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[rottenfyre]

⸻ ꜱ ᴘ ɪ ᴅ ᴇ ʀ ɢ ɪ ʀ ʟ ⸻

Pairing: Yandere Batfam x Fem Reader

Headcanon: How is your relationship with batfam in general?

Notes: Reader is a pervert. Reader have the same abilities as spiderman. Again another silly fic that should not be taken seriously. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

At 22, you were a far cry from the scrappy little thief Bruce and Dick had caught all those years ago. Sure, you were still crass, still brutally honest, and still had a penchant for letting your intrusive thoughts win, but now? Now you were hot.

Like, objectively hot. Your tight black spider suit left very little to the imagination, clinging to every curve and muscle as you swung through the city. And you loved every second of it. The attention? Oh, the attention was your lifeblood. You basked in it like a lizard in the sun.

Dick was still wearing those tight pants, wasn’t he? You couldn’t help but stare. I mean, seriously, the guy had a killer ass. You were supposed to be on a mission, but all you could think about was how the suit hugged his figure in ways that made you forget everything except your growing thoughts. You even compared your ass to his when he wasn’t looking—just to make sure you were still in the running for the Best Butt in Gotham.

“Hey, Grayson,” you called out, voice dripping with amusement. He turned his head slightly, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah?”

“Nice ass.” You grinned, winking.

He blinked. “What?” He stopped walking and spun around, completely thrown off by your bluntness.

“Oh, nothing, just admiring the view,” you shrugged, taking a step forward and pretending to actually pay attention to the mission. His cheeks turned red, but you didn’t care. You were busy eyeing his backside like it was a prize you were about to claim.

You convinced Dick to teach you yoga, but it wasn’t for flexibility—it was so you could watch him stretch.

“Wow, Dick,” you said, laying on the mat and pretending to follow his moves. “You’re really… bendy.”

He flushed. “It’s not like that!”

“Sure it’s not,” you teased, snapping a quick photo of him in a compromising pose. “This one’s going on the Batfam group chat.”

“Y/N, don’t you dare!”

You were bleeding out. Your side was burning, your vision blurry, and yet you were having the time of your life. Why? Because Jason Todd—walking sex god and part-time vigilante—was carrying you in his arms like you were a damsel in distress.

“Don’t worry,” Jason said, sprinting through an alley as explosions sounded in the distance. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine.”

You stared up at him, dazed but grinning. “You’re so pretty.”

“Y/N, stay awake,” Jason barked.

“I’m awake my angel,” you slurred. Your eyes drifted downward to his broad chest, the tight shirt doing little to hide the muscle underneath. You reached out, resting a hand on his pec. “You got...man boobs.”

Jason groaned. “You're hallucinating, stay awake please.”

“They’re perfect,” you whispered, leaning closer. And then—because you were you—you bit him.

Jason skidded to a stop, staring at you in disbelief. “Did you just—”

“I couldn’t help it,” you said, grinning despite the blood trickling down your chin. “They’re so biteable.”

You discovered Jason was ticklish purely by accident, and you never let him live it down. Anytime he annoyed you, you’d jab him in the ribs or poke his sides until he squirmed.

“Stop it, Y/N!” he growled, swatting at your hands.

“You wish,” you said, chasing him around the room.

The rest of the Batfam watched in stunned silence as Jason “Red Hood” Todd ran from you like a child.

You declared the Batcave chair yours one day and refused to let anyone else sit in it.

“It’s my throne,” you said, lounging dramatically as the others stood around, glaring.

“Get up,” Jason said, crossing his arms.

“Make me,” you replied, sticking your tongue out.

He grabbed you, but instead of throwing you out, you ended up on his lap, smirking. “Guess this works too.”

Anytime you were in the middle of a Dick and Jason argument, you somehow always ended up physically between them. And, oh, you weren’t complaining.

“Move, Dickhead,” Jason growled, pushing into your right shoulder, his broad chest pressing into the side of your face.

“Not a chance, Hood,” Dick snapped, leaning in on your other side, his own muscular frame trapping you against Jason.

You? You just stood there, smiling like a cat with a bowl of cream. “Ooh, I love this. It’s like being sandwiched between two very attractive brick walls.”

“What?!” they shouted in unison.

Jason shot Dick a death glare. “See what you did? You’re giving her ideas.”

“Me? You’re the one pressing into her like some kind of Neanderthal!”

You just smirked, leaning back into the tension. “Don’t mind me, boys. Please, continue. This is very entertaining.”

Dick was your favorite pillow, and you made sure he knew it. Anytime you were hanging out in the Batcave, you’d just casually rest your head on his shoulder or lean against his chest.

“Comfortable?” he asked, chuckling softly.

“Very,” you replied, closing your eyes.

He smiled, wrapping an arm around you. “Good.”

You peeked up at him, grinning. “You know, you make a great pillow. Very firm, but also soft in the right places.”

Dick laughed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thanks,” you said, smirking.

Dick’s ass was basically your personal stress ball at this point. It didn’t matter if you were on a mission, in the Batcave, or just walking through Gotham—if the opportunity presented itself, you’d take it.

SMACK!

“Jesus, Y/N!” Dick would jump, spinning around, his cheeks flushed.

“What?” you’d say innocently, shrugging. “It’s just so perfect. You work hard for that, right? I’m just appreciating the effort.”

He’d sigh, rubbing his neck, but you knew he secretly loved it.

Jason’s chest was another favorite of yours, especially when he was shirtless (which, let’s face it, happened a lot). You’d walk up to him, your fingers twitching, and—pinch!

“Damn it, Y/N!” Jason would glare at you, rubbing the spot where you’d gotten him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” you’d say with a cheeky grin. “Just checking if these are real.”

He’d groan, shaking his head, but you’d catch the tiny smirk he tried to hide.

You loved teasing, and nothing was off-limits. During a mission, your suit "mysteriously" ripped—right in front of Jason and Dick.

“Oh no,” you said innocently, looking over your shoulder at the tear just below your back. “Guess I’ll have to fix this later.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Y/N, stop.”

Dick looked away, flustered. “Maybe cover it up or something?”

“Why? You guys can’t handle a little skin?” You smirked, adjusting your suit to make it worse.

Jason grumbled, “I’m about to shoot that suit off you if you don’t stop playing.”

You had zero shame. Once, during a stakeout with Dick, you leaned over and kissed him right in the middle of his report to Bruce.

“Nightwing, report—” Bruce’s voice came over the comms, but you cut Dick off with your lips, pulling him into a deep kiss.

“Y/N!” he protested, his face red as he tried to pull away. “Bruce can hear us!”

“So?” you replied, shrugging as you went in for another kiss.

The first time you met Superman, you were not prepared.

“Y/N, this is Clark Kent,” Bruce said, his tone clipped as ever. “He’s Superman.”

You blinked up at the man of steel, all 6’4” of farm-boy perfection, and immediately zeroed in on one thing: the bulge.

You weren’t subtle about it either. Your eyes widened slightly as you stared, your head tilting to the side like you were trying to calculate something.

Clark, oblivious, smiled warmly. “It’s nice to meet you. Bruce has told me a lot about you.”

“Uh-huh,” you muttered, still staring. “Damn, you’re packing. Your wife must be so lucky.”

The room went silent. Bruce closed his eyes, looking like he was about to have an aneurysm. Clark cleared his throat, cheeks turning bright red.

“What—what does that mean?” Superman asked, clearly flustered.

“Oh, nothing,” you said, shrugging. “Just making an observation. By the way, you ever need help with Lois, let me know. I’m excellent at teamwork.”

Bruce groaned audibly in the background.

“Anyway,” he stammered, shifting awkwardly, “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about Damian and Jon.”

You didn’t hear a word he said.

Poor Tim. Sweet, awkward Tim. He didn’t deserve you, and yet you tormented him at every opportunity.

You were taller than him, which you used to your advantage constantly. One day, after a successful mission, you wrapped your arms around him from behind, pulling him into a tight hug. Your boobs pressed against the back of his head, and you could feel him stiffen like a deer caught in headlights.

“Good boy,”

“Y/N,” he croaked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

“Hmm?”

“Let go.”

“But you’re so cute when you’re flustered.”

“LET GO!”

Tim was your little puppy, and you made sure he knew it. Anytime he looked stressed (which was, like, always), you’d grab him by the shoulders and pull him down onto your lap.

“Shhh,” you’d coo, stroking his hair while he sat there stiff as a board. “You’re working too hard, Timmy. Just relax.”

He’d blush furiously, stammering out a protest, but you’d silence him with a kiss to his forehead.

“Good boy,” you’d whisper, your voice soft but teasing. “You’re doing great.”

Poor Tim would be a mess, his face redder than Jason’s helmet, but you didn’t care. It was adorable.

Jason walked in once and nearly gagged. “This is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen.”

When you first met Damian, you were charmed. Not by his skill, or his intellect, or his reputation as the Demon’s Son. No, you were charmed because he looked like an angry little bird.

He’d just finished beating the crap out of Tim in the training room when you walked in.

“Who is this?” Damian demanded, glaring at you.

You clasped your hands together, grinning. “Aww, you’re so cute!”

Damian bristled. “I am not cute! I am an assassin!”

You squealed, bouncing on your heels. “Look at him! He’s like a tiny murder pigeon!”

Tim, still lying on the mat, muttered, “Please kill me.”

“So adorable,” you said, holding your hands together in a “squee” motion, jumping up and down like a fangirl. “I didn’t know you were so mad! Look at you, little angry pookie!”

Damian, of course, was not impressed. “Shut up, woman.”

But you? You couldn’t stop giggling. “You’re, like, a pocket-sized villain. So cute.”

Since then, you’d taken to treating Damian like a literal baby. You’d sit him on your lap, spoon-feed him during meals, and ruffle his hair at every opportunity.

Damian was your baby, no matter how much he tried to argue otherwise. You gave him the most attention—whether it was ruffling his hair, pinching his cheeks, or straight-up kissing him on the forehead during missions.

“Y/N, cease this nonsense!” he’d shout, trying to push you away.

“Aw, but you’re so cute,” you’d tease, holding his face in your hands.

Damian would glare, but the faint pink on his cheeks betrayed him. You knew he secretly loved it, especially when you called him your “adorable angry bird.”

Jon Kent adored you. But when he let it slip in front of Damian?

“Y/N is… well, she’s amazing,” Jon had said shyly, scratching the back of his neck.

Damian froze, his eyes narrowing. “What did you just say?”

“Uh, nothing!” Jon backpedaled, but Damian was already chasing him across the Batcave, sword in hand.

“YOU THINK YOU HAVE A CHANCE?!” Damian yelled as Jon flew for his life.

Bruce wasn’t immune to your antics either. You’d long since dropped the “old man” or “Bruce” in favor of something much more fun: “Daddy.”

“Good work tonight, Y/N,” Bruce said one evening, his tone professional.

You leaned against the Batcomputer, smirking. “Thanks, Daddy.”

Bruce froze, his eye twitching slightly.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why? You always been my suger daddy, it's only make sense if I call you daddy.”

He walked away without another word.

You made it your life mission to annoy Bruce whenever possible. During one of his infamous brooding sessions in the Batcave, you casually walked up to him, poked his nose, and said, “Boop.”

He froze, slowly turning to glare at you. “Don’t.”

“Boop,” you repeated, doing it again.

Dick and Tim were in hysterics in the background, and Jason muttered, “She’s got a death wish.”

Bruce, exhausted, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why am I not surprised?”

It started as a joke. You stole one of Bruce’s button-up shirts and wore it around the Manor. Now it was a regular occurrence, much to Bruce’s annoyance.

“That’s mine,” he’d say.

“Yup, and it’s comfy,” you’d reply, lounging on the couch.

Once, during a mission debrief, you leaned on the table and purred, “What’s the plan, Daddy?”

Jason choked on his drink, Dick coughed awkwardly, and Tim turned bright red.

Bruce didn’t even look up. “I will ground you.”

“Kinky,” you replied with a grin.

You had a thing for flirting with dangerous villains, and the Batfam hated it.

“I could totally take Deathstroke,” you said once after a fight.

“He tried to kill you!” Jason snapped.

“Yeah, but did you see the way he looked at me? Sparks, I tell you. Also who said I was talking about fighting?”

“She’s insane,” Damian muttered, but you just shrugged.

During a fight with the Joker, you’d stopped mid-battle to tilt your head and give him an appraising look.

“Y’know,” you said, webbing one of his henchmen to the wall. “You’d be kinda hot if you didn’t look like a corpse. Ever thought about skincare?”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Dick had yelled, dodging a swing from Harley Quinn.

“SHUT UP!” you shot back. “I CAN FIX HIM!”

Despite all the chaos and teasing, there’s a hidden, vulnerable side to you that craves attention—not just the kind that’s lustful, but the caring kind.

After a long night of missions, you’ll often crash in the Batcave. The family can be in the middle of an intense discussion or debriefing, but you’ll barge in, throw yourself onto Tim, and use his lap as a pillow.

Jason will grumble and say something about you “acting like a child,” but then you'll casually climb onto his back, burrowing your face into his shoulder as you cling to him.

Of course, Bruce just looks away like he’s done with all of you, but deep down, he knows that if he even tried to stop it, the whole family would turn on him. You're the glue holding them all together.

Main Headcanon

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[appledin]

  i ♥️ my gf' :3 ͏ (⁠^⁠O⁠^⁠) ♫ 🍏

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[flwerwon]

♡̵̼͓̥͒̾ ♰ I let you cut me open, just to watch me bleed

Gave up who I am for who you wanted me to be .

[astrcmoni]

℘ ࣪₊ bleeding blue ࣪₊ ㅤㅤ℘

MASTERLIST

synopsis: after destroying her hair, billie turns to you, her fiancé, in hopes of you being able to fix it.

genre: fluff

pairing: cosmetologist fem!reader x billie eilish

wc: 10.8k

warnings: slight cussing

authors note: i know y’all see how long this is, if there is any spelling mistakes or continuity errors ignore it, i was up for 2 days. enjoy x 💋

the hair salon is quiet now, the hum of blow dryers and chatter replaced by a peaceful stillness. the sunset pours through the large glass window, casting a golden haze over everything it touches. soft amber and pink rays stretch across the polished floors, catching on stray hair strands and scattering delicate reflections off the mirrors and the chrome edges of styling chairs. shadows of tall ferns and succulents perched on the counter sway gently, their movements dappled by the fading light. the air still carries the faint traces of shampoo and hairspray, mingling with the rich warmth of the evening, as if the room itself is exhaling, releasing the weight of the day into the tender embrace of the setting sun.

your last client had left over an hour ago, leaving you with just enough time to clean up and dream of how good your bed will feel once you finally sink into it. now, in the corner of the room, you’re sitting under the hooded dryer—not because you need it, but because it’s your favorite chair in your booth. its worn leather hugs your body, offering a secluded cocoon, perfect for resting after a long day of standing.

you lazily scroll through your phone, the cool screen contrasting with the slight ache in your hands. you tap open the messages app, clicking the second most recent contact—it pulls up your fiancé’s profile, her name sitting at the top in bold letters.

you: almost done, cleaning up and i’m omw home. 💗

a small smile tugs at your lips as you glance at the text, thumb hovering before tapping the blue arrow to send it. you’re about to switch over to instagram when the soft creak of the front door opening cuts through the silence.

your eyebrows knit together, your smile fading into a frown as confusion prickles at the edges of your mind. instinctively, your eyes flick toward the entrance, words already forming on your tongue, ready to tell whoever it is to leave and come back tomorrow.

but then, there she is.

billie stands in the doorway, framed by the last lingering rays of sunlight that sneak through the glass. she’s wearing her oversized tour zip-up, her name stitched neatly on the chest. the royal blue thread contrasts sharply with the heavy yellow fabric, the colors a loud declaration against the soft, muted tones of the salon. her thumb grazes her bottom lip, the tip of her nail caught lightly between her teeth as she crosses her ankles.

the lanyard of her car keys hangs outside the pocket of her sweats, a bold red and black that sways slightly as she shifts her weight. the key fob itself is tucked away neatly, hidden. her star beanie is tugged low over her head, barely peeking out beneath the hood of her sweatshirt, which is pulled up and cinched just enough to hide all of her hair.

“hey, baby,” she says, her voice syrupy, dripping with a softness that only she could manage. the corners of her lips press together in a tight, almost apologetic smile, but there’s a flicker of amusement there—a twitch of mischief that she just can’t seem to hide.

her wide, doe-like eyes dart toward you, then quickly away, like a child caught red-handed. guilt and playfulness swim together in her gaze, her cheeks tinged faintly pink. she bites her bottom lip, the expression teetering between sweet and sheepish, her fingers fidgeting at the hem of her hoodie as though it’ll keep her hands from giving her away.

it’s the kind of look that says: i know i messed up, but come on—you can’t really stay mad at me, can you?

you straighten in your seat, eyes narrowing as you take in her stance, her tone, her very presence in a place she knows she shouldn’t be after hours.

“what did you do?” you ask, your voice sharp with suspicion but softened by the ghost of a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“okay, so please don’t be mad,” she says, stepping further inside, her voice carrying that sugary lilt she always uses when she knows she’s done something questionable. her fingers clasp loosely together at first, but then they start to fidget, her thumbs tracing uneven circles over each other—slow, deliberate, and trembling. the motion falters, sometimes smooth, other times jerky, betraying the nervous energy humming beneath her calm façade. with each rotation, her thumbs press a little harder, as if the movement alone could ground her spiraling thoughts. even when her hands shift positions, the circling doesn’t stop, the weight of her tension held in that small, silent gesture.

“billie,” you warn, your tone light but firm, enough to let her know you’re not in the mood for whatever nonsense she’s about to throw your way.

her feet shuffle as she moves quickly across the room, closing the gap between you with a hurried urgency. before you can say another word, she’s on her knees in front of you, her hands reaching to cradle your own. the cool press of her engagement ring brushes against your skin—a sharp but gentle reminder of the promises you’ve both made, the weight of forever between you.

“first of all, i love you,” she whispers, her voice careful, the words wrapped in precision as she tilts her head up to meet your gaze. her expression teeters on the edge of vulnerability, her wide blue eyes swimming with a confession she’s not quite ready to say aloud.

your eyes narrow as suspicion prickles up your spine. “billie.” the repetition of her name carries a sharper edge now, though it’s softened by the flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“and second…” her voice trails off as she reaches for her hood. slowly, she pulls it down, followed by the star-patterned beanie covering her head. when her hair finally comes into view, the mess of it hits you like a freight train.

your jaw drops. the usual cascade of silky brown strands is now a disaster—a patchy, uneven palette of brassy yellows, burnt orange streaks, and sections so dark they seem almost untouched. the back looks half-finished, with random tufts sticking out like stubborn weeds refusing to blend.

in shock, you reach out, your fingers lightly grazing her damp hair before cupping her jaw to turn her head from side to side. the light from the window catches the chaotic patches, making the disaster even more glaring. your brows knit together as disbelief bubbles out in a soft, incredulous laugh.

“billie. what the hell is this?” you finally manage, your tone caught between amusement and horror.

she winces, the sheepish grin on her face growing wider. “i tried to do it myself,” she admits, her voice a hurried tumble of words. before you can respond, she’s already jumping to defend herself. “it was a box dye, okay? it looked so easy, but it wasn’t. now it’s a hot ass mess. save me, please.” her hands clasp together, fingers intertwining as she looks up at you with a desperate, pleading expression.

you groan, the ache in your feet from the long day suddenly feeling heavier. “of course, you would try to dye your hair at home,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair. your eyes scan the spotless, freshly cleaned station you’d been so close to leaving behind.

“but billie, i just cleaned everything,” you complain, dragging the words out with a soft groan.

“i’ll buy you dinner,” she interrupts quickly, her lips curving into a hopeful smile.

your eyebrow arches, unimpressed. “you buy me dinner all the time. you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

without missing a beat, she grabs your right hand—the one adorned with the diamond ring she gave you—and presses a kiss to your palm. the warmth of her lips lingers as she trails kisses upward, along your wrist, the sensation leaving a soft buzz in its wake.

“and dessert,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your wrist before working their way up your arm. her kisses grow slower, more deliberate, each one sending shivers racing down your spine.

“i’ll get you anything you want,” she whispers as her mouth grazes the curve of your neck, her words melting into the skin there.

your resolve wavers, her lips trailing a path of heat along the sweet spot of your neck until she finally stops, pulling back just enough to hover inches from your face. her thumb rubs soothing circles along the back of your hand, her eyes wide and shimmering as they lock onto yours. “baby, just please help me fix this,” she pleads, her voice soft and breathless.

you sigh, your gaze trailing over her disheveled form. she’s on her knees, hair an absolute wreck, begging you to fix it with promises of whatever you want. the vulnerability in her voice tugs at you, her cute, flushed face making it nearly impossible to say no.

“fine,” you relent, passing her your phone. the tension in her shoulders melts as she exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. slipping your phone into her pocket, she stands, her fingers brushing against yours as you lead her to the salon chair.

“thank you so much,” she whispers, her voice soft as she peppers kisses over your knuckles. her lips are warm, reverent, each touch delicate and lingering, like a silent apology.

you grab the back of the sleek black chair, spinning it around so billie can face the large vanity mirror. the gold and white accent jibbitz on your black crocs catch the light as your foot pumps the chair’s pedal, raising it to your height.

the soft buzz of the hvac fills the quiet salon, mingling with the faint sounds of a reality tv show playing faintly in the background. you move toward the cabinet, the cool metal handle pressing against your fingers as you open it to retrieve what you need.

you gather the essentials—sectioning clips, brushes, bowls, dye bottles in various shades of blue, shampoo, and conditioner—all of it placed into a plastic tub. setting it on the counter in front of billie, you grab a cape and apron from the nearby rack, the fabric smooth and familiar against your fingers.

slipping the apron over your head, you tie it behind your back before draping the cape over billie’s shoulders. the velcro tabs fasten snugly around her neck, securing her for what you both know will be a long evening ahead.

billie digs into the pocket of her sweatpants, pulling out her phone with the lazy precision of someone buying time. her fingers swipe absently across the screen, scrolling through apps and notifications, but her focus drifts as you step behind her. instinctively, her head tilts back, her damp, tangled strands crumpling slightly against your stomach. the warmth of her resting there is an unspoken intimacy, one that almost softens your irritation—almost.

“did you at least put vaseline on your edges like i told you to?” you ask, already knowing the answer but holding onto a sliver of hope.

her scrolling halts. there’s a pregnant pause as she processes your question, her eyes darting to the side in the way they always do when she’s been caught. she sucks in a breath, her teeth grazing her bottom lip as she stares anywhere but at you, as if the walls themselves might save her.

“billie,” you whine, dragging her name out as your eyes instinctively roll toward the ceiling.

reaching for your hand on her shoulder, she turns her head just enough to press a quick, placating kiss against your knuckles. “i’m sorry,” she murmurs, her lips curving into that small, crooked smile designed to melt you.

“now when you start turning colors, i don’t wanna hear it,” you shoot back, exasperated. “how many times do i have to tell you to put some kind of protectant on your skin?” your voice lilts into an exaggerated dramatization because, without it, she’d never listen.

“i know, baby,” she coos, her tone dripping with faux contrition, and you can’t decide if you want to kiss her or strangle her.

with a heavy sigh, you let your fingers trail through her hair, the strands coarse and uneven as you assess the damage. the texture of her missteps lies in your hands, and though it’s a disaster, it’s a familiar one.

you exhale slowly, grounding yourself for what’s ahead. “okay, let’s see what we’re working with.” gently, you sift through her hair, pulling at a patch near the crown.

“girl…” you say, drawing the word out, “…what the fuck is this?” holding the brassy streak up for her to see, you tilt her head toward the mirror.

“i think that’s where i started,” she admits, her grin a sheepish curve that wavers as her eyes meet yours in the glass.

you shake your head in disbelief, spinning her chair so she’s facing you now. “do you know what that means?”

her brow arches in a silent question, waiting for your inevitable proclamation.

grabbing her hand, you guide her toward the shampoo bowl. the porcelain is cool against her neck as you ease her into position, your touch firm but gentle. your fingers cradle the base of her neck, their warmth grounding her as you lift her hair into the bowl.

“it means deep conditioning. lots of it,” you declare, the finality in your tone leaving no room for debate. “you better make peace with the dryer cap at home because it’s about to be your best friend.”

she groans, the sound low and dramatic, but she doesn’t argue. her resignation is written in the soft slouch of her shoulders as you step away, the sound of your footsteps echoing lightly in the quiet salon.

at your station, you grab what you need—a clarifying shampoo, a paddle brush, and a bottle of conditioner that promises miracles. your fingers graze the cool metal of the sink knobs as you return, twisting them to find the right temperature.

you test the water first, letting it pool in your palm before flicking a few drops toward billie’s face.

“hey!” she yelps, her head jerking slightly as she blinks up at you, mock offense written all over her face.

“what was that for?” she blinks rapidly, her blue eyes wide with mock betrayal, mouth slightly agape as if the water had shocked her soul awake.

“that’s because some people think it’s okay to be hardheaded and ruin their hair,” you retort, your tone sharp yet laced with teasing sass, the kind she secretly adores.

you grin, a mischievous edge tugging at the corners of your lips as you lean over her. “alexa,” you call out to the speaker perched in the corner, “resume my music.”

the soft strains of r&b flow through the air, warm and rich, filling the space between you. the song’s melody wraps around you both, threading its way into the moment as your fingers move to her hair.

“you better thank me for this later,” you tease, a hint of fondness creeping into your voice despite yourself.

her lips curl into a small smile, her eyes fluttering shut as you begin to work, the rhythm of the music syncing with the gentle movements of your hands.

you reach for the sprayer, its chrome gleaming under the soft light, and begin to rinse her hair. warm water cascades over her scalp in soothing waves, like liquid velvet flowing through each strand. the gentle pressure massages away the chaos of the day, and you can feel her body melt a little further into the chair.

leaning over her, your movements are both skilled and tender, the natural grace of someone who has done this a hundred times before but still finds joy in the ritual. you grab the red paddle brush, its bristles catching the light like a promise of transformation, and begin working through her damp hair. the knots resist at first, but the brush glides through with practiced ease, pulling softly, releasing each tangle like it’s freeing her from some invisible weight.

casting the brush aside, you reach for the clarifying shampoo. “this’ll strip as much of the box dye out as possible,” you explain, your voice a gentle melody against the background hum of water. “after that, i’ll tone it to fix the brassiness.”

the bottle makes a soft squelch as you squeeze a pearlescent glob into your palm, its silky texture catching the light. the faint, floral scent rises, intertwining with something sweet and clean, filling the air between you. rubbing your hands together, the shampoo blooms into a rich lather, and you hum softly along to the music as you work it into her hair.

your hands move with precision, starting at her roots. the pads of your fingers glide over her scalp, your acrylic nails grazing just enough to send a shiver down her spine. then you press a little harder, your movements circular and deliberate, coaxing the stubborn dye out while soothing her with each motion. the faint jangle of your bracelets punctuates the rhythm of your work, the charms clinking softly as you rub small, methodical circles along her forehead, her baby hairs curling as water meets skin.

at the nape of her neck, your pinkies trace gentle arcs, ensuring no dye lingers where her hair meets her skin. the suds build, thick and creamy, clinging to her strands like clouds ready to drift away.

you’re lost in the focus of your task until you feel her gaze on you, steady and soft, like she’s committing every detail to memory. glancing down, you meet her blue eyes, their depth catching you off guard.

“you okay?” you whisper, your voice low and warm, the question carrying more than just concern—it holds affection, reassurance.

her tattooed hand slips out from under the cape, inked angels adorning her skin as her thumb brushes against your forearm. her touch is light but insistent, pulling you closer until your arms rest against the sink’s edge, caging her in. her head tilts slightly, her smile soft and content as she hums a quiet acknowledgment.

you feel the weight of her trust in that moment, her complete surrender as her body relaxes under your hands. each movement of your fingers, each stroke through her hair, feels like an unspoken promise: i’ve got you. let me take care of this.

“i’m sorry. for real,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, but the sincerity in it wraps around you like a warm embrace.

you pause, your fingers still tangled in her hair, your brows furrowing. “for what, baby?”

her lips press into a pout, their natural blush deepened by her vulnerability. “for messing up. i didn’t want to make you have to work again, but… i panicked.” her free hand finds your thigh, resting there gently as if to anchor herself in the moment.

“oh, do not apologize, my love,” you reassure her, resuming the slow, soothing massage of her scalp. “it’s my job to fix these kinds of things. besides, i like doing your hair. i was just fussing to fuss, okay? it’s okay to make mistakes—especially when you’ve got me to help you out.”

you lean in closer, your voice softening as your fingers thread through her hair, combing through the strands with care. “you know i’d do this for you any day, right? so don’t worry about it. just sit back, relax, and let me work my magic.”

a small hum of contentment escapes her lips as she nods, her pout still evident. you lean down, closing the space between you, and press a soft kiss to her lips. her lashes flutter against your cheeks, her lips parting slightly as she tastes the faint mix of her mint chapstick and your strawberry gloss mingling together.

her hands find your back, tugging gently as if she can’t quite get enough of your closeness. a quiet laugh escapes you, light and airy, as you pull back, planting one last peck before returning to your work.

turning the water back on, you tilt the sprayer toward the base of her scalp, the warm stream washing away the thick suds. swirling ribbons of old dye and shampoo trail down the bowl, the colors melding into a soft pastel kaleidoscope before vanishing down the drain. the water flows smoothly through your fingers, its warmth lingering as you work through her hair, strand by strand, washing away every trace of her mistake.

and in the quiet intimacy of the moment, the rhythm of your work and the softness of her gaze make everything else fade away.

her eyes flutter closed, a soft breath escaping her lips as she melts into the sensation of your hands moving with steady intent. you cradle her head gently, guiding the stream of water with care, ensuring no spot is left untouched. your free hand parts the damp strands, fingers slipping through them like silk as you coax out the stubborn dye that clings to the ends, reluctant to let go.

as the water runs, the colors begin to bleed away, the once cloudy liquid shifting to clear, signaling the start of something fresh, something new. your nails graze softly against her scalp, soothing and purposeful, like a gentle caress that lingers, making sure every trace of dye is gone. the motion becomes rhythmic, almost hypnotic, and you can’t help but smile at the way billie’s body relaxes, her posture softening under your touch.

“see? all clean,” you murmur, your voice a gentle whisper, comforting and warm as you turn off the sprayer. the water runs from your hands like the last traces of tension, and you brush a damp strand of hair from her cheek with the same tenderness.

once the water runs clear, you set the sprayer aside, your fingers still lingering in her hair, smoothing through the damp strands as they fall into place. with practiced grace, you gather the hair in your palms, squeezing gently to coax out the excess water. the droplets fall softly into the basin, their rhythm steady and soothing, like the quiet pulse of a heartbeat. your hands move with an almost reverent precision, mindful not to tug, only wringing out enough water to keep the hair from dripping too much.

you extend your arm toward the counter, reaching for a fresh, warm black towel that rests nearby. the heat still clings to it from the dryer, and as you drape it over billie’s head, you cup your hands around it, tucking the edges securely. you press the towel softly against her scalp, the warmth radiating through the fabric, soaking up the last of the moisture, comforting her like a quiet embrace.

“there,” you say, a smile pulling at your lips as you step back for a moment, surveying the work. “all rinsed and wrapped up. ready for the next step, love?”

with a gentle nod, she follows you back over to the chair, her presence still relaxed, her smile a soft echo of the comfort you’ve given. you walk over to the coffee table, grabbing the remote and handing it to her as you turn her away from the mirror. she flips through the categories, her fingers tracing the screen as you move to the black bar, retrieving your supplies from the black tub and setting them on the counter in their familiar, ordered arrangement.

the first bottle to emerge is the black dye, cool and smooth in your hand, its cap unscrewing with a satisfying twist. you squeeze a measured amount into a mixing bowl, the thick, inky substance pooling at the bottom with a weight that feels satisfying, as if it holds all the potential for the transformation ahead. next, the developer, creamy and faintly metallic, pours in a controlled stream, the contrast between the jet-black dye and the pale developer stark, almost artistic, like night meeting day.

grabbing your dye brush, you begin to stir with slow, deliberate movements, folding the two substances together. the black streaks through the white, at first marbled and uneven, then gradually blending into a glossy, midnight-colored cream. you lean in closer, making sure the mixture is smooth, scraping the sides of the bowl with the brush to gather every last drop of product.

next, you grab the smaller bowls for the blue dyes, each one its own vibrant hue. you pour the colors in, no need for developer, knowing these are semi-permanents, their vibrancy untouched by the need for mixing. the blues swirl together, each one vivid and intense, and you can feel the excitement building—ready to blend them with the deep, dark base.

the rhythm of the mixing is calming, a ritual you know by heart, each movement of your brush a practiced, soothing motion. the anticipation swells in your chest as you prepare to bring together the perfect blend for billie’s hair.

when the dyes are perfectly mixed, you turn back to billie, positioning yourself behind her once more. you shake the towel before gently unraveling it from her head, the fabric slipping off her hair with a soft rustle. her hair—now long and wavy—falls freely, cascading in fluid, graceful waves over her shoulders like liquid midnight. you take in the beauty of the moment, before reaching for your parting comb. you move with practiced ease, carefully dividing her hair into six sections, the comb gliding smoothly through each strand, as if the strands themselves are eager to fall into place.

you begin by clipping the top half of her hair, then sectioning the lower half into two parts, ensuring that the color will apply evenly, without hesitation. the clips snap into place with precision, each movement deliberate. slipping your gloves on, you start applying the dye to the roots, your hands steady and deliberate. the dye meets her scalp, each brushstroke a quiet promise, ensuring that every strand is perfectly coated. the comb moves through effortlessly with each section, your touch confident and fluid. billie can feel you behind her, though she can’t see what you’re doing. yet, there’s a trust that hangs between you, a deep and unspoken understanding that makes your heart swell with quiet affection.

“you’re so good at this,” billie murmurs, her voice low and admiring, watching as the color sinks in effortlessly.

“you can’t even see what i’m doing, babe,” you chuckle softly, setting the bowl of dye down. you lean over, placing your elbows on the chair as you spin it, bringing her face to the mirror so she can watch your every move.

“okay, but i know you, and i know you’re good at what you do. i swear, i’m never doing my own hair again.”

her compliment lingers in the air, a sweet echo, and you smile as you pick up the bowl once more, moving behind her with a sense of purpose. billie flinches slightly as the cold dye touches her scalp, but you smooth it out with gentle strokes, your acrylics gliding through her hair, the sensation soft and calming. you focus entirely on the application, taking your time to make sure each section is perfect. “it takes years to perfect,” you whisper, as the color settles into her strands, dark and even.

the tv show hums softly in the background, but you’re not really paying attention to it. billie’s eyes flicker between you and the mirror, her gaze never straying far from your hands, which move with precision and care.

“are you excited for the tour?” you ask, keeping the conversation flowing, your voice a steady current as your hands continue their work.

billie nods slowly, the slightest furrow of concern crossing her brow. “yeah, but… it’s also nerve-wracking. i mean, i haven’t toured in a while, so i’m a little anxious.”

you glance at her, surprised. “why are you nervous, baby?”

your hands pause, the brush hovering mid-stroke as you meet her gaze in the mirror. her eyes dart away, a subtle shrug rolling through her shoulders, hidden beneath the cape. “i don’t know,” she admits softly, her voice carrying a faint edge of vulnerability. “i guess… i’m worried people won’t connect with the new stuff, or that i’ll mess up. it’s been a while, you know?”

you set the brush down in the bowl, wiping your hands on a nearby towel, then moving to stand beside her. one hand rests gently on her shoulder, your fingers grazing the curve of her collarbone, your thumb moving in slow, reassuring circles against the fabric of her shirt. “billie, you’re amazing,” you say, your voice warm, but firm. “you’ve got nothing to prove to anyone. you’ve worked so hard on this, and i know it’s going to blow people away. plus,” you add with a playful smile, “if anyone’s got the nerve to doubt you, i’ll just have to handle it.”

she meets your gaze in the mirror, her eyes softening, a small, grateful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “thanks,” she whispers. “it helps hearing that from you.”

you kiss the top of her head lightly, mindful of the dye, before stepping back to your place behind her. “anytime, love,” you say, picking up the brush again. “now hold still—i’m almost done.”

as you finish applying the dye, billie’s expression softens, her earlier tension slowly giving way to a quiet sense of ease. the warmth of her trust fills the room, wrapping around both of you, and for a moment, the low murmur of the tv fades into the background, leaving only the sound of the brush smoothing through her hair, each stroke a quiet act of care.

“what’d you wanna eat?” she asks, breaking the silence, her voice light.

“um…” you pause briefly, considering. “it’s whatever you want.”

she rolls her eyes, a playful glint lighting her expression. “you always say that,” she teases, her tone affectionate but laced with knowing. “but then when i pick, you’ll complain about it.”

you chuckle softly, setting the brush down and giving her hair a final once-over to make sure the dye is even. “that’s not true,” you counter, your grin betraying your words. “okay, maybe sometimes. but i promise, i won’t complain this time.”

she tilts her head slightly, her eyes flicking up to meet yours in the mirror, a smirk tugging at her lips. “mmhmm. so if i say vegan sushi, you won’t pull that face you always do?”

“no…?” you trail off, narrowing your eyes playfully.

“if you say so,” she laughs, leaning back in the chair, her shoulders relaxing at last. she pulls out her phone, the light from the screen flickering against her face as she pulls up the website to order food.

you grab your comb once more, your hand settling gently on the back of her head, tilting it slightly so you can part the back. the metal end of the comb glides smoothly through the mid to low portions of her hair, creating an even part with ease. gathering the spare hair in your hand, you bend slightly, reaching for a clip and securing it with careful precision.

turning back to your station, you pick up the light blue dye, starting to apply it about three inches down from the roots. the color glides on with a vibrant pop against the black, a striking contrast that’s already beginning to take shape. you feather the dye carefully, blending it seamlessly into the black, creating a smooth, ombre transition. billie’s hair is thick, and you take your time, moving with quiet intention, combing through each section to ensure the colors blend perfectly. with gloved fingers, you work the dye into her hair, making sure it’s just right, the blues flowing into the black in perfect harmony. you repeat the process with the other two shades of blue, each one vibrant, intense, creating a masterpiece of color with every stroke.

the atmosphere is calm now, the warm glow of the lights spilling across the polished surfaces, casting soft reflections that shimmer like a quiet symphony. every little moment between you two seems to stretch longer, the air thick with the deepening connection, the space between your souls growing closer with each passing second. you finish the blue ombré, your hands steady as you apply the final touches, then grab a plastic cap, gently placing it over billie’s head to let the dyes process. the room is silent, save for the low hum of the tv and the rhythm of your breathing, until a knock on the door breaks the peace.

you remove your gloves with a practiced motion and make your way to the door, finding a delivery man holding a bag labeled “take out.” with a soft smile, you reach into your back pocket, pulling out ten dollars for his tip, exchanging it for the food as you offer a quiet thank you. the door closes behind you, the warmth of the room welcoming you back in.

you retreat back inside, removing the black cape from billie’s shoulders, followed by your apron, tossing them carelessly into a corner, the fabric settling like memories discarded in haste. crouching down, you sit cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, billie mirroring your movement beside you. you open the boxes of the chinese takeout, the aroma instantly filling the air—soy sauce, garlic, and something sweet and tangy all blending together, making your stomach rumble in eager anticipation.

the fluffy carpet beneath you contrasts against the cool, smooth hardwood of the salon, the softness of it grounding you in the moment. you open the boxes slowly, careful to not spill any of the steaming food. inside, the noodles glisten, their texture tender and inviting. the spring rolls are crispy, their golden brown crusts promising a satisfying crunch, and the stir-fried veggies glisten, coated in a savory sheen, the light catching each vibrant color like jewels in the dim room.

handing billie a pair of chopsticks, you take your own, your fingers easily finding their grip. you dive into the food, the two of you settling into a rhythm—eating, talking, and occasionally laughing at the little moments between bites.

“this is so much better than sushi,” you joke, nudging her lightly with your knee as you twirl some lo mein onto your chopsticks.

billie rolls her eyes, grinning. “you’re lucky i was in the mood for chinese. otherwise, you’d be starving right now.”

you laugh, taking another bite. the savory flavors burst across your tongue, comforting and satisfying, grounding you in the simplicity of the moment. “guess i owe you one, huh?”

billie raises an eyebrow, a playful glint lighting her eyes. “oh, you definitely do. next time, i’m picking. no arguments.”

“i told you to pick, but deal.” you say around a mouthful of food, earning a mock look of disapproval from her, but you both laugh, the sound of it rich and warm, like music in the quiet room.

the tv continues to play softly in the background, but neither of you are truly paying attention, too lost in your easy banter, too caught up in the gentle rhythm of being together. every so often, you catch her stealing a glance at you—her expression soft, her gaze full of unspoken things—and your heart swells with something quiet and content. you can’t help but smile back, the warmth in your chest blooming as if it’s something you’ve known all along.

as you twirl the noodles onto your chopsticks, the sharp bite of a voice from the tv slices through the air, pulling both of you from the comfortable rhythm you’d settled into.

“you know what? i don’t need this energy from fake ass bitch like you of all people!” a woman yells, her tone dripping with venom, and you both freeze mid-bite. the camera cuts to her, hurling a drink across the room, the liquid splashing like a violent cascade as gasps rise from the background.

“ohhh shit.” you gasp out, sounding like a toddler on the verge of telling on someone.

“wait, what the fuck jus’ happened?” billie asks, sitting up straighter, chopsticks suspended in the air like a moment frozen in time.

you squint at the screen, fingers reaching for the remote to turn the volume up, the faint hum of the tv now louder in your ears. “hold on—what’re we watching right now?”

billie shakes her head, a laugh bubbling out as she points to the screen. “i don’t know, but that was—did she just—was that a margarita?!”

“oh yea, most definitely,” you confirm, a grin tugging at your lips as you set your box of food down on the coffee table, the subtle thud of it breaking the silence. “who even does that?”

“apparently her,” billie says, gesturing to the woman storming off-screen, her heels clicking sharply against the floor like a declaration of finality.

you both watch, eyes wide, as the scene cuts to a confessional, the same woman ranting with a voice full of venom. “she thinks she can talk about me behind my back? please. i’m not the one with a cheating ass boyfriend.”

simultaneously, you and billie gasp, grabbing onto one another in shock at the confession, and then burst into laughter. the sound of it warm and effortless, a shared joy.

“oh my god,” billie says, leaning back onto her hands, her eyes dancing with amusement. “she’s so real. i kind of love it.”

you nod, picking up another spring roll, letting its crisp warmth settle in your hand as you sink deeper into the moment. “you’re so messy. like, look at you encouraging violence,” you tease, giving a light kiss of your teeth as you shake your head.

the two of you continue watching, caught in a tangled mix of laughter and genuine debate, the absurdity of the show now grounding the conversation. billie leans in closer, her chopsticks tapping absently against the edge of her box, the sound soft but rhythmic.

“okay, but listen,” she says, her voice animated, a new layer of thoughtfulness pulling at her tone, “i get why she’s mad, but did she have to throw the drink? i’m not gonna lie, that’s just embarrassing for her.”

“nah, i don’t know,” you counter, your voice playful but threaded with a hint of consideration. “if someone called me a fake ass bitch on camera, i’d probably snap too. but maybe i’d throw something less sticky.”

“like what?”

“water? a smoothie? i don’t know—something that doesn’t smell like tequila,” you answer with a smirk, the edge of your voice soft and teasing.

billie laughs, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “remind me never to cross you.”

you nudge her playfully with your knee, the motion light and easy. “just don’t talk shit, and we’ll be fine.”

by the time the episode ends, both of your food containers are empty, the remnants of your meal scattered across the coffee table like the final traces of a good time. you’re fully invested now, the show pulling you in deeper with every outrageous twist. you glance at billie, eyes flicking to the next episode’s preview, torn between indulging in another round or letting the dye process take center stage. billie grabs the remote, already clicking through, her focus sharpening as the screen changes, the night stretching on.

“one more,” she says, her eyes glinting with mischief, a sly smile curling at the corners of her lips. “just to see if they make up. we have time, right?”

“definitely,” you agree, but you get up from your place on the floor, your fingers lightly tapping her knee as you stand. “but we do need to get this dye out of your hair, so come on.” you move toward the corner, pulling her cape from the pile where you had tossed it earlier, and she follows you, reluctant but amused.

“fine,” billie grumbles, dragging her feet in mock protest as she moves toward the wash bowl. “but if i miss something, it’s your fault.”

you laugh, shaking your head, the sound light and free. “girl…you’ll survive. besides, you don’t want to leave the dye in too long. trust me, it’s not cute.”

billie settles into the chair with a long sigh, tilting her head back into the basin, the soft curve of her neck exposed in the dim light. “you’re the expert,” she says, teasing but soft, her trust in you woven into the words.

“damn right,” you reply, pulling the wet cap from her head, the colors leaving faint imprints on the plastic before you discard it, the faint hiss of it hitting the trash can like a small exhale. slipping on a fresh pair of gloves, you turn on the water, testing the temperature against your wrist before letting it cascade over her hair, the black and blue dyes swirling together in a quiet, colorful dance. the stream flows over her scalp, soft but persistent, coaxing a small hum of contentment from her, and you smile to yourself, pleased by the soothing rhythm.

“feel good?” you ask, your fingers gently massaging her scalp as you check to make sure all the dye is rinsed away, the soft friction of your touch making her relax even more.

“so good,” she murmurs, her eyes closed now, her body sinking further into the chair as the warmth of the water works its magic.

you can’t help but admire the way the rich black fades into the striking blue, the ombré already catching the light in delicate flashes, as if the colors themselves are in conversation. once the water runs clear, you turn it off and reach for a towel, gently squeezing out the excess water from her hair, your hands careful but purposeful.

“hold still,” you whisper, wrapping the warm towel snugly around her head. she lets out a soft sigh as the heat seeps into her scalp, the tension melting from her, her lips curling into a small, content smile.

“you really spoil me, you know that?” she says, her voice soft but sincere, the words a gentle confession.

“someone’s gotta keep you in line, besides if not me then who?” you tease, helping her rise from the chair, your fingers brushing lightly over her arm as you lead her back to the station. you turn around, your mind already shifting to the next step, reaching into your closet for the next set of tools—heat protectant, blow dryer, round brush, scissors, leave-in conditioner, straightener, parting comb, and clips, all free of dye.

you place your items on the countertop, moving with practiced ease as you quickly dispose of the dying supplies, along with your gloves, and dumping the bowls into the sink with a quiet clink! you grab the bottle of leave-in conditioner, squeezing a generous dollop into your palm. the creamy product is cool against your skin as you rub your hands together, warming it up before stepping behind billie. your fingers slip gently through the damp strands, working the conditioner in from roots to ends. her hair feels soft, pliable, and just slick enough as the product absorbs, and you take your time, your movements slow and deliberate, each touch soothing, grounding, and tender.

“gotta make sure this stays healthy after all that dye,” you murmur, the words soft, half to yourself, half to her, as your hands glide over her hair in slow, steady strokes. your nails graze her scalp occasionally, sending soft tingles down her spine, a delicate reminder of the connection between you.

once the conditioner is evenly applied, you plug in the blow dryer and straightener, the soft hum of the machines filling the space as they heat up. your hand rests lightly on her shoulder, a quiet comfort. “alright, let’s get this dried and looking perfect,” you say, your voice low as you grab the blow dryer and a large round brush.

the warm air begins to flow, a gentle wave of heat that seeps into her scalp, contrasting with the coolness of the conditioner. you work methodically, sectioning her hair, rolling it around the brush with a careful precision. each pull of the dryer tightens the strands, smoothing them, while the brush’s bristles tug gently, almost coaxing her hair into submission. the heat locks in the shine, giving it a soft, glossy finish, and your movements are rhythmic, like a quiet dance—the steady hum of the blow dryer blending with your occasional quiet remarks about the netflix show still playing on the screen.

for her, the process is a symphony of sensations—gentle tension from the brush, the comforting warmth of the dryer’s air, and the soothing, skilled touch of hands that know her hair better than anyone else. each stroke of the brush feels like a small act of love, a silent promise wrapped in care, leaving her hair light, fluffy, and full of life, as if it’s been reborn under your hands.

once the hair is dry, you set the dryer down with a soft click and pick up the flat iron, adjusting the temperature with a practiced flick of your wrist. “okay, babe, i need you to be absolutely still,” you say with a grin, wagging the iron lightly in the mirror so she can see that you’re serious. you section her hair once more, your hands steady, not wanting to risk burning her, knowing how delicate the process is.

you spray the heat protectant over her hair, the thick mist settling over the strands, a silent shield against the heat. then, with a steady hand, the flat iron glides through each section, releasing a soft, sizzling sound, like a whispered promise. the heat smooths the strands into sleek perfection, each pass making her hair feel even silkier, even smoother. she can feel the warmth of the iron passing through her hair, not too hot but just enough to make her scalp feel cozy, like a gentle caress. with every pass, her hair becomes more unreal to the touch, soft and straight, as though it belongs to someone else, someone who knows exactly how to treat it.

as you finish, you run your hands over the newly straightened hair, letting the strands slip between your fingers like liquid silk, smooth and soft. “there we go,” you murmur, stepping back to admire your work, the faint shimmer of the pretty blue peeking out from beneath the jet black hair, catching the light in the most subtle way.

your fiancé tilts her head slightly to get a better look at her sleek hair in the mirror, and you grab your shears and a fine-tooth comb, the tools gliding through your hands with ease. “let’s add a little shape, yeah? just some light layers to bring it all together,” you say, your voice warm and reassuring, a soft promise of perfection.

sectioning the hair again with clips, your movements are fluid, practiced—each step a dance of familiarity. picking up a strand, you comb it straight, the fine-tooth comb catching the light with every pass before snipping carefully. the soft snick of the scissors echoes in the space, each cut precise, deliberate. the loose pieces of hair fall away like delicate threads, spiraling softly to the floor, almost weightless in their descent. your touch is gentle, yet purposeful, your head tilting slightly as you examine the angle of each layer, making sure it’s exactly right.

the r&b music playing softly in the background shifts, slowing down to something older, smoother, soulful. without thinking, you start whisper-singing along, your voice low, raspy but sweet, a sound that carries the tune effortlessly as you work. “oh my gosh, this is my song,” you murmur with a small smile, not stopping your quiet singing even as you shift your position to trim the next section, your hands steady and sure.

billie watches you in the mirror, her gaze fixed on you, captivated by the way you hum and move in sync with the music. your lips form the words to a song that feels like comfort, like nostalgia, a piece of your soul woven into each note. it’s intimate—your voice barely audible over the sound of the scissors snipping, but the harmony of it all feels like a private concert just for her, the world outside fading away.

when the cutting is done, you set the scissors down with a soft click and reach for the flat iron again, the familiar weight of it in your hands grounding you. “now to finish it off,” you say softly, your voice still laced with the quiet energy of the song. as the flat iron glides through the freshly trimmed layers, you move slower, almost mesmerized by the way the hair falls perfectly into place, each strand a work of art under your touch. the song plays on, and you hum the last verse under your breath, your hand following the rhythm as you smooth out the ends with expert care, the warmth of the iron leaving the hair sleek, as smooth as your voice.

once the final section is done, you spray a fine mist of finishing spray, the light scent filling the air as it locks everything in place, giving her hair that glossy, healthy shine. stepping back with a soft smile, you run your comb through her silky layers, the strands gliding effortlessly, almost weightless. “there. perfectly layered, silky smooth, and bone straight,” you murmur, brushing a few stray strands away from her face, your fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “what do you think?”

billie turns her head slowly from side to side, inspecting the smooth jet-black color that bleeds into a bright, vibrant blue at the back, the contrast stunning against the sleek, rich darkness. she smiles, her eyes lighting up, a quiet satisfaction dancing in her gaze. “wow. you really pulled it off. i look… amazing.”

grinning, you wipe your hands on a towel, the soft fabric absorbing the last of the dampness. “i told you i could fix it.” pride blooms in your chest, warm and content. your fingers reach for the back of her neck, gently undoing the velcro tabs, removing the cape with a practiced motion, shaking off any excess hair that clings to the fabric. as you lean her body back in the chair, billie tilts her neck, her eyes locking with yours. a soft, playful smile forms on her lips as she puckers them, her gaze full of quiet affection. a small giggle escapes you, and you meet her in a tender kiss, your lips lingering, a momentary pause where everything else fades.

a sleepy smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she whispers between kisses, her voice soft and sincere, “thank you.”

“always. i’m not gonna let you walk around looking crazy, you know that.” you plant a soft kiss to her forehead, the warmth of your lips lingering for just a beat before you gently guide her to a chair, where she can relax while you finish up.

moving around the salon, you begin to clean up your station, tidying the space where you’ve spent the last several hours. the air hums with the low, steady sound of the television playing in the background, switching from the show you’d been watching earlier to a late-night talk show filled with random jokes and light chatter. billie sits in the corner, her eyes still sparkling as she admires her hair, now glowing softly under the warm, inviting lights of the salon. she pulls out her phone, capturing a few pictures of her new look, turning her head from side to side, caught in awe of the transformation.

as billie scrolls through her pictures, you wipe down the counter, returning your tools to their places with careful precision. but you can’t help but notice the subtle shift in her energy. her usual spark, that lively brightness, seems to dim as she leans back in the chair, her eyelids fluttering as exhaustion starts to settle in. the day has been long, and you can see it catching up with her.

with a soft, knowing smile, you hurry to finish the last of the cleaning—sweeping the floor, wiping down the counters, making everything neat. each motion is quick, purposeful. you want to get billie home, tucked in, where she can unwind after the whirlwind of the day. the thought of resting together, of the quiet comfort of home, fills you with a quiet urgency.

when you finish, you grab the remote, clicking off the tv with a soft sound, followed by the gentle hum of the alexa, music fading into silence. you gather your things from the rack behind the door, zipping up your jacket, slinging your purse over your shoulder. you walk over to where billie is softly dozing in the corner, and with careful fingers, you reach into her pocket, fishing out her car keys and your phone. her body stirs as she feels your light touch, but she remains blissfully unaware.

lifting her hand gently, you help her up. “come on, let’s get you home.” you turn off all the lights, the soft click of switches echoing in the quiet space, before locking the door behind you. the cool night air of LA greets you as you step outside. with a press of the key fob, the porsche unlocks, and you slide into the driver’s seat, feeling the weight of the day settle into your bones. billie slips into the passenger seat beside you, curling up in her spot, her head leaning against the window. the car roars to life with the press of the ignition, and you begin the drive home, the rhythm of the road steady and comforting as billie’s eyelids grow heavier with every passing moment.

the drive back is peaceful. the soft hum of the car engine creates a gentle lullaby, accompanied by the occasional sound of tires gliding over the smooth asphalt. the streetlights flicker in rhythmic succession, casting brief, golden glows that sweep over the streets in the night’s embrace.

your gaze drifts over to billie every now and then, catching glimpses of her peacefully dozing off, her features relaxed in the quiet of the car. the streetlights spill through the windows, bathing her face in a soft, warm glow that makes her look even more serene. it’s a perfect, tranquil moment, and your heart swells with a quiet affection. she looks so at peace, safe and calm, wrapped in the comfort of the night.

the car slows to a gentle stop as you approach a red light. the warm glow from the traffic light washes over billie’s face, painting her delicate features in a soft, crimson hue.

a smile tugs at your lips, tender and full of love, as you glance at her once more. billie’s lashes flutter softly, stirring ever so slightly, but she doesn’t wake. your hand moves away from the wheel, fingers grazing across her cheek before cupping her jaw. she leans into your touch instinctively, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. the connection feels like a fleeting, yet eternal, moment, a promise of care and warmth.

as the light turns green, you pull your hand back, placing it gently on the steering wheel. you continue the drive home, the rhythmic flicker of streetlights through the windows adding to the serenity of the moment. billie stays curled in her seat beside you, her soft breaths the only sound accompanying the steady hum of the car.

as the familiar sight of your shared home comes into view, you ease the car into the garage, the low rumble of the engine settling into stillness. putting the car in park, you turn it off, nudging billie softly as she stirs awake, her eyes blinking open slowly. you reach for your keys, her hand slipping into yours as you unlock the door to the house. the quiet of the night surrounds you as you lead her inside, slipping your shoes off before guiding her to your bedroom.

once inside, you cross into the adjoining bathroom. billie leans gently against the doorframe, watching as you crouch down, rummaging through the cabinets beneath the sink. you pull out two shower caps, the simple task feeling comforting in the stillness of the moment. you place hers on her head, tucking each strand of her black and blue hair under it with careful hands. then you repeat the process for your own hair, your movements slow and deliberate. once the caps are securely in place, you turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature to the perfect warmth.

turning back to her, you both begin shedding your clothes, each piece falling softly to the floor like whispered secrets. the air is thick with warmth and steam, and as you step into the shower together, the water cascades down in soothing rivulets, wrapping you both in its embrace. billie leans against the cool tiled wall, letting the steam unwind her body, and you quickly wash yourself, the soft sound of water splashing around you almost meditative.

“you okay over there?” you ask, your voice low, careful not to break the peaceful silence between you. you glance over at billie, her eyes barely open, her face softened in the steam.

without a word, she steps behind you, her warmth pressing against your back as she rests her head in the crook of your neck. the dewy droplets from the shower roll onto her skin, adding a shimmer to her closeness as she wraps her arms around your waist. her thumbs draw light, absentminded circles on your skin, the motion gentle and soothing.

the water flows steadily over both of you, its warmth sinking into your muscles, loosening any lingering tension. billie’s embrace is a gentle weight, her body leaning into yours as if trying to melt into you completely. you tilt your head slightly, allowing her to settle more comfortably in the curve of your neck. in that moment, everything else fades away—the world outside the shower, the thoughts swirling in your mind—all that’s left is the quiet intimacy between you, like a soft blanket wrapping you both in its warmth.

“you’re gonna fall asleep like this,” you whisper, though there’s no reprimand in your voice—only tender amusement, the rhythm of your breaths matching hers.

billie hums softly in response, her voice muffled against your damp skin, “can’t help it. you’re too comfy.”

your lips twitch into a smile, a soft sigh escaping you as you reach for her rag on the side. you grab the body wash next, squeezing it onto the cloth, and then rubbing it together, watching as the lather builds. the air fills with the fresh scent of citrus, mingling with the warmth of vanilla, a fragrance that blends perfectly with the steamy space around you.

“come here,” you murmur, your voice soft, as you gently turn her so her back faces you. your hands begin at her shoulders, moving in slow, deliberate motions, the soap spreading across her skin like silk, tracing the curves of her swirl tattoo as it slides down her back. each touch of your fingers against her skin sends a wave of relaxation through her muscles, the tension unwinding as you move down her arms, then back to her spine. the steady rhythm of your movements is mirrored by the soft patter of water on the tiled floor, the sound like a quiet lullaby that wraps around you both.

“you’re spoiling me,” billie murmurs, her voice soft, almost lost beneath the sound of the water.

“always,” you reply with a quiet laugh, your hands trailing down to her sides, making sure not to miss a single inch of her skin, your touch tender and precise.

turning her back to face you, her half-lidded eyes meet yours for a brief moment before fluttering closed, surrendering to the warmth and intimacy of the moment. you begin washing her front, your touch light, like a feather brushing against her collarbone, down her shoulders, and across her arms. she exhales softly as your hands dip lower, brushing against her stomach, her body swaying gently as the warmth of the water and your care lull her deeper into relaxation.

“all done,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the water, guiding her under the spray to rinse away the suds. your hands move with care, ensuring that every trace of soap is gone, leaving only the warmth and comfort of the moment lingering between you.

you place a hand on her back, your palm gently meeting the light droplets still clinging to her skin, the soft scratch of your acrylic nails trailing across her damp flesh as you lean in to turn off the tap. the water’s rhythmic trickle fades into the background, and with a fluid motion, you slide open the glass door, stepping out into the steamy air. reaching for the towels hanging nearby, you wrap one around each of you, the plush fabric absorbing the last of the warmth from your skin. you remove your shower caps, stepping onto the soft mat, her damp body leaning into you as you guide her back toward the bedroom.

once there, you grab two band tees, one for you and one for billie, slipping them on as you moisturize your skin, the cool scent of lavender and vanilla mingling with the steam still lingering in the air.

you help billie into her pajamas with slow, careful movements, making sure every action is deliberate, your touch gentle as you rub lotion into her arms and legs. the scent of the lotion fills the space between you, wrapping around you both like a comforting embrace.

“i hope you know this is going into your girlfriend tax,” you say, your voice light and playful as you massage lotion into billie’s hand.

“don’t you mean wife?” a smirk dances across her lips, her hand pulling you lightly by the waist, her engagement ring catching the soft light from the bedroom as she tugs you closer. a small giggle escapes you, a sweet reminder of what’s to come. you reach behind you, taking her hand from your hip and guiding her over to the vanity.

you pull out the stool for her to sit, your fingers grazing her shoulder as you remove her shower cap, the remnants of water flinging away with the movement. grabbing a comb from the table, you part her hair carefully, your fingers soft and deliberate as you begin to weave two french braids. the light taps of rain against the windows add a soothing rhythm to the quiet room, the sound merging with the gentle flow of your touch, easing billie further into relaxation.

when you’re done, you reach into the drawer, pulling out a silky brown scarf. you open it with a delicate flick of your fingers, folding it into a neat triangle. aligning the longer side with her forehead, you tie it gently, making sure the knot is firm enough to stay in place, but soft enough to not cause discomfort. it rests just so, a quiet gesture of care before the night settles in around you both.

billie scrambles to your bed, her movements quick as she throws herself under the duvet with a soft sigh, sinking into the softness like she’s finally found her place. you shake your head softly, smiling to yourself as you grab a scarf, pulling it over your hair with the same practiced care. you make your way over to the bed, the quiet click of the lamp turning off filling the space before you slide in next to her. the weight of the day seems to lift in the darkened room, the only sound the gentle tap of rain against the windows.

reaching into your bedside drawer, you slip off your ring, placing it carefully in its box, the cool touch of the metal against your skin a reminder of the bond you share. you stretch your hand back toward billie, palm facing up, and she mirrors the gesture. the coolness of the .48-carat diamond meets your touch as she slides her ring into your hand. you place both rings in their box, closing the drawer softly, the faint sound of the wood settling a quiet punctuation to the moment.

billie drapes her arm over your torso, pulling you closer, her warmth seeping into your skin as your limbs tangle together, two bodies finding comfort in one another. your thumbs trace soft, lazy patterns on her arm, the motion slow and deliberate, a silent promise of peace. she buries her face in the crook of your neck, her breath warm against your skin.

outside, the rain continues its melodic tapping, the rhythm a lullaby as billie’s breathing slows. her body relaxes completely, her embrace a cocoon that shields you from the world.

as she drifts off to sleep, you press a soft kiss to her palm, the touch tender, a quiet act of love. your own eyes grow heavy as the night wraps itself around you both, cocooning you in its warmth. the sound of the rain serenades you into dreams, its rhythm guiding you to sleep, where you rest together, the world fading away.

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

[sunrenity]

GLASSESㅤ⟡ㅤSJY

precis : when he steals your glasses because they look better on him.

신재윤ㅤ୨୧ㅤboyfriend ! jake x 𝒻em readerㅤ..ㅤfluffㅤ/ㅤkissing, slight make out scene?ㅤㅤ( 660 )ㅤ CATALOGUE

it starts with a laugh—jake’s laugh. the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, his nose scrunching up adorably before it gives way to his wide, toothy grin. it’s the kind of laugh that fills the room and makes everything else fade into the background, like the world itself has paused to listen.

“you’re kidding me, right?” he says, his voice dripping with amusement. jake is standing in front of you, holding your glasses between his fingers, turning them over like he’s studying some sort of relic.

you cross your arms, tilting your head in mock annoyance. “no, jake. i’m not kidding. give them back.”

he raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “come on, babe. you don’t even need these all the time. what’s the harm in letting me try them on for a second?”

you narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real venom behind it. he knows you too well, knows that your resolve is paper-thin when it comes to him. “you’re going to stretch them out. and you have perfect vision, so it’s pointless.”

jake grins, stepping closer. “perfect vision and perfect looks,” he quips, earning a playful shove to his shoulder.

“ha, ha. very funny,” you deadpan.

but before you can argue further, he slips the glasses on.

it’s unfair, really.

you’re prepared to roll your eyes, maybe make a sarcastic comment, but the moment you see him wearing your glasses, the words die on your tongue. because he looks... hot.

the wire frames rest on the bridge of his nose, highlighting the sharp lines of his face. his brown eyes, already warm and captivating, seem to sparkle even more behind the lenses. there’s something about the way the glasses make him look softer, yet somehow more confident at the same time. like a charming mix of bookish and boy-next-door.

jake catches your stare and smirks, tilting his head slightly. “what’s that look for? do i look that good?”

your cheeks burn, and you quickly avert your gaze, but he steps even closer, crowding your space.

“wait a minute,” he says, voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “do you think i look hot in your glasses?”

“absolutely not,” you lie, but your voice betrays you, coming out weaker than you intended.

jake hums, clearly unconvinced, and takes another step forward. you can feel the heat radiating off him now, his presence overwhelming in the best way. he leans in, just enough for his nose to brush yours, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne.

“liar,” he whispers.

and then his lips are on yours.

the kiss is soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, but when you sigh into it, his hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer. your fingers find their way to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as he deepens the kiss, tilting his head to fit his lips against yours perfectly.

it’s intoxicating—the way he kisses you, the way he makes you feel like the center of the universe. and yet, in the back of your mind, you’re still aware of the ridiculous fact that he’s kissing you while wearing your glasses.

when he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing heavily. his forehead rests against yours, and there’s a smug grin playing on his lips.

“so,” he says, voice low and teasing. “still think i don’t look good in these?”

you roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gives you away. “you’re insufferable, you know that?”

jake chuckles, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. “yeah, but you love me anyway.”

he steps back, finally taking off the glasses and holding them out to you. “here. i wouldn’t want to ruin them with how amazing i look.”

you snatch them from his hand, trying to hide your smile as you put them back on. but before you can say anything, jake pulls you into another kiss, this one softer and sweeter.

[hyukascampfire]

LET IT SNOW! ⋅ ´- c.bg

choi beomgyu and you are best at one thing: getting on yeonjun's nerves. going out for a snowball fight on the first winter snow, he has the perfect plan. ‧ׅ ˚

៹ ۪ ´ ㅤㅤ꒰ 🕊️ ꒱ ･ 1.9k

ᰍairings ˒ crush!beomgyu x reader ft. ot5

ᧁ ; fluff

ωarnings ˒ nothing but tooth rotting fluff and friends pining over each other

✎୭ ashlynn's note im so sorry this one came out so late guys omg. i woke up late and had to rewrite some >.< @hmusunoo HERE U GO BABYYY

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

The front of the car is a bustle of the boys all trying to speak over each other, their voices twisting up with the Christmas station. Yeonjun grips the wheel white-knuckled—he’s the only one that’d volunteered to drive on the glazed roads. The little park where you head isn’t too far, though, so you think you’ll be fine. 

You hope you will be, anyway. The shouting and chaos that would fall over the car should the wheels lose traction and send you slipping… he’s got the car at the slowest crawl, but you can hear it now.

The moment Soobin had suggested a snowball fight, you all had tugged on puffy layers and two layers of socks. Throwing compacted balls of powdery snow at each other’s faces is worlds more interesting than sitting around and watching the snowfall from the windows, anyway. And, you had the perfect place for it. 

When it came time to file into the car, you offered to climb into the back. The heater blasts right onto you here, and you intend to soak up every last moment of it before the cold bites. You’d tugged your seatbelt out and locked it into place with a click.

Lifting your gaze, your heart did a little flutter to find Beomgyu in the seat beside you. He’s bundled up in a black puffer. Having zipped it all the way up to the collar, it stands stiff and presses into the soft round edge of his cheeks when he turns his head to send you a cheeky smile.

It’s not that you’re uncomfortable or awkward with him. You’re just as close to him as the others. For whatever reason, though, whenever you get little moments like these, where it’s just the two of you… You fluster.

Looking into his soft brown eyes is even hard now, so you opt for watching the snow piles and glistening rooftops pass the windows by. Yesterday there had been nothing there, and now there’s a layer shin-high wherever it hasn’t been plowed off. This is your favorite time of the year—you wish it snowed more often. You suppose, though, that because it doesn’t, the serenity and stillness of days like this are more special. 

Kai and you had been the first up. Just when morning had cracked over the sky, clear and pale and wintry, you’d found each other in the kitchen with sleep-tossed hair and droopy eyes. It didn’t take more than a glance outside to know that the weather apps hadn’t lied—the air on a snowy morning just looks different. It’s silver and as crisp on the eyes as it is on the lungs. His voice had been still thick with sleep when he’d said, “Snowman?”

Of course, you wanted to build a snowman. Still in rumpled pajamas, you two drug yourselves out there, stepping around in the snow a little just to hear it crunch underfoot, and then got to work. The snowman ended up faceless and only garnished with a thick, waxy leaf poking out from the top of his head like an antenna. When you stepped back to look at it, Kai had snorted and said, “If that thing ever gained consciousness, we’d be the first people it kills.”

You fiddle with your woolen gloves, and then decide on just tugging them off. It’s toasty enough in the confines of the car; you’ll just tug them back on when you get out.

A nudge at your side has you looking up to Beomgyu. You raise a curious eyebrow at the look on his face—the corners of his lips pulled up into a sneaky grin and the shine of something playful in his eyes.

He leans toward you, the warm scent of him all woody and vanilla sweet in the car’s hot air. Keeping his voice low, a secret just between the two of you back here, he says, “I have an idea.”

An idea could mean anything, coming from him. Especially with that look in his eye. You take a look over the front of the car. It’s as loud as ever up there. Yeonjun and Soobin in the front talk awfully aggressively about something that doesn’t reach your ears, though you’re sure it’s got something to do with Yeonjun’s driving if Soobin’s wide eyes are a hint. Yeonjun’s eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror with a roll. The middle row isn’t as loud as the front, but Taehyun and Kai still are into their conversation enough to not hear what he has to say. The two of them sit at the window seats, talking over the empty middle seat between them. 

You wonder why Beomgyu took this one, in the cramped back seat where your soft thigh presses against his, rather than that one. The climb out of here is pretty annoying, too. The seats don’t go down, so you have to climb over headrests and duck under the car’s fabric ceiling.

“Hmm?” you say, deciding that his secret is safe enough back here.

His smile turns shit-eating. He leans closer, saying, “Want to piss Yeonjun off?”

You’re always down for that. Beomgyu is, too. If there’s anything Yeonjun fears most in the world, it’s to see the two of you snickering off in the corner and exchanging secret words. Most times, you don’t even have to plan it; all it takes is a sharing of a glance and raise of your brows, and you know you’re thinking the same thing.

“What are you gonna do?” you whisper back. The smile that tugs at your mouth is beyond your control—it comes to you just at the sight of his. 

He sends a glance toward the front of the car. “If the both of us only hit him…”

It’s no different from any other nagging thing you put the poor guy through, but it’ll entertain you every time. “Got it,” you say, nose wrinkling as you try to keep your laugh down.

The car comes to a stop. From your window, the expanse of the field you’ve come to turn into a warzone is brushed over with last night’s snow blast. Opened doors let a frozen, curling air in. You share one last knowing look with Beomgyu before crawling out yourself. If you don’t get out fast enough, you’ll become victim to whoever has gotten out fast enough to smush up a snowball just for you.

Flying straight and purposeful through the air, the first one does not hit you, though. It explodes into white powder and a thousand little crystal snowflakes over Beomgyu’s face, clinging to the wispy bits of the hair that falls over his eyes and all down the front of him. You don’t even know which direction it came from. He blinks it off his lashes and lets his mouth hang open for a few moments, before dropping down to the snow to build one in retaliation.

Everything devolves after that. Snow flies in arcs through the air, crashing over shoulders and into the backs of whoever’s dumb enough to turn their back. Barked laughs and shrieks break the morning’s peace. You dodge and dart, taking an awful hunk of snow to the thigh. Letting out a shrill sound, utterly unconcerned with whoever might be asleep in the houses across the street, you shoot a glare at a proud Soobin. He forms another in between his gloves, but you have a mission. 

Beomgyu’s already landed a few on Yeonjun. You squat to roll a few and come up with one, keeping a few more misshapen chunks of snow that could hardly be called a snowball in the nook of your arm at the ready. The first skims just by the side of his head, but the next crumbles against his chest, and each one after that ends.

Off from another end of the field, made a mess with your footsteps cutting the pristine surface and the piles you’ve left on top of it, Beomgyu folds with a laugh. From your peripherals, a few of the boys shout and the scattering of a snowball tells you that somebody’s been hit hard, but all you can hear is his laugh. All you can see is the pink on his cheeks and the crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Alliances form and a thousand snowballs are thrown, and only when Beomgyu lands a hit right at the back of Yeonjun’s head just after yours crashes against the fabric of his jacket does he realize.

“What the hell?” he spits, lips tugged down in a frown and his brows shot up to his forehead.

You cover your mouth with a soaked glove, but Beomgyu doesn’t cut his laugh. Your snort comes tumbling past the fabric as Yeonjun shakes his head and points at the two of you, laughing dangerously.

For the rest of that morning, with numb fingers and thighs sore from running, you and Beomgyu’s fates were sealed, dodging Yeonjun’s angry and pointed throws. At some point, you duck behind Beomgyu, using the width of his shoulders to escape a ball in Yeonjun’s hand with your name written on it.

Only when all of you are panting and have to drag your limbs, do you drag yourselves homeward. The car’s heater doesn’t warm up quick enough—when you step into the door, treading snow still stuck on the bottom of your boots through the entrance, the air still prickles and nips at your numbed cheeks. You peel layers of your clothes from your skin, soaked where snow had gotten caught and melted against your body heat. Tugging your shoes off was the worst; you wiggle your toes a few times just to make sure you can still move them.

Stuffing yourselves into clothes so warm that you’ll probably all be changing as soon as your bodies return to their normal temperatures, you all sprawl over the couch. Somebody snatches the remote up and clicks through a collection of Christmas classics, but at Taehyun’s insistence, you land on Christmas Vacation.

The couch is solid and warm against your back, the floor hard against your bottom. You had taken the longest to change and scarf a few candy canes down, and each seat had been occupied when you came to join their lounging. You don’t mind much—from here, you can better look at the Christmas tree and try to narrow your eyes down on which presents beneath it are yours. Kai had insisted that nobody snoops.

Beomgyu slips down beside you before the movie starts. He’s warm up against you; you’re not sure how. You’re just getting feeling back in the tips of your fingers. On his mouth, he plays a soft and easy smile, catching your eyes though you want to flounder under his attention.

Leaning toward you once more, just as he had in the car, he whispers, “Did you see his face?”

You share a quiet giggle with him, pressing your head into the fabric of his knitted sweater on his shoulder. “Yeah,” you say. “He makes it too easy…”

It wasn’t the look on Yeonjun’s face that you remember best, though. Captured in the morning light, all you had seen was the pink of Beomgyu’s cheeks and the mischievous glint there, and all you had felt was the way that it settled over your longing heart like how the fireplace warms you now.

You hope that he had been looking at you, too.

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

✎୭ ashlynn's note they're so cute i need them to kiss and cuddle and love each other

﹙📋﹚ @hmusunoo , @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @joycelyjjj , @sunoolver , @lvrs-street2mmorrow , @apeachty , @fandomtrashsblog , @bewitchless , @yezzns2 , @hhoneyhan , @ethystclove , @darkdayelixer , @calumcxke , @biteyoubiteme , @bamgeutsz , @soobabby , @little-shiny-starr , @bambammtori , @bunniebun-posted , @heeambi , @bunnisoobin , @hwanghyunjinismybae , @bakugosbottombitch , @304files , @cherricola-star , @lickingan0rchid , @ashistrashhhhhh , @no1likemybbgcharlie , if your tag isn't working, check the mentions part of your settings!

[lachatalovematcha]

★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮★｡･::♪★｡･::♪🌈🎀🍮

[i90soul]

winter locs. 𖹭

달ㅤㅤ೭ㅤㅤ 𝖾𝗎 não achei outra 𝑓lor com a cor 𝑒𝑎 beleza ⸺ que você tem para mim. 🌸︩︪ [ ... ]

[flowerwinds]

This is so damn GOOD!! wow you’re writing is so amazing it made me want to be absorbed into it. I felt the atmosphere of the scene like i was in it, that how beautiful your writing is! You are truly talented. Have a nice day 🤎🤎🤎

A WINTER'S CONFESSION ル ──── 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾

❝ 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂... '𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎' ❞

🧥 𝖠𝖵𝖤𝖢 𓈒𓈒 ＦＦ ╱ ニキ x 𝒻𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ⌂ 1.2k 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾 ──𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍 ち ( 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 )

リリ ⦂ my sweet rizzler @orimuraa 🎂 happy belated birthday love !! so sorry for wishing you this late but I hope it still counts ㅠㅠ

reblogs && ˶ᵔᗜᵔ˶ feedbacks ✧ S𝑜𝑛𝐆

A frigid wind nipped at your exposed skin as your smooth, pristine hand clutched the dense material hugging your figure, tightening it as you shivered against the chill.

Positioned just beside you, another figure came into view—a guy, it seemed, seated on the bench you were hunched over, his posture mirroring your own.

The two of you sat there side by side as silence drifted in, dancing freely in the wintry atmosphere, wrapping you both in a sense of comfort and serenity. But just before it could last any longer, a voice broke through, cutting the calmness that said,

"Hey, can I tell you something? But you must promise not to laugh."

Turning your gaze over him, you replied with a teasing smile, "Okay, I promise! but if it's about last year where you fell into the river bank while singing 'Crystal Snow' and pulling off some silly, majestic move, I'm definitely laughing." You beamed at him, eyes naturally curving into a pair of beautiful crescent moons that perfectly enhanced your delicate features.

Riki appeared a bit stunned as he stared at you for a not so long while, a soft pinkish tint bloomed across his cheeks. Perhaps embarrassed that his past actions being brought up? Lucky him, you seemed completely unaware of the sudden change in his demeanor, already adding another playful remark, saying,

"Or… when i caught you sneaking into my bedroom, secretly putting my makeup all over your face and—oh! Maybe that other time when—

"Okay, okay, enough with talking about my dark, embarrassing, yet utterly unforgettable moments that had been long forgotten, but now they’re all flooding back into our memories—and it’s all because of you."

Riki responded, giving you that signature eye smile of his, the one that said, 'Thank you for that,' but beneath it, you could almost sense the quiet storm brewing inside him, making you burst into a soft, cheerful laugh, seemingly satisfied.

Riki groaned, his long, slender fingers working as a comb, running through his smooth, silky locks, muttering, "See? this is why i shouldn't tell you anything serious." He pouted, cute, you thought.

Fixing your gaze on him, you ended up admiring his ethereal features from the side: the sharp, defined slope of his nose, so precise it seemed as though it could cut through the thickest air; his fierce, brown eyes that always gave you a sense of déjà vu, a reminder of that one time he stood out for you—scolding the bullies who tore your favorite doll. And then, there were his wide, soft lips—pillowy enough that you were sure you’d turn into Aurora herself, falling into an eternal slumber the moment your head rested upon them.

For a moment, you found yourself lost in those details—every line, every curve—until his voice pulled you back to reality. "Do you remember last winter, when we had that snowball fight?" he asked, sitting up straighter to face you fully. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though his tone carried a trace of guilt. "And then I accidentally threw that giant snowball, and you fell right into the snowbank," he added, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

You nodded, a smile spreading across your face at the memory. "How could I forget? That same night, I came down with a bad fever, had a red, runny nose, and I almost didn't recognize myself with how much of a complete mess I looked," you said, softly laughing at yourself. "Honestly, it’s my fault for letting you throw it at me first instead of getting you back right away."

He looked at you, his brows furrowing as worry spread across his face, his voice trembling as he began, 'No, it wasn’t your fault—it was mine! I failed to protect you, and instead, I was the one who hurt you. Do you know how much I hated myself for that? I hate that it was me who made you sick, hate that I couldn’t be the one to keep you safe when you needed it the most, and if things had gone worse—if fate had been cruel—I could’ve lost you that day! Do you realize how terrifying that is? Losing you, even just the thought of it, it’s unbearable, because you mean so much to me—more than you know—and I can’t stand thinking about a world without you, because I…'

He froze, his breath puffing in uneven clouds, realizing too late what had slipped out. 'I love you,' he whispered, the words barely audible, but they hung in the cold air between you, undeniable and raw.

Riki kept his gaze fixed downward, his breath uneven as he replayed his words in his head, wondering if he’d said too much. The silence that followed was deafening, the absence of your usual teasing remark or laughter gnawing at his nerves. Slowly, he glanced to his side, only to find you wiping at your cheeks with the edge of your sleeve, quiet sobs muffled as you tried—and failed—to keep your emotions in check.

His eyes widened in alarm. “y/n, why—” but the moment his voice reached you, your head shot up, your teary eyes locking with his. Embarrassment consumed you in an instant, a wave of heat rushing to your cheeks and before he could say another word, you moved in a blur, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him into a tight embrace. The sudden warmth of your hold left him frozen for a moment, his breath hitching at the unexpected gesture.

“You idiot,” you choked out softly, your voice trembling but laced with so much affection it made his chest tighten. “You didn’t lose me then, and you’re never going to. Do you hear me? Never.”

Riki's arms slowly wrapped around you, tentative at first, before tightening it as if he were afraid of losing you. “I—” His voice cracked, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry…”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your tear-streaked face breaking into a watery smile. “Don’t apologize, you idiot. I’m crying because…" you paused, but just enough to gather up the courage you needed to say,

"Because I love you too.”

© icyy-hoon, 2024 ─── do not plagiarize and repost my works on any other platform except for tumblr unless you get my permission. reblog is allowed

perm taglist ! @amorek1m @dollyhoon @pshwrldd @mrjypark @ikeuberri

taglist : @wonsdoll @amorsae

[hypndiary]

ㅤㅤ𝆹ㅤ𝆬ㅤ꒰ㅤiㅤwillㅤliveㅤinㅤyourㅤmemories.ㅤ୧꒱‧˚₊ㅤ་ ⍸ ་

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ╭ ◜ㅤᓚ𐙚꒱ㅤ@y-uriosㅤִ⠀ׂ .⁾ㅤㅤ𝆬ㅤ˖ ࣪ 𝇄𝇃ㅤ◝ ╮

[rottenfyre]

⸻ ᴊ ᴀ ʏ ʙ ɪ ʀ ᴅ ⸻

Pairing: Dark Jason Todd x Fem Reader Part 1

Summary: After his death you left everything behind. You're still Bruce daughter but no longer a part of family. You had a new life and everything was fine, until the day someone left a box outside your door...

Warning: Physically violence/Choking.

Note: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

“You sure you’re ok?” he asked as she kissed him lightly on the lips.

“I’ll be fine,” she said smiling.

He searched her face for a moment before nodding, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be back late.”

As Daniel left, she closed the door behind him and exhaled, her chest tightening. She shook it off, slipping out of her shoes and heading straight for the shower. Maybe hot water would ease the tension coiled in her spine.

The steam filled the small bathroom quickly, clinging to the mirror and fogging the glass. She stepped under the stream, letting the water rush over her skin. It was almost too hot, but she relished the way it scalded, burning away the nerves she carried like an old scar.

She hummed softly, a melody that she didn’t recognize but felt familiar all the same. Her thoughts wandered as the water cascaded over her, but something pulled her back.

A sound.

She froze, water streaming down her face. She strained her ears, her breath catching in her throat.

Nothing.

It was probably nothing. The pipes, maybe. This building wasn’t new, and the plumbing always made strange noises. She shook her head, laughing softly at her paranoia, and returned to her shower.

But the feeling didn’t go away.

She felt it then—the distinct sensation of being watched. Her fingers tightened into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She counted slowly in her head, telling herself she was imagining it, that she was safe. Safe.

The ringing of the doorbell shattered the silence.

She jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs. The water continued to pour over her, but the incessant ringing pulled her focus. It didn’t stop.

“Seriously?” she muttered, cutting the water off and grabbing a towel. Wrapping it hastily around herself, she stormed out of the bathroom, her wet feet slapping against the tile floor.

The ringing continued, grating against her nerves.

“Alright, alright!” she yelled, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. She grabbed the towel, wrapped it tightly around herself, irritation bubbling to the surface. The ringing didn’t stop. Again. Again. Over and over, like whoever was behind the door had nothing better to do than torment her.

“Coming!” she yelled, stomping toward the door, her wet feet leaving angry prints on the hardwood.

No one was there.

Just a box.

She blinked, her gaze dropping to the large cardboard box sitting on the welcome mat. There was no note, no markings, nothing to indicate where it came from or who had sent it.

She sighed, irritation flickering through her. Probably Bruce, she thought, stepping forward and dragging the box inside. She left it by the coffee table, her focus already back on her shower. The towel was damp against her skin, and all she wanted was to feel clean and warm again.

By the time she was out of the shower, dressed in an old sweatshirt and leggings, she’d nearly forgotten about the box. She made a cup of tea, settling onto the couch with the remote, flipping through channels.

Everything was dull. Every show, every movie. Nothing held her attention. Her gaze drifted to the box.

It sat there, innocuous yet somehow foreboding.

She hesitated before setting her tea down and kneeling in front of it. The tape peeled away easily, the cardboard flaps opening to reveal its contents.

Her breath caught.

The first thing she saw was the Batgirl suit.

Her old suit, neatly folded, its colors dimmed by time and wear. Beneath it were other items: a small photograph, trinkets she hadn’t seen in years.

She reached for the photo first.

It was a picture of her and Jason. He was grinning, his arm slung around her shoulders, while she was caught mid-laugh. The memory hit her like a wave. She’d teased him relentlessly that day about his messy hair, and he’d retaliated by messing up hers until they were both in a fit of laughter.

"You look like you just rolled out of bed Jaybird," she said with a smirk, poking fun at him.

Jason rolled his eyes but grinned back. "Says the girl who hasn’t combed her hair in days."

She laughed, flipping her own hair over her shoulder dramatically. And just like that, they’d been caught in a moment of unguarded joy.

Jason, ruffled her hair, making it even messier than before. “There. Now you look like me!” he teased.

She gasped in mock horror, instantly reaching up to fix her hair. “What did you do?”

Her fingers trembled as she set the photo down and reached for the next item. A bracelet he’d made for her—clumsy knots of red and green string. She’d worn it for months until it fell apart.

“You like it?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Of course I do,” she’d replied, smiling softly as she accepted the bracelet. It was clumsy, but in that moment, it felt like the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given her.

Then came a note in her handwriting. She remembered writing it, a quick scribble of encouragement before a patrol.

“You’ve got this, Jaybird. Show them what you’re made of.”

“You okay?” he asked, his voice surprisingly soft, a rare crack in his usual persona.

She hadn’t answered right away. Instead, she had sat beside him in silence. The hurt from the night before clung to her like a second skin. She hadn’t expected him to do anything—she didn’t need pity. But then, he did something she would never forget.

Without a word, Jason had wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. It wasn’t some grand gesture, nothing theatrical. Just a simple, genuine hug. His cheek had rested against her hair, and for the briefest moment, she let herself feel weak. She let the tears threaten to spill.

“I’m here,” he had whispered, and his voice had been steady, warm. “We’ll get through it. Together.”

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She clutched the note tightly, her chest heaving with silent sobs. The weight of everything she’d buried, everything she’d run from, came crashing down.

She remembered the good moments, the times Jason had made her laugh until her stomach hurt. The way he’d always looked at her, like she was the only person who mattered. The trust in his eyes when she’d told him they could make Bruce proud together.

She wiped her cheeks, but the tears kept coming.

Her gaze drifted back to the box. Something else was in there. Something heavier. She hesitated, her hands trembling as she reached for it.

It was a crowbar.

Bloodstained.

Her breath hitched, and the air seemed to leave the room. She dropped it, scrambling backward, her heart racing.

The shadows in the room seemed to shift, and for the first time, she felt utterly alone.

The phone was cool against her ear as she sat cross-legged on the couch, staring at the opened box on the floor. Bruce answered on the second ring, his voice as steady and deep as she remembered.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Bruce," she said softly. Her voice cracked despite her best effort to sound normal.

"Y/N." Relief washed over his tone, and she could almost see him leaning back in his chair, rubbing his temple. "I didn’t think you’d call back so soon."

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "I’ve been meaning to. Just... been busy."

There was a pause, the kind that stretched uncomfortably long. Bruce, for all his control, didn’t handle emotional conversations well.

"How’s the family?" she asked, breaking the silence.

Bruce seemed to relax at the shift in focus. "They’re doing well. Dick had taken over Blüdhaven. Tim’s been working on a new case—too much, if you ask me. And Barbara’s focused on her tech projects."

"And Alfred?"

"Still the same. Still trying to make me take a day off. But he missed you. Everyone does." There was a faint smile in his voice now. "How about you? How’s university?"

"It’s good," she replied, twirling a strand of her damp hair. "They say I'm good, if I continue like that I will be a certified doctor."

"I’m proud of you," Bruce said quietly.

Her throat tightened at the sincerity in his words. "Thanks," she murmured. "And Daniel’s great. He’s... he’s good to me."

Bruce didn’t respond immediately, and she could hear the faint hum of the Batcave in the background.

"You’ve built a good life for yourself," he said finally. "But Gotham will always be your home, Y/N. You’ll always have a place here. You’ll always be my daughter."

Her smile faded, and she bit her lip to keep the tears at bay. "I can’t come back, Bruce," she said, her voice trembling. "Not after what I did."

"Y/N..." His voice softened in a way that was rare for him. "It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you both."

She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. "I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself. Jason—" Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard.

"Jason wouldn’t want you to carry this guilt," Bruce said firmly. "Neither do I. You didn’t fail him, Y/N. I did."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. She looked at the box on the floor again, her gaze locking onto the crowbar.

"Bruce," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "That box you sent—"

"What box?"

Her stomach dropped. "The one with my Batgirl suit. And... other things." She hesitated, her voice growing unsteady. "There was a crowbar in it, Bruce. It was bloodstained."

"I didn’t send you anything," Bruce said, his tone sharp now. "Y/N, what are you talking about?"

Her heart began to race. "You’re telling me you didn’t send it? You don’t know about the box?"

"No. I don’t know what you’re talking about."

The sound of glass shattering made her jump, and her head snapped toward the kitchen.

"Y/N?" Bruce’s voice was urgent, but she barely heard him.

"Something broke," she said, her voice distant. "I’ll call you back."

"Wait—"

She ended the call, her hand trembling as she set the phone down. Her gaze flicked to the crowbar lying on her desk.

Swallowing her fear, she grabbed it, the cold metal heavy in her hand. Slowly, she moved toward the kitchen, her bare feet silent against the floor.

The house was eerily quiet except for the faint creak of the floorboards under her weight. She tightened her grip on the crowbar, her pulse hammering in her ears.

When she reached the kitchen, she hesitated, her breath hitching as she peeked around the corner.

The window was open, a chilly breeze fluttering the curtains.

Her eyes darted to the broken mug on the floor and the small, furry figure perched on the counter.

A cat jumped down from the counter, its fur bristling as it hissed at her before darting out the open window.

She exhaled shakily, her knees threatening to give out. She lowered the crowbar, leaning against the counter as her heartbeat gradually slowed.

“Just a cat,” she muttered to herself. “Just a stupid cat.”

But the feeling didn’t leave her.

The sensation of being watched lingered, a prickling at the back of her neck. She glanced around the room again, her grip on the crowbar tightening.

“Stop it,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You’re just imagining things.”

She turned back to the box in the living room. Her mind raced with possibilities. If Bruce hadn’t sent it, then who had?

Joker?

No. It had been years. He had no reason to come after her now. But the thought nagged at her, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

She glanced at the crowbar again, her stomach twisting. She needed to talk to Bruce.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

She felt it before she saw it. The impact of something heavy hitting her, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her vision was distorted, the world around her a wash of blurry shapes and smears. Everything was red—vivid, suffocating red that stained her mind and her skin, pressing down on her like an iron weight.

She was screaming, but the sound wasn’t hers.

She couldn’t breathe. The air was thick, suffocating, and she gasped for it, but it was as if her lungs couldn’t fill. Something—someone—was there, near her. She could hear him, his voice rising above.

His voice.

It was faint at first, but then it became clearer, cutting through the disarray.

“Don’t… don’t… please!”

Jason...

His voice, strained and desperate, barely reaching her through the fog in her mind.

“Please, please don’t... Don’t do this!”

She tried to focus, to clear the haze in her head. But it was so hard. What’s happening? Everything felt so wrong. Was he crying? Was he... begging?

Wait.

Why was he begging? Why was he crying?

His voice broke, and it stabbed her like a knife. Don’t cry, she thought, almost absently. Don’t cry, Jason. It’s not your fault.

He didn’t want her to be hurt.

Her chest tightened at the thought, and her vision flared with red-hot pain.

Why are you crying, Jason?

His voice broke through again, desperate, louder this time.

“Y/N!”

Her pulse stuttered at the sound of her name, raw with agony. She wanted to reach out, but her hands wouldn’t move. The world spun faster, and she couldn’t stop it. The walls around her were closing in.

She tried to focus on him—on his voice—but everything was blurring again. Why was he crying? Why was he… Why was he yelling?

It’s my fault, she thought desperately. I’m the one who did this. I ruined everything.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, everything went still.

She gasped for breath, but her body wouldn’t obey. Her chest constricted, and she tried to scream again, but the world around her was just too far away. The red haze thickened.

And then, everything went black.

She awoke with a start, gasping as though she had been submerged underwater. Her body trembled violently, drenched in sweat, her chest heaving for air.

Her heart pounded in her ears.

What was that?

She sat up in bed, her eyes wide as she tried to steady her breath. She hadn’t had a nightmare like that in so long. She thought she was done with them. But that voice… Jason’s voice, still echoing in her ears. The sound of his crying. The desperation. The guilt.

A soft ringing broke through her daze. The doorbell.

It was raining outside, the soft patter of the storm barely reaching her through the walls.

She stood slowly, wiping the sweat from her brow as she grabbed the crowbar from beside her bed. There was something about the ringing that set her nerves on edge. Something... wrong.

She moved cautiously down the stairs, every step creaking beneath her. Her hand gripped the crowbar tightly, knuckles white. She stopped at the door, staring at the peephole, but saw nothing—just the darkness of the storm.

She swallowed hard and turned the handle, swinging the door open.

Empty.

Her breath escaped in a shaky laugh as she shook her head. She was being paranoid.

Just a mistake. Just the wind. Or maybe a neighbor…

She laughed at herself again, weakly. How stupid could she be?

She started to close the door, her hand gripping the handle, when a sudden force slammed into her.

Her breath was crushed out of her as a hand gripped her throat, yanking her backward with brutal force. The crowbar fell from her hand, clattering uselessly to the floor as she was slammed against the door with such force that the wood shook.

She couldn’t breathe. Her hands flew to her neck, scratching, clawing at the hand that was squeezing the life out of her.

Everything was a blur, her vision fading in and out. But there were two eyes—two wild, unhinged eyes—staring at her through a mask of red. A twisted, maniacal grin was visible beneath the blood-streaked fabric. She gasped, her lungs screaming for air, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t break free. She was weightless now, her feet no longer touching the floor as the pressure on her throat intensified.

She kicked out, her feet uselessly struggling to find purchase. Her vision began to dim, a ringing in her ears drowning out the world. Everything was spinning. The edges of her vision were dissolving into darkness.

Is this how it ends?

Her throat tightened, her eyes burning with the effort of holding onto consciousness.

Is this it?

Her thoughts flickered. The coldness of the hand around her neck, the darkness closing in, everything felt too heavy, too wrong. She had no strength left. Her muscles screamed in protest, but they didn’t obey.

Tears gathered in her eyes, blurring her sight. Her lungs burned with every desperate, ragged breath.

And then, the grip released.

She crumpled to the floor, gasping for air as her vision swam and her chest heaved.

Through the haze, she looked up, but everything was dark, save for the faint outline of a figure standing above her. She could barely make out the shape of a face, the contours of a body, but there was one thing she saw clearly.

Two eyes.

Green.

Tears filled those eyes, glistening in the dim light, staring at her with an intensity she couldn’t understand.

They were familiar.

But she couldn’t place them.

She blinked, but everything was slipping away.

Her mind was going blank, her body growing colder by the second. The last thing she saw was the figure, the two green eyes... and then, everything went dark again.

Part 2.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[en-gelicc]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐃𝐄⠀⠀⠀:⠀⠀⠀㓿⠀⠀⠀❚❚⠀⠀⠀𝄫

ㅤ┃█┃ㅤㅤ⒙ㅤㅤ﹕ㅤㅤ قابلنيㅤࣺㅤㅤ℡ㅤ᷎ㅤ女嬰熱.

[iva-thorn]

moodboards

♡ ☆ .♡‧₊˚ ☆ .♡ ‧₊ ♡‧₊ ☆ .♡˚ ╭◜◝ ͡ ◜◝╮ ㅤ ╭◜◝ ͡ ◜◝╮. ( ) ♡ ( )☆ ♡ ╰◟◞ ͜ ◟◞╭◜◝ ͡ ◜◝╮ ͜ ◟◞╯♡ . ☆ ㅤㅤ( )☆ ♡ ♡ 　 ╰◟◞ ͜ ◟◞╯ ♡ (\_(\ /)_/) ( ) ( ) ૮/ʚɞ |ა ૮| ʚɞ\ა ( ◌ | | ◌ )

  

              st♡y with me

          　̮ ̮ 🪞🧦   ᛝ

[reverie-arcane]

Uszanowanie! Poszukuję pewnej pani do wątków obyczajowych i romansu. Opis relacji znajduje się na moim koncie - zapraszam ♥

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀♡⠀⠀‣⠀ㅤ𝓛𝓿𝓬𝓲𝓯⠀⠀ϑᕞ⠀ㅤֺֺㅤ  ᵎᵎ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐲 / 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐚ㅤ  ᵎᵎ

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀࿙ ׅ ࿚ ࿙ ׅ ࿚ ࿙ ׅ ࿚ ࿙ ׅ ࿚ ࿙ ׅ ࿚ ࿙ ׅ ࿚ ࿙ ׅ ࿚ ࿙ ׅ ࿚࿙ ׅ ࿚࿙ ׅ ࿚

[i-mmaculatus]

　　　　ㅤ　　ㅤ▌⃞He Believes In A Beauty, 彼はVENUSの男性版だ　 ͟ ❦

　　　　　　⠀ ᜴꤬ @florescita ...　⸻✼

ㅤㅤ　　　　　　　　◌⃝༺🌸🍈₊ ﾟ

[alfaire]

ㅤㅤ◌⃝ ༺ 🌆 📿 ₊ ﾟ✼ㅤㅤ Eyes Without a Face