HEATHEN

he sounds so fucking good right now, his voice rough and breathless against her kiss-swollen lips. she makes a pathetic sound against him, and when he starts to ravage her neck with hungry lips and savage teeth, she moaned. the sound was pathetic, the kind of sound a young girl makes, not a full grown woman who is in charge of a pirate nation. she bucks up against him, grinding into him, desperate to feel more of him, as he no doubts leaves red angry marks that will turn into bruises on her skin. she has soft, sensitive flesh that bruises so easily. it's almost as if he knows that, as if it's a secret that he is aware of and is exploiting now. his growl goes straight to her cunt.

she feels it in her soul. it makes her so wet that she almost cries out. “ fuck no. ” she growls back, moving against him as she offers more of herself. her neck, her chest, any part he can reach. “ don't you fucking dare stop. ” she pulled back just enough so she could tug his shirt over his torso, her fingers brushing against skin as she does, waiting for him to lift his arms above his head so she can toss it aside. as soon as skin is exposed to her, eleanor marvels at him. her soft, dainty hands touch his chest. tracing old scars and muscle. she's mesmorising him. she moves one hand down to his stomach, between their bodies, until she's groping his cock through his trousers, gasping when she feels him. she applies just enough pressure for him to feel her, her other hand moving up to grab a fistful of hair, forcing him to meet her eyes.

It is a growl that falls from him when her hand grabs him through his trousers, when the other is in his hair and she pulls so that he is forced to look at her. Teeth bared, eyes burning with rage, desire and the pure lust that radiates through him. His hips buckle, a thrust into her hand almost as if to dare her to continue this.

Any sensible thought has all but vanished from his head, anything rational that was there only moments ago is nothing but a hazy mist. In this room is nothing but heat, sex and mistakes. In the morning he will regret it, but that shall be a problem come morning.

Battle-worn hands grab her hips, calloused and rough from years at sea. Years of taking life in the name of vengeance. Peace is as far from his harbour as one can get. This is but a momentarily distraction. He shifts them non-too-gently as he lays her down onto the bed, in his veins burns the hottest of fire. His mind is blank, the focus solely on her and the outcome that will show itself with time. A thrust against her, he is still covered, but that does not mean he isn't eager. He is but a man in the end.

"If you want this,"

He growls into her hair, teeth find the shell of her ear, followed by a rough kiss down beneath the lobe, down her neck until he eventually takes her lips again.

"Prove it, Eleanor"

she set out the ground for it, quietly asking for permission, giving him the chance to sober up and push her away. he doesn't—she knew he wouldn't. and she didn't want him to. she knows this is going to result in pain and disaster, but she doesn't care. everything happens in slow motion. his hand on her cheek, and then, his lips on hers. his beard scratches her skin gently. he's so gentle with her, like she is something precious and beautiful. doesn't he know she is rotten to the core?

eleanor doesn't move for a whole minute. she stays where she is, feeling the pressure of flint's lips on hers. the taste of ale that lingers on him. and then she moves. she leans into him, her hand gripping his hair with purchase, as she kisses him with more meaning. she accepts it, she takes charge fo it, she drowns herself in it. she doesn't wait before pushing her tongue into his mouth, tasting his sadness and his want, shifting so over him, half standing with a knee pressed into the bed and a leg supporting her weight on the ground. her free hand cups the other side of his face, and she pours the depth of her desire into that kiss. it's something stronger than her will.

when her lungs burn with the need for oxygen, she pulls away, panting, her lips parted, her eyes still shut, her cheeks flushed as she holds his face between her palms with trembling hands. “ you're drunk, ” her voice is something pathetic. she doesn't step away. she should turn around and leave, but she doesn't. she finally opens her eyes so she can look into his. “ we shouldn't, james. ” but god, she can't stop herself from kissing him again before he even has the chance to form a thought. this kiss is more desperate, more passionate. she moves before she can stop herself, tugging at her skirt as she settles over his lap, straddling him on the bed, the warm weight of her pressing down on him as her arms wrap around his neck and she kisses him like she doubts he ever has been kissed before. she should feel guilt.

she only feels him.

' we shouldn't ' she says, but James ignores it. Of course they shouldn't, there are a million things they shouldn't do, but quite frankly he couldn't give less of a fuck. Not when every frustration hangs over him like nooses waiting for him to take one wrong step. He wants to wipe that smirk off of Silver's face. He wants Hal to stop being so difficult. He wants Miranda to understand why he cannot accept these damned pardons. But right now, he wants to forget all of this. Right now all he wants is her.

"Is that what you think?"

His voice rumbles against her lips. One hand returns to her face, grabs her jaw to tilt her head back so that he can ravage her neck. Lips and teeth, it is not his intention to mark her, but his desires have been unleashed by her own. So as his teeth scrape against a milky white throat, a growl falls from deep within his throat. Almost guttural, like a wild animal.

"D'you want me to stop?"

She attempts to read the captain's tone, sifting through his choice of words and his decision to approach her instead of Silver. Or maybe he had, and walked away with a knot for an answer. She turns an eye on him, her expression remaining almost perfectly serene. "He was certainly not harmed under my protection."

Though the events of that cursed day still stir like a raging volcano inside her, Nix knows better than to let it show. She is curious, however, to know how the other man felt, and if any guilt or regret still lingered.

Looking out into the great emptiness again, she searches for the right label to explain the bond they shared. None seem quite right, so she settles on simple terms.

His jaw tenses. She knows Silver beyond his lies and false stories, he has even granted her a name James has never even heard of. One spoken with such certainty that he knows it must be true. John was never his true name, but rather Jonathan. He shouldn't be surprised to learn that John Silver is all a lie, yet it somehow finds him like a kick to the gut. But then, whatever their partnership has become, James isn't certain whether they can be considered friends or not.

"You refer to him as Jonathan?"

she means to sound firm. she sounds weak. vulnerable in a way that makes her feel disgusted with herself. her eyes are on their hands. hers look small in his grip. she doesn't pull away. a part of her wants to ask what part he's apologising for. then she decides it doesn't really matter. she doesn't want it, regardless what it's for. she could've walked away. she chose to stay. she doesn't want to hear his apology about it.

this is as much her decision as it is something else she won't name. she lets out a sigh, running her free hand over her face. she's tired, too. no one has it easy in nassau, but she is the one leading this place. managing money, moving goods, keeping the men from killing each other. it isn't an easy job, but it's the one she chose for herself. and god knows she is damn good at it. but it comes with a price, a heavy toll that weighs down her soul. she just sits there for a long moment, her hand in his. eventually, she leans her head on his shoulder. she shuts her eyes, and breathes him in—he smells like sweat, ale, and something that is uniquely flint. gunpowder and seasalt. her eyes are still shut when her free hand reaches for his chest, her fingers tracing patterns.

she turns her head, presses her lips against his shoulder. stop me. she's screaming in her head. please, god, stop me. her hand cups his jaw. she lifts her head just enough to be able to look up at him, her lips parted as soft breathing touches his skin. she's so close she can see the ring of gold around his irisis. his pupils are blown wide. she tells herself it's the alcohol, not her. her fingers are in his hair, just the tips threading through to feel him. for a moment she thinks she's going to do it. kiss him, break the pact she made with herself ten years ago. instead, she just leans her forehead against his cheek, lets out a sound that is almost like a quiet sob. her hand squeezes his hard, fingers wrapping around it as her nails bite into his flesh. please stop me.

There is no rejection when she leans against him, when her hand wanders to brush against his chest or when her lips find his shoulder. Even with the shirt still covering his body, the brush of lips sends a heat spreading through him. He has been watching her the entire time, even through the frown of half grief and rage. Even through the look of devastation in his eyes, he has been watching her, expecting this outcome, and never stopping it. They should stop it, this should never happen, for now that there is a small opening in this closed door, the restraints in him are weakening.

She is so close now. So close he almost expects her to kiss him, she doesn't, even if he knows of her burning desire to do so. Come on, I know this is what you want. The thought that comes is an ugly one, but he cannot stop it. Not when there is a war behind his eyes. It is not only the pardons that bothers him, everything that has happened since the miserable affair of the Urca schedule, everything that is to come. He might as feel start a fire everywhere and ensure that he is not the only one to come out of this destroyed.

He can lie and say it was the breath on his skin. Or how good her fingers felt in his hair. He can lie and say it was due to frustration, a man's need before a big voyage. She would know the lies, but James would know how badly they would hurt. It would be like keeping the door ajar only to slam it close and never touch it again. Can he do that to her?

On any other night, she would have just left as soon as the boy slept, but tonight there is someone else wishing to see her.

Naturally, she had seen him too. Cleverer than most of his men, he held his fearsome title with bloodied hands – though her ward tells her he isn't cruel. For their gender, that bar had always been remarkably low.

"You were looking for me." She retorts, her voice as gelid as the pearlescent lunar glow she bathes under. A jarring sight, nightmare or mirage, depending on the witness. Nix cautiously turns to meet the captain, his tall and imposing figure brimming with unrestrained apprehension. He hasn't come to fight, and he isn't dumb enough to try and claim, but the look on his face speaks of a dangerous curiosity that has been corroding him little by little.

Has he lingered behind closed doors, she wondered, listening out for sounds of pleasure or cries of danger? Does he worry she might have plans for the rest of his crew?

"The crew speaks of superstitions, some whisper that they have seen a sea witch aboard, of course nothing but ramblings that often happen at sea,"

His voice is even yet with a rough edge that always follows him. There is no intimidation, but rather a curious tone when he speaks. He shifts then, so that his back is turned towards the sea, so that he has a better view towards where he knows Silver will be resting. Pain has been troubling his quartermaster as of late and James has seen how his mood is switching from irritated to withdrawn so fast it has become a concern to him. Not solely out of care, but because he has very much come to depend on the man.

"What is he to you, Mister Silver? If your intentions are not to harm him, then what is it that you seek from him?"

and then he goes and ruins it all by taking her hand just as she is about to leave.

he goes and ruins it all by looking at her with that sadness in his eyes, that look that pleads with more than words. he doesn't pull her to him the way vane would've. he doesn't even try to say something that makes her blush as max would've. he does something worse—he looks at her with the certainty that she will stay, simply because he asked. and the horrifying truth of it was that he was right. god, he was right.

eleanor is not strong enough to say no to him in this moment. she is not strong enough to leave him in this state, even if she knows she should. that part of her that she locked down ten years ago for the sake of her sanity and her future is screaming inside her head, but she cannot deny that look in his eyes, or the fact that she feels how badly he needs someone right now. she tells herself it's not about her, that he just needs to not be alone right now. she tells herself she just happens to be the warm body standing in front of him. that doesn't help. it just makes it worse. she wants to be the someone he needs, the someone that he wants. the warm body that he craves in these moments.

“ james... ” i can't stay. i shouldn't stay. please don't make me stay. but none of it comes out. eleanor finds herself sitting down on the bed next to him despite knowing it's a decision she will likely regret. she sits right up against his side, thigh brushing against his, shoulder against his arm. she sighs, defeated, lost. she places his coat on the floor next to his boots, her movements slow. she's afraid to look at him this close. afraid that she won't be able to stop herself from taking what she wants. “ you should lay down. ” she tries, her voice wrecked, hands fussing with her skirt.

don't touch him. don't look at him.

Nothing is easy with him.

She sits with him. Her body brushes against his, and it should be innocent, this little moment between them, it is for now, even if the tension tells a different story. James stares at the floor, then at her, watches as her fingers play with the fabric of her skirt. Has he ever seen her this nervous, he wonders, but he also knows that he is the reason for her current discomfort and so his eyes averts back to the floor. She is right, he should lay down. He should be rational and not act on his temper, for instance; he should not drink himself into a stupor before a big voyage. Nor slam doors in a home that is the only safety he has left. Most of all, he should not indulge in drunken wants.

Even so, he looks back at her hand, raises his gaze up her arm to her face. He should not be doing this, but here she has him on her bed. Talking to him as if every insane idea he has ever had, holds some semblance of sanity. She believes in him. When has that last been true in the eyes of anyone else? James takes her hand in his, stops her fidgeting, but that is all. He simply holds her hand and once more his gaze drops to the floor.

eleanor sees it all in his eyes, written all over his face. the silence between them speaks a thousand words. she feels the grip of his hand as he locks his fingers with hers, reading that frown on his face like ink on paper. she isn't bothered by the silence. her free hand gently moves to tuck a strand of his auburn hair off his forehead, fingertips brushing against his forehead. she would've stayed like this for hours, if that was what he needed. if he needed to sit in silence until he believed again? she'd do that for him.

after a long moment, she gave his hand one last, reassuring squeeze, and shifted on the floor so she could reach for his boots. she doesn't say anything—she simply moves. one boot at a time. she places them neatly together to the side, standing up slowly, her hands grabbing both of his now. “ let me help you, ” she's soft with her touches, her actions. she waits for him to comply, moving around him to help him shrug off his long coat. the costume of captain flint coming off so that he is left as just a man. a man who is exhausted, drunk, and lonely. her hands linger as they brush against his shoulders. the tension he carries is palpable, and she wishes she could make it melt away. but her goal is simply to remove the coat.

it's folded in half, and held over her arms, as she places a hand on his arm and gently guides him back down. “ stay here tonight. rest. i'll get you some water. ” she lingers for just a moment, holding his coat in her arms like it's something precious.

When he is sat back and she threatens to leave, even for water, James reaches out. It is automatic, quick and it catches him half off guard. One must blame the ale that clouds him or perhaps it is something bound to happen before long. But he takes her hand and looks up at her once more. A plea, though silent, it is there in his eyes.

Does it make him a worse man for this? For wanting something he has no right to want, yet acts on it nonetheless? Not with words, but rather action. What would he say? Miranda wants him to live, to find some semblance of a life or even happiness, but James isn't sure he can. Isn't sure that festering hole in his chest will permit him this. Peace. Joy. To bury the hatchet and accept what has been done.

He cannot do that.

"Stay?"

maybe she is crazy. eleanor wouldn't fight that label. if being crazy was what it took for her vision of nassau to come to life, then so be it. what was her other choice—go to london and let her grandfather marry her off to some asshole to further his standing? no. she had made her choice long ago, and she chose freedom. she chose nassau. and she is choosing flint. the idea of the life of the civilized woman from london has long since died. perhaps the same day that her mother had died.

in its place, something cruel, sharp, with poisonous teeth had taken root. she looks into his eyes, and for once, she sees the sadness there. as deep as the ocean is wide. it breaks something in her. the same loneliness she feels, mirrored in his eyes. the same need. she indulges in it far more than he does. she can tell. he has his mrs. barlow, but something tell her that she is part of the reason he is in this state. she feels his hand moving over hers, warm and calloused from years of work handling rope and weapon. hers was soft, the hands of someone who only ever handed quill and paper. she shifts her hand under his, her fingers wrapping around his hand, squeezing tight. she wants him to know he isn't alone in this. even if the entire world doesn't believe him.

eleanor does. “ others might not understand, because they can only see as far ahead as what's in front of them. you and i... we see ahead. we see the future. the possibilities. ” her hand squeezes his tighter. she shifts on her knees, her other hand lingering near his lap. she knows what the men outside these walls would say if they found her on her knees in front of him; but she doesn't care. he has never been like them. “ nassau is more than a dream to us. and for all its worth, james, ” she says his name like a caress. like she has been dying to say it. he's always been flint. right now, though, he's james. she understands that right now, he needs to be james. “ i believe you will get us there. and if your faith is wavering right now, that is fine. take some of mine. ”

So he looks at Eleanor, looks in her eyes, feels her finger intertwine with his. Her warmth, her certainty. Perhaps it is not sanity he needs, no matter how much he keeps clawing for it. She believes in him, she understands why he must do these things. She sees a future here, just like he does. A rough path ahead, yes, but not unobtainable.

There are no words falling from him, only silence, not that it requires many words really when she has already said what is necessary between them. Not when their eyes speak better than words. He locks his fingers with hers, but not without a slight frown. Somehow he worries what she might think. If he leans into these drunken desires, then what? What will become of them. Will it be unfair to Miranda? To Thomas? It torments him, these emotions, these feelings he pretends not to have, and it shows in the way his brows knit together. The crease that seems to only deepen with every day.

it's a little worrying, she'll admit. james flint, the man who is always certain of himself, his plans. the man who is able to convince anyone of almost anything. the man who has sold an insane plan to her and whom she believes in wholeheartedly. she believes in him almost as much as she believes in what nassau can be, and to see him like this makes her feel things she'd rather not feel. a long time ago, she buried those feelings.

she told herself... not him. pick anyone else.

eleanor stands there, ignoring the way that watching him sit on her bed makes her stomach drop. she watches him, allowing him the room to feel vulnerable. she knows that is something that is almost impossible for someone like him. she takes a step closer, then another, her face determined even as she meets his sea-green eyes. there is doubt in his voice. he doubts himself, and a man who doubts himself is a dead man out there in the sea. she knows this, even if she wasn't a pirate captain herself.

“ that's the ale talking. ” her tone is gentle, intimate. but then his question is posed like a blade.

he looks up at her with that sad look in his eyes that makes all the ice she has built around her heart melt. she lowers herself to her knees in front of him before she knows what she's doing. “ i believe in this place, ” she whispered, softly. the tone she saved for max, between sheets. “ i believe if anyone has what it takes to make it something better... it's you, ” one of her hands reaches for his knee. it's a gentle squeeze, a quiet reassurance. a quiet i am here, you are not alone now. somehow, comforting him comes easy, when comforting anyone else never was easy. maybe it's because she understands him better than she understands most people. maybe it's because she sees a mirror of her own ambition in him. the same willingness to do whatever is necessary. “ if that makes us crazy, then so be it. i'd rather be crazy than a non-believer. ”

Once more her touch is upon him and warmth radiates from her hand and to his knee. Spreads as if she could warm this frozen heart of his. The emotions he keeps on hiding, even if he knows she sees through him. Just like Miranda does. Eleanor has known him for so long now, and has stood by his side even through the impossible. And now with another impossible journey before him, she is still here. Looking at him with sure eyes and words of comfort.

"We put ourselves through all this,"

His look softens into something vulnerable again. The tiredness mixed with his drunken state. The need to feel something other than sorrow for once. He isn't sure how, hasn't known anything but for the last years. Always so angry, so ready to leave blood and ashes behind and with no remorse or guilt for the destruction he leaves. All in the name of vengeance.

"Even with the outcome so uncertain, and yet you sit before me believing I might be capable of the impossible"

One beat. One moment where he simply looks at her, seeks out her eyes as if to see if there might be deceit there. But no. Her eyes show determination, a softness that he isn't certain what to do with. His hand moves then, it rests on top of hers, just a small touch.

it's late. time doesn't matter so much in a place like this... but even in nassau standards, it's late. it's too late for a captain who is about to embark on one of the hardest hunts of his life to be drinking himself silly in her tavern, that is for sure. for a few minutes she just watches him. his shoulders are slumped. he looks more ruined than she remembers ever seeing him. something has happened. something that has ultimately made him question himself—and she has never seen him question himself.

not like this.

eleanor gets him up from the seat. she gets him out of sight from prying eyes, and she cuts off his supply. no more alcohol for him. she watches him walk ahead of her, his gait a little unsteady, but, he is still aware enough to be able to walk without aid. she watches, from the door, as he steps into her room. she could've taken him to the back room where she sometimes takes patrons that are too drunk... but something about the fact that this is him, made her take him to her room, instead. it's not much. she hasn't allowed herself the priviledge of trinkets since she left the governor's home.

“ do you think it wise, ” she started, approaching him slowly. her tone is soft. she doesn't want him to think she judges him. she doesn't. whatever happens, she knows she has his reasons to be here, this way. there are not many places one can run to in nassau. “ to get pissed, in plain view of your men, thirty six hours before they are about to embark in one of the most dangerous ventures of their lives? ” she is close enough to smell the cheap ale on his breath, the sweat on his brow, and the pressure of what he's about to do. the weight of it on his shoulders.

He is unsteady as he walks, but does not require help, for he can still very well navigate on his own without posing a threat to his own health. His reputation does not matter, not tonight. Eleanor touches him, and he looks first at her hand, then to her face. Wise, he thinks, when is it ever wise to drink yourself into a stupor? He doesn't say it but rather lets his eyes speak for him. There is a stumble then, a shift in his stance as he turns to face her. Then a huff, a drunken sound, one that changes nothing in his expression of melancholia.

"Perhaps a little doubt in me is called for"

For a moment he holds her gaze, his unfocused eyes unable to really hold it for too long, and soon he is averting his look.

He pulls away from her, sways for a moment before he finds a seat on the bed she has offered him. Her bed. They are in her room where everything smells of her, where everything she holds private sits around him like memories. There is doubt in his voice when he next speaks.