#cries and cries and cries and cries and cries | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

iamactuallysocute · 2 days ago

Text

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 8

AN: guys I just remembered in a part I mentioned Baby being the youngest, it’s not because of the whole infantilized character, it’s because he’s such a bitch and so disrespectful!! Dunno if this makes sense. Anyway this is part of my characterization, trust. Also I’m sorry for the lack of Baby and Mystery content, but that’s because each boy needs their own pace to come around and they’re a little harder to crack!!

cw: implied female reader, she/her used, cursing, handcuffing, heavy nsfw mentions, lots of jerking off, reader being a fucking boss, Stockholm Syndrome developing, begging, pathetic men, Romance and Abby almost kissing, me not knowing shit about doors so tell me if I wrote smth dumb

It’s 5:47 A.M.

You’re not sleeping. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair an absolute crime, wearing a hoodie and no pants. In your lap? A fucking wrench.

You are undoing the front door.

Not unlocking it. Not sneaking out. You are physically disassembling the door. You’ve got screws scattered across the floor, hinges half-loose, and a thin line of sweat on your brow. There’s a bite mark on your lower lip from where you’ve been gnawing at it.

“Stupid ass… demon-infested… male whores—”

click

Another screw. Progress.

You are removing. The. Door.

“Mornin’.”

You freeze.

Two silhouettes approach down the hall, backlit by early morning gold. One tall, one taller. Robes, muscles, smugness.

Jinu’s in his robe, hair messy from sleep. He’s got a coffee mug in hand and the patience of a saint, or a man who thinks he’s got you wrapped around his stupid pretty finger. Abby is shirtless. Wearing some low-slung joggers, and he’s got an arm slung lazily around Jinu’s shoulders. Go back sixty nine-ing you fucking assholes.

You go back to the hinge you’re unscrewing.

“Still trying the door?” Abby grins, voice sleep-hoarse, leaning against the frame like it’s all so casual. “You missed a bolt near the bottom.”

Jinu sips his coffee. “She’ll find it.“

You don’t answer.

“You want the manual?” Jinu adds.

You ignore them, now pulling at the top hinge.

“Y’know,” Abby continues. “if you use a hairdryer on low heat over the center seal, it could melt it a little. Might shave a few hours off this whole process.”

“You know this won’t work.” Jinu says gently.

You don’t look at him.

“You’ll get past the locks, sure. Maybe even crack the containment. But once you open the door…” He gestures vaguely. “You’re not getting away. Plus there’s a security system. Last time, Romance cried when he forgot to turn it off before leaving.”

“I did not.” comes a muffled shout from down the hall.

“I almost feel bad.” Jinu continues, watching you now.

“I give her another fifteen minutes before she hits the door with the screwdriver.”

Jinu hums. “Ten. She’s losing patience.”

You are losing patience. But not because of the door. Because of them. “Don’t you two have something better to do?”

“Absolutely not.” Jinu says.

Abby raises a brow. “We’re making breakfast after this. You want anything?”

You throw the screwdriver at him. He dodges easily. Asshole.

“Hey, good aim though.” he says, catching it off the bounce. “You’re getting stronger.”

“You’re getting dumber.”

Jinu stretches, robe falling open a little. “That’s impossible. He’s already at max capacity.”

“Hey.” Abby frowns. “Some of us didn’t have to learn math before we got stabbed in the neck.”

You blink at that. “What—”

“Long story.” Abby says quickly. “The point is, you’re not leaving.”

“I’m not staying.” you snap back. You groan and go back to the door, defeated. And you’re so close. Not to escaping. No. That ship sailed three screwdrivers and a half-baked curse ago. But the top hinge is loose now. Wiggling. Practically begging for release.

Jinu sits down on the floor. Abby drops to the other side of you, casually letting one knee fall open, arm still thrown lazily around Jinu’s shoulders.

“Here.” Jinu murmurs, reaching past you, fingers brushing your wrist. “You’re angling wrong. You’re going to strip the screw.”

“I hope I strip you—”

“Careful what you wish for, baby.” Abby says with a wink.

You almost stab him. Instead, you hiss out a breath and go back to it. Try to ignore the way Jinu’s robe brushes your bare arm. Or the way Abby sits, legs spread.

“Okay.” Jinu says softly, pointing with one clean finger. “Hold the screw like this. Thumb under. Palm steady. Just like that.”

You do it. You do it right.

There’s a click.

Abby grins and slaps you once on the shoulder, firm and warm and ridiculously proud. “Atta girl. Look at you go.”

You blink.

Jinu actually claps. Out loud. One elegant, sarcastic clap that echoes through the hallway.

It’s the deep voices.

It’s the fact that they know shit about doors.

It’s… so hot.

This isn’t okay.

“This isn’t okay.” you mutter aloud.

Abby cuts in, voice breezy. “Okay, so you’re one hinge down. Now, that little metal’s gonna slip out easily if you do it right. You’ll wanna grab it and twist.”

You squint. “…Where?”

Jinu points to it. “There. You’ll need pliers.”

“Do I look like I have pliers?”

Instead, you reach back for the screwdriver, but Abby doesn’t give it. He holds it up instead. “Say please.”

You narrow your eyes. “I hope you fucking let Mystery kill you the next time you two fight.”

“Mm. Still not a ‘please.’”

You swipe the screwdriver from his hand and jab it back at the hinge, grumbling under your breath.

“Y/N.” Jinu says, his voice dipping low as he watches you with those stupid warm eyes. “Careful there. If you slip there, you’ll grate your hand. Badly.”

He says it so gently. So genuinely concerned. And his fingers ghost over yours again, adjusting the placement.

You hate that your skin warms where he touches it.

Abby nods. “Okay. Now you need to unhook that. Slide your finger under it—gently, babe—yeah, right there.”

You follow instructions. Reluctantly. Unfortunately. And the damn thing works. You feel the metal and screws give under your fingertip.

“You’re kidding.” you whisper.

Jinu leans over to see. “Well done.”

“Keep your hand steady, babe. There’s a trick to the angle. Real wrist shit.” Abby adds.

You get it wrong. Your hand slips. You yelp.

Jinu’s hand is on your back instantly, steadying. “Careful.”

Abby frowns. “Did it burn you?”

“No.” you mutter. “Just—startled me.”

They both stay close. Too close. And for one moment, one stupid, stupid moment, you let yourself imagine this is normal. That they’re just… annoying boyfriends teaching you how to fix something. That you’re safe. That you’re home.

You blink it away.

Behind you, Jinu leans over to whisper something to Abby that you can’t catch.

Abby mutters something, gets up, and slaps your shoulder as he passes. “Nice try, babe. If you start chiseling, lemme know. I got a crowbar.”

And then it’s just you and Jinu.

You don’t even have time to react before he gets up, reaches down and grabs you. It’s not violent. It’s worse. It’s deliberate. Fingers slipping beneath your arm, palm pressing into your lower back, hauling you up like you’re nothing but weightless. A quiet manhandling that makes your heart hiccup before you can stop it.

You twist. “What the fuck—”

He just guides you down the hallway, barefoot and infuriatingly calm.

Your heels drag for two seconds before you dig in. “Let go.”

“Can’t.” he says, not looking at you. “You’ve had three crackers in the last two days and are currently plotting a jailbreak.”

“So?”

“So,” he exhales. “you’re annoying me.”

“Oh, I’m annoying—”

“—yes, shut up.”

In the kitchen, you’re set on a stool like a child. You sit stiff-backed as Jinu moves calmly, boiling water, opening drawers, slicing fruit with a small paring knife that glints every time he turns it in his fingers.

“You know,” he says, slicing clean through a strawberry. “I was going to let you sleep.”

You stare. Say nothing.

“I was going to leave you alone,” he continues. “because you’re pissed and grieving and very, very tired of us.” He glances back at you, fingers stained red with juice. “And I thought—maybe space would help.”

Your knuckles clench on your thighs.

“You didn’t really want to open that door. I know you want to believe you did,” he continues. “but it’s easier to chase escape than to face the fact that they left you. That they haven’t come. That they won’t.”

You hate him.

“And you want me to be grateful for your little pep talk? Is that it? You want me to say thank you for lying even now?”

“No.” Jinu says. “I want you to eat your fucking breakfast so you don’t pass out while you’re trying to disassemble steel.”

You’re silent. You don’t know why you don’t walk away.

He places the plate in front of you. Strawberries. Toast. Tea steeping in a delicate ceramic mug with lavender flowers painted on the rim.

“Eat.” he says.

You don’t touch it.

“I said eat.”

You look up at him—quiet, cold, fucking furious.

And Jinu…

Jinu just looks in love.

Tragic. Starved. Like he wants to bury his hands in your hair and whisper forgiveness until it drowns you both. His eyes are dark, deep, in a way. His lips part.

You look up. Meet his gaze. And for one terrible second, all the rage in you softens into something worse.

Longing.

Because he’s beautiful. And fucked up. And so full of belief when he looks at you.

You hate him.

And you love him.

“Fuck you.”

Jinu smiles.

“What’d I miss?” Abby’s voice crashes into the kitchen.

Behind him, Romance.

You know something’s wrong the second you see his face.

He’s grinning. Too much teeth. Hands behind his back.

You don’t like the way they look at each other. Or at you.

Something is off.

“Come here for a second.” Jinu says.

You look at him. “…Why?”

He gestures lazily toward the refrigerator. “Wanna show you something. It’s weird. Like a mark—burned in. Look.”

Abby’s already whistling like he’s pretending not to be a part of this. Romance is pretending to examine the ceiling. His hands are still behind his back. Suspiciously jingling.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You step over. “I don’t see any—”

CLICK.

Fur snaps around your wrist.

You whirl around, yanking hard, only to be met with Romance’s smug face. He lifts a hand and gives you a little wave.

Handcuffed.

To the fucking fridge.

You look down.

Fur.

Bright red.

Heart-shaped.

You blink.

You process.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

Romance, absolutely radiant with joy, steps back and gives a playful raise of his hands. “Voilà!”

“ARE THESE SEX HANDCUFFS?!”

Jinu, behind you, claps his hands once. “Well done.”

You start yanking on the cuffs. Hard. “LET ME OUT.”

“Soon.” Jinu says smoothly. “We’ve got to redo the entryway. Since you figured out how to break it.” His tone is… not mad. Not even disappointed. He almost sounds proud.

“Consider this a… timeout.” Romance purrs.

“Are you fucking joking.”

Romance sighs dreamily. “They’re my favorite pair, too.”

Jinu, smooth as ever, stands behind you and adjusts the cuff so it doesn’t bite your skin. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Abby has a photo shoot. The other three and I are needed for… some stage bullshit.”

“This is a crime.” you snap, wriggling. “This is actual—like, real world illegal!”

“Oh, and no messing with the hinge anymore.” Abby adds. “We’ll fix that. You earned points for figuring it out, but we’re not stupid.”

You growl—actually growl.

Jinu steps in, calm again, hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “Relax.” His voice drops to that terrifying register again. Gentle. Final. “We’ll deal with your little escape trick later. For now… stay. Be good. Eat something. Or don’t. You’ll crack eventually. Don’t hurt yourself.”

You don’t speak. You glare so hard it should start a fire in his soul.

He just smiles, kisses your temple, and steps away. To the hall, you suppose to get Mystery and Baby.

The heart-shaped fucking SEX cuffs bite every time you shift. Soft fur or not, they’re starting to piss you off.

Romance leans lazily against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, skin glowing under the soft morning lights. Abby’s dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, legs splayed.

You remember. Who they really are. Not idols. Not boyfriends. Not annoying roommates who make breakfast too loud and leave hair in the sink. No. These are demons. They turned themselves into something unnatural. They’ve killed. They’ve tortured. They’ve torn souls from bodies and never looked back. Abby ripped through a human body like it was paper. Romance kissed a dying man just to taunt him.

And now? They’re just… here.

You swallow hard. Don’t cry. Not now. Not in front of them.

Romance breaks the silence first. “You okay, love?”

You look at him. Dead-on. Flat and empty.

“You look pissed.” he says, as if this is new information.

“I want to die.” you say, because it’s easier than saying you terrify me. Easier than I used to have a life. Friends. Now I talk to a tiger and cry myself to sleep tied to kitchen furniture.

Romance hums. Crosses one ankle over the other. “Well. Let’s not be dramatic.”

You don’t speak.

He reaches into the fruit bowl, takes out an apple, and winks at it. No, seriously. He winks at the apple. Then offers it to you. “No?”

You say nothing.

He shrugs and bites into it himself. Loudly.

Next to him, Abby opens the fridge—literally reaches around you like this is normal—and grabs a bottle of water. He doesn’t even look at you, just twists the cap off with one hand and chugs.

You glare at him. “Baby spat into that.”

He whistles, low and appreciative. “Smart and hot. You’re kind of a nightmare.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “you’re really gonna hate me when you find out we’re coming home late.”

You tug your arms, the cuffs pulling taut. “You can’t keep me here.”

“We are keeping you here.” he says, all casual.

“But we’ll make it nice.” Romance adds softly, stepping closer. His voice drops into velvet. “You don’t have to be angry all the time. We know this sucks. We know we’re not… ideal. But we do care, sweetheart.”

“Then let me go.”

They don’t feel evil. Not to themselves. They’re comfortable in it.

“Oh, baby, you didn’t even touch your food.” Romance says softly, peering at your plate. “Jinu put love into this.”

You shoot him a look that could cut marble. “I’m handcuffed.”

Romance shrugs, eyes twinkling. “I’d pay to be handcuffed near ice cream and you.”

You hate it here.

“Look, since you’re so hungry you were trying to take the door off its hinges,” Abby says, voice full of that teasing weight that makes you want to throw furniture “might as well eat before you pass out.”

“I’m not eating.”

Romance walks over to your untouched plate and picks up a fork. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Oh, I’m the dramatic one?”

They move in.

Together.

Romance is first, always the most forward, bringing a bite of Jinu’s lovingly crafted breakfast toward your mouth. “Say ‘ahh,’ sweetheart.”

You refuse the first bite. Lips tight. Eyes hot.

Abby leans down, his arm bracing the fridge, his voice at your ear. “Just open your mouth, babe. No one’s watching.”

You hate how your brain twitches at the tone of it—how close they both are now. How they radiate warmth and power and something evil that still draws you.

You feel the cuffs bite into your skin as you pull again.

“Don’t.” Abby says, and there’s a sharpness to it now. “You’ll bruise. Jinu’ll get pissed.”

You turn your head.

Romance sighs. “You’re being mean. Love of my life. Please take one bite. Just one.”

And then he lifts the fork.

You press your lips together.

“Open.” he murmurs.

You don’t.

So Abby takes his own fork and comes at you from the other side. The bastard.

Suddenly you’ve got two men feeding you.

“You’re not serious.” you whisper.

They are.

Abby gently nudges his fork forward. “Bite. Come on. Bite it.”

Romance strokes your hair. “Love, please.”

You breathe in slowly. Close your eyes. Then, bitterly, you open your mouth.

Romance slides his fork in first.

You hate that it tastes good.

Abby, immediately jealous, shoves Romance aside. “My turn.”

He holds up his fork, brows raised, and waits.

You open again.

Another bite. Another fork.

It goes on. Fork from the left, fork from the right. Abby gets competitive and starts cutting the food into better pieces. Romance pours a little sparkling water and holds the glass to your lips.

You look at them. Their pretty faces. Abby’s arms. Romance’s smile. They’re not good people. They’re not redeemable. Not the “soft boys with a past” you once tried to convince yourself they were. They’re bad. Evil, even. But they’re in love with you. Because their eyes—when they look at you—don’t lie.

Romance kisses your forehead after your last bite. “Shit, I’d do anything for you.”

Abby grunts. “Except set you free.”

Romance sighs. “Yeah. That.”

You’re still cuffed.

You’re still furious.

And maybe—maybe—a little full.

Jinu walks back in, calm and calm and calm. Mystery behind him, hands in his pockets. You immediately glance his way. Hopeful. Baby, phone in hand, pink gum in his mouth. Disinterested. That classic I don’t give a single fuck aura surrounding him.

“She’s fed.” Abby says, so proud of himself.

“Hydrated.” Romance adds.

You scowl.

Baby looks up from his phone.

Sees you.

Stops.

He fucking laughs.

It’s quiet, at first. Just a low pff— through his nose. But then he full-on laughs, head tilting back, hand over his mouth, gum nearly flying from between his lips as he doubles over, breathless.

You’ve never heard Baby laugh. Not once. And now here he is, taken the fuck out, because you’re handcuffed to a fridge.

You glare, cheeks heating. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

He doesn’t even look at you. Just smirks, and mutters something to Jinu that’s too low for you to hear.

Jinu steps forward. He looks you over, lingers on your wrists, and gives you that impossibly gentle smile. “You’ll be alright, won’t you?” he says, like he’s tucking in a child.

You stare. Blank. “Go fuck yourself.”

He nods, like you just said “I’ll be good.” Bastard.

Abby claps you on the shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh right.”

Romance blows you a kiss. He’s already halfway out the door, fluffing his hair.

Mystery walks by last.

You catch his eye. You puppy-eye his soul.

Silent. Pleading. Please.

He pauses. Just a second. Just long enough to make your heart thump with irrational, burning hope.

He shrugs.

And walks out.

Your soul leaves your body.

The door closes behind them with the softest click.

Silence.

Just you.

“…Fuck.”

Meanwhile, the three HUNTR/X girls sit in a semicircle on low designer couches, the city sprawling behind them in that fancy ass apartment or penthouse or the fuck they have.

Just silence.

And you. The empty space where you should be, I mean.

Zoey sits forward, elbows on her knees, spinning a ring around her finger over and over again. She’s the only one who isn’t scowling. Yet.

Across from her, Rumi has a laptop in her lap, screens open, tabs minimized and maximized again and again. She’s got a pen in one hand, clicking it with ruthless precision. Nothing is adding up.

Mira looks like she’s five seconds from punching a hole in the window.

“Still nothing.” Rumi says.

“She’s not dead.” Zoey says softly, spinning her ring faster. “They would’ve made it known if she was dead.”

Rumi snorts. “Comforting.”

Zoey leans back, biting her lip. “We don’t even know where to start.”

“She’s somewhere they go.” Rumi says.

Zoey lights up. “Then we follow that. Track their movements. Figure out where they disappear when they’re not on camera.”

“We’ve been trying that for weeks.” Rumi throws a hand toward the screen. “They’ve covered every trail.”

“They’re arrogant.” Mira says darkly. “That’s the crack in the glass.”

Rumi sighs. “If we had a way to find the exact location—”

“But we don’t.” Mira snaps. “Because someone,” she gestures vaguely toward the city below, then to Zoey. “thought it was a great idea to let them off the leash.”

Zoey sighs. “They were charming at first.”

“They’re psychopaths.”

“They were hot psychopaths.”

“I will rip their spines out and braid them together.”

“You’re so romantic.”

Rumi ignores them both, gaze pinned to a video of a Saja fan account recording some concert footage. They’re on stage, singing. Abby with his shirt half off, Romance blowing kisses. Jinu saying something quiet into the mic that makes the crowd lose their minds. The crowd eats it up. They always do.

“Can’t go to Bobby.” Rumi mutters, thinking aloud. “If we tell him they have her, he goes to corporate. They go public. She becomes a PR incident. We need to be smart.”

“And fast.” Mira adds.

“I still think she’s okay.” Zoey whispers.

Mira presses her fingers to her temples. “Okay isn’t enough. She was taken. We don’t know where. We don’t know what they’re doing to her.”

“I think we can get her back.”

Mira snorts. Loud. Unamused. “You think.”

“I know.” Zoey sits up straighter. “I—I mean, I hope. They didn’t kill her. That would’ve… we’d know. I’d feel it.”

“Same.” Rumi says, eyes still locked on her screen. “They wouldn’t. They want leverage. They want information.”

Mira snaps, voice sharp. “Then they’re torturing her for it. Great. Fucking great.”

Zoey shakes her head. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did.” Rumi says, calmly. “But you’re right.”

Silence.

Mira’s fists curl. She kicks a chair. Like, kicks it. Across the floor. It skids and slams into the glass.

Zoey sighs. “I know they’re pretty, but that doesn’t fix them. Objectively.”

“They’re not that hot.” Rumi mutters.

Zoey looks at her. “They are.”

Rumi glares. “Don’t remind me.”

Another silence.

They’re not good at this. Not the waiting. Not the planning. They’re warriors. Fighters. They know how to handle demons and stage lights. Not this aching, empty absence.

Zoey leans forward. “What if we just… bait them?”

Mira grins. “You want to piss them off?”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“They’re boys.” Zoey says. “They’re messy.”

They all pause.

Look at each other.

And for the first time in days, there’s something like hope.

Fuck these timeskips man. The front door clicks open. It’s late, past midnight. You’re still handcuffed. To the fucking refrigerator. In the kitchen. And maybe you’re crying.

Shut up.

You’re not like sobbing sobbing, just… that kind of silent crying that leaves your cheeks streaked and your throat raw. That exhausted, hopeless crying that you’re trying to keep quiet even though no one’s here to hear you.

Until they are.

Until Romance rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks. He sees you. His smile drops.

“Oh no.” he says, soft.

He’s on you in two strides.

You blink through the blur in your eyes, chest too tight to yell, to spit, to insult, but you don’t need to. His arms are already around you, tugging you into his chest. You don’t want to let yourself lean in. You do anyway.

“Oh, baby.” he murmurs. “You crying? You really—ah, shit, don’t be like this. Shit—no, no, don’t—don’t be like this, gorgeous, c’mere—“

You let out a breath that’s barely a laugh. Barely anything.

“Okay, okay.” he pulls back just enough to cup your face, thumbing under your eye. “Is this because of the cuffs? Are they too tight? Are you dehydrated? You haven’t had sugar today, have you? That’ll make you emotional. Or maybe it’s hormones. Is it your period coming? Were you bored? Were you hungry? It’s okay, I know, I know—shhhh—”

You make a strangled sound.

“Oh, no no no, don’t cry harder—Abby!” Romance whips his head. “Abby, get the fucking keys!”

“WHAT?” Abby yells, somewhere down the hall.

“The handcuffs, you slab of meat!!”

“I think they’re in your pants.” Abby offers from the hallway.

“THEN FUCKING GO GET THEM.”

“I said I think—”

Romance shoots him a look that could unlace his spine.

Abby sighs and vanishes. There’s a deep groan. Footsteps. More cursing.

Jinu rolls his eyes, the heartless bitch. “Abby, fix the door before it falls off. Mystery, stop growling at your own reflection. Baby—don’t start. Don’t look at the wine. Don’t touch anything.”

“I’m not doing shit.” Baby responds, which is exactly what people who are about to do shit say.

“Abby.” Jinu calls calmly. “Fix the fucking front door while you’re up.”

“MAN.” Abby’s voice carries. “I just got home. I have, like, baby oil on me from—”

“Then you’re lubed and ready.” Jinu calls back. “Don’t waste the opportunity.”

“God forbid I take a piss first.”

You sniff. Romance cradles your head. You try to move your face away from him but your hands are still pinned, and he just hugs you tighter. One hand cups the back of your head. The other rubs down your spine.

“You’re okay now, shhh—hey, I got you. I got you, baby. What happened, huh? Did it get too much? I’ll make it better, I will. Just don’t cry like this, okay? It breaks my fucking heart, you gorgeous little witch. Don’t cry, gorgeous. I’ll cry if you cry.”

Jinu turns. “Baby—don’t track mud on the rug. Shoes off at the door.”

Baby scoffs—so Baby—but kicks them off mid-stride anyway.

Through it all, Romance doesn’t let go of you. He pulls your face against his neck, murmuring into your hair. He kisses your hair. Twice. And goes back to cooing.

“I swear, sugarplum, if I knew these cuffs were gonna make you cry I wouldn’t have let it happen. This is all Jinu’s fault. Probably Abby’s too. And like… Baby.”

“Fuckin’ right it’s not my fault.” Abby says as he walks back in, keys in hand.

Romance catches them without looking, still holding you with one hand, unlocking you with the other like it’s something he’s done a hundred times. The cuffs click off.

But your wrists are marked, even beneath the red fur. Tender red dents across the softest part of your skin, too tight, too long, too fucking humiliating. And Romance still has the balls to hold your hands. Gently palms them open, his expression soft and full of guilt like he wasn’t the one locking them on you.

He kisses your wrists.

Both.

Slowly. Lovingly.

He looks up at you, eyes glossy, lips still barely grazing your skin.

“Get the fuck off me.” You yank your hands away so fast he actually stumbles back a step. Your chest burns, eyes glassy again. Suffocating. You don’t spare any of them a look as you storm past.

The tiger follows, with a single flick of his fluffy tail as he pads after you.

You slam your bedroom door shut.

A few seconds later, Mystery lets out just one high-pitched little dog whimper.

Abby sighs. Loudly. Rolls his eyes, takes a knee at the front door, the one you nearly got off the hinges, and starts inspecting it. His massive, stupid hands flex as he tugs at it. He’s muttering under his breath already.

Baby opens the fridge, takes a fuckass little juice box, walks out of the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, just takes a long, annoying slurp from the tiny straw and makes direct eye contact with Jinu as he walks past.

Abby’s crouched on the floor, tools scattered beside him.

Baby kicks him in the thigh. Not even that hard. Just enough to be a bitch.

“Fucking—ow, you dick.” Abby mutters, not even looking up.

Baby shrugs. Keeps walking. Slurping on that little fuck of a juice box.

Jinu’s already turning away, and disappears down the hall.

Romance just stands there. Alone in the kitchen. His hands still smell like your skin. He stares at the spot you stood. Eyes half-lidded, mouth parted. And then slowly, reverently, he brings his fingers to his lips.

He kisses them.

Then he exhales. Picks up the fur cuffs from where they’ve fallen on the floor.

“Yeah.” he mutters to himself, pacing back toward the table, still dazed. “We’re totally getting married.”

One day I’ll learn how to do a pretty timeskip, anyway, now it’s the middle of the night. Only a few hours passed, but you’re asleep. I mean that’s good, fucking great, you needed it. You’re half under Derpy, half tangled in a blanket, and with Sussie curled up against your neck.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

You definitely didn’t mean to cry yourself there.

You’d calmed down, sure. The tears stopped. But the anger didn’t. So when the knock comes, you wake up so fucking confused. Just… fucking exhausted.

You push yourself up with a groan, the tiger huffing once and adjusting to let you go. You just slide out of bed and pad barefoot across the room, open the door slow—

And there’s Jinu. In his hands, a takeout bag. Neatly packed. Still warm. Your comfort order. From your favorite place. Not a coincidence. Never a coincidence with him.

“Hi.” he says, quiet, careful.

You stare.

“I know you haven’t eaten.” he adds.

You glance down at the bag, then back at him.

He holds it out. You don’t take it.

“I thought—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

A look that says: Don’t fucking try it.

He sighs through his nose, smile faltering just slightly. “Look,” he murmurs. “I just… wanted to bring you something. Something you like.”

“I’m still mad.” you say, voice hoarse from sleep, maybe from earlier tears too. “You’re still a fucking criminal.”

That makes him laugh, soft. “Yeah.” he says. “That part’s fair.”

You narrow your eyes. “This is bribery.”

“It’s dinner.” he argues, lifting the bag.

“Bribery.” you repeat.

“Okay. It’s bribery dinner. But it’s your favorite bribery dinner.”

You snort, bitter. “I’m not forgiving you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what are you asking?”

He meets your eyes, serious now. “I’m asking you to eat.”

From behind him, bare feet slap against the hardwood, and a second later, Baby walks past in the hallway, shirtless and SKINNY AS FUCK now that you take a look at it. A bottle of clear liquor dangling from one hand.

He doesn’t look at either of you. Doesn’t say a word. He just slams his foot into the back of Jinu’s knees as he walks by, enough to make Jinu jerk with a grunt, almost drop the food.

“Ow—fuck, seriously?” Jinu hisses, half-glancing over his shoulder.

Baby keeps walking. Down the hall. Bottle swinging, spine relaxed, middle finger casually tossed over his shoulder without turning around.

Jinu exhales like he’s used to it. Stabilizes himself. Holds the food out again like nothing happened.

You look at the bag. Then at him. You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re lucky I don’t throw this in your face.”

“Please don’t.” he mutters.

You still don’t take it.

He steps forward. A little closer. Holds it between you. “You can hit me later if you want. Or tomorrow. With something heavier. I deserve it.”

You look at him for a long time. Then you shut the door in his face.

Jinu exhales on the other side. “…Okay. Fair.”

You stare at the door.

Your stomach growls.

You hate him so much.

You rip the door back open.

Jinu hasn’t moved. He’s still there. Staring straight ahead, like he knew. Like he always knows. His eyes lift to meet yours, surprised? No. Amused? Maybe a little.

You snatch the bag right out of his hands. You don’t look at him. Don’t thank him. Don’t say a word. Just slam the door in his face again. A little petty, honestly.

You hear a soft laugh from the other side. Bastard.

You sit on the floor, legs crossed, and you eat.

And fuuuuuuck, it’s delicious.

Why did you open the door?

Why do you always open the door?

These boys are awful. Criminals. Monsters. Demonic entities posing as boyband idols. They kidnapped you. They tortured you. They laughed when you tried to escape. They put you in fur-lined heart-shaped sex cuffs.

And now they’re hand-feeding you takeout, bringing you flowers, whispering in the hallway about who gets to see you first.

It’s fucked up.

Why do you feel bad for them? You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You’re the victim here. You’re the one who was taken. The one who cries at night. The one who hasn’t seen the sun in weeks. You should be angry. Furious. You are.

But…

And it’s so stupid. It’s so fucking stupid, but you want to know.

You want to know what made them like this.

Because no one’s born this evil. Right? So what happened? What’s their damage? Why are they so lonely?

…And why does that make your chest hurt?

You bury your face in your hands. You feel sick.

You realize… you don’t know them. Not really. Not at all. Not who they were. Not what made them this way. Not why they’re like this now. Not what it means when Jinu says he’s interested and yet shackles you in the kitchen. Not what it means when Romance calls you the love of his life in one breath and locks you to a fridge in the next.

You know they’re evil.

But you don’t know why.

You don’t know that Jinu threw up last night.

Twice.

Not from alcohol. Not from illness.

Just guilt.

You don’t know that—right now—he’s leaning over the sink in his bathroom. That he’s breathing heavy. Not angry. Not frustrated.

Ashamed.

You don’t know that he looked himself in the mirror just now and gagged.

You’re soft. You’re kind. You’re fragile. You don’t belong with him, not even in the same story. And still, he keeps you here. For himself. Because he’s selfish. Because he loves you.

His reflection stares back at him from the mirror, hollow-eyed and handsome, and he hates it.

He hates himself.

You don’t know that Romance is stretched across his massive bed, the dim gold of his bedside lamp casting a warm glow across his chest. He’s not sleeping. He’s not even trying. He’s just lying there, staring at the ceiling. An ice pack sits under one thigh where Baby kicked him earlier for calling him “adorable” with too much eye contact. There’s a glass of wine on the nightstand. Forgotten.

Romance knows he could be a good boyfriend. He knows it. He would do everything right. He’d be good for you. He knows he would. He’d run your baths. Paint your nails. Carry your bags.

He would worship you.

Because loving you is the only good thing left in his life.

You don’t know that Mystery is standing shirtless in the fogged-up bathroom. His wet hair is pushed out of his face. He looks boyish like this.

He stares at himself in the mirror. Long. Too long. Water still drips from the tip of his nose. His collarbones are pretty. He looks pale in the sterile light.

He leans in just a little.

Do you think he’s pretty?

You’ve never said.

You’ve called Romance an idiot, Abby a gym rat, Jinu a manipulative bastard, Baby an asshole, but you haven’t said anything about him. Not once.

He wants to know what you see.

Does he scare you? Does he look human to you? Do you think he’s worth saving?

His breath fogs the mirror again. He wipes it clean with his hand.

Then he steps back, wraps a towel around his waist, and heads to his room in silence.

You don’t know that Abby is staring at the ceiling, in bed. Or… on bed.

His hand runs through his short hair.

He tried sleeping. He even counted pushups in his head instead of sheep, but it didn’t work.

He’s such a bad person that he knows you should hate him, and still, he wants your forgiveness. How pathetic is that?

He doesn’t know how to do better. That part was never taught.

He wishes he could be less.

Just enough to be held by you.

You don’t know that Baby is alone in his room. Sitting cross-legged on a plush white rug, wearing nothing but shorts and staring at the wall.

He doesn’t let the others know he still has this side. If they saw it, they’d ask questions. Romance might hug him. Baby can’t deal with that.

He lets his head fall back against the wall, a slow thud of skull against it. No one tells him to stop. No one ever tells him to stop.

Not unless it’s Jinu. And fuck Jinu.

He is bad. He’s done terrible things. He’s not lying about that. He’s a brat. A fucking alcoholic. But the real shit, the origin story? It’s worse than any of them know.

They’ve done unspeakable things. You’re not dumb. You know. They’ve killed. They’ve tortured. They’ve stolen and lied and ruined lives with a single breath. Whatever they’ve done to become this, it wasn’t clean.

And still…

Still, you think of Abby’s crooked smile when he gets something right, like a little boy who finally tied his shoe.

Still, you think of Jinu pressing the warm takeout box into your hands, his eyes begging.

Still, you think of Romance kissing your wrists and whispering to you.

Still, you think of Baby walking by with that bottle of liquor and a kicked knee, but his hand, didn’t it shake, just a little?

Still, you think of Mystery whining when you left them there.

You don’t want to want them. You don’t want to forgive. You don’t want to care. You don’t want to imagine hugging Jinu in the kitchen instead of shoving the food back into his chest. You don’t want to imagine petting Mystery’s hair. Or letting Romance lay his head in your lap while you caress his skin. Or letting Abby do pushups while you sit on his back. Or sitting down next to Baby by your own free will.

You don’t want to love them.

But something in your heart is soft where it should be hard.

What’s wrong with you? What is so wrong with you that even after everything…you still want them to feel loved? Why do you want to hold Abby, not for his body but for the feelings that are even bigger than him? Why do you want to brush Mystery’s hair back and tell him yes, of course you think he’s beautiful? Why do you want to rest your head on Romance’s shoulder and listen to his awful, overdramatic little stories? Why do you want to crawl under Jinu’s arm and pretend, just for a second, that he isn’t what he is? Why do you want to hand Baby a juice box and wrap him in a blanket and say you don’t have to be this person anymore?

They’re nightmares in perfect skin. And they would absolutely ruin you in bed.

Okay, WOAH, where did that come from?

No but for real, dogs. Nasty dogs. There’s a weird little headboard breaking vibe to the way they look at you, and you know they’ve each imagined it. More than once. Probably all at the same time.

Why the fuck are you thinking about how they’d sound whining beneath you? How they’d look all pathetic and breathless, fucked out and ruined for you?

You cough, half out of shame, half to try and physically dislodge the mental image.

Abby, shirtless and cocky and loud, biting his own fist to keep quiet, grinding his hips up for friction like a dog in heat.

Jinu, pretending to be composed even when his back arches, soft gasps slipping past perfect lips as he clutches your thigh. Even when you slap his cheek lightly for talking back, and his eyes close.

Romance, head thrown back, begging with his whole chest, kissing your hand, his voice desperate and cracking. Whimpering against your neck, saying sorry, sorry, sorry through a gag until you push him away and he begs you not to. Spread out, wrists tied in red silk scarves he definitely already owns, trying to talk his way through it like he’s not rock hard at your heel pressed against his chest. He’d laugh at first. Until you didn’t. Until you put pressure behind your words. And suddenly he’s choking on a “yes, baby” like it’s the first real thing he’s said in centuries.

Mystery, eyes wide and wet, cheeks flushed, arms bound above his head, perfectly still until you tell him otherwise. Quiet, feral, with that flash of defiance that only makes it more fun when you yank him back by his hair. Until he’s panting, low and choked, nails clawing the floorboards because he won’t beg unless you force him to, but when he does, it’s pitiful and lovely and you almost feel bad.

And Baby. Cold, bratty Baby, hiding his trembling behind clenched teeth, whispering “fuck you” even when he’s the one gasping every time you touch him. He’d pretend he didn’t care the whole time, rolling his eyes, acting bored, spitting out shit like, “Are you done yet? This is lame.” Right until you grabbed him by the jaw and made him care. And suddenly that smart mouth wouldn’t know what to say anymore, his knees would still hit the floor.

NO.

They kidnapped you.

They’re twisted inside and out.

They’ve done horrible things.

And they’re getting under your skin anyway.

You wrap your arms around yourself, try to ignore how fast your heart is beating. Your breath hitches. The thought of their hands softening only for you, slipping under your shirt, holding your jaw, breaking for you, is like swallowing lightning.

They don’t deserve your sympathy.

But they have it anyway.

What they do deserve though, is to get smacked across the face. To be shoved back by the collar and told no. To be denied, humiliated, reminded they don’t own you.

So you began to ignore them.

For days.

No eye contact. No small talk. No “fuck yous.” Nothing.

It starts small. The cold shoulder when you pass them in the hall. The way you refuse to lift your eyes when Jinu asks, softly, if you want him to make your tea. The stiff back when Romance touches your shoulder with a hopeful, “Baby, don’t be like this.”

But it builds.

You start giving them the kind of petty indifference that only someone truly furious can pull off. You live in the same house, eat from the same fridge, breathe the same air, and yet you do not exist.

Unless, of course, you need something.

When you can’t open a jar, you still hold it out wordlessly. No “please.” No “thanks.” Just stretch your arm and raise an eyebrow, stone-faced, unimpressed, and one of them (usually Abby) always comes. He pops the lid off with one twist and no effort, looks at you like a puppy who just did a trick, and you? You take the jar, walk away. Not even a nod.

They’re dying.

Jinu tries to play it off, at first. He pretends like this is good, like you’re giving yourself space, like this will pass. He tells himself it’s a phase. But when you don’t look at him for the third day in a row, when you walk past him while he’s speaking, mid-sentence, asking you something gentle, even sweet, he clenches his jaw so tight it clicks.

He’s not angry.

He’s going fucking loco.

He forgets appointments. Forgets to lie to management. Forgets what day it is. Baby throws a shoe at his head.

He’s started jerking off in the shower just to feel something that isn’t regret. But your voice, your silence, is always there in the background.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I hate you.”

“Leave me alone.”

Oh god, he wants your voice back.

Romance is in hell. Real, emotional, sexually repressed, oxytocin-deprived hell.

You’re ignoring him. Romance. The man who could make literal royalty fall in love with him in under three minutes. The man who’s carried empires with his jawline and you, his sweet little muse, won’t even look at him.

He keeps trying.

He makes your tea just how you like it, then pretends he wanted it when you ignore the cup. He lights candles in the hallway near your room. He writes you a four-line poem on a sticky note and slides it under your door like a fucking sixth grader.

Nothing.

His hands are in his pants. Constantly. Not even in a sexy way, half the time. Just stressed. Palming himself while reading, while eating cereal, while sitting on the edge of his bed with your old hoodie in his lap. Always cums pathetically fast. At night, he’s curled up, soft moans pressed into his pillow as he fists himself over the idea of you finally breaking, crawling into his bed, whispering, Romance, I forgive you, you pretty idiot.

He tries to bait you, loudly moaning from his room for your benefit, walking through the house in his robe with nothing underneath, but no reaction.

He’s a wreck. He’s also somehow still exfoliating. It’s impressive.

Mystery is suffering quietly. Which, for him, means he’s masturbating in the dark and miserable about it.

He doesn’t whine. Doesn’t beg. But his eyes? They’re so fucking lonely. And the fucking point of this is that you can’t SEE that.

When you don’t speak to him for the third day in a row, he just lowers his head slightly, like a scolded dog.

He spends a lot of time in the shower now. A lot. Head tilted back. Eyes closed. Imagining you.

Abby’s coping the only way he knows how. By being a fucking asshole. He starts working out more. Louder. Grunting. Slamming weights. Going shirtless in every room to give you subtle hints of the vibe “I miss you, please notice me.”

When that doesn’t work? He starts messing with your stuff. Moving your books. Rearranging the fridge. Leaving your favorite snacks just slightly out of reach. Then he works out for six hours straight. You walk past the gym. You don’t even glance in. He’s shirtless. Sweating. Arms the size of your self-worth. And you just… walk. Right. Past. No reaction. Not even a twitch.

He gets so mad he punches a hole in the punching bag and then grumbles, “This is dumb” before he stomps off to sulk in his room. Cue: him, hands under the covers, fucking his fist, muttering “fuckfuckfuckfuck” because he can’t stop thinking about your face. About the way you cried when he massaged you, about the sound of your laugh, which he hasn’t heard in DAYS. Your face behind his eyes. You, in all your unbothered, furious beauty. You, walking away, flicking him off, that one time you pressed a finger to his chest to shove him back—fuck, that was hot.

It’s torture. It’s worse than physical pain. But he keeps imagining you saying his name, just once. Just once more. He thinks about you storming into the gym when he’s lifting. Yelling at him. Throwing something. Just acknowledging him.

He’s literally stroking himself to the idea of you hating him out loud.

You asked him to open a jar the other night and he nearly came.

Baby says nothing. He’s mad that he misses you. Mad that he wants you to push him against a wall and call him a brat. Mad that he’s getting off on the idea of you calling him mean and insufferable while riding him until he forgets his name.

The silence makes him meaner. Picks fights with everyone. Shoves Mystery when he walks too slow. Flicks Abby in the head. Blows smoke in Jinu’s face and calls Romance things that would make you cry.

He kicks the back of chairs when you sit in them. He takes the last juice box every time now. He left the TV on full volume the other night just to see if you’d yell. He walks by you and shoves you a little harder than he used to. Spills things near you hoping you’ll snap. Lights a cigarette and blows smoke right near you just to get a reaction.

You say nothing.

He watches you walk away and mutters, “Bitch” but it sounds weak. Sounds like heartbreak.

But every time he passes you in the hall and your shoulder brushes his, his heart flips.

You’re his karma. He’s sure of it.

It’s like withdrawal. Actual, medical-grade withdrawal.

They want to touch you, even if it’s just a brush of your arm. They want you to yell at them, curse at them, cry at them. Anything. This silence? This empty, pretty silence? It’s killing them.

It’s been days.

Days since you started punishing them with your silence.

Days since any of them heard your voice, your laugh, your bite. Since your presence meant anything to them besides the slow death of being ignored.

And they are starving.

Romance lasted longer than they expected. You didn’t even crack when he left you chocolates. Or perfume. Or a whole ass handwritten love letter sealed with his kiss and sprayed with his signature cologne.

So only he moves.

Because Romance is the only one with no shame left to lose.

He knocks on your door at night. Gentle. You know it’s him. Of course you do. Nobody else knocks like this, even though he usually doesn’t knock at all.

You ignore it.

So he comes in.

You’re standing already. Back straight. Eyes flat.

He shuts the door behind him.

Then drops to his knees.

“Please.” he says, voice already breathy. “Please, baby.”

He doesn’t stay at a polite distance, no, he wraps his arms around your thighs, presses his cheek into your lower stomach, hands clasped behind your legs.

“Please don’t hate me anymore.” he whispers, muffled against your skin. “Don’t look at me like I’m everyone else. I’m me. You know me.”

You try to step back. He won’t let you. His grip tightens, his forehead presses into your body, and he sounds so pitiful when he talks.

“I can’t take this anymore. I’ll be better. I’ll be so good. You won’t even recognize me. Please just talk to me. Please just say something. I’ll slit my wrist for that.”

You grit your teeth.

He sniffles and stuffs his face between your legs. Not sexually, no. Desperately.

“I’d do anything.” he murmurs. “Anything you want. Please talk to me. Say something. I’ll take anything. You can tell me to go fuck myself, I swear, I’ll even moan when you do it—just—just don’t leave me in this fucking silence.”

He lifts his head just slightly, eyes glassy but bright. Gorgeous, even like this. And it’s so pathetic. So pathetic. Big, watery eyes. Mouth trembling.

“You’re so quiet. I didn’t realize how much I needed your voice until you took it away. Now it’s the only thing I think about. The only thing I want.” He pulls back, looking up at you with his fingers curled around your legs. “You can hit me. Spit in my mouth. I’ll thank you for it.”

You roll your eyes

Romance exhales, shaky. “Just… please. Please talk to me. Say something. Yell. Tell me I’m the worst. But let me hear you. I’m not trying to get off.” he lies. “I’m not trying to seduce you.” he lies again. “I just miss you.”

Still, you don’t move.

And so Romance slides his hands down your thighs, down to your knees. He presses his lips to them.

You reach down.

He freezes.

And you shove him back. Not hard. But clearly.

He stumbles a bit, catching himself on his palms, and his eyes flick up to you. And fuck, he looks so pretty on his knees like that. Red-cheeked. Wide-eyed. Heartbroken. Wanting.

He crawls back slowly. Hands and knees on the floor like something tamed. Still facing you. Still hoping.

“Punish me if you want.” he murmurs. “Hurt me. Use me. Just—don’t ignore me. Please don’t ignore me.”

He’s beautiful like this.

Your eyes linger on the man at your feet. You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with shallow breath, the slow way he trembles like he’s holding in a sob. His face is pressed to your leg. He hasn’t dared look up in minutes.

“…Clothes.”

His head lifts an inch. Slowly. Carefully. Not quite hope, but something desperate that wants to be.

You look down at him now. “New ones.” you clarify.

“Of course, baby. Of course. Anything you want.” His voice is breathless and boyish and trembling with relief.

You hum. Barely a sound. Then, your fingers reach out, slow, and trace along his forehead. Middle and pointer finger moving like little legs, mock-walking across his skin, down the bridge of his nose.

His eyes flutter closed, lips parted.

“I want a proper skincare shelf in the bathroom.” you say next, tone casual. “And I want the pink shampoo. The one you assholes always use up before I get to it.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, baby. I’ll get you twelve. One for each day. For the tiger too.”

You “walk” your fingers again. Down the curve of his cheek, then back up.

“And a vanity mirror. With lights. And the snack drawer filled. I want that strawberry chocolate that Baby always eats.”

His hands tighten just slightly on your thighs, like the mention of things you love makes him ache. He nods fast, eyes still closed, voice low and breathy. “Yes. Done.“

“And a white bag.” you murmur, still tracing his skin, now gently picking at a lock of his soft hair between your fingers. “Like, a really good one.”

He nods.

You sigh, slow and thoughtful. Your fingers dance beneath his chin now, tilting his face up, thumb brushing his bottom lip, not sweetly. Just testing him. Like he’s a plaything.

And he lets you.

God, does he let you.

“God, you’re so fucking easy.” you whisper, just enough venom to tease.

You let your hand fall from his face. He almost leans into the loss.

And then you murmur, “Stand up.”

He does. In one graceful move, tall again, towering above you but not daring to be above you.

He’s holding his breath.

You nod toward the door.

“You can go now.”

He nods. Sheepishly. And turns to leave.

You stare at the door for a long, long while after he leaves.

On the other side though, Romance’s bare feet thunder down the hall, and he doesn’t knock, he doesn’t wait, he doesn’t breathe, he just kicks Abby’s door open. “ABBY!” he yells, breathless, wild-eyed, radiating joy. “You fat fuck I need your wallet!”

Abby’s lying on his bed, shirtless, boxers yanked halfway down, muscles tense, a tissue box on one side, one huge hand currently on his cock.

Romance’s eyes drop for one second to take in the situation. “…Ah.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“No, no, no.” Romance says quickly, walking across the room without a lick of shame, jumping on the bed as Abby covers himself up with the covers. “This is life or death. She spoke to me. She fucking talked to me, Abby, do you get it?! She touched me. Like—touched my face. With her little human hands. Like this.” He does a dramatic little finger-walking motion across his own cheek.

Abby stares at him.

Romance beams, unapologetic.

Abby stares harder.

Romance starts bouncing a little, like he physically can’t contain the joy.

Abby sits up slowly, dragging his boxers back up.

“She wants clothes. She said she wants shampoo, and chocolate, and a bag—Abby, Abby, we have to go shopping.”

Abby groans, drags a hand down his face.

Romance leans forward and grabs his bicep. “We’re gonna get her everything. Do you understand? I’m gonna be the BEST fucking boyfriend alive.”

“Fuck you.”

Romance rolls over, hugs Abby’s side dramatically. “Aww. You’re so in love with me.”

“Get your gay ass off me, I’m soft.”

“Ew.” Romance shoves him. “I hate you. Anyway, she’ll forget all about being handcuffed to the fridge.”

“Still think that was funny as fuck.”

Somewhere down the hallway, someone, probably Baby, shouts: “SHUT. UP.”

Silence.

Romance sighs. “Do you think she’d, like…” he scratches his head, trailing off. “I dunno. Do you think she’d ever kiss me?”

“Dude.”

“Not now. But like, later.”

Abby shrugs again. “She kissed me once.”

Romance’s head snaps toward him. “WHAT?!”

“By accident.”

“HOW do you get kissed by accident?”

“She fell. I caught her. There was lip contact.”

Romance glares. “You are a liar.”

Silence.

Romance bites his cheek. “You ever think we’re too much?”

“No.”

“You think she liked my hair?” Romance asks, flicking his fingers through it. “I curled it a little today. Not on purpose, but like, it fell that way.”

“Did she look at it?”

“She didn’t not look at it.”

“Then she liked it.”

Romance just leans his head on Abby’s shoulder.

“…You think she touches herself?” Romance asks suddenly, in a tone way too casual for the horror of the question.

Abby doesn’t even blink. “I think she does it when we’re not home.”

“Shit.”

(Guys I’ll be naming clothes sizes here, no matter what size you wear, you’re beautiful and the Saja boys would totally hit, but I needed to name them for the conversation! If you’re not that size, just replace it, I love you either way!!)

“…So like.” Abby mutters, rubbing a hand over his stomach, “if she wears, what—like, a medium shirt? You know the one. What size do we get?”

Romance blinks slowly. “Depends on the brand. Also on if it’s a crop top or a regular shirt or like… you know, the ones that do the thing.”

Abby looks at him sideways. “What thing.”

Romance raises both hands and mimes two invisible mounds in front of his chest. “The thing where it does the pushy-up-y thing. Like—”

“Pushy-up-y.”

“You know what I mean. With the—” He points at his own pecs, then flexes them. “Like this. But on her.”

Abby looks at him. Looks down at himself. Then brings both hands up and shoves his own pecs together, frowning with intensity. “…Like this?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Romance says. “But prettier.”

They stare at Abby’s pecs for a second.

Both of them very quiet.

“Okay. So. What’s a size 6?”

Abby shrugs. “A… small one?”

Romance frowns. “But not, like, too small?”

“Medium-small.” Abby offers.

“Is that even a real size?”

“Bro, I don’t know,” Abby replies honestly. “women’s shit is complicated.”

Romance thinks for a second. Stares forward. Nods. “…We need to reverse engineer this.”

Abby looks over. “What?”

“We use our memories. We recreate her.”

“…Bro.”

“No. Trust me.”

Abby sighs, but shifts anyway. They both sit up straighter, serious now. Tactical. Focused.

Romance raises his hands to his own chest, pushes his pecs together, thoughtful. “Her tits are like this. Right?”

Abby, chewing the corner of his lip, stares. Tilts his head. “No, no—wait. Tilt more. Your chest is too high. Hers is rounder. Softer.”

“Yours are hard as fuck, dude.” Romance agrees, then nods to himself. “Okay, so if we… press more here—”

They both adjust their pecs. Mashing them together like absolute fucking morons. Expression dead serious.

Romance pauses. “We’re geniuses.”

Abby mutters, “I think I’m getting aroused.”

Romance tilts his head. “They’re not, like, huge.”

“No.”

“But they’re… I dunno.”

“Perfect.”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence, heads nodding a little.

Romance presses his pecs together, moves them around. “Like this?”

Abby squints. Mimics the motion. “No, dude. Yours sit too high.”

Romance looks down. “So yours are low?”

“They’re not low, fuckwad, hers are just like—” He frowns. Thinks hard. “Tch. Y’know?”

“Wait, wait—” Romance adjusts again, eyebrows furrowed in intense scientific focus. “This?”

They both look at each other’s chest as they press their pecs together in slightly different configurations.

Romance grunts. “I think you’re right.”

“Told you.”

Boy math.

They’ll figure out your size eventually. One ridiculous guess at a time.

“Human girls are so weird.” Abby says. “They cry when they’re mad, but they laugh when they cry, and then they don’t want help, but they get mad when you don’t help, but if you help too much they think you think they’re weak, and then somehow, that’s your fault.”

Romance shakes his pretty head. “You can’t get them with flowers or food or gifts. Not for long. That’s rookie shit. What she wants—what all women want—is to be understood. And if you can’t do that, then at least be devoted. Fully. You don’t get women by just looking good.”

Abby blinks.

Romance looks at him. “I’m serious.”

“I look good, though.”

“No, yeah. We both do. That’s not the point.” Romance waves a hand through the air. “Women are intuitive. You don’t get them by posturing. You get them by understanding the ecosystem.”

“…The what?”

“The yoni, man.”

Abby makes a face like Romance just brought up taxes. “Oh fuck off.”

“Means womb. Sacred feminine. The origin of all life. The portal to divinity, and shit.”

Abby pauses. “That’s… kinda beautiful, actually.”

Romance nods. “Right? Women are god. They carry pain, creation, time, all of it—inside. And if you treat them like shit, you’re missing the whole fuckin’ point.”

Abby’s mouth parts just slightly. This is above his intellectual paygrade, but he’s not about to say so. “Respect.”

Romance runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You don’t seduce a woman like that with flowers and abs and dumb little pet names. You gotta make her feel. Like you’re safe. Like she’s seen. Like she can open the locked door inside her chest and you’re not gonna throw a grenade in there.”

Abby makes a long, drawn-out sound. “Hmm.”

Romance glances over. “You thinking?”

“…Mostly about your nipples.”

“Fair.”

“But also… you’re right. I think.”

Romance grins, tapping his temple. “There’s a brain up here somewhere. Okay, okay—sit up, fatass.”

Abby scowls. “I’m not fat.”

“You are objectively massive.” Romance says, kicking him in the calf. “And I mean that in the most homoerotically admiring way possible.”

“Back off.”

“Listen, I’m serious now.”

Romance grabs Abby’s wrist, warm hand wrapping over bulging forearm, and drags him upright. Abby goes with it begrudgingly, sitting up against the headboard again.

Romance props his chin in his palm and stares. Unblinking. His hair falls into his face again, framing that ridiculously symmetrical face. “You need to apologize to her.”

“What.”

“You like her?”

“…Yeah.”

“You respect her?”

Abby pauses.

Romance raises his brows. “Wrong answer.”

“…Yes.”

“Then you’re not gonna fix this by standing around. You hurt her. You lied. So you gotta show up with your chest out, no shirt, bonus points, heart on your sleeve, and you say: I was wrong.”

Abby looks at him, unblinking. “That’s it?”

“Okay, no, not just that. You say you were wrong, you say why. Be specific. Say something like, ‘I didn’t tell you the truth because I’m fucked-up with the emotional IQ of a cactus but I love you and I want to do better.’ Then—”

“Wait.” Abby interrupts. “That’s what you’d say.”

Romance slaps a hand against Abby’s chest—solid, broad, godlike—and leaves it there. Palm flat. Warm. Centered over the beating thing inside that chest, his knee sliding between Abby’s legs. “You say sorry and then stay. Because if you leave right after, she’ll think you’re just doing it for her reaction. Not for her.”

“Shut up.”

“I will not shut up.” He points a finger into Abby’s chest, poking directly at a pec. “Do you know why? Because I like her. I like seeing her exist. I like when she eats the food I make. I like when she’s mean to you.”

“She’s always mean to me.”

“Because you’re a dick, Abby.”

Abby sighs and drags a pillow over his face.

Romance yanks it away. Then he leans in closer, his hand now cupping Abby’s jaw. “No. No hiding. Look at me.”

Abby opens one eye, unimpressed. “What do you want me to do? Cry?”

The silence is heavy.

Too heavy.

Their eyes meet.

Because suddenly they’re very close. Like very close. His face inches from Abby’s. Breaths mixing. Hands still on each other.

“…Dude.” Abby says, very low.

Romance blinks. “Are we—?”

Abby squints. “Is this—?”

“No.” they both say at the same time, recoiling slightly.

“Anyway.” Romance coughs, dramatically adjusting his position like he wasn’t just seconds from initiating the world’s most confusing demon bromance kiss. “Point is, you’re apologizing.”

Abby groans, rolling his eyes so hard his skull might crack. “Fiiine. I’ll try.”

“You go make that human girl forgive you, and you do it with your whole ass, you hear me?”

Abby stands. Massive. Brooding. Slightly flushed. “…I hear you.”

“You go to her with sincerity. You use your words. And for the love of hell, you don’t bring Mystery.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s prettier than you and might get forgiven faster.”

“…Fair.”

And just like that, the demon of brute strength walks out of the room, psyching himself up to do something harder than convincing Jinu to not whoop his ass for fucking a move up: say sorry.

Abby stops in front of your door.

Romance mouths “Go in.”

Abby flips him off and knocks.

You don’t answer with words. But he hears the quiet shift of the bedsheets inside.

The door creaks open and Abby steps inside.

You’re sitting on the bed. Legs crossed, looking devastating. Sleep clothes clinging to the kind of body he’s not strong enough to not look at.

Abby shuts the door behind him. No escape now. He stands there awkwardly for a second, all that muscle and rage and guilt trapped in one idiotically gorgeous frame, and then he rubs the back of his neck, clears his throat like a teenager, and says “…Okay. So. I suck.”

Nothing. You blink.

“I mean. Like—like not literally, ‘cause, I mean—I could. I’ve been told I’m good at—okay, no, wait—not the point. I’m here to apologize. Kinda.”

Your stare is lethal. So is the face card.

Abby looks at the ceiling, breathes through his nose, then finally lets it out in a grunted, desperate, honest mess: “I’m sorry we handcuffed you to the fridge.”

That gets a blink.

He keeps going. “I mean, I’m sorry about all of it. That you’re here. That we keep being dicks. That we don’t—I don’t—know how to do this. With you.”

You raise an eyebrow. He swallows.

“So… yeah. I’m sorry. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.”

God, he sucks ass at this.

He shifts his weight. The silence stretches.

Then, as if his own brain catches up to the vulnerability he just let loose, he panics and throws in, “Also you look fucking hot right now.”

The tiger growls. Low. Protective.

Abby raises both hands. “I’m going, I’m going.” He backs toward the door, not breaking eye contact, even as he fumbles for the handle like it’s fighting him.

“Wait.”

He freezes.

You pat the bed beside you, once. “Come here.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. Just obeys. He closes the door gently. Crosses the room in just a few slow steps and sinks down beside you on the bed. Not too close, but close enough that his thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t look at you. Not right away.

You look at him, though. Eyes scanning the side of his face, the set jaw, the guilty slope of his eyebrows.

He’s so big. So strong. So dangerous. And he followed that one word like a dog.

“You were human once, right?”

He blinks. Slowly. Then shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember your name? Before Abby?”

“…No.”

You nod, like that’s alright. “Do you remember your mother?”

He swallows. Doesn’t answer right away. “Bits.”

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

He scoffs. Immediately. Like it’s the stupidest thing you could’ve asked. “No.” Silence. Then, softer: “Not even close.”

“What made you like this?”

That’s the one that gets him. His whole body shifts, defensive, and he glances at you, then at the wall. His jaw tightens. You wait. “I don’t know.”

“How old were you when you turned into a demon?”

He blinks. It’s not what he expected. “I don’t… know. Twenty-something, I guess.”

“Siblings?”

“I had a younger brother.”

And then—just to give him a breath—you grin a little, tilt your head to look at his arm. “…How big are your biceps?”

That makes him huff out a laugh. “Big enough.”

“Like—how big though?”

He flexes, looking away as if it’s nothing.

You glance, just for a second. “Hmm. Yeah. Passable.”

You touch his bicep with two fingers. Just tap it.

“You could kill someone with this.” you mutter.

“…I have.”

You both go quiet again.

“What are you feeling right now?”

“I… I don’t know.” he says slowly.

“Do you even know what you feel for me?”

He looks up.

Right at you.

And the look in his eyes is pure confusion. Not because the answer is no, but because the answer isn’t clear. Because feeling anything that isn’t rage or lust is a fucking foreign language to him.

“I don’t know.”

And he keeps saying he doesn’t know, but he really doesn’t. He so doesn’t know.

“Do you even remember your human life?” you ask, voice quiet.

He’s silent for a long beat. Then shrugs one shoulder. “Pieces.”

“What happened to you?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff.” you echo dryly.

He huffs. “I didn’t come here for therapy, alright?”

“…You know you’re not forgiven, right?” you say, soft but firm.

“I know.”

“And you know what you did to me is wrong?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re still going to keep me here.”

“…Yeah.”

You sigh. Let the silence stretch again. Then murmur, “You need to work on your apology game.”

He snorts. “Noted.”

You brush some hair out of his face. He watches you like a kicked dog.

You don’t say it aloud, but god, you missed him.

The silence holds for another breath. Then another.

“…I do appreciate the apology.” you say.

Fuck, it’s impressive that you’re still so fair and nice even now.

You keep going. “And I know that’s probably the best version of an apology that someone like you is capable of.”

His jaw shifts, like he wants to argue that, but knows you’re right.

“So,” you continue. “if you can fix yourself, then we’ll see what happens.”

“That’s a tall fuckin’ order, babe.”

You glance at him sideways. “Then you’d better get started.”

He lets out a short laugh. Rough and dry. “Fair.” And then, because he’s Abby and subtlety is not in his toolkit, he blurts, “Romance said you asked for new shit.”

Your eyes narrow, half-glare, half-grimace. “Yeah. I did.”

“Clothes?”

“Mhm.”

“Anything else?”

“Thought about asking for a tiny dog.”

“…Why didn’t you?”

You sigh, looking away toward your bedroom wall. “Because I don’t want to put a poor innocent animal through whatever the hell this is.”

Abby laughs. “Shit. That’s fair.”

You glance at him again, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “What? You don’t think I deserve new clothes?”

“No, I think you deserve everything.” he says instantly, too fast to pretend it was casual.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then again, you’re the one who’s been dragged into this against your will.

Still.

“I meant it.” you say after a beat. “If you’re really going to try… then maybe there’s a version of this where I don’t hate you. Think about it.”

He nods again, eyes flicking toward yours. “Yeah… maybe.”

Silence. A soft one, you’d say.

“…Why do you keep me here?”

He tenses. Immediately. His jaw flexes. You keep going.

“You know I’m not going to talk. You all let go of that a long time ago, so… why? Why keep me?”

Abby stares at you.

His eyes, fuck, his eyes are wide now. Round. Almost soft. Which is ridiculous, because nothing about him is soft. Not the muscle under his skin, not his brutal hands, not the way he’s hurt you, over and over.

But now he just… looks at you.

Is he supposed to confess his fucking love to you now??

You see the panic flicker there for half a second. Just a flicker. But it’s enough.

“Get out.” you say softly, not unkindly. “I wanna sleep.”

“Yeah.” he mumbles, rising to his feet with a heavy stretch. “Yeah, alright.”

He walks to the door, one last glance over his shoulder before he slips out.

God, what a coward.

What a fucking mess.

He’s been a soldier. A demon. A killer. A protector. A brute. A thing that obeys or dominates. He knows how to crush skulls. He knows how to grab what he wants. He knows how to hold you against a wall and make you feel.

But ask him what he feels?

He’s useless. Lost. Like a fucking kid again.

He doesn’t know.

That’s the truth.

Not that he’s hiding the answers. Not that he’s manipulative like Jinu, or performative like Romance, or eerily silent like Mystery, or keeping secrets like Baby.

Abby just… genuinely does not know. There’s a locked box inside of him that hasn’t been opened in centuries, and even if he wanted to open it, he doesn’t know where the key is.

And worse, he’s a man. A man surrounded by other men like him, all pretending they’re fine, on that crying is weakness shit, fucking instead of feeling, laughing instead of healing.

He never had the chance to become emotionally fluent.

He’s been living his life in survival mode for longer than you’ve been alive.

So yeah, he could answer some things. He could tell you he had a brother, and that’s already more than most people get out of him. He could tell you how many lives he’s taken, how many times he’s seen death, how it looks when the blood gets under his nails and won’t come out no matter how hard he scrubs.

But ask him why? Why you stay here? Why he can’t let you go?

He doesn’t know how to make his mouth shape those words. His tongue has never been trained to speak love. Just lust. Just loyalty. Just need.

You ask him how he feels?

He doesn’t know.

You ask him what happened to him?

He doesn’t know if he can answer that, if the memory is even right, if Gwi-Ma didn’t fuck the memories up.

You ask him why he keeps you here?

He doesn’t know, because the truth is too terrifying. Because the only word that fits is love, and love is something he watched get stabbed, hanged, burned, and buried a long time ago.

“Awww. That was adorable.”

Gwi-Ma’s back, everybody.

“You and your little human girlfriend. I think I felt something. Your little heart nearly grew three sizes today.”

And before Abby can shut it out, before he can even breathe, he’s slammed with a rush of memories.

Every mistake.

Every hand he broke.

Every neck he snapped.

The child he couldn’t save.

The brother he watched die.

The lovers he abandoned.

The blood.

The war.

The smell of fire.

He tries to lock the thoughts out. To think about you. About how warm your thigh felt next to him on the bed. About how you didn’t push him away immediately.

But Gwi-Ma slaps it out of his mind.

“Pathetic.” Gwi-Ma hisses. “Coward.”

You said he should try to fix himself. And Gwi-Ma laughs at the idea.

Because there’s nothing to fix. Not in someone like Abby. He’s muscle. Meat. He’s a weapon, not a person.

Dumb.

Fucked up.

Violent.

Selfish.

Meat-brained.

Guilt-ridden.

Empty.

Ignorant.

Simple.

Clueless.

Emotionally castrated.

Expendable.

Disposable.

Replaceable.

STUPID.

That’s what he’s been told for decades. Centuries. Over and over. Every time he opens his mouth and can’t find words for what’s inside.

He tries to shut Gwi-Ma out. Presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard.

But the voice is in him. Not separate.

He wants to fix himself. Doesn’t he?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the minute he even thinks about it, truly thinks about what it would mean to be better, to be someone who deserves you, Gwi-Ma hurts him. Again and again and again.

The truth is cruel.

He’s not someone in progress. He’s someone trapped.

The worst part is the humiliation. The humiliation of trying, and still being told it’s worthless.

Because Gwi-Ma doesn’t let them try. Not really. The moment any one of them reaches even a thread of softness, you, a thought of you, a smile you gave them once, a moment where they think maybe they could be better for you, he’s there. He’s always there.

Not just cruel, intimate. Personal. He knows where to hurt.

They can’t breathe.

None of them can, not really.

Abby, jacked and dead-eyed in his own bed, scratches at his forearm until the skin splits. He didn’t even realize he was doing it. Not until the blood warms.

He’d thought about trying again tomorrow. Thought about asking you if you wanted help, or offering to fix something in your room. Something small. Something human.

“You’re a joke. Look at you.”

And Abby did look. Into the mirror. Into his own face. And all he saw was a stranger.

Jinu is worse. Because he knows what he’s doing. But even Jinu, ruthless and slick and selfish, can’t stop Gwi-Ma from slithering under his skin.

“You’re a parasite.” Gwi-Ma whispers to him when he’s alone. “You don’t love her. You want to own her. Same thing, right?“

And you’re not stupid. You’ll figure it out eventually.

And then what?

When Romance puts a hand on your shoulder or whispers sweet things in your ear, Gwi-Ma leans in and coos, “She likes you best. Doesn’t she? Oh, she wants it. Wants you. Don’t worry about the others. They’re not built for it like you are.”

But the moment Romance believes it, lets the warmth in, imagines you choosing him for real, Gwi-Ma flips the blade. “Delusional little rat. She’ll see it. Eventually.”

And when he distracts himself with his hands, his hips, a sigh into his pillow and a slick palm and a fantasy of you, just as his breath hitches, right when the softest sound escapes his lips—

“What a little lapdog. Disgusting. You think you’ll be the boyfriend she deserves? You? Loverboy, candlelight, wine glass in hand, I can see it, even.”

Mystery, alone in the dark bathroom, runs cold water over his hands. He look in the mirror too long. He wants to be pretty, because you like pretty boys, right? Everyone does.

“She doesn’t care. You’re a pet. Not worth talking to. Why would she love you? You don’t even speak.”

Baby pretends he’s immune.

The alcohol helps. It’s the only thing that makes Gwi-Ma’s voice slur. Even a little.

But that’s not better.

Not at all.

“Not enough alcohol in the world to erase what you did. Drink up. Drown it. That’s all you’re good for.”

They all want to try. To say something kind. To change. To fix themselves for you.

But Gwi-Ma doesn’t let them.

Even when they still try, still fumble toward kindness, still find themselves reaching for you, it’s unbearable.

To want so badly to be better.

And to be reminded, again and again, that maybe they can’t be.

They like you so much. It’s stupid, how much.

But no matter how loud that love is, Gwi-Ma’s louder.

They still want you.

They still crave your laugh, your attention, your touch, your eyes.

They want to deserve you.

But they don’t believe they can.

So they keep stumbling.

Keep hurting you.

Keep hurting themselves.

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

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

841 notes · View notes