Saucy Side: Pirate Booty (Kent, Ferro, Ambrose, and Gray Version) (Patreon)

Moments inspired by: https://www.patreon.com/posts/66987476 

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Kent – Parrot in a Crow’s Nest

Kent’s favorite location on the ship is the crow’s nest. There, he kisses you so deeply that your back leans over the edge of the rail; only his arms keep you from falling. You feel dizzy, exalted, and a touch nervous. It is, after all, a very long way down.

Antigone swoops down on rainbow wings, her feet landing on your shoulder and her beak pecking at your ear. You and Kent briefly break apart, gasping for breath.

“I love you,” the parrot whistles. “I love you!”

Kent smiles softly. He’d hinted that he had a surprise planned, but you hadn’t anticipated him teaching Annie a new phrase. He reaches into his pocket and draws out a browned apple slice, which Annie delicately takes.

“I love you!” Annie squawks again. “So very-very much!”

* * * *

Ferro – Due South

Most the crew has long since gone to bed, but as navigator, Ferro uses the stars to chart the ship’s course. He wraps his arms around you, his head resting upon your shoulder. “So long we can both see the stars, we’ll always find our way back to each other,” he declares.

Back on land, you’re able to identify constellations, but out here the familiar patterns that you once memorized are lost amidst infinite lights. Night falls darker out at sea, so the stars compensate by blazing even brighter.

“I don’t recognize these stars,” you say.

“The trick is to find Polaris. Head towards the brightest star, and you’ll always be due north.” His embrace tightens, his breath against your cheek hot compared to the chill night breeze. You shiver.

“And if I want to go south?”

His hands glide down your torso, skimming past your stomach and hips. “That can be arranged,” he teases as you writhe beneath his touch. “After all, I love exploring.”

* * * *

Grayson – Yes, Sir

The ship’s first mate is so composed and calm, that sometimes it takes all your effort not to reach up and muss his sun-streaked hair. You want to tangle your fingers through their strands, trailing your hands downwards to the neatly ironed collar of his shirt. You want to tear open fabric and nibble your way down his . . .

“How are we on supplies?” From the hint of exasperation in his voice, it’s obvious that this isn’t the first time he’s asked you the question.

You clear your throat and manufacture a look of innocence, as if you’d been paying attention all along and not contemplating the oh so many delicious ways in which you could ruin Grayson Black.

“We’re well stocked,” you say. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

His Adam’s apple jerks at your words, and the muscled shoulders under his perfectly-laundered jacket tense. Well, now. Isn’t that interesting?

“Nothing else at the moment,” he says, his voice pitched lower than usual. “We’ll arrive at the harbor by tomorrow morning, so you can go ahead and open up the last keg tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” you murmur, unable to suppress your smirk as his pupils widen at the honorific.

His mouth opens, but no words emerge.

“Will that be all, sir?” you ask.

Fully aware that you’re doing this on purpose, he gives you a pleading glare.

You grin. "Should I stop, sir?"

He growls and pulls you close.

* * * *

Ambrose – Clear the Deck

Any poet that claims a life at sea to be romantic has clearly never been aboard a ship. Below deck is cramped and so dark that some of your crewmates, despite being in possession of both eyes, wear patches to keep one eye in a permanent state of night vision. The main sleeping area offers no privacy, no doors to duck behind. Nevertheless, you and Ambrose manage to do what pirates do best: steal. Kisses, in this case.

Ambrose, the devil, makes a game of it, grabbing you when you’re least expecting. He presses you against the mast beneath the moonlight, his lips making you forget that you’re within view of the crow’s nest lookouts should they choose to glance down. He pulls you into the captain’s quarters, ordering you to keep quiet as he sweeps you off your feet and onto the desk.

Your favorite stolen moment, however, comes when Ambrose, frustrated by your lack of alone time together, orders the rest of the crew onto the deck. It needs to be cleaned, he claims, ignoring their knowing smirks. Quartermaster’s orders.

You and he remain below, and your shared hammock sways to the rhythm of the waves and his touch.