i just wanna wash the creepy boy’s hair 💔💔 when’s the last time someone scratched their nails against their scalp and kissed them on their wet forehead 💔💔
The house is quiet for once. No blood, no screaming, no chaos. Just you and Jeff in the bathroom—and that alone feels like a risk. But he’s letting you do this. Letting you.
He sits on the edge of the tub in ripped black jeans, torso bare, scarred, pale, his long black hair greasy and matted in places. He glares at the tiled wall like it personally insulted him, jaw tight, lips curled in that signature, eerie smile that never really fades. His arms are crossed, but he hasn’t bolted—yet.
“This is so stupid,” he mutters, voice gravelly, low.
“Shut up and tilt your head back.”
He obeys, but only after a beat—his breath hitches slightly when your fingers first touch his scalp. You feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his whole body is wound tight, like he’s expecting you to hurt him. Like that’s what hands are supposed to do.
But instead, your nails gently scratch through the strands of his dirty hair, working in the shampoo. You can feel how fragile the moment is—like holding a stray dog that’s never been petted before. He’s still as a corpse, but his breathing deepens, and slowly, slowly, his posture shifts. His arms fall to his sides. His brow untenses from that stout line.
“…Why are you doing this?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
Your thumbs brush over a scar near his temple as you rinse out the soap. “Because I think you deserve to be taken care of.”
Then, you lean down and kiss his wet forehead.
He flinches. Actually flinches. Not from fear—from confusion. Like you just struck something in him he didn’t know was still alive.
Jeff glares his eyes and stares at you, unblinking. His expression is unreadable—part hollow, part defensive, part… longing?
“You’re insane,” he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse.
You smile. “Takes one to love one.”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away either.
Later, he’ll act like it never happened. He’ll snap at you, call you weird, disappear into the woods for hours with a knife and a trail of blood in his wake. But tonight, he sat still for you. Let you touch the most vulnerable part of him.
And he’ll remember it. Forever.
Toby is panicky when you pull him into the bathroom.
“What? What—what are you doing?” His voice stutters like his body does, that mechanical tic making his limbs jerk as he talks. “I didn’t kill anything today, swear. I eve-even left the knives outside. Look.” He gestures wildly, grinning.
You shake your head, smiling gently. “I know. I’m not mad. I just… want to wash your hair.”
He blinks behind his goggles. “Why?”
“I think you need it.” You glance up at his tangled curls, the random assortments of leaves and dirt matted in spots, branches and frayed curls in others.
That gets a laugh out of him. A short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Need it? What the h-hell does that mean?”
But he lets you guide him anyway. He drops onto the rim of the tub, arms hanging loosely over his knees, goggles pushed to his forehead, brown curls messy and sticking to his face. You grab the faucet and turn on the shower head. You slide his goggles off and start wetting his hair, and he jerks at first—not from pain, but surprise.
“Gah—fuck, that’s cold—wait—no. I can’t tell if it’s cold. I mean, it feels cold but not like—ugh, nevermind.”
You laugh softly. “It’s a little cold. You’re okay. It’s warming up.”
Your fingers move through his thick hair, lathering in the shampoo. He falls quiet. Really quiet.
You notice how he leans into your touch just slightly. His breath steadies. The usual chaotic energy in him dims, like a glitching signal finally calming. Your nails scrape gently against his scalp, and his shoulders drop—not because he feels pain or pleasure in the typical way, but because the rhythm is soothing. It gives him something to focus on that isn’t buzzing or twitching or screaming inside his head.
“It’s weird,” he says after a long silence. “I can’t… re-really feel it right. Like, I know you’re doing something, but it’s like… like I’m watching it h-happen to someone else’s body. Except it’s mine.”
You nod, still scrubbing carefully. “But is it good weird or bad weird?”
He’s quiet for a beat. “…Good. I think. Y-Yeah.”
When you finish, you grab a towel and start patting his head dry. Then, gently, you press a kiss to his temple.
He stiffens. Then snorts.
“You’re such a weirdo,” he says, a crooked grin crawling onto his face.
“You live in the woods and kill people, Tobias.”
But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t fidget. Just sits there, dripping and still, like a broken marionette finally let go of its strings—just for a moment.
Later, he’ll be back to chattering, twitching, dragging branches into the house for no reason. But part of him will remember this—not in a logical way, but somewhere deep in the body he doesn’t always feel at home in.
You’re not sure how it started.
Maybe it was the blood on his hood again. Maybe it was the slight tremor in his hands after a hunt. Maybe it was just the way he stood in the doorway tonight, quiet and still, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Come here,” you said softly, and somehow… he did.
Now you’re standing behind him, your fingers running warm water through his thick, dark hair. He sits on the edge of the tub, his mask off for once—placed neatly on the sink like a sacred object. His face is shadowed, gaunt, unseeing. Those empty black sockets, hollow and inky, stare at nothing. But you know he’s aware of everything.
His breath is even, but his muscles are taut—like he’s expecting you to hurt him. Like the weight of your fingers might be a threat.
But you only lather in the shampoo. You only scratch his scalp gently, in slow, careful circles. Your nails graze the base of his skull, and he exhales—a sound so quiet it’s almost not there. But you hear it.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, voice low, smooth like smoke curling through your senses. “I don’t need it.”
“I know,” you say simply. “But I want to.”
His hair is thicker than you expected, soft when it’s clean, and a little tangled. You work through the knots with patience. His hands rest on his knees, long fingers curled slightly. Tense. He just sits, still and listening. A presence like a wolf in the forest—quiet, dangerous, but somehow letting its guard down. Just for you.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he says after a moment. Not a question.
You shake your head, fingers rinsing through his hair. “No. I think you’re used to being treated like a monster. But I see more than that.”
“Maybe. But I do anyway.”
When his hair is rinsed, you gently towel it dry, careful with his face. And then—slowly, cautiously—you press a kiss just above his brow, where his eyes should be.
He doesn’t move. But a strange silence fills the room. Dense. Almost reverent.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
Not for the hair. Not even for the kiss. For seeing him—and not looking away.
He’ll never say it again. He’ll go back to disappearing for nights, coming home with blood on his hoodie and organs in his hands. But tonight? He sat still. Let you touch the part of him that was still human.
And that means everything.
“I’m not a fucking child.”
That’s the first thing out of his mouth when you pull him into the bathroom. Mask still on, arms crossed, voice rough with cigarette smoke and too many years of yelling at walls that didn’t listen.
“I never said you were.” You reach up, fingers brushing the edge of his mask. He doesn’t stop you, but his jaw clenches.
“What is this, some kind of therapy shit?” he mutters. “You think if you treat me soft I’m gonna magically open up and cry or something?”
You sigh. “No. I just want to help. You haven’t cleaned your hair in days, Tim. Just sit. Let me do this.”
The use of his name shuts him up.
So he does. Sits down hard near the tub. Pulls the mask off and sets it down beside him like it’s made of glass. You run the water—warm, not too hot—and tilt his head back.
He tenses at first. Naturally. His whole body is like a coiled spring. But when your fingers slip into his thick, tangled hair and start working in the shampoo, something in him starts to… give.
Not relax. Not fully. But he stops resisting.
He closes his eyes. Not in comfort—more like he’s bracing himself. But when your nails drag gently across his scalp, slow and methodical, he makes a quiet, involuntary sound in his throat. Almost a grunt. Like he didn’t mean to let it slip.
“It’s weird,” he says finally. “Do you want something? Is this some way to put me in your debt or some shit?”
Your hands keep moving. Steady. Grounding. “I don’t want anything. I just… want you to feel human again.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to wish for,” he says bitterly. But the edge in his voice is gone.
You rinse his hair slowly, watching how the water runs dark down his shoulders. You see the scars on his skin. The tension in his neck. All the weight he never lets go of—because letting go means breaking down, and he’s too damn stubborn to let that happen.
So instead, you lean down and kiss the top of his wet head.
He stiffens. Then breathes out slowly, like the air’s been caught in his chest for years. “You’re gonna get hurt if you keep playing like this,” he says, voice low.
“Maybe. But you’re worth it.”
But when you hand him a towel, his fingers graze yours—and he holds them for just a second longer than he needs to.
✦ . HOODIE (BRIAN THOMAS)
He’s already in the bathroom when you come in—sitting on the edge of the tub, hoodie still on, mask pushed up just high enough to reveal his mouth. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.
You don’t ask why he’s here. You just close the door behind you, roll up your sleeves, and say softly, “You ready?”
A slow nod. Almost imperceptible.
You gently push the hoodie back. It’s rare to see him without the mask, but you push it up over his head, exposing his unkempt blond hair, messy and a little damp from the rain. This is already more than he’s given anyone else.
You turn the water on, adjust the temperature, and start wetting his hair. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tense. Just waits. Like he’s somewhere else, floating above his body, watching from a distance. Dissociation—you recognize it instantly. But you keep your touch soft. Patient. Respectful.
Your fingers start working the shampoo in, massaging gently. His scalp is dry in spots, probably from neglect. He’s the kind of person who forgets his body is even there until something stops working.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly. Voice soft. Surprisingly steady.
“I know,” you reply, thumb brushing behind his ear. “But I want to. You deserve it.”
You shrug. “Because someone should show you what care looks like, even if it’s in little things.”
The silence between you is thick. But not uncomfortable. Just heavy—like grief with nowhere to go. You rinse his hair slowly, the water running through your hands. He doesn’t lean into you. Doesn’t react. But he stays still. That’s his way of trusting you. Of saying, “This is safe. You are safe.”
When you finish, you gently towel his head, then lean in and kiss the space just above his temple—the place you can reach. The only vulnerable piece of him.
He freezes. Not in fear. Not in anger. Just… overwhelmed.
You don’t say anything. You just stay there with him, one hand still in his hair, the other resting gently on his shoulder—grounding him, reminding him he’s real, that this moment is real, that you’re real.
“…Thank you,” he whispers.
He leaves quietly that night, slipping out like smoke. But he takes the towel with him. And he folds it. Perfectly. Places it back on the counter the next day.
The bathroom is silent, shadows long across the floor. He’s sitting beside the tub, hoodie discarded, eyes soft and unreadable—that in-between color, half-hazel, half-muted gray.
He doesn’t speak as you guide him closer. He watches you turn on the faucet, run your fingers through until you’re satisfied with the warmth. Doesn’t flinch when your fingers move to his scalp. He just lets you. And that’s already everything.
His hair is surprisingly soft—a little messy, but clean-ish. He takes care of himself, mostly. But not in a way that says “Everything’s okay.” More like “If I let myself fall apart, I might not come back.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice calm, even—almost too even. “I’m not a charity case.”
You look at him, still running your fingers gently through his hair. “This isn’t pity, Liu. It’s compassion.”
His jaw tightens. A flicker of something passes through his eyes—panic? grief? disbelief? “You know what I’ve done,” he says quietly. “What I’m still capable of.”
Your nails scratch softly over his scalp, massaging in the shampoo. “I do. And I still want you here.”
That silences him. As you rinse his hair, he closes his eyes. His breathing deepens. For a moment, you can feel the tension melt—like his body’s been holding on so tight for so long, he forgot what stillness feels like. Your touch doesn’t scare him. But it unsettles something. A memory of gentleness. Something stolen from him years ago.
“It’s strange,” he murmurs. “How safe you make me feel. Like… maybe I’m not just some broken extension of Jeff’s legacy.”
You rinse the last of the soap out, thumbs brushing the sides of his face. “You’re not. You’re yours. And you’re here. With me.”
He doesn’t cry. He’s past the point of tears. But he looks up at you like he’s seeing sunlight through water—beautiful, unreachable, and too pure for hands like his.
You lean down and kiss his wet forehead. A slow, deliberate touch. He closes his eyes again. Just for a second. Just long enough to memorize it. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For… this. Y’know.”
You run your fingers through his damp hair again, slower now. “Of course.”
Later, he’ll stay close to you without saying why. Hover in the doorway when you brush your hair. Sit beside you on the couch, shoulder barely touching yours. It’s not a request. It’s a quiet need. And you’ll give it to him.
You find him sprawled across the beat-up couch, boots on the cushions, hoodie half-zipped, some B-grade horror movie playing on the dusty TV. His hair is messy as hell—flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, strands falling over his eyes.
“You look like you lost a fight with a hair dryer,” you say, arms crossed.
He grins lazily, not even looking at you. “Please. I’d win. The hair dryer would be dead.”
You walk over and tap his forehead. “Come on. Into the bathroom. I’m washing your hair.”
He groans dramatically, tossing an arm over his face. “What am I, a pet? You gonna feed me treats after too?”
“You’ll get a kiss if you behave.”
That gets his attention. He peeks at you from under his arm, smirking—but it’s softer now. Not the usual cocky front. Something more curious. Almost hopeful.
He follows you into the bathroom like a stray cat pretending he’s not following at all. Once he’s sitting on the rim of the tub and you start running warm water through his hair, the snark dies down. Fast. You feel the way his body goes still. Not tense, not panicked. Just… processing.
His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “No one’s ever done this for me, y’know?” he says. “Like, not since I was a kid. And even then… barely.”
Your fingers move slowly, massaging shampoo into his scalp. “That’s why I’m doing it now.”
He laughs under his breath. It’s not mean—just tired. “Guess I gotta get used to being cared about.”
That quiets him. For a while, the only sound is the water. Your fingers are gentle, working through the tangles, scratching lightly over his scalp. He hums low in his throat, eyes closed, breathing a little deeper than usual. Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen him.
“This is nice,” he mutters. “Weird. But nice. Kinda makes me wanna… not be a complete asshole for once.”
You rinse the shampoo out and towel his hair dry gently, like he’s something fragile. He leans forward slightly—and you kiss his forehead, just like you promised.
He freezes. Then slowly leans back, eyes wide but soft, like he’s looking at you for the first time.
“You’re… unreal,” he says. Then, trying to recover his usual attitude, he adds, “You know, if I wasn’t already emotionally unavailable, I’d probably fall in love with you right now.”
You just smile. “Too late.”
He huffs a laugh—but you can see it. The way he stays a little closer that night. The way he watches you with something raw in his eyes. The way he lets himself feel human again—even if it’s just for tonight.
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