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Annie started it, as usual.
Not that Mary minded. She was always the more sensible, laid-back one, not that that was saying much. Annie wanted to settle down on the island with all those antiques they’d looted, so Mary adapted to life off a ship. Was adapting. Was planning to adapt. She still kept her hand in with some hunting, and every Friday night she went out to the local pub. If the right arsehole walked in, there was a pretty good chance a fight could break out.
And then … you blinked, and a year had gone by, and then another, and Mary realized that half the time, she was the right arsehole who was there to start a fight.
It was just shit, yeah? Living on land. Not being anybody anymore, not having a purpose. Part of her wanted to go back to sea, but part of her knew that wasn’t a fucking option anymore, because that was the whole point of retirement, right? You walked away from piracy because you were too damn old. Was living out the last years of her life doing nothing but watching Annie coo over old furniture worse than getting shot because she’d thrown her back out after landing on the deck of a nice fat merchant’s ship?
Maybe.
Annie was feeling it too. Mary could tell. She was itchy, staring out the window all the time, distracted. Counting the silverware all the fucking time, like someone was going to come in and steal it. Obsessively moving the furniture around — like having the chairs by the fire and the sofa in the window instead of the other way around was going to suddenly make it so their lives weren’t completely fucking boring.
Even the sex was boring. Ten years ago, she’d have said there was no way that could happen — but here she was. It wasn’t the aging that was the problem, you feel her, the sagging and the squishing and the wrinkles were fine, it was just … the same. All the time. In their big stupid fucking antique bed, at night, rote, mechanical. She used to come to Annie covered in blood after a raid, taking her hard and fast on top of the loot, and now if she’d been hunting earlier in the day Annie would wrinkle her nose and ask her to take a bath first.
They were having some boring sex one night, Mary leaning up against the pillows and Annie reaching between her legs, when something changed.
Annie’s fingers weren’t doing much, partly because Mary’d been in a bitchfit all day and partly because she wasn’t fucking trying very hard, and so then Annie had rolled her eyes and made one of those little remarks she thought were cute and crawled down between her legs. At least when her mouth was working she wasn’t talking.
And after a minute, Annie shifted over and kissed the inside of her thigh, which was — kind of cute, she hadn’t done that in a long time. Neither of them had, had they? Mary felt a pang of guilt, like maybe it was her fault that they were the way they were, before she practically lifted off the bed with a yell because, FUCKING HELL, Annie had chomped down in the same place with her fucking biters and who did that? Who the fuck did that to a person?
“What the fuck?” she managed, and half sat up to look down at Annie where she was stretched out on the bed. Annie looked right back up at her, those gorgeous eyes glinting, and pushed three fingers up her twat, which was actually dripping now.
“Look at you,” Annie cooed, working her fingers in and out. “You like that?”
And Mary couldn’t say anything for a minute because the obvious retort was no, she didn’t fucking like someone sinking their teeth into her leg when she was trying to relax, but she did actually like it. Or maybe like it wasn’t the right word — she needed it. That hot spike of pain (was she bleeding? Christ) was kind of like when she’d been stabbed a bit back in the day. It was how you knew you were alive.
Annie sucked a little more of that soft, unprotected skin into her mouth, gave it a little tonguing, and then bit down again, and this time Mary just let herself ride it. She gasped and canted her hips up, and Annie giggled around her mouthful before licking her way back to where her own fingers were filling Mary’s cunt. It was clear what was coming, but Mary forced herself to relax and pretend it wasn’t, to get that same surprise again. When Annie’s lips found her clit, explored it, sucked it in, she waited patiently (for her) until Annie’s teeth scraped along it and then bit down, and then bucked hard into her mouth.
“Oh, you absolute bitch,” she moaned, working her hand into Annie’s curls, holding her in place to muffle the complaint she knew was coming about her language. For someone who liked dirty talk, Annie could be fussy. “You fucking — Christ, your teeth.” She yanked at the curls, trying to rip out a handful of hair and making Annie pull back.
“You love it,” Annie said, panting, giggling a little, and Mary had a flash of her ten years younger, spitting a guard on her sword and looking wild and free.
“I fucking don’t.”
Instead of saying anything else, Annie got back to business, and when Mary came she felt at least ten years younger. Like fucking fireworks going off between her legs. When Annie climbed up her limp body, she looked almost shy, soft and delicate — she was a minx, she was, always that blend of ladylike and madwoman that Mary’d never found in anyone else. Pulling her in for a kiss, Mary tasted herself on her tongue, along with a hint of blood.
“You little devil,” she said into Annie’s mouth, and felt her answering laugh more than she heard it.