So, because I'd rather not flood with all my cruddy oneshots, I'll be posting all of them that I write here. It'll mostly be Gwevin and random character exploration, though I might dabble in other pairings and maybe some action stories. Whatever happens happens, I suppose.

I may take requests for general things to write about next, like if you have a particular pairing or character you'd like to see. No promises though.

Disclamer: I own nothing~

Hair
(Focus: Gwevin)

There are a lot of things he hates about Gwen.

He never sees these flaws as a part of her. He considers them an external force, a horde of demons constantly hovering about her. Scratching and scratching at her ankles and draining so much from her, and then she listens when they plead benevolence and nods and says they can stay with a flash of pain in her eye.

Sometimes he gets scratched too. More than sometimes. They claim they're protecting her, but he's the only one they're keeping at a distance. He knows she hates it. He can see the blood in her footprints when she leaves without a kiss.

He hates her propriety. Public displays of affection are punishable offenses in her mind. He blames her school. Put your nose two inches from a girl's face anywhere near a teacher, get a concussive ruler to the back of the skull. But Mr. Smoothie isn't school. Main Street isn't school. The Null Void isn't school. The second a reporter points a camera in their face, she drifts to a friendly distance and that's it. Afraid that the tabloids will spew reprimands at her in line at the grocery store for brushing hands with her boyfriend.

She just got over Ben seeing her show affection a few months ago. It took a comment on his part to trigger it. Something about how they never really seemed to act like a couple at all. Kevin didn't pay much attention to the exact words, only the gratitude he felt when her weight was dropped on his lap. Now at least he can hold her, cupping the point of her tiny elbow in the pad of his palm and feeling the muscles of her stomach dance against his forearm as she wriggles deeper into him.

It's rare, though. The eyes of the world never stop watching. Sometimes they escape, to an abandoned parking lot with the light of the moon and the sparks of the ruined robot behind them carving out her cheeks, or deep in the intestines of an alien deathtrap the size of a sun while they wallow in the reverie of their loved one's survival. But there's almost always a bystander. A victim. A villain. Someone to supply a critical gaze. Or he's driving.

Safety conscious. There's another trait that haunts her. Eyes on the road. Both hands on the wheel. Nothing on her. He can only risk glaces, talk to her from his peripheral vision, and maybe turn his head at a stoplight. Maybe.

Sometimes, when he just can't take it anymore, he pulls over on the side of a desert road or the rim of an asteroid belt. She can't complain and she doesn't. They lean over that stupid thing with the cup holders between the front seats and wrestle with their lips and tongues. Desire leaks from the pores of their hands so they wipe it away in the other's clothes and hair and skin. But as soon as he samples her endless neck she feels the imaginary glare of her mother boring into the back of her skull and tears away. Mumbles that they have work to do. Turns the ignition because he won't.

Her parents told her not to try anything. She respects their wishes. He hates that.

And then there's that damned practicality. It's because of the life they lead and it's saved her more times than he can count, so he accepts it. Though that doesn't mean he enjoys it.

Ben spilled a while back that she always wears a sports bra. Everywhere. You never know when you'll be doing backflips over pits of lava and running for your life from a mutated gorilla monster. The only time she didn't was at the beach or formal occasions, both of which he'd been graced with a chance to witness. It was saddening. Someone that gifted shouldn't have to hide their blessings like that, even if it was for the sake of functionality.

And her hair. It kills him to see her hair like that.

He remembers the Highbreed war, an era where she allowed it freedom and lamented for that choice constantly. Always spitting it from her mouth or brushing it away from her eyes or ripping noxious slime from its fibers. It took what she thinks was too long to decide to tie it back. To him it was too soon.

She keeps talking about how she's going to cut it, one of these days. How much easier it would be to fight with a skull-hugging bob. It would look better too, she tells herself. But he'd bet every dollar he owned that she would never place so much as a lock in a pair of scissors' jaws. She couldn't.

He isn't sure if she's figured it out or not. He did the calculations long ago. Beneath her callused skin she stores the raw body and power of an Anodite. Mostly the shape of her two forms coincide, the prime example of the humanoid female figure, but a major discretion exists. Anodites possess potent masses of liquid energy, taking whatever shape the energy being so desires and anchored solely to a single spot on the back of the head. There is no direct counterpart to this feature, but the closest is the hair. So, when trapped in her human guise, that's what it becomes. But it isn't enough.

Even with her hair falling to her waist, it's too dense. Wrapped in a single strand is enough energy to kill a man. Any less space and there would be nowhere for it to go but out. Besides, it's her mana. As much a part of her as either arm or leg. To cut it would be amputation.

So it would stay long. And until she comes to terms with the power it contains, it will stay restrained. Imprisoned. It doesn't move right when it's in chains. Writhes when it should sway. He hates it.

But there's that moment. Those two minutes on the way home from a mission. The point where the fog of adrenaline is light enough for her tunnel vision to dissipate but thick enough to partially mask her proper upbringing. When she stops to fix her hair without retreating to the ladies room where you're supposed to take care of such matters. She sees the way that her scalp sputters like a dying bonfire and can't help but fuss. Because that's what she does. She fixes things.

She releases the shackles and it breathes once more. She attacks, furiously tugging at knots and preventing it from truly relaxing. Her gaze is fixed on her star-dotted reflection in the Rustbucket's windshield, so she doesn't notice his eyes. Following her fingers as they raked that wall of fiery gold. The motion beckoned to him. Ben was gone, conked out in the back cabin. Not another ship in sight. He succumbs to the call and entangles his own hand in her work.

She freezes, tenses, eyes close, leans her weight into his grasp. Mixed signals. Glances at him. "Kevin." Warning rests on her lips.

"What?"

"Shouldn't you be driving?"

"Autopilot." He smiles with half his mouth. He only fights her when he knows he can win.

She caves. Her shoulders slump and her lashes flutter as her eyes roll back in content. He plays with her tresses for a while, lost in the microscopic paths they ran over his fingertips.

"My hair's a mess," she mutters. His touch had brought self-consciousness to the surface of her mind. That's another thing he hates. She's too used to herself. She can't appreciate her own perfection.

"You're hair's fine," he assures her. Another pause as he relishes it. "I like it better down."

He's met with amusement and a toothy grin. "You know that's a bad idea, Kevin."

He sighed. Yes, he knows.

"Can you promise me something?"

She turns her head, right eyebrow cocked and questioning. "Depends on the something."

"Tomorrow, my house, no ponytail," he proposes. Sculpts an orange ringlet around his index finger.

Her eyes narrow in thought. "I don't know. What if something happens?"

"Bring one in your pocket or something," he suggests with a shrug.

The sigh and shake of the head make it clear that he's missing something. "How about on my wrist?" An airy chuckle brings attention to the exasperated smile pushing her cheeks.

No pockets. Right. "Whatever." He glances away.

"I'll think about it."

She unravels his fingers from her mane. Chokes it back into its bindings. He turns back to the controls, feeling its pain.

The next morning she arrives at his doorstep, prep books and study guides in hand. It was Sunday, after all. This was expected.

The night before he had convinced himself that she would refuse to comply and stubbornly cling to her guns as usual. But there she was, black band around her wrist, complying. His surprise and the beautiful sight steals his breath from him.

Two lazy rivers of lava drip over her shoulders. Pulsing like her eyes in the heat of battle. Glowing like her smile.

He hasn't long to admire it before she insists that they begin. She cuts herself from him with the coffee table. When she leans over the textbook curtains close around her face and tenderly brush the paragraphs. She tries to fight it, shoving it behind her ear, but it will not be contained anymore. Twelve questions in, she surrenders.

His lapses of forgetfulness with the formulas are met with reproval. But her chiding is short and soft, and swiftly disregarded. Her shoulders float higher. Less pain to brace against.

By the bottom of the pile of flashcards, she's twirling it and stroking the tips for no reason but to feel it move. Smiling.

Their lifted spirits carry them to the end of their session well before their allotted time was consumed. 14 minutes to spend as they please, or more accurately as her demons will allow. At least one of their voices had been silenced. It makes all the difference.

She rounds the table and joins him on the couch. Her side against his. He puts his fingers in her hair and she doesn't pretend not to like it. The way she really should.

He leans into the cascade, drinking in the scent and the spark. "That's it," he sighs, strands brushing against his teeth. "New rule. No more ponytail in my house."

"Fine."

It worked. The monsters that stalk her are, at least for the moment, thrown off the trail. She's free at last. But her time runs thin.

They're alone.

14 minutes.

She lets go.

Yeah, yeah, I know, the ending is really half-assed. -.- Writer's block. Hope you liked it anyway.