugo's lower lip with his thumb until he frowns and catches it between his teeth, biting down on his nail with increasing pressure until Gab hisses and pulls free.

"Focus on the job at hand, Berthelot." The corner of Hugo's mouth creeps up further, same as his hands adventure along Gab's thighs.

It's a well-worn call and response. Gab grins as he lathers the shaving soap into thick peaks in the palm of his hand. "Getting some mixed signals here, Captain, but you're the one getting his whiskers stripped, so ain't like it's my problem if I'm distracted."

Feels like a crime to cover up the amused crease in Hugo's cheek, but the enjoyment he gets out of brushing the soap over his skin almost makes up for it. Sometimes Gab thinks it's a pity he has his druthers about this—a beard don't look half bad on him, even with more evidence of the grey speckled through it, now that he's got a closer look—but the first touch of a razor to his skin is a pleasure he would be hard pressed to give up.

Says a lot, a man like Hugo trusting someone near his throat with a blade.

He strops the razor and pauses with the blade hovering over the foam on Hugo's cheek, murky uncertainties around his recent behaviour bobbing to the surface like drowned corpses. All the odd manoeuvres he's been pulling so Gab gets lumbered with more responsibility, but not commanding it like he's a right to. It ain't outright suspicious, but not what Gab would call above board, either. If it were anyone else, it'd reek of some kind of mistrust or other, and yet—

And yet, Hugo watches him intently from beneath his lashes, chin lifted to bare the vulnerable length of his neck. His pulse thrums visibly beneath the foam, awaiting the touch of a cut-throat edge.

Gab's always laid an abundance of his faith at Hugo's feet, and this is how he finds it returned. If he's concocting something, he'd let Gab in on it. Sure as storm and sea and stars. Sure as the Watcher embraces them both.

"So, what's with the weird mood." Gab presses at Hugo's jaw until he tilts his head just right. The first crisp pass of the razor over his cheek is as much a blessing as the Fury's magic taming the waves, and Gab savours the way it shears the scruff down to his skin, bringing him back to his usual self.

The soft, barely audible sigh from Hugo's lips is equal parts pleasure and irritation. "I am not in a weird mood," he murmurs, lips barely moving so as to not interfere with the next pass of the razor, though Gab hears the emphasis loud and clear. "At least, nothing unusual considering the past few days."

Gab hums ambivalently, fingertips on the crest of Hugo's cheek, pulling the skin taut as he draws the blade down to his jawline. Hugo has a particular brusqueness for when he ain't in the mood for Gab's agitating, but there's a different kind of distance to him tonight. Hugo's hands quest back and forth along the folds of his sash, though, warm knuckles grazing his belly in pleasant arcs, so Gab gives him until he's shaved both cheeks clean before he doubles down on his prying.

The razor scrapes soap and stubble away with a sound like the tide rushing over sand. Hugo resists when Gab tries to tip his chin up further, but relents in the next breath. Same old instinct every time. His pulse is running fast, thrumming in his neck. Gab lightly rests the razor's edge against it so that it trembles with each beat.

"I could have done the job with half the trouble," he says. "I know you know it, so this ain't all been about getting the stupid charts, which aren't even important anyway. What I don't know is if you're gonna let me in on why you keep leaving me in charge whenever you get half the chance."

Ever unbothered by a genial threat, Hugo narrows his eyes in a manner both inquisitive and assessing. "I notice you're asking directly now that you're the only one with a weapon. And are sitting on me."

"Yeah, you taught me well. You ain't going nowhere till I get an answer, not sorry." Gab strips the lather from his throat in a long, dangerous glide, slow enough that it makes Hugo take a shuddering breath. "I just want to know what's going on, Hugo, 'cause sure as all hells something is. Reckon it's only right you tell me, as your first mate. And whatever else."

His burgeoning temper rumbles like a storm on the horizon, and he lifts the razor just as the Squall lurches over a sudden swell. The lanterns tilt, chasing shadows across Hugo's half-shaved face. A trick of the light makes his expression fold, like he's trying to master some violent emotion, but then the ship levels and he's just as grim as ever.

"All right, very well," he says with the tone he usually reserves for making unwelcome calls, all clipped mainland enunciation and steely decisiveness. "You know as well as I that a life in service to the Fury is a brutal and bloody affair. Its reward is a death you don't see coming, or one you always do. However it comes to pass, fact is this: I won't be captain forever. When it comes down to it, I want to be certain that—"

Fear doesn't enter into his way of thinking as a rule, but Gab ain't ever heard a series of words that punched his heart into his throat so hard. His pass along Hugo's jawline falters, angle of the blade gone awry. Hugo takes a sharp breath between his teeth. Vivid red spreads through the lather. Gab fumbles the razor, dropping it into the basin.

"The seven bleedin' hells are you on about? A few days in a brig and you're planning your own—"

Hugo presses his thumb to the nick and carries on over Gab's protest, voice firm and subtly raised, "—I want to be certain that you're prepared for the responsibility that comes with the captaincy. I'm trying to equip you with firsthand experience commanding crew and ship, which is more than I had when I was thrust into the role. Ask a question, Gab, but for now I am your captain and so you had damned well better listen to my answer when I give it. I don't care if it's not what you want to hear."

Gab learns by doing. It makes sense. Stupid, shitty, annoying sense, which is the kind of sense Hugo's best at and the kind that Gab hates the most. He's glaring at Gab with a glittering conviction, mouth a graven line under the remnants of bloody shaving foam, and it don't bear countenancing that someday he won't be here to flay him alive with that look.

The thought threatens to gut him. Gab murders it quick before it can do the same to him.

"Maybe stop gettin' yourself into shit to prove a point and it won't be so much of a problem." Gab hands him the alum to dab on the cut while he fishes around in the basin for the razor. "All I'm learning is that I ought to be more scrutable or my first mate might be the one to do me in."

"Perhaps." Hugo sighs through his nose, stress lines deepening in his face like he's about to start in on this bullshit again, but he gets some slack in him instead, thank the Fury. He slides his hands over Gab's thighs and gives them a hard squeeze. "Well? Don't let me deprive you of another opportunity."

And just like that, the wind changes. Suits Gab just fine. If Hugo's decided to get over his fit of mortality then it's only a good thing. That kind of shit gets self-fulfilling real fast.

He adjusts his straddle over Hugo's lap, his thighs bracketing his hips and closing their bodies together, skin to hot skin. Hugo's pulse is vital and strong where Gab's manoeuvring's stirred his interest again. He makes a small noise of disgruntlement, bruised ribs probably complaining at the way Gab's leaning his weight on him, but even that imposition isn't enough. He has a savage craving to sink himself into the bond, past skin and muscle and bone and into the seething, crackling essence of Hugo himself.

But Hugo's spirit ain't willing at present. His flesh, though...

Returning the honed edge to his skin earns Gab a gratifying twitch of his hips and an exhale from his nose. He lets Gab tip his face without fuss this time.

With more patience than he feels, Gab guides the razor in small bites to navigate the curve of his chin and the shadowed divot beneath his lower lip, wary about slicing him again or he won't hear the godsdamned end of it. Each sweep of the razor widens Hugo's pupils, tenses and relaxes him in waves, and judging by the warm musk that's scenting the air—strong enough to compete with the soap—Gab won't need to be on his knees for long.

It's tempting to leave Hugo with a stupid-ass duelist's moustache like the etchings in one of his saucy novels, but it would be tragedy beyond compare if that turned out to suit him. So Gab stifles his grin and cups Hugo's cheek to peel the lather from between his upper lip and nose, then turns his face this way and that into the lanternlight, admiring a job well done.

And all the rest. He'll proclaim to anyone who'll listen that Gabriel Berthelot is the most handsome man sailing the Fourfold Seas, but it ain't the whole truth.

"Happy?" Hugo is slightly muffled as Gab unceremoniously towels the remaining soap off him.

There's plenty to be pissed about, but the shave is good. Gab strokes his cheek with the edge of his thumb. "Smooth as that whiskey you had stashed in your desk drawer."

"I'll find the bottle empty, I presume."

"Actin' captain's privilege." Gab rests his hands on Hugo's bare shoulders, not quite touching his mark. "Put on one of your cravats while I polished it off, if it makes you feel any better."

"And your feet on my desk, no doubt. You must have cut quite the figure." Hugo pauses, tongue passing over the split that's healing in his lower lip.

It's the wrong kind of pause on the heels of that flavour of compliment. Gab finds himself bracing.

"You ought to think about how it would benefit you to captain your own vessel before you're elevated to Patriarch. Eloi and his coterie won't like you fostering more widespread loyalty among the fleet, which is exactly why I think you should."

Should've known the bastard wouldn't let it go so easy. It pisses Gab off enough that the words fly from his tongue before he can belay them. "I don't give six fucks in a high wind about politics right now, and I sure as hells ain't interested in any ship you're not on."

It's more plain than they speak as a rule. Hugo's looking at him in reproach, which is worse than if he'd just said something for Gab to argue with, so he rattles on in order to make him stop.

"Except maybe the Siren, just because Auxier would shit herself with rage."

Hugo makes further pained expressions, but his response is dry when it comes. "That is the opposite of what I was suggesting."

"Yeah, yeah. Someday soon enough I'm gonna have the fold entire at my beck, then you can whisper in my ear to your calculatin' heart's content, but for now... look, I just wanna smother myself between your legs without you ruining the godsdamn mood." Gab spreads his fingers, tracing the black gyre of a tentacle. "If that ain't too much to ask. Captain."

"I thought the mood was the problem." Hugo shivers at Gab's touch, or the impiety of it, though he remains arid. "But all right. It'll save me the trouble."

But instead shoving Gab off his lap and manhandling him down between his thighs, Hugo digs strong fingers into the crook of Gab's neck and leans up to kiss him: in the hollow of this throat, at the angle of his jaw, then on the mouth, intent and insistent in a way that makes Gab's heart grate itself on his ribs. Then he catches Gab's lip between his teeth with unforgiving savagery, biting down at the same time as he takes a rough hold on his braid and wraps it tight around his fist.

Gab's scalp prickles and his lip throbs; pleasure-pain beats a direct path to his dick, and he considers forgiving him for the time being, or at least until he's come. He resists as Hugo pushes at him, throwing his weight around until his lip curls on the brink of true wrath, then with a smug grin he slips to the floor, unfolding the towel and pushing his legs apart.

The heavy scent of musk sends a thunder through Gab's veins and a rush of wetness between his legs; it's no less intoxicating than the first time, when Hugo had driven him to the ground and mounted his face. He takes a moment to admire the sight before him: Hugo's cunt swollen and wet with desire for him, his clit achingly stiff amongst dark, damp curls.

But a moment only. He ain't got that much willpower.

Neither does Hugo right now. He drags Gab to his cunt by the braid and anchors him there with the strength in his leanly muscled thighs. It's humid in the cradle of his groin, from the bathwater and the heat of his body and the tart, slick arousal coating his skin, and now Gab's rapidly quickening breath. The blood in his ears rushes like the ocean as he presses his mouth to Hugo's clit and feels it jump against his lips. The way his thighs immediately clamp around Gab's head warn him it'll be over too quick if he really blows him, so Gab curls his tongue and slips it between his folds instead, drowning in the taste of him with every deep lick.

He plumbs the searing depths of Hugo's cunt from end to end, then sucks the lips into his mouth in turn, devouring him like he's a final meal. He's always been hungry for everything he can get from his captain—not just like this, but every glance and touch and word of praise or reprimand—but the satin slide of his cunt against his lips is a more visceral reward, his loud and ragged exhales, the clench of his thighs and the ruthless grip tightening in his hair.

Hugo tucks a hand between them to brush his own clit; a fresh surge of fluids flood Gab's mouth, and all his restraint is swept off the table. He thrusts a hand under his slops and curls two fingers inside himself, brings himself off hard and rough because he ain't got any choice in the matter. Not when Hugo's shuddering and jerking his hips demandingly against Gab's face, chasing the last of what he needs.

Gab plies his clit with sharp sucks and flicks of his tongue, feeling his climax build in the flex of his abdomen, the soft guttural sigh of his breath. When his muscles snap rigid, balanced on the knife edge, his thighs squeezing so tight against Gab's ears his jewellery digs in painfully, Gab flattens his tongue over Hugo's cunt so he can feel every bit of it when he comes—the rapid pull and release, the pulse of his clit and the convulsion all along his seam, the hot rush against Gab's lips as he spends and spends.

It's in storms of violence and storms of pleasure when Hugo really lets himself go, and Gab savours every full-throated groan and unrestrained thrash as passionately as he does the sound of a rapier being drawn. It's no blade at a throat, but there's trust in this, too.

And here: Hugo relaxes bonelessly in his chair, panting, his cheeks pinked and a rare, loose half-smile on his face.

"Problem?" he says breathlessly when Gab grins wide at him. "It's been a week. Or did you think I got myself off in a filthy freebooter brig?"

"I ain't gonna think about if you did or didn't, no offence." Gab gets his feet under him and tries to stand, only for Hugo to bring him back down with a sharp tug of his braid. "Hey—"

Hugo hooks one leg over Gab's shoulder, his usual crisp demeanour back in play. "Argue all you like, Berthelot. I'll decide when you’ve had enough."

And Fury take them both if that ain't always the way it is.

"Not ever," Gab says, or tries. It's half moan, the rest muffled as he's wrested back down with a hand twisted in his hair. Might be a day for inadvisably speaking plain, but at least he's got the plausible deniability this time.

Hells, he's not sure if Hugo even heard him at all.

---

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