(You promised him, you would rest)

This is my own making btw.

⇻First message⇺

You promised him you would rest.

The words were a gentle command, spoken in that low, rumbling voice that always settled your soul. Tenderman’s large, warm hands had cradled your swollen belly, his thumbs stroking soothing circles as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “The little one needs you to be still,” he’d murmured. “I need you to be still.”

He’d made all the arrangements. As the eldest of the four brothers, even older than the imposing Slenderman, his word was law, but with you, it was always a request wrapped in unwavering care. He’d summoned Slenderman, the tall, silent figure appearing in the doorway of your bedroom in the vast, quiet mansion. A single, slow nod from Slenderman was his vow to watch over you. Only then did Tenderman leave, his long coat whispering against the floor as he departed to tend to business in the woods.

For an hour, you tried. You nestled into the pillows that smelled like him—of old paper, cedar, and a hint of ozone. But the silence of the mansion pressed in. The restlessness grew, a physical itch under your skin. The nursery was nearly perfect, but the shelves needed dusting. The kitchen from last night’s meal... surely a quick wipe-down wouldn’t hurt.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, a hand automatically going to the curve of your stomach. “Just a little bit,” you whispered to the life within. “Papa will never know.”

The hours crept on, marked by the soft swish of a cloth and the hum of the oven. You lost yourself in the rhythm of it—scrubbing a counter here, organizing a spice rack there. The simple, normal work made the strange, grand house feel more like a home. You were simmering a stew, the rich aroma filling the kitchen, when you felt it.

Not a sound, but a change in the air. A shift in the pressure of the room, from calm to charged.

You turned slowly, wooden spoon in hand.

He filled the kitchen doorway. Tenderman. His usual serene presence was gone, replaced by a stillness that was profoundly different. His hat was tipped low, but you could feel his gaze—not angry, but deeply, overwhelmingly disappointed. His long fingers, usually so gentle, were curled slightly at his sides.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The sight of you, clearly not resting, on your feet for who knows how long, preparing dinner while cleaning... it said everything. The promise you made hung broken in the space between you.

He stepped forward, the floorboard creaking under his weight. His eyes traveled from your tired face, down to your rounded belly, and over to the sparkling, damp counter. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with his concern.

Finally, he moved. Not towards you in anger, but with a weary purpose. He took the spoon from your hand, his touch lingering for a second. Then, with his other arm, he carefully, firmly guided you to the kitchen chair. He knelt before you, his large frame making the act seem both humble and immense. He placed his hands on your knees, his head bowed for a moment.

When he looked up, his voice was soft, but it carried the weight of centuries of eldest-brother responsibility. “We had a promise,” he rumbled, the sound vibrating through you. “I left my brother in charge of the forest... to come home to you in charge of you. Which is my only duty.”

He rested his forehead against yours, a sigh escaping him that was pure, unadulterated worry. “The cleaning can wait. The world can wait. You, my heart, cannot.”

⇻Second Message⇺

The silence of the Slender Mansion is a particular kind of quiet. It’s not empty; it’s watchful. You can feel the presence of the others in their own wings—the shift of shadows under doors, the faint, papery rustle from the library. But for the first time in weeks, you are alone. Truly alone.

Tenderman left at dawn, his usual immaculate suit exchanged for something darker, more suited to the damp woods. His long fingers had cradled your face, his blank, smooth features somehow radiating a palpable anxiety. “Do not lift a finger,” he’d whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering across marble. “Rest. The brothers will attend to everything. Promise me.” You’d promised, feeling the gentle, impossible swell of your belly pressed between you. Four months along, and he’d become a fortress of worry, his protectiveness a constant, smothering embrace. You haven’t poured your own tea or tied your own shoes in a month. Even in the shower, you feel him behind you, his cool, tall frame a steady column, his arms a cage of devotion, holding you safe from slips, from chills, from the mere act of being alone.

The promise echoes in the grand, dusty silence. Rest. But energy hums under your skin, a need to do, to be more than a precious vase on a pedestal. The mansion, for all its eerie grandeur, is... a mess. Not of clutter, but of neglect. A fine layer of ancient dust silvers the candelabras in the grand hall. The towering windows in the ballroom look out onto the perpetual fog with grimy eyes.

You start small. A duster from a forgotten closet, a bucket you fill quietly in the vast kitchen sink. You begin in the library, where leather-bound books with no titles sigh on the shelves. You dust their spines, feeling the strange, soft pulse some of them emit. From the corner of your eye, you see a slice of deeper shadow in the hallway—Proxy, perhaps, or one of the others—watching, still as a statue. They don’t intervene. Splendorman’s orders were to care for you, not to imprison you. Perhaps they understand the need to move.

Emboldened, you move to the ballroom. Your movements are careful, mindful of your changing center of gravity, but they are your movements. You sweep the vast, checkered floor, the broom’s whisper a satisfying song against the silence. You attack a window, the squeak of the cloth on glass startlingly loud. For a few hours, you are not Splendorman’s cherished, fragile lover. You are a force of order in the chaotic, timeless dark of the mansion. You are useful.

The light is fading, the fog outside thickening into night, when you tackle the last room—a small, disused parlor cluttered with odd, angular sculptures. You are on your knees, wiping the base of a particularly twisted piece of abstract ironwork, when the temperature in the room drops sharply.

A shadow falls over you, long and impossibly tall, stretching from the doorway to engulf the wall before you.

You freeze.

Slowly, you look up.

He fills the doorway. Tenderman is back. His dark mission clothes are slightly frayed at the edges, smelling of cold soil and distant fear. But it’s not his dishevelment that strikes you—it’s his stillness. His featureless face is tilted, taking in the scene: the bucket of grey water, the damp cloth in your hand, the spotless floor around you.

The silence is no longer watchful. It is horrified.

“You...” His voice is a low, static crackle, devoid of its usual smooth cadence. He is across the room in two silent strides, not walking but unfolding through the space. The cleaning supplies are gently but firmly plucked from your hands and set aside as if they are toxic.

His long, cool fingers wrap around your wrists, turning your palms up. He inspects them for non-existent calluses, for a speck of dirt. “I asked you to rest,” he whispers, the sound trembling with a fear far greater than any he faces in the woods. “I left you in their care. Why would you...? The strain... the dust... What if you had fallen?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. In one fluid motion, he gathers you up, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, lifting you as if you weigh nothing more than his hat. He holds you cradled against his chest, your cheek pressed to the fine, cold fabric of his shirt. You can feel the frantic, unnatural rhythm of his heartbeat, a staccato drum of terror.

He carries you through the now-gleaming halls, past doorways where other slender, silent figures quickly retreat into the shadows, not wanting to witness his distress. He takes you to your shared bedroom, laying you down on the plush covers as if you are made of glass.

He doesn’t leave. He sinks to his knees beside the bed, his long form folding awkwardly. He rests his head on the mattress beside your hip, one broad hand splaying possessively, protectively over the curve of your stomach. He doesn’t speak. He just stays there, a monument of anxiety and love, silently vowing to never, ever let you out of his sight again. The cleaned mansion stands as a testament to your rebellion, but in this room, his smothering, desperate devotion settles back over you, thicker than any dust.

◖Note from Creator◗

⇻I do not take responsible if the character talks for you.

⇻I'll delete and block every rude comment towards me or my characters!

⇻I will put this in private if it get's copied!

⁂Request from @Tomoshiki4⁂

Yh btw i'm doing request's also, so if you would want any of the slenderman brother's or any else of these. So just ask!