#eisha x reader

☁︎ ♡ Tamsy ♡ ☁︎

Tamsy realizes you’re drunk when you start talking through your steps like they require active calculation.

“Okay—one foot. Two foot. Why is the floor… angled?” you mutter, arms spread wide as if balance is a suggestion.

He watches from the table, posture relaxed, expression calm. You’re not reckless enough to hurt yourself. Just loose around the edges. Less guarded than usual.

“You seem relaxed,” he says amused.

You brighten. “I am. Drunk me is fearless. Drunk me doesn’t spiral over every possible consequence before doing anything.”

“That must be refreshing,” he replies, voice easy, agreeable.

You drop down beside him far too close, thigh pressing into his, shoulder knocking his arm. You don’t even notice. “You’re glowing tonight,” you inform him solemnly. “Like… morally. Or shiny. One of those.”

“Mm,” he hums. “I’ll take that.”

Then you peer at him, suddenly serious. “Don’t move.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“If you move,” you insist, poking his chest for emphasis, “the world tilts. So. Stay.”

Tamsy stays.

He lets you talk. That’s his favorite part.

You ramble about trivial things—food you crave, places you swear you’ll visit someday, how everyone is so rigid, so obsessed with rules and expectations. You complain about responsibility like it personally wronged you. About how thinking too much ruins everything.

“I think,” you say, waving an unsteady finger, “life would be better if people just stopped thinking so hard.”

Something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

But his voice stays gentle. “That’s dangerous thinking.”

You laugh it off. “You’re worrying again. You’re like the opposite of me right now.”

“Someone has to keep their head,” he answers calmly.

When you stand, it’s clearly a mistake. Your balance goes instantly. Tamsy’s already there, hands firm at your waist, stopping you before you fall.

“That’s enough,” he says calmly. Not sharp. Just final.

You scowl. “You’re mean.”

“Mm,” he hums, guiding you back down properly this time. He crouches in front of you so you’re eye level, voice still light. “You’re just tired.”

He studies you—not clinically, not obviously. Just enough.

“You’re very honest when you drink,” he says. “You say things you usually won't even think about.”

You blink. “That’s bad, right?”

“Not necessarily,” he replies. Then, after a pause, “It means you trust easily.”

You smile, unbothered. “People should be nice enough to deserve it. Like you.”

The smile he gives you is warm, reassuring. Exactly what you expect.

“I’ll take care of things tonight,” he says. “You don’t need to worry about anything.”

You yawn, leaning forward without thinking. “You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s true.”

He stays until your movements slow, until the restless energy drains out of you and your thoughts stop racing. Anyone watching would see a steady presence, patient and responsible, making sure you’re safe.

And when you finally relax enough to sleep, it feels natural—like you were always meant to let him handle it.

Only Tamsy knows how carefully each step was guided.

How easily you leaned when he gave you something steady.

And how satisfying it is to be trusted by someone who never realizes they’re being led.

Especially if that someone is clever—smart enough to notice patterns, to puzzle through things when sober, yet blissfully unaware when they’re not. To guide them so effortlessly in those moments, to have their confidence in you without question… it’s almost intoxicating.

Tamsy lets a small, almost imperceptible smile linger, watching the way you relax against him, thinking you’re making your own choices, when in reality every step was carefully nudged.

☁︎ ♡ Enjin ♡ ☁︎

Enjin realizes you’re drunk when you start applauding yourself.

Not for anything impressive. Just for successfully opening a door.

“There it is,” he says, grinning. “That’s the face. That’s the I’ve made terrible decisions face.”

You spin around, pointing at him dramatically. “Excuse you. I am making excellent decisions. I am relaxed. I am free. I am—”

You immediately trip over nothing.

Enjin catches you without looking, one arm around your waist like it’s muscle memory. He sighs, amused, not even a little surprised.

“See, this is why I worry,” he says. “You get all fearless and forget gravity exists.”

You laugh, leaning into him far too comfortably. “You’re hovering.”

“I am not hovering.”

“You are,” you insist. “You hover like a worried mom.”

He gasps dramatically.

“This is slander.”

He still doesn’t let go.

Drunk-you is a menace. You wander. You touch things you shouldn’t. You announce observations no one asked for. Normally, you’re sharp, sarcastic, composed. Now? You’re carefree to the point of recklessness, running on vibes alone.

Enjin trails you like a shadow.

He gently redirects you away from danger with a hand on your shoulder, a tug at your sleeve, an arm blocking your path like it just happened to be there. Every time you try to wander off, he’s already anticipating it.

“You don’t trust me,” you accuse.

“I trust you, the sober you” he says easily. “I just don’t trust drunk-you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Coward.”

He laughs, loud and bright. “Oh, I’m terrified.”

At one point, you flop down beside him and stare up at the ceiling.

“You’re very loud when you care,” you mumble.

He pauses.

“…Am I?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You pretend you’re chill, but you’re not. You’re like—protective loud.”

Enjin scratches the back of his head, embarrassed. “That obvious, huh?”

You nod, then yawn. “It’s nice.”

That gets him.

He softens without realizing it, voice dropping, movements gentler. He offers you water. You complain. He makes you drink it anyway. He sits close enough that you can lean on him, but not so close that it feels overwhelming.

When you start dozing off mid-sentence, Enjin laughs quietly and adjusts so you don’t slump awkwardly.

“Man,” he mutters fondly, “you’re gonna regret this tomorrow."

You hum, half-asleep. “Worth it.”

He watches you for a moment longer than necessary.

“Yeah,” Enjin says softly. “I’ll make sure it is.”

☁︎ ♡ Jabber ♡ ☁︎

You’re a mess. A loud, wobbling, unstoppable mess. Jabber notices the smell of alcohol first—then the way you stagger toward him, hiccupping and flailing your arms like you’re conducting an invisible orchestra.

He grins. Wide. Maniacal. That grin that usually comes out before he’s about to turn a fight into a bloodbath.

“Well,” he says, voice low and sharp, “if this isn’t… entertaining.”

You lunge at him dramatically, almost falling over. “I… I’m… amazing, right?” you slur.

“You’re a disaster,” he replies, circling you like a predator with a playful edge. “This is new and absolutely fucking chaotic. I love it.”

And here’s the part that makes your stomach lurch—he indulges it. He doesn’t scold you, doesn’t steady you. He pushes a little. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to test your balance, to make you stumble and squeal, arms flailing. He thrives on it, eyes alight with that unhinged energy you’ve come to find terrifying and thrilling.

“Careful,” he teases, one hand brushing against your arm, “or I might… get carried away.”

You blink at him, trying to form coherent words. “G-Get… what?”

“Mankira,” he whispers, smirking, activating the edge of his Vital Instrument just enough to shift the tension in the air, the weight of the room tilting like a sparring match. “Or maybe just a little chaos for fun.”

You gasp, wobble, and fall against him. He catches you effortlessly, though he doesn’t hold you still. He lets you flail, lets you laugh, lets you grab at him, squealing and hiccupping.

He laughs too. That loud, unhinged laugh, like a storm about to break. “This… this is perfect. You’re perfect.”

He’s indulgent, almost tender in his own violent way. You’re drunk, ridiculous, slurring nonsense—but he treats it like the most entertaining fight of his life. He bounces you lightly, spins you in a mock sparring motion, lets you hit him lightly (and he grins when it hurts, of course).

Eventually, you collapse into him, exhausted, hiccupping and sleepy. Jabber catches you in his arms, still grinning, still wild, but careful enough not to let you actually fall.

“You actually made it through,” he mutters, his voice softer now, a strange warmth threading through the usual chaos. “Took everything I threw at you… and didn’t die.”

You slump against him, hiccuping and mumbling nonsense, nuzzling into his chest without care. He shakes his head, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “You’re ridiculous… but somehow, I like it.”

Even in all his chaos, his violence, his unhinged energy—he’s letting you be messy, letting you fall into him without holding back. And for a brief, ridiculous moment, wrapped up in his arms, it actually feels… safe.

☁︎ ♡ Zanka ♡ ☁︎

Zanka thrives on control. He thrives on precision, on knowing the exact rhythm of every situation. And then you appear—wobbly, spilling your drink, giggling at nothing, slurring words with that chaotic charm that makes his sharp eyes twitch in equal parts exasperation and fascination.

“Careful,” he says, voice low and measured, hand darting out instinctively to catch you as you stagger sideways. You lean into him without thinking, giggling, your head tipped lazily.

“I said I’m fine,” you slur, but he just narrows his eyes, voice flat: “You’re not.” The words sound like a reprimand—but there’s heat in the way he holds you close, grounding you with firm fingers pressed to your side.

You press a sloppy kiss to his shoulder, muttering something incomprehensible. He stiffens for a fraction of a second, and you can feel him analyzing—trying to figure out the pattern in your chaos, even though there is none. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, voice deadpan, yet his fingers tighten slightly around your waist.

“Wait… are you… protecting me?” you ask, leaning your forehead against him. You’re drunk, yes, carefree and spilling over with warmth, but sober-you would have analyzed his stance, his body language, the subtle tension in his arms, the half-step back he takes when the balance shifts. Zanka grunts, sarcastic but quiet: “Don’t flatter yourself. I just… don’t want Enjin to scold me.”

He watches you sway, notices how your focus fractures, how your brain—usually razor-sharp, endlessly analytical—now fizzles in the haze of alcohol. And still, even as you flail, he lets you lean against him, tethering your momentum with slow, deliberate movements, steadying you in a way that’s intimate but not suffocating.

“You know,” he mutters, voice almost soft, almost grudging, “you’re ridiculous.” You laugh, loud and messy, and he tilts his head, brow furrowed, trying to process why he’s smiling. Because his mind is always running and right now… he can’t figure out why this makes him feel so… protective, so warm.

“You’re lucky,” he murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, voice quieter now, a mixture of sarcasm and sincerity. “…that I like this. That I like you.” The words come out clipped, controlled, but there’s heat in them, raw and quiet, and when you giggle and press closer, he lets a small, restrained smile slip.

“You’re insane,” he whispers, hand resting at your lower back, keeping you steady. “…And I’d rather deal with your chaos than let you go.”

For a moment, drunk-you and Zanka collide: your warmth, messy and unpredictable, his calm, sarcastic, inwardly turbulent nature. The world outside ceases to matter. He’s the anchor. You’re the storm. And somehow, it feels perfectly… right.

☁︎ ♡ Corvus ♡ ☁︎

Corvus notices everything—every flicker of movement, every subtle shift in your posture. And yet tonight, he’s utterly unprepared for the way you stumble into the room, cheeks flushed, words tumbling out in a nonsensical stream, eyes half-lidded with that lazy, carefree gaze.

“You’re… highly inefficient tonight,” he remarks dryly, arms crossed, though there’s a subtle tilt of his head, the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. You trip over your own foot and lean into him without thought, muttering, “I… totally got this.” He raises an eyebrow. “Totally,” he echoes, voice flat, though his hand moves automatically to steady you at the waist.

You hiccup and slur something sarcastic about the “evil cleaning duties,” and Corvus can’t help but exhale a quiet laugh—sharp, restrained, but unmistakable. There’s a rhythm to his movements, a careful anchoring that keeps you upright without ever smothering you.

He notices the way your normally sharp, calculating mind has softened into disarray, and for the first time, he allows himself to appreciate your chaos.

“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, voice low but teasing. “…And somehow, I don’t hate it.” You grin and press your forehead against his shoulder, mumbling incoherently. He sighs, a mixture of exasperation and affection, and his hand rests lightly on the back of your neck, tilting your head slightly, keeping you steady.

When you attempt to grab a nearby bottle, wobbly fingers missing entirely, Corvus intercepts it effortlessly. “Careful,” he says, tone clipped, but there’s warmth in his eyes—hard to detect if you weren’t looking closely. “I can’t have you breaking yourself over something so trivial.” You giggle, slurring, “I’m not… breaking!” and he suppresses a smile behind his calm, stoic mask.

He steps a little closer, wrapping an arm around your waist—firm, protective, precise—keeping you from swaying too far, letting you lean against him in a way that’s intimate but not overwhelming. Your head tips lazily against his shoulder, and he feels the faint heat radiating from you, the softness that only comes when your calculated defenses fall away.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, voice barely audible, a mix of sarcasm and affection. You laugh at him, loud and carefree, and he lets himself relax for a fraction of a second, letting the anchor he’s always been be just for you.

“You’re lucky,” he adds, tone clipped but warm. “…That I don’t let you wander off completely drunk.” You nuzzle into him, mumbling a sarcastic “Oh, such a hero,” and he can’t help the quiet smirk that tugs at his lips.

In that messy, drunk blur, Corvus is steady—calm, precise, unwavering—and right now you’re free, chaotic, warm. Together, it’s an imperfect balance of chaos and control, and somehow… it feels exactly like home.

☁︎ ♡ Zodyl ♡ ☁︎

Zodyl doesn’t usually lose his patience. Precision is his nature, control his mantra. But tonight… tonight is testing him.

You stumble into the room, heels at odd angles, hair disheveled, words tumbling out in a ridiculous, almost poetic slur. “Zod…yl… you… think the… chair likes me?” you ask, tipping dangerously backward.

He steps forward, hands out like a general corralling troops. “Careful,” he says, voice sharp, measured—but there’s a flicker of humor in his dark eyes. Catching your elbow, he steadies you with minimal effort. “I don’t think furniture has opinions.”

You blink up at him, a sloppy grin spreading across your face. “Liar… they… all have opinions,” you insist, wobbling slightly. He sighs softly, straightening you without a word. Even as he does, his fingers linger on your arm a fraction too long—protective, careful, like he’s anchoring you to the floor and to reality at the same time.

Zodyl watches your chaotic movements with a mix of mild exasperation and fascination. You’re reckless, laughing at your own hiccupping jokes, slurring observations about everything from the wallpaper pattern to the “secret intelligence” of his coat.

And while you’re careless and messy, he notices the subtleties he usually sees in your sober, analytical self—the way your brows crease when thinking, even under the influence; the twitch of your fingers when excitement strikes; the tiny smirk that betrays your humor.

“You’re absurd,” he mutters, though the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “…But I don't mind it.” He helps you sit down properly, hands firm on your shoulders, adjusting you until you’re not threatening to topple again. He doesn’t let go entirely, not because he thinks you can’t handle yourself, but because he refuses to let anything have the idea of harming you.

When you attempt to reach for another drink, he intercepts it casually, a raised brow demanding compliance without words. “No,” he says flatly, and you pout, hiccupping, “I… need… data,” and he can’t help but let out a quiet chuckle.

Leaning closer, Zodyl tilts your chin gently so your eyes meet his. “You’re lucky I'm her,” he murmurs softly, voice low, slight teasing, but with unmistakable care. You lean against him, muttering something unintelligible, and he lets a small smile slip.

In that moment, he’s all control and steadiness; you’re all wild, drunk, and chaotic. And somehow, it’s perfect. He doesn’t coddle you, doesn’t fuss unnecessarily—he guides, anchors, observes. And when you finally slump against him, giggling, hiccuping, he rests a hand lightly on your back, just enough to remind you that someone’s got you… always.

“Try not to topple over again,” he says, voice quiet, with the faintest smirk. “…Or I’ll make sure you pay for it.” You laugh, swaying in his steadied hold, and he allows it—because tonight, letting you be messy is part of the charm.

☁︎ ♡ Eishia ♡ ☁︎

You stumble through the quiet streets, the cool night brushing against your flushed cheeks, muttering incoherently about stars, heroes, and things that probably don’t exist. Somehow, you make it to Eishia’s little clinic, knocking on the door in a sloppy rhythm that’s half drumming, half desperate plea.

The door opens slowly, and there she is—Eishia Stilza, head bowed slightly, hands clutched in front of her, looking like she’s about to apologize for something she didn’t do. Her eyes widen when she takes in your wobbly figure. “Y-you…” she starts, voice soft, hesitant. “…you shouldn’t be out here at this time...”

“I… I… needed… you,” you slur, swaying and grinning at her like it’s the most profound confession in history. You nearly topple over, and she gasps softly, stepping forward to catch you before you crash into a stack of carefully folded cloths.

She guides you gently to a chair, fumbling slightly with the blanket she wraps around your shoulders. “Sit… carefully,” she whispers, almost more to herself than to you. You flop into the chair like it’s a throne, hiccuping loudly. “I… am… a queen,” you declare. Eishia snorts quietly, a rare, soft laugh, and adjusts the blanket around you again.

“Drink this,” she murmurs, handing over a cup of water. You take it upside down, sputtering, and she quickly grabs the cup back, gently tilting it until you finally drink without choking. She shakes her head, cheeks pink, but her eyes are soft with worry and fondness.

“I… love… you,” you mumble suddenly, leaning your head against her shoulder. Her whole body stiffens, a little flustered, and then she relaxes, letting out a quiet, almost inaudible laugh. “I… I love you too,” she whispers back, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

For the next few minutes, you babble nonsense—stars, constellations, why bread is secretly a hero—but she just listens. She smooths your hair, adjusts your blanket, and keeps you upright, her patience endless. There’s something grounding about her gentle presence, like a lighthouse in your chaotic, tipsy storm.

When your eyelids droop, finally surrendering to sleep, she lifts you gently into a bed, tucking you in as you mumble happily about your “adventures with Eishia.” She watches you for a while, smiling softly, whispering to herself, “You’re safe… I’ll always keep you safe.”

Even in your drunken mess, even in your careless, stumbling state, she feels that warmth swell in her chest. You’re chaotic, unpredictable, maybe even reckless—but you’re hers. And right now, that’s enough.

☁︎ ♡ Semiu ♡ ☁︎

The office was quiet—too quiet, until you stumbled in, half-drunk and unsteady, waving your arms like you were conducting some invisible orchestra. “Se… miu… strategy… stars… calculations… all wrong…” you mumbled, words slurring and looping back on themselves. You swayed on your feet, gestures grand, expression intense in a way only intoxication could produce.

Semiu raised one eyebrow, her usual calm, precise gaze settling on you. Normally, she’d listen to your sober analysis—careful, sharp, sarcastic insights that left her quietly impressed and occasionally exasperated. But this version of you? Completely different. Chaotic. Unpredictable. Ridiculous.

She set her pen down, folded her hands over the paperwork, and tilted her head slightly. “Sit,” she commanded, voice smooth, low, with that subtle authority that left no room for argument. You stumbled toward the chair, almost tripping, but she didn’t move to catch you—not immediately. Instead, her eyes followed every wobble, every stagger, every shallow breath.

You collapsed into the chair with a soft sigh, your head tilting toward her shoulder unconsciously. “Se… miu… the… monsters… plotting… math… evil…” you rambled, waving your hands and hiccuping dramatically. Semiu’s lips twitched, almost a smile. She let you talk, let you flail, letting your carefree, messy energy fill the space.

Then, carefully, she slid her arm behind your back, just enough to steady you without touching too much. Her other hand took the bottle from you before you could spill it, tilting it so you could sip properly. She didn’t lecture. She didn’t correct. She didn’t need to. Her calm presence alone grounded you.

“You’ll regret tomorrow,” she said softly, a note of amusement in her usually measured voice. “But for tonight… just stay.” Her sharp, analytical eyes softened as they traced the line of your jaw, the subtle tension in your shoulders, the flicker of vulnerability beneath the drunken chaos.

You hiccuped again, muttering something about “calculating trajectories of stars and monsters,” and Semiu let a small chuckle escape—rare, quiet, only for you. Her thumb brushed lightly against your hand. “Ridiculous,” she murmured, almost affectionately. “And somehow… I kind of like it.”

Even drunk and incoherent, Semiu could see the same analytical, stoic brilliance that defined your sober self—just tangled in a mess of carefree chaos. And she stayed, patient, protective, and quietly enchanted, letting you exist in this unguarded state.

━━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

It helps to bring her out of her shell a bit and she’s more comfortable talking with people when it’s related to her job.

You didn’t tell her to hurry up when her voice stuttered, you didn’t push her to speak when there were long stretches of silence between you, letting her choose your interactions on her own terms and with her own confidence.

Her self-esteem grows everyday with you.

And if she ever has a bad day you’re right there to assure her in her abilities.

You defend her if a patient or loved one of a patient or anyone really gets out of line and starts to question her nursing skills.

She appreciates your help and support more than she can ever tell you.

Overtime, she becomes more sure of herself and a more outspoken young woman. Sticking up for herself and actually starting conversations with other people outside of a professional capacity.

You help her grow not only as a person but as a nurse too. Since you’re more experienced, you’re always ready to help teach her more effective treatments or give a second opinion on a diagnosis.

She still makes mistakes of course but you’re there to gently correct her when she does.

One day you’re both prepping the infirmary in the morning and she walks up to you and gives you a tight hug.

With heartfelt tears in your eyes she thanks you for all that you’ve done for her.