zanka nijiku helping you to dye your hair pink 𓍯 .
You knock on his door twice before opening it without an answer. "Hey, Zanka, could you help—Wow."
You blink at the scene, at how Zanka is training with his Assistaff, not shirtless but with a sleeveless tank top that lets you see his slightly toned arms and—whoah, those are his nipples.
"What the—learn how to fuckin' knock!" He trapped your waist in his instrument, pulling you out of his room in two second, without letting you react.
You blink at the closed door, replaying the image of a very sweaty Zanka traning and flexing in front of you, you smile to yourself before remembering what were you doing there from the beginning.
You knock again, letting him open the door. He doesn't. "Zankaaaa,"
"What." He hasn't even open the door, he's just screaming at you from the other side.
"I'm sorry for seeing your shoulders, okay? I felt like a Victorian warrior seeing the ankles of the woman she likes for the first time." You drop your cheek in the door, leaning all your body weight into it.
"What're ya even talkin' about?" You can feel his confused face and tired frown from the other side of the door. "I was jus' focused, I don't care if you see my shoulders. D'ya even know how stupid that sounds? Seeing my shoulders, why'd I be bother about that shit? It's not like—"
"You're rambling, Zanka."
You hear him huff on the other side, probably rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he’s caught off-guard and pretending he isn’t.
"Whatever. What d'ya want?"
You smile bright. “I came here with a very serious, very important request.”
Silence. Suspicious silence.
You lower your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I need you to dye my hair pink.”
The door flies open so fast you almost eat floor.
Zanka stands there, still glistening, arms crossed, one eyebrow so high it’s practically holding up the ceiling.
“Pink.”
“Bubblegum pink. The kind of pink that makes people question their life choices when they see me coming.”
He stares at you.
“No.”
“Zankauhhhh,”
“Ask someone else. ’M not your personal stylist. Go bother Riyo or whatever.”
You gasp, hand over heart. “Excuse me? You’re literally the only person I trust not to turn my head into a flamingo.”
He snorts. “Flattery ain’t gonna work.”
“C'mon, Zanka!” You step closer, tilting your head and giving him the biggest, sparkliest, most weaponized puppy eyes in your arsenal. “You literally have the most gorgeous hair in all HQ!”
Zanka’s mouth opens. "Closes. Opens again. "Tamsy is literally right—"
"Shush!" You press one finger between his lips, making his eyes go wide. He has the urge to just bite your finger. "Listen, you might fool everyone else but I know that two-toned hair of you isn't natural."
"What're ya even on?"
“I’m on the truth, Zanka. That pretty ash blond-and-black situation you’ve got going on? Babe. That is not a box-dye special from the corner store. You’ve got roots that look suspiciously salon-perfect. Which means,” you poke his chest once for emphasis, “you know exactly what you’re doing with bleach, developer, toner and the whole dramatic color-wheel circus.”
Zanka’s eye twitches.
He slowly, deliberately wraps his hand around your wrist and pulls your accusing finger away from his lips like it personally offended him.
“First,” he growls, voice dangerously low, “don’t call me babe. Second,” He leans down until your noses are almost touching and you can smell the clean sweat + citrus of whatever body wash he uses. “I do not do hair for other people. I barely tolerate doing my own.”
You blink up at him, completely unruffled.
“Then you admit it. Which one is the natural?”
“I admit nothing'.”
“You just admitted it with your whole face.”
He exhales through his nose. The sound of a man who has already lost and is just now realizing it.
You seize the moment.
“Pleaaaaase? Just this once? I’ll owe you. Like, huge. I’ll do your laundry for a month. I’ll stop stealing your snacks”
A muscle in his jaw jumps.
“…You’re already stealin' my snacks.”
“Exactly! Think how much more peaceful your life will be when I stop!”
Zanka closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose so hard you’re worried he’s about to give himself a bruise.
When he opens them again, the fight has mostly drained out of him. Replaced by the exhausted resignation of someone who knows they’re about to do something profoundly stupid.
“Bubblegum pink,” he repeats, like he’s trying to manifest it sounding less insane the second time.
“Extra sparkly bubblegum pink.”
He drags both hands down his face.
“Fuckin’ hell. Fine. Fine. But if your scalp starts meltin' off, that’s on ya. And if anyone asks, I was drunk. And possessed. And you blackmailed me with,” he waves a hand vaguely, “Victorian ankles or whatever the fuck that was.”
You squeal and throw your arms around his neck before he can back out.
He freezes like you just hugged a live grenade.
You feel the exact second he gives up completely: his arms come up, one hand landing awkwardly between your shoulder blades, the other hovering like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to actually touch you or not.
“Thank you thank you thank you! You’re the best! I’m gonna look so stupid and it’s gonna be amazing and you’re gonna love it secretly!”
“I already regret every life choice that led me here,” he mutters into your hair.
You pull back just enough to grin directly into his grumpy, flushed face.
“Too late!”
He glares at you.
Then, quieter, almost under his breath:
“…You better not cry when we have to bleach it twice.”
Your smile turns downright evil.
“Oh Zanka. Sweet, sweet Zanka.”
“We’re doing hot pink streaks too, aren’t we.”
You pat his cheek.
“Now you’re getting it.”
You bounce into the bathroom like a caffeinated squirrel, dragging Zanka behind you by the wrist. He's still grumbling under his breath, but you've got supplies stashed from who-knows-where: a box of bleach kit, bubblegum pink dye, gloves, a mixing bowl, brushes, and a ratty old towel that might have been white in a previous life.
"Alright, Zan," you declare, plopping down on the edge of the bathtub and gesturing grandly to the sink. "Work your magic!"
Zanka rolls his eyes so hard you're surprised they don't fall out. He snatches the bleach box from the counter, scanning the instructions with a frown that could curdle milk.
"Sit still. And shut up for five seconds so I can read this crap."
You mime zipping your lips, but it lasts all of two seconds. "Ooh, is that the developer? You really do know your stuff."
He shoots you a glare over his shoulder as he pulls on the gloves. "Told ya, I do my own. Doesn't mean I'm thrilled about doin' yours. Gonna need at least one round of bleach to lift it enough for that neon nightmare you're after."
"Neon nightmare? Excuse you, it's going to be adorable. Like, punk rock princess vibes."
"More like 'someone vomited glitter on your head' vibes."
He mixes the bleach and developer in the bowl, the chemical smell hitting the air like a punch. His movements are precise, almost methodical—stirring with a brush until it's creamy smooth. You watch his arms flex under the tank top, the sweat from his earlier training still lingering, making his skin gleam a little under the bathroom lights.
He sections your hair with clips, surprisingly gentle for someone who looks like he'd rather be punching a heavy bag. "Head over the sink. We're doin' this in zones so I don't fuck it up."
You lean forward, hair dangling like a curtain. "Bossy. I like it."
"Annoyin'. I hate it." But there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he's fighting a smirk.
He starts applying the bleach to the ends first, working his way up with the brush. His fingers graze your scalp occasionally, warm and careful, parting strands without yanking.
You wince a little at the cold goop. "Hey, easy there. My head's not a canvas for your abstract art."
"It's processin' art, dumbass. You want even color or patchy bullshit?"
"Fair. So, how'd you get into this anyway? The hair thing. Was it, like, a rebellious teen phase? Picturing little Zanka with a mohawk or something."
He snorts, moving to the next section. "Little Zanka? Fuck off. Wasn't a phase. Just… needed a change back then. Figured out how to do it myself 'cause salons are a rip-off and full of nosy assholes."
"Aww, independent from the start. That's kinda hot."
He pauses, brush hovering mid-air, and you can feel the heat radiating from him, probably embarrassment, but he'd die before admitting it.
"Shut up and hold still. You're makin' me mess up."
You grin into the sink, but obey for a minute. The bleach starts to tingle, then burn a little, and you fidget.
"Okay, ow. Is this normal? Feels like ants are dancing on my scalp."
"Yeah, it's normal. Means it's workin'. Suck it up." His voice is gruff, but he checks the strands after a few minutes, rinsing a test one under the faucet. "Not light enough yet. Gimme another ten."
You groan dramatically. "Ten more minutes of torture? Entertain me, then. Tell me about your first dye job. Did you end up with orange hair or something disastrous?"
He huffs, leaning against the counter while you wait, arms crossed again. "Nah. Went for black first. Fucked up the roots, looked like a skunk for a week. Learned quick after that."
"Oooooh, I need pictures."
"Over my dead body."
The timer beeps, and he rinses the bleach out carefully, running cool water through your hair. His hands are surprisingly soothing, massaging the shampoo in to neutralize the chemicals. You close your eyes, enjoying the unexpected pamper session.
"Alright, that's round one. Hair's at a brassy yellow now. Gonna need a second bleach for that true platinum base if you want the pink to pop."
You peek in the mirror, towel-drying your damp locks. "Whoa, I look like a budget blonde. Okay, hit me with round two."
He mixes another batch, and this time, as he applies it, the banter flows easier. "Why pink, anyway? Out of all the colors. Coulda gone blue or somethin' less… girly."
"Girly? Pink's powerful, Zanka. It's like, 'I'm cute but I'll kick your ass.' Plus, it'll match with my uniform, which is a bonus."
He chuckles, actually chuckles, low and rumbling. "Yeah, figures you'd pick it to piss people off."
"Hey, not just that. It's fun. Life's too serious around here sometimes." You tilt your head as he works on the crown. "What about you? Trying to look like a anime villain with your hair?"
"Tch. It's practical. The blond hides the grow-out better." But his fingers linger a second longer on your neck, brushing away a stray drop of bleach.
The burn sets in again, and you chat through it: about stupid missions, annoying coworkers, his Assistaff training routines. Midway through the waiting period for the second bleach, something shifts. He's not just responding gruffly anymore, he's asking questions back.
"So, uh, you ever dyed yours before? Or is this your virgin hair adventure?"
You laugh. "Virgin? Please. I had purple streaks once in high school. Lasted a week before my mom made me fix it. Said I looked like a grape soda explosion."
He smirks, visible in the mirror as he checks the progress. "Grape soda, huh? Bet that was a sight."
"Oh, it was. Teachers hated it. Got me detention for 'distracting the class.' What about you, any hair horror stories besides the skunk?"
He hesitates, then shrugs, a small smile creeping in. "Once tried red. Looked like a tomato. Washed it out same day. Never again."
"Now that's hot. Like, fiery bad boy aesthetic."
"Shut up." But he's grinning now, shaking his head as he rinses the second bleach. Your hair's pale now, almost white-blonde, and he towels it dry with more care than necessary.
"Alright, toner time. This'll knock out the brassiness." He mixes a purple shampoo concoction, applying it like a pro. You watch him in the mirror, noticing how his posture's relaxed.
As it processes, he sits on the tub edge next to you, close enough that your knees bump. "You know, this ain't as bad as I thought. You're not whinin' half as much as I expected."
"Aww, high praise from the grump himself. Admit it, you're having fun."
He rolls his eyes, but the smile stays. "Maybe a little. Beats trainin' alone."
Your heart does a little flip at that, and he's softening. "See? I'm good company. Now, pink time?"
"Yeah, yeah." He rinses the toner, blow-dries your hair halfway so it's damp, then grabs the pink dye. It's vibrant, almost glowing in the bowl as he stirs it. "Streaks or all over?"
"All over, with some hot pink streaks for depth."
He sections again, starting at the roots this time. His touch is even gentler, fingers combing through strands, and he hums under his breath, a tuneless little thing that makes him seem… human. Approachable.
"Why me, anyway?" he asks suddenly, voice quieter as he works. "Coulda asked anyone. Riyo's got that whole artsy vibe."
You shrug, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Dunno. Trust you not to screw it up. Plus, you're fun to tease. And… I like hanging out with you. Even when you're all growly."
He pauses, brush mid-stroke, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "Growly, huh?"
"Like a teddy bear with anger issues."
He laughs outright this time, a real one that crinkles his eyes. "Fuckin' hell. Fine, whatever. Just… don't move."
The application takes time, he's meticulous, blending the hot pink into select strands for those streaks. You talk more: about favorite foods (he likes spicy ramen, you prefer sweets), dumb childhood stories (you once broke your arm jumping off a roof on a dare) and even a bit about work stresses.
"You ever get tired of it?" you ask, as he wraps your hair in plastic to process. "The constant training, the missions."
"Sometimes." He's sitting across from you now, on the closed toilet lid, elbows on knees. "But it's what I know. Keeps me sharp."
You nod. "Yeah. Me too. But moments like this? Kinda nice. Normal."
He looks at you then, really looks—soft gaze, no walls up. "Yeah. Normal's… not bad."
The timer dings after 30 minutes, and he leads you to the sink for the big rinse. Cool water cascades, turning pink as the excess dye swirls down the drain. He conditions it thoroughly, fingers massaging your scalp in slow circles that make you sigh contentedly.
"Feels good?" he murmurs, voice closer than before.
"Mmm. You're hired permanently."
He chuckles again. "Don't push it."
Finally, he blow-dries it fully, styling with his fingers until it's fluffy and vibrant, bubblegum pink with those deeper streaks catching the light. You stare in the mirror, turning your head side to side.
"Holy shit, Zanka. It's perfect. I look like a walking candy floss dream!"
He stands behind you, arms crossed, but his expression is… proud? Soft? "Yeah. Turned out alright. Suits you. Kinda… cute."
You spin around, beaming. "Cute? From you? That's like winning the lottery."
He rubs the back of his neck, that old habit, but he's smiling. "Whatever. Glad you like it. Wasn't half bad doin' it."
You throw your arms around him again, and this time, he hugs back properly, arms wrapping around your waist, chin resting on your head for a second.
"Thanks, Zanka. Seriously."
"Anytime," he mutters, and you can tell he means it. "Well… maybe not anytime. But yeah."
You pull back, grinning. "Next time, we do yours. Maybe add some pink highlights so we match!"
"Hell no."
But he's laughing as he says it, and you know you've got him hooked on these little moments.
a/n: they are in love your honor
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