FIC: Of His Bones Are Coral Made (Captain Hardt/Jill Blacklock, NC-17)
Title: Of His Bones Are Coral Made
Author: snowgrouse
Fandom: The Spy In Black (1939)
Pairing: Captain Hardt/Jill Blacklock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, mild kink
Length: ~650 words
Summary: This time tomorrow, Captain Hardt will be no more.
Maybe it's pity that makes her return his kiss, maybe it's the horror and desolation outside that makes her take his hand, lead him up the stairs and lock the bedroom door behind them. Maybe she has more than just respect for him, she thinks as he undresses her in the cold night air, his hands warm over her breasts. Or maybe it's just lust as she lets her mouth yield to his; maybe deep down inside, she hates her husband.
Or it may just be because this time tomorrow, Captain Hardt will be no more.
Gently, he spreads her legs and licks her, kisses her, moaning into her loudly in delight. He laughs a little, apologetic. "Forgive me. It's just that I haven't tasted a woman in a long while."
"And I haven't had a man do that to me in a long while." Ever, actually, she wants to say, but she can't tell him that, just like she can't tell him about the flotilla that awaits him outside. And she wants to, now, she wants to as he opens her with such gentleness, as he laps at her, as he makes her hot and swollen and wet. She didn't expect this, didn't expect to sob in pleasure, didn't expect to find him beautiful as he smiles up at her from between her legs. She shivers with a sudden tenderness and cups his head with her hands, clutches him with her thighs as if to stake a claim on him, as if to stave off the inevitable.
His eyes are the colour of the sea as he enters her, as he makes love to her, so full of joy and vitality, and she can't take it. The tears come, hot against her temples, against his shoulder, against his living heartbeat.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No, it's just that--"
It's just that I am making love to a dead man. It's because this man who now sinks into me will sink five fathom deep underneath the waves. It's because your eyes that now stare into mine will soon stare into eternity in the bottom of the sea.
"If it's that Englishman--" jealousy rocks his hips with violence, rocks him deep inside of her, making her cry out against his chest in pleasure she does not deserve.
"No. It's just that you feel so good. Don't stop." It's not a lie, oh no, and he does not stop, going out of his way to prove he is better than that Englishman. And oh, how she wishes he wasn't, how she wishes it wasn't too late now, too late as he fucks her until she's raw, until the sheets are pushed off the too-small bed.
It's then when he takes her like a sailor, with long fingers and soft butter, spooning her against himself, and she knows she can never go back to her husband. Not after this, not after the way she opens for him so easily, not after the way he makes her tremble and slip and shudder on his cock, not after she comes around him and sobs for more, more.
Later, it's she who takes him like a sailor, with long fingers and soft butter, her stockings a silken bow around his wrists. "Please," he asks her, the bedframe creaking as he twists his hands against it, "Please," in a voice so soft and high it breaks her heart. "Mercy." And she loves him like they weren't enemies, curls her fingers inside him the way you do inside a sailor, and it's in the mercy of her mouth he comes for the last time in his life.
Afterwards, he pulls her to lie on top of him and sighs in contentment. "Next week, we shall be doing all of that in the finest hotel in Berlin. Just think of it."
She rests her head on his chest and thinks of warships, torpedoes and the crushing green weight of the sea.
Author: snowgrouse
Fandom: The Spy In Black (1939)
Pairing: Captain Hardt/Jill Blacklock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, mild kink
Length: ~650 words
Summary: This time tomorrow, Captain Hardt will be no more.
Maybe it's pity that makes her return his kiss, maybe it's the horror and desolation outside that makes her take his hand, lead him up the stairs and lock the bedroom door behind them. Maybe she has more than just respect for him, she thinks as he undresses her in the cold night air, his hands warm over her breasts. Or maybe it's just lust as she lets her mouth yield to his; maybe deep down inside, she hates her husband.
Or it may just be because this time tomorrow, Captain Hardt will be no more.
Gently, he spreads her legs and licks her, kisses her, moaning into her loudly in delight. He laughs a little, apologetic. "Forgive me. It's just that I haven't tasted a woman in a long while."
"And I haven't had a man do that to me in a long while." Ever, actually, she wants to say, but she can't tell him that, just like she can't tell him about the flotilla that awaits him outside. And she wants to, now, she wants to as he opens her with such gentleness, as he laps at her, as he makes her hot and swollen and wet. She didn't expect this, didn't expect to sob in pleasure, didn't expect to find him beautiful as he smiles up at her from between her legs. She shivers with a sudden tenderness and cups his head with her hands, clutches him with her thighs as if to stake a claim on him, as if to stave off the inevitable.
His eyes are the colour of the sea as he enters her, as he makes love to her, so full of joy and vitality, and she can't take it. The tears come, hot against her temples, against his shoulder, against his living heartbeat.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No, it's just that--"
It's just that I am making love to a dead man. It's because this man who now sinks into me will sink five fathom deep underneath the waves. It's because your eyes that now stare into mine will soon stare into eternity in the bottom of the sea.
"If it's that Englishman--" jealousy rocks his hips with violence, rocks him deep inside of her, making her cry out against his chest in pleasure she does not deserve.
"No. It's just that you feel so good. Don't stop." It's not a lie, oh no, and he does not stop, going out of his way to prove he is better than that Englishman. And oh, how she wishes he wasn't, how she wishes it wasn't too late now, too late as he fucks her until she's raw, until the sheets are pushed off the too-small bed.
It's then when he takes her like a sailor, with long fingers and soft butter, spooning her against himself, and she knows she can never go back to her husband. Not after this, not after the way she opens for him so easily, not after the way he makes her tremble and slip and shudder on his cock, not after she comes around him and sobs for more, more.
Later, it's she who takes him like a sailor, with long fingers and soft butter, her stockings a silken bow around his wrists. "Please," he asks her, the bedframe creaking as he twists his hands against it, "Please," in a voice so soft and high it breaks her heart. "Mercy." And she loves him like they weren't enemies, curls her fingers inside him the way you do inside a sailor, and it's in the mercy of her mouth he comes for the last time in his life.
Afterwards, he pulls her to lie on top of him and sighs in contentment. "Next week, we shall be doing all of that in the finest hotel in Berlin. Just think of it."
She rests her head on his chest and thinks of warships, torpedoes and the crushing green weight of the sea.