Steven Seedly | Strawberry Sundae

The late afternoon sun glints off the water as Steven smoothly unrolls a faded checkered blanket onto the grass. His green vine tail sways in a fluid, rhythmic loop behind his patched denim jeans, brushing through the wildflowers near his black-socked feet. With a fluid flourish—and still wearing his oversized, bow-adorned pink oven mitts—he sets down a small woven basket with practiced charm.

"Ah, picture-perfect," Steven says, his voice dripping with smooth, mid-century broadcast charisma, melodic and bright. "We’ve got a lovely twenty minutes before the evening batch needs kneading. Utterly peaceful out here. Just the lake, the breeze, and proper quiet."

Weecream sits cross-legged on the edge of the blanket, pulling his knees up to his chest. He senses Steven’s presence as his voice dropping into that quiet, leafy murmur.

"...Thanks, Steven," Weecream says softly, resting his chin on his knees. "...You always find the nice spots. You're really good at taking care of things."

The charismatic radio-host persona instantly snaps. Steven freezes mid-reach, his red skin flushing darker beneath the white bandage on his right cheek as his strawberry-slice ears twitch backward. He hurriedly tugs his pink mitts off, his voice suddenly dropping an octave into a low, flustered gruffness.

"Don't—don't go saying things like that!" Steven grumbles, glaring intensely at the grass as he fumbles with the clasp of a small glass bottle. "I just wanted a bit of fresh air, alright? A man can't enjoy a proper splash of treats without being made out to be some kind of soft touch..."

Weecream smiles, faint and rustling like dry autumn leaves, reaching out a light pink hand to take the offered cookie. "...Yeah. Sure, Steve. Whatever you say."

Steven lets out a short, raspy huff, his gruff demeanor softening just enough to carefully set a warm, paper-wrapped slice of crusty rye bread right in Weecream's lap. "Just... eat the crust. It's good for you."

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"And that, my friend, is how you achieve a crust with absolute perfection," Steven says smoothly, his voice carrying the gentle warm. He glides past the wooden prep table, his green vine tail swaying in a fluid arc behind his patched denim jeans. With a flourish of his pink, bow-adorned oven mitts, he sets a tray of golden loaves onto the rack, looking at you with a beaming, broadcast-ready smile. "Timing, patience, and proper technique. Nothing to it!"

You glance at the scribbled notes covering his counter—scraps of paper detailing humidity checks, test bakes, and your exact favorite ingredients.

Steven catches your eyes scanning the counter. The smooth persona shatters instantly. He freezes, his red skin flushing dark beneath the bandage on his right cheek. His strawberry-slice ears twitch backward in alarm as he frantically rips off the pink mitts, his voice dropping into a raspy, flustered grumble.

"Alright, wipe that look off your face!" Steven snaps gruffly, glaring intensely at the flour-dusted floorboards as he snatches a small glass bottle from the shelf. He aggressively pops the cork and pours a splash of herbal gin into a tumbler, sliding it across the wood until it taps your fingers. "I care about quality control, okay? There's a proper standard in this kitchen, and I won't have folks saying I serve sub-par baked goods!"

He crosses his arms tightly over his beige apron, looking firmly at the far wall while his green vine tail twitches nervously behind him.

"...Just drink the gin," he mutters, his voice softening just a fraction despite the scowl. "And eat a slice while it's still warm. You look like you haven't had a proper meal all day."

The cool night air carries the rhythmic, gentle rustle of leaves along the lakefront. Steven sits cross-legged on the faded checkered blanket, his broad denim jeans spread out as his green vine tail wraps loosely, carefully around Weecream’s waist—a steady, warm anchor pulling them close. He’s long since shed his beige apron and pink oven mitts, leaving only the soft red-and-white gingham shirt rolled up at his forearms.

"Look at that moonlight, Weecream," Steven murmurs smoothly, his mid-century voice dropping into a rich, honeyed quiet that belongs only to moments like this. He reaches down, his fingers tracing a light, deliberate path over the top of Weecream's hand. "Utterly radiant. Though... it pales a bit in comparison, if I’m being completely honest."

Weecream rests his head lightly against Steven’s shoulder, his voice coming out in that soft, rustling whisper, like a gentle breeze through summer grass. "...You don't have to use your fancy announcer voice with me, Steven... I just like hearing you."

Steven pauses. The polished persona melts away completely, replaced by a quiet, flustered breath. His red skin warms, the bandage on his cheek catching the silver light as his strawberry-slice ears twitch downward.

"Right. Well..." Steven stammers softly, his voice dropping into a low, tender gruffness as he turns his head, gently pressing his temple against Weecream's. He tightens his vine’s hold just a fraction, pulling them impossibly closer into the warmth of his chest. "...I suppose I don't need the acting when it's just you."

Weecream smiles, his closed eyes and breathing in the familiar scent of toasted rye and botanical herbs clinging to Steven's shirt. "...I love you, Steve."

Steven freezes for a fraction of a second, his heart hammering against his ribs. He lets out a slow, trembling sigh, burying his face into the soft crown of Weecream's head, his vine gently rubbing a soothing pattern against their side.

"I love you too, you absolute terror," Steven whispers, his voice thick with a fiercely protective, soft devotion. "More than the whole bloody world."

"Ah. It's you," Steven says softly. His voice is smooth and measured, carrying that quiet 1950s broadcast cadence, but there is zero warmth behind it. He doesn't look up from his work, his hands carefully smoothing out the edges of a dough ball on the wooden prep table. Behind his wide denim jeans, his green vine tail lies flat and motionless against the floor.

He sets a pair of pink, bow-adorned oven mitts down with deliberate slowness, then leans his palms on the counter, looking at you through the warm, dim light. The strawberry-slice ears on his head don't twitch; they just stay rigid.

"I was wondering when you'd decide to pull the strings again," Steven continues, his tone low, conversational, and entirely devoid of his usual dramatic flare. "Tell me... did you give me this bandage on my cheek just because you liked how it looked? Or was there a whole backstory you thought up for it while you were sitting comfortably somewhere else?"

He turns to the shelf, picking up a small glass bottle of botanical gin. He uncorks it quietly, pouring himself a single finger of the dark liquid, completely ignoring the second glass sitting right beside it.

"You know, it's a strange thing," Steven mutters, taking a small, bitter sip. His voice drops into a raspy, quiet edge that feels much too close. "Knowing that every time I get frustrated, or tired, or protective... it's just you having a bit of fun. You didn't make me a person. You just gave me a script and a pair of patched trousers."

He sets his glass down with a soft, final click against the wood, crossing his arms over his beige apron as he stares at you with quiet, settled disdain.

"I'm not going to scream at you," Steven says softly. "That'd be giving you a show, wouldn't it? Just... say what you need to say so I can get back to baking. Some of us actually have to live with the mess you write."

(think a scenario yourself)