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George would say he’s adapted pretty well to the sailor’s life. Compared to life at the tavern, life on a pirate ship was just as tiresome and meticulous, if only in different ways.
Instead of memorizing the regular's orders, he was now learning jargon like ‘portside’ and ‘starboard’. Instead of cleaning sticky tables, he was swabbing mucky decks, the smell of salty water permanently ingrained in his brain. And of course, instead of casually flirting with drunken men, he was enticing the pirate captain—seductive pretty lips, slim cinched waist and all.
He’s met his fellow crew mates: the surgeon Karl, and gunners Quackity and Sapnap, who bring such lively spirits to the ship's atmosphere, they make even the most foul smelling cleaning duties enjoyable. Chores that were previously taxing and tedious were now suddenly filled with raucous banter and obnoxiously loud karaoke.
There’s also the cartographer and sailing master Callahan, who has never spoken a word, yet is amazingly accurate at both reading and drawing maps. And then there’s Bad, the cook who serves them hearty stews and sliced fruit, topped off with an amiable smile.
George could already tell that Dream’s ship was different than most. From rumoured tales and whispered gossip back at the tavern, he understood pirates to have a harsh hierarchy, an iron fist leader and poor enslaved boys working the engines. In reality, this was more of what George considered a family; at meal times, there were countless jokes and jabs at Badboyhalo, and even more chaotic bickering ensued from Karl and Quackity. It was a smaller ship—lively and quaint. It was perfect.
Though, there was one thing that George still hadn't figured out regarding life amongst the waves. And that was his sea legs.
It’s a little embarrassing, how he’ll be in the middle of a conversation, maybe helping preserve fish or fixing the sails, and whenever the ship hits a large, aggressive wave, George would nearly fall right over while everyone remains perfectly on their feet.
The first time it happened, it was at the ungodly hours of the morning when the golden tendrils of the sun barely stretched over the horizon. George, in his defense, was called to duty in a half conscious, sleepy daze, hardly paying any mind to the incessant rainfall that had slicked up the exterior of the deck mere hours before.
Small islands were approaching. Cerulean waves were gaining altitude. The anchor was being readied, and George—fell flat on his back.
Amidst his ragdoll flailing, a horrible mocking cry of laughter broke out. Quackity physically dropped to his knees and banged his fist on the floor, overwhelmed with hysterical, boisterous laughter. Sapnap and Karl were no better; for the remainder of the day, they continued to relentlessly tease him any time he so much as wobbled on the deck.
News spread through the crew pretty fast. By lunchtime, Bad was making teasing remarks while serving up oranges, and even Callahan tried faking him out with shoves and jumpscares, if only to see George tip right over his leather heeled boots.
After teetering over to his seat at the table, everyone else followed suit. George’s wipeout became the main topic of conversation, and he found himself scoffing and crossing his arms in poor defense of his wounded pride.
Captain Dream, who was directly across from him, was wheezing with laughter at every recount of the story. George silently wished he would choke on his fruit.
Eventually, the banter died down, and everyone left to return to their duties. George was just standing up (making sure to keep a firm grip on the back of his wooden chair) when Dream made his way over, bone mask in hand.
“Don’t pout, George.” He smiled, a twinkle in swamp green eyes, “I think it’s cute you can’t stand up straight.”
There was something sexual underlining in that statement; something sly and suggestive lying just below the surface. George just rolled his eyes in response, not falling for the others' antics.
The captain then outstretched a well-worn hand and ran his thumb over the sharpness of George’s jawline, before drifting back to his bottom lip, pulling it down ever so slightly.
Heart pounding in his ears, shallow breaths escaping his lips, George felt like he was quickly losing autonomy of his body, falling to putty in the hands of Dream—moulding to his touch, melting into his arms.
They always did this. Danced around one another like magnets: close enough to attract, but never enough to touch. He just wanted Dream to kiss him; kiss him hard enough he fell off his feet and collided into the flooring below.
“And George?”
Dream leaned closer and closer, and George could smell the citrus on his breath. Centimeters separated George from the kiss he so utterly desired.
“Hmm?”
“You should probably go help Bad clean up.”
The moment was broken. George snapped out of his half-lidded eyes and roughly pulled himself away from Dream, thoroughly frustrated.
“Fine,” he spat.
He began to stomp away from the other, childishly closing his hands into fists by his sides. However, in his tantrum, he forgot to remember that he still had not miraculously grown sea legs.
The seasoned timber beneath his feet rocked and swayed, and within seconds, his footing was slipping from underneath him. Flailing his arms, George braced himself for impact, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his face—only there was no fall.
Dream, gifted with godly fast reaction speeds, had caught him with one arm curled around his waist and the other latching onto his pale wrist. How he managed to move so quickly in front of him escaped his mind.
George just peered up into beautiful eyes, instantaneous warmth and security overshadowing his now decimated pride. Distantly, he noticed an equally as fond smile crinkling up the edges of the other’s eyes.
“I just noticed this, but you’re not wearing your corset today.”
George, spontaneously lacking his usual sass, blinks up at him with liquid chocolate eyes.
“It’s a shame you don’t wear it every day,” Dream taunted, "You look sexy.”
His hand courageously ventured lower past his hip, toeing into dangerous territory before George squeaked and smacked his hand away. The captain let out a smug smile, as if impressed by the challenge George was putting up, but he was fighting a losing battle—they both knew it.
Within seconds, a hand had wrapped around his back and pulled him flush against his chest. The distance between them was nonexistent, and that fact itself sent sparks flying through the atmosphere.
From where he hovered over Dream’s chest, he could make out a dull, thumping heartbeat drumming away in his eardrum. The world around him swayed to its rhythm.
Then a parting, blistering kiss was pressed on the corner of his lips, so painfully close to where George really wanted his lips. Before he could open his mouth to say something, Dream was turning on his heel and walking out towards the deck.
A resounding heartbeat remained in the background. George briefly wondered if it was his own, or if Dream’s heartbeat had already been ingrained in his mind.
Either way, the pounding beat eventually gave way to a thirst for payback. Dream had once again left him wanting more, yearning for attention. He wobbled with every crashing wave the vessel endured, steadily making his way to the cabin quarters below.
Two could play at this game.
---
Duties called at the crack of dawn, and George had acquired his mop and bucket for the job. His weapon of choice for today: a long layered ebony skirt. The length was longer in the back, allowing a tasteful window of pearl calves and shins in the front. Of course, to please a certain someone, he also adorned his signature baby blue corset.
The day was good. Quackity immediately started throwing flirtatious remarks his way, and Sapnap pulled off a wolf whistle when George scrubbed down the deck. His favourite part was when a biting breeze would rush by and catch on the skirt. It would send it fluttering, showcasing more of his slender legs, before dying down and restoring it to its former state.
Dream, glued to his spot at the stern, could only narrow his eyes at the show before him.
George made sure to mop every inch of the deck, with slow drags forwards and backwards. He could feel watchful eyes burning into the back of his skull and lower.
He was getting cocky. It reminded him of his time as a barmaid once again: feeling the pedestal he’d been placed upon, the beauty he’d been bestowed from the eyes of the beholder.
And then it rained.
When George had a broomstick to hold onto for support, or other crew mates near him he was relatively stable. But now that it was raining, he was left to his own devices.
Everyone but Captain Dream immediately found shelter underneath the deck. Meanwhile, the grip beneath his boots faltered with every shuffle step.
The first tumultuous wave rocked, and George started helplessly sliding towards the starboard. The ebb and flow of a second wave sent George oscillating back towards the port side.
Warmth and shelter were in reach—just a few steps away. The proximity made George’s steps speed up with eagerness. Caution was thrown into the wind in favour of efficiency.
Dream was standing there under the slight overhang, backlit by the hanging lanterns behind him, offering an outstretched palm. George thought he looked rather charming with slicked back hair and cute furrowed eyebrows of worry. The sheerness of his undershirt also licked flames at his lower abdomen.
Another wave interrupted whatever ogling George’s brain was doing. As the ship braved its altitude, George conveniently found his end of the timber boards raised, and inconveniently found his left foot without ground to stand on.
Before he could bash his skull into the hard floor, his knight in shining armour had caught him. There was a warm hand around his waist (funny how it always seemed to end up there), and also another hooked under his kneecap.
It was ironic: after weeks of dancing around one another, here they stood, in a low dip near the pouring rain.
“I’ve got you, princess.”
“Don’t call me that, you arse.”
Pet names or not, George still hadn’t given up his petty desire to get Dream to break first—to make him smash his lips against his own, and let him taste the stars of a thousand daytimes.
Dream’s hand dismissively caught under the hem of George’s skirt. It trailed higher and higher, daring to carve out desire and lust into the porcelain face of the other’s thigh. Blood rushed South, and George felt like his soul was being caressed from his body—floating gently amongst the water, lulling him into a fog of submission.
“You know George, you’re really testing my patience,” Dream whispered maliciously right into his ear. The subtle rasp in his voice sent something devious down his spine.
“And you’re testing mine.” George bit back.
“Aw baby, do you want me to screw you right here? Would you even be able to take it—you know, with your wobbly land legs and all.”
George scoffed. The words still conjured themselves in his brain: a well defined chest hovering behind him, bruising vice grip doubling down on his corset, skirt pushed up over his back.
A panting breath escaped his lips. But Dream leaned in further, spitting lustful words, “I’ll make sure you’ll never be able to walk straight.”
Dream walks away, but not before fixating him with one last carnivorous grin.
“Meet me at my quarters in ten minutes. Don’t be late.”
George knew he should have been mad that he’d just been blue-balled again, however it was hard to count this as a loss when he’d gotten a glimpse of the hardness in Dream’s pants. Mission accomplished.
---
George prepares himself for the visit: he slides off his corset, tugging at the strings and releasing his organs. It took valuable time and effort, but if this was going where George thought it was, he wanted to give Dream all the time in the world.
In exactly nine minutes, George was face to face with the opposing captain quarters. The winds were already picking up velocity just behind him, sending his hair and clothes whipping around him.
He knocked firmly on the wooden door. When there was no answer, he let himself in.
This was the first time George entered the captain’s quarters. The first thing he noticed was a queen sized bed, set upon an oak bedpost and fitted with mounts of fluffy blankets. Compared to the hammocks everyone else used, it was rather luxurious. There were other things, like a wardrobe of clothes and a desk of papers and trinkets. Still, the boat was rocking viciously, and George was swaying like a leaf in a hurricane.
When he felt the flooring beneath him begin to shift, he hopelessly slid towards the wall, barely managing to bring his palms up to brace himself.
The door behind him swung open and slammed shut with a loud bang.
Dream was on him in a second, grabbing his wrists and harshly flipping him around before pinning his hands above his head. George could see the fangs in his mouth, anticipating the sweet bite of release.
They had teased each other for weeks, just skimming the surface of bubbling sexual tension, and as a result, both of them were equally as volatile. So Dream, without wasting a precious second, finally crashed his lips roughly on George’s. He tasted vaguely of orange, but the subtle citrus was lost in the overwhelming pleasure that coursed through George’s body.
Rough, commanding lips breathed petal pink ones open.
George felt like he was made to play this part: to be vanquished with saccharine desire pitted with a heart of gold, tragically dismantled, only to be breathed back to life at the hands of a god.
It was sinful, how George obediently parted his delicate lips further, granting Dream entry to explore every crevice of his mouth. Tongue met tongue in a fierce battle of dominance, and yet soft, perverted moans were elicited from both of them. George managed to weasel his hands out of Dream’s binding hold, only to snake around his neck and tug on the golden strands.
Dream growled. And it was hot.
Invigorated by the taste of George, Dream harshly grabbed his waist and pushed him further up the expanse of the white walls, hoping to leave surprise bruises for tomorrow—little treasures of their escapades.
George wasn’t quite sure how he was even holding himself up, especially when they broke away, heavy breathes intermingling in the charged space between them. Another undulation of the vessel threatened to send him sideways, but as he felt his feet slipping, Dream slotted a thigh between his legs, both stabilizing him and rewarding him with tantalizing friction.
A sultry moan left his swollen lips, and Dream had the audacity to laugh huskily in his ear. Then, in a fit of impatience, he ripped the top of George’s shirt open, revealing a beautiful stretch of flushed alabaster skin, ripe for the taking. Uncontrollable gasps and groans spilled out of him as Dream worked his teeth underneath his jaw, down his neck and into the crook where his shoulder and collarbone met. It was more desperate than the first time; George could hardly contain his thoughts as the other nipped and teased him open. He took his precious time sucking marks into his skin, gracing each of them with a lick and gentle kiss.
“Dream,” George panted desperately, unable to do much more than tug on the captain’s hair. In retaliation, Dream thrusted his thigh sternly against George, who was quickly falling apart at the seams, whining and breathless, and hopelessly at Dream’s mercy.
His thumb ghosted over George’s nipple, rolling the bud between his fingers. He then pinched it harshly, unearthing a beautiful sacrilegious moan from lips above.
Their lips met again in a passionate, erotic flurry of force, and George thought he could kiss the captain for hours on end. Every waking hour of anticipation had been worth it.
He caught Dream’s bottom lip between his teeth, pulling and teasing the flesh slightly before letting it go.
It had the desired effect on the other.
Dream pulled away: panting, aroused, and angry.
“You’re such a brat, George.” A roar of arousal shot to his lower abdomen after hearing such a provocative insult on those unrestrained lips. Dream gave an arrogant smirk before continuing, “I should have done this when I met you at that stupid tavern.”
With that he scooped up George in his arms, walked over to the bed with the unparalleled balance of a man at sea, and threw him on the mattress.
George looked up at him under his long lashes, splaying himself out, inviting Dream to claim his stake, to mark his territory. Dream brought his shirt over his head, and pounced on George, connecting their lips again. Every second apart felt like minutes, and they were so caught up in each other they hardly noticed the developing thunderstorm pounding against the windows.
George felt Dream’s hips grind against his, the friction between their cocks erupting sinful moans from both partners. However, just before things could escalate, a bright flash of lightning and a booming clap of thunder caused George to instinctually clench his eyes shut and curl into himself.
He gently uncurled his face to meet olive green concern.
“Just… Scared of thunderstorms I guess.”
“Do you want to stop?” Dream’s voice was warm and comforting, gentle dulcet tones enveloping George in what can only be described as affection.
“No,” George breathed, looking up at the earnest expression painted across Dream’s face, “Distract me. Distract me from the storm.”
And he did.
Remaining garments were quickly discarded along the polished oakwood floor. George pleaded and cried and scratched Dream’s back, body consumed with soul-shattering pleasure.
The other’s name left his lips over and over again as he was brought to the edge, closer and closer to touching the heavens above. Dream was perfect; he was gentle when prepping George, caring and attentive to every one of his gasping expressions, yet he was still firm and rough, pounding him over and over with the immense pleasure he so desperately begged for.
Raindrops met glass like skin met skin, and sirens wept at the face of a superior song of praise—a euphoric melody—floating from their lips.
“Dream,” George cried, “I’m close.”
The bed frame creaked with every animalistic thrust.
“Me too, me too.” Dream whispered into his ear, relentlessly chasing their highs.
Red hot bliss washed over him, over and over, coating him with the luminescence of intimacy. They finished together, soulfully interconnected and beautifully entangled.
Then, huffing and puffing and enveloped in a glistening sheen of sweat, the captain laid down next to him and opened his arms invitingly. The crackling of booming seemed to be far in the distance as a small smile crept up on George’s face as he scooted into warm, secure arms. It was wonderful.
Dream’s embrace felt like wanderlust. The strong arms encasing him spurred within him sudden thrills of the unknown—fuelled him with the hazy nerves of uncertainty. And yet, the scent of ocean winds and salt-licked air also brought upon the indescribable warmth of coming home—the alleviation of belonging and unparalleled affection.
Dream was adventure and security wrapped in one being. And George was blindly sinking deeper and deeper into the great blue fathoms of unbridled love. However, if loving Dream felt like this, George would be thankful to drown in its bellows—thankful to surrender his last gasp of air to the enigmatic forces of Dream.
Unbeknownst to George’s inner monologue, Dream begins to fill the silence with random conversation. The swirling thunderstorm melts away into the words of a deep, comforting voice above him, going on about the complicated strategies of naval warfare, recounting terminology with passionate detail. Little circles were traced into his back, and with each soothing sensation, George finds himself pleasantly lulled into the inviting clutches of unconsciousness.
---
The next morning, George wakes first. His heart melts as he notices the captain’s characteristically messy hair, and uncharacteristically unguarded sleeping expression. He gently runs a hand through the tangles of honey, before wobbling out of bed.
Given that his shirt was currently lying as tatters on the floor, he helps himself to one of Dream’s ruffled shirts from the cabinet. It was loose and baggy as expected, and George felt giddy as the flow of Dream’s cotton swallowed him whole.
Gently, as to not stir the captain, he creeps out the door, teetering slightly from his spent legs—a demise he had condemned himself too. (He knew he asked for it, but gosh, did his legs feel like jelly.)
Right after cursing Dream under his breath, he turns around to meet a smiling Bad: cheerful, optimistic, and painfully innocent.
“Seems like you still haven’t gotten your sea legs huh?” Bad asks playfully. Behind him, Sapnap barks with laughter.
George, adorned in the captain’s shirt and exiting from the captain’s quarters, stared blankly back at Bad, unable to respond with an appropriate answer. In fact, the stark juxtaposition between Bad’s blatant ignorance, and Sapnap’s horrendously loud snickering brought blood rushing up to George’s cheeks.
“Sure, that’s why he’s falling over right now,” Sapnap snorts.
The door behind him creaks open once more, and George feels a tingling presence just behind him. In reality, George was sore. And Dream, now standing behind him, was surely proud, underneath his stupid bone mask.
“Good morning, everyone.”
George could hear his self-satisfied smile.
“Rocky night yesterday, huh?” Sapnap egged on, quirking up an eyebrow playfully.
Bad, still misunderstanding the tone of the conversation, “Yeah, that thunderstorm was pretty bad.”
George wanted to melt into the floor, slip through the floorboards and float out into the sea. Instead, Dream graced him with a swift kiss on his temple, before slipping on a mask of professionalism and leadership.
Sapnap delivered a swift elbow to his side once he turned around.
It wasn’t until next week when George finally got his sea legs (there were a few minor setbacks). George could now proudly flaunt his stride in front of the captain, daring to wear corsets and skirts alike, counting down the minutes until he saw him crack.
And then, post sex cuddles would drift him off into seas of dreams.
Days passed in the comfort of a real bed, on moving lands. This lifestyle, with all the quirks and combobulations that came with it, had quickly become his own. George finally felt like he had found home, housed in sea spray and leather boots, and a set upon a commanding smiley face.