#fanfic.
a fairy tale or two.
claude/hannah ; kuroshitsuji II ; pirate au.
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The ship is a busy thing, Hannah has learned. It is full and brimming with life and she often finds herself hovering in the side lines, useless and unsure of what to do. What, after all, can a prisoner such as herself truly do? Claude grants her the freedom to roam as she pleases but more often than not, she finds herself sitting in his quarters, her back against his pillows and reading over his journals.
He does not know this, of course. Hannah does not mention it and he does not ask her what it is she does during the day. So she sits, legs folded, hair tied tightly into a braid and she reads about his past. His adventures, his desires, his kills and his accomplishments. She learns that he saved Alois from a slave ring, took him and sheltered him until he became the cabin boy that he is now. She learns when Alois’ infatuation began and where Claude’s interested faded and bled away.
It is a colourful story and it captivates Hannah.
Often she finds, that she reads all day. Today however, today is different. There is a storm brewing - winds are heavy and it rains in short, infrequent spurts. There is a heavy bustle above her, fast and quick and she imagines that perhaps the crew are trying their best to prepare for the worst. She wonders if Claude is with them, fleetingly. So concerned with perfection that is he is, she can only see him in the midst of it all, fixing things until they are to his satisfaction.
Ah, but she is often wrong about him. As in this case.
The cabin door opens faster than Hannah can close the journal. She hesitates for a moment (never panics) and looks at the open pages and then looks up to Claude. He is wet - rain, perhaps - and he stands looking at her, expression cool and stoic. He stands there for a heartbeat, and then he shuts the door behind him and shrugs off his coat.
Neither of m are creatures of many words - not at first. Hannah sets the journal aside and gives him her full attention; sits up that little bit straighter and asks: “Is everything Ok?”
To which he pauses in mid undress and he looks at her, eyebrow raised. “Of course. This is my ship - what kind of Captain would I be if things were not perfect?”
He says it with such confidence that Hannah is hard pressed not to believe him. She watches silently, the way he removes his shirt and folds it on the back of a chair. When he sits down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, Hannah considers crawling forwards to wrap her arms around him. She hesitates, only because he is often unpredictable in how he acts when receiving affection.
As it is, Hannah feels her mood shift as she crawls towards him; feels that she can welcome both outcomes, as her arms slip around his shoulder and her clothed breasts press against his back. “Claude,” she says, quietly and ducks her head to press her mouth to his ear. “It is rude, to leave a lady unattended all day.”
She pushes him like this - taunts and mocks and teases until he is pushed into action. As such, she feels him shiver and when he inclines his head towards, torso turning along with it, there are the beginnings of something in his eyes.
His eyebrow raises itself again. “You think it wise to refer to yourself as a lady, Hannah,” he begins, voice holding the smallest tint of amusement. He lifts a hand, presses it against her cheek in a caress. “You think it true,” he begins again and his hand moves, trails down by her jaw, throat by her breasts and navel until rests on the inside of her thigh. “When I have seen exactly how unladylike you can be, in this bed?”
Hannah finds herself smirking before she can stop it. So he is one of those moods. His hand traces the inside of her thigh lightly and she tuts under her breathe, a hand shifting and moving so that her finger may trace his cheek.
“Unladylike you say. Shall I show exactly how unladylike I can be, Captain Faustus?”
She does not wait for him to answer, not when she knows exactly what it is he will say. The kiss she presses to his mouth is careful - coaxing even. Claude is a methodical man; he is precise even when kissing. He angles himself at just the right place for his mouth to fit against hers, knows just the time to draw her tongue against his. His hand - the free one, that is - places itself against her waist and he draws her closer until is unsatisfied of where she is and she moves, inbetween slow meetings of mouth and tongue and slips onto him, knees at either side of his thighs and then she pushes with all he strength.
The kiss, of course, is simply a prelude. She does not need his mouth, does need his hands. What she needs, she thinks, her finger drawing idly against the taut skin of abdomen, is for him to simple lay back and relax.
“When I move,” she says, her head tilting. “I will need you to rest against those pillows.”
He sits up and rests his weight on his elbows and levels her with a blank expression. “Giving orders now, Hannah?”
“It is in your best interest to do,” and it is, really, for comforts sake, “otherwise, how am I to show you something nice?”
When she moves up and off him, it is with a raised eyebrow of her own and her lips pulled up into a small smirk. He moves, only after he regards with suspicious eyes. Claude, she has found, in her short time here, is not quick to trust to others. He is aware, she thinks, of the possibility of her killing him here, in his own quarters. Seduce him and then plunge a knife into his heart and would that not be an ironic thing?
Hannah has always been fond of irony, but this is neither the time nor the place for it. Not when Claude moves; shifts back and rests himself comfortably against his pillows and gives her a patient, expectant look. She takes a moment, while she moves towards him and sits herself down on his thighs, to ponder what it is she would doing if she were not here. After tea perhaps, she thinks as her hands tug the ties of his trousers. Terribly mundane things, of course. This - the way he lifts his hips as she slides his trousers down by his thighs, or the way he tenses just the slightest when her hands first touches his cock - she would rather be here.
She gives his cock her full attention, for the time being. Strokes and tugs until it begins to show interest; fondles his sac and when Claude’s breath hitches, that is when she looks up at him, through her eyelashes. There is something beautiful about him, she thinks, when he has that faint flush on his cheeks. Regardless of such aesthetics, her attention falls back to where her hands are at work, marvels quietly at the way he hardens quickly for her now - not like the first times, where the mood had to be set and the foreplay had to be precise. Perhaps it is a sign, then, that Claude is relaxing and mellowing with time.
She moves; a slow bow of her head, her tongue extending and drawing itself up from the base of his cock to the head. Her mouth stretches; opens wide as she takes him greedily, fingers massaging his sac and stroking the base. The hitch in his breath is more known this time; louder, and he lets out a tiny, vocal moan as she sucks and laps at the head and then his hands are in her hair, clutching and gripping as Hannah swallows him down right to the base.
It is funny now, how the pain of her scalp being abused so, barely registers anymore. Rather, the sensations sends a spark down her spine and she moans around him before she can hold it back and grips his thighs, her nails digging into his flesh. He has taught her something that maybe she already knew - pleasure and pain mix until they are simply the same thing.
In turn, her head bobs down, his hands guiding it carefully and precisely and his hips jerk under her fingers and when he cannot contain his moans or the curses under his breath, Hannah’s lips twitch upwards in satisfaction. It is smug of course, because how could she not be when a man so tightly wound and frigid in control, begins to lose it because of her?
It continues like this, for what seems like the longest time. Hannah cherishes and worships his cock until she hears and feels the signs that he is close. The quickness of his breath, the way his hands tighten impossibly so in her hair, the way, even, he seems to lose control in the way his hips jerk up. She glances up again, feels her own breath hitch as she sees the way his cheeks are dusted with red and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth, eyebrows furrowed together and his eyes watching her, hooded and dazed. Closer then, than she had thought.
After that, it doesn’t take long. Hannah bobs her head twice more, her nails digging into his thighs in a way that she knows must be painful, yet all he does is gasp and jerk and then his hands grip and pull her hair and he comes. She swallows of course; every last drop, until it is tongue on the head and she feels Claude’s hands leave her hair, and sees his body sag and relax against the mattress.
It is perhaps still strange to her, how easy it is simply for her to shift and move until her lips press against his. How easy it is to kiss him like this; lazy and sated and slow, and rest against him, head on his chest. Close her eyes as he strokes her hair and for a moment, it as though they are not on a ship. Claude is not a captain and Hannah is not being held for ransom; they are simply two lovers laying in others arms and Hannah could scoff at the absurdity of such a fantasy if were not one that visits her often.
Claude does not say a word and Hannah never really expects him too. It is enough, to lay here and that he indulges her with sentimental things like cuddling. She drifts off long before he does, and this is often the case, with his hand against her waist and his heartbeat lulling to sleep.