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“Oi, Cabbage, can ya hear—”
The sound of Bartolomeo’s voice cut out, immediately and completely, and Cavendish was left to stare at his transponder snail for a moment.
When the silence continued, his brow furrowed. He leaned in closer.
“Bartolomeo? Are you still there? I think we may have a poor connection.”
Barto’s voice cut back in just as sharply and cleanly, and the answer to Cavendish’s question came in the form of a loud, triumphant whoop.
“It works! I finally got it!”
“Finally got…what?”
“I figured out how to block out sound with my barriers! Wanted to give ya a call and make sure it actually worked.”
Cavendish frowned, and the transponder snail in Bartolomeo’s cabin narrowed its eyes.
“So you called me just so you could not talk to me?”
“Well, I—” Cavendish’s snail looked pathetically bewildered. “No? Kinda? I didn’t mean it like that, Cabbage, I jus’—I was proud of myself and I…”
He trailed off into a mumble that was too unintelligible for Cavendish to make out, but he could fill in the end of Bartolomeo’s sentence well enough on his own and he softened slightly with a sigh.
“I’m sorry. I am impressed. But why exactly were you trying to create a silent barrier?”
Barto shrugged and the transponder snail wiggled accordingly.
“Never know when it might come in handy. Tryin’ t’get stronger to help Luffy-senpai again someday and I ain’t much of a fighter, so I’m jus’…doin’ what I can?”
Cavendish smiled, fondness curling the edges of his lips at the timid pride that he could hear in Bartolomeo’s voice.
When Barto saw Cavendish’s expression change, his voice lowered and his slight pout slanted into a smirk.
“‘Sides,” he added, “Thought it might…come in handy, sometimes, since ya can’t keep your mouth shut.”
Cavendish bristled immediately.
“Oh, so you’re intending to shut it for me, then?”
“Mmhmm.”
The deep rumble of Bartolomeo’s answering hum made heat rise to Cavendish’s cheeks and he realized belatedly what Barto was implying just a split second before he continued.
“Now I can fuck y’anywhere I want, as hard as I want, and I’ll be the only one who can hear ya screamin’.”
Cavendish would’ve been embarrassed by the slack-jawed expression that Bartolomeo’s snail was conveying, but as it was, his brain had filled immediately with static at Barto’s suggestion and he had no capacity to be anything except suddenly, urgently aroused.
“Where are you?”
He sounded breathless, and Bartolomeo chuckled at the audible effect of his words.
“Few miles south of Karai Bari.”
Cavendish made the mental calculations as quickly as he could, which was long enough for Bartolomeo’s smirk to grow absolutely intolerable.
“Tomorrow,” Cavendish said finally. “I want you on my ship by sunset with your fingers crossed.”
Cavendish watched his snail make the familiar expression that mimicked Bartolomeo’s barking laughter, and the pull of arousal in his gut tightened insistently at the absolute silence that followed the movement.
He took a deep, shaky breath, watched the snail flash him a wink, and then heard one final sound over the rustle of fabric across his thighs.
“Gacha.”
Cavendish spent most of the next twelve hours pacing in absent circles around the large deck of the Sleeping White Horse of the Forest. His crew gave him a wide berth, unsure of the reason behind their captain’s current temperament.
On what felt like his hundredth fidgety circuit, trying and failing to burn off the desperately horny energy thrumming through his veins and prickling over his skin, Suleiman finally approached as the designated spokesman for the crew’s concern.
When he asked Cavendish what was wrong with a tone only very vaguely more preturbed than his usual flat affect, Cavendish responded with a curt “Keep an eye out for the Barto Club’s ship,” and then ignored the sound of enlightenment from his lurking crewmembers.
They continued to give him space, albeit interspersed with knowing looks of amusement, and Cavendish’s boots kept a steady rhythm with the methodical turn of his thoughts, going through each cabin on the ship one by one and trying to decide which had the thinnest walls and the highest possibility of being discovered.
Cavendish had retreated to the dining room for a—hopefully calming—cup of tea when he felt the sudden grip of two large hands about his waist, and he only barely managed to catch his cup and place it back on its saucer before it tumbled to the floor.
“I didn’t—”
—hear you coming.
“I know,” Barto murmured, low and hungry beside the shell of Cavendish’s ear. He pressed Cavendish into the edge of the polished hardwood table and Cavendish felt his breath hitch as Bartolomeo rocked his hips into the small of his back.
“Here?”
“Why not?”
“Because—”
Cavendish faltered. Because what? Because it wasn’t proper to get fucked on the heirloom Bourgeois dining table that he had stolen from the castle when he sailed away? As if they hadn’t fucked in dirty alleyways and muddy stables and wherever else they could manage to get their hands on each other. As if any part of what they were planning on doing was proper.
He turned on his heel, yanking Bartolomeo down by the matted fur fringe of his coat and hooking one leg behind his knee to send them both tumbling across the table’s surface.
Barto grinned against the sloppy press of Cavendish’s lips. “That’s more like it.”
He offered his right hand to Cavendish, fingers crossed, and Cavendish gripped those twined fingers like his life depended on it.
Together, they used their free hands to pull Cavendish’s trousers down to pool around his boots. Barto dropped to his knees, maneuvering awkwardly into the space between Cavendish’s splayed legs, but the moment that his broad shoulders forced his thighs further apart, Cavendish heard his pants rip and he let his now-unbound feet fall to rest against Bartolomeo’s hips.
“Sorry.”
Cavendish peered down along the bridge of his nose, one eyebrow cocked upward.
“No you’re not.”
“You’re right.” Cavendish could tell that Bartolomeo was grinning by the hard press of his teeth against his skin, teeth that sank into the plush skin of his thigh a moment later and lingered just long enough to ache. “I’m not.”
“I wanna ruin ya,” Barto murmured, nuzzling embarrassingly along Cavendish’s swiftly hardening cock. The bridge of his nose came back slick and shiny, his septum ring leaving a faint, cool echo against the thin skin of Cavendish’s balls. “Wanna have ya right here, right under your crew’s noses without ‘em havin’ a single clue until ya wobble back out on deck with your fancy trousers torn down the middle and your hole leakin’ my cum.”
Cavendish whined, a sound that came out high and needy and far louder than he had intended it to. When he lifted his free hand to muffle himself, Barto shook his head and bracketed the smooth curve of his fangs around Cavendish’s cock in a careful movement that he knew Cavendish loved.
“Wanna hear ya,” he rasped, tongue lolling out to lick up the pre-cum that welled at the graze of his teeth. “Wanna hear every single sound ya can’t help makin’, cause they’re all for me now. Don’t gotta hide how good I make ya feel.”
Cavendish whimpered, his cock twitching against the warm flush of Bartolomeo’s cheek as he directed his hooded gaze upward to meet Cavendish’s eyes.
“Can you…Can I see it?”
Cavendish felt Barto’s fingers flex instinctively in his white-knuckled grip and the air shimmered for a brief second before the barrier that surrounded them became visible. It had a golden tinge, just visibly different enough from the barriers that Cavendish was used to that it was obvious that it was different, and it extended far enough to surrounded them both as well as—
He tipped his head back against the table and arched upward as Bartolomeo pressed the flat of his tongue against his hole.
—the half of the table that they were currently occupying.
When Barto pressed two slick fingers all the way to the last knuckle without warning, Cavendish surged upward. His abdominal muscles flexed, forcing him high enough to see the satisfied gleam in Bartolomeo’s dark eyes as a loud cry of surprised pleasure tore from his throat.
Bartolomeo forced his fingers apart, stretching the warm, familiar give of Cavendish’s hole and then adding his tongue between the juncture of his knuckles. Cavendish made a garbled sound between a moan and a sob, his legs twitching against Bartolomeo’s sides and his free hand flailing involuntarily toward the edge of the table in an attempt to gain purchase.
The reckless motion of his arm caught one of the neat table settings and swept it carelessly aside, far enough to tumble down and shatter onto the deck. The sound was loud even over the ringing of his ears and he felt his eyes widen in a brief, momentary panic even as his gut flared with heat at the proposition of getting caught.
But nobody came running, and the only sound to break the silence that followed was the thundering of Cavendish’s pulse.
“See…” Barto said, dragging the word out in a smug drawl. “Been practicin’ for this, darlin’. Break all the shit ya want. Scream my name until your throat’s too sore t’even croak. I want it all.”
“Fuck. Barto.”
“Mmhm. Jus’ like that, Cabbage.”
Cavendish made a needy sound at the back of his throat when Bartolomeo brushed the pads of his fingers teasingly over his prostate and he twined the fingers of his free hand in Barto’s hair. When Bartolomeo repeated the motion, Cavendish tugged, hard enough to drag Bartolomeo’s head up until his chin was pressed to Cavendish’s pelvis, wet with spit and rough with a day’s worth of stubble.
“Get up here,” Cavendish panted, “Get up here and fuck me.”
The table squalled as it dragged across the deck of the ship, shoved backward with the slam of Bartolomeo’s hips. Barto folded Cavendish in on himself until his heels were propped on the corners of the table and his thighs were plastered to the sweaty sheen of his chest. The slap of their skin was harsh and wet and frantic. Their breath fogged lightly in the space between them, trapped within the space of Bartolomeo’s barrier as they panted open-mouthed against each other’s lips.
“Barto—Barto—Bartolomeo—”
The table jerked again, leaving scars on the richly stained boards beneath.
“Gods, you’re so fuckin’—” Bartolomeo growled, low and deep in his chest, rumbling against the press of Cavendish’s awkwardly splayed calves. “So loud. Make such pretty fuckin’ noises when I’m fuckin’ you, goddamn.”
Cavendish keened, the sound breaking when Bartolomeo descended on his craned neck and sank in his fangs deep enough to draw blood.
“Wanna fuck ya right out on the deck,” Barto rambled, the words punched out between harsh pulls for breath. “Right in front of the whole goddamn world where everyone can see how well ya take my cock but those lovely little noises ya make are all mine.”
Cavendish squirmed fitfully on the surface of the table. He was just a little under-prepped, just enough to feel the extra stretch of Bartolomeo’s cock as he fucked into him with a ruthless, aggressive pace. One of Cavendish’s legs jerked outward as Barto shifted to slide directly over his prostate and his heel caught the tepid cup of tea. It fell beside the shattered plate, breaking with a lighter, more delicate sound that rang in his ears as he let out an unrestrained cry of encouragement.
“Tell me how it feels.”
“Good,” Cavendish offered, head fuzzy, throat ragged, fingers and toes alight with the sparking of his nerves. “So good—Barto, please, gods, more, harder, I need—”
His back bowed off the table, limbs shaky and cock drooling untouched at the dip of his navel. Barto grunted, sounding pleased but not capable of much more as he followed Cavendish’s stuttering demands.
“Need what?” he managed, stilling momentarily to regain his senses despite Cavendish’s vocalized protest. “Tell me whatcha need from me, Cav. Tell me whatcha want.”
“I want—” Cavendish reached toward his cock with the hand that wasn’t still holding Bartolomeo’s crossed fingers together in a death grip, only to have it swatted impatiently aside where it landed on neatly set silverware with a noisy clatter.
“Say it.”
“I want to come,” Cavendish wailed, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he was immediately shoved back across the polished tabletop. “Barto, fuck, please, touch me. I want to come. I need to feel you fill me up. I love you. I love you, Barto—”
Cavendish came with a shout, nails leaving indents in the firm muscle of Bartolomeo’s shoulder as he spilled over Bartolomeo’s fingers and the sweat-slick expanse of his stomach. He was still shaking with aftershocks when Bartolomeo came inside him and he gently eased apart the aching grip of his fingers as the barrier faded around them.
For a long moment, it was still quiet, enough for Cavendish to idly wonder if Bartolomeo had kept his fingers crossed. But then his long fingers spread out, twining together with Cavendish’s, and he rested his chin against Cavendish’s sternum to level a serious, cautious gaze up toward the bleary shine of his eyes.
“Did ya mean it?”
Cavendish knew what he meant, and knew how Bartolomeo might interpret it by merit of the fact that he had finally spoken those particular words aloud in a space made only for them.
“Well…”
It wasn’t a matter of being ashamed, or unable to admit it where others could hear. It was just that Bartolomeo’s insistence on taking Cavendish’s words for his and his alone had finally spurred a long-awaited admission of the feelings he’d long since harbored.
“Why don’t you find out?” Cavendish whispered, voice soft and cheeks rosy.
“And how would ya suggest I do that?”
Cavendish leaned up to press a soft, lingering kiss to Bartolomeo’s lower lip.
“Fuck me again,” he murmured, stroking a hand through Barto’s tousled hair. “Fuck me where everyone in the whole goddamn world can see the shape of it on my lips, but only you get the privilege to hear it.”
Bartolomeo pulled Cavendish back in for a deeper, sloppier kiss, and when the sound of Cavendish’s gleeful, affectionate laughter carried past the dining room door, his crew pretended not to hear it.