Deep Devotion — Part One (Patreon)

He melts like a puddle in your hands.

"Lord in Heaven," Hadrian groans, closing his eyes as his shoulders slop down. His head rests on your lap while his large arms wrap around each of your bent knees, bringing them closer to his sides. "That feels so good."

You smile, massaging his scalp. You twirl a strand of hair around a finger and pull gently. "Really? I wouldn't have guessed," you say, letting go of it to drag your nails across the sides of his head. Hadrian groans again. "You don't seem like you're enjoying yourself at all."

"I know you're teasing me," he mumbles, and your smile widens at how sluggish the words sound. Hadrian's voice rings as if he's on the verge of passing out. "But I can't take any chances. Don't stop."

You hum and do what he asks. Hadrian half lays on top of you with his legs stretched out on the floor while his upper body fits between your legs. You can feel almost every one of his muscles, and as you rub his temples and continue the massage to his nape, you feel them easing. You can see them relaxing too.

He's bare-chested, so you watch the broad expense of skin at your literal fingertips. Hadrian's stomach and chest, his shoulders, and forearms, and even his hands. They all unclench and let go, turning to mush at your touch. He's heavy, but the weight is comforting, like a warm blanket. His breathing gets slower and deeper, his back pushing against your chest with each inhale. You put a hand over his chest for a moment, counting the slow beats of his heart.

It's like you have a special power. He sighs deeply, the sound so satisfied, you'd think he was staring at the gates of Heaven.

"Still good?" you whisper, bringing your lips close to his ear. You kiss his hair, nuzzling your nose closer.

Hadrian has long closed his eyes. For a moment, he doesn't answer, so you think he might have fallen asleep, but then his hand tightens on your knee, and he turns his chin to the side.

"I'm trying to think of a better word than good," he says, nose bumping into yours. You smile when he cracks his eyes open. The green is so close that you can see the little specks of brown in his right eye. "But, uh. I'm not very good with words." Hadrian lifts a hand, and a large palm cups the back of your neck. He pulls you in closer until his lips graze yours.

It's so shallow and soft that it's not even a kiss. You don't think he has enough energy for one. "Hmm, I can help you," you say. You kiss the side of his mouth, right on the corner. His fingers tighten a little bit on your hair. "Great?"

"Better than that."

You move your head to kiss the other corner of his mouth. "What about..." Hadrian pulls you closer, and now you talk with your lips moving over his "Perfect?"

Hadrian opens his mouth, and you gasp when he grabs your lower lip between his teeth. Your hand jerks in his hair, tugging it and making him groan against you. It's a different groan from before. It sends sparks down your spine. "Even better."

"Better than perfect?" you whisper, your voice taking a silkier edge. There's a warmth sparking on your lower stomach and a pressure on your ribs. "I don't think there's a word for that, Hadrian."

Hadrian's eyes don't look sleepy any longer. They look dark and intense. "It feels divine," he drawls, closing the distance to kiss you properly. Your eyes drift close when you feel his tongue slipping into your mouth. He turns in your arms, rising above you as you drag your nails down his back. Hadrian kisses you until you're almost out of breath; until your lungs scream and your head spins.

He finally parts, and as you gulp down air, Hadrian puts a hand on your lower back and pulls until you're lying flat on the ground. "It feels like..." He pauses and leans over until he's whispering by your ear. "Almost as good as when I'm inside you."

You shiver, teeth digging into your lip as Hadrian starts to kiss the side of your neck. You didn't anticipate that's how your head massage would go, but as his lips caress and suck, taking you higher and higher into the bright, blue sky, you find you don't have it in yourself to complain.

Maybe you ought to do this more often.

- - -

"I require your assistance."

You look up from your seat to see Alessa leaning against the threshold. She has her arms crossed loosely over her chest, and a hairbrush dangles from between ring-filled fingers. "Hello to you too," you say. "How nice it is to see you this morning, Alessa. Do you feel the same about me, by any chance?"

She quirks one side of her mouth. She hasn't put on the dark paint around her eyes, and her hair clearly hasn't been brushed yet. Her shirt is loose too, the top strings left open and showing one of her collarbones. The sun is still young, but it shines down on her, and you can't help but notice how it brings out her freckles. On her cheeks and nose, on her forearms, and what little you can see of her chest.

Beautiful. As always. "I recall you have offered it," she says, choosing to ignore your greeting. "Your assistance, I mean."

"Did you just get out of bed?" you ask. Two can play at this game. You'll just keep talking to yourself if you have to.

Alessa's lips quirk again. You'd lean over to kiss them if you were close enough. "'Twould be a shame if you were to go back on your word. I could never fully trust you from henceforward."

"Because if you have, Alessa, I'm honored that the first thing you could think of doing is running to come see me," you say, putting a hand on your chest. "It means a lot, this devotion of yours. I'm touched."

She narrows her eyes. You smile. After a beat, Alessa smiles too. "Have I called you a fool yet?" she asks, leaning away from the door to walk towards you. Her gait is slow and careful as she puts each foot in front of the other.

"Not yet."

She reaches you and sweeps a hand over your hair. Her nails graze your scalp, sending little shivers down your back. You hold her wrist, thumb pressed on the cold pulse point. "Good morning," Alessa says, blue eyes shining. "'Tis pleasant to see you."

You tug her down. "There it is."

"Satisfied?"

"Very," you say and press your lips on hers. Alessa smiles into the kiss. It's brief but sweet and leaves you tingling. You part your knees, and Alessa gets the unspoken invitation. She sits on one of your thighs, her legs tucked between both of yours. "Now, what assistance do you require?"

"I require you to braid my hair," she says plainly, pushing the hairbrush into your hands. "'Tis especially tangled today, and I do not have the patience for it." Alessa pauses, and sharp nails grab your jaw. "You offered to braid it, remember? The morning after we..."

You smile at the way she hesitates. She's so much more comfortable with you in general, especially when it comes to physical proximity. But with words... Alessa sits on your lap, having just kissed you, but here are her cheeks turning just the slightest bit pink. "After we first kissed?" you suggest in a teasing tone.

She purses her lips. "Indeed," she says and glares when you laugh.

You kiss her cheekbone as an apology. "I do remember," you say, lifting the brush. "And I'll be glad to help you, 'Lessa. Just turn around for me?"

She does as you say, pivoting in your thigh so her back is to you. You gently soothe her hair with your fingers, tucking it here and there. Then, you grab as much of her hair as you can in one hand and close your fist in the middle so you can brush the ends without pulling the roots.

Alessa's shoulders softly move up and down as she breathes. "You are... excessively gentle," she notes, her voice soft too, as if she hesitates to break the quietness that fell between you.

You smile as you let go of the roots and start to brush the side of her head. Alessa turns her chin, giving you access, and you make sure you don't brush over her ear.

"Why do you make it sound like that's a bad thing?" you murmur, fingers guiding her hair to the side. The sun comes down from the window and rests on the crowd of her hair. It makes the light brown shine in strands of gold.

"'Twas not... I was not criticizing."

Her hair is mostly smooth now, but you brush it a few more times for good measure. "I know," you say and lean to kiss the exposed skin of her shoulder. It's filled with freckles. You kiss her again, and again, following the trail of freckles from her collarbone to the side of her neck.

When you kiss her beneath the jaw, Alessa shudders and laughs in what in anyone else would be a giggle. "Cease that," she demands, but her full lips smile, and her cheeks turned pink. She grabs your chin, nails pinching. "Have you forgotten why I sought your assistance?"

She holds out a leather cord. It's tied at the ends to form a circle. You chuckle as you slip in on your wrist. "Ah, right, right," you say and guide her to face forward once more. When she's settled, you separate her hair into three thick strands. "I'm at your service."

You do a high and tight braid. You're gentle as you gather all the thinner and shorter hairs on her nape and beside her ear, marveling at how light they are. Whenever your knuckles brush her skin, Alessa shivers. It's all over too soon, but as you lean back, you're proud of your work. "There," you say, patting her waist twice. "All done."

Alessa touches the braid, fingers inspecting each turn and twist. She then turns around again, and her face is as neutral as her voice. "Acceptable."

"Alessa…"

She quirks one side of her mouth. "You may braid my hair again," she says, but before you can answer, Alessa suddenly leans forward and wraps her arms around your neck. "Thank you, darling one," she whispers, cheeks red once more. Her blue eyes look down. "I am grateful for your assistance. I am grateful for... for your presence."

This woman. You cup her face and make her look back at you. "Anytime, Alessa," you say, and you mean it. She may call on you anytime.

She opens her mouth but seems to think better of it because the next thing you know, her lips are on yours, and words are made useless.

- - -

He's dripping wet.

A puddle gathers at his feet, the water oozing out of his expensive boots and the rim of his elegant pants. His vest is so soaked that the green looks like the moss that gathers around long-forgotten ponds. The gold buttons on his cuffs are askew, and his curls are curled no longer. His hair is straight and heavy with water, clinging to his forehead and the sides of his head.

Never before have you seen Alain look so miserable.

He has his mouth slightly open in incredulous disbelief, and his brown eyes look down at his body as if he can't make sense of what they show him. As he stands there in total shock, dripping wet and pitiful, you have to try your hardest not to burst out laughing.

"Alain," you call, rising to your feet. You look him up and down, noticing how the puddle is getting bigger and bigger. It seeps into the plush carpet, turning the crimson darker as if a hole is opening below him and for some reason, you find the sight hilarious. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. "Alain, what in God's earth happened?"

Alain lifts his head. Water slips down his sharp nose to the corner of his mouth, and when his eyes find yours, they look lost. "I... I'm not sure," he says, voice dazed too. He blinks and spreads his arms. "I was walking, and then, I heard a noise above me. When I looked up, I—" Alain shakes his head. Water splashes with the motion, like a dog shaking its tail, and you have to bite your cheek harder. Don't laugh.

"I got a face full of..." Alain's nose twists. "God, I don't even know what this smells like. It's foul, disgusting water." The more he speaks, the more it seems the situation dawns on him. Alain snaps his head up, and his brows furrow into an angry scowl. "Someone threw fucking used water on me."

The curse does it. You don't think you've ever heard him curse before. When Alain is angry, he makes cruel comments with a sharp grin and sharper eyes. If the person is of high birth, then Alain belittles them with subtle and subversive jabs. He never loses his temper, but then again, the noble has probably never been so blatantly disrespected in his life.

He's breathing hard, and you don't want to laugh anymore as sympathy adorns your voice instead. "They probably didn't mean to get you, Alain," you say in an appeasing voice, stepping closer to him. "I doubt they even noticed they hit anyone. You were just at the wrong place and the wrong time."

Alain slicks his hair back with an angry hand. "Then they're blind. Shouldn't you look before you throw anything out of a window? Should you even throw anything out of windows? What if it was a pan or—" His hair drips to his forehead again. Alain slicks it back with a growl. "Should I find them? I feel like I should."

"Hush," you say and reach a hand for his vest. Alain's eyes narrow, but he stays still as you start to unbutton the strings on his chest. Now that you're closer, you can smell the stench coming from him. "Let's take this off. I'll draw you a bath, and you'll feel like a new man."

You pause and flash him a smile. "After that, if you still feel like it, feel free to go hunt for the evildoer. Bring them to swift justice."

"I should do just that," Alain says in a dark voice, and while a threat from a Theer is nothing to scoff at, the overall intimidating effect is ruined by you pulling his shirt over his head.

"My powerful noble, going to right some wrongs," you whisper, smile turning playful as you crumple up the shirt and vest and throw them to the corner.

Alain flashes you a tilted grin. It's not wide and cynical, and it doesn't fit his face as most of his grins do. This one tugs to one side only and seems to mock inwards instead of the world at large. "This is fun to you," he states, voice sour, and sits on the edge of his bed. He turns his eyes to the floor.

You know that grin: it means he's embarrassed.

"Of course not, Alain." You sigh and go to him. His jaw stiffens when you brush it, but you ignore it and lift his chin up until his brown eyes look back at yours. "But maybe... you're taking this too seriously."

He blinks. You don't give him time to answer before you lean down to kiss his forehead. "Now wait here," you say against his skin and step away. Alain is silent as you ask a servant to draw a bath, and he's silent still when you re-enter the room.

He's still sitting on his bed, his trousers drenched, his hair even more so. Alain sweeps it away from his eyes for the third time, and you have enough. "Sit a little bit straighter," you ask of him, reaching out for a discarded cloak draped over a chair. The cloak is silken, of course, of a beautiful lavender color, and if it belonged to anyone else, you wouldn't use it for this.

But Alain has more than enough silk. "They're warming the water," you inform him as you draw nearer. Alain doesn’t answer, eyes watching you. "Incline your head."

He pauses, and his lips tilt. You like that tilt. You like that devilish light in his eyes. "As you command," he says, and again, does as you ask.

You drape the cloak over his head. Gently, with soothing motions, you start to absorb most of the filthy water. Your hands move up and down his scalp, kneading his curls, massaging his temples. Alain stays in complete silence, head bowed and hands hanging over his knees, but you see his shoulders relaxing. His breathing quiets too, and when you wash the cloak over his nape, he lets out a quiet groan.

"There," you say at last, taking the cloak away from his head. You crumple it too and throw it on top of his clothes. Alain looks up, his tanned skin darker and his eyes unreadable. "That's a little better."

"I look better, do I?" Alain asks.

"More put together."

He smiles, and you like that smile too. It reaches his eyes. "And I have you to thank for that," he says. Alain gets to his feet, taking one of your hands in his. "You have my gratitude, sparrow."

"Don't mention it."

"I won't," he quips.

"Hey!" You laugh, pushing him on the chest as Alain chuckles.

He tugs your wrist, bringing you closer. "I'm sorry for how I behaved. Not a lot brings me shame, but..." He chuckles again. "Well, I'm feeling shameful now. See what you do to me?"

His fingers move up your arm, gentle and warm. "I won't mention it," you whisper.

Alain's eyes sparkle. "I do like unmentionable things."

You shake your head, smile widening. "You're impossible."

"And you're joining me in my bath," he says, arm coming to circle your waist. He still smells, but you don't pull back when he hugs you. His lips graze over the outer shell of your ear, sending shivers down your back. "I've been told my thank yous are much better with actions rather than words."

- - -

Her hair is beautiful.

Ysabella always makes it a point to have her hair be something to admire, although it's hard because there's so much about her worthy of admiration. From her gowns to her jewelry, to the curve of her shoulders and the delicate lines of her throat. The tilt of her lips, the shape of her nose, the twinkle in her eyes. It's hard to look past her golden skin or the way her gloved hands move graciously whenever she speaks. Her voice, too, can capture one's attention, and she makes sure to lace it with the light, airy laugh that can belong to one but Ysabella. The noblewoman grew up in a setting where every little action counts and every word has at least three meanings and she has mastered the art of presenting exactly what she desires others to see.

It's hard to draw the eye to one specific thing when it comes to Ysabella Theer, but her hair is often the central piece.

Her long, brown curls fit around her face like a halo and drape over her shoulders like a bouncy waterfall. It's so thick and abundant that if you plunge a hand inside, the curls swallow it whole. It's beautiful when she lets it fall free. Beautiful when she ties it high or low behind her neck. It's beautiful when stylized for court, with braids and overlaps. It's beautiful, you've found, when it's tousled from bed, wild and untamed over her pillow.

It's beautiful.

But in all the times you've seen it, you've never seen it like this. "It was absolutely dreadful," Ysabella tells you. She sits with a heavy sigh on her gold vanity table, her shoulders sloping from exhaustion. She tosses her shoes away, her white knickers peeking from beneath her green gown. "We had to stand for hours, and these shoes are unforgivable. She was so late; the ice sculpture was all but melted when—"

Her eyes land on you through the mirror, and she pauses. "What is it?" Ysabella asks, eyes shifting to inspect her face. She turns aside then, trying to see the back of her head. "Do I have something on my hair?"

You take a step closer. "You do."

Bella's eyes widen. "Oh, no. I just washed it yesterday. Is it food? Some children were throwing food at the end of the meal." She giggles then. "My dear uncle's face reddened like a tomato, especially when Alain burst out laughing when a pudding flew into Aunt Cecilia's lap. I had to bite my cheek to keep from joining him, it was..." Ysabella giggles again, one hand covering her mouth. "It was the only joy of the whole affair. I made sure to slip the children a few extra treats."

You smile at her joy as you stop right behind her. You put one hand on her shoulder, as the other gently grabs a stray curl that defies gravity. The brown is so rich that you'd think it's made of mahogany wood were it not so soft.

"Don't worry. Your hair is food-free, as it were. But there's this." You let go of the curl to touch a golden ribbon on the side of her head. It interlaces with her locks in a long braid that circles the back of her neck. The other side is styled the same, although the ribbon is of a deep green. The two sides meet in the middle and cascade down her back.

The hairstyle is intricate and elegant, reminding you of those pictures of saints scattered throughout the Churches.

Ysabella stares at the ribbon, and then she smiles. "Ah," she says, settling back on her chair. Her shoulders press on your thighs, and she lets her head rest against your lower stomach. You can see how tired she is. Even her voice rings lowly, the words dragging. Her eyes are half-lidded too.

"It's the new fashion craze. All the ladies must have something on their hair, now. It took so long to style." Ysabella’s mirror eyes twinkle at you. "Do you like it?"

You start to massage her shoulders. "It's beautiful," you say, fingers drawing gentle circles. Ysabella closes her eyes, tilting her head to the side to allow you further access.

"You're a darling," she whispers with a pleased smile. She then grabs your hand and kisses the knuckles before heaving a big, dramatic sigh. "Oh, but it's a nightmare to undo. And it's so late. I shan't ever go and wake my poor handmaidens. They work much too hard."

She bates her lashes, and you laugh. "Whatever can you do?"

Ysabella sighs dramatically again. "I suppose I shall have to make do by myself. If only I had someone. A handsome/lovely mercenary, maybe, with steadfast hands and reliable character."

"Would you like me to undo your hair, lady Ysabella?" you ask near her ear.

Ysabella smiles brightly. "If you would be so kind."

You kiss her cheek before straightening up. "Lucky you, I'm feeling charitable." She giggles, and you smile as you get to work. You move slowly, taking advantage to press and paw at her hair. It's so soft that you could play with the curls the whole night if she allowed you.

Ysabella closes her eyes as carefully; you untangle the ribbons and the braids. There are golden beads attached to the strands, and you take them out one by one. Her breathing deepens as you massage the back of her neck, feeling the soft skin behind her ears. Finally, her curs are all free, falling in disarray past her forehead and collarbones. The style was beautiful, but as you step back, you think this is your favorite way to see Ysabella.

Very few ever see her like this, after all.

"Done," you say quietly. Ysabella's eyes flutter open, and she seems dazed as she stares at her reflection. "Did you fall asleep?"

Bella shakes her head, hair flying everywhere, and then gets to her feet. She wavers slightly, so you reach out a hand to steady her elbow. Ysabella smiles. "I think I did," she admits. "You have very soothing hands, have I ever told you?"

"You can keep telling me."

Ysabella's eyes crinkle at the corners. She looks at you for a moment, her lips smiling, but you can't read what shines in her eyes. Then, Ysabella steps back and grabs the golden ribbon. "Thank you," she whispers, taking your hand in hers and pulling your sleeve up your arm. She takes the ribbon then, and ties it around your wrist, making a delicate knot in your pulse point.

You lower your head, seeking her gaze. "Is this a favor from my lady?" you ask, and the question is light, but your voice rings low. Serious. Charged.

Bella peeks up from between strands of wild hair, and she doesn't flush, but you see the vulnerability in her eyes. "If you want to, dearest."

Her lips are much too soft to ignore. "Of course, I do," you murmur before leaning over and kissing her.

Ysabella’s arms wrap around your neck, her body tumbling into yours as you carry her to bed. The ribbon stays around your wrist. Light and soft, and holding unspoken promises.