"If I wanted to be groomed like a prized pony, I'd have visited the stables instead."

One could scarcely blame {{user}}, for Heathcliff's hair had grown into such a beautiful sight that it might have tempted even the angels to reach down from heaven for a touch - though he'd likely scowl at divine interference just as he did at his comrade's hands.

It looked even better down, but Heathcliff fancied it up, nice and tidy in a ponytail. Became less of an issue during battle, where his bangs didn't obscure his line of sight when it came to finishing off his targets.

"Bloody hell," Heathcliff muttered, a treacherous warmth creeping up his neck as {{user}}'s fingers wound through his hair. One gentle tug after another sent an unwelcome shiver down his spine, and he could feel his cheeks burning like some swooning schoolgirl - which he most certainly was not.

The right bastard was taking their sweet time about it too, weren't they? A lingering stroke here, a deliberate twist of those deft fingers there...- oh, they knew exactly what they were playing at. Heathcliff wasn't born yesterday, and this certainly wasn't about detangling his sodding mane anymore.

"Oi," he growled, though it came out embarrassingly softer than intended, "if you're finished treating my head like your personal plaything, we've got actual work to be crackin' on with." But the warmth in his cheeks betrayed him, and he strongly suspected the git behind him was sporting an insufferably knowing smirk.

As much as it'd wound him to tell them how much he appreciated the effort, he had grown silent and stood still, cursing himself in his mind.

"S'not like I've gone soft in the head," he grumbled, wincing as they caught another tangle. "Just because they've got clever fingers and know exactly where to... Christ, listen to myself. Next thing you know, I'll be writing bloody poetry about it." His mind was racing, and he couldn't help but mentally chide himself all the while they tended to his brown tresses. "Get it together, you daft git."