"And you assume I've not been improper previously?"
Maybe not to grand lengths, sure, but Benedict imagines people would talk if they knew he spent some nights at parties with artists or the general working class of London. Or if they knew that he'd been with a married woman and another women older than him at the same time, or that maintained a frivolous relationship with the older woman for several weeks following. Or the other inclinations that have been coming to mind.
In regards to Benedict's upbringing, that's all quite improper.
"Or that I'm not being improper even now, accompanying you to the docks when I scarcely know you."
"I try not to assume anything about anyone--I quite find it saves far more time when your assumptions are inevitably wrong." He can't stop it, that small smirk, remembering what Max had said when she kissed his cheek. He combs his hair out idly, not putting too much effort in keeping it neat, and sweeps half of it up so the rest of his curls are loose.
Much better.
"You could try proving me wrong," he teases. "I do enjoy a good story."
Benedict watches, momentarily entranced by Silver's hair. It's not a style men here wear, long hair having gone out of fashion in society (though even then, it was never quite like that, Benedict thinks). He also thinks it looks incredibly soft.
"All in good time, Silver."
The carriage comes to a stop and Benedict climbs out, holding out an arm to assist Silver down as well. He tells the driver to head straight back to the party and not to concern himself for Benedict for the rest of the night, for he'll catch a cab back home.
Silver's smile widens at that, watching the other and his gaze carefully and laughing as they head out. He takes Benedict's arm, too, silently grateful for not having to appear like he doesn't need any help.
Strange, he thinks how it doesn't bother him. It really ought to.
The inn is one of the cheapest in the harbour, and far from poor artists' lodgings: it's a shithole, the smell of stale ale and tabacco lingering, the entire place incredibly loud. Someone's playing a fiddle, and there's a couple making out inn the corner, and he can see Anne scowling from a corner in the room behind her hat and hair. Silver nods and raises his brows. Anne glares and drinks her drink.
Everyone is eyeing Benedict--most want to fleece him, all are curious, but he's with Silver, so they stay a polite distance--as distant as you can in a place like this.
"Upstairs, or somewhere more private?" Silver asks, leaning on his crutch.
Benedict finds himself stepping a bit closer to Silver once they enter the inn. He's not sure what he'd expected - something charmingly immoral, perhaps, but this is far from anything Benedict's ever experienced. He realizes how he must look in his finely tailored clothes, with his high collar and cravat and his white gloves. They must all immediately dislike him.
"If it's all the same to you, I've been stuck in a crowd all night, so perhaps somewhere with a touch of privacy."
He's a mark--an easy one, at that, and if he wasn't with Long John Silver, he'd probably be done for. That's what happens when a crew takes over an entire inn -- you start edging other people out. The innkeeps don't mind either because of fear or gold, and with the group Silver's running with, he's betting it's an even split. It pays to have a bit of a persona sometimes.
He knows very well Anne is staring at them while everyone else has moved on as they make their way up the stairs (it's always fucking stairs), where the first door on the right is a small, cramped room. It's got the essentials, but not much else--a bed, a small chest, a small basin and mirror. There's not much in the sense of personal effects either, save for a belt that hangs on a chair. His cutlass hangs from said belt, and on the nightstand is what's quite clearly a flintlock pistol.
Silver had left mostly weaponless, which made him feel naked, although he does have a small dagger tucked into his jacket discreetly.
"I suppose the grand tour is in order," he quips, and grabs a dark glass bottle before making his way to his bed and all but collapsing. Standing out of spite at the ball has wiped him out. He uncorks the bottle, taking a swig before handing it over to Benedict. Dark, rich rum, straight from Nassau.
It’s the smallest room that Benedict has ever seen, and certainly the most mundane. He imagines his mother would be prone to a fainting spell if she knew he’d stepped into any place so unkempt. He immediately finds it rather charming, in an exciting way.
As Silver collapses on to the bed (a cot, really, more than anything, Benedict thinks), Benedict steps towards the the pistol. He brushes his fingers along it, familiar at least with a pistol, but the cutlass is new. Benedict knows fencing, of course. A gentleman’s sport but the weapons are so childish in comparison and Benedict finds it hard not to wrap his hand around the hilt to see the weight. Thankfully, Silver distracts him with the offer of a drink.
“Thank you.”
He takes a smell, which maybe was a bad idea, and then braces himself as he takes a drink. And makes a face of regret.
Silver notices. That's what Silver does, he notices things and reason that people tick, ways to pry information of favours out of them so he can live his life as unobstructed as possible. Keep one eye on other people at all times, though with Benedict, he finds it's more idle curiousity than self-preservation.
He touches the pistol, and then the sword, and Silver swears Benedict's staring at it so intently he may as well be studying it for some sort of fancy exam. The distraction is more so Benedict can feel more at ease, and as the other scrunches up his face, Silver takes the bottle from him so he can have a generous drink.
He looks better like this, Silver thinks. Still in his finery, but more curious than demure. It's enough to make him look the other over, really look, and he offers the bottle back if he wants it, his other hand moving to the sword to lift it up. He hands it to Benedict, careful not to cut the other or point it in a threatening way.
Taking the bottle, Benedict takes another pull from it, a bit more conservative in his drink this time as he knows what to expect from it, and sets it down. He removes his gloves, then his coat to reveal a cream coloured vest that's finely embroidered with bees, and then he reaches to take the sword.
"On the contrary, I suspect it's bite to be quite bad to the man on the receiving end."
It's certainly a menacing looking weapon, and as heavy as Benedict had expected. At least he doesn't seem entirely out of his depth as he holds it. The room is too small to give it a proper swing, but there's a sort of thrill about it, like he's playing pirates with his youngest brother.
"Have you brought many men down with it, Mr. Silver?"
Benedict certainly looks the part, and the other's coat is removed and Silver gets a better glance at the other's body, lithe and supple. there's hardly any muscle on him, but he doesn't seem scrawny. He looks good, even if Silver fights the urge to roll his eyes at the bee motif. Rich people.
"I'm uncertain you'd be truly pleased with the proper answer," he says simply, because he's killed far too many men with that cutlass alone. Benedict is a good man, but naive, and he hardly thinks letting the other know that he's very aware of how blood tastes when it gets in his mouth during a skirmish, or the true distress of seeing the life leave someone else's eyes.
"Come here," he says softly, and once the other is close enough Silver eases him down so he's sitting next to him. He scoots a bit closer, and puts a warm hand over Benedict's, testing the water and adjusting the other's grip.
He feels a bit of heat rise in him. His pulse quickens a bit, and Benedict realizes, not for the first time, that men seem to affect him the same (if not more) than women do. He realizes, too, that he's been just as wanting towards Silver as all the women that were tittering about him at the ball, but he hadn't had the mind to think anything of it.
"Is it not a duel?"
How else is one meant to hold a sword? Benedict finds he doesn't much care for the answer as much he enjoys the rough scratch of calloused hands against his own unworked ones.
"A duel implies there's only one other person against you," he reminds lightly, and he licks his lips as he lets his hands brush over the other's knuckles. They're smooth, pale, and beautiful in a way they're unmarred. There's not a single scar from where a punch has been thrown, hardly any signs of a rough life, and Silver feels a pang of something else for a moment. Jealousy.
His other hand holds the sword steady while he adjusts.
"You're holding it too far up," he murmurs, leaning so his own face is nearer to Benedict. "Keep it loose."
He notices it, of course--Silver's been eyeing the other's face occasionally while he talks, and the nobleman's face is a strange shade of pink that he finds endearing. Max is right, and Silver moves his face so they're inches apart, noticing how the other smells of flowers, their sweet scent clying with the rum they've just drank.
The hand that's not over Benedicts begins to move up, slowly, gently, before he reaches the other's chin, taking him softly and urging him to tilt his head as he moves his own forward.
Silver kisses Benedict with purpose, urging him to stay still or move closer by dropping his hand and moving it to the side of the other's neck, biting on the other's lower lip before kissing him again, deeper, eyes closed, movements determined.
If Silver hadn't been holding the sword as well, Benedict would have certainly let it clamor to the floor. The moment he feels the touch to his chin - surprisingly gentle for a man that's meant to be the scorn of the English Navy - his breath leaves him, and then there's the press of lips to his own.
It's a very strange sensation to be kissing a man for the first time. There's the scratch of facial hair against his own smooth face, lips not quite as soft as a woman's and more firm in their press. Benedict immediately decides he likes it, so he turns to angle his body towards Silver, pressing a hand to Silver's thigh for lack of anywhere else to put it.
He eases the sword out of the other's grasp for simplicity's sake, and once it's firmly on the bed while they kiss, Silver leans in fully. Benedict's receptive, and a surprisingly good kisser--that hand on his thigh and the way the other isn't pulling away means he can continue.
He takes his time, beard scraping against the other's cheek as he shifts his weight to position himself a little better, moving so he's closer to facing the other. his hand slides down the other's jaw as he bites the other's lip a second time, thumb grazing over jawline, guiding Benedict to lay his torso down. His other hand props himself up for balance.
It's dizzying, in a good way. Benedict feels a soft sigh escape him at the way Silver's teeth tug at his lip, and he's lying back he finally finds some sort of sense returning to his head.
Though not much sense, as Benedict has no desire to leave, even if there's no telling when the bedding was last cleaned or the way the mattress lumps uncomfortably under the press of his back.
"I've not done this before," he admits, a bit breathlessly between kisses. "With another man, I mean." Lest Silver think he's entirely new at sexual encounters all together, which is wholly incorrect. "But I've been wanting to."
That sigh causes shivers down his spine, pleased the other seems to enjoy it as much as he does. He takes his time once Benedict lays back, finding it easy to shift his weight and maneuver so he's practically ontop of the other, hair spilling down and nearly curtaining Benedict. He begins kissing his way down his face, nipping at his jaw, fully aware his beard is rubbing against pale, soft skin as the other talks.
"You were thinking it when I was talking with the woman we arrived with," he murmurs, breath hot against the other's ear as he begins trying to undo the godforsaken fashion that is London's tops. He's glad the other took his fucking jacket off.
This hadn't been what Benedict had intended to do with his night when he'd gone over to talk to Silver and his friend. It's a fantastic turn of events that makes his skin prickle with delight, and he tries his best not to squirm too much under Silver's attentions.
"I'm not certain I wanted to be sly."
Benedict can't resist the mass of curls falling around him. He reaches up to push his fingers into them, then turns his head to try and catch Silver in another kiss.
"No one ever pays me enough mind to notice who I might be looking at."
Silver's response, for once, isn't words--at least not right away. It's a hand that finally gets his top free and moves immediately down to cup at the other's cock through his breeches, squeezing through the fabric as his teeth graze the other's ear.
He silences the rest of Benedict's words with kisses, each more hungry than the last, allowing the friction of his clothes work against Benedict's needs.
"If I hadn't noticed you, I would be telling you to take your pants off," he murmurs, and after a bit of trouble shifting himself into a sitting position he begins taking off his own shirt. He's covered in scars--not as many as some of the others, not nearly as many as someone like Flint had been, but the battle of Nassau has done damage: a sword cut here, a bullet graze there. He's looking at Benedict expectantly as he loosens his own belt, keeping firm eye contact with the other.
For all the heated kisses, Benedict’s mouth feels dry. He forces himself not to press into Silver’s touch, lest he appear desperate, but there’s no denying the pleased sound that escapes his lips. As Silver draws back, Benedict sits up, too, hastily working at the rest of his layers - shrugging aside his vest, pulling his cravat loose, moving his suspenders down. It’s almost as much of a production as undressing a lady.
For his trousers, he has to sit up on his knees to manage the buttons that hold them in place, though he’s admittedly distracted by looking at Silver while he undresses. Beautifully golden tan with his defined muscles, and even something about the way his body is marred is endlessly attractive. Benedict suddenly feels almost embarrassed, glad that his own pale and soft body is mostly covered still by his shirt and his flannels.
There's far too much clothing in London, Silver decides, and he's not so sure that it's just because it's fucking cold and dreary here. He's managed to twist his pants off easily, his belt and trousers clattering to the floor, and he pauses only to look at Benedict.
He's beautiful, pale and untouched, unspoiled by the horrors of the world and Silver fights the urge to even think he's something to be protected. This is a one night stand, most likely, which means Silver has one small window to absolutely wreck any chance of Benedict being able to think of anyone else in bed for a while.
He likes a challenge.
Silver doesn't bother to hide his grin, his look predatory as he begins trying to undress the other properly, letting his hand run down the other's bare skinn when he gets a glimpse.
Benedict helps along, fingers moving deftly over buttons and brushing against Silver’s as he fishes for more kisses.
Soon enough they’re equally undressed and Benedict feels emboldened enough to lean in and press their bodies together, fingers surging back into Silver’s hair.
It's the only cue Silver really needs, those hands in his hair, that body pressing up against him. He grunts in appreciation, his own hand going to Benedict's hair and pulling, forcing him to tilt his head so Silver can kiss the other's neck, bruising and biting. His other hand moves to the other's cock, rough hands beginning to stroke it, pressing his own body against Benedict.
There’s a brief, hazy thought where Benedict is silently thankful that his collars go up so high. It’s followed by a much more delighted thought that he alone will know what his collars are hiding.
The warm, rough hands against him make his breath catch and he moans, allowing himself to move against the strokes of Silver’s hand.
Benedict's enjoying himself, and Silver finds himself pleased with how the other rucks him against him, moaning, causing Silver himself to grunt into the other's ear. His hand is still in the other's hair, tugging roughly as he grazes his teeth over the other's collarbone.
His head moves up sharply to kiss the other hungrily, still jerking him off at a steady pace, twisting his wrist as he gets to the other's head and making sure the other slowly unwinds, finding pleasure in watching it unfold--though his needs are needing to be met, and it's a matter of time before he needs to fuck him. He needs to fuck him, some primal part of him dying to claim the other as his own.
Benedict grips at Silver’s shoulder. He’s had women touch him but never quite like this, and each twist of Silver’s hand makes him feel like it’s going to be the end of it all.
There’s a moment somewhere in the hard kiss that Benedict’s heady gaze meets Silver’s, and it’s undeniable what they both really want. Any reservations he may have had seem so far from his mind as he swallows, trying to catch back some of his breath.
“Please,” is really all that he manages to get out, because any other words he thinks of seem too demure for the situation. He supposes that Silver will understand just what he’s asking.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Maybe not to grand lengths, sure, but Benedict imagines people would talk if they knew he spent some nights at parties with artists or the general working class of London. Or if they knew that he'd been with a married woman and another women older than him at the same time, or that maintained a frivolous relationship with the older woman for several weeks following. Or the other inclinations that have been coming to mind.
In regards to Benedict's upbringing, that's all quite improper.
"Or that I'm not being improper even now, accompanying you to the docks when I scarcely know you."
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Much better.
"You could try proving me wrong," he teases. "I do enjoy a good story."
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"All in good time, Silver."
The carriage comes to a stop and Benedict climbs out, holding out an arm to assist Silver down as well. He tells the driver to head straight back to the party and not to concern himself for Benedict for the rest of the night, for he'll catch a cab back home.
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Strange, he thinks how it doesn't bother him. It really ought to.
The inn is one of the cheapest in the harbour, and far from poor artists' lodgings: it's a shithole, the smell of stale ale and tabacco lingering, the entire place incredibly loud. Someone's playing a fiddle, and there's a couple making out inn the corner, and he can see Anne scowling from a corner in the room behind her hat and hair. Silver nods and raises his brows. Anne glares and drinks her drink.
Everyone is eyeing Benedict--most want to fleece him, all are curious, but he's with Silver, so they stay a polite distance--as distant as you can in a place like this.
"Upstairs, or somewhere more private?" Silver asks, leaning on his crutch.
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"If it's all the same to you, I've been stuck in a crowd all night, so perhaps somewhere with a touch of privacy."
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He knows very well Anne is staring at them while everyone else has moved on as they make their way up the stairs (it's always fucking stairs), where the first door on the right is a small, cramped room. It's got the essentials, but not much else--a bed, a small chest, a small basin and mirror. There's not much in the sense of personal effects either, save for a belt that hangs on a chair. His cutlass hangs from said belt, and on the nightstand is what's quite clearly a flintlock pistol.
Silver had left mostly weaponless, which made him feel naked, although he does have a small dagger tucked into his jacket discreetly.
"I suppose the grand tour is in order," he quips, and grabs a dark glass bottle before making his way to his bed and all but collapsing. Standing out of spite at the ball has wiped him out. He uncorks the bottle, taking a swig before handing it over to Benedict. Dark, rich rum, straight from Nassau.
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As Silver collapses on to the bed (a cot, really, more than anything, Benedict thinks), Benedict steps towards the the pistol. He brushes his fingers along it, familiar at least with a pistol, but the cutlass is new. Benedict knows fencing, of course. A gentleman’s sport but the weapons are so childish in comparison and Benedict finds it hard not to wrap his hand around the hilt to see the weight. Thankfully, Silver distracts him with the offer of a drink.
“Thank you.”
He takes a smell, which maybe was a bad idea, and then braces himself as he takes a drink. And makes a face of regret.
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He touches the pistol, and then the sword, and Silver swears Benedict's staring at it so intently he may as well be studying it for some sort of fancy exam. The distraction is more so Benedict can feel more at ease, and as the other scrunches up his face, Silver takes the bottle from him so he can have a generous drink.
He looks better like this, Silver thinks. Still in his finery, but more curious than demure. It's enough to make him look the other over, really look, and he offers the bottle back if he wants it, his other hand moving to the sword to lift it up. He hands it to Benedict, careful not to cut the other or point it in a threatening way.
"It won't bite."
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"On the contrary, I suspect it's bite to be quite bad to the man on the receiving end."
It's certainly a menacing looking weapon, and as heavy as Benedict had expected. At least he doesn't seem entirely out of his depth as he holds it. The room is too small to give it a proper swing, but there's a sort of thrill about it, like he's playing pirates with his youngest brother.
"Have you brought many men down with it, Mr. Silver?"
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"I'm uncertain you'd be truly pleased with the proper answer," he says simply, because he's killed far too many men with that cutlass alone. Benedict is a good man, but naive, and he hardly thinks letting the other know that he's very aware of how blood tastes when it gets in his mouth during a skirmish, or the true distress of seeing the life leave someone else's eyes.
"Come here," he says softly, and once the other is close enough Silver eases him down so he's sitting next to him. He scoots a bit closer, and puts a warm hand over Benedict's, testing the water and adjusting the other's grip.
"You're holding it like it's a duel. Allow me."
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"Is it not a duel?"
How else is one meant to hold a sword? Benedict finds he doesn't much care for the answer as much he enjoys the rough scratch of calloused hands against his own unworked ones.
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His other hand holds the sword steady while he adjusts.
"You're holding it too far up," he murmurs, leaning so his own face is nearer to Benedict. "Keep it loose."
He notices it, of course--Silver's been eyeing the other's face occasionally while he talks, and the nobleman's face is a strange shade of pink that he finds endearing. Max is right, and Silver moves his face so they're inches apart, noticing how the other smells of flowers, their sweet scent clying with the rum they've just drank.
The hand that's not over Benedicts begins to move up, slowly, gently, before he reaches the other's chin, taking him softly and urging him to tilt his head as he moves his own forward.
Silver kisses Benedict with purpose, urging him to stay still or move closer by dropping his hand and moving it to the side of the other's neck, biting on the other's lower lip before kissing him again, deeper, eyes closed, movements determined.
Max had said to enjoy himself, after all.
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It's a very strange sensation to be kissing a man for the first time. There's the scratch of facial hair against his own smooth face, lips not quite as soft as a woman's and more firm in their press. Benedict immediately decides he likes it, so he turns to angle his body towards Silver, pressing a hand to Silver's thigh for lack of anywhere else to put it.
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He takes his time, beard scraping against the other's cheek as he shifts his weight to position himself a little better, moving so he's closer to facing the other. his hand slides down the other's jaw as he bites the other's lip a second time, thumb grazing over jawline, guiding Benedict to lay his torso down. His other hand props himself up for balance.
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Though not much sense, as Benedict has no desire to leave, even if there's no telling when the bedding was last cleaned or the way the mattress lumps uncomfortably under the press of his back.
"I've not done this before," he admits, a bit breathlessly between kisses. "With another man, I mean." Lest Silver think he's entirely new at sexual encounters all together, which is wholly incorrect. "But I've been wanting to."
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"You were thinking it when I was talking with the woman we arrived with," he murmurs, breath hot against the other's ear as he begins trying to undo the godforsaken fashion that is London's tops. He's glad the other took his fucking jacket off.
"You're not very sly when it comes to staring."
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"I'm not certain I wanted to be sly."
Benedict can't resist the mass of curls falling around him. He reaches up to push his fingers into them, then turns his head to try and catch Silver in another kiss.
"No one ever pays me enough mind to notice who I might be looking at."
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He silences the rest of Benedict's words with kisses, each more hungry than the last, allowing the friction of his clothes work against Benedict's needs.
"If I hadn't noticed you, I would be telling you to take your pants off," he murmurs, and after a bit of trouble shifting himself into a sitting position he begins taking off his own shirt. He's covered in scars--not as many as some of the others, not nearly as many as someone like Flint had been, but the battle of Nassau has done damage: a sword cut here, a bullet graze there. He's looking at Benedict expectantly as he loosens his own belt, keeping firm eye contact with the other.
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For his trousers, he has to sit up on his knees to manage the buttons that hold them in place, though he’s admittedly distracted by looking at Silver while he undresses. Beautifully golden tan with his defined muscles, and even something about the way his body is marred is endlessly attractive. Benedict suddenly feels almost embarrassed, glad that his own pale and soft body is mostly covered still by his shirt and his flannels.
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He's beautiful, pale and untouched, unspoiled by the horrors of the world and Silver fights the urge to even think he's something to be protected. This is a one night stand, most likely, which means Silver has one small window to absolutely wreck any chance of Benedict being able to think of anyone else in bed for a while.
He likes a challenge.
Silver doesn't bother to hide his grin, his look predatory as he begins trying to undress the other properly, letting his hand run down the other's bare skinn when he gets a glimpse.
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Soon enough they’re equally undressed and Benedict feels emboldened enough to lean in and press their bodies together, fingers surging back into Silver’s hair.
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The warm, rough hands against him make his breath catch and he moans, allowing himself to move against the strokes of Silver’s hand.
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His head moves up sharply to kiss the other hungrily, still jerking him off at a steady pace, twisting his wrist as he gets to the other's head and making sure the other slowly unwinds, finding pleasure in watching it unfold--though his needs are needing to be met, and it's a matter of time before he needs to fuck him. He needs to fuck him, some primal part of him dying to claim the other as his own.
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There’s a moment somewhere in the hard kiss that Benedict’s heady gaze meets Silver’s, and it’s undeniable what they both really want. Any reservations he may have had seem so far from his mind as he swallows, trying to catch back some of his breath.
“Please,” is really all that he manages to get out, because any other words he thinks of seem too demure for the situation. He supposes that Silver will understand just what he’s asking.
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