StrawberyLover

✦ Things I WILL write ✦

Character × Reader

(male reader / trans reader / gn reader / fem reader)

Please specify because I will default to gn reader if not specified

Character × Character

Established relationships & S/O dynamics

(soft, scary, protective, cuddly, unhinged but affectionate, etc.)

Slashers × Reader (see below for examples)

Dark themes without graphic content

Angst

Hurt/comfort

Fluff

Headcanons and oneshots

Protective or possessive behavior (within reason)

Platonic relationships (found family, caretaking, comfort)

Poly relationships (please specify)

Match ups!

✦ Things I WON’T write ✦

NSFW or explicit sexual content

(I fully respect authors who do, but it’s just not my thing)

Pedophilia

Incest/step-cest

Named/fully-fleshed Y/N OCs

Bigotry, hate speech, or harmful stereotypes

Requests that ignore these

✦ Fandoms I’m currently writing for ✦

The Magnus Archives — [Open for requests]

Undertale — [Open for requests]

TCF (Trash of the Count’s Family) — [Open for requests]

JJK (jujutsu kaisen) — [Open for requests]

The Lord of the Mysteries — [Open for requests]

Hazbin Hotel — [Open for requests]

Our Life: Now and Forever — [Open for requests]

Our Life: Beginning and Always — [Open for requests]

Aftg (All for the game) — [Open for requests]

Gachiakuta — [Open for requests]

Hunger games — [Open for requests]

House of the dragon — [Open for requests]

Homicipher — [Open for requests]

Lookism — [Open for requests]

Minecraft

Vampire SMP — [Open for requests]

Dream smp — [Open for requests]

Hermitcraft — [Open for requests]

Slashers

Jason Voorhees — [Open for requests]

Michael Myers — [All versions open for requests]

Freddy Krueger — [Open for requests]

Leatherface — [Thomas Hewitt & Bubba Sawyer open for requests]

Ghostface — [Dead by daylight & Scream open for requests]

Chucky — [Open for requests]

Pyramid Head — [Open for requests]

Pinhead — [Open for requests]

Jigsaw / John Kramer — [Open for requests]

Hannibal Lecter — [Open for requests]

Will Graham — [Open for requests]

Max of 10 characters per request

━━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

August knows craftsmanship.

He knows the weight of fabric. The tension of thread. The exact pressure needed to carve perfection into something broken and make it beautiful again.

So when he starts noticing you—

He notices everything.

The way you linger near his workshop longer than the others.

The way your eyes follow his hands instead of his face.

The way you memorize every complaint he makes about deadlines.

At first, he laughs it off.

“Oi! You staring at my genius again?” he teases loudly, pushing his goggles up with a grin.

You just smile.

And August, being August, doesn’t realize the difference between admiration… and possession.

It starts small.

His tools are always exactly where he left them.

No one interrupts him anymore.

People who used to rush him suddenly stop coming by.

He hums happily, unaware.

“See? When people stop breathing down my neck, I work miracles!”

You stand in the doorway, hands clasped behind your back.

“Yes,” you agree softly. “You do.”

August doesn’t notice the tension in the air when others avoid you.

Doesn’t notice the way conversations die when you step closer.

But he does notice something else.

You know his schedule.

You know when he hasn’t eaten.

You know when he’s overworked.

You even fix the strap on his goggles before he can complain about it.

He pauses one day, blinking at you.

“…You’re weirdly attentive.”

You tilt your head.

“Is that bad?”

He bursts into laughter. “Nah! It’s kinda amazing actually! Finally, someone appreciates the artistry!”

And that’s when something shifts.

Because when August praises something—he values it.

And when he values something—he keeps it close.

One night, he works too late.

The workshop is quiet. Too quiet.

He stretches, groaning dramatically. “Ughhh, I need coffee or I’ll die.”

A cup appears beside him.

Perfectly timed.

Perfect temperature.

He looks over slowly.

You’re already watching him.

“You’ll collapse if you don’t take care of yourself,” you murmur.

There’s something in your voice.

Something tight.

Something protective.

Something possessive.

For the first time… August feels it.

The intensity.

The way your eyes don’t blink when you look at him.

Not admiration.

Not just love.

Ownership.

He should feel uneasy.

But instead—

He grins.

Slowly.

“…You’re interesting,” he says, leaning forward, resting his chin in his hand. “You look at me like I’m your masterpiece.”

You step closer.

“You are.”

Silence fills the room.

The air buzzes.

August laughs again—louder than usual—but there’s curiosity underneath it now.

“Then what are you planning to do with your masterpiece?”

Your smile doesn’t waver.

“Protect it.”

From that day on, August starts watching you too.

He notices how others keep their distance.

How problems mysteriously solve themselves around him.

How anyone who insults him suddenly regrets it.

And instead of confronting you…

He starts designing something new.

A mask.

Custom fit.

Beautiful. Intricate.

Made specifically for you.

When he hands it to you, his grin is sharp.

“If you’re gonna guard me like some obsessed guardian spirit,” he says, eyes gleaming, “you might as well look the part.”

You accept it like a sacred offering.

And for the first time—

August doesn’t look like the mad scientist.

You do.

━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

☁︎ ♡ Enjin ♡ ☁︎

Night settles in uneven layers.

The kind that makes every sound feel louder than it should be—footsteps echoing too long, shadows stretching where they don’t belong, your own thoughts turning against you the moment the lights dim.

You know it’s not real.

You always know that.

That doesn’t stop your chest from tightening.

You’re halfway through convincing yourself that you’re fine—really, totally fine—when Enjin notices the way you’ve gone still. Too still. Like you’re listening for something no one else can hear.

“Hey,” he says lightly, leaning against the doorway. “You disappear on me or are you just thinking really hard?”

You blink, then blink again. The room snaps back into focus, but the unease doesn’t fully leave.

“I’m okay,” you reply automatically.

Enjin doesn’t call you out on it. He never does.

Instead, he steps closer—not crowding, just present. Close enough that you can see the familiar scuffs on his gloves, the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. Real things. Grounded things.

“Cool,” he says. “Then I’m gonna sit here anyway.”

He drops down beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, back against the wall, legs stretched out. No questions. No pressure. Just company.

Minutes pass.

The silence doesn’t feel sharp anymore.

When your gaze flicks toward the darker corner of the room—again—Enjin notices. Of course he does.

“Wanna do something?” he asks casually. “Talk. Not talk. Count stupid stuff. Whatever works.”

You hesitate. Then, quietly, “Can you… stay for a bit?”

He smiles, small and warm. “Yeah. That was already the plan.”

He starts talking—not about anything important. Just stories. Half-finished jokes. Things that happened during the day. His voice stays steady, even, like he’s anchoring the room in place.

Every so often, he checks in without making it obvious.

“You breathing okay?”

“You with me?”

“Still here?”

Each time, you nod. Each time, the tightness eases just a little more.

When the paranoia finally loosens its grip, it doesn’t vanish all at once. It fades slowly, like fog lifting when you weren’t watching.

You don’t even realize you’ve relaxed until Enjin gently bumps his shoulder against yours.

“There you are,” he murmurs. “Welcome back.”

You huff a small laugh. “You make it look easy.”

He shrugs. “Nah. I just stick around long enough for it to pass.”

And that’s the thing—he doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t treat your fear like something inconvenient or fragile. Just something that exists, and eventually moves on.

When the night grows quieter, safer, you realize you’re no longer listening for danger.

You’re listening to him breathe.

And for once, that’s enough.

☁︎ ♡ Rudo ♡ ☁︎

Rudo notices before you say anything.

It’s in the way your steps slow. In how your eyes keep darting to corners that don’t make sense. In the way your hands curl into themselves like you’re bracing for something that hasn’t happened.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself it’s just your head being loud again.

Rudo stops walking.

You almost bump into him.

“Hey,” he says, turning around fully now. His voice isn’t sharp—just firm. “What are you looking for?”

You hesitate then shrug. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you. He also doesn’t push.

Instead, he steps closer and deliberately places himself where you can see him. Solid. Real. Blocking your view of the empty space behind him.

“Then look at me,” he says simply.

You do.

Rudo’s expression is serious, but not angry. Focused, like he’s assessing damage—not to scold, but to protect. He looks at you.

“Is it loud?” he asks.

That makes you tighten your hands.

You nod, small.

“Okay,” he says immediately. No hesitation. “We’re stopping.”

“But—”

“I don’t care,” he cuts in, but there’s no heat behind it. “Nothing’s more important than you being okay.”

He sits down right there, rough ground and all, then pats the spot beside him. When you hesitate, he adds, quieter, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You sit.

The world still feels too big. Too watchful. Your thoughts spiral, trying to fill silence with worst-case scenarios.

Rudo fills it first.

“Five things you can see,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Five things,” he repeats, holding up his hand. “Start with me.”

You swallow. “You.”

“Good,” he says. “Next.”

You list them slowly. His boots. The cracked wall. A piece of trash caught in the wind. The light overhead.

Your breathing starts to even out without you realizing it.

Rudo stays quiet, except when you falter—then he nudges you back, steady and patient.

When you finally stop shaking, he relaxes too. Just a fraction.

“You’re safe,” he says, like it’s a fact. “I’d know if you weren’t.”

You glance at him. “You can’t know that..”

He meets your gaze without flinching. “I know enough.”

There’s something fierce in the way he says it. Not possessive. Not dramatic. Just certain.

Rudo shifts closer—not touching, but close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his arm.

“If it starts again,” he adds, quieter now, “you tell me. You don’t have to deal with it alone.”

You nod.

The paranoia doesn’t vanish. It never does. But it loosens, slowly, when you realize Rudo is still there. Watching the space around you so you don’t have to.

When you finally stand, steadier than before, he stands too.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. And for once, you mean it.

Rudo stays at your side as you walk—not in front, not behind.

Right where you can see him.

☁︎ ♡ Zanka ♡ ☁︎

Zanka notices when you start lagging behind.

At first, he thinks you’re just tired. That’s normal. Everyone gets tired. But then he hears it—the change in your breathing. Too shallow. Too fast. Like you’re bracing for something that hasn’t shown itself.

He clicks his tongue softly.

“Oi,” he says, glancing back. “You good?”

You nod too quickly.

That’s when he knows you’re not.

Zanka slows his pace until he’s walking beside you. He doesn’t look at you directly—not yet. He knows better than to corner someone when their head’s already spiraling.

“You keep checking behind us,” he says casually. “If you saw something, you’d tell me. Right?”

You hesitate.

“…I think so.”

He exhales through his nose. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Zanka stops abruptly and turns around, scanning the area with exaggerated thoroughness. He makes a show of it—hands on hips, eyes narrowed, posture confident. Like he wants whatever’s bothering you to know it picked the wrong day.

“Nothing,” he announces. “Not even trash moving wrong.”

You swallow. “What if I missed it?”

Zanka turns back to you, expression serious now—but not annoyed. Focused.

“Then that’s my job,” he says. “You don’t need to catch everything.”

You look at him. “But what if—”

He cuts you off gently. “No.”

The firmness in his voice snaps something in your thoughts. Not harsh. Just decisive.

“You’re thinking yourself into a corner,” Zanka continues. “I do that too. Difference is, I’ve learned when to shut it down.”

He taps his temple. “Your head’s lying to you.”

You laugh weakly. “Feels real.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “That’s the worst part.”

Zanka takes a step closer—not crowding you, but close enough that you can’t pretend he’s not there. He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your level.

“Listen,” he says. “If something’s wrong, I’ll deal with it. If nothing’s wrong—which it is right now—you don’t need to punish yourself for feeling scared.”

Your shoulders tense. “I hate that I’m like this.”

He frowns immediately. “Don’t.”

When you look up, his expression is rough but sincere.

“Fear doesn’t make you weak. Ignoring it does.” He pauses, then adds, more awkwardly, “And you didn’t ignore it. You slowed down. That’s smart.”

You blink. “It is?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding once. “Means you know your limits.”

Zanka stands and gestures forward. “We’ll walk together. If it gets loud again, you say something. I won’t get annoyed. Promise.”

You hesitate, then nod.

As you walk, you notice something else—Zanka’s attention is outward now. Always scanning. Always alert. Like he’s taken the extra weight from your shoulders and decided to carry it himself.

After a while, you realize your chest doesn’t feel so tight anymore.

“…Thanks,” you murmur.

He scratches the back of his neck, clearly flustered by the gratitude. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

But he slows his steps anyway.

And when your thoughts try to spiral again, you catch sight of him beside you—solid, present, real.

Your head quiets.

Not because the fear disappears.

But because Zanka doesn’t let it win.

☁︎ ♡ Jabber ♡ ☁︎

You’re used to watching everything.

Corners first. Then hands. Then exits.

You count footsteps without realizing you’re doing it. Track shadows. Recheck things you already checked because what if you missed something?

It’s exhausting.

And Jabber notices immediately.

Not because you tell anyone. You don’t. You just go quiet. Still. Your eyes flick too often, linger too long. Your shoulders stay tight like you’re bracing for a hit that never comes.

He stops mid-step.

“Huh,” he says, head tilting. His grin doesn’t disappear—but it sharpens. Focuses. “You’re scared.”

You stiffen. “I’m not.”

He laughs once, short. “Yeah, you are. You’re just good at hiding it.”

That makes your pulse spike. You glance around, instinctively checking who might be listening.

Jabber’s already moved.

Not grabbing you. Not blocking you in. Just shifting so he’s suddenly at your side—close enough that his presence cuts off half your line of sight.

“You’re doing it again,” he says lightly. “Looking everywhere but where the problem actually is.”

You swallow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He taps his temple with one finger. “Up here.”

You expect him to push. To tease harder. To enjoy it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he lowers his voice. “Tell me what you think is about to happen.”

You hesitate. Your instincts scream don’t. Saying it out loud makes it real. Makes it dangerous.

“…Someone’s watching,” you mutter. “Or waiting. Or— I don’t know. Something’s wrong.”

Jabber hums thoughtfully. Not mocking. Considering.

Then—unexpectedly—he turns his head slowly, deliberately, scanning the area. Once. Twice. Thorough. Intentional.

When he looks back at you, his grin is gone.

“Nope,” he says. “Nothing.”

You tense. “You can’t know that.”

“I can,” he replies easily. “Because if someone were here, I’d feel it. And if they were strong enough to matter?”

His grin flickers back, feral and certain.

“They’d already be dead.”

You stare at him.

“That’s not reassuring,” you say weakly.

He shrugs. “It’s true.”

You exhale shakily despite yourself. Some of the tightness in your chest eases—not gone, but dulled.

Jabber notices.

“You trust me?” he asks suddenly.

The question catches you off guard. You blink. “…I don’t know.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

Then he does something strange.

He crouches in front of you—still close, but lower now, putting himself squarely in your line of sight. Forcing your attention forward instead of everywhere else.

“Okay,” he says. “Here’s the deal.”

You tense. “What deal?”

“You watch me,” he says simply. “If something happens, I’ll move first. If I don’t move?”

He leans in just enough that his eyes lock with yours.

“Then nothing’s wrong.”

You hesitate. “And if I still feel like something is?”

“Then you tell me,” he says. No teasing. “And we check together.”

That… wasn’t what you expected.

“…Why?” you ask quietly.

Jabber pauses. Just a fraction.

Then he grins—but this time it’s crooked, softer around the edges. “Because you’re interesting when you’re sharp. And paranoid you is very sharp.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I know,” he says cheerfully. “But it’s honest.”

Still—he stays crouched there. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t push you to calm down. Just waits until your breathing steadies on its own.

When you finally nod, he straightens. “Good.”

As the noise resumes around you, you notice something else.

He doesn’t circle you like prey.

He doesn’t crowd you.

He positions himself where you don’t have to watch everything anymore.

And when your eyes start to drift again, he flicks your forehead lightly.

“Hey,” he says. “Eyes on me.”

You look.

His grin is there—but his attention is steady. Unwavering.

“Relax,” he adds. “If the world’s gonna hit you?”

His gaze sharpens, fierce and certain.

“It’ll have to get through me first.”

Your paranoia doesn’t vanish.

But for the first time in a while—

It quiets.

━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

☁︎ ♡ Enjin ♡ ☁︎

Enjin notices before you ever say anything.

It’s not the obvious stuff—everyone runs hot some nights, everyone tosses and turns. It’s the way you stop lingering in shared spaces after dark. The way you peel layers off with a frustrated huff, then just sit there, staring like your body forgot how to settle itself.

“So,” he says one night, leaning in the doorway like he just wandered there by accident, “you always this glowy, or am I special?”

You groan, embarrassed, already reaching for aqn excuse. Stress. Bad sleep. It’s nothing.

“Uh-huh,” Enjin hums, unconvinced but not pressing. He never presses. Instead, he steps closer and drapes his jacket over your shoulders anyway—light fabric, worn soft. Not heavy enough to trap heat. Thoughtful. Annoyingly so.

“You don’t have to explain,” he adds, quieter now. “Just… don’t pretend you’re fine for my benefit. That’s exhausting.”

He helps in small, almost sneaky ways.

He cracks a window before bed without comment. Leaves cool water nearby like it just happened to be there. Sits with you on the floor when sleep won’t come, back against the wall, talking about nothing important—old missions, dumb rumors, theories that go nowhere—until your breathing slows without you realizing it.

And when the heat spikes and frustration hits, when you’re restless and tense and visibly uncomfortable, Enjin doesn’t hover.

He stays.

Close enough that you know he’s there. Far enough that you don’t feel watched.

“Hey,” he murmurs once, when you apologize for keeping him up. “You think I’d be here if I minded?”

A pause. Then, teasing again—but soft.

“Besides. I’ve handled worse than a stubborn body and a tired brain. You’re doing fine.”

Eventually, sleep comes—not perfect, not deep, but real. And when you wake hours later, the jacket is still there, slipped higher around your shoulders, and Enjin is gone like he never stayed at all.

Except… he left the window cracked.

And the light off.

And the door just barely open.

☁︎ ♡ Corvus ♡ ☁︎

Corvus doesn’t comment on it at first.

He notices, obviously. He always does. The way you sit up at night instead of lying down. The way you rub at your neck like you’re trying to escape your own skin. The way sleep keeps slipping past you like it knows it’s not welcome.

But Corvus isn’t the type to announce concern.

Instead, the room changes around you.

A blanket you don’t remember grabbing—thin, breathable. The heavy one is gone. A chair angled closer to the window. The lantern dimmed lower than usual. Quiet adjustments, like he’s tuning the space rather than you.

When the heat spikes and you let out a tired breath, Corvus speaks without looking over.

“Want the window open more?”

Not are you okay.

Not what’s wrong.

Just a choice.

You nod. He opens it. Cool air rolls in, slow and controlled, like he measured it first. He returns to where he was sitting, long legs folded, presence solid and calm.

Minutes pass.

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmur eventually, guilt creeping in.

Corvus hums softly. “I know.”

And that’s it. That’s his answer.

He keeps you grounded without touching you—counting breaths quietly when your restlessness spikes, offering water without a word, anchoring the room with his stillness. When you get up and pace, he doesn’t follow. When you sit again, he shifts just enough that you’re not alone.

At some point, frustration leaks out of you. You apologize—again—for being difficult, for being awake, for being this.

Corvus finally looks at you then.

“You’re not a problem,” he says simply. No softness added. No drama. Just fact. “You’re tired.”

Something in your chest loosens at that.

When sleep finally catches you, it’s uneven, half-light. But Corvus is still there when you drift—quiet as stone, eyes half-lidded, keeping watch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You wake later to find a note nearby. Short. Careful handwriting.

Didn’t want to wake you.

Water’s fresh. Window’s staying open.

Rest when you can.

No pressure.

No expectations.

Just space to breathe.

☁︎ ♡ Tamsy ♡ ☁︎

Tamsy notices before you do.

Before the restlessness settles in your limbs. Before the heat creeps up your spine and turns the night into something unbearable. Before you convince yourself you’re “fine” and just tired.

He notices the pattern.

The way your breathing shortens after midnight. The way you stop lying down altogether. The way your eyes unfocus—not sleepy, just overwhelmed, like your body is refusing to cooperate.

He doesn’t comment right away.

Tamsy never interrupts unless it’s necessary.

Instead, he adjusts his own behavior around you. Sits a little farther back so the air flows better. Opens a vent without explanation. Moves a stack of tools away from where you keep pacing, clearing space without drawing attention to it.

When the heat hits and you press your palm to your collarbone, Tamsy speaks softly from where he’s leaning.

“It’s happening again.”

Not a question.

You tense for half a second—then exhale. “Yeah.”

He nods once, like that confirms something he’s already been tracking.

“Sit,” he says, not commanding, just… certain. “Here. It’s cooler.”

You do. Because he’s right.

Tamsy doesn’t hover. He stays within reach but not in your space, eyes sharp, posture relaxed. He hands you water when your fingers twitch toward it but don’t quite move. He times it perfectly—never too soon, never late.

When you mutter an apology, embarrassed and exhausted, he tilts his head.

“For what?”

“For keeping you up.”

A pause.

“I chose to stay,” Tamsy replies. Calm. Unemotional. Absolute. “You don’t owe me comfort for that.”

The heat ebbs slowly. Unevenly. You grow quiet, thoughts fogging, eyelids heavy but resisting sleep like it’s a trap.

Tamsy notices that too.

“Don’t force it,” he murmurs. “Rest doesn’t have to mean sleeping.”

He stays there while you drift in and out—never touching unless you reach first. When you do, your fingers catch the edge of his sleeve, barely there.

He doesn’t react.

Just lets you anchor yourself.

At some point, your breathing deepens for real. The heat fades into something manageable. When you finally sleep, it’s light—but it’s sleep.

Tamsy watches for a long moment before standing.

He adjusts the room one last time. Leaves a note exactly where your eyes will land when you wake.

You stabilized around 2:14.

Drink the water. Don’t rush yourself.

I’ll be nearby.

No reassurance.

No false softness.

Just quiet certainty that someone noticed—and stayed.

━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

Before Zanka understood what leaving meant, he knew you as a constant.

You were there in rooms that smelled like dust and old wood, where adults spoke in careful tones and futures were arranged like chess pieces. You were introduced the same way every time—your name, his name, and then the word that made both of you sit straighter.

Fiancée.

Neither of you knew what that truly meant. Only that it came with expectations. With rules. With a sense of being watched.

But even as a child, Zanka noticed you in small ways.

The way you listened more than you spoke. The way your eyes lingered on instruments, anything that could be played and understood. The way you held yourself like you were afraid of being a burden, even then.

He didn’t call it a crush—not at that age. He just knew that when you smiled at him, brief and shy, his chest felt lighter. That when you were seated beside him, he felt… steadier. Like the room was less suffocating.

You never clung to him. Never leaned in too close.

That made him want to be closer.

Once, when you were both younger and restless, he gave you the instrument. Something small, something practical. He told himself it was nothing. Just a thing he didn’t need anymore.

But he remembers the way your eyes lit up—not dramatically, just quietly—as if he’d handed you proof that someone saw you.

“Thank you,” you’d said, sincere and soft.

He carried that sound with him longer than he realized.

As you grew older, that flicker of feeling changed shape.

It became something confusing. Something warm and terrifying. Zanka started to notice how you walked, how you focused when you were absorbed in thought. He noticed how you avoided eye contact when things got too emotional.

He wanted to protect that version of you.

But protection felt like a cage.

And Zanka, still a child himself, didn’t know how to stay without disappearing.

So when the pressure mounted—when the future stopped feeling like a path and started feeling like a trap—he ran.

He didn’t look back.

That was his greatest mistake.

When you figured out Zanka left, you were not surprised.

That’s the worst part.

You’d seen it coming in the way he grew restless. In how his gaze drifted toward the horizon instead of meeting yours. In how the future everyone talked about stopped including you, quietly, politely.

So when he’s gone—no explanation, no goodbye—you don’t scream.

You don’t chase him.

You just breathe through the familiar ache and tell yourself that this is how it always goes.

People leave.

You survive.

Trust fractures, but you stay standing.

Life after that is not gentle.

You learn how to protect yourself with distance, with control, with sharp edges no one gets close enough to touch. You learn that reliance is a risk and hope is expensive.

The instrument Zanka gave you becomes your anchor.

At first, it’s just practical—something to focus on, something that makes sense when people don’t. But over time, it becomes yours. Your skill sharpens. Your presence grows heavier. Your name starts to carry weight.

By the time you cross paths with the Cleaners, you are no longer the quiet child who sat beside him in soft silence.

You join them not because you trust them—but because you trust yourself.

And because survival doesn’t wait for closure.

You don’t expect to see Zanka again.

Not really.

So when you do, it feels like being struck somewhere old and unhealed.

He recognizes you immediately.

You can see it in the way his posture stiffens, the way his breath catches before he schools his expression into something guarded and neutral. He looks… different. Harder. Like someone who’s been worn down and rebuilt without softness.

“You—” he starts.

You don’t let him finish.

“Don’t,” you say flatly.

Your voice doesn’t shake. Your hands don’t tremble. You don’t give him anything.

Zanka deserves none of it.

From that point on, your dynamic is strained and brittle. Professional. Polite in the way people are when they’re standing on broken glass. You work alongside him because you have to, not because you want to.

And Zanka notices everything.

He notices that you don’t look at him unless necessary. That you never stand close. That you flinch—not outwardly, but inwardly—whenever he says your name.

He notices the instrument.

He recognizes it immediately.

That hurts more than anything.

He doesn’t bring it up.

Not yet.

Zanka tries to earn ground the only way he knows how.

through consistency.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand forgiveness. Doesn’t explain himself unprompted. He shows up early. Watches your blind spots. Covers you without comment during fights.

When you’re injured, he steps back and lets others help—because he knows you won’t accept it from him yet.

And when someone asks, casually, “You two know each other?”

Zanka answers before you can.

“We do,” he says evenly. “That’s all.”

It’s not an apology.

But it’s not a lie either.

The confrontation comes late.

Not in anger. Not in a dramatic explosion.

Just exhaustion.

You’re sitting alone, adjusting your instrument, when Zanka approaches slowly—like someone entering a space they know they don’t own anymore.

“You still have it,” he says.

You don’t look up. “It works.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Silence stretches.

Then, finally, you meet his eyes.

“You left,” you say simply. “That’s the beginning and end of it.”

Zanka swallows. “I know.”

“You don’t get to want my trust again just because you regret it.”

“I know,” he repeats. Softer.

He doesn’t make excuses. Doesn’t justify himself. He tells you the truth—not as a defense, but as a confession. Fear. Pressure. Running from a future he didn’t know how to carry.

None of it fixes what he broke.

And he knows that too.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says. “I just—wanted you to know I never forgot you.”

Your chest tightens despite yourself.

“That’s not enough,” you reply.

“I know."

Trust doesn’t return all at once.

It comes back in fragments.

In the way you stop tensing when he walks behind you.

In the way you let him stand closer during briefings.

In the way you don’t pull away when his hand steadies yours during a mission—just for a second too long.

Zanka never assumes.

Never takes.

Never rushes.

And when you finally speak—really speak—to him again, it’s not about the past.

It’s about now.

About who you are.

About who he’s trying to become.

You are not naïve enough to believe in promises the way you once did.

But you are strong enough to believe in effort.

And Zanka?

He spends every day proving that he understands the difference.

━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

☁︎ ♡ Enjin ♡ ☁︎

Karaoke night is supposed to be harmless.

Cheap microphones. Flickering lights. A screen that’s definitely a little off-sync. Someone—probably Zanka—already arguing about song choices like it’s a life-or-death mission.

Enjin, somehow, is thriving.

He lounges back on the couch like he owns the place, umbrella propped against the wall, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. He looks way too relaxed for someone who definitely volunteered everyone for this.

“You’re up,” he says, tapping the mic against your knee.

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve been quiet for, like, ten minutes,” he replies, grinning. “That’s suspicious. Means you’re either plotting something or terrified. Karaoke fixes both.”

“I didn’t agree to sing.”

“Didn’t say you did.” He tilts his head. “But you’re gonna.”

You stare at him. He stares back, utterly unbothered.

“…You’re the worst.”

“Wow,” Enjin says, hand to his chest. “I prefer ‘encouraging.’”

Before you can protest, the screen changes. Your song. Somehow already queued.

You whip around. “Did you—”

“Trust the process,” he says cheerfully. “Also, you hum this one when you think no one’s listening.”

Your soul briefly leaves your body.

The music starts. You hesitate, mic heavy in your hand. The room is loud—laughter, chatter, someone absolutely butchering the backing vocals—but it still feels like all eyes are on you.

Then Enjin stands.

Not beside you. Not too close. Just close enough.

He leans in, stage-whispering, “Relax. It’s not a performance. It’s just noise with confidence.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“It does if you believe me.”

You start softly. Barely audible. But you keep going.

Halfway through, Enjin joins in—off-key on purpose, exaggerated, dramatic. He throws an arm in the air like he’s on a stadium stage, absolutely committing to the bit.

People laugh. The pressure breaks.

You laugh too—and your voice gets stronger.

When the song ends, there’s applause. Someone cheers. Someone demands an encore.

You exhale, heart racing.

Enjin hands you a drink like it’s a medal. “See? Still alive.”

“…You planned that,” you accuse.

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You didn’t even sing seriously.”

“Hey,” he says, mock-offended. “I sang emotionally.”

You snort despite yourself.

Later, when you’re back on the couch and the mic has passed on, Enjin nudges your shoulder with his knee.

“You did good,” he says, quieter now. No teasing. Just honest.

You glance at him. “You always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Push people into things they don’t think they can handle.”

He hums, thinking. “I don’t push. I just… stand close enough that they don’t feel alone when they step forward.”

You don’t reply—but you don’t move away either.

Enjin grins, satisfied, and immediately ruins the moment by grabbing the mic again.

“Alright!” he announces. “Who’s ready to hear me absolutely destroy this next song?”

The room groans.

You smile anyway.

☁︎ ♡ Tamsy ♡ ☁︎

Karaoke night is loud.

Too loud.

The room buzzes with overlapping voices, laughter bouncing off the walls, music bleeding into conversations. Someone’s already shouting over the mic, someone else is clapping wildly off-beat. It’s chaos—harmless, noisy chaos.

Tamsy sits beside you, perfectly calm.

Not relaxed. Not bored.

Observant.

You notice it when you reach for a drink and realize he’s already slid it closer. When the song changes and he shifts just enough that the speaker isn’t directly blasting your ear anymore. Small things. Thoughtful things.

“You don’t like crowds,” he says casually, not looking at you.

You blink. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

The mic gets passed around. Names are shouted. Someone tries to hand it to you.

Before you can refuse, Tamsy speaks.

“They’re tired,” he says pleasantly. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just… certain.

The mic moves on without question.

You glance at him. “I could’ve said no.”

“I know,” he replies. “But you hesitate. People tend to fill that silence for you.”

There’s no accusation in his voice. Just observation.

A new song starts—slower this time. Softer. One you hum sometimes without realizing. You feel it before you hear it fully, the familiarity settling in your chest.

Tamsy tilts his head. “You like this one.”

“…Maybe.”

He stands smoothly, reaching for the mic. The room cheers—Tamsy has that effect, even when he doesn’t try. He doesn’t look back at you as he speaks.

“This one’s not for performance,” he says lightly. “Just background.”

Then—unexpectedly—he holds the mic out to you.

Not pushing it into your hands.

Just… offering.

“No pressure,” he adds. “We can sit back down.”

The room feels farther away now. The noise dulls. Your attention narrows to the mic. To him. To the way he’s watching you—not eagerly, not expectantly—but patiently.

You take it.

You don’t sing loudly. You don’t even stand. You stay seated, voice low, almost lost beneath the music.

Tamsy joins in just enough to support—not to overpower. His voice is steady, measured, blending instead of leading. He watches the room while you sing, subtly angling himself between you and the louder side of the crowd.

When the song ends, there’s applause. More than you expected.

You hand the mic back, heart racing.

Tamsy sits again like nothing happened.

“You did well,” he says.

“…You calculated that.”

He smiles faintly. “I noticed an opportunity.”

“To what?”

“To let you be heard without forcing you to ask for it.”

You don’t know how to respond to that.

The night goes on. You don’t sing again—but you don’t shrink either. When someone raises their voice too close, Tamsy redirects the conversation. When the music gets too loud, he suggests a break. It’s seamless. Almost invisible.

Later, as the room empties, you finally ask, “Why do you pay so much attention?”

He pauses. Just a second.

“Because most people don’t,” he answers simply. “And you’re easy to overlook if someone isn’t trying.”

The way he says it isn’t comforting.

But it isn’t cruel either.

It’s just… honest.

When you leave, you realize you were never overwhelmed once that night.

And you’re not sure when that stopped feeling like a coincidence.

☁︎ ♡ August ♡ ☁︎

August treats karaoke like a battlefield he’s already decided to win.

The second the mic is free, he grabs it with a grin that promises chaos. “This one’s for the people in the back,” he announces—despite the fact that everyone is already looking at him.

Including you.

He sings far too loud. Too fast. Off-key in a way that’s almost impressive. He gestures wildly, puts his whole body into it, and somehow still finds time to glance your way mid-verse, eyebrows lifting like he’s checking to see if you’re watching.

You are.

Halfway through the song, he starts laughing at himself, missing a line completely before recovering with even more volume. Instead of being embarrassed, he owns it—voice cracking, confidence intact.

When he finishes, he bows dramatically. The room erupts in mixed applause and laughter.

August hops down from the little stage and heads straight for you.

“Well?” he asks, breathless, eyes bright. “On a scale from one to legendary?”

You tease him. “That was… definitely something.”

He gasps, clutching his chest. “Cruel. Absolutely cruel.” Then he grins, leaning closer—not crowding, just close enough that you can hear him over the noise. “But you smiled. So I’ll take it.”

When it’s your turn, he’s suddenly right there—front row, cheering way too hard.

“That’s it!” he shouts. “Yeah! That note was perfect—no, don’t listen to them, they’re wrong—SING IT!”

If you hesitate, he flashes you a thumbs-up. If you mess up, he laughs—not at you, but with you. Like it’s all part of the fun.

Later, when the night winds down and the energy softens, August sits beside you, mic resting loosely in his hand.

“You know,” he says casually, eyes forward, “I don’t usually like karaoke.”

You look at him. “You just yelled for three minutes straight.”

“Yeah,” he admits. Then, quieter, with a sideways glance and a small smile, “but it’s better when you’re here.”

It’s not dramatic. He doesn’t make a big deal of it.

Just loud enough for you to hear.

☁︎ ♡ Jabber ♡ ☁︎

Karaoke is a terrible idea.

That’s the first thought that crosses your mind when Jabber grabs the microphone.

The second is: Oh no. He’s smiling.

Not a normal smile. The wide, feral grin he wears right before a fight—the one that says he’s already enjoying himself far too much. The room seems to tense instinctively, like everyone can feel that something unhinged is about to happen.

“This thing work?” Jabber asks, tapping the mic once.

It screeches. Loud. Painful.

He laughs. Loud. Delighted.

“Perfect.”

The music starts, and immediately it’s obvious: Jabber does not sing.

He attacks the song.

He shouts the lyrics with full confidence, voice rough and wild, completely ignoring the melody. He’s off-beat, off-key, and having the time of his life. He paces the small stage like it’s an arena, gesturing dramatically, eyes burning with the same intensity he brings into battle.

And somehow—unfairly—he keeps looking at you.

Every time the chorus hits, his gaze snaps right to where you’re sitting. Like he’s singing at you. For you. Like this ridiculous performance is some kind of challenge.

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

Jabber sees it—and his grin sharpens.

That’s all the encouragement he needs.

He leans into the next verse even harder, voice cracking, missing half the words and replacing them with improvised noise. When the song finally ends, the room erupts in a mix of laughter, applause, and disbelief.

Jabber bows exaggeratedly.

Then he hops off the stage and stalks straight toward you.

“Well?” he asks, looming a little too close, eyes bright and searching. “Did I win?”

“At… karaoke?” you ask.

He shrugs. “At getting your attention.”

You blink.

Then smile. “You were amazing.”

He laughs, pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

That seems to do something to him.

When it’s your turn to sing, Jabber doesn’t sit still for a second. He paces near the stage, arms crossed, eyes locked on you with startling focus. When you stumble over a lyric, he scoffs—not mocking, but offended on your behalf.

“Hey,” he mutters. “You got this.”

If you push through, he grins. If you mess up and laugh, he laughs too—sharp and proud, like watching someone he respects take a hit and get back up.

Afterward, he hands you a drink, fingers brushing yours briefly. “You didn’t back down,” he says. “I like that.”

The noise fades later in the night. People drift away. Songs blur together.

You find Jabber sitting beside you, quieter now, still buzzing with leftover energy.

“Didn’t think you’d enjoy this,” you say.

He glances at you, expression unreadable for a second. Then smirks. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy you enjoying it.”

You choke on a laugh.

He leans back, arms behind his head, eyes half-lidded but still watching you. “You’re fun,” he adds casually. “Different. Strong.”

Your chest tightens—not from fear, but from the strange warmth in his tone.

Karaoke night was a bad idea.

But somehow, sitting beside Jabber Wonger, it feels like the kind of chaos you don’t mind stepping into again.

━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

Being one of Gojo Satoru’s students was… intense.

Not because of curses or danger—those became routine faster than you expected. It was Gojo himself that made your days feel bigger than the lessons, louder than the missions, brighter than the sun. Standing beside him was like standing next to a storm of energy—warm, impossible to ignore, and slightly reckless.

You were shy. Reserved. Careful. Observant. You spoke when necessary, listened always, and tried your best not to be noticed… though Gojo had other plans.

At first, you thought his attention was random. A joke here, a flick of the forehead there.

“Hey, you’re spacing out again,” he’d say, lightly flicking your forehead with two fingers. “Earth to you~”

You flinched every time—not because it hurt, but because the sudden notice startled you.

Weeks turned into months. Slowly, it became clear: he noticed everything about you.

How your cursed energy fluctuated when you were nervous. How you lingered behind after missions, replaying mistakes silently. How you hesitated before stepping forward, as if afraid of taking up too much space.

One evening, after a particularly rough training session, you stayed behind longer than anyone else, moving through the empty grounds quietly.

“You’re gonna wear a hole into the floor if you keep pacing like that,” Gojo said from a few meters away, hands casually in his pockets, blindfold tilted up slightly.

You spun around, heart racing. “S-sorry! I didn’t—”

“Whoa, whoa,” he raised a hand. “Not mad. Just… curious.”

Talking about your feelings didn’t come easily—especially not to him. But there was no teasing this time. Only calm. Steady. Grounded.

“…I messed up today,” you whispered. “I froze.”

Gojo tilted his head, crouching slightly to meet your level. “You adapted after.”

“But I shouldn’t have frozen at all.”

“That’s not how growth works,” he said simply, shaking his head with a small grin. “I freeze all the time too… just in ways you can’t see.”

You looked up at him, startled. For once, he wasn’t untouchable, impossible, or blindingly bright. He was just… real.

“You’re measuring yourself against the wrong standard,” he continued. “You’re not supposed to be me. You’re supposed to be you—better than yesterday, a little stronger tomorrow.”

You swallowed. “I don’t feel strong.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, “because you don’t see yourself the way I do.”

From then on, things began to shift.

Gojo started pairing training sessions with you one-on-one—not because you were weak, but because he saw your potential. He pushed you carefully, corrected mistakes, praised wins, and made sure you always knew your effort mattered.

“You’re allowed to take pride in this you know,” he told you once after nailing a particularly tricky move. “Confidence isn’t arrogance.”

Slowly, you began to trust him. Not blindly. Not fully yet—but enough to let your guard down just a little. Your movements became more deliberate, your decisions more certain, your energy steadier.

And Gojo? He became quieter around you.

Not distant—intentional. Thoughtful. Checking in after missions, making sure you ate, teasing gently without ever being cruel. When others accused him of favoring you, he shut it down flatly.

“They work hard,” he said. “That’s it.”

One day, after a long afternoon of training, you finally said it. “…Thank you. For not giving up on me.”

Gojo blinked, surprised for once, before grinning. “Giving up? I never even considered it.”

You smiled back, small but genuine. And for the first time, you believed him.

━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

☁︎ ♡ Enjin ♡ ☁︎

Enjin learns very quickly that giving you tools is a mistake.

It starts innocently enough. You find a half-functional piece of scrap—gears bent, core cracked, humming faintly—and your eyes light up like you’ve just discovered fire.

“Oh. Oh this is interesting,” you say, already crouching. “Okay, so if the resonance frequency is still intact, then theoretically—”

Enjin crouches beside you, umbreaker resting against his shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

You don’t notice.

“If I realign the torque distribution and reroute the energy flow, I could probably stabilize it long enough to—wait, do you know how electromagnetic induction works?”

Enjin blinks. “I know it sounds dangerous.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He grins. “Then yes.”

You launch into a full explanation anyway.

Hands moving, voice quickening, words tumbling over each other as you ramble about circuits, leverage systems, old-world mechanics, and how technically this scrap shouldn’t even still function but it does and isn’t that cool?

Enjin watches you like he’s witnessing a natural disaster in real time.

“…Wow,” he mutters. “You get like this a lot?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even breathe.”

“I’m breathing conceptually.”

He laughs, loud and easy. “You’re incredible.”

That’s when he realizes: you’re not reckless. You’re brilliant. And once you get going, nothing short of the apocalypse will shut you up.

From then on, Enjin becomes your unofficial handler.

Not because you need one—because someone has to stop you from dismantling half the no man's land out of curiosity.

He leans against walls while you talk. Interrupts gently when you’re about to test something definitely unstable. Teases you mercilessly when you start rambling.

“Okay, professor,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly with the tip of umbreaker. “Explain it again, but pretend I’m dumb.”

“You are dumb.”

“Ouch.”

“But you listen,” you add, absently.

That makes him smile wider than usual.

Sometimes he’ll deliberately poke you just to get you started. Ask the wrong question. Say something blatantly incorrect.

You fall for it every time.

“No, that’s not how it works—oh my god, Enjin, that’s basic physics.”

He hums. “Uh-huh. Keep going.”

He hovers when you’re too focused. Stands a little too close when you’re tinkering. Steps in when your excitement overrides your self-preservation.

You call him out on it once.

“You’re hovering again.”

“I’m supervising.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“Too late,” he says lightly. “Already invested.”

And when you finally burn yourself out—brain fried, words slowing, hands trembling from overuse—Enjin is the one who notices first.

“Alright,” he says gently, nudging you with umbreaker. “Science time’s over.”

“I’m not done.”

“You’re blinking at half speed.”

“…Rude.”

He laughs, then offers you water. “C’mon. Even geniuses need breaks.”

You take it. Because somehow, without realizing it, you trust him to know when to pull you back.

And Enjin?

He pretends he’s just amused.

But really—he’s proud. And a little in awe.

Just don’t tell him you noticed.

☁︎ ♡ Zanka ♡ ☁︎

Zanka realizes the problem a little too late.

You’re not just smart.

You’re one of those people.

The kind that lights up when a problem is put in front of them. The kind that figures things out faster than he likes. The kind that other people start staring at when you talk—leaning in, impressed, nodding along like they understand even half of what you’re saying.

He hates that.

Not you. Never you.

Just… the way people’s eyes follow you.

The first time someone openly calls you a genius, Zanka scoffs so loudly it echoes.

“Tch. Genius,” he mutters. “Overusing the word.”

You, of course, don’t even notice. You’re too busy kneeling on the ground, happily rambling about energy transfer and why the mechanism failed in the first place.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Because you’re not showing off. You’re not trying to impress anyone. You’re just happy. Curious. Bright in a way that feels unfair.

When others start asking you questions—real questions—Zanka’s jaw tightens. He hates how easily you answer. Hates how confident you sound. Hates how natural it all is.

He steps closer without realizing it.

Arms crossed. Presence heavy. Protective.

“Step back, before I make ya.” he says sharply when someone interrupts you mid-explanation.

You glance up at him, surprised. “Oh—sorry, was I rambling again?”

“…Yeah,” he says, then adds, quieter, “But it’s useful.”

Later, when it’s just the two of you, he finally lets it slip.

“ya don’t have to explain everything,” he says, eyes averted. “Not everyone deserves your brain.”

You laugh. “That’s a little harsh.”

“Ya? So is calling you a genius like it’s some trophy they get to hold,” he snaps—then pauses, scowling. “They don’t know what that actually costs.”

That’s the thing.

Zanka doesn’t envy your intelligence the way others do. He envies how effortless it looks from the outside. He envies the way people admire you without seeing the hours, the obsession, the way your mind never really shuts off.

And gods, he hates that someone else might understand you before he does.

So he competes.

Not openly—never that—but quietly. He sharpens himself. Trains harder. Listens closer when you talk, even if he pretends he doesn’t care. He memorizes your terminology just so he can keep up.

When he finally corrects you on something—just a small thing—you freeze.

“…You were listening?”

He smirks, sharp and smug. “What, surprised? I’m not an idiot.”

Then, softer, almost gruff: “Just… don’t let it get to your head. You’re more than just what you know.”

And when someone else praises you again?

Zanka clicks his tongue and steps in beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re smart. But they’re mine. Back off.”

You don’t miss the way his ears burn red when he says it.

☁︎ ♡ Rudo ♡ ☁︎

Rudo doesn’t understand half of what you’re saying.

But.

He understands you.

You’ll be crouched over scrap, hands moving fast as your thoughts tumble out—talking about mechanisms, materials, why something should work even if it doesn’t yet. Your voice speeds up when you’re excited. Your hands start drawing shapes in the air.

Rudo watches. Listens.

Not because he gets the science—he doesn’t—but because he gets the care in it. The way you treat broken things like they deserve patience. Like they can still become something useful.

Like him..

“That’s… cool,” he says once, scratching his cheek. “I didn’t know you could think like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“…Like you see the inside of things.”

It’s the nicest compliment he can come up with.

When others tease you for rambling, Rudo frowns immediately. He steps closer, voice firm without being loud.

“They’re explaining something important,” he says. “Let them finish.”

You glance up, startled. He avoids your eyes, but he doesn’t move away.

Rudo likes being near when you work. He’ll pass you tools without being asked. Hold things steady. Sit quietly nearby while you mutter calculations under your breath.

If your hands start shaking from exhaustion, he notices instantly.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Take a break.”

“I’m almost done—”

“You say that every time.”

He doesn’t argue. He just takes the tool from your hand and sets it down, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Rudo never calls you a genius.

Not because he doesn’t think you are—but because to him, that word feels distant. Too shiny. Too far away from who you really are.

Instead, he says things like: “You’re

amazing.”

“You always figure it out.”

“I trust you.”

And when something fails—when your idea doesn’t work the first time and your shoulders slump—Rudo crouches beside you.

“It’s okay,” he says, solid and sincere. “Even strong things break. That doesn’t mean they’re useless.”

You look at him, surprised. “…That’s kind of poetic.”

He shrugs, embarrassed. “I just know how it feels.”

If anyone tries to take credit for your work, Rudo bristles.

“That was their idea,” he says, sharp enough to cut. “All of it.”

No hesitation. No doubts.

To Rudo, your mind is like the trash he loves—discarded by others, misunderstood, but full of potential if someone just takes the time to look closer.

And he does.

Every time.

☁︎ ♡ Tamsy ♡ ☁︎

Because you’re his big sister, and he knows better than anyone that what’s overlooked is often the most valuable.

Tamsy understands exactly how smart you are.

That’s the problem.

From the moment you start rambling—about mechanics, formulas, theories held together by scrap and hope—he clocks it. Not just that you’re intelligent, but how you think. The patterns. The leaps. The way you arrive at conclusions without announcing the steps.

He doesn’t interrupt.

He watches.

You’ll be explaining something animatedly to the group, hands moving, eyes bright, words tripping over each other. Someone zones out halfway through. Someone else cuts you off.

Tamsy tilts his head.

“…Let them finish,” he says calmly.

The room quiets.

You glance at him, surprised. He gives you a small nod, like go on.

Later, when you’re hunched over a half-built mechanism, muttering calculations under your breath, Tamsy appears beside you without warning. He doesn’t ask questions right away. He waits until you pause.

“That gear won’t hold,” he says mildly. “The stress point’s wrong.”

You freeze. “…I didn’t tell anyone that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he replies. “You hesitated when you tightened it.”

That’s Tamsy in a nutshell—terrifyingly attentive.

He has a habit of hovering just out of reach when you work. Not touching. Not interfering. Just close enough to intervene if something goes wrong. Close enough that you don’t feel alone, even when you’re deep in your own head.

When your excitement turns into exhaustion, he notices immediately.

Your voice drops half an octave. Your movements slow. Your thoughts start looping.

“You’re tired,” he says softly.

“I’m fine,”

you lie.

He hums, unconvinced. A moment later, he slides a stool closer with his foot. Sets water within reach. Adjusts the light so it’s easier on your eyes.

He never says rest outright.

He just makes it inevitable.

If someone mocks you for being a “genius,” Tamsy’s expression goes flat.

“Intelligence isn’t a flaw,” he says evenly. “It’s only inconvenient for people who don’t want to keep up.”

That shuts them up fast.

What’s unsettling—comforting—is how safe he makes your mind feel. Like your thoughts won’t be stolen, dismissed, or twisted around you while he’s nearby.

When a project fails and you go quiet, staring at the wreckage like it personally betrayed you, Tamsy crouches beside you.

“Failure doesn’t mean you were wrong,” he says. “It means you were close.”

You look at him. “…You really think so?”

He meets your gaze, steady and sure. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

And that’s the thing about Tamsy.

He never exaggerates. Never flatters. Never lies.

At least to you.

If he believes in you—it’s because he’s already measured you, tested the idea of you in his head, and decided you’re worth trusting.

And once you have that?

He doesn’t let go.

━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓