Beneath the Captain's Bearing

The salt wind caught the sails of the Treasure's Demand and snapped them taut, filling the canvas with a sound like thunder held back by thread and rope. The ship cut through swells that rolled gray-green under a sky bruised with late afternoon clouds, and the crew moved about their duties with the practiced efficiency of men who'd learned to work without being told twice. Somewhere below deck, someone was singing — a bawdy thing about a mermaid and a lost compass — and the smell of tar and pickled cabbage drifted up through the hatch grates.

Antonio Romulus Shadestar stood at the helm with one hand resting on the wheel and the other holding a spyglass he wasn't bothering to use. His dark red hair whipped across his face in the wind, and he tucked it behind his ear with an impatient gesture, his amber eyes fixed instead on the figure pacing the main deck below.

Kazuma Lantsov was doing that thing again. The thing where he pretended he wasn't eight and a half months pregnant with twins and tried to inspect the rigging like he was still the same man who could swing from the yardarm without a second thought. His long dark blue hair, streaked with white, was braided down his back, and his black and gold captain's coat hung open over a belly so round and heavy it stretched the buttons of his undershirt to their absolute limit. His gray skin caught the diffuse light, and the tattoos that curled up his neck and across his hands seemed to move with each flex of muscle beneath them.

"You're staring," Kazuma said without looking up. His silver eyes — those striking silver irises set against black sclera — were scanning a knot diagram one of the deckhands had brought him. His pointed elven ears twitched, picking up Antonio's bootsteps even over the wind.

"I'm admiring," Antonio corrected, descending the helm steps with an easy stride. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Staring implies I can't look away. Admiring implies I choose to look, repeatedly, because what I see pleases me." He stopped three feet from Kazuma and crossed his arms, the burgundy sash at his waist shifting with the movement. "You're supposed to be resting."

"I'm the captain. I don't rest. I delegate."

"You delegated yourself into checking barrel staves this morning. I watched you bend over and nearly get stuck."

Kazuma's ears flushed a darker shade of gray. "I did not nearly get stuck."

"You looked like a turtle on its back, love."

"Finish that sentence and I'll have you flogged."

Antonio grinned — that slow, warm grin that always made Kazuma's jaw tighten and his gaze slide sideways. "You wouldn't flog me. You like me too much."

"I like the ship more."

"Then why did you name the ship after something I demanded?" Antonio stepped closer, and the crew — wise souls, every one of them — found urgent tasks at the far end of the deck. The first mate suddenly needed to check the galley stores. Two riggers discovered a fascinating flaw in the mainmast that required them to climb immediately to the crow's nest.

Kazuma watched them scatter and let out a slow breath through his nose. "You're insufferable."

"And you're standing when you should be sitting." Antonio's voice dropped, the playfulness still there but underlaid with something softer, something that had been growing in him for months alongside the growing curve of Kazuma's belly. "How are they today? The little tyrants."

One of Kazuma's hands drifted to his stomach — an unconscious gesture he'd developed over the past several weeks. Beneath his palm, something shifted. A foot, maybe, or an elbow, pressing outward against the taut skin with enough force to distort the fabric of his shirt. He winced, and Antonio was at his side in two steps, hand covering Kazuma's on the swell of his belly.

"Active," Kazuma murmured. "They've been kicking since dawn."

"Of course they have. They're yours. Stubborn from the womb."

That earned a sound that was almost a laugh, cut short when another kick — harder this time — made Kazuma's breath catch. His free hand gripped Antonio's sleeve, fingers tightening in the dark blue fabric, and Antonio watched the discomfort cross his captain's face like a wave crossing shallow water.

"Come on," Antonio said, his tone shifting from teasing to firm in the space of a heartbeat. "You're done for the day."

"Antonio —"

"That wasn't a suggestion, Captain." He slid his arm around Kazuma's waist, careful of the belly, and began guiding him toward the aft stairs. "You've been on your feet for six hours. Your ankles are swelling. I can see it from here."

"My ankles are fine."

"Your ankles are lying to you." Antonio steered them up the steps to the top deck, past the officer's quarters, toward the private stern gallery that served as their shared cabin. But Kazuma dug his heels in at the doorway, his silver eyes catching something in the distance — the horizon, maybe, or the way the light was hitting the water — and Antonio recognized the look. The stubborn look. The one that preceded every argument they'd ever had.

"I don't want to go below," Kazuma said. "Not yet. The air down there is stale, and I can't breathe properly, and everything smells like lamp oil."

"The fresh air is up here, then. But you're sitting down."

"I —"

Antonio pointed to the low bench built into the stern gallery railing, a spot sheltered from the wind by the angle of the mizzenmast and the cabin walls. It was private up here — the top deck was empty at this hour, the watch concentrated on the main deck below — and the view opened wide to the sea and the darkening sky. Kazuma looked at the bench, looked at Antonio, and gave in with the particular grace of a man who wanted to give in but needed someone to blame for it.

"Fine. But only because you're annoying me."

"That's the spirit."

Kazuma lowered himself onto the bench with a sound that was half sigh and half groan, one hand bracing on the wooden armrest, the other cradling the underside of his belly. Antonio sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched, and for a few minutes they just watched the sea in silence. The waves rolled and broke against the hull, sending spray up in white bursts that caught the last of the light. The ship rocked gently, and the motion seemed to soothe whatever war the twins were waging in Kazuma's womb — the kicks slowed, then stopped, and Kazuma's body relaxed by degrees.

"You're too good at that," Kazuma said quietly.

"At what?"

"Making me stop."

Antonio turned his head, studying the profile of his captain — the sharp elven features softened by pregnancy, the way his dark blue hair had come loose from its braid and lay across his shoulder in damp strands. The black sclera of his eyes made the silver irises seem to glow, especially now, in the failing light. "Someone has to. You'd run this ship into the ground and yourself with it."

"Sentimental."

"Honest." Antonio reached over and brushed a strand of hair from Kazuma's face, tucking it behind the pointed ear. The gesture was tender, almost absent-minded, but Kazuma's breath hitched — just slightly, just enough for Antonio to notice. His hand lingered. His fingertips traced the curve of that ear, following the ridge down to the lobe, and Kazuma's eyes half-closed.

"Don't," Kazuma said, but his voice had no conviction in it.

"Don't what?"

"Don't start something you're not going to finish."

Antonio's mouth curved. "Who says I'm not going to finish it?"

"We're on the top deck."

"We're alone on the top deck."

"The watch changes in twenty minutes."

"Then I'll have to be efficient."

Kazuma snorted — actually snorted — and turned to look at him, and the expression on his face was caught somewhere between amusement and want. "You're impossible."

"I'm efficient," Antonio corrected, leaning closer. "There's a difference."

He kissed the corner of Kazuma's mouth. Not a real kiss — just a brush of lips against skin, the lightest possible contact, but Kazuma's hand came up and gripped the front of Antonio's coat anyway, fingers curling into the burgundy and gold fabric. Antonio let his mouth trail along Kazuma's jaw, down to the pulse point beneath his ear, and felt the elven captain's heartbeat quicken under his lips.

"Someone could come up here," Kazuma said, and his voice was already rougher than it had been a moment ago.

"Then they'd see something worth seeing." Antonio's hand found Kazuma's thigh through the fabric of his trousers, squeezing once. "You, for instance. Looking like this. Full and beautiful and mine."

"I'm not yours. I'm the captain of this vessel, and you're my second, and if you keep —"

Antonio bit down on the tendon of his neck, and Kazuma's words dissolved into a sound that was not quite a moan and not quite a gasp but something in between — raw and involuntary and so sweet it made Antonio's blood run hot.

"What was that?" Antonio murmured against his skin. "You were saying something about rank?"

"Fuck you," Kazuma breathed.

"Eventually. But first —" Antonio pulled back just enough to look at him, taking in the flush that had spread from Kazuma's ears down to his neck, the way his silver eyes had gone dark and heavy-lidded, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "First I want to take care of you. Can I?"

The question was genuine. Underneath the teasing and the dominance and the heat, Antonio was always asking. Always making sure. And Kazuma — who defied orders from kings and admirals and the occasional sea god — answered this one with a nod and a whispered, "Yes."

Antonio kissed him properly then. Deep and slow, one hand cupping the back of Kazuma's head while the other slid beneath the open front of his coat to rest on the curve of his belly. He could feel the warmth of Kazuma's skin through the thin shirt, the taut stretch of it, the occasional flutter of movement beneath. He kissed Kazuma until the elven captain was gripping his shoulders with both hands and breathing hard through his nose, and then he pulled back and looked at him.

"Gorgeous," he said. "Do you know that? Every part of you. But this —" His hand spread across the full term swell, fingers splayed wide. "This makes me insane. You're carrying my children, Kazuma. You're round and heavy and your body is doing something impossible, and you still walk around this ship like you own the sea."

"I do own the sea."

"You own me," Antonio said, and the words came out lower than he intended, rougher, edged with the primal thing that coiled in his chest whenever he looked at Kazuma lately. "Every part of me. And right now I want to take you apart on this bench until you forget every knot diagram and barrel stave and watch change in your head."

Kazuma's cock stirred against the inside of his trousers — he could feel it hardening, and beneath it, lower, the heat building between his legs, the wetness that had been unpredictable during this pregnancy, his body responding to Antonio's voice and touch with an eagerness that bordered on embarrassing. "We don't have time for —"

"We have twenty minutes. I told you. Efficient."

Antonio's hands moved with a confidence that came from knowing this body — every tattoo, every scar, every sensitive point. He unbuttoned Kazuma's shirt with practiced fingers, exposing the broad chest, the dark nipples that had grown tender and swollen over the past months. When his thumb brushed over one, Kazuma hissed and arched, and a bead of thin white liquid welled at the tip.

"Sensitive," Antonio observed, and his voice had gone to that place — the dominant place, the one that made Kazuma's stomach flip and his pussy clench around nothing.

"Don't — they're sore, Antonio —"

"I'll be gentle." He lowered his head and took the nipple into his mouth, tongue circling carefully, and the taste of milk — warm and faintly sweet — flooded his senses. Kazuma's hand flew to the back of his head, fingers tangling in red hair, and the sound that came out of him was broken and helpless. Antonio sucked gently, drawing more of the milk out, his free hand palming the other breast and rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Milk leaked over his knuckles, slicking the skin.

"You're leaking everywhere," Antonio said against his chest, and the words were almost reverent. "God, look at you. Full of milk and full of my babies. You're so fucking beautiful it makes me want to break something."

"Breaking things is my job," Kazuma managed, but his voice cracked on the last word as Antonio switched to the other nipple, lapping at it with broad strokes of his tongue before sucking again. His cock was fully hard now, straining against his trousers, and beneath it his pussy was soaking through the fabric. He could feel the slickness pooling, feel the ache that meant he needed more — needed Antonio inside him, needed to be filled and fucked and claimed.

"Antonio," he said, and the name came out desperate. "Please."

"Please what?" Antonio lifted his head, lips wet with milk, amber eyes burning. "Tell me what you need, Captain."

"I need you to stop talking and fuck me."

"There it is." Antonio grinned — sharp, hungry — and his hands went to Kazuma's trousers, untying the laces with quick, efficient movements. He tugged them down over Kazuma's hips, past his thighs, and the cool sea air hit Kazuma's exposed skin and made him shiver. His cock stood rigid against his belly, and below it, the folds of his pussy glistened, slick and swollen and flushed a deep gray-purple with arousal.

"Look at this," Antonio said, his voice dropping even lower. He ran his fingers through the wetness, spreading it, and Kazuma's hips jerked. "So wet for me already. I've barely touched you."

"I've been on edge all day," Kazuma admitted, and there was a blush on his gray cheeks now, dark and visible. "Everything makes me — the ship rocking, your voice, the fucking wind — everything makes me want —"

"Me." Antonio slid one finger inside him, slow and deliberate, and Kazuma's walls clenched around it like a vice. "Everything makes you want me. Say it."

"Arrogant bastard."

"True. But say it."

Kazuma's silver eyes met his, and the defiance there was undercut by the way his body was shaking. "Everything makes me want you. There. Satisfied?"

"Not even close." Antonio added a second finger, curling them upward, searching for that spot — and when he found it, Kazuma's head fell back against the bench and a moan tore out of him, raw and loud. Antonio pressed his free hand over Kazuma's mouth. "Quiet, love. Unless you want the whole crew up here."

Kazuma licked his palm. Antonio's eyes darkened.

"You're going to pay for that," Antonio said, and he withdrew his fingers — ignoring Kazuma's whine of protest — and unfastened his own trousers. His cock was hard, thick, the head flushed and leaking, and he wrapped his hand around it once, stroking slowly, letting Kazuma watch. "You want this?"

"Stop teasing."

"Say it nicely."

Kazuma bared his teeth — an elven expression that on anyone else would have looked threatening but on him, flushed and trembling and round with child, looked like desperation wearing a mask. "Please fuck me, Antonio. Please. I need your cock inside me. Is that nicely enough for you?"

Antonio kissed him hard, swallowing the rest of whatever words might have come, and positioned himself between Kazuma's spread thighs. He guided the head of his cock to the entrance of Kazuma's pussy, slicking it through the wetness, and then pushed inside in one long, steady thrust.

Kazuma broke the kiss to gasp, his back arching, his belly pressing up between them. Antonio paused, fully seated, and let his forehead rest against Kazuma's.

"Feel that?" he murmured. "That's what you do to me. Every time. You feel so goddamn good — hot and tight and dripping around me."

"Move," Kazuma said. "Antonio, please move."

Antonio pulled back and thrust in again, setting a rhythm that matched the roll of the ship — slow, deep, relentless. The ocean waves thrashed against the hull in time with their movement, the ship rocking and swaying, and every thrust was aided by the motion of the sea. Kazuma's hands gripped the bench on either side, knuckles white, his mouth open, his breath coming in sharp bursts that fogged in the cooling air.

"Look at you," Antonio said, his voice rough and reverent. He placed both hands on Kazuma's belly, thumbs stroking the taut skin, feeling the twins shift beneath his touch. "So full already. Full of my children. And I'm going to fill you even more. Going to breed you again right here on this deck, Captain. Put another one in you."

"You — ah — you can't possibly —"

"Can't I?" Antonio thrust harder, and the wet sound of their joining was obscene — slick and rhythmic, punctuated by the slap of skin against skin. Kazuma's cock bounced against his belly with each movement, leaking precum that mixed with the milk still dripping from his nipples, and the sight of it — the mess of him, the beauty, the raw vulnerability — made Antonio's rhythm falter.

"Don't stop," Kazuma begged, and the word 'beg' was accurate now, all pretense of authority gone. "Antonio, don't you dare stop."

"I'm not stopping. I'm not stopping until you come on my cock." Antonio reached between them and wrapped his hand around Kazuma's dick, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, and Kazuma made a sound that was almost a sob. His pussy clenched tight, rippling around Antonio's cock, and his hips bucked upward despite the heavy weight of his belly.

"Close," Kazuma gasped. "I'm — Antonio —"

"Come for me. Let go. I've got you."

And Kazuma did — his whole body tensed, his silver eyes going wide and then squeezing shut, and his pussy spasmed around Antonio's cock in waves while his own dick pulsed and spilled across his belly, thick ropes of cum striping the taut skin. The moan that came out of him was loud enough to carry, and Antonio clamped his hand over Kazuma's mouth again, feeling the vibration of the sound against his palm as he kept thrusting, riding out Kazuma's orgasm, chasing his own.

"That's it," he growled against Kazuma's ear. "Good. So good. Every time. You take me so well, Kazuma. My captain. My love. Mine."

Kazuma was still clenching around him, still shaking, and when Antonio bit down on his shoulder and thrust deep one final time, he felt the elven captain come again — a smaller climax, pulled from him by the sensation of Antonio spilling hot and thick inside his pussy. Antonio groaned against his skin, hips jerking, pumping everything he had into Kazuma while his hands gripped the full curve of that belly and held on like it was the only solid thing in a spinning world.

They stayed like that for a long moment — tangled, breathless, the sounds of the sea filling the silence. Antonio pressed soft kisses to Kazuma's shoulder, his neck, the line of his jaw. Kazuma's hand found the back of his head and held him there, fingers gentle now, the urgency replaced by something tender.

"The watch," Kazuma murmured eventually.

"Fuck the watch."

"They'll come looking for us."

"Let them." But Antonio was already pulling back, withdrawing carefully, and they both watched his cum slip from Kazuma's well-fucked pussy, mixing with the slick that had pooled on the bench. Antonio tucked himself away and then reached for Kazuma's trousers, pulling them back up over his hips with the same careful efficiency he'd used to remove them. He laced them, adjusted them, and then turned his attention to Kazuma's shirt — buttoning it slowly, pausing to press a kiss to each nipple before covering it.

"You're going to make me want to go again," Kazuma warned.

"That's the plan." Antonio fastened the last button and reached for Kazuma's coat, settling it over his shoulders, smoothing the black and gold fabric. He ran his fingers through Kazuma's hair, working out the tangles, and re-braided the loose sections with a practiced hand.

"You're too good at that," Kazuma said again, but softer this time.

"At what?"

"Taking care of me."

Antonio cupped his face and kissed him — gentle now, tender, the kind of kiss that said everything the dirty talk couldn't. "Always," he said against Kazuma's lips. "Every time. For as long as you'll have me."

"I'll have you forever," Kazuma said, and the words were steady, even if his voice wasn't. "Even when you're insufferable."

"Especially when I'm —"

Bootsteps. On the aft stairs. Heavy, deliberate, and getting closer.

They separated in an instant — Antonio stepping back, straightening his coat, running a hand through his hair. Kazuma rose from the bench with as much dignity as a heavily pregnant, thoroughly fucked elven captain could muster, which was, it turned out, a considerable amount. He buttoned his coat to the throat, hiding the damp spots on his shirt, and settled his face into the expression his crew had privately dubbed "the captain's mask."

The first mate's head appeared at the top of the stairs. "Captain? Begging your pardon, but the —" He stopped, taking in the scene. The captain and the second in command, standing apart on the top deck, looking windswept and not entirely innocent. His eyes narrowed.

"Spit it out, Harper," Kazuma said.

"The supply inventory, sir. You said you wanted to review it before we made port."

"I did. Leave it in my cabin. I'll look at it shortly."

"Aye, sir." Harper hesitated. Glanced at the bench. Glanced at Antonio, who was examining the horizon with extraordinary interest. "Is everything... quite all right up here, Captain?"

"Everything is fine, Harper."

"Just a bit of fresh air," Antonio added, smiling in that way that made people want to agree with him and also possibly punch him.

Harper's gaze dropped to the bench — to the faint damp patch on the wood that neither of them had thought to wipe — and his expression went through a fascinating series of changes before settling on something that was politely, aggressively blank.

"Fresh air," he repeated. "Right. I'll just... leave that inventory below, then."

"Do that," Kazuma said.

Harper vanished back down the stairs, and for exactly three seconds, silence reigned on the top deck. Then Antonio started laughing — quietly at first, then harder, bracing himself against the railing. Kazuma pressed his lips together so hard they went white, but the laugh escaped anyway, low and reluctant and warm.

"He knows," Antonio said.

"Of course he knows. Everyone on this ship knows. You are not as subtle as you think you are, Antonio Romulus Shadestar."

"I am extremely subtle."

"You left a wet spot on the bench."

Antonio looked at the bench. Looked at Kazuma. "That's mostly yours."

"Get down to my cabin. Now."

"To review the inventory?"

"To finish what you started. And this time, lock the goddamn door."

Antonio offered his arm with a bow that was entirely too graceful for a pirate. "After you, Captain."

Kazuma took his arm, and they descended into the ship together, leaving the bench and the salt wind and the vast, indifferent sea to keep their secrets.