Soothing Hands — The Pirate King & Neia (Mature) (Patreon)

Light makes the little bottle go from black to azure blue.

"Feeling adventurous?"

You hide your smile with a shake of the head. "Where did you even get that?"

The Pirate King taps a nail against the thick glass. "Does it matter?"

“Does it matter where the mysterious liquid you want to coat my skin with comes from?” You cross your arms. “I’d say at least a little bit.”

"Not liquid," the Pirate corrects. "Oil."

Your dry look has him chuckling. "An old witch sold it to me," he says, turning his black eyes toward the bottle. You find yourself admiring the unique shape of his eyelids. "She claimed it has healing properties. Not of the body, mind you, but of the spirit."

"A witch?"

"Sea witch. They hear whispers in the waves, shouts in the storms, and secrets poured from inside seashells. Some even swear they speak with the fish, but I always thought that was absurd."

You chuckle. "I didn't know you believed in witches."

The set of windows that serve as the backdrop of the Pirate’s cabin lets bright sunlight in. His body blocks the wall of light, darkening his features and sharpening his smile. "I don't. But there's power in superstition, peach, and wisdom in old beliefs, so why not put it to the test?"

You take a moment to ponder. You don't deny that the offer is enticing. Still, things between you are... tense. Uncertain. You and the Pirate spent your first and only night together two moons ago, but you haven't discussed it yet. He tried to approach you the morning after, but you had run away and avoided him until now.

Which isn’t an easy feat when you’re all stuck in his ship for, at least, five more days.

"Salvation in oil?" you ask yet another question, to buy some time.

He watches you for a moment. The silence has you holding your breath.

"Forget salvation," the Pirate answers. He smiles no longer. "If there's some secret to fix a soul, it won't be found inside a bottle. But..." He pauses. "You've been tense, and I was just offering my help. But you don't need to take it. No hurt feelings here."

His cocky grin tells you means it, and the sincerity in his tone makes you decide. "No, I— I'll try it." You smile bitterly. "Lord knows there are things in my spirit needing fixing."

"You and me both," the Pirate says, extending a hand to you. You take it and feel his thumb sweep over your knuckles as he leads you to the bed. "Now, I'll admit. I've never done this."

"What?"

"I'm usually the one being massaged. It's hard for women to keep their hands off me."

You make sure to turn around so he can see you rolling your eyes. "Trying to strangle you, no doubt."

The Pirate only smirks wider. "Never been into that myself, but I can try it on you."

This time, your eyes roll all the way to your skull.

"My hands are good for more than bloodshed." The Pirate continues, leaning over until his breath ghosts over your ear. "As you're well aware."

You bite your bottom lip as images from two nights ago invade your mind. His hands, strong and hard and masculine, slowly spreading your thighs open, caressing crevices and curves, molding you to his desires. "I think you overestimate your skills, sailor."

He exhales through his nose. "You have nowhere to hide, peach. I know you liked it. I hear your pretty moans and cries in the wind, now," he tells you, gently grabbing the bottom of your shirt. Your cheeks burn as he looks up at you with a smug glint. "I'll need to steal this. To pour the oil."

You nod wordlessly, lifting your arms so that the Pirate can toss your blouse somewhere over his shoulder. His eyes are locked on your exposed skin as he slowly rests his hands on the sides of your waist.

The sun is moving its slow fall down the heavens, and sunlight swifts from white to yellow to mellow tones of red. Shadows lurk in the corners of the captain's cabin, closing the world to the two of you. Suddenly, it's stiflingly intimate. Suddenly, it’s perfect.

"And this?" the Pirate breaks the quiet, touching your chest wrappings. "I can manage around them."

You haven't realized you had been toying with the ends of his vest. "Oh," you say, looking down at yourself. "I..." You look up, your lips tilting in the smallest of smiles. "I want the whole experience. To make sure the oil works, of course."

The Pirate answers by kissing one of your hands. He starts to untie your wrappings without a word, and before you know it, you're naked from the waist up. "Spirits," the Pirate whispers. "I could drown in these."

His hands gently cup your breast, sending jolts down your spine. Careful fingertips find your nipples, the touch feather light, but you're so tense that you jump. He chuckles with no malice in the tone. "Feeling alright, thunderstorm?"

"I thought you were giving me a massage," you manage to tease, swallowing down the moan stuck at the back of your throat. "I should have known this was all a ploy to get me undressed."

"I don't need ploys," he answers, and the seriousness of his tone has you snapping your eyes open. He takes his hands away from you, much to your disappointment. "Lie down. Keep your arms like this."

He tugs your arms near your sides. You try your best to relax, willing away the nervousness coiling in your stomach as you hear a shuffle of clothes and see his vest being tossed to the desk. The Pirate climbs back onto the bed and sits on the back of your thighs, knees settled on either side of you. "Too heavy?"

"No."

A click, hands rubbing on each other, and then, those same hands press on both your shoulder blades. "Ah," you let out at the cool sensation.

"Should have rubbed my hands more," the Pirate says in a way of apology. "But it was dripping all down my arms."

"It smells funny," you say, nose wrinkling at the sickly-sweet smell.

The Pirate hums, bringing his hands down along your spine. He doesn't press too hard, but he's not gentle either. His hands apply just the right amount of pressure to have you exhaling all the air from your lungs. He goes up again, repeating the movement a few more times. You think he's warming your skin – the sensation spreads from your back to your legs, up your arms, and invades your face, making your lips tingle.

God's nails. Have you ever been touched like this?

You try to remember, but promptly give up when the Pirate changes his motions. His hands ball now and make tight circles on your shoulders. When his fingers dig into the juncture of your neck, you let out a long, drawn-out moan.

This seems to spur him because he applies more pressure, and this time, you feel part of your soul leave your body. "Ahhh."

You don't see him, but you know there's a grin on those smug lips. "That's it. Don't hold back, peach."

You don't have the strength to do anything else but give yourself to the experience. The Pirate continues to work your upper back before moving down your arms all the way to your hands. He pours oil on your palms, spreading it to each of your fingers, and with each caress, you melt further on the sheets.

You're halfway between your body and the ceiling as the Pirate presses hard knuckles to your lower back, unlocking years of tension from your hips. "Your back's done." His voice drifts to you like heated iron.

You hear the words but struggle to grasp the meaning. "Hmmm," you say unintelligently.

His chuckle comes from deep in his chest. His wonderful hands leave your body — you grunt again but, this time, in protest — and settle on the side of your head so that he can incline over you. "Peach?" the Pirate calls, gently kissing along the back of your neck. It's slick with oil from when his magical touch had battled with innumerable knots. "Come back down to earth. Well, to sea."

He continues kissing you, going down your shoulder as you drift back into your body. You blink a couple of times, rolling your tongue in your dry mouth to moisten it. "You lied," you mumble.

"How so?" he questions between smooches, switching to your other shoulder now.

"You definitely have done this before."

His laughter makes you crack a dazed smile. The Pirate shifts his hips, and you feel his half-hard erection dig into your buttcheeks. You felt it throughout the massage, no doubt spurred by your wanton moans, but now the pressure sparks a fire in your loins. "Comes with the trade. It's best they think you're worse than you are. Keep your skills to yourself."

"Dead men tell no tales?" you jest, ignoring the spike of jealousy at the thought of him doing this to other women.

"Exactly." He taps your arm. "Now tell me, how was it? Is the witch right? Is your soul patched?"

His tone is jovial, but you think about it seriously. Are you better? The mark hidden beneath your glove tingles as if to say that you aren't, but... you do feel better. He made you feel better.

You move your hips in apparent innocence to brush against his crotch and smile secretly at his barely concealed hiss. The Pirate sits back so that you can't feel it, but you want to. You want more of him.

"I'm not sure yet," you answer, twisting to look over your shoulder. He sits there with dark eyes and tanned skin, and you want to feel his beard with your fingertips. "I think you need to massage me a bit longer."

"Of all the fish in the sea, I caught one who likes to order me around," he mumbles but grabs the bottle again. "Where should I repeat, land princess? You seemed to really like the neck."

You bite your lip, gather your courage... "You should finish what you started on my chest."

The silence lasts for a beat before the Pirate smiles. It's broad and sharp, and you feel desire drip down the middle of your thighs. "Well, ho ho," he mutters, grabbing your hips and turning you around. The last time he manhandled you as well. You never knew you'd enjoy it as much. "The ladies feeling marooned?"

He immediately grabs your left breast and not so gently tugs it. You close your eyes, moving to loop your arms around his neck, but his other hand stops you. "You asked for a massage," the Pirate reminds you, his tone no more jovial than a black flag spotted on the horizon. He guides you until your back is to the massive headboard of his bed and tosses your legs unceremoniously over his thighs.

Your hips are close, and he makes no effort to hide his zeal any longer. With a small thrust, he brushes against your clothed core, and you can't help but arch into him. The Pirate pours the cold oil on top of your chest, making a mess of things. You feel it flow down your heaving belly and staining your trousers.

But you're past caring.

His hands never once leave your breasts. They make wet circles on the heavy flesh, caressing there, squeezing here, driving you close to insanity. His left thumb, the only one he has left, occasionally teases your right nipple.

You pull on the lapels of his rolled-up shirt, wanting him closer. "C'mon," you call his name, tugging him again.

His laugh is akin to desert sand on volcanic rock. "What?" he says, hands never stopping. It's delicious, but it's not enough. Your whole body burns for his touch. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

You see him through half-lidded eyes. "You know it's not," you answer, rolling your hips into his and smiling at his clenched teeth.

The Pirate pauses and cocks his head at you. For a moment, you're stunned by the fierceness of his gaze. Then, he lets go of your chest to put his face right next to yours. "And if I give it to you, what then?"

You're struggling hard to understand. "What?"

He cups your face, fingers brushing hair away in the gentlest touch he's ever used on you. "Then what, mercenary? You'll just come to me when you're feeling the itch? Is that why you knocked on my door today?"

You can only stare at him.

The Pirate clenches his jaw again. "You can tell me. I'll bed you either way, but I want to know the terms. If this." And here, he rolls his hips again, making your breath hitch. "If this is all you want, then after tonight, I don't want you knocking on my door again. Understand, peach?"

You clearly don't. "What're you saying?" you demand, more soberly now. "You're the one who offered a massage."

"Spirits, damn me." The Pirate curses. "Do you want to fuck or make love?"

"Both."

His face falls for half a second, but you saw it, and right now, you despise yourself.

I hurt him.

"But that wasn't why I knocked on your door," you tell him, raising your hands to cup his face the same way he’s holding yours. His angular, handsome features fit perfectly in your palms. "I missed you. I missed our conversations and the sound of your voice. I wanted you to recite the constellations for me again. I wanted to be in your presence, whichever way you'd have me."

You look down. "I didn't mean to avoid you. I was just... I was just stuck in my head, and I needed time. I should have told you that much."

You count one, two, three breaths.

And finally, he answers. "Since we're confessing," the Pirate says, tilting your chin for you to look at him again. He's smirking. "I’ll walk the plank too. The oil?"

"Yes?"

"I have no idea what it is. Found it in some noble's chambers."

"You ass!" You laugh, hitting him lightly on the chest.

"I tested it a bit on myself. Didn't seem dangerous," he continues with that infuriating smile. "Made for a perfect massage though."

"I wouldn't call it perfect," you huff.

"What would you call it, then, peach?" the Pirate asks, but as you open your mouth to answer, he leans forward and captures your lips with his.

The kiss starts slow and tender, but soon, you're clinging to him for balance as he kisses you passionately. Your body is slicked with oil as you rub against him, and when you finally come back for air, a string of saliva connects your two mouths. "Just right," you say breathlessly. "It was just right."

He smirks and jumps from the bed, extending his hand to you. "Let's take a bath," the Pirate proposes. "Don't mean to offend, princess, but you smell like rotten fruit."

"And whose fault is that?" you retort but accept his help and follow him. The Pirate doesn't let go of your hand.

- - -

She clenches it again.

And you've had enough.

"Give me your hand."

Neia continues to oil the broken blade of her sword. "Hm?" she wonders aloud, bringing the rag all the way to the hilt. She puts it aside, patting away the excess oil, and in the brief moment her hand is free, Neia clenches it into a fist once more.

You click your tongue. "Your hand. Give it."

This time, Neia deems to look at you. "The hell you want my hand for?" she rasps, but you can hear she's still thinking of something else. Her yellow eyes drift past you to the night covering the sky.

Her hair is loose and white like a bone under the scarce starlight. You'd think it beautiful if there wasn't cacked blood on the side of her head.

"Just give it to me," you repeat, not wanting to explain. If you did, you know she'd scoff and tell you to look for fairies under the nearby bushes. So, instead, you appeal to her insatiable curiosity.

Neia glowers at you for a moment, but you simply keep your hand calmly extended, waiting.

A beat.

With a grunt, Neia puts her sword aside and slides closer. Her hand, calloused and scarred, feels rough in yours. "There you go, sweetling," she murmurs. Her lip scar makes it seem she's sneering, but Neia is watching you intently.

You ignore the weight of that stare and look down at your joined hands. It's not bruised, nor is it bleeding, but ever since the fight in the afternoon, she's been clenching and shaking it. Neia never shows pain, but you know she feels it by the tightness in her jaw.

You put both your thumbs at the side of her wrist and, tentatively, press down on it. Your eyes flicker up towards her face and find it as stoic as stone. Alright, not here. You slide your thumbs forward, gliding to her palm, and press on the first knuckle line.

It's miniscule, but Neia tenses. "Shit," she lets out almost imperceptibly.

Here it is.

You gather the sword oil in your fingers, coating them before you go back to the knuckles and circle the first one. "Does it hurt?" you ask as you apply pressure.

"Not as much as the other."

You hum, continuing massaging the same knuckle. She's made of muscles, even her hands, so it's hard to make the flesh wield to your ministrations. Still, you make circles in the skin until you feel like it's as warm as it'll ever get.

Only then, do you move to the other. "Ready?" you whisper, looking up again. Your breath gets caught in your throat by what you see.

Neia has moved closer and looms right before you. But it's not the warmth of her breath that has you shocked. She is... her eyes are closed, and for the first time since you met the specter, Neia looks relaxed.

At your silence, she cracks an eye open. The yellow peeks like the glint of a predator's gaze. "'Course I'm ready," she says, and even her words are lightly slurred. "Not scared of a little massage."

You lower your chin, smiling silently to yourself, and do the same on her second knuckle. Neia keeps completely still, but with each knuckle you work, getting rid of knots, she seems to melt into the ground. The statuesque woman loses height as her shoulders slump, and you almost stop once or twice when, very faintly, she exhales in what suspiciously sounds like sighs.

As you work, you're mesmerized by her. You pause to pour oil over her hand, massaging it, but your eyes are glued to her face. So sharp and dangerous, yet undeniably beautiful. She's kissed you once, and only once, but Neia has avoided any physical contact since then.

You don't know what you two are, or where she stands. You only know that you can't get enough of her.

You're on the last knuckle, fighting a particularly hard spot, when, finally, the knot dissolves. "That's it," you announce, smiling up.

But the smile freezes. Neia looks relaxed no more. Her eyes are narrowed as if you had just insulted her, and the scar is all twisted now, as her lips curl back in a dark sneer. She seems furious.

As is normal around Neia, you feel a spark of fear. "Was it that bad?" you ask, seeking to break the sudden intense tension.

Neia's sneer widens. "What part of me gave the hint that it was bad?"

"I don't know," you retort, offended now. "Your glare is a pretty good indicator."

Neia's teeth are fully on display. "Glare? You fucking idiot," she says, and before you can answer that, Neia loops an arm around your waist and hauls you to her.

"Neia!" you yell but shut up when you land on her lap and your teeth clatter against each other.

"Didn't know your little hands felt so good," she murmurs, her nose digging into the side of your throat. You freeze as you're engulfed by her, the smell of blood, oil, and sweat swirling in a cloud that makes your head dizzy. "God. I've been trying to keep away from you, and you do this."

Neia inhales and brings you closer still with a palm flush on your lower back.

You blink, and words slowly return. "You've been keeping away?"

"Haven't you noticed?"

"But why?"

Neia doesn't answer right away. She presses her face against you for a moment more, before she sighs and leans back. You search her eyes and find them tired. "What do you want from this, sweetling? I died one too many times to play silly games."

It's your turn to think for a moment. "I'm not playing a game, Neia," you say. "I haven't died yet, but trust me, life has given me enough of a lesson."

Neia watches your face. You look back calmly.

"Never had anyone do that," she says at last.

You blink. "A massage?"

Neia shrugs. "Taking care of me. I had people under me, servants. But..." She purses her lips and looks away. "It’s different."

"I haven't either," you admit. "Not for a very long time."

Neia doesn't seem to have an answer for that, so you take her silence as a blessing. Testing the waters, you bring a hand to her cheek, hovering nearby. She doesn't even blink — just stares straight into you. You press your palm against her cheek, and Neia clicks her tongue in annoyance before closing the distance in a searing kiss.

It's nothing like the last kiss. This one feels as if she wants to devour you. Her hands are like iron shackles around your middle, and while once the thought of Neia and chains would have terrified you, now you want nothing more than to be crushed by her. You cling onto her face, her hair, the top of her shoulders, and Neia only grunts in approval when you sink your nails into her.

Her tongue is demanding, and her chest is hard as metal as she pulls you to her. You feel the bumps of her breasts against yours, and you can't help but slide up and down to create some friction.

That has Neia biting your bottom lip. Hard. "Ow!" you protest as she sucks it in, tongue sweeping over the bruise.

"Serves you right," Neia growls, and now her hands close firm on your hips. "Little wench, grinding against me. Was this your plan all along?"

Neia lets go of your abused lip to bite you on the jaw. As equally hard. "Oh God, Neia, you're eating me alive," you speak around a moan.

Neia's chuckle reverberates into your bones. "If you insist," she says, leaving open-mouth kisses down your neck until she's sucking your collarbone. Her hands guide you back and forth against one of her thighs, and you soon find yourself mounting her leg as if she's a horse.

Well, if the shoe fits…

You grasp handfuls of her hair and pull. Neia's answering whine sends a shock of desire to your core. "You're maddening," you say, snapping her head up so you can kiss her. Neia smirks into the kiss. "Just... maddening."

The specter, your specter, looks you in the eyes, and for the first time since you met her, all the way in the Ministry Building, with Aurelius' corpse on the ground and hate in her voice. For the first time, Neia looks happy.

"And I bet," she says, rough fingers sneaking into the inside of your pants to graze her knuckles against your knickers. "I bet all that madness is makin' you wetter than water."

Neia presses her palm flush against you, drawing small circles, and you mewl for her, throwing your head back. Vaguely, you feel her teeth marking your neck, but it all melts into the background as Neia pushes your underwear aside and returns the massage you gave her in the best way she knows how.