Dawdling away

Salome

Grimmjow's hair have exactly the right colour. And length. Very important. She digs her hands in deep and grabs them, pulling. He doesn't mind. After all, he is an Espada and what guy would complain about something like that?

She wonders how they get to feel so silky. Things like shampoo don't exist in Hueco Mundo as far as she knows, but - mah, why does she even care? They feel perfect.

She tilts his head to one side and pulls it close, putting her cheek against his hair. It smells warm. She tries to curl a lock around her fingers, but they're always just this bit too short.

She pouts, he laughs. Cutting his hair in Pantera-form had been a brilliant idea. Silently, he agrees and half a year later, he prowls on her balcony, asking for a re-cut.

18.3.09 13:36
 


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