No Stars...
Author: SunsetDawn20
Title: No stars...
Pairing: Will&James (Will's POV)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own them because if I didn't they wouldn't have to through all this and you wouldn't be reading this story.
Summary: "We always return here like murderers to the scene of their crime..."
I was sick when I wrote this and must have been in a medicine, pain and fever induced trance because the next morning I couldn't actually remember how harsh this really was, so I was quite shocked when I came back to Lj to read it again. Apparently being sick makes me bolder. *shrugs* :P
I'm posting it here too because I think every story deserves to have a home and what better home can this story have than a Willington communities page. And also there might be some who don't regularly watch the other sites this is posted on, so...
No stars…
We always return here like murderers to the scene of their crime. We arrive separately and get two rooms, if possible, neighbouring ones. If we accidentally meet in the corridor or downstairs where all the drunkards shout and fight we pretend not to know each other. We make sure the bartender who’s also the owner of this filthy place notices when we go in our respective rooms. And then we wait.
It’s not a very popular place because it’s too filthy and ugly even for Tortuga’s standards. That’s why we chose it. There are always free rooms and few guests, even fewer who actually have a room, the others simply drink until they pass out downstairs behind one of the tables.
By midnight they are drunk enough to forget who they are, where they are, whether they have paid for their drink or not - something the owner makes good use of. By one o’clock they are too far gone to notice if pirates blew up the chair they were sitting on. By two in the morning they are lying on or under the table, silent as the grave. Then the owner takes the little money they have left in their pockets and closes the inn for the night.
That’s when you come to me. Silent, so as not to wake the owner, who’s the only relatively sober person in the inn. So silent that it startles me when you open the door. You’re only wearing your breeches and your white shirt and are quickly getting rid of them as you come closer to the bed where I’m already lying sprawled on an old blanket I have brought - partly so that we don’t have to lie on the ugly sheets of the small bed, partly because we can’t afford to leave any traces.
I’m naked and carefully prepared. It saves time.
As soon as you’re on the bed, you grab the small bottle of oil and slick your cock, while I push myself up to my knees, press my forehead to my crossed arms and wait for the familiar sensation of your hard member pressing into me.
I don’t have to wait long.
You’re inside of me with one deliberate thrust and I have to bite into my arm to keep myself from wincing at the painful intrusion. You don’t wait for me to get used to the feeling before you start moving. I didn’t expect you to. We don’t have the time. Anybody could burst into the room any moment - the owner, wanting to check if I’m asleep or drunk enough to not notice when he robs me or a drunkard, expecting to find an empty room.
We don’t have the time for niceties. We have to get this over with as soon as possible.
I can feel your strong, calloused hands firmly gripping my hips as you pound into me with a desperate force I can hardly match. Then one hand leaves and I know you’re pressing it to your mouth to stop yourself from making any sound that could be overheard. But your pace doesn’t slow down. It gets only faster. Fast enough to finish as soon as possible but carefully refraining from any movement that would cause the old bed to make any sound that could give us away. Quick, hard fucking. That’s all it is. That’s all it should be.
I shut my eyes as you accidentally hit a spot inside of me you weren’t searching for and relish the painful bliss that I can only call mine once every five months - sometimes four. I wish I could see your face. But we never fuck in any other position. It would be too intimate, too emotional. And we can’t afford that. Only quick, hard fucking.
I hate this. I hate having to come to Hell to find a small slice of Heaven. I hate the filth that clings to everything here - objects and people alike. I hate being fucked like a common whore by the man I love - by the man who loves me.
Bitter tears start to form behind my eyes - more and more with each thrust of those powerful hips I dream about every night. Fuck. I’m not supposed to get emotional about this - at least not while you’re still here. I try to concentrate on your rigid flesh inside of me and of the wicked sensations that I crave for every minute of every day. I open my legs even wider and push myself desperately against you. I can feel you shudder and fall out of your steady rhythm for a moment.
You’re close.
Your fingers are leaving painful marks on my hips. Your balls are slapping against the bare skin of my ass as you’re sliding unrhythmically in and out of me. Two slow, three quick thrusts. Slow. Quick. Slow. Three quick. I hastily grab my leaking prick while wish it was your hand stroking me - but your hand is till firmly pressed to your lips that I haven’t even tasted since four months ago.
That’s my last thought before I have to stifle the loud scream that tries to escape me with my release that pulls you over the edge too. I can feel you shudder inside of me and stop moving for a brief second to regain some of your self-control before you swiftly pull out of me.
It lasted less than ten minutes.
I stay on the bed. Still on my knees, my head pressed to my arm, trying not to inhale the nauseating stench of the pillows. I can feel the creamy fluid still dripping out of my hole, on to the blanket I will take out of its chest every night for the next four or five months to make sure it was not only a dream. My whole body hurts. I feel violated, raped, used. I love you.
It takes all the power I’ve got to get up from the bed and turn towards you. You’re already dressed and ready to leave. You raise your eyes at me. It is filled with pain, guilt, hatred and love. You come closer and slowly kiss away the tears that are still streaming down my cheeks. This is what I’m really here for. This one short minute after finishing. In this moment the world stops and you kiss me on the lips. No heated passion, no forced haste, just your lips on mine, locked for the fracture of a second.
And then it’s over. And you’re gone.
I feel lost. An outcast. A criminal without a crime. I lean against the door you have just closed and give into my pain. I allow my tears to flow - just now, a minute, not more, I promise. I fight the urge to scream and only shake with suppressed emotions.
I just can’t do this anymore. But I don’t even promise myself that this was the last time, because I know too well that I can’t stop.
And I hate myself for it.
I hate these stolen ten fucking minutes. I hate to crave it so much that it hurts. I hate the filth of all this that I just can’t wash off myself ever. I hate this world for making us sneak and lie and pretend just like the criminals we are not. I hate this world for making me less and less sure that we are not. I hate this world for turning our love into something animalistic and filthy. I hate this world for making me wish I had never fallen in love with you.
The minute is over.
I fight the tears back and take a wet cloth to clean myself off.
I get dressed.
I gently fold the blanket and put it away together with the small bottle of oil.
I look around the room to see if there is anything that could give away our activities.
I see a tiny drop of come on the floor beside the bed and carefully wipe it away.
Now the room looks just like it had been less than half an hour ago.
Good.
I go to the window.
I’m careful not to look at the bed.
Don’t think. Don’t feel.
Good.
It’s still dark. No stars. You will be gone before dawn.
I’ll watch your stiff, controlled steps as you disappear in one of the side-streets.
You’ll know I’m there. But you won’t turn back.
I will not cry.
Title: No stars...
Pairing: Will&James (Will's POV)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own them because if I didn't they wouldn't have to through all this and you wouldn't be reading this story.
Summary: "We always return here like murderers to the scene of their crime..."
I was sick when I wrote this and must have been in a medicine, pain and fever induced trance because the next morning I couldn't actually remember how harsh this really was, so I was quite shocked when I came back to Lj to read it again. Apparently being sick makes me bolder. *shrugs* :P
I'm posting it here too because I think every story deserves to have a home and what better home can this story have than a Willington communities page. And also there might be some who don't regularly watch the other sites this is posted on, so...
No stars…
We always return here like murderers to the scene of their crime. We arrive separately and get two rooms, if possible, neighbouring ones. If we accidentally meet in the corridor or downstairs where all the drunkards shout and fight we pretend not to know each other. We make sure the bartender who’s also the owner of this filthy place notices when we go in our respective rooms. And then we wait.
It’s not a very popular place because it’s too filthy and ugly even for Tortuga’s standards. That’s why we chose it. There are always free rooms and few guests, even fewer who actually have a room, the others simply drink until they pass out downstairs behind one of the tables.
By midnight they are drunk enough to forget who they are, where they are, whether they have paid for their drink or not - something the owner makes good use of. By one o’clock they are too far gone to notice if pirates blew up the chair they were sitting on. By two in the morning they are lying on or under the table, silent as the grave. Then the owner takes the little money they have left in their pockets and closes the inn for the night.
That’s when you come to me. Silent, so as not to wake the owner, who’s the only relatively sober person in the inn. So silent that it startles me when you open the door. You’re only wearing your breeches and your white shirt and are quickly getting rid of them as you come closer to the bed where I’m already lying sprawled on an old blanket I have brought - partly so that we don’t have to lie on the ugly sheets of the small bed, partly because we can’t afford to leave any traces.
I’m naked and carefully prepared. It saves time.
As soon as you’re on the bed, you grab the small bottle of oil and slick your cock, while I push myself up to my knees, press my forehead to my crossed arms and wait for the familiar sensation of your hard member pressing into me.
I don’t have to wait long.
You’re inside of me with one deliberate thrust and I have to bite into my arm to keep myself from wincing at the painful intrusion. You don’t wait for me to get used to the feeling before you start moving. I didn’t expect you to. We don’t have the time. Anybody could burst into the room any moment - the owner, wanting to check if I’m asleep or drunk enough to not notice when he robs me or a drunkard, expecting to find an empty room.
We don’t have the time for niceties. We have to get this over with as soon as possible.
I can feel your strong, calloused hands firmly gripping my hips as you pound into me with a desperate force I can hardly match. Then one hand leaves and I know you’re pressing it to your mouth to stop yourself from making any sound that could be overheard. But your pace doesn’t slow down. It gets only faster. Fast enough to finish as soon as possible but carefully refraining from any movement that would cause the old bed to make any sound that could give us away. Quick, hard fucking. That’s all it is. That’s all it should be.
I shut my eyes as you accidentally hit a spot inside of me you weren’t searching for and relish the painful bliss that I can only call mine once every five months - sometimes four. I wish I could see your face. But we never fuck in any other position. It would be too intimate, too emotional. And we can’t afford that. Only quick, hard fucking.
I hate this. I hate having to come to Hell to find a small slice of Heaven. I hate the filth that clings to everything here - objects and people alike. I hate being fucked like a common whore by the man I love - by the man who loves me.
Bitter tears start to form behind my eyes - more and more with each thrust of those powerful hips I dream about every night. Fuck. I’m not supposed to get emotional about this - at least not while you’re still here. I try to concentrate on your rigid flesh inside of me and of the wicked sensations that I crave for every minute of every day. I open my legs even wider and push myself desperately against you. I can feel you shudder and fall out of your steady rhythm for a moment.
You’re close.
Your fingers are leaving painful marks on my hips. Your balls are slapping against the bare skin of my ass as you’re sliding unrhythmically in and out of me. Two slow, three quick thrusts. Slow. Quick. Slow. Three quick. I hastily grab my leaking prick while wish it was your hand stroking me - but your hand is till firmly pressed to your lips that I haven’t even tasted since four months ago.
That’s my last thought before I have to stifle the loud scream that tries to escape me with my release that pulls you over the edge too. I can feel you shudder inside of me and stop moving for a brief second to regain some of your self-control before you swiftly pull out of me.
It lasted less than ten minutes.
I stay on the bed. Still on my knees, my head pressed to my arm, trying not to inhale the nauseating stench of the pillows. I can feel the creamy fluid still dripping out of my hole, on to the blanket I will take out of its chest every night for the next four or five months to make sure it was not only a dream. My whole body hurts. I feel violated, raped, used. I love you.
It takes all the power I’ve got to get up from the bed and turn towards you. You’re already dressed and ready to leave. You raise your eyes at me. It is filled with pain, guilt, hatred and love. You come closer and slowly kiss away the tears that are still streaming down my cheeks. This is what I’m really here for. This one short minute after finishing. In this moment the world stops and you kiss me on the lips. No heated passion, no forced haste, just your lips on mine, locked for the fracture of a second.
And then it’s over. And you’re gone.
I feel lost. An outcast. A criminal without a crime. I lean against the door you have just closed and give into my pain. I allow my tears to flow - just now, a minute, not more, I promise. I fight the urge to scream and only shake with suppressed emotions.
I just can’t do this anymore. But I don’t even promise myself that this was the last time, because I know too well that I can’t stop.
And I hate myself for it.
I hate these stolen ten fucking minutes. I hate to crave it so much that it hurts. I hate the filth of all this that I just can’t wash off myself ever. I hate this world for making us sneak and lie and pretend just like the criminals we are not. I hate this world for making me less and less sure that we are not. I hate this world for turning our love into something animalistic and filthy. I hate this world for making me wish I had never fallen in love with you.
The minute is over.
I fight the tears back and take a wet cloth to clean myself off.
I get dressed.
I gently fold the blanket and put it away together with the small bottle of oil.
I look around the room to see if there is anything that could give away our activities.
I see a tiny drop of come on the floor beside the bed and carefully wipe it away.
Now the room looks just like it had been less than half an hour ago.
Good.
I go to the window.
I’m careful not to look at the bed.
Don’t think. Don’t feel.
Good.
It’s still dark. No stars. You will be gone before dawn.
I’ll watch your stiff, controlled steps as you disappear in one of the side-streets.
You’ll know I’m there. But you won’t turn back.
I will not cry.