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What Does One Do With a Drunken Sailor?

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"What Does One Do With a Drunken Sailor?"

Tortuga. Mid-Summer. Evening.

Levasseur had gone over the line some time earlier in the evening, as an overindulgent Frenchman would. Blood had too much vino himself, but the women of ill repute the French captain surrounded himself with were simply not that pleasing to his eye, or to his doctor's learned fastidiousness. Look, he told himself, tearing his gaze away from the offending feature, she has a boil on her nose.

Levasseur was not so fussy. He kissed the woman and tried to toss her towards his fellow captain, but the clumsy hands of a drunk threw her instead nearly into the remains of the evening's feast. Peter stood up, his head pounding somewhat at the sudden movement, and lifted the woman to safety. Then wobbled a moment, looking for the door. Things were spinning, albeit very slowly. Jeremy Pitt and a few of his men were out in the other rooms, with their counterparts from Levasseur's ship. He could hear the singing, though his pilot's voice was lately absent from the chorus.

Blood drew himself up, looking down at the French captain, reclining now with his head in the lap of a paramour. "My friend, I leave you..." Wobble. "In the capable arms of these ladies fair." Made a vain attempt to straighten his clothing, and pronounced, "I go to clear my head."

"No!" cried Levasseur with drunken amiability, struggling to stand and mostly succeeding.

"No!" the gaggle of ladies echoed, clawing at what they could of them both. Which was mostly one leg of Blood's and Levasseur's sash.

The French captain put his arm around Peter's shoulders and shook him, gesturing at the assembled assortment. "How can you leave us when there are such joys to be pursued as these?" He landed a sloppy kiss on Blood's cheek, then exhaled the scent of wine and brandy into Peter's mouth. His voice lowered, such as may be for a drunk. "Or do you prefer more masculine pleasures?"

Trust a Frenchman to turn everything into an innuendo. Blood was becoming more sober by the moment, it seemed, and successfully turned his counterpart back to the man's prey, or predators, perhaps, with a laugh. "Beloved ladies! Entertain my good friend. I go to check on my men and what remains of the town!"

There was assorted laughter at his exit.


Stepping out of the room he'd shared with Levasseur, Peter Blood found himself in a den of singing, drunken, seamen. Those who weren't singing were kissing someone or being kissed, and there seemed to be little regard for an equitable distribution in the sex of those involved.

"Mr. Pitt!"

One or two eyes goggled towards 'the daring Captain Blood', somewhat unsteady on his feet. He was mostly ignored by the singers.

"Mr. Pitt!"

There was an answering 'mrf' from his left. Blood reached a hand into a mass of...seamen...and tugged on a familiar collar.

"Peter!" Jeremy Pitt wobbled, emerging slowly. "Captain, I mean." Or at least, that's what it sounded like he mumbled.

Two unsteady men was vastly worse than just being unsteady himself. Both swayed as if on a pitching deck, but not as if on the same pitching deck. Blood gave a shake, in a desperate attempt to clear his head. It didn't help, much.

The singers got louder, finally spotting a standing audience. Jeremy veered left, Blood veered right, and somehow, they met in the middle. After a false start or two, the pair wound up pointed out, and circumnavigated the crowd to exit the tavern.

Then one or the other tripped and they landed in a tangle of arms and legs on the ground.

Peter Blood looked up to see another pair of drunks staggering past, and a seaman with his conquest for the evening. The pair veered off into the jungle, the woman cackling madly. The whole town was a den of iniquity, indeed.

Peter made it to his knees, then feet, tugging Jeremy up along the way.

What does one do with a drunken sailor? Blood levered Jeremy Pitt's arm around his shoulder, and encircled his waist with one arm of his own. Especially when drunk oneself.

"Hullo, Peter. This is a pretty picture." Jeremy was either talking to Blood, or, perhaps, the palm tree to their right.

"Come, Jeremy." He hoisted, wondering if this balancing act was going to work.

Well, apparently, one simply carries on. He half-carried, half-dragged Pitt off into darkness. The pilot was a little slighter than Peter, but still a hearty weight for a mostly-drunk captain to navigate.

The balancing act lasted down the street, a short incline towards the beach and their landing site, then collapsed, abruptly, in a shaded corner where the jungle encroached on the works of men. There was an oilcloth, and, of course, the ground, to break their fall. Blood had aimed the stumbling pair for one of the ship's landing boats. At least he made it to the beach. It was dark and warm, punctuated with a very light breeze coming in from the east.

"Peter." Jeremy waved a free arm, the other trapped under his captain. Their feet were somewhat tangled together.

Being the tropics, Blood considered, this was just as good a place for the pair to sleep off what needed to be slept off, as anywhere else. "Yes, Jeremy?"

"I'm glad you're here." The other man remarked conversationally. "I never thanked you for getting us out of Port Royal, to freedom."

"It was a group effort, Jeremy. Without your piloting skills, we could never have captured and kept a ship --"

"Ah. Ah." The arm waved him off. "Still. I should like to say thank you." Pitt levered himself up on his free elbow, face by Peter's. "Thank you." And then pressed his lips firmly to Blood's.

Oh. Oh, indeed.

Three things occurred to Captain Peter Blood simultaneously. One, that they were both quite drunk. Two, that Jeremy's lips were far softer than those of Captain Lavessuer, pressed against his cheek earlier. Three, that the life of a pirate captain was indeed a lonely one.

Oh. Oh, indeed.

He returned the kiss. Jeremy Pitt fell back down onto the bed of palm leaves, brush, and oilcloth, and he followed, pursuing the other man's lips as if chasing a Spanish frigate. His pilot's mouth was sweet with the taste of brandy, and he plundered it thoroughly.

Pitt moaned against him and Blood's head spun at the sound, completely unaware of the noise he made in response until Jeremy pointed out, "you purr like the ship's cat".

He pressed his lips to the base of the other man's throat, where his shirt was open, and licked there until Jeremy made a similar, cat-like sound. Blood struggled with Jeremy's shirt, tugging it out of the man's breeches, and sliding his hand on the other man's smooth chest.

"Yes", came the muffled whisper against his own lips. There was a hand on the back of his neck, and another at work at Blood's waist, pulling his own clothing adrift from its moorings. "Yes."

Emboldened, Peter's hand drifted downward, stroking the bulge waiting there. Another head-spinning moan ensued, and Blood was emboldened further. He freed the contents of Jeremy's breeches, caressing the other man carefully with his hand. His own breeches had grown uncomfortably tight, and pressed firmly against his pilot's trapped leg. Blood shifted, his legs sinking into position around Jeremy's lean thighs, and it took his pilot only a moment or two of drunken calculation to loosen their clothing further and press the flesh of Peter's groin to his own as firmly as Peter pressed their lips together.

He could not tell which was softer, more moist and tender: their mouths mated together, the gentle cries of the man underneath him, sound erupting against his own tongue, or the friction building between their hips. Everything was warm and fast and sweet as fine brandy, all at once.

Jeremy bucked and clutched harder as Blood began to stroke ever faster, then the other man stiffened. Pitt cried out against Peter's mouth, and warm fluid pulsed between them.

Blood slowed his pace, mouth still drinking in Jeremy's cries, which slowly became more langorous and open-mouthed against him. He stopped, relishing the pulse of desire coursing through his body, clearing away all the remaining cobwebs of too much wine, fatigue, and now, not enough of his pilot.

"Shall I take off my boots?" The other man whispered. Mr. Pitt sounded entirely too sober and practical, considering how the evening had started.

Peter thought a moment. "Too much work, my friend. Leave charting that territory until next time." He began to move again, gently, then with increasing speed.

Jeremy's hands surrounded him, thumb pressing against his very tip as Blood rocked back and forth against his caress. The other man bit lightly at the flesh of his collar, meeting his thrusts until Peter convulsed, his mind going out like the tide, on wave after wave of pleasure.

There would be a next time. Oh. Oh, indeed.