Work Text:
Cavendish lifted a foot to kick in the door to Bartolomeo’s cabin, already slightly ajar, but his hand flailed out to keep it from slamming into the wall when he registered the familiar sound of Barto’s snoring.
Slowly, softly, he pushed it shut before leaning back against it.
His gaze roamed over the bare expanse of Bartolomeo’s back, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. And then it slid over to find the rose placed across the empty side of the bed and his gut filled with heat.
“What if I sail in late one night with only a few hours to spare and you’re already asleep?”
“Don’t matter to me. You can wake me up if ya wanna, or jus’…do whatcha want with me.”
“Oh. Are you…sure?”
“Yeah, Cabbage, I’m sure. Kinda…like the thought of it, now that it’s out there.”
“We should have some sort of a signal then. So I know it’s really what you want.”
“Alright. How ‘bout this: if ya come into my cabin while I’m asleep, and there’s a rose on your side of the bed, then…I’m yours for the takin’.”
Cavendish let out a long, wavering breath.
His for the taking…
He pushed off from the door, kneeling to set his boots beside it and then folding his pants in a neat square and tossing his cloak over the bedpost.
Gingerly, Cavendish pressed one knee into the mattress, lowering his weight slowly to avoid making the slats below creak.
Bartolomeo was a fairly deep sleeper—he had to be, since he’d opted for sleeping with Cavendish when they were able, and all that that entailed—but Cavendish didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, and tonight, he didn’t want to risk waking him.
He settled beside him, tucking his face into the crook of Bartolomeo’s neck to inhale against the warmth of his skin.
If he was awake, Barto would tease him about how fond he was of the way that he smelled and Cavendish would snap back that his appeal would increase tenfold if he had even the barest sense of decent hygiene.
But as it was, Cavendish was alone with nothing but the unspoken depth of his feelings for Bartolomeo, and the feel of his skin beneath his palm.
He pulled back, propping himself up on one elbow so that he could watch the shift and pull of Bartolomeo’s muscles as he pressed his fingers in deep enough to remind himself that this was real; that he was his.
Barto stirred when Cavendish pushed the sheets aside and Cavendish stilled, waiting for Bartolomeo’s breath to even out again before continuing the path of his fingers. He traced idle patterns over the bulk of his waist.
“You’re beautiful.”
He murmured it against the line of his spine, lips brushing over a faint smattering of freckles. He wouldn’t say it if Bartolomeo was awake, and Cavendish doubted that he would want to hear it anyway. But Cavendish had an eye for beauty, and though Bartolomeo wasn’t attractive in any conventional sense, Cavendish was lucky enough to be the only one who had seen him in all of his forms. Not just the mocking sneer of his lips and the flush of his cheeks, but the way that his eyes softened when they met Cavendish’s, and the way that the harsh lines of his features slackened in pleasure. Barto was nothing in half-measures, and it would be a disservice for Cavendish to claim that he was anything less than beautiful.
Cavendish let out a soft huff of breath as Bartolomeo snuggled unconsciously closer and he allowed himself to grind his hips in a slow roll against Bartolomeo’s thigh. He could come like that, if he wanted to, just tucked against Barto’s side and rutting against him for relief. Or maybe, between the thick breadth of his thighs, oil slathered through his dark hair to ease the glide.
His teeth caught a swell of skin and Cavendish clenched his jaw, hard enough to leave a mark and to assuage the rush of desperation that crawled over his skin.
No, it had been too long. Far too long, and Cavendish knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he was buried deep inside Bartolomeo where he belonged.
His hand curled over the curve of his ass, his grip strong and possessive as he dipped his thumb lower to press against his hole.
Bartolomeo’s breath hitched in time with Cavendish’s as his thumb slid into slick, loose heat. Cavendish felt feverish, his next breath sawing harshly through his lungs as Bartolomeo settled back with another soft snore.
It was one thing to know that Bartolomeo wanted this, and another entirely to realize that he had prepared himself for the possibility.
Cavendish sat up, shifting to get a better angle as he slipped two fingers in Bartolomeo’s hole and slowly pressed them to the bottom knuckle.
Barto let out a snuffly, fractured groan and his brow furrowed when Cavendish dragged the pads of his fingers across his prostate in a careful, deliberate motion. Cavendish did it again, making full use of his knowledge of Bartolomeo’s body as he gently coaxed him toward arousal, his gaze tethered to the twitch and gradual hardening of Bartolomeo’s cock. When he whined low in his throat and his eyelashes fluttered, Cavendish withdrew his hand.
Bartolomeo was sprawled out across his mattress, tilted partway onto his side with one leg cocked toward his hip and the other stretched toward the foot of the bed. The position allowed Cavendish to fit perfectly against him, one hand anchoring to his thigh as he pushed inside of him and hooked his chin over Barto’s shoulder.
For a long moment, Cavendish remained still, the steady rise and fall of Bartolomeo’s back soothing beneath the rapid beat of Cavendish’s heart.
“Perfect,” Cavendish murmured, too delirious with the knowledge that Bartolomeo wanted to be taken—to be used—like this to consider the risk of his quiet confession.
When he started to pull out, Bartolomeo groaned, the sound much more coherent than any of his earlier mumbling. Cavendish watched his eyes crack open and saw confusion and desire in equal measure when he met Cavendish’s stare.
“Cav?”
Cavendish shook his head, flicking his tongue out to trace the pointed curve of Bartolomeo’s ear and draw a shudder out of him.
“Go to sleep, Barto.” He pressed a kiss to his temple, fingers curling tighter around his thigh. “You’re just dreaming.”
Bartolomeo’s brow furrowed, and when he squirmed in Cavendish’s grip, Cavendish groaned into the curve of his neck.
“Don’t wanna jus’ be dreamin’.”
“Don’t worry,” Cavendish murmured. He rocked forward again, slowly, and watched as Bartolomeo’s eyes fluttered back closed. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Promise?”
It was barely audible, muffled by the pillow as it slipped from Bartolomeo’s downturned lips, but Cavendish smiled against the warmth of his cheek.
“Promise.”
Cavendish rubbed his fingers in soothing circles, working the tension from Bartolomeo’s limbs, and within a few moments he was snoring again, his body slack against the mattress.
Maybe it was Cavendish’s careless words of praise that had woken him, or the weight of his body, or the stretch of his cock. It didn’t matter much. No matter the reason, all that Cavendish could think about was the thrill of being discovered. For now, Bartolomeo had been subdued again, but the thought of Barto realizing that Cavendish was using his sleeping body for his own satisfaction sent a rush of heat through him that pulled him dangerously close to the edge.
Cavendish slid back out, leaning up just enough to cast his eyes down along Bartolomeo’s lax, unresisting body and watch the way that his hole instinctively gripped at the head of his cock, trying to keep it inside.
He fumbled for the bottle of oil tucked beside the mattress and dumped a liberal amount onto his palm, his breath stuttering as he used it to slick up his cock and then push back inside with less resistance. There was less friction with the added lubrication, but Cavendish was already close, far closer than he had any reasonable right to be, and the wet sound that his cock made every time he rolled his hips was enough to drag him even closer.
Mine.
His mind was filled with that one word, chanted in an unending rhythm to match the thrum of his pulse as he fucked into Bartolomeo’s willing but unresponsive body.
Mine for the taking.
It sounded possessive, even to his own ears. Triumphant. Pleased. Adoring.
Cavendish had one hand still wrapped around Bartolomeo’s thigh, his nails leaving crescent-shaped indents in the firm muscle as he kept it trapped against the mattress. The other had somehow made its way upward, crawling under the pillow where Bartolomeo’s hand was tucked to twine their fingers together with a white-knuckled grip.
His rhythm had grown jerky and uneven, devolving into a desperate grind with no aim except to chase the orgasm that he could feel in the curl of his toes, lurking just behind the clench of his teeth. But the rocking of his hips was dragging the head of his cock over Bartolomeo’s prostate with every motion and when Bartolomeo’s walls suddenly tightened around his cock, Cavendish’s eyes flew open with a gasp.
He tracked the flickering movement of Bartolomeo’s eyes beneath his still-lowered eyelids, and he watched the sheets grow sticky and damp beneath his cock as his body forced a response to the sensations it was being subjected to.
Cavendish dropped his head to the pillow, the corner of his mouth pressed to the jutting curve of one of Bartolomeo’s fangs in an unthinking imitation of a kiss.
The tight clenching of Bartolomeo’s body kept Cavendish from drawing back and he trembled helplessly, claiming Bartolomeo in the final, fullest sense as he came inside him with his hips pressed flush to the curve of his ass.
When he was able to catch his breath, Cavendish slowly withdrew, faintly amazed when Bartolomeo simply shifted onto his stomach and continued to snore into the pillow.
Cavendish watched as his cum slipped from Bartolomeo’s hole, dripping across his balls to pool in the rumpled sheets. The thought of wiping him clean was gone just as quickly as it came, and Cavendish’s cock gave a weak twitch as he imagined Bartolomeo waking up, sore and bruised and still sticky with flaking cum.
Sighing, he moved the abandoned rose from the empty side of the mattress to the floor, and then reached down to retrieve the pair of shackles stowed beneath the bed. He was able to fasten them around his own wrists with practiced ease, and that taken care of, he snuggled up next to Bartolomeo’s slumbering form to fall asleep, warm, sated, and content.
The first thing that Bartolomeo noticed when he woke up was the unusual, but not unpleasant ache in his muscles. Then he opened his eyes to a faceful of blond curls and he realized that the cold press of metal against his shoulder was a pair of shackles.
“Cabbage?”
Cavendish’s eyes blinked open blearily. When he met Bartolomeo’s gaze, his lips curled in a soft smile.
“Good morning.”
“Mornin’.” Cavendish looked pleased, more so than usual, and Bartolomeo felt heat fill his cheeks as vague flashes of sensation prickled across his skin. “Thought I had a dream aboutcha.”
“Mm.”
Cavendish didn’t offer anything more than an idle hum, neither confirming nor denying Bartolomeo’s growing suspicion, but the corner of his lips twitched higher in a telling gesture.
Bartolomeo rolled over to straddle his waist, caging the smaller man in between the press of his forearms as Cavendish looked up at him with hooded eyes.
“But here y’are.”
“Here I am,” Cavendish agreed. He leaned up, hooking his still-shackled hands around the back of Bartolomeo’s neck to pull him down into a kiss as he murmured against the curve of his lips. “Yours for the taking.”