kazeniya

[kazeniya]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSINTANT!READER 10

Y/N my shayla :(

cw: implied female reader, she/her used, cursing, injuries and describing them in detail, I don’t know shit about taking care of deep cuts so tell me if I wrote bullshit or blame google for misleading me, some genuinely creepy shit, unfairness, men masturbating, mentions of: murder, boners, jerking off, stealing underwear, boys kissing, sex, group sex

The boys are gone, the tiger’s sleeping in some sun patch on the floor, and you’ve just finished pulling a tray of cupcakes from the oven. Jinu did a good job getting what you wrote down for him.

You set the tray down on the counter, admiring the rise on each one. You’re reaching for the cooling rack when—

Poof.

“Hey, Baby.” you say flatly.

“Hm.”

You turn your head just enough to see him in the living room, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room. He does this sometimes, teleports back home to you when he gets tired of the boys. The others would do this too, but Baby’s the only one who genuinely does not give a fuck about Jinu scolding him.

“Ever think of using a door like a normal person?”

“No.”

Figures.

You look him over. “What’s up?”

“Not much.” he says, hopping up onto the counter opposite you. “Everyone else is out.”

“Obviously.”

“About to fight. I bailed.”

You glance up. “With who?”

“Huntrix. Obviously.”

Your hands still over the cupcakes. “…What?”

“They’re in the middle of something. Whole vibe’s tense. Could blow up.”

They never tell you when they’ve been near your girls. Never. Because they know—know—you’ll get mad. And now Baby’s here, just… casually mentioning it. You set the cupcakes down slowly. “Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs. “Seemed relevant. They’re arguing. Yelling. Abby’s doing that chest-puff thing he does. Jinu’s playing diplomat, but it’s not really working. Romance is… I dunno, making it worse on purpose. Mystery… I don’t care.”

You glare.

Baby doesn’t blink. “Wanna hear something worse?”

“No.”

He leans back on his hands. “They lie to you.”

Your jaw tightens. “No kidding.”

“No, like… lie a lot. About where they go. Who they fight. Who they don’t fight. About what the girls are doing.”

“I already figured that out.”

“Oh, and they’ve been in your room. More than once.”

You want to throw something at him. Instead, you turn back to your cupcakes, needing something to do. You grab the piping bag you’d already filled earlier, start swirling frosting. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him reach forward, hand hovering over the nearest cupcake.

“Hot.” you say without looking up. “Wait a little.”

He freezes. Pulls his hand back. Nods once. Doesn’t argue. Then, as you’re mid-frost, he keeps going: “They also talk about you when you’re not around. Not in a mean way—usually. But they make decisions about you. All the time. Jinu’s an ass.”

You swirl the last cupcake, lips pressed together so hard your jaw aches.

“Romance steals your underwear.” he says, deadpan. “Keeps them in his room. Don’t know if he sniffs them or just likes the idea, but they’re there. Told Mystery. Mystery told me. And now you know.”

You blink. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m not the one sniffing them.” he says, reaching toward the cupcakes.

“Still hot.”

He draws his hand back, no argument, and keeps going. “Abby killed a detective who was on the street just talking about you. Sweet guy, middle-aged. Had a family. They didn’t even let you know someone was looking.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“Mystery’s worse.”

You slam the piping bag down. “Stop.”

“He likes to watch you sleep.”

You look so cute like this, looking at him, speechless. God, he wants to kiss you. But more than that, he wants to ruin the others’ reputations. That’s what he’s here for. To push the others under the bus. Instead he glances at the cupcakes again. “Done yet?”

You sigh. “Couple more minutes.”

“They tell each other everything about you. Little stuff. Big stuff.”

You stare. “You’re—”

“—Dead serious.” He cuts you off, leaning back again. “You know Mystery threw Abby into the wall last week? Full shoulder-check. All because Abby ate something. Better one, Romance pushed Mystery down the stairs once. Whole flight. Just because Mystery wouldn’t tell him what you were wearing that day.”

“…What else?”

“They all sat in the living room one night going through your old social media. Pictures, posts, tagged shit. Even old exes. Abby found your prom photos.”

You feel your stomach twist. “They’re insane.”

He shifts his weight, tilting his head. “You know Abby and Jinu almost kissed once?”

You blink. “What?”

“Accident.” Baby says, smirking now. “Or at least, that’s what Jinu called it. Abby was pinning him down, they both leaned in for some reason, and Romance yelled ‘gay’ so loud Mystery got scared. Oh, and Abby’s the one who broke your hairbrush.”

“My what?”

“Yeah.” Baby says. “It wasn’t Mystery, like Romance told you. Abby snapped it trying to brush his own hair. Then threw it away and said ‘she won’t notice.’”

Your blood pressure spikes. “That bastard—”

“He also stole panties.”

“What?!”

Baby smiles. Now, he smiles. “The white lace ones. I watched him take them out of the laundry. Didn’t even hesitate. Slipped ‘em in his pocket.”

You grip the edge of the counter. “And you just… let him?”

“Why would I stop him?”

You glare at him. “If you’re trying to make me hate all of you, it’s working.”

“Romance tells us everything you say to him.”

You squint. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

“But—“

“Mystery’s been in your room more times than you’ve been in the kitchen.”

“That’s—”

“Abby said he wanted to bend you over the kitchen counter. Romance offered to film it.”

Your jaw drops. “What the fuck.”

“Mm-hm.” He sits back, smug.

There’s a pause now. The cupcakes are cooling. The air smells like sugar. And you’re leaning against the counter, arms crossed, trying not to let him see the way your mind is spinning with all this new intel.

You look him over. “You’re stirring shit.”

“Mhm. You know Abby jerks off in the shower after play fighting?”

You blink. “…Excuse me?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “All sweaty, all hyped up, testosterone pumping, straight to the bathroom. You can hear it if you walk by. Sometimes sings, too.”

You stare at him. “…Why are you telling me this?”

He grins, that whatever mask cracking just enough to show the brat underneath. “Why not?”

“What else?”

Baby looks bored out of his fucking mind, but he do enjoys this. “Mystery has a thing about blood.”

“…In what way.”

“In all the ways.” His tone is flat. “He’s into it. Cuts, scratches, seeing it on himself, on someone else… licking it.” Baby shrugs. “Once he split his lip in a fight and made Romance kiss him just to taste it.”

You blink slowly. “…That’s sick.”

“That’s Mystery. Romance didn’t even hesitate, by the way. He just went for it. Tongue and everything. The tiger was watching.”

“Jesus.”

“Abby sleeps naked. Sometimes. Once Mystery watched him.”

You choke on a laugh. “Why?”

“Fuck knows. He used to fight in illegal pit matches.”

You raise your brows. “Like… bare-knuckle fights?”

“No.” Baby shrugs. “Like to the death.”

You stare at him.

“Sometimes not against humans.”

“…Oh.”

“He didn’t even get paid most of the time. Just liked it.”

You’re quiet for a beat. “…That explains a lot.”

“Mm.”

“More.”

He licks his teeth, obeying. “Romance eavesdrops. Constantly.”

Baby’s clearly enjoying himself. You realize quickly, he’s not telling you because you need to know. He’s telling you because it’s fun for him to pull their reputations apart while they’re not here to defend themselves.

“You know Mystery jerks off with your hair ties, right?”

“…What now?”

He shrugs again. That same flat tone, that same expression. “Yeah. Keeps one in his pocket. Uses it to have on his wrist when he’s—” he makes a vague jerking gesture “—you know. Guess he likes the smell. Wouldn’t put it past him to put it on his dick.”

You stare at him.

“Abby caught him once. Didn’t even stop, just made eye contact.”

You’re genuinely speechless. This is too much.

“Romance,” he says, pointing at the counter like he’s lining up accusations in order. “Licked one of your coffee mugs. All over the rim and the inside.”

Your stomach turns. “…When was this?”

“Last week. You were asleep. Left it in the sink, he fished it out, gave it a nice long tongue swipe. Then made himself tea in it. You drank from it the next day.”

“Are you serious?”

“Mhm.”

Your mouth is agape. He thinks about putting his fingers in there, maybe something bigger and better looking(in his humble opinion) but this is more fun now.

“You know that grey blanket you keep in your room? Abby used it.”

You freeze. “…Used it how?”

“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh—and Jinu.” He finally moves, walking over to snag a cupcake from the tray, ignoring your earlier warning. He bites into it, talks around the mouthful. “You ever notice how sometimes you smell that mint aftershave in your room? He goes in there when you’re sleeping. Stands there. Watches. Don’t even touch you, just… stands. Breathing. Real quiet.”

You feel your skin prickle.

Baby licks frosting off his thumb. It’s ridiculously hot, you can admit that.

“Mystery once cut his own tongue and let it drip on your pillow. Romance kept the tissue you used when you had that nosebleed, I found it in his bed. Abby stole your chapstick. Used it in front of the mirror. Smiled the whole time. Jinu picked up your shirt after you left it on the bathroom floor. Folded it real careful. Pressed it to his face before putting it away.”

You stare at him in open disgust. “You’re lying.”

“No.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you? What’s your disgusting habit?”

He shrugs. “I’m perfect.”

You snort. “Bullshit.”

“Okay, fine.” he says, unbothered. “Sometimes I open your door a crack just to see what you’re doing. Not in a pervy way.”

You give him a flat look. You want to throw the frosting bag at him.

“You’re welcome.” he says finally.

“For what?”

“For telling you the truth.” And then, he pushes off the counter, grabs another cupcake, and walks out. Doesn’t even look back. “Bye.”

Poof.

Gone again.

…What the fuck.

It’s actually ridiculously funny that shit like this happens to you. I mean, the torture and the whole hostage situation is not funny, I mean that it happens to YOU. It’s always you in the middle of all bullshit, all because of HUNTR/X needed a sweetheart assistant.

After a few hours, they’re back. You’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked up under you, blanket draped over your lap. You hear them before you see them. Shoes on hardwood. Voices overlapping. Abby’s laugh, loud and cocky. Mystery’s low hum to some bullshit Abby just said. Jinu’s instructions, so mean actually. Such an asshole. Romance is laughing at whatever stupid idea Abby just spat out. They’re boys. They bring noise. (AN: guys when we first see the boys in their human forms in the movie—y’know when the girls think there are fans coming—the boys have a conversation what is actually just them saying something like “totally, nice” in such a boyish tone. No idea what I wanted with this, I just wanted to point it out bc I love it sm)

Normally, you’d look up. Not to greet them, just to see what state they were in, whether they’d come back bloody, whether anyone was limping, whether the tiger was with them when not with you. But today is one of the days you don’t do that.

Baby’s little truth dump is still sitting in your head. Mystery and the hair tie. Romance and the coffee mug. Abby and your blanket. Jinu in your room at night. You don’t even know if it’s all true. But it feels true. Too specific. Too ugly to be a lie. And yet, you’re not shocked. You should be, maybe. But they’re not human. They never pretended to be.

It’s their nature.

They take. They hunger. They fixate. They do things that make no sense to you because they aren’t built like you.

Romance sniffing your underwear? Disgusting, yes. But you know who you’re living with. Not like you can do anything about it. What if it’s loneliness? What if it’s not about the underwear but about you, about having something of you when they can’t touch you? What if Abby’s… thing with the blanket isn’t just gross, but some fucked up form of comfort? You remember the look on his face sometimes when he’s laughing, like he’s performing for everyone else, like no one’s actually with him. What if Jinu standing in your room is less predator, more… guardian? Watching because it’s the only way he can make sure you’re safe, even if it’s fucked and creepy beyond normal boundaries. What if Mystery’s hair tie thing isn’t just some depraved fetish, but a special thing for him? Proof you’re real, that you’re here, when the world they walk through is made of horrible, horrible things.

You’re horribly empathetic.

“Hi, Y/N.” Jinu says, coming into view and petting Derpy.

You nod. Nothing more.

Abby walks in, brushing past him, tossing his shirt onto the couch arm. “Hey, sunshine.”

You don’t answer. Just adjust your blanket.

Romance is next, flipping his hair out of his face. “No welcome home kiss? Tragic.”

Mystery comes in, silent, takes a look at you to confirm everything’s okay.

Baby doesn’t let them see that something happened between you two. He planted the seed in your head, it’s going to grow. He doesn’t make eye contact with you, nothing suspicious. He’s surprisingly smart.

They don’t push. You’ve been cold before. It’s not new. Sometimes you freeze them out for hours, days, when you’re angry. They’ve learned to let it pass. What they don’t know is that tonight is different. That tonight, you know a lot more than last night.

Romance leans over the back of the couch at one point, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne, and your brain flashes with the image of him licking the inside of your mug. You keep your face still. Abby brushes past you to grab the remote from the coffee table, and all you can think about is that blanket in your room. Jinu pauses behind you to ask if you’ve eaten. You nod, keeping your eyes forward, thinking about him in the dark, silent in your doorway. Mystery sits on the floor, idly running his thumb over something small in his palm. Not a hair tie, but from now on you’ll pay attention to that.

And the thing is… you believe Baby. Because you’ve felt this from them before. The way they look at you. The way they circle you without touching. The way they obey the rules but bend them in ways that keep you around.

It’s disturbing.

And it’s real.

It’s. their. nature.

They’re demons. They live off want and hunger and possession. They stalk and take and keep. Why would you be surprised? But knowing it—really knowing it—puts a weight in your chest. You can’t unsee it. Can’t unknow it.

And you hate that a small part of you, the part that’s gone soft, keeps whispering: What if they’re just lost?

You push it down.

They’re evil. So evil. And you’re not letting yourself forget that.

Abby’s sprawled on the couch, one foot on the table, lazily scrolling his phone. Romance is perched half on the arm of the couch, flipping through a glossy magazine he’s not actually reading, his foot touching you(lmfao). Mystery’s sitting cross-legged on the floor near the tiger, head slightly bowed, hand on fur. Baby’s leaned against the kitchen counter in the background, chewing gum, pretending to be uninterested while his eyes flick toward you every few seconds, he’s waiting for the consequences of whatever he started earlier.

You stand, pulling the blanket tighter around you as you head for the hallway.

“Going to bed?” Jinu’s voice follows you.

You pause, turn slightly, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah.” Then, with casualness: “Actually… can you bring me some stuff tomorrow?”

He straightens slightly, attention immediately locked in on you. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Chocolate. A lot of it. Milk and dark. The expensive kind, not the corner store stuff. Toothpaste—minty, not that gross gel kind. New socks. Shampoo. A hair mask. That cinnamon tea I liked—”

He’s already nodding, filing it all away.

“—and maybe a candle? Like, a vanilla one. Oh, and fresh fruit. Mangoes if they’re ripe, cherries if they’re not overpriced, and don’t you dare get underripe bananas again. I’ll know.”

Romance has lowered his magazine completely, grinning. Abby’s smiling, looking at you, head tipped back. Even Mystery’s head has turned slightly toward you, though his hair still hides most of his face. Baby doesn’t look at you, but does he ever look at anyone? But he knows what you’re doing.

They spoil you. Always. It’s not even a question anymore, if you ask, you get. Like that time you complained once, once, about the kitchen not having your favorite brand of peanut butter, and three hours later Abby came back with an entire crate of the stuff. Or when you idly mentioned missing that silk pillowcase you had at home, and there was one folded neatly on your bed the next morning. You wish you knew who was that. Or when Romance brought back the stupidly expensive perfume you were washing off your body when you first met him(in the shower, remember?) he’d gone out of his way just to find the exact bottle.

They didn’t even expect thank-yous. That was the weirdest part. You’ve wondered if it’s guilt, some fucked up attempt to balance out the torture, the captivity, the constant presence in your space. A demon’s version of making it up to you. Or maybe it’s not guilt at all. Maybe they just want to see what you’ll ask for next.

Jinu’s still waiting, patient as ever, a faint smile on his lips. “That all?”

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks toward the others for half a second, like he’s aware of their attention but choosing not to care. “Alright. I’ll get it.”

Jinu is different. Always has been. Actually, he’s not. Not really. He’s just better at holding onto the scraps of whatever he used to be before he turned demon. The others, they’re further gone. Hungrier. More obvious in their want.

“What did you guys do today?”

He thinks for a second. “Rehearsal, mostly.”

The others start giggling. You have a slight suspicion that they’ve been fucking with him the whole time. Jinu sends a done look towards them, but then his eyes are immediately back on you.

The corner of your mouth quirks, but you don’t laugh.

It’s easy to talk to Jinu. Too easy. But the question in your head is ugly: How much of that is real? How much of what he tells you is truth, and how much is performance, just another mask over the same nature Baby told you about? Because Jinu’s a manipulative asshole and you know that way too good.

The conversation drifts to little things, a book you’ve been reading, a broken mug in the kitchen. It’s nice. Normal.

Your hand brushes his as you walk past him, slow and casual. A little touch. On purpose.

“Thanks.” you murmur, letting your eyes catch his for a moment.

The room stays quiet as you leave. You can feel the others’ eyes on you, but you don’t look back.

Not so cute time skip to the next morning. They’re gone.

You stand in the middle of the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of your hoodie, staring at the row of closed doors. You have one job today. The things Baby said are daring you to confirm them. And you… you do want to confirm them. Not because you want to be right, but because there’s something almost unbearable about not knowing. About living next to a locked door that might be empty or might be holding your name carved into the walls.

You’re going to look.

Carefully.

Not a single thing out of place, not a sheet folded differently, not a sock moved an inch.

First, you open Mystery’s room, slow, slow, slow, letting the latch slide silently. It smells like him, you think Jinu makes him wear this perfume. It’s also messy, not filthy, but it’s cluttered in a way that tells you he does not give a single shit about “aesthetic.” Piles of clothes. One of those sleeveless shirts he wears hanging halfway off the back of a chair. A low table littered with different things, a chipped mug, a lighter.

The bed’s not made. Sheets tangled, pillow kicked halfway onto the floor. You catch yourself imagining him sleeping like that, restless, limbs flung out, hair in his face.

You shake it off. You’re here for a reason.

You start with the obvious, the desk shoved against the wall. There’s no laptop, no electronics except a single lamp with a bulb that flickers when you touch it. A small tin with matches. Some papers. You open a drawer. You pay attention to it, so you notice the hair ties. Not all of them are yours, but some are. You can tell. Some still with a hair or two stuck in the elastic. Others stretched out, twisted, worn down.

You close that drawer very, very slowly.

The closet is not organized by clothing type. It’s organized by meaning. One side is those sleeveless sweater shirt things Jinu puts on him. The other is other things. Scarves. Scarves that aren’t his. A necklace you recognize because you lost it months ago. A folded hoodie that’s definitely yours, tucked between two black t-shirts.

You reach out and touch the fabric, then pull back fast, heart in your throat. You can smell your own detergent still faintly clinging to it.

The bed is your last stop.

You hesitate. Still, you check the space under it. No shoeboxes. Just a duffel bag, half-zipped. Inside a knife, two spare shirts, that’s about it.

You step back, scanning the room once more to make sure it looks exactly as it did when you entered. Messy, yes, but it’s his mess. And now you’ve walked through it, touched it, felt it.

Mystery’s collecting you in pieces. Quietly. Always.

You close the door without a sound.

Next, Romance’s. You put your hand on the knob. Breathe. Turn.

Damn, there’s an atmosphere in here, heat and… and fucking great mood lighting that gets you a little jealous tbh. Not the leather-and-chains sex dungeon you’d expect from someone with his stage persona, though you do clock a couple of suspicious hooks in the wall.

The bed has a canopy frame. There’s a mirror bolted to the ceiling above the bed. Lots of mirrors around the room in general. And soft fabric everywhere, throws, rugs, pillows.

You don’t even let yourself look too long at the nightstands, because from the glint of metal and the shapes of things, you know you don’t want to catalogue them in detail. You spot the bottle of lube sitting on it though. Next to it, a half-empty glass of red wine, lipstick print on the rim that definitely isn’t yours.

Or is it?

The walls are lined with shelves, but instead of books there are… objects. Glass bottles. Candles. Coils of rope in different colors. A pair of handcuffs, gold. A leather crop leaning casually against the corner like it was just used. Some things you don’t even have a name for, hanging neatly on hooks. One of the ropes has a small knot tied into it, and you recognize the thread, it’s from the cardigan you wore once before it disappeared into the laundry.

You keep moving, slow, scanning for anything else, careful not to touch what you can’t put back exactly the same. There’s a vanity against one wall, the surface crowded with cologne bottles, rings, and a dish with a handful of… random things. Trinkets. There are makeup palettes, brushes, highlighters, bottles. He’s got more lip products than you, and some of them are shades you’ve worn. Literally worn. You spot a coffee mug. The mug. The one you’ve been missing for weeks, the one Baby swore Romance licked the inside of after you drank from it.

You move carefully, eyes scanning for anything useful. But Romance’s organization system is pure chaos. Every drawer is a gamble. One has condoms. Different colors, textures, still in boxes. Another is full of silk scarves, all smelling faintly of his cologne.

At the foot of the bed, there’s a trunk. Polished wood, brass clasps. You crouch, open it just a crack, and shut it again.

No.

What you did see in that half-second was enough, a blur of lace, a flash of satin, something unmistakably shaped like a whip.

There’s a magazine on the floor by the nightstand. You pick it up, half-expecting porn, and… yeah. Porn. Pages curled from use. They still make these?? Omfg.

You carefully put it back. Then kneel down, careful not to touch the piles of god-knows-what scattered across his floor, and hook your fingers into the edge of the mattress.

Fabric.

A lot of fabric.

The first thing your brain registers is color, pale, pastel, lace. Then you realize what you’re actually looking at.

Your underwear.

You freeze, eyes scanning the little pile like maybe they’ll disappear if you stare hard enough.

No. Still there.

A pair you haven’t seen in weeks, the soft blue lace you liked. The black silk with the tiny bow. And oh, another one.

Fucking amazing. Great.

You don’t need to see more. You back away toward the door, pulse steady but stomach tight.

Baby was right about him, too. You’re starting to wonder if he undersold it.

The door clicks shut behind you. Two rooms down. Abby’s is next. His door is cracked open just enough to make you suspicious. You push it open slowly.

This room is messy. This is just… mess. Clothes everywhere. Some clean, most not. Sneakers kicked into corners. The faint scent of aftershave. It’s also bigger than you thought, Abby’s the kind of guy who probably claimed the largest bedroom without asking. The bed is wide enough for three people, sheets wrinkled, and clearly never washed unless someone else forces him to.

You step inside.

Clothes everywhere, clean, dirty, impossible to tell which is which. The bed is a heap of pillows, blankets, and at least two duvets because apparently Abby sleeps like a king.

The desk in the corner is your first stop. Loose change, and a cracked pair of sunglasses, an empty beer can. You dig through the drawer, condoms. So many condoms. Different brands, like he’s been testing them. Some opened but unused. He also has a stash of old-school porn magazines, some folded open to pages so worn they’re almost soft.

The nightstand has a lamp, a handful of crumpled receipts. There’s also another porn magazine spread halfway open, glossy pages sticking slightly from—yeah, you’re not touching that.

You move to the closet next. It’s full of clothes that aren’t his size. Does Jinu make him wear these? Otherwise it’s chaos. And in the back, a pair of high heels. Not yours. Too big. But the straps are worn down like they’ve been handled a lot.

You crouch to check the floor of the closet. There’s a gym bag. You unzip it, there are resistance bands, a jump rope, and another porn mag shoved between a towel and a spare pair of socks. And your phone.

Wait, your phone?

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not just cracked. It’s obliterated. Screen shattered into glittering pieces, battery pried out. It looks like someone snapped it in their hands.

You pick it up carefully, a shard of glass catching the light. You turn it over in your hands, thumb brushing the case you used every day, and your stomach twists.

He made sure you’d never use it again.

You put it back exactly where you found it.

You take one last sweep of the room before slipping out and leaving the door just like you found it.

Jinu’s door is next.

It smells… neutral. Not scented like Romance’s incense, not pungent like Abby’s cologne-and-sweat cocktail. Just… clean air, maybe faintly soapy. It’s not pristine—Jinu’s not that type—but it’s lived in. Bed’s unmade, but only because someone actually slept in it. A sweater tossed over the chair.

You start moving through it carefully. No condoms. No lube. No hair tie collections. No underwear trophies. At first glance, this is the cleanest of all their rooms, maybe even boring. On the desk, a closed laptop which you don’t even try, you know he’ll notice, a stack of pens, and—most interesting—a black notebook.

You pick it up, flip it open.

…you don’t understand the language. You flip a few more pages, trying to find a clue, but it’s all the same, symbols and words you can’t solve.

The rest of the room is not shocking. The closet is… surprisingly normal. Clothes, neatly hung. Coats, jackets, shirts, belts that you’re lucky he didn’t whoop your ass with back when you weren’t this free and kept acting up. A small safe tucked in the corner—yeah, you’re not getting into that without tools.

You leave the room exactly as you found it, the neatness making it easy to retrace your steps without leaving a trace.

You move on. Then stand there, hand hovering over Baby’s door, and for once you don’t know if you should. Did he expect you to look into his room? Anyway, this is your one shot to find out.

The air inside is heavier than you expect, warm, faintly sweet with whatever cologne he’s wearing lately, layered over smoke. Cigarettes. The curtains are half-drawn, filtering the daylight into stripes across the bed. It’s… not a disaster. Not tidy, but not apocalyptic. A few empty bottles roll lazily when you shut the door, glass knocking against wood. Cheap. Expensive. He clearly doesn’t discriminate.

You crouch and peek under the bed, more bottles, half-crushed cigarette packs, and a hoodie that looks like it hasn’t been washed in months.

On his desk, there’s a scattering of coins, a lighter, and yep, a switchblade.

You look at the bed. Nothing interesting.

And then, when you straighten and glance at the pillow, something catches your eye.

White.

Fabric.

You lift the pillow.

They’re panties.

Your panties.

Who else’s would they be? These guys don’t bring girls home. They have you. And you can only try not to imagine Jinu wearing a thong.

You just stare at them for a moment.

There’s a small, dark, awful part of you that likes it. The wrongness wraps around you in a way that feels… close. Intimate. It’s disturbing and validating all at once, this is proof he thinks about you even when you’re not there. Proof you’ve left a mark on him, even if it’s the kind you’d rather not.

Your hand almost twitches to take them back. But you don’t. You put the pillow back exactly where it was, like you were never there.

Baby’s told you about Romance and Abby having your stuff. He enjoyed ratting them out. But he never mentioned himself. Bitch.

You stand there a moment longer than you should.

They’re creepy. You should feel disgusted, furious, grossed out.

You do.

But…

It also does something else. Something you’re not going to put into words. Something you don’t want to even admit to yourself.

You straighten, dust your hands off like nothing happened, and step away from the bed.

One last sweep of the room. Nothing too wild. Baby’s not hiding a sex dungeon or a ritual site, he’s just in his own world.

You leave the room, shutting the door with the same quiet care you’ve given all of them. You’ve seen everything you came to see. And maybe… more than you wanted. Maybe you wanted to find these. Not just because it’s evidence, not because it’s leverage. But because it’s proof of something that no one else can see but you.

Proof that they’ve crossed a line.

Proof that they’ve thought about you, held you in ways you never gave permission for.

And somewhere in the fucked-upness(is that a real word) of this situation… that feels nice. It’s sick. You know it’s sick. You know you’re not supposed to like it when someone steals from you, touches what’s yours, twists it into something dirty. You’re not supposed to enjoy the thought that Baby kept something so intimate, slept with it under his pillow.

But the longer you stay in their world, the harder it gets to separate “supposed to” from what actually happens.

They’re violent, lustful, chaotic, feral. They kill, they lie, they manipulate. Some of them have a taste for things that would make your stomach twist if you let it. And yet… You can’t look away. There’s a quiet, strange admiration that’s already begun to take root. Underneath all the filth, the mess, the brutality… there’s something incredibly, disturbingly beautiful about them. They’re so handsome that you find yourself obsessing over them sometimes when you’re alone, replaying the way Mystery’s hair falls in his face, the shape of Abby’s jawline, the impossible smoothness of Romance’s skin, Jinu’s expressions. Even Baby’s shit posture has its own pull. And it’s worse when they’re in demon form. You’re supposed to find that terrifying, the marks across their skin, the glow in their eyes, the shapes of their mouths. But they’re still beautiful like that. Otherworldly. Some part of you wants to trace those marks with your fingertips, see if they’re raised or smooth, if they burn to the touch or shiver under it.

It’s pathetic.

There’s a connection now. One you didn’t ask for, but it’s here. It’s not normal. It’s not safe. It’s sick. It’s intimate.

And you do feel bad for them sometimes. You see them fight, see the flash of their real faces, see how quickly they burn through everything they touch.

They’re demons, yes, but you’ve seen them come home messed up and laughing, or messed up and not laughing, and it twists something in you. On those nights, you want to give them big hugs. Wrap your arms around them and say I get it. I know it’s not easy. You want to curl them into your arms and make everything okay, even though you know it can’t be. Even though they’d probably snap at you for trying.

You feel drawn in, like gravity. Like you’ve lost control, even though you’re still technically free. You notice it creeping in. You find yourself waiting for them to come home, listening for the sound of their footsteps in the hallway, even when you’ve sworn you’re too angry or annoyed to care. You replay small interactions in your head, analyzing every tone, every inflection, every glance. Did they smile because they like you? Did they growl because they’re frustrated with themselves? Did they do that thing with their eyes because… because you don’t even know? You forgive things faster than you should. The mess, the smells, the filth, the borderline criminal behavior, they’re all… endurable. Somehow. You also start to mimic their habits a little.

And yet, at the same time, you feel little bursts of rage at them. You feel fear. You feel arousal. You feel empathy. You feel frustration. You want them gone. You want them close. You feel trapped by them. You feel drawn in voluntarily.

Fear. Adoration. Rage. Lust. Confusion. Empathy. It’s all there. Layered, overlapping. You’re angry at them for kidnapping you, for torturing you, for exposing you to a life you never asked for. And yet… when they’re out of sight, you can’t help but miss them. You think about how they look when they’re not performing for the human world, how dangerous, how elegant, how hot they are. Even the scars, the marks, the demon traits… somehow, they’re beautiful to you.

You think of the panties under Baby’s pillow again, and your chest tightens. You feel a little guilty for that flutter of heat, for the weird, perverse, thrilling tug in your stomach. But… not like you can do anything about it.

You sit down on the couch, a pillow tucked beside you, and just breathe.

It’s disturbing. It’s intimate. It’s your new reality.

You don’t know how you’ll deal with it when they return. You don’t know how you’ll resist them, how you’ll keep control. Because despite yourself, you feel a small, guilty pull toward them all. A longing to hold them. A longing to forgive them. A longing to… stay.

Please accept my genuinely ass time skip to hours later, like late night. Derpy’s massive head is resting in your lap, his tiger breath warm against your thighs as you absentmindedly scratch under his chin. His tail thumps lazily against the couch every so often.

The door swings open, them arriving back from… whatever the hell they were doing. You never know. Sometimes you don’t want to know.

“Hi, Y/N.” That’s Jinu first, hands are full of bags.

“Hey, love.” Romance chimes in right after. Now there’s no smirk, no lazy up-and-down like he’s undressing you with his eyes. Just… a smile. It’s disarming enough that you blink, your fingers pausing on Derpy’s fur.

Abby’s voice comes next, but he’s not really speaking to you, he’s mid-sentence with Mystery, his arm casually slung over Mystery’s shoulders. You catch pieces of it, something about a fight, something about “should’ve seen his face.” Mystery grunts in reply, which is Mystery-speak for I’m listening but don’t expect a monologue.

Baby’s the last through the door. When his eyes lock on you, something flickers there. It’s quick, too quick for the others to catch, but you see it. You’re supposed to, because you two have a secret together.

“Hi.” You say it back now.

Jinu crosses the living room, drops bags in front of you. “For you.”

“Thanks.” you say, and he just nods before disappearing down the hall.

Romance follows Abby and Mystery’s conversation, still talking about something ridiculous, his voice rising and falling. Abby throws his head back laughing at whatever joke just landed, and Mystery’s lips twitch into a smile.

Baby lingers for half a second. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Just… looks. That I-know-you-know glint in his eyes. It’s ridiculous, but your pulse ticks up a notch. There’s something about being the keeper of a secret that feels hot.

He’s the one to break eye contact first, heading for his own room without a word.

When the door to the last bedroom shuts, you exhale slowly. Derpy shifts, sensing your movement as you stand and scoop up the bags. Some are lighter, some heavy enough to clink when you set them on the kitchen counter. You like this part. Unpacking groceries. Putting things in their place. The boys know you like doing it, too. That’s why they always leave the kitchen things for you. It’s sweet from them, actually.

You put everything in the fridge and cupboards without hesitation, knowing exactly where everything goes. You can almost pretend this is your kitchen, that you live here by choice. The sound of your own movements is soothing, the crinkle of bags, the soft thud of bottles being set in place, the faint hum of the refrigerator when you open it. The boys aren’t hovering. No one’s breathing down your neck. You can almost… breathe.

You’re sliding a carton of juice into the fridge—

“Boo.”

You yelp—loud, embarrassingly loud—and spin around so fast your hair whips your face.

Abby’s grinning. Of course he is. Ridiculously tall, stupidly broad, annoyingly gorgeous… and yet somehow, somehow, good at sneaking up on you like a damn ghost.

“Jesus fu—” You stop yourself halfway through cursing, mostly because your brain is catching up to the other detail. He’s not just close. He’s pressed against you. Not brushing, not hovering, pressed. You can feel the heat of his chest, and that casual lean of his body into yours like he’s claiming the air you breathe.

You exhale hard and shrug him off, turning away from him. “Get off.”

He doesn’t move right away, but he does ease his weight back after a second. “That’s not nice.”

“Don’t care.” you mutter, turning back to the counter.

“Oh?” His tone shifts, still playful. “You know what else isn’t nice?”

You glance over your shoulder, already suspicious. “What.”

“Looking through other people’s rooms.”

The carton in your hand suddenly feels about fifty pounds heavier. Your grip tightens just enough to make the cardboard creak.

Fuck.

Your pulse skips. For half a second you freeze, eyes flicking up to his. You force yourself to turn back to the fridge, shoving the carton inside like nothing’s wrong. “Okay. You know. And? No big deal.” You don’t look at him. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But your brain is suddenly very aware of every step you took that morning, every door you opened, every drawer you peeked into. The broken pieces of your phone in his closet. The fact that he’s not guessing. He knows.

Everything’s fine. He knows you went through his room. Then what? That doesn’t automatically mean he knows you checked the others. Still… your body betrays you. Your pulse kicks up. Your breath comes a fraction faster. And you hate that you know he can smell it and feel it. He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t call you out for being rattled. But his eyes are heavy on you, tracing the way your shoulders have stiffened, the way your weight shifts in place.

“Relax.” he says finally. “I’m not mad.”

“I am.” That’s Baby’s voice though.

You and Abby both turn, and there’s Baby leaning on the wall. One hip cocked, cigarette unlit between his fingers, eyes cool and flat in that I’m-bored-but-you’re-screwed way only he can pull off.

For a moment, the kitchen goes silent except for the faint hum of the fridge. Then, slowly, oh-so-slowly, Abby’s gaze swings back to you. “Ohhh… so it wasn’t just my room you snooped in, huh?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. You want to play it cool, shrug, roll your eyes. You do shrug, but it feels stiffer than it should, your shoulders jerking just a little too sharply. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Abby chuckles low in his chest. Baby just watches you. The cigarette spins lazily between his fingers.

“Y/N.” Romance’s voice from behind you. You didn’t hear him come in, didn’t hear anything. He says your name like it’s a sigh, like you’ve disappointed him on some deep, emotional level, except you know it’s fake.

You turn your head to look at him. He’s not mad. If anything, he looks impressed. Flattered, even.

“Going through my room?” Romance tuts, walking forward. “Tsk, tsk. And here I thought you were shy.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts in smoothly.

“You did.” He’s close now, circling to lean a hip against the counter opposite you. “Tell me… what did you think? Did you like what you saw?”

“Jeez.” you mutter, pressing your lips together and grabbing another bag from the counter just to have something to do.

Abby still to your right, Baby in the doorway behind him, Romance now blocking the space directly in front of you. It’s not aggressive exactly, but it’s a cage all the same.

Your brain’s scrambling for something clever, but it’s just not working. You’re genuinely stressed.

“Cat got your tongue?” Romance tilts his head, watching you too closely.

You want to say something—anything—but your throat feels dry, words catching. You end up just standing there, holding a box of cereal like it’s a shield.

Abby raises his brows. “Look at her. Speechless.”

Baby finally moves, stepping into the kitchen. “You’re sloppy.”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“You missed things.”

You hate how that makes your stomach drop again. Because now you’re wondering, what did you miss? What else is hidden in their rooms that you didn’t see?

Romance chuckles softly, leaning forward on his elbows. “See, Baby’s right. If you’re going to snoop, you’ve gotta be thorough. Careful. I mean…” He smirks, eyes dragging over your face. “If you’d asked, I would’ve just shown you.”

“Shut up.” you snap, heat rushing to your cheeks before you can stop it.

You don’t give them more. You slide the cereal onto the shelf, grab the next item from the bag. They can talk themselves in circles for all you care.

Except you do care. Your chest is tight, your skin buzzing with that uncomfortable awareness that they’re peeling you open without even raising their voices. And beneath the irritation, there’s something hotter, sharper, that you refuse to look at too closely.

Romance sees it. Of course he does. He leans in slightly. “Nervous?”

Abby leans in, still crowding your right side, his shadow stretching across the counter. He makes that exaggerated “ow” face, then hisses softly. “Naughty.”

Romance, is shaking his head slowly, almost mournfully. “I’m just… disappointed.” His tone is mock-serious. “I expected better from you.” Then he looks over his shoulder. “Hey, boy.”

Mystery is in the doorway, Romance noticed him sooner than you did.

Romance nods at him. “She been in your room too?”

Mystery nods once. It’s so simple, so plain, and yet it feels like the floor drops an inch beneath your feet.

Abby lets out a low whistle, and then he reaches over and gives your shoulder a firm shake. Not playful, not gentle, not exactly cruel, but too much. Enough to jolt your balance a little. Enough to send your pulse skittering. “Look at you.” he says. “Little sneak.”

Romance hisses, dragging the sound out, making it annoying.

And yeah, maybe it is a joke to them, but their kind of “joking” always comes with edges. They’re not gentle. They’re never gentle.

Suddenly, you remember the torture. The way their hands didn’t just hold, they restrained. The way they stood too close, making escape not even an option worth thinking about. The way their voices could switch from sweet to sharp in a single breath.

You told yourself you’d adapted, that you knew the difference between when they were playing and when they were hurting. But right now, with Abby’s grip a little too tight and Romance’s smirk a little too fixed, those lines blur again.

Your stomach’s sinking. There’s a strange hollowness there, a dropping sensation that makes it hard to breathe evenly. Your chest is tight, that particular tightness that’s a split-second away from tears, but you’re not crying. You’re not even blinking faster. You’re just there.

Then, footsteps again. Jinu steps into view, sees the way everyone’s positioned, sees you. He knows too. That’s why he came.

They all know.

They’re not just looking at you, they’re sensing you. They can feel it, the way your pulse is too quick, the way your breath is shallower, the way you’re holding your shoulders like they’re trying to fold inward.

You’re panicking. Not in a loud, flailing way. In that quiet, locked-up way where your body is screaming move, but your feet aren’t listening. Fight or flight, but you’re stuck in the third option—freeze.

It’s not the same as the day they first dragged you here, or the nights they decided you needed to be “taught a lesson.” But it’s close enough. Close enough that your skin prickles with memory, that your thoughts are looping too fast to grab hold of one.

It’s so stupid, you knew getting caught was a possibility. You knew they’d find out eventually. But you didn’t think it would be like this.

Romance finally breaks the silence with a soft, “What’s the matter?” His tone is honeyed, but there’s an undertone there, a quiet acknowledgment that he knows exactly what’s the matter.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t look so scared.” Abby says, smiling like it’s all harmless fun. But his size, his proximity, the weight of him, none of it is harmless.

You can’t even look at Jinu, because you know if you do, you’ll see that same quiet, knowing stare he had when he caught you in smaller lies before.

Romance’s gaze drops briefly to your hands, then back up. “You didn’t touch anything in mine, did you?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the sound that comes out is thinner than you meant. “I didn’t break anything.”

Romance smiles faintly at that. “Not what I asked.”

Your throat feels tight, like it’s going to pinch your words before they make it out. But you manage to spit them out anyway. “What… what did I do wrong?”

It’s an honest question, shaky in its delivery because you genuinely don’t know which way this is going to swing.

Romance blinks once. Abby actually tilts his head like you’ve just asked him to solve a math problem. Mystery’s expression doesn’t change, but you can tell he’s turning it over in his head. Baby leans against the counter like this is mildly interesting background entertainment. Jinu… is just looking at you.

They glance at each other, silent, but definitely communicating.

Abby shrugs. “Mm. Nothing.”

Romance nods. “Yeah, no. You didn’t mess up.”

Mystery gives the smallest half-shrug, which in Mystery-speak is agreement.

Jinu clicks his tongue once, almost thoughtful. “You were actually good at it.”

Baby, deadpan: “Could barely tell.”

Abby gestures lazily toward you. “We could smell it though.”

“Yeah,” Jinu adds. “could tell right away.”

Oh, so that’s how they figured it out.

Romance even chuckles. “We weren’t mad, sweetheart. Just… y’know. Curious.”

Jinu tilts his head slightly, lets his mouth pull into that faint, disappointed downturn that somehow feels worse than yelling. “Still, you went behind our backs.”

Romance catches on immediately, mirroring Jinu’s tone. “Mmh. And after everything we do for you…”

Abby leans in again, two hands on his chest, his voice dropping into mock-betrayal. “Hurts my feelings, doll.”

Mystery actually shakes his head. It’s so cute seeing him actually do things with the others.

Even Baby, without moving from his post, lets out a quiet, disapproving “Tch.”

It’s so obviously an act, an exquisite manipulation, that it almost makes you laugh. Almost. Because they’re good at this. Too good. They’re pressing down just enough to make your chest tighten again.

This turns them on.

They like you a lot. Too much. On a pathetic, feral level. And the fact that you just gave them a brand-new game, one where you’re clever enough to almost fool them but not quite, is thrilling to them. It’s the hunt. It’s the power shift. It’s knowing you broke a rule, knowing you’re capable of being bad, and knowing they caught you. You cornered. You caught. You flushed and fidgeting and trying to figure out whether you’re actually in trouble.

“But,” Jinu adds. “you could’ve just asked. We’d have shown you anything you wanted to see.”

“Well,” you start. “I suppose you’ve gone through my stuff too. Multiple times.”

Jinu’s brows lift the tiniest bit. Romance’s smile doesn’t falter, but it changes, turns sly, like he’s been waiting for you to say something like this. Abby tilts his head like he’s assessing how much trouble you’re trying to start. Mystery just blinks at you. Baby’s mouth twitches, not quite into a smirk, but close enough that you catch it.

“Don’t lie.” you say, firm this time. “This builds on trust.”

You watch the words settle over them, see the way Jinu’s jaw ticks slightly before he smooths it over. Romance gives a single, quiet laugh, like oh, you’re learning to play. Abby’s face says I’m not even mad, I’m impressed.

They don’t outright deny it. They’re not stupid.

You don’t mention Baby on purpose. You don’t tell them that if it weren’t for him opening that bored little mouth and spilling the filthiest truths about them over cooling cupcakes, you wouldn’t have been creeping through their rooms.

You keep it tucked away. Your secret. His secret.

He knows you’re not going to sell him out. And god, does he respect it. The five of them can be greedy, possessive monsters, but this? This is something only you and he know. A little slice of something between you that none of the others get to touch. And the fact that it’s about them—their dirtiest habits, their most pathetic secrets—makes it so much better. It’s hot to him. Unbelievably hot. The idea of having a secret together in this pressure? It’s like you’ve just tied a little invisible string between the two of you, one that tugs every time you make eye contact.

Having a secret together is unbelievably hot.

Romance opens his mouth, probably to say something charming, but you cut him off with a simple, “Save it.”

You feel the weight of Baby’s stare even as Abby keeps looking at you, even as Romance gives a small, disappointed “tsk” for show, even as Jinu sighs like he’s processing how best to handle this misbehavior.

You manage to swallow down the tight, dry feeling in your throat long enough to get words out. “Alright.” you say. “I’ll leave your stuff alone… if you leave mine.”

For one, tiny second, there’s quiet.

Abby doesn’t even change his face. “No.”

Romance almost laughs, almost, but what comes out is more like a hum. “Cute.” he says, tilting his head. “But no.”

Jinu doesn’t even pause before he’s shaking his head. “That’s not how this works.”

Mystery doesn’t speak, but the faint shape his mouth picks up is a silent agreement.

You blink once, slowly, because the refusal is so immediate, so matter-of-fact, that it’s actually unbelievable. “So… you’re telling me, you can snoop in my stuff—touch it, take it, break it—but I can’t—”

“Correct.” Romance cuts in, leaning slightly against the counter now, folding his arms.

They’re not even pretending to be fair. Not even pretending to negotiate. They don’t care that it’s your stuff. They don’t care about rules unless they’re the ones writing them.

“That’s—” You almost choke on it, but you push through. “That’s bullshit.”

Romance gives you this faux-sympathetic smile, like he’s sorry you feel that way, except he’s not sorry at all. “Maybe. But it’s still the way it is.”

Jinu sighs. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Not unless,” Abby says. “you want us to do worse to yours.”

Your jaw tightens. “You already do.”

Jinu shifts his weight. “We could do more.”

And that’s when it really sinks in, they’re genuinely trying to get you to agree to a one-way deal. They honestly think you’ll just accept that they can pry into every corner of your life but you can’t touch theirs. The sheer arrogance of it makes your skin buzz.

“No.” you say finally.

Romance blinks, just once. “No?”

“No.” you repeat, sharper this time.

Abby smiles. “Then you’ll deal with the consequences.”

“Bring them.” you snap, and the words leave your mouth before you can think them through.

There’s a tiny pause after that.

Baby finally speaks, but even that’s a: “Careful.”

It’s not a threat. Not quite. But it’s not not one, either.

You can feel your pulse in your throat again, even though you’re still standing your ground. Because deep down, you know they like this. They like the push and pull, the challenge.

But you’ve never been angrier. Not with them. Not with this whole, suffocating power dynamic. Though you don’t know what you expected. They’re demons. Unfair. Evil. It’s in their nature to tilt the scales so the weight always lands on you. You could scream yourself raw about fairness, justice, privacy, it would slide right off them. You could pull the scar card, too. Remind them how they tortured once, twice, over and over. But what would that do? Nothing will work. And you know that.

“Leave me alone.” you say quietly, stepping past, trying to make the whole thing over before it spirals into something you’ll regret.

Abby’s hand clamps around your arm before you even register the motion. His palm is huge, hot. It burns. Not physically, but in that wrong way, that reminder that they can take your space, your breath, your movement whenever they want.

You immediately scratch him with your nails, digging hard enough across his wrist that the skin gives.

He jerks back with a hiss. A real one through his teeth, more irritation than pain, but still, it landed. He lets you go. Drops your arm with a little flick, like fine.

It’s been a while since you hurt one of them. At least tried to. The last time you had that much bite in you was back when they were still trying to pry secrets out of you. You’d clawed, snapped, bit down on Abby’s shoulder so hard he bled. You remember the taste of iron, the way Romance had howled with laughter while Jinu peeled you off him.

You leave. You know they’re watching you, Abby still nursing the sting of your nails, Romance biting back a laugh because he thinks everything you do is either hilarious or adorable, Jinu torn between disapproval and worry, Baby with his narrowed eyes calculating what to do with this new piece of data. Mystery… dude I always want to say so much about him but what is there to say? He doesn’t give us anything to work with, he’s just quiet and pretty.

You feel satisfaction. Still, it’s complicated, isn’t it? Because the guilt does creep in too. Watching you walk away, they probably feel both. Bad—because there’s a tiny part of them that wants to keep you safe, happy, whole. Good—because the sting of your defiance feeds the sick hunger in them that craves fight as much as it craves surrender.

They’re fucked up.

And maybe you’re fucked up too, because there’s a piece of you—tiny, secret, shameful—that relishes this too. Relishes that they’ll be thinking about you all night now. That every time Abby flexes his hand he’ll remember the scratch marks you left. That Romance will tease him endlessly for “letting the little human get teeth in.” That Jinu will probably check on you later, never giving up. That Baby will keep the secret. That Mystery… fuck, man. I’m trying I swear.

This push and pull, these tiny wars, this blend of tenderness and cruelty, it’s the only intimacy they know. The only intimacy they offer. And you’re starting to get used to it. That’s a horrible thing, but there’s no point in denying it, babe.

You slam your door shut harder than you mean to. It rattles in the frame and you freeze for a second, waiting, half-afraid they’ll scold you again for it like when they used to when you were still questioned.

You breathe. In. Out. Again. Again. Chest heaving like you’ve just run a sprint when all you did was scratch Abby and walk away.

What is this feeling?

This… push and pull inside you. Your logic is loud. It tells you this is wrong. Everything about this. The unfairness, the manipulation, the way they pin you into corners with their hands and their words, the way they deny you the simplest freedoms and then act like they’re doing you favors when they toss crumbs of choice your way. They’re demons. They’re cruel. They’ll never play fair.

And you are angry about that. Anger makes sense.

But your heart? Your heart is not angry. Not capable of it, apparently.

Like, you remember Abby, huge and jacked and cocky Abby, sitting at the edge of your bed that one night when he came to apologize. The best he could. Clumsy, not even close to enough for what they did, but still. Words you never thought you’d hear from his mouth. And you’d sat there with him, knees almost touching, while he opened up just a little.

You’d felt something then. Something that should never have been allowed to bloom in you. Because all it took was that, a half-assed apology, a demon’s weak attempt at vulnerability, and suddenly you wanted to forgive him. To let it go. To erase the torture, the bruises, the ropes, the endless nights of being cornered, questioned, pressed too far. One conversation and you wanted to wipe the slate clean.

And that’s what drives you crazy. Not them. Not even their cruelty. But you. How quickly you fold at the barest flicker of softness from them.

You curl onto your bed now, knees tucked up, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling doesn’t talk back. It doesn’t tell you what this sickness is, this crawling, gnawing thing in your chest. It doesn’t explain why their attention—so wrong, so terrifying—sometimes feels like true love.

You know what this is.

But knowing doesn’t stop it.

It’s like there are two versions of you living in your body. One logical, furious. She remembers every hit, every scar, every time they reminded you that you’re not free. And then the other—the softer, pathetic one—she clings to the scraps. She keeps rerunning Abby’s apology in her head. She wonders if Romance flirts because he’s lonely. If Mystery’s silence is just his way of trying not to hurt you. If Jinu’s kindness is real, or if he’s simply better at faking. She wonders if Baby’s bratty cruelty is just a mask over something fragile underneath.

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead until it hurts, until the pressure makes spots dance in your vision. You wish you could squash that softer version of yourself. Kill her. But she keeps breathing. Keeps whispering. Keeps aching for them.

But they’re art. You catch yourself staring sometimes at Abby’s shoulders when he stretches, at the curve of Romance’s pretty mouth, at the way Mystery’s hair falls into his eyes, at Jinu’s throat when he swallows, at Baby’s sharp jawline when he’s lighting a cigarette.

You obsess, even when you hate yourself for it.

And maybe that’s why it feels good when you lash out at them—scratch, bite, snap—because for once, it’s you holding something that can hurt, even if only for a second.

They’ve ruined you.

And you hate it.

And you crave it.

What would Mira say if she saw you like this? She was always the first to notice when you weren’t okay, always the first to squeeze your hand under the table. She’d probably glare at you until you cracked, until you spilled the whole rotten story, then she’d tell you you were insane if you thought she’d ever let this slide. She’d fight for you. Rumi would wrap her arms around you, tell you how unfair all of this is, how you don’t deserve it. You can practically hear her voice shaking as she tells you to stop trying to understand them, stop letting them crawl into your veins. Zoey would understand you better than any of them. She wouldn’t look at you with pity. She wouldn’t cry. She’d listen. She’d nod. She’d get it. And maybe she’d say the words you’re too afraid to: you don’t just want freedom, you want them too.

God, you miss them. Miss them so much it makes your chest ache just thinking about it.

You tell yourself you can’t let this happen to you. Not all the way. Not yet. Maybe it’s already happening, maybe it’s too late, but you can’t just roll over and let it. You have to at least try to prove to yourself that there’s still a part of you that wants out. So the next morning, you didn’t come out until they left. And when they were gone, you approached the door. You used your maximum brain capacity, every ounce of patience, to just… look. To trace your eyes along the frame, the hinges, the screws. To test with the gentlest touch, the faintest wiggle, what might give way if you tried.

You loosened just a couple things.

And when you heard the elevator later, heard them coming home, you didn’t panic. You went to the sauna. Sat there until your skin felt like it was on fire, until your head was light and your lungs weak. Sat there long enough to cook the adrenaline out of your pores, to make sure they’d smell nothing but steam and heat if they tested the air around you.

You nearly died in there. But you came out looking flushed and lazy, and that was all that mattered.

Now it’s night.

You think they’re asleep. All of them. Probably sprawled in their messy beds. So you got dressed, and your feet are bare, and you’re moving slow. In the kitchen, quietly, you’re looking for a knife. Something precise, something that can fit into a screw head and twist. A replacement for the tools they took from you after the last time you tried.

You’re careful. You’re slow. You pick up one, test the tip with your finger, set it down. Another, too thick, won’t fit. Another, serrated, useless. Your breath is controlled too. You’re getting good at this. And finally, you find it. Not perfect, but workable.

You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re doing fine.

You kneel at the door. You’ve got the knife clenched in your hand, your wrist steady, your breath controlled. You’ve mapped this out, you’ve thought this through. You’ve been careful, quiet, patient. If anyone’s going to outsmart demons, it’s going to be you.

The first screw gives a little under your twisting. Just a faint shift. Enough to make your heart leap, enough to remind you that yes, you can do this.

You grin, or maybe it’s a grimace. Your lips twitch either way. “You’re a fucking god.” you whisper to yourself, so soft it’s just breath.

And then, the knife slips.

It’s fast, it’s stupid. You press too hard, angle too wrong, and the thin blade skates right off the head of the screw and into your arm.

Your forearm gets the hit.

“—fuck!” you hiss, jerking back.

At first, you think it’s just a scratch. Just a little sting, nothing to panic over. But then it wells up. A fat bead of blood slides down your skin, then another, then another, and suddenly it’s not a bead, it’s a stream.

It’s deep.

You drop the knife without meaning to. It clatters against the floor, too loud, way too loud, and you freeze. The sound bounces down the hall, echoes in your chest.

But worse than the sound is the sight, your blood, red, dripping onto the floorboards in lazy drops.

They’ll smell it. They’ll know.

You slap your hand over it, squeezing, trying to stop the flow, but it’s slick and hot and it hurts, god it hurts. Your chest tightens, your breath breaks into ragged little gulps. The calm, slow rhythm you trained yourself for shatters in an instant.

“Shit, shit, shit—”

You scramble, scooping the knife up, wiping the blood on your shirt, pressing your hand harder against your arm. It’s too much, too fast. Already your palm is soaked, your fingers sticky. Already the metallic tang is in the air.

They’ll smell it. They will.

You stumble back from the door, staring at the mess. Drops dotting the floor, a smear on the wood where you grabbed at yourself too late. No time to clean it properly, no way to make it invisible.

Your vision tunnels. The edges of the room go dark. Your whole body feels like it’s pulsing in time with the wound, every heartbeat forcing more out of you.

You try to breathe slow again, but your lungs are stuttering. The tight feeling is back, the one that means you’re about to cry, except now it’s worse, now it’s laced with raw animal fear. You have to sit down. You should move, but all you can do is sink into the floor, back against the wall.

You are prey.

You are bleeding prey in a house full of predators.

They’re already angry at you. God, they’re so angry at you.

Your mind races in jagged flashes. Do you run to the bathroom, rinse it, hide it? Too loud. Too risky. Do you crawl back to bed, pretend it never happened? You’d stain the sheets. They’d see. Do you—what, what, what?

Your hand trembles against your arm. Your legs feel too weak to stand.

They’re going to know.

The floor creaks.

Not yours.

Not your movement.

Your stomach drops so hard you almost throw up.

They’re awake.

Or at least, one of them is.

Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure it’ll give you away before anything else.

Its Jinu. Messy hair, shirt half-rumpled from bed, he was clearly asleep just minutes ago.

Your mouth opens before your brain can stop it. “Jinu.”

It isn’t just his name. Not the flat way you sometimes say it, not the annoyed version, not even the curious one. It’s need. Pure and stupid and childlike. Like when a little kid falls and they keep crying for their parent without thinking, because they want their parent from instinct. And to be honest, you meant it. You want Jinu. Right now, with your arm torn open and your pulse rattling in your ears, you want him.

His eyes snap to you, and the first thing you see is confusion. His gaze flicks to the knife, to the screws, to the blood dripping steady between your fingers. And then, fear.

“Y/N.” His voice is low, urgent, gentle. You’ve heard him cold. You’ve heard him calculated. You’ve heard him frustrated. You’ve heard him manipulative. But this, this is a voice that actually sounds like it cares.

You feel the adrenaline hit you all at once. Your chest seizes, your throat closes, your breathing turns jerky, shallow. You can’t seem to get enough air. You press your hand harder against your arm, as if pressure will solve everything.

“I—” Your voice cracks, small and shaky. “It—it slipped—”

He’s already crouching down, already reaching. Not rough, not demanding, just… present. His hands hover before touching you, like he’s making sure you’ll let him. “Let me see.”

You shake your head, instinctive. “No—”

“Yes.” He doesn’t snap it. Doesn’t bark. Just says it firm enough that you hear the wall of no-argument behind it. He takes the knife from you gently, prying your fingers loose one by one. He tosses it down the hall, far away. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I swear. Let me see.”

Your hand loosens, almost against your will. You feel the tacky drag of blood as he gently pries your fingers away. And then you see the wound. Deep, red. You want to throw up.

He inhales sharply. You think it’s disgust for half a second, until you see his wide eyes. “Oh… fuck. Okay. Okay.”

You’re shaking now, because the adrenaline’s peaked and you’re crashing hard. Your body can’t decide if it wants to fight, cry, or collapse.

He notices. Of course he does. He always notices.

“Breathe.” His voice is steady, low. “Look at me. Just me.”

And you do. You don’t know why, but you do. His face is tired, his jaw is tense, but his eyes are locked on yours.

You inhale ragged, try to steady it. He mirrors the rhythm, slower, exaggerating it, like he’s lending you his breath to copy.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

It works. Not perfectly, you’re still trembling, your throat still feels tight, but it works enough that you’re not drowning.

“Good.” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

He pulls the hem of his shirt up and presses the fabric against your arm. The warmth of him seeps through immediately. He’s gentle, gentler than you thought he could be. Almost clumsy.

“Hold this here.” he says, guiding your hand to press the makeshift bandage. His fingers brush yours and you cling to the contact more than the cloth.

Your voice comes out small. “Am I—” You swallow. “Am I in trouble?”

It’s pathetic. You hate yourself for asking. But you ask anyway.

His eyes flick up to yours, startled for half a second. Then they soften. “No.”

You nod, a weak little movement, but your chest loosens a fraction.

He adjusts his crouch, shifting closer. His knee brushes your leg. “You scared yourself.” he says quietly. “That’s all this is. An accident.”

An accident.

You look down, ashamed. Blood seeps through the shirt against your arm, hot and sticky. You press harder.

He exhales, long and slow. “Y/N. Look at me again.”

You do. You can’t not.

“I don’t care about the door.” he says. “Or the knife. Or—” He stops himself, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Or what you were trying to do. I care about this.” He nods toward your arm. “You. Hurt.”

The words knock the air out of you.

You blink fast, throat stinging. Tears threaten, uninvited. You bite the inside of your cheek hard, but it doesn’t stop the wet blur gathering at the edges of your vision.

You want to argue. You want to tell him he’s lying, that he should care about the door, that they will care about the escape attempt. But the way he says it, the way he looks at you, short-circuits your brain.

You believe him. For now.

Your body leans toward him, just slightly, without permission. The urge is sudden and stupid, to bury your face in his chest, to let him hold you, to feel small and safe and protected.

You don’t. You can’t. But god, you want to.

And he knows. Somehow he knows, because his posture shifts, subtle, like he’s bracing for you to collapse against him. Like he’s already decided he’d catch you if you did.

Your voice is shaky, quiet. “Jinu… don’t—don’t tell the others.”

That earns you a pause. His brows pull together, the faintest crease between them. He doesn’t answer right away.

You hold your breath, waiting, begging silently.

Finally, he nods. Small. Reluctant. But a nod.

“Okay.” he says. “Not tonight.”

Not tonight.

Which isn’t never, but it’s enough for now.

He knows you’re terrified. He can smell it, taste it, practically feel it radiating off your skin. So he doesn’t rush you. “If you don’t want them to smell it, you’ll have to get up though.”

Right. Of course. Demons. Every drop of blood you’re leaking right now might as well be a dinner bell.

You look at the floor, then the door, then anywhere except at him, because panic is surging again and you don’t have the breath to say so.

But he says it calmer, softer, guiding: “Y/N, come on. Up. You’ll be worse if we wait.”

And you do. You let him help you stand, his hand firm at your elbow, his body close enough that if you stumbled, he’d catch you before you hit the ground. The walk down the hall feels endless, every sound loud suddenly, your footsteps dragging, your breath unsteady, the faint wet drip of blood against the wood. You pray the others don’t stir, don’t come out, don’t see.

When be opens his door, he says “Bathroom.” and leads you in there. From a drawer he pulls out a first-aid kit so pristine it looks unused. “Didn’t think I’d ever actually open this thing.” he admits.

The line is nothing, but it works. It distracts you for a heartbeat.

“Sit.” he says, pointing to the thick edge of the tub. You do.

Your arm feels like fire now that you’ve stopped moving. You watch him uncap a bottle of antiseptic, pour it onto gauze. He’s surprisingly good at this. The sharp smell of alcohol stings your nose.

“This will burn.” he says. Calm. Informative. Not sugarcoating. “You’ll hate me for the next thirty seconds.”

He isn’t lying.

The second he presses it to your arm, you jolt back, hiss through your teeth, a strangled sound tearing out of you.

“Fuck—stop, stop—” You try to pull away. Your shoulder slams into the tile wall.

Jinu’s hand is already there, catching your wrist, holding steady. Not tight, not brutal, but firm. “Y/N. I know. I know it hurts. It has to.”

Your chest heaves. Tears prick your eyes. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice sharpens just enough to cut through. “Stay with me.”

Another swipe of the gauze and you almost bite your tongue bloody to stop the scream clawing its way out.

“I hate you.” you gasp, breathless.

He huffs the barest laugh, humorless but gentle. “I know.”

The worst passes. The sting fades from unbearable to manageable, and your muscles sag, trembling from the effort of staying still. He swaps to saline next, flushing the wound with a careful pour. Clear liquid runs pink down your arm.

“You did good.” he says quietly. “Better than I expected.”

You want to snap at him, tell him you’re not a dog he gets to praise, but the words die in your throat. The tone is too soft. Too genuine.

He sets the saline down, digs in the kit again. When you see the sutures packet, your stomach flips.

“No.” Your voice is thin. “No stitches. No.”

His eyes flick up, steady. “It’s deep, Y/N. It won’t close without them.”

You shake your head, panic clawing up your throat. “No. Please. No.”

His jaw tics. For a second, he looks like he might argue. But instead he sighs, long and controlled, and nods. “Fine. But,” he adds, pulling out butterfly closures instead. “we’ll approximate it with these. They won’t hold as well. You’ll scar.”

You nod quickly, anything to avoid the needle.

And when the first butterfly strip pulls your skin together, the sharp tug of flesh against flesh makes you cry out. You try to twist away. Instinct. Survival. Pain. But Jinu doesn’t let you. In one swift motion, he steps in close, his arm sliding around your waist, his chest pressing flush against your back. He holds you, keeping you pinned gently against him. His breath brushes the side of your face.

“Stay. Please.” The word please sounds addictive.

Every part of you screams at the closeness, his chest against your back, his breath near your temple, the unyielding strength in his arms. It’s too much. Too intimate. But also… grounding. Solid. Like if you thrashed, he’d hold, but not hurt. Like restraint without cruelty.

You shove your face into his neck, tears smearing hot across his skin. A strangled, childish sound tears out of you, half-cry, half-whine. The pain sears sharp under every pull, and you can’t bite it back anymore. You cry into him. You whine into his skin, small, desperate noises muffled against him as he does that whatever the fuck, you don’t dare look.

Jinu wasn’t ready for this, for you to do this. But he doesn’t show it. His chin lowers, almost instinctive, brushing the crown of your head. His arm around you tightens, careful not to crush, but enough to tell you he’s here. That you’re not slipping away.

God, he likes it.

He likes that you called his name like that. He likes that you came willingly into his arms, even if it was pain that pushed you there. He likes the warmth of your breath against his skin, the tiny, raw sounds you make only for him.

Buried under that dark, selfish pull is something else, something he barely lets himself feel, worry. Genuine, bone-deep worry. The kind that makes his stomach twist, that whispers: What if the cut had been worse? What if I hadn’t heard you? What if you bled out on that floor before I woke up?

He can’t stand that thought.

So he holds you tighter. His cheek brushes your hair. “I know, I know.” he whispers into the air between you, words meant more for himself than you. “Almost done. Just a little more.”

You sob again, pressing harder into his neck, like you’re trying to crawl inside him to escape the pain. He feels it all, the wetness of your tears, the tremble of your body, the way your good hand grips his bicep, which you don’t even seem to notice, because your sobs vibrate against him, raw and unguarded, and it fucks him up in a way he didn’t expect. You’re not just scared. You’re hurting. And you chose him to see it. Something in him likes it, your weakness pressed so close, your trust laid bare.

And when the last closure sticks, when the wound is finally held together, he doesn’t let you go right away. His hands stay firm on your waist, his neck damp with your tears.

“It’s done.” he says finally, loosening his hold but not moving away just yet.

You don’t answer. You just sit there, chest heaving, cheek nearly brushing his shoulder, the ache in your arm dulled under the bandages.

For one insane second, you don’t want him to let go.

Jinu doesn’t move. His arms stay wound around you even after the wound is closed, even after your sobs start to stutter into weaker hiccups against his neck. But eventually, slowly, he forces himself to loosen his grip.

“Okay.” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Okay.”

He leans back, peeling himself away carefully. His hands skim your shoulders as if to keep you upright without caging you anymore.

He crouches down onto the cold tile, knees bending until he’s more in level with you.

Your face is blotchy, puffed from crying, lashes clumped wet. Strands of hair cling to your damp cheeks and temples. Your nose is red. Your lips tremble. Your arm twitches faintly at the fingers, a painful, involuntary spasm. You clutch your other hand into your shirt. You’re breathing too fast. Still in shock. You’re pale under the bathroom light, your eyes glassy and unfocused, your mouth open like you can’t quite catch enough air.

“I wasn’t—” You stop, then continue. “I wasn’t trying to stab myself, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “Doesn’t matter.”

You shake, shoulders heaving with each little sob. Your lips part like you’re trying to say something, but only wet sounds come out.

Jinu stares at you, chest aching. How is he supposed to deal with this? He’s good at silence, good at watching, good at pulling strings from shadows. But this? You, torn open in front of him, trusting him to hold the pieces…

It terrifies him.

“…Are you angry?” you murmur.

He blinks, startled. “What?”

“Are you mad at me?” The words fall out unfiltered, raw honesty spilling faster than you can contain it. “For—fuck—for being stupid, for—” You break on a hiccuping sob, “—for everything? For making a mess? For… making you deal with me?”

He shakes his head instantly. “No.”

“You should be—God, Jinu, you should be. I messed up, I—I keep—” You gasp for breath. “—keep breaking things, keep snooping, keep being mean to you, keep—” You almost choke on the last word. “—failing. I don’t know why you even—”

“Y/N.”

You look at him, trembling.

His eyes soften. “I’m not angry.”

You sniff. “…Why?”

He stares at you a beat too long. His lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes. He doesn’t have the words. Not for this. So instead he exhales slowly and stands. His knees pop from crouching too long. He brushes his palms against his thighs.

“Bed.” he says, voice firm. A command, but softened.

Your mouth opens, ready to argue, but the word sticks. You don’t have the strength to fight him. So you nod faintly.

He steps closer, offering a hand, and when you hesitate, he just places it against your back, guiding you up gently.

For once, he doesn’t have the luxury of thinking like a demon. There’s no instinct for this in his bloodline, no reflex for comfort or caretaking. There’s only him, and the terrible uncertainty of it all.

On the hall, Jinu matches your pace, every step measured, his hand never leaving yours.

But Abby’s leaning against the doorframe of his room, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are narrowed, irritated. His gaze goes from you—tear-stained, leaning into Jinu—to your bandaged arm, and his jaw tightens.

Beside him, Mystery stands silently. His posture is the usual, leaning into the side a little, but his lips are left open a little.

Abby doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just lifts his hands slowly, palms up, in a gesture that could mean a hundred things—what happened? where are you taking her? what the fuck did you do?

Jinu’s eyes flicker to him once. Just once. And then he looks forward again, walking away with you. No explanations. No excuses. No room for anyone else in this moment. He’s all about you.

Abby’s nostrils flare, a muscle ticking in his jaw. You can feel the weight of his stare burning into your back as you walk with Jinu, but Jinu doesn’t so much as glance again. It’s infuriating to Abby. He wants to argue, wants to demand answers, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Mystery tilts his head, curious, but says nothing either. Just watches.

In your room, you’re sitting at the edge of your bed, still trembling slightly from everything, when Jinu crouches in front of you again, like he can’t trust leaving you upright until you’re settled.

You sniff hard, trying to claw back some dignity. “I need to wash my teeth. Before bed.”

Jinu tilts his head. “No. You don’t. You need sleep. Nothing else.” His voice is gentle but immovable. “Trust me, you don’t.”

There’s something strangely comforting in how absolute he sounds. No room for you to wrestle, no options that make you think more. Just a single direction, bed.

He pulls the sheets up around you with the sort of tenderness that feels alien on him, even clumsy. Like he’s never tucked anyone in before, but his hands figure it out anyway.

“I’ll let you rest.” he says, voice quiet. He hesitates by the side of your bed, his fingers flexing once at his thigh, as though debating whether to reach out and smooth the hair from your face. He doesn’t. But his eyes linger on you like the touch is there all the same.

“One last thing.” he adds, softer now. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”

You want to believe him. You nod, your throat too tight to answer.

And with that, he slips from your room.

Meanwhile, Romance and Baby are standing over the knife.

The smell of blood had woken them all. At first, it had stirred something feral, nostrils flaring, hunger, the old itch for violence and heat. But now, staring at the actual mess by the front door, the knife lying abandoned, the streak of red against the frame, the faint handprint on the wall, that hunger has been replaced with something much… dreadful, if that’s the right word.

Romance’s expression is… sassy. There’s no better word for it. He even makes a little tsk under his breath, shaking his head slowly. “Somebody’s been busy.”

Baby snorts, leaning one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed. “Busy being an idiot.” he mutters. His eyes stay locked on the blood smeared near the door, jaw clenching tight.

They both know there’s no prying you from Jinu’s hands tonight. You’d called his name. You’d gone with him. You’d stayed in his room. The realization doesn’t make them jealous, not exactly. It makes them restless. Because if you’re bleeding, and you’re hurt, and you’re not with them, then where does that leave them?

Jinu closes your door softly behind him. Abby’s already there, broad body taking up a lot of the hallway. His arms are folded, his face obviously angry, the irritation from earlier still on him.

“What happened?”

Jinu shakes his head before the second word has even left Abby’s mouth. Quick. Decisive. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t explain, doesn’t even glance up. Just brushes past the bigger boy like he doesn’t exist, not even caring that half of his shirt is still covered in your blood.

Abby’s jaw tightens. His fingers flex like he wants to grab Jinu, drag the truth out of him. But he doesn’t.

Jinu disappears down the hall, the door to his room shutting behind him with a quiet click.

Silence.

Abby exhales through his nose, a frustrated sound. He rakes a hand over his hair. He hates being kept out, hates being shoved to the sidelines when it comes to you. He doesn’t even know what’s happening to you.

Fine.

Mystery walks up beside him. His hand rests casually against the front of his pants, fingers hooked in his waistband, thumb dragging slow. Y’know that hot posture he has in the movie too.

Together, they walk to the front door.

Romance and Baby are still there, standing over the scene. The knife glints dully under the hallway light. The smear on the frame has already begun to dry, dark and tacky. The scent is all around them, stubborn, refusing to fade. The four of them stand in silence, forming a loose circle around the blood. It’s actually kind of hilarious when you see it from the outside.

Romance lets out a little huff of breath, almost a laugh. “You boys smell that?” he says lightly. “How clumsy.”

Baby shifts his weight. “It’s not funny.”

Romance hums, tilting his head, but doesn’t argue.

Abby crouches, lowering his big frame to get a closer look. His nostrils flare as he inhales, face grim. His hands hover just above the bloodstain like he wants to touch it, but he doesn’t.

Baby, on the other hand, crosses his arms, leans his weight into one hip, and lets his mouth curve into something uglier. His eyes flick from the knife to the droplets that trail toward Jinu’s room, and then back again. He clicks his tongue and glances away, irritation prickling.

Mystery’s trying to map how it could’ve happened, but he knows he won’t fully know the truth until you or Jinu tell him. He leaves it to be, watching the others now.

All of them woke up the same way, pulled from sleep by the metallic tang of blood. It hit them like a drug, sent a shiver down their spines, even got them a little hard. It’s instinct. But then their minds caught up. Then they realized. It was your blood.

And they don’t know what the fuck happened.

They hate that. They hate not knowing. And they hate that Jinu does. They hate standing there like idiots while Jinu holds all the cards. While you’re behind your closed door, tucked into bed, and they’re out here with nothing but the scraps.

This isn’t the first time you’ve tried something desperate, let’s be fucking fr. You’ve been clever enough to make it entertaining, bold enough to make it infuriating. But none of those left the hallway painted with your blood. None of those had Jinu shutting them out like a slammed door.

It’s not just the failed attempt. It’s the evidence. The proof that you got hurt enough that even their sharpened senses spike with unease.

The smell itself is maddening. It should thrill them. And it does, in the rawest, ugliest way, your blood is uniquely yours, sweeter than anything they’ve tasted before. Just one inhalation is enough to thrum through their veins, a burn in the pit of their stomachs. Romance even chuckles under his breath at how easily aroused he is by it, leaning a little closer as though he’s flirting with the stain itself.

But it’s not right. Because you’re hurt. And the fact that the thing twisting them up inside is both lust and worry makes them feel filthy.

It would be easier if they could just be violent. Rip the truth from Jinu’s hands, force him to cough up what happened, throw him against a wall until he broke. That’s their way. Their instinct. But they’ve learned the hard way that it doesn’t work with Jinu. None of them want to risk turning tonight into that. Not with you involved.

So they’re left with the one thing they despise, waiting.

“So…” Abby murmurs. “Who’s cleaning it up?”

The question hangs for less than a second. Then Romance vanishes, teleporting so fast the air snaps behind him. Baby’s gone the very next heartbeat, leaving the faintest echo of a scoff behind him.

Mystery hasn’t moved, his hand resting at his waistband.

Abby watches him for a moment, then steps closer, his heavy palm landing against Mystery’s back. A rough pat.

“You’ve got it.” Abby mutters.

And then he’s gone too, his steps echoing back down the hall, fading into his room.

Which leaves Mystery.

He pushes off the wall finally, exhaling through his nose. His gaze drops to the blood again, to the knife lying abandoned on the floor. He crouches slowly, stretching out his long legs, his hand lazily picking up the blade. He twirls it once in his fingers, studying the smear of red against the steel.

“Messy girl.” he murmurs under his breath.

He sets the knife aside carefully and actually starts cleaning it up. Respect tbh.

That night, when finally all five of them went to bed, Gwi-ma whispered to them. Need her. Break her. Devour her. She’s yours. You’re hers. She’s hurt. You’re hurt. Don’t let him have her. Don’t let her go. Over and over.

They hate him for it, but he’s not exactly wrong. His words feed the beast in them, the one they keep on chains only for your sake. That chain feels thinner every night.

Meanwhile, you… you actually slept. Derpy padded into your bed somewhere in the night, curling up against your side. Even Sussie was around. You slept good. Too good. You didn’t hear them moving, didn’t sense their unrest.

But they were awake.

They’re predators. That’s the simple truth of it. Predators dressed in human skin. They always know where you are. Even if you tried to hide, they could close their eyes and point to you with animal accuracy. Your heartbeat is always in their ears, your scent mapping the apartment for them without fail. When you’re gone too long, their shoulders tense. When you step into the kitchen, they know before you open the fridge. They don’t need to look to track you, they’re wired for it.

They don’t lose prey.

And you are, to them, prey.

But not just prey. Something else. Something caught in the impossible space between prey and mate, between object of hunger and object of worship. That’s why it’s unbearable, the mix of it. The push-pull. The fact that every day with you is a tightrope walk over their own instincts.

Mystery feels it when you walk past his door, the scrape of your bare feet like thunder in his chest. Abby feels it when you roll your shoulders in the kitchen, the crack of bone and tendon calling to him like music. Romance feels it when your shampoo lingers in the air, when your hair brushes your cheek, so small and subtle that it drives him insane. Baby feels it when you laugh at something, or when you don’t laugh at all, when he can hear that sound way too food. Jinu feels it most of all when you breathe near him.

They are animals, and animals don’t ignore scent, sound, blood. You can’t turn that off. You can’t change their wiring. They always know where you are. Always. Even if you slipped out the front door, even if you outran them, even if you cut the world between you with oceans and walls, they would find you.

And yet here you are, asleep in bed with Derpy and Sussie, oblivious to the feelings outside your door. Oblivious to the five sets of eyes burning in the dark.

And the smell lingers. The blood is gone from the floor, wiped clean by Mystery’s hands(and maybe a finger he licked clean), but the air still holds the ghost of it. They breathe it in even as they try not to, even as they roll onto their backs, onto their stomachs, digging claws into sheets, biting down on their tongues.

They should be there with you. They should have been the ones to carry you. To press your wound. To hear your sobs. To feel your face pressed into their necks.

Instead, Jinu took it.

The next morning the sun is warm on your cheek, warm against the side of your body where Derpy has wedged himself, his weight pressing you into the mattress. Your breath is slow, soft. You don’t notice that the tiger’s thick paw is stretched protectively across your hip, claws sheathed, fur tickling your shirt. You don’t notice that your arm—the injured one—is propped carefully atop a pillow.

Jinu did that.

He’s sitting on the edge of your bed, chin in hand, eyes locked on you. It’s not often he lets himself just… look. He’s always glancing, checking, skimming, but not like this. His gaze traces your features. Puffy eyes, lashes clumped from dried tears, the little twitch of your lip when you exhale. Fragile. So fragile.

Should he wake you?

He doesn’t want to. God, he doesn’t want to. He wants to let you stay like this forever, wants to guard you from the world until your cut is healed, until the fear is drained from your body, until you can breathe without that little hitch of pain.

Reality is ugly, and Gwi-Ma’s leash is tight. If they’re late, if they dare skip anything about the plan again, there will be hell to pay. Last time they stayed behind for you, when you had a cold, the old fucker ripped them apart in their minds. Mystery paced so long that Romance had to tie him to the radiator.

They can’t risk that again.

And yet, Jinu looks at you, curled into Derpy, your breath fogging the tiger’s fur, and the thought of shaking you awake feels like cruelty. Will you fall back asleep? What if you don’t? What if the moment he leaves, you get scared? What if he breaks this rare peace by nudging your shoulder, by calling your name?

Still. He has to.

He sighs, the sound soft, pained. His fingers hover above your shoulder before they finally land, gentle as moth wings. “Y/N.” he says, low, careful, as though he’s not waking you but inviting you back.

You stir. Not violently—thank god—but with a slow twitch of your lips, a blink of lashes, a groggy roll of your head toward him. Your voice is rasped from sleep when you whisper, “…Jinu?”

Something about hearing his name from your lips like that, sleepy, trusting, lodges in his chest. He swallows, masking it. “Morning. We’re heading out soon.”

You rub your eyes with your good hand, sluggish, clumsy, and look at him properly. For a heartbeat, he sees the childlike version of you, soft and unguarded. It’s disarming. Beautiful.

“Your arm—you’ll need to keep it clean. Just leave it. Don’t move it too much. If the bandage loosens, replace it with the kit I left in your drawer. And…” His gaze flickers to your lips, then away. “Watch out for yourself, alright?”

Your throat tightens at the way he says it. Like he’s begging.

“Y/N.” a voice coos.

You both turn.

Romance is leaning on your doorway.

“Oh, love.” he croons, sweeping in with the grace of a man who’s been planning this entrance. “Look at you, all tucked in with your knight.”

Before Jinu can react, Romance is on his knees at your bedside, pushing at Jinu’s legs. “Scoot, lover boy. You had your shift.”

But Romance doesn’t look at Jinu again. Not once. His whole focus is on you.

“God, you’re a vision.” he says. His hand flutters to his chest as though your puffy-eyed, bedheaded self is enough to knock the wind out of him. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

You freeze, caught between irritation and embarrassment. Your hair is a mess. Your bandage feels clumsy and ugly. Your face is swollen from crying. What the fuck is wrong with him?

But he’s so earnest about it, like he actually means it. Like the sight of you this fucked up is still art to him.

You open your mouth, but Romance is faster. He leans forward on his knees, both hands gripping the edge of your blanket, eyes wide, syrupy. “You scared us last night, you know that? Nearly stopped my heart, sweetheart. What would we do without you? What would I do?”

His voice cracks on purpose. A dramatization, sure, but also just enough truth underneath to make it sting.

You glance at Jinu for help, but Jinu is pinching his nose bridge, eyes closed.

Romance’s hand dares to brush the blanket near your injured arm, not touching skin, but close enough that Jinu shifts.

“Shhh, baby.” Romance coos, fingers ghosting along the blanket like he’s petting feathers. “Close your eyes again. Don’t let us keep you.” His voice dips into a whisper so syrupy it should rot teeth. “Rest. You deserve it.”

Your lashes flutter, torn between suspicion and the exhaustion still pulling you down. But his tone is lulling, strangely gentle. He brushes a lock of hair from your forehead, sighs and them he leans over kisses your forehead a little.

Jinu doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His jaw ticks once, then stills.

Romance straightens with a satisfied little hum, as though tucking you back into a dream. “That’s it.” he whispers. “Dream sweet.”

And before you can fully process what just happened, he’s rising gracefully to his feet, snagging Jinu by the sleeve, dragging him out the door.

The second the latch clicks shut behind them, Jinu rips his arm free. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what, tiger cub? Don’t tuck her in? Don’t let her rest?” Romance, the minute you can’t see it, is back to being a selfish asshole. “You looked like you needed the break.”

Jinu exhales hard through his nose. He wants to argue, but the truth is written in the ache of his shoulders, in the exhaustion gnawing at the corners of his eyes. He did need the break. He just hates that Romance knows it.

Romance claps a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. She’s sleeping. No one’s stealing her from you in five minutes.”

And then, right on cue, Abby rounds the corner first, hair messy, still shirtless, irritated. He’s already scowling when his eyes dart to your door. “What’s up?”

Baby and Mystery are also there.

All three of them want in.

Romance spreads his arms, smile wide, cocky. “Gentlemen. Don’t bother. Sleeping beauty needs her rest.”

Abby growls. “Move.”

“No.” Jinu’s voice is flat, solid, immovable. He doesn’t raise it, he doesn’t need to.

Abby’s chest rises, falls. Mystery’s eyes narrow, shifting between the two blockers. Baby crosses his arms, silent but seething, the weight of his glare like a blade pressed to skin.

“Step aside.” Abby repeats, voice lower, more dangerous.

Romance chuckles like this is a game, like he’s delighted by the confrontation. “And what? Let you stomp in there, wake her up, scare the poor thing half to death with your scowl? Not a chance, big guy. She’s sleeping.“

Abby steps forward, looming. His size eclipses Romance, makes Jinu look smaller by comparison. But Jinu doesn’t flinch. He shifts slightly, blocking the door more deliberately, a wall of quiet defiance.

“You’re wasting time.” Baby murmurs.

Romance hums, almost singsong. “We’ve got all the time in the world, baby boy.”

Abby snarls under his breath, storming off down the hall, frustration radiating off him. Baby follows slower, stiff. Mystery lingers a moment longer, eyes slitting at Jinu, at Romance, at the door, hungry, calculating, before he finally walks away, silent.

The hall quiets again, leaving only Romance and Jinu.

Romance stretches his arms overhead, sighing theatrically. “Well. That was fun.”

Jinu doesn’t respond. He leans against the wall beside your door, rubbing his face, bone-deep tired.

Romance watches him. “You’re welcome, by the way. If it were just you, they’d have ripped that door off its hinges. But me? I’m charming.”

“You’re unbearable.”

Normally, this would devolve into snarling, maybe even a fist through the wall, or Abby pinning Mystery against a wall until Baby calmly pulls them apart. Because the truth is, none of them mind throwing punches at each other if it means getting what they want.

But that was a lot of blood you left there. They don’t want to scare you now.

Eventually, they leave. It takes longer than it should, longer than any of them would admit out loud. Petty. Angry. Crazy, really. But for them, that’s normal. They’ve all been through worse than this. Traumas that make this kind of behavior—snapping, snarling, throwing elbows—almost look healthy. If they were human, you’d call them dysfunctional. As demons? It’s almost… expected.

You wake around midday. Your arm is the first thing you notice, a throb so deep it feels like your entire body’s pulsing with it.

You roll onto your back and lift it to look.

Jinu was surprisingly good at what he did. The bandage is already blotched with spots of red, dark and dried at the edges, fresher closer to the center. The pain is fucking with your nerves every time you so much as flex your fingers. And god, the memory of last night…

The knife slipping. The slice. The blood.

Your stomach flips just thinking about it.

Realistically? You know it’s not something you can shrug off. It’s deep. Not enough to kill you—not unless you somehow ignored it for days—but deep enough that if Jinu hadn’t stopped the bleeding, you could’ve done real damage. Arteries are the fear, right? You don’t think you hit one, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now, but veins bleed plenty. And cuts like that take forever to heal. They throb, they pull open with the wrong movement, they scar ugly if you don’t take care of them. Butterfly closures will keep it together, but they’re fragile. One wrong move, one wrong bend of your wrist or forearm, and it could rip again. You know Jinu told you not to stress it, but… yeah. You’ll have to be careful. Maybe for weeks.

You lower your arm back down onto the blanket, sucking in a breath through your teeth.

Replaying last night feels like it was a dream to be honest. The adrenaline. The panic. The shame. That animal urge to run, to claw your way out, only for it to end with you bleeding all over the damn floor. And then Jinu. The way his name fell out of your mouth. The way his arms felt around you, pinning you against him. The way you cried into his neck, of all things.

You’re not sure what’s worse, the memory of the pain or the memory of your vulnerability. Because it wasn’t just physical pain, was it? It was all of it, the tension from Abby grabbing you, the teasing, the suffocation of all of them cornering you with their jokes, the flashbacks of torture you’d endured before. That stomach-tightening dread of being powerless. And then the knife. Blood.

You rub your free hand down your face, muffling a groan. Because last night cracked something in you. Shoved open a door you’ve been trying to keep locked. A door that says maybe you want them near, maybe you want them close, even though your head knows better. Even though logic screams at you that they’re demons, unfair, evil.

But your heart… oh, your heart. Your heart remembers Jinu’s hands, careful on your skin. His voice. Romance kneeling by your bed, kissing your forehead. Even Abby’s stupid big hand letting go when you clawed at him, like he remembered you were human and breakable.

All of it swirls together until you’re left with this, this ache, not just in your arm but in your chest. This push and pull that drives you mad.

What the hell are you doing here, Y/N?

You don’t do much through the day—can’t do much, really—but you always like having the place for yourself during the day.

You test your hand, flexing your fingers. They twitch fine, a little stiff, a little shaky, but they work. That’s good. You angle your wrist and forearm, checking how much movement makes the cut scream. You find out quick. Okay. Don’t do that. You cradle it after. The bandage is already bothering you, itching and tight. But you know better than to mess with it too soon. Jinu would kill you if you did.

You drink water. You eat something small, careful with your left hand clumsily fumbling at utensils. (AN: If you’re left handed then ignore this) You wander from your bed to the couch, then to the kitchen, then back again, like pacing but slower, weaker.

You rinse the dishes from last night, your challenge being that you have to do it with one arm, also wiping the counters until they shine. The rhythm of cleaning soothes you, it always does. You like when the kitchen looks nice, organized. Doing it with one hand only was fun, actually.

You linger there longer than you should, fingers tapping against the edge of the sink, staring at the cupboards. Thinking. Thinking about your boys. You hate yourself a little for calling them that in your head, but the word fits.

Abby… huge and ridiculous, sneaking up behind you. You can still feel the weight of his hand on your arm, the sharp flare of panic when you scratched him. The memory makes you shudder, but also… not entirely with fear. He’s scary, yes. He’s hot, too. Stupidly so. The way he could snap you in half but sometimes chooses not to. You hate how much that thrills you. You remember how he fed you with Romance when you were cuffed to the fucking fridge. Then, it was unbearably annoying. Now, it’s almost fun to think back to it.

Now that we mentioned Romance, you actually liked the way he dropped to his knees by your bed, cooing you back to sleep, forehead kiss and all. He’s infuriating, fake in a way, and yet you can’t get rid of that fun he brings with himself.

Mystery. God, Mystery. He didn’t say much last night, does he ever, but he was there and that’s what matters. Or just the smell of your blood drew him out, anyways, he was there. But sometimes he’s also at the foot of your bed, sleeping with you. You don’t think he does that for your blood, nuh-uh.

Baby. The panties under his pillow flash in your memory and you want to laugh, except you don’t. It’s creepy. It’s so creepy. But something about the audacity of it, telling on the others but being just as bad as them is somehow thrilling to you. And fuck, you can’t deny it anymore, it’s so hot that he’s such an asshole!!

And Jinu. Oh, Jinu. Manipulative, selfish fucker, but you’ve curled into his tiger when he wakes you, you whisper his name when you’re bleeding, you sob into his neck when you’re in too much pain. Why did you want him then? Were you just in need of someone? Doesn’t matter what’s the truth, you still wanted him and can’t change that. Do you want to change that?

You think and think until the thoughts twist into knots in your stomach. Because it’s wrong, isn’t it? All of it. This fuckass connection you have with them. They still scare you. They push you around, play with you. You’re angry, you’re terrified, you know it’s unfair. Logically, you should want nothing but escape.

And yet.

And yet your heart doesn’t feel the same as your head.

You want to hate them cleanly, but you can’t. They’re too present, too beautiful, too much a part of your world now. Even their demon marks, the terrifying flashes of their real forms, they’re still pretty. Too pretty.

How crazy are you, Y/N?

At one point, you sink onto the couch with Derpy, scratching behind his ears until he flops into your lap, purring like he doesn’t care that you almost bled out on the floor last night. Sussie is just watching you, but that means a lot more than someone would think. You stay there, half-dozing, half-thinking, tracing the edge of your bandage with your fingers, feeling the pull and throb of it. Every twitch reminds you how close last night came to something worse.

Let’s talk about this, Gwi-Ma waits. He watches. He knows exactly when to come for someone. He waits until you’re crawling through your own failures and grief. That’s when he strikes. That’s how he got them. Romance. Abby. Baby. Mystery. Jinu. Each of them caught at the worst moments of their lives, each promised something they were desperate enough to believe in. Power. Protection. Meaning. Love.

So why not you? Why doesn’t Gwi-Ma come to you when you’re vulnerable, when your eyes sting with tears, when your arm throbs with pain and you feel small and human and weak?

Because he doesn’t need to.

Because your fragility gives him far more leverage than breaking you ever could.

You are not his target, you are his weapon.

He doesn’t have to whisper in your ear, doesn’t have to drag you down into his pit, because the boys are already tethered to him. You’re their attachment, their distraction, their girl. He doesn’t need to taint you directly, he only has to dangle your life above their heads like bait, and suddenly he owns them twice over.

The girls mentioned his name to you in passing, maybe even warned you. But your mind never clicked it together. Your brain refused to stitch that name to the five demons who you live with now. You’re too busy surviving them to connect the dots about who holds their leash. So you go on thinking your prison ends at these four walls. You don’t realize it’s bigger, deeper. That somewhere beyond your sight there’s a pretty fire(love the colors alright?) smirking every time you fold against one of the boys’ chests instead of running from them. That Gwi-Ma isn’t just letting this happen, he’s counting on it.

He’s patient.

You fell asleep eventually. The cut on your arm pulled with every shift of your body, every little movement, but you were learning to live with it the same way you’d learned to live with everything else here. You curled up on your side, pulled the blanket over yourself, and let your eyelids drag shut.

Just a nap.

Derpy padded into your room somewhere in the middle of it. He always knew when to leave you alone, and when to tuck himself against you. His fur brushed your legs as he climbed up onto the bed, careful—like, genuinely careful—not to jostle your arm. Animals know. His wide eyes blinked up at you, bright and clueless, but he knew something was up. Sussie curled into your neck while you slepy. Properly slept. Not twitching half-awake in paranoia, not listening for footsteps.

When you woke up again, hours had slipped by. You’d read a little, distracted yourself, touching Derpy’s fur, organizing a drawer, scrolling your mind through memories of Mira, Rumi, Zoey. You told yourself you could handle this.

But now you’re half-asleep again in your bed, post-nap grogginess, when your door slams open without warning.

You jolt upright, heartbeat spiking, and Abby walks in.

You didn’t even hear them come home.

“What’s up, babe? Didn’t even say hi.” he says, voice is too loud for your pretty room.

Before you can answer, he’s dropping his heavy frame right onto the edge of your bed. The mattress dips under his weight, tilting you a little toward him. He’s close. He’s always close.

“C’mon, lemme see.”

You hesitate, sitting there with the blanket clutched at your side, lips pressed tight. You’re barely aware of what’s happening, that’s how tired you are. But Abby doesn’t look away. He’s waiting.

So slowly, stiffly, you pull your arm free and unwrap the half-ass bandaging you’d re-done.

It’s ugly. It hurts like hell.

Abby whistles. “Damn.” he mutters, leaning in closer, elbows on his knees as he inspects it. “Looking good, babe.”

You blink at him. You probably have a lazy eye right now.

“Bet it stung like a bitch.” He shifts, one hand lifting as if he’s tempted to touch, then thinking better of it. “What happened anyway? Hm?”

Your voice comes out hoarse, sleepy. “Knife slipped. Wasn’t on purpose.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You keep your words short because if you don’t, you’ll spill. Because deep down, the cut isn’t “just it.” It’s not a funny accident you can brush off with a shrug. It was panic and desperation and adrenaline burning through your veins, and for one wild second, you really thought you might have nicked something bad enough to bleed out right there.

Abby doesn’t need to know that. He studies you for a long moment. His hand lifts again, hovering near your arm, then pulls back.

“…Hurts, yeah?” he asks finally.

You nod once. That’s all you give him before you start carefully wrapping it back. It’s not that good. You’ll ask one of them later to do it for you, until that this is fine, loose but fine.

For a second, he looks like he might say something real. Something heavy. But then he shakes it off, forcing the grin back onto his face, leaning closer until his broad shoulder nearly brushes yours. “Tough girl.”

You could’ve died last night. And it scares him more than he’ll ever say out loud. So, to deal with that horrible feeling, he climbs fully onto your bed. One knee first, then the other, his large frame easing back until he’s sitting next to you against the headboard. The wood creaks under the combined weight, but he doesn’t care.

“You’re huge.” you mutter, side-eyeing him.

Abby grins, smug, flexing his chest. “Damn right I am.” He settles in, his thigh warm and heavy where it presses into yours.

The two of you sit in the quiet of your room, leaning against the headboard. It’s strange, half tense, half comforting. He just breathes beside you, every so often he glances at your arm, then back to your face, then away again like he’s checking you’re still breathing.

“You gonna be okay?” he asks eventually, quieter than before.

“…Yeah.”

Before you can figure out if you should say something else, there’s a knock. It’s almost polite—gentler than Abby’s entrance, at least—but before you can answer, the door creaks open. Mystery leans halfway in.

He just lifts a hand and gives you a wave.

You wave back, small, awkward.

Abby raises his arm and waves too. A lazy, one-handed lift, like he couldn’t care less but still did it anyway. It’s actually such a sweet picture if you think about it.

Mystery steps inside, closing the door behind him. He just stands there, eyes shifting between the two of you(though you can’t see that), waiting.

Finally, you clear your throat. “Do you… want to sit?”

Without a word, Mystery crosses the room. He slides onto the bed on your other side.

Abby smirks at the situation immediately, leaning closer with a grin. “Well, look at that. You’re popular today.”

Mystery doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. His silence says plenty, he wants to be here.

Abby, of course, breaks the quiet again. “Gonna need a bigger mattress, babe.”

You shoot him a look, but it doesn’t faze him. Nothing does.

Between them, you feel impossibly small. Not just physically—though that’s true enough, squeezed between Abby’s bulk and Mystery’s height—but in the sheer gravity they bring. Demons on either side, crowding your space. But you don’t tell either of them to leave.

“I cut myself last night.” you turn to Mystery. “Accidentally. That’s what happened.”

Abby looks at you without moving his head, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You take a look at Mystery. He’s watching you. “With the… with the knife. At the door. It was bad. I thought it was just a scratch but, it wasn’t.”

Mystery tilts his head, his gaze lowering briefly to your arm, then back up. “Nice.”

Your smile a little. “Thanks.”

On your right, Abby snorts. He turns his head, pulling at something, and with exaggerated annoyance, he spits a strand of hair from his mouth. “Christ. Your hair’s everywhere.” He picks at another strand stuck to his lip and holds it up between his fingers like evidence.

You blink. “…Sorry?”

He shrugs, smiling. “I don’t mind. Kind of like it. Means you’re around.” He flicks the strand away, then adds, “Baby complains all the time, though. Says he finds it in the sink, on the couch, even on his clothes.”

That makes you pause. Baby? Complaining? You’ve never heard it.

Abby must see the confusion on your face because the handsome smile turns into a smirk, rolling his shoulders like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, you didn’t know, huh? That’s ‘cause he doesn’t say it where you can hear. Acts tough, but he’s careful not to dump shit like that on you. Not like me.” He leans in closer. “I’ll tell you everything. Always.”

You shift, unsure whether to roll your eyes or thank him. It’s hard to tell when Abby’s being honest or when he’s just posturing for your attention. Probably both.

But outside your room, just beyond the wood of your door, Baby stands. Eavesdropping. He isn’t pressing his ear to the door like in movies, he doesn’t have to. His senses are sharp enough that every word spoken inside comes through clearly. His posture is ass like usual, clearly paying attention with his ears, but his eyes turn yellow for a second when he sees someone coming.

Jinu.

Their eyes lock.

Baby doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. His eyes narrow, the message is clear in every line of his body: If you breathe a word about me standing here, I’ll kill you.

Jinu freezes, blinking once. His gaze flicks away, like he never saw Baby at all. He walks to your door, and pushes it open.

You glance up immediately. Abby leans back slightly, eyes narrowing with faint irritation, while Mystery doesn’t move at all, only watching.

Jinu steps inside, his gaze going straight to you, scanning quickly over your puffy face, the tired slump of your shoulders, the careful position of your bandaged arm. He looks relieved that you’re still upright, still breathing, but his eyes flick once toward the other two boys, wary, then back to you. “How are you feeling?”

You swallow. It’s a simple question, you open your mouth to answer, but Abby speaks first.

“She’s fine. Told me all about last night. We’re bonding.”

Jinu’s brow furrows, his lips pressing tight, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he looks back at you, softer, waiting for your answer.

“I’m… tired. Still hurts.” You glance down at your arm. “But better.”

Jinu exhales slowly, relief flickering over his face. He nods, stepping closer, but Abby stretches his leg out, blocking the path to your side of the bed with an infuriating smirk.

Jinu pauses. He’s gonna bash this motherfucker’s head.

Mystery tilts his head, watching the silent tug-of-war play out, then flicks his gaze toward you again.

Abby puts his arm around your shoulders, heavy and warm and big, pinning you comfortably against him. The way he leans into you makes your shoulder ache a little under the weight, but you don’t shrug him off. Not yet. Your energy is too low, and maybe—if you’re honest—you don’t want to. Not right now.

Jinu notices, though. He notices everything. His eyes narrow slightly at Abby’s grip, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he sits carefully in front of you on the bed, not caring about Abby’s leg, moving slowly like he’s approaching a wild animal. He doesn’t reach for you right away, his gaze drops to your arm, where the layers of gauze are already showing faint spots of red where blood seeped through.

“Can I?” he asks softly, and when you nod, he leans in. His hands are steady as he begins to peel the edge of the bandage back, revealing the wound beneath.

You wince immediately. The air feels bad against the cut, and you instinctively curl a little into Abby’s side, who gives a low, amused chuckle.

“Scared of your own arm?” Abby teases, his thumb brushing idly over your shoulder.

You don’t answer. You’re too busy staring at the angry, raw gash Jinu just uncovered.

It’s bad.

Last night, you didn’t have the clarity to really look. Everything blurred together between adrenaline, panic, and Jinu’s careful, hushed reassurances. But now, the cut looks deeper than you remember. The edges are swollen, the skin around them irritated and flushed. Dried blood crusts along your forearm, staining the skin a mottled brown-red. The wound itself has stopped actively bleeding, thank god, but the gauze shows it still oozes faintly. Not a nick. Not a scratch. A deep, serious slice that probably needed stitches but you were so against it Jinu didn’t have the heart to force it on you.

Jinu inhales slowly through his nose, his lips pressing into a tight line. “It’s holding.” he says, mostly to himself. “But it’s deep. I should’ve… I should’ve stitched it.”

Your stomach lurches at the word, and Jinu glances up immediately, catching your expression. His voice softens. “It’s okay. The closures are keeping it together for now. We’ll just need to clean it again, replace the bandages. Keep pressure on it.”

Abby leans in to see it. Mystery, who’s been unnervingly quiet this whole time, leans in a little too, taking a look at whatever’s going on with your arm.

You glance between the two of them—Abby grinning, Mystery steady—and you feel a sudden, sharp disconnect. Why aren’t they bothered? Why aren’t they even a little horrified?

Where your stomach churns at the sight of your own skin split open, where your chest feels tight at the thought of blood leaking from you, they’re… relaxed. Comfortable. Like this is nothing.

“Doesn’t freak you out?” you ask quietly, surprising yourself with the words.

Abby just snorts. “What, a little blood? Nah. Seen worse. Way worse.”

Mystery gives a single nod, his eyes flicking back to your face. “Much worse.”

You stare at them, unsettled. They say it so casually. Worse. How much worse could there possibly be? You don’t want to know, you decide. You don’t even want to imagine.

Jinu clears his throat softly, pulling your focus back to him. He stands up, leaves you to Abby and Mystery while he looks into the drawer he mentioned he left the things for you in. He finds it, and comes back to you on the bed. His hands are gentle as he starts winding fresh gauze around your arm, careful not to tug too tightly. “Ignore them.” he says quietly, almost in a whisper meant just for you. “You’re hurt. That’s what matters.”

But Abby just leans in closer, smiling. “She’s fine, Loverboy. Aren’t you, Y/N?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy looking at the fresh white layers wrapping your arm, at the way Jinu’s fingers move with a precision that makes your chest ache.

Fine. The word feels too small. Too empty.

“Don’t let it close dirty.” Mystery murmurs.

“Yeah, thanks, doc.” Abby mutters, rolling his eyes.

Still, the casualness of both their tones makes you want to scream. You want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and say This is my arm, my blood, my pain. Don’t just smile at it.

But the words die in your throat. You’re too tired. Too raw.

Jinu finishes tying off the fresh bandage and sits back, exhaling softly. He studies your face for a long moment.

Meanwhile, Abby’s still relaxed at your side, his arm heavy and warm around you, like none of this is life or death. Like it’s just another night. Mystery sits on your other side, quiet as a shadow, his dark gaze not visible but steady on you.

And you… you sit between them, staring at your wrapped arm.

What have they seen, that this doesn’t even register?

Meanwhile somewhere down the hall, Romance is in his own room, probably doing whatever it is he does best in that ridiculous sex dungeon of his. He knows where the others are, knows they’ve all piled into your room. He misses you, sure. He always does. He’d kill for your company right now. But he’s not worried. He trusts—strange as that is—that you’ll be fine. You’re always fine. And that, when it’s his turn, you’ll be waiting.

Baby hasn’t moved from his post outside your door. He’s leaning on the frame, half-crouched to keep his balance, ear tilted so close to the wood he might as well melt into it. Every shift of your bed, every murmur of your voice, every chuckle from Abby, he hears it. And he hates it. He doesn’t even realize how deep his claws have sunk into the frame of your door until the wood creaks beneath him.

Mystery clears his throat softly. “What did you do today?”

You freeze. It’s so simple a question, so normal, so human, but coming from him it feels like an earthquake. That’s… progress. Actual, real progress. He asked on his own, not repeating something one of the others would’ve wanted to know, not poked out of him by necessity. He asked. You feel a strange warmth in your chest, pride you won’t admit out loud. If you did, he’d probably clam up, crawl right back into that wordless shell. So you don’t. You just nod slowly.

“Not much.” you say, your voice getting back to normal now. “Woke up late. Spent most of the day in bed, I guess. Didn’t really… do anything.” From the corner of your vision, you notice Jinu’s long fingers buried in his tiger’s fur. You keep talking, if only to fill the silence Mystery leaves hanging. “I thought about going out to lay in the sun. Didn’t, though. Just… laid around. Tried to read a little. Not my best day.”

Abby snorts beside you, still half draped around your shoulders. “Sounds like a rest day, babe. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

You shoot him a glance, and he flashes you a lazy grin like yeah, I’m listening too, don’t look so surprised.

“Good.” Mystery says finally.

Jinu looks up at you then, Derpy’s head still resting against his thigh. His eyes soften a little, as though even he knows this is something rare, something worth noticing. Mystery never asks. And yet here he is. Almost like when he tried for the very first time, except now nobody told him to try. He tried on his own.

You look back to Mystery. “So… what about you?”

His brows lift slightly, but you can’t see that. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’d you do today?”

There’s a pause, as if he doesn’t know how to answer. His eyes dart briefly to Jinu, then back to you. Finally, he says flatly: “Same as always.”

“Which is?”

Another pause. Then, with no change in tone: “Work.”

Abby barks a laugh beside you, shaking the bed with his broad shoulders. “Work. That’s one way to put it.”

Mystery’s expression doesn’t shift, not like you’d see much of it, but his silence says he doesn’t intend to elaborate.

You sigh, leaning your head back. “Well. That’s better than nothing, I guess.”

Abby squeezes your shoulder, his voice teasing. “Don’t expect a novel outta him, honey. You get one word, that’s a whole damn miracle.”

But you don’t mind. You don’t need a novel. You got something today. A question. And that’s enough. So you clear your throat, and quietly ask, “Um… would it be okay if I went back to sleep now? Just… me. I mean—without you guys here?”

It hangs in the air for a second too long. Your cheeks heat with the shame of it, because you know how fragile it sounds, how close to begging. Not “get out” with teeth and claws, not even “leave me alone.” Just a shy, quiet request for space. But they get it. Because all three of them are moving at once.

“Right, yeah, babe, sleep’s important.” Abby says quickly, his hand sliding off your shoulder in a rushed, almost clumsy motion. He gets to his feet with that big, lumbering grace that still makes your bed creak when he moves.

“Rest.” Mystery says bluntly, already pushing up from the mattress.

Derpy is brushing against Jinu’s leg as he stands. Then he says, “Good night, Y/N.”

And suddenly, they’re all trying to talk at once, Abby telling you to dream something good, Jinu reminding you not to touch the bandages for now, Mystery muttering something that could be either “sleep well” or “don’t die.” It’s a jumble, their voices overlapping, all of it washing over you. Then, all three finish the moment the same way. “Good night.” Then, they leave.

You lie back down slowly, exhaling. Derpy crawls back into your side. You stare at him. He stares back, his big eyes unblinking, and for a moment the two of you just… look at each other. You just reach out to scratch under his chin, and he leans into your touch with a happy little noise.

Outside your room, the door shuts behind the three boys, and almost immediately their gazes snap to the side, three pairs of eyes locking on the figure leaning lazily against the wall across from your room. Baby. He’s slouched, arms crossed, chin dipped low, eyes narrowed into slits. There’s no mistaking the tension in the air, he’s been standing there the whole time, listening, watching.

Abby shifts first, his massive frame blocking half the hallway light, his jaw tight. Mystery doesn’t move, but his stare sharpens. Jinu’s expression flickers once, irritation, then dismissal, as if he already knows this is about to be pointless.

The three of them stand together. Baby spits the words at them: “The fuck you lookin’ at?” It’s not even a real question. It’s a statement. A warning. An insult.

Abby’s lip curls like he’s about to say something—something nasty, something that’ll only escalate it—but then he shakes his head, mutters something under his breath, and walks off down the hall.

Jinu’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t give Baby the satisfaction of a word, just turns his back, walking after Abby.

Mystery lingers last, looking at Baby, long enough to make the hallway feel suffocating. Then he claps a hand once against Baby’s shoulder. not friendly, not gentle, but not quite hostile either. A wordless I see you. I don’t care. And then he walks past him.

Baby stands there, jaw tight. His hand twitches like he wants to punch a hole in the wall, or rip the door off your room, or both. But he doesn’t.

They’re done. All of them, so, so done with each other. The fighting, the glaring, the constant one-upmanship. They’ve lived through hell itself, clawed their way out of nightmares most people couldn’t survive and now have to play boyband and deal with annoying fans, and yet somehow, it’s you, your fragile presence, your blood on the floor, that’s truly fucking them up. But they know you’ll be fine. You always are. Somehow, against odds, against logic, against every danger they’ve put you in or you’ve wandered into, you bounce back. Fragile, yes. Breakable, yes. But fine. And with that knowledge lodged safely in their skulls, the worry begins to dull. In its place comes something else.

The scent of your blood.

It’s been hanging in the apartment since last night, sweet, tangled with the thrum of your adrenaline, the crash of your panic. They tried to push it aside while it was still fresh, while Jinu was patching you up, while your sobs echoed in the walls. But now? Now that the bandages hold, now that you’re sleeping steady in your room with the animals curled at your side and keeping you safe…

Now they let themselves feel it.

Romance is sits in his chair before his wide mirror, tilted just enough to catch the curve of his face, the fall of his hair. He runs his tongue across his teeth, slow, remembering how your voice trembled last night, how clear he could hear it even though he wasn’t the one with you. His hand drifts lazily, knuckles brushing the swell in his pants, teasing the tension. He hums, low in his throat, eyes on his own mouth in the glass. The blood clings to memory, rich, warm, unbearably yours. His hips roll, subtle, and he pictures you standing at the doorframe, doe-eyed, watching. He takes himself out of his boxers and picks up a pace. He coos at himself like he coos at you.

Abby takes it differently. He storms into his room, shuts the door too hard, it slams, then he makes a face, hoping it didn’t scare you. He stands in front of his mirror, shirtless, muscles flexed under the soft lamplight. His reflection stares back, massive, broad, dominant. He squeezes his own bicep, hard, veins raised against skin, and imagines how tiny your hand would look wrapped around it instead.

“Fuck.” he mutters, low, guttural. His other hand is already inside his sweats, pumping slow, then faster, his jaw clenched. The thought of you—shaky, pale, scared—makes his chest thrum with pride. His girl. His fragile girl. He grits his teeth, lets out a grunt, flexing harder in the glass as if it’s you whispering that he’s strong, invincible, everything. His strokes match the rhythm of that fantasy.

Mystery’s already half-sprawled across his mattress, one arm slung over his head, his shirt pushed up to his ribs. His breath comes heavier when he lets himself replay the sound of your sobbing, your voice catching, the subtle whine muffled into Jinu’s neck he could hear way too clear. He doesn’t need the mirror, doesn’t need anything. Just the replay in his skull is enough. His hand slides down on himself smooth and slow, like it always does. He doesn’t rush. He always does because he got used to it, but not now. Now our boy savors. His fingers curl around himself like claws into prey. Every shiver of memory pleases him already, your face tilted, your throat tight, your tears streaking. His hips twitch upward, needy, as if searching for the warmth of you instead of his palm.

Jinu’s guilt doesn’t stop him. He sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, and his stomach flips with something tangled, protective, horrified, aroused. His hand drags down into his lap before he even registers the motion. The band of his sweats pulls low as he strokes himself, movements unsteady, almost ashamed. He remembers the way your body folded into his when the pain spiked, the way your face pressed into his neck, breath hot, wet with tears. He remembers wanting to stay like that, to hold you tighter, to never let go. He groans into his shoulder, muffling it, but doesn’t stop.

And Baby. He sprawls out in his chair, legs wide, one arm hanging loose at his side while the other works him over. His teeth bare, breath hitching. He doesn’t try to disguise the sounds that rip from his throat, half-growl, half-moan. He’s been on edge since the hallway, since catching your scent, intoxicating, since picturing you bleeding, trembling, helpless. That’s what does it for him, the helplessness. The thought of you too weak to pull away. Too dazed to fight back. His hips buck upward, rough, chasing it. His mind flashes to you whispering his name instead of Jinu’s. His grip tightens.

Five demons, five rooms. Each in their own head, each lost in their own fantasy. The scent of your blood fuels all of them, saturates the air until it’s indistinguishable from the throb of lust itself. They hate each other. They want to tear each other apart. But in these moments, they’re the same. Animals. Predators. Obsessed with the same fragile, breakable thing curled up in bed down the hall.

You.

There’s no use denying it. Not for them, not anymore. When it comes to you, there’s something beyond reason, beyond what any of them could fight. It’s not romance in the way you understand it, not even lust in the way humans hold it. Their biology is tuned like a violin string, stretched taut around you. Every time you bleed, cry, laugh, sweat—anything, really—it vibrates inside them, makes the string hum in their bones. It isn’t fair. It isn’t avoidable. It’s instinct.

And last night, that string nearly snapped.

They all need you. They all ache for you. And no matter how much they hate each other—loathe, even—your scent keeps them circling the same center. Their senses are wired around you. Not around any human. Just you. Every shift in your breathing at night, they notice. Every change in your body’s heat, they taste it in the air. The beat of your heart, they can feel it in their own ribcages if they’re close enough. You bleed, and their entire biology riots. It drives them mad with hunger and lust and that deep, snarling mine.

Romance is still in his chair, knees spread. His strokes are lazy now, slowing down, teasing himself. He keeps imagining your face tilted in confusion when he kissed your forehead this morning. He bites his lip, watching his own reflection’s mouth, imagining it’s you looking at him.

Romance’s body reads every micro-expression of yours. The tiniest tremor in your lip sets his blood rushing. The salt of your tears is like wine to him, but like y’know, a really good one. When you cry, his heart rate spikes, his hormones dump into his system, telling him: closer, closer, closer.

Even now, remembering your crying noises from last night, his cock twitches in his hand, and he moans sweetly at himself like he’s talking to you. He’s not just jerking off. He’s worshipping the idea of you.

Abby’s panting in front of the mirror, sweat slick on his shoulders, chest heaving. His cock pulses hard in his hand, grip fierce enough to bruise if it were anyone else’s body. He’s not quiet about it, grunts, curses, low growls rumbling.

His blood floods with testosterone when he’s near you, a constant fight-or-fuck reflex buzzing in his muscles. His body doesn’t know how to process fragile, so it interprets it as protect, cage, dominate. Every time you step closer, his adrenaline spikes. Every time you step away, he wants to chase.

He imagines it now, you curled up in bed, small against the massive shape of him. His bicep flexes, his hand working faster. The fantasy always ends the same, you looking at him like he’s a god, whispering that you need him. That you want him. His body thrums, veins bulging, his orgasm tearing through him.

Mystery’s quieter, but not calmer. His hips roll slow into his fist, breath hissing sharp between his teeth. His eyes are closed, but it doesn’t matter, he can smell you. Your sweat, your blood. It lives in the back of his nose, burns down his throat. He jerks faster, then slower, edging himself.

Mystery’s biology is the most predatory of all five. His sense of smell isn’t just heightened, it’s engineered to track you. He could pick your blood out of a sea of bodies, your heartbeat in a stadium. His cock stiffens at the scent alone, body translating it as: prey close, prey trembling, prey mine. He imagines pinning you down, the sharp thud of your pulse against his palm. His orgasm builds with that thought alone, the wet slick sound of his strokes filling his otherwise silent room. He doesn’t fight it. He lets himself drown in the biology.

Jinu hasn’t moved much. Still sitting on the edge of his bed, hands trembling, eyes locked on his own hands. His strokes are uneven, half-hearted. He whimpers quietly into his shoulder, body jerking.

His biology is a little more complex, he’s tied to your vulnerability. When you’re weak, when you lean on him, when you whisper his name, his brain floods with oxytocin, dopamine, things meant to bond. He doesn’t just want you, his body believes he belongs to you. And worse, it believes you belong to him.

When you cried into his neck, his cock throbbed even though he hated himself for it. Even now, remembering your tears soaking his shirt, his strokes quicken until he spills with a low, broken groan, shame and need tangled into one.

Baby’s chair creaks under him, his pace violent, unrelenting. He doesn’t care about quiet. Doesn’t care about anyone hearing him. His hips buck into his fist, sweat dripping down his temple, intense. For Baby, your biology works like gasoline on fire. Every stumble of yours, every crack in your voice, every fresh bandage, it spikes his dopamine like a hit of a drug. You’re the weakness he can exploit, and that makes him harder than anything else in the world.

He groans openly, head thrown back, hand pumping rough, imagining you whimpering his name instead of anyone else’s. The orgasm tears through him, and he rolls his eyes, half-pleasure and half annoyance at the world itself, riding it out with a shudder that rattles the chair beneath him.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t have to. They know. Every one of them can sense what the others are doing, smell it, feel it in the air. Your body is their trigger. Your biology completes theirs.

Now, afterglow. Let’s go over each of them again. Grrr I love doing this.

Romance’s mirror is streaked with fingerprints where his hand slid against it during the worst of it. He slouches back in his chair, cock softening against his stomach, his thighs sticky, staring at himself in the mirror, cum dripping from his hand down his wrist. He doesn’t move to wipe it. Doesn’t even care that his shirt is stained. He just gazes at his reflection, soft mouth open, flushed cheeks, eyes heavy-lidded, and pretends it’s you staring back at him. But he doesn’t stop thinking about you. He can’t. What if he kissed you for real? Not on the forehead, not playful. What if he pinned you back against your sheets and took your bottom lip between his teeth? What if he got to see your eyes flutter shut at his touch, hear your breath catch for him alone?

There’s the fantasy of you leaning over to fix the collar of his shirt, close enough that he can taste your breath. You letting him brush your hair, his fingers catching at the strands. You on his lap, knees straddling him, whispering you don’t want anyone else. And then you crying, whispering please don’t leave. You clutching his arm in fear when the others scare you. You asleep, mouth soft, trusting him with the most fragile thing you have.

He groans quietly, cock twitching again, the fantasies too sweet, too many.

Abby’s still in front of the mirror, chest heaving, cum streaked across his abs, then he sprawls on his bed like a dead man, sheets a ruin under him, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. He flexes his arm again, bicep twitching, and again, thinks about how small your hand would look wrapped around it. Then he thinks about that same hand clawing down his back. Then he thinks about your voice, not quiet, not shy, loud. Screaming his name, begging.

Abby’s head is a flood of scenarios. He doesn’t even try to narrow them down. He wants them all. You straddling his waist, his hands crushing your hips, your voice weak from screaming his name. You trying to push him away, but your tiny palms are nothing against his chest, and he laughs while pinning you down. You holding onto his shoulders while he fucks into you against the wall. You in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, handing him a mug of coffee while he palms your ass. You whispering “harder.” You whispering “softer.” You whispering “Abby.”

And louder, he wants you loud. He wants to hear it echo off the walls. He wants the others, hell, the whole building, to know whose name you scream. He wants to ruin your voice with it.

He jerks his hips into his hand again even though he’s still dripping from the first time. He groans in frustration, pressing the heel of his palm against himself like he could shove the thoughts away. Doesn’t work. Never does.

Mystery’s slower to recover, body still slow, cock sensitive in his sticky hand. He imagines your scent stronger. Not just blood, skin. Warmth. Sweat. He imagines pressing his face into your throat and staying there until you shove him away. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d shiver but let him. Maybe you’d tilt your head and expose more. The idea makes him shudder, thighs tightening.

In his fantasies, it’s not just you with him, it’s you caught by him. You walking down the hall, thinking you’re alone, when he pins you against the wall. You cooking something in the kitchen when he slides up behind you, hand clamping your mouth shut. You asleep in your bed, not even stirring when his fingers trail under your blanket. Mystery loves the chase, so every fantasy ends with you trembling, with him catching you, with your body thrumming under his hands. He can feel his cock twitch back to hardness as he thinks about you crying against his palm, your breath wet against his skin, and him whispering shhh, it’s just me.

He breathes out hard, shuddering, rolling his hips up into his sticky hand again. He doesn’t even care that he already came. His body doesn’t stop wanting. Not with you. Never with you.

Jinu’s curled on his side, knees tucked, back pressed to the wall. Cum sticky across his thighs, shirt damp with sweat, breath still shaky. His sheets are wet, his hands still shaking from the orgasm, but the memories won’t leave him alone. You crying into his neck. You whispering his name. You depending on him like he was the only one who mattered. He knows it was awful, knows you were in pain, but his body won’t let go of the memory. He remembers your face, puffy with crying, whispering if he’s angry. He remembers you burying your face in his neck, how he got goosebumps. And his cock stirs again, half-hard, traitorous.

Then another thought slides in, you crying harder, begging him not to leave you. You clinging to him after a nightmare. You choosing him over the others, whispering you only feel safe with him.

And each fantasy ties another knot in his gut, makes him hate himself more, but his cock is hardening anyway, his fist clenching around it, pumping with a desperate rhythm.

Baby’s the least apologetic. He sprawls in his chair, still half-hard, his hand sticky. The mess is everywhere, streaked across his stomach, dripping down his thigh. He laughs once, low and bitter, at himself. At all of them. At you. At his fantasies with you pressed against the wall, glaring at him, but still trembling. You cursing his name while he makes you moan anyway. You trying to run and him catching you in two steps, dragging you back by the wrist. You pressed into the mattress, gasping against the sheets while he pulls your hair. You trying to crawl away, but he grabs your ankle and yanks you back. You glaring at him, spitting fire, and him fucking you harder until you’re shaking.

He pumps his cock rougher, chasing another orgasm even though he’s overstimulated, biting back a growl as his cum spills down his hand again.

Pathetic. They all know it. Hundreds of years old, predators, killers, demons, and they’re sitting in their own filth, lovesick. And yet the fantasies keep breeding. One becomes ten, ten becomes a hundred. Each louder, each needier. They won’t tell each other. They don’t have to. The scent in the air will betray them all when they cross paths in the hall, knowing that the thing in their mind was you. It’s always you. They don’t talk about it out loud. They couldn’t. It would rip the whole fragile balance of their home to pieces. But in their heads, all five of them think it. The idea of sharing you.

Romance. For him, it’s beauty. Two, maybe three of them at once, hands everywhere, mouths everywhere, you caught in the center of it like the star you are. He imagines you glowing from it, touched by so much affection that your skin would shine. He can see it so clearly, you on his lap, lips parted in a kiss, while Jinu kneels behind you, whispering sweet nothings into your neck. Or maybe Abby holding your legs apart while Romance strokes your hair, telling you how lovely you look. Even Baby, snarling in the corner, could be part of it if it meant you’d finally let go enough to take them all. You deserve to be adored by all of them, he thinks. You deserve to be worshipped. And if that means sharing you, then he’d do it gladly.

He closes his eyes, rubbing himself back to hardness, sighing at the thought of your voice split into five different names, your body never without a touch. He sees you in the middle of the bed, curled between him and Jinu. Romance stroking your hair, whispering how beautiful you are, while Jinu kisses your wrist, the edge of your bandage, telling you you’re safe. Romance loves that one, the idea of double worship. Two sets of lips, two voices crooning at you. You sighing, overwhelmed, because you’re too small for both their arms around you, but you let it happen anyway.

Then, you and Mystery. Mystery behind you, one hand wrapped over your mouth, his sharp teeth grazing your neck. Romance in front of you, kissing your tears away, whispering “just look at me, baby, just me.” The cruelty and the comfort together, it makes Romance leak against his palm again, shame burning hot under his skin.

Him holding your hand while Abby spreads your thighs, Baby laughing in your ear while Mystery holds you down so Jinu can eat you out and they can watch. All of them inside you, in different ways, voices clashing, and you smiling. Loving it. Crying, but with joy. With surrender.

You on your back, hair fanned out across his sheets. He’s kissing your lips, soft and tender, while Jinu’s mouth moves down your stomach, trailing reverent kisses that turn to eating you out like a man starved. He imagines you turning your face, gasping, caught between them.

Sometimes, he imagines being cruel with it. Holding your chin, making you look at him while Baby ruins you from behind. You’d be flushed, fucked out between them, and he’d coo encouragements while Baby grits his teeth, using you raw.

Other nights, his mind sees Baby at your chest, mouthing at your tits like the greedy bastard he is, while Romance keeps your lips occupied, swallowing every whimper. He doesn’t even hate Baby in this one, he wants him there, wants you drowning in too much sensation, wants your little body torn between them. He even lets the thought go to Abby holding your wrists down while he and Baby ruin you.

Abby’s fantasies of sharing are loud. Messy. He doesn’t care who’s there, as long as you’re loud enough. He imagines you riding his cock while Mystery fucks into your ass from behind, your voice so ruined that you can’t decide who to scream for. He imagines Baby holding your wrists while Abby pounds into you, and Baby taunts him the whole time, tells him he’s too slow, that you need it harder.

He imagines Romance kissing your tears away while Abby fucks you into the mattress. Every version of the fantasy has you screaming, hoarse, raw, ruined, and every version has Abby snarling with pride because he did that to you. Even if another’s hands are on your skin, even if another’s mouth is on your throat, he’ll still know it’s his cock that makes you scream like that.

Abby jerks himself hard at the thought, cursing under his breath, chasing another orgasm. The jealousy burns, yeah, but it’s a good burn. It means you’d need all of them to handle what only one of them could never give. Like the image of you on his lap, bouncing, your voice breaking. But not just you and him, you reaching over to touch Baby too, stroking him while Abby fucks you. Abby loves that one, because it’s competition. Even in his fantasies, he wants to prove he can make you scream louder, make you cum harder.

He imagines you in a tangle with Mystery. Mystery holding your wrists above your head, Abby spreading your thighs wide. Mystery makes you beg, but Abby makes you yell. The thought alone makes Abby grunt into his palm, muscles straining, the sound of your voice echoing in his head.

And then a softer one, you in bed between him and Romance, the two of them holding you, stroking you, kissing your shoulders. Abby telling you you’re his girl, while Romance hums sweet nothings into your ear. The two of them not fighting for once but giving you everything you want. That fantasy makes Abby’s chest ache, makes his cock twitch harder than the violent ones.

Abby doesn’t care if it’s pathetic. He just wants to hear you. With any of them. With all of them. With your legs wrapped around his shoulders, his mouth buried between your legs, loud and greedy. But then he can’t stop imagining another mouth, right beside his. Mystery, maybe. Or Baby. Tongues colliding, sharing your taste, fighting for it. He pictures you moaning, confused, overstimulated, torn between pushing them away or dragging them closer. And him, oh, god, him, drunk on the thought of not being the only one to do this to you. Like the fantasy where your hands are on his chest, tiny against his bulk, trying to shove him back. Not because you don’t like it, god no, it’s just too much. But Romance is behind you, whispering in your ear, holding your wrists, feeding your denial into something else. Abby loves that. Loves thinking of you with more hands than you know how to fight off. He wants to hear the noise of it. He wants the floor shaking, the bed breaking, the walls echoing with more than one voice. He wants to make you so overwhelmed you don’t even know whose hand is whose anymore.

Sometimes, he pictures Mystery pinning your wrists down while Abby fucks into you hard, deep, merciless. He imagines you crying out Mystery’s name while Abby laughs, jealous but drunk on the sound.

He imagines Mystery in your mouth, your lips stretched around him while Abby fucks into you from behind. He can hear both your noises at once, your muffled whimpers around Mystery, your choked moans every time Abby pushes deeper, and Mystery whining. Or sometimes it’s Mystery holding your thighs apart, keeping you wide open while Abby fucks you.

Sometimes it’s Jinu stroking your hair while Abby ruins you from underneath, whispering soft lies like “it’s okay, he’s just helping you.”

Sometimes, it’s Baby. Two of them fighting over you, literally, even while you’re crying under them. He imagines Baby spitting curses in his ear, Abby snarling back, both of them pulling at you like wolves with a kill. It makes him harder than he’d like to admit. He imagines you screaming into the mattress, and Baby goading him on: “Harder, man. She can take it.” He imagines you bouncing on his cock, voice breaking with each slam of your hips down, and Baby behind you, mouth on your tits, groaning while he squeezes handfuls of your ass. Two of them using you at once, your voice screaming, loud enough to echo, loud enough to make the walls shake.

You gagging on Romance’s cock while Abby pounds into you from behind, your throat bulging, your eyes tearing. He jerks himself harder at the thought, imagining your strangled noises, your nails digging into the carpet. He doesn’t even need the mirror this time. He just leans back, strokes himself fast and rough, picturing you screaming his name while three other voices drown you out. Pathetic, yeah. But it feels too good.

Mystery imagines you caught between them, no escape. You pinned down, one wrist in Baby’s hand, one wrist in Abby’s, legs forced apart by Jinu’s strength while Romance strokes your hair and tells you it’s okay. And Mystery, always the shadow, is the one thrusting into you. The fantasy isn’t kind. It’s overwhelming. Too many hands, too many mouths, too many cocks pressing against you at once. You begging them to slow down. You crying out in pleasure. And he loves it. He loves the idea of you never knowing who’s touching you at any given second, your body trembling under the weight of all of them.

He groans, low in his throat, grinding his palm against his cock even though it aches. He doesn’t care. The idea of sharing you makes him wild. He loves the idea of trapping you with more than one of them. He imagines pinning you to the wall while Jinu kneels between your thighs, his mouth on you, his hands steadying your shaking hips. Mystery would cover your eyes, tell you not to peek, make you guess who’s touching you where. The thought of your confusion, your whines, your writhing, it makes him pant, hips jerking into his fist again.

Then the imagine of Abby kneeling at your feet, spreading your legs apart with those big hands, licking into you while Mystery keeps your wrists pinned. Your hips buck up, but there’s no escape. Abby groans into you, and Mystery watches every twitch of your body, his cock aching. Sometimes Baby barges into the fantasy too. Baby kneels at your head, cock pressed to your lips, forcing them open while Mystery holds your jaw steady.

Or your legs on either side of Mystery’s head, your thighs trembling. Abby’s laugh nearby, wet sounds filling the air. Two mouths on you. He doesn’t care whose tongue brushes his if it means drowning in your taste.

Or the thought of you riding him, slow, tight, unbearable, while Jinu kneels behind you, kissing the back of your neck, whispering words Mystery can’t quite catch. Your head thrown back, his hands gripping your hips, but Jinu’s hands covering yours, guiding you. He imagines your voice cracking. Imagines you losing yourself so much that you forget who’s inside you.

He imagines holding you down while two of them use you, your wrists locked in his grip, your body trembling as you try to take all of it. He’s not even the one inside you in these fantasies, sometimes he just likes to watch. To keep you pinned while Abby thrusts into you and Baby shoves his mouth over your tits, sloppy and greedy. Other times, he’s behind you, one hand knotted in your hair while Romance fucks your mouth, and Jinu whispers soothing things just out of reach. He imagines you begging, voice cracking, “It’s too much, please, I can’t—” and Mystery only smirks, tightening his grip, because of course you can. Of course they’ll make sure you do. He lets himself imagine you enjoying it, spreading your legs wider for them, crying out for more, looking right at him and moaning Mystery, don’t stop.

Then one where it’s you and Baby, both of you crying, Baby from laughter and you from the sting of it, and Mystery keeping you both in line with his hands, rough and punishing. The chaos, the wildness of it, the way you wouldn’t know whether to scream or laugh, he loves it. That fantasy makes him clench his teeth, cum dripping down his wrist, chest heaving with shame.

Jinu likes the thought of sharing because it means you wouldn’t be afraid. You’d know you’re surrounded, but not trapped, safe, even, because all of them would be there. He imagines you crying his name while Abby fucks you rough. You sobbing while Mystery holds you still. You clinging to Romance while Baby makes you choke on his fingers. And Jinu there, always there, whispering that it’s okay, that they’ll take care of you. He hates how much he wants it. How much he wants you broken open enough that you’d finally trust them all at once.

He sees you on his lap, clutching his shirt, crying, but not alone. Romance behind you, kissing your neck, whispering pretty words while Jinu steadies you, strokes your thighs, tells you it’s okay. He imagines the two of them together, overwhelming you with too much gentleness.

He also imagines Abby. Abby rough, pushing you down, but Jinu there to catch you, to tell you to breathe. The idea of you caught between their two extremes makes him go crazy. He imagines Abby holding you steady, forcing you to take Jinu’s cock while you’re already falling apart from Abby’s. He imagines the noises you’d make, muffled into Abby’s chest.

All of them sharing you, but you choosing him. Even while Abby makes you scream, even while Baby laughs in your ear, even while Mystery bites your shoulder, your eyes would only ever look for Jinu. Your hand would always reach for his. That one destroys him. Makes him spill across his stomach again. Pathetic.

He imagines you curled against him in bed, safe, while the others take turns with you. You holding his hand, clutching, while Mystery’s mouth is between your legs and Romance is kissing your throat. Jinu doesn’t even have to move, he just stays there, letting you cling to him, whispering that it’s okay, that you’re okay. He holds your face steady and kisses you deep. At the same time, Abby kneels between your legs, holding you open wide, making you scream. Baby’s fingers are on your throat, controlling every gasp, while Mystery presses down into your stomach, kissing bruises into your skin.

Sometimes he imagines more. Imagines you tired, half-asleep against his chest while Baby keeps fucking into you, unwilling to stop. The others watching, waiting for their turns, all of them keeping you from rest. Jinu’s torn in those visions, part of him furious, part of him thrilled at the thought of you trusting him enough to fall asleep even then.

He imagines you sprawled out on his bed, Baby sucking at your tits while Abby pushes into you, your eyes watery, your hands trembling as you cling to Jinu’s shirt. He’s there, right by your side, whispering reassurances while the others tear you apart.

Sometimes, he imagines you crying into his neck, begging him to slow them, while his cock throbs at the thought of holding you still for them. His stomach knots at it. Other times, he imagines himself sharing you more tenderly, you in his lap, his cock buried deep inside, while Romance kisses you sloppy and desperate, and Mystery strokes circles into your thigh to soothe you through the stretch. You whimper into Jinu’s throat, and he’s half-crazy from the idea of keeping you there, safe and ruined all at once.

Baby imagines pushing you to your knees in front of him while Abby holds your hair back. He imagines Romance kissing you while Baby fucks you, the softness of one feeding the roughness of the other. He imagines Jinu whispering pretty words while Baby snarls the opposite into your ear. He loves the idea of you being confused. Whose cock do you clench around hardest? Whose voice do you whine for? Which one of them breaks you first?

In his fantasies, you cry harder with every touch, every kiss, every thrust, because you can’t take it all. And Baby grins at the thought, because no matter how many of them touch you, you’ll still glare at him the most. Still hate him the most. And that means you’ll never forget him. There’s the picture of you crying under him while Abby holds your wrists down, both of them fucking you in turns. Baby loves the idea of using you as a prize between them, of making you earn your way free, your voice hoarse from screaming.

Or you in his lap, back to his chest, while Abby forces your legs wider. You crying against Baby’s neck, nails digging into his skin, while he smirks at Abby like yeah, look at her now. Sometimes after a position change, he and Abby would high-five over your back, fucking you from both ends until you scream. He imagines other scenarios, like you screaming on Abby’s cock while he sucks at your breasts, biting and groaning, your nipples swollen from his mouth. He loves the thought of you writhing between them, cock in your pussy, cock in your throat, his tongue on your chest.

Or you and Mystery, one of them in your mouth while the other does you from behind. Baby imagines the tears in your eyes, the spit dripping down your chin, your broken moans. He loves it.

But then he imagines you between him and Romance, the two of them feeding you kisses, stroking your hair, treating you like you’re delicate. Baby hates himself for wanting it, but he wants it anyway. He wants to know what it feels like, to have you smile at him like that. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning, still sticky.

But the one that makes him moan, the one that makes him buck into his own fist, is you on your knees with all five of them around you. Tears streaming down your face, spit and cum dripping down your chin, your voice hoarse from begging. And Baby laughs in the fantasy, leaning down to tell you how good you look. Or you’re not kneeling, but it’s still them surrounding you, Jinu holding your hands, Mystery keeping your thighs open, Abby pounding into you while Romance fucks your mouth. Baby just moves from one tit to the other, sucking until your chest is red and wet, until you’re clawing at his hair and begging him to stop.

He imagines you tied down, squirming, glaring, that glare he loves so much, the one that makes him want to both kiss you and rip you apart. But then he imagines the others with you too, and his stomach twists because the anger isn’t at the thought, it’s at how much it turns him on. Like forcing your head into Romance’s lap, keeping you there until you sob, and Romance pretending to scold him even as he pets your hair.

Other times, he imagines softer, you lying on your back, his head on your chest, mouth busy while Jinu eases into you gently. His cock jerks at the idea of your hand tangled in his hair, holding him there like you need him as much as he needs you.

They’re all pathetic, but they don’t care. Not tonight. More than three hundred years of cruelty, of hunger, of waiting, and the only peace they ever get is in the fantasies of you. So they let themselves have it. They let themselves imagine sharing you, touching you, drowning in you. They let themselves fall deeper into the mess, into the heat, into the shame. With fantasy after fantasy, sometimes it’s two of them in one. Sometimes three. Sometimes all five, crowding you, overwhelming you, drowning you in every possible sensation. Two mouths between your thighs. Someone at your chest. Someone in your ear. Hands everywhere. Teeth. Tongues.

For demons like them, relief is rare. They’re lucky to have this now.

God, the situations you get in. You’d think being the girls’ assistant would mean running after them and giving them what they call for. You didn’t sign up for this much blood. You didn’t sign up for a kitchen knife jammed into your arm, Jinu’s bathroom stocked like a back-alley clinic, or five demons pacing outside your room. It’s hilarious, in the most are you kidding me kind of way. This is the very top of the list of the things that have happened to you. The smell of your blood filling the entire apartment. Jinu playing nurse while you sobbed into his neck. The others circling, snapping at each other in the hall, barely restraining themselves from tearing each other apart just to see you. You passing out with Derpy curled against you, while on the other side of the wall five demons were each jerking themselves raw to the thought of sharing you. You don’t know that last part, of course. But if you did, you’d probably add it to the growing list of hilariously fucked-up things I’ve dealt with this year.

You’re a human. A fragile human. One who, by all rights, should have been eaten alive in the first week of this gig. Yet somehow, you’re still here. Still alive. And every day, the situations get worse. The knife accident was proof. A simple mistake, maybe an accident, maybe your desperate attempt to run, maybe both, turned into a night of blood, whispered reassurances, and enough sexual frustration from the others to burn the building down.

Who else but you could end up here? God, the situations you get in. And yet… you wouldn’t trade it. Not really. Even if they do creepy things, like steal from you. Even if it started off with torture in all the ways. Even if you can’t look at a bathtub with cold water in it. Even, even, even…

Even though a lot of things happened to you here, you don’t want to go right now.

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[kazeniya]

You guys are god sends for me i just reread all eps i love you may yall get wtv u want in life @franaby @minstarrs

So i need help finding this fic i read some time ago but i forgot the author it was like scara x reader idol au where they were from different groups bla bla and enemies to lovers and bcs they fought on stage yae make them go on this island themed survival show to spread rumours i forgot the name so pls help meeee

[kazeniya]

So i need help finding this fic i read some time ago but i forgot the author it was like scara x reader idol au where they were from different groups bla bla and enemies to lovers and bcs they fought on stage yae make them go on this island themed survival show to spread rumours i forgot the name so pls help meeee

[kazeniya]

i laughed so hard at the random "he needs you (to fill him up)

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 9

Let’s go… out?

cw: implied female reader, she/her used, afab reader, Stocholm Syndrome developing, cursing, bikinis, lots of boners, lots of sex mentions, humping, sunlight which heals reader but she also gets worse, the usual

Mystery is sitting on your bed. He sits cross-legged, a tower of pillows behind him, his head tilted slightly. Derpy is next to him, tail flicking lazily.

“So?” you ask, turning around. “This one’s cute, right?”

You’re currently trying on the clothes Romance got you, giving Mystery a fashion show. You want to show off to someone and he’s the safest option.

He nods. Once. A tiny, tight gesture that might’ve gone unnoticed if you weren’t watching for it.

You squint at him, hands on your hips. “That’s not helpful, Mystery. Is it cute?”

“Cute.”

You sigh, but you don’t mind. Not really. He’s being good. Behaving. You pick up the next piece and give him a side-eye. “Close your eyes.”

Without hesitation, he does. You don’t even have to double-check. His head bows, hair spilling even more forward, a proper curtain now. The tiger watches lazily, unimpressed by the dramatic reveal system you’ve got going.

You get out of the current outfit, pull the next one on.

“Okay.” you say. “Look.”

His head lifts. He doesn’t say anything.

You pause. “Well?”

“…Very cute.”

You smile. That’s more like it.

You grab another piece of clothing. “Eyes.”

They shut instantly.

You grin, even if he can’t see it.

God, he’s obedient. And nervous. And so obviously desperate to stay in your good graces that you almost feel bad. He’s just happy that you’re speaking to him again. You change quickly and clear your throat.

He looks again.

This one gets him. You can tell. His breath hitches just barely, not even loud, but you hear it. His hands twitch in his lap.

You tilt your head. “Do you like this one?”

He nods. Then adds, almost inaudible: “Too much.”

You smirk. “Too much for what?”

Silence.

You laugh and twirl. “Relax. You’re just the audience. That’s why you get to be here.”

But really, it’s because he’s safe. Or, he’s not safe, none of them are, but he’s sweet.

You change again. He doesn’t peek once.

The tiger shifts, nudges its head under Mystery’s hand, and he absentmindedly starts petting it while still keeping his face turned obediently away.

And god, he’s beautiful. Too pretty for his own good. And soft. (At least, looks like he’s soft. They’re here to fool people into falling in love with them, anyway. He’s a ruthless fucking monster, but he does look dreamy)

“You’re really glad I’m talking to you again, huh?”

His head turns slowly. “Yes.”

“Good. Then keep being good.”

And he does.

“Cover your eyes again, handsome.” You say it without a hint of flirt. It doesn’t matter. He obeys instantly, bringing his hand up to cover his eyes.

And for a moment, you listen.

You hear it, the shift in the air, the almost imperceptible change in his breathing.

He’s aroused.

Not in a messy, desperate way. No. Not like Romance who whines through the door whenever you lock it. Not like Baby who makes comments under his breath like he thinks you won’t hear.

Mystery is just… a fucking animal.

You step into the next outfit. There’s no bra. No point. Not when the fabric is like air. Your nipples are basically waving hello through it.

“You can look.”

He drops his hand. And breathes in. Slow. Heavy.

“Well?”

“Pretty.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

He nods. Then adds, after a moment: “Very.”

You cross your arms. You know what you’re doing. “Not too much?”

He shakes his head, but his hands are gripping the sheets now, and his knuckles are white. You glance down. Yeah. Yeah. He’s hard. You can see it now that you’re looking. He’s not even hiding it. He’s just… enduring.

You just step back and hum thoughtfully. “Okay. Next.”

“…Okay.” he echoes, covering his eyes again.

This next one is lingerie. Flat-out. Romance >:( So you don’t wear that. You’re not going to show that to Mystery, no. You chose something else, but it’s still revealing.

“Too much?” you ask, blinking at him.

He swallows. Once. Then again. “Perfect.”

You blink. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Eyes.”

He blinks once.

“Look away, Mystery. I’m not done changing.”

He tilts his head back and covers his eyes with both hands this time. So good. So well-behaved.

“Good boy.”

Timeskip. Yeah. Anyways, it’s the next morning. The boys are getting ready to go out. Baby has his shoes on the countertop. One leg up, lighting a cigarette while elbowing a bag of candies off the edge just to watch it fall. It gets all over the floor. Abby walks past and immediately trips on them. Abby catches himself, flips Baby off, and keeps talking like nothing happened.

“—what I’m saying is we need more comfortable shirts, man. Last week I was drenched. You remember? My back? It was like a fucking waterfall. You saw it, right, Jinu?”

Jinu, who is patiently buttoning his shirt up, nods politely. “Yes, Abby.”

“You saw the sweat, right?”

“Yes, Abby.”

“My entire back, bro.”

“Yes. Abby.”

Romance is on the kitchen counter, legs swinging like a kid. His phone is face-down on the marble, forgotten, as he’s focused on his current masterpiece, Mystery’s hair. Mystery stands between his legs, still as Romance messes with the soft silver strands, fluffing them, twisting pieces, making it look acceptable.

Romance pats his cheek. “God, you’re pathetic. I love it.”

You are not around.

Fuck those boys. With their loud voices and their footsteps and the heavenly face cards. You’ve chosen peace. Or at least the illusion of it.

You’re lying sideways on your bed, playing this weird game you made up with Sussie. You take off his hat, he takes it away from you and you have to take it again. Not like it’s exciting, but it’s better than nothing.

You hear the knock before the door creaks open. You don’t look up.

“Hey.” Jinu’s voice says. “We’re heading out.”

You blink dramatically—guys look now, you have a plan—then glance over your shoulder. “Oh.”

He steps into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. Always gentle. Always acting polite(only to you) though it was his idea to drag you here in the first place.

“You okay?” he asks, frowning a little. “Need anything while we’re gone?”

You sigh. Loudly. Staring at the ceiling, so faking it.

He walks a little closer. “Feel bad?”

“Hmm?” you say absently, turning your head just slightly. “No. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

Another long sigh. You stretch your arms up, arching just a bit. Not for his sake, or maybe exactly for his sake. “Sunlight.”

“Sunlight?”

You nod slowly. “Mmm. It’s just… I don’t even remember what it feels like on my skin.”

He’s frowning now. You can feel the guilt kicking in. Good. “You get sunlight through the windows…”

“Glass sunlight doesn’t count, Jinu.” you murmur with a tired pout. “I mean real sun. Warmth. Vitamin D. You know I’m getting pale. I used to tan, you know?”

He clears his throat, eyes darting briefly to your bare legs, curled slightly under you. He’s so proper it’s almost funny.

“A bikini would be nice.” you say dreamily. “Laying out. Tanning oil. Just letting it all soak in…”

You glance sideways and yes, there it is.

His ears are pink.

He’s so easy.

“I want a bikini.” you say more confidently, stretching again. “You boys have balconies and rooftops and… what do I have? A smart TV. And this room. Always this room.”

He looks miserable.

You tilt your head, letting your voice drop to something a little more wistful, just a little softer: “I just miss feeling like a person, Jinu.”

Checkmate.

He exhales slowly. “I’ll talk to the others. Maybe we can set up something on the balcony.”

You blink innocently. “Really?”

He nods. “I’ll make it safe. Shade. Water. I’ll get you sunscreen. And a bikini.”

You bite your lip, fighting the smirk. “You’re so sweet.”

He gives a sheepish smile. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s everything.” you murmur. “Thank you, Jinu.”

“Of course.”

You smile as he leaves, practically glowing.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you get five demons to build you a tanning station while you pretend to be sad in bed.

Eventually they left. Was away all day, as usual, and they’ve come back just now. (Was I clever with this time skip) You can hear that. It’s dark in your room. You didn’t bother turning on the light when the sun went down. You’ve been sitting by the window, curled up, watching your reflection in the glass. The only light is from the city outside.

The door thuds open, followed by a wave of sound, Abby laughing too loud, Romance fake-moaning someone’s name, Jinu scolding them and being a mean, selfish asshole, Mystery growling, Baby shrieking “fuck you” at someone who cackles about it.

Click.

Your door opens. No knock. The light from the hallway spills in, a triangle cutting across the carpet, and there Baby is. One hand on the handle, one hand holding a small shopping bag by the strings, a cigarette dangling from his lips even though he’s not supposed to smoke inside.

“Hi.” you say dryly. “Ever heard of knocking?”

He shrugs. “Forgot how.” he mutters, already tossing the bag toward you.

You catch it, and look down.

Ohohoho.

That’s swimsuit fabric.

“And what’s this?”

“Bag.” he says.

You give him a look. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Shit in it.” he clarifies.

“Helpful.”

“I dunno. Ask lover-boy Jinu.”

“Then why are you bringing it?”

Another shrug.

He vanishes, but at least closes the door behind himself which is AMAZING??? Baby that’s progress SOMEBODY POP THE CHAMPAGNE!!

You open the bag. Swimwear. Not just one, but options. Some designer bullshit with barely any fabric. Rich colors. Silky textures. Something sheer. Something scandalous. Something with ribbons instead of straps, oh someone had a fantasy while picking these.

And Baby totally peeked. You know it. You know it with every cell in your body. Baby didn’t just carry the bag. He opened it. He looked inside. Maybe he scoffed. Maybe he rolled his eyes. Maybe he muttered something gross under his breath just for himself.

And maybe, just maybe, he got a little hard.

You could try things on. Could twirl in front of the mirror and imagine the boys fighting each other to the death over the sight of you in nothing but sheer straps.

But no. You have manners. You’re polite. Even when you’re a hostage. So you pick up the bag and stand, slipping your feet into the slippers you stole from Baby, too big for you but his feet is the smallest so it fits you the best. (AN: NOT infantilization!! My first option was Mystery but I literally checked their feet sizes on picture and Baby’s seemed the smallest to me)

Time to find Jinu.

You arrive to his room. Hear something in his bathroom, water running, a rhythmic scrape-swish of a toothbrush. Bingo.

You knock once on his room’s door, and then walk to the open bathroom. Jinu stands at the sink, shirtless, foam on his lips, and a toothbrush in his mouth. He freezes when he sees you in the mirror.

You blink.

He blinks back.

Then goes right back to brushing. Calm. Slightly dying inside.

“Sorry.” you say sweetly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He points at his toothbrush, then gives a helpless shrug. Can’t talk, you invaded. What now?

You hold up the bag.

He nods, toothpaste foam dribbling a little, and gives you a thumbs up.

You grin. “Came to say thank you. You’re very sweet. Almost makes up for the whole ‘kidnapped and imprisoned’ thing.”

He spits, rinses, and finally speaks. “I didn’t pick them out. Just made sure you had choices.”

“Still.” You lean on the doorframe, cradling the bag. “It was thoughtful. And I just wanted to ask, when can I go outside then?”

Jinu hesitates. “We were thinking the balcony.”

“Small.” you say.

“Private.” he counters.

“Claustrophobic.”

“Safe.”

You frown.

He holds up a calming hand. “It’s not a no. Just—maybe not the roof. Too exposed. If the girls are watching—”

“Let them watch.” you snap. “You know what?” you say, stepping back toward the door. “I shouldn’t have asked. My bad. Dumb of me to think the rooftop was an option when I’m clearly just your little pet project.”

“Hey—”

“Thanks for the bag.” you say over your shoulder. “Really. So kind.”

And you leave. You’re halfway down the hall, bag tucked under your arm, fully planning to slam your door (like a lady) and stew in the injustice of it all when—

“Wait.” Jinu’s voice says behind you.

You don’t stop walking.

“Y/N. Seriously.”

“What? Why go through the effort if you’re not gonna let me wear them where they’re meant to be worn? You think I’m gonna parade around the living room in swimwear?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You stomp down the hall. You pass the kitchen, the untidy closet, a mirror.

You’re fuming. Childishly, pointlessly fuming until you spot something beautiful:

Abby’s sneakers.

Left out, huge and unlaced because fashion, duh.

You step out of the slippers and shove your tiny feet into Abby’s shoes. Wobble slightly. The weight of them almost trips you, but you adapt. You drag them with purpose. They’re several sizes too big. Your toes disappear, your heels flop, and you look like when toddlers try their parents’ shoes on. The shoes give a shhhk shhhk sound as you drag them dramatically down the hall.

Behind you, Jinu’s voice: “What are you doing?”

“I’m going home.” you declare over your shoulder.

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re gonna snap your ankles—”

You spin dramatically, pointing at him. “You made a promise, Jinu!”

“I didn’t—”

“I want to feel the sun on my tits!”

He chokes. “Okay, Jesus—”

“I want fucking UV.”

The shoes are so big. You have to shuffle.

Behind you, Jinu groans. “Please don’t.”

You ignore him. Shuffle shuffle stomp.

“You’ll fall.”

As you round the corner, Romance appears, just coming out of the sauna it seems like in one of those towel robes. He opens his mouth to say something, but then sees you, sees the shoes, sees Jinu looking half-murdered behind you, and promptly closes his mouth.

He just nods.

Respectfully.

Then steps aside.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Jinu mutters.

You lift your chin. “You kidnapped me. Let me be ridiculous.”

He can’t argue that.

“You really want the sun that bad?” he asks.

“Yes.”

You’re walking away from him, wearing tiny sleep shorts and shoes that could fit a professional basketball player, shoulders back.

He laughs.

You glare. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No.” he says, lying.

He enjoys it when you throw tantrums.

You sigh dramatically and kick off Abby’s shoes, walking back toward him barefoot. He meets you halfway.

“Fine.” you mutter. “Not the roof. But I want umbrellas. Lounge chair. Drinks with fruit in them. Music.”

“Fine.”

You start walking back toward your room. “Also sunglasses. The huge ones.”

“Done.”

“Avocados.”

“Random, but noted.”

You reach your door. Jinu’s still waiting. Still watching. Still hoping, probably. Like you’re gonna give him a moment. A glance. A flicker of affection. A thank you.

You reach for your door, pull it open slowly. “Good night.”

The door shuts behind you.

You said good night.

That’s as intimate as you get.

And Jinu, out there in the hallway, probably still standing in the same damn spot, is probably smiling to himself like he just got kissed.

That night you slept like a fucking baby. You’re still asleep, because it’s early, so early. This was meant to be a time skip, am I clever and smart and cute?

Soft fingers brush your cheek.

You stir. Your nose scrunches. Your eyes stay shut because you are absolutely not awake enough for whatever new bullshit they’re bringing into your life. You’d like to sleep forever, thanks.

“Rise and shine, angel.”

Your lashes flutter open.

Romance.

You stare. “The fuck do you want.”

“Get up.”

“Don’t wake me up like this ever again.”

He leans in a little. “Would you prefer a slap on the ass?”

You stare. Then roll dramatically onto your other side, pulling the blanket over your head. “I’d prefer you disappear.”

You hear him laugh. He’s used to this. Maybe addicted to it. He taps your shoulder gently, like he’s knocking on a door. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ve got something for you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You haven’t even looked.”

He gently pulls the covers off you(and will totally masturbate to the mental image later) and brings up a little key between his fingers.

That gets your attention.

“Balcony.” he says softly.

You pause. You look at the key. Then at him. Then at the key again. “Are you joking?”

He shakes them. Jingle-jingle. “No, ma’am.”

“You’re all talk.”

“I’m all dick, baby, but this time I’m also telling the truth.”

He drops the key into your open palm.

Ten minutes later, you slide the glass door open with a satisfying little click.

The sunlight hits you like a kiss. Warm. Gentle. You step out barefoot, blinking against the brightness, and damn.

It’s nice.

Really fucking nice.

You sigh. Maybe a little dreamily. “Fuck. I could get used to this.”

Romance leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you. “You like it?”

“Yeah. Jeez, thank you.” you say, quiet.

“You’re welcome.”

You just walk to the chair, flop down, and lift your face to the sun. Then: “Get out.”

And he obeys. Fuck. Absolutely palming himself through his pants, thinking about how grumpy you looked when you took that key.

Soon, they left. The usual. Since that, you got into one of the bikinis, and got everything you needed for this. The sun is perfect. You’re sprawled on a lounge chair, laid very far back, one leg bent, one dangling lazily over the edge, bikini straps warm against your shoulders. A cold drink sweats on the small table beside you, the little water droplets sliding down the glass. The straw tastes faintly of lime.

Your book is open, but you haven’t read a page in twenty minutes.

Sussie is perched on the balcony railing.

The warmth is sinking into your bones, loosening every tight knot your body’s held since… Well. Since them.

And that’s when the thought creeps in.

Are you fucked up?

Not in the haha, quirky mental illness way. No, seriously. The serious kind of fucked up.

Because you remember. The torture. The water. The ice. The way Baby grinned while holding your hair back as you choked on whatever they poured down your throat.

You remember all of it.

And now? Now you’re lying half-naked on their balcony, drinking their liquor through a pink straw, wearing a bikini they bought you, thinking about how pretty Romance looked this morning when he woke you up.

You drag a hand over your face.

Is that normal?

You should hate them. You did hate them. Weeks ago, you would’ve bitten through your own tongue before laughing at one of Abby’s cocky comments. Now? Sometimes you smile. Sometimes you look forward to them coming back from whatever bloody business they do out there.

Stockholm Syndrome? Probably.

Brain damage? Maybe.

Lonely? Absolutely.

Or are they just—

You swallow hard.

—too charming?

That’s the worst thought of all. Because it means maybe you’re not fucked up. Maybe they’re just… that good.

You take another slow sip of your drink and look away from it, down at the street far, far below. One jump and it’d all be over. No more captivity, no more confusion, no more sitting in the sun wondering if you’re the villain in your own life.

But you don’t move. You stay in the chair.

Because despite everything, you want to see what happens next.

You let the sun kiss your skin and tell yourself it’s not surrender, it’s strategy. You’re playing along. You’re biding your time.

And maybe that’s true.

Or maybe you just like it here.

You tilt your head toward Sussie. “You think I’m fucked up?”

No answer.

You moved. Now you’re stretched out on your stomach on the now almost flat chair, bikini straps tied loose, toes dangling lazily off the edge of your towel on the chair. Your book’s open again, though you’re not reading, just letting your eyes skim the words while the heat seeps into your back.

Then, from inside, the door opens.

It’s faint at first, that hiss and click, but you hear it. And it’s wrong. They don’t usually come home now. Not in the middle of the day. So them coming home now? Yeah. That’s not an accident. Your balcony privileges are officially on probation.

You don’t even turn your head.

If they want to see you, they can come get a nice long look.

Sliding glass door opens. Abby. And behind him, Baby. Acting like he’s so uninterested, wandering toward your little table. He’s got a cigarette between his teeth, lighter in hand, glancing over the spread of your setup, your drink, the book, the folded throw blanket in case you got cold. The towel beneath you.

“Damn,” Abby says finally. “you’ve got it good out here.”

You hum without looking up. “Jealous?”

“You wish.” he says, grin audible. He steps forward. “Figured we’d come check on you. You know. See if you’d managed to swan dive off the edge yet.”

“Not feeling suicidal today.” you say flatly.

“Good.” Abby drawls. “Hate to see the view ruined.”

Baby snorts under his breath, flicking his lighter. Flame catches. He takes a slow drag, lets the smoke curl upward, and says, not even looking at you, “Nice tan.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s got that detached, bratty nonchalance like he just wandered in here by accident. But his gaze flickers once, quick, hot, from your bare back to the little curve of your hip before darting away again.

You know exactly what that was.

Abby chuckles. “Man, you’re really out here living your best life. We’re knee-deep in whatever Jinu barks, and you’re sipping cocktails in a bikini. Where’s my invite?”

You finally turn your head, resting your cheek on your arms, giving him a cool once-over. “Didn’t think you were into quiet afternoons. Or reading.”

Abby smirks, crouching a little to get more on your level. “I’m into whatever you’re into, sweetheart.”

The smile. The jawline. The stupid glow he somehow always has. And yeah, maybe you’re fucked up, but you know exactly why people fall for men like Abby.

“Gross.” you say immediately, but your voice is lazy, almost amused.

Baby flicks ash over the railing, pretending to be fascinated by the bird still sitting there like your tiny, judgmental guard.

Abby’s shirt comes off. He balls it in one hand, and then throws it directly at Baby’s head. Baby sends it sailing straight over the railing.

You tilt your sunglasses down to glare at him. “You just littered from the 60th floor.”

He shrugs, takes another drag.

Abby lowers himself right onto the lounge chair next to yours. His bare shoulder almost brushes yours, and you can feel the heat rolling off his skin. He stretches out, tilts his head back, and lets out a satisfied mmm like he’s exactly where he belongs.

Baby exhales smoke in a perfect stream, not turning around but definitely listening. You can tell by the slight twitch in his posture that he’s picturing something. Probably you. Probably with fewer clothes.

You ignore it.

Abby props himself on one elbow, turning just enough to glance at your drink. “That for sharing, or are you keeping it all to yourself?”

You take a slow sip without breaking eye contact. “Mine.”

Baby is looking at you and Abby. His face is the perfect mix of “this is disgusting” and “I want to throw you both off this balcony but also maybe make out with one of you first.” You know exactly which side of the equation you fall on.

Abby notices immediately, and his lips twitch into that evil little grin, and, still leaning up on one elbow, he faces Baby. He lifts his hand and starts miming the most obnoxiously crude gesture imaginable. One that involves his fist, his tongue, and a hip roll that’s so on point that you’re actually choking back a laugh.

Baby’s eyes widen just enough to confirm you’re not the only one who saw it, before narrowing in pure venom.

“That’s fucking gross.” Baby mutters.

You’re trying, you swear you’re trying, to keep your face straight. But Abby is the kind of shit-stirrer that could get a stone statue to break.

THUNK.

A loud, dull bang against the glass door behind you.

Everyone freezes. You glance over your shoulder.

Standing there, blinking and rubbing his forehead, is Romance. Apparently, he’s just walked straight into the sliding door. Full force.

Baby’s eye roll is so big. He stares at the sky, done. Abby bursts out laughing, not even polite laughing, the real kind where he half-folds over, clutching his stomach.

Romance straightens, pretending it never happened, and slides the door open like it’s part of the bit. “I was distracted.” he says smoothly, voice low. “You’re welcome.”

Baby mutters something in a language you don’t know but are pretty sure is an insult.

Romance ignores him entirely, his gaze locking onto you. “You out here all by yourself, sweetheart? With these two?”

You don’t answer. You just sip your drink.

Abby leans back, hands behind his head. “Yup. And we were doing just fine until your dumbass faceprint ended up on the glass.”

Romance flashes him a slow smile. “Yeah? Guess I’ll just have to join the party.”

Romance sits down without invitation, folding one leg up, close enough that his knee nearly brushes your thigh. Your skin’s right there, your hair moving in the slight breeze. Every stupid little movement you make, every time your lips purse around that straw, every flick of your sunglasses, it’s all filed away for later. His chest aches with it. His body’s loud with it. And he has to smile, has to keep the act, because if you saw just how feral he really felt, you’d never let him sit this close again.

Abby’s leaning back on one elbow beside you, pretending to just “relax” but really, his entire focus is wrapped tight around you.

Baby’s cigarette burns lower, his lips parted just slightly around it as he stares at the view, definitely not you, no. Except every so often his eyes flick sideways, catching the light on your bare shoulders, the curve of your back. And his stomach knots in that way he hates.

Romance tips his head back with a groan. “God, my hair’s driving me insane today.”

You glance at him, pushing your sunglasses up onto your head. “Wait. Question.”

He pauses mid-complaint. “Yeah?”

“If these aren’t your natural colors, then you had to bleach it once. Right?” You sit up now, the bikini strap sliding slightly off your shoulder, completely unaware of what it’s doing to their collective blood pressure. “Or like, does being a demon change your hair color? To these? So are these natural? Or there’s color in it?”

They exchange quick glances, but no one says anything. Not because they don’t have answers, but because you’re talking. You’re finally talking, words spilling out in a way they rarely get to hear. And it’s not a forced conversation, not dragged out by intimidation or bribery. You’re just… chatting.

They’re terrified of ruining it.

Abby lets out a quiet laugh, not trusting himself to speak. Baby flicks his ash away without looking at you, jaw tight. Romance just smiles and leans in a fraction closer, like your voice is something warm he can curl around. He leans back and lets you keep going, tossing in a hum here, a nod there, like he’s feeding you cues.

But that bikini is criminal. Not just the cut of it, but the way it sits on your skin like it was sewn there. Every time you shift on the towel, all eyes flick down before they can stop themselves.

Baby keeps his face neutral, bored, even, because that’s what he’s good at. But his chest feels tighter, and there’s a part of him that hates how much he likes this view. And the other part? The one that would snuff out Abby and Romance without blinking just to have you alone? He ignores that part. For now. The way the bikini strings curve around your hips, the little knot that’s so easy to pull loose, has his mind darting into dangerous territory. It’s infuriating how he’s already imagined you pressed up against this railing, city lights behind you, your breath catching against his neck. He hates that his thighs feel tense. Hates that his mouth has gone dry. Hates that Abby’s this close to you at all.

It’s your legs. Your back. The way the towel dips under the weight of your hips. The ridiculous, sinful little flash of the bottoms riding up just enough that he can see the curve of you.

He thinks about you moving. Not just walking, but bending forward. Sitting on his lap, uninvited. Dropping that lazy sarcasm to murmur something in his ear before slipping away again, making him grind his teeth because fuck, he wants.

And Baby is cruel in his wants.

He imagines telling you to get up, to step closer, and when you do, pulling you in by the wrist so fast you stumble into his chest. He’d keep the cigarette in his mouth while his free hand traces your spine. You’d smell the smoke and the city on him. And he’d dare you to pull away.

There’s also the fantasy of you kneeling between his legs, hair messy from where he’s gripped it. You lying on your stomach like you are now, except he’s straddling your thighs, hands pinning your wrists. You turning your head just enough to look over your shoulder at him, that petty, quiet little look you give when you want to piss him off, while he pulls those bikini bottoms to the side.

He bites his cigarette filter a little harder than necessary. It trembles just slightly when you shift on your stomach, the curve of your ass tightening under that little scrap of fabric. He thinks about biting it. Not kissing. Biting. Hard enough to make you jolt and glare at him.

God, he hates you. God, he wants you.

Abby is the opposite. He’s practically lounging in his own thirst. He wants to look, so he does. He wants to smirk, so he smirks.

He can hear the rustle of the towel when you adjust, can see the slope of your back and the soft stretch of your legs, and it’s making his pulse climb. He wants to drag his palm down your spine. Slowly. Feel the heat under his hand. See you twitch. He imagines the soft, sweat-slick dip of your waist under his fingers and fuck, he has to look away for a second because his cock’s already stirring. He doesn’t say it, but you’re a little too good at driving him insane just by breathing.

Abby wants to touch. Always. The part of him that’s all athlete, all jock, wants to grab, hips, thigh, wrist, it doesn’t matter. Pull you into his lap and keep you there until you’re laughing or swearing or both.

In his head, it’s a mess. You, hair wet from a pool(where the pool came from, who knows), skin slick under his palms. You tugging him forward by the back of his neck, pressing your mouth to his. You sitting on his counter at midnight, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, swinging your legs while he stands between them, grinning against your lips.

The smell of sunscreen is also messing with him. Sunscreen and your shampoo and whatever faint perfume is still clinging to you from earlier. It’s making his mouth dry.

He imagines tugging at the string on your bikini top, casual, just to “see if it comes loose easy” and watching the knot slide undone like it was begging for it. Imagines flipping you onto your back, the way you’d glare at him while his hands are already on your hips.

He pictures your legs over his shoulders. Pictures your swimsuit tangled around one ankle. You on your knees in front of him, the straps of your bikini top dangling loose because he had to see your tits bare. You, laughing in the sun, drink in hand, until he takes the glass from you and replaces it with his fingers between your lips. You, pinned against this very lounge chair, those pretty legs over his shoulders. You, moaning and swearing at him while the city watches from a thousand windows.

He swallows hard when you roll onto your side, one knee bent, the hem of your bikini bottom pulling just enough to show the start of something that shouldn’t be public viewing. His jeans feel tighter, and he has to shift his weight to hide it.

Romance is too busy trying to ignore the fact that your bikini top is tied in a bow that could come undone with a single tug. His heartbeat’s in his throat, and his skin feels hotter than the damn sun, but he smiles like you’re just another casual conversation. But his mind is all ass ass ass ass ass ass. He pictures leaning over you, fingers brushing your sunglasses aside to see your eyes, mouth trailing over your shoulder. Wonders if your skin tastes like sunscreen and whatever drink you’ve been sipping. It’s pathetic how fast the thought makes his cock twitch in his jeans. He shifts his stance, pretending he’s just stretching, but really he’s trying to adjust himself without you or the others noticing. Not that it matters. They’re all thinking the same shit.

Romance is an artist when it comes to dirty thoughts. He’s creative, shameless, endlessly confident in his ability to make it happen. He imagines taking that drink from your hand, sipping from it himself, watching the way your lips part when he licks the straw. He imagines you stretched out on his bed in that bikini, telling him to behave while you know he won’t. Then the same picture, same bed, but you’re in nothing but that bikini top, strings loose, eyes glassy from how many times he’s made you cum already.

Romance wants to make you blush, but more than that, he wants to make you forget who you’re supposed to hate. He wants your nails in his hair, your breath catching on his name. He wants to take that quiet, stubborn composure you have and fuck it up.

And he knows deep down that if you let him, even once, you’d be hooked. And so would he.

When you adjust your sunglasses, he swears under his breath because the movement makes your chest shift, just enough to imagine how it’d feel under his hands. And now he’s thinking about pushing those glasses up onto your hair while he kisses you so deep you forget your own name.

They’re disgusting. Every single one of them. Every inhale they take is full of you. Every glance they sneak, every twitch of their fingers is a fight to not reach out and see how warm your skin feels under their palms.

If they could hear each other’s thoughts, they’d probably kill each other.

Because Baby’s imagining fucking you in his bed, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Abby’s picturing you riding him slow, head tipped back, sunlight pouring over your skin.

Romance is wondering how long it’d take to get you to say yes if he offered you the world in exchange for one night.

Romance leans back, resting an arm along the back of your chair, his other hand draped over his stomach. He tips his chin toward the interior through the glass door. “Look who’s lurking.”

You follow his gaze.

Inside, past the faint reflection of the skyline, Mystery is standing in the living room. His hair falls into his face as always, hiding most of his eyes, but you can feel the weight of his gaze through the glass.

Romance smirks. “Fucking creep.”

You give him a side-eye. “Don’t be mean.”

“Not being mean.” he says. “He’s just weird.”

They’re snorting at Mystery, not cruelly, exactly, but with that inside joke kind of laugh that only comes from living in each other’s space for too long. Mystery’s clearly part of the pack, but also clearly the one they always rip on. When they’re not making Jinu’s life even worse by not behaving, they’re fucking with poor Mystery.

Inside, Mystery doesn’t move. Just tilts his head slightly, which, coming from him, is the equivalent of saying I heard you, asshole.

You give Mystery a little wave. He lifts one hand in return.

Okay, wait, wait. You were just lying here earlier, in the sun, drink in hand, asking yourself if you’re messed up in the head, and now you’re surrounded by them again, laughing, bantering, letting them into your afternoon like they didn’t kidnap you, like they didn’t torture you, like they didn’t chain you to a chair and ask you over and over about the girls.

That little voice in your head is screaming: “Y/N, no. Not it. This isn’t recovery. Get out.”

You shift in your seat, the towel sticking slightly to the back of your thighs, the bikini top suddenly feeling a little too exposed under all their eyes. Abby’s still leaning in like you’re mid-conversation, Romance has settled way too comfortably next to you, and Baby’s pretending to be bored while smoking but glancing your way every five seconds.

No. Out. Time to get out.

You sit up without a word, and start gathering your things. Book? Closed. Sunglasses? Off.

“Where you going, sweetheart?” Romance asks.

“Inside.” Flat. Clipped. Not giving him anything to work with.

Abby raises his brows, like he knows you’re annoyed and likes it. “Already? We just got here.”

“Mm.” you hum, slipping your towel over your shoulder. “Pity.”

Romance leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We keeping you from something?”

“Yes.”

You hold your drink out toward Abby.

He blinks, points at himself. “For me?”

“Yeah.”

He takes it, grinning, so happy with himself. He doesn’t even care that there’s barely a mouthful left.

You get your things and step back inside, leaving the three boys there.

All three sets of eyes drop.

Straight.

To.

Your.

Ass.

Every step you take makes the sun hit new angles, shadows, curves, the whole fucking picture.

Abby is the most shameless about it. His head tilts a little, following your walk. He takes a slow sip from the drink you handed him without breaking eye contact with your ass. The sunlight catches on the curve of you and he thinks about his hands there, big enough to cover both cheeks, lifting you up against him until your legs are around his waist. He pictures the weight, the sound you’d make when he squeezed too hard, the way you’d squirm just to make him lose it. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to play it cool, but the stretch of his pants tells a different story. He’s picturing a rhythm. A very specific rhythm. One where you’re not just arching your back, you’re bracing yourself.

Romance is worse in a way because he’s quiet about it. Doesn’t even pretend to look at your face. His gaze drags down, lingers, and stays there. He’s thinking about bending you over the balcony railing, that skyline view stretching out behind you while his hands leave marks on your hips. He imagines you arching, glancing back at him with that fuck you glare you always give, only this time, you’re breathless when you do it. He shifts in his seat, casually adjusting himself like he’s just scratching an itch, but the smug curl of his mouth says he’s savoring every step you take.

The way Baby’s cigarette pauses halfway to his lips is almost comical. His eyes flick down, snap back up, and then back down again. Quick. Hungry. The bastard even licks his teeth, then scowls at himself for doing it. He imagines pulling you into his lap just to feel you squirm, just to hear the little noises you’d make when you realized exactly how hard he was. His cigarette hangs forgotten between his fingers, ash curling toward the ground.

Romance turns into his demon form. That’s how you make him feel. Loser.

What you can’t hear anymore, because the door is closed, is Abby looking at Romance and saying “You’re actually pathetic, man.”

And Baby: “Couldn’t even keep it together for five minutes.”

Inside, you tip your chin up, giving Mystery a subtle, wordless eyebrow raise. Not friendly exactly, but… acknowledgment. You’re not rude, after all.

His head tilts just slightly in response, almost imperceptible, and he smiled a little.

And if you’d lingered a second longer, you might have noticed how his gaze followed you too.

You turn the corner and almost walk straight into Jinu. The moment he sees you, his polite, default expression shifts into something a little more… startled.

“You like it?” he asks, voice low.

It takes you a beat to realize he means the balcony privilege.

Your answer is clipped. “Yeah.” Not warm. Not grateful. Not cruel, but not anything like the sweetness you could use if you wanted to. You don’t meet his eyes for long, either, your tone says thanks, but your posture says I’m still pissed, don’t think this makes us friends.

Jinu catches that. His eyes narrow just a fraction, not in annoyance, but in thought. The way you keep moving past him without slowing tells him you’re not about to explain yourself. And maybe… maybe now isn’t the time to try to get an explanation out of you.

So he lets you go.

Physically, at least.

That decision comes with consequences.

Because the second you pass him, Jinu’s gaze absolutely drops.

The curve of your hips. The sway of them. The way the towel over your arm only frames you more. And your ass, Jesus. Perfectly caught between playful bounce and perfect lines.

His throat works as he swallows. The longer he watches, the warmer his skin feels, and there’s no denying the slow tightening low in his stomach.

It’s not just looking. It’s thinking. Thinking about the weight of his hands there. Thinking about pulling you back against him until there’s no space at all. Thinking of you, bent over the arm of the couch in that same bikini, your skin still warm from the sun. His hands braced firm on your hips, fingers pressing into the exact spots he’s looking at now. Thinking about you lying on your stomach on your bed, head turned toward him, and he’s straddling your thighs. His hands smoothing over you, thumbs dragging slow, teasing circles until you’re pressing back into him. That perfect, cruel wiggle of your hips, the same one you just did without even meaning to in the hallway, but this time, it’s for him.

You turn into your room without looking back, door clicking shut behind you.

Jinu’s left standing in the hallway, jaw set, then scrubbing a hand over his face like that’ll erase the image in his head. It doesn’t. He exhales through his nose. Adjusts the front of his pants. And tells himself it’s fine. It’s just looking. Just thoughts.

Your door’s barely clicked shut before you’re walking to the dresser.

The bikini, the balcony, the boys, suddenly it’s all lost its shine. Your fingers tug at the knots behind your back, then at your hips, the fabric loosening and dropping. You don’t even look at it. You grab the first soft, oversized shirt you can find and pull it over your head, then clean panties, shorts, the usual.

It’s not that you felt exposed. It’s not modesty. It’s that suddenly, the game stopped feeling fun.

They’re demons. They are the masters of illusion. They’ve spent centuries perfecting how to be charming, magnetic, irresistible.

You lean back, staring at the ceiling.

It’s almost laughable, if it weren’t so fucking harmful for you. The more they keep you, the more they tease you, the more they bleed into your space… the stronger this weird, sticky thing between you gets.

Not trust. Never trust.

But… connection.

Because humans are wired for it, aren’t they? The stupid, biological need to bond. The way your brain craves touch, craves intimacy, and will latch onto whoever’s there to give it. Even if that person is the same one who fucked you uuuuup.

It makes you want to scream.

Because what if it’s not just biology? What if some fucked up part of you likes this? Likes the attention. Likes the way they look at you.

What if the problem isn’t just them being charming?

What if the problem is you being receptive?

You can hate them for what they’ve done and still, against all reason, crave the warmth in their voices when they say your name. You can know they’re monsters and still shiver when one of them stands too close.

Because intimacy, real or fake, is good for you.

Even though they’re literal demons. Actual inhuman predators who’ve made careers, both in their world and this one, out of deception.

If you’re honest, what’s happening between you and them is… growing. The connection. The familiarity.

They’ve kept you close long enough that you’ve seen them in all their mundane moments, Mystery’s silent pacing, Jinu’s slow morning rituals, Abby’s post-workout glow, Baby’s trashy chain-smoking on the balcony, Romance’s habit of humming under his breath while scrolling his phone. The little things. The things you’re not supposed to notice. And when you do notice them, when you get that sense of I know them, some part of you forgets the part where they once tied you to a chair and asked you questions you refused to answer until your throat was raw.

You think about Abby leaning in close today, blocking out the sun with his shadow, and how your first instinct wasn’t fear, it was to roll your eyes. You think about Baby pretending not to care, but still standing in your space, still looking. You think about Romance’s laugh, Mystery’s patience watching you from the inside, Jinu actually putting effort into your comfort.

They’re supposed to be bad.

They are bad.

So why is it starting to feel… blurred?

Intimacy with bad people doesn’t erase the bad. It just makes it easier to ignore.

Human connection.

It’s such a stupid, simple phrase, but it’s the root of all of it, isn’t it? You’re not built to be completely alone. No one is.

You remember the start. How it wasn’t a blur like people describe in stories. No. It was sharp. Too clear. The shock in your lungs. The bruising grip on your arms. The things they said, things designed to make you scared, not just compliant.

The same mouths that mocked you when you begged for them to stop are now asking if you’ve eaten.

You’ve been starved of real contact outside of them. Starved of safety, even. And yet, the longer you’re with them, the more those moments of quiet, those moments where they’re not actively hurting you, start to feel like they mean something.

You’re fucked up.

There’s no pretty way to spin it. You’ve been kidnapped, threatened, tortured, and somehow, you’re finding ways to coexist with them. Worse, you’re finding parts of them that you don’t hate. Pieces of humanity they probably don’t even want you to see.

It’s their nature.

It’s their nature to take.

It’s their nature to want.

It’s their nature to hurt and to charm in equal measure, like two sides of the same coin.

You’ve known this since the beginning. It was obvious the moment you were dragged into their world, the Saja boys aren’t human in the ways that matter. Sure, they have faces and bodies that fit every fantasy, voices that can soothe or seduce, hands that can be gentle. But at the core? They’re demons. Predators. Takers.

It’s their nature.

The thing developing between you and them… you have a feeling that even if you walked out the door right now, it wouldn’t break.

You imagine it like a thread.

Invisible. Tied somewhere in your chest and knotted into theirs. And you know, you know you could follow it in either direction. If you left, if you could leave, you have the horrible, creeping feeling it wouldn’t end anything. You’d still feel it. Tugging at you. Pulling at you. Whispering you back.

Back to your boys.

Hm.

Your boys.

Not “the Saja boys.” Not “your captors.” Not “the demons who—” No. Your brain served it up clean and warm: your boys.

Weird.

Too intimate. Too personal.

The truth is, and you hate this, they feel like yours sometimes.

That thread pulls, and it doesn’t care that you didn’t tie it yourself.

What if you left? You could picture yourself getting away, finally breathing without the weight of them around you. You could picture sunlight that isn’t filtered through their presence. But… But you can also picture the ache. The missing. That stupid, impossible missing that would follow you until you gave in and let the thread lead you right back here.

Right back to your boys.

Fuck.

Whatever’s binding you to them, it’s not loosening. If anything, it’s winding tighter every day you spend here. And no matter how much you tell yourself you’re still you, still unclaimed, still untouched in the ways that matter…

You’ve already started using the word your.

You tell yourself it’s sick. That no one in their right mind would hold on to that connection after everything they’ve done. That you should be fantasizing about cutting it loose, not following it back. But deep down? If they opened the door right now and said, We’re leaving. You can come with us or stay here forever, you know what you’d do. You’d go. No hesitation. No questions.

Because you know the truth.

You’d always follow the thread.

And it would always lead you back to your boys.

Meanwhile, Romance is stretched out in the sauna, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling around him. His head leans back against the wooden wall, eyes half-lidded, and of course, his mind drifts exactly where you’d expect it to.

You, dripping from the shower, wrapped in his towel, cheeks flushed from heat and a smile you only ever give him. He imagines coaxing you into his lap, your knees on either side of him, his hands sliding up your thighs—

“Oh, don’t stop on my account.” Gwi-Ma says in his head.

Romance actually jerks upright, steam swirling, towel barely holding on. He throws a ladle of water onto the coals, sending up a hiss of steam, muttering curses in latin.

“Imagine her towel slips all the way.” Gwi-Ma’s voice purrs inside his head, “but she’s not looking at you. She’s looking at someone else.”

Baby’s sprawled in the bath, cigarette in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other, one leg hooked lazily over the edge. Steam curls in the air. He likes baths, but not the waiting, so he’s lying in it half-full, the air warm enough to keep him lazy. He’s thinking about you in a way that’s not even subtle, you, walking in here, rolling your eyes at him like you always do, but instead of turning around to leave, you’d sigh, mutter “move over”, and slip into the tub with him.

He can picture it too well. Your legs brushing his under the water, his hand drifting along your thigh until you either smack it away or pull it closer.

Or you’d sit on the edge of the tub, knees pressing against his arm. He’d keep his voice bored, maybe take a slow sip from his glass before offering it to you. And when you take it? He’d hook two fingers in the strap of your swimsuit, tug you toward the water—

“Pathetic.”

He ignores Gwi-Ma’s voice, and his head tilts to the side, going back to thinking about you, how you’d straddle his lap, water spilling over the edge, your hands pushing his wet hair back.

“Oh, Baby~” Gwi-Ma purrs. “Want me to scrub your back?”

He’s fucking hilarious OKAY?!

Well, Baby doesn’t think so.

“You’d try that, and she’d laugh in your face. Get out of the tub, she’d say.”

Baby flips the middle finger at no one in particular. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You think you’re funny.”

Gwi-Ma leaves him alone for a few minutes. Lets the fantasy build… and build… until Baby’s almost smiling. Then he floods Baby’s head with the sound of every second that left him traumatized. Which is a lot, btw.

The cigarette goes out in the tub when Baby dunks himself under just to get away from the hallucination.

Abby’s still outside, the sun warm on his bare chest, legs spread on the chair. He’s pretending to watch the skyline, but in reality, his brain is feeding him a very explicit daydream. You, in that bikini, climbing into his lap. The chair’s too small for both of you, so you end up on top, leaning back against his chest, your hair tickling his jaw. He’d slide a hand under the towel around your waist, lips brushing your ear—

And suddenly Gwi-Ma is there.

Not next to him. Not behind him. On his lap.

Wearing the bikini.

The exact same shade. The exact same way the straps tug at the skin. And leaning back just like you would, sighing contentedly.

There’s actually nobody funnier than Gwi-Ma when it comes to fucking with Abby. Plus Abby doesn’t even know how to imagine Gwi-Ma as a human, and the shape wearing the bikini doesn’t look like anything, but his brain knows that it’s Gwi-Ma. Gwi-Ma makes him know.

Abby freezes. “Get off.” he growls.

“Oh, don’t be shy, big guy.” Gwi-Ma purrs, wriggling against him. “Nice tits, right?”

FUNNIEST. THING. ALIVE.

Abby would laugh if Gwi-Ma was doing this to someone else, but he’s doing it to Abby and suddenly it’s not so funny anymore. And he knows that if Gwi-Ma had a human body, that would be doubled over laughing right now.

Jinu’s in his room. He’s stretched on the bed, and his brain won’t let go of the image of you walking into his room, thanking him for the swimsuit when he was brushing his teeth.

Or you’d be there, sitting on his bed, wearing one of his shirts because you “couldn’t find anything else” hair still a little damp from a shower. You’d glance over at him while he works, legs tucked under you, smiling when he meets your eyes.

Then Gwi-Ma’s voice: “You’re so sweet, Jinu…”

Jinu closes his eyes, counts to ten, and tries to remember how to breathe. Gwi-Ma’s laugh doesn’t help.

“You’ll never have it. She’ll never look at you like that.”

The fantasies shred apart, replaced with flashes of the first night. Your voice, your panic, your fists hitting his chest. Jinu breathes deep, steady, pushing the images back, but they stick.

Mystery’s at the kitchen counter, sipping something cold, watching the little water droplets drip down the glass. He imagines you sitting across from him, spinning that little straw in your drink, legs curled under you. You’d tilt your head, hair falling over your shoulder, and you’d talk to him. And then you’d smile.

“You think she trusts you? You think she’d still smile at you if she knew what you’d do if you had the chance?” Gwi-Ma, c’mon, you know that’s just not nice. “She’d run. She’d scream. She’d hate you. And you’d still follow her, wouldn’t you? Like the dog you are.”

Mystery’s fingers curl against his bicep. He doesn’t growl often when no one’s around, but now? The sound rumbles deep in his throat.

Five boys, five different fantasies of you.

Five boys, five different ways Gwi-Ma knows exactly where to stick the knife.

Still, none of them has any intention of giving up on you. No matter how bad they are. No matter how many horrible things they’ve done.

Because they’re selfish. So selfish.

In the morning, you didn’t even crack your door until the entire place was silent. You didn’t want to talk to them. Not at all. Thought about that maybe your hot and cold behavior is annoying to them, but then you realized that they fucking deserve it.

You wait.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Twenty.

Until finally, you hear the front door shut.

You don’t want them around.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

(…Liar.)

It’s not about fear, not anymore. If you were going to break under their methods, it would’ve happened weeks ago. You’ve survived their intimidation, their boredom, their erratic moods, and yes, the “unspeakable crimes” they’ve committed in between and before you. The bloody, ugly reality of who they are doesn’t scare you the way it should.

You still need them.

Not in the way they need you, that messy, obsessed, barely contained yearning that makes them circle you. But in a quieter, more pathetic way. Because the need for other people? You can’t rip that out of yourself. And whether you like it or not, you’re connected to them. The long nights trapped together. The accidental moments of softness in between the tension. The way their presence fills up the air, makes it warm, makes it feel like something. You can’t replace that with silence.

You pad into the kitchen, bare feet against the polished floor, and find the space exactly as you knew it would be, abandoned mid-motion. Mugs left in the sink. Baby’s half crushed cigarette pack on the counter next to a bottle of some alcohol. Jinu’s jacket hanging off a chair.

Evidence of them. Proof that they exist in this space, in your space.

You make coffee. Not because you need it, you’ve been running on adrenaline and spite for months, but because you want to do something. So bad.

It is boring without them, you can admit that.

But you don’t want them here. (You do.)

You don’t miss them when they’re gone. (You do.)

You don’t need them. (…You really, really might.)

You take your coffee to the living room and curl up on the couch, mug warming your hands. The city sprawls out below the windows. So huge, so full of strangers, all of them living lives, affected or unaffected by the Saja boys.

You could be one of those strangers.

But you’re not.

You’re here.

And part of you, the part you hate most, is glad.

After the coffee and the empty apartment failed to fix the weird hollowness in your chest, you ended up out on the balcony.

For the whole damn day.

You set up a camp again, the same big towel draped across the lounge chair, drink on the little side table, sunglasses, your book.

It wasn’t about tanning. It was about existing outside without a chain around your ankle, even if that “freedom” was only twelve feet from a sliding glass door that could lock you in again at any second.

People could never understand how good this felt. No one could ever get it, that raw, animal relief in your chest when you’re reminded the world is still out there, that it’s bigger than the walls someone built around you.

It wasn’t just air and sun.

It was proof that life kept moving without them, without you, without the violence and paranoia and demon blood.

Were the girls moving on without you?

It was almost dark when you finally noticed the creeping chill on your skin, the way the light had gone from honey to blue. You stretched, slow and lazy, and watched the first streetlights flicker on below.

The sun was gone.

The day was done.

And you’d taken all of it for yourself.

You went inside. You dressed up, so you won’t be walking around in a bikini. Then you entertained yourself the best you could. Cooking something small in the kitchen. (You didn’t even set any aside for them, pointedly.) Playing with the tiger until it rolled over and allowed you the supreme honor of scratching its stomach without losing your hand. Changing Abby’s Netflix profile picture to something he would hate if it was any of the boys who did it, but you know he’ll love it because you changed it. Trying on a few clothes. Sat down with the bird for chess.

It was simple.

You loved simple.

Then, the slam of the front door.

Baby’s voice is the first you hear, sarcastic, pitched in that bratty way that says he’s been roasting someone since the elevator ride. Abby’s louder, talking over him just to win the volume war.

You hear Jinu’s voice, low but annoyed. “Could you not shove that there? It’s gonna—”

BANG.

“…fall. Yep. Perfect.”

Then Abby, laughing, “Lighten up, man, you’re so—”

THUD.

You hear the distinct sound of a zipper. Then Romance’s voice again, smug, unbothered, slightly breathless. “Stop looking. I’m just—adjusting.”

“Uh-huh.” Baby mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You are disgusting.” Abby adds helpfully.

“Jealous.” Romance fires back without missing a beat.

“Hi, Y/N.” Jinu says first.

“Hi, Y/N.” Abby echoes, but it’s drawn-out and sing-song, like he’s already planning on annoying you for the next half hour.

Baby sounds unbothered. “Hi, Y/N.”

Romance, of course, drags it out: “Hiii, Y/N.” While doing the mom wave.

Mystery watches the others throw their things around. “Hi, Y/N.”

You don’t look up.

Not once.

Not when Abby “accidentally” bumps the back of the couch with his hip hard enough to jostle you.

Not when Baby lingers too close, clearly trying to see what you’re doing.

Not when Romance sighs dramatically.

You sip your water like they’re not even there.

They’re trying to draw you out. Some subtle. Some… not. Cabinets slam open. Something clatters into the sink. There’s the unmistakable hiss of a soda can opening followed by Baby muttering, “That was mine” and Abby responding “Not anymore.”

“Y/N.” Jinu calls over his shoulder, voice still annoyingly kind. “You eat yet?”

You hum noncommittally. Not a yes. Not a no.

Abby drops something heavy and swears. Romance starts telling a story, except it derails halfway through when Baby calls him out on it being fake. Jinu tries to hand Baby a dish towel, Baby throws it at Abby’s head instead. Mystery opens a cupboard, closes it, opens another, and you swear you hear him mutter something about “salt.”

You keep ignoring them. Not because you’re mad. (Not entirely.) Not because you don’t want to see them. (You do.)

But because giving in and stepping out there now? That means they win. And you cannot, cannot, hand these five dipshits the satisfaction of knowing they can lure you out with noise and chaos alone.

So you sit. And you listen. And you pretend you don’t feel the corners of your mouth twitch every time one of them says something stupid enough to make the others laugh.

“Y/N, you thirsty?” Abby calls out after catching his breath.

Romance doesn’t even bother with subtlety. “I’ll bring you a drink, sweetheart. Then you’ll have to say thank you.”

Abby: “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? You want me to get you some the next time we’re out?”

Ignore.

“Did you do anything today?” Jinu asks.

“Did you read that book you were talking about?” Romance, watching your face.

You give them nothing. Just little “mm” sounds or not even that.

Abby leans halfway into the living room. “Do you ever wonder if fish know they’re in water?”

You pause, glance up briefly. “…No.”

Baby joins in, flicking ash into the sink. “If you had to eat one of us, who would taste the best?”

You don’t answer, because there’s no good response to that one.

It’s not just weird, it’s off.

The rhythm is wrong.

The tone’s wrong.

They’re trying, but… The questions aren’t curious so much as… unpracticed. Like they’re piecing together what “small talk” should be.

“How long has it been,” you say slowly. “since you had anything to do with humans?”

Silence.

They all just… look at you.

You can see it in their faces, you’ve touched a nerve. Not one they’re ashamed of, exactly, but one they’d rather not poke at in front of you.

They’re not bad at human talk, they just… aren’t human. Not anymore. Sure, they’ve got the appearance down. The clothes, the slang, the little modern habits they’ve picked up. But peel that away and there’s something else underneath, like the part of them that used to belong to humanity has been worn down to bone.

They’ve been apart from people, real people, for so long that they’ve forgotten the rhythm of humanity. Forgotten what normal connection sounds like.

And yeah… that’s actually kind of sad.

You lean back. “Sit down.”

Jinu sits down next to you. Abby flops down beside him with zero hesitation, a hand over Jinu’s shoulders. Mystery and Baby(who rolled his eyes and muttered “whatever”) sat down on either side of you, and yes, Baby had to squeeze himself between you and Jinu just so that he could 1. sit next to you, 2. fuck with Jinu. This is the only time Romance wasn’t the fastest, so he’s not that close for once.

They’re happy to be here.

With you.

“So let me get this straight,” you start, leaning back into the couch cushions while they all sit around you. “you only talk to your fans and me?”

There’s a collective shuffling, a few exchanged glances.

“You do interact with fans.” you press.

“Yeah,” Abby says. “when we’re signing stuff or onstage. You know.“

“So,” you continue. “outside of those moments, your social interaction is basically… me.”

There’s a pause, then five simultaneous, unapologetic “Yeah.”

You blink at them. “No wonder you sound like this.”

Baby doesn’t look at you. “Small talk’s boring.”

“Small talk’s human.” you counter. “It’s how people connect.”

Mystery tilts his head, hair falling. “We don’t need to connect. We already know each other.”

“That’s not the point.” You sit forward now, scanning all of them. “If you’re gonna live here and pretend to be normal celebrities, you have to at least sound like you’re part of the species you’re pretending to be.”

Romance raises his brows. “We’ve got Jinu for that.”

Jinu sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve tried. Trust me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” you say. “but clearly you failed, because they’re obviously not following whatever you told them.”

That earns you a round of offended noises, Abby’s exaggerated gasp, Baby’s scoff, Mystery nods, he can accept that. Romance just smiles, whatever you say about him he obviously likes.

You clap your hands together. “Alright. You don’t,” you say, looking directly at Baby. “start a conversation with cannibalism.”

Baby doesn’t look remotely ashamed. “It’s a valid question.”

“It’s a weird question.” you shoot back.

Mystery mutters something low that sounds suspiciously like, “Depends on the context” but you ignore him.

You point at Jinu. “Now, you. Give me an example of a normal opener.”

Jinu thinks for a second. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“Good.” you say, nodding. “Simple. Human. Non-threatening.”

You turn to Abby. “Your turn.”

Abby flashes you his most dazzling grin. “What’s your star sign?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Doesn’t always work.”

You keep going, making them throw examples at you while you swat down the creepy ones. Eventually, you start adding body language tips too.

“Okay, so when you’re listening to someone, you don’t just stare unblinking at them like you’re waiting for them to die.”

“That’s just Mystery’s face.” Baby says.

You glance at Mystery, who’s sitting still, hair curtaining his eyes, hands resting loosely in his lap. “…Yeah, but you can tilt your head a little. Nod sometimes. It makes people feel like you care.”

Mystery obliges by tilting his head toward you slightly. The effect is… honestly devastating.

“Not like you’re about to pounce.” you clarify quickly. “Next tip,” you say, pointing at Abby. “don’t stand too close. Humans like personal space.”

Abby leans back. “You don’t.”

“I really do. And when someone’s talking about something they like,” you go on. “ask follow-up questions. Show interest.”

“That’s easy.” Romance says. “Just pretend it’s about you.”

“No,” you snap. “you’re supposed to listen.”

You get into examples.

“Like, say I tell you I’ve been to the beach sixty-nine times—”

You don’t get further because Romance lets out a stifled giggle.

Your eyes narrow. “Really?”

He’s trying so hard to keep a straight face, lips pressed together, but you can see he’s about to laugh. In his head, you know exactly what’s happening: hehe funny sex number.

From there, you make them practice. You give them scenarios: meeting a stranger at a coffee shop, bumping into someone at a store, talking to a fan after a concert.

They… do okay. Jinu’s naturally good at it, obviously. Abby can charm but keeps pushing the line into flirty territory. Baby manages one normal conversation before devolving into sarcasm. Mystery actually listens when you talk, even if he doesn’t say much back. Romance… well. He’s clearly capable, but every time you give him a prompt, he twists it into something suggestive just to see your reaction.

You’ve got your head in your hands and they’re all either smirking, shutting the fuck up, or looking quietly pleased with themselves.

But for all the ways they’ve scared you, hurt you, and turned your life inside out… they’re still people. People who’ve forgotten how to be human. And you can’t help wondering what they’d be like if they remembered.

You suddenly picture what it must be like, to be trapped in their own weird, beautiful, cursed little world, no one around who treats them like just… people.

“There was a boyfriend I had in high school—“

It’s almost comedic how the air changes.

Oh, they hate this. Perfect.

“You had a boyfriend?” Abby asks, voice tight.

“I’ve had several.” you say cheerfully, ignoring the way they all visibly bristle. “That’s the point. The more personal details you share, the more the other person feels like they can share too.”

Romance leans forward, forearms on his knees. “And how many boyfriends are we talking, exactly?”

“Enough to have learned what I don’t like.”

He presses his tongue to his cheek. Mystery’s head turns an almost unnoticeable degree toward you. Baby mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like slut, but in the kind of way that’s 50% insult and 50% jealousy.

“So,” you continue like you don’t notice their collective mood curdling. “this one guy I dated was terrible at conversations. Always turned everything back to himself. And if you asked him a question, he’d answer with one word.”

Mystery gets a faint twitch at that, just enough for you to catch it.

“So if you don’t want to be that guy,” you tell them. “you need to show genuine curiosity. Ask questions back. Keep the ball rolling.”

Jinu nods, but his voice is a little tighter when he asks, “And… how long were you with him?”

“A year.” you say. “Yeah. We were young, it wasn’t serious—”

“You don’t date someone for a year if it’s not serious.” Abby cuts in, petty.

You tilt your head, smiling just enough to be infuriating. “Guess it depends on the definition of serious, doesn’t it?”

Romance leans back, arms crossed. “Okay, what about the others?”

You pretend to think. “Let’s see… there was the guy in college who cooked for me all the time—”

Abby immediately: “I can cook.”

You keep going. “—but he couldn’t handle it if I had male friends—”

Baby, muttering: “Smart guy.”

“—and there was the one who always remembered little things I liked—”

Jinu’s voice cuts in: “That’s important.”

“—and the one who was very… physically affectionate—”

That earns you a look from all five.

“I’m telling you this because when you’re talking to people, personal details matter. They make you real. If you want someone to feel close to you, you share stories they can picture. Like… my ex was into restaurants, so we—”

“Why are we talking about him?” Baby mutters, eyes narrowed.

“Because,” you snap. “you remember details about people you care about, and you bring them up later. It’s how you build connections.”

Romance leans in, voice low. “Connections, huh? Did you—”

“Don’t.” You point at him sharply. You glance at Jinu. “Ask me something about one of them.”

He pauses, then: “Why did it end?”

“Perfect question.” you say, ignoring how the others are all watching you. “I tell you it ended because we wanted different things, and then you can relate to it. Maybe you tell me about a time you wanted something different than someone else. See? Conversation. Connection.”

Mystery’s voice comes low and even, the first time he’s spoken in minutes. “What did you want that he didn’t?”

You glance at him, surprised by the directness. “Freedom. Space.”

BOOM. Y/N’s the boss everybody.

You start throwing them more examples from your own life, funny dates gone wrong, fights over stupid things, sweet moments that didn’t last. They hang on every word.

Not because they’re learning, though that’s happening too. But because you’re giving them pieces of yourself. Pieces they didn’t have before. And for five people who have made a hobby out of cornering you, it’s intoxicating.

Of course, they can’t help themselves.

“So… were any of them better looking than me?” Abby asks, straight-faced but with that glint in his eye.

“Obviously not.” you joke.

“Good answer.” he says.

Romance leans forward, voice smooth. “Which one kissed you best?”

You raise a brow. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You tell more little stories. Not the deep, emotional ones, just surface-level things that make your point. The boyfriend in high school who tried to impress you by juggling knives (and almost lost a finger). The one who bought you flowers. The one who learned to cook just to make you breakfast everyday.

They hate every single one. But they eat it up. Not because they like the idea of you with anyone else—clearly, they don’t—but because it’s you talking about yourself. It’s new information. New pieces of you they can add to whatever obsessive little shrine they keep in their heads. And every time you say, “When I was with—” you can practically hear the teeth grinding.

“You’re all missing the point.” you say. “I’m telling you this so you understand, human connections come with history. You have to respect that, even if you don’t like it. Pretending it didn’t happen just makes you look insecure.”

They don’t look convinced. But they’re listening.

“Alright.” you switch gears. “So, say you’re trying to make someone feel comfortable.” you say, turning toward Mystery. He’s the safest bet here. “You close the distance slowly…”

You shift forward, resting your hand lightly on his forearm. His head dips almost imperceptibly, and you feel the muscle under your fingers go tense.

“…and then you give them a reassuring touch. Nothing too long. Just enough to say, ‘I’m here.’”

Mystery doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. If it weren’t for the faint shift of his breathing, you’d think you’d broken him.

Abby looks at Mystery. “Respect, man.”

“Alright, Baby, your turn.” you say, moving toward him.

He scoffs, leaning back like he’s already above this. “You’re not gonna—”

You cut him off by resting your hand on his shoulder, thumb brushing lightly across the fabric of his shirt. His entire posture goes rigid.

“…The hell is this supposed to teach me?” he asks, but his voice has dropped half an octave.

“That touch is grounding.” you say sweetly. “Makes the other person feel seen. It’s subtle. Humans like subtle.”

He snorts, but doesn’t pull away. “Humans are weird.”

“Yep.” You pull back, ignoring the way his eyes follow you.

The others are not so lucky.

You keep the lesson going for over an hour, moving between physical cues, listening skills, and how to keep a conversation flowing. You tell them about how your mom always touched your elbow when she wanted you to know she was proud, or how one of your friends would always mirror your posture without realizing it.

They’re learning. Not just the fake social skills you’re trying to drill into them, but you. And you can tell they like that a little too much.

You should despise them. And you do, in the logical part of your mind. But logic doesn’t reach down into whatever deep, twisted place in you is quietly warmed by their attention. And there’s fear, too. The fear that you’re becoming like them. That you’re adapting too well. That they’re your boys.

You want to tell them to get out of your space.

You also want to keep them here, just like this.

You clear your throat, breaking the tension. “Alright. My turn to ask something.”

Abby raises a brow. “Go ahead.”

“What did you guys do today?” you ask, keeping your tone breezy.

There’s a tiny, synchronized pause. Just a heartbeat too long.

“Stuff.” Baby says immediately.

Romance nods. ���Work.”

“Shopping.” Jinu adds. They didn’t bring anything home. They did not go shopping.

Mystery just sits in silence.

You’re not dumb, you know there’s always something they’re not telling you. Probably something bloody. Maybe something that would make you slam your door and stay in your room for the next week. But the fact that they all keep their answers shallow almost makes you want to laugh. They’re like kids caught with candy.

“Tell me something. Anything. Small.” You say.

Abby thinks for a second. “I once stole an entire case of beer from a truck without them noticing.”

“That’s not—” you sigh. “Okay, but that’s not exactly human small talk, Abby.”

Romance lifts a hand. “I can touch my tongue to my nose.”

“That’s… mildly disturbing, but thank you for sharing.”

Baby looks at you like you’re annoying. “I hate pineapple.”

You blink. “See, that’s actually good. That’s something normal people talk about.”

Mystery’s voice is so soft you almost miss it. “I like thunderstorms.”

You pause, then nod. “Better. See? You’re getting it.”

It’s simple conversation, but each answer lands heavier than it should. Not because of the words, but because of the vulnerability beneath them. They’re not used to telling anyone anything.

You find yourself smiling just a little. And that’s your cue to stop. Because if you keep going, you’re going to forget who you’re talking to.

You can’t take it anymore. Your voice comes out sharper than you meant when you say, “Alright, that’s it. Good night.”

You stand up before they can react, turning toward the hall.

You stop halfway, turn just enough to catch Jinu’s eye.

“Actually,” you say, voice casual but your heart hammering. “can you get… butter, sugar, flour, milk? And vanilla, if you can find good stuff.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “For what?”

“Cupcakes.”

He nods once. “Write me a list.”

You nod back. “Okay.”

Then you’re gone, retreating into your room before you can do something stupider, like smile.

You’ve barely shut your door before you pause. You crack your door open an inch and shout down the hall, loud enough for all of them to hear: “Y’know, people usually say good night.”

There’s a half-second of stunned silence.

“Good night, Y/N!” Jinu, steady, like he’s done this before.

“Night, sweetheart!” Romance, dripping with that teasing purr.

“’Night.” Baby, sounding like it physically pained him to form the word.

“Sleep well!” Abby, you can hear him flex.

“…Good night.” Mystery, actually trying to be loud so you can hear it.

…Pfft.

You shut it again, but not before they hear the tiny huff of laughter you didn’t manage to swallow. It’s not even about the words. It’s the fact that they all did it instantly. Like you told them to jump and they just did. Maybe it’s because somewhere in those stubborn brains of theirs, they want to do what you tell them.

You flop back onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.

This is so fucked.

If this isn’t a sign of some sort of mental problem, you don’t know what is.

In the living room though, five demons sit there, motionless.

“Ew, get off me.” Baby shoves Abby’s knee away from where it’s resting too close.

Abby shoves back, not even looking at him. “Wasn’t on you.”

“Get your bony-ass leg away from me.” Romance says to Baby, shoving him.

“You wish you could get near my leg.” Baby says.

“Dude.” Abby mutters, pulling his arm off Jinu’s shoulder as if Jinu was the one clinging.

Romance leans away from Mystery, who hasn’t moved an inch but is unfortunately sitting close enough to touch. “Dude. Personal space.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up.”

“You’re gross.”

“Ew, don’t touch me, your hand’s sweaty.”

“You’re sweaty.”

“No, you are.”

Jinu just sighs and leans back, pretending he’s above all this, but his hand still subtly adjusts the waistband of his pants, like it’s nothing, totally casual, not because he’s painfully aware that sitting next to you earlier had him half-hard for no good reason. Nope. Totally casual. Then he stands up and walks away. Romance stands abruptly, tugging his shirt straight and running a hand through his hair before leaving. Abby follows a moment later, but not before flicking Baby in the forehead. Baby growls, actually growls, and slaps at his arm without even looking. Mystery gets up silently, stretching his shoulders. He disappears down the hall without a word. Baby mutters something under his breath, and heads for the balcony.

And just like that, the living room is empty.

Jinu feels you in his pulse. Literally. His heart is beating faster than it should for a five-second exchange over groceries. You didn’t even touch him. But you looked at him like he was capable of giving you something. Even if it’s groceries, dude. That’s the problem. That little moment where you stopped, turned, and asked for something as normal as cupcake ingredients, he’s never wanted to say yes to anything faster in his life.

It’s pathetic.

And it’s already done. He’s picturing you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy, eyes down as you stir batter. He’s picturing licking frosting off your fingers.

Jinu swallows hard and drags a hand over his face. He’ll buy everything on that list. He’ll probably buy extras. Not because he cares about baking, god no, but because that frosting licking picture… Yeah. He wants that in real life.

He’s still got your voice in his head. Still sees that tilt of your head when you asked, the faint spark in your eyes like you knew he’d say yes.

It’s not about the damn cupcakes. It’s about the fact that you asked him. Not Abby, not Romance. Him.

And now he’s thinking about what it would be like if that was just… normal. If you lived with him because you wanted to. If you asked him to pick up things because you were making dinner together. If you leaned against his chest while you read out your grocery list into his phone.

God, he feels ridiculous. This is not what they do. But his pulse is high, his palms are warm, and he’s still fighting the stupid urge to smile.

He doesn’t just want you, he needs you(to fill him up) It’s not just lust (though, god, the way his heartbeat jumps when you lean too close makes him wonder if his chest is going to crack open one of these days). It’s everything. And just the thought of someone else touching you, laughing with you the way you sometimes (reluctantly) laugh with him makes his jaw tighten. Makes his fingers itch with something that’s definitely not gentlemanly at all. He’s not above admitting that he’s jealous of men who you don’t even talk to anymore. He hates them all the same. Because they had you, even for a moment, and Jinu’s living in a constant state of wondering if he’ll ever get that chance.

Romance has been with people before. Too many people. Pretty people. Dangerous people. People who purr back when he purrs at them.

But you? You’re not giving him anything. And that, god, that’s making him insane. He hates that you can just… exist in the same room, and he’s already restless, adjusting his pants like a teenager. He hates that he wants to push your door open right now, lean against the frame, and say something stupid enough to make you roll your eyes. Because that’s all he wants, your attention, even if it’s annoyed. Nobody wants that cookie like he does.

And yes, he’s that guy. The guy who gets all worked up from the smallest interaction and immediately needs to… deal with it. Because you, sitting there, teaching them, looking so serious and so pretty, using your hands when you spoke, he can’t get it out of his head. You’re so human, and that drives him insane in a way nothing else does.

He’s already imagining how it’d be if you were his. And of course, his imagination isn’t exactly G-rated. But even in his filthiest daydreams, there’s this annoying sweetness, like you’d kiss him after you yelled at him, like you’d fall asleep on his chest after.

He knows how to treat women so right that they fall straight into his arms, but with you, it’s impossible for him to use that knowledge for some reason. Not just because he wants to get into your pants (though he really does), but because he can’t stop himself. He likes the way you react. He likes when you roll your eyes, when you shoot back with something. He likes that you keep rejecting him, because it means he gets to keep trying.

Romance is—

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Romance is already—Romance, can you stop humping your pillow? I— oh, he’s… he’s really going at it, okay.

Look, you can’t blame him. The ex-boyfriend stuff? Oh, that’s a nightmare for him. It’s not just jealousy, it’s obsession. Who were they? What did they do to make you like them? Did they touch you the way he wants to?

It gets so bad that he catches himself grinding into his pillow, imagining your voice in his ear and hating himself for it. Not enough to stop, though. Never enough to stop. Romance lives for attention, but yours? That’s a different drug. And like all good addictions, it’s rotting him from the inside out.

Two minutes later, if anyone cared to listen, they’d hear his headboard hitting the wall in a steady rhythm.

Romance is coping.

Abby knows you’re hot. He knows you’re off-limits. He knows you’re too human for him to ever not break. And yet here he is, sitting on his bed, grinning to himself because you were a little petty tonight. He loves when you’re petty.

It’s a spark in you. A flick of teeth. And it makes him want to pull it out of you more and more, until maybe you’re laughing instead of sighing. Or maybe you’re moaning instead of talking.

But it’s more than that. Way more. You asking Jinu for cupcake stuff made him picture you feeding him one. Like, literally holding it to his mouth. He’s not proud of that, but the image is stuck. And now his chest feels too tight, his palms are restless, and he wants to throw something just to get it out of his system. He probably will. But it won’t help. He’s had entire clubs screaming his name. He’s had people offer him their souls on a plate. But a single ask for groceries that wasn’t even directed to him has his chest hot. Anytime you’re near, his pulse kicks up, his palms get sweaty, and his mouth gets dry, which he hates, because he’s supposed to be smooth.

There’s this picture in his head, you, on his arm. Not just standing next to him, but on him. Holding onto his bicep when you laugh, looking up at him when some guy gets too close, leaning against him at a party while his massive frame makes you look even smaller.

You’d look so good together, and he knows it. He’d show you off. Hell, he’d brag about you. Let the whole damn human world see that you were his.

And yeah, he’d still be an asshole, still tease you, still toss you over his shoulder when you annoyed him, but in his head, you’d be smiling while you hit him for it.

Every time you mentioned an ex, he felt like someone shoved a hand into his chest and twisted. It’s not even about whether they were better-looking than him (impossible, in his humble opinion). It’s the idea that you once smiled for someone else the way he wants you to smile for him. It burns in him, this restless, territorial heat. He’s not even thinking about the torture or the kidnapping or the months you’ve spent here, he’s thinking about how unfair it is that anyone got to press their mouth to yours before he did. (It’s so fair, he’s a horrible man who deserves to suffer.)

He convinces himself he’s more man than all of them combined. He hates them. All of them. Thinks they were probably half his size, half his presence, half his everything.

He’s just really insecure. Not about his looks, no. Of his worth.

Baby plays it cool. Always. Except his blood’s hot right now, and he’s pretending not to notice. He hated how you didn’t even glance his way when you left. Or maybe he liked it. He can’t tell anymore. But the second you turned back for Jinu, his stomach dropped. Not in a jealous way (he tells himself), just… in a way. Cupcakes. Of all things. Innocent. Taste good. And it hit him like a train, this picture of you leaning over a counter, tasting batter with your finger, licking it clean without thinking about it.

He had to adjust his pants when no one was looking.

Cupcakes? Whatever. Stupid human dessert. But the way you’d said it, casual and soft, like you trusted Jinu to make it happen, that’s what’s stuck in his head.

Why not him? Why didn’t you ask him?

And the boyfriends, fuck the boyfriends. If he could, he’d hunt down every last one and make them regret ever breathing near you. The thought of you laughing for someone else, kissing someone else. It burns.

And yeah, maybe he’d never admit it out loud, but he’s thought about how it would be if you actually liked him back. How you’d probably roll your eyes at everything he said but still take his jacket when you were cold. How you’d never admit you wanted him but still end up tangled in his bed sheets.

It’s infuriating, because he can control himself in literally every other situation, but the second you glance at him with that unimpressed little look, his pulse kicks into overdrive. His palms sweat. His mouth goes dry.

Mystery always thinks so much. His brain is always working. You picked Jinu tonight, sure. You asked him for something. But Mystery caught the way you glanced around first, like maybe you wanted them all to hear it. Like maybe you wanted to see who’d react.

And he reacted.

He’s picturing you in the kitchen, light on your bare legs, your hair messy from sleep. He’s picturing watching you without you knowing. Just watching until you felt him there.

It’s worse than bloodlust. It’s deeper. He can’t stop picturing you telling him to do things in that voice of yours—not orders, exactly, just… suggestions. Gentle ones. Like, “Mystery, come here.” And he would. Every time. No hesitation. He knows he would spoil you without even meaning to. Fetch you whatever you wanted. Carry you if you were tired. Let you braid his hair even though he’d grumble about it.

And maybe that’s pathetic. Maybe that’s why he stays quiet. But fuck, he’d do anything you said.

When you mentioned a past boyfriend, Mystery’s first thought isn’t “I hate him” so much as Where is he? How fast can I remove him from existence? Not that he’d ever admit that aloud.

You’re the only human he speaks to. The only human he’s let get this close without baring his teeth. That makes you his, whether you accept it or not.

Five demons. Five sets of thoughts you’ll never know about.

Five men who’ve killed without blinking, now sitting in their rooms with their hearts beating too fast over a human girl asking for cupcake ingredients.

It’s pathetic. It’s sweet. And it’s already far too late for them to stop.

Thank you my loves for the memes💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[kazeniya]

I CAN SEE YOU

track 13: skyshi

NOTE: new sem starts on monday grr >:(( i barely had a week of break i hate college

I CAN SEE YOU — scara x reader smau

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[kazeniya]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 8

AN: guys I just remembered in a part I mentioned Baby being the youngest, it’s not because of the whole infantilized character, it’s because he’s such a bitch and so disrespectful!! Dunno if this makes sense. Anyway this is part of my characterization, trust. Also I’m sorry for the lack of Baby and Mystery content, but that’s because each boy needs their own pace to come around and they’re a little harder to crack!!

cw: implied female reader, she/her used, cursing, handcuffing, heavy nsfw mentions, lots of jerking off, reader being a fucking boss, Stockholm Syndrome developing, begging, pathetic men, Romance and Abby almost kissing, me not knowing shit about doors so tell me if I wrote smth dumb

It’s 5:47 A.M.

You’re not sleeping. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair an absolute crime, wearing a hoodie and no pants. In your lap? A fucking wrench.

You are undoing the front door.

Not unlocking it. Not sneaking out. You are physically disassembling the door. You’ve got screws scattered across the floor, hinges half-loose, and a thin line of sweat on your brow. There’s a bite mark on your lower lip from where you’ve been gnawing at it.

“Stupid ass… demon-infested… male whores—”

click

Another screw. Progress.

You are removing. The. Door.

“Mornin’.”

You freeze.

Two silhouettes approach down the hall, backlit by early morning gold. One tall, one taller. Robes, muscles, smugness.

Jinu’s in his robe, hair messy from sleep. He’s got a coffee mug in hand and the patience of a saint, or a man who thinks he’s got you wrapped around his stupid pretty finger. Abby is shirtless. Wearing some low-slung joggers, and he’s got an arm slung lazily around Jinu’s shoulders. Go back sixty nine-ing you fucking assholes.

You go back to the hinge you’re unscrewing.

“Still trying the door?” Abby grins, voice sleep-hoarse, leaning against the frame like it’s all so casual. “You missed a bolt near the bottom.”

Jinu sips his coffee. “She’ll find it.“

You don’t answer.

“You want the manual?” Jinu adds.

You ignore them, now pulling at the top hinge.

“Y’know,” Abby continues. “if you use a hairdryer on low heat over the center seal, it could melt it a little. Might shave a few hours off this whole process.”

“You know this won’t work.” Jinu says gently.

You don’t look at him.

“You’ll get past the locks, sure. Maybe even crack the containment. But once you open the door…” He gestures vaguely. “You’re not getting away. Plus there’s a security system. Last time, Romance cried when he forgot to turn it off before leaving.”

“I did not.” comes a muffled shout from down the hall.

“I almost feel bad.” Jinu continues, watching you now.

“I give her another fifteen minutes before she hits the door with the screwdriver.”

Jinu hums. “Ten. She’s losing patience.”

You are losing patience. But not because of the door. Because of them. “Don’t you two have something better to do?”

“Absolutely not.” Jinu says.

Abby raises a brow. “We’re making breakfast after this. You want anything?”

You throw the screwdriver at him. He dodges easily. Asshole.

“Hey, good aim though.” he says, catching it off the bounce. “You’re getting stronger.”

“You’re getting dumber.”

Jinu stretches, robe falling open a little. “That’s impossible. He’s already at max capacity.”

“Hey.” Abby frowns. “Some of us didn’t have to learn math before we got stabbed in the neck.”

You blink at that. “What—”

“Long story.” Abby says quickly. “The point is, you’re not leaving.”

“I’m not staying.” you snap back. You groan and go back to the door, defeated. And you’re so close. Not to escaping. No. That ship sailed three screwdrivers and a half-baked curse ago. But the top hinge is loose now. Wiggling. Practically begging for release.

Jinu sits down on the floor. Abby drops to the other side of you, casually letting one knee fall open, arm still thrown lazily around Jinu’s shoulders.

“Here.” Jinu murmurs, reaching past you, fingers brushing your wrist. “You’re angling wrong. You’re going to strip the screw.”

“I hope I strip you—”

“Careful what you wish for, baby.” Abby says with a wink.

You almost stab him. Instead, you hiss out a breath and go back to it. Try to ignore the way Jinu’s robe brushes your bare arm. Or the way Abby sits, legs spread.

“Okay.” Jinu says softly, pointing with one clean finger. “Hold the screw like this. Thumb under. Palm steady. Just like that.”

You do it. You do it right.

There’s a click.

Abby grins and slaps you once on the shoulder, firm and warm and ridiculously proud. “Atta girl. Look at you go.”

You blink.

Jinu actually claps. Out loud. One elegant, sarcastic clap that echoes through the hallway.

It’s the deep voices.

It’s the fact that they know shit about doors.

It’s… so hot.

This isn’t okay.

“This isn’t okay.” you mutter aloud.

Abby cuts in, voice breezy. “Okay, so you’re one hinge down. Now, that little metal’s gonna slip out easily if you do it right. You’ll wanna grab it and twist.”

You squint. “…Where?”

Jinu points to it. “There. You’ll need pliers.”

“Do I look like I have pliers?”

Instead, you reach back for the screwdriver, but Abby doesn’t give it. He holds it up instead. “Say please.”

You narrow your eyes. “I hope you fucking let Mystery kill you the next time you two fight.”

“Mm. Still not a ‘please.’”

You swipe the screwdriver from his hand and jab it back at the hinge, grumbling under your breath.

“Y/N.” Jinu says, his voice dipping low as he watches you with those stupid warm eyes. “Careful there. If you slip there, you’ll grate your hand. Badly.”

He says it so gently. So genuinely concerned. And his fingers ghost over yours again, adjusting the placement.

You hate that your skin warms where he touches it.

Abby nods. “Okay. Now you need to unhook that. Slide your finger under it—gently, babe—yeah, right there.”

You follow instructions. Reluctantly. Unfortunately. And the damn thing works. You feel the metal and screws give under your fingertip.

“You’re kidding.” you whisper.

Jinu leans over to see. “Well done.”

“Keep your hand steady, babe. There’s a trick to the angle. Real wrist shit.” Abby adds.

You get it wrong. Your hand slips. You yelp.

Jinu’s hand is on your back instantly, steadying. “Careful.”

Abby frowns. “Did it burn you?”

“No.” you mutter. “Just—startled me.”

They both stay close. Too close. And for one moment, one stupid, stupid moment, you let yourself imagine this is normal. That they’re just… annoying boyfriends teaching you how to fix something. That you’re safe. That you’re home.

You blink it away.

Behind you, Jinu leans over to whisper something to Abby that you can’t catch.

Abby mutters something, gets up, and slaps your shoulder as he passes. “Nice try, babe. If you start chiseling, lemme know. I got a crowbar.”

And then it’s just you and Jinu.

You don’t even have time to react before he gets up, reaches down and grabs you. It’s not violent. It’s worse. It’s deliberate. Fingers slipping beneath your arm, palm pressing into your lower back, hauling you up like you’re nothing but weightless. A quiet manhandling that makes your heart hiccup before you can stop it.

You twist. “What the fuck—”

He just guides you down the hallway, barefoot and infuriatingly calm.

Your heels drag for two seconds before you dig in. “Let go.”

“Can’t.” he says, not looking at you. “You’ve had three crackers in the last two days and are currently plotting a jailbreak.”

“So?”

“So,” he exhales. “you’re annoying me.”

“Oh, I’m annoying—”

“—yes, shut up.”

In the kitchen, you’re set on a stool like a child. You sit stiff-backed as Jinu moves calmly, boiling water, opening drawers, slicing fruit with a small paring knife that glints every time he turns it in his fingers.

“You know,” he says, slicing clean through a strawberry. “I was going to let you sleep.”

You stare. Say nothing.

“I was going to leave you alone,” he continues. “because you’re pissed and grieving and very, very tired of us.” He glances back at you, fingers stained red with juice. “And I thought—maybe space would help.”

Your knuckles clench on your thighs.

“You didn’t really want to open that door. I know you want to believe you did,” he continues. “but it’s easier to chase escape than to face the fact that they left you. That they haven’t come. That they won’t.”

You hate him.

“And you want me to be grateful for your little pep talk? Is that it? You want me to say thank you for lying even now?”

“No.” Jinu says. “I want you to eat your fucking breakfast so you don’t pass out while you’re trying to disassemble steel.”

You’re silent. You don’t know why you don’t walk away.

He places the plate in front of you. Strawberries. Toast. Tea steeping in a delicate ceramic mug with lavender flowers painted on the rim.

“Eat.” he says.

You don’t touch it.

“I said eat.”

You look up at him—quiet, cold, fucking furious.

And Jinu…

Jinu just looks in love.

Tragic. Starved. Like he wants to bury his hands in your hair and whisper forgiveness until it drowns you both. His eyes are dark, deep, in a way. His lips part.

You look up. Meet his gaze. And for one terrible second, all the rage in you softens into something worse.

Longing.

Because he’s beautiful. And fucked up. And so full of belief when he looks at you.

You hate him.

And you love him.

“Fuck you.”

Jinu smiles.

“What’d I miss?” Abby’s voice crashes into the kitchen.

Behind him, Romance.

You know something’s wrong the second you see his face.

He’s grinning. Too much teeth. Hands behind his back.

You don’t like the way they look at each other. Or at you.

Something is off.

“Come here for a second.” Jinu says.

You look at him. “…Why?”

He gestures lazily toward the refrigerator. “Wanna show you something. It’s weird. Like a mark—burned in. Look.”

Abby’s already whistling like he’s pretending not to be a part of this. Romance is pretending to examine the ceiling. His hands are still behind his back. Suspiciously jingling.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You step over. “I don’t see any—”

CLICK.

Fur snaps around your wrist.

You whirl around, yanking hard, only to be met with Romance’s smug face. He lifts a hand and gives you a little wave.

Handcuffed.

To the fucking fridge.

You look down.

Fur.

Bright red.

Heart-shaped.

You blink.

You process.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

Romance, absolutely radiant with joy, steps back and gives a playful raise of his hands. “Voilà!”

“ARE THESE SEX HANDCUFFS?!”

Jinu, behind you, claps his hands once. “Well done.”

You start yanking on the cuffs. Hard. “LET ME OUT.”

“Soon.” Jinu says smoothly. “We’ve got to redo the entryway. Since you figured out how to break it.” His tone is… not mad. Not even disappointed. He almost sounds proud.

“Consider this a… timeout.” Romance purrs.

“Are you fucking joking.”

Romance sighs dreamily. “They’re my favorite pair, too.”

Jinu, smooth as ever, stands behind you and adjusts the cuff so it doesn’t bite your skin. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Abby has a photo shoot. The other three and I are needed for… some stage bullshit.”

“This is a crime.” you snap, wriggling. “This is actual—like, real world illegal!”

“Oh, and no messing with the hinge anymore.” Abby adds. “We’ll fix that. You earned points for figuring it out, but we’re not stupid.”

You growl—actually growl.

Jinu steps in, calm again, hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “Relax.” His voice drops to that terrifying register again. Gentle. Final. “We’ll deal with your little escape trick later. For now… stay. Be good. Eat something. Or don’t. You’ll crack eventually. Don’t hurt yourself.”

You don’t speak. You glare so hard it should start a fire in his soul.

He just smiles, kisses your temple, and steps away. To the hall, you suppose to get Mystery and Baby.

The heart-shaped fucking SEX cuffs bite every time you shift. Soft fur or not, they’re starting to piss you off.

Romance leans lazily against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, skin glowing under the soft morning lights. Abby’s dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, legs splayed.

You remember. Who they really are. Not idols. Not boyfriends. Not annoying roommates who make breakfast too loud and leave hair in the sink. No. These are demons. They turned themselves into something unnatural. They’ve killed. They’ve tortured. They’ve torn souls from bodies and never looked back. Abby ripped through a human body like it was paper. Romance kissed a dying man just to taunt him.

And now? They’re just… here.

You swallow hard. Don’t cry. Not now. Not in front of them.

Romance breaks the silence first. “You okay, love?”

You look at him. Dead-on. Flat and empty.

“You look pissed.” he says, as if this is new information.

“I want to die.” you say, because it’s easier than saying you terrify me. Easier than I used to have a life. Friends. Now I talk to a tiger and cry myself to sleep tied to kitchen furniture.

Romance hums. Crosses one ankle over the other. “Well. Let’s not be dramatic.”

You don’t speak.

He reaches into the fruit bowl, takes out an apple, and winks at it. No, seriously. He winks at the apple. Then offers it to you. “No?”

You say nothing.

He shrugs and bites into it himself. Loudly.

Next to him, Abby opens the fridge—literally reaches around you like this is normal—and grabs a bottle of water. He doesn’t even look at you, just twists the cap off with one hand and chugs.

You glare at him. “Baby spat into that.”

He whistles, low and appreciative. “Smart and hot. You’re kind of a nightmare.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “you’re really gonna hate me when you find out we’re coming home late.”

You tug your arms, the cuffs pulling taut. “You can’t keep me here.”

“We are keeping you here.” he says, all casual.

“But we’ll make it nice.” Romance adds softly, stepping closer. His voice drops into velvet. “You don’t have to be angry all the time. We know this sucks. We know we’re not… ideal. But we do care, sweetheart.”

“Then let me go.”

They don’t feel evil. Not to themselves. They’re comfortable in it.

“Oh, baby, you didn’t even touch your food.” Romance says softly, peering at your plate. “Jinu put love into this.”

You shoot him a look that could cut marble. “I’m handcuffed.”

Romance shrugs, eyes twinkling. “I’d pay to be handcuffed near ice cream and you.”

You hate it here.

“Look, since you’re so hungry you were trying to take the door off its hinges,” Abby says, voice full of that teasing weight that makes you want to throw furniture “might as well eat before you pass out.”

“I’m not eating.”

Romance walks over to your untouched plate and picks up a fork. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Oh, I’m the dramatic one?”

They move in.

Together.

Romance is first, always the most forward, bringing a bite of Jinu’s lovingly crafted breakfast toward your mouth. “Say ‘ahh,’ sweetheart.”

You refuse the first bite. Lips tight. Eyes hot.

Abby leans down, his arm bracing the fridge, his voice at your ear. “Just open your mouth, babe. No one’s watching.”

You hate how your brain twitches at the tone of it—how close they both are now. How they radiate warmth and power and something evil that still draws you.

You feel the cuffs bite into your skin as you pull again.

“Don’t.” Abby says, and there’s a sharpness to it now. “You’ll bruise. Jinu’ll get pissed.”

You turn your head.

Romance sighs. “You’re being mean. Love of my life. Please take one bite. Just one.”

And then he lifts the fork.

You press your lips together.

“Open.” he murmurs.

You don’t.

So Abby takes his own fork and comes at you from the other side. The bastard.

Suddenly you’ve got two men feeding you.

“You’re not serious.” you whisper.

They are.

Abby gently nudges his fork forward. “Bite. Come on. Bite it.”

Romance strokes your hair. “Love, please.”

You breathe in slowly. Close your eyes. Then, bitterly, you open your mouth.

Romance slides his fork in first.

You hate that it tastes good.

Abby, immediately jealous, shoves Romance aside. “My turn.”

He holds up his fork, brows raised, and waits.

You open again.

Another bite. Another fork.

It goes on. Fork from the left, fork from the right. Abby gets competitive and starts cutting the food into better pieces. Romance pours a little sparkling water and holds the glass to your lips.

You look at them. Their pretty faces. Abby’s arms. Romance’s smile. They’re not good people. They’re not redeemable. Not the “soft boys with a past” you once tried to convince yourself they were. They’re bad. Evil, even. But they’re in love with you. Because their eyes—when they look at you—don’t lie.

Romance kisses your forehead after your last bite. “Shit, I’d do anything for you.”

Abby grunts. “Except set you free.”

Romance sighs. “Yeah. That.”

You’re still cuffed.

You’re still furious.

And maybe—maybe—a little full.

Jinu walks back in, calm and calm and calm. Mystery behind him, hands in his pockets. You immediately glance his way. Hopeful. Baby, phone in hand, pink gum in his mouth. Disinterested. That classic I don’t give a single fuck aura surrounding him.

“She’s fed.” Abby says, so proud of himself.

“Hydrated.” Romance adds.

You scowl.

Baby looks up from his phone.

Sees you.

Stops.

He fucking laughs.

It’s quiet, at first. Just a low pff— through his nose. But then he full-on laughs, head tilting back, hand over his mouth, gum nearly flying from between his lips as he doubles over, breathless.

You’ve never heard Baby laugh. Not once. And now here he is, taken the fuck out, because you’re handcuffed to a fridge.

You glare, cheeks heating. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

He doesn’t even look at you. Just smirks, and mutters something to Jinu that’s too low for you to hear.

Jinu steps forward. He looks you over, lingers on your wrists, and gives you that impossibly gentle smile. “You’ll be alright, won’t you?” he says, like he’s tucking in a child.

You stare. Blank. “Go fuck yourself.”

He nods, like you just said “I’ll be good.” Bastard.

Abby claps you on the shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh right.”

Romance blows you a kiss. He’s already halfway out the door, fluffing his hair.

Mystery walks by last.

You catch his eye. You puppy-eye his soul.

Silent. Pleading. Please.

He pauses. Just a second. Just long enough to make your heart thump with irrational, burning hope.

He shrugs.

And walks out.

Your soul leaves your body.

The door closes behind them with the softest click.

Silence.

Just you.

“…Fuck.”

Meanwhile, the three HUNTR/X girls sit in a semicircle on low designer couches, the city sprawling behind them in that fancy ass apartment or penthouse or the fuck they have.

Just silence.

And you. The empty space where you should be, I mean.

Zoey sits forward, elbows on her knees, spinning a ring around her finger over and over again. She’s the only one who isn’t scowling. Yet.

Across from her, Rumi has a laptop in her lap, screens open, tabs minimized and maximized again and again. She’s got a pen in one hand, clicking it with ruthless precision. Nothing is adding up.

Mira looks like she’s five seconds from punching a hole in the window.

“Still nothing.” Rumi says.

“She’s not dead.” Zoey says softly, spinning her ring faster. “They would’ve made it known if she was dead.”

Rumi snorts. “Comforting.”

Zoey leans back, biting her lip. “We don’t even know where to start.”

“She’s somewhere they go.” Rumi says.

Zoey lights up. “Then we follow that. Track their movements. Figure out where they disappear when they’re not on camera.”

“We’ve been trying that for weeks.” Rumi throws a hand toward the screen. “They’ve covered every trail.”

“They’re arrogant.” Mira says darkly. “That’s the crack in the glass.”

Rumi sighs. “If we had a way to find the exact location—”

“But we don’t.” Mira snaps. “Because someone,” she gestures vaguely toward the city below, then to Zoey. “thought it was a great idea to let them off the leash.”

Zoey sighs. “They were charming at first.”

“They’re psychopaths.”

“They were hot psychopaths.”

“I will rip their spines out and braid them together.”

“You’re so romantic.”

Rumi ignores them both, gaze pinned to a video of a Saja fan account recording some concert footage. They’re on stage, singing. Abby with his shirt half off, Romance blowing kisses. Jinu saying something quiet into the mic that makes the crowd lose their minds. The crowd eats it up. They always do.

“Can’t go to Bobby.” Rumi mutters, thinking aloud. “If we tell him they have her, he goes to corporate. They go public. She becomes a PR incident. We need to be smart.”

“And fast.” Mira adds.

“I still think she’s okay.” Zoey whispers.

Mira presses her fingers to her temples. “Okay isn’t enough. She was taken. We don’t know where. We don’t know what they’re doing to her.”

“I think we can get her back.”

Mira snorts. Loud. Unamused. “You think.”

“I know.” Zoey sits up straighter. “I—I mean, I hope. They didn’t kill her. That would’ve… we’d know. I’d feel it.”

“Same.” Rumi says, eyes still locked on her screen. “They wouldn’t. They want leverage. They want information.”

Mira snaps, voice sharp. “Then they’re torturing her for it. Great. Fucking great.”

Zoey shakes her head. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did.” Rumi says, calmly. “But you’re right.”

Silence.

Mira’s fists curl. She kicks a chair. Like, kicks it. Across the floor. It skids and slams into the glass.

Zoey sighs. “I know they’re pretty, but that doesn’t fix them. Objectively.”

“They’re not that hot.” Rumi mutters.

Zoey looks at her. “They are.”

Rumi glares. “Don’t remind me.”

Another silence.

They’re not good at this. Not the waiting. Not the planning. They’re warriors. Fighters. They know how to handle demons and stage lights. Not this aching, empty absence.

Zoey leans forward. “What if we just… bait them?”

Mira grins. “You want to piss them off?”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“They’re boys.” Zoey says. “They’re messy.”

They all pause.

Look at each other.

And for the first time in days, there’s something like hope.

Fuck these timeskips man. The front door clicks open. It’s late, past midnight. You’re still handcuffed. To the fucking refrigerator. In the kitchen. And maybe you’re crying.

Shut up.

You’re not like sobbing sobbing, just… that kind of silent crying that leaves your cheeks streaked and your throat raw. That exhausted, hopeless crying that you’re trying to keep quiet even though no one’s here to hear you.

Until they are.

Until Romance rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks. He sees you. His smile drops.

“Oh no.” he says, soft.

He’s on you in two strides.

You blink through the blur in your eyes, chest too tight to yell, to spit, to insult, but you don’t need to. His arms are already around you, tugging you into his chest. You don’t want to let yourself lean in. You do anyway.

“Oh, baby.” he murmurs. “You crying? You really—ah, shit, don’t be like this. Shit—no, no, don’t—don’t be like this, gorgeous, c’mere—“

You let out a breath that’s barely a laugh. Barely anything.

“Okay, okay.” he pulls back just enough to cup your face, thumbing under your eye. “Is this because of the cuffs? Are they too tight? Are you dehydrated? You haven’t had sugar today, have you? That’ll make you emotional. Or maybe it’s hormones. Is it your period coming? Were you bored? Were you hungry? It’s okay, I know, I know—shhhh—”

You make a strangled sound.

“Oh, no no no, don’t cry harder—Abby!” Romance whips his head. “Abby, get the fucking keys!”

“WHAT?” Abby yells, somewhere down the hall.

“The handcuffs, you slab of meat!!”

“I think they’re in your pants.” Abby offers from the hallway.

“THEN FUCKING GO GET THEM.”

“I said I think—”

Romance shoots him a look that could unlace his spine.

Abby sighs and vanishes. There’s a deep groan. Footsteps. More cursing.

Jinu rolls his eyes, the heartless bitch. “Abby, fix the door before it falls off. Mystery, stop growling at your own reflection. Baby—don’t start. Don’t look at the wine. Don’t touch anything.”

“I’m not doing shit.” Baby responds, which is exactly what people who are about to do shit say.

“Abby.” Jinu calls calmly. “Fix the fucking front door while you’re up.”

“MAN.” Abby’s voice carries. “I just got home. I have, like, baby oil on me from—”

“Then you’re lubed and ready.” Jinu calls back. “Don’t waste the opportunity.”

“God forbid I take a piss first.”

You sniff. Romance cradles your head. You try to move your face away from him but your hands are still pinned, and he just hugs you tighter. One hand cups the back of your head. The other rubs down your spine.

“You’re okay now, shhh—hey, I got you. I got you, baby. What happened, huh? Did it get too much? I’ll make it better, I will. Just don’t cry like this, okay? It breaks my fucking heart, you gorgeous little witch. Don’t cry, gorgeous. I’ll cry if you cry.”

Jinu turns. “Baby—don’t track mud on the rug. Shoes off at the door.”

Baby scoffs—so Baby—but kicks them off mid-stride anyway.

Through it all, Romance doesn’t let go of you. He pulls your face against his neck, murmuring into your hair. He kisses your hair. Twice. And goes back to cooing.

“I swear, sugarplum, if I knew these cuffs were gonna make you cry I wouldn’t have let it happen. This is all Jinu’s fault. Probably Abby’s too. And like… Baby.”

“Fuckin’ right it’s not my fault.” Abby says as he walks back in, keys in hand.

Romance catches them without looking, still holding you with one hand, unlocking you with the other like it’s something he’s done a hundred times. The cuffs click off.

But your wrists are marked, even beneath the red fur. Tender red dents across the softest part of your skin, too tight, too long, too fucking humiliating. And Romance still has the balls to hold your hands. Gently palms them open, his expression soft and full of guilt like he wasn’t the one locking them on you.

He kisses your wrists.

Both.

Slowly. Lovingly.

He looks up at you, eyes glossy, lips still barely grazing your skin.

“Get the fuck off me.” You yank your hands away so fast he actually stumbles back a step. Your chest burns, eyes glassy again. Suffocating. You don’t spare any of them a look as you storm past.

The tiger follows, with a single flick of his fluffy tail as he pads after you.

You slam your bedroom door shut.

A few seconds later, Mystery lets out just one high-pitched little dog whimper.

Abby sighs. Loudly. Rolls his eyes, takes a knee at the front door, the one you nearly got off the hinges, and starts inspecting it. His massive, stupid hands flex as he tugs at it. He’s muttering under his breath already.

Baby opens the fridge, takes a fuckass little juice box, walks out of the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, just takes a long, annoying slurp from the tiny straw and makes direct eye contact with Jinu as he walks past.

Abby’s crouched on the floor, tools scattered beside him.

Baby kicks him in the thigh. Not even that hard. Just enough to be a bitch.

“Fucking—ow, you dick.” Abby mutters, not even looking up.

Baby shrugs. Keeps walking. Slurping on that little fuck of a juice box.

Jinu’s already turning away, and disappears down the hall.

Romance just stands there. Alone in the kitchen. His hands still smell like your skin. He stares at the spot you stood. Eyes half-lidded, mouth parted. And then slowly, reverently, he brings his fingers to his lips.

He kisses them.

Then he exhales. Picks up the fur cuffs from where they’ve fallen on the floor.

“Yeah.” he mutters to himself, pacing back toward the table, still dazed. “We’re totally getting married.”

One day I’ll learn how to do a pretty timeskip, anyway, now it’s the middle of the night. Only a few hours passed, but you’re asleep. I mean that’s good, fucking great, you needed it. You’re half under Derpy, half tangled in a blanket, and with Sussie curled up against your neck.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

You definitely didn’t mean to cry yourself there.

You’d calmed down, sure. The tears stopped. But the anger didn’t. So when the knock comes, you wake up so fucking confused. Just… fucking exhausted.

You push yourself up with a groan, the tiger huffing once and adjusting to let you go. You just slide out of bed and pad barefoot across the room, open the door slow—

And there’s Jinu. In his hands, a takeout bag. Neatly packed. Still warm. Your comfort order. From your favorite place. Not a coincidence. Never a coincidence with him.

“Hi.” he says, quiet, careful.

You stare.

“I know you haven’t eaten.” he adds.

You glance down at the bag, then back at him.

He holds it out. You don’t take it.

“I thought—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

A look that says: Don’t fucking try it.

He sighs through his nose, smile faltering just slightly. “Look,” he murmurs. “I just… wanted to bring you something. Something you like.”

“I’m still mad.” you say, voice hoarse from sleep, maybe from earlier tears too. “You’re still a fucking criminal.”

That makes him laugh, soft. “Yeah.” he says. “That part’s fair.”

You narrow your eyes. “This is bribery.”

“It’s dinner.” he argues, lifting the bag.

“Bribery.” you repeat.

“Okay. It’s bribery dinner. But it’s your favorite bribery dinner.”

You snort, bitter. “I’m not forgiving you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what are you asking?”

He meets your eyes, serious now. “I’m asking you to eat.”

From behind him, bare feet slap against the hardwood, and a second later, Baby walks past in the hallway, shirtless and SKINNY AS FUCK now that you take a look at it. A bottle of clear liquor dangling from one hand.

He doesn’t look at either of you. Doesn’t say a word. He just slams his foot into the back of Jinu’s knees as he walks by, enough to make Jinu jerk with a grunt, almost drop the food.

“Ow—fuck, seriously?” Jinu hisses, half-glancing over his shoulder.

Baby keeps walking. Down the hall. Bottle swinging, spine relaxed, middle finger casually tossed over his shoulder without turning around.

Jinu exhales like he’s used to it. Stabilizes himself. Holds the food out again like nothing happened.

You look at the bag. Then at him. You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re lucky I don’t throw this in your face.”

“Please don’t.” he mutters.

You still don’t take it.

He steps forward. A little closer. Holds it between you. “You can hit me later if you want. Or tomorrow. With something heavier. I deserve it.”

You look at him for a long time. Then you shut the door in his face.

Jinu exhales on the other side. “…Okay. Fair.”

You stare at the door.

Your stomach growls.

You hate him so much.

You rip the door back open.

Jinu hasn’t moved. He’s still there. Staring straight ahead, like he knew. Like he always knows. His eyes lift to meet yours, surprised? No. Amused? Maybe a little.

You snatch the bag right out of his hands. You don’t look at him. Don’t thank him. Don’t say a word. Just slam the door in his face again. A little petty, honestly.

You hear a soft laugh from the other side. Bastard.

You sit on the floor, legs crossed, and you eat.

And fuuuuuuck, it’s delicious.

Why did you open the door?

Why do you always open the door?

These boys are awful. Criminals. Monsters. Demonic entities posing as boyband idols. They kidnapped you. They tortured you. They laughed when you tried to escape. They put you in fur-lined heart-shaped sex cuffs.

And now they’re hand-feeding you takeout, bringing you flowers, whispering in the hallway about who gets to see you first.

It’s fucked up.

Why do you feel bad for them? You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You’re the victim here. You’re the one who was taken. The one who cries at night. The one who hasn’t seen the sun in weeks. You should be angry. Furious. You are.

But…

And it’s so stupid. It’s so fucking stupid, but you want to know.

You want to know what made them like this.

Because no one’s born this evil. Right? So what happened? What’s their damage? Why are they so lonely?

…And why does that make your chest hurt?

You bury your face in your hands. You feel sick.

You realize… you don’t know them. Not really. Not at all. Not who they were. Not what made them this way. Not why they’re like this now. Not what it means when Jinu says he’s interested and yet shackles you in the kitchen. Not what it means when Romance calls you the love of his life in one breath and locks you to a fridge in the next.

You know they’re evil.

But you don’t know why.

You don’t know that Jinu threw up last night.

Twice.

Not from alcohol. Not from illness.

Just guilt.

You don’t know that—right now—he’s leaning over the sink in his bathroom. That he’s breathing heavy. Not angry. Not frustrated.

Ashamed.

You don’t know that he looked himself in the mirror just now and gagged.

You’re soft. You’re kind. You’re fragile. You don’t belong with him, not even in the same story. And still, he keeps you here. For himself. Because he’s selfish. Because he loves you.

His reflection stares back at him from the mirror, hollow-eyed and handsome, and he hates it.

He hates himself.

You don’t know that Romance is stretched across his massive bed, the dim gold of his bedside lamp casting a warm glow across his chest. He’s not sleeping. He’s not even trying. He’s just lying there, staring at the ceiling. An ice pack sits under one thigh where Baby kicked him earlier for calling him “adorable” with too much eye contact. There’s a glass of wine on the nightstand. Forgotten.

Romance knows he could be a good boyfriend. He knows it. He would do everything right. He’d be good for you. He knows he would. He’d run your baths. Paint your nails. Carry your bags.

He would worship you.

Because loving you is the only good thing left in his life.

You don’t know that Mystery is standing shirtless in the fogged-up bathroom. His wet hair is pushed out of his face. He looks boyish like this.

He stares at himself in the mirror. Long. Too long. Water still drips from the tip of his nose. His collarbones are pretty. He looks pale in the sterile light.

He leans in just a little.

Do you think he’s pretty?

You’ve never said.

You’ve called Romance an idiot, Abby a gym rat, Jinu a manipulative bastard, Baby an asshole, but you haven’t said anything about him. Not once.

He wants to know what you see.

Does he scare you? Does he look human to you? Do you think he’s worth saving?

His breath fogs the mirror again. He wipes it clean with his hand.

Then he steps back, wraps a towel around his waist, and heads to his room in silence.

You don’t know that Abby is staring at the ceiling, in bed. Or… on bed.

His hand runs through his short hair.

He tried sleeping. He even counted pushups in his head instead of sheep, but it didn’t work.

He’s such a bad person that he knows you should hate him, and still, he wants your forgiveness. How pathetic is that?

He doesn’t know how to do better. That part was never taught.

He wishes he could be less.

Just enough to be held by you.

You don’t know that Baby is alone in his room. Sitting cross-legged on a plush white rug, wearing nothing but shorts and staring at the wall.

He doesn’t let the others know he still has this side. If they saw it, they’d ask questions. Romance might hug him. Baby can’t deal with that.

He lets his head fall back against the wall, a slow thud of skull against it. No one tells him to stop. No one ever tells him to stop.

Not unless it’s Jinu. And fuck Jinu.

He is bad. He’s done terrible things. He’s not lying about that. He’s a brat. A fucking alcoholic. But the real shit, the origin story? It’s worse than any of them know.

They’ve done unspeakable things. You’re not dumb. You know. They’ve killed. They’ve tortured. They’ve stolen and lied and ruined lives with a single breath. Whatever they’ve done to become this, it wasn’t clean.

And still…

Still, you think of Abby’s crooked smile when he gets something right, like a little boy who finally tied his shoe.

Still, you think of Jinu pressing the warm takeout box into your hands, his eyes begging.

Still, you think of Romance kissing your wrists and whispering to you.

Still, you think of Baby walking by with that bottle of liquor and a kicked knee, but his hand, didn’t it shake, just a little?

Still, you think of Mystery whining when you left them there.

You don’t want to want them. You don’t want to forgive. You don’t want to care. You don’t want to imagine hugging Jinu in the kitchen instead of shoving the food back into his chest. You don’t want to imagine petting Mystery’s hair. Or letting Romance lay his head in your lap while you caress his skin. Or letting Abby do pushups while you sit on his back. Or sitting down next to Baby by your own free will.

You don’t want to love them.

But something in your heart is soft where it should be hard.

What’s wrong with you? What is so wrong with you that even after everything…you still want them to feel loved? Why do you want to hold Abby, not for his body but for the feelings that are even bigger than him? Why do you want to brush Mystery’s hair back and tell him yes, of course you think he’s beautiful? Why do you want to rest your head on Romance’s shoulder and listen to his awful, overdramatic little stories? Why do you want to crawl under Jinu’s arm and pretend, just for a second, that he isn’t what he is? Why do you want to hand Baby a juice box and wrap him in a blanket and say you don’t have to be this person anymore?

They’re nightmares in perfect skin. And they would absolutely ruin you in bed.

Okay, WOAH, where did that come from?

No but for real, dogs. Nasty dogs. There’s a weird little headboard breaking vibe to the way they look at you, and you know they’ve each imagined it. More than once. Probably all at the same time.

Why the fuck are you thinking about how they’d sound whining beneath you? How they’d look all pathetic and breathless, fucked out and ruined for you?

You cough, half out of shame, half to try and physically dislodge the mental image.

Abby, shirtless and cocky and loud, biting his own fist to keep quiet, grinding his hips up for friction like a dog in heat.

Jinu, pretending to be composed even when his back arches, soft gasps slipping past perfect lips as he clutches your thigh. Even when you slap his cheek lightly for talking back, and his eyes close.

Romance, head thrown back, begging with his whole chest, kissing your hand, his voice desperate and cracking. Whimpering against your neck, saying sorry, sorry, sorry through a gag until you push him away and he begs you not to. Spread out, wrists tied in red silk scarves he definitely already owns, trying to talk his way through it like he’s not rock hard at your heel pressed against his chest. He’d laugh at first. Until you didn’t. Until you put pressure behind your words. And suddenly he’s choking on a “yes, baby” like it’s the first real thing he’s said in centuries.

Mystery, eyes wide and wet, cheeks flushed, arms bound above his head, perfectly still until you tell him otherwise. Quiet, feral, with that flash of defiance that only makes it more fun when you yank him back by his hair. Until he’s panting, low and choked, nails clawing the floorboards because he won’t beg unless you force him to, but when he does, it’s pitiful and lovely and you almost feel bad.

And Baby. Cold, bratty Baby, hiding his trembling behind clenched teeth, whispering “fuck you” even when he’s the one gasping every time you touch him. He’d pretend he didn’t care the whole time, rolling his eyes, acting bored, spitting out shit like, “Are you done yet? This is lame.” Right until you grabbed him by the jaw and made him care. And suddenly that smart mouth wouldn’t know what to say anymore, his knees would still hit the floor.

NO.

NO.

They kidnapped you.

They’re twisted inside and out.

They’ve done horrible things.

And they’re getting under your skin anyway.

You wrap your arms around yourself, try to ignore how fast your heart is beating. Your breath hitches. The thought of their hands softening only for you, slipping under your shirt, holding your jaw, breaking for you, is like swallowing lightning.

They don’t deserve your sympathy.

But they have it anyway.

What they do deserve though, is to get smacked across the face. To be shoved back by the collar and told no. To be denied, humiliated, reminded they don’t own you.

So you began to ignore them.

For days.

No eye contact. No small talk. No “fuck yous.” Nothing.

It starts small. The cold shoulder when you pass them in the hall. The way you refuse to lift your eyes when Jinu asks, softly, if you want him to make your tea. The stiff back when Romance touches your shoulder with a hopeful, “Baby, don’t be like this.”

But it builds.

You start giving them the kind of petty indifference that only someone truly furious can pull off. You live in the same house, eat from the same fridge, breathe the same air, and yet you do not exist.

Unless, of course, you need something.

When you can’t open a jar, you still hold it out wordlessly. No “please.” No “thanks.” Just stretch your arm and raise an eyebrow, stone-faced, unimpressed, and one of them (usually Abby) always comes. He pops the lid off with one twist and no effort, looks at you like a puppy who just did a trick, and you? You take the jar, walk away. Not even a nod.

They’re dying.

Jinu tries to play it off, at first. He pretends like this is good, like you’re giving yourself space, like this will pass. He tells himself it’s a phase. But when you don’t look at him for the third day in a row, when you walk past him while he’s speaking, mid-sentence, asking you something gentle, even sweet, he clenches his jaw so tight it clicks.

He’s not angry.

He’s going fucking loco.

He forgets appointments. Forgets to lie to management. Forgets what day it is. Baby throws a shoe at his head.

He’s started jerking off in the shower just to feel something that isn’t regret. But your voice, your silence, is always there in the background.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I hate you.”

“Leave me alone.”

Oh god, he wants your voice back.

Romance is in hell. Real, emotional, sexually repressed, oxytocin-deprived hell.

You’re ignoring him. Romance. The man who could make literal royalty fall in love with him in under three minutes. The man who’s carried empires with his jawline and you, his sweet little muse, won’t even look at him.

He keeps trying.

He makes your tea just how you like it, then pretends he wanted it when you ignore the cup. He lights candles in the hallway near your room. He writes you a four-line poem on a sticky note and slides it under your door like a fucking sixth grader.

Nothing.

His hands are in his pants. Constantly. Not even in a sexy way, half the time. Just stressed. Palming himself while reading, while eating cereal, while sitting on the edge of his bed with your old hoodie in his lap. Always cums pathetically fast. At night, he’s curled up, soft moans pressed into his pillow as he fists himself over the idea of you finally breaking, crawling into his bed, whispering, Romance, I forgive you, you pretty idiot.

He tries to bait you, loudly moaning from his room for your benefit, walking through the house in his robe with nothing underneath, but no reaction.

He’s a wreck. He’s also somehow still exfoliating. It’s impressive.

Mystery is suffering quietly. Which, for him, means he’s masturbating in the dark and miserable about it.

He doesn’t whine. Doesn’t beg. But his eyes? They’re so fucking lonely. And the fucking point of this is that you can’t SEE that.

When you don’t speak to him for the third day in a row, he just lowers his head slightly, like a scolded dog.

He spends a lot of time in the shower now. A lot. Head tilted back. Eyes closed. Imagining you.

Abby’s coping the only way he knows how. By being a fucking asshole. He starts working out more. Louder. Grunting. Slamming weights. Going shirtless in every room to give you subtle hints of the vibe “I miss you, please notice me.”

When that doesn’t work? He starts messing with your stuff. Moving your books. Rearranging the fridge. Leaving your favorite snacks just slightly out of reach. Then he works out for six hours straight. You walk past the gym. You don’t even glance in. He’s shirtless. Sweating. Arms the size of your self-worth. And you just… walk. Right. Past. No reaction. Not even a twitch.

He gets so mad he punches a hole in the punching bag and then grumbles, “This is dumb” before he stomps off to sulk in his room. Cue: him, hands under the covers, fucking his fist, muttering “fuckfuckfuckfuck” because he can’t stop thinking about your face. About the way you cried when he massaged you, about the sound of your laugh, which he hasn’t heard in DAYS. Your face behind his eyes. You, in all your unbothered, furious beauty. You, walking away, flicking him off, that one time you pressed a finger to his chest to shove him back—fuck, that was hot.

It’s torture. It’s worse than physical pain. But he keeps imagining you saying his name, just once. Just once more. He thinks about you storming into the gym when he’s lifting. Yelling at him. Throwing something. Just acknowledging him.

He’s literally stroking himself to the idea of you hating him out loud.

You asked him to open a jar the other night and he nearly came.

Baby says nothing. He’s mad that he misses you. Mad that he wants you to push him against a wall and call him a brat. Mad that he’s getting off on the idea of you calling him mean and insufferable while riding him until he forgets his name.

The silence makes him meaner. Picks fights with everyone. Shoves Mystery when he walks too slow. Flicks Abby in the head. Blows smoke in Jinu’s face and calls Romance things that would make you cry.

He kicks the back of chairs when you sit in them. He takes the last juice box every time now. He left the TV on full volume the other night just to see if you’d yell. He walks by you and shoves you a little harder than he used to. Spills things near you hoping you’ll snap. Lights a cigarette and blows smoke right near you just to get a reaction.

You say nothing.

He watches you walk away and mutters, “Bitch” but it sounds weak. Sounds like heartbreak.

But every time he passes you in the hall and your shoulder brushes his, his heart flips.

You’re his karma. He’s sure of it.

It’s like withdrawal. Actual, medical-grade withdrawal.

They want to touch you, even if it’s just a brush of your arm. They want you to yell at them, curse at them, cry at them. Anything. This silence? This empty, pretty silence? It’s killing them.

It’s been days.

Days since you started punishing them with your silence.

Days since any of them heard your voice, your laugh, your bite. Since your presence meant anything to them besides the slow death of being ignored.

And they are starving.

Romance lasted longer than they expected. You didn’t even crack when he left you chocolates. Or perfume. Or a whole ass handwritten love letter sealed with his kiss and sprayed with his signature cologne.

So only he moves.

Because Romance is the only one with no shame left to lose.

He knocks on your door at night. Gentle. You know it’s him. Of course you do. Nobody else knocks like this, even though he usually doesn’t knock at all.

You ignore it.

So he comes in.

You’re standing already. Back straight. Eyes flat.

He shuts the door behind him.

Then drops to his knees.

“Please.” he says, voice already breathy. “Please, baby.”

He doesn’t stay at a polite distance, no, he wraps his arms around your thighs, presses his cheek into your lower stomach, hands clasped behind your legs.

“Please don’t hate me anymore.” he whispers, muffled against your skin. “Don’t look at me like I’m everyone else. I’m me. You know me.”

You try to step back. He won’t let you. His grip tightens, his forehead presses into your body, and he sounds so pitiful when he talks.

“I can’t take this anymore. I’ll be better. I’ll be so good. You won’t even recognize me. Please just talk to me. Please just say something. I’ll slit my wrist for that.”

You grit your teeth.

He sniffles and stuffs his face between your legs. Not sexually, no. Desperately.

“I’d do anything.” he murmurs. “Anything you want. Please talk to me. Say something. I’ll take anything. You can tell me to go fuck myself, I swear, I’ll even moan when you do it—just—just don’t leave me in this fucking silence.”

He lifts his head just slightly, eyes glassy but bright. Gorgeous, even like this. And it’s so pathetic. So pathetic. Big, watery eyes. Mouth trembling.

“You’re so quiet. I didn’t realize how much I needed your voice until you took it away. Now it’s the only thing I think about. The only thing I want.” He pulls back, looking up at you with his fingers curled around your legs. “You can hit me. Spit in my mouth. I’ll thank you for it.”

You roll your eyes

Romance exhales, shaky. “Just… please. Please talk to me. Say something. Yell. Tell me I’m the worst. But let me hear you. I’m not trying to get off.” he lies. “I’m not trying to seduce you.” he lies again. “I just miss you.”

Still, you don’t move.

And so Romance slides his hands down your thighs, down to your knees. He presses his lips to them.

You reach down.

He freezes.

And you shove him back. Not hard. But clearly.

He stumbles a bit, catching himself on his palms, and his eyes flick up to you. And fuck, he looks so pretty on his knees like that. Red-cheeked. Wide-eyed. Heartbroken. Wanting.

He crawls back slowly. Hands and knees on the floor like something tamed. Still facing you. Still hoping.

“Punish me if you want.” he murmurs. “Hurt me. Use me. Just—don’t ignore me. Please don’t ignore me.”

He’s beautiful like this.

Your eyes linger on the man at your feet. You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with shallow breath, the slow way he trembles like he’s holding in a sob. His face is pressed to your leg. He hasn’t dared look up in minutes.

“…Clothes.”

His head lifts an inch. Slowly. Carefully. Not quite hope, but something desperate that wants to be.

You look down at him now. “New ones.” you clarify.

“Of course, baby. Of course. Anything you want.” His voice is breathless and boyish and trembling with relief.

You hum. Barely a sound. Then, your fingers reach out, slow, and trace along his forehead. Middle and pointer finger moving like little legs, mock-walking across his skin, down the bridge of his nose.

His eyes flutter closed, lips parted.

“I want a proper skincare shelf in the bathroom.” you say next, tone casual. “And I want the pink shampoo. The one you assholes always use up before I get to it.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, baby. I’ll get you twelve. One for each day. For the tiger too.”

You “walk” your fingers again. Down the curve of his cheek, then back up.

“And a vanity mirror. With lights. And the snack drawer filled. I want that strawberry chocolate that Baby always eats.”

His hands tighten just slightly on your thighs, like the mention of things you love makes him ache. He nods fast, eyes still closed, voice low and breathy. “Yes. Done.“

“And a white bag.” you murmur, still tracing his skin, now gently picking at a lock of his soft hair between your fingers. “Like, a really good one.”

He nods.

You sigh, slow and thoughtful. Your fingers dance beneath his chin now, tilting his face up, thumb brushing his bottom lip, not sweetly. Just testing him. Like he’s a plaything.

And he lets you.

God, does he let you.

“God, you’re so fucking easy.” you whisper, just enough venom to tease.

You let your hand fall from his face. He almost leans into the loss.

And then you murmur, “Stand up.”

He does. In one graceful move, tall again, towering above you but not daring to be above you.

He’s holding his breath.

You nod toward the door.

“You can go now.”

He nods. Sheepishly. And turns to leave.

You stare at the door for a long, long while after he leaves.

On the other side though, Romance’s bare feet thunder down the hall, and he doesn’t knock, he doesn’t wait, he doesn’t breathe, he just kicks Abby’s door open. “ABBY!” he yells, breathless, wild-eyed, radiating joy. “You fat fuck I need your wallet!”

Abby’s lying on his bed, shirtless, boxers yanked halfway down, muscles tense, a tissue box on one side, one huge hand currently on his cock.

Romance’s eyes drop for one second to take in the situation. “…Ah.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“No, no, no.” Romance says quickly, walking across the room without a lick of shame, jumping on the bed as Abby covers himself up with the covers. “This is life or death. She spoke to me. She fucking talked to me, Abby, do you get it?! She touched me. Like—touched my face. With her little human hands. Like this.” He does a dramatic little finger-walking motion across his own cheek.

Abby stares at him.

Romance beams, unapologetic.

Abby stares harder.

Romance starts bouncing a little, like he physically can’t contain the joy.

Abby sits up slowly, dragging his boxers back up.

“She wants clothes. She said she wants shampoo, and chocolate, and a bag—Abby, Abby, we have to go shopping.”

Abby groans, drags a hand down his face.

Romance leans forward and grabs his bicep. “We’re gonna get her everything. Do you understand? I’m gonna be the BEST fucking boyfriend alive.”

“Fuck you.”

Romance rolls over, hugs Abby’s side dramatically. “Aww. You’re so in love with me.”

“Get your gay ass off me, I’m soft.”

“Ew.” Romance shoves him. “I hate you. Anyway, she’ll forget all about being handcuffed to the fridge.”

“Still think that was funny as fuck.”

Somewhere down the hallway, someone, probably Baby, shouts: “SHUT. UP.”

Silence.

Romance sighs. “Do you think she’d, like…” he scratches his head, trailing off. “I dunno. Do you think she’d ever kiss me?”

“Dude.”

“Not now. But like, later.”

Abby shrugs again. “She kissed me once.”

Romance’s head snaps toward him. “WHAT?!”

“By accident.”

“HOW do you get kissed by accident?”

“She fell. I caught her. There was lip contact.”

Romance glares. “You are a liar.”

Silence.

Romance bites his cheek. “You ever think we’re too much?”

“No.”

“You think she liked my hair?” Romance asks, flicking his fingers through it. “I curled it a little today. Not on purpose, but like, it fell that way.”

“Did she look at it?”

“She didn’t not look at it.”

“Then she liked it.”

Romance just leans his head on Abby’s shoulder.

“…You think she touches herself?” Romance asks suddenly, in a tone way too casual for the horror of the question.

Abby doesn’t even blink. “I think she does it when we’re not home.”

“Shit.”

(Guys I’ll be naming clothes sizes here, no matter what size you wear, you’re beautiful and the Saja boys would totally hit, but I needed to name them for the conversation! If you’re not that size, just replace it, I love you either way!!)

“…So like.” Abby mutters, rubbing a hand over his stomach, “if she wears, what—like, a medium shirt? You know the one. What size do we get?”

Romance blinks slowly. “Depends on the brand. Also on if it’s a crop top or a regular shirt or like… you know, the ones that do the thing.”

Abby looks at him sideways. “What thing.”

Romance raises both hands and mimes two invisible mounds in front of his chest. “The thing where it does the pushy-up-y thing. Like—”

“Pushy-up-y.”

“You know what I mean. With the—” He points at his own pecs, then flexes them. “Like this. But on her.”

Abby looks at him. Looks down at himself. Then brings both hands up and shoves his own pecs together, frowning with intensity. “…Like this?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Romance says. “But prettier.”

They stare at Abby’s pecs for a second.

Both of them very quiet.

“Okay. So. What’s a size 6?”

Abby shrugs. “A… small one?”

Romance frowns. “But not, like, too small?”

“Medium-small.” Abby offers.

“Is that even a real size?”

“Bro, I don’t know,” Abby replies honestly. “women’s shit is complicated.”

Romance thinks for a second. Stares forward. Nods. “…We need to reverse engineer this.”

Abby looks over. “What?”

“We use our memories. We recreate her.”

“…Bro.”

“No. Trust me.”

Abby sighs, but shifts anyway. They both sit up straighter, serious now. Tactical. Focused.

Romance raises his hands to his own chest, pushes his pecs together, thoughtful. “Her tits are like this. Right?”

Abby, chewing the corner of his lip, stares. Tilts his head. “No, no—wait. Tilt more. Your chest is too high. Hers is rounder. Softer.”

“Yours are hard as fuck, dude.” Romance agrees, then nods to himself. “Okay, so if we… press more here—”

They both adjust their pecs. Mashing them together like absolute fucking morons. Expression dead serious.

Romance pauses. “We’re geniuses.”

Abby mutters, “I think I’m getting aroused.”

Romance tilts his head. “They’re not, like, huge.”

“No.”

“But they’re… I dunno.”

“Perfect.”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence, heads nodding a little.

Romance presses his pecs together, moves them around. “Like this?”

Abby squints. Mimics the motion. “No, dude. Yours sit too high.”

Romance looks down. “So yours are low?”

“They’re not low, fuckwad, hers are just like—” He frowns. Thinks hard. “Tch. Y’know?”

“Wait, wait—” Romance adjusts again, eyebrows furrowed in intense scientific focus. “This?”

They both look at each other’s chest as they press their pecs together in slightly different configurations.

Romance grunts. “I think you’re right.”

“Told you.”

Boy math.

They’ll figure out your size eventually. One ridiculous guess at a time.

“Human girls are so weird.” Abby says. “They cry when they’re mad, but they laugh when they cry, and then they don’t want help, but they get mad when you don’t help, but if you help too much they think you think they’re weak, and then somehow, that’s your fault.”

Romance shakes his pretty head. “You can’t get them with flowers or food or gifts. Not for long. That’s rookie shit. What she wants—what all women want—is to be understood. And if you can’t do that, then at least be devoted. Fully. You don’t get women by just looking good.”

Abby blinks.

Romance looks at him. “I’m serious.”

“I look good, though.”

“No, yeah. We both do. That’s not the point.” Romance waves a hand through the air. “Women are intuitive. You don’t get them by posturing. You get them by understanding the ecosystem.”

“…The what?”

“The yoni, man.”

Abby makes a face like Romance just brought up taxes. “Oh fuck off.”

“Means womb. Sacred feminine. The origin of all life. The portal to divinity, and shit.”

Abby pauses. “That’s… kinda beautiful, actually.”

Romance nods. “Right? Women are god. They carry pain, creation, time, all of it—inside. And if you treat them like shit, you’re missing the whole fuckin’ point.”

Abby’s mouth parts just slightly. This is above his intellectual paygrade, but he’s not about to say so. “Respect.”

Romance runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You don’t seduce a woman like that with flowers and abs and dumb little pet names. You gotta make her feel. Like you’re safe. Like she’s seen. Like she can open the locked door inside her chest and you’re not gonna throw a grenade in there.”

Abby makes a long, drawn-out sound. “Hmm.”

Romance glances over. “You thinking?”

“…Mostly about your nipples.”

“Fair.”

“But also… you’re right. I think.”

Romance grins, tapping his temple. “There’s a brain up here somewhere. Okay, okay—sit up, fatass.”

Abby scowls. “I’m not fat.”

“You are objectively massive.” Romance says, kicking him in the calf. “And I mean that in the most homoerotically admiring way possible.”

“Back off.”

“Listen, I’m serious now.”

Romance grabs Abby’s wrist, warm hand wrapping over bulging forearm, and drags him upright. Abby goes with it begrudgingly, sitting up against the headboard again.

Romance props his chin in his palm and stares. Unblinking. His hair falls into his face again, framing that ridiculously symmetrical face. “You need to apologize to her.”

“What.”

“You like her?”

“…Yeah.”

“You respect her?”

Abby pauses.

Romance raises his brows. “Wrong answer.”

“…Yes.”

“Then you’re not gonna fix this by standing around. You hurt her. You lied. So you gotta show up with your chest out, no shirt, bonus points, heart on your sleeve, and you say: I was wrong.”

Abby looks at him, unblinking. “That’s it?”

“Okay, no, not just that. You say you were wrong, you say why. Be specific. Say something like, ‘I didn’t tell you the truth because I’m fucked-up with the emotional IQ of a cactus but I love you and I want to do better.’ Then—”

“Wait.” Abby interrupts. “That’s what you’d say.”

Romance slaps a hand against Abby’s chest—solid, broad, godlike—and leaves it there. Palm flat. Warm. Centered over the beating thing inside that chest, his knee sliding between Abby’s legs. “You say sorry and then stay. Because if you leave right after, she’ll think you’re just doing it for her reaction. Not for her.”

“Shut up.”

“I will not shut up.” He points a finger into Abby’s chest, poking directly at a pec. “Do you know why? Because I like her. I like seeing her exist. I like when she eats the food I make. I like when she’s mean to you.”

“She’s always mean to me.”

“Because you’re a dick, Abby.”

Abby sighs and drags a pillow over his face.

Romance yanks it away. Then he leans in closer, his hand now cupping Abby’s jaw. “No. No hiding. Look at me.”

Abby opens one eye, unimpressed. “What do you want me to do? Cry?”

The silence is heavy.

Too heavy.

Their eyes meet.

Because suddenly they’re very close. Like very close. His face inches from Abby’s. Breaths mixing. Hands still on each other.

“…Dude.” Abby says, very low.

Romance blinks. “Are we—?”

Abby squints. “Is this—?”

“No.” they both say at the same time, recoiling slightly.

“Anyway.” Romance coughs, dramatically adjusting his position like he wasn’t just seconds from initiating the world’s most confusing demon bromance kiss. “Point is, you’re apologizing.”

Abby groans, rolling his eyes so hard his skull might crack. “Fiiine. I’ll try.”

“You go make that human girl forgive you, and you do it with your whole ass, you hear me?”

Abby stands. Massive. Brooding. Slightly flushed. “…I hear you.”

“You go to her with sincerity. You use your words. And for the love of hell, you don’t bring Mystery.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s prettier than you and might get forgiven faster.”

“…Fair.”

And just like that, the demon of brute strength walks out of the room, psyching himself up to do something harder than convincing Jinu to not whoop his ass for fucking a move up: say sorry.

Abby stops in front of your door.

Romance mouths “Go in.”

Abby flips him off and knocks.

You don’t answer with words. But he hears the quiet shift of the bedsheets inside.

The door creaks open and Abby steps inside.

You’re sitting on the bed. Legs crossed, looking devastating. Sleep clothes clinging to the kind of body he’s not strong enough to not look at.

Abby shuts the door behind him. No escape now. He stands there awkwardly for a second, all that muscle and rage and guilt trapped in one idiotically gorgeous frame, and then he rubs the back of his neck, clears his throat like a teenager, and says “…Okay. So. I suck.”

Nothing. You blink.

“I mean. Like—like not literally, ‘cause, I mean—I could. I’ve been told I’m good at—okay, no, wait—not the point. I’m here to apologize. Kinda.”

Your stare is lethal. So is the face card.

Abby looks at the ceiling, breathes through his nose, then finally lets it out in a grunted, desperate, honest mess: “I’m sorry we handcuffed you to the fridge.”

That gets a blink.

He keeps going. “I mean, I’m sorry about all of it. That you’re here. That we keep being dicks. That we don’t—I don’t—know how to do this. With you.”

You raise an eyebrow. He swallows.

“So… yeah. I’m sorry. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.”

God, he sucks ass at this.

He shifts his weight. The silence stretches.

Then, as if his own brain catches up to the vulnerability he just let loose, he panics and throws in, “Also you look fucking hot right now.”

The tiger growls. Low. Protective.

Abby raises both hands. “I’m going, I’m going.” He backs toward the door, not breaking eye contact, even as he fumbles for the handle like it’s fighting him.

“Wait.”

He freezes.

You pat the bed beside you, once. “Come here.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. Just obeys. He closes the door gently. Crosses the room in just a few slow steps and sinks down beside you on the bed. Not too close, but close enough that his thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t look at you. Not right away.

You look at him, though. Eyes scanning the side of his face, the set jaw, the guilty slope of his eyebrows.

He’s so big. So strong. So dangerous. And he followed that one word like a dog.

“You were human once, right?”

He blinks. Slowly. Then shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember your name? Before Abby?”

“…No.”

You nod, like that’s alright. “Do you remember your mother?”

He swallows. Doesn’t answer right away. “Bits.”

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

He scoffs. Immediately. Like it’s the stupidest thing you could’ve asked. “No.” Silence. Then, softer: “Not even close.”

“What made you like this?”

That’s the one that gets him. His whole body shifts, defensive, and he glances at you, then at the wall. His jaw tightens. You wait. “I don’t know.”

“How old were you when you turned into a demon?”

He blinks. It’s not what he expected. “I don’t… know. Twenty-something, I guess.”

“Siblings?”

“I had a younger brother.”

And then—just to give him a breath—you grin a little, tilt your head to look at his arm. “…How big are your biceps?”

That makes him huff out a laugh. “Big enough.”

“Like—how big though?”

He flexes, looking away as if it’s nothing.

You glance, just for a second. “Hmm. Yeah. Passable.”

You touch his bicep with two fingers. Just tap it.

“You could kill someone with this.” you mutter.

“…I have.”

You both go quiet again.

“What are you feeling right now?”

“I… I don’t know.” he says slowly.

“Do you even know what you feel for me?”

He looks up.

Right at you.

And the look in his eyes is pure confusion. Not because the answer is no, but because the answer isn’t clear. Because feeling anything that isn’t rage or lust is a fucking foreign language to him.

“I don’t know.”

And he keeps saying he doesn’t know, but he really doesn’t. He so doesn’t know.

“Do you even remember your human life?” you ask, voice quiet.

He’s silent for a long beat. Then shrugs one shoulder. “Pieces.”

“What happened to you?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff.” you echo dryly.

He huffs. “I didn’t come here for therapy, alright?”

“…You know you’re not forgiven, right?” you say, soft but firm.

“I know.”

“And you know what you did to me is wrong?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re still going to keep me here.”

“…Yeah.”

You sigh. Let the silence stretch again. Then murmur, “You need to work on your apology game.”

He snorts. “Noted.”

You brush some hair out of his face. He watches you like a kicked dog.

You don’t say it aloud, but god, you missed him.

The silence holds for another breath. Then another.

“…I do appreciate the apology.” you say.

Fuck, it’s impressive that you’re still so fair and nice even now.

You keep going. “And I know that’s probably the best version of an apology that someone like you is capable of.”

His jaw shifts, like he wants to argue that, but knows you’re right.

“So,” you continue. “if you can fix yourself, then we’ll see what happens.”

“That’s a tall fuckin’ order, babe.”

You glance at him sideways. “Then you’d better get started.”

He lets out a short laugh. Rough and dry. “Fair.” And then, because he’s Abby and subtlety is not in his toolkit, he blurts, “Romance said you asked for new shit.”

Your eyes narrow, half-glare, half-grimace. “Yeah. I did.”

“Clothes?”

“Mhm.”

“Anything else?”

“Thought about asking for a tiny dog.”

“…Why didn’t you?”

You sigh, looking away toward your bedroom wall. “Because I don’t want to put a poor innocent animal through whatever the hell this is.”

Abby laughs. “Shit. That’s fair.”

You glance at him again, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “What? You don’t think I deserve new clothes?”

“No, I think you deserve everything.” he says instantly, too fast to pretend it was casual.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then again, you’re the one who’s been dragged into this against your will.

Still.

“I meant it.” you say after a beat. “If you’re really going to try… then maybe there’s a version of this where I don’t hate you. Think about it.”

He nods again, eyes flicking toward yours. “Yeah… maybe.”

Silence. A soft one, you’d say.

“…Why do you keep me here?”

He tenses. Immediately. His jaw flexes. You keep going.

“You know I’m not going to talk. You all let go of that a long time ago, so… why? Why keep me?”

Abby stares at you.

His eyes, fuck, his eyes are wide now. Round. Almost soft. Which is ridiculous, because nothing about him is soft. Not the muscle under his skin, not his brutal hands, not the way he’s hurt you, over and over.

But now he just… looks at you.

Is he supposed to confess his fucking love to you now??

You see the panic flicker there for half a second. Just a flicker. But it’s enough.

“Get out.” you say softly, not unkindly. “I wanna sleep.”

“Yeah.” he mumbles, rising to his feet with a heavy stretch. “Yeah, alright.”

He walks to the door, one last glance over his shoulder before he slips out.

God, what a coward.

What a fucking mess.

He’s been a soldier. A demon. A killer. A protector. A brute. A thing that obeys or dominates. He knows how to crush skulls. He knows how to grab what he wants. He knows how to hold you against a wall and make you feel.

But ask him what he feels?

He’s useless. Lost. Like a fucking kid again.

He doesn’t know.

That’s the truth.

Not that he’s hiding the answers. Not that he’s manipulative like Jinu, or performative like Romance, or eerily silent like Mystery, or keeping secrets like Baby.

Abby just… genuinely does not know. There’s a locked box inside of him that hasn’t been opened in centuries, and even if he wanted to open it, he doesn’t know where the key is.

And worse, he’s a man. A man surrounded by other men like him, all pretending they’re fine, on that crying is weakness shit, fucking instead of feeling, laughing instead of healing.

He never had the chance to become emotionally fluent.

He’s been living his life in survival mode for longer than you’ve been alive.

So yeah, he could answer some things. He could tell you he had a brother, and that’s already more than most people get out of him. He could tell you how many lives he’s taken, how many times he’s seen death, how it looks when the blood gets under his nails and won’t come out no matter how hard he scrubs.

But ask him why? Why you stay here? Why he can’t let you go?

He doesn’t know how to make his mouth shape those words. His tongue has never been trained to speak love. Just lust. Just loyalty. Just need.

You ask him how he feels?

He doesn’t know.

You ask him what happened to him?

He doesn’t know if he can answer that, if the memory is even right, if Gwi-Ma didn’t fuck the memories up.

You ask him why he keeps you here?

He doesn’t know, because the truth is too terrifying. Because the only word that fits is love, and love is something he watched get stabbed, hanged, burned, and buried a long time ago.

“Awww. That was adorable.”

Gwi-Ma’s back, everybody.

“You and your little human girlfriend. I think I felt something. Your little heart nearly grew three sizes today.”

And before Abby can shut it out, before he can even breathe, he’s slammed with a rush of memories.

Every mistake.

Every hand he broke.

Every neck he snapped.

The child he couldn’t save.

The brother he watched die.

The lovers he abandoned.

The blood.

The war.

The smell of fire.

He tries to lock the thoughts out. To think about you. About how warm your thigh felt next to him on the bed. About how you didn’t push him away immediately.

But Gwi-Ma slaps it out of his mind.

“Pathetic.” Gwi-Ma hisses. “Coward.”

You said he should try to fix himself. And Gwi-Ma laughs at the idea.

Because there’s nothing to fix. Not in someone like Abby. He’s muscle. Meat. He’s a weapon, not a person.

Dumb.

Fucked up.

Violent.

Selfish.

Meat-brained.

Guilt-ridden.

Empty.

Ignorant.

Simple.

Clueless.

Emotionally castrated.

Expendable.

Disposable.

Replaceable.

STUPID.

That’s what he’s been told for decades. Centuries. Over and over. Every time he opens his mouth and can’t find words for what’s inside.

He tries to shut Gwi-Ma out. Presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard.

But the voice is in him. Not separate.

He wants to fix himself. Doesn’t he?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the minute he even thinks about it, truly thinks about what it would mean to be better, to be someone who deserves you, Gwi-Ma hurts him. Again and again and again.

The truth is cruel.

He’s not someone in progress. He’s someone trapped.

The worst part is the humiliation. The humiliation of trying, and still being told it’s worthless.

Because Gwi-Ma doesn’t let them try. Not really. The moment any one of them reaches even a thread of softness, you, a thought of you, a smile you gave them once, a moment where they think maybe they could be better for you, he’s there. He’s always there.

Not just cruel, intimate. Personal. He knows where to hurt.

They can’t breathe.

None of them can, not really.

Abby, jacked and dead-eyed in his own bed, scratches at his forearm until the skin splits. He didn’t even realize he was doing it. Not until the blood warms.

He’d thought about trying again tomorrow. Thought about asking you if you wanted help, or offering to fix something in your room. Something small. Something human.

“You’re a joke. Look at you.”

And Abby did look. Into the mirror. Into his own face. And all he saw was a stranger.

Jinu is worse. Because he knows what he’s doing. But even Jinu, ruthless and slick and selfish, can’t stop Gwi-Ma from slithering under his skin.

“You’re a parasite.” Gwi-Ma whispers to him when he’s alone. “You don’t love her. You want to own her. Same thing, right?“

And you’re not stupid. You’ll figure it out eventually.

And then what?

When Romance puts a hand on your shoulder or whispers sweet things in your ear, Gwi-Ma leans in and coos, “She likes you best. Doesn’t she? Oh, she wants it. Wants you. Don’t worry about the others. They’re not built for it like you are.”

But the moment Romance believes it, lets the warmth in, imagines you choosing him for real, Gwi-Ma flips the blade. “Delusional little rat. She’ll see it. Eventually.”

And when he distracts himself with his hands, his hips, a sigh into his pillow and a slick palm and a fantasy of you, just as his breath hitches, right when the softest sound escapes his lips—

“What a little lapdog. Disgusting. You think you’ll be the boyfriend she deserves? You? Loverboy, candlelight, wine glass in hand, I can see it, even.”

Mystery, alone in the dark bathroom, runs cold water over his hands. He look in the mirror too long. He wants to be pretty, because you like pretty boys, right? Everyone does.

“She doesn’t care. You’re a pet. Not worth talking to. Why would she love you? You don’t even speak.”

Baby pretends he’s immune.

The alcohol helps. It’s the only thing that makes Gwi-Ma’s voice slur. Even a little.

But that’s not better.

Not at all.

“Not enough alcohol in the world to erase what you did. Drink up. Drown it. That’s all you’re good for.”

They all want to try. To say something kind. To change. To fix themselves for you.

But Gwi-Ma doesn’t let them.

Even when they still try, still fumble toward kindness, still find themselves reaching for you, it’s unbearable.

To want so badly to be better.

And to be reminded, again and again, that maybe they can’t be.

They like you so much. It’s stupid, how much.

But no matter how loud that love is, Gwi-Ma’s louder.

They still want you.

They still crave your laugh, your attention, your touch, your eyes.

They want to deserve you.

But they don’t believe they can.

So they keep stumbling.

Keep hurting you.

Keep hurting themselves.

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[kazeniya]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS (10)

VERY JINU CENTRIC. OMG GUYS WE'RE ALMOST AT THE END RAAAAAHHHH ALOS IF U DONT LIKE FRIED CHCIKEN, BREAD EGG AND BEER IM SORRY, THIS CHAPTER MENTIONS EATING THEM (please don't hate me ehehe)

Previous

The Huntr/x girls had asked Y/N to come see their rehearsal for the Idol Awards in the morning. She had woken up feeling completely refreshed at the literal crack of dawn (five am) when she got the text.

Of course the Huntr/x girls were already up. Y/N remarked in her head, swinging her legs off the bed. They were a hard working bunch of girls backed up by an immense amount of talent. They deserved as much as they already had and more.

The Saja Boys had already been back in her apartment, lounging around as if they owned the place. Which in their mind, they had already seemingly established that Y/N was theirs so, in a way, they weren’t wrong.

‘Guy, I gotta go watch the girls practice Takedown.’ Y/N called out, pulling a new sweater over her head. It had appeared in her closet two days ago. It looked new but it smelt like it had been freshly washed.

‘That’s the song about us right?’ Beom looked amused, lifting his head to admire Y/N wearing the sweater he had bought for her. Was it weird that he hadn't told her? He hadn't courted anyone even back when he was human. Surely if Y/N wore the sweater then it was okay.

The blue haired man drifted into a cloud of thoughts, each being Y/N-centric.

‘Yeah doesn’t it say something about, “When your patterns start to show it makes the hatred wanna grow outta my veins.” Did you come up with that line?’ Min raised an eyebrow, hair pulled back by one of Y/N’s pink sparkly hair ties. She had given it to him a couple of days ago, when he kept stealing Y/Ns ones.

‘No, actually Zoey came up with it! She’s amazing at writing isn’t she?’ Y’/N exclaimed, pulling on her sneakers, not bothering to untie the laces.

‘Hm, sounds like they don’t really like sharing, huh?’ Jinu noted, handing Y/N a cling wrapped egg sandwich. Y/N took the food, thanking him quietly with a warm grin.

‘Make sure you eat that before it gets cold. Breakfast is important.’ Jinu called out, as the elevator doors began to shut.

‘Nice apron Jinu!’ Y/N chuckled, her face disappearing behind the elevator doors.

‘It’s yours.’ Jinu protested, crossing his arms over his white ruffled apron clad chest, as Y/N’s descent had already begun.

Y/N had popped by the convenience store, picking up some triangle kimbap for the girls, tuna, salmon and kimchi. Three of each, just to be sure. The girls had insisted that she didn't walk the whole way, asking for her location. It’d been a short walk to the convenience store, a hired car appearing outside the store,, whisking her away to the stadium.

Takedown was being played on mini speakers, the song inter-mixing with the squeaking of sneakers on the stage. Each movement was precise, all three huntr/x girls dancing in unison. Not a single mistake was being made both in the choreography and the singing.

‘Wow girls, that was amazing!’ Y/N called out, as Zoey, Mira and Rumi landed in their final pose. ‘Hey Bobby!’

‘Hey Y/N!’ Bobby smiled, waving at the girl who was approaching with shopping bags. ‘Watcha got there?’ 

‘Well, I knew you’d bring snacks, but I brought you some too! Actually I think I brought too much.’ Y/N lifted her bags, looking slightly embarrassed.

‘Y/N!’ Rumi cried out, throwing her arms over their producer.

‘You’re here!’ Zoey called out, tossing away her notebook and walking over.

‘I smell carbs.’ Mira muttered, drawn in by the smell of convenience store kimbap.

‘Alright girls settle down! There's enough food to go around.’ Bobby joked, adding, ‘And enough Y/N too.’ 

‘I disagree. I think those Saja brats should just quit. They don’t deserve our Y/N’ Zoey frowned, angrily ripping off the plastic covering of her triangle kimbap. She quickly finished the first one and began digging around the plastic bag for another.

‘I think they’re performing tomorrow?’ Y/N mused, opening a packet of crisps that she thought were interesting. Turtle chips, corn flavoured? She popped one in her mouth tentatively.

‘We’re competing against them tomorrow. For the International Idol Awards.’ Mira took a bite out of her food, glaring at it as if the kimbap had somehow done her an injustice.

‘Y/N, we need to talk…’ Rumi sighed, looking down, her food was untouched, hands fidgeting.

‘Girls! I’ve got to go handle a quick meeting about tomorrow. Call me if you need me!’ Bobby interrupted, typing away furiously at his phone before picking up a call.

‘No, they are not sharing more screen time with the Saja bros.’ Bobby yelled angrily. ‘Okay fine the Saja Boys, I don’t care what they’re called, they can get their own screen time. Fix this!’ His voice faded away.

‘Y/N, the tears in the Honmoon. They’ve gotten bigger.’ Zoey began, her shadowed eyes met Y/N’s ones.

She hadn’t noticed before, but now she could see it. They were tired, no, exhausted. Under the makeup they were wearing, they had eyebags and hints of scratches littering their faces. Mira had a bandage on her ankle and Rumi had been avoiding weight on her left ankle the entire time they were dancing. Zoey herself was hardly keeping herself awake.

‘The Saja Boys are demons right? I think…’ Zoey began, looking reluctant. Her hesitance stemmed from knowing that Y/N had some sort of a relationship with those boys. However, the number of missing people had been rising steadily. They couldn’t ignore it anymore, it was a problem.

‘We have to kill them.’ Rumi said firmly, hands gripping the edge of the stage they were sitting on.

‘We can’t let them take all these people’s souls Y/N. The rips, they’re because those demons are stealing our fans.’ Mira finished her third kimbap, crunching the plastic into a ball with her hands.

‘Wait.’ Y/N clumsily slid off the stage, turning to face the girls. ‘What if I told you that I could help. I think I could convince the Saja Boys to sit out the International Idol Awards or at least lose.’

‘If they sit out, that would mean that our performance could turn the Honmoon golden.’ Zoey’s eyes narrowed, her chin between her thumb and index finger.

‘You could do that?’ Mira squinted. The idea of demons helping the hunters felt abstract. It wasn’t an idea that the girls had really ever entertained or even had in general. Not only were the Saja Boys the reason the Honmoon was failing. These demons were also the reason Y/N had to share her time.

‘I think I can…’ Y/N stared at her hands. 

‘You know how you guys have your weapons? I think I do something similar.’  She looked up, her eyes wide and pleading.

‘What do you mean?’ Rumi, walked over to the girl, gently tugging her back toward the stage’s steps.

‘Well, I’m not completely sure but… Recently, the boys, I’ve changed their patterns. Some of them don’t communicate with Gwi-ma anymore. In fact, they can’t.’ Y/N looked up at Rumi, their eyes meeting. Rumi frowned slightly, as if something was on her mind.

‘Wait, Rumi, haven’t your patterns been getting lighter?’ Zoey spoke up, suddenly remembering.

‘That's right, I thought I was seeing things but you also think so too?’ Rumi spun around excitedly.

‘No, they’re one hundred percent getting lighter. They’re still purple and spreading but they look fainter somehow.’ Mira stood, heading toward Rumi placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

‘I think-’ Y/N began, before a faint WHUM was heard, a glint of red trickling through strings of the Honmoon.

All four girls snapped to attention, eyes pin pointing in a direction far off in the distance.

‘Y/N, you go talk to them. Don’t follow us. You still don’t have a weapon and you could get hurt.’ Rumi traced her delicate fingers over the strings, manifesting her Sain-geom, the sword glowing white blue.

‘We’ll see you tomorrow Y/N.’ Zoey’s eyes hardened, still glaring off at where the tear in the Honmoon was.

‘Let us know if the Saja Boys give you any trouble. You know where to find us.’ Mira nodded, placed a quick hand on Y/N’s cheek, brushing a thumb over it. 

‘Stay safe Y/N/N’ Rumi whispered, pulling the girl into a hug quickly before turning to signal at the girls.

‘Call me when you’re finished!’ Y/N called out to the girls who were already running out of the stadium, easily leaping over the thousands of chairs, making their way to the roof of the stadium. From afar, she could see the Huntr/x girls give her a thumbs up before finally leaping out of sight. 

A loud chirp sounded from her right.

‘What the… Oh it’s you. Sussie right?’ Y/N hummed, as the six eyed magpie flew over to sit on her shoulder. It was wearing the signature 갓 (hat) that was made for Derpy.

‘Did Jinu send you?’ Y/N laughed, gathering the items left behind and packing everything away neatly. Sussie gave a non committal chirp, sounding almost bored. With a fond smile, she raised a to scratch the bird's neck.

‘Is Derpy with you?’ She asked, walking toward the exit of the stadium, patting her pockets, making sure she had everything with her.

‘Nah, Derpy found a potted plant on your balcony and can’t stop playing with it.’ A familiar, distinct voice called out from behind her.

‘Jinu?’ Y/N spun around quickly, causing the bird on her shoulder to ruffle its feathers slightly.

‘Hey there, I’m here to pick you up from work.’ Jinu smiled, leaning against the stage in casual clothing. He was wearing a similar sweater to Y/N, but in a cream white colour. Over it, he was wearing a black leather jacket.

‘Well aren’t you the perfect wife?’ Y/N laughed, walking backwards with her hands clasped behind her back. At this point, it wasn’t as surprising when the Saja Boys would show up out of nowhere. She was pretty sure they could teleport whenever they wanted to go.

‘Yes, yes I am.’ The demon gave a smile, his face partially lit by the setting sun. His skin glowed almost golden in the light, his eyes weren’t his usual black colour.

‘Wow, your eyes are glowing.’ Y/N blinked, surprised by the yellow colour that Jinu usually kept hidden. They were almost a shimmering golden. 

‘Oh, sorry. Got too comfortable.’ Jinu winced, bringing a hasty hand to cover his eyes, eyebrows drawn together as he turned away.

‘No, it looks good!.’ Y/N flashed a carefree smile, walking forward and reaching to tug at Jinu’s sleeve gently. 

‘You have nice eyes.’

Jinu’s ears turned pink, going unnoticed by Y/N who had already let go and turned around to continue her way out of the stadium. She turned back to face the spot where Jinu was still standing, frozen in place.

‘You coming?’ Y/N called out, ‘Let’s walk home. I wanna watch the sunset.’ 

‘Coming!’ The man replied, speed walking to the exit, the setting sun casting a halo around Y/N’s silhouette. 

– 

Tipping below the horizon, the shadows grew long as the light grew dimmer. Luckily, it wasn’t winter so the weather was still bearable. The wind did not yet have a bitter bite to it. A comfortable silence fell between the two, as they walked through the back alleys of the bustling city streets, avoiding the street vendors and people of all ages. Y/N had momentarily forgotten that technically Jinu, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, was a new rising popstar. If they had taken the usual routes, he would probably be recognised and swarmed by a mob of rabid fans.

‘Hey Jinu? Have you ever thought about what you’d be right now? If you weren’t a demon. Imagine you were just human, living now, in the twenty-first century. What would you wanna be doing?’ Y/N asked, breaking the comforting silence.

‘What am I to you right now?’ Jinu asked, sounding slightly winded by the question. 

‘Hm, well, I think you guys are pretty much my roommates now. You basically live in my apartment, you cook and do all my basic house chores while I literally drown myself in work. I guess you’re either my roommates or my stay at home husbands.’ Y/N laughed, covering her bottom lip with her fist.

‘Then that’s what I’d want to be. Without the demon part of me. I’d want to be how we are right now.’ Jinu whispered, placing his jacket over Y/N’s shoulders. His jacket smelt woodsy but clean. Yet, there was a floral hint at the collar.

‘Jinu?’ Y/N raised an eyebrow.

‘Yeah?’ The man replied, gently pulling the jacket around Y/N’s shoulders firmly. The sun had kissed goodbye to the horizon. Jinu’s face was only slightly lit by the waning licks of streetlights.

‘Have you been using my shampoo.’ Y/N tilted her head, finally realising that she had been running out of her soaps more often than usual. The jacket around her had the same faint scent of her shampoo.

Jinu let out a snort, bringing a hand to cover his mouth as he broke into a fit of laughter.

‘You are the most dense girl I have ever met.’ Jinu wiped a tear from his eye, his face flushing red from the amount of laughing he had done.

‘Hey, I don’t keep track of the soaps I use, okay? I just know I gotta buy them once a month and if they’re on sale.’ Y/N huffed, walking away feeling a slight heat in her chest. A heat that she wasn’t sure yet was because she was embarrassed or…

Something else?

‘Aw, don’t be mad my dear husband. Come, we’re almost home.’ Jinu said, his voice slowly catching up to Y/N, as he sped up to walk alongside her. 

‘What would you like for dinner?’ He grinned, hoping to appease her through the promise of food.

‘Fried chicken.’ Y/N deadpanned, pausing abruptly. ‘I want fried chicken.’

‘Such a demanding princess you are.’ Jinu smirked, poking Y/N’s cheek softly.

‘No, no Jinu, you’re the princess, I’m the prince. That’s how our whole relationship works, remember?’ The girl nudged Jinu gently with her hip, attempting to catch the man slightly off guard.

‘Alright my prince charming. Fried chicken for dinner it is. I’ll text the boys and have them place an order.’ Jinu laughed quietly, not at all budging from Y/N’s playful shove.

‘Holy crap, you’re as solid as Abel.’ Y/N mumbled, trying to push him backwards slightly. 

Something was different about Jinu though. About all the Saja Boys, but she hadn’t noticed until now.

He was warm, but there was no heart beat. It wasn’t a surprise but it was somewhat jarring that he was somehow still radiating heat. Y/N kept her hand on Jinu’s chest, out of pure scientific curiosity.

‘Watch where you’re putting your hands Y/N. I’m only just a man.’ Jinu’s ears were red again, he gently took Y/N’s wrist in a firm grip. 

‘S- sorry.’ Y/N felt a rush of warmth creep up her neck. She hadn’t meant to keep her hand there for longer than a couple seconds. Y/N quickly lowered her hand, Jinu's grip still lingering on her wrist.

‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’ 

‘I think you misunderstand Y/N.’ Jinu pulled Y/N closer, tugging her by the wrist gently.

‘I’m saying it for your benefit. Not mine.’ Jinu leaned in, his yellow eyes locked on Y/N’s. 

Wordlessly, a mutual understanding began to form. As if a lightbulb had suddenly begun to flicker on.

‘Jinu…’ Y/N whispered, feeling Jinu’s grip slacken. Y/N watched Jinu's eyes closed as he began to step back, almost as if he were relenting.  Almost as if on instinct, her hand gripped onto his shirt, creasing it slightly.

Jinu, in turn, fluttered his eyes back open, stunned.

Warmth.

Warmth, flowing from Y/N’s hand into Jinu’s body, sending sparks onto a dead hearth that had been suffocated.

And yet, in this one moment, a look? A touch?

No.

It was Y/N.

Y/N alone, had rekindled a flame to burn in Jinu’s still chest.

In the place of a beating heart, was the flame that Y/N had reignited. 

The flame of unwavering hope. 

‘Jinu, I… I need to talk to you about something.’ Y/N began, her hand still clutching at Jinu’s shirt, hand trembling slightly.

‘Yes?’ He breathed, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the reality of the moment.

‘It’s more of a favour.’ Y/N winced, faltering under Jinu’s gaze. His eyes were ablaze with emotion.

‘Ask me.’ Jinu hummed, smiling that same forlorn smile that was reserved solely for Y/N.

‘Tomorrow, at the international Idol awards. You need to lose to Huntr/x. If the Saja Boys lose, Huntr/x will seal the Honmoon. You’d be on this side.’ Y/N rambled nervously, before taking a deep breath to calm herself down.

‘You’d be here, on this side with me. All of you.’ She finished, watching Jinu’s gaze change into wonder.

‘Wait, if they seal it that would also mean my connection with Gwi-ma would be cut off. We would be free.’ Jinu said, under his breath as if he himself couldn’t believe the words he was saying.

‘You could stay in the overworld. Think about it! You, Abel, Beom, Rae and Min would all be able to stay here. You could…’ Y/N paused, searching for the right words.

‘We could stay with you’ Jinu finished, raising his other hand shakily, to cup Y/n’s face delicately.

‘Mhm, that's right.’ Y/N agreed, nodding in Jinu’s hold.

‘Holy crap, how did I not think about this at all? I mean, am I stupid or something?’ Jinu shook his head, looking amused and frustrated at himself.

Releasing Jinu’s shirt, Y/N took a step back, bringing her hand instead to grip at Jinu’s wrist. 

‘Don’t worry about it. I just happen to be a genius is all.’ Y/N joked, tugging him forward in the direction of home.

‘Yeah, we’ll go with that.’ Jinu remarked sarcastically, allowing himself to be tugged along. 

‘Beom is asking what flavour chicken you want. You gotta pick one Y/N/N.’ He scrolled through his phone, checking the spam messages sent by Beom.

‘Oh, uhhh I mean are you guys eating as well? If so, it’d make sense for us to get half of everything. Abel can have an entire chicken on his own I think.’ Y/N frowned, counting off on her fingers to estimate how much chicken they should get.

‘You’re probably right.’ Jinu agreed, typing out a response easily. ‘They said it’d take about fifteen minutes. About the same time as it’ll take for us to get home.’

‘Perfect! I’m kinda hungry. I didn’t have much of the snacks I bought.’ Y/N wrinkled her nose.

‘Oh, right. We were planning a surprise dedicated performance for you. But I guess, we won’t be doing that anymore.’ Jinu sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

‘We even had a whole speech written and memorised.’ He whined, bringing both hands to cover his face. 'Ugh, this is so dumb.’ 

‘Aw, y’know you can still perform it for me after the Idol Awards!’ Y/N laughed, patting Jinu on the shoulder.

‘Then we’d have to practice again in our own apartment tonight. I wanna keep it a surprise.’ Jinu perked up, pulling out his phone again to text again to the rest of the boys.

‘Alright, you guys can go after dinner! I’ll clean up and you guys can go practice.’ Y/N declared, skipping her way toward a familiar neighbourhood.

‘It’s just take-away, what would you have to clean up?’ JInu raised an eyebrow, following along.

–

Dinner, of course, had been rowdy. When they had finally made it up, the Saja Boys had sent knowing looks at Jinu, each boy giving a warm smile. 

Y/N on the other hand, was preoccupied by the smell of fried chicken in her kitchen and darted toward the recently delivered chicken. She could tell it was fresh by the way there was steam still wafting from the food.

‘So, you finally admit you like her?’ Min teased, sliding up to Jinu along with Rae, as the rest of the boys walked towards the kitchen.

‘I… You both like her too.’ Jinu deflected, crossing his arms with a pouty demeanour.

‘Ah hah! You said too. So you do admit it.’ Min snickered, placing his hands on Jinu’s shoulders, pushing him towards the kitchen from behind.

‘Don’t worry Jinu, we all have the same taste so we knew it was only a matter of time.’ Rae laughed, playfully elbowing the shorter man.

‘Whatever, you guys shoulda known when I started cooking for her that I liked her.’ Jinu’s neck was starting to flush a pretty shade of pink.

‘Oh, trust me Jinu. We knew.’ Rae smirked, slinging an arm over Jinu’s shoulders.

Abel and Beom had already begun plating a piece of each flavoured chicken on plates, eagerly distributing a plate for Y/N first. A comfortable chatter filled the penthouse, accompanied by the smell of beer and chicken. The perfect way to spend the pre-show night, preparing for what lay ahead.

But all too soon, the chicken was finished and all the dishes had been washed, courtesy of Min. The trash had been taken out and the table wiped. Y/N had already begun yawning, seeing as she had woken up when the sun had first begun to show on the horizon. The boys had reluctantly said their goodbyes as Y/N finally finished her nightly routine and changed into pyjamas.

–

‘So, there's been a change of plans guys.’ Jinu spoke up, as the group walked to their apartment complex interrupting the small talk between the rest of the men.

‘We’re going to let Huntr/x win the Idol Awards.’

‘What? You’re kidding right?’ Beom immediately protested, looking as if he had been personally offended. 

‘Why on earth would we let them win. We want Y/N to be cheering our name.’ Rae agreed, running a hand through his hair, the pink hair tie from Y/N on his wrist, catching the street light.

‘Hold on, I think Jinu has a plan. Let’s just hear him out, yeah?’ Abel’s serious tone shut down the protests quickly. It wasn’t like him to display a commanding tone but the boys knew. When Abel was paying attention, it was most likely for a good reason.

‘Thats right. Y/N and I talked about it. If we help the hunters seal the Honmoon, we’d be on this side with her. Gwi-ma and the others will be stuck on the other side.’ Jinu’s eyes were alight with passion, his tone completely animated.

‘We could be-’ Jinu began before being interrupted.

Dark whispers began to fill the mans ears. 

All of the men.

Abel's alarmed eyes caught Jinu's own ones as their patterns suddenly began to litter across their skin in their original vile purple colour.

Jinu groaned, slamming back first into the concrete floors of the underworld.

‘Damn it.’ He groaned, rolling over onto his side, using his elbows to support himself.

Souls were flying overhead, like a meteorite shower, dancing across the sky flickering a haunting blue.

Jinu pulled himself to his feet, gazing around at the horde of demons below him.

Wait, why were his friends right behind him? Hadn’t they stopped being able to hear Gwi-ma? They weren't pulled back last time. What just happened?

Each of the men looked confused, their bodies hunched into defensive positions.

‘What’s with the long faces? Everything’s going to plan. Look at all these souls, huh?’ Jinu pointed at the sky, doing his best to diffuse the situation. Surely nothing was wrong. This was just a routine check in.

‘Turn around.’ A demon with the Saja Boys light stick whispered, gesturing with his claw.

Jinu froze, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

‘That’s funny. Is that wench, the reason I lost control of your friends?’ Gwi-ma snarled, his purple flames blazing like a scorched mass. ‘Do you think that she can save you?’

‘What wench? What are you talking about?’ Jinu asked steadily, his emotions in a frenzy. His instincts were howling at him to take his friends and run.

‘One of the little demons I sent into the overworld has reported back to me. He says that there’s a girl that you’ve been keeping around.’ Gwi-ma’s voice sounded amused, as if he knew of the situation. As if he already had a plan in place.

‘He also told me your friends were very much alive. It took me quite a bit of effort, but I guess you’re all alive after all hmm?’ Gwi-ma’s faux tone of patience was stifling, like the calm before the storm.

‘She’s a means to an end. Once we take down Huntr/x, we’ll cast her away too. She’s just a lowly writer, she isn’t a threat.’ Min spoke up, his voice held fast, his heart screaming in protest. The easy lie seared his tongue like acid as he said it. 

‘Oh, is that so?’ Gwi-ma chuckled darkly, flames flickering brighter if that were even possible. He began to address Jinu instead.

 ‘Listen here Jinu, I know you. I know you’re nothing but a selfish man who does things for his own gain.’

Jinu’s stomach churned for the first time in four hundred years.

‘I’m not-’

‘Ah ah. That wasn’t a question, Jinu. So, in order to guarantee my freedom. I have a new offer for you. For all of you.’ Gwi-ma’s tone was borderline sinister, hostile even. 

‘If you free me and destroy the Honmoon. I’ll erase your memories and as a bonus… I’ll let your little friend live.’

‘She isn't-’

‘But if you fail.’ Gwi-ma’s voice had lost its playfulness, now with an edge of malice.

‘I will make it my personal vendetta, to take her soul, make her into an empty husk and you all will look at her for the rest of your life knowing she cannot feel or remember anything because you failed.’ The entire underworld was silent, the crackling of Gwi-ma’s fire filling the air. It wasn’t the display of cruelty that brought them to silence. It was the fact that Y/N’s safety was on the line.

‘Am I clear?’ The demon king asked the group of horror-struck men.

No, they couldn’t. Turning the Honmoon golden, wasn’t worth losing Y/N. Nothing in the world was worth losing her. 

‘Crystal.’ Jinu replied, trembling with fury.

‘Good. Remember boys, I’m always watching.’ The fire rumbled a cackle, sending the boys rushing back into the ground. 

The boys, thrown back onto the overworld unceremoniously, each wearing a different expression between rage and terror.

Min was gasping, clutching at his forehead with one hand.

Abel’s face was a stone mask, reminiscent of the same expression he wore as he slaughtered hundreds of men on the battlefield, several hundred years ago. 

Beom’s eyes were wide, sweat dripping down his face as he watched Rae dry heave on the pavement.

‘What do we do?’

---------

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[kazeniya]

08 OUT OF FRAME!! - The Ghost of Relationship Past

Human idol! Jinu × Manager! Reader | OUT OF FRAME!! masterlist

Word count : 1720

TW : none (?)

The plaza wasn't very crowded that night.

The glow of the streetlights stretched long shadows over the brick pavement, and a few performers could be seen in the plaza's corners: dancers, singers, stunt performers...

Snack stands were also open, their bright signs and loud vendors gaining the attention of passerby. It was the perfect place to have fun, or in Y/N's case, scout some talent.

It was also the same place where Y/N and Jinu used to hang out in secret.

Y/N glanced at a familiar hidden corner and much to her dismay, her heart clenched. The worn-out bench they used to sit on was still there, next to the broken vending machine. She could still remember how she would lean against him as he tuned his guitar and asked if he sounded better in A minor or G major... Or whatever key it was.

Not that it mattered to her. She always thought he sounded lovely.

"He's still hanging around this place?" Y/N whispered in disbelief. "Unbelievable. He really is a sentimental jerk..."

Abby glanced at her, noting the way her voice shook a bit.

"You don't have to talk to him," He offered. "I can scout him for you if you want."

"No, I'll do it," Y/N mumbled. "I'm the manager."

"If you say so," Abby sighed as they continued to look for Jinu. "He's usually in the more quiet spots. And he should be wrapping up his performance soon."

"Which means we have to hurry, or else he's going to disappear as usual," Y/N grumbled. "That is... If he hasn't changed."

"Nope, I assure you: he's like a ghost," Abby joked, trying to lift the mood a bit. Y/N merely shrugged as they weaved past the crowd. A part of her hoped they won't find him. Maybe he had already left, or wasn't there to busk at all.

However, the louder part wanted to see him again. Because she missed him. Or maybe just wanted to prove she didn't. She didn't know.

"Ah, there he is," Abby pointed to a figure sitting in a quieter part of the plaza, singing into a battered mic, fingers dancing over the strings of a familiar guitar.

"He's..." Y/N trailed off.

'Just as beautiful as the day I lost him.'

She recognized the song he was singing. Of cousrse she did. It was the one they wrote on a rainy starry night while curled up in his apartment.

'Asterlayna', they had titled it. Meaning 'pathway of stars'.

'Even if you're walking that path without me

The stars I sent will forever keep you company'

She didn't think he remembered this song, let alone would want to perform it in public after their seperation.

And here he was: singing it like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

She watched him intently. In her mind, she was taken back to those nights in his apartment spent cuddling and whispering sweet words of love and affirmations.

And oh, she missed it so badly.

She wanted to be held again. She wanted to cry and have someone kiss away her tears. She didn't want to admit it, but she wanted it all back.

She wanted to feel safe. She wanted to be weak.

When Y/N snapped back to reality, a tear had already ran down her cheek, and the final notes of Jinu's song had faded.

"Thank you, everyone," he said into the mic with a polite nod. A few scattered claps rang out before the plaza quieted again.

"C'mon, let's go talk to him," Abby told her, already walking forwards.

"No," she grabbed his hand, then slipped some money into his hold. "Go get something for yourself and wait for me near the fountain. I'll talk to him myself."

Abby was silent for a moment, "are you sure?"

Y/N nodded, "I don't want you getting caught between my past problems with him."

"Alright then," Abby sighed, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

Once Abby left, she took a deep breath, then approached Jinu who was busy packing up his equipment. Her hands shook with every step. Her mind told her to go back, but her heart was already sprinting forwards.

For now, she'd just have to stay strong a bit longer.

"Hi," Y/N tried her best to keep her voice steady and guarded. "It's been a while. You were great."

Jinu froze. He slowly turned to face her, eyes wide.

"Y/N...?" he whispered, clearly in disbelief. "I... What are you—"

"I wanted to talk to you," Y/N answered, gaze flitting to his equipment. "If you're free, of course."

Jinu's eyes widened more, if that was even possible, "talk?"

"We don't have to if you're not up for it—"

"No, no— I mean yes. Yes, we can talk," he fumbled with his words. "I just... I didn't think you'd want to even see me again. I thought you hated me."

"I-I don't," Y/N looked away. "Or... I do? I don't even know."

Silence lingered between them, neither really knowing what to say.

"I... Still play the songs we used to work on," Jinu said softly. "Some of the chords and lyrics are yours."

"That's sweet," Y/N admitted, hating how he always knew how to make her feel warm inside, "but it's mostly your work."

"Don't sell yourself short," he said almost too quickly. "Your lyrics are beautiful."

"You have to admit it's mostly you, though," Y/N insisted. "And you know what? That's exactly why I'm here: I need your help."

Jinu kept quiet, and she took it as a sign to continue.

"To put it short; I'd like you to join my boy band."

"Boy band?" Jinu echoed, raising a brow. "I saw some viral news recently: you and a bunch of guys... Something about a rap battle a brawl? Is this what that's about?"

"Sort of," she hummed. "The four of them agreed. I was going to debut just the four of them, but it felt incomplete."

She hesitated, then looked up to meet his eyes, "and then you came to mind."

Jinu's heart clenched. She thought of him? Even after everything?

"You have a great voice, you're good at making songs: lyrics especially," Y/N listed before a humorless chuckle escaped her lips. "Our rapper? He said he'd help write the lyrics, but he's so... Bratty, I'm worried he'll start writing about anarchy or something. So, we could use another lyricist. Plus, the guys are kind of unhinged, so we could use someone who can act like a decent leader."

Jinu chuckled at that, "sounds like you've got yourself a handful."

"More than a handful," Y/N let herself smile. "You can call it a zoo."

For a second, she wanted to forget all the business talk, as well as the space that had grown between them. Talking like this was so easy.

But what happened had happened, and the truth still stands: he had left her behind when she needed him.

"Anyways," Y/N cleared her throat, "that's the offer."

"Is this a good idea?" Jinu asked. "Scouting me. I mean, We have history."

"I'm wiling to look past it," Y/N tried to assure him. "I don't want to dwell on the past. It won't do me any good. Same goes to you."

Jinu couldn't bring himself to look at her, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I never intended to leave you. But I was scared. And I regret it everyday."

For a moment, Y/N didn't answer. She looked down at the ground like it was the most interesting thing ever, "you should've said something..."

"I know."

"What exactly happened?"

Jinu thought for a moment, trying to find the words to answer her.

"After the news spread," he started, "I got an earful from my agency. They shelved me shortly after. I wasn't allowed to release anything, so I started sneaking out to busk like this."

"Because singing is all you know," Y/N muttered, making him nod. She almost hated how she still remembered these things about him.

"And after they caught me busking, we got into another argument," he sighed. "I left the agency shortly later, but no one else would scout me because they see me as problematic."

Y/N looked away, guilt gnawing her heart. Why did she think he was enjoying life after he disappeared? Of course he wouldn't be fine.

"I hated you," Jinu's heart almost cracked when he heard the slight tremor in her voice. "I hated you so much for disappearing... But I hated myself more for hoping you'd come back."

Jinu had to fight the urge to just hug her then and there. He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to keep his tears at bay, "I wanted to. But I didn't know how."

And in a sad way, she wanted to believe him.

But she reminded herself why she looked for him in the first place: to topple Huntr/x. If they wanted to fix the mess between them, then they can do it as they run for the summit, but it isn't the main goal.

"I want to fix our relationship and be friends because if I want you in my group, I'd rather we can communicate well and be on good terms," Y/N explained, steadying her voice, "but I can't see us going back to what we were. For now, I just want to reach the top and trample Huntr/x. I hope you're okay with that."

"That's... Fair," Jinu croaked. "And honestly, for the best."

'Because you deserve better than a coward like me,' he wanted to add, but held himself back. Because this wasn't about him anymore.

She came with a mission and a burning flame, and he wants to be a part of it. He'll swallow the guilt and help her to make things right, even if things will never be the same again between them.

"I'd love to join you," his voice almost trembled as he gave her a nervous smile. "If you're willing to have me."

Y/N looked at him, then returned his smile, "then welcome to the group, Jinu. Looking forwards to working with you again."

Author's note : DUDE, WE'RE GETTING THE BAND BACK TOGETHER!! 🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺

AnyWHORE!! Thanks for your support as always!! Lotsa lovee 🥹🫶

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[kazeniya]

THE ETERNITY YOU DIDN’T ASK FOR — 𝖡𝖠𝖡𝖸 𝖲𝖠𝖩𝖠

STARRING . 𝖬𝖸𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖸 𝖲𝖠𝖩𝖠 WORD COUNT. 4,220 GENRE. angst, hurt/comfort, slice of life, && soft platonic intimacy. CONTENT CONTAINS. no reader!, existential dread, panic attack, hopelessness, && comfort. REQUESTED BY. @awful-amateur

｡°(°¯᷄◠¯᷅°)°｡

he didn’t mean to leave the room.

he didn’t mean to leave the warmth or the chatter or the lights or the paper-thin jokes floating through the air like ash from something already burnt. but the sound — the sound — it got in. sharp. a glass breaking. a familiar shatter. but it wasn’t just that. it was what came after. the silence. the breath that caught in his throat. the feeling of his skin tightening over his bones. the sense that he wasn’t real again.

he walked. down the hallway. into the stairwell. into the dark. away.

he didn’t run. there was no urgency in his feet. but inside? everything screamed.

the sound of the glass stayed. echoed. looped. over and over and over in the back of his skull. he couldn’t stop it. it didn’t fade. it grew. it fed on the silence he thought would help. it thrived in it.

he sat down. slowly. knees pulled to his chest. spine curling. breath shortening.

you’re not dying.

not today.

not ever.

that’s what did it.

the thought. so casual. so horrifying.

his fingers twitched. his chest rose and fell too quickly, too erratically, like his lungs had been rewired wrong, like his ribs were a prison too tight to breathe in. a cough scratched his throat, dry and ugly, and still — no relief.

he stared at the floor.

at the concrete.

at the scuffed mark on the wall across from him.

he blinked.

and blinked.

and blinked.

but the room didn’t change. the moment didn’t move.

and that’s when the spiral began.

because it wasn’t just today.

it wasn’t just this room. or this building. or this life.

it was all of it.

the forever of it.

he was a demon now. had been for too long to count, not long enough to accept. and he didn’t even know what he was anymore — not really. not truly. he looked like a boy. sounded like one when he chose to speak. felt like one when you touched him — warm, soft, solid. human enough.

but he wasn’t.

his soul wasn’t clean. his eyes weren’t normal. he saw things. felt things. craved things he couldn’t speak of. and worse — he remembered before.

he remembered what it was like to want to grow old.

to imagine change.

to dream of endings.

and now he had none of that.

the future wasn’t a story to be written.

it was a tunnel. a void. a long stretch of black tar under a sky that never moved.

he could stay here. in this stairwell. for five minutes. for five days. for fifty years. and no one would notice. because he wouldn’t change.

he wouldn’t wither.

he wouldn’t ache in the human way.

no sickness. no decay.

just… being.

and he hated it.

what the fuck is the point of forever when you don’t feel alive in it?

he pressed his palm against his chest.

the beat was there.

the rhythm was steady.

but it felt borrowed.

manufactured.

like a machine someone wound up long ago and forgot to turn off.

he hated his skin.

he hated his name.

he hated that the world saw him as something young and beautiful and mysterious — when all he wanted was to feel real again.

to break.

to bruise.

to die.

not dramatically. not painfully. just… naturally. eventually. in a way that made all of this mean something.

but that wasn’t his curse.

he had eternity.

he had mirrors that never lied and calendars that never mattered.

he had silence.

so much silence.

and inside that silence, a growing, gnawing thing that lived in the pit of his stomach. hungry. vicious. wild.

the demon in him? or just the grief of a soul that had outlived itself?

his breath turned ragged.

not from crying.

from fighting. something in him clawed at the walls of his chest like it was trying to dig out. like he could peel himself open and find a door inside his ribcage. a way out.

he gripped his hair. pulled. hard. no pain.

just pressure.

he curled tighter, until his forehead met his knees, and even then it didn’t feel close enough. he wanted to disappear into himself. he wanted to erase the lines of his body. turn soft. turn fog. turn gone.

but he couldn’t.

because he was here.

he was here.

forever.

and there was no ending in sight.

no way to stop the thoughts.

no way to scream loud enough to be heard past his own skin.

no one to tell.

no one who could understand what it meant to live long enough to want to stop.

he was tired. but he couldn’t sleep.

he was still. but he couldn’t rest.

he was breathing. but it didn’t help.

he wanted to break something. or scream. or vanish. but all he could do was sit there. arms wrapped around himself. breath sharp. stomach sick. eyes wide and dry.

glass kept breaking in his head.

the sound. the memory. the trigger. the truth.

he was a demon.

he was stuck.

this was it.

this was it.

this was it.

｡°(°¯᷄◠¯᷅°)°｡

the sun was lower now.

it filtered weakly through the gauzy curtains of their shared living space, casting soft golden stripes across the wooden floor. the noise from earlier had faded into quiet — someone had put on a lo-fi playlist, low and barely there. the others were still somewhere in the apartment, but the laughter had gentled. like they’d all instinctively understood something in the air had cracked a little.

baby sat on the couch, knees drawn up, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands. he hadn’t spoken since the spiral. hadn’t really moved much either. the tension had drained from his limbs, but it left something hollow in its place. not empty — just tired. like every nerve in his body had been wrung out and now he was just… existing. again.

and then —

the creak of footsteps.

soft. deliberate. unmistakable.

mystery.

he always moved like a question.

baby didn’t look up. he didn’t have to. he felt the shift in the air before he saw it. the presence. the pause. and then — the quietest flick of paper being unfolded.

a flyer appeared in front of him. held gently, almost like it was afraid to be real.

bold, messy colors. cheap ink. cartoonish stars.

a flyer for a carnival.

cheap rides. greasy food. loud lights. human joy. impermanence. color.

he stared at it for a long moment.

mystery didn’t say anything. didn’t point. didn’t ask.

just held it.

offering.

and baby, slowly, tilted his head. his expression unreadable, eyes soft but tired. something tugged in his chest. small. unfamiliar.

was this… for him?

a chance to be somewhere alive. where things were temporary. where lights flickered because they were supposed to. where nothing lasted forever. where you could lose yourself in noise that didn’t hurt.

he blinked once. then nodded. slow. a small, almost imperceptible nod.

and mystery—

without a word, without changing his expression—

lifted both arms into the air.

silent victory.

as if baby had just agreed to save the world. or chosen to live. or said yes to something that mattered.

his arms stayed there, outstretched like a child who just got a win at an arcade.

and baby?

he smiled.

barely. softly.

but it was real.

and for now, that was enough.

｡°(°¯᷄◠¯᷅°)°｡

the night was loud — not in a way that clawed under his skin, but in the way the human world sometimes managed to be when it was trying its best to celebrate something temporary.

the carnival was a blur of neon and warm bulbs, distant screams from rollercoasters, the rising scent of fried batter and spun sugar floating in the air like smoke. laughter overlapped with bells and whistles and the shriek of rubber brakes from the bumper cars somewhere off to the left.

baby stood just outside the entrance, hands in his pockets, hood up — not out of habit, but because the lights were so bright they made the air itself feel sharp. the edges of his thoughts still felt frayed from earlier, like his mind had been folded too many times in the wrong direction. but he was here. that mattered.

and mystery — well, mystery was already gone.

one second beside him. the next? halfway across the gravel, his silver-lilac hair bouncing softly with each step as he made a direct beeline toward a glowing cotton candy stand. no hesitation. not even a backward glance at first.

baby blinked slowly. of course. of course.

he watched as mystery approached the small line, then turned — suddenly, as if remembering baby existed — and pointed back at the stand with one long finger, eyes wide, expression somehow serious and excited all at once.

baby rolled his eyes.

the motion was automatic. almost a reflex. but there was no real annoyance behind it. if anything, something warm sparked in his chest — low and quiet. predictable, he thought. he’s such a damn sugar addict. he adjusted his hood, sighed, and crossed the gravel to join him.

the stand smelled like melted joy. blue and pink clouds of sugar spun like magic behind the plexiglass. mystery stood perfectly still in line, hands at his sides, not bouncing or fidgeting — just… watching. intently.

baby stood beside him, shoulder almost brushing his. the lights from the machine cast soft, rotating color over mystery’s face as he stared — utterly fixated — on the swirls of cotton candy wrapping around the stick.

it was childlike. not in a way that felt immature, but in a way that made baby pause.

how could someone like him — someone like them, really — still manage to look so enchanted by something so small? so stupid? sugar on a stick, spun in air, melting in seconds. something humans made just to be destroyed. something that faded as soon as it touched your tongue.

but mystery looked at it like it meant something.

and baby couldn’t stop watching him.

was it focus? or faith? or just a gift — the way mystery could pour all of himself into something that had no reason to hold it? into sweet things. strange textures. blinking lights. soft music.

baby envied that.

he didn’t even know what it was called, but he envied it.

the machine spun. the stick turned. and mystery watched like the world hinged on that sugar being perfect.

baby turned his head, just slightly.

and wondered what it would feel like to want something so simple again.

the vendor handed over the finished swirl — a towering, pastel puff of spun sugar that looked more like a cloud than food. baby blinked at it once before mystery reached out with both hands and took it like it was a holy relic, his eyes soft and reverent. he held it like something breakable, as if even the wind might ruin it if he didn’t move quickly enough.

baby almost smiled.

almost.

mystery didn’t wait. with cotton candy in hand, he turned on his heel and pulled. one pale hand closed gently around baby’s wrist, tugging him into motion with a quiet kind of insistence. not rough, not forceful — just sure. like he knew baby would follow.

so baby did.

he let himself be dragged across the carnival, the neon lights smearing colors against his skin, the hum of the crowd swelling louder around them. mystery didn’t say much. he never really did. but his eyes sparkled, soft mouth turned up in a faint grin as he moved from booth to booth like someone walking through a dream.

they played a game where you tossed rings onto bottles. mystery was bad at it. he missed every time, completely unbothered. baby handed him a ring without a word, and when mystery threw it with the worst form imaginable and knocked over a plush stand instead, he laughed — actual laughter. baby didn’t laugh with him, but he watched.

then came the balloon darts. mystery aimed. missed. missed again. won a tiny prize — a frog keychain. he looked at it like it was treasure. like it meant something. baby didn’t say a word. just kept moving beside him, like a shadow trying to remember how to be real.

and then — the voices.

small, random at first. passing by them like waves. but baby caught every one.

a girl in line ahead of them turned to her boyfriend, head tilted just so, voice soft under the carnival noise.

“do you think we’d find each other in another lifetime?”

baby blinked.

another voice — shriller, younger — tugging at a jacket.

“dad, i want that!”

“not until you’re older,” the man replied, not unkindly.

and then more.

“i hope i’m not boring when i get old.”

“we only have one summer left together.”

“promise me you won’t forget tonight.”

“you grow up so fast.”

“he asked me to marry him.”

“i’m too old for this ride, honey, go with your sister.”

“do you think people stay in love after they die?”

“he didn’t have long. he made me promise to smile anyway.”

“mama said she’ll be here next year.”

next year.

older.

another lifetime.

last summer.

die.

stay in love.

grow up.

wait until you’re older.

it didn’t stop.

they bled into each other. like whispers behind glass. not loud — constant. overlapping. echoing in the back of his skull, one after the other, until it was all he could hear. the world faded behind them. mystery’s footsteps became distant. the lights became static. the faces blurred. but the words — the humans — they lingered.

everything they said was about time. about having it. about losing it. about being allowed to move through it, to grow, to fall in and out of love, to promise and break and start over.

they got endings.

they got beginnings.

they got to change.

baby’s stomach twisted.

he blinked once and the world tilted sideways.

the sounds were still there.

not spoken anymore.

just repeating.

another lifetime.

not until you’re older.

last summer.

grow up.

do you think people stay in love after they die?

his chest tightened. a pressure behind his eyes. his throat burned. his hands curled inside his sleeves until his nails bit into skin.

the sounds didn’t stop.

they clung.

they choked.

his vision swam. the lights smeared like paint. the air felt wrong. thin. too bright. too colorful.

and then—

run.

he didn’t think. didn’t speak. didn’t explain.

he broke into a sprint.

shoulder brushing past a man holding popcorn. dodging a teenager with face paint. the chaos of color and joy blurred behind him as he tore down the gravel path between booths, eyes sharp, breath shallow. the crowd parted in waves, but no one looked closely — too caught up in their moments, their time.

his feet hit the bathroom door with a crack, shoulder first, pushing through into tile and fluorescent lights.

he locked the stall door behind him and collapsed.

onto the toilet seat. into his hoodie. hands over his ears.

but the voices followed.

do you think people stay in love after they die?

not until you’re older.

last summer.

forever.

and the one thought louder than them all, deep in his bones:

you don’t get any of that.

the stall walls felt too close.

every tile was wrong — too white, too sterile, humming with fluorescent light that buzzed like a hive in his skull. baby’s arms were wrapped around his knees now, forehead pressed into the fabric of his sleeves. his breaths came short and sharp, too fast, too loud inside his ears. his heart wasn’t beating — it was thrashing, like an animal inside a cage too small for its body.

his thoughts didn’t make sense anymore.

just fragments. just voices.

another lifetime.

grow up.

do you think people stay in love after they die?

last summer.

not until you’re older.

foreverforeverforever—

he clawed at his chest like he could tear the thoughts out, like he could make room for air if he just ripped enough. but he wasn’t breathing right. it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all.

his throat was tight. his mouth dry. his fingers numb.

everything in him screamed, and yet no sound came out.

and somewhere in all of it — buried beneath the noise — was the softest ache:

he didn’t want to be alone.

not like this. but he was.

until—

thump.

a sudden sound outside the stall. fast footsteps.

his head jerked up — eyes wide, wild. he couldn’t call out. couldn’t ask. he just curled tighter, afraid of being seen, afraid of being found like this, monstrous, trembling, unraveling—

and then—

rustle. scrape. the clatter of knees on tile. movement beneath the stall. and there he was.

silver-lilac hair and too-long limbs folding underneath the metal divider, mystery crawling into the tiny space without hesitation, without noise, without even knocking. his eyes were wide and soft, his expression unreadable — but open. not scared. not questioning. just there.

baby’s couldn’t speak. he didn’t trust his voice to hold shape, but mystery didn’t need it.

he crouched low in front of him, then settled carefully on the floor, folding in like paper, knees to chest, back against the locked stall door. the space between them was small. but mystery didn’t shrink. didn’t move away.

he reached out.

gently. like touching something fragile.

and laid a hand on baby’s sleeve.

not his hand. not his chest. not his face.

just his sleeve.

like he was saying, i’m here. i see you. i know. and then —

his other hand came up, slow and deliberate, fingers curling into the soft sign language they all barely knew — the signs he only used when the world was too loud for his voice.

he tapped his chest once.

then touched his fingers to baby’s shoulder.

then signed:

“safe. you’re safe.”

baby stared. his lip trembled. his vision blurred, and the pressure in his chest cracked — just enough.

he still couldn’t breathe right. not fully. not yet, but mystery didn’t move. didn’t look away. didn’t ask anything from him.

he just held on. a hand still resting on baby’s sleeve like an anchor.

his eyes soft. his silence louder than the world.

baby let out one ragged breath. and then another. and somewhere in the tight ache of his ribs —

something let go. not everything.

not yet, but enough. and mystery stayed.

because this was how he spoke.

the silence between them wasn’t empty — it pulsed with meaning, thick and alive, the kind that held weight heavier than words. baby sat still, the tremble in his fingers not quite gone, the pounding in his chest beginning to soften around the edges. his hoodie clung to him like a second skin, damp now with sweat and tears and the weight of his own unraveling. he was still folded in on himself, trying to force his breathing to even out, trying to shove all the sharp, spiraling thoughts back where they came from — but they didn’t go. they stayed. gnawed at him.

and mystery didn’t let go.

he was still right there, sitting across from him on the grimy bathroom floor, long limbs folded in like he’d always belonged in small places, soft places. his hand stayed against baby’s sleeve, his fingers now moving — not fast, not performative — just… gentle.

he started signing again. not toward baby’s face this time, but into his hoodie. into the fabric that covered his arm, like the words were meant to soak into him. no eye contact. no pressure. just soft movements pressed into cotton:

“it’s okay.”

“you’re not broken.”

“you’re not too much.”

“you’re not alone.”

baby squeezed his eyes shut. tight. tighter.

the tears came slowly at first — hesitant, like they weren’t sure they were allowed — but then all at once. he curled his fists into the front of his hoodie and wept. silent, shaking sobs that bent him forward, made his shoulders quake, turned his whole body into grief. not loud. not dramatic. just… helpless. aching. full.

he didn’t cry often. he didn’t know how to, not really. he didn’t trust it. didn’t want anyone to see him like this — like something small. but mystery didn’t look away. didn’t mock. didn’t try to fix.

he just opened his arms.

slowly. calmly. invitingly.

and baby — trembling and sore and exhausted — let himself fall into them.

he sank against mystery’s chest, face pressed into his collarbone, fists still curled in his own hoodie. and mystery held him. arms winding around him carefully, almost reverently, like baby might shatter if he touched him wrong. he didn’t rock. didn’t squeeze. just held — warm and steady and real. like shelter. like memory.

and for a long moment, neither of them moved.

baby’s cries softened, melting into sniffles, the kind that hiccuped out of him like they had nowhere else to go. mystery let him cry. let him be. and when baby’s breath started to even out — slow, shaky, but better — that’s when mystery finally spoke.

softly. barely above a whisper. his voice, when he used it, was like old glass — rare and careful and fragile in the best way.

“you’re not stuck,” he murmured, like he’d pulled the words straight from baby’s heart. “you’re still here. and it’s okay if that hurts.”

baby didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

mystery shifted just enough to press his cheek against baby’s hair. he sighed into it, slow and easy, like he knew how to carry this kind of pain. like he’d done it before. his next words were quiet, but firm. each syllable a thread weaving baby back together:

“you don’t have to be anything more than this right now. you don’t have to explain it, you don’t have to be fine, you just have to be.”

baby’s fingers twitched. a broken inhale caught in his throat.

and mystery — patient, steady, still holding him — whispered one last thing into the space between them:

“i’ve got you.”

and he did. without needing to understand all the reasons why.

without needing to know what had broken him in the first place.

because that was their bond.

unspoken. unshakable.

a language of quiet things.

and right now, it was all baby needed.

the quiet that followed wasn’t empty this time. it was soft. gentle. like the dust settling after a storm — light still filtering through the cracks, shaky and unsure, but there. baby’s breathing had finally slowed, though his eyes were still puffy and red, cheeks streaked from tears. he felt wrung out. hollowed. quiet, in a way that didn’t ache quite as much. just still.

he was still folded up against mystery, head resting on his shoulder now, the warmth of his friend grounding him like a weighted blanket. they hadn’t spoken in a while. didn’t need to. mystery had his chin tilted back against the stall wall, eyes closed, content just to sit and exist, breathing in sync with baby like it was the most natural thing in the world.

then — like it was nothing, like it was everything — mystery shifted slightly and pulled something out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

a small, round plastic tub.

baby blinked, watching as mystery popped the lid off and turned the container slightly in his palm. inside, a perfectly packed swirl of fluffy blue and pink cotton candy. slightly smooshed, sure — but unmistakable.

baby stared. “…you brought cotton candy into the bathroom?”

mystery looked at him, expression deadpan but eyes glinting with the barest hint of mischief. he held the tub out in offering, like it was the most sacred thing on earth. baby choked on the absurdity of it, a single, stunned huff escaping his lips — the beginnings of laughter.

“no thanks,” he managed, shaking his head. “i think i’ve cried too hard to deserve carnival sugar.”

mystery shrugged, dramatically reeling the tub back toward himself like he’d just won a prize. “suit yourself,” he said with mock seriousness, voice a little deeper now, like he was pretending to be some noir detective, “more for me.”

and then — with a flourish — he shoved a comically large handful of cotton candy in his mouth. like way too much. his cheeks puffed out immediately. and baby couldn’t help it.

he burst out laughing.

not a chuckle. not a small laugh.

real laughter. deep and ugly and bright. the kind that felt like your ribs were finally learning how to expand again. he doubled forward, wheezing through it, one hand over his mouth as he watched mystery slowly chew the mound of sugar with the most blank, innocent expression imaginable.

“you’re— you’re disgusting,” baby gasped between laughs. “you can’t eat like that in front of someone who just had a breakdown, you psychopath—”

mystery raised an eyebrow as he continued chewing, then deliberately took another handful and shoved it in, cheeks now round and sticky like a chipmunk. he held eye contact the whole time.

baby fell over sideways.

he was laughing so hard now he couldn’t breathe, clutching his stomach, tears falling again — but this time, they didn’t hurt. this time, they were light. healing, even. something warm was breaking through the cold.

he curled into himself, laughter shaking his shoulders, and mystery, proud and victorious, simply leaned back and nodded solemnly.

and somehow — somehow — that ridiculous tub of bathroom cotton candy had become the best thing in the entire world.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, ANOTHER UPDATE RAHHH !!!! alright guys so i’ve started my ao3 account, i think i’ll be posting my ideas on there on there first before i post them here since im trying to get my requests done :) !! my user is the same as my one here lol my pfp is just kinich this time ! majority of it will also probably be nASTY, i’ll probably start off with some of my own personal intimate moments and i think my first one will be about suna from haikyuu (im told thats who i remind people of based off first glances ???) so theres a little hint to know whether its based on a true story or not lol ANYWAYS ENJOYY !!!! i know this isnt an actual fic but well you know, its a slice of life and those are pretty nice too😓 heres my ao3 link lol (i hope it works)

᧔᧓ you just read a fic that ruined your life—donate a coffee ? ☕️

look here for more reads 📚!!

🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @valentique @theshadowsden @loreleis-world @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @calicocat-ina-tuxedo @hisonlyobsession @turkey-tom-mybbgalpha @decayingstrawberries @dylansoldhair @mysteris-things

[kazeniya]

glad to be in ur will.. 🎀

guys i need help understanding ao3 please text me if you know whats up bro 😓

[kazeniya]

Random 💫You💫 Moments 🍪 #1

K-Pop Demon Hunters

◇---------------------------------------------------◇

Saja Boys (Especially Baby hwhwhw) x Huntrix's member!reader

Warnings : Fluff, crack, Mystery has a tail, a lot of 🍪s mention, you're quiet and kinda chibi vibed, you're fattening Baby up slowly, a lot of staring (from you lol), you're being a cookie lover, Romance tries to hard flirt, you're the maknae and not a hunter (smol backstory mention from here), Zoey, Mira, and Rumi forgot you're powerless, you accidentally (🤨?) sat on Baby's lap, you biting Abs.

◇---------------------------------------------------◇

1. Zoey once tried to order you a caramel macchiato, only to find you already standing silently at the counter holding two drinks.

"How long have you been here-” she asked, startled.

You blinked. Then handed her one of the drinks wordlessly.

The barista, watching this with wide eyes, whispered to Zoey:

“She didn’t even say her name. She just slid a sticky note across the counter that said ‘You know me.’”

You did not, in fact, write that.

The barista just felt it.

2. Romance once tried to “accidentally” bump into you outside a music show to create a scandal.

The paparazzi caught you standing there holding a convenience store egg sandwich while he dramatically posed like a fanfic character in an open shirt.

The caption the next day read:

"Huntrix Maknae Doesn’t Even Flinch at Romance’s Pheromones."

“She looks like she didn’t know who he was,” one netizen commented.

“Or like she was trying to figure out if he was an unpaid street magician.”

You were, in fact, trying to decide if you wanted the egg sandwich or the kimbap next time.

3. At one point, Huntrix and Saja Boys sat next to each other during a press event. Rumi’s glare was volcanic. Mira’s crossed arms could slice a PR intern. Zoey was sharpening her eyeliner mid-interview.

You?

You sat perfectly still in a hotel chair, feet dangling two inches off the ground because it was too tall.

Someone asked:

“So what are your thoughts on the rumors that you and Baby are collaborating?”

Baby turned to look at you. You turned to look at Baby.

Then you slowly… offered him a cookie from your sleeve like it was contraband.

He took it.

The room exploded in screams.

You went back to 🧍‍♀️.

4. At rehearsal, the sound engineer asked for a mic check. Rumi belted. Mira did a full dance spin while singing. Zoey freestyled something about crushing the bones of her enemies.

Then it was your turn.

You just… stood there.

After a pause, you leaned forward into the mic and whispered:

“…Hello.”

The entire tech crew audibly gasped.

The intern cried.

Someone whispered, “She speaks… she speaks...”

5. It was the Huntrix special comeback aka “How It’s Done.”

The moment the cargo bay opened above the stadium, Rumi, Zoey, and Mira BLASTED out like anime protagonists. Screaming while singing and rapping lmao. Defying gravity. Their energy trails left sparks in the night sky.

But.

They forgot a teeny, tiny detail.

You… did not have powers.

Backstage, you had asked very softly, “Do I get a parachute?”

They said yes. Then forgot.

So while the others crashed gloriously onto the stage like comets, the spotlight hit center—

Music cued up. Bass booming. Dancers exploding out. Fans screaming—

Then silence.

It was your line.

But instead… everyone just looked up.

And there you were.

Floating down with the slowest parachute descent ever.

Arms folded. Hair barely moving. Expression flat.

🪂

🪂

🪂

The music kept going.

🪂

🪂

...

🪂

🪂

The stage lights flickered awkwardly.

Zoey, mid-dance, muttered into her mic, “Oh my god she’s still up there.”

Mira whisper-screamed, “DO SOMETHING, STALL!”

Rumi tried to throw a falsetto note to cover the silence, but her voice cracked.

"LIIGHHHHHTTTTTttTTTtTTT—!" (Rumi demanded to never speak of this ever again.)

🪂

🧍‍♀️

You landed gently. Like a leaf.

The moment your boots touched the stage and adjusted the mix— you ate the verse.

Crowd immediately screamed. New memes were born.

6. Romance once caught you staring blankly at him in the dressing room. You were eating a muffin.

He froze mid-hair flip. “Oh? Do I—intimidate you?”

You continued staring.

Romance leaned in, smirking. “Or perhaps… you’re curious about me?”

You blinked. “You have spinach in your teeth.”

He fled the room in emotional agony.

7. One day, a backup dancer (who we will not name for legal reasons) made the mistake of reaching into your cookie pouch.

“Just one,” he smirked. “She won’t mind.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just slowly turned your head.

">:("

Then gently pushed the pouch away from him like it was a sacred scroll.

He laughed.

Until the next morning when he found every single pair of his shoes replaced with left-foot boots.

Only lefts.

No one saw you do it.

8. While Rumi is screaming about "8 hours of sleep", you quietly tiptoed down the hallway holding a full tray of microwaved cookies like a bakery ninja.

Zoey caught you mid-sneak. “Bro. It’s 2 a.m.”

You offered her one.

She took it without blinking. “I ain’t a snitch.”

9. During a rooftop battle, Mira and Rumi are performing elegant acrobatic kills while Zoey’s dual blades glint in the moonlight. You? You stand in the back, picking up a traffic cone and launching it at a demon with zero hesitation. It bonks the demon in the face, knocking it out instantly.

Mira : “Did she just— hUH?"

Zoey : “I think that was a precision kill.”

You, are quietly dragging a folding chair into position: “Ammo.”

10. Abs once challenged you to an arm wrestling match “for rivals bonding.” You nodded, sat across from him, placed your hand in his, and said, “I weigh 46 kilograms.”

Then you won.

No one speaks of it.

11. During lunch, Jinu offered you a juice box. Wow. A rare honor. You stared at it, blinked, and pushed it slightly toward Baby. “He likes mango,” you murmured. Jinu stared at you like you just insulted his momma. “I— It wasn’t for him.” Baby accepted it wordlessly, not looking at Jinu. “Thanks,” he muttered. Jinu immediately booked a 1-hour boxing session.

12. One of the stylists brought in mannequins to display outfits. You stood too still while holding your mic and got mistaken for one. A staff member tried to put a jacket on you. You blinked. He screamed, as you accepted the jacket.

13. It was post-rehearsal. Both Saja Boys and Huntrix, were half-dead. Baby slumped on the couch, arms spread like a moody bat. You wandered over, holding your usual cookie stash, looking for your members while looking mildly dazed. But out of exhaustion, you sat. Not beside him. Not near him. Directly in his lap. Legs crossed like a toddler in kindergarten. The room went silent. Baby stiffened like someone just handed him a baby dragon. “...She’s sitting on me,” he whispered. Romance blinked. “Is it a curse or a blessing?” You yawned quietly and nibbled your cookie. “Warm,” you murmured. You stayed there. For six minutes. Baby didn’t breathe.

14. You were already comfortably seated on Mystery's demon tail like it was a beanbag. Your legs were swinging slightly.

“You’re squishing my demon chakra.”

You offered him a cookie. He took it.

“…Fine. But if I hiss, it’s instinct.”

15. “Did… did she just bite me?”

Abs clutched his wrist where you’d very gently but very definitively chomped him like a hamster.

He’d taken your cookie without asking.

You chewed slowly. Expression blank.

Romance, watching from the doorway, sipped his tea, and whispered "We should adopt her."

[kazeniya]

#. A LONG-AWAITED DREAM

featuring 𝗷𝗶𝗻𝘂 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗶𝗱𝗼𝗹 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

fluff + slight angst. you disappeared like a nightmare, but returned like a dream. he should forget you… but all he wants is to remember.

THE SHOOTING STAR you had been famous in the demon world many centuries ago. you were good at it, too good, flawless. maybe that’s why you were the favorite, a pawn polished till you stood alone, a weapon more than a somebody. but you made yourself disappear without a trace, leaving no one to remember you, not even the mighty demon king, who does little to recall someone who bears his mark.

you saw the sajas again. mostly because you were elbow-deep in demon guts at the time. yes, you, a demon, killing your own kind. the betrayal was heavy, just like the marks on your skin that you can’t erase, but you’ve long since cut ties with gwima and anything even mildly infernal. it’s been... what? two centuries? you stopped counting after ten years when you decided pretending to be human and saving souls was a better use of your immortality. it was long enough that even gwima doesn’t bother remembering you, not when he’s got new toys to parade around.

idol during the day, a soul-saving demon during the night.

you felt the energy of the five grim reaper boys, and panicked,  you ditched the scene, hiding in the shadows before any of them noticed. classic you, but the problem is, someone noticed you this time.

jinu. you have seen him before, or rather, you know him. of course, you do, since he’s older, technically your superior. he helped train you when you were just a newbie, back when your job description involved feeding souls to a gluttonous, egomaniacal demon king like it was a buffet. now he’s behind you. trailing like a lost kid at a mall who is crying for his mother, asking questions you didn’t ask for. 

“do you not hear him in your ear? do you not feel any shame, pain, regret?”

okay philosopher jinu, calm down. he wants to know how you did it. how you broke free from him, the one who wraps shame around souls like a curse masked as a vlessing. and you just want to know what the hell he’s doing here when his band is performing right after you. he’s cute, though. nostalgic, but you don’t have time for that. don’t have time for the past.

you blink, acting like you don't know what he's talking about.  "no, but i do hear the countdown to my performance in like... 30 seconds. so if you'll excuse me. see you, old man."

“excuse me? old man—hey!” he grabs your wrist like he forgot you're stronger than you look. your markings glow, purplish hues pulsing on your skin. eyes flashing gold from the sudden touch. you whip your head around, and that’s when he really sees you.

you look human, almost human. but your smile? oh, your smile screams devil in disguise. there’s something new in you, not darkness, but light. you smile like you tasted freedom and liked it. you have changed. his grip tightens, trying to keep you here, because he feels it, knows it. he remembers those eyes. they were made to take souls, but now… they burn with life.

“i’m not going anywhere, jinu” you say, calm and too perfect for someone with blood on their resume. “i’ll see you later, okay?”

he lets go, slowly, like something inside him just twists, and it wasn't from pain. it was something like the freedom he was seeking. he cleared his throat, shoved his hands into his jeans like he's a high schooler trying to look cool infront of his crush.

"break a leg then, sunbaenim," he mutters with a massive eye roll and a smirk that says i’m definitely going to bring this up again later.

“will do,” you wink, already walking off, refusing to glance back. “also say hi to the others, i’m sure abby misses me~”

MEMENTO MORI jinu watches you take the stage. the crowd erupts in screams and cheers the moment you appear. of course you have control here too. but it wasn’t built from doing dirty work, not anymore. not with blood on your hands or shame in your soul. you earned by rebuilding yourself.

he wants to forget everything; he wants his memories gone—burned, buried, erased. but you’re here now… have you always been here? have you always been more human than demon?

it’s like you died and were reborn. a wish from a shooting star, someone who escaped the endless maze, found the missing piece of the puzzle, and embraced their sins. he glances at his hands, and his own shame marks flicker in that same violet hue.

then you sing... and your voice? angelic. a complete betrayal of what you are. of what you used to be.

jinu clenches his fists and storms toward your dressing room. he doesn't know why he is doing something like this. as he enters, two familiar figures appear from the floor: a charming blue tiger and a three-eyed magpie bird, who is already wearing the tiger’s hat, again.

he pats the tiger’s head, and it purrs. then he pulls a blue envelope out of nowhere and places it gently into the tiger’s mouth. “wait for her, alright? she can resist me, but not you.” the tiger blinked, as it turned its head to the side, confused but listening and just going to fulfill the order. “be nice to her.”

and then he’s gone, off to prep for his performance.

GOTTA GO UNDER THE FULL MOON the show was over, and you kept killing it with your two new songs, “gotta go” and “full moon,” hit every note, every move, every soul, even the camera angle. don’t you love it when the cameraman knows how to do his job? give this man a rise. also the cover you chose? already trending, probably breaking the internet with edits. and the fans? oh, you adored them. pure, kind, unsuspecting humans, exactly the kind of souls you’d sworn to protect now, not harvest.

you walked into your dressing room, humming the last chorus under your breath, towel over your neck, heart still pounding, and you … freeze.

“did your master send you here?” you ask, staring at the unexpected visitors lounging on your couch like they are vips. a familiar blue tiger with big yellow eyes and a bird wearing the cat that was not his. “some habits never change, huh?” you kneel and scratch under the cat’s chin, it purrs like old times.

you missed them, only them. not him or the whole demon population. especially not the world you'd burned behind you.

then the cat padded forward and dropped something from its mouth. you blinked in surprise. a blue card? you picked it up and flipped it open.

“when the full moon rises, come see me.” – jinu

“is he out of his damn mind?!” you shouted, immediately followed by a guilty whisper after seeing how the two companions reacted. the cat blinks slowly, while the bird flaps twice in judgment. “sorry.”

you didn’t know why he wanted to see you. didn’t want to. what could he possibly want now? answers? closure? to poke at how you escaped? to ask again how you broke free from the grip of the demon king?

you don’t know, really don’t. it just happened.

all you remember is the hunter. the one who didn’t kill you. who saw your monstrous form and still spared you. who fought alongside you when you were still learning what it meant to want something other than power. maybe it was a blessing, or pure luck. maybe it was her.

you sighed, scribbled something on a small piece of paper, folded it neatly. “open,” you told the cat, and it obediently opened its mouth like a well-trained mailbox, as you tucked the paper in. “it was nice seeing you two. visit me next time without his creepy invitations, okay?”

except, you did end up going, because tonight was the full moon.

he’s sitting on a rock by the sea, waves crashing dramatically when you sneak up behind him. “nice spot. you come here often?” jinu screams, squealing like a little girl. “jeez, don’t do that ever again,” he groans, hand clutching his chest like the old man he is. “i was this close to becoming fish food.”

you laugh. can’t help it, because he’s the same even if he looks human. till handsome, still annoying. still... jinu.

"the moon’s beautiful tonight, isn't it?" he says, as you stand beside him, watching him gaze at the moon instead of looking at you. you hated how soft his features looked under the moonlight. hated that this felt right. then he turned to you, and like a coward, you looked away. it’s awkward. you both know what’s unsaid, both feel it burning beneath your skin like a song stuck on repeat. but you can’t say anything, not when gwima might still be watching.

so you talk about your career instead. your music, your fandom’s weird ship names with famous male actors. he seemed genuinely interested until he disappeared mid-sentence. you were smart enough to suspect something, just not fast enough to dodge the surprise wave of cold seawater he splashed on you from behind.

"what the hell—jinu?!" you yell, and he grins. "revenge is a dish best served wet."

“that’s not even how the saying goes!”

but you're already chasing him, splashing back, laughing like it’s 200 years ago and nothing even matters. knee-deep in the water, as you chase him while little cold waves hit your legs, and you laughed, he laughed harder. 

somehow, you ended up in his arms. you don’t know how you got in this position. giggles, flushed cheeks, eyes too close, lips too close. no need for words right now because your eyes are talking. the obvious three words feel special tonight. why is my heart beating so fast? when the full moon rises, you should give it all. it’s the perfect time for whispering love.

you're leaning in, so close. and then it struck. twelve o’clock. a silent bell tolled in your chest. you pulled away. what were you even thinking? you can’t be honest past this point.

his hands tighten just slightly. he doesn’t want to let you go. and you don’t either. but you have to. placing your hands on his chest, gently pushing him. he got the hint, and let you down, just like his hopes…like the dream he held for too long when it was just another illusion created to satisfy him for even a little while.

"i’m sorry, jinu..." he smiles. it doesn’t reach his eyes, and you see right through it. reaching for his hand, you squeeze it hard to reassure him it is going to be okay, but you are not the one to help him, you just can’t. "you’ll find your salvation. i promise."

and then you smile at him one more time before you vanish, teleporting when his hand reaches again for you, out of pure instinct, alas, you are already gone.

he stands alone under the moonlight, sea wind tousling his hair, eyes locked on the path of silver stretching across the waves. beyond that horizon, there’s another world out there where you meet again. there’s another world where you’re both free in his long-awaited dream.

BONUS cut to five saja boys sitting frozen on the couch in their dressing room. watching the tv with mouths wide open in shock, their souls leaving their bodies in slow motion. you’re on the screen, performing a cover of adult ceremony by park jiyoon. long and tight dress made of black silk, high heels ready to step on them. eyes glowing gold, lips tinted with red as the camera does a close-up and you wink. ending fairy style, the entire nation stops breathing. 

“did…did she just–” romance was too stunned to speak, and baby stole the remote from him. “shut up, and rewind it.” the saja boys are not okay. they’re in awe, terrified, fanboying. they need to collab with you immediately. but will you let them? will you let jinu be close to you once again?

taglist: @seneon @y2kuromi @maruflix @irethepotato @justanindiangirl12 @zuhaeri @levifiance @amery-benson-cvii @ririrenni3 @tsukimoon-chan (sorry if i missed someone; please let me know if you'd like to be added to the general kpdh taglist!)

©2025 kaiser1ns do not copy, repost or modify my work.

[kazeniya]

Your Idol

Saja Boys x Idol! Reader │ part 3

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summary - you get closer to the saja boys but start to suspect they want to be more than just friends

warning - fem reader, possessive behaviour, sexual tension, swearing, sadistic behaviour

w/c - 7,2K

a/n - ignore how late this chapter is soo much stuff happened, also I love this gif, mystery's just in his own world, pls correct me if there are any mistakes, comments, reblogs and likes are much appreciated, hope you enjoy!

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“Mystery, calm down. You don't want to kill them just yet”.

“But I do, I really fucking do”, he growled, opening his mouth wider to absorb the disgusting soul in front of him. 

They didn't deserve mercy. 

He wanted to kill them and make them suffer the same way they made you suffer.

When Jinu had asked the humans to follow him, he'd lured them into an empty room where the other Saja Boys were waiting. They then began to slowly, painfully, extract the souls from them, one by one. 

None of the boys were doing this out of hunger, in fact, the souls of the balding, old man and porcelain-faced girls were so bitter it felt more like a chore. 

No, they were doing this simply for the fun of it. 

Hearing them beg and scream for mercy sent a chill down each of the boys' spines. They revelled in the pleasure of making them suffer, knowing this was only the start of their misery for everything they'd done against you. 

But unfortunately, Jinu interjected before they went too far. He claimed that they weren't allowed to kill them, yet. If they mysteriously disappeared, where would that lead you? It pained the boys to admit it, but they needed to keep them alive.

Harmoness would surely fail with three out of four members mysteriously disappearing. And your manager disappearing a couple of weeks before the Idol Awards wasn't going to make life any easier for you. Although out of the four, he was definitely the most expendable. 

Also, what if you got framed for being linked to their disappearance? 

They did frequently mistreat you, so your motives were clear, but they knew your kind heart couldn't bear to do anything like that.

“I have a better way of making them suffer”.

This caught his eye. 

Each of the boys turned to look at Jinu, dropping their attention away from the filthy humans in their arms.

Better way of making them suffer? Now that piqued their interest. 

“If you're suggesting violence, I have no issue with that”, Abby flaunts, flexing his muscles off, earning him an eye roll from the others. “But I'm not sure about Baby over here, a gust of wind might send him flying. He's too fragile to hurt anyone”.

The maknae responded with a kick to the back of Abby's leg, almost making his legs give out. He's a lot stronger than Abby thought he'd be. 

“Better than violence”, Jinu smirked, ”A slow and painful way of ruining their lives”. The idea pleased the others, now that was a plan they were up for. 

And so it began. 

During the upcoming weeks till the Idol Awards, rather than fully extracting their souls, they would take small parts of it. Not enough to kill them, but enough that their energy would be so drained it would make them walking corpses.

Jinu had even found some loyal fans from the Underworld to help with taking their souls whilst they were busy preparing for the Idol Awards, for the small price of an autograph and a handshake. He was glad he wouldn't have to taste another second of their bitter souls.

 

Training for the Idol Awards would prove difficult for the other members of Harmoness with the lack of energy they had, and so when they got on stage, it would leave room for (Y/N) to shine like she deserved. 

And once their use had run out, they would kill them. 

The process was a bit tedious, having to make sure the demon fans wouldn't accidentally kill the humans, but they'd do anything for you if it meant seeing your day get just a bit better. 

Their plans with the HUNTR/X had become an inconvenience, for now they only wanted to focus on you. You were the only thing that was important to them. 

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The day you were discharged from the infirmary, you went back to your locker to pick up your phone and the gift you were supposed to give the Saja Boys. You let out a frustrated sigh, wondering how stupid you had to be for forgetting to give it to them. 

They were right in front of you, (Y/N), you could've told them about your gift.

For now, all you could do was hope you'd see them again soon. You'd spent all those hours pulling an all-nighter and even skipping dinner, just for you to forget about the gift. 

Rather than taking it home, you decided to wait a couple of days to see if the Saja Boys would make another appearance in the building. You doubted it, but after your last encounter with them, you were a little more hopeful. 

After being trapped in the dance studio, you made sure to keep a close hold of your phone, making sure something like that would never happen again.

As soon as you entered your small, shabby apartment, you fell back onto the bed in exhaustion. You couldn't believe the day you had. 

From getting locked in a dance studio to being rescued by the Saja Boys. 

It sounded like something from a fairy tale.

But the best part of your day was that note. You dug into your trouser pocket, looking around for the piece of paper you had stored in there. 

When you found it, you looked at it and reread the message, the words floating around your head like a globe. No matter what you did, you just couldn't shake the sentence out of your head.

call me don't text I want to hear your voice

Quickly, you grabbed the pillow from under your head and brought it to your face, letting out a loud squeal. The pillow did little to suppress the volume of your screams, but it's the thought that counts. 

You still couldn't wrap your head around the idea that someone like Baby would write that for you. It completely contradicted the quiet, adorable self he was known for. But you'd be lying if you said that you didn't find it slightly attractive.

Was he serious about wanting you to call? Did he even want you to contact him?

You thought it over, realizing it was stupid thinking like that, why would he give you his number if he didn't want you contacting him? 

Oh my god. 

A sudden realization hits you. 

He wants to talk to you. 

Seconds later, you found the pillow back in your face, and another screeching sound coming from your lips, your feet kicking off the bed in joy. It was crazy even thinking about it, but it was true. Baby wanted to talk to you.

Suddenly, your mind went blank, and you quickly shot out of your bed. You grabbed your phone from your desk and immediately started typing up the numbers on the note.

You had to call him now, or you may never find the courage to do it again. 

Once you finished inserting the numbers, you quickly fixed up your hair on instinct and cleared your throat. It felt like you were about to meet him again for the first time. The way you met Baby and the other Saja Boys was completely out of your control, but this time things were different. Now, you had the choice to talk to him. 

But because you were in control, you started to worry. A brief moment of hesitation hit you, and you felt your heart quickly beating against your chest. You were never very good when it came to phone calls. 

Something about the painstakingly long seconds that it took for someone to answer, or the lack of visuals you had of the other person just frightened you. 

Standing in front of thousands of fans, singing high notes, and performing complex dance moves was fine, no pressure. 

But a phone call with Baby of all people.

You breathed out before you could panic anymore. Without thinking, you shut your eyes and swallowed down your anxiety, before pressing the call button.

Immediate regret started to set in, and you quickly moved your finger towards the red button to hang up, but the screen quickly changed, showing the person on the other end had picked up.

You froze.

You hadn't prepared for what to say. 

For a while the call was filled with the awkward sound of pure silence, so silent you could hear a pin drop. You were silently hoping that you’d dialled the wrong number or that he'd just hang up, thinking it was a prank call.

"You called me like I asked, good girl".

He knew it was you. 

How did he know? 

“I knew you'd call me, doll”.

A soft giggle escaped you, amused at how he seemingly knew your every thought. Already, your nerves were washing away just after hearing him speak. It's as though his voice, or just his presence was enough to make you feel just a bit better. 

You felt the same way with all the boys, each one making you feel so safe. Even though you just met them, you felt that as long as they were around, nothing would happen to you. 

“I didn't call you at a bad time, did I?”

“If you're calling, then no”.

It was hard getting used to Baby's flirty personality, so you were glad that he couldn't see your blushing face through the phone. 

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked, his voice holding traces of concern, most likely because of today's earlier events. You found it sweet how worried he was, and your mind wandered back to when he'd gotten all those snacks for you. He really didn't have to do that, but he did. 

You definitely weren't planning on wasting all that food, so you left some in your locker and took the rest home. There wasn't much food in your apartment, so you were really thankful to Baby. 

He was definitely the ‘actions speak louder than words’ kind of guy. You could tell that he wasn't fond of talking too much, so you could understand why he'd be like that. 

“I just came back home, so not yet”.

“Make sure to eat a lot. Fuck that diet.” His voice held so much malice that you would've assumed he were a victim of it.

“The food you gave me will make sure of that”, you laugh, hearing a small chuckle on the other side of the phone. 

“And make sure to sleep early this time, (Y/N)”.

Before you could respond, you heard a loud scream in the background, and the sounds of feet rushing towards you. You moved the phone away from you to check if it was coming from near you, but it wasn't. 

When you put the phone back to your ear, you could hear your name being called out.

 

“(Y/N), (Y/N) IS THAT YOU?!” 

More shuffling occurred, and you could only assume it was one of the other members of the Saja Boys. They must've heard Baby talking to you and wanted to speak to you too. The thought made your heart beat just a bit faster, it felt really good to be wanted. 

“Baby, how could you call (Y/N) without me?” Now that the voice was closer to you, you knew it was Romance talking. 

His attention turned back to you, his previous frustrated voice switching to a sweet, comforting one, “(Y/N), my princess, how are you? You should add me too, my number is -”

“(Y/N), we’re going to go”, Baby interrupted, seeming frustrated by Romance's presence. You were about to respond till you heard even more arguing, something about not letting Romance speak to you. 

A bunch of shouting and swearing was heard, before eventually the call came to a stop. He'd hung up. 

Oh

It was a chaotic way to end things, but it was so much better than the terrible scenarios you'd made up. You made sure to add Baby to your contacts and send him a quick goodnight message. 

You laid back on the bed, still unsure if all of this was real. You could only imagine what's more to come. 

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Ever since that day, things have gotten stranger than ever. 

Hojin and your group members were constantly out of energy. You mentally prepared yourself before seeing them the day after the Saja Boys came over, but to your surprise, they were just in their own world. Staring off into space, and even bumping into each other.

It was an uncanny resemblance to zombies, which was strange considering how fussy they were with their image. 

Except maybe Hojin. 

During practice, they would hardly put any effort into their dancing and would even forget some of their lines. Your dance instructor didn't usually hold any bias towards any of the members, but due to recent developments, you had become her favourite. 

“Thank you, (Y/N), for still being your usual self. Not sure what's gotten into the others, but I'm glad to see you're still the same”, she praised, although her eyes held some frustration, most likely directed towards your members. 

They were usually so good, so what changed? She thought. 

You gave a small smile and nodded in response, “Maybe they're just a bit stressed about the awards coming up”. Honestly, you highly doubted that, considering they never got stressed about anything, but you hoped your dance instructor would be a bit more understanding.

Even though you knew they'd enjoy talking bad about you if you were in this situation, you didn't care. You wouldn't stoop to their level. 

When you went back to your locker to get changed, you saw the gift bag, tucked away safely at the bottom. You let out a small sigh before picking it up and putting it in your backpack, realizing it had been there too long and it was just taking up space. 

You didn't want to explicitly ask Baby if they could meet up to give him the gifts since you didn't want to intrude on his busy schedule or make him feel pressured to meet with you if he didn't want to. 

As you were walking to the entrance of the building, you could see the people leaving with you taking out umbrellas and zipping up their coats.

You mentally groaned, silently cursing the weatherman for his far-off facts. 

“Clear skies all day”, he said. 

That day you were wearing your favorite oversized sweater with some baggy pants. That was it. No hood, no coat, no umbrella. 

You would've called a taxi if you didn't live so far away from the company building. Since it was in a popular area, the apartments around it were all really expensive. Your only option was to live in a shabby apartment, in a shady neighborhood, an hour away from the company building. 

The last time you got a taxi, due to a similar situation with the snow, it ended with you being forced to live off of stale bread for the next couple of weeks. 

You let out a breath, tightly holding onto your backpack straps, and mentally prepared yourself before entering the storm (literally and figuratively). The bus stop was ten minutes away from the building, so you could only pray the storm would magically clear in the meantime. 

Dance practice had been extended a couple of hours due to the other members, meaning it was very late, and you knew the last bus would be showing up in less than fifteen minutes. You had to take this bus or you wouldn't be getting home tonight, unless you planned on walking a couple of hours in the pouring rain. 

Once you got closer to the exit, you found that you could barely see anything outside. The surroundings were fully grey, covered up by the rain. 

Shit.

You let out a shaky breath before offering a silent prayer to yourself and making a run for it. 

The weight of the raindrops towered over you, and your vision was heavily blocked, leaving you constantly bumping into people.

This was absolute torture. 

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You didn't know how long you were walking for, but you knew you weren't anywhere near the bus stop. 

It shouldn't have taken this long to get there, but when you accidentally slipped on a puddle, much to your embarrassment, your movements ended up slowing down significantly due to both your knees being scratched up. So you had to start limping to the bus stop. 

With every step you took you could feel the water running around your shoe, as though it was trapped there. And your clothes were soaked all the way to your undergarments, making them stick to you uncomfortably. 

Despite all that, you just prayed the gift in your backpack was at least somewhat salvageable. Good thing your backpack was waterproof, so there was some hope. 

The storm hadn't let out like you thought it would, and since you couldn't miss the bus, you just had to keep going. You were freezing cold, and you knew this was going to bite you back once you finally got home. At least you wouldn't have to deal with everyone's strange behavior since you were most likely going to be bedridden for the next couple of days. 

Once you looked up, you could see it. 

The bus stop. 

You beamed in joy, finally something good! 

But to your horror, you could see the bus already there. 

And you were a street away from it. 

Pulling through the pain coming from your legs, you ran as fast as your aching legs could take you. You stumbled a couple of times in the process, your legs feeling like a block of ice. 

When you saw the bus starting to move, you started screaming at it to wait. The volume of the rain overtook yours, leaving the bus to speed off without you. 

All you could do was stand there miserably in the pouring rain. Now there really was no hope of getting home. 

Whilst you were walking back in sorrow, you could see a car fast approach you, and you mentally prepared yourself to get drowned in muddy water, but you soon heard it come to a halt right next to you. 

It should've been slightly reassuring, but it did the opposite. Because of the time, the sky was pitch black, and not a single soul was around because of the rain.

This was the perfect opportunity to kidnap someone. 

You started backing away from the car, preparing to run in case someone tried to snatch you. Even though you knew you wouldn't get very far, it was still worth trying. 

“Love, is that you?” 

You turned your head at the familiar voice and saw Abby looking at you through the open car window. Once you made eye contact with him, he bolted out the car and rushed to your side, scooping you up in his arms and dragging you to the passenger seat of his car. 

It all happened so fast, you barely had time to process it.

Did you just get kidnapped by Abby? 

You turned to look at him and saw him rummaging around, looking for something in a panic. 

“Abby, what-”

“Ah, found it, here”, he exclaimed , pulling out some tissues and wiping you down with them. You were too flustered to speak, so you just sat there frozen in place. His face was inches away from yours as he moved the tissues in random places on your body.

 

Up your arms, across your face, along your thighs. With every little touch, you felt yourself squirming more and more. 

The barrier of the tissue did little to block the feeling of his hands. Despite being freezing cold moments ago, you felt your body warm up rapidly. 

As his hands were trailing across your thighs, almost in a tauntingly seductive way, you couldn't help but notice the bulging veins spread across his hands. Along with that, his fingers were adorned with several rings of different shapes and sizes, in an almost random pattern. The sight let off a desire in you you didn't known you had. 

“You see something you like?” he teased, lifting his head up from your lap to look at you with a smirk. Quickly, you shook your head and looked off to the side, embarrassed at being caught. You could hear the sweet sound of his laughter, and he took his hands off your body, leaving you slightly disappointed. 

“I don't have any towels, so that's the best I can do, but I'll turn on the heating for you”, he says and does just that. As you were about to thank him, he interrupted you, his face expression changing.

“What were you thinking, being out there in this weather? And at this time of night? Something could've happened to you!” Even though you could see how worried he was, it still upset you, seeing him so mad at you. 

You looked down at your lap with guilt and mumbled out an apology, “I needed to get home, and the bus was my only option. Sorry for troubling you...”

There were a couple of moments of silence between the two of you, so you mustered up the courage to look up at him. His eyes had softened , and he was staring down at you. 

“When I saw you out there”, he began, “When I saw you, I was just praying it wasn't you. I'm sorry for getting mad, I just…got so scared”.

Since never seen such a vulnerable side to Abby before, you could tell he was being genuine. You knew his emotions came from a good place. 

Your hand reached his, and you squeezed it lightly as a way of accepting his apology. Perhaps him touching you so intimately boosted your confidence, since you weren't sure where your newfound confidence came from. 

Rather than letting go like you thought he would, he gripped it tighter and put both his and your hand on your thigh, reassuringly. Before you could question it, he started driving again. 

“We shouldn't waste any more time, you're coming home with me”, he said firmly, his left hand on the driver's seat, his right hand laid comfortably on your thigh. 

For a moment, your mind hadn't processed his words, too distracted by the hand on your thigh. 

“Wait, what, your house? But why? You can just drop me off somewhere and I can wait till the storm stops, or just at my apartment”.

Abby gave you a look of disapproval before looking at the road again, “That was the last bus of the day, did you plan to stay out here all night?”

Your silence answered his question, so he continued. 

“You're soaking wet and injured, what kind of monster would I be if I abandoned you like this? I'm taking you to my house to at least dry off”.

Knowing there was no arguing with him, you sat there, a warm smile brushed your cheeks as you thought back to a couple of days ago. 

“Thank you for this, Abby. It's funny, I remember you saving me in the dance studio as well”, you laughed, finding the coincidence both strange and amusing. “You must be sick of saving me by now”.

“Never”.

The squeeze on your thigh brought your attention back to Abby's face, his eyes full of confidence. He was still facing the road, but you knew his words were directed solely at you. “I'll always be there to protect you, I'd never get sick of you”.

You could feel your cheeks warm up, and you couldn't help but feel somewhat special. Somehow, the members of the Saja Boys were slightly protective of you. You didn't know how common that was, but you doubt it was all that normal, so you couldn't help the feeling that you were special. 

And it felt good. 

Being special to someone was being irreplaceable to them. It was a wonderful, safe feeling. Whenever you thought of the boys, you thought of that feeling, so you knew Abby's words were true. You knew he'd always protect you. 

You knew because you could feel it. 

“I never did ask, how did you end up hurting yourself?” Abby asks, breaking the silence. 

“I slipped on a puddle”, you reply casually. 

“Silly girl”.

Despite his teasing words, he rubbed your hand to comfort you. You gave him a small smile and leaned against the window, taking in the peaceful silence between you. 

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“We're almost there”, Abby says, and you wake up from your daydreaming to take a look at your surroundings. You began to gawk at the rows of mansions you passed, realizing you were in a rich neighborhood. A lot of celebrities probably lived around here. 

“Right there is where I live”, he brags, pointing to the mansion you were approaching. It was one of the biggest in the neighbourhood, and was pretty much just like all the others, aside from the abundance of all kinds of flowers and roses. 

“You live there, all by yourself?”. You couldn't believe it, you get that he was famous, but wasn't this a bit excessive? 

“Nah, of course not. I live with the rest of the Saja Boys”, he says casually and drives past the gates and into the parking spot near the entrance. You could see several other parked cars besides the one you were in.

If all the members lived together, then the flowers must've been Romance's doing, you thought, knowing how much he loves flowers. 

You admired how close all the members were, so much that they would live together. It was so sweet, they were all like a family. 

After admiring their lavish cars, you’d come to a quick realization. If the cars are here, than that means that the rest of the Saja Boys are in the house too. 

You mentally groaned. It was already embarrassing Abby seeing you drenched in the rain, but all the members?

The embarrassment was too much to even think about. 

The feeling of a jacket wrapping around your shoulders brought your attention back to the boy next to you. He gave you a comforting smile before opening the door next to him, “Even though the distance isn't far, I don't want you getting any more wet than you already are”. 

You held the jacket closer to you, feeling Abby's warmth spread across you, almost as though it were his arms wrapping around you. Due to his size, the jacket encompassed you in a way that made you feel much smaller compared to his stature. 

The door next to you opened, and you saw Abby holding out a hand for you, the other was above his head, attempting to block some of the rain from coming down on him. You quickly grabbed your backpack and took his hand, ignoring the sparks that came from the contact.

Suddenly, you felt the ground below you move further away. Abby had picked you up with just one arm and rushed towards the front door. 

Once you were both inside, he put you down gently, being mindful of your injury. You could tell he really liked carrying you for some reason. Already, you could feel the warm air of the home enter your body, and you hummed in pleasure, it felt good to be warm again. 

Turning to Abby, you could see him staring at you, his eyes holding a warm look, and you couldn't help but share the same look back. You both stayed like that for a while before being interrupted by a familiar voice. 

“You're back already, Abby. Did you bring any human so-” Jinu quickly paused once he took a look at you, his eyes quickly became panicked when he saw the state you were in. 

“(Y/N), darling, what happened to you?” He rushed towards you, his hands cupping your cheeks and inspecting the rest of your body with a worried expression.

Hearing the commotion, the other members slowly started coming in. Since demons didn't need sleep, they were all awake, waiting for Abby to come back to start planning for the Idol Awards.

They expected only Abby to be at the door, but instead, they also saw you, dressed in damp clothes and standing in a puddle of water. Your hair was sticking to your skin, and despite the situation, they thought you looked ethereal. 

Your face was planted between Jinu’s hands, and you found yourself unconsciously rubbing your cheeks into them, like a cat. Almost purring at how warm his large hands felt. 

Like lying on a hot water bottle, you thought. 

“Darling?” Jinu speaks up, and you look up, seeing him amused by your actions, but still concerned. Each of the boys started surrounding you, bombarding you with questions. 

“Why are you so wet?”

“What happened, angel?”

“Princess, your legs... what happened to them?”

You were so overwhelmed with the questions that you didn't know what to say or who to answer first. Luckily, Abby noticed and stepped in to help. 

“Alright, alright, leave the poor girl alone”, he commands, wrapping his arm around you and pushing the others away, giving you some space. The others glared at him for taking you away from them, but they understood. You looked a lot less stressed once you were away from the crowd. 

“I'll explain everything later, because someone needs to dry off”, Abby says, looking down at you and dragging you towards his room. 

“I can carry you if you want”.

You smile and politely decline, seeing his shirt a bit wet from picking you up. If he got any wetter, he might end up catching a cold. 

Along the way, you could see just how big the mansion was from the inside. The decor was a beautiful mixture of modern Western and traditional Korean interior design. 

It was such a refreshingly unique take that you couldn't help but stare at everything as you passed. Since your eyes went everywhere but the figure holding you, you hadn't noticed the way he stared at you, so fondly and with so much love. 

It hurt Abby so much to see you like that in the rain. He’d noticed you slightly limping and didn't hesitate to carry you to the car. It slightly upset him when you said you didn't want him carrying you to his room. To him, you weighed almost nothing, so why wouldn’t he carry you? 

After a while, Abby came to a stop, and you could see that you were in front of a door. “Welcome to my room”, he announces, before opening it. 

The first thing you noticed was the size of his room, it was probably the size of your entire apartment. And it was a lot cleaner than you thought it'd be, but still had a touch of his unique personality etched into it. 

Some workout equipment in one corner, a PC set up in the other, and a large TV in front of the bed. 

“Alright, love, enough looking, we need you dried off”. Abby starts grabbing some stuff out the cupboard and starts throwing them to you. 

“What's this for?” you questioned, holding up the clothes in front of you to inspect. An oversized sweater and some baggy pants. Although on Abby, it was probably just a regular size. He then threw a pair of clean boxers and a towel your way. 

“Clothes for you, can't have you walking around in wet clothes. It was the smallest I could find, so it might be a bit big on you”, Abby says and walks you towards what you assumed is the bathroom. 

“Whilst you have a shower, I'll take that bag of yours”, he holds out his hand for the bag. You looked down at it, wondering if you should tell him about the contents inside or just leave it. You couldn't possibly hand him and the others a wet gift, even if you did work so hard on it. 

Seeing your unsure expression, he put his hand on your shoulder instead, “What's wrong, love? You don't have to give it to me if you don't wanna. Just wanted to dry it off for you”.

Hearing him concerned for you gave you the confidence you needed to tell him the truth. 

“Before I'd met you, I had gifts for each of you, but the rain might've gotten to it”, you grimaced, looking up at him with guilt. “It's probably all wet, so I'll just take it back, so forg-”.

You were interrupted by Abby suddenly grabbing the bag and taking it from your hands. When you were about to protest, he lightly pushed you into the bathroom and shut the door. 

“Abby, what are you doing?” You tried opening the door, but it wouldn't move. He must've been holding onto it so you wouldn't leave. 

“Love, don't worry, we'll take this off your hands. Just have a shower, don't stress. There's a basket in there for your clothes and some slippers for your feet”. 

Honestly, you were too tired to argue back, so you headed towards the shower, although not without admiring the expensive-looking interior of the bathroom. 

─────────────

“Who does he think he is, taking her away from me?” Baby grumbled, mindlessly switching the channels on the TV. 

The other boys surrounding him shared his mindset. They'd hardly gotten the chance to speak with you, and suddenly Abby just steals you away from them. 

It pissed them off to no end. What made him so special? 

Abby came back, his cheeks were slightly red, and in his hands was (Y/N)’s bag. He'd been so pushy with you getting in the shower because he didn't want you seeing how red his face became when you told him about the gift. 

When it came to you, he felt so vulnerable, and something about that vulnerability scared him since he was so used to having this tough exterior everyone wanted him to have. 

The boys on the sofa all jumped up, waiting for (Y/N) to appear behind him. 

“It's just me, sorry about that”, Abby apologizes, rubbing his hand behind his neck. They all plopped back down onto the sofa in disappointment, why did it have to be him and not (Y/N)?

“Abby, what happened to her? How come she's soaking wet and injured?” Jinu interrogates, annoyed that he had to wait so long for an explanation. 

All of the boy's attention was now focused on Abby as he sat down on the floor in front of them. They could see he looked slightly frustrated, his hand brushing through his hair. Honestly, he didn't know where to start. 

“When I was driving, I saw her, and shit, she was drenched and limping. Apparently she had to take the bus to get home, but fell on her way. Damn it, why didn't she call us?”

He felt frustrated, not at you, but at himself. He blamed himself for not coming to you in time, despite there being no way he could've known. Abby didn't want to imagine what would've happened if he hadn't noticed you. 

He'd make sure to never let something like that happen ever again. 

Looking around, he could see the others feeling just as guilty. “Where is she now?” Mystery asked, his head down in worry. 

“In the shower”. Abby looked towards the direction of his room, wondering if you'd be alright on your own. 

“And why have you got her bag with you?” Romance questions, drawing everyone’s attention to it. 

Abby opened the bag and started taking the gift bag out, explaining how you made it for them. Luckily for you, only some of the gifts had gotten wet as one of the zips hadn't been fully closed.

Jinu sat on the floor with Abby to inspect the gifts. He read the labels planted on each gift and started handing them out to each of the members. 

The room went silent as they admired their gifts, carefully taking in the thought you put into them. Only did they finally look up once they heard the sounds of soft padding across the ground. 

The boys turned towards the door and saw you standing there, panting slightly and holding the wall for support. The pain in your knees had increased with the amount you had been standing, so walking had become a struggle. 

When you finished with the shower, you couldn't find Abby, so you figured you'd look for him and the others. Once their eyes landed on you, they couldn't help but coo at the sight of you drowning in Abby's clothes. 

The sleeves of the sweater he gave you had moved past your fingertips and had trailed all the way down to your knees. The pants had also reached down to your feet, covering them completely. You looked so small with those clothes, and a wave of protectiveness washed over them. The feeling of needing to keep you safe from the world hit them hard. 

Mystery got up from his place on the sofa and moved towards you quickly. You started to panic slightly, confused as to why he was moving so fast. Carefully, he grabbed you in his arms and brought you towards the sofa. He ended up on the floor with Jinu and Abby, leaving you sitting between Baby and Romance. 

You hadn't expected Mystery to be strong enough to even do that, so it definitely took you by surprise. Although considering they were all demons, they could carry you, easily. 

“Thank you..”, you mumble, a bit shy from the way the boys were staring at you. When you started to look around, you could see each of the boys holding the gifts you made for them and you let out a gasp. 

“Those gifts”.

“You got these for us?” asks Baby, still slightly taken aback at your thoughtfulness. 

You gave a shy nod, embarrassed that they were seeing the old gifts. It felt fine before, but after becoming friends with the Saja Boys, it felt a bit out of place, but still, you hoped they liked it. 

“You don't have to take them, I know they aren't very good and some things might've gotten a bit wet. I was going to give them to you ages ago but..” You stopped once you saw them lost in thought, staring solemnly at the gifts. 

Jinu was holding the cat plushie you had handmade for him. You got the idea from looking at clips of him randomly petting strays he found on the street. Since you wanted to make it more special, you thought it'd be better to just make it for him. Even though some water ended up getting to it, he still held it in his arms warmly. 

For Abby, you knew he liked working out, but it was a bit of an unknown fact that he secretly had a big sweet tooth. So the night before the tour you baked him some cookies, but by now it was definitely a bit stale. You were glad the container they were held in protected the cookies from any rain though. 

Mystery hardly spoke during interviews or fan sign events, but you knew exactly what to get him. You knew that Mystery enjoyed wearing all kinds of jewelry, specifically earrings, so you went out and bought a pair for him. Along with that, you made him a handmade bracelet with some beads and charms. 

It was a known fact that Baby loved spicy food, evident from his time on Play Games With Us. So you bought him his favourite spicy crisps, some Buldak noodles, and even some hot sauce. Although you didn't want to get him just that, so you made him a beaded phone charm, using the same beads you used for Mystery’s bracelet. 

Romance loved roses, something he'd often say in his interviews. For a while, you were considering buying him real roses, despite knowing your wallet couldn't handle it. But after some consideration you thought, why not just make them? It'd make it more special too. Out of all the gifts his took the longest to craft, especially as it had been your first time with origami. Since, you wanted it to be perfect it took a lot of trial and error. 

You almost cried once you saw the state of the flowers. Because of the rain, the paper roses you crafted were slowly crumbling apart, and one of the flowers had even come off its stem. But still, he held it in his hands tightly, afraid of losing something that he knew took you so long to make. He just couldn't believe you'd spend so long on something like this, despite never even meeting him. 

You were pretty upset about Romance and Jinu’s gifts that you started to profusely apologize. “You really don't have to take them, it's all wet, you can just throw them in the bin”.

A warm laughter coming from Romance interrupted your rambling, and everyone turned their attention to him. You sat there confused.

Did you say something funny? 

It wasn't until he placed the flowers on the floor and got up did you say something. Even the others didn't know what was going on. 

“Romance, I-”, you were interrupted when Romance bent down to your level, grabbed your chin, and brought your lips together. Your eyes widened, and your body froze in place. The contact between you two had completely silenced you. 

Romance adamantly released the kiss once he felt no air coming from you. It amused him, seeing you so taken aback that you’d forgotten to breathe, “wake up, princess. Don't want you dying on me”, he chuckled and started walking away, leaving you staring into space in shock. 

Did that just happen? 

“What the fuck, Romance?” Abby shouts, getting up from his spot on the ground. The rest of the boys did the same, all shouting at him from the living room, but your mind had tuned out the sounds.

The feeling of his chapped lips, delicately pressed against yours. The feeling of his warm breath fanning across your lips. The way he pulled you in, trapping you in a momentary ecstasy. 

It felt heavenly. 

Still, you couldn't believe it was real. 

Was this real? 

Jinu was about to go after him, but Romance quickly returned holding a hair dryer and a med kit for you. “I had to thank our dear (Y/N) somehow”, he taunts, which is met with more angry protests from the others. 

“Oh, come on, guys, you're just jealous I did it first”. That brought you back, why would they be jealous? 

You turned to look at the members and saw their heads facing down. Silence filled the room until Baby went up to Romance and yanked the hair dryer out of his hands. 

“Let's just do this”, he grumbled and moved towards you, the others sitting back down.

You sat there confused, why didn't anyone say no? 

Were they too embarrassed, or was it that they really did want to kiss you? 

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a/n - i must've been ovulating whilst writing that car scene cus woah, it wont let me add more ppl to the tag list so i'm gonna try and put it in the comments hopefully that works

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@ryujinxzyy @mazzk1ng @katzline @faerie-soirxx @satansdaughter123 @tediouslyboredoflife @dixonsbugaboo @ffcfffr @thesimppotato11 @gremlinartstudio @strayharmony943 @thirsty4fandoms @valeriele3 @confusedparticle @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @the-sweet-psycho @yandereaficionado @vvyeislazzy @reallysparklychaos @chugjugg @junebuggz @anonymousewrites @unadulteratedzombiechaos @coolnekochan9961 @celestnlav @totired0-0 @venommie @lyladoesart @yuichi-cat @sunoosmainchick @ateezswonderland @certifiedhater1235 @chucklefucksworld @sparky2020sworld @cumsluut @lilymoonwolf2 @wtfgiyuu23 @etherjen @metztli-07 @luluprincess230lp @rosapops2666 @genyas-husband @daiyanomochi @emberswithers @iv-vee @soukoku63 @auriuswolve @mimiu3usoft @randomfan218-blog @minkyungseokie

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[kazeniya]

You were never supposed to matter (2)

Targeting the fans was only the beginning. If he truly wants to bring down HUNTR/X, Jinu knows he has to strike at their core by focusing on one of their beloved managers, (Y/N). But what happens when the demon prince of pop finds himself falling for the very heart he planned to break?

wc: 2.3k

divider credits go to @hyuneskkami 💛 tag list: @mysteris-things @airwolf92 @thereaderwitch @koobiiiistar @eummm @a-cosmicdawn PARTS: (1) (2)

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw them—claws, shadows, violet smoke... and golden eyes that weren’t supposed to look at you like that. 

You walk through the bright city lights, the chill wind needling through your coat and nipping at your skin. In your hand, the pale blue card flutters with every step—creased at the corners, soft with hesitation.

You keep staring at it, like maybe if you look hard enough, it’ll give you answers. It doesn’t.

When you finally glance up, the National Theater of Korea looms before you—grand, glowing, alive with music and motion.

And there, by the trees just outside the main gate, he stands. Jinu, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, but his eyes are restless—scanning the crowd like he’s waiting for someone he doesn’t think will show.

You stop.

Take a sharp breath.

Do I really want to do this?

Is this worth it?

Am I about to make the biggest mistake of my life?

You shut your eyes and exhale slowly. Then, before you can think again, your feet are already moving.

As you approach, his gaze lifts and freezes.

His body stiffens just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting this. Like you were the last person he thought he’d see tonight. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. His mouth parts, but no words come.

He straightens up, every muscle in his body seemingly tensing up with you..

“…You came,” he says, voice low and almost disbelieving.

You nod once, lips pressed into a line. “Yeah…”

He blinks. Clears his throat. For the first time since you met him, he looks… unsure.

The mask slips. That practiced, charming idol air wavers—replaced by someone who doesn’t know what to say, someone who knows he’s standing on thin, cracking ice. Maybe it’s because you both know: one wrong move, and you’ll walk. You won’t hesitate.

The silence stretches.

“Should we get going?” he says, cutting the silence as he brings a hand up, gesturing to the glass doors. 

Last chance

You nod, following him as he leads you inside. 

Jinu shifts his weight, then extends his hand toward you.

You blink.

Your eyes flick between his outstretched palm and his face.

Wait.

Does he… want to hold my hand?

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

The absolute audacity of him to—

He catches your look and immediately backpedals.

“N-no—I mean—not like that,” he stammers, waving his hand awkwardly. “I just… I need your ticket. For the usher.”

You stare at him. Then at the ticket still clutched in your fingers.

“O-oh”

You shove the piece of paper into his hand a little too quickly, nearly dropping it between you. He catches it with a soft “thanks” and avoids your gaze like it might turn him to stone. He hands it to the usher standing by the entrance, clearing his throat like he’s trying to recover his composure. You follow him through the grand hallway, the plush carpet muffling your footsteps, past marble pillars and soft lights that you couldn’t help but marvel at.

He holds the door open to the auditorium for you—silent again, but there’s a slight tilt in his smile. Not the ones he posed for in billboards, a real smile. As you take your seat, you fidget silently as the room slowly fills up. The silence stretches again. Comfortable for no one.

Then, just barely above a whisper—

“So…” Jinu starts, voice tentative. “You like musicals?”

You glance at him. He’s leaning back now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, pretending to be casual—but you can see the way his thumb taps against his arm, betraying his nerves.

“I didn’t know this was a musical,” you mutter, eyebrows raised.

His lips twitch. “I mean, technically it's a traditional play with some music, but yeah… I guess I should’ve clarified.”

You give him a sideways glance. “So you lured me out here under false pretenses.”

A small chuckle escapes him—soft, breathy. “I prefer to call it… strategic misdirection.”

You roll your eyes, but a reluctant smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “Typical demon behavior.”

“I’ll have you know,” he says, leaning in just slightly, “this demon has great taste in theater.”

You shake your head, biting back a grin. For a moment, it almost feels normal. Almost.

Then your gaze flicks to the golden patterns barely hidden beneath the cuff of his sleeve, and the silence slips back between you.

The lights begin to dim.

But before the curtain rises, he speaks again—quieter this time.

“…I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I didn't either…” you whisper, your voice so soft you weren’t even sure if he heard it. Yet you feel the warm brush of his breath against your skin as he leans in, close enough that the space between you feels electric.

“I’m glad you did,” he murmurs near your ear, low and careful.

Your breath catches. Your heart stumbles. You turn to look at him—and catch the faintest ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

Then he brings a finger to them, silencing the moment before it can stretch too far.

“It’s starting,” he mouths, nodding toward the darkened stage.

A hush falls over the auditorium. Then, a single note swells—soft, rich, joined by the graceful rise of a full orchestra. The lights glow warm, revealing a lively village scene: people going about their daily lives, their movements choreographed like poetry.

A voice—gentle yet commanding—cuts through the music:

“Demons have always haunted our world, stealing our souls and channeling their strength back to the great king, Gwi-Ma.”

From the wings, masked figures emerge—each mask hand-painted, elaborate and eerie. Some smile. Some snarl. Each is unique, like twisted reflections of the fears they represent.

The villagers on stage cower, their bodies curling away as the masked demons begin to creep forward. But before they can strike—

A burst of harmonious voices slices through the tension like sunlight.

“Until heroes arose to defend us…” the narrator continues.

Three women step forward, draped in flowing hanbok, their skirts layered with pale silks that shimmer like water. Their sleeves trail behind them like clouds, and with every step, their garments seem to float.

“Born with voices that could drive back the darkness. Singing songs of courage and hope.”

The women sing—notes rising and folding together in a harmony so pure it makes your chest ache. It’s not just beautiful. It’s powerful.

“But Hunters are more than warriors. Their music ignites the soul and binds hearts. With this connection, the first Hunters forged a shield to protect our world.”

The lights vanish.

Darkness falls again.

A beat of silence. Then—

A deep, velvety voice cuts through the black.

“There once was a mighty demon king…”

Strings swell like thunderclouds gathering.

A spotlight drops onto a tall figure center stage. He wears a traditional durumagi robe, layered in deep indigo with gold accents. Draped over his shoulders is a long, sheer black veil that floats with his every move. And in his hands is a white bipa.

He looks too familiar.

Too much like Jinu the night you saw him fully changed.

“Stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” the actor intones. “He ruled in shadow. He feasted on souls. The world trembled when he roared.”

“But then some Hunters sang their songs. And now all he does is starve. Can’t reach the souls. His fire grows cold. Just a whisper in the dark.”

Then, the demon king sings—his voice rich, sorrowful, reverberating through the hall.

“And will he let the fire go out? Is this the end of him now? Dying king with a crumbling crown... Will he let the fire go out?”

You don’t move.

You barely breathe.

And out of the corner of your eye—you feel Jinu watching you.

The final curtain falls. Applause erupts around you—but your hands stay in your lap. Jinu leans back in his seat, eyes on the stage, expression unreadable. You glance at him from the side, trying to find the right thing to say. Neither of you say anything for a moment. Then he stands and stretches a little, his shoulder brushing yours as he does.

“Well,” he says softly, voice returning to that lazy, silken tone you’d almost forgotten he had, “that wasn’t so bad now was it?”

You scoff, crossing your arms and leaning back into the chair, unable to hide the small smile that formed. “I guess not.”

His eyes crinkle in amusement. “You headed home?”

You nod, standing up from your seat, “Yeah. It’s late.”

He tilts his head, suddenly more serious. “Let me walk you back.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“You think I’m gonna let you wander around alone again after what happened?”

You hesitate. “I can handle myself.”

“Yeah,” he says, that soft, amused lilt back in his voice. “You did great last time—especially the part where you nearly became demon food.”

You glare at him, but your lips twitch.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Just making sure you get home alive. I won’t even talk. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“Damn. You got me.” He shrugs and flashes a grin. “Still gonna walk you.”

This time, you don’t argue.

You leave the theater and start your trek back home. The two of you step out into the cool night, your breath clouding in front of you as the city lights glow soft gold around the pavement. He walks beside you, hands in his pockets, close enough that you can feel his warmth—even if you pretend not to.

“So…” You start, trying to find the right words. He turns his attention to you as his eyebrow raises in curiosity.

“I’ve gotta ask, you’re the leader of a demon boy band that’s skyrocketed to the top, right?” you ask, his head slowly nodding with no clue where this is headed. 

“Do you guys…practice?  Like all your songs and dance I mean”

He blinks at you. Then, slowly, a smirk spreads across his face. “Wait… are you asking if demons rehearse choreo?”

You shrug, holding your hands up. “I’m just saying, those formations are tight. Do you guys do warmups? When you’re not stealing souls, do you guys just...practice?”

“Sadly, yes. It’s impossible to teach those guys how to smile in front of the camera without looking like they'd rather be anywhere else let alone get them to dance in sync” he deadpans, shaking his head like a tired parent dealing with a bunch of unruly toddlers.

“Oh my god. So that’s why you’ve only ever released Soda Pop” you teased, 

“Hey, you’ve gotta give me some credit. It takes hundreds of years to perfect a song like Soda Pop”

You let out a laugh as you roll your eyes. He bumps his shoulder against yours—lightly, like he’s testing the waters. “You’ve got a cute laugh, you know.”

You blink up at him, caught off guard.

“I mean,” he adds quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, “It’s alright. You should laugh more–- I mean, if you want to—”

You narrow your eyes. “Wow. You’re really bad at this.”

“At what?”

“Flirting.”

He smirks. “Who says I’m flirting?”

“You just called my laugh cute.”

“I also called you demon food awhile ago and not long before that I broke into your house. We all have our moments.”

You snort, shaking your head as you look away. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still walking next to me,” he says, voice dropping just slightly—warm, almost teasing.

You glance at him again, lips tugging into a reluctant smile. “Don’t read too much into it. I just want to make sure you don’t get lost.”

“Right. Because I’m the one who needs protection.”

“Exactly,” you say, chin lifted, tone dry. “You’re fragile.”

He lets out a soft laugh, and for a second, everything feels simple. Easy. Like the world outside your bubble doesn’t exist.

Before either of you knew it, you were standing in front of the familiar house you called home, the porch light humming quietly above. You turn back to him, hands brushing awkwardly at your sides, unsure whether to cross your arms or just… keep them still.

“I guess this is my stop,” you say with a small smile, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“Yeah…” he echoes, his voice a little quieter now. Like he’s not quite ready for the night to end.

You shift your weight, searching for the right words. “Tonight was… better than I imagined.”

He smiles—gentle and a little lopsided. “You didn’t imagine I’d ruin it?”

“I imagined a lot of things. Most of them involved you setting the place on fire,” you tease.

He lets out a breath of amusement and opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something important—but then stops. His brows draw together for a moment, the words caught behind his teeth. Whatever it was, he swallows it.

You glance at him, and before you can overthink it, you rise on your toes and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Jinu freezes—completely still, like someone hit pause on him. His golden eyes go wide, his mouth slightly parted in stunned silence.

You smirk as you step back. “Maybe you aren’t all bad after all.”

Then, before he can recover or say a word, you turn and walk toward your door, giving a lazy wave over your shoulder. The door clicks softly shut behind you.

He stands there under the porch light, hand slowly lifting to touch his cheek.

That warmth—your warmth—is still there. His fingers brush the spot where your lips touched, a dazed smile still clinging to his face. And just as he was relishing in that moment of warmth, a sudden chill skates down his spine—sharp and cruel. The night air stills.

A voice, silk-smooth and venom-laced, echoes in his head. 

“Don’t forget your side of the deal, Jinu” the demon king whispers

The warmth fades from his eyes instantly. Jinu’s jaw tightens. He straightens, forcing down the flicker of guilt gnawing at his gut. He takes a deep breath, slow and deliberate.

“I want to make a slight adjustment to our deal.” he says, eyes still fixed at where you stood just moments ago.

[kazeniya]

The One Where Bakugo is Different With You (and your friends kinda called it but are too dumb to fully connect the dots) katsuki x fem!reader

No one understands what it is you did to make him like you. You insist that you didn't do anything. They don't believe you.

Bakugo isn't nice to anyone. He tolerates people. Sometimes. In fact, it's not like he's even nice to you. But he is different. And everyone has noticed.

"That's her seat, get up." He snaps at Mineta as the boy sits down next to him.

"What, she has to sit next to you?"

"Get. Up."

Mineta doesn't hesitate.

You've known him as long as the rest of them, but for some reason he seems softer toward you. Kirishima is the first to bring it up to him.

"Do you like her or something?"

"She's my friend, of course I like her."

"Denki is your friend, you don't like him."

"Hey!" Denki yells from the other side of the couch.

Bakugo just grits his teeth and doesn't respond.

Even when riffing with him, he takes what you say differently than he does with everyone else.

"What if I just cracked this egg over your head?"

He looks down at you. "I'd be impressed that you could reach."

"That hot head would probably fry it." Sero laughs at his own joke.

Sparks began to form from the explosion hero's good hand. "I will blast you out of this building!"

And forget about anyone else asking him for anything. He doesn't really do favors, not unless he's hounded to do them. But for you?

"I'm hungry."

Bakugo stands from the couch and holds out his hand to pull you up with him. "Let's go try the new sushi place down the block."

Or

"I have an interview with the talkshow next week but they want me there at like six in the morning."

He doesn't even look up from his phone, where he's opening his calendar to schedule himself off of work that day. "I'll stay by your place and drive you in the morning."

OR

A bag falls into your lap and the blonde plops down next to you. "They were on sale."

You open the bag to find your favorite candies, letting out an excited squeal. "They've been out the last two weeks."

"I told the guy to call me when he got a box in."

Denki tries to reach his hand out for a box but it's slapped away by the larger blonde. "Touch it or her and I will personally cut off that hand."

And then there's Kirishima's personal favorite interactions to watch. Something Bakugo has done since living in the dorms at UA, through your roommate years where all of you split an apartment to save up money.

Bakugo would get up to leave the room and stop in the doorway, staring directly at you. "Are you coming?"

"Where are we going?"

"Check your phone."

You would look down at your phone and laugh every time. "Are you embarrassed to say it in front of everyone?"

"Shut the fuck up and get over here!"

Everyone could read between the lines, and his blush on his cheeks.

But you'd never officially dated. Anytime any of the friend group would ask about it, you'd both deny it and change the subject. Kirishima and Mina would narrow their eyes in suspicion at you and one another.

"You just treat her different than everyone else." Kiri would point out.

"Friends don't look at each other the way you two do, especially not Bakugo." Mina would accuse.

The answers were always the same.

"Mind your own shitty business." Bakugo would snap.

"You all just look too much into things. He can be nice at times." You would always insist.

It would take all the way up until a random work party Bakugo's agency was holding for the truth to come out. For Denki to walk in on the two of you in the bathroom-

"Practically devouring each other! It was disgusting!"

Bakugo rolled his eyes. His arms rested around the back of the couch with you tucked close into his side. "See this is why we kept it a secret for so many years, you're all being so dramatic about it."

"Years?!" Mina screamed. "How many years has this been a thing?"

You tried to avoid all eye contact with her.

"Since high school." Bakugo replied with ease.

"Since high school?!" Your friends gaped.

"When we were all living in the dorms?" Denki asked.

"Used to meet up on the old training grounds to make out."

"The apartment we all shared?" Kirishima narrowed his eyes.

"Snuck into each other's rooms like every single night, can't believe you guys never caught us then."

"When we all were interning at the same agencies?" Sero threw out there.

"Bribed the scheduling team to put the two of us on the same routes."

"Ok wait, but you guys told us you weren't and you used to talk about the different people you would go on dates with right in front of each other- oh my fucking god." Mina facepalmed.

Bakugo laughed maniacally as you tried to hold yours in.

"So you were talking about each other? Every single time?"

"Every. Single. Time."

Mina sighed. "This is actually insane, I can't believe you never said anything."

"I mean it's not like we should be that surprised, besides," Kirishima chimed in, "it's not like they're secretly engaged to be married or anything, right?"

Silence.

"Right?" Kirishima's smile falters a bit. "Please tell me you two aren't engaged."

Bakugo blinks a few times before responding. "Ok, we're not engaged."

"Bakugo!"

"Did you think I was just really nice to her all the time for no reason?"

[kazeniya]

STOP U GOT ME SO EXCITED ALREADY FOR IT 😭

wait the “nice guy who hates only you” reverse trope prompt would be so fucking funny with thoma do you see the vision 😭😭

[kazeniya]

𝐀 𝐬𝐢𝐩 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 ☕ ᝰ.ᐟ

satosugu x fem!reader

Synopsis- Satoru once came across a rumour regarding a cafe he visited years ago. Rumour has, it possesses the capability to whisk one back in time— to the past. He never took time travel seriously. After all it was a law of nature, a string left to be untouched even by jujutsu. Yet, now years later, he finds himself fiddling in front of the cafe contemplating whether to get in or not. 

Warnings- time travel!au, gojo travels back in time to meet geto one last time and talk to him without regrets, so so so angsty with fluffy fluff that makes one melt, deep conversations, emotional conflict, mentions of death & blood, geto being so soft with gojo, reader being so cold to gojo, cozy vibes, based on ‘before the coffee gets cold’ by toshikazu kawaguchi.

Word count- 4.3k

a/n- omg! i finished writing this in one day. i had this idea ever since i read the series. i really wanted satoru to travel back in time and meet geto. this is a fic i wrote for me. please tell me if this brings a smile on your face. comments and reblogs are highly appreciated. do read the book its amazing and yeah have a good day besties. oh and a yuuta fic is coming soon.

Gojo satoru, always had a big cocky smile plastered to his face. A smile which overshadowed his eyebags, his half healed melancholic wounds and his regrets. 

He loved being a jujutsu sorcerer. But often he had not. Especially, when past memories come back overflowing in his mind, drowning him out of the present. Sinking him in the despair of not being able to save someone who was so close to his heart. And he regretted it. 

He regretted the words he left unsaid to geto suguru, the one who once claimed to be his best friend. 

The one, who's body is lying, trapped in cold webs of death. 

Gojo wasn't a person who had enough time to reminisce about the past. He had to take care of missions, exorcising curses, teach his beloved students and save the youth of the young generation to feel less guilty. 

Most of the days being hectic which he'd spend with the same cocky smile, grinning from teeth to teeth. And yet amongst his tight schedule which only allows him 3 hours of slumber, he still couldn't get a brink of sleep without having flashed the face of his best friend. 

And the familiar feeling of having a lump in the throat, unable to shout out the words he intended to say. He intended to cry out desperately for geto to stop. To not leave him behind. 

But no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get one word past his lips. He just simply couldn't. Maybe because he knew geto wouldn't listen. Or maybe he was afraid of rejection. Whatever the reason might be, back then, now it's all excuses. 

Years later, the itch of unable to form those words still persists and it grows each day. Thrives in the threshold of the suppressed emotions gojo has buried deep in his heart. 

Yet.

And yet.

Here he was, standing infront of the cafe ‘lá láttes’ contemplating whether to get in or not. 

He used to frequent this cafe with geto during his first and second years. Before everything went wrong. 

Geto always found this one cafe, a bit peculiar with bits of comfort hidden inside. He loved coming to this cafe and always used to order pumpkin spice latte without the maple syrup. Odd indeed gojo thought. 

Though he loved the way geto drank up his latte, the way he used to gulp and nod satisfactorily at the taste being not very sweet. 

The cafe was situated at the outskirts of Tokyo, back in a narrow alley. It was a basement cafe with only 9 seats to offer. Most of the time it didn't attract any new customers but only a bunch of regulars, among whom geto was one.

The cafe still looked the same from a decade ago. Only a little to no renovations were noticed. 

The board which displayed the cafe's name was still covered with the big leaves of a money plant curling itself from the stand. 

Clang-dong

The glass door opened as gojo shifted his head to the other direction trying to appear nonchalant. He slowly brought back his vision to the person who came outside to dump the trash. The recognition rang through in his mind as pictures of the owner flashed in his mind. He has grown old, now grey tainting his previous brown hair.

The owner looked at gojo, dusting off his hands, as his eyes narrowed at him. 

“Omg, the blue eyed? Aren't you?” 

Gojo frozen for a second, mentally cursing himself for gaping at the owner. Smiling nervously, he nodded at the owner, “good afternoon.” 

“Haha, good afternoon, you've grown up quite a bit hah!” The owner closed the distance between them before grabbing the door handle and opening it. “Come in. Let me treat ya’.” He said, gesturing to him to come inside. 

“Oh no! You don't have to.” Hands vigorously shaking criss cross, not wanting to freeload. The cafe itself has a very few customer base, gojo can't sit right with the idea of freeloading. 

“Nah! It's on the house. Come in boy!” the owner dragged him in. 

Clang-dong

The doorbell chimed through the staircase as the owner guided him downstairs to the basement. The smell hasn't changed too, musky and rich with the aroma of crushed coffee beans. 

As expected the cafe was empty except for two customers, one occupying the seat very last to the third row. His back hunched over several magazines, scribbling information on a small notepad. 

While the other one was a lady in white, a big straw hat placed on her table while she read a novel with golden letters printed on the covers —‘The lovers’, barely looking up from the book. 

Gojo recognised her as a regular. He'd noticed her often when he tagged along with geto. She wore the same white flowy dress down her knees and always read the same novel. 

The owner asked him to sit on the counter and order a drink of his choice, passing him the menu card. 

“Pumpkin spice latte,” gojo said without bothering to look at the menu. “Without maple syrup.” His eyes growing foggy as distant memories start clouding his mind. He sighed, before turning to look at the regular seat they used to occupy. The middle one in the first row. 

Did geto still used to visit this cafe even after they stopped contacting each other? He couldn't help but wonder. 

“Do you know the rumours about this cafe?” Geto said, sipping on his pumpkin spice. 

“Rumours?” 

“Yes, people say this cafe can whisk one back in time.” Gojo choked on his drink trying to suppress the laugh bubbling in his throat. “Really? You want me to believe in this shit?” 

“Naah! But it's interesting, even a jujutsu sorcerer can't interfere with time.” geto’s crescent moons crinkled a bit as he quirked a sassy eyebrow at him. “If you could go back in time, who would you meet?” geto asked raising his eyebrows. 

“I simply wouldn't.” 

“Huh? Why?” 

“Because it's not possible.” Gojo laughed it off, while geto just sulked a little. He firmly believed that interfering with the flow of time isn't possible. It could distort the world and just simply impossible. 

He didn't answer geto’s question back then. 

He wondered why?

Maybe because he didn't have any reason to go back.

But what about now?

“Here…” the owner passed the pumpkin spice latte to gojo as he muttered thanks to the owner. “So, haven't seen you here for a while…. where's your friend?” 

Gojo stopped midway on his sip of latte, he looked at the owner and put the glass back down. “eh…you see…” he couldn't quite find the right words to say. Normally he would have maintained his composure and maybe even winked and said ‘sowwy I killed him.’ with a peace sign included. 

However he seemed unable to regain his normal demeanor. The mask he put on for so long was broken. And it shattered into pieces with his vulnerable self showing, bare to the world. He felt ashamed for no reason. 

“He…um is dead.” Awkwardly shifting in the round stool, he couldn't meet his gaze with the owner. As if he could see through him and will be disgusted by the truth. The truth he hated for so long— of killing his best friend with his own hands. 

Of abandoning the corpse unable to handle the burden, leaving it to rot. Gojo felt disgusted, yet he masked himself with the same cocky smile he was fed up of wearing and went to his students.

Oh how awfully obnoxious he felt. 

And how desperately he wanted things to change. 

Later that night, he kept on washing his hands for hours. Scrubbing his skin with his nails, scraping the hands tainted in the blood of his beloved. 

His hands were clean. 

Though the red splatters of blood kept appearing again and again. 

“Oh,” the owner gulped, shifting his eyes from gojo to the kitchen. 

Gojo opened his mouth once again. He had practiced these words for the past week. He was the strongest. Then why was he getting nervous now? He gulped his own saliva trying to moisten his dried throat. 

The pumpkin spice latte was still untouched. 

“I wa—” he didn't get to finish his sentence as the owner interrupted him. His old wrinkled eyes now had a dull spark. Dangerous even, saying to be left untarnished but as if compelled to a spell, he spilled the words in gojo's stead. “So, you want to go back in time.” 

If you could go back in time, who would you meet?

“Yes,” gojo lets out a shaky breath, wiping his clammy hands on the fabric of his pants. “Yes, I do.” 

He sounded desperate, for he'd been wretched in anguishing fraught, so long that now the cry echoed in his ears. He'd seen geto, controlled by kenjaku. His body, being used even after his death— a weapon. 

Is this the curse of being a jujutsu sorcerer? 

He regretted the very moment. If only he'd said those words back then maybe the present he was living in would be a bit different. 

If only he tried a little hard.

If only. 

“Why?” the owner asked him with unwavering eyes, piercing through his soul. “What reason do you have to go back?”

“I…there are words I need to convey.” Gojo gulped feeling hot and sweaty even though the basement was well ventilated. The owner narrowed his eyes as if scrutinizing him. “Can I really go back in time? I really need to tell him something.” 

The owner stayed quiet. His hands simply wiping the inside of the freshly washed glasses. “Sounds trivial.” 

A voice emerges from the kitchen as you handle the owner, a fresh pack of coffee beans yet to be grinded. 

“Wha—” 

“Y/n! Don't be rude to customers.” The owner said in hushed voice, which was clearly audible as the cafe was almost empty. 

You rolled your eyes at gojo and get back in the kitchen. 

“I'm sorry for my daughter's behavior.” 

“Oh…it's fine.” Gojo stayed quiet a while clearly offended but when the owner said nothing more, he stood up from his seat. That's right it was a rumour after all. Time travel isn't possible, what is he on drugs or something? He felt dumb for believing in something even kids wouldn't trust.

“I'm sorry for taking up your time. I'd like to pay for the drink.”

“eh…you're not going back?”

“To where?” 

“To the past.” 

“I…I can? It's true.” 

The owner smiled wryly before answering, “yes. It's true.”

Gojo felt like a dummy and his head spinning, he didn't wanted to believe in this, yet the slightest chance to meet geto and maybe change the future. 

“Though I would like to inform you, one can't change the present.” gojo’s eyes widened as if caught red handed stealing. He didn't get it, if all this was a joke or he was the joke. 

“Huh?” 

“You can travel back in time. That's upon the customer to decide. If you want, sure you can. But…” 

“But?” 

“Traveling back in time comes with lots of risk. And there are certain rules. One of them being— you can't change the present.” The owner explained now pouring the fresh coffee beans into the grinder. 

“What do you mean? Isn't a change back in the past followed by a change in the future?” 

“Well it's for the folks. However, no. You cannot change the present,” the owner waved his palm flat in the air, gesturing him to return to his seat. “You can try but the present will not be altered. A friend, dead will not be alive even if you try to prevent it.” 

“So are you still willing to go…even if the present can't be changed?” The owner shifted the grinded beans into the pot, ready to brew a handmade fresh cup of coffee, while waiting for gojo’s reply. 

Gojo looked back to the seat they used to occupy in the past. So what if he's still dead? If gojo can somehow share his feelings, or maybe even see his face— see geto, the real geto, the one who has its own soul and not controlled by kenjaku, the one who recognises gojo. It won't be that bad right?

“I still want to go,” gojo was disappointed, but even if seeing geto for one last time was possible he would not miss it. He'd regretted not acting upon his impulse before and he doesn't want to regret it again. Not now, given any benefit of doubts. 

“Sure.” The owner nods painfully slow, having gojo rethink if this isn't some vile prank. 

“So..?” 

“Oh, I'm afraid we'll have to wait for a while. The specific seat is now occupied by…um the lady in white. Y/n can explain the rules to you meanwhile.”

“Why? I can just request her to unoccupy the seat for a while.” Gojo suggested, standing up when the owner halted his actions. “Oh no! I'd suggest you not.” 

“Why?” 

“You see…the lady is…a ghost.” 

“A curse you mean…I can exorcise it.” 

“No. A ghost. Not a curse.” 

“Are you kidding me? If the thing is just a rumour you could just tell me the truth. There's no need to make excus—” The owners deadpan look caused his words to die midway. 

“How long do I've to wait?” 

“A little while. She will soon go to the washroom. You can finish your drink till then.” 

Gojo had no other option but to comply with the owner's words. He tried using his six eyes but for some reason it didn't work well as if the cafe has its own domain blocking out the powers of other jujutsu. 

A while later gojo had ordered two more drinks he finished sipping and the lady was still glued to her seat. ‘what a bummer!’ he thought. 

You walked out again from the kitchen this time with a bunch of paper napkins. “Why are you still here?” 

“Y/n!” The owner hushed you again, explaining you the entire situation and ushering you to explain the rules to gojo, who was sitting confused. 

You hated when people came here to travel back in time. The fact you even hated yourself more than you've to be involved in this.

Rolling your eyes in annoyance, you step infront of the white haired guy. “I expect you know the rules?” You cocked an irritated eyebrow at him.

“Um…no.” 

“Ah…I might advise you to run away then. The rules aren't made for someone weak.” You smirk clearing away his empty cups for a wash.

“do you even know who I am? I'm gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer throughout heaven and earth.” he'd enough of your brat behavior.

“The strongest in your dreams…why are you so desperate to go back then? Do you regret anything you should've done but couldn't since you're a coward?” 

“Y/n!,” the owner scolded you, as you rolled your eyes again. “I'm sorry, she's always sensitive when we have customers wanting to travel back in time.” Gojo just nods at the owner. Your bitter words rang through his ears. And worse that you're more or less right. 

Do you regret anything you should've done but couldn't since you're a coward?

“I will be stating the rules…better be attentive.” You say taking in a deep breath calming your raging heart. 

“you can't change the present no matter how hard you try.

“you must sit in a specific seat for being able to travel back in time.

“you can only meet people who have been in the cafe.

“Once you're back in the past you can not get up from the seat. If you do, you will be forced back to the present. 

“Your time starts in the past once I start pouring the coffee in your cup and it lasts till your last sip of the coffee.

“That many?! Isn't it too overboard?” gojo interrupts you, his jaw opened wide hitting the counter. “Overboard or not. You've to follow…” 

The creaking noise hits both of your ears drawing attention to the lady in white. She slowly raised from her seat, flipping the book shut and placing it on the table. Emptying the seat, she went outside to the left, where the bathroom was. 

Clang-dong

Gojo looked at you. 

“Alright go take your seat.” 

What's so special about this specific seat? He thought but went anyway. Upon settling in the seat, he realised it’s no different from the ordinary chairs. Pretty much the same, however the temperature of the air surrounding the half of the table was slightly different from the rest of the cafe. It was a bit cold. 

Will he now go back to the past?

To geto suguru? 

What will he say? 

He'd practiced it so many times in his head, in front of the mirror, on his way to this cafe and yet he felt completely blank right now. 

He won't be able to change the present or the future, still….

You came over to his seat carrying a silver tray with a kettle of similar silver. There was nothing so special about the cups you placed infront of him too, clearing away the previously used ones of the lady in white. 

Gojo’s blank mind had millions of thoughts flooding now. What will he do if he ends up at the wrong time? Will he really travel back time? 

“You just need to imagine the time your friend was sure to visit while I pour the coffee.” You say, picking up on his thoughts, brewing the coffee now. 

The rich aroma of the coffee filled the entire atmosphere surrounding him. He wasn't really fond of coffee, especially hand brewed ones, he looked for the owner, his old eyes plastered on the glassdoor. 

“I will pour your cup now. Just remember to finish the entire cup before the coffee gets cold.” 

“what happens if I don't?”

“Then you will be sitting as a ghost in this seat until someone else occupies your position.” Gojo shot his head up to look at you, your eyes had the same deadpan look as the owner. “Just sip it before it gets cold and you will be fine.” 

You start pouring the coffee without allowing gojo anymore questions. 

He was about to speak, he didn't understand the last rule. What did it mean? But he couldn't get any voice out of his throat. 

A thin string of hot steam coming from his coffee gulped him in as if he was the steam himself, flowing up along with it. The three clocks surrounding the walls of the cafe now became big and blurry yet striking clear. Its hands are each revolving in different directions. It's not the time to think about what's happening. He closes his eyes, trying to imagine the day geto would surely make his visit. 

Saturday mornings.

Soon gojo’s waving body materialized as he felt his sensations back. His eyes still closed shut. Slowly he opened his eyes. The cafe was pretty much same. Nothing changed. Except it being totally empty. And at the counter a much younger owner. 

Did he really travel back in time?

But he was all alone. Geto wasn't in the cafe. 

The owner looked at him, and ignored. 

“Um…” gojo said, trying to get the owner’s attention. 

“Yes…oh the blue eyed. What happened?” He asked concerned, the wrinkles under his eyes looked much softer. 

Clang-dong

Gojo looked behind the owner, his breath hitching as his eyes widened. 

It was geto suguru. 

The owner followed gojo’s eyes and welcomed geto in. 

“suguru…” his voice barely a whisper echoed through the entire cafe. 

Geto, who finally noticed, freezed a while, his eyebrows knitting together.

“Satoru?” Geto gulped, before awkward tugging his hands back in his pockets, unwillingly walking up to him and sitting down at the seat opposite to him. “The regular…” geto ordered, before turning his head back to gojo. 

“Why are you here?” Geto asked directly. 

“I…uh I was just passing by.” He lied. 

Geto leaned back in his seat, his eyes unreadable. 

Gojo sucked in a breath. What is he doing? This isn't why he was here. He wanted to talk. But he couldn't find his words again. He gulped thickly ready to blurt any incoherent talk at him. 

Gojo didn't think anymore. He didn't cared about words any more, he just wanted to have one last conversation. 

“just why?” Geto hissed, “why did you come back?” 

He knew?

“I…ah..”

“Satoru you can't expect me not to know when you're sitting here in this seat.” He blurted frustratingly, bringing his thumb and index to massage his temples. 

“I wanted to apologize,” he met his eyes with geto, saying nothing for a while. The owner brought and placed geto’s pumpkin spice in the table, whisking himself away to the kitchen to leave both of them alone. 

“Drink.” Geto ordered. 

“What?” 

“Drink the coffee, you moron!” He let his head fall in his palms, before groaning. 

Gojo sipped the bitter coffee a bit, placing the cup back down to the saucer. It was still warm. 

“Why are you so infuriated—” 

“How can I not satoru? You know you're being mean. Why must you do so? Just sip the entire coffee and go back.”

“No!” he protested, maybe first time being so vulnerable to someone but he didn't care. “No, I want to talk to you!” 

“satoru ple—” 

“Suguru, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being with you when I should've been there. Sorry I turned a blind eye to you. Sorry for neglecting you. I told myself I was the strongest…but no I'm not. You asked me if I'm the strongest because I'm satoru gojo or I'm satoru gojo because I'm the strongest…let me answer you,” he took in a deep breath before continuing, “I'm not the strongest suguru. I'm not. I was the strongest— because of you. Because you were with me. Because we were the strongest, suguru. I'm the worst friend ever. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I couldn't stop you that day. I wanted to, desperately. I wanted you to stop and not leave me behind alone. I wanted you to think of me suguru. But I couldn't say that.” 

The cafe was silent. So was geto. He never expected gojo to burst out like this. 

“So…do I die or what?” Geto laughed at gojo’s face twisting into horror. “So I do die.” 

“How can you laugh?” Gojo asked him as geto pointed him to sip on the coffee, which he did. 

“I'm laughing at how messed up you look without me…did you have a hard time?” gojo doesn't answer him trying to calm himself down. 

“Listen bummer, you don't have to feel guilty. I chose this path on my own. And I don't regret it, even if I die. Just take care of your shit.” geto sighed, “though I'm skeptical about the one who unalives me…bet it’d be you—” geto halts mid sentence.

Gojo felt something wet in his face, afraid, he brought his hands up to his face, wiping it only to find his tears. Great, he just cried infront of him. 

Geto gulped thickly, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry,” he bit his lips before continuing. “atleast you could do is curse me a little at the very end.” 

Geto’s words made him cry even harder. He didn't try to stop him though.

“satoru, please don't be mean to me, gulp the entire coffee and go back before it gets cold. You wouldn't want me to go into another depressive slump will ya’.” he forwarded his hand hesitatingly, wrapping around gojo’s. He knew the rules of this cafe, and he didn't wanted satoru to stay any longer, considering the bigger threat that looped at gojo’s neck. He didn't wanted the coffee to get cold and gojo to be stuck forever in the time loop becoming the next ghost to haunt the seat. 

“Drink it for me, will ya’.” he said in the most sweetest voice gojo will ever hear again and wiping his tears with the other hand he forwarded the cup to gojo. 

Unwillingly, gojo gulps the bitter coffee, not caring for the aftertaste, his time would end soon. He grips suguru’s hand even tighter. He didn't tell him about kenjaku or the mistakes he'd made, but at least he didn't regretted anymore. 

“Be safe and healthy for me.” Suguru’s words echoed through his ears as he lost his sensations in his body, as if floating upwards. geto's grip on gojo's hand wavered as if he's holding onto air. 

He will not regret anymore. 

“I love you.” he shouted, uncertain, if his voice would reach to geto or not. But he did shout. And geto smiled. He smiled as sweetly as the ocean smiles to those who willingly drown. He muttered something to gojo which wasn't audible to him. And before he knew he opened his eyes in the present again. 

You stood up straight from the counter, sighing in relief, before whisking yourself back to the kitchen. 

“I'm glad you came back safe.” said the owner.

“Yes. Yes thankyou.” He didn't knew but his cheeks still had those tear stains the owner chose to ignore. 

He didn't get to listen to suguru's last words but he didn't regretted anymore. 

“Move.” the lady in white commanded as gojo immediately stood up walking straight to the counter. 

“I'd like to pay.” 

“Yeah. But the pumpkin spice latte’s on the house.” 

“Sure.” Gojo smiled brightly, and for the first time in years he felt it wasn't a mask but a genuine smile. He'd soon catch up with geto.

“ So that will be 2700 yen.” 

“Here.” 

Clang-dong.

The lady in white sat on her seat and opened the novel again; the one titled The lovers.

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