Warcraft The Sea's Gift

_Another story I had sitting around. Just as well post it, I guess._

_Naga/ blood elf. Tentacle, bizarre sexual content._

* * *

**The Sea's Gift**

Some primitive instinct swelled within him, stirring something within the depths of his mind. He was compelled to follow a scent along the current, the sea herself urging him on his way. He'd left his last mate long ago, and taken no other. It was his way, to be alone.

Because he was never alone. The sea was always with him. Lover, mate, confidante… she was everything to him. But there were physical lusts that she was unable to satisfy, even as she cherished his soul. Now, he simply bore these urges to the best of his ability, hoping they would not drive him insane.

He was certain, despite himself, that he had a soul. His brethren had long ago sacrificed theirs. They lived at the whim and desire of the women of their society. Female naga were smarter. They were more spiritual. Male naga were inferior in every way, he'd been told all his life. Except, of course, they were better at being beasts of burden.

Not that he cared. He had a single interest. He wanted to know the sea. Everything about her. All of her secrets, her mysteries, her special places. Now, she was calling to him. Some scent had awakened him several days ago, and he had done nothing since but follow it. Hunger gnawed at him, but he ignored it. Fatigue dragged at him, but he pushed himself onwards. He felt a sense of urgency that wouldn't release him—if anything, it continued to increase.

He was getting closer, he could sense it. The scent was stronger now, and the distant instinct that connected him to the sea was thrumming with pleasure. Close, he was very close. He pushed his exhausted muscles harder, driving forward through the water, his tail snaking rapidly as his mighty arms lifted to add their thrust to his travail.

For all that he was smarter than the males of his kind, he was still a primitive creature. As he drew nearer the source of the scent, he realized that he should know it. It wasn't a female naga, but it was female. It was the scent of woman, a scent he once knew well, and often.

Then he saw her, floating above him in the water. Hair haloed out around her, as red as blood from his vantage point below her. But there was no tail, no scales, only soft flesh and… legs. Yes, those were called legs. Some dim memory stirred in him, and then was gone. A momentary flash of legs, much like those above him, wrapped around him. It carried a whiff of pleasure with it, that memory. The pleasure remained for a moment even as the memory faded back into the depths of his primitive mind.

He surged up beneath her, surprised to find her nonresponsive. She lay in his arms like death, and for a moment, he simply held her in confusion. His tail lashed below him, easily keeping them afloat. At last, from that distant place where the sea dwelt, he felt a prod, a pushing sensation. He turned, mutely, towards the land. Once there, he laid her down upon the sand, unsure why he had left his beloved sea.

He felt bereft without her.

Even as he laid the elf down—for that is what she was, an elf—her eyes opened, and she looked up at him. He stared back at her, his nictating membranes snapping once over his eyes, giving her an oddly ephemeral appearance for an instant. She blinked, her eyelids closing downward, so different from his own kind.

She shrieked suddenly and jerked away from him. He rose to his full height and simply watched her. She was shaking, obviously exhausted and barely able to stand. But for all that, she gathered up her spells, and began to cast on him. He simply stood and watched her, ignoring the flashing pain on his skin. At last, she stood utterly defenseless before him—as if she weren't before, she being barely even a novice, and he an ancient and evil Power so vast that he knew he needed only reach out and grasp her a bit too hard, and she would die.

But he didn't. He didn't know why he didn't. It was something he would normally do, quite casually in fact. Killing, that is. And somehow, he knew she and he were enemies. She knew it, too.

"Why?" her voice was soft, quiet. He blinked at her in silence.

"Why?" this time it was a shriek, and she dropped to the beach and sobbed.

"Why what?" he asked.

"Why did you save me? Are you going to kill me? Why are you here?"

"I might kill you," he said. He considered it, then shrugged, the fins on his shoulders crackling slightly. "But I don't think so. I won't kill you right now," he said, rather politely, he thought. He was, after all, being quite magnanimous.

"Are you going to rape me?" she asked.

He blinked. "What?"

"Are you going to rape me?" she repeated it as if he were stupid. Perhaps he was, he didn't understand what she was asking.

"Rape you?"

"You know… force yourself on me." She was calmer now, her heart no longer beating like a captured minnow's might.

"I have no such intentions," he said. He meant it—he had no intention of doing something he completely didn't understand to her.

"Oh," she said. Then she made a campfire. "I'm going to rest for a bit. Then if you're not going to keep me captive, I'll go to town and get something to eat."

He was tired. He'd come far, and he was hungry, too. His nictating membranes flashed across his eyes again, and he lashed the tentacles at his jaw, unsure what to say. Then, with another shrug, he returned to the sea.

She has delivered him a feast of fish, and he glutted himself. He hadn't eaten in many days. When he was sated, he grasped several of them, and left the loving embrace of the sea once more.

The elf was sitting where he'd left her, sleeping in a most uncomfortable position. He was no longer connected to the sea, so her deep whispers weren't available to help him. But some long-forgotten instinct welled up in him, and he slashed the fish, removing the entrails, and then packed them with seaweed. He laid them beside the fire, before moving the elf into a more comfortable position.

Then he returned to the sea.

* * *

Several hours had passed, while he slept in the sea. He awakened and left the sea. The elf still slept, so he curled up beside the fire. Had he been less primitive, less bestial, he might have wondered why he was there. The only thing that crossed his mind, though, was how easy it might be to kill her. This was followed by the realization that he wasn't interested in doing so, as he rarely bothered to kill anything that wasn't a threat.

And she smelled like woman.

She woke to the scent of cooking fish, and blinked at him. Her stomach growled, and he simply stared back at her. "Are those yours?" she asked.

"I eat my food raw, preferably alive," he told her. She looked shocked, but he didn't know why, so he ignored it.

She grabbed one, and after some interesting and slightly loud and probably rather rude noises, began to eat it. When she was done, she said, "I probably shouldn't have eaten that. I don't know where it came from, or whose it was."

"I put them there," he told her.

"For me?" she asked, her voice pleased and surprised.

His nictating membrane flickered again, glazing the world in gray. He shrugged. Was that why? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter.

"You're an odd murloc," she told him.

Affronted, he bristled, his fins rearing up behind him, his head canopy flashing upwards. "I'm a Naga," he snarled at her, rising slightly from his coil.

"I'm sorry!" she sounded contrite enough. "I meant no offense, it's just a saying!"

He subsided. She relaxed. She ate another fish, more carefully this time.

"I'll be back tomorrow," she said. "I hunt here." She looked at him expectantly. He stared back. Finally, she sighed. "Will you be here?"

He blinked again. He ruffled his fins in an approximation of a shrug. "I don't know."

"Well, if you're here, I'll see you then. Unless you're going to kill me?"

He cocked his head to the side and stared at her. She was short, coming barely to his shoulder. Her pert breasts, under her lightweight robe, were perky and round. Her slender belly gave way to rounded hips, stirring a memory in his mind. As quickly as it came, it was gone. "I probably won't," he told her.

"That's hardly reassuring," she said.

He blinked at her. She sighed and walked away. He watched her. She turned, before she topped the rise, turning back to look at him there on the beach. She lifted a hand, and he watched her. She turned and left.

He settled down to wait, hunting once during the night.

She arrived late the next afternoon, and their conversation was strained, until she went into the water, and he followed her. There, in his world, he took her slashing through the waves, at top speed. He decided, as she shrieked with laughter and clung to him, that he wouldn't kill her.

She came back the next day, and the next, and the next. She taught him manners. He taught her the joys of the sea. She had always loved the sea, she confided to him, but now she loved it more than ever.

He didn't know what love was, but he guessed it was okay for her to do it to the sea, as long as she was nice about it. She thought that was hilarious. "It doesn't get nicer than love," she told him.

Weeks passed, until one day something changed.

They were sitting beside the fire, and she asked him about his past. His family. He didn't know what family was. She tried to explain, and he told her that he'd had a mate once, long ago. Longer than he could remember. That was the only thing he'd ever had that might be considered family. He didn't miss his old mate.

The elf was sitting close enough to him that she could touch him, and she did. She laid her hand on his scaled cheek, "That's very sad."

He stared at her. He didn't know what sad was. Or perhaps he did, he realized, as he looked at her. It was that which he felt when the sea was silent.

Her hand traveled down his cheek, brushing his sensitive tentacle. It was a mating action, and his gills flared up from his neck involuntarily. He stared at her, and saw her face redden. He didn't understand that, either, yet somehow he did. She realized his reaction to her touch.

But she didn't stop. He grasped her, and pulled her against him. His tentacle curled around her hand, ensnaring her deftly. She didn't resist.

Her lips touched his muzzle, and he felt a strange thrill run through him. He began to run his tentacles gently up and down her arms. Instinct, in such moments, easily prevailed. His gills flared again, and then clamped down as her hand ran down his neck.

It was but a moment after he bent forward and began to explore her with his flickering, forked tongue, that the Blood Elf man topped the rise just beyond the beach. He stared in shock at the scene before him, a nubile young Blood Elf woman being ravaged by a massive, powerful Naga. Then he turned and fled to get help. He doubted they could save her, but he had to try.

* * *

The practical business of sexuality between Naga and Blood Elf weren't something that either of them had ever considered before, and thus it was a process of exploration and learning for them both. He caused her to yelp in pain several times as fins on his crest nicked her, or as he held her too tightly. There was awkwardness, as there is between any two newfound lovers.

He tasted her with his tongue, a deliciously light touch across her skin. She rained kisses on his scales, kisses that he felt with the same delicacy as he felt the movement of water across them. With, oddly enough, a greater sensuality. His tongue flickered down her neck, tasting, searching, discovering. His hands slid to her breasts, so soft, high, round… slightly firm.

A study in softness, pliability, and exquisite responsiveness. Her nipple hardened as his tongue delicately traced it. Her hands roamed his body, feeling the latent power trapped there, simmering beneath his scales like lava waiting for the slightest push.

His penis, protected within a sheath that closed over it, nudged its way free, ready to do its duty. She discovered it and searched its softness, it being in such total contrast with the hardness of scales. Every inch of it was sensitive, from the once-hidden shaft and scrotum, to the soft, outturned lips of the sheath that had protected it.

Her touch drove him mad, and he found his tentacles snapping in the air, tight wires of lust. He pushed her down, and found his way between her legs, ignoring his throbbing penis for the moment. Another long-forgotten memory was guiding him, warning him to make sure she was ready for his penetration.

Or perhaps it was just instinct, he didn't know. He didn't care, either. He just wanted… he didn't know what he wanted, except that the smell was stronger here, filling his head with lust and making him dizzy with the sense of primitive, deep, surging desires. She cried out as he nuzzled her, and then his forked tongue, the lightest of touches, flashed across her labia.

He pulled the outer lips apart, seeking the treasure they hid. His tongue flickered over her, and she arched and cried out. He paused, but she panted and remained, so he did it again.

He pulled her up, looking at the pinkness of her, nestled in pale white skin. His blue tentacle slithered across her leg, and began to stroke, and she arched again. He let the other tentacle begin a slow creep towards her, as well, winnowing up her leg with a silken touch.

The tentacle slipped inside her, and he began to explore, even as his fingers began to softly flicker back and forth over her heated, sweetly scented pink labia. He tasted her again, and felt heat. She panted and moaned, sounding as sweet as the song of the whales. "Yessss" she hissed, her voice as sleek as her body.

He was holding himself up with the other hand, so he finally allowed the other tentacle to arrive, and take over. Grasping a breast, he enjoyed again its soft pliancy, plunging one tentacle deep inside her while the other pushed and teased and even tugged at her clitoris. It tugged the hood back, and while he rubbed his tentacle on the top of her vaginal canal, making her cry out and rock with pleasure, he flickered his tongue on her exposed clitoris, over and over again.

She cried out, arching and twisting, towards him, not away. The song of the Orcas filled the air, or nearly so, at least, in her pants and squeals and cries. Her pale body writhed against the sandy shore, bright red hair staining the ground like a benediction of life.

He thrust and rubbed his tentacle inside her, until she gave another, louder cry, her body lurching upwards towards him. Clear liquid surged into his mouth, slightly sweet, slightly salty, nearly tasteless. Once, then twice, and again. He milked it from her, the sweetness of something he once remembered.

Then he rose above her, and plunged inside. His tail lashed beneath her as he picked her up, and his penis, freed of its sheath and standing arrogantly from his body, plundered her as deeply as he had ever explored the sea. She was wild and beautiful and oh so hot. Wet, hot, and eager; and he was just as eager as she.

Latent instincts guided him as he thrust inside her, pulling her up to kiss her again. She grasped a tentacle and suckled it, and he nearly released inside her instantly at the very bliss of it. She tasted herself on him, licking it, sucking it… the divinity of taste and pleasure uniting for him as he licked her own dripping juices off of her chin.

Their bodies slapped together, filling the damp, heavy, hot evening air with rhythm and a steady beat. The Orcas were muted now, her cries quieted by a mouth full of tentacle. His other tentacle explored a breast, while his hands held her and rocked her against him in a rhythm as perfect as any the sea had ever shown.

The sea herself celebrated with them, the waves crashing the shore, leaping in roaring delight.

Then it was over, their strange, eerie coupling. He surged into her, a tidal fury, as he shuddered, and she cried out. Together, they orgasmed, as if the world stood still, a momentary hush while he thrust once more into her and squirted the gift of potential new life. She gasped and said something that came very close to his name—impossible as it was for her to say, having no Naga-speech.

And he slumped forward, caressing her with hands and tentacles, as slowly his penis slipped away from her, the lips of the sheath closing over it, the small valves that allowed water through it to wash it relaxed and sedated by his repletion.

He settled into a coil, and she snuggled against him.

* * *

He had just followed her into sleep when they came, with their torches and their swords. They spilled over the embankment, rushing down it with a roaring shout of frenzied rage.

She lurched to her feet, stumbling towards them, hands upraised. She tried to stop them, but they couldn't hear over their own shouting. Then one of them knocked her down, and another stepped on her. The one they came to rescue, dropped to the ground and trampled.

He saw it, and as a primitive savage ought to do, rushed to save her. In harming her, they had provoked the beast, he who would have stood passively had she asked it of him—and she had. But he could not bear to see her mistreated. So he reacted.

And in so doing, he sealed his own doom. For long moments, the battle raged. His trident slashed, ripping and tearing. His mighty muscles bulged; he picked one man up and flung him into several others. They went down in a heap, one stabbing and killing another with his sword in the melee.

He slashed another, blood flying through the air in an arc of fury and death and pain. A sword caught in him the side; another sliced away a tentacle—the one that just hours ago had so lovingly caressed her flesh. He screamed in pain and rage. She tried to go to him, and was restrained.

She tried to explain, but in the way of such things, it was far too late, and no one listened. They had found a monster, and they would slay him—or die trying.

And many of them did. For he was a formidable fighter, and he took many with him that night.

But alas, when one is greatly outnumbered, one eventually must succumb, and so he did. The greater numbers overcame his greater power, and he died looking at her, his hand reaching, reaching, reaching… never again to touch her while he yet lived.

The men shouted and celebrated, but she crawled to his side, weeping. One of the men stopped, and looked back. He came back, to see if she was okay. She told him the story… of how he loved her, and then they killed him. Of how they came to love, and now, she, to lose him.

The man helped her drag her lover into the sea. The sea from which he sprang, welcomed him back like a lover.

And she, she sat and wept, inconsolable. The man left, tears shining on his own face. It was all a terrible mistake, he would tell them later. Too late, far too late.

Too late for both of them. For she could no more live without him, than he could rise up, whole, from the ocean floor to love her once more. So she set out for one last swim. She entered the embrace of the sea, and swam so far that she could never go back.

As she died, she knew a moment of sheer terror, but then it was gone. The sea, a caressing love deeper than any she'd ever known, embraced her. She fell into the arms of the sea, never to be heard from again.

And if you walk that shore, deep in the night, you will hear them. It is, they say, a sound like the song of Orcas. A rushing roar, a light laugh. The ghosts of two lovers, joined by their patron, the sea. Their earthbound spirits will never be free of her, for they never wish to be. It was the sea that brought them together, and it is the sea that makes them the most intimate lovers possible, forever.

But if you should make the mistake of going there with ill intent, if you should go into the sea with hatred in your heart, upon that particular shore, you may find that you, yourself, never return.

I'll be going there myself, tonight. To hear the sound of waves, the song of Orcas, and to watch the glimmer of the moon, in whose beams, these lovers three may well be dancing. She, he, and the Sea.


End file.

Warcraft, Fantasy, Romance