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It was a busier night than usual at the port side tavern. George didn’t have time to linger at any one place, too busy offering bubbling pints of beer to hearty travelers. One of his favourite parts of being a barmaid was hearing stories from other people’s travels, exaggerated hyperboles and all. In a depressing sense, he felt like he could live vicariously through others' excitement: experience their adventure as he was stuck in the monotony of his everyday job.
There was that old fellow with missing fingers and toes to match, who recalled tales of arctic colds and pure white ice, shivering unbearably in the cruelness of mother nature. There were also families as well, with little, bright-eyed children holding onto their parent’s glorious adventures, asking them to recite it again and again. George even caught a pair of twins play fighting with a couple wooden swords. Something about buried treasure and booming canons was squealed out amongst the clanging of their sparring.
Of course, as the evening blistered into nightfall, the customers that entered were different. Replacing the previous innocent, childlike wonder, were rowdy men and women, hooting and hollering for another round of alcohol with every passing minute. George couldn’t even recall how many drunken sailors he’s had to haul outside past midnight, nor the amount of times he’s been hit with the disgusting offers to join someone in their bedsheets. Still, months of working as a barmaid has made him immune to such displeasures. Now, he’s embraced the dichotomy between the morning and evening crowds, and has learned to appear perfectly desirable, yet painfully untouchable—a mirage of beauty in the haze of a drunken atmosphere.
Currently, George was humming as he vigorously scrubbed down the sticky residue of yet another table. He leaned forwards on his toes in order to put some of his body weight into the damp cloth in his hand. In response, he felt eyes on him—some more shameless than others—taking in his slim build, his long legs, and most of all, his pretty waist. George rolled his eyes.
Settled around him, underneath a shoulder less off-white poet shirt, was a most prized possession: an ornate navy blue corset, fitted with taut criss cross ties littered down the sides. It made him feel both dainty and pretty, as if he were some spectacle of the night. To more inebriated patrons, George was nothing more than a siren on land, a walking myth of beauty seeking out innocent men to devour in the caverns of the waters.
While some of his coworkers took great offense to such drunken gawking, George took their unfiltered attention in his stride. He didn’t dress like this for them; he dressed like this for himself. Though he can’t say he didn’t enjoy the power that he held over such weak willed men.
Later that evening, just when things were beginning to quiet down, the rickety doors burst open with such force it was almost flying off its brass hinges. Into the tavern sauntered a bunch of boisterous pirates, cheering and conversing loudly, probably high off the adrenaline of a victory. Even from behind the bar, George caught a whiff of gentle notes of ocean spray.
“Go grab us a round, Quackity.” A gruff looking fellow shoved his companion forwards toward the bar. George couldn’t help but notice shimmering gold hoops pierced through his ear lobes, just beneath his fluffy raven hair.
Gold earrings, George awed. Jewelry such as that was a true commemoration of a seaman’s voyages. George had half a mind to walk over and strike up a conversation, but not before meeting the poor bloke that had been sent on ale duty.
Quackity, he recalled, had both a leather eyepatch concealing his left eye and a Prussian blue doo rag settled over the majority of his hair. George was caught staring at the long, jagged slash of skin peaking out from underneath the eyepatch, before he returned to his senses and hurriedly began filling mug after mug of liquid as per requested. Beside him he overhears the tavern owner whispering to another woman, hushed discussions that he can just barely make out. Two distinct words manage to carry themselves over to his ears: the alias ‘Captain Dream’.
Once all the tankards were filled, Quackity gave him a friendly smile as he gathered the glasses in his arms and waddled over to where his crew sat at a dark oak long table.
And then George saw him. To be honest, he’s not sure how he missed their captain in the first place. The man is intimidatingly tall, and his broad build casts a lanky shadow beneath him under the dim lantern lighting, stretching over the floorboards as if reaching out to George personally. Settled upon his face, masking the features George desperately wants to see, was what he assumed to be a pure bone or quartz mask, etched out with two unsettling eyes and a horribly crooked smile.
In comparison to the simple earrings of the black haired male before, their captain had a whole series of golden hoops gradually moving up to his cartilage. It’s rather attractive. It’s painfully attractive.
George can’t tear his eyes away from the figure, not even when chills ran down his spine when the mask turns slightly to face him. Despite not seeing his face, George was sure his gaze was being reciprocated with equal, if not greater, intensity.
He was not sure how many minutes pass of this relentless staring, but soon the pirates, livened by the thrums of alcohol, break out into a beautiful sea shanty that George had never heard before.
“There once was a ship that put to sea, and the name of the ship was the Billy o’ Tea,” A saccharine alto voice started out, stringing along an uplifting verse.
In response, his crew mates began banging their fists on the table in time with the song. It made the mugs jump slightly, spilling ale that George knows he’ll have to mop up, yet he his foot seemed to move on it's own accord, tapping to the beat as well.
“The winds blew hard, her bow dipped down, blow, me bully boys, blow.”
Suddenly, everyone was joining in. As their flawless harmonies filled the air, a deep baritone voice resonates throughout the chorus, and the notes of his lower register strike something within George, a sharp sensation right in the lower part of his stomach.
“Soon may the Wellerman come to bring us sugar and tea and rum. One day, when the tonguin’ is done, we’ll take our leave and go.”
And then, with his eyes glued to the imposing figure, George watched in utter awe as their captain reached up well worn hands, unbuckled his mask, and set it aside.
Mocha eyes were free to roam the expanse of the pirate's face. They quickly drank up the sharp angles and handsomely defined features, and of course they don’t miss the stray scars intersecting in tragic patterns on his face. George thought he looked roguishly beautiful—a personification of perseverance and adventurous spirit in the face of uncertainty.
And then, as if he knew he was putting on a show just for George, he met him with a cocky upturned smirk once the chorus ends. From across the room, George can make out the sly twinkle in his eye, sparkling as if to say I’d like to do unspeakable things to you. And George would absolutely let him.
As those olive green eyes beckoned him in, transfixed him in a way that can only be described as witchcraft, the next verse of the shanty is drowned out. George keened under the intensity of it all.
Everything sounded muffled as the captain’s eyes slowly rake up and down George’s figure, pausing at his middle to scrutinize the navy blue corset accentuating his thin waist. He approves, George guessed from his reaction. Eyes sparkling with mirth, a string of smooth, rumbling notes fell from his lips as the chorus repeated—lips George wanted to taste. Lips George wanted to devour him.
For the rest of the night, George was more bold than usual. He leaned over just slightly more than necessary whilst cleaning the glazed tables. And if he swayed his hips more as he trekked back behind the kegs, jutting his backside out slightly, surely no one would mind—Dream certainly didn’t.
In fact, the man in question seemed to be amused with George’s subtle attempts at seduction. And that raw, unfiltered confidence only served to excite George even more.
Finally, it was nearing the end of George’s shift. He had flaunted about as he wiped tables, offered devious smiles when serving ale, even tightened his freaking corset right in front of him, and yet Dream remained frustratingly glued to his seat. His crew mates began exiting into the cool seaside air, probably retreating to the connected inn just next door for lodging. As they got up one by one, George became desperate. He beelined for the captain, who was currently fishing out a handful of coins from a small burlap pouch.
Just as he reached out to set the coinage onto the table, George sat himself down—right on Dream’s lap.
Despite his inital surprise, Dream’s unoccupied hand settles naturally around his hipbone in order to balance him. Similarly, George’s petite hands rested on the broad structure of his shoulders, covered by a forest green waistcoat. When he lowered his gaze, he noticed the deep V cut of his undershirt, allowing a tasteful glance of his chest.
George lifted one of his hands off to collect the change from Dream’s warm hand, thumbing the metal around in his palm to count the currency.
“No tip for me?” George giggled. Dream muttered some sailor’s curse under his breath in resignation, and George found his husky voice even more attractive than his singing one.
Wordlessly, George stood up and began walking towards a set of wooden stairs, leading up to his room. Dream trailed like a shadow, lingering all around him, electricity making the hairs on his arms stand erect.
Dream spoke in a low, lustful tone immediately once the door shuts.
“I didn’t get your name.” It’s not a question, it’s a command: Tell me your name.
“George.” he replied easily, a tingle shooting up his spine in compliance.
Dream circled around him like a hawk eyeing its prey. As his heavy boots tapped against the floor, George felt hopelessly pinned underneath his ravenous verdant gaze.
“You know George,” Dream whispered into his ear, pressing his chest lightly against George’s back. He liked the way his name sounded on the other’s lips. “We have room for one more on our ship.”
George felt weak in the knees, as if he could collapse at any moment under the palpable sexual tension floating in the room. He could hardly focus on the pirate’s words—not with his lips tantalizing close to the pale skin of his neck, and his warm breath caressing the tops of his exposed collar bones.
Two forces battled it out within him: one, his dignity and pride telling him to straighten up and push the pirate’s advances away, and the other, his sexual desires beckoning him to arch into his touch, to push his hips back just enough to coax a reaction from the other and offer the painfully unblemished expanse of his neck.
Ultimately, the latter won out, and George found sharp canines nibbling at his earlobe. Iron grip finds his hip bones easily, caging him in place. George’s voice struggles out a somewhat meek response, gathering the last of his attitude.
“What makes you so sure I’d be willing to take that one spot?”
The tease was thrilling. The electrostatic push and pull between them left George in a haze of arousal, clinging for any sliver of friction Dream would offer him. How far he had fallen from earlier this evening where he shamelessly poked and prodded at the captain, like some cat toying with its prey; now, he relinquished utter control and lost himself in the sea of dominance.
A soft mew of surprise worked its way up his throat as Dream relocated to his neck. He glided further and further down his porcelain slope, alternating between sharp nips and gentle kisses. George keened at the thought of blemishes blossoming over his skin, the light throbbing already making itself present. Soft mews fell from his lips. It made him feel marked, prized and possessed—as if he were the X on the map, the ultimate culmination that so many desperately sought out, yet so few obtained. Here, Dream’s intentions rang loud and clear: he had found and conquered, and now he was free to ravish the breathtaking riches before him, with every breath, bite, and kiss.
And then like the shifting tides of the North Atlantic, Dream abruptly retreated. He retracted his teeth, and instead drew his right hand up to meet George’s defined jawline, and he impatiently guided his face toward his. George’s composure had cracked away into dust somewhere amongst the sea spray aroma, and under a half-lidded gaze, he allows himself to be pulled closer and closer to delicious pink lips. In his hyper fixation, he failed to notice Dream’s other hand; strong, sneaky, calloused fingers glide across his spine, setting his skin aflame as they gravitated towards the ties at the back of his corset.
Right when their lips are about to meet, right before George could earn the satisfaction of tasting pale ale on the other’s parted lips, Dream gave the woven cotton strings a sudden harsh tug, the force eliciting a soft gasp from his lips as the air was squeezed out of him. Dream ate up the breathy pant with sadistic pleasure.
“I thought it looked a little loose.”
If George were in any other state, perhaps he could have offered a snarky flirtatious line back. However, Dream was relentless, and he delivered the butterfly softness of lips brushing lips—hardly a proper kiss—before moving his face away with a last victorious grin, leaving George to burn in the flames of sexual desire.
“Think about my offer. We leave at dawn.”
As Dream backed away, George couldn’t bear to turn around to meet his eyes. He could tell from his voice that Dream was smirking, satisfied with the overwhelming effect he had on him, with how quickly George had been reduced to submission.
With that, he strode out of the room, and George promptly dropped to the cold, wooden floor boards below, the whining creak resonating out into the silence. His corset dug deliciously into his sides, a prominent reminder of the touch of a certain pirate with a rough exterior and even hungrier eyes. For a brief passing moment, George imagined possessive hands claiming his sides, pushing him into the wall, the floor, the—
George had to physically shake himself out of his drunken stupor before he delved too deep into his own fantasies. Crackling fires licked at his abdomen.
That night, George thought long and hard about his future. Sure, working at the tavern offered stability and security, yet there was nothing really tying him here—nothing preventing him from embarking on the adventure of a lifetime. It was risky, and undoubtedly foolish to put his safety in the hands of a band of pirates, much less ones he had met for only a night, but deep down, he knew his mind was settled.
That night he dreamt of rocky waves, smiley face masks, and rough coarse lips on his own.
---
“All ready to push off?” Sapnap called from the port, lugging a huge barrel of oranges and lemons towards their ship. The rising sun painted the mahogany wooden ramp in a beautiful sheen.
“I’m just waiting for someone.” Dream responded coolly, watching the newly forming crowds of people below move about the port, setting up for the day. Sapnap shrugs before leaving the captain to his own devices at the edge of the dock.
---
George wasn’t used to waking up at the crack of dawn. Especially not when he had to handwrite a note to his boss on some old parchment, as well as pack his few treasured possessions into a small canvas bag. Into it, he shoved a spare change of clothes, an old leather bound journal he had been keeping, as well as a handful of gold coins.
With one last bittersweet glance at the tavern’s cozy interior, he set off running towards the docks, the wanderlust adrenaline fuelling his veins in the face of fresh saltwater air.
The ocean mist did pleasantly well to cool him down after his sprint, yet he was still catching his breath when he noticed a large sienna ship near the edge of the docks beginning to push off.
His blood ran cold. They were going to leave without him.
He ran faster than he ever had before—heeled boots meeting wet, slimy planks—and before he knew it, he was calling out to a familiar masked man about to board the ship.
“Dream!”
Dream turned around, right as George slipped on a particularly algae-invested spot, and he slid right into his arms. A firm sturdy grip came to rest on the sides of his arms, allowing George to regain his footing.
“You’re late.”
Even through the mask, his stupidly bemused smirk was heard in his words.
“Sorry, Captain.” George blushed, though by now his entire face was red with exertion.
A beat of comfortable silence passes as Dream scrutinized his beautifully flushed complexion, before leaning down to whisper right in his ear. “You might want to hide these.” He then reached a hand down to pull George's shirt slightly to the right, covering a garden of blooming mauve hickeys.
Skin still prickling pleasantly, Dream grabbed his wrist and led him up the plank to the deck of the pirate ship.
Ropes, pulleys, and all sorts of masts lined the surface, and George was hit with a thrilling sense of unfamiliarity. He had seen pirate ships before from afar, but this was the first time he was actually standing on one.
Dream commanded his crew to set sail, and took his place on the forecastle near the helm, directing the navigator onto their selected path. Authority suited him well, and George wouldn’t deny that he found it rather enticing.
Gripping the edge of the vessel with wet cedar beneath his fingertips, George watched as the ocean side town—his home for the last couple years—grew smaller and smaller, before it was nothing more than a speck on the deep blue horizon.
George felt a genuine excited grin stretch across his face, feeling giddy and weightless as he sailed into the next chapter of his life.