#tam

☁︎ ♡ Tamsy ♡ ☁︎

Tamsy notices the hives before you even register the stress fully yourself.

He always does.

It’s not concern that flashes across his face first—it’s assessment. A brief, sharp look that takes in the spreading redness of your skin, the way your breathing has changed, the tension sitting in your shoulders. He doesn’t ask immediately. He waits, watching, letting the moment reveal itself before he steps in.

When he does speak, his voice is calm. Almost gentle.

“Stress response?” he asks quietly, already knowing the answer.

Once you explain adrenergic urticaria—how adrenaline and stress trigger it—he nods like he’s filing away a useful fact. From that point on, everything changes, though you might not notice it right away.

Tamsy becomes very good at managing your environment.

Arguments around you die before they start. People who raise their voices near you are smoothly redirected, pulled into other conversations, given other tasks. Stressful situations somehow resolve themselves faster when you’re involved, and you can’t always tell why—only that Tamsy had been nearby beforehand, murmuring something low and persuasive into the right person’s ear.

If someone reacts poorly to your hives—stares too long, asks invasive questions—Tamsy handles it with unsettling ease. He explains just enough to stop panic, frames it in a way that makes the other person feel foolish for overreacting, then subtly ensures they don’t do it again. Not by threats. By social pressure. By implication. By making it clear that upsetting you is inconvenient.

Romantically, his care is possessive in a quiet, deliberate way.

When the hives flare, he positions himself close—not touching unless you allow it, but undeniably present. His hand might rest near yours, close enough to feel the warmth, grounding you without drawing attention. He speaks softly, slow and steady, guiding your breathing down without explicitly telling you to calm down.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. Nothing needs your attention right now.”

And somehow, you believe him.

What’s unsettling—and comforting—is realizing that he means it. When you’re stressed, Tamsy doesn’t just support you emotionally; he removes the sources of that stress entirely. Sometimes without you ever knowing. Sometimes in ways that toe the line between protection and control.

Later, when the hives fade and you’re calmer, he allows himself small, intimate gestures. A hand at your back. A quiet check-in spoken only for you. He never calls your condition a burden. Never treats it like weakness. Instead, he treats it like something that must be managed carefully—like you are something precious and volatile at the same time.

If you ever confront him about how much he interferes, how much he manipulates situations for your sake, he doesn’t deny it.

“I know,” he says simply. “But it works.”

And the unsettling truth is—it does.

Loving Tamsy means being cared for in ways you don’t always see. It means trusting that when your body reacts to stress, he’s already three steps ahead, reshaping the world so it hurts you less—even if the methods are morally gray.

Especially because the one thing he never manipulates is you.

Only everyone else.

☁︎ ♡ Corvus ♡ ☁︎

Corvus notices before anyone else reacts.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t raise his voice. He simply shifts closer, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the subtle signs—the way your shoulders tense, the quickening of your breath, the faint bloom of red across your skin. Stress, adrenaline, fear. He recognizes the pattern quickly.

When the hives appear, his expression doesn’t change much, but his attention sharpens completely.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong in front of others. Instead, he creates space first—guiding you away with a gentle hand at your elbow, positioning his body so others naturally give you room. Only once you’re somewhere quieter does he speak, voice low and steady.

“Is this the stress response you told me about?”

When you confirm, Corvus nods once, already adjusting. From then on, his focus is on grounding you. He speaks slowly, deliberately, guiding your breathing without making it obvious. His presence is calm in a way that forces your body to follow, adrenaline easing as you mirror his pace.

Romantically, Corvus is attentive without being overwhelming.

He stays close, close enough that you can feel him there without feeling watched. If your skin is irritated, he asks before touching—but when you allow it, his touch is careful and reassuring, thumb brushing your wrist or knuckles in slow, rhythmic motions meant to anchor you.

If someone reacts poorly—panic, staring, too many questions—Corvus handles it efficiently. One look, one measured sentence, and the situation diffuses. He doesn’t explain more than necessary, and he never lets you become the center of attention. Protecting your dignity matters just as much as protecting your health.

Later, when things are calmer, Corvus checks in quietly. Not with dramatics. Not with fussing. Just a simple, “Are you feeling better?” asked in a way that makes it clear he’ll adapt either way.

He’s thoughtful about your limits. He encourages rest without framing it as weakness, suggests alternatives without pushing. If stress is unavoidable, he stays beside you through it—steady, unshakable, a constant point of calm in a chaotic environment.

Corvus doesn’t try to control your reactions or eliminate every stressor. He knows that’s impossible. Instead, he becomes something reliable when your body betrays you—someone whose presence lowers the temperature of the room, whose quiet care reminds you that you’re not facing it alone.

With him, the world feels slower. Safer.

And when the hives fade, the warmth of his hand lingers a little longer, like a promise that he’ll be there the next time, too.

☁︎ ♡ Rudo ♡ ☁︎

(Platonic | Same age)

Rudo doesn’t get it at first.

Not because he doesn’t care—because he does—but because your condition doesn’t make sense to him in the way injuries usually do. There’s no obvious wound, no blood, no clear cause he can punch or break. One moment you’re tense, the next your skin flares up, red and angry, and Rudo just stares at it with a tight knot in his chest.

“Did someone do that to you?” he asks immediately, voice sharp.

When you explain—stress, adrenaline, your body reacting to danger—he listens, jaw clenched, hands balling into fists. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t joke. His anger just shifts direction, away from you and toward the world that keeps putting pressure on you.

After that, Rudo becomes very serious about stress.

Not in a subtle way. In a Rudo way.

He starts checking in constantly, especially before missions or risky situations.

“You good?”

“You sure?”

“You don’t have to do this if it’s too much.”

He’s not smooth about it, and sometimes he asks at the worst moments, but it’s always genuine.

When the hives flare, Rudo’s instinct is to get you out of there. He physically puts himself between you and whatever’s causing the stress—danger, shouting, tension—like it’s obvious that the solution is distance. If someone’s yelling, he snaps back at them. If things start getting heated, he drags you away without asking, muttering about how stupid everyone is.

He doesn’t care if people think he’s overreacting.

Rudo sits with you when the reaction peaks, restless but refusing to leave. He paces, cracks his knuckles, grumbles under his breath, clearly frustrated that there’s nothing he can do. But when you tell him just staying helps, he plants himself beside you, stiff and awkward, like standing guard is the only thing he knows how to offer.

If anyone stares at your hives or makes a comment, Rudo immediately takes it personally. “What are you looking at?” is a warning, not a question. He doesn’t explain your condition for you—but he makes it very clear that disrespect won’t fly.

Once the stress fades and your skin starts to calm, Rudo relaxes too, tension draining from his shoulders. He never treats it like a weakness. If anything, it makes him angrier at the circumstances that caused it.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he tells you once, blunt and firm. “This place just sucks.”

And somehow, that simple honesty helps more than anything else.

Rudo doesn’t have the words, or the patience, or the finesse—but he’s loyal to the bone. When your body reacts to stress, he reacts to protect you, no questions asked, no conditions, just stubborn, unwavering support from someone who refuses to let the world push you around alone.

☁︎ ♡ Enjin ♡ ☁︎

Enjin panics the first time it happens.

Not quietly. Not internally. Full, visible panic.

One second you’re fine, the next stress spikes—voices too loud, danger too close, adrenaline flooding your system—and suddenly hives bloom across your skin. Red, angry, unmistakable. Enjin freezes for half a heartbeat, then swears under his breath and is at your side immediately.

“Hey—hey, what’s wrong? Did something hit you? Are you hurt?”

His hands hover uselessly at first, unsure whether touching you will help or make it worse. He looks furious—not at you, but at the situation, the environment, the world that dared trigger this reaction in you.

When you explain—breathless but trying to stay calm—that it’s adrenergic urticaria, that stress does this, that you’re not dying—he listens hard. Too hard. Like every word is being branded into his brain.

After that, Enjin becomes… aggressively attentive.

He doesn’t manipulate like. He doesn’t plan ahead. He reacts. Fast. Loud. Sometimes recklessly.

Anything that spikes your stress immediately becomes a problem in his eyes. Raised voices? He shuts them down. Arguments? He steps in. Danger approaching too fast? He positions himself in front of you without even thinking. He’s not subtle about it, and he doesn’t care who notices.

“Back off,” he snaps at someone once when they won’t stop staring at your hives. “They’re fine.”

Romantically, Enjin is all feeling. When you’re stressed and your skin flares, he stays close, constantly checking your face, your breathing, your posture. He keeps talking—not always about anything important, but enough to anchor you. Jokes, rambling observations, stupid comments meant to pull your focus away from the panic.

“You good? Yeah? Okay, cool—hey, did I ever tell you about the time I almost fell into a pit because Rudo dared me—”

It works more often than not.

If you’re overwhelmed, he doesn’t ask you to explain yourself again. He trusts you. If you say you need space, he gives it—but he stays within sight. If you say you need him, he’s there immediately, arm brushing yours, solid and grounding.

He hates that he can’t fix it.

You catch him glaring at the fading hives later like he’s offended by their existence. Like if he stares long enough, they’ll learn not to come back. There’s frustration there—but also guilt. He worries that he’s part of the problem. That his chaos, his recklessness, might be stressing you out more than helping.

When you reassure him, he laughs it off—but the care doesn’t fade.

Enjin loves loudly. Protectively. Imperfectly.

When stress hits and your body reacts, Enjin becomes your shield—not by controlling the world, but by standing between you and it, fists clenched, heart wide open, daring anything to try and hurt you again.

And somehow, with him there, it feels easier to breathe.

☁︎ ♡ Jabber♡ ☁︎

Jabber notices the hives almost immediately—but he doesn’t respond with panic or overly sweet care. Instead, he squints, cocks his head, and blurts out something teasing.

“Well, that’s… new. You getting all blotchy on me, huh?”

He’s teasing, sharp, chaotic—like everything has to be a joke at first—but it’s his way of checking in. He watches you carefully under the guise of humor, always just close enough to make sure you’re not in danger without admitting that he’s paying full attention.

When your stress spikes and the hives bloom, he might mock-whine, “Ugh, gross! Don’t do this in front of me!”—but his movements are precise. He’ll grab your hand lightly if he thinks you’ll panic, or nudge you toward a quieter space, all while making commentary that’s half teasing, half… oddly reassuring.

Romantically, Jabber’s care is subtle and unpredictable. He won’t sit still and hold you, but he’ll stay near, leaning over a shoulder, whispering sarcastic but comforting things, or even distracting you with nonsense until your adrenaline slows. He might make faces, pull funny expressions, or mutter “stupid stress, stupid hives” under his breath while keeping a watchful eye.

If someone else notices and freaks out, Jabber doesn’t politely explain. He snarls under his breath, muttering, “Chill. You wouldn’t get it anyway,” in a way that makes it obvious: you’re his problem, and he doesn’t want anyone else interfering. He doesn’t need anyone to understand—he's enough.

Even as your flare fades, he doesn’t relax immediately. He sits near you, one arm lazily draped over the back of the chair or across your shoulders, watching you with that sharp, mischievous gaze. He might make little jabs, like,

“Yo you look ridiculous, you know that? But somehow, cute too.”

His teasing voice is soft now, almost protective, a subtle contrast to his usual chaotic energy. He keeps you close, making sure you can breathe, making sure the world won’t intrude while you recover.

With Jabber, the world may feel messy, unpredictable, and loud—but when the hives flare, you realize something important: in the chaos, there is someone who will always notice, always react, always keep you close. And even if his methods are unorthodox, even if his words sting with teasing, his presence is constant, loyal, and somehow deeply comforting.

Even after everything calms, he stays nearby, hands ready to catch you, arms ready to pull you close, eyes always watching. He doesn’t need to say it out loud—his chaotic devotion does the talking for him.

☁︎ ♡ Zanka ♡ ☁︎

Zanka notices the subtle signs before anyone else—your shoulders stiffen, your fingers tremble slightly, the way your gaze flicks away when your body reacts to stress. Outwardly, he keeps his usual calm, serious demeanor: arms crossed, voice clipped, eyes narrowed.

But inwardly, he’s working through a storm of thoughts. He’s worried, yes, but he also wonders if he’s doing enough, if he’s strong enough to help you, if he’s capable of protecting you the way he wants.

When the hives start, he doesn’t panic. He doesn’t yell or flail. Instead, he approaches with measured steps, the weight of his presence serious and deliberate. His voice is blunt, low, and just enough to be grounding:

“Stop fidgeting. Sit down.”

It’s not gentle, but it carries authority—a way to make the chaos manageable without adding to it. He crouches slightly, eyes scanning your body, observing the pattern of the hives, the tension in your muscles.

He doesn’t comment on the hives themselves; he’s focused on how to help, quietly calculating, all while managing the turbulence he hides beneath the surface.

Romantically, Zanka’s care is a delicate balance of restraint and intensity. He won’t hover or coddle you openly, but he stays close, his body subtly shielding you, fingers brushing your arm occasionally to anchor you without overstepping.

He mutters sarcastic remarks under his breath—“Great, just what I needed, more chaos”—but there’s concern behind the sarcasm, and you feel it. When you flinch or try to downplay the discomfort, he frowns sharply, voice clipped:

“Don’t pretend it’s nothing. I can tell.”

His inward struggle shows here: he doesn’t want to seem weak, and he doesn’t want to overstep, but he hates the thought of you hurting while he does nothing. Every small gesture—moving your blanket, offering a drink, adjusting your position—is precise, almost rigid, but meant entirely to comfort and protect.

If someone else notices your hives and reacts poorly, Zanka doesn’t lose his composure outwardly, but inwardly, he’s boiling. His glare is sharp, cutting, and he mutters a sarcastic remark under his breath, the kind only someone close to him would understand.

“Idiots… can’t even keep their mouths shut.”

He positions himself subtly but effectively, shielding you without drawing unnecessary attention. If you allow him, he might take your hand, not openly holding it like a show of affection, but in a firm, grounding way, fingers laced just enough to anchor you when the stress spikes.

After the flare fades, Zanka doesn’t immediately relax. He keeps close, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes, measuring your reactions, making sure the world hasn’t left another mark on you. He asks bluntly, in his serious tone:

“You good now?”

And if you say yes, he nods, but inside he’s still restless, thinking of how to prevent it next time, how to help better, how to do more—even if he won’t admit it. He might mutter sarcastic comments like,

“Don’t let it happen again. Seriously.”

…but there’s a softness behind them, a subtle layer of romantic care that’s easy to miss if you don’t know him.

With Zanka, care is always serious, blunt, and tinged with sarcasm, but it’s underlined by intense loyalty and quiet emotional investment.

He may not overtly coddle or dramatize his concern, but when the world is overwhelming and your body reacts violently to stress, he’s there—watching, calculating, anchoring, and willing to shoulder his own insecurities to make sure you’re safe.

Even when he turns back to his usual stern demeanor, you can feel the undercurrent of devotion, the turbulent care hiding behind the calm, sarcastic mask. That’s Zanka’s love—quiet, blunt, intense, and entirely his own.

━━━━━━ ☁︎ ♡ ☁︎ ━━━━━━

[ end of oneshot ]

━━━━━━ ♡ written with care ♡ ━━━━━━

✎ StrawberyLover 🍓