Thief—☆
Zanka hates, hates you! How can you steal his clothes and his heart and still look so adorable, huh!?
fluff, gn!reader, no use of she, he or they, reader steals zanka's clothes, very fluffy in my opinion || Thank you for the request dear<33
it starts because you’re cold, in the middle of the night.
that’s what you tell yourself the first time you tug one of zanka’s t-shirts over your head. it smells like metal and faint detergent—like him, basically—it’s huge on you, the collar slips off one shoulder, the sleeves swallow your hands whole and you fall asleep like that.
zanka notices the next morning immediately.
he’s standing there in his room, staring at his open drawer. then he slowly turns his head toward you, curled up on his bed, drowning in fabric that very clearly belongs to him.
“…oi.”
you pretend to be asleep.
he walks over, grabs the hem of the shirt, and lifts it slightly. it nearly drags you with it because it’s so big.
“…that’s mine.”
you crack one eye open. “it’s comfy.”
he clicks his tongue but his ears are faintly red, he doesn’t tug it off you, he just stands there awkwardly, arms crossed, trying very hard not to look pleased.
after that, it becomes a habit.
he’ll wash his clothes, fold them neatly, and somehow one or two shirts will disappear before nightfall.
sometimes he catches you in the act—sneaking into his room like you’re on a mission, grabbing the biggest one you can find.
“you’re like some weird little raccoon,” he mutters.
“your raccoon,” you reply casually, already halfway out the door.
he nearly chokes.
one night he walks in to find you already in his bed.
you’ve bundled yourself up in three of his shirts layered over each other like you’re building some kind of nest. you’re curled up on his pillow, face half-hidden in the collar of one.
he just stands there.
“…you’re unbelievable.”
you blink up at him. “it smells like you.”
he goes completely still.
then his face goes red, not light pink, red.
“don’t say stuff like that so casually!”
you pat the empty space beside you. “are you going to complain or are you going to get in?”
he glares, he huffs, he absolutely gets in.
the second he lies down, you scoot closer and wrap your arms around him, sleeves hanging off your hands.
“you’re wearing half my wardrobe,” he grumbles.
“mmh...it’s soft.”
“it’s just cotton.”
“it’s zanka cotton.”
he makes a strangled noise.
the real turning point is the night he decides to “teach you a lesson.”
you’ve stolen his favorite shirt this time—the one he actually looks for.
he finds you walking down the hallway in it, the hem nearly to your knees.
“that one,” he says flatly.
you freeze. “what about it?”
“mine.”
you grin and start walking faster.
bad idea.
he lunges.
you barely make it three steps before he tackles you onto the couch. it’s not rough—just sudden and heavy and very zanka. his arms cage you in instantly.
“thief,” he accuses, breath warm against your cheek.
you squirm, laughing. “you can’t prove that.”
he grabs the collar of the shirt and tugs lightly. “i literally can.”
you look up at him—hair falling in his face, eyes sharp but flustered, ears already pink.
instead of arguing, you reach up and start kissing his face.
one on his cheek, another on the other side, his jaw, the tip of his nose.
“w-what are you doing?!” he sputters, trying to pull back but not actually moving away.
“calming you down,” you say sweetly, kissing his forehead.
he freezes when you cup his face with your oversized sleeves.
his blush spreads all the way to his neck.
“stop—” he mutters weakly.
you kiss his temple.
“…claiming you.”
he short-circuits. actually short-circuits.
his brain just shuts off.
“…y-you can’t just say that like it’s—”
you give him one final exaggerated kiss on the cheek.
“mine.”
he goes completely red.
for a second he just stares at you, stunned—then he drops his face into your shoulder to hide it.
“…you’re impossible,” he mumbles.
but his arms tighten around you.
he doesn’t try to take the shirt back.
he never does, actually.
in fact, after that, you start noticing something.
his shirts begin appearing on your side of the room without you stealing them.
sometimes folded.
sometimes just tossed there casually.
he pretends not to notice when you wear them.
but if anyone else comments?
“yeah,” he says quickly, arms crossing. “it’s mine. got a problem?”
and when you curl up next to him at night, swimming in fabric that’s way too big, he’ll grumble about it—but he’ll always pull you closer.
to make sure you steal his warmth too.
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Barelyalive out!