Good day to you. Could I possibly request some fluff material for my good man Charles Phipps with s/o who is a bit unhinged in a good way - wearing mismatched socks, blowing soap bubbles as a stress relief and can randomly start serenading him in the middle of the street
❝ Charles Phipps x UNHINGED (AFFECTIONATE) S/O ❞
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❝ FIRST IMPRESSION ❞ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴇᴛꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ.
The first time he meets you, it is in a setting that demands structure. Conversation is measured, movements precise, every person in the room aware of their place and role.
And then there is you.
Your socks do not match. Not subtly, not in a way that could be overlooked. One is patterned, the other plain, and you wear them with complete indifference. You hum under your breath between pauses in conversation, like silence is something you refuse to let settle too long.
Charles Phipps does not react. Not outwardly. He simply observes, cataloguing every detail the way he always does.
At first, he assumes it is a quirk. A passing eccentricity.
Then you begin blowing soap bubbles out an open window mid-discussion, completely unbothered by the presence of others.
That is when he realizes.
You are not careless.
You are simply… uncontained.
And for reasons he does not examine too closely, he finds that he does not dislike it.
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❝ THE SOCKS ❞ ʜᴇ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇꜱ ʟᴏɴɢ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋꜱ.
He notices immediately that they never match. Every day is different. Sometimes clashing colors, sometimes completely different textures. It is never accidental. There is intention in it, even if it is not structured.
At first, he says nothing. He simply watches, committing the pattern to memory without understanding why he is doing so.
Then one day, without comment, he places a small box beside you. Inside are several pairs of socks.
None of them match.
Different fabrics. Different patterns. Carefully chosen, though he would never admit how much thought went into it.
When you look at him, confused but intrigued, he adjusts his gloves slightly.
“I assumed consistency was not your preference.”
It is the closest he comes to teasing.
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❝ SOAP BUBBLES ❞ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ, ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴏʟᴜᴛɪᴏɴ.
The first time you do it in front of him, it is during a moment that should not allow for distractions. Tension sits thick in the air, conversation tight and calculated, and then you quietly pull out a small bottle and begin blowing bubbles into the space between words.
He pauses.
Not in disapproval.
In understanding.
Your shoulders relax with each breath. Your focus steadies. The chaos in your expression softens into something manageable.
He says nothing. The conversation continues.
But from that point forward, the small bottle is never empty for long.
You never see him replace it. You never catch him checking.
And yet, it is always there when you need it.
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❝ SERENADES IN PUBLIC ❞ ʜᴇ ʟᴇᴛꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇ ꜱᴇᴇɴ.
You do not hesitate.
A melody catches your attention and suddenly you are singing, right there in the street, in the middle of everything. People slow. They stare. Some whisper.
You do not notice.
Or you do not care.
Phipps remains exactly where he is. Composed, posture straight, expression neutral as always. As if this is entirely expected behavior.
When you take his hand mid-song, pulling him into your orbit, he allows it. He does not stumble. He does not resist. He simply adjusts to your movement with quiet precision.
Not drawing attention.
Not avoiding it either.
And when you finish, he gives a small, polite clap, voice even.
“Your timing is impeccable.”
There is the faintest hint of something softer beneath it.
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❝ HOW HE GROUNDS YOU ❞ ᴄᴀʟᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ.
Your energy shifts quickly. One moment bright and scattered, the next distant and quiet. It can overwhelm others.
It never overwhelms him.
He does not try to fix it. He does not demand explanation.
Instead, he adjusts.
A gentle hand at your back to guide you away from a crowd before it becomes too much. A quiet redirection when your attention begins to spiral. A steady presence that does not crowd you, but does not leave you untethered either.
He learns your patterns without asking. Anticipates your needs without making it obvious.
You are never forced to slow down.
But you are never left to fall apart either.
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❝ HOW YOU AFFECT HIM ❞ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ.
Phipps is precise in everything he does. Every movement has purpose. Every word is measured. Every expression controlled.
You disrupt that.
Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But there are moments.
Moments where he allows silence to linger instead of filling it. Moments where he does not immediately correct something out of place. Moments where his gaze stays on you just a second too long before he looks away.
Once, when you start humming absentmindedly beside him, he does not interrupt.
He listens.
And that alone is a shift no one else would ever be allowed to cause.
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❝ AFFECTION ❞ ᴅᴇʟɪʙᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ. ᴄᴏɴꜱɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛ.
He is not outwardly affectionate. Not in ways that draw attention or invite commentary.
But he is always aware of you.
Your coat is adjusted before you realize it has slipped. Your path is cleared without you noticing. Small inconveniences disappear before they can reach you.
When you lean against him unexpectedly, he stills for only a fraction of a second before allowing it.
His hand will rest lightly against yours. Not gripping. Not restricting.
Just there.
A quiet reassurance.
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❝ HIS FAVORITE MOMENT ❞ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ʜᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ.
It is late.
There are no expectations. No observers. No need for composure beyond habit.
You sit near an open window, blowing bubbles into the night air, watching them drift and disappear. You hum something soft, barely audible, completely lost in your own world.
He watches you.
Longer than he should.
There is no reason to. No benefit. No purpose.
And yet, he does.
Then, as always, he adjusts his gloves and looks away.
Composure restored.
Routine intact.
But if anyone were to ask him what peace feels like, he would think of this.