#strawberylover

☁︎ ♡ Rudo ♡ ☁︎

You fall asleep everywhere. On the couch, on the floor, mid-conversation. Rudo pretends to be annoyed: “Do you ever stay awake?” but the moment you slump, he’s right there, gently guiding your head onto his shoulder or tugging a blanket over you.

When you get tired after even small tasks, he mutters under his breath, low and rough: “Damn it… sit down already.” He’ll do the work himself, grumbling the whole time, but never letting you push yourself.

He has a soft spot for your naps, though he’d never admit it. Sometimes he’ll lie next to you just to make sure you’re okay, hands tense at first, but slowly relaxing as he watches you sleep.

If you doze off on him, he freezes, careful not to wake you. He’ll stay like that for hours, letting you rest, muttering, “Don’t touch them,” if anyone else tries to disturb you.

Rudo notices the little things—how your eyelids droop, how your body slumps—and quietly adjusts his day around it. If you’re exhausted, he drags you somewhere safe, sometimes carrying you if you fight him.

On tense days, he finds calm in your sleep. Watching you, he smooths your hair back, whispers nonsense, and lets the world fall away. He wouldn’t call it affection—he’d call it “keeping you from being stupidly tired.”

When you wake up mid-nap panicked or groggy, he scowls at the world for letting you get so tired, then mutters a low apology for startling you, immediately wrapping you back up in blankets.

Sometimes, he catches himself smiling, just a little, thinking: “Worth every damn second of sleep.” And he hides it behind a gruff, “Hurry up and rest more,” like that explains everything.

☁︎ ♡ Tamsy ♡ ☁︎

Tamsy notices when you’re drained before anyone else does. Even a small slump or the tiniest yawn will catch his attention, and he’ll quietly make space for you to rest.

He has a way of making you feel safe without saying much. A blanket casually draped over your shoulders, a gentle nudge toward a chair, a calm hand steadying your balance—he doesn’t hover, but you feel cared for.

If you start dozing off in the middle of doing something, he’ll let you lean on him, steadying you with ease. He never teases, just watches your breathing slow, occasionally smoothing a stray hair or tucking the blanket closer.

Tamsy has a quiet, almost obsessive attentiveness. He notices how your fingers curl when you’re tired, how your head tilts when your body wants to rest, and adjusts small things around you to make it easier.

He speaks softly, almost absentmindedly, when you’re sleepy: “Rest. There’s no reason to fight it.” It’s calm, reassuring, but slightly unsettling in how focused he is on you.

Even when you stir or shift in your sleep, he doesn’t flinch. His hands hover close, steadying you when needed. He makes sure you’re comfortable without ever making it feel like a chore.

When you finally fall asleep fully, Tamsy stays nearby, quiet and composed. He doesn’t rush off; he observes the little rise and fall of your chest, ensuring that you’re safe—and somehow, it feels natural to let him do so.

He takes a strange satisfaction in your trust. Not the obvious “I’ll protect you” type—it’s quieter, meticulous. The small gestures, the calm presence, the way you relax around him—it all matters, even if he doesn’t say it.

Ta msy’s attention isn’t dramatic. He doesn’t need to speak loudly to show care. It’s in the subtle adjustments, the gentle guidance, the calm patience as he waits for you to rest.

☁︎ ♡ Enjin ♡ ☁︎

Enjin notices you’re tired the moment your pace slows. He doesn’t call it out right away—just casually adjusts to match you, like it’s no big deal.

He’ll tease you about it just enough to keep things light. “You always this sleepy, or am I just that exhausting to be around?” he says with a lazy grin, even as he casually hands you water or nudges you toward somewhere you can sit.

There’s no pressure in it. No judgment. He jokes, but he never rushes you. If anything, he matches your energy, staying close, steady, making sure you don’t feel like a burden for needing rest

He’s really good at pretending rest was his idea all along. “We’ve got time,” he says easily, already steering you toward somewhere comfortable. “Might as well take it slow.”

If you sit down and don’t get back up, Enjin doesn’t rush you. He leans nearby, arms crossed, keeping watch while you recharge. He’s relaxed—but alert.

You falling asleep around him doesn’t surprise him. If your head droops, he adjusts whatever you’re leaning on, making it easier without waking you. Smooth. Effortless.

He’s the type to drape a jacket over you and act like it’s nothing. If you thank him later, he just shrugs. “You looked cold. Or tired. Same difference.”

Enjin talks less when you’re sleepy. His voice drops, movements slow, like he’s matching your energy so you don’t feel rushed or pressured to keep up.

If someone tries to wake you unnecessarily, Enjin steps in calmly. “Let them rest,” he says, tone light—but firm enough that no one argues.

When you finally wake up, he doesn’t hover or interrogate you. Just gives you a small nod and asks, “Feel better?” like that’s all that matters.

There’s no pressure in it. No judgment. He jokes, but he never rushes you. If anything, he matches your energy, staying close, steady, making sure you don’t feel like a burden for needing rest.

To Enjin, taking care of you isn’t something worth commenting on—it’s just what you do when someone’s tired. Simple. Easy. Like it couldn’t be any other way.

☁︎ ♡ Jabber ♡ ☁︎

Jabber notices your exhaustion instantly. Not with worry — with sharp, excited interest. Slower reactions, heavier breathing, delayed responses. To him, it’s like watching a fight reach its turning point.

When you insist you’re fine, he grins wider. He loves that you try to push through it. “Still standing,” he remarks, tone pleased. “Good.”

He doesn’t help right away. Instead, he tests you — quick movements, sudden shifts, light nudges meant to throw you off balance. Never enough to hurt. Just enough to see how you recover.

Every time you stumble but stay upright, his grin grows. Exhaustion that doesn’t kill your will earns his respect.

If you finally give in and sit or lean, Jabber crouches nearby, watching closely. He doesn’t mock you for stopping — to him, knowing when you’ve hit your limit is part of strength.

When you’re too tired to keep yourself steady, he catches you without hesitation. His grip is firm, unyielding, more like stabilizing a sparring partner than offering comfort.

He doesn’t let you collapse completely at first. He waits to see if you’ll push back — and when you don’t, he accepts it with a sharp laugh. “That’s it,” he mutters.

Jabber lets you rest against him only after you’ve proven you won’t break easily. Letting you lean is his version of approval.

He doesn’t soften while you rest — but the chaos narrows, his attention fully locked on you. He stays close, making sure nothing interrupts your recovery.

To Jabber, sleep isn’t weakness. It’s recovery. And if you wake up ready to stand again, he’s already grinning, eager to see how long you’ll last next time.

☁︎ ♡ Zodyl ♡ ☁︎

Zodyl notices your exhaustion immediately. Not because you look weak — but because anything out of order catches his attention. Slower movements. Delayed reactions. He clocks it in seconds.

He doesn’t ask if you’re tired. He tells you. “You’re worn out,” he says flatly, already adjusting plans in his head.

Zodyl is efficient about it. If you’re dragging, he shortens routes, cuts conversations, dismisses unnecessary tasks. Rest isn’t optional — it’s strategic.

When you try to insist you’re fine, he gives you a look that ends the argument instantly. “That’s not a request,” he says calmly.

He doesn’t hover while you rest. He stations himself nearby instead, arms crossed, eyes scanning the area. If something happens, it won’t reach you first.

Anyone who tries to disturb you earns a sharp command. “Leave them.” No raised voice. No explanation. Just authority.

Zodyl doesn’t touch you unless necessary — but if you sway or falter, his grip is immediate and firm, grounding you before you fall.

If you fall asleep sitting upright, he adjusts your position with surprising care. Efficient. Controlled. Making sure you won’t strain yourself.

He sees rest as recovery, not weakness. If anything, he respects that your body knows its limits. That awareness matters to him.

When you wake up, he checks you with a single glance. “You’re awake,” he says. Then, quieter. “Good.”

Zodyl doesn’t offer reassurance or softness — but his presence is steady, unwavering. When you rest near him, you know nothing will get past him first.

━━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

☁︎ ♡ 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 🍓

☁︎ ♡ Dear Santa ♡ ☁︎

Dear Santa doesn’t warm up easily. Having you as an older sibling doesn’t magically soften him—it just gives him someone he tolerates without question.

He communicates with looks first. Sharp glares, narrowed eyes, slow blinks that say more than words ever could. At the beginning, he watches you closely, measuring your tone and your intentions. He doesn’t trust easily, and affection—especially unsolicited affection—irritates him.

You never force it.

You don’t talk at him. You don’t baby him. You don’t try to “fix” his silence. You speak clearly, simply, and you always give him space to respond in his own way—through gestures, sounds, or expressions. When he communicates, you listen like it matters.

That’s what changes everything.

He’s irritable by nature, easily annoyed by noise, chaos, or people who don’t respect boundaries. When things get overwhelming, he clamps down emotionally, pacifier firmly in place, posture rigid. You notice the signs immediately. You adjust without being asked—lower your voice, slow your movements, subtly position yourself between him and whatever’s setting him off.

You’re careful around Centralian. You never touch it without permission. You never joke about it. You understand—intuitively—that it’s not just a weapon, but a source of grounding, comfort, and control. When someone threatens it, his reaction is immediate and violent. When you’re around, he doesn’t need to be told you’re safe near it.

Despite his cold demeanor, Dear Santa!! is painfully responsible. He watches the battlefield even when others relax. He positions himself instinctively in front of you during danger, jaw set, eyes dark. He doesn’t announce his protectiveness—he just acts.

If someone raises their voice at you, his stare alone is enough to shut them down.

He doesn’t express care verbally, but it shows in small, deliberate actions. He hands you things without looking at you. He lingers nearby instead of wandering off. When you’re hurt or tired, he stays closer, posture tense, alert for threats that might not even be there.

When he’s frustrated or overwhelmed, he doesn’t lash out at you. He pulls away instead—sits apart, back against a wall, quietly fuming. You don’t chase him. You sit nearby. Not touching. Not talking. Just present.

Eventually, he relaxes.

That quiet companionship means more to him than words ever could. You become his anchor—someone who doesn’t demand explanation, doesn’t misinterpret his silence, and doesn’t see his irritability as cruelty.

To Dear, you’re not loud comfort or overt affection.

You’re steadiness. Predictability. Safety.

The world feels less hostile when you’re nearby, and that’s the closest thing to trust he knows how to give.

And for him?

That trust is everything.

☁︎ ♡ Guita ♡ ☁︎

Having you as an older sibling just gives Guita permission to be even more herself.

She’s loud about it. Obvious about it. Completely unashamed.

Guita has zero concept of personal space to begin with, so she’s constantly draped over you—leaning her full weight against your side, looping an arm around your shoulders, climbing halfway onto your back just because she feels like it. She’ll grab your hands to drag you somewhere exciting, tug on your clothes when she wants attention, and shout your name across the area even if you’re only a few steps away.

You never scold her for it. You don’t flinch. You just accept her affection like it’s normal—which, to her, it is.

She talks at you nonstop, words slurring together in that familiar way, excitedly rambling about kaiju's, trash beasts, weird things she saw, or something that just popped into her head.

Half of it doesn’t make sense. Sometimes it’s wildly inappropriate. Sometimes it’s just bizarre. You listen anyway. You laugh with her instead of at her, and when something crosses a line, you gently explain it instead of snapping at her.

That’s huge for her.

Guita doesn’t always understand social cues or emotional weight. She asks blunt questions, says things without realizing how they might land, and gets confused when people react negatively. When that happens, she looks to you first—wide-eyed, unsure, suddenly much quieter.

You never make her feel stupid for not knowing.

You explain things simply. Patiently. Sometimes more than once. You don’t get annoyed when she asks again later. You make it clear that curiosity isn’t something she needs to apologize for.

When she gets too excited or overstimulated, you’re the one who grounds her. A hand on her shoulder. A calm voice cutting through her noise. You remind her to breathe, to slow down, to focus. She listens to you more than anyone else, even if she still bounces on her heels while doing it.

And when she messes up—really messes up—you don’t withdraw your affection. You correct her, sure, but you stay close. That consistency teaches her something important: that mistakes don’t mean abandonment.

Guita thrives under your attention. Not because you restrain her chaos, but because you make room for it. You let her be loud, weird, affectionate, excitable—while quietly teaching her how to navigate a world that isn’t always kind to people like her.

To Guita, you’re not just an older sibling.

You’re the person who makes her feel like her energy isn’t “too much.” Like her excitement isn’t annoying. Like her heart, loud and clumsy as it is, belongs somewhere safe.

And she shows that love the only way she knows how—by sticking to you like glue and never letting you forget that you’re hers.

☁︎ ♡ Rudo ♡ ☁︎

Rudo doesn’t know what to do with an older sibling at first.

He’s lived his whole life braced for rejection—by people, by systems, by the world itself. Kindness feels suspicious to him, especially when it’s consistent. So when you show up with patience instead of pity, he pushes back. Hard. He snaps, scoffs, rolls his eyes like he doesn’t care.

But he listens.

Rudo is observant to a fault. He notices the way you never flinch when he raises his voice. The way you don’t correct him publicly or shame him for his anger. When he says something sharp, you don’t retaliate—you wait until he’s calmer, then talk to him like he’s worth being reasoned with.

That alone disarms him.

As the younger sibling, Rudo hates feeling weak. He hates being protected. But you don’t protect him by hovering—you do it by standing beside him. When others look down on him, you don’t jump in immediately. You let him speak for himself. Only when someone crosses a line do you step in, voice firm, unyielding.

Rudo never forgets that.

Your praise hits him harder than criticism ever could. When you acknowledge his ingenuity, his persistence, his refusal to give up—even when everything’s stacked against him—it settles somewhere deep. Those words replay in his head during the worst moments, becoming a counterweight to the voices telling him he’s broken or disposable.

He doesn’t say thank you.

Instead, he shows up.

Rudo sticks close to you without realizing it. He positions himself between you and danger instinctively, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. If you’re hurt—physically or emotionally—his anger spikes fast and violent. Not reckless, but focused. Protective in a way that borders on feral.

You’re one of the few people who can tell him to slow down and actually be heard.

When he spirals—when the world feels unjust, when the weight of everything threatens to crush him—he argues. He rants. He paces. You let him. You don’t shut him up or try to logic his pain away. You acknowledge it. Validate it. Then, when he’s exhausted, you remind him that his anger comes from caring—and that caring isn’t a flaw.

That reframes everything.

With you, Rudo doesn’t have to be perfect. He doesn’t have to prove his worth through suffering or violence. He’s allowed to rest. To be unsure. To be young.

He’ll never cling or openly seek comfort—but when he chooses to sit near you, when he hands you something he fixed without comment, when he silently waits for you before moving on—

That’s Rudo saying you matter to me in the only way he knows how.

To him, you’re not just an older sibling.

You’re proof that the world isn’t entirely cruel. That some things don’t get thrown away. That he doesn’t have to face everything alone.

And Rudo? He would tear the world apart to protect that.

☁︎ ♡ Zanka ♡ ☁︎

Zanka never asks for an older sibling.

He’s spent most of his life convincing himself he doesn’t need one.

Outwardly, he’s composed—measured movements, controlled posture, a blunt tongue sharpened with dry sarcasm. He looks reliable. Capable. Like someone who has already decided where he stands in the world and refuses to waver. That image is deliberate. It’s armor, polished through habit and necessity.

You don’t dismantle it.

You simply notice the seams.

You catch how he stays awake long after everyone else has turned in, running drills alone until his form falters. How he repeats exercises not because he’s told to, but because stopping feels like admitting inadequacy.

You see the way praise makes him hesitate—just a fraction too long—while criticism lands instantly, sharp and familiar. When someone with obvious talent outpaces him, he congratulates them without resentment, but his jaw tightens like he’s bracing for a verdict he’s already passed on himself.

You never confront him about it in front of others.

You never joke about it.

You never compare him to anyone else.

That restraint matters more than he’d ever say.

As his older sibling, you don’t smother Zanka with reassurance or try to dismantle his doubts in one conversation. You respect him too much for that. You treat him like someone who is already capable—someone whose effort has weight, whose discipline isn’t invisible just because it isn’t effortless.

When you comment on his work, it’s Quiet. Honest.

You acknowledge improvement without exaggeration. You recognize persistence without turning it into pity. You don’t say you’re just as good as them—you say you earned this, and you mean it.

It doesn’t fix everything. His inferiority complex doesn’t vanish, and the shadow of his siblings’ expectations still lingers in the back of his mind. But with you, the pressure eases. Just slightly. Enough for him to breathe. Enough for him to believe that being “average” doesn’t mean being disposable.

Zanka may never say it outright, but your presence gives him something he’s been missing for a long time:

a standard that isn’t impossible to reach,

and a sibling who sees him not as a disappointment—but as someone worth standing beside.

☁︎ ♡ Riyo ♡ ☁︎

Riyo is loud, playful, and a little chaotic, but she’s also sharp, precise, and unafraid to get her hands dirty—qualities that make her such a strong Cleaner.

On the surface, she teases constantly: ruffles hair, pokes at shoulders, cracks jokes at the worst possible moment. But as her older sibling, you see past the antics immediately. You know exactly when her grin is real and when it’s masking stress or worry.

Being with you, Riyo doesn’t have to keep the act up. She relaxes in small ways she would never show anyone else. When you smother her in affection—soft praise, gentle touches, checking in quietly—she leans into it. At first, it’s awkward.

She fidgets, nudges you away jokingly, or makes a sarcastic remark to hide her blush. But she stays close, letting herself feel safe in your presence, because you never push, never shame, and never expect her to be anything other than she is.

Your care for her is constant, subtle, and unwavering. You notice the moments she tenses—the tight jaw, the restless hands, the sharp edge in her voice—and you respond in kind: offering a hand on her shoulder, an arm around her, soft words that calm rather than command.

When she vents or complains, you let her speak, never interrupting, never judging. She can be messy, chaotic, and high-energy, but you accept it fully, and that acceptance becomes a soft anchor for her.

Riyo’s protective instincts are fierce, especially toward her team, but around you, she learns she can lower her guard. You don’t try to control her, don’t smother her playfulness—you just provide a steady presence, a safe spot she can retreat to. She trusts that you will always catch her when she stumbles, calm her when she gets too worked up, and celebrate her when she succeeds.

Over time, she begins to mirror your care in subtle ways: leaning on you when exhausted, following your guidance in tense situations, or seeking your opinion quietly before charging ahead.

Your love doesn’t change her core—she’s still playful, bold, and a little wild—but it gives her the comfort and stability she rarely allows herself to feel.

With you, Riyo discovers a rare kind of peace. Someone who understands both her chaos and her quiet strength, someone who offers reassurance without judgment, someone who is always on her side.

━━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

The town talked too much.

You learned that within the first week of being there.

They spoke in lowered voices, like the words themselves might summon something awful if said too loudly. Warnings slipped into casual conversation—don’t wander too far, lock your doors at night, some folks around here aren’t right. And then there was always one name that followed.

Thomas Hewitt.

They described him like a ghost story made flesh. A monster. Something lurking just beyond the streetlights, something that would make you sleep with one eye open. You listened, nodded along, but deep down you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe it. The stories were too exaggerated, too dramatic—like the town needed something to be afraid of.

So you brushed it off.

Until you got lost.

The sun had dipped low by the time you realized you’d taken a wrong turn. Your phone had no signal, the road stretching on longer than it should have. Empty land surrounded you, quiet in a way that made your skin prickle. Just when panic began to crawl up your spine, you spotted it—a lone gas station, old and worn, lights buzzing softly.

Relief washed over you as you pulled in.

The bell above the door chimed when you stepped inside. The place smelled faintly of oil and dust. For a moment, you thought it was empty.

Then you saw him.

He stood behind the counter, tall and broad, shoulders tense like he was bracing for something. His eyes snapped to you immediately, dark and intense, and your breath caught. This—this had to be him. Every warning you’d ignored came rushing back all at once.

Thomas Hewitt stared.

You froze.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you like you might bolt at any second. Your heart hammered, but then you noticed something small—his hands were clenched, knuckles pale, not threatening… nervous.

“I—uh,” you cleared your throat, breaking the silence. “Sorry. I’m just looking for directions.”

He flinched slightly at the sound of your voice.

For a second, you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, quietly, rough and hesitant, he spoke. “Road forks.. a mile back.”

That was it. No frown. No threat.

You blinked. “Oh. That explains a lot.”

He nodded once, eyes dropping to the counter like he didn’t quite know where to look. The silence stretched again, awkward but not hostile. When you reached into your bag, something slipped from your hands and hit his side of the floor.

Before you could react, he was already moving.

He crouched down to pick it up. His movements were careful—gentle, even—as he handed it back to you, avoiding your fingers like touching you might scare him instead.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

His ears turned red.

You noticed then how tense he was, like he expected you to scream or run. Instead, you smiled. Just a small one.

“They really make you sound scarier,” you said, half-joking.

He stiffened. “People talk.”

“Yeah,” you replied. “They usually get things wrong.”

That made him look at you again—really look at you this time. There was confusion there. Uncertainty. Something almost fragile beneath all that bulk and silence.

“You should… get home.” he said after a moment.

You nodded, stepping toward the door. “Thank you. For the help.”

As you left, you glanced back once more.

Thomas Hewitt stood there, awkward and unsure, watching you go—not like a monster guarding his territory, but like someone who didn’t quite know how to be seen.

And for the first time since arriving in town, you thought maybe the stories were never about him at all—but about people being afraid of what they didn’t understand.

━━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

The washing machine rattled softly beneath your hands as you pulled another bundle of warm clothes into your arms. The heat seeped into your palms, grounding, familiar. You liked doing laundry late—when the house was quieter, when the air felt less heavy.

You were halfway through folding a shirt when it happened.

That feeling.

Not fear—never fear—but awareness. Like the air itself had shifted.

You didn’t turn right away. You already knew.

Still, you glanced up.

He stod in the doorway.

Leatherface. Thomas. Tall and broad, shoulders brushing the frame, his presence filling the room without a sound. He hadn’t moved the door. Hadn’t breathed loudly. He was just… there. Watching.

His head was tilted, mask catching the dim light, eyes fixed on you with that familiar intensity that would’ve terrified anyone else.

“Oh,” you said softly, pressing a shirt flat. “Hey.”

He froze.

It was subtle, but you caught it—the way his fingers curled slightly, the way his posture stiffened as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“You scared me a little,” you admitted, though your voice held no edge. Just honesty.

He shifted his weight, boots creaking faintly against the floor. He didn’t step closer. Didn’t leave. Just stood there, staring, unsure.

You waited. Gave him time.

“…Did you need something?” you asked gently.

Slowly, he shook his head.

Yo studied him for a moment, then smiled. “Then why’re you staring at me like that?”

Silence.

Then, hesitant—almost embarrassed—he lifted one hand and pointed. Not at your face. Not at your body.

At the laundry.

At the neat stacks. The motion of your hands. The warmth, the routine.

“Oh,” you murmured, understanding dawning. “You were just… watching.”

He nodded. Small. Careful.

Your chest softened in a way it always did with him. “That’s okay,” you said, turning back to your folding. “You can stay if you want.”

The change in him was immrdiate. His shoulders dropped a fraction, tension melting away like he’d been holding his breath. He stayed right where he was, silent, eyes following every movement of your hands like it mattered.

You folded another shirt. Then another.

After a while, you felt his gaze shift—not intense now, just… calm. Familiar. Safe.

You grabbed a towel from the basket and hesitated, then held it out toward him. “Wanna help?”

He blinked.

Looked at the towel. Looked at you.

Slowly—carefully, like he was afraid of breaking something—he stepped forward and took it. His hands were warm. Rough. He held the towel like it might bite.

“Just… like this,” you said, folding yours slowly so he could mirror you.

He watched closely. Mimicked your movements with exaggerated care. It wasn’t perfect—edges crooked, corners uneven—but when he finished, he held it out like he was waiting for judgment.

You smiled wide. “That’s perfect.”

His head tilted. Doubtful.

“No, really,” you said softly. “You did good.”

Behind the mask, you knew he was smiling. You could tell by the way he straightened, just a little. Proud. Relieved.

You worked side by side after that, the quiet broken only by the hum of the dryer. Sometimes his elbow brushed yours. Sometimes you handed him another towel without looking, and he took it without hesitation.

At one point, you caught him staring again—not at the laundry this time, but at you.

You glanced up. “What?”

He froze—then slowly shook his head, embarrassed.

You laughed quietly. “You’re allowed to look, you know.”

That earned a small, shy nod.

When the basket was finally empty, you stretched, sighing. “All done.”

He lingered. Didn’t move away.

You leaned intp him gently, resting your shoulder against his arm. He stiffened at first—then relaxed, standing solid and steady beside you.

For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist. No noise. No danger. Just warmth, quiet, and the simple comfort of being seen by someone who looked at you like you were something precious.

And he stayed there with you, silent and devoted, until the dryer clicked off and the night swallowed the house whole.

━━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of one shot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

The message did not stop at criticism.

The sender explicitly stated that they searched for and found my home address, and that they added my name, address, and a link to my work to a public list in order to pressure me into changing my writing. This message was sent to me directly via AO3.

That is not feedback. That is not advocacy. That is harassment and intimidation.

For my own safety and transparency, I have screenshots of the AO3 message as evidence of what was said.

I want to be very clear:

I care about inclusivity. I do not accept coercion, doxxing, or threats as a way to force creative decisions. Representation matters, but it must be written thoughtfully and voluntarily—not under fear or pressure.

I am always open to respectful requests and ideas, including those involving trans characters. I am not open to being threatened into compliance.

This is a firm boundary. Please respect it.

Currently I have reported it as spam and changed my fanfic to not allow guests to comment.

Because of of this event, I will not be accepting new requests for the time being. This is for my own safety and peace of mind.

Existing requests will not be abandoned — they will be completed eventually, just not on a fixed schedule. I appreciate your patience and understanding while I take the time I need.

You didn’t think it was that bad.

It stung—sure. A sharp, hot bite of pain when the washing machine door snapped back wrong and caught your hand. You hissed, sucked in abreath, shook it off like it was nothing. People got cut all the time. You rinsed it under the sink, slapped on a bandage that was way too big, and went right back to folding clothes like nothing had happened.

It wasn’t until the bandage started to darken that Thomas noticed.

He’d been lingering in the doorway, quiet as ever, just watching you move around the room. That was normal. Thomas always watched. It was his way of making sure you were alright.

His eyes locked onto your hand.

Red.

Seeping through the white of the bandage.

His steps were heavy when he crossed the room, boots thudding against the floor. You barely had time to look up before his large hand gently—but firmly—caught your wrist.

“…What happened?” His voice was low, rough, like it didn’t get used often.

You shrugged, casual. “Oh, that? Just a little cut. It’s fine.”

Thomas didn’t let go.

He stared at the bandage like it had personally offended him. Slowly, carefully, he peeled it back. The cut was deeper tha you’d thought—angry red, still bleeding steadily.

His jaw clenched.

“This isn’t fine,” he said, more to himself than to you.

You gave a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve had worse.”

That did it.

Thomas’s grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to make his point. His eyes flicked up to yours, intense, worried in a way that made your chest ache.

“You always say that,” he muttered. “You don’t know when to stop.”

He guided you to sit down, movements surprisingly gentle for someone his size. He cleaned the cut properly this time, hands shaking just a little as he worked. Every time you flinched, his brow furrowed deeper.

“Hurts,” he said softly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Seeing you like this,” Thomas clarified. “Like you don’t care.”

You went quiet at that.

When he finished wrapping your hand—secure, careful, overrotective—he rested his big palm over it, warm and steady.

“You gotta let me know,” he said. “You don’t get to decide it’s nothing. Not when it’s you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you squeezed his hand back with your good one.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “I will.”

Thomas nodded once, satisfied—but he didn’t let go.

Not for a long time.

━━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓

You notice him before he notices you.

Thomas always thinks he’s being subtle—standing a little too far away, arms stiff at his sides, gaze fixed anywhere but your face. But you’ve known him long enough to read the signs. The way his shoulders tense when you move closer. The way his hands curl like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Right now, he’s staring at the dirt.

You tilt your head, watching him in silence for a few seconds longer than necessary. Then—

“…You know I can feel you being weird, right?”

He startles. Actually startles. His head snaps up, eyes wide for half a second before he schools his expression into something vaguely neutral. It doesn’t work. His ears are already pink.

“I ain’t—” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. “I’m not bein’ weird.”

You hum thoughtfully, stepping closer. “Uh-huh.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, boots scuffing the ground. You swear he looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. His hands fidget, fingers flexing like he’s trying to decide where to put them—pockets, arms crossed, behind his back—none of it seems right.

“You’re starin’,” he mutters finally, not meeting your eyes.

You grin. “So are you.”

That gets a reaction. His face heats up instantly, color creeping up his neck. “I was not.”

“Oh, you were,” you say lightly, leaning against the fence beside him. Close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his arm. Almost. “Had that whole… death stare thing goin’ on.”

He swallows. Loudly.

“It ain’t a death stare,” he says. “It’s just—” He gestures vaguely with one hand, then drops it like he’s embarrassed by the attempt. “That’s just how my face looks.”

You glance at him, amused. “You sure?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately. Too immediately.

You bite back a laugh. “Tommy.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t call me that.”

“But you get all twitchy when I do,” you point out.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. “You— You shouldn’t say things like that..”

You raise a brow. “Why? Someone gonna overhear?”

He stiffens. His eyes flick around instinctively, scanning the area like a nervous habit. When he looks back at you, his voice drops.

“You’re gonna get people talkin’.”

You lean closer, lowering your voice to match his. “About what?”

He hesitates. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers curl into his sleeve like he’s gripping onto patience.

“…About me.”

Your smile softens, just a little. But the teasing doesn’t leave your eyes.

“What’s there to shush me for?” you ask, playful, sing-song. “Are you embarrassed?”

He freezes.

Actually freezes.

“I am not,” he mutters, but it comes out weak.

“Oh,” you continue, unable to resist, tilting your head like you’re studying him. “Right. Because you’re Thomas Hewitt. Big scary guy. Killed men and women.”

“Don’t—” he warns, flustered, reaching out without thinking and stopping himself halfway.

You don’t stop.

“Butchered them all brutally,” you say, leaning closer, your voice soft and teasing, “and ate them.”

He lets out a strangled noise. “Stop sayin’ that!”

“But,” you add, smiling sweetly, “scared of naked girls.”

There’s a long, painful silence.

Thomas’s hand finally lands on your wrist—not rough, not tight. Just there. Grounding. His grip is warm, shaky.

“You’re… you’re awful,” he mutters, staring very hard at your shoes.

You squeeze his hand back. “And yet.”

He exhales, defeated. His shoulders sag. “You can’t just say stuff like that,” he says quietly. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You blink, surprised by the honesty.

Before you can reply, he realizes what he said—and immediately panics.

“I mean— I didn’t— Not like—” He stumbles over his words, face burning. “I just mean it’s— embarrassing.”

You smile softly now, teasing replaced with warmth. You lean just enough that your shoulder brushes his arm this time.

“I know,” you say gently.

He risks a glance at you, eyes uncertain. “You do?”

“Yeah,” you answer. “That’s why I tease.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin. “Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

A pause.

Then, very awkwardly, he shifts closer. Not quite touching. Close enough to count.

“…You ain’t scared of me,” he says, more a statement than a question.

You look up at him. “Never was.”

Something in his expression softens. He doesn’t smile—but his grip tightens just a bit, like he’s holding onto something precious.

“…Good,” he murmurs.

━━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━