all things must pass » the beatles, queen and the backstreet boys

32- John Deacon

"John Richard Deacon..." I breathed out with a shudder, pinching the bridge of my nose in hopes of putting an end to the waves of annoyance I felt washing over me.

"What?" he replied, the cheeky grin evident in his tone, without even having to open my shut eyelids to see him.

Sighing---rather dramatically, may I add---I turned to face my husband of ten years, my arms flopping to the sides of my (or rather, his) flannel, "When I told you to go do something different, this was definitely not what I meant."

Crow's feet appeared beside his pretty green eyes as he flopped his head to the side, pointing at the massive mushroom that now rested upon his head, "You don't like it?"

"It's not that I don't like it," I exasperatedly said, shutting the bedroom door behind him, as he chose to drop down on the edge of the bed, "It's a matter of me not knowing what that even is called."

"A perm, darling," he rolled his eyes at my lack of knowledge, proceeding to unbutton his crumpled grey shirt, "It's all in these days."

"Well, excuse me for not being all into fashion magazines," I chortled, taking a seat beside him and letting my fingers do their work on helping him out of his clothes, "And anyways, you know I loved your short curls."

"Yeah, but some change was necessary," he shrugged out of his shirt and threw it to the floor, where he would probably trip over it in a few hours when making his way to the toilet.

"Besides, the texture is still the same, it's still old Deaky's hair," John smiled again as he hopped out of his shorts, then crawling into bed and pulling at a strand of almost-auburn hair, "Here."

Taking the invitation, I gladly climbed on top of him and deftly grabbed fistfuls of his fresh-smelling curls, "That does feel soft," I mused, before fully stretching and laying down on his warm, bare chest, my fingers still twirling around his locks, "So much floof."

He chuckled heartily, his chest vibrating underneath me as a careful arm hugged my hips against his.

"It'll grow on you," he reassured me, splaying one hand against the small of my back as he shook his head to the side, "Now everytime I'll play and shake my head, I'll look like a roguish Beatle."

"Well, I've always had a thing for Paul McCartney, so marrying you just means I have a thing for handsome bassists," I winked at him, reveling in the view of his cheeks turning rosy at the smallest of compliments.

"You flatterer," he mumbled, the smile painted on his face growing even wider as he pressed a small but sweet kiss against my lips, the residue of warmth leaving my fingertips and toes tingling, "I love you and your constant need to turn my face a flaming red."

I snuggled deeper into his embrace, my arm latching itself around his chest, enabling me to hear his soothing heartbeat even better, "As I love you and your constant desire to change your hairstyle."

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