It's moments like now when I remember why I really am a bitch for love. Moments like now when I don't give a rats ass about wearing the label either.

When he's laying here, this way, sleepy, and helpless. Wrapped around me like a blanket, his head on my chest, one arm under my back. His mouth is open, and he's not only breathing, but snoring. Some human habits must be seated in the soul. I think Peaches may even be drooling a bit. But I don't mind. It's a gesture of trust all this, of...submission.

But that's not my favorite part.

There are alot of things attractive about the Old Pouff. Not that I'd admit to 'em aloud.

He has this insane smirk that jerks up one side of his mouth, leaving the other half of those usually pouty lips in a straight line. It makes his eyes crinkle and he looks young and adorable, and formidable and sinister all at once. No bloody idea how he carries that one off. I've worked on it for centuries. Mostly, I just manage to look pissed off.

He has this way of gazing out at the world through ridiculously long lashes, with his head tilted down and his eyes looking up. Resembles a soddin puppy, really. Still, it makes the chits go all googly.

None of those are my favorites either.

I, William the Bloody, Master Vampire, who fears no evil because I am the biggest, baddest motherfucker in the Valley, have a fetish.

It's hair.

It's not my own hair, mind you. In the couple of centuries I've stalked this Earth my hair has been every length and shade from it's natural dark brown to purple. I rather liked the reaction purple got. No one believed they were about to have their guts torn out by a bloke with purple hair.  Nah, my hair changes with the weather. I cant see it anyway. What's the point
of worryin about it?

Its my lovers' hair that makes me insane with lust. Hell, I guess that's not so odd. I knew a Slime demon once who had a thing for shoes. That was bloody frightening.

I love hair. I completely believe the Samson and Delilah myth. And I don't believe in much of anything anymore. But that there's power in the hair...this is true. Native Americans believe it, that's why their Warriors keep their hair long and braided. Maintains their potency. And I vaguely remember Red tellin me once that human hair is a common ingredient in spells. I kept the scissors away from her ass after that.

I have a lock of his hair. He don't know that either. I cut it when he was sleepin, a century or so ago. Back when he was still the Demon who made me. Back in Ireland. I cut it and I kept it wrapped in a handkerchief. I've had it since.

Then we met up again after he was all souled, and his hair was short. And...poofy. Horrid. Took me back to when Dru had one of her episodes, and she'd held a dagger to her black curls, threatening to cut them all off. I'd put up with alot from my wicked little pet over the years. But that was over the line. Don't exactly remember what I did to her...although she never did threaten to chop off her locks again.

Anyway. My Sire has hair that inspires that kind of fixation as well. He pretty much has hair like a woman.

It's the color of chestnut and honey, and the consistency of expensive silk. And yea, I'm waxin poetic, big effin deal. I can't help it. I got my weak spots.

I've never seen his hair tinted through with gold in the sunlight. Don't suppose I ever will. But I've seen it every other way you could imagine.

I've seen it hanging like a dark curtain on his bare shoulders in the last flickers of dusk. I've seen it swirling like shiny ribbons about his face when he dances. Yea, he danced some back in the day. Nancy Irish jig kind of thing, but he could carry it off. I've seen it wet and standing on spikey end after a bath. I've seen it tied back in velvet ribbons like a proper gentleman, and blowing about in the strong gusts of wind on a sailing ship. I've seen it matted with blood from the feed, and matted with sweat
when he fucks.

When he was still soul-free, he'd tease me with it. Tie me to a bed, and run the glossy strands over my chest and legs. I'd feel the soft, featherlike caress on my inner thigh before he'd sink his fangs in and drain me. Now it more often preludes a different kind of oral delight. But whatever; I'm easy.

When I go down on him, he'll clutch at my shoulders, or dig his fingernails into the bedsheets. When he does me the favor, I grab for his hair. I bury my fingers in it, and tug, feeling his scalp rise under my strength. I wind my fingers through the mane and knead like a contented cat.

And when Im on top of him, and inside of him, I grab him by the back of the head, and pull. And there's a fistful of his power in my grip, and he's writhing under me, and groaning, barely audible, but I can hear it, it's the breathless pant, of "more more harder harder" and I do. I tug harder and I fuck harder and he belongs to me.

Having him all-souled does have its perks.

But soul or no, there was always the blood...When he's drinking from me, I could always wrap my hands around his head, and thread my fingers around the curls he tries so hard to erase with all that hair gel. And wind and twist until they appear again. Damn, he fucking hated that. Still does. Which is of course, precisely why I still do it.

And now, Im laying here in the first blush of dawn, and he's tangled around me. No pretense, no complications, no hair gel. Just him, and me, and the soft, downy locks kissing my chest while his head rises and falls in sleep.

And I touch the ends, gently, stroking them with a reverence. I pet him like a big, slumbering cat, and he purrs against me, nuzzling closer, the tips of his short hair now just brushing my chin. I inhale deeply. The scent of the bar we frequented last night came home in his curls. Smoke, and sweat and beer. Some gits cheap perfume. And under it, the smell of him. The singular,
masculine scent of Angel. I feel my own reflexive purr begin to rumble through my chest.

I move to kiss his forehead, but he's already awake, and looking up at me. He shifts, and wipes the corner of his mouth, and looks about ten years old for a moment. All that's missing is the feet pajamas. Nonce. I smirk.

He's gonna say something, he always does, he talks too damn much, my Sire.  So I lean in and kiss him on the mouth instead, and he is startled, and still sleepy, but he returns my kiss with equal passion. Then I grab him, and crush him to me, my hands snaking through his hair, clinging to the moment, to the simplicity, to the entanglement.

Soon, he's going to get up and he's going to stand in front of the mirror like it was of any use, and Ill think, ya know, I bet he'd give up an inch of the best part of his dick to see just his hair, and he'll turn and grin at me. And then hell start messin with it, and before too long it will be all shiny, and goopy, and.... Ken doll, with attitude.

But for now, he's rumpled and messy and I love him this way.

Imperfect.

Mine.

~Finis

Send feedback