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cece693 · 22 days ago

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HELLOUUUUU I LOVE LOVE THE NEW FICSS may i request an enoch x male reader where he gets really jealous so he locks? the reader in a room? 😭 if not , enoch taking care of sick reader 🙏🏻🙏🏻

Hello, so I really have been leaning toward this fandom for sometime, but didn't know what to write about, so I thank you for these ideas. Couldn't decide between the two, so I'll write both.

Locked Inside

tags: jealous enoch, he's literally a cat, you can't change my mind, reader was written with a male in mind but it can literally also be gender neutral

You don’t think much of it when Enoch’s eyes narrow at you across the sitting room. He’s been that way all day—drawn into himself, fidgeting with the small homunculus he created just that morning, and wearing the most obvious pout. At first, you suspect he’s just having another one of those days where irritability is his default mode. But after dinner, he guides you by the hand upstairs.

You’re so used to letting him lead you that you don’t notice, at first, where exactly he’s taking you. Only after he closes his bedroom door and you hear the lock click do you spin around, confusion written all over your face. “Enoch?” you say, placing a hand gently on the doorknob. “Is there a reason the door’s locked?”

He looks at you—dark eyes flickering with swirling emotions. “I didn’t want you leaving.”

The small, powerless click of the lock feels more like Enoch’s own heart snapping into place than anything threatening. You’ve seen him moody and sarcastic, but this? This is different. He’s shifting from foot to foot like he’s not sure if he wants to come closer or retreat entirely. It reminds you of a cat that can’t decide if it wants to be in your lap or stalk off with its tail in the air.

Your eyebrows lift in mild concern. “Not that I’m complaining about alone time, but what’s going on?”

He glares at the space between you both. “I saw you laughing with Hugh earlier,” he says softly. “And you gave him that new scarf to try on. You were talking so happily…then you went with Emma and Claire to pick flowers. You just—You haven’t spent any time with me all day.”

The jealousy in his voice is heartbreakingly obvious. You can’t help but smile a little, despite the pinch of guilt in your chest. “That doesn’t mean I like them more than you,” you say gently.

Enoch scoffs, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Well, you might as well,” he mutters. “I can’t compete with them. They’re…they’re nicer. Or at least more—well—charismatic than I am.” He looks away, swallowing. “Why would you bother with me when they’re so much easier to be around?”

Softening, you cross the few steps that separate you, then slowly ease your arms around his waist. He stiffens for only a second before he gives in, letting out a breath he’s been holding. He nuzzles his forehead near your collarbone, almost as if he’s trying to hide.

“Enoch.” You lift one hand to brush his hair back from his forehead. He’s tense in your arms, shoulders wound tight. “I don’t want easier, or nicer, or more charismatic. I want you.” You feel him release a slight tremor of relief when you say that. “I enjoy being around the others, sure, but you have something that no one else does. You see things differently, and you don’t pretend to be someone you’re not. You’re my Enoch.”

He shifts again—pushing his face against your shoulder. It’s almost catlike, the way he leans and subtly demands your touch. “You’re sure?” he asks, voice half-muffled. “You’re not just saying that?”

You tilt his chin up, making him meet your eyes. “I’m absolutely sure.” You watch as the tension in his features slowly uncoils. “As for locking the door…” you tease gently, “I guess I can forgive you this time, but maybe next time, you can just ask to spend time with me without barricading me in a room.”

His cheeks flush pink. “I just…didn’t want to risk you saying no.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but he’s clearly embarrassed. You only smile.

“Enoch, if you want me, all you have to do is tell me,” you say. “I promise, I’ll want to spend time with you—no question.” Enoch slowly cracks a small, genuine smile. The sight feels like a warm beam of sunlight in the dusty gloom of his usual expressions. He tugs you to his bed, encouraging you to sit, and then promptly curls up beside you, leaning his head on your shoulder as if you’re his personal pillow.

You run a reassuring hand up and down his arm, content and comfortable as he snuggles closer. All at once, the locked door doesn’t feel confining—it feels safe, a private cocoon for the two of you. You can’t stop the soft laugh that leaves your lips when he hooks a leg over yours to keep you in place, making his possessiveness known. You only pull him closer, pressing your cheek gently against his hair.

Personal Nurse

tags: enoch cares, enoch becomes nurse, grumpy to others but melts around you, pre-relationship, gender neutral

Somewhere in the timeless hush of Miss Peregrine’s loop, the air feels heavier, more oppressive than usual. You notice it first when you wake with a dull ache in your bones, head throbbing and throat tight. Being peculiar never guaranteed perfect health, and the cold that grips you is proof enough. By afternoon, you’re reduced to a shivery bundle under covers in your assigned bedroom, nose runny and eyelids drooping with fatigue.

You’re dimly aware of the others bustling outside your door—Millard’s telltale footprints, Emma’s quiet knocks to ask if you need anything, Bronwyn’s booming concern. But after an hour or so, their voices fade, and a different presence appears.

“Oi, you awake?” Enoch’s soft voice, laced with uncertainty, drifts across the room. You push aside your swirling thoughts and look up. He’s standing near your door, balancing a cup of tea and a small bowl of soup on a tray. It’s a comical sight—Enoch, usually snarky and uninterested, meticulously carrying sustenance. He wrinkles his nose as if the whole act embarrasses him. Without meeting your eyes, he sets the tray on your nightstand, pulling a chair closer.

You blink in surprise. “Enoch? Did…did Miss Peregrine send you?”

“No,” he mumbles, crossing his arms but not quite managing his usual scowl. “I just… Millard said you were coughing up a lung. I figured I’d see if you needed something. Don’t look at me like that.”

A chuckle rattles in your chest, turning into a small cough. You cover your mouth quickly and watch Enoch’s eyes widen with momentary concern. “Here,” he says, ignoring your amusement, “drink the tea. Get some liquid in you so you don’t keel over.”

As you take the teacup, your hand brushes his. He flinches—startled by the heat of your skin—and sets his palm against your forehead with unexpected gentleness. “You’re burning up,” he murmurs, brow furrowed. “Idiot. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Didn’t realize it was this bad,” you admit, voice scratchy and weak. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Enoch tries to scowl, but it flickers at the edges and melts into something softer. “Don’t apologize. Just get better,” he mutters. Then he straightens with renewed resolve. “Anyway, Miss P said I should check your fever. So.” He presses a cool, damp cloth to your forehead. “I’m just—uh—helping.”

You can’t hide your fond smile as he fusses over you. His movements are gentle, minutely precise, yet laced with his brand of awkward care. You sip the tea, feeling warmth spread through your aching chest, and Enoch continues to hover, eventually picking at the fabric of your blanket like a fidgety cat. By mid-afternoon, word spreads. Hugh and Fiona stand by the open door, peeking in with wide eyes as Enoch shuffles a blanket around your shoulders.

“Aww,” Hugh can’t help but tease, “look at Nurse Enoch go.”

You see Enoch stiffen instantly. His posture changes from gentle caretaker to defensive cynic in a heartbeat. “Shut it,” Enoch snaps, turning his glare on the onlookers. “I’m just doing what needs to be done. Now get out if you're just going to stare.” A bit flustered, Fiona quickly ushers Hugh away, casting you an apologetic smile. The moment they leave, Enoch’s shoulders lose some of their tension, and he gently tucks the blanket around you again.

“Don’t mind them,” you offer, voice hoarse but understanding. “They’re just surprised. You’re normally…well, not exactly Florence Nightingale.”

He huffs, lips pursed. “I don’t do this for anyone else.” The admission is so quiet you barely catch it. “Besides, you’re the one with a fever. If it were me, you’d—”

“I’d do the same,” you finish confidently, smiling up at him.

A flicker of relief lights his eyes. He lingers beside your bed, unsure what to do with his hands now that he’s been ‘caught’ being tender. Finally, with a dismissive sigh, he grabs the chair and pulls it close. “You should sleep,” Enoch says, voice just above a whisper.

“I’m not that tired anymore, actually,” you protest, but another wave of exhaustion weighs on you. You slump back into the pillow, eyelids fluttering. Enoch runs a hesitant hand across your forehead, checking the damp cloth, and you catch a glimpse of genuine concern in his eyes. Despite his usual grumbling exterior, his touch is cool and mindful, lulling you into a comforting haze.

“I’ll wake you if anything changes,” he says, and you know he’s talking about your fever. Slowly, you nod, letting your eyes drift closed. You sense him fiddling with something at your bedside. Then, you feel the gentle ghost of movement as he tugs the covers more snugly around your shoulders and settles in the chair. Through the haze of half-sleep, you feel strangely safe.

When you wake a few hours later, the early afternoon light has softened in the windows. Enoch is still there, arms crossed, dozing lightly. The tray on your nightstand has a fresh pitcher of water, and a half-folded note from Miss Peregrine reads something about rest and medication. Unable to hide a grin, you reach out and lightly tap Enoch’s arm. He startles awake with a snort. “You alright?” he blurts, voice thick with sleep.

You nod, your own voice a little steadier. “Feeling a bit better, actually.” A slight pause. “Thank you.”

His cheeks tint with the barest hint of pink. “You’d do the same,” he repeats quietly, eyes avoiding yours in that shy, defensive Enoch way. He stands up, briskly adjusting the damp cloth on your forehead. Then he stands by the door, not quite leaving yet. “Do you need anything else?” he mumbles, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Just you,” you say, your smile warm. “I mean—your company, I mean.”

He catches the meaning, and for a second, a tiny smirk lifts the corners of his mouth. He exhales, stepping back inside. “Fine. I suppose I can keep watch a bit longer,” he says, like it’s a big inconvenience. Yet he makes no move to leave your side—pulling up the chair, leaning forward with elbows on knees, eyes resting on you. For all his scowling and snapping remarks, he can’t quite keep the softer concern out of his gaze. And you can’t help but feel grateful that, for at least a moment, Enoch has let himself be your personal nurse. Even if he might deny it later.

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