Pairing: Gris x Reader; Enjin x Reader; August x Reader
Word Count: Gris (1.3.k), Enjin (2k), August (1.6k)
Synopsis: You always hide your curly hair. Why won't you let it show for once?
Warnings/Tags/Notes: inspired by how I straighten my hair every night and never let my real hair show (Yikes!); love your hair guys, fluff, hair types aren't too specified (curly and/or wavy), can yall tell i know nothing about how to take care of hair
The bathroom finally exhaled its last breath of steam as you stepped out, fully dressed, a towel wrapped snugly around your damp hair. Now that you were clean, you settled at your makeshift vanity to begin the rest of your nightly routine. Behind you, Gris lounged on his bed, waiting for you without complaint. His attention drifted wherever you went, but it always lingered when you started on your hair.
You did the same thing every night.
First, you combed through it while it was semi-wet, working until every curl and wave had been pulled straight. Then came the hair dryer. You’d start with warm air at the roots, brush the hair out then switch the setting to cold air. Following the pattern, you’d rush again from the roots to the ends. Then it would be warm air, then cold air, over and over until every bend, coil, and wave had surrendered beneath the heat. By the time you were finished, the curls that framed your face after a shower were gone, replaced with sleek, straight strands.
Gris watched the whole process in silence. He never interrupted, never asked why. But every night, his brow pinched just a little tighter as he watched you erase something that had seemed so alive only minutes before.
When you were finally done, you crossed the room and settled beside him on the bed. As if it were second nature, Gris wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you against his chest. You melted into the familiar warmth, letting the day's tension slip away.
His fingers found your hair almost immediately. He combed through the freshly dried strands with surprising care, slow enough that you could feel him thinking. There was no teasing tug or no absentminded playing, just quiet strokes that lingered.
"...What?" you asked, tilting your head back to look at him. "Is something wrong?"
Gris met your gaze with a faint smile and shook his head. "No," he murmured. "Just thinking." His fingers slipped through your hair once more before he continued. "I've noticed..." His eyes drifted back to the smooth strands between his fingers. "Every night, you straighten it."
You hummed, not finding anything wrong with his words. "Yeah?"
"You never leave it the way it comes out after your shower," His thumb brushed a loose strand behind your ear, "Those curls are only around for a few minutes before you dry them away."
There wasn't any judgment in his voice. If anything, it sounded almost... disappointed. "I don't think I've ever really seen your natural hair." He smiled again, softer this time, "I think I'd like to."
His words settled warmly in your chest. You appreciated them, you really did, but the thought of leaving your curls alone was enough to make you sigh. "It's not that simple," you said quietly. You looked down at your hands, trying to find the right way to explain years of frustration. "My hair is... difficult. If I leave it alone, it gets frizzy. If I brush it dry, it turns into this huge poofy mess." You gestured vaguely around your head.
"Keeping the curls looking nice takes forever. I have to use a bunch of products, wait for it to dry properly, and refresh it in the morning..." You shook your head. "And even then, it's everywhere. It gets caught on things, it's harder to style, and half the time it doesn't even cooperate. I know straightening it every night isn't exactly healthy, but it's easier. It's predictable. I know what I'm going to wake up looking like."
Silence settled between you after the miniature rant that left your mouth. For a moment, you wondered if you'd talked him out of the idea entirely.
Instead, Gris's hand found yours. "...Okay. So it takes more work."
"So we'll do the work." You stared at him, unsure if he was serious about this commitment. He said it so matter-of-factly that it took your brain a second to catch up. "I'll help wash it. I'll help put the products in. If you don't know how to style it, we'll figure it out together." A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "What kind of husband would I be if I let you struggle with something by yourself?"
Your lips parted, but no words came. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
"I don't care if it takes an extra twenty minutes." His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "I just hate watching you feel like you have to hide a part of yourself every single night." His smile softened into something so impossibly fond it almost hurt to look at. "I think your curls deserve a chance. And," he added with the slightest hint of mischief, "I want to know what they're like."
A laugh finally escaped you, quiet and disbelieving, "You make it sound so easy."
"I didn't say it'd be easy," he replied. "I said you wouldn't have to do it alone."
You sat with the idea for a few days. Every excuse you'd given him still felt valid. The extra time. The effort. The uncertainty. But every time you caught Gris glancing at your hair after a shower, that same hopeful look returned. Eventually, you sighed.
The next afternoon, the two of you claimed the bathroom. Gris took his new job with surprising seriousness.
He read the instructions on every bottle twice before handing it to you. He watched carefully as you showed him what each product did, asking questions whenever he wasn't sure. Together, you worked through your routine; washing, conditioning, gently detangling from the ends upward, smoothing in leave-in conditioner, working curl cream through each section, then scrunching until your curls began to spring back to life.
"So that's what that does," he murmured as another coil bounced into place beneath his fingers.
"It helps hold the curls while they dry."
He committed every step to memory like it was something important. Once everything was in place, all there was left to do was wait. You busied yourselves around the room while your hair dried naturally, and after what felt like forever, you wandered back to the mirror.
Your breath caught as you saw defined curls that framed your face, soft and springy instead of flattened. They cascaded over your shoulders in neat spirals, catching the light with every small movement. There was volume, but not the wild, shapeless puff you'd always dreaded.
"...Huh." You turned your head once then the other way. You almost didn't recognize yourself.
You looked over your shoulder. Gris stood in the doorway, completely still. His eyes wandered over every curl as if he were trying to memorize them, and when they finally met yours again, you noticed the unmistakable flush dusting the tips of his ears.
He blinked, thankful you pulled him out of a trance. "...Sorry," His voice came out quieter than usual, "I was looking."
He crossed the room until he was standing right in front of you. With infinite care, he reached out and let one curl wrap itself around his finger. When he let go, it bounced right back into place.
The smallest laugh escaped him, "...They're soft." His expression melted into something so openly affectionate that it made your heart stutter. "I knew I'd like them. Actually, I think I love them." His hand came up to cup your cheek, careful not to disturb the curls he'd spent all afternoon helping create. "They're beautiful. And so are you."
You felt heat rush to your face. "You really mean that?"
Gris looked genuinely confused by the question, "Why wouldn't I?" He leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before resting his own against it. "My final verdict?" he murmured with a grin. "They're perfect...And," he added after another glance at your hair, ears turning pink all over again, "I might've fallen a little more in love with my wife today."
The room was wrapped in a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint crackle of a cigarette burning between Enjin's fingers. Pale moon light slipped through the curtains, painting soft lines across the tangled sheets and the quiet figure sleeping beside him.
You rested against him, breathing slow and even, still caught in the last threads of sleep. One of your hands had drifted across the mattress until it brushed against his side, as if even unconscious you refused to let him stray too far.
Enjin leaned back against the headboard, exhaling a thin stream of smoke toward the open window. His gaze lingered on you longer than he'd ever admit, taking in the peaceful expression that replaced your usual teasing smiles and knowing glances.
He felt rather relaxed. After all, he didn't wait a second to bring you to bed after you had just showered. You tried to get away, telling him you had an important routine to get to, but his late night promises were too good to pass up.
That's how you ended up. Tired, a little sweaty, and with curled hair.
Normally, before crawling into bed, you'd spend time blow-drying it until every strand fell perfectly straight. It had become such a familiar routine that he'd almost forgotten what your natural hair looked like.
Now, freed from the heat and careful styling, loose curls and soft waves framed your face. They spread across the pillow in effortless spirals, catching the limited light with every subtle movement as you shifted in your sleep.
Without thinking, Enjin reached out.
A single curl slipped around his finger as he twirled it absentmindedly. It coiled there so easily, as though it had chosen to stay, refusing to let go the moment he tried to pull away. He watched it spring back into place with quiet fascination, repeating the motion more than once before a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He wasn't sure if he'd ever said that word out loud about anyone before. He probably never would. But as he looked at you, peaceful, warm, and blissfully unaware, he couldn't imagine why you'd ever hide these curls from the world.
They suited you. Maybe a little too well.
You shifted against the mattress with a sleepy hum, still somewhere between dreaming and waking. Something soft brushed through your hair.
Your brows pinched together. "...Mmh.” Without opening your eyes, you lazily lifted an arm and weakly nudged the hand away from your head. "...What're you doing?"
Enjin didn't bother pretending he hadn't been caught. "Looking."
One eye cracked open. "Looking? At what?"
You blinked up at him, then reached instinctively toward your head. The moment your fingers sank into your curls, realization hit. "...Oh."
You hadn't straightened it. After your shower, Enjin had wasted no time pulling you back into bed. You'd protested, halfheartedly, but that hadn't stopped him. By the time the two of you had finally settled down, you were far too exhausted to bother with your usual routine.
Now your curls had dried naturally, spilling across the pillow in uneven spirals. You let out a quiet groan. "I forgot..."
Enjin's hand returned to your hair before you could smooth it down. He gently wrapped a loose curl around his finger, watching it coil with quiet fascination before letting it spring back into place. "...It does that on its own."
"Yeah,” You stared at him for a moment before giving a sleepy laugh. "You're weird."
"So I've been told." His fingers wandered through another curl, careful not to tug. "You should wear it like this more often."
The smile on your face faded into a long, tired sigh. "...You'd probably take that back if you had to deal with it."
You sat up just enough to gather a handful of curls in your palm. "Because this isn't as effortless as it looks. You know how long it takes just to wash this?" You let your hair fall back against your shoulder. "Wash day is basically an entire event."
You started counting on your fingers, "Shampoo. Conditioner. A deep conditioner if it's feeling dry. Leave-in conditioner. Curl cream. Gel. Hair oil. And that's before I even think about drying it."
"It is." You laughed softly, though there wasn't much humor behind it. "And none of it's cheap. People see curls and think you just wake up like this."
"I have to detangle it without ripping half of it out. Then I either spend forever diffusing it or wait hours for it to air dry. I have to sleep with a bonnet or a satin pillowcase unless I want to wake up looking like I lost a fight with a storm."
You flopped back onto the pillow. "So...yeah,” You looked up at the ceiling. "It's a lot of time. A lot of money. And honestly?" You shrugged, “It's easier to straighten it."
"...Sounds like a pain." He hummed, leaning over to burn out the cigarette. "I still like it. It's pretty."
Your expression softened despite yourself. "You really think so?"
He nodded once, "Yeah." He laid back down and wrapped an arm around your waist, resting his chin lightly against the top of your head. "You should do it more often." His fingers found one last curl, carefully winding it around his finger before letting it spring free again.
"...Maybe every once in a while." You sighed, unable to hide the fond smile pulling at your lips. "...We'll see."
With Enjin out with the others for the morning, there wasn't anyone around to rush you through your routine or poke fun at how long you spent in the bathroom. The conversation from the night before still lingered in the back of your mind.
"I like your curls." Such a simple statement.
You'd laughed it off, insisting he only liked them because he never had to take care of them himself. He hadn't argued. He'd only shrugged with that easy smile of his.
"Still think they're pretty."
Those words had followed you into the shower. Steam fogged the mirror as warm water soaked through your hair. You took your time, gently working shampoo into your scalp before rinsing it clean. The conditioner came next, your fingers slowly separating stubborn knots before you reached for your wide-tooth comb.
The first pass barely made it halfway through. You sighed, starting from the ends instead, patiently working your way upward until the comb finally glided through. Section by section. Knot after knot.
By the time you finished detangling, your shoulders already ached. This was exactly why you usually straightened it. After rinsing, you wrapped your hair in a towel long enough to change into comfortable clothes before returning to the mirror. Your products lined the counter in familiar order.
Leave-in conditioner first. You divided your hair into four uneven sections, clipping three away while you worked on the first. A small amount was smoothed through from roots to ends before you followed with curl cream, making sure every strand was coated without using too much.
Then came the gel. Your hands moved automatically after years of practice, raking the product through before scrunching upward. Wet curls began to form almost immediately, clumping together into neat spirals.
Three sections left. By the second, your arms had started complaining. By the third, they were burning. You leaned against the bathroom counter with an exaggerated groan, letting your hands hang uselessly at your sides. Your reflection looked ridiculous; hair clipped every which way, one side perfectly defined while the other was still a damp, fluffy mess.
You couldn't help laughing. After your short break, you returned to it. More leave-in. More cream. More gel. Finger-coiling the pieces around your face that never behaved. Separating curls that stuck together. Scrunching until your palms were slick with leftover product.
When every section was finally finished, you stared at yourself in the mirror. You were still soaking wet. You plugged in the dryer, flipped your head upside down, and diffused for what felt like another eternity. Warm air hummed through the room as you carefully cupped sections of curls into the diffuser bowl before lifting them toward your scalp. Every few minutes you switched hands, only because the first one had gone numb from holding the dryer.
Your shoulders screamed and your wrists weren't doing much better. Halfway through, you shut the dryer off with a dramatic sigh and simply sat on the closed toilet lid, staring blankly at the wall.
"No wonder I don't do this often..."
Little by little, the dampness disappeared. Your curls grew lighter, softer, springing upward as they dried. Once everything was nearly finished, you leaned forward one last time, gently fluffing your roots before turning the dryer off.
You stood in front of the mirror, lightly separating a few curls that had dried together and smoothing a tiny amount of oil over the ends to tame the remaining frizz.
The woman looking back at you looked different. Not because your hair had changed. Different because you'd almost forgotten what it looked like when you let it be itself.
The curls framed your face in soft coils, full of volume despite the hours they'd taken to define. They weren't perfect, one curl refused to cooperate, another stuck out more than the rest, but somehow, that made them feel more like you.
You smiled to yourself. Maybe one day really won't hurt. As if the universe had been waiting for those words, the front door clicked open. The familiar sound of boots against the floor echoed through the room. You barely had time to register it before the bathroom doorway filled with a familiar figure.
Enjin had been halfway through the door when he looked up. His hand remained suspended in the air as his eyes settled on you through the mirror. They didn't leave your face, not immediately. Instead, they slowly wandered over the shape of your curls, taking in every coil that framed your cheeks, every strand that bounced as you shifted your weight.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't his usual teasing smile. It was quieter, almost satisfied, like he'd stumbled across something he'd secretly been hoping to see.
"So..." he said, breaking the silence. "You remembered."
Heat crept into your face as you shrugged, "It was just for today."
"Mhm. I told you they'd look good."
You rolled your eyes, pretending to fuss with one stubborn curl near your temple. "They took almost three hours. My arms still hurt."
A soft laugh escaped him as he crossed the room. You watched him through the mirror as he came to stand behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. His eyes met yours for only a second before drifting back to your reflection, studying your hair with open curiosity.
"Can I?" His voice had softened.
"...Touch it?" You questioned.
He nodded once. You hesitated for only a moment before giving him a small nod of your own. "Just...don't yank anything."
"I know better than that." His hand rose slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind. The tips of his fingers brushed the outer layer of your curls so lightly you almost didn't feel it. His fingers slipped beneath one defined coil, letting it spring gently around them before releasing it. It bounced right back into place. A quiet chuckle escaped him, "They're softer than I thought."
"They're covered in enough product to survive a wicked trash storm."
"I wasn't talking about the product."
Your gaze flickered upward. He wasn't looking at the mirror anymore. He was looking at you. Not with his usual mischievous glint or the smug satisfaction you'd expected, but with a warmth that settled somewhere deep in your chest. His hand lingered for another second, carefully fluffing one curl that had flattened near the back before stepping away just enough to admire the finished result.
"...You know," he murmured, a crooked smile returning, "I liked them yesterday when I was imagining them." His eyes met yours in the mirror again. "But this?" He tilted his head, unable to hide how pleased he looked, "...They're even prettier than I thought."
The compliment hit harder than you expected. You looked away first, pretending to straighten a curl that didn't need fixing.
His grin grew just a little more devious, "I was right."
The steady hum of fluorescent lights blended with the scratch of charcoal against paper, filling the otherwise quiet studio with a rhythm only one person seemed capable of creating. Drawings of every size leaned against the walls, some finished with painstaking precision, others abandoned halfway through with bold strokes of pencil.
Rolls of fabric spilled from open shelves, tangled together with measuring tape, pins, and spools of thread in every color imaginable. Sketches littered every available surface, on tables, pinned to corkboards, even taped carelessly to the floor where footprints crossed over them without a second thought.
It was chaotic, yet somehow, it all made perfect sense. Especially to him.
"Don't move!" August barely spared you a glance as he crouched beside his sketchbook, pencil dancing furiously across the page. His brows knitted together in concentration, lips moving with quiet murmurs only he could understand.
"...Hem's right, sleeve is right, silhouette's right...So why does it look WRONG?" His voice shot up an octave.
You stood obediently atop the wooden pedestal toward one side of the room, resisting the urge to shift your weight despite the growing ache in your calves.
The dress he had spent weeks designing hugged your figure beautifully. Layers of soft fabric draped effortlessly around your body, catching the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the tall studio windows. Every stitch had been sewn by his own hands, every detail adjusted until he declared it "acceptable", which, in August's language, was incredibly high praise.
You couldn't deny it. It was beautiful. You carefully smoothed your hands over the skirt, smiling to yourself. "I still can't believe you made this for me. It really is beau–"
"I know it’s beautiful!" He whirled around dramatically, throwing one hand toward the ceiling. "That's the problem! It should be transcendent." He jabbed a finger toward the concept sketch. "This..." Then at you. "...should become this." His eyes bounced wildly between the drawing and reality. "But it isn't!"
He'd already wandered three steps backward, tilting his head so dramatically you wondered if his neck hurt. His sharp eyes swept over you from head to toe. He marched forward until he was only a foot away, lifting the finished concept sketch beside your shoulder to compare it with reality. His gaze bounced between the paper and you over and over again.
His expression twisted with growing frustration, "...Why isn't it working?"
Your smile faltered. "Is something wrong with the dress? Am I standing weird?"
"No, no,” Each answer came automatically, his attention never leaving the comparison.
His eyes lingered on your face and soon went to your neatly styled hair. The frustration disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced by the unmistakable spark of realization. You recognized that look. It meant nobody in the room was about to have a choice in what happened next.
"Ha!" He pointed at you like you'd personally been hiding state secrets. "That's it!"
You instinctively touched it. "My...hair?"
"I thought you said nothing was wrong?"
"There wasn't until there was!"
"...That doesn't make any sense."
His failure to give an answer somehow made it worse. He was already marching away, muttering to himself, "Of course… obviously… I can't believe I overlooked it..."
Drawers slammed open one after another. Hangers clattered. Boxes shifted. Somewhere, something suspiciously expensive hit the floor. He resurfaced carrying an oversized T-shirt, a pair of loose shorts, and what looked like half the contents of his bathroom balanced precariously in his arms.
He shoved the clothes into your chest. "Change. We're fixing it."
"What exactly are we fixing?"
He stared at you as if the answer should've been painfully obvious. "Your hair."
He groaned dramatically. "You've forgotten already!" Before you could protest, he grabbed your wrist and began towing you across the studio.
"You have curly hair!" You nearly stumbled as he yanked you around the room. He continued, now bringing up an embarrassing memory, "It happened after that ridiculous prank! The ones who dumped water on your head!"
"Oh,” You winced at the memory.
The kids had thought it'd be funny to drench you while you were out taking a breather. You'd spent the rest of the afternoon soaked, embarrassed, and grumbling while August had somehow become more fascinated than concerned.
Because as your hair slowly dried, it hadn't dried straight. Little by little, soft curls had begun forming around your face before gathering into defined ringlets all over your head. You'd barely had time to notice before instinct took over. The next morning you'd straightened it again, just as you always had.
Apparently, August hadn't forgotten.
"I've been wondering ever since," he continued, talking so quickly the words nearly crashed into one another. "Why would you spend all that effort flattening perfectly good volume? It completely changes your proportions! The silhouette! The framing! The movement!"
"...Because it's easier?"
He looked horrified, "Easier?"
"As in...less maintenance?" You shrunk into your shoulder, voice growing timid by his expression.
"Maintenance?" He looked personally offended by the concept. "You've been sabotaging your own potential in the name of convenience!"
By the time you'd reached the bathroom, he'd already begun unloading an alarming number of bottles onto the counter. Creams. Foams. Sprays. Oils. A diffuser attachment. A wide-tooth comb. A microfiber towel. You named it!
You stared, confused at why August, out of all people, would have this, "...Since when do you own all of this?"
"Since forever." He finally smiled, a bright, manic grin that could only mean trouble. "Because perfection requires preparation." He held up an unfamiliar bottle triumphantly. "Now sit down. You should be excited."
And before you could argue another word, August was no longer merely a fashion designer. He had become your extremely enthusiastic, entirely self-appointed personal hairstylist.
By the time he was satisfied, after what felt like an unreasonable number of: “no, no, wait, that curl is doing something interesting—don’t move—actually move—no, like that—yes, like THAT”, your hair had finally been left alone to dry in its natural state. And, annoyingly, August looked like he’d just solved a life-altering equation.
“Perfect,” he declared, as if he personally hadn’t just turned your bathroom into a lab.
He didn’t give you much time to recover before he was marching you back into the studio, practically vibrating with energy. The familiar chaos of fabric, sketches, and scattered tools greeted you again, but this time he didn’t stop at the pedestal.
Instead, he pressed the dress back into your hands like it was sacred. “Go on,” he said, already turning away. “I need to confirm something.”
That didn’t clarify anything. Still, he was already halfway back to his sketchbook, muttering to himself again; something about “movement coherence” and “frame harmony” and other phrases that sounded like they belonged in a textbook only he had access to.
So you changed. The fabric slipped over you like it had been made with a kind of patient understanding, settling into place as you smoothed it down, fingers tracing over seams you now knew he had personally agonized over.
“August,” you called softly.
The scribbling stopped. He didn’t turn immediately, like he was bracing himself. “…Yeah?”
That was all it took. This was a complete system failure. It only lasted a second until a sound escaped him. Half breath, half laugh, like his brain had tried to process the image and simply given up. “…Oh my heavens.”
You shifted slightly under his stare. “Is it—”
“No. It’s not ‘is it’ anything.” He stepped forward, then stopped, then stepped forward again like he couldn’t decide if approaching you was a safe idea for his sanity. Then he raised both hands slightly, as if presenting evidence to an invisible jury.
“This,” he said, voice cracking with excitement, “this is what I was talking about. My magnum opus!”
You blinked. “About…my hair?”
“Yes!” He looked genuinely offended you had to ask. “Do you SEE it? The way it frames your face? The way it moves with the light? It’s—” he made a strangled sound of frustration and joy at the same time, “—it’s correct!”
Before you could respond, he suddenly grabbed his sketchbook and held it beside you again, flipping between page and reality with increasing speed.
“Look at this—look at THIS—” he jabbed at the drawing, then at you, “—I wasn’t wrong, I just didn’t have the final piece!” He threw his arms up. “It was missing its context!”
He dropped the sketchbook entirely. It hit the floor and he didn’t care. Instead, he pointed at you like the conclusion to a very long argument.
You flinched slightly. “August—”
“No, no, no, this is good, this is—this is perfect!” He looked like he might actually start pacing through the walls. “You were hiding that this whole time? Do you understand what this does to the silhouette theory? The balance? The flow? Unbelievable!”
“Now spin!” August cheered.
You glanced around the room, a nervous look on your face, “What?”
“Spin,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious request in the world. “I need to see it move.”
So, hesitantly, you did. A small, careful spin. The skirt of the dress lifted just slightly, catching air and light in a soft arc. Your curls followed a beat later, moving like they had been waiting for permission to exist like that all along.
When you stopped, August made a noise. Just pure, overwhelming approval which didn’t help at all. He rushed forward, then stopped just short of you like he was afraid touching you might somehow disrupt reality.
Then he grinned, wide and unrestrained, completely satisfied.
“…Yeah,” he said, softer now, but still glowing with excitement. “That’s it. I knew I was right!”
