Rischa and the Red Jack

Author's note: this has a rather complicated backstory. The story takes place in a world of swashbucklery and magic. Rischa Vale was a pirate captain, one of few females in a misogynistic part of the world to manage this. She had been fostered by a famous pirate, and had won the esteem of her men through courage and hard work. One day, a man named Mika Arago lead a mutiny and cast her off ship.

While near death in her dinghy, dehydrated and starving, Rischa receives the blessing of the sun god and is invested with his power. She becomes, in essence, a demigod, with the ability to draw upon certain magics (particularly thrall-type charismatic magics).

It is in Lorris when she sees her ship, the Raptor, once again; when she seeks out the owner, it seems that an infamous pirate called the Red Jack (something of a roguish folk hero) has come into possession of the ship.

Little does our heroine know that the Red Jack is Mika Arago in disguise, and that he is part of a conspiracy that requires the world to think the Red Jack is in control of the Raptor (the conspiracy involves his father, a noble, who is working to bring various pirates under his own control). Mika's mother was a sea-goddess, so he, like Rischa, can manipulate some degree of magical energy.

If this all sounds convoluted and cheesy just read the damn smut. All you need to know is that a fair amount of dramatic irony is at work here (Rischa doesn't know he's either Mika or a half-god, and Mika doesn't know she's now a magic-wielding demigod), and that both these characters are literally headfucking each other with magic.

I. Mika

His first thought, her boot toe flickering lightly over his calf beneath the table: Truly, truly, she'd whore herself for this ship?

And his second thought: gods and dragons, I hope so.

She's changed somehow since the last time he saw her. That time she was in a leaky dinghy, getting smaller as the wind carried her own ship away from her. His orders had been to kill her and take the ship, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. The girl was simply too much--at nineteen, a captain with the respect of her men, men who still thought women were all fishwives and whores. He still doesn't know how she pulled that off. It was hardly fair; he'd undone all her hard work, he'd uttered the words "just a wench" to her crew, he'd twisted his tongue with the tiny bit of magic he had and they'd agreed. They overtook her on the prow, though she fought like the half-mad Sea Wolf she'd once followed.

Even from where he stood on the ship far above he could see her violent shaking. He thought she was scared.

"Dear girl, it was nothing personal," he'd called down, waving cheerfully.

"Believe you me, me lad," she'd called back, "it will be very personal when I slit you neck to navel." Her coat had fallen open, her blouse torn in the fray. He suspected one of the men had done it on purpose to get a peek at the captain's goods. Not that he could blame him. Though nearly six feet tall and smoothly muscled, Captain Vale had perfect breasts, a round hard ass. Nothing like the Teà that might as well be men, and nothing like the twittering fools he knew from court. She was a contradiction in terms, a woman behaving like a man who still insisted on being a woman. And even he couldn't help but peer down at the smooth bronze curve exposed from the torn shirt.

She wasn't shaking in fear. She was shaking in rage. That was when he knew he would see her again.

And now, she sits across the table in front of him. Her clothes are fresh, a naval-blue jacket piped in red with the arms torn off, a pair of high black boots. Her long cerulean hair hangs loose around her shoulders, pouring from under a grimy black bandana. It's obvious she's been traveling--the dust on her boots, the sheen of sweat on her skin, but she still draws the eye irrevocably. Back in the harbor, when he saw her staring at the ship, he had thought the game was up. Her eyes had flashed around the Lorris crowd, searching for the man she knew had taken it.

But when the dashing and legendary Red Jack stepped forward to claim the ship (inwardly quailing, half-expecting her to see through the mask, magic though it is), her face lit up. She stared up at him, and between his ridiculous lie ("This old ship? I bought it in the Archipelago. From a rather cocky young bluff, name of...Arago? Aragon? Something like that.") and the opportunity to grab the ear of a man she'd heard tales of probably since she was in swaddling, she'd been eager to believe him. And so off to the tavern together, this unbelievably beautiful pirate captain without a crew or a ship, and the genteel Red Jack, also known as Mika Arago, the man who had stolen them both from her.

She's been playing the coquette, laughing girlishly, begging him to tell her stories of his days on the open sea and quaffing ale as fast as the bartender brings it. Something about her is different. He can't place his finger on it. She reaches across the table to touch his hand, leaning forward so he can see the perfect curve of her breasts. Her eyes, like pretty flashing coins, play over his face. She takes in the ruffled shirt and broad red hat, the brown ponytail and the tattoo, the red spade over his left eye. None of it real. None of it his. Her hand on his hand, her toe dancing farther and farther up his calf, brings a smirk to his lips. Something about her not-knowing appealing too, even beyond the contact and the cleavage. Something about the fact that she has no idea makes him feel as though he owns the poor foolish wench.

"What are you smiling about," she asks, cocking her head. A side of her he never saw, laboring on her crew before the mutiny--this coyness.

"Nothing, lass. Just thinking how you're young enough to be my daughter."

She laughs then, a touch of scorn nestled in her laughter. Her toe keeps running in circles around his shin. The mockery in her voice is playful, but the look in her eyes, sharp and inviting at the same time, made him realize: she is no maiden flirting in her garden, no fan-waving court girl. He doesn't have her, not as he thought, dangling his charisma and her ship just beyond her reach. This woman was dangerous.

It makes him want her even more.

"Don't worry about compromising my virtue," she laughs. Her eyes hold the hint of menace beneath the lure of sex. "There's not too much left of it." She laughs, raises her glass in a mock toast, and throws back another tankard. He can hardly believe how quickly she's going through the ale.

"So tell me," she says, slamming her tankard back down. "What does a girl have to do to get that ship away from you?"

Remember the plan, he thinks to himself. Not just the plan but the Plan--father's plan, father's inheritance, father's connections. Mika has never wanted a thing but to be rich. Rich and immortal, maybe. But suddenly a third thing occurs to him, as her hand disappears beneath the table and brushes his thigh.

He'll have her, on her own ship, and then leave her in port, put her out on another dinghy maybe or maybe even take her with him, though the men wouldn't like it. But he's the captain. Or at least the Red Jack is the captain. Who would say no to the Red Jack bringing a concubine along? Even as his mind wheels through the desperate plan he knows it won't work. This woman will never be anything but a captain on board a ship. He threw her over once, by luck and magic, but those things never hold when you want them to. Which means he has to win this. He has to dominate the little tease with his own teasing. He has to make her beg for it.

Shouldn't be too hard. She wouldn't be the first.

Grinning at her, he grabs her hand beneath the table and squeezes it. Pulling it up sharply to his cock, he tugs her torso forward behind it to whisper in her ear.

"What have you in the way of coin, lass?" The burning on his tongue, as motes flare up, send his words directly to her ear, to her mind. The burning on his groin where her fingers, tense for a moment, relax to cup him.

She looks surprised. Her gold eyes get big and blank for a split second, and then a smile hits them. He wonders, for a moment, if she's god-blood too maybe. He hopes she is. It will make for a much better game.

Regardless, she's enjoying herself.

She squeezes his balls lightly, then pulls her hand away easily, wriggling out of his grasp like a fish. Leaning back in her seat, she watches him through half-closed lids, and for the first time he can see that she's sizing him up. He smiles at her, flagging down the innkeeper for another ale. She doesn't seem to be feeling the drink.

"I'm a poor lass without two bits of jade to rub together. But maybe if you named a price we could work something out."

She starts in on the new glass of ale. Her eyes flit up over the top of her tankard, and that sudden flirting glance makes him lean towards her.

"Ah, I'm not so interested in the friction betweencoins, I'll tell ye true."

She laughs then. "And ye kiss your mother with those lips?"

Oh gods no. "I perform a wide variety of acts with these lips, lass, and this tongue." Again the flow of magic through his mouth and eyes, the slight tingle of it flowing down his arms. The Red Jack is less comely than Mika Arago, but that doesn't mean the Red Jack can't share Arago's charm.

"Hmm. You certainly do talk a good deal with them." Her eyes are laughing again, her lips touching the edge of the tankard, parting, her throat moving. A beautiful long throat, the color of polished copper.

"Well, perhaps we should go to theRaptor. Wouldn't you like to see what I've done with her?"

"What you've done with her?" A hint of coldness in her throaty voice. He backtracks quickly, with a flourish of his hand.

"A figure of speech. She's still the same ship m'girl. Come, shall we take these negotiations somewhere more private?"

He meets her eyes, and for a moment their gazes are locked. He can't tell who is winning for that moment. Her eyes, bright and challenging and inviting, pull him towards her. He wonders if she's mesmeric, somehow. And then he remembers that's what he's doing, and sees that her torso is leaning across the table towards him, her lips parted ever so slightly, her breath coming in short gasps. His own heart hammers against his breastbone.

The bartender suddenly appears at the table. They both lean back, confusion momentary in her eyes, relief in his. Mika lays down his coin and stands.

"Come," he says again, extending his hand. She places hers into his and stands.

II. Rischa

When her eyes fall upon her ship she forgets the man. That beauty! Her father's ship, the ship he died on, the ship she learned on. The ship that bilge rat wrenched, somehow, from her fingers. Her sails down, bobbing gently up and down on the water, the name in gold on the side.Raptor.

She strides up the gangplank, her boots sure beneath her, and when she lands on the deck she knows she's home. She'll be sailing out on this ship, come hell or high water.

"Rischa, my dear, wait up." That voice from behind her again, as the Red Jack--her very own childhood hero--comes more slowly behind her. There is something about him. He should not be able to play with her like this, not unless he is a being of some kind of power. It shouldn't surprise her; the Red Jack has been sailing the seas since before she was born, and while he's not a young man now he is not old enough, damaged enough, to have spent nineteen-plus years hard at sea unless he can manipulate magic.

She turns to watch him, his smile more guarded now that they are here, their very feet resting on the stakes. His clothes are dapper, ruffled shirt and long red coat, a broad hat bedecked with the feathers of some exotic bird. His face is plain, but has a svelte charm to it. There is something about his eyes that's almost familiar, light grey eyes that dance disarmingly, that look almost like the movement of water.

She will have to place some distance between them. She has moved through enough motes that she's about to draw a bit more attention to herself than she'd like, and if she doesn't watch herself she'll end up flat on her back mewling like a kitten with no ship to show for it. Not that she'd mind that so much, were it not for the circumstances. This is one of those rare charmed days where the means and the ends are mutually agreeable.

There must be a way to get both the things she wants, the ship and the man. She doesn't trust him much, knows he could just take what he wants and then dodge the deal. She can seduce him, exhaust him, and then pitch him overboard, ignominious an event as that would be for the legendary Red Jack. What better way to get the notoriety she deserves, than to pull one over on such a notorious man? But will his crew follow her lead?

Then she smiles. Of course they will.

"Now, where were we..." He moves closer to her. She's not ready. She needs time to think and he's pounding her with magic, she's almost sure of it. Whatever it is he's doing, he's doing it too well. She jumps, and just like that clambers into the ratlines.

She's always liked the bird's eye view, and was sad the day she became too highly ranked for her climbing to be seemly. The lines are like a cradle for her, and she can lunge from rope to rope, let herself fall into the embrace of another, scamper on tiptoes up one. Before he can follow she's almost as high as the crow's nest. She glances down below her, where he is carefully climbing. He glances up, and annoyance is plain on his face.

"Rischa, my dear girl, where are you going?"

Something about that phrase--"my dear girl"--makes her want to own the fool, though she's not entirely sure why. She laughs then, throwing her head back. Propped against one rope she begins to unfasten the bronze buttons of her coat.

The Red Jack continues his climb. He's quite agile, but not so nimble as she. It's not his ship; the lines don't welcome him the same way. She gets off the coat and holds it out over his head, lets go. It flutters down onto his head, and he wiggles beneath it.

"I say, Rischa lass, what is this ab--" By the time he's gotten his head out from under the coat, she's squirmed out of her blouse as well, and crawled a few feet higher. The shirt falls past him. She turns her back to him, letting him see the long smooth line of it as she clambers up into the crows' nest.

There is only the susurrus of waves around them as he climbs after her. She can't see him, but she flings her boots over the side at him gleefully, knowing he'll dodge them. Her pants follow, and she holds them out in her fingertips for a moment so he can see them before letting them float down below.

She stands naked, turning her face up to the sky. After a moment his face appears over the top of the crow's nest, and she can tell she's won. His eyes are wide, his face hungry. She smiles at him, leaning back against the mast.

He pulls himself up nimbly, leaping over the side of the tiny nest. He's almost immediately pressed to her; there is nowhere to move.

"Rischa, my love," he says, and she thinks he might mean it, at least for the time being. "My ship, and my heart, are both yours."

He slides an arm around her smooth waist, and with the other arm grabs a loose line. Together they step up to the crow's nest's rail and then step off, into air, buoyed up by the ship's webbing. Slowly they drift to the ground, cleaving against each other in the salty air.

Feet on deck, he kisses her again, his tongue slipping lightly into her mouth. She slides her arms around him and under his coat, shoving it off his shoulders, pushing him backwards to the captains quarters. To her quarters. The thought makes her more eager, and she fumbles at the buttons on his shirt, finally ripping it away from his skin. His chest is not large but hard, smooth. He is all over lithe, thinner than her muscled body, but wiry. She runs her hands up his stomach, up over his chest, barely stopping to wonder why he has not the scarred and sea-red chest of a middle-aged pirate but the sleek and strong chest of a young man. He knows magic, she thinks, nibbling his shoulder, moving to kiss his neck. He has not aged as men age.

His hands slide under her ass and lift her towards him. She wraps her legs around his waist. He staggers backwards, leaning against the cabin door and into the captain's quarters.

The play has already happened, in words and glances and light touches beneath a table. When he throws her to the bed she grabs for his belt, shoves his pants down over his hips. Tongue in her mouth, he leans over her, his cock eagerly jumping toward her warm leg. But she rolls over, flips him to his back and straddles him. No more coy smiles or games. She grips his hardness in her hand, rubs it against her labia for a moment, then moans and sits down against it. He gasps as she parts for him, soft and wet. Then he grips her ass again and pulls her against him.

She is slow at first, sliding her hips up and down, moving her hips against him. The velveteen hardness of his cock rubs tight against her clit as it presses inside of her. He stares up at her, eyes darkening to a stormy blue as he clutches her thighs. Her pace quickens. She slips up and down the length of his cock, faster and faster, as all the sensations of every inch of her flesh narrow down to that one point between her legs. And then, all in a rush, sensation explodes back outwards, coursing back through her body. She shudders against him, head thrown back, crying wordlessly.

It is only a second later that he comes too, her cunt clenching around his cock. He groans her name as his hips buck off the bed. She gasps, back arched backwards, her breasts shaking under her quick breaths. He pours into her, and when he is spent he still shakes under her wet thighs.

When they are both still, there is a long quiet as she leans over him and stares down into his eyes. He brushes the long blue locks, soaked in sweat, back behind her ear. He fingers one of her earrings, slides his hand behind her neck. She closes her eyes and lets him pull her down to him.

III. Rischa

After trembling stops and the strength comes back to her limbs, Rischa stands from the bed. She moves about the cabin, touching the fixtures she knows so well—the candelabras bolted to the walls with fish-faces worked into the iron, the locker carved with frolicking mermaid orgies. She goes to the tiny closet and opens the door, then laughs to see his clothing inside. Grabbing a dress jacket, she slides it over her shoulders.

"And do I cut a very fine figure, my Jack?" she says, leaving the manly garb unbuttoned over her breasts. He leans on his elbow and watches her pose.

"Aye, but might I at least keep the clothes to cover my back? You've already swindled me out of a ship." His smile is lazy and content.

"Swindled?" She moves to the heavy decanter on the table, pulls the crystal top out of it and sniffs before swigging from the bottle. Wiping her lips, she throws him a mischievous smile. "I'd say we made a fair swap, love." She perches on the table, takes another swig.

"Seems to me you had your cake and ate it." His eyes linger on her breasts, warm copper and smooth protruding from the red velvet.

She laughs again. "I'll admit, it was the most enjoyable coin I've spent." She enjoys the feel of the jacket, enjoys his eyes on her as she drinks his rum, her long legs curled beneath her on the table.

"Oh, aye, and you think it's all spent?" Jack sits up in bed, the sheets bunching at his waist. His hard chest, his dangerous bedroom eyes, the inviting protuberance from beneath the sheets, all make her want to close the distance between them. "Come back to bed, lass, I'll show you what this ship is worth."