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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 11 months ago

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Three for One 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As a customer service associate, you're used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what's on the shelf.

Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

Note: Right, this was supposed to be a drabble series but it morphed and not I'm fucked.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

It's the most special time of year! Mistletoe, jingle bells, and holiday cheer! Oh, and hot chocolate. Lots of that.

You hide your thermos under the desk and grab the crystal bottle again, giving a test spritz to the air. Your job isn't very complicated. All you do is say hi and chat about the perfume. Your manager says the job is selling but you don't like to see it that way.

You smile at a family of five as they veer towards the toy section. You don't think the six year old would be into an eau de parfum. It's understandable.

While you spend your hours wandering around expensive makeups and scents, you're filled with a certain hint of longing. For what you're paid to push the merchandise, you can't afford any of it yourself. Well, you've never been very materialistic.

You spin around and see a gentlemen approaching, though he doesn't seem to see you. He looks past you, almost through you. You stop in place and put on your best smile, fixing the red band around your head.

"Hello, sir, would you like to try some Gucci?" You offer and spray the nozzle at him.

He skids to a stop and recoils as if he's been slapped. He holds out his arm as he looks down at his coat, little droplets seeping into the fabric. He takes a whiff, his short mustache wiggling under his nose, and he scoffs as he tries to shake off the cologne.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He snips.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to scare you."

"You just go around spray people with that horseshit?"

"Well, sir, with respect, I don't like that sort of language.

"And I don't like being drenched in dog piss," he blusters, "point me to the goddamn trimmers."

"Um, what kind? Nail trimmers? Pet trimmers? Garden trimmers?"

"What the fuck do you think?" He points to his own face.

You hold your smile. There's always that one customer who's having a bad day. Whatever's got him so upset must be worse than dealing with him.

"Personal care," you point to the far corner, "right over there, sir."

"Ugh," he stomps and storms off.

"I hope your day gets better," you call after him, "oh, did you want a store coupon--"

He ignores you as he waves you off over his shoulder. You watch him turn towards men's grooming and you shrug, rocking slightly. You try not to let them get to you. As jolly as you find this time of year, a lot of people don't feel the same.

You shrug off the encounter. You still have a few hours ahead of you and it's starting to bustle with customers. You help a couple find the home wares while keeping the boundary of cosmetics firm. Lucille, the manager, doesn't like you leaving your zone.

You approach a woman looking at the Prada selection and get her checked out with a new fragrance, specially gift-wrapped by yours truly. She leaves happy, a small victory for the day. You celebrate but not too much.

You come around the counter just as you see that man strutting back up. He has an item in his hand and ignores you as he passes. Still you smile at him.

"Annoying," he mutters under his breath.

"Need help finding anything else, sir?" You ask his heels.

He stops and you see the way his spine stiffens. Oh no, you shouldn't have said anything. He slowly turns to face you.

"You can shut up," he marches up to you and grabs the bottle from your hands, "shut." He sprays you in the face, "up." He squirts you several more times before shoving the vial against your chest, "stupid little girl."

You take the bottle, blinking as you use your cuff to wipe the perfume away from your eyes. He continues on his path as you stand dumbfounded, drenched in Gucci cologne. It's hard to breathe through the heavy scent and you can't help but cough.

What a jerk. Just because he's having a bad day, doesn't mean everyone needs to.

Slowly you grow accustomed to the smell of yourself. It’s not too unusual. You go nose blind about halfway through your shift once you spray a few too many samples. You keep your distance from customers, offering them a spritz but trying not to crowd them with the vapors of cologne rippling off of you.

You yawn as the afterwork rush floods in and you make another round, smiling at Sofia as she peeks over at you. She’s with another customer at the counter, ringing them up as she gabs. You spin at the display at the center of the crossway that runs through the beauty department and stagger back before another can run you over.

You apologise to the tall man as he skids to a stop on his soles. You can tell he’s in a hurry by the way he grips his briefcase and squares his jaw. He wears a long dark wool coat as flecks of snow melt into his thick beard.

“Oh, sorry, I er, wasn’t–” He clears his throat, collecting himself, “I… didn’t see you.”

“That’s okay, sir,” you assure him, “would you like to try the new scent?”

You hold up the onyx bottle but don’t spray him. You don’t need another dousing. He looks at the silver letters on the side then at you. The furrow in his brow lightens as his blue eyes swim.

“No thanks, but er, you think you could help me find something?”

“Of course,” you chime and lower the bottle, “are you looking for a gift for someone special?”

He nods, “my mother-in-law is on her way into town, I need a present. Maybe perfume?”

His tone is tinted with frustration as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. He lets out a long sigh. He’s one of those shoppers; the last minute scrambler. You grasp the vial in one hand and tug at the front of your thick red sweater, you’re starting to get a bit toasty in the crowded store.

“How old is she?” You ask.

“Um,” he clamps his lips together and thinks, “hmmm, probably seventy-something? I’m sorry, I guess I should know that.”

“That’s okay, I… I would suggest some Liz Taylor,” you turn on your heel and wave him after you as you head off, “it’s a classic. Not so much a me scent but the older crowd likes it. Oh, and it’s on special so your wallet won’t hate it, either.”

You stop by the Diamonds display as you face him again. He follows at a pace and stops before the shelf, perusing the gold caps and crystal caps. He considers the rack in deep thought.

“Here,” you set down your bottle on a nearby table of seasonal decorations and take one from the display. You slip out a strip of cardstock and spray it with the sampler, “this one is gardenia. That was her favourite scent. It’s probably the least pungent.”

You offer him the sample and he eyes it. He slowly bends and sniffs the end of the paper. He wiggles his nose. It makes you sneeze too. As much as you’re a fan of the classic actress, her scents are dated.

“Smells like her,” he grumbles under his breath, “sure, I’ll take that.”

“Great,” you declare and trade the sampler for a boxed bottle, then retrieve your disposed Gucci vial, “would you like me to check you out, sir?”

“Is it faster?”

“I can be fast,” you promise him, “this way.”

You go around the sparkling counters and he meets you across the till. You type in your log in, taking several tries to get your passcode right. The man places his briefcase on the counter,a hand resting on the edge.

“You know a lot about this stuff?” He prompts.

“Yeah, I guess,” you smile as you scan the perfume and tap the special offer on the screen, “kinda part of the job.”

“Hmm” he hums again, in that thoughtful manner. You look at him but he’s not looking at your face, “that’s a nice sweater.”

You look down at the red wool speckled with pearls. It’s new and one of your favourites already. You can’t help a little wiggle of your shoulders, “thanks!”

“Very… cheerful,” he muses as he takes out his wallet, “wish I could say the same of what awaits me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, it’s that time of year, I guess,” you push the debit machine towards him and he taps his credit card, “I’m sure your mother-in-law will love the perfume.” The transaction approves and the receipt prompts, “would you like an email?”

“Nah, that’s fine,” he tucks his credit card away.

“Would you like it gift-wrapped?” You offer, “it’s free?”

He hovers his hand over his briefcase as he considers it. His eyes meet yours and his cheek dimples, “alright, yeah, that’s… that’s perfect. Thank you.”

“No problem,” you beam back at him, “let me just get some tissue paper…”

You murmur to yourself as you grab some gold tissue paper and a white gift bag with a Christmas tree embossed into the side. You carefully line up the small box on the paper and begin your intensive work. You're a master wrapper, you used to work at the wrapping station in the mall.

“What about you?” He asks before the silence can stretch too far, “you seeing family for the holidays? When you’re not working?”

“Um,” you smile as you look up, “I’m just hanging out with my dog. I bought him a bone.”

“A dog,” he nods, “your family live out of town?”

Usually, you ask the questions. It’s easier that way. It deflects the attention from you. It’s why you like the job; you can hear all about others and not have to think about yourself.

“Yeah, something like that,” you slip the wrapped box into the bag and fluff the tissue paper.

“Eh!” The loud exclamation makes you jump as the man merely turns his head, a tic in his jaw. His eyes narrow as another customer approaches, strutting with hands in his jacket pocket as he calls out, “Barber, what the hell?”

Your customer shifts towards the man, heels squeaking on the floor, “Hugh.”

“Don’t Hugh me, asshole,” the other man retorts, “you said you were busy? What’s the matter, you lose too much money last time?”

“Suzette is in town. Family dinner,” the man, Barber, drones dully.

“Ah, ditched for the old crone, I get it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, wouldn’t you know it, poker night was canceled, something about not enough seats,” the man counters sharply.

“Next week,” the first man growls.

“Hey, you,” the man in the russet coat snaps his fingers in your direction, “you got some of that Acqua di Gio. That dumb girl over there said you’re sold out.”

Your brows pop up and you swallow tightly. He’s another type. The arrogant demander. He doesn’t hear no. He’ll ask everyone the same question in hope of getting a different answer.

“We are out of stock, sir, but I could order it in for you,” you suggest.

“Order in? I can just go on Amazon, thanks for nothing,” he chops his hand at you dismissively.

“Hey,” the other man nudges his chest, “be nice. She’s working.”

“What? I’m here to spend money and they got shit all–”

“It’s December,” the other man reproaches before he turns back to you, “sorry, my friend is a jerk.” He accepts the gift bag as you hold it out, “thank you. You saved me.”

“No problem, but er, I was gonna say,” you turn to the other man, “sir, I have some samples of the Armani. I could give you those while you wait for the order.”

“Samples?” He echoes, “how many?”

“Let me have a look,” you back up and go to the drawer at the back of the checkout.

“I gotta get going, miss,” the first man waves his hand as you peek over your shoulder, “have a happy holiday.”

“You too,” you chirp back and find the last few tubes of Armani. You claim them and prance back to meet the new customer at the counter, “I have five.” You lay out your wares, “if I order in a bottle it’ll be in just before Christmas.”

“Two weeks?” He puffs.

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s the earliest I can do. It’s the last day I can guarantee delivery before Christmas.”

“Talk, talk, talk, order it,” he snaps.

“Right, let me just…” you open the shop and search up the scent. You add it to the cart and proceed. “Alright, got that, did you want it shipped for pick up here or to your address.”

“Here, they can never fucking find my house,” he sniffs.

“Great, so when it arrives, we’ll give you a call. You’ll also get an email to confirm.”

“What’s going on here?” He points at you suddenly. You look down again at your sweater but don’t see anything amiss. You flinch as he reaches to pinch one of the pearls, “what is this?”

“Oh, I… my sweater,” you raise your head, swallowing down the insult. It’s cute!

“Huh, Walmart clearance, huh,” he scoffs, “alright, how much are you robbing me for?”

He reaches into his coat as you hit total. You read out the final amount but he doesn’t pull out a card; he hands you cash. You count the bills, twice over, then give him his change. He looms with impatient huffs.

“Here’s your receipt,” you hand him the strip of paper. “Have a good day, sir.”

“Mmm,” he pokes his tongue into his cheek as he shoves the receipt into his pocket, “actually, while I’m here, I’d like a new sweater. You can help me and I’ll show you what real quality is.”

You almost laugh. Not spitefully, it’s just a bit silly. He’s competing with you, a perfume pusher.

“Well, sir, I can point you towards men’s fashion but I’m not able to leave this department, I’m sorry,” you give a sheepish smile.

“Oh no, good girl wouldn’t want to break the rules,” he rolls his eyes, “goody goody and her precious little smile.” He hooks his thumbs in his pockets, “my shit better be in by Christmas.”

He twists and strides away. You watch him go but not for long as you’re quickly distracted by a customer looking at the Britney Spears collection. Those are easy sellers.

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not-so-casualenjoyer · 4 months ago

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You cut the boy's hair :3

Each of the men had their own way of keeping their hair trimmed. Whether they had each other do it or they did it themselves, it always got taken care of eventually, when Johnny’s head of differently length hairs started to grow out funny or Gaz’s curls became much more apparent.

They all had their own ways of cutting their hair, until you came along. A new addition to the team who had some hair cutting experience. And of course, you insisted on helping them.

Ghost

I imagine Simon doesn’t really care how his hair gets cut. The mask covers it all up anyways, so what’s the point? He doesn’t spend meaningless time fussing over his hair when he’s got more important things to worry about.

So often it’s shaggy underneath the mask. And when he takes the trimmers to his head himself, in the dim light of his dingy bathroom, it usually comes out as a very uneven and patchy buzzcut. He doesn’t care, he just prioritizes feeling as un-itchy under the mask as possible. Besides, he can just cover it up until it grows out. No biggie.

It takes a long time to convince him to let you cut his hair for him. Because of course, cutting his hair requires him taking off the mask. And for a while, he’s not sure if he’s ready to bare himself to you like that. So when he finally does, regard it as one of the highest honors.

You take it slow and gentle, telling him everything you’re doing, not forcing him to talk, not staring at his face in the mirror. Unfortunately, your not talking or looking got him worried.

Are you horrified by his face? By his scars? Are you forcing yourself to do this?

Eventually, he just blurts out, “Say something,” before he can stop himself. “Talk. Please.”

From then on, you fill the time with chatting his ear off, talking about anything and everything, just to let him know you’re not terrified of him.

Because Simon honestly doesnt give a flying fuck about what his hair looks like, you like to experiment on him a little bit. Every time you trim his hair, you try out something a little different. You leave the top a bit longer, or give him a middle part and let whisps hang down in front of his face. Sometimes you just buzz it all off (and even leave a little design in the side of his head, if he so obliges.) You like seeing what looks best on him before you settle on a style that you will inevitably cut his hair in forever

Afterwards he’ll give you a gruff thanks in appreciation. He likes the cut more than he’s willing to admit, and he finds catching his appearance in the mirror before he hops in the shower is a little more tolerable now.

Soap

Absolute menace while you’re cutting his hair. Half because he’s trying to annoy the fuck out of you, and half because he’s bored.

He’ll tug on the cutting cape, complaining that it’s around his neck too tight. He’ll rub the back of his neck subconsciously, wiping away the itchy hairs that have fallen from his head while you’re trimming. Can’t sit still, is constantly squirming and fidgeting, which means you have to repeatedly remind him to sit still. Eventually you situate your phone in front of him with something for him to watch so he’ll stop moving around and you can make sure his cut is straight.

He cuts his hair in the mohawk and nothing else. He’s very, very particular about it, and you comply (Because he’s a drama queen.) I imagine it takes a mix of the clippers and a pair of shears to get the job done. 90% of his hair is lopped off with the clippers, going back over it to make sure everything’s been trimmed to the same length. The 10% of his hair that isn't buzzed is carefully tended to with the shears, shaping the hawk part just right.

He likes to subtly keep his hands on you as you work. If you stand in front of him, he’s got his hands resting on your hips or wrapped around the back of your thighs to pull you closer. After you’re done, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you to stand between his legs while he hugs you close, his face buried in your chest.

Gaz

Bro is getting the whole ass spa treatment let me tell you. Before you even cut his hair, he is getting his head, neck, and shoulders massaged.

He’s the easiest to cut for, and an absolute doll. All he requests is that you leave the top a little fluffy, with a gentle fade down. He sits still while you work, smiling adoringly at you in the mirror as your tongue sticks out in concentration. He’s so good and still it just makes you wanna pamper him. Unlike Johnny, who irritates you on purpose and makes you want to nick him with the clippers. You like to leave feathery little kisses on his skin while you work on the back of his neck, trailing down his shoulder. All the stops are pulled out for this man. Products, moisturizing oils for his skin, the cleanest cut anyone’s ever seen. And he happily entertains you with stories and jokes while you work.

Afterwards, he spends a good long while holding you in his lap and pampering you in return.

Price

Price is also an easy man to cut for. He doesn’t let himself get scruffy and believes strongly in being well trimmed. Which means all his hair needs is a few minutes of the clippers to clean up the back of his neck and shorten the length, and he’s good to go.

Price’s hair isn’t really what he usually has you cut. His beard is the main attraction.

This man’s beard is his biggest pride, a central point of his look. It’s like his baby. He is so so so protective and picky about his beard, and he doesn’t trust any of the muppets on the team to trim it for him.

Except you, of course.

He saw how good you did on the other guy’s hair and decided to give you a chance on his facial hair. After a quick demonstration of how he wanted it cut, he sits back and lets you finish the rest off for him. Your hands shake the whole time, worried about messing it up, not doing it right, disappointing your captain and making him look like a fool. Price senses your nervousness as you stand in front of him, eyes laser-focused on trimming his beard. He steadies you with a hand on your hip and a, “Just go slow, sweetheart. Take your time. You’re doing great.”

Once you’re done, he’ll stand in front of the mirror, turning his head side to side to observe your work, making sure it’s even and just bushy enough. You stand behind him, staring at his reflection in anxious anticipation. He turns to you with that smile that makes his mustache curve upwards and nods. “Well done, sweetheart.”

From then on, it becomes a routine to have you trim his beard up. He even lets you lather whatever beard oil you want into his scruff before covering his face in kisses.

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firstprincehornyramblings · 2 months ago

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Hello everyone! I'm getting a start early, by queueing this post for tomorrow morning, look at me go. Thank you who much to @tailsbeth-writes for the tag <3 I have ... 3 wips again, because I have no self control, so we're doing all of this under the cut, because it's gonna be long, and maybe a lil nsfw <3 LET'S GOOOOOOOO.

------ George Villier's inner dialogue during an Orgy (that's the working title on this, please bare with)

It wasn’t that George had always been this way, but an ascension into power had nurtured his hedonism prone nature. If he was to be blessed with the gift of beauty, he would take all the power and pleasure that came with it. He’d earned it after all, his bed of lovers, his social standing, influence, and wealth. Each a result of unsavory acts; but that made them so much more deserved, did it not? He could have anything he wanted, like a god among men, and so he should be worshipped the same. Though he was more than content with devotion in the form of flesh; he’d certainly used his own body as currency often enough. Even now, anything that wasn’t handed to him willingly, with a brush of lips, or a clandestine slip to knees, could become his. That in itself was testament to all he’d done, that his willing submission was as effective a bargaining tool as his power.

WATERSPORTS FIRSTPRINCE (aka, Alex is funny and Henry has a weak bladder)

“You… think it’s- what?” Henry choked out, “You think it’s hot that I pissed myself in the middle of our kitchen? Is that your idea of a joke?” “I-” the brunette could feel his own cheeks heating up now, “It’s not a joke, I do, I’m sorry, but I do,” he managed after a moment. “Oh,” the blond’s eyes shot straight down to the shorts Alex had on, falling on the visible hardness there, “Oh,” he repeated, but with much more understanding this time. There were still tears sparkling in the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall, but he was visibly less mortified, “Alex, that is so disgusting...” “I know, shit baby, I’m s-” “I can get into it.” “What?” “I said, I can get into it,” Henry repeated, “Well, honestly, I could probably get into anything that makes your cock hard, because- well frankly I reap the benefits of that. Would you like to fuck my throat?”

AND A NEW WIP, Hairstylist Henry and his least (read as favorite) Client Alex

“Alright, tilt your head back,” both of Henry’s hands rested on Alex’s temples, carefully moving the other man’s head into the perfect place, “Do you want me to stop under the jawline?” “Whatever you think looks best, sweetheart.” Normally, Henry would hate that, some businessman using a pet name on him. But usually it felt demeaning, when Alex did it, it felt genuine, perhaps that was why he didn't mind it. He would rather accept that than admit it might have something to do with how hot his cheeks felt or how his stomach flip flopped. Instead, he chose to focus on something else, like the familiar but luxurious scent becoming more evident the closer he was to Alex. “Santal 33?” the blond asked, running the trimmers over the other man’s jawline, making careful precise lines that would accentuate the sharp angles there. “Yeah,” impressively, Alex had answered that without much movement of his face; Henry was astonished. “Makes sense.” “What is that supposed to mean?” this time, the brunette moved, but he did have the mind to wait until Henry was running the trimers along his throat with less chance of Alex’s jolt messing up something. “It means you look like someone who has good taste, don’t move.” “You’re worse than a dentist,” Alex grumbled. “Stop moving, christ you’re an absolute menace, I’m going to slice your throat open.” “With an electric trimmer?” “I’m certain if I make enough effort, I just may be able to pull it off,” Henry snapped.

OKAY, that was a long one, if you stuck around thank u I love u. TAG LINE UP!!!!

@taste-thewaste @eusuntgratie @henrysfox @thighzp

@softboynick @catdadacd @sheepywritesfics @henryspearl

@basil-bird @caressthosecheekbones @henfox @onthewaytosomewhere + literally anyone else I'm sleepy and forgot, or anyone who sees this and wants to tag me, I love reading yall's stuff. <3

#rwrb fanfiction #firstprince smut #wip wednesday #so many wips

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saltywithsarcasm · 4 months ago

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I’m writing a compilation of the Straw Hats touching Sanji’s hair and the first Chapter is him and Usopp, bonding over hair care.

Let know who you want next.

Usopp yawns and stretches as he walks to the bathroom in the morning, still groggy from sleep. He pushes open the door and sees Sanji already at the sink, brushing his hair. Usopp blinks a few times, trying to wake up fully and gives a small nod to Sanji before starting his own morning routine.

The snipper has to take particular care of his curly hair every morning. He starts by gently detangling it with a wide-tooth comb to avoid breakage. Then, he applies a generous amount of leave-in conditioner to keep his curls hydrated and defined. After that, he uses a bit of oil to lock in the moisture and give his hair a healthy shine. It’s a meticulous process but he knows it's worth it to keep his curls looking their best.

As he starts carefully working through his own hair, he glances over to the sink where Sanji is standing. He notices the array of hair products lined up neatly beside the cook. Sanji's collection includes high-quality shampoos, conditioners and a variety of styling creams. Usopp can't help but to admire how the cook’s hair always looks so healthy and soft. Usopp feels a blush creeping up his cheeks as he watches Sanji's hair gleam under the bathroom light, feeling a bit envious of how effortlessly smooth and soft it looks. The thought of asking to touch it crosses his mind but he quickly shakes his head, embarrassed by the idea. He fidgets with his own curls, trying to push the thought away but the curiosity lingers, making him feel awkward and self-conscious.

Sanji begins to trim his facial hair with a steady hand, focusing on getting the lines just right and as he glances in the mirror, he notices Usopp's fidgeting behavior. Usopp seems unusually restless, tugging at his curls and avoiding eye contact. Sanji pauses, lowering the trimmer and turns to face Usopp.

“Hey, you alright there?” Usopp's eyes widen slightly as Sanji addresses him and he feels his face heat up.

“Y-Yeah, I'm fine.” He stammers, quickly looking down at his brush and scrambles to continue brushing his hair, his movements a bit more hurried and clumsy than before, hoping the man doesn't notice his embarrassment.

“Usopp.” Sanji raises a brow, clearly not buying his answer and leans against the sink, crossing his arms. “What's bothering you?”

“I think you have pretty hair.” Usopp admits, still fidgeting with his comb.

Sanji's eyes widen in surprise, caught off guard by the compliment then a warm smile spreads across his face.

“Well, thanks. You have pretty hair too.” Both men smile at each other, sharing a brief moment of mutual appreciation before continuing their morning routine. As Usopp busies himself with his hair, he can't shake the silent bafflement. Sanji, of all people, had just complimented him, another man. The sincerity in his words takes a moment to sink in, leaving Usopp with a surprising wave of pride he hadn't anticipated.

He still wants to touch Sanji’s hair though. Usopp's eyes dart around as he thinks quickly.

“Hey, Sanji, did you change your shampoo or something?” He asks, trying to sound nonchalant and reaches out to touch his hair, pretending to examine it closely. “It looks different today.”

“Hm?” Sanji glances at him in the mirror, noticing the hand touching his hair then back at Usopp and without a word, he returns to finish up his shaving, seemingly unbothered by the interruption. “Nami let me try some of her shampoo she picked up from the last island.”

“It looks very soft.” Usopp notices how fluffy the cook’s hair is and catches a whiff of citrus, which doesn’t surprise him because it’s Nami’s. “I’m jealous.”

“My hair isn’t as nicely maintained as yours.” Sanji muses, setting the razor down and picking up a rag to wipe his face then notices Usopp's hand still lingering in his hair, clearly fascinated by it. A slight blush creeps onto his face but he leans his head forward a bit, offering silent permission for him to continue playing with his hair. Usopp absentmindedly runs his fingers through his hair but then it hits him that he might be overstepping and quickly pulls his hands away, offering an apology. “It’s whatever, I don’t mind.”

“You can touch my hair if you want.” Usopp offers, feeling a bit awkward after pulling his hands away. “Might need help reaching the back with the oil since it’s gotten longer than I’m used to.”

Sanji pauses for a moment, knowing how much effort Usopp puts into his hair and worries he might mess it up since he has no experience with his hair type.

“Are you sure? What if I mess up?” Sanji asks hesitantly, wiping his hands off as he takes the comb from him.

“Best way to learn is from hands on experience.”

Brook walks into the bathroom some time later and finds Sanji standing over Usopp, carefully combing his hair. The blonde is deeply focused, adding oil to their friend's hair with a meticulous touch and can't help but chuckle at the sweet gesture.

“Mind doing my hair next?”

#I think Oda mentioned Sanji would be a barber?#hair of gold #black leg sanji #Sanji centered fic #fics #salty writes #one piece #sanuso

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