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f1tyreslightmyfyre · 6 months

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Salt, Sweat, and Tarred Oakum

Max Verstappen x Oscar Piastri Golden Age of Piracy AU

Summary: A wicked lift came unbidden to the corner of Oscar’s mouth. “I’m trained to hunt pirates, sir – you have fewer secrets than you think.”

The inscrutable set of Verstappen’s face hardened, and Oscar marveled at the captain’s ability to be such a sphinx when he needed to be. It was the perfect combination of unsettling and disturbing - no wonder the man had a three-year running reputation as the Caribbean's most fearsome pirate.

In which a harrowing storm pushes Pirate Captain!Max and Captured Naval Lieutenant!Oscar to their limits.

Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (handjobs); explicit language; pirates being pirates; discussion of death at sea and pirate ship destruction; hurt/comfort; hand wounds (cuts and blisters)

Word Count: 10k+

Also on A03

A/N: If anyone had said that the Qatar GP cool down room would spawn this AU, I wouldn't have believed it, buuut... here we are lol. I totally blame credit this to the fic's awesome beta xsunny for the inspirational post-race chat we had. And no offense meant to Lando here, but Max and Oscar both on the floor (despite the not good reasons why) was just too good to let go. 🏎️🏴‍☠️

Water soaks him to the bone. Oscar can’t even tell his own sweat from the sea water and rain water. Not that it really matters when puddles form in his boots, his hair mats to his forehead, and thick drops fall from his chin and drenched clothing.

The ship and rest of the deck crew look just as waterlogged now that the rain finally tapers off. Such a godsend after the last two hours of brutal torture at the helm as the ship tossed and pitched about in the unforgiving, merciless waves. Adrenaline seeps from his veins as exhaustion settles deep in his bones. His hands ache from controlling the wheel, from fighting the rudder’s resistance against the powerful sea. At least Pierre and Esteban had managed to drop the mainsail before the storm unleashed its full fury.

Biting back a grimace, he flexes his hands and tries to work some feeling back into his numb muscles. A burning blister announces itself on the junction of his left thumb, protesting the motion. He steadies himself against the wheel as the ship rocks in the calmer water, paying little mind to the rainy drizzle falling around him.

In all his years at sea - despite his young age - he’s never encountered such a fierce storm. He’s never had to push himself so hard just to hold on, just do the job he’s trained his life to fulfill. His chest heaves with deep breaths as he closes his eyes and tries to calm the thunderous roar of his own heart that matches the thunder now fading into the distance behind them.

He opens his eyes, blinking water from his eyelashes, and his gaze lands on the captain. Verstappen’s face holds the gaunt pallor of over-exertion and exhaustion even as rainwater glistens on his skin and hair. Oscar doesn’t know where the man’s tricorn has gone, but he still wears his dark canvas coat over the white blouse and dark trousers plastered to his skin. The captain rakes a hand through his hair as he surveys the deck, unleashing a cascade of water droplets down his neck, and a tendril of unwanted, traitorous heat curls in Oscar’s gut.

Cannon fire still pounded in his ears as saltwater filled his nostrils and stung his eyes. Another wave swell overtook him as he swam against the choppy, crystal water. The heavy wool of his uniform threatened to drag him under, but his fingers found purchase against a piece of floating debris and he hauled himself up. The section of splintered decking wasn’t so large to fit his entire body, but just wide enough to keep his head out of the rolling waves.

He gasped for breath, still trying to clear his head. Smoke hung in the air as the destroyed remnants of the navy ship floated around him, and he fervently looked for any other men in the water. His heart sank to not immediately find any, instead only finding the pirate ship floating victoriously off the port side. A small tender approached out of the ship’s ominous shadow, and Oscar’s stomach lurched. He didn’t know what this pirate crew would do with a naval officer like himself, but he'd heard plenty of tales back at the barracks.

His feet kicked in the water on instinct, trying to get away even though it was futile. He wouldn’t be able to outswim them and there was no land in sight this far out in the Caribbean. Anxiety clenched his chest as he slumped against the flotsam to catch his breath and save his strength. He would need all of it for what lay ahead.

“Doesn’t look to be much left.” A French-accented voice carried over the rolling waves. “Perhaps the captain hit them too hard, non?”

“No.” Another French – but maybe Italian? – voice piped up. “You saw it blow from within – they scuttled themselves to prevent us from taking their cargo.”

“But that’s what we’re out here for.” A wizened Spanish-accented voice said, carrying a soft authority. “Whatever they were carrying was valuable enough to not let us take it, but some of it may yet be afloat. Stay sharp.”

Oscar worked an uneasy swallow down his throat as a general chorus of ‘aye, sir’ filled the air. He tightened his grip on the wooden plank, ignoring the growing ache in his shoulders as he bobbed in the water. Would telling the pirates that the cargo hold of the king's treasury bullion now rested at the bottom of the sea spare his life or just earn him a quicker slit of the throat? Tilting his head down, he watched helplessly as the tender floated into view. He could only hope that the extensive amount of wreckage floating around him would camouflage him.

The pirate crew looked like the expected ragtag bunch of brigands – young seadogs each seeking their own fortune and following their chosen captain in hopes of attaining it. The man standing at the tiller sported uncommonly refined white streaks in his hair, his face marked with deep lines indicative of a long life at sea. He didn’t wear the obvious adornments of command, but an unspoken authority still rested on his shoulders. The ship’s bosun, then.

Oscar froze as a sailor fixed him with piercing green eyes. The man’s face curled to an intrigued smile beneath his mop of wild brown curls as he pointed at Oscar. “A survivor!”

The other sailors in the boat instantly turned towards him, and he had nowhere to hide. A chuckle broke out from another man with rakish brown curls and short facial hair. “Are you sure, Charles?” He asked with a heavy French accent. “It looks more like a drowned rat!”

A sailor with straight black hair and pointed features moved his oar in the water as the boat approached. “All navy men look like rats to me.”

Indignation stiffened Oscar’s spine as his face hardened. The man on the tiller offered a kind smile despite the dark, serious set of his eyes. “What’s your name, son?” His Spanish-accented syllables held a tone that promised reward for obedience and punishment for obstinacy.

“Lieutenant Piastri.” He called out, putting a note of steel in his voice.

“Well, Lieutenant Piastri,” the Spaniard’s grin widened with a toothy edge. “You have nowhere else to go.”

“I’m fine right here, thank you.” He adjusted his grip on the floating flotsam for emphasis.

A low chuckle rose from the tender, and the green eyed French-Italian man shook his head. “Don’t be foolish, mate – you can’t possibly hope to survive.”

He nodded, unable to deny the pirate’s words. “Death at sea is preferable to life among pirates.”

“Oh-ho!” The Spaniard chuckled and glanced down at the crew. “You hear that, mates? Refusing our hospitality even before he’s met the captain!” Another chorus of laughter rose from the pirates, and Oscar’s mouth pinched to a tight line of irritation. “Well, we can’t do that, mate,” the Spainard continued with a definitive shake of his head. “You may yet know something useful. Especially since your captain decided to sacrifice his ship, his cargo and his crew... you’re about all that we can salvage.”

“Well, unfortunately for you,” Oscar returned as he tried to kick away from the tender’s bow. “I’m unsalvagea-"

Multiple pairs of rough, strong hands grabbed him all at once. The pirates leaned over the gunwale, intent to haul him onboard, and he clung tighter to the driftwood. The French sailor with brown curls grunted in exertion as he pulled on Oscar’s arms. “Let go, mate!”

Oscar grit his teeth, tightening his grip and thrashing his feet as he tried to dislodge the hands pulling at this water-logged uniform.

“On three!” The Spaniard called out. “One, two… three!”

All three sailors in the boat tugged hard and fast in unison, and Oscar’s hands ripped away from the wooden plank. White hot pain erupted in his left hand and the saltwater instantly burned, distracting his concentration as the pirates dragged him up into the boat.

He fell to the bottom of the tender with an undignified groan, instinctively cradling his left hand close to his chest. A nasty, jagged gash sliced across his palm, probably from some unseen nail or splinter. Blood soaked into his uniform coat as the sailors retook their seats on the tender benches and resumed rowing.

“Don’t you worry, Lt. Piastri,” the Spainard said, sounding half-distracted as he glanced out over the sea ahead. “We’ll try to forget that you insulted us so brazenly, but I suggest watching your tongue around the captain. Or he will cut it out.”

“And don’t tell him that you’re a lieutenant,” the black-haired Frenchman chuckled. “Or he will remove your stripes with your own toenails.”

Another round of laughter rang above him as Oscar bit his tongue. His opportunity to fight back may yet come, but this wasn’t it. He tossed about the bottom of the tender in a puddle of seawater until the hull knocked against the side of the pirate ship. The ship loomed impressively large overhead – larger than he had originally estimated – and his gaze caught on the flag held high in the midday wind.

A pair of white stitched cross bones occupied the bottom of the black flag, but where a skull should reside, instead sat a white patchwork emblem of a lion’s head with its mouth open in a fierce roar. Oscar’s stomach dropped to his feet as recognition seized him.

Only one ship in the Caribbean flew this emblem – Captain Max Verstappen's notorious Sea Lion.

A dark chuckle sounded overhead before the Spanish bosun stepped into view. “Come on, mate,” he encouraged, nudging Oscar’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. “If you recognize the flag, then you know that he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Oscar's mind reeled as his body numbly moved, rolling to his feet and reaching out for the rope ladder slung over the side of the ship. The cut on his hand screamed even as he gingerly tried to adjust his grip on the rungs, but with the bosun right behind him, he had no choice but to keep climbing. More pairs of hands awaited him at the top, seizing his shoulders to drag him fully on deck, but Oscar stayed on his feet as the crew closed in.

In a show of subtle defiance, he straightened the lapels of his soggy navy coat as if that would somehow lend an air of commanding stature to his appearance. But as the wind ruffled his sopping wet hair, he recognized how painfully young he must look compared to the crew around him.

A man with wide, soulful brown eyes stepped forward, assessing him up and down. “You’re injured, yes?” He, too, had a Spanish accent though he appeared to be many years younger than the bosun.

Oscar glanced down at his left hand, spying the small puddle of blood forming on the deck. “Obviously, yes.”

“Just your hand?” The man clarified, darting his gaze back up to Oscar’s.

“Yes.”

The young Spainard gave a curt nod before he turned and disappeared towards the ship ladder leading up to the quarterdeck. Oscar watched him go, tracking his movements until he stopped to converse with the man at the helm who could only be the ship's captain.

The man wore a rough leather tricorn with no plumage or frivolous accessories. His coat and blouse complemented the broad set of his shoulders and the leanness of his waist. With the overhead sun, Oscar couldn’t discern the captain’s facial features, but something in the man’s confident, unassuming stature made his heart leap.

As the captain descended the ship ladder to the main deck, Oscar didn’t bother to hide his curiously open stare. Captain Verstappen’s exploits had been legendary for three years now, and any navy man worth his salt had dreamed about being the one to finally bring him to justice. Maybe if Oscar played his cards right, he would have that chance.

Verstappen came to a stop in front of him and fixed him with sharp blue eyes. Despite the neutral set of the captain’s face, Oscar missed none of the calculating assessment taking place in those crystalline depths. Heat gathered beneath the drenched shirt collar sticking uncomfortably to his skin, but Oscar refused to look away. If the captain meant to intimidate him, then he refused to give the man that satisfaction, even though something about Verstappen's gaze made Oscar incredibly self-conscious in his nearly transparent white trousers and shirt.

The captain suddenly blinked away to regard someone over Oscar’s shoulder. “Fernando,” he said, voice thick with a Dutch accent. “Why is this man bleeding on my deck?”

“The navy ship scuttled her cargo, captain.” Fernando's words floated over his shoulder. “This sailor was the only thing of any value to be found.”

“Are you sure about that?” Verstappen's gaze darted back to Oscar and the gold stripes on his uniform coat. “Tell me, sailor, what was your post?”

The corner of Oscar’s mouth lifted before he could stop it. “Sail Master.”

A hush fell on deck as everyone stared at him. The crew probably thought he was bluffing, but that would be their mistake. Even his commanding naval officers had marveled at his uncanny skill and innate talent for seafaring navigation – especially for one so young – but he had long proven himself capable. And if this pirate captain now truly doubted his worth, then that would also be his misfortune.

A disparaging, cackling laughter came from somewhere on Oscar's left. “Yeah, right mate.” A man with sandy-blonde curls and a British accent scoffed. “If you’re a Sail Master, then I’m the King of England.”

Laughter rang across the deck, but nothing changed in the intensity of the captain’s eyes despite the almost bored set of his face. Oscar held his gaze in silent challenge, in a silent assessment of his own – until the captain blinked and somehow looked even more bored than before. “Carlos, take him to my cabin.” He said as he abruptly turned away. “I’ll deal with him there, and for fuck’s sake, stop him bleeding everywhere. As for the rest of you, back to your stations and set sail!”

A roaring chorus of support sounded around him as Carlos stepped forward, glancing down the lines of Oscar’s coat. “Does that thing have pockets?”

Oscar scoffed before he could stop it. “Is that seriously your answer to my bleeding hand? Just shove it in a pocket?”

Carlos shrugged an indifferent shoulder. “The captain hasn’t decided yet if he’s keeping you or not. Best not to waste supplies until he does.”

“Keep me?” Oscar echoed. “What? Like I’m a fish to be thrown back into the sea?”

“If he decides you’re not worth it, then yes. Come on,” he stepped forward to wrap a strong hand around Oscar's upper-arm. “Hand in your pocket and let’s go. There’s work to do.”

Fernando’s voice filled the air around them, calling out orders as the men scrambled into action securing deck supplies, ascending the rigging ratlines, and taking up sailing positions. Oscar squared his jaw but loosely balled his hand to shove it in his coat pocket. He let Carlos lead him across the deck to disappear into the ship’s interior.

Gunners and powder monkeys scurried about, tying cannons down and securing barrels of shot after the thwarted attack on his navy ship. He tried to get a count of how many guns flanked the pirate ship’s deck, but Carlos pulled him through another doorway before he could finish.

“Don’t touch anything,” Carlos instructed curtly as they passed through the wardroom. “You can probably guess what will happen if you do, let alone if you’re caught stealing anything.” He pulled Oscar towards the door set in the far rear of the ship – the door that needed no introduction. “And don’t get blood on his floor or else you’ll answer to me.”

“If I’m still here, though. Right?” Oscar asked cheekily before he could stop himself.

Carlos blinked back, unimpressed. “Just for that, I’ll send you straight to Fernando.” He pulled open the captain’s cabin door and shoved Oscar inside. Despite the sun’s brilliance, the salt-crusted windows cast dim shadows about the space. It looked tidy enough – a hastily made bunk along the far wall, a sea chest strapped against the foot of the bunk, a closed-door cabinet adorning the other wall. At the center of the cabin resided a large square table – a desk, a dining table, a charting table all in one functional furnishing. The scuffed surface revealed that it once held a gleaming polished finish, but now it just bore the scars from life in the service of Captain Verstappen.

An unbidden shiver ran down Oscar’s spine despite the stale warmth of the captain’s personal space. The air hung heavy with an oddly pleasant musky, sweet scent, and he absently wondered if it came from some part of the captain’s toilette or if that was just his natural scent.

His hand started to throb as he held it in the warm confines of his pocket, and he debated seating himself at the table until the captain arrived. Despite being below decks, the increasing sway in the ship’s movement indicated a steady increase in speed as the sails caught the wind, carrying him away from the remains of his ship and the bodies of his fellow sailors.

The thought punched him in the gut. A ship of 122 hands – all elite sailors to defend the king’s treasury – and fate had decided that only he should be the one to bear their memories. He tried to summon a prayer for the lost souls, but the sudden scrape of the wooden door distracted him.

The captain entered without a second glance behind him and closed the door. His assessing stare landed on Oscar before darting around the room in a careful study as if to confirm no signs of tampering.

Oscar sighed softly. “I didn’t touch anything.”

The captain scoffed with a faint edge of amusement. “I already suspect you of lying, mate, so that won’t work.” His boots thudded off the deck as he stepped up the large table and dropped his tricorn atop the surface. His dark sandy-blonde hair held a curiously short style and loose strands flopped over his forehead. Even in the dim light, Oscar could see beads of sweat that clung to the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. He turned back to regard Oscar. “I assume that you already know who I am?”

Oscar tilted his head in a moment of consideration before answering. “Your colors are well known, Captain Verstappen.”

He looked neither pleased nor disappointed in Oscar’s answer as he pulled out a chair to sit. “Now this is where you tell me your name.”

“Oscar Piastri, Lieutenant of –“

“Just Piastri will do.” Verstappen cut him off as he leaned back against the chair and stared back at him with a gaze to cut through bullshit. “And you claim to be a Sail Master, yes?”

“If I had my sailing log, I could prove it to you.”

Verstappen tilted his own head in contemplation. “Quite a bit young, aren’t you?”

“22, sir. Older than I look.”

“Then, tell me Piastri,” the captain continued unfazed. “Your course to reach Tortuga from here?”

Oscar blinked in a moment of surprise, thrown by the sudden question. Realization slowly dawned and his brow furrowed with curiosity. “Wait, are you… are you testing me?”

“Liars waste my time.” Verstappen simply replied. “And since your sailing log isn’t available, as you said – I’m left with limited options. Either you’re a ballsy liar or you’re a truthful idiot.”

Another wave of indignation stiffened Oscar's spine as he wet his top lip, choosing to ignore the captain’s comment and instead focus on the question. He summoned the navigation chart in his mind’ eye and recalled the last known compass bearings. “Four points off the starboard bow, east by north-east.” He said, pointing his right hand in the appointed direction for emphasis. “Tack the sails larboard and ride the headwinds until sunset.”

His words hung in the cabin’s silence for a long moment as Verstappen stared back at him, betraying nothing about his thoughts. The urge to fidget under the unwavering scrutiny tugged at Oscar, but he resisted. It was nothing more than another intimidation tactic – an admittedly effective one, but Oscar still refused to back down.

“And from Tortuga,” the captain said suddenly. “To Nassau? What would be your recommendation?”

Oscar nibbled his bottom lip as he conjured the map in his mind. It wasn't a route that he had personally sailed, but the naval charts bore many markings of hidden reefs and sandbars along the Bahamian islands that just waited to ensnare unsuspecting ships. “I suppose it depends,” he started softly as the wheels of his mind worked. “On the tide and the draft of the ship.”

“We usually run 4 meters.”

“4 meters,” Oscar repeated with a nod. “Then, the coastal tides of the Cockburn Shoals will snag us. Best to stay on a westerly course. A bit more exposure to the open sea, but less risk to thread the shoreline.”

Verstappen arched a brow. “You know about Cockburn Shoals?”

A wicked lift came unbidden to the corner of Oscar’s mouth. “I’m trained to hunt pirates, sir – you have fewer secrets than you think.”

Without warning, Verstappen shoved his chair back and pushed to his full height. He stood a couple of centimeters taller than Oscar and he crossed the room to the closed-up cabinet. A key materialized from his pocket, and Oscar could just see the ribbon tied to the key’s end that disappeared back into the pocket’s interior. A wise decision to sew one’s keys to one’s clothing when living on the water with known thieves.

The cabinet doors swung open to display an array of indistinguishable bottles, books, and rolled charts before its contents were blocked by the captain’s broad shoulders. “We should dress your hand,” he said matter-of-factly as he took a bottle in hand. “You’re no use to me with sepsis.”

Oscar’s ears perked. “I’m no use to you, as in… you’re keeping me onboard?”

“Perhaps you’re more valuable than you look.”

Verstappen turned back around, and Oscar fixed him with a hard look. “Respectfully, captain, I would like to request that you maroon me instead.”

“Really?” Nothing in Verstappen’s tone changed as he moved back to the table, brown bottle in one hand, a wooden bowl under one arm, and a roll of clean linen in the other hand. “Starvation and death instead of serving on a pirate ship, hmm?”

“Exactly right.” Even as Oscar spoke, Verstappen’s words settled with a lethal finality in his ears. It didn’t make his response any less true, however.

“Then, you should have kept your mouth shut, Sail Master.” Verstappen replied, dipping his head with an admonishing edge as he dropped the linen roll and bowl to the tabletop. “If you trusted that fact to keep you alive, it worked – but did you consider the ramification that it would press you into my service?”

Up close, Verstappen’s eyes glittered like the crystal sea as they reflected the dim sunlight. His scent carried hints of salt, sweat, and tarred oakum worthy of any seaman, but something about it stuck in Oscar’s gut. He didn’t realize just how close they stood, running his gaze over Verstappen’s features until he noticed the freckle on the captain’s upper lip.

He worked a swallow down his suddenly tight throat. “And you’re really going to install the man who requested death instead of your service at the helm of your ship?”

“Just because you turn the wheel doesn’t mean you know the destination,” Verstappen smoothly countered. “And since you’ll report directly to me – I’ll be the first to know if you put even just one toe out of line, and then you’ll probably lose it.” He looked down to pull the cork free from the bottle. “Give me your hand.”

The words reminded Oscar about his left hand pulsing with pain and growing uncomfortably hot inside his pocket even as he replied. “Is that the same encouraging incentive you give your crew?”

“My crew aren’t prisoners. They understand that if they follow orders and don’t try my patience, we will be successful. But I can’t speak for a navy man fresh off his ship who chooses death over my service.” He nodded down at Oscar’s arm. “Give me your hand. I won’t repeat myself again.”

Verstappen’s tone gave Oscar little room for doubt, and he swallowed his words to bide his time. Perhaps this wasn’t his moment of escape, but it may yet come. The Sea Lion will have to dock eventually, and there would be plenty of opportunities to seek freedom at that time. Deciding that he had made the captain wait just long enough, he slowly pulled his hand from his pocket.

The captain wasted no time grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling it down towards the bowl. Oscar braced himself as Verstappen tipped the bottle and a stream of brown liquid poured over the gaping wound on his palm. Fire erupted in his veins as the alcoholic grog made contact with his blood, and he hissed sharply, unable to hide a wince. It burned for a long unpleasant minute before Verstappen sloshed another wave over the oozing wound. His hand twitched in the captain’s firm grip as he bit back a groan, and Verstappen’s steadying hold tightened.

“You’re taking this well, for what it’s worth.” Verstappen commented absently as he inspected the gash.

Oscar drew a sharp breath as pain lanced up his arm. “Not my first wound. Won’t be my last.”

The captain hummed – perhaps in agreement, perhaps in consideration – before he pulled back and released Oscar’s wrist. He drew it back on protective instinct, shaking the excess grog into the wooden bowl, mindful not to throw any drops onto the floor. If he was indeed going to be stuck on this ship for the time being, then he didn’t want to risk earning Carlos’ ire too quickly.

“Keep it dry and keep it clean.” Verstappen commanded as he reached for the roll of linen and retook Oscar’s wrist. He wrapped the linen to form a crude bandage and secured the ends with a knot that rested between Oscar’s thumb and forefinger. “Report to Fernando for a hammock and another bandage. You’ll serve a 10-hour shift behind the wheel daily-”

“10 hours?”

Verstappen arched an unimpressed brow. “Do you think that’s unfair?”

It was certainly longer than any navy shift, but if he was indeed a prisoner of sorts, then he had no leg to stand on here. However much he wanted to fight and push back against Captain Verstappen, he must keep reminding himself that this was not his opportune moment. He pinched his mouth shut and curtly shook his head.

“Good. I didn’t think so.” Verstappen continued, drawing back to fix him with a hard look. “You’ll serve a 10-hour shift at the helm daily and report directly to me. Logan will be your master’s mate and minder on your off-shift hours. You will never go anywhere on this ship unaccompanied, and you will heed every order that comes from me, my quartermaster, and my bosun. Are we understood?”

The words sank like lead in Oscar’s stomach, but he vowed to find a way to turn this situation to his advantage. “Understood.”

Verstappen nodded sharply before his gaze dropped down Oscar’s body and a concerned wrinkle appeared between his eyes. “You need to remove that coat. I won’t risk those brass buttons catching the sun's gleam in someone’s spy glass.”

Oscar nearly laughed but stopped himself. “Well, if I don't wear my navy coat, sir, then what do you suggest?”

“Your whites will do, for now. If we take on cargo that includes clothing, you can perhaps have a share if your behavior warrants it.”

Well, maybe he wouldn’t stand out as a captured navy man in his blue coat, but his cream and white ensemble would still betray him. Perhaps that was Verstappen’s intent – if he remained dressed in all-light clothing, he wouldn’t be able to easily hide in the ship’s shadows, nor would his master’s mate be able to mistake him for someone else.

The moment drew out for another breath before Oscar sighed and shrugged out of his navy coat. The wet wool stuck to the linen of his soggy shirt as he pulled it free, suddenly self-conscious all over again.

Verstappen took the dark coat in hand, giving him another once over, and something in the air shifted as he no longer appeared to be assessing a threat. In fact, his gaze held almost a hint… some appreciative gleam in those glacial eyes that sparked heat in Oscar’s chest…

But then he abruptly turned away and Oscar finally remembered how to breathe.

A cry from the forward ratlines drags him out of the memory, and he watches Pierre start to climb. Blinking more water out of his eyes, he glances up to see a damaged piece of rigging swaying in the gently falling rain. He hopes the breakage isn’t too severe - Alonso had already said the canvas provisions were getting low and Carlos didn’t know when the ship would next dock.

The blister on his hand protests as he grips the wet wood, but he doesn’t dare let go. Between the thinning clouds and the hazy starlight, the horizon appears as a dark, grey smudge, but it’s enough for him to keep the ship pointed in the right direction. At least until he can relinquish the wheel long enough to use his compass.

The salt beef and potatoes settled in his stomach with a satisfying fullness as he waited for the start of his shift. Standing by the quarterdeck railing, Oscar let the refreshing evening breeze blow over him and he glanced up at the stars. He didn’t remember anything about the skies over his home. Probably because he’d been way too young to know better, but maybe that was what he loved about the Caribbean skies. No matter where the sea took him, the stars overhead always made him feel at home.

Even if that home was still a pirate ship.

The thought hit his gut with a sour note, and the singing merriment from the main deck below suddenly sounded way too loud.

“The captain’s wife was Charlotte, born and bred a harlot. Her thighs at night were lily white, by morning they were scarlet!”

Raucous laughter rose from others in the crew as they joined the chorus, but Oscar had little desire to sing along. He still couldn’t shake the guilt of helping Captain Verstappen take down yet another merchant ship. But the day’s haul of yerba mate tea and cocoa had put everyone else on board in high spirits.

Even Captain Verstappen seemed pleased by the day’s take, but the man still proved difficult to read. Glancing away from the horizon, Oscar's gaze strayed unbidden to the man currently at the helm. Captain Verstappen draped almost lazily over the large wheel, making minor course adjustments as they rode the nightly currents. He had earlier decreed a night of rest and celebration for the crew’s successful venture with a promise to dock soon and sell their ill-gotten goods for the benefit of all – and the promise of fresh coin immediately had called for a triple rationing of grog.

“You should be down there, you know.” Verstappen’s voice sliced through his thoughts. “You did your part as a member of my crew today.”

The words nearly made Oscar cringe. “No, thank you, sir. I take no joy in what we accomplished today.”

“No? It only took one shot across the bow for them to raise the white flag. They offered no resistance, no one was hurt, and they sailed off with a significantly lighter hold – but they did sail off.” Verstappen shook his head with disbelief. “If that’s not a victory, then I don’t know what is.”

Bile rose in Oscar’s throat but he swallowed it down. “Victory is not stealing from innocent people just doing their jobs.”

“Innocent people," Verstappen scoffed. “Your naivety shows itself if you think colonization is innocent – no doubt the tea and cocoa below is rooted in blood labor and their masters are the only ones who profit from its sale.”

Perhaps the captain did have a point there. Oscar had seen enough of the slave trade ships to have some idea, but by Verstappen’s logic – if someone only stole from those who stood to profit, then why not make the whole world a target? But as he blinked over at the unassuming man commanding his ship with easy competence, perhaps that was exactly Verstappen’s plan.

Why stop now when he could be king of the world?

A rush of warm appreciation rolled through Oscar, and he shook the thought away, trying to work a swallow down his suddenly dry throat. The singing from the main deck seemed to grow in volume, affording him another moment to collect himself.

“Aboard the good ship Venus, you really should have seen us! With a figurehead, a whore in bed, and a mast of a phallic genus!”

“Well,” Oscar finally said, glancing back up at the captain. “At least the crew are in good spirits. That should make you happy, either way.”

“It does,” the taller man confirmed. “But you’re part of that crew now, too.”

Oscar scoffed softly. “I don’t think so, sir.”

“But you could have run away three weeks ago, could you not?” Verstappen suddenly turned and fixed his sharp eyes on Oscar, leaving him nowhere to hide. “We docked in Antigua, and you had every opportunity to not come back.”

“You had Logan stick to me like a flea on a dog -”

“And you could have forced a brawl in a bid to win your freedom –”

“And then be arrested for brawling in the street?!”

Something mischievous twinkled in Verstappen’s eyes. “But then you’d be free of my ship.”

“At least your prison has sails and stars,” Oscar heard himself say. “A prison on land would just…” Words escaped him as his stomach soured. Even just the idea of being locked away in a dingy stone cell unable to have the sea spray on his face or feel the deck rolling beneath his feet or see the starry sky hurt his soul.

Verstappen regarded him for a long moment before stepping away from the wheel. He approached with his long steady stride, crossing over to where Oscar stood just in the shadow of the mizzenmast. Starlight shone on the captain’s Caribbean sun-kissed skin and deck torchlight gleamed in his blue eyes as he drew up close – close enough for his perpetual scent of salt, sweat, and tarred oakum to catch in Oscar’s nose. A scent that had no right to be so appealing, no right to make Oscar want to lean in and taste it on his tongue.

Memory sparked in Verstappen’s gaze, leaning down to make himself heard over the lively celebration raging on the main deck below. “That doesn’t sound any different than being marooned, you know.”

Oscar’s mind replayed the first conversation he ever had with Captain Verstappen that day in his cabin, and he couldn’t look away from the older man. “But that would have been my choice, unlike imprisonment.”

“And would you make that same choice now?” Verstappen’s voice dropped to a low register that settled uneasily in Oscar’s gut.

He worked a swallow down his throat as he debated how to answer. Somehow saying anything but ‘yes’ felt like a condemnable betrayal, a precipice from which he could never return. Yet the truth of Verstappen’s words stared him in the face - he didn’t try to escape Logan’s watchful eye, he hadn’t tried to plant subversion on the ship, and he had only helped Captain Verstappen navigate the sea to take more plunder. Everything he had ever been raised to believe dictated that he should want nothing more than to abandon this ship and see it rot at the bottom of the sea... the sea that glittered at night like the light in Verstappen’s crystalline eyes…

The corner of Verstappen’s mouth ticked up, revealing the little freckle that dotted the pink, plump skin. “You know what I think?” He purred softly. “I think that you actually like being aboard my ship. You can’t admit it, of course – betrayal of duty and honor and so forth – but I look at you and I don’t see a man wanting to escape.”

Oscar’s mouth went dry as his voice turned thready. “Then what do you see?”

An inscrutable edge came to Verstappen’s face even though nothing in his expression changed. He held Oscar’s gaze for what felt like eternity before he broke away to glance down at his coat and rummage in a pocket. A flash of brass appeared in his hand, and he reached out for Oscar’s right wrist. He upturned Oscar’s hand and placed the cool metal object in his empty palm. Oscar’s eyes darted down to his hand, stunned at the object’s familiar, circular shape.

He raised his left hand and popped the brass cover to reveal a smart, functional compass. The arrow aligned in its north-south orientation with clearly marked points of sail extending in all the designated directions. Not all compasses were suitable for sailing the sea, but this one couldn’t be more perfect.

His gaze flew back up to the captain, trying to understand. It certainly wasn’t Verstappen’s usual compass. Even though Oscar had never been allowed to use it, he had seen the captain consult it plenty of times on deck. “Where on earth did you get this?”

The corner of Verstappen's mouth ticked up with playful mischief. “Another acquisition from our merchant friend today. I thought it would suit you.”

Oscar nearly went dizzy from the implication. “But I thought… well, you said that I wasn’t allowed to know the destination.”

“Then perhaps it will help you see what I already see,” he said softly as Oscar drowned under his gaze. “Someone who’s already free if he only just chooses to be.” A stunningly handsome smile lit his face before he ducked his head with striking modesty and turned away.

As he resumed his post at the helm, his mask of calm, collected command fell back into place. But it did nothing to disguise the open fondness in his gaze as he surveyed the celebrations of his crew on the deck below, and maybe… just maybe… Oscar could admit that being on board the Sea Lion wasn’t a fate worse than death.

He pats a hand against his soaked trousers, searching the clinging fabric for the familiar shape of the compass casing. It should probably bother him how such a simple object can immediately put him at ease, but it anchors him all the same.

“Piastri?”

He straightens up on instinct, his gaze focusing on the captain’s broad shouldered form at the base of the ship ladder. “Yes, sir?”

“Assess our position. I want to know how far the storm threw us off course.” Verstappen’s voice sounds hoarse from shouting orders over the storm’s fury, but his sharp eyes still shine through his bone-weary exhaustion. “Let Lando have the helm. And report to me in my cabin once it’s done.”

Oscar nods numbly. “Yes, sir.”

Verstappen turns without another word to seek out Carlos, finding his quartermaster as the man makes his rounds on the main deck. When the storm had blown up with little warning, Oscar had stumbled up from the orlop deck to report directly to Verstappen for orders, as always. Even now, Oscar can still see the captain at the helm in his mind’s eye. Silhouetted against the pounding rain and blinding lightning as he stood with imperious dominance in defiance of the sea’s raw power. But as soon as Oscar had climbed up to the quarterdeck, shouting over the thunder to make himself heard - Verstappen hadn’t hesitated to hand the wheel over to him.

In that moment, Oscar hadn't given it another thought - but eight months ago when he first joined the crew, that never would have happened. God… eight months. The thought lands heavy in his stomach, or maybe… maybe he’s just hungry after such intense exertion? Or maybe he’s just beyond exhausted…

But he still has a job to do. He spots Charles plodding by on the wet deck, arms laden with thick cords of rope. “Charles,” he calls out, barely recognizing his own breathless voice as the sailor looks over. “Verstappen wants Lando at the helm. Pass the word along?"

Charles looks barely able to stand but he nods before hefting a heavy line over his shoulder for better balance. In fact, as Oscar glances out over the main deck, all of the deck crew moves about in a haze of weary exhaustion. Some look far too green around the gills, others look on the verge of collapse, and others… others stagger about just trying to press on with their duties.

Even Verstappen isn’t immune to it as he braces heavy hands on his hips while now talking with Alonso. Honestly, the bosun appears to have weathered the storm almost better than the captain, but maybe that’s the benefit of the man’s nearly forty years at sea. Oscar has every intention of being retired by then - or, rather… at least, that was his plan before being pressed into a life of piracy.

Again, his gaze strays to Verstappen but he can’t summon any venom through his exhaustion. As much as he faults the man for ruining his life, he just can’t… can’t quite bring himself to entirely condemn Verstappen. There’s just something in the mischievous edge of his smile, in his direct approach to the world, in his ruthless determination to be the best.

He sighs, flexing his fingers against the wheel, and the blister screams with pain. A hiss passes his lips before he can stop it as heavy thudding boots tromp up the steps. Lando looks unusually pale in the wane light, but he’s shockingly dry as he rakes his gaze up and down Oscar’s waterlogged form. “Did you fall overboard, mate?”

Oscar works a swallow down his parched throat. “Certainly feels that way.”

“Did Max have the helm the whole time?”

It still strikes Oscar as odd that Lando maintains such a causal basis when speaking about the captain while the man's not around. But he pushes the thought aside and shakes his head. “No… it wasn’t too long after the storm hit that he turned the ship over to me.”

Lando’s brows climb to his unfairly dry hairline. “You? You mean - that was you steering us through that howling gale?”

Oscar’s face pinches uneasily. “Yes, and you can give me the full critique later -”

“No, it’s just that you… he trusted you!?” Lando’s voice rings with a heavy note of incredulity. “Despite your naval rank, you’re still a greenhorn if I’ve ever seen one, but that…? You shouldn't just be able to do that!"

A modest blush tries to color Oscar’s cheeks, but he’s just so worn out. He shakes his head in dismissal as he loosens his fingers from the wheel and tries to relax them at his sides. “Well… Verstappen said for you to take the helm now. I need to go chart our position and report back.”

Lando steps up to the wheel, running his fingers over the dripping wheel pegs. “Ask Carlos to tie a rope around your waist if you feel like you’ll fall over the railing - or maybe not!" His words sound glib but Oscar doesn't doubt that Lando might just push him overboard if he outperforms the Brit under Verstappen's watch.

He forces a tired lift to the corner of his mouth as he steps back to relinquish his post. “I’ll keep that in mind, mate.” Dragging his feet that feel far too away from his head, water sloshes in the confines of his boots as he trudges across the deck. His leg muscles nearly tremble from overuse and he longs to sit down, but not yet.

Grimacing from the blister’s sting, he reaches for the lid of the navigation trunk. The sextant’s cool metal stings his overheated skin as he pulls it free and adjusts the settings. Discerning their position through hazy clouds and falling rain always involves more guess-work than actual charting, but his honed sense of direction continues to serve him well. By the time he consults the position bearing and glances at the tattered chart in the bottom of the trunk, he has enough confidence to call the task complete. Locking the trunk, he stuffs the key back into his pocket before reaching for his compass.

As the needle orients itself north, he glances out over the ship’s deck. Carlos continues his rounds, checking on the men and glancing up at Pierre and Esteban assessing the damage. Oscar doesn’t immediately spot the captain’s familiar form, and he hates that he’s actually disappointed about it. Perhaps the man has already retired to his cabin.

After all, Verstappen had spent the storm’s duration running between the quarterdeck and the main deck, relaying orders and commands - getting everyone to pull together and heave the sails, pushing to hold his ship and crew together as the storm threatened to tear them apart. Even now, the memory of the man’s unwaveringly fierce determination stirs something warm in Oscar’s chest.

Glancing down at his compass, he confirms the ship’s orientation, pleased that they haven’t drifted too far afield. They may not arrive in time to intercept the Lusail, but the merchant ship can’t be too far away. Especially not if they also suffered a battering from the same storm.

He snaps the compass lid closed and turns for a quick word with Lando to confirm the heading. His face wrinkles with a grimace, courtesy of his blister, as he takes the ship ladder down to the main deck and pushes through the door that leads into the ship’s interior. Fortunately, most of the ship’s supplies stay well-secured for life at sea, but some ropes and fastenings have broken. He navigates through a rolling minefield of grapeshot, hearing Yuki curse heavily as he works to retrieve and store them away. Loose scrolls and a few upended books litter the wardroom as he pushes towards the ship's stern.

Verstappen’s cabin door doesn’t announce itself with any ostentatious ornamentation, and Oscar steps up to it, knocking softly. He strains to listen for a reply, brow furrowing as another frustrated cry sounds from Yuki. His mind doesn’t engage fast enough to stop his hand from reaching for the door handle and pulling it open.

The interior of Verstappen’s cabin is blessedly dark and it further tempts the exhaustion gnawing at his bones. It also offers an inviting reprieve from the stifling moisture in the air - perhaps it should be stale and unwelcome compared to the sea breeze filling his lungs for the past couple of hours, but the familiar musky scent of Verstappen’s personal space draws him forward.

After all, Verstappen had told him to report to his cabin once he finished charting. And if he happened to beat the captain here, that’s hardly his fault. He closes the door behind him and indulges a long, slow breath. His eyelids grow heavy in the dim darkness, and maybe Verstappen will reward his initiative for lighting a candle.

Ignoring the uncomfortable squelch of water in his boots, he doesn’t think about how he’s been in Verstappen’s cabin enough to know where the man stores his flint. Reaching for his knife, he steps up to the glass lantern that swings from the ceiling and strikes steel to flint. Sparks catch on the wick and a soft golden glow suffuses the room. It’s not bright enough to read by, but it might just be bright enough to keep Oscar on his feet.

Or maybe not. Darkness eats at the edge of his vision and maybe if he… maybe if he just rests on the floor for a few minutes, that will be enough. At least until Verstappen arrives. With a soft groan, he lowers himself down to sit on the wooden decking and rocks onto his back. A blissful moment of relief overtakes him and he brings his hands to his face, scrubbing them up over his eyes and through his wet hair as he stretches his legs out.

His shoulders and back sing with sweet relief as he relaxes against the hard surface, unwinding from the storm’s demanding intensity. With another sigh, he unfolds his arms out at his sides against the floor, paying no mind to the wet stick of his shirt-sleeves. No doubt his drenched clothing clings to him like a second skin, but it’s of little consequence.

Especially now that reality hits him.

He hasn’t crashed the ship. He hasn’t pitched anyone overboard. He hasn’t rolled them completely off-course.

He has done everything that training and instinct compelled him to do and… maybe Lando has a point.

"You shouldn't just be able to do that!"

The door’s dull scrape slices through his thoughts, but his mind moves too slow for his body to catch up. He hears the crisp thud of Verstappen’s boots and the wet slap of his discarded canvas coat against the wood floor before his eyes fly open. Turning his head against the wooden planks, he watches in disbelief as Captain Max Verstappen folds himself in half and lowers down to the floor. He settles his back against the cabin wall, stretching his long legs out to give Oscar a prime view of his boot soles. Verstappen sighs, running a hand through his dripping hair as his eyes close in a moment of... relief? Relaxation? Respite?

Oscar can’t place it, but it’s a shockingly vulnerable look on his commanding officer. And yet… Verstappen has proved so different from any naval commander that it just…

Something twists in Oscar’s gut as he continues to glance up at Verstappen, watching the candle’s glow catch in the water dripping from his hair like golden jewels. But as Verstappen opens his eyes, and those glacial pools connect with his gaze, Oscar’s throat begins to tighten. “I-I apologize, sir. If this…” He trails off as a dull ache lodges in the back of his skull. “I just needed a minute.”

“Clearly.” Verstappen deadpans but there’s no displeasure behind it. “I think everyone who was on deck does. That storm…” He pauses with a heavy sigh. “One of the top five worst I’ve ever seen, I think.”

“That was definitely the hardest fight of my life.” Oscar doesn’t hesitate to say. “It just never let up… a constant attack, a constant struggle to hold steady and keep the course.”

The corner of Verstappen’s mouth lifts with heavy exhaustion but also… is it pride? “But infinitely worth the reward.”

Oscar’s brow furrows gently. “The reward?”

Verstappen hums low in his throat. “Or perhaps satisfaction is the better word. That… man versus nature, the freedom of life at sea, braving the elements… whatever it is that compels you to a life at sea.” He shakes his head slowly as he tilts it back against the wall. “There’s little else more satisfying than a contest fought and won.”

Oscar turns away from the captain to blink up at the long shadows playing on the ceiling. “There’s just… nothing else that I wanted to do with my life. The sea is all I’ve ever wanted.”

The words hang in the cabin’s silence for the space of several breaths before movement shuffles over Oscar’s shoulder. He turns his head as Verstappen sits forward, folding his legs underneath him. Sitting so close, he nearly looms over Oscar in his wet trousers and clinging drenched shirt, and the firelight casts a mesmerizing glow in his clear blue eyes. “Me, too,” he says softly. “It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I like to do. If someone took away my ability to sail… I guess I don’t know what I would do.”

“I think you’d surprise yourself, sir.” Oscar offers a small smile as he rallies his strength to sit up. Bracing his hands against the floor, the painful pressure on his blister draws a hiss between his clenched teeth. He also isn’t quick enough to hide his grimace from the captain’s concerned gaze as he meets the older man at eye level, close enough to breathe in the scent of rain on Verstappen's skin.

“Are you hurt?” Verstappen’s tone comes softly but there’s no mistaking the command on his words.

“Not really,” Oscar answers with a slow shake of his head. “Just a blister. From the wheel, I guess. I thought after all these years my skin would be tough enough, but… still not enough, it seems.”

Verstappen’s gaze roams over his face as if looking for something before he drops down to study Oscar’s hands. It takes nothing for him to reach out for Oscar's blistered hand. He holds it up in the faint candle light, studying the inflamed welt with a strange look of reverence and care. It makes him look so young… much younger than the 26 years that Oscar knows him to be. Loose strands of wet hair hang over his forehead, casting dark shadows that contrast to the exhausted pallor of his skin, and the sight of him tears through Oscar’s heart.

Verstappen wets his top lip thoughtfully. “When I first met you, you had also injured this hand.” He strokes a long finger along the dark pink scar crossing Oscar’s palm. “But you survived that, and you’ll survive this. You… you’re a lot tougher than you think, you know.”

Oscar’s heart lodges in his heart and he tries to swallow around it. “I-I guess so. I mean - well, we didn’t lose anyone today. The ship’s still in one piece. So, I guess that’s the reward I most care about.”

Despite his weariness, a spark of mischief catches in Verstappen’s gaze. “Even though we’re just a ship of pirates?”

Oscar takes a long minute to look at him and the air thickens. “Even though.” He confirms as his voice drops to a low, soft tone. “It’s like you said… it’s what I’m good at.”

Another heavy silence falls as Verstappen regards him in equal measure, still holding his left hand. Heat grows along his skin from the shared point of contact and an unspeakable urge itches under his skin. The captain looks at him with such… awe and satisfaction and longing and -

Oscar’s heart stops when he finally recognizes it.

Desire.

His breathing quickens as his mouth goes dry. He has no defense left to offer, and he doesn’t know what Verstappen can read on his own face in return and he’s too tired to care. But it shouldn’t matter - all that matters is that they achieved their goal, they persevered in the face of intensity, and they’re both still alive and still here.

Beneath the scent of rain, Verstappen's natural scent of salt, sweat and tarred oakum still permeates the air, intoxicating him as it reaches deep into his lungs, urging him closer. He doesn’t know who falls into who, but as their mouths slot together, some long lost part of Oscar snaps into place. For the longest moment, they just hold the kiss together, breathing each other in, basking in the solid, reassuring contact. The slow pace of the embrace takes Oscar’s breath away as his exhaustion amplifies each sensation.

The captain’s broad hand raises to cup Oscar’s cheek, holding him closer in the slow, lingering, exploratory kiss. A sigh falls from Oscar’s lips as he leans into Verstappen’s strong hand, and the heat from the sensual kiss spreads through his tired muscles. The edge of Verstappen’s tongue prods at the seam of his mouth, and he relaxes his jaw to deepen their embrace.

A moan rumbles low in Verstappen’s chest as they learn each other’s taste, curling Oscar’s toes in his soggy boots. He chases the velvety heat of Verstappen’s mouth as an answering moan crawls up his throat, and the hunger of their kiss grows. Oscar nearly goes dizzy as Verstappen’s strong fingers tighten around his jaw, dragging his mouth down to lick and nibble at Oscar’s throat.

His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as he tries to catch his breath. “C-captain…?”

“Max,” the other man murmurs with a pleading edge against his skin. “I just want to be Max right now…”

The vulnerability in Max’s voice swallows Oscar whole, and both hands surge up to cup Max’s face. He doesn’t feel the blister’s sting as he crushes their mouths together in a searing, endless, breathless kiss. The heavy weight of Max’s hand grips his shoulder in fierce encouragement as their tongues tangle and get lost in each other. Everything about it sets Oscar’s body aflame, blood rushing to fill out his cock despite the weary state of his body. But somehow… this feels like the perfect answer after such a harrowing experience.

Max’s hand drifts down the plane of his chest, settling over a nipple. The plastered fit of Oscar’s drenched shirt adds a delicious friction as Max rolls the hardening nub between his fingers. Pleasure arcs down Oscar’s spine and he whimpers into Max’s mouth. A pleased growl sounds in Max’s throat as he licks into the heat of Oscar’s mouth while his fingers continue their sweet torture against the shirt's wet fabric.

His cock aches with need, growing impossibly harder with each twisting pinch of Max’s fingers, and, God… what would it be to have Max’s fingers on his skin without his shirt or trousers in the way? He goes blind with delirious desire as Max works the sensitive nub, scraping a blunt nail across for added effect.

The groan that punches from Oscar’s chest sounds way too loud in the deafeningly silent cabin, not helped when Max’s other hand cups his right hand and guides it down the expanse of his broad chest. His finger skim over the drenched fabric of Max’s shirt, feeling the sea-toughened muscles beneath before Max guides him over the waist of his trousers to settle on his straining erection.

“Oh, fuck… Max.” The words spill from Oscar with abandon as he gives a gentle squeeze, swallowing Max’s answering groan. The delicious sound settles in Oscar’s chest and it’s everything that he wants to hear as Max’s fingers deliver one last teasing caress before dropping down the length of Oscar’s torso.

Anticipation burns as Max’s fingers skim lower and finally cup his own aching erection. He doesn’t care if Max can taste his desperation as kisses turn messy and frantic. With Max’s calloused fingers tracing the hardened shape of him and Max’s erection in the palm of his hand, there’s no turning back from what they both want.

His tongue chases the water drops on Max’s neck as he fumbles with the laces of the man’s trousers. His blister only announces itself one time, drowned by the rush of eager need as Max’s fingers tug at his own laces. The first touch of Max’s bare skin in his hand takes his breath away, but it’s all he can do to hold on to his sanity as Max’s hand wraps around his own naked cock.

The raw touch borders on uncomfortable as their wet skin chafes but it couldn’t be more perfect. Their mouths reconnect in a sloppy kiss as they pant their pleasure into each other’s mouth. Max’s salty, sweet musky scent surrounds him as he works his hand over Max’s cock, drowning in the pleasured gasps and moans that fall from the older man’s lips. It fuels his own building pleasure as Max’s hand twists and squeezes in return, driving him closer to the brink of sweet, maddening release.

He’s far too keyed up and far too gone far too soon, and he spills over Max’s hand with a choked off cry as Max’s teeth scrape against his neck. It’s only two strokes later that Max’s own release coats his hand, and a new scent permeates the air as they slump together in post-orgasmic bliss. Oscar drops his head to Max’s shoulder, chest heaving as he tries to calm the thundering of his heart. His eyes grow heavy as the wonderful high rolls through him, relaxing his tense muscles, and God… he just wants to sleep for days.

Max groans in relief as his head rests similarly on Oscar’s other shoulder, his lips pressing a hard kiss to the side of Oscar’s neck. A pleasant aftershock courses through him and he gives Max’s softening cock one last gentle squeeze.

Max grunts. “You tease.”

Oscar hums low in his throat. “I do believe that you encouraged me.” He gasps in oversensitized pleasure as Max imparts a farewell squeeze to his own spent cock. It sparks another aftershock in his blood, but every muscle in his body is far too overworked to respond. Max’s release turns tacky on his hand and he probably has a mess in own trousers to deal with before it dries too much further. Max seems to have the same idea as he pulls back and reaches for his discarded wet coat.

He tugs an inside flap free and wipes down his hand before attempting to clean himself up. The wordless invitation extends to Oscar, and he hesitates for a brief moment before Max sighs. “It’s alright,” he says as Oscar finally reaches for the coat. “It’s on the inside so I can carry it out without anyone seeing. Easier to wash that way, too.”

With their hands mostly clean and their trousers mostly presentable, Oscar finds himself at a loss. Just what does he say to his captain now? Now that he knows how the man sounds when licking into Oscar’s mouth, when spilling into his hand? The memory curls a bolt of latent heat down his spine as he glances over at Max in the flickering, swaying candlelight. Fortunately for him, Max looks just equally lost for words as if… as if this is the first time he’s ever encountered a situation like this.

And maybe it is.

Something about that thought warms Oscar’s chest, and he desperately hopes that he is the first person aboard that Max has taken in his cabin like this. At length, he sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, breathing in the remnants of Max on his skin. “Two points south-southwest.” He suddenly says, drawing Max’s confused, piqued gaze. “That’s how far off course we are… I told Lando to hold a steady southerly course and we should be closer by morning. Though, we can’t know how the Lusail fared in the storm, either. She could be even further off course.”

Max takes a moment to respond, nodding gently. “Then, we’ll just have to keep on her shadow. Until the opportunity presents itself, we keep to what we know and see what the dawn brings.” His gaze drops to his feet in an uncharacteristically hesitant moment. “Oscar, I don’t…” He starts and stops just as quickly before raising his eyes. They shine with a painfully raw determination and something unspeakably intimate. “The dawn already brings about one change for me… but whatever we have shared - or may yet share - behind that closed door must never escape that closed door.”

Oscar immediately nods as his heart leaps. “Of course, Max. Yes, I understand.” Even as he responds, he suddenly doubts his hearing. Maybe it’s just his exhausted mind playing tricks on him, but did Max really just imply that this could happen again? It’s more than Oscar could have ever hoped for, and the corner of his mouth lifts with a hopeful edge as he meets Max’s gaze in the candlelight.

Despite the desperation and need with which they had clung to each other on the floor, the moment now isn’t right to kiss Max again and so he doesn’t. In fact, he watches as Max starts to replace his armor, transforming from the young man who shook apart in his hand back into Captain Verstappen, legendary pirate of the Caribbean Sea.

He nods again, this time in farewell. “Good night, captain.” He turns without another word, reaching for the door handle just as Verstappen’s voice sounds over his shoulder.

“Good to have you aboard, Piastri.”

Fin

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