Deep Devotion — Part 2 (Patreon)

Your fingers tread through the dark strands of his hair. He had let it loose for you, the usual leather cord that ties it wrapped around your wrist.

His hair is full of knots and salt, and he grunts every time you untangled one. But even in its unkemptness, you feel its silkiness and see the healthy shine. You frown as you come across another twist. If only he took better care of it, it could be as smooth and soft as a noblewoman's undergarments.

The Pirate King has his eyes closed, hands crossed over his bare stomach as he sits with his head tilted back, nape resting on your lap. His skin is tanned from the relentless sun, and you can see all the little scars and cuts scattered on his torso and arms, like points of interest in a large leather map. His pants hang loose around his waist since he discarded his heavy belt to the side, where his twin axes shine bright in the summer light. A big, crimson ruby ring embellishes his left thumb, grand enough to distract from the fact that that finger is cut in half.

Your legs hang over his shoulders as you sit on top of a wooden crate. The sea breeze cools your face and the bright blue ocean is all around you. Salt, sea, foam, and wind mix in a scent that you've come to associate with him. The whole world on this quiet morning seems to revolve around him — smells, sounds, and, of course, touch.

You pick up the small hairbrush by your side and smile as he sighs in contentment when you brush it through his hair. "You should do this more often," you tell him reproachfully, doing another sweep. You make sure to dig the little wooden teeth deep enough to graze his scalp.

The Pirate hums. "Are you asking if you may brush my hair every day, peach?" he asks with a crooked smile, eyes still closed. "Because if so, I have no objections."

Your smile widens. "Hmm, what a generous offer," you say, playing with the finer hairs near his ear. Your Pirate loves jewelry, but you've never seen him wearing an earring. You brush the outer shell of his left ear, imagining a row of silver rings hanging from it. "I'll only accept it on one condition."

"Name it."

"I get to braid your hair too." Your fingers still as you wait for him to answer, not truly believing he'd let you.

The Pirate opens one lazy eye to peek up at you, and one of his hands caresses your leg lightly. "Do what you will," he says with a shrug of his shoulders. His hand closes around your ankle, his thumb sweeping across your skin. "If it’ll spare me the trouble of having to steal you away to keep you near, you can shave it all off for all I care.”

He grimaces immediately after. "Well, maybe don't do that. I couldn't pull off the bald look. Plus, the sun is harsh on the scalp, and I don't want to wear a bandana, peach. But everything else, you're welcome to."

You laugh as your fingers start working again, this time arranging the long strands into a braid. "Could I tie it in a bun?"

"Of course."

"Make ponytails?"

"I'll suffer them gladly."

His thumb traces absent circles on your ankle as you laugh again, his dark hair spilling like water from your fingers. The braid is half done. "What about your beard?" you ask, leaning forward to take a peek at it. It's tied in another smaller leather strap with a gold bead in the middle. "Can I braid it too?"

The Pirate opens both eyes, thumb freezing its caresses. "If you want my beard," he says, lifting his hand to cradle the back of your head. He pulls you down, and you go willingly until his lips are next to yours. You're smiling still, and while your Pirate isn't, you can see the amused light in his eyes. "You'll have to offer a bit more than just your company."

"Oh?" you say, making sure your lips brush his. "Like what? What'd be good enough for the big, powerful captain?"

His thumb, mangled and rough, sweeps over your cheekbone. "One day, that mouth of yours will get you in trouble."

"It's alright. It can get me out of trouble too." And you swallow his laugh as you bend all the way down to kiss him.

- - -

It looks so pretty in the moonlight.

Neia's hair has stood out to you from the moment you first saw it. It has an unusual color, for one, just like her eyes, and the yellow and white go together like the moon and the night sky. It's also long; longer than you'd think a warrior like her would have. When washed, brushed, and allowed to spill free, it goes past her shoulders. When wet, it almost reaches the middle of her back.

You once saw Neia step out of the bath, her long white hair falling from her back like the ghost of a waterfall, and as water dripped down to pool at her feet, you understood how beautiful a jaded thing can be.

Neia usually wears her hair tied, pulled back in a rough ponytail so that it doesn't get in her eyes. It's always tossed and matted whenever she takes off her helmet, and once, you saw her crudely cut off a thick strand with a dagger because it had become too entangled. But for all her carelessness, she never cuts it off completely.

As you sit near her, you find yourself glad she never did. Her hair is blond, but sunlight makes it look like snow, and, you discover, so does the pale light of the moon.

"Do you like your hair?" you ask, breaking the quiet that settled between you. Neia rests her back on the log you're using, her long legs bent at the knee with her elbows on top. She turns her head, and while she's on the ground, she's almost at the same eye level as you.

"What?"

You reach a hand and touch the very ends. Neia watches you, her eyes trained on your fingers, but stays still. "Your hair," you say, lightly twirling your index finger around a strand. It's not smooth, but it isn't coarse either. "Do you like it?"

You're staring at her hair, so you don't watch her face. Neia is silent for a while, and you take advantage to carefully untangle a knot near her ear. You try to be as gentle as possible, lest Neia breaks the contact.

"You seem to." Comes her answer.

You snap your eyes up and see her watching you with an unreadable expression. Her scar shines in the moonlight too, but her mouth isn't smirking or snarling, and you couldn't find any tone to her voice either. She does this sometimes; completely hides what she's thinking.

You've learned to simply brave against it. "I do," you admit, giving her a small smile. You then scoot a little closer so you can hold her hair in both hands. "Actually, I like it a lot. You shouldn't cut it."

"I don't.”

You use your fingers as a comb. Slowly, starting from the top of her head, you dig your nails in and drag them down until you find a knot or a particularly rough patch. Then, you untangle it the best you can. "I know, but in case you ever want to," you say, pulling a few dead hairs away. "Don't do it. It would be a crime."

Neia's eyes aren't closed. But as you glance at her face, pride blooms in your chest when you see them half-lidded. "Stop saying nonsense," she rasps, but her lips twitch at the corners, and her scoff sounded like a laugh.

You smile wider and assume it's safe to go on. Slowly, you brush her hair as best as you can, wishing you'd have a comb at hand, but making do with your fingers. Neia keeps eerily silent, but as you work, you note the small differences: she's leaning against your knees, and her shoulders are slackened and relaxed. Her chin is tilted the slightest bit up, and you can see her eyes are closed. And, when your fingers brush the skin behind her ears, massage her nape, or do gentle circles around her temples, Neia lets out the barest hint of a pleased grunt.

Finally, her hair is as smooth as it'll ever be, but you don't want to stop. "Neia," you say, fingers moving to the right side of her head.

"Hm?"

"I'm going to braid your hair," you announce, not waiting for an answer. You pick a section near her temple and do little braids from her ear to the nape. They succeed each other closely, the white braids like ropes covered in snow. Neia doesn't object, so when you finish this side, you switch to the other.

You do the same, little braids that get thicker and bigger until they're large enough that they can intertwine with the ones on the right side. Lastly, you join the two in a dense braid in the middle that goes down her back.

"You can wear it like this for battle," you say, leaning back to properly appreciate your work. It's damned good.

Neia turns on the ground, and you smile at how she looks. Her face is even more angular, more intense. More beautiful. She lifts a hand and inspects her hair. "I actually could," she says with a ring of disbelief. She shakes her head from side to side and seems surprised the braids hold up. "How long does this stay?"

You purse your lips. "Depends, but if you're careful, it could last a week or more."

Neia lets out a rasp that it's her version of a laugh. "Well, damn," she says and regards you for a while. Her yellow eyes roam your face, her smile torn and wide. "We should test them."

"What do you mean?"

Neia leans forward and plants her hands on both sides of your legs. She pushes her head until it looms near you. "I don't want to be in the middle of combat and have this fall apart on me," she murmurs, her voice bathing your skin. She comes even closer, her arms closing on your sides. You're trapped, but you welcome it, your hands moving to circle her forearms.

"So you just want to undo all my hard work," you tut.

"If it's good work, it'll hold.”

"Fine, how do you propose we test it, then?" you ask, fingers playing with her shirt. "I think we— ah!"

You gasp when she grabs your hips and tugs you onto her lap. "Hold on to them," Neia says before her lips capture yours and you barely have the presence of mind to obediently lift your hands and grab onto the braids.

- - -

"Tilt your head for me."

Lance does as you ask, immediately raising his chin up so you can reach the hairs near his hairline. You part it in the middle and sweep the brush along his scalp, coating the strands in bright blue. The dye has a sharp, almost toxic smell that has your eyes stinging and your nostrils tingling, but you can't deny how mesmerizing it is to see it replace the brown on its roots with the color of the sky.

"Now, to the side," you say in a low tone, gently guiding his head to the left. Lance does as you ask once more, resting his chin on your knee as you part the long strands and color his hair like a painting. Lance hums, instinctively moving his head as you work. He's holding two brushes in his right hand, one thinner than the one you're holding, and the other much wider.

You need something broader now. "Give me the big one," you ask, not even looking as Lance puts it in your hand. He takes the medium brush, waving it briefly in the air. Blue droplets go flying, but your pants are ruined already, and Lance is bare-chested, so it's not as if it matters.

Chouriça, lying near his feet, opens one curious eye but quickly loses interest.

"I have to say, this is much easier with someone else," Lance remarks, rotating his head as you sweep the big, broad brush from the roots to the tips of his hair.

"Easier as in, 'I'm not doing any work'?" you say in a pointed tone. He sits on the ground while you're propped behind on a chair, hunched over, and with blue dye dripping down your fingers. You lightly tap the brush against his temple. "Feeling well there, mister bard? Enjoying the private pampering session?"

You see a flash of his gold tooth as he smiles. "I am very pleasantly surprised. You don't know how much of a headache it is to do this by myself. My arms are sore for days afterward."

"I can imagine," you say. And you can. It's meticulous work, there's no doubt, and drawn out and... some would call it boring, but you can't. Lance leans his back on your thighs, and the skin of his shoulders is warm to the touch, and the afternoon sunlight falls on his eyes so gently that the grey turns a deep blue.

It's not tedious at all as you feel his left hand's fingers wrapped around your ankle. They're perpetually drumming in some melody that only he can hear. Chouriça gives a big stretch, sticking out her four paws, and you can see Lance's smile turning more tender as he watches her.

No, you wouldn't trade these soft, carefree hours for anything else in the world.

"One time, I had a stiff neck for a week," Lance continues. "I could make a song of all my woes."

"The woes of dying one's hair?"

"Has a nice ring to it, has it not?"

You smile again, moving on to the last section of hair. The old blue dye has faded, and you can see the natural brown mingling with the strands. Not for the first time, you wonder how Lance would look as a brunette. "You're the expert," you say absentmindedly.

Lance is quiet for a moment. You focus on your work, meticulously painting along the lines of parted hair, when suddenly, Lance holds your hand and tilts his head until he can look you straight in the eyes. "Terrible song ideas aside," he says. "Thank you. I appreciate this very much. More than I will likely be able to say."

You tuck a strand of wet, blue hair away from his forehead. "But you're so good with words," you say, your voice drifting quietly between you. You use the excuse to look away from his eyes, for suddenly, they are too honest and raw, and it makes your chest tighten.

Lance's fingers squeeze yours. "Not when it comes to what matters," he says and smiles when you return his gaze. It fits him so well, this unabashed joy.

"Thank me when I'm done," you say, pushing his head upwards. Lance chuckles as he adjusts himself back. You pick up your wooden comb and start to brush his entire hair, spreading the blue taint evenly.

"I will. I will thank you as many times as I need so that you do this again."

"Oh, so it's out of self-interest, is it?" you quip.

Lance hums again, inclining his head like a dog being scratched behind the ears as you comb his scalp. It makes you smile. "After this, there's no going back to solo hair-dying. Not for all the fame in the world."

You put the comb down. "I'm done," you announce. "What now?"

Lance turns on the ground, his hair all pasted together like cake. "Now, we let it sit for a while."

"How long?" you ask. The sun is ever closer to the horizon.

Lance's fingers turn your head away from the window, and he rises on his knees to put his face next to yours. He smells of paint, his fingers smear your cheeks, and his golden tooth shines along with his eyes. "May I thank you properly now?"

You purse your lips, pretending to think. "It isn't technically done," you point out, but nuzzle your cheek into his palm.

"Ah, but technicalities ruin so many wonderful tales." Lance pulls you in, lips soft on yours, and you suppose you can consider the kiss a fitting ending to your tale.

- - -

You can't help it. You burst out laughing. "Rafael, it looks like a rat's nest!"

The bastard glares at you. "The hell does that mean? Rat's don't hav' nests."

You hold on to your stomach and try your hardest to speak. "Sure, they do," you say, pointing a shaky finger at his head. "And it looks just like that!"

Rafael hunches his shoulders, scowl deepening and lips sneering, and if anything, his flush makes him look even more disheveled. "Goddam idiot," you hear him mumble. "Birds make nests, rats just burrow."

"A burrow can be a nest," you point out, calmly but surely winding down. "But anyway, that's not the point."

"No, the point is you makin' fun of me," Rafael snaps back. He has his arms crossed, hands clenched on his elbows, and the candlelight makes shadows deep enough on his goatee that it looks fuller than it really is.

But it's his hair going in all directions, sticking out in wild brown strands and puffed up like a peacock's tail that attracts the eye. Rafael had thrown his hood off when he entered the safehouse, and you just weren't ready for the wild state of his hair.

You smile at him, taking just a little bit of pity. "I'm not making fun of you, Rafael," you assure him. "I just found it funny. There's a difference between laughing with you and laughing at you.”

His eyes narrow. "Do ya see me laughing?"

Your lips twitch. "... no."

"There ya go."

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Rafael looks to the side, obstinate eyes narrowed on the wall, and you sigh before getting up from the table. "Come here," you say, dragging a chair to the middle of the room. Its wooden legs scratch the floor before coming to a screeching halt.

Rafael cocks an eyebrow.

You pat the back of the chair. "Sit."

His top lip lifts. "Why?"

You roll your eyes. "Rafael, come here and stop being an ass already. I don't bite."

He looks from you to the chair, narrowed eyes narrowing even further. You and Rafael have gotten... it's hard to say closer because he keeps slipping past the cracks, but you're different around each other. You don't know when your insults have stopped stinging and transformed into forms of familiarity, but it happened. And you like it.

You surprise yourself with how much you like his company. How much you seek it.

Finally, the bastard leans away from the wall. "Fine," he gruffs, walking forward as if he's going to an execution. You smile in triumph, and you don't know too, how you were sure he'd succumb to your request, but you were.

Rafael, for all his huffing and puffing, always does what you ask of him. Again, and again.

"Happy?" he gruffs as he slumps down on the chair.

You smile. "Stay there," you say and walk towards your room.

From behind, a scoff. "Any more orders ya got for me?"

You stop by the door, one hand on the threshold. "Don't pretend you don't like it," you quip, your smile widening in a grin.

You expected Rafael to glare or make another scoff or even grin back a little bit. What you don't expect is the way his brows furrow, his face closes, and the thief stares at you with an unreadable expression. You can't read what's behind his eyes but it... feels heavy. The whole room suddenly feels heavy.

You look down, your smile dying as heat creeps up your cheeks. What is wrong with me? "Anyway, just stay there," you say, and dive through the door.

When you return, Rafael is awaiting patiently where you left him. He's discarded his cloak and sits with his knees spread apart and arms crossed over his chest. His head is slightly tilted, and you think he may have had his eyes closed, but they spring open when you step back into the common room. His dark eyes fall on what you carry in your hands.

Again, you expect a scoff, a sarcastic comment, a not-so-witty insult but... you get silence. Rafael's eyes go back to yours, and he watches you silently as you walk closer. You turn the wooden comb in your hands, fingers going over the rounded teeth, and tell yourself it isn't because you're nervous.

"Stay still, alright?" you ask, putting a hesitant hand on top of his head. You don't apply too much pressure for fear he'll bolt away, but apart from the slightest jerk of his shoulders, Rafael does as you ask. You start to part his hair with just your fingers first and can't help but smile. "It's really a mess."

"Not my fault there's a bloody tornado outside."

"I wouldn't call a little wind a tornado, Raf," you counter. You pick up the comb and start to gently brush his hair. It's in disarray, but the strands aren't tangled, so it's easy to run it from top to bottom. Rafael hums, clearly not bothering if he loses the argument, and the both of you fall into a heavy silence.

You brush his hair diligently, maybe even more diligently than you needed. It's already straight, but you can't help but linger just a little bit. You've never touched him like this, you realize, as you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. Your fingertips graze his skin, and you hear his intake of breath. You bite your lip and move on, but part of you wants to...

"There," you say, quickly learning away. "It's not a rat's nest any longer."

"No such thing as a rat's nest," Rafael argues out of habit. He inspects his hair with his hands before rising from the chair and facing you. And it shouldn't be this hard to hold his gaze. It shouldn't be this hard not to notice how dark his eyes look. How good his smile fits his face. "Thanks."

You shrug. "Sure."

Rafael looks down, and you almost jump when his fingers touch yours. He gently takes the comb from your hand, twirling it in his. "I'll hang on to this," he says with a crooked grin. "You'll get your nest all tangled up someday."

You give him a dry look. "What? You'll comb my hair if I do?"

Rafael's grin fades. He looks at you again in that same, unreadable way. "Sure," he says, voice quiet and heavier and... "Sure, I can do that."

"I'll believe it when I see it," you shoot back but are quick to turn on your heels and walk away. You saw his smile right before you turned, however.

It was cocky and crooked, and you'll be damned, but it was handsome too.