FIC: Spoke of Was and When (1/1) NC-17 HH/PotC
TITLE: Spoke of Was and When
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Archie Kennedy/Elizabeth Swann
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: I met a man who wasn't there
DISCLAIMER: Horatio Hornblower and Pirates of the Caribbean and all the characters therein belong to people who are not me. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The happiest of birthdays, to my dear, beloved inlovewithnight. You mentioned this pairing in passing. I hope you actually, you know, *wanted* it. Hee.
Elizabeth watches him carefully, noting the easy way he handles his glass and his bottle, speaking of many hours spent with both, though tonight the unsteadiness of his feet seems to come from the solidness of the ground beneath him.
She slides onto the chair opposite him, assessing the worn, but well-kept state of his uniform. The blue attracts more than one unwelcome eye, but the day’s growth of beard and the stains on the cloth, red black blood faded to bruised purple, keep them away.
“I’ve no need of company and no desire to share the bottle.”
“Don’t worry.” She knows her voice gives her away now, belies the boys’ clothes that no longer quite disguise her, at least in more sober company. Fortunately, or unfortunately perhaps, sober company hardly seems her lot in life, at least here on Tortuga. “I wasn’t intending on either.”
He looks up, surprise in the blue depths of his eyes, the color rivaling any sky or ocean water she’s seen. He leans in and she almost suspects he’s engaging her in conversation against his will. His voice drops and he shakes his head slightly. “A girl.”
“Not so much,” she disagrees lightly and steals his bottle, holding it loosely by the neck as she swallows a healthy measure. “Though most definitely not a lady. Girl best suffices, I suppose.”
He shakes his head and looks away from her, a shadow in his eyes. She sits and watches him as he pours rum into the glass; the liquid matching whatever darkens his eyes.
“You don’t seem the type.” She’s not quite sure what it is that serves to make her bait him, but she can’t help the mocking tone of her words.
“And what type is that?”
She notes the spark that seems to illuminate his face for a moment, far more at home, far more familiar on his features than the lack of expression that falls back across his face. “The type to judge someone on appearance. The type to take anyone at face value.”
“And how did you discern that about me?” His voice is mocking in return, though there’s a temperance to it, a hint of amusement. “From the brand of rum I’m drinking? The accepting way I hold my glass?”
“From your eyes. It’s all there, you know. In your eyes.”
His face shutters again and she sighs, resorting to desperate measures, though it’s not so difficult anymore, since desperation now seems her stock in trade. She extends her hand across the table. “Elizabeth Swann. Pirate.”
He looks at her hand for a long moment before taking it in his own, his skin rough with calluses. “Archie Kennedy,” he offers in return, the smile that curls his lips completely devoid of amusement. “Dead man.”
**
They drink in what serves for companionable silence, Elizabeth true to her word as she buys her own bottle. He nods as she pours the first drink into his glass, then fills her own and lifts it, as if toasting a maiden voyage. She thinks on reminding him that it’s bad luck should the bottle not break, but something tells her that luck is an intimate friend of Mr. Kennedy’s, a fickle lover not content just to give.
He finishes his bottle before she’s made a dent in hers. He places his hands on the table in preparation of standing and she reaches out, her long fingers a light cage over his. He shakes his head and stands, the movement allowing his jacket to fall open, to reveal the rust colored remains of blood, spread like an open wound across his shirt.
“You’re hurt.”
He shakes his head slowly, his smile back in full force, haunting in its brightness. “After a fashion.”
“You should come to my room. Let me tend to you.”
“The only wounds I have, Miss Swann, are the ones you cannot touch. They’re bone deep and permanent, scars on my soul.”
“You’re hurt.” She feels the rum now, burning bright through her as she gets to her feet as well, one hand around the neck of her bottle and the other reaching for his.
He pulls his hand free of her touch. “I assure you, I’m fine.”
She steps closer, sure that from a distance they look primed for a fight in the loud rabble of the tavern. Up close, he smells of rum and poultice, of sun and sea. “Too many men I’ve known…”
“You don’t know me.” There is a dangerous undertone to his voice, a hint of violence. “And there’s nothing you can do for me.”
She recognizes the men behind his eyes, no doubt a reflection of the men in her own. “Perhaps not,” she allows, “but I’ve learned the only sure way not to achieve the impossible, the improbable, is to simply not try.”
Something flashes in his eyes, and she knows she’s scored some form of victory. He sighs and shakes his head slightly, his smile relaxing his features, strangely pale beneath his tan. “You remind me of someone. So sure the impossible can be done, so unwilling to accept any answer that does not fit in with your plans.” He reaches out for the bottle in her hand. “He eventually learned.”
“Oh?” She relinquishes her hold after a few moments, then begins walking toward the door, assured somehow that he would follow. “How did you achieve that?”
She looks back as he doesn’t answer, stopping to watch his smile change, losing everything but a hint of sadness. “I told you, Miss Swann. I died.”
**
The candles flicker in the slight breeze from the open window, the heavy smell of smoke, sea and sweetness overwhelming the stale scent of sweat and ale. She moves over to the window, her fingers trailing past the candles, ghosting through the flame.
She can feel his eyes on her, watching her. She turns and smiles at him, reaching up to tug her hat from her head. He takes a step forward and catches her hand, easing the hat from her fingers. He caresses the fabric as if touching something familiar. “Not so different,” she says softly, “pirate and sailor.”
“No different at all, save who we serve.” He discards the hat, letting it fall to the bed before he reaches out and runs the back of his fingers over the loose fabric of her shirt, grazing her breast. “And who they let serve.”
“I doubt any of those I’ve served with would use the term ‘let’.”
His fingers sweep gently over the curve of her breast, pulling the fabric tight over the flesh, defining it. “And those you served under? What would they say?”
“They would likely say I was insolent and insubordinate.” Her eyes fall almost shut as he cups her breast, his thumb teasing the hardening nipple. “Though, again,” she smiles, her eyes meeting his, “I doubt very much anyone would use the term ‘let’.” Her smile widens as he laughs softly, as she steps closer. “And they would certainly not use the term ‘under’.”
“Perhaps I was wrong.” Archie’s voice is soft, teasing as his free hand carefully tugs her shirt from her breeches.
“Oh?” Her breath catches as he slides his hand under her shirt, the solid roughness of his fingers warm against her skin. “How…how so?”
His palm flattens against her stomach; thumb brushing at the underside of her breast. “In many ways, I think you remind me of me.”
She shifts closer, her breath mingling with his, gusting against his skin. “I’ve heard dead men tell no tales.”
“Once you’re gone, you find there’s very little left to say.” He shakes his head slightly as she starts to speak again, silencing her completely as his mouth covers hers, lips parted just enough that she can taste the bitter hint of rum.
She laughs softly, tasting their mingled breath for a moment before deepening the kiss, her hand resting at the base of his skull before sliding down to curve around his tight queue, tugging at the ribbon-wrapped mass until he groans, his mouth opening, surrendering to hers.
Elizabeth’s other hand slides beneath the heavy blue fabric of his jacket, far too hot for the sultry weather. She feels muscle and sinew move beneath her touch as his own hands continue their exploration of her.
Releasing his queue, her fingers instead catch at the ribbon and tugging it free, letting his hair spill as it unfurls. He growls softly, the sound caught against her tongue. She pulls back slowly, smiling at him, both of them panting and out of breath.
He grabs her arm, spinning her around and jerking her toward him, her back flush against his chest. One arm slides beneath hers, crossing her breast so his hand can curve over her shoulder. She gasps, losing her breath completely as he lowers his mouth to her neck and nips gently before bathing her skin with his tongue. His other hand works at her queue, unbinding the fall of her hair.
“I have a desire to know exactly who I’m dealing with.” His teeth graze her earlobe, his breath hot. “Reputations lie.”
“And have I a reputation?”
“The notorious Elizabeth Swann.” He slides his hand from her shoulder, following her collar down to the opening of the fabric between her breasts. “Oh, yes.”
She tilts her head back, catching his eyes. “And do I live up to it?”
“Far too soon to tell.” He brushes his lips over hers as she turns. Easing his jacket from his shoulders, she watches him shudder as it falls to the floor. She runs her fingers down his chest, nails scraping against the bloodstained fabric. She shakes off his hand as he tries to stop her, instead pressing her fingers to his chest, feeling the hard ridge of a scar, the thick ribbing of stitches.
He catches his breath as she strokes the wound before gathering the fabric of his shirt and freeing it from his trousers. Her hands keep working the material, easing it up and off of him. He closes his eyes as she drops his shirt to the side, breathing roughly as she looks at his skin, her eyes making the same slow exploration as her hands.
The skin is hard and puckered, angry red and as black as the Pearl’s own sails. Her fingers trace the rise and fall of flesh carefully, learning the contours of it. He shivers and steps back away from her touch.
Elizabeth shakes her head, refusing to let him back away. She touches him again; fingers of one hand mapping his skin as the other catches his hand and guides it to her hip.
Archie’s hand curls into the fabric of her shirt and tugs it up, guiding it over her head. Elizabeth stops touching him long enough to let him strip the garment off of her, then moves back in, her fingers still busy against the rugged flesh.
He hisses and shakes his head, his words cut off as she kisses him again. She can feel his warm, desperate laugh as he kisses her back, his submission this time not in his kiss, but in the slow slide of his hands from her hips to the curve of her breasts.
She sighs as he touches her, her own fingers faltering as his hands cup over her, the rough slide of callused flesh giving way to the smoothness of his palms. He pulls back for a moment and meets her eyes before letting his hands fall to her hips, guiding her backwards.
She sinks onto the bed as it hits the back of her knees, watching him in the same sort of rapt fascination she’d felt when she first encountered Jack. Archie sinks to his knees, a flash of an impish grin calling up an answering smile from her until he bends his head, running his tongue across her nipple. She gasps, the sound melting into a moan as his mouth closes around her breast.
Elizabeth’s head falls back, her hair covering his hands as they stroke her back, guiding her closer. His teeth catch her nipple, biting lightly at the base of it as his tongue sweeps over the head. Her back arches into him and her hands clutch desperately at his hair, tightening in the loose strands.
Archie moves to the other breast, his mouth hot against her skin. She shivers as the sultry air hits the damp skin left behind. His hand comes up to cover it, doing nothing to dissuade her body’s trembling, his fingers capturing the nipple and rolling it gently as his tongue mimics the movement on the other side.
“Oh,” she gasps and wraps one of her legs around him, pulling him closer. Archie laughs against her skin, breaking her loose hold as he shifts, peppering her chest and stomach with wet, warm kisses. He coaxes her back with his hands and mouth, laying her out on the bed as his fingers move down to the fastenings of her breeches, skilled hands stripping them away down her legs. He moves back just enough to pull them free, letting them fall into the pile of discarded clothes.
“I fully approve of women as pirates,” he murmurs against her skin, his lips teasing her inner thigh. “You’re far easier to undress.”
“Any woman is easy to undress if she’s willing, Mr. Kennedy.”
His hands slide beneath her legs, shifting them further apart so he can lean in, his breath stoking the fire already burning. His tongue snakes out, brushing the slick flesh at the apex at her thighs. “And are you?”
“A...a woman?”
“I assure you, I’m quite aware of the answer to that particular question, Miss Swann.” His laugh gusts over her wet skin and she shudders hard. His hair whips lightly against her thighs as he shakes his head, tongue moving out to tease once again. “Willing.”
Her answer is lost as his tongue pushes deeper, finding the swollen nub like any pirate intent on treasure. He brings her heels to the edge of the bed, opening herself up to him. His soft chuckle sends another shudder through her, hips rising off the bed. Archie takes advantage of the movement, sliding his hands beneath her, holding her against his mouth. Elizabeth can’t help but moan as he feasts on her, tongue and teeth against the wet skin, focusing on the sensitive flesh until she gasps, rocking against him like the Pearl in storm-tossed waters.
Her hands fist in the sheets beneath her, the threadbare fabric stiff in her hands. She gasps roughly, his name trembling on her lips as his fingers leave the curve of her bottom, sliding along the wet trail of flesh and thrust inside her.
“Oh…God.” She doesn’t remember when she last prayed - For Will in Port Royal? For Jack? For forgiveness? - but she knows this is prayer of its own as his fingers push deeper, his teeth holding her flesh captive as he thrashes it soundly with his tongue.
Elizabeth shudders hard, raising her foot to his shoulder, then sliding it down his back, pulling him closer, deeper. He groans against her skin, sliding another finger inside her, filling her with every deep, hard thrust until she can no longer think, no longer breath, no longer hold back the hot rush as she bathes his fingers and tongue.
**
His tongue moves over her, feasting on her until she begs him to stop, her hands clenching in his hair and tugging, her body writhing against his mouth. He pulls away finally, smiling wickedly and she knows she’s seen that smile before, as he stands, looking down on her like he’s not already feasted, like he’s starving.
His hands unfasten his trousers, pushing them out of the way. Elizabeth watches though her eyes are less on his hard thighs and swollen flesh than on his scar. It’s like a work of art in flesh, more than a painting or inking. It’s colored with blood and skin and thick black thread and it creates a design all its own. She knows sailors are sewn in their hammocks, covered in canvas as they’re sent back to the sea, and she wonders how his canvas became his flesh, death etched in the fine threads that hold him together.
He kneels between her legs and leans into her, eyes closing as her hands move to his chest and stomach, tracing the wound with tender fingers. He shakes his head and reaches for her hand, tugging it away and down, wrapping her hand around his aroused flesh and letting her guide him inside her. She gasps, not unaccustomed to the feel of it, the brazen nature of his gesture, the intimacy that it implies. The sound changes, deepens as he presses in, thrusting fully and burying himself inside her flesh.
His breath is like a fire against her neck, a personal hell that seems to singe her hair as she eases her hand from between them, letting it slide up to his wound. He groans, though she cannot tell if it’s from the touch of her hand or the tight fist of her body stroking him, his thrusts slow and steady, though she can feel the restraint in his muscles as he holds himself back.
He pulls back and looks at her, and he’s no longer smiling. His blue eyes are dark and dangerous, full of secrets and pain. She winds her legs around him, pulling him deeper, letting her hand slide free of his wound to wrap around his back, her short nails doing damage of their own as they rake across his flesh. He moans again, and there’s something in the sound that hints that he might be haunted by whatever lies in his past, whatever put the bullet in his gut, whatever cut him open and left him to bleed. She kisses him fiercely, suddenly uncertain that her boast of helping him was a lie, afraid that whatever she might have to offer him isn’t even a salve for the surface cuts.
Thrusting harder, he matches her kiss with his own, the slide of his tongue as hard and as demanding as that of his shaft, both plundering her with little regard, though she matches him stroke for stroke, her hips rocking up to meet his roughly. She breaks the kiss finally, unable to breathe, unable to do more than gasp syllables that mean little to words that probably would mean even less. He buries his head against her shoulder and stills suddenly, wrapped around her in a desperate embrace as his hips rock forward again and he spills himself inside her, minute shudders running through him like ghostly shivers on his skin.
Elizabeth releases him slowly, their flesh sticky with sweat and coupling. He rolls away from her, sprawling on the bed next to her and stares up at the ceiling, his chest heaving. She turns on her side and watches him, her fingers on his stomach, though they stay away from the gash this time, tracing instead the dark golden hairs that decorate his skin. “How did it happen?”
“Officially? A Spanish soldier shot me. Unofficially, I had an acting captain who had the military sense of a newborn duckling.” He sighs and traces the ridges of the wound. “Even more unofficially, I did it to save a life.”
“An important life?”
He turns to meet her eyes and his smile is genuine and honest, open and sweet. “It was to me.”
“Those are the most dangerous kind.”
Archie nods and catches her hand, holding it for a long moment. “So, you’ve attempted the impossible and the improbable, and you’ve done nothing for the pain.” He squeezes her hand and sits up, reaching for his clothes. She lies there, watching him with guarded eyes. “A most valiant effort.”
“Did he truly learn his lesson, do you think?”
“Horatio?” Archie stands and tugs on his trousers and then his shirt, the latter surprising her as it settles over his stomach, the fabric snowy white. “I imagine not. I would assume he is quite likely thwarting the gods of luck and fate, dragging all of His Majesty’s Navy along with him, hell-bent for victory.”
She sits up, her features fixed in a frown. “So you died for nothing.”
“Ah. A misunderstanding.” He reaches up and tugs his hair back, carefully winding the ribbon around the strands. “My fault, I think. I didn’t die to teach him a lesson, Miss Swann.”
“But you said…”
“I said he learned his lesson, perhaps, by my dying. But I didn’t die for a lesson. I died for him.” He leans in and caught her chin. “And, yes. He was worth it.” He kisses her softly and releases her, grabbing his jacket from the floor and brushing it off. “That’s the trick to dying, you see. Doing it for the things that are worth it.”
She watches him with the same intensity she had when she’d first spied him across the tavern, watching as he finishes buttoning his jacket, looking for all the world like a right and proper Lieutenant. “How do you know?”
“You don’t.” He whispers the words as a light streams into the window, fading his features, turning him to moonlight. “But you do it anyway.”
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Archie Kennedy/Elizabeth Swann
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: I met a man who wasn't there
DISCLAIMER: Horatio Hornblower and Pirates of the Caribbean and all the characters therein belong to people who are not me. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The happiest of birthdays, to my dear, beloved inlovewithnight. You mentioned this pairing in passing. I hope you actually, you know, *wanted* it. Hee.
Elizabeth watches him carefully, noting the easy way he handles his glass and his bottle, speaking of many hours spent with both, though tonight the unsteadiness of his feet seems to come from the solidness of the ground beneath him.
She slides onto the chair opposite him, assessing the worn, but well-kept state of his uniform. The blue attracts more than one unwelcome eye, but the day’s growth of beard and the stains on the cloth, red black blood faded to bruised purple, keep them away.
“I’ve no need of company and no desire to share the bottle.”
“Don’t worry.” She knows her voice gives her away now, belies the boys’ clothes that no longer quite disguise her, at least in more sober company. Fortunately, or unfortunately perhaps, sober company hardly seems her lot in life, at least here on Tortuga. “I wasn’t intending on either.”
He looks up, surprise in the blue depths of his eyes, the color rivaling any sky or ocean water she’s seen. He leans in and she almost suspects he’s engaging her in conversation against his will. His voice drops and he shakes his head slightly. “A girl.”
“Not so much,” she disagrees lightly and steals his bottle, holding it loosely by the neck as she swallows a healthy measure. “Though most definitely not a lady. Girl best suffices, I suppose.”
He shakes his head and looks away from her, a shadow in his eyes. She sits and watches him as he pours rum into the glass; the liquid matching whatever darkens his eyes.
“You don’t seem the type.” She’s not quite sure what it is that serves to make her bait him, but she can’t help the mocking tone of her words.
“And what type is that?”
She notes the spark that seems to illuminate his face for a moment, far more at home, far more familiar on his features than the lack of expression that falls back across his face. “The type to judge someone on appearance. The type to take anyone at face value.”
“And how did you discern that about me?” His voice is mocking in return, though there’s a temperance to it, a hint of amusement. “From the brand of rum I’m drinking? The accepting way I hold my glass?”
“From your eyes. It’s all there, you know. In your eyes.”
His face shutters again and she sighs, resorting to desperate measures, though it’s not so difficult anymore, since desperation now seems her stock in trade. She extends her hand across the table. “Elizabeth Swann. Pirate.”
He looks at her hand for a long moment before taking it in his own, his skin rough with calluses. “Archie Kennedy,” he offers in return, the smile that curls his lips completely devoid of amusement. “Dead man.”
**
They drink in what serves for companionable silence, Elizabeth true to her word as she buys her own bottle. He nods as she pours the first drink into his glass, then fills her own and lifts it, as if toasting a maiden voyage. She thinks on reminding him that it’s bad luck should the bottle not break, but something tells her that luck is an intimate friend of Mr. Kennedy’s, a fickle lover not content just to give.
He finishes his bottle before she’s made a dent in hers. He places his hands on the table in preparation of standing and she reaches out, her long fingers a light cage over his. He shakes his head and stands, the movement allowing his jacket to fall open, to reveal the rust colored remains of blood, spread like an open wound across his shirt.
“You’re hurt.”
He shakes his head slowly, his smile back in full force, haunting in its brightness. “After a fashion.”
“You should come to my room. Let me tend to you.”
“The only wounds I have, Miss Swann, are the ones you cannot touch. They’re bone deep and permanent, scars on my soul.”
“You’re hurt.” She feels the rum now, burning bright through her as she gets to her feet as well, one hand around the neck of her bottle and the other reaching for his.
He pulls his hand free of her touch. “I assure you, I’m fine.”
She steps closer, sure that from a distance they look primed for a fight in the loud rabble of the tavern. Up close, he smells of rum and poultice, of sun and sea. “Too many men I’ve known…”
“You don’t know me.” There is a dangerous undertone to his voice, a hint of violence. “And there’s nothing you can do for me.”
She recognizes the men behind his eyes, no doubt a reflection of the men in her own. “Perhaps not,” she allows, “but I’ve learned the only sure way not to achieve the impossible, the improbable, is to simply not try.”
Something flashes in his eyes, and she knows she’s scored some form of victory. He sighs and shakes his head slightly, his smile relaxing his features, strangely pale beneath his tan. “You remind me of someone. So sure the impossible can be done, so unwilling to accept any answer that does not fit in with your plans.” He reaches out for the bottle in her hand. “He eventually learned.”
“Oh?” She relinquishes her hold after a few moments, then begins walking toward the door, assured somehow that he would follow. “How did you achieve that?”
She looks back as he doesn’t answer, stopping to watch his smile change, losing everything but a hint of sadness. “I told you, Miss Swann. I died.”
**
The candles flicker in the slight breeze from the open window, the heavy smell of smoke, sea and sweetness overwhelming the stale scent of sweat and ale. She moves over to the window, her fingers trailing past the candles, ghosting through the flame.
She can feel his eyes on her, watching her. She turns and smiles at him, reaching up to tug her hat from her head. He takes a step forward and catches her hand, easing the hat from her fingers. He caresses the fabric as if touching something familiar. “Not so different,” she says softly, “pirate and sailor.”
“No different at all, save who we serve.” He discards the hat, letting it fall to the bed before he reaches out and runs the back of his fingers over the loose fabric of her shirt, grazing her breast. “And who they let serve.”
“I doubt any of those I’ve served with would use the term ‘let’.”
His fingers sweep gently over the curve of her breast, pulling the fabric tight over the flesh, defining it. “And those you served under? What would they say?”
“They would likely say I was insolent and insubordinate.” Her eyes fall almost shut as he cups her breast, his thumb teasing the hardening nipple. “Though, again,” she smiles, her eyes meeting his, “I doubt very much anyone would use the term ‘let’.” Her smile widens as he laughs softly, as she steps closer. “And they would certainly not use the term ‘under’.”
“Perhaps I was wrong.” Archie’s voice is soft, teasing as his free hand carefully tugs her shirt from her breeches.
“Oh?” Her breath catches as he slides his hand under her shirt, the solid roughness of his fingers warm against her skin. “How…how so?”
His palm flattens against her stomach; thumb brushing at the underside of her breast. “In many ways, I think you remind me of me.”
She shifts closer, her breath mingling with his, gusting against his skin. “I’ve heard dead men tell no tales.”
“Once you’re gone, you find there’s very little left to say.” He shakes his head slightly as she starts to speak again, silencing her completely as his mouth covers hers, lips parted just enough that she can taste the bitter hint of rum.
She laughs softly, tasting their mingled breath for a moment before deepening the kiss, her hand resting at the base of his skull before sliding down to curve around his tight queue, tugging at the ribbon-wrapped mass until he groans, his mouth opening, surrendering to hers.
Elizabeth’s other hand slides beneath the heavy blue fabric of his jacket, far too hot for the sultry weather. She feels muscle and sinew move beneath her touch as his own hands continue their exploration of her.
Releasing his queue, her fingers instead catch at the ribbon and tugging it free, letting his hair spill as it unfurls. He growls softly, the sound caught against her tongue. She pulls back slowly, smiling at him, both of them panting and out of breath.
He grabs her arm, spinning her around and jerking her toward him, her back flush against his chest. One arm slides beneath hers, crossing her breast so his hand can curve over her shoulder. She gasps, losing her breath completely as he lowers his mouth to her neck and nips gently before bathing her skin with his tongue. His other hand works at her queue, unbinding the fall of her hair.
“I have a desire to know exactly who I’m dealing with.” His teeth graze her earlobe, his breath hot. “Reputations lie.”
“And have I a reputation?”
“The notorious Elizabeth Swann.” He slides his hand from her shoulder, following her collar down to the opening of the fabric between her breasts. “Oh, yes.”
She tilts her head back, catching his eyes. “And do I live up to it?”
“Far too soon to tell.” He brushes his lips over hers as she turns. Easing his jacket from his shoulders, she watches him shudder as it falls to the floor. She runs her fingers down his chest, nails scraping against the bloodstained fabric. She shakes off his hand as he tries to stop her, instead pressing her fingers to his chest, feeling the hard ridge of a scar, the thick ribbing of stitches.
He catches his breath as she strokes the wound before gathering the fabric of his shirt and freeing it from his trousers. Her hands keep working the material, easing it up and off of him. He closes his eyes as she drops his shirt to the side, breathing roughly as she looks at his skin, her eyes making the same slow exploration as her hands.
The skin is hard and puckered, angry red and as black as the Pearl’s own sails. Her fingers trace the rise and fall of flesh carefully, learning the contours of it. He shivers and steps back away from her touch.
Elizabeth shakes her head, refusing to let him back away. She touches him again; fingers of one hand mapping his skin as the other catches his hand and guides it to her hip.
Archie’s hand curls into the fabric of her shirt and tugs it up, guiding it over her head. Elizabeth stops touching him long enough to let him strip the garment off of her, then moves back in, her fingers still busy against the rugged flesh.
He hisses and shakes his head, his words cut off as she kisses him again. She can feel his warm, desperate laugh as he kisses her back, his submission this time not in his kiss, but in the slow slide of his hands from her hips to the curve of her breasts.
She sighs as he touches her, her own fingers faltering as his hands cup over her, the rough slide of callused flesh giving way to the smoothness of his palms. He pulls back for a moment and meets her eyes before letting his hands fall to her hips, guiding her backwards.
She sinks onto the bed as it hits the back of her knees, watching him in the same sort of rapt fascination she’d felt when she first encountered Jack. Archie sinks to his knees, a flash of an impish grin calling up an answering smile from her until he bends his head, running his tongue across her nipple. She gasps, the sound melting into a moan as his mouth closes around her breast.
Elizabeth’s head falls back, her hair covering his hands as they stroke her back, guiding her closer. His teeth catch her nipple, biting lightly at the base of it as his tongue sweeps over the head. Her back arches into him and her hands clutch desperately at his hair, tightening in the loose strands.
Archie moves to the other breast, his mouth hot against her skin. She shivers as the sultry air hits the damp skin left behind. His hand comes up to cover it, doing nothing to dissuade her body’s trembling, his fingers capturing the nipple and rolling it gently as his tongue mimics the movement on the other side.
“Oh,” she gasps and wraps one of her legs around him, pulling him closer. Archie laughs against her skin, breaking her loose hold as he shifts, peppering her chest and stomach with wet, warm kisses. He coaxes her back with his hands and mouth, laying her out on the bed as his fingers move down to the fastenings of her breeches, skilled hands stripping them away down her legs. He moves back just enough to pull them free, letting them fall into the pile of discarded clothes.
“I fully approve of women as pirates,” he murmurs against her skin, his lips teasing her inner thigh. “You’re far easier to undress.”
“Any woman is easy to undress if she’s willing, Mr. Kennedy.”
His hands slide beneath her legs, shifting them further apart so he can lean in, his breath stoking the fire already burning. His tongue snakes out, brushing the slick flesh at the apex at her thighs. “And are you?”
“A...a woman?”
“I assure you, I’m quite aware of the answer to that particular question, Miss Swann.” His laugh gusts over her wet skin and she shudders hard. His hair whips lightly against her thighs as he shakes his head, tongue moving out to tease once again. “Willing.”
Her answer is lost as his tongue pushes deeper, finding the swollen nub like any pirate intent on treasure. He brings her heels to the edge of the bed, opening herself up to him. His soft chuckle sends another shudder through her, hips rising off the bed. Archie takes advantage of the movement, sliding his hands beneath her, holding her against his mouth. Elizabeth can’t help but moan as he feasts on her, tongue and teeth against the wet skin, focusing on the sensitive flesh until she gasps, rocking against him like the Pearl in storm-tossed waters.
Her hands fist in the sheets beneath her, the threadbare fabric stiff in her hands. She gasps roughly, his name trembling on her lips as his fingers leave the curve of her bottom, sliding along the wet trail of flesh and thrust inside her.
“Oh…God.” She doesn’t remember when she last prayed - For Will in Port Royal? For Jack? For forgiveness? - but she knows this is prayer of its own as his fingers push deeper, his teeth holding her flesh captive as he thrashes it soundly with his tongue.
Elizabeth shudders hard, raising her foot to his shoulder, then sliding it down his back, pulling him closer, deeper. He groans against her skin, sliding another finger inside her, filling her with every deep, hard thrust until she can no longer think, no longer breath, no longer hold back the hot rush as she bathes his fingers and tongue.
**
His tongue moves over her, feasting on her until she begs him to stop, her hands clenching in his hair and tugging, her body writhing against his mouth. He pulls away finally, smiling wickedly and she knows she’s seen that smile before, as he stands, looking down on her like he’s not already feasted, like he’s starving.
His hands unfasten his trousers, pushing them out of the way. Elizabeth watches though her eyes are less on his hard thighs and swollen flesh than on his scar. It’s like a work of art in flesh, more than a painting or inking. It’s colored with blood and skin and thick black thread and it creates a design all its own. She knows sailors are sewn in their hammocks, covered in canvas as they’re sent back to the sea, and she wonders how his canvas became his flesh, death etched in the fine threads that hold him together.
He kneels between her legs and leans into her, eyes closing as her hands move to his chest and stomach, tracing the wound with tender fingers. He shakes his head and reaches for her hand, tugging it away and down, wrapping her hand around his aroused flesh and letting her guide him inside her. She gasps, not unaccustomed to the feel of it, the brazen nature of his gesture, the intimacy that it implies. The sound changes, deepens as he presses in, thrusting fully and burying himself inside her flesh.
His breath is like a fire against her neck, a personal hell that seems to singe her hair as she eases her hand from between them, letting it slide up to his wound. He groans, though she cannot tell if it’s from the touch of her hand or the tight fist of her body stroking him, his thrusts slow and steady, though she can feel the restraint in his muscles as he holds himself back.
He pulls back and looks at her, and he’s no longer smiling. His blue eyes are dark and dangerous, full of secrets and pain. She winds her legs around him, pulling him deeper, letting her hand slide free of his wound to wrap around his back, her short nails doing damage of their own as they rake across his flesh. He moans again, and there’s something in the sound that hints that he might be haunted by whatever lies in his past, whatever put the bullet in his gut, whatever cut him open and left him to bleed. She kisses him fiercely, suddenly uncertain that her boast of helping him was a lie, afraid that whatever she might have to offer him isn’t even a salve for the surface cuts.
Thrusting harder, he matches her kiss with his own, the slide of his tongue as hard and as demanding as that of his shaft, both plundering her with little regard, though she matches him stroke for stroke, her hips rocking up to meet his roughly. She breaks the kiss finally, unable to breathe, unable to do more than gasp syllables that mean little to words that probably would mean even less. He buries his head against her shoulder and stills suddenly, wrapped around her in a desperate embrace as his hips rock forward again and he spills himself inside her, minute shudders running through him like ghostly shivers on his skin.
Elizabeth releases him slowly, their flesh sticky with sweat and coupling. He rolls away from her, sprawling on the bed next to her and stares up at the ceiling, his chest heaving. She turns on her side and watches him, her fingers on his stomach, though they stay away from the gash this time, tracing instead the dark golden hairs that decorate his skin. “How did it happen?”
“Officially? A Spanish soldier shot me. Unofficially, I had an acting captain who had the military sense of a newborn duckling.” He sighs and traces the ridges of the wound. “Even more unofficially, I did it to save a life.”
“An important life?”
He turns to meet her eyes and his smile is genuine and honest, open and sweet. “It was to me.”
“Those are the most dangerous kind.”
Archie nods and catches her hand, holding it for a long moment. “So, you’ve attempted the impossible and the improbable, and you’ve done nothing for the pain.” He squeezes her hand and sits up, reaching for his clothes. She lies there, watching him with guarded eyes. “A most valiant effort.”
“Did he truly learn his lesson, do you think?”
“Horatio?” Archie stands and tugs on his trousers and then his shirt, the latter surprising her as it settles over his stomach, the fabric snowy white. “I imagine not. I would assume he is quite likely thwarting the gods of luck and fate, dragging all of His Majesty’s Navy along with him, hell-bent for victory.”
She sits up, her features fixed in a frown. “So you died for nothing.”
“Ah. A misunderstanding.” He reaches up and tugs his hair back, carefully winding the ribbon around the strands. “My fault, I think. I didn’t die to teach him a lesson, Miss Swann.”
“But you said…”
“I said he learned his lesson, perhaps, by my dying. But I didn’t die for a lesson. I died for him.” He leans in and caught her chin. “And, yes. He was worth it.” He kisses her softly and releases her, grabbing his jacket from the floor and brushing it off. “That’s the trick to dying, you see. Doing it for the things that are worth it.”
She watches him with the same intensity she had when she’d first spied him across the tavern, watching as he finishes buttoning his jacket, looking for all the world like a right and proper Lieutenant. “How do you know?”
“You don’t.” He whispers the words as a light streams into the window, fading his features, turning him to moonlight. “But you do it anyway.”