Chapter 3: The Great Storm
The hold of the Sea-Nymph's Revenge smelled of damp rope, tar, and the faint sweet rot of cargo that had not been packed quite as well as the manifest promised. In a dim corner behind a stack of crates marked "Glassware: Handle With Care," Scruffulus had arranged a nest of sailcloth and old blankets, and there he and Elophelia had spent most of the voyage so far. The wizard's beard was tangled, his robes were discarded somewhere in the dark, and his long cock was slick with her juices as he drove into her from behind. Elophelia lay on her swelling belly, her small firm arse raised to meet each thrust, and she let out a series of little squeaks and whines with every motion of his hips.
"Faster," she breathed. "You're a wizard, for fuck's sake. Cast a spell or something."
"The only spell I know for this involves a lot of patience," Scruffulus grunted, gripping her hips. He was not a young wizard, and his knees ached against the deck planking, but Elophelia had a way of making him feel like a spry apprentice again. Her cunt was hot and grasping, and every stroke dragged a gasp from her red lips.
Then she made a face. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait."
Scruffulus faltered. "What? Did I-"
"Crumbs," Elophelia said, with the kind of fury only a woman who had her parents and husband executed could summon. "There are fucking crumbs in my cunt."
She twisted around, and sure enough, a cluster of crushed ship's biscuit crumbs clung to the lips of her sex, pasted there by a mixture of sweat and her own slick. She plucked one out between thumb and forefinger and held it up. "I told you not to eat those salty bastards over me. They get everywhere."
"You were the one who demanded the crate be brought closer," Scruffulus protested.
"I demanded you bring me nourishment. Not a bakery."
Elophelia sighed, flopping onto her side and spreading her thighs. "Fix it. Lick me clean. That's your penance, wizard."
Scruffulus leaned down, obliging, his tongue broad and flat against her. She tasted of salt and arousal and a faint whisper of biscuit, and he worked his mouth over her folds, gathering every crumb with the tip of his tongue. Elophelia sighed, wriggling, one hand buried in his tangled hair.
"That's better," she murmured. "Oh, that's much better. Don't stop."
He did not stop. He licked her until she was panting and his beard was soaked, and then he crawled up her body and slid back inside her with a groan. Elophelia wrapped her legs around him, nails raking his shoulders, and began to work her hips in a tight, demanding rhythm.
The ship rocked. Rocked more than usual. Scruffulus, lost in the grip of her, did not notice the first shiver that ran through the timbers. Elophelia did not notice the way the lanterns swayed and spat. They were busy, the frame of the ship groaning beneath them as they moved together, and when the first great wave struck the hull with a sound like a hammer on a drum, Scruffulus jolted and nearly lost his balance.
"What the hell was that?" Elophelia snapped.
The ship tilted. Hard. A crate slid across the hold and burst against a rib, spilling something wet and dark across the planks. The lanterns swung violently, and the whole vessel shuddered as another wave struck. From above, muffled by layers of timber, came the sound of shouting, and then Brutehilde's unmistakable bellow, barely human, carrying through the deck like a war horn.
"ALL HANDS! ALL HANDS, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS!"
Elophelia shoved Scruffulus off her with a strength born of fury. "Oh, for the love of- we were in the middle of something!"
But Scruffulus gently pushed her down again. "We still are, my sweet. They called for all hands ... cocks and cunnies are exempt."
"But ... what about the storm?" asked Elophelia.
"Roll with it," grinned Scruffulus. "Now hold on tight - you're in for a wild ride!"
On deck, the world had become a chaos of black water and screaming wind. Captain Nell clung to the wheel, her boots braced against the deck, shouting orders into the teeth of the gale. Rain lashed across the planks in sheets, and the sea beyond the rail was a mountain range of moving water, grey and white and hungry. The cliffs of the coast loomed to starboard, so close the crew could hear the surf smashing against them, a dull continuous thunder beneath the howl of the wind.
"Reef the mainsail! Reef it, you useless sea-cocks!" Nell shouted.
The crew scrambled, fighting the sodden canvas. Polly Panzerfaust had lashed herself to the mast and was hauling on a line with every ounce of her strength. Tulip Pudenda stood at her side, soaked to the skin, trying to shield her pregnant belly from the spray with her own body.
"Hook yourself to the rail, you daft woman!" Polly roared at her.
"And leave you to fall overboard? Never!"
"All hands to the port side! Trim the sheets!" came the cry from forward.
Grakthor appeared at the top of the companionway, on a crutch, one leg bandaged from his tumble out of the crow's nest. He blinked rain out of his bovine eyes and looked around.
"Port side!" someone shouted. "Port, you great walking steak!"
"Right, right," Grakthor muttered, and promptly lurched in the wrong direction, hobbling toward the starboard rail.
"Port, you idiot! The other side! Not that port! Starboard, port, the left!"
"I'm going left!" Grakthor bellowed, and kept going right.
Brutehilde caught him by the scruff of the neck, her iron-plaits swinging as she hauled him bodily toward the port rail. "Left is that way, you walking wall of shite! When I say port, I mean the side that isn't the one your arse is pointed at!"
Grakthor blinked. "But... the sea's coming in on this side."
"That's because we're listing, you ox-brain! Now get to that line and pull, or I'll pitch you overboard and let the fish have you!"
Honeymuff, six inches of sodden pixie fury, flew up to Nell's shoulder, her wings beating furiously against the rain. "The hold is taking on water!" she shrieked. "It's coming through the seams! The wizard and the scary lady are down there but they're not doing anything to help!"
Nell bared her teeth. "Dravion! Where's that lute-bothering parasite? I need every spare pair of hands!"
"Aboard, Captain!" came Dravion's voice, thin and wavering as he staggered up from below, his dark face pale. "I was composing a lament for the sea's cruelty, but I find myself uninspired. The sea is simply being a bitch."
"You're on bucket duty! Find a bucket and start bailing, or I'll have you compose your next poem at the bottom of the sea!"
The hatch to the below-deck accommodations burst open, and out of the swirling maelstrom of rain and spray emerged a vision so incongruous that for a moment the crew forgot they were all moments from drowning. Wee Minnie, Brutehilde's tiny sister, had somehow manoeuvred her tea trolley up the companionway steps, one hand gripping the brass rail, the other steadying a towering silver urn that steamed merrily in the face of the storm. Her apron was spotless. Her bun was neat. The wheels of her trolley squeaked a bright, cheerful rhythm that cut through the howl of the wind like a tune from a music box.
"What in the nine hells is that?" Nell shouted, rain streaming off her tricorn.
"A nice cup of tea for everyone!" Minnie called back, her voice as pleasant as if she were serving a summer garden party. "The kettle's just boiled! I thought you'd all be gasping!"
A wave crashed over the weather rail, sending a wall of white water across the deck. It hit Minnie square in the back, but she merely staggered a step, adjusted her trolley, and carried on as though she'd merely been nudged by a passing dog. The hot water urn gurgled defiantly.
"Tea!" she sang out. "Tea for brave sailors! Come and get it while it's hot!"
Honeymuff flew down from Nell's shoulder and hovered in front of Minnie's face, dripping wet and shivering. "You're insane! You're absolutely bloody insane!"
"That's what they said when I opened my first tea shop aboard a pirate ship full of cannibals," Minnie replied cheerfully, pouring a stream of dark steaming liquid into a tin cup. "Everyone said it couldn't be done. Two years later, they were all drinking my chamomile blend and fighting over the last custard cream."
The ship lurched violently, and the cup she had just filled flew from the trolley, spun through the air, and emptied its contents into the ocean. But Minnie had already produced another cup and was pouring again, her feet somehow planted wide, her centre of gravity a miracle of nature.
Polly Panzerfaust, lashed to the mast, watched the proceedings with wide eyes. Another crate-sized wave slammed over the bow, and when it receded, she was soaked to the bone, gasping, but alive. She shook her head and let out a laugh that was half sob. "You know what? It's the thought that counts. That's what I say. It's the thought."
Tulip shoved a strand of wet hair out of her face and squinted at the short, fat tea lady. "Do you think she's a storm spirit? Maybe she's the sea's way of apologising?"
"She's my sister," Brutehilde bellowed, hauling on a line that would have snapped a lesser ship's rigging. "And she's always been a few crumbs short of a full biscuit tin. Minnie! Get below! You'll be washed overboard!"
Minnie paid her no attention whatsoever. She was already weaving between the crew, her trolley nudging through the chaos like a duck through reeds, pressing a tin cup into every available hand. The cups filled instantly with white foam and freezing salt water the moment they left her kettle, but she seemed not to notice, and her smile never wavered.
Nell stared at her. The captain's hands were white on the wheel, her world reduced to the grinding forces of wind and wave, and there this strange woman trotted about, offering biscuits that were instantly reduced to soggy paste by the spray.
"Biscuit?" Minnie offered, holding out a tin that was already half full of seawater.
Nell could not find words. She just stared, jaw working, as Minnie beamed up at her.
Then the ship crested a wave and dropped, and the deck tilted on its side. Grakthor, who had been lurching toward the port rail with all his navigational bewilderment intact, found himself sliding instead toward the starboard rail, his crutch spinning away from him, his huge hands grasping at air.
"Whoa! Whoa!" he bellowed, his eyes wide. The rail rushed toward him, and beyond it, nothing but black water and roaring wind.
A tentacle shot out from the oilskin-wrapped shape that had been standing motionless by the mainmast, braced against the weather. It wrapped around Grakthor's chest with the speed of a striking snake, and the minotaur jerked to a halt inches from the rail, his hooves skidding on the wet deck. The tentacle held him fast, thick as a rope, unshakeable. Grakthor blinked, looked down at the thing coiled about his torso, and then looked up at the oilskins.
"Ta," he managed, panting.
The oilskins inclined slightly. Another tentacle, thin and delicate as a thumb, extended from the wrappings and presented a tin cup to Grakthor's face. The cup was full of seawater, but the gesture was unmistakable.
Grakthor took it, utterly bemused. "Er... cheers."
The tentacle retracted, and the oilskins swayed slightly with the motion of the ship. It was, Nell would later reflect, the most civilised exchange she had witnessed all storm, and it had involved an interplanar horror and a minotaur with the navigational sense of a turnip.
"Everybody get below!" Nell roared, yanking the wheel hard against the shifting sea. "Polly, Tulip, get to the hold! You too, Honeymuff! You're both carrying cargo! You're too small to help on deck, pixie lass, get out of the spray!"
"Your tea!" Minnie protested as the ship lurched again. "You haven't finished your tea!"
"I'll have it later, Minnie!" Nell shouted. "In the calmer sea!"
"Oh, very well," Minnie said, clearly disappointed. She began the laborious process of turning her trolley around, squeaking through the chaos, determined to return to her kettle before the storm stole her courage.
It took her three attempts to get the trolley down the companionway steps, and every time she disappeared below, a wave would slosh over the deck and she would reappear, drenched but undeterred, pushing forward with the same cheerful smile. At last, she was gone, and the hatch slammed shut, and the crew was left alone with the storm.
Nell allowed herself a breath. The cliffs loomed to port, so close now she could see the white foam of the impact at their bases. The wind screamed through the rigging. But the ship was still whole, still answering the wheel, and somewhere below decks, a kettle was whistling, and a wizard and a serial killer were probably still fucking through the storm.
"The sea can throw whatever it wants at us, boys and girls," Nell muttered under her breath. "We've got tea and a minotaur who can't find his own arse. We'll get through this."
Nell felt a faint heat against her cheek before she heard the giggle, a sound that cut through the storm's roar like a chime made of pure mischief. Honeymuff, who had been told in no uncertain terms to get below, was instead hovering directly in front of the captain's face, her wings a blur of iridescent light that somehow held steady against the gale.
"Captain!" the pixie shrieked, grinning wide enough to show all her tiny teeth. "Permission to ride the wind?"
"Permission denied! Get below, you daft little-"
But Honeymuff was already gone, a speck of bright colour that shot upward into the black sky, and Nell's shout was swallowed by a crack of thunder so close the deck vibrated. The pixie spiralled up the column of air rising off the bow, her arms spread wide, her drenched dress plastered to her six-inch frame. She laughed as the wind caught her, tossed her sideways, and she tumbled through the spray like a leaf in a hurricane.
"Whoooo!" she howled, barely audible. "Again! Again!"
The storm obliged. A gust slammed into her, and she rode it like a surfer, skimming the crest of a wave before shooting upward again, her wings snapping open to catch a rising current. High above the deck, above the snapping rigging and the angry sea, she hung suspended for a dizzying moment, looking down at the ship pitching below. She felt the wind's hands on her, rough and demanding, and she moaned at the sensation, her thighs pressing together. The storm was wild, and wild was her favourite thing in the whole wide world.
She swooped down, zigzagging between the masts, and caught a glimpse of It below, its oilskins streaming water, one tentacle anchored to the deck. She blew it a kiss before the wind tore her away.
"The clouds are getting angrier!" she shrieked, swooping back to Nell's ear. "But there's a gap in them, north-west! A pocket of quiet, I can feel it!"
Nell squinted through the spray. "You're either full of shite or a bloody miracle, pixie. Point me at it!"
Honeymuff spun, pointing a tiny finger toward a patch of sky where the lightning flickered less, where the clouds seemed thinner. Then a gust caught her and she was gone again, tumbling over the rail, and for a horrible moment Nell thought the little menace was overboard.
A tentacle snaked out, plucking Honeymuff from the air an inch above the churning water. She giggled as the oilskins reeled her in, depositing her gently on the shoulder of It's wrappings. She patted the slick fabric gratefully.
"Thanks, big guy."
The oilskins made no sound, but a delicate tentacle extended and gently patted her head.
Nell hauled the wheel, aiming for the gap Honeymuff had indicated. The ship groaned, timber protesting, but slowly, grudgingly, the Sea-Nymph's Revenge turned her bow toward the quiet. The waves still towered, but there was a break in the violence, a place where the storm seemed to hold its breath.
The sea rose and fell, rose and fell, and the ship rode each swell with a shudder, but slowly the water grew less savage, the wind less murderous. The cliffs, still close, still threatening, began to fall behind. And there, in the distance, the grey sky lightened.
"We're through it," Nell whispered. "By every god that ever shat on a sailor's head, we're through it."
She looked at the oilskinned shape. "We're miles off course, but at least we're in one piece to find it again."
The oilskins inclined, and a tentacle gestured toward the starboard side, where the water was a lot calmer.
Nell laughed, a wild, cracked sound. "Honeymuff. You magnificent little slut. You found us a safe passage."
"I found us a safe passage and a shag-worthy gust of wind, Captain," came the pixie voice, faint but cheerful, from the shoulder of the oilskins. "See? Always worth keeping me around."
The storm was dying. The wind still screamed, but it was the death-cry of a beaten thing, and the waves, though still huge, were losing their fury. The ship limped on into the approaching evening, battered but intact, and as the sun went down, the sea fell suddenly, impossibly calm.
Nell sagged against the wheel, letting out a breath she felt she'd been holding for hours. She looked around the deck. Polly and Tulip were huddled together, soaked and shaking. Grakthor sat on a coil of rope, his crutch retrieved, his bandaged leg propped up. Brutehilde was inspecting rigging, her iron plaits gleaming with rain. And standing by the hatch, a cup of something that might have been tea held up triumphantly, was Wee Minnie.
"I saved you a cup, Captain," Minnie called. "It's gone a bit cold, but it's still wet."
Nell caught the eyes of the small, fat tea lady, and something broke in her. A laugh, a sob, a shudder that ran through her whole frame. Then she ran down the companionway, through the hatch, and into the quiet of the below-deck corridors, where she collided with Tanna Sharp.
Tanna caught her, strong hands steadying her. "Easy. The storm's done. You're shaking."
Nell looked up at her, the stern but lovely knight, and let herself be held. "We nearly died. We nearly died three times, and a pixie and a tentacle monster and a tea trolley got us through."
Tanna stroked wet hair back from her face. "Sounds like a typical day aboard your ship."
"Don't fucking patronise me," Nell murmured, but she pressed close, her arms sliding around Tanna's waist. "Hold me. Just hold me until my heart forgets how fast it wants to break."
Tanna did. She held the captain, and the storm outside died slowly, and the ship settled into the calm of the night.
In the hold, among shadows and the lingering smell of ship's biscuit, Scruffulus rolled off Elophelia, panting. She lay beside him, flushed, one hand resting on her swollen belly.
"That was..." she said, and paused. "Mmph."
"It was a considerable portion of my stamina," Scruffulus admitted. He looked at her, his beard wild with dried salt and other fluids. "Tell me, my sweet, did the boat move for you?"
Elophelia snorted, and then laughed, a bright, sharp sound that was almost genuine. "You absolute twat."
"I'll take that as a yes," Scruffulus said, and pulled her close.
The hold smelled of brine and desperation, a stale soup of seawater and whatever had been in the cargo before the storm had decided to mix it all together. The lanterns had been relit, casting a dim orange glow over the wreckage of stacked crates, scattered ropes, and the puddles that still sloshed ankle-deep in the low spots. Scoffer and Dravion stood thigh-deep in the worst of it, a pair of mismatched bailing souls, each clutching a wooden bucket that had been emptied into the sea a hundred times and would be emptied a hundred more before the night was through.
Scoffer's green hide was slick with sweat and spray, his flat orcish nose flared with every breath. He was built like a battering ram, shoulders wide enough to block a corridor, and for the past several hours he had been hauling water with a grim, silent determination that had almost made Dravion forget he was an illiterate lout with the table manners of a starving goat. Almost.
"I think we've got it," Scoffer grunted, tipping his bucket into the bilge and straightening up with a groan. "The leak's above the waterline now. Greta said she'd patch it proper come morning."
Dravion set down his own bucket and wrung out the sleeve of his fine shirt, which had been reduced to a sad, translucent rag. "Marvellous. Utterly marvellous. I shall have to commission an entirely new wardrobe when we reach the capital. This one has been ruined by the sea's indiscriminate violence."
"Still beats drowning."
"Debatable."
Scoffer took a step toward the ladder, then stopped. His face, already a permanent scowl, took on a peculiar greenish tinge that had nothing to do with his natural pigmentation. He swallowed, hard, and put a hand against the nearest bulkhead.
"Scoffer? You look like a man who's just remembered he left his trousers at his grandmother's funeral."
"That's a very specific thing to say," Scoffer managed, his voice strained. "And no. It's worse. Much worse."
He turned, and his eyes were wide and slightly panicked. "I just remembered I get seasick."
Dravion blinked. "You what?"
"Sick. The sea. It makes me sick. I bailed for three hours, and now..." Scoffer doubled over, one hand braced on his knee, and vomited with a force that sent a spray of half-digested ship's biscuit, salted meat, and a startling quantity of orange chunks splattering directly across Dravion's chest and face.
The dark elf recoiled with a shriek that could have shattered glass. He looked down at himself. His ruined shirt was now ruined further, painted in a pattern of greenish bile and unmistakable orange vegetable matter. A strand of something sticky dangled from his chin. His hands flew up, fluttering uselessly at his sides, as if there were no possible correct response to the situation.
"You," he breathed. "You monster. You absolute animal. You have defiled me. I have been violated in a manner that no amount of poetry can adequately express."
Scoffer spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and straightened up, looking marginally better. "Sorry. That's been building for a while. You were just closest."
"Closest? Closest?" Dravion's voice rose to a pitch that would have made a choirboy weep with envy. "I am wearing your stomach contents like a cravat! There are carrots on my face! I can feel them! There is a carrot in my hair, Scoffer! My hair!"
He plucked the offending orange sliver from his dark locks and held it up with shaking fingers, staring at it as though it had personally betrayed him.
But then, slowly, like a flower turning toward a sickly green sun, something changed in his expression. His eyes narrowed. His lips parted. His hand, still holding the carrot, drifted to his chest, and he struck a pose that suggested a man on the verge of revelation.
"Wait," he breathed. "This... this is it. This is the muse. She has come to me in the form of orcish vomit, and she has brought carrots with her."
"You've lost your mind."
"Poets do not lose their minds, Scoffer. We merely rent them out to the higher powers for extended periods." Dravion straightened, sweeping his vomit-stained sleeve back dramatically, and began to declaim, his voice rising to fill the hold with theatrical despair:
"Ode to a Poor Puked Poet!"
Scoffer groaned. "Oh, you have to be shitting me."
But Dravion was already lost, his eyes fixed on nothing, his hands waving through the air as he paced through the puddles.
"Upon the deck the storm did rage,
The wind did howl, the sea did heave,
I bailed the bilge from page to page,
And prayed the gods I might achieve
A dry and honour-worthy end,
A poet's life, a poet's friend.
But then the orc, that green-skinned brute,
Did clench his gut and bend his knee,
And from his gullet, without salute,
He spewed his breakfast onto me!
Oh, tragic day! Oh, cruelest doom!
I wear his breakfast as my plume!"
Scoffer crossed his arms, unimpressed. "It was lunch, actually. Ship's biscuit and pickled pork."
Dravion's eyes blazed. "Do not interrupt the muse! She has chosen her vessel, and it is a vessel of regurgitation!"
He swept on, his voice cracking with false emotion, one hand pressed to his heart, the other pointing accusingly at the heavens:
"The pungency of orcish vomit,
A perfume none can replicate,
It clings to skin and will not quit,
And mocks the very hand of fate.
Oh, woeful me, so splattered, splayed,
A canvas by a monster made.
And carrots! Ah, the carrots green-
Or orange! The colour cannot be blamed,
For in that acidic, brutal scene,
They floated, undeterred, unashamed.
Oh, carrots, emblem of the deep,
You woke me from my tragic sleep!"
He paused, breathing hard, and looked at Scoffer with the smug satisfaction of a man who had just delivered a masterpiece. "Well? What do you think?"
Scoffer stared at him for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he picked a piece of carrot off his own shoulder, examined it, and flicked it into the bilge. "I think you've got carrot up your nose now."
Dravion's hand flew to his nostrils, and he yelped. "There's another one! This is an infestation! Scoffer, you are a calamity wrapped in a disaster!"
"Better than being a poet wrapped in someone else's lunch."
Dravion's face contorted with outrage, but before he could launch into a retort, a new voice cut through the dim hold. Brutehilde's head appeared at the top of the companionway, her iron plaits swinging, her milkmaid's uniform still damp but her expression one of supreme irritation.
"What in the nine screaming hells is going on down here? I could hear wailing from the deck. I thought we'd sprung another leak."
Dravion gestured theatrically at his own torso. "There has been a catastrophe! An atrocity! I have been violated by orcish fluids!"
Brutehilde looked at him. Looked at Scoffer. Looked at the puddle of vomit spreading across the planks, and the stray carrots floating in it.
"Right," she said. "Scoffer, get a mop. Dravion, get a bucket of seawater and wash yourself off, then get up here and help the crew lash down the supplies. We're not out of this yet."
"The poem is not finished!" Dravion protested.
"The poem is finished. The sequel can wait until it's not got biscuit in it." She disappeared back up the ladder.
Dravion stood alone in the flickering lantern light, his chest heaving with the injustice of it all, one hand clutched to his soiled shirt. Then, alone in the hold with the sway of the ship and the remnants of the storm still muttering overhead, he began to compose the next verse in a low, tragic whisper.
"...And when the dawn shall break at last,
Upon this sorry, puked-up scene,
I'll rinse the orc from off my past,
And burn my shirt. It's not been clean..."
Polly and Tulip tumbled into their cramped cabin like half-drowned rats, dripping rivulets across the planking, slamming the door against the lingering howl of the wind. Polly braced her back against it for a moment, breathing hard, her green mohawk hair now laid low and plastered to her face. Her knuckles were raw from ropework, her arms trembling with the effort of every haul and heave. But she was grinning, a wild white slice through the grime.
"We made it," she breathed. "We actually bloody made it."
Tulip stood in the centre of the small cabin, water pooling around her feet, her leaf-green hair a rat's nest of salt and spray against her golden skin. Her hands went to the ties of her soaked blouse, fumbling with numb fingers. She was shivering, though whether from cold or adrenaline or the sheer crushing weight of the past few hours, she could not say.
Polly pushed off the door and crossed to her, batting her hands aside gently. "Let me. You're shaking like a leaf."
Tulip let her hands drop. "I'm fine. I'm fine, I just... I thought we were going to die, Polly. I really thought..."
"Shh." Polly's fingers worked the knots, peeling the wet cloth away from Tulip's shoulders. The blouse sagged, heavy with water, and slid down her arms to the floor with a wet slap. Beneath it, her skin was goosebumped and pale, her pregnant belly a firm round swell that pressed against the sodden waistband of her skirt. Polly's hands moved down, working at the fastenings, and she kissed Tulip's forehead as she did it, a soft warm press that said more than words.
"I know. But we didn't. And I'm here, and you're here, and that's all that matters."
Tulip stepped out of her skirt, and then her smallclothes, and stood naked before her lover, dripping and vulnerable. Polly stripped herself with quick efficient motions, her lean muscular body slick with brine, and then she reached for a rough cloth and began to dry Tulip with a tenderness that bordered on reverence.
Tulip watched her, and something in her chest cracked open. "I was so scared for you," she whispered. "When you lashed yourself to the mast, I thought... I thought if you went over, I'd go right after you. The sea wouldn't have you."
Polly's hands stilled on her ribs. "Tulip-"
"No, listen. I need to say this." Tulip's eyes glistened, and she blinked hard. "You were so brave. So bloody brave. Everyone on that deck was screaming and panicking, and you just... you held the line. You held the ship. I've never seen anything so fierce, Polly. And I'm so proud of you. I'm so grateful. I don't know how I got so lucky, but I'd face a hundred storms if it meant having you at my side."
Polly's face worked, unaccustomed to gentle expressions. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then pulled Tulip into a fierce embrace, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed flat against the curve of her belly.
"You're going to make me cry, you impossible woman."
"Good," Tulip sniffled into her shoulder. "You deserve to cry. You were brilliant."
They stood there for a long moment, bodies pressed together, the warmth of their skin slowly driving out the chill of the storm. The ship swayed gently now, a lullaby rhythm that promised safety. The wind had dropped to a low mutter, and the rain drummed on the deck above like distant applause.
Then Tulip pulled back, and her eyes were no longer glistening with tears. They were dark, and hungry, and fixed on Polly's face with an intensity that made Polly's breath catch.
"Now get on the bed."
Polly blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." Tulip's voice was low and steady. She pushed at Polly's chest, and Polly, caught off guard, stumbled backward and sat down hard on the narrow bunk. The straw mattress sighed beneath her. Tulip stood over her, naked and round-bellied and utterly magnificent, water still beading on her skin.
"I'm going to take care of you now," Tulip said. "The way you took care of me. The way you always take care of me."
Polly's mouth went dry. "Tulip, you don't have to-"
"I want to." Tulip knelt between her knees, her hands sliding up the inside of Polly's thighs. "I want to taste you. I want to lick every bit of salt and fear off you and remind you that you're alive. That we're alive."
Polly's head fell back against the thin pillow. "Fuck. You're going to be the death of me, but in the best possible way."
Tulip smiled, a slow wicked curve, and leaned in. Her first lick was broad and flat, a long slow stroke up the length of Polly's slit that made Polly's hips jerk off the mattress. She tasted of sweat and brine and raw woman, and Tulip moaned against her, pressing her mouth closer.
"Gods, you're wet," Tulip murmured against her, her tongue circling Polly's clit.
"Storm winds do that to a woman," Polly gasped. "Being terrified for your life. Being turned on by your girl on her knees."
Tulip laughed, a low husky sound that vibrated through Polly's cunt, and then she set to work in earnest. She licked with long, deliberate strokes, working the lips of Polly's sex open with her tongue, tasting every fold. Her hands held Polly's thighs spread wide, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Polly's fingers tangled in Tulip's wet hair, pulling her closer, holding her there.
"That's it," Polly breathed. "Right there. Don't stop, don't you bloody stop."
Tulip didn't. She flattened her tongue and dragged it up and down, up and down, each pass catching Polly's clit with delicious pressure. Then she sealed her lips around it and sucked, hard, and Polly arched off the bed with a cry that was half sob, half shout.
"Fuck! Tulip!"
Tulip hummed in response, the vibration shooting straight through Polly's cunt like lightning. She moved faster, her tongue flicking against the swollen bud, her fingers sliding down to tease at Polly's entrance. One finger slipped inside, then two, curving upward, finding the ridged spot on the front wall that made Polly's whole body clench.
"Come for me," Tulip breathed against her, her voice muffled and filthy. "Come on my tongue, beautiful. I want to taste it."
Polly could feel the orgasm building like a wave, rising out of the depths of her body, unstoppable. She clutched Tulip's head, her thighs trembling on either side of it, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The storm outside had died to utter silence. The ship rocked gently, peacefully, as if the sea itself was holding its breath.
"Tulip, I'm... I'm-"
"Let go," Tulip said, and pressed her tongue flat and hard against Polly's clit, working it back and forth with relentless precision. "Let go for me, Polly. I've got you."
Polly came with a shuddering cry, her whole body convulsing, her cunt clenching around Tulip's fingers as a flood of hot wetness soaked Tulip's hand. Tulip lapped at her through it, drawing out every last spasm, drinking her down until Polly's hips finally stilled and she lay limp and gasping on the bunk.
Tulip crawled up her body, kissing a trail up Polly's stomach, between her breasts, up her throat, and finally claiming her mouth. Polly tasted herself on Tulip's lips, and it was the sweetest thing she'd ever known.
"Now you," Polly whispered hoarsely. "My turn."
But Tulip shook her head, settling herself against Polly's side, her head resting on Polly's shoulder, her hand splayed protectively over her own belly. "No. I'm fine. I just wanted you to know how much you mean to me."
"Tulip-"
"Shh." Tulip closed her eyes. "Hold me. That's all I need."
Polly wrapped her arms around her, one hand finding Tulip's, their fingers lacing together over the swell of their unborn child. The ship creaked gently, the lantern swung on its gimbal, casting soft shadows across the cabin. The sea had gone utterly still.
"Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you?" Polly murmured, her lips against Tulip's hair.
"Mmm. Tell me again."
"You were standing at the market in Yokelling Down, arguing with a fishmonger about the price of salmon. And you were so furious, so passionate about something so stupid, and I thought... I thought, that's the woman I want to argue with for the rest of my life."
Tulip laughed sleepily. "I didn't even know you then."
"You didn't need to. I knew." Polly pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's a new day."
Tulip snuggled closer, her breathing already evening out, her body warm and heavy against Polly's side. The lantern guttered and dimmed, and the ship rocked on, gentle as a cradle.
Outside, the moon broke through the clouds, casting silver light across a sea that had forgotten, in the space of a single night, how to be cruel.