Work Text:
“Can I braid your hair?”
The request is so unexpected he has to look at her, just to make sure it was really her who asked. Despite the room being empty save for them, and her laying quite comfortably in his lap.
She returns his gaze with curious eyes, the sleepiness of earlier almost entirely gone.
A shame. Bloom is quite cuddly when tired, and less inclined to argue with him too. A victory on both accounts.
“Braid my hair?” he repeats, blinking. A little taken aback too, because, well. They could use their time in more entertaining ways.
But she's looking at him so hopefully that he cannot find it in himself to turn her down — even though he is confident he could make it up to her.
“Do I make a habit of refusing you?” he asks only, surrendering to his fate with a sigh. Bloom grins and jumps up in an instant, crawling behind him eagerly. For a moment she escapes his perception, and he almost assumes it was merely a diversion. So she can steal away again, disappear beyond his reach until they inevitably meet again.
A prickling sensation at the back of his neck calms that fear, however. And then gentle fingers are weaving through his hair, and…
Huh. This is… this is nice .
It’s not the first time he'd had his hair braided, of course. Infiltrating royal ceremonies sometimes required a variety of hairstyles, and he's been alive for long enough to witness firsthand how the art of braiding became more and more elaborate.
But he’d used spells, on these occasions. A quick flare of magic and it was done.
Now though…
He's under no illusion that Bloom is any good at this. Most mundane tasks elude her otherwise so legendary skill, and he can practically hear her bite her lip in concentration. So why does it feel so… so…
Something in his shoulders relaxes. Something he didn’t even know was tense, to be honest. The light seems to dim, and he suddenly becomes aware that he could fall asleep like this.
Which would be utterly humiliating. So he won’t do that.
“Why did you ask?” he says after a moment, more to keep his eyes from falling shut than out of actual curiosity. Which is awakened anyway when Bloom halts, as if at a loss for words.
“I…” she starts, then resumes her braiding. “I heard that the whole, you know, doing someone’s hair thing can be very… intimate in some cultures. Melody, for example! Just didn’t want to pounce on you with that.”
Quirking an eyebrow, he looks around, where most of their clothing is still strewn about the floor. Carelessly left where she had tossed it just hours earlier, in her haste to get it off of them. When personal space hadn’t been on her mind at all, evidently.
“I appreciate your concern,” he deadpans, “but I do think we are past that point.”
He enjoys letting her squirm for a while, looking for another excuse, before continuing.
“Either way, my question wasn’t why you felt the need to ask. I'd like to know why you would want to do this.”
Not that he is complaining. Her usually so fidgety hands are strangely calm in their movements, easily tugging the strands in place, weaving them together. His scalp is tingling with the sensation, his entire body seeming to melt into something softer.
He… likes this. Very much even.
Which just means another thing to miss when she insists on leaving once again.
Bloom has gone very quiet for a moment, so quiet that he almost forgot he had asked. But she answers, softly. Like she doesn’t want to say it too loudly, like someone else could hear.
“I like your hair.”
He blinks. Is tempted to look over his shoulder, before remembering that her hands are tangled in his hair and he would tear it.
She is not usually one to compliment him. For anything, least of all his appearance — which he knows she likes. Has dragged the confession out of her in between moans and pleas often enough.
But there's something else in her saying it so freely, voluntarily. Finding safety in the fact that he can’t look at her right now, most likely. She knows that anything she gives him — any weakness, no matter how small and innocent — he will use to lure her closer, to bind her to him.
That she chose to say it anyway is meaningful.
It moves something in him he'd rather not examine now.
“…that’s… good,” he manages to say, before regaining some composure and smirking. “You know, for the very low prize of lifelong commitment to me and my plans, you get to see it all day long.”
Her smile somehow translates all the way into her fingertips; he can feel it when she combs through his hair.
“If world dominion doesn’t work out, you'll have a bright future as a door to door salesman ahead of you,” she gives back, and his smirk widens into a self-satisfied grin.
“Oh, is that what they’re calling it nowadays?”
She laughs, loud and unrestrained, accidentally pulling at his hair a tad too close for comfort. She apologizes when he curses, but does not stop laughing.
It’s the kind of sound he dreamed about, for so long.
He drinks it in and let’s his eyes fall closed just a little, smiling to himself as she gets back to braiding with the occasional chuckle. If he falls asleep, she'll be gone when he wakes, no doubt.
But not for long, no.
Never for long.