#date everything rod

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." 

Shelley

She’d actually be so nervous about bringing up sex for the first few months of your relationship, if you want anything to happen you’re going to be the one that initiates.

She’ll get carried away easily, she really doesn’t know her own strength, which will be really apparent when her strap is deep inside of you and your ass feels like it’s bruising up.

Actually prefers to watch you suck on her strap rather than getting eaten out, it gives her such a rush of heat throughout her entire body as she watches you take her strap all the way down. Doesn’t matter if it’s a strap where she can get some friction or not, the noises you’re making and the way you’re looking at her will make her cum.

Doesn’t matter how much you weigh, doesn’t matter how muscular you are, she will be manhandling you. It turns her on so much when you let out a little sound of surprise as she picks you up and throws you over her shoulder, giving your ass a smack, “You’re comin’ with me, hot stuff.”

She wants to see you cum just from her fingers, no matter if you’re AMAB or AFAB, she’s committed to make you a moaning, drooling mess just from her fingering you. Will talk you through it too, saying things like, “look at you, so close already, just from my fingers”, and, “say it, say that you love this, c’mon.”

When she starts to grope your ass or thighs, not letting go as you’re making out that’s when you know the strap is coming out, and she’s going to fuck your brains out ‘till you pass out, she has insane stamina. Loves to make you moan her own name as she’s fucking into you, her hips stuttering as you cum, crying out her name as she feels herself get even wetter if that was possible. After that one lick to her clit, and she’s cumming on the spot, at least let her cum on your tongue so it won’t be that embarrassing for her.

This woman will sit down and as you get on her lap, you just can’t help your hips as you start to hump her thigh. She’s very turned on by this and discovers that watching you hump her thigh and making yourself cum on her thigh is something she’ll have wet dreams about for months. Moan her name and tell her how good she feels, then she’ll combust on the spot, hugging you by your waist, bringing you flush against her chest as she starts to hump against you too. That’s when she starts to be a whiny mess.

She absolutely gets off on your voice when you’re so close to her ear, and you’re breathlessly moaning her name. Your voice gets her so turned on, so much that she can’t stop the way her body shivers when you moan her name as she’s thrusting into you.

Wants to make you scream so bad, wants the whole house to hear just how good she’s ruining you, how good she’s making you hers as her grip on your thighs tightens, and she starts snapping her hips down into you, her strap reaching even deeper into you. Will not stop fucking you until you at least cry out her name loudly.

Gets so rough when she’s fucking you, she just can’t control herself when you look like a mess like that. Her hand won’t leave your throat as she makes you arch your back into her, using said hand on your throat as an anchor while she’s fucking into you like a woman that wants to make you a dumb, drooling mess on her strap (she does).

Smell really gets her too. Especially after either a good shower, bath or an intense workout session, she just loves any smell that stands out, and it feels like you’re wrapped all around her. Her senses clouded by how good you smell, how hot you look as she’s fingering you, her nose always finds its way to your neck as she gets to smell you and leave a bruising hickey that won’t heal for at least three days. 

Look, for aftercare, she’s stiff. She’s inexperienced, although she fucks really good, she needs a few instructions as to what to do and what you need, but she’s excellent at following orders so she makes up for it. She can get a little awkward after sex, just cuddle up to her and she’ll relax.

Skips/xxXShadowlord420Xxx

This freak will most certainly initiate after like two weeks of being together, if not that, he will pounce when you say want to fuck. He becomes insatiable real quick.

Likes role-play, especially if you take it seriously, might stutter when you’re looking at him like you’re going to eat him up, but he’s trying his best to turn you on as much as you do him.

He says a lot of, “you’re mine”, “mine” and, “only mine” as you’re having sex, especially if he’s close to cumming. He’s possessive, he not only lets you know that with his words, but also by how bruising his grip is on your body. He holds you like you’re going to disappear.

Although he adores you, he loves to have sex in the dark. The suspense of you not knowing where he’s going to touch you next, the small noises you make when he peppers kisses on your thighs out of nowhere when you two first had sex, never leaves his mind.

For fan fiction reasons, I’m going to say his shadow form can interact with you physically. With those long and slender fingers, get ready for the best fingering and/or the best hand job of your life. His tongue would also be freakishly long;

For AMAB, he will not suck you off rather his tongue will be wrapped around your cock stroking you non-stop, the tip of his tongue never leaves the tip of your dick, he’s going to milk you ‘till you’re shooting blanks, until you’re crying and whining your name. The way your voice cracks spurs him on more though…

For AFAB, get ready to feel that tongue in places you didn’t even know were reachable before. His tongue just adds to your wetness, the way his tongue thrusts inside you, you’d think this creature was starving for pussy before meeting you.

For his human-ish form, he loves to watch you bounce on his dick from behind as he’s groping your ass and biting down on your shoulder like he’s claiming you in a way.

If you want to make this man cum so hard he forgets his handle and his own name, tie him up, take his dick in your hands, and while you’re sucking on the tip make sure your hands are busy with his balls. He’ll start to actually cry from the sheer pleasure of it all, he’s going to try to stop himself, but it’s just too much, and he can’t stop his hips from thrusting up as he’s cumming down your throat.

His favorite thing to do, especially when you’re having sex in the dark, is to use the shadows as like a second touch. Instead of just his hands and dick, you’re going to feel five pairs of hands all over your body; some playing with your nipples others teasing your sex, and a pair of them opening your mouth up for you to take another shadow in your mouth which feels exactly like Skips’ dick. Same length, thickness, and same in how much it throbs inside your mouth when you moan around it.

This man loves a good edging session. Especially if you’re on the receiving end, if you tell him you're close suddenly all the shadow hands disappear, and he stops his hips; “if you cum right now, I won’t stop until you cum at least 6 times,” it’s up to you whether that’s a threat, a good time or both.

Whichever gender you identify and present yourself as, if you both have makeup on, especially generally ‘edgy’ makeup, he’s not going to stop fucking your mouth ‘till he sees the lipstick prints on his dick. He also won’t stop fucking you until all of that eyeliner and or mascara is running down your face, you look ruined, and he very much gets off on that.

Anyway, his aftercare is nice! He knows the basics like bring water, clean you up, cuddle; although he is very cold, it helps to ground you back to reality after that most likely hours of sex you two had. Peppers kisses all over your body and calls you his gorgeous penumbra.

Dirk/Clarence

As Dirk, cannot hide the freak that he is, he loves you he loves sex, and he wants you, but Clarence has more decorum about the whole thing.

Remember how Scandelabra says that your clothes have been unusually tighter around your nether regions when you and Clarence got together? Yeah, especially after you just masturbated. This man wants all the juices coming out of you, even Tyrell can’t compete with him in this department, that one minute of you getting up to clean yourself up, and you still have some sort of bottoms on? They will be unusually tighter.

Dirk likes it rough and fast, while Clarence enjoys a slow, passionate love making.

Pull on Dirk's hair as roughly as you can, dig your nails into his scalp, and tell how fucking useless he would be if it wasn’t for his dick as you’re riding him. He will moan and start to beg you to ride him harder, fuck yourself on his dick so good, he can only cum if he’s inside you and only you.

Ride Dirk’s face/fuck his mouth and call him an impatient whore when he cums just from the sensation of your sex in his mouth. Make sure your cum is inside his mouth or down his throat, he’ll make sure to make you suck on his tongue as you’re making out to taste yourself from his tongue.

Bite Dirk’s neck as hard as you can, claw at his back when he’s pounding into you, pull on his hair and bite his bottom lip so hard it starts to bleed, he likes it rough.

Now, for Clarence, he still likes it rough but in a slower way. He’ll press down on your shoulders while fucking you from the back still, but now his thrusts will reach deeper, you’ll get to feel so full because he’s going slow, because he’s letting his dick throb inside you as you moan his name; it’s different but still him.

He gets turned on by corny pickup lines now, if you’re awkwardly trying to turn him on romantically, he’s getting you on all fours and making sure you can’t sit properly for a few days. When you just do your best to show your love, it gets his dick so hard that the only way he can ever get it down is by thrusting it down your throat.

Both versions of him love to watch you touch yourself as he strokes his dick. He’ll match your pace with his own strokes, he won’t ever cum before you do, he’ll tell you to suck on the tip then to “open up,” as he thrusts his dick inside to cum and fill you up properly.

Loves a strip tease, the way your clothes—by extension, him—feel against your skin as you take them off slowly feels like heaven. Drags his cock over your inner thighs, teases your hole by grinding his tip on the entrance but not fully putting it in, it’s his way to tease you back.

A good make out session is the number one way to get him as hard as he possibly can get, get on his lap and tease his half hard dick from under his clothes, and you’ll feel pre-cum leak in no time.

Both versions of him are good at aftercare, although his body is on the thinner side his body is impossibly soft and comfortable as he wraps his arms around you, he’ll kiss your eyelids and tells you how much he loves you as he sees you slowly falling asleep. Overall very good, just remind him to bring water.

Curt & Rod

They usually prefer to have sex with you one on one, but they won’t say no to a threesome every now and then, they find each other attractive too! Plus, now there’s the benefit of fucking you so it won’t get awkward.

Curt loves foreplay, how he feels for the rest of your activities is dependent on it. It's not hard to please him either, you can just sit there and look gorgeous, just be sure to whimper his name as he’s sucking on your bottom lip and his hands are already teasing your clothed sex.

He gets off on you being in control, using his dick for your own pleasure as he just takes it. Pull him close by wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he’s already fucking into you, tell him to go faster, deeper or both, and he’ll do so, snapping his down in the way you told him to, whining every time you tighten around him; leaking pre-cum inside you.

Give him a good blowjob, take him all the way down, massage his thighs, stroke him while you’re sucking on the tip, and he’ll give you the best head of your life. He goes slow, his tongue never in a hurry, pressing down hard, sucking deep- as if he’s really trying to taste every bit of you. His eyes will never break contact with yours while he’s going down on you, too, he gets off on your expressions.

His preferred pace when he’s fucking you is slow, deep, and hard. He loves how you throw your head back with a whine of his name as his tip brushes against that sweet spot inside you again and again. When you let him cum inside, and it overflows from your hole, dripping down to the sheets? It turns him on so much that his pace picks up out of nowhere.

Adores the way you moan his name, he gets so horny just from that, even if he wasn’t close before now he’s cumming on the spot with an embarrassed whine. Whether you exploit that or not is your choice.

For Rod, let him take control and he’s got you.

He thrusts deep and fast, loves to watch your ass bounce off of his hips as he’s thrusting inside you so good, you can feel almost every vein of his dick inside, he gets so deep, he’s also really good at finding the spot that makes you cry out his name while arching your back into him.

Loves giving head more than receiving, the way your thighs clamp up when you’re so close, when you’re so spent that your voice becomes hoarse, the way you can’t help but thrust your hips up when his tongue presses down on your tip/clit, then to suck on it, he just loves it all. Gets off on seeing how much he affects you. 

He’ll look at you like you hung the moon and the stars in the sky while he’s pounding into you, so close to bruising your ass with the pace he’s going at while telling you how gorgeous you look all fucked out like that.

Really tuned in to your emotions, if you for some reason cam’T say what makes you uncomfortable, he’ll notice it anyway and shift to a position that’s comfortable for both of you or adjust his pace.

Gets off on watching your facial expressions, whether that’s when he’s deep inside you, when he’s giving you head or you’re just making out, his dick will always leak pre-cum when he sees how wet your lips are, your half lidded eyes and the way you’re looking at him gets him so worked up.

They love to fuck you at the same time. Rod’s chest pressing up on your back as the back of your knee slung over Curt’s shoulder while he’s holding you up from your thighs and Rod is holding you up with his hands groping your ass, both of their cocks in one of your holes. Rod’s peppering kisses on your nape, Curt’s giving you hickeys as they both settle down to a slow but deep pace while they thrust into you at the same time, all of you whimpering and moaning breathlessly as the tight fit makes the friction inside you and the friction of their dicks grinding against each other overstimulating in the best way possible.

They will kiss above you as Rod’s fucking you and Curt’s dick is in your mouth, just to get themselves even deeper inside you and see how it feels to kiss each other when you're so tight around them with your mouth and your hole.

You're sucking off Curt, sucking on his tip and stroking the rest while on your knees on the bed, Curt’s eating you out/stroking you at the same time. After you both cum, Curt will hold your head/jaw gently to guide you as you suck off Curt next.

They definitely get into a competition over who can make you cum the fastest or make you moan the louder.

Curt making out with you, playing with your sex, his fingers never leaving it while Rod’s fucking you from behind.

Rod, holding you by the hips and guiding you as you fuck into Curt—with strap for AFABs— leaving a trail of kisses and nibbling on your earlobe as Curt’s a whining mess below you, “Look, he’s all cute ‘n obedient for you, work those hips and make him cum, and I’ll fuck you just how you want it, baby.”

Tyrell- Now, he's one of the household objects that has had experience with kids. And, it was not fun. You have to promise him that you're going to respect his boundaries. He's not going to get cut up into work rags on your watch.

The one that actually bridges the gap is his little buddy. The kids love the fun animal shapes! At first Tyrell looks like he's going to pass out. But, when nothing happens, he's a little less apprehensive.

It will take him a bit to actually be comfortable interacting (as his towel self, they can see his personality version), so swimming or anything else that needs to dry off will have to wait a few times if them being over.

Curt and Rod- the other ones that have been in a house that has had kids in it. They actually like having kids over. Maybe not for having kids live in the house, but a visit or two is nice. They're like the cool uncles. Though, Curt does like kids a bit more than Rod though.

Hide-and-seek? You bet! There would be a set of little feet hiding behind the curtains, giggles going crazy. "Keep it quiet, little dude! You're gonna get caught!" Curt would hush them!

"Nah! There's no way! We got you, kid!" Rod would laugh, neither of them think about the fact the kids can't even hear them.

Washford and Drysdale- One of them is actually alright with having kids over and the other loathes it.

Washford, who has to do the heavy work of getting everything out of the clothes from dirt to apple juice to paint is fine, almost happy with the extra work. Children getting dirty means children learning! And, if cleaning a bit more than usual is what it takes for them to be curious about the world around them, then he's more than willing to do that.

Drysdale, who literally just has to dry the clothes when they're ready is practically dying. He's all for physical fitness, but he feels like he's been going in circles the whole damn day! Don't those things ever stop making messes?!

Kopi- Oh, she doesn't know if she would get along with kids. They aren't supposed to have coffee, and that's like her thing. Oh, she can make water for premade hot cocoa though! Or, maybe tea?

She ends up being a big hit if the kid visits during a cold month. Sometimes she'll team up with Hector to crank up the air so even if it's not too cold outside you all can still enjoy making a hot drink with each other.

Beverly- Is a sweet person, and would like to see the kids... but, you know. Can't have alcohol around where littles could get into it.

At first, she was going to get completely banned to the laundry room, but then she and you got an idea. Moving things over in the cupboard (and telling Mitchell to get over it), you put all the kid-unfriendly drinks out of reach, and left out the bar, some plastic cups, and a shaker.

She couldn't remember the last time, if ever, she ran a lemonade stand! And, lemonade does taste better when you make it one cup at a time and shake it to mix everything. All in all, it's a very sticky, but very fun time.

Rebel- They thought they would hate kids.

They have never felt more fulfilled in their entire life.

They're not just a Rebel during water playtime. Duck no! They're a submarine! Now, they're a shark! Now, they're an airplane! Now, they're a shark airplane! Now, they're a grandma in the mountains selling bubbles and cats!!

Will never admit that they enjoy playing though. Makes their tough image hard to keep up. Says they're just doing it to not be a jerk to the kid playing with them.

Eddie and Volt- No. Absolutely not. Electricity and children do not mix; for safety and socially. Those little caps you put into the wall outlets that keep kids from hurting themselves? How that translates to whatever they place the furniture people all live, and like jump in and out of like a Mario 64 painting, is the BreakerBox being boarded up like a natural disaster is going to happen.

They're actually just huddled in their room like a zombie apocalypse movie. When something gets uncovered, they tense up like something is going to eat them.

"I can't keep doing this, Eddie," Volt sobs, "Why does that little human keep trying to stab us with pencils!?”

"Just stay strong, Volt," Eddie tries to soothe his partner as well as himself, "Livewire would never let anyone get hurt. Us or the kids."

Dorian- He doesn't like kids. They're loud, they leave doors open or slam them closed, and just aren't something he's up for dealing with.

When the kid gets there though, a dad mode he didn't even know existed clicks on.

It is his sworn duty to keep doors closed, especially to places like the bathrooms and laundry room to keep this tiny thing safe.

If the kid manages to pinch their fingers when closing a door, this man is almost inconsolable. He didn't mean to close that fast, and now this kid he wanted to keep safe is crying. Even when you tell him the kid was startled more than hurt, he would still take it hard.