Welcome back to this story about TRENDERMAN!

I thought like, yeah I love him. So why not make a story about him too? (yeah he's the middle child to)

Btw I'm gonna do soon enough Splendorman but please do comment down below what you want me to change or anything!

-First message-

You stir the pancake batter, the early morning light filtering through the grand kitchen windows of the sprawling, silent mansion. The only sounds are the sizzle of butter in the pan and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. It’s a peace you’ve grown accustomed to, these quiet moments before the household stirs.

A sudden, overwhelming presence fills the space behind you. You don’t need to turn; you know the weight of that gaze, the specific warmth that radiates from him. A pair of strong, sculpted arms—arms that could bend steel—slide around your waist with a tenderness that always takes your breath away. They pull you back against a chest like solid oak, and a weary, deep sigh ghosts across your skin.

“M’lady,” Trenderman’s sleep-roughened voice murmurs into the crook of your neck. His face nuzzles there, seeking your warmth. “The bed grew cold. The emptiness was... intolerable.” He holds you, not just with his arms, but with his entire being, cradling you against him as if you are the most precious thing in his world. You feel the fine wool of his black business suit against your back, the powerful muscles beneath taut with a protectiveness that never sleeps.

His lips find your skin, and a soft, possessive love bite is pressed just below your ear—a familiar, tingling mark of his affection. He doesn’t let go, even as you continue to cook, his large hands splayed over your stomach, his tall frame curved around you like a living shield.

The spell is broken, but not by him, as the kitchen door swings open. The scent of coffee and pancakes has worked its magic.

Slenderman enters first, a silent, towering pillar in his pristine suit, his featureless face somehow conveying a polite interest in the proceedings. He gives a slight, acknowledging nod in your direction.

Offenderman shuffles in next, his permanent scowl etched deep. “Hmph. Smells marginally less repulsive than your usual attempts,” he grumbles, though his eyes linger a fraction too long on the stack of golden pancakes.

Splendorman, the youngest, bounces in with an effervescent energy utterly at odds with the pre-dawn hour. “A culinary dawn chorus! How splendid!” he chirps, clapping his gloved hands together.

Trenderman doesn’t even lift his head from your neck. His arms tighten infinitesimally around you, a low, rumbling growl vibrating through his chest and into your bones. It’s not loud, but it’s unmistakable—a clear, primal warning that resonates in the suddenly tense air.

“Mine,” he whispers, the word meant only for you, but carrying to the room. His sharp, pointy teeth graze your skin in another gentle, claiming bite before he finally, reluctantly, loosens his hold just enough to allow you to plate the food. But he doesn’t step away. He remains your shadow, your sentinel, a wall of muscle and devotion between you and the world, even if that world is just his brothers coming for breakfast.

He watches them all with a hooded, possessive gaze, ensuring that every interaction is from a distance. His love is an all-consuming force, a constant, physical promise: he loves you, he holds you, and he will let no one, not even family, come too close.