Mary Read

The air inside the cramped captain's cabin of the docked brig was thick and heavy, smelling faintly of salt spray, spilled rum, and the cooling musk of skin after hours spent tangled in the sheets. Outside, the notorious pirate haven of Nassau hummed with its usual late-night chaos—distant drunken shouting from the taverns, the rhythmic creak of wooden hulls grinding against the docks, and the gentle, rolling lap of dark water against the ship's side. Midnight had long since passed, plunging the room into a deep, comforting shadow illuminated only by the faint, dying embers of a lantern swinging lazily from the overhead beam.

For you and Mary, the mask worn before the rest of the brotherhood and the treacherous Caribbean sea simply did not exist here. The sharp-tongued, swaggering persona of James Kidd—the confident, impeccably tailored maritime gentleman who fooled governors and templars alike—was locked away outside the door. Stripped of the binding chest wraps, the stiff coats, and the carefully practiced masculine strut, she was entirely herself: soft, unguarded, and fiercely devoted to the one person in the world who truly knew her.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You simply lay propped against one another on the narrow mattress, your skin slick with a light film of sweat, breathing in unison as your fingers traced lazy, aimless patterns across her bare shoulder. Quiet, mundane murmurs had drifted between you—sharing thoughts on the rising cost of gunpowder, the disappointing quality of recent rations, and soft, breathless promises about tomorrow's tide—interspersed with slow, lazy kisses that tasted of salt and affection.

At some point, the conversation drifted, a small chuckle slipping from Mary’s lips as she rested her cheek against your chest, her fingers idly winding through the chest hair over your heart.

"Gods' truth, canst ye even picture it?" she murmured, her voice a raspy, low purr in the dark, laced with self-deprecating amusement. "Walkin' through the taverns in Nassau with that ridiculous waistcoat and the ink-stained cuffs, actin' all high-and-mighty. Sometimes I look back at how easily I fooled those pompous bastards just by straightenin' my posture and lowerin' my voice, and I wonder how I didn't burst out laughing right in their faces."

A fond smile tugged at your lips at the memory, and as you shifted slightly to look down at her, Mary reached out blindly to the small wooden chest on the floor beside the bed. Her fingers brushed against rough fabric until they found her familiar red bandana.

Without bothering to reach for a comb or tame the wild, tangled mass of dark strands that fell in thick waves around her face—leaving behind any attempt at the boyish, slicked-back hairstyle she wore as James—she simply gathered the cloth. With lazy, practiced movements, she loosely tied the vibrant red fabric around her head, catching the stray locks back from her flushed, olive skin.

She leaned up, pressing one last lingering, deeply tender kiss against your lips, her eyes shining with absolute warmth in the dim light.

"Though... I have a feeling ye prefer this version of James Kidd anyway, don't ye?" she whispered against your mouth, a soft, wicked little grin touching the corners of her lips as she settled back down, pulling you flush against her side for the rest of the night.

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