Chapter 57

First of all, I haven’t even agreed to this yet. Now let’s talk about why we have to take off pants for the tattoo—is the large space on my back not enough for you to work with, or is my floral underwear hindering your creativity? Miguel looked up at the captain, his expression blank, as if his mind had completely emptied.

“Tattoos on the shoulders are for women,” Caesar said, extinguishing his cigarette and speaking calmly. “For men, the normal spot is on the lower back.”

Right, not only is it normal, but it’s also excruciatingly painful. Why didn’t you mention that? Who are you trying to fool? Before the navigator could roll his eyes properly, his chin was grabbed and tilted upward. He met those amber-colored eyes, which gleamed unusually bright in the smoky air. “What’s with that look? Like I’m lying to you.”

Miguel stared at Caesar, then calmly uttered a shocking statement—

“You think you’re the only one afraid of pain?”

Caesar: “…”

Miguel: “Alright, my bad. Let’s move on to the next topic.”

The next topic was the captain unceremoniously starting to take off his pants. Miguel was startled, and by the time he processed the shock, his floral underwear had already been tossed to the other side of the captain’s cabin. Lying face down on the sofa, clutching his buttocks, and seeing the captain’s “I’m about to devour you” expression, Miguel felt a bit dizzy. He suddenly couldn’t figure out who was the one secretly harboring a crush and plotting to “push him down and take him by force” every day.

“This doesn’t seem appropriate…” Miguel said. “What if someone comes in…”

“They already think that’s what’s happening,” the man said nonchalantly. “What’s the difference?”

Captain, are you just going to let it all go to hell now? This attitude is not right, and it’s not logical either! Helplessly watching Caesar turn around and pull out a small box from where he kept his important items, Miguel curiously craned his neck to peek inside when the box was opened—

Inside the box, neatly arranged, was a row of fish bones of varying sizes.

…Yes, fish bones.

The navigator, who had expected to see at least somewhat professional metal needles, suddenly felt like he was still too young—what if one of these breaks halfway through and gets stuck in my skin, and then they have to cut me open to get it out?!

Miguel shuddered: “Just do something simple, like the letter ‘M’ for Miguel… no, that might be a bit weird. How about ‘C’ for Caesar? Yeah, that’s better, fewer strokes than ‘M’…”

“I never said you could decide.”

Miguel was stunned. I don’t get a say? This is some next-level audacity! Are you seriously planning to carve a masterpiece like the Dunhuang Flying Apsaras on my back?!

“Pirates usually use roses as symbols of love or Christian imagery,” the man glanced at Miguel’s back. “But since I don’t believe in those, we can skip the Jesus.”

…What does your belief have to do with me? I don’t believe anything symbolizes love either, so does that mean we can just skip the tattoo altogether? Miguel paused for a moment, then extended a hand: “Roses, right? Hand me the tools, I’ll sketch a design for you to follow.”

Seeing his cooperation, the captain seemed pleased and immediately handed over the parchment and quill. Miguel took them without hesitation, lay face down on the sofa, and quickly began sketching, biting his tongue in concentration. A circle, eight petals… no, eight is too many, five petals will do—

One minute later.

“Here! Just follow this!”

“What is this, dog shit?” The captain glanced at the parchment and, ignoring Miguel’s indignant expression, unceremoniously tossed the kindergarten-level doodle out the window. His slender fingers brushed over the row of fish bones, and he smiled, looking up at Miguel. “Let me tell you a story.”

Miguel: “I never want to hear another story in my life.”

Ignoring him, the man pulled out a small ink box from the corner of the container. When he opened it, a strong, indescribably complex scent wafted out—a mix of rotting animal blood, seaweed, and a hint of ink.

Miguel took a deep breath and said, “Move that away. I think my seasickness is acting up again.”

“It contains animal bile, herbal juice, seaweed juice, and regular ink,” Caesar explained patiently. “I mixed it myself. The herbs and bile are to prevent inflammation and infection, and the ink is for coloring.” Miguel leaned in to look and saw that the liquid in the ink box was thick and dark green. When the fish bone was dipped in, it took on a translucent green hue.

“The seaweed juice is to give the tattooed person the scent of the sea—it’s an old habit among fishermen in coastal cities. They believed that only tattoos mixed with seaweed juice would make them smell like sea creatures, so the aggressive fish would mistake them for their own kind and leave them alone. See, isn’t it beautiful?”

“…” Sorry, Captain, but I can’t bring myself to compliment this—your behavior is like showing off a freshly sharpened blade to a prisoner about to be executed. The navigator watched as Caesar picked the thinnest fish bone from the row—

Great, now Miguel had another problem: even kindergarteners know that the thinner the needle, the more it hurts.

Instinctively shielding his butt, Miguel realized he couldn’t accept being pricked countless times like a piece of pigskin. As he shrank into the corner, a certain part of his body was suddenly grabbed, and the black-haired young man yelped, his face twisting. “Let go!”

“Keep moving, and I’ll tattoo it here instead.” The man held Miguel’s manhood, feeling it twitch in his palm at the threat. He smirked, his voice deep and seductive. “I’ve always wanted to try this. A rose in this color would look perfect here.”

“Perfect my ass!”

This wasn’t the first time Caesar had taken a proper look at Miguel’s body.

Though compared to the other crew members, Miguel was indeed unusually pale. His body was deeply nestled in the dark blue velvet sofa, tense with nervousness. His firm chest at least showed that he hadn’t been slacking off during regular training and work. Moving down from his abdomen, a patch of hair surrounded his penis, which, due to infrequent use, was a healthy shade of pink, resting quietly in the captain’s rough hand.

“You weren’t this pale when I first met you,” Caesar said, casually running a hand over Miguel’s chest. “What happened?”

“Wh-what do you mean what happened!” The navigator stiffly retorted. “It’s just my constitution, you bastard—ah! What are you doing!”

“Oh, my bad,” the man said lazily, moving his thumb away from the tip of the object in his palm. He smirked, looking both wicked and shameless. “I accidentally touched it… You’re quite sensitive.”

Feeling his body heat up, Miguel’s ears turned red. He slapped at Caesar’s hand, panicking so much he felt like jumping into the sea. All that pride in his self-control was bullshit—if that damn hand moved one more time, he would definitely—

“Ahhhhhh!”

“What are you screaming for?!”

“I’m about to get hard! I’m about to get hard! QAQ”

“…It’s hilarious how you’re crying out your physiological changes like this, trash,” the man frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “Shouldn’t you cry if you can’t get hard?”

As he spoke, he kept his hand on the twitching object, which was indeed growing harder by the second. He leaned in closer, their faces almost touching, so close that Caesar could feel the hot breath from Miguel’s nose.

Miguel’s eyes widened in terror. He turned his face away, almost afraid to meet those amber eyes—but in the next second, the ink-dipped fish bone silently fell to the carpet. His limbs were firmly pinned, and with a creak from the sofa, Caesar, like a nimble leopard, flipped onto the sofa and wedged his legs between Miguel’s legs!

“I’ll give you a little reward, kid,” the man said with a hint of a smile in his eyes. As he spoke, his legs firmly pressed down on Miguel’s knees, while his other hand slid down the smooth skin, coming to rest on Miguel’s firm buttocks, kneading them lewdly—

“Relax,” he said calmly. “On a ship, with no women around, this kind of thing is normal.”

With one hand spreading Miguel’s thighs, he could more easily play with the awakening organ in his grasp. The long-held sword and gun had left many calluses on the captain’s hand, making every movement feel magnified to Miguel—

The resistance from the man beneath him seemed to irritate Caesar. He frowned slightly, increasing the pressure in his hand, leaving red and white finger marks on the pale, tender inner thighs. He intensified his movements, the rough pad of his thumb cruelly grazing the tip, which was already leaking clear fluid…

“Mmmph—”

“Don’t scream,” the man’s voice was now husky and low as he pressed down on Miguel. He chuckled. “You’re making me hard too.”