Rodney has a dirty little secret. He loves John’s hair.
He loves how it emotes: even when John’s (far too often) stony-faced, Rodney can gather clues from the jumbled strands. He loves that it’s unique: he can always pick John out, even in a crowded room.
He loves how it feels, rough but yielding when he rakes his fingers through, soft when he strokes, holds John’s head against his cheek, chin, mouth.
He loves its color, glossy and black. Not blonde—not blond—but rich, dark, decadent. And below it endless multitudes: like the vast reaches of enduring space.
Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair
He loves how it emotes: even when John’s (far too often) stony-faced, Rodney can gather clues from the jumbled strands. He loves that it’s unique: he can always pick John out, even in a crowded room.
He loves how it feels, rough but yielding when he rakes his fingers through, soft when he strokes, holds John’s head against his cheek, chin, mouth.
He loves its color, glossy and black. Not blonde—not blond—but rich, dark, decadent. And below it endless multitudes: like the vast reaches of enduring space.