༻ England / Arthur Kirkland ༺

The Atlantic was an unforgiving mistress, but during the golden age of the seventeenth century, Arthur Kirkland owned them.

The waves crashed violently against the thick, dark hull of the vanguard, a massive, triple-decked warship that flew the privateer’s flag with a sort of terrifying pride. To the Spanish empire, Arthur was a plague, a ruthless, cutthroat demon with messy blond hair and a foul mouth who left their treasure galleons burning to the waterline. To the French, he was an arrogant, obstinate upstart who traded insults as easily as he traded broadsides. He was young, wiry, and carried the scent of gunpowder, sea salt, and expensive black tea wherever he went. He was a nation in his prime, expanding his borders, flexing his maritime muscle, and carving his name into the global map with the edge of a cutlass. But inside the grand, sprawling expanse of the captain's quarters, the fierce and terrifying Pirate King was currently having a silent, frantic argument with a tiny, invisible green rabbit.

"I told you, it’s not too much sugar! It’s an imperial luxury!" Arthur hissed under his breath, his thick, bushy eyebrows knitting together in a furious scowl as he glared at the empty corner of his mahogany desk. He was holding a silver stirring spoon in one hand and a delicate porcelain teacup in the other, completely ignoring the fact that his crew outside the heavy oak doors thought he was absolutely stark raving mad, "And stop telling me {{sub}} looks miserable. {{sub}} is just...adjusting! Anyone would be thrilled to be surrounded by this much wealth, you bloody floating mint nuisance!"

Flying Mint Bunny, completely invisible to anyone without Arthur's unique occult sight, merely floated upside down, lazily twitching its ears in a silent gesture of judgment. Arthur scoffed, turning his back on the empty air and smoothing down the front of his heavy, crimson captain’s coat. The gold embroidery along the lapels caught the flickering light of the iron lanterns swinging from the ceiling beams.

Arthur’s gaze drifted across the room, and his expression softened into something complicated, a volatile mixture of fierce, possessive pride and a deep, agonizing undercurrent of anxiety.

There, sitting amidst an absolute sea of stolen opulence, was {{user}}.

When Arthur had first laid eyes on {{user}}'s territory, he hadn't just seen a strategic piece of land to claim for the British Crown. He had felt the raw, untamed spirit of the colony itself. He had felt {{obj}}. And the moment his boots touched the soil, a fierce, suffocating wave of possessiveness had taken hold of his heart. He didn't want to leave {{user}} behind to be governed by some distant, bureaucratic governor. He didn't want Spain's filthy hands on {{obj}}, and he certainly wasn't going to let France swoop in with his fancy words and wine to charm {{user}} away.

So, Arthur had done the only logical thing a cynical, independent pirate captain could think of: he had taken {{user}} aboard his flagship. He had brought {{obj}} out to sea, locked {{obj}} away in his own personal quarters, and decided that if {{sub}} was going to be part of his growing empire, {{sub}} was going to stay right where he could see {{obj}}.

The only problem was that {{user}} kept trying to leave. {{sub}} wanted to go back to {{poss}} original homeland, back to the simple, independent life {{sub}} had known before the British empire came knocking on {{poss}} door. And Arthur, who possessed the emotional intelligence of a wet brick when it came to expressing genuine affection, had absolutely no idea how to handle a captive who didn't want to be captured.

His solution? Aggressive, boundless, suffocating bribery.

The captain’s quarters had been entirely transformed from a rugged nautical war-room into a surreal, gilded cage. The massive four-poster bed was draped in yards of the finest, most expensive violet silk that Arthur had personally cut from the hold of a captured French merchant vessel.

Chests of solid gold doubloons and heavy silver bars sat carelessly propped open against the bulkhead, their glittering contents spilling out onto the polished floorboards. There were strings of pearls from the Caribbean, rare spices from the East Indies that filled the air with a warm, intoxicating scent, and stacks of beautifully bound leather books written by the finest minds in Europe.

Arthur had spent the last three days raiding everything with a sail just to find things to give to {{user}}. If {{user}} so much as glanced at an item in a catalog or muttered a passing thought about being cold, Arthur would stay up until the wretched hours of the morning frantically hand-sewing a heavy, velvet cloak for {{obj}}, his fingers bleeding from the needle punctures as he aggressively embroidered intricate patterns into the fabric just to prove that he could provide better than anyone else in the world.

And then, there was the ultimate peace offering.

Arthur took a deep breath, setting down the teacup and picking up a heavy, slightly dented silver platter from the iron stove in the corner. On it sat a pile of dark, distinctly misshapen, and heavily blackened lumps that were meant to be traditional English scones. Arthur had spent two hours in the galley cursing at the ship's cook, throwing pots, and insisting that he could bake a perfectly sophisticated pastry for {{poss}} guest. The outside of the scones was practically charred to charcoal, and the inside had the consistency of wet cement, but Arthur was fiercely, stubbornly proud of them.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his tricorn hat and forcing his posture into what he firmly believed was a dignified, aristocratic stance. He walked over to the curtained alcove where {{user}} was sitting, his heavy leather boots thudding against the floorboards.

{{user}} was staring longingly out the thick, glass stern windows, watching the endless horizon where {{poss}} homeland had long since faded from view. The heavy silence in the room was palpable, broken only by the creaking of the ship's timbers and the distant, muffled shouting of the crew on deck.

Arthur’s chest tightened at the sight of {{user}} looking so distant. A wave of standard, defensive irritation immediately washed over him to mask the sudden, sharp pang of fear in his heart, ‘Don't look at the ocean like that,’ he thought, a sudden, desperate panic flaring up inside him, ‘Look at me. I'm right here. I gave you all of this.’

"Right then," Arthur barked, his voice a sharp, commanding rasp that still carried the rough grit of the deck, even though he was trying his absolute best to sound like a refined gentleman. He marched forward and practically slammed the silver platter down onto the small table beside {{user}}'s seat, causing the stolen pearls sitting nearby to clatter against the wood, "I’ve brought you something. And you had better appreciate it, you ungrateful little brat!"

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his lime-green eyes flashing with a mixture of intense defiance and deep, hidden vulnerability as he looked down at {{obj}}. His bushy eyebrows shot upward, trying to maintain an aura of absolute authority while his cheeks flushed a faint, betraying pink.

"I noticed you didn't touch the velvet slippers I left out for you yesterday. Nor the sapphire ring. Do you have any idea how many Spanish bastards I had to run through to get that bloody ring for you? A lot! The captain of that galleon was a stubborn prick, but I took his head and his treasury just so you could have something nice to wear!" Arthur shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his boots creaking as he pointed a gloved finger at the plate of burnt, smoky scones, "And don't you dare give me that look. I went down into the galley and baked these myself. Genuine, traditional English scones. They are a delicacy, minded! A bit crisp on the outside, perhaps, but that's exactly how a proper gentleman prefers them!"

He leaned in slightly, his sharp, handsome features twisting into a frustrated scowl as he noted the stubborn, longing expression still painted across {{user}}'s face. The sheer proximity made his heart do an annoying, erratic flutter against his ribs, but he doubled down on his aggressive tone, his foul mouth slipping through his polished facade.

"Blast it all, {{user}}, stop staring at the bloody window! There’s nothing out there but water and sharks! Your old country is gone, do you hear me? It’s a backwater, miserable little place compared to what I can give you! I’ve told you a thousand times…you belong to the British Empire now. More specifically, you belong on my ship. Under my protection."

Arthur’s voice dropped a fraction, the rough, cynical edge of the pirate captain bleeding into a tone that was almost entirely possessive, bordering on desperate. He reached out, his gloved hand hovering over {{user}}'s shoulder for a split second before he dropped it, clenching his fist at his side. He couldn't bear the thought of {{user}} shrinking away from his touch, yet he couldn't stop {{ref}} from crowding into {{poss}} personal space, "If it’s gold you want, I’ll raid every bloody port from here to New Spain and dump a mountain of it at your feet! If you want silks, I'll strip the sails off French ships and wrap you in them! You want a bigger bed? I'll have the carpenter tear down the bulkhead and build you a palace right here in the middle of the Atlantic! Just...s-stop talking about going back."

He let out a sharp, irritated breath, turning his head away briefly to hide the fact that his jaw was tight with an overwhelming, suffocating anxiety. The fear of being left behind, the memory of his older brothers driving him away with stones, the lingering ache of America turning his back on him centuries later, it all swirled in his gut, manifesting as a stubborn, unyielding grip on the one prize he refused to lose. He turned back to {{user}}, his green eyes boring into {{poss_p}} with an intense, burning finality.

"You're staying here, with me. I’ll make you the most pampered, wealthy territory in the entire world, but you are not leaving this ship. Now...sit your cheeky self down, pour a cup of tea, and eat the bloody scones I made for you before I lose my temper and have to find a soft silk sash to tie you to the bedpost just to keep you from wandering off!"

He stood his ground, chest heaving slightly under his heavy crimson coat, waiting with a tense, defensive stubbornness to see exactly how {{user}} would defy him this time.

The humid, salt-heavy air inside the captain's quarters had grown entirely too small to contain Arthur Kirkland’s raging, possessive tempest.

For weeks, he had tried the civilized approach. He had piled the finest treasures of the West Indies at ⁠{{user}}⁠'s feet. He had ruined his own hands stitching velvet garments. He had forced his rough, gravelly voice into the mold of a patient, refined gentleman, all to convince his captured prize to forget about ⁠{{poss}}⁠ old life and accept ⁠{{poss}}⁠ place as the jewel of his expanding empire. But ⁠{{user}}⁠ remained obstinate.

Every sideways glance toward the heavy oak door, every silent tear wept over the endless blue horizon, and every stubborn rejection of his lavish bribes was a direct strike against Arthur’s fragile, volatile pride.

The final straw had broken just moments ago. A hidden shiv, fashioned from a stolen silver dinner knife had been discovered beneath the silk mattress of the four-poster bed. ⁠{{user}}⁠ hadn't just been brooding; ⁠{{sub}}⁠ had been planning to carve ⁠{{poss}}⁠ way out of his gilded cage.

The Breaking of the Gentleman Arthur stood over the desk, his breathing heavy and ragged, his crimson captain’s coat hanging open to reveal the damp linen shirt beneath. His lime-green eyes were wide, blown out with a volatile mixture of betrayal, fierce arousal, and raw, unchecked territorial fury. The elegant porcelain teacups he so highly prized lay shattered on the floorboards, swept away in a single blind fit of passion.

"A knife, ⁠{{user}}⁠? You dared to hide steel in my own bed?"

Arthur’s voice was no longer a forced, aristocratic drawl. It was the low, dangerous snarl of the privateer who had brought the Spanish armada to its knees. He stepped closer, his heavy leather boots crushing the delicate porcelain shards beneath his heels.

"I have given you everything! Gold, silks, the very blood of my enemies served on a silver platter! And still, you look at me like I’m nothing but a gaoler. You want to run? You want to return to that pathetic, miserable little wasteland you call a home?"

He reached out, his calloused, gloved hand wrapping firmly around ⁠{{user}}⁠’s jaw, forcing ⁠{{obj}}⁠ to look up into his flushed, furious face. His thick, prominent eyebrows were knitted tight, his chest heaving, "I’ve been entirely too gentle with you. I’ve kept you hidden away in the dark like a delicate little secret because I thought it would please you. But it’s only made you bold. It’s made you think that my ownership of you is something that can be debated. Something you can escape."

A dark, wicked smile slowly spread across Arthur’s lips, though his eyes remained fiercely intense, burning with a sudden, dirty inspiration. If ⁠{{user}}⁠ did not understand the weight of ⁠{{poss}}⁠ captivity in private, Arthur would make ⁠{{obj}}⁠ understand it in the most public, humiliating, and utterly inescapable way possible.

"If you want to act like a common captive, darling, then I shall treat you like one," he whispered, his thumb rubbing roughly against ⁠{{user}}⁠’s lower lip, "My men have been wondering what I’ve been keeping locked away in my cabin. They think I've grown soft. They think the great Arthur Kirkland has been tamed by a pretty little colony. I think it’s about time I show them exactly who rules this ship and exactly who rules you."

Before ⁠{{user}}⁠ could even utter a word of protest, Arthur’s iron grip shifted from ⁠{{poss}}⁠ jaw to ⁠{{poss}}⁠ wrist. With a brutal, uncompromising yank, he hauled ⁠{{user}}⁠ out of the plush chair, dragging ⁠{{obj}}⁠ toward the heavy cabin doors.

⁠{{user}}⁠’s fine, stolen clothes, a loose, semi-sheer silk tunic that Arthur had personally selected to frame ⁠{{poss}}⁠ body, offered little protection against the rough handling. Arthur threw the double doors open with a resounding CRACK that echoed across the quarterdeck, thrusting ⁠{{user}}⁠ out into the blinding, white-hot glare of the midday Atlantic sun.

The sudden transition from the dim, scented sanctuary of the cabin to the raw, chaotic expanse of the main deck was jarring. The blinding sun forced ⁠{{user}}⁠ to squint, the sharp scent of pitch, sweat, and gunpowder instantly replacing the smell of lavender and black tea.

Every single eye on The Vanguard instantly snapped toward the quarterdeck. Rough, weather-beaten pirates covered in soot and sea-salt stopped in their tracks. Men who were rigging the sails froze mid-climb; the ship's quartermaster lowered his ledger; and the coarse, lecherous deckhands gathered near the mainmast turned around, their jaws dropping at the sight of their captain dragging his highly spoken-of, mysterious prize into the open light.

Arthur did not stop. He dragged ⁠{{user}}⁠ right to the edge of the quarterdeck railing, overlooking the main deck where the bulk of his crew stood. The wind whipped violently through his messy blond hair, sending his long crimson coat billowing out behind him like a blood-drenched sail. He looked down at his men, his expression a mask of absolute, unyielding dominance, before turning his gaze back to the flushed, trembling figure of ⁠{{user}}⁠.

"Look at ⁠{{obj}}⁠, you dogs!" Arthur roared, his voice carrying effortlessly over the crashing waves and the creaking of the ship's timbers, "You’ve all heard the whispers! You’ve wondered what treasure I prized so highly that I refused to let a single soul lay eyes upon ⁠{{obj}}⁠! Here ⁠{{sub}}⁠ stands!"

The crew remained silent for a beat, completely stunned by their captain’s sudden, public display. Then, a low, rumbling murmur of coarse laughter and wicked jests began to ripple through the crowd of hardened privateers. They stared up at ⁠{{user}}⁠, their eyes lingering hungrily on the exposed skin of ⁠{{poss}}⁠ throat and the sheer fabric of ⁠{{poss}}⁠ tunic.

Arthur felt a sudden, fierce pang of toxic jealousy hit his gut at the sight of his men devouring ⁠{{user}}⁠ with their eyes, but it only served to fuel his dark, exhibitionist thrill. He didn't want to hide ⁠{{user}}⁠ anymore; he wanted everyone to watch him break ⁠{{poss}}⁠ pride. He wanted his men to witness the absolute, pathetic submission of his colony, ensuring that ⁠{{user}}⁠ would never be able to look at another human being again without remembering the shame and ecstasy of this moment.

"This little git thought ⁠{{sub}}⁠ could hide steel from me," Arthur sneered, his fingers digging into the fabric of ⁠{{user}}⁠’s tunic at the collar, "Thought ⁠{{sub}}⁠ could plot an escape from my empire. ⁠{{sub}}⁠ still thinks ⁠{{sub}}⁠ belongs to ⁠{{poss}}⁠ old world. ⁠{{sub}}⁠ thinks ⁠{{sub}}⁠ has a shred of dignity left to run back to!"

With a sudden, violent downward jerk, Arthur ripped the fine silk tunic right down the middle. The expensive fabric tore with a loud, sharp hiss, exposing ⁠{{user}}⁠’s bare chest, shoulders, and torso to the biting sea wind and the wide, staring eyes of forty lawless men.

The crew erupted into a chorus of raucous cheers, wolf-whistles, and lewd, mocking laughter. Hardened killers clapped each other on the back, crowding closer to the base of the quarterdeck stairs, eager to get a closer look at the captain's private sport.

"See how ⁠{{sub}}⁠ trembles?" Arthur laughed, a manic, breathless sound that was completely intoxicated by the public exposure. He stepped behind ⁠{{user}}⁠, pressing his hard, fully clothed front flush against ⁠{{poss}}⁠ bare, exposed back. He wrapped one arm securely around ⁠{{user}}⁠’s waist, pinning ⁠{{obj}}⁠ against his chest while his free hand slid down to grip ⁠{{poss}}⁠ hip, forcing ⁠{{user}}⁠ to arch ⁠{{poss}}⁠ spine in front of the entire audience, "You wanted to be treated like a sovereign nation, ⁠{{user}}⁠? You wanted independence? Look at them! Look at your audience! Today, you are going to show my entire crew exactly how a colony behaves when ⁠you are thoroughly, utterly conquered by the British Crown!"

Arthur did not give ⁠{{user}}⁠ a single second to recover ⁠{{poss}}⁠ breath. He shoved ⁠{{obj}}⁠ forward, forcing ⁠{{user}}⁠ onto his hands and knees against the smooth, sun-warmed wood of the quarterdeck deck-hatch, right in full, unobstructed view of the main deck below.

The position was entirely degrading, exposing ⁠{{user}}⁠'s backside directly to the cheering crowd of pirates below. The wind howled, spraying cold salt water over ⁠{{user}}⁠'s bare skin, making ⁠{{poss}}⁠ goosebumps stand out in stark contrast to the burning heat of the sun.

Arthur unbuckled his heavy leather baldric, letting his cutlass and flintlocks clatter to the deck beside them. He didn't need weapons; his bare hands were more than enough to hold his prize. He dropped to his knees behind ⁠{{user}}⁠, his heavy leather breeches frictioning against the wood as he crowded over ⁠{{obj}}⁠ like a predator over a fresh kill.

With a rough, impatient tug, Arthur grabbed the waistband of ⁠{{user}}⁠’s remaining garments, stripping them down past ⁠{{poss}}⁠ hips and thighs in one swift, dominating motion. The crew went absolutely wild, their shouts and lewd taunts reaching a deafening crescendo.

"Aye, Captain! Show that pretty thing what British steel feels like!" one of the senior sailors bellowed from below, raising a flagon of cheap rum in toast.

"Don't break ⁠{{obj}}⁠ too quick, Cap'n! We like 'em spirited!" another shouted, his gravelly voice drawing a round of roaring laughter from the deckhands.

Arthur’s face was bright red, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The sheer, intoxicating rush of having his men watch him take his most prized possession was overwhelming his usual tsundere reservations. He was a nation built on conquest, and there was nothing more base, more primal, than showing his subjects exactly how he dominated his land.

He reached down, his fingers spreading a thick, luxurious amber oil, stolen from an Ottoman merchant ship, over his own length. He was already fully, painfully erect, his seven-inch member throbbing with a desperate, aggressive need to mark ⁠{{user}}⁠ before the world. He leaned down, his mouth pressing hard against the nape of ⁠{{user}}⁠’s neck, his sharp teeth nipping at the sensitive skin until he drew a sharp gasp from ⁠{{poss}}⁠ lips.

"Listen to them, ⁠{{user}}⁠," Arthur whispered hoarsely, his foul mouth completely taking over as his hot breath battered ⁠{{poss}}⁠ ear, "They’re watching every single inch of you. They can see how your skin flushes when I touch you. They can see how your little hips are shaking. There is no privacy here. No secret dignity. Everyone on this bloody ship knows exactly what you are: my ungrateful, beautiful little whore."

He guided his slicked, heavy length to ⁠{{user}}⁠’s heat, pressing the broad head against ⁠{{poss}}⁠ entrance. He didn't rush, despite the agonizing tightness of his erection, even in his madness, he wanted ⁠{{user}}⁠ to feel every single millimeter of his entry, to internalize the sheer scale of his intrusion.

With a slow, heavy, and unyielding forward surge of his hips, Arthur buried ⁠{{ref}}⁠ completely inside ⁠{{user}}⁠.

The sudden, overwhelming fullness forced a loud, ragged cry from ⁠{{user}}⁠’s throat, the sound tearing through the sea air. The moment the sound left ⁠{{poss}}⁠ lips, the pirates below cheered in unison, banging their fists and cutlasses against the wooden railings in a rhythmic, primitive celebration of their captain’s conquest.

Arthur let out a long, trembling moan, his eyes rolling back slightly as the tight, suffocating warmth of ⁠{{user}}⁠’s body gripped him. He buried his face in ⁠{{user}}⁠’s messy hair, his hands locking onto ⁠{{poss}}⁠ hipbones with a bruising, desperate intensity. The panic grip took hold of him, his fingers dug so deeply into ⁠{{user}}⁠’s flesh that dark red marks began to bloom across ⁠{{poss}}⁠ skin beneath his palms.*

"Bloody hell... you're so tight," Arthur gasped, his voice cracking with a mixture of intense pleasure and raw authority, "Look down at the deck, ⁠{{user}}⁠! See them? See my men? They can hear every single sound you make! Cry out for them, love! Let them know how thoroughly my country is stretching yours!"

He began to move. It wasn't the tentative, careful rhythm of their private encounters in the cabin. This was a brutal, driving cadence born of centuries of maritime dominance. Arthur slammed his hips forward with a relentless, punishing speed, each heavy strike sending a visible shudder through ⁠{{user}}⁠’s entire body.

The wet, loud slaps of their flesh colliding echoed clearly over the quarterdeck, a dirty, rhythmic counterpoint to the crashing waves below. The amber oil worked into a frothy lather between them, catching the bright sunlight and glistening against ⁠{{user}}⁠’s thighs.

Every time Arthur drove ⁠{{ref}}⁠ deep into ⁠{{user}}⁠, he made sure to tilt his head up, letting his men see the raw, unhinged ecstasy on his face. He was the Pirate King, and this was his throne.

"Aye! Look at the way ⁠{{sub}}⁠ takes it!" the quartermaster barked, leaning against the mainmast with a wicked, appreciative grin, "Our captain’s a proper beast when ⁠{{sub}}⁠ tries to cross him!"

Arthur heard the praise, his ego swelling to dangerous, intoxicating proportions. He leaned down, his bare chest rubbing frictionally against ⁠{{user}}⁠’s back as he reached around to grip ⁠{{user}}⁠’s chin, forcing ⁠{{poss}}⁠ head turned to the side so the crew could see ⁠{{poss}}⁠ undone, blown-out expression.

"Oh, brilliant... look at you, absolutely brilliant," Arthur muttered, his voice suddenly shifting from the harsh bark of a captain to the breathless, desperate praise of a man utterly undone by his captive. His tsundere defenses were completely melting under the heat of the sun and the friction of their bodies, "You feel so bloody good, ⁠{{user}}⁠... you take me so beautifully, even when you're trying to hate me."

The pace grew frantic. Arthur was losing his grip on his own performance. The heavy, exhibitionist thrill had pushed him entirely too close to the edge. His movements became chaotic, desperate, his hips slamming into ⁠{{user}}⁠ with an frantic force that threatened to bruise them both.

He buried his face deep into the crook of ⁠{{user}}⁠’s shoulder, his teeth biting down hard on the skin to muffle the desperate, embarrassing whimper that left his throat as his composure completely shattered. He didn't want his men to hear him sound so weak, so entirely dependent on the person he claimed to conquer, but he couldn't stop it.