The waves rising in a moaning swell, the crew had grown used to the dark lord's moods. His silences. His sudden laughter. His restless prowling across the deck in the moonlight. But tonight, they stared.
Peter had her again.
They couldn't see her—only the way his body moved, the way his hands clawed at empty air, the way his hips drove forward with brutal rhythm. To them it looked like madness, their captain rutting shadows. But to him, she was flesh and fire, wrapped tight around his cock, her moans filling his ears though no one else heard them.
She bent over the gunwale, her breasts pressing against the slick wood, ass arched high for him. He slammed into her from behind, each thrust rocking the ship harder than the sea itself. She cried out, her nails scraping the railing, her slickness running down her thighs in shining streams.
"Harder," she begged, her voice ragged, broken with need. "Make me yours in every corner of this ship. Let them all watch while you breed me."
And he did.
He spun her, lifting her onto a coil of rope, her legs spread wide, taking him deep again. He devoured her mouth, tongue plunging as his cock did the same, the crew pretending not to watch but unable to look away from their captain's feral passion.
Then against the mast, her back arched as he pinned her there, fucking her so hard the wood shuddered with each slam. Her cries grew higher, her body convulsing around him, milking him, demanding more. "Fill me—again, again—" she gasped, clawing at him, pulling him deeper with every frantic thrust.
He spilled into her, hot, heavy, but her hunger didn't fade. Her thighs clamped tight around him, her lips at his ear, whispering between gasps: "More… don't stop… I want every inch of me to drip with you. I want my womb drowning."
He dragged her down to the deck itself, pounding her on the hard planks, the slap of wet flesh echoing loud enough the men shuffled uncomfortably, glancing at one another. Some crossed themselves. Others smirked, whispering that the captain had finally gone mad with lust.
But Peter only grinned darkly as he drove into her again, sweat dripping down his back, the pulse of Noctis's shard thundering in his veins. With each climax, each wet cry, each desperate clench of her body, he felt it rooting deeper in him.
By dawn, every corner of the ship bore the echo of their joining. The crew avoided his eyes, unsettled by what they had seen. But Peter? He leaned at the rail, watching her slip back into the sea, her smile promising return.
And deep in his bones, he knew: her hunger was growing. And so was his.
At first, the men only saw Peter. His gasps, his clenched fists, his body driving against the empty air. But on the third night, something shifted.
The lanterns swayed. Shadows thickened. And for a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—they saw the shimmer.
A flash of pale thigh. Wet hair plastered over a bare back. The curve of a breast pressed tight to Peter's chest. Then gone again, swallowed by the dark.
The crew whispered of ghosts. Of sea-wives. Of madness. But when Peter slammed her against the mast, taking her hard enough the timbers shook, some swore they saw water splash from her skin, droplets scattering across the deck.
"Dark Lord's not alone," one muttered, crossing himself. Another only licked his lips and grinned.
And then she moaned. Low, sultry, inhuman. The sound carried across the planks, curling through the rigging, sliding into the men's ears like warm smoke. They froze, staring. This time, there was no mistaking it.
Peter didn't stop. Couldn't. He had her straddled across a barrel, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, her breasts bouncing with every violent thrust. Her head tipped back, hair streaming, mouth open on a cry that rolled across the ship like a wave.
Her body was clearer now, scales glinting faintly across her thighs, her belly glowing with each deep push as though his seed lit her from within. The men staggered back, some clutching the rail, others watching transfixed, unable to look away as their captain fucked a woman made of sea and shadow.
"More," she demanded, her voice ringing clear now, dripping with hunger. "Give me more. I'll take every drop. I'll bear your heir before their eyes."
Peter roared, slamming her down onto the deck, rutting her hard enough the wood groaned beneath them. She writhed beneath him, body half flesh, half water, every thrust splashing brine across the planks. The crew watched in terrified silence as the sea itself seemed to seep up and pulse with their rhythm.
When he came inside her again, her glow flared bright, casting light across the stunned faces of his men. She smiled at them—wicked, knowing—as though daring them to deny what they'd seen. Then she kissed Peter deeply, pulling him into her as if to drink the last of his breath.
And just as quickly, she was gone—dissolving into mist and water, slipping back into the waves.
Peter rose slowly, chest heaving, his body still slick with sweat and salt. He turned, smirk curling his lips as his gaze swept across the wide-eyed crew.
"You saw her," he said, voice low and certain. "And now she's not just mine. She's this ship's."
The silence that followed was heavy, taut. None dared speak, but the truth was carved into the air like a brand.
She was real. She was his. And she would return, hungrier than ever.