stencilled: (kame_Lips_hat/lick)
[personal profile] stencilled

The sounds of thrashing and muffled shouts echo in the darkness of the cabin.

He smiles.

A lamp turns on.

An angry youth lays tied up on the floor, thick ropes wrapped around his legs and arms leaving him immobile but for his helpless thrashing, the wooden floorboards creaking under his weight.

"The more you struggle, the more it will hurt."

The youth glares at him, mouth clenched over the piece of heavy rope that gags him. His lips are worn into an angry, puffy red from the coarseness of the rope fibers.

He licks his own drying lips as he watches them. Such a perfect match.

The youth continues to thrash about, like an exotic sea creature trying to break free from his hook and return to the depths of his home. As much as the youth's attempts are in vain, he is lured by the fiery spirit, so ignited by anger that it continues to burn brightly even surrounded by the murky blue of the ocean.

He feels warm simply watching his struggles, the rebellion in his eyes singeing his very core.

"Continue on, then. I do enjoy the sight of you squirming so helplessly."

When the youth releases another muffled shout, his curiousity piques; he wonders whether his captive's voice is as smoky as he imagines it to be. Clinking his cane on the floorboards as he stalks over, he watches in amusement as the youth stiffens at his approach. He crouches low, taking in the musty scent of the youth that even beneath all the sweat and grime still carries a hint of sweetness. Parting the raw lips with the tip of his cane, he watches as an inch of the polished black wood disappears, sinking into the youth's mouth.

He is grateful for the absence of his crew. They never had and now never will see their captain's hand tremble.

With a flick of his wrist, he turns his cane and the rope falls out of the captive's mouth with a silvery wet trail that falls across his chin.


Something warm and wet hits his cheek as the youth hisses a curse at him. His eyes are fevered with rage and focus on him beneath disheveled locks the colour of burnt driftwood.

Astounded, he lifts a hand to swipe at his cheek. The youth stares back at him, unrepentant.

A wicked smirk unfurls.

"Definitely a perfect match."

He leans forward.

The lamp turns off.
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January 2012

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