In the latest episode of TADC, the trophies in kingers office were memorabilia of the first shapes he ever created. I thought that was cool.
Its also clear the bubble is the bubbleboy virus, the first virus ever created. He poisons caines mentality and feeds into his inferiority’s complex.
When caine and abel (the bigger and better blue dot) were first coded, they absorbed and learned, which explains why the digital circus looks the way it does. Its all a reference to what caine knows.
Kinger also mentions caine had a different name than what he calls himself now. Its possible caine changed the humans names around as a reference to Nimdok in IHNMAIMS.
Now that the filter for swearing is off that also means that all the other filters caine made are gone too, incuding kingers light dementia and their names. It also means the cellar should no longer exist and anything inside should come out.
All the unhinged angry moments caine had in the prior episodes hinted to this one. And it implies that kaufmo was constantly being tortured privately by caine.
Not only that but the exit pomni saw in the first ever episode was a sign of her conjuring something.
Caines eyes and body flashing red and blue occasionally are a sign that he killed and consumed his brother ai abel. Which means thatnit is possible that he tried to absorb his creativity as well.
When kingers hacking into the system his password was queenie123 which i thought was cute but makes no sense if queenie wasnt her name and he didnt remember it. Also it shows what year ragatha showed up which was 2008. She didnt know what the breaking bad reference jax made was cuz it didnt come out yet.
This show does agreat job at keeping people on their toes and also environmental storytelling. You just know the first red dot is caine.
I love this series so much its so stimulating and the animation is so consistent and respectful to the manga. I also love the allegories in this show its killing me. Heres stuff about the series i enjoyed thinking about.
- bro santa’s cloth HAS to be the swaddle he used for dear when he was a baby. Dear definitely manifested as an infant making him one of the youngest givers ever since his vital instruments a pacifier.
- i wanna say that enjin’s type in women matches semiu esp since they’ve been shown to be very close colleagues. He knows the extent of her jinki. Im not endorsing the ship but both of them are great character designs.
The creator loves giving meaning to the charaters names:
- rudo’s last name is cerberus backwards, the mythological three headed dog that guards the gates of hell
- cthoni’s name is a reference to cthonic deities (which are creatures that inhabit the underworld. Her vital instruments a manhole which is literally a method of entering underground)
- fu’s last name is orostor which sounds similar to another underworld creature, the orthrus
- undertaker canis (name means dog)
- undertakers are also responsible for treating the dead
- riyo reaper (like grim reaper, who takes lives. Riyo was originally a hitman)
- mymo sounds a lot like those old tape players (mymy)
- gountess isnt old, his hair and face just aged trememndously because of the stress and torture mymo put him through
- the watchman series logo is 3 circles (or heads) surrounded by a triangle (possibly a gate)
- the groundlings need to pass through the sky to reach the sphere
- the sphere is referred to as heaven sometimes and the ground as earth.
- cerberus guards the gates of hell, so it is more likely that the ground is hell and the sphere is earth instead.
- this is also supported by the idea that groundlings have no idea what the concept of “God” is but sphereites do. It alludes to the idea that the further you sin/are hellish, the further you stray from God.
- the reason the current users of the watchman series can use their jinkis is because a part of them is missing mentally. Maybe thats also criteria for reaching the sphere.
- if thats the rule of thumb, then its possible that riyo is most likely to be the first one to reach the sky unscathed.
- arkha corvus’ last name means crow, which is what the informant turns into the last time he was seen. Its possible they’re very much connected in origin and arkha is able to do the same thing.
- follo is somehow able to use his hammer while wearing gloves, which surprised arkha. Every giver so far has had direct physical contact with their instrument, even Eisha who takes off her gloves to manipulate her cord. Which means that historically you need to have direct contact with the item to change it.
- rudo isnt the only one that can use different jinkis, but its possible hes the only one that can do multiple simultaneously as shown by tamsy using the watchman book on amo
- this is most likely because the criteria for a vital instrument is to be loved and cared for enough. It can even trigger someone to become a giver too (like remlin who received an heirloom)
- that being said, its possible that enjin also has a second jinki as seen when they were in the giant trashbeast
- which also makes it funnier that dear santa continues to use centralion instead. If hes like 50 years old w a binky imagine his teeth.
- i dont think that arkha has a vital instrument, more that he is one technically? Same for the informant who has definitely lived for centuries. They probably manifested through the watchman series
- i think that the 5 watchman series vital instruments are the only ones in existence since they each encompass a sense (touch, taste, smell, sight, and hearing). Unless we want to count pain as a sense.
- its possible there are other series that aren’t watchman, since the creator of them also had a close group of best friends who were other givers (such as macaca icol.
Hi!! All my writings contain explicit language and mature themes, including sexual content. Reader discretion is strongly advised, enjoy! I also take requests, so don’t be shy to shoot me one.
My main series:
SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 Part 9 part 10 part 11 plus plus plus
Other x readers:
HUNTR/X FINDING OUT YOU’RE DATING A SAJA BOY
SAJA BOYS WHEN YOU’RE OVULATING
FREAKIEST SAJA BOY RANKING
PURRING SAJA BOYS
“WHO’S A GOOD BOY?”
BABY SAJA x READER – LOYALTY IS WASTED ON MEN LIKE YOU! alternative ending 1
Tw: Yandere, Resurrection, Body Horror, Psychological Horror, Possession, SatoSugu, Based on the Summer Hikaru Died
Satoru wouldn’t survive it if you died. Suguru could - just barely. He’d decay in his mind, the rot starting in his chest and leaking into his voice along with his smile and patience. He’d spill blood without ceremony, just to hear something alive scream. But Satoru, he’d unravel completely.
He’d fold himself into the dent in your side of their bed, pressing his face into the pillow until the fabric dampened with tears and snot, lungs aching from the way he inhaled your scent like it were oxygen. His chest would ache with every sharp, broken sob, hands clutching at his shirt as if holding the pieces of himself in place would make you return back to his arms.
Suguru was the one who carried you to Shoko. Your skin had gone cold by then, lips pale and slightly parted, hair brushed against his forearm. Neither of them could bear to let you go, but one of them had to be stronger. Stronger enough to at least admit you were gone.
Except… strength wasn’t what either of them had. Not when love like theirs rotted into obsession.
The thing, a curse or creature, in the woods heard them when they came, their voices hoarse from grief and bargaining. It seeped from the treeline in slick black tendrils, its form shifting in the gaps between the moonlight. It had never known love before, never tasted something that could drive humans to burn the world to ash just to keep a heartbeat. Surely you must have loved them back? Surely, if it brought you back, everyone would be whole again.
So it took your corpse. Not your mind exactly, but your body and warmth, the delicate hinges of your joints and the steady pull of breath into lungs that had been still for too long. It nestled inside you like a parasite curling into the soft meat of an animal prepared for the slaughter, its threads weaving through your muscles and nerves until you moved again. You could still think, still feel, but every motion was warped by something that wasn’t yours, hands that reached without your permission, lips that curved into smiles when you wanted to scream.
When you staggered to their door, Suguru’s face went slack. His sharp violet eyes darted over every inch of you like a man trying to memorize a hallucination, his throat bobbing as if swallowing glass.
Satoru didn’t wait. He ran. His footsteps thundered, the world narrowing to the sound of your name in his own breathless voice before he slammed into you. His arms locked around you, almost bruising, the heat of him soaking into your cold-slick skin. Tears slipped hot and fast down his cheeks, catching in the hollow of your neck, and he pressed his face into you like he could hide there.
And then the thing inside you - your puppeteer - tightened its threads. Your muscles contracted, your arms winding around his shoulders like lovers do, your fingers burying themselves in his snowy hair. You felt his shudder when you hugged him back. You felt him believe.
Inside, you were screaming. You wanted to claw your way out of your own skin, to tell him that loving you this way was killing you twice over. But your body swayed with his, your mouth whispered his name in the tone he’d missed, and the parasite inside you basked in their love like warmth from the sun creeping over the mountains.
A new kind of hell. One where your voice, touch, and smile were no longer yours to give.
cw: implied female reader, she/her used, alcohol problems mentioned, Stockholm Syndrome developing, lots of condoms, cursing, arguments, mentions of murder, mentions of killing animals and children, the boys lowk being horrible people
Things have been going surprisingly well.
Like, unrealistically well. Your fever’s gone. That’s one miracle. You’re walking around again. Your sarcasm’s returned.
You’re loosening up.
It’s almost… nice?
They’re not making it easy, though. Abby can’t stop picking you up. Romance sings when you walk into the room. Baby gives you exactly one scowl per hour but with less venom and more confused affection. Mystery’s become a piece of furniture in your room. And Jinu keeps acting like he’s not completely smitten.
They’ve got it bad.
And it shows.
They hover. But in a way that makes you want to hit them with a throw pillow, not a restraining order. So, in all fairness, you’re not exactly angry when you wake up this morning and find three of them arguing in the kitchen over who’s the hottest.
The air smells like coffee and Abby’s banana protein pancakes, and your voice actually doesn’t crack when you ask Baby to pass the syrup. You’re… okay. Not free, not safe, but okay.
Until.
Until.
“Well, I told Rumi to fuck off first.”
The room goes silent.
Your brain stalls. You blink. “Sorry… who?”
Jinu stiffens.
“…Huh?”
“Rumi?” you repeat, slower. Colder. “As in… my Rumi?”
Abby immediately freezes. Romance swears under his breath and stares at the wall like it’ll dig him out of this. Baby is quiet, which somehow makes it worse. Mystery’s mouth is open.
Jinu opens his mouth. Closes it. Sighs. “Fuck.”
Until now—until this—you had every reason to believe the girls didn’t know where you were. That they’d given up, maybe. That your absence had gone unnoticed in the flurry of schedules and stage rehearsals and demon hunting.
But no.
They’ve been interacting with the boys. You suppose fighting.
Actively.
And no one told you.
“How long?” Your voice is flat.
They all freeze.
Jinu finally breaks. “A few weeks.”
A few. Weeks.
Romance, trying to lighten the mood like a fucking idiot, adds, “I mean technically they jumped us first, so—”
“Shut up.”
He does.
Because you’re not laughing. Not being cute. Not brushing it off like you always do when they steal your things, or open your bedroom door without knocking, or try to get you to sit on their lap while watching horror movies. This is different.
They’re laughing. Boasting about it. Jinu and Abby had the audacity to walk in here days ago, asking how you were feeling while your team was out there bleeding because of them.
You’re making them wait. Letting the silence rot between all of you. Letting them sit in it.
And they do.
The five of them—each one known for being chaos incarnate, flirtatious, cocky, lethal—are silent. Not because they’re guilty (they are), or sorry (they are not), but because they feel it now. That shift in you.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jinu is the one standing closest. You can feel him inch back like his body’s trying to shrink out of frame. Like maybe if he’s less visible, the guilt’ll shrink with him. “We didn’t want to upset you.” he says, voice as steady as he can manage.
You lift your head. Look him dead in the eye. “Oh, so instead you lied.”
He opens his mouth—then closes it. Good choice.
“Was that your idea?” you ask, tone surgical. “Or was it a group effort?”
“I mean…” Abby starts, voice lighter than it should be, huge arms crossed over huge chest. “It wasn’t—technically lying.”
“So when you came back days ago, covered in bruises, and said it was ‘just rehearsals,’ that was a lie.”
Romance opens his mouth.
“Shut the fuck up, Romance.”
He shuts the fuck up.
“When you said you’d ‘be back in a few hours’ but didn’t come back until morning, that was a lie. When you brought me a new hoodie and said it was because you saw it and thought of me, but really it was to distract me from the blood on your knuckles, that was a lie too.”
Baby is looking at the fridge like he’s contemplating shoving his head inside it.
Abby’s chewing the inside of his cheek.
Romance looks genuinely sick for once.
Mystery just watches. Still, like he’s not trying to defend himself. Like he already knows what he did.
Romance dares to take a step forward. Maybe to hold you. Maybe to beg. But your body stiffens so instantly he backs off again. “Babe, they came in throwing blades, what were we supposed to do? Give them a kiss and a gift basket?”
You stare at him. Flat. Blank. Silent.
It’s so quiet you can hear Abby scratch the back of his neck. You don’t even look at him, but he speaks anyway, trying for gentle. “Babe… we didn’t tell you because it was—”
“Because you knew I’d lose my shit?”
No one responds.
“Because you knew I would lose my mind if I found out you were throwing punches at my team—”
“Not your team anymore.” Baby mutters.
You whip toward him, eyes narrowed. “Say that again.”
He meets your gaze. He’s leaning back in his chair, leg crossed, arms folded, cold as ever.
“You heard me.” he says. “You’re not with them. You’re here.”
“We’re not bad guys.” Abby cuts in quickly—too quickly—rising to your level, towering above you, his palms open, pleading. “Look at you—you’re not hurt, are you?”
“Emotionally?” you snap. “No, just mildly traumatized and gaslit.”
“You’re not a prisoner anymore.” Jinu finally says. “You’ve had food. Freedom to walk around. We never hurt you—”
“Except for the fucking torture, right?”
Dead silence.
Even they can’t argue that one.
“Tell me,” you say, stepping forward, “how the fuck did you expect this to go? You think if you kissed me enough I’d roll over and forget I had a life before this? You think if you played nice long enough, I’d pick you?” You pause. “Is that it? You want me to choose you?”
Romance’s eyes dart to Jinu. Then away.
You stare at them all.
Baby breaks the silence. “You’re still here.”
You glare at him. “Not by choice.”
“Still here.” he repeats, like he’s already won the argument.
“You think I won’t leave the second I can?” You want to scream. You want to sob. You want to run.
“We already told you.” Jinu says, voice lower now. “They came to us.”
You nod once. “And you fought back.”
“Of course we did.” Abby, crossing his arms. “They attacked us.”
“Oh, really?” you say. “That’s your logic?”
Romance leans on the counter. “C’mon, babe. You know how they are.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“They’re not saints.” he says. “They came at us. You think we’re just gonna sit there and—”
“YES!” Your voice snaps. No longer calm. No longer soft. “I think you should’ve sat there and let them take me back! I think you should’ve not kidnapped me in the first place, and then you wouldn’t be stuck choosing between torturing my friends and cooking me fucking breakfast!”
Baby mutters, “fuck” under his breath and looks away.
Abby groans, his tone picking up that boyish frustration. “They weren’t gonna listen! They weren’t gonna negotiate!”
“Because they don’t negotiate with kidnappers!”
“We didn’t hurt them.” Jinu tries again.
“Oh, well gold star.” you sneer, standing up. “You didn’t kill them? Wow. You must feel so fucking noble.”
Romance steps in. Too smooth. Too confident. “I think you’re being dramatic.” he says.
And he grabs your wrists.
You gasp, not because it hurts, but because he twirls you. Like a fucking dance move.
One minute, you’re fuming. The next, you’re spinning, half a step, palm on his, like this is a prom. And it’s infuriating how good he is at it.
“See?” he purrs. “Still got chemistry.”
You slap him. It lands before he’s even finished the sentence. A full, stinging crack across his cheek.
Baby actually smiled at that.
Romance licks his split lip. Tastes blood. Smiles.
“Hot.” he says quietly.
You want to scream.
“I think you’re children.” You swallow, look away, back at them. “I think you’re selfish, violent, obsessed with things you don’t understand. I think you use your trauma as a crutch and call it charm. And it’s not. It’s just… pathetic. And you’re all so used to each other,” you continue, breath trembling. “so proud of how loyal you are. How tragic. But the second I showed up, you turned into these desperate, groveling, love-sick animals who’d rather claw each other’s throats out than admit that none of you even know what love is. You’re pathetic. All of you.”
They all shift in place. Romance folds his arms across his chest and drops his gaze. Baby looks away entirely. Mystery is looking at the floor. Abby shifts, frowning, about to interrupt—but you lift a finger. He stays silent. Jinu is the only one looking at you.
“You think your trauma makes you special? That your pain gives you permission? It doesn’t. All it’s done is make you selfish. Scared little boys with sharp teeth. And you hide behind charm or sex appeal or that stupid, smug god complex—” you jab a finger at Romance, who smirks half a second before his face falls again “—because it’s easier than admitting you’re all lonely. You’re selfish. You’re cruel. You don’t even understand why I’m angry, and that’s the worst part. I think you all genuinely believe you’re doing the right thing. And I think that’s the scariest fucking part.”
None of them speak.
“I think you’re so used to taking what you want and surviving that you don’t even stop to consider the damage. That maybe the world doesn’t revolve around your trauma. That maybe you’re not the only ones who lost something.”
You glance at Jinu.
“You’re kind. But you’re spineless when it counts. You’re just a liar that makes everyone else feel better about being cruel. You’re selfish.”
Jinu looks down. His fingers twitch at his sides.
Your eyes fall to Abby next.
“You cover your obsession with jokes and muscle, but all I see is someone who’s used to getting attention and can’t stand it when it’s not handed to him.”
Abby laughs—just once. No humor. Not a sound he meant to make.
Then Romance.
“You’re not charming. You’re not sexy. You’re a lonely kid with a voice like honey and the emotional intelligence of a dead plant. You use people. You seduce people, then call it love when they don’t run away.”
His jaw ticks. But he doesn’t interrupt.
Baby stands back, arms folded.
“I don’t even know what you want. You act like you’re too cool to care but I’ve seen you. You’re a fucking wreck under that little attitude. Maybe stop pretending.”
Nothing. Not a blink.
“And Mystery,” you say, turning slightly to look at him at least. “I don’t care how sweet you are to me. If you really cared, you’d help me leave.”
You take one step back toward the hall. Then another.
“I just want to go home.”
Romance—fucking Romance—mutters, too softly, too desperate: “…Babe?”
But you don’t look back. You don’t answer. You just wave him off like a mosquito. You disappear down the hall and slam your door shut.
They stand in the kitchen like kicked dogs.
Baby runs a hand down his face. Jinu leans on the counter, hands bracing himself like he might throw up. Abby’s arms fall to his sides, broad shoulders slumping like someone deflated him. Mystery, true to himself, doesn’t do much.
Romance exhales, loud and shaken. “…Well. That went amazing.”
And then Abby mutters, completely deadpan and casual, “You got a boner.”
Romance doesn’t even look at him. “I know, bro.” (AN: imagine his face like :c)
“From the slap?”
Romance shrugs. “From the whole thing. I dunno. She was really mean. That’s kinda my thing.”
The silence that follows is… horrible.
“…she’s right.” Mystery mutters.
Romance rubbing his jaw where your hand landed. Abby chewing his thumb knuckle. Jinu still frozen, calculating every mistake. Baby with his head tilted back.
So yeah.
It was going well.
You’d laughed with them. You’d eaten at the table instead of the floor. You’d let Abby put his hands all over you. You’d let Romance kiss your cheek, let Jinu tuck you in, let Mystery sit at the foot of your bed. Baby had even tolerated you breathing the same air as him without an eye-roll.
It was progress. Weird progress.
You were softening.
And so were they.
But this? This moment? This was inevitable. The guilt. The resentment. The slow, creeping rot beneath the bandage. You were never going to just be okay with it. Not forever. Not really. It was always going to slip. One of them was always going to say something they shouldn’t. And you were always going to reach your limit.
And now here it is.
Later that night, they’ve all scattered. Romance is lying on the floor of the living room with his hands on his face like he just got dumped. Abby sits in one of the chairs, arm over his eyes, breathing deep, Mystery next to him because he likes company. Baby’s sprawled upside-down on the couch like gravity doesn’t apply to him, throwing a stress ball at the ceiling and catching it over and over again. He looks bored. He’s not. His stomach’s been in knots for hours. Jinu’s in his room, laptop closed for once.
They’re not talking.
Because what’s there to say?
You’re right. You’re so right. And they all know it.
But knowing it doesn’t mean they’ll do anything about it.
Because they’re still—god, they’re still so fucking selfish.
They could do something, too. That’s the fucked up part.
Jinu could open your door, fall to his knees, and tell you that he’s sorry. That he knows he ruined you a little. That he doesn’t even deserve to say your name, let alone be gentle to you like he’s been doing.
Abby could throw you over his shoulder and take you to the edge of the city and ask, not demand, ask you—do you want to go? And let you go if you said yes. Even if it would break him in half.
Romance could look you in the eye and say I love you. Not in the smirking, purring way he’s used since the beginning, but in the kind of way that hurts. The kind that’s too vulnerable. Too real. He could say it. He could give up the act.
Baby could—fuck, he could apologize. That alone would do damage.
Mystery could sneak into your room and just sit with you, like before, and you’d probably forgive him more than anyone.
But none of them do.
They do nothing.
Because doing something would mean doing the right thing.
And they are so, so far from ready to stop being selfish.
Because even now, even after all that… they still want to keep you.
They could do something about this. They could unlock your door and say the thing that matters. They could fall on their knees, tell you everything you deserve to hear. Tell you they’re sorry. That they’ll let you go.
They could.
They won’t.
Because even now, the thought of you walking out that door guts them more than your hatred ever could. Even knowing they’re the reason, they still want to keep you here. Keep you angry. Keep you close.
They’ll lie to themselves about it in a hundred ways. Tell themselves it’s for your safety. For love. That the world’s worse than them. But deep down, all five of them know, they’re still bad people. They could knock on your door, say sorry, say please, throw themselves at your feet, weep into your lap, tell you that they’ll never touch the girls again, never lay a finger on anything sacred to you. Romance could kneel. Jinu could kiss you all over. Baby could beg, he’s done it before. Abby could hand you his whole spine. Mystery would lie at the foot of your bed and growl at anyone who came near.
They could do all of that.
But they don’t.
They’ve all done things.
Horrific, catastrophic things.
Jinu is horrible. He’s betrayed people. Chosen wrong. Killed for convenience. Selfish. So so so selfish. Abby used to enjoy it. The fight. The torture. He was the one they’d send in when subtlety failed. There are people whose last word was his name. And not screamed lovingly. Romance has laughed during murder. Whispered to people while choking the life out of them. He thinks affection makes up for his sins, but all it does is soften the guilt enough that he keeps doing the same thing. Mystery’s killed children. That’s not metaphor. That’s not subtext. It’s the kind of thing he doesn’t speak about, because if he did, none of them could ever look at him the same. Baby might be the worst of them all. Because Baby liked watching. He liked watching Gwi-Ma do his damage. He stood still through most of it, eyes wide and curious, taking notes. It took you for him to start feeling things again.
So no. They weren’t ever good. And they won’t be.
It was going so well. But they are the villains of this story. And the five of them? They know it. They just… don’t care enough to stop.
Jinu knows he should set you free. Let you walk. Tell you everything you deserve to hear, all of it, raw and bleeding.
But he won’t.
Because he wants to be forgiven without changing.
And that makes him worse than all the rest.
Abby? He’s lying face-down on the living room rug now, shirt off, arms out like he’s been slain in battle.
He just can’t bring himself to be a better man.
Not when he already knows how to be a monster so well.
They took you. And instead of giving you back, they held tighter. They justified it a hundred different ways.
“She’s safer here.”
“She’ll understand later.”
“We’re not that bad.”
Bullshit.
He knows exactly who they are.
He’s ripped creatures in half and smiled through it. Done things with his bare hands that would make your stomach turn. And if you really knew him, the real Abby, the one who isn’t grinning and picking you up and ruffling your hair, you’d never touch him again. Never let him touch you again.
And still, he wouldn’t take any of it back.
Romance still has his cheek red. Lip split. Half-hard in his sweatpants because his body doesn’t know how to separate humiliation from desire anymore. You slapped him, and all it did was make his chest burn hotter.
Then he thinks about the first time he saw you cry, tied to a chair, trembling while Baby pressed cold steel to your neck.
His stomach turns.
He’s disgusting. He knows that.
He wants you to want him so badly he’s willing to bend the world around you until you have to stay.
You hit him.
You really hit him.
He smiles a little. Then drops it.
He wants you so fucking badly it makes his bones hurt. And he knows, knows, that he could walk into your room right now, fall to his knees, and beg.
And you’d hate him more.
Because Romance? Romance never stopped being a whore for pain. His own. Yours. Anyone’s.
He’s disgusting.
And he doesn’t stop being disgusting. That’s the problem. He likes how fucked up he is.
Baby is a ghost in his own life. He remembers choosing to kill someone because he didn’t like the way they looked at him. He’s not sorry. Not really. But he’s sad. And that’s a different kind of damnation.
You make his chest hurt. You make his hands twitch. He wants to hold your wrist. Just your wrist. Feel your pulse. Remember you’re real.
But then he thinks about what you’d say if you knew who he really was. If you knew how many people he’s reduced to ash and didn’t blink.
You wouldn’t even let him touch your sleeve.
So he won’t try. If he doesn’t care, it can’t hurt. Right?
He wants you too, of course. Of fucking course. But he’d rather implode in silence than admit it. He’d rather cut out his own tongue than beg. That’s how Baby works.
He’s the most dangerous one. Because you’ll never know how far down he’s buried the truth.
Mystery lies curled into Abby’s side, face buried in a black pillow.
He remembers begging. He remembers whimpering in a voice too small for someone like him. He remembers clawing at a cell wall until his nails came off.
You make him feel safe.
But also weak.
They could change. Let you go. Apologize. Mean it. But they won’t. Because they’re still demons. Still bad. Still selfish. Still fucked up beyond repair.
So yes.
They could fix this.
But they won’t.
Don’t even mind this shit time skip to the middle of the night. You didn’t want to come out of your room. Really, you didn’t. But your stomach? A traitor. So here you are, barefoot and furious in the oversized hoodie someone (probably Jinu) gave you, holding a wooden spoon like a weapon, stirring with passive aggressive grace.
Footsteps.
He’s standing there. You can feel him. And you know it’s him. Jinu.
You catch the glow of faint lavender patterning beneath the collar of his sleep shirt. Pulsing against the skin of his neck, running like divine ink down his collarbones and disappearing under cotton.
The bastard is glowing.
Eye contact.
You grip the spoon tighter.
“…accident.” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t respond. Just keep stirring the sauce. Still angry. Still hungry.
“Can I help with someth—”
WHACK.
You slap on his hand with the wooden spoon. He pauses. Laughs under his breath. “Right. Fair.”
He inches closer again.
WHACK.
This time, the spoon hits the back of his arm. Harder. Sharper. Still not even your best.
Jinu winces, grinning now. “You’ve got good aim.”
You go for his back again, and he takes it like a champ. You’re honestly giving it your all now. Not holding back. You shouldn’t.
You’re mad. You’re so mad you could scream, but you won’t. Because screaming means you still care. And right now? The only satisfaction you’re going to get is from beating this man with a fucking utensil.
You go for his arm. Then his chest. Then his back, chasing him in a slow circle around the island. You don’t say a word. You don’t have to. The wooden spoon speaks.
And the most infuriating part? He lets you.
Jinu laughs under his breath—quiet, chesty. Like it’s a relief to be punished. Like this, all of this, is sweeter than any kiss you could’ve given.
He takes another hit. And another. You go for his chest this time. He lets you. You’d probably keep going, if he didn’t lean forward with a casual, devastating smile and murmur, “Those are really cute panties.”
Your hand freezes mid-swing.
You blink.
“Hey, hey, compliment! I was being polite!” he says, laughing, even as you swing again—and this time he catches your wrist. His grip is gentle. Not stopping you out of strength, though you both know he could. But stopping you like he’s catching falling leaves.
“I deserved all of that.” he says, eyes flicking over your face.
You rip your hand back, step away, turn your back to him. Stir the sauce harder. More chili oil. Fuck it. Let it burn.
“I hate you.” you mutter.
“I know.” he says.
You throw a noodle at him. It sticks to his chest. The glowing lines pulse softly.
He peels it off like it’s gold.
Even when you’re pissed—especially when you’re pissed—you still look so goddamn perfect.
And he’d let you kill him. Spoon and all.
If it meant he could stay near you just a little longer.
And yeah, okay, maybe your underwear does have tiny strawberries on it and a stupid little bow and fuck you were just trying to be comfortable—
You swing the spoon again.
He lets you hit his chest. Twice. And starts laughing.
He watches you ladle soup into a bowl. Doesn’t touch anything, just stays standing there, unreasonably tall. He’s too nice, and it pisses you off.
“I know what you’re doing.” you mutter finally.
He raises a brow. “And what’s that?”
“Trying to be the nice one. Good cop. Gentleman. Makes you feel better about keeping me here, right?”
“No.” he says quietly. “It doesn’t.”
You shove the pot back on the stove with a little more force than necessary. You don’t spare him another glance.
You’re already halfway out the kitchen before he moves.
“Wait—hey. Can we just… can we talk?” he tries.
You keep walking.
“Come on, just—talk to me.” he tries again. “Y/N. Please.”
You keep walking.
“Wait—fuck, just—can you stop for a second?”
You don’t. But you slow. That’s all he gets.
Jinu jogs a few steps to catch up, barefoot on the cold wood floors. He steps in front of you, blocking the hallway, still glowing faintly violet in the low light, his demon marks curling up his throat.
“I know you’re pissed—”
“Understatement of the year.”
He winces. “Okay. You’re furious. Look, yeah. I fucked up. We fucked up. But it’s complicated—”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, turning away. “do not hit me with the ‘it’s complicated’ speech—”
“—You were a threat to us when this started—”
“Nice.”
“—But now you’re not.”
“Oh, so I’m just a cute little hostage now, got it.”
He groans, exasperated, like he’s the one who’s suffering. “You’re twisting everything I say.”
“You’re saying stupid things.”
“And you’re acting like we’re the enemy.”
“You are.”
“Look, I didn’t lie, exactly—”
You raise your brows.
“I didn’t lie.” he insists, though he did. They made up lies after lies when coming home. Technically he’s also lying now. “We just didn’t tell you. It’s… it’s different. You’re important. And we didn’t know what the girls would do if they thought we had you. And yeah—okay—they do know now. But we’ve been handling it.”
You just stare at him.
He tries again. “We didn’t want you to panic—”
“Oh, so I’m stupid now.”
“No!” he blurts out, way too fast. “No, no no no, that’s not what I meant, I meant—fuck—you’re not stupid—you’re terrifying when you’re mad actually—”
You roll your eyes, stepping past him.
He follows. “And okay! Yes! We’ve been fighting the girls. But only when we had to, alright? They’ve been coming for us.” Jinu, baby, your mission is to kill them.
You stop. Turn slowly. Your expression is brutal. Beautiful.
“I didn’t kill them.” he says, voice lower now. Softer. “Not any of them. I could’ve. I didn’t. None of us did. Not even Mystery, and that’s saying something.”
“You kept me here.” you murmur.
He swallows. “I know.”
“You knew they knew where I was.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t let them come for me.”
“I didn’t let anything happen. I protected you. I’ve protected you every night. Do you know how many times I’ve kept Abby from opening that front door with a fucking rocket launcher?!”
You scoff. Turn again. Keep walking.
“I made mistakes.” he says to your back, following you, earnest in that awful, boyish way, like honesty could be an apology if he says it with enough pout. “But I didn’t do this to hurt you.”
“No.” you say without turning. “You did it because you don’t give a fuck about them.”
He doesn’t deny it. Because it’s true. He doesn’t give a fuck about the HUNTR/X girls. Doesn’t give a fuck about your old life, your found family, the blood and blades.
He only gives a fuck about you.
“I don’t want to be here.”
“I know.”
“I hate what you’ve done.”
“I know.”
You wait. For him to walk away. For him to give up. For him to say something that’ll prove he’s as evil as you tell yourself he is. But Jinu doesn’t.
You don’t look back when you leave Jinu in the hallway. You don’t slam your door, too dramatic. Too loud. No, you close it slow. Quiet.
And you are pissed. God, you are so fucking pissed. You’re pissed at them. At the lies. At the way you’re starting to forget what freedom felt like. At how you’ve somehow become a thing to be kept, not a person to be trusted.
And now, lying across the entire width of your oversized, silky bed…
…is your baby.
Well. Jinu’s baby. But what’s his is yours now.
Derpy lifts his head immediately. The size of a damn refrigerator.
“Hi, my beautiful boy.” you croon, already climbing into the bed to scratch behind his ears. He lets out a guttural mrrowwwl that shakes the bedframe.
“My handsome, handsome man.” you whisper as you press your face into his thick neck fur. “The love of my life. There’s my beautiful, perfect man.”
The moment you sit on the bed, he’s there, head butting into your shoulder, curling his huge body around yours like a fortress. You lean into him with a soft, exhausted sigh.
“There we go.” you coo, brushing your fingers through his mane. “My sweet boy. My pretty baby. Love of my fucking life.”
He rumbles, a sound between a purr and a growl, low and content, as you press a kiss to the side of his face and nuzzle into the fur at his neck.
“Best man I’ve ever known.” you murmur.
Another rumble. He flops onto his side, spine against your thighs, a big warm weight that makes everything else disappear. You curl around him, fingers sifting through thick fur, your voice soft and petty and dripping with sugar.
“You’re the only man I’ll ever love. My love. My beautiful baby boy.”
You fucking love this thing.
“You’re the best boy.” you murmur, kissing his jaw. “The best boy in the whole world. They’re all bitches. You’re my real soulmate.”
Another tail thump. He noses into your shoulder, exhaling warm air. You swear this fucking thing knows everything. Feels everything.
You press a kiss to his face, fingers threading into the thick fur at his neck.
“Sweet dreams, baby boy.”
All this while Romance is lying on his bed, arms folded behind his head, one leg propped up.
When your voice hits his ears, his breath catches. He can hear you, super senses, obv.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lies there, staring up, jaw tight.
The love of my life.
He almost laughs. Almost. But it’s not funny.
Baby is in his chair. Not bed. Feet tucked under him. A tray of untouched snacks next to him.
My love. My beautiful baby boy.
He’s going to kill himself in three two one GO!!
Abby is half asleep in bed, hugging Jinu’s bird to his chest like a therapy pillow. The bird does NOT want to be there but Abby’s warm so whatever. It’s fine.
Best man I’ve ever known.
He pulls the blanket over his face. Just for a second. To hide the way his mouth twists. Then tugs it back down because he doesn’t want poor Sussie to fucking die there.
Mystery sits on his bed. Shirtless, but not for the attention. Just because he runs hot and has no sense of shame. And because he’s a boy and boys can do that and I’m so jealous. He has his legs drawn up. Knees to his chest.
You’re the best boy—a little smooch sound as you kiss Derpy—The best boy in the whole world.
He just listens.
He doesn’t know how to compete with a damn cat. But he would kill for you to talk to him like that. To kiss him the way you kiss that fur.
Jinu went back to his room. He hears you talk to his cat like it’s your firstborn, kiss it like it’s your reason to keep going. Hear the love in your voice, the softness that used to be for people, before they twisted it out of you.
He hears it.
And it fucks him uuuuup.
He smiles. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes closing, breath catching.
Lucky bastard of a cat.
Gwi-Ma licks at their minds. Lays between the folds of memory. He whispers. He watches. And when the silence gets too quiet, he shows them things.
And his boys?
His precious little murder sons?
He never leaves them alone.
They’re vulnerable.
Which makes this so much more fun.
Half an hour later, Jinu’s in the shower, water scalding. Hands pressed against the tile, head bowed, steam billowing like it could burn the guilt off his skin if he just stands still long enough. That’s when he hears Gwi-Ma’s voice,
“You did this.”
Jinu freezes.
“You could’ve told her. But you didn’t. Because deep down, you liked it. You liked having something she didn’t. Liked having her trapped.”
His jaw tightens. He breathes deep. Tries to shake it off.
“You’re just like them. Worse, maybe. They want her. You keep her.”
His breath stutters. A drip of water slithers down his spine.
“She hates you. You know that, don’t you?”
Jinu sighs. Rolls his eyes.
“You make a very pretty mistake, Jinu.”
Next is Romance. His room is dim. Red lights. Velvet curtains. Mirrors. Too much cologne in the air, like he’s hiding in it.
He’s sprawled on his bed, one arm over his eyes, pretending to be asleep.
“She doesn’t want you. She never did. She thinks you’re pathetic. Clingy. Disgusting. You talk too much. No one laughs because you’re funny. They laugh because they know you’re afraid.”
Romance exhales.
“Afraid of what you are without a joke. Afraid she’ll see the rot underneath that pretty mouth.”
Then, the image of a woman with her neck twisted, body limp. Romance did that. Back, way back, years ago.
He didn’t mean to.
He didn’t mean to.
He puts a hand over his eyes, but the image stays. Carved into the backs of his lids.
“Tell her that story next time she calls you unbearable.”
Then Baby. His room is chaos. He’s awake. Always awake. He has to be. Because when he sleeps, Gwi-Ma waits. But even when he’s awake, sometimes—
“Tick, tick, tick. You’re wasting time.”
Baby stops on his phone.
“She’ll never forgive you.“
Bro?? Shut up, dude.
“Why do you think they call you Baby? Because they’re waiting for you to grow up and disappear.”
Abby is chewing on his cheek in his room, but doesn’t cry. Didn’t even cry when his brother died. Didn’t cry when he watched his soul get swallowed.
But tonight? Tonight Gwi-Ma brings back the screams. And the worst part? He liked it. He remembers the rush. The high. The way the sound made him feel like a god.
“She’ll never forgive that.” the demon hums. “Not even if you lie. Not even if you bleed. She’ll know what you did.”
Abby runs a hand through his hair.
“She thinks you’re stupid. Big, pretty idiot. All abs and no spine. She laughs at you, you know.”
Mystery is picking the nail polish off his nails, the picture of rivers of blood in his head. The girl who tried to kiss him once, dead before she hit the ground. The small dog that barked at him for too long, snapped. The countless limbs he’s torn off things no one ever named.
And then, your voice.
“Monster.”
“Rabid.”
“I could never love you.”
Yeaaaaah, Gwi-Ma’s not a nice guy. But he likes you.
You’re a pretty little human, in his head. Fair, is the word he uses, but not in the justice sense. You’re kind. Smart. Funny. The dream human really. You amuse him endlessly.
Not that he’s met you yet. No. That would ruin the game. That would tip the balance. Not until the boys are dangling off the edge. Raw. Exposed. Not until they’ve given everything for you and you’ve spit it back into their hands.
And you’re funny.
Yes, he laughs. Demon overlords laugh, didn’t you know?
And right now, as he watches Mystery walking toward your door? He laughs and listens.
Mystery stares at the door for a long time. He’s one of the only ones who knocks. Only Jinu and Mystery ever knock. The rest barge in.
But not him.
No.
Mystery always knocks.
From inside, your voice cuts through the wood. Muffled. Cold. “Go away.”
He doesn’t. He opens the door instead. Slowly. Steps in.
“I said go away.”
He stands in the doorway. Stares at the floor.
“I won’t ask again.” you add.
He lifts his head. “Okay.”
But he still doesn’t leave. He steps in. Quiet. He stands near the dresser, not quite in your space, but not giving you peace either.
Silence.
You finally look at him. Tired. Angry. But not as angry. Because it’s Mystery. And he doesn’t lie to you. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t charm. He just is.
“What do you want?” you ask, voice rough with sleep and disdain.
He shrugs.
“You’re not sleeping in here.” you say flatly.
“I’ll stay on the floor.”
“You won’t.”
Another pause.
“I like it here.”
You blink. “What?”
He’s still not looking at you. Just the floor.
“…Then go lay down. On the floor.”
His chest lifts. A single breath. No joy. Just relief. He moves silent. Takes the blanket you keep folded near the chair. Lays out beside the bed. Not touching. Not close.
You roll onto your side, facing away. But your voice, soft, comes a moment later: “You’re still a bastard.”
“I know.”
“…But thank you for knocking.”
He doesn’t reply. Silence, completely.
Then, you ask, “What’s up with you?”
It takes him a second to realize you’re talking to him. “Nothing.”
You sigh.
God, he’s… sweet.
Not nice in the polished, obvious way Jinu is. Not in the performative, “look at me being tender” way Romance pretends. Mystery’s kindness is raw. No other word can describe it.
You hate that Mystery, the one who bites people, the one who fights like he wants to break his own ribs doing it, the one who doesn’t speak unless it’s to warn or protect or curse, is the one you feel safest with. You hate that you’re curling into your sheets right now and not kicking him out. You hate that you just handed him a spare pillow without thinking. You hate that you’re starting to feel… Comfortable.
Your voice is small, muffled in fur. “You’re weird.”
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. “You’re warm.” he says softly. A beat. Then, “Good smell.”
You snort. “That’s not flirting, Mystery.”
“Wasn’t trying.”
You shift, curling on your side.
Then silence. Like, twenty minutes of rock hard silence. You’re not falling asleep, for some reason, so you speak again
“…You asleep?”
You ask it like a joke. Dry. Barely a whisper.
Mystery doesn’t turn his head, but you hear the faintest hum in response. He breathes in. The sound shaky. Like he’s trying to hold a thought together. “…You hate me?”
It’s so quiet. Not pitiful. Not self-loathing. Just curious. Bare and open and fucking gutting.
“No.” you say finally, and your voice is softer than it should be. “I don’t hate you. But I’m angry. And I’m still not okay.”
He nods.
You’re angry. You’re hurt. You’re homesick in a way that’s too heavy to name, and the fact that the only person in this entire fuck who makes you feel slightly okay is the quietest, most unsettling one of the bunch? That makes you madder than anything else.
“I’m not talking to you anymore.” you mutter into the pillow.
No response.
“Even if you’re nice.” you add, voice muffled.
Still nothing.
You wait a few beats. Almost long enough to fall asleep. Then: “You’re still annoying.”
A pause.
Then the softest breath of sound. Almost like a laugh. Almost. But not enough for you to call it one and get mad about it. He’s smart like that.
You kick your foot once under the blankets, just to release the heat building in your chest. Derpy beside you stretches, tail flicking against your leg like a shhh.
You glance down at him. You whisper to Derpy because he’s safe and he doesn’t ask anything of you. “Don’t let him crawl into bed. If he does, maul him.”
A deep, satisfied huff answers you.
You smile into your pillow. Just a little. You fall asleep fast after that.
Now, a few hours later, it’s 5:43 AM. Everyone’s asleep. You should be, too. But no. Your refrigerator-sized tiger had a nightmare (you think—he thumped his tail hard enough to knock over a lamp), and now you’re awake. Fully. Aggravatingly. Unforgivably awake.
So you do what any hostage on the edge of a psychological breakdown would do.
You go to make tea.
You stepped over Mystery. Now you tiptoe into the kitchen. Early. Quiet.
The sun hasn’t even fully risen.
Perfect.
You want five minutes. Just five fucking minutes to be a human person and sip tea in silence.
“Baby. Love of my life!”
Romance.
You turn around. “…You have toothpaste on your neck.”
He swipes at it immediately. “No, I don’t—wait, seriously?”
You don’t respond. Maybe if you don’t make eye contact, he’ll vanish.
That’s when Abby walks in. Shirtless. Of course. Dripping sweat. Probably from working out at four in the morning like a psychopath. He’s holding a protein shake the size of your head and doing that thing where he flexes accidentally-on-purpose every time he reaches for something.
Romance slaps his bicep. “Daaaamn, buddy.”
“Can’t help it.” Abby says, flashing a grin.
You turn around. Instantly regret it.
Because now Baby is leaning in the doorway. Hoodie up. Mismatched socks. Holding a banana like it personally offended him. Eyes rimmed red like he hasn’t slept.
He looks at you.
Rolls his eyes.
Takes a bite.
You narrow your eyes. “Did I do something to you in a past life?”
He shrugs, chewing.
Romance sighs. “God, the tension in here is delicious. Can we get some music going?”
“Absolutely not.” you say.
“That’s not a no.” Romance says.
You turn your back to them again.
Romance rests his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. “So… how’d you sleep, sweetheart? Alone?”
You pause. Turn slowly. Level him with a look. Then: “No. I slept with something feral, dangerous, probably cursed.”
“Ohoho?” he perks up.
“Yeah.” you lick your spoon. “Your mom.”
But he’s already sidling up behind you like he’s going to wrap his arms around your waist. You hold up a butter knife. He backs up, hands raised. “Respectfully. Respectfully.”
You flip him off without looking.
Baby snorts. You glance over.
He’s flipping you off too.
You squint. “You’re just a hater.”
He shrugs like obviously.
Abby takes a swig of his shake and flexes again. This time, harder.
Romance slaps his bicep again. “Ooooh! Man! What the hell are you made of? You been growing?”
Abby flexes harder. “I mean, a little.“
Romance sidles closer again, brushing your elbow.
“Still mad at us, bunny?” he murmurs, eyes too soft.
You don’t answer. Because yes. You’re mad. Still. Infinitely. Rage. You haven’t forgotten the lies, the fighting, the kidnapping, the part where your only real joy right now is a bird and a giant magical tiger who doesn’t talk or flirt or flex near tea kettles.
You don’t answer him. Just sip your tea.
Romance watches you do it. “Do you want sugar, baby?”
“No.”
Romance puts his chin in his hand, grin lazy. “Soooooo. Hypothetically. If you had to choose between the charming bad boy with incredible bone structure—” points at himself “—or the athletic, dependable golden retriever type—” thumbs at Abby “—who’s your bias, baby?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Okay, damn. Which answer is that?”
“That’s a what the fuck are you doing here and how did you get past auditions.” you say calmly, sipping your tea.
Romance is snorting. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”
You shrug. “Figure it out, Fifth Harmony.”
Abby throws his hands up. “That’s not even the same—”
Without a word, Baby walks straight past you. Goes to the corner cabinet, the one that absolutely does not contain cereal. And opens it.
He pulls out a bottle.
Not some cutesy fruit liquor. Not a fun little mimosa situation. No. A full, dark, evil-looking bottle that probably tastes like ass but like… good ass. Could be whiskey. Could be some magic. Knowing Baby? It’s probably both.
He unscrews the cap with one hand.
Takes a long drink.
Doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t breathe.
You blink.
He keeps going.
You stare harder. Bro just chugs. Not even a flinch. Not even a wince.
Insane.
You just sit there, quietly drinking your little tea, watching as Baby shrugs, takes another sip, and slides the bottle toward the middle of the counter without even looking at either of them.
Romance raises his brows, then grabs the bottle. “Shit, if we’re drinking, we’re drinking.”
He takes a sip.
Makes a face.
“Okay, yeah, fuck me.”
Abby catches it next, sniffing the top. “This is either gonna ruin my morning or make me invincible.”
Romance is making a face. “That’s the spirit, biceps.”
Abby drinks. Immediately coughs. Puts up his arm to wipe his mouth, pretending he’s not dying.
“You good?” you ask dryly.
He slams the bottle down. “Absolutely.”
Romance grins and slaps him on the back. “You took that like a little bitch.”
Abby coughs into his arm. “It’s burning my lungs.”
“Your lungs are soft now.”
“Your mom’s soft.”
“Oh, we’re doing moms again? What are we, twelve?”
“Yeah, and I fucked yours.”
They pass the bottle back and forth, each pulling faces worse than the last. Meanwhile, Baby’s just sitting, drinking slowly, like this is nothing new.
You’re quiet, but you watch him.
Romance is back in his chair, kicks his feet up, lifts the bottle and grins over at you. “Want a sip? Might make us more tolerable.”
You take a long, long look at him. Then at Abby. Then at Baby. And snort. “Not even if you poured it over pancakes.”
The bottle is almost empty and Baby still looks like he’s prepping for his kindergarten class photo. Lips pink. Angelic face, really,
Aaaaand yeah, he probably has an alcohol problem. And yeah, it’s probably from whatever the hell he’s not talking about. And yeah, none of you are gonna fix it over fucking breakfast.
Abby grins. Then turns to you, flexing his arm. “Feel this.”
You stare at him.
He flexes again.
“Go on.” he says, patting his own bicep.
You sigh, reach over, and squeeze his bicep with the same energy as checking if bread is stale.
“Holy shit.” you mutter, so so so sarcastic.
Abby grins. “Knew it.”
Romance takes the bottle again, throws his arm around your shoulder like he belongs there. “You wanna feel mine?”
“I’d rather eat glass.”
“Aw, come on, sweetheart.” he purrs, grabbing your hand and placing it on his ass.
You yank your hand back instantly. You glance over at Baby. He glances back.
“…What?” he asks.
“Nothing.” you say.
Romance hands him the bottle again with a “you good?”
Baby shrugs, downs another mouthful.
Abby winces. “That much this early?”
Baby: “Fuck off.”
Romance fans himself. “Honestly? A little turned on.”
Abby’s still flexing. This time, both arms. You’re not sure if he even realizes anymore. Romance is poking him now, laughing.
They’re yelling, laughing, throwing insults and flexing in between. A sock hits the wall at one point. You think it was Baby’s. No one reacts.
Romance is giggling with his entire chest, smacking Abby’s ass. “Yessss, KING! I want to see that form, baby!”
Abby grunts. “You’re gonna see these fists if you don’t shut the fuck up.”
Abby grabs Baby by the ankle. Baby doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink. Then Abby hauls him up, over his shoulder, fireman-style, with zero effort. Baby has his arms folded, expression blank, while Abby mutters “one… two… fuck yeah, three—” under his breath and Romance counts reps while drinking straight from the bottle.
You raise your brows.
Jinu enters, wrapped in a robe, hair a mess, expression done. “Why are you all screaming at six in the morning?”
Abby perks up too, still holding Baby. “Yo, man. Looking good.”
Romance wiggles his brows. “You come here to scold us or spank us, daddy?”
Jinu closes his eyes. Inhales slowly. His hair is sticking up in the back. His voice is sleepy and hoarse. His robe is gaping slightly at the chest.
Which is, unfortunately, noticeable.
Then his eyes shift. To you. To the bottle on the counter.
He’s already at your side. Hand on your arm. Soothing. Caressing.
“Are you okay?” he whispers, so soft you nearly laugh. “Did they make you drink? Did they pressure you?”
Romance holds up both hands. “Hey hey hey—she didn’t touch the bottle! I offered!”
Jinu gently covers your ears like you’re five years old.
“Baby.” Jinu hisses, “Put the bottle down.”
Baby takes a long sip, staring at him dead in the eyes.
Jinu’s jaw clenches. His hand never leaves your arm. “Why is it always you three when shit starts? Do you know what happened the last time she had alcohol?!”
“She spit in your mouth.” Abby says.
“She SPIT IN MY MOUTH.”
Romance nods. “That was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.”
They do not understand humans.
At all.
You’ve figured it out by now.
They think you’re fragile. Breakable. Like one wrong step and your heart will just stop working. One sneeze, one too-strong hug, one bad slice of bread and you’ll be dead. Gone.
“Did you drink any?” Jinu asks, fingers brushing over your arm, eyes scanning you.
Jinu cuts him off with a look that could kill a man in the womb. Then he grabs the bottle from the counter, hands it to Abby, and growls: “Put that shit away before I break it over your head.”
Abby blinks. “Damn, okay.”
“Metal.” Baby mumbles, taking it from Abby and sipping again.
“Insane.” Jinu hisses, brushing your hair out of your face gently. “Are you okay?”
You shrug him off. “I’m not your fucking responsibility.”
“Go back to bed.” he says.
Abby drops Baby, mostly because Baby is now biting his shoulder, but not without a smug pat to his ass. Baby lands on his feet, glares at all of them, and brings the bottle to his lips again.
“No.” Jinu growls.
Baby pauses. Looks Jinu dead in the eye. “Fuck you.”
Then drinks.
“Jesus.” you mutter. “Could you all just—die, or something?”
Jinu sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Come on. Let me walk you back to your room.”
You shrug him off. You just… slip your arm out of his reach.
Romance climbs to his feet, wheezing, face flushed. “Okay—okay—hold on, me next—Abby, throw me—”
You stand, turning away, not looking back. You don’t owe them your voice today. Not after what they did. Not after the lies. Not after the war they started behind your back.
Romance visibly stumbles. Literally. His knees buckle. Hands slap the counter. “Oh my—okay—hello—hello—“ all this because he caught a glimpse of your ass.
Back in your room, you step over Mystery without a word. Your ankle bumps his side. He stirs.
“Move.” you mutter.
He blinks up at you. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even complain. He rises to his feet.
“Hey, baby.” you whisper to the tiger, crawling into the bed, laying half over him.
He rumbles. The deep, echoing purr vibrating under your ribcage.
“Love of my life.” you say, petting his massive cheek. “Handsomest man in the world.” You turn your head just enough to glare at Mystery. “Go.” you say firmly. “I’m tired. Of all of you.”
He nods. Slowly. Almost ashamed. “Sorry.”
You keep stroking the tiger’s fur. Burying your face into his shoulder. Letting the fur soak up the headache behind your eyes.
“So beautiful.” you murmur, kissing the tiger’s shoulder. “My sweet boy.”
The tiger makes a pleased rumble, tail flicking contentedly.
After that, the boys left. They always do, and almost everyday, you’re alone. I mean you have Derpy and Sussie but c’mon, that is not the same as having human company. Wanted human company.
You miss your girls. God, you miss them so bad it aches. You wonder what they’re doing. If they’re planning. If they think you’re dead. If they think you switched sides. You press your forehead to your knees as you lay in bed. Try not to cry. Fail.
You hate the boys.
You hate them.
You hate the way they took you, the way they manipulate, the way they joke, the way they flirt. The way they walk.
But you also…god fucking damn it.
You love them. A little.
You love the way Jinu always speaks softly to you, even when he’s just done being an asshole to the others. You love the way Baby pretends not to care but was immediately there when you screamed about the spider which you’re still scared of because holy shit it was HUGE. You love how Romance checks your room “by accident” just to see if you’re breathing. You love the way Mystery growls at anyone who touches you, even his own people. You love how Abby looks and how that personality matches his looks for some reason.
Stockholm Syndrome, they’d call it.
Fuck no. No.
You want to hate them. But you’re so fucking tired.
You’ve just been around them too much. That’s it, yeah, that’s it.
THUD.
Something slams into your door. Hard.
You freeze.
Another sound. This time less thud and more oh fuck I just tripped over my own feet.
“—fuckin’ move—dude, I got it—no you don’t, you’ve got claws out again—stop, STOP—I’M FINE—”
You grab the bedside lamp and nearly hurl it.
Then, the door opens. And there’s Abby. And behind him? Mystery.
But the real kicker?
The flowers.
This is a bouquet. And it’s gorgeous. Elegant. Vibrant. The kind of bouquet a guy tries for. The kind someone asks for help to pick out because he cares.
And Abby’s the one holding them.
“Hey babe.” Abby says.
Mystery nudges him with his elbow, expression stone-flat but intentional.
“Oh—right. Yeah. We got you these.”
Abby holds the flowers out.
His arm is kind of trembling.
“We thought you’d, like… girls like flowers, right?” he mutters, voice too low and too soft to be coming from Abby. “So. Yeah.”
You blink.
Behind him, Mystery steps into the doorway, one hand shoved in his pocket and he just nods.
You stare.
Abby clears his throat.
“We, uh… we passed this stall on the way back from—doesn’t matter. We saw ‘em and…” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly seventeen. “You’re always mad. Which, like, hot. But also maybe we thought this’d… help.”
You just blink at him.
“Fuck, I knew this was stupid.” he mutters, glancing at Mystery. “Told you we should’ve just brought food.”
You blink. Your lips part, but no words come out. You stare at them.
“I—I don’t know what the fuck they mean. I didn’t look at the flower language thing, okay? They just looked cool. Red means… passion, or something. I think. Or murder. Either way, felt on-brand.”
You slowly reach out. Take them. The bouquet is heavy in your hands. Warm. Alive. You look down at it. Then back up at them.
Abby’s trying so hard not to look nervous. His jaw’s tight. His fingers twitch. Like he’s waiting for you to throw them in his face. Or cry. Or scream.
Mystery just watches. Like he always does.
“…They’re beautiful.” you whisper.
Both boys blink.
You pet the petals softly, then glance up. “I love them.”
“Yeah?” Abby asks, exhaling. “Course you do. I mean. Babe like you? You deserve nice things.”
You roll your eyes. But you’re smiling. A little.
He nudges Mystery. “Told you. Boom. Nailed it. Fucking flower genius.”
“…They’re really pretty.” you murmur. Flowers do feel nice.
Abby swallows. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Nods like a fucking idiot. “…Yeah. You are too.”
You look up at him. Sharp. Deadpan.
He winces. “I meant the flowers. I mean—fuck—I meant—”
Mystery elbows Abby in the side.
Abby exhales hard, shakes his head. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Still wanted you to have ‘em.”
You look at the flowers again.
You feel horrible. Heavy. Mismatched. Twisted in the chest. But this feels nice.
Abby leans back a little, stretching an arm over his head. Shirt rides up. Abs. Obscene ones. Glowing faintly from demon marks. Veins like river maps on his biceps. Pure fucking genetics.
“Could’ve died.” he says with a deep, theatrical sigh. “Still had time to think about you. Bring you shit. That’s gotta earn me a tiny bit of forgiveness.”
You don’t respond.
He flexes subtly. Chest tightening under the shirt, arms folded to make his shoulders pop. His jaw is flexing too, a jock move, the kind that screams yeah, I do push-ups for breakfast, you should sit on my face sometime, it’s fine.
Mystery pets the tiger. Glances at Abby. Abby meets his eyes and gives him a look like, back me up, bro. Mystery blinks. Then, very slowly, turns back to the cat and keeps petting it like this has nothing to do with him.
Abby shifts position, flexing just enough to make every muscle in his arm do a magic trick.
You do not look.
You do not look.
You look.
Fuck.
“Anyway.” Abby says, voice too casual to be truly casual. “We were thinking.”
“No one asked you to.”
“Cool, but we were anyway.”
“I don’t care.”
“Thought maybe tomorrow,” he says. “we could get you out.”
You raise your brows.
“To the rooftop for a walk. Kinda romantic.”
You stare at him. Then at Mystery. Who is absolutely not backing him up, still gently stroking the tiger’s chin like he’s trying to win custody.
“You want to take me out on a date.”
“‘Date’ is a strong word.” Abby says. Remembers girls like honest and vulnerable guys. Also remembers that girls like tough guys. Slaps himself in his head. “….Yes I do.”
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs, flexing again. On purpose. “Being nice.”
“You’re trying to seduce me.”
Mystery lets out a quiet sound. You think it’s a laugh. Or maybe he just breathed weird.
Abby keeps talking. “You’ve had a rough day. I get that. I don’t blame you for being pissy.”
You give him a long, cold look.
“C’mon, babe. You know you want—”
“Get the fuck out.”
“Need anything?” he asks, ignoring what you just said, casually flexing as he scratches the back of his neck. Like you don’t see right through it. “Water? Blanket?”
“Out.”
“C’mon, babe, don’t be like that. I brought you flowers. And I look like this.” He gestures at his entire existence. Then, grumbling, frustrated, he reaches back. Grabs Mystery by the collar. Mystery just lets it happen. As he’s dragged out, his hand rises in a casual wave. You’re not sure if it’s goodbye or an apology.
Abby mutters the whole way down the hall: “Fucking ungrateful. I’m being NICE. I BROUGHT FLOWERS. What the fuck else do girls want, man? Should I bleed? Should I paint a fucking mural—”
The door closes.
Finally.
Silence.
Then a muffled voice through the wall:
“Was that too much?”
Mystery: “Yes.”
“…But she looked—”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Shit.”
Your tiger nosedives back into your lap like nothing happened. His tail curls possessively around your waist.
You kiss the top of his head.
The flowers sit in your hand. They’re lovely. And you’re tired. Tired of the ache in your chest. Tired of feeling torn between two worlds, between memory and this fucked up reality where even your emotions go up and down.
Abby lets go of Mystery’s shirt with a huff and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t speak. Mystery doesn’t either. Until—
“Didn’t pet the cat long enough.”
Abby glares sideways at him. “That’s what you’re upset about?”
Mystery shrugs.
“And I was nice, too.” Abby continues. “Like not even a dick about it. Fuckin’ rooftop date idea? Gold. That’s ideal boyfriend material.”
“Mm.”
“Did it work?” comes Romance’s voice, smoooooooth, already halfway to drunk. He’s standing in the doorway of his room in a silk robe that’s doing absolutely nothing to hide the toned frame beneath it, bare chest out, legs long, posture lazy. A glass of wine in one hand, a tub of ice cream in the other. The robe is crimson, of course. Of fucking course it is. There’s a slit up the thigh. He’s not wearing pants. Just boxers. And confidence.
Abby scowls. “Do I look like it worked?”
“She told us to fuck off.” Mystery mutters.
Romance whistles low. But he is proud of Mystery for talking.
Romance snorts so hard he almost drops the ice cream. “God, you suck at this.”
Abby growls and rips his shirt clean in half.
Romance pauses mid-spoon. “…See, that’s your problem. You keep doing that. Like—do you have a shirt allergy? What the fuck?”
“I was stressed!”
Mystery silently reaches over, plucks a petal out of Abby’s hair, and hands it to Romance. Romance takes it.
The three of them walk into Romance’s room. It’s brutal. Silk sheets. Mood lighting. A full-length mirror directly across from the bed (of course). The mattress is too big. There’s at least five different brands of lube on the bedside table and two unopened boxes of condoms—
Abby immediately starts poking around. Opens the nightstand. Pulls out a handful of condoms.
“Help yourself, why don’t you.” Romance drawls as Abby grabs a strip of condoms from the stash. “Actually, take more. I have the twelve-pack somewhere in the drawer under the incense.”
“You got the good kind now?” Abby asks, actually checking expiration dates.
“Mm. Thin as regret.”
Abby pockets them.
Romance sits down on his bed and crosses his legs, wraps himself tighter in his robe, and spoons ice cream into his mouth.
Abby sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, scowling. “I just… I thought flowers were supposed to do something.”
“They are.” Romance says, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “They say, ‘Hey. I’m trying.’ And you were. It’s a good move.”
“Next time I’ll let Mystery hand them over.”
Mystery: “No thank you.”
Abby throws his hands up. “He doesn’t even talk. Why is he so likable?!”
Mystery hums softly and reaches for Romance’s spoon, steals a bite of ice cream without a word.
“…Hey.” Romance says mildly. “That’s mine.”
Mystery shrugs. Drops down into a beanbag.
“Alright, let’s talk about it. What’d you do? What’d you say? Give me details.”
Abby rubs his face. “I walked in. Said some smooth shit. Flexed a little. Told her I’d take her out.”
“And?”
“Didn’t work.”
Romance nods solemnly, wine glass swirling. “She’s building a wall to protect her vulnerability. You’re not the problem.”
Delusional fuck.
Abby squints. “Can you say that with less wine in your mouth?”
Romance leans back, robe falling wider open. “She’s not saying no. She’s saying not like this. Fuck, I’m brilliant.”
Abby groans, pulling a pillow over his face. “We are NEVER doing the flower idea again.”
“Oh, but we are.” Romance says smoothly. “It was sweet. Girls like that.”
“She doesn’t.”
“She does.” Romance corrects, “She just hates you.”
Mystery nods solemnly. “True.”
“We all came up with the flowers thing together.” Abby mutters, face buried in a pillow.
Romance smirks. “Yeah. And I said ‘wait until she’s calm.’”
“I panicked!”
Mystery’s hand goes up. “I didn’t vote.”
“She’s homesick. She’s furious. You can’t flirt that away. You can’t push her into love. You have to earn her trust. Carefully. No more manipulation. No more lies. Just be there. And not like—‘oh I’m here to flirt and make you giggle’. No. Just be present. Let her be mad. Let her be soft. Let her breathe.”
The room is quiet for a moment.
Abby blinks. “Did you just therapy us?”
Romance raises a brow. “Are you gonna cry?”
“Fuck you.” Abby mutters. “I might.”
Mystery, flat: “He’s right.”
Romance gestures toward the discarded ice cream box. “You wanna win her over, you start with consistency. Show up. Don’t push. Be soft. Be useful. Maybe shut up a little.… she’ll come around.”
Abby doesn’t respond.
Mystery exhales through his nose.
Romance dips his spoon again, stares at the melting in his cup. “You gotta mean it. You gotta… slow it down.”
Abby finally looks up. “Since when do you know anything about slowing down?”
Romance smirks, raising his glass. “Since I met her.”
Abby’s stretched out on the edge of the bed. Condoms still in his pocket, head thrown back. Mystery is curled up in the oversized bean bag with his legs half out, hoodie pulled up over his nose.
Romance finishes the last of his wine, sighs, and sets the glass down. “Alright.”
He stands, letting his robe slide off.
Okay okay don’t panic he’s wearing boxers.
He reaches for a tiny glass jar of body oil from the shelf and pops the lid.
Abby doesn’t even blink. Just throws an arm over his eyes. “If you oil your ass in front of me again—”
“It’s self-care.” Romance says serenely, rubbing the oil into his chest with slow, luxurious strokes.
“You wax your legs.” Abby adds.
Romance hums. “And they’re smooth.”
There’s a brief pause as Romance reaches behind his shoulder, getting into the hard-to-reach places. “So. Anyone else wanna slap Baby in the face lately, or is it just me?”
“Been acting like a bitch.” Abby mutters.
Romance doesn’t pause. “Thank you. He’s been using my face mask again.”
“That kid needs to be thrown into a lake.” Abby says.
“With a brick.” Mystery adds. “He spit in my coffee.”
“That son of a bitch. I tried to pet him on the head yesterday,” Romance adds with a sigh, massaging oil into his biceps now. “and he said, quote, ‘Touch me again and I’ll piss in your expensive shampoo.’”
Mystery actually snorts. Real laughter. A miracle.
Romance points his oil-slicked finger at him triumphantly. “HA! Let’s talk shit some more. Mystery, your turn. Who are you beefing with lately?”
Mystery shrugs. “Jinu.”
“Wait, for real?” Abby perks up.
“Yeah. He’s been weird.”
“He used to be fun.” Romance says, hand now trailing oil absently down to his ribs. “Like genuinely fun. Mean. Threw hands in bars. The whole package. Now he’s just…” Romance gestures with the bottle. “Mr. Responsible. Mr. I’m the Leader. Mr. Don’t torture the hostage again, guys, she’s traumatized.” He mocks the voice. Mockingly well.
Abby snorts. “He gave me a full lecture the other day.”
“He washed your mouth out with soap last month.”
“I said ONE curse word on camera! He used to drink, he used to throw shit, he used to yell dumb stuff like the rest of us. Now he’s just like—” he thinks. He can’t think of anything. He sighs and gives up.
Mystery shrugs. “He’s coping.”
Romance smirks. “He’s been coping since 1837.”
“Dude hasn’t smiled in six months.” Abby mutters. “Unless Y/N’s around.”
Romance exhales through his nose. “I get it, though.”
“Yeah.” Abby sighs. “Same.”
Mystery gives the world’s most disinterested nod. “Mm.”
Romance breaks the silence first. “Still—”
“Still.” Abby echoes.
“He needs to get laid,” Romance finishes.
“BADLY.” Abby agrees.
Mystery mumbles, “He took my knife.”
“WHICH one?” Abby turns.
Mystery shrugs. “The little one.”
Romance gasps. “Your baby knife?!”
Mystery nods. So sad.
“So anyway,” Romance says between strokes. “I don’t care if Baby’s the youngest, I swear if he slams one more cabinet door—”
“I’m breaking his legs.” Abby finishes, not even looking up.
Mystery, adds flatly: “He eats my leftovers.”
“He labeled it and Baby still ate it,” Romance says with a scandalized gasp, massaging oil into his neck now. “And then gaslit him. Like, oh my god, what pizza? I didn’t see your name on it? It was in the shape of an M, you ass!”
“He said the M stood for ‘mine.’” Mystery mutters.
“I hate him.” Abby says.
Romance rubs oil into his thighs. “He’s so evil. Cute evil. A tiny little dictator.”
“He called me old yesterday.” Abby mutters.
Mystery shrugs. “He called me a virgin. Then blew smoke in my face.”
Romance pauses, hand halfway down his thigh. “Aw. Baby…”
Abby shakes his head. “That’s fucked up.”
“It was mint.” Mystery says quietly. “It hurt.”
Romance walks over and pats his head, glistening and unbothered. “We’re gonna bully him so hard.”
Abby cracks his neck. “Honestly? Deserves it. He’s been acting like his trauma is the only trauma that matters.”
“Oh, here we go.” Romance mutters, grabbing his wine again, pouring more into the glass. “Get it out, king.”
“I’m serious! It’s always, ‘I was too young,’ or, ‘They ruined my life,’ or, ‘I don’t dream anymore’ like okay, cool, join the fucking club! My family’s dead and my soul is owned, we’re all going through it!”
“Big facts.” Romance agrees, raising his glass. “Anyways, you guys staying?”
Abby groans. “I should sleep. Gotta wake up and remind Baby he’s the worst person alive.”
“Healthy.” Romance nods. “What about you?”
Mystery, in the bean bag, is half-asleep already. Hoodie pulled up, arms crossed. “I have a bed.” he mumbles.
Romance shrugs. “Then go lay in it, mon chéri.”
With a low grunt, Abby hauls himself up off the bed. “Alright, I’m out. Thanks for the therapy, and the oil show.”
“You’re welcome.” Romance says brightly.
Mystery stands next too, slow and silent, brushing invisible lint off his hoodie like he wasn’t just shit talking Baby a three minutes ago.
Just as they turn to leave, two foil-wrapped objects slap against their chests.
Romance, now leaning against the closet doorframe in nothing but those obnoxiously expensive boxers, is holding the third strip of condoms in his teeth like a war prize.
“Take backups.” he mumbles around the foil. “And don’t say I never gave you boys anything.”
Abby laughs, a sharp bark of it. Slaps Romance on the back hard enough to echo. “Legend.”
Mystery doesn’t react at all. Just catches his set one-handed and pockets them without breaking eye contact. Unfazed. Respect tbh.
Romance watches them go with a shit-eating grin. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Then the list’s wide open.” Abby shoots back, walking out into the hall.
Mystery just waves.
Romance blows a kiss and shuts the door with a snap.
He sighs once more, dramatically of course, then walks back to the mirror, adjusts his boxers slightly, and whispers to his own reflection:
“…I am so fucking hot.”
And with that, the two slide out into the hallway. They walk in sync, not fast, not loud. It’s late. Quiet. Not because they’re tense, but because they’re sneaking. Or at least, trying not to wake anyone up. Namely: you.
Then they pass your door.
Abby doesn’t even stop, just lifts the strip of condoms in the air like a flag and waves it a little in front of the closed door, one brow raised.
“Goodnight, babe.” he whispers, quiet, cheeky, wicked.
Mystery side-eyes him. But he doesn’t stop him.
Neither of them say a word. Not even a laugh. They’re silent, out of respect for the sleeping hostage in the next room. Real gentlemen shit.
And just like that, they move on.
Let’s be honest.
They’re idiots. Like, actual idiots.
Let’s take a moment. Let’s just… talk about it. Just… talk. Because it’s so stupid. The entire situation is so fucking stupid.
They’re… so selfish.
That’s the core of it, really.
They want you. Not because you’re useful now, they know they’re not getting what they needed. They just… fell into this.
You hate them. You do. You hate them for what they’ve done. For not telling you the girls know about you. For lying. For fighting the girls.
You hate them.
But god, some nights…
Some nights, when everything’s quiet, you think you might love them, too.
Just a little.
And it’s so fucking tragic.
But they still plan to kill the girls.
That’s the plan. That’s the goal.
It’s why they took you in the first place. And they haven’t changed it. They haven’t really considered what happens after. They don’t know how they’ll keep you. How they’ll live with themselves. How they’ll explain. How they’ll survive the wreckage when it crashes around them.
Because they aren’t thinking about you.
They’re thinking about themselves.
How they feel. What they want. What you mean to them.
It’s so fucking selfish.
They should’ve done better. They could’ve. They still could.
But they don’t.
Because it’s easier to keep you in a cage than it is to confront what they’ve done and ask for your trust like real people.
They want you to love them back—but they won’t let you leave.
They want you to feel safe—but they won’t stop hunting your friends.
They want your heart—but only on their terms.
They want, they want, they want.
Are you hearing this? Fucking hilarious.
BUT JINU.
LOVE OF MY FUCKING LIFE JINU. WAS. NOT. FUCKING. CAPABLE. OF LETTING YOU GO.
He’s selfish.
They all are.
Demons.
No matter how many flowers they bring, or how many dumb jokes they make, or how quiet Mystery gets when you cry, they are selfish. Ruined. Fucked by centuries of pain they never unpacked. Boys who were hurt and became hurting machines. Hurt people hurt people.
And it’s not fair.
What happens after they win? Are you supposed to just forgive them? Are they gonna hand you a smoothie and say, “Cool, now we’re dating, right?” Put a ring on your finger while the blood’s still drying on the walls?
They don’t think that far. They never did.
Because they’re selfish.
Because they were boys before they were demons, and boys grow into men only when they learn to look at someone else’s pain and not walk away from it.
And they haven’t done that yet.
They’re pussies.
But they’re learning. I guess.
The AMOUUUUNT of memes I got from y’all thank you SOOOO much, y’all are hilarious I can’t (also if u send them in, tell me if you want credit or not!! Also feel free to take credit for these)💋
AN: at some point while writing this I was in agonizing pain so dunno if some parts make sense. I’ve also read the requests I got in my inbox and made some of them come true, though I’m not that satisfied with this part, love y’all
cw: sexual fantasies just again, boys pissing, cursing, Stockholm Syndrome developing, the usual
Jinu stands barefoot at the sink of his bathroom, brushing his teeth. Perfect posture, slow circular movements, jaw sharp, looking like our wet dream yes OUR.
SLAM.
The door blasts open. There’s no knock. There’s never a knock. In stumbles Abby, shirtless, his sweats riding low and his hair still flattened on one side from sleep. There’s a red mark on his cheek. A bite mark, maybe. Could’ve been Mystery. Or Romance. Or a mirror.
He’s yawning mid-step, scratching his chest like a caveman, and doesn’t even glance at Jinu before beelining for the toilet.
Jinu stops brushing his teeth. Mouth still full of toothpaste foam. He doesn’t even look. He just sighs. Long. Exhausted.
“…Really?” Jinu mutters around the toothbrush, eyes closing in silent acceptance of his fate.
Abby’s already pissing.
“Aaahh.” Abby groans, shoulders sagging in blissful relief. “You ever just hold it all night and then think—why am I doing this to myself? Bro. Pain.”
“We have six other bathrooms in this apartment.” Jinu says dryly, mouth full of foam. “You know this.”
Abby doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even turn his head.
Jinu stares at the mirror.
Abby finishes peeing, finally. But not before spitting a little “tsss” through his teeth like he’s finishing a line in a rap battle. Then flushes. Then starts washing his hands badly. Then he claps Jinu on the shoulder, then starts walking starts toward the door. “Think I’ll bring her breakfast.”
“You’ll bring her three muffins and a Red Bull.”
“Okay and?”
“Let me do it.”
“Jealous?”
“Not in the mood to clean puke off white linen.”
“You love that girl.” Abby mutters casually. “Alright, lover boy. You do your thing.” he says, backing out the door. He gives Jinu a little mock salute on his way out. “Brush those pearly whites. Don’t forget the tongue.”
Jinu turns back to the sink, toothbrush half-raised again. And just as he finally gets a moment of silence, Abby pops his head back in.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“You’re my favorite.”
And then he disappears. Door slamming shut behind him.
Jinu stares at his reflection in the mirror for a long, slow beat.
Meanwhile in your room, you rise slowly, careful of your joints, and swing your legs over the bed. The cold floor is a small shock to your toes. Still, you make it up. Upright. Balanced. Alive.
You shuffle to your door, drowsy but determined. You need water. You need food. You need to brush your damn teeth.
You crack the door open.
There’s a person-shaped lump curled on the floor, pressed sideways against the wall next to your door, arms folded under his head, knees tucked in. A blanket wrapped sloppily around his shoulders. His breathing is slow. Steady.
Mystery.
You crouch, knees complaining. He’s really out. His light hair has fallen over his face, lips slightly parted, and you can hear the faintest inhale-exhale sound. There’s no growling. No tension. Just… Mystery. Sleeping. Peacefully. Like this is where he decided to stay. Outside your door. Like a guard dog. A beautiful, growly little feral one. With his patterns visible.
“Mystery.” you whisper, thumb against the side of his face.
He blinks up at you slowly. No startle. No surprise.
“Hey.” you say. “You slept here?”
He nods. Barely. More like a tilt of the chin than a full gesture.
“Why?”
“…cold.” he mutters.
Liar.
You smile. Just a little. “You know you could’ve come inside.”
Mystery doesn’t say anything to that. He just looks at you.
You stay there for a beat longer. Just you and him. Knees almost touching. It’s quiet in the hall. Still. And then, gently, you rise.
“You go sleep now, alright?” you say, soft. “On a bed. Like a normal person.”
You get up, slowly, and pat the top of his head once. He doesn’t even blink. Just shifts in his blanket a little, watching you.
You smile again, just a flicker of one, and walk off. Leave him right there.
In the far end of the apartment, Baby’s sitting cross-legged on the balcony, half in the sunbeam. He’s wearing a hoodie, hood up, sleeves chewed at the cuffs.
He’s slicing strawberries with surgical precision. Not eating them. Just slicing them. Putting them into a glass bowl. Staring.
He isn’t thinking about you. (He is.)
He licks strawberry juice off his thumb and frowns. Then mutters, “Tastes like shit” even though it doesn’t.
He kicks the wall once with his heel for no reason.
Then, a scream from the house. Your scream.
He’s out the door before the echo fades.
Jinu still stands in front of the mirror. He’s not really looking at himself. He’s looking through himself. Grips the sides of the sink and leans in.
There’s a moment where he whispers something to himself over the toothbrush. Low. Not even he understands if it’s a prayer or a curse. The mirror stares back. So does every failure he’s ever dragged behind him.
Then that guttural, animal, gut-wrencher of a noise. Your scream.
Something rips through Jinu’s chest. He’s already moving.
Meanwhile Romance is in the bathtub. Again. Of course. He’s surrounded by steam. Scents. Excess. Bath bombs floating, candles lit and dangerously close to burning down his hair.
The bathroom smells like vanilla, sex, and cinnamon.
He’s humming some sultry pop ballad under his breath, eyes half-lidded, toes poking out of the water. Hair pulled back into a messy bun. Shoulders gleaming wet and golden. His phone is perched on a towel nearby. He’s watching a drama on mute. Subtitles on. It’s a sexy scene. He’s analyzing technique.
Romance likes mornings like this. Quiet. Warm. Alone.
He’s never truly alone, though. Your image burns in his brain. He pictures you curled up sick, whimpering. Weak. Precious. Needing him.
He adjusts in the water.
Then…
The scream.
He’s on his feet so fast the bathwater erupts. Sloshes everywhere. Soaks the floor. His towel flies. A candle falls. He doesn’t notice.
Before this happened, Mystery is in the hallways walking barefoot in silence. Next to him pads the tiger. His hand occasionally brushes its back.
Uhuh, yeah, until he hears your scream too.
Mystery bolts. No hesitation. No words.
Abby’s shirtless. Flexing in the mirror while holding up three different t-shirts. His room is chaos. Laundry everywhere.
He slaps on deodorant. Flexes again. Ruffles his hair. Grabs his phone. Makes a mental note to flirt with you if you walk by again in that hoodie. You look so cute sick, it’s unfair.
And then—he hears it. Your scream. Not playful. Not annoyed. Real.
He’s running shirtless down the hall before his door even slams shut.
Every boy is here, crashing into the kitchen. The fridge door’s hanging open. A stool’s been kicked halfway across the room. The cereal box Romance spilled when he crashed into the counter has exploded like confetti. Someone’s broken a spoon.
Abby’s chest is heaving like he just ran ten flights of stairs, shirtless, of course, jeans barely zipped, teeth clenched. Jinu’s glowing eyes sweep the room, a tension in his shoulders that says I will kill for you without blinking. Baby skids to a halt, hoodie sliding off one shoulder. Mystery is standing slightly ahead of the others, breathing so slow it’s almost inaudible. The tiger’s there too. Ears flat. Tail twitching. Matching the mood. Romance is barefoot and dripping. Wet hair clinging to his neck, chest gleaming, towel half-hitched low around his hips, and somehow he got here first.
You’re standing there. Barefoot. Shaking. Pointing a trembling finger toward the plate rack.
“I—I saw it—on the p-plate.” you stammer, words hiccupped between heavy breathing and a wild stare. “Big—it ran under it—it fucking ran under it! It had LEGS.”
Five pairs of glowing eyes blink in unison.
Jinu is the first to speak. “…What had legs?”
“Spider.”
Silence.
“Holy shit—”
“I thought you were dying—”
“Is it venomous?”
“Why is it always the kitchen?”
“Did it—touch—you?” Romance.
You shake your head. “I don’t know where it went. Kill it. Get it out. Or I will die right here on the floor.”
You’re panicked. Actually panicked. Looking around like it’s going to crawl back up your sleeve and whisper your death sentence in Latin.
Romance, sensing the perfect opportunity, surges to his feet, throws his arms around your waist. “Nononono, c’mere, sweetheart, you’re shaking—what if it’s on you? We need to check.”
“Check me!” you demand, gripping his sleeves, panic rising again. “Check if it’s on me!”
“Oh, believe me.” Romance purrs, voice low and dirty but somehow reverent, “I am checking.”
Baby rolls his eyes. “Milking it.”
You point at Abby. “Find it.”
Abby blinks. “Me?”
You gesture again. Bigger. Vicious. “FIND. IT.”
Abby sighs, but obeys anyway. Anything for his girl. He looks under the plate, under the counter, behind the breadbox.
Jinu wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, finally having spit out his toothpaste, and sighs. “I’m not even gonna ask why it was on a plate.”
“Come here, baby, come here—it’s okay—shhh, let me see—did it crawl on you?” Romance coos, his hands are already sliding up your arms, checking, patting, cooing. “I got you. You’re safe. Shhh, angel, don’t panic…”
“Fucking KILL IT.” you snap over his shoulder at the others. You gesture with your hands. Wide. Like you’re describing a dinner plate. “It was THIS big. I swear to god—eight legs, pure evil, it looked AT ME—”
The boys freeze.
“Like… hand-wide?” Abby asks, confused.
“Like my arms wide.”
Romance presses his face into your shoulder, snorting laughter.
“I got it!” Abby suddenly yells, holding up the tiniest, most pathetic black dot between two fingers. The smallest, most pathetic, tiny ass spider ever. Looks like it could’ve been born yesterday. Looks like it probably pays taxes and minds its business. It’s the size of a fingernail. If that. Its legs wiggle pathetically.
You gasp. Backpedal so hard you knock Romance into a cabinet. “KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT—”
Romance is delighted. He strokes your hair with a hum, like this is the best morning of his life.
“KILL IT.”
“Let it go.” Baby says.
“BURN IT.”
Abby feeds the adorable little spider to the tiger. Dead. Gone. Ended. Turns to you. “Saved your life.”
Baby rolls his eyes. “Bitch, I coulda caught it in my hand and named it.”
Mystery finally speaks. “Was that the actual threat?”
Romance is kissing the top of your head like you just survived war.
“You’re okay.” he coos. “My soft little bunny. My trembling lil’ sugarplum. If that spider had so much as looked at you funny, I would’ve fucking incinerated it.”
They’ll always come running. For you. Only for you, probably. Even when it’s a spider.
Romance spins you toward him again, hands cupping your cheeks, looking into your eyes like you’re his religion. “Better now?”
“You—” you point at Romance. “Grab a new plate. Not the spider plate.”
Romance salutes, even if only in a towel. “Of course, darling.”
You point again, whiplash-style. “Mystery. Forks. Clean ones. Triple check. No legs.”
Mystery wordlessly pulls open a drawer, then another.
“No bugs.” he mutters, eyes scanning steel.
“Good boy.” you say automatically.
Mystery pauses. Just a second. Then keeps going.
Abby is grabbing the banana you left on the counter. Peeling it slow. Real slow. Then, he stares at it. Really stares at it. Brow furrowed. Lips pursed.
You freeze. “What. What are you doing.”
“There’s a spot on it.” Abby murmurs. “Might be—”
“I will scream again.” you say, voice shaking. “I will.”
Romance collapses against the wall, howling.
Mystery drops a spoon and kicks it under the fridge. Quietly. What the fuck was that for?
“Abby.” you bark, pointing like a general. “Eat the banana or leave. There is no in between.”
“I’m just saying, we don’t know if the spider had friends.” Abby takes a bite mid-sentence, slowly chewing while giving you a look that screams ragebait.
Your fists curl into little, trembling balls. You’re genuinely sick. You’re still fevered. And now you’re emotionally destroyed by one tiny eight-legged bitch and this overgrown boy who will NOT STOP antagonizing you.
Jinu pets your back in comfort.
“Romance.” you point your finger. “Toast. Two slices. Butter. Not the plate from earlier. Not the butter from earlier. I want untouched butter. New butter.”
“Yes, ma’am.” he sings, grinning like an idiot as he pirouettes toward the fridge. “Anything for the love of my short, screaming life.”
“Mystery,” you continue. “tea. No mug with bugs. No kettle with bugs. No bug-adjacent materials. Scan. Every. Inch.”
Mystery doesn’t say a word. He just moves. Obediently. Dead silent. Efficient. He’s your knight in armor and he has accepted this mission like it’s a hit list. You respect that.
Romance and Mystery. The weirdest combo of all time. One talks too much. One doesn’t talk at all.
Together? They function, surprisingly.
“Mystery. Fridge. I need the juice. Don’t make me touch the handle. It’s probably hiding in there.”
You like Mystery. He’s quiet and efficient and doesn’t try to grab your ass under the guise of “checking for spider” (looking at you, Romance).
You keep your wooden spoon pointed at Romance at all times. Just in case.
“OH FUCK—THERE’S ANOTHER—”
You shriek.
Abby laughs so hard he wheezes. “Kidding. God, you’re so easy.”
You chuck your spoon at his head. He ducks. Flexes. Smirks.
He’s being so annoying.
“You lookin’ for this?” he asks, holding up a black sock.
“Why would I be looking for that?” you murmur, confused and cornered.
He throws it at you.
You scream again.
It’s just a sock. Just a stupid, crumpled sock. But you don’t know anymore. What if the spider’s in it? What if the spider has a family and a grudge and revenge in its soul—
And then there’s Baby. God. Undiagnosed psychopath. No question. The worst kind. Cold. Detached. Beautiful. Never good. He’s a brat. But in a way that makes you concerned.
He looks like a seventeen-year-old who hacks nuclear databases for fun. He looks like a kid who failed high school on purpose just to make his mom mad.
Baby is a bad man.
A pretty one, yes.
But a bad one.
“I saw it go under that chair.” he says now, calmly, pointing toward the one you were just sitting in.
You freeze. “Where?”
“There.” He points again. “Or maybe it was the other chair.”
“Was it the chair I sat in?!”
“Could be. Could’ve been the counter.”
“You’re lying.”
He shrugs. “Am I?”
You shriek and duck behind Romance, who wraps his arms around you like this is the best day of his entire demonic existence. He giggles into your shoulder. He’s never known peace and doesn’t want to.
They are delighted.
“Romance, not that one!”
“That’s the spider cabinet!”
“Don’t open it—if you open it I will scream!”
“Okay, open it but slow. Like slow slow.”
“Y’know,” Romance purrs as he pulls open a cupboard with exaggerated caution. “for someone so terrified, you make such a hot general. I’d march into hell for you.”
You slap the counter with the spoon. “Focus.”
“Mmm, yes, ma’am.”
Mystery silently opens another drawer.
You point to it suspiciously. “That one felt wrong.”
He closes it again.
You nod. Satisfied. Your soldiers are loyal.
“OH SHIT.” Abby gasps suddenly, slamming his palm on the countertop.
Your soul leaps into your throat. Your voice goes an octave up. “WHAT?!”
He pauses, grins. “Nah, nothing. Just remembered I left my laundry in the wash.”
You hurl an apple at his head with terrifying force.
They’re all fucking with you now. Even Jinu.
Every five seconds, one of them makes a show of “spotting something.”
“Oh—yep. There it is.”
“Legs. Definitely legs.”
“Did that towel just move?”
And every time—you flinch. Your spoon swings. You just start slapping each of them with the spoon when they get close enough. Soft little thwaps. Pap pap pap.
They laugh like hyenas.
God, you are so cute. You’re terrified out of your mind, but your lips are pouty, your eyes wide, your cheeks flushed, and your hands shaking from pure survival adrenaline.
Abby grabs a fork off the counter and holds it up dramatically. “What if the spider’s in this?”
Your soul leaves your body again. “STOP.” you whimper.
Romance grabs your face with both hands. “Shhh, no crying. That’ll just attract more of them. They love tears.”
You slap him in the forehead with the spoon. He laughs into your shoulder.
Mystery doesn’t speak. Just opens another drawer at your nod. He’s dead serious about this. Knows the spider means no harm, but if you want him to work, he’ll work.
Jinu, calm as ever, steps closer. He crouches down slightly—gets eye level with you.
You side-eye him, suspicious. “…What?”
“Wait—wait. Don’t move.” He sounds too serious. Dead serious.
“What?”
“There’s…” He squints into your hoodie neckline. “I think it might still be in there.”
Your soul leaves your fucking body.
“WHAT!?” you screech, immediately jerking back. You thrash your arms, clutching at the hem of your hoodie, shaking. “No, no, no—Jinu, no, no—get it off, GET IT OFF—”
And just like that, you’re standing in the kitchen. In your sweatpants. And just your bra.
You blink. You look around.
Their faces.
Holy shit.
Romance’s jaw is on the floor. Eyes wide, shameless, gleaming like he’s been gifted something sacred. He literally makes a tiny, strangled noise and mutters, “Oh… my god.”
Abby whistles.
Baby doesn’t even blink, just says “tits” the dumbass. But he’s staring. Oh, he’s staring.
Mystery’s eyes trail from your face, slowly down. His nostrils flare. He looks like he might pounce on someone, maybe everyone.
Jinu? Fucking smirking.
“False alarm.” he says, too smoothly. “Sorry.”
He knew.
He knew there was nothing in your hoodie.
You narrow your eyes. You look down at yourself. You’re still feverish. Still trembling. You don’t even care. They see everything. The line of your collarbones. The flush over your chest from the fever and fury. The subtle slope of your breasts rising and falling with your frantic breath.
You start walking toward the hallway. Toward your room. Shoulders bare. Back straight. Face blank.
They just stare at the hoodie in the sink.
Then at each other.
Then at the hallway where you disappeared.
Romance slaps Abby’s arm, grinning. “You fucking saw that, right? Tell me I didn’t hallucinate that.”
“GodDAMN.” Abby mutters, half-laughing, adjusting the waistband of his jeans. Then he slaps Baby on the back so hard it echoes. Baby doesn’t move. Abby grins. Slaps him again.
“Stop it.” Baby mutters.
“Are you gonna cry?” Abby asks, all teeth.
“Maybe.”
Then Abby grabs Baby by the waist, hauls him across the room, opens the freezer, and launches his tiny ass inside. Baby doesn’t even resist. Just lets it happen, arms crossed, legs tucked in.
Abby closes the freezer door and leans on it, smug as hell. “Time-out.”
Boys. Fucking. Boys.
Demons or not, they’re just a bunch of horny, traumatized idiots playing house with too much testosterone and not enough adult supervision.
You’re the only real threat in this apartment. Not because you’re scary. But because you make them feel too much. Too hard. Too deep.
The freezer opens again. Abby helps Baby out casually, slapping the back of his head on the way. Baby retaliates by spitting ice at him.
Until Jinu glances at the microwave clock and his whole expression shifts.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We’re late.”
All four heads swivel toward him.
Romance instantly starts groaning. “NO. Nooooo. Not today. I need time to heal.”
“You had a bath twenty minutes ago.” Jinu replies, already turning to grab his phone from the counter. “I heard you humming. You were fine.”
“That was before I saw a pair of breasts.”
Abby coughs, fist over his mouth, hiding a laugh. Mystery doesn’t even try. He’s openly laughing in the corner, bent forward with one hand on the counter for support.
Jinu doesn’t react. Instead, he calmly types out a message—likely to some poor soul trying to herd five supernatural degenerates into a schedule.
“We have to be at (insert some award show name in here plz I’m not good at making names up like genuinely ASS) in twenty.” he says. “Not a request.”
“Oh, but it is.” comes Baby’s voice—flat, dry, and weaponized—where he’s still sitting on the floor, legs stretched out like a lazy little king. “It’s always a request when you say it.”
Jinu tilts his head. “You want it not to be a request?”
“God, no.” Baby flops backward dramatically. “I just want you to admit you’re bossy and boring.”
Romance lets out the world’s most dramatic groan. “Why the fuck do we have to go today? Jinu, have you seen me? I’m not emotionally equipped. I need to go back to bed. Preferably with someone.” He casts a glance at the hallway, obviously referencing you, which earns him a solid kick in the shin from Baby. “Ow.”
Mystery walks out of the kitchen without a word. Abby follows, whistling a dumb pop melody, hands in his pockets like he doesn’t throw people around for fun. Baby gets up lazily, flips off the light switch with his pinky, and walks out next.
That leaves Romance.
Still standing there.
Hair drying in curls.
Eyes cast toward your hallway.
“Go.” Jinu says without looking up.
“I have to straighten my hair.”
Jinu sighs. “You’ll do it on the way. You want me to carry you too?”
Romance rolls his eyes, dragging his hand down his face. “I just think,” he mutters. “that maybe, just maybe, if I make a scene big enough, she’ll come out and ask me to stay.”
“You’re wearing wet pants. She’d slam the door in your face.”
Romance glares. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m realistic.”
Romance gives him one more exaggerated sigh, then finally turns and shuffles out of the kitchen, muttering nonsense under his breath.
Jinu lingers. He glances toward your door. Takes a deep breath. And then he follows the others out.
They’re late. Of course they are. Because the moment you screamed about a spider, all logic, timing, and responsibility was replaced by something much worse:
Emotion.
And worse than that? Hope. And all it took… was you.
When they get there, Jinu is dressed in a suit that does unspeakable things to the human eye. Behind him, Abby’s shirt is already straining at the buttons, jacket slung over one shoulder like he’s ready to get shirtless mid-award show. Again. Romance is adjusting his necklace. “I’m hungover on nothing.” he mumbles. “That’s how good-looking we are.” Baby is already annoyed. All black suit, all attitude, tie shoved into a pocket. He hasn’t said a word since getting to go. He never does when he’s still thinking about you. Mystery is just simply hot. Why does nobody talk about how hot he walks????
It’s just them, not even in the building yet. Jinu is telling the other four to behave.
A boot hits Romance square in the chest.
Zoey, fast as hell, wraps her legs around his shoulders like a monkey and drags him down with a cackle.
“I made ‘em custom for kicking your guys’ teeth in.” Zoey chirps, elbowing him in the ribs as he curses. “Hold still, bitch, I’m checking your pockets for location!”
“Get the fuck—off me—” he laughs through the struggle, trying to pry her off his back as she digs her fingers into his hair.
Jinu ducks the punch that comes from Mira. Steps aside. Graceful.
“Still upset?” he asks politely.
Mira lunges again, trying to sweep his legs.
Meanwhile, Abby’s fully grinning as Rumi appears out of thin air.
“Where is she?” she demands.
“…define ‘where.” Abby offers, right before she almost fucking kills him. He dodges it with a spin and launches into her, tackling her against a wall with a grin. Rumi is trying to knee Abby in the groin now, but he blocks her with one thigh and picks her up like she weighs nothing. “I’m not gonna tell you shit.” he teases. “Even if you beat me up.”
“Oh, I will. I absolutely will.”
Baby just walks toward Mystery and quietly mutters, “This is embarrassing.”
Mystery nods.
“Wanna bail?”
Mystery nods again.
Changing boys, Rumi lunges at Jinu. He catches her wrist before she makes contact. Doesn’t break stride.
“Hi.” he says. Calm. Irritatingly so.
“Give her back.”
“No.”
“Not even gonna pretend you’re innocent?”
“No.”
Rumi narrows her eyes. “You were a lot cuter when you used to flirt.”
Jinu tilts his head. “You were a lot smarter when you didn’t start fights you couldn’t win.”
That earns him a punch to the ribs. He absorbs it with a grunt, doesn’t retaliate.
Meanwhile, Romance is dancing with Mira. They’re not even fighting—they’re sparring.
“You miss me?” Mira asks, throwing a blade.
Romance catches it mid-air, grinning. “Not even a little.”
“You used to tell me I was the hottest girl you’d ever seen.”
He tosses the blade back like it’s a frisbee. “That was before I met someone who doesn’t stab me just for fun.”
“She must be special.”
And that’s the first time the girls notice it.
None of the boys are flirting. They’re tight. Silent. Focused. Not one glance toward a low-cut shirt. Not one wink. Not one flirtatious smirk.
Jinu pulls Rumi off with a wrist twist, stepping back with a sigh. “You’ve made your point.”
She brushes herself off. Eyeing him. Then Abby. Then Baby, who hasn’t moved from where he’s been standing, arms folded, expression flat as ever.
“Y’know what I think about a lot?” Abby says, voice deep, taunting. “Those little pajama shorts Y/N wears. The cotton ones. With the pink strawberries.”
Zoey stills mid-swing.
Abby laughs in her face. “Yeah. Knew that’d piss you off.”
I’m telling you what’s happening, they’re torturing the three girls. Completely fucking with them and making them mad and miss you on purpose. It’s so working.
Rumi’s elbow nearly connects with Romance’s jaw, but he sways out of the way with ease, like it’s a dance.
“Oh, come on.” he sighs, exaggerated, “Don’t be jealous, Rumi. You had your shot. But she—” he points behind him like you’re just over there “—she does this little thing with her nose when she’s concentrating. So fucking cute. Way better than your whole knife-girl thing. Just saying.”
“You motherfu—”
He ducks.
“Besides,” Jinu mutters, voice low, mocking, “she’s too busy bossing us around. With her tiny little stomp. Y’know the one?”
Abby snorts. “Oh, the one where she marches like she’s six-foot? Yeah. Scary.”
“Scary.” Baby agrees. “Hot, too.”
Romance throws a wink over his shoulder. “She stomped on my foot once. I got hard.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Rumi barks.
“You started this.” Abby sings, pushing Zoey into a pillar with a loud thunk.
Baby, on the other hand? He’s just standing there. Rumi’s trying to box him in, but he’s not even trying.
He raises a single hand mid-non-fight and just says, deadpan, “I have to piss.”
Rumi blinks. “…Are you—seriously?”
He turns. “Be right back.”
And she—actually—steps back. Doesn’t even stop him.
“She ever do that thing with her hair?” Romance asks no one in particular. “That little flip when she’s frustrated? It’s not even conscious. It’s like—” He mimics it, messy and dramatic “—‘Ugh,’ and then flip, and then stomp-stomp-stomp.”
Zoey’s wiping sweat from her temple with her sleeve, hair falling out of her two little fucks I don’t know the name of.
“Man, you’re really fallin’ apart, huh?” Abby says, not even out of breath, looking her up and down. “You should sit down. Drink some water. You’re, like, not even in my top five enemies right now.”
Zoey throws a punch. He catches it. Twirls her around like they’re dancing. He presses a hand over his chest. Dramatic.
“She’s like this lil’ angel, right? Always lookin’ up at you like she hates your guts but also like… like she’s gonna faint. Adorable.”
Zoey’s face tightens. “You bastards.”
“Sometimes,” Abby continues, turning his back on her entirely just to stretch. “she wears that loose hoodie, and the string gets into her food, and she gets all annoyed but never fixes it. I think about that at least seven times a day.”
“You’re not serious—”
Rumi throws a dagger and Abby dodges it, laughing like they’re playing a drinking game instead of combat.
“Whoa, that was cute.” he says. “Gonna try again, champ?”
“You’re such a dick.”
“She says that too. Only sweeter.”
Rumi’s whole face tics.
Mystery throws Mira into a stack of shipping crates, then goes right back to adjusting his hoodie sleeves. No one really saw it happen. Until Abby throws his arm around his neck, tugging him into a headlock, ruffling his hair while Mira wheezes.
“She’s got nice tits too.” Abby says loudly, not even pretending to be respectful anymore. “Like, for real. You ever notice that?”
“Obviously they noticed that.” Romance groans. “They bounce when she walks pissed off. I feel like a perv, but damn.”
“I am a perv.” Baby calls from the alley while pissing.
“God I miss her.” Abby sighs dramatically, not even fighting anymore—just walking in a circle. “She yells at me. Like really yells. That voice? Makes my stomach go all fucked up.”
Rumi hurls another dagger at him. He catches it, twirls it once, and tosses it back like it’s a toy.
“Don’t be jealous.” he coos.
Mystery actually lets out a low, raspy sound. Almost a growl. Agreement.
Jinu shakes his head, but he’s not stopping them. He’s smiling.
They’d sell a lung before giving you up.
Baby returns, wiping his hands on his pants.
“You piss?” Abby calls.
“Yeah.” He looks at Rumi. “You try anything?”
“No.”
“Cool.”
And that’s it. He steps right back into position, arms folded.
The girls regroup. Bruised. Annoyed. Unsettled. Turn away from the boys. The boys turn away from them. Baby glances over his shoulder at the girls once. Like a fucking brat. Then both groups go different ways, show’s about to start.
And fuck, was it messy.
Okay, back at the apartment. You really thought you were slick. Really did. Sitting there all pretty and pitiful by the front door, waiting. Just waiting. For the boys to come back from the award show and open the door. For the precise second that someone—probably Romance, he’s careless with keys—cracked that lock and let it swing wide. And then you’d dart. Was the plan good? No. Was it brave? Not really. Was it adorable? Absolutely. You probably rehearsed the dash. A few test lunges. Maybe held your breath. You even sat quietly, which for you—your stubborn, nose-wrinkling, foot-stomping ass—was basically a miracle.
The door clicks.
Swings open.
Abby’s the first in—duh. And not even three steps inside, he looks down. Right at you. Expression? Blank. Reaction? None. And without a word, without warning, without hesitation—he just scoops you the fuck up. Arms under your knees, hand to your back, full princess-carry like he’s done this a thousand times.
“WHAT—Abby—ABBY—”
“Shh.” he mutters. “You know damn well you’re not fast enough.”
“I WAS WAITING—”
“Yeah. We know.”
You slap his chest. It’s like slapping a brick wall. “Put me down!”
“No.”
“Why not?!”
“Because you were trying to run away and now I gotta punish you.” he says, voice infuriatingly calm. “You broke house rules.”
You shove at him. He twirls you. Twirls. You.
Romance walks in after them, slow as hell. He takes one look at the situation and smiles so hard it’s unbearable.
Jinu follows after, calm as usual, setting down his keys in the dish by the entrance. “Next time, wear both slippers.”
Mystery walks past and flicks your nose.
“Mystery,” you whisper, shocked. “I trusted you—”
You keep twisting, trying to get free, but Abby just keeps readjusting his grip like you’re a sack of sugar with opinions. He spins you over one shoulder. One shoulder.
“ABBY—”
“Say you’re sorry.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Say you’re sorryyyyy.” he sing-songs.
“Fuck you!”
He spanks you.
“ABBY—!”
Jinu walks past with his laptop already open. Baby’s in the kitchen getting a soda like none of this is happening. Mystery’s sprawled on the couch with your blanket, your blanket.
You point at him from Abby’s shoulder. “That’s mine.”
He stares back and says nothing.
Abby plops you gently on the couch. Then flops down beside you, arm slung around your shoulders immediately.
“Now say sorry.” he whispers again, nudging your side.
You cross your arms. “No.”
His arm tightens. “Say it.”
Romance drops onto your other side, arm over the top of the couch, winking. “I’ll make her say it.”
“Touch me and I’ll bite you.”
“Ooh.”
Baby walks past with a soda can and says, deadpan, “You look cute like that.”
“…What?”
He just shrugs and keeps walking. Disappears down the hall like he didn’t just throw a whole fucking grenade.
And while you sit there trying not to combust, Abby turns his head. And just. Kisses your cheek. Not tentative. Not teasing. Not slow. A full, bold, confident press of his mouth to the soft skin just under your eye, like it’s his. Like he’s been waiting all damn day for that. And to his credit, he doesn’t leer. Doesn’t say some dumb shit right after. Just pulls back with a slight smile and says, totally casual: “So what’d you do today, sunshine?”
Romance, practically laying across the backrest behind you, grins wicked. “Yeah.” he echoes. “What exactly did you do while we were gone? Besides sit at the door like a sad dog waiting for daddy to come home?”
You snort, crossing your arms. “Rotting.”
“Sexy.”
“Eating my own hair.”
“Kinkier.”
“Staring at the ceiling and imagining slamming my head into it.”
Abby laughs. Really laughs. It’s deep, stupid, boyish—painful in how genuine it is.
“I missed you.” he says, and you know he means it.
You slap Romance’s hand away.
Abby takes your hand and starts playing with your fingers. He’s gentle about it. For a guy who can throw a grown demon across a room, he treats your pinky like it’s made of glass.
“You eat anything?”
“I licked the floor.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“Only when my mouth’s full—”
“Dude.” Abby shoots him a look. “Let her breathe.”
“I’m not doing anything! I’m being charming!”
Abby leans his head back against the couch, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling, thumb still running along your knuckles like it calms him, not you. And somewhere deep down, underneath the loud teasing, the muscle flexing, the tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, he’s terrified of you not being here.
He’s so used to losing people.
The Gwi-Ma left scars on all of them, sure. But Abby? He watched friends be used like meat. He watched and watched and watched.
But then you came. Small and pissed off. Fragile but mouthy. And something shifted.
You’re here, beside him, shivering a little in the hoodie that still smells like his soap, your breath uneven, skin too warm from the fever—
And he doesn’t know how to let go of you.
He won’t.
He can’t.
Romance is the type who jokes through trauma, but god, he’s aching. He’s touch-starved in the kind of way that sex can’t even fix anymore. He’s had pleasure. He’s had partners. Flings, fans, fucks. But you? You make him feel safe.
And he’ll take whatever scraps of your attention you give him. If it’s love, if it’s hate, if it’s throwing a pillow at his head and telling him to die—that’s more than he ever got before.
“You look cuter than usual.” Abby says, like he’s ordering dinner. “Sick and pissed off. That combo really does it for me.”
Before you can even roll your eyes, Romance leans in on the other side. You’re already protesting when he kisses your other cheek, but it’s not just one. It’s a series. Tiny, ridiculous little kisses. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah. He doesn’t even lift his mouth, just peppers your cheek with rapid-fire softness.
“Romance—Romance—stop—”
“Can’t help it.” he murmurs against your cheek, between kisses. “It’s because I missed you so fucking bad.”
They’ve seen things no human should survive. Done worse. They’re fucking messes. Disasters held together with tight pants and charm.
But then Abby nuzzles your temple with his nose. And Romance kisses your jaw. And between the two of them, warm and impossibly solid, you feel…safe. Even as you plot your next escape. Even as they ruin you with affection. Even as they hurt in ways they’ll never say out loud. They are ridiculous. And too much. And terrifying. And traumatized. And desperately in love with you.
It’s not just the teasing. Or the warmth. Or the stupid flirting that never ends. It’s how it all feels. Like they’re trying to memorize you. Like they don’t know how long they’ll get to keep this, so they’re pouring everything into each second. Like they’re… desperate. Because they are. They’ve killed monsters. Lost brothers. They’ve been tortured, burned, shattered, turned against each other. They’ve made mistakes so catastrophic that the scars still feel fresh. Still twitch beneath the skin. And Gwi-Ma? Gwi-Ma made sure they’d never forget a second of it.
So they wrap themselves around you like they’re afraid you’ll vanish. They touch you constantly, not because they’re horny (though that’s part of it), but because your presence is a balm. A sedative. A fucking miracle.
“Seriously, though.” Abby says, voice dropping just a bit, more real. “You doin’ okay?”
You glance up. There’s no joke in his eyes now. Just the tiniest furrow of his brow, the faintest tension in the hand holding your leg. Romance lifts his head too, watching you.
They may joke. They may laugh. But they worry. All the time.
You nod, resting your head back against Abby’s shoulder, throat sore, chest hot. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
Romance presses one more kiss to your cheek. This one is still. Lingering. It stays for a heartbeat.
You don’t even realize it at first, how the air changes.
Romance’s fingers trail down your arm. Abby strokes behind your knee absently. They’re not trying to get a reaction out of you anymore. They’re just there. Still. Close. God, so close.
They don’t pretend to want you. They just do.
And suddenly, you’re very aware of it.
The silence between you. The heavy, dense kind of silence—the kind that comes before a kiss in a movie.
Romance’s breath is on your neck. Abby’s hand slides just a little higher. Your lips part, just a little.
The space between you and something happening? It’s thinner than paper.
You could.
You could lean in.
You could kiss one of them. Both of them.
Abby’s mouth is so close you can count the freckles on his cheek. Romance is staring at you—not your eyes, but your lips. The tip of his tongue brushes his bottom one, slow.
One of them could kiss you too. They might. You’re not sure if you’d stop them. You don’t want to. But you do.
What would happen? If you leaned in. If you kissed one of them. Hell, both of them? Would the world end? Would they?
If you kissed Romance first? He’d smile so hard against your lips. Make a sound. That little groan-smirk he does when he gets exactly what he wants. He’d kiss back immediately. Not messy, not hungry, yet. Just slow. Like he’s savoring. And then Abby would see. Would feel it, because your legs are still in his lap, and that’d spark something competitive in him. He’d lean in next. Pull you toward him. And Romance would let him. Because he knew he’d be next.
If you kissed Abby first? He’d freeze. Just for a second. Then cradle the back of your neck. He wouldn’t moan, wouldn’t smile. He’d breathe into you. And Romance would go insane. Start whining beside you. Teasing you. Teasing Abby for being slow. Then kiss your neck. Just because he can.
If you kissed both? God. They’d lose it. Romance would be obnoxious about it. Giddy. All smirking, licking his lips, calling you greedy in that deep, flirty tone that makes your stomach twist. Abby would be silent. Just watching. Breathless. Eyes dark. His fingers would slide under your hoodie. Not even in a dirty way. Just to feel your skin. They’d share you. They already do emotionally. Physically? That line’s paper thin.
You can see it play out too clearly in your head: Their hands overlapping on your thighs. Romance kissing your neck while Abby speaks to you low and serious, voice rough. Each of them desperate to be chosen, but willing to share if that’s the only way to keep you.
Because they’d do anything.
Absolutely anything.
To keep you.
You’re not immune. You’re not made of steel. You feel how your breath hitches when Abby brushes a thumb across your side without thinking. You feel how your body leans into Romance’s hand, even when your mind screams to move away. You feel what this could become.
Your head in Abby’s lap, Romance between your legs, Abby’s mouth on your throat while Romance laughs and bites your thigh just to be annoying? Would they take turns?
They’ve talked about it. Not in front of you—never that direct—but in those moments when they think you’re not listening. When they think you’re asleep. Or not paying attention. You’ve heard the little jokes, the not-so-innocent teasing.
They’d do it.
They would.
Would it ruin everything?
Would it make something new?
“Okay.” you say suddenly, voice dry and a little too high. “Bedtime.”
You push your legs off Abby’s lap like your skin’s not on fire. Like you haven’t been fantasizing about what their mouths would feel like on your collarbones for the last ten minutes.
Romance blinks. “What?”
“Bed.” you repeat, already standing, already moving, running from the moment before it eats you alive. “I’m sick. I need sleep. I’m not making out with anyone while my nose is still runny.”
It’s a joke. A defense. It lands. Barely.
Abby gives a dry chuckle, leans back like he wasn’t seconds from pressing his lips to your neck. Romance smirks but doesn’t say anything. He watches you walk away.
For them, the air still hums with you. Warm and dizzying, the scent of your skin thick in their lungs—mint and medicine, sweat and cotton, and something softer, you-er.
Abby leans back again, eyes still on the hallway. One thick arm sprawled over the back of the couch where your head just rested. His other hand flexes over his thigh, like he doesn’t know what to do with it now. Like his body still expects you to be in it.
Romance hasn’t blinked in thirty seconds. His hand is still on the cushion where your leg used to be. Not like he’s trying to be dramatic about it, just like… like he forgot to move.
Romance turns his head.
Locks eyes with Abby.
Abby’s already looking at him.
No words pass between them. They’re too old, too wired, too connected to need them. There’s nothing to say that the other doesn’t already know. Because they felt it. They heard it in your heartbeat. Saw it in your pupils. Smelled it in your skin. Your nerves. Your longing. The almost in your every exhale.
They know.
They know how badly you wanted to kiss them both. They know you wanted more. They know you stopped yourself. And more than anything else—they both hope to hell it meant something. Because they can’t know that for sure. They can feel human lust, and that’s natural. You wanting them there and there is natural, they know that doesn’t mean that you like them. So they can only hope.
Romance lifts one brow. Like: Yeah. I know.
Abby raises his own in reply.
What now?
When?
Will she choose? Will she run?
Would it even matter if she did?
We’d still hit.
Fuck, we would.
Jinu’s so hot.
Dude, no.
Down the hall, behind a door you didn’t lock—because you don’t, not anymore—you curl under the blanket with your fever-thick thoughts, your skin still tingling where they touched you, your mouth still warm from nothing. You bite your lip. You press your thighs together. And they hear it. That sound of fabric rustling. Of your breath catching. Of your heart.
Thud-thud-thud.
They hear it.
You shift under the covers, face half-buried in the pillow that still smells faintly like their detergent. Something very them. Which, frankly, feels like an assault.
The best scenario in your head is that you kiss neither of them.
They kiss you.
At the same time.
No, fuck, dick, no, wait, that wasn’t supposed to slip in here.
You bury your face deeper in the pillow. Your legs shift beneath the blanket, thighs pressing together like that can help, like that can calm this thing in your chest.
Now it’s Jinu’s hands. Brushing your fevered hair off your forehead. Kissing your temple. Whispering soft, precise things in your ear that make your knees buckle.
Now it’s Baby, the little shit, yanking you onto his lap with a scowl and a blush and those too-sharp eyes burning into yours. Pretending he doesn’t care while touching you like you’re glass, fragile and precious.
And then it’s Mystery, tilting your chin and pressing his lips to yours in total silence, biting.
Fucking hell.
You press your hand over your mouth. Your cheeks are on fire. You feel guilty, and yet—yet you don’t. You didn’t do anything. You just thought. You’re allowed to think. Right? Fuuuuuuuck.
Meanwhile, in the living room, Abby stretches, his arms lifting over his head, shirt riding up to reveal that thick band of muscle above his waistband.
Romance snorts.
Their eyes meet again.
A smile pulls at Abby’s lips.
Romance quirks his brow.
And without a single word exchanged, they both get up.
Romance grins, slaps his hand once—hard—over Abby’s broad back as he walks past him toward the hallway. Abby claps Romance’s shoulder back. Romance doesn’t even look at him. Just lifts his brow again like, yeah, I know.
Then they part. Their rooms separate. Their beds waiting.
In your room you started doing fucking stretches on your bed. This is that level. Thinking about how Mystery wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t ask. He’d just act like it was inevitable. He’d crawl over you, eyes dark, breath shallow, and you wouldn’t stop him because why the hell would you? He’d kiss you once and that’d be it. You’d never come back from it. Nobody would.
And what then?
Do you pick one?
All five?
You roll over, exhausted and overwhelmed, the heat in your chest unbearable. It aches, all of it. The want. The possibility. The confusion. You’re not even sure if you’re lonely or just scared.
You think about Abby’s cheek kiss.
About Romance’s lips on your skin, over and over, warm and maddening and soft.
You think about how bad they’ve all got it. How careful they’ve become. How patient.
And how much longer they’ll wait before they’re not.
Abby wouldn’t be patient like now. Abby’d want to hold your hands. Feel your breath on his neck. Tell you you’re doing so well for them. He’d keep the others in line for a while. Until he got possessive. Until he pulled you back, settled you on his lap, and told them to wait their fucking turns.
You swear your toes curled at the thought of that.
He’s a man of touch—he can’t not touch. Whether it’s a slap on the shoulder, a teasing nudge, a full-body hug that melts your spine… or a hand sneaking under your shirt, up your ribs, rough knuckles tracing your skin.
His arms around you earlier—you’re still not okay. The sheer size of him. The comfort. The weight. The way he just scooped you like you weren’t a threat at all and carried you without breaking a sweat.
Baby… Jesus, Baby.
He’d sit in a chair across the room at first. Just watching. Always watching. Only joining when it was getting too loud. When he couldn’t help himself anymore. When he knew you wanted him and hated that you did. That’s when he’d come close. Hands on your knees. One kiss to shut you up.
Mystery doesn’t need imagining. You’ve felt Mystery. Not like that—but… almost. His silence is louder than all of them. You already know he’d ruin you just by breathing against your collarbone. You already know he’d growl when the others touched you.
And the thought that you could be kissed by one of them, two of them, all of them—that you could end up laid out and adored and shared like some divine, sacred thing, like they’ve all waited and waited and waited just to finally have you—
FUCK OFF.
You flip over.
Now you’re too warm. You kick the blanket off, only to groan because fuck, the cold air hits you and now you’re shivering again—except now it’s less “illness” and more “desperate horndog spiraling alone in bed.”
And Baby flashes into your mind again, less clothes this time.
Why.
WHY.
WHY.
You want to slap yourself.
Because Baby is an asshole.
But the breath between you is a nice thought. His hand at your throat, your hips grinding helplessly, his smirk pressed to your mouth, and then—ugh.
You flip the other way.
It doesn’t help.
Because now you’re picturing Mystery. You shouldn’t. You do anyway. One kiss, and you’d never know peace again. You’d chase it forever. You’d chase him. You’d claw at him and he wouldn’t stop you. He’d let you mark him. He’d lick the blood off his lip if you split it. Wouldn’t say a word, just keep going until you were crying into his mouth and shaking in his arms and never able to look at him the same again.
And he’d be fine with that.
God, you’d let Jinu do anything. Anything.
You’d thank him. On your knees.
Jesus Christ.
You bury your face into your pillow.
You hate yourself. But like… only a little.
By now, Romance is in his bed, shirtless, arm draped dramatically across his eyes like he’s just fucking dying of heartbreak, except his abs are on full display and he smells heavenly. He knows how pretty he is. Of course he does. His mirror’s been trying to fuck him since 2004.
He stares at the ceiling, not really seeing it.
Why don’t you love him?
That’s what loops. Not the idea of getting to touch you (though he dreams about that, a lot), not even the idea of kissing you senseless. Not the flirty shit he says or the clingy affection he throws at you like glitter.
It’s that. That you don’t want him.
Because the whole world does. They always have. And you’re the only one who doesn’t melt under his smile.
He’s a ten. A fuckin’ solid, blinding, impossible ten. The face? Unreal. The mouth? Plump, sinful. The thighs? Weapons. The voice? Sex. He knows what he looks like. He knows what he could get. But what he wants is you.
You don’t even like the way he touches you. Not really. You tolerate it. Laugh sometimes. Blush. But that’s not the same as wanting him. Not the same as loving him. You just tell him to stop humping the couch cushions. Or roll your eyes when he purrs in your ear. Or threaten to stab him with a plastic fork if he licks your shoulder again.
It’s not that you hate him.
It’s that you don’t need him.
He’d be yours in a heartbeat. He’d drop the act. The flirty front. The teasing. He’d drop to his knees and beg. He would.
But instead, he lies there. Hard, lonely, dramatic as fuck. Staring at nothing, whispering into the dark:
“Why won’t you just let me love you, baby?”
But you keep running.
And he keeps chasing.
Like an idiot.
Abby is in bed too, one arm under his head, the other sprawled across the empty mattress where he wished you were.
The man could split a watermelon just by existing. But he wants you. Wants to hold you. Wants to tell you that it’s alright, that you’re safe, that he’s not going anywhere.
You being all quiet and stubborn makes it worse. He knows you’re sweet under all that grumbling.
And tonight? You’d looked at him like maybe, maybe, you didn’t want to run anymore. He’s got the whole scene burned into his brain. You between him and Romance, small and flushed, your lips parted, fuuuuuck.
But even then, you pulled away.
He likes to pretend he’s fine. That he’s patient. That he’s the “chill one” with the strong arms and abs and the occasional emotional breakdown in the shower.
But he’s not fine. Not even close. Not when you’re always just out of reach.
Baby is sprawled on his mattress, shirtless because he’s a man and he can do that, one foot on the wall, phone in hand, scrolling through nothing. His cigarette lighter flicks between his fingers out of habit, unlit.
He doesn’t get it.
Why are you in his head? Why does he remember the exact angle you sat at the door, trying to sneak out? Why does he hear your laugh when he wasn’t even there for it?
He doesn’t even like people.
Never has. Never planned to.
But you? You’re in his veins. And he hates it.
He remembers when you made him a sandwich when you were done with yours. He hates how much it meant to him. A fucking sandwich.
He’d seen the moment. Abby and Romance flanking you on the couch, your cheeks red, your eyes wide, your lips parted like you were about to give in. And he hated it. Not because it was them. But because it wasn’t him.
Not that he’d tell you that. Or anyone.
You’d never hear him say it out loud. But he wants you more than breath.
Mystery doesn’t toss and turn. Doesn’t groan. Doesn’t sigh. He sits upright, cross-legged on the bed, eyes open in the dark, the tiger curled up at the foot of the mattress.
He wants more.
Your mouth. Your neck. Your hand in his hair. Your thighs around his waist. Your body in his bed. Your breath in his ear. Your trust.
He felt all of it. Smelled it. Saw it in the way your shoulders dropped, heavy with something that wasn’t just fever. He could feel your confusion.
And he wants to help. He really, really does.
But he can’t.
He’s… wrong. Feral. Too quiet. Too violent. Too much.
But when you touch his hair and call him “a good boy” he melts.
He won’t sleep tonight. Not until he’s sure you are.
Jinu’s in bed too, laptop still glowing faintly beside him. He’s exhausted. But he’s never been able to sleep when you’re not okay. He saw the flush in your face. The way your hands shook when you reached for a cup. The way you leaned into Abby without even realizing.
He doesn’t even know what he’d do if you chose him. It’s a selfish thought. He doesn’t want to be the one you love instead of the others. He wants to be one of the ones you love with them.
He closes the laptop. Leans back. Closes his eyes and tries not to picture your hands on his chest. Fails. And sighs.
Jinu, for all his patience, for all his calm, is not immune to that kind of almost that just happened in the living room. He’s selfish, and he hates it. Always has been. He wants you for himself even if he’d never say it aloud.
He wants your first kiss. Your first confession. Your first everything.
And if he can’t have that? Then maybe… just something.
Maybe tomorrow, he’ll ask if you’re feeling better.
Maybe tomorrow, he’ll stop pretending this isn’t slowly killing him.
Baby’s door creaks open.
Soft.
Sneaky.
Romance steps in. He’s shirtless,. Loose sweats slung low. Perfect posture. Absolutely no sense of shame.
“Baby.” he whispers.
No answer.
He’s definitely awake. Romance knows that demon pretends to sleep. He breathes differently when he’s actually out.
“Baby.” he hisses again, already climbing into the bed. “Heyyyy, roomie. Missed you.”
Baby kicks him right in the ribs.
“FUCK—okay, Jesus—” Romance wheezes, curling up.
“Get out.” Baby mutters. Flat. Not even mad. Just done.
“Oh, c’mon.” Romance says, flopping next to him, unbothered. “Scoot over.”
“Fuck off.” Baby says into his pillow. “Don’t touch me.”
“You sleep on the left, by the way.”
“Get. Out.” Another kick—this one more of a shove with his heel to the thigh, sharp and annoyed.
“You’re so mean to me.”
Baby doesn’t answer. He just turns his back on him. Passive aggressive, silent treatment activated. Romance sighs loudly and dramatically as if he’s being stabbed, settling in behind him anyway, resting his chin on Baby’s shoulder.
“I’m going to slit your throat.” Baby mutters. “In your sleep.”
“Aw, you’re shy.” Romance’s arm drapes over him. Loose. Casual. “C’mere.”
“No.”
“You love me.”
“No.”
Romance wraps an arm around Baby anyway, slipping it under the blankets. Baby slaps at it. Romance groans theatrically. “Ugh. Why are your bones so sharp?”
Baby kicks him.
Romance hugs tighter.
Baby elbows him in the gut.
Romance tucks his chin between Baby’s neck and shoulder.
Baby tries to roll away.
Romance rolls with him, like a backpack.
“Kill yourself.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Romance mumbles.
Silence. Baby rolling his eyes. Then,
“Fine.”
It’s not permission. Not really. It’s not a confession. Definitely not an invitation. It’s just… Fine.
And right now, what he means is:
“Stay. Just… Don’t tell anyone I let you.”
Romance smiles into Baby’s back, eyes finally shutting.
“Dude.” Baby whispers into the void. “Your balls are on my thigh.”
“Let it happen.”
On the other side of the place, Jinu’s finally, finally asleep. Took him three cups of ginger tea, twenty minutes of deep breathing, and every ounce of restraint in his body not to stab Romance when he heard him giggling down the hallway.
But now? Peace.
“…Jinu?”
His eyes open instantly. His hand slides blindly across the sheets as he turns, pushing hair from his forehead, squinting at the door.
You’re there. Peeking in. Hands behind your back. You look… sheepish. Sleep-ruffled and adorable. Bare legs. Wide eyes.
“…Mm?” he murmurs.
“Are you sleeping?”
Jinu’s eyes opened fully now, already propped up on one elbow without hesitation, looking at you in the doorway. “Not anymore.” he murmurs, voice hoarse with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
You hesitate. Step in a little. Eyes flick down. “…Do we have Netflix?”
For a second, there’s nothing. Just silence and Jinu, blinking. Then he lets out a quiet little groan. Not at you, just because he just woke up.
“We’ll get it for you tomorrow.” he murmurs, already rolling onto his back, eyes fluttering shut.
You don’t leave.
He knows this because he doesn’t hear the door. Doesn’t hear the padding of your feet on the floor.
Does hear you sniff once, not from crying but because you’re still sick and your nose is acting like it’s being held hostage.
He cracks one eye open.
You’re still there.
In the doorway.
Not saying a word. Not looking at him. Just standing. Silent. Patient. Waiting.
God, Jinu loves you, but you’re a lot.
He groans softly, mostly to himself, already sitting up.
“…Okay.” he says under his breath. “Okay, okay. You deserve Netflix. Right now. Because obviously. Obviously you do.”
Two minutes later, your room. He’s standing in front of your TV like a man defusing a bomb, logging into god-knows-what.
You’re sitting on your bed, tucked into the corner like a child. Your chin rests on your knees.
Jinu glances over his shoulder once.
You don’t say anything.
Just smile.
He swallows. Looks away fast. His ears burn.
The screen flashes. Success.
Netflix.
He hands you the remote. “There. You’re all set.”
“Thanks.” you say quietly.
He watches you scroll. Watches your expression shift ever so slightly when you spot something you like. You wiggle a little in your seat. You always do that. Like your body can’t hold still when you’re excited.
Jinu wants to marry you over that wiggle.
He pauses at the door, just once, hand on the frame, eyes on you from the corner of his vision.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, without turning. But you say: “I like when you do stuff for me.”
Fuck.
He dies right there.
Just a little.
And walks out like he isn’t clenching every muscle in his body to keep from crawling into that bed beside you.
For him, you are peace.
Even when you’re stubborn, even when you slap his hand away with that adorable little glare and mutter under your breath, he sees something in you that grounds him. Anchors him. He’s scared of how much he wants to take care of you. How badly he wants to make things easier, even if it means suffering more himself.
But when you look at him? Everything stops. The rushing thoughts. The planning. The guilt, even. His hands go still. His lungs expand the way they haven’t in years.
His knees buckled when you said that you like when he does stuff for you. Not figuratively. Literally. He caught himself against the hallway wall and had to breathe.
You make him feel gentle. Fragile. Like maybe the violence in him isn’t permanent. Like maybe love isn’t supposed to hurt. And then, yes, sure—also like maybe you should climb on top of him, breathe into his mouth, and ruin his entire worldview. Because Jinu’s biggest sickness is this unbearable urge to worship you.
He’d marry you if you asked. Today. Right now. With Abby as the flower girl.
For Abby, you are chaos. Perfect, gorgeous, delicious chaos.
Emotionally, you’ve cracked him open like a walnut. He doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself around you. You make him feel big. Big and strong and stupid and seventeen all over again. And god, do you make him ache.
He thinks about fucking you all the time, yes, but not in the porn way. In the us in the kitchen, up on the counter, my shirt on you while you laugh into my mouth way. In the you on top of me after a long day, hands in my hair, telling me I’m your favorite way.
Abby is vulgar when he talks about you to the others. He makes jokes. Says shit like, “You see what she was wearing? I barked, I meowed, I passed out.” And yeah, it’s funny. But inside? He gets hard watching you stir soup. He nearly cried when you touched his bicep one time and said more than a simple “Nice.”
Once, he imagined you saying “my boyfriend will beat your ass” and pointing to him.
It got him doing pushups for six minutes.
For Romance, you are punishment.
And he’s a bad, bad boy.
There’s nothing clean about what you make him feel. He likes it dirty. Likes it ugly.
You’ll walk into the room in those stupid, soft-ass socks with your hair in your face, and he’ll get hard before you even open your mouth. And then you speak, all polite and cute, like you don’t know what you’re doing, and it’s game over.
But it’s not just your body. (Okay, it’s 70% your body, but the other 30% is devastating.) It’s the way you challenge him. Refuse him. You’ve said no to him more times than he’s been stabbed in his life, and that does things to him.
Romance is addicted.
You’re a drug, and he’s a junkie.
He fantasizes about kissing you until you forget who you are, about laying his head in your lap while you braid his hair and threaten to kill him for teasing you too much. He wants to see you cry, laugh, moan—in that order.
Romance gets sick when you enter a room. Like a teenager locked in a church. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Every time you sneeze, he’s like, “Aww baby, you need a sponge bath?” with that cocky purr, but deep inside? That shit’s real. You say his name and his hips twitch. You look annoyed and his brain blanks. You trip once on the carpet and he imagines you falling into his arms and never getting back up again. (Because he’s got you. He’ll always have you.)
Every time you lean near him, he smells you.
Every time your knee touches his, he sees stars.
He’d do anything for you. He’d kill for you, die for you, let you step on his chest in heels and call him names. He’d also let you slap him and then apologize because he probably deserved it. Also wants you to step on his neck, maybe, a little. He’s complex.
Romance has thought about your body so often it’s burned into his blood. Your throat. Your back. Your tits. The sound you’d make if he put his mouth right—He bites his knuckles when it gets too far.
But underneath that?
God, he hurts.
For Baby, you are inconvenient. So inconvenient.
And he wants you. Wants you in a horrible, miserable, can’t-eat kind of way. The idea of kissing you makes his stomach churn. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it too much.
But he still thinks about your legs when he showers.
He’s cool. Collected. A menace. A dick. The guy who doesn’t flinch. And then you smile at him? His stomach flips. Butterflies? No. Bats. Demons. Full-blown, winged creatures flapping in his gut.
He rolls his eyes. Acts bored. Sits with his knees up and headphones in while you talk. He hides it behind pure brat behavior. Kicks your chair. Flicks your water bottle off the table. Glares when you compliment anyone else. Classic mean girl syndrome.
You walk by? He tenses. You touch his shoulder? He shrugs it off like it’s annoying, but he remembers the exact temperature of your fingers for hours afterward.
He talks shit constantly but would commit literal murder if someone looked at you wrong.
For Mystery, you are holy.
And he’s been filthy his whole life. Blood on his hands, trauma in his jaw, everything he touches gets corrupted. Even the other boys. He likes them, but they’re demons just like him, and it’s fine because they all rot together.
But you? You don’t rot. You smile. You shine. You’ll brush past him in the hall and say, “Hi, Myst” and he’ll go completely still. Breath caught. Eyes half-lidded. Body buzzing like he’s been shocked.
Mystery’s body does wild, involuntary things when you’re near. His breath shortens. His pupils dilate. His chest aches. He wants to touch you, but he also wants to keep his hands behind his back like a soldier.
You don’t realize it, but every time you enter a room, his shoulders relax a little.
He breathes better when you’re nearby. He eats better when you speak to him.
He doesn’t say much. But when you talk? He listens. Every word. Every syllable.
He’s already yours.
Has been since the day you smacked his hand away and told him to say please.
He did.
And he hasn’t stopped saying it since. Quietly. In his head. Every time you walk past.
Please.
Please.
Please stay.
Thank you everyone for all the memes I’m genuinely so in love w them💋
You fucked the fox, you might as well fuck the dragon right?
For @indiewritesxoxo 🙄💕 I guess it can fit
TW: Monster fucking, Hugeeee size difference, but it levels out, in-heat Satoru, oral, cream pie, split tongue, aphrodisiacs, idk you're fucking a dragon?? overstimulation, slight somno, MDNI
WC: 3.9k
A/N: Maybe I will do a SatoSugu x reader, but our poor shrine maiden is exhausted.
You’ve never heard an echo this loud down the mountain before.
The type that rattles the trees. Shaking the loose stones beneath your wooden sandals. Each roar cracks through the air like thunder, sending flocks of birds screeching into the sky, and you swear the earth itself quivers beneath your feet.
The closer you climb toward Satoru’s cave - no, his shrine - the more the path crumbles. Stone splits beneath your weight, gravel skittering down the cliffs with every guttural cry that spills from deep within his cavern. You’ve never heard a creature sound like that before.
Like he’s in pain.
You don’t even call out when you reach the mouth of his lair. It’s glowing with unnatural light, heat pulsing from within like a furnace, the sharp tang of ozone and magic stinging your nose, the air humming with something alive. You step inside and nearly stagger back.
Because he’s changing.
Dragon gods aren’t like the others. They don’t go into heat like Suguru does, don’t preen or flirt or let their instincts rule them in any soft, romantic way. No, dragon gods surge. Their power swells until their form can’t contain it, until their body fractures under the pressure and they begin to shift.
Satoru is in the center of it now, caught in that in-between place, flickering between man and beast. You can still make out pieces of him: a bare chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths, shimmering blue eyes that lock onto yours the second you enter. But the rest of him, gods. Scales ripple over his skin like liquid metal, opalescent and glowing, his tail massive and coiled, stretching wall to wall in the shrine like a great serpent. Pale, white horns are starting to curl from his temple. His nails have grown into golden opaque claws.
And his eyes, his eyes are glassy, pleading, burning with magic and lust and something hungry.
“Satoru?” you whisper, unsure if he’s even in control anymore.
You try to take a step back, and the thought of running away is considered. Maybe the chance someone stronger, godly, even, anyone but you who shouldn't be here at all, but you don’t make it two steps before a massive claw slams down beside you, cutting off your path and trapping you in a cage of muscle and glittering scales.
You freeze.
His breath hitches when the smell of you swells inside his flaring nostrils. Lowering his head slowly, like he’s doing his best not to scare you, but you can see the tremble in his limbs, the way he’s barely holding back. A low, guttural growl bubbles from his throat, teeth sharp behind parted lips. He looks desperate.
“…Don’t go,” he rasps, voice fractured and thick, barely scraping out of his throat. “I - can’t - I need - ”
Another surge overtakes him, making the entire shrine quake. Ancient stone groans beneath the weight of his power. Banners flutter from the ceiling beams, caught in the storm. And still his glittering blue eyes never leave yours.
Not even for a second.
You gulp, lips parting, chest rising with shaky breath as you stare up at him. He’s panting now, breath heavy and ragged, each exhale thick with heat. Dragon smoke rolls off his lips, curling into the cold cavern. His body glows faintly, scales shifting with every flex of muscle, skin too hot, too otherworldly to be real.
He’s trembling.
So are you.
Then your gaze drops.
…and your stomach flips.
Yeah.
That’s - there’s no way that is going to fit.
Not when it’s easily tripled in size, swollen and flushed, ridged with veins that pulse with divine energy, heavy and leaking and curved slightly upward like something carved from marble and madness. And it’s still growing, twitching where it rests against his lower stomach as if it’s straining for you, desperate for anything, a touch, a breath, the permission to take.
“Oh gods,” you breathe, stunned into stillness. “That… can’t be safe.”
Satoru lets out a low whimper - not a growl, not a roar - something soft and broken, begging even. His claws twitch beside your feet. His tail curls tighter around the shrine, splitting the stone floor beneath it. He leans in, chest heaving, glowing eyes desperate.
“Hurts,” he rasps. “Need you. Can’t - can’t calm down unless - ”
His voice breaks, and his body trembles with another pulse of energy, almost like he’s trying to hold himself back, but that resolve is fraying at the seams.
You swallow again, knees going weak, because no one told you what to do in this situation. There was no pamphlet. No scroll titled "How to Handle a Power-Surging Dragon God With a Cock the Size of a Young Tree"
And yet… here you are.
Nestled between his massive thighs, knees sinking into the silken cushions beneath you, hands trembling as they brace against the heat of his scaled hips. The smooth shimmer of his skin catches the light - opalescent and warm, pulsing with power - and beneath your palms, you can feel the tremble in him. He's trying his best to hold still, to behave, but it’s all splintering at the edges.
Your eyes trail back down to what awaits you.
Gods.
Your mouth could never take it all. Not when it’s thick and flushed, tip already glistening with hot sticky seed, twitching with every shallow breath he takes. It’s massive, too much to comprehend, the kind of thing that would scare you if not for the way he whines and pleads with your name on his tongue. Satoru doesn't plead often. He whines. Never pleads.
So you do what you can.
Both hands wrap around him, barely meeting even with your fingers stretched wide, and your tongue slides tentatively along the underside, licking a slow stripe as you feel him shudder beneath you. A deep, guttural groan rumbles from his chest, claws scraping harshly against the stone floor, leaving jagged marks in his wake.
“S - so good,” he pants, voice cracking, glittering eyes looking down at you, glassy and full of heat. “Feels s’good, please, more - don’t stop - ”
You swirl your tongue around the swollen tip, catching the taste of salt and smoke and something vaguely sweet - magic, maybe. Something not of this world. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves, the desperate twitch of his hips, the way he’s barely holding back from rutting up into your mouth like a beast in frenzy.
But he doesn't, instead, he lets you worship him, mouth and hands working in tandem, gliding over the silken-hot length, coaxing shaky moans from his throat.
You glance up, tongue swirling around the tip, lips pressing faint kisses because as much as you'd like to wrap around his length, it's not possible unless you want to break your jaw, and his gaze is locked on you - glowing, hungry, starved.
“Gonna go crazy,” he breathes, voice barely a whisper. “Need you so bad, it hurts.”
Still, his claws don’t touch you, luckily. They keep scratching, dragging jagged lines into the stone, molten sparks flaring as he fights himself, fights the instinct to grab your pretty head and bury himself down your throat, a death that you're not sure would be honorable. His entire frame trembles, hips twitching as your hands glide over him, your mouth still working the swollen tip with delicate strokes of your tongue.
Then you feel it.
The sudden, desperate jerk of his cock beneath your palms, throbbing, twitching violently, and you barely register his ragged, broken voice: “Wait - wait - ”
But it’s too late.
Hot, white heat splashes across your face in thick ropes, sticky and divine, streaking across your cheek, your lips, your tongue. It’s too much, spilling over your fingers, warm and viscous, and yet he keeps coming - groaning so deep it echoes through the cavern, rattling the shrine walls like thunder.
Your lips part in shock, panting softly, and you don’t even have time to think before his cock twitches again, still rock hard, though slightly smaller now. More… manageable. Still far too large for anything sane, but no longer monstrous.
You blink up at him, dazed, your cheeks painted in proof of his desperation, and suddenly, he’s moving.
His body shifts with a shimmer of power, muscles flexing as his massive tail recedes, his glow softening. He’s not fully human, no, horns still curl from his temples, claws still gleam faintly gold, but his form is more stable now. Controlled. His breath still comes in shudders, but his gaze has gone tender, almost apologetic.
Warm hands, careful with the deadly curve of clawed fingers, cup your pouty, cummy cheeks. His large hands tremble as they touch you, careful not to slash your soft skin. His thumbs brush over the apple of your cheek, wiping away the mess with soft strokes, and then he leans in.
His soft, pale pink lips press to yours, greedy but gentle, afraid you’ll vanish or skitter away. And when his long, split tongue curls past your lips, you moan before you can stop yourself. The kiss is messy - salty with the taste of his release, slick with saliva laced with aphrodisiac - but it’s divine, intoxicating, your head spinning with the heat of it.
He growls low in his throat, tongue curling with yours, licking into your mouth, trying to brand you from the inside, mark you with heat and taste and want until there’s no part of you untouched by him.
And you can’t help it, you melt beneath the weight of his body, the press of his mouth, the way his clawed hand cradles your cheek like a husband would.
One hand drifts from your face, sliding slowly down the curve of your spine, leaving trails of heat in its wake as it cups your lower back. He holds you there, pressed flush to his broad chest, before guiding you down, easing you down into the nest of furs and silks. Then he rises to his knees, towering above you, eyes smoldering as he drinks you in.
Satoru's hand drifts lower. Slowly. Curling around your waist, lifting the heavy folds of your white, shrine robes, bunching them around your hips, exposing the soft skin beneath to the cool cave air. You shiver and he smiles, gaze dark and worshipful, as he reaches for your legs.
“Just relax, little offering,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. “Let me taste.”
He lifts both your legs to rest over his broad shoulders, his breath ghosting over your thighs, sending sparks skittering down your spine. His clawed fingers trace the tender skin of your inner thighs, so careful, not to leave a scratch, and then, before your eyes, he brings one hand to his mouth.
You watch, wide-eyed, as he bites down on his own claws, delicately trimming them with his fangs, sharpening them down to something gentler. Blunt. Safe. His tongue flicks out to soothe the tips before he looks back at you, gaze hot like a blue flame.
And then his mouth is on your heat.
His split tongue drags hot and slow over your fluttering folds, circling your clit with obscene pressure, flicking and curling in ways no mortal tongue ever could. You gasp, hips twitching, but his hands are already bracing your thighs, pinning you open like a feast laid bare.
One thick finger presses at your entrance, then another, probing, teasing, working you open with slow, stretching strokes, curling to stroke every sensitive spot as his tongue laves at your clit. It’s enough to drive you mad.
“S-Satoru,” you moan, breathless, back arching as your hips grind down against his face.
He groans, low and eager, burying himself deeper between your thighs, tongue stroking you with slow devotion as his fingers move inside you, coaxing you open for something far larger.
Desperate for something to hold onto, your hands fly to his head, gripping the curve of his horns like handles, grounding yourself in the feel of him, the heat of him. He lets out a muffled growl of approval, tongue pressing harder, faster, his fingers fucking you open with slow, purposeful thrusts. Obscene noises bounce off the stone walls, whether it be pitiful whimpers or the sound of your dripping cunt.
Satoru doesn't let you have a breath, not until you're dripping, fluttering around his fingers, your body writhing with the tension of a coming climax, and still he murmurs against you, voice hot against your cunt: “Have to make you ready for me, my little feast. Have you stretched open nice and slow. Don’t want to break my favorite offering.”
The words settle into your bones like heat, and you can’t help the keen, high-pitched whine that spills from your throat when his split tongue slides deep inside you with the removal of his thick fingers. It’s thicker and slick and too long to be anything human, curling into your fluttering cunt with a hunger that makes your head spin.
You grind down against his face with reckless abandon, your back arching, thighs trembling, your fingers gripping his horns like a bull as you ride the heat of him. His nose nudges your clit with every motion, and that tongue - gods, that tongue - is slithering against your walls in smooth, languid strokes that hit every weak spot inside you.
You fall apart on his tongue, gasping, creaming as your body clenches and releases in pulsing waves. You soak his face, the silks beneath you, the very altar of the shrine with your slick, and still he drinks it like sweet wine, groaning low and satisfied against your cunt.
Only then does he pull away, slow and smug, letting you catch your breath as you collapse against the soft bedding, legs twitching from aftershocks.
He rises over you again, glowing eyes half-lidded and hungry, cock in hand as he lines himself up to your slick entrance. The head presses against your folds - hot, heavy, almost buzzing with divine energy - and he starts with shallow thrusts, careful, coaxing you open inch by inch.
Your legs drape over his biceps as he leans in, one hand cupping the back of your knee, the other gripping your waist to hold you steady. You moan beneath him, overwhelmed by the stretch that is splitting you apart, your fingers flying up to cover your face, shielding yourself from the intimacy of it, the overwhelming shame of being watched like this, laid bare, trembling, taken apart by something otherworldly.
But he doesn’t let you hide yourself away.
Instead of meeting your mouth, his lips descend to your chest - hot, ravenous - capturing your breast between them. His tongue circles your nipple, wet and possessive, before his dragon teeth bite. Not cruelly, but with purpose. Sharp nips that leave blooming marks in their path, tiny reminders of him, of who you belong to now.
You gasp, chest heaving, thighs tightening around his waist as he buries himself deeper with every shallow thrust, every possessive bite. Your body burns. Skin sings with pain. His name slips from your lips over and over. It's his favorite song.
And still, he groans against your skin, teeth grazing your collarbone as he thrusts in deeper, voice thick and shaky: “Fuck - look at you, baby. All stretched out and shaking for me. You were meant for this. Hah - never thought you could fall apart so pretty for me.”
His voice trembles with awe, hips stilling as he finally bottoms out or tries to. Because even now, even after all his careful stretching and tongue-laced worship, not all of him fits. Not quite.
He’s buried so deep it feels like he’s reached your ribs, the thick crown of his cock kissing the edge of your womb, pressing into places untouched, unimagined. You gasp, body quivering, legs trying to close around him on instinct, but he doesn’t let you.
His forearms brace your thighs apart, strong and steady, his claw-tipped fingers digging into the plush of your skin just enough to ground you. To keep you spread, exposed, and trembling beneath him as he leans in, lips brushing against your jaw, your cheek, your temple.
“It’s okay,” he breathes, voice ragged and cracking, hips rocking in slow, helpless thrusts that barely scratch the itch. “You’re doing so good - fuck, s’good - just a little more, baby, please - ” His lip trembles, a broken whine punching out of his chest as he presses in deeper, trembling like he’s about to sob. “Feels so warm, s-soft - need it - need you to let me in, need to be deeper inside, please, ‘m trying to be good - ” He gasps as your cunt clenches around him, head falling to your shoulder, whimpering like a brat. “Fuck, don’t squeeze me like that, I’ll cum - ‘s too much can’t hold it, can’t - ”
Your mouth falls open with a silent moan, eyes glassy, breath hitching with every slow drag of his cock inside you. The stretch is sinful and breaking, as he fills you to the brim, molding you around him, reshaping you from the inside out. It’s too much. It’s perfect.
Every movement presses deeper into your womb, threatening to push past what should be possible, but he holds himself back with pulled taut control. His groans begin to crack, turning to soft, breathless whimpers, breaking as he pants against your throat, pushing himself impossibly deeper. Your cunt clenching down so tight as if trying to push him out.
“P-please,” he gasps, nuzzling into your skin like he’s starving for you. Soft kisses along your neck and jaw, “Loosen up for me, baby - just a little more. I wanna feel all of you. I wanna fit.”
One hand reaches up, cradling your jaw, guiding your gaze to meet his. And when you open your eyes - wet, blurry, overwhelmed - he melts. Those glowing blues stare down at you, wide and desperate, his lip trembling just slightly.
“Let me see you,” he begs, barely above a whisper, voice trembling. “Please, baby, look at me - need to see your eyes - need to know it’s okay - ” He cuts himself off with a whimper, like it hurts to say it, like he’s ashamed of how badly he needs this. His hips press forward and your jaw falls open with a broken moan as he pushes deeper, stretching you wide. “I - I need you to let me make you mine,” he gasps, eyes wet, clinging to your gaze like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. There’s nothing but you and him in that moment - no gods, no mortals, no shrine. Just the dragon and his offering, bound by heat and trembling hearts, one breath away from ruin.
When you finally speak, if you can call it that, it’s barely more than a breath. A stumble of sound, a broken whimper caught between pleading and surrender. “Y-yes… Satoru, please…” It’s all he needs.
He moves, slowly, but with purpose, hips rocking forward with a drag so deep, so delicate, your entire body arches up to meet him as he rearranges those soft organs inside you so he can fit. His cock strokes against your velvety walls, dragging through slick heat that clutches him so tightly it feels like your cunt was made just for him. Like your body knows him. Wants him.
And somehow after what feels like centuries, he bottoms out. Every aching inch.
You can’t breathe.
You swear your lungs forget how to expand, your throat goes dry, and all you can do is cling to him. Every thrust after that feels like the world fracturing open. Like tonight will be your deathbed. Death by fucking written on your headstone.
Your hands fly to his back, nails raking down his slick skin and sharp scales, dragging harsh red lines as your body trembles beneath him. He groans - loud and guttural - burying his face in the crook of your neck as he thrusts again, harder, deeper, overwhelmed by the tight clutch of your cunt wrapped around him like worship.
“Fuck - fuck, I love you,” he whimpers into your skin, voice cracking, trying not to cry. “You’re mine. Y-you’re mine, mine - please, let me - gonna fill you up, stuff you full, keep you warm inside so you don’t ever leave - so you stay, please, please stay - ”
Each word is punctuated by a heavy thrust, your walls squeezing him tighter each time, your breath catching in sobs that blur into moans. He’s pressing so deep you swear you can feel him, the tip hitting your heart in rhythm with every beat, every inch of you branded by the heat of him, the stretch of him, the need of him.
“I’ll give you everything,” he whimpers, pace stuttering as he starts to fall apart. “I’ll give you me. You’ll never need anything else - never leave - just say you’re mine, baby, say it.”
And gods help you, because you do.
Between choked cries and breathless pleas, you say it back. Again. And again. And he breaks apart with you - panting, moaning, claiming - as his hips snap forward one final time and his cock pulses deep inside you, flooding you with warmth that makes you sob into his shoulder.
And still, he holds you. Kisses you. Whispers against your temple with a voice wrecked and trembling: “You’re mine now. My treasure. My mate. Forever.”
You don’t remember much after that.
Just flashes. The feel of him spilling inside you, again and again. The way your body trembled beneath his, limp and overstimulated, too full to move, too dizzy to speak. The heat of his hands as he curled around you like a dragon protecting treasure, which is accurate, one could guess, muttering nonsense against your skin, worshiping every inch he'd broken and claimed. Your body aches in ways you didn’t know were possible, your limbs sore and limp, marked with bruises and love bites and the faint shimmer of leftover magic. Everything feels a little floaty. A little detached.
You’re warm. Nestled against something solid.
Satoru.
No more scales, no claws, no glowing eyes, just a pretty, pouty mess of white hair and smooth skin, curled around you like he’s trying to fuse you to his chest. The silks are in a heap around you both, his arms locked tight around your waist. His tail, now shorter and softer, thumps happily against your calf when he feels you stir. You’re wearing one of his robes, thick and embroidered, far too big and soaked in his scent. Yours is…somewhere. Shredded. Unwearable. (Truly a casualty of war)
He noses at your chest with a soft hum, lips pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your sternum. His smile is drowsy and smug, eyes half-lidded with the glow of a dragon who just claimed his mate and is now completely and utterly useless.
His hair tickles your collarbone. His tail lazily curls around your thigh. Possessive even in sleep. And then there's that sound. You blink blearily. Your chest rises. Falls. It’s steady. Gentle. Loud.
He’s purring.
“...You purr?” you rasp, voice scratchy from earlier moaning, wailing, completely normal after getting fucked by a dragon.
“Mmmhmm,” he mumbles sleepily, face still smushed against your breast. He plants a few sloppy, greedy kisses there, trying to burrow deeper into your body. “That mutt gets all the praise for it, but mine’s better, obviously.”
You blink at the ceiling. Of course he’d be jealous even half-asleep. Still… the sound is oddly comforting. You nestle closer.
“I mated you,” he says suddenly, too proud for someone who just sobbed into your neck thirty minutes ago. “Shrine law. Sacred binding. Divine regulation. Totally official. Can’t undo it. Guess you’re stuck with me forever.”
You sigh. Exhausted. Sore. Too warm to fight him. “That’s not a real law.”
“It is now,” he mutters. “I’m a god. I make the rules.”
His tail flicks proudly. Then wraps tighter around your thigh.
“Gonna keep you forever,” he yawns, voice getting sleepier. “Even if you complain. Especially if you complain. Makes the kisses taste better.”
“…Taste?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s already snoring into your chest. Still purring. And despite everything, despite your ruined robe and the very real ache between your thighs, you let your eyes flutter shut. One hand drifts up to card through his fluffy white hair.
Y’all begged for reader to get sick, so y’all got it, enjoy<3
cw: mentions of corpses and dead people, the boys going thru some serious shit, the word job uncensored, heavy nsfw mentioned, cursing, the usual, I’m not that satisfied with this part
SILENCE.
A miracle, honestly. No one’s ever been able to shut all five of them up at once before.
You start walking, still holding Mystery like it’s your turn to check him out of demon daycare. You don’t even look back at the others as you guide him past the couch, into the hall.
But he does.
And Mystery’s smile—wide, smug, sharp as sin—flashes behind the curtain of his hair. He doesn’t say a word, but his expression says everything. I win, suck my dick, she picked me, go cry about it.
Romance’s mouth is open. Jinu’s quiet, eyes narrowed in a rare flicker of actual surprise. He exhales through his nose, brushing a hand over the tiger’s head now lying empty on the rug without its girl. Baby’s face doesn’t show much emotion but the way he looks at Mystery says plenty. Abby just looks angry. Aggressive.
The hallway’s dimmer than the living room, not dark, just softer, quiet. Mystery doesn’t say a word as you guide him by the wrist, into your room. You let go of his hand as soon as you’re in. He stands by the door for a second like he’s unsure what to do with his arms now that you’re not holding him. So he puts them in his pockets, all casual-like. You don’t miss the way he adjusts his weight from one foot to the other.
You look at him, eyebrows pinched gently. “What happened?”
Mystery blinks at you, but you can’t see that. You can see his full mouth, the slope of his nose. His collar is stretched out and his shirt has blood on it. Not a lot. But enough to piss you off.
He shrugs.
You scoff gently. “All that?”
You walk toward him, slow and gentle, and he freezes like you’re about to stab him in the gut. Not from fear. Just… awareness. You get close, then closer, looking at his jaw, near a bruise starting to bloom. It’s not swollen yet.
“Who hit you?” you ask.
He blinks. Mouth opens slightly. Then closes again.
You sigh through your nose. “You’re such a boy.”
He smiles at that. Just a little. The kind that hides itself behind his lashes. Then he shrugs again, but this time it’s different. A little sheepish. A little charming.
“Some… girl.” he says finally. His voice is quiet, like always. Raspy and careful.
You nod solemnly. “Alright.” You motion to the bed. He sits slowly, like he’s not used to this. You sit next to him, legs tucked under you. You glance sideways.
He’s looking straight ahead. Shoulders stiff. But his hands—those long, elegant fingers of his—are sitting in his lap, not clenched, not guarded. Just… relaxed.
“Why do you let them drag you around?” you ask softly, tilting your head. “Abby’s always trying to make you do shit. He doesn’t even ask.”
Mystery smiles to himself. “He’s funny.”
Your heart does this dumb thing.
He adds: “He’s nice. When he’s not trying to throw me at walls.”
You laugh. “You literally bite him sometimes.”
Mystery doesn’t deny it. He just presses his knuckles to his lips and laughs once, soft and pretty and boyish. It’s not fair. He’s a demon. They’re supposed to be terrifying. Not the kind of person who makes you want to take a million blurry pictures of him just smiling at the floor.
“Do you like it here?” you ask suddenly. To get something out of him. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the soft buzz of the lights. Maybe it’s the warm silence. Or maybe it’s that no one’s here to interrupt for once.
A small nod.
“I like… you.” he says.
Oh.
Your lips part. But no words come out.
He glances away just as fast. He’s not very practiced in saying things out loud. He’s more of the “staring at you from three feet away” kind of guy.
But still. He said it.
You smile gently, genuinely. “I like you too, Mystery.”
He blinks at that.
You clarify: “Not like that.”
He hums. “I know.”
But the smile stays on his face, blooming a little brighter.
You reach for the edge of your comforter and throw it over both your legs. He doesn’t pull away when your knee bumps against his. You lean back against the headboard and close your eyes. You speak without opening your eyes, voice calm, soft, and laced with something deeper than just annoyance. “You know I’m still really, really fucking mad at you guys, right?”
Mystery doesn’t move.
“I mean it.” you continue. A pause. He still doesn’t say anything. You sigh and finally open your eyes. Your gaze falls to your lap, to the blanket over your legs, then to the edge of the bed where his knee bumps against yours. You’re not moving away. You don’t want to. “But,” you say slowly. “you’re also kind of… fun.”
That earns a shift. Just a tilt of his head. You peek over at him. You see the slight pull of a smile on the corner of his lips.
“Which is stupid,” you add. “because I should hate you.”
Another breath.
“You do?” he asks. His voice is a hush, barely more than a vibration in the air. But you hear it.
You stare at him for a long second. “I don’t know.”
And that’s the honest answer. The one you’ve been circling for weeks. You should hate them. You should be planning your next escape, counting the steps from the hallway to the elevator, scoping the back exits. You should be avoiding every dumb, cocky, boyish interaction and shutting down their flirtations with disgust. You should be making them regret every second of this. Instead, you’re here. Sitting next to one of them. Wrapped in a blanket. Letting your knee brush his like it doesn’t make your heart ache a little.
He’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “Want to tell me something about you?”
You blink. You turn to him, almost suspicious. “Why?”
Mystery shrugs. “I want to.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You… want to know something about me?”
He nods.
It takes a moment to register that he’s not messing with you. Not prying to get intel. Not about to pull some demon trick out of his ass and suddenly chain you to the bed for betraying national secrets. He’s just asking.
“Uh.” you say. “I like watermelon but I’m too afraid to ask Jinu to bring some. I was a spoiled child. A popular kid, actually, if you know what that is.”
Mystery tilts his head, thinking that over.
“That’s… good.” he says eventually.
You nod slowly, eyebrows pinched. “You’re so fucking weird. What about you? You don’t talk about yourself.” you say. “You barely talk at all, but when you do, it’s never really about you. So… lemme think… what’s your favorite thing?”
Mystery breathes in. Looks at the wall. Then looks at you. A smile pulls at his lips. He pulls his legs up then leans in the tiniest bit, like he’s about to tell you a secret.
“You.”
Your throat tightens. Instantly.
He sits back like he didn’t just say that.
You clear your throat. “Okay. Thanks. Weirdo.”
He smiles into his knees.
Romance fucking crashes through the door, eyes glittering, hair wild, wearing one of those shirts that looks like he tore it in half on purpose just to show skin. Which, knowing him, he probably did.
“Hey.” he purrs, storming into the room. His voice is syrupy, sing-song, and far too cheerful for someone who’s about to commit physical assault.
You blink up at him, still under your blanket, utterly peaceful for once in your cursed new existence. You barely manage a “What the hell are you—”
Before Romance dives for Mystery’s ankles.
“Up, up, up, loser. Out. Pack your moody little silence and take it somewhere else.” he says, practically snarling as he wraps both arms around Mystery’s legs and yanks.
Mystery hits the floor with a dull thud. Hard. His skull audibly knocks the wood. You wince. That sounded like it could’ve cracked concrete. And somehow, Mystery doesn’t even flinch. Not a sound. Not a protest. The most he gives Romance is a blink, like this is fine, this is normal, he’s used to this.
Which, frankly? You don’t doubt.
“Ro,” you say flatly. “he’s literally bleeding.”
Romance stops dragging him halfway out the door just to look back at you, hair flopping over his brow, all breathless. “I know. Isn’t it tragic? He’ll survive. Barely. Maybe.”
Mystery’s arm limply lifts to give you a thumbs up from the hallway floor, face buried into the floorboards like it’s a nap mat. You gape.
“Romance,” you snap. “he was with me.”
Romance beams. “Exactly. That’s the problem. If I can’t have you, no one can. Didn’t you get the memo, sweetheart? You’re mine.”
“Excuse me—”
(Guys I know it sounds cringe but don’t take it the serious embarrassing maffia daddy way. Romance is panting and smiling and literally dragging a man away as he says it plz get the sweet vibe)
“Mine!” he echoes, dragging Mystery by the pant leg now with one hand and using the other to dramatically point at you. “My future wife. My muse. My moral downfall. My happy ending.”
Mystery finally moves—just a bit—using the momentum to flip himself over. “Dramatic.” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse.
“Ssshhh…” Romance shushes, tossing his hair. “You were hogging her, by the way.”
You stare.
Mystery is now lying spread-eagle in the hallway, just blinking at the ceiling. He has a small trickle of blood coming down from his temple. You feel awful. But he seems unbothered, as always. Honestly? If you asked him if he was okay, he’d probably just nod.
You sigh so hard your soul almost leaves your body. “What do you want, Romance?”
He wiggles his brows, then— “To take you out for dinner.”
“No.”
Behind Romance, Mystery finally sits up, dusting himself off, completely unfazed. There’s blood on his forehead, his shirt’s rucked up, and he still somehow manages to look like a fallen angel.
Before you can speak, Romance slams the door shut with one final wink, locking you in with the echo of his last dramatic declaration. “Remember, darling, you can run from your feelings, but you can’t run from me.”
The hallway goes quiet. You’re blinking in slow disbelief on your bed.
Romance.
Motherfucking Romance.
Him and his fuckass designer jeans. Delusional asshole. If he ever actually got you alone for more than five minutes without someone interrupting, you’re 90% sure the Earth would implode. Maybe the sky would crack open. Maybe he’d combust. Who knows. It’s Romance.
You exhale.
…god help you, you’re starting to find it endearing.
Meanwhile on the hall, Romance stares down at the mess he made—Mystery, still on the floor, half a smile tugging at his lips like this is nothing new, like he could do this all day.
And Romance, already smug from his “grand rescue” crosses his arms and juts out his hip. “Okay. Talk. What the hell was that?”
Mystery tilts his head, still on the ground. His hair is a mess around his face, his expression unreadable for half a second—until a slow, airy giggle bubbles out of him.
“What.” Romance says again, blinking. “What are you giggling about?”
Mystery pushes himself upright, arms dangling loose at his sides, as he rocks forward onto his knees. “We talked.”
“Come again?” Romance leans in.
Mystery doesn’t even answer. He just grins. The kind of grin that should be illegal on something with such a soft voice. Then he pushes Romance—two hands against his chest, not rough but sudden, catching him off guard.
Romance stumbles back a step, jaw dropping, then he pushes Mystery back. And then Mystery is running. Well—okay, it’s not quite a sprint. It’s more of a gliding skip, in socks, his laugh echoing soft and high, infectiously airy. Romance chases him.
Mystery yelps when Romance catches the back of his shirt and yanks, nearly tripping them both. They tumble into the wall, shoulder to shoulder, and now it’s all elbows and laughter and stomping feet.
They’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe. Mystery’s head tilts back, full smile, eyes finally visible as his bangs get shoved aside. Romance is breathless and loud, leaning into Mystery.
They’re a mess. Gorgeous, evil, boyish messes.
Romance slaps Mystery on the back. Mystery slaps him harder. They both nearly fall again.
It’s not like this all the time. Romance is extra, always. Mystery is quiet and weird. Their whole group? Horrible.
But this? This little moment?
It’s joy.
Unfiltered, glowing, stupid joy.
And Romance, when he finally hooks an arm around Mystery’s neck and ruffles his hair like they’re ten, can’t stop smiling either.
Mystery just wheezes. “Jealous?”
“Jealous?! I could have her if I wanted. You know that. I’m just—y’know. Pacing myself. Like a gentleman.”
They keep laughing. They don’t even realize Baby walked by, gave them a look of disgust, and just kept going.
They’re too wrapped up in it.
Wrapped up in you.
(A HORRIBLE time skip, which is only a few hours)
It’s dark, way past midnight. Like The lights are low, fridge humming. You’re barefoot in the kitchen, opening cabinet doors like you haven’t already scoured every single one twice. Still. You know there was a Snickers here last week. And if Baby didn’t eat it, then maybe Jinu moved it. Or Abby did baked it into a protein shake. Or Romance fed it to the tiger as a love offering. Or Mystery quietly tucked it into his pockets.
Where the fuck is the Snickers.
You exhale and lean into the counter, the cold of it pressing into your forearms. You’d been thinking about what Mystery said earlier. About you. Or rather, to you.
He really… likes you.
You’d brushed it off. Sort of. He wasn’t a talker. You weren’t a talker. Most of your connection lived in side glances and weird little moments. But it sat with you now, in the middle of the night, as you tried to mourn your lost chocolate bar.
And maybe… maybe he’s not the only one. You’d been brushing off all of them. Because obviously. They were demons. Liars. Idiots.
Sure, they absolutely knew what tits were. Big fans, actually. You figured they’d seen everything. Gotten their fill of tits and asses and whatever else humanity had to offer, but no. Lately, you’d started noticing their eyes higher. Up. At your face. At your eyes.
And that’s a lot for five grown, six-packed, emotionally constipated demons to carry in one apartment.
You hadn’t expected the conversation with Mystery to sit in your chest like this, all warm and alive. You just wanted to be with him to show the others that if someone’s nice to you, they get a little reward. And it shouldn’t surprise you, that maybe… just maybe, they’re not kidding. That they really do like you. In ways they haven’t liked anything or anyone in centuries.
It’s annoying. It’s flattering. It’s unsettling.
You hadn’t really taken it that seriously before. The boys flirting. The compliments. The weird glances. The bickering over who got to stand next to you, or who got to sit on the couch next to you when no one was even watching anything. It was so casual. So unserious.
And you’re definitely not supposed to feel whatever this is back.
A creak behind you makes you glance up, and it’s Baby.
He walks in like he owns the floor, the kitchen, the building, and the earth under it. Shirt and boxers only. No socks. Ruffling his hair with one hand. Half-lidded eyes like he just woke up but doesn’t give enough of a shit to explain himself.
He walks past you, brushing shoulders a little (which he absolutely didn’t need to do with how huge this fucking kitchen is), and opens the fridge, staring inside.
You narrow your eyes. “Not gonna wear pants or…?”
“No.” he drags out a bottle of something and sipping it straight from the cap. Then, without asking, without even pretending to ask, he throws himself onto the stool at the kitchen island, legs spread like he’s airing out his balls. He props his feet on the crossbar and manspreads. Not even pretending to care how much thigh is out. Boxers riding up. Shirt barely hanging on. Disgusting.
You glare. “Can you not?”
He shrugs. “You’re the one looking.”
You blink at him. “I’m not—”
He laughs. That raspy, bratty laugh that sounds like it’s made of smirks and smoke. “You’re funny.”
And yeah, he walks around like he doesn’t care. Always mean, always quiet, always evil. Like he’s not paying attention to shit. Like he barely even knows your name. But he does. He knows where you sit on the couch every time. He knows you like ice in your juice and not your water. He knows when you shower and how long you take. He always knows what room you’re in. He always knows when to shut up and when to look. When you’re not looking? He’s always watching.
You two don’t talk much. He’s not a talker. He’s the least chatty of the five, even less than Mystery, who at least giggles. Baby doesn’t even smile half the time. Just walks around like he’s above it all.
But sitting there like that, half-naked and shameless and still throwing you glances?
You made him learn something new about himself tonight.
He likes being slutty.
He won’t say it. Not in a million years. Not even if Gwi-Ma threatens to blow his eardrums out again. But he knows. And he’s leaning into it.
His knee bounces a little now. He’s watching you again. Chin tilted low. “Go on. Keep talking. I’m bored.”
He likes that you’re talking. He likes that you’re here. He’s not bored. He just doesn’t know how to say stay with me a little longer.
Because yeah.
He’s a dick. A bad person. A literal demon.
But he likes liking you.
You consider it. Then, “You know what? Sure, so I was actually thinking about, like, maybe getting back into painting? I used to paint. It was nice. Like, no one was ever gonna hang them in a gallery or whatever, but I liked it. There was this one I did that was just like, um… a peach. It was really ugly. I was proud.”
Baby raises a brow, head slightly cocked, one cheek squished in his hand as he leans into it. Silent, still slouched in his ridiculous spread, the little bottle now rolling on its side next to him, forgotten.
You keep going. “And I don’t know, I think Mystery would like painting. He seems like he would. I could teach him. That’d be cute, right? We could wear aprons and get paint on our noses and he’d giggle and I’d giggle and then Abby would come in and ruin everything—”
You glance over just in time to see Baby huff out a short breath of a laugh through his nose.
“—which is fair. Honestly, that’s what he’s for. And then Jinu would ask what’s going on, and he’d act so above it but he’d definitely be painting in five minutes.”
Another eyebrow from Baby. His lip twitches.
You’re so sweet.
He feels everything.
Of course he does. Super senses, duh. He knows your blood pressure is just a little higher right now because you’re excited. Knows your temperature’s up slightly from the late hour. Knows your hormones are dipping already. Felt the ovulation spike days ago—even Jinu went a little crazy, let’s not even talk about Mystery, and Romance had to disappear for like four hours to deal with himself—he also really wanted to make your mood worse when you were on your period, but for some reason he didn’t But right now, you’re fine. You took meds. He knows it’s gonna hurt when you wake up, though.
Baby is not a good man. He’s not kind. He’s not nurturing. He won’t rub your back or offer to help or remember your comfort food. He’s the guy that says “sucks” when you’re dying. He’s mean. He kicks Romance into walls for fun. He never shuts up about how stupid humans are.
But you?
You drive him insane.
He feels things he’s never felt before. Ugly, evil, messy things. Obsessive little loops in his brain. Dirty thoughts. Angry jealousy. That bratty kind of crush that makes him want to bite something. You’re his in his mind. Not even because you agreed—because he decided. Because you looked at him once and he saw it all. And now you’re here, arms folded, still talking about something like:
“—and I don’t know, I just think maybe when this whole kidnapping thing is over, if I ever get to go outside again, I’ll buy one of those tiny dogs. You know? They always have names like Mr. Pickles. Maybe I’ll get two. Or just one. Then he pees on the carpet and I cry.”
He’s leaning now. Both elbows on the counter. Chin in his hand. Legs sprawled. Eyes fixed on you in a way that says mine mine mine mine mine but doesn’t say it out loud.
You don’t realize it, but you just made him fall a little more.
He doesn’t talk. He won’t say it.
But god, he’s feeling it.
And here you are, chatting. Like he hasn’t fantasized about you more than any man should. About your thighs wrapping around him. About your neck in his hand. About your voice gone breathless. About you crying again—not sweetly like earlier, but whimpering, begging, fucked out.
It’s not cute in his head. It’s filthy. It’s evil. He knows that. And he’s so fine with it.
He watches you lean back on your heels and sigh and start talking again about god knows what now. Your favorite dumb little shows. The shape of pasta you like the most. You mention Abby somewhere in there. Your hands move when you talk.
He thinks about what they’d feel like curled into his hair. On his jaw. Wrapped around his—
He shifts in his seat a little. Like he’s adjusting his posture, but really? He’s giving himself something to do before he makes a mistake.
“You know what pisses me off?” you say. “The fact that Abby keeps putting the oranges with the vegetables. Like. No.”
Baby raises an eyebrow.
“Oranges. Aren’t. Vegetables. I know that! I passed high school! And I know that.”
Nothing from him. He just tilts his head slightly. Like go on.
“It’s kind of dumb,” you say. “but I think I like the tiger the most. Don’t tell the others.”
He hums, tilting his head. “Why.”
“He doesn’t talk.”
That makes him laugh, and god, god he’s pretty when he does. He looks down briefly, tongue sliding over his bottom lip, before he looks back up at you.
You are the softest thing he’s ever been near. And he’s the worst thing for it. He’s thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking. Has been for a while now. The kind of things that, if said out loud, would get Romance to blush and Abby to wince. Thoughts that are wrong not just because they’re vulgar—though they are—but because you’re you. Human. Kind. Angry, and smart, and hurt, and too real to be something he should touch.
But he wants to.
He always wants to.
And he’s convinced—because he’s Baby, and of course he is—that you want him too. That you must want him. That you’re playing some slow game of pretend or denial, but underneath all your eye-rolls and sarcasm is the same heat he feels when you look at him just a second too long.
You must feel it. Right?
Right?
…You don’t.
But that doesn’t stop him.
But when you pause your ramble to blink up at him and ask, “Are you even listening to me?” and laugh, softly, like you already know the answer—
He actually smiles back.
“…Yeah.” he says, voice low, head tilted, tapping the cap of his bottle against his knee. “I’m listening.”
And he is.
To everything.
You rub your eyes and let out the softest little breath—just a small sigh of existence, and it feels like it hits him in the chest.
“Anyway.” you say. “This tired me out. Like a lot. Jesus. You’re a good listener for someone who doesn’t talk.” You start walking toward the hallway, barefoot and slow, but you glance back over your shoulder to throw one last thing his way. “Good night. Don’t forget to put on pants next time, slut.”
“Night.” he says, lifts a hand, lazy wave, voice low and warm and just this side of teasing.
Alone.
Feeling.
Ugh.
He stares at the empty doorway for a second longer than he means to. Blinks. Sits back, arms folding, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.
What the fuck just happened.
He misses you already?
No.
He scoffs to himself. Lets out a tiny breath, more annoyed than anything. This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. You tired yourself out from talking? Really? Who the fuck does that? What are you, a preschooler? You absolute dumbass. And why does he care what you do with your free time? Why does he care if you miss painting, or if you want a dog, or if your stupid face looked really cute when you got sleepy?
…It did look cute though.
Fuck.
He scratches the back of his head, then drops his hand with an irritated sigh. Then he stands up finally, arms swinging slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s not gonna follow you. He’s not gonna get all emotional and knock on your door like a loser. He’s not Romance. He’s not Abby. He’s not Mystery. He’s not even Jinu. He’s Baby. The one who kicks people into furniture and doesn’t apologize. And he’s not changing that because of a girl who talks about fruit and dogs.
Right?
He heads back toward his room with a little more energy than usual. And he doesn’t know it, not really, not yet, but this is going to be one of those nights where he lies on his back, arms behind his head, glaring up at the ceiling, and has to wrestle with thoughts he doesn’t know how to name.
Stupid. This is so stupid.
Okay, next morning.
Jinu’s reading emails at the counter like a professional, which would be really admirable if it weren’t for the fact that across from him stands Abby. Razor in one hand, shaving cream all over his face like a kid who just smeared frosting on himself.
“Jinuuu,” Abby says through foamy lips. “where do I stop?”
Jinu doesn’t look up right away. “I told you not to shave in the living room.”
“You also told me not to put a fork in the toaster and guess what I did yesterday.”
Jinu doesn’t even blink. “You can go more to the right.”
“Hm.”
Jinu looks up and gestures to his own jawline. “Stop here.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, but do it in the bathroom perhaps—”
Too late. The razor is gliding down Abby’s cheek. He makes a delighted sound.
Somewhere behind them, Romance is mumbling a song under his breath, turning an apple over in his hand. Baby is on the couch upside down, playing a handheld game and flips Jinu off for no reason.. And Mystery’s just… there. On the floor. Sitting.
“I think I have a cold.” you mumble, coming into the room. You look like hell.
You’re adorable, and they all stop breathing for a second.
Abby perks up immediately. “Wait, for real?” He walks over like he’s actually about to be useful for once. “Let me check. I’ve seen this in movies.”
You blink at him. He places the back of his massive hand against your forehead. Tilts his head. Frowns.
“…Hm.”
You sniff again. “Hm?”
“I dunno.” he says. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Yeah, no idea. I think you’re fine.”
“Am I hot?” you ask weakly.
“Obviously. But fever-wise, like—medically? I got no idea.”
You don’t even have the energy to insult him properly. Just swat his chest like, be fucking serious. And the thing is—they are. Serious. About you, anyway. Not about the world. Or schedules. Or being decent people.
Because outside of you? They are absolutely horrible. Actual villains. Jinu once cut a demon’s throat in silence and then got blood on his white turtleneck and didn’t give a single fuck. Romance has a list of people he’s cursed (and probably kissed). Baby killed someone in a bathroom and then stole their cologne. Mystery still hasn’t explained the pile of teeth in that little glass bowl in his room. Abby once body-slammed a priest for fun.
They’re evil.
But to you?
God, they mean well. So well it hurts.
They don’t want to be good.
They just want to be good to you.
Jinu doesn’t look up this time. “Y/N, rest. Bed. Now.”
The tiger rubs against your legs like a bus-sized housecat and then lowers itself so you can lean on it for support. You do.
And they’re trying.
Not because they care about humans.
Because they care about you.
Even if Abby is now dragging the razor down the side of his cheek and saying “ow” repeatedly with every stroke. Even if Jinu’s typing “Y/N medicine list” into a private document right now, pretending he’s not watching you shuffle toward your bedroom, the tiger walking beside you.
Even if they’ll lie to your face about everything else. Even if they’ve done this to you.
They still mean good.
For once.
About twenty minutes later, the sound of your door creaking open is lazy, half-hearted, no knock, no polite warning.
You’re curled up in bed. Hoodie on, nose pink, a mountain of tissues building up on the nightstand like a white flag of surrender. Derpy is pressed along your side, warm. The moment the door opens, the tiger lifts its massive head, glowing eyes narrowed, but it doesn’t move. It recognizes him.
Baby stands there in the frame, one hand on the door, the other shoved in his hoodie pocket. One brow is cocked. He looks like the embodiment of “whatever.”
“We’re going.” he says. No hello. No “how are you feeling.” Just a dull, half-grunted report.
You blink up at him from your pile of blankets. Your voice is quiet. “Going where?”
He shrugs. “Out. Don’t care.”
Your brows lift, sniffle dragging at your tone. “Then why are you telling me?”
He huffs. Exactly.
The others definitely sent him.
“I’m just here to check if you need anything.” he mutters, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe like the weight of standing fully upright is just too much.
“You were definitely sent.” you murmur, clutching the blanket higher.
He shrugs. “Told them you’d be fine.”
You cough gently into the sleeve of your hoodie. He watches that. Watches you blink tiredly up at him, tissues shoved under your arm, cheeks all soft and flushed from the fever, lips chapped and frowning. You’re small, quieter than usual, and visibly miserable.
“You look like shit.” he mutters.
“Thanks.”
“You want anything?”
“Sleep.”
“Cool.”
“You’re so kind.”
He snorts, pushing off the frame. The tiger growls lightly, just because it can. He flips it off.
You cough again, and in the hallway, he hears it.
And even though he’s halfway down the corridor now, even though you won’t see it, Baby rolls his eyes hard—and then turns the corner into the kitchen.
About another twenty minutes later, you’re still in your room but from somewhere around the house, you can hear:
“Bye, Y/N!” from Romance, who always has to say it first. His voice carries like a song. You imagine he’s fixing his hair in the mirror while he says it.
Then a quieter, lilting, “Bye…” from Mystery.
Abby: “Miss you already, babe.”
Jinu’s “Back soon.”
Baby doesn’t bother.
Then there’s someone hitting someone (again), the very clear sound of Romance singing and being absolutely cut off by someone burping loudly (probably Abby), and finally—
SLAM.
You don’t remember falling asleep after that.
Hours after, in the evening when they get back, Romance slips out of his shoes, throws his jacket at the wall (Abby yells “THE HOOK” but Romance ignores him), and beelines down the hall, already unzipping his hoodie. The moment he pushes your door open, he sees you bundled under every single blanket known to man—half of them not even from your bed. He recognizes Abby’s hoodie. One of Jinu’s coats. The tiger’s long, heavy body is curled against your side like a heating pad. There’s tissues everywhere. A bowl of soup, untouched.
You’re sweating, and pale, and your nose is pink, and your eyes are glassy. You blink slowly at him when the door opens. “…Romance?”
And he wants to melt.
He crosses the room instantly, sits down on the bed, one hand bracing on the edge of the mattress. “Baby.” he says, slow and low and too hot to be safe. “Ohhh, look at you.”
You scrunch up your nose. “Go away.”
“I would never.” He presses his palm to your forehead. “Shit, you’re burning up.”
“It’s fine.” you murmur, eyes slipping closed. “Just a cold.”
It’s not just a cold. It hasn’t been since this morning.
He can feel it. The exhaustion in your muscles. The weakness in your breath. The ache beneath your skin.
He wants to scream. He wants to pick you up and shake you and kiss your forehead and punch a wall and then cuddle you under every blanket in existence.
He does none of that.
The feelings in him are unbearable. Worse than the hunger. Worse than Gwi-Ma’s voice in his head. Worse than the years of rot buried in his gut. It’s like you’ve rewired his entire nervous system with a smile and a fucking tissue crumpled in your fist.
You sneeze.
Why is that cute? Why is you being sick still so sweet he can barely look at you without wanting to press his mouth to your skin?
What is wrong with him?
How can someone like him—someone full of filth and violence and hunger—feel like this for someone like you? You, with your snotty nose and bad mood and adorable raspy voice. You, who calls him a dumbass and refuses to look at his upper body even though you absolutely snuck a glance yesterday in the hallway mirror. You, who won’t love him back, probably ever.
He’s staring at you like you’re naked and willing and whispering his name between moans—even though you’re bundled in blankets and might actually be hallucinating. His fingers slip down to your jaw, your temple, the curve of your neck, tracing places you’re too tired to even flinch over.
You let out a little sigh.
He shudders.
His hand slips into your hair, brushing it back. It’s a mess, but it’s your mess. You’re real, you’re alive, you’re with him and that’s enough to short-circuit his entire system.
“God, you’re pretty.” he whispers.
Your only reply is a small wheeze.
He huffs a breathy little laugh. His fingers are threading slowly through your hair now, gentle and obsessive. Bedroom eyes going insane as he watches your lashes flutter, your dry lips part, your throat bob with every weak swallow.
You murmur something. He leans in.
“What was that?”
“…If you’re gonna sit here talking,” you rasp, eyes still closed. “at least go make me tea.”
“Yes ma’am.” He’s already standing, too fast, nearly trips over his own feet.
You crack one eye open, barely. “No demon magic.”
“Shit.” he groans dramatically. “There goes the secret ingredient.”
You lift a tissue to your nose with a weak sniff and give a tiny wave of dismissal. “Go, Romeo.”
He bows. Full-body. Right there at the door. Then he’s gone, practically skipping to the kitchen.
Because you asked for tea. You asked him to get it. You gave him a job, something he can do for you—and Romance, for all his flirting, all his filth, all his chaos, has always craved one thing:
To be useful. To be wanted. To be your something.
Even just the guy who makes you tea when you’re sick.
It’s pathetic.
He heads straight for Jinu’s room.
He leans his entire lanky-ass body in the doorway, arm stretched up to grab the frame, hair messy from running a hand through it a hundred times since you asked for tea.
“Hey, Jinu.”
Jinu, probably researching shit to be better at acting like stars, looks up with one singular blink. No change in expression. Nothing.
Romance still smirks. “Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m not your type, but I am beautiful.”
Jinu exhales through his nose. “What.”
“I need to know how to make tea.”
Jinu finally turns, squinting at him like he’s trying to make sure this is real.
Romance nods, dead serious.
“For Y/N.” he adds, and immediately softens. “She’s sick. She asked me. ME.”
“You don’t know how to make tea?” Jinu says flatly.
“No.”
“You’ve been alive for four centuries.”
Romance shrugs, smile lazy and smug. “I have other talents.”
Jinu stands without another word and gestures for Romance to follow.
In the kitchen, Romance is hovering behind Jinu, chin practically on the man’s shoulder as he watches him fill the kettle.
Romance leans his chin on his hand, watching the kettle as if it might hurry up for him. “You think she likes me?”
“No.”
“Hm.”
“Shut up and hand me a mug.”
Romance reaches for the prettiest mug in the cabinet—pink, with some dumb baby chick painted on it, definitely not theirs—and slams it proudly on the counter.
Jinu doesn’t even ask. He just pours.
“Thanks.” Romance says. “I mean it.”
Jinu just nods once.
And Romance takes the mug in both hands, lips tight, smile huge. Back to you. His sick little angel. Full pride in his step, tea in hand, and a whole dumb little smile on his face like ta-daaa, he doesn’t even make it two steps before freezing when pushing your door open.
Baby is already there.
On your bed.
Cross-legged.
You’re under a pile of blankets and cat, pale and sniffling and red around the eyes, cheeks flushed from fever. You blink slowly, dazed. “Hi.”
Romance almost drops the mug. “Hi.” He looks at Baby. “You were in the living room like thirty seconds ago.”
Baby blinks. “Walked.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
Romance sighs, stomping into the room. He slides the tea onto your bedside table—without even sloshing a drop, thank you very much—and turns to both of you with a palm on his hip. Then, with the world’s most obnoxious smirk: “Threesome?”
You blink blearily at him from under your mountain of blankets and giant tiger, one eye barely open, lip cracked and dry. Your voice is a croak when you whisper: “Shut… the fuck up.”
Romance laughs. Loud. Bright. Because even sick, even puffy-eyed and pale, you’re sharp. You’re fire. You’re you.
He sits on the edge of the bed, not too close, like the tea was already a risk, like maybe he’s being smart now. “God, you look awful.”
“Stop flirting.” you mumble.
You look worse than before. The flush on your cheeks is insane. Your lips are dry. Your breathing, shallow. There’s a tension in your brow you haven’t relaxed from in hours. The tiger lets out a soft huff and curls tighter around you, like even it knows something’s not right.
Romance swallows.
“Y/N…” he says slowly. “You, uh. You still with us?”
You blink at him. Then at Baby.
“Why are you here?” you ask, voice hoarse, looking at Baby with bleary confusion.
“Sussie’s sleeping.” Baby mutters.
That’s not an answer.
“We’ll stay.” Romance says.
“Didn’t ask.” Baby murmurs.
“Didn’t say it for you, asshole.”
You don’t say anything, just sip your little tea. Well—more like wobble the cup against your mouth with both hands because your fingers are half-dead and you’re shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. The warmth helps, though. Kinda. Sorta. The heat seeps into your palms and then your cheeks and then your fogged-up brain, just a little.
“Be careful.” Romance says quietly, snatching the cup from you.
“I got it.” you rasp.
“You’re about to pour boiling water into your eyeball.”
You glare at him over your blanket, too weak to actually do anything but hold eye contact for a second and then blink slowly. “You’re about to get hit with this cup.”
Romance grins. Good. That means you’re not dying. Probably.
He gives it back to you anyway and you take another sip.
Romance leans forward like he’s gonna say something genuine, like maybe this is the moment, like maybe he’s going to try honesty for once, but instead he says, “You want me to tuck you in?”
You don’t even blink. “I’ll throw up.”
Baby smirks.
Romance holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, fair.”
They don’t admit they’re worried. Of course they don’t. That would mean facing the truth of how this all turned inside out, how you got under their skin and behind their ribs and became the center of a space they didn’t even realize was hollow.
You sip the tea, holding the mug in both hands, face buried behind it, nose red and skin clammy. Romance watches like he brewed it from scratch himself, the way he puffs up with pride when you swallow it without gagging. Baby rolls his eyes but doesn’t move.
You scared the shit out of them.
Even Baby, who doesn’t get scared, just… detached. He was with you in the kitchen the night before, he knew something was going on. But god forbid he say anything like, “Hey, Y/N’s not doing good, maybe we should take a look on her”
You let out a quiet, congested sniffle. Then you giggle.
Both of them tense.
You giggle again, slurred and sticky and sleepy, and quote—out of absolutely fucking nowhere—“’Til my soda pop fizzles out…”
And then laugh at yourself. Like, genuinely. You snort and press your cheek to the pillow, shoulders shaking gently with laughter, voice soft and woozy.
Romance opens his mouth like he wants to defend himself—he was going to claim it was a metaphor for sucking cock or something, really poetic—but then closes it again.
He can’t even be mad.
Baby’s eyes flick down to your face, the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth like maybe he wants to laugh too, but he doesn’t.
You just turn your face away from them, still grinning.
Romance watches you closely. You’ve gone quiet again. Almost too quiet.
And then you pet Baby’s knee.
His head snaps down, and he stares at your hand.
You’re rubbing your palm over his jeans, slow and distracted, like you’re comforting a pet or a plush toy. Like it’s unconscious.
Y/N ARE YOU WITH US???
Baby swears under his breath. He’s a cocky little shit, always has been, but something cold wraps around the back of his neck and slithers down his spine. You’re sick. Out of it. And still somehow found a way to crawl under his skin with the simplest gesture. He just looks at your hand. Small and warm, barely applying pressure, and the pads of your fingers brushing against his knee make his stomach ache in a way he doesn’t have words for. He wants to swat your hand away—wants to climb into your touch. Both.
You make it hard to be who he was before.
“Y/N?” Romance murmurs after a minute.
You don’t respond. You’re asleep, finally. Still breathing softly, hand still limp on Baby’s knee, tea now cooling on your bedside.
Romance exhales, deep. “She’s out.”
“Good.” Baby mutters.
And in both their heads, you’re perfect.
“Well,” Romance mutters, brushing your hair out of your face tenderly, looking at Baby. “you can go now.”
Baby doesn’t move.
Romance doesn’t look at him again, just keeps his eyes on you, makes a little tsk sound like he’s doing the responsible thing, like he’s offering Baby an out. “You know. Since she’s sleeping. Nothing else for you to do.”
Still nothing from Baby. Not a twitch.
Romance dares to glance sideways, just briefly—and sure enough, there’s the baby-faced bastard still sitting cross-legged, unmoved, unmoving, with that flat expression he always wears. His face doesn’t give away anything. But his eyes? Murder. Absolute murder.
Romance smiles wider, cocky, charming. He can feel Baby getting mad, and he thinks it’s funny. He enjoys this. He thrives in this.
But Baby’s jaw flexes once. That’s all.
Romance leans back on one elbow, shifting on the bed like he’s relaxing. “C’mon,” he whispers with a little grin, “don’t you have something else to do? You usually do.”
Baby blinks slow. Looks at him like he’s already dug the grave and picked out the headstone.
Still doesn’t move.
Romance raises a brow, eyes darting meaningfully toward the door. “You’re not gonna just sit there all night, right?”
You stir, only slightly—just a twitch of your fingers against Baby’s knee. Your breath hitches, your mouth opens a little in sleep. You let out the tiniest whimper, almost like a sigh.
Both boys freeze.
Then, Baby’s hand moves. Very slowly, like he’s been planning it for ten minutes, he reaches down and brushes your knuckles with his pinky. Barely a touch. It’s the gentlest thing he’s done in a decade.
Romance’s nose twitches. His teeth grind together behind that ever-pleasant smile.
This bastard’s not leaving.
Baby’s not playing. He’s not pretending to be calm. He is calm. He’s decided. He knows what he wants.
Romance shifts again on the bed, eyes narrowing just slightly, almost daring Baby to move. To try something. But Baby’s already seated comfortably.
The air between them is thick now.
And in the middle of it all, you, nestled in your blanket cocoon. Eyes closed. Cheeks flushed from fever. Breathing soft and warm.
Baby doesn’t move. Won’t.
Romance finally leans back, resting on his hands, gaze flicking over you again. “…Fine.” he whispers. “Stay. See if I care.”
Baby doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t grant that the statement deserves acknowledgment.
And for now—for tonight—Romance lets it go. But only because you’re still petting Baby’s knee in your sleep. And Romance is pretty sure you don’t even know whose knee it is. But Baby? Baby will remember this forever.
Romance shifts just a bit, reaching for the edge of your tea mug, planning to at least fix the angle or—hell, maybe steal a sip just to spite Baby—when a thump hits his hip.
He blinks. Looks down.
The massive tail of Jinu’s absurdly huge tiger is curling around. Slowly. Firmly. With intention.
He whispers a warning. “Hey. Don’t.”
Thump. The tail swipes again—harder this time. A very clear get out.
Baby’s already watching, elbow on one knee, cheek in his palm, smirking just a little. Not enough to be obnoxious. Just enough to be smug.
But the tiger doesn’t give a single fuck. It shifts its enormous body a little, tucking its legs tighter around you like you’re its favorite person on earth (you are), and then gives one final, long, sweeping tail-whip that knocks Romance right off the side of the bed.
Whuff.
“—fucking hell.” he curses under his breath, barely managing to keep the crash quiet as he hits the carpet with a heavy thud, limbs flailing.
Not a sound leaves Baby’s mouth, but his shoulders shake, and there’s pure joy in the way his eyes light up.
He’s delighted.
He’s—
The tail turns.
Baby’s expression dies in slow motion.
THWUMP.
The tail slams into his side and sends him toppling backward off the mattress, legs flying up before he hits the floor beside Romance in a graceless pile of limbs and insulted pride.
Romance bursts into actual laughter this time—quiet, wheezy, biting down on his knuckle so he doesn’t wake you—but he’s definitely enjoying every second.
Baby glares at him, scrambling upright.
As Romance starts to get to his feet, Baby trips him. Right in the ankle.
Romance goes down like a shot, muffling a yelp into his sleeve.
But they get out of your room, barely. Shut the door so gently and so quiet.
And once they’re on the halls, Romance pushes Baby back by the shoulders, slamming him into the opposite wall. “You’re a fucking brat.”
“You’re a jealous dick.” Baby mutters, voice low and smug, his hair in his eyes, hands shoving back with equal force.
“Yeah?” Romance huffs, smiling with too many teeth.
Baby’s done. He grabs the front of Romance’s shirt and shoves him again, this time harder.
Across the hall, Abby appears in the doorway of his room, holding a donut(??) and a dumbbell. Mystery’s already standing next to him, hair messy, smile tugging at his mouth.
Jinu comes between them and shoves them apart, done with their shit. “Chill.”
Romance points an accusatory finger. “He started it—”
“No, no. Both of you. Shut up.”
Romance has his fist raised.
Baby’s mid-shove.
Both freeze.
Romance lowers his arm. Baby shrugs, as if to say whatever, but lets go of Romance’s shirt. Romance straightens his collar. Baby brushes tiger hair off his sleeves.
They don’t say anything, but the tension is dense as they shoulder past each other. Romance bumps Mystery’s shoulder as he passes, but Mystery just smirks.
When they’re gone, Jinu turns to your door and knocks once, out of habit, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he eases the door open a crack, just enough to look in.
Yeah.
There you are. Nestled deep in the blankets, wrapped in what looks like four layers of sweaters and socks and the literal massive striped beast that is his tiger. You probably don’t even realize your hand is still resting where Baby’s knee was earlier. Your cheek’s warm with sleep, your lips parted slightly, breath even and soft.
He stays there for a beat longer than necessary.
And then, gently, he pulls the door shut.
Click.
When he turns around—
“Jesus—”
Abby and Mystery are right there.
Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, looming behind him with their heads tilted at the same curious angle. Abby is so close he’s practically breathing down Jinu’s neck, while Mystery, half-hidden behind his hair, looks like he just wandered over.
Abby grins, unbothered. “How is she?”
“Fine.” Jinu mutters, brushing past them, but the smallest breath of relief sneaks into his tone. “Sleeping.”
Mystery just hums, barely audible. Satisfied. “Still sick?”
“Still sick.” Jinu confirms.
They follow Jinu as he walks back toward the main hallway. And Abby—being Abby—slings an arm over both Jinu and Mystery.
“So,” Abby starts, swaying them side to side. “what’s the schedule for tomorrow?”
Jinu sighs without stopping. “Rehearsal at ten, until three. The hunters have a show after that, we’ll be there.”
Abby laughs, still all warmth and big limbs and zero boundaries. “You’re such a good leader, Jinu. So organized. So brave.”
“Shut up.”
“Do you want a kiss?”
“I want you to vanish.”
“Damn, someone’s cranky.”
Jinu stops in front of the kitchen and leans both hands on the counter, head dipping briefly like he’s calculating how he can possibly make another day of a boyband work. Abby hops up to sit on the counter beside him like a damn toddler. Mystery slides into one of the barstools, turning a soda can slowly between his palms.
“She’s gonna be fine?” Abby asks, and for once it’s not a joke.
“Cool.” Abby says, kicking his feet. “Cool cool cool.”
Then he throws an arm around Jinu again, absolutely wrecking the quiet. “Okay, I’m off.”
“Brush your teeth.”
“Alrighty.”
Mystery stands too, and with that, the two disappear down the hall, the echo of Abby’s cackling trailing behind.
Jinu stays in the kitchen for a beat longer, eyes drifting to the hallway again. Quiet. Heavy.
And then, with a low breath, he turns off the lights and disappears too.
The next morning is… quiet?
They really do try for you.
It’s early. Jinu is already dressed. Silent steps. That’s how he moves. You’d never know he hadn’t slept a full night in weeks. That every time he shuts his eyes, he dreams of blood and old fire and the way you looked that night you cried into his chest, whispering that Abby was so nice.
He rolls his eyes a little at the memory, like he could shake the warmth out of his chest.
He moves to your door, pauses—listens.
Nothing. Or, more accurately, quiet breathing. One heartbeat slower than usual. Subtle shift in temperature, enough for him to smell how your body’s still trying to fight the fever.
He knocks once, gently.
Then opens the door.
And—oh. Yeah.
God.
You look like shit.
Honestly? You’ve stolen his creatures. That bird used to only perch on Jinu’s arm. That tiger used to… be dumb, okay, no big deal. Now look at them. Pets. Snuggle buddies.
Jinu’s eyes shift toward the two creatures also on the bed with you: his fucking bird perched smugly on your pillow and his massive tiger beast curled protectively around the bottom of the bed, tail twitching in rhythm to your breathing like he’s syncing himself with you.
You’re out of it. You look horrible.
He can’t even lie to himself about that. Your skin’s blotchy, your nose is red, and your mouth is half open with the driest breath in existence leaking out. Your hair is a mess. There’s a single tissue stuck to your hoodie’s sleeve.
Still, Jinu thinks you’re so beautiful it borders on physically uncomfortable.
And that just pisses him off.
Because this is wrong, isn’t it? The whole situation. He’s a demon—a real one, not the edgy-cute stage version. Four-hundred-plus years of destruction and indulgence and war crimes you probably couldn’t pronounce. He’s not built for… small, human kindness. He wasn’t made to witness someone cough into a tissue like a drowned kitten and feel something flutter in his chest.
So he stands there. Staring.
A long moment passes.
You look awful.
You look beautiful.
Then you stir. You don’t even open your eyes fully, just shift and let out a hoarse groan, squinting through a mess of hair and exhaustion, croaking something like, “…I feel like the inside of a shoe.”
Jinu’s mouth twitches. “I see. You planning to get up?”
You stretch. “Mmmmmyeah. Maybe.”
He doesn’t move. Just stays in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you as you finally, finally crawl out of bed. Every movement is wobbly and pitiful and you mutter a long string of complaints.
You pass him on your way to the bathroom, and he wordlessly falls into step behind you.
He just waits by the doorframe as you go into the bathroom and start your process, brushing your teeth, groaning at your reflection, attempting to wash your face while moaning “oh my god”
Jinu leans on the doorframe, watching with his arms folded.
You glance at him through the mirror. “You don’t have to stand there.”
He doesn’t move. “You could collapse.”
“I could collapse harder if you keep staring at me while I floss.”
His eyes flick away—finally—but he doesn’t leave. “Hurry up.”
You give a little smile around your toothbrush. It’s small. Tired. But god, it means something.
“Drink more.” he says without looking at you.
“I will.”
“Eat something when you can.”
“Kinda hard when I wanna die.” you joke.
He turns his head slightly to look at you. “Try not to.”
He watches your reflection while pretending not to. You rinse. Cough. Grab a towel and dab at your cheeks. You frown at the sight of yourself. Your voice, soft now: “I really do look like shit, huh?”
He says nothing for a moment. Then: “Not to me.”
You freeze. Turn a little. Look at him. But he’s already offering his hand.
You blink at it.
Then blink at him.
“…No.”
“Suit yourself.” he murmurs, retracting it just as easily, no offense taken.
Truthfully, he didn’t expect you to take it. You’re sick, not helpless. And you remember. You remember how this hand helped abduct you. How it’s choked the air from lungs that weren’t yours. You remember exactly who he is, even if you’ve started sleeping under blankets shared with his creatures and letting his music echo off your bedroom walls.
So he walks ahead, silent and patient, letting you shuffle behind like a very cute, very annoyed little ghost haunting him.
Abby’s shirtless, sweat on his temples like he just finished a run. He’s leaning on the counter, drinking from a carton you’re pretty sure he didn’t buy, and when he sees you, he gasps dramatically.
“Y/N! You’re ALIVE?”
“I’m trying.” you croak.
Mystery is perched on the counter, hoodie sleeves past his knuckles, swinging his feet lightly and watching you walk in with wide eyes. He doesn’t say anything—he never really does—but he waves. It’s slow and kind of awkward. It makes your stomach feel warm. You wave back.
Baby’s already seated at the island, chewing something that might be a cereal bar but looks more like some kind of demon jerky. He glances at you once, then away, uninterested—or pretending to be.
Romance? Romance practically LUNGES for you from the table, knocking his chair back with a loud screech.
“There she is!” he croons, reaching for your hand. “God, I was starting to think I dreamed you. I almost wept.”
You bat his hand away. “Touch me and you die.”
He grins. “There she is.” he says again, like he’s proud.
There’s something cruel about being sick in someone else’s home—especially when it’s your kidnappers’ home.
Especially if it’s Romance, who’s next bullshit is “Need someone to check your temperature, sweetness? I’ve got very gentle hands.”
Jinu is nudging you toward a stool. “Sit. Don’t engage.”
“I’m not.” you groan. “He engages himself.”
Behind you Abby grabs Baby by the hood, yanking it back.
You blink. “Pull up your pants, Abs.”
He does it with a wink, smug as ever.
Jinu hands you a cup of tea, gently placing a cool palm on your forehead. “Shh. Drink.”
You sip. It’s perfect. Too perfect. “You drug this?”
Jinu’s brows lift, mock-offended. “Would I?”
You stare at him.
He sighs. “Okay. A little.”
Behind him, Baby tosses a pillow at Abby’s head. Abby’s throwing hands. Mystery hisses. Romance sings something off-key but beautiful before touching the ends of your hair.
You jerk, groggy, sick, pissed. “Touch me again and I will throw you off this counter.”
“Mmm, promise?” he purrs. He’s already leaning in too close. “You’re so warm. You sure you don’t want me to feel your forehead with my lips? That’s what they did in the olden days—”
You slap his hand away so hard he makes a sound.
Abby leans in over you, plucks the cup out of your hand. You slap his hand, too.
“Hey!” you growl.
“Relax.” he drawls, setting the cup in the sink. “You’re not even strong enough to wipe your nose without breaking into a sweat. Sit down and let us take care of it.”
“I don’t want any of you to take care of anything.” you snap, slipping off the stool and nearly falling in the process.
Romance stands like he’s ready to catch you. Abby’s already got one arm behind you, steadying you without looking like he’s trying to.
They don’t look scared. But they are.
They fucking are.
You stumble to the fridge and yank it open.
Romance follows. “What do you want? Eggs? I’ll make you the most sensual omelet you’ve ever had—”
You grab the butter.
“…You want butter?”
You grab bread. Open the drawer. Butter knife.
Abby steps in, yanking the knife out of your hand before you can spread it. “Whoa there, killer. Not with those hands. Let men do the heavy lifting.”
“Oh my god.” you mutter, swaying slightly, gripping the edge of the counter.
Romance sees it first. His flirty grin falters for half a second. “Hey—breathe, okay? You’re looking a little, uh… soft around the edges.”
“One foot in the grave already.” Baby snorts.
“Stop following me.”
“Not following,” Romance purrs. “just… admiring. From a respectful—ow—Abby, you dick!”
“What are you even trying to do?” Baby asks from behind his phone.
“Make food.” you mutter.
“You’re barely standing.” Jinu says, clearly trying not to scold. “Let me.”
“No.”
You pull out an egg and nearly drop it. Your hand’s shaking. Not a good sign.
“Hey—hey—okay, time out.” Jinu says gently, stepping in. “You need to sit.”
“No.”
“Sit.”
“No.”
You make it to the stove and slap their stupid hands away when they try to take the egg. Your vision keeps doing that fun little tunnel thing, and your heartbeat’s way too loud in your ears, but damn it, you’re doing this. Your hands, burning hot and trembling, manage to crack the egg against the pan. The sizzle is satisfying. The shell falls half into the yolk.
“Fuck.” you whisper.
“Cute.” Romance whispers back.
You’re so sick. So goddamn sick. And you hate it, hate being this weak in front of them. They don’t deserve to see you soft or struggling. You want to snap at them. You want to win. But when you reach for the butter knife to scrape out the shell—
Abby steps in, easily plucking it out of your hand. “I got it, sicko.”
“Give it back.”
“No.” He expertly flips the egg like he’s been waiting to do this all week. He probably has.
“Fuck you.”
“After breakfast.”
Romance high-fives him over your head.
“Stop—” you grumble, swatting at them like flies, your knees buckling slightly. Jinu’s hands are immediately there, one at your lower back, the other curling around your arm. You hate how good he smells. Everything that could’ve been safe if not so wrong.
“I’m not sitting.” you insist.
He frowns—he worries. You can see it behind his smile. Behind him, Mystery glides in and wordlessly drags a chair behind you. You don’t even hear it. He just… appears. He nudges it with his foot. You don’t want to take it. You want to fight it. You—
You sink anyway.
“You’re so annoying.” you murmur.
He smiles.
You cough again, harder this time. Your whole body shakes. The chair feels too far from the earth. You’re definitely going to die here.
Romance drops to a crouch at your feet and rubs gentle circles on your thigh. “You okay, angel?”
You swat his hand again, but this time, it’s weak. He takes the hit like it’s a gift.
A hand smacks the back of his head—hard. Abby.
“Not helping.” Jinu mutters, carefully setting the plate you started, now finished by them, in front of you.
You eye it warily.
He puts a fork in your hand and curls your fingers around it. His thumb presses lightly against your palm. His eyes are so warm. There’s this depth to them—like he’s hurting with how much he wants to take care of you.
You take a bite, slowly.
And it’s… good.
Fucking hell, it’s good.
Romance watches your lips as you chew. Abby watches your throat. Baby looks away before he can be caught caring. Mystery’s standing behind you now. You feel his presence.
You stand up again.
“You’re done?” Jinu asks, voice calm—but watching you like you’re about to leap from a balcony.
“Yup.” Your knees wobble. “I’m gonna—uh, yeah, I’m going.”
“Going where?” Abby’s voice cuts in from the other side of the counter. “To the grave?”
You keep going. Even after Romance tries to physically block the hallway with his body.
“Out of my way, sex pest.” you murmur, shouldering past him. Your knees almost buckle. The hallway tilts a little.
No one says anything for a second. You think you might’ve won. You think—maybe—they’ve given up.
And then a shadow looms.
Big.
Solid.
“Alright.” Abby says, stepping in front of you, voice suddenly way too gentle. “You want a hug?”
“What? No—no. Fuck off—”
He wraps around you like a blanket of brick walls.
Jesus CHRIST.
His arms lock under yours, arm pressing across your back, muscles flexing around you. You get maybe half a breath in before you’re completely enveloped. Shoulder to shoulder. Stomach to stomach. Trapped.
His chest is against pressed into you. That absurdly hard, stupidly broad chest. You can feel each muscle—each one!—agaist you. His heartbeat thuds against you. His chin drops lightly onto the top of your head, his breath warm in your hair.
And it’s… weirdly… nice?
“Oh my god.” you breathe, forehead against his collarbone.
He chuckles softly. “Yeah. I give good hugs.”
“Let me go.”
“Not a chance.”
“Abby—”
“You are the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” he says, nuzzling lightly into your hair. “And I mean that with my whole chest.”
You roll your eyes. “Your whole chest, huh?”
“Mmhmm. Want a feel?”
You elbow him in the ribs. You might as well be elbowing concrete.
Then—without even asking—he lifts you off your feet.
Like it’s nothing.
Like you’re nothing.
Like you weigh nothing.
“What—put me down.” you croak, arms flailing. You start to struggle, but it’s pathetic. He’s carrying you down the hallway. And he’s so annoyingly strong. You can feel his arms under your thighs, his chest against your side, his skin warm and golden and—
This is so unfair.
“Abb—“
“Shhh.” he coos, bouncing you slightly. “Relax. Enjoy it.”
You peek back at the kitchen and wave limply. Just a little wave.
Only one person waves back, Mystery. A tiny little wave, like he’s five years old again. He’s… sweet. When he wants to be.
Jinu, of course, is already walking up behind Abby. “Be gentle, Abby.”
“I am gentle.” He angles you slightly so Jinu can see your face—and okay, yeah. You’re flushed. Your breathing’s shallow. Your eyelids keep drooping against your will. You are not doing well.
Jinu steps closer, walking beside the two of you now like he doesn’t trust Abby not to throw you over a shoulder and sprint off into the night.
Jinu sighs again. “Just… gently. Please.”
You groan. But your head tips forward again. Your body’s giving out. And even if you’ll never say it, the hug was perfect.
Abby grunts as he shifts you in his arms to reach for the doorknob, his biceps flexing under you. “Alright, angel. Bed time.”
“I can walk.” you mutter, voice hoarse.
Abby opens the door to your bedroom with his hip, stepping inside with all the careful grace of someone who is definitely not used to being careful.
“I don’t want to drop you.” he mutters, even though you’re practically melting in his arms. “So if you could, like, not pass out and slip through my fingers, that’d be great, baby.”
“Don’t drop her.” Jinu says, gently but firm, like he’s repeating it for himself as much as Abby.
“I got it, man.”
“Abby.”
“Fine, dad.”
Abby kneels beside your bed, careful not to jostle you too hard. You feel like you’re floating. He lowers you down like you’re made of something breakable, easing you onto the mattress.
“There.” Abby says softly, smoothing your hair out of your face with a weird gentleness that doesn’t match the rest of him. “See? Easy.”
You blink up at the ceiling, dazed. “Fuck off.”
“I can take her pulse.” Abby offers, one brow raised. “With my tongue.”
“Out.” Jinu says, tone flat.
Abby laughs, full-bodied and boyish, and backs up with hands raised. “Alright, alright. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
But the mood isn’t light. Because the two of them are hovering over you like you’re going to die any second. You’re human. You bleed. You sweat. You suffer. And they don’t know how to fix it. They can break necks and shatter bones with their bare hands, but you? You’re burning up, small and human and coughing into their expensive linens, and that terrifies them.
They’ve seen plagues. They’ve watched blood pour from mouths in alleyways. They’ve watched humans die under curses that had no names. They’ve fought things that smelled like death—rotted meat and smoke and something wet underneath the skin. They’ve seen it all.
“We’ll be outside.” Jinu finally says, voice low. “If you need anything.”
Then they leave. Abby first, rubbing his hands down his face like he’s trying to wipe off feelings. Jinu closes the door behind them with one last glance at you. He stops Abby in the hallway.
“Plans canceled today.”
Abby quirks a brow. “Like… all of them?”
“Yes.”
“You’re cancelling hunter hunting?”
Jinu sighs. Gwi-Ma’s gonna whoop his ass. “Not permanently.”
Abby leans against the wall, running a hand through his hair. His body is built to move—shoulders made for sprinting into chaos. Stillness doesn’t suit him. He shifts, fidgets. He’s never known how to sit with the quiet.
He hates that it’s not a person doing this to you. He could kill a person.
This?
This just waits.
He’s hugged thousands of fans. Dozens of flings. But that hug, god, that fucking hug.
You scared the fuck out of him. You always scare the fuck out of him, but this time it’s not because you flipped a knife at his neck or cursed him out mid-interrogation. It’s because you looked fragile. Small. Like you didn’t have enough fight in you to breathe.
He’d laugh, if it didn’t make him sick. He’s always been a fighter. They trained him like a dog. Fed him blood and steel and told him he was born for this. So he became what they wanted. Strong. Dangerous. Impossible. He kept himself like that, too. Like maybe if someone just touched him hard enough, they’d forget he’s held the dying, carried teammates in body bags, was once alone for three months in a bunker with only his brother’s corpse for company. (AN: guys I’m making lore up let me live)
But you fell asleep in his arms and he felt your heart beating against his ribs and it made him want to scream.
He’s used to bodies. Muscle. Bruises. Warm, worn-out people who only wanted the heat of him, not the truth. Sex without eye contact. Fights where he laughed through the blood. That was his rhythm. That was the pulse he built himself around.
If you asked for it? Right now? He’d take his clothes off without hesitation. Drop to his knees, spread his arms. He wouldn’t even expect to fuck. He’d just let you have him. Lay his body down like an altar and say: Here. For you. Everything. Take it. Please.
He thinks about you all the time.
He thinks about your mouth.
He thinks about you between all of them, sleepy and spoiled and worn out, covered in bruises from them, not because they were cruel—but because they couldn’t help it.
They’d worship you.
He’d lie down and let Mystery bite your shoulder while Romance made you sob and Jinu held your hand. Part of him thinks about you sandwiched between them, body warm and pliant, face tucked into someone’s chest while another pair of arms holds your hips. He imagines you being spoiled, worshipped by every single one of them. He’d let Romance kiss you while he held your thighs open. He’d let Baby whisper dirty things in your ear until you cried. He’d let Jinu fuck you slow and sweet. He’d even let Mystery leave marks down your chest because you’d like it.
As long as he got to hold your hand while it happened.
He’d share you.
He’d beg to.
Meanwhile, the big bathroom is a fucking sauna. Steam coats every tile. Water pours hot and endless from the tap, the kind of heat that could flay skin off if you weren’t a demon.
Romance is submerged to the neck in scalding water, chains still on, one leg perched on the tub’s edge. His hair’s wet, sticking to his cheekbones, lips parted.
Jinu knocks once.
“Come in.” Romance calls. “Clothes optional.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jinu opens the door just enough to be heard. “You’re staying home today.”
“Ugh.” Romance closes his eyes and sinks further into the bath, water lapping at his jaw. He doesn’t need to be told why. He just lies there, letting the water burn around him as Jinu leaves him alone.
Romance acts like he’s all flirt and friction. And maybe he is. But when no one’s looking, he sinks like stone. Into beds. Into bathtubs. Into any warmth that might feel like arms.
He wants to be touched. Wants to be kissed. Wants to be laughed at and hated and clung to. He likes hard, witty mouths, people who make it fun. And you do that—god, you do—but right now, you’re barely able to keep your head up.
But every time you enter a room, he has to pretend he’s not head over heels and a complete fool for you and his dick isn’t twitching. Pretend he’s not imagining what you’d sound like if he made you cry in a good way. Pretend he doesn’t want you bent over every surface in the house while the others watch.
Fuck.
He never had a heart that worked right. It wants too much. It wants you. He’d share, too. Gladly. Not even out of generosity. Out of need. He wants to see you loved in every way, all at once, until you forget what pain even is.
He’d take your lips when Abby’s done kissing your neck. Because he wants to be in the middle of it. Wants to have one of your hands in his, your back pressed to someone’s chest, your lips to someone else’s shoulder, and him—him—between your thighs, giving you something none of them can.
He wouldn’t even ask for much. Just a piece.
He thinks about it. Thinks about watching your face as someone else makes you fall apart—and his hands on your thighs, holding you open for it. He’d ruin you like worship, make you cry from love.
But if it meant keeping you? He’d do worse.
He should be shot.
He shifts in the tub, arms draped on either side, head tilted back. If he closes his eyes, he sees you under them. Crushed between Abby’s chest and Mystery’s hands, Jinu whispering comfort against your ear while Baby holds your chin and makes you look.
He should hate that he’d let them have you too. That he’d beg for it. That the thought of someone else making you cum while he watched with hands wrapped around your waist to keep you from running makes him throb under the water.
But he doesn’t hate it.
He dunks under the water.
On the other side of the apartment, the balcony is high above the city, wind cutting across Baby’s face, cigarette dangling from his lips. One leg hooked over the railing like he might jump just for the thrill of it.
Jinu opens the sliding glass door and says, “Put it out.”
Now he thinks caring is a disease. And he caught it. Somewhere between watching your hands shake and hearing you curse Romance under your breath.
He doesn’t even remember what he used to be. All he remembers is being a sweetheart, a betrayer, a backstabber.
Now he just watches.
He watches them love you. Abby with his muscles. Romance with his filth. Jinu with his hands. Mystery with his silence.
But he doesn’t know what to do with what he feels. Sometimes, he just wants to kiss your wrists. Other times? He wants to fuck you hard enough you forget your name.
Now his cigarette’s just ash, long dead in his fingers. He’s leaned against the railing, the city sprawling beneath him. He’s been watching people move. Living. Laughing. Going to cafes and touching each other.
He used to think he was above it. Above needing people.
We know who fucked that up, I’ll give a hint, you.
It’s awful.
He’s awful.
And he’d still share you.
Uuuuh, yeah, we’re back there.
Because he knows—deep down—they’re all thinking it too.
They want your moans like a melody. Your body like a feast. Your soul like a throne.
He wants to be the one you look at after. When it’s all done. He wants to see your eyes glazed and ruined and still full of that stupid, angelic light. He’d sit at the edge of the bed. Light you both a cigarette after. Pretend it doesn’t make his chest hurt. If he had to share you to get that? He’d do it.
One more cigarette. Then he’ll go in.
He’s said that five times now.
Not like it hurts him.
He flicks ash off the balcony, watching it float.
The library is mostly unlit, save for a reading lamp glowing like a firefly. Mystery is curled on the shaggy rug beside Derpy. He strokes the cat’s spine in long, precise lines. The thing purrs like a car engine. He doesn’t speak when Jinu enters. Doesn’t look up.
Jinu says, “We’re not leaving today.”
Mystery nods once. Doesn’t break rhythm. The cat shifts its weight. Settles in closer.
Jinu hesitates, as if wanting to say something else. Then walks away.
He doesn’t know love like they do. Not really. But he knows obsession. He dreams about biting you. About bruising your neck. About pulling your hair until you scream and then whispering thank you against your spine.
He’d learn. If it meant keeping you.
Now the tiger has fallen asleep with its tail wrapped around his thigh, and he’s just… still. Still, and listening. He’s always listening. For your breathing. For your coughs. For Jinu’s footsteps. He tracks every movement like a dog waiting for its master.
He doesn’t speak to the others, not about this. Doesn’t need to. He feels their desperation like it’s stitched into his own skin.
He’s worse than them.
Because he’s already accepted it. The obsession. The longing. The things he’d do.
He dreams of you at night, whimpers when you’re gone too long, curls up at your door when no one else is looking. He’s feral. He knows it. He’s okay with it.
He doesn’t just want you.
He needs you.
He would share. Of course he would. He already does. Their touches are his. Their kisses, his too. Every time you smile at one of them, he stores it away like a treasure. He doesn’t get jealous.
He gets off on it.
He’d kneel beside your bed and press kisses to your ankle while the others made you moan.
He wants you every way.
In Jinu’s room, the door clicks shut behind him. He exhales slowly. Then he sits. On the edge of his bed, hands resting on his knees.
He sees how close you are to slipping through their fingers.
You’re not a mission anymore. Not the little help. Not a toy.
You’re the thing. The one. He’s never hated the human body more than this moment—how helpless it is, how breakable. How much it can be taken away. And now you’re sick and small and soft, and it’s his fault you’re not in your own bed with people who love you.
He thought he was past this. Feeling things like this. He’d survived war. Massacres. Curses. Whole countries in collapse. He’d seen viruses rip through entire cities, heard the way people screamed when it reached their children first.
He hadn’t cried for any of it.
And now? Now he can’t stop thinking about the way your lips trembled when you whispered “I’m not going to tell you anything.” Even while they hurt you. Even while you bled.
He’s not the type to share.
But he would.
He would—god, he would—if it meant keeping you.
And the boys would kill each other for you. Or worse—share you. Hold your wrists. Your thighs. Your secrets. One of them between your legs while the other whispers in your ear. He’d take what he could get. If that meant Romance pressed against your other side in the dark, if it meant Abby’s hands holding your waist, if it meant Mystery’s mouth at your throat while Baby whispered filth in your ear—
If you were safe through it all?
If you stayed?
He’d say yes.
There are five demons in this apartment. They wear cologne and expensive shoes now. Laugh too loud, flirt too hard, eat cereal straight from the box. But underneath? They’re rot and ruin stitched into beautiful boy-shapes.
Gwi-Ma made sure of that.
They’ve been tortured. Starved. Burned alive and brought back. They’ve heard screams from rooms they weren’t allowed to enter, and held friends who didn’t have faces anymore. Gwi-Ma didn’t just control them—he owned them.
His pretty little monsters.
His pet projects.
His failures.
Jinu would rather earn a piece of you—an inch, a sigh, a touch—than hoard what was never his.
But the thought of you in all their arms at once? That thought ruins him. Not with jealousy. With need.
He tells himself it’s a dream.
But it’s not.
It’s a plan. One he’d never say out loud.
Gwi-Ma broke Abby’s hands once. Told him his strength meant nothing if it wasn’t used in service of darkness. But now with that strength, he can’t stop touching you. Hugging you. Grinning when you hiss at him, even when you’re pale and shaking. It’s not flirtation. It’s desperation.
Sleep isn’t rest for him. It’s a rerun of things he should’ve stopped. Missions he should’ve aborted. Screams he didn’t quiet fast enough. People he held together with his bare hands while they bled out, whispering that it was okay even when it wasn’t.
And that gets dulled, because yes, fuck, he thinks about you. Laying across his bed, sleepy, shirt off, one leg hooked around his waist. Thinks about Romance on your mouth, Baby on your chest, Jinu murmuring praise into your throat while he holds your thighs open.
He’s imagined you under him, hands tangled in his hair, voice cracking as he whispered, “Does that feel good, baby?”
But more than that? He’s thought about Romance kissing your neck while he did it. Mystery behind you, mouth against your shoulder. Baby watching, lip bitten raw.
Gwi-Ma didn’t torture Romance the way he did the others.
No. Gwi-Ma liked Romance.
Which was worse.
Romance learned to seduce. To arch his back for power. To purr for mercy. He kissed. He let people touch him. He sold parts of himself until he didn’t know which piece was his.
When you’re strong, he teases.
When you’re weak, he aches.
And when he touches himself late at night, face buried in a pillow to muffle the sound, it’s not some stranger in his head.
It’s you.
On your knees between them. Or spread out across Mystery’s lap while Abby feeds you his fingers. Or smiling at Romance from under Jinu’s arm as Baby growls at the edge of the bed.
He’d let Abby take your mouth. He’d let Jinu fuck you first. Slow. Reverent. He’d let Mystery watch in silence, eyes hungry and dark. Baby laugh at you.
He wants you any way he can have you. He wants you to fight. To cry. To cling to his wrist while he makes you see stars. Wants to pin you down and ruin you—only to kiss you afterward, slow and shaky, like he’s saying thank you.
He’s so fucked up over you he could scream. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lies in his room now, hips twitching, rock-hard and pathetic, whispering your name into a pillow he’ll never wash again.
Baby’s inside in his closet. He’s just hiding from the world, okay? From the others. From the idea of you slipping through his fingers. From the truth.
Because the truth is this: Gwi-Ma kept him in a cage. Metaphorically, luckily. Called him “pretty” when he obeyed and tortured him when he didn’t. Hurt people hurt people. His body is his own now, sure. But his heart? Completely ruined.
Until you.
He watched you sleep for three hours once. You didn’t know. You never will. He counted every breath. Timed the rise and fall of your chest.
He’d ruin you if he wasn’t careful. So he isn’t careful. Not in his mind.
You, shaking under him. Mystery holding your wrists. Romance laughing like a sin, Abby growling into your throat, Jinu whispering, “You’re okay.”
He wants it.
He wants all of it.
He’d never tell you. Never admit it. He’ll keep being an asshole and smoking when he shouldn’t. But if you asked him, really asked him?
He’d lie down like a good dog and beg for it.
For you.
For forever.
Mystery can hear it. That soft, sick inhale. The occasional whimper. The way your legs shift under the sheets. He catalogues it all. Commits it to memory.
He’s thinking of before. Of cages and chains and words that peeled the skin off his sanity. Gwi-Ma didn’t torture him the same way as the others. He made him like it. Made him crave his praise. When he disobeyed, he’d withhold it. Let him sit in the dark for days, whispering, “Good boys don’t make noise.”
He didn’t speak for two years.
Now? He still barely does.
But with you? You never force him. Never rush him.
Now he wants to curl around you like a beast. Wants to press his body to yours and watch you melt, soft and needy. Wants to feel your fingers in his hair, tugging when he growls at the others to wait their turn.
But if you looked him in the eyes and said you wanted them too?
He’d bare his neck and kneel.
Because love isn’t something he understands.
But obedience?
That, he’s mastered.
And if you command it—if you want him—he will follow.
Anyways, after putting you to bed, they didn’t know what to do with themselves because Jinu canceled everything.
You were bundled in warmth, finally resting, and without you, they were aimless. Disarmed. Feral with no leash.
Romance made it ten minutes before his shirt was off and his hand was halfway down his pants on the living room couch, claiming he was “just adjusting.” Jinu told him to go to his room.
Abby, meanwhile, was baiting a fight. No real reason. He’d made three laps around the kitchen, opened every cabinet twice, and then leaned into Baby’s space with a grin that was absolutely asking for violence. “Hey, brat. Bet I could knock your smug little ass out before you blink.”
Baby smirked. “Try it and you’ll eat through a straw.”
Two seconds later, they were flipping chairs.
Mystery got involved because he always did when someone hit Abby too hard—and then Romance jumped in just because he was bored. Suddenly fists were flying, Baby was biting, Abby was laughing like a psycho, and Jinu walked in with a mug of tea only to stop cold at the sight of four grown, supernatural men having an all-out wrestling match on his imported persian rug.
“Do you have brain damage?” he asked no one in particular.
Romance bitched about Mystery grabbing his hair.
Mystery bit him harder.
Baby slammed into the wall.
Abby shouted, “LET’S FUCKING GO” as he body-slammed Mystery into the floor, both of them laughing like murder was foreplay.
And when you stirred upstairs—just barely—coughing soft, your voice cracking like glass—
All five of them froze.
Like dogs hearing the front door open.
Abby spent the next hour shadowboxing the kitchen. Shirtless. Again. Kicked a hole in the wall by accident and then slapped Baby across the head. It devolved into a full-on brawl that ended with Jinu pulling them apart and Romance dramatically holding an ice pack on his own crotch for no real reason. He got thrown over the couch three times. Baby blew smoke into Jinu’s face.
Now, it’s the middle of the night. Around two am, and you hear your door open.
You blink yourself awake. Everything aches.
Mystery is the one standing there, half-lit by the hallway. Pale. Barefoot. Shirtless. Hair still messy from earlier. A bruise blooming on his cheek. A faint trail of blood down his shoulder—likely Abby’s elbow. Or the wall.
You sit up, weak and slow. “C’mere.” you whisper, patting the bed beside you. “You okay?”
He hesitates.
Then nods. One sharp, clipped motion.
You scoot over, blanket rustling. Every move takes effort. Your body feels like dying. But he moves forward anyway. Just sits at the edge of your bed.
You whisper. “You’re bleeding.”
“Not mine.” he murmurs.
You smile faintly. “Figures.”
He doesn’t reply, maybe that was his version of a laugh.
You fall back asleep, lips parted, really out of it. But with him near.
Mystery stays perched at the edge of your bed. Your fever warms the air between you and there’s something fragile about this moment. You curl into yourself in the night, shivering once, and he moves instinctively, slow and quiet, pulling the blanket over your shoulder. His knuckles brush your cheek. You’re still burning.
He stays long after you’re gone to dreamland. Watches the way your chest rises and falls in uneven rhythm. Memorizes it. Commits it to muscle, to blood.
And then right before sunrise he leaves.
You never even stirred.
Still in the middle of the night, the kitchen’s lit low with the soft glow of Jinu’s laptop screen. He’s sitting there, brows furrowed, typing one-handed while scrolling through symptoms.
He’s on his fifth medical site. A cold, probably. Flu, maybe. Something worse? No. Don’t go there.
Next to him, Abby’s half-leaning on the counter, one hand absentmindedly draped over Jinu’s back, palm flat and warm. It’s not romantic.
Jinu sighs. Doesn’t even look over. “It’s a cold.”
“Cool.” Abby says. And slaps him, hard, once on the shoulder like a congratulation. “Doctor Jinu, blessin’ us.”
Jinu rolls his eyes. Doesn’t shove him off.
They sit there for a while in silence. Then footsteps. Bare. Light.
Baby walks in. He’s wearing black sweatpants and one of Jinu’s old hoodies that falls off one shoulder. No phone. Just himself. And an expression like he hasn’t slept in a week.
He stops at the fridge, opens it, stares like maybe it’ll reveal the meaning of life.
Jinu nods to him. Abby says, “Yo.”
Baby grunts.
Jinu looks up. “How’s your head?”
“Fine.”
“Didn’t look fine when Mystery nearly dislocated it earlier.”
“…still fine.”
And that’s the whole conversation.
He pulls out juice. Drinks it straight from the bottle. Abby flicks the back of his head. Jinu side-eyes him but doesn’t argue.
And then somehow… they’re sitting together. Abby sprawled across two chairs. Baby across from Jinu. No one saying much.
The stillness is nice.
Boyish.
They learned how to lock out each other’s noises, their brain ignores the little thing when it comes to each other.
That said, Romance put on a whole performance for himself. Candles. Oils. All just foreplay for his own fantasy. Because he couldn’t go into your room. That would ruin everything. You were sick. Vulnerable. Innocent.
But his imagination wasn’t.
Romance lay in steaming water, AGAIN, one hand lazily dragging over his chest, the other… buried in bubbles, making him whimper your name.
My point with this is that the others simply don’t hear his bullshit anymore. They could listen to Romance jerk off, but they won’t. Their brain ignores it at this point.
Anyways, he imagined you walking in, catching him, asking if he was okay. That shy little look you gave when you pretended not to notice how insanely hot he was. He imagined offering you a seat between his legs, whispering, “You’ll feel better with me, baby.”
He came so hard he nearly drowned himself.
Laid there after, gasping, fucked-out, and a little mad. He dried off lazily. Dragged himself to his room. Laid there on the bed with the sheets tangled around his legs and one arm slung across his eyes.
Romance has known a hundred bodies. A thousand beds. But the thought of your fevered breath against his neck? Made him ache like he was seventeen again. Like nothing had ever been taken from him.
And hours later, Abby’s snoring on his stomach. Jinu fell asleep with the laptop on his chest. Baby’s curled like a cat in the corner of the couch. Romance is face down on the bed, still kinda wet. Mystery fell asleep too, Derpy in the bed with him.
And you, in your room? You wake up in the morning to sunshine. A little less hot. A little more alive. But the bed’s empty beside you.
And when you listen carefully? The apartment sounds like boys. Shuffling. Grunting. Distant laughter. Cereal boxes dropping. Someone yelling “STOP DOING THAT WITH YOUR TOOTHBRUSH.”
You don’t even move.
Your body’s drenched in sweat, pillow humid with it. You feel disgusting. Hollow. Your mouth tastes like someone poured your own snot into it, stirred it with dust, and then punched you in the tonsils. Your muscles ache. Your sinuses are gloop.
But the fever’s lower. You can tell.
You don’t even get time to sit up.
There’s a crash.
A scrape.
A—“Shitfuck—ow, why is this—”
Boom.
Your door slams open. Hard.
Romance is clutching the doorframe with all the grace of someone who fell into it, and is trying very hard to look like he meant to. His shirt’s unbuttoned. And he’s already smiling.
“Baby,” he says, voice still soaked in sleep and sex. “you’re alive.”
You stare.
You are:
✔️ Sweaty
✔️ Coughing
✔️ Still dying
✔️ Not in the mood
He walks in. No knock. No asking. No hesitation. Just Romance. He makes his way toward the bed like you summoned him. Like he’d been waiting for the signal. The second your consciousness sparked back into your bones, he’d been on the move.
You try to sit up, weakly. “Romance—”
“Oh, don’t say my name like that.” he purrs. “You’ll make me blush.”
You roll your eyes. He sits at the edge of your bed without asking. Leans forward, elbows to knees, gaze crawling all over your face.
And that’s the thing about Romance. He is romantic. Too much. Speaks slow. Stares long. Makes everything he says sound like a prophecy. His voice is angelic. You know he flirts with everything—chairs included—but it still feels real when he talks to you.
“I was worried.” he says softly. A beat. “I mean. Not really. I knew you’d be fine. So stubborn. So—” his eyes flick to your chapped lips, then to the flushed color in your cheeks. “—hot.”
You scowl, half-hearted. “Fever.”
“I know.” he sighs dramatically. “And still. So soft. You should see yourself.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m in love.”
You groan. You try to pull the blanket up over your face. Romance moves faster, grabbing it and folding it down neatly like he’s tucking you in.
“You should drink something.” he whispers. “Tea? Water? There’s like seventeen kinds of ginger root downstairs. We can grind them into a potion or… I don’t know. You could just spit in my mouth. That works too.”
You shove him. Weakly.
Behind him, somewhere down the hall, you hear a loud: “Romance, did you break her door again?”
“Noooo~” he yells back, singsong.
It was absolutely him.
He looks back at you. “You’re still hot, by the way.”
“Still a fever.”
“Makes me want to catch it.”
“Get out.” you mutter, but your voice is soft.
Romance leans back just enough to stretch, arms above his head, shirt pulling up to show just a sliver of toned stomach. He catches your eyes looking. Smirks. Then he stands. Winks. He leaves your door open on purpose.
And you’re too tired to close it.
You should be furious.
You should be screaming. Trying to escape. Plotting revenge.
Instead?
You’re curled in a nest of too-soft blankets in an overpriced bed, and you’re thinking about—
Children.
Them.
As children.
But it’s not even weird. It’s just soft. Too soft. The fever’s dragging the walls of your mind down with it, and everything’s tender. You’re so weak for children. The idea of them as children… that vulnerability, that innocence—that before—oh fuck.
You sniff. You blame the fever.
But you keep thinking of little Mystery
What was he like? Before all this. Before the growling. Before he got so good at keeping his mouth shut and his hands fast and bloody.
He probably had a brother.
You know he did.
Older, maybe. The kind of sibling who always walked a little ahead, glancing back with just enough impatience to let you know he still cared. You imagine Mystery with short, wild hair. Smudged cheeks. A boy who ran barefoot. Skin scraped on rocks. A mouth full of laughter. Not growls.
He wasn’t shy.
Not at first.
He talked. He laughed. He ran too fast, climbed trees too high. He was probably the one who came home with bloody knees and half a frog in his pocket, holding it up proudly.
Until something happened.
Until everything happened.
And he went quiet.
And god, Baby. That little shit was always like this. You just know it. Mouth too quick, eyes always rolled. The kind of kid who got away with everything. You imagine him with dimples and a wild mop of hair, already giving attitude at age five. Pulling at skirts, rolling his eyes, stomping his little feet with purpose.
He was raised by women. You can tell. Aunties. Sisters. Maybe a mother who smacked him upside the head with a slipper and told him to fix his face before she did it for him. She loved him to death though.
You think of him—tiny, five maybe—stomping around a dusty house full of women. Sisters. Cousins. Aunties. Every last one of them rolling their eyes at his tantrums but loving him anyway.
He was probably spoiled.
Probably screamed when they cut his hair. Probably kicked every adult in the shin when they tried to pinch his cheeks.
He was loved.
Deeply.
You cannot unsee baby Abby with chubby cheeks. This little menace had cheeks. Chubby, kissable ones. You know it.
The kind of toddler who’d get swarmed by old women trying to pinch him and hated every second of it. Probably ran around with a wooden sword and no pants, demanding someone “duel him” at age three.
He was a mama’s boy. You just know.
You bet he climbed on everything. Fences. Trees. Horses.
Probably fell off them all, too.
He was soft once. Chubby hands in his mother’s. Wide eyes looking up in awe at the men in armor. You think maybe he wanted to be like them. He was born with that fire. But back then, he wasn’t scary.
Oh, Romance was noble-born. Absolutely.
He was the adored son. The perfect heir. Son of a nobleman with land, money, horses. You bet his mother dressed him in silks before he could walk. You bet his father loved him.
Romance was adored.
Told every day that he was handsome and smart and destined for greatness.
He probably kissed a boy in a courtyard once. And a girl the next week.
Romance loved everything. Always has.
You can imagine Jinu so hard to be good. To be useful. The perfect son. The perfect brother. You think he made hard choices even as a child.
There had to be a time when he was small. When he clung to someone’s leg. When he cried too loud and got picked up and held close and told it was okay.
He was clever. Beautiful. Eventually he got what he wanted. He always did.
You’re supposed to be plotting their downfall. You’re supposed to be spitting in their water bottles and flipping them off every chance you get.
Not lying here imagining them as kids. Imagining their mothers. Their little hands. Their lives before they were monsters.
But you can’t help it.
I literally got memes from THREE different people, thank you so much babies💋
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.
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:
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.
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.”
I absolutely LOVED your Saja boys x assistant for your writing is honestly amazing 🙏
Sooo I wanted to know if I can ask for another one 🙏
If you don't mind can you do a scenario or story (not actually sure what it's called) for kpop demon hunters, the Saja boys when your secretly dating one of their members like Abby or Romance or baby (you can pick, or do 2 or both of them) and your apart of Huntrix and they find out and their reaction isn't good.
THANK YOU 🤍💜
HUNTR/X FINDING OUT YOU’RE DATING A SAJA BOY
cw: mentions of sex and rewinds of sex so we can technically say nsfw, secret relationships, arguments, cursing—and tell me if I missed something
PLOT: Three hunters? History says four! At least in this universe it sure does, because you’re a member of HUNTR/X, a beautiful sweetheart, the dream girl actually. That’s the exact reason a Saja Boy had interest in you. And that Saja Boy is…
JINU
It started like a joke. Like the dumb kind of thing you whisper to yourself when you’re three drinks deep after a long night of demon slaying, bruised, blood-splattered, and sore in all the wrong places, “Wouldn’t it be so stupid if I let that cocky little shit Jinu kiss me?”
Except you did. And you let him do a lot more than that.
You know damn well this is wrong.
You’re supposed to hate the Saja Boys.
But then there’s Jinu.
Oh, Jinu.
You know better. You do. But you also know how he kissed you the first time, like he was starving for it, like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, that you’ve been driving him crazy.
Every time you sneak off, telling Mira you’ve got to “clear your head”, lying to Zoey about meeting friends, making up some bullshit mission Rumi would definitely sniff out if she wasn’t so busy being ten times the badass you pretend to be, you end up in Jinu’s room. Usually on his lap. Sometimes against a wall. Once in the backseat of a staff car, which, honestly, was way too cramped for the kind of shit he wanted to try. (But did you complain? No. You just bit his shoulder to muffle the sounds.)
You keep saying it’ll be the last time. Every single time, you tell yourself:
This is it. I’m cutting it off. I shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a demon. I’ll kill him when we’re done.
And every single time, you end up under him again, hips rolling, nails dragging down his back while he whispers filth.
You shouldn’t be doing this. Every second with him is a risk. If Zoey finds out? She’ll be furious. If Rumi finds out? You’re dead. If Mira finds out? You might wish you were.
But fuck… it feels good to be wanted like that.
So no. You’re not telling the girls. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because that boy is a demon, still.
You can see it in the yellow flickers in his eyes when too much happens to his body. The way his voice changes when he’s angry, the shadow under his skin when his temper spikes, like there’s something inside him, snarling.
Because there is. Gwi-Ma.
You hate that freak. You really, truly do.
He’s not always loud, but when he is, you feel so bad for Jinu.
Sometimes, you’ll catch Jinu zoning out—just for a second—and when he blinks back into himself, there’s this… weight. A bitter taste in the air. You know it’s Gwi-Ma.
You’ll be tangled in Jinu’s sheets, your mouth on his throat, your nails digging into his ribs while he gasps, and then suddenly he’ll choke out a laugh. You’ll ask, “What?” thinking you did something good, and he’ll groan, cover his face and mutter, “Ignore him.”
Like??? Fuck off, Gwi-Ma. (He also once called you “delicious,” which Jinu immediately apologized for by dropping to his knees and staying there for a long time. It helped.)
There was also that one time you were straddling Jinu on the couch in his dressing room, and he went real still, eyes distant, and then just groaned, “Shut the fuck up.” into your neck.
But here’s the thing. Gwi-Ma’s always there—always. Jinu can’t shake him, can’t silence him, not completely. And yet… you don’t feel the urge to pull a blade on him. Not like you would with anything else that dark and dangerous.
You should. You know that. Every instinct in your hunter-trained, scar-hardened body should scream put it down before it turns on you.
But you don’t.
Because the truth is? The demon’s a parasite. But Jinu? Jinu’s not the demon. He’s the boy fighting it. Every single day. You see it when his eyes flash for just a second and he has to swallow it down. You see it in the way he looks at you, like he’s scared you’ll see it, too. The rot inside. The crack in the mirror.
But you already do.
And you love him anyway.
No, wait, you didn’t mean to say that. Not even in your own head. But it’s out here now.
You love him.
He hasn’t said it. Not out loud. But you know. You know by the way he touches you when he thinks you’re asleep. Soft fingertips, trailing your spine, memorizing the shape of you. You know by how he always lets you go first when you argue, even if he hates it. By the way he flinches when you joke about your death like it’s just another occupational hazard.
And sometimes? When you least expect it, he says shit that almost counts.
Like, “I’d burn the world down if anything happened to you.”
Or, “I like who I am when I’m around you. I don’t hear him as much when you’re close.”
And maybe that’s what really fucks you up.
You thought you were just in it for the heat. For the adrenaline. For the sex and the secrecy and the thrill of knowing you were doing something very bad with someone very pretty.
But now? You’re in deeper.
Worse, so is he.
You’re full on dating. Dating dating.
You should be enemies.
Instead, you’re in his bed.
Heart beating fast.
Shirt already half-off.
And he’s looking at you like you’re the last light he can still see in the dark.
You don’t trust this.
You don’t trust yourself.
But when he kisses you, slow and scared and wanting, the demon in him quiet for just a second?
You let him have you.
Again.
And again.
And again.
You also like the tiger. Or cat. Or tiger-cat. Whatever. You still don’t even know what to call it.
You remember the first time you saw it, you thought it was some kind of hellbeast and went for your blade, and Jinu was like, “Waitwaitwait, he’s chill.”
And now? You’ll be at Jinu’s place, half-naked, trying to sneak in a post-mission quickie, and suddenly there’s a 600-pound animal flopping on your legs like it’s a house cat.
Like, sir. Please.
Your vibe is adorable but your mass is inconvenient.
It loves to curl around the both of you like some kind of living, purring barrier. It’d be cozy if it didn’t also come with the crushing weight of “You move, you die.”
And then there’s the bird that hates everyone. Except Jinu. And sometimes, very begrudgingly, you. But only if you bring food. Or if you’re crying, which you hate that he knows. The bird is weirdly intelligent like that.
Sometimes he lands on your shoulder and just sits there while you and Jinu are talking. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t squawk. Just watches. It’s unsettling, but Jinu swears it’s a sign of affection. (You’re not totally convinced it’s not reconnaissance.)
Then, you got caught, babe.
Now, you’re wearing a little shirt that barely reaches your navel and a little black thong. You’re barefoot on your balcony, one hand resting on the railing, the other clutching a soda you don’t even really want. Your legs are sore, your back hurts, your lip’s still split from earlier, and the last thing you need is—
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You jolt. Turn.
“What the fuck, Jinu?” you hiss, slamming your soda down and rushing to him. “What are you—how did you even get up here?!”
He’s grinning. Soft, smug, absolutely useless in his very kissable way.
“Teleported.” he says. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”
“Jinu. They’re home.”
“And?”
He says it so easy. So breezy. Like your heart isn’t trying to hammer through your ribs. You grab him by the arm and drag him fully onto the balcony, pressing him into the wall so he’s out of sight from the windows. Your face is close to his now, too close.
His eyes flick down your body, lazy but appreciative. “You’re not exactly dressed for company.”
You slap his chest. “Don’t make me push you off this building.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst way to die.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. Your hand’s still on his chest, and he’s warm under your palm. Steady. Calm. Like nothing can touch him, not even the hurricane that’s about to slam into your life when this secret finally gets out.
“You’re insane for coming here.” you murmur, quieter now. “What if they see you?”
“I missed you.”
That’s it. No drama. No poetic nonsense. Just those three words, spoken so plainly you feel the ground shift under you.
You swallow. Your throat’s dry. Your hand drifts up, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw. “You couldn’t just text? Send a letter with your cat?”
“I needed to see you.”
He leans in, just a little, and you follow because of course you do. His lips brush yours once, just a ghost of a kiss, and it’s enough to turn your knees to—
Gasp.
You freeze.
The sound comes from inside the room.
Both of you turn your heads just in time to see the door swing open, Zoey standing there, eyes wide, mouth fully agape.
“…oh my god.” she breathes.
Then the door slams shut again.
“Oh my god.” you echo, gripping the balcony railing like it’s going to save your soul. “Oh my god. Jinu. She saw you. She saw us.”
“She didn’t knock.” Jinu says, baffled.
“WHY WOULD SHE KNOCK? IT’S MY ROOM.”
You whirl on him, panic spiking like adrenaline in your veins. Your whole face is on fire. Your body’s moving already, ushering him toward the edge of the balcony, trying to think, to fix, to stop the bleeding of this moment from leaking into the rest of your life.
“She’s going to tell Rumi. Mira. Bobby. She’s going to tell everyone. Oh my god.”
“Okay.” Jinu says, still infuriatingly relaxed. “And?”
“And?!”
He’s smiling again, like this is funny, like you’re just being dramatic. He has no idea how bad this is. You shove him toward the railing with a hand to the back of his head, not hard, just enough to make him stumble.
“Go.” you hiss. “Go, now. I’ll fix it.”
“You’re gonna ‘fix’ getting caught half naked with me on your balcony?” he laughs, holding the ledge like he’s deciding whether to leap or wait for you to calm down.
You swat the back of his head again.
He laughs harder.
And somehow… somehow, that helps.
Because he’s not scared. He’s not shaking like you are, imagining Rumi’s furious stare or Mira’s disappointment or Zoey’s lethal level gossip abilities. He’s just… there. Present. Unbothered.
You exhale hard. Press your forehead to his chest for just a second. He lets you. His hands come up, hold your waist gently, swaying with you.
“Go.” you whisper again. “Please.”
He nods. Serious now. The playfulness fades, just a little. He cups your cheek, presses one last kiss to your lips, then steps back over the balcony’s edge.
And disappears.
You’re left standing there. Heart racing. Lips tingling. Whole body humming like you’ve been plugged into an outlet.
Inside, you hear footsteps.
Voices.
Loud ones.
Zoey’s already telling them.
“Shit.” you breathe, dragging a hand through your hair. “Shit shit shit.”
But even with the panic creeping up again, you can’t stop the small, ridiculous smile that curls onto your face.
Because that dumb, beautiful demon boy came here just to see you.
You don’t even bother throwing on shorts. Just storm out of your room in the tiny shirt and thong you were already wearing, not because you’re trying to prove a point, but because fuck it, the point already proved itself.
You race down the hallway, barefoot, still breathless from the sheer velocity of your panic. The walls feel like they’re closing in with every step. And as you reach the living room, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Zoey’s perched on the arm of the couch. Her popcorn is real. You knew she’d have popcorn.
Mira’s sitting, arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed. Her expression isn’t angry. Not yet. Worse, it’s disappointed.
Rumi’s standing. Her arms are crossed too, and her face is blank in that terrifying way that says: I haven’t decided whether to scream or murder someone.
You stop cold in the doorway.
“…hi.”
No one answers.
You laugh. Short. Nervous. “Okay. So. Surprise?”
Zoey makes a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a cackle. “Surprise? GIRL.”
Rumi’s voice cuts through, quiet and sharp. “Sit down.”
You glance around. “I’m, uh, I’m not really dressed for a—”
“SIT.”
You sit.
“Zoey saw Jinu.” Mira says, voice like ice water down your back. “On your balcony. With you. And not in a friendly way.”
“Wasn’t a kiss on the cheek, hun.” Zoey adds, tossing popcorn in her mouth.
“Zoey.” Rumi scolds gently.
Zoey zips it. Barely. She’s vibrating with drama high. Her foot’s tapping. She’s dying to see how this plays out.
Mira leans forward. “How long.”
You blink. “What?”
Mira’s eyes are lasers. “How. Long. Has this been going on.”
You swallow. “…A while.”
“A while?” Rumi explodes, stepping forward. “Define ‘a while,’ because ‘a while’ sounds like weeks, and if this has been going on while we were out risking our asses, while we were fighting off demons and you were texting your little boyfriend under the table, I need to know that before I go to prison for launching a sword through the next Saja concert.”
You flinch. “Okay, whoa, let’s not—”
“WAS HE AT THE CEMETERY FIGHT?” Zoey blurts, her eyes wide. “Because you said you were on break that day and he was also conveniently there! Oh my god—were you hooking up behind the mausoleum while I was getting bit by that demon?”
“That was one time.” you snap.
“You just admitted it!” Zoey screams, victorious.
“Okay, enough.” Rumi says, holding up a hand. She turns back to you. “Is it serious?”
And you freeze.
Because there’s the real question.
They’re not just mad about the secret. They’re mad because they know what this means. You don’t sneak around for fun. You lie to protect. So if you were protecting him…
Then you weren’t protecting them.
“I care about him.” you say softly. “It wasn’t just sex. It isn’t. He’s not—”
“He’s a demon.” Mira says, flat. Cold. “End of sentence.”
“He’s not—” you start, then stop. Because okay. Yes. He is. But not the way they mean. “There’s something inside him, yes. Gwi-Ma. But Jinu’s fighting it. Every day. He’s—he’s not evil. He’s not one of the monsters we hunt.”
“And what if he loses that fight?” Rumi asks, quiet again. “What if the thing inside him gets stronger? What if you become the liability?”
Your throat closes. Because that’s the worst part, you’ve already thought about all of that. And it still wasn’t enough to stop you.
“I know what I’m doing.” you whisper. “I know.”
“Do you?” Rumi growls. “Because it looks like you’re playing house with a demon.”
“Rumi, stop—”
“No. You lied to us.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You chose him.”
Yeah. You did. Over and over again. Every night you crept out, every time you let him touch you, every second you looked at his face and thought, maybe this could last, you were choosing him.
Even if it meant eventually losing them.
“I didn’t want to hurt you.” you say, finally.
“Too late.” Mira mutters.
“Wait.” Zoey says. “Did you say Gwi-Ma? Like the actual Gwi-Ma?”
“Yeah.” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Lives in his head. Won’t shut up. Kind of an asshole.”
Everyone’s silent again.
And then, Zoey: “…Does he also do the tongue thing when he kisses you? Like he looks like he does the tongue thing.”
You close your eyes. “Zoey.”
Rumi sighs. Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. And slowly, slowly, the tension in the room starts to loosen. Not dissolve. Not disappear. But… loosen. There’s still tension in the air. Still betrayal.
“You know we’re supposed to kill them. Right?” Rumi says, loud and clear so you hear it.
You have heard it. You’ve heard it a hundred times. In debriefs, in Zoey’s snide jokes, in the way Mira files her knives after watching Saja Boys interviews with a dead stare. You’ve said it yourself. Weeks ago.
You knew what they were. You knew they weren’t human. And your girls have been tracking, prepping, moving toward this for weeks.
And meanwhile?
You’ve been sleeping with the mark.
“I know.” you say, barely above a whisper.
“You knew.” Mira corrects, her voice a blade.
“I know.” you repeat, louder now. “And I didn’t—I didn’t plan for this. It wasn’t some operation gone rogue. It wasn’t a trick. It just—”
“You tripped and fell onto his dick, huh?” Zoey says, sharp and bitter.
You shut your eyes. “Zoey, not now.”
“No, I really wanna know.” she goes on. “Did you just accidentally fall in love with a guy who’s literally got a demon whispering murder in his ear while we’ve been training to put his head on a spike? Because that’s wild.”
“What was your plan?” Rumi asks, not looking at you. “What was the endgame here? That we’d kill his bandmates but leave him alone because you like his face?”
“No.” you snap, the sharpness surprising even you. “God, no. You think I don’t know how this looks? You think I haven’t been ripping myself apart every night over this? I know what we’re doing. I know what he is. But you don’t know him. Not like I do.”
“Enlighten us.” Mira says, icily. “Please.”
You blink fast, trying to push the burn out of your eyes. You weren’t gonna cry, you swore you wouldn’t, but the pressure’s building.
Silence.
Rumi closes her eyes like she’s trying not to hit something. Mira sits back. Her face has gone to that scary-silent-assassin look that means her brain is moving three steps ahead of everyone else. Finally, she says: “So when it’s time to take them out… what happens then?”
You stare at her. You hate how cold she sounds. You hate how reasonable it is.
Because that is the question, isn’t it?
What do you do when it’s your sword, and his neck, and no one else to make the call but you?
“I don’t know.” you admit, soft. “I don’t know yet.”
“That’s not good enough.” Rumi says, voice rising. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk. You’re putting us at risk. What if he turns on us mid-mission? What if he uses you to get ahead of us? What if this whole time—”
“He wouldn’t.” you say quickly. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t hurt any of you.”
“You can’t know that.” Mira says.
“I do.”
And you do. Deep down. Where all the fear and doubt and guilt live, even under all of that, you know.
He wouldn’t let them touch you.
And he wouldn’t touch them.
Not unless they tried to kill him.
Which they… will.
Soon.
Zoey stands again and walks across the room, pacing now. “So what, we’re just supposed to ignore this? Let you keep cuddling up with your demon boyfriend while we finish the job?”
“No.” you say. “I get it. I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m not even asking you to like me right now. I just… I just need you to understand. I’m not choosing sides. I’m choosing truth. Jinu’s not a monster. Not yet. And I don’t think he ever will be.”
There’s a pause. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then, softly, Mira asks: “But what if you’re wrong?”
You look at her. Look at all of them.
And you don’t have an answer.
ABBY
Look. You’re supposed to kill him. Let’s be very clear about that. The Saja Boys are your target. You’ve watched them on stage, off-stage.
The first time you saw him, shirtless and grinning, was some training clip Rumi pulled up on the mission table, purely for recon (allegedly), and even then, you felt your spine short-circuit.
He looked like a human weapon.
Except he wasn’t human.
And you weren’t supposed to want the weapon.
But, you know. Whoops.
He’s huge (like, throw-you-around-the-room, bench-press-you-during-foreplay huge). Arms like steel, voice like “what’s up, babe?” and a smile so cocky it should be registered as an actual threat.
You hated him at first.
You hated him… until you didn’t.
Until one night after a bad mission, your ribs aching, pride worse, your blood still up and nothing in the world feeling good. And then you saw him. Leaning against a wall, flexing like he didn’t know he was doing it and voice dropping into that stupid low register like, “Hey. You okay?”
Game over.
Brain fried.
Panties? Gone.
And then, somehow, you were... kissing. In a stairwell. Covered in blood. Your blood. His blood. Something's blood. Messy. Wrong. And absolutely addictive.
Now it’s… a thing. A secret thing.
Because Abby? He makes you laugh, first of all. He says dumb shit in bed. He says dumb shit all the time. And he’s so proud of it.
And yeah. He’s a demon. You see it. He doesn’t even hide it.
There’s something in him that pulses dark. Wild. Primal. The heat in his body burns wrong sometimes. The shadows cling to him longer than they should. And there are moments, fleeting but undeniable, where he looks at you like he wants to eat you.
Not in the fun way. (Though, to be clear, he definitely wants that too.)
But in the demonic, soul-thirsty kind of way.
And yet. Somehow. You’re not afraid of it. You should be. You’re trained to be. You’ve put down lesser demons without blinking. You know what he is. But something in you doesn’t flinch.
Because under all of that darkness… you know he likes you.
He really, actually likes you. In his dumbass, show-off way.
The first time he said it, he was inside you—of course he was—panting, all flushed and cocky, and he muttered, “shit, I like you too much.” Then he tried to play it off with a kiss to your neck, followed by something heinous you don’t even remember, too busy feeling all of him.
You laughed. And then whispered, “me too.”
He knows you’re a hunter. He knows who you are, what you do. But he keeps showing up anyway. Still winks. Still pulls you into dark corners and picks you up like you weigh nothing. Still teases you like none of this is real.
He trusts you. And that terrifies you more than anything.
Because when the time comes…
When the blades are drawn…
He’s not going to fight you.
And you don’t know what you’re going to do when that moment comes.
But for now? You let him pin you to the wall and mutter, “what, you gonna slay me, hunter?” against your jaw.
Because the worst part isn’t that you’re supposed to kill him.
It’s that a small, aching part of you knows you won’t.
He does shit like carrying your bag when it’s heavy, but doesn’t make it weird. He just grabs it and then slings it over those stupid big shoulders like it weighs nothing. Flexes a little, maybe, but you let him. You even look on purpose. He likes it.
He memorizes what you order from that little noodle shop you go to after late-night sweeps. The first time he brought it to you unasked, still hot, you didn’t even know what to say. He just handed it over with a lopsided grin and went, “See? I got a brain in here.” and then tapped his temple with the chopsticks he’d stolen from the shop.
He warms his hands before touching your face. Doesn’t even think about it. Just always runs them over his neck or into his sleeves first, and then cups your cheeks.
And then there's how he watches you. Not like prey. Not like the demon in him is looking for an opening. But like... you're the funniest, hottest, most precious thing in his world and he can't believe you're even talking to him, let alone letting him see you naked on the regular.
And oh my god, he tied your shoe once. One time. You’re mid-arguing, mid-huffing about something completely irrelevant, and this man bends down, wraps those huge hands around your ankle, ties your shoe with all the careful attention of someone untangling a bomb, then slaps your thigh and stands up.
You were silent for, like, ten minutes.
You hate how much you like it. Hate it. Hate it.
But not enough to stop.
Not when he’s currently got you pressed up against cold tile, his breath warm against your throat, your thigh hiked high around his hip in the almost empty bathhouse the three of you ducked into after a hunt.
You don’t even know how it happened.
One minute, you were soaking in the women’s bathhouse while Mira and Zoey argued over whose blade got the final hit, and the next, you were in the showers and Abby was there. Shirtless. He must’ve snuck in through the back.
You didn’t even try to stop him. You should’ve.
But he’d walked up to you, dripping from a quick rinse-off, and grinned. “Damn. You clean up nice.”
And that was it. That was the moment your common sense packed her bags and left.
Now? Now you’re sandwiched between Abby and the cold wall of the bathhouse’s back corridor. Your towel’s half off, your thigh’s fully up, and Abby’s mouthing your neck like this isn’t a public facility.
“Abby.” you whisper, half-laughing, half-moaning, trying to push him back even though you’re very much not trying that hard. “They’re still here. They could come back any second.”
He just kisses lower. “Then we better make it fast, huh?”
“You’re the one taking your damn time.” you snap, trying not to laugh, and he grins against your skin.
“What can I say?” he murmurs. “My girl’s distracting.”
You shove his chest. It’s like trying to move a wall of warm concrete. “I swear, if they catch us—”
Footsteps.
Voices.
You both freeze.
You don’t see them at first. But you hear them. Zoey’s laughing about something and Mira’s voice is lower, casual, annoyed maybe, like she’s mid-eye roll. They’re just coming back from the sauna. They’ll be rounding this corridor in seconds.
You shove at Abby, harder. “Go. Go now.”
But he’s LAUGHING. The fuckass is laughing, muffling it behind that dumb smug smirk like this is the funniest shit ever.
You smack the back of his head, panicked. “Are you trying to get me killed?!”
He grins harder. “If we die like this, honestly? Worth it.”
“Abby!”
Zoey’s voice: “Wait… why’s the floor wet back here? Was someone—”
She turns the corner.
She sees you.
Sees him.
Sees you, basically naked, thigh still up, Abby shirtless and pressed into you, steam rising off both of you.
Zoey screams.
Mira slams in behind her a half-second later, silent, deadly, her eyes going wide.
Abby, still shirtless, just waves. “Hey.”
You are going to die.
“YOU.” Zoey shrieks, pointing. “ARE YOU INSANE?!”
Mira? Mira’s face is stone. Pissed. Her arms are folded. Her jaw is clenched. And she’s staring directly at Abby’s glistening chest.
You, meanwhile, are red. Not pink. Not flushed. Red. Half-wrapped in a towel. Half-tangled in him. All of you exposed, literally and emotionally, in the worst way possible. You’ve barely had time to stumble back and yank your towel up around your chest when he decides to speak.
“Yo.” Abby says with the most unbothered, dumbass charm in the world. “Heeeeeeey girls.”
He actually lifts a hand. Like he didn’t just get caught shoving his demon tongue down your throat in a public women’s bathhouse.
Zoey looks like she’s about to scream a second time. Possibly kill you. Possibly him first.
And what does this stupid man say next?
“You know what,” he continues, glancing between them and then at you. “I feel like… you guys got some things to work out. Real important girl talk. Imma… just.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit, completely unapologetic. “Slide out. Give you all some space. Respectfully.”
You gape. “Abby—”
He turns, halfway out the door, then glances back at you, slow, like he’s throwing a whole-ass grenade at your friendship. And then, he calls:
“Catch you later, babe.”
Babe.
In front of them.
AND THEN THE BASTARD WINKS.
Winks, flexes without flexing, and vanishes.
You are.
So.
Fucked.
You’re clutching your towel to your chest, dripping water, heart hammering so loud it might as well be a war drum. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words. Just a stupid, guilty sound like, “Uh—”
“How long.” Mira says, deadly quiet,
You blink. “I—”
“HOW LONG?!” Zoey practically screams, her arms thrown up like she might start flinging bath sandals at you. “You’ve been sneaking off to tongue wrestle with a Saja Boy?!”
“It’s not like that—”
“Oh, it’s not?” she snaps. “Because from where I was standing? It looked exactly like that. Unless ‘chest licking in a sacred women’s bathhouse’ means something different in demon-speak.”
“Zoey.” Mira says again, voice low. “Let her talk.”
“Why?! So she can lie again?”
You feel it. The shame. The guilt. The sting of it.
Because you didn’t tell them. Not when you should’ve. Not when it started. Not after the first time. Not after the sixth. Not even after you knew it was something real, something that wasn’t going to just go away if you pretended hard enough. You stayed quiet. Let them think you were just normal. Still loyal. Still on-mission.
But you weren’t. You’d fallen into bed with the enemy, and now it’s your best friends staring at you like you’re the monster.
“Okay.” you say, quietly. “Okay. Look.” You take a breath. It comes out shaky. “Yes. It’s been going on. And yes. I know how it looks.”
“You lied to us.”
“I didn’t lie—”
“Bullshit.” Zoey hisses. “You snuck around behind our backs with the very thing we’ve sworn to eliminate. You let one of them turn you into his little secret side piece—”
“Stop.” you snap, louder than you meant to. “Don’t talk about me like that.”
Silence again.
“I’m not a side piece.” you say, quieter. “And he’s not just… whatever you think he is.”
Zoey’s expression warps into something like heartbreak. “You’re in love with him.”
You look away.
“Oh my god.” She covers her face.
“I didn’t plan for this.” you try, pleading now. “It just—it happened. And I know it’s wrong. I know what he is. But I also know what he’s not. He’s not—” You gesture weakly toward the steam he vanished into. “He’s not hurting people. Not the way we thought.”
Mira steps forward, eyes sharp. “And what happens when he does? When we take him out? What then?”
You swallow. You don’t answer. Because you don’t know. And they see that.
After the bathhouse blowout, the tension clung to your skin worse than the towel.
Mira and Zoey walked ahead of you the whole way home, Mira silent, Zoey muttering to herself in rage, still trying to process the abomination of seeing you with Abby’s abs all up in your personal space. You trailed behind, wrapped in shame, hair dripping, stomach doing flips that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with impending doom.
“Let me tell her.” you said, the second the elevator doors opened to the penthouse. “Let me tell Rumi myself.”
Mira turned to you, her jaw clenched. “You sure?”
“No.” you said. “But I’m going to.”
They just exchanged a look, silent agreement, and then headed to the kitchen like they weren’t absolutely going to lurk by the hallway to hear every single word.
You find Rumi in her room. She’s standing by the window. You almost leave. Almost. But then she turns. “You need something?”
Your throat closes.
Yeah. Just your life exploding.
“Can I talk to you?” you ask, voice trembling. “It’s… personal.”
She gestures toward the chair. You don’t sit. You can’t. You’re vibrating with nerves, practically bouncing out of your skin. You pace instead, like if you move enough, the words will come easier. They don’t.
“Okay, so—so.” you start, hands waving like you’re trying to draw the sentence into existence. “So, you’re gonna be mad. Just—please, can you let me finish first before you say anything? Just let me get it out all at once, because if I stop, I won’t say it, and I have to say it because it’s already—happened, and Zoey and Mira know, and you’re going to find out anyway, and I need it to come from me.”
Rumi’s arms cross slowly. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m dating Abby.” you blurt.
Silence.
You say it again, just to fill the space. “I’m dating Abby. From Saja. The one with the abs and the arms and the—yeah. Him.”
Still no reaction.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t, like, some weird betrayal thing. I didn’t go into this planning to screw around with the enemy, I swear. It just—he was there, and he’s funny, and stupid, and sweet, and he’s not like what we thought. And yeah, I know it’s a conflict of interest. I know it’s dangerous, and I know we’re supposed to be hunting them, and it’s all wrong, but it doesn’t feel wrong when I’m with him. It just feels like… mine. Like something I chose. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
You finally stop.
You wait.
“…You’re joking.”
Your heart drops. “I’m not.”
You’ve never seen Rumi this mad without even raising her voice.
“You’re sleeping with a demon.” she says, cold. “A Saja Boy. One of the five. Our primary targets.”
You flinch. “It’s not like that—”
“Did he charm you? Manipulate you? Feed off you?”
“No! Rumi, he hasn’t even—he hasn’t taken anything from me.”
“Oh, but he took you, huh?” Her voice cuts like glass. “He gets the girl, the inside scoop, the trust, and we get what? A betrayal?”
You step forward. “I didn’t betray you.”
“You didn’t tell me. You kept it a secret. You let this go on while we’ve been risking our lives—my life—hunting down his kind. You don’t think that’s betrayal?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you did. You did lie. Maybe not in words, but in silence.
“You’ve compromised our entire mission.” she hisses, turning her back on you. “You think this is just about sex or feelings or whatever he gave you to keep you quiet? It’s bigger than that. He’s dangerous. And you let him in.”
“I didn’t let him in.” you snap, suddenly defensive. “He got in because he wanted me. Because he likes me. Because I like him.”
“And when the time comes,” she says, turning back around, eyes locked on yours. “and you have to choose between us and him, what’s your play?”
You’re shaking.
You can’t answer.
And Rumi sees it.
“…Get out.”
“Rumi—”
“Get. Out. Before I say something we both regret.”
You stagger back. One step. Then another.
And as you open the door—Zoey and Mira. Absolutely planted on the other side. Zoey straightens so fast she almost falls into a lamp. Mira just steps back, arms crossed, deadpan. Neither of them says a word.
You don’t say anything either.
You just walk away.
ROMANCE
Ohhh baby. You’ve just opened Pandora’s box with Romance.
The first time you and Romance crossed paths just the two of you, it was bloody. And violent. And frankly, stupid hot in hindsight.
You were rooftop hunting, your blade humming with enchanted energy, adrenaline in your teeth. The Saja Boys were slippery—always were—but he showed up like he’d been waiting for you.
You fought.
He was strong, too strong. Slippery. Every move came with a smirk, a breathy compliment, some infuriating “ooh, I like it when you’re rough.” You were sweating, pissed, cornered on the edge of a skylight.
But you didn’t back down.
You clocked him, hard, elbow to the jaw, leg sweep, blade to his throat, and he went down. Fell like a sack of demons with a ridiculous grunt and a flutter of his pretty shirt.
You stood there panting, blade raised.
Victory. Yours.
You even kicked him, toe of your boot to his ribs. “Dead?” you muttered.
He grabbed your ankle, fast as lightning, yanked, and dragged you straight to the ground with him. The breath left your lungs. Your body slammed to his. And suddenly? You were chest-to-chest with him, both breathing hard. His smile was bloody and filthy.
“Now this,” he purred. “is foreplay.”
You tied him up after that. You had to. Found rope in the storage unit of the building, tied his wrists behind his back, looped around the support beam. He didn’t fight it, no, of course not. He just watched you. Smirked. Made comments.
“That grip.” he said. “Ever thought of moonlighting in bondage? You’ve got talent.”
You should’ve killed him. Should’ve. He was just lying there, helpless, caked in blood.
But something in you faltered.
So you left him. Said it was a warning.
Before you left, he looked at you with those bedroom eyes and said, “Next time, bring better rope. You’ll be the one staying.”
And you did.
You came back. In the dead of night, alone.
And he wasn’t tied up anymore.
No, that time you were the one in knots.
Literal ones. Spread out, mouth covered in tape, eyes wide while he knelt between your legs, chin lifted and so fucking pleased with himself.
He whispered things you still feel heat up your spine when you’re alone in the shower.
That was the real beginning.
You’re not blameless. You like it. You like the chase, the secrets, the tension in every stolen second.
Romance doesn’t ask. He offers. He tempts. He brushes his fingers along your collarbone in passing, whispers filth into your ear just to see you shiver. He invites you to meet with him night after night. You go. Every time.
You’d call him a slut, except he only ever wants you.
He’s also attentive. Not the good boy kind, no. He’s too much of a tease for that. But he knows when you’re stressed, when you’re insecure, when you need to be fucked out of your head or just held while he brushes your hair. Super senses like he has do wonders in him getting your little feelings. Romance also has a memory like a thief. Remembers everything you say, down to the way you phrased it.
He’s obsessed with you. Openly.
But he also won’t stop flirting with other people in front of you just to rile you up.
(You’ve slapped him for it. He moaned. It didn’t help.)
He knows exactly what you are. A killer. A blade. Something sacred and trained and dangerous.
And he adores it.
“God, baby,” he’ll murmur while trailing his mouth down your thigh. “do you know how hot it is that you could murder me and choose not to?”
You don’t tell the girls. Obviously. They’d lose their minds.
Because you’re supposed to be on a mission to exorcise his ass from the planet—not get your back blown out on rooftops between hunts.
For an example, you let him tie you up again last night. He read you poetry while he did it. From memory. Filthy, ancient verses in a demon tongue you didn’t know—but understood perfectly from his eyes alone.
And when he made you scream his name, you think the whole street heard it.
Even when he’s being a tease—pulling your panties to the side in an alley or teasing you with promises he has no intention of letting you walk away from—his hands are always reverent. Worshipful.
He runs his fingers down your back when you’re not even paying attention. Laces your fingers together when you’re not touching him.
Then, it started with a bra strap.
Well, a glimpse of it, really, something delicate, lacy, red, peeking just above your sports tank when you bent down to pick up your dagger from the training mat. You didn’t even notice. But Zoey did. She always does.
Zoey squinted. “Since when do you wear matching sets for patrol?”
Mira glanced up from her weights, brow cocked.
You just shrugged. Played it off. “Self-care.”
They didn’t buy it.
And then it happened again.
The next night. And the next.
A different set this time, satin, black, barely-there. They weren’t judging you for it. Please. You’re hot, you’re allowed to feel yourself. But there was a pattern emerging, and it had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with how you were always glowing when you came back from “walks.”
Your cheeks flushed. Your lips bitten. The scent of perfume that wasn’t yours clinging to your jacket.
And the final straw? Rumi walked into your room to grab something and saw an empty condom wrapper on your nightstand. You weren’t even home.
That night, the three of them made a decision.
They were going to follow you.
It’s late.
You thought you were slick—slipping out the back stairwell in your “casual clothes” (which just so happen to include a barely-buttoned blouse and lace-trimmed thigh harness under a trench coat). Hair glossy. Lip gloss glossier.
You head toward a park a few blocks away. A little bench nestled between two massive trees. Always quiet. Always shadowed.
And sitting there, legs crossed, coat open over a shirt unbuttoned just enough is Romance.
He looks up, sees you, and grins. That slow, wolfish, I’m-gonna-undress-you-without-touching-you kind of smile.
“You’re late.” he says.
“You’re early.”
“I’m always early. It gives me more time to think about you.” He says it like a whisper. You bite back a smile, step closer, the night air curling around your ankles like it knows this is wrong and wants in.
He reaches for your hand, brushes his thumb over your knuckles. Doesn’t even glance at your dagger strapped to your thigh.
You lean in, eyes half-lidded. “What if I was here to kill you this time?”
“Then tie me up first. You know how I like it.”
You laugh. It’s soft. Intimate. Familiar.
That’s the sound that does it.
Zoey’s voice, “Whaaaaaaaat.”
You whirl around.
Rumi. Zoey. Mira. Standing just behind the tree line, like they’d been parked there for ten whole minutes, watching your little forbidden lovers’ reunion.
Your blood goes cold.
Romance just sits back, arm along the bench like this is hilarious.
Zoey’s eyes are bulging. “Are you seriously making out with Romance?! As in Saja Boy, Romance?! Mister demon dick himself?!”
Mira’s arms are crossed, her voice dry. “So that’s what all the lace was about.”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
Romance, unbothered, lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. “Ladies.”
“Don’t you ladies me.” Zoey snaps, stomping forward. “What the fuck, Y/N?!”
You stumble over your words. “I—I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like—okay, not like this. I wasn’t using him or betraying anyone or—”
“Oh my god, are you in love with him?!” Zoey howls.
Romance leans closer to you, whispers, “Say yes.”
You elbow him in the ribs so hard he wheezes. But he’s laughing. This fucker is laughing. And that laugh? It seals your fate.
Rumi steps forward, voice cold as glass. “Go home. Now.”
You look at Romance. He gives you a wink. A wink. He’s enjoying this. He is.
You turn to leave.
And you know they’re right behind you. Their silence is heavier than their words. Zoey’s arms are flailing in disbelief. Mira’s jaw is tight. Rumi says nothing, but you can feel her disappointment.
Back at the penthouse, everything feels louder. The walls feel tighter. Every footstep echoes like judgment.
You try not to flinch as the elevator closes behind you, sealing you inside with three of the people you love the most, and who now all look at you like you’re a stranger.
No one speaks.
You want to say something, break the silence, offer an explanation, but your throat’s tight, heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape before Rumi cuts it out herself.
When the elevator dings open at your floor, it’s Zoey who moves first. Quiet. Shoulders tense. Mira walks out after her. Rumi walks last, slow and composed, her silence ten times more dangerous than if she’d yelled.
You don’t even make it to the living room before Mira turns on you. “What the actual fuck, Y/N?”
You swallow. “I was going to tell you—”
“When?!” Mira snaps. “After you fucked all of them? Or just after the Saja Boys rip our hearts out?! Which was it?!”
“I didn’t—” You exhale, hands up, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t mean to fall into something with him.” You’ve gone over it a thousand times in your head. Every rule you broke. Every kill order you ignored. Every night you slipped away when your best friends were asleep, trusting you to be one of them, not one of the fucking enemy’s bedwarmers. “I know what I did.” you say, quieter. “I know it’s wrong.”
Zoey finally speaks, voice soft. “Then why did you keep doing it?”
You look at her. And she looks like she’s not angry like Mira, not composed like Rumi. Just… hurt. Her arms are folded across her chest.
“I don’t know.” you admit. “He’s a demon. He’s everything we’re trained to kill. But—”
“But you let him charm his way between your legs and now suddenly that makes it okay?” Mira’s voice is sharp. “You endangered us. All of us.”
“No.” you snap, louder now. “I would never let anything happen to you. I’m not stupid. I’m not just lying there letting him feed off my soul—he hasn’t even touched that part of me. I wouldn’t let him. I’m not a liability, Mira.”
“You are.” Mira spits.
Silence again.
You feel it in your stomach, a cold pit of shame. But beneath it, there’s something else. Something like defiance. Because yes, maybe you’re making a mistake. Maybe you crossed every line. Maybe you’re betraying the oath, the cause, the sisterhood.
But it wasn’t just sex. Not with Romance.
He sees you. Wants you. Not your blade, not your strength, not your usefulness to the mission.
Just… you.
“He cares about me.” you say, quietly.
“That doesn’t matter.” Rumi says. Her voice is so soft. “You’re a hunter. You don’t get to fall for the monsters. You kill them. Or you compromise everything we’ve built.”
Oh Rumi, we know why you think that.
Zoey bites her lip, voice shaking. “Are you in love with him?”
You hesitate.
And that’s the answer.
Mira throws up her hands. “Un-fucking-believable.”
Rumi looks at you like she’s assessing whether or not to kick you off the team. “We’re here to stop them, Y/N. All of them. We don’t get to make exceptions because they kiss nice or talk pretty.”
You nod slowly. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Rumi steps closer. “Because the second he snaps his fingers, and decides he’s hungry, you’re the first soul he’s going to devour.”
Do you really think that Rumi, or you’re just making shit up to stop your beloved Y/N from making the same mistake your mother did?
You want to scream that it’s not like that. That Romance—for all his bullshit, his flirting, his filthy mouth—has never once made you feel prey. You’ve never seen him lose control. Never once doubted he would stop if you told him to.
But even you know that doesn’t make it safe.
You glance between them, the three people you’ve fought with, bled with, survived with, and it feels like you’re in the wrong. You are.
Zoey steps forward finally, hand brushing yours. “If you really love him… then please be careful. Don’t make us bury you because you thought he was different.”
Her voice breaks at the end.
And Mira won’t even look at you.
Rumi just turns and walks toward her room. Before she disappears down the hall, she says one last thing:
“You have one chance to fix this. Or next time, it’s me that puts a blade in his chest.”
The door slams.
Your pretty underwear under your clothes feels stupid now.
But even through all that, you know, deep down?
You’re not going to stop seeing him.
And that’s the problem.
BABY
Oh, Baby.
You hate(d) his name.
Baby.
You don’t even know when it started.
Just that one second you were fighting, and the next?
You were… not.
It was supposed to be a quick hunt. You’d gotten separated from the girls for like five minutes—five whole damn minutes—and then bam. He was there.
Backstage, right behind the curtains at some underground venue, blinking at you like you were the surprise, not him.
Did he say anything?
No.
Just smirked.
And you knew it was a smirk, even if his mouth barely moved. Something about the way his eyes narrowed, chin tilted. The unbothered little lean against the wall, arms crossed. Hair too shiny. Mouth too glossy. Pretty in a way that made you want to scratch it up.
So you drew your blade.
He didn’t move. Just blinked again. Like you were the one being ridiculous. Then you lunged. He blocked you, lazy, like your movements were predictable. A joke. Your blade barely missed his throat, and he laughed. Not even like a proper laugh. Just this airy “heh” with his head tilted like, Is that all?
And you? Furious. Mortified. Already picturing the way Mira would roast you for getting played by the baby demon.
So you kicked his leg out from under him. Hard.
The fight got into close combat from there, your blade dropped to the floor. And the two of you just… went at it. Not even fighting anymore, just grappling, rolling across concrete with all the force and heat of a catfight.
His fingers in your hair. Your hand around his throat. Neither of you speaking, just panting, growling, gritting teeth. And his face?
Still blank. Still bratty. Still beautiful.
Until your knee landed in a very strategic place and he grunted—actually made a sound—and somehow that flipped a switch.
Next thing you knew?
You were on your back, shirt pushed up, his mouth on your tits, sharp little teeth teasing your skin as you hissed at him to fucking go.
“The girls are almost on. I have to go.” You hissed.
His response? A slow blink. Like you’re so loud and he was busy. Then he kissed a bite-mark over your nipple like it was his fucking signature and pulled back, shirt half untucked, his lips all red, and not a care in the world.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t wink. Didn’t flirt. Just looked at you like he expected you to come back later. Like he knew you would.
You did.
Because Baby is… different.
He doesn’t do the “Oh, I want you so bad” stuff. That’s Romance’s thing. Doesn’t do the “I’ll protect you, angel” softness. That’s Jinu. Doesn’t even do the “Come here, babe, sit on my lap” gym rat boyfriend vibes. That’s Abby. Doesn’t let you control him like Mystery does.
Baby ignores your ass half the time.
You text him that you’re downstairs? He doesn’t even buzz you up. You have to break in. You say something flirty and he shrugs. You try to make plans and he answers with a yawn.
But when you’re alone? When you’re in the dark corners of club basements or dressing rooms or the stairwell no one uses between the 6th and 7th floors of the broadcast building?
He’s all teeth and tongue and whispers against your throat. Biting. Mouthing. Slouching against you like he doesn’t care but always pulling you closer.
He talks more with his mouth on your body than he ever does out loud.
His affection comes in weird little ways. Like slipping your favorite drink into your bag without saying anything, which he clearly stole from someone. Like swiping the exact eyeshadow palette you complimented on a make up staff member.
Like blowing off fan meetings just to sit in the dark and watch you stretch, head tilted.
And every time you call him out on it?
He gaslights you. Fully.
“What palette?”
“You bought it, didn’t you?”
“You said I could come in.”
“You didn’t say stop.”
Smug. Rude. Hot as fuck.
And for all his demon blood and dead-eyed stares, there are moments—tiny, barely-there glimpses—where you think he might actually care about you. Like really care.
He is the worst, but underneath that generally insufferable personality, he actually kinda likes you.
He still ignores the fuck out of you.
Deadass. You’ll walk into a room and Baby won’t even glance up. You’ll say hi and he won’t say anything back. Doesn’t even nod. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him to move. He never moves. Just slowly looks at you like you’re interrupting.
But the second you’re smiling on your phone, texting?
Laughing too hard?
Not paying attention to him?
He’s right there. Doesn’t say a word. Just drapes himself over you like a cat and sighs against your neck like this is what I had to resort to?—then nips at your collarbone.
You tell him to go away. He doesn’t.
You shove at him. He goes heavier.
You call him annoying.
His answer:
“Mhm.”
You’ll be pouring tea, being the sweet, functional human being you are, and he’ll just… slide his mug over. No eye contact. No “please.” Not even a “yo.” He just tugs on your sleeve once and you already know.
You always say the same thing: “I’m not your maid.”
To which he always responds by… waiting.
Not moving.
Just standing there like …so?
So you pour the tea.
Every. Damn. Time.
(And then he takes a tiny sip and says, “Too hot.” And you fantasize about kicking him in the shins.)
He has the nerve to walk around with that adorable, sweet little face. Wide eyes. Lashes for days. Little nose. Pink lips. He blinks at people and they melt.
“Oh my god, is he shy?”
“He’s so precious!”
“Aww, he’s like a little bunny!”
LIES.
Baby is a demon.
A predator.
A horrible little shit who absolutely uses his face as a weapon.
Don’t even get me STARTED on his voice. It does not match him. At all. It’s low and slow and filthy, like it’s meant for whispering horrible things directly into your ear. And he knows it. He uses it. He’ll say your name in that voice, right behind you, when he wants something. And every time it works, you hate yourself a little more.
You hate him.
You want to climb him like a tree.
You’re the problem.
He likes you though. He really does.
He doesn’t say it. Obviously. But you know.
He shows up at your window at 2 a.m. and does not leave you alone, that’s his love language. You wonder what Gwi-Ma thinks about that. Does he insult the poor boy in his head? Leaves the topic alone? A wonder, really.
He doesn’t care about people. Not really. Not like you do.
He’s selfish. Bratty. Condescending.
He never says “I love you.” Never writes sweet notes. Never says “I miss you” or calls you beautiful.
But he stays. He lingers. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when he’s tired. He lets you sleep on his chest when you both sneak off after dark. He lets you see the version of him no one else gets to.
You’re not sure if this is love, or madness, or both. But you keep crawling back. Keep letting him tug you close. Keep pretending it’s not dangerous, even though it’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.
Yeah.
He’s terrible.
But you like him that way.
Anyways, your room is big. Like, stupidly big. The girls fought tooth and nail for this penthouse, and somehow, you ended up with the one room that had its own damn sitting area, fireplace, and balcony. Probably because you “never bring people over.”
Ha.
Right now, you’re sitting on your bed, one leg bent, your hair damp from a shower, some oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder. You’re glowing, content, the kind of comfort that only comes when your secret demon boyfriend is stretched out across your silk sheets.
Baby, flat on his back, hoodie pushed up just enough to expose his stomach. He’s got one arm under his head, and the other lazily dragging over your thigh.
And you’re telling him a story. Some stupid one from earlier. About Zoey trying to cook eggs and somehow setting off the fire suppression system, and Mira slipping in the foam and cussing in three different languages, and Rumi trying to keep everyone calm.
He doesn’t say much—he never does—but every once in a while, he makes this little “hn” sound that means he’s listening. His eyes flutter closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and you gently run your fingers across the curve of his bare stomach as you speak.
Just light touches. Lazy, mindless. Your thumb sweeping around his navel. Tracing the faint v-line that disappears under his waistband. And he just takes it. Like he deserves to be pet.
His hips shift just slightly, subtle little rolls into your hand. His lips twitch. He hums.
“You’re distracting.” you mutter, dragging your fingers down his side.
“Mhm.” He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just tugs on the hem of your shirt like he wants it off but can’t be bothered to do it himself.
You laugh a little and lean over him, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He lets you. He always does. Touchy and spoiled and acting like he’s the one doing you a favor by being here.
His fingers brush the back of your knee. Slide higher. God, he is so touchy. Not in a Romance kind of way, not in a flirty, dirty whisper way. Just clingy. Needy in a wordless, bratty little way. Always tugging at you. Always reaching. Not because he wanted attention, but because he expected it.
You’re just about to crawl into his lap when he suddenly opens his eyes—not startled, not alarmed, just blank. “Behind you.”
You blink. “What?”
“Door.”
You frown, confused. Turn to look, and your soul leaves your body.
Zoey. Mira. Rumi. Peeking through your bedroom door, all crammed into the tiny sliver they must’ve pushed open while you were distracted. All of them with their mouths slightly open. Eyes wide.
They must’ve been watching you for minutes.
Baby waves to them lazily.
The second your eyes meet theirs, they jerk back like they’d been slapped and slam the door shut.
SLAM.
Silence.
You stare at the door.
Baby stretches behind you, unfazed.
“You forgot to lock it.” he says, yawning like this is the most boring turn of events that’s ever happened to him.
“You watched them watch us!” you hiss, slapping his chest.
He shrugs. “You looked cute. Figured they’d agree.”
You launch a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him and doesn’t even blink.
You shoot to your feet like you’ve been lit on fire. You’re not even fully dressed, just the shirt, some thin little shorts, no bra, and your heart is thrashing in your chest because oh my god they saw. They saw everything. “You couldn’t have warned me earlier?!”
He gives a lazy shrug. “Didn’t think they’d stay.”
You smack him in the chest, hard.
“OW—what?!” he complains, still not even bothering to sit up. “You were telling a story.”
“Get out.” you whisper-yell, frantically waving your hands. “Go, go, GO!”
He groans dramatically, sitting up like it physically pains him. “You’re so loud.” he mutters.
But he stands anyway, tugging his hoodie down and making zero effort to look guilty. His hair’s a little messy, lips pink, eyes smug. He’s glowing like a man who’s very satisfied with his life choices. He is casually stretching his arms over his head. Right before he leaves, he pauses, looks at you, and then? Then he raises his voice just enough for the hallway to hear: “BYE GIIIIIRLS.”
He snorts to himself, satisfied with how he fucked up this for you even more, and leaves you there. Alone. Staring at the spot he just vanished from.
Okay, yeah, alright. You take a deep deep breath and walk over to your door to open it.
Rumi. Zoey. Mira. All standing in the hallway, backlit by the soft pendant lights. Their expressions? Zoey looks like she’s on the verge of tears but holding it together with sheer willpower. Mira’s pacing, fists clenched so hard her knuckles are white. Rumi is just staring at you, arms crossed, completely still. That’s the scariest part.
“Okay,” you say, voice cracking like the ice you’re walking on. “that was—”
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.” Mira explodes. Her hands fling up like she’s physically restraining herself from throwing them at you. “You had him in your room?! While we were home?!”
“It’s not like I—”
“Don’t.” Rumi says. Soft. Controlled. Dangerous. “Don’t say it’s not what it looked like.”
It was what it looked like.
Zoey finally speaks. Her voice is so small it hurts. “You… you’re with him?”
“I didn’t—” you start, stepping forward instinctively, “I wasn’t gonna— I mean, I was, I just—” You sigh and rake both hands through your hair. “Yeah. I’m with him.”
Silence.
Rumi’s brows lift slightly. “For how long?”
You look at the ceiling. “A while.”
“Did he brainwash you?” Mira snaps. “Are you cursed? Are you fucking STUPID—”
“Mira.” Rumi’s voice cuts like a blade.
“No, I wanna hear her say it.” Mira hisses, rounding on you. “Do you even care that he’s a demon? That he’s probably feeding off you? That he’s probably laughing with the rest of those Saja freaks about how easy it was to get a Hunter to spread her legs—”
“Shut the fuck up, Mira.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it lands.
Mira steps back.
“…I know what he is.”you say softly. “I know what we are. I’m not confused. I’m not cursed. I’m not being controlled. I know what I’m doing.”
Zoey’s lip trembles. “Then why?”
You glance away. Chew your lip. Feel your chest ache. “Because he’s not what I thought demons were. Not all the time. Not with me.”
Mira scoffs. “Oh, my God.”
Rumi stares at you, then she says, “Go to your room.”
“I—what?”
“Go. To your room. Now.”
You pause for half a second, wanting to argue. Wanting to stand your ground. But you’ve already shredded the ground beneath your feet. So you do as you’re told. You walk back in. Close the door. Sit down on the bed.
The sheets still smell like Baby.
MYSTERY
You like him. God help you, you really do.
It started during one of their meet-and-greets. A crowd full of obsessed fans screaming over them, while you stood in line like a regular human, hair tucked under a cap and sunglasses on your face, just scoping the scene.
That’s when you noticed him in the back. Standing off to the side like he wasn’t even part of the group. His mic wasn’t on. He wasn’t smiling. Just kind of… existing.
You don’t know what possessed you, maybe it was the odd way his hands were twitching around the prop mic, or the slight crease in his brows as he watched the crowd, but you stepped toward him. Just a little. Close enough that he looked up. Or at least, lifted his chin.
He was holding a lightstick upside down.
And god, something about that made your heart ache. Because he looked so confused. So detached. So alien in that moment. Like he didn’t get what any of this was for.
So you’d whispered, “Turn it around. Other way.”
He blinked. Glanced at it. Turned it slowly, obediently.
You reached out and twisted his fingers to hold it right. “There. Like that.”
He didn’t speak. Not yet. But he watched you. All of you. Your hands, your mouth, your face.
And when you turned to go?
“…Thanks.” he said. So small. So low. Barely audible.
After that, he kept noticing you. You’d catch him watching from across rooftops during a hunt, or from the shadows of backstage areas. Silent. Unmoving. A presence. He never approached you directly—you had to do that—but he let you. Which, coming from him, was kind of massive.
You started sneaking around. Sitting next to him when you knew the other Saja boys wouldn’t be around. Leaving stupid little notes for him where you knew he’d find them. One time you brought him a chocolate bar and he ate it. Quietly. Slowly. Then murmured, “Too sweet.” and handed the wrapper back.
You’ve learned to read his silences. Every little shrug or pause or twitch is a language now. One you understand. But he also talks, like:
“You smell good.”
“Don’t go yet.”
“You looked sad today.”
He didn’t have to be sweet with you. Or quiet. Or gentle.
He just chose to be.
Once you were in the alley behind a club where both your crews had performed. The others were still inside fighting. But he had slipped out. And so had you. Not nice, you know, but it felt right.
He had his back against the wall, shoulders relaxed.
You had asked him, “Why are you always so quiet?”
He shrugged. “Nothing to say.”
You rolled your eyes. “There’s always something to say.” And then you turned toward him, shoulder brushing his, and whispered, “Like… if you wanted to kiss me.”
His breath stilled.
You watched his lashes lower behind his heavy hair. You could barely see his eyes, but you could feel them.
And then, softly:
“…Can I?”
You nodded.
He kissed you. No tongue, no hands, no hunger—not at first. Just lips.
Then you leaned in harder. Slid your hand up his chest.
Then he moved.
And after that? It was on.
It was a relationship—even if the word felt too loud, too bright, too human. You didn’t label it. You didn’t talk about it. But you felt it every time he waited for you. Every time he slipped into your space. Every time he murmured your name.
Don’t even get me started on the patterns on his dick. It’s weirdly attractive.
WHO SAID THAT?!
And then you got caught.
It had been weeks. The girls were suspicious, but they hadn’t figured him out yet. The others? Sure. But Mystery? Who could tell what he was even thinking, let alone who he was touching?
So that night, you got bold.
It was late. Everyone else was asleep. You were in the upstairs sunroom, one of your favorite places because it overlooked the whole city. Mystery was curled up with you on the wide window ledge.
Your hand was in his hair. His breath was on your neck. You had just whispered something—you don’t even remember what. Something dumb and soft and sweet.
He turns his face to you and said, “I like it when you talk.”
You blink. Smile. “That so?”
He nods once. “Your voice is warm.”
And you arw about to say something else when Zoey’s voice rang out behind you:
“…You’re kidding me.”
Your whole body jerks.
You turn so fast you almost knock Mystery out the window.
Zoey stands in the doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw slack. Mira right behind her, looking like she was about to throw up. And Rumi is staring at Mystery.
And he—fucking audacious—is just sitting there. Calm. Not moving. One arm still around you.
He’s kinda evil so he’s definitely doing that on purpose.
“Okay—okay, listen—”
But Mira is already marching forward, murder in her eyes. “You’re sleeping with him?!”
“He’s not what you think—!”
“He’s a DEMON!”
Zoey looks betrayed. Like it physically hurts her to see you like this.
Rumi just says: “Leave. Both of you.”
Mystery doesn’t move until you move first. He stands slowly, brushing off his shirt. Then he reaches out, tucks your hair behind your ear, and whispers: “I’ll wait.”
Then he vanishes.
You walk back into your room, listening to Rumi. Like your best friends didn’t just see you wrapped up in one of the five you’ve all sworn—sworn—to destroy.
You don’t cry. You don’t know if you can. It’s just this huge, pulsing silence in your chest, like someone rang a bell inside you and then walked away.
To Rumi, this was personal.
We know why.
And she just saw you—her best friend—wrapped up in the arms of something she sees as rot.
Of him.
It’s not even about him being a Saja Boy. Not completely. It’s the idea that you’re letting something like that close to your heart. That you’re flirting with what her bloodline forced on her.
And she’s scared.
You sit there for what feels like forever.
Mystery’s scent still clings to your collar. You wonder if he’s out there waiting like he said. You wonder if the girls will ever look at you the same again.
you’ve got me thinking about so many scenarios now with the saja boys. like what if reader and bird, and the cat/tiger started bonding, and won’t let the any of the boys near her now. which ofc drives the boys crazy which reader takes full advantage of
SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER this exact scenario editon
AN: Started with your idea, then flipped the plot a little ;) This is connected to the original assistant!reader series but not canon to it. I KNOW the animals have names but I feel sm better just calling them tiger and bird, so no names will be in this one, except a few times. Just tiger and bird :P also plz tell me if I wrote crow somewhere.
cw: cursing, could be uncomfortable situations for some readers, Stockholm Syndrome developing, sexual themes, me actually writing down “demon dick”
It started, like most of your misfortunes around here, with Baby being a dick.
You don’t know how it happened exactly, maybe he got bored, maybe he just liked the way your skin jumped when feathers brushed your neck unexpectedly, maybe it was just a mood. Either way, Baby got hold of the bird.
He trained it, or more like influenced it, with whatever slick little sugar-poison voice he uses to get what he wants, to divebomb you. Steal your hair ties. Drop little pebbles into your water. One time it literally dragged your sock away mid-nap.
You’d be sitting at the kitchen table, minding your own hostage business, and the next thing you know there’s a feathery blur by your ear and your fucking banana is gone.
Jinu always sighed and said, “Sussie. No.” But it was half-hearted. You could tell even he was impressed sometimes.
And of course, Baby thought it was hilarious. He’d smile with all his teeth, lips barely curled up, watching you wrestle with a bird wearing a tiny hat. He’d hum to himself as the bird ran off with your notes, or your pen, or your peace of mind.
But here’s the thing, you bond with animals.
Always have.
So while the bird spent a good two weeks trying to make your life a nightmare, it started changing. Subtly, at first. It would land near you after a successful theft and just stare. Not looking for praise. Just…waiting. Studying. It noticed when you didn’t scream. When you didn’t chase it down. When you just reached for your backup pen without a care. It didn’t know what to do with that.
Then one day, you fed it a dried mango piece. No big show, no coaxing, no baby voice. Just held it out and waited.
It took it from your fingers, slow. Eyeing you with something like suspicion. It came back the next day. Sat on the coffee table and blinked at you while you peeled an orange. And when Baby told it to go knock your cup over?
It didn’t move.
That silence was delicious. Baby narrowed his eyes. “Sussie.” he said again, warning in his tone.
The bird ruffled its feathers and hopped closer to you instead.
After that, the bird kept hanging around. Close enough that its tiny hat started looking endearing rather than stupid. It picked your shoulder more than Baby’s now. Started bringing you things, too, shiny buttons, a single earring, once even a heart-shaped stone it must’ve dug out of some rooftop garden or one of Romance’s necklaces.
Then there’s the tiger.
You didn’t even try. You didn’t coo at it or offer treats or chase it around the apartment like Romance once did with a laser pointer (a bad idea, he got clawed so hard he couldn’t wear crop tops for a week). You just…acknowledged it.
You’d smile when it entered a room. Move out of the way without comment. Sat near it, not with it, when it chose to lounge near the couch.
And eventually, the tiger started choosing you.
The first time it climbed into your lap, you were shelling sunflower seeds on the balcony, blanket over your legs. It circled twice, and settled with its massive weight pinning your legs numb. It purred, deep and resonant. You didn’t dare move.
You did, however, slowly, carefully, place a seed in front of the bird sitting on the railing.
Balance.
Now, the tiger follows you from room to room. The bird perches on your shoulder, judging everyone and occasionally trying to steal your fruit again.
Baby pretends it doesn’t bother him. But it does. You can tell. Every time the bird ignores his call, or the tiger hisses when he enters the room, his eye twitches just slightly.
Sometimes you whisper, “Traitor.” to the bird, just to tease. It blinks slowly, like Yeah, and what about it?
Jinu watches the whole thing with that serene little smile. Not surprised. Not proud. Just…gentle. Like he always knew you’d bond with them. Like that’s the real reason they’re yours now.
And it’s weird, maybe. Being held here. Being watched, interrogated, occasionally flirted with or ignored or attacked. But you have allies now.
And honestly, at this point? You think they’d kill for you.
Though the tiger, as majestic and celestial and myth-born as it looks, is dumb as bricks.
There’s no other way to say it.
You’re pretty sure if it were capable of stringing thoughts together, they’d sound like, “food now? sleep here? this lap mine? bird annoying. must sit on bird.” It’s all muscle and divine elegance until it walks headfirst into a sliding door. Which it has. Twice. Tail held high the whole time like it meant to do that.
It’ll stare at shadows for hours. Watch lint fall. Try to climb inside laundry baskets and then forget how to get out. One time, it saw its own reflection in the mirror and spent ten whole minutes just pawing at it, purring.
An idiot, really. A glorious, loveable idiot.
But the bird? The bird is smarter than most of the boys.
That bird knows things. It gets things.
And at some point, maybe when you sat on the bathroom floor silently crying while the bird just perched nearby, not leaving, it started to realize the shape of your reality.
The boys, in their beautiful idiocy, had forgotten the most basic rule of kidnapping someone: acknowledge that you fucking kidnapped someone.
They didn’t talk about it. Not once. No mention of how you got there. No apologies. No explanations.
And for the longest time, the bird didn’t know any better.
But the bird is sharp. It noticed things they didn’t.
It noticed the way your shoulders tensed whenever someone blocked the door. The way you never turned your back fully in the kitchen. The way you clutched your toothbrush like a shiv, or kept the steak knife under your pillow. The way you flinched when someone laughed too loud.
The tiger didn’t understand allat. Not really. It just knew when you were sad. It would curl up next to you and make little bleating, wheezing purrs and press its giant head against your leg. It once dropped a sock in your lap and looked so proud you almost cried.
But the bird?
The bird wanted revenge.
It started small. Nothing major. Just tiny fuck-you’s.
Like flying away with Baby’s eyeliner. Perching directly above Romance and shitting precisely as he was taking selfies. Switching Jinu’s calming tea with saltwater. Taking Abby’s gym socks and hiding them in the rice cooker. The only one it didn’t harass daily was Mystery, but only because he didn’t really do anything to you.
They thought it was funny at first.
But it didn’t stop. It escalated.
The moment Baby realized it could unlock his phone? Brutal.
But Jinu wouldn’t let them punish it. Of course not. It was his. Which made them even more mad because they couldn’t yell at him either. Jinu’s soft “hmm?” and gentle hand petting the tiger meant absolutely nothing was getting done.
Meanwhile, the bird would sit on your shoulder, tilting its head just enough to let you know: yeah, I’m doing this for you.
You started letting it perch inside your room. Let it steal Abby’s protein bars and deliver them. You even once cracked open your window and whispered, “Go terrorize Baby for me.”
It came back two hours later with eyeliner all over its wings and one of Baby’s earrings.
And the tiger? Well. The cat didn’t do schemes.
It just loved.
You think that’s what made it dumber than the bird, but somehow sweeter. The tiger didn’t care what kind of tension filled the apartment, or which boy was growling at which. It just found the softest part of any room, flopped belly-up, and let Abby pet it.
It was particularly fond of Jinu’s lap, of course, but once it started sleeping in your bed? Game over.
It was your bed now.
And gods help anyone who tried to move it.
Romance tried once. Just once. Came into your room and tried to slide in beside you.
The tiger hissed so loud it blew out two overhead bulbs.
Romance ran.
After that, you didn’t need to lock your door. The tiger handled everything.
But Abby could flop down next to the tiger, call it “Big Fucker,” and rub its belly with both hands like it was a dog, and the tiger would just melt. Flat on its back, eyes closed, purring.
You didn’t mind at first. Thought it was sweet, even, seeing how gentle Abby got when he was with the tiger. Like it unlocked something in him that wasn’t pure evil. You liked that side of him, quietly.
But things started shifting.
Because even though Abby could pet the tiger’s belly…
The tiger didn’t just tolerate you. It gravitated toward you.
Started sleeping in your bed. Licking your hand. Butting its massive head under your palm until you pet it exactly the way it liked. Following you into the bathroom like you were the only creature in the entire apartment worth monitoring while peeing.
Abby noticed. Of course he did.
“Bro.” he said one day, staring in betrayal as the tiger stood up mid-pet and walked out of his arms to go sit by your feet. “I just gave him a whole-ass fish.”
You shrugged.
It felt good. Just a little. To be chosen.
Jinu, though. Jinu was different.
The tiger had chosen him first. You could see it in the way it curled around his legs when he was thinking, or in the way it listened when he whispered in its ear. He was soft with it. Never used it like a weapon. Never demanded anything. Just offered presence and peace.
And now, with you?
It was the same kind of love.
If Jinu was the beginning of the tiger’s life, you were the second parent in the divorce.
You’d catch Jinu’s eye sometimes. He’d just smile, fond and a little tired.
“He’s spoiled.” he’d murmur, watching the tiger roll onto its back, massive paws in the air, demanding more affection.
You’d nod. “He gets it from your side of the family.”
And Jinu would laugh, quiet and warm, like the two of you were in on something bigger than everyone else.
The bird made no such compromises.
It was yours.
Flat-out, fully, unapologetically. Even when it still technically listened to Jinu—came when he called, perched on his arm when he whistled—it still returned to you.
It started sleeping near your pillow.
Started warning you when someone was coming down the hallway.
Started pulling your sleeve when Baby entered the room.
No more pranks. No more tests. It trusted you now. And anyone who didn’t? Anyone who crossed that line?
The bird would handle them.
It became very clear, very fast, that the animal had picked a side. And it was not the boys’.
It began policing them.
Not overtly. The bird was too clever for that. But it started showing up between you and the others. Not all of them, not all the time, mostly just Romance, Mystery, and Baby. (Especially Baby. That vendetta never quite died.)
They all noticed.
Baby started giving it the look, that sharp, slit-eyed, oh-you-want-to-fucking-go look.
Romance pretended to be heartbroken. Put his hand to his chest, all “Birdy, how could you?” while inching away under its stare.
Mystery just glared at it. The bird glared back. Feathers ruffled, wings spread.
The tiger joined in, eventually.
Not in the same active, devious way.
The tiger started inserting itself, sprawling across doorways whenever someone tried to corner you, laying on your lap when someone tried to sit next to you, curling up on your feet when the boys raised their voices.
It was unmovable.
At one point, Abby came too close during a joke—just a joke, really—and the tiger slowly turned its head and growled.
That shook him. Just enough to step back, hands raised. “Damn, okay, I got it.”
You were being guarded.
Kept.
You’re locked in a penthouse with five demon boys, kidnapped from your job like it was some cute prank, denied freedom, interrogated, and occasionally tortured. You’ve been through shit. You’ve cried silently on tiled floors. You’ve been treated like background noise and still no one’s even acknowledged that you didn’t ask to be here.
So no. You don’t feel bad. Not even a little. The bird became your errand boy. Baby once tried to lock you in the guest room while he “dealt with something” (read: Romance having an emotional meltdown over not being the most popular Saja on TikTok that week), and you just smiled, waited for the door to click shut, and whispered, “Go.”
The bird flew off in an instant.
Thirty seconds later? You were free. Not because you broke out, because the bird had taken the keys right out of Abby’s pocket.
By the time Baby realized, you were already on the balcony, cup of tea in hand, staring out at the skyline.
He stood there, blinking at you like he’d forgotten who held the leash now.
And you just said, “Forgot to lock it better.”
Then you began testing your limits more.
Started walking into the boys’ rooms just to look at things.
Not for revenge. Not for sabotage. Just because you could.
The bird would perch on your shoulder like a little knight, ready to scream at the first sign of resistance. The tiger would trail behind, tail curling around your ankles, utterly unconcerned.
You stepped into Romance’s walk-in closet once and picked up his most dramatic silk shirt. Stared at yourself in the mirror.
He caught you.
Right in the doorway, mouth parted, hand already raised to start his usual flirty bullshit. But then he saw the cat, planted at your feet like a bouncer. And the bird, tilting its head on the top shelf.
He just smiled. “Looking good, angel.”
You didn’t answer. Just walked past him like he was the wallpaper.
And Jinu? Sweet, loser Jinu?
You loved him. Hated that you loved him. He was kind in a way the others weren’t. But he still let this happen. Let them take you. Let them keep you. Prolly planned it first place.
So now, when you walked past him and the tiger followed you instead, tail curling, purring like thunder? You didn’t smile. But you made sure to meet his eyes.
He didn’t say a word. Just looked quietly… wistful. Like someone who realized they were losing custody.
It evolved.
You started using the animals as social armor. Like a literal shield.
And when you were sad, you didn’t cry anymore. You just curled up on your bed. Cat to your left, bird to your right, a pillow behind your head.
You didn’t ask them for comfort. Didn’t need to.
They came anyway.
The bird would bring you shiny things. Screws. Buttons. Random rings from the boys though none of them fit you. The tiger would press itself so close you couldn’t tell where it ended and you began.
While Romance?
He wanted you melting in his arms.
Mystery?
Wanted to be close without touching. Wanted to be inside your head, buried deep.
Baby?
Fuck if he knew what he wanted. He kicked your chair one day. Once stood behind you for twenty silent minutes just breathing like he was working up the courage to insult you.
Abby?
He laughed around you too hard, wrestled the others right in front of you, made a whole show of being the alpha male. But he was a fool for you.
And Jinu?
He’s an actual loser beneath the pretty looks and the perfect little nose.
So yeah, but then, Romance started brushing his teeth before speaking to you. Like a ritual. Mystery started growling less when you were around, which for him was practically a love letter. Abby cleaned up. Dusted things. Accidentally said “please.” Baby not kicking your legs out from under you. Jinu just turned into a bigger loser on the inside, but kept trying to make this better for you, even if you didn’t cooperate.
The animals saw all of it. And they did not approve.
Because you didn’t know.
You didn’t notice. You were busy staying away, surviving. You saw the boys as chaos. As danger. As captors who sometimes made you laugh and sometimes made you ache.
The feelings—the real ones—went under your radar.
But not under the animals’.
When Romance leaned too close? The bird would flap into his face. No warning. No elegance. Just a sudden flutter of feathers and caws that sounded exactly like laughter.
When Abby tried to ask you if you wanted to “maybe watch a movie or whatever” the bird pecked his bicep hard enough to leave a bruise.
When Jinu hovered nearby with something stupidly soft in his eyes, the bird would interrupt him. Or just drop a bottle cap or a coin in your lap so you don’t pay attention to Jinu.
Baby started swearing at it in four different tongues atp.
Mystery tried to lunge at it once. It bit his ear and lived to tell the tale.
The tiger would lie between you and the boys.
Abby once tried to casually sit next to you on the couch. The cat climbed his legs, sat on his chest, and would not move.
Jinu reached for your hand to help you up from the floor. The cat headbutted your knees and knocked you forward into its side instead.
Romance, being Romance, tried to say, “C’mon, angel, don’t you miss male attention?” and got slapped with a tail so hard it knocked his earring out.
Mystery didn’t even try anymore.
It liked Baby until Baby dared to talk to you.
You started noticing, eventually. Little things. The boys standing just a touch farther back. The way they’d hesitate. The way the animals always showed up when things got emotionally warm.
You see, animals feel things.
These animals—your tiger, your bird—didn’t read facial expressions, they read pulses. They didn’t care what someone said, they cared how their blood moved when they said it.
And when it came to the boys?
Well.
There was a lot to feel.
It wasn’t obvious at first. Not to you. You’d gotten used to their bullshit, Romance’s sex-drenched nonsense, Baby’s passive-aggressive jabs, Abby’s jock energy, Mystery’s whole “I will kill for you and then disappear into the walls” thing, and whatever that was going on with Jinu at this point. It all just blurred together.
So you didn’t notice. Not really. But the animals did. They noticed how Romance’s heartbeat spiked when you walked into a room. How Baby’s eyes always drifted your way when he thought no one was looking. How Abby got quieter around you. How Mystery watched you. The longing in Jinu’s eyes.
They noticed all of it.
And they were annoyed.
Because you weren’t interested. Or—more accurately—you were avoiding them.
Smart, honestly. They kidnapped you. They tortured you. They didn’t deserve you. The tiger and the bird agreed. But also? They were sick of how complicated this was getting.
Because you used them. Not maliciously. Just instinctively. Used the tiger as a wall, a buffer. You’d pet his big dumb head while Abby sat three feet away, clearly trying to find a way to say “Hey, I think about kissing you.” Used the bird as a barrier. Let it perch on your shoulder while Baby ranted about “how annoying humans are.” all while stealing glances at your mouth like he wanted to insult you with his tongue.
You built your fortress with fur and feathers.
And it worked. Too well.
The boys couldn’t get close. Not emotionally. Not physically.
So the animals did what any emotionally exhausted roommates would do in this situation:
They turned on you.
Not in a cruel way. They still loved you. Worshipped you, really. But they made an unspoken decision, one cloudy afternoon while you were napping under a sunbeam and the boys were scattered across the living room pretending not to look at you:
They were going to wingman.
It started with the bird.
Because wing. Heh. Get it? Bird and wing. Heh. No? Okay fuck me then.
The bird was smart. Smarter than the boys, probably. And it had watched long enough. It knew Baby was close to blowing his whole “I don’t give a fuck” cover. Knew Romance was a breath away from writing a ten-minute ballad. Knew Jinu was already in love with you and just politely suppressing it like it was a kink he was embarrassed to name.
So the bird started nudging.
You’d sit on the couch and suddenly there was space. The bird wouldn’t perch on your shoulder, it’d go to the windowsill. Leave a gap between you and whoever else was there.
You didn’t notice at first.
But the boys did.
Baby slid into that spot once, acting casual, only to freeze when you didn’t stop him. The bird cawed once, loud and approving, and he nearly passed out from the sheer rush of it.
Romance caught on fast. Of course he did. He followed the bird’s lead. Started showing up wherever you were, but not pushing. Just… hovering. Letting the silence between you stretch, but always being available.
One day, the bird landed on your desk, dropped a hairpin in front of you like a gift, and then pecked the air, once toward you, once toward Romance, then flew off like it had more matchmaking to do.
Romance grinned.
The tiger, bless him, was dumb as rocks if I haven’t said that already.
Not in a way that made him useless. Just… slow. He got the vibes but not the nuance. He’d see you sitting on the floor with your tea, and instead of guarding you like usual, he’d suddenly get up, walk over to Abby, and flop down directly across Abby’s legs, purring.
You figured it was just laziness. The boys figured it was random.
But it wasn’t. It was strategy.
The tiger started “accidentally” leaving you unguarded. Would find other laps to sprawl in. Would go snuggle with Jinu while you were in the kitchen, and then not-so-subtly nudge Jinu toward the counter you were slicing apples at.
One time, the tiger headbutted you so hard you stumbled right into Mystery’s arms.
You were too embarrassed to meet his eyes, but he didn’t move. Just stood there, chest barely rising, holding you.
The bird gave a low whistle from the top of the bookshelf.
Success.
You still didn’t get it. Still thought the boys were just annoying and bored and full of themselves, and sure, yeah, they were.
But they were also soft for you. Desperate in five different flavors.
Romance flirted because it was the only language he knew.
Baby insulted you because sincerity felt like peeling his skin off.
Abby got awkward and loud because being vulnerable wasn’t part of his programming.
Mystery didn’t speak, but his gaze could hollow out gods.
Jinu looked at you like he was waiting for an apology for falling in love. Loser. Loser. Have I said loser?
And the animals were tired of watching them fail.
So now? They interfered.
The bird started timing things.
Like, you’d wake up late and shuffle bleary-eyed into the kitchen, hair a mess, t-shirt barely hanging off your shoulder, and who would already be there, hair perfectly mussed, sweatpants low on his hips, humming like he didn’t spend twenty minutes prepping for this moment?
Romance.
Acting casual, like he didn’t know what time you usually got up. Like the bird didn’t land on his chest that morning and scream until he rolled out of bed and stood in the kitchen waiting.
“Oh hey, angel. Didn’t see you there.”
Sure. Sure, he didn’t.
The bird would then perch on the cabinet and just… watch. Casually. As if to say: Are you gonna offer to share your grapefruit or not, slut?
Romance would usually cave. He always did. Ended up leaning against the counter, peeling segments for you like he wasn’t plotting a second kidnapping, this time to steal your heart.
Then came Abby’s training arc.
The tiger loved Abby. They wrestled constantly. It was honestly cute.
But after the cat started picking you over him more and more, the dumbass man started sulking.
So the tiger changed tactics. Went back to Abby, started play-fighting again, only now? It was instructional. He’d nudge Abby toward you. Literally press his entire dumb weight against Abby’s side until he was leaning awkwardly into your space. It got to the point where you’d be sipping tea and Abby would be hovering six inches from your thigh, face red, like he couldn’t physically move away.
You glanced at him once, eyebrow raised. “You good?”
He panicked. “Tiger’s heavy. I—he’s like gravity. Just—just ignore me.”
You didn’t. You smirked, leaned into it. Let him sweat.
Tiger purred, proud and dumb.
The bird got meaner with Baby.
Because that boy would not get his shit together.
He liked you. He didn’t say it, he insulted you, mostly. Called you names. Acted like your presence was an inconvenience. But the bird knew. Knew by how Baby always looked when you left the room. How quiet he got.
So the bird escalated.
Started sabotaging Baby’s entire life.
Pushed his shampoo off the shelf. Hid his things. Took his makeup brushes and dropped them in your lap like “you fix him.”
Mystery was harder. He didn’t talk. Just blushed sometimes and looked.
But the tiger? The tiger loved him.
Not like Abby-love. No wrestling. Just a weird, quiet affection. They’d sit near each other and stare into the void. Besties.
So one day, when you were curled up in a corner with a book, Mystery watching you from across the room, the tiger just got up, yawned, and walked over to Mystery. Sat down next to him. And then began shoving him toward you.
It was slow. Methodical. Giant nudges of his hip. Every time Mystery tried to readjust, the tiger would just headbutt him again.
You didn’t look up until Mystery was practically pressed to your side, hands curled into fists like he was trying not to implode.
You blinked at him. He blinked back from behind his hair.
The bird whistled from the ceiling, scandalized.
And of course, Jinu.
He needed the most help, surprisingly.
And his animals? His bird, his tiger? They were betrayers.
They picked sides. Yours. Every time.
But even they couldn’t deny Jinu deserved something. Anything.
So they started making moments. The bird would “accidentally” drop your hair tie behind the couch and then screech until Jinu came to help you retrieve it. The tiger would pretend to be sick, lay on the floor groaning, tail twitching, until you and Jinu both had your hands on him at the same time, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder.
But the real win?
One night, you had a nightmare. Not screaming. Just… subtle. A whimper. A shift.
You didn’t wake up alone.
The tiger of course was already there. But the bird? The bird had flown to Jinu’s room. Pecked his face until he woke. Led him to your door. Then flew off.
Jinu didn’t say a word. Just sat on the edge of your bed, hand barely touching your ankle through the blanket, presence warm.
When you woke?
You didn’t even question it.
You just reached for him.
And he stayed.
The animals? They saw the cracks forming. The warmth. The beginning of something real.
You weren’t running from the boys anymore. You were watching them. Smiling, sometimes. Letting your guard down inch by inch.
At first, it was full resistance.
Understandably.
You were taken. Tied up. Questioned. Threatened. Occasionally growled at (Mystery), seduced at (Romance), ignored (Baby), coddled (Jinu), or dragged into gym drills against your will (Abby).
All this was going on, but after a while, it changed. It sure did.
Let’s start with the towel incident.
You were just trying to exist. You stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, one towel. Hair damp, steam still rising off your skin. You were planning to make a quick run to your room, grab your clothes, be invisible. No problem.
Except the tiger was waiting outside the door. Sitting. Like a bouncer.
He blinked up at you, tail wagging lazily, clearly delighted with the sight of you looking human, fresh and flushed and a little vulnerable.
“No.” you told him flatly. “Absolutely not.”
He made a little chirping noise. Then stood. Walked straight to Jinu’s room.
And began pawing the door.
You turned so fast your towel slipped, and you were half-wrestling with it, trying not to flash your whole ass to the hallway, when the door opened and there was Jinu, shirtless, looking dazed.
Tiger shoved past him, headbutted his hip, then trotted back to you.
You just stared at him. “What part of this looks like a good time for socialization?”
Tiger didn’t care. Sat beside you. Tail thumping. Looking at Jinu.
Jinu coughed, clearly trying to look anywhere but directly at your legs. “I—um—I’ll get you a robe?”
You turned and marched to your room. Tiger followed.
It also did this with Romance once, like… three days later.
He stopped in his tracks. His gaze dropped. Saw you. The towel. The death grip on your chest. The tiger beside you wagging its tail.
Romance blinked once. Twice.
“…I love you.” he said.
You slammed the door in his face.
The tiger scratched at the other side.
Another time you were sitting on the floor, playing with the bird (who was dragging a stolen earring across the carpet). The tiger was curled nearby. Abby walked in, sipping a smoothie, mid-conversation with Mystery.
He barely looked at you. Just nodded like a bro. “Sup.”
You nodded back. Fine. Neutral.
The tiger? Not fine. The tiger got up. Walked over. Headbutted Abby so hard he stumbled forward. Right into your space.
He blinked. You blinked.
“I didn’t do that.” he said quickly.
The tiger laid down behind him. Boxed him in. Big paws on either side. Nowhere to go.
You raised an eyebrow. “Trapped?”
Abby rubbed the back of his neck. “He does this sometimes.”
You smirked. “He definitely does.”
You sat like that for twenty minutes. Abby awkward. You amused. The tiger thrilled.
Once, you were on your way to the big bathroom, towel in hand, cat trailing after you.
Until Romance walked out of that said bathroom, dripping wet. Wrapped in a towel that was too low. Hair a mess. Muscles glistening like he moisturizes with fucking coconut oil.
You turned to leave. Immediately.
But the bird screeched at you. Full wingspan out, blocking the way.
Romance blinked at the scene. Slowly. Then smiled, infuriatingly. “Hey, angel. Want the shower next or wanna share?”
You narrowed your eyes at the bird. “This is manipulative.”
It cawed. Unrepentant. Tiger didn’t move. Just smiled.
You walked away anyway. But you heard Romance laughing under his breath.
And now my favorite fact, the tiger thinks Abby is the ideal mate.
In tiger logic, this made sense. Abby was strong, loud, covered in sweat 80% of the time. He gave great belly rubs. Wrestled daily. Brought snacks. He was affectionate. He scratched that perfect itch just above the haunches. He was the best pillow in the apartment. He even kissed the top of tiger’s dumb head once after a workout, and that was it. The tiger was sold. Which meant you should fuck him. Immediately.
So when you were walking down the hall, the tiger slid between your legs, because the fact that you and Abby weren’t rolling around like tiger and his favorite blanket was deeply upsetting to him. So it forced you to grab the nearest thing for balance.
That thing is Abby, coming out of his room in a tank top, completely unaware of the trap.
You crashed into him, full-body.
His hand caught your waist.
You both froze. Inches apart. Breathing hard.
You parted awkwardly. Tripping over words. Betrayed.
Another time, you were in the kitchen, trying to chop onions in peace for a little pasta you were making. Romance walked by in nothing but sweatpants and the ego of a man who knows he looks like sex in bad lighting.
You ignored him, because he was being normal for once.
Until the bird dive-bombed your cutting board, snatched an onion ring, and flies into Romance’s face.
And then—slip. His pants slide just a bit too low.
Just slightly too low.
He grabbed at them, but the damage is done.
You froze.
He froze.
A beat of absolute silence.
Romance coughed, stepped back, voice slightly higher. “This is not how I wanted you to see that.”
You blinked. Slowly. “…You’re not wearing underwear?”
“I was! Sussie did something to the string—! I swear—!”
You sliced another onion, deadpan. “Romance, if your bird ever takes your pants off in my vicinity again, I will genuinely skin you alive.”
The tiger walked by, saw Romance half-naked and flustered, saw you not running, and just purred.
And the bird can be so much worse.
He doesn’t understand shame. Or nudity. Or human social etiquette.
So one night, Jinu freshly out of the shower, hair damp, robe loose, looking absolutely dangerous. You were in the hall, about to turn away, because respect, when the bird slammed into your back and pushes you forward.
Right into Jinu’s chest.
The robe opened a little.
Chest. Abs. A low “Oh—shit, sorry—” from him, all while trying to adjust without flashing you completely.
You tried to stumble back.
The bird blocked you.
Jinu was panicked but gentle, saying “He’s been doing this for days. I—I’m so sorry—do you want me to call him off?”
“I don’t think you can.”
“I really can’t.”
“It’s okay. I’ve seen worse.”
Yeah, that was… awkward.
Don’t even get me started on when you were bending over to tie your shoe.
Baby walked in. He wasn’t expecting you there. You weren’t expecting him. But it happens.
He stared.
You glanced back, casual. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Too fast.
You stood, slow. He was still staring. Eyes flick down. Back up. Red face. Like he’s trying to look away but physically can’t.
Sussie swooped down. Landed on the dresser. Pecked Baby’s crotch.
Right. On. Target.
He flinched. Hard. Then grabbed the bird and stormed off with it to give it a big fucking talk.
Now that I’m telling stories, you and Mystery had a quiet rapport, you didn’t hate him the way you hated the others at first. He didn’t try to touch you. Didn’t speak unless needed. He’d just sit in your radius.
But you hadn’t made any moves. No glances. No flirting.
So the bird forced you to.
Yes, even Mystery got dragged into it. Which was frankly unfair because the man couldn’t even speak in full sentences most days and now he was being cornered into moments with you planned by a bird with a vendetta and a cat with the IQ of a carrot.
One morning, you were heading to the balcony. Coffee in hand, half-asleep. You slid the door open, and the bird flew at your face.
You yelped, dropped the mug, and ducked.
When you looked up, Mystery was right there behind you. Not just close. Pressed to you. His arm shot out to keep you from falling, palm on your waist, mouth just behind your ear.
You both went still. Heat. Breath. Your spine curved like a reflex.
His voice was low. Rough. “You okay?”
You nodded. Too fast. “Sussie’s a dick.”
He didn’t move. “Yes.”
You were sweating. You blamed the coffee. Which you spilled. Which you never cleaned up because you ran.
The bird cackled for two solid minutes.
The animals didn’t understand discomfort. They didn’t recognize that a towel barely hanging off a hip meant anything bad. They didn’t know what erections were. They didn’t know that pushing you chest-first into Mystery’s lap was not okay.
They just saw affection. Saw tension. Saw chemistry and warmth and love, even if none of you could admit it yet.
They didn’t care about the rules of human touch.
They cared that you belonged.
Still took part in your little stunts though, for an example, you’d be sitting on the couch, and Romance would try to get all up in your space with that low voice and hungry stare, all “So, sweetheart, want to sit in my lap while we pick a movie—?”
And you’d snap your fingers.
Bird. Instant.
Lands on Romance’s thigh and pecks his dick.
Hard.
Romance yelps. You sip your tea. The bird preens.
Other times? Tiger plays the long game. Not because he’s smart—he’s not—but because he’s loyal. Which means, if he sees you frowning? Or crossing your arms? Or if anyone raises their voice even slightly near you?
He’s there.
Blocking. Nudging. Sitting on laps that weren’t offering.
Abby once called you “bratty”, and you didn’t even have to say anything, tiger stood up, walked across the room, and pushed Abby into a wall.
No claws. No growl. Just brute, slow, emotional pressure.
Abby’s response: “Okay. Okay, she’s not bratty. She’s lovely. I was wrong. Jesus.”
So yeah, they were still loyal to you, but no doubt that they also enjoyed doing… this, to you and the boys.
Another story incoming, it was a slow afternoon. The boys were lounging in the living room, half-dressed, lazy, complaining about annoying fans, humans in general.
You were sitting on the floor, half-watching them argue over whether or not Mystery had eaten someone recently. You mentioned, offhandedly, “It’s weird how your marks aren’t always visible. When do they even show up?”
Pause.
Romance smiled. “You paying that much attention, angel?”
You did not respond. Because no. You absolutely were not watching the way their bodies lit up violet when they got serious. You were not obsessing over the curling marks down Abby’s spine or the ones that ran from Baby’s jaw to his throat. You were not thinking about the ones on Jinu’s ribs.
No.
Not thinking about it at all.
And then, the bird turned its head. Looked at you. Looked at the boys. Looked down.
It flew across the room and landed square on Abby’s thigh.
Then it started pecking at the waistband of his sweatpants.
The boys went silent.
You choked on air.
The bird made a triumphant caw, grabbed the elastic waistband in its beak, and yanked to show you where else were patterns.
Romance dropped his drink, howled with laughter. The others watched with mouths agape.
The tiger, by the way? In the corner. Smiling. Like he understood exactly zero percent of the conversation but yes yes, this is family time, very good, I love when people scream. He rolled onto his back and started snoring.
The bird did not succeed in full pantsing Abby, unfortunately. (Or fortunately, depending on your trauma levels and whether or not you were ready to see what the demon gymrat was packing.)
Eventually, Jinu pried the bird off and carried it out of the room while it cawed in protest. “Sorry.” he told you gently. “He’s just… like this.”
“No.” you gasped, tears still in your eyes. “Let him cook.”
Jinu did NOT understand what that meant.
I’m carried away with the little stories, so once you were reading. That’s all. Just sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, trying to enjoy a little peace. The tiger was behind you, his big warm bulk nestled against the back of the couch.
He was snoring. You were ignoring him. So far, so good.
Then Romance walked in. Stretching. Fresh out of the shower.
He gave you one of his usual morning, sweetheart purrs and flopped onto the couch behind you.
The tiger lifted his head.
Looked between you and Romance.
Then stood up.
Walked around. Circled twice. And then shoved his giant body behind you—right between you and the couch—forcing you to fall backward. You slammed right into Romance’s chest, book flying.
“Shit—” You tried to sit up.
Romance’s arms went around you on instinct and he laughed into your neck. “Tiger. Buddy. I owe you one.”
You tried to get up. The tiger pushed his paw down on your thigh. Kept you firmly planted in Romance’s lap.
You could feel it.
Yeah. A dick. Under you. An actual demon dick.
Romance’s breath stuttered. His grip tightened. You both froze.
The tiger just yawned. It didn’t give a fuck, if it was capable of that. But what it does have is loyalty. And love. And the kind of warmth that makes Abby say shit like, “I’d literally die for this idiot.”
(Which he said. Once. While scratching the tiger’s belly. The tiger’s leg kicked like a dog. Abby cooed. Everyone else gagged.)
So yeah, it kept happening. Different variations.
Bird dropping your things into Baby’s lap just so that he can hold it in the air while you try to reach it.
Tiger pinning you to the kitchen floor mid-stretch and Jinu walking in right as your ass is perfectly arched.
Bird playing middleman in a game of fetch where the only “fetch” item was your bra (don’t ask).
Tiger shoving Abby forward into you while you were drinking tea, leading to a splash, a tangle of limbs, and somehow a hand on your thigh that didn’t move for a full minute.
Bird placing your hand into Mystery’s.
You stopped questioning it.
Not because it wasn’t weird. It was hella weird. But you started to like it. Started noticing how each boy reacted.
Romance would smirk but get real quiet, like he didn’t want to ruin it.
Abby would blush and joke but keep his hand a little too long on your hip.
Mystery wouldn’t say a word, just breathe slower, closer.
Jinu would help you up, apologize, but his hand would shake a little when he let go.
Baby always cursed under his breath. Acted annoyed. But never looked away. Never left.
Yeah. So this.
From being your tiny rebel army of “fuck these boys” to your two ride-or-die little assistants, your unofficial bodyguards and besties, your only allies…
To this.
You remember when the bird used to scream like a kettle every time one of the boys so much as entered your airspace. When it would nip at fingers, throw things at heads, or squawk aggressively.
You remember when the tiger would lie down in doorways just to block them from approaching. When it used to shove its giant head between you and anyone who got within arm’s length, and just sit there.
And now look at that and where we are now. From keeping the guys away from you to nudging them forward.
You used to count the minutes between interactions. Every word out of their mouths was another slice of evidence: they weren’t normal. They weren’t kind. They weren’t human.
Now you count the beats of silence where they try not to stare.
You count the seconds Romance goes without making a joke when you walk into the room, how long he watches before the cocky mask slips into something earnest. You count the times Jinu passes this and that, saying nothing, eyes too soft for a captor. You count the fucking accidental tenderness in Baby’s insults, how he calls you “brat” like he wants you to call him back. You count every time Abby gives you space… and then doesn’t. Even Mystery is gentler now, in his way. Not less feral, just targeted. Still jumps Romance at least once a day. Still growls like a dog you shouldn’t pet. But with you? It’s touch-without-warning. Steady presence. A rare nod. A soft noise in his throat when you leave the room too fast, like something he can’t not track.
You’re still resistant. Still watchful. Still technically their hostage.
But you’re not so sure where the lines are anymore.
You’re reaching for something on a high shelf? Bird swoops in and knocks it off, straight into Romance’s hands.
You’re walking across the living room? He dive-bombs your shoulder and oh no, you stumble directly into Abby’s chest.
You’re trying to stay in your room? The bird perches on your head and just vibrates until you give up and find Mystery.
Tiger’s method is simpler. Dumber. More endearing.
If you sit down, he sits beside you.
If you stand up, he walks behind you.
If you walk into a room, he lies down and points his whole tiger body toward the boy you like least that day.
So yeah.
From being your precious little babies who protected you, they’ve become your worst best allies. They love you. But they also ship the hell out of you.
You just wanted peace.
Now you’ve got five demon boys circling, a bird playing 4D chess with your sex life, and a tiger who thinks cuddling with the enemy is the only true path.
Honestly?
You’re starting to wonder if you even want to escape anymore.
THIS IS NOT CANON TO THE ORIGINAL STORY LINE OF THE ASSISTANT READER SERIES!
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.”
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?
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:
Here's a fun little detail about "This is what it sounds like". Mira and Zoey start in their "Golden" outfits, as they've had no time or reason to change since all that went down. It's a bit militaristic, spikes, fringes, and the main fabric seems to black sequins.
We get a closer look at the sequins during the start of the fight, when the girls are all coming together along the three stages.
And then the three girls hug, which recreates the Honmoon and rebuilds their magical alliance, and to signify that, Mira's and Zoey's outfits turn white, showing that they've been sanctified. So far, so good.
But crucially, the white outfits don't have sequins anymore. They have something else:
Patterns.
It's subtle and easy to miss, but the post-reunification outfits of Zoey and Mira are both smooth, but feature some subtle pattern work. Zoeys are a bit more playful, Mira's a bit more angular, both unique to them and their styles. But crucially, they match the demonic patterns on Rumi's skin.
The outfits are telling us that not only have the three reunited, not only have they forgiven each other, they're telling us that these girls are a unit. If one of them has patterns, they all will wear patterns, and be proud of it. They're 100% on Rumi's side.
Of course this is also what the text of the movie is literally saying anyway, it's not exactly subtle, but it's great to see it reinforced in subtle ways like this. I'm sure many people noticed it right away, but it took me several watches of the movie and the promotional Youtube videos to notice it.
PLOT: So here you are, the sweet little assistant to HUNTR/X. Not anything like Bobby, no. You’re the only human they let in on their secret of being hunters, and your job is to help them out the best you can. Fetching the weapons, patching up wounds, memorizing demon looking ppl, preferably without fighting because you’re ass at that. You’re smart, sweet, know what will the girls do next.
Which is exactly why the Saja Boys decided to kidnap your ass.
Oh, they still look like a wet dream, don’t get that twisted. But they deadass snatched you up because you know too much. You know how the girls work. You know where they’re going, what they’re planning, how to hurt them.
Except, you won’t talk. Not even when they tried. And oh, they tried. Little threats. Little games. Little moments that left bruises.
Now? You’re a guest in their fancy-fancy high-rise apartment in the human world that they have so they don’t have to go back and forth between worlds. More like their prisoner, but the fridge is stocked and you’re not chained anymore.
cw: implied female reader, kidnapping situation, a shit ton of cursing, Romance being a flirt, a boner, mentions of sex, Mystery being curious about your body, boys being boys and fucking with you. Part 2 here
You stand at the sleek marble counter, a knife in your hand, slicing through a peach.
Behind you, Romance’s laugh fills the room, deep, as Mystery literally tackles him over the back of the couch. They hit the floor with a heavy thud, limbs tangled, and Mystery growls.
Romance? He’s grinning. Loving every second.
“Damn, if you wanted to get me on my back you could’ve just asked.” he purrs, voice smooth.
Mystery’s response is to sink his teeth—actually sink his teeth—into Romance’s shoulder.
“Fuck—ah, yes, harder!” Romance groans dramatically, shoving at Mystery’s face but clearly not trying to get him off.
You just keep cutting your peach, the juice sticky on your fingers.
Abby’s sprawled in an armchair, bouncing a stress ball off the wall hard enough you’re certain he’ll crack the plaster. He’s wearing a tank top that shows off his arms and his attention span is shot to shit. He’s been drumming his fingers, cracking his neck, muttering to himself about needing to do something.
Baby’s on the floor, cross-legged, looking at his phone what he grew to love so so so much since they figured it out. He actually looks like he has no idea what’s going on but doesn’t care anyway.
Jinu is in the kitchen, not far from you, sipping tea like none of this is happening. His hair’s still a little damp from a shower, and he looks… normal. Calm. Like he could be your neighbor, the guy who helps carry your groceries.
He notices you’re out of reach of the fruit bowl and slides it closer without a word.
“Thanks.” you mutter, not looking up.
Not forgetting that you fucking HATE his guts!!
“You’re welcome.”
And that’s the thing with Jinu. He’s nice. Too nice.
You slice another piece of peach. Try to pretend you don’t hear Romance moaning as Mystery bites him again.
Baby snorts quietly, still scrolling.
You just keep slicing fruit, silent, petty, waiting for the moment they let their guard down. Not happening.
Romance walks over eventually, leaning against the counter next to you. His scent hits you—fuck you in the ass it’s good. Why does it have to be good?
“Need help with that, angel?” he murmurs, voice like velvet, fingers brushing a piece of peach off your plate and popping it into his mouth.
You don’t look at him. “Fuck off.”
“Alrighty.”
He doesn’t move though.
Mystery, now perched on the arm of the couch, watches the two of you , you’d guess. You can’t see those fuckass eyes.
You remember the first meet.
God. The girls just finished, you gave them all the luxury they could ever need then went back to your apartment. Exhausted. Filthy. You got home, peeled off your clothes, stepped into that shower, and thought—finally. Finally, you could breathe.
Then, a bold whistle from behind you.
You turned your head, soap stinging your eyes, and there was….
Drumroll…
🥁🥁🥁
Romance.
Yes indeed, the fucker whistled.
You froze. Completely naked, completely vulnerable. He moved fast—too fast—hand over your mouth, body pressed up to the shower glass.
“Don’t scream. We’re just gonna have a little chat.”
You wanted to kick him. You really did. But he had you pinned, all casual, like this was just another Tuesday for him.
“Options.” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek like he was trying to soothe you. “You tell me what I wanna know. Or—and I like this one better—I take you with me.”
You glared at him. You hated him.
(Since your girls did too and know he’s a demon but anyway)
But what could you do? Naked, trapped, outmatched. So you nodded. Let him hand you a towel. Let him grin when you dressed in whatever you could grab. Let him walk you out of your own damn apartment like he was your date for the night.
You snap back to now, slicing that peach a little too hard. The knife hits the cutting board with a sharp thunk.
Romance notices. Of course he notices. He always notices.
“Careful, baby. Gonna hurt yourself.” he teases, snagging another piece of fruit from your plate like he has every right.
You don’t answer. Just cut another slice, the peach juice sticky on your fingers.
Then there was the time you tried to run.
You’d waited until late. Until they were sprawled out, arguing over anything, distracted by their own bullshit. You’d crept to the door, so quiet. Almost made it.
Baby caught you. Not with strength. With a simple:
“Hm?”
And then Jinu was there. Calm. Closing the door gently. Taking your arm, leading you back.
“Don’t do that, okay?” he’d said, as if you’d just made a small mistake. Like it wasn’t a big fucking deal.
Romance had clapped you on the back when you were forced to sit back down. “A+ for effort, though.”
Slice. Slice. Another piece of peach.
Mystery’s watching you now. Not saying anything, just watching. His head tilted, into your direction.
You finish slicing the peach. Set the knife down.
Romance steals another piece, grinning at you over it.
Mystery growls under his breath at the whole thing.
Abby’s already forgotten about you, too busy flicking Baby’s ear to annoy him.
Jinu’s watching you quietly, you’d guess. Don’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.
You remember that time you bit Romance.
God, the nerve of him. You were done—so done—with him always getting too close.
D-O-N-E.
That time, when he cornered you to get things out of you. “C’mon, angel, just tell me a little secret. Just one. I’ll owe you.” He’d said. “You’re so tense. I can help with that…”
And you just snapped. Lunged in and bit his arm as hard as you could.
And the fucker?
The fuck?
He winked at you.
Didn’t pull away. Didn’t cuss you out. Just grinned like you’d given him a gift. “Easy, girl.” he said, voice low, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him. “Didn’t know you liked it rough.”
You wanted to scream. Instead, you glared and tried to yank free, and he let you—only because he felt like it. Not because you could have escaped him.
You organize the little peaches on your plate. They looked quite cute.
You tried to stand your ground once.
Told Abby to back off, to leave you alone. And what did he do?
He laughed. That easy, bright, warm laugh like you’d just told him a joke. Then he slung his arm around your shoulders and practically dragged you down the hall like you were his best bud.
“You’re funny as hell.” he said, ruffling your hair like you weren’t glaring daggers at him. “C’mon.”
Asshole.
“Where you think you’re going, superstar?” he’d teased last time, when you made it to the elevator and thought, for one sweet second, you were free.
You’d fought. Kicked. Swore.
And he’d just laughed, hoisting you up like you weighed nothing. Carried you back down the hall like you were some drunk friend at a party, not a prisoner.
“C’mon now. You know you’re not going anywhere. Let’s not make it weird.”
Baby shifts where he’s sitting, lazy as ever, glancing up from his phone just long enough to take a sassy look at you.
Then there was time they played good cop/bad cop on you.
Mystery had you cornered in the kitchen. Not even saying anything—just standing there, too close. You’d tried to sidestep him. He’d mirrored the move, blocking you without touching.
And then Romance walked in. All relaxed, all casual. Slid in between you and Mystery, arm around your waist like it was his right.
“Ease up.” he said to Mystery, but his hand tightened on your side. “She’s not gonna run. Are you, angel?”
You bite into a piece of peach now.
Or there’s the night you tried to lock yourself in a room.
Abby broke the door down. Just… busted it open like it was made of cardboard.
“Don’t do that, babe.” he said, happy af, picking you up like you weighed nothing and carrying you back to the main room. “You’re gonna make us feel bad, hiding like that.”
You’d pounded at his chest. Tried to fight.
And he’d just laughed again, so warm, so easy, like you were play-wrestling.
You put the cutting board back, close the cabinet a little too hard.
There are also mind games. Oh, the fucking mind games.
Like how Jinu always helps. Always so polite, so considerate. Slips a glass of water into your hand when you’re too angry to ask. Pulls out a chair for you. Puts a blanket over you when you fall asleep
(and yeah, you pretended to be asleep that time. sue you, you were cold).
And it gets in your head. Makes you second-guess your hate. Makes you wonder if maybe he’d let you go if you just asked nicely enough. Makes you forget, for a second, that he’s the one who seals the doors behind you.
Or how Baby never speaks to you unless it’s to cut you down.
That time you begged, just once, just quietly, just to Baby because the others were too busy fucking around, you asked him to help you slip out.
And he’d looked at you. Just looked. And smiled that tiny, mean smile of his.
“Cute that you think anyone here gives a fuck what you want.”
Yeah, when he doesn’t currently not give a fuck about what’s happening around him, this is what you’ll get of him. Allat pretty face is a waste, fr.
You wipe down the counter, scrubbing too hard, like you can erase their fingerprints from your space.
And Mystery.
Mystery, who’s so feral you almost thought you could use that. That maybe he was the weak link. That maybe his violence meant he didn’t care about the plan, that he’d let you go just to spite the others.
But no.
Like the time you tried to sneak a phone off the coffee table, thinking no one was looking.
Mystery had crossed the room in a blink, snatched it out of your hand, and grabbed your jaw so fast your ears rang.
His nails had pricked your skin. His breath had been hot, his growl low.
“Don’t.”
One word. That’s all. And then he let go like you were nothing. Like you didn’t even matter enough to punish.
You open the fridge, shove the plate in, close it again like the slam of the door can drown out the noise in your head.
You turn, walk closer to them in the living room so you look more genuine, sweet like sugar because you can’t help it. That’s just how you sound.
“Can I use the sauna?” you ask.
No one says anything for half a beat.
Jinu the asshole the FUCKING asshole hums. “In exchange for some information, you know. Tell us a thing or two.”
You groan. Actually groan. And before you can stop yourself, you do the tiniest, most frustrated little kick at the air. Just a flick of your foot, like you’re trying to shake off the annoyance. Just a little kick. Adorable, really. A stupid, tiny burst of frustration because this is so fucking unfair and they know it.
And that’s when Abby, quick, grabs your leg mid-kick.
“Gotcha.” he says, voice bright. And the worst part? He doesn’t even look at you. He’s already turned back to whatever dumb shit they’re talking about, your ankle resting in his grip.
And now you’re there, balancing on one foot, arms out a little to steady yourself.
“Abby—let go—!”
But he’s not paying you any mind. His fingers loose but firm around your ankle, like he could crush it if he felt like it, but he’s just holding it.
As if you’re some toy he forgot he was playing with. Fucking asshole.
Romance sees the opportunity immediately. He slides closer, slow, a finger tapping at your knee, then your thigh, all innocent and infuriating. “Look at you. One foot. So talented.”
You swat at him, trying to push him away, but that just makes him laugh.
Mystery, meanwhile, is staring at your leg. Head tilted, curious. Like he can’t decide if he wants to pounce on it or just… study it. It’s been a while since he’s seen a human girl this close. That’s obvious in the way his gaze lingers too long on the shape of your calf, the flex of your foot as you wobble.
Baby is absolutely checking out your ass.
Not even trying to hide it.
One glance over his phone, those eyes sliding down, a little smirk ghosting at the corner of his mouth before he looks back at his screen like he’s the innocent one here.
You hop a little, trying to tug your leg free, still balancing awkwardly. “Abby—seriously!”
But Abby just laughs, chatting with Jinu, your leg still in his grip.
Romance pokes at you again. This time at your side, grinning when you squirm. “Careful, sweetheart. You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”
You try to stomp your other foot, frustrated beyond words, but you’re already jumping on one leg, and that just makes all of them snicker.
“Abby!”
“Hmm?” His voice is unbothered, eyes still not on you. “Oh. Right. Forgot I was holding you.”
Liar.
“Nah, c’mon—tell us a secret.” Abby says.
You tug.
He doesn’t budge.
“Abby.” you hiss.
But it’s useless.
Romance pokes you in the side, fascinated by the way your curves move.
“Stop it—” you try to swat at him, but you’re too busy trying not to fall flat on your ass.
Romance laughs, brushing your hand aside easily. His fingers brush your free ankle lightly, just to mess with you, and you nearly lose your balance again.
“Seriously, let go.” you snap, hopping on your one foot, trying to twist free.
But Abby’s grip is firm, not tight enough to hurt, just impossible to break.
He still isn’t looking at you. Instead, he’s grinning at Romance. “Hey, look at this—” he lifts your foot slightly, turning it in his hand like he’s inspecting it “—her foot’s like half the size of yours.”
Romance, of course, is lining his foot up next to yours while you’re still caught there, balancing. His grin is all teeth. “Tiny.” he says, delighted.
You’re burning up with embarrassment now, face hot, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. You’re jumping a little, trying to shake your foot loose, but all it does is make Romance poke at you more, fingers brushing your calf, your ankle, your side.
“Stop it!” you snap, swatting at him, but you can’t even aim right on one foot.
Baby doesn’t even hide it anymore. He leans back, arms crossed, eyes flicking between your legs, your ass, your face, enjoying every second of this humiliation.
“Alright, c’mon now.” Abby says, finally glancing at you. “Give us a little intel, and you can go steam yourself all you want.”
You’re about to lose your balance for real—arms flailing slightly, heel of your standing foot sliding on the polished floor—when finally, finally, Jinu’s voice cuts through the mess.
“You can use the sauna.” he says simply, with a small nod, like it should’ve been obvious all along.
“There you go, superstar.” Abby lets go, laughing under his breath as if this was all in good fun. You stumble, catch yourself on the couch, heart pounding, face flushed.
Romance grins, hands up like he’s innocent. “See? All you had to do was ask.”
Baby smirks, looking back down at his phone as if he wasn’t just ogling you.
Mystery sinks back onto the couch arm, still watching, but at least he isn’t about to lunge anymore.
You straighten, brushing your hands down your sides, trying to regain a scrap of dignity.
“Thanks.” you mutter, shooting a glare at the rest of them before turning on your heel and heading toward the sauna.
Romance leans back, hands up like he’s innocent. “Enjoy yourself, angel.”
Baby gives you one last look, and Mystery’s head follows you until you’re out of reach.
You huff, fixing your clothes, dignity in shambles as you stomp toward the sauna.
God, you hate them.
God, they’re fucking hilarious.
God, you hate that you almost laughed too.
Alright, so there you are. Finally. Finally in the sauna.
You thought maybe—maybe—you could steal this one small victory. After all the shit they put you through, the teasing, the games, the constant pushing and pulling, you’d gotten away.
The heat envelops you, thick, fogging up the glass as you sit there, knees tucked up, towel clutched tight to your chest.
Your heartbeat’s just starting to slow. Your breathing evens out. The sweat begins to bead at your temples, trickle down your neck, and for a blissful minute, you think:
peace.
And then.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You freeze. Eyes snap to the glass door.
Abby and Romance.
Side by side, standing just outside the sauna with the most shit-eating grins you’ve ever seen.
And god help you,
they’re in nothing but towels.
Romance has his slung low on his hips, arms crossed behind his head. Like he knew what this would do to you. His eyes meet yours through the steam, and his grin somehow widens.
Abby’s hitched up carelessly at his waist, and he’s leaning against the glass with both hands, forehead pressed against it, breathing patterns making little clouds on the surface.
And because he’s Abby and he’s got no shame, he leans in further until his abs are smushed up against the glass too, leaving perfect imprints of his ridiculous physique.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Romance’s knuckle on the door this time, slow and rhythmic, like they’ve got all the time in the world.
These bastards have nothing but time. And you? You’re the best entertainment they’ve had in centuries. Three hundred years of whatever suffering Gwi-ma put them through, until you.
And you can tell. You can see it in their faces, the way they’re lit up like kids on Christmas morning. The way they’re making a game out of this. The way they’re not just keeping you prisoner, they’re enjoying every second of it, like you’re their favorite new toy.
“Baby girl.” Romance calls, voice muffled through the glass, drawing the words out like a slow melody. He knocks again, forehead resting against the glass, leaning down a little so his eyes are level with yours. “Come on. Don’t be like that.”
(Guys I don’t mean baby girl in a weird way I promiseeeee)
Abby starts whining. Full-on whining, dragging out the vowels like he’s the one being tortured here.
“Pleeeaaaseee. Let us in. Don’t hog all the steam. You know it’s rude.”
Your grip on your towel tightens. You shake your head, glaring, but that just seems to make them more determined.
Romance is flattening his palms against the glass, leaning his weight forward, so casual.
“C’mon, sweetheart.” he purrs. “It’s not safe to sauna alone. What if you pass out? What if you get too hot?” His voice drops lower, dripping with mock concern. “We’d hate for something bad to happen to you.”
You point at them through the foggy glass. “Stay out.”
They’re having the time of their lives.
Abby’s face is smushed against the door now, nose flattened, grinning so hard you can see the crinkle of his eyes even through the fog. He slides down slightly so his chest presses up too, leaving an actual print on the glass that you’re sure you’ll see in your nightmares.
“Come oooonnnn.” he drags out, hands sliding down the glass with exaggerated despair. “It’s lonely out here. It’s cold.”
“Yeah.” Romance chimes in, knocking his knuckles lightly again, rhythm playful. “So cold. We’re shivering.”
Neither of them looks the least bit cold. They look like gods, golden and gleaming in the low light, all muscle.
Abby presses his forehead right next to Romance’s, their faces squished together, two idiots united in their mission to annoy the living shit out of you. His abs are still plastered to the glass, leaving sweaty smudges in their shape.
Romance starts dragging out words like he’s dying of heartbreak. “Weeeee just waaaant to reeeelaaax.”
And then, before you can stop it, the door creaks open.
Romance’s hand is already on the handle. Abby’s pushing through behind him, grinning.
“You—” you start, clutching your towel tighter, scooting back like that’s going to help.
Romance plops down way too close, towel barely clinging on, stretching his long legs out. He leans back, hands braced behind him, turning his head to look at you with that maddening, lazy smile.
Abby flops down on your other side, sighing like he’s just found heaven, spreading out. He stretches his arms up, rolls his shoulders, all muscle.
“This is much better.” Abby says cheerfully.
“Yeah.” Romance agrees, eyes glinting with as he studies you, watching the way you clutch your towel like it’s the only thing saving your dignity. “See? Cozy.”
You glare at them both, heart hammering so loud you’re sure they can hear it over the hiss of the steam.
“You could’ve waited.” you mutter, trying to inch away without actually standing and risking… well, anything.
Romance leans in slightly, close enough that you can see the bead of sweat trailing down his temple, the curve of his smirk.
Then, these assholes giggle.
Giggle.
Big, strong, terrifying demons who could rip a man apart in seconds, sitting on either side of you, legs sprawled, water dripping down their ridiculously perfect bodies—and giggling like schoolgirls who just found a crush’s diary.
Romance leans forward, glancing at Abby, his grin wide and boyish and so fucking irritating. His hair’s still damp, little droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw, catching in the hollow of his throat before disappearing below that towel hanging far too low on his hips.
Abby snorts, eyes crinkling, that same big, bright grin that makes it impossible to stay mad at him for long—no matter how much you want to. He’s got one arm thrown over the back of the bench.
“I feel relaxed already.” Abby teases, voice low and warm.
And the giggling starts again. Little bursts of it, like they can’t believe their luck.
You press your back against the wall, eyes narrowed, clutching your towel so hard you might leave permanent wrinkles in the fabric. You feel the heat rising higher in your cheeks now, but it’s not from the sauna.
Because they’re close. So close you can feel the heat coming off them, not just the sauna’s heat but theirs. Like being caught between two furnaces.
Fuck them.
And they’re not just sitting there politely, minding their business. Oh no. Their gazes slide over you, undressing you with their eyes without a single ounce of shame.
Romance lets his gaze drop, lazily, from your flushed face to the slope of your shoulders, down the curve of your towel-clad body, he’s imagining exactly what’s under there. He doesn’t even try to hide it.
His mouth quirks up at the corner like he’s thoroughly enjoying the view.
Abby’s no better. His eyes trace you all the same. Like he’s taking mental snapshots, adding to whatever collection of moments he’s tucking away for the next time he’s bored at 3 a.m.
And it’s not subtle.
They’d hit that. No question. In a heartbeat.
Hell, Romance would have you against the sauna wall the second you blinked yes—if you blinked yes. The man has no shame. His lust, so open, so easy, it’s like breathing to him.
But that’s the thing about Romance—he knows the difference. Knows the difference between wanting to get you under him and wanting something real.
And somehow, that second thing? That’s creeping in now, too.
It’s not just the game anymore. Not just the fun of teasing you, seeing how red they can make you go, seeing how long they can keep you flustered before you snap.
It’s that you feel different.
You’re not like the other fleeting amusements they’ve found across centuries of boredom and bloodshed. You’re not just a pretty face they can toy with until it breaks.
You’re the most fun they’ve had in so long they’ve almost forgotten what fun is.
It’s growing. Quietly, steadily, in between all the teasing.
Romance, for all his shameless flirting, knows it too. His desire’s loud, sure, but this other feeling? This is different. It’s not about the chase, or the win, or the thrill of the moment. It’s about the way his heart kicks up when you roll your eyes at him, when you snap back, when you don’t fold.
And Abby? He’s the same. He laughs and plays and pokes, but somewhere in the cracks, something real’s settling in.
Something that isn’t just about keeping entertained.
You’re fun. You’re alive.
And in their endless stretch of centuries, that’s fun.
Because now, it’s not just about keeping you around for what you know.
Now, it’s about keeping you around because they want you around.
All those feelings for them, while just now, you had enough. Enough.
So you stand.
You push yourself up off the bench, clutching your towel, heart pounding, cheeks blazing, ready to make your exit.
But the second you straighten, the second you think you’ve reclaimed a scrap of dignity, Abby decides otherwise.
Big, warm hands catch your wrist and waist at once, and before you can so much as yelp, he drags you right back down into his lap.
“Ah-ah. Where you goin’, babe?” he says, voice all smooth, like you’re a kitten trying to escape bath time. His grin’s wide, eyes sparkling with that boyish light that makes you want to slap him and maybe kiss him just to wipe it off his face.
And there you are—your much smaller frame hauled back against him, towel still clutched to your chest, your legs draped awkwardly over his, skin burning where it meets his.
You squirm.
You kick and wiggle and slap at his arms, trying to peel yourself free, but it’s like fighting a brick wall that laughs at you.
“Let me go!” you snap, voice high with frustration, but you might as well be shouting at the wind.
Because Abby’s laughing now. Genuinely laughing, head tipped back a little, like this is the funniest shit he’s seen in decades.
Romance is no better. He’s doubled over, palm slapping the bench, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. That rich, boyish sound fills the sauna, echoing off the wood, making your cheeks burn hotter.
You kick again, trying to shove at Abby’s chest, trying to slide off his lap, but he’s holding you tight, like it’s nothing.
Abby leans in a little, his grin crooked now, voice low and warm, the kind of tone that makes you want to hide.
“You’re makin’ this real hard for me, sweetheart.” he says, and there’s no mistaking the double meaning.
Your heart lurches.
And, oh—you feel it. You definitely feel it.
Right there, under you.
A huge fucking boner.
And instead of stopping—instead of being sensible—you kick more. You squirm harder. Your face is on fire, but you’re determined to break free, determined to make him pay for putting you in this position, even if it’s making everything so much worse.
Abby groans low in his throat, but it’s laced with laughter, like he knows exactly what you’re doing and loves it. Loves that you’re trying. Loves that you’re flustered and mad and completely powerless.
Romance is laughing so hard he can’t sit upright, folding over himself, practically wheezing, tears streaming down his cheeks, pointing at you both like he can’t believe how lucky he is to witness this.
You give one more valiant wiggle, slap at Abby’s arm, and finally—finally—he lets go. Though maybe because he’s too worked up to keep playing
“Alright, alright.” he says, laughing, lifting his hands in surrender. “You win, babe. Go on.”
You shoot up like your life depends on it, clutching your towel so tight your fingers ache, hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, chest heaving. You glare down at both of them, cheeks blazing, trying to regain a shred of dignity.
Abby is the picture of innocence now. One leg up to hide his hard on, arms draped across the back of the bench, looking for all the world like he’s just a guy enjoying a sauna and not someone who just very nearly got dry-humped into oblivion by a squirming, furious human girl.
But of course, the second you’re upright, Romance leans forward, grinning wickedly, fingers grabbing for the edge of your towel.
“Just one little peek.” he says, and his hand shoots out, fingers hooking the edge of your towel.
You shriek, twisting away just in time, slapping his hands, stumbling toward the door. The towel stays on—thank god—but barely.
Romance collapses back onto the bench, grinning, breathless from laughing.
“Worth a shot.” he teases, voice low and sinful. “Next time, angel.”
You don’t look back. You can’t. You’re too busy marching toward the door, heart hammering, body burning, swearing to yourself you’ll never trust a sauna again.
And behind you, the sound of their laughter chases you all the way out.
You storm out of that sauna, towel clutched so tight it’s a wonder you haven’t shredded it by sheer force of will. Your heart’s hammering in your chest, skin blazing from more than just the steam, and you’re done. Done with Abby’s lap. Done with Romance’s bullshit. Done with them probably high fiving each other as you’re walking. Done with all of it.
You stomp barefoot across the marble floors, steam still rising from your skin, water droplets trailing behind you.
And then you hit the living room.
Jinu’s perched on the edge of the couch, looking every bit the composed, gentlemanly demon he always pretends to be—except for the fact that his eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight of you. His lips twitch at the corners, like he’s trying not to smile.
“You went in there with clothes on.” he says, voice mild. “I’m pretty sure of it.”
You don’t even slow down. You wave a hand at him, dismissive, furious, embarrassed beyond belief but way too stubborn to show it.
“Not now, Jinu.”
“Just pointing it out.” he says, and you can hear that gentle, teasing lilt in his voice now that somehow makes it worse. Like he’s the only one in this house capable of being nice to you, but he still can’t help poking at you when you’re like this.
You glance down just in time to see Mystery crouched slightly, head tilted, attention fixed on the hem of your towel.
His hand twitches, like he’s fighting the urge to just lift it and satisfy his curiosity.
“Mystery—”
You swat at him, fast, instinctive. Like shooing off a cat who’s about to knock over a glass.
He tries again.
“Mystery or whatever your fucking name is!”
Your voice pitches higher. You swat at him again, and this time he dodges.
Baby’s watching the whole thing from the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly.
You and Mystery keep up this ridiculous dance—him darting, trying to sneak a look, you batting him off.
Every time you think you’ve shaken him, he circles back around, silent, predatory.
“Mystery, stop it!” you hiss, stomping your foot, cheeks burning so hot you’re sure they must be glowing.
He actually listens. Pulls back just a bit, but not before giving you this tilt of his head—this weird, almost innocent curiosity, like he really, genuinely wants to know what’s up there. Not because he’s trying to be a creep. Just because he’s Mystery.
He leans back, hands up, like he was just wondering, like you can’t blame a guy for being curious.
You tug your towel tighter, shooting him a glare that promises violence if he tries it again.
Baby just tips his head back and laughs, soft and delighted.
You storm the rest of the way across the living room, muttering curses under your breath, knowing full well this won’t be the last time they pull this shit.
Because why would it be?
You’re the best fun they’ve had in centuries.
You slam the door to your room shut with more force than necessary, your heart still thundering in your chest.
The room’s quiet now. Blessedly quiet.
You take a deep breath, forcing your legs to move, crossing to the dresser where they’d dumped your things they got from there and there. You let the towel drop, pulling on fresh clothes.
But as you tug your shirt down and run a hand through your damp hair, the questions start creeping in.
Will you ever get out of here?
…Maybe.
You want to believe it. That there’s a crack in their plan, a way to slip past their too-quick hands. That somehow, the girls will come for you. That you’ll find your moment and take it. But looking at how they watch you, how they enjoy keeping you close? It’s hard to be sure.
Do the girls miss you?
Yes.
They have to. You’re not just some assistant with a clipboard and a coffee order. You’re the one who kept them safe, who watched their backs when they were too busy saving the world to watch their own. They have to notice you’re gone. Right?
Do the boys actually like you as a person?
Yes.
And that’s the most confusing part. Because it’s not just the teasing, the poking, they see you. Under all the sweet voice, the petty little kicks, the glares and the stubbornness, they see you. And somehow, they like what they see.
Is Romance always trying to get in your pants?
Yes.
But he also respects the game. And maybe, just maybe, he likes more than just what’s under your clothes.
Does Abby really think you’re cute when you fight him off?
Yes.
You see it in his smile, in the way his eyes soften when you kick and squirm and glare up at him.
Is Baby secretly rooting for you?
Absolutely so fucking yes.
He won’t say it. Won’t even crack more than that smirk. But you catch it, sometimes—in the tilt of his head, in the glint of his eye. He enjoys you. Enjoys watching you give them hell.
Is Mystery curious about you in ways he doesn’t understand?
Indeed.
It’s in every glance, every tilt of his head, every quiet lean-in. You’re new, he likes it.
Does Jinu really care?
Yeah.
The only one who treats you normally. The one who talks to you like you’re a person. The one who always seems to step in right before the others push you too far.
Are you actually safe here?
No.
Not really. Not from their games, their teasing, their endless curiosity about what makes you break. Not from the way they make your heart race, in anger or fear or something more dangerous you don’t want to name.
Are you in danger of falling for them, even a little?
…Maybe.
You flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, clothes rumpled and hair still damp, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive this. Wondering how you’re going to keep yourself from softening toward them when they look at you like that, when they laugh like that, when they treat you like this.
Will you ever stop hoping for a chance to escape?
No.
Not ever. Not even if they keep making you laugh when you shouldn’t. Not even if they’re the most fun you’ve ever had.
You’re getting out.
Somedays
But god—if they don’t make it hard to want to leave.
You lay there on that stupid, too-nice bed, staring up at the ceiling, the city lights leaking in through the blinds, casting stripes across your skin. And you think—fuck.
Because damn your empathy.
You should hate them. Every single one of them. For snatching you away from your life. For laughing at you when you fight back. For treating you like a kid. You should be plotting their downfall, hating the sound of their voices, the way they look at you, the way they keep you here.
But you don’t. Not really. Not deep down where it matters.
Because it hits you, lying there with your heart still racing and your body still warm from the sauna
They probably don’t know any better anymore.
It’s probably been hundreds of years since they had anything like this. Since they saw their mothers. Since they were boys, real boys, not demons, playing at being human on a stage with bright lights and screaming fans.
When was the last time they got tucked in at night, you wonder. When was the last time somebody made them soup when they were sick?
When was the last time they did human shit?
Jumped on a trampoline, if they ever had done that.
Had a snowball fight.
Built a fort and camped out in it.
Splashed each other in a pool until they were breathless with laughter, not because they were trying to drown each other but just because it was fun.
Ran barefoot through wet grass on a summer night, chasing bugs.
Sat on a rooftop with their best friend, eating about the future like it was some big, beautiful thing waiting for them.
The last time someone baked them a birthday cake and sang to them, even off-key?
God, when was the last time they had that?
You think about Romance, all charm and heat, with that constant flirt in his voice—when was the last time someone kissed him because they loved him, not because they were enchanted by his face?
You think about Abby, always teasing, strong enough to crush you but never does—when was the last time someone hugged him just because?
Baby, with not giving a fuck at anything—when was the last time someone gave him something with no strings attached?
Mystery. Ferocious, curious—when was the last time he felt safe enough to just exist?
Jinu. The only one who looks at you like you’re still a person, like maybe he remembers what it felt like to be one, too—when was the last time someone sat with him in silence, not because they wanted something but just because they liked him?
And you feel that damn softness bloom in your chest, that aching empathy that’s going to get you killed or worse.
Because you don’t blame them. Not really.
They’re lonely.
Lonely in a way you can’t even imagine, in a way that sinks into your bones and makes you hungry for anything real.
You’re not just a hostage, not really—not to them. You’re a spark of humanity in their endless dark, and they don’t want to let go.
And yeah, it’s selfish. It’s cruel, in its way. But can you really hate them for it?
Can you hate them for wanting to keep you close when the world left them behind centuries ago?
You sigh, dragging a hand down your face, trying to shove the thoughts away, trying to remind yourself—they kidnapped you. They’re using you. They’re playing with you because it entertains them.
But still.
You see the way they look at you when they think you’re not paying attention.
You see the way they light up when you kick back, when you glare, when you curse them out, when you fight—because maybe you’re the first thing in forever that’s real to them.
And goddamn it, you understand.
You don’t forgive. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you understand.
Boys who laugh too hard when you fight them off because they don’t know how else to show they like you.
Also the thing is! The ending was perfect for Jinu! No matter and no matter how much tension and chemistry and pretty face they both have we CANNOT! Deny that Jinu has Killed!
Hundreds of people and was a the mastermind for the whole boyband group, and caused Rumi to get hurt and betrayed even if it was never touched upon in the little time we had with them. That ending was perfect as Jinus way of saying sorry, an atonement for everything.
for 400 years he never did anything that didnt serve him but at that moment he gave up his soul to Rumi and became her weapon to go against the very thing he was working towards.
He gave his heart and soul! And no matter how the song and everything distracted us from that. But that said more than a kiss. (a kiss would still be nice)
It was everything. His sins, his shame, his guilt and him asking for forgiveness. Not a redemption to his sins but an atonement.
Please Songs are pop, everyones pretty but the story! Is tea!
For fucking real. Ofc, its possible that gwi-ma manipulated him to believe he abandoned his family… but like… he kept stealing souls??? Even when he was talking to rumi???
