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iamactuallysocute · 2 days ago

Note

i’ve had this idea for a little while and wanted to share it with you.

what would happen if assistant reader said to each of the saja boys “who’s a good boy?”

like who would genuinely respond with ��it’s me, right? i’ve been good, yeah?” and who would be just baffled to hear those words be spoken to them?

just a funny little idea i had! also i love your writing and your series!

“WHO’S A GOOD BOY?”

AN: I’m so sorry love I know you said assistant reader but I loved the idea way too much to make it with a still unstable relationship, this way it can go into something way more intimate, in the sweet way. We can say this is not assistant reader, or assistant reader after getting into a relationship with her boys.

cw: implied female reader, dom!reader, no actual p in v anywhere but heavy nsfw, jerking off, almost-shower sex, almost-footjob, dry humping, Mystery getting a little wild

JINU

Jinu’s beside you on the couch, long legs sprawled out, robe hanging loose over his bare chest, scrolling through his phone. His hair is a little messy. He hasn’t said much for the past fifteen minutes.

You lean back against the cushions, tilt your head toward him. “Can you bring me my makeup brush?”

You just like to play with it, alright?

There’s a pause. His scrolling stops. A deep, quiet sigh leaves him like you’ve just asked him to hike across the continent barefoot. But he gets up anyway. He’ll roll his eyes, mutter something under his breath, act like you’ve disrupted the most important meeting of his life… but he’ll still do whatever you ask. No hesitation.

You watch him disappear, robe dragging just a little behind him. You don’t even have to raise your voice, he’s already back, brush in hand, looking at you like he’s considering making a snarky comment but thinking better of it.

He places it into your hand.

“There we go.” you say, voice turning into something just a shade warmer than casual. “Who’s a good boy?”

The shift in his eyes, holy shit, like you just tugged on a thread he didn’t know was showing. And then… the tiniest hesitation before he sits back down, as though his body is deciding whether to pretend he didn’t hear it or to lean in fully.

You already know which way it’s going.

“C’mere.” you murmur. You don’t even have to pull, he folds in toward you, closing the gap.

The moment he’s within range, he tips forward just slightly, nose brushing into the curve of your neck. A quiet inhale ghosts against your skin.

Yeah. He liked it. More than he’d ever admit. You can feel it in the way he lingers there, just breathing you in for a moment. His hand settles against your knee, thumb tapping once.

And then there’s that shift, the tilt from “I’ll indulge you” to “I want more.”

It’s subtle. His mouth moves, a barely-there brush along the base of your jaw. His fingers tighten slightly at your leg. You don’t even have to look at him to know what’s in his eyes, you’ve seen it before.

“Don’t start.” you warn, though your tone is lazy at best.

“I’m not.” he murmurs into your neck, voice rough in that way that says he absolutely is. His nose nudges you again, trailing higher, lips skimming the line of your throat.

The truth is, Jinu likes control. Loves it. But with you, that power flips so easily. It’s not just that you can tell him what to do, it’s that you can make him want it. All it takes is the right tone, the right touch.

And “good boy” might as well be a commandment.

You bring your hand up to his hair, smoothing it back slowly, fingertips dragging just a little at his scalp. He reacts instantly, leaning into it, eyes fluttering shut for half a second.

“Good boy.” you say again, softer now. Almost absent-minded.

It does something to him.

You feel his breath hitch where his mouth is pressed against your skin. His hand leaves your knee, sliding up, slow and warm, fingertips grazing the outside of your thigh.

But you’re not giving him the win. Not yet.

You keep stroking his hair, keep your voice calm. “See? You can be useful when you try.”

A low sound leaves him, half scoff, half something hornier. He pulls back just enough to look at you, but he’s closer than before. “Careful.”

You lean back just slightly, forcing him to follow if he wants to stay this close. “What? Gonna bite the hand that feeds you?”

His gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second before climbing back to your eyes. “…Maybe.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he settles back into you again.

You know exactly how this works. No matter how selfish, manipulative, or downright evil Jinu can be, when you turn it on him, when you make him come to you, when you coax him into that space where he’s the one responding, he’s yours to play with.

All it took was four little words.

And the rest of the night?

Well. You already know who’s the good boy.

ROMANCE

The mirror is fogging over already by the time you finish rinsing the cleanser from your face. The bathroom is humid, warm, steam coming up from behind the frosted shower glass where Romance is currently taking a shower. You’re at the sink, leaning in toward the mirror, hair tied back, going through your nightly routine. He’s humming in there when not talking. Right now, he’s talking.

“…and then Abby said it was my fault.” he’s saying. “Like—what? I wasn’t even—oh, hey, where’s the moisturizer you like? The one with the gold cap?”

You don’t look at him, just reach for a small jar on the counter. “Right here.”

“Mhm.” he hums, letting it go if he actually has to exit the shower for it, clearly not listening to his own story anymore. “Okay, but for real, I think we should—”

“Where’s the cotton pads?” you cut in, still focused on your reflection.

“Top drawer, left side.” he answers instantly.

You hum back in acknowledgment, pulling one out. “And the hair serum?”

“Under the sink, behind the basket.”

You smile faintly at your own reflection, and without looking toward the shower, you drop it. “Thanks. Who’s a good boy?”

The water keeps running, but his voice changes instantly, brightening, a little too eager. You can hear the smile. “Me.” he says, like it’s obvious. “Me, baby.”

You lean back against the counter, one brow raised, letting a slow, knowing smile curl on your lips. “Yeah.” you say lightly, dragging the word out. “You.”

When you glance over, you catch the blur of him through the fogged glass, the outline of his figure turning toward you. His hand smears a streak into the glass with the side of his palm, enough to see you clearly.

You turn away to fuck with him, looking back at the mirror.

The next sound is the glass door sliding open halfway, steam rolling out into the room. He leans one wet forearm against the frame, hair slicked back, water streaming down over his shoulders and chest.

“Come here.” he coaxes, voice low and velvety. “It’s warm. Feels good.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Don’t make me come get you.”

“Romance—”

“—good boy.” he interrupts himself, repeating it under his breath. And then he crooks his finger at you. “Say it again in here.”

“I’m not getting in the shower right now.”

Two beats later, there’s the tap-tap-tap of his knuckle against the glass. You glance over.

He’s drawing something on the fogged surface with one fingertip. A crooked heart. Then another. Then your initial.

“Look.” he says, tilting his head, eyes pretty and unbearably pleased with himself. “That’s you. And that’s me.”

You try not to smile.

“I’m serious.” he keeps going, tracing little arrows between the hearts. “Together. Forever. You know.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not giving up. His voice turns coaxing, sweet. “Baby… come in. Just for a minute. I’ll wash your back, I’ll be good.”

“Good boy good?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“The best boy.”

You turn back to the sink, ignoring the way he’s now just leaving random handprints on the glass, his palm dragging down .

“Come in.” he says again. “It’s nice. I’ll hold you. Wash your hair. Draw you more hearts if you want.”

You sigh. But he sees the flicker in your expression, the part of you that is tempted.

“Come on.” he says softly now, palm against the glass again, leaving another heart. “Don’t make me beg.”

And you believe he would. You really, truly believe he would.

“Just for a minute.” he says. “C’mon, pretty thing. I’ll even—” he sketches another heart on the glass “—make you one of these in person.”

You sigh, but you already know where this is going. By the time you unclip your hair and pull at the hem of your shirt, his palms are flat on the glass, breath fogging it up even more. He’s watching you undress like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you.

When you finally step in, he shifts just enough to give you space, the water beating down warm between you, but you’re barely in before he leans forward a little, voice low and so sweet.

“Hi.” he says, like you haven’t been sharing a bathroom for the past fifteen minutes.

It would almost be adorable.

If there wasn’t a seven-inch problem pressing against you the second you’re close enough.

Your back finds the tiled wall before you’ve even realized he’s moving you there, one slow, inevitable push of his body until there’s nowhere left to go. His head(not the one on his neck), you can feel it on your stomach. It’s enough to make your pulse jump, and his breathing shifts subtly when he catches the flicker of reaction in your eyes.

Romance isn’t smiling now. This is different, focused, intent. It’s ridiculous that all of this is because of a name. Good boy. And yet, you can feel the way it lit something up in him.

One hand is on your hip, he uses the other to cup the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone slowly. It’s so stupidly sweet that it almost disarms you, like he’s reminding himself to look at you, to take this in. Then his hand is traveling again, down the column of your neck, over the curve of your shoulder, cupping one of your tits. He likes doing that. The other stays low on your ass, holding you against him, so there’s no mistaking what he wants you to feel.

Then, that hand skims down his own stomach before wrapping around himself, a quiet groan slipping from his throat when he tugs on himself a little.

It’s so intimate in a way you hadn’t prepared for. There’s no frantic groping, no clumsy rush. Just the heat of his body pressed to yours, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours.

He’s touching you and himself at the same time, his hips moving, fucking his fist in slow, deliberate rolls that match the slide of his palm over your skin.

His other hand finds yours against the wall and laces your fingers together, pressing them there. His grip on your hand tightens briefly when you drag your nails over his shoulder, the faint hitch in his breathing the only sign you’ve thrown him off balance.

You feel him shift closer to you, hips pressing forward just enough to make the hardness between you more pronounced. Romance isn’t looking at you now, he’s looking down, watching the place where you’re pressed together, his jaw tight. The water slicks everything.

When his lips finally brush yours, it’s not the start of anything rough or rushed. It’s soft, just a press, lingering. His hand squeezes yours once.

It’s weird that you can feel him in four places at once, his lips on you, his hand in yours, his cock slapping against your skin when he lets it go for a second, and his hand between you, stroking himself.

It’s not frantic. It’s not even about getting off quickly. It’s… intimate.

He lifts his head to take a big breath, then his forehead drops to your wet temple, lips brushing there without quite kissing. The water is so loud that every little sound he makes, those soft, breathy groans, feels magnified. Now his hand is working himself in a way that drags his knuckles against your stomach with every stroke.

Your both of your hands are on him, one in his hand, connected to him, the other lower, your fingers curling against his hipbone. He reacts instantly to the touch, hips rocking forward in a slow grind that has his breath stuttering.

His nose brushes your cheek, and you catch the smallest hint of a smile against your skin, like even now, he’s stupidly happy to have you here, this close, like this.

Slut.

Every little movement is a wordless conversation.

You’re mine. I want you. Don’t pull away.

ABBY

Abby’s been your personal ride for the entire day. Not figuratively, literally. His broad back has been your throne since morning, his massive hands hooking under your thighs to keep you steady while he moves around like you weigh nothing. You’d dropped hints before that you liked it, but now it’s out in the open, you love it. The way his shoulders settle when you climb on, the easy grip he has on your legs, the small hmph he gives if anyone even looks like they might try to take you off him, it’s obvious. Carrying you from room to room, up the stairs, down the stairs, through the kitchen, even into the living room where the others barely batted an eye.

Then you drop your hair tie.

And without a word, Abby crouches down with you still on him to grab it. And god, he’s so strong, moving like it’s nothing, his huge frame dipping down with you still on his back. His hand reaches out, fingers curling around the little tie you’ve been playing with for the past half an hour. He doesn’t even have to shift you, just one smooth motion, and you’re both upright again, your thighs bouncing against his sides as he stands.

You kiss his cheek, as a thank you. Then in an appreciative way: “Who’s a good boy?”

His response is exactly what you expect—a sharp, dismissive “Tch.”

He keeps walking. He does it without complaint, his hands still braced firm under your thighs. But as you shift a little higher on his back, you angle yourself so you can look over his shoulder… and clear as day, pressing against the front of his pants, he so has a boner.

You move your legs slightly, adjusting your grip, and let your feet brush slowly over the bulge. Just enough pressure to make it obvious.

He freezes for a half-second mid-step. Then exhales through his nose. He doesn’t say a word, but his grip on you tightens just a little, like he’s making sure you don’t slip. Or maybe making sure you don’t stop.

You do it again. A little harder this time.

He doesn’t drop you or tell you to cut it out. He carries you straight down the hall, through the doorway of his bedroom. The door slams shut with the heel of his foot.

Then, he tosses you down onto his bed. You bounce once on the mattress, propped up on your elbows, looking up at him. His size is even more obvious like this, standing over you, chest rising and falling.

Abby’s eyes rake over you, lingering at your mouth, your neck, the line of your body against his sheets.

His hands are already on the mattress, caging you in as he leans forward, the shadow of him falling over you. The scent of him is stronger here. And maybe it’s the rush of being carried around all day, or maybe it’s the way his jaw tightens when you smile up at him, but whatever restraint he had in the hallway is gone now. His mouth finds yours without hesitation, hot, insistent, sloppy and hungry. One big hand braces against the bed near your head, the other grips your hip.

You push at his shoulder just enough to break the kiss, to make him look at you. You see the faintest twitch in his jaw, the shine in his eyes. It’s beautiful.

“Still a good boy?” you murmur, low enough that it’s almost lost under the sound of your breathing.

You can feel him, hard and unashamed, pressing into your thigh.

You plant the heel of your foot right between his legs, on his bulge, slow enough for him to notice, hard enough for him to understand it’s not an accident. His whole body stills, eyes locked on yours.

Then you push.

Not hard—you’re not trying to hurt him—but enough to shove him back, the press of your foot against his cock a clear little not yet. His breath leaves him in one sharp exhale, almost a growl, and he rocks back onto his knees at the end of the bed.

The look he gives you isn’t confusion, it’s understanding. He knows exactly what this is.

“Nuh-uh.” Your voice is calm, almost bored, even though you’re curling your toes onto his bulge.

He exhales sharply through his nose, but you can see the restraint. Abby’s not used to being denied, not when he’s already here, already in it. And he’s definitely not used to you setting the pace once he’s wound this tight.

You keep your heel right there, an unspoken line he can’t cross unless you let him.

“Earn it.” you add, voice low and deliberate, and you watch the meaning sink in.

Abby’s the kind of guy who can throw you over his shoulder without blinking, the kind who can make your knees buckle with a look. But you just reminded him that all that strength, all that presence, doesn’t mean shit unless you give the green light.

Now he wants it even more.

His hands slide off the mattress, palms up in a slow gesture, like he’s showing you they’re empty. Then, instead of coming forward again, he settles back on his heels, giving you that little bit of space while keeping his eyes locked on yours. Part of him wants to grab your ankle, pin you down, and prove you wrong. The other part… the other part is leaning into this, letting you lead him right into the palm of your hand.

He drops his gaze for a second, just enough for you to catch him taking in the press of your foot against him, the subtle arch of your body on his bed. When his eyes come back up.

“What do I have to do?” He’s not used to asking for things.

You ease your foot off him just enough to keep him wanting. “Guess we’ll find out.” you say, leaning back against his pillows like you’re settling in for a show.

He could fold you in half without effort. But he doesn’t.

Your heel is still propped against the hardness in his pants, not pushing now, just moving in lazy little circles that make his eyes flutter half-shut. He’s not touching you, not grabbing, not rushing, which is so unlike Abby that it’s almost disarming.

Every shift of your toes makes his breath hitch. You see the way his big hands curl into the blanket instead of into your hips, the way his chest rises and falls in tight, uneven pulls.

He’s being good.

Which is wild, because Abby’s not the kind of man who does patience well. He’s not the type to wait his turn. Except now, with your foot on him, he’s sitting there like a statue, watching you.

You drag the ball of your foot in slow, deliberate little circles, feeling him shift under the pressure. Every once in a while, you push a little harder, then ease up again, just to see what it does to him.

It’s not just about touching him, it’s about watching him take it. His big hands flex like he’s dying to grab you and yet he doesn’t move an inch. His breathing’s changed, too, deeper, slower, like he’s trying to control it but every little movement from you knocks him off his rhythm.

You let your toes press a little more firmly against him, a tiny reward. “Good boy.”

His jaw clenches, his eyes narrow just a little, and you can see the subtle roll of his hips forward before he catches himself. He swallows, hard, like the words went straight through him.

It’s intoxicating, watching someone like Abby, someone who could probably snap the headboard in half without trying, reduced to this still, obedient patience because you haven’t given him permission to move.

You’re savoring it. Drawing it out. Making him wait.

The first time his hips jerk involuntarily, you catch the way his head tips forward, chin to chest, like he’s trying to hide his reaction.

“Look at me.” you say, just to see what happens. You’re actually having so much fun.

His gaze comes up immediately, and god, those eyes.

You drag your foot slowly along the length of him, watching how his breath changes to shorter.

“Feels good?” you ask, casual, knowing exactly what you’re doing.

He huffs. “You know it does.”

You smile, just a hint of teeth, and keep going. You switch between rhythms that make him have to shift his hips just to keep contact. Every now and then you pull back completely, just to watch the frustration flicker over his face.

Minutes pass like this. You’re not rushing, and Abby—somehow—is letting you set the pace.

The bed creaks when he adjusts his stance, spreading his knees wider, bracing himself on the mattress. He’s leaning into your foot now, not even subtle about it. Slow, steady rolls of his hips, grinding against the arch of it.

You let him, because watching him choose to be good for you is just as satisfying as forcing him to be.

And that’s exactly why you sigh. Loud enough for him to hear it over the quiet between you. “Come here.”

When he finally reaches you, his hands go to either side of your hips on the bed, his body hovering over yours.

You tilt your head back against the pillow, giving him that lazy little smile. “See?” you murmur. “Not so hard to behave.”

“Earned it, huh?” he says against your mouth, not kissing yet, his voice a low rasp.

You smile, tilting your head so your lips just brush his. “Every inch.”

That’s all it takes, he kisses you like he’s been holding it back for hours, teeth grazing your bottom lip. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging in.

The thing about Abby is that when he’s got the green light, he doesn’t waste it. Every touch is heavy, sure, and there’s no mistaking the sheer want in him, but there’s also this surprising precision. He knows exactly where to put his hands, exactly how much weight to press into you, exactly how to make you feel the size difference between you.

His hands find your thighs, sliding them apart so he can settle between them. You hook your ankles behind his back without thinking, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat, half-groan, half-growl.

It’s not lost on you that all of this closeness, this heat, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing worth seeing, came from making him earn it.

And judging by the way he’s holding you now, neither of you are going to forget it anytime soon.

MYSTERY

The kitchen smells like cinnamon and sugar, the oven humming low in the background. You’ve got flour on your fingers, a streak of it on your cheek you haven’t noticed, and Mystery’s standing nearby.

It’s comfortable, this rhythm. You tell him “pass me the whisk” and without a sound he does. You ask for the sugar, the measuring cup, the bowl, each time, he’s there immediately, giving you anything you say if he knows what the thing is.

It’s so easy to forget he’s been alive for centuries when he does things like this. Like he’s just… your helper in the kitchen.

You set the bowl down, wipe your hands on your apron, and turn toward him. Then you step into his space, catching his face between both your hands before he can step back. His hair brushes over your knuckles, but you push enough aside to see the faintest glimpse of his eyes.

Your fingers squish his cheeks together in pure, unfiltered cuteness aggression, making his lips pout slightly, and you can feel the faint jolt in his posture.

“Who’s a good boy?” you ask sweetly, shaking his face around softly. He’s genuinely so cute.

If he feels anything about it, he doesn’t show it, not outwardly. But you don’t miss the faint hitch in his breath when you lean in and give him one quick peck on the lips. Then another. Then a third, right at the corner of his mouth, before your lips wander over his cheek, his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

You pull back with a smile, already turning back to your mixing bowl. “Anyway—oven’s almost ready, so we need to get this in soon—”

And that’s it. You’re already talking about baking again.

The whisk scrapes against the side of the bowl, the cinnamon scent getting stronger, and Mystery hasn’t moved. His hands are shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense in a way you’ve never quite seen before. That one phrase—good boy—and those feather-light kisses are replaying in his head.

One moment, you’re focused on folding the batter, the next, there’s a sudden warmth at your back. Mystery’s chest pressed against you, his hands braced lightly on the counter on either side of you. You feel his breath at the back of your neck, the subtle way his weight leans into you without trapping you entirely.

“Not now, baby.” you murmur softly, your tone warm but dismissive, giving a little shrug of your shoulders to loosen his hold. You’re used to his clinginess by now.

He does step back barely. Just enough to let you keep working, but not enough to give you space.

The truth is, in his head, there’s a quiet logic forming: you gave him affection when you were happy. That affection was tied to a phrase. If he wants more of that, he has to earn it.

And for someone like Mystery, “earning” means staying close, being useful, watching you.

So he hovers. Any time you reach for something, it’s already in your hand before you can ask. When you turn to get the milk, he’s holding it out. You don’t even hear him move.

The oven timer dings, and you move to slide the tray in. His hand covers yours briefly on the oven handle, not to stop you, but to steady it, like he’s worried you’ll burn yourself.

You thank him without looking back.

Inside, he feels that tiny flicker of reward again. He files it away.

As the cookies bake, you start cleaning up, and he’s still there. You feel his gaze on you, though with his hair falling over his eyes it’s impossible to tell if he’s even looking.

When the cookies are done, you pull them out. You plate a few to cool, and as you do, you feel him closer again, almost pressed into your side this time.

You give him another gentle shrug. “You’ll get one when they’re cooled, don’t hover.”

But he’s not hovering for the cookies.

He’s hovering for you.

Because in his mind, a good boy gets rewarded, and he’s going to make sure he’s the best one you’ve ever had.

The cookies are cooling on the counter. You’re rinsing the last mixing bowl when you feel him again, pressed close enough behind you that the warmth of his chest cuts through your shirt.

At first, you think he’s just in another one of his clingy moods. He gets like this sometimes, like he wants to crawl under your skin and stay there. You start to give the same little shrug you’ve used all afternoon to gently move him back, except this time, he doesn’t move.

You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t stepped away.

“Love.” you warn lightly. “I’m trying to clean up.”

But you can feel a boner pressing into you as he presses close again.

“Mystery…” This time, your voice is softer.

His mouth finds your neck first, the barest graze of lips at the base where your pulse flutters. You shiver, and his hands are on your hips, drawing you back just enough to fit his body flush to yours.

You turn your head, about to say something, but he beats you to it, his mouth catching yours in a kiss. Your fingers find the edge of the counter behind you, gripping it for balance as he kisses you, harder and harder. His hair falls forward, brushing against your face, and you push some of it back so it doesn’t tickle you.

“Baby—” you start, but it’s breathless, not a protest.

He just shakes his head slightly, like words aren’t worth it, and mouths at your jaw instead. One of his hands slips lower while the other slides up, ghosting under your shirt just enough to feel the heat of your skin. That’s all it takes for him to press in closer, his hips moving just enough that you can feel the heat of him grinding against you. You don’t mind. In fact, your hands come up instinctively, curling into the fabric at his shirt to pull him closer. His hair brushes against your cheek, soft.

He makes a low sound, something between a sigh and a growl, and his hands move lower. Sliding down until they’re gripping your ass with no hesitation. He squeezes, hard.

You break the kiss for just a second, catching your breath, very conscious of how hard he is, but he doesn’t retreat. His lips trail down to your jaw, your neck, his hair tickling over your skin as he presses you back against the counter.

Your heartbeat is loud in your ears. Your sweet, silent boyfriend is not silent right now, not in the way his breathing hitches, or the way his grip tightens on two greedy handfuls of your ass.

You pull back just enough to reach for the plate of cookies on the counter. You take one, still warm, and hold it up to his lips.

He hesitates only for a second before biting into it, his eyes, barely visible under his hair, locked on yours the entire time.

It’s ridiculous how hot it is.

Something about the way he takes the bite without breaking eye contact, the faint brush of his lips against your fingertips, the little hum in his throat as he tastes it, it’s insanely charged.

You laugh softly, but it’s breathless, and when you try to step back, his hands tighten on your ass again, pulling you flush to him once more. The cookie’s barely gone and he’s kissing you again, the taste of sugar and cinnamon mixing between you. No, it’s not disgusting.

And god, you can feel how much that little praise earlier has affected him. Every kiss, every press of his body into yours, is him wordlessly saying I’m a good boy, see?

And you’re starting to think maybe he’s right.

You realize you’re getting glimpses of his demon side. His control is fraying.

The next kiss is almost too much, wet, open-mouthed, his tongue moving wildly, his hips grinding into you like he’s already imagining what it’d be like without your clothes in the way.

You barely notice the faint, sharp scrape at first, but then, oh, you do. His fangs are out. Not fully, just enough that when he drags his lips across yours, they catch. He bites. Not deep, but hard enough to sting and your gasp only makes him kiss you harder.

He’s pressed right up against you now, one leg between yours, and when you shift just slightly, you feel the full press of him, hard, hot, desperate, grinding against you. It drags a low, guttural sound out of him.

You make a noise you didn’t mean to, and next moment, he’s guiding you into the rhythm without saying a word. Slow at first, then deeper. His hips move in perfect sync with yours, a low growl vibrating against your mouth each time you meet in the middle.

And fuuuuck man, he’s not letting you breathe. Both hands stay locked on your ass, holding you so close that every inch of him presses into you with every grind. Your chest, your stomach, your thighs, every point of contact is a hot, perfect line of friction.

He’s always so quiet, but right now, his breathing is ragged, audible, wanting.

Your lips leave his just long enough for you to murmur it. Low, close to his ear, letting it drip off your tongue. “…such a good boy.”

The counter digs into your lower back as he shoves you against it, your hands flying back to brace yourself. The jolt forces a startled shriek out of you, but he’s right there, kissing you through it, pressing into you like he could just push himself inside your skin. His hips are grinding into you faster, harder, like he’s chasing something he can almost taste.

You’re breathless, laughing a little in disbelief between kisses, because he’s not letting you go.

And in the middle of it, when he finally pulls back enough to breathe, his lips barely a whisper from yours, you can see it in him. That need. That yes, I’m your good boy, don’t you ever stop telling me.

BABY

Baby does not want to be here.

That much is obvious from the moment you roll out your yoga mat and toss him one with this big, bright we’re doing this together grin. You don’t even know how you convinced him to do this. Baby doesn’t do morning activities, he doesn’t do routines, and the concept of wellness is something he usually laughs at with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.

And yet, you have him here. On the mat you laid out for him, sitting. He’s cross-legged, slouched, leaning back slightly on his hands.

You, on the other hand, are in full lotus position, posture tall, breathing slow and even. You look like the picture of serenity. He looks like the picture of get me out of here.

“Okay.” you say brightly, voice all sunshine and encouragement because let’s be honest, he’s your bratty, annoying, skinny-ass boyfriend and you love him anyway. “First thing, straighten your back.”

He blinks at you. Then he blinks again. And… doesn’t move.

“You’re slouching.” you remind, tilting your head, smiling patiently.

“No I’m not.” he replies, like he’s the one who’s been doing yoga for years and you’re the rookie here. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Straighten.” you repeat, softer this tim.

He exhales, a dramatic, put-upon sigh, but his spine stays curved.

You could push, could tell him you’re serious, but no. You’re sweet. You’re angelic, because that’s what he gets from you, even when he’s impossible. “Okay,” you murmur. “we’ll work on it.” You breathe in. “Leg out, lean forward. Like this.” You extend one leg, folding over it, stretching gracefully.

Baby just… straightens his leg, doesn’t lean, and then stares at you.

“There you go.” you praise warmly, looking up at him from your stretch like he’s just nailed a headstand. “Amazing, sweetie.”

“Uh-huh.” he hums, leaning back on his hands, looking at you instead of doing anything remotely yogic.

When you guide him into trying a simple twist, he half-asses it, his torso turning maybe 10 degrees, and you still murmur, “That’s perfect.” When you coax him into sitting up taller, he leans back instead, and you only brush your fingers over his knee with a fond, “Better than the first one.”

You reach over, resting your hand lightly on his knee. “We’ll try something easier.”

“Easier than sitting? What’s that, lying down?”

“Close.” You shift to a simple seated forward fold, motioning for him to copy you. He does, if you count bending forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees and then stopping.

“That’s… close enough.” you say.

“I know.”

You laugh quietly under your breath. You can’t help it, he’s such an asshole, but somehow it’s endearing. Maybe it’s because under the bratty surface, he is here. He is sitting on a yoga mat with you. That counts for something.

You move on, demonstrating a side stretch, arm overhead, leaning gracefully. Baby mimics it, his arm not even fully extended, his body tilting a fraction before he decides that’s “good enough.”

You adjust his arm with the gentlest touch, and he lets you, watching you. “There. That’s better.”

The next one, he shifts his legs out lazily, mimicking your stretch again, but there’s no reach in it, no tension. Just the bare imitation of what you’re doing.

You smile like it’s the most sincere effort you’ve ever seen. “Perfect, love. You’re a natural.”

The moment you stop making him follow along with your little stretches, he flops onto his back on the mat. Arms spread, head turned lazily toward you. His hair’s a mess, his eyes half-lidded, the very picture of I am not participating in anything else today.

Useless fuck.

But he’s your useless fuck, and you love him for it.

You keep going with your own poses for a minute or two, letting him just be there, because sometimes Baby needs to melt into the floor until he becomes part of it. But eventually, you finish your stretch and crawl over to him, planting your hands on either side of his hips.

“Alright,” you murmur, sweet as honey. “if you’re going to lay there like a lump, I’m at least going to make sure you don’t turn into a tight lump.”

He groans without opening his eyes, voice deep and lazy. “Do whatever you want.”

Wrong answer, because that’s exactly what you were going to do. You grab one of his legs, bending it toward his chest for a hamstring stretch. He doesn’t resist at all, just goes limp in your hands.

It’s ridiculous. This boy is older than your entire family tree combined and you’re here stretching him out like he’s an infant you’re teaching to kick.

“That’s it.” you murmur, adjusting his ankle and holding it steady. “Good stretch, baby.”

He hums low in his throat, eyes still closed, not even pretending to help. His muscles are loose, his breathing steady, and he lets you push and pull him however you want.

You switch legs, guiding him through the same motion, and he’s still just… there. Not even tensing. Not even pretending to put in effort.

“Sweet boy.” you praise, and his lips twitch just enough to let you know he heard you. Then, because you can’t resist, you slide your hands down his calf, rotate his ankle a little, and give him a smile. “There we go… who’s a good boy?”

It’s subtle, but you feel it, the little pause in his breathing, the faintest shift in his posture. And oh, he likes that.

You don’t say anything about the way his jaw loosens, or the way he exhales like you’ve just hit some secret switch in his brain. You just keep going, stretching him, coaxing him along with the same gentle touch, the same sweet voice.

You hold both his feet, pushing gently toward his chest until he’s in the laziest, most relaxed version of a happy baby pose. You can’t help but laugh at the fitting name.

“Perfect.” you murmur, pressing a quick kiss to his shin. “My perfect boy.”

Yeah, you’re very aware of the erection pressing against the thin fabric of his sweats. You don’t say anything about it, but you do take your time moving him, finding the stretches that’ll just happen to make his thigh shift, or his hip angle in a way that drags the fabric against it. Nothing blatant enough to call you out for, but enough that his jaw tightens every few seconds.

You straighten his leg again, pushing his ankle toward the ceiling. “There we go.” you murmur, your voice syrup-sweet. “So good for me.”

His eyes flick up at you.

“Feel that?” you ask, leaning in slightly so your torso presses into the underside of his thigh, pushing just a little further. The move forces the fabric of his pants to pull taut right across him.

“Yeah. I feel it.”

“Good. Nice, love.” You slide his left leg up again, pressing it slowly toward his chest. He makes a quiet sound, too low to be a groan, too short to be a sigh, but still telling.

“There we go.” you murmur, holding the stretch. “Perfect.”

You can feel him tense just a little at the words. You slide his ankle back onto your shoulder, leaning in. From this angle, you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest, how his jaw flexes every time you press a little deeper into the stretch.

“Good.” you whisper, brushing your fingers along the side of his calf. “So good, Baby.”

He shifts, just a fraction, and his hips tilt upward before he catches himself and tries to settle again.

You lower his leg slowly, drawing it out, keeping the motion slow until his foot hits the mat again. Then you take the other leg, lifting it high, leaning your weight into it until the stretch has him letting out a low breath.

“Mm, that’s nice.” you hum. You just so happen to tilt his leg slightly outward. The motion shifts his hips, dragging the seam of his sweats right across him again.

This time, he inhales sharply through his nose.

You keep your expression neutral, innocent. “Too much?”

“No.” Quick answer. Too quick.

“Mhm.” You start to ease the stretch, then suddenly lean into it again just to watch the way his body tenses.

You’re not blind to the way his breathing’s changed, either. Slower, heavier.

“Doing so well.” you murmur, brushing your fingers lightly along his calf before setting his leg down. “Proud of you.”

When you lower his leg this time, you don’t let go. You keep your hands on him, smoothing over muscle, adjusting his hips. And you don’t bother hiding that your eyes have slid down, right to the evidence he’s not as unaffected as he wants you to think.

You tilt your head. “Baby…”

His eyes cut to you. “What.”

“You’re hard.”

He gives you this look, somewhere between and your point is? and say one more word.

You just grin. “It’s cute.”

“It’s not—” He stops himself, sighs, and stares at the ceiling. “You’re annoying.”

You switch positions, straddling the mat beside him and taking both of his legs at once, guiding him into another stretch that brings his knees toward his chest. And oh, that’s a bad idea—well, bad for him, fun for you—because it pushes his hips up just enough that his sweatpants tent more noticeably. You keep his legs where they are for a few more moments, feeling the way every shift makes him subtly press against himself, and you swear his breathing’s getting uneven now.

You decide to test how far he’ll let you go. You take his right leg and ease it up again, pushing it toward his chest while keeping your other hand braced near his hip, fingers dangerously close to where he’s straining against the fabric.

“That’s it.”

“Perfect.”

“Just like that.”

“Good boy.”

Every little adjustment moves his thigh over his cock, slow friction through soft sweats, making his breath grow heavier without him realizing it.

You ease his leg back down, only to take the other one and do the same, moving in a way that just happens to grind him again.

The first real sound slips from him without warning. A low, strained hum that’s more like a quiet groan. “Hhh—”

“Mm? Something wrong?” you tease, feigning cluelessness.

“No.” but the unintentional hnnhh that slips past his lips makes you glance up.

“Sweet boy,” you murmur, patting the side of his thigh before leaning forward again. “you sound like you’re enjoying yourself.”

He says nothing. But his hips shift, almost unconsciously, just enough to press against you when you lean closer.

“Ohhh,” you hum softly, dragging your fingertips down the inside of his leg. “you are enjoying yourself.”

The next stretch has you leaning even lower, his leg bent high, his thigh brushing firmly against the bulge in his pants. His breath hitches, short, sharp. “A-ahh…” It’s barely there, but you hear it.

You keep going. And every sound after that comes a little easier. Little broken exhales, short hums, the smallest whimper when your palm presses down and the friction spikes.

He’s deadass close. The centuries old demon is deadass about to cum from some yoga.

“That’s it.” you say sweetly, knowing exactly what you’re doing.

When you change position again, it’s even worse for him. You guide one of his knees up and over your thigh, stretching him in a way that forces his hips to roll. The move drags fabric over him with slow, maddening friction, and you hear it—a sharp inhale followed by a muffled, “…fuck…”

You push him further, leaning into the stretch until his head tips back against the mat.

There’s a low hum when you press too close. A barely-there whimper when you adjust his leg. A soft, breathy, “…hah—” when you shift just right. His head tips to the side, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack. You lean forward into the next stretch, your hips moving against his thigh, and his quiet, “…nngh—” gives him away completely.

“Mm, that’s it… nice and loose now… so good, Baby.”

You slide behind him, legs bracketing his hips, and pull him gently back into you, keeping his thighs spread. You guide him into a twist, your hand on his thigh, thumb brushing the inside where it’s most sensitive.

The little hitches in his breathing are coming more frequently now. Quiet, shallow sounds. Ahh—hnh— and the other colleagues.

You tilt his leg higher. You know exactly what you’re doing. And when the heel of his foot drags just slightly against himself because of the position—

“Nnh—!”

You bite back your grin, pretending it’s just about form. “There we go. See? You’re getting more flexible already.”

“Y—you’re… ridiculous.” But it comes out breathy, not biting.

You tilt his leg again, slow and deliberate, and his hips twitch involuntarily. Now he’s breathing hard, little mmh—hah—ahh— noises slipping out before he can stop them.

He’s seconds away. You know it. You can feel the way his thighs are shaking now. His hands have clenched into fists on the mat.

Then you move and swing a leg over and set right into his lap, straddling him.

The noise he makes is boyish, deep because of his natural voice, somewhere between a growl and a groan. His head tips back for just a second before he drags his eyes back to you, narrowed, but his breath is ragged. He puts his hands on your hips, gripping, holding you down exactly where you are. You can see how close he is. You feel him shift beneath you, just a subtle roll of his hips that sends heat crawling up your spine.

“Well,” you sigh lightly, glancing toward the far wall as if you’ve suddenly remembered something important. “I’m not about to start dry humping you here. On the yoga mat. That’s… unsanitary.”

Baby’s breath catches, and his hands stay locked around your hips, holding you in place anyway.

You tilt your head like you’re lost in thought. “Mm, I really should wash my hair later. And—oh, I think I left my water bottle in the kitchen. You want anything to drink?”

His hips twitch upward. You feel it. He’s doing it without even thinking, desperate little movements against you, trying to get friction without actually begging for it.

You glance down at him lazily. “You’re awfully fidgety for someone just stretching.”

“Shut up.” he mutters, eyes flicking away.

“Mmh.” You pretend to think it over. “Okay, well, if you say so.” You glance toward the ceiling like you’re mulling over the grocery list. “We’re out of milk. And I think the tiger chewed through the corner of the blanket on the couch again. And—”

“Stop talking.” he mutters through his teeth, but you don’t think he actually means it. His hips keep moving, slow and grinding.

“Why?” you ask sweetly, tilting your head. “You don’t like conversation?”

He lets out this rough little sound, frustrated, needy. “Not now.”

You act like you didn’t notice him grinding up into you again. “Did you know some yoga poses are supposed to, um… increase blood flow? I guess we’re seeing proof of that now, huh?”

Another noise from him, rough, low, so needy. He’s lost in it now, rhythm picking up, every movement dragging him against you in perfect, maddening friction.

“And I really should water my plants before bed. They’re probably dry by now. And I still haven’t ordered groceries for the week.” you continue, brushing a bit of hair out of your face, like you’re having any conversation except the one your bodies are having. “I was thinking of making pasta, but then again—”

Another grind, harder this time, dragging you exactly where you’re sensitive.

Your words stutter for half a second, but you recover, smoothing your palms along his shoulders. “—I could just do takeout.”

Baby’s mouth parts slightly, breath heavier now. No words, just a low nnnhh when you shift forward just enough to catch him right.

“But then again…” you hum thoughtfully, “I don’t really feel like spending the money right now.”

He jerks his hips up again, slower this time, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling. He’s so easy to wind up.

“And there’s the laundry. I left it in the washer—”

This time the sound he makes is longer, deeper. Mmmhh—hahhh— His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you down into the slow grind he’s started.

“Oh my god.” you say suddenly, looking over your shoulder toward the kitchen. “I think I left the kettle on earlier—”

His hips buck sharply, cutting you off. “Hhhhnn—!”

The rhythm gets sloppier, hungrier, his breath catching with every grind.

You’re still smiling, still pretending to be so fucking funny(which you are), even as your own pulse spikes. “You’re doing so well for me, baby.” you whisper sweetly, dragging your nails lightly up the back of his neck.

“Mmh—hahh—nghh—” He can’t even form words now, just sound and heat and movement, grinding up into you like he needs it to breathe.

You’re still talking, still teasing, but your hips have matched his rhythm now, both of you moving together, and every drag sends little jolts through your body. “Maybe I will dry hump here.” you say lightly. “Since you seem so desperate.”

He makes another helpless sound, hips twitching up again, and you know it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s gone.

You keep swaying against him, casual as can be. “You know, I read once that yoga can actually improve sex. Like, the flexibility, the breathing—oh, speaking of breathing, yours is a little fast. Are you—”

He cuts you off with a sharper, almost desperate ahh—! as you shift just right against him. You glance down at him, all faux innocence.

“Anyway, did you ever fix that cabinet door in the kitchen?” you murmur, still moving in slow, steady rolls of your hips against him. “Because if you didn’t, I think Mystery’s going to break it next time he slams it shut, and then—”

He groans so hard it almost interrupts you, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

“—and then we’ll have to listen to Abby complain about how nobody knows how to take care of things, and—Baby? Are you even listening to me?”

Another noise from him, breathier this time, almost a whimper.

“Mm, thought so.” you say sweetly, shifting again and dragging your hips against him in a way that makes his breath hitch hard. Gives a sound like hhhnnhh—ahhh, his hips jerking slightly as he pushes into you again.

And you just smile like you’re discussing the weather. “I think we’ll have sushi tonight.”

Hhh—fuck. It’s barely audible, muttered under his breath as he shifts again.

“Oh, so now you’ve got opinions.” you tease, sliding your hands up his chest. “Funny. You’ve been silent all class.”

You keep the pace, rocking forward and back, not giving him a moment to catch his breath.

You keep going, all sweet and innocent. “Oh, and the plants? They need watering. Remind me later, okay?” Another slow rock of your hips. His breath hitches.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even try. Just another sound from him, a low hnnh.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your grin from showing and start moving again. Rocking back and forth like you’re in no rush, like you’re not dry humping the hell out of your three-hundred-year-old brat boyfriend.

You pick up the pace just slightly, your body pressing him into the mat. “Mat’s totally gonna slide off the floor at this rate.” you say lightly, even as you grind harder against him.

He groans again, louder this time, and his hands grip your hips like he’s holding on for dear life.

Forward. Back. Forward. Back.

Well, this is not exactly how a good boy behaves, but sure I guess. As long as he’s happy.

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

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iamactuallysocute · 6 days ago

Text

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

Let’s go… out?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cute.”

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

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

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

“Okay.” you say. “Look.”

His head lifts. He doesn’t say anything.

You pause. “Well?”

“…Very cute.”

You smile. That’s more like it.

You grab another piece of clothing. “Eyes.”

They shut instantly.

You grin, even if he can’t see it.

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

He looks again.

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

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

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

You smirk. “Too much for what?��

Silence.

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

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

You change again. He doesn’t peek once.

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

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

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

His head turns slowly. “Yes.”

“Good. Then keep being good.”

And he does.

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

And for a moment, you listen.

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

He’s aroused.

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

Mystery is just… a fucking animal.

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

“You can look.”

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

“Well?”

“Pretty.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too much?” you ask, blinking at him.

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

You blink. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Eyes.”

He blinks once.

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

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

“Good boy.”

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

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

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

“You saw the sweat, right?”

“Yes, Abby.”

“My entire back, bro.”

“Yes. Abby.”

Romance is on the kitchen counter, legs swinging like a kid. His phone is face-down on the marble, forgotten, as he’s focused on his current masterpiece, Mystery’s hair. Mystery stands between his legs, still as Romance messes with the soft silver strands, fluffing them, twisting pieces, making it look acceptable.

Romance pats his cheek. “God, you’re pathetic. I love it.”

You are not around.

Fuck those boys. With their loud voices and their footsteps and the heavenly face cards. You’ve chosen peace. Or at least the illusion of it.

You’re lying sideways on your bed, playing this weird game you made up with Sussie. You take off his hat, he takes it away from you and you have to take it again. Not like it’s exciting, but it’s better than nothing.

You hear the knock before the door creaks open. You don’t look up.

“Hey.” Jinu’s voice says. “We’re heading out.”

You blink dramatically—guys look now, you have a plan—then glance over your shoulder. “Oh.”

He steps into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. Always gentle. Always acting polite(only to you) though it was his idea to drag you here in the first place.

“You okay?” he asks, frowning a little. “Need anything while we’re gone?”

You sigh. Loudly. Staring at the ceiling, so faking it.

He walks a little closer. “Feel bad?”

“Hmm?” you say absently, turning your head just slightly. “No. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

Another long sigh. You stretch your arms up, arching just a bit. Not for his sake, or maybe exactly for his sake. “Sunlight.”

“Sunlight?”

You nod slowly. “Mmm. It’s just… I don’t even remember what it feels like on my skin.”

He’s frowning now. You can feel the guilt kicking in. Good. “You get sunlight through the windows…”

“Glass sunlight doesn’t count, Jinu.” you murmur with a tired pout. “I mean real sun. Warmth. Vitamin D. You know I’m getting pale. I used to tan, you know?”

He clears his throat, eyes darting briefly to your bare legs, curled slightly under you. He’s so proper it’s almost funny.

“A bikini would be nice.” you say dreamily. “Laying out. Tanning oil. Just letting it all soak in…”

You glance sideways and yes, there it is.

His ears are pink.

He’s so easy.

“I want a bikini.” you say more confidently, stretching again. “You boys have balconies and rooftops and… what do I have? A smart TV. And this room. Always this room.”

He looks miserable.

You tilt your head, letting your voice drop to something a little more wistful, just a little softer: “I just miss feeling like a person, Jinu.”

Checkmate.

He exhales slowly. “I’ll talk to the others. Maybe we can set up something on the balcony.”

You blink innocently. “Really?”

He nods. “I’ll make it safe. Shade. Water. I’ll get you sunscreen. And a bikini.”

You bite your lip, fighting the smirk. “You’re so sweet.”

He gives a sheepish smile. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s everything.” you murmur. “Thank you, Jinu.”

“Of course.”

You smile as he leaves, practically glowing.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you get five demons to build you a tanning station while you pretend to be sad in bed.

Eventually they left. Was away all day, as usual, and they’ve come back just now. (Was I clever with this time skip) You can hear that. It’s dark in your room. You didn’t bother turning on the light when the sun went down. You’ve been sitting by the window, curled up, watching your reflection in the glass. The only light is from the city outside.

The door thuds open, followed by a wave of sound, Abby laughing too loud, Romance fake-moaning someone’s name, Jinu scolding them and being a mean, selfish asshole, Mystery growling, Baby shrieking “fuck you” at someone who cackles about it.

Click.

Your door opens. No knock. The light from the hallway spills in, a triangle cutting across the carpet, and there Baby is. One hand on the handle, one hand holding a small shopping bag by the strings, a cigarette dangling from his lips even though he’s not supposed to smoke inside.

“Hi.” you say dryly. “Ever heard of knocking?”

He shrugs. “Forgot how.” he mutters, already tossing the bag toward you.

You catch it, and look down.

Ohohoho.

That’s swimsuit fabric.

“And what’s this?”

“Bag.” he says.

You give him a look. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Shit in it.” he clarifies.

“Helpful.”

“I dunno. Ask lover-boy Jinu.”

“Then why are you bringing it?”

Another shrug.

He vanishes, but at least closes the door behind himself which is AMAZING??? Baby that’s progress SOMEBODY POP THE CHAMPAGNE!!

You open the bag. Swimwear. Not just one, but options. Some designer bullshit with barely any fabric. Rich colors. Silky textures. Something sheer. Something scandalous. Something with ribbons instead of straps, oh someone had a fantasy while picking these.

And Baby totally peeked. You know it. You know it with every cell in your body. Baby didn’t just carry the bag. He opened it. He looked inside. Maybe he scoffed. Maybe he rolled his eyes. Maybe he muttered something gross under his breath just for himself.

And maybe, just maybe, he got a little hard.

You could try things on. Could twirl in front of the mirror and imagine the boys fighting each other to the death over the sight of you in nothing but sheer straps.

But no. You have manners. You’re polite. Even when you’re a hostage. So you pick up the bag and stand, slipping your feet into the slippers you stole from Baby, too big for you but his feet is the smallest so it fits you the best. (AN: NOT infantilization!! My first option was Mystery but I literally checked their feet sizes on picture and Baby’s seemed the smallest to me)

Time to find Jinu.

You arrive to his room. Hear something in his bathroom, water running, a rhythmic scrape-swish of a toothbrush. Bingo.

You knock once on his room’s door, and then walk to the open bathroom. Jinu stands at the sink, shirtless, foam on his lips, and a toothbrush in his mouth. He freezes when he sees you in the mirror.

You blink.

He blinks back.

Then goes right back to brushing. Calm. Slightly dying inside.

“Sorry.” you say sweetly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He points at his toothbrush, then gives a helpless shrug. Can’t talk, you invaded. What now?

You hold up the bag.

He nods, toothpaste foam dribbling a little, and gives you a thumbs up.

You grin. “Came to say thank you. You’re very sweet. Almost makes up for the whole ‘kidnapped and imprisoned’ thing.”

He spits, rinses, and finally speaks. “I didn’t pick them out. Just made sure you had choices.”

“Still.” You lean on the doorframe, cradling the bag. “It was thoughtful. And I just wanted to ask, when can I go outside then?”

Jinu hesitates. “We were thinking the balcony.”

“Small.” you say.

“Private.” he counters.

“Claustrophobic.”

“Safe.”

You frown.

He holds up a calming hand. “It’s not a no. Just—maybe not the roof. Too exposed. If the girls are watching—”

“Let them watch.” you snap. “You know what?” you say, stepping back toward the door. “I shouldn’t have asked. My bad. Dumb of me to think the rooftop was an option when I’m clearly just your little pet project.”

“Hey—”

“Thanks for the bag.” you say over your shoulder. “Really. So kind.”

And you leave. You’re halfway down the hall, bag tucked under your arm, fully planning to slam your door (like a lady) and stew in the injustice of it all when—

“Wait.” Jinu’s voice says behind you.

You don’t stop walking.

“Y/N. Seriously.”

“What? Why go through the effort if you’re not gonna let me wear them where they’re meant to be worn? You think I’m gonna parade around the living room in swimwear?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You stomp down the hall. You pass the kitchen, the untidy closet, a mirror.

You’re fuming. Childishly, pointlessly fuming until you spot something beautiful:

Abby’s sneakers.

Left out, huge and unlaced because fashion, duh.

You step out of the slippers and shove your tiny feet into Abby’s shoes. Wobble slightly. The weight of them almost trips you, but you adapt. You drag them with purpose. They’re several sizes too big. Your toes disappear, your heels flop, and you look like when toddlers try their parents’ shoes on. The shoes give a shhhk shhhk sound as you drag them dramatically down the hall.

Behind you, Jinu’s voice: “What are you doing?”

“I’m going home.” you declare over your shoulder.

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re gonna snap your ankles—”

You spin dramatically, pointing at him. “You made a promise, Jinu!”

“I didn’t—”

“I want to feel the sun on my tits!”

He chokes. “Okay, Jesus—”

“I want fucking UV.”

The shoes are so big. You have to shuffle.

Behind you, Jinu groans. “Please don’t.”

You ignore him. Shuffle shuffle stomp.

“You’ll fall.”

As you round the corner, Romance appears, just coming out of the sauna it seems like in one of those towel robes. He opens his mouth to say something, but then sees you, sees the shoes, sees Jinu looking half-murdered behind you, and promptly closes his mouth.

He just nods.

Respectfully.

Then steps aside.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Jinu mutters.

You lift your chin. “You kidnapped me. Let me be ridiculous.”

He can’t argue that.

“You really want the sun that bad?” he asks.

“Yes.”

You’re walking away from him, wearing tiny sleep shorts and shoes that could fit a professional basketball player, shoulders back.

He laughs.

You glare. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No.” he says, lying.

He enjoys it when you throw tantrums.

You sigh dramatically and kick off Abby’s shoes, walking back toward him barefoot. He meets you halfway.

“Fine.” you mutter. “Not the roof. But I want umbrellas. Lounge chair. Drinks with fruit in them. Music.”

“Fine.”

You start walking back toward your room. “Also sunglasses. The huge ones.”

“Done.”

“Avocados.”

“Random, but noted.”

You reach your door. Jinu’s still waiting. Still watching. Still hoping, probably. Like you’re gonna give him a moment. A glance. A flicker of affection. A thank you.

You reach for your door, pull it open slowly. “Good night.”

The door shuts behind you.

You said good night.

That’s as intimate as you get.

And Jinu, out there in the hallway, probably still standing in the same damn spot, is probably smiling to himself like he just got kissed.

That night you slept like a fucking baby. You’re still asleep, because it’s early, so early. This was meant to be a time skip, am I clever and smart and cute?

Soft fingers brush your cheek.

You stir. Your nose scrunches. Your eyes stay shut because you are absolutely not awake enough for whatever new bullshit they’re bringing into your life. You’d like to sleep forever, thanks.

“Rise and shine, angel.”

Your lashes flutter open.

Romance.

You stare. “The fuck do you want.”

“Get up.”

“Don’t wake me up like this ever again.”

He leans in a little. “Would you prefer a slap on the ass?”

You stare. Then roll dramatically onto your other side, pulling the blanket over your head. “I’d prefer you disappear.”

You hear him laugh. He’s used to this. Maybe addicted to it. He taps your shoulder gently, like he’s knocking on a door. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ve got something for you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You haven’t even looked.”

He gently pulls the covers off you(and will totally masturbate to the mental image later) and brings up a little key between his fingers.

That gets your attention.

“Balcony.” he says softly.

You pause. You look at the key. Then at him. Then at the key again. “Are you joking?”

He shakes them. Jingle-jingle. “No, ma’am.”

“You’re all talk.”

“I’m all dick, baby, but this time I’m also telling the truth.”

He drops the key into your open palm.

Ten minutes later, you slide the glass door open with a satisfying little click.

The sunlight hits you like a kiss. Warm. Gentle. You step out barefoot, blinking against the brightness, and damn.

It’s nice.

Really fucking nice.

You sigh. Maybe a little dreamily. “Fuck. I could get used to this.”

Romance leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you. “You like it?”

“Yeah. Jeez, thank you.” you say, quiet.

“You’re welcome.”

You just walk to the chair, flop down, and lift your face to the sun. Then: “Get out.”

And he obeys. Fuck. Absolutely palming himself through his pants, thinking about how grumpy you looked when you took that key.

Soon, they left. The usual. Since that, you got into one of the bikinis, and got everything you needed for this. The sun is perfect. You’re sprawled on a lounge chair, laid very far back, one leg bent, one dangling lazily over the edge, bikini straps warm against your shoulders. A cold drink sweats on the small table beside you, the little water droplets sliding down the glass. The straw tastes faintly of lime.

Your book is open, but you haven’t read a page in twenty minutes.

Sussie is perched on the balcony railing.

The warmth is sinking into your bones, loosening every tight knot your body’s held since… Well. Since them.

And that’s when the thought creeps in.

Are you fucked up?

Not in the haha, quirky mental illness way. No, seriously. The serious kind of fucked up.

Because you remember. The torture. The water. The ice. The way Baby grinned while holding your hair back as you choked on whatever they poured down your throat.

You remember all of it.

And now? Now you’re lying half-naked on their balcony, drinking their liquor through a pink straw, wearing a bikini they bought you, thinking about how pretty Romance looked this morning when he woke you up.

You drag a hand over your face.

Is that normal?

You should hate them. You did hate them. Weeks ago, you would’ve bitten through your own tongue before laughing at one of Abby’s cocky comments. Now? Sometimes you smile. Sometimes you look forward to them coming back from whatever bloody business they do out there.

Stockholm Syndrome? Probably.

Brain damage? Maybe.

Lonely? Absolutely.

Or are they just—

You swallow hard.

—too charming?

That’s the worst thought of all. Because it means maybe you’re not fucked up. Maybe they’re just… that good.

You take another slow sip of your drink and look away from it, down at the street far, far below. One jump and it’d all be over. No more captivity, no more confusion, no more sitting in the sun wondering if you’re the villain in your own life.

But you don’t move. You stay in the chair.

Because despite everything, you want to see what happens next.

You let the sun kiss your skin and tell yourself it’s not surrender, it’s strategy. You’re playing along. You’re biding your time.

And maybe that’s true.

Or maybe you just like it here.

You tilt your head toward Sussie. “You think I’m fucked up?”

No answer.

You moved. Now you’re stretched out on your stomach on the now almost flat chair, bikini straps tied loose, toes dangling lazily off the edge of your towel on the chair. Your book’s open again, though you’re not reading, just letting your eyes skim the words while the heat seeps into your back.

Then, from inside, the door opens.

It’s faint at first, that hiss and click, but you hear it. And it’s wrong. They don’t usually come home now. Not in the middle of the day. So them coming home now? Yeah. That’s not an accident. Your balcony privileges are officially on probation.

You don’t even turn your head.

If they want to see you, they can come get a nice long look.

Sliding glass door opens. Abby. And behind him, Baby. Acting like he’s so uninterested, wandering toward your little table. He’s got a cigarette between his teeth, lighter in hand, glancing over the spread of your setup, your drink, the book, the folded throw blanket in case you got cold. The towel beneath you.

“Damn,” Abby says finally. “you’ve got it good out here.”

You hum without looking up. “Jealous?”

“You wish.” he says, grin audible. He steps forward. “Figured we’d come check on you. You know. See if you’d managed to swan dive off the edge yet.”

“Not feeling suicidal today.” you say flatly.

“Good.” Abby drawls. “Hate to see the view ruined.”

Baby snorts under his breath, flicking his lighter. Flame catches. He takes a slow drag, lets the smoke curl upward, and says, not even looking at you, “Nice tan.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s got that detached, bratty nonchalance like he just wandered in here by accident. But his gaze flickers once, quick, hot, from your bare back to the little curve of your hip before darting away again.

You know exactly what that was.

Abby chuckles. “Man, you’re really out here living your best life. We’re knee-deep in whatever Jinu barks, and you’re sipping cocktails in a bikini. Where’s my invite?”

You finally turn your head, resting your cheek on your arms, giving him a cool once-over. “Didn’t think you were into quiet afternoons. Or reading.”

Abby smirks, crouching a little to get more on your level. “I’m into whatever you’re into, sweetheart.”

The smile. The jawline. The stupid glow he somehow always has. And yeah, maybe you’re fucked up, but you know exactly why people fall for men like Abby.

“Gross.” you say immediately, but your voice is lazy, almost amused.

Baby flicks ash over the railing, pretending to be fascinated by the bird still sitting there like your tiny, judgmental guard.

Abby’s shirt comes off. He balls it in one hand, and then throws it directly at Baby’s head. Baby sends it sailing straight over the railing.

You tilt your sunglasses down to glare at him. “You just littered from the 60th floor.”

He shrugs, takes another drag.

Abby lowers himself right onto the lounge chair next to yours. His bare shoulder almost brushes yours, and you can feel the heat rolling off his skin. He stretches out, tilts his head back, and lets out a satisfied mmm like he’s exactly where he belongs.

Baby exhales smoke in a perfect stream, not turning around but definitely listening. You can tell by the slight twitch in his posture that he’s picturing something. Probably you. Probably with fewer clothes.

You ignore it.

Abby props himself on one elbow, turning just enough to glance at your drink. “That for sharing, or are you keeping it all to yourself?”

You take a slow sip without breaking eye contact. “Mine.”

Baby is looking at you and Abby. His face is the perfect mix of “this is disgusting” and “I want to throw you both off this balcony but also maybe make out with one of you first.” You know exactly which side of the equation you fall on.

Abby notices immediately, and his lips twitch into that evil little grin, and, still leaning up on one elbow, he faces Baby. He lifts his hand and starts miming the most obnoxiously crude gesture imaginable. One that involves his fist, his tongue, and a hip roll that’s so on point that you’re actually choking back a laugh.

Baby’s eyes widen just enough to confirm you’re not the only one who saw it, before narrowing in pure venom.

“That’s fucking gross.” Baby mutters.

You’re trying, you swear you’re trying, to keep your face straight. But Abby is the kind of shit-stirrer that could get a stone statue to break.

THUNK.

A loud, dull bang against the glass door behind you.

Everyone freezes. You glance over your shoulder.

Standing there, blinking and rubbing his forehead, is Romance. Apparently, he’s just walked straight into the sliding door. Full force.

Baby’s eye roll is so big. He stares at the sky, done. Abby bursts out laughing, not even polite laughing, the real kind where he half-folds over, clutching his stomach.

Romance straightens, pretending it never happened, and slides the door open like it’s part of the bit. “I was distracted.” he says smoothly, voice low. “You’re welcome.”

Baby mutters something in a language you don’t know but are pretty sure is an insult.

Romance ignores him entirely, his gaze locking onto you. “You out here all by yourself, sweetheart? With these two?”

You don’t answer. You just sip your drink.

Abby leans back, hands behind his head. “Yup. And we were doing just fine until your dumbass faceprint ended up on the glass.”

Romance flashes him a slow smile. “Yeah? Guess I’ll just have to join the party.”

Romance sits down without invitation, folding one leg up, close enough that his knee nearly brushes your thigh. Your skin’s right there, your hair moving in the slight breeze. Every stupid little movement you make, every time your lips purse around that straw, every flick of your sunglasses, it’s all filed away for later. His chest aches with it. His body’s loud with it. And he has to smile, has to keep the act, because if you saw just how feral he really felt, you’d never let him sit this close again.

Abby’s leaning back on one elbow beside you, pretending to just “relax” but really, his entire focus is wrapped tight around you.

Baby’s cigarette burns lower, his lips parted just slightly around it as he stares at the view, definitely not you, no. Except every so often his eyes flick sideways, catching the light on your bare shoulders, the curve of your back. And his stomach knots in that way he hates.

Romance tips his head back with a groan. “God, my hair’s driving me insane today.”

You glance at him, pushing your sunglasses up onto your head. “Wait. Question.”

He pauses mid-complaint. “Yeah?”

“If these aren’t your natural colors, then you had to bleach it once. Right?” You sit up now, the bikini strap sliding slightly off your shoulder, completely unaware of what it’s doing to their collective blood pressure. “Or like, does being a demon change your hair color? To these? So are these natural? Or there’s color in it?”

They exchange quick glances, but no one says anything. Not because they don’t have answers, but because you’re talking. You’re finally talking, words spilling out in a way they rarely get to hear. And it’s not a forced conversation, not dragged out by intimidation or bribery. You’re just… chatting.

They’re terrified of ruining it.

Abby lets out a quiet laugh, not trusting himself to speak. Baby flicks his ash away without looking at you, jaw tight. Romance just smiles and leans in a fraction closer, like your voice is something warm he can curl around. He leans back and lets you keep going, tossing in a hum here, a nod there, like he’s feeding you cues.

But that bikini is criminal. Not just the cut of it, but the way it sits on your skin like it was sewn there. Every time you shift on the towel, all eyes flick down before they can stop themselves.

Baby keeps his face neutral, bored, even, because that’s what he’s good at. But his chest feels tighter, and there’s a part of him that hates how much he likes this view. And the other part? The one that would snuff out Abby and Romance without blinking just to have you alone? He ignores that part. For now. The way the bikini strings curve around your hips, the little knot that’s so easy to pull loose, has his mind darting into dangerous territory. It’s infuriating how he’s already imagined you pressed up against this railing, city lights behind you, your breath catching against his neck. He hates that his thighs feel tense. Hates that his mouth has gone dry. Hates that Abby’s this close to you at all.

It’s your legs. Your back. The way the towel dips under the weight of your hips. The ridiculous, sinful little flash of the bottoms riding up just enough that he can see the curve of you.

He thinks about you moving. Not just walking, but bending forward. Sitting on his lap, uninvited. Dropping that lazy sarcasm to murmur something in his ear before slipping away again, making him grind his teeth because fuck, he wants.

And Baby is cruel in his wants.

He imagines telling you to get up, to step closer, and when you do, pulling you in by the wrist so fast you stumble into his chest. He’d keep the cigarette in his mouth while his free hand traces your spine. You’d smell the smoke and the city on him. And he’d dare you to pull away.

There’s also the fantasy of you kneeling between his legs, hair messy from where he’s gripped it. You lying on your stomach like you are now, except he’s straddling your thighs, hands pinning your wrists. You turning your head just enough to look over your shoulder at him, that petty, quiet little look you give when you want to piss him off, while he pulls those bikini bottoms to the side.

He bites his cigarette filter a little harder than necessary. It trembles just slightly when you shift on your stomach, the curve of your ass tightening under that little scrap of fabric. He thinks about biting it. Not kissing. Biting. Hard enough to make you jolt and glare at him.

God, he hates you. God, he wants you.

Abby is the opposite. He’s practically lounging in his own thirst. He wants to look, so he does. He wants to smirk, so he smirks.

He can hear the rustle of the towel when you adjust, can see the slope of your back and the soft stretch of your legs, and it’s making his pulse climb. He wants to drag his palm down your spine. Slowly. Feel the heat under his hand. See you twitch. He imagines the soft, sweat-slick dip of your waist under his fingers and fuck, he has to look away for a second because his cock’s already stirring. He doesn’t say it, but you’re a little too good at driving him insane just by breathing.

Abby wants to touch. Always. The part of him that’s all athlete, all jock, wants to grab, hips, thigh, wrist, it doesn’t matter. Pull you into his lap and keep you there until you’re laughing or swearing or both.

In his head, it’s a mess. You, hair wet from a pool(where the pool came from, who knows), skin slick under his palms. You tugging him forward by the back of his neck, pressing your mouth to his. You sitting on his counter at midnight, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, swinging your legs while he stands between them, grinning against your lips.

The smell of sunscreen is also messing with him. Sunscreen and your shampoo and whatever faint perfume is still clinging to you from earlier. It’s making his mouth dry.

He imagines tugging at the string on your bikini top, casual, just to “see if it comes loose easy” and watching the knot slide undone like it was begging for it. Imagines flipping you onto your back, the way you’d glare at him while his hands are already on your hips.

He pictures your legs over his shoulders. Pictures your swimsuit tangled around one ankle. You on your knees in front of him, the straps of your bikini top dangling loose because he had to see your tits bare. You, laughing in the sun, drink in hand, until he takes the glass from you and replaces it with his fingers between your lips. You, pinned against this very lounge chair, those pretty legs over his shoulders. You, moaning and swearing at him while the city watches from a thousand windows.

He swallows hard when you roll onto your side, one knee bent, the hem of your bikini bottom pulling just enough to show the start of something that shouldn’t be public viewing. His jeans feel tighter, and he has to shift his weight to hide it.

Romance is too busy trying to ignore the fact that your bikini top is tied in a bow that could come undone with a single tug. His heartbeat’s in his throat, and his skin feels hotter than the damn sun, but he smiles like you’re just another casual conversation. But his mind is all ass ass ass ass ass ass. He pictures leaning over you, fingers brushing your sunglasses aside to see your eyes, mouth trailing over your shoulder. Wonders if your skin tastes like sunscreen and whatever drink you’ve been sipping. It’s pathetic how fast the thought makes his cock twitch in his jeans. He shifts his stance, pretending he’s just stretching, but really he’s trying to adjust himself without you or the others noticing. Not that it matters. They’re all thinking the same shit.

Romance is an artist when it comes to dirty thoughts. He’s creative, shameless, endlessly confident in his ability to make it happen. He imagines taking that drink from your hand, sipping from it himself, watching the way your lips part when he licks the straw. He imagines you stretched out on his bed in that bikini, telling him to behave while you know he won’t. Then the same picture, same bed, but you’re in nothing but that bikini top, strings loose, eyes glassy from how many times he’s made you cum already.

Romance wants to make you blush, but more than that, he wants to make you forget who you’re supposed to hate. He wants your nails in his hair, your breath catching on his name. He wants to take that quiet, stubborn composure you have and fuck it up.

And he knows deep down that if you let him, even once, you’d be hooked. And so would he.

When you adjust your sunglasses, he swears under his breath because the movement makes your chest shift, just enough to imagine how it’d feel under his hands. And now he’s thinking about pushing those glasses up onto your hair while he kisses you so deep you forget your own name.

They’re disgusting. Every single one of them. Every inhale they take is full of you. Every glance they sneak, every twitch of their fingers is a fight to not reach out and see how warm your skin feels under their palms.

If they could hear each other’s thoughts, they’d probably kill each other.

Because Baby’s imagining fucking you in his bed, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Abby’s picturing you riding him slow, head tipped back, sunlight pouring over your skin.

Romance is wondering how long it’d take to get you to say yes if he offered you the world in exchange for one night.

Romance leans back, resting an arm along the back of your chair, his other hand draped over his stomach. He tips his chin toward the interior through the glass door. “Look who’s lurking.”

You follow his gaze.

Inside, past the faint reflection of the skyline, Mystery is standing in the living room. His hair falls into his face as always, hiding most of his eyes, but you can feel the weight of his gaze through the glass.

Romance smirks. “Fucking creep.”

You give him a side-eye. “Don’t be mean.”

“Not being mean.” he says. “He’s just weird.”

They’re snorting at Mystery, not cruelly, exactly, but with that inside joke kind of laugh that only comes from living in each other’s space for too long. Mystery’s clearly part of the pack, but also clearly the one they always rip on. When they’re not making Jinu’s life even worse by not behaving, they’re fucking with poor Mystery.

Inside, Mystery doesn’t move. Just tilts his head slightly, which, coming from him, is the equivalent of saying I heard you, asshole.

You give Mystery a little wave. He lifts one hand in return.

Okay, wait, wait. You were just lying here earlier, in the sun, drink in hand, asking yourself if you’re messed up in the head, and now you’re surrounded by them again, laughing, bantering, letting them into your afternoon like they didn’t kidnap you, like they didn’t torture you, like they didn’t chain you to a chair and ask you over and over about the girls.

That little voice in your head is screaming: “Y/N, no. Not it. This isn’t recovery. Get out.”

You shift in your seat, the towel sticking slightly to the back of your thighs, the bikini top suddenly feeling a little too exposed under all their eyes. Abby’s still leaning in like you’re mid-conversation, Romance has settled way too comfortably next to you, and Baby’s pretending to be bored while smoking but glancing your way every five seconds.

No. Out. Time to get out.

You sit up without a word, and start gathering your things. Book? Closed. Sunglasses? Off.

“Where you going, sweetheart?” Romance asks.

“Inside.” Flat. Clipped. Not giving him anything to work with.

Abby raises his brows, like he knows you’re annoyed and likes it. “Already? We just got here.”

“Mm.” you hum, slipping your towel over your shoulder. “Pity.”

Romance leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We keeping you from something?”

“Yes.”

You hold your drink out toward Abby.

He blinks, points at himself. “For me?”

“Yeah.”

He takes it, grinning, so happy with himself. He doesn’t even care that there’s barely a mouthful left.

You get your things and step back inside, leaving the three boys there.

All three sets of eyes drop.

Straight.

To.

Your.

Ass.

Every step you take makes the sun hit new angles, shadows, curves, the whole fucking picture.

Abby is the most shameless about it. His head tilts a little, following your walk. He takes a slow sip from the drink you handed him without breaking eye contact with your ass. The sunlight catches on the curve of you and he thinks about his hands there, big enough to cover both cheeks, lifting you up against him until your legs are around his waist. He pictures the weight, the sound you’d make when he squeezed too hard, the way you’d squirm just to make him lose it. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to play it cool, but the stretch of his pants tells a different story. He’s picturing a rhythm. A very specific rhythm. One where you’re not just arching your back, you’re bracing yourself.

Romance is worse in a way because he’s quiet about it. Doesn’t even pretend to look at your face. His gaze drags down, lingers, and stays there. He’s thinking about bending you over the balcony railing, that skyline view stretching out behind you while his hands leave marks on your hips. He imagines you arching, glancing back at him with that fuck you glare you always give, only this time, you’re breathless when you do it. He shifts in his seat, casually adjusting himself like he’s just scratching an itch, but the smug curl of his mouth says he’s savoring every step you take.

The way Baby’s cigarette pauses halfway to his lips is almost comical. His eyes flick down, snap back up, and then back down again. Quick. Hungry. The bastard even licks his teeth, then scowls at himself for doing it. He imagines pulling you into his lap just to feel you squirm, just to hear the little noises you’d make when you realized exactly how hard he was. His cigarette hangs forgotten between his fingers, ash curling toward the ground.

Romance turns into his demon form. That’s how you make him feel. Loser.

What you can’t hear anymore, because the door is closed, is Abby looking at Romance and saying “You’re actually pathetic, man.”

And Baby: “Couldn’t even keep it together for five minutes.”

Inside, you tip your chin up, giving Mystery a subtle, wordless eyebrow raise. Not friendly exactly, but… acknowledgment. You’re not rude, after all.

His head tilts just slightly in response, almost imperceptible, and he smiled a little.

And if you’d lingered a second longer, you might have noticed how his gaze followed you too.

You turn the corner and almost walk straight into Jinu. The moment he sees you, his polite, default expression shifts into something a little more… startled.

“You like it?” he asks, voice low.

It takes you a beat to realize he means the balcony privilege.

Your answer is clipped. “Yeah.” Not warm. Not grateful. Not cruel, but not anything like the sweetness you could use if you wanted to. You don’t meet his eyes for long, either, your tone says thanks, but your posture says I’m still pissed, don’t think this makes us friends.

Jinu catches that. His eyes narrow just a fraction, not in annoyance, but in thought. The way you keep moving past him without slowing tells him you’re not about to explain yourself. And maybe… maybe now isn’t the time to try to get an explanation out of you.

So he lets you go.

Physically, at least.

That decision comes with consequences.

Because the second you pass him, Jinu’s gaze absolutely drops.

The curve of your hips. The sway of them. The way the towel over your arm only frames you more. And your ass, Jesus. Perfectly caught between playful bounce and perfect lines.

His throat works as he swallows. The longer he watches, the warmer his skin feels, and there’s no denying the slow tightening low in his stomach.

It’s not just looking. It’s thinking. Thinking about the weight of his hands there. Thinking about pulling you back against him until there’s no space at all. Thinking of you, bent over the arm of the couch in that same bikini, your skin still warm from the sun. His hands braced firm on your hips, fingers pressing into the exact spots he’s looking at now. Thinking about you lying on your stomach on your bed, head turned toward him, and he’s straddling your thighs. His hands smoothing over you, thumbs dragging slow, teasing circles until you’re pressing back into him. That perfect, cruel wiggle of your hips, the same one you just did without even meaning to in the hallway, but this time, it’s for him.

You turn into your room without looking back, door clicking shut behind you.

Jinu’s left standing in the hallway, jaw set, then scrubbing a hand over his face like that’ll erase the image in his head. It doesn’t. He exhales through his nose. Adjusts the front of his pants. And tells himself it’s fine. It’s just looking. Just thoughts.

Your door’s barely clicked shut before you’re walking to the dresser.

The bikini, the balcony, the boys, suddenly it’s all lost its shine. Your fingers tug at the knots behind your back, then at your hips, the fabric loosening and dropping. You don’t even look at it. You grab the first soft, oversized shirt you can find and pull it over your head, then clean panties, shorts, the usual.

It’s not that you felt exposed. It’s not modesty. It’s that suddenly, the game stopped feeling fun.

They’re demons. They are the masters of illusion. They’ve spent centuries perfecting how to be charming, magnetic, irresistible.

You lean back, staring at the ceiling.

It’s almost laughable, if it weren’t so fucking harmful for you. The more they keep you, the more they tease you, the more they bleed into your space… the stronger this weird, sticky thing between you gets.

Not trust. Never trust.

But… connection.

Because humans are wired for it, aren’t they? The stupid, biological need to bond. The way your brain craves touch, craves intimacy, and will latch onto whoever’s there to give it. Even if that person is the same one who fucked you uuuuup.

It makes you want to scream.

Because what if it’s not just biology? What if some fucked up part of you likes this? Likes the attention. Likes the way they look at you.

What if the problem isn’t just them being charming?

What if the problem is you being receptive?

You can hate them for what they’ve done and still, against all reason, crave the warmth in their voices when they say your name. You can know they’re monsters and still shiver when one of them stands too close.

Because intimacy, real or fake, is good for you.

Even though they’re literal demons. Actual inhuman predators who’ve made careers, both in their world and this one, out of deception.

If you’re honest, what’s happening between you and them is… growing. The connection. The familiarity.

They’ve kept you close long enough that you’ve seen them in all their mundane moments, Mystery’s silent pacing, Jinu’s slow morning rituals, Abby’s post-workout glow, Baby’s trashy chain-smoking on the balcony, Romance’s habit of humming under his breath while scrolling his phone. The little things. The things you’re not supposed to notice. And when you do notice them, when you get that sense of I know them, some part of you forgets the part where they once tied you to a chair and asked you questions you refused to answer until your throat was raw.

You think about Abby leaning in close today, blocking out the sun with his shadow, and how your first instinct wasn’t fear, it was to roll your eyes. You think about Baby pretending not to care, but still standing in your space, still looking. You think about Romance’s laugh, Mystery’s patience watching you from the inside, Jinu actually putting effort into your comfort.

They’re supposed to be bad.

They are bad.

So why is it starting to feel… blurred?

Intimacy with bad people doesn’t erase the bad. It just makes it easier to ignore.

Human connection.

It’s such a stupid, simple phrase, but it’s the root of all of it, isn’t it? You’re not built to be completely alone. No one is.

You remember the start. How it wasn’t a blur like people describe in stories. No. It was sharp. Too clear. The shock in your lungs. The bruising grip on your arms. The things they said, things designed to make you scared, not just compliant.

The same mouths that mocked you when you begged for them to stop are now asking if you’ve eaten.

You’ve been starved of real contact outside of them. Starved of safety, even. And yet, the longer you’re with them, the more those moments of quiet, those moments where they’re not actively hurting you, start to feel like they mean something.

You’re fucked up.

There’s no pretty way to spin it. You’ve been kidnapped, threatened, tortured, and somehow, you’re finding ways to coexist with them. Worse, you’re finding parts of them that you don’t hate. Pieces of humanity they probably don’t even want you to see.

It’s their nature.

It’s their nature to take.

It’s their nature to want.

It’s their nature to hurt and to charm in equal measure, like two sides of the same coin.

You’ve known this since the beginning. It was obvious the moment you were dragged into their world, the Saja boys aren’t human in the ways that matter. Sure, they have faces and bodies that fit every fantasy, voices that can soothe or seduce, hands that can be gentle. But at the core? They’re demons. Predators. Takers.

It’s their nature.

The thing developing between you and them… you have a feeling that even if you walked out the door right now, it wouldn’t break.

You imagine it like a thread.

Invisible. Tied somewhere in your chest and knotted into theirs. And you know, you know you could follow it in either direction. If you left, if you could leave, you have the horrible, creeping feeling it wouldn’t end anything. You’d still feel it. Tugging at you. Pulling at you. Whispering you back.

Back to your boys.

Hm.

Your boys.

Not “the Saja boys.” Not “your captors.” Not “the demons who—” No. Your brain served it up clean and warm: your boys.

Weird.

Too intimate. Too personal.

The truth is, and you hate this, they feel like yours sometimes.

That thread pulls, and it doesn’t care that you didn’t tie it yourself.

What if you left? You could picture yourself getting away, finally breathing without the weight of them around you. You could picture sunlight that isn’t filtered through their presence. But… But you can also picture the ache. The missing. That stupid, impossible missing that would follow you until you gave in and let the thread lead you right back here.

Right back to your boys.

Fuck.

Whatever’s binding you to them, it’s not loosening. If anything, it’s winding tighter every day you spend here. And no matter how much you tell yourself you’re still you, still unclaimed, still untouched in the ways that matter…

You’ve already started using the word your.

You tell yourself it’s sick. That no one in their right mind would hold on to that connection after everything they’ve done. That you should be fantasizing about cutting it loose, not following it back. But deep down? If they opened the door right now and said, We’re leaving. You can come with us or stay here forever, you know what you’d do. You’d go. No hesitation. No questions.

Because you know the truth.

You’d always follow the thread.

And it would always lead you back to your boys.

Meanwhile, Romance is stretched out in the sauna, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling around him. His head leans back against the wooden wall, eyes half-lidded, and of course, his mind drifts exactly where you’d expect it to.

You, dripping from the shower, wrapped in his towel, cheeks flushed from heat and a smile you only ever give him. He imagines coaxing you into his lap, your knees on either side of him, his hands sliding up your thighs—

“Oh, don’t stop on my account.” Gwi-Ma says in his head.

Romance actually jerks upright, steam swirling, towel barely holding on. He throws a ladle of water onto the coals, sending up a hiss of steam, muttering curses in latin.

“Imagine her towel slips all the way.” Gwi-Ma’s voice purrs inside his head, “but she’s not looking at you. She’s looking at someone else.”

Baby’s sprawled in the bath, cigarette in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other, one leg hooked lazily over the edge. Steam curls in the air. He likes baths, but not the waiting, so he’s lying in it half-full, the air warm enough to keep him lazy. He’s thinking about you in a way that’s not even subtle, you, walking in here, rolling your eyes at him like you always do, but instead of turning around to leave, you’d sigh, mutter “move over”, and slip into the tub with him.

He can picture it too well. Your legs brushing his under the water, his hand drifting along your thigh until you either smack it away or pull it closer.

Or you’d sit on the edge of the tub, knees pressing against his arm. He’d keep his voice bored, maybe take a slow sip from his glass before offering it to you. And when you take it? He’d hook two fingers in the strap of your swimsuit, tug you toward the water—

“Pathetic.”

He ignores Gwi-Ma’s voice, and his head tilts to the side, going back to thinking about you, how you’d straddle his lap, water spilling over the edge, your hands pushing his wet hair back.

“Oh, Baby~” Gwi-Ma purrs. “Want me to scrub your back?”

He’s fucking hilarious OKAY?!

Well, Baby doesn’t think so.

“You’d try that, and she’d laugh in your face. Get out of the tub, she’d say.”

Baby flips the middle finger at no one in particular. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You think you’re funny.”

Gwi-Ma leaves him alone for a few minutes. Lets the fantasy build… and build… until Baby’s almost smiling. Then he floods Baby’s head with the sound of every second that left him traumatized. Which is a lot, btw.

The cigarette goes out in the tub when Baby dunks himself under just to get away from the hallucination.

Abby’s still outside, the sun warm on his bare chest, legs spread on the chair. He’s pretending to watch the skyline, but in reality, his brain is feeding him a very explicit daydream. You, in that bikini, climbing into his lap. The chair’s too small for both of you, so you end up on top, leaning back against his chest, your hair tickling his jaw. He’d slide a hand under the towel around your waist, lips brushing your ear—

And suddenly Gwi-Ma is there.

Not next to him. Not behind him. On his lap.

Wearing the bikini.

The exact same shade. The exact same way the straps tug at the skin. And leaning back just like you would, sighing contentedly.

There’s actually nobody funnier than Gwi-Ma when it comes to fucking with Abby. Plus Abby doesn’t even know how to imagine Gwi-Ma as a human, and the shape wearing the bikini doesn’t look like anything, but his brain knows that it’s Gwi-Ma. Gwi-Ma makes him know.

Abby freezes. “Get off.” he growls.

“Oh, don’t be shy, big guy.” Gwi-Ma purrs, wriggling against him. “Nice tits, right?”

FUNNIEST. THING. ALIVE.

Abby would laugh if Gwi-Ma was doing this to someone else, but he’s doing it to Abby and suddenly it’s not so funny anymore. And he knows that if Gwi-Ma had a human body, that would be doubled over laughing right now.

Jinu’s in his room. He’s stretched on the bed, and his brain won’t let go of the image of you walking into his room, thanking him for the swimsuit when he was brushing his teeth.

Or you’d be there, sitting on his bed, wearing one of his shirts because you “couldn’t find anything else” hair still a little damp from a shower. You’d glance over at him while he works, legs tucked under you, smiling when he meets your eyes.

Then Gwi-Ma’s voice: “You’re so sweet, Jinu…”

Jinu closes his eyes, counts to ten, and tries to remember how to breathe. Gwi-Ma’s laugh doesn’t help.

“You’ll never have it. She’ll never look at you like that.”

The fantasies shred apart, replaced with flashes of the first night. Your voice, your panic, your fists hitting his chest. Jinu breathes deep, steady, pushing the images back, but they stick.

Mystery’s at the kitchen counter, sipping something cold, watching the little water droplets drip down the glass. He imagines you sitting across from him, spinning that little straw in your drink, legs curled under you. You’d tilt your head, hair falling over your shoulder, and you’d talk to him. And then you’d smile.

“You think she trusts you? You think she’d still smile at you if she knew what you’d do if you had the chance?” Gwi-Ma, c’mon, you know that’s just not nice. “She’d run. She’d scream. She’d hate you. And you’d still follow her, wouldn’t you? Like the dog you are.”

Mystery’s fingers curl against his bicep. He doesn’t growl often when no one’s around, but now? The sound rumbles deep in his throat.

Five boys, five different fantasies of you.

Five boys, five different ways Gwi-Ma knows exactly where to stick the knife.

Still, none of them has any intention of giving up on you. No matter how bad they are. No matter how many horrible things they’ve done.

Because they’re selfish. So selfish.

In the morning, you didn’t even crack your door until the entire place was silent. You didn’t want to talk to them. Not at all. Thought about that maybe your hot and cold behavior is annoying to them, but then you realized that they fucking deserve it.

You wait.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Twenty.

Until finally, you hear the front door shut.

You don’t want them around.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

(…Liar.)

It’s not about fear, not anymore. If you were going to break under their methods, it would’ve happened weeks ago. You’ve survived their intimidation, their boredom, their erratic moods, and yes, the “unspeakable crimes” they’ve committed in between and before you. The bloody, ugly reality of who they are doesn’t scare you the way it should.

You still need them.

Not in the way they need you, that messy, obsessed, barely contained yearning that makes them circle you. But in a quieter, more pathetic way. Because the need for other people? You can’t rip that out of yourself. And whether you like it or not, you’re connected to them. The long nights trapped together. The accidental moments of softness in between the tension. The way their presence fills up the air, makes it warm, makes it feel like something. You can’t replace that with silence.

You pad into the kitchen, bare feet against the polished floor, and find the space exactly as you knew it would be, abandoned mid-motion. Mugs left in the sink. Baby’s half crushed cigarette pack on the counter next to a bottle of some alcohol. Jinu’s jacket hanging off a chair.

Evidence of them. Proof that they exist in this space, in your space.

You make coffee. Not because you need it, you’ve been running on adrenaline and spite for months, but because you want to do something. So bad.

It is boring without them, you can admit that.

But you don’t want them here. (You do.)

You don’t miss them when they’re gone. (You do.)

You don’t need them. (…You really, really might.)

You take your coffee to the living room and curl up on the couch, mug warming your hands. The city sprawls out below the windows. So huge, so full of strangers, all of them living lives, affected or unaffected by the Saja boys.

You could be one of those strangers.

But you’re not.

You’re here.

And part of you, the part you hate most, is glad.

After the coffee and the empty apartment failed to fix the weird hollowness in your chest, you ended up out on the balcony.

For the whole damn day.

You set up a camp again, the same big towel draped across the lounge chair, drink on the little side table, sunglasses, your book.

It wasn’t about tanning. It was about existing outside without a chain around your ankle, even if that “freedom” was only twelve feet from a sliding glass door that could lock you in again at any second.

People could never understand how good this felt. No one could ever get it, that raw, animal relief in your chest when you’re reminded the world is still out there, that it’s bigger than the walls someone built around you.

It wasn’t just air and sun.

It was proof that life kept moving without them, without you, without the violence and paranoia and demon blood.

Were the girls moving on without you?

It was almost dark when you finally noticed the creeping chill on your skin, the way the light had gone from honey to blue. You stretched, slow and lazy, and watched the first streetlights flicker on below.

The sun was gone.

The day was done.

And you’d taken all of it for yourself.

You went inside. You dressed up, so you won’t be walking around in a bikini. Then you entertained yourself the best you could. Cooking something small in the kitchen. (You didn’t even set any aside for them, pointedly.) Playing with the tiger until it rolled over and allowed you the supreme honor of scratching its stomach without losing your hand. Changing Abby’s Netflix profile picture to something he would hate if it was any of the boys who did it, but you know he’ll love it because you changed it. Trying on a few clothes. Sat down with the bird for chess.

It was simple.

You loved simple.

Then, the slam of the front door.

Baby’s voice is the first you hear, sarcastic, pitched in that bratty way that says he’s been roasting someone since the elevator ride. Abby’s louder, talking over him just to win the volume war.

You hear Jinu’s voice, low but annoyed. “Could you not shove that there? It’s gonna—”

BANG.

“…fall. Yep. Perfect.”

Then Abby, laughing, “Lighten up, man, you’re so—”

THUD.

You hear the distinct sound of a zipper. Then Romance’s voice again, smug, unbothered, slightly breathless. “Stop looking. I’m just—adjusting.”

“Uh-huh.” Baby mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You are disgusting.” Abby adds helpfully.

“Jealous.” Romance fires back without missing a beat.

“Hi, Y/N.” Jinu says first.

“Hi, Y/N.” Abby echoes, but it’s drawn-out and sing-song, like he’s already planning on annoying you for the next half hour.

Baby sounds unbothered. “Hi, Y/N.”

Romance, of course, drags it out: “Hiii, Y/N.” While doing the mom wave.

Mystery watches the others throw their things around. “Hi, Y/N.”

You don’t look up.

Not once.

Not when Abby “accidentally” bumps the back of the couch with his hip hard enough to jostle you.

Not when Baby lingers too close, clearly trying to see what you’re doing.

Not when Romance sighs dramatically.

You sip your water like they’re not even there.

They’re trying to draw you out. Some subtle. Some… not. Cabinets slam open. Something clatters into the sink. There’s the unmistakable hiss of a soda can opening followed by Baby muttering, “That was mine” and Abby responding “Not anymore.”

“Y/N.” Jinu calls over his shoulder, voice still annoyingly kind. “You eat yet?”

You hum noncommittally. Not a yes. Not a no.

Abby drops something heavy and swears. Romance starts telling a story, except it derails halfway through when Baby calls him out on it being fake. Jinu tries to hand Baby a dish towel, Baby throws it at Abby’s head instead. Mystery opens a cupboard, closes it, opens another, and you swear you hear him mutter something about “salt.”

You keep ignoring them. Not because you’re mad. (Not entirely.) Not because you don’t want to see them. (You do.)

But because giving in and stepping out there now? That means they win. And you cannot, cannot, hand these five dipshits the satisfaction of knowing they can lure you out with noise and chaos alone.

So you sit. And you listen. And you pretend you don’t feel the corners of your mouth twitch every time one of them says something stupid enough to make the others laugh.

“Y/N, you thirsty?” Abby calls out after catching his breath.

Romance doesn’t even bother with subtlety. “I’ll bring you a drink, sweetheart. Then you’ll have to say thank you.”

Abby: “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? You want me to get you some the next time we’re out?”

Ignore.

“Did you do anything today?” Jinu asks.

“Did you read that book you were talking about?” Romance, watching your face.

You give them nothing. Just little “mm” sounds or not even that.

Abby leans halfway into the living room. “Do you ever wonder if fish know they’re in water?”

You pause, glance up briefly. “…No.”

Baby joins in, flicking ash into the sink. “If you had to eat one of us, who would taste the best?”

You don’t answer, because there’s no good response to that one.

It’s not just weird, it’s off.

The rhythm is wrong.

The tone’s wrong.

They’re trying, but… The questions aren’t curious so much as… unpracticed. Like they’re piecing together what “small talk” should be.

“How long has it been,” you say slowly. “since you had anything to do with humans?”

Silence.

They all just… look at you.

You can see it in their faces, you’ve touched a nerve. Not one they’re ashamed of, exactly, but one they’d rather not poke at in front of you.

They’re not bad at human talk, they just… aren’t human. Not anymore. Sure, they’ve got the appearance down. The clothes, the slang, the little modern habits they’ve picked up. But peel that away and there’s something else underneath, like the part of them that used to belong to humanity has been worn down to bone.

They’ve been apart from people, real people, for so long that they’ve forgotten the rhythm of humanity. Forgotten what normal connection sounds like.

And yeah… that’s actually kind of sad.

You lean back. “Sit down.”

Jinu sits down next to you. Abby flops down beside him with zero hesitation, a hand over Jinu’s shoulders. Mystery and Baby(who rolled his eyes and muttered “whatever”) sat down on either side of you, and yes, Baby had to squeeze himself between you and Jinu just so that he could 1. sit next to you, 2. fuck with Jinu. This is the only time Romance wasn’t the fastest, so he’s not that close for once.

They’re happy to be here.

With you.

“So let me get this straight,” you start, leaning back into the couch cushions while they all sit around you. “you only talk to your fans and me?”

There’s a collective shuffling, a few exchanged glances.

“You do interact with fans.” you press.

“Yeah,” Abby says. “when we’re signing stuff or onstage. You know.“

“So,” you continue. “outside of those moments, your social interaction is basically… me.”

There’s a pause, then five simultaneous, unapologetic “Yeah.”

You blink at them. “No wonder you sound like this.”

Baby doesn’t look at you. “Small talk’s boring.”

“Small talk’s human.” you counter. “It’s how people connect.”

Mystery tilts his head, hair falling. “We don’t need to connect. We already know each other.”

“That’s not the point.” You sit forward now, scanning all of them. “If you’re gonna live here and pretend to be normal celebrities, you have to at least sound like you’re part of the species you’re pretending to be.”

Romance raises his brows. “We’ve got Jinu for that.”

Jinu sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve tried. Trust me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” you say. “but clearly you failed, because they’re obviously not following whatever you told them.”

That earns you a round of offended noises, Abby’s exaggerated gasp, Baby’s scoff, Mystery nods, he can accept that. Romance just smiles, whatever you say about him he obviously likes.

You clap your hands together. “Alright. You don’t,” you say, looking directly at Baby. “start a conversation with cannibalism.”

Baby doesn’t look remotely ashamed. “It’s a valid question.”

“It’s a weird question.” you shoot back.

Mystery mutters something low that sounds suspiciously like, “Depends on the context” but you ignore him.

You point at Jinu. “Now, you. Give me an example of a normal opener.”

Jinu thinks for a second. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“Good.” you say, nodding. “Simple. Human. Non-threatening.”

You turn to Abby. “Your turn.”

Abby flashes you his most dazzling grin. “What’s your star sign?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Doesn’t always work.”

You keep going, making them throw examples at you while you swat down the creepy ones. Eventually, you start adding body language tips too.

“Okay, so when you’re listening to someone, you don’t just stare unblinking at them like you’re waiting for them to die.”

“That’s just Mystery’s face.” Baby says.

You glance at Mystery, who’s sitting still, hair curtaining his eyes, hands resting loosely in his lap. “…Yeah, but you can tilt your head a little. Nod sometimes. It makes people feel like you care.”

Mystery obliges by tilting his head toward you slightly. The effect is… honestly devastating.

“Not like you’re about to pounce.” you clarify quickly. “Next tip,” you say, pointing at Abby. “don’t stand too close. Humans like personal space.”

Abby leans back. “You don’t.”

“I really do. And when someone’s talking about something they like,” you go on. “ask follow-up questions. Show interest.”

“That’s easy.” Romance says. “Just pretend it’s about you.”

“No,” you snap. “you’re supposed to listen.”

You get into examples.

“Like, say I tell you I’ve been to the beach sixty-nine times—”

You don’t get further because Romance lets out a stifled giggle.

Your eyes narrow. “Really?”

He’s trying so hard to keep a straight face, lips pressed together, but you can see he’s about to laugh. In his head, you know exactly what’s happening: hehe funny sex number.

From there, you make them practice. You give them scenarios: meeting a stranger at a coffee shop, bumping into someone at a store, talking to a fan after a concert.

They… do okay. Jinu’s naturally good at it, obviously. Abby can charm but keeps pushing the line into flirty territory. Baby manages one normal conversation before devolving into sarcasm. Mystery actually listens when you talk, even if he doesn’t say much back. Romance… well. He’s clearly capable, but every time you give him a prompt, he twists it into something suggestive just to see your reaction.

You’ve got your head in your hands and they’re all either smirking, shutting the fuck up, or looking quietly pleased with themselves.

But for all the ways they’ve scared you, hurt you, and turned your life inside out… they’re still people. People who’ve forgotten how to be human. And you can’t help wondering what they’d be like if they remembered.

You suddenly picture what it must be like, to be trapped in their own weird, beautiful, cursed little world, no one around who treats them like just… people.

“There was a boyfriend I had in high school—“

It’s almost comedic how the air changes.

Oh, they hate this. Perfect.

“You had a boyfriend?” Abby asks, voice tight.

“I’ve had several.” you say cheerfully, ignoring the way they all visibly bristle. “That’s the point. The more personal details you share, the more the other person feels like they can share too.”

Romance leans forward, forearms on his knees. “And how many boyfriends are we talking, exactly?”

“Enough to have learned what I don’t like.”

He presses his tongue to his cheek. Mystery’s head turns an almost unnoticeable degree toward you. Baby mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like slut, but in the kind of way that’s 50% insult and 50% jealousy.

“So,” you continue like you don’t notice their collective mood curdling. “this one guy I dated was terrible at conversations. Always turned everything back to himself. And if you asked him a question, he’d answer with one word.”

Mystery gets a faint twitch at that, just enough for you to catch it.

“So if you don’t want to be that guy,” you tell them. “you need to show genuine curiosity. Ask questions back. Keep the ball rolling.”

Jinu nods, but his voice is a little tighter when he asks, “And… how long were you with him?”

“A year.” you say. “Yeah. We were young, it wasn’t serious—”

“You don’t date someone for a year if it’s not serious.” Abby cuts in, petty.

You tilt your head, smiling just enough to be infuriating. “Guess it depends on the definition of serious, doesn’t it?”

Romance leans back, arms crossed. “Okay, what about the others?”

You pretend to think. “Let’s see… there was the guy in college who cooked for me all the time—”

Abby immediately: “I can cook.”

You keep going. “—but he couldn’t handle it if I had male friends—”

Baby, muttering: “Smart guy.”

“—and there was the one who always remembered little things I liked—”

Jinu’s voice cuts in: “That’s important.”

“—and the one who was very… physically affectionate—”

That earns you a look from all five.

“I’m telling you this because when you’re talking to people, personal details matter. They make you real. If you want someone to feel close to you, you share stories they can picture. Like… my ex was into restaurants, so we—”

“Why are we talking about him?” Baby mutters, eyes narrowed.

“Because,” you snap. “you remember details about people you care about, and you bring them up later. It’s how you build connections.”

Romance leans in, voice low. “Connections, huh? Did you—”

“Don’t.” You point at him sharply. You glance at Jinu. “Ask me something about one of them.”

He pauses, then: “Why did it end?”

“Perfect question.” you say, ignoring how the others are all watching you. “I tell you it ended because we wanted different things, and then you can relate to it. Maybe you tell me about a time you wanted something different than someone else. See? Conversation. Connection.”

Mystery’s voice comes low and even, the first time he’s spoken in minutes. “What did you want that he didn’t?”

You glance at him, surprised by the directness. “Freedom. Space.”

BOOM. Y/N’s the boss everybody.

You start throwing them more examples from your own life, funny dates gone wrong, fights over stupid things, sweet moments that didn’t last. They hang on every word.

Not because they’re learning, though that’s happening too. But because you’re giving them pieces of yourself. Pieces they didn’t have before. And for five people who have made a hobby out of cornering you, it’s intoxicating.

Of course, they can’t help themselves.

“So… were any of them better looking than me?” Abby asks, straight-faced but with that glint in his eye.

“Obviously not.” you joke.

“Good answer.” he says.

Romance leans forward, voice smooth. “Which one kissed you best?”

You raise a brow. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You tell more little stories. Not the deep, emotional ones, just surface-level things that make your point. The boyfriend in high school who tried to impress you by juggling knives (and almost lost a finger). The one who bought you flowers. The one who learned to cook just to make you breakfast everyday.

They hate every single one. But they eat it up. Not because they like the idea of you with anyone else—clearly, they don’t—but because it’s you talking about yourself. It’s new information. New pieces of you they can add to whatever obsessive little shrine they keep in their heads. And every time you say, “When I was with—” you can practically hear the teeth grinding.

“You’re all missing the point.” you say. “I’m telling you this so you understand, human connections come with history. You have to respect that, even if you don’t like it. Pretending it didn’t happen just makes you look insecure.”

They don’t look convinced. But they’re listening.

“Alright.” you switch gears. “So, say you’re trying to make someone feel comfortable.” you say, turning toward Mystery. He’s the safest bet here. “You close the distance slowly…”

You shift forward, resting your hand lightly on his forearm. His head dips almost imperceptibly, and you feel the muscle under your fingers go tense.

“…and then you give them a reassuring touch. Nothing too long. Just enough to say, ‘I’m here.’”

Mystery doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. If it weren’t for the faint shift of his breathing, you’d think you’d broken him.

Abby looks at Mystery. “Respect, man.”

“Alright, Baby, your turn.” you say, moving toward him.

He scoffs, leaning back like he’s already above this. “You’re not gonna—”

You cut him off by resting your hand on his shoulder, thumb brushing lightly across the fabric of his shirt. His entire posture goes rigid.

“…The hell is this supposed to teach me?” he asks, but his voice has dropped half an octave.

“That touch is grounding.” you say sweetly. “Makes the other person feel seen. It’s subtle. Humans like subtle.”

He snorts, but doesn’t pull away. “Humans are weird.”

“Yep.” You pull back, ignoring the way his eyes follow you.

The others are not so lucky.

You keep the lesson going for over an hour, moving between physical cues, listening skills, and how to keep a conversation flowing. You tell them about how your mom always touched your elbow when she wanted you to know she was proud, or how one of your friends would always mirror your posture without realizing it.

They’re learning. Not just the fake social skills you’re trying to drill into them, but you. And you can tell they like that a little too much.

You should despise them. And you do, in the logical part of your mind. But logic doesn’t reach down into whatever deep, twisted place in you is quietly warmed by their attention. And there’s fear, too. The fear that you’re becoming like them. That you’re adapting too well. That they’re your boys.

You want to tell them to get out of your space.

You also want to keep them here, just like this.

You clear your throat, breaking the tension. “Alright. My turn to ask something.”

Abby raises a brow. “Go ahead.”

“What did you guys do today?” you ask, keeping your tone breezy.

There’s a tiny, synchronized pause. Just a heartbeat too long.

“Stuff.” Baby says immediately.

Romance nods. “Work.”

“Shopping.” Jinu adds. They didn’t bring anything home. They did not go shopping.

Mystery just sits in silence.

You’re not dumb, you know there’s always something they’re not telling you. Probably something bloody. Maybe something that would make you slam your door and stay in your room for the next week. But the fact that they all keep their answers shallow almost makes you want to laugh. They’re like kids caught with candy.

“Tell me something. Anything. Small.” You say.

Abby thinks for a second. “I once stole an entire case of beer from a truck without them noticing.”

“That’s not—” you sigh. “Okay, but that’s not exactly human small talk, Abby.”

Romance lifts a hand. “I can touch my tongue to my nose.”

“That’s… mildly disturbing, but thank you for sharing.”

Baby looks at you like you’re annoying. “I hate pineapple.”

You blink. “See, that’s actually good. That’s something normal people talk about.”

Mystery’s voice is so soft you almost miss it. “I like thunderstorms.”

You pause, then nod. “Better. See? You’re getting it.”

It’s simple conversation, but each answer lands heavier than it should. Not because of the words, but because of the vulnerability beneath them. They’re not used to telling anyone anything.

You find yourself smiling just a little. And that’s your cue to stop. Because if you keep going, you’re going to forget who you’re talking to.

You can’t take it anymore. Your voice comes out sharper than you meant when you say, “Alright, that’s it. Good night.”

You stand up before they can react, turning toward the hall.

You stop halfway, turn just enough to catch Jinu’s eye.

“Actually,” you say, voice casual but your heart hammering. “can you get… butter, sugar, flour, milk? And vanilla, if you can find good stuff.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “For what?”

“Cupcakes.”

He nods once. “Write me a list.”

You nod back. “Okay.”

Then you’re gone, retreating into your room before you can do something stupider, like smile.

You’ve barely shut your door before you pause. You crack your door open an inch and shout down the hall, loud enough for all of them to hear: “Y’know, people usually say good night.”

There’s a half-second of stunned silence.

“Good night, Y/N!” Jinu, steady, like he’s done this before.

“Night, sweetheart!” Romance, dripping with that teasing purr.

“’Night.” Baby, sounding like it physically pained him to form the word.

“Sleep well!” Abby, you can hear him flex.

“…Good night.” Mystery, actually trying to be loud so you can hear it.

…Pfft.

You shut it again, but not before they hear the tiny huff of laughter you didn’t manage to swallow. It’s not even about the words. It’s the fact that they all did it instantly. Like you told them to jump and they just did. Maybe it’s because somewhere in those stubborn brains of theirs, they want to do what you tell them.

You flop back onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.

This is so fucked.

If this isn’t a sign of some sort of mental problem, you don’t know what is.

In the living room though, five demons sit there, motionless.

“Ew, get off me.” Baby shoves Abby’s knee away from where it’s resting too close.

Abby shoves back, not even looking at him. “Wasn’t on you.”

“Get your bony-ass leg away from me.” Romance says to Baby, shoving him.

“You wish you could get near my leg.” Baby says.

“Dude.” Abby mutters, pulling his arm off Jinu’s shoulder as if Jinu was the one clinging.

Romance leans away from Mystery, who hasn’t moved an inch but is unfortunately sitting close enough to touch. “Dude. Personal space.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up.”

“You’re gross.”

“Ew, don’t touch me, your hand’s sweaty.”

“You’re sweaty.”

“No, you are.”

Jinu just sighs and leans back, pretending he’s above all this, but his hand still subtly adjusts the waistband of his pants, like it’s nothing, totally casual, not because he’s painfully aware that sitting next to you earlier had him half-hard for no good reason. Nope. Totally casual. Then he stands up and walks away. Romance stands abruptly, tugging his shirt straight and running a hand through his hair before leaving. Abby follows a moment later, but not before flicking Baby in the forehead. Baby growls, actually growls, and slaps at his arm without even looking. Mystery gets up silently, stretching his shoulders. He disappears down the hall without a word. Baby mutters something under his breath, and heads for the balcony.

And just like that, the living room is empty.

Jinu feels you in his pulse. Literally. His heart is beating faster than it should for a five-second exchange over groceries. You didn’t even touch him. But you looked at him like he was capable of giving you something. Even if it’s groceries, dude. That’s the problem. That little moment where you stopped, turned, and asked for something as normal as cupcake ingredients, he’s never wanted to say yes to anything faster in his life.

It’s pathetic.

And it’s already done. He’s picturing you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy, eyes down as you stir batter. He’s picturing licking frosting off your fingers.

Jinu swallows hard and drags a hand over his face. He’ll buy everything on that list. He’ll probably buy extras. Not because he cares about baking, god no, but because that frosting licking picture… Yeah. He wants that in real life.

He’s still got your voice in his head. Still sees that tilt of your head when you asked, the faint spark in your eyes like you knew he’d say yes.

It’s not about the damn cupcakes. It’s about the fact that you asked him. Not Abby, not Romance. Him.

And now he’s thinking about what it would be like if that was just… normal. If you lived with him because you wanted to. If you asked him to pick up things because you were making dinner together. If you leaned against his chest while you read out your grocery list into his phone.

God, he feels ridiculous. This is not what they do. But his pulse is high, his palms are warm, and he’s still fighting the stupid urge to smile.

He doesn’t just want you, he needs you(to fill him up) It’s not just lust (though, god, the way his heartbeat jumps when you lean too close makes him wonder if his chest is going to crack open one of these days). It’s everything. And just the thought of someone else touching you, laughing with you the way you sometimes (reluctantly) laugh with him makes his jaw tighten. Makes his fingers itch with something that’s definitely not gentlemanly at all. He’s not above admitting that he’s jealous of men who you don’t even talk to anymore. He hates them all the same. Because they had you, even for a moment, and Jinu’s living in a constant state of wondering if he’ll ever get that chance.

Romance has been with people before. Too many people. Pretty people. Dangerous people. People who purr back when he purrs at them.

But you? You’re not giving him anything. And that, god, that’s making him insane. He hates that you can just… exist in the same room, and he’s already restless, adjusting his pants like a teenager. He hates that he wants to push your door open right now, lean against the frame, and say something stupid enough to make you roll your eyes. Because that’s all he wants, your attention, even if it’s annoyed. Nobody wants that cookie like he does.

And yes, he’s that guy. The guy who gets all worked up from the smallest interaction and immediately needs to… deal with it. Because you, sitting there, teaching them, looking so serious and so pretty, using your hands when you spoke, he can’t get it out of his head. You’re so human, and that drives him insane in a way nothing else does.

He’s already imagining how it’d be if you were his. And of course, his imagination isn’t exactly G-rated. But even in his filthiest daydreams, there’s this annoying sweetness, like you’d kiss him after you yelled at him, like you’d fall asleep on his chest after.

He knows how to treat women so right that they fall straight into his arms, but with you, it’s impossible for him to use that knowledge for some reason. Not just because he wants to get into your pants (though he really does), but because he can’t stop himself. He likes the way you react. He likes when you roll your eyes, when you shoot back with something. He likes that you keep rejecting him, because it means he gets to keep trying.

Romance is—

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Romance is already—Romance, can you stop humping your pillow? I— oh, he’s… he’s really going at it, okay.

Look, you can’t blame him. The ex-boyfriend stuff? Oh, that’s a nightmare for him. It’s not just jealousy, it’s obsession. Who were they? What did they do to make you like them? Did they touch you the way he wants to?

It gets so bad that he catches himself grinding into his pillow, imagining your voice in his ear and hating himself for it. Not enough to stop, though. Never enough to stop. Romance lives for attention, but yours? That’s a different drug. And like all good addictions, it’s rotting him from the inside out.

Two minutes later, if anyone cared to listen, they’d hear his headboard hitting the wall in a steady rhythm.

Romance is coping.

Abby knows you’re hot. He knows you’re off-limits. He knows you’re too human for him to ever not break. And yet here he is, sitting on his bed, grinning to himself because you were a little petty tonight. He loves when you’re petty.

It’s a spark in you. A flick of teeth. And it makes him want to pull it out of you more and more, until maybe you’re laughing instead of sighing. Or maybe you’re moaning instead of talking.

But it’s more than that. Way more. You asking Jinu for cupcake stuff made him picture you feeding him one. Like, literally holding it to his mouth. He’s not proud of that, but the image is stuck. And now his chest feels too tight, his palms are restless, and he wants to throw something just to get it out of his system. He probably will. But it won’t help. He’s had entire clubs screaming his name. He’s had people offer him their souls on a plate. But a single ask for groceries that wasn’t even directed to him has his chest hot. Anytime you’re near, his pulse kicks up, his palms get sweaty, and his mouth gets dry, which he hates, because he’s supposed to be smooth.

There’s this picture in his head, you, on his arm. Not just standing next to him, but on him. Holding onto his bicep when you laugh, looking up at him when some guy gets too close, leaning against him at a party while his massive frame makes you look even smaller.

You’d look so good together, and he knows it. He’d show you off. Hell, he’d brag about you. Let the whole damn human world see that you were his.

And yeah, he’d still be an asshole, still tease you, still toss you over his shoulder when you annoyed him, but in his head, you’d be smiling while you hit him for it.

Every time you mentioned an ex, he felt like someone shoved a hand into his chest and twisted. It’s not even about whether they were better-looking than him (impossible, in his humble opinion). It’s the idea that you once smiled for someone else the way he wants you to smile for him. It burns in him, this restless, territorial heat. He’s not even thinking about the torture or the kidnapping or the months you’ve spent here, he’s thinking about how unfair it is that anyone got to press their mouth to yours before he did. (It’s so fair, he’s a horrible man who deserves to suffer.)

He convinces himself he’s more man than all of them combined. He hates them. All of them. Thinks they were probably half his size, half his presence, half his everything.

He’s just really insecure. Not about his looks, no. Of his worth.

Baby plays it cool. Always. Except his blood’s hot right now, and he’s pretending not to notice. He hated how you didn’t even glance his way when you left. Or maybe he liked it. He can’t tell anymore. But the second you turned back for Jinu, his stomach dropped. Not in a jealous way (he tells himself), just… in a way. Cupcakes. Of all things. Innocent. Taste good. And it hit him like a train, this picture of you leaning over a counter, tasting batter with your finger, licking it clean without thinking about it.

He had to adjust his pants when no one was looking.

Cupcakes? Whatever. Stupid human dessert. But the way you’d said it, casual and soft, like you trusted Jinu to make it happen, that’s what’s stuck in his head.

Why not him? Why didn’t you ask him?

And the boyfriends, fuck the boyfriends. If he could, he’d hunt down every last one and make them regret ever breathing near you. The thought of you laughing for someone else, kissing someone else. It burns.

And yeah, maybe he’d never admit it out loud, but he’s thought about how it would be if you actually liked him back. How you’d probably roll your eyes at everything he said but still take his jacket when you were cold. How you’d never admit you wanted him but still end up tangled in his bed sheets.

It’s infuriating, because he can control himself in literally every other situation, but the second you glance at him with that unimpressed little look, his pulse kicks into overdrive. His palms sweat. His mouth goes dry.

Mystery always thinks so much. His brain is always working. You picked Jinu tonight, sure. You asked him for something. But Mystery caught the way you glanced around first, like maybe you wanted them all to hear it. Like maybe you wanted to see who’d react.

And he reacted.

He’s picturing you in the kitchen, light on your bare legs, your hair messy from sleep. He’s picturing watching you without you knowing. Just watching until you felt him there.

It’s worse than bloodlust. It’s deeper. He can’t stop picturing you telling him to do things in that voice of yours—not orders, exactly, just… suggestions. Gentle ones. Like, “Mystery, come here.” And he would. Every time. No hesitation. He knows he would spoil you without even meaning to. Fetch you whatever you wanted. Carry you if you were tired. Let you braid his hair even though he’d grumble about it.

And maybe that’s pathetic. Maybe that’s why he stays quiet. But fuck, he’d do anything you said.

When you mentioned a past boyfriend, Mystery’s first thought isn’t “I hate him” so much as Where is he? How fast can I remove him from existence? Not that he’d ever admit that aloud.

You’re the only human he speaks to. The only human he’s let get this close without baring his teeth. That makes you his, whether you accept it or not.

Five demons. Five sets of thoughts you’ll never know about.

Five men who’ve killed without blinking, now sitting in their rooms with their hearts beating too fast over a human girl asking for cupcake ingredients.

It’s pathetic. It’s sweet. And it’s already far too late for them to stop.

Thank you my loves for the memes💋

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