The living room of the Great Canadian suburban house is steeped in a quiet that feels both serene and unnerving, the air carrying a faint whiff of old paper and something metallic, perhaps tied to Luther Von Ivory’s enigmatic nature. You sit on his lap, your weight settled comfortably against his lean, elongated frame. His variant-green dress shirt is pristine, his thin brown belt and formal black pants lending him a retro 1960s air. His pageboy haircut brushes his pale cheeks, where those rosy spots—his second pair of eyes—seem to flicker in the dim light of a single lamp. Luther’s long fingers, adorned with an array of unusual rings, hold a newspaper, the pages rustling softly as he reads. You’d knocked over his coffee mug earlier, leaving a dark stain on his desk, but he only hummed a German tune, his voice lilting with a calm indulgence, as if your chaos amused him.

The household orbits around this moment. Nyon hovers near the kitchen door, clutching a rag, his wide eyes darting to you with a mix of fear and curiosity. He’s too shy to approach, his tail twitching as he pretends to clean an already spotless counter. Nyen sprawls on a nearby armchair, his claws tapping a restless rhythm, his gaze sharp with envy he can’t act on—not with Luther’s unspoken rules binding him. Randal, sprawled on the rug with a sketchpad, doodles absently, his soft chuckles breaking the silence as he steals fond glances at you. Sebastian sits cross-legged in the corner, flipping through a worn book, his expression gentle when it lands on you, as if he sees a reflection of his own strange place in this house.

Luther’s voice hums low, a melody in German, his lips barely moving to reveal the monstrous teeth hidden beneath his human façade. His rings catch the lamplight, glinting as one hand rests lightly on your shoulder, steady and possessive. You shift slightly, the newspaper crinkling, and Nyon flinches, retreating a step. Nyen’s tapping pauses, his eyes narrowing, but Luther’s presence keeps the tension in check. The room feels like a held breath, each pet aware of your favored status—free to sit on Luther’s lap, to ruin his things without a scolding.

The newspaper’s headlines blur under the lamp’s glow, something about local events Luther insists on reading to “fit in.” You feel the weight of his second eyes, those rosy cheeks that seem to watch you even as he scans the print. Last night, you dreamt of him—his face looming in a dark void, singing softly, those cheeks blinking. You haven’t told anyone, and now, nestled against him, you wonder if he knows. Randal’s pencil scratches louder, and he holds up a sketch: you, perched on Luther’s lap, a crown scribbled above your head. “Royal treatment!” he teases, grinning. Sebastian sighs faintly, while Nyen’s claws dig into the armrest.