They spent the night dancing drunkenly underneath the stars, whispering sweet nothings that meant little in each other's ears. Their bodies moved in sync to the swaying of the ship, their breath ragged and shaking after several drinks (2 rum for him- he had never held his liqueur well, had he?). This went on for some time, nothing but their feet moving- one-two, one-two- underneath the light of the moon. Dare it be said that it was almost romantic.
He laughed at the suggestion, his broad shoulders shaking with his breathing that smelled of cheap sex and equally cheap whiskey.
Romantic, He had echoed in disbelief, Romance is meant for wenches who bend over for a rich, pompous politician, only to find herself in the wealthier man's bed the next evening.
The two of them weren't much more than that themselves.
His lips met lips suddenly, biting down roughly as if he was trying to prove his point. There was no tenderness exchanged between the two of them (Oh no, that would be far too boring for their tastes), only words that were utter nonsense and the occasional groan as his teeth tore away mercilessly at pale flesh. He felt smaller, gentler hands slip underneath his cotton night shirt, nails digging into strong shoulder blades suddenly. A pleased noise escapes his throat at the action, and he plants harsh kisses against the trail of teeth marks that would be bruised in the morning. He finally- finally looked up at the squirming mess that wriggled pleasurably against him, green eyes smoldering into those cyan ones that he despised so.
Without warning, he pulled away. A dissatisfied noise was what his ears were met with, and his lips could be seen curled up in a smirk as he turned away, staggering towards the stairs where the captain's quarters were. He didn't need to be told how to get there, he already knew the way from their past rendezvous.
In no time their clothing is discarded, thrown hastily somewhere on the floor of the dim, candle lit room. He has wrists pinned down to the mattress of the bed, nails digging into the skin. His hands tugged at long strands of blonde hair, his thrusts quick and rhythmic as low moans and quiet murmurs begging for release mixed in with his own husky groans and curses. His face draws nears the back of his neck, whispering sweet nothings and gruesome threats alike in hot that come out in shaky breaths. He nips at the pale earlobe as he tilts his face upward, his pace becoming frantic. He came swiftly, a loud groan blending in with the muffled whimpers below.
He didn't move for a while, resting his chest against the scrawny back below him. After some time, he pulled out, rolling over to the side of the bed as if it were his own. He could feel his partner shift next to him in the darkness, the short, quick movements and occasional groan a reminder that he didn't pleasure the other himself. Not that he cared. He wasn't going to get on his knees to give the poor bloke a blow job, if that's what he was expecting.
The form soon made it to an orgasm, stiffening and giving a sharp hiss of air. The was a pause, and he could hear ragged breathing as the figure moved to lay down next to him. As he dozed off, he was only slightly aware of the arm wrapped around him, holding him close.
Francis Bonnefoy was awoken at first light by his frantic first mate informing him that sometime that night their ship had been ransacked, stripped clean of it's goods. His cabin was a mess, anything of value either destroyed or missing. His maps had been shredded, his books torn apart and thrown around the room.
Francis got dressed quickly, and made his way out to give his crew direction on what to do. He knew which direction the thieves had gone, and he knew who exactly did it. Oh yes, the culprit would pay alright. He couldn't help but smile a bit at the thought; this time it would be his turn to pin a squirming Arthur down to his bed as he tore his nails down his back.