your name is ORPHANER DUALSCAR, and you are having an excellent afternoon.
"Good afternoon, Dualscar."
She sounds serene, unruffled. Orphaner's only consolations are the knowledge that her wrists must be bloodied under those cuffs from her numerous and futile attempts at escape, and how lovely she is with her hair plastered to her face, drenched in seawater and sweat. He can almost taste the salt.
"A good afternoon indeed, Marquise." He walks a slow half-circle around her, taking in her stillness. She's in pain. "The spoils retrieved from your ships will decorate the Imperial House quite nicely, as they did once before."
She smiles with her teeth, all bright white behind her blue-black lips. "I'm glad to hear it. I'm sure Her Imperial Condescension will reward you handsomely."
The sneering implication makes his fins flare embarrassingly. Mindfang's eyes don't miss the subtle flexing of muscle. Her grin widens; his face heats, and he doesn't know why he won't just kill her here and now, chained to the wall of his hold like a bone-crunching howlbeast.
She doesn't know why he won't, either, but she knows he won't, and that's enough for her to keep pushing, keep grinning. She does.
"Perhaps she'll allow you to kiss her webbed feet? Lick the salt from them?"
He licks the salt from her face. She only turns her head away, as if mildly inconvenienced.
"You taste resoundingly of defeat, my dear Marquise," he speaks into her ear. He is rewarded with her gallant struggle against a scowl.
For another moment, he drinks in the victory, the Marquise and the sound of the ocean all around, the faint noises of the crew up above, the silence of the cannons. She's a thousand kinds of beautiful, all of them sharp and tinged with saline and blue blood.
Her horns are exquisitely shaped, if asymmetrical, and Orphaner reaches up, wrapping a hand around one of them. They're too large to be really sensitive, but she goes very still all the same. He rubs his thumb between the prongs of the left, then reaches up and slides a finger under the hook of the right. Mindfang sucks air through her teeth and bares them.
He won't kill her, but there's little else he won't do. The sea is peaceful, the crew is busy, and the Gamblignant in front of him is wayward and begging for it.
He begins with that jacket, just ostentatious enough that he can't say he hates it. In fact, it would be a pity to cut it off of her, and as docile as she seems at the moment, he isn't stupid enough to release her from her bonds, even for an instant. He opens the jacket and cuts the shirt beneath, revealing suede-smooth skin from that jutting collarbone to her trim waist.
Her belt is the next to go, and her impassivity as he strips her down is almost unnerving, and decidedly unarousing. When she lies in front of him, nearly-bare, and the heat in his bonebulge is beginning to ebb, he grabs a horn and brings himself in front of her.
"Your mouth, if you will, Marquise."
She grins again, like a porcelain howlbeast trap, and it's a relief.
"So much trust you place in me, Dualscar."
He smiles in return, all those rows of china-white razors glinting in the dim light. "I trust you've the common sense to keep those teeth at rest."
She does, at that: her lips close around him prettily, the ridges on his bulge dragging her tongue as he presses inward. She swallows, chokes, and the very tips of her front teeth graze his skin. He hisses a warning.
"If you make me bleed, I will make you bleed." He lowers his head as far as his horns will allow, this close to the wall of the hold, and tells her where he'll put his bonebulge then.
Admirably, she shows no more resistance, instead lavishing attention on him with her tongue, apparently eager. He knows it to be nothing more than an act, thinly veiling disgust, and the thought goes straight to his bulge.
He guides her head with her horns as he reaches behind him, down to her seedflap hidden by only the thinnest veneer of cloth, which he envisions to be stained blue, as wet as it is. He rips it away, wringing a high-pitched sound from her throat, and buries his fingers in her folds.
The noise she makes is muffled, but it grabs him by the horns and won't let go. He presses deeper into her throat, choking her again, and he doesn't retreat until her eyes start to flutter.
She gasps, pants, and glares, positively vibrating with indignation.
"You taste like seawater."
"So do you," he says, sounding infinitely more pleased about it. She meant it as an insult, of course, but it's a weak one, against a sea-dweller.
He lifts her off the floor, kneeling below her, and looks up into her face as he lowers her onto him. She looks cold as the abyss, her jaw only tensing just so as his ridges bump through her opening. Such control, such elegance. He wants to unravel it, thread by thread.
His claws dig into her hips, deep indentations threatening to well with blood. He picks her up and lowers her back down, thrusting up to meet her. It's gratifying, watching her breasts and hair bounce, watching her battle her most intimate expressions. It's maddening and it heats him from the inside out.
But it's nothing compared to what comes next.
She keens, high and throaty, and the sound wraps around his bulge and squeezes tight. He can't even mask a startled expression when he looks up.
The Marquise is gazing down at him, lashes low, lips parted over gleaming teeth and panting whimpers. She arches her back, twisting her wrists in their fetters, and bears down on him, moaning deep in her throat.
"Harder, Orphaner," she breathes, and his name falls from her mouth like a lucky throw of the dice, scattering when it hits the deck.
God help him, he fucks her harder, the chains on her wrists rattling and every one of her breaths coming with a high, sharp whine, cut off by the force of their bodies slamming together. She lowers her head and their horns catch, rub together, and it's like a lightning rod catching every jolt of electricity and running it straight down the center of his body, pooling low in his stomach to spark there like a livewire.
"Deeper," she murmurs next.
He twists his head, jarring their horns together, and hisses, "There is no deeper, Mindfang." He's bottoming out inside of her, the opening of her seedflap spreading as wide as it can to take the very base of him with every stroke. His thighs and hers are slick with pale blue.
"Faster," she whimpers, without a hint of the snarl he expected. "Faster faster faster please-"
He can't get faster fast enough; her pleas grow feverish along with his body as he picks up the pace, his rhythm erratic now.
She's frenzied. "Oh God oh God oh yes- Orphaner-" and there's his name again, broken and throaty and it's all he can do not to give it up right then-
He jerks back from her, but before the tip of his bulge clears her opening, all eight nautical miles of those legs come wrapping around him and drag him back in. He freezes, her skin popping under his claws, blood spilling over his fingers, and tenses every muscle in his body just trying not to come.
"You crazy bitch, you'll make me-" He snaps his mouth shut when he hears what she's whispering, frantic, like a mantra.
"Inside me inside me inside me please just- please come inside me fill me up-"
It's the filthiest thing he's ever heard, and he almost can't believe it. Marquise Spinneret Mindfang is asking - begging him to use her as a bucket.
She grabs onto his horns with both hands and forces herself down onto him as hard as she can, writhing and desperate, and she says his name one more time before he snaps. He closes his jaws over her shoulder, azure blood spilling into his mouth, and he fills her up. He can feel her warm fluids and his own hot seed spilling back out of her, around his bulge. It's sick and he's completely wrecked with it, shuddering and jerking against her. She strokes his horns throughout, until every touch is like a hot brand and he tries to jerk away.
Then she tightens her grip.
"You sick, sick waterbreather," she says. She sounds awed, amazed, and there's a grin in her voice that makes his fins flare. He looks up into her face, dread now joining every heavy beat of his pulse in his extremities.
Her hands are free, her wrists bloody and bruised, and though her face is flushed and her thighs soaked, she looks nothing like the mewling, delirious mess she was just seconds ago.
Fuck.
She lifts herself off of him, blue-violet trickling down her legs and dripping from her seedflap, and flips him with his horns to pin him against the wall. His muscles are too weak to resist, his legs still shaking, and he finds himself chained to the wall of his own hold, his bonebulge still out, the mess drying on his skin.
She pulls her pants back on with nothing beneath, and sheds the shirt, wearing the jacket over bare breasts. She smiles that million-watt smile the whole time.
"A good afternoon indeed, Dualscar," she croons, and then she's gone, leaving the undignified shipwreck of a captain for his crew to find.
She sounds serene, unruffled. Orphaner's only consolations are the knowledge that her wrists must be bloodied under those cuffs from her numerous and futile attempts at escape, and how lovely she is with her hair plastered to her face, drenched in seawater and sweat. He can almost taste the salt.
"A good afternoon indeed, Marquise." He walks a slow half-circle around her, taking in her stillness. She's in pain. "The spoils retrieved from your ships will decorate the Imperial House quite nicely, as they did once before."
She smiles with her teeth, all bright white behind her blue-black lips. "I'm glad to hear it. I'm sure Her Imperial Condescension will reward you handsomely."
The sneering implication makes his fins flare embarrassingly. Mindfang's eyes don't miss the subtle flexing of muscle. Her grin widens; his face heats, and he doesn't know why he won't just kill her here and now, chained to the wall of his hold like a bone-crunching howlbeast.
She doesn't know why he won't, either, but she knows he won't, and that's enough for her to keep pushing, keep grinning. She does.
"Perhaps she'll allow you to kiss her webbed feet? Lick the salt from them?"
He licks the salt from her face. She only turns her head away, as if mildly inconvenienced.
"You taste resoundingly of defeat, my dear Marquise," he speaks into her ear. He is rewarded with her gallant struggle against a scowl.
For another moment, he drinks in the victory, the Marquise and the sound of the ocean all around, the faint noises of the crew up above, the silence of the cannons. She's a thousand kinds of beautiful, all of them sharp and tinged with saline and blue blood.
Her horns are exquisitely shaped, if asymmetrical, and Orphaner reaches up, wrapping a hand around one of them. They're too large to be really sensitive, but she goes very still all the same. He rubs his thumb between the prongs of the left, then reaches up and slides a finger under the hook of the right. Mindfang sucks air through her teeth and bares them.
He won't kill her, but there's little else he won't do. The sea is peaceful, the crew is busy, and the Gamblignant in front of him is wayward and begging for it.
He begins with that jacket, just ostentatious enough that he can't say he hates it. In fact, it would be a pity to cut it off of her, and as docile as she seems at the moment, he isn't stupid enough to release her from her bonds, even for an instant. He opens the jacket and cuts the shirt beneath, revealing suede-smooth skin from that jutting collarbone to her trim waist.
Her belt is the next to go, and her impassivity as he strips her down is almost unnerving, and decidedly unarousing. When she lies in front of him, nearly-bare, and the heat in his bonebulge is beginning to ebb, he grabs a horn and brings himself in front of her.
"Your mouth, if you will, Marquise."
She grins again, like a porcelain howlbeast trap, and it's a relief.
"So much trust you place in me, Dualscar."
He smiles in return, all those rows of china-white razors glinting in the dim light. "I trust you've the common sense to keep those teeth at rest."
She does, at that: her lips close around him prettily, the ridges on his bulge dragging her tongue as he presses inward. She swallows, chokes, and the very tips of her front teeth graze his skin. He hisses a warning.
"If you make me bleed, I will make you bleed." He lowers his head as far as his horns will allow, this close to the wall of the hold, and tells her where he'll put his bonebulge then.
Admirably, she shows no more resistance, instead lavishing attention on him with her tongue, apparently eager. He knows it to be nothing more than an act, thinly veiling disgust, and the thought goes straight to his bulge.
He guides her head with her horns as he reaches behind him, down to her seedflap hidden by only the thinnest veneer of cloth, which he envisions to be stained blue, as wet as it is. He rips it away, wringing a high-pitched sound from her throat, and buries his fingers in her folds.
The noise she makes is muffled, but it grabs him by the horns and won't let go. He presses deeper into her throat, choking her again, and he doesn't retreat until her eyes start to flutter.
She gasps, pants, and glares, positively vibrating with indignation.
"You taste like seawater."
"So do you," he says, sounding infinitely more pleased about it. She meant it as an insult, of course, but it's a weak one, against a sea-dweller.
He lifts her off the floor, kneeling below her, and looks up into her face as he lowers her onto him. She looks cold as the abyss, her jaw only tensing just so as his ridges bump through her opening. Such control, such elegance. He wants to unravel it, thread by thread.
His claws dig into her hips, deep indentations threatening to well with blood. He picks her up and lowers her back down, thrusting up to meet her. It's gratifying, watching her breasts and hair bounce, watching her battle her most intimate expressions. It's maddening and it heats him from the inside out.
But it's nothing compared to what comes next.
She keens, high and throaty, and the sound wraps around his bulge and squeezes tight. He can't even mask a startled expression when he looks up.
The Marquise is gazing down at him, lashes low, lips parted over gleaming teeth and panting whimpers. She arches her back, twisting her wrists in their fetters, and bears down on him, moaning deep in her throat.
"Harder, Orphaner," she breathes, and his name falls from her mouth like a lucky throw of the dice, scattering when it hits the deck.
God help him, he fucks her harder, the chains on her wrists rattling and every one of her breaths coming with a high, sharp whine, cut off by the force of their bodies slamming together. She lowers her head and their horns catch, rub together, and it's like a lightning rod catching every jolt of electricity and running it straight down the center of his body, pooling low in his stomach to spark there like a livewire.
"Deeper," she murmurs next.
He twists his head, jarring their horns together, and hisses, "There is no deeper, Mindfang." He's bottoming out inside of her, the opening of her seedflap spreading as wide as it can to take the very base of him with every stroke. His thighs and hers are slick with pale blue.
"Faster," she whimpers, without a hint of the snarl he expected. "Faster faster faster please-"
He can't get faster fast enough; her pleas grow feverish along with his body as he picks up the pace, his rhythm erratic now.
She's frenzied. "Oh God oh God oh yes- Orphaner-" and there's his name again, broken and throaty and it's all he can do not to give it up right then-
He jerks back from her, but before the tip of his bulge clears her opening, all eight nautical miles of those legs come wrapping around him and drag him back in. He freezes, her skin popping under his claws, blood spilling over his fingers, and tenses every muscle in his body just trying not to come.
"You crazy bitch, you'll make me-" He snaps his mouth shut when he hears what she's whispering, frantic, like a mantra.
"Inside me inside me inside me please just- please come inside me fill me up-"
It's the filthiest thing he's ever heard, and he almost can't believe it. Marquise Spinneret Mindfang is asking - begging him to use her as a bucket.
She grabs onto his horns with both hands and forces herself down onto him as hard as she can, writhing and desperate, and she says his name one more time before he snaps. He closes his jaws over her shoulder, azure blood spilling into his mouth, and he fills her up. He can feel her warm fluids and his own hot seed spilling back out of her, around his bulge. It's sick and he's completely wrecked with it, shuddering and jerking against her. She strokes his horns throughout, until every touch is like a hot brand and he tries to jerk away.
Then she tightens her grip.
"You sick, sick waterbreather," she says. She sounds awed, amazed, and there's a grin in her voice that makes his fins flare. He looks up into her face, dread now joining every heavy beat of his pulse in his extremities.
Her hands are free, her wrists bloody and bruised, and though her face is flushed and her thighs soaked, she looks nothing like the mewling, delirious mess she was just seconds ago.
Fuck.
She lifts herself off of him, blue-violet trickling down her legs and dripping from her seedflap, and flips him with his horns to pin him against the wall. His muscles are too weak to resist, his legs still shaking, and he finds himself chained to the wall of his own hold, his bonebulge still out, the mess drying on his skin.
She pulls her pants back on with nothing beneath, and sheds the shirt, wearing the jacket over bare breasts. She smiles that million-watt smile the whole time.
"A good afternoon indeed, Dualscar," she croons, and then she's gone, leaving the undignified shipwreck of a captain for his crew to find.