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Darkness and sea salt. The creak of wooden barrels and crates. The rush of the ocean.
It was almost overwhelming.
But Steve held tight to the rough-hewn netting drawn tight around one of the crates, gripping for some kind of steadiness amidst the crash and roll of the waves all around. He’d not really thought much between ‘get on The Hellfire without anyone seeing’ and ‘sail the seas in search of adventure’. Turns out, this was the part between.
When he’d told Robin his hopes to escape the aquiline stare of his father and the overbearing presence of his officers, she’d simply gawked, blinked furiously at him and said nothing for almost a minute. And then that disbelief had melted into a wicked grin of gleeful mischief.
“What do you need me to do?” she’d asked, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Steve had felt the wave of relief, and then the thrill of excitement as he revealed his meticulous, if reckless, plan.
“I need you to cause a distraction.”
There was no way to sneak from home under the watchful eye of the grounds’ guards, so the only way that Steve had seen fit was to take flight while promenading with Robin around the bustling market town of Hawk’s Bay. None of the merchants or visiting seafarers would bat an eye at the sight of two well-dressed, better-bred youths meandering through the outskirts of the dockyard, and if Robin’s distraction tactics were as polished as they always had been when the pair were children, then Steve would be able to easily escape the semi-distant yet perpetual presence of their father’s officers with ease.
“Wait a moment.” Robin clutched her fingers around the satin arm of Steve’s coat and pulled him to a halt beside a high-stacked pile of sugar crates not a dozen yards from the boarded walkway that led to the deck of The Hellfire. “Let me come with you.”
Steve knew, somewhere inside himself, that Robin would try something like this. They had been too much together over the two decades that had succeeded their inextricable introduction to the earth by their birth not a half hour apart for Steve to even entertain the thought that his beloved sister might simply facilitate his escape without at the very least attempting to accompany him. Steve sighed resignedly and rested his large hand over top of her smaller one.
“I want you to come with me, obviously. But…you know sailors are a superstitious sort, Rob. The moment they realized you’re a woman, I wouldn’t be surprised if they threw you overboard.” Steve chuckled lightly, patting the back of her hand in consolation.
“They wouldn’t know. I’ve got breeches on under my skirts, and my hair’s short enough already. Tied back and under a hat, they’d never know!”
“How about, listen,” Steve began, not simply to placate Robin, but also with the secret hope that it might be possible, “if I can get in good with the captain, maybe next time we come into port, I might be able to invite you aboard.”
Robin raised an eyebrow, and her desperate justification slipped away. “The captain, hmm? This wouldn’t be Captain Munson, would it?”
“The very same.” Steve nodded, keeping his voice even despite the ticking up of his pulse in the side of his neck at just the mention of the man’s name. For years now, Steve had watched The Hellfire glide into the bay, huge white sails painted with a menacing black insignia, and for years, he’d found his gaze wandering to the leather-clad, sauntering figure of the ship’s captain.
There were stories of Edward Munson, tales of plundering and hoarding, ruthless justice done to mutineers; it was anyone’s guess why Steve’s father, Admiral Harrington, even permitted The Hellfire and its crew to weigh anchor at the docks of Hawk’s Bay. It seemed, however, that despite the rumors and whisperings, Munson ran a tight ship indeed, and sailed from port to port delivering what was due and returning reliably with every penny of payment owed.
These stories fascinated Steve, and he’d spent many a night at The King’s Head surrounded by sailors who claimed to have worked under the silver-clad fist of Captain Munson on The Hellfire, and with the warmth of rum buzzing through his blood, Steve had always asked for more stories, more, desperate to be regaled by grandiose tales of adventure and bloodshed.
It thrilled him.
This life was so very different from the stuffy organization of Steve’s own existence, and each glimpse of the man and his crew that increasingly occupied Steve’s waking thoughts and nightly dreams only served to coax desire further towards the surface.
Robin, having reluctantly agreed to wait for Steve’s return - whenever that may be - took her leave of Steve’s side and strode unassumingly towards the center of the square, bustling as it was with merchants, shopkeepers and inhabitants of the town. Steve patted a hand back to check that his satchel was still slung over his shoulder, irrational as it was for he could feel the comforting weight of the strap and the press of the bag at his side. Steve watched, almost shaking with the sudden rush of adrenaline, as Robin stumbled, swayed this way and that, before turning just a fraction toward where Steve still stood, and with a deliberate wink she knew he would see, cast the back of her hand to her forehead, and fell gracelessly backwards.
In the ensuing clamor, Steve slipped through the crowding strangers and scurried up the wooden walkway, onto The Hellfire’s deck. The crew had been busily engaged in loading and lifting laden crates in preparation for voyage, and there was no sign of the infamous captain. It had been almost too easy, really.
He had boarded enough ships in his time - though he had never been permitted to leave the port when his father had traveled the seas - to know where the hold would be, and veered behind posts and boxes, sliding down onto the spindly ladder that protruded from an open hatch in the decking.
With a final, backward glance to the gathered throng, Steve descended the rungs and hopped down into the ship’s underbelly.
It was dank, and dark, with only the hazy light of day spilling in like mist from above. The hold seemed already loaded with netted sugar crates, leaving little space for much more cargo, and Steve shimmied behind a stack that towered over him, almost to the ceiling. He would stay here in wait until the ship took sail, remain hidden until morning, when The Hellfire would be far enough from land that it would be no use to turn back without losing a day’s travel.
Steve wasn’t quite sure what he might say when finally faced with Captain Munson up close. He wondered whether that same imposing presence was even more overwhelming the nearer the captain’s proximity. Steve just wanted to speak to him. To hear the voice that he’d only been able to conjure up in his imagination, to see for himself whether the black eyes that had haunted so many a sailor’s tale were really as dark as the stories professed.
Of course, there was the threat of death, of being tossed overboard as an interloper, or of whipping, being held captive, trussed up in rope until the ship reached its destination, but Steve quickly quashed the thoughts with a certainty to his charm, a confidence in his ability to talk his way out of trouble, as he had with many a maiden’s father and suspicious shopkeeper throughout his teenage years.
He knew that if he simply spoke to the captain, explained his unquenchable thirst for something more than the stifling life he’d lived thus far under the ever-scrutinizing eye of his father, surely Munson would understand. Perhaps it was a naive thought, but it was the one that Steve held tight to as he listened, felt for the lifting of the anchor and the beginning of his freedom.
It came soon enough, and, certain that the crew would be occupied with tasks on deck, Steve left his initial hiding place and slumped against a netted crate, pulling off his silken coat and waistcoat to stow away in his satchel for safekeeping - if he were truly to convince Captain Munson that he was willing to leave behind his life of safety and comfort for one on the ocean, he couldn’t look like the son of an admiral. Before long, the calm waters of Hawk’s Bay gave way to the tumultuous tides of deeper waters, and Steve struggled for a while to find a position in which he wouldn’t be thrown into the ship’s wall by the vicious waves.
Eventually, the adrenaline faded and tiredness crept over him, and despite the heavy rock of the ocean, Steve felt his lids dropping. Perhaps it was this exhaustion, coupled with the rush of the sea, that meant he did not hear the hatch being opened, and two men clambering down the ladder.
Steve was woken with a start by rough shouts and the rougher grasp of hands gripping around his arms. His eyes snapped open, stinging with the salty sea air, and he blinked furiously, heart pounding over the crash of waves.
“Hey- hey, woah! You don’t have to- let go of me .” Steve flailed, unable to extricate himself from the rough grasp of the two men who’d seized him. “Do you have any idea- I’m not some stowaway-”
“Are you not? Cause, and I beg your pardon if I’m mistaken, but if you aren’t a stowaway, then why did we find you hiding like a rat in the hold?” the shorter of the two men asked, spitting a spray of rainwater from his lips with his words.
“I don’t think you’re mistaken, Gareth,” the man yanking at Steve’s left arm agreed with a smug grimace. They shoved him up the ladder, their hold still vice-tight around his biceps even in the inconvenience of climbing upwards. “Wonder what our captain will do with this one, eh?”
The deck was slick with seawater and rain as the two men hauled Steve towards a door built into the quarterdeck, between a pair of railed staircases. Steve almost lost his footing in his attempt to free himself from the clutches of his captors, but they held fast, near-dragging him over the boards and to what Steve knew to be the captain’s quarters.
The taller one, dark skin shining in the driving rain, released one hand’s grip on Steve’s arm in favor of pounding on the wood-paneled door in a flurry of angry thuds. The pair of men stepped back, pulling Steve with them, and as he struggled against their hold again, the one Steve had heard referred to as Gareth twisted Steve’s arm behind his back, forcing a jolt of pain up Steve’s elbow and rendering him almost doubled over upon himself. Steve yelped in shock, and through the hammering of the rain, Steve heard the two men laugh.
They stood in uneasy silence, braced on bent knees against the keening of the ship, until the door opened, and a warm amber light spilled out in a stark triangle against the blue-black night.
Steve looked up through his lashes, body still hinged forward at the waist, and there in the doorway was Captain Edward Munson. He stood assuredly, despite the tilting deck, black boots planted on the oaken floor of the cabin. Leather breeches clung tight to his legs, a world away from the tawny softness of Steve’s own, and they were wrapped with straps and buckles, glinting in the flickering candlelight that surrounded him. Munson’s shirt was untucked, the laces at the neck untied, and the black of the cotton lay strikingly against the surprisingly pale skin at his jugular. Steve’s breath hitched as he took in the tangle of silver chains laying over his breastbone, visible where the cut of his shirt plunged deep. The driving splinters of rain were lost to Steve as he took in the man’s face for the first time up close: the shadow of dark stubble that hugged his sharp jaw; the full pinkness of his curved lips; the rounded tip of his nose; the flush of his cheeks, reddened with what Steve could only assume was anger at having been roused amidst the night and the rain; a thin, silvery scar that slashed from the apple of his left cheek and disappeared beneath a small, bead-speckled braid that hung from his temple, free from the larger, unruly braid into which the rest of his coffee-brown hair had been twisted back. And then there were his eyes. The breath that had caught in Steve’s throat swept into his lungs in a gasp, for Captain Munson’s eyes were dark and round, lined with thick lashes like the downy feathers of a raven, and they glinted as though the stars had somehow shone their way from behind the heavy thunderclouds above.
Though Steve’s heart had been pounding before, both with adrenaline at his capture and in protest at the chill of the downpour that had wet his shirt through almost immediately, Steve could feel it now in his eyeballs , thrumming wantonly at the sight of the man that had, until now only existed at a distance, in daydreams and imaginings. It overpowered the sharp sting of twisted, restrained limbs and rendered him more unsteady by the moment.
“Captain, we found him in the hold-” Gareth began, deferring smarmily to said captain, whose midnight stare was still fixed in something almost like curiosity on Steve’s no doubt grimacing face.
“Napping amongst the cumin crates,” the other finished, and gave a flourishing shake to Steve’s arm that jolted his contorted limbs and forced a rough hiss from between gritted teeth.
With the raise of a dark, thick eyebrow and the quirk of his cheek, Captain Munson spoke for the first time within earshot of Steve.
“Gentlemen, is this how we treat a guest aboard our humble vessel?” he asked, and oh . Munson’s voice was quieter than Steve had expected - he’d been bracing himself for a roaring onslaught of threats - and it had a smooth quality to it; it gave the impression of song without any sort of melody. The words were whipped away by the wind almost as soon as they were spoken, but the echo of them drifted around Steve’s mind as the ‘gentlemen’ in question began to protest against their captain’s testing question. Munson halted their exclamations with a raise of his hand, the base of each finger wrapped in a different style of silver ring. “Tell me your name.”
Steve wondered momentarily whether the rules for revealing his name to a suspected pirate were the same as those for faeries, like in the stories his mother had told him, and in that same instant, realized that he would perhaps not so much mind surrendering his power, his control, his freedom to the man standing before him. A man who, though Steve was certain was hardly any taller than him, had a presence much larger than his decidedly lean frame.
It was odd, that Steve felt so immediately enthralled by Captain Munson within the space of only a handful of words, but even odder was that Steve did not find it odd at all.
“Steve Harrington,” he offered with just a little discomfort - he knew what would most likely come after, and momentarily cursed his own honesty.
“Harrington…” Munson mused, squinting lightly as though drawing a memory from the back of his mind to the fore. “You wouldn’t have any relation to Admiral Harrington, would you?”
And there it was. The acknowledgement of Steve’s existence solely in relation to his father. Yet another confirmation of his redundancy if not connected to the man who played little part in his life beyond providing the name he was baptized with. Steve bristled slightly, attempting to stand a little further upright despite the ache in his elbow and the bruising strength of the tall man’s grip around his bicep. Steve sighed.
“My father, yes.” Munson studied him for a moment, seemed to lean ever so slightly forward, dipping out of the warm backlit candlelight and into the salty dark of the open deck. The captain’s eyes, without the ambient glow of flame, were darker still, near black; they reminded Steve of the diagrams he’d seen of sharks in his tutor’s study, somehow dull and empty, yet shining and alert all at once. Steve remembered tracing the clean lines of the fins, skating his fingertips over the open mouth and imagining the blade-sharp slice of pointed teeth. He felt rather like that now, as he gritted his jaw against the growing fascination, the nameless desire to draw closer to the captain; like he was offering himself up to the ridged edge of something that might rip and tear.
Despite the inherent threat of Captain Edward Munson studying him with those shark’s eyes, Steve kept staring, unable to look away even as the driving rain splashed across the bridge of his nose and caught in his eyelashes. Munson nodded almost politely, and without breaking Steve’s gaze, addressed the two men at Steve’s sides.
“Thank you, Jeff, Gareth. Master Harrington, you’re soaked. Come inside.” Captain Munson took a backwards step and turned his body, gesturing broadly with one arm and a dip of his chin. Blinking hard both against the deluge and his surprise at such an invitation, Steve shook off the grasp of his captors and straightened, running a hand through his sodden hair to push the dripping strands from his forehead. Holding himself as proudly as he could, though he was shivering with the deep-set chill that all at once encompassed him, Steve followed Munson’s direction and stepped forward out of the rain, and into the captain’s cabin.
“Wait right here,” Captain Munson instructed, though there was only the slightest hint of command in it. Regardless, Steve obeyed at once, halting his soggy steps and stood dripping onto a plush rough-woven rug. He watched in fascination as Munson swept swiftly into a darkened room beyond a deep crimson curtain, disappearing entirely from sight for a handful of moments and leaving Steve alone.
The room seemed to be built around a grand, square table upon which two squat, silver candlesticks stood central. There was a littering of parchment, some Steve recognized to be maps, others filled solely with writing, and it curled and nestled beneath platters of bread and cheese, a smooth wooden bowl filled with deep red apples. Thick, cylindrical candles were scattered around the cabin, perched on every flat surface, and provided a honey brightness to all that surrounded them. Steve could not control his gaze, flitting from one point of focus to another: spindly chairs poised at each edge of the table; a framed landscape of a place Steve did not recognise hewn in blues, turquoise and greens; a metal-framed rack in which a dozen wine bottles lay in anticipation, corks poised to pop; a rich red curtain half draped across an archway that revealed only darkness - Steve could only imagine it might lead to sleeping quarters, and it seemed strange to consider a man so imposing as Captain Munson engaging in something so docile as sleep. Shadows flickered and danced over the oaken walls, flashing warnings in tones of gray and brown, and as Steve attempted to focus on their ever-shifting, incomprehensible shapes, his attention was caught by a twinkling shine.
Upon focusing his gaze, Steve recognized the sparkling glimmer of dozens of jewels, spilling out like wine from a dark wooden chest and across the surface of the cabinet upon which the chest sat. His feet carried him towards the tangle of chains and gems, jewelry finer than he’d seen even at the most spectacular balls back home, and he marveled at them.
Steve was reaching out to pick up a small pearl earring when the clearing of a throat behind him made him jump. He turned to see Munson framed in the doorway with an easy smirk curling the corner of this mouth.
Captain Munson sauntered towards Steve casually, with the confidence of a man who knows he’s entirely in control, and it was all that Steve could do not to stumble backwards in parallel, almost overwhelmed by the wave of sudden heat that swept beneath his skin under the weight of Munson’s heavy gaze.
“You’ll catch your death in wet clothes,” Munson smiled, sharp like the blade of a knife, and handed Steve a soft linen towel and a softer shirt, ruffled along the deep cut of the neck and at the wrists. It strangely surprised Steve that the shirt was crisp and pure white; he had not expected the captain of the Hellfire to own anything other than the deepest ebony shirts, coats, breeches, boots in which Steve had seen him outfitted on his fleeting visits to Hawk’s Bay. Steve accepted the offerings gladly, thanking Munson as politely as he could. The corner of Munson’s mouth pitched up in an amicable smirk, before he simply dipped his chin in response and began to cross the cabin towards a large, curved carafe that was two thirds full with deep red wine.
Though he had been given the means to dry himself and to prevent a chill, Steve did not move, found himself rooted to the spot, studying Captain Munson with an intensity that felt unwarranted, yet necessary.
Everything about Munson was lithe, measured; the elegant raise of an eyebrow, the high pour of claret wine from the carafe into a gold-rimmed glass goblet, the lift and bend of his legs as he crossed one ankle over the other, resting them upon the edge of the broad mahogany table. When he walked, he stepped as though stalking prey, deliberate and intent. He looked fixedly at Steve as though he was burrowing a path through his eye sockets and into his mind. It made Steve feel seen in a way for which he hadn’t been prepared.
“Just behind you, Master Harrington. Some privacy.” Munson gestured over Steve’s shoulder, drawing the goblet up to his lips with the other hand, and Steve was startled from his fascinated observation. His cheeks prickled with an embarrassed blush at having been caught staring so wantonly, and the flush only deepened when Munson’s stare remained fixed upon him. There was something predatory about it, something that threatened violence poised just behind the curl of a smile.
Steve felt Munson’s curious gaze studying him as he slipped behind a carved partition wall, linen towel and dry shirt in hand. Captain Munson’s shirt, no doubt taken from his own clothing chest.
The thin cotton of Steve’s shirt had been rendered near-transparent by the vicious downpour, and he could see the thatch of dark hair that fuzzed the skin over his heart as he watched himself tug the hem of his shirt from the waistband of his breeches. Steve wondered self-indulgently whether this was why Captain Munson had looked at him like…like that .
Having removed his shirt, and then his soaked shoes and stockings, Steve cast the towel over his shoulders, ruffled it through his sodden hair until he was satisfied that the warmth of the cabin would dry the rest, and then tugged on the loose, soft shirt. It was a little big, but a much-needed layer to protect his modesty, and it smelled of musk rose and spices that Steve could not quite name. He couldn’t help but note the patches of pink that crept up from his chest to his cheeks at the sight of himself in a garment borrowed from such a man as Captain Munson.
After a few grounding breaths, Steve reemerged, finding Munson reclining exactly as he had been when Steve had left his sight, and it gave him the strangest sense of seeing a snake coiling to strike.
“White suits you,” Munson offered simply with a disarmingly genuine smile. “It’s certainly more your color than mine.”
“I- well. Uh, thank you,” Steve demurred.
Munson gestured to the seat next to his own, and Steve padded towards it, settling only a little nervously on the wooden chair. Munson offered a pre-poured goblet of wine towards him, and a pewter plate upon which sat a hunk of bread and a chunk of hard cheese.
“You must be hungry?” Munson asked as Steve hesitantly accepted the gesture. The pleasantry of it all was intensely unsettling, and enthralling in equal measure. The captain waited until Steve had swallowed half the wine in one gulp and taken a hearty bite of the bread before continuing to speak. “Tell me, Master Harrington, why you were hiding on my ship.”
“I- wanted to know what it was like. The world. The ocean,” Steve began, entirely lacking in the confident charm he’d been so certain would mitigate any potential displeasure at his presence.
“Mmm, and you chose my ship to stow away on?” Munson sounded amused, and it was evident in the sparkle that lit his eyes. Steve swallowed, finding it difficult to maintain Munson’s gaze, though the moment he looked away, he longed to look once more.
“I guess I wanted to- uh.” Steve took a large sip of his wine, simply to buy himself some time.
“Wanted to see what it was like?”
“What you were- yeah, what it was like. You’re- I’d heard…” Munson tilted his head at that, daring without speaking. He scratched idly at the stubble shadowing the side of his jaw - the perfect picture of nonchalant interest.
“Heard what?”
“I heard you were a-” Steve changed tact. The sharpness that lingered behind Munson’s smile was still far too present. He gestured instead to the overfull chest of treasures sitting on a cabinet against the wall, casting a quick look towards it.“Those jewels…”
“Mmm?”
“Where- they’re lovely. Do you encounter many gemstone merchants on your travels?” Steve attempted to keep his tone light, desperate to avoid giving away his suspicion so early on, even though each new cast of his gaze over the contents of the cabin whispered that unspoken, forbidden word louder and louder.
“Not so much. I…curate my collection. When I find something I want, I just…make sure I get it.”
“You steal it.”
“Such vulgar terms. I prefer ‘acquire’. Sounds much more pretty, don’t you think?”
“Is there anything else you…’acquire’?” Steve asked, lips moving faster than his thoughts. It would be easy to blame it on the wine, but he’d only consumed half a glass, and Edward Munson’s words were far more intoxicating than alcohol could ever be.
“Anything that takes my fancy. That’s what makes this little trading situation worthwhile, sweetheart. Every career has its perks.”
“You take what you want. And I’m gonna guess not everyone is happy about that,” Steve posited, raising his eyebrows hesitantly; he knew he was in treacherous waters here. Munson simply smiled, and Steve saw that his teeth were not the sharp, pointed razors he’d thought fitting for such a predator but surprisingly straight and regular, even if one of his incisors was not white but pure gold. The wordless confirmation only bolstered Steve to continue. He knew this time what he was going to say before he spoke, but the sound of the word from his own mouth still threatened to send a shiver across Steve’s shoulders. “So, you’re a pirate.”
“Officially, I’m a tradesman,” Munson answered, hinging his legs down from where they’d been resting jauntily on the table and turning his body to face Steve fully. He planted his still-booted feet either side of Steve’s bare ones, boxing him in without touching. Munson leaned forward, bracing his palms on the tops of his thighs, until Steve could feel the wisp of the captain’s breath blooming over his mouth. When Munson spoke again, there was none of the dismissal of his previous words, only a full richness that crackled with the reduced volume at which he spoke. “Ever such a good one, too. What I do in my free time is no one’s business but my own.”
“But you’re, do you…yknow. When you’re…swords and guns and…”
“Do I what, Master Harrington?” Munson asked, his voice low and enticing. It was a dare. An invitation to make Steve speak the words aloud. They caught in his throat. Instead, a new flare of lust sparked into being, and the nerves that had shaken his voice before smoothed out, curling the corners of his lips.
“You’re a pirate,” Steve breathed, repeating himself, and the thrill of it only increased with each utterance of the words.
“That I am, darling. And I have an eye for pretty things. Even if they don’t belong to me, not yet.” Captain Munson traced the tip of his finger over the dip beneath Steve’s cheekbone, and Steve found himself leaning into the touch. Munson’s dark eyes smoldered like coals as his fingertip brushed inward, towards the corner of Steve’s mouth. With instinct that defied all logic or self-preservation, Steve let his jaw fall ever so slightly open, and Munson’s lips twitched in a satisfied smirk.
Munson traced his fingertip over the cushion of Steve’s bottom lip, and Steve’s instincts took over. He flicked his tongue out to press against it, and his breath hitched at the taste of sea salt and tobacco lingering on the captain’s skin.
“You seem like a pretty thing, Master Harrington.” Munson shifted his hand to cup Steve’s cheek, and replaced his fingertip with his thumb. It just breached the boundary of his lips, then retreated. Steve’s eyelids fluttered, entirely at a loss as to the sudden rush of desire that bubbled up inside him. He was certain he should not feel this way, about someone like this , and yet.
“Captain Munson, I-”
“Eddie. It’s just us, sweetheart.”
“Just us.” Steve nodded his head, conceding faux-reluctantly; the thrill of having passed formalities was tricky to contain. “Eddie.”
“Much better. Would you permit me then, to call you Steve?”
“Anything you- yeah. Steve is fine.
Munson- Eddie- sighed almost wistfully, and Steve’s brows pinched together in concern. For a moment, Eddie’s expression softened, and then he frowned, shook his head a little.
“That mouth, it’s way too tempting.” Eddie sighed again. “You must let me have a taste.” The words struck like a poker in Steve’s gut, and he jolted against Eddie’s certain touch. He nodded again, brows knitting together as he repeated, “yes, yeah, uh huh, please.”
Eddie leaned forward, sliding his hand back to the side of Steve’s neck, anchoring himself as he brought their mouths only a breath apart. As with every other of Eddie’s movements, the drag of his tongue over Steve’s parted, waiting lips was deliberate, intentional. It was a short, vertical swipe over Steve’s bottom lip at first, and then another that included his top lip too. And then the tip of Eddie’s sure tongue traced the bow of the upper, the gentle curve of the lower, and Steve couldn’t contain the whine that escaped from somewhere needy and unrestrained in the back of his throat. Eddie chuckled against the sound, the heat of his breath condensing immediately against Steve’s skin, and blindly, Steve’s hands darted forward, clutching at the collar of Eddie’s shirt and yanking him forward until their mouths came crashing inelegantly together.
For an instant, Steve was overcome by the incongruous softness of Eddie’s lips where the rest of him was calculated intimidation. He sighed into the kiss, rough and wanton as it was, tingling at the immediate reciprocation, and then froze, momentarily stunned by the urgency of his actions. He had never been one to take . Only to follow, to lead when permitted, whether in sport or in dance or in the gentle, lackluster embrace of a lover. To want like this, as ardently as this, it was new and untested, full to bursting.
Steve’s eyes sprung open as he all but shoved Eddie away from him, terrified of the sudden ferocity of his desire, and his chest heaved as though he’d been running an all-out sprint. Eddie’s eyes were wide at first, glinting caramel-gold in the candlelight, and his lips, curled into a bloodthirsty smile, were sheened with Steve’s saliva. He darted his tongue out over them, evidently savoring the slickness as he replaced it with his own. And then, as though accepting a challenge Steve did not realize he’d posed, Eddie’s eyes narrowed, seemed to swallow up all the light that shone upon them and twist it into something lust filled. Eddie sunk his hands into the hair behind Steve’s ears, rough palms chafing against the delicate skin of Steve’s neck. He pulled Steve closer once more, until the side of Eddie’s strong nose brushed against Steve’s own, their lips hovering only a fraction apart.
“What’d you stop for, pretty boy?”
“I- I don’t know,” Steve admitted, voice hardly more than a whisper.
“Let me, precious thing…unless you wanna try again?” Steve could hear the smile in Eddie’s voice more than see it with their faces so close, and it spurred his fingers to clench into fists in the front of Eddie’s shirt, and with a breath, Steve brought Eddie’s lips to meet his own once again. The second kiss was no less clumsy than the first, but this time, Steve embraced the slip of open mouths and dipped his tongue into Eddie’s wine-sharp mouth. Eddie’s lips closed around it before Steve could draw it back into his own mouth, and he sucked until the boundary of pleasure bled into pain. Steve moaned, loose and formless, his eyes rolling beneath closed lids. Eddie relinquished his grip on Steve’s tongue with a wet pop, and laved his own over Steve’s lips in a far more audacious trail that rendered Eddie’s previous show of tasting Steve’s mouth sterile and passionless in comparison.
So smoothly that Steve did not even register the movement until it had occurred, Eddie slid a ringed hand into the loosened strands of hair that had fallen from the tie at the back of Steve’s head, and clenched. Steve gasped at the dull sting of it, surrendering himself to the fizzing trails of desire that flooded from the point of contact. The sharp pleasure swept downwards, and his cock twitched in interest.
“Come here,” Munson instructed in a murmur against Steve’s panting mouth, pulling Steve towards him with the hand buried in Steve’s hair and leaning back into his seat. Steve followed clumsily, clambering over the spread of Eddie’s thighs to settle instinctively upon his lap. “That’s it, let me feel you.”
Steve’s hands slid up, clutching to Eddie’s shoulders as he rested his weight fully on Eddie’s legs, unable to repress a satisfied hiss as his growing hardness pressed against the firm resistance of Eddie’s stomach. Movement came easily, thoughtlessly; Eddie’s free hand skated over the plane of Steve’s back, sweeping down to cup the curve of his ass and squeezing, drawing Steve’s body closer still to his own. Their lips slid frantically over one another’s tongues dipping and swiping where they may, and the push and pull of Eddie guiding Steve to grind against him was as natural and rhythmic as the peak and trough of the waves beyond the walls of the cabin.
It was not long before Eddie’s fingers loosened their grip on Steve’s hair, releasing just a fraction late enough to tug at the strands deliciously. Steve moaned again, the sound clashing with the low, humming growl that emanated from deep within Eddie’s chest, creating something altogether more ravenous. Eddie’s hand snaked deftly between their bodies, palming at the now-throbbing bulge trapped between them; the friction was thrilling and startling all at once, and Steve tensed momentarily at the contact. Eddie drew back.
“Alright, pretty thing?” he asked, expression open and seeking, so much softer for a moment than Steve had seen him look.
“Yes, yes- I- feels good,” Steve heard himself slur, hips beginning to move of their own accord, pushing himself into Eddie’s sure hand.
“It does, doesn’t it?” Eddie hummed in response, dipping his face forward to nuzzle at the delicate skin of Steve’s neck. He pressed the heel of his hand a little more firmly against the surely weeping head of Steve’s cock and Steve’s hips jerked involuntarily. The shifting movement alerted Steve to a new firmness beneath his balls, the thickness of Eddie’s own arousal evident against him.
“Oh,” Steve sighed breathlessly, tipping his head back and grasping more tightly at Eddie’s shoulders, at the back of his neck. Eddie chuckled against Steve’s throat, the sound rich and enticing, and Steve was growing desperate. “Touch me, Captain,” he gasped, overcome by the endless waves of friction, of lips and breath. Eddie grasped at Steve’s hair once more, tugging it until
“Tell me what I really am,” Eddie dared him, flicking at the closure of Steve’s breeches. Steve curled himself forward a little to make enough space, his body begging for the roughness of Eddie’s palm around him, and looked up through his lashes, lids low and heavy with lust. Steve needed no further hint.
“Pirate,” he accused, and Eddie’s fingers closed around his length in reward. Eddie’s touch was sure and natural as he swiped his thumb over Steve’s tip, dragging the bead of slickness around the spongy flesh. Steve lunged forward to kiss him again, chest heaving as Eddie began to stroke slowly downwards.
Steve had felt touch of this kind before, he was not unknown to the world of intimacy. But touch like this? It was as new as the fresh-bloomed bud of a rose - sure and firm, charged and laden. He tugged at the front of his own shirt, tucking it out of the way, and ground down into Eddie’s lap, crushing himself as close as he could to the captain’s- the pirate’s body, and gave himself up entirely to sensation.
Eddie momentarily broke apart their lips, and his hand disappeared from Steve’s cock, but only for so long as it took him to build a swell of saliva behind his plush lips and spit harshly onto his fingers. The added wetness upon the return of Eddie’s touch was sure to send Steve careering over the edge far sooner than he had anticipated. Steve’s moans dissolved into a flurry of whimpers and whines against Eddie’s open, inviting, wicked mouth, and he rocked his hips into the repetitive, intoxicating motions of Eddie’s hand.
“Such a pretty thing,” Eddie growled, nudging his nose against the bared juncture between Steve’s neck and shoulder where his shirt hung loose and unlaced. “S’good you found your way to me, hmm? You know I can take care of you right, can’t I, treasure? Keep you shiny and bright just for me.” The words flooded over Steve, soft and inevitable.
“Uh huh, uh huh, yeah , j’st f’you, shiny and pretty,” he panted back, all conscious thought distant and intangible; Steve found himself only able to repeat fractions of the enchanting invitation that sparkled within Eddie’s words.
“That’s it, treasure, good boy.” Eddie’s encouragement tempted Steve closer to release, blending and swirling with the looping strokes of his hand and coiling heat between his hips.
“Eddie- m’gonna-”
“Sweet treasure, precious thing,” Eddie repeated reverently, lavishing messy kisses over Steve’s lips, down his neck, each point of touch sizzling like flame. He ground rhythmically up against Steve’s body, seemingly chasing his own release just as quickly as Steve’s.
“Captain,” Steve mirrored, his voice just as reverent as Eddie’s, just as filled with admiration. “Pirate.”
The word was the last on Steve’s lips before the movement of his hips stuttered, and his blood sang in his veins. Heart pounding, thighs trembling, Steve spilled between their stomachs and over the back of Eddie’s hand, and all the while, his pirate panted filthy praise against his skin. Before Steve could even begin to float back towards his body, Eddie’s rutting grew frantic, and he shoved at Steve’s hips to force him down and down and down against himself.
Eddie came with a snarl, a guttural, rasping thing that was almost more beast than man, and his strong features scrunched, sinful mouth falling open. Steve was struck then that he would follow this man to the ends of the world, would be any manner of pretty thing he so desired, so long as Eddie would let him.
Heavily, Steve collapsed into Eddie’s chest, burying his face against the musky, sweat-misted skin of his neck, and clung to him until his heart slowed its stuttering tattoo. Eddie held him tight, stroking a rough palm through the damp hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, and hummed in satisfaction.
Later, when Steve had changed from his ruined breeches, he wandered across the cabin to where Eddie stood at the cabinet upon which his overflowing jewel chest sat, bare beneath a long, wine red silken robe. Eddie’s fingertips trailed over the glinting gems, pendants and rings, oval-shaped rubies and square-cut diamonds with a certain gentleness, a fondness. He looked up when he noticed Steve drawing near, and the passive smile that had tilted his lips grew into something with teeth, something that lit his dark, dark eyes.
“They really are very pretty,” Steve offered, though his gaze did not stray from Eddie’s face.
“Mmm, quite pretty. Maybe…” Eddie began, before turning to study the treasures again. “Maybe you could wear this one for me,” Eddie mused, plucking a pearl droplet on a little golden hook from the laden chest of jewels.
Steve’s pulse ticked up at the implication, an echo of ‘for me, for me, for me’ billowing around his mind. He stepped forward and inspected the earring, taking it gently from Eddie’s pinching fingers. Wordlessly, Steve slipped the hook through the little hole in his earlobe, one that Robin had given him a handful of years prior when she’d insisted they matched, and met Eddie’s waiting, smoldering stare.
“How does it look?”
“Perfect,” Eddie said with a smile, the candlelight around them only serving to sharpen the ever-present glint in his eyes. “A precious thing for my precious thing.”
Eddie’s hands cradled Steve’s jaw, and he drew him into a sweet, if lusty kiss, lips parting quickly and willingly. Steve thought, as Eddie whirled the pair around and led the way to the bedroom, that perhaps he could get quite used to being one of Captain Munson’s treasures.