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iwanttoreadsusthings · 6 days ago

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YES, YES MYSTERY HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH ME, YES I ABSOLUTELY WILL SPEND TIME WITH HIM, THANK YOU VERY MUCH

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 4

I wanted to write more events for this part, but there’s a limit sadly and I underestimated it waaay too much. Anyways, shit starts to get intimate in the sweet way.

cw: physical fights, cursing, still a lot of sexual themes, Stockholm Syndrome developing, dumbass men

The thing is, the girls want their assistant back.

And not just because you’re important. Not just because you know the girls’ patterns, where Rumi stashes her favorite backup daggers, Mira’s real name (which nobody is supposed to know), or Zoey’s weaknesses. It’s not even about strategy anymore. They want you back because you’re theirs. Their little right-hand angel. You brought them tea before demon hunts, patched up wounds, stayed up researching until your eyes burned and your hands shook.

Now you’re gone.

Yeah, turns out, you had them all wrapped around your little finger, and never even tried.

It’s been—what? A month? Two? You stopped counting after the second week because time gets weird when you’re basically a prisoner in a loft that has seven bedrooms and zero privacy. They’ve all got supernatural senses, so nothing is secret. Jinu can sense your mood from down the hall. Abby can hear your heartbeat spike if you so much as think of escape. Romance just…knows. You have no idea how. But he knows when you’re lying, when you’re sad, when you’re lowkey horny (which is so annoying, because he acts like it’s about him—it’s not). Even Baby—little brat Baby who looks like he should be in detention—is constantly sniffing around, only to get bored and poke your shoulder like a child just to piss you off. Mystery doesn’t note on anything he can feel about you, but once he growled at Romance once when he tried to kiss your hand.

But somehow, despite the kidnapping, the light torture, and being the world’s prettiest emotional support hostage—you’ve… adjusted. Kind of.

Even though Romance tried to woo you with supernatural roses he bought up to the human world that screamed when they died.

Even though Baby offered to kill Bobby for you, said it like he was asking if you wanted fries.

Even though Abby carried you to the roof one night—literally picked you up—just so you could watch the stars, and said, “Don’t say I never do anything romantic.” Then promptly tried to kiss you.

Even though Jinu is worse. Gentle. Careful. Never tries anything. Just exists near you like he’s waiting for your soul to recognize his.

Even though Mystery… Mystery claps when Abby does a flip and also claps when you squeeze a lemon into Romance’s eyes

You know they like you.

You know. You’re not an idiot. Not blind, either.

You don’t need a vision from the heavens or a love confession, though you got many of that already. You’re not fourteen. You see the way they look at you. The way they move around you.

You’ve known for a while.

God, you remember when Jinu simply told you he’s interested. Just the truth.

He didn’t even touch you. Just stared across the battlefield of little black and white pieces and laid his feelings down like a move. Your hands were trembling so slightly then, you thought he might’ve noticed. Of course he did. They all do. There’s no hiding in a place where you can’t even sneeze without someone five rooms down saying “bless you” and be so proud of themselves too for knowing human things like this.

And then there’s Romance. Gods, Romance. Subtlety? He doesn’t know her.

You could be brushing your teeth, and he’ll walk in all dressed up, acting like he’s there to borrow toothpaste when everyone knows he’s just there to be seen. The man purrs. He purrs. That’s not a metaphor. He’ll lean against the doorframe, arms folded, voice dropping just low enough to be illegal in several countries, and say something like—

“Let me know if you ever get lonely at night. I don’t snore. Much.”

He doesn’t even care if you roll your eyes. He loves the chase. Loves when you tell him off gently, when you glare at him across the kitchen counter or throw a pillow at his head.

Abby’s not much better.

He’s the type to act like he’s not even trying. Just walks around shirtless, flexing. Pretends not to notice when you do notice. Every touch is casual, but not casual. Every time he calls you sweetheart or cupcake or worse—good girl—you want to set something on fire. Preferably his abs. For the greater good.

But you’ve caught him staring when you aren’t looking. He tries to laugh it off, but it cracks something behind his eyes. There’s real shit going on under that cocky exterior, and it wants you.

Even Baby, for all his “I’m too cool for this” energy, is obvious in the way that makes you want to scream into a pillow. He’s horrible. Picks fights with you over the dumbest things. Snaps gum in your ear when you’re trying to read. But he’s always around.

You’ll sit down in one of the ridiculously plush armchairs, and within five minutes, he’s there. Perched on the armrest, legs dangling, pretending to be bored. If you ignore him, he sighs dramatically. If you look at him, he sighs as if you’re annoying him.

You almost punched him. You also almost kissed him. Which is… terrifying.

And then there’s Mystery. The flower. Him trying at small talk, opening towards you, no more needed to say.

So yeah.

You know they like you. Every last one of them.

And what the fuck are you supposed to do about that?

Because it’s not just harmless flirting. Not just attention.

It’s heavy. It’s real. It’s aching.

They’re not playing games, not really. They don’t have time. They’ve seen too much, lost too much, been used too much.

You’re their first love in centuries. And it’s not a soft thing. It’s a suffocating thing. A hungry, endless, terrifying thing. They want you in ways that have nothing to do with bodies and everything to do with fate.

You miss the girls.

You miss freedom.

You miss peace.

But every time you think about leaving, there’s a tug in your chest.

What’s happening now?

Mira’s blade slashes through the air. Jinu blocks it with one arm like he means to get cut—show-off. Sparks fly. The wind howls. The rooftop is chaos.

Three girls against five ancient, demon-marked, cocky-as-fuck man-children who just will not die. Or stop talking.

“God, you’re all so loud.” Zoey huffs, leaping back from Mystery’s claws. She lands with a spin, barely catching her breath before going in again.

Mystery doesn’t say a word, so she obviously wasn’t talking to him. He just growls low in his throat, eyes glinting. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smirk.

Because Zoey’s been giggling. She tries to swing at him, dead serious—and still, still she giggles when she misses. Every time.

Mira’s faring better. She’s relentless. Precise.

Jinu is not even trying. His shirt’s half-torn open (like he planned it, asshole), and his arms are crossed while dodging. Calm. Elegant. Smiling. He doesn’t block—he flows.

Mira screams something wordless and furious at him, and he bows. Actually bows. Then catches her blade mid-swing with two fingers.

“Careful.” he says, voice syrupy smooth. “You’ll chip it.”

Abby is doing what Abby does.

He’s shirtless. Obviously. Gleaming with sweat. Just flexing and dodging, muscles moving under skin.

Baby is on his phone??

Well, he was, until Rumi noticed him and took the chance to attack. Suddenly Baby’s behind Rumi now, twirling a blade like it’s a fidget toy, expression completely blank.

Unbothered. Unbothered like he didn’t just try to stab her ribs. Unbothered like he didn’t vanish and reappear behind her within half a second.

“You’re so slow.” Baby says, like he’s disappointed in her for being mortal.

Rumi snarls, swings at his neck, and he disappears again, laughing quietly—more breath than sound. But Rumi ducks past Baby and nearly lands a hit on him.

He hums. “Almost.”

Now Mira’s holding her own with Abby—barely. Mira actually snarled the first time he winked at her mid-swing. (He’s winked three more times since. She’s missed twice.)

Zoey’s tangled up with Mystery. Which is a sentence that sounds more sexual than it should, but really it’s just fast, brutal, and completely quiet—except for Zoey’s occasional giggle, just again.

Romance, unbothered to help, rolls his shoulders. “Can’t we just agree you all missed us? You clearly came looking for a reason to see us again.”

“No, we came to end you.” Rumi hisses, cutting through the air with a blade that actually manages to scrape Jinu’s cheek.

“Mm. You always say that.” Jinu murmurs.

Romance pushes off the wall, finally stepping into the fight with a little spin. “You act like you don’t love playing with us. But you do. I can feel it. Or maybe that’s just Y/N rubbing off on us.”

Everything stops.

Everything.

A beat.

Rumi drops her blade an inch. Mira’s punch falters mid-air. Zoey—giggles stop.

“What,” Rumi says slowly. “did you just say?”

Romance freezes. Looks at the girls. Then at the boys.

“…What? I’m just saying she’s rubbing off on us. Her little quirks. The sighing. The eyerolls. The way she complains when we track mud into the—”

“YOU DICK.” Abby snarls, charging at him and shoving his shoulder hard.

“Are you stupid?” Baby mutters.

Mystery hisses. Not growls—hisses—like he’s ready to physically maul Romance on the spot.

Jinu grabs Romance by the collar, dragging him a step back like they’re not in the middle of whatever this is. His voice is low, barely audible. “Do you want her taken from us?”

Romance blinks, realizing a half-second too late that he just lit the wrong fuse.

“Oh.” he says. “Oh.”

Mira steps toward them, blade dropped at her side, forgotten.

Zoey’s hand trembles near her belt. “She’s alive?”

“No.” Rumi says, almost choking. “She’s there. She’s with them.”

Mira looks at each of them. Her face is unreadable. Flat and dangerous. “You kidnapped her.”

None of the boys speak.

Romance swallows.

Baby won’t meet their eyes. Not because he feels bad, just the little bird on that lamppost is way more interesting.

Abby’s mouth opens, then closes. Then he mutters, “Fucking idiot.” and punches Romance in the gut. Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to say you fucked up.

“She was ours,” Zoey whispers, eyes glassy. “She’s—she’s ours.”

And maybe that’s the thing the boys didn’t calculate properly. Because in their little yearning hearts, they thought they were the only ones who needed you. But the girls? The girls have bled with you. They’ve cried in your arms. They had done this and that and whatnot and everything that makes them want you back.

Romance opens his mouth. Mystery kicks him in the shin. “OW! What?!”

“They didn’t know.” Mystery says flatly. First words of the night.

Romance finally glances at the girls properly, face sobering as reality sets in. “…Okay, yeah, we should go.”

“Now you think that?” Baby snaps, turning on his heel.

“She knows we’re coming.” Mira growls, stepping forward.

“Knew that already.” Baby mumbles. “She’s not stupid.”

Zoey finally cracks. “Is she okay?! You took her, and now you want us to believe—”

“Shut up.” Jinu says. (AN: guys I’m cackling up at myself it’s fucking HILARIOUS that he’s mean like that)

Abby looks at Romance. “You’re such a dick, bro.”

“I’m not leaving.” Baby says, crossing his arms. “Not after all that. Now I wanna see what happens next.”

“What happens next,” Jinu says like he’s talking to a child. “is we get killed.”

“I kinda like those odds.” Mystery says darkly.

Of course he does.

Then Zoey speaks, voice shaking just slightly—“Did she… did she say anything about us?”

Rumi doesn’t wait for a cue. Doesn’t wait for answers. Just screams bloody rage and grief and fuck you forever and charges.

Mira follows instantly, eyes flaming.

Zoey’s scream is less words and more war cry.

And suddenly the girls are everywhere.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Romance blurts, eyes going wide. “Okay okay OKAY—”

“I TOLD YOU.” Abby roars, grabbing his wrist.

Jinu steps back with perfect posture, calmly cracking his neck like it’s just time to clock out of work. “Let’s go.”

Mystery doesn’t even blink. Just vanishes—one blink and he’s gone.

“Are we teleporting or running?!” Romance yells, backpedaling fast as Mira’s blade nearly takes his face.

“YES.” Jinu shouts over the wind.

Abby grabs Baby by the collar. “We’ll go—NOW—”

“I CAN DO IT MYSELF—”

“DON’T CARE—”

Romance grabs onto Abby with one hand. “CAN WE ALL AGREE THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT—”

“IT WAS ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT—”

And just like that, the rooftop is silent. Boys gone.

The wind dies.

The girls stand alone.

Fuming.

Abour an hour later, the door bursts open.

They’re loud. They’re bleeding. They smell like smoke and wet asphalt and one of them is holding something wrapped in someone’s jacket sleeve.

You blink. Petting the tiger, sitting on the carpet. Its tail swishes once. “Hi.” you say, not looking up.

You feel the way the boys freeze in the doorway. There’s a split-second of silent debate, like someone might just back out and pretend they walked into the wrong house. But then—

“Heyyyy.” Abby drawls, walking forward like he hasn’t got a cut across his cheek. “Look at you, still awake. Missed us?”

You hum. “Something like that.”

Romance appears behind him next, limping slightly but smiling. "You would not believe what just happened to us. Jinu?”

Jinu sighs, so fucking done with Romance starting shit and Jinu having to finish it. Not even only in this scenario. Then, he quickly makes something up. “We saved a kid. From a burning building.”

Abby waves his hands. “A dog! It was a dog. A whole dog shelter. We saved like… twenty-five dogs.”

Romance nods. “There was an alien. I swear. This thing came outta the sewer, babe, big eyes, like wet beach balls, all like blee-blop, and I—“ he points to himself “—punched it.”

They all pause. Realize. They just said completely different things.

You stare at them for a beat. “That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

Jinu rolls his eyes at the other two then keeps going. “Okay, technically it was a burning animal shelter. So Abby isn’t wrong. You’re not wrong, Abby. But the fire started ’cause someone knocked over a candle. There was a candle. For the dogs.” Jinu is such a loser. Such a loser, god. And he’s supposed to be better than the others.

Abby nods quickly, walking towards the kitchen already. “Yeah! Candle dogs. Like aromatherapy. For their nerves. They were…” he squints, struggling for words. “stressed dogs.”

Romance raises his brows at you. “You should’ve seen me. Shirt off—obviously. Fire blazing behind me. I had this kitten in one arm—little guy was shaking, scared shitless—and I look back, flames in my eyes, and I saved it.”

“Sure you did.” you say dryly, watching as the tiger-cat leans its entire head into your hand. “Is that why Abby looks like he got tackled by a lawnmower?”

“I’m fine.” Abby calls from the kitchen, already chugging on something.

Then Baby walks in, dead silent. Expression bored. Disinterested. Pacing straight past you toward the fridge.

You say nothing. He says less.

Which means: he’s really happy to see you.

“—and I was nearly kissed by a banshee.” Romance continues, “but I told her I was taken. She screamed anyway. That’s not the point. The point is, we’re fine. You should’ve seen us. Heroes. Real shit.“

You finally glance at him. “Romance.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Shut up.”

Abby snorts into his shaker bottle.

While Mystery just lowers himself slowly, settling beside you on the floor. His shoulder brushes your thigh. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you. But his head tilts just slightly toward your hand as it runs over the tiger-cat’s fur.

Abby’s voice comes from the kitchen. “And I kicked a dude. In the head! Like whack! His whole tooth came out. Might’ve been mine. But still.“

Jinu sighs. “That wasn’t a dude. That was a fence post. You roundhouse-kicked a fence post. And then apologized to it. There was no dude.”

“Not with that attitude.” Baby mutters, digging out a can of something vaguely carbonated.

Romance doesn’t listen to you telling him to shut up. Why would he? “Listen. What we went through tonight… I looked death in the eye. But I thought of you. I said, “No. I gotta get back to her. Can’t die here. Not like this. Not with this much chest out.””

You turn to look at them fully now, petting slowing. Brows raised. “So let me get this straight. You all went to the same place. Fought the same thing. And yet every single one of you has a different version of events?”

Romance: “Multiverse?”

Jinu: “We split up.”

Baby: “Can you stop talking to us?”

Abby: “I peed in a bush.”

That’s not a lie.

You sigh.

God. You should care more. You should press. You should catch the lies and squeeze the truth out of their cocky throats. But… You don’t. You don’t even suspect what actually happened out there. You don’t see the bruises for what they are. Don’t notice the way Jinu keeps glancing at you to see if you believed the lie. Don’t hear the way Baby breathes a little easier the longer you sit next to them. Don’t realize Mystery’s quiet lean is the closest he’s come to comfort in centuries.

Because all you see are idiots. Sexy, beat-up, broken-nosed idiots trying to lie their way through an obvious catastrophe.

All five of them? Tripping over each other’s fake stories? Really?

You lean back into the couch, pretending you believe them. Just for tonight.

Because they came home.

They came home to you.

And even if they’re lying bastards with god complexes and way too many abs between them…you’re still glad they did.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re all wrong for what they’ve done. You know that. You never forget it. They held you against your will. They kept you from the girls—your girls—who would’ve torn the world open to find you if they knew where to look. And now they do. (You don’t know that yet. But they do.)

And still…

You don’t even try to leave anymore.

But they changed, too. Not all the way. Not enough. Not where it counts, but… enough.

So yeah. They’re wrong. They’re still lying to you—badly, tonight—but it’s desperation. It’s fear. It’s the only way they know how to keep you.

Because they know—they know—that if you had the chance, the real chance, the safe one…

You’d leave.

You’d go running back to Mira, Rumi, Zoey. You’d take the hand they offered and vanish into the night with them, never once looking back.

So they lie.

They lie like children.

They lie with the panic of five lonely immortals who got one taste of softness and can’t stand the thought of going back to their hell without it.

You never asked for this. You didn’t want to be their comfort, their strange little mercy. You were supposed to be their enemy. A little help then a soul taken. And now you’re sitting in their living room, heart thudding slow, steady, full of goddamn dread because you caught yourself thinking—

“I’m glad they came back safe.”

You are.

You’re not okay with this. You’re not forgiving them. They’re still dangerous. They’re still wrong. They still can’t let you go.

But…

But.

Mystery’s shoulder is pressed into yours.

Romance is humming something low. Abby’s looking at himself in the hallway mirror. Baby’s doesn’t put gum in your hair anymore. Jinu is mostly an asshole to everyone except you, you just don’t know that.

You don’t move.

You don’t run.

You don’t cry.

You just sit.

You’re still not free. And you’re still staying.

Jinu disappears toward the hallway, muttering something about a shower.

Romance follows, winking at you before you can say anything. “Don’t miss me too much, sweet girl.”

“I never do.”

“You doooo.” he sings from down the hall.

It’s been two months.

Two whole months.

Which meant when you ovulated, Romance went feral. (AN: y’all asked for it)

Not in a hot way. In a “we’re going to need a spray bottle” kind of way. He followed you around the entire apartment with dilated pupils and this low, mewling sound in his throat. At one point, he sat on the floor of the laundry room with his forehead pressed to the dryer whispering, “Just one bite. Just one little bite.”

You had to barricade yourself in your room for the day. Abby called him a pervert. Baby told him to go jack off and shut the fuck up. Mystery stared at the wall and didn’t come near you. Jinu rolled his eyes at Romance but listened to him talk about you anyway. Abby kept offering to “get it out of your system.” whatever the fuck that meant.

Back around your first period here, you cried once. Just once. Just out of nowhere. Sat on the floor in your bathroom with that aching pressure in your back, and your hormones all upside down and stupid, and cried.

And Romance—that sick son of a bitch—moaned through the wall. Actually moaned. “Are you crying? Is that real? Oh my GOD, she’s crying, this is the best day of my death, I’m gonna cum—”

So yeah.

Now, though?

Now you’re back to the start of the cycle. The cramps hit yesterday. The bloating. The grump.

Which brings you to the current situation:

Period cramps. Nothing world-ending, just enough to ruin your posture, your mood, and your ability to trust god.

So you’re in the kitchen. Fruit salad. It’s pretty. You’re pretty. The knife glides across strawberries, the lemon juice stings your fingers. It’s quiet. Almost peaceful.

“Yooo.” Abby calls, walking in. “What’s cooking, good-looking?”

“Fruit.” you mutter. “Your brain would reject it.”

“Ouch.” he raises an eyebrow, leaning on the counter like he wasn’t just at the gym bench pressing Jinu. “Also, that’s not cooking.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

You don’t even look at him. Just cut another kiwi slice. You feel like shit. Your lower stomach’s twisting. Your back’s sore. But instead of anyone doing something nice like shutting the fuck up, you get Abby.

He reaches for a piece of mango.

You smack his hand with the flat of the knife.

“WHOOOO!!” he hollers. (Just hootin n hollerin🥀)

“Don’t touch my shit.”

“It’s our kitchen.”

“It’s my bowl.”

“You’re being kinda gatekeepy right now.” God, he looks so proud that he knows that word.

“You’re being kinda concussed in two seconds if you don’t leave me alone.”

He grabs a strawberry anyway.

You flick a piece of orange peel at him. He dodges, but still yells “AHHHH!” like you just shot him.

“You’re a child.” you mutter.

“Sexy child.” he replies instantly.

You grimace. “That came out so wrong.”

You resist the urge to throw the fruit bowl. Mostly because it’s your fruit bowl and you like it.

“Baby’s a fucking nightmare, by the way.”

“Oh?” Abby leans on the counter, brutal forearms btw.

“He unplugged my fan while I was sleeping. Then tried to gaslight me into thinking it was never plugged in.”

Abby snorts. Like, whole chest laugh. Head thrown back. Bastard.

“What’s he even doing right now?” you mumble, cradling your chin in your palm.

With zero hesitation, he starts making the wanking gesture with one hand, raises his brows, then adds the second hand for emphasis—like it’s a two-person job—and finishes it off with a dumb throat-clearing groan.

“Abby.”

He does it harder.

You close your eyes.

He adds a grunt.

You slam the knife on the cutting board. “Shut up.”

“Hand against the wall. One leg up. Really getting into it.”

“Abby.”

You hear him moving closer behind you. Not too close—he’s not completely suicidal—but enough that you feel the vibration of his voice when he speaks again.

“…You alright though?”

You stiffen.

He doesn’t say what he means. Doesn’t say you smell like pain today or your uterus is screaming, or I can hear your joints aching from three rooms away.

He just says that. You alright.

You nod. Quiet. Focused on blueberries now.

Warm hands land on your shoulders.

You tense.

Because—what the fuck.

They’re big. Warm. Too warm. You forget, sometimes, how hot their bodies run. It seeps through the fabric of your shirt.

You don’t move.

Because oh god.

He’s massaging you.

“Jesus Christ.” you breathe, not even meaning to say it.

Abby laughs, low, smug, voice too close to your ear now.

You glare at the cutting board. “Why are you touching me.”

“Just shut up, baby.”

God.

You hate that he’s good at this.

Not in a professional way, you can feel he’s rusty. His rhythm is weird, uneven. He clearly hasn’t given a massage in like three hundred years. He’s doing that thing where one thumb pushes too hard and the other forgets it’s supposed to help. But even so…

You sigh, soft. Accidentally. Almost a moan.

“Yeah.” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Say please.”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

He snorts. Adjusts his grip. Presses the heel of his palm into the meat of your shoulder. It hurts. In that good way.

You mutter something between a groan and a prayer.

Abby’s hands move lower. Carefully. Slowly. Like he knows he’s testing your limits but doesn’t want to scare you off. Which is shocking, honestly. He’s not exactly known for tact. More known for shirtlessness, swearing, and shoulder-checking Mystery into walls when bored.

But now? Now he’s… being good. Well. As good as he gets.

“I’m genuinely impressed.” you say flatly, staring at your half-finished fruit bowl. “You haven’t tried to motorboat me once.”

“Tempting.” he says. “But I’m saving that for when you cry at a movie and need comforting.”

He doesn’t know what MySpace is but knows what motorboating someone means, fantastic.

“Do you even know how to comfort someone?”

“Yeah.” he says, dragging his thumbs down your spine, making something in you flinch and melt at the same time. “Like this.”

You let out a bark of laughter. Can’t help it. You tilt your head back a little and look up at him.

He’s already watching you.

That cocky little smirk still on his lips, but softer now. Faint. Barely there.

His eyes flick over your face, quick, like a scan. He sees the flush. The tiredness. The pain you’re trying not to show. He always does.

And for once—he doesn’t tease. He just keeps massaging. Hands steady. Fingers firm. Breaths slow.

You look away first.

His hands trail back up, thumbs circling behind your neck again. Your eyes flutter. You hate that it feels good. Hate that it’s him giving it to you.

But hate isn’t the right word anymore.

It hasn’t been for weeks.

He’s evil, sure. Still cocky, still loud, still dumb as a sack of rocks when it comes to boundaries. But he touches you like… like this. And right now? He’s the only thing keeping the pain at bay. So you don’t stop him. You don’t ask him to let go. You just let yourself be. For once.

Until he ruins it.

“You know,” he says suddenly, breath hot against your neck. “if you need me to help alleviate the cramps—”

You elbow him in the stomach. Hard. He laughs through it, wheezing a little. Still proud.

Still a fucking idiot.

And yet—his hands never leave you.

And then, there’s that weird, tight ache like a sob forming out of nowhere. The stinging behind your eyes. A single sniffle that escapes before you can catch it.

“Hey.” Abby says quietly, still behind you, still massaging. “…What’s going on?”

Your mouth opens. But you can’t talk. Not really.

He takes his and off you and turns you around by the shoulders, and god, you’re crying.

“I’m fine.”

“No, no, no.” he says, voice going from smug to soft in a heartbeat. “Hey. Hey. Don’t do that—what’s going on? Did I hurt you? Are you—”

You hiccup. “Noooo—You’re—” you choke out. “You’re just—!”

Abby blinks. “I’m just…?”

“You’re so—” your hands flap uselessly near your chest. “You’re just—!”

He stares. “…I’m what?”

“Nice!” you sob

“…Nice.” Even he doesn’t believe that.

You nod violently. A hiccup punches out of your lungs. “You’re so nice to me, and—and—and you were massaging me and you didn’t even try anything and, and you’re such an angel, and I don’t deserve—”

You’re a mess. Shaking and clutching your little fruit bowl like it’s a teddy bear. Cheeks blotchy. Mouth open and useless. Hormones and hunger and affection all conspiring to break your soul.

You’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen. And he’s seen kittens. This is worse.

“I—I just touched your back, man.” he says, holding up his hands like they’re evidence. “It wasn’t that deep.” He takes one hesitant step toward you, then takes it back like he’s afraid you’ll cry harder.

Which—you do. Wipe at your cheeks with the back of your wrist. Nose red, eyes glossy, lips wobbling. You are so, so done.

That’s when Jinu walks in.

Buttoning his crisp shirt. He opens his mouth to ask something—maybe about the smell of fruit or where Baby put the remote—and immediately freezes.

Because there you are. Crying in the kitchen. Smelling like fruit. Looking like an angel.

And Abby looks like he just got caught breaking a fucking law.

“…What happened?” Jinu asks, slowly, stepping into the room.

You spin toward him.

“Jinu.” you sob. “He’s so nice.”

Jinu’s brows draw together. “Who?”

“HIM.” You point to Abby like you’re accusing him of murder. “He massaged me. And didn’t even grope me! And he was helping and he’s an angel and I just—!”

You hiccup. Sniffle. Blubber. You’re basically melting into your own hands now. Entire body trembling.

“He’s so nice, Jinu.” you whisper.

Jinu glances at Abby.

Abby stares back at him, mouth agape. Then he gestures helplessly, mouthing I didn’t do anything!!

Jinu blinks, then takes a single step closer to you, reaching slowly.

“Y/N…” he says gently. “It’s okay. Come here.”

You don’t hesitate.

You launch yourself into his arms.

Jinu freezes. Then gently wraps his arms around you, wide-eyed, careful, calm. One hand rubs your back like he’s petting something small and traumatized. The other hovers awkwardly for a second before settling on your waist. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing into his shirt, while he strokes your hair and murmurs something soft in a language you don’t understand.

And behind you, Abby is standing completely frozen. Still gaping. Mouth open. Eyes wide. One hand still in midair like he forgot what hands even do.

What the fuck is happening.

What the FUCK is happening.

He’s not built for this. He’s not equipped. This is an emotional boss battle and he’s only got a sword made of dick jokes and gym stats.

Jinu, to his credit, is the picture of calm. Even when you start babbling he just shushes you, nods, murmurs soft encouragement like it’s nothing. You’re mumbling shit into his shirt that don’t make sense at all.

Jinu leans down a little. “…What’s that?”

“Bleeeehhh.”

He nods, seriously. “Okay. Okay.”

Your words are incomprehensible.

“B-but h-he—and—and th-the thing with his—shoulders—and he’s like—rrghhhhhh—and now—bweeeeeh—”

“I know.” Jinu says softly, glancing at Abby in complete shock. “I know.”

Abby just stares.

Mouth open.

Hands on hips.

A man defeated.

He mouths: what the fuck did I do.

Jinu shakes his head.

He pulls back after a minute to check your face.

“Do you want water?” he asks.

You nod.

Abby finally speaks. “Can I—can I get it—?”

“No.” you and Jinu both say in perfect unison.

Jinu leads you gently to the stools, arms still loose around you, like he’s worried if he lets go, you’ll evaporate or explode into more bleh noises, then he presses a glass of water into your hand. He does it slowly. Gently. Like the water might tip and you might tip with it. And honestly? Not far off.

Your hands are trembling. Eyes still leaking. You take it.

“Thank you.” you whisper through your snot, voice wrecked and watery, and then—oh, for fuck’s sake—you immediately burst into another wave of silent, gasping sobs right onto the rim of the glass.

Water splashes onto your chest. You don’t even care. You don’t even notice.

“Okay.” Jinu says softly, standing beside you like he’s ready to catch you if gravity wins. “There we go.”

You try to drink it.

You fail.

It’s like you forgot how to swallow. You’re crying while sipping and your throat closes halfway through and it becomes a horrifying hiccup-gulp-weep hybrid. Abby winces.

“You good?” he asks, mostly because your entire body just twitched.

“Yuh.” you manage, half-drowning in your emotions and saliva.

You try to set the glass down. Miss the counter. Abby catches it mid-air, miraculously. You make a pitiful noise.

You sniff, loudly. “It’s so cold.” you whimper. “It’s such a good temperature, Jinu—do you even know—?”

“I do.” he says.

“You’re so good at everything.” you sob, wiping your face with your sleeve. “And he’s such a bitch.”

Abby blinks. “Still me?”

“Always you.”

“It’s okay.” Jinu says again, doing that thing where he shhh-es you without making a sound. His hand’s back on your upper back. He doesn’t speak. He just lets you be.

And be, you do.

“Oh god.” you sob, eyes wide and staring at the cabinets. “I miss Rumi’s braids.”

Abby drags his mouth. “That’s specific.”

“And I—I miss the girls.” you sob. “I miss Rumi’s ugly-ass laugh. I miss Zoey stealing my lip balm. I miss Mira calling me a bitch when she means ‘I love you.’”

Jinu nods slowly. Abby freezes, looking vaguely guilty for the first time in… ever.

“I’m sure they miss you too.” Jinu says gently.

You sniff hard, face splotchy and eyes red, then lift the glass of water again, holding it with two hands. You squint at it, voice going high and tired and miserable: “Why do I cry like thisssss.”

Jinu leans closer and gently pushes a bit of hair off your face. You flinch, not from fear, but because you didn’t expect it.

Being a demon and living in shame sucks, but they’re kinda grateful that they’re not human girls at this moment.

Abby clears his throat, then walks over to the counter where your abandoned bowl sits, glistening with juice and slices of something soft and pink. He picks it up carefully. Offers it.

“I didn’t spit in it.” he says, smiling. “Yet.”

You blink at him through your tears. Sniffle once. “You can eat it.”

His eyes light up.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” he mutters, already reaching for a fork. “Best day ever.”

Jinu stays close. Doesn’t leave your side. Just watches you with a quiet patience that you never asked for and desperately needed.

“You cried because I was nice.” Abby says, grinning. “That’s actually the sickest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You sniff hard. “Don’t talk to me.”

“I’m a hero.” he mutters under his breath.

You lift your teary eyes to Jinu, lip wobbling. “You’re the only normal one.”

Jinu pats your hand. “That’s what I keep telling them.”

“I’m just so tired, Jinu,” you say. “and there’s fruit and a bird with six eyes and someone keeps putting their used straw in my skincare draweeeeeer.”

“That was Baby.” Abby mutters.

“He found my lip tint.” you mumble.

“Yeah. He liked the color.”

You make a mournful little noise and stare down at the water again like it’s supposed to fix any of this.

Jinu’s still beside you, hands on the counter, watching you. Abby is now licking the juice off his fork and humming something in a… in a beautiful voice, fuck, okay. He’s in his own world—shirtless, sticky, glowing.

Movement.

You glance up toward the arch into the hallway, and—

Oh.

Mystery.

Peeking in, barely visible through the shadows and his hair.

He’s not saying anything. Just watching. His head’s tilted slightly. Half-hiding behind the doorframe, strands of hair in his mouth, his eyes peeking out like he’s shy—which, in some ways, he is.

Until he sees you looking.

And he smiles.

Sweet and genuine. His cheeks barely move, but it’s so cute, so soft, so rare, that it takes the breath straight out of your throat.

You smile back.

“Ohhh shit, MYSTO!” Abby shouts, talking through peach chunks. “Get your ass in here, bro! Look what Y/N made. It’s got strawberries and whatever the fuck this thing is—” he holds up a piece of dragon fruit.

Abby sets the bowl down. Leans a hip against the counter. And slaps the back of his own hand loudly against his thigh before striding over and giving Mystery a massive clap between the shoulder blades like he’s trying to knock him through the wall.

You hear the clap of skin on skin. Mystery stumbles half a step back.

Mystery laughs.

Like laughs-laughs.

A sound you barely ever get to hear—soft and breathy and unreal. And then he reaches out, and slaps Abby right back. Mystery’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing. A full, real sound. They’re having fun.

It’s so… sweet.

So boyish.

So dumb.

So—fuck.

You sniff.

It’s because they’re friends. Because they’re evil little shitheads who keep you kidnapped and lie about things and slap each other for fun and still—somehow—you can see the real thing underneath.

You see it.

How Mystery’s face softens when Abby laughs too hard and bumps his head into the cabinet. How Abby nudges Mystery like “don’t be shy bro” and Mystery doesn’t even growl. How boys are so dumb and stupid and ridiculous but also how boys love. How they show it through violence and bad jokes and too-hard pats on the back.

You start sobbing. Loudly.

They enjoy each other. They make each other laugh. They’re idiots together. They fight like wolves and then joke like kids, and there’s something… pure about it.

Something devastatingly human.

You’re hiccuping.

“Okay—okay.” Jinu says, head turning like a hound the second your breathing skips. He’s beside you instantly, crouching slightly, rubbing your arm like he’s done this before, even if he hasn’t. “What happened? What happened now?”

“Nuh-nothing, I just—” you hiccup through the words, trying to explain, trying to form a sentence that matches the mess in your head. “They’re s-sooo cuuuuteee.”

Jinu blinks.

Abby blinks too, fork in mid-air.

“They’re so—” your voice breaks, chest heaving. “They’re such boys, Jinuuuu.”

“Yeah.” Jinu murmurs. “We are.”

“They keep—touching—and yelling—and laughing, and they don’t even know how to do it right, and it’s still cute!” You sob harder. “Oh god,” you gasp. “they like each other. They like each other and they like me, and they’re demons and they’re so stupid, and I l-live here now, and I miss my g-girls and I’m bleeding and I didn’t even finish my f-fruit, and—Jinuuuuuu—”

Jinu steps in. Hands up, palms out, the calmest in this deranged storm.

“Okay.” Jinu says, stepping in front of you and gently taking the water glass. “Okay, let’s—let’s not drown right here in the kitchen, yeah?”

“But it’s—so sweet.” you squeak, tears rolling down your face. “I never see them laugh like that—he smiled—Mystery smiled—and I can’t h-handle it—”

He takes your arm gently. “I know, I know.”

“I—” you hiccup, voice warbling. “They like each other.”

“Okay. We’re gonna take a little walk now, yeah?”

“Nooo—”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Holding your shoulders, he drags you up from your seat and starts pushing you out of the kitchen softly.

You protest. Weakly. “I—I was watching them—”

“You can watch them later.” Jinu says.

Abby calls out from the kitchen behind you, voice loud and teasing: “Hey, if you guys are gonna make out, just say so! We’ll leave!”

Mystery chuckles.

Jinu just rolls his eyes. He walks slow. No rush. When he gets to your room, he pushes the door open with his foot and steps inside with you.

He sits you down on your bed, tucks a pillow behind your back. Your face is red and miserable and soaked in saltwater and hormones, and still, still, when you look at him? You manage a watery little: “They’re such good boys…”

Jinu presses a hand to his forehead. Breathes in like he’s praying to some god that hasn’t answered in centuries.

“Sure, Y/N.” he says softly, sitting on the edge of your bed. “They’re angels.”

From the kitchen, you can still hear Abby yelling.

You laugh. Sputter. Cry again.

You can’t help it.

It’s all too much.

And yet somehow…

Not enough.

He doesn’t say anything. He just watches. Listens. Breathes with you. And it’s weird, because he’s not trying to be a prince right now. He’s not trying to seduce or coax or manipulate or even soothe, not really. He’s just here. Present. And that… is so rare. Especially in this place. With these boys.

He glances over at you again. You’re rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm, smearing saltwater across your cheekbones, your mouth wobbling in the most adorable little way.

And Jinu—more than four hundred years old, the favorite of Gwi-Ma ever and the most selfish person probably—feels his chest ache.

It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. Not even fascination.

It’s… awe.

Because you feel everything.

Because you can’t help it.

And you don’t even hide it.

He thinks of how it started. And now… this.

Jinu’s not naïve. He knows you’re not safe here. Not really. Not emotionally, not spiritually, maybe not even physically. They’re demons. They’re wrong. They lie to you. Trap you. Keep you like something precious locked in a chest with no key. Because if they let you go—

They know they’ll never see you again.

That’s how much you matter. That’s what they can’t stand.

You breathe in.

And somehow, it’s not awkward.

Even though you rejected him before. Well, didn’t straight up reject, just didn’t say anything when he told you he was interested. Even though he’s Jinu. The leader of the demons who kidnapped you. Even though he wants you in ways that stretch centuries deep and he could have any soul in the underworld if he wanted—and still he’s sitting on your bed like the wind might break you.

Because he knows. Somewhere deep in his demon marrow. This isn’t about romance. It’s not about him. It’s about you. And what it takes to simply be you right now.

He studies you again, quietly. Takes in the red blotches under your eyes. The slow, sleepy shiver in your breath. The way your hair’s tangled at the nape of your neck and the blanket is half tucked under your leg and you’ve still got a little piece of strawberry stuck on your cheek.

Humans are so ridiculous.

So soft and loud and inconvenient. So emotional.

And so fucking magnetic.

He leans back slightly, resting one ankle over the other, posture lazy but gaze sharp. He doesn’t say it—but he’s thinking it:

What would they do, those girls of yours, if they knew how you are here? That you’re being cared for by the enemy. That you cried into my shirt. That you call Abby evil and still let him eat your little salad. That they like you here.

He exhales slowly.

Because he knows what he’d do.

He’d tear the sky open to keep you.

And he’s not alone. Behind every sarcastic quip, behind every stupid grin and ridiculous flex and forced “unbothered” act, they all feel it.

They ache for you.

They know what they did was wrong.

But that doesn’t stop them.

Because wrong is all they’ve ever known.

And you’re the only thing that’s ever felt right.

Jinu doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing for a full five seconds until your fingers twitch against the edge of the blanket, barely shifting, barely there—and something in his chest pulls.

Not tears this time. Not pity. Just want. Heavy and sinking, like it’s dragging him under the floorboards.

He can’t stand it.

He wants to protect you, yeah. Wants to shield you from the noise, the blood, the fire in his head, the guilt that gnaws through the others, the ache that claws up their spines every time they think about you going back to your team.

But more than that?

He wants to touch you.

To press his mouth to that pretty little throat and see if you’ll make a sound. To slide his hands over your hips and feel you tremble. To pin you down, gently—never forcefully, never—but completely, utterly, so you remember what it feels like to belong to someone ancient and aching and full of things you’ll never understand.

He wants to ruin you softly.

Break you open with worship.

Leave his mark in a way that isn’t demonic but still damn near holy.

He wants you to choose them.

To say fuck the girls, fuck the hunters, fuck everyone—and stay. With them. With him.

Even if it’s not just him.

Even if he has to share.

Because Jinu is a demon—but not the possessive kind. He knows Romance would kill to get his tongue on you. That Abby would go feral if you ever so much as asked for him. That Baby would climb into your lap like the little terror he is and Mystery would melt against you, desperate and dangerous and way too quiet about the way he worships you already.

Jinu would let them.

He’d step back, even. Watch, even. His spine would go stiff, and his fists would clench, and jealousy would rise—but he’d still let it happen.

Because as long as it’s you—alive, warm, touched with love, and not gone—

Then fuck it. That’s a victory.

That’s enough.

He clears his throat suddenly, head dropping, gaze dragging toward the floor, he just caught himself fantasizing.

So instead of saying any of it, instead of giving in to the rot twisting low in his gut or the softness that makes his ribs ache, he just stands up.

“I’ll go now.” he says simply.

Your eyes blink open in the most precious way—like you forgot he was even there, like he’s not the reason you’re calm again.

“If something else is up…” He keeps his tone neutral, easy. “You can find me.”

You nod.

He hesitates at the door.

Because what he wants to do is crawl back into bed with you and bury his face into your neck and tell you he’s so, so glad he met you. That he’s glad they kidnapped you. That you’re the worst sin he’s ever committed and he’d do it all over again if it meant holding you like this once.

But all he does is let the door close softly behind him and walk through the hall. His steps are soft. Bare feet against the cold hardwood. Dim lights glowing overhead. He drags a hand down his face, exhales slow.

He opens the door to his room quietly. Steps inside. Doesn’t turn on the light. Just moves to the edge of the massive platform bed and sits down, rolling his shoulders, bones heavy from centuries of guilt and something else. Something new. The tiger is already there, curled up in the corner, watching. Its eyes glowing. It stretches when it sees him, as if sensing Jinu’s energy, the way his heartbeat isn’t steady.

He lifts a hand and the beast crosses the room without hesitation. Its massive head lowers into his lap, pressing there, warm and heavy. Jinu rests a hand on its fur. The other hand curls into the dense muscle of its back, smoothing down along its shoulder.

He doesn’t speak. He just stares into the dark, breathing slow. Thinking about you. Your eyes. Your puffy cheeks. Your dumb little sleepy bleats of “blehhh” and “he’s so nice” and “I just—I just—bweehhh—”

He closes his eyes. His jaw tightens.

He wants you.

So bad it makes him sick.

And not just to touch you—though, god, he does. Not just to pin you to a wall or get on his knees or bite your lip and leave it swollen just so you’d remember it was him.

He wants the other stuff.

He wants to know what your first thought is in the morning. Wants to hear your opinion on dumb, mundane shit like oranges or show reruns. Wants to know how you hold your toothbrush and which songs you hate and why you keep rearranging the throw pillows even though you act like you hate the place.

He wants time with you.

He wants a life with you.

He smooths his hand again over the beast’s shoulder. The fur ripples under his palm. Then he leans back against the bedframe, lets his head drop, staring at the ceiling.

He’s glad he met you.

Even if you destroy them.

Even if you leave.

Even if you never look at him that way.

He’s so fucking glad.

Meanwhile, Romance is a mess.

A hot, sweaty, brain-rotted mess sprawled across his bed. His shirt’s been discarded somewhere (he genuinely doesn’t know where—it might be on the lamp) Just breathing hard, a hand resting dramatically over his chest like he just ran a goddamn marathon—and not, you know, jacked off to the memory of you saying his name once while you were annoyed.

Yeah, his hand was just down his pants five minutes ago.

For the fifth time today.

He had to stop himself—again—not because he’s shy or ashamed(not of this, at least), but because it’s starting to feel pathetic. Like he can’t go five goddamn minutes without thinking about you.

“Fuck.” he mutters to no one, arm flung over his face. His voice is hoarse. Disgusted. Still dark with that voice he only ever uses on his worst days. “Fuuuck, you’re killing me, pretty girl.”

He’s obsessed. It’s terminal.

And it’s not just the sex stuff, either.

Okay, it’s mostly the sex stuff. He’s made up so many scenarios. Some of them are honestly creative—like, he’s impressed with himself. There was one where he runs into you during a thunderstorm and you’re soaking wet in white linen and begging to be touched. Another one where he wakes you up from a nightmare and comforts you with something far more intense than a lullaby.

And then there’s the really deranged ones. The domestic ones. He made one up earlier where you were brushing your teeth beside him, hair messy, shirt too big, and you handed him the toothpaste wordlessly. That fantasy made him whimper. WHIMPER. Out loud.

He’s always been a flirt. That’s just the role. A wink, a purr, a little brush of his thumb on a lower lip—he’s been doing that for literal centuries. He’s good at it. It’s a performance.

But with you? It’s not a performance anymore.

It’s sick.

You don’t even let him kiss your cheek, and he’s still acting like he’s in heat every time you say his name. He tried to casually lean against the fridge next to you a few days ago and almost broke it because he slipped on condensation and nearly fell into the fruit drawer.

You didn’t even laugh. You just looked at him, blinked, and said, “You good?”

He pulls the crook of his arm off his eyes and stares at the ceiling. His painted nails dig into the pillow under his head. Then he sits up with a grunt, dragging his hand through his hair until it flops back into his eyes.

He doesn’t want just your body. He wants your yes. He wants you to choose him. He wants to hear you say it. That you like him. That he makes you feel good. That you want him back.

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead like that’ll squash the yearning down. It doesn’t. It just makes his head hurt more.

God, he’s a boy. He’s such a dumb boy. He’s writing love letters in his head like you’ll ever want him. You’re too good. Too nice. He tortured you, kind of, in the beginning. All of them did. You shouldn’t want him. He wouldn’t blame you if you hated him forever.

He groans again.

He misses you.

And you’re just down the hall.

If he knocks on your door now, what’ll happen? Will you scream? Will you sigh? Will you let him lay on your floor like a kicked dog and read you poetry in a see-through robe?

(He does have one. Just in case.)

God. He needs help.

But also… maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he just needs you.

He lies there now in the afterglow of his own depravity, legs twitching occasionally, eyes open and glazed, like he’s astral projecting into a parallel universe where you actually want him, not tolerate him. Where you’re touching him instead of the tiger that Jinu keeps feeding better cuts of meat than the rest of them get. Where you’re whining for him instead of Jinu.

(Not that he’s bitter. That would imply he didn’t just make up a full-fledged fantasy about you licking honey off his fingers in the middle of that kitchen. So, yeah. He’s fine.)

He shifts slightly, makes a disgusted sound.

Not because he regrets it. Hell no. He’s a demon, not a fucking monk. And he’s been around long enough to know there’s no shame in need. In want. He wants you in every way a boy could want a girl—yes, even though he’s centuries old, he’s a boy about it. He’s so stupid. So obvious. So pathetic.

Would you braid his hair if he sat real still? Would you lean your head on his shoulder if he shut the fuck up for once? Would you kiss him if he asked nicely for once in his goddamn life?

He’s never been this bad. Not even in the 1800s when he accidentally got obsessed with a courtesan who spat on him in public. (Okay, not accidentally, he chased her halfway across Europe, but that’s not the point.)

The point is, you’re so good. He wants your mouth. Wants your laugh. Wants your moods, your messes, your little mumbles when you’re in pain or pissed. He wants to taste your tears and your gum and your shampoo. He wants to ruin you, yeah—but only because you’ve already ruined him.

And worst of all? He’s romantic about it.

He’s not just jerking off to your face. He’s imagining stupid, soft, idiotic scenarios. Like you pulling him by the wrist into your room and saying something like “I guess you’re not the worst.” Or you sleeping on his chest and drooling a little and him being honored to be the one you chose to lean on.

It’s humiliating.

He would rather be smited by an archangel than admit this to anyone.

He hears movement down the hall—maybe Jinu’s footsteps—and snorts out loud.

Romance is full filth and desperate little poems that he scrawls mentally with your name tucked into every line. Romance wants to spit you open and slow dance with you in a rainstorm. He wants to fuck you on the couch and send you letters. He wants you, in every version, in every mood, even the ones that slam doors and roll their eyes.

You’re in his nonexistent soul and it’s driving him fucking nuts.

He’s going to combust.

He’s going to write you poetry and never let you read it and also try to get his hand under your shirt while you’re complaining about cramps. He’s going to lose his mind over you and still act like it’s your fault.

Because he’s the worst.

And also because he’s hopelessly, brutally, comically in love with you.

And you don’t even know it yet.

Romance rolls over, half-naked and fully rotted from the inside out. Not from lust, not even from longing—but from something far worse.

Shame.

“Ohh, what’s this now?” Gwi-Ma’s voice. “Crying again because the little human won’t kiss you?” “Can’t even lie to her right without your voice shaking.” “You should see yourself.”

Romance presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Hard. Like maybe if he just squishes his own brain for a second, the thoughts will settle.

“Let me tell her what you really are. I’ll show her.”

Romance chokes out a bitter laugh. He swings his legs off the bed, leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands like someone two seconds from praying even though there’s no god left who listens to demons.

He’s full of feelings. A disgusting soup of them. Sloshing around in his stomach with nowhere to go.

Horny? Yes, of course. But he’s also so tired. It doesn’t help that Gwi-Ma claws at the weak spots. Knows where to press.

“You’ll rip her apart. She’ll hate you for it.”“Oh, is this the one you think will save you? You pathetic little mutt.”

“Shut up.” Romance mutters under his breath.

No one’s around. Just him and the slow drip of his own humiliation. The weight of everything he wants and doesn’t deserve pressing in on his temples like a migraine.

“Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the—”

His voice cuts off.

His jaw clenches.

He hates this. Hates that he has someone to lose now. That he cares. That he walks past your bedroom and slows down like a coward, just to hear you snoring softly, to feel the low tug of comfort knowing you’re behind that door, safe.

What is he even doing?

He’s a fucking demon. A creature made of sin. He’s killed people for less than the flutter he feels when you hand him a spoon and say, “Don’t eat it with your fingers, you animal.”

God.

God, he loves you.

“You missed your chance.” Gwi-Ma hisses, voice thick with smugness. “The ‘nice one’ has her wrapped up. You think she’ll ever want the loud-mouthed pervert?”

Romance lifts his head and hisses, low and sharp. “Go haunt a cliff.”

But the truth is? Gwi-Ma isn’t wrong. He is the loud-mouthed pervert. The ridiculous one. The one who flirts all the time.

You probably do think he’s a joke.

You probably don’t take him seriously.

And he doesn’t blame you. Not when he can’t even sit still with himself without having emotions like this. Not when his chest feels like it’s full of razor wire and honey and rage. Rage at himself. At his body for betraying him. At Gwi-Ma for always being there.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, like that’ll clean out the thoughts too.

He knows sleep isn’t coming tonight. But maybe if he lays there long enough, staring at the ceiling, he’ll finally shut his brain off. Maybe if he listens closely enough, he’ll hear you breathe through your bedroom door again. Maybe that’ll be enough to survive another night like this.

As this is going on with Romance, Baby sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor, one knee bouncing absently while he pinches sunflower seeds between his fingers and offers them to Jinu’s bird. The bird chirps with exactly one ounce of gratitude and a shit-ton of judgment. Baby glares at it.

“Eat it or don’t.”

The bird hops closer. It does eat it.

Baby leans back on his hands, smirking.

He wins. Always.

He looks bored. The usual. But it’s not fair how fucked you’ve made his brain. And it’s not just the usual dumbass guy shit. It’s more. It’s worse. It’s not just boobs and voice and legs and eyes and the way you hum under your breath when cutting things.

It’s the fact that he remembers everything about you. And he likes remembering it. He’s holding onto it like a sick little freak. Like it’s his.

He shifts, drags the bag of bird seed toward himself again. Tosses a few seeds at the dumb hat-bird without even looking. Nails it. Obviously.

What a shame you can’t see how cool he is.

But behind the fuck-you energy and the smug one-liners and the absolute feral desire to shove Romance down every single flight of stairs in the building?

There’s a mess.

A massive, sticky, snarled-up mess of a crush that started the second he laid eyes on you and has been crawling deeper into his nonexistent soul every single second since.

He knows he’s an asshole. He’s a bitch. He’s awful. He literally threatened to lock Abby in the dryer last week because he said “Y/N’s cute today.” He pushed Romance into a bookshelf yesterday just for breathing weird around you. Tripped Jinu six times a day and didn’t listen to shit he said. Mystery is the only one Baby doesn’t throw hands with, because Mystery will literally bite. But still. Baby side-eyes him when he gets too close to you, and once even fake-fell just to crash between you and him.

He’s so fucking annoying.

But then again… so are you.

So are you with your sleepy face and your tiny gasps and your fruit salads and your long stares and your petty silent treatments. You stomp past him and he acts like it’s nothing, but damn.

He flops back against the floor now, arms spread. Looks like he’s relaxing. He’s not.

You make him insane. INSANE.

And he hates that he likes it. It’s like this cursed, fucked-up dopamine hit. He likes being mean. He likes being him. But somehow you just… fit in there.

He doesn’t want to be a better person.

But he’d let you put a leash on him.

And not in a normal way.

(Or maybe in a very normal way, depending on who you ask.)

He snorts at his own thoughts. Catches the bird staring. Stares back. “What.” he mutters, deadpan.

The bird chirps once, like judged.

Baby kicks the bird seed bag away lazily, smirking at nothing.

This is hell.

And he’s gonna enjoy being the brat of it as long as you keep stomping around in your dumb slippers, scowling at him, smelling like sweet soap.

Evil. He’s evil. Like, unapologetically, certifiably, Olympic-grade evil. He steals things he doesn’t need. He breaks things just to watch someone cry. He lies for fun. He once slipped Romance sleep poison for no other reason than the guy looked too happy.

That’s normal for Baby.

What’s not normal? Liking you this much. Liking anything this much.

It makes him want to throw up and kiss the floor and set it on fire all at once.

You… you’re a mess. So annoyingly good and soft and real. You don’t beg for his attention like a fan. You don’t worship the dirt he walks on. You reject him.

Which is hilarious.

Because you totally like him.

You must.

He’s too hot. Too cute. Too Baby. You’ve got to be frontin’. You’re just playing hard to get. Classic. (You literally don’t. You don’t like him like that I’m not even kidding)

But in his head, you think about him late at night. In his head, you’re in your bed, rolling over and giggling his name into your pillow. He bets you dream about him. About his mouth. His hands. Things he does to piss Jinu off.

Yeah.

You’re down bad.

(You’re not.)

He rolls over, lets his head loll onto his arm like he’s about to take a nap, and then—

“Wow.” It’s in his brain. Inside it.

“Fuck off.” Baby mutters instantly, eyes shut.

“No, really, I just… I’m in awe.” Gwi-Ma’s voice says, slow and cruel and dripping sarcasm. “This is truly pathetic. And I’ve seen Romance hump a pillow.”

“You sound jealous.” Baby says, unbothered, even though his stomach’s doing flips. “You wouldn’t get it, I do.”

“You’ve got nothing but your face, no worth at all, that’s what you get.”

Baby kicks at the air.

“Listen, child—“

“I’m three hundred and seventeen.”

“Then act like it.” Gwi-Ma hisses.

Just to make it clear, Baby doesn’t keep track of things most of the time. But he always, always keeps track of how old he is, hurts or not.

Baby gets up. No, he launches upright like a demon possessed (which he is, technically), and shakes out his limbs with an annoyed little growl. His hair’s a mess. He doesn’t fix it. That’s the charm. He stomps to the mirror just to look at himself.

He’s flawless.

“Can’t blame her.” he says to his own reflection. “I wouldn’t survive me either.”

Gwi-Ma hums darkly, slipping back into his own world and out of Baby’s head.

Baby glares at himself for another five seconds, then slowly—painfully slowly—lets the grin slide back into place.

Evil. Evil down to the bones. A menace. A psycho. A brat.

And somehow, somehow, you’ve got his entire demonic heart in your pretty little hands.

He hopes you never figure it out.

Or worse…

He hopes you do.

As we’re talking, I have to note that Mystery doesn’t look in mirrors very often.

Not because he doesn’t like what he sees, no, quite the opposite. He’s just not… interested in himself. Not the way Romance is, always adjusting his collar, biting his own lip in the reflection like he’s flirting with himself. Not like Abby either, who flexes abs in passing windows. Baby straight up glares at mirrors until they crack. Jinu doesn’t like looking at himself.

Mystery just doesn’t see the point.

But tonight… tonight, he stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom. He combs his fingers through his hair slowly, pushing it out of his face. He could cut it, but he doesn’t. He likes it. He smiles at his reflection—and fuck, he’s beautiful. A face sculpted by hands that wanted him to ruin people. Something about his features makes it hard to tell if he’s about to kiss you or kill you.

He raises a brow at himself, tucks one strand of hair behind his ear, then lets it fall again. His lips are slightly parted. Always are. The reason fans scream when he glances up mid-performance. The reason girls can’t get enough of him. The reason HUNTR/X gets so pissed when their fans drift toward Saja.

He’s not sorry.

He didn’t ask for his voice to sound like that, either. But he’s used to it now. Used to stealing hearts like it’s nothing. Used to being a weapon.

He leans in closer. Blinks once. Stares himself down.

And then thinks about you.

He bites his bottom lip without meaning to.

You’re cute. Always trying to stay mad at them. Always failing. Your little hands balling into fists when you tell him off, your voice all shaky when you’re tired or hormonal, the way you tuck your knees up when you sit on the couch. Your smell in the hallway.

He likes you.

He turns away from the mirror but doesn’t leave the bathroom. Just leans against the cold tile wall, crossing his arms, letting his hair fall back over his face. He doesn’t move for a long time.

Mystery is not sweet. He breaks fingers. He growls in fights and kicks people in the teeth. He lets Gwi-Ma feed on people’s dreams just to quiet the voices in his own head. He’s a bad person.

But you smiled at him today like he’s not.

He likes liking you.

He likes that he doesn’t understand it.

He’d gut the whole world for you if it meant seeing you laugh just once.

Mystery giggles. He giggles like he heard a really funny secret. One that only he gets. A little sway in his step. He doesn’t even look like himself when he’s like this—so damn… boyish. So not the feral menace that people see in the spotlight or in battle.

When he gets to his room, he shuts the door with the softest click. The kind that lets everyone know he’s done being social. If any of the others knock, he’ll kill them. Not metaphorically. The lights are off. He yanks his shirt off over his head in one go, ruffling his already-messy hair more, then lets it fall somewhere by the bed. Doesn’t even care where.

He plops onto the mattress like he’s been out in a war.

But the battlefield isn’t where he got hit.

It’s you.

Been a while since he talked to a girl who wasn’t a fan. God. That alone is enough to make him laugh again. The fans all scream and cry and faint like they know him. They don’t. They know the makeup. The voice. The poses. They don’t know that he used to stutter in front of mirrors. That he still chews on the drawstrings of his hoodie when he’s nervous.

Been a while since he made friends. Jinu, maybe, is closest.

Been a while since he had sex.

He won’t lie. That one kinda hurts.

Long since he had sex that didn’t end in some kind of bite. Not that he minds bites. Or scratching. Or being called names. But he hasn’t liked someone in… how long? A hundred years? More?

Been a while since he had a thing with a girl. Long time. Longer than he’d ever admit out loud. Even before the demon thing, he was never good at love. Too awkward. Too distracted. Too intense. He always came off cold or wrong or creepy. So he stopped trying. Let the stage version of himself flirt and play and pretend. The real version? Locked up. Silent. Hands in pockets. Heart in mouth.

Been a while. Been a while. Been a while.

And now you’re here.

He just needs you to like him. That’s all. Then maybe everything else will follow. The closeness. The talking. The touching.

But he’s not the best at communication.

He’s actually horrible.

He tries. He does. But most of the time it comes out in shrugs. In soft grunts. Growls. In too-long stares across the room that you either ignore or don’t see. He doesn’t know how to tell you “I think you’re the best” without sounding like a complete psychopath. So he just… doesn’t.

And he thinks he might die for you if it came down to it. But for now, he just giggles again.

Abby in the shower is one of the most ridiculous sights in the multiverse. Let’s just get that out of the way.

While the others have these little mental fucks, the water is running hot—too hot, probably—but Abby doesn’t turn it down. It’s pounding down his back, his neck, his shoulders, and he’s just standing there with both hands on the tiled wall, head down, drenched, steaming. The mirror across the room is fully fogged, but if it wasn’t, he’d probably flex at himself out of muscle memory.

Because here’s the truth:

He’s a whore.

Like, clinically. Professionally. Spiritually. To make that clear, right now, he has one palm dragging over the slick plane of his stomach, just because he can. His hand slides over the ridges of muscle like he’s proud of them. (He is.) A thumb glides up the V of his hip, not even sexually—just admiring the structure.

Abby thinks he’s a masterpiece. A hot one. A mean one. A very evil one.

But then… then there’s the second truth. There’s the one that hits a little lower in his chest. The one that won’t get the fuck out of his head. The one that’s got nothing to do with his abs, or his power, or his demonic charms.

The one that starts and ends with you.

“Fuuuuuuck.” he breathes out, forehead thunking against the wet tile like it owes him money. “Get outta my head.”

You’re not listening.

You’re everywhere in there.

And that massage earlier? Holy shit.

He didn’t even think. He just saw you slumped and pissed off and bleeding, and his brain went, be useful, dumbass. So he put his hands on your shoulders and dug in. And you… you melted. You fucking melted under his hands. He felt your whole body shift like a sigh, and he knew he was doing good—but it wasn’t until you started crying that he froze.

You said he was nice.

Nice.

What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

He didn’t mean to be nice. He didn’t try to be. That was just his dumb, big-handed, hot-bodied brain doing something functional for once. And now here he is, in the shower, water running down his back and steam curling around him, thinking about the way your voice broke when you said it.

“You’re so nice.”

Bitch, no he’s not!

He’s mean. He steals. He punches. He calls Baby a bitch three times before breakfast and once more before bed. He leaves empty chip bags in the couch cushions and plays music at 2am just to see who snaps first.

But he was nice to you.

And you cried about it.

Now his whole chest is tightening in this horrible way, and his hand has not moved off his abs. He clenches his jaw. He’s got his hips angled into the wall like the devil himself might come slap him for his thoughts. Which are… filthy. They always are, when it’s you. Because you’re pretty. You’re smart. You’re weird. And when you looked up at him earlier, lip trembling, voice soft—

He had to physically bite his tongue.

And now he’s hard.

“Fucking hell.” he hisses, slamming a fist against the tile like it’ll knock the heat out of him. (It doesn’t. If anything, it just makes him harder. He’s an idiot.)

He angles his body away from the spray, breathing heavy. He’s still got your face in his mind, your voice, your whole tiny form leaning back into his hands like you needed him.

And that—that’s the thing, isn’t it?

You needed him.

You trusted him for a split second.

And Abby? Abby hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

It’s not just about wanting to get you under him anymore. He wants that, sure, but it’s not the only thing. He wants to make you smile. He wants to pull your hair just to hear the sound you make when you’re mad. He wants to carry you around the apartment and not explain why. He wants you to lean on him again. Cry again. Breathe against him like you trust him.

Fuck.

He palms a hand over his face. Then braces that same arm above his head, steam curling around his arm, the other resting loosely on his hip—because if he touches himself now, he’ll never recover. Like, ever. His brain will shut down. He’ll combust. They’ll find him in the morning curled up in the drain, dead from horny.

And it’s all because of you.

He glances down at himself and sighs. “Look at you.” he mutters, grinning like the fool he is. “Pathetic.”

It’s not even bad pathetic. It’s adorable pathetic. And he knows it. He even flexes a little just to show off to nobody. Watches water track down the curve of his stomach and thinks, She’d like this. Right? She’d stare.

He leans back against the tile with a dopey, crooked grin, water dragging through his hair. The heat’s still in his body, but the urgency’s softened into something almost sweet. Almost painful.

You’d kill him if you saw him right now—naked, proud of his own dick, giggling like a dumbass, cheeks flushed and grinning at nothing like a lovesick idiot.

And he is. He is a lovesick idiot.

An evil one. A demon. A bastard.

Maybe he’ll go eat another of your fruit salads the next time you make one.

Because that, at least, will give him a reason to see you again.

And steal another smile.

He thunks his head lightly against the wall again, because what is he supposed to do?

You’re in the other room, probably curled up, probably crying into a pillow because of your weird little hormone breakdown—which was adorable, by the way. You full-on melted in Jinu’s arms, oh his god.

And now he’s here. With a problem. And that problem is that he really likes you. Like a lot. Which is a huge problem. Also the one between his legs, but that’s another case.

Abby is a man of extreme talents. He can scale a wall with his bare hands, snap a demon in half like a glow stick, flash a smile and have fans screaming for mercy—and still somehow, somehow, fuck up taking care of his own goddamn boner in the shower. Because as soon as he handled business—loud, desperate, gritted-teeth, thinking-of-you kind of business—he’s already broken three things. First, the glass bottle of Jinu’s fancy cologne he “borrowed” (read: stole) last week—the one with the scent so ridiculously good it made Baby sniff the air like a feral dog. Yeah. That’s on the floor now. Shattered. Perfume everywhere.

Second, the towel rack. Don’t ask. It was already loose. Maybe. Whatever.

Third, his pride.

Because listen: Abby’s done this before. Plenty of times. Hundreds of years. His own hand, a nice daydream, sometimes a mirror if he was really in love with himself (he usually is). But this? This was different. Messier. More intense. Like the very idea of you was wired into his nerves—his body reacting faster than his thoughts could catch up.

It was too fast. It was too much.

You should hate him. You probably do. But he’s clinging to every moment that says otherwise.

And that’s why the cologne bottle is on the floor in glassy shards.

That’s why his knees knocked into the bathroom counter when he tried to stabilize himself and sent a bunch of skincare products tumbling.

Abby slaps off the water and yanks the curtain back like it insulted his mother. Then he rubs the towel roughly over his head, mussing his hair, then knots it around his waist and steps out of the steam.

He walks down the hall, not bothering to hide the low, frustrated grunt he lets out when the perfume stench follows him. Baby makes a gagging noise as he passes by. Abby flips him off without looking.

“Tell Jinu his perfume has no structural integrity.” he mutters. “Broke the moment I looked at it wrong.”

“You broke it.” Baby calls back from somewhere, not even needing to see it to know.

“No, I didn’t.”

He walks back to his room, water dripping onto the hardwood as he goes, still thinking about you. Still hearing the way you whispered, like he’d just handed you the stars instead of touched your shoulder blades for two minutes and called it a day. Still seeing the way your eyes welled up before you could say anything. Still remembering how warm you were when you leaned back into him. Like your little body just knew his touch was safe.

Which it’s not.

Let’s be so fucking clear: it’s not.

He could crush bone with a single hand. Could flip a car. Could eat someone whole, metaphorically or not. He’s a monster. He lies. He manipulates. He steals and fights and flirts because it’s funny, not because he cares.

But with you?

He cares.

He throws the door to his room open, steps inside, and exhales like he’s been holding it in since he left you in the kitchen. His bedroom door slams. The tiger in Jinu’s room huffs like it’s annoyed. Abby doesn’t care.

Because he has a crush, okay?

A massive, stomach-churning, lip-biting, idiot-making crush. And he’s not gonna apologize for it, even if it means stepping on broken glass and breaking a second perfume bottle by accident later.

You’re not even being nice to him most of the time. You try to act like you don’t even like him.

(But you do, right? Right?)

Abby’s convinced. He has to be right.

That’s what makes this worse. You’re nice, yeah—but you’ve got this bite. You’re sweet and smart and helpful and tiny and annoyed all the time, and he swears if you really didn’t like him, you wouldn’t let him breathe down your neck every chance he got.

You’d scream. You’d slap him. You’d tell Jinu. You’d stab him. (He’d let you.) But you don’t. You sigh. You roll your eyes. You tell him to fuck off, but gently. You let him sit too close. You give him your fruit salad and tell him to eat it.

And he does. Because it came from you.

He throws himself down onto the bed face-first—hard—like he’s trying to break the mattress with his skull. The second bounce nearly knocks his towel off, but he slaps a hand over his ass just in time.

Now he’s stomach down, ass up (well, towel-wrapped), legs swinging in the air.

If anyone walked in right now, he’d die on the spot.

He should be ashamed. But no—he’s just lying there on his stomach, grinning like an idiot, face buried in the sheets. Kicking his feet in the air like a teenage girl.

He tries to stop.

He can’t.

Fuuuuck, you’re so pretty. Like. So. Fucking. Pretty. Jesus.

Abby’s in love.

“Jesus Christ.” he mutters to himself. “I need to get laid.”

He probably won’t, though.

Because he only wants you. And you’re a problem. You’re good and soft and quiet and mean in this really, really pretty way. You make his skin crawl with the need to bite something. Preferably you. Not hard. But, like… enough.

He flips onto his side, towel slipping, and clutches a pillow to his chest like it’s his girlfriend. It’s not. But in his delusional little mind? That’s you. That’s you sobbing against his chest, your voice breaking because he was nice and massaged you and didn’t make a single joke about it except seventeen.

The towel falls halfway down his ass.

He doesn’t even bother pulling it up. Because what’s the point? His brain’s too full of you to function.

So he lies there, cheek to pillow, one leg hooked over the other, thinking about your dumb cute face, your voice, the way you whispered you’re so nice through a tear.

He wants to make you laugh.

He wants to make you scream.

He wants to make you cry again but in the good way.

He wants to give you a massage and hear that little sound you made when he hit the spot near your neck again and again and again.

He wants everything.

But he has nothing.

Just a memory. A moment. Your voice in his head like a fever dream.

Fuckin’ angel girl, you’re going to kill him with a simple look if not break a plate on his head the next time you see him.

He smiles.

Because wouldn’t that be a good way to go.

“Ohh, Abby.” Gwi-Ma.

Abby doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Just sighs against the sheets. “Sleeping.” he mumbles. “I’m sleeping.”

“You’re thinking about that girl.”

No shit.

“I said I’m fucking sleeping.” Abby grunts louder this time, face still planted in the pillow. “Go harass Romance.”

Gwi-Ma pauses. “You dare speak to me like that?”

Abby doesn’t even get the chance to roll his eyes before it hits him, unbearable pain and loud, loud noises echoing inside his little head.

He flinches so hard he slams his knee into the bedframe, rips the pillow off his face, throws it across the room, and then just grabs his skull with both hands, teeth clenched so tight it feels like his molars might crack.

“Ahhh—fuck—fuck you, man—!” he shouts into the mattress, voice hoarse and breaking.

“I don’t take disrespect, Abraham.”

Gwi-Ma is ridiculously funny because both of them know Abraham is not Abby’s name. Just making fun of the boy at this point.

It’s not just a headache, it’s a punishment. It’s like having sirens screeching directly into his temporal lobes, every nerve in his skull having reaction. He kicks his legs, fists knotted in his hair, chest heaving.

He will never learn.

“How do you like that, my prince?” Gwi-Ma purrs, fucking gleeful now. “Next time, think before you cum and get cocky.”

And to make it worse—to really just put a cherry on top of the pain sundae—another boner, because Gwi-Ma is an asshole.

Abby lets out an actual, guttural groan—not sexy, not tortured in a good way, just miserable. He rolls onto his side, pressing his forehead into the mattress.

“Dude,” he gasps out. “you’re so fucking weird.” His whole back is sweaty now, his hair sticking to his temples, muscles tensed. He lifts his face just barely, panting, eyes red.

“And you’re so fucking pathetic. If I could put your little angel in your lap right now, I would. Just to watch you explode like a virgin.”

The sudden slap of arousal. Unwanted. Forced. Embarrassing. Immediate. Abby lets out an inhuman noise, part-choke, part-growl, part a whispered “fuck me” that he doesn’t even mean to say out loud.

His voice cracks before he can yell. He’s breathing heavy, sweating through the towel, red in the face, head pounding, body betraying him entirely.

“Sleep tight.” Gwi-Ma whispers, fading from his mind with one final twist of something sharp in Abby’s temple.

And then… silence.

Finally.

But Abby’s still clutching his head, naked except for the towel that’s mostly around his thigh now, on the verge of crying, hard again, and thinking about you.

What a loser.

What a fucking loser.

He drags a hand over his face, groans one more time into the empty room, then mutters like a deathbed confession:

“…worth it.”

Because you always are.

The boys all went to bed thinking about you.

No—obsessing. Stomach-knotting, aching, stupid-boy obsessing.

That was the truth of it.

They each had their little ways, their little styles, their private rituals of shame and longing and delusion, but it all ended the same: a pillow, a room, a mind full of you.

Jinu, for example, is lying with his back against the mountain of soft fur that was his tiger, stroking its ears absentmindedly, eyes locked on the ceiling. He hadn’t moved much.

He kept replaying it all. Your tears. How you’d hugged him. You’d buried your face in his chest and mumbled gibberish at him, and it had been the most sacred moment he’d had in four hundred years.

And you don’t even know.

He wants you so much it’s starting to embarrass even him.

And you don’t even know. He’d told you, calmly, clearly, over the chessboard weeks ago. But that was nothing. That wasn’t this.

This is need. This is yearning. This is waking up in a cold sweat because he dreamt of your smile fading.

Meanwhile, a few doors over, Romance is suffering. Lying face down on the bed, pillow over his head, trying not to feel the ache in his gut that came with thinking about your smile.

He’s making up scenarios. Like a high schooler. In one, you knocked on his door late at night in nothing but a hoodie and socks and whispered, “I couldn’t sleep. Can I stay with you?” In another, you leaned into him on the couch while watching a dumb movie and said, “You know you’re my favorite, right?” In another—the best and worst one—you kissed him just to shut him up.

He rolls over with a groan, fist his hands in his own hair, and hiss into the dark. He doesn’t even know what he wants more, to be alone with you or to scream into the void. Both felt necessary. And all this over a girl who doesn’t even know how bad he has it.

And Gwi-Ma’s taunts only made it worse. That sick fuck in his head laughed at him. Mocked him. Fed on his shame.

Still, he can’t stop.

He fell asleep eventually. Arms over his head. A little drool on the pillow. Dreaming of you laughing at his jokes and maybe, just maybe, calling him baby.

Now that I said Baby, let’s talk about the one who’s in the house.

He’d fallen asleep sideways across his bed, birdseed still on his shirt from earlier, hand tangled in a notebook full of angry scribbles and lazily drawn boobs. Your name is in there too, like five times. With different handwriting. Some of it looks like it was written by his left hand.

He’d never admit it. Not even under torture. But he was thinking about you. Always does. Even now, drooling onto his pillow, hair a mess, one sock halfway off, he’s dreaming of you laughing at one of his asshole jokes and maybe calling him mean but smiling anyway. That’s all he needs.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if you actually gave in. If you liked him back. Probably explode. Or pass out. Or cry in a way that no one would ever hear about, or he’d kill them.

Mystery’s not sleeping at all. He’s lying in bed, touching the ends of his hair, staring at the ceiling. Not even blinking much.

He doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t understand himself around you either. But he likes it. He likes you. The way you smile. The way you praised him back when he shot his shot in small talk.

And he likes that you didn’t know.

Abby’s still recovering from the post-shower brain-damage Gwi-Ma blessed him with, ass half out the towel, lying face down on his mattress like a dead fish. His head hurts. His dick hurts. His pride hurts. He doesn’t deserve you. But he’s obsessed. And he’s still kicking his legs a little.

While the five ancient, tortured, overpowered, emotionally constipated men are individually spiraling into full-blown madness over you—hands down their pants, heads in their hands, boners under their blankets, Gwi-Ma in their ears—you’re standing in front of your mirror in a giant t-shirt, drawing something with a pen that was almost out of ink, looking at yourself occasionally, twerking a little maybe.

No idea. None. Not a single goddamn clue about the chaos you’d left in your wake.

You know they’re interested. But you don’t know… You don’t know what it’s doing to them.

You don’t know that while you’re staring into the mirror making kissy faces at yourself, Romance is dreaming about it and completely destroyed by the fact he can’t have you. In his dream you just snuck into his room and crawled into bed with him just to tell him you liked his voice. In his sleep, he whispered a fake “I like you too” to no one.

Mystery has absolutely no game, doesn’t know how to talk to you, but he wants you anyway. Desperately. Silently. Painfully.

Baby is still asleep, but I’ll talk about him anyway. You’re the only person he thinks about when he’s not thinking about himself. You’re soft, and pretty, and a bitch, and he loves it. He’s convinced you have to like him. You must like him. You’re obsessed. He has to believe that, because if you don’t like him, then he’s nothing.

Jinu’s still up, though his eyes are closed. His tiger’s breathing slow with him. He hasn’t moved. But he’s not sleeping either. He’s thinking of your soft voice. The way you leaned into him. The way you melted. The way you didn’t flinch when his arms came around you. He tells himself it’s because he’s the only one who treats you gently. But he’s wrong. It’s because you trust him. And he’ll burn down cities for that. He’ll kill gods for it.

Abby fell asleep by now. He calmed down. Probably dreaming about you.

And here you are. In your room. Still twerking. Drawing little doodles in your sketchbook. Chewing on your pen. Thinking about if you should eat cereal or a granola bar. Blinking at your reflection and wondering why your nose looks uneven from this angle.

You have no idea what you’re doing to them.

No idea that your little human feelings and hormone meltdowns and random soft sniffling has broken five men who’ve been alive for over 300 years. No clue that you’ve taken root in the marrow of their bones.

My ass timeskip contains hours, and it’s morning now. You’d think, after all the thirst, shame, fantasy, masturbation, crying, brain trauma, demonic torment, friendship bonding, and twerking-in-the-mirror that happened just last night…there’d be tension in the air. But no. These assholes are actors. Pop stars. Demons. They’ve been lying professionally for centuries. They do this thing, all five of them, where no matter what happened the night before—whether they’re screaming inside, plotting world domination, or jerking off to the thought of you crying—they still get up like everything’s fine.

Jinu’s getting ready to go. Romance has sunglasses on. Abby’s already taken his shirt off again for absolutely no reason. Baby’s slouched against the kitchen island with a banana in his mouth, the slowest chewing on the planet. Mystery has Abby’s shirt in his hand.

So normal.

And then you walk in. Sleep shirt, mismatched socks, and a war-torn look on your face like you’ve just crawled out of a time hole. You stayed up too late. You haven’t even brushed your hair.

And all five boys look at you. Just a glance. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s the same way they’d look at the mailman.

And you—grumpy and still a little puffy-eyed from the emotions of yesterday—just whisper, “By the way. What happened yesterday between us?” You point at Jinu and Abby specifically, each one receiving a cold, squinty stare. “Didn’t happen. I don’t ever wanna hear about it again. That shit? Deleted. Erased. Nonexistent.”

Jinu just raises his eyebrows at you and sips from his matte black mug. Doesn’t even argue. “Understood.” he says. “Wiped from memory.”

“Gone.” Abby nods, already opening the fridge. “Never happened. Who even are you, anyway?”

“Great.” you nod. “Good.”

“What’s this?” Romance purrs. “Something happened yesterday? With you three?”

Your eye twitches. “Romance—”

“Y/N,” he murmurs. “tell me what happened. I’ll trade you. You can spank me if it’s embarrassing.”

Abby just grins like a smug piece of shit and keeps digging in the fridge. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be shy, baby.” he says, grinning down at you. “I think it’s beautiful that you’re finally cracking. You held on so tight for two months. But it’s okay to want us. I’d cry too if I wanted me.”

“I don’t want you.”

“Tell me what happened. Come on, sweetheart. I’m gonna be thinking about it all day now. Was it something… scandalous? Did one of us make your heart go pitter-patter~?” he says, using that hot voice, swiping a berry from the bird’s dish and tossing it in his mouth.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

You glare at him. “You are insufferable.”

“Why can’t I ever get anything good?” he goes on, dramatically throwing himself around. “What’s Abby got that I don’t?! I’m just as hot! I’m—more hot! I even smell good!”

“No, you don’t.” Baby says around a mouthful of banana.

Romance flips him off, not even looking.

You try to walk away. You genuinely try. You even make it two feet toward the hallway before Romance grabs your wrist—not hard, not mean, but persistent. Desperate.

“Y/N. Come on. Tell me. What happened? What did Abby do? Did he—what did he doooo, beautiful? I can take it. I need to know. Come on, baby. Don’t be shy. I know everythingp about you. You always say no—but you want to tell me. I can see it. Look at you. You’re practically vibrating with guilt.” He takes a step forward. His tone’s way too soft. Way too slow. The kind of slow that melts girls. A voice that makes people confess. Die. Orgasm. Or all three. He takes a step forward. “I’ll listen real close. I’ll keep it between us. Just whisper it into my—”

“Nothing happened.” Mystery. He says it calmly. From across the room.

Romance freezes. And for a full beat, the whole room goes silent.

Mystery???

Romance turns slowly toward him, eyes squinted, mouth curled into the most suspicious grimace you’ve ever seen. “What do you mean ‘nothing happened?’ Were you there?”

“I was close enough.” Mystery shrugs. Which is both a lie and not a lie, knowing how he always lurks.

Romance stares at him. He’s clearly trying to calculate if this is a genuine answer or some mind-game trick, but Mystery doesn’t give much away.

Grumbling under his breath, Romance is muttering, “Y’all are so secretive. No one loves me.”

You glance toward Mystery.

He glances back with the smallest smile. One that says you’re welcome.

He saved your ass.

From Romance of all people.

“I would’ve kept it secret, too.” Romance sulks. “I’m so good at secrets. Ask Baby. I know everything about his porn stash.”

“Shut up, dude.”

But they’re already grabbing bags and keys and jackets. They’re getting ready to leave. Showtime. Another appearance. Another day to be evil, cocky, and extremely fine in public.

You watch them go. Just sit back down at the counter. Pour your cereal. Pop your feet up.

My pathetic time skip later, the backstage smells like ego.

Too many colognes. Too much energy bottled in glittering outfits, half-finished soundchecks and makeup chairs abandoned mid-brushstroke. The Saja boys were already bored, leaning against the sleek black walls of the green room, sprawled on couches, chewing on toothpicks and smug silence. But they can feel it, people approaching. Three of them, actually.

“Oh,” Abby says, mouth curling into something cocky. “hi.”

The HUNTR/X girls walk in. Rumi’s blade is already out, Mira has that look she got right before punching someone in the throat, and Zoey is practically vibrating.

Abby just folds his arms. Romance tilts his head, so pretty. Jinu smiles the way only someone invincible can. Mystery steps slightly behind them, silently. And Baby, chewing gum, doesn’t even look up from his phone.

Rumi is the first to talk. “Where is she?”

Romance laughs.

Mira’s blade is up in half a second. “Don’t be stupid.”

“We’re never stupid,” Jinu says, serene. “Just better.”

“You kidnapped our assistant.” Zoey hisses, like she can’t understand it. Because she can’t, not really.

“You lost your assistant.” Baby corrects, finally looking up.

That nearly got him stabbed.

Romance, ever the showman, steps forward, both hands raised like peace signs, though there isn’t a single peaceful thing about his expression. “Let’s not do this here, ladies.” he purrs. “You’re gonna crease your cute little stage outfits.”

Zoey makes a sharp step forward, and that’s enough for Mystery to growl.

And we know that the boys can feel this and that. Perhaps the changes in human body when you talk or think about someone you really really like.

Romance blinks. His nostrils flare. His grin slides sideways.

Abby cocks his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

They sensed it. The girls’ bodies—changing. The tiny, unspoken betrayals of physical attraction. The flush, the pulse, the pupils dilating just a bit too wide.

The crushes.

The desire.

The way they feel about you.

“Ohhh nooo.” Romance says, one hand over his heart, pretending to faint. “Girls—how cliché.”

“Shut up.” Mira snaps, swinging her blade.

“We understand.” Jinu says, calm but so obviously not taking the girls seriously. “You want Y/N back.”

“And we want her now.” Mira hisses.

Mystery growles. Not at the girls. At Romance.(??)

Abby smacks Mystery’s chest “Bro. Chill. You’re gonna pop a fang.”

“I like her.” Zoey says suddenly, a little too loud, a little too honest.

All five boys paused.

“You’re so late.” Abby mutters.

Romance collapses into Jinu’s shoulder like he’s fainting. Jinu steps away so Romance nearly falls over.

“We’re done here.” Baby says, brushing past, utterly bored.

Uhuh, no they’re not, the girls attack them. But Romance is laughing, ducking and weaving and dodging blades and yelling over his shoulder: “Y/N has options, ladies!”

Abby blocks a swing and winks. “Don’t worry, we take good care of her.”

“You kidnapped her!”

“Same thing.”

The lights backstage are flickering now, disturbed by the energy in the room. And the boys are laughing. It’s like they’re drunk on the moment, hyped up on adrenaline and too many centuries of not giving a fuck. Abby takes a hit to the shoulder and doesn’t even grunt. Just spins backward, and grins at Romance. “She wants to fight.” he says, clearly delighted. “She’s mad-mad.”

Romance, breathless from laughter and dodging Mira’s blade, nearly falls into the wall as he slaps Abby on the back. “Bro, she said ‘You kidnapped her.’ Like we didn’t know!”

Even Jinu cracks a smile. Zoey throws a knife at him. He catches it mid-air. And just gently… drops it. Baby isn’t even fighting anymore. He’d stopped in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the cut on his lip. Mira tries to strike him again and he dodges, still looking at his reflection. Mystery hid in the fucking shadows?? Asshole. But the smile he wears as he watches Zoey scream? He’d missed this. Missed watching people care this much.

Because they do. The girls care. Zoey has tears in her eyes. Mira’s fists tremble harder than they need to from just combat. And Rumi, god, Rumi looks horrible.

“She helped us.” she says, voice hoarse, blade still raised. “She loved us. And you took her.”

Romance tilts his head. “You ever tell her that?”

Silence.

He smiles. “Didn’t think so.”

“Tell me this isn’t funny.” Abby says, still grinning, rubbing his bruised jaw.

But the girls aren’t stupid. They see it. The way the boys react when they said your name. The twitch in Jinu’s jaw. The split-second flinch on Mystery’s mouth. They know now.

Abby grabs his pecs—yes, full-on cups them—and squishes them together, doing that exaggerated little bounce like he’s got a push-up bra on. Then he lifts his chin, throws his voice a whole octave higher, and croons: “Bring her back… she was, like, our little sunshine… our moral compass…” He fans his face. “Y/NNNN!”

Romance collapses onto Mystery’s back, wheezing, holding his gut like he’s about to die. Even Baby, who hasn’t laughed in a week and a half, snorts and turns to the wall to hide it, shoulders shaking like he can’t help it.

Rumi actually growls. Growls. Zoey throws a blade. Romance catches it and spins it in one hand, still grinning, smug as hell. “Look at ‘em. All protective now. Little too late, don’t you think? You should’ve put a ring on it.”

Mystery doesn’t say a word, but his smirk says plenty. Thriving. His smile only widens when Zoey catches his gaze and freezes for just a second. The tiniest flinch. She’s always flinched when he looked straight at her. That shit is better than drugs.

“Seriously,” Romance says, fake-exasperated, looking between the girls. “you’re all jealous because we’re funnier. And hotter.”

“I’m not jealous.” Rumi snaps, shaking. “I’m angry.”

“Same thing.” Abby shrugs, still jiggling his chest just to be a dick. “We win.”

Suddenly, a headset-wearing staff member pokes his head in through the door, looking very much like someone who had to scream over ten security guards just to get here. “Uh—Saja boys? You’re needed onstage. Now.”

Jinu looks at him. “Already?”

Mystery peels off the wall, calm as ever. Jinu’s already brushing imaginary lint off his sleeves and walking like the hallway is a runway.

And as the boys walk off, shoving each other in that obnoxious way only boys can, still laughing, the girls are left in a storm of fury, desperation… and something they hate more than anything:

Jealousy.

Because the boys don’t just have you. They know it. They revel in it. And worst of all? They’re so fucking funny about it.

Hours later, the front door slammed open like someone kicked it. Laughter exploded down the hall. Loud, messy, boy laughter. Shoes thudded against the hardwood, someone bumped into the wall (probably Abby) Romance is laughing so hard he’s leaning on Baby, who is not laughing. Just smirking a little while elbowing him in the ribs. Abby’s halfway shirtless again, sweat still drying on his skin, flipping a bottle of water upside down over his head like he thinks it’s hot. Jinu looks calm as ever, but his sleeves are a little too perfectly rolled and there’s a gash on his shoulder. Not much to say about Mystery, what do we expect?

You’re on the rug. Some huge designer monstrosity, handwoven by someone who probably had no idea it would become the lounging spot for a tiger the size of a bathtub and even bigger because I’m bad at comparing sizes okay the fuck am I kidding a big cat okay?!

You’re sitting cross-legged, humming to yourself while scratching under his monstrous chin. His tail thumps once. Twice.

“—AND THEN SHE THREW THE DAGGER AT ME,” Romance is shouting. “AND I CAUGHT IT WITH MY MOUTH—”

“No, you didn’t.” Abby interrupts, throwing the bottle across the room(?? asshole). “You screamed like a child and Baby had to teleport you out.”

“I choked on it!” Romance snaps back. “That’s basically the same thing as catching it! Besides, Baby’s obsessed with me, that wasn’t a rescue, it was a kidnapping—”

Baby trips Romance.

You glance up lazily, still scratching Derpy’s jaw. He purrs. The floor vibrates. “Hey.”

They all greet you back at once. A useless, overlapping chorus of:

“Hey, princess.”

“Hi.”

“Yo.”

“Wassup.”

“I missed youuuuuu.”

You roll your eyes but don’t stop petting the tiger. He lifts his head and rests it against your shoulder like a house cat. You smile a little. He’s warm. Your eyes flick up. And boy, they’re beat the fuck up.

Mystery’s knuckles are cut. Romance has a split lip. Jinu’s shirt has three claw marks across the back like someone raked through it (Zoey, probably). Abby’s hair is still slick with sweat, and Baby’s shirt is literally smoking.

Do they say anything about what happened? No.

Abby starts pushing Mystery’s shoulder. “Come on, leg day. You promised.”

But then you get up. Smoothly. Without warning. Grabbing Mystery’s hand.

Deadass.

Your fingers close around his wrist. Warm. Gentle.

“Mm-mm.” you say sweetly. “Mystery’s hanging out with me.”

…to be continued ❤︎︎

Thank you babeee💋

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

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iwanttoreadsusthings · 10 days ago

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the way he doesn't even end up giving her his actual blood type

Focus, Kit!!

#mans probably don't even KNOW his own blood type

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iwanttoreadsusthings · 10 days ago

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YESSS I like Kit, but I was lowk getting icked out during this sequence. Then Jentry dropped that line and I was like YES, YES THEY GET IT, THE WRITERS GET IT

also appreciate them avoiding the "girl chooses supernatural bad boy over the healthier more stable relationship" trope and acknowledging this behaviour as problematic.... "it shouldn't matter why i'm saying no" is such an important line

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iwanttoreadsusthings · 10 days ago

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was literally thinking this

If I had a nickel for every time I saw a demon fall in love with a girl who's supposed to be their enemy, temporarily wavers due to said girl making them believe that they're more then just their past mistakes/ being a demon but still betrays them before ultimately sacrificing their life to save their's due to realizing that they were wrong, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird it happened twice (especially within the span of a year).

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iwanttoreadsusthings · 10 days ago

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Spoiler alert:

and they both dead too (RIP my angsty kings)

I reckon since it's been a week and a bit it's fine for me to post this 😂

Someone on Tiktok pointed out that both Kit and Jinu have wing symbolism while also sharing a similar arc 💀 So that inspired the first post, the second slide was to lessen the blow a small bit by being funny (and also that this has happened more times to me then I can count 👀)

#I screamed when Kit died bcs wdym ur taking away my favourite character #AGAIN #IT'S ALWAYS MY FAVOURITES THAT DIE TOO #I'll just cry I guess

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iwanttoreadsusthings · 14 days ago

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ANOTHER BANGER FROM MY GOAT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you did.

You bit him.

You actually bit him on the shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

“BACK OFF, YOU ABSOLUTE MOTHERFUCKING ASS!”

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

But the best part?

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

You stopped shouting.

Stared.

Jinu held Abby bridal-style.

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

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

Another time, you were tied to a chair.

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

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

He bared his teeth.

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

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

So you bit him first.

His arm. Hard.

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

He just licked the bite mark.

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

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

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

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

Strawberry Vanilla.

You stared.

Froze.

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

The entire house heard you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At one point, you fought Baby over cereal.

You reached for the last box. So did he.

You stared at each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did more things too.

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

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

He caught it.

Didn’t flinch.

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

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

Once Romance walked in on you changing.

He said it was an accident.

Bull. Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

Cue second slipper.

He caught it.

Blew you a kiss.

You almost passed out from rage.

They liked you like that.

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

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

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

But they knew something was happening.

You were making them feel alive again.

Those were the early days.

And they loved you then, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

“That’s unfair.” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

He’s getting way too close now.

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

“Romance.” you say, exasperated.

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

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

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

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re breathtaking.”

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

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

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

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

It’s infuriating.

It’s charming.

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

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

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

“Mmhm.”

“So what’s it sound like now?”

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

You chuck a spoon at him.

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

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

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

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

They started to like you.

LIKE like you.

Even worse?

You started to like them back.

Sometimes.

Not always.

(But sometimes.)

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

Romance was the first, obviously.

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

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

He meant it.

He meant all of it.

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

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

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

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

Mystery was different. Quieter. Harder to read.

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

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

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

And weirdly? It was.

Baby was a fucking asshole.

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

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

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

And Baby wanted to keep it that way.

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

But Jinu’s affection was the deepest.

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

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

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

But they didn’t listen.

Not as much anymore.

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

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

Your misfortunes were daily. Hourly. Unreal.

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

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

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

Another time, Baby just straight away fucking tripped you.

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

At least the tiger liked you.

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

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

“Sweetheart.”

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

“I’m busy.”

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

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

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

You stab a tomato.

“Salad.”

“Ooooh. Sexy.”

“It’s not for you.”

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

“Wouldn’t care.”

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

“You licked my cheek last night.”

“Because I missed your mouth.”

You glare.

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

“—horny.”

“—honest!”

You turn back to your salad.

“Romance.”

He blinks. “Yes, my future?”

“Go away.”

You flicked feta at his face.

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

“I want you to leave.”

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

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

“I like the salad.”

“You want a bite of something else.”

You stab another tomato with unnecessary violence.

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

“I don’t care.”

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

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

You whack him with the spoon.

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

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

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

You glance at the board again, chewing your straw.

God, he’s good.

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

“Stop being cocky.” you mumble at him.

The crow cocks his head.

Check.

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

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

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

You glance up.

“May I?”

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

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

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

You raise a brow at him, curious.

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

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

He just… wants to understand you.

God, how were you supposed to deal with that?

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

“Ladies first.” he says.

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

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sometimes quiet is attraction.”

Your hand freezes above your rook.

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

But not Jinu.

“You’re saying you’re—”

“Interested.” he says.

Blunt. Gentlemanly. Warm.

Your pulse stumbles.

You shift in your seat. “Why now?”

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

You glance away, throat tight.

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

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

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

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

You believe him. Every word.

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

The touch lingers.

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

Your chest tightens.

You never told him that.

He leaves with a respectful bow of his head.

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

From a gentleman.

(Ignore my ass time skip)

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

“Hey.” Abby says.

“Mm.”

“I’ve been working out.”

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

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

Now you look up.

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

“Wanna feel?”

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

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

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

He wiggles his brows.

“Right? Not even my demon form.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He trails after you into the next room.

“Hey.”

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

“Touch here?”

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

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

And he melts.

Giggles.

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

“Still impressive.” you say without turning around.

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

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

Now, Baby.

He doesn’t flirt like the others.

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

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

He doesn’t say hi.

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

You sigh. Look over your shoulder.

“You gonna peek?”

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

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

Now you’re his little crush.

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

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

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

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

“Your hair’s dumb.” he says suddenly.

You pause, blink.

“Thanks, Baby.”

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

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

You just raise an eyebrow.

“You think I’m hot?”

“I didn’t say that.”

A beat. Then, like it hurts him:

“You’re okay.”

God, he’s such a brat.

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

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

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

He shrugs.

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

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

And under his breath?

“…Good.”

You pretend not to hear it.

He pretends not to care.

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

(timeskip…yeah.)

It’s evening.

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

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

You flick the toy again. He launches.

Footsteps.

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

But in his hand?

A single flower.

Pink.

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

Except…

He’s holding it like it’s glass.

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

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

Not in your hand.

Not in your hair.

Just… there.

Like a cat bringing a kill to your doorstep.

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

You do.

Fuck, you do.

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

For you.

It makes something in you ache.

He thought about you.

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

“Thank you.” you murmur.

He grunts, stands, walks off.

Just like that.

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

“No, no—hey!”

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

A smile.

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

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

He brought you a flower.

And it’s not nothing.

You keep it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“DOLLFACE!!”

Arms around your waist.

You’re lifted.

Lifted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That hush is instant.

Romance pauses mid-whine.

Baby raises an eyebrow.

Mystery looks up.

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

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

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

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

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

And yeah.

Yeah, they’re all a little jealous.

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

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

“It was pink.” you say.

“Fucking peasant flower!!”

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

(Geeked vs locked in)

You glance at Mystery.

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

You’re such an angel.

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

Because now they all want you.

Jinu made it clear.

Crystal.

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

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

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

He wants you. No questions. No confusion.

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

Jinu is playing the long game.

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

But he wants. God, he wants.

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

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

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

He’s getting desperate, too.

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

It’d be tragic if it wasn’t so funny.

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

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

He hasn’t known rejection like this ever.

He’s never known yearning like this.

And Abby. Sweet Abby.

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

You give him just enough.

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

He’d die for you. Actually die.

He probably already has, emotionally.

But he’s still an idiot.

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

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

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

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

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

He likes you so bad it hurts his bones.

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

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

He gave you a flower. That says it all.

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

Baby is a dick.

An asshole. Through and through.

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

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

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

He talks the most shit.

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

And inside?

Gwi-Ma is roaring with laughter.

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

You’re their first love in centuries.

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

It’s so unfair.

And you’re so, so valid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he never likes anyone.

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

Abby is down so bad it’s embarrassing.

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

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

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

He just wants you to like him.

He knows he was part of kidnapping you.

He knows that’s, uh, bad.

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

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

But… oh, how much he likes you.

Baby is the worst.

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

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

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

They are not okay.

Not a single one of them.

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

And you’re rejecting them.

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

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

They’re like boys again.

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

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

They know you didn’t choose them.

They know you might never.

And they don’t even blame you for it.

Meanwhile, Gwi-Ma is living his best life.

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

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

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

And all this leads to…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let you go?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, no shit.

She doesn’t.

You don’t.

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

Of course you don’t want this.

But they do.

God, they do.

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

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

They panic.

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

Not for them. Not anymore.

It’s a question of loss.

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

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

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

And none of them want to go back to that.

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

Because you’re going to like them eventually.

You will.

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

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

So they say no. Again and again.

“No, dude.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“She’s not going anywhere.”

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

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

He doesn’t push it again.

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

Not really.

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

In different ways.

In different versions of forever.

In ways they don’t dare speak aloud.

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

Hoping you’ll stay.

Even if they never say the words.

(ashamed of my time skips)

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

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

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

You lift a hand, a lazy wave. “Hi.”

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

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

“Stuff I saw. Thought you’d like it.”

You blink.

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

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

Asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Romance.”

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

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

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

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

You stare at it for a long moment.

Hm.

No one says a thing.

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

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

He doesn’t say anything either.

It feels like something’s shifting.

Not loud. Not fast.

Just… growing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful, yes. But breakable.

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

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

Never still.

Because when Abby stopped?

When he was quiet?

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

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

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

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

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Oh my god—”

“I’m singing it now.”

“Romance, no.”

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

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

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

Romance licks your palm.

“Ew—!”

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

But it doesn’t.

(Not visibly.)

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

Not the flirting.

Not the games.

But the living.

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

You’ve heard them at night.

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

The low whines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gravity.

Not prison bars.

Not chains.

Just… gravity.

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

You smile to yourself.

Just a little.

Yeah.

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

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

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

And keeps it there.

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

“Because you talk like that.”

“Eh.”

Behind him, Abby’s scoffing.

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

“Abby.” you cut in.

“Just sayin’.”

You stare at him.

He flexes.

You blink.

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

“Abby.”

“C’mon, babe.”

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

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

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

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

“Jesus.”

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

They aren’t subtle.

But they are sincere.

In their own fucked-up ways.

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

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

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

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

“Romance—”

“I do. Hey, don’t go—”

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

“HEY—!”

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

And know that they can definitely hear it.

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

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

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

They know when you’re aroused. Unfortunately.

They know when you’re scared. Worse.

And they definitely know when you’re lying.

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

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

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

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

Not exactly gentlemanly.

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

Okay, all of them can do this.

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

Mostly.

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

It’s not just control, not just torture.

It’s protection.

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

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

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

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

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

They don’t know how to be human anymore.

But they haven’t lost you yet.

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

By listening.

By smelling.

By memorizing your habits and tells and tension.

You don’t say anything about it.

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

Okay, who was the fucking creep?

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

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

You asked, “What?”

He said, “What?”

Yeah. Exactly.

You’re still the prisoner, technically.

Still for information you haven’t given.

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

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

You might actually like it here.

Not the kidnapping.

Not the control.

But them.

Them as people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loneliness.

Romance jokes to hide it.

Abby flexes over it.

Mystery hides in shadows to avoid feeling it.

Baby? Baby pretends he doesn’t care.

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

So yeah. You still sleep with your door locked.

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

They’re not your friends. Not yet.

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

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

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

You blinked.

He blinked.

You: “I just wanted the remote.”

Baby: “It’s in the void now.”

Mystery walks in, nods like this is fine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t say anything.

You sob-laughed and kept going.

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

Liar. Beautiful, kind liar.

Also, Abby used you as a bench press weight.

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

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

He just wanted you close.

Also, they all dogpile when they wrestle.

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

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

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

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

They did it anyway.

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

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

You did not hold the boba.

You drank it.

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

Also, you learned Romance talks in his sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s not just the bodies.

It’s their faces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s your moment.

It’s peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t say anything about it.

You just… tilt your head, wait.

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

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

“How long?” you ask.

“Three hundred years, give or take.”

You let that sit. He does too.

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

You glance at the bowl, then up at him.

“You know that was mine, right?”

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

…You really don’t.

He shifts, weight leaning in your direction now.

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

He takes a breath through his nose. Considers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughs.

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

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

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

“Towel counts.”

“If you say so.”

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

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

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

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

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

You let him.

You absolutely do.

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

And you knew what that meant.

“I’m going to bed.” you say simply.

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

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

“…Good night.”

Desperate. Not even whispered. Pushed out of him.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s… pretty.

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

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

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

And yet…

He’s pretty when he tries to be human.

They all are.

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

Love u baby💋

#I REALLY FUCKING LOVE MYSTERY ONE CHANCE PLEASE

3K notes · View notes

iwanttoreadsusthings · 15 days ago

Note

Like over a 100GB left in my computer coz I deleted Genshin for WuWa

But the game said something about my graphics driver being updated, so I cannot move in the game at all without severe lag, so as u can imagine, combat is pretty hard (especially when I can't even walk to the mob) 💀💀

I want to play WuWa so bad, but after the update my computer just could not handle it.

And I tried installing it on the Ipad but it just crashes every single time I open the app, I've just given up.

:') Oh the pain of high-quality games

oh brother, how much storage do you have😭 i play on my 4 year old mobile and i have no problem

16 notes · View notes

iwanttoreadsusthings · 17 days ago

Text

Mystery my shayla 😭😭😭MY SHAYLAAAA

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 2

Pasta. Small talk. The period topic because it had to come too. Super senses. But you’re not exactly out of there yet. Less misfortune for you now, at least. Part 1 here

cw: menstrual cycle and talking about it, still implied fem reader, use of Y/N, another ton of cursing, Romance’s idea of flirting in general, could be a hard read there and there but it’s on purpose!! awkward conversations make the best relationships or whatever they say

AN: guys I promise this is not Romance and Abby centered, it’s just their nature to be always on your dick—y’all will get more of the others too, but they need time to come around!!

Honestly? They’re kind of dumb.

Not in a tripping over their own feet way. Not that dumb, but still not the sharpest knives in the drawer.

They’re good at this—the keeping you here part. The manhandling. The mind fuck that keep you pacing your room at night, jumping at the way Baby sometimes just… appears. They’re good at being demons. Good at playing with you like a cat does with a bird.

But smart?

That’s a generous word.

Abby, bless him, is basically the muscle brain ever. His biceps arrive before his thoughts do. And sure, he can lift you like a dumbbell and still smile, but when he talks? It’s like being dropped headfirst into a gym locker room.

Romance is smarter, in that street level, scammer way. He’s slick, talks fast, moves faster. But his brain is wired for one thing and one thing only: women. You. Them. Himself in the mirror. If it’s got a curve, he’s distracted. If it doesn’t, he’s bored. He can strategize, technically. He just doesn’t unless the reward is worth it.

Baby’s different. Not loud. Not muscular. Not flashy. But the thing is—he’s mean. Not necessarily with words, because Baby rarely speaks unless it’s worth it. But you feel it. The kind of low-level, ambient danger that simmers under that baby-faced grin. He’s not dumb. He’s just petty and doesn’t care to try harder than necessary.

He doesn’t need to know what the capital of Switzerland is when he knows how to make you panic with just a glance.

Mystery… Mystery is a different species altogether. Half-feral, part-theatre kid. You don’t know if he’s smart or not because he doesn’t talk. Just growls. Attacks. Watches you.

Never attacks you, though. Only the boys. Respect for that.

Once you saw him reading a book upside down. For twenty minutes.

And then there’s Jinu.

Your only real threat.

Because Jinu listens. He thinks. And unlike the others, he doesn’t laugh when you try to outsmart them. He watches you. Quietly.

He knew you were hiding a pin under your tongue before you even tried to pick a lock. He knew you were faking sleep before your breathing even slowed. He knew not to touch you when you were crashing out, not because he was scared of you—none of them are—but because he understood.

Understood the human part. The fragile, messy, emotional mess they’ve taken in and turned into their favorite little chew toy.

He might be the warmest.

The others mess with you because it’s fun.

Jinu’s the one who might actually understand what he’s doing to you.

You’re not even sure which is worse.

For an example, once you were walking past the kitchen, and you heard Abby in there, trying to explain to Romance why you can’t toast eggs.

“It’s not the same, bro.” he was saying, voice full of conviction. “Like, they’re both breakfast but one’s, like, a solid and one’s like… an egg.”

Romance, clearly entertained, just nodded. “Okay, but what if you did toast it, though? Like, what happens?”

You froze behind the doorway, staring into the middle distance.

You heard a wet splat. A hiss. A beep that did not sound like it should be coming from a toaster.

Baby walked past behind you, muttering, “Told them not to microwave the shell.” before disappearing.

You didn’t even have the strength to ask.

Smartest captors in history? Absolutely not.

Most dangerous because they’re unpredictable dumbasses? Tragically, yes.

And you’re stuck right in the middle.

Send help. Or maybe a better toaster.

Now though, the kitchen is quiet.

No distant grunting from Abby bench-pressing the living room coffee table. No bone-deep growls of Mystery body-slamming someone for breathing too loud. No Romance humming some song into your ear just to see if it’ll get you to slap him again (he lives for it).

Just you. And a pan. And some half-decent pasta.

The water hisses gently on the stove. You stir the noodles with a slow rhythm. It’s almost domestic. The life you once had before being stolen away.

You’d found the pasta by accident, digging through their absurdly stocked pantry—who even bought this stuff? You doubted any of them cooked. Or even knew what half the ingredients were.

So pasta it was.

Then, the sound of a door slamming open.

Laughter.

Footsteps.

“Angel?”

You don’t even have to turn. That voice is unmistakable. Smooth, way too close, Romance.

Then he’s right there, chin hovering just over your shoulder, arms caging you between him and the stove.

“Is that for me?” he breathes, voice dropping into a murmur that’s clearly meant to make your skin crawl—in a good way. “You shouldn’t have, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t.”

Then, “Y/N?”

This one’s louder. Dumber. Friendlier.

Abby.

He leans on the counter like he’s helping, but mostly just manages to look huge and tragically eager.

Romance sighs dramatically beside you, stealing the spoon right out of your hand. “This isn’t how you stir it.” he mutters, absolutely lying. “Let me show you. Elbows in, baby.”

You snatch it back. “I will strangle you with linguine.”

“Threaten me again.”

They’re unbearable.

Abby grabs a piece of uncooked pasta from the counter and crunches it loudly, nodding. “Mmm. Chef’s kiss.”

“I hate all of you.”

Romance presses in closer, whispering so only you can hear, “Say that again but slower.”

You elbow him in the ribs.

Then behind them, near the arch that leads into this part of the house, you catch movement.

Mystery.

You look at him. He doesn’t say a word—does he ever?—but he nods. He nods a little.

He wants pasta.

You blink. That… was actually really cute.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. They’re evil. Not just morally—they’re emotionally evil. Sadists with pretty faces. They’ve kidnapped you, tortured you, kept you trapped.

They shouldn’t get pasta.

But then your mind does that thing again—betrays you with kindness. You think of all of them, hundreds of years old and utterly brainless, probably never having had someone make them dinner just because.

When was the last time someone fed them with genuine love? When was the last time anyone saw them hungry and gave instead of demanded?

You don’t have to ask to know the answer.

So you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. But you reach for another pot anyway.

“Fine.” you mutter, already boiling more water. “But I swear to god, if one of you breathes on me while I cook, I will throw this spoon.”

Romance grins, settling back like he orchestrated the entire thing. Abby lets out a victorious whoop, clapping Mystery on the back, who merely blinks at him, probably wondering why humans—and their hybrids—are so goddamn loud.

They linger.

Abby tries to help by opening the jar of sauce like you’re weak. Romance throws a towel over his shoulder and starts calling himself “Chef Daddy.” Mystery does nothing, which is somehow the most helpful of all.

You keep cooking. Because fuck your empathy. And maybe fuck all of them too.

But also… maybe not yet.

Because Romance had this look on his face like he just caught scent of a very interesting meal.

It was you.

He leaned against the counter, spoon still hot from the pasta pot in your hand gently tapping at his shoulder, which he absolutely refused to take as a rejection.

You didn’t budge. Instead, you reached up with the spoon and nudged his forehead with it.

“Back. Off.”

He stepped back obediently—exactly one step. Then came right back in again, eyes dark and dancing. “Why? You’re so fun when you’re bossy.”

You shoved the spoon at his chest again. “I will put this boiling water in your pants.”

“I’d consider that pleasuring.”

“Out.”

“Make me.”

So you started to. Not seriously—more of a push than a shove, the spoon becoming your makeshift weapon as he kept leaning in, melting into your space. Every time you pressed him back, he’d disappear for half a second, then return, closer.

You shoved.

He smiled.

You swatted.

He leaned.

This went on for an embarrassingly long time.

It became a game. Not one you agreed to, of course, but it was entertaining. You pushed with the spoon, he came back with a wink. You stepped on his foot, he gasped, but it didn’t hurt him.

Abby didn’t help.

He stood by the fridge, watching with unreal levels of enthusiasm. Loved the show, really. Eating handfuls of raw pasta while at it.

Meanwhile, across the room, Mystery was sitting on one of the stools, elbows on the counter, watching the chaos with unsettling patience. Every now and then, he tilted his head slightly.

When you glanced at him, he blinked. Nodded.

“Don’t worry.” you said to him, half-exhausted, half-warmed by the tiny approval. “You’re getting your pasta. You’ve been good.”

Romance sighed, letting his head drop back. “God, I love it here.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, “I can tell.”

Then Jinu came into the kitchen too. After a shower, you’d guess, he looked fresh. Yeah, def a shower.

He was unbothered by the heat in the kitchen, or the chaos of Abby biting dried pasta again like a literal caveman. His eyes immediately went to the pot, then you, then Romance standing far too close with the grin of a man who had never been told no as many times as he had today.

“Everything fine?” He checked.

“I got harassed.” you replied dryly. “Repeatedly.”

Romance waved. “Hi.”

Jinu didn’t ask further. He never needed to.

Meanwhile, Baby finally showed up too—he was probably in his room—plopping down on the sofa with the smugness of someone who knew the pasta would appear eventually and refused to waste energy until then.

He didn’t say anything, of course. Just snorted at you as you turned back to the stove, one hand keeping Romance at bay, the other stirring the pot.

You were feeding demons now.

And they loved it.

“You know,” Romance purrs, voice smooth. “if you ever get tired of stirring that pot, I could give you something else to—”

You press the wooden spoon flat against his chest without even looking. “Do not finish that sentence.”

“Baby, I was just gonna say knead. For dough. You really think so low of me?”

You press the spoon to Romance’s forehead.

He lets it rest there, unbothered.

“I’d make it good, you know. I’m not all talk.”

He wants that cookie.

You shove the spoon against his mouth. “Back. Up.”

“Feed me and maybe I’ll consider it.”

Abby’s laugh booms in the background. He’s practically vibrating from how funny this all is to him.

Romance leans his chin on your shoulder. “We could have a normal evening too, you know. You and me. Candles. Lighting. Towels.”

You elbow him in the ribs, again.

But he doesn’t move. He just stays there, chin balanced lightly on your shoulder, humming quietly and beautifully to himself, spoon still resting against his lips where you’ve frozen mid-shove.

It’s ridiculous.

Romance drapes himself halfway across the counter now, cheek in one hand, the other idly tracing little circles in the air as he watches you with a look that says he thinks this is foreplay. Slow blinks. Loose lips. That permanently lazy, sinful smirk.

You jab the spoon into his chest and shove.

“Back.”

Romance stumbles half a step but returns instantly.

You do it again.

Push. He retreats.

Returns. You push.

Retreats. Back again.

“Oh, angel, so rough.”

Push.

“Is this what you’re into?”

Push.

“You and me, we could have rounds, baby.”

You pause at that one.

He grins. Real smug.

Yeah. He said it. Or no—offered it. Boldly.

He wants that cookie BAD.

(He absolutely needs that pussy I’m not even kidding.)

You jab the spoon harder this time, jamming it right between his ribs with a grunt. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hm.”

Abby’s behind him, absolutely wheezing, not even trying to hide how much he’s enjoying this little routine. He’s got one hand braced on the fridge, shoulders bouncing.

So that’s two pasta bowls. Well, three, if you count Romance, though he seems far more interested in eating you than anything with carbs.

You roll your eyes and keep stirring. This used to be your job, after all—feeding hunters. You were the background person. The gear girl.

Jinu moves past Romance and Abby—giving neither of them more than a glance—and reaches for a glass of water.

“I could help.” Romance says, leaning in like it’s a secret. “I’m good with my hands.”

You swing the spoon up so fast he flinches.

Abby cackles.

You turn your back to him just to focus on plating, but you’re smiling. Just a little. Because for all the bullshit, the teasing, the chaos—they’re… oddly easy to fall into.

Then, instinct. Like muscle memory, like the part of you that used to trail behind the girls and silently hand them this and that. The part of you that feeds people because that’s just what you do.

So even as you’re fighting off Romance with a spoon, your mouth betrays you.

“Do you guys want some too?”

Silence. Immediate. Unforgiving.

Even Romance pauses. That grin still carved across his face, but for a fraction of a second, he blinks—once—like he’s recalibrating something.

Your face burns.

Too late to take it back.

Jinu, standing near the sink now, glances up from his glass of water. His eyes find yours. Level. Patient. You brace for some kind of comment. Anything. A joke. A smirk. A deflection.

Instead, he just tilts his head slightly, and nods once.

“Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

That’s it.

Of course, the moment Jinu answers, Baby perks up from the couch. You don’t even have to look. You can feel it.

You glance over, and sure enough, he’s got that same unbothered look on his face. One knee pulled up on the couch, head resting against the back like he was born lounging. His chin lifts just slightly, that lazy sort of nod. Like he’s saying, “Yeah. Me too. I’m not about to say ‘please’ though.”

You sigh. “Okay. Pasta for five it is.”

Romance reaches out to touch your skin.

The spoon swings.

He dodges. Barely.

The garlic sizzles, sauce heating up in the pan. Mystery is still lurking by the counter, calm but observant. You wonder, sometimes, if he even eats human food. Or if he just likes the idea of it.

Meanwhile Romance is watching you with his chin propped in his hand and that usual look—smug, flirty, lazy. Except it’s not just lazy anymore.

It’s lingering.

The way you move, the little sounds you make when you stir the sauce, the way your nose wrinkles when you pout. You look like every girl he’s ever wanted to seduce and none of them at all.

He watches the way your shoulders roll when you lean over the counter, the way you slap Abby’s hand away when he wants to eat dry pasta again.

He could be in love with you.

Could be in love with you for a whole night in a king-sized bed for sure.

But also?

He’s starting to think he could be in love with you a little longer than that. A little slower.

His chest actually aches a little when you hum while plating the food.

He likes you in a way that makes him feel… young. Human. Almost stupid.

Abby, despite the meathead bravado and the shit-eating grins, watches you like someone who’s never really been taken care of.

He sees you move with purpose. The way you mutter numbers under your breath, checking the water levels, making sure everyone has a plate, a fork, a goddamn napkin. You’re on autopilot, maybe, but it actually means something to him.

You’re a little addictive.

He flexes near you sometimes. On purpose. Sure. He enjoys the way you roll your eyes and tell him his ego’s bigger than his chest. But deep down? There’s something grounding in you.

You’re tiny. Mortal. Fragile. But you got this way of swinging that spoon and facing five demons like you’re not even scared.

He likes that.

He doesn’t think about love. Not really. But if someone asked him to pick a girl to guard for the rest of his immortal life? Yeah. You’d be on the list.

He wonders if you’ll ever cook like this for someone who loves you. Really loves you.

And he kind of hates the idea that it won’t be him.

Mystery doesn’t understand half the shit you do. Not in a language sense—he gets the words. But the meaning, the little things, those human rituals, are harder.

Still, he watches.

You interest him. He’s never had anyone that close before, not without claws drawn, not without blood on the floor.

He watches how your chest rises when you sigh, how your fingers flinch when oil spits, how your neck tenses when the others crowd too close. He likes when you fight them off. That fire. That bite. You’re small, sure. Delicate, in that mortal way. That makes him feel better about himself.

He’s just watching. Not creepy. Not really.

Curious.

Your towel moment earlier still replays in his brain. The way your legs moved. How soft your thigh looked when you kicked Abby. He remembers softness. Barely.

You made him not want to snarl and want to snarl at the same time. Though the second one might be just because of all the new feelings.

Baby hasn’t said a word. Not a real one. He’s sprawled sideways on the couch with his knees up.

But he’s watching.

You don’t see it, not really. He’s good at being lazy. Detached. But every time you move, his gaze tracks you. He doesn’t flirt like Romance. Doesn’t joke like Abby. Doesn’t hover like Mystery.

He just watches.

And when you bend forward to grab the plates, the tip of your shirt riding up just an inch

Yeah. He’s looking.

You’re so… human. In the exact way he’s forgotten people could be. You breathe like someone who expects to wake up tomorrow. You speak like someone who knows how the world works. You make pasta.

He doesn’t even remember the last time he was fed without being manipulated.

Maybe he never was.

So yeah, he’s watching. And the look he wears isn’t just perverse. It’s intrigued. Interested.

You’re growing on him, whether he’ll ever say it or not.

And then there’s Jinu.

Still by the sink. Still sipping water, though the glass has been empty for a while now. He’s not thirsty. He’s thinking.

You’re an anomaly.

When he first saw you—struggling, kicking, furious in Romance’s arms—he figured you’d scream yourself hoarse and eventually give up. People collapse under pressure.

But you sulked. You bit. You kept making breakfast.

He sees it in your eyes—quiet intelligence, ruthless practicality, and something else he can’t quite pin. Compassion, maybe. That doomed, bleeding-heart sort of strength. It’s frustrating. Admirable.

And he feels something pull when you scrape sauce into the pan. Something small. Maybe stupid.

He’s glad it was you.

Out of all the humans. Out of all the possible options.

He’s glad you’re the one here.

He wonders, briefly, what your life might’ve looked like if none of this had happened.

And then he hates that he cares.

You click off the heat, twist your wrist, and scoop that steaming, creamy, cheesy pasta into mismatched bowls.

“Alright. Eat. Before I dump it all in the trash.” you say, loud and so fucking clear.

They’re moving.

You don’t even turn around to look anymore—you can feel them converging. Sharks to blood. Hyenas to bone. Fuckass demon boys to pasta.

Romance sighs loudly, arms up like he’s just come home from war. “Ugh, I knew I was in love.” he says to no one in particular, grabbing his bowl and practically moaning after the first bite. His idea of a thank-you. You roll your eyes so hard your neck cricks.

Abby ruffles your hair on the way to the counter—big hand, too warm. “You’re the best, short stack.” he grins, teeth gleaming, before lifting two bowls (his and Romance’s, obviously) with one hand and strutting off, Romance right behind him.

Mystery just slides up, grabs his bowl, and nods once—slow and respectful. A knight’s gesture. His way of saying, I won’t growl at you for the rest of the night.

High praise, honestly.

Jinu is last. He doesn’t rush, ever. But when he takes his plate, he meets your eyes again, gives a small smile—a real one, soft and rare like a whisper—and murmurs, “Thanks.” Just like that. Quiet. Real.

And then there’s Baby.

You glare at him already as you pass him his food, just because.

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t even nod. Just takes the bowl like it was owed to him, curls his pretty lips into that tiny, smug smile and stabs his fork into the noodles like he’s trying to kill it.

You mutter, “You’re welcome, Your Highness.” and storm off before you throw something at him.

You slip into your room and shut the door with your foot.

Click. Lock slides in.

The room is still warm from earlier. Your bed is unmade. The little hoodie you haven’t worn since the first week lies forgotten on the chair. You place your plate down, sit on the floor, and finally take the first bite.

Perfect.

But that’s not what gets you.

No, it’s the absurd realization—once again—that you just made dinner for five demon boys who kidnapped you.

And worse?

You’re the one who told them to eat.

You.

You did that.

Fucking hell.

And yet… you chew slowly. Rest your head back against the side of the bed. And breathe.

It’s quiet now.

For once, they’re not poking, teasing, calling through the door. No flirtatious taps, no dumb scratching, no towel-related things.

You can almost pretend for just a second that you’re here on purpose.

Like you’re a roommate.

Or a girlfriend.

Or…

No.

You stopped that now.

…

(idk how to make a timeskip w vibe)

It’s about an hour later.

The house is quiet now, blessedly dim. The kitchen has gone still, bowls left half-eaten in the sink because of course no one cleaned up. Baby probably tossed his fork onto the floor just to annoy others. Romance probably left his somewhere suspicious, like on the bathroom counter. Abby probably flexed at himself in the hallway mirror on his way to his room.

But none of that is your concern right now.

No, right now—you’re in your room.

Alone.

In peace.

Your sanctuary. Your cell. Same thing, honestly.

Oversized T-shirt that falls just barely past your hips and a thong. You’re not trying to be a slut, just comfortable. Your skin’s clean from a quick shower. Your limbs are warm and soft and your book is finally open in your lap, spine bent.

You’ve finally exhaled.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

You freeze.

You already know who it is. You don’t need him to say a damn thing. That knock is practically trademarked.

“Hey.”

Yep. Abby.

His voice is cocky, light. Way too familiar. “Can I come in?”

You stare at the door. Your face scrunches up like you just smelled something rancid. You don’t even get up.

“No!” you call out, still seated cross-legged with your book. “You can’t. I’m literally in a thong!”

THUMP.

A thud, really.

A full body collision with your door.

Followed by—

“FUCK—”

Groan. Pained.

That was Romance.

You blink. Your jaw drops. You clutch your book.

Did… did he just run into the door?

Did the word “thong” break his entire sense of spatial awareness?

Outside your door, there’s shuffling. Coughing. Romance muttering something like, “My fuckin’ nose” followed by Abby’s absolutely delighted, obnoxious laughter.

You can hear it so clearly.

There’s the sound of a scuffle outside. A shuffle again. Possibly a slap. You imagine Abby’s smacking Romance in the back of the head, because that’s definitely what you would do. You already know Abby’s face is pressed against the doorframe, smiling, arms probably crossed over that ridiculous chest of his.

You shut your book and slap it on your lap, expression blank. Then you shout again, louder this time “GO. AWAY.”

There’s a pause. And then: a muffled giggling sound. High-pitched. Unholy. Absolutely not okay.

You hear shifting.

A breath.

A low hiss like someone just whispered something they shouldn’t have.

You close your eyes and let your head fall back against your pillow.

They’re grinding into the fucking door, aren’t they.

You sit up just enough to yell, “I swear to God, if you’re humping the door, I’m out of here!”

From the other side, laughter. Messy. Guilty. Absolutely unapologetic.

“Just the idea of you in a thong, babe.” Romance groans. “Why would you say that? Why—why—would you tell me that?”

You glare at the door. “BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WOULD MAKE YOU GO AWAY.”

You sit there for a good one minute from that, doing your best impression of someone who is not highly aware that two overgrown demon boys are still stationed just outside your bedroom.

You don’t even try to read anymore. You know they’re out there even if they’re silent.

Romance had gone silent, but not gone. You know that much. And Abby? Abby has the subtlety of a grenade. You can hear the occasional, suppressed laugh. A little foot shifting. A deep sigh of exaggerated suffering.

You throw your blanket off with an annoyed grunt.

You’re so done. Beyond gone.

You stomp across your room in your stupid big shirt and even stupider thong, muttering curses under your breath. Fists clenched. Eyes narrowed. You reach the door. Breathe.

And open it.

Immediately, a body drops to the floor.

Romance, apparently, had been sitting right against the door. Probably with his ear pressed to it. Definitely waiting to ambush you with some stupid line or desperate plea. Instead?

Now he’s laid out on the hardwood, one leg awkwardly folded under him, hand still up like he’s trying to casually greet someone if u know what I mean.

His head turns. His eyes lift.

And there you are.

Standing over him.

Towering.

In nothing but your big shirt.

And your thong.

And his face is exactly level with the sacred, forbidden place between your thighs.

Romance gasps.

Like, literally gasps.

He’s not even trying to be subtle about it. You watch the awe crash over his face like a wave—lips parting, pupils dilating, body going completely slack on your floor. Utterly starstruck.

You don’t even cover yourself. You just blink down at him, tired. So, so tired. “Are you done?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are still locked on the space where your thighs part. You swear you can see the popcorn pop from his eyes.

“ROMANCE.”

He blinks.

“—Huh?”

“Get off my floor.”

He doesn’t move.

Behind him, leaning coolly against the hallway wall, Abby is just watching. Arms crossed. When he sees your eyes flick over to him, he raises a brow and smiles.

“Hey, cupcake.”

You step over Romance’s splayed body—he whimpers, actually whimpers as you do, and you don’t even ask questions anymore—and plop down onto your bed.

“Alright.” you mutter. “What do you want?”

Abby shrugs and walks in. He flops down beside you, his weight making the mattress dip, knees spread, like this is his bedroom too and you’re just the guest.

Romance finally drags himself off the floor, but not before another try of sneaking one last look under your shirt. He gets an angry look from you for that. Not that he minds. Probably because of it.

Then he slides onto the bed too, flopping dramatically across the mattress. His arm brushes yours. His skin’s warm. His head lolls onto your shoulder and he sighs, dreamy.

You should tell them to leave. You should throw them out. But they’re warm. They’re here. And for once, they’re not demanding, or teasing (well, not a lot), or plotting.

They just… wanted to be around you.

They’re not here to flirt.

They’re not even here to torture you, mess with your head, or demand information through grinning teeth and “accidental” touches.

They’re just… here.

With you.

And they don’t know how to do it.

Romance, still curled at your side like he’s never sat this close to another living thing without grinding against it, shifts and says:

“So, uh… how do you feel about… blood?”

You blink. Look at him.

He blinks too.

Abby chokes on a laugh. “Dude. No.”

“What? That’s a conversation starter.”

“That’s a fucking threat, man.”

Romance frowns. “I’m trying.”

You sigh. Push his forehead gently back with two fingers. “You sound like you’re trying to eat me.”

Romance’s eyes sparkle. “Would that work?”

“NO.”

“…Okay but if I said it softer—”

“Romance.”

“Alright.”

They fall into silence again. Not the heavy kind. The awkward kind. The what do we say now kind.

And it hits you:

These ancient, powerful demons who’ve probably fought gods, torn souls from bodies, destroyed empires—don’t know how to have a normal conversation.

They’re smart in ways that count when there’s fire and blood and strategy.

But here? In a bedroom?

Absolutely no idea what they’re doing.

They don’t say it outright—god forbid they ever just say what they want—but it becomes clear pretty quickly: they didn’t come in here to grope you, tease you, or steal your panties for some demented demon ritual. (Although if you left them out, you’re pretty sure at least two of them would still risk it.)

No, they just… wanted to hang out.

“So… do you, uh… eat?” Romance asks, voice unsure, like he’s never asked a real question before and isn’t sure he’s doing it right. “Like, for fun?”

“…What?”

Abby snorts.

Romance frowns. “You know. Like… just… eat? Even if you’re not, like, starving?”

But his face is earnest. So serious. So confused.

You realize it’s a genuine question.

They’re trying.

Clumsily. Awkwardly. But really trying to have a normal, human conversation with you.

And failing.

So painfully failing.

Abby adds something next, equally off the rails: “Do you… sleep flat?”

“Like, on your back?” Romance says, suddenly invested.

You blink twice. “Do I what?”

Abby shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Just wondering.”

This isn’t torture. This isn’t manipulation. This is… two demon boys who don’t know how to people.

They’ve been around humans before. Of course they have. They’ve scared them, maybe seduced a few. But this? Not a chance for them.

“I can teach you.” you say softly, watching them both lift their heads like dogs hearing a treat bag crinkle.

Abby’s brows arch. “Teach us what?”

You smile, gentle and a little mocking. “How to talk to people. Like… humans.”

Romance sits up, leaning in like you’ve just told him the meaning of life. “You’d do that?”

You shrug. “You want to know, don’t you?”

They nod.

“Okay.” you say, folding your legs under you and facing them fully. “First step, small talk. Start with something simple. Like ‘what’s your name,’ or ‘what’s your favorite color.’”

Romance blinks. “…That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That feels stupid.”

“That’s the point.” you say. “It breaks the ice.”

Abby leans in now, elbows on his knees, studying your face. “Alright. You’re the expert. Let’s see it.”

You smile sweetly. “Ask me something.”

Romance clears his throat. “…What’s your name?”

You grin. “You already know my name.”

He glares. “I’m practicing.”

“Okay, okay.” you laugh. “Try again.”

He nods solemnly. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“What’s your favorite… animal?”

You tilt your head, considering. “Hmm… cats, maybe.”

Abby is watching you with a rare softness. “…Do another one.”

“Alright.” You think. “Ask about hobbies. What do they like to do in their spare time.”

Romance cocks his head. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“I like…” You pause. “Stand up paddling. SUP. Have you ever heard of that?”

Both of them stare at you.

“…S’what now?” Abby finally asks.

“SUP. It’s like a big board. You stand on it. Paddle across water. Lakes, the ocean, whatever.”

“That’s… real?” Romance asks.

You nod, grinning. “Very real. I love it.”

They both just… watch you. And not in a gross way. Not even in that I want to undress you with my eyes way Romance usually leans into.

They’re watching you like you’re the moon. Like you just said something impossibly beautiful, and they don’t know what to do with it.

“If you want to talk to a human girl—or anyone really—you start by asking something normal. Like… what music they like. Or what they had for breakfast.”

They both blink. That’s it. Just blink.

“…You ask people what they ate?” Abby asks, genuinely confused.

You nod. “Small talk.”

Romance looks concerned. “Isn’t that just a weird way to track someone’s dietary weaknesses?”

You groan. “No, it’s not about poison, oh my god.”

They watch you like children learning how to hold a crayon.

You soften.

Okay. So they’re terrible at this. But they’re trying. In their own… wrong way.

And that—that does something to you.

So you sit back against your headboard, legs tucked under you, and begin teaching them how to talk.

“Okay.” You clear your throat. “When you want to talk to someone, especially someone you… like” you choose your words carefully “you ask about things they care about. Things that make them light up. Memories. Hobbies.”

Abby raises a hand.

You squint. “Yes, muscle-for-brains?”

He grins. “What if the thing I care about is you?”

You groan, but can’t quite hide your smile.

Romance leans in closer. “Okay, okay—so like, I should ask you… what makes you happy?”

“Exactly.” you say, stunned he got it. “That’s actually… yeah. That’s right.”

He beams. And it’s annoyingly beautiful. His eyes crinkle. His lips curve.

“Damn, I’m good.” he says proudly.

“Don’t get cocky.”

Too late.

You look between the two of them and sigh again. But this time, there’s something warmer in your chest. Like… pity, almost. But gentler. Familiar. Like watching stray cats try to figure out how to meow at the right pitch to get someone to feed them.

“Alright.” you say. “Let’s practice. Abby, ask me something a normal person would ask someone they like.”

Abby sits up a little straighter.

He thinks. Really thinks. You can almost see the gears creaking in his skull.

Then, with all the confidence in the world:

“If you were an animal, would you let me ride you—”

“Try again.”

“Okay. Fine. Uhh…” His expression softens just enough that it surprises you. “What’s the best thing that’s happened to you this year?”

You pause.

Then blink.

Huh.

“That’s actually… really sweet.” you murmur.

Romance nods. “Yeah, man.”

You smile. And you answer, just a little. Just enough to let them practice. They listen. Like, really listen. And when you give them a pointer—“don’t interrupt,” “smiling helps,” “use their name sometimes”—they actually nod, soaking it up like sponges, eyes wide, brains buzzing.

Romance, who usually can’t keep his eyes above chest level, is just… listening. Watching your mouth move. His hands still for once.

Abby, isn’t smiling now. He’s watching. And when you catch him doing it, he doesn’t look away.

“Okay.” you say after a small breath, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you glance between them—two demons sitting awkwardly on your bed, desperately trying to look casual and not like they’re both on the verge of falling in love with the same girl. “Now it’s your turn to answer.”

Romance perks up immediately, cocky little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ask me anything.”

Abby just nods, one arm slung lazily over his knee.

“Alright.” you say, drawing in a breath. “What’s your favorite color?”

Romance: “Red.”

Abby: “Black.”

You blink. “Alright. What’s your favorite food?”

Romance immediately: “Whatever you’re cooking, baby.”

You shove him lightly, biting back a smile. “Seriously.”

Abby hums, thinking. “I had pizza once. It was… stupid good.”

You blink. “You’ve had pizza?”

“I’ve been around.”

You try not to picture that. The demon boys—scattered across decades, slipping in and out of cities, tasting food for the sake of curiosity, hunger, or just to feel something. It’s weirdly intimate, knowing that some of their experiences are so… ordinary. And still out of reach.

“And you?” you ask Romance.

He leans in a little. Not to flirt, not this time. Just… leaning. Like he wants to be closer to whatever this is.

“I remember once,” he says slowly. “there was this stall at a market in… I don’t know, Prague maybe? Early 1800s. Meat pies. They were greasy. Burned my tongue. I liked that.”

You study him for a second. The way his lashes lower just a touch.

“How long ago was that?” you ask gently.

He shrugs. “A while.”

You nod.

Abby watches you with quiet eyes. He hasn’t said much. Maybe because he doesn’t know how. He’s all strength, sure, but even now you can see it—that lost-boy softness under his armor. The way his shoulders settle just a little when he looks at you.

So you ask him something next. “What do you like to do for fun?”

He snorts. “Fun?”

You nod, a small smile on your lips. “Yeah. Not fighting. Not seducing. Not soul-selling. Fun.”

He looks down, thinking hard. And it kind of breaks your heart that it’s hard.

Romance takes over. “He likes lifting heavy shit.”

“I like punching Romance.” Abby mutters.

You laugh. “That’s a hobby?”

Abby finally meets your eyes. “It is when he squeals like that.”

“Bitch.” Romance murmurs, shoving him, and you giggle.

They’re not just bad at human conversation. They’re bad at being human. Period.

Somewhere between the centuries of war and death and demon deals and killing things, they forgot. They forgot how to talk without needing something. How to touch without taking. How to exist without destroying.

And it shows.

It shows in the questions they ask. In how slow they talk. In the way Romance stares at your lips a little too long, not because he’s being a flirt but because he’s trying to figure out how you make words sound so soft. In the way Abby looks down when you smile, like it’s too bright, too much, like he’s not worthy of being seen by something that pure.

They’re so old. You feel it.

Not in their faces. Not in their bodies. They’re still stupidly hot, of course but, they’re tired.

So tired.

You wonder when the last time was they sat on a bed just to talk. You wonder if they even remember what normal feels like. You wonder if—

“You alright?” Romance asks suddenly, tilting his head, brushing his knuckles against your knee.

You blink, coming back to now. “Yeah. I just… I was thinking.”

You don’t blame them. Not really. Even after everything. Even after the kidnapping, the torture, the mind games, the way they keep you like a pet in a house you can’t escape. Because you see them now. A little clearer.

You’ve always been too soft for fucked up things.

“What else?” Abby asks, voice quiet now.

“Ask someone what they love.” you say, swallowing a lump in your throat. “That’s a good one. What they love doing. What makes them feel like themselves.”

And the room goes still. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… quiet. Like they’re both thinking the same thing.

That they don’t know the answer.

That maybe they haven’t felt like themselves in a long, long time.

And you sit there between them, quietly wondering… if demons can fall in love the way humans do.

And if so—

Are they starting to?

You sit back, resting your palms on your lap, the hem of your oversized shirt draping over your thighs.

“You guys are actually really fun, you know?” you say, words a bit shaky from the weight of your honesty. “I know that’s not the goal here or whatever, and I know none of us asked to be in this whole situation, but… you’re funny. And weird. And charming.”

Romance’s mouth opens like he’s about to make a joke out of that, but nothing comes out. Just this little twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Abby looks surprised. Not stunned. Just… touched. Like maybe he hasn’t heard a compliment that didn’t involve his biceps since the civil war.

You glance down at your knees, then back up, slowly. “I mean it. You make me laugh. And you make me feel… less alone in this, I guess. And this—” you wave your hand in the space between you “—this is communication, too.”

They both blink.

Romance squints slightly. “What is?”

“This.” You gesture again. “What I just did. Sharing feelings. Being honest. Not in some dramatic, cry-on-the-floor way, just… expressing something real. It’s a kind of language.”

“Oh.” Abby says slowly. “So that counts?”

You nod. “That is communication. Just like when someone tells you what they like, or don’t like. Just like when they laugh at your jokes. It’s all part of… understanding someone. And being understood. I think you can be good at this.” you say softly. “You’re just… rusty. Out of practice. Maybe no one ever taught you how.”

They’re quiet again.

You glance toward the clock. Then flop back on your bed with a sigh, resting your head against the pillows.

“I’m also communicating,” you say after a beat, one arm thrown dramatically over your eyes. “that I’m tired.”

They both blink.

Romance points at you. “That’s communication?”

“Mhm. This one’s going to kick you both out in a second.”

But they don’t move. Not yet.

They just sit there—on your bed, in your space, in your warmth—looking at you like maybe the last few hundred years didn’t make sense until this exact second.

Romance’s brows pull together like he’s got something stuck between his teeth—something that might be a thought, or a feeling, or both. “So like… how do you know when you’re communicating too much?”

You raise an eyebrow. “When the other person stops listening.”

They both nod slowly, absorbing that.

Then, as if choreographed:

Romance: “I’m listening.”

Abby: “Me too.”

You groan. “I’m tired. This is me saying leave. This is me—communicating.”

Romance puts a hand to his chest. “I respect that.”

And then lies back beside you on the bed.

Abby follows, sitting against your headboard.

You sit up halfway, eyes narrowed. “This is not respecting anything.”

Romance grins, eyes already closed. “Just communicating how comfy your bed is.”

Abby lets out a deep breath. “Communicating how I might nap.”

But you don’t tell them to go again. Not yet. Because maybe you like teaching them. Maybe you like the feeling of giving something small and kind to creatures who’ve only known blood.

Maybe… this is your own form of rebellion.

So you reach over, grab your pillow, and throw it over Romance’s face.

…(cutie timeskip again guys how do I make it look good w this form of writing paragraphs)

They had slept in your bed. You had every intention of kicking them out. You swore you would. And then… warmth. Just a little shoulder pressed into your back. A breath falling slow and steady beside your neck. A chuckle that rumbled into your spine. It was nice.

They didn’t even try anything, for once. Though Romance had definitely tried to stretch that definition when he asked you, point blank, “so… does spooning count if there’s tongue involved?” He got a pillow to the face for that, obviously. But otherwise that, they just stayed close. They liked you. You could feel it in the way Romance stilled when you shifted in your sleep, like he was ready to grab you if you fell off the bed. You could feel it in the way Abby woke up before you and pulled the blanket a little higher over your body, like his muscles had finally found a use other than threatening or flexing.

It was… hard to process, actually.

Romance curled into your back, breathing softly against your neck and humming now and then like he was thinking of a song only he could hear. Abby had been your wall, broad and solid, warmth radiating off of him. You didn’t speak much. None of you did. There wasn’t really anything to say.

But god, it had been nice.

You’d woken up warm too, with one leg flopped over Romance’s hips, Abby’s hand lazily curled around your wrist even in his sleep. Neither of them commented on it in the morning. Just… yawned, stretched, and let you walk away.

That was two days ago.

You don’t let yourself think about it too long. Here you are again, crossing through the living room on your way to the sauna.

You’ve got a towel tossed over your shoulder, a bottle of water in one hand, and your flip-flops make quiet thwack-thwack sounds on the floor. You’re in your comfiest shorts and a top that might be a little too fitted, but you’re past caring. It’s your me-time.

You glance up as you pass Baby, slouched on the corner of the couch like a little prince. He looks like he doesn’t give a single fuck about your existence, and yet… his eyes are locked on you. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. But he’s listening. You know it. You don’t bother saying hi. Neither does he. That’s the rhythm between you two.

Jinu’s in the kitchen, doing something quietly, back turned.

A tug on your leg.

You freeze mid-step.

There’s a hand on the fabric of your shorts, right near your thigh, tugging just enough to make you stumble. You turn slowly, your towel sliding slightly down your shoulder.

Mystery.

He’s curled on the couch, one leg up, looking up at you.

“How was your day?” he asks.

And your heart? It does this stupid thump thing, because this is Mystery. The one who growls more than he speaks. Who communicates in grunts, body checks, and the occasional perfectly-timed, absolutely terrifying death stare.

God. Okay. You breathe out a laugh that comes out a little breathless. He’s trying. He’s actually—trying.

“It was… fine.” you say softly, eyes narrowing just a little. “Yours?”

He opens his mouth, pauses, seems to forget what words are—and then his head darts sideways, toward the hallway.

You follow his gaze.

Romance and Abby are standing just far enough down the hall to be out of sight for you, but not for Mystery. Both of them pressed flat to the wall, not even hiding the way they’re watching like proud moms.

Romance gives a big, exaggerated thumbs up.

Abby nods like he just watched his kid graduate college.

You look back to Mystery. He hasn’t moved. Still holding the edge of your shorts, still looking like you might eat him if he messed this up.

Oh. Oh.

They taught him.

They used the shit you taught them and passed it along. Mystery, who probably had never asked someone about their day without also threatening to eat them, had practiced this. Had agreed to it. Had tried.

Your chest tightens with something warm. Too warm.

“It was actually a little boring.” you say, crouching down just enough to make eye contact. “I read. Napped. Thought about breaking a few things. But now I’m going to the sauna.”

Mystery nods, slow and satisfied.

And then, miracle of miracles, he lets go of your shorts.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too much. “That was small talk, you know. You did it.”

He tilts his head. “Was it good?”

“Yeah.” you say, genuinely. “It was really good.”

Mystery leans back, curling his leg underneath himself again. You watch as his fingers twitch, like maybe he’s already mentally rehearsing what he’ll say next time.

You shoot one last glance down the hall.

Romance is clapping silently. Abby does a little victorious fist-pump before turning and vanishing from sight.

You keep walking.

Since that, life had been… weirdly manageable for the last couple of days. You’d found a rhythm: dodging Mystery’s curiosity, swatting Romance away with wooden spoons, pretending not to notice when Abby flexed on purpose just because you happened to be walking by, letting Jinu pretend he wasn’t watching you. Even Baby, asshole that he was, started giving you something like respectful silence. Not kindness—but he hadn’t licked your spoon just to piss you off in like, three days. A record.

Until you got your period.

You sat there on the edge of your bed for a full five minutes, blinking slowly into the void, your body already starting to get that annoying cold-sweat feeling. You debated it. Debated and debated it until there was nothing left but the obvious.

You have to ask.

You have to ask Jinu to go buy you tampons.

Because he is the only one out of the five who would a) not flirt with you during this humiliating mission, and b) actually come back with the right size and not lube or condoms just to be funny. Romance would definitely buy you a vibrating tampon “for the experience.” Abby would get lost in the aisle. Baby wouldn’t go. Mystery would growl at the store clerk and end up on a watch list.

So. Jinu it is.

You pull on a hoodie over your too-large sleep shirt, dragging your feet down the hall. His door is half open, of course—he has that habit, always just slightly ajar.

You knock anyway.

“Jinu?”

“Come in.”

You do, hands wringing at the sleeves of your hoodie, eyes not quite meeting his. He was sitting on the bed, elbows on knees, phone in one hand. Calm. Alert.

That bigass cat/tiger is next to him, watching you. You like that fatass but haven’t really had the chance to interact with it yet. It comes up to you sometimes. You talk to it. It walks away. That’s the usual rhythm.

“Hey.” you say, almost sweet. “So, um. This is kind of awkward, but…”

Jinu just raises a brow. “You need something.”

“Yeah.” you say. “Kind of a… girl thing. I mean, obviously. I just—could you maybe go out and get me—”

“You’re bleeding.” he says, not unkindly. Just… factually.

You pause. “Oh. So you believe me?”

Yeah, you might have tried to pull the period card a few times to escape. Obviously, it never worked.

He sets the phone aside. “I can smell it.”

“Oh.”

Jinu just looks at you, serene as always, and adds, “We all can.”

FUCK YOUR LIFE<33

You groan into your hands, your entire body folding in on itself. “That’s disgusting.” you mumble.

“It’s biology.” Jinu replies.

You peek up at him through your fingers. “So what, everyone’s been just… casually aware?”

“Probably. They haven’t said anything.”

“Oh good.”

“I’ll go.” he said, already reaching for his jacket.

You exhale, finally letting your body slump against the doorframe in relief. “Thanks, Jinu.”

“You’re welcome.” he says. “Take something for the pain while I’m gone.“

“I owe you.”

And then he left, just like that.

Jinu, please come back fast.

You made it back downstairs somehow. You didn’t know how. You disassociated at some point around the base of the staircase and came back to yourself in the kitchen.

Of course, that’s when Baby walks in, gives you a once-over, snorts, and keeps walking. Not a word. Not a single syllable. Just that awful, knowing look. The smugness.

Followed by Mystery, who tilts his head slightly in your direction and does that sniffling thing you now recognized was NOT a cold.

You want to cry.

And then.

Then came the worst.

Romance.

Leaning on the fridge.

“Y’know,” he said casually. “some cultures think it’s a sacred time.”

You don’t even look up.

“I will hit you with a tampon. Don’t test me.”

“Do I get a choice in where?”

“Romance.”

“Fine, fine.” He raises his hands in surrender. “Just saying. Nature’s got you glowing.”

You reach for the nearest spoon.

He backs off immediately, chuckling all the way down the hall.

Abby, mercifully, hadn’t shown up yet. Probably off lifting a car or doing squats with Mystery on his back. That was good. Abby was not known for his subtlety. You did not need to hear anything about “female cycles” in that big golden retriever voice of his.

Jinu, true to his word, returned an hour later.

He told you he asked a lady there and fans followed him around.

God.

Fuck him for being good at everything.

This life was ridiculous.

But the heating pad worked wonders.

Anyways, quick topic change,

Humans were foolish. That had always been true.

Weak, irrational, predictable, full of desires they couldn’t control and attachments they couldn’t explain. Obsessed with meaning, choking on dreams. And the boys had learned that the hard way, over and over again. Humans screamed and cried and made art and made love and still, in the end, they died as soft and breakable as they had arrived.

So yes. They were above most humans. Far above.

They couldn’t afford to love humans. Not anymore. Because loving something that would die before you even began to understand it? That was suicide on a hundred year timer.

But you made silly expressions when the stove was too hot. You muttered sarcastic threats when they teased you. You tried to cut fruit perfectly symmetrical. You thought of everyone else before yourself and cursed yourself for it later. You were soft in a way that didn’t weaken you, but opened you instead. You spoke gently when they were awkward. You taught them things without mocking them. You saw the worst of them—kidnapping you, locking you up, testing you—and you were still nice. You helped them learn how to ask, “How was your day?” And maybe, for you, it was just a moment. A kindness. A lesson you offered like a flower you didn’t mind giving away.

But for them?

That was the first goddamn flower they’d held in centuries.

Romance told himself that it was just lust. At first.

Of course it was. He was Romance. He lusted. He loved. He prowled.

He would’ve hit it, honestly. He’d hit it seven times in one night in a king-sized bed with candles and jazz and let you ride his face into the afterlife.

It had started with your face. Sure it did. He’d been watching you since the night he dragged you out of that shower, your mouth open in shock and your wet hair dripping down your back as he told you, so gently, so intimately, to speak or be stolen.

You hadn’t spoken. He’d never loved you more.

That was new.

And exciting.

Abby, sweet dumb Abby with muscles for brains and that golden glow that always made you sigh.

He didn’t get his feelings. He didn’t try to.

He’d been worshipped before. Respected. Feared. Adored. But he started standing taller around you. Tried to be funnier. Nicer. Lighter.

He just liked seeing you move. You were so small, so alive. Tbh he missed when you used to run. That first week? When you’d slip out of your room in the middle of the night, sprinting barefoot down the hall? When he’d catch you, laughing like a fucking idiot, spinning you around while you kicked and screamed and cursed him?

Yeah. He missed that.

He liked what he liked, and what he liked was you.

He knew that when you smiled—like, really smiled—it made him want to do pushups until the world ended.

And that he couldn’t say no to you. Ever. Not even once.

He didn’t have the words for it, not the way Jinu or Romance would. But he knew this: you made him feel full in a way taking souls never did.

Mystery didn’t process it like the others. He just… stared.

You were interesting. You moved differently. You didn’t fear him, even when you should have. Even when he growled, bit, scratched—tested your patience—you treated him like a person. Not a weapon. Not a dog. Not a threat.

He followed you without meaning to now. Watched you stir your coffee. Tried to figure out why your heartbeat changed when you read romance books. Sniffed at your shampoo when you walked by.

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

And when you answered his awkward “How was your day?”—his first ever attempt at small talk—he felt something shift in him. Something… warm.

Something that hadn’t existed in him for a very long time.

Baby would never say anything.

Ever.

Not to you, not to them, not even to himself.

But he watched. He always watched.

You were good. A much better person than him.

He still wouldn’t thank you. Still wouldn’t talk about it. But when he walked by you in the hallway and bumped your shoulder with his as lightly as possible?

That was something.

He didn’t talk to you much, no. But he listened. He always listened. And the fact that he’d now killed three spiders for you without a word?

Total love language.

Jinu… Jinu didn’t fall.

He chose.

And in you, he saw something—bright, determined, stubborn and sweet. Something unselfish.

He didn’t think it was love. Not yet.

But it was something.

And in all the centuries he’d walked this cursed earth, there hadn’t been many somethings worth keeping.

You? You might be the first.

They were demons.

Older than a lot of religions. Tired of the cycles. So tired.

And then came sweet, stubborn, soft hearted you.

They had no business loving you.

What could a human ever offer them?

What did you matter, with your little hands and your sleep-stuffed eyes and your soft, stubborn heart that kept beating even when they broke it open a little?

You didn’t even fight them anymore. Not the way you used to, at least. There was no more throwing things at their heads, or trying to crawl through the vents (twice, and Mystery bit you the second time), or crying to be let go in that hoarse, desperate way that used to make Abby’s jaw clench.

Now you woke up quietly. You padded around the apartment with tired, careful feet. You cooked. You spoke softly. You answered questions with dry sarcasm and patience that stretched longer than they deserved.

You were sweet.

Too sweet.

And that sweetness did something to them that centuries hadn’t.

But how long can they keep that to themselves?

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy

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