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iamactuallysocute · 12 days ago

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SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 3

Well, shit happens. You’re not out yet, but you want to be, you want to leave… do you? Part 4 here

cw: mature topics, implied female reader and she/her pronouns used, cursing, Stockholm Syndrome, the usual

AN: SORRY IF I DIDNT TAG U!! I completely forgot about the 50 ppl/post, so so so sorry if I said I’ll tag and didn’t, or you simply just didn’t fit in. I’m like absolutely so fucking sorry plz forgive me :((

Back then, you were feral in the best way, mean in your own sweet way.

Once, you snapped a plate in half just because Abby took a bite off your sandwich.

“Didn’t know it was yours.” he said innocently, bread still in his mouth.

“It had a FUCKING toothpick flag with my name on it.”

“Ohh.” His eyes widened. “That’s what that was?”

And when he reached to take the other half, you smacked his hand so hard the spoon you were holding broke.

Mystery choked on whatever soul-smoothie he was drinking. Jinu didn’t even look up from his book. Baby said, under his breath, “Ten bucks she bites him.”

And then you did.

You bit him.

You actually bit him on the shoulder.

That happened, yeah. Back when you were new to this whole thing.

Another time, you were cornered. Again. This time by Romance, who’d just “accidentally” caught you trying to sneak a text to Huntrix from the balcony with a signal booster you’d constructed out of a fucking spoon and a piece of the TV.

“You really are clever.” he murmured, head tilting, grinning ear to ear the fucker.

“I really will stab you.” you replied, hand curled so tight around the spoon it left a dent in your palm.

Romance leaned closer, as if the threat had been foreplay.

“BACK OFF, YOU ABSOLUTE MOTHERFUCKING ASS!”

Your voice had echoed. Bounced off the marble. Set Baby laughing from the hallway. Even Mystery flinched, staring at you from across the room.

But the best part?

Abby. That giant musclehead. He squeaked. Squeaked like a squeaky toy and actually leapt into Jinu’s arms, the demon leader catching him effortlessly with an expression like this again. Like Scooby into fucking Shaggy’s.

You stopped shouting.

Stared.

Jinu held Abby bridal-style.

Romance shrugged, one brow raised. “You scared him.”

You didn’t laugh, but god, you wanted to. You just turned and walked off, muttering, “Pussies.”

Another time, you were tied to a chair.

Mystery was crouched in front of you. Studying. Not speaking. That kind of silence that made you sweat even though the room was cold.

“You gonna say something, Chewbacca?” you muttered.

He bared his teeth.

“Oh scary.” you mocked. “Do it. Bite me. See what happens.”

He lunged. Fast. Too fast. Grabbed your arm and sniffed at it, tongue flicking the skin.

So you bit him first.

His arm. Hard.

Mystery yanked back, blinking at you like damn. You looked him dead in the eyes(at least where you assumed they were), and said, “Freak.”

He just licked the bite mark.

Abby: “Yeah okay that’s enough. Put her down, Cujo.”

(Guys Abby saw the Cujo movie, god forbid he reads an actual book. Just clarifying :P)

You’d also asked Jinu for two things: conditioner and your favorite body wash. That was it. Easy. Reasonable. Bare minimum.

You walked into the bathroom that day, freshly restocked cabinet, heart fluttering with the idea of a semi-normal shower—

Strawberry Vanilla.

You stared.

Froze.

“STRAWBERRY. VANILLA?!” You shouted so loud it cracked into a squeal. “Who the fuck thinks I smell like that?”

The entire house heard you.

Abby (from the hall): “I thought it smelled nice.”

You stormed out, half-wet, towel wrapped, bottle in hand. You slammed it onto the counter. “Fix. It.”

You’re not that big of an asshole, I promise. If one of the girls or Bobby did this, you’d give them a little kiss on the forehead and say that this was better anyway. But you really did deserve at least this after what the Saja Boys had done to you.

Romance smirked. “It’s very you, though. Soft. Sweet. Lickable.”

You threw it at him. Dead-on hit. Right in the chest.

He didn’t even flinch. “Thank you for the gift.”

At one point, you fought Baby over cereal.

You reached for the last box. So did he.

You stared at each other.

“You don’t even eat, do you?” you snapped.

He raised an eyebrow. Took the box. Walked off.

You tackled him. On instinct. He dragged you across the kitchen. You screamed. Romance howled in laughter from the couch.

Baby was the quietest. And somehow the most infuriating. He never raised his voice, never bothered to engage in your tantrums, but god, did he know how to push your buttons.

Like the time he stole your only pair of clean underwear and used it as a flag on a makeshift fort he made out of couch cushions.

You kicked him right in the jaw. Not even a scream—just BAM.

He laughed. From the floor. Didn’t say a word. Just laid there, one eye squinting at you.

You’d never felt more defeated by a demon in your life.

You did more things too.

Listen. You were trying to explain to them that stealing someone wasn’t ethical. And Jinu had the audacity to look you dead in the eye and say: “Calm down.”

So you picked up the nearest book—some ancient demon text, probably worth thousands—and threw it at his head.

He caught it.

Didn’t flinch.

“Okay.” he said. “Let’s try this again.”

You’d never hated someone so much while also kind of respecting them.

Once Romance walked in on you changing.

He said it was an accident.

Bull. Shit.

You were mid-change, shirt half on, bra off, and he walked in like he was touring a museum.

You screamed. He gasped—visibly excited, not horrified.

Then you launched a slipper so hard it hit him square in the forehead.

“Have you never heard of KNOCKING?!” you screamed.

He blinked. “Oh, sweetie, you didn’t say occupied.”

Cue second slipper.

He caught it.

Blew you a kiss.

You almost passed out from rage.

They liked you like that.

You were this blazing, buzzing lifeform in a house full of centuries-old boredom. You fought them. Screamed at them. Bit them, for fuck’s sake.

But you also laughed. You pouted. You cussed them out and stomped through the house in socks and fury.

They didn’t realize they were falling for you then. Not fully.

But they knew something was happening.

You were making them feel alive again.

Those were the early days.

And they loved you then, too.

Even if they didn’t know that’s what it was.

Now, Romance is standing in the kitchen, leaning half his weight into the counter, and his own damn face staring back at him from the cover of some fan magazine. He’s flipping through it one-handed, sipping from a cup of juice with a neon pink bendy straw.

That straw, has a little heart twist at the top.

He knew you were coming. Heard it. Felt it. Smelled it, which got him a little excited ngl.

You’re halfway to the fridge when you speak. “Is that why you guys always catch me so fast?”

He lifts his eyes from the page. Sees you. Blinks once. Then twice.

That. That right there—that millisecond of stunned silence, where his mouth parts just slightly, and he looks like you hit him with a gentle slap of pure serotonin? That’s the part you clock before anything else. You just asked him a question. Nothing monumental. Not even particularly friendly. But you talked to him, unprompted, and he’s never going to be the same again.

He puts the straw down. Carefully. Like the drink isn’t safe in his hand right now.

“…Sorry, angel. Gonna need you to repeat that.” he says, lazy and smooth, like he didn’t just die and come back.

You open the fridge and don’t look at him when you speak. “Your super senses. Is that why every time I try to escape you guys catch me in like, two minutes?”

There’s a pause. You grab your bottle of water, close the fridge.

When you turn around, he’s smiling. Soft. He shrugs. “A little bit of that. A little bit of instinct. A lot of wanting to chase you.”

“Seriously?”

“Baby, I hear your heartbeat shift the second you think about running. It’s cute.”

“That’s unfair.” you mutter.

He tilts his head. “Awww. You want fair now? In this arrangement?”

You toss the water bottle cap at him. It hits his chest with a pathetic plap. He catches it on the rebound without looking.

He sets the magazine down, finally. His own face smirking back up at him from the page.

“Can I tell you something?” he says, walking closer. “Your voice?”

He’s getting way too close now.

“Mm. You should talk to me more. Or yell. Or whisper. I’m not picky.”

“Romance.” you say, exasperated.

He stops just short of invading your personal space. His body radiates heat, though. His cologne is heavenly. The damn straw is still in his other hand.

“I’d say you’re into me.” he drawls. “But I think you’re still too cute to admit it.”

You stare up at him. Calm. Calm-ish. Mostly tired.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re breathtaking.”

You snort and step around him, heading for the counter. “Do you ever stop?”

He watches you go like it’s a religious experience.

“No.” he replies, still watching. “But if it helps—I do mean it.”

You glance back. That moment of eye contact hits. He actually does look serious, in that boyish way.

It’s infuriating.

It’s charming.

Romance takes a slow sip from his juice again, eyes never leaving you.

He’s a slut for you. Fully, unashamedly. Would bark if you asked. Would crawl if it meant being near you. He doesn’t say that. Not yet. But it’s in every look.

You sit down at the bar stool, finally, arms crossed. “So that heartbeat thing. You can really hear it?”

“Mmhm.”

“So what’s it sound like now?”

“You,” he says softly. “sound flustered.”

You chuck a spoon at him.

He laughs. Loud, open-mouthed, bright. Then slides the straw into his mouth again and winks at you.

And god, you weren’t supposed to be likable.

You were supposed to be a tool, information. Something to be squeezed, drained, used. Never kept.

But somehow… you stayed. And the boys? They stayed with you.

They started to like you.

LIKE like you.

Even worse?

You started to like them back.

Sometimes.

Not always.

(But sometimes.)

Each boy had his own pace, his own rhythm to this falling. And god, they were hopeless about it.

Romance was the first, obviously.

He practically came out the womb with his heart in his dick. But somewhere between groping you during pasta making and nearly passing out at the word thong, something cracked open in him.

He flirted still, endlessly, obscenely, but now, his touches lingered. His compliments turned into confessions masked as jokes. He’d hover too long when you passed, always looking, always watching.

He meant it.

He meant all of it.

Abby, on the other hand, didn’t realize he liked you until he already did. Muscle for brains, sweet in the worst way. The kind of demon who’d pick you up just to hear your little yelp. Who’d lift you off the ground because he liked how your feet dangled.

Once he told Mystery to back off a little—not because he was jealous (though he was), but because you flinched.

That’s weird because he used to laugh at you being scared.

You were small, squirmy, loud, and he liked that about you.

Mystery was different. Quieter. Harder to read.

But he followed you around sometimes. Always right there. Watching. Circling. Once, you turned around and he was just standing behind the couch, staring at you.

When you screamed, he only blinked and said, “Your hair smells good.”

You still don’t know how he snuck into your room that one night and laid on the floor like a dog. Not next to your bed—on the floor. Like your presence alone was enough to settle something beastly in him.

And weirdly? It was.

Baby was a fucking asshole.

No more needed. He laughed at you, made fun of you to the other boys and just didn’t give a fuck in general.

Oh, but he did. He did gaf, but only in his head. In his own little world. You didn’t know. Jinu didn’t know. Mystery didn’t know. Romance definitely had no way of knowing. Even Abby had no idea, though they’re quite close.

Nobody knew of his developing little crush except him and Gwi-Ma.

And Baby wanted to keep it that way.

Jinu, of course, had always been the only one who hadn’t tried to see you naked or use you as a footstool.

But Jinu’s affection was the deepest.

He never called it liking. Never flirted. But he’d watch your face too, not just your ass, khm khm Abby Romance and Baby khm khm. Adjust your blanket if you fell asleep on the couch. His big cat tiger thing followed you like a puppy, choosing your lap over Jinu’s. That said a lot.

Gwi-Ma, always whispering, always pushing around in their heads. Gwi-Ma wanted information. Wanted to twist you into something useful again.

“Softness is a waste.” he’d hiss through their skulls. “She’ll betray you.”

But they didn’t listen.

Not as much anymore.

Especially not when you were sitting on the counter in the morning, rubbing your eyes, hair a mess, and Jinu handed you tea.

Of course, the universe didn’t let you live in peace.

Your misfortunes were daily. Hourly. Unreal.

Once, you tripped on a fucking mug that Mystery had purposefully left sticking out from under the rug just to fuck with you.

He might seem cute because of his lack of talking but he is evil. (Like think about the scene where the girls had to go down on that slide, he smiled too the evil fuck)

You fell, hard, onto Romance’s lap, and instead of helping you up, he sighed and said, “At least buy me dinner first, darling.”

Another time, Baby just straight away fucking tripped you.

Once, Abby told you the front door was unlocked and you booked it, full sprint, only for him to catch you mid-air and giggle about it.

At least the tiger liked you.

You once cried into its fur. You’re pretty sure it purred.

And now, you are in the kitchen, humming softly, bare feet on the tile floor, chopping crisp cucumbers into the glass bowl Jinu had left out for you. Honestly, if there was one person in this goddamn hellhouse who actually listened, it was Jinu. You asked for tomatoes. You asked for spinach. You mentioned craving feta, and he gave you two blocks, one crumbled, one whole.

“Sweetheart.”

You don’t have to turn around, you know Romance’s voice.

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah.” he breathes, eyes laser-locked on your hands slicing up cherry tomatoes. “And dangerous with that knife. Love a woman who could kill me.”

He walks up to you, quiet, but you can feel him.

“What are we making?” he murmurs, leaning too close over your shoulder.

You stab a tomato.

“Salad.”

“Ooooh. Sexy.”

“It’s not for you.”

“What if I told you I’ve been having dreams about you?”

“Wouldn’t care.”

He blinks. “Okay, but they were romantic. Sweet. A picnic under stars. Wine. Kisses. Maybe a little tongue.”

“You licked my cheek last night.”

“Because I missed your mouth.”

You glare.

He clutches the counter like he’s about to faint. “Okay. Alright. I get it. You don’t take me seriously. Nobody does. Poor Romance, too handsome, too charming, too—”

“—horny.”

“—honest!”

You turn back to your salad.

“Romance.”

He blinks. “Yes, my future?”

“Go away.”

You flicked feta at his face.

“OH!” he shouts, catching the crumb with a noise that was absolutely not human. “You want me. I knew it.”

“I want you to leave.”

He’s unbearable. Radiantly idiotic. You can’t stop the snort that escapes you, and unfortunately, he heard it.

“That’s right.” he says, leaning in again, softer now. “You like me.”

“I like the salad.”

“You want a bite of something else.”

You stab another tomato with unnecessary violence.

“Okay.” he says quickly, backing off with hands raised in surrender. “I’ll stop. I’ll stop. I’ll just sit right here… stare at you respectfully… maybe touch myself a little.”

“I don’t care.”

And he sits at the stool next to you, arms folded, chin in hands, watching you build your salad.

And when you hand him a slice of cucumber later, tossed over your shoulder, he catches it between his teeth and whispers, “I knew you loved me.”

You whack him with the spoon.

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s disgusting.”

Now it’s later. I mean days later, and the bird with the little hat is absolutely beating your ass at chess.

You’re not even mad about it. It’s kind of an honor, really, to be in a full-length chess match with a bird. You’ve been locked in with him for nearly an hour now, curled up in your spot on the floor in the living room, one knee drawn up and a banana smoothie halfway melted beside you.

You glance at the board again, chewing your straw.

God, he’s good.

He taps his claw—tap tap tap—on your rook. Intimidating. Kind of rude. But you’re used to that energy by now.

“Stop being cocky.” you mumble at him.

The bird cocks his head.

Check.

You sigh. “Fine. You win this round. Want to play again?” you ask the bird, moving your knight back to its start.

The bird lets out a small caw, offended, and flutters its feathers.

“Actually,” comes Jinu’s calm voice. “he’s making room.”

You glance up.

“May I?”

You blink, surprised. “You want to play?”

“I want you to play me.” he clarifies, just a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “Shoo.” he says to the bird.

The creature gives a sharp, disapproving squawk and hops off the table, landing on the couch with a ruffle of feathers.

You raise a brow at him, curious.

“You’re good.” he says, sitting across from you. “I want to see how you think.”

Not “I want to win.” Not “I want to impress you.”

He just… wants to understand you.

God, how were you supposed to deal with that?

You nod slowly. “Alright. White or black?”

“Ladies first.” he says.

“Okay.” you say, smiling faintly as you reset the pieces. “But I play dirty.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You take white. He doesn’t even question it.

For a while, it’s quiet. Just the clink of ceramic pieces. The movement of your drinks as you occasionally sip from yours, and he politely declines when you offer him some.

Yes, you did that. You offered him some. Not because you like him, no. You’re just polite. That’s all. I swear. Please believe me.

“You’re calm today.” you murmur eventually.

“I had time to think.” Jinu says, making a move that sets you up for a trap if you’re not careful. “Sometimes quiet is productive.”

“Sometimes quiet is suspicious.” You raise an eyebrow.

He meets your stare. Doesn’t look away. And then, with a small smirk that threatens to ruin you entirely, he says:

“Sometimes quiet is attraction.”

Your hand freezes above your rook.

That was… not what you were expecting. From Abby, sure. From Romance—god, always.

But not Jinu.

“You’re saying you’re—”

“Interested.” he says.

Blunt. Gentlemanly. Warm.

Your pulse stumbles.

You shift in your seat. “Why now?”

“You’re beautiful.” he says first. No hesitation. “But that’s not it.”

You glance away, throat tight.

He makes his move. “I like minds like yours.”

You’re flustered now. Fully. Hot in the cheeks. You counter with your bishop just to do something.

“Romance would’ve tried to kiss me by now.” you say, trying for lightness.

“I’m not Romance.” he replies, eyes never leaving yours.

You believe him. Every word.

When the game ends—he wins, of course, because Jinu is as smart as he is kind—he helps you pack the board up. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t press. Just brushes his fingers lightly over yours once as he passes the rook back.

The touch lingers.

And when he gets up, he says, “Next time, I’ll bring tea. I know you like peppermint.”

Your chest tightens.

You never told him that.

He leaves with a respectful bow of his head.

And somehow, you’re left breathless. From a chess game.

From a gentleman.

(Ignore my ass time skip)

You’re sitting cross-legged in the hallway, sorting through a weird pile of tangled wires and ancient weapon parts they’d dropped in your lap earlier. Nothing major. They did that so you can figure out a way to escape and they can stop you.

“Hey.” Abby says.

“Mm.”

“I’ve been working out.”

“Never would’ve guessed.” you say dryly.

And then, suddenly, there’s a very large, very bare chest directly in front of your face.

Now you look up.

He’s shirtless. Again. His skin gleams like he actually oiled himself for this. Abs carved, arms pumped, veins showing like he just did fifty pushups in the kitchen while whispering your name.

“Wanna feel?”

Your face stays flat. You don’t even blink.

“Come onnnn.” he whines, bending a little, dragging your hand up with his. “Just real quick.”

He places your palm against his stomach—solid as a fucking wall—and flexes. Not once. Like four times in a row. Ripples. Actual ripples. You swear you felt your fingers move from the force.

He wiggles his brows.

“Right? Not even my demon form.”

You don’t pull your hand back, not yet. Instead, you just nod thoughtfully, like you’re evaluating a piece of expensive furniture.

“Cool.” you say finally, as if this is a regular thing that’s just… fine. No big deal. Nice abs. Seen better. Back to work.

You tug your hand back gently, and he lets it go. Then he drops into a crouch beside you, bare chest still glistening, looking over your shoulder at the mess of wires.

“You want help?” he offers, pointing at a connector like he knows what it is. He absolutely does not.

“You’ll electrocute us both.” you reply, not unkindly. You shift to block his hand. “Here, hold this instead.”

You pass him a coil of wire. He holds it with pride. Doesn’t even know what to do with it. But he follows you around now like you’re gravity.

He trails after you into the next room.

“Hey.”

You hum, distracted as you sort through some stuff on the table.

“Touch here?”

He points at his bicep this time. Raised it. Flexed it. Grinned.

You nod, reach out, squeeze once. Return to what you’re doing like it’s no big deal.

And he melts.

Giggles.

You let him have it. You don’t roll your eyes or push him away, not anymore. He’s harmless in that way.

At one point, he’s just following you silently, carrying a basket you didn’t even ask him to, looking so pleased with himself like he’s finally learned to be “helpful.”

“Hey.”

You pause mid-step. Look over your shoulder. He’s holding his own forearm this time, pushing the muscle up like he wants you to test it again.

“Last one, I swear.” he says, blinking innocently. “Promise.”

You sigh through a smile. Walk back. Run your fingers briefly along the curve of his arm, slow, like you’re checking for a pulse. Then you pat it once and move along.

“Still impressive.” you say without turning around.

Behind you, he makes the most pathetic little victorious noise. It’s not even a word. Just this soft, high-pitched “hehhhhh”

You catch him flexing behind your back in the mirror, giving himself a thumbs up.

Now, Baby.

He doesn’t flirt like the others.

Baby flirts by being an asshole. A smug, good-looking little demon who has never said “please” to a woman in his entire damn life.

It’s afternoon. You’re just coming out of your room, down the hall and into the living room where Baby is. Sitting on the arm of the couch. Head tilted back, neck exposed, pale. A lollipop in his mouth. He never chews, never crunches. Always sucks it slow, tauntingly, he knows exactly what image he’s painting.

He doesn’t say hi.

Just shifts his gaze to you, eyes lazy, bored. You make your way past him, his gaze drilling into your back, and just before you reach the kitchen

“Left your door unlocked.” His voice is soft.

“I know.”

A beat. He takes the lollipop out of his mouth with a slick little pop.

“Don’t let me be the one to find that out next time.”

His tone is all implication. You should be annoyed, but it’s Baby. You got used to this.

You sigh. Look over your shoulder.

“You gonna peek?”

He doesn’t answer. Just smiles. Not wide. Not big. Just this tiny, slow-curling smirk that says, “Maybe I already have.”

He’s pissed about it, honestly. That you got under his skin like this. That your laugh lingers. You were supposed to be leverage, a little human assistant with demon-hunting info.

Now you’re his little crush.

He hates that Gwi-Ma still speaks in his head, reminding him he’s not human like you are. Not real. Not worthy. And yet he finds himself around you, the asshole.

He tells himself he’s only watching you for strategy. For weakness. For moments to exploit. HUNTR/X is not quite destroyed yet, mind you.

But then why does it twist in his gut when he hears you laugh at someone else’s joke? Why does he get irritated when Romance sits too close? Why does he hang around?

A shit time skip later, you’re sprawled on the floor in front of the coffee table, trying to untangle a set of cords that were definitely cursed by someone, probably Baby. You’re muttering to yourself. He’s been on the couch behind you for twenty minutes, dozing off, a little lazy eye involved.

“Your hair’s dumb.” he says suddenly.

You pause, blink.

“Thanks, Baby.”

“You should dye it black. You’d look hotter.”

You glance back at him. He’s not even doing anything, as usual. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s doing you a favor.

You just raise an eyebrow.

“You think I’m hot?”

“I didn’t say that.”

A beat. Then, like it hurts him:

“You’re okay.”

God, he’s such a brat.

You stand, brushing dust off your hoodie. His eyes do flick to your legs. Fast, but you catch it.

You walk toward the kitchen, and, as expected, he follows. Not close. Just a few steps behind, to be around annoy you.

“Want something?” you ask, opening the fridge.

He shrugs.

You make him a sandwich anyway as you’re done with yours.

And when you hand it to him, he doesn’t say thank you, but you see him looking away before he bites into it.

And under his breath?

“…Good.”

You pretend not to hear it.

He pretends not to care.

For now? He eats your food. Watches you hum at the sink. Imagines—just for a second—what it’d be like to kiss the back of your neck.

(timeskip…yeah.)

It’s evening.

You sit cross-legged, tossing a fabric mouse for Jinu’s massive tiger of a cat.

That cat has paws the size of your face and it’s so hilarious for you for some reason. Big, dumb sweetheart with eyes that follow you. You adore him.

You flick the toy again. He launches.

Footsteps.

You look up, and Mystery, back from god knows where.

But in his hand?

A single flower.

Pink.

Tiny. A little wilted at the edge. The kind fans throw at their feet. A cheap gesture. Something disposable.

Except…

He’s holding it like it’s glass.

He crosses the room with slow, oddly careful steps. Doesn’t say a word. You glance between him and the flower, confused at first—until he stops in front of you. You blink up at him, frozen.

Then he kneels. And places the flower next to you. Right beside your foot.

Not in your hand.

Not in your hair.

Just… there.

Like a cat bringing a kill to your doorstep.

He doesn’t wait for praise. Doesn’t ask how you feel. Just stares, as if checking to see whether you’ll get it.

You do.

Fuck, you do.

Something warm wells in your chest. It’s small. Stupid. It’s just a flower, something he probably picked up on his way back from a meet n greet or wherever the hell these boys disappear to. But the fact that he brought it home—

For you.

It makes something in you ache.

He thought about you.

Of all the things he could’ve done with that flower—crushed it under his foot, thrown it back into the crowd, tossed it at Romance for the joke—he decided to hold onto it. To bring it home. To hand it to you.

“Thank you.” you murmur.

He grunts, stands, walks off.

Just like that.

And tiger, entirely uninterested in this soft moment, chooses that exact second to try to eat the flower.

“No, no—hey!”

You scramble to scoop it up before it’s covered in drool. Mystery glances back from where he’s halfway to the kitchen, eyes following the chaos. And for a split second—

A smile.

You sit back down, cradling the half-crushed flower in your fingers.

God. Your empathy is such a sucker for these boys. Even the quietest of them, the one who growls more than he speaks, who scratches his neck raw when anxious, who once nearly clawed Romance’s face off over a stolen chocolate bar.

He brought you a flower.

And it’s not nothing.

You keep it.

You press it between pages of the book you’ve been reading lately.

Meanwhile, the tiger tries to climb into your lap again. You huff, shifting to make room as he practically crushes your ribs. But you let him. He’s warm.

Yeah, so things started developing like this. You always got hit on but recently you started to get… extra hit on? Well hit on is a sexual term and that’s not all going on, but what I want to say is that they’re trying. The boys are trying and not planning to give you back to HUNTR/X anytime soon.

And… it’s a bit flattering, to be honest.

Aaaanyways, the next day, your feet slap dully against the marble as you drag yourself toward the kitchen, hoodie down to your thighs, no bra, and the expression of a half-dead. You might’ve slept, but it didn’t count.

The living room bleeds into the massive open plan kitchen, and…

“BRO, YOU SLEEP WITH THAT KNIFE UNDER YOUR PILLOW?”

“It’s not a knife, it’s a blade.” Mystery mutters, barely audible, tugging the drawstring on his hoodie.

“Same shit!” Abby barks, stomping across the room barefoot and shirtless, flexing. “What are you, a knight? You got a bedtime sword too?”

Abby’s cackling, slapping Baby on the back so hard the kid nearly chokes on his toast.

Mystery shrugs like they’re boring. You can tell he’s holding back a laugh, though. His mouth keeps twitching.

“DOLLFACE!!”

Arms around your waist.

You’re lifted.

Lifted.

You shriek and nearly fall out of your own body, but Romance is pressing himself to your back. You’re still squinting, trying to locate your soul you’re surprised they didn’t take yet, and now he’s sniffing your hair.

“You smell like heaven, why do you smell like heaven—?”

“Romance.” you groan, wiggling like a worm.

“Don’t wiggle unless you mean it.” he teases, voice dragging slow and syrupy into your ear.

Jinu doesn’t look up, but you can see him smile.

You lean your weight back until Romance groans and finally lets go, dramatic as ever, dragging his feet behind you like you’re breaking his heart.

You ignore him, walking past Mystery, who’s now sitting on one of the island stools, twirling a fork.

And because you’re awake now, you smile softly, real sweet, and say “Don’t let them bully you, by the way.”

That hush is instant.

Romance pauses mid-whine.

Baby raises an eyebrow.

Mystery looks up.

Abby’s face just looks fucking ridiculous but you don’t see that.

You look straight at Mystery, walking backward now, hands curled around a mug. “You were nice to me. With that flower.”

“Flower?” Abby blurts, straightening. “What flower?”

You sip your coffee with a tiny hum. “Other day. He gave one to me. Didn’t say much, but it was sweet.”

Mystery’s eyes flick toward the ceiling, like he’s praying to be smote where he sits.

And yeah.

Yeah, they’re all a little jealous.

The other three look at him like he just invented kindness.

Romance is having a full meltdown. He kicks at the island counter. Whines. “I gave you my soul and you give him praise?! He brought one ugly-ass flower—”

“It was pink.” you say.

“Fucking peasant flower!!”

He flings himself into a stool, arms crossed, leg bouncing furiously like a brat not invited to a birthday party. You press your lips together, trying so hard not to laugh. You can feel Jinu watching from the kitchen, calm and observant as always. He likes this.

(Geeked vs locked in)

You glance at Mystery.

He doesn’t say anything, but he’s smiling. Just the smallest hint of it.

You’re such an angel.

They’ve gone from kidnappers to roommates to… something worse.

Because now they all want you.

Jinu made it clear.

Crystal.

Over the chessboard and you’re still quite not over it.

He doesn’t waste energy playing coy. No winks. No crude jokes. He just looks at you like you’re the last star in a dead sky and nods when you speak and listens when you ramble and always—always—makes sure you have what you need. Tea when you’re cold. Quiet when you’re tired. Time when you’re overwhelmed.

But behind that gentleman act is intent. Hot, slow, burning intent.

He wants you. No questions. No confusion.

You see it in how he lets the others act like clowns while he waits. Patient. Focused.

Jinu is playing the long game.

He’d never pressure you. He’d never ask for more.

But he wants. God, he wants.

Romance, on the other hand, is hopeless, the fucker.

This man is suffering. Actually getting progressively worse before your eyes.

He tries every second. Every breath. Every glance. From the second you step into a room, he’s on you, with compliments, with whines, with declarations of undying lust.

He’s getting desperate, too.

The more you don’t kiss him, the more he stumbles over his words. He steals Abby’s cookies just to “romantically” offer them to you. Wears low-cut shirts and sprays on three pounds of cologne and leans against counters.

It’d be tragic if it wasn’t so funny.

You’re the first person he hasn’t gotten in one night.

He hasn’t known a crush like this in centuries.

He hasn’t known rejection like this ever.

He’s never known yearning like this.

And Abby. Sweet Abby.

He’s such a slut about it too. He’ll do fifteen pushups near you for no reason. Make you feel him up like I explained earlier. Carry three chairs at once and casually glance at you, waiting for a compliment.

You give him just enough.

Just enough to keep him glowing, to let him feel strong and wanted. You never mock him, never brush him off, and that kindness wraps around his poor demon heart.

He’d die for you. Actually die.

He probably already has, emotionally.

But he’s still an idiot.

Every time you touch his bicep, he smiles so wide. Every time you say “Thanks, Abs.” he goes crazy and kinda cums in his pants on the spot. He waits for your approval. He lives for it.

And the rejection? The casual way you tell him you’re busy? The calm “That’s nice, Abby.” when he deadlifts the couch?

He doesn’t even know what to do with it.

He flexes more. Tries harder. Starts randomly fixing things. Carries you to the other side of the house.

He thinks about crying sometimes. Real tears. Muscular ones.

He likes you so bad it hurts his bones.

Mystery doesn’t say much, but god, he’s trying.

You see it every time he sits just a little closer than yesterday. Every time he watches your hands while you speak. Every time he follows you into the kitchen.

He gave you a flower. That says it all.

He likes you. Probably more than he knows how to name. Probably more than he’s been allowed to like anything in a long, long time. He doesn’t touch you unless you touch him first. He doesn’t stare unless you stare first. But once you do? He locks in.

Baby is a dick.

An asshole. Through and through.

He laughs when the others get scolded. Snorts when you trip over your words. Rolls his eyes when you’re being too nice.

But the second someone flirts too hard with you? He stiffens. Bristles. Frowns. And when you look away? He glares.

He’s the kind of guy who’d pull your ponytail as a kid and then fight anyone else who touched it.

He talks the most shit.

But he likes you. Hates it. But likes you anyway.

And inside?

Gwi-Ma is roaring with laughter.

You don’t know that a demon overlord haunts them with every blush and boner and soft gaze you don’t even mean to give.

You’re their first love in centuries.

And you’re probably gonna eat cereal and tell them they left the fridge open.

It’s so unfair.

And you’re so, so valid.

They deadass kidnapped you, you’re in the right!! You’d be in the right for kicking them in the balls but… but you don’t do that. Maybe that’s why they like you so much.

They’ve lived for centuries. Hundreds of years. They’ve fought, tortured, burned, lured, commanded. They were gods to some people.

And now Romance can barely see straight. He lays awake at night, shirtless and sweating, imagining you brushing his hair back and saying things like “I’m glad I met you.” and stares at the ceiling like a teenager.

He cannot believe you’re rejecting him. Him. And it’s not even malicious. You’re not cruel. You just… don’t give in. You like him, kinda. You smile. But you don’t fall. And god, that’s what kills him the most. That even when you’re being soft, you’re still not his.

Jinu’s pride is intact, barely. He doesn’t beg. Doesn’t make a scene. He has dignity.

You’re… you’re so full of odd little joys. SUP boarding and books and hot sauce on popcorn. He likes hearing you talk.

And he never likes anyone.

He tells himself it’s enough to watch you grow comfortable here. That your happiness is enough. But still. The thought of you sleeping next to someone else—he swallows it. Every time.

Abby is down so bad it’s embarrassing.

The other day you called his arms “strong looking.” Just looking. Not even saying they are. And he almost dropped a weight on his foot from the joy.

He’s never been good with subtlety. Or pacing. Or restraint.

So he follows you around like a puppy. Flexes. Smiles. Lifts things. And then you just say, “Nice.” and go back to reading or doing your normal human things, and he’s left there, muscles and all, with a little crushed heart the size of a dumbbell.

He just wants you to like him.

He knows he was part of kidnapping you.

He knows that’s, uh, bad.

But you being kind to him? Genuinely kind? It makes him ache in places he didn’t even know he had.

Mystery hasn’t felt in so long. But he knows you’re… different. Important. He knows the others want you. And he wants to want less.

But… oh, how much he likes you.

Baby is the worst.

He doesn’t know what to do with you, and you ruin everything.

He wants to slam a wall. Or a door. Or maybe you against a door. But then you say, “Hey, Baby.” all soft, like it’s just another name, and he just… shuts up, no matter how big of a brat he is.

They’ve lived long enough to forget how the beginning feels. Four hundred years. Some more, some less. All of them once human, then not.

They are not okay.

Not a single one of them.

They are demon boys with wicked strength and terrifying power and not a clue how to survive the fact that they’re all in love with a human girl who lives with them because they forced her to.

And you’re rejecting them.

You’re sweet about it. Warm. Thoughtful. Empathetic, which almost makes it worse. You smile at Romance’s flirting and then keep walking. You praise Abby’s arms and then turn back to your book. You listen to Jinu’s calm voice and blink all slow and grateful and then—god, why do you have to do that—and still don’t kiss him.

You don’t mean to tease. That’s the tragedy. You just are.

They’re like boys again.

Real boys. Awkward. Confused. Heartburn and everything. Abby’s trying to figure out what else he can do with his body to impress you, because he has no other tool. Romance is re-writing the same love letter and never giving it to you. Jinu’s building you a bookshelf and pretending it’s just “because you needed one” and Baby’s picking at you for pronouncing this and that wrong just because it means he can hear your voice longer when you argue. Mystery’s thinking about your hands again. He doesn’t know why. He just is. He likes your hand.

They did lock you up. They did kidnap you. They’re the bad guys. They know this. They play around and joke and flirt and build routines with you and pretend it’s fine, but they know.

They know you didn’t choose them.

They know you might never.

And they don’t even blame you for it.

Meanwhile, Gwi-Ma is living his best life.

He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that your rejection makes his hauntings spicier. He could torture the boys so they don’t like you, but the weaker the boys are, the bigger control Gwi-Ma has over them. You’re useful, in this way.

For an example, telling Romance “She said she liked your shirt. Pathetic. She meant the color, not you.” or to Jinu: “The bookshelf is nice. She’ll put her romance novels there and still not touch your dick. Move on.”

Well, he’s not always joking it away. Most of the time he rubs it under their noses that they’re pathetic and failures and whatnot. Gwi-Ma pokes every bruise. Presses every soft spot. And still, they suffer in silence.

And all this leads to…

Backstage. A cooler of sugary drinks no one wants, and five ancient demons in skin-tight pants pretending to be idols.

Romance has one boot on the makeup table and is picking glitter off his sleeve with lazy disinterest. Abby’s chewing on something. Baby’s on his phone. Jinu’s fixing a seam on his jacket with tiny, perfect stitches. Mystery’s sitting on the floor, looking like he’s about to bite someone, which is normal. No one’s really talking.

Until Romance does. “What if we let her go?”

The words hang in the air. Burn in the silence. Nobody breathes.

Baby slowly turns to Romance and mutters, “You hit your head or something?”

Because that’s not a question they ask. That’s not even an idea they entertain.

Let you go?

“No.” Jinu says. Not angry. Not loud. But final. Like mom turning something down.

Abby nearly chokes on his food. He waves a hand, then his whole arm, then his entire torso like he’s trying to physically ward the words off. “No, no. Take it back. No one heard it.”

Mystery growls. Actually growls. Low and feral. Eyes glowing a little.

Baby doesn’t even look up from his phone but scoffs. “Romance is having a stroke. Ignore him.”

Not many words like this he remembers from his looooong long time living, but he really likes this word, for some reason. Stroke.

But Romance is serious. Or half-serious. That’s the worst part. You can always tell with him when something hits a nerve. His voice might come out beautiful, but sometimes, like now, you can just tell by the tone.

He shrugs, leaning back against the table. “Just saying.” he mumbles, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s not like she wants to be here.”

Yeah, no shit.

She doesn’t.

You don’t.

You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t ask to be kidnapped, or dragged into their living room, or become someone’s angel just by being decent. You were helping the girls, and now you’re cutting fruit in someone else’s kitchen and being flirted with by demon boys with gorgeous faces and damaged hearts.

Of course you don’t want this.

But they do.

God, they do.

Not the cage part. Not the chains. That was survival. Panic. Guilt still clings to it like dust. But you? They want you. Your laugh. Your sighs. The way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed. Your stupid, wonderful lectures about “proper communication” and your goddamn warmth. Your worth.

So when Romance says it, when he dares voice the thing they don’t want to think about—

They panic.

Because it’s not a question of right and wrong.

Not for them. Not anymore.

It’s a question of loss.

Letting you go would mean living in the silence again. No footsteps down the hall. No spoon tapping against the pot while you cook. No sarcasm from anyone who’s not them, no annoyed eye rolls, no scent of your shampoo clinging to their clothes after they steal your towel off the rack again.

It would mean the house is a house again, not a home.

It would mean—fuck—it would mean being alone again.

And none of them want to go back to that.

So they shut it down. Instinctively. Immediately. Loudly. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s unthinkable.

Because you’re going to like them eventually.

You will.

They don’t say it, but they believe it.

They have to. It’s the only thing keeping them upright.

So they say no. Again and again.

“No, dude.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“She’s not going anywhere.”

They all say it in their own voices, their own rhythms, their own ways of desperate.

Romance doesn’t argue. Not really. He leans his head back against the mirror, looks up at the lights, and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t push it again.

Because he doesn’t want to let you go either.

Not really.

And when the some staff member calls them in, when they’re lining up in sequence and fixing their microphones and checking their in-ears, they’re still thinking about you. All of them.

In different ways.

In different versions of forever.

In ways they don’t dare speak aloud.

And somewhere inside, deeper than they can say, they’re hoping. Hoping you’ll choose them.

Hoping you’ll stay.

Even if they never say the words.

(ashamed of my time skips)

“BABYYYYY WE’RE HOME.” Romance shouts. You’re the first thing he sees. His grin nearly splits his face. They just came home.

“Guess who’s BACK with the TITS OUT!” Abby’s shout follows, just as his shirt hits the floor somewhere by the entryway. Why was it off already? No one knows.

You’re in the sunken living room, tucked into a thick throw blanket, curled up against Jinu’s massive tiger cat.

You lift a hand, a lazy wave. “Hi.”

Jinu is quieter when he comes in. Doesn’t even say anything at first just walks into the room, and sets a bag on the table next to where you’re laying.

“What’s that?” you ask, your voice half-caught in the fur of the beast beside you.

“Stuff I saw. Thought you’d like it.”

You blink.

He’s gone before you even get to answer, the bird following him with a weird sort of offended flapping. It squawks once like it’s scolding him for not letting it deliver the gift itself.

Just as you’re about to sit up, Baby walks by. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs your hair as he passes, fingers slipping through the strands at the end. Touching you when he wants to but refusing to be soft about it.

Asshole.

Your “Ow” is mostly just for show. He snorts without looking back and disappears into the hallway.

“Hi.” Mystery says and oh your god it’s progress.

“Hi.” You look up at him, and just like that, he’s gone too.

And that’s when Romance and Abby both collapse down on either side of you like magnets pulled in too fast. The tiger cat lets out a long, huffing breath when Abby’s thigh brushes against its side—and then the beast melts into him. Practically rolling.

“Awwww, c’mere, big guy.” Abby croons, instantly elbow-deep in thick fur, cooing and petting and making baby noises that no one should hear come from a man that buff. “You missed Daddy, huh?”

“You’re the worst.” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it. Not when he’s scratching behind the cat’s ears and the thing looks like it’s going to drool.

Romance sighs, and leans in until you feel his breath against your neck. “You cuddled up all pretty without us?”

You glance sideways at him. His lashes are too long. His face too symmetrical. The pout is real, exaggerated, stupid. “Get your own cat.” you say flatly.

“Why, when you’re right here?” he replies instantly. “You warm, you purr—”

“Romance.”

“Fine, fine.” But his shoulder brushes yours and doesn’t leave. He slouches a little so his thigh presses against yours. A beat later, he whispers, “You smell really good.” like he’s proud of himself for holding it in this long.

Abby’s still fawning over the cat, rubbing its belly with both hands like a caveman making fire. The tiger groans happily in response.

You roll your eyes and turn your attention to the bag Jinu left. Unfold it slowly.

Inside, a new journal. A set of colored gel pens. A small box of your favorite tea. Lip balm you mentioned once in passing when your lips were dry. And a soft hair tie, black velvet, probably chosen just because it looked nice against your hair.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Hm.

No one says a thing.

You quietly press the back of your hand to your eye and pretend it’s because something got in it.

And when you look up, Romance is watching you. Not joking, not smirking. Just watching.

He doesn’t say anything either.

It feels like something’s shifting.

Not loud. Not fast.

Just… growing.

This weird, stitched-together thing between you and five demons who haven’t known softness in centuries. Who don’t know how to handle it now that it’s here. Who cling to you, some of them physically, some of them just mentally.

Abby has both hands sunk into the fluff, cooing at the beast like a baby.

You can feel Romance shaking with laughter, the fucker. He’s not taking any of this seriously—he never does. None of them really do, but Romance especially lives to push, tease, flirt, inch closer and closer to the line without ever fully crossing it.

It would be easier to write him off if he didn’t mean it, if his warmth was fake. But the longer you stayed here, the more you could tell it wasn’t.

Romance didn’t just flirt because it was fun and because he really really liked you.

He flirted because it distracted him. From the voice in his head. From the pressure in his chest. From the way Gwi-Ma’s claws still tugged at the edges of his mind even here, in this safe, stupid apartment. You’d seen the way his expression broke when he thought no one was looking, how the shine dulled in his eyes when he stared at nothing for too long.

Beautiful, yes. But breakable.

Abby loved the spotlight, loved touching people, he enjoyed a lot of things.

But the guy was always moving. Always laughing. Always doing.

Never still.

Because when Abby stopped?

When he was quiet?

That’s when it caught up to him. Gwi-Ma. The memories. The pressure. The guilt. The voices that reminded him of what he used to be and how far he’d fallen. The blood still under his fingernails. The centuries of doing shit no one would forgive—not even himself.

So he cooed at cats. He flexed his muscles. He grabbed your hand and made you touch his abs.

He needed to be loved. Even if it was just for five minutes.

“I wrote you a song.” Romance says, shirt open—why? Why is his shirt open?—and one knee bent.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Oh my god—”

“I’m singing it now.”

“Romance, no.”

He opens his mouth anyway, so before he can croon a single note, you slap your palm over his mouth.

“Mmmpf.” he mumbles beneath it, eyes crinkling with laughter.

Abby bursts out laughing, forehead pressed to the tiger’s belly. “Finally someone shut him up.”

Romance licks your palm.

“Ew—!”

You yank your hand back, smacking him on the chest. He just grins. The grin that would ruin a weaker girl. The grin that, if you weren’t chronically annoyed and slightly feral from being kidnapped, might actually make you melt a little.

But it doesn’t.

(Not visibly.)

And it clicks again, painfully, how much effort this is for them.

Not the flirting.

Not the games.

But the living.

Existing in this in-between space, pretending to be boys in their twenties when their souls are threadbare and ancient. When there’s something else inside them—someone else—always whispering in the dark.

You’ve heard them at night.

Not just Abby snoring like a lawnmower or Romance mumbling flirty shit in his sleep (which is… hilarious, honestly), but the other sounds.

The low whines.

The way their breathing turns jagged like they’re running.

The muffled words they don’t want you to hear.

Gwi-Ma, obviously, you just don’t know that.

And then Abby, sensing the emotional weight like it’s a fly he must slap with brute force, sits up and shouts, “Okay, let’s play ‘Who Wants to Touch My Abs Again!’”

Romance stares at him for a beat, then mutters “I hate when you say something good before I can.”

You groan, then reach forward and pet the tiger, threading your fingers through the thick blue fur, and when you do, you feel both boys lean in a little closer.

Gravity.

Not prison bars.

Not chains.

Just… gravity.

You. And them. And the warm belly of a tiger-cat who doesn’t care about demon curses or yearning pop stars.

You smile to yourself.

Just a little.

Yeah.

Being a hostage and missing the girls fucking sucks, but this is fun, sometimes.

Uhuh, all until Romance runs a hand up your thigh.

You grab a pillow and hit him with it. A clean hit to the shoulder. It barely moves him. He chuckles, soft and low, then grabs your wrist mid-pillow swing and brings your hand to his cheek.

And keeps it there.

Romance actually nuzzles into it, gorgeous lashes fluttering. “Why won’t you love me?”

“Because you talk like that.”

“Eh.”

Behind him, Abby’s scoffing.

“I’m right here.” he says, hand going to his chest. “Right here. Heart of gold. Literally. Jinu said I needed more iron in my diet and I told him to suck my—”

“Abby.” you cut in.

“Just sayin’.”

You stare at him.

He flexes.

You blink.

He grabs your hand and shoves it straight onto his bicep. Hard. “Go on. Give it a feel.”

“Abby.”

“C’mon, babe.”

And you—you actually just… sigh. Your hand stays there. Because at this point, resisting is more exhausting than just humoring them. And because, god help you, Abby’s abs really are the most offensive thing you’ve ever touched.

“This isn’t going to work.” you say calmly.

“It’s already working.” he replies, smug.

Romance nods solemnly, still holding your other hand on his face like you’re blessing him. “It’s working on me, too.”

“Jesus.”

Then the tiger-cat lets out a snore between you all, paw twitching, tail flicking once. Weird little reality this is. And you don’t deny it. Because denying it would mean you’d have to stop letting them lean in, stop letting Abby trace a line up your arm just to, stop letting Romance’s voice slide along your spine when he sang for you. And okay, his voice was gorgeous.

They aren’t subtle.

But they are sincere.

In their own fucked-up ways.

Romance, for all his dramatics, means it. His flirting isn’t just empty lines. You can feel it in the pause between his jokes, in the breath he holds when you glance at him for too long. In the ache when you say no.

And Abby doesn’t understand subtlety, but he does understand loyalty. When he lingers around you, when he gets all proud just because you let him carry something heavy for you or touched his stomach and didn’t insult him, yeah, that’s affection, demon style. Affection disguised as flexing and teasing and “accidentally” brushing against you whenever he walks by.

You clear your throat, shift slightly, ready to go. “Okay. Cool. Thanks for the… attention.”

“You’re welcome.” Romance says, grinning again. “And also, I love you.”

“Romance—”

“I do. Hey, don’t go—”

Abby chuckles, looping an arm around your shoulders suddenly, dragging you back down, cheek pressed to your temple. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll love you tomorrow when he forgets.”

“HEY—!”

You shove both of them off. The tiger-cat lets out a sleepy growl like even he is tired of their bullshit. You stand, this time successful, stretch, and pretend your heart isn’t beating faster than it should be.

And know that they can definitely hear it.

They’re not human. They play like they are. Joke like they are. But they’re not. Their senses are dialed up so loud it’s a wonder they can function in this apartment without genuinely crashing out.

Take this for an example, hear your heartbeat change when you walk into a room.

You experienced this the first time when you tried to sneak to the door at night, barefoot and silent, you heard it behind you: tap tap tap, the unnecessary footsteps of Baby following you just because your pulse spiked. And he didn’t say anything. Just leaned on the wall in the stairwell and smiled, evil little smile.

They know when you’re aroused. Unfortunately.

They know when you’re scared. Worse.

And they definitely know when you’re lying.

That one was made clear when Jinu once tilted his head and calmly said, “You’re clenching your molars again. Makes your jaw tick. That’s your lying tell.”

And you’d almost launched the TV remote at him.

But they never stop listening. Even when they’re laughing, playing with the cat, arguing about what movie to put on, they’re tuned in. To you. To the wind. To each other. They track one another’s emotional shifts like dogs in a pack. When Mystery twitches, Abby twitches. When Baby goes still, Romance glances at him. When you so much as think about walking toward the front door? You hear someone move before you even touch the knob.

Imagine you’re Jinu, how the fuck do you explain to a hostage that you want to bury your face in their neck just to breathe them in?

Not exactly gentlemanly.

Mystery could pick you out of a crowd of a thousand by scent alone. He knew when you entered the room, even if his back was turned. He’d been trained to track, to hunt, to kill, and now every predator instinct in him was confused—because all it wanted to do was wrap you in his arms and nuzzle into your neck.

Okay, all of them can do this.

Their eyes don’t move much. Their ears do. It’s eerie, sometimes. But you’ve stopped caring.

Mostly.

And the strangest thing? You know they do it for your sake, now.

It’s not just control, not just torture.

It’s protection.

That one time you dropped a glass in the kitchen, quick little break on the floor, you had three demons in the room with you in less than two seconds. Romance was still wet from the shower, hair dripping, towel twisted low around his hips. Abby was shirtless and breathing heavy like he’d sprinted from the roof. Mystery was crouched beside you before you even realized your hand was bleeding, gently peeling your fingers open to check for shards. It was Jinu who pulled the dish towel off the rack and wrapped it around your palm. When did he even get there?

(Baby simply didn’t give a fuck because he knew the others were there. If you and him were alone, maybe he would’ve checked up on you.)

They don’t say they care. But they feel it when your heart gets heavy. They hear it when you cry in your room and try to stifle the sound into a pillow.

And they respond. Not always with words. Never quite the right way. But with presence.

Yeah, they still have to learn the right way, but at least they’re doing something, okay? Fuck’s sake, man.

They don’t know how to be human anymore.

But they haven’t lost you yet.

And now, they’re trying to understand you the way they understand everything else:

By listening.

By smelling.

By memorizing your habits and tells and tension.

You don’t say anything about it.

But tonight, when you pour a second glass of water before bed and leave it out on the counter? You notice it’s gone by morning. And you know someone drank it just because it smelled like your fingers had touched the rim.

Okay, who was the fucking creep?

Anyways, they still throw each other into walls. Sure. Mystery still growls. Baby still glares at your soul and rolls his eyes like you’re beneath him, but in reality, would jump anyone who even looked at you wrong. Abby still flexes and preens, but always backs off when you give him that look. Jinu still doesn’t stop them, fuck him and his cute nose. And Romance… that fuckass is dangerously close to making him falling in love with you YOUR problem.

You caught him once, staring at you over the rim of a cup of coffee. Soft-eyed. Dreamy. Quiet.

You asked, “What?”

He said, “What?”

Yeah. Exactly.

You’re still the prisoner, technically.

Still for information you haven’t given.

Still wearing the metaphorical leash they tug at when they get bored.

But at the end of the day, when you’re curled on the couch, book in hand, one of them reaching over your head to pet the tiger, another muttering about ordering takeout “for the human” you realize something terrifying:

You might actually like it here.

Not the kidnapping.

Not the control.

But them.

Them as people.

And you don’t know when the shift happened. But now when you think about escaping… you pause. Because it wouldn’t just be running away anymore. It would be leaving.

Plus the apartment is nice. Shower with LED mood lights. Big windows you once tried to climb out of to maybe fall into a window cleaner’s little elevator thingy(yes you’re creative like that, you miss the girls) until Baby appeared behind you and said, “Try it. Let’s see what breaks first, your back or your pretty head.”

He smiled when he said it. That kind of smile that makes your stomach drop and your legs run before you even realize what you’re doing.

Your escape attempts stopped being smart after the first two weeks.

You tried the whole “pull the fire alarm” route. Didn’t work. Baby pulled it first, just to prove that it wouldn’t call anyone.

Then there was the “I’m sick” bit. Jinu played along. Got you soup. Got you a thermometer. Took your vitals. And then said, “Your temperature’s normal. But I like that you’re lying to me now instead of them.”

Cool. Love that. Humiliating and oddly comforting all in one.

You once attempted to sneak out during a fake nap. Blanket on the bed, shoes by the door, steps quiet.

Except… the second you reached for the handle, Mystery was just there. At the edge of the hallway, glowing yellow eyes behind his hair, munching on a grape like he’d expected it. He didn’t speak. Just growled low in his throat.

You went back to bed after that. Slowly. Carefully.

But escape isn’t the only thing you’ve been accidentally doing.

You’ve also been noticing things. Unfair, stupid things. Like the time you walked into the kitchen to grab water and Mystery was reaching up to the top shelf, shirt lifted, and he had insane fucking biceps. The veins. The stretch.

Or the time you were making tea and Romance wandered in, yawning, scratching his stomach, and half-singing a song under his breath and you realized his voice was better than Jinu’s. Not as trained. But raw. Sexy. Real.

The kind of voice that could sing you out of your clothes if he tried even a little bit.

(He did try. A lot. Constantly. But that’s another issue.)

You noticed that Abby stretches like a fucking gymnast and watches himself in the mirror doing it. He caught you watching once, smiled, and flexed harder. You didn’t even pretend not to look. What’s the point? He knows.

You noticed that Baby actually hums to himself when he thinks no one’s listening. Usually lullabies. Soft, strange things in a language you don’t know. Probably not human. And he’s never once acknowledged it.

The apartment’s big, but not big enough. There’s always someone in your space. Always brushing past you. Always invading. Romance flopping on your bed while you’re trying to read. Abby coming in while you shower “just to check if the temperature works.” Jinu folding laundry for everyone—including you—like it’s totally casual, even though you didn’t ask him to touch your underwear.

They treat the living room like… they don’t treat it. Empty ramen bowls from late-nights. The cat, all massive pounds of him, belly up on the dining table. Abby doing push-ups in doorways. Baby watching The Bachelor.

But despite all this, the weirdest thing is how… livable it’s become.

They don’t always get human things, but they’re trying.

They open doors for you. Bring you random things. Offer you pieces of fruit they’ve already bitten.

Maybe they don’t know how to be normal. But you’ve seen something in them that’s worse than evil.

Loneliness.

Romance jokes to hide it.

Abby flexes over it.

Mystery hides in shadows to avoid feeling it.

Baby? Baby pretends he doesn’t care.

Jinu stares at you like you’re the only human left worth knowing.

So yeah. You still sleep with your door locked.

But you’ve stopped hating them for what they are.

They’re not your friends. Not yet.

But maybe… maybe they don’t want to be your captors anymore, either.

That partly could be because captors don’t do shit like them.

For an example, once Baby had a whole ass ritual/summoning/sacrifice/fuckknowswhat in the living room. Like, the air shimmered black. The coffee table disappeared. The carpet started curling at the corners.

You blinked.

He blinked.

You: “I just wanted the remote.”

Baby: “It’s in the void now.”

Mystery walks in, nods like this is fine.

Abby walked in just to say “Yo—how do I get my protein bar back then???”

They laughed about that for three days. You’re still not sure if Baby got bored or if Jinu did something to stop the ritual. Either way, you’re pretty sure the bathroom mirror winks at you sometimes now.

Once Abby accidentally ripped your bedroom door off its hinges trying to “gently knock.”

It was 8 a.m. You were asleep. Then—BANG. The whole fucking door gone. His sheepish voice after: “My bad. Thought it was stuck.”

He did install a new door later. You caught him Googling “how to be useful when you fuck shit up.” It was… weirdly sweet.

Now that we’re talking about shit that happened, Jinu caught you crying over a baking fail once.

You tried to make banana bread. It didn’t rise. It cracked in weird places. You’d been feeling off all day and this—this stupid bread—was the final straw.

You stood there in the kitchen, eyes welling up, and Jinu just… walked over. No questions. Just grabbed a second bowl, a fresh set of bananas, and started making one beside you.

Didn’t say anything.

You sob-laughed and kept going.

His came out better. Of course. But he told everyone yours was his. Said he couldn’t eat his own cooking because it was “too good” and he’d “get arrogant.”

Liar. Beautiful, kind liar.

Also, Abby used you as a bench press weight.

You were lying on the couch. He walked over. Picked you up. Proceeded to bench press you. You just laid there. Limp. Exhausted.

Later, he asked you to spot him while he did pull-ups on the doorframe. “Just in case I fall. I won’t. But, you know. In case.”

He just wanted you close.

Also, they all dogpile when they wrestle.

Yes. Wrestle. Apparently, male demons are like teenagers.

Abby started it, of course. He always does. Tackled Romance in the hallway. Said something like, “You were staring at my girl’s ass too long.”

Romance: “You don’t even HAVE a girl.”

You, from the kitchen: “Please don’t do this.”

They did it anyway.

Mystery joined five seconds in, unprompted, launching from the stair railing like a fucking jungle cat.

Baby stood watching it for a whole minute, then shoved his boba in your hand and muttered, “Hold this.” before leaping into the mess, knocking Romance flat on his back.

You did not hold the boba.

You drank it.

Jinu is kind of above them in this perspective, because he doesn’t fight unless someone started it. Sure, he likes launching Baby into walls, but it doesn’t really happen if Baby doesn’t start harassing him in the first place.

Also, you learned Romance talks in his sleep.

And not just talks—whispers. Sweet things. Dirty things. “Touch me there, baby.” “You smell like flowers.” “Say my name again.”

Once you bought it up and, “You could’ve just joined in.” he said. “Missed opportunity.”

You have not been in the same room with him after 1 a.m. since.

The weird thing about demons is they don’t really hide when it’s just them. Not when they’re comfortable. Not when they feel safe. And unfortunately—for your sanity—they’re starting to feel very, very comfortable around you.

They’ve stopped trying so hard to pretend to be fully human, at least in the house.

It started small. A glimpse of color under the collarbone. A strange purple sheen curling down Abby’s back when he turned to grab a soda out of the fridge shirtless. Then a jagged streak down Romance’s hip bone.

The patterns, at first, just peeked out. Not enough to say anything. Not enough to ask.

Now they’re just walking around like it’s normal. Like you’re one of them.

And it’s not just the bodies.

It’s their faces.

Romance, who never gave a fuck about subtlety, started keeping his marks visible more often than not. Purple vines around his cheekbones, curling like smoke into his temple and under his jawline. It makes his flirty, slow-spoken words even worse. He knows he looks good with them on. He’s seen you glance—he lives for it.

“Does it bother you?” he asked one night. Shirt unbuttoned. Mark on his throat glowing slightly when he leaned against the doorway while you tried to do the dishes.

You didn’t answer. Because the real truth was: no, it didn’t bother you. Not even a little.

You caught Abby flexing in the hallway mirror with the markings all down his shoulders and arms. When he saw you looking, he turned a little, just so you could see his back. The marks crawled up his spine like claws. He didn’t say anything. Just winked. Held out his hand for you to trace one. You did. No questions. No words. Just touch.

Even Jinu had begun letting his slip. You noticed he wore low collars more often now.

You’d once caught Mystery sitting on the floor with the tiger curled in his lap and the marks pulsing across his throat like a heartbeat. He looked so calm—but so dark.

Baby hides them the least now. They cut across his pretty boy skin, sharp down his jaw, curling onto his hands. He rests his chin in his palm when you sit nearby, fingers twitching, tapping, eyes flicking to your legs.

They’ve stopped pretending for you. That’s what it is.

Now, take this. The apartment is quiet. It’s the middle of the night.

You like it best like this. The kitchen’s softly lit by the overhead stove lamp, and your little yogurt bowl is in your hands. A little honey, a handful of berries Jinu actually remembered to bring back (you didn’t even have to remind him twice, bless), and just a dusting of cinnamon. You stir it slowly, lazy, humming something under your breath as you lean against the counter.

It’s your moment.

It’s peace.

Which is exactly why Abby comes in, the wet slap of feet on tile. Shirtless and barefoot, towel low on his hips, still damp from the sauna or a shower, you can’t really tell. But what really catches you is him. His skin. It’s not just wet. It’s marked. The ones you’d been seeing on them lately.

Purple lines curl over his torso, glowing just faintly beneath the surface. One coiles down his collarbone. One across his ribcage. A few wrapped around his forearms. He’s technically in human form, but only technically. This isn’t fully mortal. This is… something between.

“Don’t stare, sweetheart.” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m shy.”

Your eyes trail up before you even think twice. Broad shoulders, sharp collarbone, water dripping down one bicep. Towel riding low, one V-line on proud display. The pulsing marks just highlighting all of this. He leans his elbows on the counter next to you.

“You’re not covering them tonight.” you say, nodding toward the patterns. Not accusing. Just curious.

He scoops your spoon right out of your hand and takes a bite from your bowl.

You don’t say anything about it.

You just… tilt your head, wait.

“They’ve been spreading.” he says after a moment, licking the spoon before sticking it right back in the bowl. “Last few decades. No big deal.”

You stare at the curve of one mark near his neck, curling around his collarbone. It’s not ugly. It’s almost beautiful, actually. Alive and crawling. You trace it with your eyes.

“How long?” you ask.

“Three hundred years, give or take.”

You let that sit. He does too.

And he eats another spoonful of your yogurt like it’s his god given right.

You glance at the bowl, then up at him.

“You know that was mine, right?”

He grins. Cocky. Wide. Unbothered. “You don’t mind though.”

…You really don’t.

He shifts, weight leaning in your direction now.

“They hurt?” you ask, soft, eyeing one that flickers faintly when he moves his arm.

He takes a breath through his nose. Considers.

“Nah. Not unless I fight too long. Or resist the shift.”

You can imagine that. Abby, purple lightning under his skin ready to snap. You’ve seen it, once or twice, the blur of the line between his human form and whatever lurks just beneath it.

You dip your spoon back into the yogurt. You let him keep eating it, not even bothering to reclaim it. He’d just take it again anyway.

“You don’t care I’m half-demon in your little kitchen?”

They started calling the kitchen your kitchen. Not in a sexist term, though it’s not far from them, but this time because it’s mostly you who spends the most time there. God, you’re sweet.

You blink at him. “I mean… you’re all demon. But also? It’s just yogurt, Abby.”

He laughs.

And just like that, he leans a little closer. Arm brushing yours now. Like you’re just… two people. You, and the demon boy covered in violet war paint, bare-chested and still dripping from his shower, your spoon in his mouth.

“You’re weird.” he says, eyes on you. “In a good way.”

“Mm.” you hum. “And you’re naked in the kitchen.”

“Towel counts.”

“If you say so.”

He grins again, like he’s proud of himself.

You hand him the bowl. Let him finish it. He lights up like a puppy.

And you just keep staring at those patterns. The ones that have been spreading for centuries. That he doesn’t even bother hiding tonight. That mean something deeper—something ancient and clawed and hungry—but right now, they’re just lines on a tired body, one that’s spent too long at war.

You don’t ask what they mean. You don’t have to.

Because here he is, a half-shifted demon, warm in the kitchen, stealing your yogurt and leaning against you.

You let him.

You absolutely do.

And you felt it—that moment where something should have happened. Should have escalated. Should have gone somewhere. But it didn’t. It just… hummed there. Buzzed between you, the tension.

And you knew what that meant.

“I’m going to bed.” you say simply.

He straightens just a bit, towel staying low, muscles flexing. “Wha—Now? But I just got here.” His voice is still cocky, still laced with teasing, but there is something under it. Something real and desperate that has no business being there.

You don’t even look at him when you walk away, just call back over your shoulder with a little smile, “It’s literally 2 a.m., Abby.”

“…Good night.”

Desperate. Not even whispered. Pushed out of him.

You stop. Not for long, just a beat. A hesitation. A pause that gives too much away.

You turn your head, not fully, just enough that he’d know you heard. That you’re not ignoring it. “Good night.”

You watch it hit him. Watch the stupid way his lips curl into something almost embarrassed, almost like pride. And for once, he doesn’t follow you. Doesn’t chase or push or flex one more time.

He just stands there in the kitchen, lit by the fridge light, with demon marks on his skin and your voice torturing his brain.

And as you walk back to your room and close the door behind you, you close your eyes too just long enough to admit to yourself that…

He’s… pretty.

You hadn’t let yourself really see it before. Not like this. Not when he wasn’t grinning like an idiot or flexing for attention or tackling Mystery for fun. Not when he was quiet, not when the glow of those demonic scars made him look like something painted by candlelight. Not when his voice cracked with something a little too genuine for a monster.

You crawl into bed, lights off, heart weirdly soft. Your sheets are cool against your skin, your pillow smelling faintly like the lavender water you sprayed when you first got here.

You’re supposed to hate them. Supposed to fear them.

And yet…

He’s pretty when he tries to be human.

They all are.

Amazing little memes made by someone I absolutely fucking adore but asked not to be tagged:

Love u baby💋

~ 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

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #saja boys #saja boys x reader #kpdh x reader #the saja boys #kpdh x you #abby kpdh #abby kpop demon hunters #baby kpdh #baby kpop demon hunters #romance kpop demon hunters #romance kpdh #jinu kpop demon hunters #jinu kpdh #mystery kpop demon hunters #mystery kpdh

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tottentz · 1 year ago

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SO GIVE ME HOPE ── honkai star rail, sfw ౨ৎ⠀⠀or the things they do when they miss you ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ gender neutral reader⠀/⠀ft. aventurine, dr. ratio, gepard, boothill, blade, sunday, dan heng, jing yuan, argenti. ♡ˎˊ˗

— AVENTURINE ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋ who uses your shirts as a pillowcase. when aventurine quivers into the night as the chill of an eerie draft embraces his lone figure with a fleeting caress that forcibly erects goosebumps along his nape, he takes one of your shirts and slips it over his pillow, letting the fabric cradle his head as he drifts back into sleep. your scent clinging to the material weave a tender memory where you are rolling onto his side to brush your lips across his jaw, onto the hill of his cheek, and behind the lobe of his ear; and it is enough to carry him for the rest of the day. he repeats this routine every night, especially after a nightmare. in the stillness, the shirt becomes more than just fabric; it becomes a gentle reminder that you will be there when he returns home to you. it is the few acts of comfort he allows himself. as he succumbs to sleep, the shirt's embrace lulls him into dreams where he can hold you once more.

— DR. RATIO ꩜ .ᐟ ˗ˏˋ who uses your own conditioner. dr. ratio, usually consumed by calculations and analyses, finds solace in the simple act of feeling your essence adornimg his hair. he doesn't admit it, but each time he lathers it into his hair, he imagines your hands gently massaging his scalp, your laughter echoing softly in his mind. for a fleeting moment, the mundane act of washing his hair becomes a ritual of longing, because moments like those are when he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, letting the scent transport him to a place where you're nearby. each strand of hair becomes a canvas for his memories, painted with the softness of your touch and the warmth of your smile. this fragrance, delicate and only yours, lingers on his skin, a ghostly whisper of your presence that stays with him long after he steps out of the shower. it's a small comfort, a way to hold onto when you're not there.

— GEPARD ꩜ .ᐟ ˗ˏˋ who listens to the music you like. or to whatever recommendation you send. either songs that remind you of him, songs you thought he'd like, or simply the ones you are obsessed with at the moment. he finds solace in the songs that once was a mere background, the familiar tunes evoke scenes of moments spent together, your laughter mingling with the melodies, your voice singing along with his broken harmony. in the quiet of the room, or amidst the bustle of his duties, he finds a private sanctuary within these songs, and when the silvermane guards question him, heat swells beneath the fold of his collar, and he can't help but tug at the silken cloth, ears just as ruby red as his warmed cheeks. if only for a fleeting moment, with each track, he feels a little closer to you; they are a refuge, after all, a place where his longing transforms into a tender reverie.

— BOOTHILL ꩜ .ᐟ ˗ˏˋ who sends you voicemails everyday. no matter if he has no signal, you have grown fond of getting up every morning to boothill's fifty belated voice notes, each message a blend of longing and unspoken emotions. it doesn't have to be about something important, sometimes, he tells you about his day: that lost little girl he helped find her parents? you let him know you are proud of him; a voice message while he is being chased to death? maybe you spent the whole day crying in a corner, but his tone never fail to soften as he speaks. there's a raw sincerity in his voice, an unguarded truth that slips through the cracks of his usual bravado. he knows you might not listen to them all at once, but that doesn't stop him from sending them, each one a small piece of his heart offered up in the hope it reaches you.

— BLADE ꩜ .ᐟ ˗ˏˋ who sees photos of you. or most likely, the selfies you took with his phone. he will never admit that once in a while he finds himself scrolling through his phone in the stillness of the night, pausing at one where your smile is particularly bright, the curve of your lips and the laughter he can almost hear. your eyes hold a sparkle that seems to pierce through the screen, reaching out to touch the shadows in his heart. he's no good with softness, he knows this better than anyone. all he's ever been is burning up, like a desert caught in it's worst heatwave, and he hopes you won't hold it against him. he hopes you won't clam up again because each photo is a fragment of light in the darkness that often surrounds him, a reminder of moments that felt almost ordinary yet are now imbued with a quiet, aching beauty. he closes his eyes and lets the memories of you guide him through the night.

— SUNDAY꩜ .ᐟ ˗ˏˋ who keeps personal mementos. in the quiet corners of his room, lie these treasures—small tokens that may not look like much, but mean a lot to him. he still keeps a delicate bracelet you once wore, its gentle clink a soothing echo in the stillness. a photograph of you, slightly worn from frequent handling, laughing, and he still feels the flutter you caused in his stomach. it was the heat in his cheeks, the shock in his throat when you smiled so honestly at him: the consuming sensation was all of that goodness and more, magnified and exponentially deeper and marvelously burning. it was hot, fiery as it ripped through him, completely unignorable. it was you. he also keeps a pressed flower, its vibrant colors faded but its significance still as fresh as the day you gave it to him. every now and then, he runs his fingers over these items, each touch a silent conversation.

— DAN HENG꩜ .ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho reads your favorite books. nestled in a quiet corner, he opens the pages you once turned, feeling the faint echoes of your presence with each line, imagining your voice narrating the passages, your expressions as you described your favorite scenes. he doesn't have to understand why you like it, or if he doesn't make any sense of it, he doesn't have to understand the book to understand you, because dan heng tells all of it fondly like it was a memory worth treasuring, but he is downright adoring when you are suddenly in the conversation. and even if the way he says your name isn't obvious enough, the way he softly speaks with eyes half-lidded is enough indication for march to let him know about dan heng feelings. in this quiet communion with your beloved stories, dan heng finds a tender peace, a way to keep your presence alive in his heart until you meet again.

— JING YUAN꩜ .ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho visits your favorite places. the moment he realized that he was doing it, that all of that sensation was you feeling, something began to broil in the apex of his chest, rolling and all-consuming: the gardens of xianzhou, with their delicate blossoms, become his refuge, as he stands beneath the cherry trees, their petals drifting like soft whispers of your laughter; at the tea house, he orders your favorite brew, the aroma filling the air with a bittersweet nostalgia. the feeling was familiar, one that he had organically all the time when thinking of you, being with you at this places. it was the one that he shoved down over and over again around you, yet craved more than anything. for jing yuan, these visits are a way to keep you close, a fleeting comfort that eases the ache of your absence.

— ARGENTI꩜ .ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho writes letters for you. at some point in his life, probably around the fifth time you smiled at him as if argenti had hung the stars in the sky and unlocked every secret of the universe, argenti being desperately, desperately enamored of you had become an incontestable fact, just another undeniable statement. and so, he writes of the stars that remind him of your eyes, the moonlight that mirrors your gentle touch. every stroke of the pen captures a moment, a memory, a piece of his soul. and he hopes you believe it because that's the only truth that feels less like an admission and more like a fact- because you've never left his mind since the second he saw you. his words are a tapestry of emotions, woven with threads of longing and affection, many of the letters he writes are never sent but, as he places the letters in a box, he feels a sense of peace, knowing that in his heart, you are never truly far away.

#honkai star rail x reader #aventurine x reader #dr ratio x reader #boothill x reader #jing yuan x reader #blade x reader #argenti x reader #gepard x reader #honkai star rail #sunday x reader #dan heng x reader

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electronalytics · 2 years ago

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Programmable Signal Conditioners Market

#Programmable Signal Conditioners Market #industry analysis #future development & forecast 2023-2032 #future development & forecast #global research market report #global market report

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lovemni · 5 months ago

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don't leave me , my love

[ 방찬 ] ✷ ‎. . after a series of terrible arguments, you break up with your boyfriend. life slows down. but then . . ?

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑖dol𝑏f!chris ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. heavy angst , lots of tears , misunderstandings , hurt , lovers to exes to ??? , second chance love , skz ensemble . 12OOOw. ⎯⎯⎯ LiBRARY ⟢ cw. language , injuries , car-accident . ┆ ✉️ ⋮ a req. oneshot .ᐟ ֹ ₊

yani's note 𑁍ࠬܓ hihihihihii finally another channie fic !!!!! the loml. seungchan stans rise !! i loved loved loved writing this. my angst comeback guys (flashback to my early tumblr era where all i posted was angst....) eh. i love angst. so much. woohoo okay bye <3 oh and ty for the req. anon !!! comments, likes, req./asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! send in a reply or an ask if you want to be in my mastertag, or my individual series' taglists. happy reading, love <3

the room smelled like rain.

not in the fresh, new-beginnings kind of way, but in the way that clung to damp clothes and old wounds.

it seeped through the cracks of the windowpane, curling around the tension like a silent spectator. outside, the city pulsed—headlights cutting through the mist, distant sirens wailing, the soft patter of rain against the glass an unwanted metronome to the argument unfolding within these four walls.

“you don’t fucking get it,” your boyfriend's voice cut sharp through the quiet, raw and exhausted, an edge to it that he never used on you before. not like this.

his fingers gripped the bridge of his nose, his other hand planted on his hip like he was trying to physically hold himself together. “you don’t—god, y/n, you don’t understand what it’s like to carry this.”

you stood by the doorway, arms crossed so tightly against yourself it almost felt like a shield. the air was thick with it—frustration, exhaustion, love buried under layers of hurt.

you felt it like a weight pressing against your ribs.

how it had started.

the room was dark save for the faint glow of his laptop screen. the hum of the air conditioner filled the space, masking the silence that had grown between you two over the last few days.

you had sat across from him, knees pulled to your chest on the worn-out couch in the room. the atmosphere was suffocating—a mix of tension and exhaustion—and you weren’t sure when the comfort of this small, cramped room had turned into a battlefield.

he was hunched over his desk, headphones perched around his neck, fingers frozen above his keyboard. you could see the subtle tremble in his hands, the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly despite his usual perfect posture.

chris—was tired. that much was clear. but what stung was how he wouldn’t let you in.

“you’ve been sitting there for hours,” you had said softly, your voice hesitant, almost afraid of breaking the fragile calm that hung between you.

“i’m working,” he replied curtly, not bothering to meet your gaze.

it wasn’t the first time you had this conversation, but tonight it felt different. there was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. you could feel the ache in your chest building, a familiar burn of frustration mixed with concern.

“you’ve been working for days,” you shot back, louder this time. “you barely eat, you barely sleep, and—”

“i’m fine,” he interrupted, his tone sharp and clipped, his eyes finally meeting yours. there was something in his gaze—tired, distant, and defensive—that made you hesitate for a moment.

“you’re not fine, chan.”

the words hung in the air like a challenge. he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. his laptop screen dimmed, signaling inactivity, and for a second, you thought he might actually listen. but then he turned his chair to face you, and the frustration etched across his face sent a chill down your spine.

“why do you always do this?” he snapped.

your heart sank. “do what?”

“this!” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “this… nagging. you don’t get it, do you? this is my job. this is my life. i can’t just stop because you think i’m overworking myself.”

you blinked, his words cutting deeper than you expected. “i’m not.. nagging, chan. i’m worried about you. there’s a difference.”

“well, it doesn’t feel that way.”

the bitterness in his voice was like a slap to the face. you stared at him, disbelief and hurt warring within you. “do you even hear yourself right now?”

“yeah, i do!” he shot back, his voice rising. “i hear myself every damn day, y/n. and you know what? i’m sick of it. i’m sick of feeling like i have to explain myself to you all the time.”

your hands balled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you tried to steady your breathing. the room felt smaller, the walls closing in as his words echoed in your mind.

“explain yourself?” you repeated, your voice trembling. “i’m not asking for an explanation, chan. i’m asking for you to let me in. to let me help you.”

“help me with what?” he spoke, standing abruptly. the chair screeched against the floor, and the sudden movement startled you. “you can’t help me, y/n. no one can. this is my responsibility. my burden. not yours! and i don't need you worrying to add on to that weight!”

“don’t do that,” you shot back, voice steadier than you felt.

“don’t act like i don’t understand you, like i haven’t been here every single fucking night waiting for you to come home, waiting for you to remember i exist outside of your damn laptop and deadlines.” your breath hitched, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to stay level. “i do understand, chris. but you don’t let me in.”

chris let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he turned away, running a hand through his curls in frustration. his fingers were trembling.

you knew he hadn’t eaten properly today. you knew, the small, white snackbox you had packed his favorite rice in, was left untouched. you knew he hadn’t slept much either. but that didn’t change the fact that he was hurting you.

“you want me to let you in? fine.” he turned back to you, eyes dark with exhaustion, jaw tight.

“i have no time. none. i have a fucking comeback to prepare, songs that aren’t finished, choreography that isn’t final, members who rely on me, a company breathing down my neck—” he took a step closer, and even though he wasn’t yelling, his voice was thunder. “i don’t get to sit around and wait for my life to fall into place, y/n. i have to make it happen.”

his words hit like a gut punch. you flinched before you could stop yourself.

something in his expression shifted for half a second—guilt flashing behind the anger—but he didn’t stop. couldn’t stop.

“and what, huh? you want me to pause? to step away? to just—what? go on dates, lay in bed all day with you, pretend that none of this exists?” his voice cracked, his hands clenching into fists. “i can’t, y/n. i can’t afford to be selfish like that.”

you felt something splinter inside of you.

"wow," you whispered, blinking rapidly as you looked at him. "is that what you think this is? me asking you to be... selfish?" your voice was quiet, but it held the weight of everything you’d been holding back. "i have never asked you to choose me over your career, chan. never. but i wanted—no, i needed you to meet me halfway. to at least fucking try. but you didn’t. you never do.”

chan scoffed, rubbing his temple, pacing like he was barely keeping himself together. "you don’t get it, y/n. you never will."

and that—that—was what broke you.

your hands shook. you swallowed the lump in your throat, but your voice still wavered. "you don’t get it, chan. you don’t fucking get what it’s like to love someone who makes you feel like an afterthought. to go to bed alone every single night and wonder if you even cross their mind.” you exhaled shakily.

“i never asked you to give up your dreams for me. i just wanted to be a part of them. but i guess i was asking for too much.”

he let out another bitter laugh, his face twisting. "i make you feel like an afterthought? that’s rich, coming from someone who doesn’t have to live under this pressure." his voice rose, sharp and unrelenting.

"you don’t know what it’s like to have the weight of an entire fucking group and a partner on your shoulders. to feel like if you fuck up, you’re dragging everyone down with you." he was breathing heavily, shoulders shaking. “you think i don’t want to be with you? you think i choose this over you? i fucking hate this. i hate feeling like this. but i don’t have a choice.”

there it was. the breaking point.

your lip trembled, and you hated yourself for it. "you do have a choice, chan. you always did." you shook your head, voice barely above a whisper. "you just never chose me."

silence.

a ringing, deafening silence that made the rain outside sound like gunfire.

the crack in his voice didn’t go unnoticed, but it only fueled your own anger. “oh, and weight? is that what you think i’m trying to do? burden you?”

“that’s not what i meant—”

“then what did you mean?” you interrupted, standing as well. your voice was louder now, shaking but firm. the tension between you crackled like a live wire, and neither of you seemed willing to back down.

“i don’t know!” he shouted, his hands flying to his hair in frustration. “i don’t know, okay? i’m fucking tired, y/n. i’m tired of all of this.”

the silence that followed was deafening. you stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest, his words ringing in your ears. he didn’t mean it, you told yourself. he was just frustrated, just exhausted. but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“all of this?” you repeated quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

he froze, his eyes widening slightly as he realized what he had said. “no, i didn’t mean—”

“save it, chan,” you cut him off, your voice cold and flat. “you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”

chan stared at you, eyes widening, as if only now realizing how deep the wound he had inflicted was. his lips parted slightly, and for the first time that night, his anger faltered. his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, to fix the damage, to take it all back. but he didn’t move.

you exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to look away. "i can’t do this anymore," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. your own words tasted like ash.

chan took a step closer, his voice softer now, desperate. “y/n—”

“i think we should take a break.”

the words left your mouth before you could stop them, and once they were out in the open, there was no taking them back.

chan inhaled sharply, like you had just physically struck him. his face crumpled for the briefest moment before he forced it into something unreadable. he nodded once, barely.

“fine,” he said. but it was not fine. none of this was fine.

you walked past him, your shoulder brushing his for the last time in weeks. and maybe, in some cruel way, you were both waiting—waiting for one of you to stop this, to say something, anything that could undo the damage.

but neither of you did.

and that was how it ended.

or, maybe, how it all began.

you turned away, grabbing your jacket from the couch and heading for the door. your vision blurred with unshed tears, but you refused to let them fall. not here. not now.

“thank you,” you stopped in the doorway, your back to him. your voice cracked as you spoke, the weight of the moment threatening to crush you. “really, for everything. i wish you nothing but happiness, christopher.”

the door closed behind you with a soft click, and the tears you had been holding back finally spilled over. the night air was cold against your skin as you stepped outside, but it did little to numb the ache in your chest.

you didn’t know how long you stood there, staring at the empty street, your mind replaying the argument over and over again. his words, your words, the pain and anger that had filled the room—it was all too much.

and yet, despite everything, you couldn’t stop loving him.

present time : the first snow.

the morning stretched itself thin across the sky, a pale, muted kind of light filtering in through the curtains. it was the kind of cold that bit through the windows, creeping into the cracks of the apartment like it had been waiting for permission to enter. the air felt heavier today, as if winter had fully settled into its place, pressing its weight into the walls, into the silence, into the empty spaces beside you.

you sat by the window, knees drawn up against your chest, your breath fogging up the glass. outside, snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, dancing in the quiet before settling onto the pavement below. the city looked softer like this—less like the endless rush of bodies and neon lights and more like something frozen in time. for a moment, just a moment, it almost felt peaceful.

almost.

but then the memories came creeping in. the way the first snow always meant something to the both of you. how he would drag you outside, laughing, even when you whined about the cold.

"come on, it’s tradition, babe, you can’t just sit inside like an old grandma."

how he’d cup his hands together, carefully forming a snowball, only to grin mischievously before pelting it straight at your shoulder. the way you’d chase after him, slipping and stumbling, both of you breathless from laughter, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

and then—later. after the cold had seeped into your bones, after your fingers were numb from the snow, how you’d both tumble inside, shaking off your coats, limbs tangled together as you curled up by the fireplace.

the heat of the flames casting golden light across his face, the warmth of his arms wrapped securely around you. how he’d press lazy kisses to your temple, whispering in that quiet, tired voice of his,

you’re warm. stay like this forever.

you blinked. the snow outside blurred for a second before settling again into focus.

it had been weeks.

weeks since that night. weeks since you last heard his voice, felt the rough callouses of his fingertips against yours. the apartment had never been this quiet before. not really. not in a way that stretched into your bones like this.

you exhaled sharply, rubbing at your eyes before pushing yourself up from the chair.

no. stop it. get up.

the cold floor met your feet as you padded toward the bathroom. the water ran hot, steam curling against the mirror as you stepped into the shower, letting it scorch against your skin, washing away whatever remnants of sleep and memories still clung to you.

you let yourself stay there longer than usual, hands braced against the tile, watching the water swirl down the drain.

by the time you stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged over, your reflection nothing more than a blur.

you ignored it.

instead, you pulled on a sweater—thick, oversized, soft. paired it with jeans, boots, wrapped a scarf around your neck. routine. just keep moving.

the apartment felt emptier than usual as you moved through it, wiping down counters, straightening pillows, clearing dishes that didn’t even need clearing. you weren’t sure why you were cleaning so meticulously. maybe it was just something to do with your hands, something to keep yourself from thinking too much.

but even then, the silence pressed in. the absence of his voice. the way he used to hum under his breath while scrolling through his phone. the way he’d reach for you absentmindedly, fingers finding yours without even thinking.

you swallowed.

the clock on the wall read 10:42 am.

late. you needed to leave soon.

you grabbed your coat, slipping it over your shoulders, fingers fumbling with the buttons. your scarf was next, wrapped snugly around your neck, followed by your gloves. you caught your reflection in the mirror near the door and paused.

the sweater you had chosen—it was his.

you thought you had returned all of his belongings that stayed in your apartment.

his sweaters, hoodies, tees, sweats.

maybe this was the unlucky— or lucky one.

a quiet, humorless laugh escaped your lips.

of course it was.

you debated changing it. maybe you should. but then again… maybe it didn’t matter.

the streets were covered in a thin layer of snow as you stepped outside, the air crisp against your skin. your breath curled in white clouds, disappearing into the winter sky. people moved past you—some alone, some hand in hand, their laughter rising into the air. you pulled your coat tighter around yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets.

the restaurant— your restaurant, the empty place by the busy crossroads you'd bought a few years ago, was a few blocks away. a small, warm place you had always loved—your own little escape from the rest of the world. the bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, warmth wrapping around you instantly.

you forced a small smile at the familiar faces, nodding in greeting.

routine.

just keep moving.

the warm, familiar scent of fresh bread and spices enveloped you as you stepped behind the counter, shrugging off your coat. the restaurant was alive in the way it always was at this time of the day—soft clatters of cutlery against ceramic plates, the low hum of conversation from occupied tables, the occasional burst of laughter from a corner booth.

it smelled like home, like routine, like something steady when everything else felt uncertain.

“morning, boss.”

you glanced up to see mira, one of the servers, leaning against the counter with a knowing smirk. she had been working here almost as long as you could remember, joined a few months after you started the restaurant chain, and she knew you well enough to read your moods before you even said a word.

“you’re late,” she teased, but there was no bite to her words.

“i’m not late,” you said, rolling your eyes as you tied your apron around your waist. “i just… took my time getting here.”

mira gave you a look—one that was far too perceptive for your liking—but didn’t press. instead, she just handed you a notepad. “table five wants a refill on their coffee, and table two asked about the special of the day.”

you took the notepad with a nod. “got it.”

and just like that, the day began.

the hours passed in a blur of movement and familiarity. you lost yourself in the rhythm of it—taking orders, pouring coffee, clearing tables, exchanging pleasantries with customers who had been coming here for years. the work was muscle memory at this point, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind drifted elsewhere.

somewhere in the middle of the lunch rush, as you wiped down the counter, jaehyun—one of the chefs, poked his head out from the back. “hey, y/n, you eating today or just running on caffeine and regrets?”

you snorted, shaking your head. “i’ll eat later.”

“you always say that.”

“i mean it this time.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you said that last time too.”

“i—okay, fine.” you held up your hands in surrender. “i’ll grab something when the rush dies down.”

he grumbled something under his breath before disappearing back into the kitchen, and mira smirked from where she was refilling a salt shaker.

“he’s got a point,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “when’s the last time you actually sat down and ate a meal?”

you waved her off, busying yourself with stacking plates. “i eat. at home.”

“uh-huh. sure.”

you didn’t have an answer to that, so you didn’t bother giving one.

the day continued. the restaurant buzzed with life—friends catching up over coffee, families sharing warm meals, couples leaning into each other, their conversations dipping into soft murmurs.

you liked this. you liked watching people exist in these little moments, as if nothing else outside of these walls mattered.

an older woman at table seven caught your eye as you passed by. she smiled kindly. “it’s nice seeing you again, dear.”

you blinked. “oh—thank you. it’s nice seeing you too.”

“you’ve looked a bit tired lately,” she observed, stirring her tea slowly. “make sure you’re taking care of yourself, alright?”

there was something about the way she said it—something warm, something familiar—that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

you swallowed. “i will.”

you weren’t sure if that was a lie.

the evening arrived before you realized it, the once-busy restaurant now quiet as the last of the customers trickled out into the cold night. the staff began to clock out one by one, exchanging tired goodbyes as they pulled on their coats.

“you sure you don’t need help closing up?” mira asked, pausing at the door.

you shook your head, forcing a small smile. “i got it.”

she studied you for a moment before sighing. “alright. don’t stay too late.”

“i won’t.”

she gave you one last skeptical look before disappearing into the night, leaving you alone with the faint hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of the wind outside.

you exhaled, running a hand through your hair.

the silence was heavier now.

slowly, methodically, you began the closing routine. you wiped down tables, stacked chairs, swept the floors, turned off the neon ‘open’ sign that flickered against the window. the motions were comforting in a way. predictable.

but when you finally locked the door and turned to face the empty restaurant, something about it felt unbearably lonely.

this place had always been warm, filled with laughter and conversation and life. but right now, standing here alone with nothing but the sound of your own breathing, it felt hollow.

you swallowed, staring at the spot where he used to sit when he came by to wait for you after his own schedule.

the memories came too easily. the way he’d lean back in the chair, arms crossed, a lazy grin on his lips as he watched you work.

you’re cute when you’re focused, he’d say. like, ridiculously cute.

you had always rolled your eyes at that, but—god, what you would give to hear it again.

shaking your head, you grabbed your coat and turned off the last of the lights.

the night was waiting.

and so was the silence.

. . .

the car was absurdly cold when you got in, the leather seats stiff from the winter air. you sighed, rubbing your hands together before gripping the steering wheel, the silence of the empty parking lot pressing against you.

the restaurant behind you was dark now, locked up for the night, its warmth left behind in the echo of distant laughter and clinking glasses.

you stared ahead for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle onto your shoulders. the exhaustion clung to you, heavy and unmoving, but there was something else beneath it—something quieter. something you didn’t want to name.

with a slow inhale, you turned the key in the ignition. the engine rumbled to life, the soft hum filling the car as headlights illuminated the frost-kissed windshield. you sat there for a beat longer, watching your breath fog up the glass.

then, finally, you pulled out onto the road.

the city stretched out before you, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. the roads weren’t as busy at this hour, but there was still movement—taxis weaving through lanes, pedestrians bundled up in coats, the occasional cyclist braving the cold.

the world kept moving, even when you felt stuck.

your fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel as the radio played low through the speakers. some old song, one you barely recognized. the melody was soft, almost lulling, the kind of tune that made your thoughts wander.

and they did.

“you’re always working.”

his voice was still so clear in your mind. that night, the argument—it played back in fragments, like scenes from a movie you couldn’t turn off.

“and what about you, chan? you act like you’re the only one trying here.”

your grip tightened. the memory of his voice, the sharpness of his words, the way frustration had tangled between you like something inevitable.

“maybe we need a break.”

you blinked hard. the traffic light ahead turned red, and you eased the car to a stop, exhaling as you leaned back against the seat.

the world outside the window blurred slightly, the glow of headlights streaking across the wet pavement. snow had started falling again, light and unhurried, swirling beneath the streetlights.

you used to love this time of year—the first snowfall, the way the city seemed to quiet under its weight.

and him.

you remembered the way he used to pull you into the cold, ignoring your protests as he dragged you into the snow-covered streets, laughter spilling from his lips like warmth against the winter air.

“you’re so dramatic,” you had grumbled, shivering in your coat.

“and you’re no fun,” he had teased, tugging you closer. “come on, just one snowball fight.”

“you say that every year.”

“and every year, darling, you lose.”

the memory made something inside you ache. the way he would wrap you in his arms afterward, pressing his cold nose against your cheek just to make you squirm.

the way you’d sit by the fireplace afterward, tangled together under thick blankets, sharing hot cocoa that he always made too sweet.

it had been easy, then.

before the late nights, before the exhaustion, before the words that had chipped away at what you had built together.

before you started feeling like you were losing him.

the light turned green.

you blinked, shaking your head as if to clear it, and pressed your foot against the gas pedal.

and then—

the world tilted.

a sickening crunch of metal. the sharp, jarring impact of force slamming into you. the violent, uncontrollable spinning.

for a split second, all you saw were headlights—blinding, swallowing everything in white—before everything blurred into chaos.

the sound was deafening. screeching tires, the shriek of twisting steel, car horns blaring, the distant shouts of people. the seatbelt dug into your chest, locking you in place as the car was thrown sideways. your vision swam, dizziness clawing at you, and then—

silence.

everything felt… far away.

the ringing in your ears was the only sound you could process, drowning out the panic outside. your vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening, swallowing up the streetlights, the movement, the shapes of people rushing toward you.

your fingers twitched, barely. your head lolled slightly to the side, and through the cracked windshield, you saw red and blue lights flashing in the distance.

voices.

faint. muffled.

“is she breathing?”

“call an ambulance—”

“stay with me, okay?”

you wanted to respond, to say something—anything—but the words didn’t come.

your eyelids felt heavier now. the weight of exhaustion, of impact, of something you didn’t want to name, pressed down on you, pulling you under.

somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

then—

darkness.

. . .

the world around you existed in fragments.

there was no time, no clear beginning or end—just moments bleeding into each other, slipping between consciousness and the heavy pull of unconsciousness. you weren’t awake, but you weren’t entirely gone either. you were somewhere, floating in the space between pain and oblivion.

the first thing you registered was the weightlessness, the peculiar sensation of being lifted, carried. the cold, biting wind was gone, replaced with the sterile scent of something clinical—alcohol, antiseptic, the faint metallic tang of blood.

voices. sharp, rushed. urgent.

"bp’s dropping—move!"

"we need to stabilize—"

"get her on the stretcher—"

there were hands on you, pressing against your limbs, holding you still. you wanted to move, to speak, to tell them that you were here, but your body refused to listen. it felt like trying to swim against a current that only dragged you further down.

the pressure of something tightening around your arm. the firm press of fingers against your wrist—checking, counting, assessing. the beeping of machines, rapid and rhythmic, like an anxious heartbeat.

"possible concussion—mild contusions—check for internal bleeding."

the sounds flickered in and out. you slipped again, deeper into the darkness, but not completely.

then—light.

harsh, fluorescent, searing through closed eyelids.

the movement stopped. the sensation of being lifted again, transferred. the scrape of wheels against tile. doors swinging open. more voices.

"pupils reactive—no immediate signs of severe trauma—"

"get an iv started."

the world tilted. the mattress beneath you was firmer than the seat of your car, colder than the pavement. a hand smoothed over your forehead, pushing back strands of hair matted with sweat. the touch was gentle, grounding.

"you're in the hospital," a voice said, distant but soothing. "we’re going to take care of you. just rest."

rest.

the word settled over you like a command, a lullaby. the beeping of the machines steadied. you let yourself be pulled under again.

when you resurfaced, it was slow.

a dull ache pulsed at the edges of your awareness, the type that came in waves—bearable, but constant. your body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and something else.

the first thing you saw was the ceiling. white. sterile. unmoving.

then, your own hands—resting limply against stiff sheets, an iv taped to your wrist, an oxygen clip attached to your finger.

a hospital room.

the realization settled into your bones before you fully processed it. the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, the faint hum of ventilation, the low murmur of voices outside the door—it was all unfamiliar.

your throat was dry. you swallowed, wincing at the soreness that stretched across your ribs, the dull sting blooming in your arm. not unbearable. but not comfortable either.

there was movement beside you.

a nurse.

she had kind eyes, the kind that made you feel like you weren’t alone in this too-bright, too-quiet place. she glanced at you, a small, reassuring smile appearing as she noticed you were awake.

"welcome back," she said softly, reaching to adjust something on the iv line.

you tried to speak—tried to ask what had happened, how long you had been here—but the moment your lips parted, she shook her head.

"don't strain yourself," she murmured, voice gentle but firm. "the doctor will come by soon, but for now, just rest. talking will only make it worse."

you frowned, but the protest never made it past your lips. even if it had, you doubted it would’ve been much more than a weak rasp.

she adjusted your pillow, moving carefully, as if she knew exactly where you hurt. the iv line shifted slightly, the cool liquid continuing to drip down into your veins, dulling the sharper edges of pain.

"your car got in an accident," the nurse continued, her tone soft, as though the words themselves were delicate. "you’re lucky—it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. some injuries, but nothing that won’t heal."

lucky.

the word felt foreign, distant. you had stopped at the light. you had waited. and yet—

your fingers twitched slightly against the blanket. you tried to piece together what had happened, the moment the world had gone from mundane to chaos, but the memories were scattered. all you could recall were headlights and the sickening weight of impact.

the nurse must have noticed the way your breathing shifted, because she placed a light hand on your arm, grounding.

"you need to rest," she said again, softer this time. "sleep will help."

you wanted to argue. you wanted to ask why this had happened, how long you had been here, if anyone had come to see you. if he—

but your body was already betraying you, exhaustion dragging at your limbs.

the pain wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough. enough to remind you that you weren’t okay. that you wouldn’t be for a while.

so you let your eyes slip shut.

not because you weren’t afraid of the darkness this time.

but because, for the moment, there was nothing else you could do.

the hospital was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.

not the usual city stillness—the kind that came late at night when the streets were empty and only the hum of distant cars remained—but a silence laced with something heavier. something sterile. something fragile.

outside, the world moved on. people walked down busy sidewalks, cars skidded through melting patches of snow, neon signs flickered against the early evening dimness. life carried on, indifferent.

but here, in this fluorescent-lit corridor, the world had paused.

the nurse glanced at the clipboard in her hands, the patient’s name standing stark against the white paper. her brow furrowed slightly before she exhaled, reaching for the phone on the counter.

"are you sure this is the right contact?" the doctor beside her asked, checking the same file.

"it’s listed as her emergency number."

the nurse hesitated for only a moment before pressing the call button.

one ring.

two.

a click.

the voice that answered was slightly out of breath, like they had been running.

"hello?"

"hello, is this..."

. . .

silence. the kind that didn’t come from confusion, but realization.

the kind that carried weight.

and then the line went dead.

the waiting room door pushed open half an hour later.

the person entered in a rush, but not carelessly—like he had run, but forced himself to slow down the second he stepped inside. the nurses at the desk barely had a chance to greet him before he was already speaking, voice tight with urgency.

"i’m here for y/n l/n. i got a call."

one of the nurses, the same one who had called, recognized him immediately. she straightened.

"she's stable. sleeping. but—"

"what happened?" he didn’t mean to interrupt, but the words were out before he could stop them.

the doctor nearby spoke this time, his voice calm.

"a car accident. her injuries are moderate—some bruised ribs, minor fractures. a concussion, but nothing too severe. she was lucky. she'll need rest, but she'll recover."

the weight of those words landed squarely on his chest. he exhaled shakily.

"can i see her?"

the doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse before nodding.

"she's still unconscious.. had woken up for a bit, after we had gotten her here, but then she dozed out again. you can sit with her. just keep your voice down."

a nod. then, without another word, he followed them down the hall.

room 801 was dimly lit, the blinds drawn halfway.

the beeping of the heart monitor was steady, a quiet reassurance that life still lingered in this room, soft and persistent.

and there you were.

lying against the pristine white sheets, head turned slightly to the side, expression peaceful in a way that didn’t match the reality of what had happened.

your arm was bandaged, an iv drip feeding slow, steady doses of pain relief into your veins. a bruise, darkening at the edges, sat on your temple. your breathing was even, but too still. too quiet.

he took a step forward. then another.

until he was at your bedside, standing so close he could see the faint rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers twitched slightly even in sleep.

he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

and then—finally—he let himself feel it.

the panic. the helplessness. the gut-wrenching thought of what if?

what if the call had been worse? what if it hadn’t come at all? what if this had been it?

his fingers curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm. he inhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep it together.

but his eyes were burning.

and before he could stop himself, he was sinking into the chair beside the bed, his hand hovering near yours but not touching. not yet.

"i’m sorry," he whispered, the words breaking in his throat.

you didn’t hear him.

but he said it anyway.

. . .

the room was quiet—too quiet.

a suffocating kind of stillness. the kind that settled in hospitals, lingering in the air like a held breath. it pressed against the walls, snaked into the cracks of the cold linoleum floor, wrapped itself around the sterile scent of antiseptic and faint traces of metal. even the steady beeping of the monitor felt muted, almost like a whisper in the vast emptiness of it all.

and then there was him.

sitting hunched over in the chair, elbows braced against his knees, fingers threaded into his curls as he stared at the floor like it held all the answers he didn’t have.

his breath came shallow, unsteady. his chest felt tight, too tight, like the air wasn’t reaching his lungs no matter how hard he tried. his heartbeat pounded against his ribs, out of sync with the quiet rhythm of the machines.

the sight of you in that hospital bed was something he could barely process.

your face, pale against the stark white pillow. your arm, wrapped in clean bandages. the soft rise and fall of your chest, far too slow for his liking.

it didn’t feel real.

none of this felt real.

he swallowed thickly, but it did nothing to rid the lump in his throat.

he had been fine—or at least, he had convinced himself he was—right up until he saw you lying there, unmoving, their body smaller beneath the weight of the hospital sheets. that was when the panic finally crashed over him, dragging him under like a tide.

the kind of panic that left him hollow. that twisted something deep inside his chest, wringing him dry until all that was left was guilt and fear and—

he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to get a grip.

but the harder he tried, the worse it got.

his shoulders trembled. his fingers dug into his hair. his breath came out in a sharp, shaky exhale. and then—before he could stop it—his first sob broke free.

it tore through him, raw and aching, a sound ripped straight from the deepest part of his soul. his whole body caved under the weight of it, his forehead pressing against the heel of his palm as another sob wracked through his chest.

"shit," he choked out, barely above a whisper.

his hand clenched into a fist, nails pressing into his palm.

he wasn’t supposed to be like this.

he was supposed to be the calm one. the strong one. the one who kept things together even when everything else was falling apart.

but right now?

right now, he felt helpless.

his eyes burned as he lifted his head, gaze falling on you again. he wanted to reach out—wanted to take your hand in his, press his forehead against your knuckles, tell you he was here. that he wasn’t going anywhere. that everything was going to be okay.

but he couldn’t. because.. again,

because what if it wasn’t?

what if this was his fault?

the thought hit him again like a punch to the gut.

what if he had done something differently? what if he had been there? what if you hadn’t been alone?

what if—

"i’m so, so sorry, y/n," he whispered, voice breaking.

it wasn’t enough.

it would never be enough.

but it was all he had.

seconds passed. maybe minutes. he wasn’t sure. time had blurred into nothing but the quiet hum of the machines and the faint, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

he hadn’t moved from his spot.

couldn’t.

his body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and emotions he wasn’t ready to name. his hands were trembling, his fingers flexing and curling against his knees as if trying to ground himself. but nothing worked.

the guilt still clung to him like a second skin.

and the worst part?

you didn’t even know he was here.

didn’t know that he had dropped everything the second he got the call. that he had nearly broken the speed limit trying to get here. that he had spent the last hour sitting by your side, trying and failing to pull himself together.

didn’t know how much he missed you.

how much he needed you.

he exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face.

then, hesitantly—almost as if afraid they would disappear if he touched you—he reached out.

his fingers hovered over yours for a second, hesitant, before finally pressing lightly against the back of your hand.

a warmth that was barely there. a quiet reassurance that you were still here. still breathing.

his throat tightened.

"please wake up," he murmured, barely audible.

it wasn’t a demand.

it wasn’t even a request.

it was a plea.

a desperate, aching plea that carried every ounce of guilt and regret and love that he hadn’t been able to say before.

but you didn’t move.

didn’t stir.

didn’t even twitch.

and that—more than anything—was what truly broke him.

the past few weeks : what remains in the silence

the studio lights hummed overhead, casting a dim, sterile glow over the cluttered desk, the scattered sheets of lyrics crumpled in frustration, the empty coffee cups pushed aside and forgotten. the air was thick, weighed down by the scent of exhaustion—of ink and paper, of stale caffeine and sleepless nights.

seated at the console, shoulders hunched, was him, fingers threading through his curls as he stared at the blinking waveform on the screen. the metronome ticked steadily in his ears, a cruel reminder of time passing, of the hours slipping through his fingers like sand.

it was late. too late. but that didn’t matter.

the others had gone home. the studio halls were quiet now, the usual buzz of voices and laughter absent, leaving only the low hum of the equipment and the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the table.

but he couldn’t leave.

not yet.

not when his chest still ached like this.

not when his mind kept playing the same loop of memories, over and over, like a cruel, broken record.

"you don’t get it, do you?"

the words echoed in his head, sharp and raw. your voice—frustrated, hurt—lingered like a ghost, filling every inch of the suffocating silence.

he had said things, too. things he didn’t mean. things he hadn’t even realized were leaving his mouth until it was too late.

and then it had ended.

just like that.

no closure. no finality. just silence.

and god, the silence was worse than anything else.

it was deafening.

it followed him everywhere.

to rehearsals, where his body moved on autopilot, executing every step with precision but feeling none of it. to meetings, where words blurred together and became meaningless noise. to the dorm, where the others cast worried glances his way but didn’t push, because they knew.

they knew he was a storm waiting to happen.

and here, in the studio, where it was just him and the music—his only escape—he found that even that had turned against him.

because every melody he wrote sounded like you.

every lyric that spilled from his pen became a memory. a moment. a fragment of something he had lost.

and he couldn’t do it.

he couldn’t use your voice as his muse.

so he erased them. again and again.

trashed the songs. deleted the files. ripped the pages from his notebook and threw them aside, watching as the words—his words, their words—were reduced to nothing more than discarded, crumpled paper on the floor.

but it didn’t stop.

it didn’t stop the ache.

didn’t stop the way his fingers shook when he reached for another blank sheet, knowing it would end up the same way.

didn’t stop the frustration that built in his chest, hot and suffocating, curling around his ribs like a vice.

"hyung."

the voice was soft, hesitant.

chan barely glanced up, recognizing the figure lingering in the doorway.

minho.

the younger guy leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark with concern.

chan knew that look. knew the way minho studied him, like he was trying to pick apart the pieces of him that had begun to unravel.

"you should go home," minho said after a beat.

chan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. not this again.

"i’m fine."

minho’s eyes narrowed. "no, you’re not."

chan pressed his lips together, turning his gaze back to the screen, hoping minho would take the hint and leave it alone.

but minho never left things alone.

"you look like hell."

"thanks."

"that wasn’t a compliment."

chan sighed, rubbing at his temples. the headache that had been lingering for hours was starting to settle in, a dull, throbbing pulse at the base of his skull.

"i just need to finish this song."

minho’s expression didn’t change. "and then what?"

chan didn’t answer.

because he didn’t know.

didn’t know what came next.

didn’t know how to fix the mess he had made.

didn’t know how to stop feeling like he was drowning in his own emotions.

minho stepped further into the room, his gaze softening. "hyung."

chan swallowed. looked away.

"just let me work." his voice was quieter this time. almost pleading.

minho studied him for a long moment before exhaling through his nose.

"fine. but if you pass out from exhaustion, i’m dragging your ass out of here myself."

with that, minho turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

chan sat there, staring at the empty doorway, his hands clenched into fists.

he should go home.

should rest.

should sleep.

but he wouldn’t.

because the moment he closed his eyes, you would be there.

in his memories. in his mind.

and he didn’t know if he could handle that.

present : five days in winter

the hospital was cold.

not the kind of cold that seeped into bones, but the kind that settled somewhere deeper, heavier. a silence that stretched too long, too empty, filled only with the steady beeping of machines and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall. the scent of antiseptic lingered, clinical and distant, sterilizing not just the air but the very essence of the place.

chan had learned to hate that smell.

it clung to him now, in his black hoodie, in his hair, in the tired lines beneath his eyes.

five days.

it had been five days since he first walked into this room, five days since he first saw you lying there, still and unmoving, lost somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness.

and he hadn’t left.

not really.

sure, he went back to the dorm at night, sometimes. sometimes he sat in the studio, headphones on, staring at unfinished tracks that never seemed to progress beyond the first verse. but his mind was always here. with you.

and when he was here, he stayed for hours.

ignoring texts. ignoring calls. ignoring schedules that piled up like a stack of unopened letters.

he didn’t care.

he couldn’t.

because every time he walked into this room, every time he sat beside the bed and saw your still face, it felt like something inside him cracked just a little bit more.

the doctors had reassured him. told him there was nothing to panic over. that you were breathing fine. that your body was simply taking the rest it needed to heal. that waking up was a matter of time.

but what if time took too long?

chan exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. his fingers threaded through his curls, gripping the strands, frustration curling into his shoulders.

"you’re missing out on so much, you know?" his voice was quiet, barely more than a murmur. "the first real snowfall happened yesterday. the big kind. the kind you like."

he swallowed, glancing at your face. no movement. no response.

"some kids were playing in it. there was this little boy outside the café across the street. his mom was trying to get him to go inside, but he just kept throwing snowballs at his sister. reminded me of you."

a bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"you always loved winter, even though you complained about the cold."

silence.

the only response was the quiet beeping of the monitor.

chan sighed, leaning back against the chair, letting his eyes drift up to the ceiling.

it wasn’t fair.

it wasn’t fair how time kept moving forward like nothing had happened, how the world outside still spun, still breathed, still continued—while in here, in this small, sterile room, everything felt suspended.

stuck.

frozen.

a soft knock came at the door. chan barely reacted as it opened, the familiar figures slipping inside.

hyunjin and felix.

both looked exhausted in their own way. felix had a bag of snacks in his hands, a feeble attempt at normalcy, and hyunjin’s face was tense, like he had spent too much time trying to convince himself he wasn’t worried.

"hyung," felix spoke first, his voice cautious. "you should go home for a bit."

chan barely glanced at him. "i’m fine."

"you always say that." hyunjin crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "and it’s never true."

felix sighed, walking over and placing the snack bag on the table.

"have you eaten?"

chan shrugged. he didn’t remember.

felix gave him a look before sighing again, softer this time. "she’s going to be okay, you know."

chan exhaled sharply.

"you don’t know that."

hyunjin scoffed. "don’t do.. that. don’t start with the worst-case scenarios. the doctors literally said she just needs time."

"yeah, and how long is that gonna take?" chan’s voice wavered, and he hated how it did. hated how the helplessness crept into his tone despite how hard he tried to shove it down.

hyunjin frowned, his expression softening just slightly.

"she’ll wake up," he said, quieter this time. "she’s strong."

chan swallowed hard. he knew that. knew it better than anyone.

but it didn’t make this any easier.

didn’t make the waiting any less agonizing.

felix sat down on the other side of the bed, glancing at your unconscious form. "she looks peaceful."

chan didn’t answer. he didn’t know if he could agree.

because to him, peace and stillness weren’t the same.

and this—this unbearable stillness—felt more like limbo.

like something unfinished.

like something waiting to break.

and god, he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.

the morning air outside the hospital was crisp, the early sun painting soft streaks of gold across the pale blue sky. inside, the hospital remained the same—a quiet combination of beeping monitors, hushed voices, and the sterile scent of disinfectant that had long since embedded itself into chan’s lungs.

he arrived early. earlier than usual.

not that it mattered—his sense of time had warped over the last six days, stretched thin between restless nights and hours spent sitting beside a bed that felt both too still and too fragile.

he pushed the door open slowly, careful not to let the hinges creak too loud, as if any noise might disturb you. but you hadn’t woken up yesterday. or the day before that. or the day before that.

still, chan had hope.

"morning, sleepyhead." his voice was soft, a little hoarse from exhaustion, but there was warmth in it nonetheless.

he shut the door behind him, moving to his usual chair beside the bed. his body moved on autopilot—placing his bag down, pulling out a bottle of water he wouldn’t drink, adjusting the blanket that didn’t need adjusting.

just something to keep his hands busy.

something to stop the weight in his chest from pressing too deep.

"you missed another sunrise," he murmured, fingers ghosting over the back of your hand. "it was a pretty one, too. all pink and orange—one of those skies you’d probably take a million pictures of and never post."

a weak smile tugged at his lips as he exhaled. "i can already hear you scolding me for not taking one for you."

silence.

the beeping of the machines remained steady. the slow, gentle rise and fall of your chest didn’t falter.

chan swallowed.

he shifted, resting his forearms on the edge of the bed. his fingers absentmindedly traced over your knuckles—slow, barely-there movements, as if they might break under the weight of his touch.

"remember that one time we tried making that french hot chocolate you saw a tiktok of, and ended up burning it?" he huffed a soft chuckle. "you were so mad. said i ruined the perfect winter aesthetic. but then you tasted it anyway, and we both agreed it wasn’t that bad. we even made it again, just to prove we could do it properly."

he exhaled through his nose.

"i think about stuff like that a lot."

he swallowed again, throat thick, voice quieter. "i think about you.. a lot."

his fingers curled around yours, gentle, firm. "you’re not allowed to keep me waiting too long, you know. my patience only goes so far."

the day passed like that.

slowly.

like wading through water.

chan sat beside you, talking sometimes, falling into silence at others. occasionally, he’d lean back and let his eyes slip shut, only to jolt them open again minutes later, unwilling to let himself fully drift.

the others didn’t visit today.

he was grateful for that.

he didn’t want to share this space.

not today.

not when he felt so—raw.

evening settled before he realized it. the room darkened except for the faint glow of the bedside lamp. outside, the city continued—cars honking, streetlights flickering on, the world moving forward as if nothing had changed.

chan hadn’t moved much.

still in the same chair.

still holding your hand.

his thumb rubbed slow circles against your skin.

the exhaustion was catching up to him again.

he fought it.

tried to ignore the heaviness in his limbs.

tried to push past the way his blinks grew slower, the way his head tilted slightly forward.

but eventually, he gave in.

just for a second.

just long enough for his body to sag, for his grip on your hand to loosen slightly, for the warmth of your skin against his to lull him into something shallow, something that wasn’t quite sleep but wasn’t entirely wakefulness either.

minutes passed.

then—

a twitch.

a faint pressure.

the smallest tug against his hand.

his eyes snapped open instantly, breath catching in his throat.

he jolted upright, gaze flickering down to your fingers—his heart hammering against his ribs.

had he imagined it?

had his mind finally started playing tricks on him?

no.

because there it was again.

a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of your fingers against his.

his breath shuddered.

"hey—" he whispered, eyes wide, gripping your hand a little tighter. "hey, love, can you—?"

the door creaked open before he could finish.

the nurse stepped inside, clipboard in hand, but the second she saw the look on his face—saw the way his hands trembled slightly as he held yours—her expression shifted.

"what’s wrong?"

chan exhaled, barely able to find the words. "she—she moved."

the nurse’s eyes widened before she swiftly turned back toward the hall.

"doctor!"

chan barely registered the next few moments.

footsteps.

voices.

the doctor entering, the nurse moving to check the monitors, the air shifting into something more urgent—but not panicked. not alarming. just… observant.

"vitals are stable," one of them murmured.

"it’s a good sign," another reassured.

chan sat there, unmoving, barely breathing as he watched them work—checking, adjusting, monitoring.

. . .

darkness.

it is soft, quiet, weightless. a vast ocean with no shore in sight, where time does not exist, where thought drifts like mist, thin and shapeless. you are floating, untethered, caught in the liminal space between nowhere and somewhere. there is no urgency, no need to wake, no pressing demand. just the silence. just the stillness.

then—something shifts.

a sound.

faint. a murmur against the quiet.

it trickles in like light through the cracks of a door, hesitant yet persistent. a voice. low, gentle, carrying the weight of something you cannot yet name.

you want to reach for it.

but your body is heavy, limbs sinking, lungs thick with something dense and unmovable. the darkness doesn’t want to let you go. it tugs at you, pleading, desperate to keep you here, to keep you safe, to keep you—

another voice.

closer this time.

then—a touch.

warm, real.

a thumb brushing over your knuckles, a soft squeeze, something grounding in the haze.

the weight in your chest shifts. not gone, but different. a tether, a pull toward the surface. the nothingness that held you so gently begins to peel away, unraveling thread by thread, revealing something beyond the void.

your fingers twitch.

there is a sharp inhale—someone else’s, not yours.

the silence ripples.

then— light.

blinding, even through the barrier of your closed eyelids. it seeps in like an intrusion, pushing back against the murk of unconsciousness.

your head throbs. your throat is dry. your skin feels strange, as if it doesn’t belong to you.

then, after what feels like forever—

you open your eyes.

at first, there is nothing but a blur. a smear of color, shifting shapes, movement too fast for your sluggish mind to process. you blink, once, twice, and the world slowly begins to sharpen.

white walls. fluorescent lighting. the steady beeping of machines.

a hospital.

the realization comes sluggishly, like trying to recall the details of a dream upon waking. you start to remember how you got here. you remember why.

but then—

"y/n?"

a voice.

your gaze flickers to the source, slow and unsteady, as if your body is learning how to exist all over again.

chan.

he is beside you, close, his body half-perched on the chair, half-leaning toward you like he doesn’t trust the space between. his hands are on yours—solid, warm, trembling.

his eyes, wide with something that looks like relief and devastation twisted into one, are locked onto your face as if looking away might shatter you back into nothingness.

your throat is raw when you try to speak.

nothing comes out.

chan moves instantly, reaching for the cup on the bedside table. you watch, dazed, as he adjusts the straw, his movements quick but careful, and then he’s guiding it to your lips.

"here. just a sip."

you take it.

the water is cool, soothing against your throat, but your body feels unfamiliar, unsteady, as if you are a guest in your own skin. you pull away after only a small sip, and he sets the cup back down.

his hand returns to yours.

like it never left.

there is a moment of silence.

then, softly—

"you scared me."

his voice cracks. just slightly. barely noticeable, but you hear it. feel it.

the weight of it settles in your chest.

you swallow. try again.

"how long?"

the sound of your own voice surprises you. it is hoarse, fragile, barely more than a whisper.

chan exhales, running a hand through his curls. he looks exhausted, like sleep has been a stranger to him for far too long.

"six days."

you blink.

your mind tries to grasp the number, the weight of it, but everything feels slow, like you are running through molasses.

"i was… asleep?"

"more like unconscious," he corrects, his thumb brushing absently against your knuckles. "the doctors said it wasn’t too dangerous, but—"

he stops. shakes his head.

"it felt dangerous to me."

your chest tightens.

his fingers curl around yours, firmer now, as if testing to make sure you are real.

"you wouldn’t wake up," he murmurs, voice quieter now. "no matter how much i talked to you, no matter how much i—" he exhales, shaking his head. "i thought—"

he stops himself.

his jaw clenches.

you squeeze his hand.

his gaze snaps to yours immediately, like the smallest movement from you is something monumental.

you clear your throat, trying to fight past the dryness, past the exhaustion clinging to your bones. "i’m here."

it’s not much.

but it is enough.

chan swallows hard, his lips pressing together, and for the first time, you see it. the glassiness in his eyes, the way his breath shudders, the way relief sits so heavy on his shoulders it almost looks like it might break him.

"yeah," he exhales. "yeah, you are."

the tension in the room softens. the air shifts.

you watch as he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing the lightest kiss against the back of it.

his eyes shut for a moment, like he is trying to ground himself in the sensation.

when he opens them again, there is something softer there.

"don’t scare me like that again, yeah?"

his voice is steady, but you can hear the emotion beneath it.

you give the faintest nod, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"i’ll try."

it’s the best you can offer.

and for now—

it is enough.

the moment chan’s hand was gently pried away from yours, a chill settled over your skin, one that had nothing to do with the temperature of the hospital room. his warmth had been the only thing tethering you to something familiar, something steady. but now—now it was gone.

"mr. bahng, we need you to wait outside while we check on her," one of the nurses had told him. a request, but also not.

you had seen the hesitation in his eyes, the reluctance, the way his fingers had twitched as if they didn't want to let go. but he listened. because it was for you. because it was what was needed.

now, the door clicked shut behind him, and the room felt bigger. louder, with the beeping of the monitors, the shuffle of nurses moving around you, the crinkle of gloves being pulled on.

“alright, sweetheart, we’re just going to do a quick check-up, alright?” the nurse closest to you—an older woman with kind eyes and soft hands—offered you a reassuring smile as she reached for your wrist, checking your pulse. “you’ve been through quite a bit, so let us know if anything feels off.”

you swallowed, throat still dry, but nodded.

the world still felt slow, like you were wading through water. the dull ache in your limbs, the stiffness of your joints—it was a strange thing, waking up in a body that had been still for so long.

someone else adjusted the iv drip beside you, and you felt the cool trickle of medicine entering your veins.

“you were lucky, you know.” the nurse’s voice was light, almost teasing. “your injuries could have been a lot worse.”

your injuries.

the words settled over you like a distant echo. you had almost forgotten.

“what.. what else happened?” your voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of something fragile.

the nurses exchanged a glance. then, the older woman—the one who had spoken first—tilted her head slightly. “do you remember anything?”

your brows furrowed, but you managed a light nod.

the memory was there, hazy and fractured, like a dream slipping through your fingers the harder you tried to hold onto it.

the road.

the red light.

the blur of headlights.

the sound—

your stomach twisted.

“i—” you swallowed hard. “a car accident.”

the nurse nodded. “yes. you were brought in unconscious. you woke up for a few minutes, you remember any of that? some injuries—nothing too major, but enough to keep you out for a few days.”

a few days.

that still didn’t feel real.

you exhaled shakily, trying to absorb the information, but your mind felt slow, reluctant to process everything all at once.

the nurse squeezed your hand gently. “you’re going to be okay, sweetheart. you just need some time to heal.”

there was a soft rustling as another nurse adjusted the pillows behind you, shifting your body slightly so you were more upright. the change in position sent a wave of dizziness through you, but you didn’t protest.

a few more checks—light in your eyes, testing reflexes, changing out bandages. you winced when they cleaned one of the scrapes along your arm, but the nurse was quick to murmur a gentle, “i know, sweetheart, almost done.”

then, just as she was finishing up, her voice took on a different note.

“your boyfriend, by the way,” she said casually, as if the words weren’t about to send your heart into a spiral, “has been coming in every day since we called him.”

you froze.

the nurse didn’t seem to notice. she kept adjusting the blankets around you, her tone light. “your emergency contact, right? he looked ready to drop everything the second we rang him.”

your lips parted, but you didn’t know what to say.

boyfriend?

boyfriend.

your thoughts fumbled over the word.

the nurse chuckled softly. “oh, don’t look so surprised, sweetheart. it was obvious. the way he was hovering over you, holding your hand like he was afraid to let go? if that’s not love, i don’t know what is.”

your heart did something strange in your chest. a slow, twisting motion that left warmth blooming in its wake.

“he’s been here every single day,” she continued. “for hours. sometimes the whole day. we had to practically force him to go home and rest.”

your fingers curled slightly against the sheets.

“he talks to you, too,” she added with a small smile. “like you could hear him. maybe you could, who knows?”

you swallowed, trying to ignore the way your throat suddenly felt tight.

“he would just sit here, holding your hand, telling you about his day. about how the weather was. about how your friends were worried about you.”

the warmth in your chest grew.

“he even told you stories,” she said, shaking her head fondly. “little things. things that probably wouldn’t matter to anyone else, but he told you anyway. like you were just asleep and he was waiting for you to wake up and respond.”

something swelled in your throat.

you hadn’t been aware.

you had been floating in that quiet, in that darkness, not knowing that he had been right there.

“i think,” the nurse said after a pause, a small knowing smile tugging at her lips, “he really, really cares about you.”

your breath hitched.

the words settled deep into your bones, warming the spaces you hadn’t realized were cold.

chan had been here. everyday.

talking to you.

waiting for you.

your fingers brushed over the blanket absently, heart thrumming in your chest.

the nurse gave your hand a final squeeze before stepping back, gathering the used bandages and tools into a tray. “alright, sweetheart, we’re done here for now.”

another nurse adjusted your iv, and the beeping of the monitor remained steady, rhythmic, like a quiet reassurance.

“we’ll let your boyfriend back in now,” the older nurse teased lightly. “poor thing’s probably pacing a hole into the floor out there.”

you huffed a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head slightly.

and then, the door opened.

and chan stepped in.

the door clicked shut behind him, but you barely noticed.

he stood just a few steps inside the hospital room, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, eyes searching yours like he needed proof—proof that you were really awake, that you were really, fully, looking at him.

you blinked at him, your throat tight, your fingers curling against the thin hospital blanket.

there was something about him. something different.

the exhaustion was written all over his face—his skin paler than usual, dark shadows pooled beneath his eyes, his shoulders slouched in a way that didn’t belong to him. his curls were disheveled, as if he had run his fingers through them too many times.

but it wasn’t just the fatigue. it was something deeper. a hesitation in the way he stood, a carefulness in his every breath, like he was afraid to move too quickly, afraid to shatter the fragile moment between you.

afraid you’d send him away.

a lump formed in your throat.

“you stayed,” you whispered.

his breath trembled as he exhaled, and then—then he was moving.

not rushing, not lunging, but stepping forward, crossing the space between you with a quiet desperation.

the chair beside your bed scraped slightly against the floor as he sank into it. his hands, shaking just barely, hovered over yours before he swallowed and finally—finally—took your fingers in his.

a choked, breathy laugh left him, something wet and exhausted and disbelieving all at once.

“of course i stayed,” he murmured.

you let out a shaky exhale, glancing down at his hands. he was warm, solid, real.

but then, something flickered over his face. his brows pulled together, his jaw tightening.

“i—” he sucked in a breath, struggling for words, his grip on your fingers tightening just slightly.

you knew that look.

he was overthinking.

regret, guilt, pain—all of it flickered in the depths of his tired brown eyes.

“i—” he tried again, then exhaled sharply. “i’m so, fucking sorry.”

your lips parted.

“for everything,” he continued, voice thick. “for the argument, for—” his voice cracked. “for not talking to you. for letting my frustration—” he broke off again, shaking his head, his fingers tightening around yours. “i should have—should have been better.”

you swallowed.

your vision blurred, the weight of everything pressing into you.

you had both been hurting. both been so lost in your own emotions, in your own pain, that you had pushed each other away.

and now—now he was here. holding your hands like they were something precious, like he had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

tears welled in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“chris,” you whispered, shaking your head, your own fingers tightening around his.

his gaze snapped up to yours, as if the sound of his name was something he had been waiting to hear.

you swallowed, blinking through the blur of your tears.

“i’m sorry, too,” you murmured.

his lips parted, something raw and vulnerable flashing across his face.

“i—” your breath hitched. “i shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have let my frustration get the best of me either.” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “i should have—should have listened more, should have—” your voice cracked. “i missed you.”

a sharp breath left him.

“you don't need to apologise. it's none of your fault, all mine, love. i missed you too,” he whispered.

and then—then he was leaning forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

you closed your eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of him—the faint traces of cologne, the warmth of something undeniably him.

his breath trembled against your skin.

“i thought—” his voice was barely above a whisper. “i thought i lost you.”

your heart clenched.

you shifted slightly, letting go of one of his hands so you could cup his face instead. your thumb brushed over his cheek, over the warmth of his skin.

his breath hitched, and then—then his own hand covered yours, holding it against his face, as if grounding himself in the feeling of you.

you swallowed, blinking rapidly against the tears in your eyes.

“i love you,” you whispered.

his breath stuttered.

then, before you could even fully process it, his arms were wrapping around you, pulling you into him, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

you buried your face into his shoulder, your fingers clinging to the fabric of his hoodie, the warmth of him settling deep into your bones.

neither of you spoke for a moment.

just breathing. just existing.

just feeling the weight of everything that had been broken and the quiet, fragile way it was coming back together.

then—his voice.

soft. shaky.

“thank you for forgiving me.”

you swallowed.

his fingers curled around the back of your hospital gown, his forehead pressing against the side of your head.

“i’ll make up for it every day,” he murmured.

your breath hitched.

you pulled back just slightly, just enough to see his face, and then—then you cupped his cheeks again, tilting his head down slightly as you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead.

he let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut, hands still clutching at you.

your thumb brushed over his cheek again.

“just stay,” you whispered.

his lips parted.

then, slowly, he nodded.

and as he pulled you back into his arms, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, to the crown of your head—

you knew.

you knew that, no matter how broken things had felt, no matter how lost you had both been—

you had found your way back to each other.

and that—

that was enough.

“i love you so, so, much more, sunshine.”

now playing . . . don't leave me, my love by colde

please don't leave my side, i hate nights without you.your heart cannot be changed. what am I going to do again now?

제발, 내 곁에서 떠나가지 말아요, 그대 없는 밤은 너무 싫어. 돌이킬 수 없는 그대 마음. 이제 와서 다시 어쩌려나?

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan

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unhingedcinnamonroll · 2 years ago

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It's so hot outside that on my monthly, the egg came out scrambled.

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defmaybe · 10 months ago

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Party Police

ITZY's Shin Yuna x Male Reader

1.4k words

Sequel to Sticky

A/N: Let’s do a sequel!!! Again, I really love writing Yuna dominant lol, thanks for reading!!! Also, this one doesn't have the "definitely, maybe" line lol.

—

The plane croaks and cries as its wheels touch the runway. It slows down and turns a few times to park. Then, the seatbelt light above is gone.

—

Narita

As far as a company trip goes, this one should give you bragging rights over your friends until death. A spring trip to Tokyo–where every street and building is photogenic. The air is perfect (a bit cold, really, but it’s definitely better than your home).

Of course, it’s a reward from your generous boss, who fought the higher-ups to death for this trip. Your team’s productivity has soared under her reign, as she always brings snacks for your co-workers every single day. And with her bubbly, optimistic attitude, and such a level of competency you don’t dare to compete, they just had to approve this one-week trip at the price of a car.

The secret sessions between you two remain, well, a secret. Though, there has been a running rumor of your boss having a booty call with an employee, but you’re smart enough to play along with the wave, pulling out the ‘yeah, who could that be’ along with a few chuckles.

—

Shibuya, not so far from the crosswalk

The exit of the station has always been so busy, oh, so bustling in its nature. The chill air welcomes you to the afternoon of Shibuya. In front of you is the crosswalk—that goddamn crosswalk. You follow the wave of the people to the landmark, waiting to reach your sanctuary again.

The red stop signal flickers

1 2 3

You stride through the crowd—some holding their phones to capture the moment, some are just trying to reach their destinations as soon as possible.

You walk on the same path that you did years ago, just walking up north to your terminus, and there it is.

You open the glass door, and you feel another breeze from the air conditioners from inside blowing your face. It looks a bit cramped, but it’s definitely well-planned enough for you to see all the new albums. The first floor is mostly decorated with yellow and red–same as the big sign outside.

—

Tower Records

“Hmm, Alvvays, huh?”

Yuna suddenly appears by your right shoulder, staring at their debut LP you’re holding.

Into your ears, she whispers, “You have a great taste, baby boy.” Her voice is breathy–hints of depth under it.

“You don’t have to leave. You could just stay here with me~” Yuna sings. Her hands are perching on your shoulder as she performs her little swaying with the hips.

“Forget all the party police. We can find comfort in debauchery~.”

With debauchery, her right hand trails down your lithe frame, down the sides, as you’re trying your best to stifle your own moan. The Alvvays disc in your hand is trembling.

“Oh, baby boy, I just wanna eat you right here, among these CDs,”—she continues—“I just wanna have you squirm, one hand holding on Antisocialites, another holding on Blue Rev.”

“M–Miss Shin, what are you s–saying? I d–don’t think it’s appropriate–”

“Shhh, baby boy, it’s not ‘Miss Shin’ here. You know the word, remember?” Yuna giggles at her own words, as you’re sweating at the fear of getting caught inside your own sanctuary. And she doesn’t let your body find its footing so firmly in the section either. She presses you forward, and you step back in response.

A B

“Say it, baby boy. Don’t keep me waiting~,” she teases. She presses you past Carly Rae Jepsen. Emotion runs high on you.

D E F G

“I–I can’t, Miss Shin. This is n–not the place.” You two are on Hatchie; she’s still without a blush. You must be fucking red as a tomato now, judging from how your whole body feels so damn hot.

I J K

Lorde. “Oh, baby boy, I know you wanna say it so, so bad. You just love being under my domination, don’t you?”

But you can’t just give her a green light that easily, despite how much you just want her to pump your cock right here and now, in Tower Records Shibuya. There’s a matter of shame in play here. Your breaths are out of rhythm, unlike the music out of speaker right now.

M N O

“Ooh, look who it is here,”—Yuna picks up the Brand New Eyes box with both of her hands, pouting—“It’s Paramore! You… are… the only exception~. Am I your exception too?”

Fuck, why is she so irresistible?

Q R S

Taylor Swift appears in your sight on the left, along the steps back. “Y–Yes, M–M–” The thought sprouts in your head now, but you just can’t form the words. You’re, again, enchanted under her spell.

U V

Wolf Alice. “No hard feelings if you can’t say it, baby boy. I’ll just take the subway to Harajuku or somewhere else if that’s what you want, alone, without you~.”

X Y

“Y–Yes.”

“Yes… what, baby boy?”

“Yes, m–m–mommy. Y–You are my exception.” And on Z, you surrender to her.

“Good boy.” Yuna holds your hand, waking up a few butterflies inside you, before guiding you towards….

—

Tower Records’ Bathroom

“Umm, mmph, I’ve been dying to taste this cock for so long, baby boy.” And Yuna supports her point by dragging her filthy tongue along the underside of your length, glistening you with her saliva. And how can you not shudder with that? “I’d say… it’s worth the wait.”

“M–Mommy~,” you groan, eyes fluttering on top of the toilet.

What a sight. Yuna is kneeling on the floor for you in this stall, aiming to please you with her mouth. You can see her cleavage from the above, with her nipples still covered with the black bra. To ramp up the experience, she starts with taking in your whole mushroom tip with no struggle. God, she’s so good.

Her oral expertise continues to astound you, as she twirls her tongue around your tip, gathering any pre-cum leaking out.

“Hmm, I think I should do a bit more before you cum~,” she says, before diving onto the base of your throbbing length with ease.

“F–Fuck! You’re so t–tight, mommy,” you moan, and your hands are holding on to the lid with your dear life, not wanting to fall. Your head is basically leaning on the wall behind you now.

Yuna says nothing, but you can see her smiling on your shaft despite the cheeks being hollowed out to create such otherworldly suction. Fuck. She bobs her head up and down to bring you to the edge. Her gag reflex starts to make her tears welling up, but that doesn’t stop her from pleasuring her favorite employee with her mouth to his hilt.

Every movement of hers is considered, aiming to milk your cock just like she did that time with her right hand, the other grabbing you by your slutty waist—when you were nothing but a toy for her to play with. She hollows her cheeks, as said, to create such otherworldly suction. And that dreamy eye contact while she blows on your hardness, god, who wouldn’t cum within a heartbeat.

“M–Mommy, I’m gonna cum,” you say, as your hips buck into her with her frenetic movements.

Yuna doesn’t relent her attempts, still gagging profusely on her baby boy’s needy cock. She makes this little whiny sound with every of your thrust, as the end of your digit reaches as far back as it can. Yet, she’s still determined—so fucking determined to please her number one employee. But now, you want just a bit more.

“M–Mommy, y–your tits, p–please.”

She gives in to your plea too easily, but it’s like you’d complain. She quickly discards layers of fabric until her bra is left. And after a few magic tricks of her hands, her last barrier falls off just for you. You savor in the moment of her bare breasts and the stiff nipples under your impending orgasm. Oh, what a sight.

And it’s there, your seed releasing into her throat.

“M–Mommy~,” you whimper.

Your length twitches inside her tight cavern, wanting to squeeze every drop out of you. She doesn’t let any drop leak out of her mouth either, swallowing any residue down to her stomach.

And as you finish, she has to open her mouth and stick out her tongue to show her clean cavern.

“F–Fuck, mommy, w–why, why are you so good?”

“Just for my favorite employee, baby boy.”

—

#yuna #yuna smut #itzy #itzy smut #itzy yuna #itzy yuna smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #male reader #male reader smut

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thehoodsweetheart · 27 days ago

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A/N: I had this work in my drafts for a while and decided to put it out. I would love feedback. It’s a bit on the rough side and lengthy. (Probably should have been 2 Parts but I rolling with it). I’ve said it before and nothing has changed, my characters/readers are black.

Word Count: 4,410

StackxBlackOC

Warnings: Profanity, drama, tension, toxic arguments, angst, betrayal

Summary: Anastasia left town before the SmokeStack Twins skipped town to chase dreams in Chicago with secrets and a broken heart. What was meant to be a short trip back to Houston, TX turns into a reckoning with the past she thought she buried.

The bassline of "Before I Let Go" by Frankie Beverly and Maze blasted through the speakers as if on cue when Anastasia “Stacey” Prince stepped into her father’s house. Normally that was a signal that it’s about time to leave the cookout. From the litany of cars that filled the driveway and trailed down both sides of the street, the party was in full swing. Plenty of red Dixie cups in hand, conversations trying to beat the music's volume, dominoes, spades, the NBA finals on one of the tv’s drawing a crowd were all signals that this served as a reunion of sorts.

She silently thanked God the house had the air conditioner on despite the frequent traffic in and out of the home. She was no stranger to heat or humidity, but she had gotten spoiled living in the mild yet warm weather of Los Angeles. She did not miss that Texas heat, actually southern heat generally. When her parents divorced while she was young, her mom took their kids back to her hometown of Ladera Heights, part of the Black Beverly Hills of Los Angeles, CA. Stacey and her brother spent most of their time in LA but winter and summer breaks in Houston or Slidell, Louisiana with their dad. She had a love for Texas though. That love had brought her back for college at TSU. Her brother on the other hand was sent to live with their father when he was in high school due to too many fights.

The smell of barbecue filled the air thick enough to choke somebody. She gripped her sons’ hands tighter as she made her way through the crowded house trying to also maintain a hold of a gift bag. The two seven year olds were practically dragging her to get to the backyard ready to play with the kids. Through the crowd they could see the bounce house and other kids chasing each other around it. Stacey offered a warm smile and small hellos to her relatives and her father’s friends before she heard his boisterous laugh.

“Slow down. Y’all don’t even know where y’all goin!” Stacey fussed at her hyperactive boys in a hushed voice. They were far less interested in the introductions to family that arguably they should have already known. The boys were eager to play.

“Whoaaa! There goes my baby girl. And who are these big boys dragging her around?” His light brown eyes gleamed as he stretched his arms out wide. The boys laughed and jumped into his arms in excitement. Richard Sr. tickled his grandsons making them squeal deep dimples accenting their snaggletooth smiles. “Hey Sweets.” He leaned, placing a small peck on her forehead.

“Happy Birthday Dad! Why didn't you tell me you were having a party?” Stacey chastised him.

“Get that stick out ya butt! It’s just a cookout. You look like you’re dressed for a party anyway. Maybe not this one…” He motioned to her outfit. She wore a black cottage core House of CB dress with black mules.

“Oh whatever. I just wanted a heads up…and I’m always fly.” She stated a matter of factly pretending to toss her hair over her shoulder since it was too short in her fresh bob. She held up a little burgundy bag with gold cursive embossed writing. “Your gift.”

Big Rich smirked, taking the bag. “You must be doing real well. Cartier for your old man? You shouldn’t have.”

“Just say thank you.” Stacey muttered as she folded her arms across her chest. Her eyes scanned the open floor plan of the two story home. She shifted her weight on her feet taking in her surroundings.

The truth was this was more than a birthday gift. This was a peace offering for the guilt of hardly coming to visit Houston within the last seven, almost 8 years. Stacey had visited three times, two of which she did not bring her twin sons. Those two visits were also within the same year and considered ‘girl trips’ for the weekend. Richard Sr would travel to Los Angeles to visit them frequently but he never held his tongue about his disapproval of his daughter not visiting him.

—

“When’s the last time you came to see your old man? I think you should come to Houston for at least the weekend, if a week is asking too much of you.” Stacey’s father glanced down at his iPhone to watch his daughter’s reaction via FaceTime. The thought of Houston pulled a sigh from Stacey. Her lips turned up into a smirk matching her father’s expression. He had anticipated an eye roll from his stubborn daughter.

“Which weekend are we speaking of? I need to check out my calendar and the twin’s schedule. I might leave them with mom.”

“You ain’t gotta leave my grand babies. They can hang wit their grandpere. Your fine ass mama can come too though.”

“Please Dad, you know she has a new husband.”

“I ain’t never cared about a punk ass nigga.”

“Now why does he have to be all that? He coo’ to me. He treats her well.”

“Sound like you switchin sides sweets. I never thought I’d see the day. My only girl would utter favor upon the opps.” Richard Sr. shook his head in disbelief, committing to acting as if his feelings were hurt. Stacey let out a goofy laugh covering her mouth.

“Daddy, I would never betray you. Scouts honor.” She held up a crossed middle and index finger.

“I don’t know if I want you to visit me no more. Just send the boys.” He continued his act of discontent.

“They ain’t coming without me. We’re a package.”

“Package my ass. Return to sender. You were just saying that you were going to leave them wit your momma.” He shook his head. “You want my card info so you can get these tickets now?”

“I don’t need your money Dad. Thank you but your daughter is fully capable of—“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… you can pay yourself. I don’t want you to though.”

“You just want to make sure I actually come. I know you.”

“I know you too.”

“I’m not that flaky. We’ll be there for your birthday.”

—

“Mhm…You lookin’ for somebody?”

“No, not at all.” She lied. There was an unsettled feeling at the pit of her stomach that she struggled to decipher if it was anxiety or intuition. She was looking for the reason why.

“Well let me make you a drink. You look like you need it.”

The twins had broken free from their grandfather running towards the backyard as Stacey’s big brother opened the sliding doors. They screamed “Hey Uncle” in unison as they hurried to the bounce house. Stacey’s older brother, Richard Jr looked down at them eyebrows raised as he took a step back with a chuckle as they ran out. He held his arm out to usher a heavily pregnant Annie walk in before him. He grabbed a bottle of Dussé from the kitchen cabinet giving his sister a quick wave before returning outside. She fought the urge to roll her eyes at him as she accepted the cocktail from her dad.

Stacey’s eyes went wide with excitement seeing her dear friend that she considered like family. She practically completely zoned out from whatever her dad had been rambling about. Annie was the big sister Stacey wished for. They met when Annie moved from the Delta up to Houston. It was merely a coincidence that Annie was married to one of the two demons that did business with Stacey’s father and brother. A smile crept into your face taking in the image of her. Her tight coils pinned up into an updo. She wore a yellow flowy maxi dress that complimented her deep complexion and offered some cleavage for view. Stacey knew her husband had to be close behind. She prayed his twin wasn’t. She anticipated them to appear with bated breath.

“Hey Mrs. Annie!” Stacey beamed.

“Stacey?! Now this is a surprise. Ya Pa finally got ya down here. Why you didn’t tell me you were coming?!” Annie smiled with a hand on her hip. Stacey’s dad patted her shoulder as he walked away. The women pulled each other into a warm embrace. Stacey broke the hug to rub Annie’s swollen belly.

“Mmm. He did. The point was for it to be a surprise! I can’t wait to meet your baby girl.” Annie had revealed to Stacey over a recent call that she and Smoke were expecting a baby girl.

“You and I both. I’m bout sick of this heat bein pregnant.”

”Tell me about it. I was miserable. I don’t miss none of that.”

”Speakin’ of…Those was your boys almost knocking your brother over?” Annie knowingly asked. You chewed your bottom lip and nodded. She offered a sympathetic look. “They look just like ‘em too. Ain’t no hiding that.”

”They’re good boys. A handful though with all that energy but as charming as can be.” Stacey watched them go into the bounce house before returning her attention back to Annie. “Let’s get you a seat somewhere. You don’t need to be on your feet.” Stacey changed subjects leading Annie to the couches in the living room where there was less of a crowd.

“Don’t you start fussin over me too! I get enough of that from the guys.” She fanned Stacey off as they sat down. Stacey twiddled her thumbs.

”Does Smoke know?”

”You asked me not to say nothin. I respected that.” She tapped Stacey’s knee.

Stacey should have known. If she could trust anyone it would be Annie. In fact, Annie was the first to know about Stacey being pregnant. She ran to Annie in a panic and hysterics not knowing what to do. Stack and Stacey had already broken up. The last thing she wanted was him to think she was trying to trick her way back into his life. Especially when that was the last thing she wanted to do.

The benefit was Smoke was a man of few words. Stacey could easily be a topic he didn’t inquire much about. They also left for Chicago after she moved to LA, buying her much time. Annie understood why Stacey kept the twins a secret. Annie accepted her husband and all that he was whether she agreed with it or not. She knew Stacey struggled to accept the lifestyle the SmokeStack twins had because it was too much like her father’s. They were caught up in drug trafficking, gang wars, robberies, and a slew of other crimes. Her family flipped that drug money into legal businesses that proved to be lucrative, but she knew they played both sides. Her father moved like a ghost with a deadly hand and the twins were no different. Stacey even resented her brother didn’t strive for a more clean and narrow life.

“I never got a chance to properly thank you for everything.”

”We family. You didn’t need to.”

”Oh but I do. My request was selfish.”

Stacey left early enough in her pregnancy that no one knew she was pregnant before she left. She moved back to Los Angeles somewhere between being lovesick and a heartbroken puppy, tail tucked and head down. Elias ‘Stack’ Moore was her first love. What started as a teenage crush of her brother’s charming best friend, led to a secret or “private” courtship, then blossomed into a whirlwind romance. It ended up being a hot and cold and often toxic relationship. All in all, during their last encounter, Stacey saw a side of Stack that she never wanted to see again. Her heart rate quickened just at the thought.

”What you gone do today cuz they all here?”

”I guess I can’t avoid it forever.” Stacy tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear.

”Avoid what?” Smoke spoke up causing both of the ladies to jump a bit in their seats. Annie put her hand on her chest. He eyed Stacey with an expecting look. Stacey shook her head taking a gulp of her drink.

”Nearly scared me half to death…Hey Smoke.” Stacey let out a nervous chuckle.

“How you been Stacey?” Smoke squinted his eyes as his eyes shifted between you and Annie. He half waited for you all to answer his initial question. Smoke had come into the house to look for Annie after noticing she didn’t return outside with RJ. That’s when he caught the tail end of their conversation. He could tell from the women’s body language that they were shaken from the thought that he even heard that much.

“I’ve been good. Nothing worth complaining about. What about you? I see congratulations are in order.” Stacey tried not to shrink under his studying gaze.

“Thank you. Glad to hear you good.”

Much later in the backyard…

Richard Jr. leaned against a beam of the patio watching his nephews play. Her older brother never questioned it. In his mind, the twins could’ve been the result of a rebound relationship. His gut told him differently each time he saw them over the years. He just knew it wasn’t none of his business. Stacey never asked nor cared for his opinion when she started messing with his friend, so what happened after he left alone. Never spoke of it.

The twins slid out of the bounce house whispering to each other. They shot each other dimpled smiles before walking separate ways. The youngest of the two walked over to the patio where the coolers were. He used his small hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. The heat caused him to frown. He rocked on his bare feet trying to wait for the large masculine figure to move. The man was hunched down digging into the ice for longer than the little boy’s patience could stand.

“Excuse me sir! Can I have a Sprite?” The little boy asked cutting to the chase. Stack stood up to his full height, turning to find the little boy who was in a rush.

“What about a water?” Stack offered, cocking his head to the side.

“Nah…I asked for a Sprite.” The little boy protested.

“Your mama let you drink soda?” Stack raised and eyebrow.

“If I finish before she see me then she won’t know.” A mischievous smirk eased on the little boy’s face, his dimples in tow. Stack chuckled, shaking his head at the little boy’s antics.

“How about a CapriSun?” Stack bargained.

“2 CapriSuns and you got a deal.” The boy hustled.

“If you that thirsty then you should take the water.”

“The other one is for me.” Another small raspy voice peaked up from behind Stack. He walked around to his brother’s side giving the tall man a once over.

“Y’all boys twins?”

“No…I just met him today.” The twins laughed in unison. The blind could see the boys were identical.

Elias chuckled low. “Y’all came out the womb negotiating, huh?”

The taller one stuck out his hand. “I’m Ezra.”

“EJ,” said the other, following suit.

Elias blinked. “EJ?”

“Elias Jr.,” the boy corrected. “But nobody calls me Junior except my granddad. And just when he’s mad.”

The bottle nearly slipped from Elias’s hand. His smirk faltered.

“Elias?” he repeated, voice just a little offbeat.

“Yeah,” Ezra said proudly.

Just then, the glass sliding door slid open. Stacey stepped out into the glow of the string lights—phone in one hand, small plate of cake in the other—then froze.

There was her past, standing face to face with her future.

Shit.

“Ez. EJ,” she called quickly, tone clipped. “Go inside. Wash your hands and sit down. No soda.”

The boys groaned in unison. “But—”

Stack stood there, eyes shifting from the twin boys to Stacey then back to the boys. He took in their features. Their small jaw lines a miniature version of his own. The dimples, slight arch in the left eyebrow.

“Now.” Stacey ordered.

They knew that tone. Both darted off, leaving Elias staring after them with his jaw clenched and something unreadable in his eyes.

Stacey approached, keeping her expression neutral, calm.

“You want some cake?” she asked lightly, nodding at the plate. “Red velvet. From Aunt Marlene. You still like that?”

Elias didn’t take his eyes off her. “Elias Jr.?”

Stacey paused, lips tightening around a calm smile. “It’s a popular name.”

He scoffed, shaking his head slowly. “Stace.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t start.”

He took a slow sip of his drink, then lowered it deliberately. “You naming one of your kids after me is wild as hell. But what’s crazier? You showing up here with me-sized children and thinking I wasn’t gonna ask questions.”

“They’re my kids,” she replied.

“Didn’t say they weren’t. But I know my math. And I know my face. And Ezra? He got your attitude and my sarcasm.”

Stacey’s expression didn’t move. “You’re reaching.”

He stepped closer. “You know who they belong to, Stacey.”

“Does it matter?” she said, voice lower now. “You told me to stay away from you. You made it very clear.”

“Don’t flip this,” he snapped. “You vanished. Had my sons without telling me. Let your dad visit them in L.A. like it was some secret mission—”

“Because I didn’t want you in their world,” she cut in, sharper. “And I didn’t want them in yours.”

“Funny,” he bit back. “Since they damn near walked straight into mine.”

Stacey looked away. “They don’t know who you were.”

“They will,” Elias said. “Soon. But you? You and I—we’re gonna talk. For real. You owe me that.”

“I don’t owe you—”

“Dinner,” he interrupted, jaw flexing. “Tomorrow night. My spot. I’ll send the car.”

Stacey folded her arms. “I’m not on your payroll, Elias.”

He grinned, wolfish. “I know. That’s what makes this fun.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t say no.

He leaned in, his voice dipping. “Bring your pride. But bring the truth too. I want it all.”

And just like that, he walked away—cooler than the bottle he left behind, but burning hotter than the grill smoke behind him.

Stacey stood still, heart drumming under the surface. She had just lost control of the narrative if she ever was in control of it.

And dinner was less than 24 hours away.

Stacey crossed her legs slowly, deliberately. Her black silk dress clung to her like it had secrets of its own. Her lip gloss was perfect, her expression was not. She stared across the table at Elias like she was staring down a man with a loaded gun and history told her, in many ways, she was.

But she wasn’t twenty-three anymore. And she didn’t flinch for men like Elias Moore. Even if her pulse said otherwise.

Elias sat like sin on a throne. One hand resting on a lowball crystal glass of scotch, the other draped over the back of the booth. Smug. Rich. And ten times more dangerous than when she left him.

He sipped slowly from his glass, jaw tight, a diamond-studded watch glinting under candlelight. No jacket, just a black shirt rolled at the sleeves, showing off forearms veined and tensed. That same smirk people mistook for charm rested on his mouth. But it wasn’t charm tonight. It was fury held hostage behind an attempt to show good manners.

Stacey had accepted his invitation. Begrudgingly.

Elias looked her up and down.

“You clean up nice,” he said coolly, though the heat in his chest rose like smoke. “Didn’t think LA would turn you into a cloud engineer-slash-tech princess with investment portfolios and twin sons named after your past.”

Her jaw tensed.

She shifted in her seat across from him ever so slightly, graceful, composed.

“I didn’t come here for your sarcasm, Elias.”

“No?” He leaned forward, forearms on the table. “You’re here to explain why the hell I met my sons next to a bounce house and a f**king Capri Sun cooler.”

“So you invite me to dinner? For that…” Her eyes scanned the closed restaurant that only milled with a few staff members.

“I wanted to catch up without any interference. Seeing you yesterday reminded me how much I missed your company.” Stack smirked, deepening his dimples.

“I call bullshit, but I’ll leave it alone.”

”Don’t pussy out. Say what’s on your mind.”

“I know you want to really know why I did it. The truth is I was scared and young. I might not have known much about life yet, but I sure as hell knew about you. Men like you and your brother. Men like my father. I knew if I didn’t want to get forced into a decision that I didn’t want to make, then I would have to take agency of my own life. I had to protect me and my babies. And from what I heard, I wasn’t the only one to skip town.”

“So what? That was a fuck me while you ran off carryin’ my sons? They my kids too right?”

“I—I heard you threatening one of your little conquests to have an abortion. I saw how you treated women you didn’t want any more. Look how you did Mary. What made me different?”

“You know that I love—loved and cared about you. I was crazy about you.”

“Sure had a funny way to show it. Our last conversation you told me to stay away from you and you didn’t want to hear anything from me ever again.”

Elias flexed his jaw feeling himself grow more frustrated with this conversation. He ran his hand over his face exhaling. Men like you and your brother. Men like my father. Stacey’s words echoed in his mind. He respected Big Rich but the SmokeStack twins were a different kind of beast. They were relentless in their dealings and everyone knew not to cross them. That didn’t stop people from trying. Elias was careless with women because he could be. Stack was boystorous, while Smoke preferred to move like a ghost. What's the consequence when you can make shit disappear? she knows not to provoke a man of their word. He told her never to speak to him, so she didn’t. He didn’t do it out of spite or anger. He wanted to protect her.

“I want a DNA test.” He said deadpan.

Stacey nodded at the request. It was equally understandable yet unexpected. She chuckled bitterly, turning her head to the side to gaze out of the vast window beside her. The night view of the city’s lights played as an excuse for her to formulate her response. She straightened her posture before peering into Stack’s chocolate orbs.

“Ok.”

“Ok? That’s all you gotta say?” Elias narrowed his eyes like her indifference was a bigger betrayal than silence.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Fine! Take the test! It won’t change shit for me. I didn’t come looking for you. I don’t have shit to prove!” Stacey allowed her irritation to slip out.

“Lower your fuckin voice.” he gritted

“Stop cursing at me.” She matched his tone, pointing a freshly manicured finger at him.

“Still a brat. I oughta bend you over my knee and spank you.” Stack bit his lip revealing his gold fangs. Stacey scoffed, rising from her seat, yanking her dress down.

”I don’t even know why I came here. Bye Elias.” She turned, but didn’t make it two steps.

“Anastasia.” He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

Her full name slid from his tongue like a knife in velvet. It was rare, intimate, intentional.

She froze.

For a second, the restaurant blurred.

She was twenty-three again, barefoot in his penthouse, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else.

Elias had whispered that name against her collarbone like it was sacred. And then later, he’d said it like a curse.

The memory hit like déjà vu she didn’t ask for.

Elias stood slowly, chair scraping softly behind him. No rush. No threat. Just presence: weighted and sure, the kind of stillness that says don’t test me.

“Sit down.”

Her jaw clenched, a flicker of emotion crossing her face before she buried it. That name still had teeth. She hated that it still fit in his mouth like it belonged there.

“We’re not done,” he added, quieter this time, like a fact more than a warning.

And just like that, Anastasia sat.

Not because he told her to.

But because some part of her still remembered what it meant when he used her real name and it burned.

“Once I get that paperwork, I plan on showing up for them. I’ma try to do right by them.”

”You’ve always tried, Elias. Tried new ventures. Tried new cities. Tried new women.” She took a sip of her wine, slow and deliberate. “Trying was never your issue.”

He glances away feeling the gravity of her words.

“You were a collector of beautiful things. Acquiring more for the sake of having them, which isn’t to speak to their value or what you deemed them to be…” Stacey set down the glass.

“Are you saying that I don’t value—“ she cuts him off, shaking her head.

“No…and yes? Possibly. You wage value in proximity to your ego. If you’re the first one with it, or if it's one of one. The more rare the better right? Until the next thing becomes the object of your affection…I won’t pretend to know your inner workings or who you are now though.”

“Are we talking objects or women?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Ahh Stace! You wound me. You think so poorly of me. Everything has value. Every woman has value. They also have a role to play. I possess the power to assign those roles. It’s made the most prideful and self proclaimed ‘virtuous’ bend to my will.”

“There’s Stack.” She referred to him as his street nickname.

“Don’t do that.” His jaw tightens.

Stacey leans in, locking eyes with him.

“Why not? You taught me how to compartmentalize.”

They stared at each other—wounded, proud, still burning. Finally, the waiter appeared to pour wine. Neither looked away. Just as the door of the private dining room closed behind them, Elias leaned forward again, voice lower now.

“After tonight,” he said, “don’t think you can walk out of my life again without a war.”

And Stacey—chin high, eyes locked—simply said:

“Then let’s not make it a war.”

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