#AUGH I FORGOT LEAFYS MOUTH

[talkingteardrop]

more art posts-

[cozycryptidcorner]

Abel the Asrai (slight lemon)

This was April’s patreon story, which I forgot to post here, my bad, folks. Looks like it’s going to be a double event this evening. 

There is a particular taste to the mist swirling around the beach, salty, new, the earth so still that you feel like it’s… off. The water of the ocean gently laps at the sand, though the waves are barely anything more than a small, muted ripple. Neither animals or bugs make any calls, an eerie silence descending on the landscape, save for the noises you and your crewmates make as you pull the rowboat to shore.

Your legs are wet, right up to your thighs, boots sloshing with an uncomfortable amount of water as you finally make it to the edge of the land, the oddness of the atmosphere slowly crawling under your skin, making you nervous. Quietly, you let out a breath, then turn to your crew members. “Same as we talked about on the ship. Scout only for food, do not talk with anyone here without coming to me first. We don’t know who to trust.”

A small murmuring of yes, captain lets you know that they hear and understand, so you have everyone split up, directing each group a certain direction. You don’t need any of them getting lost, so no one is allowed to stray far from the coast, especially since this is an unknown island. Leaving two of your gunslingers alone to guard the little rowboat, you head closer to the edge of the foreboding forest, large, green trees rustling quietly when you approach. There, you see a thin dirt path leading into the dark, so you take the liberty of moving deeper into the island.

The battle with the navy has left your crew in nasty shape, you need to find something to put into their stomachs. Hungry personnel tends to lead to unpleasant situations, and you’d appreciate avoiding those until you can get your people back to base. You take a moment to sit, pulling your shoes off and letting the water slosh out, then slip them back on. It’s still uncomfortable, but better than doing nothing.

There’s a biting chill to the air, even though it should be midday. Still, only the barest hint of sunlight peeks out from the foggy air, showing you the vaguest outline of the path, and after a few more minutes of nothing, you’re tempted to call it quits and head back to the beach. If there is a village tucked firmly into the center of the island, it might be too much trouble for you to go looking for it.

Turning around, you almost run into a man.

And that is strange, because you’re typically very, very good at discerning when someone is sneaking up on you.

He’s not particularly remarkable looking in his dull-colored, nondescript clothing, with a hood pulled up to his forehead. And he’s staring at you, his eyes wide, like he’s looking at a ghost.

You realize that maybe, with your rugged, choppy appearance, gun on your holster, machete in hand, blood staining the shirt that you haven’t bothered changing since the battle, he might feel a little threatened. Slowly, you lower the weapon, giving him what you hope is a decently friendly smile. You don’t want him running off screaming to the navy, because then you’d have to kill him, and you’re awfully tired of taking lives today, so you try to reassure him that you mean no harm.

“Hey,” you speak softly.

He’s slim, taller than you, but visually soft, you know you’d be able to take him on if it comes to that. Slightly shakily, he folds his pale, slim fingers together, and you can see his brain processing what’s happening. “Hello.”

A strange, weird pause.

You clear your throat, trying not to make any sudden movements, “Hi, um, I was just looking around for some fresh water and food for me and my crew. We, uh,” you glance down at the hastily tied bandage on your arm that was already coming free, “hit a rough patch a few miles out.”

“You’re human,” he says, almost in awe.

“Last I checked,” you say, trying not to sound too impatient.

“Is your crew human, too?” He asks,

“For the most part,” you say, slowly, “yes.”

He looks downright fascinated over that revelation, and before you have a chance to prod further, says, “you have a ship?”

You bristle, but do not sense any sort of malice coming from him. No, just a disturbing amount of… excitement, and that somehow also worries you. “Yes,” you say, slowly, not wanting to get into too much detail.

“Do you charter people?” He asks.

Ah, you see where this is going. “For the right price.”

He pauses, a bit of wind blown out of his sails. “What price are you seeking?”

“Gold, preferably. I’m willing to barter, though.” You look him up and down, more closely, eyes narrowed. What kind of person would need a sudden departure, and on that thought, what’s he even doing out here looking like some kind of… fancy vagrant?

“We would have to leave now,” he says, with a tone of urgency in his voice, “if I return for money, someone might suspect me of leaving.”

“So there is a village around here,” you say, turning around to see if you can find any hints of civilization. “Can you point me in their direction?”

“You don’t want to go there,” he says, frantic. “There’s a stigma against humans- you wouldn’t be welcome.”

“Why not.”

“All outsiders are… um, forbidden.”

There’s something else, something that you’re suspicious about. You don’t know what it is, yet, but you’re willing to indulge him in the idea that you’ll let him on your ship, even without knowing a lick about him. “Fine, what can you offer for me to give you safe passage?”

“I- uh,” he’s thinking now, brow furrowed, and you’re almost showing your impatience as he wastes your time. “I can… do stuff. On the ship, I mean.”

“Give me your hands,” you say impatiently, looking over his smooth, blemishless skin. “You’ve never worked a day in your life, have you?”

“I’m a fast learner,” he says, almost indignantly.

“I’m certain,” you say dryly, not entirely believing him, “but learning fast doesn’t mean you’re physically capable of work.”

He stares down at his hands like he’s never been so impossibly inconvenienced in his life by his own self. Another moment passes, still startling silent, and you’re just about to move around him before he says, quietly, “I can make clean water.”

You stop.

“Clean water, you say,” you muse, crossing your arms.

“Yes,” he sees that you’re listening, and that seems to get his hopes up. “Drinking water, straight from almost anything liquid.”

You mull the possibility over. No, it’s not unheard of, but it’s an incredibly rare trait that usually lands people with the ability one only the best, high paying ships, and that’s a luxury you and your scrappy crew can’t afford. Charting someone only on the promise of clean water? Unheard of. Most ships pay those who can travel with them.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “let’s say that you can- which is something you’ll have to prove before I let you on my ship. Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere but here.”

He’s desperate, which means that you can take advantage of that. Not too much, though, the last thing you need is an angry member of your crew capable of poisoning everyone with the one thing necessary for basic survival.

“Fine.” You gesture for him to follow you. “We’ll test your skills on the shore, then, if it’s satisfactory, we’ll discuss your end of the deal.”

He seems remarkably happy, following almost uncomfortably close as you make your way back through the forest. Luckily for you, it seems that most of the scouting groups have also made their way to the rowboat, most of their hands empty. The moment you’re within their eyeshot, you see them tense, eyes piercing the figure behind you, both you hold your hands up to communicate that there’s nothing to worry about.

Two of your best scouts have arms full of large, leafy greens, which you suppose probably would taste unfortunately horribly bitter, but will at least keep some of you going. The cook is known for their miracles, anyway, so they might be able to do something with it.

“Is this all?” You ask, struggling to hide your disappointment.

“It’s what we could find without venturing too far into the forest, captain, but…” your scout eyes the newcomer, “it seems that there’s a village.”

“One where we will be unwelcome to, according to him,” you say vaguely, though you’re giving them the same amount of information that you know. “But the good news is that he claims to be able to purify water, and he’ll do it in exchange for safe passage to our destination.”

There’s a shifting ripple moving through your crew, and you don’t blame them because that’s a tall fucking claim. To prove it, though, you take a couple dozen sloshing steps into the ocean, tugging him along, until the both of you are waist-deep in water.

“Do it,” you demand, glancing back at your crew to make sure they’re watching.

“Um,” he shifts, eyeing your crew nervously. “Is there something I can put the water in?”

At your hard stare, everyone pats their pockets down, but no one was holding an empty flask or stray goblet for him to use, so with a defeated sigh, he cups his hands, settling it below the surface of the mirror-like surface of the ocean. His eyes are closed in concentration as he raises his arms back up, and a soft, warm blue glow slowly illuminates his fingers as whatever magic he uses cleanses the salt and infection. After a moment, his eyes open again, and the glow is gone, and a puddle of perfectly clear water in his hands.

Oh, right. You’re going to have to test this.

“Christ,” you mutter, raising his hands to your lips and sip. The water is cold, despite the heat rising to your face, and go figure, absolutely no trace of salt. Calmly, you take another sip from his hands, letting the water swish around in your mouth for a moment, just to be sure. Then, as a precaution to make certain he’s not fucking with you, you dip two of your fingers into the sea and lick. Augh, yes, that’s salty as hell, there’s no way that he can pull a fast one on you like this. You turn to your comrades. “It’s clean.”

“So we let him onboard?” One of your navigators asks.

“Yeah, we’ll put him to work filtering out clean water.” As you say this, you notice the last of your scouts approaching, though they are empty-handed for a few roots and such. “Everyone, get onto the rowboat.”

He seems pleased, at least, but not the kind of smug pleased that you loathe. Like he’s deeply relieved, as though you’ve saved him from some horrendous fate. He sits, almost primly, in the center of the boat as you and the rest of your crew work to move back from the island.

Steadily, inevitably, the waves slowly kick back up, as though slowly breaking through a damn, and the mist of the island recedes to reveal a bright, blue, almost cloudless sky. The fog hangs over the island like a thick, viscous shield, obscuring anything within from passing sailors. No one sane would want to attempt to traverse such an unmappable area unless they’re ridiculously desperate, like you.

He’s tugging at his hood, pushing it back as the sun begins to radiate down harder, and you don’t blame him. Without going back to get anything else to wear, he’s unfortunately overdressed for the grueling work you plan to put him through. The energy he’ll have to output is ridiculously high, especially to keep up with the demands of a full ship and its crew, even more so because a portion of your freshwater barrels had been spilled and toppled by the cannon fire.

Your ship is in bad shape, it’s easy to see the damage as the rowboat approaches, burn marks along the wood marking where some dicks from the navy went ahead and tossed over some flaming cocktails. Glancing over at your new passenger to gauge his reaction, he seems none the wiser about the seemingly dire state of everything, and instead looks over at you, a spark of unrecognizable joy in his eyes.

Once all of you are on the deck, you have one of your crew fill a bucket full of seawater, then direct your newcomer to clean, so they all see. So long as they understand that he has a vital part to play, they’ll be less likely to give him the almost ritualistic hazing that most new, low-end recruits end up saddled with. However, even as your best navigator takes her first sip of water, you know that they’re still going to rag on him.

“He can sleep with the rest of the crew,” you say in passing, waving in his general direction.

“Did you make an official deal?” Your second asks, their brow furrowed.

“Not yet, but he seems willing and able to filter water. I figure once we get to our destination, he can either stay on as a crewmember as long as he wants, or leave once we reach the ports.”

“I can write up an airtight contract,” your second offers. “He looks fae, he should be biologically required to adhere to it.”

You look over at him, and you find that your second is right. Long, pointed ears extend out from his neatly braided hair, his eyes are just a tad too large and innocent-seeming for someone roughly your age. His odd fascination towards your species makes you wonder if he’s seen your kind before.

“That’ll be great.”

The injured are not in exceptional shape, but with clean water, at least, gives them a much better chance to make it through than otherwise. As he helps you haul a few buckets down to the lower deck, you ask, knowing full well the fae’s common abhorrence towards names, “is there something you want to be called by?”

He thinks it over for a moment. “You said something earlier, that I was… um, willing, and able?”

“Yes?”

His movements are smooth and graceful, his posture so perfect that you wonder where he learned it. “I like those words. Willing?”

“Um, what about Abel?” You suggest instead, placing the buckets down on a table.

Those bright, brilliantly blue eyes become unfocused, if only for a moment. “Yes,” he says, faintly, “Abel will do nicely.”

Your crew is slow to trust him, and you hardly blame them. There’s something just… a tad bit uncanny about him and his behavior, the way he stares at things, unblinkingly, for just a little longer than necessary, how his long, slender fingers feel out the textures of things he touches, as though he’s experiencing those things for the very first time, and how he seems to always just happen to be in the same room as you, all the time. Your only reprieve from him is your own private quarters, where no one is allowed to go unless specifically invited.

A rule he breaks within the first couple of days.

You find him standing over your dresser with a bucket of water, his eyes brightening when he sees you enter. After letting out a frustrated breath, you strip off your coat, tossing it senselessly onto your bed, and unbutton the top of your shirt. “Abel, you’re not supposed to come into the captain’s quarters unless specifically invited.”

“Oh,” he says, as though this is the first he hears about it (it’s not), “well, I filtered the water for you, as requested.”

You wait. He doesn’t move.

“Thank you,” you say, begrudgingly, “you can leave it outside the door next time.”

“It might get tipped over, then I’d have to start from scratch.” A pause, then. “And I’m getting a bit fatigued from doing this all the time.”

“Alright, fine,” you allow, knowing that water purifying is a demanding chore and that you’ve been pushing him harder than he’s likely ever been before, “you can bring it straight to my quarters.”

Seemingly satisfied, he leaves, and you give yourself the sponge bath once you make sure the door is locked tight. Your hair is choppily cut and always away from your face, though you don’t spare much care to it beyond the occasional brushing. Your goal for sponge bathing is usually only dedicated to making sure everything isn’t rotting from lack of amenities, being at sea and exposed to the grimy elements can leave a body feeling… gross, for lack of a better term. Every time you dock somewhere, you take a full day for yourself to clean... everything up.

Every day, right after dusk, he’s waiting in your room with a bucket of water. You don’t even know how he gets in, you’re very good at remembering to lock your door when you’re not in there. When you ask about it, sullenly, he smiles and gently reminds you that you’ve given him permission to leave the water when he’s done purifying it.

Then Abel asks to wash your hair for you.

You’re so caught off guard by the offer that it takes you a moment to fully process what he said. “I’m sorry, you’d like to what?”

“I’d like to wash your hair if you’d like,” he says, “I know how.”

You have to mull it over, like with most of his downright bizarre requests. “You’d like to wash my hair. And you know how.”

“Yes,” Abel nods, “with the powdery stuff. Back home, I would get my hair washed by- uh, and it felt nice.”

You conveniently don’t mention the part where he skipped over who specifically washed his hair, and cross your arms over your chest. “And why exactly are you interested in doing that for me?”

“It’s a relaxing experience, and you look stressed.”

“Really.” You don’t believe that’s it. “And no other reason.”

“I mean, not in a bad kind of stress,” he’s backtracking now, “you’re not shambling around like the undead or anything, but this might help you with everything else.”

You give it a moment of thought, trying to come up with every single reason he might have for sidling up close to you. Does he want better rations? A cut of the bounty? Less water duty? You narrow your eyes and look him up and down, wondering if the place he comes from has the same set of you work hard to earn rules and that he can’t just flirt his way into a better position.

Maybe you can give him this lesson the hard way.

“Fine,” you wave your hand, sitting in front of your desk. “You can wash my hair.”

He smiles, wide, but not threateningly, more… happy? Satisfied? Pulling the bucket closer to his position as he comes back behind the chair, and runs his fingers through your hair, once. “You’re quite tense, captain.”

It’s a struggle for you to relax, your jaw usually tightly gritted, shoulders tense, and ready to fight. Still, though, you don’t think that Abel would try to do anything, even with the clause in the contract forbidding him to hurt anyone in your crew, including you. Quietly, you lean back in your chair, stretching your neck as you look up to the ceiling, hands tightly gripped on the armrests, your breathing calm and controlled as he begins.

Abel’s fingers run through your hair, soft, but firm, nails gently scratching at your scalp. It feels good, despite the fact that you’re not so sure if you enjoy this show of intimacy, but you don’t voice complaints. It’s been a while since your hair got such a thorough washing, and he seems to know what he’s doing. Section by section, he works, parting your roots away, rubbing the baking soda in with the pads of his thumbs in soft, swirling motions.

Slowly but steadily, he works his fingers down your head, his knuckles brushing against the nape of your neck. Shivers run through your spine, an odd feeling churning in your stomach. The coolness of the water as he begins to rinse your hair gives you something else to focus on other than his closeness.

You try to get your voice to work, if only to think about anything but how his skin feels against yours. “Why did you want to come with us?”

He pauses, his entire body seemingly just stopping, fingers still tangled in your hair.

“If it’s because of something bad, we likely won’t care,” you try to prod, “most of us are murderers and thieves, anyway.”

“I-” his movements resume as he struggles for the words, “I didn’t want to get married.”

“Oh, that’s it?” The shadiness of his actions made you think that he committed patricide or something, not escaping an arranged marriage. “Half of my crew are dodging familial obligations, too. My second was almost sold off to a man with six wives.”

“I just couldn’t go through with it,” he’s almost defensive, though you suppose he wasn’t expecting such an anticlimactic reaction, “I didn’t even like my fiance… don’t get me wrong, she was a nice girl, but she was so-” he fumbles for the word, “dry.”

Your hairbrush isn’t something that you use beyond a couple of swipes in your hair, but Abel takes his time with it. Almost moving strand by strand, he makes his way from one end of your scalp to the other, brushing out any remnants of grease and powder, dipping your hair in water every so often to keep it soaking wet.

“There must have been an easier way for you to leave,” you say.

“None with such ease and without the high likelihood of getting caught,” he clears his throat, “I saw my chance for escape and took it.”

“That’s understandable,” you say, closing your eyes for a moment. “Are you happy with your decision?”

There’s a pause, telling you that he’s actually thinking over your question. “Work is difficult, but,” he adds quietly, “I prefer it to being an idle husband.”

You’re silent, thinking over his statement. “I can understand that. The life of a field worker wasn’t quite for me, either.”

He waits until your hair is all the way brushed out, then wraps a cloth around it to absorb the water. “May I do this again?”

Again, your suspicion flares. “Why?”

“Because I enjoy your company… and you don’t seem to pay me much mind when I’m with the other crew.”

“Jealous?” You ask, mostly joking.

“Very,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s serious or not. “Sometimes I just want you all to myself.”

“I… suppose if you’d like to.”

“Good,” he says, “I get bored with nothing more than the water for company.”

You’re standing, rubbing the cloth into your locks to help it dry faster. “Do none of my crew interact with you?”

“I don’t think they trust me… even with the contract.”

You let out an impatient huff. “I’m sorry about that, they’ll warm up to you eventually. Or we’ll hit land first, and you’re free to go.”

There’s a long, drawn out pause before he agrees, “right.”

Washing your hair every single day would result in in you getting sick of how close Abel wants to be with you every time he does it, and would leave your hair dry and brittle. The powder is suitable for sucking up the oily grease that permeates your scalp after a few days, and it’s good for a complete purge once it gets out of control, but definitely shouldn’t be used regularly. Still, he makes sure that it’s a weekly event, and every Thursday evening, he’s in your room, bucket on your desk.

You figure out quickly that he doesn’t like talking about himself. He instead seems entirely focused on you, your life as a pirate, and before, though he answers your questions in that odd, monotone voice he uses when he’s not enjoying himself. Abel also struggles to acclimate into your crew, as most of them aren’t readily accepting passengers who plan on flouncing off the moment you hit land. However, he doesn’t seem to give any indication that he is planning on leaving. So you ask him outright.

“What are you going to do when we dock on land?” You ask as he slowly works his fingers into your hair.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to stay on as a member of my crew, or are you going to leave?”

He stops for a moment, all you can hear are the ripples from the water bucket as the ship slowly makes its way up and down with the waves, and his breathing.

“Are you okay?” You ask, peeping your neck a bit to get a look at him.

“I’m fine,” he reassures you, getting back to work, “I didn’t realize that I had an invite to continue on as a water purifier.”

“Oh, I guess I should have mentioned it more concretely before.” You lean back again, closing your eyes. “You’ve done more than adequate work, Abel, you’re more than welcome to stay on board and receive a cut of our bounty.”

“Really?” He asks like he can’t believe it.

“I’ll have to have my second draft up another contract, but yeah, Abel, you can stay if you’d like.”

“Say my name again,” he says, and you can hear a smile behind those words.

“What, Abel? Why?”

He lets out a satisfied sigh. “I just like it when you use my name. It sounds nice with your voice.”

You try not to snort. “Okay, whatever you say.”

Silently, he continues to work, as he usually does, parting your hair into neat little sections, going over them with a few pinches of baking soda, letting his nails gently scratch at your scalp. You’d never admit it to anyone, much less Abel, but you do feel better after each of your little sessions together, whether that be because of the cleanliness, or because of the company, you’re still having an internal war with yourself over.

A part of you doesn’t really want to admit that you’ve let him get under your skin, that you’ve started to care, because you’re not supposed to show favoritism towards any single person within your crew, but unfortunately… unfortunately it seems that he’s growing on you, rapidly, like mold on room temperature meat that’s been left out for a few days.

“I saw you flirting with your second in command,” he says, quietly, “are you and she together?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Juliet? No, she’s great and all, but not my type. We were just joking around.”

“What about that navigator?”

“Which navigator?”

“The one with the puffy black hair.”

“Oh, you mean Alexander,” you resist rolling your eyes, “he and I are just friends.”

“What about the-”

“Are you going to go down the list of my crew members to see if I’m in a relationship with them?” You ask, almost sourly, wondering what’s gotten into him.

“Are you? In a relationship, I mean.”

You sit up, out of his reach, your wet hair dripping and soaking into your shirt. “What does it matter?”

He’s trying not to look flustered, but there’s a telling blush in his dusty blue skin. “I was just wondering, out of curiosity. You seem- uh-”

“I seem what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me. I seem like what?”

“Like someone who can have whoever they want, when they want.” He says, almost sheepishly.

“Who, me?” You think he’s joking, he has to be joking, but his kind cannot lie.

He’s even more flustered now, backpedaling so hard he might snap his proverbial neck. “I just mean- um- you have this aura of confidence, captain, it exudes from you, and I thought that you might currently be… well, involved with someone.”

You squint at him, trying to see where he’s taking this. “So what? Does it matter if I’m involved or not?”

“No- no, of course not, stop looking at me like that, it was a stupid question.”

You settle back down, a tad bit tenser than you were before, though mostly from being caught off-guard by his question. Feeling like someone’s swept your legs from under you, verbal or otherwise, is uncomfortable, you never like it when someone has the upper hand. So, in the same fashion, but more casually, you ask, “what about you? Besides your fiance, have you seen anyone?”

“Not… particularly.”

“Hm, not particularly?” You do the thing where you take where the conversation is going and get there twice as fast to regain control of the situation. “No one caught your eye? You’re not allowed to take any lovers?”

“Not before-” he mumbles, something you can’t hear.

“What was that?” You ask innocently.

“That was a no.”

“Was it,” you smile serenely, “because it sounded like something about your wedding night?”

Abel sounds like he wants to throw himself into the sea. “I can’t... until the wedding night.”

“Who told you that you couldn’t have sex until the wedding night? What’d they say would happen? Hairy hands? That’s a myth, you know.” God, it never crossed your mind that he might never have been intimate before, especially with how fixated he seemed on you as if you might be his next conquest. Not his first. That definitely changes things.

The massaging slowly comes to a stop. “Where I’m from,” Abel says, slowly, “they have ways of making certain that it happens.”

You almost choke on your own spit. “I’m sorry, they have what?”

“They have ways of guaranteeing purity until the marriage night.” His voice is soft, but gruff, as though he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“That- that is so awful,” you feel pity, yes, but also empathy for a story that you’ve heard before- if in less extreme circumstances, but you’re suddenly overcome with your desire to solve other people’s problems in the hopes it might help fix yours (it never does). “Do you remember the direct wording of the curse?”

“I can’t forget it.” He sounds tired, like he’s had this conversation before. “I cannot feel the euphoria while in someone else.”

“You can’t feel euphoria while inside someone else? That’s it, exactly?”

“Well, no, I cannot… spill, inside someone.” He sounds even more sheepish than before, his voice so quiet you almost don’t hear.

“That’s all?” You ask, frowning. “You can’t spill while inside someone else, but can someone else spill inside you?”

“No.” He says quietly.

“Alright,” it doesn’t take you too much of you to fully process and work to come to a new solution, “but if someone doesn’t spill inside you,” you try not to grimace at the language used, “can you… um, spill so long as you’re not inside anyone? Like touching yourself?”

He mumbles something, you take it as a soft yes.

“If someone enters you without spilling, do you think you might be able to try… um, the whatever?”

“I don’t know.” He looks like he hadn’t thought of it before. “Perhaps? But how would that happen?”

“Alrighty, then,” you try not to feel the heat in your cheeks, “have you ever heard about pegging?”