![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Okay - this is for Munchie, since I'm never likely to post it anywhere else.
Disclaimer: Don't own the NPs, Wickes and Clemens do, make no money, yada, yada ::g::
Kudos: Kate, for not knowing better than to dare me when I was on a caffeine high
Hair Today
There's something about it, something that speaks to me although I've never managed to figure out why. Maybe it's the way that the sunlight catches it, flaring highlights of red and gold shimmering in the dark depths. Maybe it's the way it feels, rough silk, soft and supple when it winds around my fingers, strong and smooth. Or maybe it's the way it smells, crisp and clean, the slightest hint of apples as I breathe in, underlain with the slightly muskier scent of my lover.
Or maybe it's just the caffeine talking.
Who knows? I've long since given up trying to work it out. A guy could go crazy that way, and god knows I spend long enough staring at it, staring at him to make those around us start to suspect that crazy is just what I am.
He talked about cutting it once and I almost freaked. Made some off the cuff remark about how my style would be much easier to handle and how the next time he went to get it trimmed, to the hideously expensive place he goes to, he'd just get it cut *really* short. Sorta that Crossroads guy short, the one Backup says looks a little like him.
My heart almost stopped. Frantic, and trying to hide it, I told him horror stories of gel and ages spent styling it so it gave the appearance of not being styled at all, compared to his 'towel and leave it' method, tales of having to wash it as soon as he got out of bed just to make sure it lay flat where it was supposed to and stood up where needed, and he abandoned the idea. He knew though. I could tell he'd figured out exactly what my real agenda was. He gave me that little sideways smirk he gives me sometimes but he said nothing, not even when that night he woke up to find my fingers twined into the dark, silky depths of it, my nose buried deeply within it as I nuzzled up against the back of his neck.
I couldn't shake the image out of my head though, of him shorn of his dark locks and even though I knew he'd look good - 'cause hell he'd look good in anything - I still worried. And so I still touched, caressed, smelt, felt it tickling against my face when I took him, pressing him into the mattress, my face, once again, buried in his neck as I was buried in him. Every chance I got and get.
Teresa had short hair, and I liked that too but for some reason it didn't have the same effect on me that his does. The rest of her did. Her hairstyle suited her. Short, snappy, neat, cool, like she was. It's strange when I think about it now, how her hair on our wedding day was as short as his. There's even a vague similarity in style, although that may well be my memory playing me false, or wanting to make connections where none exist, the result of the lingering guilt of loving Sam, loving anyone after her.
I even had a half-hearted and doomed attempt to persuade him to let it grow a little longer. Not much - I know that it would not go down well with Malone - but I couldn't help but wonder how it would look, curling at the nape, if he ever let it get that wild and untamed.
The thought was a turn-on, I'll admit it. Like the sight of him, tousled on assignment is a turn on, his hair falling into his eyes as he impatiently tries to huff it away, unable to brush it back without dropping weapons or bad guys. I itch to touch him then, reach up and do what he can't, but I don't because I know that once I touch him, once my fingers sink into that dark mass I won't be able to stop myself. My hands will slide through the glossy strands to cup the back of his head and I'll pull him towards me, sliding my tongue into the other dark depths I love so much.
So I content myself with looking, knowing that as soon as the bad guys are bagged and tagged I'll be able to get him somewhere where I can touch, caress, drink my fill. And when I do I sink my fingers into it, drag his face to mine with it, hold him steady with it as I kiss him breathless, the scent of it, the feel of it, the sunlight glinting off it drugging every one of my senses.
And when I do, when I finally give in to the temptation it represents, I pray that he never gets it cut.
Disclaimer: Don't own the NPs, Wickes and Clemens do, make no money, yada, yada ::g::
Kudos: Kate, for not knowing better than to dare me when I was on a caffeine high
Hair Today
There's something about it, something that speaks to me although I've never managed to figure out why. Maybe it's the way that the sunlight catches it, flaring highlights of red and gold shimmering in the dark depths. Maybe it's the way it feels, rough silk, soft and supple when it winds around my fingers, strong and smooth. Or maybe it's the way it smells, crisp and clean, the slightest hint of apples as I breathe in, underlain with the slightly muskier scent of my lover.
Or maybe it's just the caffeine talking.
Who knows? I've long since given up trying to work it out. A guy could go crazy that way, and god knows I spend long enough staring at it, staring at him to make those around us start to suspect that crazy is just what I am.
He talked about cutting it once and I almost freaked. Made some off the cuff remark about how my style would be much easier to handle and how the next time he went to get it trimmed, to the hideously expensive place he goes to, he'd just get it cut *really* short. Sorta that Crossroads guy short, the one Backup says looks a little like him.
My heart almost stopped. Frantic, and trying to hide it, I told him horror stories of gel and ages spent styling it so it gave the appearance of not being styled at all, compared to his 'towel and leave it' method, tales of having to wash it as soon as he got out of bed just to make sure it lay flat where it was supposed to and stood up where needed, and he abandoned the idea. He knew though. I could tell he'd figured out exactly what my real agenda was. He gave me that little sideways smirk he gives me sometimes but he said nothing, not even when that night he woke up to find my fingers twined into the dark, silky depths of it, my nose buried deeply within it as I nuzzled up against the back of his neck.
I couldn't shake the image out of my head though, of him shorn of his dark locks and even though I knew he'd look good - 'cause hell he'd look good in anything - I still worried. And so I still touched, caressed, smelt, felt it tickling against my face when I took him, pressing him into the mattress, my face, once again, buried in his neck as I was buried in him. Every chance I got and get.
Teresa had short hair, and I liked that too but for some reason it didn't have the same effect on me that his does. The rest of her did. Her hairstyle suited her. Short, snappy, neat, cool, like she was. It's strange when I think about it now, how her hair on our wedding day was as short as his. There's even a vague similarity in style, although that may well be my memory playing me false, or wanting to make connections where none exist, the result of the lingering guilt of loving Sam, loving anyone after her.
I even had a half-hearted and doomed attempt to persuade him to let it grow a little longer. Not much - I know that it would not go down well with Malone - but I couldn't help but wonder how it would look, curling at the nape, if he ever let it get that wild and untamed.
The thought was a turn-on, I'll admit it. Like the sight of him, tousled on assignment is a turn on, his hair falling into his eyes as he impatiently tries to huff it away, unable to brush it back without dropping weapons or bad guys. I itch to touch him then, reach up and do what he can't, but I don't because I know that once I touch him, once my fingers sink into that dark mass I won't be able to stop myself. My hands will slide through the glossy strands to cup the back of his head and I'll pull him towards me, sliding my tongue into the other dark depths I love so much.
So I content myself with looking, knowing that as soon as the bad guys are bagged and tagged I'll be able to get him somewhere where I can touch, caress, drink my fill. And when I do I sink my fingers into it, drag his face to mine with it, hold him steady with it as I kiss him breathless, the scent of it, the feel of it, the sunlight glinting off it drugging every one of my senses.
And when I do, when I finally give in to the temptation it represents, I pray that he never gets it cut.
