amine_eyes: (porn)
[personal profile] amine_eyes
Title: The Cleverest of Them All
Fandom: Horrible Histories
Character: Pirate Captain!Mat
Genre: Porn with a vague semblance of Plot
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Masturbation, Mat Baynton in a dress, a vague semblance of plot,  death of OC
Beta:None
Summary: he's the cleverest pirate of them all ...

A/N: This was written for a prompt on [livejournal.com profile] hhanon, where Pirate Captain!Mat very much enjoyed being in drag (nudge nudge wink wink) and I couldn't resist. After all, when Pirate Captain!Mat in a dress looks like this, how could you? ;D

Disclaimer: Don't own, never will own :)


He swayed into his cabin, the door banging against the wall as the ship rolled with the waves, a grin on his face as he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Oh, he really was the cleverest pirate of them all.

He ran his hands over the fabric of the dress as he looked at himself in the mirror - plain cotton, slightly dirty from months spent scrunched in a trunk, but it felt like the rarest silk, pouring over his body in glorious folds of debauchery and cunning as he thought about how spectacular his plan was, how wonderful it was, how brilliant.

They'd all fall in his path - merchants, navies, fleets, ships, armadas - no one would be able to stop him.

A giggle of triumph left his body, and it drew his attention back to his reflection - all cunning rouge and messy hair, the hat perched on top of his head as rakish as a highwayman, the dress rustling as he swayed with the movement of the ship, dragging over his body as he mock-curtsied his reflection, dipping around his collarbones, drifting round his ankles, and being as enticing and wonderful as his plan.

A flash of inspiration - his grin grew wider, and he hoiked the dress up, bunching it round his waist as he quickly removed his trousers (hopping slightly as it caught round his boots till he kicked them off), standing straight again and the grin was as wide as a cat's as he stared at himself, bursting into victorious laughter.

The ship rolled, and as he caught his balance, the dress, the cotton-silk-decadent-wonderful fabric swirled, and ohhhh. The laughter turned into a sigh of pleasure, his hands running down his chest and pausing at his hips, his fingers clasping at the fabric.

He gazed at his reflection, and grinned a wicked grin.

He could see it now. A naval ship – full of sailors, honourable sailors who dreamed dreams of soft sighs underneath them but had no chance to act upon them, sailors who had been trapped on a ship for months as they hunted down pirates, never getting the chance to release their tensions – would see their distress signal. The captain – who would be particularly honourable, particularly full of dreams of curling hair and pleasurable flesh and unable to act upon them – would look through the spyglass, and there, dead in the water, unable to move, would be their ship.

Another roll of the ship, and he stumbled backwards, a half laugh escaping his mouth as he fell onto the bed, grinning, his hands stroking over the fabric, a sigh leaving his lips.

Cautious – because he’d be a Captain of his Majesty’s Navy, not a good-for-nothing pirate – the captain would order a rowboat to be lowered to investigate, and of course he’d go with them, after all, he’d be the first to run at danger, the first into battle, the first to claim a prize. They’d row over, calling, hoping for a reply, but there’d be none. They’d clamber up the sides, and on the deck, would be splashes of blood (he’d have to ask Jack to find some paint, or slaughter a pig - something), signs of a struggle, and no living person would be seen. They’d split up, go looking for life, treasure, and the Captain – looking for someone with authority, or someone with more money than the crew - would try the main cabin first.

He’d push the door open, look into the gloom, pick his way across the floor, and – yes, yes, he would hear a stifled sob, see a huddled figure by the bed, face unseen, dress flowing across the floor, and he wouldn’t be able to resist. Months at sea, no way to relieve the tension, the dreams, he’d bend down, go to pat the shoulder of the crying woman, feeling a bubble of hope rise in his chest as she turned into his hold, still unable to see her face properly as she cried into his arms, thanking her saviour for saving her from unimaginable horrors.

And then … then, he’d get her to stand up, move to the bed, because the hope, the honour, the dreams would combine and after all, no one would mind, blame, or say anything. She’d be grateful after all, she’d just been saved from a life on her back for pirates and other wicked men, and he wasn’t a wicked man. He’d press a comforting kiss to her temple, remove her bonnet from her head – at such a rakish angle, it had probably been knocked like that from the dirty pirate who tried to force his way onto her – and turn her face to look at him, so he could see whether she wanted this.

And he’d blink. Stare. And look into the face of him.

His laugh bounced off the walls as he thought of this. He could see the growing realisation on the Captain’s face as he looked at him, could feel his hands – which only moments before had been stroking down his arms with comforting touches (only lingering a little at the feel of soft cotton dress) – stiffen as the Captain realised that he was looking at a man, he’d start to pull away, the tension and want and need in his body colliding with his propriety and honour, and the look on the Captain’s face would be delicious.

He’d lay a hand on the Captain’s arm in a deliberately wanting manner, lean close, make sure his hair brushed against the uncovered skin on the Captain’s neck as he whispered softly into his ear that no one would know, he didn’t have to tell, and … well, he’d be ever so grateful, he really would.

And the Captain wouldn’t be able to resist – the months of waiting, the long nights spent wishing for a warm body and answering moans of pleasure instead of his hand and the only other sound being the creaking of the ship, the knowledge that no one would be able to find out (after all, he could just kill him afterwards, say he was a dirty pirate who tried to stab him) – he wouldn’t be able to resist, and he’d turn his head (oh so slowly), and press a kiss to the side of his neck.

He ran a finger down the side of his neck, lingering on the pulse point, and he felt a tingle of heat in his body. His cock began to fill as he thought of how delicate the Captain would be, how he’d still try to resist until he’d turn his head and capture the Captain’s mouth in a kiss that would turn searing, wanting, needing, desperate and filled with all the dreams that the Captain dreamt night after torturous night on his ship.

He shifted on the bed, feeling the dress shift over and under him as he did so, knowing that the crinkle and crumple of fabric would be exactly the same as when the Captain would lower him to the bed, his hands running over his body in the same patterns the Captain would use as he continued to kiss him, his legs falling apart as he thought of the thigh that would slip between them as the Captain – hungry, so hungry for pleasure after months of being unable to have it – would press against him, arching up slightly off the bed as his hands rested over his nipples, the touch electrifying even through the fabric.

The Captain would probably lay a kiss or two there, he thought, his grin turning into an open sigh and moan as he circled his fingers round his nipples. He’d lay a kiss, and then another, then another as his hands would slide further and further down his body, gathering up the dress and stroking up his thighs.

So gentle, he thought as he did the same, letting his gasp of pleasure ring around the cabin as his hand stroked the top of his thigh, drifted between his legs, his skin burning with pleasure as it moved oh so slowly closer and closer, because the Captain’s hand would be oh so slow and tentative – still not quite sure whether he should surrender to this, should let this happen. It’d be slow, tentative, teasing, but then, finally - he wouldn’t be able to put it off any longer – the Captain’s hand would brush against his cock.

He arched into his own maddening touch, panting slightly as he closed his hand round his cock, bucking as he drew a finger over the top of it, his head falling back with a groan.

Yes, yes, the Captain would brush his hand across, pause at the groan that would come from him, and grind slowly down, moaning himself at the pleasure it gave him after months without. He might lay a kiss to his collarbone, might bite down at the expanse of skin exposed as he tipped his head back in surrender, and the Captain’s moan would turn from a brief expression of pleasure, to a long wanting sound as he moved his hand to brush against his breeches.

The tension, the want, the need - he wouldn’t be able to stop himself now. He’d let him help as he drew down his breeches, would groan at the feel of air brushing oh so gently against his hardened cock as he pressed down harder, grinding against him, their moans tangling together at the feel of another body pressing against theirs.

He continued stroking his cock, moving faster than before as he thought of how delicious it would feel to have the Captain moan above him and press against him, thrusting slightly, the pre-come acting as a lubricant as their cocks pressed against each other, how good it would be to hear his pants as he thrust faster, to feel his body press against his as he moved.

He dug his heels into the bed as he stroked, feeling the heat pooling in his stomach and his breath shorten, hearing his pants as he thought of how the Captain’s thrusts would start to lose their coherency, of how he would shake above him as they both climaxed, of how the Captain would collapse on top of him – sated for the first time in months, comfortable in the feel of another body in his bed, in his arms.

His strokes grew shorter, his pants mixed with a whimper as he arched, feeling himself draw tighter and tighter, knowing he was close, so close.

He’d – he’d – he’d roll them over, the Captain looking up at him with a happy, dazed look on his face, unguarded for probably the first time in weeks, starting to slowly come back to himself. He’d sit on top, lean down, kiss him slowly, passionately, his hand moving to his boot as the Captain kissed back, feeling his fingers close round the handle as he drew the knife from its holster, drawing back and grinning.

The dress would be even dirtier than before, even more faded and old and ordinary compared to the glittering brocade and decoration of the Captain’s jacket, but as he brought his hand back up and in front, as the Captain saw what was in it, as the look of dazed satisfaction would give way to horror, it would be the finest of silks, and his grin would shine as bright as the sun as he’d plunge the knife into the Captain’s chest.

He came with a shout of victory, arched back and ruffled hair as he watched the Captain in his head die – a look of defeat etched into his face.

He lay there panting, looking up at the ceiling with a glorious smile. Propping himself up, he looked at his reflection in the mirror – debauched, spent, tangled and ruffled and sinful, and he laughed.

Oh, the cleverness of him …

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