Pray for a Stiff Wind
Feb. 7th, 2012 01:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eternalsojournSo after the (apparently) surprising darkness of my big bang, we are back to our regularly scheduled shortish PWP. This time with pirates.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1900
Warnings: Noncon/dubcon, homophobia, typical pirate violence/tropes. Though I refer to Arthur as a “boy”, I don’t think of him as underage any more than I think of Elizabeth Swan or Will Turner as underage.
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
night_reveals
Summary: This is a pirate AU where Arthur is an aristocrat’s son and Eames is a pillaging pirate. Eames steals Arthur’s virtue, his father’s jewels, and though he doesn’t know it, Arthur’s stifling future.
For Ashley, whose lovey-drunkenness is inspiring, touching and just ridiculous enough to encourage things like this. Ashley, I’m sorry there isn’t more of Commodore Norrington in this, but I put more than a dash of the spirit of adventure in it for you.
Outside was chaos. Arthur winced at the harsh cracking sounds as buildings burned and buckled under their own weight. The screams could have been coming from those inside the buildings or from those under attack. There were shouts, primal growls, the clang of metal, the scuffling of feet on cobblestone, wet thuds. The clamour drowned out the omnipresent, usually soothing lapping and whooshing of the ocean on the piers and beach.
Arthur peeked out the curtains and could make out shapes moving in the darkness. His poker from the set of andirons by his fireplace hung loosely at his side. They hadn’t yet reached his home set into the hillside, but it was only a matter of time. His eyes flashed with excitement. For all he’d read of pirates, he’d only ever seen them from afar as they’d been strung up, spectators standing around for an afternoon’s entertainment.
The door breaking downstairs came a little sooner than expected, but they were prepared. Arthur’s father had positioned his own manservant to deal with any intruders. From the sounds of things, Benjamin had his hands full as the shrill clang of swords rang clear through the house, along with the shouts of several voices. A set of footsteps thundered up the stairs. Arthur guessed it wasn’t Benjamin, judging from the sounds of fighting still coming from the foyer.
Arthur had a moment of paralysis in which he was so flooded with fear and excitement, so full of possible actions, he couldn’t quite make himself move. But it was over in a flash and he raised the andiron and slipped behind the door. He noted with grim resignation that his father hadn’t come out of hiding from his own room to deal with this mess; his father had always been more interested in the contents of his safe than his own son’s safety.
Despite standing at the ready, Arthur was stunned when the door was kicked open too fast for him to swing his weapon or do anything other than suddenly wonder how he got himself pinned with his arm behind his back, his own poker jabbing into his hip. The sickly sweet rum breath of a scruffy pirate gusted over his smooth cheek.
“Oy, what ‘ave we here? A lovely bit of treasure all locked away in this castle, eh, poppet?”
The man’s voice was like fine grit sandpaper, a contrast to his bare bicep, smooth and hard, straining against Arthur’s shoulder. His warm bulk molded to Arthur’s back.
“My father will be in here any moment,” Arthur said in warning, voice steady and confident despite the rapid thudding of his heart.
The man laughed, a low, slow rumble. “Will he, now? Your father, the hero. Always there to rescue you from danger, is he? Why isn’t he here already, I wonder?”
Arthur gritted his teeth. He had no idea if help was forthcoming; he had no intention of mentioning that to this lout, though.
“Wouldn’t take much to get the upper hand on a dirty drunk pirate,” Arthur said frostily, and despite himself took another draw of breath through his nose, taking in the whisky, the musk of the man who had him trapped with a thick, solid arm around his chest.
“We’ll see about that,” the man said, and dragged Arthur backwards while he maneuvered a chair under the door, then kicked the bedside table in front of the chair for good measure.
Arthur’s father did come out of hiding then. “Arthur, open this door!” his dad shouted angrily, as though Arthur had merely been in a snit and locked himself in his room.
Another pair of feet came banging up the stairs, and there was a scuffle as Arthur heard his dad’s indignant protests and a rough, unintelligible accent in response.
“Eames!” came a cry from the hallway.
“Fuck off, ‘m busy!” the man at Arthur’s back said in response as he pushed Arthur towards the bed, forcing him onto his knees.
There was a startling bang as someone was thrown into the door, but Arthur didn’t pay a whole lot of attention when the weight of this man — Eames — was pressing insistently into his back. Arthur leaned into the contact.
“The safe is in my father’s room,” Arthur said, sucking in a breath, a quiet part of his brain — a part he wouldn’t quite acknowledge — hoping Eames wouldn’t take the bait.
“I’ll get there soon enough. I believe I’ve found the treasure I want,” Eames murmured, knocking Arthur’s legs apart with his knees.
There was a choked cry and a series of thuds as someone fell down the stairs.
“Arthur!” came his father’s voice a moment later, and Arthur’s jaw clenched, his heart sank. His inheritance, his legacy, it’d been held over his head his whole life. When he’d been found in flagrante with his fencing partner, his father had been apoplectic, had withdrawn nearly all of Arthur’s freedoms and threatened disinheritance. With the sound of that grapple outside his door, for one frighteningly hopeful moment, Arthur had been so very nearly free of jumping through hoops. So very nearly free of worrying about measuring up. He closed his eyes.
“Make it comfortable?” Arthur whispered.
Eames laughed, morphing from a throaty rumble to a snarl. “You’re treating to the mercy of a pirate?”
“I’m treating to the mercy of a man,” Arthur countered, voice tight, but negotiating as though he had any bargaining power whatsoever.
Eames grumbled then, though whether it was in disagreement or begrudging acknowledgement of Arthur’s request, Arthur could only wait to see.
“Arthur, open this bloody door this instant!” his dad shouted again. The thud of fists had Arthur internally shaking his head in disbelief as he pictured his father banging on the door as though his righteous indignation could change the situation.
Eames moved away for a moment, grasping the lamp oil bottle from Arthur’s bedside. Arthur didn’t move from where he’d been placed.
A chill breeze from the open window pricked up goosebumps on Arthur’s bare flesh as Eames yanked down Arthur’s sleep trousers. Eames slid one oiled finger into Arthur as he heard his father’s yelling once more. Something about his father’s frantic shouting, the smell of smoke and destruction outside and this intrusion: this brazen, entitled press had Arthur biting his lip and uttering a quiet grunt of pleasure. It caught him by surprise, uttered before he knew what was happening. But as soon as it happened, he grasped it, clung to it. Amplified it.
He moaned loudly, making absolutely sure it would be audible outside his door.
Eames huffed a laugh in his ear as he added a second finger. “I’ll give you something to groan about, love,” he said, then withdrew and pressed the head of his blunt, hard cock at Arthur’s entrance. His hand slid up Arthur’s back, pushing his sleep shirt up out of the way, his scarred, calloused hands skating over Arthur’s flesh.
Someone shouted Eames’s name from downstairs, calling for him. Eames withdrew leaving Arthur’s body untouched and alone. Arthur frowned, disappointment gripping him for one crazy moment. Here at the end of things, he just wanted to progress, to continue over the brink.
He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his fingers in the sheets in resignation and frustration. But underneath the sound of crackling fire and the fighting that continued to rage outside was a quiet squelching. He turned to see Eames lazily jacking himself, cock shiny with lamp oil. His gaze was unexpected: greedy, yes, lustful. But considering, intelligent in a way Arthur never associated with scallywags.
“Spread your legs for me,” he said, and that fine grit voice had the curious effect of smoothing Arthur’s worries. He spread his knees farther and arched, presenting himself.
His father banged on the door, furious, shouting warnings to the pirate, terrible things, violent and ugly. Arthur let out a loud, pleasured moan to drown him out. Eames laughed heartily, then.
A heavy, warm hand settled on Arthur’s hip, and that cock pressed back against him, rubbed back and forth a few times before being pushed in, popping inside suddenly. Arthur gasped and flexed his fingers.
Eames dropped forwards, his breath hot on Arthur’s spine between his shoulder blades. He grunted and offered no verbal comfort, just ground his hips in and slid his hand around Arthur’s torso. His breaches were stiff and rough against Arthur’s bare flesh, his skin hot. It was so different from the awkward fumbling of his fencing partner, the apologies, the manners. This man was so sure, shoving himself in and pinching Arthur’s nipple, Arthur felt more than a little intoxicated himself.
It wasn’t long before Arthur’s wanton grunts and groans stopped being for the benefit of his father — and actually the banging and shouting had stopped. Arthur only idly noticed, though , because he felt so perfectly dirty being taken by this ruffian. He thrust his hips backwards into the man and sneaked his hand between his legs to tug at himself, growing slowly harder after the initial breach.
Eames huffed again, amused, though it was tinged with his gruff desire as he rubbed himself off inside Arthur’s body. “Little rich boy likes consortin’ with thieves,” he said.
Arthur released his lower lip from his teeth and replied through panting breaths, “you haven’t stolen anything.”
“Not yet,” Eames said, then yanked on Arthur’s hip as he drove in roughly.
Arthur jerked himself quickly, riding a wave of recklessness as his town fell apart around him. He could feel his orgasm building, but Eames beat him to the punch, pressing Arthur’s upper back down until Arthur’s shoulders were flush to the bed, his head turned sideways so he could see the man’s face in his periphery. Eames’s eyes were closed as he slammed home and emptied himself with a curiously vulnerable little shudder.
When Eames’s cock slid out almost as an afterthought, and Arthur felt warm seed trickling out of him, the reality of the situation hit Arthur. He’d given himself wantonly to a pirate, was used and dripping. His orgasm tore out of him suddenly, wracking his body as he spurted over his fingers, and splashed over the bedclothes.
Eames was already tucking himself away and lacing his breeches when Arthur turned himself over, pulling up his own bottoms. A deafening crack startled them both as something was slammed against the door as a battering ram. Arthur’s father had returned, this time with reinforcements in the form of the Commodore. Their angry voices threatened Eames with hanging, disemboweling, torture of the man who’d dared to befoul the beloved son of the house. Arthur sneered, sure that his father’s affront was tainted with uglier things than paternal protection.
“You can get into his room if you shimmy along outside the window,” Arthur whispered. “The key is hidden under the lip of the lampshade in the corner.” Eames looked at Arthur quizzically. “Just take me with you,” Arthur said quietly, insistently.
Eames grinned, a crooked, predatory thing that had Arthur feeling young and reckless, exhilarated. “Put something warm on then, poppet. It’s breezy out there on the open water. Meet me outside your window in a few minutes.”
He slapped Arthur’s arse as he passed before slipping out the window silently.
Arthur took a moment to be astonished with himself, to grin giddily at this rash decision, before scrambling to dress as hurriedly as he knew how.
**End**
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1900
Warnings: Noncon/dubcon, homophobia, typical pirate violence/tropes. Though I refer to Arthur as a “boy”, I don’t think of him as underage any more than I think of Elizabeth Swan or Will Turner as underage.
Beta:
night_revealsSummary: This is a pirate AU where Arthur is an aristocrat’s son and Eames is a pillaging pirate. Eames steals Arthur’s virtue, his father’s jewels, and though he doesn’t know it, Arthur’s stifling future.
For Ashley, whose lovey-drunkenness is inspiring, touching and just ridiculous enough to encourage things like this. Ashley, I’m sorry there isn’t more of Commodore Norrington in this, but I put more than a dash of the spirit of adventure in it for you.
Pray for a Stiff Wind
Outside was chaos. Arthur winced at the harsh cracking sounds as buildings burned and buckled under their own weight. The screams could have been coming from those inside the buildings or from those under attack. There were shouts, primal growls, the clang of metal, the scuffling of feet on cobblestone, wet thuds. The clamour drowned out the omnipresent, usually soothing lapping and whooshing of the ocean on the piers and beach.
Arthur peeked out the curtains and could make out shapes moving in the darkness. His poker from the set of andirons by his fireplace hung loosely at his side. They hadn’t yet reached his home set into the hillside, but it was only a matter of time. His eyes flashed with excitement. For all he’d read of pirates, he’d only ever seen them from afar as they’d been strung up, spectators standing around for an afternoon’s entertainment.
The door breaking downstairs came a little sooner than expected, but they were prepared. Arthur’s father had positioned his own manservant to deal with any intruders. From the sounds of things, Benjamin had his hands full as the shrill clang of swords rang clear through the house, along with the shouts of several voices. A set of footsteps thundered up the stairs. Arthur guessed it wasn’t Benjamin, judging from the sounds of fighting still coming from the foyer.
Arthur had a moment of paralysis in which he was so flooded with fear and excitement, so full of possible actions, he couldn’t quite make himself move. But it was over in a flash and he raised the andiron and slipped behind the door. He noted with grim resignation that his father hadn’t come out of hiding from his own room to deal with this mess; his father had always been more interested in the contents of his safe than his own son’s safety.
Despite standing at the ready, Arthur was stunned when the door was kicked open too fast for him to swing his weapon or do anything other than suddenly wonder how he got himself pinned with his arm behind his back, his own poker jabbing into his hip. The sickly sweet rum breath of a scruffy pirate gusted over his smooth cheek.
“Oy, what ‘ave we here? A lovely bit of treasure all locked away in this castle, eh, poppet?”
The man’s voice was like fine grit sandpaper, a contrast to his bare bicep, smooth and hard, straining against Arthur’s shoulder. His warm bulk molded to Arthur’s back.
“My father will be in here any moment,” Arthur said in warning, voice steady and confident despite the rapid thudding of his heart.
The man laughed, a low, slow rumble. “Will he, now? Your father, the hero. Always there to rescue you from danger, is he? Why isn’t he here already, I wonder?”
Arthur gritted his teeth. He had no idea if help was forthcoming; he had no intention of mentioning that to this lout, though.
“Wouldn’t take much to get the upper hand on a dirty drunk pirate,” Arthur said frostily, and despite himself took another draw of breath through his nose, taking in the whisky, the musk of the man who had him trapped with a thick, solid arm around his chest.
“We’ll see about that,” the man said, and dragged Arthur backwards while he maneuvered a chair under the door, then kicked the bedside table in front of the chair for good measure.
Arthur’s father did come out of hiding then. “Arthur, open this door!” his dad shouted angrily, as though Arthur had merely been in a snit and locked himself in his room.
Another pair of feet came banging up the stairs, and there was a scuffle as Arthur heard his dad’s indignant protests and a rough, unintelligible accent in response.
“Eames!” came a cry from the hallway.
“Fuck off, ‘m busy!” the man at Arthur’s back said in response as he pushed Arthur towards the bed, forcing him onto his knees.
There was a startling bang as someone was thrown into the door, but Arthur didn’t pay a whole lot of attention when the weight of this man — Eames — was pressing insistently into his back. Arthur leaned into the contact.
“The safe is in my father’s room,” Arthur said, sucking in a breath, a quiet part of his brain — a part he wouldn’t quite acknowledge — hoping Eames wouldn’t take the bait.
“I’ll get there soon enough. I believe I’ve found the treasure I want,” Eames murmured, knocking Arthur’s legs apart with his knees.
There was a choked cry and a series of thuds as someone fell down the stairs.
“Arthur!” came his father’s voice a moment later, and Arthur’s jaw clenched, his heart sank. His inheritance, his legacy, it’d been held over his head his whole life. When he’d been found in flagrante with his fencing partner, his father had been apoplectic, had withdrawn nearly all of Arthur’s freedoms and threatened disinheritance. With the sound of that grapple outside his door, for one frighteningly hopeful moment, Arthur had been so very nearly free of jumping through hoops. So very nearly free of worrying about measuring up. He closed his eyes.
“Make it comfortable?” Arthur whispered.
Eames laughed, morphing from a throaty rumble to a snarl. “You’re treating to the mercy of a pirate?”
“I’m treating to the mercy of a man,” Arthur countered, voice tight, but negotiating as though he had any bargaining power whatsoever.
Eames grumbled then, though whether it was in disagreement or begrudging acknowledgement of Arthur’s request, Arthur could only wait to see.
“Arthur, open this bloody door this instant!” his dad shouted again. The thud of fists had Arthur internally shaking his head in disbelief as he pictured his father banging on the door as though his righteous indignation could change the situation.
Eames moved away for a moment, grasping the lamp oil bottle from Arthur’s bedside. Arthur didn’t move from where he’d been placed.
A chill breeze from the open window pricked up goosebumps on Arthur’s bare flesh as Eames yanked down Arthur’s sleep trousers. Eames slid one oiled finger into Arthur as he heard his father’s yelling once more. Something about his father’s frantic shouting, the smell of smoke and destruction outside and this intrusion: this brazen, entitled press had Arthur biting his lip and uttering a quiet grunt of pleasure. It caught him by surprise, uttered before he knew what was happening. But as soon as it happened, he grasped it, clung to it. Amplified it.
He moaned loudly, making absolutely sure it would be audible outside his door.
Eames huffed a laugh in his ear as he added a second finger. “I’ll give you something to groan about, love,” he said, then withdrew and pressed the head of his blunt, hard cock at Arthur’s entrance. His hand slid up Arthur’s back, pushing his sleep shirt up out of the way, his scarred, calloused hands skating over Arthur’s flesh.
Someone shouted Eames’s name from downstairs, calling for him. Eames withdrew leaving Arthur’s body untouched and alone. Arthur frowned, disappointment gripping him for one crazy moment. Here at the end of things, he just wanted to progress, to continue over the brink.
He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his fingers in the sheets in resignation and frustration. But underneath the sound of crackling fire and the fighting that continued to rage outside was a quiet squelching. He turned to see Eames lazily jacking himself, cock shiny with lamp oil. His gaze was unexpected: greedy, yes, lustful. But considering, intelligent in a way Arthur never associated with scallywags.
“Spread your legs for me,” he said, and that fine grit voice had the curious effect of smoothing Arthur’s worries. He spread his knees farther and arched, presenting himself.
His father banged on the door, furious, shouting warnings to the pirate, terrible things, violent and ugly. Arthur let out a loud, pleasured moan to drown him out. Eames laughed heartily, then.
A heavy, warm hand settled on Arthur’s hip, and that cock pressed back against him, rubbed back and forth a few times before being pushed in, popping inside suddenly. Arthur gasped and flexed his fingers.
Eames dropped forwards, his breath hot on Arthur’s spine between his shoulder blades. He grunted and offered no verbal comfort, just ground his hips in and slid his hand around Arthur’s torso. His breaches were stiff and rough against Arthur’s bare flesh, his skin hot. It was so different from the awkward fumbling of his fencing partner, the apologies, the manners. This man was so sure, shoving himself in and pinching Arthur’s nipple, Arthur felt more than a little intoxicated himself.
It wasn’t long before Arthur’s wanton grunts and groans stopped being for the benefit of his father — and actually the banging and shouting had stopped. Arthur only idly noticed, though , because he felt so perfectly dirty being taken by this ruffian. He thrust his hips backwards into the man and sneaked his hand between his legs to tug at himself, growing slowly harder after the initial breach.
Eames huffed again, amused, though it was tinged with his gruff desire as he rubbed himself off inside Arthur’s body. “Little rich boy likes consortin’ with thieves,” he said.
Arthur released his lower lip from his teeth and replied through panting breaths, “you haven’t stolen anything.”
“Not yet,” Eames said, then yanked on Arthur’s hip as he drove in roughly.
Arthur jerked himself quickly, riding a wave of recklessness as his town fell apart around him. He could feel his orgasm building, but Eames beat him to the punch, pressing Arthur’s upper back down until Arthur’s shoulders were flush to the bed, his head turned sideways so he could see the man’s face in his periphery. Eames’s eyes were closed as he slammed home and emptied himself with a curiously vulnerable little shudder.
When Eames’s cock slid out almost as an afterthought, and Arthur felt warm seed trickling out of him, the reality of the situation hit Arthur. He’d given himself wantonly to a pirate, was used and dripping. His orgasm tore out of him suddenly, wracking his body as he spurted over his fingers, and splashed over the bedclothes.
Eames was already tucking himself away and lacing his breeches when Arthur turned himself over, pulling up his own bottoms. A deafening crack startled them both as something was slammed against the door as a battering ram. Arthur’s father had returned, this time with reinforcements in the form of the Commodore. Their angry voices threatened Eames with hanging, disemboweling, torture of the man who’d dared to befoul the beloved son of the house. Arthur sneered, sure that his father’s affront was tainted with uglier things than paternal protection.
“You can get into his room if you shimmy along outside the window,” Arthur whispered. “The key is hidden under the lip of the lampshade in the corner.” Eames looked at Arthur quizzically. “Just take me with you,” Arthur said quietly, insistently.
Eames grinned, a crooked, predatory thing that had Arthur feeling young and reckless, exhilarated. “Put something warm on then, poppet. It’s breezy out there on the open water. Meet me outside your window in a few minutes.”
He slapped Arthur’s arse as he passed before slipping out the window silently.
Arthur took a moment to be astonished with himself, to grin giddily at this rash decision, before scrambling to dress as hurriedly as he knew how.
**End**
