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Four days after. The Aquila.
As Desmond lies awake in his cot, the blankets feel scratchy on his bare chest. Malik is nowhere to be seen or heard in any vicinity of the clinic and it is dark and cold. The crew are already asleep, because it he hears a loud sort of snoring coming from one of the cabins.
He remembers Connor’s words to him earlier, the man’s helping hand around his waist and his coat on his shoulders when he assists Desmond to the deck of the Aquila. He is much too kind and gentle.
There must be a catch. Pirates are not one to act so generously without something in return.
Desmond hisses when he throws off his blankets and lets his bare feet hit the dusty floor. The air is colder on his shoulder compared to earlier, and he limps away, eager to make sure that his favour with the Captain is over and done with.
To hell what his father’s paid them. He will repay the captain on his own terms.
He finds Connor in his cabin, which is oddly enough, not too lavishly decorated. Even Malik’s clinic had a more personal touch to it, with the foreign scripts and tomes abundantly cluttered on the floor.
Connor only has a four poster bed and a table in his room. While there are Native motifs, like the blanket on the bed and the warclub mounted on the far wall, it is subtle and organized. Just like the Captain.
He has to clear his throat to get Connor’s attention, for the man seems very engrossed in whatever small book he’d been reading while lying on his bed. His boots are off, his coat is hung on his dresser, and his tricorne on his lamplit desk. Desmond feels heat pooling in groin at the sight of the man looking so relaxed and at ease.
When Connor looks up at him, curiously at first before concern overtaking it, he bites his lips and pinches his arm to keep himself from heightening under the man’s gaze. Soon enough, Connor is walking to him, in an attempt to get him back to the clinic where he was meant to be.
“Desmond, what are you doing here?” Connor asks, his hand already at the small of Desmond’s back, warm, inviting. Desmond exhales through his teeth and closes the door in front of them before they can leave the room.
“Look, Connor. Even though my father paid you to pull me out of Fort George, I figured I should as well,” he begins, keeping his voice steady as he turns back to face Connor. He feels his body burning at the look of absolute concern and confusion that Connor gazes at him with.
“Desmond, please. It’s all right-”
“Shut it. You people are pirates, you always want something-” he almost flinches at how spiteful his voice sounds but that look Connor gives him is too much, too much curiosity that Desmond wants to satisfy it all the more.
Before he realises it, his hand is already on Connor’s shoulder and he closes his eyes when he presses his lips on Connor’s. Softness is the first thing he feels, and as he forces the man’s mouth open with his tongue, he tastes the sea. He misses it.
Connor freezes.
He feels Connor’s hands move up to his shoulders, carefully around his bare, bandaged chest only to pull him away from the kiss quickly and firmly.
Desmond’s groin screams at him. And the look Connor gives him does not help any. It is not of revulsion or disgust. It is genuine curiosity and arousal. But he sees hesitation.
“Desmond, you don’t have to-”
Desmond huffs and grabs him, less gently this time, taking his lips to his own, caring less for his aching wounds and more for the desire that boils under his skin. Connor obliges this time, readily responding to Desmond and he tastes more of the sea, on his lips, on the skin of his neck. It is of salt and sweat and Desmond growls. “I want to.”
He straddles the man, pushing him down with fervent kisses and touches while his hands shakily unbutton Connor’s waistcoat.
He should have thought this through, he’s never been with a man before.
The thought is lost on his mind when the firelight casts on Connor’s comely, scarred yet toned chest. He relishes making Connor squirm and writhe by his hands and mouth that travels across his body.
His wounds are quiet. His desire is deafening. Both of them are already hard and they can both feel it between the fabrics of their breeches.
Desmond really should have thought this through.
And Connor looks up at him expectantly, pupils dilated and mouth parted. The firelight does nothing to help.
He remembers a girl’s mouth around him, her teeth running enticingly on his head and her tongue furiously around his shaft. He remembers himself groaning breathlessly in the darkness of an inn, his hands in her hair and her arms keeping him spread.
Perhaps he could do that instead.
Connor bites his lips as he waits, and the look in his eyes is far past curious and instead almost vehement, desperate. Desmond huffs, glancing at the bulge in the man’s pants before bringing one last lingering kiss on Connor’s soft lips, letting his mouth trail down from his neck, down his chest and the planes of his abdomen tasting the salt, the desire, all while he worked at freeing Connor from his breeches.
He feels himself already hard but he cares little, for now. After all, who could say no to that face and that soft mewling that passes through Connor’s lips.
He gets to work, remembering exactly how the girl from New York worked at him in the past. He pushes apart Connor’s legs, already feeling the man twitching and writhing, and he takes Connor in.
He cannot fit all of him so he works quickly, already tasting the precome when Connor’s quickened breaths fill the room. He runs his teeth over Connor, his head and his shaft and licks at the salt that fills his mouth.
He shivers when Connor’s hand finds the top of his head, running it through his hair gently, hesitantly. The sensation runs straight to his already very hard and longing groin. When he looks up, he sees Connor biting at the heel of his palm, his head thrown back in absolute pleasure.
Connor grows restless underneath him, his fingers trailing unsurely through Desmond’s hair, stray touches at his ears and his neck.
Soon enough, the cabin is warm and sweltering from their shared breaths, and Connor comes into his mouth. He licks him clean and Connor moans from it. But the come still drips from his lips and down to his chest when he sits up, his hand on the inside of Connor’s thigh.
He wipes his mouth clean while Connor pulls himself up and holds his knees against his chest, pupils blown and dazed at Desmond.
Well, Desmond’s crotch.
He swears when he remembers that still needs his release.
He moves quickly, pulling off his breeches and pressing his hand around his shaft, already feeling the precome trickling between his fingers. His breathing hitches when he glances back at Connor, still curled up and eyes trained on him intently, as though watching exactly for what and how he gets off.
Desmond lets his mind run, not caring for the Captain eyeing him, not caring for the Captain’s toes curling at the sight of him pleasuring himself. He imagines instead Connor’s hesitant hand in his hair from earlier, travelling down his neck, his chest, teasing, enticing. He bites his lip at the thought of Connor’s hand around him, while his mouth trails lower from his chest, to his stomach. He throws his head back, exhaling and his back arching as he nears the edge—
He feels Connor’s warm breath against the back of his neck and his hoarse voice in his ear. “Did you want me to help?”
Desmond comes with a moan when his eyes snap open, trained on Connor’s startled but aroused gaze. The other man is this close to him, and the breath against his shoulder is rousing. His warmth is slick in his palm and fingers and the sweat is making the blanket underneath him cling to his skin. He glares at Connor when he stands to clean himself up.
“Some help have would be appreciated, Captain,” he mumbles, instantly regretting it when he sees guilt flash on Connor’s face while he pulls the blankets around him. Soon enough, Connor leans against the headboard, watching him guiltily from underneath his pile of blankets.
“Perhaps—” Connor exhales. “Perhaps we should get some rest—”
"Y-you’re right. Good night, sir.”
He shuts the door, holding his bandages against himself and his eyes fervently scanning the dark hold for anyone who might have heard their tryst. He relaxes when almost all the cabins emit a snore or two simultaneously.
Desmond feels his face burning when he sprints back to Malik's clinic, careful not to unfurl his bandages even when his wounds throb uncomfortably. He can still taste Connor is his mouth, the salt and the man's girth had been overwhelming to say the least. But not regrettable. He blames the narcotics.
Just when he thinks that everyone on the ship has already fallen asleep, Malik proves him otherwise.
"And where have you been?" he hears Malik hiss at him the moment his shadow casts down on the dusty, book littered floor. He flinches at Malik's hand, letting the surgeon pull him back to his cot and sit him down to examine his bandages.
Malik's eyes are all-seeing and unforgiving and he wants to explode. He wants to go back to Fort George and wish his back his own death.
Malik does not hum. He believes that the surgeon is incapable of anything as such, whistling or any other. Desmond exhales and looks away when Malik scrutinizes a spot where Connor had spilt on him from earlier. One that didn’t think to clean.
Desmond cusses under his breath, and rubs his face exasperatedly when the surgeon begins unfurling his bandages to replace them.
Malik actually hums a rather fanciful tune. It is mocking. The musicality and mockery in the notes that come from Malik's mouth is enough to kill him then and there.
"Congratulations, sayidd. Well done on getting on the Captain's good side." the smile in Malik's voice is impossible. Desmond wants to scream when his embarrassment almost eats him alive but then he knows better to let the rest of the ship know that he literally went down on their captain.