#other than that its a million words

[dreamy625]

This rockstar life - 4.1 Travelin' Band

So this is where the timeline really splits from reality, with Steve still in the band for the Adrenalize tour. Don’t worry about Viv, he'll be perfectly happy playing with Thin Lizzy or someone for a few years :)

Words: 4025 (sorry)

Content: Some mentions of alcohol

This rockstar life master list

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== April 15th 1992 - Dublin ==

Dear Diary. Ah, I suddenly feel thirteen again! Kevin Peterson smiled at me in Geography, but I have three new spots and am totally gross so he must be blind. Blondie on Top of the Pops again…

Anyway, enough nostalgia. This will be my attempt to record for posterity our tour adventures April 1992 to… as yet undecided. Either for the biography I’m always threatening Steve I’m going to write about him, or just so that, when I’m an old lady, I can prove that I was once a cool rock chick (ha ha ha).

So I guess you’d call this the warm-up stage, although one club and then a massive stadium is a pretty weird warm-up! We're leaving for soundcheck in an hour or so, then they’re due on stage at 9pm. I’ve got to go and find Steve and try and make him eat something, but I’m rating my chances of success with that at about 1%. He’s been walking in circles round Joe’s garden since about 7am. I don’t think he’ll be hard to find, just follow the trail of cigarette butts. ----------------------------------------

McGonagles is surprisingly scruffy for such a famous venue. And small - Stevie looked like a tiger in a cage, pacing back and forth. I’ve seen the ‘In the round’ video of course, and a few bootlegs that Joe has a secret stash of, and the boy likes to move! Sav says in the early days he used to gallop around without looking and he had to take evasive action to avoid getting knocked off the stage! Happily no one went flying tonight though, and everything worked, and Joe only forgot the words once, and the crowd were insanely enthusiastic. So it was great. Surreal, but great!

And now I really must try and go to sleep, our flight’s pretty early in the morning. Sweetiepie’s already spark out and snoring - two nights of anxiety dreams and half a bottle of brandy will do that to a person.

Next stop, Wembley!

== 18th April - London, Wembley Stadium!! ==

Am I dreaming? I’ve dropped into a whole different world! I’ve just seen Elton John in a tracksuit!

== 19th April - London, Mookie Manor ==

I thought roller coasters usually warmed you up with a couple of gentle undulations before the ride got wild, but no, this one has gone straight for the big drop. I knew he got stagefright, and he was pretty twitchy at McGonagles, but this was a whole other level. He was okay yesterday - quiet, but you could see he was just concentrating really hard on remembering where he was supposed to be when, and getting the songs right obviously, but he could do that in his sleep.

Today though… I think it was seeing Robert Plant casually chatting with David Bowie and Roger Daltrey… he just went white, then grey, and rushed out of the marquee. Phil managed to haul him out of the gents loo in time for their stage runthrough, which went fine as far as I could tell, but then he vanished again and I couldn’t track him down. Backstage is crazy - there are dressing rooms and suchlike but, because there’s so many people, they’ve also brought in tents and portakabins and buses and there’s trucks and catering vans and flight cases all over - he could have been anywhere, so eventually I gave up looking because I was just getting in everyone’s way and went and watched the soundchecks from the press pit. Then Stacy appeared looking frantic and said ‘I think you’d better come, Steve’s…’. She didn’t even need to finish the sentence, I could guess and just asked where.

When I got to the hospitality tent, one of the roadies, Malcolm maybe, had him pinned up against a pillar. He’d drunk, I don’t know how much, presumably a lot, and apparently had started punching the wall, which had minimal effect since it was canvas, and then started on a table, and then taken a perfunctory swing at one of the bar staff when they’d tried to grab him. At which point Rick had run for Joe, and Stacy had found me. He was struggling against the arms holding him back, but went limp and hung his head when he saw me, instantly remorseful. I got him out of the marquee while everyone stared at us (you’d think this crowd, of all people, would be blasé about rockstar excess, but apparently we were still the afternoon’s entertainment) and into a taxi. All he said on the way back was ‘I can’t’ over and over. I’ve given him one of the pills he makes me look after so he won’t take a whole handful and he’s sleeping now.

Pretty scared about tomorrow. And it’s all going to be down to Joe and the boys - no hangers-on allowed backstage for the main event.

== 20th April - London, Mookie Manor ==

Wow. That was just. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one place before! I don’t think I’ve seen so many people before full stop! They said 70,0000. And millions more watching on television apparently. To go from a few hundred people in that sweaty old club to this! Yesterday’s freakout looks like a pretty reasonable reaction now. And of course he was fine, better than fine. Like Joe said, the second he steps on the stage, he’s 100% rockstar. It’s just getting him on the stage that’s the struggle. Really, I don’t know how he does it. I don’t know how any of them do it. I would be so completely paralysed with terror at the mere suggestion of going out in front of that crowd. I guess that’s why I’m not a musician! Well that and a total lack of talent.

Joe, I think, had the best day of his life! Prancing around in front of a massive crowd in those union jack jeans (I don’t know where he finds these things), and then sharing a stage with Bowie, Ronno, and Ian Hunter - basically all his fanboy dreams come true. He acts so cool and confident most of the time and then suddenly his inner geeky little kid breaks through. He was bouncing up and down so much he was practically levitating with excitement! Stevie was not quite so exuberant but, once the adrenaline wore off, he was pretty mellow, just sitting quietly in the bar with a big grin on his face.

We’ve got a couple of days off now, and then he’s back to rehearsals and I’ve got a big pile of work I’ve been ignoring. This rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle is not quite as glamorous as I had been led to expect!

== 19th May - Madrid ==

So here we are, first night of the proper tour. I was going to start before and record the pre-tour prep. But it was just like packing for a holiday really. All the instruments go with the stage set-up, so you don’t have to worry about that. And even Steve’s stage clothes go in travel cases and are looked after by the wardrobe assistant - this one is called Susie, and Steve has already nicknamed her Susie Sew. She seems lovely, but she’s about seven feet tall and six inches wide, so I hate her! If I looked like that I’d be a model, not washing a load of sweaty t-shirts every night!

These are supposed to be more warm-up gigs, so small clubs with minimal publicity. It sold out the day it was announced though, so that’s good. The club is apparently known as ‘El templo del heavy’ - The Metal Temple - so I don’t know how Joe squares that with his ‘we’re not heavy metal’ claims!

== 20th May - Paris ==

I was too tired to write anything after the show last night, and then we had to get up early for the flight to Paris, but today’s a rest day so we can be tourists. I haven’t been here since the occasional weekend trip on le TGV in my TEFL days, but of course Steve and Phil lived here on and off for years. They reckon it hasn’t changed - I don’t think the Parisians would allow it to! We went to le Centre Pompidou, and we’re doing the Louvre tomorrow if there’s time before soundcheck.

Lunch was hilarious. I ordered for us en français without even thinking about it, and then noticed Stevie staring at me with his mouth open. He went ‘You speak French?!’ and I’m like duh, I’m a translator, you know that! Apparently it had never occurred to him that that meant I could speak in French as well! Actually my conversational French isn’t that good - I’m more used to formal French and it makes me sound like someone’s snooty grandma to real French people. But he looked genuinely impressed. Even after living in Paris for three years, all he’d learned to do was ask for beer and cigarettes, and he insisted on me teaching him. Which was fine to start with - he’s a good mimic and can do the accent way better than me - but then the more wine we drank, the louder and more animated he got, and other diners started to stare and mutter. Then, when the waiter was bringing us dessert, Steve jumped up and intercepted him and decided he was the waiter now, with the whole folded napkin over the arm thing and everything, then he started waving menus at the customers at nearby tables and gabbling at them in exaggerated franglais - think Manuel* but French instead of Spanish. Honestly I thought they were going to throw us out! I had to lure him back to the table with tarte au citron, which was delicious of course. And then we left a REALLY big tip.

== 24th May - Munich ==

Another night, another disreputable little club. Look at me, so nonchalant already! Not really, not even slightly bored of this yet. I get to watch Def Leppard every night, how cool is that! They still look weird to me on tiny little stages, but they sound great. And Steve’s doing pretty good. Remembering Joe’s only comment on the Wembley freak out - ‘He does this’ - I was worried we were going to have a repeat performance every night, but actually he’s been okay. He goes quiet an hour or two before showtime, and he can’t eat anything, and I think the temptation to break his vow not to drink before they go on is always there, but there’s enough bustle in the dressing room to distract him and, now they’re into a routine, he’s definitely steadier.

== 26th May - Milan ==

The boys head back to Germany today, but I’m going home because I’ve got project meetings. I’m trying to get everything set up before we go further afield - it’s one thing to make a hop back across the channel to meet clients, quite a different matter when you’re on a whole different continent! I hope Stevie’s going to be okay on his own. He’s a bit pouty but trying to be stoic about it. And Phil, bless him, is going to keep an eye on him. Also hope I’m going to be okay on my own! I’ve never flown by myself before. Also faintly terrified about the client meeting. Never done one where it’s my project, there’s always been a proper grown-up in charge before. What if I say something stupid? What if I open my mouth and all that comes out is one of those anxiety squeaks? No one's ever going to book me again :/

I know people tend to think of me as Steve's nursemaid, but they don't see how he has to look after me too. There's things he's totally cool about, like travelling, that freak me out, and having him with me makes it much less stressful. Also just emotionally, he's just the only person who calms me down. He finds that strange, that he could be calming to anyone. I don’t really know how to explain it; somehow, because he’s as messed up as I am, I feel safer with him than I ever have with anyone else? I'm trying not to stress, and hoping that medication and meditation will be enough, in the absence of soothing Steve hugs, to not dissolve into a puddle of anxiety. It’s only a week and then we’ll be back together. And in Sweden, which is cool. I’ve never been there. I asked him what it’s like but all he could remember was pickled fish and Abba. He’s got a thing for Frida - another redhead, surprise surprise!

== 5th June - Copenhagen ==

Forgot to document the other Scandinavian dates, oops. Basically another two good gigs with happy shouty audiences and not too many wrong notes. And pickled herring is disgusting! Anyway, we’re in Denmark now, which is very clean and tidy, and everyone speaks English. I have learned two words in Danish - tak, which means thank you, and puttemus, which means cuddle-mouse and is Steve’s new nickname (especially because he wrinkles his nose in disgust when I call him that!).

I’m writing this at tonight’s venue, which is really tiny - I think my school hall was bigger than this! Steve always says that touring isn’t really travelling - you just see a hotel, a stage, and a bar, and could be anywhere. I definitely see the truth in that now. I thought we’d have at least some spare time in the places we’re in for two or three days, but he has to do interviews and radio spots and photoshoots everywhere and barely gets a minute to himself. I’ve been getting to know some of the other wives/girlfriends a bit better though, and today we all went on a little excursion to Tivoli Gardens, which is an old-timey amusement park. Took some pictures of the old classic rides and pretty buildings, but didn’t really fancy going on a wooden rollercoaster.

== 6th June - Roskilde airport ==

Oh god, so hungover. After the show we ended up going to a strip club as they stay open later than the bars. I have limited experience of such things, but it seemed kind of wholesome compared with the only one I’ve been in before, in London. Feel like maybe I should disapprove on feminist principle, but really if women want to make a bunch of money off men by writhing around on a stage in their knickers, that’s their own business. Also I was secretly thrilled to finally see some of this rock ‘n’ roll debauchery I’ve heard so much about! There’s this Danish liqueur made from cherries that they make cocktails with. It tastes like jam. And fun fact, when you drink too much of it, you throw up pink. Not looking forward to getting on this plane one little bit.

One more of these small club gigs then we’re back to Blighty and start getting into bigger places, arenas and such like. The boys are all very excited that they will finally get to play with their new in-the-round stage. This time the drum riser literally rises, ten feet in the air, as well as spinning round, which totally doesn’t sound like a deathtrap, honest!

== 15th June - Dublin ==

Back in the Emerald Isle and chez Joe. We’ve come over a few days early so the boys can, in the eternal quest to produce an album in less than three years, record some demos in Joe’s studio. I’m not sure how much actual music-making is happening, they seem to be using the majority of the time to play golf (mostly Joe and Sav), run up hills (mostly Phil), reacquaint themselves with obscure Irish brands of cigarettes (mostly Steve), and of course drink Guinness (everyone except Phil, and me because it is disgusting - yes, I am a traitor to my Irish ancestry!). There has also been a lot of reminiscing about when they lived here after the Pyromania tour, including visits to Booterstown and Belville House, where Steve, Phil, and Rick used to live (and which is now painted pink and looks like a birthday cake and about as un-rock ‘n’ roll as you could possibly get).

== 20th June - a plane somewhere over the Irish sea ==

Brilliant gig! Everyone sounded great, the stage and lighting looked amazing, and everything worked - all the fancy moving bits did what they were supposed to, and no one got flung off the drum riser! We couldn’t sleep at all last night, we were so hyper, bouncing around Joe’s kitchen at 4am until he came down and shouted at us to shut up! I think he’s happy his role as a hotelier is over - this morning he was muttering about it being like having raccoons living in his house!

== 21st June - Glasgow ==

Fucking freezing! It’s June! It’s meant to be summer?! How do people live here? Steve likes it. Must be his Northern upbringing. Freak.

== 24th June - Sheffield ==

Hometown gigs! Bit of a weird part of the tour actually. Most of the boys are thrilled to see their families and old friends - they had to make a VIP section twice the size of normal to fit them all in - but it’s been difficult for Steve. He hadn’t seen his parents since that horrible Christmas two years ago, but he couldn’t not invite them to the gig, so it was pretty awkward. Of course everyone was perfectly polite, we were in public afterall, but you could see the distance between them. I think Barry’s still angry, and Beryl obviously just misses him. She hugged him so tight, and didn’t want to let go. I know they all used to be so close, well, the boys and Beryl and the two grandmas anyway, so I’d hope they can get that back. But Steve doesn’t even look like part of his family anymore, and you can really hear how his accent has softened when he’s surrounded by proper working class Yorkshiremen. Not exactly a peacock among pigeons, but maybe a dove. He feels it too and it makes him really sad. He blames himself, but I’m not sure how you could stay tied to your roots while living such a vastly different life to the people you’ve left behind?

He doesn’t really even like being back in the city; he feels watched, like everyone knows him and is judging him for having ideas above his station. That period when they first got their record deal and people called them sell-outs and actually spat at them in the street has left deep wounds. There were a lot of problems with the sound last night, which was unfortunate, but it has provided Steve with an excuse not to see people or do local media - Joe and Sav are doing the interviews (wearing their team shirts of course - thank gods it’s the off-season or they’d be bickering about it endlessly!) - while he and Phil are here ostensibly helping to get the sound sorted out. Actually they’re just drinking a lot of tea and taking the piss out of Malvin, but it’s keeping him distracted from brooding which is the main thing. To be honest, I’ll be glad when this is done and we head back down south.

== 25th June - London, Mookie Manor ==

Back home again for a few days. Very convenient having Earl’s Court Arena basically just down the road from our house. Phil, Jacki, and Rory are staying over. We had to spend the evening building their bed as it had been sat in bits in boxes ever since Steve bought the house. Had to borrow spanners off the neighbours.

Rory has got so big and is into everything. It must be over a year since we saw him and Jacki as they mostly stayed in America while the boys were recording. I have no idea what to do with kids - they’re just loud and sticky agents of chaos to me - but Steve is really good with him. They’ve been playing hide and seek, and driving matchbox cars round the living room, and now Steve’s upstairs reading him a story. It’s really sweet. I wish… no I don’t wish, because we just couldn’t, for everyone’s sake. But in some ways, he really would make a great dad.

== 26th June - London, Earl’s Court ==

Very proud of the boys today - they won the Silver Clef award for outstanding contribution to British music! We had to go to the presentation lunch at the InterContinental Hotel on Park Lane. It’s super-fancy, inside at least, but unfortunately was built in the 1970’s so is a hideous concrete box. Kind of terrifying - they took pictures of all of us when we arrived and I did not know what to do with my face, I was trying to hide behind Stevie as much as possible. And he ate most of my lunch so the waiters wouldn’t look at me funny.

Really looking forward to the gig tonight. This is the biggest one so far, I think the biggest one until we get to America? Phil’s mum is coming and we’re going to sit together. She’s such a sweetheart - you can tell where he gets his golden retriever personality from!

== 30th June - Birmingham, NEC ==

Second of three nights here as the ticket sales have been so good. Not the most glamorous of venues though! And I’m so glad we have drivers to ferry us around - I would die if I had to navigate Birmingham’s road system! One thing in the NEC’s favour though is that it has got really good business facilities. I have a mountain of work to get finished before we go to Australia, ugh. Steve was a little bit sulky when I said I had to work the whole time, but he does understand really. Phil has taken him to the gym today, so I’ll look forward to hearing how that went :)

The bigger venues they’ve been doing on this leg do make such a difference to the experience, now I'm seeing Leppard as I know them from videos. And Steve is unleashed! He runs around like a greyhound, doing all his signature moves. It's really… I feel ridiculous writing this, but really sexy! Not that I didn't fancy him like mad already, but ‘Stage Steve’ is a very different animal. I think it's the confidence, even a little bit of arrogance, and the power he has over the audience. He’s just… magnificent! I haven't worked out yet if it's entirely put on, just a performance, or if it's tapping into a part of his personality that's usually buried. I'm not sure he knows himself. Either way it’s really quite something! And I knew the tight jeans were an essential component of that outfit…

Argh, stop thinking about that! Got to concentrate on the blasted book! Les deadlines ne sont pas optionnels!

== 3rd July - Belfast ==

So King’s Hall is the last UK gig. It’s a really cool building - Art Deco with an arched roof over the main hall. It’s not all that big though, so there was a lot of worrying about whether the in-the-round set-up would fit. It does, and it should be a great show for the audience because most of them will be so close to the stage. I’m going to watch from up on the balcony to get the full experience (I’ve always been in the VIP section or the press pit, which of course is amazing, but they’ve always said this show is designed for the people in the cheap seats at the back!).

After this, we've got a few days back at home, time to do laundry and repack for hot weather, then we fly out to Australia on the 7th. Another new place and the longest flight I’ve ever done - well, flights plural as you have to do it in two hops. Steve’s really excited, which is so cute. And I think he’s even excited about going on a tour bus again, although he grumbles about it; he keeps telling me stories of their escapades on the High ‘n’ Dry tour. This all still doesn’t seem fully real to me; I feel like I'm inside an MTV rockumentary!

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*Fawlty Towers reference

[itsmistyeyedbi]

Wanna know why I procrastinated on what is usually my favourite part of my English Literature assignment?

Because they want us to use ai.

In a degree where English Literature is one of my majors, they want us to use ai to write a poem.

What the hell is even that. I mean, really!? USE AI TO WRITE A POEM IN YOUR ENGLISH LIT ASSIGNMENT💀

Fortunately, we're only using it as a starting off point at best for our own poem, and then write an essay on how ours is better. Our lecturer hates it too so she's giving us more leniency than she ever would. But still!

And the AI part is only 3 marks.

I'm using something that is stealing other people's works and quite literally destroying the planet, for 3 marks🧍🏾‍♀️

[thedrotter]

Re:Kinder Fun Facts of the day☺️!!! Have you ever wondered who talks the most from the main cast in Re:Kinder?? Well, I did😊. Today I'll be answering this question with some graphs and as a bonus telling you what words each character uses the most! I will warn you, this will be a bit long and I don't know how to be less verbose so, yeah!!!

First, I've made some basic rules as to what I counted regarding how much the characters speak. Not all lines really count as speaking, after all.

Any of the incoherent screaming lines don't count. There's a lot of screaming since the characters die a lot (as expected for a horror RPG game), but I don't really count that as speaking unless they're saying proper words. In that same vein, I didn't really count any of the panting or sniffing and such that are conveyed through words. Again, I don't really see that as a character actively speaking their thoughts!

If I cannot tell who a line belongs to, I will not give it to anyone. This happens for certain lines, so I felt this rule was important.

I won't be counting repetitions of the same line if it's on a variation of the same scene. This may sound a bit strange, but when a character dies, the game goes on to the same next scene it would regardless (unless the scene that follows it is an ending), with variations and new lines here and there to account for the dead character, but a lot will be reused and placed in the exact same beats it normally would have been in originally. So, this rule is here for that. Oh, and also the scenes with bits of Yuuichi's backstory that appear in Shunsuke's head won't be counted twice, because some appear twice line by line.

Of course, the "..." lines won't count. I am so sorry Aya!!!!😞

Now that the ground rules have been set, there's just one thing I want to mention. Though I will count all the total lines for Takumi and Yuuichi like any other character, I just want to mention that first I will have two separate counts for them! Takumi | Takumiel and Yuuichi | Yuuichi's Heart respectively.

Takumiel is separate because I was curious about how much Takumi spoke as an archangel compared to when he was alive. Yuuichi's Heart is because he speaks so much he feels notable enough to be given his own division, even if he and Yuuichi at the end of the day are one person

(I count the silly mind telepathy where Shunsuke is being directly spoken to [and being told things normal Yuu would avoid saying at that point] and the comical theater as Yuuichi's Heart. I clarify in case one assumes he only starts being counted the moment he's directly labelled as Yuuichi's Heart. Any line that can't be distinguished between Yuuichi's Heart and Yuuichi will be given to Yuuichi by default.)

With nothing else to be clarified let's get to the numbers!!!😊😊

First, the line counts with Takumiel and Yuuichi's Heart counted individually!! Here are the rankings:

Shunsuke (With a lead of 535 lines over second place!!)

Yuuichi

Rei

Yuuichi's Heart

Hiroto

Ryou

Sayaka

Aya

Takumi

Takumiel

You may be thinking— woah, does Shunsuke really speak that much?! You could say that, for a good chunk of those lines are from how he describes interactable points around the map and his inner thoughts, so they aren't all exactly said out loud. The benefit of being the protagonist, I suppose ww

Funny enough, Yuuichi's Heart has almost as many lines as Yuuichi does for not having that much time in the game, being on the higher end between the characters that don't get the benefit of being a protagonist (lol)!

Admittedly I had expected for Rei and Hiroto to have a more similar amount of lines given their nearly equal amount of presence, but for what it is Rei surpassed Hiroto by 51 lines! I also had expected for Takumiel to speak a little bit more than Takumi but turns out the opposite is true.

While the lack of lines of Takumi and Takumiel are to be expected due to their short time on the game, what stands out is Aya not even reaching triple digits between her other peers who are in there for most of the game. This is because a good chunk of Aya's lines in game are silence!^^" And thus weren't counted. If ellipses were a word, she surely would have reached triple digits, but unfortunately they're not.

Now the line count with combined sums of Takumi | Takumiel and Yuuichi | Yuuichi's Heart!!!

In here, the ranking isn't affected, with Yuuichi remaining second place and Takumi being last place. But the disparity of everyone's numbers compared to Takumi's feels a bit more clear to see when Takumiel isn't individually counted.

With Yuuichi's line counts combined, Shunsuke remains 318 lines ahead of him, but it also means Yuuichi has a 59% the amount of Shunsuke's lines; and impressive feat for someone who doesn't get the benefit of being the point of view for everything you press... Although he does also have an upper hand over everyone by essentially being the plot of this game ww

But maybe line counts do not suffice to tell how much a character speaks. Yes, Shunsuke has a bunch of lines from everything he interacts with, but is it really reliable to say he speaks all that much in all those lines? A good chunk of those could easily have 3 words each! So with this in mind, let's do a word count.

Even in a word count, Shunsuke has the lead, having a lead of 2,247 words over second place. But we'll see about that when we combine Yuuichi's numbers. Anyway, here's the ranking!

Shunsuke

Yuuichi's Heart

Yuuichi

Rei

Hiroto

Ryou

Sayaka

Aya

Takumi

Takumiel

This time, Yuuichi's Heart is the one at second place!!! It's pretty funny that he speaks more than his physical counterpart ww. I genuinely didnt think he'd out yap himself that way when I chose to count for him individually 😭!!! He has a lead of 63 words over himself, but a lead nonetheless.

In here, Rei and Hiroto are more even than in the line counts, with the difference seeming more minimal when put into words. But it also showcases that despite Rei having more lines than Yuuichi's Heart in the line count, those only get to have a bit over half of the amount of words he talks (To be fair he does get to infodump a lot in his section of the game).

And here's the combined word count!!! Suddenly Shunsuke's lead is only by a mere 55 words! So Yuuichi speaks about as much as he does with 318 less lines.

I must admit that I genuinely did not expect it to be that close. When I chose to count the lines for when you interact with things for Shunsuke, I thought he was granted to speak an absurd amount more than anyone else. But turns out that Yuuichi speaks about the same amount out loud when most of Shunsuke's are his own thoughts ww. But it does make sense! He is still the plot of this game.

So, after all those charts, here's the average/middle point of lines and words for characters to have, because why not, it's fun.

Average Line Count (YH and Takumiel counted individually): 197 lines

Average Line Count (When combined): 247 lines

Average Word Count (YH and Takumiel counted individually): 1,333 words

Average Word Count (When combined): 1,666 words

So there it is. That's how much the characters in Re:Kinder speak!

But wait!!! I am not done. I will share with you an additional fun fact... Did you ever want to know what word each of these characters said the most?! This one will be quicker, I do promise.

When it came to counting these words I did not count stop words, that being common words that are used all the time by everyone in English. "I, you, me, the, to, a, my, your, yes, no"... Words like that! Otherwise everyone would have one of those as their most said word and it'd be rather boring to look at. With that said, here are the words these characters say the most!

Shunsuke: Yuuichi - said 40 times! (this genuinely confused me so much im sorry he uses interjections so much I had expected it to be something like "huh" or "um" but no i dont know how this passed by me as i was rounding up all the lines he says or proofreading or writing all of those lines WHAT?!?! its been two days and it still takes me out)

Ryou: Shunsuke - Said 14 times

Sayaka: Murderer - Said 7 times (All in one sentence!)

Takumi | Takumiel (counted in one for how little he speaks.): Takumiel - Said 3 times (That name is so important, he said it thrice.)

Aya: Sorry - Said 5 times

Rei: Hell, gonna, look, Yuuchi - said 8 times (Most of the repeated words she says are stop words for she doesn't tend to speak about the same things repeatedly.)

Hiroto: Shunsuke - Said 17 times

Yuuichi (separate from YH): Problem - Said 17 times

Yuuichi's Heart: Mama - Said 24 times

Yuuichi (Overall): Mama - Said 31 times

So that is finally it. That is the fun fact of today.😊😊 Use this to woe your friends at parties!!!

I am aware Mami speaks about enough to be counted in, but this is pretty time consuming to do and I'm not sure anyone is invested on her enough to count her in. But if there's enough curiosity regarding that, I'll try counting her in. But for now this suffices.☺️ Thanks for reading!

[ghostprinceiii]

Just unlocked the Empyreum housing district, and while one part of me is rp-walking around enjoying the vibes and looking at peoples gardens, another part of me is monkey-style smacking at my keyboard to search up 'ffxiv get rich quick schemes'

[mildcicada]

Recently looked through some of the oldest art I made as a child and it was all SOO GOOD like it was just wow it was amazing. Art rules didn't exist I just was

[homophyte]

thank you for the long & thought out response. while i do fully agree with you on stances like prison abolition & the myth of the stranger pedophile scapegoat, my question and discomfort with jimmy’s actions comes not so much from a political/philosophical standpoint but from a very human emphatic one. i put myself in the shoes of the girl he groomed and abused and imagine people listening to and enjoying the music of my abuser and it makes me sick to my stomach. so thats more where my guilt and discomfort comes from. that said i can’t say that their music doesn’t have an impact or isn’t enjoyable. i also agree with you that this mass outrage and very public renunciation and demand for punishment is very much a social mechanism and automatic reaction that quite simplifies a complex situation. however these mechanisms exist for a certain evolutionary purpose after all (sorry my background is psychology) but thats sort of besides the point because im also not a fan of how these things get handled with zero nuance. 

its also true what you said that me or you or anyone deciding to disengage with this band or their music changes nothing in the grand scheme of things, so doing it as some sort of Noble Cause against abuse is useless. so in this case i feel it’s up to personal preference and whether or not i can swallow the cognitive dissonance and discomfort this information arises in me whenever i listen to their music from now on. 

thanks again for the insightful response, i’m glad we can have this sort of discussion because i also think this topic is extremely important but people often shy away from it because it’s so heavy. 

im glad you asked me to share! like i said ive spent a lot of time thinking abt this specifically so its very much like years worth of mishmash thoughts kinda strung together only by me experiencing them over time in succession lol. but i agree its important to talk about it especially within a culture so ensnared in the logic of the prison and particularly how effectively thats been exported into like 'mob justice' for lack of a better word.

re: the emotive aspect im not sure i have much to say other than like Yeah its a very strong one and i dont think its a bad thing at all to have. i got the impression from ur ask--and idk how true this is--that you were wrestling between a desire to return to the music bc you enjoyed it and that response preventing you and feeling a sort of obligation to do one over the other n struggling with that. so i think i approached it as like 'heres ways you can reason w that emotional response and grapple w it if its smth ur agonizing over' or something like that. im also a firm believer in the ways politics shapes the ways we think n feel so my instinct was to tease out some of the structures that may be shaping ur thought processes--which of course i nor anyone but you can fully know. but i dont get that same sense from how u describe it here and either way i think whatever feeling ur having about it is like...i dont want to say its 'valid' but ur allowed to have that and do whatever you want pretty much lol. i cant and am not going to force anyone to engage w the band and theres probably more reasons than i could think to list why its not for everyone even without the sordidness of abuse hanging over it.

without getting into a much much broader discussion i would gently push back on the idea of a biologically innate reason for the existence of carceral/punitive logics (and frankly psychology more broadly), if only bc it does a lot of the work of justifying them. keep in mind that these are concepts ideas and patterns of thought that exist because they serve systems of power and particularly the state. we did not have to have a society which created them, we only happen to--which is to say theyre not innate in this way and i disagree that they have an 'evolutionary' purpose bc it fails to properly historicize them. but thats me coming from an antipsych position lol

[autosarcophagy-avaritia]

my roommate hasa to get a phone today because of storage. i cant wait to see how much i want to kill myself by the end of this!

[reasonsforhope]

"In a historic “first-of-its-kind” agreement the government of British Colombia has acknowledged the aboriginal ownership of 200 islands off the west coast of Canada.

The owners are the Haida nation, and rather than the Canadian government giving something to a First Nation, the agreement admits that the “Xhaaidlagha Gwaayaai” or the “islands at the end of world,” always belonged to them, a subtle yet powerful difference in the wording of First Nations negotiating.

BC Premier David Eby called the treaty “long overdue” and once signed, will clear the way for half a million hectares (1.3 million acres) of land to be managed by the Haida.

Postal service, shipping lanes, school and community services, private property rights, and local government jurisdiction, will all be unaffected by the agreement, which will essentially outline that the Haida decide what to do with the 200 or so islands and islets.

“We could be facing each other in a courtroom, we could have been fighting each other for years and years, but we chose a different path,” said Minister of Indigenous Relations of BC, Murray Rankin at the signing ceremony, who added that it took creativity and courage to “create a better world for our children.”

Indeed, making the agreement outside the courts of the formal treaty process reflects a vastly different way of negotiating than has been the norm for Canada.

“This agreement won’t only raise all boats here on Haida Gwaii – increase opportunity and prosperity for the Haida people and for the whole community and for the whole province – but it will also be an example and another way for nations – not just in British Columbia, but right across Canada – to have their title recognized,” said Eby.

In other words, by deciding this outside court, Eby and the province of BC hope to set a new standard for how such land title agreements are struck."

-via Good News Network, April 18, 2024

[tonycries]

AITA For F*cking My Sugar Daddy's Son?! - G.S.

Synopsis. When your sugar daddy just isn’t paying attention to you, can you really be blamed for fúcking his son? Especially when his son is absolutely obsessed with you.

Pairing. Rich boy! Gojo Satoru x Sugar baby! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, jealous Satoru, créampie, dirty talk, manhandling, marking, Satoru’s dad is not really present, oral (female receiving), overstim, másturbation (male), thigh riding, cúmplay, Satoru is really really down bad and filthy for you, CEO’s son! Gojo,  pet names, swearing.

Word count. 8.1k

A/N. Will proofread later, lowkey scared to post this, but I just wanted it out of my mind. And in my mind, Satoru’s dad is FINE asl so-

The first time you meet Gojo Satoru is when you’re all dolled up for his father. 

Designer dress just a bit too tight, running on a few too many shots of tequila, wanting to be anywhere but at this stuffy gala. Everything was too bright - too polished.

And it really didn’t help that no matter how many scathing looks or whispers that followed you, you just had to be here - it was in your contract, after all. Because luckily for you, you just so happened to be the infamous little plaything hanging off the arm of the head of Gojo Corporations.

Well, usually. Right now your sugar daddy was too busy entertaining his business partners, leaving you off to the side, praying for something - anything - to save you from this-

“Damn if I’d come to these shitty galas a lot more often if it meant I’d get to see a beauty like you.”

You jolt out of your bored little reverie, eyes immediately snapping up to meet the tall man suddenly in front of you. When did he even get so close? 

You can’t help but drink him in from head to toe, from the overpriced, slightly-disheveled suit to the tiny dimple at the end of his mischievous grin. Strangely familiar white locks fell effortlessly to curtain his eyes. Eyes that were a startling blue - the kind of blue that had your cheeks flaring and knowing exactly who this was. 

Oh.

At your silence, he tilts his head with the air of someone that owns this entire venue and everything in it because, well, he did. Twinkling gaze searing into your skin as it roams appreciatively all over your body, plowing on, “Though, you look like you’re on the verge of an aneurysm around these old coots.”

You sigh, pinching your nose at the curious glances around you. Not even able to find it in yourself to put on that plastic smile anymore, “Oh y’know, just soaking up my popularity with the masses after being stranded here.”

“Oh? Here with anyone?”

“Yeah.” you blurt out, “Your father.”

You watch in amusement as Satoru’s mouth falls into a delicate oh! eyes flickering over his shades between you and the handsome man on the other end of the venue, oblivious and fully enjoying himself in the company of his secretary. A bit too much without you. 

“Y’know…” he starts, shaky and sounding only half the insufferable heir he was before, “I would say that’s a hilarious version of a ‘your mom’ joke but you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“Mhm. Though it would make a good punchline, huh?” You huff out a laugh at the way he was suddenly less of a smooth-talking playboy and more of a lost puppy. The gears turning in his head as he processes that oh shit you were the sweet lil’ thing his dad’s been suddenly rushing off to meet straight after work. And the reason why all those old fossils here were clutching their pearls in scandal.

He just didn’t expect you to be this…gorgeous. And for the first time in forever, he’s suddenly so intrigued.

Because ah, you should’ve known better than to think that this little hiccup would deter the infamous Gojo Satoru. No, in fact that million-dollar smirk only makes its way back onto his unfairly pretty face, like he’s about to spill the juiciest gossip of the century.  

“So you’re the latest armcandy my ol’ man has picked up, huh? I hafta say, dear old dad has good taste.” he muses, stepping in close enough that his expensive cologne makes your head spin. “Why don’t you and I ah-” You follow Satoru’s gaze to where he was staring at the way his father was now making a beeline through the crowd. Straight for the two of you. 

“Gotta run before I get my share of the company revoked.” he flashes you a quick smile, fulling intent on saving his father’s delicate ego. But not before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “But jus’ saying,” voice a pretty little purr, “I wouldn’t ever leave you standing here so alone and gorgeous, princess.”

You can only stand there, reeling from the sheer audacity as he darts into the crowd with a wink, not caring if he stepped on a few too many overpriced coattails than necessary. Wondering whether this was some bizarre dream induced by too much tequila and not enough common sense.

“Hi, sweetheart. Investors held me up, you know how it is. Having fun, huh?” A toned arm wraps around your waist as your sugar daddy finally arrives by your side. And as he went on about his latest business branch, only two thoughts ring through your mind - 1. You were seriously reconsidering this arrangement. And 2. This was going to be interesting. 

And oh was it interesting. 

Because Satoru always managed to find you, wherever you were. No matter if it was another droning function or a chance meeting at the sprawling Gojo Estate, Satoru always swooped in whenever his father was too busy for you. Which, fortunately for Satoru, happened to be a lot.  

Hell, he seemed to find you even when you least wanted him to. Like that time he had to drag you away mid-argument with a particularly rude one of his snobby aunts. That was not a fun family reunion. 

All unabashed confidence and pretty smiles where his father was cold, cold calculation. Ready with a smart mouth to bicker with you and bright eyes that seemed to linger on you a bit too long. But you didn’t mind - why would you? Because all things considered, Satoru was a very attractive man. Sure, his father was extremely handsome, too - in a clean-cut, DILF-y way, in fact. But his son was dangerously attractive.

So much so that sometimes when he swept you away from insufferable galas to talk, some strange little part of you wished it was him that you came here with instead. Just for a second. 

“So, what do you see in my father anyway? His company?” Satoru asked you one day. Draping himself over his cool office desk, so comically out of place in the stiff corporate room. Legs kicking in the air as he waits for your response.

You tear your eyes away from the way his biceps were straining so deliciously against his snug button-up to deadpan, “I mean, I am his sugar baby after all, Satoru.”

“But think about it,” he whines, batting those long lashes at you. Fully intent on driving you as dangerously close to a stroke as possible before his father finishes up an important business meeting. One that he missed - whoops. “There’s close to nothing redeemable about the man. His idea of a family bonding activity is a PowerPoint presentation on quarterly earnings.”

“Satoru.”   

“And either way- I’m getting the company in a few years, would ya be my sugar baby then, princess?”

Ah, there it was. 

It’s been a few weeks of knowing Satoru, and those little comments still made your head spin. Second-guessing the nature of this strange little…friendship? You didn’t even know anymore. Because yeah there might’ve been a few, stupid little lingering touches - like a trace on your hips, or your hand firmly in his as he led your (temporary) escape from another lonely gala. But those meant nothing, right?

“Nah, I’d poison you and take over the company instead.”

“Hey!”

Well, whatever, he was just your sugar daddy’s son. His sharp-mouthed, dangerously handsome son that just couldn’t seem to leave you alone. Not that you were complaining, really. Your relationship with his father was not exactly exclusive - you already knew that secretary of his was a bit suspiciously close - but that’s all he’ll ever be. Right?

Or, well, that’s what you stupidly thought. 

It wasn’t until one night late in the Gojo Estate, cursing those ridiculously long hallways, that you get an inkling of exactly how wrong you were. 

“Ugh, fucking rich people.” you mutter under your breath, wandering around trying to find whether the fuck the bathroom was. Because it doesn’t matter how many companies and businesses Gojo senior ran, the man still sucked at directions. You hiss, rubbing the tiny bruise on your neck - and aftercare too, clearly, even though that was in that damn contract. Something about an urgent business call with his secretary. Ugh. 

After three wrong doors, a trip around the in-home planetarium (seriously, who even needed that?), and chugging a full water bottle from the third kitchen in exhaustion, you finally find yourself walking towards what hopefully looked like the bathroom.

Hand reaching for the doorknob to swing it open. Ah, this better be the one or so help you-

Now, Satoru thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. And you - hair mussed, and dazed, standing there in nothing but a large button-up, falling just below your panties - looked like a sinfully beautiful lil’ demon here to lure him into hell. And oh how gladly he’d go if it means he got to see this ethereal view more often. 

“Ah! Wha- Sato-” 

You don’t even know if you want to scream or not - torn between taking in the sculpted chest smushed against your face and not wanting to alert security downstairs. Reeling backward you drink in the sight before you and God how you wish you didn’t - it wasn’t too good for your heart. 

Satoru’s hair was tousled, droplets of water glistening on his hair like diamonds. Skin soft and damp and smelling so delicious. Bathroom light bouncing off his rippling muscles, pecs flexing, as his strong arms reach out to steady you as you reel backwards. 

Traitorously, your eyes snake across his sculpted body. Dipping below once. Twice. Cheeks flaring as a pang of disappointment hits you at the damp towel wrapped around that slutty torso. Wondering what’s underneath-

“Y’should take a picture, it lasts longer.” Satoru grins, like the shameless bastard he is. Though he wasn’t in any better state - eyes flickering between you and any sliver of exposed skin his eyes could reach. 

“I should be saying the same to you.” you mutter, caught red-handed, shuffling your feet in embarrassment. 

Satoru lets out a low chuckle as he pulls you closer minutely, presence practically enveloping you. “Oh, me?” he says, voice dropping to a husky murmur. Thumb tracing that little spot on your neck, “S’hard not to when y’look so appetizing.”

And you don’t even try to pull away because fuck this is Satoru and he looks so good - so warm under your fingertips, even when you jolt at the realization of what exactly he was talking about. Your hand coming up to cover that tiny mark left on your skin from not-too-long ago. A shameful little reminder that this was his son. 

You grapple for some - any - sense of normalcy. Warning, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Satoru.”

He leans down impossibly, quirking an eyebrow. Both amusement and something unreadable flashing across his face. “Oh, but it’s got my father somewhere?”

“Why? Jealous?”

“Yes.”

You startle, taken aback by the blunt confession. So direct and something so Satoru. The word hands in the hair’s breadth between you two now, sending your mind reeling. And you can’t help but repeat, “Jealous?”

“Fucking yes.” There it was again. 

But this time, Satoru plows on, voice barely above a whisper but ringing in the thick air. “Jealous he gets to have you all to himself but still doesn’t kiss you like you should be.”

“What do you-”

“Your lipstick.” he interrupts, swiping a thumb over your bottom lip, “Why’s it as perfect as since you came in?” And, indeed, you realize with a jolt that no you really haven’t been kissed the way you wanted - not enough to leave your make-up so sinfully ruined. 

Minty breath fanning your face so dangerously now, and you barely even realize that you’re leaning into it, “If it were up to me, princess, I’d ruin that pretty lil’ lipstick of yours every chance I got.”

A delicious little shiver runs down your spine, head spinning at Satoru and his words and Satoru- And it’s all you can do to get out a shaky, “So why don’t you?”

And then he’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him - like neither of you had the strength nor the will to stop. 

Satoru tasted just like candy, such an intoxicating sweetness that had you gasping as his soft tongue licked at the seam of your lips. Intertwining with yours as he breathes you in desperately. So sloppy. Such a sinful little mix of saliva and teeth and pure need.

His chest is soft under your greedy hands, lips searing against yours, and you could feel his hands wandering across every inch of skin they could find. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again because fuck he knows that he might just not. 

Long fingers dance delicately underneath that shirt to feel- oh fuck, you weren’t even wearing panties. Such a pretty lil’ slut and by God was he a goner. 

Groaning into the kiss, he lets you loop your arms around his neck, hardened nipples rubbing against his abs as you tug on his damp hair. Honestly, fuck that thin shirt, Satoru thinks he might just pass out right here right now.

“S-Satoru.” you whisper against his lips, legs hiking up to grind your bare cunt against the throbbing erection straining against his towel. Already so wet from water or precum, you had absolutely no idea. You couldn’t give less of a fuck in fact, needing to see if Satoru’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him right now. Hands urgently dipping below the hem, starting to tug and-

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you find the bathroom?”

Shit. Fuck. Wonderful - perfect, in fact.

You would’ve thought Satoru burned you with how quickly you pushed him away. Cheeks burning, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Almost slipping on the tile as you try to compose yourself at a safe distance - one that wouldn’t end up with you jumping his bones again. 

But all rational thoughts of that and your sugar daddy - Satoru’s father - almost go out the window once you take in the heavenly sight before you. 

Satoru’s lips swollen, hair disheveled, towel hanging slightly too low off his hips. Giving you such a pretty peak of those tufts of snowy white hair at the bottom. 

“W-we shouldn’t…” you trail off, as the footsteps get louder and louder. Something prickly and uncomfortable pooling in your stomach with each beat. 

Luckily for you, Satoru probably catches on to how you looked like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole right now. Voice low and control as he agrees, “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t.” No care in the world for his steadily approaching father as he lazily adjusts his towel, a gesture so nonchalant yet distracting. 

You swallow hard as he moves to walk past you, thinking that if this just so happened to be a dream then by God was it a good one. But of course - when has Satoru ever let you have it easy?

Because he stops abruptly in his tracks, fingers only ghosting the doorknob. Immediately turning back to walk to you with two, big steps, eyes gleaming, dimple flashing. And before you even know what’s happening, his lips are on yours. Featherlight and fleeting. But so so addictive. Nipping at your bottom lip, savoring you on his tongue.

It’s over before you know it, and a pathetic little disappointed whine leaves you as he pulls away. A smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he mutters lowly into yours, “Y’look prettier like this.”

Ah, you weren’t happy to see him leave but how you loved watching him go. Bathroom light so pretty against all the dips and curves of his figure as he walked away. White hair reflecting the warm hue, muscles flexing, hips slightly swaying with such a slutty little confidence that only Satoru could have. 

As you watch him disappear around the door, you almost forget the unwelcome visitor hot on your heels any second now and - wait - what was it that he’d said? “Prettier like this”?

Turning to the mirror and- 

Oh. Shit. 

You better have brought your make-up remover.

God, Satoru’s never ran to his room as fast as this since that time he was caught using his father’s elite golf clubs to play pool with Suguru.

Because as soon as that goddamn door is shut, he’s ripping his towel off. Letting it drop to the floor in a damp pile God-knows-where as he immediately fists his swollen cock.

With a groan, he leans against the shut door.  Eyes scrunching in such sinful ecstasy as he squeezes the base, pulsing and so achingly hard for you. A warning and a reprimand. Shit, how the fuck did he get this hard just from kissing your pretty lil’ lips?

Ah, whatever, right now he doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity to think too hard about it. Smearing the precum beading at his weeping tip, wetting his palm so sloppily. 

Neat little crescents searing into his skin where you’d grabbed him before, only thing on his mind - how would you do it?

Would you ease him into it? Or would you start up a hasty, desperate little pace like he was doing right now? Shallow, quick tugs on his thick cock like you wanted to milk him deliciously. 

Satoru’s hand was cold on his angry, hot cock. And with how many times he’s slipped his into yours, he knew yours would feel better around him. Both hands wrapped around his cock but still not covering all of it. So soft and warm, your nails scraping gently across his throbbing veins. 

“Shit. Hngh-” he breathes out, voice almost-pathetic, “J-jus’ like that, princess.” 

And what would you say? Tell him to shut up and just take it? Would you whisper into his ear as you let him fuck himself into your pretty fists? “So hard n’ big all f’me?” Satoru’s knees buckle at the thought, hand speeding up. “Y’look so pretty like this, y’know.”

Slam! Palm slamming against the poor drawer beside him hard enough to make its legs tremble, desperately trying to keep himself from collapsing. 

But oh his fist doesn’t stop. No, he doubts he ever will - not that strong of a man to keep himself from getting off so filthily to the image of you standing at the doorway of the bathroom. You looked so ethereal - Satoru couldn’t help but imagine how even more sinful you’d look if he was the one done with you. Shit, you wouldn’t even be able to stand if he had his way. 

“F-fuck, princess. M’gonna ruin you, gonna fuck you till you don’t know anything but m’name.”

He grips tighter on the base, thumbing under his slit in a way he knows your devious little hands would do. Fucked-out little grunts leaving his swollen lips each time his fingers meet his flushed tip.

“Ah- Ngh, fuck.” he mutters hoarsely, letting out a low, broken little call of your name. “More. Need more, princess.” He wanted you so badly that it hurt.

What the fuck did that sleazy old man have that he didn’t? And that little bite? That would be nothing compared to what Satoru would do if he got his hands on you. Yeah, he thinks, body shuddering violently, he’d mark you up till everyone knows you’re his. Leave bites that peak out from your collar, all the way down to your pretty thighs.

“Y’belong with me pretty, could fuck you so much better.” Sweat drips from his brow, splashing onto his erratic fist. Thighs quivering, heart pounding wildly in his chest. 

Satoru would almost be embarrassed by how desperate he was acting if he was in any better state of mind. Head only filled with you, and your hand and you-

And fuck for the sake of his sanity he can’t even begin to imagine how it would feel inside your pretty lil’ cunt. All he can think of is the way you’d keen so prettily, mewling out a little, “Oh s’too big.” 

Would you take him all in one go? Look up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes as you milk his cock? Or would he have to ram his dick into you, because shit as much as he loves that  bitchy mouth, it would look so much better gasping and stuttering as he fucks you dumb. 

“Oh yeah.” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Such a good lil’ slut f’me. Taking m’so well.” 

God his hand was so sloppy on his dick that he didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Just wanting to fuck you and have you do this f’him. 

Ah, your plushy walls would suck him in so nicely. One hand speeds up on his cock, while the other reaches down to cradle his balls. Tugging and pulling at the same jerky rhythm they would smack your ass while he stuffs you full. 

So much better than any other sugar daddy ever could. Oh how Satoru would love to mess up your pretty pussy and your lipstick. He’d fucking tattoo your lipstick stains on if he could.

And you’d be able to do nothing but gasp and whimper into his lips, cockdrunk and dazed, “Shit shit shit- Toru m’gonna - Hah- Wanna cum. Please wan’ cum-” Oh how he’d burn down this entire fucking world to hear you call him that. 

“Fuck,” he curses, bucking into his fist, tight balls twitching so sensitively. “Fuck...fuck fuck fuck. M’gonna cum- shit- gonna cum, princess.”

“Cum f’me, Toru. Fill me up with y’cum- wanna take all of it.”

And then he’s cumming. 

A ragged, raw moan of your name leaving his lips. Thick, hot ropes of cum that should be painting your pussy white - but, alas, he’s spilling into his fist so shamefully. And amongst the stars behind his eyes he’s sees you - you you you-

You, fucking your cunt deeper onto his cock to take every drop of his cum. You, whispering sweet little praises as his seed gushes down your thigh, telling him that oh he’s doing so well, and he’s the best boyfriend ever and you already want more-

You, at the arm of his father.

Shit, he needs to shower. Again. 

---

Ever since that little incident that night, everything changed. 

At this point, you didn’t even feel that usual little bitterness whenever your sugar daddy canceled for some urgent business. And, well, it made you blush to admit but you found yourself heading over to the Gojo Estate more and more frequently, often just to catch a glimpse of Gojo - or a quick kiss in the stuffy broom closet. Whichever left you more time to run away from looming security and his father. 

But that was exactly the problem. 

Because no matter how thick the tension lingering in the air between you two was, nothing had gone past heated kisses and touches. Either you were brought back to reality with the possibility of being arrested for indecent exposure at those galas, or someone just had to interrupt. Seriously, with how many times Satoru has had to pay off his poor personal assistant, you’ve been wondering whether he actively seeks you two out. 

And it really didn’t help that Satoru always tasted so goddamn delicious. Fingers searing on your skin, cologne heavy in the heady air, it was hard to keep your hands to yourself. 

But, hey, desperate times bring devious measures.

Which is why you were here right now - sinking into the plushiest bed at the Gojo Estate, clad in your delicate light blue lingerie. One that was custom-made in this specific shade of blue. Because while your sugar daddy preferred you in red, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind you using his credit card for other ulterior motives, right? 

You just hoped that Satoru would just so happen to get a peak when you sneak out to use the bathroom later. What would he say? Would he like it? Would his eyes roam over your body, fingers twiddling with the flimsy lace?

But more importantly - would it be enough to make him break? Even if just a little bit?

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You’re startled out of your little whirlwind thoughts by knocking on the door. Steady, and matching your racing heart. Ah, Satoru’s father, you hastily get up to fix your hair.

“Yo, princess, are you naked or can I come in? Or can I come in when you’re naked?”

That wasn’t your sugar daddy. 

Not even thinking of your current outfit anymore, you rush to throw the heavy wooden doors open to see that, yes, it really was Satoru standing at the door. All bright grins and flushed cheeks as he drinks you in. Brows raising as his eyes move down from your face once. Twice. Thrice. 

Success. 

“What’re you doing here, Satoru?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. Trying to hold back the smirk threatening to curl your lips at the way he gulps.

“Uh- My father’s off to some urgent b-business.” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “Told me to tell you he’s sorry and wishes you the breas- best.”

Oh. 

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Satoru’s father has canceled on you. But it would be the first time that he’s canceled on you so conveniently enough to leave you alone with his unfairly hot son. Now, you couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste, right?

You lean slightly against the door, body ghosting Satoru’s, teasing him, “Well, when is my dear sugar daddy coming back from his business? Tell him I miss him.”

It’s a joke - and both of you probably know it. But that doesn’t stop Satoru’s brows furrowing ever-so-slightly, suddenly a different man from the flustered one he was just a few seconds ago as he mutters, “I don’t think he’ll be back tonight.”

“Aww, must be some important business.” 

He clenches his jaw aggressively at that, gritting out a clipped little, “You do know that ‘business’ of his is his secretary right?”

“I know. What a shame, right? Guess I’ll just have to go home n’ wait for him then?” you mockingly sigh - God, someone give you an Oscar. Moving to close the door in Satoru’s face, only to be stopped by a large hard smacking into the doorframe - as you knew it would. 

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna let you come out looking like that and let you go home without tearing it to shreds.”

And that’s all that is said before his lips are on yours.

The door is slamming shut before you know it, and you’re shoved against it. Satoru’s lips such a sloppy mix of teeth and spit. Hands just everywhere - cradling your cheek, teasing your nipples through your bra, running down to squeeze and grope your ass. He just couldn’t get enough of you. 

Fuck twiddling with the lace, Satoru seemed well and fully intent to rip it off of you. And you’d let him. Just like he was letting you shove his overpriced button-up down his toned shoulders. Soft little rips sounding in the heady air at the urgency but neither of you could give less of a fuck. 

All you could think of is the way Satoru was so pretty and muscled. Drinking in all the dips and curves of pale skin underneath your fingertips. 

“Fuck, princess. Chose this color on purpose, huh?” his fingers dive under the hem of your bra, “Wanted to drive me crazy, mm?”

“Y-yes, Satoru.” you gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. “Wanted you to look at it. Got it custom-made all f’you.” words muffled as he sucks on your tongue. Satoru was always such a messy kisser, licking at the seam of your lips and intertwining his tongue with yours with no shame or shyness. A delicate trail of drool already starting at the corner of your mouth. 

Ah, it was too much for him. Satoru almost thinks he could cum in his pants right now at your sinful little admission. 

Which is why he pulls away to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, letting out a broken little hum of appreciation into your skin. “Thought so.”

And then your bra’s hitting the floor, tits spilling out into the cold bedroom air. But only for a split-second because Satoru’s immediately groping each and every inch of skin he can find. 

“Look so fucking beautiful like this.” Rolling your swollen nipples between two fingers as he mutters - more to himself than you, “Was gonna let him see you in this slutty lil’ thing, too?” leaning down to tongue lazily little circles on one nipple. Words muffled as he wraps his lips so prettily around your tit - tugging, just grazing with his teeth, “Matching my eyes, huh? Fuckin’ gonna be the death of me shit-”

Satoru was insatiable. Wanting all of you all at the same time. And you follow his line of sight to see him locked on your dripping cunt - soaking through the thin fabric of your panties. Clenching around nothing as his pretty pink lips fall into a soft oh! at the sight. 

Like a madman, he immediately drops to his knees. But you don’t think he even feels the pain as he bites down on the hem of your wet panties. Looking up at you with dazed eyes - miles away. 

Breath ghosting your quivering cunt, tugging lightly with his teeth, “Next time, I’m gonna be the one buying you these.”

Then he’s pulling - tearing your drenched panties to shreds. Grinning so devilishly around it as he gets his first sight of your pretty pussy.  Oh you were so perfect for him. So mouthwateringly wet. 

“Shit, princess. Can’t believe you were fucking holdin’ out on me.”  he muses in wonder, eyes wide at the way your sloppy pussy was glistening in the dim lighting. 

“You were the one that-”

And usually, Satoru loves hearing you run your mouth, but this time he’s shutting you up by diving face-first into your dripping cunt. Cute little mewls leaving you as he presses so shamefully deep that his nose was against your throbbing clit, rubbing languidly as he licks a thick stripe up your swollen folds. 

And then it was like something snapped. 

Because one taste of you and Satoru’s going wild. Throwing a leg over his shoulder to lick more desperately all all over your cunt, lapping up all the juices that gush out of you. Already so addicted because shit you were so much sweeter than in his dreams. 

“Ah! Hngh- please.” you mewl, as he wraps his glossy lips around your swollen clit. All you get is a feral little grunt, his jaw parted, eyes looking like he’s on cloud nine as starts to suck harshly. Filthy little squelches filling the air as Satoru rolls his tongue across your clit. “Feels, s’good, Satoru.”

But your cute little whines turn into one of disappointment as Satoru pulls away ever-so-slightly. “Call m’Toru.” he slurs.

And he doesn’t waste any more time, tongue swishing in his mouth to spit on you once. Twice. Missing ever so slightly, and splattering on your thigh. You flinch, gasping out a breathless little, “Toru!”

“Oh shit, princess. Yeah- say m’name jus’ like that” he groans, ragged and raw. The last thing out of his mouth before he’s squeezing his soft tongue into your snug cunt. Dipping into your sloppy hole in and out in and out in and-

“He ever made you feel this good?” he moans into your cunt, the vibrations making you fuck yourself deeper into his unrelenting tongue. 

“W-what?”

“He ever made you feel this good? Cum so hard you see stars?”

You gasp out a pathetic little sob, “N-no. Want to- Wan’ you to make me cum, Toru. Make me cum around your tongue.”

And, well, what his girl wants - then she’s going to get. Because Satoru’s lapping at your cunt even more greedily than before. 

Stretching you out, breathing you in, looking up at your cute expression through his long lashes. Already so fucked-out for him. 

Nose rubbing purposefully in small circles on your clit. Fucking you with his tongue the way he wants to with his cock and he didn’t give a fuck if he suffocated in-between your thighs - he fucking loved it. 

“Hngh- shit shit shit yes!” your nails are digging into Satoru’s scalp at this point. The only thing steadying yourself to prevent you from collapsing onto the ground. And you really can’t help but angle his head just right so that his tongue curls against that one spot inside your plushy walls. 

Thankfully, he gets the memo. Because Satoru’s letting out a strangled little grunt at being so used by you as you drag your cunt across his pretty mouth. Body jerking into his as he hits that spot over and over-

“T-Toru- hah!” thighs quivering, Satoru’s grip bruising as he holds you up. “M’m gonna-” Your plushy walls sucking him up, thighs squeezing around his face. 

“Mhm?”

“Cum! M’gonna cum- ah- fuck fuck fuck-”

He groans huskily into your cunt. Throwing his head back ever-so-slightly to let your slick slide down his throat - greedily waiting for more that was to come. “Then show me how you cum, m’girl. Cum all over my tongue.”

And then you are - all over Satoru’s pretty face. And fuck he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked prettier. Holding his head in place as you rock your hips into his waiting mouth, letting him drink you in so greedily. Clamping down on his tongue like you were trying to milk him. 

And if you were in any better state of mind, you’d notice the delirious little heart eyes that Satoru was giving you, your cunt firm on his face and swollen lips letting out such pretty whines of his name. Toru Toru Toru - like a prayer as you fucking use him for your high. 

Ah, he could stay like this forever, he thinks. But no, an empty house and you all wet n’ pretty for him means there’s too much more to do. 

Which is why he’s pulling away, your slick decorating his lips so prettily. Smeared across the bottom half of his face and dripping onto the hardwood floor in a maddening little drip! drip! drip! 

And Satoru knows, with the way you watch him so intensely, mouth parted, eyes glossy. Which is why he runs a thumb along his mouth, pooling your juices on his fingers and popping them into his mouth. One by one. 

Your jaw drops a little in disbelief as Satoru licks his fingers clean, eyes rolling to the back of his head at your addictive taste. Oh he was ruining you without even touching you. 

“Not enough, princess.” he chuckles. “C’mon, gimme a kiss.”

And, really, how could you ever say no to that face? Because you’re pulling him to you as soon as Satoru stands to his full height. Capturing his lips in such a sloppy, filthy kiss - forcing you to taste yourself and you half-lucidly wonder whether Satoru loved the taste almost as much as you because it was so him.

Bodies so close that your dripping cunt was seeping into his unfairly tight shirt. Forming a lewd little dark patch when Satoru lifts you effortlessly to guide you to the bed. Tongue still entwining obscenely with yours as he splays you out on the soft mattress for him. Drinking in that adorable lil’ shock on your face as you bounce on the bed, so drunk off of him that you didn’t even realize he was taking you to the bed. 

“Shit, y’look the prettiest like this, princess. S’a wonder m’not fucking passing out right now.” he hisses into your lips.

“Toru-” you whine, and shit the way his cock jumps at the mere sound of your voice makes you think that this will be a little trick you’re using more often. “Wan’ your cock s’bad. Wanna-”

You don’t even have the patience to finish the sentence before you’re fumbling with his belt. Something hefty and overpriced but you can’t possibly think about that right now because fuck you get the first sliver of milky skin. 

Satoru’s thighs were so sculpted and thick. It made your mouth absolutely water to wonder what it would feel like to ride them to insanity.

“Y’wanna ride my thighs? Fuck princess, you really are driving me crazy.” 

Shit had you said that out loud? 

Ah, well, it doesn’t matter because Satoru’s pulling his boxers down - so tight with his swollen cock, a dark patch right where his weeping head was. And you almost pout at losing the opportunity to take them off but oh how you’re distracted by the sinful sight before you. 

Satoru was massive - so long and flushed your favorite shade of pretty pink. Shit, you were going to have to get a lingerie set in this color one of these days. He was achingly hard and throbbing, springing up to smear precum all over his abs. 

And before you can even react, Satoru’s pulling you to him. Manhandling your pretty self so easily to straddle one, large thigh. 

“Oh- hngh, Toru.” you look up at him all doe-eyed and teary as he doesn’t even wait for you to register what’s all happening. Grip bruising on your hips as he rocks your hips so sluttily on his leg. “F-feels s’good. Ah-”

“Yeah? Y’like it? Like getting yourself off like a lil’ slut on my thigh?” he groans into your ear, low and husky with need. 

You nod wildly, sloppy pussy dripping all over his thigh, seeping into his skin as you grind your hips to meet his movements. “Like it s’much- ah-”

“Mhm? Better than anything he could ever do?”

“Yes yes yes, Toru-” you sob, cheeks burning as you realize that you’re humping him like a bitch in heat - but oh judging by the carnal little glint in his eyes, he liked it. Loved it, even. Because Satoru could feel the way your swollen folds spread to grind against him, clit pulsing so maddeningly against his skin. So filthy and messy as you used him to get yourself off. “S’much better- the best-”

He just didn’t expect to feel a soft hand wrapping around his cock. Eyes flying open to see you - all glassy-eyed, and fucking yourself on his thigh - wrap a hand around his cock. Starting to move in shallow, unsteady little motions up and down his throbbing cock to get him off at the same time as you.

“Wan�� you to cum, too, Toru.”

“Oh fuck.” he grunts, letting his hips fuck up into your fist in mindless little motions. “Y’don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

And with that his fingers were digging into the skin of your hips, forcing you to hold on for dear life as he drags your dripping cunt faster and faster across his thick. Movements erratic and frenzied now. 

Of course, you were not one to be out-done. 

Satoru’s precum spilling down your hand, your wrist now aching and wet, becoming so, so sloppy trying to get both yourselves off. But you still tighten your fist around his pulsing cock, desperately flying up and down his length. Pulling in quick, jerky motions to milk him for all he’s worth again and again and-

“You’re so oh- good f’me, princess.” he hums. “Your hngh- hands are so p-pretty wrapped around my cock. So perfect for me.” Bucking his hips wildly to meet your hand now, fucking your fist with no shame. Pulling you harsher on his thigh. “S’such a shame you had to hah fuck- meet my father first. I’d have been so much better.”

“Toru!” you squeal as one hand moves deftly from your hips to draw quick, hasty little circles on your throbbing clit. The friction from his thigh and fingers too much to handle. 

“I’d make you happier.” Your body is shaking now, hands messy and trembling around his swollen cock. “I’d make you laugh more and give you all m’time.” You can’t even look at him at this point, eyes scrunched close in ecstasy as Satoru whispers these maddening little phrases into your open mouth. 

“I’d make you cum harder.”

Oh and then you are - tears in your eyes, body convulsing into his as you cum. And of course he’s smirking smugly as he watches you ride your high out on his thigh, brows furrowed and bottom lip bitten in concentration as he holds off cumming. Not now. Not yet. 

“So, better than him or not?”

But shit was it hard. 

Especially when you raise your pretty, barely-lucid eyes to meet his, whimpering out a soft little, “I don’ know yet, Toru. Gonna hafta stuff me full of your cock if you wanna know.”

And perhaps for the first time since you walked in on him after the shower that night, the great Gojo Satoru is taken aback. Eyes widening in surprise, kiss-bitten lips falling into a soft oh! of disbelief. But not for long - never for long - because a devilish little grin breaks out across his face immediately afterwards. 

“Shit, y’really are perfect f’me, princess.”

With a low growl, Satoru is easily pulling your body - limp and boneless in his hands - to straddle his toned hips. 

You let out a yelp at the feeling of his fat tip just kissing your swollen folds, dragging teasingly along them, collecting the slick beading out of your sloppy cunt. Back and forth-

“Who’s got you feeling this way?”

“You, Toru.”

And then he’s pushing in, swollen cock bullying into your snug pussy. Thumbs drawing steady little circles on your hips - yes to reassure you but also to fight off that feral little part of himself that just wants to stuff your pretty lil’ pussy full until his heavy balls smack your ass. Not even waiting for you to adjust. 

But no. No, it was so much better when you were the one desperately trying to suck up his cock. Gasping and moaning out strangled little whimpers of his name as you sink yourself down on his throbbing dick. Inch by fucking inch. 

“S’too big- Hngh! I-is it even halfway in?” you whimper out, and Satoru could almost laugh humorlessly as he tilts his head to glance downwards and shit- he was barely a quarter in. 

“No.” 

“F-fuck” cute little tears streaking down your face now, thighs trembling, “Toru, I-I don’t think I can-”

“You can. And you will.” Fucking up into you in short, rapid little jabs to squeeze himself deeper into your tight pussy. Shit, it was such a squeeze, you were milking the ever-loving soul out of him. And it only made him impossibly harder inside you, making you whine and grind down - torn between chasing the feeling of being so deliciously full and the sheer pressure. “Shit, love when your pussy’s sucking me up so good.” 

One hand is on your hip, sliding you farther and farther down his cock, the other drawing urgent, quick patterns on your clit. Not even circles anymore because shit Satoru doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity for that. Throbbing veins rubbing so sinfully against that one spot in your dripping cunt, splitting you apart to the same rhythm as the pulsing. 

And as soon as your ass meets his heavy balls - already so wet with precum and slick - Satoru doesn’t even know if he’s on planet Earth anymore. Mind spinning, he doesn’t waste any time at all. 

“Fuck yes.” Satoru hisses, throwing his head back. “Fucking finally.” He pulls his hips back, far enough that his angry, red tip is just kissing your sloppy entrance, surging forward, forward, forward- “Y’don’t know how fucking long I’ve wanted this, princess. Needed this s’bad, so so bad you don’t understand. Shit.”

And, hey, his girl deserved to be fucked dumb, right?

“Needed this ever since I saw you at that goddamn gala.” he whispers into your lips, ragged and so fucked-out. Each word punctuated by a harsh, heavy thrust. Ones that have you keening and grasping Satoru’s broad back for support. Nails raking down his shoulders as his pace gets faster. More purposeful.

And you can do nothing but take it, barely even able to form any coherent sentences. So prettily sat on Satoru’s lap as he fucks into you, babbling sweet little nonsenses made for your ears only. “Ever since I saw that murderous little glare you threw at those snobby guests.”

His balls smacking against your ass over and over. A quick, steady little tempo that you were losing your mind to. “Ever since you let me take your hand and drag you away to that secret bar to take shots instead of champagne.”

You don’t know whether you’re even crying at this point - all you know is that your cheeks are wet and your voice is broken as your let out a little, “F-fuck, Satoru- but your fa-”

“Fuck that.” he whines, and you could almost laugh at the adorable pout that makes its way onto his face. And at that you can feel him jolt so deliciously, head snapping up to meet yours. “I’m the better one.”

And as if he’s trying to prove it to your cunt, he’s drilling into you faster. Harder. Hips burning now as he fucks you like some animal. Hitting that sweet spot over and over. “I’m the one with the personality and the looks.” Long fingers almost a blur on your clit as he matches his place. Cock hot, and throbbing inside you. 

“I’m the heir, I get the company, too, if that’s what you like.” He’s bouncing you on his cock animalistically now. Hungry gaze taking in the way you’re sucking him up so well. “And I’m funnier one, I’m the one that should be by your side.”

You see stars behind your eyes at both the pleasure and sheer overstimulation as Satoru starts fucking your cunt as best he could without fucking breaking you  - but, honestly, he didn’t give a shit if you cried. He just wanted to stuff you full and have you cum harder than you ever have in your life. 

“Fuck- fuck yes m’gonna cum Toru- hngh.” You pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “M-make ah! Make me cum, fill me up please, Toru.”

You feel him shudder inside you, balls squeezing so painfully. Hips sloppy and absolutely soaked with precum and slick. “Sh-shit, you’re not too good for m’heart. Ngh, f-fuck- I should be the one to make you cum. Over and over until you don’t know what it feels like to not.”

“Toru!” your eyes fly open, “Yes yes yes- it’s you. Only you-”

Oh, like something snapped then Satoru’s surging forward to bite down on the crook of your neck. Hard. You’d almost think he was out to draw blood. And then with a low groan, and one, harsh little thrust, Satoru’s cumming and cumming inside your pretty pussy. And you are too - back arching as you milk his cock through his high. 

Fingers digging into your skin as he holds your hips to his, letting your cunt be filled up so sloppily. Pumping thick, hot ropes of seed that dribbled out of you each time he pumped his hips into yours. Fucking it deeper and deeper inside you. 

And then you’re both collapsing, the exhaustion suddenly hitting the both of you as Satoru moves you both to lay on the mattress. Fuck, Satoru watches in wonder as his cum gushes out of you and forms a wet little pool on the expensive sheets as he starts to pull out. One round might just not be enough. 

Yet not yet - he can feel his eyes drooping, muscles aching as he pulls your sticky body closer to his. And Satoru knows he should get up and wipe you both down. But right now, he’s too drunk off the heat of your body and that angry little bite on your neck. Distracted by the cute lil’ expression on your face, so tired and thoroughly fucked out. Fingers playing with his hair, looking at him with an expression so fond - just like in his dreams. 

Nothing more is said. And all is quiet in your strange little heaven. 

That is, until - “So, princess. Wouldn’t ya wanna be an heiress instead of a sugar baby?”

A/N. How we feeling???

Plagiarism not authorized.

[argumate]

So, reports of an unprecedented egg “shortage” are exaggerated. Nonetheless, egg prices — and egg company profits — have gone through the roof. Cal-Maine Foods — the largest egg producer and the only one that publishes its financial data as a publicly traded company — has been making more money than ever. It’s annual gross profits in the past three years have floated between 3 and 6 times what it used to earn before the avian flu epidemic started — breaking $1 billion for the first time in the company’s history. All of this extra profit is coming from higher selling prices, which have been earning Cal-Maine unprecedented 50-170 percent margins over farm production costs per dozen. Taking Cal-Maine as the “bellwether” for the industry’s largest firms — as people in the egg business do — we can be pretty confident that the other large egg producers are also raking in profits off the relatively small dip in egg production.

High persistent profits are an anomaly for the industry. Historically, egg producers have responded to avian flu epidemics—and the temporary rise in egg prices that often accompanies them—by quickly rebuilding and expanding their flocks of egg-laying hens. “Fowl plagues”—as these epidemics used to be called—have been with us since at least the 19th century. Most recently, large-scale avian flu epidemics hit egg farms in 2015 and 1983-1984. The egg industry responded to both of these destructive events by sprinting to rebuild and expand the egg-laying hen flock — something which checked price increases and ultimately made sure prices went back to pre-epidemic levels within a reasonable time.

As Cal-Maine Foods explained in its 2007 Annual Report: “In the past, during periods of high profitability, shell egg producers have tended to increase the number of layers in production with a resulting increase in the supply of shell eggs, which generally has caused a drop in shell egg prices until supply and demand return to balance.”

This time around, however, that’s not happening. Despite high profits, the egg industry has somehow maintained a stubborn deficit in egg production capacity. Hatcheries — the firms that supply hens to egg producers — have throttled the pipeline of hens instead of expanding it. According to the Egg Industry Center, the size of the flock of “parent” hens — the hens used by hatcheries to produce layer chicks for egg producers — plummeted from 3.1 million hens in 2021, to 2.9 million in 2022, to 2.5 million hens in 2023 and 2024.

Meanwhile, hatcheries have been hatching significantly fewer parent chicks to replace aging ones — nearly 380,000 (or 12 percent) fewer in 2022 compared to the year before, and even fewer parent chicks in 2023 and 2024 — leaving the parent flock older and more likely to produce eggs that fail to hatch. That could explain why, although hatcheries reported producing 125-200 million more fertilized eggs to the USDA in each of the last three years compared to 2021, the number of eggs they’ve placed in incubators and the number of chicks they’ve hatched from those eggs has either declined or stayed basically steady with 2021 levels in every year since.

As for egg producers themselves, you may be surprised to learn that they have added between 5 and 20 million fewer pullets to their farms in every one of the last three years than they did in 2021. As the USDA observed with some astonishment at the end of 2022, “producers—despite the record-high wholesale price [of eggs]—are taking a cautious approach to expanding production[.]” The following month, it pared down its table-egg production forecast for the entirety of 2023 on account of “the industry’s [persisting] cautious approach to expanding production.”

In other words, the only thing that the egg industry seems to have expanded in response to the avian flu epidemic is windfall profits — which have likely amounted to more than $15 billion since the epidemic began (judging by the increase in the value of annual egg production since 2022), and appear to have been spent primarily on stock buybacks, dividends, and acquisitions of rivals instead of rebuilding and expanding flocks. When an industry starts profiting more from *not* producing than from producing, it’s a sign that something isn’t right. It could be an innocent bottleneck. But when it lasts for three years on end with no relief in sight, it's usually a sign of something else that’s pervasive in America — monopolization.

As the coming installments in this series will detail, the fundamental problem in the egg supply chain today is the simple fact that every industry involved in turning an egg into a chicken and turning a chicken into an egg—from the breeders and hatcheries that create the hens to the producers who use the hens to make eggs—has been hijacked by one or two financier-backed corporations, with the incentives flipped from competing entities seeking to produce more eggs to an oligopoly trying to restrain the production of eggs.

On one end of the egg supply chain, you have two companies who control chicken genetics, the billionaire-owned Erich Wesjohann Group and the private-equity-backed Hendrix Genetics. Headquartered a short car trip apart in Cuxhaven, Germany, and Boxmeer, Netherlands, these private firms have systematically gained control over the supply of egg-laying hens to American producers over the past two decades by buying out or suppressing rivals and challengers. Today, no egg producer in this country can expand the number of hens in its flock — or even replace the hens it already has when they age out or die — without the cooperation of this duopoly. And, since the value of hens rises with the price of the eggs, when the price of eggs is high these two barons have a clear interest in keeping the supply of pullets to producers on a tight leash — so the high prices stick.

On the other end of the egg supply chain, you have the largest egg producer in the country and the world, Cal-Maine Foods.

Matt Stoller from his monopolisation/cartel report; something that has clicked recently is the way that business seeks to maximise profit margin over volume, which often leads to reducing production, brittle supply chains, high prices, and ultimately shortages.

in principle this isn't supposed to happen under capitalism, because someone earning high profit margins should be outcompeted by new entrants willing to earn slightly lower profit margins, until (in the perfect frictionless market) the rate of profit should be whittled down to the rate of risk free return (government interest rates?) plus epsilon (a little bit).

obviously this does happen in reality for a number of reasons, and the Problem of Profits is a fun question to dig into, but the problem of persistently high profits is a more concerning issue and appears to be growing across multiple industries.

antitrust law is supposed to prevent market concentration that leads to this outcome but has been toothless since the '90s, allowing dramatic consolidation across dozens of old industries (groceries, agriculture, pharmacies, television, newspapers) and of course new industries (tech giants).

government regulation often ends up favouring incumbents, but it seems that contractual arrangements between suppliers and industry bodies and buying agents to form tight cartels are a bigger problem: if egg prices are high you might think to start an egg farm, but you need to find someone who will sell you chickens and someone who will buy your eggs, when the industry is using every means at their disposal to cut off market access to new entrants.

and of course if you have access to the gargantuan amount of capital required to attempt a serious challenge to an established cartel, why exactly would you want to start a price war with them when you can instead find some other unprotected industry to buy up and establish a cartel of your own?

capitalism seems to have entered a phase of its development equivalent to WWI, where defensive operations by incumbents are more successful than offense by new ventures, keeping the battle lines frozen in place (presumably the soldiers dying in their millions would be workers and consumers in this analogy).

[felassan]

Jason Schreier for Bloomberg reports: 'Inside the ‘Dragon Age’ Debacle That Gutted EA’s BioWare Studio'

The latest game in BioWare’s fantasy role-playing series went through ten years of development turmoil. The failure of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, released in October, led EA to gut BioWare

[note: article is below cut after these tweets]

Jason Schreier: "NEW: What went wrong with Dragon Age: The Veilguard? Why was the writing so tonally inconsistent? Why did it feel so shallow? Why were there so few choices? Really, after ten years of turbulence, it was a miracle that anything came out at all. This is the story [link]:" [source]

Jason Schreier: "The fatal flaw for Dragon Age: The Veilguard wasn't just that it pivoted from single-player to multiplayer and back again. It was that after the second pivot, the team was forced to keep going rather than hit the reset button and take the time to create a new plan." [source]

Jason Schreier re: this old tweet from Casey Hudson: "Fun fact: when I first reported at Kotaku in 2018 that Dragon Age 4 was rebooted to become a live-service game, BioWare studio head Casey Hudson wrote this on Twitter. But it was not entirely truthful. In reality, the game was being designed around cooperative multiplayer, replayable missions, etc" [source] Casey Hudson's old tweet from 2018: "Reading lots of feedback regarding Dragon Age, and I think you'll be relieved to see what the team is working on. Story & character focused. Too early to talk details, but when we talk about "live" it just means designing a game for continued storytelling after the main story."

Rest of post/article under cut due to length.

(bold in the text below is mine for emphasis)

"In early November, on the eve of the crucial holiday shopping season, staffers at the video-game studio BioWare were feeling optimistic. After an excruciating development cycle, they had finally released their latest game, Dragon Age: The Veilguard, and the early reception was largely positive. The role-playing game was topping sales charts on Steam, and solid, if not spectacular, reviews were rolling in. But in the weeks that followed, the early buzz cooled as players delved deeper into the fantasy world, and some BioWare employees grew anxious. For months, everyone at the subsidiary of the video-game publisher Electronic Arts Inc. had been under intense pressure. The studio’s previous two games, Mass Effect: Andromeda and Anthem, had flopped, and there were rumors that if Dragon Age underperformed, BioWare might become another of EA’s many casualties. Not long after Christmas, the bad news surfaced. EA announced in January that the new Dragon Age had only reached 1.5 million players, missing the company’s expectations by 50%. The holiday performance of another recently released title, EA Sports FC 2025, was also subpar, compounding the problem."

"As a result of the struggling titles, EA Chief Executive Officer Andrew Wilson explained, the company would be significantly lowering its sales forecast for the fiscal year ahead. EA’s share price promptly plunged 18%. “Dragon Age had a high-quality launch and was well-reviewed by critics and those who played,” Wilson later said on an earnings call. “However, it did not resonate with a broad enough audience in this highly competitive market.” Days after the sales revision, EA laid off a chunk of BioWare’s staff at the studio’s headquarters in Edmonton, Canada, and permanently transferred many of the remaining workers to other divisions. For the storied, 30-year-old game maker, it was a stunning fall that left many fans wondering how things had gone so haywire — and what might come next for the stricken studio. According to interviews with nearly two dozen people who worked on Dragon Age: The Veilguard, there were several reasons behind its failure, including marketing misfires, poor word of mouth and a 10-year gap since the previous title. Above all, sources point to the rebooting of the product from a single-player game to a multiplayer one — and then back again — a switcheroo that muddled development and inflated the title’s budget, they say, ultimately setting the stage for EA’s potentially unrealistic sales expectations. A spokesperson for EA declined to comment."

"The union between BioWare and EA started off with lofty aspirations. In 2007, EA executives announced they were acquiring BioWare and another gaming studio in a deal worth $860 million. The goal was to diversify their slate of games, which was heavy in sports titles, like Madden NFL, and light in the kind of adventure and role-playing games that BioWare was known for. Initially, it looked like a smart move thanks to a string of big hits. In 2014, BioWare released Dragon Age: Inquisition, the third installment in a popular action series dropping players in a semi-open world full of magic, elves and fire-spewing dragons. The fantasy title went on to win the much-coveted Game of the Year Award and sell 12 million copies, according to its executive producer Mark Darrah — a major validation of EA’s diversification strategy. Before long, Darrah and Mike Laidlaw, the creative director, began kicking around ideas for the next Dragon Age installment — code name: Joplin — aiming for a game that would be smaller in scope. But before much could get done, BioWare shifted the studio’s focus to more pressing titles coming down the pike. In 2017, BioWare released Mass Effect: Andromeda, the fourth installment in a big-budget action series set in space. Unlike its critically successful predecessors, the game received mediocre reviews and was widely mocked by fans. A few months after the disappointing release, the head of BioWare stepped down and was soon replaced by Microsoft Inc.’s Casey Hudson, an alumni of BioWare’s early, formative years."

"Like much of the industry, EA executives were growing increasingly enamored of so-called live-service games, such as Destiny and Overwatch, in which players continue to engage with and spend money on a title for months or even years after its initial release. With EA aiming to make a splash in the fast-growing category, BioWare poured resources into Anthem, a live-service shooter game that checked all the right boxes. One day in October 2017, Laidlaw summoned his colleagues into a conference room and pulled out a few pricey bottles of whisky. The next Dragon Age sequel, he told the room, would also be pivoting to an online, live-service game — a decision from above that he disagreed with. He was resigning from the studio. The assembled staff stayed late through the night, drinking and reminiscing about the franchise they loved. “I wish that pivot had never occurred,” Darrah would later recount on YouTube. “EA said, ‘Make this a live service.’ We said, ‘We don’t know how to do that. We should basically start the project over.’” Former art director Matt Goldman replaced Laidlaw as creative director, and with a tiny team began pushing ahead on a new multiplayer version of Dragon Age — code name: Morrison — while everyone else helped to finish Anthem, which was struggling to coalesce. Goldman pushed for a “pulpy,” more lighthearted tone than previous entries, which suited an online game but was a drastic departure from the dark, dynamic stories that fans loved in the fantasy series."

"In February 2019, BioWare released Anthem. Reviews were scathing, calling the game tedious and convoluted. Fans were similarly displeased. On social media, players demanded to know why a studio renowned for beloved stories and characters had made an online shooter with a scattershot narrative. In the wake of BioWare’s second consecutive flop, the multiplayer version of Dragon Age continued to take shape. While the previous games in the franchise had featured tactical combat, this one would be all action. Instead of quests that players would only experience once, it would be full of missions that could be replayed repeatedly with friends and strangers. Important characters couldn’t die because they had to persist for multiple players across never-ending gameplay. As the game evolved over the next two years, the failure of Anthem hovered over the studio. Were they making the same mistakes? Some BioWare employees scoffed that they were simply building “Anthem with dragons.” Throughout 2020, the pandemic disrupted the game’s already fraught development. In December, Hudson, the head of the studio, and Darrah, the head of the franchise, resigned. Shortly thereafter, Gary McKay, BioWare’s new studio head, revealed yet another shift in strategy. Moving forward, the next Dragon Age would no longer be multiplayer."

"“We were thinking, ‘Does this make sense, does this play into our strengths, or is this going to be another challenge we have to face?’” McKay later told Bloomberg News. “No, we need to get back to what we’re really great at.” In theory, the reversion back to Dragon Age’s tried-and-true, single-player format should have been welcome news inside BioWare. But there was a catch. Typically, this kind of pivot would be coupled with a reset and a period of pre-production allowing the designers to formulate a new vision for the game. Instead, the team was asked to change the game’s fundamental structure and recast the entire story on the fly, according to people familiar with the new marching orders. They were given a year and a half to finish and told to aim for as wide a market as possible. This strict deadline became a recurring problem. The development team would make decisions believing that they had less than a year to release the game, which severely limited the stories they could tell and the world they could build. Then the title would inevitably be delayed a few months, at which point they’d be stuck with those old decisions with no chance to stop and reevaluate what was working. At the end of 2022, amid continually dizzying leadership changes, the studio started distributing an “alpha” build of Dragon Age to get feedback internally and from outside playtesters. According to people familiar with the process, the reactions were concerning. The game’s biggest problem, early players agreed, was a lack of satisfying choices and consequences. Previous BioWare titles had presented players with gut-wrenching decisions. Which allies to save? Which factions to spare? Which enemies to slay? Such dilemmas made fans feel like they were shaping the narrative — historically, a big draw for many BioWare games."

"But Dragon Age’s multiplayer roots limited such choices, according to people familiar with the development. BioWare delayed the game’s release again while the team shoehorned in a few major decisions, such as which of two cities to save from a dragon attack. But because most of the parameters were already well established, the designers struggled to pair the newly retrofitted choices for players with meaningful consequences downstream. In 2023, to help finish Dragon Age, BioWare brought in a second, internal team, which was working on the next Mass Effect game. For decades there’d been tension between the two well-established camps, known for their starkly divergent ways of doing things. BioWare developers like to joke that the Dragon Age crew was like a pirate ship, meandering and sometimes traveling off course but eventually reaching the port. In contrast, the Mass Effect group was called the USS Enterprise, after the Star Trek ship, because commands were issued straight down from the top and executed zealously. As the Mass Effect directors took control, they scoffed that the Dragon Age squad had been doing a shoddy job and began excluding their leaders from pivotal meetings, according to people familiar with the internal friction. Over time, the Mass Effect team went on to overhaul parts of the game and design a number of additional scenes, including a rich, emotional finale that players loved. But even changes that appeared to improve the game stoked the simmering rancor inside BioWare, infuriating Dragon Age leaders who had been told they didn’t have the budget for such big, ambitious swings."

"“It always seemed that, when the Mass Effect team made its demands in meetings with EA regarding the resources it needed, it got its way,” said David Gaider, a former lead writer on the Dragon Age franchise who left before development of the new game started. “But Dragon Age always had to fight against headwinds.” Early testers and Mass Effect leads complained about the game’s snarky tone — a style of video-game storytelling, once ascendant, that was quickly falling out of fashion in pop culture but had been part of Goldman’s vision for the multiplayer game. Worried that Dragon Age could face the same outcome as Forspoken — a recent title that had been hammered over its impertinent banter — BioWare leaders ordered a belated rewrite of the game’s dialogue to make it sound more serious. (In the end, the resulting tonal inconsistencies would only add to the game’s poor reception with fans.) A mass layoff at BioWare and a mandate to work overtime depleted morale while a voice actors strike limited the writers’ ability to revise the dialogue and create new scenes. An initial trailer made the next Dragon Age seem more like Fortnite than a dark fantasy role-playing game, triggering concerns that EA didn’t know how to market the game. When Dragon Age: The Veilguard finally premiered on Halloween 2024 after many internal delays, some staff members thought there was a lot to like, including the game’s new combat system. But players were less impressed, and sales sputtered."

"“The reactions of the fan base are mixed, to put it gently,” said Caitie, a popular Dragon Age YouTuber. “Some, like myself, adore it for various reasons. Others feel utterly betrayed by certain design choices.” Following the layoffs and staff reassignments at BioWare earlier in the year, a small team of a few dozen employees is now working on the next Mass Effect. After three high-profile failures in a row, questions linger about EA’s commitment to the studio. In May, the company relabeled its Edmonton headquarters from a BioWare office to a hub for all EA staff in the area. Historically, BioWare has never been the most important studio at EA, which generates more than $7 billion in annual revenue largely from its sports games and shooters. Depending on the timing of its launches, BioWare typically accounts for just 5% of EA’s annual bookings, according to estimates by Colin Sebastian, an analyst with Robert W. Baird & Co. Even so, there may be strategic reasons for EA to keep supporting BioWare. Single-player role-playing games are expensive to make but can lead to huge windfalls when successful, as demonstrated by recent hits like Cyberpunk 2077, Elden Ring and Baldur’s Gate 3. In order to grow, EA needs more than just sports franchises, said TD Cowen analyst Doug Creutz. Trying to fix its fantasy-focused studio may be easier than starting something new. “That said, if they shuttered the doors tomorrow I wouldn’t be totally surprised,” Creutz added. “It has been over a decade since they produced a hit.”"

Article by Jason Schreier. [source]

[bejeweledinterludes]

touch starved.

OR dean winchester needs a damn hug! specifically from me, so of course i wrote about it! pretty much based off of my own headcanon that i wrote because this dean is canon— TO ME!

my masterlist

read part 2 here!

「 pairing 」 : touch starved ! dean x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 6.1 k (would y’all believe me when i say this started out as a drabble… faith be normal over dean winchester challenge level: IMPOSSIBLE!)

「 content / warnings 」 : late seasons soft!dean, vulnerability to da max, emotions, emotions, EMOTIONS. no smut (for once!), starts off kinda sad BUT HAS A HAPPY(ISH) ENDING I SWEAR! PLEASE PLEASE DON’T KILL ME

you have one ( 1 ) new message from the author ! ↓

AFTER CENTURIES IT’S FINALLY DONE! just saying once again thank you all so very much for 400 (+87 ?!?!?) followers! this fic is my gift to you! can’t believe over 400 of you want to see my bullshit (and unabashed horniness) on the daily but i love and appreciate every single one of ya! shoutout to my lovely mooties as well!

looking for new work from me? check out @bejeweledinterludes2, my new writing account!

𖤐 ─────────────────────────

dean winchester knew he had something called a touch problem.

and he didn’t know exactly when it started, but after years and years of the only touch he received being hits, punches, the cold feel of steel from a knife or the heat from the barrel of a gun—he craved something gentle.

he needed it.

and goddamn, he was getting desperate.

at first, he usually just sought it out with one-night stands. whether it be holding their hand during it, or sticking around for longer just to lay in bed with whoever the fuck he’d met that night— that kept him at bay. that’s how he got the touch he needed.

but then he got greedy.

it had been a particularly rough hunt. you, dean, and sam were lucky to get out alive. you’d pulled into a town that had a vamp nest terrorizing its inhabitants, and when you saw the familiar hot faces of the winchester brothers at the only decent bar in a 30-mile radius, you’d decided to work together— as you’d all done a million times before.

but still, it was rough. you three each took a floor of the abandoned farmhouse— you on the highest, dean in the middle, and sam on the ground floor. you clambered down the stairs after you had finished clearing your floor, only to be met with two snarling vampires— which you quickly ganked with a schwing of your machete.

after verifying that no threats were coming your way, you started looking for dean— and the panic that flooded through your chest when you saw him crumpled over on the floor in one of the rooms almost made you freeze.

almost.

years of experience and split-second decisions snapped you out of it, immediately falling to your knees by dean’s side, turning him over on his back.

your hands were gentle but swift as you quickly flipped out the sides of his jacket, making sure there were no large gashes or wounds— and the sigh with the feeling of pure relief you let out when you realized he was just knocked out was a little more intense than you had expected it to be.

and you told yourself that was definitely normal.

right?

right.

“dean,” your hand had gone to the side of dean’s face, the other remaining on his shoulder as you shook it gently, trying not to startle him completely as you masked your worry. “come on ya lug, rise ‘n shine.”

despite your efforts, dean still woke with a start— but you caught his arm with the hand not on his face before he could do anything.

“hey— hey,” your voice was quieter, softer. because despite being one bad mother when you were hunting, your soft side came out frequently when it was needed, without fear of judgment and with absolutely no shame. it was one of the things dean wished he could do as seamlessly as you. “it’s jus’ me, alright? come on—”

you then proceeded to stand all six feet and some change of dean up with you, keeping a hand on his back and shoulders and giving him another once over when he stood over you again.

“you all good?” you murmur quietly, your hands resting on the sides of dean’s arms as you stood back, your eyes continuing to rake over him for a moment before looking up at his face— and the expression you were met with wasn’t anger, or even frustration from being knocked out.

no.

dean looked almost… sad.

you’d never been exactly ‘close’ with dean. of course you considered him a friend— for years now, but in all honesty, even that was a stretch sometimes, too. because he was a very closed off and mistrusting person.

but hell, you respected that. especially in this line of work. he did talk to you once in a while, though— on those lulls during a hunt or a case, or when he dropped some crazy lore about himself or his childhood, then going right back to his usual behaviors afterwards.

that being said, you knew dean better than he thought you did— because he didn’t have to say much for you to know what he was going through. despite what he thought, his emotions were always kinda just… written on his face.

but now, back to the farmhouse. back to the look dean had on his face right now. it was a look you saw only after he had consumed enough alcohol to kill a baby elephant, which is why it threw you off and made your usual easygoing attitude with him falter.

“dean,” you voice had gotten quieter, even softer, “w—” but before you could say or even do anything else, sam called from the floor below that it was all clear, snapping dean out of it, his expression hardening again.

in the days coming after, you didn’t ask dean to explain himself, or push about what had happened that night. you knew if he wanted to, he’d come to you about it— maybe not right away, but when he was ready.

little did you know how soon that would be.

you’d been living in the bunker for probably only a couple months at this point after the apocalypse world had opened up, and a bunch of hunters were living in the bunker too— but less than a week later after the vamp nest, both sam and dean embarked on solo hunts, sam in maine, dean in nevada. both brothers had warned you not to ‘burn the joint down’.

come on. like you would ever do that— on accident. besides, you had the bunker all to yourself.

which was fun—

for all of five minutes.

now, almost six days after sam and dean had left, you’re sitting in the library, surrounded by a scattered array of books, papers, and weapons alike on the tables in front of you— another late night of research and catching up on lore.

because there was always lore to catch up on.

you’d been lost in the words in front of you when you heard the unmistakable noise of the bunker’s door creaking open. you stiffened slightly, instincts on alert, lifting your gaze from where you were standing— but relaxed and went back to scanning the page when you realized it was just dean.

because here’s the thing: over the years, you’ve realized that it’s not a good idea to talk to dean after he’s fresh off a hunt— and especially knowing that he’s probably just drove almost or even over 24 hours straight to come home?

yeah. no way were you about to be running up to dean as he trudged down the stairs, doting on him. to your knowledge, he hated touching people, especially other people touching him.

besides, usually after a hunt, dean would just go to his room, the infirmary, or immediately hit the showers— and not look once in your direction while he did it, much less talk to you.

it hurt, but you understood that the reason he does it wasn’t exactly anything you were doing wrong— it was just what dean did.

but tonight was different.

dean was on his way to his bedroom (or actually, maybe the infirmary might be better so he could patch himself up)—

but then he saw you.

you were still stood at one of the tables, eyes scanning through books of lore you dug up from the bookshelves, illuminated by the golden lamps lining the wooden tables. god, you were pretty. even though you weren’t looking at him, he didn’t blame you. he wasn’t exactly the most cheerful after a hunt.

especially this one.

and because of that, dean’s feet were moving before he could even think twice about what he was doing.

you’d glanced up from the book you’d been completely engulfed in— and was a little surprised to find dean looking right back at you as he walked up the few steps to the library.

you opened your mouth to say something, but before you could even register what was happening, dean had already made it to you— and without warning, wrapped you in a tight embrace, slamming against you and holding you like you were the only thing that would keep him upright.

your eyes widen slightly at the feeling of dean’s arms around you before you could register the fact that he’d even crossed the threshold of the bunker— a little ‘oof’ sound escapes you completely involuntarily.

“hey,” dean let out a shaky breath against some strands of your hair and shoulder, his voice slightly raspy with…was that relief?

despite how caught off-guard you were, you don’t reject dean’s unexpected hug, though. you let your body adjust to him and your arms wrap around him too, returning the gesture right back. the faint smell of baby’s exhaust, something earthy along with the familiar scent of dean fills your lungs as your fingers ever so slightly grasp onto the back of his jacket, keeping him against you.

the muscles in dean’s shoulders relax the second your arms gently wrap around him. and oh god, he just really missed you—

“hi,” your voice is just as quiet when you greet dean in return, chin resting on his own shoulder. “how did it—”

you’re trying to ask how his hunt went, but before you finish, dean’s pulling you closer to him and squeezing the words from you. his hands slip more around your waist to hold you against him tighter, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. he just wants to feel you. you’re so warm, so soft— and goddamn, you smelled good, too. you always did. it was a little infuriating, actually.

dean knows he should probably let go, or at least respond, but he can’t find it in himself to let go yet— so instead he just holds onto you tighter. he still doesn’t respond to your unsaid question, simply standing there, holding onto you like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

you assumed something had happened on his hunt for dean to be acting this way— but you don’t press or force him to tell you what. you just wanted to be there for him right now.

“oh,” is what you end up softly replying with a little nod of your head against dean when he simply doesn’t answer your unfinished question. but you don’t let him go. hell no. you just pat your hand on the back of one of his shoulders, tightening your own grip on him in return. “sorry, de.”

and dean lets out a slow breath of… was that relief at your voice, at the nickname you’d had for him since the second (or was it third) hunt you’d ever worked on together? who the hell knows. he’s just so thankful you’re here, you’re hugging him, not pushing him away, you’re holding him— that you’re so close.

“no, it’s okay,” dean’s unusually soft voice, barely above a whisper, cuts through the silence.

“it— it was rough, that’s all," he mutters after a even longer while, his words tinged with a mixture of fatigue and… something else that you can't quite place.

you and dean were so close and pressed together with your combined tight grips— so much so that you swore you could almost feel his heartbeat. but it wasn’t uncomfortable. and it didn’t feel awkward. it never seemed to be with him. besides, by his (few) words, you could tell he needed this a lot more than he was letting on.

in all honesty, you were just glad dean was finally letting himself seek comfort for once in his goddamn life—

in you.

“yeah, i get it,” is what you reply with, just nodding against dean’s shoulder while tightening your own grip on him. without really thinking about it, you start to gently run one of your hands up and down his back while still wrapped up in him, palm and fingers trailing on the material of his jacket. “just glad you’re back.”

you can feel dean’s breath hitch at your touch— and for a moment, you hesitate your motions of your hand tracing along his jacket, but his grip on you unconsciously tightened, like he was clinging to you. so you continue doing it after that.

“yeah,” he murmurs, a faint huff of something like a laugh escaping him. “me too.”

and for a long while, dean just stands there wrapped up in you, his face still buried in your hair and part of your shoulder as he lets himself lean into that touch, absorbing its comfort. he grips onto the back of your shirt— and he could feel the tension start to melt away, the warmth mixed with the scent of you filling his senses and working magic on him.

dean stays quiet for several more moments, his face still buried deep in your shoulder, as if he was trying to hide himself from the outside world. his grip on you doesn’t loosen as he stands there, his body against yours. every breath he takes is deep, steady— like he’s grounding himself in this moment with you.

his words break the silence as a whisper against you after a while, the vulnerability clear in his low voice, his words almost like a confession.

“i… missed you.”

a small exhale you didn’t know you were holding releases when dean says that— and your hand falters. dean winchester, king of bottling up feelings and keeping them to himself just said he missed you. this was completely different than how he usually acted around you, but you didn’t mind.

“i missed you, too,” your own voice also quiet when you respond. it was only a few words, but you had understood what dean meant— in more ways than most would. which is why you don’t even attempt to tease him about it, replying with something between a sigh and a laugh at the realization. “like, a lot.”

dean’s grip tightens even further at your response, as if your words had a more profound impact on him than you could've ever imagined. he pulls you closer against him, the hardness of his body against yours should’ve been more uncomfortable, but it wasn’t.

there’s a moment of silence as dean just holds you, face still hidden, his chest rising and falling right against yours. each breath he takes is deeper, almost shaky, and for a moment, you can feel the slightest tremble in his grip.

his voice are soft, vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen from him. like he almost didn’t believe you.

“really?”

and you don’t falter your own grip for one second, despite the fact that this was completely out of character for him. you return the action, tightening your arms around dean before resuming running your hand up and down his back.

“yeah, really,” you nod against dean to confirm, letting out a soft exhale into his jacket. “i dunno, it was just… quiet here without you guys. always is.”

your words seem to soothe him— almost as much as your touch, your hug does. despite being strong both physically and mentally, dean seems to need this— and he doesn’t even really know why. he relaxes even more at your words, his body slumping against yours. it’s almost like he’s seeking every bit of comfort and warmth he can get from this— from you.

dean lets out a small, soft scoff, tinged with weary amusement. “yeah, i bet it was,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your . “must’a been like a vacation for you, huh?” there's a note of sarcasm there, like he’s trying to mask the intensity of the moment with something familiar— like he always did.

and you could have played along with dean’s attempt at lightheartedness— but honestly, you were too tired to make that effort right now. so you just shake your head a little against dean, voice much quieter than before.

“first day was nice,” you admit to dean, hands grasping the back of his jacket to keep him close to you before you close your eyes. “the rest were just…”

there’s a beat of silence as you trail off, and dean’s grip on you— if possible, tightens even further at your unfinished sentence, as if he was hanging on your every word, waiting for what you were going to say.

he lets out a small, soft breath, warm against your hair. “just... what?” he asks, his voice just as low as yours. there’s a hint of subtle unease at what you were going to say.

your arms don’t loosen when you feel dean’s grip grow just that much tighter— but you weren’t about to complain. you don’t answer right away, because the rest of your sentence was almost too embarrassing to admit.

but then again, you remind yourself: this was dean who you were talking to. he didn’t judge you for a lot of things you had once assumed he would judge you for. so you just huff out a quiet laugh into his shoulder that wasn’t really one at all— containing no humor and mostly self-deprecation.

“lonely.”

your admission hangs there between you both. it’s a simple word, but it hits dean harder than any blow he’s ever taken in a fight. because you get it. there’s a hitch in his breathing— the kind that gives away more than mere words ever could. he goes still for a moment, just letting your confession sink in, the quiet of the bunker feeling even more pronounced in that moment.

“yeah,” dean finally breaks the silence with a soft exhale against you, pulling you even tighter against him. “me, too.”

you relax a little after dean says that. it meant more than he knew. you weren’t sure how to explain it, but it felt like you and him… kind of supported each other, in a way. like the burdens you both carried separately, your own issues that you had, they seemed to be less overwhelming whenever you were even near each other. even if you and him didn’t actually know each other’s burdens.

there’s always been an understanding between you, a silent knowledge that sometimes words didn’t need to be said for the other to know what that person is thinking.

the atmosphere in the room feels different now, the silence less heavy than it was before, but the intensity and weight of the moment still weighs heavily in the air between you. it must be an interesting sight from the outside looking in— a six-foot hunter clinging onto you like you were the last thing on earth. but you didn’t mind. hell, it was comfortable.

dean’s grip on you remains just as tight— almost like he’s afraid to let go, afraid that you’ll slip away like some dream he only has once in a great while. he takes a deep breath, chest rising against you as he inhales, then exhales slowly. before he’d realized it, his fingers absentmindedly fiddle with a strand of your hair.

this level of closeness between you two was unfamiliar. of course, you’d hugged each other before and spent numerous times in close proximity—whether it be in the backseat of the impala when sam had to drive that one time or when you had to hide in a not-so-big broom closet from a wraith.

but this... this was different.

and you knew the uncomfortableness of seeking comfort better than most— but somehow, you never had an issue when you were the one who was comforting others. but still, this was new territory. you certainly hadn’t expected dean to hug you for this long tonight. truth was, you didn’t really didn’t want to let go. but you couldn’t say that to him. that would be too weird.

the library is silent, only the soft tick-tock of the old clock on the wall filling the air. there’s a vulnerability, an understanding greater than words in this moment that neither of you are used to— but strangely enough, it's also the most comfortable you’ve both felt in a long time.

and then, dean breaks the silence again— his voice so low, so quiet, that you almost miss it.

“don’t wanna let go.”

your gaze softens when dean says that— but you don’t loosen your grip on him. you weren’t sure exactly why he was so adamant on not letting go, or why he’d been hugging you like you’d almost died. but you don’t ask questions.

besides, dean’s been more vulnerable with you tonight than i’d ever seen or heard in all the years you’d known him. and when he admitted that? you knew you had to be there for him, in whatever way he wanted. so when you reply back, your words are just as quiet as his.

“well, you don’t have to.”

the words feel like a weight being lifted off dean’s shoulders. he clings to you even tighter, burying his face even deeper into your shoulder, like he was ashamed. he doesn’t say anything for a moment— instead, just taking deep breaths. because he’s struggling to keep his emotions intact.

finally, he mumbles into you again, his words muffled by your shirt.

“you promise?”

“yeah,” you echo back quietly, nodding your head against dean’s buried into you. “promise. we can stay like this as long as you want to.”

there’s no malice hidden in your words, or any hint of teasing— because it was nothing but the truth. you’d stay with dean for as long as he wanted you to. and you bury your face a little more into him when he does the same to your shoulder.

there’s another long moment of silence as dean holds onto you, his face still buried in your shoulder. normally, he’d be making some smartass comment by now, acting like his usual self— but he can't seem to find the words. or the energy.

dean huffs softly against your shoulder after a moment— the closest thing to one of his usual snarky remarks. but there’s a hint of hesitation in his voice when he speaks.

“what if i wanted to… all night?”

you’d half been expecting dean to brush off your words with a joke or at least something, but the tone of hesitation told you that he was being anything but that. you hesitate, but ultimately lift your head off of his shoulder— you don’t pull away fully, though.

and dean’s body visibly tenses when you pause and pull away slightly to look at him, and he’s almost immediately on the defensive— but relaxes a little when you don’t go far.

your gaze silently searches dean’s as you scrunch your eyebrows slightly. you knew that what he’d just asked you for was… different. and you didn’t have to ask him for clarification. you knew what he meant, why he was so hesitant. because this wasn’t going to be just hugging him anymore.

this would be all night.

and there’s a vulnerable look in his eyes when he lets his guard down just enough as you let your gaze linger on him. dean almost looks like a wounded dog right now, the exhaustion, the weariness making him drop his typical persona in favor of honesty— maybe even desperation, just this once.

from that look on dean’s face, he was not kidding about what he asked. the expression he had was one you hadn’t seen this intensely in a long time. you knew he wasn’t one to just ask something like this, either. not unless he needed it.

the thought of being so close to dean all night makes you a little nervous, but not as much to outright say no. so keeping his gaze, your voice is just as quiet as his was when you nod, breaking the silence of the library once again.

“then i’d say ‘get your pj’s on’.”

the way dean’s body relaxes in relief at your words is almost overwhelming. he’s still staring right into your eyes, the vulnerability almost raw. he manages to nod, searching your gaze. he’d been expecting a boatload of teasing with a side of humiliation— but he’d been proved wrong.

“yeah?” he almost whispers as he holds your gaze, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to read your mind. like he’s unable to determine if this is real. if you’re real.

“yeah,” you nod in return, a pang of warmth hitting you again as you look at dean right back. you’re both still standing so close together— and the air felt different, thicker when you take another breath. “s’long as you don’t kick me.”

dean appreciated the break in seriousness, more than you would ever know. something resembling a smile tugs on the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“no promises,” he murmurs back, something softer in his gaze as his eyes continue to rake over your face. “but i’ll try.”

“good,” you nod a little again, your own smile tugging on your face as your hands almost absentmindedly trail on dean’s arms— and his eyes literally almost flutter shut at the contact. “and you’re comin’ to my room. and you’re showering.”

dean raises an eyebrow and tries to ignore the warmth that stirred in his chest when you said that all authoritative-like— he swallows before he talks again.

“yes, ma’am.”

. • . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . 𖤐

dean knocked on your door before he entered your room not twenty minutes later— don’t ask him, but he showered faster than he ever did in his entire life. he wasn’t too keen on the why.

your head perked up from your pillows when you heard the knock, already under your blankets and— well, let’s be honest here: waiting for him you’d even already moved to the left side of your bed, so dean would have a spot.

a stupid, small part of you had doubts that dean would actually ultimately show up, but it was a little embarrassing how much relief you felt when you call out a soft “yeah”, signaling him to come in.

dean stepped into your room, the only light being from your barley-lit desk lamp. it doubled as a night light, so you didn’t trip over yourself after a midnight snack break.

dean might as well have been in heaven. or something pretty damn close.

of course, he’s been in your room before— but this felt much different than all the other times. because he was going to be sleeping here tonight.

everything felt heightened, more intense— but as dean shut your door, he also had an almost overwhelming sense of comfort. of home. like this is where he was supposed to be this entire time. he pushed those recurring thoughts and feelings he always felt when he was around you, but without first reminding himself that you had agreed to do this. the thought alone was almost enough to make dean’s heart do that thing it always did whenever he was around you.

he’d been lost in his own thoughts, barely even registering the fact that he’d made it to the edge of your bed. your bed. not his, not some old, dingy motel’s. it almost made him chicken out. until—

“as much as i’d like to see you stand there all night, i think you should probably lay down.”

there it was. your incomparable capability to snap dean out of his head, back to reality. he didn’t know how you did it— and to be honest, you didn’t really know, either. but you always could, even giving sam a run for his money.

dean doesn’t hesitate again. you’d already peeled back your covers for him, so he just lifted them up and got under them. like he belonged. as if he’d done so a million times before. 

your bed, your sheets, your pillows— it was warm. and it smelled like you, tenfold. an equal blend of your fabric softener that only you used because dean said the teddy bear on the bottle looked at him weird and your shampoo that was way too expensive and you had to go to a separate store for. 

dean knew you smelled good, that was no debate— but this was like he was wrapped in it. like he’d been earlier when he hugged you. and so close to how he’d always wanted to be wrapped up in you. yet he knew that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

besides, when was the last time dean winchester got what he wanted?

the answer?

right now.

your eyes hadn’t left dean’s figure when he finally lays down next to you, both now facing each other— it was strange actually seeing him in your bed after years of restless nights wishing he was.

and you could smell him, too— the faint scent of the soap you’d gotten him for his birthday, along with the tea tree shampoo sam kept hidden in the back medicine cabinet (but not well enough, apparently). you decided right then and there that the pillow dean’s head was currently resting on was the one you were going to sleep on after tonight, just so you could smell him after he was gone.

“how you wanna do this?”

dean’s uncharacteristically soft voice broke your thoughts, and you met his eyes when he spoke. his expression looked softer, too— almost hesitant. like he was uncertain. it was a look you rarely ever saw on his face. to see it now, in this way, was bittersweet. then it clicked. 

he was nervous.

“however you want to,” is what you reply with, voice just as quiet as his. you reminded yourself that dean had asked for this. in your mind, it was only fair that he get a say. “whatever you need.”

whatever you need. well, dean needed to kiss you silly if it was the last thing he did, but not tonight. not here. he wouldn’t be able to take it if you rejected him in that way. 

but he had to take some sort of risk right now. he couldn’t deny himself of it— of you any longer.

so before dean can talk himself out of it, he wraps an arm around you, closing the remaining distance— and to your surprise, he buries his head right into your chest, nuzzling against your shirt.

your breath hitches, and you hope to god that he didn’t hear that. but you don’t reject him. you just wrap your own arms around him, accepting him and his touch just as you had done earlier in the library. 

dean would’ve made some joke about basically burrowing his face into your boobs. he didn’t really mean to— but his eyes had fluttered shut already, because you letting him, and you were warm, and you smelled good, and you were so soft.

he’d always loved that about you. from a distance, of course. it didn’t matter how many hardships you’d gone through; you were soft in every sense of the word, both physically and emotionally. and once when he’d taken a shower in your bathroom since sam was hogging the main one in the bunker, the whole damn place smelled like you. he found himself wanting to drown in it.

and hell. he wouldn’t even complain.

your free hand went into his hair at some point, and it took everything in him not to let out a noise. dean sighed a little into your shirt, his breath warm on your chest— he finally let himself relax. go slack.

and he was so grateful that you didn’t tease him, or point out the fact that all six feet and one inch of him was in your grasp and snuggling into you like some damn koala. like a little kid who had a bad dream. but then again, his life felt like a never-ending bad dream most of the time.

you were his one exception to that.

not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

you weren’t sure how long you both stayed like that, wrapped up in each other before dean breaks the warm blanket of silence— it could’ve been hours or seconds. but his voice is so low, so soft, you almost didn’t hear it.

“thanks.”

the word was spoken against you, dean still remaining unmoving. he didn’t necessarily think himself as weak at the moment, even though he thought he should— and he dared not to say it out loud, knowing that you’d immediately shoot his insecurities down. 

but dean was finally letting himself get comfort. warmth.

something he’d had for a fleeting moment, then lost. something he had deemed too precious for a man as ragged and as sinful as him a long time ago. he didn’t deserve this. you.

he’d never be one to just take something like this, to ask this of you, without any regard for how you felt. but you showed— all you ever showed to him was the love he thought he’d never receive. the love he’d given so much away, but it never got returned back to him.

because you made him feel like he actually meant something. like he was the hero people he’d saved described him as. like he wasn’t some piece on a chessboard, a punchline in someone’s story, a puppet on a string, or a cog in some eternal machine. 

truth was? the big secret?

you made him feel normal. human. 

it was almost overwhelming, how safe, comfortable he felt right now. the last time he felt this safe, he’d been a child. the last time he felt this comfortable in himself— damn. it was before hell.

when it was just monsters of the week, the only big goal being finding his dad. staying at bobby’s. you had visited that summer. he can still remember your laugh echoing off of the wallpaper and the piles of books. it was before demons.

and the only angel he saw daily was you.

it was in the way the light shone in through the stained glass of one of bobby’s kitchen windows and hit your face, you making him coffee without being asked. when you smiled at him just because.

you treated him like a real friend. like family. like an equal.

sometimes, when everything in his head was too loud, dean missed it. when the only thought of lucifer he had was when he saw the cartoon on the bottle of the devil’s hot sauce at that barbeque place in texas. when everyone he loved and cared about was still alive. when the world wasn’t ending. when you kissed his cheek after not seeing him for a while.

you still did that last one, though.

“anytime, de.”

dean had flinched a little, but didn’t open his eyes after you replied—he had been too lost in the comfort. in you. he could die right now instead of sleeping, and honestly? it’d be a good way to go out. he’d prefer it over going down swinging any day, he decided. 

dean got most of what he wanted tonight. maybe someday he’d get it all. but for now, he’d just dream of it, like he always did.

the only difference?

he was actually in your arms this time.

───────────────────────── 𖤐

you have one ( 1 ) more new message from the author ! ↓

i know i said it already, but i need to hold this man so so so BADDDDD 💔💔💔 he deserves everything and more like that’s my shayla ☹️ my baby my world my everything (he’s a murderer and monsters fear him)

my master taglist (so far): @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bittersweetfig @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @viarasvogue @tinas111 @0ccvltism + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 5

Y’all begged for reader to get sick, so y’all got it, enjoy<3 Part 6 here

cw: mentions of corpses and dead people, the boys going thru some serious shit, the word job uncensored, heavy nsfw mentioned, cursing, the usual, I’m not that satisfied with this part

SILENCE.

A miracle, honestly. No one’s ever been able to shut all five of them up at once before.

You start walking, still holding Mystery like it’s your turn to check him out of demon daycare. You don’t even look back at the others as you guide him past the couch, into the hall.

But he does.

And Mystery’s smile—wide, smug, sharp as sin—flashes behind the curtain of his hair. He doesn’t say a word, but his expression says everything. I win, suck my dick, she picked me, go cry about it.

Romance’s mouth is open. Jinu’s quiet, eyes narrowed in a rare flicker of actual surprise. He exhales through his nose, brushing a hand over the tiger’s head now lying empty on the rug without its girl. Baby’s face doesn’t show much emotion but the way he looks at Mystery says plenty. Abby just looks angry. Aggressive.

The hallway’s dimmer than the living room, not dark, just softer, quiet. Mystery doesn’t say a word as you guide him by the wrist, into your room. You let go of his hand as soon as you’re in. He stands by the door for a second like he’s unsure what to do with his arms now that you’re not holding him. So he puts them in his pockets, all casual-like. You don’t miss the way he adjusts his weight from one foot to the other.

You look at him, eyebrows pinched gently. “What happened?”

Mystery blinks at you, but you can’t see that. You can see his full mouth, the slope of his nose. His collar is stretched out and his shirt has blood on it. Not a lot. But enough to piss you off.

He shrugs.

You scoff gently. “All that?”

You walk toward him, slow and gentle, and he freezes like you’re about to stab him in the gut. Not from fear. Just… awareness. You get close, then closer, looking at his jaw, near a bruise starting to bloom. It’s not swollen yet.

“Who hit you?” you ask.

He blinks. Mouth opens slightly. Then closes again.

You sigh through your nose. “You’re such a boy.”

He smiles at that. Just a little. The kind that hides itself behind his lashes. Then he shrugs again, but this time it’s different. A little sheepish. A little charming.

“Some… girl.” he says finally. His voice is quiet, like always. Raspy and careful.

You nod solemnly. “Alright.” You motion to the bed. He sits slowly, like he’s not used to this. You sit next to him, legs tucked under you. You glance sideways.

He’s looking straight ahead. Shoulders stiff. But his hands—those long, elegant fingers of his—are sitting in his lap, not clenched, not guarded. Just… relaxed.

“Why do you let them drag you around?” you ask softly, tilting your head. “Abby’s always trying to make you do shit. He doesn’t even ask.”

Mystery smiles to himself. “He’s funny.”

Your heart does this dumb thing.

He adds: “He’s nice. When he’s not trying to throw me at walls.”

You laugh. “You literally bite him sometimes.”

Mystery doesn’t deny it. He just presses his knuckles to his lips and laughs once, soft and pretty and boyish. It’s not fair. He’s a demon. They’re supposed to be terrifying. Not the kind of person who makes you want to take a million blurry pictures of him just smiling at the floor.

“Do you like it here?” you ask suddenly. To get something out of him. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the soft buzz of the lights. Maybe it’s the warm silence. Or maybe it’s that no one’s here to interrupt for once.

A small nod.

“I like… you.” he says.

Oh.

Your lips part. But no words come out.

He glances away just as fast. He’s not very practiced in saying things out loud. He’s more of the “staring at you from three feet away” kind of guy.

But still. He said it.

You smile gently, genuinely. “I like you too, Mystery.”

He blinks at that.

You clarify: “Not like that.”

He hums. “I know.”

But the smile stays on his face, blooming a little brighter.

You reach for the edge of your comforter and throw it over both your legs. He doesn’t pull away when your knee bumps against his. You lean back against the headboard and close your eyes. You speak without opening your eyes, voice calm, soft, and laced with something deeper than just annoyance. “You know I’m still really, really fucking mad at you guys, right?”

Mystery doesn’t move.

“I mean it.” you continue. A pause. He still doesn’t say anything. You sigh and finally open your eyes. Your gaze falls to your lap, to the blanket over your legs, then to the edge of the bed where his knee bumps against yours. You’re not moving away. You don’t want to. “But,” you say slowly. “you’re also kind of… fun.”

That earns a shift. Just a tilt of his head. You peek over at him. You see the slight pull of a smile on the corner of his lips.

“Which is stupid,” you add. “because I should hate you.”

Another breath.

“You do?” he asks. His voice is a hush, barely more than a vibration in the air. But you hear it.

You stare at him for a long second. “I don’t know.”

And that’s the honest answer. The one you’ve been circling for weeks. You should hate them. You should be planning your next escape, counting the steps from the hallway to the elevator, scoping the back exits. You should be avoiding every dumb, cocky, boyish interaction and shutting down their flirtations with disgust. You should be making them regret every second of this. Instead, you’re here. Sitting next to one of them. Wrapped in a blanket. Letting your knee brush his like it doesn’t make your heart ache a little.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “Want to tell me something about you?”

You blink. You turn to him, almost suspicious. “Why?”

Mystery shrugs. “I want to.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You… want to know something about me?”

He nods.

It takes a moment to register that he’s not messing with you. Not prying to get intel. Not about to pull some demon trick out of his ass and suddenly chain you to the bed for betraying national secrets. He’s just asking.

“Uh.” you say. “I like watermelon but I’m too afraid to ask Jinu to bring some. I was a spoiled child. A popular kid, actually, if you know what that is.”

Mystery tilts his head, thinking that over.

“That’s… good.” he says eventually.

You nod slowly, eyebrows pinched. “You’re so fucking weird. What about you? You don’t talk about yourself.” you say. “You barely talk at all, but when you do, it’s never really about you. So… lemme think… what’s your favorite thing?”

Mystery breathes in. Looks at the wall. Then looks at you. A smile pulls at his lips. He pulls his legs up then leans in the tiniest bit, like he’s about to tell you a secret.

“You.”

Your throat tightens. Instantly.

He sits back like he didn’t just say that.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Thanks. Weirdo.”

He smiles into his knees.

Romance fucking crashes through the door, eyes glittering, hair wild, wearing one of those shirts that looks like he tore it in half on purpose just to show skin. Which, knowing him, he probably did.

“Hey.” he purrs, storming into the room. His voice is syrupy, sing-song, and far too cheerful for someone who’s about to commit physical assault.

You blink up at him, still under your blanket, utterly peaceful for once in your cursed new existence. You barely manage a “What the hell are you—”

Before Romance dives for Mystery’s ankles.

“Up, up, up, loser. Out. Pack your moody little silence and take it somewhere else.” he says, practically snarling as he wraps both arms around Mystery’s legs and yanks.

Mystery hits the floor with a dull thud. Hard. His skull audibly knocks the wood. You wince. That sounded like it could’ve cracked concrete. And somehow, Mystery doesn’t even flinch. Not a sound. Not a protest. The most he gives Romance is a blink, like this is fine, this is normal, he’s used to this.

Which, frankly? You don’t doubt.

“Ro,” you say flatly. “he’s literally bleeding.”

Romance stops dragging him halfway out the door just to look back at you, hair flopping over his brow, all breathless. “I know. Isn’t it tragic? He’ll survive. Barely. Maybe.”

Mystery’s arm limply lifts to give you a thumbs up from the hallway floor, face buried into the floorboards like it’s a nap mat. You gape.

“Romance,” you snap. “he was with me.”

Romance beams. “Exactly. That’s the problem. If I can’t have you, no one can. Didn’t you get the memo, sweetheart? You’re mine.”

“Excuse me—”

(Guys I know it sounds cringe but don’t take it the serious embarrassing maffia daddy way. Romance is panting and smiling and literally dragging a man away as he says it plz get the sweet vibe)

“Mine!” he echoes, dragging Mystery by the pant leg now with one hand and using the other to dramatically point at you. “My future wife. My muse. My moral downfall. My happy ending.”

Mystery finally moves—just a bit—using the momentum to flip himself over. “Dramatic.” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse.

“Ssshhh…” Romance shushes, tossing his hair. “You were hogging her, by the way.”

You stare.

Mystery is now lying spread-eagle in the hallway, just blinking at the ceiling. He has a small trickle of blood coming down from his temple. You feel awful. But he seems unbothered, as always. Honestly? If you asked him if he was okay, he’d probably just nod.

You sigh so hard your soul almost leaves your body. “What do you want, Romance?”

He wiggles his brows, then— “To take you out for dinner.”

“No.”

Behind Romance, Mystery finally sits up, dusting himself off, completely unfazed. There’s blood on his forehead, his shirt’s rucked up, and he still somehow manages to look like a fallen angel.

Before you can speak, Romance slams the door shut with one final wink, locking you in with the echo of his last dramatic declaration. “Remember, darling, you can run from your feelings, but you can’t run from me.”

The hallway goes quiet. You’re blinking in slow disbelief on your bed.

Romance.

Motherfucking Romance.

Him and his fuckass designer jeans. Delusional asshole. If he ever actually got you alone for more than five minutes without someone interrupting, you’re 90% sure the Earth would implode. Maybe the sky would crack open. Maybe he’d combust. Who knows. It’s Romance.

You exhale.

…god help you, you’re starting to find it endearing.

Meanwhile on the hall, Romance stares down at the mess he made—Mystery, still on the floor, half a smile tugging at his lips like this is nothing new, like he could do this all day.

And Romance, already smug from his “grand rescue” crosses his arms and juts out his hip. “Okay. Talk. What the hell was that?”

Mystery tilts his head, still on the ground. His hair is a mess around his face, his expression unreadable for half a second—until a slow, airy giggle bubbles out of him.

“What.” Romance says again, blinking. “What are you giggling about?”

Mystery pushes himself upright, arms dangling loose at his sides, as he rocks forward onto his knees. “We talked.”

“Come again?” Romance leans in.

Mystery doesn’t even answer. He just grins. The kind of grin that should be illegal on something with such a soft voice. Then he pushes Romance—two hands against his chest, not rough but sudden, catching him off guard.

Romance stumbles back a step, jaw dropping, then he pushes Mystery back. And then Mystery is running. Well—okay, it’s not quite a sprint. It’s more of a gliding skip, in socks, his laugh echoing soft and high, infectiously airy. Romance chases him.

Mystery yelps when Romance catches the back of his shirt and yanks, nearly tripping them both. They tumble into the wall, shoulder to shoulder, and now it’s all elbows and laughter and stomping feet.

They’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe. Mystery’s head tilts back, full smile, eyes finally visible as his bangs get shoved aside. Romance is breathless and loud, leaning into Mystery.

They’re a mess. Gorgeous, evil, boyish messes.

Romance slaps Mystery on the back. Mystery slaps him harder. They both nearly fall again.

It’s not like this all the time. Romance is extra, always. Mystery is quiet and weird. Their whole group? Horrible.

But this? This little moment?

It’s joy.

Unfiltered, glowing, stupid joy.

And Romance, when he finally hooks an arm around Mystery’s neck and ruffles his hair like they’re ten, can’t stop smiling either.

Mystery just wheezes. “Jealous?”

“Jealous?! I could have her if I wanted. You know that. I’m just—y’know. Pacing myself. Like a gentleman.”

They keep laughing. They don’t even realize Baby walked by, gave them a look of disgust, and just kept going.

They’re too wrapped up in it.

Wrapped up in you.

(A HORRIBLE time skip, which is only a few hours)

It’s dark, way past midnight. Like The lights are low, fridge humming. You’re barefoot in the kitchen, opening cabinet doors like you haven’t already scoured every single one twice. Still. You know there was a Snickers here last week. And if Baby didn’t eat it, then maybe Jinu moved it. Or Abby did baked it into a protein shake. Or Romance fed it to the tiger as a love offering. Or Mystery quietly tucked it into his pockets.

Where the fuck is the Snickers.

You exhale and lean into the counter, the cold of it pressing into your forearms. You’d been thinking about what Mystery said earlier. About you. Or rather, to you.

He really… likes you.

You’d brushed it off. Sort of. He wasn’t a talker. You weren’t a talker. Most of your connection lived in side glances and weird little moments. But it sat with you now, in the middle of the night, as you tried to mourn your lost chocolate bar.

And maybe… maybe he’s not the only one. You’d been brushing off all of them. Because obviously. They were demons. Liars. Idiots.

Sure, they absolutely knew what tits were. Big fans, actually. You figured they’d seen everything. Gotten their fill of tits and asses and whatever else humanity had to offer, but no. Lately, you’d started noticing their eyes higher. Up. At your face. At your eyes.

And that’s a lot for five grown, six-packed, emotionally constipated demons to carry in one apartment.

You hadn’t expected the conversation with Mystery to sit in your chest like this, all warm and alive. You just wanted to be with him to show the others that if someone’s nice to you, they get a little reward. And it shouldn’t surprise you, that maybe… just maybe, they’re not kidding. That they really do like you. In ways they haven’t liked anything or anyone in centuries.

It’s annoying. It’s flattering. It’s unsettling.

You hadn’t really taken it that seriously before. The boys flirting. The compliments. The weird glances. The bickering over who got to stand next to you, or who got to sit on the couch next to you when no one was even watching anything. It was so casual. So unserious.

And you’re definitely not supposed to feel whatever this is back.

A creak behind you makes you glance up, and it’s Baby.

He walks in like he owns the floor, the kitchen, the building, and the earth under it. Shirt and boxers only. No socks. Ruffling his hair with one hand. Half-lidded eyes like he just woke up but doesn’t give enough of a shit to explain himself.

He walks past you, brushing shoulders a little (which he absolutely didn’t need to do with how huge this fucking kitchen is), and opens the fridge, staring inside.

You narrow your eyes. “Not gonna wear pants or…?”

“No.” he drags out a bottle of something and sipping it straight from the cap. Then, without asking, without even pretending to ask, he throws himself onto the stool at the kitchen island, legs spread like he’s airing out his balls. He props his feet on the crossbar and manspreads. Not even pretending to care how much thigh is out. Boxers riding up. Shirt barely hanging on. Disgusting.

You glare. “Can you not?”

He shrugs. “You’re the one looking.”

You blink at him. “I’m not—”

He laughs. That raspy, bratty laugh that sounds like it’s made of smirks and smoke. “You’re funny.”

And yeah, he walks around like he doesn’t care. Always mean, always quiet, always evil. Like he’s not paying attention to shit. Like he barely even knows your name. But he does. He knows where you sit on the couch every time. He knows you like ice in your juice and not your water. He knows when you shower and how long you take. He always knows what room you’re in. He always knows when to shut up and when to look. When you’re not looking? He’s always watching.

You two don’t talk much. He’s not a talker. He’s the least chatty of the five, even less than Mystery, who at least giggles. Baby doesn’t even smile half the time. Just walks around like he’s above it all.

But sitting there like that, half-naked and shameless and still throwing you glances?

You made him learn something new about himself tonight.

He likes being slutty.

He won’t say it. Not in a million years. Not even if Gwi-Ma threatens to blow his eardrums out again. But he knows. And he’s leaning into it.

His knee bounces a little now. He’s watching you again. Chin tilted low. “Go on. Keep talking. I’m bored.”

He likes that you’re talking. He likes that you’re here. He’s not bored. He just doesn’t know how to say stay with me a little longer.

Because yeah.

He’s a dick. A bad person. A literal demon.

But he likes liking you.

You consider it. Then, “You know what? Sure, so I was actually thinking about, like, maybe getting back into painting? I used to paint. It was nice. Like, no one was ever gonna hang them in a gallery or whatever, but I liked it. There was this one I did that was just like, um… a peach. It was really ugly. I was proud.”

Baby raises a brow, head slightly cocked, one cheek squished in his hand as he leans into it. Silent, still slouched in his ridiculous spread, the little bottle now rolling on its side next to him, forgotten.

You keep going. “And I don’t know, I think Mystery would like painting. He seems like he would. I could teach him. That’d be cute, right? We could wear aprons and get paint on our noses and he’d giggle and I’d giggle and then Abby would come in and ruin everything—”

You glance over just in time to see Baby huff out a short breath of a laugh through his nose.

“—which is fair. Honestly, that’s what he’s for. And then Jinu would ask what’s going on, and he’d act so above it but he’d definitely be painting in five minutes.”

Another eyebrow from Baby. His lip twitches.

You’re so sweet.

He feels everything.

Of course he does. Super senses, duh. He knows your blood pressure is just a little higher right now because you’re excited. Knows your temperature’s up slightly from the late hour. Knows your hormones are dipping already. Felt the ovulation spike days ago—even Jinu went a little crazy, let’s not even talk about Mystery, and Romance had to disappear for like four hours to deal with himself—he also really wanted to make your mood worse when you were on your period, but for some reason he didn’t But right now, you’re fine. You took meds. He knows it’s gonna hurt when you wake up, though.

Baby is not a good man. He’s not kind. He’s not nurturing. He won’t rub your back or offer to help or remember your comfort food. He’s the guy that says “sucks” when you’re dying. He’s mean. He kicks Romance into walls for fun. He never shuts up about how stupid humans are.

But you?

You drive him insane.

He feels things he’s never felt before. Ugly, evil, messy things. Obsessive little loops in his brain. Dirty thoughts. Angry jealousy. That bratty kind of crush that makes him want to bite something. You’re his in his mind. Not even because you agreed—because he decided. Because you looked at him once and he saw it all. And now you’re here, arms folded, still talking about something like:

“—and I don’t know, I just think maybe when this whole kidnapping thing is over, if I ever get to go outside again, I’ll buy one of those tiny dogs. You know? They always have names like Mr. Pickles. Maybe I’ll get two. Or just one. Then he pees on the carpet and I cry.”

He’s leaning now. Both elbows on the counter. Chin in his hand. Legs sprawled. Eyes fixed on you in a way that says mine mine mine mine mine but doesn’t say it out loud.

You don’t realize it, but you just made him fall a little more.

He doesn’t talk. He won’t say it.

But god, he’s feeling it.

And here you are, chatting. Like he hasn’t fantasized about you more than any man should. About your thighs wrapping around him. About your neck in his hand. About your voice gone breathless. About you crying again—not sweetly like earlier, but whimpering, begging, fucked out.

It’s not cute in his head. It’s filthy. It’s evil. He knows that. And he’s so fine with it.

He watches you lean back on your heels and sigh and start talking again about god knows what now. Your favorite dumb little shows. The shape of pasta you like the most. You mention Abby somewhere in there. Your hands move when you talk.

He thinks about what they’d feel like curled into his hair. On his jaw. Wrapped around his—

He shifts in his seat a little. Like he’s adjusting his posture, but really? He’s giving himself something to do before he makes a mistake.

“You know what pisses me off?” you say. “The fact that Abby keeps putting the oranges with the vegetables. Like. No.”

Baby raises an eyebrow.

“Oranges. Aren’t. Vegetables. I know that! I passed high school! And I know that.”

Nothing from him. He just tilts his head slightly. Like go on.

“It’s kind of dumb,” you say. “but I think I like the tiger the most. Don’t tell the others.”

He hums, tilting his head. “Why.”

“He doesn’t talk.”

That makes him laugh, and god, god he’s pretty when he does. He looks down briefly, tongue sliding over his bottom lip, before he looks back up at you.

You are the softest thing he’s ever been near. And he’s the worst thing for it. He’s thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking. Has been for a while now. The kind of things that, if said out loud, would get Romance to blush and Abby to wince. Thoughts that are wrong not just because they’re vulgar—though they are—but because you’re you. Human. Kind. Angry, and smart, and hurt, and too real to be something he should touch.

But he wants to.

He always wants to.

And he’s convinced—because he’s Baby, and of course he is—that you want him too. That you must want him. That you’re playing some slow game of pretend or denial, but underneath all your eye-rolls and sarcasm is the same heat he feels when you look at him just a second too long.

You must feel it. Right?

Right?

…You don’t.

But that doesn’t stop him.

But when you pause your ramble to blink up at him and ask, “Are you even listening to me?” and laugh, softly, like you already know the answer—

He actually smiles back.

“…Yeah.” he says, voice low, head tilted, tapping the cap of his bottle against his knee. “I’m listening.”

And he is.

To everything.

You rub your eyes and let out the softest little breath—just a small sigh of existence, and it feels like it hits him in the chest.

“Anyway.” you say. “This tired me out. Like a lot. Jesus. You’re a good listener for someone who doesn’t talk.” You start walking toward the hallway, barefoot and slow, but you glance back over your shoulder to throw one last thing his way. “Good night. Don’t forget to put on pants next time, slut.”

“Night.” he says, lifts a hand, lazy wave, voice low and warm and just this side of teasing.

Alone.

Feeling.

Ugh.

He stares at the empty doorway for a second longer than he means to. Blinks. Sits back, arms folding, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

What the fuck just happened.

He misses you already?

No.

He scoffs to himself. Lets out a tiny breath, more annoyed than anything. This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. You tired yourself out from talking? Really? Who the fuck does that? What are you, a preschooler? You absolute dumbass. And why does he care what you do with your free time? Why does he care if you miss painting, or if you want a dog, or if your stupid face looked really cute when you got sleepy?

…It did look cute though.

Fuck.

He scratches the back of his head, then drops his hand with an irritated sigh. Then he stands up finally, arms swinging slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s not gonna follow you. He’s not gonna get all emotional and knock on your door like a loser. He’s not Romance. He’s not Abby. He’s not Mystery. He’s not even Jinu. He’s Baby. The one who kicks people into furniture and doesn’t apologize. And he’s not changing that because of a girl who talks about fruit and dogs.

Right?

He heads back toward his room with a little more energy than usual. And he doesn’t know it, not really, not yet, but this is going to be one of those nights where he lies on his back, arms behind his head, glaring up at the ceiling, and has to wrestle with thoughts he doesn’t know how to name.

Stupid. This is so stupid.

Okay, next morning.

Jinu’s reading emails at the counter like a professional, which would be really admirable if it weren’t for the fact that across from him stands Abby. Razor in one hand, shaving cream all over his face like a kid who just smeared frosting on himself.

“Jinuuu,” Abby says through foamy lips. “where do I stop?”

Jinu doesn’t look up right away. “I told you not to shave in the living room.”

“You also told me not to put a fork in the toaster and guess what I did yesterday.”

Jinu doesn’t even blink. “You can go more to the right.”

“Hm.”

Jinu looks up and gestures to his own jawline. “Stop here.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, but do it in the bathroom perhaps—”

Too late. The razor is gliding down Abby’s cheek. He makes a delighted sound.

Somewhere behind them, Romance is mumbling a song under his breath, turning an apple over in his hand. Baby is on the couch upside down, playing a handheld game and flips Jinu off for no reason.. And Mystery’s just… there. On the floor. Sitting.

“I think I have a cold.” you mumble, coming into the room. You look like hell.

You’re adorable, and they all stop breathing for a second.

Abby perks up immediately. “Wait, for real?” He walks over like he’s actually about to be useful for once. “Let me check. I’ve seen this in movies.”

You blink at him. He places the back of his massive hand against your forehead. Tilts his head. Frowns.

“…Hm.”

You sniff again. “Hm?”

“I dunno.” he says. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Yeah, no idea. I think you’re fine.”

“Am I hot?” you ask weakly.

“Obviously. But fever-wise, like—medically? I got no idea.”

You don’t even have the energy to insult him properly. Just swat his chest like, be fucking serious. And the thing is—they are. Serious. About you, anyway. Not about the world. Or schedules. Or being decent people.

Because outside of you? They are absolutely horrible. Actual villains. Jinu once cut a demon’s throat in silence and then got blood on his white turtleneck and didn’t give a single fuck. Romance has a list of people he’s cursed (and probably kissed). Baby killed someone in a bathroom and then stole their cologne. Mystery still hasn’t explained the pile of teeth in that little glass bowl in his room. Abby once body-slammed a priest for fun.

They’re evil.

But to you?

God, they mean well. So well it hurts.

They don’t want to be good.

They just want to be good to you.

Jinu doesn’t look up this time. “Y/N, rest. Bed. Now.”

The tiger rubs against your legs like a bus-sized housecat and then lowers itself so you can lean on it for support. You do.

And they’re trying.

Not because they care about humans.

Because they care about you.

Even if Abby is now dragging the razor down the side of his cheek and saying “ow” repeatedly with every stroke. Even if Jinu’s typing “Y/N medicine list” into a private document right now, pretending he’s not watching you shuffle toward your bedroom, the tiger walking beside you.

Even if they’ll lie to your face about everything else. Even if they’ve done this to you.

They still mean good.

For once.

About twenty minutes later, the sound of your door creaking open is lazy, half-hearted, no knock, no polite warning.

You’re curled up in bed. Hoodie on, nose pink, a mountain of tissues building up on the nightstand like a white flag of surrender. Derpy is pressed along your side, warm. The moment the door opens, the tiger lifts its massive head, glowing eyes narrowed, but it doesn’t move. It recognizes him.

Baby stands there in the frame, one hand on the door, the other shoved in his hoodie pocket. One brow is cocked. He looks like the embodiment of “whatever.”

“We’re going.” he says. No hello. No “how are you feeling.” Just a dull, half-grunted report.

You blink up at him from your pile of blankets. Your voice is quiet. “Going where?”

He shrugs. “Out. Don’t care.”

Your brows lift, sniffle dragging at your tone. “Then why are you telling me?”

He huffs. Exactly.

The others definitely sent him.

“I’m just here to check if you need anything.” he mutters, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe like the weight of standing fully upright is just too much.

“You were definitely sent.” you murmur, clutching the blanket higher.

He shrugs. “Told them you’d be fine.”

You cough gently into the sleeve of your hoodie. He watches that. Watches you blink tiredly up at him, tissues shoved under your arm, cheeks all soft and flushed from the fever, lips chapped and frowning. You’re small, quieter than usual, and visibly miserable.

“You look like shit.” he mutters.

“Thanks.”

“You want anything?”

“Sleep.”

“Cool.”

“You’re so kind.”

He snorts, pushing off the frame. The tiger growls lightly, just because it can. He flips it off.

You cough again, and in the hallway, he hears it.

And even though he’s halfway down the corridor now, even though you won’t see it, Baby rolls his eyes hard—and then turns the corner into the kitchen.

About another twenty minutes later, you’re still in your room but from somewhere around the house, you can hear:

“Bye, Y/N!” from Romance, who always has to say it first. His voice carries like a song. You imagine he’s fixing his hair in the mirror while he says it.

Then a quieter, lilting, “Bye…” from Mystery.

Abby: “Miss you already, babe.”

Jinu’s “Back soon.”

Baby doesn’t bother.

Then there’s someone hitting someone (again), the very clear sound of Romance singing and being absolutely cut off by someone burping loudly (probably Abby), and finally—

SLAM.

You don’t remember falling asleep after that.

Hours after, in the evening when they get back, Romance slips out of his shoes, throws his jacket at the wall (Abby yells “THE HOOK” but Romance ignores him), and beelines down the hall, already unzipping his hoodie. The moment he pushes your door open, he sees you bundled under every single blanket known to man—half of them not even from your bed. He recognizes Abby’s hoodie. One of Jinu’s coats. The tiger’s long, heavy body is curled against your side like a heating pad. There’s tissues everywhere. A bowl of soup, untouched.

You’re sweating, and pale, and your nose is pink, and your eyes are glassy. You blink slowly at him when the door opens. “…Romance?”

And he wants to melt.

He crosses the room instantly, sits down on the bed, one hand bracing on the edge of the mattress. “Baby.” he says, slow and low and too hot to be safe. “Ohhh, look at you.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Go away.”

“I would never.” He presses his palm to your forehead. “Shit, you’re burning up.”

“It’s fine.” you murmur, eyes slipping closed. “Just a cold.”

It’s not just a cold. It hasn’t been since this morning.

He can feel it. The exhaustion in your muscles. The weakness in your breath. The ache beneath your skin.

He wants to scream. He wants to pick you up and shake you and kiss your forehead and punch a wall and then cuddle you under every blanket in existence.

He does none of that.

The feelings in him are unbearable. Worse than the hunger. Worse than Gwi-Ma’s voice in his head. Worse than the years of rot buried in his gut. It’s like you’ve rewired his entire nervous system with a smile and a fucking tissue crumpled in your fist.

You sneeze.

Why is that cute? Why is you being sick still so sweet he can barely look at you without wanting to press his mouth to your skin?

What is wrong with him?

How can someone like him—someone full of filth and violence and hunger—feel like this for someone like you? You, with your snotty nose and bad mood and adorable raspy voice. You, who calls him a dumbass and refuses to look at his upper body even though you absolutely snuck a glance yesterday in the hallway mirror. You, who won’t love him back, probably ever.

He’s staring at you like you’re naked and willing and whispering his name between moans—even though you’re bundled in blankets and might actually be hallucinating. His fingers slip down to your jaw, your temple, the curve of your neck, tracing places you’re too tired to even flinch over.

You let out a little sigh.

He shudders.

His hand slips into your hair, brushing it back. It’s a mess, but it’s your mess. You’re real, you’re alive, you’re with him and that’s enough to short-circuit his entire system.

“God, you’re pretty.” he whispers.

Your only reply is a small wheeze.

He huffs a breathy little laugh. His fingers are threading slowly through your hair now, gentle and obsessive. Bedroom eyes going insane as he watches your lashes flutter, your dry lips part, your throat bob with every weak swallow.

You murmur something. He leans in.

“What was that?”

“…If you’re gonna sit here talking,” you rasp, eyes still closed. “at least go make me tea.”

“Yes ma’am.” He’s already standing, too fast, nearly trips over his own feet.

You crack one eye open, barely. “No demon magic.”

“Shit.” he groans dramatically. “There goes the secret ingredient.”

You lift a tissue to your nose with a weak sniff and give a tiny wave of dismissal. “Go, Romeo.”

He bows. Full-body. Right there at the door. Then he’s gone, practically skipping to the kitchen.

Because you asked for tea. You asked him to get it. You gave him a job, something he can do for you—and Romance, for all his flirting, all his filth, all his chaos, has always craved one thing:

To be useful. To be wanted. To be your something.

Even just the guy who makes you tea when you’re sick.

It’s pathetic.

He heads straight for Jinu’s room.

He leans his entire lanky-ass body in the doorway, arm stretched up to grab the frame, hair messy from running a hand through it a hundred times since you asked for tea.

“Hey, Jinu.”

Jinu, probably researching shit to be better at acting like stars, looks up with one singular blink. No change in expression. Nothing.

Romance still smirks. “Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m not your type, but I am beautiful.”

Jinu exhales through his nose. “What.”

“I need to know how to make tea.”

Jinu finally turns, squinting at him like he’s trying to make sure this is real.

Romance nods, dead serious.

“For Y/N.” he adds, and immediately softens. “She’s sick. She asked me. ME.”

“You don’t know how to make tea?” Jinu says flatly.

“No.”

“You’ve been alive for four centuries.”

Romance shrugs, smile lazy and smug. “I have other talents.”

Jinu stands without another word and gestures for Romance to follow.

In the kitchen, Romance is hovering behind Jinu, chin practically on the man’s shoulder as he watches him fill the kettle.

Romance leans his chin on his hand, watching the kettle as if it might hurry up for him. “You think she likes me?”

“No.”

“Hm.”

“Shut up and hand me a mug.”

Romance reaches for the prettiest mug in the cabinet—pink, with some dumb baby chick painted on it, definitely not theirs—and slams it proudly on the counter.

Jinu doesn’t even ask. He just pours.

“Thanks.” Romance says. “I mean it.”

Jinu just nods once.

And Romance takes the mug in both hands, lips tight, smile huge. Back to you. His sick little angel. Full pride in his step, tea in hand, and a whole dumb little smile on his face like ta-daaa, he doesn’t even make it two steps before freezing when pushing your door open.

Baby is already there.

On your bed.

Cross-legged.

You’re under a pile of blankets and cat, pale and sniffling and red around the eyes, cheeks flushed from fever. You blink slowly, dazed. “Hi.”

Romance almost drops the mug. “Hi.” He looks at Baby. “You were in the living room like thirty seconds ago.”

Baby blinks. “Walked.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

Romance sighs, stomping into the room. He slides the tea onto your bedside table—without even sloshing a drop, thank you very much—and turns to both of you with a palm on his hip. Then, with the world’s most obnoxious smirk: “Threesome?”

You blink blearily at him from under your mountain of blankets and giant tiger, one eye barely open, lip cracked and dry. Your voice is a croak when you whisper: “Shut… the fuck up.”

Romance laughs. Loud. Bright. Because even sick, even puffy-eyed and pale, you’re sharp. You’re fire. You’re you.

He sits on the edge of the bed, not too close, like the tea was already a risk, like maybe he’s being smart now. “God, you look awful.”

“Stop flirting.” you mumble.

You look worse than before. The flush on your cheeks is insane. Your lips are dry. Your breathing, shallow. There’s a tension in your brow you haven’t relaxed from in hours. The tiger lets out a soft huff and curls tighter around you, like even it knows something’s not right.

Romance swallows.

“Y/N…” he says slowly. “You, uh. You still with us?”

You blink at him. Then at Baby.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice hoarse, looking at Baby with bleary confusion.

“Sussie’s sleeping.” Baby mutters.

That’s not an answer.

“We’ll stay.” Romance says.

“Didn’t ask.” Baby murmurs.

“Didn’t say it for you, asshole.”

You don’t say anything, just sip your little tea. Well—more like wobble the cup against your mouth with both hands because your fingers are half-dead and you’re shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. The warmth helps, though. Kinda. Sorta. The heat seeps into your palms and then your cheeks and then your fogged-up brain, just a little.

��Be careful.” Romance says quietly, snatching the cup from you.

“I got it.” you rasp.

“You’re about to pour boiling water into your eyeball.”

You glare at him over your blanket, too weak to actually do anything but hold eye contact for a second and then blink slowly. “You’re about to get hit with this cup.”

Romance grins. Good. That means you’re not dying. Probably.

He gives it back to you anyway and you take another sip.

Romance leans forward like he’s gonna say something genuine, like maybe this is the moment, like maybe he’s going to try honesty for once, but instead he says, “You want me to tuck you in?”

You don’t even blink. “I’ll throw up.”

Baby smirks.

Romance holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, fair.”

They don’t admit they’re worried. Of course they don’t. That would mean facing the truth of how this all turned inside out, how you got under their skin and behind their ribs and became the center of a space they didn’t even realize was hollow.

You sip the tea, holding the mug in both hands, face buried behind it, nose red and skin clammy. Romance watches like he brewed it from scratch himself, the way he puffs up with pride when you swallow it without gagging. Baby rolls his eyes but doesn’t move.

You scared the shit out of them.

Even Baby, who doesn’t get scared, just… detached. He was with you in the kitchen the night before, he knew something was going on. But god forbid he say anything like, “Hey, Y/N’s not doing good, maybe we should take a look on her”

You let out a quiet, congested sniffle. Then you giggle.

Both of them tense.

You giggle again, slurred and sticky and sleepy, and quote—out of absolutely fucking nowhere—“’Til my soda pop fizzles out…”

And then laugh at yourself. Like, genuinely. You snort and press your cheek to the pillow, shoulders shaking gently with laughter, voice soft and woozy.

Romance opens his mouth like he wants to defend himself—he was going to claim it was a metaphor for sucking cock or something, really poetic—but then closes it again.

He can’t even be mad.

Baby’s eyes flick down to your face, the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth like maybe he wants to laugh too, but he doesn’t.

You just turn your face away from them, still grinning.

Romance watches you closely. You’ve gone quiet again. Almost too quiet.

And then you pet Baby’s knee.

His head snaps down, and he stares at your hand.

You’re rubbing your palm over his jeans, slow and distracted, like you’re comforting a pet or a plush toy. Like it’s unconscious.

Y/N ARE YOU WITH US???

Baby swears under his breath. He’s a cocky little shit, always has been, but something cold wraps around the back of his neck and slithers down his spine. You’re sick. Out of it. And still somehow found a way to crawl under his skin with the simplest gesture. He just looks at your hand. Small and warm, barely applying pressure, and the pads of your fingers brushing against his knee make his stomach ache in a way he doesn’t have words for. He wants to swat your hand away—wants to climb into your touch. Both.

You make it hard to be who he was before.

“Y/N?” Romance murmurs after a minute.

You don’t respond. You’re asleep, finally. Still breathing softly, hand still limp on Baby’s knee, tea now cooling on your bedside.

Romance exhales, deep. “She’s out.”

“Good.” Baby mutters.

And in both their heads, you’re perfect.

“Well,” Romance mutters, brushing your hair out of your face tenderly, looking at Baby. “you can go now.”

Baby doesn’t move.

Romance doesn’t look at him again, just keeps his eyes on you, makes a little tsk sound like he’s doing the responsible thing, like he’s offering Baby an out. “You know. Since she’s sleeping. Nothing else for you to do.”

Still nothing from Baby. Not a twitch.

Romance dares to glance sideways, just briefly—and sure enough, there’s the baby-faced bastard still sitting cross-legged, unmoved, unmoving, with that flat expression he always wears. His face doesn’t give away anything. But his eyes? Murder. Absolute murder.

Romance smiles wider, cocky, charming. He can feel Baby getting mad, and he thinks it’s funny. He enjoys this. He thrives in this.

But Baby’s jaw flexes once. That’s all.

Romance leans back on one elbow, shifting on the bed like he’s relaxing. “C’mon,” he whispers with a little grin, “don’t you have something else to do? You usually do.”

Baby blinks slow. Looks at him like he’s already dug the grave and picked out the headstone.

Still doesn’t move.

Romance raises a brow, eyes darting meaningfully toward the door. “You’re not gonna just sit there all night, right?”

You stir, only slightly—just a twitch of your fingers against Baby’s knee. Your breath hitches, your mouth opens a little in sleep. You let out the tiniest whimper, almost like a sigh.

Both boys freeze.

Then, Baby’s hand moves. Very slowly, like he’s been planning it for ten minutes, he reaches down and brushes your knuckles with his pinky. Barely a touch. It’s the gentlest thing he’s done in a decade.

Romance’s nose twitches. His teeth grind together behind that ever-pleasant smile.

This bastard’s not leaving.

Baby’s not playing. He’s not pretending to be calm. He is calm. He’s decided. He knows what he wants.

Romance shifts again on the bed, eyes narrowing just slightly, almost daring Baby to move. To try something. But Baby’s already seated comfortably.

The air between them is thick now.

And in the middle of it all, you, nestled in your blanket cocoon. Eyes closed. Cheeks flushed from fever. Breathing soft and warm.

Baby doesn’t move. Won’t.

Romance finally leans back, resting on his hands, gaze flicking over you again. “…Fine.” he whispers. “Stay. See if I care.”

Baby doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t grant that the statement deserves acknowledgment.

And for now—for tonight—Romance lets it go. But only because you’re still petting Baby’s knee in your sleep. And Romance is pretty sure you don’t even know whose knee it is. But Baby? Baby will remember this forever.

Romance shifts just a bit, reaching for the edge of your tea mug, planning to at least fix the angle or—hell, maybe steal a sip just to spite Baby—when a thump hits his hip.

He blinks. Looks down.

The massive tail of Jinu’s absurdly huge tiger is curling around. Slowly. Firmly. With intention.

He whispers a warning. “Hey. Don’t.”

Thump. The tail swipes again—harder this time. A very clear get out.

Baby’s already watching, elbow on one knee, cheek in his palm, smirking just a little. Not enough to be obnoxious. Just enough to be smug.

But the tiger doesn’t give a single fuck. It shifts its enormous body a little, tucking its legs tighter around you like you’re its favorite person on earth (you are), and then gives one final, long, sweeping tail-whip that knocks Romance right off the side of the bed.

Whuff.

“—fucking hell.” he curses under his breath, barely managing to keep the crash quiet as he hits the carpet with a heavy thud, limbs flailing.

Not a sound leaves Baby’s mouth, but his shoulders shake, and there’s pure joy in the way his eyes light up.

He’s delighted.

He’s—

The tail turns.

Baby’s expression dies in slow motion.

THWUMP.

The tail slams into his side and sends him toppling backward off the mattress, legs flying up before he hits the floor beside Romance in a graceless pile of limbs and insulted pride.

Romance bursts into actual laughter this time—quiet, wheezy, biting down on his knuckle so he doesn’t wake you—but he’s definitely enjoying every second.

Baby glares at him, scrambling upright.

As Romance starts to get to his feet, Baby trips him. Right in the ankle.

Romance goes down like a shot, muffling a yelp into his sleeve.

But they get out of your room, barely. Shut the door so gently and so quiet.

And once they’re on the halls, Romance pushes Baby back by the shoulders, slamming him into the opposite wall. “You’re a fucking brat.”

“You’re a jealous dick.” Baby mutters, voice low and smug, his hair in his eyes, hands shoving back with equal force.

“Yeah?” Romance huffs, smiling with too many teeth.

Baby’s done. He grabs the front of Romance’s shirt and shoves him again, this time harder.

Across the hall, Abby appears in the doorway of his room, holding a donut(??) and a dumbbell. Mystery’s already standing next to him, hair messy, smile tugging at his mouth.

“Five bucks says Romance loses.” Abby mutters, snorting.

“Twenty on Baby going too far.” Mystery whispers.

Jinu comes between them and shoves them apart, done with their shit. “Chill.”

Romance points an accusatory finger. “He started it—”

“No, no. Both of you. Shut up.”

Romance has his fist raised.

Baby’s mid-shove.

Both freeze.

Romance lowers his arm. Baby shrugs, as if to say whatever, but lets go of Romance’s shirt. Romance straightens his collar. Baby brushes tiger hair off his sleeves.

They don’t say anything, but the tension is dense as they shoulder past each other. Romance bumps Mystery’s shoulder as he passes, but Mystery just smirks.

When they’re gone, Jinu turns to your door and knocks once, out of habit, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he eases the door open a crack, just enough to look in.

Yeah.

There you are. Nestled deep in the blankets, wrapped in what looks like four layers of sweaters and socks and the literal massive striped beast that is his tiger. You probably don’t even realize your hand is still resting where Baby’s knee was earlier. Your cheek’s warm with sleep, your lips parted slightly, breath even and soft.

He stays there for a beat longer than necessary.

And then, gently, he pulls the door shut.

Click.

When he turns around—

“Jesus—”

Abby and Mystery are right there.

Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, looming behind him with their heads tilted at the same curious angle. Abby is so close he’s practically breathing down Jinu’s neck, while Mystery, half-hidden behind his hair, looks like he just wandered over.

Abby grins, unbothered. “How is she?”

“Fine.” Jinu mutters, brushing past them, but the smallest breath of relief sneaks into his tone. “Sleeping.”

Mystery just hums, barely audible. Satisfied. “Still sick?”

“Still sick.” Jinu confirms.

They follow Jinu as he walks back toward the main hallway. And Abby—being Abby—slings an arm over both Jinu and Mystery.

“So,” Abby starts, swaying them side to side. “what’s the schedule for tomorrow?”

Jinu sighs without stopping. “Rehearsal at ten, until three. The hunters have a show after that, we’ll be there.”

Abby laughs, still all warmth and big limbs and zero boundaries. “You’re such a good leader, Jinu. So organized. So brave.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you want a kiss?”

“I want you to vanish.”

“Damn, someone’s cranky.”

Jinu stops in front of the kitchen and leans both hands on the counter, head dipping briefly like he’s calculating how he can possibly make another day of a boyband work. Abby hops up to sit on the counter beside him like a damn toddler. Mystery slides into one of the barstools, turning a soda can slowly between his palms.

“She’s gonna be fine?” Abby asks, and for once it’s not a joke.

Jinu looks up, serious now. Nods once. “Yeah. Just needs rest.”

“Cool.” Abby says, kicking his feet. “Cool cool cool.”

Then he throws an arm around Jinu again, absolutely wrecking the quiet. “Okay, I’m off.”

“Brush your teeth.”

“Alrighty.”

Mystery stands too, and with that, the two disappear down the hall, the echo of Abby’s cackling trailing behind.

Jinu stays in the kitchen for a beat longer, eyes drifting to the hallway again. Quiet. Heavy.

And then, with a low breath, he turns off the lights and disappears too.

The next morning is… quiet?

They really do try for you.

It’s early. Jinu is already dressed. Silent steps. That’s how he moves. You’d never know he hadn’t slept a full night in weeks. That every time he shuts his eyes, he dreams of blood and old fire and the way you looked that night you cried into his chest, whispering that Abby was so nice.

He rolls his eyes a little at the memory, like he could shake the warmth out of his chest.

He moves to your door, pauses—listens.

Nothing. Or, more accurately, quiet breathing. One heartbeat slower than usual. Subtle shift in temperature, enough for him to smell how your body’s still trying to fight the fever.

He knocks once, gently.

Then opens the door.

And—oh. Yeah.

God.

You look like shit.

Honestly? You’ve stolen his creatures. That bird used to only perch on Jinu’s arm. That tiger used to… be dumb, okay, no big deal. Now look at them. Pets. Snuggle buddies.

Jinu’s eyes shift toward the two creatures also on the bed with you: his fucking bird perched smugly on your pillow and his massive tiger beast curled protectively around the bottom of the bed, tail twitching in rhythm to your breathing like he’s syncing himself with you.

You’re out of it. You look horrible.

He can’t even lie to himself about that. Your skin’s blotchy, your nose is red, and your mouth is half open with the driest breath in existence leaking out. Your hair is a mess. There’s a single tissue stuck to your hoodie’s sleeve.

Still, Jinu thinks you’re so beautiful it borders on physically uncomfortable.

And that just pisses him off.

Because this is wrong, isn’t it? The whole situation. He’s a demon—a real one, not the edgy-cute stage version. Four-hundred-plus years of destruction and indulgence and war crimes you probably couldn’t pronounce. He’s not built for… small, human kindness. He wasn’t made to witness someone cough into a tissue like a drowned kitten and feel something flutter in his chest.

So he stands there. Staring.

A long moment passes.

You look awful.

You look beautiful.

Then you stir. You don’t even open your eyes fully, just shift and let out a hoarse groan, squinting through a mess of hair and exhaustion, croaking something like, “…I feel like the inside of a shoe.”

Jinu’s mouth twitches. “I see. You planning to get up?”

You stretch. “Mmmmmyeah. Maybe.”

He doesn’t move. Just stays in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you as you finally, finally crawl out of bed. Every movement is wobbly and pitiful and you mutter a long string of complaints.

You pass him on your way to the bathroom, and he wordlessly falls into step behind you.

He just waits by the doorframe as you go into the bathroom and start your process, brushing your teeth, groaning at your reflection, attempting to wash your face while moaning “oh my god”

Jinu leans on the doorframe, watching with his arms folded.

You glance at him through the mirror. “You don’t have to stand there.”

He doesn’t move. “You could collapse.”

“I could collapse harder if you keep staring at me while I floss.”

His eyes flick away—finally—but he doesn’t leave. “Hurry up.”

You give a little smile around your toothbrush. It’s small. Tired. But god, it means something.

“Drink more.” he says without looking at you.

“I will.”

“Eat something when you can.”

“Kinda hard when I wanna die.” you joke.

He turns his head slightly to look at you. “Try not to.”

He watches your reflection while pretending not to. You rinse. Cough. Grab a towel and dab at your cheeks. You frown at the sight of yourself. Your voice, soft now: “I really do look like shit, huh?”

He says nothing for a moment. Then: “Not to me.”

You freeze. Turn a little. Look at him. But he’s already offering his hand.

You blink at it.

Then blink at him.

“…No.”

“Suit yourself.” he murmurs, retracting it just as easily, no offense taken.

Truthfully, he didn’t expect you to take it. You’re sick, not helpless. And you remember. You remember how this hand helped abduct you. How it’s choked the air from lungs that weren’t yours. You remember exactly who he is, even if you’ve started sleeping under blankets shared with his creatures and letting his music echo off your bedroom walls.

So he walks ahead, silent and patient, letting you shuffle behind like a very cute, very annoyed little ghost haunting him.

Abby’s shirtless, sweat on his temples like he just finished a run. He’s leaning on the counter, drinking from a carton you’re pretty sure he didn’t buy, and when he sees you, he gasps dramatically.

“Y/N! You’re ALIVE?”

“I’m trying.” you croak.

Mystery is perched on the counter, hoodie sleeves past his knuckles, swinging his feet lightly and watching you walk in with wide eyes. He doesn’t say anything—he never really does—but he waves. It’s slow and kind of awkward. It makes your stomach feel warm. You wave back.

Baby’s already seated at the island, chewing something that might be a cereal bar but looks more like some kind of demon jerky. He glances at you once, then away, uninterested—or pretending to be.

Romance? Romance practically LUNGES for you from the table, knocking his chair back with a loud screech.

“There she is!” he croons, reaching for your hand. “God, I was starting to think I dreamed you. I almost wept.”

You bat his hand away. “Touch me and you die.”

He grins. “There she is.” he says again, like he’s proud.

There’s something cruel about being sick in someone else’s home—especially when it’s your kidnappers’ home.

Especially if it’s Romance, who’s next bullshit is “Need someone to check your temperature, sweetness? I’ve got very gentle hands.”

Jinu is nudging you toward a stool. “Sit. Don’t engage.”

“I’m not.” you groan. “He engages himself.”

Behind you Abby grabs Baby by the hood, yanking it back.

You blink. “Pull up your pants, Abs.”

He does it with a wink, smug as ever.

Jinu hands you a cup of tea, gently placing a cool palm on your forehead. “Shh. Drink.”

You sip. It’s perfect. Too perfect. “You drug this?”

Jinu’s brows lift, mock-offended. “Would I?”

You stare at him.

He sighs. “Okay. A little.”

Behind him, Baby tosses a pillow at Abby’s head. Abby’s throwing hands. Mystery hisses. Romance sings something off-key but beautiful before touching the ends of your hair.

You jerk, groggy, sick, pissed. “Touch me again and I will throw you off this counter.”

“Mmm, promise?” he purrs. He’s already leaning in too close. “You’re so warm. You sure you don’t want me to feel your forehead with my lips? That’s what they did in the olden days—”

You slap his hand away so hard he makes a sound.

Abby leans in over you, plucks the cup out of your hand. You slap his hand, too.

“Hey!” you growl.

“Relax.” he drawls, setting the cup in the sink. “You’re not even strong enough to wipe your nose without breaking into a sweat. Sit down and let us take care of it.”

“I don’t want any of you to take care of anything.” you snap, slipping off the stool and nearly falling in the process.

Romance stands like he’s ready to catch you. Abby’s already got one arm behind you, steadying you without looking like he’s trying to.

They don’t look scared. But they are.

They fucking are.

You stumble to the fridge and yank it open.

Romance follows. “What do you want? Eggs? I’ll make you the most sensual omelet you’ve ever had—”

You grab the butter.

“…You want butter?”

You grab bread. Open the drawer. Butter knife.

Abby steps in, yanking the knife out of your hand before you can spread it. “Whoa there, killer. Not with those hands. Let men do the heavy lifting.”

“Oh my god.” you mutter, swaying slightly, gripping the edge of the counter.

Romance sees it first. His flirty grin falters for half a second. “Hey—breathe, okay? You’re looking a little, uh… soft around the edges.”

“One foot in the grave already.” Baby snorts.

“Stop following me.”

“Not following,” Romance purrs. “just… admiring. From a respectful—ow—Abby, you dick!”

“What are you even trying to do?” Baby asks from behind his phone.

“Make food.” you mutter.

“You’re barely standing.” Jinu says, clearly trying not to scold. “Let me.”

“No.”

You pull out an egg and nearly drop it. Your hand’s shaking. Not a good sign.

“Hey—hey—okay, time out.” Jinu says gently, stepping in. “You need to sit.”

“No.”

“Sit.”

“No.”

You make it to the stove and slap their stupid hands away when they try to take the egg. Your vision keeps doing that fun little tunnel thing, and your heartbeat’s way too loud in your ears, but damn it, you’re doing this. Your hands, burning hot and trembling, manage to crack the egg against the pan. The sizzle is satisfying. The shell falls half into the yolk.

“Fuck.” you whisper.

“Cute.” Romance whispers back.

You’re so sick. So goddamn sick. And you hate it, hate being this weak in front of them. They don’t deserve to see you soft or struggling. You want to snap at them. You want to win. But when you reach for the butter knife to scrape out the shell—

Abby steps in, easily plucking it out of your hand. “I got it, sicko.”

“Give it back.”

“No.” He expertly flips the egg like he’s been waiting to do this all week. He probably has.

“Fuck you.”

“After breakfast.”

Romance high-fives him over your head.

“Stop—” you grumble, swatting at them like flies, your knees buckling slightly. Jinu’s hands are immediately there, one at your lower back, the other curling around your arm. You hate how good he smells. Everything that could’ve been safe if not so wrong.

“I’m not sitting.” you insist.

He frowns—he worries. You can see it behind his smile. Behind him, Mystery glides in and wordlessly drags a chair behind you. You don’t even hear it. He just… appears. He nudges it with his foot. You don’t want to take it. You want to fight it. You—

You sink anyway.

“You’re so annoying.” you murmur.

He smiles.

You cough again, harder this time. Your whole body shakes. The chair feels too far from the earth. You’re definitely going to die here.

Romance drops to a crouch at your feet and rubs gentle circles on your thigh. “You okay, angel?”

You swat his hand again, but this time, it’s weak. He takes the hit like it’s a gift.

A hand smacks the back of his head—hard. Abby.

“Not helping.” Jinu mutters, carefully setting the plate you started, now finished by them, in front of you.

You eye it warily.

He puts a fork in your hand and curls your fingers around it. His thumb presses lightly against your palm. His eyes are so warm. There’s this depth to them—like he’s hurting with how much he wants to take care of you.

You take a bite, slowly.

And it’s… good.

Fucking hell, it’s good.

Romance watches your lips as you chew. Abby watches your throat. Baby looks away before he can be caught caring. Mystery’s standing behind you now. You feel his presence.

You stand up again.

“You’re done?” Jinu asks, voice calm—but watching you like you’re about to leap from a balcony.

“Yup.” Your knees wobble. “I’m gonna—uh, yeah, I’m going.”

“Going where?” Abby’s voice cuts in from the other side of the counter. “To the grave?”

You keep going. Even after Romance tries to physically block the hallway with his body.

“Out of my way, sex pest.” you murmur, shouldering past him. Your knees almost buckle. The hallway tilts a little.

No one says anything for a second. You think you might’ve won. You think—maybe—they’ve given up.

And then a shadow looms.

Big.

Solid.

“Alright.” Abby says, stepping in front of you, voice suddenly way too gentle. “You want a hug?”

“What? No—no. Fuck off—”

He wraps around you like a blanket of brick walls.

Jesus CHRIST.

His arms lock under yours, arm pressing across your back, muscles flexing around you. You get maybe half a breath in before you’re completely enveloped. Shoulder to shoulder. Stomach to stomach. Trapped.

His chest is against pressed into you. That absurdly hard, stupidly broad chest. You can feel each muscle—each one!—agaist you. His heartbeat thuds against you. His chin drops lightly onto the top of your head, his breath warm in your hair.

And it’s… weirdly… nice?

“Oh my god.” you breathe, forehead against his collarbone.

He chuckles softly. “Yeah. I give good hugs.”

“Let me go.”

“Not a chance.”

“Abby—”

“You are the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” he says, nuzzling lightly into your hair. “And I mean that with my whole chest.”

You roll your eyes. “Your whole chest, huh?”

“Mmhmm. Want a feel?”

You elbow him in the ribs. You might as well be elbowing concrete.

Then—without even asking—he lifts you off your feet.

Like it’s nothing.

Like you’re nothing.

Like you weigh nothing.

“What—put me down.” you croak, arms flailing. You start to struggle, but it’s pathetic. He’s carrying you down the hallway. And he’s so annoyingly strong. You can feel his arms under your thighs, his chest against your side, his skin warm and golden and—

This is so unfair.

“Abb—“

“Shhh.” he coos, bouncing you slightly. “Relax. Enjoy it.”

You peek back at the kitchen and wave limply. Just a little wave.

Only one person waves back, Mystery. A tiny little wave, like he’s five years old again. He’s… sweet. When he wants to be.

Jinu, of course, is already walking up behind Abby. “Be gentle, Abby.”

“I am gentle.” He angles you slightly so Jinu can see your face—and okay, yeah. You’re flushed. Your breathing’s shallow. Your eyelids keep drooping against your will. You are not doing well.

Jinu steps closer, walking beside the two of you now like he doesn’t trust Abby not to throw you over a shoulder and sprint off into the night.

Jinu sighs again. “Just… gently. Please.”

You groan. But your head tips forward again. Your body’s giving out. And even if you’ll never say it, the hug was perfect.

Abby grunts as he shifts you in his arms to reach for the doorknob, his biceps flexing under you. “Alright, angel. Bed time.”

“I can walk.” you mutter, voice hoarse.

Abby opens the door to your bedroom with his hip, stepping inside with all the careful grace of someone who is definitely not used to being careful.

“I don’t want to drop you.” he mutters, even though you’re practically melting in his arms. “So if you could, like, not pass out and slip through my fingers, that’d be great, baby.”

“Don’t drop her.” Jinu says, gently but firm, like he’s repeating it for himself as much as Abby.

“I got it, man.”

“Abby.”

“Fine, dad.”

Abby kneels beside your bed, careful not to jostle you too hard. You feel like you’re floating. He lowers you down like you’re made of something breakable, easing you onto the mattress.

“There.” Abby says softly, smoothing your hair out of your face with a weird gentleness that doesn’t match the rest of him. “See? Easy.”

You blink up at the ceiling, dazed. “Fuck off.”

“I can take her pulse.” Abby offers, one brow raised. “With my tongue.”

“Out.” Jinu says, tone flat.

Abby laughs, full-bodied and boyish, and backs up with hands raised. “Alright, alright. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

But the mood isn’t light. Because the two of them are hovering over you like you’re going to die any second. You’re human. You bleed. You sweat. You suffer. And they don’t know how to fix it. They can break necks and shatter bones with their bare hands, but you? You’re burning up, small and human and coughing into their expensive linens, and that terrifies them.

They’ve seen plagues. They’ve watched blood pour from mouths in alleyways. They’ve watched humans die under curses that had no names. They’ve fought things that smelled like death—rotted meat and smoke and something wet underneath the skin. They’ve seen it all.

“We’ll be outside.” Jinu finally says, voice low. “If you need anything.”

Then they leave. Abby first, rubbing his hands down his face like he’s trying to wipe off feelings. Jinu closes the door behind them with one last glance at you. He stops Abby in the hallway.

“Plans canceled today.”

Abby quirks a brow. “Like… all of them?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cancelling hunter hunting?”

Jinu sighs. Gwi-Ma’s gonna whoop his ass. “Not permanently.”

Abby leans against the wall, running a hand through his hair. His body is built to move—shoulders made for sprinting into chaos. Stillness doesn’t suit him. He shifts, fidgets. He’s never known how to sit with the quiet.

He hates that it’s not a person doing this to you. He could kill a person.

This?

This just waits.

He’s hugged thousands of fans. Dozens of flings. But that hug, god, that fucking hug.

You scared the fuck out of him. You always scare the fuck out of him, but this time it’s not because you flipped a knife at his neck or cursed him out mid-interrogation. It’s because you looked fragile. Small. Like you didn’t have enough fight in you to breathe.

He’d laugh, if it didn’t make him sick. He’s always been a fighter. They trained him like a dog. Fed him blood and steel and told him he was born for this. So he became what they wanted. Strong. Dangerous. Impossible. He kept himself like that, too. Like maybe if someone just touched him hard enough, they’d forget he’s held the dying, carried teammates in body bags, was once alone for three months in a bunker with only his brother’s corpse for company. (AN: guys I’m making lore up let me live)

But you fell asleep in his arms and he felt your heart beating against his ribs and it made him want to scream.

He’s used to bodies. Muscle. Bruises. Warm, worn-out people who only wanted the heat of him, not the truth. Sex without eye contact. Fights where he laughed through the blood. That was his rhythm. That was the pulse he built himself around.

If you asked for it? Right now? He’d take his clothes off without hesitation. Drop to his knees, spread his arms. He wouldn’t even expect to fuck. He’d just let you have him. Lay his body down like an altar and say: Here. For you. Everything. Take it. Please.

He thinks about you all the time.

He thinks about your mouth.

He thinks about you between all of them, sleepy and spoiled and worn out, covered in bruises from them, not because they were cruel—but because they couldn’t help it.

They’d worship you.

He’d lie down and let Mystery bite your shoulder while Romance made you sob and Jinu held your hand. Part of him thinks about you sandwiched between them, body warm and pliant, face tucked into someone’s chest while another pair of arms holds your hips. He imagines you being spoiled, worshipped by every single one of them. He’d let Romance kiss you while he held your thighs open. He’d let Baby whisper dirty things in your ear until you cried. He’d let Jinu fuck you slow and sweet. He’d even let Mystery leave marks down your chest because you’d like it.

As long as he got to hold your hand while it happened.

He’d share you.

He’d beg to.

Meanwhile, the big bathroom is a fucking sauna. Steam coats every tile. Water pours hot and endless from the tap, the kind of heat that could flay skin off if you weren’t a demon.

Romance is submerged to the neck in scalding water, chains still on, one leg perched on the tub’s edge. His hair’s wet, sticking to his cheekbones, lips parted.

Jinu knocks once.

“Come in.” Romance calls. “Clothes optional.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jinu opens the door just enough to be heard. “You’re staying home today.”

“Ugh.” Romance closes his eyes and sinks further into the bath, water lapping at his jaw. He doesn’t need to be told why. He just lies there, letting the water burn around him as Jinu leaves him alone.

Romance acts like he’s all flirt and friction. And maybe he is. But when no one’s looking, he sinks like stone. Into beds. Into bathtubs. Into any warmth that might feel like arms.

He wants to be touched. Wants to be kissed. Wants to be laughed at and hated and clung to. He likes hard, witty mouths, people who make it fun. And you do that—god, you do—but right now, you’re barely able to keep your head up.

But every time you enter a room, he has to pretend he’s not head over heels and a complete fool for you and his dick isn’t twitching. Pretend he’s not imagining what you’d sound like if he made you cry in a good way. Pretend he doesn’t want you bent over every surface in the house while the others watch.

Fuck.

He never had a heart that worked right. It wants too much. It wants you. He’d share, too. Gladly. Not even out of generosity. Out of need. He wants to see you loved in every way, all at once, until you forget what pain even is.

He’d take your lips when Abby’s done kissing your neck. Because he wants to be in the middle of it. Wants to have one of your hands in his, your back pressed to someone’s chest, your lips to someone else’s shoulder, and him—him—between your thighs, giving you something none of them can.

He wouldn’t even ask for much. Just a piece.

He thinks about it. Thinks about watching your face as someone else makes you fall apart—and his hands on your thighs, holding you open for it. He’d ruin you like worship, make you cry from love.

But if it meant keeping you? He’d do worse.

He should be shot.

He shifts in the tub, arms draped on either side, head tilted back. If he closes his eyes, he sees you under them. Crushed between Abby’s chest and Mystery’s hands, Jinu whispering comfort against your ear while Baby holds your chin and makes you look.

He should hate that he’d let them have you too. That he’d beg for it. That the thought of someone else making you cum while he watched with hands wrapped around your waist to keep you from running makes him throb under the water.

But he doesn’t hate it.

He dunks under the water.

On the other side of the apartment, the balcony is high above the city, wind cutting across Baby’s face, cigarette dangling from his lips. One leg hooked over the railing like he might jump just for the thrill of it.

Jinu opens the sliding glass door and says, “Put it out.”

“No.” Baby replies, not looking.

Jinu steps closer, arms crossed. “We’re staying in.”

“I don’t have plans.”

“I know.” Jinu stares at him for a long time, then quietly steps back inside and closes the door.

Baby stands alone. Mouth tight. Smoke curling upward.

Now he thinks caring is a disease. And he caught it. Somewhere between watching your hands shake and hearing you curse Romance under your breath.

He doesn’t even remember what he used to be. All he remembers is being a sweetheart, a betrayer, a backstabber.

Now he just watches.

He watches them love you. Abby with his muscles. Romance with his filth. Jinu with his hands. Mystery with his silence.

But he doesn’t know what to do with what he feels. Sometimes, he just wants to kiss your wrists. Other times? He wants to fuck you hard enough you forget your name.

Now his cigarette’s just ash, long dead in his fingers. He’s leaned against the railing, the city sprawling beneath him. He’s been watching people move. Living. Laughing. Going to cafes and touching each other.

He used to think he was above it. Above needing people.

We know who fucked that up, I’ll give a hint, you.

It’s awful.

He’s awful.

And he’d still share you.

Uuuuh, yeah, we’re back there.

Because he knows—deep down—they’re all thinking it too.

They want your moans like a melody. Your body like a feast. Your soul like a throne.

He wants to be the one you look at after. When it’s all done. He wants to see your eyes glazed and ruined and still full of that stupid, angelic light. He’d sit at the edge of the bed. Light you both a cigarette after. Pretend it doesn’t make his chest hurt. If he had to share you to get that? He’d do it.

One more cigarette. Then he’ll go in.

He’s said that five times now.

Not like it hurts him.

He flicks ash off the balcony, watching it float.

The library is mostly unlit, save for a reading lamp glowing like a firefly. Mystery is curled on the shaggy rug beside Derpy. He strokes the cat’s spine in long, precise lines. The thing purrs like a car engine. He doesn’t speak when Jinu enters. Doesn’t look up.

Jinu says, “We’re not leaving today.”

Mystery nods once. Doesn’t break rhythm. The cat shifts its weight. Settles in closer.

Jinu hesitates, as if wanting to say something else. Then walks away.

He doesn’t know love like they do. Not really. But he knows obsession. He dreams about biting you. About bruising your neck. About pulling your hair until you scream and then whispering thank you against your spine.

He’d learn. If it meant keeping you.

Now the tiger has fallen asleep with its tail wrapped around his thigh, and he’s just… still. Still, and listening. He’s always listening. For your breathing. For your coughs. For Jinu’s footsteps. He tracks every movement like a dog waiting for its master.

He doesn’t speak to the others, not about this. Doesn’t need to. He feels their desperation like it’s stitched into his own skin.

He’s worse than them.

Because he’s already accepted it. The obsession. The longing. The things he’d do.

He dreams of you at night, whimpers when you’re gone too long, curls up at your door when no one else is looking. He’s feral. He knows it. He’s okay with it.

He doesn’t just want you.

He needs you.

He would share. Of course he would. He already does. Their touches are his. Their kisses, his too. Every time you smile at one of them, he stores it away like a treasure. He doesn’t get jealous.

He gets off on it.

He’d kneel beside your bed and press kisses to your ankle while the others made you moan.

He wants you every way.

In Jinu’s room, the door clicks shut behind him. He exhales slowly. Then he sits. On the edge of his bed, hands resting on his knees.

He sees how close you are to slipping through their fingers.

You’re not a mission anymore. Not the little help. Not a toy.

You’re the thing. The one. He’s never hated the human body more than this moment—how helpless it is, how breakable. How much it can be taken away. And now you’re sick and small and soft, and it’s his fault you’re not in your own bed with people who love you.

He thought he was past this. Feeling things like this. He’d survived war. Massacres. Curses. Whole countries in collapse. He’d seen viruses rip through entire cities, heard the way people screamed when it reached their children first.

He hadn’t cried for any of it.

And now? Now he can’t stop thinking about the way your lips trembled when you whispered “I’m not going to tell you anything.” Even while they hurt you. Even while you bled.

He’s not the type to share.

But he would.

He would—god, he would—if it meant keeping you.

And the boys would kill each other for you. Or worse—share you. Hold your wrists. Your thighs. Your secrets. One of them between your legs while the other whispers in your ear. He’d take what he could get. If that meant Romance pressed against your other side in the dark, if it meant Abby’s hands holding your waist, if it meant Mystery’s mouth at your throat while Baby whispered filth in your ear—

If you were safe through it all?

If you stayed?

He’d say yes.

There are five demons in this apartment. They wear cologne and expensive shoes now. Laugh too loud, flirt too hard, eat cereal straight from the box. But underneath? They’re rot and ruin stitched into beautiful boy-shapes.

Gwi-Ma made sure of that.

They’ve been tortured. Starved. Burned alive and brought back. They’ve heard screams from rooms they weren’t allowed to enter, and held friends who didn’t have faces anymore. Gwi-Ma didn’t just control them—he owned them.

His pretty little monsters.

His pet projects.

His failures.

Jinu would rather earn a piece of you—an inch, a sigh, a touch—than hoard what was never his.

But the thought of you in all their arms at once? That thought ruins him. Not with jealousy. With need.

He tells himself it’s a dream.

But it’s not.

It’s a plan. One he’d never say out loud.

Gwi-Ma broke Abby’s hands once. Told him his strength meant nothing if it wasn’t used in service of darkness. But now with that strength, he can’t stop touching you. Hugging you. Grinning when you hiss at him, even when you’re pale and shaking. It’s not flirtation. It’s desperation.

Sleep isn’t rest for him. It’s a rerun of things he should’ve stopped. Missions he should’ve aborted. Screams he didn’t quiet fast enough. People he held together with his bare hands while they bled out, whispering that it was okay even when it wasn’t.

And that gets dulled, because yes, fuck, he thinks about you. Laying across his bed, sleepy, shirt off, one leg hooked around his waist. Thinks about Romance on your mouth, Baby on your chest, Jinu murmuring praise into your throat while he holds your thighs open.

He’s imagined you under him, hands tangled in his hair, voice cracking as he whispered, “Does that feel good, baby?”

But more than that? He’s thought about Romance kissing your neck while he did it. Mystery behind you, mouth against your shoulder. Baby watching, lip bitten raw.

Gwi-Ma didn’t torture Romance the way he did the others.

No. Gwi-Ma liked Romance.

Which was worse.

Romance learned to seduce. To arch his back for power. To purr for mercy. He kissed. He let people touch him. He sold parts of himself until he didn’t know which piece was his.

When you’re strong, he teases.

When you’re weak, he aches.

And when he touches himself late at night, face buried in a pillow to muffle the sound, it’s not some stranger in his head.

It’s you.

On your knees between them. Or spread out across Mystery’s lap while Abby feeds you his fingers. Or smiling at Romance from under Jinu’s arm as Baby growls at the edge of the bed.

He’d let Abby take your mouth. He’d let Jinu fuck you first. Slow. Reverent. He’d let Mystery watch in silence, eyes hungry and dark. Baby laugh at you.

He wants you any way he can have you. He wants you to fight. To cry. To cling to his wrist while he makes you see stars. Wants to pin you down and ruin you—only to kiss you afterward, slow and shaky, like he’s saying thank you.

He’s so fucked up over you he could scream. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lies in his room now, hips twitching, rock-hard and pathetic, whispering your name into a pillow he’ll never wash again.

Baby’s inside in his closet. He’s just hiding from the world, okay? From the others. From the idea of you slipping through his fingers. From the truth.

Because the truth is this: Gwi-Ma kept him in a cage. Metaphorically, luckily. Called him “pretty” when he obeyed and tortured him when he didn’t. Hurt people hurt people. His body is his own now, sure. But his heart? Completely ruined.

Until you.

He watched you sleep for three hours once. You didn’t know. You never will. He counted every breath. Timed the rise and fall of your chest.

He’d ruin you if he wasn’t careful. So he isn’t careful. Not in his mind.

You, shaking under him. Mystery holding your wrists. Romance laughing like a sin, Abby growling into your throat, Jinu whispering, “You’re okay.”

He wants it.

He wants all of it.

He’d never tell you. Never admit it. He’ll keep being an asshole and smoking when he shouldn’t. But if you asked him, really asked him?

He’d lie down like a good dog and beg for it.

For you.

For forever.

Mystery can hear it. That soft, sick inhale. The occasional whimper. The way your legs shift under the sheets. He catalogues it all. Commits it to memory.

He’s thinking of before. Of cages and chains and words that peeled the skin off his sanity. Gwi-Ma didn’t torture him the same way as the others. He made him like it. Made him crave his praise. When he disobeyed, he’d withhold it. Let him sit in the dark for days, whispering, “Good boys don’t make noise.”

He didn’t speak for two years.

Now? He still barely does.

But with you? You never force him. Never rush him.

Now he wants to curl around you like a beast. Wants to press his body to yours and watch you melt, soft and needy. Wants to feel your fingers in his hair, tugging when he growls at the others to wait their turn.

But if you looked him in the eyes and said you wanted them too?

He’d bare his neck and kneel.

Because love isn’t something he understands.

But obedience?

That, he’s mastered.

And if you command it—if you want him—he will follow.

Anyways, after putting you to bed, they didn’t know what to do with themselves because Jinu canceled everything.

You were bundled in warmth, finally resting, and without you, they were aimless. Disarmed. Feral with no leash.

Romance made it ten minutes before his shirt was off and his hand was halfway down his pants on the living room couch, claiming he was “just adjusting.” Jinu told him to go to his room.

Abby, meanwhile, was baiting a fight. No real reason. He’d made three laps around the kitchen, opened every cabinet twice, and then leaned into Baby’s space with a grin that was absolutely asking for violence. “Hey, brat. Bet I could knock your smug little ass out before you blink.”

Baby smirked. “Try it and you’ll eat through a straw.”

Two seconds later, they were flipping chairs.

Mystery got involved because he always did when someone hit Abby too hard—and then Romance jumped in just because he was bored. Suddenly fists were flying, Baby was biting, Abby was laughing like a psycho, and Jinu walked in with a mug of tea only to stop cold at the sight of four grown, supernatural men having an all-out wrestling match on his imported persian rug.

“Do you have brain damage?” he asked no one in particular.

Romance bitched about Mystery grabbing his hair.

Mystery bit him harder.

Baby slammed into the wall.

Abby shouted, “LET’S FUCKING GO” as he body-slammed Mystery into the floor, both of them laughing like murder was foreplay.

And when you stirred upstairs—just barely—coughing soft, your voice cracking like glass—

All five of them froze.

Like dogs hearing the front door open.

Abby spent the next hour shadowboxing the kitchen. Shirtless. Again. Kicked a hole in the wall by accident and then slapped Baby across the head. It devolved into a full-on brawl that ended with Jinu pulling them apart and Romance dramatically holding an ice pack on his own crotch for no real reason. He got thrown over the couch three times. Baby blew smoke into Jinu’s face.

Now, it’s the middle of the night. Around two am, and you hear your door open.

You blink yourself awake. Everything aches.

Mystery is the one standing there, half-lit by the hallway. Pale. Barefoot. Shirtless. Hair still messy from earlier. A bruise blooming on his cheek. A faint trail of blood down his shoulder—likely Abby’s elbow. Or the wall.

You sit up, weak and slow. “C’mere.” you whisper, patting the bed beside you. “You okay?”

He hesitates.

Then nods. One sharp, clipped motion.

You scoot over, blanket rustling. Every move takes effort. Your body feels like dying. But he moves forward anyway. Just sits at the edge of your bed.

You whisper. “You’re bleeding.”

“Not mine.” he murmurs.

You smile faintly. “Figures.”

He doesn’t reply, maybe that was his version of a laugh.

You fall back asleep, lips parted, really out of it. But with him near.

Mystery stays perched at the edge of your bed. Your fever warms the air between you and there’s something fragile about this moment. You curl into yourself in the night, shivering once, and he moves instinctively, slow and quiet, pulling the blanket over your shoulder. His knuckles brush your cheek. You’re still burning.

He stays long after you’re gone to dreamland. Watches the way your chest rises and falls in uneven rhythm. Memorizes it. Commits it to muscle, to blood.

And then right before sunrise he leaves.

You never even stirred.

Still in the middle of the night, the kitchen’s lit low with the soft glow of Jinu’s laptop screen. He’s sitting there, brows furrowed, typing one-handed while scrolling through symptoms.

He’s on his fifth medical site. A cold, probably. Flu, maybe. Something worse? No. Don’t go there.

Next to him, Abby’s half-leaning on the counter, one hand absentmindedly draped over Jinu’s back, palm flat and warm. It’s not romantic.

Jinu sighs. Doesn’t even look over. “It’s a cold.”

“Cool.” Abby says. And slaps him, hard, once on the shoulder like a congratulation. “Doctor Jinu, blessin’ us.”

Jinu rolls his eyes. Doesn’t shove him off.

They sit there for a while in silence. Then footsteps. Bare. Light.

Baby walks in. He’s wearing black sweatpants and one of Jinu’s old hoodies that falls off one shoulder. No phone. Just himself. And an expression like he hasn’t slept in a week.

He stops at the fridge, opens it, stares like maybe it’ll reveal the meaning of life.

Jinu nods to him. Abby says, “Yo.”

Baby grunts.

Jinu looks up. “How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“Didn’t look fine when Mystery nearly dislocated it earlier.”

“…still fine.”

And that’s the whole conversation.

He pulls out juice. Drinks it straight from the bottle. Abby flicks the back of his head. Jinu side-eyes him but doesn’t argue.

And then somehow… they’re sitting together. Abby sprawled across two chairs. Baby across from Jinu. No one saying much.

The stillness is nice.

Boyish.

They learned how to lock out each other’s noises, their brain ignores the little thing when it comes to each other.

That said, Romance put on a whole performance for himself. Candles. Oils. All just foreplay for his own fantasy. Because he couldn’t go into your room. That would ruin everything. You were sick. Vulnerable. Innocent.

But his imagination wasn’t.

Romance lay in steaming water, AGAIN, one hand lazily dragging over his chest, the other… buried in bubbles, making him whimper your name.

My point with this is that the others simply don’t hear his bullshit anymore. They could listen to Romance jerk off, but they won’t. Their brain ignores it at this point.

Anyways, he imagined you walking in, catching him, asking if he was okay. That shy little look you gave when you pretended not to notice how insanely hot he was. He imagined offering you a seat between his legs, whispering, “You’ll feel better with me, baby.”

He came so hard he nearly drowned himself.

Laid there after, gasping, fucked-out, and a little mad. He dried off lazily. Dragged himself to his room. Laid there on the bed with the sheets tangled around his legs and one arm slung across his eyes.

Romance has known a hundred bodies. A thousand beds. But the thought of your fevered breath against his neck? Made him ache like he was seventeen again. Like nothing had ever been taken from him.

And hours later, Abby’s snoring on his stomach. Jinu fell asleep with the laptop on his chest. Baby’s curled like a cat in the corner of the couch. Romance is face down on the bed, still kinda wet. Mystery fell asleep too, Derpy in the bed with him.

And you, in your room? You wake up in the morning to sunshine. A little less hot. A little more alive. But the bed’s empty beside you.

And when you listen carefully? The apartment sounds like boys. Shuffling. Grunting. Distant laughter. Cereal boxes dropping. Someone yelling “STOP DOING THAT WITH YOUR TOOTHBRUSH.”

You don’t even move.

Your body’s drenched in sweat, pillow humid with it. You feel disgusting. Hollow. Your mouth tastes like someone poured your own snot into it, stirred it with dust, and then punched you in the tonsils. Your muscles ache. Your sinuses are gloop.

But the fever’s lower. You can tell.

You don’t even get time to sit up.

There’s a crash.

A scrape.

A—“Shitfuck—ow, why is this—”

Boom.

Your door slams open. Hard.

Romance is clutching the doorframe with all the grace of someone who fell into it, and is trying very hard to look like he meant to. His shirt’s unbuttoned. And he’s already smiling.

“Baby,” he says, voice still soaked in sleep and sex. “you’re alive.”

You stare.

You are:

✔️ Sweaty

✔️ Coughing

✔️ Still dying

✔️ Not in the mood

He walks in. No knock. No asking. No hesitation. Just Romance. He makes his way toward the bed like you summoned him. Like he’d been waiting for the signal. The second your consciousness sparked back into your bones, he’d been on the move.

You try to sit up, weakly. “Romance—”

“Oh, don’t say my name like that.” he purrs. “You’ll make me blush.”

You roll your eyes. He sits at the edge of your bed without asking. Leans forward, elbows to knees, gaze crawling all over your face.

And that’s the thing about Romance. He is romantic. Too much. Speaks slow. Stares long. Makes everything he says sound like a prophecy. His voice is angelic. You know he flirts with everything—chairs included—but it still feels real when he talks to you.

“I was worried.” he says softly. A beat. “I mean. Not really. I knew you’d be fine. So stubborn. So—” his eyes flick to your chapped lips, then to the flushed color in your cheeks. “—hot.”

You scowl, half-hearted. “Fever.”

“I know.” he sighs dramatically. “And still. So soft. You should see yourself.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m in love.”

You groan. You try to pull the blanket up over your face. Romance moves faster, grabbing it and folding it down neatly like he’s tucking you in.

“You should drink something.” he whispers. “Tea? Water? There’s like seventeen kinds of ginger root downstairs. We can grind them into a potion or… I don’t know. You could just spit in my mouth. That works too.”

You shove him. Weakly.

Behind him, somewhere down the hall, you hear a loud: “Romance, did you break her door again?”

“Noooo~” he yells back, singsong.

It was absolutely him.

He looks back at you. “You’re still hot, by the way.”

“Still a fever.”

“Makes me want to catch it.”

“Get out.” you mutter, but your voice is soft.

Romance leans back just enough to stretch, arms above his head, shirt pulling up to show just a sliver of toned stomach. He catches your eyes looking. Smirks. Then he stands. Winks. He leaves your door open on purpose.

And you’re too tired to close it.

You should be furious.

You should be screaming. Trying to escape. Plotting revenge.

Instead?

You’re curled in a nest of too-soft blankets in an overpriced bed, and you’re thinking about—

Children.

Them.

As children.

But it’s not even weird. It’s just soft. Too soft. The fever’s dragging the walls of your mind down with it, and everything’s tender. You’re so weak for children. The idea of them as children… that vulnerability, that innocence—that before—oh fuck.

You sniff. You blame the fever.

But you keep thinking of little Mystery

What was he like? Before all this. Before the growling. Before he got so good at keeping his mouth shut and his hands fast and bloody.

He probably had a brother.

You know he did.

Older, maybe. The kind of sibling who always walked a little ahead, glancing back with just enough impatience to let you know he still cared. You imagine Mystery with short, wild hair. Smudged cheeks. A boy who ran barefoot. Skin scraped on rocks. A mouth full of laughter. Not growls.

He wasn’t shy.

Not at first.

He talked. He laughed. He ran too fast, climbed trees too high. He was probably the one who came home with bloody knees and half a frog in his pocket, holding it up proudly.

Until something happened.

Until everything happened.

And he went quiet.

And god, Baby. That little shit was always like this. You just know it. Mouth too quick, eyes always rolled. The kind of kid who got away with everything. You imagine him with dimples and a wild mop of hair, already giving attitude at age five. Pulling at skirts, rolling his eyes, stomping his little feet with purpose.

He was raised by women. You can tell. Aunties. Sisters. Maybe a mother who smacked him upside the head with a slipper and told him to fix his face before she did it for him. She loved him to death though.

You think of him—tiny, five maybe—stomping around a dusty house full of women. Sisters. Cousins. Aunties. Every last one of them rolling their eyes at his tantrums but loving him anyway.

He was probably spoiled.

Probably screamed when they cut his hair. Probably kicked every adult in the shin when they tried to pinch his cheeks.

He was loved.

Deeply.

You cannot unsee baby Abby with chubby cheeks. This little menace had cheeks. Chubby, kissable ones. You know it.

The kind of toddler who’d get swarmed by old women trying to pinch him and hated every second of it. Probably ran around with a wooden sword and no pants, demanding someone “duel him” at age three.

He was a mama’s boy. You just know.

You bet he climbed on everything. Fences. Trees. Horses.

Probably fell off them all, too.

He was soft once. Chubby hands in his mother’s. Wide eyes looking up in awe at the men in armor. You think maybe he wanted to be like them. He was born with that fire. But back then, he wasn’t scary.

Oh, Romance was noble-born. Absolutely.

He was the adored son. The perfect heir. Son of a nobleman with land, money, horses. You bet his mother dressed him in silks before he could walk. You bet his father loved him.

Romance was adored.

Told every day that he was handsome and smart and destined for greatness.

He probably kissed a boy in a courtyard once. And a girl the next week.

Romance loved everything. Always has.

You can imagine Jinu so hard to be good. To be useful. The perfect son. The perfect brother. You think he made hard choices even as a child.

There had to be a time when he was small. When he clung to someone’s leg. When he cried too loud and got picked up and held close and told it was okay.

He was clever. Beautiful. Eventually he got what he wanted. He always did.

You’re supposed to be plotting their downfall. You’re supposed to be spitting in their water bottles and flipping them off every chance you get.

Not lying here imagining them as kids. Imagining their mothers. Their little hands. Their lives before they were monsters.

But you can’t help it.

I literally got memes from THREE different people, thank you so much babies💋

~ 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

[mariasont]

OKAY OKAY OKAY this might seem really simple but i love the simple stuff

spence x reader

spence is just yapping about whatever, the quantum mechanics of coffee beans, as you said in one of your posts i think, and reader just cuts him off by kissing him IN FRONT OF EVERYONE on the jet.. and everyone’s there like.. oh! im imagining he kisses reader like he kissed lila in that pool scene IM FERAL. yes he kisses back.. and then the rest of it’s just garcia being a squeaking happy person and hotch and morgan are like “that’s my boy” but rossi and jj are just gagged

please im like

Reid the Room - S.R

spencer reid has never met a bad time to discuss aviation disasters. and before your survival instincts can stop you, you're kissing him just to make it stop

pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: gn!reader (correct me if im wrong), secret relationship, pda, mild workplace inappropriateness lol, teasing/banter, spencer reid being spencer reid, mentions of plane crashes! wc: 0.9k

The words don’t just come from Spencer, they pour — fast and inevitable, like water rolling down slick stone, shaping everything in its path. You’ve spent months memorizing the subtleties of it, the tiny furrow between his brows when he’s thinking too hard, his fingers twitching mid-sentence, like even his body can’t quite keep pace with his brilliance.

He becomes more animated when he’s passionate. It should be illegal, you think, for someone to be this smart and this pretty at once. If the team ever noticed how intently you watched him, they’d know. They’d know everything. 

“— the likelihood of a plane crash is about one in 11 million, but what’s really fascinating is that 95.7% of people actually survive crashes, assuming they’re seated within the five rows of an emergency exit. Though, of course, the probability of surviving depends on factors like impact angle and —”

Morgan leans forward, bracing an arm against his knee, eyes locked on Spencer with the patience of a man debating the ethics of shutting someone up by violent force.“Hey, man, you ever hear of a bad time? We are currently on a plane. Read the room.”

For once, you don’t leap to his defense. No well-timed he’s just trying to educate us, Morgan, or an indulgent I think it’s interesting thrown in to buffer the onslaught. 

Instead, you glance at him, eyebrows lifting into something dangerously close to betrayal. Because, yeah. This might actually be one of those times. One of the Morgan is completely justified in wanting to tape Spencer’s mouth shut for the next four hours.

“I have heard of a bad time, but the concept is largely subjective. What you’re experiencing is cognitive bias, your brain associating this discussion with immediate danger because of proximity. In reality, the likelihood of a crash remains the same whether I mention it or not, so from a purely logical standpoint, this is no worse a time than any other.”

Morgan drags a hand down his face.

“...In fact, not talking about it could be considered the real danger. Avoidance leads to complacency, and complacency leads to fatal mistakes. Did you know that the most survivable crash positions involve bracing at a 60-degree angle? Although, of course, survivability depends largely on the structural integrity of the fuselage upon impact, and in cases of explosive decompression —”

It happens before you can think about — before the gnawing, frantic need to make him stop talking about plane crashes while you are actively inside one overrides all rational thought.

You turn, grab Spencer’s collar, and yank him in, your own common sense careening into a tailspin somewhere at 30,000 feet.

The moment your lips collide, Spencer’s entire body goes rigid, frozen mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-existence. His mouth is still forming a syllable that dies in a half-swallowed exhale against your tongue. His hands, previously conducting an invisible orchestra of statistical doom, trap in mid-air like he forgot what hands are.

But he catches up fast. One second he’s buffering and the next his fingers twitch — once, twice — and then lock onto your waist like he’s just decided physics no longer applies and you need to be closer. It starts semi-tentatively, inhaling against your lips, breath uneven, before he presses deeper. A lit match dropped straight into gasoline.

You pull back, breath coming fast, Spencer still leaning in like he isn’t done yet. “Anyway. What were you saying?”

Spencer stares, lips parted, pupils blown wide. For a second, he seems to genuinely try to answer, searching his mind for whatever deeply important fact he was so adamant about a minute ago. “...I don’t remember.”

The jet is quiet — too quiet — and that’s when it hits you. 

You kissed Spencer. In front of everyone.

Something cold and hot spreads through you, and suddenly, your limbs don’t seem to be operating under your jurisdiction anymore. Do something. Anything. Breathe. Blink. Move. But nope, your brain is still buffering, and Spencer – dear, sweet Spencer — looks just as dazed, which means absolutely no one is saving you from this.

You could just… not turn around. Avoid whatever is waiting for you. Live the rest of your life facing forward like a malfunctioning animatronic. But the weight of twelve pairs of eyes boring into your back is impossible to ignore.

So, with all the grace of a person walking into their own execution, you turn.

Garcia has both hands glued to her mouth, body vibrating like she’s one second away from either screeching at a frequency only dogs can hear or launching herself into the air like a bottle rocket. Her eyes are huge, pupils dilated. JJ, meanwhile, is just staring. Frozen, lips parting as if she wants to say something but has no idea where to start.

And then there’s Hotch.

You swallow hard as you meet his gaze, expecting some level of seriousness, some stern professional acknowledgment of the wildly inappropriate display that just took place — but instead, he just exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man who is simply too tired for this.

And then, breaking the tension with the ease of a wrecking ball, Morgan lets out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Damn. I knew there was something going on, but damn.”

After the initial shock wore off — and after Garcia had texted Emily a summary in all caps, Morgan had called you both a lost cause, and Rossi had actually applauded — things mostly went back to normal. Mostly. Except now Spencer absolutely knew what he was doing.

And later that night, as you sat beside Spencer on the couch, he turned to you, utterly serious, and murmured, “You know, in the U.S., the majority of residential break-ins occur between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. —” 

You groaned, yanked him in, and cut him off the same way you had earlier. He made a very pleased noise.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[spideyjimin]

LOVE AGAIN | kth

—  pairing: taehyung x female reader 

—  genre: established relationship, fluff, and smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  summary: your boyfriend, taehyung—or captain clumpsy, as you like to call him—is finally home after eighteen long months of military service. when he left, your relationship was new, but the distance only strengthened your bond. with every call, every stolen weekend, the craving slowly and deeply built. now that he’s back, everything you’ve held in finally comes to the surface, and neither of you holds back.

—  words: 5,415

—  warnings: mention of crying, mention of sex, oc is desperate, nervousness, strong language, swearing, some teasing, face riding, oral sex (f. receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, good old missionary, multiple orgasms, and creampie

—  author’s note: hiii angels ✨ i hope you’re all doing great!! sooo the boys’ discharges have been driving me wild & i had to write something 🫠 so here you have a pure filthy fic with our beloved taehyung because that man has gone wild!! hope you enjoy it loves ❤️

MASTERLIST

Falling in love wasn’t in your plans. Not until a certain Kim Taehyung appeared in your life. He came into your life in the most surprising and also very embarrassing way.

It was on a rainy friday. It was the kind of day when you felt like the universe was plotting against you to make everything harsh. On that day, work was incredibly intense, to say the least. You’d even cry in the bathroom out of nervousness. It was honestly horrible.

Due to that, you decided to order instead of cooking. There was that cute italian restaurant you especially loved—its food was your go-to comfort when you were feeling down.

You were distracted by your phone, venting about your horrible day to your best friend. And then suddenly, bam! Pasta all over your white shirt and bolognese sauce on his shirt. For a moment, none of you spoke; you were only eyeing each other with pure surprise before you laughed. It wasn’t a forced or polite one. It was a real, ridiculous, and oddly warm laugh.

Taehyung apologized a million times while offering napkins, although his shirt looked far more ruined than yours. He offered to buy you tiramisu to apologize for his clumsiness, but you politely declined because it was also your fault. You weren’t looking where you were going, too focused on your phone.

You ended up sharing a table, paying for each other’s food as an apology for the mess, and somehow, talking to him felt natural. It felt like you knew this man for an eternity. Everything just felt right with him.  

Kim Taehyung had a smile that softened everything and a very contagious laugh. That night was a wonderful one, and it closed what was supposed to be the worst day of your life.

Before you could even understand it, you were meeting him again in that restaurant. Then, met again over coffee at a coffee shop he liked. Then, went for late-night walks where your hands found each other without thinking.

Slowly, that man made you believe in love again, made you see that there was still magic in it. His arms became your safe place, and there wasn’t a day when you didn’t want to find comfort in his hugs.

But life had other plans. It tore him away from you when he was sent to the army for his military service. The man who had just become your lover was suddenly gone for eighteen long months. How were you supposed to live without him?

Well, turns out that it was hard. Obviously, he had some days off and had his phone, but everything was limited. In eighteen months, you barely saw him and talked to him. Whenever he was out, you were always encouraging him to spend it with his family, but he would always find time for you.

During that time, you got to meet his family. Apparently, he wouldn’t stop talking about you to his parents, his mom even begged him to introduce you. After that, he started inviting you over now and then, so he could spend time with you and his family. It made it easier for him.

However, you were more than impatient to see him again, because damn, he was getting bigger and bigger. And it was getting harder and harder to remain composed around him and his family. You’d always get wet, and man, your mind was dirty. And the worst of all was the fact that you never had sex with him. 

Your best friend never understood how on earth you never got that man between your legs. The answer was simple. You got together only a few weeks before he was called to serve in the army. Neither of you was really into having sex early on in the relationship, so nothing happened. But as time passed, you couldn’t help but regret that decision, especially with the way he was getting buffer and broader every time you saw him.

Honestly, you couldn’t wait for his discharge day.

And that day is today.

Well, he has already left, but he’s with his parents and siblings right now. You couldn’t join them because of work, but you promised to spend the night together. Your first night in eighteen months.

Even though you adore this man with your entire soul, you’re nervous. Actually, you’re terrified. And you can’t quite explain why, at least not in a way that makes sense.

Why? Because everything is different now.

When he left, you had only known each other for three months. You were still figuring each other out, still caught in that golden haze of newness. Back then, every touch felt like a discovery. Now? It’s been nearly two years.

So much has changed, and above anything else, he has changed. Although you got to see him here and there when he was off and through a screen during your video calls made on his free time, you noticed how much he was different. He’s been through things you can’t quite picture.

And now, you’re about to spend the night with him like you used to. Tonight, you won’t be hoping this could last because you know the army won’t be waiting for him the next morning. Tonight, Taehyung will stay and will still be here tomorrow morning. 

You stare at your reflection, adjusting your hair for the fifth time already. You quickly check the mirror before looking down at the phone in your hand. It’s a matter of minutes before he opens the door. Your stomach tightens, and your heart pounds like it used to before a first date, but heavier, because this isn’t new love.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. You know there’s no reason to be this nervous, but you’re too scared of what will happen from now on. You’re too scared that he won’t love you anymore. You’re too scared of everything.

Suddenly, your apartment’s door is cracked open, revealing your boyfriend’s face. He’s still wearing his army uniform, making him look hot as hell. You literally run to the door to jump into his arms. He catches you before you both fall, and the brightest and biggest smile grows on his face.

“I missed you, pasta girl,” he murmurs while holding you tight in his embrace.

“I missed you even more, captain clumsy.”

After your accidental encounter in the italian restaurant, he started to call you pasta girl. In an attempt to tease him back, you started calling him captain clumsy. Those nicknames became your everything during these eighteen long months. They were comforting. They were tiny reminders of where it all began.

For a moment, you both look at each other almost as if you’re trying to realize that you’re finally together after all this time. It actually looks unreal.

“Thanks for your service, Mr. Kim Taehyung,” you decide to tease him as you take a step back. “It was very much appreciated.”  

“You’re welcome,” he instantly replies. “I accept payments with kisses, by the way.”

“Well, not sure if you deserve it,” you clap back. “You left me here alone for eighteen months like I didn’t matter.”

“Eeeh, it’s quite not true, pasta girl,” he begins. “My country got my service, but you always had my heart,” he pauses for a moment. “And I was always running to you whenever I could.”

A smile creeps onto your face. You love teasing him. It helps to calm your nerves, especially when you’re around this ridiculously handsome man. He’s far too good-looking for his own good.

You still remember how nervous you were on your first date. You couldn’t stop thinking about how attractive he was, and for a moment, you even wondered how someone like him could be interested in someone like you. But you quickly pushed that thought away.

“Well, just for that,” you begin, “you deserve your kisses.”

The man doesn’t waste a second before crashing his lips on yours. It starts with tenderness, and you basically melt while kissing him. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his white shirt.

However, the kiss quickly turns into an urgent, almost desperate one. It’s as if he has been holding back for far too long. There’s nothing careful about the kiss. It’s messy, a little breathless, and full of all the months you spent apart and all the words you didn’t say.

When you pull back, he presses his forehead against yours, his fingers brushing your cheeks. For a moment, neither of you speaks. It’s like you’re both afraid to ruin this moment if you dare to speak.  

“God, I missed you,” his voice is low and rough. “Like really miss you.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

It was such a weird feeling to see your boyfriend knowing that in a couple of hours he’ll be leaving for weeks. You hated the time he was in the army.

“Sometimes I wish we had met a lot earlier,” you confess.

Taehyung is fully aware of your feelings. You told him like a hundred times, and he feels the same, but he fully believes this was meant to be. It was hard for him, too, to spend so little time with you for the past eighteen months, but those were the memories he cherished the most.

“Especially because it was torture to see you changing so much and holding back every wild thought that would cross my mind,” you continue.

Now that he’s finally here, you feel like you can say out loud what has been going through your mind for the past months.

“Oh,” he says with obvious surprise. “You’ve been having wild thoughts,” he repeats while a smirk arises on his face. “What kind of thoughts?”

Honestly, you don’t feel shy at all. You’ve been wanting to have his magic stick in you for months, and you deeply hope you’ll be having it soon. If it’s tonight, even better!  

“Well, at first, it would be thoughts of you naked,” you begin. “Your hands on my thighs, inching higher, just brushing where I wanted you most. And eventually, it was you inside me. Again and again.”

Taehyung is caught off guard by your boldness, but he’s absolutely liking it because damn, he has needs too. His mind has been driving him way too crazy. He’s been thinking about all the possible ways of having you while he was serving his country.   

His eyes darken, his jaw tightens, and you can practically feel the heat rolling off him. His lips get closer to your ear, his breathing caressing the skin of your neck. You feel goosebumps appearing all over your body. It’s crazy how this man makes you weak.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve desperately wanted to feel your pussy around my cock.”

He lets his hand rest at your waist, fingers tightening, and you almost moan with how tightly he’s holding you.

“I’ve imagined every part of your body, every sound you’d make. It’s driven me crazy.”

His breath is warm, his body taut with restraint, but barely.

“I need to have sex with you tonight or I’ll die,” he finishes.

You’ve dreamed of this reunion with him, but you never pictured it this way. You never imagined him being as desperate as you. And fuck, you want to have sex with him.

You grab his hand before guiding him to your bedroom. There’s no more time to waste. Not after eighteen months of late-night calls, quick visits, and longing that never quite went away. Taehyung follows without question, his fingers tightening around yours. You can feel the tension radiating off him. It’s the kind that has been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

The moment your bedroom door closes behind you, the air shifts. His eyes roam over you like he’s trying to memorize every detail. You pause near the bed, turning to face him. Neither of you speaks, but everything is being said. In your breathing. In your gaze. In the heat of your skin.

You take a step closer. He meets you halfway.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, voice husky and uneven, as if he’s giving you one last out.

You just reach for him, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between your bodies, until he can feel just how sure you are. You waited long enough. Now, it’s time to feel.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” he says instantly. “Then, remove your pants and underwear and sit on my face.”

Your boyfriend lies in bed, and without thinking, you follow his orders. As your eyes scan the man lying on your bed, you lick your lips before placing yourself over his head. Taehyung looks ethereal even with his army uniform.

Your heart starts pounding fast because you’re about to have sex for the first time with him, and honestly, by the looks of it, it doesn’t seem like a first time.

Neither of you is a virgin. It’s a fact that you shared quite early on, but you’ve never done it together, which can make you a bit nervous. You know nothing about his preferences or if you’re even compatible. All you know right now is how desperate you are to have him inside you. All you want is for him to calm the fire inside you.

“I hope I’m not going to suffocate you,” you teasingly say as you slowly bring your core closer to his face.

“I absolutely don’t care about that,” he honestly replies. “Suffocate me as much as you want, I’ll be happy.”  

His hands move to your hips, guiding you down to get closer to his face. The sweet scent of your arousal makes him hungry, like really hungry. He wants to suck and lap all your juices until his lips are only covered with your arousal. 

“Your cunt smells so good, pasta girl,” he whispers against your core. 

His nose brushes against your core, a small moan leaving your lips at the sensation. As he hears the barely audible moan, he deliberately breathes against your throbbing core, the cool air sending shivers down your spine. There’s absolutely no doubt that this man knows how to pleasure a woman.

“You’re already so fucking wet,” he mumbles with a growing smirk on his face.  

Well, being around this man always gets you wet, and if on top of that he’s wearing his military uniform, then, you’re soaking wet.

“Not my fault if you’re so damn sexy,” you reply.

Before you can even process what is happening, he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking at it. The man doesn’t even give you the time to breathe or to realize what’s going on. His nose tingles your core, sending goosebumps throughout your entire body. You bite your lower lip to suppress any moan from falling out of your mouth.

With your previous partners, being loud in bed was apparently not a good thing. That’s what they told you, and moaning during the act also felt almost wrong. The only thought that others could hear you was uncomfortable.

Automatically, you bury your hand in Taehyung’s hair, pulling it as he laps your sensitive clit with his tongue. A groan rumbles from his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin, which sends shivers down your spine. You close your eyes to savor having him under you with his nose in your core.  

This right here with him feels quite special, especially since he’s giving you quite a lot of pleasure with his mouth and nose alone. What would it be once he’s going to be buried deep inside you?

After a little while, he buries his tongue in your hole, causing fireworks inside you. The man laps at your arousal as if his life were at stake. In some way, it feels like he’s trying to make up for the time when you weren’t together. Today is all about taking care of you. 

His eyes glance up at you, enjoying the way your body is contorting with pleasure. An evil smirk appears on his face while he keeps lapping at your juices. Your back arches, causing you to push your pussy closer to his mouth. He instantly notices the way you’re holding back your moans.

“Don’t hold back, babe,” he mumbles against your core. “Scream as loud as you desire.”

“No,” you shake your head while completely lost in your pleasure.

He pushes his face away from your pussy, and his eyebrows furrow. He’s not understanding why you’re holding back. It’s a first time for him. His previous partners were loud as fuck, and it was also an indicator for him to know if he’s doing well or not.

“Why?” he asks.

“It makes me uncomfortable,” you admit. “And my exes made me understand they didn’t like it.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes. He’s heard your stories about your exes, and he hates them all. They were all assholes; he always feels sorry that you had to deal with guys like them.

“They were wrong, my love,” he says softly. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll never push. But just so you know, I don’t mind it. Not at all,” his voice gets deeper and lower. “Actually, I’d love to hear you moan.”

His words make you blush. You never thought that a man would ever say that because you always believed that men hated a vocal woman. But Taehyung is proving you completely wrong.

“Okay,” you nod.

He offers you the prettiest smile before settling back to his previous position, which is his face pressed against your pussy. He’s lapping at you like there’s no tomorrow, and his words echo in your mind so you don’t bite your lower lip anymore. You try as well not to hold back any moan.  

“You’re so pretty,” Taehyung mutters against your core. 

Slowly, you start rolling your hips over his head, your hand running through your hair to push it back so it doesn’t stick to your face as you start to sweat. The moans start to leave your lips as the wave of pleasure begins to build strongly in your lower stomach. A smile grows on his face when he hears the sweet sounds you’re making.

His eyes glance down with marvel at your core. Everything about you is extremely wonderful. This man loves you with his entire soul, and most of the time, he wonders how he survived all this time without you by his side. You’re so fucking beautiful, and it was hard to keep his hands to himself.  

Taehyung senses the orgasm building stronger inside you at an extremely fast pace. Your body is moving more and more, your walls are clenching way too much, and your moans are also getting high-pitched. The man starts to suck harder on your core to make you come all over his face. That’s all he wishes for right now.  

Your free hand goes to the headboard of the bed to hold yourself onto something. The man below you is sucking and lapping every single drop of your arousal, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. It’s a matter of seconds before you come undone all over his face. But that’s what you both want.

“Fuck, Taehyung,” you mutter as your hips slowly roll desperately over his face. 

Your boyfriend detaches his mouth when your legs start shaking, indicating that your orgasm is finally hitting you intensely. His name leaves your mouth when the wave of pleasure explodes inside you, your back arching even more, and you close your eyes to enjoy every second of it. 

Your arousal leaks over his pretty lips while he watches with marvel the way you come over his face. Nothing makes him prouder than giving you such an intense orgasm for the first time. And man, the way you look when you’re on cloud nine is honestly the prettiest thing he has ever seen.

Taehyung moves under you, your core now pressed against his covered chest. It takes you a moment to come down from your high, and he can even feel your wall clenching against his toned chest. His hands caress your hips, trying to bring you comfort as you come down. His eyes never leave your pretty face. 

“Would you like to keep going?” 

He wants to be sure that you really want to have sex with him. Of course, it’s pretty obvious you want more, but who knows, maybe you’d like to stop here. He’s not going to force you to do anything; he has never been like that. 

Your eyes open to look at the man under you. His lips are all wet with your arousal, which honestly looks pretty good on him. Anything looks good on him.

“Yes, I want it,” you bend down, your face getting closer to his ear, “captain clumsy,” you whisper with a smile on your face. 

Taehyung bites his lower lip, goosebumps appearing all over his body with the way you just whispered “captain clumsy”.

“You’re such a tease,” he says before pressing his lips against yours.

When your lips meet, you instantly taste yourself. Again, this is new to you. Your exes weren’t the type to go down on you. They’d prefer to go straight to the penetration as they preferred it, but damn, being eaten out is way more worthy than any dick inside you.

“Let me undress, my love,” he says while tapping your tights.

You move aside to let him stand up. In seconds, he strips off all the pieces of clothing from his body, leaving no room for imagination anymore. The man standing in front of you isn’t just the charming guy you met in that italian restaurant anymore. He’s transformed.

His body is sculpted and more powerful. His chest is broader, his arms thicker, every muscle defined and glistening, and veins trail down his forearms, rising slightly beneath his skin in a way that makes your breath catch.

Then, your eyes slowly look down, and you freeze. There it is. The beast he’s been hiding from you for nearly two years. And it’s a lot. You’re not even sure how he managed to tuck that away in his military uniform.

“That’s huge,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he replies with a grin. “That’s what people usually say.”

You raise an eyebrow, your eyes now moving up to meet his gaze.

“Oh? So people just casually admire your dick like it’s no big deal?” you ask in a teasing tone.

Your boyfriend rolls his eyes while shaking his head.

“Totally. I made it a habit to walk around naked during my military training.”  

“I’m sure they were all grateful for that,” you chuckle.

“Obviously,” he smirks.

Taehyung gets closer, like dangerously close, before his body hovers over yours. You fall backwards, your back pressed against your mattress. The smirk on his face turns into the softest smile.

“I wish I could have been there,” you smile at him as your hands cup his cute cheeks.

His hand gently caresses your face. It’s weird to think you’re about to share a very wild moment while he’s simply adorable right now.

“If you were there, I would have never been able to serve my country,” he admits. “I would constantly have had my hands all over you.”

You chuckle, but honestly, you know you would have never let him do his job because you’d always be around him. Most probably, he’d be tired of seeing you all the time, and probably would find you too clingy.  

Your boyfriend presses a sweet kiss on your lips, but it quickly takes a steamy turn. His fingers visit your wet core while still kissing you, and the cold sensation of his fingers makes you moan. A moan that he instantly swallows.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he mumbles.

“It’s always the case around you,” you admit.

“Naughty girl,” he teases.      

Before you can say anything else, he slides his length along your folds, teasing you and covering it with your arousal. As he does so, a soft whimper leaves your lips, your body aching for more. His eyes drop to where your bodies are meeting, watching the way your wetness clings to him.

Damn, you’re both barely holding it together. The anticipation is thick, and the thought of finally having him inside you makes your walls clench around nothing.

After a few seconds that feel like an eternity, his gaze lifts to meet yours again. His eyes are dark and filled with lust; he’s definitely desperate to push himself deep inside you. And there’s no doubt in either of your minds. He’s seconds away from giving in to the need to bury himself deep inside you.

“Ready?” he asks.

You simply nod. You’re actually more than ready for this. You’ve been craving this moment for months now.

With his hand still on his thick cock, he guides it to your soaked pussy before burying it inside you, stretching your velvety walls. His large hands find their way to your waist, caressing your soft skin while his eyes filled with lust look into yours. Both of you groan as he slowly pushes his long and thick cock inside you.  

“Fuck,” you mumble as your eyes roll back. 

The monster between his legs looked big before, but now, as he slowly pushes himself inside you, he feels even bigger. It’s overwhelming, but definitely in a good way. And above anything else, it feels simply right to have him inside you.

He pushes his dick as far as possible inside you, filling you up to the brim. This is definitely quite something. None of the guys you previously dated were this huge, but damn, this is incredible. Your pleasure is reaching levels you never knew existed, and he has only pushed his length inside you.

“Oh fuck,” he swears. “This feels so fucking good.”    

As you hear his words, your walls clench around his cock, causing him to moan. 

“Don’t torture me, pasta girl,” he groans, his voice rough around the edges. “If you keep going, I’ll come and completely embarrass myself.”

“I wouldn’t judge you,” you murmur, hand gently trailing over his chest.

“Yeah, but…” he leans in, brushing a kiss against your cheek, “I kind of want to impress you. First time and all.”

The wink he throws you makes your heart flutter.

Before you can add or say anything more, Taehyung slowly pushes back, leaving only the tip of his cock inside you. His eyes never leave your figure, watching you with delight.

He brutally pushes his cock fully inside you, a loud moan leaving your lips. For a little while, he doesn't move, hovering over you before his lips meet yours again for a sloppy kiss. Slowly, his lips move down to your collarbone, leaving sweet kisses all along. 

“Are we going to stay like this all night long?” you raise an eyebrow.

“Looks like someone is desperate,” he chuckles.

“I’ve waited so so long for this, Taehyung,” you confess with some desperation in your voice. “I can’t wait any longer.”

For a second, his eyes get lost on your body, groaning as he watches himself buried deep inside you. This is a sight he has desperately craved over the last months. His mind was going absolutely crazy, knowing that it wasn’t going to happen before his discharge.

“Let’s go then,” he says.  

He instantly pulls back brutally before slamming himself back into you. He leans closer again before licking the spot just under your ear. His hands slowly travel down your body to rest on your waist while his hips slowly thrust into you. The slick sound of your pussy soaking his cock as well as your moans quickly fill the bedroom. 

The feeling of his cock filling you up, his hips hitting against yours with every thrust he makes causes sparks of pleasure to shoot throughout your body, your arousal dripping from your core and creaming his cock. He licks his lips as he notices the sticky mess you’re causing. 

His cock is buried deep inside you, brushing against your walls which only causes you to moan even louder. You grip the sheets as hard as possible to steady yourself from Taehyung’s hard thrusts. 

This first time with your boyfriend tastes like heaven. It was an absolute torture to wait all this time, but god, it was worth it.

His hands press harder into your skin when he feels your walls tighten around him. Every time he pushes his hips back, he watches with delight the way his cock is completely covered with your arousal. It’s driving him so crazy.

Gradually, Taehyung thrusts into you harsher and harder. Even though you’re not holding back any moan, it feels so weird to be moaning louder and louder.  

Your walls suck his cock as he slams his hips into you harshly. His hands can feel the way your body quivers with each thrust, the way you’re losing yourself further into pleasure. 

“Fuck,” he groans when he feels the warmth of your walls wrapping tighter around him. “Your cunt is clenching so hard, my love.” 

As you glance up at him, you can’t help but find him extremely attractive. His eyes stare down at you with so much passion and desire as his tongue licks his lower lips. He keeps growling your name, thrusting into you with more urgency. Quickly enough, you feel the orgasm building within you.

“I’m gonna come so hard, captain,” you tell him.

His fingers move along your body before pinching your nipples while his cock twitches inside of you at your words, a low groan rumbling in his chest.  

“Don’t hold back, pasta girl.”

Since he wants to torture you more and more as you get closer to your orgasm, one of his hands slowly goes down on your body, landing on your throbbing clit. His fingers start to rub your sensitive spot as his cock keeps slamming roughly inside you. 

His fingers on your clit cause your orgasm explode intensely, making you come hard around him. Your walls squeeze him over and over again while you come all over him. 

Taehyung doesn’t stop at all. Actually, he speeds up the pace of his hips, chasing his own orgasm. The coil in his lower stomach tightens inside of him, completely clouding his thoughts.

The second his eyes look at the mess your orgasm is doing, breathy whines leave his pretty lips. He groans when his orgasm hits him hard, your name rolling off his tongue. His eyes roll back with pleasure as his body tenses up and paints your walls white. The feeling of his semen being released inside you almost makes you come all over again.

Taehyung collapses next to you, both your bodies covered in sweat. This was definitely intense, but honestly, a perfect first time with him. You both look at the ceiling while catching your breaths.

“The wait was definitely worth it,” you whisper while turning your face to look at him.

“It was,” he agrees with you.  

He turns his head too, eyes meeting yours with a softness that makes your chest ache. This man looks cute after being absolutely wild and dangerous.  

“You were worth it.”

You smile, your fingers instinctively reaching for his. He laces them with his own, still slightly trembling from the intensity of what just happened. You don’t understand how you got so lucky to have him. This restaurant incident will forever be the best moment of your life. No matter what.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I kept replaying this moment in my head so many times, and now it’s finally real.”

He lifts your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“It’s real,” he whispers before pressing another kiss. “I’m home.”

You both fall into silence again, but it’s not awkward at all. It’s just a moment where you take the time to process what just happened. After eighteen months of waiting for his return, you still need some time to fully understand that he’s here. He’s all yours now.

“So,” he lets out a breathy laugh. “Do I get a second chance to impress you?”

You grin, heart fluttering all over again.

“Only if you think you can top that.”

[lostalioth]

𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐛𝐬

→ premise: peter needed to test how strong the new formula for his web shooters is so why not get his gf’s help, and have a little fun with it. its not like he had millions of other more scientific ways to test its strength.

→ pairing: tasm!peter x fem!reader

→ warnings: smut | 18+, bondage [with peters webs], fingering, small edging, peter possibly ooc, nicknames [baby, princess]

→ a/n: kinktober 04

Sure Peter had plenty of other ways he could test out the strength of his newly formulated web fluid. But you were just so eager to help your boyfriend out, always asking him if there was something you could do. Sewing up gashes and holes in his spider suit, patching him up after a fight, etc. So why not enlist the help of his pretty girlfriend instead of testing it out the same old boring way he always did. Of course being unaware of his little scheme you innocently and sweetly said yes when he asked if you'd help him out with an experiment. That was how you ended up in Peter's bed, hands restrained together and stuck to the headboard with his webs.

His body was currently nestled between your spread legs, eyes roaming your body before fixing on your face. Your lower half is entirely exposed, the breeze from his open window nipping at your skin making you squirm. “This wasn't what I thought you meant when you asked for help, and I said yes Peter” you whine and buck your hips into his touch as his hands roam up your sides, rubbing and caressing your body. You can feel the cool metal of the singular web shooter strapped to his left wrist. “Oh this is fully what I intended when I asked baby, tug all you want, squirm all you want” he coos as he uncovers your breasts by pushing your shirt up to reveal them. “Need to test how strong the new formula is” he explains softly as his right hand falls between your open thighs, middle and ring fingers nudging open your slit and rubbing through your folds. Slick immediately collecting on the tips of his slender fingers.

With a sharp intake of breath you twist your body and try shifting your hips away from his hands. His free hand that has the web shooter aims towards your writhing leg and shoots webs that wrap your ankle tethering it to his foot board. “You sure this wasn’t what you intended, princess? You're so wet for me” he emphasizes his tease with a tilt of his head, smirking softly as his two fingers push at your hole.

You whine and push your hips back on his hand trying to get them inside you, your hole clenching at the small intrusion. “I missed you Pete, you've been so busy” you explain and look through your lashes at your boyfriend hovering over you, your eyes full of longing and love. “Awww well i'm here now baby” he leans down and presses his lips to yours just as his two fingers push knuckle deep inside you. You let out a short surprised moan against his lips as you kiss back greedily. You tug at the webs around your wrists, hands desperate and itching to touch Peter. “Keep tugging baby, try your hardest, you can do it” he mumbles into your mouth, his words both encouraging and mocking before humming when you whine in response. Goosebumps rise on your skin from the pleasure, his free hand coming to pin your hips down holding them still.

Pumping his fingers in and out of your leaking cunt, a sloppy squelching sound filling the room along with your muffled whimpers and moans. “Fuck!~” you let out a plaintive cry and pull away from peters mouth when his thumb is added in, stimulating your clit. Rubbing small circles on your bundle of nerves as his fingers speed up their movement, making your mouth fall open and your head fall back against his pillows. Your hands tug as well as your leg at his webbing, the action doing nothing to tear or unstick it. A heat spreading through your body, you liked this idea of him tying you up with his webs more than you could’ve guessed, the heat settling and growing in the pit of your stomach.

“Come on baby, i don't think your tryin’ hard enough to break out” he taunts as his long fingers find that spongy spot deep inside you and start abusing it, the rough pad of his tongue speeding up its circles. “Gonna have you cumming before you break the webs princess” he chuckles softly and leans down to kiss along the exposed column of your neck. Your head goes fuzzy from his mouth on you, his fingers ruthlessly thrusting inside you, the feeling of him all over you. “Can’t- I can’t do it Pete, i cant break em’ fuck- please baby im gonna cum!” you whine and cry out, your eyes squeezed shut as you teeter on the edge of your climax.

He grabs ahold of your chin and moves your head up the movement forces your eyes open, you stare into his deep brown eyes, his pupils blown.

“Not yet baby, the experiment hasn't gone on long enough, need to see if they break” his voice comes out sweet yet concedesing as he crashes his lips against yours to muffle your wanton moan.

Truthfully Peter had gotten enough information from all your squirming and pulling that he figured it was strong enough, he was just having far too much fun playing with his pretty girlfriend.

→ a/n: i havent written for tasm!peter in a bit so I feel like he’s possibly out of character ? Idk I felt rusty when writing him