Trash Shifter♡

At first, she just liked being near you.

She would drift into rooms you were in without thinking about it. Sit beside you in comfortable silence. Listen to you speak with that distant little smile on her face, humming softly whenever you laughed.

And one day, you reached over absentmindedly and fixed one of the feathers near her shoulder.

Such a small thing.

Barely anything.

Yet Columbina went strangely still.

“You looked crooked,” you murmured casually.

She stared at you for a long moment after that. Not unsettling. Just… thoughtful.

Because nobody had ever touched her so gently without fear before.

Later that night, she found herself replaying the moment over and over again in her head. The warmth of your fingers. The easy affection in your voice. The way you didn’t hesitate to touch her at all.

That was the first crack.

The realization came later.

You had fallen asleep beside her, curled comfortably against her shoulder while rambling halfway through some story. Your words had slowly faded into quiet breathing, and Columbina simply sat there listening to it.

Listening.

Watching.

Feeling something ache softly in her chest.

Not unpleasant.

Just… deep.

She looked down at you resting against her and whispered quietly, almost surprised by the truth of it.

“Oh.”

That was all.

No panic. No denial.

Just understanding.

Then her fingers carefully brushed through your hair as she smiled faintly to herself.

“So this is what it is.”

And from that point on, her devotion became absolute.

⋆.˚𝒜𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔬⋆.˚

Arlecchino noticed it long before she admitted it.

That was the problem.

She started making exceptions for you first.

Small ones.

Insignificant ones.

Allowing you to interrupt her work. Letting conversations go on longer than necessary. Memorizing details about your habits without meaning to.

At first, she told herself it was practicality.

You were useful to keep close. Pleasant to tolerate. Nothing more.

Then one evening, you arrived injured.

Not severely. Just enough to matter.

And Arlecchino reacted before thinking.

The moment she saw the blood on your sleeve, her expression sharpened instantly.

“Who did this?”

The question came out cold enough to freeze the room.

You tried to wave it off with a laugh. “It’s not that seriou—”

“It is to me.”

That silence afterward was what finally unsettled her.

Because she meant it.

Entirely.

She patched you up herself despite insisting someone else could have done it. Her hands were precise as always, but noticeably tighter than usual whenever you winced.

“You’re glaring at the bandages like they insulted you personally,” you teased softly.

“I dislike carelessness.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“I am aware.”

Yet she still looked irritated.

Not at you.

At the fact that you had gotten hurt at all.

And when you smiled at her afterward—warm, trusting, completely unaware of what you were doing to her—something in her chest pulled painfully tight.

That was the moment she understood.

Not attraction. Not attachment.

Love.

Deep enough to make her afraid for you.

Deep enough to make her dangerous about you.

Arlecchino went very still after that realization.

Then she sighed quietly and pressed a final bandage into place.

“…You are becoming a problem.”

You blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

Her gaze lingered on your face for one long second too many.

“…Nothing,” she answered flatly.

But her hand stayed on yours a moment longer than necessary before she finally let go.

✧.*𝔓𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬 ✧.*

Pierro realized it in the worst possible way:

Through fear.

Not fear for himself.

For you.

He had spent centuries mastering restraint, distancing himself from attachment, burying softer emotions beneath duty and ambition. He considered it necessary. Efficient.

Then you walked into his life and quietly dismantled all of it without even trying.

At first, he appreciated your presence because it was calming. You spoke to him normally. Not with fear. Not with worship. Just honesty.

It became… addictive.

He began seeking you out without consciously meaning to. Asking for your opinion. Allowing you to remain beside him during long stretches of work neither of you needed to discuss.

And one night, you didn’t show up.

Simple as that.

You were late.

Objectively, it meant nothing.

Yet Pierro found himself unable to focus.

Every passing minute irritated him further. He reread the same document three times without absorbing a single word. His thoughts kept circling back to one thing:

Where are you?

Then the door finally opened.

“There you are,” you sighed, stepping inside. “Sorry, I got held up—”

Pierro stood so abruptly the chair scraped harshly against the floor.

You froze.

“…Pierro?”

The relief that hit him was immediate. Violent.

And horrifying.

Because in that moment, he understood exactly how deeply you had rooted yourself inside him.

You looked confused by his expression.

“You thought something happened to me?”

He said nothing.

Which was answer enough.

You softened instantly. “Hey… I’m alright.”

You stepped closer carefully, placing a hand against his arm.

And Pierro—normally so composed, so untouchable—closed his eyes briefly at the contact like it physically grounded him.

That was when he knew.

Not because you were there.

Because the thought of losing you had genuinely frightened him.

He opened his eyes again slowly before murmuring in a low voice:

“…Do not do that again.”

You smiled a little. “Be late?”

“Disappear.”

The word came out quieter than expected.

More honest, too.

And from then on, Pierro carried the unbearable truth with him constantly:

His heart no longer belonged entirely to himself.

꩜ S𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥𝔢 ꩜

Scaramouche realized it slowly.

Then all at once.

And he hated every second of it.

At first, he only noticed the irritation.

You occupied too much of his attention. Your voice lingered in his head after conversations ended. He kept finding himself looking for you in crowded rooms without meaning to.

Annoying.

Pathetic.

Weak.

He told himself that repeatedly.

Yet somehow, it only got worse.

He became territorial without understanding why. Short-tempered whenever someone got too close to you. Irritated when you smiled at other people for too long.

“You’re glaring again,” you pointed out one evening.

“I always glare.”

“…Not usually at innocent civilians.”

“They looked at you wrong.”

You blinked.

“They asked me what time it was.”

“Exactly.”

He turned away immediately after saying it, clearly irritated with himself for even speaking.

Because deep down, he already knew.

He just refused to call it what it was.

Love felt dangerous to him. Stupid. Reckless. The kind of thing people used against you.

And Scaramouche had spent far too long surviving to willingly hand someone that kind of power.

Then one night, you laughed.

That was it.

Not at him. Not because of anything important. You were sitting beside him rambling about something completely ridiculous, and suddenly you laughed so hard you leaned against his shoulder without thinking.

And Scaramouche froze.

Completely.

Because his first thought wasn’t to shove you away.

It was:

Stay.

The realization hit him so hard it made him feel physically ill.

His chest tightened painfully. His stomach twisted. He looked at you like you had personally betrayed him by making him feel something this raw.

“…You’re insufferable,” he muttered bitterly.

You snorted. “You say that every day.”

“I mean it every day.”

Yet he didn’t move away from you.

Didn’t stop you from leaning against him.

Didn’t stop staring at your smile when you weren’t looking.

And eventually—after days of anger, denial, pacing, and internal screaming—Scaramouche came to one miserable conclusion:

He would rather have this painful, terrifying thing than lose you.

That was the part that finally broke him.

Because once he accepted that?

There was no going back.

One night, completely unprompted, he suddenly muttered:

“…I hate what you’ve done to me.”

You blinked at him. “What did I do?”

He stared at you for a long moment before looking away sharply.

“…Made me care.”

And despite how angry he sounded—

His hand still reached for yours beneath the table.

𖤓 𝒯𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝒶 𖤓

Tartaglia fell in love with you like getting hit in the face with a brick.

Fast. Hard. Immediate.

There was no denial stage.

No fear.

Only overwhelming certainty.

One day he was teasing you over dinner, grinning like usual while you rolled your eyes at him—

And the next, he was staring at you halfway through your sentence thinking:

I want to marry her.

The realization was so abrupt he almost laughed out loud.

Because of course this would happen to him.

You looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“You’re pretty,” he answered immediately.

“That’s not new.”

“No, but right now it feels like a personal attack.”

You burst out laughing.

And that was it for him.

Done.

Finished.

Gone.

Tartaglia loves loudly by nature, and once he realized what he felt for you, it infected everything about him. He wanted you involved in every part of his life immediately.

He talked about the future without even thinking about it.

“You’d love my siblings,” he says casually one afternoon.

You blink. “Your siblings?”

“Mhm.” He smiles lazily. “You’d fit right in.”

Then, after a pause:

“You’d look good with my last name too.”

You nearly choke.

Meanwhile, he’s completely serious.

That’s the terrifying part.

Tartaglia becomes almost love-drunk once he falls. Softer around you. Happier. More reckless with affection.

He drapes himself over you constantly. Grins whenever you walk into a room. Brags about you to other people like it’s his favorite hobby.

And when he realizes you’re looking at him with the same warmth he feels for you?

God.

He practically glows.

One evening, while you’re half asleep against his chest, he suddenly blurts out:

“I think I want everything with you.”

You mumble sleepily, “Everything?”

“House. Family. Matching old people chairs.” He presses a quick kiss against your forehead. “All of it.”

You laugh softly.

Tartaglia just smiles into your hair with the most devastatingly sincere expression imaginable.

Because he means every word.

₊⊹ ℑ𝔩 𝔇𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢 ₊⊹

Dottore knew almost immediately.

The difference between him and everyone else is that he didn’t panic about it.

He identified the feeling, analyzed it, accepted it, and moved on with surprising ease.

Interesting.

That was his first thought.

Not because he considered love trivial—but because he considered his own reaction to you fascinating.

He liked you too much.

Thought about you too often.

Found himself distracted by the sound of your voice.

Objectively speaking, those were symptoms.

And Dottore was very good at recognizing patterns.

One day he simply looked up from his work and said calmly:

“I appear to be in love with you.”

You stared at him.

“…That’s how you confess to people?”

“I was not aware there was a required format.”

The worst part?

He was completely genuine.

After realizing his feelings, Dottore became painfully obvious about them. Not romantically obvious in a normal way, of course. He’s still Dottore.

But suddenly gifts start appearing.

Rare books. Jewelry. Strange little inventions he claims “made him think of you.”

“This reminded you of me?” you ask, holding up something incredibly expensive and vaguely dangerous.

“Yes.”

“…Why?”

“You seemed like you would enjoy it.”

And he says it with such genuine hope that it completely disarms you.

That’s the thing nobody expects from Dottore once he falls in love:

He gets excited.

Not childish exactly, but close enough sometimes that it catches you off guard.

He genuinely likes making you happy.

If you smile at something he gives you, his entire mood noticeably improves for the rest of the day.

“You like it,” he observes one evening after handing you another gift.

“…I do.”

His mouth curves slightly.

“Excellent.”

The satisfaction in his voice is almost unfairly soft.

And when you thank him affectionately—touching his arm, smiling warmly at him, praising something he made—Dottore looks genuinely delighted beneath all that composure.

Like a man who discovered something wonderful and has no intention of ever letting it go.

One night, while watching you ramble excitedly about something completely unrelated, he suddenly says:

“You are disastrously easy to adore.”

You stop mid-sentence.

“…What?”

Dottore just smiles faintly behind his hand.

“I said what I meant.”

Capitano

Capitano realized it quietly.

There was no panic. No dramatic revelation.

Just certainty.

He noticed it through instinct first. The way his attention followed you automatically in crowded spaces. The way he relaxed slightly whenever you entered a room. The way he always positioned himself between you and danger without thinking.

At first, he believed it was habit.

Then one evening, you fell asleep against him during a long journey.

Your head rested on his shoulder, breathing soft and even, completely trusting him to stay there.

Capitano looked down at you for a long moment beneath his helmet.

Then very carefully adjusted his cloak around you so you would not get cold.

That was when he understood.

Not because of the affection.

Because protecting you suddenly felt more important than anything else.

You stirred slightly against him. “Mm… sorry…”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he said quietly.

His hand rested against your back afterward, steady and warm.

And from that moment on, everyone around him noticed one undeniable truth:

Capitano’s patience for the world became significantly thinner whenever you were involved.

꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ꭈׁׅᨵׁׅꪀׁׅꫀׁׅܻ

Sandrone realized it through jealousy.

Which irritated her beyond belief.

At first, she thought you were simply tolerable. Easier to be around than most people. Less annoying. Less incompetent.

Then she started wanting your attention.

And that was the problem.

One afternoon, you spent nearly an hour talking to one of her assistants while she worked nearby.

By the end of it, Sandrone was in a horrible mood.

Tools slammed onto tables harder than necessary. Her responses became clipped and sharp. One poor assistant nearly fled the room in tears.

You finally looked over. “Are you okay?”

“I am perfectly fine.”

“You look mad.”

“I am not.”

A pause.

“…Why are you glaring at him?”

“I dislike his face.”

Which made absolutely no sense because she had employed him herself.

That night, Sandrone sat alone trying to figure out why seeing you smile at someone else had made her chest feel tight with annoyance.

Then it hit her.

And she immediately hated it.

“No,” she muttered aloud.

Unfortunately for her, denial did not fix anything.

If anything, she became worse afterward.

More possessive. More attentive. More obvious.

She’d pretend not to care while quietly building things for you in her workshop for hours.

When you thanked her warmly for one of them, she looked away immediately.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“…Well. Obviously.”

But her ears turned pink anyway.

𝕻𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊

Pantalone realized it embarrassingly fast.

The moment you smiled at him sincerely for the first time, he was practically doomed.

At first, he found you charming.

Then fascinating.

Then suddenly he was rearranging entire schedules just to spend more time with you and buying you gifts because he liked the look on your face when you received them.

One day, someone jokingly asked him why he was so generous toward you.

And before he could stop himself, he answered:

“Because she deserves everything.”

The room went quiet.

Pantalone blinked once.

Then sighed dramatically into his wine glass.

“…Ah,” he murmured. “That explains quite a lot.”

Unlike some of the others, he was not ashamed of being in love. If anything, he leaned into it immediately.

He adored loving you.

Adored spoiling you. Adored hearing your laugh. Adored the feeling of your hand on his arm during conversations.

He became almost insufferably affectionate afterward.

“You’re staring again,” you teased one evening.

“Can you blame me?”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you continue to indulge me.”

He smiled lazily, reaching over to take your hand and press a kiss against your knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You should understand,” he said smoothly, eyes half-lidded with amusement, “that once I decide something has value, I invest heavily.”

You laughed.

Pantalone smiled right along with you—but softer.

Because unlike money, power, or influence…

You were the first thing he had ever wanted simply because you made him happy.

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