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Ride to Raven's Cry: Vendetta Retribution

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"W-what the fuck is happening?" Jake Conway said to no one in particular as he noticed his surroundings slowly blur and dissolve around him while he was driving his motorcycle at top speeds through stretches of desert highway that seemed to always be under repairs. He was sure though, that none of this was the effect of any drug or booze. The last thing he knew was that he had just killed off Caesar, the leader of the Devil's Hand. He'd fucked Ellie in some ramshackle shack behind an abandoned gas station while they were both still fully-dressed and just drove off on his motorcycle, leaving her there with nothing but the clothes on her back.

He wanted to just leave as soon as he could, but he had no aim, no destination in mind, nowhere to go now that he had no more family to return to. Everyone he knew was dead and gone. Perhaps he'd go to some sketchy brothel and get some paid pussy for the night to sate his overarching loneliness that never really went away, to shake off his aches and pains from his roaring rampage of revenge against the gang that had killed his brother and his uncle, the last two people on this world he considered to be family. That brief moment spent with Ellie simply did nothing for him and just like all the other women he'd met on his journey, she was merely a trophy, merely one of his many sexual conquests that spanned all the way from when he was thirteen until today.

He tried to press the brakes, but to no avail. He found himself moving even faster than before, perhaps exceeding the speed of light. Soon, he found that he was phasing through imperceptible objects, collision physics be damned, and he only just realized that all this was happening while he was going in reverse for some incomprehensible reason. His surroundings warped, seeming like eldritch, otherworldly colors being sucked into a vortex of nothingness. And then, everything just stopped and faded to a blinding white. And that white faded as well to reveal a vast, flat, gray ground with no variations in elevation as far as he could see and an expanse of bright, daytime sky above the perfectly-straight horizon line, as though all of matter had been absorbed into some void and wiped out of being save for some sparse feathers of cirrus clouds and the light of day that was bright enough to remove all shading and shadows from the plain, gray landscape that was bereft of all texture, or perhaps it was the other way around- with him and his motorcycle being denied by the existence itself. He was in the middle of the nothingness, and he was still seated on his motorcycle.

"Where am I?" Jake asked anyway, despite not exactly expecting an answer. "Someone? Anyone?" No one answered him- not even an echo reverberated back to him.

"Noooooooooooooooooooo!" he shouted anyway, despite the futility of it all. He noticed right then that neither he nor his motorcycle cast any shadow on the ground no matter which angle he looked at. He got off his motorcycle and slammed his fist into the ground just so he could ascertain that he still was real. At this point, he'd rather feel pain than nothing at all. But he felt nothing. His knuckles were simply stuck on the perfectly-smooth ground, and he couldn't detach them. He tried again with as much force he could muster to pull his fist back up, but to no avail. It was stuck there in a perfect inelastic collision. And then, the dull gray ground rippled, melting into watery, salty liquid as he was swallowed.

Chapter Text

Darkness surrounded Jake as what seemed to be seawater engulfed him. The roar of sudden thunder and the pitter-patter of raindrops as they joined the ocean split the deafening, forlorn silence of the void from which he came. The ocean moved in strong currents, tossing and turning his body in different directions. He closed his eyes and tried his best to just relax his body and let the waves move him to a shore where they would end up crashing against; he realized that struggling against the strong waves that splashed unpleasantly up his nostrils is useless.

And then, he felt himself crash onto what felt like sandy ground. He emerged from the waters and panted for breath, taking in the much-needed fresh air that smelled of ocean breeze. The storm had since calmed down but the seawater still soaked fully through his clothes, weighing down the heavy denim and leather he wore and sending chills though his body that shivered in the merciless cold of the night. He had no choice but to remove his clothes if he even had a chance to survive out here in the cold, for he had nothing else but the clothes on his back, a few trinkets and small tools in his jean pockets, one pistol that was about to run out of ammo, and his motorcycle, as he found out when he had somehow regained a sense of his bearings when he noticed its silhouette parked where the ocean waves met land.

He'd washed up on what seemed to be a shore of a remote, deserted island in the darkness of the night. He knew for a fact that motorcycles couldn't float on water, so that meant he'd be stuck on this island for a while. Thinking that no one would probably see him anyway, he stripped down to just his tight, white underwear, which had been just as soaked in seawater as the rest of his clothes. He took off his uncomfortably damp socks and put just his boots back on. The cool wind trickled onto his bare skin and sent more chills down his still-wet cock, but he felt warmer now than when he was weighed down by his cumbersome clothing. But still, he was cold. And starving, which he realized when he heard the grumbles of his stomach in the soft silence that filled the night again.

In the distance, he could see some warm, flickering lights that moved across the ocean. Perhaps, those lights were a sign of life. Those lights seemed as though they were coming from a passenger ship. But the question lingered on in his mind: where is the fuck is he? He wasn't exactly green to roughing it out in far-flung places because of his days in the army and as a veteran of the Vietnam War, but there was still something about this place that unsettled him. Either way, he'd need to forage for food soon if he wanted any chance to survive out here and know for certain where those distant lights came from, or what they are.

He buried his clothes underneath the sand just to be sure that his stuff won't be stolen. He took a small flashlight and the ignition key for his motorcycle off of one of the pockets of his vest, and with the chain that held the dog tags he always wore, he made a necklace using the ignition key as an additional pendant. He also took his pistol in case he ends up in a hairy situation, as well as a Swiss Army knife tucked into the elastic of his briefs.

He walked inland, hoping to find a fruit-bearing tree of some sort. Although he did have a flashlight and a weapon with him, he was rather wary about being seen and possibly endangering himself in this strange land. A faint curtain of moonlight shone through the canopy of trees above him, and he relied on what paltry visibility that gave him. Soon, he found a few berries from a small bush and gathered them to eat. They resembled a fruit that he remembered from his army days to be safe and edible. And when he had his fill, he returned to the shore to see the silhouette of a galleon and a crew of what, to him, seemed to be pirates. As in, like the 17th century pirates he saw in the movies as a kid. But only rougher, judging by how they carried themselves, and they clearly weren't just some grown-up blokes in Halloween costumes. They were the real deal, and they're definitely not fucking around. Some of them were checking out Jake's motorcycle, and one of them was able to dig out his outfit from the sand where it was once hidden about an hour or so ago. It was right then when he figured out that he somehow traveled back in time to the 17th century when he drove his motorcycle in reverse faster than the speed of light. How that happened, he still couldn't wrap his head around.

Realizing that he was still nearly-nude save for his dog tags and his skintight underwear that was still soaked and thus very much see-through, he hid behind a nearby tree, hoping not to be seen in his current state. He made sure that they wouldn't catch the glint of his dog tags under the moonlight. The pirates were boisterous and loud- loud enough for him to hear.

"I wonder who owns this..." one of the men, a scrawny one with a sparse beard and red hair, said. Jake could barely make out their features from the warm glow of the lanterns they had set down on the sands. "It has some rather strange imagery on it... Like something that feels out of time."

"And the material, too," another replied, this one blond with a thicker beard and a larger built. "Not like anything I have ever seen before."

"These clothes are soaked completely," the scrawny redhead observed. "Whoever owns this outfit must be here somewhere. Must have been some poor sap who was just recently marooned by his former crew to this place. Probably took his clothes off to warm himself."

"Retribution Dead End? Hm. I haven't heard of that crew before. And it seems that this person's name must be Toledo," yet another man, this one delicately-built and with long, mussed-up brown hair and no beard, observed. "Says on that patch, anyway."

"Perhaps they're a crew from either Spain or Portugal," the blond speculated. "But either way, those clothes would probably sell for a hefty sum at the next port."

"Pfft- the clothes? You really thinking about the fucking clothes?" a surly, short-statured man with close-cropped, black hair roared with a voice that sounded much larger than his life. "What about this strange, wheeled contraption, you idiots? We'd make so much fucking money that we'd never need to be pirates ever again! At least after the Captain's revenge mission is over!"

"I think we should haul that thing to the ship, then," the long-haired brunet suggested.

"Yes, indeed," a tall, rugged-looking man wearing a tricorn hat, whom Jake figured was most likely the captain, emerged from the throng that had formed around the motorcycle. He then faced the rest of the crew, who were taking turns trying to figure out what the 'strange wheeled contraption' does. "Move it!" He commanded.

An alarm suddenly rang inside Jake's head. These men, the first signs of sentient life he found on this strange place, were going to steal his only possessions? Fuck no. Not happening. From where he was, he turned off the safety of his pistol and shot at one of them. They all froze in shock as one of them suddenly dropped dead to the ground.

"Someone is definitely here," warned one of the men as he fished a bullet out of his now-dead comrade. "Judging by this strange-looking, fatal bullet, definitely a dangerous o-" He was interrupted by another shot, and he dropped dead soon after.

"Then go look for him, you sons of bitches!" The foul-mouthed man hollered. "Be brave, you assholes! We're not all gonna die right here, shitheads!"

Wielding cutlasses and pistols, half of the pirates charged at Jake's hiding place. The man in the tricorn hat, who is most definitely the captain as Jake figured out, retreated to his ship and readied the cannons. Another half of the men hauled the motorcycle to the ship. The near-bald man who punctuated every sentence with profanity followed the captain, hollering and barking more motivational profanities at the crew along the way.

"Shit! He's nake-" the blond shouted upon spotting Jake, only being stopped short by a bullet to his head.

"We're getting wasted here!" the redhead called for backup, only for it to be answered with another bullet from Jake. Another one went down, and yet another. Although Jake had a powerful, technologically-superior gun to his advantage, he could only shoot so many of them before he runs out of ammo. He retreated further into some taller bushes in order to hide from them again and set his sights on those that had firearms with them.

He felt a stinging, burning sensation on his right shoulder where a bullet fired from a pistol had grazed his skin. And he also observed that he's now down to his last bullet, with no spares to reload with at all. If he charged out into the open shore to fight them head on, he would surely meet his demise through a cannon from a ship he can't target as soon as he would have wanted, if not via a cutlass though his heart. Either way, it's useless at this point. But still- he had already gone all this way to take down the ones that used firearms. And so, a decision was made. He pulled the trigger and took down the last firearm-wielding crew member. He waited behind the bushes and moved around while sneaking, hoping that they won't be able to find him.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! You can run, but you can't hide!" An imposing silhouette towered over Jake, who had been crouching behind bushes.

"Look. The only reason why you guys got wasted is because you tried to take my stuff," Jake stood up to look imposing, and tried to reason down the pirate.

"An audacious one, are ye?" The imposing silhouette revealed itself to be a rotund man with silvery hair, a thick beard, and teeth rotted away by scurvy. Jake felt a pair of rough hands go around his waist, clearly in an attempt to humiliate him by pulling down his briefs to fully strip him, but before the old man could even do that, Jake quickly kicked his assailant several times until he doubled over in pain and threw up blood, just like Jake did with majority of the the Devil's Hand gang members. Jake finished him off with a powerful punch on his back.

Knowing the futility of hiding, as well as the urgency of getting his stuff back, Jake revealed himself to the rest of the crew, charging forward, disarming, and repetitively kicking those who got too close to him. The men who were hauling the motorcycle to the ship had just finished, and immediately, they charged towards Jake with their cutlasses, only to be torn apart by the mysterious, tattooed man who resembled their captain from some angles. And even without his gun, he tore through an entire pirate crew using just his almighty foot in a series of repetitive motions that were just as effective here as they are in his time period.

Back in the ship's deck, Captain Christopher Raven's hands were shaky. He looked through his telescope just to see his entire crew being torn apart by this one mysterious man that seemed to not be of this time.

"Oh my Davy Jones..." Chris muttered.

"What seems to be the matter, Captain?" Donovan, his foul-mouthed right-hand man asked.

"This man-this man... He's tearing up all our men! With just his foot!"

"Then just shoot that fucker already!" Donovan he tried to push Chris away from the cannon he was manning, only for the captain to stop him with a strong grip on his wrist.

"What's the matter?" Donovan asked in surprise.

"Our entire crew is, or was, mostly composed of idiots not worth our already-scant rations anyway," Chris admitted with a sigh. "If we could get this man on our side-"

"Are you out of your fucking mind!? That murderer!? On our side?" Marcus, his other right-hand man, chimed in.

"I find ways," Chris smirked.

"But-"

"Stop questioning me, or it's off to the plank with ye. Or latrine duty," Chris snapped at the dark-skinned right-hand man.

"All right. Whatever you say, captain," Marcus gave a mocking salute, "But don't you dare call for me when shit gets real fucked up."

"That's one count of mutiny, Marcus," Chris reminded him. "Consider yourself fortunate that I will let that slide for-"

"You!" Jake shouted, interrupting the captain's conversation with his second-in-command. Jake pointed his empty gun at Chris if only to threaten him into submission.

"So, I take it that the wheeled contraption and the strange clothes are yours, then?" Chris replied calmly to face Jake, seemingly-unfazed by the man trying to kill him.

"Yes. Yes, they are," Jake said. "Now give them back to me, or else. I'm pretty sure that you saw me rip apart your entire crew with just my foot. I will not hesitate to do the same to you!"

"All right, all right," Chris said. "But on one condition: since almost my entire crew is gone, you will be my most of my crew from now on. You'll be performing even more than quadruple-duty."

"So, you forgive me and put me second-in-charge of this entire fucking ship right after I just killed them all with my foot?" Jake asked in a deadpan tone.

"Fourth-in-charge," Chris corrected. "I said almost my entire crew is gone, not all of them. There's still Marcus, the one manning the helm, the cannons, and the sails, and Donovan, the one in charge of, uh... keeping morale up. The others are all bumbling, incompetent idiots anyway, as they have just proven today. With that said, you will do all the duties that I have assigned to certain divisions of the entire crew. Everything, from latrine duty to night watch, at least until I can find new crew members." Chris walked uncomfortably close towards Jake, backing the biker onto the berthing that housed the captain's quarters, "And I mean everything, including the duties of the loblolly girls and wenches that we sometimes have onboard." Chris laid his flesh-hand on Jake's bare chest and leaned even closer to the biker. Jake caught a whiff of the pirate captain's strong breath that smelled of cannabis and rum.

"Captain! What the hell are you doing, you motherfucker!?" Donovan shouted from where he was, but Chris just ignored him.


"Uhh..." was all Jake could manage, being at loss for words at what was happening to him. He bit his lip as the pirate captain ran his good hand up and down his torso, a slight tremble coming out of him when rough, callused fingertips touched his nipples that stood proud in the cold of the night. In a fleeting moment of obliviousness, Jake dropped his now-empty pistol on the timber floorboards of the ship's deck, and Chris swiftly picked it up, performing a spinning trick with it on his hook that served as a prosthetic for his severed hand. Chris tossed it dexterously, the firearm landing on top of a nearby rum barrel.

"You wouldn't want to wear your clothes while they're still wet, right?" Chris drawled teasingly. "And with the way you're shaking," he teased the other man's nipples again drawing another tremble and a moan from Jake, "it seems to me that you do need some warmth after getting marooned on that island by your former crew during a heavy storm..."

"What are you talking about?" Jake managed to ask, regaining the last shred of his composure for a moment. "Former crew?"

"Oh, you know. Retribution Dead End? The pirate crew you used to be part of? Strange name for a pirate crew that seems to be from Spain or Portugal, though. They marooned you to that desert island, didn't they, Toledo?"

"Eh... Something like that, but I'm not really sure you'd believe me if I told you what really happened. And Toledo is my dad's name," Jake decided not to tell the pirate captain that his father's real name is William. "My name is Jake... Jake Conway."

"Very well. There's always a later time for tall tales, especially over strong, ice-cold rum in a tavern at a port town. But for now..."

Chris's flesh hand moved farther down from the other man's toned chest, going even lower than before to trace the sparse, but dark hair on Jake's treasure trail. He grazed the tip of his hook-hand against the angular juts of Jake's hipbones and on the outlines of his underwear, being careful not to wound the other man who had become pliant underneath his ministrations. And in one fell swoop, Chris sliced off the flexible bands that held Jake's flimsy underwear together, the Swiss Army knife that somehow managed to make it through the entire skirmish dropping to the deck floor with a thud. For a while, the wet fabric clung desperately onto the biker's skin, but Chris yanked it off with a quick motion and showed Jake the tattered, white undergarment dangling off of the hook that he had for a hand like it was the Jolly Roger of a captured pirate ship. Jake bit his lip and let out a soft, yet debauchedly filthy moan upon realizing that he's now naked and completely exposed to a man he just met, let alone one he met after his fucking pirate crew attempted to steal his stuff and sell them at the next port town, and at a time period that was much different from his own. He's wearing only his boots and his necklace with his dog tags that glinted in the moonlight, a small flashlight, and the ignition key to his motorcycle. Jake felt himself becoming erect.

"That easy, eh Jakey?" Chris looked the biker up and down, and he smirked at both the captivating sight of the other man's erection and the dirty sound that came out of Jake's parted lips. The pirate captain discarded the underwear that hung from his hook-hand, and then pressed his still-clothed body against Jake, his sparsely-hairy chest that was regularly exposed by the unbuttoned, puffy shirt he he wore by default making contact with the other man's flesh. "You hard already? Mmm... Yeah. You are going to love this..." He brushed his lips against Jake's stubble.

"N-not fair... You... you haven't even told me... Your... name..." Jake panted out, his body shivering as the pirate captain's slick tongue danced along his jaw and the hook-hand prosthetic lightly grazed his chest.

"Captain Christopher Raven," Chris introduced himself, punctuating his last name with a tweak of Jake's left nipple and a deep, sucking kiss that would leave a hickey on the side of his neck, eliciting another moan from the biker. He moved his flesh hand back down and began to pump Jake's already-hard cock, which was of an impressive length and girth. It was thick enough for Chris's fingertips to just barely touch at some points along the length of the shaft. Realizing that fact about this mysterious man, the pirate captain felt a pool of heat down his trousers- a heat more intense than what he had felt when he bedded any other wench on many a brothel that he'd traveled to, or when he seized those whores that they took to the ship when they plundered small villages for supply runs. "Just call me Captain," he said in a raspy whisper as he brushed his lips against the shell of Jake's ear.

Chris wrapped his arm with his good hand around the small of Jake's back, pulling the biker close to him and smashing his lips against the other man's own. Chris's kisses were rough and hungry, tasting of strong mead and cigars with a hint of cannabis. He pushed his tongue inside of Jake's mouth with force, eager to taste the other man. For a one-man army who was six feet tall and made of mostly hard angles, strong muscles, tattoos- basically testosterone incarnate, Jake's lips were, though slightly chapped from windburn, surprisingly soft and deliciously supple, very much like the ones of the wenches from back in Barbados and even more so than some of those whores. The biker tasted of beer and cigarettes, and he smelled of a mixture of seawater and a strong-smelling, yet weirdly pleasant substance that Chris was unfamiliar with, which was in fact gasoline, a fuel resource that wouldn't be tapped until much later. Their tongues battled for dominance inside of Jake's mouth, and when they eventually had to break it off for a whiff of the cool, night air mingled with ocean breeze, their lips appeared a bright red that glistened with the mix of their salivas even under the color-draining moonlight- wet, bruised, and well-kissed. Chris eyed the other man's still parted lips, and he felt a tightening in his chest along with an intensifying heat down his loins. Not wanting to drag on the anticipation for much longer, Chris grabbed Jake by the dog tag necklace with his hook hand and pulled him towards his bedroom. Although Jake could just maneuver himself off of the necklace, he moved with Chris towards the ship's great cabin with much less protest than he'd like to admit to himself.

The pirate captain pinned the other man against the wall, kissing him roughly once again. "I told you that you would be fulfilling the duties of a wench for tonight, didn't I?" Chris mouthed against Jake's neck. "Well, sometimes, we tie them up to the bedposts. Just like I will do to you. Worry not about the night navigation watch for now; Marcus and Donovan will take care of that. We should be by Bridgetown tomorrow morning." Jake wondered where this Bridgetown was. He made it a note to himself to ask the captain later on. After all, as a new crew member, it'd be better for him to know his bearings.

Chris grabbed both of Jake's wrists with his good hand and moved them upwards, further exposing Jake to him and leaving the biker completely at his mercy. Chris dove into the bed, taking Jake with him. Curiously, Jake found himself not protesting at all, letting himself bask pliantly in the sensations of Chris exploring more of his body, and in the comfort of the soft texture of the cashmere blanket underneath his back. As much as he refused to admit it to himself, he tingled with excitement and anticipation at what was about to happen.

Chris grabbed some ropes from above the headboard with his hook hand and tied Jake's hands to the two bedposts that flanked the headboard. He peppered some more soft kisses down the biker's jawline and the column of his neck that Jake had so willingly exposed for him, now slicked with sweat and saliva in contrast to the bitter cold. Jake could not let out any other sounds but wanton moans, and each moan sent vibrations from his throat to where Chris's lips still pressed against bare skin. Once the ropes were tight enough that a small bit of movement would scrape Jake's wrists against the tough sisal, Chris stood up and lit the nearby oil lamp, illuminating the room with a soft, golden glow that provided more visibility than the moonlight shining into the large, translucent windows. He then took off his own clothes as well, exposing a body that was as well-built as Jake's and a large expanse of smooth skin that was a sultry golden, light tan where the oil lamp shone its soft light.

For a while, he turned his back on Jake, not only to distract the other man with the firm roundness of his buttocks illuminated by the soft glow of the oil lamp and with how he looked wearing only a leather harness that crossed his naked back and arm, but also to examine his prosthetic, his one sign of weakness and vulnerability, from where Jake couldn't see him. He made sure that it was firmly in place; he decided not to take off his hook hand and the harness that held it together, even though the surgeon who made the prosthetic for him recommended he should do so every night to prevent the stump of his hand from becoming gangrenous. He knew that this was why he rarely took wenches upon himself compared to his men save for a few desperately lonely nights, but even at this point, at the back of his mind, he thought that there was something about this man, something special that goes beyond the mere fact that he was also male. This was not a good time to reveal his vulnerabilities and a large chunk of his past to a strange man- no matter how special he seemed to be for a fleeting moment- who would serve as his wench for just tonight.

It was only now sinking in within Jake's mind that he really was about to have rough sex with another man from another time period. He also just realized right then that it had been a while since he, or his partner, was ever really naked during sex. Closest he ever got to naked, well, a thong and pasties, was Suzi, a stripper- a statuesque, blonde babe with her way with a gun at that- whom he rescued from a lovesick, hippie psycho. Then again it was just a short conversation about King Dick's location. The last few women he'd really been with for one-night-stands in his previous journey were fully-clothed, just like he was, although most of them were wearing the same, but palette-switched outfit that basically consisted of a short unbuttoned denim vest, a thin bare-midriff top held together by a easily-unraveled knot between large breasts, short shorts, and calf-high boots that they still wore to bed. Yes, none of them even bothered to take off their shoes, just like he also didn't bother. But overall, they were scantily-clad enough that he could feel their hardening nipples and tender breasts through flimsy cloth that he didn't even bother to untie.

But the most memorable of them, one of those broads, Sarah if he recalled correctly, didn't even unzip her goddamned one-piece mechanic jumpsuit when she propositioned him for sex just after he killed her deadbeat of a now-ex-husband with his bare fists and a repetitive kicking motion. Judging by the unsettlingly artificial facial expressions that the women made when they were with him, he could tell that the sex had been emotionless, as though it was merely a mandatory ritual for him to do with every conquest. Perhaps they weren't even conquests at all; for some contrived reason, they just really threw themselves at his dick that never really went free of his tight pants whenever he bedded them.

Jake's thoughts went back to the now-naked, well-built man in front of him. Even as he was already tied to the bed without much protest on his part, he was still rather taken aback and dumbfounded that one of the first things he'd be about to experience in this new world was sex- sex with a man, the captain of a fucking pirate ship, no less- presumably in a time period when such relationships were known as sodomy, a word etymologically formed from the name of an ancient city that was supposedly destroyed by the Old Testament God because of its sinfulness and inordinate debauchery. Thus, these sodomites, these wretched, perverse men who have given in to unnatural relationships between themselves, must be likewise destroyed: such intimacies were beyond unacceptable, and they were punishable by some gruesome, protracted, bloody form of execution that made Jake's guns-a-blazing roaring rampage of revenge against the Devil's Hand seem diplomatic and humane in comparison.

And even in the time period when he came from, although homosexuals were no longer as much subjected to gruesome forms of death penalty as back in the time period he ended up in, same-sex attractions were not only considered to be sinful and evil, but were also considered to be inordinate states of mind, a form of psychopathology on par with schizophrenia. This was not exactly Jake's first time with a man, though; he had his fair share of secret romping with some of his (very much male) comrades back in the army when he'd be sent to a far-off place with only them for company. He remembered one of them, Corporal Elliot Tercorian, his best friend: a svelte blond, blue-eyed bloke whom he made out with passionately in the dead of night when they were supposed to be on watch, but they went no further than mutual handjobs underneath their uniforms and hickeys left on collarbones that could be hidden underneath fatigues during inspection, lest they risk a dishonorable discharge. He remembered how convenient it was for them to go without underwear in more ways than just the pragmatic purpose of increasing ventilation and reducing moisture, as well as reducing the amount of stuff to put in their footlockers. Unfortunately, Elliot became just one of the many tragic and statistical casualties in the Vietnam War. Just another body in a large pile of corpses.

Perhaps, it was just the loneliness that was starting to get to him. Four years away from home, six months training, and three tours could really take their toll on a man's psyche. For all he knew, men only wind up having sex with other men to sate their own innate, lustful urges when women simply aren't an option. To his knowledge, such perverse, anomalous relations happened in male-dominated places like prisons, seminaries, army outposts, and pirate ships. And when it comes to women, they only really did such things to each other to sate the fantasies of men, as with the case of Claudia and three other girls he'd been with at the same time, or perhaps as a way to grab their attention by giving them more times the eye candy they would have otherwise gotten with a typical session of sex with only one partner. Still, it was always about sating the uncontrollable male libido at the end of the day.

Every physical moment he had with his former army comrades, especially with Elliot, were merely ways to an end, nothing more. He never considered the possibility that two men or two women could really love each other in the same way that a husband and a wife do. Such an idea was deemed laughable and absurd at best, and a mortal sin, an abomination, at worst. He assumed that Chris thought of such relations in the same manner: as a last ditch attempt to sate man's natural, uncontrollable desire for sex. Chris had even said it himself: that Jake was here because he was performing the duties of a wench as a conditional through which the pirate captain would show him mercy and thus, afford him a chance to make a new life in this strange world.

Then again, fuck it all; this felt good. Jake's thoughts began to take a sharp turn when he realized that Chris went on top of him and started to grind their erect cocks together while looking down at him with eyes that burned with lust. It's too bad that the mentally-sound and the righteous would be missing out on such white-hot pleasures. Insanity and sinfulness do pay off in their own ways, after all. Chris was clearly an outlaw, anyway, and so was he. They weren't so different, as it turns out- Chris being a pirate, and Jake being a biker, characters that seemed to be each time period's versions of each other. They even looked somehow alike; both were well-built, athletic men who were at least six feet tall and had smooth, slightly-hairy, sun-kissed tattooed skin that accentuated well-defined muscles, and both even had heads full of raven-colored, shoulder-length hair, as well as some heavy stubble only slightly short of a full beard, with Chris's facial hair being moderately thicker than Jake's.