#i have yet to spend $30 on lip gloss i don't got it like that yet :[

[itgirlwife]

the one about puck's hair

summary: puck wakes up to malcolm counting their box braids.

ship: honeymoon suite | puck/malcolm

words: 639

notes: fluff, yes. malcolm is white.

Malcolm is mumbling something. 

The morning brain fog is too heavy to make out what he’s saying. He’s awake and he’s touching my hair. Braid by braid. That’s all I know. 

The sun comes into vision. The brain fog clears a bit. I hear numbers. “12, 13, 14…” Malcolm is counting something. What’s in front of him that he’s counting?

“What are you counting?” I ask groggily.

“Aw,” he says softly, kissing my shoulder, “you made me lose count.”

Fully awake, I turn to face him. “You were counting my braids, you weirdo?”

Malcolm has a reputation for doing things while I’m asleep. He’s shown me pictures he’d taken of me while I was sleeping. I’ve woken up to Squishmallows on my head. Books read to me, my nails painted; it’s nothing new.

“It’s not weird. I mean, do you know how many braids are in your hair?”

I shrug, “I can’t say that’s something I’ve thought about.”

He kisses my nose, “Exactly. I was thinking for you.”

“As you normally do.” I straighten out his bedhead with my fingers. He hums.

“Yeah. I do your thinking so much I deserve proper compensation.” He scoots closer, nuzzling his face into my neck, peppering kisses to the flesh.

“Do you take Kohl's Cash?” It’s hard not to laugh with his stubble tickling me.

He stops and smiles in my neck. “No, but I take kisses.”

Malcolm lifts his head to peck my lips softly, his lips still red and puffy from the night before. He pulls away with a smile.

“You got a little…” He gestures to my mouth, specifically the areas where my gloss had smudged. Embarrassed and annoyed, I wipe off the remains.

“Oh? The $30 lip gloss you smudged? Yeah, I know.”

He laughs and kisses me again, oblivious to the gloss on his lips. “Who spends $30 on a lip gloss anyway?”

“The hottest person you’ll ever meet.” I pull the duvet off my body, climbing out of bed.

“Guess I hit the jackpot, huh?”

“Yep, you sure did,” studying the floor, I pick up Malcolm’s button-down and slip it on. The shirt smells like him and me; vanilla and spice. 

“But seriously,” Malcolm continues, “they don’t tell you how many braids they put in your hair before they, y’know.” He makes a braiding gesture with his fingers.

“I don’t ask,” I shrug again, sitting at the foot of the bed. “Seems like a weird thing to ask anyway.”

Malcolm comes behind me, pulling my hair out of the shirt carefully. The braids fall down my back gently. I get goosebumps every time he touches it. I don’t have restrictions on who touches my hair, but if I did, Malcolm would be the only one with a golden ticket. I let him sit in during my hair appointment. About 2 hours in, he’d fallen asleep. When he woke up, my hair was done.

“Wow!” He whisper-shouted. He looked like he’d just seen a shooting star. “You look beautiful.” He moved to touch them, but I stepped back and shook my head. The braids were too tight.

Since then, I’ve had his help with styling and maintenance. He’s helped me put ribbons in my hair, put it in buns and ponytails for me (his favorite thing to do), and he reminds me to wrap them before I go to sleep. I couldn’t imagine anyone else doing it.

Malcolm kisses my cheek. “It doesn’t hurt to ask.” I felt the stickiness of my gloss when he pulled away. There’s a hint of cherry too.

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I get my hair done.”

“Don’t bother. That’s what you’ve got me for, right?” He caresses the braids before letting them fall down my back again. Braid by braid, once again, he goes back to counting.