It's dark, dark, softly dark.

There is a candle; it reveals nothing.

This is sensory overload, and the only sanctuary is the darkness, saturated with the scent of hot wax, intoxicating smoke and corrosive sweat, the faint tang of hot blood spilled in passionate loathing, the aching of alcohol with its wafting disparity. There are some smells that just do not mix, and maybe another time, these would lend testament to such a saying. But for now, it is harmony as close as it can be witnessed, and so two souls accept it as such.

One of the two is colder, more cynical— he is the one who will remember this. It will be burned into his mind like some hot, hot brand of sin. Until just a short while ago, he was violently denying this very idea; but it's certainly amazing what a couple innocent sips can do to ease such forbidden transitions. And the other? It's a question of whether this is anything to him or not, for in the eyes of one who still has both, this must be as easy and regular as waking up in the morning for his carefully selected partner.

It must be, for he knows pirates are not known for their chastity.
The fact did bother him at first, but now he's resigned to it, and maybe even thankful for its truth. He can slip into some semblance of experience, though they both know he has none. He can ride his companion's waves and pretend he knows just as well how to make one himself, and neither will comment on how untrue it is.

Clothing— restriction, safety, boundary— rests on the floor, long forgotten. Two bodies are close, but untouching. Eyes are closed, breathing heavy. This is a test, and for the one who once swore never to share in this sort of contact, the lips brushing lasciviously against his burning skin, fingers ghosting and leaving tingling gossamer-tracks of awakening, patterns of their transgression printing into his flesh hungrily, it gets harder and harder not to completely drown.

Apart from their breathing, it's quiet. Apart from the cursed, glorified candle illuminating only the shapes of their forms, causing thirsty wetness to glisten dully, it's dark. He isn't content to leave his own heat to be lapped up by the other man, however; he won't be taken from. He will give what he wishes, and he will take what he desires. And so, he moves to grasp the reins and lead, though he is as tethered as any horse could be. He starts out safe, capturing the pirate's unsanctioned lips with his own. The taste is exact, beautiful. It becomes steadily obvious he isn't keeping to his babying, self-imposed boundaries as he begins using teeth, scraping them lightly along neck and jawline, blowing deliberately on the slightly dampened trail his mouth leaves.

He's working on instinct and fantasy alone.

But the pirate doesn't seem to notice the difference.

He draws forth shivers and deep, dark little noises. It's a small victory, and it feels good. He ignores the other's attempts to suck reactions out of him as well, because he much more enjoys this art of playing with his prey, though he's only scratched the surface. However, he can tell that if he wishes to continue this game, he will have to move a little slower, act a little quicker. He surfaces for another kiss, longer and fuller than before, as though he has no intention of moving on, until he descends once again. Though he leaves tiny marks and light, moist trails upon the other's rougher skin, he remains dignified and tidy; there are some things that not even release can erase.

His target is a certain point on the pirate's chest, but he never reaches it— he is instead pressed urgently against the bed behind him, closer now to the candle's concealing light. His own neck is assaulted now, and it's not as exact as his own had been. It's not the gentle lull and pulse of summer that his own had been, dragging across the pirate's throat with precise, taunting pushes. This is a storm breaking on his skin, frantic and driven. The pirate is intent on leaving lasting marks, and so he does. Even when the red imperfections have long faded, this will all be immortalized in memory.

He can't help it— a soft, full cry of electrified contentment slips past his lips. The sound only encourages the pirate, who knows what he is doing. But his victim does not— he is acting according to instinct and fantasy. Instinctively, his hips press upward into his captor, however futile the act is. The moment boils down to the fact that one is no good at restraining himself, and the other is too good at restraining himself. They have both reached a breaking point in the thin barrier keeping them apart, and they claw at it relentlessly until it shatters.

What he expects to be cold is only hot, hot, slick and thick and choking, slathering all over their most secretive places. It's disgusting, but even he appreciates it— the dripping fluid, more viscous than he had expected, is not as assaulting as he makes it out to be. The tactician whimpers most uncharacteristically when they fall together at last, because he has never been touched on the inside before— never, not physically or otherwise. It's only now that he is completely vulnerable, only now that he lets go of the scraps of appearing in control. However, the story changes with each thrust, and he falls quiet, save for his panting to accent the pirate's more pronounced sounds.

He moves, he twists, his back arches and he draws his nails unrestrained along the pirate's skin. Does he leave marks, too? Does he draw blood, does he make his feelings known? He can't see, he can't even taste the salty flavor of this man. He can't smell— everything he is centers around one fraction of his being, the parts of him melting into the parts of the other man who holds his very soul in check right at this very moment.

It's eternity spanning between them that causes him to hold tighter before he can be swept away. He tries to prevent it, but there's no stopping the force of his world shifting and breaking. He loses a part of himself as he still can't see, but now it's white. Everything

is

… … … … … … … … … …

But the pirate doesn't stop. Despite the mess now clinging to him, he isn't that far yet. It's practice that causes him to hold out longer, though his companion is growing steadily irritated now that he, himself, is finished. Only now does he notice how uncomfortable the friction is, and thoughts in his mind gather along the lines of how quickly it will be over.
He doesn't have to wait as long as it seems. For his patience, he is awarded a breathy, somewhat forceful kiss. He blinks, and he is trapped in an embrace— when did they separate? He's sleepy, and the ever-bared arms of the pirate holding him close are nothing but welcoming. He decides he'll suffer the proximity, and worry about everything else— the shameless mess of impurity included— when he next awakens.