Rating: NC-17/NSFW/Explicit for fisting, incest
Warning: None of the challenge-required warnings apply.
Teaser: "I'd give you my whole hand, if you would but give me your leave."
Lenna never knows how this happens so quickly. She only knows that she comes to the Captain’s room—she comes to the Captain’s room, and Faris steals both time and breath from her. It starts with a simple kiss, though after only these few weeks, she barely remembers the time when kissing was simple, something she could do with her lips only. Something she could do once and be well and calm and easy. When her mouth touches Faris’s, everything is well, but nothing is calm.
"This is piracy.” Lenna backs away, but she knows she backs toward Faris’s narrow bed. Perhaps, on the bed, Faris will disrobe, too, will take her pleasure as Lenna does. There’s no time to think on it much because the Captain’s boots are a firm thump on the floorboards, and Faris undoes the fine cravat at her neck, the one that hides the smooth female fineness of her throat. Lenna takes another step back, pretends to lose her balance as the bedframe touches her calves. Faris follows her lightly, knows the fall to be a ruse.
“You’d have to have something you weren’t willing to give me freely for it to be piracy.” Faris’s left hand touches the inside of her knee, and Lenna feels her cunt heat, moisten. Her cheeks heat, too, and certainly Faris knows why. Her fingertips stop after only an inch’s slide; Faris kneels between her spread legs—spread already, waiting, wishing, what would their father think—and inhales. Lenna wishes she had not been so bold, wishes she had left her underthings on. Faris’s grin is both sharp and kind, and her lips hover an inch from her knee.
“Giving freely, or are you even close to begging me to take?”
“Faris.” She doesn’t know what she means by repeating the name only, but it is Faris’s name that comes easiest to her throat.
“Hm.” Her voice is low, heated, still beside her skin, and now her hand slides upward, finds Lenna bare, wet. When Lenna parts her legs an inch more, Faris’s own breath spikes—Lenna hears it—and they both make the same wanting sound when two of Faris’s fingers slip in deep.
“You’ve wanted this.” Faris moves up, props herself over Lenna, and though she keeps her hand where it is, she doesn’t move her fingers.
“All day.” Every day. “Since first you had me.” She can’t remember what it was like not-wanting. She knows it happened. It doesn’t bear thinking about, not now, not with Faris here, the quiet of the room. Faris still doesn’t move her fingers, and Lenna tries to hold still, but her hips rock a little bit against her will.
Faris’s lips brush her jaw. “I have you still.” Her fingertips curl upward the slightest bit, and Lenna puts her hands on Faris’s arms, both to hold and to hope, to pet at the fabric of her sleeve.
Lenna nods, arches into Faris’s hand. It’s shameless, the way she ruts herself on Faris’s fingers, that she imagines, too, Faris’s mouth on her there, which has happened before, even while she does this. But there is nothing in Faris’s demeanor to discourage her. Faris’s fingers spread, and the wider stretch is new. Lenna bites her lip to keep quiet as much as she can; the walls of this inn, of all inns, are thin. She bites her lip, but she tugs up her skirt with one hand, curls her leg around Faris’s hips. “Please, Faris.” She wants—she wants Faris to have her, to fuck her—the rawness of the word still sharp even in her mind—with fingers or her tongue, to leave her shaking and sated. At her asking, she expects, too, that Faris will give in.
What happens is that Faris eases a third finger into her, and then her hand is wholly still again until Lenna rocks against her fingers, until the three is four, until she clutches at Faris’s shoulders. The fullness thrills her, and Faris’s thumb is pressed to her mound, against the dense curls, until she has to screw her eyes closed and gasp. When she opens her eyes, Faris kisses her hard, her tongue sure and deft.
Lenna cannot help the way her body clenches around Faris’s fingers, and the pressure of it begs more. Something lights behind Faris’s eyes. “Would you have more, little Lenna?” Her teeth catch the edge of Lenna’s ear, then she licks over the path. “Would you have my whole hand?” Her twined fingers flex, gently.
Lenna can only gape for a moment, and Faris plunders her mouth again, twisting her wrist slightly. When she pulls back, Lenna is still near-confused by the question. “It’s possible?”
“More than possible, love.” With her free hand, she pushes Lenna’s skirt up so that the whole of her is exposed, so that Lenna can see herself. “You’re nearly there.” Lenna’s throat goes dry at the sight of it, and she pictures what it would look like, Faris’s whole hand inside her. She cannot even think what it would feel like, though she shifts again to see the half-inch of movement, to feel the hot drag. She swallows, and Faris’s mouth settles by Lenna’s ear again. “And you want more, don’t you, little sister?” Her tongue laps wetly beneath her jaw. “I’ll give it you, fill your sweet little cunt, if you would but give your leave.”
Every time Lenna believes herself used to the strange combination of Faris’s formal phrasing and bold vulgarity, a new instance makes her blush, even if blushing at words is a silly thing to do when she is so…compromised. She blushes, but she nods, too.
Faris pulls away. Lenna reaches for her, but the pirate captain—which is who Faris always is, no matter who her father is, no matter the company she keeps—is always too quick. “Eager kite,” she says, grinning, and she locks the door, takes a vial of something from her bag before she returns.
Lenna remembers seeing the broad-winged red birds over the sea, their talons locked, and she remembers how innocently her cheeks had heated when Bartz had made some casual remark about their vigorous mating habits. Now, all she can do is think yes, curl her own fingers into claws to catch at Faris’s clothes.
“Undress with me,” she says, and she opens the ties of her blouse. “Please.”
Faris hesitates a moment, and Lenna knows that there is a certain force of habit in that, so used to staying clothed, to taking her own pleasure privately, but what secrets are between them now? Faris nods, then, and she kneels between Lenna’s legs again. The sheer nearness of her makes Lenna’s blood heat again, but Lenna finds the buttons on her shirt, tugs loose the binding beneath.
Soon, their clothes are shed, and Faris kneels close, licks her bared cunt until Lenna nearly writhes, but she stops before the moment of crisis, stops and kisses Lenna to share the sweet, dense taste. When this is done, or at least the next time, Lenna thinks, she will do this to Faris, use her mouth to bring her off. She will beg if she has to.
Faris puts the vial in her hand. “We’ll need a bit more slick for this.” And she holds out her right hand with a captain’s assurance, and all Lenna can do is rub the light oil over Faris’s fingers, her palm, and, with hands nearly shaking, the fine bones of her wrist. At this, Faris makes a low, wanting sound, a near-growl, and Lenna lets her fingertips drag, leans in to lick, just for a moment, between her fingers before spreading another sheen of oil over her skin.
She lies back, thinks that the more proper thing would be to close her eyes, but she cannot stop watching. As before, the first three fingers are easy, and Faris holds there, stroking softly until Lenna feels she can spread her legs no wider, cannot make her want more known.
Faris’s grin is beautiful and wicked, so sure. “You need to wait for me, lass. I promise you’ll be pleased if you do.” Her fingertips are cruelly still.
“Hurry, then.” That’s likely not wise, she knows, and Faris’s fond headshake says as much.
“Hollow and pretty,” Faris says, and her fingers and thumb fold together, tease inward. The fleeting pressure of her knuckles makes Lenna want to push down harder on them, but she cannot move, cannot think, and Faris ducks, sucks sharply at her nipple. The contact is brief, almost hurting, and Lenna moans.
When Faris lifts her head, Lenna says, “So fill me.”
The rough noise in Faris’s throat gives voice, Lenna thinks, to what they both feel, though the process remains slow, meticulous, calculated. Lenna understands, too, the reason for the maddening pace—when the width of Faris’s knuckles crest her, no matter that Lenna can feel how carefully she moves her hand, how purposeful the rounding shape of it, when it happens, it still stretches into ache, and Faris praises her as it happens.
“That’s my brave girl,” she says, and Lenna feels the rest of her hand slide forward, carried as though by some strange force, and then she is one astounding fullness, Faris’s whole hand fisted inside of her.
Faris reaches with her other hand to support Lenna’s shoulder as best she can, to encourage her to inch up, to look. There she is, spread wide around Faris’s wrist, and maybe she whimpers, but she reaches, too, to pull Faris closer, to kiss her. She is both afraid to move and desperate to do it, to know what it will feel like, and Faris keeps talking.
“Strong little Lenna,” she says. “You have me now, mine and thine.” Her wrist twists a quarter inch, and Lenna pants. Faris pulls back, and she is watching that minute motion, watching it close. “Another time, lass, when we’re on the water, I’ll show you pleasures else.” Faris licks her lips, and for the first time, her free hand lights on her own skin, just briefly, the movement serpentine up her own thigh.
Something ripples in Lenna’s memory at the words, the way Faris had slipped into the sea once, swam out with Syldra and came back to the ship hours later, wet and sloe-eyed and spent, but it’s gone then in the pressure inside her. “Please” leaves her mouth again, and Faris shifts her hand more, carefully, until Lenna rocks her hips, until there is a near inch of Faris’s wrist disappearing and reappearing, until the pleasure wracks and rakes her, everything raw and dizzying. The room fades to a blue-black ocean, and Faris’s hand petting over her stomach makes her re-open her eyes to the lamp’s dim light.
“Aye, lovely.” Her lips are a heated caress. “Be brave for me again.”
It doesn’t hurt, not the way that Lenna knows hurt, not in any of the ways she expects, but it feels like all of her nerves are aflame, rasped through with feeling, and when Faris’s hand is free, there are no sensations in her head or in her heart to give words to it. She wants to reach for Faris, but her body is limp, and suddenly, she feels a chill.
Faris slides up to lie beside her, gathers her close with her hand, still slick-sticky and strangely hot—with her own heat, Lenna realizes—as she pulls the sheet and blanket over them both. Lenna curls around Faris’s hand, kisses its back, and Faris’s long limbs surround her, warm her through. They are all bare skin and Lenna trembles at the heat, at Faris’s nakedness around her, at the promise Faris left hanging in the air between them.
Lenna bends her head, and Faris kisses the back of her neck. When Lenna closes her eyes again, gives in to the sleep Faris urges on her, it seems the whole bed sways as softly as the belly of a ship on the sea..