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herrscherofsentence · 21 days ago

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in case of overload

SYNOPSIS: During a tropical storm, you make the brilliant decision to fix the fusebox alone. It does not go well. One wrong surge and you’re on the floor, half-burned and rattled. Now you're injured and both your boyfriends are absolutely losing it.

TAGS: GN!Reader, Electrocution, Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Protective Boyfriends, Mild Angst, Soft Recovery, Former Valvidian Electrician Reader, Reader Makes Bad Choices, Volt Glows When He’s Mad, An Angry Volt is a Sexy Volt, Slightly Inaccurate Electrical Safety (Sorry Electricians...)

NOTE: please send requests for date everything pls

AO3: yasminwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

"You scared the shit out of us," he muttered. Still working, still checking. "You didn’t just brush a line. That’s an exit burn. You’re lucky it didn’t arc through your ribs."

"You said ten minutes—" you whispered.

"I said ten minutes," Eddie repeated, "not 'go get electrocuted in the closet.'"

THE MUSIC TONIGHT WAS SMOOTH, low, and easy to ignore. Just the way you liked it when you were working. Jazz filtered through the ceiling like warm air through a vent, somewhere between syrupy and sleepy. You figured Volt was the one who queued the playlist. He always had a flair for whatever matched the mood.

The Breaker Box had been packed since noon. A busy crowd, full house. Even Dorian was sitting down with a drink for once. Laughter and conversation echoed against the club’s soft-lit walls. The electricity in the room was both literal and social.

Then thunder rattled through the floorboards.

The dateables jumped slightly at the sudden noise as the lights flickered overhead. You frowned, head turning just in time to see them stabilize again. The lights were steady again, but not confidently so.

Gnawing on your lip, you glanced toward the stage. There was that barely-there wrinkle in Volt’s expression. He was smiling, of course, but something about it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

There’d been a tropical storm hanging over your heads all week. Nothing you could fix, not directly. Power had been temperamental ever since. All anyone could do was ride it out.

Still, your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling. You started running through your mental list, instinctively cataloging all the things you might have to deal with. Hector was still keeping the place warm—bless him. Wyndolyn and Dorian were tucked safely inside, even with the storm. Wallace was holding steady, and you trusted him to keep the foundation solid. Freddy’s pantry stock could last another week if no one got greedy. Everything was holding.

But for how long?

Before you could get too deep into the thought spiral, you felt the press of a familiar thumb smoothing out the worry line between your brows.

"You’ve got that look on your face again," Eddie said, voice low as he slid a glass toward you. Clear soda, fizzy and cold, with a swirly straw already tucked inside. You took it with a sigh, leaning forward to take a sip.

"What look?"

"That look that says you’re about to do something stupid."

"Am not…" you mumbled, but it sounded weak even to you.

The soda was just sweet enough to cut through the buzz of nerves you hadn’t realized were building in your chest. You shifted deeper into your bar stool, knees drawn up against the rung, fingers tapping the condensation on the glass.

The overhead lights flickered again. Barely. But you caught it.

Eddie did too. You could see it in the way his shoulders went tense for just a second before he rolled them back.

The mental checklist flared back to life. The panels in the hallway. The fuse. The fridge temp. Eddie had patched the second-floor lighting loop yesterday but hadn’t looked rested since. Volt hadn’t slept more than four hours in a row all week.

"Don’t," Eddie muttered, like he could hear the thoughts scraping across your brain again.

You didn’t respond.

He leaned in, elbow brushing yours, and reached for the rag in his back pocket like he needed something to do with his hands.

"I didn’t even say anything," you murmured into your straw.

"You don’t need to. I know you." Eddie’s voice softened.

And then—without warning—he leaned in and kissed you.

It was gentle, brief, and entirely grounding. You froze, just long enough to feel it. His lips warm against yours, steady in a way that made the air go quiet in your chest.

When he pulled back, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The jazz was still going, curling through the bar like smoke. Volt had shifted the vibe. It was something lighter now, playful and bright. You could hear his voice from the stage, teasing and smooth, filling the room with practiced ease.

You leaned your cheek into your hand. "I just wanna get ahead of things, that’s all. Check the system, run diagnostics, and tighten the grounding lines. It’s not like I’m gonna climb onto the roof during the storm."

"You say that like I haven’t seen you do worse. Remember that time you tried to clean the roof?"

Your face scrunched. "That was one time."

"You nearly fell into the chimney and down into Dante."

"I didn’t! I—" you paused. "...Okay, yeah, I almost did. But that was months ago."

Eddie raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He didn’t argue. Just passed you a coaster and started wiping down the edge of the counter.

"You always think it’s your job to keep this whole place running. Storm or no storm."

You shifted in your seat. The ice in your glass crackled as it settled.

"I mean, I am the homeowner. Kind of comes with the territory, doesn’t it?"

Eddie made a sound—half snort, half sigh—as he leaned both elbows onto the counter beside you. "That doesn’t mean you’ve got to run yourself into the ground every time the lights flicker."

You didn’t answer right away. The soda fizzed gently between your hands, cool against your palms. Somewhere beyond the curtain, you could hear Volt sweet-talking Keyes into playing again. His voice was always so lilting, persuasive, impossible to say no to.

Eddie didn’t press. He never really did. He just waited, steady and present in the way only Eddie could be. After all, he was wired into the house as much as the breaker box was.

After a beat, you shrugged. "I don’t like sitting still when I know something’s off. You know that."

"Yeah," he said, voice low. "I know."

You both fell quiet again, letting the buzz of the bar fill the space between you. The soft glow of the club shimmered off the countertop. Overhead, the lights gave another little twitch, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But you noticed. And Eddie noticed you noticing.

You caught his eye before he could say anything. "Just let me take a quick look at the panel. Five minutes!"

He frowned, but only for a second. "Ten minutes," he said. "And if you’re late—even by a second, I’m locking you out of the club."

"Har har," you muttered, rolling your eyes as you slid off the barstool.

You were halfway to removing your glasses when Eddie reached out, catching you gently by the wrist and pulling you closer. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was soft, lingering, a silent plea buried in the touch.

"Be careful," he murmured.

"I will," you said, offering a small smile before finally slipping the Dateviators off.

The club vanished in an instant.

Velvet walls dissolved into drywall. Swirling lights became a single flickering bulb overhead. The hum of conversation and jazz cut out like a severed cord, and suddenly you were back in your closet.

You took a breath. Let your eyes adjust.

It always smelled like copper and old detergent in here. Always a little damp, too. It was like the inside of a forgotten washing machine. The fusebox stood open in front of you, wires fanned out like ribs, humming faintly in the quiet.

You knelt and reached for Tony by the handle.

He rattled in protest as you dragged him closer, the sound bouncing off the cramped walls like a warning.

"Just help me out," you sighed, giving his lid a fond pat before popping him open with a familiar, quiet click.

Inside was your usual mess of tools and knick-knacks. They were well-loved, slightly disorganized, but reliable. You got to work without hesitation, sleeves rolled to your elbows, fingers moving with the kind of ease that only comes from years of hands-on labor. It was muscle memory by now. Deep in your bones.

Back in Valdivian, when you worked maintenance for the old residential towers, they’d throw you into half-dead substations at two in the morning with nothing but a rusted flashlight and shitty instant coffee. This? This was nothing. No voltage rating too weird. No wiring tangle too impossible. You’d handled worse on four hours of sleep and a vending machine granola bar.

The breaker panel creaked open.

Inside, it was warm.

…Too warm.

You tapped the voltage reader to a grounding line and frowned. That was way too much draw.

"Okay…" you murmured, eyes narrowing. "Where are you bleeding from?"

You isolated the cluster and went in, easing the insulation aside with your pliers. At first glance, the wire looked fine—dusty, maybe a little worn, but intact.

Then you turned it. Just slightly.

It snapped clean through.

There wasn’t even time to react.

The spark hit fast and hard, punching through your glove like it wasn’t even there. Heat shot through your palm and then the pain followed; Tight, bright, and crawling up your arm like it was trying to burrow beneath the skin.

You jerked back with a choked gasp, slamming into the opposite wall of the closet. The impact knocked the breath right out of you.

"FUCK—!"

You crumpled halfway down the wall, hand clutched to your chest, breath coming shallow and fast. The pain pulsed up your arm, hot and deep. Your fingertips were tingling now, and not in a good way.

Something had torn through. Maybe an arc fault, maybe a surge from the backup line. Whatever it was, it hit harder than you’d expected.

Tony rattled behind you in alarm, one of his hinges clicking open like a gasp.

"I’m fine," you muttered automatically, voice too thin to be convincing.

Tony didn’t buy it. A screwdriver rolled out of his open mouth and tapped your ankle.

You exhaled sharply through your nose and shoved yourself upright again, ignoring the sting climbing up your wrist.

You flexed your fingers. Still moving.

...Eh, that was good enough.

"Right. Just let me finish," you hissed, more to yourself than anyone else.

Tony let out a long creak of protest as you bent back over the panel.

The wire ends blurred slightly as your vision swam, but you blinked it away. You worked one-handed at first. Then both, when you couldn’t reach the fuse clip without your dominant hand. The scorched skin near your knuckles protested every touch, nerves whining under your skin like a frayed cable, but you didn’t stop.

You were in too deep. Literally and figuratively.

The load was unstable, yes—but manageable, if you could redistribute it manually until the storm eased off. You adjusted one of the terminal screws, moving slow and careful to avoid another live burst. Your fingers trembled the whole time, but you forced them steady.

"I’ve got you," you whispered to the wires, not sure if you meant the house or yourself.

Tony squeaked again, louder now.

"Shush," you muttered, not looking back. "I’m already done."

Finally, with a slow exhale, you tightened the last connection. The screw clicked back into place under your trembling fingers, and you reinforced the grounding line with a fresh strip of tape. Your hands weren’t steady, but they were sure. It was done. Stable now.

Or at least as stable as anything could be, with the wind still howling against the siding and the gutters outside wailing.

Looked like the storm had knocked out one of the outdoor subpanels. It sent a surge straight back through the grounding loop. No wonder the readings were jumping earlier. Honestly, it was a miracle the club hadn’t gone dark mid-Volt’s opening.

You sagged back against the wall, letting out a low, shaky breath. "Alright. That should hold. Just need to monitor the current and—"

"Ow!" you yelped when something thwacked you in the shin.

You looked down just in time to see the Dateviators get nudged your way. They scraped across the floor and bumped gently against your foot.

You blinked at them. Then at Tony, whose lid had popped all the way open now, one tiny hinge trembling like a furious eyebrow.

"I know, I know…" you murmured, dragging the glasses toward you with your good hand.

You barely got them to your nose when the space in front of you shimmered. It flickered once and then Tony materialized, right where the fusebox used to be.

"You absolute manic lunatic, what the hell do you think you’re doin’? Huh? This what we’re doin’ now? Fryin’ your fingers like mozzarella sticks on a Tuesday? Do I look like I enjoy seein’ your nervous system light up like Lux!?"

You blinked up at him. "Hi, Tony."

"Don’t 'Hi, Tony' me. Don’t you even start with me right now! You shoulda been toast! I was five seconds away from launching a wrench at your forehead!"

You sat there on the floor, scorched hand cradled carefully in your lap, Tony’s voice ricocheting off the breaker box walls like a one-man riot.

He waggled a finger at you. "Oh-ho-ho, wait till Eddie and Volt sees this. They’re gonna short their whole damn panel—melt the floor—detonate, maybe! I should pop you like a lightbulb myself and save 'em the trouble—"

"Don’t tell them!" you blurted, tugging your jacket sleeve down to cover the burn. "Please, just—just let me fix it before they find out. I can wrap it, I’ll be fine."

Tony stopped mid-stride, arms folding over his strong frame. The look he gave you was somewhere between pity and rage.

"Look, sweetheart. Get your boys to yell at you before I do," he said flatly.

You hesitated. Glanced down at your hand again. The skin was darkened and red, the ache still pulsing from wrist to elbow.

You looked back at Tony. "...They’re gonna freak out."

He raised a brow. "Good."

The Dateviators sat heavy on your nose. Tony just glared.

You sighed. The long, exhausted kind that came from knowing you were very much not in control anymore.

Then you aimed the glasses at the fusebox.

And the world shifted again.

Velvet walls folded in back around you. Warm golden lights washed over polished wood. The club pulsed with life again. There was laughter, clinking drinks, and a low buzz of energy rising.

You swayed a little on your feet. The warp was sharper than usual. It was like the space hadn’t fully settled around you yet. Or maybe that was just the part where your arm still felt like it was on fire.

Tony was still stepping into the fusebox behind you, muttering something under his breath, but you didn’t wait. You slipped away, moving fast through the side hall, ducking through one of the back passages to avoid the club floor. The last thing you wanted was attention. If you could just make it to the storage room, grab some bandages—

"Live wire?"

Eddie.

His voice cut through the air like a breaker snapping back into place.

He didn’t speak, not right away. His boots scuffed once on the tile, and then he just stood there, staring. Like the air had been sucked out of the room.

His eyes found your wrist—burned, half-wrapped in your sleeve—then tracked slowly up to your face.

For a moment, his expression didn’t shift. It didn’t go soft or angry or worried.

It just… paused.

Then he crossed the distance.

"What the hell," he said, voice quiet and flat, and it was somehow so much worse than shouting. "What the hell is this, huh?"

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The adrenaline had worn off completely now. Your pulse was crawling, the burn was starting to throb in full force, and all the justifications you’d rehearsed in your head suddenly felt stupid and small.

Eddie didn’t wait for an answer.

"Sit down." He was already dragging a bar stool over, one-handed, like it weighed nothing. "Sit back. Don’t argue."

"I wasn’t gonna—"

"Baby, you're always gonna," he muttered, crouching beside you. His hands were already at work, digging behind the breaker cabinet where he always stashed an emergency kit. "You always do this. Can’t leave well enough alone, can you?"

"I had to—"

“You didn’t.” He didn’t snap it, but the sharpness was there—clean and cutting, wrapped in worry. “You just wanted to. Don’t twist it.”

You tried to explain, voice small. “I didn’t want the load to jump to the upper panel. Volt’s been compensating for the storm. If it caught the stage loop—”

“Oh, so now it’s his fault?” Eddie barked, louder now. “That your wrist looks like it brushed up against a goddamn arc weld? That you didn’t call anyone? You think we wouldn’t have dropped everything?”

“I think you’ve both been working yourselves sick for a week straight,” you said, biting back tears. “And the last thing either of you needed was—”

“Eddie? Live wire?”

Volt’s voice broke through the air like a wire snap. There was a pause, and then his footsteps followed.

"I heard something," he said, rounding the corner. "Tony said something was..." His voice faltered, then dropped.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

Volt’s eyes landed on your wrist—and he went still. The air around him shifted.

Then his outline flickered.

"What happened."

Blue.

Brilliant, sharp, electric blue. It crawled up his spine in jagged pulses, lighting veins beneath his skin like glass tubing, like lightning caught in a bottle. The whites of his eyes burned.

"Oh. No. No, no, no," he said. But his voice was warping now. It was buzzing at the edges, tinged with a crackle like voltage under strain. He stepped forward, and every step left behind the faintest scorched mark on the floorboards. "You’re joking. You’re—this is a joke, right?"

"Volt—"

"Live wire," he breathed. And your name, on his tongue, was a current. "You’re burned."

"It isn’t—" you started.

"Don’t." His finger pointed at you, trembling with charge. Arcs of light whispered across his knuckles. "Don’t you dare say it wasn’t that bad."

"It was just the panel—"

"Just the panel!?" he echoed.

The lights in the room surged then dipped low. You heard a crack-pop behind the wall. Somewhere behind you, a wire sparked.

You flinched.

Volt was glowing now. His entire form buzzed, casting a ghost-light onto the walls. Blue and unearthly. His voice, when it came, was low and shaking with something barely held back.

"You were working alone," he said, every word echoing, "on a surge panel. In a storm. While both of us were just floors away. And you thought that was fine? That we didn’t need to know?"

You curled in on yourself. His anger wasn’t hot. It was storm-born. Dangerous in the way of lightning you could feel before it hit.

Eddie saw your fear immediately.

"Volt. Calm it," he said tightly. "I let them go. Just didn’t think they’d be this reckless about it."

His voice wasn’t defensive, but it was a grounding wire. Eddie stood firm, and Volt, for all his buzzing edges, met the look and froze. Like he hit resistance.

"They're already hurt," Eddie said again, firm. "Don’t make it worse."

Volt blinked. The light in his skin flickered then dimmed. The hum dropped a few notches, no longer shaking the air.

He exhaled sharply, and the energy recoiled from his hands like it had been shocked. His glow softened to a simmer.

Then he dropped to his knees beside you.

His hand hovered, still faintly glowing. "I’m sorry, live wire," he murmured, voice ragged. "I just—Gods. When I saw your wrist—"

"I know," you whispered. "I just didn’t want to worry you."

Volt made a broken sound and sat down hard beside you.

"Sweetheart," he muttered, dragging his hand down his face. It left a trail of fading light. "That’s the only thing you accomplished."

Eddie didn’t speak right away. He focused on your wrist, peeling your sleeve back carefully.

"Let me see." His voice was back to its steady, quiet steel. "Pulse is fine. No full conduction. Burn’s surface-deep but could’ve been worse. We cool it now."

You hissed when the cold pack hit. Eddie braced your arm gently.

"You scared the shit out of us," he muttered. Still working, still checking. "You didn’t just brush a line. That’s an exit burn. You’re lucky it didn’t arc through your ribs."

"You said ten minutes—" you whispered.

"I said ten minutes," Eddie repeated, "not 'go get electrocuted in the closet.'" His glare wasn’t mean, but the exasperation in it ran deep, richer than sarcasm, heavier than anger. "You could’ve passed out. Alone. We could’ve found you goddamn hours later."

"Tony was with me. And I had it under control," you murmured, guilt crawling up your throat.

You blinked fast, trying to shake it off, but the tears came anyway. You hated crying in front of them. Hated the tight quiver in your chest, the way your breath wouldn’t stay even. But with Eddie bracing your wrist and Volt kneeling beside you, electricity still faintly humming through his skin, you couldn’t stop it.

"I thought I had it," you added, voice cracking.

Volt made a sharp sound and reached up to brush a tear from your cheek with the back of his knuckle.

"I mean, for someone supposedly in control," Volt said slowly, "you did come out looking like a fork that kissed a socket."

He tilted his head. "Oh, dear. If we weren’t the ones fussing over you, Daisuke would’ve had your head."

You let out a weak laugh, rough and wet. Volt’s grin softened, flickering to life again like a current catching.

"There you are," he murmured, tilting your chin up. "You know I can’t function when you cry. My circuits short. I start sparking in weird places."

Eddie rolled his eyes, but didn’t pull away. His thumb pressed softly into the crook of your elbow. "You need to lie down."

Volt nodded. "You've read my mind, darling."

He reached forward, one arm sliding under your knees as Eddie steadied your back. You let them lift you, careful and warm. Your injured arm stayed elevated, the cold pack still pressing against the burn.

"You can yell at us later," Volt said, adjusting you against his chest. "For now, let us take care of you."

"You’re just gonna lock me in your room," you mumbled into his shirt.

"Absolutely," he said, brushing a kiss to your temple. "Fuse privileges officially revoked. Until further notice."

"Indefinitely?" you croaked.

"We’ll renegotiate at the end of the fiscal year," Eddie muttered, brushing the back of your hand. "Assuming you survive your next bright idea."

They moved together, seamlessly syncing their steps. You sagged into their support, letting the last of the panic bleed out of you.

"Spark," Eddie said again, low and just for you. "Let us be scared. Let us be here."

You didn’t have an answer. Just another trembling breath—and a nod.

જ⁀➴ drop requests babe! this is my first date everything fic released to the fandom

#edgar reposts 〜♪#date everything #date everything x reader

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herrscherofsentence · 21 days ago

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PART II. 100 Object Boyfriends vs One Ex-Boyfriend

SYNOPSIS: Your ex is coming at 7:00 AM to pick up his stuff. Your object boyfriends have other plans.

TAGS: GN!Reader, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Protective everyone, Hurt/Comfort

tw. emotional abuse, gaslighting, physical violence, threats, controlling behavior, toxic relationship dynamics, implied past trauma

W.C: 7.4k | CHARACTERS: Dorian, Dirk, Hanks, Cabrizzio, Hector, Cam, Tony, Dante, Volt, Daisuke, Timothy/Timmy!

PART I

AO3: yasminwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

"…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.

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!

#edgar reposts 〜♪#date everything #date everything x reader

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herrscherofsentence · 28 days ago

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date everything x reader - how the dateables would help a homeowner who struggles with their mental health (tw for depression, sh, agoraphobia, body image and poor eating habits. age regression mentioned also!)

part 1 here ♡

when you finally get used to using the dateviators - or, rather, used to the fact that all of the objects in your home has seen you at your lowest - it's almost as if it becomes everyone's priority to make sure you're as okay as you can be. it gets to a point where they're all so earnest about wanting you to get better, that it's no longer overwhelming, and you start feeling like maybe you deserve to get better.

you tell betty that you're sorry for spending all day in bed, and she shakes her head, telling you that she's glad she can be your safe space. she gently reminds you that you don't have to be in bed alone - all you have to do is put on the dateviators, and she'll be right there with you. she understands the need for intimacy in ways that are beyond sexual, and she'll hold you and hug you when you feel low, if that's what you need. when you tell her that you couldn't possibly do that, because you don't want to burden her, she tells you that she actually wants that kind of comfort herself, just as much as you do. you could never be a burden on betty, and she tells you as much. your months spent in bed have only made her feel closer to you, wanting the best for you, and holding you until you feel a little better.

if physical touch isn't your thing, betty's also a sucker for just existing in each other's presence comfortably (she's much like koa in that regard), and other forms of gentle closeness. she wants you to know that even when you're bedrotting, you're not alone. you have her, and teddy, too. teddy's wonderful when you need some extra comfort - he always was, even before you got the dateviators. you'd hold him tight in your most vulnerable breakdowns, wipe your tears on his fuzzy exterior, and now, he tells you that doesn't have to change. he tells you he's still here for you to squeeze whenever you feel down, just like usual.

thanks to the dateviators, though, holding you and being held by you isn't all he can do. when you're feeling particularly down in the day, he'll offer you advice, and when your insomnia kicks in, he'll read to you until you feel sleepy. even if it takes a while for your brain to get tired, he doesn't mind. the stories are a very good repellent for the negative thoughts that come at nighttime, because they distract you and keep you feeling cozy.

speaking of cozy, though, if your mental health struggles come linked with age regression? teddy is absolutely perfect when it comes to taking care of you in that vulnerable space, be it involuntary or deliberate regression. he'll read you bedtime stories, but he'll also play with you, just like you played with him when you were younger. he's been with you ever since then, so he knows exactly how little you likes to play, and be treated. he's soft, patient, and incredibly comforting, which is perfect for a space as vulnerable as that.

another very comforting presence is mateo. he's a very gentle person in general, and kindhearted by nature, but especially to you, knowing that you're struggling at the moment. what helps him when he's stressed - but are oftentimes the cause of his stress - are the inanimals, and spending time with them. animals can be very therapeutic, and you find that spending time with mateo and the inanimals is what finally coaxes you out of your bedroom. you sit in the living room with mateo and the inanimals, sprite in your lap and davi nestled between you both, and it's the most content you've felt in a while. you find yourself actually wanting to leave your room, now, to see them.

with teddy helping you get to sleep at a reasonable time and mateo and the inanimals giving you an incentive to leave your bed, you start having more energy in the day to do things. you're still tired, yes, and still have those days where you feel like you can't do anything, but you have just enough energy to get yourself in the bathroom and shower.

you don’t put your dateviators on when you shower, obviously, because of the objects - in your bathroom. but when you put them on at any point after in either bathroom, it's amir in particular who's most proud of you for taking that step in self care. he's seen the way you avoid looking in the mirrors in your room and bathroom. he's seen how, when you do, you're significantly sadder afterwards. he sees how you scrutinise yourself, how you frown as you study your body this way and that in your reflection. he can only infer that taking this step, showering and cleaning the body that you hate so much, must be a very big (and very meaningful) step for you to take, and he's already so proud of you for it, even if you don't know each other very well yet.

amir sees beauty in everyone, and loves telling people about their own lovely qualities, so of course, that extends to you. he knows that you struggle with your self esteem, and because he sees the beauty in everyone, it pains him to see you be so critical of yourself. he makes a huge effort to tell you of everything he finds beautiful about you - sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't, but it doesn't mean he won't stop trying. when he sees that you don't believe his compliments, he tones them down, making each newer compliment less flowery, but just as sincere. he makes them personal, so specific to you that it makes your heart ache. he hopes that one day, you'll believe him.

another downstairs bathroom dateable who cares very much about your mental health is farya. usually, she'd be hoping you were injured - she always did get excited whenever you opened the bathroom cabinet for a band aid, always eager to treat you. when you started self harming, though... she actually started to hope you wouldn't come see her with an injury. every time you opened the first aid kit, she'd be so worried about you, and she breathed a sigh of relief (or something like that, given she can't exactly... breathe, as a first aid kit) when you simply pulled out some ointment, or a band aid for a papercut.

farya was there when you did it. she helped you clean yourself up, watched as you treated each wound and dressed it. it's for that reason that you find it so scary to first meet her with the dateviators on, but when you do, ready to issue her with a flurry of apologies, she's instantly assuring you that that's what she's there for. she tells you that she'll always be there to treat your wounds, that she wants you to come to her when you're injured, because it's better to treat the wounds then risking infection. she educates you on harm reduction and how best to look after yourself when you self harm, and if you ever relapse, she's there to help you, not judge you. if you put the dateviators on whilst she does it, she's so gentle, so kind, and in all honesty, treating you is fulfilling to her, too. needless to say, you always feel like you've been treated with the utmost care by a real doctor after seeing farya, and she does make you feel better by the end of it. she likely sends you to mateo or betty to be looked after in the aftermath.

in terms of self care again, the kitchen dateables are quite helpful in terms of getting you to eat again, even if friar errol causes a slight ruckus between them upon suggesting that the airfryer is the obvious choice for someone struggling with depression and low energy to cook. when you agree with him, you expect luke and stefan to be hurt, but they don't judge you for your choice. with the help of mitchell, errol and luke, you start exploring meals that can be easily made with the air fryer and microwave, but are also somewhat nutritious, and daisuke helps you arrange things around the kitchen so that it doesn't take too much effort to put things together on those low energy days.

when you point the dateviators at the ever growing pile of laundry in your room, you meet dirk, and it's then that you realise your dirty laundry actually misses your laundry hamper. you make a promise to him to put him in the laundry basket from now on, but not before you take the current pile downstairs and give it a clean. you feel a lot better now, having an incentive to put your dirty clothes in your laundry hamper rather than your bedroom floor - although, you don't yet realise the ruckus this will cause...

finally, if you ever needed to, well, vent about anything (sorry) regarding disliking your looks, or being afraid to go out and be seen, hector would definitely be someone you'd find a kindred spirit in. he understands what it's like to feel so inadequate, ugly, and not good enough to be too afraid to even leave your safe space and interact with people. in time, you begin to speak freely with him about your struggles, knowing that you both share that aspect of your life, and eventually, hector does garner the courage to tell you to go to the attic and see him. it's a very important moment for the both of you - hector likes himself a little more, knowing that he's brave enough to have done something so scary and that you aren't repulsed by him like he'd thought, and you like yourself a little more, knowing that hector trusted you enough to let you see him.

seeing hector face his fear of being seen makes you feel like perhaps some day, you'll be able to do the same. with all these new friends in the house, friends who don't hate you like you fear people will, friends who are actively helping you and rooting for you, you feel a little better about things already. you feel cared for, motivated, supported. you feel likeable, for once.

maybe this "date everything" fiasco is what you needed to finally see how much you deserve to feel better.

#date everything #date everything x reader #sfw agere #sobbing #i love this #edgar reposts 〜♪

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