They polish their guns together on the deck, in the small hours when there is nothing to see but mist and distant lights like lanterns. They already use their weapons in the most punishing conditions possible; too, the seasalt air can be corrosive on the metal if it isn’t regularly cleaned.
Yggdra’s profile is haloed in unearthly colors in the weird glow of the mist. They wind up working on the gatling gun together because there’s so much more of it to polish; it usually ends in their giggling into their sleeves.
Yggdra wears elaborate clothes: Long heavy skirt, silk stretched over herringbone in her corset, ribbons in her hair, everything held together in a multitude of little belts. It is beautiful but very hard to take off, hard even to adjust or pull askew, so when it is not nighttime it is often Elisha’s more practical vest and blouse that are unbuttoned, the cups of her bra peeled down for Yggdra’s fingers or mouth to roll her nipples;
Most often it is Elisha sitting at her desk gazing out at nothing in particular with her legs balanced over Yggdra’s shoulders, and Yggdra’s tongue wet and smooth in her pussy, soft lips rolling over her clit.
Yggdra likes to leave braces of hickeys like rubies in the inside of Elisha’s thighs, the soft and vulnerable spaces that have on more than one occasion pushed her into wet and fluttering orgasm. They trail down past the hemline of her short skirt, and she wears black tights to cover them, shy of showing off such jewelry in front of the others.
When she braces Yggdra bent over against the wall her long skirt flows down like a waterfall, the big round curves of her ass white as white and the swollen rim of her labia red as red.
But she likes it better at night, Yggdra on her back with her legs spread wide so that Elisha can watch her stomach muscles jump, her heavy breasts roll, the little pink flicker of Yggdra’s tongue against her lips in between gasps for breath. She likes the feel of thrusting, forgets the itch of sweat under the straps that keep the dildo in place, makes Yggdra come loudly and softly until they’re both wet and exhausted of their positions.
“I wish I had a cock,” she says, “I want to know what you feel like inside when I fuck you,” and Yggdra fastens the straps around her own hips and pins her down against the mattress, Elisha’s legs trapped under her arms, Elisha’s mouth covered with hers, the wet dildo sinking into Elisha like silk, filling her up.
Yggdra wears a honeysuckle perfume in her hair and baubles at her ears and throat. When they raid old temples and uncover documents they sell the dusty things to universities and Elisha spends the excess money on little gifts, antique earrings and once a small basket of strawberries which she arranged along her naked skin, balanced against her stomach and the seam of her thighs, bidding Yggdra to go ahead and eat them;
And Yggdra uses her share of the spoils to buy Elisha boxes of neat bullets, and Elisha is glad that Yggdra knows her better than anyone else in the world; they fuck until daybreak because they can, because they are pirates with bodies young and virile and a lust as deep as their hunger for freedom.
It is bright around the cities but at night on the water is the only time that they can see the stars clearly, a dizzying host of jewels and pearls that reflect on the waves; even if they are too far out to sea for land to be visible in any direction they are never lost.
The sun creeps up and the mist starts to rise; they wipe the sweat and cum from their bodies and head to the storage holds. They polish their guns together on the deck, in the small hours when there is nothing to see but mist and distant lights like lanterns.