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“End of the line, pirate.”
Heavy gasps leave you from your abrupt position on the Armada ship’s rickety floor.
It was a foolish mistake on your part: what was a second of distraction was all Kane needed to have the upper hand. You know your rapier is strewn somewhere across the cabin, eyes flittering from one corner to the next, but it’s far too late. The Armada’s supreme commander has you pinned in an unyielding grip, your abdomen held taut between his thighs and his sword clasped threateningly.
The situation is definite, playing out much more grimly than any of your past excursions. A cold wave of dread washes over you as you can’t help feeling like you’re fucked— like there’s no possible way you’re getting out of this one.
For someone whose unpunished hubris stands challenged, however, you glower with defiance. “Should I struggle, then? Or do you prefer easy to kill?”
Tugging your arms for emphasis, they barely budge. Kane’s stance over you tightens in slight irritation.
“Might I remind you that you’re in no situation to play coy?” He inches the tip of his blade forward, and his clockwork head follows suit. “You’ve been a pest, pirate. I’d say a quick end for you would be as much of a disappointment as it would be a waste.”
There’s an ominous lilt to his otherwise level voice. Hesitance coats your expression.
The next words slip out of your mouth with morbid curiosity, all the more aware of your inescapable plight and the authority Kane holds.
“Then what is it you intend to do with me?”
Just as you think the air can’t get any more suffocating, Kane leans closer, enough for you to make out the golden intricacies etched into his Venetian mask.
“What I intend to do is make you repent.”
,, The tension is palpable. A shiver runs down your aching spine, and you’re not sure it’s from apprehension.
“I admire your skills,” he continues, “You were a formidable opponent, indeed— a tool on the wrong side,,, but here? In my grasp?”
A pause— it strikes alarm bells.
“I suggest you prove you’re worth more than a few marauder tricks.”
Heat pools faster south than you care to admit. It’s accompanied by a telltale blush, and multiple heartbeats gone awry.
You’d be lying if you said Kane’s porcelain expanse wasn’t attractive. He was sculpted elegantly— the first of his kind, yet not at all lacking in quality or craftsmanship. With his power came a natural allure, everything about him meant to scream superior. Accompanied by ambiguity, his words hold a greater amount of temptation than they do threat. Had you known Kane as anything more than your persistent (albeit hot) rival, this would not be so disorienting.
As a pirate, though, you were nothing short of flexible, cheap persuasion your artistry. If Kane was going to let you gamble for your life, then you were going to wager all you could, stubborn as a roach nested in his ship’s walls.
“I promise what I can offer is much more than a sleight of hand,,” your gaze trickles down past the sash on his waist, gauging the extent of his anatomy. The gears in your head turn similar to his own. “But proven that could be of,, use to you,,, I’d say it’s as good a repentance as any.”
You wiggle your hands as if that could help emphasize your point.
Kane stills, and for a second you worry you’ve misjudged his intentions, a sheen of sweat gathering on your forehead. Every inch of your skin freezes, dreadfully near the cut of his steel, and you spare it one cautious glance. It’s in this hush you swear you can hear him ticking— an active bomb yet to be defused.
To your relief, the silence is broken with an amused huff and the shuffle of fabric, Kane reaching down to unbutton the bottom of his coat in your favor. Your wrists stay locked in his grip, but you settle your tensed body.
“Hm. How depraved,” he muses, “As expected from someone of your status,,, but I suppose I’ll heed your offer.”
You don’t have time to be offended before Kane has made quick work unsheathing his cock: it’s distinctly steampunk, twisted and metallic, with springs and ridges built in where they shouldn’t be. The head peaks up in a racy display of gold, curving from a stack of gears that round off into one bell-shaped point, slit like a coin slot. You gape, bordering on awestruck.
The size is certainly nothing to scoff at.
Granted, it’s a surprise he even has a phallus, much less one so,, ornamental.
What’s more is you’re finally free from his unrelenting hold, Kane having the decency to let you shuffle upright, face to face with his crotch. The sight of his empty hands nearly sets your mind into defiant motion, but he’s not unarmed for long, bringing his sword just as close as before while trusting your hands unguarded.
“Pull anything crafty, and I’ll cut your throat so I can do this myself. Understood?”
You nod your head; there’s little doubt in your mind he would follow through on that.
Turning your attention back to the rod in front of you, you waste no time reaching your hands around the base, touch experimental. You can’t help but observe how it pulses, unlike any feat of engineering you’ve seen before. A languid pump, and it twitches and whirs. After only a few more tentative thrusts, you plant a hand securely on his thigh to ready for the real work.
Your mouth makes the first move, tongue lapping stripes along the protruding metal, cool and tasting of copper. It catches on every deviation of his cylindrical shape, but the sleek material gives no resistance. Moisture fogs its casing.
Kane’s body creaks at the attention, feeling it paid to every curve and divot. He’s not particularly vocal, but the raggedness of his synthesized breaths stirs you on. Relaxing your jaw, you take his cock to its cog-like hilt, warming it in mindful swallows. He digs his fingers into the back of your head with each adjustment of speed and depth, leather creasing tight around his cutlass’s hilt. Haphazardly, he holds it behind your head— a slip away from a grisly accident, should he get too carried away pistoning your mouth open. You try to pay it no mind, focus set on pushing his length down your throat.
His hips meet your gags with a stutter. Wires throb and ache against the walls of your mouth, steadily pumping a liquid you can only assume is oil across your tongue. The tang is sulfuric— as ghastly as regular precum, albeit thicker in viscosity. You aren’t sure if the choking in your esophagus stems from the depth you’re taking him or the vile fluid slithering downwards. Nevertheless, a pressure on your skull keeps you bound to his length.
Kane doesn’t relent, either. He’s puffing smog, the fumes escaping through cracks of his body like a mirage. Of course, you were already intent on servicing him to delirium (a solid bid for your life), but the machine of a man left you no such choice. Your pace was his to guide.
He rewards every hit to the back of your throat with a hiss, and every graze of teeth across his coils with a jerk. When your head lifts up, the last thing you expect to find is Kane staring straight into your eyes.
He was watching himself dip inside you. Your frazzled brain flusters more.
Both your hands find purchase on his thighs by now. Any other placement would have you tumbling back, Kane incessant with his thrusts. You don’t even consider fighting for air, as the looming threat of his blade makes itself known again with a heap of swishes. There’s hope that means he’s close, if his sporadic twitches were anything to go by, but nothing is as strong of a confirmation as the husk in his voice.
“I expect you,, to swallow,,,” he pants.
He moves like a pump jack: steady, yet building pressure. You’re beginning to think it’s too much, too vigorous, too painful, your cheeks blown a hint too wide, before the swell of his tubes grants you solace. Springs bound and slide over your tongue, and a surge of liquid follows.
Kane stills himself in your mouth until he’s sure you’ve heeded his command. All you can taste are bitter chemicals coating a way down your throat, each swallow a chore. You are certain, now: you’ve ingested crude oil.
A soft pop resounds off his cock, both your breaths no short of labored. You want to heave like it’s your first time breathing air, but your lungs strain, and your ego keeps you passive. Your lips, however, twist into a grimace at the sheen of foul, inky blackness stained around them. Kane’s thumb comes to wipe it clean— a charming gesture, if not for the circumstances.
“I appreciate you keeping my floor spotless,” he starts cynically. “Though, the same cannot be said of you,,, It’s in your nature to make a mess, isn’t it.”
You put all your efforts into not awarding him a scowl, mocking back, “Oh, and how inconsiderate of me to get you caught in the crossfire.”
Ill-intentioned, Kane pulls away an inch, letting you wobble without the support of his frame before you catch yourself from smashing into his sword. You’re tensed up again, elbows keeping you hovered.
Seeing it would benefit you to mellow out your tone, your following words test the waters.
“You’re quite fond of that scrap metal. I don’t suppose you’ll be letting up against my,, resolve, then?”
It pains you to have no upper hand here. Lacing your words with timidity as if you weren’t— no, aren’t the captain of the most influential crew throughout the skyways,,, irks you, in a manner you’re not accustomed to. If the opposing commander notices your turmoil, he does not comment on it. He merely tuts, shaking his head incredulously.
“For all the trouble you’ve caused me? I thought I made it clear that a simple pirate trick wouldn’t earn you liberation.”
It almost sounds as though he’s speaking through bared teeth, voice a low rumble in contrast to the blank slate of his visage.
“I am here to make use of all of you. Not an inch of your being can be spared if I’m to condemn you right.”
You despise your body for remaining hot and bothered.
One fell swoop, and again, you’re on the floor. He must like this position. Perhaps because of the weight he can place on you— both metaphorically and physically. Like an anchor down into the deep expanse of your tangled psyche, your heart betrays what’s left of your spirit. You’re losing purchase of your own vessel.
Well, you were on Kane’s ship, after all.
Murky waters crash against your skull when deft fingers unlace your breeches. Layers of lower fabric set your skin alight the farther they’re pushed down, and you’re surprised to note a massage over your thighs adding to the sensation. Kane leaves the cloth pooled near your ankles like an extra pair of shackles; you don’t find it in yourself to shuffle them off.
A mumble of “Huh. Here I had assumed foreplay was too generous for you,” slips out more cynically than you mean it to.
Kane reaches two fingers down to your entrance, stroking them with scrutiny. When his glove lifts, a newfound gleam to it, you aim your sights down to avoid the probing vacancy of his eyes.
“And it seems I was correct to assume you won’t be needing it.”
Somehow, this doubles as both the cruelest and most courteous of Kane’s actions yet.
Could you have withstood even a fraction of teasing? No amount of denial subdues the ache that’s rooted itself in your core.
His gear-shaped cock presents itself as stiff as stone, either rejuvenated or naturally rigid. One lithe hand runs over its expanse, while another occupies itself with bringing a different, more familiar shaft closer. The proximity to your neck grows reckless.
“Try not to squirm,” is your only warning before his ribbed head dips forward.
First, nerves recognize the intrusion as glacial. Frigid copper breaches the beginning of your walls, throwing you overboard into bottomless ocean, numbness lapping at your feet. Then, flames— ice on salt, sweltering torment. It culminates into rapturous hellfire the further he creeps; you struggle to look down enough to see how deep that truly is.
He’s started at a modest pace, but you stay far from grounded. Your brain struggles to differentiate which sensations are overwhelming and which aren’t nearly enough. Preparation cast aside, there’s still no resistance; Kane encompasses the whole breadth of you with silken ease.
A squeeze against him pulls a hiss from his motors. Hips drive on, pinning you with the accompaniment of a hand to the middle of your pelvis.
Every drill you make into the floor is counterbalanced by Kane mimicking the motions. The sting of his cutlass, an extension of his frame, matches the cold, hard wood of the deck, another biting chill encasing both sides of your body.
Each mechanical thrust works in tandem with the rock of the ship, clouding your senses with orchestrated rhythm. The movements press the steel of his sword further into your throat, and a dangerous glint shines not only off the metal, but in Kane’s otherwise empty eyes.
It's a provocation, one you are in no position to ignore. To keep your head means keeping him satisfied, and it’s not as though you haven’t realized you’re past the point of no return. The threat of annihilation isn’t your sole motivator anymore. Waves of pleasure have rocked your head around. You mewl.
Hisses and whines break up at the sound of Kane’s blade clattering to the deck in haste. The earthy scent of his leather gloves, stark white against the rivulets of blood beading across your neck, overwhelms your senses— hones your attention in on him, and him alone. His gears clink spastically, churning against one another and reverberating tremors through your core. Whatever pitiful attempts you make at stabilizing yourself, hand on his tensed arm, are in vain: each unrelenting thrust leaves you dizzier than the last.
You feel as though you’re corroding each other, gasps and touches accentuated with just as much contempt as there is lust. It stings— the nicks on your skin, the steely grip at your waist, the metal scorching its shape into you, and the shame of your salacity. A fearsome captain reduced to a blissed-out subordinate. Your survival instincts have melted into something leagues more primitive now, with Kane’s bastard porcelain face at the forefront of your hungers.
If it weren’t for the human hammering of your pulse, you’d be inclined to believe he’s reshaping your anatomy. Like a disoriented clockwork soldier, Kane has your servos in a twist, broken body taken down into his quarters to have your mind molded by his desires. Though, you can’t imagine this is how typical maintenance goes… not with his hips fucking in abandon.
No… he’s reserved the purpose in these movements for you, the thorn in his side he’s always been at odds with. He’s finally got you cornered, at your most vulnerable, and he’s making sure he pours years worth of tension into you.
For every foiled expedition, every scar inflicted on his casing, every molecule of breath he’s wasted hunting you down to the ends of the Spiral, he’s leaving imprints all over you. You can’t help but notice the grip on your neck turn bruising, chin tilting up from the pressure to meet Kane’s stare.
“What would your crew think,,” he huffs between breaths, “seeing their captain sprawled beneath me,,, at my command,, at my mercy.”
An extra squeeze punctuates that last line, and what little sense remains in you rears its head. His taunt drives out a sneer. You almost lose yourself to visions of a scenario where the tides were turned, where you put forth just enough effort to grab him by his flashy overcoat, flip him over, and overload his sensors until—
Until a rising pressure makes itself known in your gut, anything as small as a snap away from tearing through your whole body. The bite of humiliation only fans the flames, smugness radiating from the commander as if he isn’t spluttering billows of smoke. His motors whistle the deeper he sinks into you, hilt to hips, and you feel greedy desperation in the way he chases your bubbling peaks.
Consistent force on your windpipe smears beady pearls of blood as they spill. It’s not enough to choke you blind, but it’s just enough to cloud your vision, hiccup your moans, spin your thoughts with rippling winds. The pain is not a plus to your pleasure— it’s the foundation. You can’t reel your sails in against Kane’s vindictive current.
For a while, the moment feels mechanical—methodical, almost, falling into a rising pattern you can trust. You’re not clutching onto his arm anymore: you’re moved to wrap around his neck, a slight of intimacy in the way you hold each other, trying to be one. In this closeness, you find abominable salvation. A few more bucks of Kane’s shaft, and a knot snaps, the intensity melting over you like sea foam.
Not long after, Kane short circuits. A fog of vapor swirls above into the cabin’s air while he tries to steady himself with both hands on your waist. Coils continue to spring inside you in a sharp delivery of essence, as if making an assembly line of your body. It’s certainly an intrusion you’ll trouble yourself over later— chemical makeup a daunting mystery, and whatnot— but for the time being, you bask in the afterglow.
There’s a subtle wane in your haze when the tenderness of each of your wounds begins to flare, arms dropping from Kane’s back to feel around your throat at the crusted cuts and bruises. You focus your eyes to see him watching you in uncanny silence, statically nestled inside you. Perhaps hedonism really had short-circuited him, since his first move is to caress a hand over your own, examining the lesions alongside you. Cockwarming is one thing; benign touches are a whole other. Kane’s the first to disturb the peace.
“I do believe I prefer you like this. You’re quite a pleasant sight, all wrecked by me.”
He soothes a path around your jugular up towards your cheek. You can finally appreciate how velvety his gloves feel when he’s doing something other than mutilating you.
“Oh, how I’d love to see you in my position. I could pay you back tenfold.”
Not even you can tell if your words are meant to be threatening or flirtatious. Kane seems to take it in stride, though, holding your face like a misbehaving pet. You predict the simper his tone holds.
“Perhaps let’s save the fantasy for when you’re not strung out like my lapdog.”