The Hair
Title: The Hair
Author: Acacia
Rating: PG-13, I guess?
Pairing: Read it and find out. Go on, just do it already, it’s like 300 words long.
Time Period: Really not important, but 1969, if you like.
Warnings: Pretty tame here. Swearing and allusions to whatever your dirty little mind would like to make up.
Disclaimer: Everything here is pure fictional non-profit stuff, folks.
Summary: The old "waking up in bed next to someone without remembering what happened" trope. An oldie but a goodie.
A drabble for your enjoyment, while the longer stuff percolates…
As Pete Townshend began the long, slow swim back to consciousness, his first thought was that he didn’t want to. His second though was that whoever had seen fit to half bash in his head had also filled his mouth with the most foul tasting cotton balls he had ever encountered, although that thought didn’t quite seem to make a whole lot of sense.
As he blearily opened his eyes, squinting when the morning light sent daggers right into his brain, his third thought was oh, shit. A mass of sickeningly familiar blond curls was currently sharing his pillow.
Fuck, this is not happening. He rolled over in a futile attempt to Make It Not Have Happened. And, on his other side, he was confronted by an identical heap of golden tresses, piled on top of the head of Roger Daltrey.
Pete blinked and rubbed his eyes but when he looked again, his sleeping band mate was still there. Completely starkers from what he could tell. This is not what I need right now. His thoughts seemed to be moving through thick marmalade in his hangover addled head. At least that was the only explanation for how long it took his mind to reason, well, if Roger is here, then who the fuck is that over on the other side?
For a moment, curiosity warred with thoughts of dread and impending doom. He could bolt out of the room right now and no one would be the wiser. Unless someone saw him running naked in the hall, of course. But the thought of the two matching sets of flaxen ringlets kept nagging at him. Finally, curiosity won and Pete slowly turned over again, aches in strange places swimming up in his consciousness.
Only when he had completely turned over did he dare steal a glance at the other person. He was greeted by a pair of wide, clear eyes set over a completely wicked, crooked smile.
“Oh, Pete…I never would have guessed that you two were so…perfectly…deviant,” purred Robert Plant, twisting a single, snake-like lock around his flawlessly manicured finger.