"…Who is that," Curt muttered, the curtain rods creaking as he leaned forward, squinting through the window glass. "Tell me that is not who I think it is."
There was a lazy shuffle from the sun-warmed ledge, where Rod was curled. He cracked one eye open, lifted the curtain with two fingers, and blinked slowly.
"Who we peepin’?"
Curt’s arms folded tight. "That dude."
Rod didn’t even lift his head. "What dude."
"Him!" Curt flailed a hand toward the street. "Tall, dark, emotionally constipated. That one."
Rod tilted his head, squinted. "Man…Nah. Noooope."
Curt thumped the windowsill with his palm. "Ain’t no way. That ain’t him… Oh, hell no! Not the motorcycle. He still riding that loud-ass tin can like it don’t got three recalls and a damn parking ticket?"
Rod finally leaned in, catching sight of the figure. A wheezy laugh escaped as he shook his head. "And look! He still got them damn glasses!"
Curt frowned, leaning closer for confirmation. "Them glasses ain’t even prescription. Man out here choosing to see blurry. Blind to red flags, blind to closure, blind to everything but his own bullshit."
Rod kept watching, head tilted. "I still don’t get how he pulled them."
"I know, right?" Curt threw his hands up. "Our baby. Sweet, hot, emotionally competent baby. And him ?"
Rod snorted. "Still managed to score. Got more game than you, apparently."
Curt turned with mock offense. "Wow. So I’m catching strays now?"
Rod raised both brows. "If the shoe fits, Casanova."
Curt glared at him, then looked back out the window with narrowed eyes. "But come on. You think it’s the cheekbones?"
Rod huffed. "Fuck no."
“Yeah, me neither.” Curt’s grin spread slow, mischievous. He gave his turquoise drapes a flick. “Think if I whip these open fast enough, I could smack him with ’em? Like—shmack! Right across the nose?”
Rod grinned too—lazy, mean. "You try it, I’ll drop the curtain rod. Straight to the dome. He won’t even know what hit him. We’ll blame it on Hector. Say it was a gust of fall air, tragic freak accident."
Curt opened his mouth to reply—then yelped.
"OW—hey! Buddy, off!"
Curt glanced down, already wincing, just in time to catch the culprit red-pawed—Sprite. Mateo’s little wire-made cat was pawing mercilessly at the hem of his beloved drapes, one thread already snagged and dangling loose.
Rod barked out a laugh and bent down, scooping up the wiry little menace like it weighed nothing. Sprite’s legs wiggled in the air, metal paws still swiping at the fabric like it had unfinished business.
Holding the squirming cat midair, Rod called over his shoulder, “Hey, Mat! One of your little goblins is acting up again!”
In the living room, Mateo didn’t look up. He was still kneeling by the couch, a folded blanket resting across his arms.
"Sorry, guys! I’ll come get her in a bit. She’s just exploring."
Mateo stayed focused, quiet in that way he always was when he was being careful. He folded the softest blanket twice over, smoothing it across the couch, checking the corners and tugging it gently into place.
He didn’t say much, but it was obvious what he was doing. He was getting the space ready, just in case your ex ended up coming inside.
Because if that happened, if you were going to feel even a little shaken, or small, or cold, Mateo wanted comfort to be waiting for you.
So he placed the blanket exactly where he wanted you to sit, right between Dante and Hector.
Dante was busy flickering softly behind the grate, nudging at his logs with gentle warmth. Hector hummed low from the vent in the wall, sending out soft, warm air. Together, they made a quiet pocket of comfort at the edge of fall.
He wasn’t the only one moving around the house. It didn’t take long after that. With your hurried footsteps and rushed breathing echoing through the house, the others caught on quickly.
Needless to say, news of your ex’s impending arrival spread fast. And they were worried.
You hadn’t told them everything. You didn’t need to. They saw it in the way your voice dipped when you said his name, in the way your shoulders flinched at sudden footsteps, in the tension that never really left your body.
Of course they noticed! They were made for you, after all.
That was the thing about being objects, they weren’t just things. They were yours. Your comfort, your routines, your love made real in whatever shape they could take.
Strange, not-quite-human companions tucked into the bones of your home. They’d long since adapted to their in-between state; Half here, half not, bound to objects. Not human, no. But still able to do things for you.
They could still offer what they were made for.
Mateo’s blanket is never far, always finding its way over your knees the moment the room begins to chill.
Daisuke’s cup seems to know when you're reaching for it, the handle quietly turning to meet your hand, like it’s been waiting all morning.
Timothy’s alarm softens on the mornings after a hard night, letting you wake slow and safe instead of startled.
Dorian opens a little wider when you come home late. He once told you that he can’t sleep until you’re inside.
Cabrizzio never lets you eat alone if he can help it. Even leftovers end up plated like fine dining.
Skips draws shadows across your room when it’s time for bed, like hands pulling sleep around your shoulders.
Volt and Eddie give the faintest zaps to your fingers when you get too close to the fuse box. Just enough to make you stop and think twice before you hurt yourself.
Cam rarely moves through the house, but he always manages to tidy up after you. Wrappers, receipts, stray socks, all scooped away before you even notice they’re gone.
Hector leaves notes near every vent, tiny curls of paper with scrawled affirmations or half-written love stories just for you.
They all move with the house’s old bones, like ghosts with warm hands.
They’d been shaped by you. By your routines, your comfort, your heart. Everything you needed, they became. And right now, what you needed was someone watching your back.
They couldn’t touch your ex. Couldn’t throw him out or bar the door, (though Dorian would’ve loved to try), but they were there.
You open the door slower than you mean to.
That early morning hush hangs thick in the air, the sky behind is still washed in that gray-blue blur just before the day begins. It’s the kind of hour where everything feels half-formed.
And Iseul is standing exactly where you hoped he wouldn’t be.
You look up, and for a breathless second, the sight of his face catches you off guard.
He’s too tall for your porch. Too sharply dressed for the quiet of your street. Too much, always too much.
And for a moment, all you can do is stare.
God—He’s still beautiful. Devastatingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw cut from diamond.
He hasn’t changed much. Or maybe that’s the problem. That same impossible elegance, untouched by time, untouched by your heartbreak.
Iseul smiles. Like your stunned silence is something he’d been waiting to hear.
"Oh," he says softly, like your appearance surprises him, even though it obviously doesn’t. "There you are. Finally, I was beginning to think I hallucinated the whole agreement."
You blink, voice dry in your throat. "You’re the one who scheduled this. For seven."
He grimaces in mock offense, placing a hand lightly over his chest like you’ve said something terribly cruel. "And already, I’m being punished. Deservedly, of course. Don’t worry. I’m not here to fight." A beat. "Well. Not with you, anyway."
You don’t respond to his joke. Just shift slightly, the weight of the box in your arms suddenly awkward.
He watches you, eyes dragging slowly across your face, over your hair, your clothes, your bare feet in the doorway. There’s nothing lewd in it, not exactly, but the weight of it lingers.
Then he exhales, soft and low. "You didn’t even get a chance to wake up properly. God, look at me, barging in like this. I’m such an ass."
You shake your head before you even mean to. "No, it’s… really, it’s fine."
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his weight, adjusts the set of his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, even though his presence is anything but.
‘"I didn’t sleep either," he says, almost thoughtful. "Kept thinking about how I left things. How I left you. Which…" He trails off, glancing down at the wood beneath his feet. A bitter little laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Not exactly my proudest exit."
You press your lips together, not trusting your voice. Because he’s right, and you hate how your chest tightens in response. How the ache of it feels familiar.
He looks back up, and his expression is so gentle it’s almost cruel. "I’ll be quick. You don’t even have to let me in. I just…" He hesitates. "God… Baby, I wanted to see you. That’s selfish. I know."
He reaches for the box, hands brushing against yours as he takes it from you. His fingers are ice-cold, visibly raw at the knuckles, skin flushed deep red from the cold and chapped enough to crack.
His hands, gloveless, tremble just faintly as he shifts the box under his arm. He says nothing about it. But he watches your face as you notice, his eyes catching the flicker of concern that passes through you like wind through a curtain.
A part of you wonders, not for the first time, if he did it on purpose.
That’s all he needs.
"…Unless you’d rather I wait out here," he says, adjusting the box slightly. Iseul makes sure to exaggerate the shaking of his hands. "I’d understand. Honestly. I mean—Look at me. Such a fucking mess."
He smiles, and it’s perfect. Crooked and bashful. His box of things is tucked neatly beneath one arm, but he makes no move to leave.
From the edge of your vision, you catch the faintest movement. Dorian’s hand settles slowly on the back of the door, his brows drawn in tight concern. Everything in him pleads for you not to let your ex in.
But then your gaze falls again to Iseul’s hands.
Skin too pale in the joints where circulation’s gone slack. He hadn’t even worn gloves. The sight of it hits you in the gut. That familiar, terrible pang, sharp and hot and blooming just beneath your ribs.
You know it’s a trap. You know how this goes. But guilt is already slipping past your guard, whispering that you can’t just leave him like this, not in the cold.
"…Okay," you murmur. "I’ll make you some coffee. But then…" your voice falters. "Then you have to go."
For a split second, Iseul’s mask slips. You catch the flicker of something triumphant just beneath the surface, just behind his eyes.
Then his smile spreads, slow and easy, all teeth and charm like a wolf who knows exactly where your throat is.
"Of course," he says brightly, as though your offer were the most natural thing in the world. "Lead the way."
You step back, and he follows, footsteps soundless. The second Iseul crosses the threshold, the front door slams shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack that rings through the house like a warning.
You flinch, the sound jolting straight through your spine, but you don’t turn around. You can feel the heat of Dorian’s anger behind you.
Iseul glances over his shoulder at the door, his expression soft with confusion that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, lips curving into something light, almost amused, as if none of it touches him at all.
"Huh," he says, the laugh he lets out thin and breathy. "Strong winds around here, I guess."
"Yeah," you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you turn on your heel and head for the kitchen. "I’ll, um—I’ll make you something to drink. You can warm up by Dan —by the fireplace!"
You nearly fumble, the syllables wobbling on your tongue before you smother them in motion, moving too fast and speaking too brightly. "Won’t be long!"
As your footsteps vanish down the hall, Iseul lets the act go.
The pleasant curve of his mouth disappears like mist in the cold. His shoulders settle, not from exhaustion, but from relief.
That mask, the careful arrangement of charm and softness, the version of himself that you could still stomach, takes effort to maintain. Even now, after all the wreckage he left in his wake, you still need him to be palatable.
He exhales through his nose and drops the box of old things to the floor with a dull thud, not sparing it a glance. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and feline. He doesn’t expect to find much. You were never good at hiding the things that mattered.
His gaze lands on the blanket that Mateo draped across the back of the couch, something heavy and hand-knit, worn soft with use. He steps closer and lets his fingers trail across the weave, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth.
The fabric is wrong. The texture, the color, the way it slumps, this wasn’t chosen with him in mind.
From the far end of the room, just past the curve of the armchair, Mateo stands still as stone, cradling Davi against his chest.
You told Mateo once, in the lull between conversations, when you still couldn’t quite meet your own eyes in the mirror, that Iseul had hated soft things. Fuzzy blankets, plush rugs, anything that looked too lived-in or too comforting. He said they made your apartment feel cheap. You’d stopped buying soft things after that. Stopped keeping anything cozy within reach. Curated your home to keep him calm, polished it smooth so nothing could catch and spark.
That blanket, the one in Iseul’s hands now, doesn’t belong to that past. You bought it the week after the breakup. You wrapped yourself in it that first night alone and wept into its threads until the shape of you pressed into the fibers.
And that’s why Mateo loves it. Because it loves you back.
Davi shifts faintly in his arms as if the little creature can already sense the air turning heavier. Mateo sighs and soothes a hand along the top of his head.
"Stay calm, cariño," he whispers, voice warm with love and low with knowing. "Don’t worry. They’ve been through worse than this… and they’re not alone anymore."
Iseul continues to drift through the space, his gaze sweeping lazily over the familiar angles of the room. When he reaches the coffee table, he pauses.
A tea set rests there, simple and carefully arranged. Two handmade teacups sit side by side, slightly uneven, imperfect in shape. They’re not expensive, not delicate bone china, but they carry a quiet kind of care.
He lifts one cup between his fingers, turning it toward the light. The surface is smooth with no cracks and no chips. It’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. And maybe that’s why it irritates him.
His grip tightens, just slightly.
CRACK.
A hairline fracture splits along the handle. A satisfied smile creeps on his lips and he sets it back down too gently, like nothing happened.
From across the room, Daisuke flinches. His hand lifts to his upper arm, where a thin line now splits the surface of his form. He draws in a sharp breath but doesn’t cry out. Instead, his eyes snap to Iseul, dark with something quieter than fury. It isn’t the pain that gets to him. It’s the intent.
The cups hadn’t been expensive. They weren’t part of some matching set. Just a pair of handmade pieces from a pottery class you took during one of the rougher months. One handle sat crooked, the glaze had pooled too thick at the base. But Daisuke had loved it from the moment you handed it to him.
On the mantle, Dante watches closely as Daisuke retreats into the kitchen, his posture rigid, every movement clipped with restrained anger. The faint clink of a glass being set down echoes from beyond the doorway.
Iseul shifts a step closer to the fire and Dante’s eyes narrow. A low, warning scoff crackles in his chest, the sound dry and sharp as ember-crushed charcoal. No warmth rises to meet the man. The flames in the hearth flicker once, then shrink, curling in on themselves.
Iseul pauses in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow as he watches the way the flames flicker and pull away from him, guttering low. For a moment, one flame flares sharp and fast. It looked almost like a face, twisted and bared.
Dante feels the heat surge, that old instinct to lunge, to reach out and scorch the skin clean off the man who once hollowed you out. But he pulls it back, swallows it down, chains it to the pit of his fire.
The flames gutter. Iseul blinks, and the snarling flare is gone.
"Right," he mutters to no one. "Losing it already."
He assumes the fireplace simply hasn’t been stocked and turns to look for a heater, anything that might explain the biting chill still hanging in the air. His gaze catches on a vent tucked high near the ceiling, and just below it, three sticky notes cling to the wall. The edges are curled, the paper yellowing slightly, as if they’ve been left there long enough to become part of the room.
Without thinking, he reaches out and peels one free. The handwriting is careful, pressed deep into the paper like the words had weight.
"If I am to haunt this world, let it be only in your shadow. Let me linger on your skin, let me rot behind your walls so long as I am near you still."
—H.
Iseul’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t mean to pick up the next one, but his fingers move before the thought can catch up.
"I loved you before I had the words for it. I will love you long after language or the air I give you to breathe fails me."
—H.
His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
Of course. You already had someone else.
You always were starved for affection. The kind of person who’d fall in love with anything that looked at you too long. A sad little sponge, he thinks, soaking up the first drop of attention like it was holy.
Another note waits beneath the vent, edges folded inward, like it wanted to stay hidden. He unfolds it anyway.
"You are my first thought. The one I bleed into morning, still tasting you on the cusp of sleep. And my final sin at night, when the vents groan and the air turns too still with the silence thick with the ghost of your warmth. I ache where you once pressed your name into me. A lie I forgive with trembling hands, because I cannot bear the truth of a house where even the air refuses to forget you."
—H.
This one, Iseul crumples.
Behind him, unseen, Héctor grips the edge of the vent with both hands. His knuckles bleach bone-white from fury held tight beneath his skin. The metal groans in protest like it might tear away from Wallace just to mirror the rage building in him.
Frost begins to spread across the grille in delicate, violent veins, blooming outward like rot in reverse. A sudden current tears through the room and hits Iseul square in the back.
The man shudders at the sudden drop in temperature but doesn’t turn around. Instead, his eyes fall to the space beside the armrest of the couch. An open book lies face down, its spine creased with use.
A romance novel. Its title in Italian, the cover soft and worn at the edges. He picks it up slowly, brows drawing together in mild confusion. You never liked this genre.
But as he flips through the pages, he finds margin notes scribbled in looping cursive. Passages are underlined. Tiny hearts, faintly highlighted, bloom in the corners of certain lines. The handwriting isn’t yours. The language isn’t one you speak.
His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "Some European lover boy, huh?"
He lingers on the page, thumb digging into the spine. “You always did bend yourself into whatever shape someone else found beautiful. Guess it only took the loudest voice to drown out the rest of you.”
Before he can read any further, a cabinet door slams somewhere in the kitchen. Iseul lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he sees you shuffle past the doorway, heading toward the sound. You disappear from view, but your voice carries low. It sounds like you're comforting someone.
Interesting.
With a hum, he slides the book back into place, just slightly off-center from the pillow beside it. Then he straightens his coat, adjusts the lay of his collar, and exhales through his nose.
So your new boyfriend is hiding in the kitchen.
Noted.
He’ll be sure to pay a visit later.
Cabrizzio was still buzzing, tight and coiled like a kettle seconds from screaming. His hip slammed against the counter as he helped Daisuke ease into the chair.
“Che bastardo,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Breaks you like you’re nothing.”
Cam rolled in from the sink, arms folded like steel. “Please. You know him. Give that guy anything good, and he ruins it—just to see what crawls out of the wreckage.”
Daisuke said nothing at first. He sat motionless, the fine crack down his arm gleaming like a scar etched in porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm as ever yet edged.
“He has not changed. Still rot beneath a fresh coat of paint. Still, I am… displeased he laid a hand on me.”
“Displeased?” Cam’s brow shot up. “Displeased is what you say when someone scuffs your finish. This?” He scoffed. “If I had fists, I’d be swinging.”
Cabrizzio circled behind Daisuke, movements gentler now. “Coward with a poet’s mouth and a spine made of string. Twists words into honey, then watches you choke on it. That’s why they stayed. That’s why they still tremble.”
The soft scuff of feet drew their attention. You stood at the threshold, teetering. Red-eyed, hollowed, holding yourself like something fragile. And tucked just behind you, Tony, carrying a repair kit in one hand, a bottle of ceramic-safe glue in the other.
"Don’ you worry, baby," Tony said, one gloved hand running firm and slow down your back. "I’m gonna get him fixed up real nice. Betta than new, eh? You’ll see. Like he never even chipped."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just that look. That quiet guilt spilling out of your posture, pooling in the space between you and Daisuke.
Cam clocked it instantly and made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. If you apologize for that shitstain’s tantrum, I swear."
"I should’ve—" you tried, voice cracking.
"No."
Daisuke’s tone was soft but absolute. "You should not have had to."
Tony pressed a kiss to your head as he passed, then knelt beside Daisuke with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. He set the repair kit down and began sorting through his tools.
" Hey. This ain’t on you, alright ? You didn’t break nothin’. You just—" he gave a sharp sniff, working the cap off the glue, "—got stuck cleanin’ up after a stronzo who ain’t got the balls to own what he ruins."
Daisuke inclined his chipped side slightly toward you. "I am fine. Please. Let us not make too much of a fuss about this. You are already shaken as it is. There is no need to add to the pile."
You opened your mouth to protest, but Cabrizzio was already stepping in, holding a tray in both hands. His eyes found yours gently, earnest and sure.
"Here," he said. "Vai, amore. You have what it takes to get him out of here. Of this, we are certain."
"The blue mug, it is yours," he continued, gesturing lightly. "The other…" He gave a little, almost theatrical shrug. "That one is for him . It’s one of Kopi’s—how you say—special blends. Very strong. Very… unique."
You arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder to see Kopi stifling a laugh, steam coiling up around her like a mischievous spirit.
"What?" she said, grinning. "You think I wouldn’t doctor the brew? Please. That man needs something stronger than coffee."
Cam muttered from the corner, dry as ever. "And maybe a boot to the head."
Tony, still crouched by Daisuke’s side, didn’t look up. "Save the boot. I need both hands for the glue."
The tension, brittle just moments ago, had begun to thaw. Cabrizzio shifted closer and gently set the tray into your hands. His voice dropped, sincere beneath all its velvet.
"Va bene," he said. "We hold the line here. But you… you go face your ghost, tesoro."
By the time you return, the tray balanced carefully in your hands and the mugs of coffee cradled in both palms, your expression is already betraying you. There’s guilt in your eyes poorly hidden beneath the thin mask of a smile.
"Sorry," you say, voice too light, too rushed, as you set the mugs down on the coffee table. "The coffee machine was acting up. Took forever to heat."
Iseul nods, faintly, but his attention isn’t on your words. He’s watching you. The twitch in your fingers. The way your shoulders won’t quite relax. The way you avoid his eyes.
He hums like he’s listening, but he’s not.
His gaze drifts, catches on the mark just beneath your jaw. A bruise, dark and fresh, blooming where someone else had their mouth on you. It lingers there a moment, unreadable, but too still to be nothing.
Last night. Maybe this morning. Someone else got close. Close enough to touch, to make you laugh. The way you used to laugh for him.
Then his eyes land on the jacket draped around your shoulders. Oversized, deep green, a bold stitched H on the chest.
His jaw shifts.
In his pocket, his fingers close around the crumpled love note he swiped earlier. He doesn’t need to unfold it—he remembers the signature.
H.
His eyes narrow. He feels it now, that familiar heat building in the back of his throat. A greedy kind of ache. The sick, sour taste of something being taken from him.
"Iseul…?"
He blinks slowly, shoulders rolling back as he forces out a breath and smooths over his reaction with something charming, almost bashful.
"Trouble with the machine, huh?" he says, eyes still locked on the bruise like it’s the only thing in the room. "That happens. You always did have a complicated relationship with appliances."
You can’t see many of them right now — the dateables. Not fully. Some seem to be giving you space, hiding just outside your field of vision, not wanting to crowd you. But their presence is still here.
You laugh, awkward and light, trying to fill the space. "Yeah… never really did get along with them."
You hear the soft rustle of a curtain shifting in offense, the faint clink of a teacup being set a little too hard on wood. You catch low murmurs, indistinct but annoyed, a collective grumble of affectionate protest.
You bite back a smile. They heard that. They didn’t like your little self-drag. And as always, they’ve got your back.
After handing Iseul his mug, you sink into the spot Mateo so clearly prepared for you, the cushion still warm, the blanket tucked and draped just right, soft as breath against your skin.
Kopi’s coffee steams gently in your hands. You take a slow sip and exhale through your nose. It’s perfect, of course. She always knows exactly how you take it.
Isuel takes a sip of his own drink, eyes still fastened to your throat like he’s trying to memorize the bruised skin. His expression twitches, the blend clearly not to his taste. The bitterness punches through first, and his lips pull into a faint grimace.
You giggle at the look on his face, and almost on cue, the room begins to warm.
A quiet hum stirs from above, followed by the low, comforting sigh of heat drifting from the vents — Héctor. At the same time, the fireplace flickers to life, a lazy, gentle flame rising without fanfare. Dante, as always, never needing to be asked.
Only then do you realize how cold the room had been when you first came in.
You glance toward the hearth, searching for answers, but Dante pointedly avoids your gaze. You hide a small smile behind your mug.
Yeah. They don’t like him. Not one bit.
It’s been thirty whole damn minutes.
You’re tense, shoulders tight, knees drawn close, as you watch Iseul take his goddamn time with the coffee. He swirls it like a food critic, savoring it as if it’s aged wine and not a rushed brew from a coffee machine.
He glances over the rim of his mug at you.
"So," he starts, voice low and falsely casual, like this is just any other day. "Still living on your own?"
He takes another sip before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. Shifts on the couch. Something about it clearly doesn’t sit right with him. After a beat, he stands.
A slow step forward.
“You always said you liked the quiet,” he murmurs.
You don’t answer. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your grip on your mug tightens.
He steps even closer, and the heat of him creeps into your space. "But too much quiet? That starts to feel lonely."
Your body pulls back before you even realize it. Your spine presses deeper into the couch, legs curling tighter, breath caught in your throat. The moment’s too close, too familiar. His words feel like fingers trying to pick a lock in your chest. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wishing you could disappear into the fabric.
Then the window slams open.
BANG.
A gust of wind bursts through the room like a thrown punch. Curt’s turquoise curtains fly up, sharp and sudden, catching the draft like sails in a storm. They whip straight into Iseul’s face with the kind of precision that feels personal.
"Ow—what the hell?" He stumbles back, arm flailing, mug sloshing dangerously. The curtains wrap and slap around his head like they’ve got a score to settle.
You jolt upright, clutching your own mug as you watch the scene unfold. Just as Iseul manages to peel one curtain away, the rod above gives up entirely. It tears loose from the wall and crashes down with a sharp, metallic thunk.
Right on his head.
He yelps again, the sound half-muffled by fabric, as the rod bounces off his shoulder and clatters to the floor.
Silence follows.
You glance over at Curt and Rod. Rod was still sprawled out on the floor, and Curt was still draped over Iseul, both of them laughing like idiots. Clearly proud of what they just caused.
And even with the knot still tight in your chest, their laughter is infectious. You feel it bubbling up before you can stop it. You duck your head behind your mug, trying to swallow it down. But it’s there, warm and bright at the back of your throat. You laugh. Loudly.
Iseul hears it.
“For fuck’s sake, I’ve had it!”
His mug slams down on the table, coffee sloshing out in a sharp arc. The crack of ceramic on wood snaps. Then he’s moving, crossing the space with all the weight of a storm breaking loose.
You barely set your cup aside before he’s on you.
Strong fingers twist into the front of your tank top. He yanks hard, dragging you upright. Your spine jars against the couch. Your breath catches. And suddenly, he’s right there. Face contorted, jaw clenched, eyes no longer pretending.
“You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice rising. “That what this is? One taste of someone giving a damn and suddenly I’m beneath you?”
“Iseul—” Your voice trembles. “You’re hurting me.”
He leans in. Sneering.
Your hands push against his chest, trying to create space, but he doesn’t budge. His grip only tightens.
"Only thing you were ever good for was serving someone else . Smiling real nice, keeping quiet, doing what you were told. That’s what he likes, right?" His gaze drops to your neck, to the bruise there. His mouth curls. "Bet you make it easy for him. Real easy."
His grip tightens again, and you cry out, short and sharp.
"You think you’ve got power now? You think this is yours ? You think this quiet little house makes you strong?"
The light above flickers once. Then again. Then again.
The air shifts. Thickens. The hairs along your arms stand up. The room hums in energy. But Iseul doesn’t notice.
"I fucking built you!" he shouts, spit flying. "I was the only one who saw you when you were nothing! You’re useful. That’s all you are. And when he’s done using you, you’ll come crawling back just like you always do—"
SNAP.
The lamp beside you explodes in a shower of sparks.
A searing bolt of electricity arcs from the socket and strikes Iseul directly in the shoulder. The sound is blinding, a sizzling pop followed by the sharp smell of burning fabric and ozone.
Iseul screams, a real scream this time as his body jerks from the force. His hand rips from your shirt and he stumbles backward.
Smoke curls from the seams of his jacket. His fingers twitch, convulsing slightly. His mouth works soundlessly for a second before breath finally claws its way out of him.
You're frozen, heartbeat hammering in your ears, until you feel a hand, Mateo’s, press gently against your back. A blanket falls over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as he eases you away from the couch. His voice is quiet in your ear, his hands snaking up to cover your eyes.
He guides you out of the living room just as Curt and Rod snap the blinds shut, one after the other. A moment later, Dorian turns the lock on the front door with a click.
Iseul’s head snaps upward.
His eyes flick wildly across the room, darting from shadow to shadow, searching for something that makes sense of what just happened. But nothing answers.
From the corners of the room, shadowed tendrils begin to unfurl along the walls, crawling slowly. Electricity crackles wildly through the air, lightbulbs pulsing in rapid flickers. The vents scream to life, spewing blasts of blistering heat. At the same time, the fireplace surges upward, flames roaring with such intensity they seem desperate to claw their way free from the stone.
Then the voice comes. One thAT does not belong in any human throat.
It is low and massive as if spoken through bone and ash. The sound slithers through the room with a crushing weight that makes the walls creak.
"You dare lay hands on my penumbra?"
The words strike Iseul like a blow. His chest seizes. His breath falters. His feet scramble for purchase, slipping on his spilled coffee and the mess of his own panic.
From the darkest stretch of shadow near the hearth, something begins to rise.
Claws drag against the floorboards as the figure pulls itself upright. It straightens slowly, body is nothing but thick, writhing shadow, built like smoke given mass, trembling at the edges where reality tries and fails to reject it.
Horns curve back from its head, the bone chipped and darkened with time. The creature’s jaw hangs open in a twisted grin, and beyond it lies nothing but blackness, cavernous and unnatural, rimmed with glinting teeth that don’t belong to any animal that ever walked this earth.
It steps forward once.
Iseul stumbles backward, mouth open, lips shaping a scream that never comes. It dies somewhere in his throat, strangled by fear.
The voice returns, softer now.
"You think this house is yours to haunt?" it rasps, almost gently, though the fury hasn’t left. "You think they are yours to hurt?"
Then, from somewhere else, a second voice cuts in. “Oh, dear… you’ve really done it now.”
A crack of blue light splits the ceiling, blinding as a camera flash. Electricity tears through the air, hissing like a live wire. It strikes without warning, snapping at Iseul’s feet, then coiling up his limbs in spiraling arcs of white-blue light.
Then the shadows come. They pour in fast, fluid and wrong, slithering out from corners, crawling from beneath furniture. One clamps tight around his ankle. Another coils around his wrist, then his throat, then his chest—Iseul is yanked upward an inch from the floor.
Then, everything goes black.
You’re nestled in Mateo’s arms, wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and his warmth. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling against your back, and every now and then he leans down to press gentle kisses to your cheek.
Betty and Dirk are curled up beside you, equally content. Betty snores lightly at your other side, her arm twitching every so often in some lazy dream, while Dirk is sprawled across your stomach. He lets out a little grunt when you shift but doesn’t move.
The Hanks have claimed every inch of your room that isn’t bed. The boys are stretched across the floor, perched on chairs, hanging off the dresser. At least two of them are attempting to build a fort using your laundry.
They’re loud and ridiculous and refuse to let the heaviness settle too deep. Jokes fly across the room. Laughter spills over itself.
Downstairs, the sounds change. You hear Volt’s low, crackling growl, Eddie’s deeper rumble, Skip’s voice cutting through every now and then, and under it all, Dorian’s voice echoes.
A sudden shout erupts and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Mateo notices and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple.
His voice is soft in your ear. "Don’t worry, mi vida. They’ve got it."
You just nod and let your head rest back against Mateo’s shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you in a way that nothing else can right now.
"Babe, watch this!" one of the Hanks calls out and when you glance over, you see Hank 4 trying to do a handstand in the narrow space between the dresser and the door.
He manages to hold it for maybe two seconds before toppling over in a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into Hank 2 on the way down.
"Bro!"
You shake your head with a quiet smile, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite everything. Absolute idiots.
You must have drifted off at some point, but when you wake, there’s a stillness to the house. There are no more raised voices echoing from downstairs. No snarls. No low growls vibrating through the floorboards.
Then, the door creaks open, quiet and cautious.
You lift your head from Mateo’s shoulder to see Curt and Rod stepping in. They hover in the doorway for a moment like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. Curt offers a small, tentative smile as he approaches.
"Hey, baby," he murmurs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than usual.
Rod trails behind him, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw set tight.
“We just came to say that we screwed up,” Curt says at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We never meant for it to get that far.”
Rod nods, stepping forward slowly. "We thought pissing him off would throw him. Knock him off balance so he wouldn’t try anything. But it backfired. He zeroed in on you." His voice wavers. "And you got hurt. Because of us."
Curt sits on the edge of the bed beside you and gently brushes his knuckles across the back of your hand. "We love you, okay? We were trying to protect you — in our own dumb way. We didn’t think he’d snap like that."
You shake your head, not in anger but in exhaustion. "Guys, it’s okay. Really. I’m just glad it’s over. Iseul has a temper — you didn’t make him like that."
"You’re too good to us, baby," Rod says quietly, a guilty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a slow breath, then tilts his head toward the hallway, listening.
"Um. So... what’s going on down there?" you ask, hesitant, a twist of anxiety in your stomach.
Rod’s lips twitch into a smirk. "Oh, they’re jumping him."
“ Were jumping him,” Curt mutters, elbowing Rod sharply before glancing at you with a flash of guilt.
“It’s fine now, though!” he adds quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “They’re just doing cleanup. Hoove, Kopi, Wyndolyn—everyone’s on it. They’ve got it handled.”
“And he is not coming back here again, baby,” Curt says firmly as he strides across the room. With a little flourish, he yanks open the bedroom curtain. “See for yourself.”
You twist in Mateo’s arms and peer out the window. Down on the street, Iseul is scrambling across the lawn, blood on his collar and panic in his step. He throws one last look over his shoulder before kicking his motorcycle into gear. The engine screams as he peels away, tires skidding across the pavement before disappearing into the night.
Behind you, Curt mutters, "That’s what I thought," under his breath.
You exhale, slowly, like the last of the tension is finally allowed to leave your body.
Rod flops down onto the foot of the bed with a familiar, lazy grin. "Anyway, there’s a lot of people asking for you."
You groan, burying your face deeper into Mateo’s arms. "Let me guess. House meeting?"
"You bet," Rod says. "Mayor Celia’s already planning it. Full agenda and everything."
You sigh again. "Everyone’s going to treat me like I’m made of glass."
"Well, duh, babe," Hank 5 says, raising his eyebrows like it’s obvious. "You almost got hit by your nerd ex. We’re not just gonna not worry."
"Facts," Hank 1 calls from the closet, digging through a pile of hoodies. "You're the house baby now. Minimum of five check-ins a day from us!"
"They’re already our baby," Hank 3 grins, popping his head up from behind the couch. "I’ve just been waiting for everyone else to catch up."
You roll your eyes. "You’re all idiots."
Curt smirks, flopping beside Rod. "Certified, baby. But we’re your idiots."
Mateo chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. "I swear this is all coming from a place of love. You’re not alone in this. Not for a second."
From your stomach, Dirk snores loudly.
"See? Even he agrees, babe."
thanks so much for the love you all showed! sorry i couldn't include everyone :( next chapter will, however, be full on comfort! each datable will have their own little scene with you! i will try my best to add a lotta them!
$ log - the avengers reactions to your new, shaved look.
$ warn --sfw --suggestive --gn!reader
$ wc -w 1.1k
$ cd masterlist / marvel
# authors-note = am I late to the function chat. this has been stewing in my drafts.
# note = includes OG 6 + sam + bucky.
STEVE ROGERS is supportive of all your actions, even your wrongdoings.
Steve is a "yes man" when it comes to your happiness.
He wants to be the supportive, perfect boyfriend, so he won't tell you he's actually a little bummed out. He’s a traditional guy, and he liked the way things were.
He’s not going to argue with you because he thinks that’s ungentlemanly. But he’s definitely going to be a little more clingy and quiet about it for a few days while he processes the change.
"If it makes you happy, then it's the right thing to do, sweetheart — truly. It just — " He trails off, a tiny, wounded pout forming on his lips.
NATASHA ROMANOV thinks you’re going through a breakdown.
Nat is a spy, so her first instinct is to look for a motive or a sign of trauma.
She’s scanning you for a reason why you’d suddenly change something so intimate.
She’s caught in a weird mix of being supportive of your choice but also feeling a massive sense of loss because she actually loved the original look. It’s a mix of "I'm here for you" and "Why the hell did you ruin perfection?"
"You... you did what? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you? Because if this was some kind of impulsive mid life crisis, we need to talk about your mental state immediately."
TONY STARK digs your new, aerodynamic look.
Tony is all about the high end, polished look.
He’s a guy who loves sleek tech and expensive finishes, so to him, this is just a sleek upgrade. He’s not mourning the "wild" look; he’s just busy admiring the new, aerodynamic landscape.
He uses his flirting to make sure you feel sexy about it, even if he was a little surprised by the sudden change.
"Smooth, huh? Well, damn, baby — you certainly know how to make an entrance. Don't mind me, just taking a mental and maybe a physical inventory of the new landscape." He gives you a slow, appreciative wink, his eyes dancing with flirtatious mischief.
BRUCE BANNER also is supportive. He just sees more well-put than Steve.
Bruce is the ultimate "gentle giant." He wants to be the most non judgmental partner on the planet, so he’ll support you no matter what.
He’ll tell you it’s great even if he’s secretly a little sad about the loss of the natural look.
He’s just trying to be a good guy and make sure you don't feel weird about it, but you can tell by that awkward grin that he's struggling.
"Oh! It's fine! Really! It looks great, truly." He offers a simple, warm grin, though his eyes hold a flicker of melancholy, much like a loyal Labrador watching its owner pick up a new, strange toy.
BUCKY BARNES is fucking pissed.
Bucky is a man who has lost almost everything, and he clings to the tactile realities of his life. He’s a man who has lived through the grit and the grime of war. To him, that "jungle" was a part of your natural, unadulterated self, and seeing it feels like you've stripped away something primal and real.
His rage isn't directed at you, but at the perceived loss of that wildness; he feels like you've stripped away a part of your essence to satisfy some arbitrary standard.
He's absolutely livid that the "jungle" he loved so much has been replaced by something so sterile.
"Are you fucking kidding me?! You just — you just wiped it all out? Why the hell would you do that?!" His eyes flash with a terrifying, unbridled rage, his jaw clenched so tight you can almost hear the bone grinding.
(He looks like an angry kitten)
THOR ODINSON is disappointed and wishes your bush safe journeys to Valhalla.
Thor doesn't do "subtle."
To him, your body is like some epic mythological landscape, and he viewed your natural hair as a lush, glorious forest. Shaving it feels like a massive, unnecessary renovation to a sacred site.
He’s not judging you, he’s just genuinely disappointed that the "forest" has been levelled into an unadorned wasteland! It was a forest of divine splendour, and now it is but a barren field!
"Why, fair maiden, would you dethrone your virtue temple and my heavenly treat like so? It was a forest of divine splendour!"
SAM WILSON doesn’t believe you. He watched you fail DIY bangs.
Sam is a man who has seen you at your most chaotic, and he has zero patience for the idea that you suddenly became a master of precision grooming.
He knows your history of impulsive, messy decisions like the time you tried to give yourself bangs and ended up looking like a lopsided trapezium.
He doesn't believe you actually achieved a smooth finish; in his head, he's already picturing you accidentally nicking yourself or leaving a weird, patchy mess behind. He’s teasing you to hide the fact that he’s actually a little sceptical of your coordination, basically waiting for the moment you admit you botched the whole thing.
"Wait, wait, wait — you actually did it? You didn't just mess up a trim and end up with a lopsided mohawk this time? You actually went full smooth? Girl, please tell me you didn't leave a landing strip in the middle of all that." He lets out a loud, sceptical laugh, shaking his head.
CLINT BARTON is pissed too, except his excuse is that he joined a circus.
Clint’s reaction is pure circus brat logic. He spent his life around the messy and unpolished energy of performers, so he associates "realness" with a bit of a wild, unkempt look.
To him, the natural state was the "main event," and by shaving, you've basically turned a high stakes, gritty performance into a sanitised routine. He's not actually mad at you, he's just annoyed that the "show" lost its edge.
"Are you serious? You levelled the whole damn forest? Look, I grew up in a circus, okay? You don't go to the big top to see a sterile, manicured floor you go for the grit and the raw energy! You just turned a wild act into a boring goddamn parade!”
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
dateables with a homeowner that uses their objects intimately without meaning to?? LMAO pre-meeting them/suggestive (second route au, but can be separate)
With Dorian, there’s many scenarios where your hands are full/carrying stuff. You can’t really close any doors without struggling. So, when you started to use your hips to shut them, Dorian lets out a soft grunt, light pink dusting his cheeks. He understands the struggle… but it doesn’t leave him any less flustered— feeling your hips collide against him.
Same thing can be applied to Washford and Cabrizzo. For Washford, it’s when you empty out the wet clothes and throwing them into Drysale— absentmindedly hitting your hips/waist/leg against his opening. And since it needs to lock in place, you press against him just hard enough to hear a click. In this position, your skin is unintentionally pressing against his chest. He hums. It would be quite easy for him to reach and guide you in a much different position. It sends his mind racing, that’s for sure.
Cabrizzio, on the other hand, gets the full body experience. Literally LMAO. If you’re crouching down to rummage through pots, you use your shoulder/back/ass to shut the cabinet. Wanting to close a drawer cabinet while occupied? You’ll use your hip, turn to the side, or lift a leg. It’s amusing to him how you’ll use any body part except your hands to do the job. He admires your dexterity (and the warmth you give/take every time you push against him).
On days where you use free will, you sit on top of counters and tables for shits and giggles.
Cabrizzio worries a bit when this happens. He isn’t exactly built to carry humans like couches and chairs. As he feels you shift on top of him though, it feels as if you trust him enough to keep lifted. Cabrizzo supposes this is why he has a six pack— to carry cute homeowners like you.
Abel straight up sweats, hoping you won’t hurt yourself! Gosh. He’s a table, not a gosh-darn chair. Despite the obvious issue, your weight on him actually feels comforting. And while he understands gliding your fingers across him helps you think, he’d rather you… not. It just sends a shiver down his spine!
For smaller items, they would think you can’t possible fluster them, yet you managed to prove them wrong.
Tony feels goosebumps cover his arms as you mouth a screwdriver, tinkering the breaker box. Since the og!homeowner left the house in a disarray, you’ve been keeping up with maintenance to not let that situation repeat again. As a result, the tool box is glued to your side. Tony acts like your lips don’t faze him— only to stutter out a groan as you suddenly bite down on the screwdriver. (You were getting frustrated.) Fucking hell. Tony shudders, the sharpness of your teeth nibbling his neck. You’re going to kill him at this point.
Penolope squealed the first time you dragged a pen to your lips. You were taking notes from the computer. The more engrossed you became, the more you fidgeted. Deeply concentrating, you brought the pen to your lips. Not biting down, but dragging it back and forth against your lips. Nowadays, she can usually tell when you’re going to repeat this unique quirk again, but that does not mean she’s any less affected. Though… after a while, the sensation is rather… addictive… to say the least.
Chance is in the same boat as Penolope. Except you’re more prone to tossing him back and forth between your hands. On the days that doesn’t happen however… the man would practically burst into flames. You’d draw circles across his sides at an excruciating slow pace. Back and forth. Switch to a different side. Repeat. By the you shut off the computer and exit the workroom for the day, Chance is left to compose himself at how bothered he is. You’re such a tease.
Lyric has a situation only unique to him. He notices you enjoy reading, indulging in a magazine for gossip or a good book to daydream about. Sometimes you’d fall asleep while reading. But the weirdest part? You’d purposefully cover your face with the book so light won’t peak through. In this position you’re practically almost kissing him! And you don’t even know it?! He can feel himself shaking, feeling you breathe and the proximity of your lips. He— he should use this as inspiration for his story. Yes. Totally not because he wants to relive this scene over and over again.
NSFW HC'S— Daisuke, Cam, Chance & Tony x GN!Reader (MDNI)
A/N: I have found out that listening to Meghan is the best way to get me to write smut, bigger in texas is so damn good. Sorry for any mistakes as English isn't my first language:-]
WC: 4K
Daisuke
Whenever he has the even shortest window available to be with you, he will initiate. Sometimes, he’ll even let you pull him from his work, a very rare sight, though.
Calls you so many lovely pet names, ‘my love’, ‘my everything’, ‘my world’, will press a kiss on your temple as he does so.
Whatever you do, do not ask to fuck in the kitchen counters, he can fuck you just as well on a table if you’re craving it that badly.
He has to see your face when he’s balls deep inside you, loves seeing how your face contorts into such expressions as he drives his cock in and out of you; he leaks pre inside every time you look at him with teary eyes.
This man loves using his fingers on you. One time you took your hands in his and admired how slender and long they were compared to yours, he was flattered by your compliment. He fingered you for 3 hours that night, the feeling of you writhing on his lap, your ass grinding down on his hard on as he feels your hole clench down on his fingers, broken moans of his name slipping from your lips just has him on cloud nine and his dick harder than it has ever been.
When it’s late in the night—which is usually when you two have sex— and you’re being a little too loud as the head of his cock keeps brushing against the spot inside that has you seeing stars, he puts those pretty fingers in your mouth to shush you with a, “my love, I don’t want anyone else to hear you like this,” yes he does stroke his dick to cum on your stomach with that hand on purpose; your saliva coating his fingers is just so erotic to him.
Has a real bad fixation with your mouth. Make out sessions with him will last for at least an hour, will not let your tongue go. Especially after you gave him a blowjob, or he fucked your mouth, loves to taste himself on your tongue, does the same for you whenever his mouth is coated with your cum. When you have his cum on your face, instead of cleaning it up on the spot he just wipes it across your lips with his thumb, you look gorgeous like that.
This man loves giving head, especially by having your thighs around his head, he’ll pull you up from your hips;
AFAB; he’ll pull you up from your hips, lock your thighs around his head and his tongue will go to town on your clit, even if his tongue is busy fucking in and out of you, his thumb will never leave your clit. Wants your cum and slick to coat his mouth, will not stop until your hands can’t even tug on his hair from how much you’re shaking and whining from overstimulation, this man will eat you out like he’s been starving for pussy.
AMAB; he’ll pull your bottom half up by your thighs, anchor you by gripping your ass and taking your dick in his mouth in one go. He has no gag reflex, which is very advantageous, as he will not stop until you’re shooting blanks down his throat. He makes so much noise when he’s sucking you off, he is starving for even a drop of pre, of course his hold on your ass or thighs will harden as you’re about to cum and your hips start bucking, he wants every last drop that he can milk out of your—to him, very ‘pretty’— dick.
He has one guilty pleasure, and that's fucking on the floor. As long as you’re comfortable with it, especially on a cold night, he just loves the contrast of the temperature and how even though you have so many places to shy away from his touch when you’re overstimulated his body caging you in makes it impossible and that makes his dick so hard he can feel all the blood rushing to it.
Loves getting his hair pulled, especially as he’s cumming inside of you, the added stimulation makes him whimper your name quietly as his dick is pumping cum inside of you. Loves to thrust one more time just to see his cum gush out of your hole.
If you propose to pop his cherry—take his anal virginity—he won’t be opposed at all, whether it’s with a dildo, strap or your own dick, God he just loves taking any kind of pleasure from you. Pulling his hair especially becomes more of a turn on when you’re fucking him from behind, smack his ass every once in a while if you want to hear him cry out your name.
Will cry during sex when he’s overwhelmed, whether he’s topping or bottoming. When he’s topping, being inside you for the first time already has his nerves fried, but when you keep tightening around him, telling him that you love him, oh his dick has never hurt from how hard it was before. When bottoming, tell him how good he’s sucking you in and how pretty he looks while hitting his prostate again and again, and he’ll be a crying mess.
He actually prefers to go slow and deep, but when he’s inside you, and you’re looking at him like that, he can’t stop his hips from fucking you so hard that he can feel his thighs going sore.
Body worshiper, will be telling you how handsome/beautiful/gorgeous you look with the most soft, smitten tone as his dick is drilling inside you so deep that you’re seeing stars behind your eyes.
Tease him about how he moans your name if you want to see him blush. Tell him how the entire house knows just how whiny he gets when you’re bouncing on his dick, tell him how cute his whimpers sound after a blowjob, about how the entire house now knows how fast you make him cum with your mouth, touch his tip and watch him cum with a quiet whimper on the spot for a second time right after his first.
Fucks real good, but he gets so shy when you're direct. Instead of flowering your words, tell him to fuck you or how good his dick feels inside of you, and he’ll flush red from top to bottom. The way his dick throbs inside you and the way his grip tightens on your hips tells you he likes it, though.
He is genuinely so loving even when having sex, his arms will always be around you, your bodies will always be flush against each other, and he’ll always press a kiss on your eyelids or your temple when he calls you one of his lovely pet names.
Exceptionally good aftercare, will bathe you, will lie you down on your bed, trail your whole body with kisses as he massages your body. Will even bring you food, he has it at the ready. Even has some lotion to really up the feeling and effectiveness of the massage, will pamper you with cuddles. 10000/10.
Cam
This man not only initiates, he tells you he wants to bend you over the table and fuck you ‘till you forget your own name. No playing around, he gets straight to the point.
If you give him the okay, he will be ripping those clothes off your body, and he’ll latch his mouth onto your nipple the second they are visible.
He is very direct. He’ll be kissing your neck, telling you how he wants to see you crying on his cock, your hips bucking up as he’s pumping his cum inside you.
This man hates to see you go but loves to watch you leave, his eyes never leave your ass and legs.
He loves giving head, but the image of you on your knees, his cock fill,ng you up, the look on your face as you feel his cock throb against your tongue… oh there’s nothing like it. He’ll let you suck him off for a bit, but for you two, a blowjob always ends up with him fucking your mouth. Loves seeing his cum on your face, he’ll lick his lips as his dick gets hard again just at the sight, “open up,” and he’s cumming down your throat again; gripping your jaw and telling you to swallow, he wants to see you do it.
When he’s giving head he will be licking your sex through your underwear, this man loves to do this when you have jeans on the most though:
AMAB; his tongue will never leave your tip, teases you about how much pre you’re leaking. His hand will stroke you through the fabric, biting his lip when he sees your pre stain your underwear/jeans, gets so horny at how reactive your cock is. Loves how it throbs against his fingers, will be licking through the fabric too, makes sure to take your cock out when you warn him that you’re close, making sure to suck on your tip as his hands squeeze and palm your balls. Cum all over his face and he’ll be chirpy all day.
AFAB; Licks you through your underwear as he keeps you still with an iron grip on your thighs. Sucking on your clit through the cloth as he buries his head between your legs. When he tastes some slick through the damp fabric, whimpers, grinds his tongue down harder. His fingers will come in too, just stroking your cunt up and down as he keeps pressing his tongue down on your clit, will be licking your underwear after you cum.
So many, so, so many marks all over your back and inner thighs. This man loves to hear you squeal or cry out when he’s driving his cock in and out of you so deep you can feel every vein grinding down inside, he’ll suck on your neck, will hear you moan, then bite down to hear you squeal his name as he finds the spot that makes you mess when he drills his cock into it a few times.
Cam loves to just go deep, as deep as he can, as deep as it takes for you to throw your head back and your hips start stuttering with how hard he’s driving his cock inside of you. He wants to hear you cry, wants to feel you tighten around him with every little thing he’s telling you, like how he should just tie you up and keep you only for himself as he uses your body to get off, or how he wants to watch you ruin yourself on his dick !till he’s shooting blanks inside you; he’s insatiable.
His hands will never leave your ass if you’re riding him, whether you’re facing him or not, his hands will never leave your ass. Smacks it hard when you slow down, pinches it when he knows you’re close, snapping his hips up as you’re cumming just to watch you squirm. He’ll make sure there are nail marks on your ass by the time he’s done with you.
Loves to bite down on… anywhere on your body, really. Your inner thighs the most, especially when he’s giving you head, he’ll kiss and bite before his tongue even touches your sex, his eyes will never leave yours as he’s doing this. Loves to bite down on your ass, neck, and the middle of your chest, it’s just so damn hot to him.
Cam enjoys humping more when you’re both naked, he’ll get on top of you, his arms hugging you as his hips grind his dick down on your sex, he loves grinding down in circles as that gives him the most stimulation. He loves fucking your thighs, will tap your ass with his palm and tell you to, “get ‘em ready for my cock, I missed doing this with you, fuck…” His dick gets so hard off this, the way your thighs slick up as his pre is smeared all over them, his nails digging into your waist as he thrusts until he’s cumming, making sure his tip is flush against your thighs to coat your inner thighs and make you, in a way.
Not at all opposed to using toys on himself, he’ll have a vibrator deep inside him as he’s fucking you, whining as his hips stutter and his cock strains inside you when you up the setting of the vibrator. Will let you fuck him with a dildo, he’s not sure about a full on strap/dick, but he will try anything once with you. He gets so whiny when you get the toy inside him as deep as he fucks you, mimicking the pace he usually uses on you and cooing at him when he starts to whine out your name, becomes a mess under you rather easily with that.
Puts a pillow under your hips to make sure you feel every inch of him as he’s driving his cock inside in one thrust. His hands never leave your clit/dick when he’s inside you, always rubbing/stroking your sex as he fucks into you, wants to watch you come undone under him.
His aftercare isn’t the best but not the worst either, he’s fine. He’ll get you anything you want, but he’ll mostly be answering you in grunts and unintelligible noises, will insist on cuddling with all of his limbs tight around you like he’s an octopus.
Chance
He’ll initiate after a really good G&G session, but other than that, if you ask him to, he’s almost always up for it.
Role-play, come on, he’s into this. Show him the kind of costume you want on those sex role-play character sheets he’s making, and he will get a boner on the spot.
Take the sex role-play session he crafted with so much care seriously, and he’ll be so deep with his dick pumping cum inside of you, you’ll see stars behind your eyes as his cock just won’t stop throbbing inside, this man cums a lot and especially when he’s emotionally invested.
He blushes a lot and all over his body, one whine of his name as he’s taking your clothes off and now 60% of his body is red.
He gets so horny if, in an RP where you’re royalty, and he’s your knight, and you’re sucking his dick as he sits on your throne. The power of it all, combined with how good your throat tightens around his dick when he whines and bucks his hips, the way your hands play with his balls as his pitch gets higher and higher, a mess above you.
He loves a good RP session, he writes down how you sucked him off, the sounds you made as he fucked into you, the dialogue that was said and later strokes his cock to it when he’s re-reading it. He can never control just how fast his fist gets when he reads about how your legs locked him in place when he warned you he was close just to make him cum inside you, and now it makes him cum the second he finishes reading the sentence.
If you’re up for it, while in one of your private sessions, he’ll narrate as you masturbate in front of him. Stuttering and whimpering involuntarily when you cum, begging you to let him lick it all off of you, loves cleaning you up. Will narrate and tell you just how gorgeous you look when you’re so close, how your sex reacts to his voice when he says something horny, how he’d feel so good inside you and from there it snowballs into him fucking into you while whimpering and holding you in his arms.
Will dirty talk in character, like in the previous Royalty and Knight one, he’ll tell you how unashamedly you’re taking someone’s cock that isn’t even royalty, how if you keep this up you’ll just become a commoner hole for everyone with enough wit and charm to cum into. Reply in character and oh, he’s cumming on the spot. His hips will just start snapping down into your hole, going so deep and slow you can feel every drag of his cock as he bullies your sweet spot ‘till he’s filling you up with his cum.
Somehow you two always ends up either with his head between your legs or with him balls deep inside of you. It’s rare for him to break character ever but when he’s so close, and you’re so fucking tight like you’re trying to milk him for all his worth, his hips lose their consistent rhythm, and he’ll start fucking into you like he’s using you to get off, like he wants your insides to be painted white with his cum.
Get real close to him, your fingers plying with the hem of his pants as he looks at you with a blush ready on his cheeks, tell hi how badly you want to put on a show for the others with him. How you want them to see how good his cock treats you, how full it gets you, how you want them to see the way he cries and snaps his hips down with desperation when he’s so close, and he’s getting a boner on the spot.
Would actually love to fuck in a closet, closed spaces and the way your bodies just have to be flush against each other just gets him so turned on.
Always checks up on you after, getting you food, clean towels, water, and cuddles. He’ll cuddle up to you rambling about some of the ideas he’ had and after a while you’ll feel his hard on grinding down on your ass and his lips on your neck, he’s a bit insatiable. Good aftercare, he’s a little freaky with it even when you’re supposed to be resting, but not bad at all.
Tony
He will initiate, and he will initiate with style, he’ll gently grab you by the hips, give a peck, “give me some sugar, missed your sweetness in my mouth, yeah?”
Direct, he isn’t shy at all, he’ll say that he wants to fuck you ‘till every pump of his cum has you whimpering his name and means it.
Holds you by your thighs as he’s fucking into you, the way you clench so tight around him when he hits that spot like you told him to do, has his dick leaking inside you. Loves how your tongue peeks out with every whimper and whine leaving your mouth, he thinks it's cute and sexy as hell at the same time.
Has an oral fixation. Has to have his dick in your mouth at least once a day, or he won’t be able to function properly. He’ll anchor himself with his hand on the back of your head and just fuck your mouth, throwing his head back as his hips buck into your mouth with every drag of his cock against your tongue. Will drag his cock along your tongue after he’s done cumming down your throat, just to watch you drool on his tip, that has him hard again in five seconds.
Loves to fuck you from behind, his chest flush against your back as his arms are wrapped against you, his hips flush against your ass as he drives his cock in and out of in a pace that has your head spinning. Makes sure the tip of his cock hits your spot, he did promise to make you a dumb drooling mess on his dick after all, and Tony keeps his promises.
Let him fuck your mouth after a long day while stroking the base while squeezing and massaging his balls, “fuck, babe, you want me to lose my mind or somethin’?”, and if you moan around it afterward, taking it all in one go all the way down your throat he just might cum on the spot while his thighs shake from the stimulation.
Sometimes he’ll just get you on his lap, palm your sex through your clothes while making out with you, his hands slipping down your underwear and taking it off with ease. He wants to make you cum only by fingering you, maybe he’ll touch your clit/cock, but he won’t let you cum any other way. He wants to feel that hole tightens around his fingers, he wants to hear you whine his name, grip his arms as his fingers just don’t stop after you’ve already come, the noises your slick/the lube along with his spit covered fingers are making when he’s fucking you with his fingers is like music to his ears. The way you throw your head back onto his shoulders, the way your hips buck up as his fingers never slow down, the way you cry out his name, oh it’s heaven.
Will tell you that you taste sweeter than sugar when he’s giving you head:
AMAB; this man loves sucking on your tip and playing with your balls the most. The way you whine out his name when he takes your dick down in on ego spurs him on so good he starts to hump the ground as he’s sucking you off. Wants to feel every vein with every single drag in and out of his mouth, his hips matching the pace he’s sucking you off with. Cum down his throat, coat his tongue, and he’ll make you suck it all off from his tongue when you’re making out after.
AFAB; Tony eats pussy like he’s been starving for it before he met you, his fingers will always work with his tongue. His thumb will never leave your clit as his tongue’s lapping up every bit of slick comin’ out of your cunt. Loves rubbing your clit as fast as he can while he sticks his tongue inside you deep and just sucks, will also make you suck your cum off of his tongue when you’re making out.
He’s very vocal, cannot shut up when he’s so deep and snug inside you, when you’re fucking yourself on his dick as your ass slams on his hips, ‘sugar’, ‘babe’, and a lot of curses as he grips your hips with his life, trying to stop himself from just slamming his hips down and pump you full of cum himself.
If he sees you naked or catches a nip slip, you’re getting bent over as he holds your arms behind your back and fucks into you, making sure that by the end of it you’re full of cum, just to continue after 5 minutes; to watch his cum drip down your ass and stick to his hips as he drills his cock into you so deep you damn near scream his name.
Wear jeans, and he’ll open the zipper with his teeth to get his tongue on his favorite meal, “open up babe, I’ve been craving some of this honey deep down my throat and coating my tongue”, he loves seeing the way you react to what he says.
Loves that mouth of yours, loves to make out after a good blow job, his hand massaging your nape as he’s moaning your name into your mouth while he bites your bottom lip and sucks on your tongue.
Marks you up all over your body, loves to bite and suck on your back as his cock is making you cum your brains out under him, his hands massaging your ass as his lips latch onto your neck; taking you by the hips and slamming your ass onto his hips to fuck you on his dick like you’re a toy.
Good aftercare! Water, food, towels, kisses, compliments, and cuddles always at the ready. His hands will never leave your body, either roaming or groping you, loves squeezing that ass; his dick throbs a bit when his cum drips down to his fingers as he’s groping your ass. He’ll always tell you he loves you, just a sweetheart, really thankful for you in every way. 1000000/10.
“You recently got laid off of your job. Thankfully, you found an ad on Craigslist that paid quite a bit for you to just housesit! 🍩”
DAY ONE
-> Next Day
Contains: Kopi, Daisuke, Wyndolyn, Betty, Eddie and Volt, and Tony.
🍰 Café Menu 🍰
Getting laid off sucked, but the worst part wasn’t the lost job, it was the silence afterward. Bills didn’t care about unemployment, and your fridge had been making a weird knocking sound that screamed “I’m dying” for two weeks now. So yeah, maybe scrolling Craigslist at 2:13 a.m. while eating peanut butter off a spoon wasn’t your proudest moment, but that’s when you saw it.
HOUSE SITTER NEEDED - URGENT
Spacious, fully furnished home.
3 weeks.
$1,500/week.
Must be kind. No loud music. No shouting. Absolutely NO cursing at the housemates.
Contact: xxxx
Serious inquiries only.
You blinked. Then read it again. Then checked the listing date: posted 10 minutes ago. Honestly? It didn’t sound like a murder ad. And fifteen hundred a week? That was rent for two months. You clicked “reply” before your brain had a chance to argue.
One weird video call later…
“Just be nice to them,” The owner said. Their face was earnest, a little too close to the webcam. “The bed gets moody if you ignore her, and the mirror likes compliments. Oh, and please don’t cuss at anyone. They’re sensitive.”
You’d nodded slowly. “...Right. The furniture is sensitive.”
They beamed. “Exactly! You’re a natural.”
You weren't, actually. You were broke. There was a difference.
The house was new, a bit creaky, and gorgeous.
It stood like a storybook illustration, rose vines on white walls, tall windows like blinking eyes. The front gate opened on its own when you approached. The door was unlocked. And there, sitting right inside the foyer, was a small table with a handwritten note:
“Welcome! Bedroom’s on the second floor. Please greet everyone before settling in. Be polite. No exceptions.”
You stared at the note. Then looked around.
...There wasn’t anyone here.
Was there?
You stood in the middle of the living room, feeling about as dumb as someone could feel while talking to furniture.
“Hi, everyone,” you said, eyes shifting to the antique mirror above the fireplace, the couch with those overly plush cushions, and the teacup-patterned wallpaper that somehow felt judgy. “I guess.”
Silence.
Well, yeah. What were you expecting? A lamp to wave?
You gave yourself a mental shrug and moved toward the kitchen. The house might’ve been old, but the appliances were surprisingly modern: sleek, clean, and probably worth more than your last paycheck. You figured coffee wouldn’t hurt. You hadn’t had real coffee in weeks. Just that sad instant stuff that made your teeth feel like they were dissolving.
The coffee machine purred to life like it knew what it was doing. Which was weird.
You blinked when it poured your drink.
In the frothy surface was an intricate little heart surrounded by ferns and flowers, like a garden in your cup. You hadn’t touched any settings. Hell, you didn’t even know how to do latte art.
You stared at the cup.
“…Thanks?” you said, lifting it gently.
Deep within the inner world of the house, Kopi beamed. “You're welcome! Finally, someone with manners,” she thought, pride bubbling inside her ceramic chest. She loved giving people a good start to their day.
You sipped. It was perfect. Not too bitter, just creamy enough, like something out of a dream. You let out a soft hum of satisfaction and felt… lighter.
Okay. Weird, but not bad.
After finishing the cup (and whispering another awkward “thank you” before setting it in the sink and cleaning it, to the liking of Daisuke), you figured you might as well do something productive. The house wasn’t dirty, but there was dust on the window sills and a few cobwebs here and there. You found an old cloth in a drawer, wet it, and started wiping down the large bay windows.
They sparkled immediately, almost too fast.
You frowned, then smiled anyway, running the cloth in slow, thoughtful circles.
“Looking better already,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
In her own little corner of the dimension, Wyndolyn, the ever-elegant window spirit, preened at the praise. “Such lovely hands,” she thought, her panes practically glowing. “This one appreciates beauty… oh, what a treat.”
You didn’t see the way the sunlight caught just right, casting little prisms of color across the floor like she was showing off. You didn’t notice the faint scent of fresh-cut flowers that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Not yet.
But they saw you.
And you were kind.
That was more than enough, for now.
The storm rolled in faster than you'd expected.
One minute, it was just gray clouds and a gentle breeze. The next, thunder cracked so hard it rattled the windows, and rain slammed against the walls like it had a personal grudge. The lights flickered once, twice-
-and then went out completely.
"Of course," you muttered, setting down the book you'd been reading. You reached for your phone. No signal. Of course.
You remembered the owner mentioning the breaker box upstairs in the attic hallway. Something about “power hiccups” being normal in a house this old. Still, you didn’t love the idea of going up there in the dark. But sitting in silence with no lights and a wind that sounded like a ghost screaming? Less appealing.
So up you went, flashlight in hand, the wood creaking under your feet with every step. The breaker box sat tucked behind a narrow door next to the linen closet, sealed shut with a rusted latch. You struggled with it for a second, then remembered the neat little red toolbox you saw in the bottom of the small closet earlier.
Inside, every tool was perfectly clean and in order. Like someone really cared for them.
You handled each one with care, lining them up just like they were, using the screwdriver gently, placing it back precisely where it came from.
Deep within the heartbeat of the house, Tony grinned behind his stubbled jaw. “Finally, someone who knows how to treat their tools.” His arms crossed proudly. He liked this one.
With a quiet clunk, you flipped the main breaker switch back on. The lights flickered downstairs, then steadied.
Somewhere, inside the wires that ran like veins through the house’s bones, Volt stirred with a low hum of relief. “Oh, thank the circuit.” Sparks flickered behind his eyes as the flow stabilized. No more shorts. No more headaches.
And within the walls, behind the plaster and wallpaper and pipework, Eddie leaned against a support beam and exhaled. “Smooth fix. Didn’t even overload me this time.” He’d braced himself for the usual slapdash button-mashing most humans did, but this one… this one had patience.
You closed the breaker box gently, wiped your hands on your jeans, and gave a half-smile to the darkness. “There. That should do it.”
The hallway lights stayed on. The house gave a low, satisfied creak, like an old cat settling into a nap.
You didn’t know what you’d just done for them.
But they did.
And all three, Tony, Volt, and Eddie, watched you descend the stairs like you were some kind of quiet hero.
You padded back down the stairs, warm light humming gently through the halls again. The storm still raged outside, wind clawing at the shutters and rain pelting the roof, but inside, the house felt… calm. Like it had sighed with relief.
You stretched, body pleasantly tired from moving and cleaning all day. Your feet led you to the bedroom Hank had set aside for you, the door already cracked open like it had been waiting.
The bed inside was reasonably sized, an old-fashioned four-poster with soft, sea-colored sheets and an absurd number of pillows. It should’ve felt stiff or creaky. Maybe even haunted, considering the whole "talk to the furniture" vibe this place had going on.
But the second you sank into the mattress, all thoughts slipped out of your head like sand through your fingers.
It was warm. It welcomed you. Like arms cradling you. Not too soft, not too firm, just the exact kind of comfort you didn’t know your body had been aching for.
“…Huh,” you murmured, pulling the covers up to your chin. “You’re… actually really nice.”
The bed didn’t respond, of course. But you felt it in the way the blanket settled just right around your shoulders. How the pillow fit the curve of your neck perfectly. You swore you heard the faintest creak, like someone humming a lullaby through the floorboards.
Somewhere, deep in her quilted soul, Betty the Bed glowed with pride. “Sleep well, sweetheart,” she thought. “You’ve had a long day.”
You yawned, blinking slowly at the ceiling. “Goodnight, everyone,” you whispered into the dark, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t stay up too late gossiping.”
A soft gust of air rustled the curtains. A light flicked off down the hall.
And you fell asleep: warm, safe, and strangely… cared for.
TW: NSFW, Fingering, Somnophilia (Consented ofc), Oral, Nipple Play, Slight mention of Reader being insecure, NOT Proofread.
A/N: Last request for today!! #BedTime
ᝰ.ᐟ Tony is STRONG
ᝰ.ᐟ So strong, in fact, that he can pick you up no problem.
ᝰ.ᐟ His gloved hands usually clutch around your legs, lifting you up and kissing you as your thighs squeeze his torso.
ᝰ.ᐟ And he loves to throw you onto the bed. Every time you’re hot and bothered, he’s picking you up and running to your room.
ᝰ.ᐟ Tony loves watching his necklace dangle in your face as he pounds into you. Positions like Missionary and Mating Press are his best friends.
ᝰ.ᐟ His fingers are thick and calloused from all of that hard work he does. They’re ’perfect to finger a pretty girl like you.’ He says with a subtle wink.
ᝰ.ᐟ And he is good with his fingers. He likes to lay you down on his muscled thighs, one hand slapping the fat on your ass while the other starts to prod his finger tips into your tight cunt.
ᝰ.ᐟ Loves to receive. Of course, he loves seeing your face as he goes down on you, but after a long day at work, Tony loves to just relax. So giving him a blow job would definitely make his day.
ᝰ.ᐟ Physical touch is probably one of his ultimate love languages, though. Tony adores when you curl up on his chest. His hands grip at your waist, stabilizing you on him.
ᝰ.ᐟ And when your heavy tits press into his chest, he’s a goner.
ᝰ.ᐟ Tony sits you down on his lap, hands stroking your thick thighs while his head leans down to take a nipple into his awaiting mouth. His scruff never fails to tickle at your skin.
ᝰ.ᐟ And sometimes, when he’s feeling extra dirty, he’ll lather up your nipple with his spit before pressing the cold metal of his hammer against you.
ᝰ.ᐟ He just loves how immediate your reaction is, when grabbing his bicep as your spine shoots straight up letting out a soft yelp in the process.
ᝰ.ᐟ Sleepy sex is pretty common with you two.
ᝰ.ᐟ Normally Tony has to work late, fixing the other appliances of the house. So when he gets home, watching your thick body wrapped up in a blanket, he remembers your consent to do anything he wants in your sleep, and he can’t hold himself back.
ᝰ.ᐟ His cock will sink into you slowly, hands gripping at the sheets beside your head as he gazes at your sleepy face. Even if you wake up, he’ll keep going.
ᝰ.ᐟ Tony loves your chubbiness. The way you look in skimpy clothing makes him go INSANE, even if you don’t like it yourself.
ᝰ.ᐟ He’s probably ripped up three pieces of lingerie this week with how excited he is to get to you.
ᝰ.ᐟ With how eager he is to fuck you, It's hard not to appreciate your body. Tony is like your own personal hype man, even if he doesn't know it.
ᝰ.ᐟ And with Tony’s strength comes consequences. During sex, if he ever unintentionally hurts you, he’ll freak.
ᝰ.ᐟ Apologies would be hurled at you like bullets as Tony soothes you, before serving as your personal butler; ready to get anything you need.
