âïž Warnings: each chapter will have their own but overall - Angst (love hurts!), slow burn (ish), fluff, reader being blind af, i don't have a proofreader, idk my tenses so i flip flop
âïž Pairing: f!Reader x John Logan, f!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
âïž Rating: PG - 18+ (these chapters will be noted so can be skipped)
âïž AN: This was born from this post. I saw it and my mind immediately started racing. The respose to the first one posted was amazing, so I've turned this into a series. Thank you so soo much for all the wonderful comments and engagement.
a/n: dean di laurentis really said "i'll be the perfect boyfriend except for the part where i'm still in love with someone else" and i had to write about it
I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted to see you laughing
I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain
â Prince, âPurple Rainâ
(Because nothing says âtrue loveâ like handing your whole heart to a guy whoâs still mentally fucking his ex while you play dress-up as his emotional rebound.)
The dress weighed on me like a damn sentence. Dark red velvet that fell in heavy cascades all the way to the floor, with gold and blue embroidery that sparkled under the dim lights of the hall. The corset squeezed my ribs, reminding me with every breath that I was here, dressed up like a princess at a party that didnât feel like mine. The bell sleeves swayed with every step, and the pearl necklace Dean had put on me that afternoon kept brushing against my collarbone like a constant reminder of his warm fingers.
âYou look gorgeous. Like you were born to wear that,â heâd told me in front of the mirror, with that crooked smile that always melted me. His blue eyes had lingered on me a second longer than usual, and I, like an idiot, had taken it as a promise.
Dean was dressed as a knight. The deep red wine doublet hugged his broad chest and strong shoulders, with those gold details tracing the lines of his body like they were made for him. The white shirt underneath puffed out at the sleeves, and the leather belt cinched his waist. He looked⊠imposing. Dangerously hot. The kind of guy that would make anyone lose their mind. And I was. Crazy about him.
He was a good boyfriend. Fuck, he really was. He brought me coffee exactly how I liked itâtwo sugars and a splash of vanilla. Heâd fuck me against the wall of his room when I came back stressed from class, his big hands gripping my hips while he whispered in my ear how tight and hot I was. Heâd hug me from behind while we cooked and Tucker bitched about us ruining his kitchen, kissing my neck until I laughed. He listened to me complain about my professors, sent me stupid memes in the middle of the night just to make me smile. Charming. Attentive. Real.
But Allie Hayes was the ghost that never left.
Every time her name came up in conversation, even casually, Dean would shut down. His eyes would go glassy, his jaw would tighten, and heâd get this dark look, like part of him had gone somewhere else. Somewhere I didnât exist.
And I knew it. Iâd seen it a thousand times.
The Drama Department party was in full swing. Warm lights, music with lutes and drums, people in costumes dancing in the middle of the floor. The air smelled like cheap wine, sweat, and sweet perfume. I was standing on the edge with a cup in my hand that Iâd barely touched, scanning the room for Dean. Heâd walked off about ten minutes ago to âget more drinks.â Ten minutes that felt like forever.
And then the stares started.
I felt the eyes on me. Pity. Straight-up sympathy. A girl dressed as a maiden whispered something to her friend and they both gave me that âpoor thingâ look. My stomach twisted. The pressure in my chest grew, like an invisible hand squeezing tighter.
I turned my head toward the dance floor.
There they were.
Dean and Allie.
Him in his red knightâs doublet, the dark cape falling down his back. Her⊠fuck, she was stunning. A fairy dress in burgundy and gold tones that clung to her body like a second skin, translucent shimmering wings that caught the light, her hair loose over her shoulders. Beautiful. Magical. Unreal.
They were dancing.
Deanâs hand was on her waist, firm, possessive. Allieâs rested on his chest, right over his heart. They were looking into each otherâs eyes and laughing. That intimate laugh, the kind shared by people with a thousand memories Iâd never have. Deanâs eyes were shining in a way that tore me apart inside. Like Allie was the most precious thing in the world, the one heâd lost and finally had back in his arms. Heâd never looked at me like that. Not once. He looked at me with affection, with desire, with tenderness⊠but never with that absolute devotion.
I felt ridiculous. Pathetic. A fake-ass princess standing there in my red dress and pearls while the real queen of his story danced with him.
Allie stepped closer. Their bodies pressed together. They looked at each other for one more second, loaded with everything they used to be. Then she rose onto her tiptoes, grabbed the back of his neck with that familiarity only people whoâve kissed a thousand times have, and kissed him.
Their lips met.
Dean froze⊠and then kissed her back. Just for a second, but I saw it. His mouth moving against hers, his hand tightening on her waist. The world dropped out from under me. The noise disappeared. All that existed was that kiss, that moment when my heart shattered.
Suddenly Dean pulled away like heâd been electrocuted. He blinked fast, looked around with wild panic in his eyes, searching the crowd⊠until he found me.
Our eyes met across the dance floor.
I saw the guilt. The horror. The instant regret. But it was already done. Heâd already destroyed me.
I took a step back. Tears burned my eyes. People were staring. Someone whispered my name. I didnât care. I turned around and started shoving through bodies, the dress tangling between my legs, making me stumble, the corset suffocating me. I made it out into the cold hallway, then outside.
The night air hit me like a slap.
With shaking hands, I started ripping off the pearl necklace. The clasp resisted and I yanked hard; the pearls scattered across the ground like white tears. I pulled the pins out of my hair, letting the curls fall wild and messy. I felt suffocated. I wanted to rip off my skin, the dress, everything that reminded me of this night.
âWait! Please, baby!â
His voice. Desperate. I heard his boots running after me.
He grabbed my arm. Hard. His fingers dug into my skin.
âLet go of me,â I hissed, yanking with everything I had.
I broke free. I kept walking toward the parking lot, tears already falling freely down my cheeks. Dean followed. He didnât say anything else. Just his heavy, ragged breathing.
We got to the car. He opened the passenger door. I got in. He walked around and sat in the driverâs seat. The silence was a dead weight between us.
He started the engine.
The streetlights blurred past the window. I stared outside, silent tears rolling down one after another. I wasnât making any noise. I was just crying. Inside, I was dying. My chest hurt so bad I thought it was going to split in half.
I thought about that night a few weeks ago.
We were in his bed, curled up after fucking. His warm body against mine, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The room smelled like sex and his cologne. I felt safe. Loved. And the words slipped out in a whisper against his skin:
âI love you, Dean.â
I felt his body go rigid instantly. His muscles tensed under my cheek. His breathing cut off for a second. He didnât say anything. Absolutely nothing. He just stayed there, breathing into my hair, his hand still on my back. I pretended to fall asleep. Pretended his silence hadnât stabbed me in the soul. But that night I knew the truth: he was never going to say it back. Because his heart still belonged to someone else.
And now, in this car, with the silence screaming between us, it all came rushing back.
We got to my dorm. He parked. Turned off the engine.
âIâll walk you up,â he murmured, his voice broken.
He tried to get out. I raised my hand.
âNo.â
I got out. He did too, desperate. He caught up in two strides and grabbed my shoulders, turning me around. His eyes were red, shiny. He looked destroyed. Good. Let him suffer a little.
âPlease⊠let me explain. It was a mistake, I didnât⊠sheââ
I looked him straight in the eyes. Those eyes Iâd loved so much.
âYou never loved me, did you?â
The question came out like a croak. My voice was wrecked.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.
âI donât even know why Iâm crying,â I continued, the words spilling out in a broken rush. âBecause I knew, Dean. I always knew. The way youâd shut down every time someone mentioned her name. The way you looked at her tonight⊠like she was the fucking air you breathe. Like I never even existed. You never looked at me like that. Not when you were fucking me, not when you held me, not when I told you I loved you and you froze like a damn statue.â
The tears fell faster. I wiped my face angrily, but they wouldnât stop.
âIâm so fucking pathetic⊠I dressed up like a princess for you. I thought this time, maybe, youâd choose me. That I could compete. But there was never a competition. She always won. Even when she wasnât there, she won. She was in your head all the time. In your heart. I was just⊠the replacement. The one who helped you forget, but never enough.â
Dean had his eyes closed. A tear escaped down his cheek. Iâd never seen him cry. Seeing it now only made everything worse.
âIâm sorry,â he whispered. His voice was shaking. âIâm so fucking sorry, babyâŠâ
That was it.
Two empty words.
I looked at him one last time. I saw the guy who made me laugh until my stomach hurt. The one who held me when I had nightmares. The one who kissed my forehead in the mornings. And I also saw the one who was never really mine. The one who always looked at Allie like she was his home.
âTake care, Di Laurentis.â
I turned around. I walked toward the dorm entrance. I heard him shout my name once, twice, his voice cracked and desperate. I didnât stop. I opened the door and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.
The sound of his car door slamming behind me felt like the end of a story that shouldâve never started.
I climbed the stairs like a ghost. Every step was agony. The red dress dragging, the pearls lost, my hair a total mess. I got to my room, closed the door, and slid down to the floor, hugging my knees.
And there I cried. I cried like my soul was being ripped out. Gut-wrenching sobs that left me gasping for air, my chest heaving, my face swollen and wet. I rocked back and forth, feeling the huge emptiness where love used to be. An emptiness that hurt more than anything.
Dean Di Laurentis had never loved me.
And Iâd been stupid enough to believe he someday would.
If its okay, I'd like to request Parker Ellis x fem!reader fluff where Parker sees reader taking care of Baby Jane Doe and starts thinking about the future
Hi! I love requests so thank you for this. I just typed this up super quick, so itâs not been proofread. But enjoy!
W/C: 730
Divider by @saradika-graphics
It may have been the start of your time off, but in an annoying twist of fate your girlfriend Parker had to stay at work between her shifts, so you wouldnât even see her until the next morning. She had a deposition because some antivaxxer mother decided a lumbar puncture caused her sonâs cognitive delays and not the measles her kid had. So when your phone rang and you saw the name of one of your charge nurses, Dana, you were curious.
âHey Dana, whatâs up?â
âOh thank heavens. Are you able to do a shift? Itâs been a fucking day. Jesse got taken by ICE, we had to go analog, and someone left a baby in chairs. Of course Jesse was taking care of the baby.â
âWait, Jesse was taken by ICE?â
âYeah. And now weâre short staffed. Can you come in and stay with the baby? I need someone good with kids. And Lena is already off since she lost a friend, Iâm pulling a double, and-â
âDana. Breathe. Give me like thirty minutes to get ready and Iâll be there.â
So here you were, chilling in the pedes room with baby Jane Doe. You had quickly thrown on your scrubs and headed to PTMC. At least you got to work with Parker. Jane Doe started fussing and you checked your notes to see the last time she was fed and changed. Seeing it was fairly recently you decided she just wanted to be held, and you were more than happy to oblige. Cooing as you picked her up, you rocked her in your arms as you sat down on the rocking chair.
â
Parker was glad she was able to see you every so often in this shift. Normally your schedules aligned and you worked the same shifts and got to spend the day together, but the deposition smack dab in the middle of the day ruined that. Why they scheduled a deposition on the Fourth of July she will never know. But at least she gets to peek into the pedes room when she is missing you. She decided to go check on you and the baby, and as she was walking over to the room she got a glimpse of you rocking with Jane Doe. Her heart jumped into her throat at the sight. The two of you have talked about your future, and the ring hidden in Shenâs locker was waiting for her whenever she was ready to ask you. You were it for her. But the two of you hadnât talked about kids yet. And seeing you with the baby made Parker feel things. Things she hadnât thought about before. Kids were always a maybe for her. But seeing you like this? She realized how much she did want kids with you.
â
You were rocking the baby when you heard the door open. Looking up you were greeted with the sight of Parker. You mouthed âsheâs asleepâ before glancing down at Jane Doe.
âHey,â whispered Parker. âHow are you doing?â
âGood,â you whispered back. âSheâs so sweet. Even with how uncomfortable she has to be with the RSV.â
âYou look good holding her.â You look up to Parker, expecting to see the familiar smirk on her face. But she looks serious.
âYeah? You ever think about having one of your own one day?â
âHonestly? Not seriously until I saw you with her.â
âWant to hold her?â Parker nods, and you transfer the baby to her. Seeing her with a baby in her arms you understood how she was feeling. Parker had a look in her eyes, one of pure love. You could tell how much she wanted a child, even if she hasnât realized it herself.
âI have an idea. How about in the morning, if CYF hasnât found a placement for her, we see if we can do emergency care until they do? Weâre both off the next few days. Iâm sure Dana will watch her for a little while we get supplies. See how we do?â
âYou sure?â
âYeah. Itâs not an adoption, but itâll allow us to see how we feel with an infant. See if we truly want this. Because I have to admit, seeing her in your arms is definitely a good look.â Parker laughs and places a peck to your lips as she places Jane back in her bassinet.
Being with Parker Ellis isnât just about affectionâitâs about intensity, the kind that settles deep in your bones and stays there, steady and unrelenting in the best way.
Parker doesnât do anything halfway.
So when she loves you, she loves you.
It shows in the quiet things first.
In the way she always reaches for you without thinkingâyour hand, your waist, the small of your backâlike contact with you is instinct, like she needs that physical reminder that youâre there, that youâre okay. Even in a crowded room, even in the middle of work, her touch finds you in brief, grounding moments that say more than words ever could.
Her version of intimacy is presence.
Youâll be sitting on the couch, not even doing anything important, just existing side by side, and suddenly sheâs shifting closer, pulling you into her space like gravity tilted in your direction. Your legs end up tangled together, your head tucked under her chin, her arm wrapped around you in a way thatâs firm without being restrictiveâprotective without asking permission.
âCâmere,â sheâll murmur, like you were already on your way.
And you always are.
She loves holding you.
Not loosely, not absentmindedlyâproperly. Like she means it. Like if she tightens her arms just a little more, she can keep the world out and you safe inside it. After long shifts, especially, she clings in a way she doesnât even realise sheâs doing, her face buried in your neck, breathing you in like youâre something that calms her down faster than anything else ever could.
âYouâre okay?â sheâll ask quietly, even when youâre the one who should be asking her.
And if you say yes, she nods against your skin, like thatâs enough to let her exhale.
Thereâs a softness to her that no one else gets to see.
It shows up in the late hours, when sheâs tired and her guard is down, when her voice drops into something low and warm and almost hesitant, like sheâs not used to needing someone this much but sheâs stopped fighting it.
Her forehead pressed to yours.
Her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against your cheek.
The way she looks at you like sheâs memorising something.
âYou know I love you, right?â sheâll say, not casually, not thrown awayâlike she needs you to understand the weight of it.
And when things turn more heated, it never loses that same grounding.
Thereâs nothing careless about the way she touches you.
Itâs deliberate, attentiveâlike sheâs constantly checking in without words, reading every reaction, every shift in your breathing, every small movement you make. She doesnât rush. Doesnât push. She learns you, piece by piece, until she knows exactly how to hold you, how to make you feel safe even in vulnerability.
Her hands are steady, always.
Even when everything else isnât.
And afterwardâ
Thatâs where sheâs softest.
Thereâs no pulling away, no distance.
If anything, she holds you closer.
Youâll barely have time to catch your breath before sheâs already pulling you into her again, tucking you against her chest, one hand sliding up your back in slow, soothing motions.
âStay,â sheâll whisper, voice quieter now, almost rough with something deeper than exhaustion.
Like she needs you there.
Like letting go isnât an option.
Youâll feel her press a kiss to your hair, your temple, your shoulderâgentle, unhurried, like sheâs grounding both of you again after everything.
With Parker, intimacy isnât just physical.
Itâs in the way she watches you when youâre not looking.
The way she remembers the smallest details.
The way she will always step between you and anything that might hurt you, no hesitation, no doubt.
And the way, when itâs just the two of you, she lets herself be something she never is anywhere elseâ
cw: implied female reader, she/her used, Stockholm Syndrome, the Saja boys being gay af, masturbation w a vibrator written in detail, âwas it casualâ syndrome with HUNTR/X, throwing up, brutal stress on reader, Jinu getting ragebaited, reader getting a lil tipsy but nothing serious, about the usual
You look at Mystery.
He looks at you.
Silence.
But Gwi-Maâs not silent, not in Mysteryâs head.
âDo it.â
âDo it.â
âDO IT.â
Mystery moves. Sharp, fast, inhuman.
Your breath catches. A yelp escapes before you can bite it back. Instinct takes over and you bolt. Bare feet slap against the cool floor, the sound loud. You run to the living room, heart hammering. You dart past the couch, through a slice of moonlight, adrenaline slicing through every nerve. Heâs there, sudden and too close.
You squeal, half laugh, half curse, and run down the hallway. Your pulse is a bright, wild thing. And you know he can hear it. Hell, you can almost hear it yourself, echoing in your ears.
Thereâs a flash of silver in your peripheral vision, his hair catching the light as he takes the corner fast. Too fast.
You push harder, legs burning, lungs catching. You start giggling, so sweet. You canât help it.
âHoly shit.â you gasp under your breath, but you donât slow down. You skid around another corner, nearly falling the fuck over. Your shoulder hits the wall, pain sparking, but you keep moving. Behind you thereâs just the faint rustle of air as he cuts the space between you to nothing.
Your grin spreads wide, wild. Fuck yes.
You know he can hear every beat of your heart, every ragged breath, every jolt of happiness. And it thrills him. You can feel it, even without seeing his face.
You zigzag through the dark house, breathless and giggling now, the sound bouncing off the walls as you reach the kitchen again. You went a circle. You dive behind the tall island counter, crouching low. The stone is cold against your back, your breath hot against your own arms.
Silence. The kind of silence that makes your skin prickle.
You cover your mouth, biting down a laugh. Your pulse roars in your ears.
Then, a sound from above you. You look up, and Mysteryâs leaning across the counter. Perfectly still, hair hiding his eyes, head tilted just slightly, down at you.
You suck in a breath. A small sound escapes, half giggle, half squeak.
He doesnât pounce. Not yet. He waits.
Itâs a game now, and you both know it.
You shift, ready to make a break for it, and in that instant he explodes into motion, leaping around the counter with that impossible speed. You shriek, stumble back, laughter breaking free, and sprint for the open living room. Your own voice echoes back at you, bright and reckless. This is insane, you think, and youâre grinning so hard your cheeks ache.
You vault onto the wide sofa, bounce once, and leap down the other side. A low sound follows, almost a growl, almost a laugh. It sends a thrill straight through you.
You whirl mid-stride, eyes scanning for him. Nothing.
âWhereââ you start to whisper, but bite it off.
A breath of air at your back. You spin and there he is, barely a foot away, hair falling, chest rising slow and steady.
Your heart slams so hard it feels like it might tear free. The adrenaline tastes metallic in your mouth.
For a second, neither of you move.
You grin, breathless, sweat damp at your temples. âGot me.â you manage, voice barely above a whisper, though you hadnât planned to speak at all.
He tilts his head. Just a fraction.
Your laughter spills out again, giddy, unstoppable. God, youâre so sweet. And you know, without a single word, that heâs listening. To your laugh. To your pulse. To the sheer joy vibrating through you.
Your breath catches. Then you laugh. A bright, reckless giggle that cuts the quiet. âLetâs go again.â
He tilts his head, hair spilling forward to hide his eyes. For an instant heâs unreadable, monster or friend, you canât tell, and then he moves. Fast. You stumble back, heart hammering, still laughing. Your pulse kicks up as Mysteryâs claws slide out.
This is trust.
The strangest kind of trust, but trust all the same.
Because if he wanted to hurt you, he could have already.
You dart left. He follows. You skid behind the couch, giggling again, body buzzing. Itâs insane and somehow⊠healthy.
He lunges. You dodge. Your laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, sharp and bright. Heâs faster. Always faster. You dart, he shadows. The chase is half a heartbeat from something wild, and itâs exactly the point.
You trust that he wonât lose control.
He trusts that youâll keep running.
A blur of muscle and heat slams you back against the hallway wall, his arm braced beside your head. You barely catch your breath before youâre laughing again, that messy, delighted sound that makes his huge chest jump.
Your faces tilt in reflex, just enough that your mouths brush.
Not a kiss, not yet.
The room goes silent.
Your breaths are tangled, shared.
The next second is a drop.
Your faces tilt the tiniest fraction.
And then, youâre kissing him.
You and Mystery are kissing.
Teeth click. Breath stutters. For a heartbeat you canât tell who moved first, only that youâre both there, drool slipping from the painfully small gap from between your mouths.
The apartment blurs. Thereâs only the sharp heat of the moment, the sheer weight of it, a realization that the chase you thought was harmless has twisted into something you canât shrug off.
Itâs not a wild kiss or anything. This is a sudden, accidental first kiss, literally just two mouths pressed together. Minimal movement, nothing dirty about it. But it is real.
When he finally pulls back, your laughter is gone, replaced by the pounding truth that nothing about this game is simple anymore.
You step away. Itâs only a half-step, barely the length of your own foot, but it feels like crossing a canyon. The hallway light catches the edge of his face, and for the first time all night he looks startled, even if you canât see his eyes. You know him enough to guide yourself based on only the lower part of his face.
Your pulse roars in your ears. You can still taste him.
You wish you couldnât.
You donât move right away. Your back finds the wall, shoulder blades pressed so hard against the plaster that you can feel every uneven patch. You drag in a breath that doesnât help, itâs still thick with the scent of him, wild.
This isnât how tonight was supposed to go. Youâd asked for a chase. Just a chase. Something reckless but safe, a test of trust. Not this. Never this.
Across from you, Mystery hasnât shifted an inch. His claws have vanished, but the tension in his shoulders stays, tight. It terrifies you because it looks so⊠tender.
You hate how part of you wants to step forward again.
Your mind finally catches up, pelting you with every reason this is wrong. Heâs one of them. He hurt you. Kidnapped you and tortured you and chased you, out of control. And now youâve gone andâ
God.
God, oh yes, fine, sure. If there had ever been a time to invoke the name of god, this was it. So just what, what in the name of god, was he thinking about? What were you thinking about?
The shame hits like a wave. Not because the kiss was bad, no, but because of how good it was, how natural, how inevitable. Thatâs the betrayal. Not the act, but the part of you that wanted it. You swallow hard, tasting metal. âIââ The single syllable scratches your throat. Words feel impossible.
Mystery shifts, finally. Not forward, not back, just a subtle unclenching, the kind that says heâs heard everything you havenât said. He should feel guilt. He knows that. He can see the shock in your eyes, the way youâve gone pale under the hallway light. Youâre upset, with him, with yourself, with the entire house if it comes to that. He feels it.
But heâs happy. Heâs so happy.
It happened. You kissed him back. Whether it was an accident, a slip, a moment of madness, it was real. He felt you lean, felt the pressure of your mouth against his.
Heâs wanted this longer than heâll ever admit. Wanted it through every shared little sandwich you made him, every late-night laugh, every glance you threw over your shoulder when you thought he wasnât looking. Heâs loved you in silence, in shadows, in the feral quiet of his own heart.
And now the silence isnât enough anymore.
You take another step backward. Your knees almost buckle. âI canât.â you whisper, though youâre not sure if you mean you canât talk or canât breathe or canât be here.
Mystery hears it anyway. He always hears what you mean. He lets his arms drop to his sides, palms open, as if to show you he wonât reach for you again. His throat works around words he canât form. He wants to tell you heâs sorry, that he lost control, that he didnât plan this. All true. But none of it fits the moment, and he knows you wouldnât believe it.
So he says nothing.
You finally turn. Your feet carry you toward your room. Part of you wants him to stop you. Part of you wants him to disappear. You canât tell which urge wins until your hand hits the doorframe.
Behind you, Mystery watches. He doesnât move, doesnât call out. He just stands there, drinking in the sight of you. The weight of what just happened settles on his shoulders, and instead of crushing him, it fills him with warmth.
Heâs happy. Heâs happy. Because even if you never speak of this again, even if you hate him tomorrow, tonight proved what heâs always suspected. The space between you isnât empty. It never was.
You close your door. The click is soft. Inside, you lean against the wood, eyes shut, chest heaving. Why did I let that happen? Why did I want it? How do you face any of them now, knowing what just happened in the hallway?
You bury your face in your hands. You want to scrub the memory away, but it clings. You can still feel the press of his mouth, the heat of his breath, the way his face softened at the exact moment you realized what youâd done. Itâs wrong. Itâs absolutely wrong. And you liked it so much.
He knows youâre angry, confused, maybe even scared. He knows you think this is a mistake. But he also knows the truth heâs felt in every heartbeat since your lips met:
He loves you.
He canât stop the small, unstoppable curve of a smile from breaking across his face. Because for one breathless, forbidden moment, you chose him back.
The apartment door bangs open, rattling the frame. Mystery doesnât move. Heâs still there, halfway down the hallway where you left him.
âHome, sweetâfuck, itâs quiet in here.â Abby calls, his sneakers squeaking against the floor. âWhereâs Y/N?â
Romanceâs laugh chimes right behind him. âProbably hiding from you, Abs. Ever think of that?â
Behind them the door bumps closed. Plastic rustles, paper bags crinkle. Babyâs quiet sigh cuts through the noise, a sound so dry and unimpressed it almost counts as a sentence. They made him carry all the bags on the way home.
Abby walks into the hallway first, huge and confident. He nearly collides with Mystery before catching himself. âYo! Didnât see you there, man.â A quick grin, easy and sharp. âWhatâs up, night watch? Guarding the walls?â
Before Mystery can even twitch, Abby throws a muscular arm across his shoulders. The move is halfâheadlock, halfâhug, and full of affection. Romance is right behind him, sliding an arm around Mysteryâs shoulder. He smells of cologne, so good, but too strong for Mysteryâs nose. âMyst.â he purrs. âBrooding in the dark again? You trying to scare us or seduce us? Because either wayââ He winks. ââyouâre doing great.â
Mystery doesnât answer. His gaze stays fixed forward, past them, past everything, toward the door you closed.
Abby claps a heavy hand on his other shoulder, the friendly thud echoing down the hall. âSeriously, man, you good?â
Romance tucks his head closer to Mystery. âDonât be shy. Tell big brother Romance whatâs got you all broody.â
If they notice how rigid he stands beneath their touch, they donât show it. To them, Mysteryâs silence is casual, a quirk, a mood, the same wild vibe he always has. But inside his chest, everything is still humming from what just happened. The memory of the kiss is against his mouth, too fresh, too bright. He can feel the echo of your breath like a pulse under his skin.
Baby walks past them, bags dangling from long fingers. The others barely notice the effort it takes for him to carry everything, maybe thatâs the point. His expression is still a perfect blank, but Mystery catches the flicker of his eyes, quick, assessing, maybe faintly annoyed.
Romance watches him go with a mock sigh. âSuch a charmer, that one. Hey, Baby, darling, would you give those to Y/N?â
Baby stops mid-step, shoulders stiffening. He doesnât bother turning around. âYouâre all useless.â Then he resumes walking, the bags rustling with every step.
âSee? Such a gentleman.â Romance croons. âOur hero.â
Abby chuckles, leaning back against the wall. âYeah, yeah. Donât drop âem, beanpole.â
Baby ignores them, already padding down the hall toward your door. Mysteryâs eyes track him the whole way. Every muscle in Mysteryâs body tightens, instinct telling him to move, to intercept, to protect the fragile aftermath hanging behind that door. But he doesnât. He stands locked between Abbyâs arm and Romanceâs even prettier arm.
Romance nuzzles himself to Mystery. âWe found some ridiculous stuff.â heâs saying, oblivious. âScarves youâd love, and Abby bullied me into buying half the store. You shouldâve seen it, man, it wasâhey, you listening?â
Mystery gives no sign. His eyes follow Baby until the younger boy passes out of sight.
Abby nudges him with an elbow, laughing. âEarth to Mystery.â
Romance leans closer, lowering his voice into a mock whisper. âMaybe heâs waiting for someone. Ooooh. Maybe a certain someone.â He wiggles his eyebrows in the least subtle way imaginable.
Mystery finally exhales, a slow controlled breath that might pass for a sigh. He shrugs, a small movement meant to dislodge their arms. They donât take the hint. Inside, his mind is still on the other side of that door, on you, on the way you pulled back like the world had tilted, on the echo of your heartbeat he can still feel against his chest. Every sound from the hallway is a blur compared to the memory of your silence.
âMaybe heâs just thinking.â Jinu offers, passing by with a polite nod.
Romance shoots a quick scowl after Jinuâs retreating back. âYeah, thinking. Sure. Like you ever think.â
Abby rolls his eyes. âDonât talk to him.â He even waves him off, then returns his focus to Mystery. âAnyway, whatâs with you?â
Mystery forces a breath, low and steady. He canât tell them. Wonât. This is his secret, yours and his, whether you want it or not. The thought sends another rush of conflicted warmth through him, dizzying.
Romance doesnât notice, or pretends not to. He reaches up and gives Mysteryâs bicep an appreciative squeeze.
Abby laughs and slides a hand across Mysteryâs chest, giving one of his pecs a squeeze. âYup. Rock hard. Absolute unit.â
Mystery tilts his head toward them but says nothing. Inside, his mind is still a storm, the kiss, the look in your eyes, the quiet click of your door. He barely feels their weight against him.
Romance, undeterred, plants an over-the-top kiss on Mysteryâs cheek, then leans his chin on his shoulder. Mystery stands, silent, unshaken, but not exactly pushing them away either. He likes them, even now. Theyâre loud and ridiculous and completely unaware of the chaos swirling inside him. Itâs almost comforting.
Abby eventually gives up and releases him, slapping his back hard enough to echo. âFine, keep your secrets. Kitchen?â He asks Romance.
Romance lingers a moment longer, eyes glittering like he suspects a story but doesnât quite care enough to dig. He finally slides off with a shrug, touching Mystery until he can. âObviously.â Romance replies, following Abby.
No one knows. No one suspects. And for now, thatâs exactly how it has to stay.
Mystery wonders if theyâd notice if he disappeared for the night. Probably not. Not with the chaos of their own lives spinning around them.
He leans back against the wall, eyes fixed on the closed door at the end of the hall. Listening for the faintest sign from you, footsteps, a breath, anything. Nothing out of the ordinary. He can live with that. For now. Because inside that silence is the single undeniable truth that keeps him all right: it happened. And no amount of laughter or noise from the boys can erase the fact that, for one wild, forbidden heartbeat, you chose him back.
He sighs. Walks to the front door. Shoes on, then leaves. He needs to clear his head, and the best way for that has always been a walk.
Baby doesnât knock. He never knocks. The door eases open with a soft creak. Your room is dim except for the small lamp on the dresser, a circle of light that cuts across the floor. Youâre sitting on the edge of the bed, hands limp in your lap, shoulders slightly hunched. The stillness is so complete he almost wonders if youâve fallen asleep sitting up.
He stops just inside the doorway, shopping bags dangling from his fingers. For a second he only watches you. Something in the set of your back, the tilt of your head, tells him youâre miles away from the noise of the apartment. He scoffs under his breath, habit, not mockery, and crosses the room. The bags land with a muted thud beside the bed. He drops on the bed next to you, long legs folding, a pack of cigarettes appearing from his pocket like a magicianâs trick. He flips one between his fingers, never lighting it. He almost never does, not anymore when youâre around. âThey bought you stuff. Donât ask me why.â he mutters. His voice is flat, almost bored. Itâs easier that way.
You donât answer.
The silence stretches. He leans back, and twirls the cigarette between his knuckles. Itâs a small, restless motion, the only sign that he isnât quite as indifferent as he sounds.
Baby likes your company, more than heâll ever admit. Thereâs something steady about you, maybe itâs why he fell in love. (No, thatâs not why) But showing that? No. Absolutely not.
A sound breaks the quiet. At first he thinks he imagined it. Then it comes again, a tiny, shuddering breath that trembles from your mouth. Youâre crying.
He freezes.
You fold in on yourself, shoulders curling tighter, small, uneven gasps spilling out.
Babyâs chest tightens. He has no idea whatâs wrong. He only knows he hates it.
He glances at the door, as if the right move might be to leave, to give you space. But the thought of walking away makes his stomach twist. He stares at the cigarette in his hand, useless. He isnât built for this. Comfort isnât his language. Words fail him in the best of times. But you keep sobbing. Quiet sounds that tear through the space between you.
He moves, an awkward half-reach, then a pause, then, slowly, he puts a hand on your back. Itâs barely a touch. Just his palm against the fabric of your shirt, warm and hesitant. He gives one short pat, then another, like heâs trying to remember how humans are supposed to do this.
He clears his throat, too loud in the small room, and says the first thing that comes to mind. âHey.â
Itâs not much. Itâs all heâs got.
He pats once. An awkward, stiff motion. âOkay.â he mutters, voice deep. âIâm⊠here. Whatever.â
The words feel ridiculous, but he means them.
He wants to ask whatâs wrong. He wants to demand names, to find whoever made you cry and make them regret it. But the words wonât come. He senses this isnât a problem he can punch.
But heâs in love with you. Heâs known it for months, maybe longer, and heâs spent every day pretending otherwise. Heâs built his whole act around indifference, shrugs, curses. But now, with your quiet sobs sinking into the dark, allat armor feels paper-thin. So he stays silent, fingers moving in slow, uneven circles against your back. Itâs clumsy as hell, but itâs the best he can give.
Your own head is a mess. Itâs unbearable. The kiss with Mystery is still there, on your lips, in the pit of your stomach. You canât scrub it out no matter how hard you try. Shame claws at you, how easily you leaned in, how badly you wanted it, how much it meant. Heâs a horrible person, and you just threw all of your dignity away, or at least thatâs what you feel like. And under the shame, something worse, a flicker of longing you canât kill.
You want to tell someone. You want to confess, to spill the whole ugly truth. But you canât, not to Baby, not to anyone. So you keep crying, small and quiet, each breath a little sharper than the last.
Babyâs eyes drift to the shopping bags by the bed, bright paper and glossy ribbons meant to be gifts, distractions, something cheerful. They look absurd now. He thinks about the hallway outside, where the others are still going on with whatever theyâre doing now, maybe one of them who made you cry. He thinks about the look in your eyes when you didnât answer the door. He thinks about how little he understands of whatâs hurting you, and how badly he wants to.
Another sob breaks from you, softer than the rest. His fingers press a little more firmly against your back. For a heartbeat he lets himself imagine pulling you against him, holding you until the trembling stops. But he doesnât. He knows the line between comfort and something else is thin, and he refuses to cross it while youâre this raw. So he stays. The cigarette flips once more in his free hand.
Who hurt you? Did someone say something? Was it him? Was it one of the others? What if you never tell him? What if he never figures out how to fix it?
The cigarette slips from his hand and lands on the blanket. He doesnât even notice.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. The room is filled with the soft sound of your breathing hitching, breaking, starting again. Baby stares at the wall, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Heâs never hated words more. He wants to tell you heâs here, that you donât have to explain, that you can cry until the sun comes up and heâll still be sitting right there. But all of that feels too big for his mouth.
The soft knock is barely audible under the hush of your sobs. Babyâs head lifts, eyes narrowing, but he doesnât move his hand from your back.
The door opens a crack, spilling a slice of hallway light across the room. Romance leans in, a half-smile ready, knowing youâre crying. âHey.â he says, voice instantly low and warm. âHey, sweetheart. Mind if Iâyeah, Iâm coming in.â
The door clicks shut behind him. He walks over to you and drops to his knees in front of you.
âWhatâs going on, huh? Talk to me.â he says softly, resting both hands on your knees. His thumbs begin slow, reassuring circles against the fabric of your pants.
You shake your head, a tiny movement lost between sobs.
âShhh, okay. No rush.â His voice is honey. âIâve got you. Youâre safe. You donât have to say a single thing. Just breathe. Breathe with me, yeah? In⊠out⊠thatâs it.â
You shake your head, eyes fixed on the crumpled blanket.
Romance tilts his head, trying to catch your gaze. âIâve got you. Look at me, gorgeous. Please?â
Baby stays silent beside you, hand still on your back. His eyes flick toward Romance, irritated. Romance just keeps talking, little nothings that somehow feel like everything.
âYou know youâre the strongest person Iâve met, right? Scares the hell out of me, how strong you are.â âYou cry pretty, you know that? Not that I want you crying. But you do.â âShhh. Weâre right here. Nothingâs gonna get you. Not while Iâm breathing.â None of it quite makes sense. It isnât meant to. Itâs a constant murmur, something that you can focus on. He bends forward and presses a quick kiss to the side of your knee. Then another, just above the other knee, feather-light. Nothing suggestive, just a quiet Iâm here.
You hiccup out a weak, broken whisper. âI⊠donât want to talk about it.â
âOkay.â Romance says simply. âOkay, no talking. None at all. Just breathing. I can do quiet if thatâs what you need. Iâll be quiet as a church mouse. A ridiculously good-looking church mouse, but still.â
It pulls a fragile, almost invisible huff of breath from you, halfway to a laugh. Then he eases up, rising to sit on the bed beside you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight. He slides an arm around your shoulders. You keep sobbing, small, ragged sounds that feel too loud in the quiet room. Babyâs hand is still on your back, awkward. His fingers shift slightly, a hesitant pressure that tries, clumsily, to say heâs here too. Over your head, Romanceâs eyes meet Babyâs. The expression sharpens. He tilts his chin toward Babyâs hand still resting on your back and gives a small, deliberate nod. Baby glares for a beat, but he gets it. His fingers start moving again, slow, steady strokes between your shoulders, keeping the quiet rhythm you didnât realize you were leaning into.
Romance draws you a little closer into his side, his cheek brushing your hair. âThatâs it, love.â he murmurs. âYouâre doing so well. Just let it out. Weâre not going anywhere.â Heâs so good at this that it immediately makes you forget what a horrible person he is. âEspecially Baby, he was here first, wasnât he? What a gentleman.â
Baby gives a quiet, angry âTchâ but doesnât stop rubbing your back.
Romance grins against your hair. âI swear, for someone who pretends to hate everyone, heâs got the biggest heart in the room. Heâll deny it, of course. Probably call me aâwhatâs your favorite word, Baby?â
âFuck.â
âThere it is.â Romance chuckles, the sound low and warm. âSee? Heâs practically serenading you.â
Despite yourself, a tiny tremor of laughter escapes with your next breath. It mixes with a fresh wave of tears, leaving your face damp and hot against Romanceâs shirt.
âShhh.â Romance murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. âThatâs it. Youâre doing great. Just let it out. Weâve got you.â His hand slides a slow pattern across your upper arm. You can feel his heartbeat under your cheek, a counter-rhythm to the small tremors still shaking through you. Then, because heâs Romance and canât leave a quiet moment untouched, he tilts his head and whispers, âYou know, if you need a distraction, I can always undress. Works every time.â
You almost miss it through your tears, but then the words register. You lift your head just enough to squint at him.
He grins. âWhat? Iâm a giver.â With a sigh, he starts working at the buttons of his shirt. âSee? Sacrifice in action. All for your happiness, baby.â
âDonâtââ you try, but your voice cracks with something that isnât quite a sob.
âToo late.â he announces, popping the last button. In one smooth motion he shrugs out of the shirt and tosses it onto the bed.
You clap a hand over your mouth, giggling. Romance beams, victory sparkling in his eyes. Finally.
Baby snorts, and while you look at him, Romanceâs gaze catches on something on your bedside table. He reaches past you toward the nightstand.
âHm.â he hums, plucking up a small stack of the pictures there. âDidnât think youâd keep these so close to the bed.â
You flush before you can stop yourself. Those are the nudes Romance gave you in the love letter. Romance flips through them with unabashed pride until he lands on the one heâs tied up in.
âOh, this one.â he says, laughter already in his voice. âA classic. Underappreciated masterpiece, if I do say so myself.â He waves it dramatically in the air. âLimited edition. Worth a fortune.â
You giggle again, shoulders shaking as you try and fail to stay serious.
Babyâs eyes widen. He reaches over and plucks the photo from Romanceâs hand with two fingers, and takes a good look at it. He didnât know about these. âWhat the fuck, man.â
Youâre laughing outright now, the sound bright and beautiful, the kind of laugh that makes your ribs ache. The earlier tears still cling to your lashes, but the weight in your chest lifts just a little more with each breath. God, this is all they want to hear.
Baby shakes his head, muttering something that sounds like âabsolute idiotâ but he doesnât stop you when you lean a little closer to him for balance. His hand is still on your back, unconsciously tracing small circles.
You bury your face in your hands, half-laughing, half-groaning. Romance is entertaining, but the memory of the first time you saw those photos, when Mystery saw them with you, cuts through the humor. The reminder sends a small ache through your chest.
Romance, of course, notices only what he wants to. âLove, hiding your face? Adorable.â he teases, flipping lazily through the glossy stack. âWaitâhold on, did you even look at all of these? Donât lie to me.â He flips another photo. âBecause honestly, they deserve it.â
You let out a small, miserable whine from behind your hands. Itâs not a word, just a sound.
Romance nods. âAhh, I knew it. Knew you couldnât resist. Thatâs okay, baby, totally normal reaction. I mean, look at me.â He fans the prints theatrically.
You peek through your fingers just in time to see him pluck another photo from the stack. This one is unmistakably naked, tasteful lighting, but still unmistakable. Beside you, Baby leans back slightly, eyes narrowing as he watches Romance thumb through the stack. His hand is on your back.
Romance selects another photo and gives a soft, exaggerated gasp. âOhhh, hereâs a personal favorite. Limited release. Baby, catch.â
Another photo flutters through the air. Baby snatches it without even looking up. A quick glance down, and his brows shoot up. âYouâre naked.â
Romance nods, calm. âMhm.â
Baby stares at the photo for a long beat, then looks Romance dead in the eye. âYour dickâs small.â
The room stops for half a heartbeat.
Itâs not small, by the way. Babyâs just being a prick.
âIs it, though?â Romance asks, voice smooth. âBecause you seem awfully focused for someone whoâs unimpressed.â
Baby doesnât even blink. âHard to miss when itâs barely there.â
Romance leans back on one elbow, grinning. He knows Babyâs not serious. Baby knows he knows. Theyâre just being boys.
You canât help it, you laugh. It spills out of you until youâre half doubled over, and itâs music to their ears.
Romance turns to you, playing it big, blinking with huge eyes. âYou see what I deal with? Here I am, baring my soul, and he does this to me in my moment of vulnerability.â
Baby rolls his eyes. âSoul wasnât the thing you were baring.â
Romance glares at him, then at the photo, then back at you. His eyes are already sparkling with laughter heâs pretending to suppress. You collapse sideways against his bare shoulder, laughter spilling out despite every attempt to hold it in. Tears prick your eyes again, but this time theyâre happy. Romance leans back on one hand, watching you with a gentle expression. Baby notices the shift but doesnât comment, his hand stays on your back, the only sign of the care he never puts into words.
Baby tilts the photo toward the lamp, examining it. âLighting tricks. Angles. Pathetic.â
Romance shrugs, utterly unfazed. âAngles are art. And thatâs not what you said when you were staring.â
âI said itâs small.â
âWhich implies you were looking closely.â Romance winks. âFlattered.â
You canât believe this is happening.
Baby slides the photo back toward Romance. âTrash.â
Romance catches it neatly, smiling. âAlright, sweetheart.â
âCall me sweetheart again and Iâll burn that entire stack.â Baby replies, calm as ever.
Romance leans forward slightly, still grinning. âPromises, promises.â
You peek through your fingers, unable to help yourself. Theyâre facing each other now, Baby with that unimpressed half-glare, Romance with a flirty, beautiful smile. The tension is less fight and moreâŠsomething else.
âYou keep staring at that photo. Starting to think you like what you see.â Romance says, tilting his head.
Babyâs eyes narrow, but his voice stays cool. âStarting to think you like that Iâm staring.â
Romance licks his lips. âMaybe I do.â
You canât believe this. Theyâre flirting. They are actually, calmly flirting over a naked photograph while you sit there with your face in your hands, trying not to implode. The air feels different now, warmer, a little charged. You lower your hands, because not watching this would be criminal.
Romance stretches, slow and hot. âYou know,â he says to Baby. âyouâve got a way of looking at people. Youâre doing it now.â
Babyâs mouth twitches. âYou mean I glare.â
âI mean you burn.â Romance corrects, lazy grin sliding wider. âYou ever notice? You walk into a room and the temperature changes. Whole place tilts toward you.â
Baby gives a short snort, like a laugh that changed its mind. âThe heating system.â
Romance leans forward. âNo. No, not at all. Thatâs called magnetism.â He taps a finger against Babyâs chest, just a light press, but itâs suggestive. âRight here.â
Baby glances down at the finger, then back up, eyebrow arched. âYou touch me again and I break that finger.â
Romance doesnât move the finger, just lets it rest there, eyes bright. âTry me.â
The room hums around them. You shift slightly on the bed, in awe at how smooth they both are.
âYouâre all bones.â Romance says. âDonât they feed you?â
Baby snorts. âDonât touch me.â
âYou didnât move.â Romance points out.
âThatâs âcause youâre weak.â
âAm I?â Romance leans in.
Baby tilts his head, eyes narrowing, but heâs smiling, barely, but itâs there. âMhm. Pretty sure youâre imagining things.â
âPretty sure you like it when I imagine things.â Romance purrs, then pushes lightly against Babyâs chest with two fingers again, just enough to test the distance. âDonât tell me you havenât thought about it.â
Baby swats the hand away, but he doesnât move back. âYou think everyone thinks about you.â
âJust you, baby boy.â
Something flickers across Babyâs face, attraction, maybe, or something darker. He doesnât bite back with another insult this time, he just studies Romance, eyes big.
The silence stretches. You realize youâre holding your breath.
Romance breaks it with a sly smile. âSee? Youâre thinking about it right now.â
Baby finally moves, a quick tap of two fingers against Romanceâs forehead. âYou wish.â he says, quiet and sure.
Romance laughs, rich and unbothered, looking up at the fingers on his forehead, his eyes crossing like that looking stupidly cute. âAlways.â
Silence. You can see how much they want to call each other out. The tension is brutal, but itâs not angry tension. Itâs hot, almost sexual, but Romance moving his legs around to deal with his boner happens quite frequently. What caused this boner though, is another question.
Baby doesnât blink. âYou ever gonna stop begging for it?â
âNot a chance.â He pushes one last time on Babyâs chest, just enough to rock him back a little âCareful, Baby. Keep looking at me like that and people will talk.â
Baby raises one eyebrow. âLet âem.â
Romance taps a finger against his own knee, thoughtful. âI could get used to that.â
âDonât.â Baby says, but the word lands without any real weight.
Romance bites his lip. Okay, this is good. Babyâs good at this, so good.
Baby finally nudges Romanceâs shoulder with two fingers with the hand thatâs not on your back, a push thatâs more invitation than rejection. âDonât think this means anything.â
Romance watches Baby touch him. âSure.â he says, voice dropping to a near whisper. âNothing at all.â He twirls the picture between two fingers. Heâs so naked on it and so hot. âY/N, look.â
You start to lower your hands from your face, curious despite yourself. Before you can get a clear look, Baby moves faster than you thought he ever could. His long fingers slide over your eyes, covering them. His thumb brushes the edge of your temple.
You let out a laugh behind his palm. âI canât see a thing.â
âThatâs the point.â Baby murmurs, quiet, almost gentle, but still deep and mean towards Romance.
Romance tilts his head. âProtective, huh? Cute.â (AN: guys I know itâs cringe and pushy and Iâm so aware of it, but thatâs just Romance. This is a reminder that if you get secondhand embarrassment somewhere while reading, then itâs okay, you were probably meant to.)
You squirm, trying to duck out of Babyâs grip. âI can lookââ
Baby grunts, but lets his hand drop. If you want to see other men naked and rock hard on a picture, sure. All fucking right. Not his problem. (Heâs so jealous.)
Romanceâs free hand drifts toward the waistband of his pants, fingers hooking under the fabric. âI can prove Baby wrong, you know.â
âRomance!â you gasp, laughing even as you shove at his bare chest with both hands. âStop.â
Your push barely moves him, but he throws himself back, landing half-sprawled across your bed. But the press of your palm, the heat of your touch has his senses activating all at once. His heartbeat rockets in his ribs so fast it almost hurts. He hides his boner with a leg folded over his crotch, but heâs so whipped. A rush of color climbs his neck to his cheekbones. Heâs blushing so hard at your hands on him. His eyes, normally so seductive, go wide and bright, the pure look of awe.
The room fills with your laughter. For a moment the earlier ache is justâŠgone. Romance props himself up on one elbow, eyes softening as he takes in the sound. You have no idea how good that laugh sounds.
You reach for the photo, your fingers brushing his as you gather the pictures, trying not to look at them. You put them back onto the nightstand, face down. Then you move to the center of the bed. To the middle of it.
The middle is an invitation. You know it, they know it. It says yes without a single syllable.
A slow, pleased smile curves Romanceâs beautiful mouth as he slides closer, no hesitation in the movement. He drapes himself along your side, arm settling around your waist. His fingers find your hair, combing through the strands in lazy strokes.
Baby hesitates. He always hesitates. But the mattress dips a moment later as he shifts, crawling to your other side to lie down too. He keeps a few inches of space between you, pretending nonchalance, but his hands betray him, twitching, restless, picking the cigarette back up and playing with it.
You watch the way his thumb flicks over the filter. The urge to do something, anything, to break his tension outweighs your sadness.
âIf you need to smoke,â you murmur, voice barely above the hush of the room. âyou can. Itâs fine.â
Baby glances at you. Then, without a word, he digs a lighter from his pocket. The spark snaps in the quiet, chik, and the tip of the cigarette glows a low ember. He draws in a breath. The scent curls around you, not pleasant but bearable, mixing with the faint detergent of the sheets.
Romance reaches over you, palm open, expecting it from Baby. Baby exhales a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling, then passes the cigarette over your body. Their hands meet for a beat above your chest, brief, casual, but charged.
Romance takes a slow drag, eyes half-lidded. The orange tip flares, casting a fleeting glow across his cheekbones. He leans back, blows the smoke toward the far wall, and tilts the cigarette in your direction with a questioning lift of his brow.
You shake your head. âNo thanks.â
He shrugs, a gentle smile tugging at his mouth, and returns the cigarette to Baby.
They exchange it like that back and forth. Baby inhales, the ember brightening, passes it over. Romance takes another slow drag, hands it back again.
You lie perfectly still between them, feeling the subtle warmth of Romanceâs palm stroking your hair, the faint vibration of Babyâs breathing where his arm brushes yours. Every flick of ash onto your poor floor, every shared inhale, feels strangely intimate.
You try to breathe normally. You canât. Not because of the smoke. Because of the memory of Mysteryâs mouth, his breath against yours, the way you didnât pull back fast enough because you didnât want to.
You still want it. The only problem is that you know you shouldnât. You feel guilty. It isnât just guilt, though, itâs confusion, dread, the sudden weight of something you canât name. Your stomach twists, making you swallow against the threat of actual nausea.
Romance notices first. His arm shifts until his palm cups the back of your neck. He gives the lightest squeeze, and then brings it down to rub your shoulder.
Baby flicks the ash from his cigarette. It falls onto the hardwood. He doesnât look at you, but he pays attention. The glow of the cigarette tip pulses as he takes one last drag. Then, wordless, he offers the very little left of the cig across your body.
Romance takes it. He inhales, slow and deep, the ember flaring. The faint scent of tobacco folds over the room again.
You press your eyes shut.
God, what have you done?
You kissed Mystery. You wanted to. You want to again. The thought alone is enough to make your stomach lurch.
Your heart hammers so hard itâs painful. You can feel it beneath Romanceâs palm at your shoulder, wild and uneven. Your own breath sounds too loud, too shallow.
Romance shifts slightly, pulling you closer so your head rests against the warm crook of his arm. Baby exhales a thin ribbon of smoke left in his lungs, and settles back against the headboard. He still wonât look directly at you, but his free hand drifts a fraction closer, like heâs ready if you reach out.(AN: this has more meaning if youâve read the alternative endings of part 10 and look back at Babyâs route)
You try to focus on the small details, the weight of Romanceâs arm, the scratch of the sheets against your fingertips, the faint burn of smoke in the air. Anything to drown out this in your chest. But it wonât quit. Every memory of Mysteryâs lips, the heat of the chase earlier, the shock of that kiss, it all loops. You can taste it if you let yourself. You hate yourself for it. You crave it anyway.
Your stomach flips again. You swallow hard, willing yourself not to actually get sick. Your body feels like itâs turning against you, every muscle tight.
Romance rubs his thumb along the back of your neck. The motion is gentle, hypnotic. He flicks the butt to the floor, crushing the ember with his heel before leaning back, arms crossed.
Minutes stretch. You donât know how many. The room grows warmer, hazy with smoke. Your heartbeat, slowly, painfully, begins to match the steady rhythm of Romanceâs breathing. You let your head fall against his shoulder, too tired to fight it. Babyâs knee nudges lightly against your leg, almost accidental. He doesnât pull away. Your eyelids grow heavy. Romance keeps stroking your hair. Baby stays close, silent as ever. No one says a fucking word. They donât want to wake you. Theyâre happy that youâre asleep.
Romance watches you. He always does. Eyes half-lidded, still shirtless, he studies the slow rise and fall of your breathing. It calms him.
Four months. Thatâs all it took to soften his little heart up. Three hundred years of running scams, breaking hearts, and killing when it suited him. Heâs done things that would make you faint. Heâs good at it, too. Was good at it. And then you showed up. Itâs fucking ridiculous.
Across the bed, Baby leans against the headboard, arms folded, pretending to be asleep. He isnât. His eyes keep opening and finding you, catching every twitch of your dream-heavy breathing.
Heâs a horrible fucking man. And here you are, fragile as fuck, sleeping inches away, and he feels⊠protective. Addicted, maybe. It pisses him off, how much he gives a fuck.
Mystery walks the streets like a caged animal. He can still taste the kiss you shared earlier, and itâs driving him insane. Abby sits on the couch, watching something he always sees you watch. Itâs not that interesting to him, but sure. If youâre into it, then heâll watch. Jinu is in his room, in that fuckass robe and on that fuckass laptop.
Theyâre all monsters. No sense pretending otherwise. Hurt people hurt people. Iâll repeat it a hundred more times if thatâs what it takes. Theyâve stolen, lied, destroyed, killed. Theyâve been weapons and victims, devils and martyrs. And for three or four hundred years, that was the only way to survive.
Then you. So breakable it terrifies them. A human who could die from something as simple as a bad fall, yet somehow youâve become the best part of their days. Why they want to go home as soon as possible every time. It infuriates them. It redeems them. Itâs everything they were certain they could never have.
Romance runs a thumb lightly over the back of your hand, careful not to wake you. He remembers every battle, every scream, every body he left behind. He should feel nothing. Heâs spent centuries perfecting that skill. But now, watching you breathe, knowing he hurt you too, knowing youâre nice to him now, knowing you exist, he feels too much.
Baby finally exhales, a soft curse under his breath. He hates that he cares, hates that the thought of anyone hurting you makes something dark and ancient stir in his chest. Because they are dark. Theyâre not heroes. Theyâre the kind of creatures that stories warn children about. If you knew the whole truth, every bloody page of it, youâd run. You should run. But you donât. You sleep between them, unguarded, trusting them with a kind of innocence they donât deserve. That trust is a blade and a blessing. It cuts through centuries of rot. It makes them want to be better. It makes them terrified of failing you. Knowing they already hurt you enough, not even completely understanding how could they earn your trust like this after that. They donât deserve you. Not a damn bit.
At some point even demons give in to exhaustion. Romance drifts off first, head tipped toward you, breath warm against your shoulder. Baby follows much later, still half-propped on the headboard.
You try to stay asleep. Your body has other plans. A nightmare catches you by the throat, shards of the kiss, Mysteryâs eyes in the dark, the taste of wanting what you shouldnât. You wake up, heart hammering like when you were chased, the weight in your stomach heavy, and before you can second-guess yourself youâre slipping out from between them, feet hitting the cold floor. The bathroom light is harsh when you flick it on. You barely make it to the toilet before youâre throwing up. Itâs pure stress, your bodyâs ugly rebellion against everything youâve been holding in. The kiss, the want, the guilt, the confusion, itâs all too much, too heavy to stay inside.
You lean against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut. Your throat burns.
Behind you, soft footsteps.
âHey⊠hey, angel.â
Romance kneels beside you. He simply gathers your hair back with gentle fingers. His other hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades.
âItâs okay, sweetheart.â he murmurs, close enough for you to feel the vibration of his voice. âLet it out. Just breathe. Youâre okay. Iâve got you.â
You gag again, the sour taste making you gag even more. Tears sting your eyes. You donât bother answering, thereâs nothing to say.
Baby lingers in the doorway, arms folded, worried. He knows youâre fine physically, itâs not that. Itâs just⊠been a while since he cared for anyoneâs mental health whoâs not him.
Romance keeps up the quiet murmur. âEasy, love. Just a shitty night, thatâs all. Happens to the best of us. Breathe. Youâre okay.â
When the worst of it passes, you slump against the wall, shaking. Romance grabs a towel from the rack, dampens a corner, and presses it gently to your forehead, his other hand grabbing toilet paper to wipe at your mouth with.
You miss him.
Mystery.
Even now, even after this, you miss him. You hate that you do.
Romance seems to read something in your face but doesnât press. He just keeps stroking your back, voice low. âItâs alright. Bodies do weird shit when the mindâs overloaded. Youâll be okay, promise.â
Baby finally speaks, a single rough word: âWater?â
You nod weakly, and heâs gone, quiet.
Romance tilts your chin up, searching your eyes. âBreathe with me.â he says, slow and sure. âIn. Out. Just like that. Youâre not alone, okay? Not for a second.â
You breathe. You try, anyway. You feel disgusting, and you can only sob, but no tears come with it.
Baby returns with a glass of water and sets it within reach. He doesnât hand it to you, just places it there and meets your gaze with a look that says drink when you can.
You reach for it, Romance steadying your hands when he sees them tremble while holding the glass.
And then you start crying again.
Romance lowers himself beside you. Bare skin against the cold wall, still shirtless, not giving a single fuck. He pulls you against his chest. His arm slides around your shoulders, solid and warm. He doesnât flinch when your damp face presses against his collarbone, doesnât shift when your sobs shake both of you. If he notices the sour traces of vomit on your breath, he gives no sign. Nothingâs disgusting to him anymore. Genuinely. Heâs been through almost everything and that almost everything included lot of fluids in it. A little human misery doesnât even register.
Baby lingers at the doorway, skinny arms crossed. Romance says nothing. He just holds you tighter when another sob comes up, his hand rubbing small circles on your skin. They donât ask whatâs wrong. They want to. God, they hate not knowing. Romance especially. Babyâs jaw tightens, heâs never been good with helplessness. Both of them are used to action, to fixing problems with muscle and violence. Watching you cry this hopelessly all of a sudden and not being able to do a damn thing about it is torture.
The minutes blur. Your breathing hiccups and catches. Sometimes you sip from the water glass. Both of them stay.
You push yourself upright, legs unsteady. Romance follows immediately, ready if you sway. Baby steps back to give you space, his eyes tracking every movement. The bathroom mirror shows a face you barely recognize, eyes swollen, cheeks blotchy, skin pale and damp. You turn on the tap and reach for your toothbrush.
Romance leans a hip against the counter, still close enough to catch you if you falter. âWant me to grab you a clean towel?â he asks, voice low, casual.
You shake your head and brush your little teeth.
Romance stays beside you, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades as you brush. After a while he tilts his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âYou planning to sandpaper your enamel off? Thatâs, whatâfive solid minutes now?â
You spit and keep brushing. Your voice is muffled when you finally answer. âCanât you smell everything? LikeâŠextra good?â
He quirks an eyebrow. âSure. Why?â
You rinse the brush, eyes fixed on the sink. âI donât want you to feelâŠdisgusted.â
For a beat heâs quiet. Then he lets out a soft huff of laughter, surprised. âSweetheart, nobody cares.â He slides his palm up to the back of your neck, thumb tracing lazy circles. âTrust me. Weâve all smelled worse. Way worse. Donât worry.â
You finally meet his eyes in the mirror. Thereâs no judgment there, just a strange gentleness that disarms you more than any of his flirtations ever could.
From the doorway, Baby grunts agreement. âHeâs right. Donât matter.â
Romance nods toward the sink, still rubbing your back. You spit one last time and set the toothbrush down, the minty taste all over your mouth. You turn away from the sink, and Romance stays close, shoulder brushing yours as if you might topple any second.
âStay.â you tell them, waving a weak hand. âOr, I mean. Um. You donât have toâ it smells like puke in here, you guys can justâ go back to bed or whatever. Iâllââ
Romance cuts you off with a gentle, almost amused murmur. âWe get it, love.â
The words stop you mid-ramble. Weâre here, itâs fine.
You slip past Babyâs skinny shape back to your room and into the hall. The apartment is dim now. Your bare feet make soft sounds against the wood as you move toward the kitchen, mind churning.
Mystery. The thought comes of him. You try to shove it away, but it lingers. Youâre supposed to hate him for that kiss. But the image wonât leave, and part of you doesnât want it to.
Then, halfway down the hall, you pause.
Jinuâs door.
Something pulls you toward it before you can talk yourself out of the impulse. You lift your hand and knock, soft. You ease the door open. The room is nearly black, the faint spill of hallway light catching on the edge of a neatly folded blanket. You blink, eyes adjusting.
A shape moves, and then Jinu raises his head from the pillow. The faint glow catches the outline of his face, half-hidden but unmistakable. Even half-asleep heâs beautiful.
âJinu I threw up.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then a short, breathy laugh, barely more than a huff of air. Not mocking, just⊠warm.
âCome here.â he says, voice rough with sleep but gentle all the same.
You close the door and cross the room to sink onto the edge of the mattress, the sheets cool under your palms. Jinu shifts to sit up, the movement unhurried, eyes finding yours in the dark.
âYou okay?â he asks softly. âWhat happened?â
You breathe in, and try to find words, then draw your knees up, fingers knotting together. âIâm just⊠stressed.â you finally manage.
His head tilts slightly. âStressed about what?â
âDoesnât matter.â you say too quickly. You canât tell him about the kiss, about Mystery, about the way your brain keeps replaying it. You can barely admit it to yourself.
Jinu doesnât push. He simply leans back against the headboard. âAlright.â he says after a beat, soft. âDoesnât matter.â
You shift, and the faint scent of smoke and sweat drifts up from your clothes. Romanceâs cologne. Babyâs cigarette. Their presence clings to you. Jinuâs nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. Of course he notices. He could probably track every molecule.
Something in this cuts deeper, has more history. Itâs the same reason youâd called for him that night when youâd sliced your arm open at the front door. Different night, different pain, but the instinct is identical: you want Jinu.
You hated yourself a little for that back then, and you hate yourself for it now. These men, these demons, are not harmless. They have hurt people, frightened people. They have frightened you, hurt you and laughed about it. And yet here you are again, sitting on his bed in the middle of the night because some part of you believes heâs the one who will keep you safe. Itâs sweet. And itâs fucked up.
You stare at the darkness beyond his shoulder, trying to make sense of it. âYou ever feel⊠like your brainâs too full? Like itâs just⊠noise, all the time?â
âEvery day.â he answers without hesitation. âFour hundred years of it.â
Itâs actually a huge deal that he tells you that. This takes a lot of Jinuâs trust. And you have it. The weight of that settles between you. Four centuries. You can barely imagine it.
âI donât know how you stand it.â you whisper.
âI donât.â he says. âI just keep moving.â
You draw a shaky breath. The mint on your tongue is fading. âI feel sick.â you admit. âNot from the throwing up. Just⊠everything.â
Jinuâs gaze softens. He just nods, the small motion somehow more comforting than a thousand empty reassurances.
âI hate that I keep ending up here.â you blurt before you can stop yourself. âWith you.â
His head tilts again, a subtle question.
âI mean⊠when itâs bad.â you clarify. âI donât even think. I just⊠find you. Or you find me. Likeâlike my body decides before my brain does.â
The corner of his mouth lifts, half a smile, half a wince. âInstinct.â he says quietly.
âYeah.â you breathe.
Itâs too dark to read his expression fully, but something in the silence that follows feels heavy.
You think about the night with the knife, the way heâd appeared in seconds, unflinching at the blood streaking your arm. The same steadiness now, even with the bitter smell of vomit still clinging to you. He never seems to mind. Maybe he canât. Maybe itâs just his love for you being strong enough to ignore things like this. Maybe after centuries of violence, nothing a human does could ever seem dirty or small.
Sweet, and cruel all at once. Because they, all of them, have left scars you canât name. Their lives have been nothing but survival and hurt, and you keep walking straight back into that hurt.
You wrap your arms around your knees and rest your chin there, staring at the shadowed floor. âThanks for not⊠asking too much.â you murmur.
âYouâll tell me what matters when it matters.â he hums.
Meanwhile, Abby pushes your door open with his shoulder, the faint squeak of the hinge announcing him before the smell of whatever protein sludge heâs drinking does. Heâs shirtless except for a loose tank, gym shorts hanging low, a glass in hand. A bright pink straw sticks out from it. He takes another unapologetic pull from the straw and makes a satisfied tchk with his tongue, eyes scanning the room. His gaze lands on Romance and Baby, both on the bed. Romance is stretched out, one long leg bent, the other dangling off the side of the mattress. Heâs still shirtless, hair a soft mess, cigarette smoke curling faintly in the air from Babyâs direction. Baby sits cross-legged at the far corner, silent as a shadow. His eyes flick toward Abby but donât bother with a greeting.
Romance tilts his head. âEvening workout?â Thatâs a joke. Itâs the middle of the fucking night, not just a simple evening.
âAlways.â Abby answers, and he leans his broad shoulder against the doorframe, muscles standing out in the dim light, and nods toward the bed, taking another noisy sip. âWhat happened here?â
Romance tilts his pretty head back. âY/N wasnât feeling well. She puked. Baby and I handled it.â
Abby raises one brow. âThat it?â
âThatâs it.â Romance says.
âHm.â Abby straightens just enough to tap the glass against the doorframe, entertaining himself. âWhereâs she now?â
Baby finally speaks, voice rough from smoke and quiet. âJinuâs.â
Abby doesnât comment, just takes another slow sip of whatever protein nightmare heâs enjoying somehow. Heâs too petty to say anything about it. Fuck Jinu. (He loves Jinu. Heâs just mad at him now because they heard when he fed you that bullshit after they chased you.)
For a moment the three of them just breathe the same heavy air. Abby shifts his weight, still leaning on the doorframe, and lets his gaze sweep the room again. He can smell everything. From the toothpaste in your bathroom to Romanceâs hair. Finally he straightens, finishing the last of the drink with a loud slurp through the straw. âAlright.â he says. âWake me if anythingâs up.â
Baby gives a curt nod and Romance hums. Abby lingers a moment longer, eyes narrowing as if he might read more. But whatever he sees, he keeps to himself. He pushes off the doorframe. The door eases shut with a soft click, leaving the room in darkness again. The smoke hangs heavy, lit only by the faint red glow at the tip of Babyâs cigarette.
Back in Jinuâs room, you sit with your knees pulled up, staring at the pattern of moonlight on the floor, and finally let out a thin breath. âI should⊠probably go back. Romance and Baby are waiting.â
Jinu doesnât move right away. He studies you. A muscle in his jaw shifts. If heâs disappointed, he hides it well, but thereâs a gleam in his eyes thatâs impossible to miss. Admiration. Admiring you for going back to them because theyâre waiting for you.
Finally, he nods once. âGo.â he says, voice pretty. âTheyâll want you back.â
Youâre already shifting to stand and brush your palms on your thighs, then glance at him. âIâm sorry for waking you.â
Jinu tilts his head, a soft half-smile ghosting across his face. âDonât be.â
At the doorway you pause and look back. Jinu hasnât shifted, but his gaze is still fixed on you. You manage a small, nervous smile. âGoodnight, Jinu. Try to get some rest.â
âGoodnight.â he answers, soft.
You ease the door closed behind you, careful with the handle so it doesnât click too loudly. The apartment is a labyrinth of soft darkness and faint city glow mixed with the warm lights on the walls. Your bare feet make no sound on the wood, but your heartbeat feels loud enough to wake everyone. You start toward the kitchen again, but your mind is elsewhere.
Because somewhere in this apartment, maybe only a few steps away, Mystery is awake. Or asleep. Or waiting. And the thought of seeing him again sends a cold spike down your spine. You donât know when fear replaced the rush you felt earlier. Maybe it happened the moment his lips touched yours. Maybe it started before, when you asked him to chase you and trusted that he wouldnât hurt you.
You wanted it, and that truth is the worst part. You wanted it.
The guilt presses harder with every step you take down the hall.
Romance and Baby are waiting for you in your room, warmth, smoke, the safety of them, and yet your thoughts keep dragging back to the shadowed figure who caught you in the dark. The one you canât face.
Because what if Mystery is standing in the kitchen? What if you turn a corner and find those yellow eyes watching you?
Youâre not ready for that. Not ready to see what he might read on your face, or what you might still feel in the tremor of your own heartbeat. Not ready for the truth that you liked the kiss and hate yourself for it. You tell yourself itâs just a hallway. Just a kitchen beyond it. But every shadow feels like it could hold Mystery, waiting. And the thought of meeting him again, that feral, beautiful boy, makes your stomach tighten all over.
Abby is in the kitchen. Big, broad-shouldered Abby, beautiful in the even more beautiful lighting in the kitchen. Heâs rinsing an empty glass. He glances over his shoulder the moment you step in, eyebrows lifting. âHey.â he says. âHeard you threw up. You okay?â
You hover in the archway, arms crossed. âYeah. I meanâyeah. Just⊠stressed.â
Abby shuts off the water, flicks a few drops from his hands, and turns fully toward you. âStressâll do it.â he says. âWant some water?â
You shake your head, hesitating. âWhereâs Mystery?â
Abby shrugs, muscles shifting. âNo idea. Heâs not home.â
Not home.
The knot of worry thatâs been riding your ribs tightens. You donât even know why the thought hits so hard, guilt, maybe, or the leftover electricity of that kiss. Whatever it is, it leaves you hollow.
Bread, you think. Just a slice of bread. Something simple. Eating will do something about it.
But instead of moving to the breadbox, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.
Abby stills.
Itâs a sudden, instinctive hug, your face against the warm solidity of his chest, the smell of detergent and faint sweat around you in an instant. He hadnât expected this. You can feel it in the way his big frame goes rigid for half a breath. But he doesnât pull back. Abby exhales slowly, something like a laugh buried in his chest. He slides his arms around you, careful despite the sheer size of his hands, and then, without a word, lifts.
Your feet leave the floor. He settles you sideways against him, your head tucked under his chin, one arm braced beneath you and the other locked across your back.
âLight as a feather.â he mutters, bouncing you once, just enough to make your stomach dip. âYou ate today?â
âI⊠was gonna.â you mumble, voice muffled against his shoulder.
Abby starts a slow sway. âWant me to take you back to the others?â
You shake your head hard, a small, stubborn motion. âNo. Food first.â The words come out in a shaky whisper, followed by a hiccup of a sob.
He feels the tremor against him, but he doesnât tense. âOkay.â he says quickly, no questions. âAlright, baby.â
Still holding you, he walks toward the cabinets. With one arm supporting your weight, he reaches with the other, absurdly effortless, opening doors, scanning shelves. He points with a thick finger at a row of items. âCrackers? No? Cereal? No. Bread?â
At the word you nod, small.
âBread it is.â he says, then grabs a half-loaf with his free hand and tucks it under his arm like a football, then adjusts his grip on you.
âGot it.â he says, glancing down at you and your little tears. âBack we go.â
He carries you out of the kitchen, the bread secured under one arm and you balanced against his chest. Your cheek rests against the steady rise and fall of his breathing. You can feel the quiet thunder of his heart, fast enough to betray him even as his voice stays calm. Heâs so happy that you did this.
Itâs ridiculous though. These men, demons, you remind yourself, because that word is the truest one, are the same ones who have cut you open in ways no knife ever could. Letâs not even talk about it when they did it with actual knives. You can still catalog every scar if you try. The nights they tore through your mind with their violence. The way they dragged you around. When they shoved your head into iced water.
Theyâve frightened you. Lied to you. Left marks on your body and memories you canât scrub away. Sometimes with claws. Sometimes with words sharper than claws. You told yourself you would never need them. And now you do. You always do. Pressed to Abbyâs chest like this.
Itâs the comfort of captors who have also been your only allies. The comfort of the only voices left after everyone else disappeared, after they isolated you so completely that you canât even name another person youâd call in the middle of the night. I donât mean the possibility, of course, you canât call anyone. I mean who you WOULD call. You wouldnât call the HUNTR/X girls anymore. Not your dad, not your mom. Youâd call the Saja boys.
You replay every ugly moment.
Mysteryâs claws raking into your skin.
Romanceâs games that went too far.
Babyâs cigarettes put out on you.
Abbyâs temper.
Even Jinuâs cold manipulations.
Your mind whispers, they hurt you.
Your heart answers, they stayed.
No one else stayed. No one came for you. (How could they, Y/N? Open your eyes.) So now when you panic in the night, you donât cry for Rumi or Mira or Zoey. You reach for them. The monsters.
Abbyâs chest rises and falls under your cheek. You crave it. You crave the very people who taught you what real fear tastes like.
They ruined you.
But theyâre all you have.
They made you dependent.
But maybe they never meant to.
Maybe you let them.
Maybe you wanted to.
The logic twists in on itself until you canât tell which wounds were inflicted and which ones you invited just to feel anything at all. Maybe you clung to them because it was easier than being alone with the silence. Maybe you actually fell in love.
The worst part is how familiar this feels. The way Abbyâs heartbeat under your ear reminds you of nights when terror finally ended and exhaustion took its place. When once, back when they were still hurting you, Romance poked your back with something sharp, you donât even remember what, and you jumped into Babyâs arms. And he held you. The comfort of that, even as the day before that he laughed while pouring iced water in your face.
They are dangerous.
And they are home.
Other people wouldnât see the months of nightmares. They wouldnât hear the screams you never voiced. They wouldnât understand this closeness. You hate it. You hate yourself for needing it, but you also know the truth. There is no one else. You could push Abby away, escape, vanish into the human world. But where would you go? Who would answer at three a.m. when the memories come back sharp enough to choke you? Who would believe the things youâve seen, the scars you carry, the demons that arenât metaphor but flesh? (HUNTR/X, Y/N. Please wake up and realize that. They still want you. Itâs okay.)
You rest your head against Abbyâs shoulder and close your eyes. Part of you wants to fight. Part of you wants to melt into the steadiness and pretend the past never happened. The contradiction is exhausting. The need is humiliating. But for now, you stay where you are. Because no matter how wrong it is, no matter how much you hate yourself for it, these monsters are the only ones left who will carry you through the dark.
Abbyâs shoulder nudges your door open with a quiet click. The faint scent of smoke still hangs in the air. Inside, the room is just as you left it, a thin wash of city light spilling through the curtains, the rumpled bed. Romance sits propped against the headboard, bare chest pale in the dark and the light of that little lamp, eyes half-lidded but instantly alert when he sees the two of you. Baby lounges near the window, not smoking anymore.
Abby shifts his grip, giving you a gentle bounce that makes you a little tired. âLook who I found.â
Abby steps forward and lowers you to the mattress with surprising care for someone built like a tank. His big hands linger for a heartbeat, steadying you, before he draws back to put your little bread in your little lap.
You kissed Mystery.
Not just any of them. Mystery.
The one who once had you cornered with claws bared. The most⊠feral one. You can still feel the memory, those nights of fear so bad you couldnât sleep, the way his growl used to make your bones rattle. And now the same mouth that snarled against your skin has pressed against yours. You wanted it. Thatâs the part that makes your stomach pitch even now, long after the nausea of earlier.
The room tilts with the weight of it. Abbyâs presence. Romanceâs smile. Babyâs eyes. All of them, these demons who have hurt you, haunted you, and yet somehow are the only ones left to hold you.
Theyâd do anything for you. You know it as surely as you know your own heartbeat. You could ask for anything. Diamonds. Purses from Paris, silk from places you canât even pronounce. Theyâd rip open the world to get it for you, no hesitation, no question.
But you never ask. You canât. Because love, whatever this doomed thing is between you and them, has never been about gifts. And because some quiet corner of you knows that if you started asking, if you let them give you everything, youâd never find the part of yourself again that you lost to them. Youâd disappear into their devotion, and that thought is as terrifying as being without them.
You donât need diamonds.
You need the steady thrum of Abbyâs heartbeat when he carried you down the hall. The slow curl of smoke from Babyâs cigarette. The way Romance can soften a room with a single, beautiful smile.
Love isnât supposed to look like this. You know that. Itâs not supposed to be stitched together with past trauma and present comfort, with the memory of claws and the reality of warm hands. Itâs not supposed to make you feel both safe and ruined. But when Romance leans forward, eyes glinting, when Baby watches you, when Abby stands guard in the doorway, you feel the pull all over again. The impossible, infuriating pull of the only people left who have seen every fucked up piece of you and stayed.
You hate it.
You need it.
You love them.
And no amount of diamonds could ever match the awful, beautiful gravity of that truth.
The mattress dips as Romance shifts closer, his warmth sliding in behind you until his knees bracket your hips. His palms find your shoulders, thumbs pressing slow circles into the knots that have turned your muscles to stone. Every motion is patient, steady. Not a seduction. You exhale before you mean to.
Abby drops into the chair near the wall, deep down knowing that Jinu jerked it in this very chair a few times. He stretches long legs out, crosses his arms, and starts talking to Romance about something, maybe the bread, maybe Babyâs chain-smoking habit. Same man who made your life a nightmare once, now calming you with his voice. Baby remains at the window.
Every pull is mutual. Romantic, sexual, sincere, wrong. Itâs all tangled together, a current running from you to them and back again. Youâve fought it for months. Youâve told yourself the line matters, that what they did to you before puts a canyon between their hearts and yours. Youâve built barricades from logic, from memory, from fear.
And then you kissed Mystery.
One slip, one heartbeat of pure gravity, and the barricade cracked. The kiss wasnât just a kiss, it was the form of your own resistance giving way, the taste of a truth youâd been starving and terrified to admit. Now you sit here, and the pull is louder than your guilt. Louder than the past.
They sense it. Of course they do. Romanceâs thumbs keep their patient rhythm, but you can feel what he wants. Talk to us. Abbyâs chatter falters now and then. He wants to ask. He doesnât. Baby barely moves, but his eyes never leave you. He doesnât want you to shut them out.
They can feel how stressed you are. They can taste it in the air, every demon sense tuned to the tang of your anxiety. But they know. They know they canât force you. If you donât choose to tell them, they have no door in. And that knowledge tortures them. These three arenât built to be left out. Theyâve been the ones who break doors, who demand answers, who refuse to be ignored. Who torture an innocent little assistant for a little help with their plan.
But with you? With you they stay still now.
This is the type of stress you canât deal with. You donât know how to get it out, how to drain it. You canât outrun it, canât outthink it. Youâre sick of your own heartbeat. Sick of thinking about Mysteryâs eyes, Mysteryâs mouth, Mysteryâs claws. Sick of how everything feels like a trap you walked into willingly.
Why canât this just end already?
Why canât you just die already?
Itâs not a dramatic thought. Itâs just a flat, exhausted one, like staring at a wall for too long. Youâre not even sure you mean it. You just want the noise in your head to stop, the clench in your gut to ease, the guilt to dissolve. You want to stop feeling like this. You want to stop feeling.
And then you feel Romance move. Without a pause in his conversation with Abby, his arms snake around you from behind, pulling you back against his chest. His chin hooks lightly over your shoulder. He rocks you a little, slow. His voice keeps flowing, soft and easy, still talking to Abby about something while his hands rub tiny circles against your arms.
The contrast is enough to make your throat tighten. The same mouth that can purr filth, the same hands that have done terrible things to you, are holding you like youâre glass. Itâs so surreal it makes you want to cry and laugh at once.
Abby just keeps talking. Babyâs still by the window, eyes flicking between the three of you, silent as always. And as Romance rocks you, you remember. You remember the way they look at you when youâre sick. The way even Abby, who can bench-press you like a feather, treats you like youâre something small and delicate. The way Baby, for all his brattish silence, shows up without fail. The way Romance, so shameless, so egotistical, so sexual, becomes this soft thing when youâre hurting, as if your pain scrubs him clean for a moment.
Theyâre miserable when youâre not okay. Youâve seen it. The nights they donât sleep, pacing. The gifts they pile on you. The ridiculous lengths they go to just to make you smile. The way Mysteryâs growl turns into a whimper when youâre angry at him.
Youâre not stupid. Youâve always known this wasnât just a game for them. Youâve always known that what they feel for you is real, even if itâs fucked up and wrong and rooted in a past that should have made you hate them forever.
And sitting there now, with Romanceâs arms around you, Abbyâs voice filling the room, Babyâs quiet eyes tracking your every flinch, you feel it all at once. The wrongness. The rightness. The pull.
The thought of dying shrivels up like paper under flame. Itâs ridiculous. Silly. Terrifying. Because even in your worst moment, even when you think youâve reached the absolute worst, the idea of leaving them just makes you sadder. You canât. You donât want to. You want to stay. You want to see what theyâre like in the daylight, in another month, another year. You want to see if any of you can claw your way out of this mess and build something.
You press your forehead against Romanceâs arm and breathe. His skin smells like sweat and smoke and something faint you can never place, but itâs nice. Abby glances over at you, just a flick of his eyes, and he smiles while still talking with Romance. Baby looks away, but his fingers are twitching.
You eat your little bread. Romance rocks you once more, slow, and murmurs something under his breath to Abby that you donât catch. Abby answers with a low grunt, and Baby sighs.
You swallow the last bite of bread, lean back against Romanceâs chest, and close your eyes. Their voices blur again.
Romance rocks you back and forth. His chest rises against your spine, his breath is warm on the side of your neck. Every few minutes his lips graze a different spot on your hair, your crown, your temple, the curve where your ear meets your cheek, barely-there kisses, light. He never breaks the low conversation with Abby. Abbyâs voice rumbles from the chair near the wall, and you canât even follow the topic, something about training, something about a half-broken door hinge, but the sound is calming.
Romanceâs fingers slide through your hair, slow and sure. Each stroke unravels a little more of the dayâs tension. He smells faintly of smoke and that spice you still canât name. How can someone whoâs done such brutal, unthinkable things hold you like this? How can someone so steeped in darkness be this gentle? But right now his heartbeat is so good for you. His thumb draws lazy circles at the base of your skull. Every tiny kiss makes your heart flutter.
You could go for a kiss with him now.
Your stomach flips at the thought, not with fear this time but with something far more dangerous. God, Y/N, did we not learn? You already crossed a line with Mystery. You already know how badly this can go.
But then another thought, softer and heavier, settles over the first: This feels right. Because heâs here. Because they all are. Abby. Baby. Even Jinu, somewhere down the hall. They havenât left, not through the sickness, not through the silence.
Romance presses another light kiss to the crown of your head, and you feel your resistance melt away. Maybe it isnât about right or wrong anymore. Maybe itâs about the fact that they are here when no one else is, that their care, fucked up, imperfect, terrifying, is real.
Your eyelids grow heavy again. The voices blur. The rocking slows but never stops, because Romance pays so much attention to you. You breathe in the scent of smoke and warm skin. You let the thought of kissing him fade, neither accepted nor denied.
Romance keeps humming long after you fall asleep. Abby stays in the chair by the wall. His arms are folded, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past the window. Every so often he exhales, the sound rough, almost a growl, but he doesnât move. Baby leans in the shadows near the curtains, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He watches you.
Romance lets his chin rest against the top of your head, still humming, but his thoughts are miles away. He remembers the deal. The night he said yes to Gwi-Ma, thinking only of the rush, the promise of eternal youth, beauty, the unholy charisma that would bend crowds. He wanted more than the world would ever give willingly. And when the demon asked for a price, he didnât hesitate. He chose it. He chose every drop of blood that followed. Every lie. Every scream.
And now here he is, cradling a fragile human against his chest as if he could protect you from the very darkness he carries in his own marrow. The irony is a knife he doesnât dare touch.
He loves you.
He knows itâs selfish. He knows love from a creature like him is a curse. Still, the feeling lives in him like his heartbeat.
Abby watches you sleep, the faint rise and fall of your chest catching in the cityâs and the roomâs dim glow. His jaw tightens.
He remembers every fist he threw before the deal, every fight picked for pride, every time he let rage be a weapon because it made him feel alive. When Gwi-Ma whispered promises, he grabbed them with both hands.
Now the power is his. And itâs nothing like what he imagined.
Heâs broken bones and spirits, taken what wasnât his, watched people crumble. None of it can be undone. No amount of quiet nights, no gentle guarding of you as you sleep, can erase it. But he canât stop the ache that flares whenever you wince or shiver. He hates that he wants to be better for you, because better isnât in his blood. He chose this path. He chose willingly.
Baby stands silent, a dark silhouette against the glass. Heâd grown up spoiled, and he wanted more. He always wanted more. Gwi-Ma offered him that, and he took it with a smile.
It took him to see entire lives tilt toward ruin because of a single word from him, a single look. He never felt bad. Not until you. He feels your pain like smoke in his lungs. The craving to keep you safe claws at him, but he doesnât trust his own hands.
They are not victims. They are not misunderstood boys who stumbled into darkness. They chose it. They made the deals. They wanted the power, the beauty, the endless nights. They wanted the world to kneel and they were willing to pay in blood. And yet, somewhere in the wreckage of their choices, you appeared. You, soft, stubborn, fragile, maddeningly human. You didnât save them. Thatâs a story for cowards. But you reminded them, in ways they canât articulate, of what they burned to get here.
Watching you sleep, each of them feels the old hunger stir. The desire to keep, to claim, to love. And each of them feels the weight of what theyâve done press heavier for it. Because love doesnât erase the past. Love doesnât wash the blood from their hands. They know this. They know they are grown men who committed every act by choice. They know that loving you doesnât make them good. Still, they stay. Romance hums until the first hint of dawn. Abby keeps his silent guard. Baby watches the horizon where night begins to break. They are demons who chose damnation. And tonight, for a few fragile hours, they choose to stay beside you anyway.
Youâve been with the boys so long that itâs like the rest of the world has started to fade out, as though it never existed. The HUNTR/X girls feel like names you made up, daydream companions in some other lifetime. You wonder if they think about you at all, if they even remember. Some nights you convince yourself they forgot. And other nights, it guts you, because how could they?
Rumi, for an example.
A memory comes back to you as clear as if it were yesterday.
Steam curled lazily in the bathroom, clinging to the mirrors, turning the bright light into something soft. You sat in the bathtub, skin flushed from the heat, knees pulled up to your chest. The water lapped against your shoulders, quiet except for the occasional drip from the faucet.
And behind you, perched comfortably on the little stool with her sleeves rolled up, was Rumi. She had that look of focus she always got when she was doing something with her hands, her fingers working shampoo into your hair in slow circles. It wasnât taboo between you anymore. Youâd bathed together too many times to think twice about it. It wasnât about bodies, it was about comfort, intimacy, the kind that only comes from knowing each other too well to care.
âYou ever notice how Zoey always eats the last Snickersâwhich she knows I loveâand then pretends she didnât?â you said, voice half muffled by steam.
Rumi chuckled, her fingers digging lightly into your scalp. âEvery single time. And when you call her on it, sheâs like, âOh my god, I didnât know it was the last one.â Like, yes you did. You counted them.â
You snorted, tilting your head back a little, letting her rinse the suds with a plastic cup of warm water. âExactly! And Mira covers for her. Every time.â
Rumi hummed, pushing your wet hair back from your forehead. You tipped your head back more, looking up at her. The world went upside down, her face framed by the foggy bathroom light, her smile bent at an angle, her eyes soft but shining with mischief. She was so pretty like that, upside down. She always was.
âYouâre too pretty.â you said softly, sincere.
âSo are you. Too pretty to be this mad about food.â she said softly, smiling, her fingers combing through your hair as if she could untangle your thoughts as easily as the strands.
It was nothing special, nothing big. Just two girls in a fogged-up bathroom, one washing the otherâs hair, talking about dumb annoyances and stolen food. But it was everything. That kind of ease, of being held without even needing to be held, that was rare. You felt it then, and you feel it now, like an ache behind your ribs. God, that was nice.
But you donât even miss them the way you should. Not Mira, not Zoey. Even Rumi, who once ran her fingers through your hair, those fingers still missing that feeling.
How could you not miss someone who loved you that simply? How could you forget the warmth of hands in your hair, the laughter bouncing off tile, the way she made something as ordinary as washing up feel like that?
But the truth is brutal. Youâve been here so long, with the boys, wrapped in their yearning, that the girls feel like ghosts now. And youâre not sure if youâre the one who let them go, or if they let go of you first. (They never let go of you, Y/N.)
Either way, that memory of Rumi, steam, shampoo, her pretty face upside down, doesnât mean that much anymore. Or when Zoey took you out to dinner. It was a fancy place, really. The food was brutally expensive, tiny plates that tasted like entire worlds. But it wasnât the food that burned into you. It was her. The way she rested her chin on her hand while you talked, eyes locked on yours like the whole room had faded to a blur. Zoey always looked at people with shining eyes, but with you it was⊠different.
At some point, she reached across the table, brushed her fingertips against the back of your hand, barely a touch, but enough to make your breath catch.
You laughed a lot that night. Every time you met her eyes you felt that same quiet pull, like she was trying to tell you something without words.
When the check came, you reached for it automatically. She slid it away with a single look that said donât even think about it.
Outside, the city lights scattered across the pavement. Zoey tilted her head, studying you the way she had all night.
âWhat?â you asked, self-conscious.
âNothing.â she said, though the corner of her mouth curved. âJust⊠youâre even prettier when youâre not trying so hard.â
You rolled your eyes, but you felt the compliment settle somewhere deep.
When you two arrived to your place, she told you to text her when you get inside, because she has to go do something with the girls. You did. And she replied with a single heart emoji.
It wasnât about the restaurant or the wine. It was the way she saw you. The way her gaze carried both mischief and care. And god, those eyes. The way she looked at you across the flickering candlelight, steady, unafraid, like you were something worth studying, worth knowing completely.
Or Mira, god, how could Mira let you go?
Back then, one night you sat on Miraâs huge bed. Youâd both been trading stories for hours, awkward exes, disastrous dates, the ridiculous things people did for love. Mira lay back against the headboard, hair spilling across the pillow.
âSo,â she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. âwhat about girls? You ever⊠you know?â
Her tone was casual, but her eyes stayed locked on yours.
You shook your head, halfâsmiling, halfânervous. âNot really. I mean⊠no. I only had boyfriends before. Iâve never even kissed a girl.â
Mira raised her brows, a playful spark lighting her face. âSeriously? Not even a drunk party dare?â
âNo.â You tucked your knees to your chest. âGuess Iâm boring.â
âBoring?â she snorted. âYouâre the least boring person I know.â
You laughed, a little embarrassed, and she leaned closer until the warmth of her shoulder brushed yours. âWant to fix that?â she asked. Just Mira being Mira, bold, direct.
Your heart thudded. You werenât sure if you were supposed to answer, but you didnât move away.
âOnly if youâre okay with it.â she added quickly, softer now, how she is deep down showing. âNo weirdness. Just⊠a kiss. So you can say youâve done it.â
Something in her voice, gentle, reassuring, made the air feel different. You gave a small nod.
Mira smiled, almost shy for once, and reached up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to yours. Your eyes fluttered shut, surprised at how natural it felt, how simple.
When she pulled back, she was smiling. âThere. First girl kiss. Zero disasters.â
You blinked, caught between a laugh and something deeper you couldnât name. âThatâs it?â
âWhat?â she teased, bumping your shoulder. âItâs just a kiss, babe. Relax.â
You both laughed, and then you were talking again about everything and nothing, music, travel, the stupid things people say when theyâre nervous. The kiss didnât turn the night into something else. It was just Miraâs way of saying she trusted you, of letting you know she cared in the most Mira way possible, direct, fearless.
Later, as you lay side by side staring at the ceiling, you realized how much that moment said about her, about all of them. Rumi with her gentle touch, Zoey with her gaze, and Mira with her blunt affection. Each of them had loved you in their own way, and you had loved them back, even if it wasnât the same kind of love.
Sometimes, thinking back to it, you can still feel the warmth of that single kiss. You used to think of them constantly. Back when you were still half yourself, before the Saja boys became the center of gravity. Itâs been so long you canât even remember the last time you asked about the girls.
Do they even remember you?
How could they forget? How could Rumi, with her careful eyes and the secret she always kept folded close, the one she almost trusted you with? There were nights you sat on the edge of her bed while she braided your hair and talked to you, always so close to letting you know sheâs a demon, but she never ended up telling you. âMaybe youâre the only one whoâd get it.â She said sometimes, and even though you didnât know what she was talking about, you believed her. You wanted to be the one who understood. Zoey could never resist dragging you out. Coffee runs that turned into three-hour walks, concerts you didnât even have tickets for until she worked her magic at the door. She loved the chase of spontaneity, but she always looked back to make sure you were following. Always. And Mira. Mira and her kiss.
They were wrapped around your finger, though you never meant for that to happen. You were oblivious, caught up in your own things. You didnât know they might have been looking at you with something more than friendship. You didnât let yourself wonder what it meant that you liked the way Miraâs lips tasted, that your heart jumped when Zoey tugged you through a crowd, that Rumiâs words made you want to be with her forever. You missed the signs. Rumi lingering a little too long when she dried your hair with a towel, Zoeyâs constant excuses to keep you out past dawn, Miraâs quiet way of watching you when she thought you wouldnât notice. You chalked it all up to friendship, to the way girls can be soft with each other without it meaning more.
And even now, lying here with Romanceâs slow hum thrumming against your back and the faint scent of Babyâs smoke lingering in the air, you still donât fully see it. You donât realize that you might have felt something deeper for them too. Maybe you were too young, maybe too scared, maybe too wrapped in your own confusion to name it. Whatever it was, itâs gone quiet. You just felt it. You donât feel it anymore, it faded. Youâve been with the Saja boys so long that the girls feel like a different lifetime. You tell yourself the feelings, if they were feelings, died naturally, like a candle burning down. But part of you knows it isnât that simple. Part of you wonders if the pull of these demons smothered the flame before you could even understand it. Because now itâs the boys. Always the boys. Romanceâs arms heavy and warm around you. Abbyâs arms always there to hold you. Babyâs silence that somehow says everything. Even Mystery, whose memory still twists in your gut like a knife. Jinu, quiet and constant, the one you run to without thinking.
They are dangerous, cruel, scarred. Men who chose their darkness. And yet theyâve become the center of your world, the ones you canât imagine leaving.
Maybe the girls forgot you. Maybe they didnât. But the truth is worse, youâve forgotten how to reach back.
Romanceâs arms tighten once, a slow squeeze that feels like a wordless goodbye, and then heâs easing you down into the center of the mattress. The blankets, soft from too many washings, slide up around your shoulders as he tucks you in. His palm lingers at the side of your face, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. A kiss lands on your forehead, barely a press of lips.
Abby stands up, opening the door. He gives a small nod when Romance straightens. The two of them share a glance thatâs quick but heavy. Then Abby tilts his head toward the door. They leave. But Baby stays. Heâs a thin shadow in the room, watching you sleep, hands shoved into his pockets. He doesnât move, doesnât even pretend heâs about to. Just leans a shoulder against the wall and watches you with those big eyes. The brat. The skinny asshole. The one who hides every soft thing under layers of silence and sideways glares. And yet he stays, watching out for you. Finally he exhales, one long sigh, and pushes off the wall. A small shake of his head, almost a laugh, and he turns. The door closes with a soft click. Youâre alone. Sleeping. Outside the first pale threads of dawn creep through the blinds. The night that felt endless is giving way to a grey morning, and you lie there, put to sleep by the boys who you hated so much months ago.
They know Mystery still hasnât come home. None of them knows where he is. None of them knows why. And they have no. idea.
What they also have no idea about though, is how homoerotic this is. What is? Abby and Romance in the shower together. Like, about half an hour later after putting you to bed. Romance runs a palm over the streak of soap on his chest. âIâm telling you,â he says over the rush of water. âsomethingâs off with Y/N tonight. You felt it too, right? Not just me? Sheâs not sick.â
Abby stands beneath the showerhead too. He tips his head back into the spray, hair plastered flat. A low hum is all the answer he gives at first.
Romance keeps going, rubbing his body as he talks. âI mean, yeah, sheâs had rough nights before, but this was⊠different. Sheâfuck, I donât know.â He scrubs at his shoulder, soap lather running down the drain in cloudy swirls. âI hate not knowing.â
Abby finally tilts his chin down, blinking water from his lashes. âYeah.â he says simply. He reaches for the shampoo and works it through his hair.
Romance shakes his head, flicking droplets everywhere. âThatâs it? âYeahâ? Come on, man. Youâre usually the one who notices everything. What do you think?â
Abby gives a slight shrug, fingers still massaging his scalp. âI think,â he says after a beat. âsheâll tell us when she wants to. Pushing wonât help.â
Romance leans back into the spray, closing his eyes. He knows Abby said some wise shit, just doesnât want to admit it. Neither of them says more for a long time. The water keeps falling, way too hot, a thin shield between them and the worry waiting on the other side of the door.
âI still donât get it.â Romance blurts after a while, shaking his head as water drips down the slope of his nose. âIn the bathhouse, when Mystery was naked, right? And you were all over him, l⊠I donât get it, man. What was so surprising? That little fuckerâs fine, I guess, butâŠâ He gestures to Abbyâs dick with a soap-covered hand. âI mean, yours? Dude, itâs way bigger than his. Way bigger. What the fuck?â
Abby rolls his eyes, flicking water at Romanceâs shoulder with a lazy flick of his wrist. âI did things to it, alright? Calm the fuck down.â His tone is flat, defensive, but thereâs a glint of something in his eyes. He enjoys talking about himself.
Romance blinks. âYou⊠what? You⊠you did surgery? You⊠what the fuck?â
Abby laughs, sharp and short, water spraying as he shifts. âNo surgery, man! Not that. Gwi-Ma. Deal with Gwi-Ma. You really think Iâd go under a knife? Gwi-Ma, man. Just⊠Gwi-Ma.â
Romanceâs jaw drops, and he raises a hand. âWait. Are you saying⊠thatâs why you made a deal with Gwi-Ma?â
Abby tilts his head back again, letting the water pour down his neck. âNo, man. No. It just⊠came with it. Deal was for something else entirely.â
Romance looks at him for a while. âThen what did you make a deal with him for?â
Abby mutters something, almost too low to catch. âDoesnât matter, man.â
Romance blinks. Rewinds in his mind. For a moment, heâs sure he misheard. Then he realizes. Thatâs it. The conversation stops. He squints, trying to solve it, but the longer Abby stares at him, the more he can see that Gwi-Ma is a sensitive topic. Thereâs a boundary there that even centuries of knowing each other canât breach. Abbyâs set the boundary, and Romance isnât going to push it. He knows enough about the man to respect that line, even if he doesnât entirely understand it.
âOkay.â Romance says finally, raising his hands in surrender. âFine. Fine. Not my business. We leave it. Didnât meanââ
Abby shakes his head. âRelax, man. Iâm not offended. Just⊠donât. Youâd get it eventually.â
Romance nods, giving in with a small wave of his hand. The hum of the shower fills the pause, and for a moment, neither says anything. Romance starts to let his attention wander, soap sliding down his shoulder, water dripping along his arms, already thinking about something else. The water runs down Abbyâs chest, down his abs, over the lean lines of his ribs. Heâs calm, completely untouchable in his own way. Romance canât even imagine him being flustered in any situation that doesnât involve you, or maybe Jinu.
Romance tilts back toward Abby, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. âBut⊠can I⊠touch it?â
Abby freezes mid-rub, water dripping off his elbow. ââŠWhat now?â
Romance shrugs, that perfect blend of innocence and charm that makes it impossible to say no. âCome on. Iâm curious. What do you mean itâs fake? I have to check it out.â
Abby narrows his eyes but he lets out a snort. âItâs not âfake.â Dudeââ he cuts himself off, shaking his head. âfine. Get it over with.â
Romance reaches for Abbyâs dick without hesitation, Abby shoves him lightly, Romance dodges, slipping slightly on the wet tiles, and Abby mutters some combination of curse words and laughter. âGoddammit, man! Careful!â
âYou better be.â Abby grumbles, shaking his head.
Romance reaches out again, and this time Abby actually lets him touch it. First, with his manicured fingers. Then Romance actually grabs it, feeling it up, trying to pinpoint the difference from one thatâs not⊠fake, if thatâs the right word, not like Romance knows what actually happened to Abbyâs dick. But nothing out of the ordinary. If Abby hadnât told him that he did something to it, Romance couldnât tell.
Romance actually has a face of pure focus, if anyone walked in right now, theyâd fucking die from laughter. âFeels normal to me, man. What didââ
âI askedâare you FUCKING done?!â Abby yells, voice echoing off the tiled walls.
Romance actually flinches and raises his hands, laughing so hard he nearly slips. âFine, fine! Done! Jeez, man, so sensitive.â
Abby shakes his head, smirking despite himself. âYouâre unbelievable. Youâreâugh, youâre the worst, man.â
Romance chuckles, now only hot water sliding over his hands and arms, and suddenly the room feels like itâs shrinking. âYou know, for someone whoâs so all mysterious and cool, you get hard fast, huh?â
Abbyâs kicks Romanceâs shin, water splashing as he doubles over in pain. âYouâre lucky Iâm in a good mood.â he mumbles.
After Romance recovered from the kick, the conversation drifts. Romance shifts from flustered curiosity about Abbyâs body to the everyday things of the apartment, a shelf still broken even after Jinu told Abby a hundred times to fix it, the fact that Baby hasnât cleaned the ashtray in two days, the way Mystery still hasnât shown up, and Jinuâs infamous robe. Abby listens, nodding along, occasionally adding a word or two, minimal but enough to signal heâs paying attention. Romance doesnât press the previous topic again, heâs learned his lesson. Gwi-Ma is a sensitive subject for Abby. Heâs not about to cross that line, not even out of curiosity.
Romance leans against the opposite wall, hair plastered to his forehead, arms crossed. The relaxed pose is a lie, his jaw works. âJinu.â he says finally. âMan, I swear. Heâs playing his own game.â
Abby lowers his head, water running in thick streams down his chest. âYou think heâs trying to keep her to himself.â
âI know he is.â Romanceâs voice drops to a growl of frustration. âEvery time sheâs off balance, guess who shows up. Mister perfect-listener. Mister nothing-to-worry-about. And Y/N goes to him. Always.â
Abby wipes a hand across his face, flicking droplets to the floor. He doesnât answer right away. Heâs big enough to take his time. âShe went to him tonight, right?â
Romance gives a short, humorless laugh. âYeah, I told you. He doesnât even have to try. Just sits there in the dark and somehow sheâs knocking on his door.â
Abby grunts, a deep sound that could mean agreement or annoyance. âJinuâs quiet. People like quiet.â
âQuiet isnât the problem.â Romance snaps. âItâs the way he uses it. Like⊠like a hook. Lets everyone else talk, then pulls when it counts. Pretends heâs calm, but heâs always pulling strings. You felt it tonight, right? The way she went straight to him after throwing up? Thatâs not accident. Heâs been planting that for months.â
Abby lets out a short breath thatâs almost a laugh. âYou think youâre better?â
Romanceâs shoulders tense. âI know what I am. Jinu hides.â He pauses, then adds, softer, âStill⊠I canât hate him the way I should.â
Abby snorts. âBecause youâve got a thing for him.â
âLike you donât.â Romance shoots him a sideways look, water dripping from his lashes.
Abby shakes his head. âNot the point.â
âSure it is.â Romance straightens, rubbing the water from his eyes
Abby studies him, eyes half-hidden under dripping hair. He doesnât say it aloud, but he understands too well. He reaches for the temperature knob, turning the water a notch hotter. âTruth? I get it.â
Romance raises a brow. âYou?â
A shrug.
The shower fills with another stretch of quiet, only the heavy patter of water and the faint scent of soap between them. Theyâve both seen centuries of blood and betrayal, but this moment feels strangely normal, two men talking in the steam.
Abby glances down at Romanceâs hardening cock, smirks. âUh⊠you planning to do something about that?â He gestures, snorting.
Romance grunts, rolling his eyes. âItâs the heat. And Jinu. Shut up.â
Abby chuckles, shaking his head. âSure. Blame Jinu.â
Romance flicks water at him. âI said shut up.â
They go back to washing in silence. For all the ridiculous games they play around you, they can still stand here, two ancient demons whoâve done unforgivable things, speaking like this. Eventually Abby steps out, water still dripping from his shoulders. He grabs a towel, rubbing it through his hair, grinning when Romance mutters something about âfinally.â
âYouâre welcome.â Abby answers, his back to Romance. He runs the towel across his chest. âYour turn to actually use the hot water instead of just staring into space.â
Romance leans an elbow against the wall of tile, giving him a once-over. âWhy rush? Viewâs good from here.â
Abby laughs, a deep sound that echoes in the humid air. âOh yeah? My sparkling personality or my world-class calves?â
âNeither.â Romance says. âDefinitely the ass.â
Abby pretends to think it over while he towels his arms. âFine. Iâll give you that. It is a fine ass.â He shoots a wink over his shoulder, just enough to make the steam feel a degree hotter. âYears of squats.â
Romance chuckles, running a hand through his wet hair. âTragic waste, all that effort, if no oneâs appreciating it.â
âOh, plenty of appreciation.â Abby fires back. âI just donât usually get reviews mid-shower.â
âConsider it professional feedback,â Romance says smoothly. âFive stars.â
Abby shakes his head, smiling as he wraps the towel around his waist. Romance watches him reach for the door. Something in his chest tightens.
âCâmon,â he says, softer than a whisper. âstay.â
Abby stops. Just stops, hand on the handle. The hallwayâs cooler air brushes his back, but he doesnât move. For a long second he stares at the fogged glass of the mirror, at the faint outline of their shapes in the mist.
He doesnât turn around, but his voice is low when he finally answers. âDonât tempt me.â
Romanceâs heartbeat thuds loud in his ears. He wants to reach out, to bridge the space between them, to admit that maybe this strange affection has been simmering for a lot of time now. But he only says, with a crooked smile the other man canât see, âWho said anything about temptation?â
Abby exhales, a short, rough sound. Thereâs a beat, just long enough to notice the way Abbyâs smile lingers, the way Romanceâs eyes stay a fraction too long on the water sliding down Abbyâs back.
Abby moves toward the door, glancing back just long enough to catch Romance watching him. âDonât stay in too long.â He says, a little lighter than before. âWouldnât want you pruning.â
Romance arches a brow. âWorried about me now?â
âAlways.â Abby tosses over his shoulder, then the door swings open, and Abby is gone, closing it behind himself.
Romance stays where he is, the sound of the shower suddenly loud in the empty room. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales, a low sound thatâs half laugh, half something else entirely.
They want each other. Of course they do. Everyone in that fuckass apartment wants something theyâre not ready to name. But wanting is easier than admitting. So Romance turns back into the spray, lets the water beat down on his skin, and says nothing at all, a wry grin tugging at his mouth despite the hollow ache settling in his chest.
Cowards, both of them. Centuries of violence and they canât even face a single truth.
Abby steps out into the hall, the towel knotted low at his hips. Droplets slide across the ridges of muscle on his chest and arms, catching the dim glow from the hallway lights. A slow roll of his shoulders, a glance at the hallway mirror. He likes what he sees, and heâs never been shy about it. He figures thereâs no point trying to sleep, sunrise is brushing the sky already, so he walks toward the living room, running a hand through damp hair.
Derpy is there, the enormous tiger sprawled across half the carpet, breathing in heavy, satisfied purrs. The animalâs tail gives a lazy flick when Abby enters.
âHey, big guy.â Abby murmurs, voice dropping into the kind of low rumble animals seem to like. He crouches beside the massive belly, and starts scratching gently along Derpyâs huge body. The tiger stretches, paws flexing, and rolls a little to give him better access. âLook at you.â
Derpy stretches in reply, a lazy roll that shows teeth like polished knives, then flops back. Abby chuckles, cooing nonsense under his breath.
The front door clicks.
Abby straightens a little, hand still resting on Derpyâs side. The tigerâs ears twitch but he doesnât startle. Whoeverâs coming in isnât a stranger.
Itâs Mystery. Clothes dark, hair disheveled. Thereâs a tension in the set of his shoulders that doesnât belong to something so beautiful. He shuts the door behind him without a word.
Abby stays crouched for a beat, taking him in. Thereâs no blood, no obvious fight, just that tight coil around Mysteryâs presence, like heâs brought the night back with him. Finally Abby rises, the towel shifting slightly but staying put. He plants one broad hand on the back of the couch, casual as ever. âMorning.â he says, voice calm, almost lazy. âWhatâs up?â
Mystery stays quiet for a bit, then gives a short shake of his head.
Abby studies him for another moment. He could press, could ask where Mystery has been, what kept him out. But he reads the set of that jaw, the silence that isnât just silence but a warning. âAll right.â he says after a beat, tone easy. âYou donât want to talk, you donât talk.â He shrugs one massive shoulder, a small smile tugging at his mouth. âGrab a shower if you want. Waterâs still hot.â
Mystery gives the faintest nod. Abby pats Derpyâs belly once more, and goes toward the kitchen. The tiger settles again, a deep rumble of contentment filling the space. Mystery moves past. Abby watches him disappear into the shadowed corridor. He exhales through his nose, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he lets it go. If Mystery wants to keep his secret, Abby isnât going to wrestle it from him.
Derpy yawns wide, unconcerned, and flops to one side.
Inside in his room, Mystery sits on his bed now, head tipped back against the wall. The room is dark except for the lights coming from the city. The walk should have bled the energy out of him. Heâd stalked the city for hours. But every step only sharpened the memory, the press of your mouth on his, the stunned silence after. Itâs burned into him.
He doesnât regret it. Not a shred of it. Regret requires doubt, and he feels none. What he feels is hunger. Feral, obsessive, a thing with claws. You. Your lips. Your heartbeat. The small tremor in your hands when you pulled back. The look in your eyes that said this is wrong even as you stayed close enough to breathe the same air. He replays it again and again, the way some people worry a wound until it bleeds.
His chest tightens, but not with guilt. He smiles, sharp and unkind.
âSheâll understand.â Gwi-Maâs voice whispers, slick as oil. âShe kissed you. You felt it. She wants it again. Sheâs yours.â
He closes his eyes and lets the whisper get hold of him. It tells him youâre thinking of him right now, that the stress in your chest is proof. That the nausea, the trembling, the tears, those are signs of wanting, not fear.
Itâs a lie. He knows itâs a lie. But he wants to believe.
âTake her back. Next time, donât let her pull away.â
Itâs obsession. A feral pull. Something that sunk its claws into him the first time you met and has only grown. He thinks of you asleep down the hall, and the thought burns. Your lips, your voice, the way you looked at him before the kiss, he wants it all again. Wants it harder, wants it to rewrite the night.
âShe likes you backâ
Mystery knows itâs manipulation, he knows, but he doesnât care. The hunger feels good. Images flare behind his eyes, you laughing, you running, you pinned against the wall as the world went quiet. He wants more. He wants you to choose him, to stay, to stop looking at the others like they matter. He wants you caught in the same feeling heâs been in since the start.
He doesnât plan to stop. Not until you say his name the way he imagines it.
The rational part of himâwhatâs left of itâknows how wrong this is. Knows youâre human, fragile, and that the kiss has already rattled you. He heard the panic in your breath. He saw it in your eyes.
But the rest of him, the bigger part, refuses to care.
Youâll calm down.
Youâll forgive.
Youâll come back.
Thatâs what he tells himself as dawn seeps through the curtains. Thatâs what Gwi-Ma keeps whispering, sweet and venomous.
Heâs never been happier.
And that should terrify you.
âShe wants what you are.â
Mystery knows the difference between want and right. He simply doesnât care. One day youâll understand, thatâs what he tells himself. One day youâll wake and the fear will have burned away, and youâll see the inevitability of it, the kiss was a beginning, not a mistake. Youâll remember the way your breath caught, the way you didnât step back.
Mysteryâs heart pounds hard enough to ache. He doesnât plan the next move. He only knows heâll keep circling, keep watching, keep waiting for the moment you stop running. Because in his mind, there is no line to cross. There is only the pull. And the pull is everything.
Somewhere down the hall a door opens, someone coughs, life goes on. Mystery stays in the dark, pulse steady, breath slow, the taste of your kiss a permanent scar on his tongue.
And he will not stop.
You donât understand what you did last night. He does.
âSheâs alone now. Go to her. Claim whatâs yours.â
Mysteryâs fingers tighten against his thighs. Not yet. The others will be ready to go soon. Theyâll expect him to suit up, to follow them back into whatever new job waits outside these walls. Heâll go. He always goes. The human routines keep suspicion low, keep the city from noticing the monsters in its veins.
âYouâll be back.â Gwi-Ma croons. âYouâll feed her the words sheâs starving for. Sheâll beg for you before the next moon.â
He pictures the future as if itâs already carved in stone, your head on his chest, your breath warm against his throat, the fight finally gone from your eyes. Girlfriend. Partner. Whatever name the humans give to someone claimed.
A brutal kind of calm spreads through him.
The others might suspect. They might even try to stop it. Let them. Theyâve all tasted obsession in their own ways, they know it canât be denied forever. For now he waits, motionless. The morning grows brighter, washing the room in pale blue. He hears every shift of weight, every breath of air through the place.
Somewhere down the hall a door moves. Soft hinge. Careful footstep.
Jinu.
Mysteryâs hearing sharpens. He hears Jinu go to the kitchen. The faint clink of porcelain, tea. Of course. Mystery can almost map the path, across the hall, gentle knock, pause, the creak of your door.
A muffled rustle follows, the sound of sheets shifting. Youâre waking. Mystery closes his eyes and lets the image build, you stretching, confused by morning light, the scent of tea finding you before words do.
Jinu speaks low. âHey. Look what I got you.â
Mystery hears the pause after Jinu speaks, hears the careful patience of someone who has learned to wait centuries for anything at all. Jinu isnât a man who rushes. He never has been. And now, after four hundred years of silence, he has you.
You sit up slowly, still tired. Obviously, god, you just fucking woke up. Jinu sets it on the bedside table and sits at the edge of the mattress, leaving space, always leaving space.
âDidnât mean to wake you.â he murmurs.
âItâs okay.â you whisper back, voice rough. You donât mention the nightmares, the knot of dread still in your stomach, the taste of last nightâs panic. You donât tell him the real reason for the nausea, the kiss that lives behind your eyes. You just wrap your hands around the warm mug and let it burn your palms. You mumble a thank you.
Jinu watches you with that quiet that isnât empty. His eyes hold centuries. And yet the way he looks at you is unguarded, almost human. Maybe more than human.
âYou look tired.â he says after a while. âLong night?â
Yes.
I kissed Mystery.
I canât stop thinking about it.
Iâm terrified.
âJust⊠still stressed.â
Jinu tilts his head, studying you. He doesnât push. Thatâs what makes it worse. His silence is gentle, and somehow it invites more than any question could. âStress has a way of convincing you itâs bigger than it is.â A faint smile. âItâs a liar.â
You breathe in the scent of the tea, calming, and wonder if heâs right. But the lie you carry isnât stress. Itâs a memory of claws and a kiss, of wanting something you shouldnât.
From his room, Mystery hears everything, the soft murmur of Jinuâs voice, your quiet replies. Each word slides under his skin. He presses the heel of his palm to his eye until stars spark in the dark. He wonât move. Not yet. But he listens.
You sip the tea and feel it settle, warm against the cold knot in your stomach. You think of the girls you left behind, of a world that once felt real. You wonder if theyâd recognize you now, if theyâd understand why youâre here, drinking tea with a demon whoâs learning how to love. And you wonder how long this fragile moment can last before the truth, the kiss, the obsession, the danger, tears through it.
âCouldnât sleep?â you ask, voice hoarse.
He shakes his head once, looking down at his hands. âDidnât want to.â Thereâs a long pause. Then, softer: âWanted to check on you.â
You look at him over the rim of your cup, and heâs already looking at you. His eyes flicker away when you meet them.
Heâs been like this for months. Always near but never too close. Always the one who doesnât reach for you first, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.
In four hundred years, Jinu hasnât let himself care about anyone. He didnât even let himself care about the other boys while training them, not in the way they cared about each other. But then you came along. You broke something open in Jinu he didnât know was still there. A part of him that wanted to take care of someone. To be good for someone, even if heâd long since stopped being good himself.
And it heals him, in a way he doesnât have words for. Watching you sip the tea he made, listening to your breathing slow, seeing you still here after everything, theyâre tiny stitches pulling together wounds centuries old.
He clears his throat. âHow are you feeling?â
You hesitate, staring down into the mug. You could tell him the truth, that youâre a knot of guilt and confusion, that you can still feel Mysteryâs mouth against yours, that youâre scared and you donât even know of what. But instead you say, âIâm okay.â
He looks at you for a long time. You can feel his eyes on you even when you donât look up. He knows youâre lying. He can smell the tension rolling off you. He can smell Romance and Baby and Abby on your skin, the faint tang of cigarette ash.
Itâs so complex, this thing between you and the boys. You hate what theyâve done, the parts of yourself youâve lost to them. And yet here you are, still reaching for them when youâre hurting. Still letting them hold you, still drinking the tea they make, still craving the warmth of them even when you know better.
You donât see the way he exhales slowly, like heâs trying to breathe you in. You donât see the way his thumb brushes the seam of his pants, itching to reach for you. You donât see the way his eyes soften when you blow across the surface of the tea before sipping, like itâs the most beautiful thing heâs ever watched.
Jinu knows what he is. He knows heâs done unforgivable things. He knows he made his own choices with Gwi-Ma, that he killed and betrayed. He doesnât get to have first loves. He doesnât get to have soft mornings with tea. Now for a few stolen minutes, he has both.
You shift, sliding your body closer until your shoulder presses against Jinuâs arm. Itâs small, subtle, like maybe you didnât even mean it. But you did. You lean on him, tired and heavy, and let your cheek brush the fabric of his shirt. And Jinu⊠Jinu stops breathing. Itâs nothing, really. Just contact. Just you easing against him. But to him, itâs everything. He closes his eyes for a second. This is all heâs ever wanted, to be someone you lean on, someone you trust enough to sink into without thinking. The stress in your body quiets against him, and Jinu swears he feels the earth tilt back into place.
He wants to freeze the moment forever. Of course, thatâs when Romanceâs voice cuts through the door.
âThere she is!â
The door swings open before Jinu can react, and in comes Romance, grinning, eyes glued to you as if Jinu isnât even sitting there. âMy love, my darling, baby girl, youâre awake.â
Jinu stiffens, arm tightening slightly around you as if he can physically ward off the other boyâs energy. âSheâs fine.â he says flatly.
Romance ignores him. Of course he does. He crosses the room and drops to a dramatic crouch in front of the bed, reaching for your hand. âI was so worried. Do you know how much stress it causes me when you donât feel well? I age a hundred years every time you so much as frownââ
And before Jinu can tell him to get lost, the doorway fills with Abbyâs broad frame. Heâs nursing some protein shake the color of wet cement, sipping through a straw. Baby trails after him, cigarette dangling from his lips.
âMorning, babe.â Abby drawls at you, leaning against the doorframe. âLook at you, sitting up like a champ.â He raises the shake in salute, takes another long, slurping sip.
Jinu exhales through his nose, long-suffering.
Babyâs eyes flick over you, quick, before he flops into your desk chair, already pulling out a lighter.
And just like that, Jinuâs sanctuary is destroyed. He holds you closer, an arm protectively curled around your shoulders, and says through gritted teeth, âOnly if youâd clean up after yourself with this energy. Or pick up your clothes? Or maybeâjust onceâhelp me out?â
Romance, still crouched in front of you, looks up with wide, innocent eyes. âArenât you just a ray of sunshine in the morning?â
âYeah, man, nobody wants to hear this.â Abby chimes in, dead calm, taking another obnoxiously loud sip of his shake.
Baby exhales smoke and adds, âWho do you think you are, my fucking mom? Go away, man.â
Your lips twitch, trying not to laugh.
Jinu scowls at all three of them, his hand absently rubbing your arm. âI think Iâm the only one who gives a fuck about this apartment and our career.â
âGlad you woke up too, man.â Abby says blandly, not even looking at him, and then he makes a face at his protein drink as if Jinu isnât even in the room.
Romance tilts his head. âYou know, Jinu, complaining looks good on you. Really brings out that whole grumpy-single-dad energy youâve got going on.â He glances at you. âDonât you think? Heâs glowing.â
Baby smirks faintly. âGlowing with something, yeah.â
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. The way they gang up on Jinu is merciless, but funny. Fucking hilarious. Itâs also hilarious how Jinu drags a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath. But he doesnât shove them out, doesnât get up. He just holds you tighter, as if he can make up for their chaos by keeping you firmly against him.
You shift, a small laugh slipping out despite yourself, and the sound makes Jinuâs chest loosen even while his jaw clenches tighter. Because this is exactly the problem. This ridiculous mess of demons, this pile of trauma and obsession, theyâre the ones who make you laugh. And for better or worse, he canât bring himself to take that from you.
So Jinu sits there, stiff, listening to Abby slurp, Romance flirt shamelessly, Baby smoke, and he grumbles, âOne of these days, I swearââ
ââyouâll what? Lecture us again?â Abby cuts in.
âânag us to death?â Baby adds, flicking ash into a coffee mug.
Romance clasps his hands together dramatically. ââor, god forbid, love us?â
The three of them look at Jinu with perfectly straight faces, waiting. Itâs fucking hilarious. Iâm holding my head as Iâm writing this. Iâm so fucking done with them too.
Jinu glares. You press your lips into your tea to hide the laugh bubbling up.
Abby slams down the last of his whatever shake with an obnoxious slurp and smacks his lips. âAlright.â he says, stretching his huge arms out. âThis is depressing as shit. Someoneâs gotta cheer Y/N up.â
âLeave it to me.â Romance purrs immediately. âI could solve all her problems with one good fuck.â
Jinu groans. âDonât.â
Abby barks out a laugh, choking a little on his shake. âYeah, yeah, try that line again, bro. See if she doesnât throw the tea in your face.â
Romance fans it away dramatically. âDonât be jealous. Thereâs enough of me to go around.â
You stifle a laugh into your cup, but it escapes anyway, a small sound that makes all three of them snap their heads toward you instantly.
Abby wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. âRom, tell her about the time you got your ass handed to you at that afterparty. With the champagne bottle.â
Romanceâs smile falters for exactly one second before snapping back into place. âAh, but see, context matters. It was part of the seduction.â
âYeah?â Baby cuts in flatly. âGetting tackled into a fountain by security was part of the seduction?â
Abby snorts. âRom thinks getting his ass kicked is foreplay.â
Romance lifts his chin dramatically. âIf suffering makes me hotter, then yes, it worked. I am irresistible.â He blows a kiss at Abby.
âOh, weâre doing this?â Abby leans forward, pointing at Romance. âAlright then. Remember that time Baby found your little stash ofââ
âDo not.â Romance cuts in, holding a hand up like a stop sign.
Babyâs grin twitches, smoke curling from his lips. âOh, I remember.â
Romance groans.
Baby flicks ash into the mug on your desk and adds, âAt least you didnât almost cry when your favorite brand stopped making those protein bars. That was tragic.â
Abby turns red. âIt was one fucking timeââ
Romance collapses onto your floor. âYou shouldâve seen it. Big scary Abby sulking in the corner because he couldnât get his little snacky snack.â
Even Jinuâs mouth twitches like heâs trying not to laugh, though he covers it with a cough.
Abby points at Baby. âDonât even start with me, man. Mister âI donât care about anythingâ feeding the birds on the balcony.â
Baby sits back, smoke curling around him. âYou almost fell from there once, asshole.â
Abby leans back against your wall, smirking, about to say something else, Romance moves faster, wanting to shut Abby up already. So Romance, full hand, shameless, grabs Abbyâs dick through his pants(to shut him up, though saying shut up couldâve been enough too) and Abby doesnât even flinch. Just raises a brow.
âWhat the fuck.â Baby mutters, flicking ash.
âIâm not even mad.â Abby says. âFeels nice.â
Youâre still smiling when they finally start to move toward the door, the three of them spilling over each other. At the doorway, Romance turns back, pointing at the pile of bags at the end of your bed. âDonât forget to check those, love.â
âYeah.â Baby adds, deadpan. âWe let Abby pick shit out, so, you know. Lower your expectations.â
âFuck off.â Abby snorts, shoving him out the door.
And just like that, theyâre gone, their laughter and bickering fading down the hall. You look at the bags. Your chest is still heavy with all the things you canât say, the kiss you canât forget. (You donât want to see him. You do want to see him.) But your lips are curved, and the tea is still warm in your hands. They didnât fix anything. They couldnât. But they made you laugh. And thatâs something.
You sip your tea and watch Jinuâs expression. Heâs got that vein at his temple throbbing, the one the others seem to take as a personal challenge. Ragebaited again.
You canât forget Mystery. No matter how loud the others are, how stupid they get, thereâs that knot inside you. Did he come home? Is he down the hall? Sleeping? Awake? Thinking about that kiss? You almost wish you could hear his claws scratching the walls, just so youâd know where he is. But at the same time, you donât want to see him. Not yet. Not like this.
âY/N.â Jinu says finally, voice low. âYou know you can tell me anything, right?â
The way he says it is soft, coaxing, dripping with that fake patience he wears so well. It sounds like an offer, like kindness, but god, you donât know that itâs a net. A hook. A lie. Of course you donât. Youâre tired. Youâre hurting. You want someone to lean on.
Jinu tilts his head, studies you with those eyes, and adds, âIâd never judge you. Not for anything. You tell me whatâs in your head, whatâs in your chest, Iâll hold it for you. Always.â
What a fucking liar. He would weaponize every scrap of vulnerability if it meant pulling you closer, chaining you to him. He wouldnât âhold it.â Heâd keep it, twist it, feed on it like sugar. But you donât realize. You only hear that smooth tone, the way he speaks to you like youâre precious. Special. You shift closer without thinking, leaning your head just slightly against his shoulder. It helps. His presence helps. And thatâs all he wants, for you to believe that you need him.
âYouâre too quiet.â Jinu murmurs, his breath stirring your hair. âThat means youâre keeping something in. And you donât have to, not with me.â
He wants to bite the words into you, to scar them into your skin so you never forget. You donât have to, not with me. A lie. A hook.
He imagines, for one dizzy second, dragging you into his chest and never letting go. Imagines snapping at the others to stay the fuck out, locking every door, drowning you in his attention until you finally understand, you belong to him. Only him.
But he keeps his voice calm. He keeps his hand still. He doesnât touch you, doesnât push too far. Not yet. Heâs not stupid. He knows how fragile humans are. He knows youâll break if he comes on too hard, and god, thatâs the last thing he wants. So he feeds you careful lies instead. âI donât care if itâs ugly.â he says. âI donât care if you think itâll make me hate you. You could spit poison in my face and Iâd stillââ He cuts himself off, swallowing the word love, but itâs right there, hanging in the air between you like smoke. ââstill stay.â
Oh, Jinu. You dramatic, manipulative asshole.
Heâs not staying because heâs noble. Heâs not staying because he wants to heal you. Heâs staying because he canât fucking leave. Because heâs hooked on you, because you crawled into the cracks of his rotten heart and made yourself at home, and now heâs choking on the need for you. If you vanished, heâd go mad. If you left, heâd burn the earth down looking for you.
But you donât see it. You canât. You only see the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. You only hear the warmth in his tone. And you sigh again. Lean a little more of your weight into him.
Inside, Jinu is screaming. His heart claws at his ribs, demanding more, more of you, more closeness, more confessions, more skin, more everything. He wants to crush you against him, bruise your lips with his, drag every sound out of you until youâre hollow. He wants you to know what youâve done to him. But he doesnât. Not tonight. Tonight, he just tilts his head slightly, rests it against yours for the briefest second, and whispers, âItâs okay. Whatever it is. Iâve got you.â
The truth is, heâll never âhaveâ you. Not really. Heâll tear you apart in his need. Heâll drag you down with him. He doesnât even care. He just wants you. All he ever wanted was you.
The sick thing is, he almost believes his own lie. Heâs so far gone he almost convinces himself that heâs good for you, that his obsession is love, that his possessiveness is care. That maybe if you let him close enough, he could save himself through you. And oh, if only you knew how deep that goes. But you donât. You just breathe beside him, fragile and warm, and he soaks it in.
âI mean it.â he says. âAnything. Every ugly, messy thing in your head. I wonât judge you. I wonât hate you. I wonât leave.â
When he finally stands, itâs like tearing himself away from a drug. His body resists it. His chest aches. He stares down at you for a long, silent moment, memorizing every detail of your tired face.
âGet some rest.â he says quietly, forcing a little curve of a smile onto his lips. âIâll be nearby if you need me.â
Another trick. Another thread to tie around your ankle. If you need me. Of course youâll need him. Heâll make sure of it. And then he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him, his footsteps retreating down the hall. Youâre alone again. Alone with your tea, your tangled feelings, the heap of bags, the silence. But Jinuâs words linger, sticky as blood. You can tell me anything. You donât have to, not with me. Iâll hold it for you. Always. Lies, every one of them. But you donât know that yet. Not yet.
The sun had shifted high by the time you finally looked at the bags. Theyâd been sitting there all morning, with the weight of whatever the boys thought you needed, or wanted. Or maybe what they wanted for you. You lasted longer than you thought you would, sipping cold tea and staring at the paper handles, thinking maybe if you ignored them, the bags would vanish. But no. They sat. They waited. And eventually, your curiosity cracked you open.
You slid off the bed, the floor cool against your feet, and pulled the first bag closer. It was⊠full. Overflowing. Clothes. All kinds. Shirts in colors you usually picked for yourself. Sweaters softer than anything youâd ever tried on. The second bag, that one was practical. Sort of. Toothpaste, but a luxury brand. Lotions, body scrubs, perfumes. And tucked at the bottom, a pack of hairbands. The thing you actually needed. The third bag was lingerie. Oh, for fuckâs sake. Lace, silk, satin, all in cuts and colors that screamed not for you but for them. But goddamn it, one or two pieces were pretty, and you hated yourself for thinking so. Bras that fit your size, panties delicate enough to tear in one tug, slips that would never stay on long if they had their way. You shoved the lace back into the bag too quickly, your face hot. And then, the fourth bag. You pulled out candles first. Dozens. Some small jars with woodsy scents, some tall ones dyed black, one shaped like a skull that made you roll your eyes but also smile despite yourself. Matches too, a fancy box. Incense. They thought of everything. Then, buried beneath the wax and jars, came the things that made you freeze.
A vibrator. Expensive. Still boxed. Lubes, too, tucked beside them. A feather tickler that made you groan aloud. You dropped the box back into the bag like it burned.
Alright. Okay. Fuck. Anyways. Another bag yielded jewelry, rings, bracelets, a necklace. You didnât even want to guess how much they stole or spent for it. Another bag, food. Exotic sweets. Chocolate boxes lined with velvet. Teas and coffees, rare-looking labels. Even dried fruit. They didnât half-ass it. And then, a little box of watercolor paints, brushes tied together with ribbon. Art supplies? For you? It was too much. All of it. Way, way too much.
They knew you better than they should. Better than anyone should. This was love, in their way. This was obsession, spilling over. They wanted to drown you in things until you couldnât breathe, until you had no room in your life that wasnât filled with them. And maybe, maybe, part of you wanted to drown too. Because the perfume smelled good. Because the sweater was soft. Because the watercolor called to your fingers. And because, even though you shoved the vibrator back into the bag, you couldnât erase the thought that they thought of you in that way. That they wanted you to touch yourself and think of them. That they wanted to live in your skin even when they werenât in the room.
The boys were out there, somewhere, thinking theyâd done the right thing, thinking youâd be happy when you opened the bags. And maybe, in some way, they were right. Because you did feel something, warmth, even in your fury. Because the truth was, nobody else in the world was giving you sweaters and vibrators and hairbands in the same fucking breath. Nobody else was insane enough to drown you in this. Only them. Always them. And you hated it. And you loved it.
They love you. They do. Brutally, ferociously, with no filter and no restraint. They love you enough to remember the color of the clothes you usually wear around the house. Enough to burn their money on things you never asked for. Enough to embarrass you with toys you canât even look at without your stomach tightening.
But theyâre demons. Theyâre monsters. They hurt you. Over and over again, they tore you apart, shredded you down to pieces until you barely recognized yourself. And now? Now they want to wrap you in sweaters and lavender candles like they can pretend none of it happened. Itâs sick. Itâs fucked up. And you let yourself sink into it. Because who else do you have? Who else has stuck around? The girls are gone. Rumi, Mira, Zoey, theyâre memories now, ghosts of something you could have had, should have had. But the boys are here. Always here. Filling your room with gifts, filling your chest with contradictions.
Eventually, the clothes went into your dresser, folded too neatly because the act of smoothing fabric gave you something to do with your shaking hands. Sweaters stacked on sweaters. The lotions and perfumes, you tried to shove those into the little shelf in your bathroom, though they didnât fit, bottles crowding each other. You left the most glittering ones on the counter. The jewelry you didnât touch for a long while. But eventually, you placed the necklace back into its box and slid it into the bottom drawer of your desk. You didnât want it out, didnât want to look at it every day. The rings, though, you tried one on. Just for a second. It fit too perfectly. You ripped it off and shoved it back in the drawer. The food was easier. Chocolate in your desk. Tea and coffee tucked into the kitchen cabinet. The art supplies, those sat on your nightstand, next to Romanceâs nudes. Too personal to hide. Too personal to throw away.
And then. The bag you kept pushing aside. The vibrator. The lube. The feather tickler. You stared at them, throat dry, face hot. They didnât belong in your room, not with your sweaters and hairbands and whatnot. They belonged to whoever thought this was a good idea. And you didnât even have to guess who. Romance. Of course. Who else would handpick sex toys for you? You pressed your lips together, grabbed the bag, and stood before you could think twice.
Romanceâs door creaked open too easily. The room smelled faintly of cologne and candle wax, that too-sweet mix he carried. At first glance, it was clean enough, bed made, clothes tossed across a chair.
But then you looked around more. And oh. My. Fucking. God. Youâd seen it before, yes. You knew what was there. But knowing didnât soften the impact of seeing it again. You wonât even look at the whips. And sitting innocently on the nightstand, a bowl of condoms like candy mints.
Your stomach twisted, not entirely with disgust. There was something magnetic about it, like staring at a car crash you couldnât look away from.
Attractive. That was the problem. Because it was attractive. And that realization made you want to scream.
You walked fast, threw the bag onto his bed with more force than necessary. The vibrator and lube and whatever-the-fuck landed against his silk sheets, a match made in hell. And then you turned, almost ran, because if you stayed another second in that room, youâd start looking closer. Youâd start wondering about the cuffs, about the ropes, about how often he used them. About who he used them on. About whether he thought of you when he set them up, when he laid in that bed with his ridiculous ego. You didnât want to wonder. But oh, you were really wondering.
Your breath caught as you shut his door behind you. The hallway felt colder. Your room was safer, even with its mountain of gifts. At least your room didnât look like a sex dungeon disguised as an idolâs apartment.
When you went back to your room, you stopped at your nightstand. Your hand hovered above it like youâd been burned before. And maybe you had, burned by curiosity, by what you let yourself keep there, hidden but never gone. The stack of photos sat where you left them. And beside them, folded, the letter.
You sighed. Deep, heavy. Then you picked them up. One by one, you looked. The first photo, Romance sprawled naked on his sheets, cuffed hands above his head. A pretty smile. The second, him kneeling. Rope biting into his thighs, his arms tied behind him. His head tipped to the side, hair falling into his face, mouth parted. The third, too much. Way too much. He was fully naked, tied to a chair with dark leather straps, thighs spread. A vibrator, yes, a vibrator, half inside him. The camera caught the arch of his back, the strain in his jaw, the glint of sweat. He wasnât even looking at the lens. The fourth, chains. Heavy iron, looped across his chest, cinched to the bed frame. His cock hard, proud, shameless. His tongue between his teeth. He wasnât embarrassed. He wasnât vulnerable. He was showing off. Every bit of him said, look how far Iâll go for you, angel. Look how far Iâll let you see. The fifth photo, ropes. His arms behind his back, his torso bare, the lighting moody enough to make it look actually good if you didnât look too closely at the bulge in his pants. He had his head tilted back, mouth parted, eyes closed.
You werenât a prude. But this, this was so far past what you expected from a guy who spent his public life dancing and smirking at cameras. It was obscene, and weirdly vulnerable.
You flipped to the next one. Romance blindfolded, wrists shackled to a bedframe. Naked again, but one leg laid over his crotch. Red marks across his chest like someone had scratched him. His lips parted around a moan you couldnât hear. The angle was intimate, invasive. And the seventh you nearly dropped. A knife to his throat. But the way he tilted his chin, eyes locked with the camera, daring you to imagine holding that knife yourself⊠it did something ugly inside you.
You swallowed hard.
What the fuck, man.
You hadnât expected, no, scratch that, you had expected this level of insanity from Romance. But still. Seeing it laid out, undeniable, was different. Your pulse jumped against your throat like youâd been caught doing something wrong.
Another, sprawled on his stomach, hands cuffed behind his back, a knife resting gently on his spine. The next softer. Him clothed again, just his head on a pillow, smiling without the smirk. A hint of sincerity that somehow was cuter than the filth. The tenth, his hand wrapped around himself, mid-stroke, messy, shameless.
And then, the letter.
You set the pictures aside carefully, and unfolded the paper. His handwriting was ridiculous. Loopy, sprawling, dramatic as his stage persona.
And the wordsâ
Oh.
âTo the one that keeps me up at night. I donât care if you laugh at these. I donât care if you shove them in a drawer. I donât care if you never look at them again. I just wanted you to know Iâm yours. Every inch. Every part. Every scar and sin. I donât belong to anyone else, never did, never will. Iâm the fool in love with you, and Iâll play the fool until the end of the world if thatâs what it takes.â
You blinked hard, throat tight.
âWhen you look at me, even if itâs just once, even if itâs to roll your eyes or tell me Iâm an idiot, I feel alive. Do you get that? After everything Iâve done, after everything I am, you make me feel human. You make me want to be human.â
The loops tangled, words running faster, darker.
âYou donât have to love me back. You donât have to touch me. You donât have to say a word. Just let me love you. Let me burn for you. Let me be yours in the only way I know how. And if one day you want me, if one day you even think about me, remember these pictures and know I was already waiting.â
Oh, god.
âOne day, youâll understand that no rope, no chain, no bed, no camera means anything compared to the way you already hold me. Yours, alwaysâRomance.â
You sat there, silent, letter trembling in your hands.
Romance, evil, shameless Romance, loved you. Not just with his body, not just with his ego. With every fucked up piece of himself. And he hid it inside pictures of himself tied up, grinning, obscene. Because thatâs who he was. Because thatâs the only language he knew.
God, you didnât expect this. You didnât expect to see a man with a vibrator in his ass while being kidnapped and find a love confession in the same damn minute.
Love, in their hands, was just another weapon.
You sat there, tears in your eyes, photos stacked at your side, letter open in your lap, and wondered how the hell you were supposed to breathe in a world where men like this loved you. Evil. Shameless. Ridiculous. And still, so brutally sincere it broke you.
You wiped at your eyes, folded the letter, and collapsed onto your back, staring at the ceiling. To the one that keeps me up at night. You laughed once, bitter and small. And then you whispered into the silence: âFuck you, Romance.â
But your hand tightened around the paper. And you didnât let go.
Hours later, the front door shuts behind the boys. The five scatter. They do not look for you. They know where you are. They leave you in the dark end of the apartment, tucked away. Theyâre tired, they know youâre tired, itâs a day like that. Thatâs it. Baby disappears first, always. His lighter clicks, the scent of smoke trailing him like perfume as he slips into whatever corner he calls his own. Abby follows, broad shoulders brushing the wall as he heads toward the kitchen. Jinu vanishes. He does not need to see you to feel you in his chest. He does not go to you. Not yet. He waits. He always waits. Mystery stays in the hall for too long, unmoving. His eyes drag down the corridor, to the door at the end. Your door. His pulse beats in his ears. He forces himself away, into his own darkness, jaw tight, Gwi-Maâs shadow whispering at the edges of his thoughts. He will not disturb you now. He has patience. He has obsession. He has time. He knows youâll come to him, no matter how fast his heart beats whenever he thinks of the kiss. Romance shuts his door.
Someone has been here.
You have been here.
The bag is there. On his bed. It sits half-spilled, fabric crinkled. Oh, okay, all right. He steps closer. His hand skims the edge of the bag, fingertips brushing the fabric. The items inside shift. His mind flickers through them quickly, cataloguing, certain of what belongs, what doesnât. Everything belongs, though few things are missing, but none of them dirty. You left everything sexual there.
Itâs okay. This is what he wanted. Not silence. Not ignorance. He wanted you to see him. To know him. To see the vibrator, to feel something. The knowledge fuels him. His chest rises, falls, too quickly. His body feels alive, pulsing, restless. The rope in one corner of his bed seems to pull him in. The polished cuffs on the wall gleam as though mocking him.
If you wonât use the gifts, then he will.
His hand plunges into the bag, taking the things out. His breathing grows shallow, sharp, as though every item fuels him more.
He thinks of you again. The way your hands look, or how could they have looked when you held the bag. The small shake of your shoulders. Maybe you laughed. Maybe you cried. Maybe both. He doesnât care which. He only cares that you held it close. That you didnât throw it away.
His fingers tighten around the vibrator as he takes it out.
It doesnât matter what you think of him. Doesnât matter if you recoil, if you curse his name. You saw him. You let him inside your head. And now, heâll stay there. If you wonât come to him yet, heâll come to you eventually. And if you resist, heâll only tighten his hold. He always wins. Always.
Romance lies back in the middle of his bed. His cockâs been aching since he saw the bag on his bed, heavy against his thigh, and itâs all your fault.
He starts unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers are shaky, too eager. The soft fabric slides down his shoulders, revealing skin thatâs flushed already, nipples stiff in the cool air. He tosses the shirt aside, then starts undoing his pants. He pushes the fabric down, then his boxers, his cock slapping free, thick and flushed, already leaking.
He looks down at himself, grins at the sight. âAll for you, baby.â he murmurs, thinking of you. He strokes once, a long drag of his palm up the length, and groans deep. He could finish like this, raw and needy, but he wants more tonight. He wants to ruin himself for you.
The vibrator. He holds it in his palm, heavy, promising. Just the thought of using it, of imagining your sweet little hands holding it instead, your lips parted as you watched him, makes his cock twitch.
He positions himself on the bed, spreads his legs wide. He looks like heâs posing for someone, like he expects you to walk in and see him like this, hair messy, chest gleaming with sweat, cock hard and proud against his stomach.
âHope youâre watching.â he breathes, then presses the vibrator against the base of his shaft.
The first buzz makes him jolt, hips bucking. âOhh, fuckââ The vibration hums against him, deep, and he groans, head tipping back. His thighs tense, muscles flexing, his abs tightening as he drags the toy up the length of his cock. Precum spills from his tip, wetting his stomach.
He closes his eyes, picturing you. Picturing you curled on the bed beside him, watching with wide, beautiful eyes as he plays with himself. You wouldnât know what to say. Youâd be shocked, probably flustered, but you wouldnât look away. Youâd bite your lip and watch, cheeks pink, thighs pressing together.
The thought makes him whimper.
He pushes the vibrator against his tip, right where it aches most, and his whole body jerks. âOhhh, shit, thatâsâ fuckââ His toes curl, his thighs squeeze together, his cock twitching violently under the buzzing pressure. He holds it there, gasping, drool threatening to slip from his lips.
Itâs obscene, how loud he is. His moans fill the room, shameless, pornographic. He doesnât care. He wants the walls to know. He wants the whole house to know. He wants you to know.
He slides the toy down, circles his balls, presses it to his perineum, and cries out. âFuck, baby, ohhhâ yeah, just like that. Justââ He breaks off into a helpless groan, hips rutting up into the air. His cock smears precum across his stomach with every twitch, every spasm.
He grabs himself with his other hand, stroking while the vibrator buzzes against his base. The combination makes him see stars. He arches off the bed, hair sticking to his damp forehead, his mouth open, spilling every filthy sound his body rips out of him.
âOhhhâ godâ baby, baby, babyââ
He imagines your sweet little voice asking what heâs doing, if it feels good, if you can try. He imagines your soft fingers replacing his, your mouth opening for him, your thighs pressed together while you watch.
âFuuuck⊠ahhh, god, babyââ He presses the vibrator hard to the base of his cock, fists himself desperately, and the orgasm tears out of him with a hoarse scream. His back arches off the mattress, every muscle straining, cock pumping thick ropes of cum across his chest and stomach. It shoots high, messy, dripping down his abs, smeared by his fist as he strokes through it. The vibrator hums mercilessly, dragging his orgasm out until heâs shaking, until heâs sobbing soft little moans into the air.
Finally, finally, he rips the toy away, his body collapsing limp into the sheets. His cock twitches, oversensitive, dripping the last of him onto his stomach. His chest heaves, sweat slick across his skin, his thighs still trembling.
He reaches lazily for the tissues, half-heartedly wiping himself down, smiling. The vibrator lies discarded beside him, still buzzing faintly until he flicks it off. He curls onto his side, sticky, messy, blissed-out, and murmurs, âOne day, baby. One day youâll see. And Iâll make it so, so good for you.â
Youâre in your room, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, and the nausea still hasnât gone. The taste of the bathroom floor, the stress, the kiss, Mysteryâs eyes, all of itâs still swarming in your gut like you swallowed bees. Itâs horrible. Fucking horrible. The boys are back. You heard them come in hours ago. Youâve stayed put, quiet, hoping if you made yourself small enough you wouldnât have to see anyone, especially Mystery. You canât. Not tonight.
You press a hand to your stomach. Itâs still churning. God, you feel like shit. Your mind flashes to when you were younger and your dadâs old friend used to hand you a bottle of beer when youâd get motion sick. Not to drink-drink it, just a few sips. The smell. Whatevs. It used to help. Maybe placebo. Who cares. You know exactly one person in this place who might have something like for you.
You swing your legs off the bed, bare feet. Every step toward his room feels heavier, like your stomach might spill itself again. You keep praying under your breath, please donât let Mystery be in the hall, please please.
The hallway is quiet. Dark. No sign of him. You pad up to Babyâs door and knock softly, knuckles just brushing wood.
A moment. Then the door swings open. Baby stands there shirtless, ribs and collarbones sharp under his skin, shaving cream still smeared across half his jaw. His eyes flicker down at you, and he leans his shoulder against the doorframe. âYeah?â he says. One word. Dry. Bratty. Inside, though, his heart goes off like fireworks. Heâs so fucking happy youâre here, at his door, of all people. But god forbid he show that.
You bite your lip and mutter, âWhen I was younger, beer used to help me with nausea. Like, not drinking-drinking, just⊠it helped. Do you have anything like that?â
He stares for a beat. âSure. Come in.â He swings the door open wider. The room smells faintly of smoke and some kind of cologne. His bedâs a mess, clothes in piles, a half-played video game still paused on the screen. You step inside and he closes the door behind you with a soft click. He wipes a hand across his face, smearing the shaving cream worse, but he doesnât care. âSit.â he says, gesturing at the edge of his bed. Heâs already crossing to his closet, silent.
You sit down gingerly. The mattress dips under your weight. Youâre still nauseous, still jittery, horrible, honestly. So stressed.
He starts rummaging. His shoulders are narrow but tense, tendons shifting under skin as he digs. âYouâre lucky I keep this crap around.â He pulls out a bottle. âThis is some shit Abby bought and hated. Been in here forever. Donât fucking tell him itâs still in here.â
You take it from him, your hands brushing his. Cold glass. For a second the nausea spikes again but then settles, like just holding it is enough. âThanks.â you whisper.
Baby shrugs, grabbing a towel from the floor and wiping the shaving cream from his face. âYeah, whatever. Donât puke on my bed.â But inside, heâs screaming. Youâre here. In his room. Asking him for help. He sits down next to you, a little too close but still pretending itâs casual. He crosses his arms, eyes fixed on the floor. âSo, uh. Still sick?â
âYeah.â Your voice cracks.
He nods once. For a minute you both sit there in silence. The bottle sweats against your palms. He smells like smoke and minty shaving cream, and his skinny shoulder brushes yours. And heâs still happy. God, heâs so fucking happy. But instead of showing that, he just sits with you, letting the silence stretch, his knee bouncing once, twice. His whole body feels alive. He feels alive. He wants to reach out, wants to hold you, but he knows if he does it wrong youâll slip away. Instead, he mutters, âYou, uh⊠you wanna open that? Or you just gonna hold it?â
You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. âYeah. Sorry.â
âDonât be sorry.â he says, too quickly. Then clears his throat. âJust drink.â
You manage to open it and the hiss of carbonation fills the small room. You take a small sip. Itâs not the same as when you were a kid, but itâs something. Baby watches you from the corner of his eye, trying to look uninterested. His fingers drum against his thigh. Every nerve in his body is aware of you sitting there on his bed, sipping from the bottle he gave you, trusting him with something small and weird and vulnerable.
He wants to tell you heâd get you anything, beer, diamonds, blood, the fucking moon. He wants to tell you heâd carry you out of this apartment, out of the city, out of everything, if it meant youâd feel safe. But he doesnât. He just sits there, a skinny brat with a mouth full of unsaid words, pretending heâs not the happiest heâs been all century. And you sip your little beer, stomach still twisting, but some small part of you feels warmer than before. Itâs wrong. All of it is wrong. But tonight youâre here, and heâs here, and thatâs alright for now.
The bottle is almost empty now. Thereâs still a patch of shaving cream on his jaw he missed, and it makes him look both ridiculous and weirdly endearing. You want to laugh but donât. Youâre trying to keep the peace in your stomach, and laughter feels risky. So you sip again. The taste sticks to your tongue. Itâs not good. You can already feel that soft little looseness. âItâs helping.â you say.
He shrugs.
The nauseaâs fading. In its place comes that giddy tilt of calm thatâs rare for you. The world still hurts, but itâs a quieter kind of hurt right now.
You lean back on your hands. âSo, what about you? Whyâre you up so late?â
He hums. âShaving, apparently.â
You glance at the half-clean patch on his face and smirk. âYeah, you missed a spot.â
He gives a low grunt, grabs the towel from his nightstand, and wipes at his jaw again without looking. âBetter?â
âStill there.â
âFuck.â
You giggle, actually giggle, and it surprises you more than him. You clap a hand over your mouth, cheeks going warm. âSorry, Iâmââ
He cuts you off with a lazy wave of his hand. âYouâre fine. Laugh or whatever. You look better like that.â
You laugh again, and he canât help it, his lips twitch, almost a smile, before he looks away. His heart is running faster than it should.
He taps the empty bottle in your hand. âAnother?â
You hesitate, then nod. âSure.â
He stands, moving like a cat, you just noticed that. He pulls out another bottle and pops the cap off with the side of his lighter. He hands it to you, then sits back down.
âThanks.â you say quietly.
He nods once, still not looking at you. âYeah.â
After a while, you feel yourself swaying a little, and he notices. Youâre smiling, soft, lazy, sleepy. âYouâre actually nice when youâre not acting like a dick, you know that?â
He looks up, meets your eyes finally. âYeah, donât tell anyone.â he says quietly.
You nod, eyes heavy, the edges of the room blurring just a little. The beer bottle rests against your knee, half-empty. He leans back, arms crossed. Watching you. Dying a little inside, because youâre here and laughing and looking at him.
Youâre not sure why the nauseaâs gone now. Maybe itâs the beer. Maybe itâs the boy. Maybe itâs both. Whatever it is, for the first time in days, you feel okay.
âAlright.â you murmur, standing up. âI should⊠go back.â
He doesnât answer, but his eyes flick up at you from under his lashes. He sits the same way he always does, slouched, arms folded, pretending he doesnât care, but the second you start to move, his whole body goes tense. His heart is trying so hard to stay cool while everything inside himâs screaming, donât go.
You stand up a little too fast. The floor tilts, and you press a palm to the wall to steady yourself. âWhoa.â you mumble, laughing softly. âOkay, alright.â
Baby glances up, expression the same as always, but thereâs a flicker, somewhere in those half-lidded eyes, of worry. Not that heâll admit it. âYou gonna hurl again?â he asks.
You shake your head, giggling at the word. âNo. Just dizzy. Iâm fine.â
You start toward the door but donât open it. The air feels light, and you canât bring yourself to leave yet. You take a few small steps, brushing your fingers along the edge of his dresser, tapping at the random junk scattered there. You laugh again, louder this time. The sound fills the room. You stumble to the other side, nearly trip over a shoe on the floor, and grab the back of his chair for balance. âOh my god, youâre a disaster, Baby.â
He raises an eyebrow, watching you move. âAnd youâre tipsy.â
âJust a little.â You pinch your fingers together to demonstrate, wobbling as you do.
He rolls his eyes but thereâs that twitch again, the not-quite smile that he keeps trying to kill before it shows. You donât notice how his gaze follows every movement. He canât stop it. He watches how you wander toward the window, push the curtain back, and look out at the city. The light from the buildings paints your face, and Babyâs breath catches. He can feel the pulse in his throat. Youâre just standing there, a little unsteady, cheeks flushed, and itâs like the worldâs trying to show him something heâll never deserve.
You turn back to him. âItâs pretty out there.â
âSure.â He keeps his voice low, lazy, like itâs nothing.
âYou ever go out at night?â
He raises his chin faintly. âYou mean for fun?â
You nod.
âNot really my thing.â
You smile. âYeah, I guess fun isnât your thing.â You cross your arms, leaning against the wall. You start rambling about nothing in particular. He listens, throwing in the occasional grunt or nod, the same rhythm as always. He doesnât need to talk. You fill the space just fine. After a while, you wander closer to the bed again. âYouâre not gonna shave the rest?â
He glances toward the mirror. âMaybe tomorrow.â
âHm.â
âHm.â
You laugh again, the sound spilling out soft and small. Youâre standing beside the bed now, looking down at him. He tilts his head up, eyes catching the low light, and you see something there that makes you stop. You canât quite name it, but itâs enough to make your stomach dip. You tear your gaze away first, rubbing your arms. âI should, um⊠go to bed.â
He shifts slowly, voice flat. âSure.â
You pause with your hand on the door, glancing back at him. âThanks for the beer, seriously.â
He shrugs, trying to look unaffected. âDonât mention it.â
âI will.â you tease.
âThen I take it back.â
You grin, soft and tired. âGood night, Baby.â
He nods once. âNight.â
You start to pull the door open, but your hand lingers on it. For some reason, you look back one more time. Heâs still sitting there on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The lamplight cuts across his shoulders, outlining every bone, and for a second you see what no one else does, the loneliness underneath the sarcasm. The way heâs so young and so old at the same time. You almost say something. Almost. But then you donât. You just smile faintly, and he finally looks up. Those eyes. God, if anyone else saw the way he looks at you right now, theyâd know. Theyâd know heâs gone, lost, done for. Thereâs no joke left in it, no mask. Just this quiet, raw thing that heâll never say out loud.
You step into the hallway, the air cooler out here. You close the door behind you, the latch clicking softly. Inside, Baby exhales a breath he didnât know he was holding. The room feels emptier now. He drags a hand down his face, wiping away whatâs left of the shaving cream.
Youâre still smiling when you close Babyâs door behind you, the faint buzz of the beer and the giddy, stupid warmth lingering in your chest. Itâs late, so late the air of the hallway feels different, softer. Your bare feet make no sound against the cold floor as you drift toward your room, your fingers grazing the wall for balance.
The light under your door glows faintly, and youâre already reaching for it when a shadow moves at the edge of your vision. Romance. Heâs leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded, his head tilted just a little like heâs been waiting. Heâs not smirking this time, not teasing. His expression is open, worried even, he doesnât bother hiding it.
âThere you are, love.â he murmurs. âI was just about to come looking for you.â
You blink, your heart tripping. âFor me?â
âFor you.â His gaze slides over your face, down to your hands, then back up, scanning, reading you. âYou werenât in your room.â
You nod slowly. âI was with Baby.â you gesture toward your door. âCome in?â
He studies you for a second, your flushed cheeks, your slightly unsteady steps, and something in his face softens. He nods. âOf course.â
You open the door and slip inside, Romance following close behind. You sink down onto the edge of your bed. He stays standing for a moment, watching you, then lowers himself beside you carefully.
Romance can feel that youâre drunk. He rests his hands on his knees, leaning forward slightly. âYou alright?â
You blink at him. âYeah.â you say automatically, then frown. âI mean⊠I donât know. Maybe.â
He gives a small hum in response. He came here with a dozen jokes loaded on his tongue, wanting to ask about the bag you left on his bed. But the moment he saw you like this, he let them go.
You glance at him. âWhat about you? Whatâs up?â
âMe?â he echoes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âWhatâs up with meâŠâ He trails off, glancing at his hands. âNothing special, really.â Then, because he canât help himself, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers are warm against your skin. âYou look flushed.â
âMaybe. A little.â
âYouâve had something to drink.â
You nod. âBaby gave me beer.â
âI can smell it.â he says gently.
âSorry.â you murmur.
He shakes his head.
You nod, biting your lip to hide a grin. âItâs not what it sounds like.â
Romance makes a low noise in his throat but doesnât press. âIâm not judging, darling. Just making conversation.â
You shake your head, still smiling. You can breathe. You do feel better. So much better.
Romance watches you for a long moment, his expression softening again. âYouâre beautiful like this.â he murmurs.
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. âYou always say that.â
âBecause itâs always true.â
You want to argue, to make some sarcastic comment, but the words die on your tongue. Because heâs looking at you like that again, like youâre the only person in the room, the only thing worth seeing. And for all his sins, for all the things heâs done to you, thereâs a sincerity in his eyes thatâs hard to fight.
He shifts closer, just enough to press his shoulder fully against yours. âEat anything?â he asks after a while.
âBread.â you murmur.
He chuckles softly.
Silence. Youâre a little drunk. He can feel it. You can feel it. But itâs nice.
âSo,â he says lightly. âwhatâs on that pretty mind tonight, babe?â
âŠ
You pick at the edge of your sleeve. âCan you⊠keep a secret?â
He tips his head, one eyebrow quirking. âAnything for you, Y/N. You know that.â And he means it. He always means it.
You breathe out. âPromise?â
He nods once. âPromise.â
It should be comforting, but it isnât. You shift on the bed, knees drawn up. You look down at your hands. âYou remember earlier? Before you all went out? I think to get me gifts?â Romance hums. Heâs patient, which is new for him. He doesnât interrupt. âI was with Mystery.â you continue. âWe were just⊠playing. It sounds stupid now.â
He raises an eyebrow, but keeps quiet. Inside, though, his pulse spikes. Mystery. Always Mystery.
âI asked him to chase me.â you say. âAfter last time, I wanted to see what he was capable of. Like a game. It was stupid. I just wanted to see that part of him, the⊠feral one. Because I trust him, I guess. Or I thought I did.â
Romanceâs jaw tightens. His face doesnât change much, but his knuckles flex against his knee. Heâs scared. The only possibility he can think of that could fuck you up this bad and couldâve happened in this context, is sexual assault. God, no. Please no. He forces his voice to stay light. âAnd?â
You stare at the wall. âHe caught me.â Thatâs all you say at first. Itâs like you expect the sentence to explain itself. Romance waits. The silence stretches. âItâs so stupid. I donât even know what happened next. One second Iâm laughing, the nextââ You stop.
Romance leans forward slightly, not touching you. âThe next?â
Your throat feels dry. Itâs brutally hard to spit the words out. âWe kissed.â
For a long time, Romance says nothing. The air feels tight around you. His gaze doesnât leave you. His expression doesnât change. But inside him, itâs a mess. Jealousy. Rage. The sick, bright spark of pain that comes when someone takes what he wanted, what he thought was his. But itâs not even about the kiss, not really. Itâs about what it means. Mystery crossed a line, and you let him.
He forces a smile, gentle, practiced. âSo,â he says quietly. âthatâs whatâs been eating you up.â
You nod, eyes wet. âItâs wrong. I know itâs wrong. Heâheâs hurt me before. You all have. But Iââ Your voice cracks. âI wanted it. Thatâs the worst part. I wanted it.â
Thatâs it. Thatâs the part Romance canât bear to hear. He looks down, running his tongue over his teeth, and when he speaks again, his tone is so soft it sounds almost kind. âYou donât need to explain, love. Youâre human. You get⊠confused. You mix things up. Fear, comfort, all that.â
You shake your head. âNo, Iâm not confused. I knew what I was doing. I justââ You clutch your knees tighter. âI donât know.â
Romance exhales slowly, the sound low and bitter. He wants to laugh. He wants to scream. He wants to kill Mystery. But he does none of those things. He reaches out and rests a hand on your shoulder. So sweet. âYou donât owe anyone an explanation for how you feel.â he murmurs. âNot even him.â
You look up at him, eyes glossy, desperate. âThen why do I feel like I ruined everything?â
Because you did, he thinks. Because now itâs real, and now every time he looks at you heâll see Mysteryâs mouth on yours. But he doesnât say that. Instead, he smiles faintly, thumb brushing the fabric on you. âYou didnât ruin anything. You justââ he hesitates, then finishes quietly, ââyou just made a change.â
You laugh weakly. âThatâs not comforting.â
He huffs a laugh of his own. âDidnât mean it to be.â
Silence again. He wants to keep you talking, just to hear your voice, to make sure youâre still here, but he can feel you fading. You rest your forehead against your knees, murmuring, âI hate that it happened.â
Romance looks at you for a long moment. His expression softens, the anger shifting into something deeper, sadder. He feels horrible. He just pats your back once, gently. âGet some sleep, love.â he says, voice quiet. âYouâll feel clearer in the morning.â
You nod without looking up. âWill I?â
He doesnât answer. Because he knows you wonât. Because none of them ever do.
You donât realize youâre crying until he reaches out and wipes a tear from your cheek. His thumb lingers, feather-light, and he smiles again, small, crooked, the mask slipping back on just enough. âHey. Look at me. You donât have to tell anyone else. Not Abby, not Baby. Not even him. This stays right here.â
You nod. You believe him.
He wants to fix you, to fix himself through you, but he knows better. He knows heâs poison, knows heâll rot whatever he touches. So instead, he just sits there, brushing your hair back, humming some quiet tune he doesnât remember learning. For the first time in three hundred years, he wishes he could be good. He wishes he could be worthy of you. And he knows he never will be.
You pull back slightly, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand. âIâm sorry. Iâm just⊠tired.â
He nods. âThen be tired. You donât have to apologize for that.â
You laugh weakly. âYou sound like Jinu.â
He smiles. âDonât insult me.â
That pulls another tiny laugh out of you, and the sound is enough to loosen the tightness in his chest. He studies your face for a second too long, the glassy eyes, the flushed cheeks from the beer and the crying, the fragile calm settling there. God, this is a horrible feeling. Both for him, and you. You hear yourself sniffle. âI justâ I donât know whatâs wrong with me.â
Romance shakes his head. âThereâs nothing wrong with you, baby.â His thumb wipes away the tears that keep breaking loose. âYouâve been living in hell for months. Youâre tired. Youâre scared. Sometimes the lines get blurred.â He sighs, looking down, voice turning heavier. âWe blurred them for you.â You glance up. His eyes donât waver. He keeps his hand steady on your back as he continues, âYou didnât deserve any of it. The things weâve done to you, the way weâve made you question yourself, thatâs on us. Not you.â
Your stomach twists, the nausea shifting into something like grief. âThen why do I miss it sometimes?â you whisper. âWhy do Iââ You break off, voice shaking. âWhy do I miss the way it felt when he caught me?â That makes you cry harder. When you can finally talk again, your voice sounds raw. âI donât feel that bad about it. The kiss, I mean.â
His hand keeps moving on your back. âI know.â
You can tell heâs remembering things too, the fights, the screams, all the moments the boys went too far, the fear they put in you. Heâs not pretending it didnât happen. Not tonight.
He finally says it. âWe were cruel. You know that, right?â
Your throat tightens. You nod.
âAnd not just cruel because we had to be.â he continues, looking past you now, at some invisible point on the wall. âWe were cruel because we could be.â
You stay silent.
âThat doesnât go away easy.â he says. âNobody expects you to forget about that. We knew what we were doing, Y/N. But thatâs not on you.â he adds. âDonât carry our shit.â
You shake your head weakly. âBut youâre here now. And youâre different now.â
Romance lets out a breath. âDifferentâs a big word.â
You look away. âYouâre still better to me.â
âWe try to be. Doesnât erase what came before, but we try.â His hand moves slowly to your back. He rubs gentle circles. He wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. God, what a man.
You almost laugh through your tears. âYouâre too good at this.â
âIâve had a long time to practice.â he says, with the faintest tilt of a smile.
You look at him. Youâre shaken up, but donât know by what. Maybe the kiss. Maybe the fact that Romance actually acknowledged what happened before this. âDo you regret it? What youâve done?â
He look at you. âEvery day.â
You believe him. You can feel the warmth of him beside you, the weight of his gaze. Itâs disorienting. For a moment, it feels like heâs deciding whether to say something else. Then, he doesnât.
Then, quietly, he leans in.
Romance kisses you.
AN: I just want to explain why reader confessed the secret of the kiss. So, itâs a trauma response. After everything sheâs been through, her sense of safety and trust is fractured. Keeping a secret feels unbearable because secrecy was part of her captivity. By telling someone, sheâs subconsciously seeking validation, wanting the boys to comfort her. Just wanting comfort, her poor little heart needs it so much. Plus itâs so heavy on her heart that itâs hard to keep it in. Plus she trusts Romance.
Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS (11)
Previous -
âMaybe thereâs still a way. Y/Nâs at home right? How can Gwi-ma hurt her if we allow Huntr/x to seal the Honmoon.â Jinuâs eyes were dead, void of any light. His words were devoid of any emotion, as if he were trying to convince himself.
Beneath the darkened sky, stars hidden from view by the urban lights. It seemed as if even constellations themselves had turned their backs on the Saja Boys.
âWe canât tell her. Itâs not safe. Knowing her, she would try something.â Beomâs fingers were interlaced in his hair, eyes darting from the floor to the rest of the men.
âSo we just lie to her?â Min hung his head, âYou donât think sheâll find out?â
âWe can worry about that after we make sure Gwi-Ma isnât going to turn her into a soulless husk.â Rae countered, shaking his head.Â
It was a divided consensus.Â
âWe could ask Huntr/x for help.â Beomâs brows were furrowed, eyes sharp. âIf they turn the Honmoon golden, Gwi-Ma wonât be able to-â
âThereâs no guarantee that he doesnât already have demons tailing Y/N.â Abelâs eyes were closed, darting around beneath his eyelids, running through different possible scenarios.
âAbels right. He probably already has demons waiting to drag her back to Gwi-Ma. Our best bet is to-â
A shrill mockup of Soda pop rang out from Jinuâs pocket.
âReally⊠that's your ring tone?â Rae slapped a hand to his forehead. The upbeat popsong had snapped the tension in the air.
âItâs Y/NâŠâ Jinu whispered, his face illuminated by the blue glow of his phone.
Abel snatched the phone out of a shell-shocked Jinuâs hand.Â
âY/N? Is that you?âÂ
âAbel! Of course it's me, why do you sound so ⊠upset?â The girl pulled the phone away from her ear, looking at the screen making sure she had dialed the right number.
âAbel, are you with the boys? Can you put me on speaker?â Y/N brought the phone back to her head, laying in her bed.
âYeah, go 'head.â Abel's voice crackled from her screen.
âI know you guys won't win tomorrow, but Iâm proud of you regardless. Youâve worked hard, regardless of if it was for the right reasons. Youâve pushed past so many boundaries whether it be here on this side of the Honmoon or from before.â Y/N yawned before continuing.
âThis is a huge decision that youâre making right now and you might be scared, there's a lot on the line for this. Not just you guys, but pretty much the entire world is riding on the Huntr/x girls to seal the Honmoon. They canât do it without you guys.â
Jinu was shaking, his eyes glassy.
âYouâve got a big day tomorrow, Saja Boys. Rest up, Iâll see you tomorrow night alright?â Y/N hummed, before saying one last âGoodnight.â
A heavy stillness weighed down on the men. Uncertainty, prodded like a sharp blade, chipping away at their conscience.
âJinu, youâre the one who banded us together. You make the decision.â Min breathed out, his fingers twitching over the pink hair tie around his wrist.
âI⊠Y/Nâs the reason weâre even able to think about going against Gwi-Ma. If sheâŠâ Jinu faltered, slowly lifting his eyes to his friends.
âUnderstood. Our priority is making sure Y/N is safe. Weâll keep our options open. Sheâs meant to hang around Huntr/x for the Idol Awards, if we manage to get to her, weâll go through with plan A.â Abel nodded, standing and reaching out his arm to Jinu.
âAnd if she isnât?â Beom whispered, slowly rising to his feet.
âWeâve got Jinuâs song. That would give us enough souls to appease Gwi-Ma.â Rae replied glumly, coming to stand behind the youngest.
Under the waning light of the crescent moon, the Saja Boys trudged back to their apartment. It was a plan, as messy and unrefined as it could get, but it was there regardless. The irony, that they were now banking on Y/N being around the Huntr/x girls for her safety, was not at all lost on the Saja Boys.
â
Before the sun had risen, Bobby had quietly used his spare key, bringing the Huntr/x girls with him to Y/Nâs apartment.
Rumi had six coffees in a drink carrier, one for each of the group and an extra decaf just in case Y/N wanted something different. The purple haired girl walked over to the marble counter top, placing down the drinks and sat down at the table, whispering to Zoey about the difference between the typical American and Korean breakfast.
Zoey had brought an assortment of breakfast ingredients and gravitated towards the kitchen immediately. She had decided that the menu today was pancakes, sunny side up eggs and turkey bacon.
Mira on the other hand, had specifically picked out an outfit for Y/N to wear that would be matching their outfits, but inverted. A white embellished jacket and a black studded top with golden ornaments.
âY/N?â Bobby rapped his knuckles against Y/Nâs bedroom door.
âIâm up!â Y/N pulled her door open, rubbing her eyes tiredly.
âY/N, no eye rubbing. It causes keratoconus.â Bobby fretted, whilst ushering her into the living room.
âItâs fine, Iâll pay for whatever treatment anyways.â Y/N joked.
âHm,â Bobby frowned, his disapproval evident as he crossed his arms.
âOkay, okay, no more eye rubbing.â Y/N laughed, elbowing Bobby gently.Â
âThat's my girl.â He nodded proudly, before the Huntr/x girls spotted Y/N walking towards them.
âY/N!â The three girls chorused, rushing forward to greet the owner of the apartment.
âHey girls, are those pancakes I smell?â Y/N laughed, wrapping her arounds around the trio.
âYep, I'm making you the breakfast I usually like to eat before show days.â Zoey skipped back towards the pleasantly smelling kitchen.
âOh, yâknow for some reason I would have expected you guys to have cup ramyeon for breakfast.â Y/N chuckled, eyeing the drinks on her marbletop.
âNo, of course not!â Rumi slowly put her shin ramyeon noodles back into her bag, as if not to alert their producer.
âItâs gonna be a long day, do you want some coffee? We have decaf and regular for you.â Mira slid over the two drinks.
âThanks Mira! Y/N hummed, picking up a large iced drink.Â
âOh, right, I havenât really picked out what to wear today.â Y/N sipped on her drink through a paper straw.
âI picked up an outfit for you.â Mira supplied easily, rummaging through her bag. âHere use this. Paper straws can contain chloropropanols and PFAS chemicals. I bought you a reusable metal straw.â
Y/N gasped, as Mira slid over the small fabric bag.
âAww thanks Mira! It has cleaning brushes too!â
âOf course, only the best for our Y/N-ie.â Miraâs face was lit by a triumphant smile that she shared with the Huntr/x girls.
âOkay, now eat up, weâve still got rehearsals and mic check. The Honmoon has been cracking more lately so we want you to be close at all times.â Rumi pushed a plate of perfectly cooked pancakes towards Y/N.Â
Their beloved producer may have said that the Saja Boys were willing to help them, but Rumi, Mira, or Zoey werenât willing to risk any harm coming to Y/N. Their faith was in her, not the Saja Boys. All three shared a firm nod, silently vowing to keep an eye on their girl.
After Y/N had finished her breakfast, the rest of the morning had been a whirlwind. She barely had time to grab her phone and her essential belongings before Bobby had ushered all four of the girls out so that they could get to the Idol Awards venue early.
Even in the chill of the dawnâs first light, the fans were outside standing respectfully, waiting for their idols to arrive. The three girls had arrived in puffer jackets, waving excitedly to their fans. Y/N had narrowly avoided being dragged onto the carpet with the girls, opting to walk with Bobby instead. She wasnât quite ready to face the gaggle of paparazzi.
There was a lull between the Huntr/x girls getting their hair and makeup done and the dress rehearsal. It was here that Mira had insisted Y/N sit in a chair and let the pink haired girl do her make up. Y/N had tried to protest but it was to no avail.Â
âYouâre one of us, whether the world knows yet or not. Youâre a hunter too.â Rumi gave Y/N a back hug, wrapping her arms around Y/Nâs shoulder. The purple haired girl relished in watching Y/Nâs face smiling back at her in the mirror.
âY'know, Y/N sings all our demos. What if we leaked them online and captioned it âHuntr/xâs fourth member?!â Zoeyâs eyes were bright, a mischievous glint that brought Y/N some form of unease.
âErm guys, Iâm not sure that's a good ideaâŠâ Y/N sweatdropped, âI just help write and produce your songs, I mean, Iâve never performed with you guys.â
âThere's a first for everything.â Mira hummed, enjoying how flustered the girl in the makeup chair was getting.
âAll your songs are three part harmonies.â Y/N tried.
âWe have an amazing song writer and producer who can change them to four parts in a flash, donât we girls?â Rumi pressed her cheek against Y/Nâs own, looking into their reflections in the mirror.
Y/N sighed, somewhat amused and at a loss.
Originally, Golden was a song that Rumi was trying to hide behind. Her patterns and heritage were a secret to all. But now, she had her friends by her side, and Golden was a song that truly resonated with her. This gave Y/N hope that this performance tonight would be the one to seal the Honmoon.Â
âGirls, time for rehearsal.â Bobby called from the entrance of the dressing room. âY/N they want you at the audio station.â
To the Huntr/xâs reluctance, they had parted ways for a short while, Y/N heading over to the audio station to make sure all the backing tracks and mics were in check. Fortunately all the click tracks were also in time. All three of the girls on stage sounded perfect and ready to go for the real performance.
For everyone's sake.Â
It had to be.
â
âTwo bands, one award.â The show host began, holding up the respective groups light sticks. The large screen was playing a somewhat cheesy introduction.
âEvery snowflake is special. But one snowflake is probably the best. Who will be at the top of the mountain?â The host continued, holding a CGI spinning snowflake in his palm before switching to a visual of both groups as rock forms on a mountain face.
âWhat the hell, I did not remember this.â Y/N cringed, leaning back in her chair.
âI think we rock that look.â Zoey snickered from the sofa of the dressing room.
âYeah, the Saja Boys must be petrified right now.â Mira continued, tossing a gummy worm in her mouth.
âFans from around the universe will decide.â The screen played a glass cracking visual before revealing the logo of the International Idol Awards.Â
âFinally, the moment youâve been waiting for. Here are the five-year reigning champs of the International Idol Awards, Huntr/x!â
How Itâs Done began to play, as the Huntr/x symbol appeared on the left side of the screen.
âVersus the heart-stealing newcomers, the Saja Boys!â Soda pop interrupted the Huntr/x song, the right side of the screen filled with bubbles and the familiar lion logo.
'More like soul stealing.' Rumi rolled her eyes.
âWho will win?!â
âPlease, welcome to the stage, Huntr/x!â The host called, gesturing to the wings.
Y/N blinked, snapping to attention.
âWhat, I thought you guys were on later?â She asked, standing up alongside her friends.
âWe did too.â Rumi frowned, throwing open the dressing room door, breaking into a sprint.
âAt least we get to seal the Honmoon faster!â Mira laughed, sprinting alongside the four girls.
âWait, why am I running? Iâm not performing.â Y/N deadpanned from her spot next to Rumi.
âI mean you could!â Zoey laughed, as they all reached the wings of the stage.
âOkay. This is it. For the fans.â Rumi turned, facing the three other girls.
âFor the world.â Zoey chimed in.
âFor us.â Mira finished, as they all looked at Y/N.
âYouâve got this Huntr/x. Get out there and seal that Honmoon!â Y/N cheered, pumping her fist in the air.
âYes! We win this, and then we celebrate with Itaewon corn dogs!â Bobby cheered, pushing the three girls closer to the stage!
âWoo! Let's go!' All three girls cheered, giving Y/N a last hug before they turned to run on stage.
The first notes of Golden began to play, the set beginning to change. The entire stadium darkened, the figures of all three girls cast into shadow. Their professionalism was unquestionable.
âHere to perform their hot new single, Golden, Itâs Huntr/x!â The host introduced, as Golden played through the stage speakers Â
âI was a ghost I was alone ìŽëìì§ ìêžž ììâ Rumi began, as the spotlight finally lit the stage. A warm golden light, filling the stage, highlighting the group.
Y/N smiled proudly, watching the performance shine. It looked like Rumiâs voice was completely healed. The girls were all running through the choreography with ease, as if it were second nature.
âY/N.â A voice carried toward her, in barely a whisper.
âJinu?â Y/N spoke before she turned, sure of the voice.
 âI lived two lives, tried to play both sides but I couldnât find my own place.âÂ
Y/N turned, and yet though the person behind her resembled her so called wife, something was wrong. Jinu didnât have red eyes, his posture was always perfect, not slightly slumped over.
âCalled a problem child 'cause I got too wild
But now that's how I'm getting paid ëììŽ on stageâ
Y/N shifted her stance defensively. This man couldnât be Jinu, not only were his eyes the wrong colour, there was nothing behind them.
No warmth.
âWho are you.â The girl snarled, already knowing the answer to her own question.
âItâs me, Jinu. Come with me, I have something to show you.â Jinu answered.
Instinct moved Y/Nâs body before anything else. Her arms tensed, hands balled into a fist immediately.
Contact between her fist and the look-a-likeâs chest threw Jinu backwards.Â
A grunt of protest rang out from the demon's lips.
âI'm done hidin', now I'm shinin' like I'm born to be.â
Rumiâs solo was starting. This would mean that Mira and Zoey would come to the back wings. Surely they could help her.
âWe dreamin' hard, we came so far, now I believe.â
âJust come with me, we wonât hurt you.â The demon now in its own form, revealed itself, grinning with its glinting red eyes.
âMake me.â Y/N smiled, cracking her neck.
âWe're goin' up, up, up, it's our moment
You know together we're glowing
Gonna be, gonna be golden.â
âFine.â The creature snarled, âBoys, she wants it done the hard way.â
A group of dokkaebi slowly circled Y/N.
âOh crap.â
âRumiâs killing it out there!â Zoey gasped, as the make-up artists quickly touched up her face.
âLetâs go finish this!â Mira nodded, patting Zoey back in encouragement.
âYou didnât say anything about a group of you rats.â Y/N yelled, double kicking two demons in the chest while avoiding a swipe of claws aimed for her chest.
She narrowly avoided a swipe, meant for her head. The claws of a demon slicing into her cheek.
âY/N?â Mira turned around, spotting the girl, fighting off a group of demons. Without a second thought, they sprinted toward the girl.
âAlright that's enough.â The group leader stepped up from behind Y/N and struck her in the back of the head. 'Gwi-Ma said not to kill her yet.'
âYouâre on in twenty seconds!â The team of staff from behind Zoey and Mira protested.
The two girls rushed toward the group, only to catch a glimpse of Y/N crumpling to the floor, eyes rolling back into her head.Â
âOh, up, up, up with our voices
ììí êčšì§ ì ìë
Gonna be, gonna be goldenâ
âWhat did you do to our Y/N?â Zoey screamed, manifesting her Shinkal, throwing them toward the horde of demons.
âDamn, the hunters are here. Letâs just grab her and go.â The largest one said, narrowly dodging the knives.
âOh, I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin' like I'm born to be
Oh, our time, no fears, no lies
That's who we're born to be.â
The demons lifted up the unconscious body of Y/N and sprinted away from the wings, looking for an exit.Â
Mira let out a cry of frustration, watching the demons run into the corridors of the venue.
âYou know we're gonna be, gonna be golden
We're gonna be, gonna be-â
âRumi!â Miraâs voice called out from Rumiâs in-ear. âThey took Y/N. Sheâs unconscious.â
âWhat?â Rumi landed on the stage, watching the fans' faces melt slowly into confusion as she stopped singing.
âWhat do we do Rumi?â Zoey asked, her voice dripping with desperation.
âGo after her. Iâm coming.â Rumi turned and abandoned the stage that was still playing Golden. There wasnât an ounce of doubt behind her decision. In fact, it was barely a choice. Rumi would have picked saving Y/N over sealing the Honmoon on this day a thousand times over.Â
Shouts of protest rang out throughout the massive crowd, watching their idol run back stage, discarding her performance jacket. Murmurs filtered through out the crowd.Â
Why was she running away, and what were those patterns across her skin?
âWhere did they take her? Where are you guys?â Rumi called into her mic, ignoring the staff that were frantically chasing after her, asking what was wrong.
âTheyâre headed toward exit C. Weâll meet you there.â A static filled Rumiâs ear afterward, signalling that both girls had taken out their mics.
âHang in there Y/N. Weâre coming.â Rumi whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on the glowing green exit sign, her path lit by the LED light strips.
â
âThey took her. She isnât backstage anymore.â Jinuâs eyes were blown wide, in a state of panic. He had watched Mira and Zoey give chase. He had given in to his inner voice, looking for Y/N backstage just to catch a glimpse of her. He had been a second too late.Â
âThen we need to move to plan B.â Abel said grimly, his fists clenching around a now dented plastic water bottle. On his wrist, a pink sparkly hair tie not unlike min's slid down.
âWhat was plan B?â Beom mumbled from his seat on the sofa, not lifting his head from his hands. His wrist adorned a blue matching hairtie.
âWe accept the Idol Of The Year Award, we use that to advertise a concert at midnight at namsan tower. We use the fans to feed Gwi-Ma. Then he gives us Y/N back.â Rae recited, putting a hand on Beomâs shoulder.Â
âWe should get on stage now.â Min stood up from his make up chair, herding the boys towards the door. âKeep it together.â
For Y/N. They thought silently.
--
Meanwhile, as the three girls finally exited the venue, barely out of breath.
âWhere do you think they took her? They couldnât have gone far.â Miraâs eyes darted around, scanning the crowds of people trickling out of the stadium.
âThe Honmoon! Itâs coming apart!â Zoey stared at the now purple lines, seething away, fizzling at the edges.
âDue to the Huntr/x publicly abandoning today's stage, the International idol Awards have been canceled.â A large screen began to play a new broadcast, to the girlâs horror.
âHere are the winners of the International Idol Awards.â
Bobby finally caught up, panting behind the girls. âWhat's going on?â
âY/N was kidnapped. We need to find her. Iâm sorry Bobby we couldnât win today-â
âShe was WHAT?â Bobby looked frantic, whipping out his phone. âWhy donât we call the police.âÂ
âArtist of the Year, Saja Boys.â The screen said, as if taunting the group.
âWeâre sorry Bobby.â Rumi teared up, âI know you worked so hard for this.â
âThatâs not important right now. We need to find Y/N. We can win next year. Go find Y/N, Iâll do press control.â
âBest New Artist, Saja Boys.â The news reporter read from her script.
âBobbyâŠâ Zoey looked conflicted, the three girls slowly backed up toward the gathering crowd.
âGO!â Bobby looked up from his phone, his eyes set in determination. âY/N is more important right now. Iâll deal with everything else. Find our Y/N.â
âWeâll call you Bobby!â The girls ran, as the screens on the street began to show the Saja Boys.
âHey, everybody.â A remorseful Jinu came from the screen, flanked by the rest of the boys.
âYou must all be so sad about the Idol Awards.â He continued, placing his hands on his heart. âWe are too.
âYou lying asshole.â Rumi sneered, glaring up at the screen.
âSo to cheer everyone up, weâre going to do a special live performance tonight.â
âReally? Y/N is missing and thatâs what they're doing?â Mira pushed past the hoards of people. They seemed to be hypnotised, all congregating like sheep.
âMidnight, Namsan Tower. Donât miss it for the world.â Jinuâs eyes held a softer look. Almost probing?
âWait. âFor the world?â Is heâŠâ Zoeyâs eyes flickered to the other two girls.
âIs he talking to us?â
âItâs worth a shot. Come on, let's go.â Â
Running through crowds of people who seemed to be mindlessly heading for Namsan Tower, like moths to a flame. It was harder than it looked, finding their way while keeping an eye out for demons and Y/N. Strangely, none of the public had recognised the Huntr/x girls. They were focused only on the lit up tower, the crowning jewel of the Seoul city sky line.
â
The five boys stood, just behind the Honmoon, infront their stage. Each one drowning in resentment toward the demon lord behind them.
âWell done. Ready to begin? You know whatâs on the line now.â Gwi-Ma chuckled darkly.
Jinu stayed silent, as the men behind him kept their eyes down, boring into the ground as if that could change something.
âGood, Iâm ready to feast.â The fire rumbled in amusement. Finally, he had broken-in his toys.
Stalking up beside Jinu, Derpy held one of Y/Nâs sparkling in his mouth.
Derpy gave an inquisitive purr, nudging at Jinu with his head.
Jinu glanced down, his eyes catching the glitter on the hair tie. His ears filled with the chanting of their group name, the crowd assembled outside Namsan Tower.
â
âThe stadiumâs huge. How will we find her in time?â Zoey panted, running through the halls that lead to the seating area.
âI donât understand. The Saja boys said they wanted us to win. That they wanted to keep Y/N safe.â Rumi panted, pushing past the mindless fans.
âThen why did they take her?â
The stadium began to darken, the large screen at the front of the stage that had once displayed the regular Saja Boys icon had changed. The performance was beginning.
âNo.. NO!â Rumi screamed, roughly pushing past people that took no notice of her panic.
âGirls!â A familiar voice called, over the chanting of âSajaâ. Bringing a wave of hope into the three Huntr/x girls. âUp here!â
All three Huntr/x members' eyes shot up, watching a bruised Y/N dodging and weaving while landing heavy blows on the thinned out group of demons surrounding her.
She was up at the VIP section.Â
âY/N!â The three girls cried out, immediately climbing up the stands.
âGet off our Y/N-ie!â Zoey threw her daggers with such force that they dented the wall, but not before they hit three demons squarely in the back.
âY/N, duck!â Rumi flipped forward, bringing her sword down on the demon that was holding Y/N against a wall.
âAre you girls alright?â The producer asked, dropping down to the ground and sweeping out the demon from itâs feet with her leg.
âYouâre asking us if weâre alright? You were kidnapped! You have a cut on your face.â Mira replied, frustration tinged at her voice as she swung her êłĄë (Curved moon sword), decapitating several demons.
âIâm fine, just a little banged up.â Y/N spun around, kicking the last demon in the chest, sending him flying back into Rumiâs sword.
âWow, maybe I should join you guys.â Y/N joked, wiping away the blood, trickling from her cheek.
The three girls gawked in horror, taking in the injured image of their friend. Her jacket was long gone, bruises were red and fresh, littering her arms and legs. Her left cheek had a cut, trailing from her ear till her nose, her knees were beginning to bleed. Y/N slowly sank to her knees, catching her breath.
âI changed my mind, Y/N you are to never join us in missions. Look at you.â Rumi hurriedly rushed over to the girl, holding Y/Nâs face in her hands.
âDamn it, we donât have first aid supplies or ice here. Everything's back at the tower.â Zoey dropped her weapons, also rushing forward with Mira.
Their flurried conversation was stopped short, as the stage lights dimmed.
The Saja Boys began to harmonise demonically, floating into the air dressed in all black traditional Korean íëł” (hanbok).
âI canât believe they would do this to you.â Rumi shook her head, helping Y/N stand to her feet.
âIt wasnât them. There was another demon, it looked like Jinu, a shape shifter. The boys would never hurt me. I swear.â Y/N shook her head, eyes closed in protest of her screaming joints as she moved to stand.
âI'll be your idolâÂ
âMy songâŠâ Y/Nâs eyes blinked open, looking toward the stage.
âKeeping you in check (uh), keeping you obsessed
Play me on repeat, ëììŽ in your head
Anytime it hurts, play another verseÂ
I can be your sanctuaryâ
Abelâs smirk was hollow. Purely a performative expression. Y/N could tell, after spending so much time with him, his default expression was a stoic face with soft eyes. Even when he was performing, his eyes always showed amusement but not right now.Â
Right now, his eyes were desperate.
Begging even.
âItâs not them. It has to be Gwi-Ma. Heâs making them do this.'Â
âY/N⊠we-â Rumi began.
âNo, look! On Minâs wrist!
âKnow I'm the only one right now (now)
I will love you more when it all burns down
More than power, more than gold.â
The purple haired man sang, a pink glittery hair tie on his wrist caught the stage light.
âThat's my hair tie. Heâs wearing it on his wrist.â Y/N pointed at the large screen, clearly displaying Minâs wrist as he brought his hand up to his face.
âYeah, you gave me your heart, now I'm here for your soulâ
Rae sang, a magenta hair tie adorned his wrist, matching his hair.
'They have actual names?' Mira looked taken aback.
âTheyâre all wearing sparkly hair ties on their wrists.â Zoey pointed out, looking at Y/N, her face dawning in realisation.
âI'm the only one who'll love your sins
Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skinâÂ
Jinu sang, his eyes trained on the audience in a dead gaze, a fake smile lining his lips.
âTheyâre being forced into this. I think Y/N is right. Remember how Jinu said For the world. He wanted us to find him. To help him save Y/N.â Zoey stood up next to Y/N helping her stand on her other side.
âHow can we be sure?â Mira was still hesitant, holding on to some resentment.
âThose are Y/Nâs hair ties. She wears them around her wrist for luck. She wore one today. Itâs golden.â Rumi gently took Y/Nâs arm, lifting it to show the accessory.
âYeah, yâknow, for turning the Honmoon golden and everything.â She smiled tiredly.
âListen, 'cause I'm preachin' to the choir
Can I get the mic a little higher?
Gimme your desireâ
âWe need a plan. How do we stop this? The Honmoon is fraying as we speak.â Mira led the way, as the rest of the girls slowly led Y/N back towards the stadium lobby.
âDo you guys remember What It Sounds Like?â Y/N said, sitting down slowly on a bench.
âThe song we recorded not too long ago right? Alongside Takedown?â Zoey nodded, leaping over the counter of an unattended food stall, rummaging through a fridge for some ice.Â
âYouâre hunters. The Honmoon allows you to project your voices without microphones. I can connect the instrument to the stage speakers, I have an override code for emergencies.â
âWeâve never practiced this song. We donât even have a click track. Iâm not sure we can-â
âZoey, I know you can do it. Youâre hunters. All of you. This is what youâre meant to do. This is how you all shine.â Y/N stood, accepting the makeshift icepack, letting it rest on her shoulder.
âRemember? We are hunters, voices strong.â Y/N sang, her eyes glowing with an inextinguishable fire. In the background, the concert continued, blaring the voices of the Saja Boys. Â
âSlaying demons with our song.â Rumi continued, coming to stand at Y/Nâs left, taking her hand.
âFix the world and make it right.â Mira sang quietly, standing in front of Y/N, holding Rumiâs other hand.
âWhen darkness finally meets the light.â Zoey finished, standing on Y/Nâs right, holding her and Miraâs hand.
An iridescent glow stemming from the feet of the group, hummed through the purple fraying lines of the Honmoon, replacing the purple fizzing lines.
Beom was rapping now, his voice dripping in hidden disdain.
âHow did weâŠâ Mira stared in wonder, âWe changed the colour of the Honmoon?âÂ
âNo, I think Y/N did.â Zoey stared at the lines. They only radiated a few meters away from the group but they were visibly contrasting. âThis has never happened to us before.â
âNo, this has to be a different Honmoon. Look, the lines are new.â
âY/N you have to sing with us.â Rumi decided, nodding firmly. âYou said you changed the patterns of the demons right? You are the weapon, you never needed to manifest one. Your voice, your touch, your presence itself aids the Honmoon.âÂ
âBut I-â
âWe donât have time. Y/N youâve always believed in us. Enough to write songs whenever we needed them. Please, believe in us one more time.âÂ
âBesides, we kindaâŠâ Mira trailed off, looking sheepish.
âWe didnât practice so we need you to guide usâŠâ Zoey rubbed the back of her neck, slightly embarrassed.
âYou guys wonât take no for an answer will you.â Y/N laughed, her voice almost being lost amongst the screaming fans.Â
âNo, especially Rumi. Sheâs been trying to get you to join us forever.â Zoey gave a soft smile, adjusting the icebag on Y/Nâs shoulder.
âOkay, so whatâs the plan? How are we gonna tackle this?â Mira brought all the girls into a huddle.
âThere's three sides to the centre stage. Weâll each take an entrance. Iâll stand behind Rumi because Gwi-Ma already knows about me and Rumi, it's likely heâll keep eyes on us.â Y/N spoke quickly, her nerves buzzing in anticipation.
âWeâll start from the entrances and end up at center stage so we get the attention of all the fans. Then, once we gather enough souls back, we go for Gwi-Ma.â Y/N finished, fiddling with her phone.
âYou can get the backing track up? How does that even work?â Zoey looked impressed.
âActually, itâs not that hard. Iâll explain it later. We need to get into position. Everyone knows what to do?â Y/N looked up, greeted by the expression of pure grit and resolve on all of her friends.
âLetâs do this.â Rumi nodded, bringing her hand to the centre of the group.
âLETâS DO THIS.â The rest cheered.Â
â
The boys were now reaching the height of the song, stretching out their arms toward the adoring crowd,
âLiving in your mind now
Too late, 'cause you're mine nowâ
Their feet began to leave the ground, bringing the screams of the crowd into a crescendo.
âThey can fly?â Y/N blinked, gaping at the men who were at least two meters in the air.
âI mean, we can jump out of a plane and not die soâŠâ Rumi shrugged, looking unimpressed. âItâs not that cool.â
âI mean, do the fans not think this is at least some kind of suspicious?â Y/N was astounded, trailing behind Rumi, removing her icebag and throwing it in a nearby bin.
âI will make you free (I will make you free)
When you're all a part of meâ
âThats⊠actually a good point.â Rumi mumbled, looking somewhat miffed. âI guess they think it's just special effects right?â
âMakes sense.â Y/N nodded, watching the men continue their song.
âpreachin' to the choir
Can I get the mic a little higher?
Gimme your desire
Watch me set your world on fire (world on fire)â
âDid you write this Y/N?â Rumi wiped off the residue moisture off Y/Nâs shoulder, adjusting Y/Nâs matching outfit.
âUh, yeah I did.â Y/N winced, wiping at her cheek quickly. Her hand came back, dripping scarlet.
Rumi sighed, brushing a thumb under the cut tentatively.
âWeâre going to need to disinfect this after.âÂ
âHowâd you know I wrote it?â Y/N smoothed down Rumiâs hair with her clean hand.
âHow could I not recognise your writing style?â Rumi rolled her eyes, a faint blush spreading across her face.
âCome on, weâve got a Honmoon to rebuild.â The purple-haired girl squared her shoulders, leading Y/N by the hand toward the stage entrance.
âYou're down on your knees, I'ma be your idolâ
âOhâŠâ  Rumi began, her haunting voice echoing through the stadium. Making her way toward the crowd, the fans parting to let her through.
âWe are hunters. Voices strong. Slaying demons with our song.â Her voice turned dark. Rumi had tapped into her demon voice. The patterns littering her skin glowed violet, her left eye turning yellow.
âFix the world and make it right. When darkness finally meets the light.â Her right fingers grew into claws.
âYou come here like this?â Gwi-Ma snarked, his cocky tone bleeding into his words.
âYou think you can fix the world? You canât even fix yourself.â
âI canât.â Rumi agreed, her voice hollow, her eyes were glazed over.
âAnd now, everyone sees you for what you really are.â
âThey do.â
âAnd now the Honmoon is gone.â Gwi-Ma was all but sneering now.
âIt is.â Y/N squeezed her hand.
âBut we can make a new one.â Rumiâs eyes cleared, her eyes snapping up to the purple hued fire, letting go of Y/Nâs hand.
âNothing but the truth now
Nothing but the proof of what I am
The worst of what I came from, patterns I'm ashamed of
Things that even I don't understand.â
Zoeyâs voice chimed in from the left stage entrance, taking over the melody.
âI tried to fix it, I tried to fight it
My head was twisted, my heart divided
My lies all collided
I don't know why I didn't trust you to be on my sideâ
Y/N had changed the lines to be more widespread in terms of distribution. Originally this song came only from Rumi, but now it was for all of them. Rumi was no longer alone.Â
âI broke into a million pieces, and I can't go back
But now I'm seeing all the beauty in the broken glass
The scars are part of me, darkness and harmony
My voice without the lies, this is what it sounds likeâ
Mira sang, as the three slowly walked onto the stage platforms, eyes fixed on each other.
âWhy did I cover up the colors stuck inside my head?â Zoey sang, her chest beginning to glow.
âI should've let the jagged edges meet the light instead.â Mira sang, clutching at her chest with her hand.
âShow me whatâs underneath.â Rumi sang, gesturing with her hands towards her two group members.
âI'll find your harmony,â The three girls harmonised, their chests glowing the faint colour of the old Honmoon.
âThe song we couldnât writeâŠâ
âThis is what it sounds like.â Y/N stepped onto the stage, joining the song, her voice rippling through the stadium like an autumn breeze.Â
âY/N?â Min whispered her name like a prayer. The men were frozen in disbelief.Â
âWHY IS SHE FREE. I TOLD YOU TO BRING HER TO ME. STOP THIS SONG!â Gwi-ma howled, sending a swarm of demons, a writhing mass of limbs and disfigured faces.
The sheer intimidating number rumbled the stage as they raced towards the hunters.Â
âWe're shattering the silence, we're rising, defiant
Shouting in the quiet, "You're not alone" â
Y/N sang, as she walked forward, watching Rumi draw her sword.
âWe listened to the demons, we let them get between us
But none of us are out here on our own.â
The four chorused, marching forward toward the demons, Zoey and Mira both drawing their weapons. As they slashed through the first wave of demons, the crowd seemed to regain consciousness as if they had been released from a spell.
âSo we were cowards, so we were liars
So we're not heroes, we're still survivorsâ
The girls were slashing through the mass of demons, weaving through each of them whilst singing, getting closer to the centre of the stage.Â
âThe dreamers, the fighters, no lying, I'm tired
But dive in the fire, and I'll be right here by your side.â
Reaching the middle, the group embraced. The three Huntr/x girls wrapped Y/N in a tight hug, causing a ripple through the Honmoon, a glowing of iridescent strings.Â
Not only had Y/N changed the Honmoon, she had changed Rumiâs skin?
Rumiâs patterns had turned an almost ultra violet white. The group shared a knowing look, before turning to face Gwi-Ma, now ready to advance on their biggest foe.
âWe broke into a million pieces, and we can't go back
But now we're seeing all the beauty in the broken glass.â
Y/Nâs eyes caught Jinuâs, she watched his cat like pupils dilate.
âThe scars are part of me, darkness and harmony
My voice without the lies, this is what it sounds likeâ
Y/N smiled, walking closer towards the front of the stage whilst the Huntr/x girls cleared a path before her.
âWhy did we cover up the colors stuck inside our head?
Get up and let the jagged edges meet the light instead.
Show me what's underneath, I'll find your harmony
Fearless and undefined, this is what it sounds likeâ
âY/N!â Beom cried out, the first of the group to leave the stage, racing down toward her, throwing his arms around her.
âBeom, you look good in your íëł” (Hanbok)â Y/N grinned, patting the youngest on the back.
Y/N closed her eyes, letting out a slight groan.Â
âOkay, gentle please, I think I have bruised ribs.â She complained, as larger, stronger hands held her up by her waist.
âYouâre hurt.â Abelâs deep voice sounded weak, as if all the air had left his lungs.
âHey Abel.â Y/N laughed, wincing slightly, â Sâ not as bad as it looks.â
âYouâre a terrible liar Y/N. You should leave that up to us.â Raeâs melodic voice chimed in, coming to stand in front of Y/N.
âWe need to get you home as soon as possible. To a hospital even.â Min fretted, brushing Y/Nâs hair back, checking her for injuries.
âIâm fine Min.â Y/N laughed, brushing back the oldest manâs hair, revealing teary eyes. âHey now, don't cry.â
âM not.âÂ
âOkay honey.â Y/N smiled, before turning her eyes toward the man who had not yet come down to greet her.
âJinu⊠Wonât you come say hi to your husband?â She called out, giving him a forlorn smile.
âY/NâŠâ He breathed out in response, body instinctively floating down towards her, ignoring the screams of protest coming from Gwi-Ma.Â
âYOU DARE DEFY ME? YOU WERE NOTHING WITHOUT ME.â
âI donât deserve to forget.â He looked onward, hands itching to delicately sweep over the cut on her cheek.
âThereâs my wifey.â Y/N smiled, sighing in relief as Jinu came to kneel before her.
âI stole your songâŠâ His claws cracked the stage as he dug his nails into the floor.
âYeah, well as long as you give me royalty fees it's okay.â Y/N joked, hand lifting Jinuâs chin.
âBesides, I wrote it for you guys anyways.â
âAlright, youâve had a good enough reunion. We need your help to defeat Gwi-Ma.â Rumi glowered, coming to stand between Y/N and the Saja Boys.Â
âWe canât keep just killing the demons he sends at us, weâll tire out.â Zoey agreed, throwing her knives into the horde.
Suddenly the mass began to shimmer into petals, their bodies dissipating before everyoneâs eyes. The petals were being sucked back into the fire on the main stage.
âWhatâs going on.â Mira narrowed her eyes, swinging her blade into petals.
Gwi-Ma seemed to grow larger, swelling in size as the petals fed his body.
âYou traitor.â Gwi-ma snarled, âDid you really think that Iâd let you live? Let your friends live?â Gwi-ma began to cackle,
âYOUR VOICES CANNOT DEFEAT ME.âÂ
A split second.Â
Just one.
Jinu had seen the burst of fire. He had turned around when Gwi-ma began to speak, the flames blaring its way toward him.
He had closed his eyes, accepting the fate that were to befall him, at peace knowing that Y/N would be safe. She would find a way to defeat Gwi-Ma.
But the searing heat did not land.Â
Only the soft caress of a gentle hand on his cheek.
âItâs time to go home, Jinu.â Y/N smiled, the purple flames raging against her back.
âY/N, no NO.â Jinu reached for the girl in front of him, watching her body slowly begin to glow with a white light, steadily consuming her form as Gwi-Ma cackled.
âY/N!â The group cried, to no avail, watching the girl enveloped suddenly in light. They all ran toward her, only to be pushed back by an invisible force.
A deafening WHUM spread through the stadium, as Y/Nâs body lifted from the ground, exploding into a searingly blinding light, sending a shockwave of white gold through the strings, across the stadium, one final ripple, sealing the Honmoon. Leaving in her wake, a ripple of iridescent lines.
01: THE WELCOMEâyou arrived last, the caravan of floats and horses that came to visit the crownlands had advanced, entering through the doors of the Red Keep. You felt the southern air move your silk dress when you got off. Most importantly? you also felt the gaze of a few Targaryen princes falling on you.
The Red Keep had seen countless arrivals, lords and ladies from every corner of Westeros, emissaries from distant lands, knights in gleaming armor, and merchants with their gilded wares. The carriage of your House, silvery oak with lilac stones, reached the doors and they waited for you to come down.
It was beautiful, yes, what the ancestors of the Targaryen lineage had built here, but it canât compare to the majestic architecture your homeland had. Starfall and beyond had much more extravagance than the royalty.
The moment you set foot on the ground, you felt the looks. You were not merely beautiful, beauty was common enough in Kingâs Landing, a currency traded as easily as coin. No, you were something rarer: a presence that unsettled, eyes like amethysts due to an ancient bloodline.
And the princes of House Targaryen, standing, courtly receiving each guest, felt the weight of that presence most keenly.
Baelor, eldest and most revered, got ahead, His eyes narrowing you whole. The jewels, the gleaming eyes. He had prayed that morning, as he did every morning, for strength, wisdom, and purity of heart. Yet now, as you approached, he felt his prayers unravel.
Your gaze brushed his, fleeting yet deliberate, and his chest tightened. He told himself it was temptation, a test from the Seven.
But when you smiled, soft, knowing, almost amused, Baelorâs breath caught. He was the first to bow when the herald announced your name.
âLady Dayneâ he said, âOn behalf of House Targaryen, I welcome you to Kingâs Landing. May your stay be blessed by the Seven.â
His words were formal, but his eyes betrayed him. They lingered too long, too reverent, too entranced.
Beside him, Maekar took as step closer as well, jaw tight. He was not a man easily swayed by beauty, his temper was still. But when your lilac gown brushed the floor, he felt something stir.
You looked at him once, briefly when you bowed in front of him and he saw amusement in your eyes.
âWitchcraft.â He thought.
Valarr, younger and eager, had been staring all the time and froze when you stood in front of him. His ears burned crimson, his hands fumbled at his belt, and he bowed so deeply he almost toppled forward.
âLady Dayneâ he stammered, voice cracking. âItâit is an honor. Truly.â
You returned the bow and smiled, walking to present your respects to the next Targaryen.
âHow many are they? Seven hells, at every corner I look there is another silver hair.â You thought.
Aerion Targaryen, you recognized him. You have heard of him and the cruelty that came along him, but he was smirking. The bastard was smirking at you when he took your hand and kissed it.
In his mind, he relished the thought of being the one to claim you.
âMy ladyâ
You met his gaze without flinching, smiling properly. âMy princeâ
He was hooked.
Daeron, who wasnât at the gates, observed everything from the balcony, wine in hand, and when you looked up, and your eyes met his, he felt a shiver through his veins. Dreams of long haired maidens walking through fire, of omens he could not decipher.
You felt their eyes, all of them. Violet, mixed gazes heavy with suspicion. You had expected it; Daynes were known for beauty, for mystery, but this was different.
The Targaryens were proud. To charm one was a feat; to charm them all was a game.
Baelorâs reverence amused you. You wonder how long would it take him to break. Maekarâs scowl was predictable, but you saw the way his fingers played with his rings. Valarr was sweet. Aerionâs arrogance was a challenge. And Daeron, not a thought about him just yet.
The welcome feast glittered with gold and song. Musicians played, courtiers laughed, and the hall brimmed with warmth.
The reason of the gathering was simple, The Handâs tourney. When he was first named Hand of the King by his father, King Daeron, there was no time for celebration, the Blackfyres were attacking. Now, years later and the realm in peace, the crown can give themselves the pleasure of having feasts and celebrations as much as they want.
Baelor was the first to approach you, as you had expected. He bowed, with that charming smile that had the whole realm hooked.
âLady Dayneâ he said softly, âyour presence isâŠremarkable. I hope you enjoy these frivolous festivities..â
Of course the Hand himself would be humble. Your ladies in waiting hadnât lie. âYou honor me, Prince Baelor. I pray the Seven will grant me peace here.â
Peace. The word struck him like a bell. He searched your face, trying to discern whether you meant it sincerely or as a jest.
âPeaceâ he said carefully, âI fear Kingâs Landing offers little of it. The city is restless, the court⊠more so.â
You looked around, he wasnât wrong. Everyone seemed busy in their own little game. Power. Some lords were whispering in the ears of others, some drinking wine and flirting, just as you expected the crownlands would be.
The arrogant prince from before, Aerion, had his gaze fixated on you. He looked like he was wondering âwhy didnât I approach her first?â
âI find rest in the strangest places, Prince Baelor. Iâm sure the members of the court have their own way to find rest.â Your eyes told more than your words did.
Baelorâs breath caught. He lowered his eyes, ashamed of the heat rising in his chest.
He let out a nervous laugh, nodding. What was going on? He was the Prince. The heir to the Iron throne. No woman should get him flustered like this.
âThey certainly doâŠâ He said, his eyesguilty dropping to your body covered in silk. He recomposed almost immediately.
âForgive me if I stare, my lady, your beauty thrills meâ
You laughed softly, a sound like silver bells. âOh does it? Not to worry, Iâm used to itâ
Your words unsettled him further. He wanted to retreat, to pray, to steel himself against temptation. To be the honorable man he thought he was.Yet he could not move. He was caught, ensnared not by sorcery but by your presence.
âYou are unlike any lady I have metâ he admitted, voice low.
You leaned closer, the essence of your special perfume filled his nostrils. âDoes that frighten you?â
âYesâ he whispered.
âBut you cannot look awayâ you finished for him, tone playful, almost cruel in its accuracy.
Baelor flushed, his fingers fidgeting with his silver rings. He wanted to deny it, to claim strength, but the truth was laid bare.
Before any of you could say a word, the King stood, glass of wine in hand and recited the words for a toast. The tourney would begin tomorrow.
The rest of the night was peaceful, enjoyable, even. You let yourself gossip with your ladies in waiting, sipping wine and subtly mocking drunken lords.
The heirâs son, Valarr, came to your table once, briefly. He bowed and served you wine, with a small âEnjoying the evening?â His hands were a bit shaky but when you took the cup and your fingers brushed his he relaxed. âHe truly is his fatherâs sonâ you thought.
Later, in the comfort of your chambers, you let yourself think about the princes who had looked at you like you were the moon herself.
Daeron kept stealing nervous glances at you, almost scared. Maekar had not dared to look your way, but you catched him looking with the corner of his eye. Aerionâs gaze frightened you, but you wouldnât break,no. Not until they do first.
a/n: okay, first part so far, and we already have the exact chemistry i pictured with Baelor. So excited for the next part and already have some ideas đââïž Baelor take your clothes off imma lick you up
đ·ïž: @ae-gax @corpsebride25 @helpyourself-9 @theprophaecy @kittyblahhh3000 @ladymildfrd @saltycomicsparentingfish @bad-poetry-enjoyer @highanxiety03 @drwormz5 @vampiredaisiesss @deeeeexx @theloserinthisgame @angelayse77 let me know if you want to be added!
summary: six moons ago, you met a prince in a garden.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife reader
word count: 7.1k
based off of this! | masterlist
âyour grace,â you breathe, feeling suddenly startled and nervous, even more nervous, if at all possible.Â
you had always hated it when your uncle chose to host feasts. it was one thing to have the keep cluttered with an overwhelming amount of new faces, making your anxiousness spike a great deal further in dreadful anticipation of when they might leave.
but it was another matter entirely this timeâthe tourney and the feast, as if one alone was not bad enough. both in honor of your cousin, the heir, and his new betrothal planned with the daughter of a reachland lord.Â
it was exciting, you suppose, for your family. a new daughter for your aunt and uncle, a sister for your other cousin, the dream of young children running around someday soon stepping closer towards reality.
it was even a little exciting for you, in a way. perhaps she might be kindâsomeone you could see yourself getting along with until your own marriage was plannedâwhenever that day might be.Â
you had not gotten your hopes very high for some timeâyou knew there was no lordâs hand waiting for you, not when they were yet to find one for your other cousin.Â
no, you had resigned yourself to the fact that there was perhaps a second son out there somewhere for you. maybe a household knight, if your uncle so decided. it would not be a grand life like the one your cousin was likely to live, but it would undoubtedly be a better situation than the one you resided in currently.
at least, you hope it would be.
it was a small dream covering up an even smaller burning desire, one you kept buried somewhere deep inside. but it was yoursâyours to hold onto, yours to cherish until the day came.
especially on occasions such as these. the castle was filled with a great deal of guests, some familiar and others new to you, more than you thought could fit inside.
your aunt rushed around trying to get everything in order for the feast, chattering away about preparing chambers for the visitors and the menu for dinner, a menu that you knew was far out of their affordability.
your uncle busied himself in readying the grounds for the tourney alongside the steward, hiring workers and attempting to make the entire place appear much more garish than it truly was.
the keep was simple, but it had always been beautiful in its simplicity. the only home you had ever known was beginning to seem further and further away as they kept adding embellishments.Â
but the very worst of them all was perhaps your young cousin.Â
she had been speaking for the majority of the week of her own preparations for the events. she described her new dresses in exorbitant detail, sparing not a single word as she explained how her ladyâs maid will be arranging her hair and jewelry.Â
you had been forced to listen, as always, since you had nowhere else to go.Â
even your precious garden was off-limits as it was being decorated by servants. you had urged them, as gently as you could, to not disturb the blooms you had grown with such care. they had reassured you, but it had felt hollow once you had sat down with your cousin.
âand i shall require fresh flowers for my hair. only the very best,â she had said, and you felt your hand beginning to tremble again.
ânot from my garden, you mean?âÂ
âit is our garden, cousin. do not forget yourself,â she sniped back, and you closed your open mouth. âif i want your stupid flowers, i shall have them. whichever most closely match my new gowns.â
âbut you did not-â
âand more importantly, this is for the matter of my hand. i shall need to appear the picture of beauty if the prince will ask for my favor, as is expected of him-â
you had, without even meaning to, tuned out of the rest of her conversation. in the end, it seemed she was mostly speaking to herself.Â
you slumped into your armchair, thinking of the flowers you had taken such care to grow and some prince complimenting them and her instead of you. and you were convinced she did not even know the princeâs name that she spoke ofâ
â-oh, i had almost forgotten. the maids have left one of my old dresses in your chambers. mother says you cannot completely appear bereft in front of the royal family.â
feasts were far and few between for your house.Â
but when they did happen, you had been well-trained to learn your place. an older dress, one from your cousinâs closet, no doubt abandoned somewhere in the depths of her wardrobe in favor of a newer fashion, would occasionally make its way to you.Â
they were always lacking in some formâusually too large, with the sleeves hanging off of your arms and the train ghosting behind you. even when your maid would come to help you, usually after they had been thoroughly exhausted readying your cousin, they could not tie it properly because it had not been made for you.Â
and thus had come your other rulesâseated with the other guests in the lower part of the hall. hiding your old dresses, hiding yourself.Â
you had only been able to escape whilst everyone was distracted with the never-ending courses of dinner, lying to the guests around you that you required some fresh air.
in truth, you only wanted to see which blooms had been plucked for her, talking mindlessly to one of themâa blond oneâwho was hardly paying her any attention. the fact that your flower had been stolen from life for this reason was nothing short ofâ
âmy lady?â his grace says, and you blink rapidly, having forgotten all your train of thought and whatever question he had first asked you.
in truth, you had not expected anyone else to be here in your personal sanctuary, much less a princeâ
well, you think, he could not have known that this is your sanctuary.Â
you had not even glanced around to take in the decorations that prettily adorned the small area. garlands hanging above your head, fluttering in the breeze. from the corner of your eye, you could make out some small lanterns nestled by the stone path that brought the two of you to the heart of the garden.Â
everything glowed in the dim, golden light of the flickering flames, shrouding over the greenery, making it shimmer.Â
the moonlight was much brighter now that the sun had completely set, and you seemed to be drunk on it. your thoughts had abandoned you rather quickly.
âwhat?â you murmur, breathless again.Â
âare you quite well?â he looks around, almost as though he is searching for someone who is nowhere to be found, before his gaze focuses on you again.
oh.Â
his eyes are entirely lovely. one is bright blue and the other brown as the earth beneath your slippered feet.Â
your hands are sometimes covered in the soil of that very earth. the train of your skirts, too, since they so often drag behind you. itâs inescapable, you had determined, a worthy sacrifice of silk and cotton in order to maintain your beloved garden.Â
your uncle had not wanted to pay for a staff of gardeners on top of the groundskeeper. but you had pleaded, you recall, that you would take care of it yourself, rather than allowing them to destroy it completely.Â
if the maids were to be believed, this garden was a favorite of your motherâs when she first came to live in the keep. it felt almost terribly unjust to allow it to be destroyed by the others in this family.
a few ruined dresses had not ever seemed to compare to such a deserving cause.
perhaps even more so, now. your first encounter with a member of the royal family, in this garden of all places. you had not stood outside when the carriages had arrivedâthey had not summoned you because they did not want you to greet the princes.
you think you might pity yourself, if you were but a few years younger. but you had grown to not think of it any longer.Â
though, you realize sharply, it might have been worth your auntâs ire this time if you had shown up regardless. their names had been announced upon their arrival, and staring at the dark-haired prince, your mind suddenly feels empty.
âi-uh,â you stumble over your words. âof-of course. i did not know that you would be here. i-â
âof course not. i interrupted your solitude, did i not?âÂ
the prince smiles warmly and something tiny that is quickly magnifying begins to flutter in your chest, near your heart.
his words are⊠unexpectedly kind. he speaks as though you should have no fear of him.Â
which, of course, cannot be the case.Â
after all, this is a prince of the realm. you do not know exactly which one, but you recognize his face, from where he sat beside your uncle at the high table.
and now you have somehow managed to find him alone in the garden.
or rather, he has found you.
âi merely, uh,â words escape you, slipping around your mind as though there are puddles everywhere. â-i wished for some fresh air. it was very, uh⊠um-â
âstifling?â he offers politely, not appearing at all phased by your lack of conduct. you nod slowly.
if only your aunt could see you nowâbumbling around your words as though you are a fool, unable to form a proper sentence around the prince.
it is not your fault, you try to convince yourself. try and fail, but no matter.Â
you determine steadfastly that it is because of him, his mismatched eyes that are staring at you very, very intently, and the manner in which he speaks, which is completely disarming.
and though you know you are behaving oddly, like some silly young girl, you do not feel the brunt of the emotions as you usually do.Â
instead you feel as though no matter what you say, the prince will not be deterred in his chivalry. how odd, you find yourself thinking, not at all how i thought a prince would act.
âyes, your grace,â you finally agree after a moment. âstifling.â
âyou are kinder than myself, my lady. i would have named it rather suffocating,â he says, and you feel yourself laugh before you can stop it from happening. âi, too, was seeking reprieve.â
your quiet laughs turns into a sincere smile, staring at the prince with your widened eyes as he twists a silver ring about his finger.Â
âreprieve from what, exactly?â you ask quietly.Â
you should not have even uttered the words.Â
granted, he does not know who you truly are, but you imagine he would not be foolish enough to insult his host in front of a stranger, or another guest. currently, to him, you are both of those things.
and yet, you still desire the need to know what he thought.
this is not the only time youâve ever escaped during a feast. twice you were able to sneak all the way to your chambers, and once youâd made it to the corridor that leads to the garden before getting caught.Â
and even then, no one had noticed for some time. if it hadnât been for that stupid guardâ
âi should not disparage the efforts that have been put into organizing such an⊠extravagant feast.â
âi believe you should,â the words continue to slip out before you can even grasp what you have said. you hold back your hand before it can come to cover your mouth. âi apologize, your grace, i did not-â
but to your utter surprise, he does not look upset, or even mildly angered. he looks fairly amused.Â
the prince smiles at you, his bright, lovely eyes crinkling around the corner with fine lines. he smiles not only with his lips but with the entirety of his face, his head dipping as he tries to hide his laugher. you stare blankly at the expanse of his shoulders as they move with him.
when he looks back up, you think you have suddenly forgotten your name as well as his.
a prince of the realm, smiling and laughing with you in your garden. you could not have dreamt this even in your fanciful imagination.
âi grow weary of the conversation inside. and that is all i shall admit to,â he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.Â
he is dressed very finely. in the moonlight, his wine red doublet looks brighter than it had inside. the velvet looks incredibly soft, you think, your fingers twitching beside your skirts again.
your hand brushes the silk of your own gownâcream colored silk, though it was not of your own choosing. you do not prefer such bright colors because they might dirty easily, but you were not given another option.Â
you knew your family would be keeping you out of sight if they could manage it, but they could not have you look underdressed among the guests.
or something of that nature, you imagine, while you pull the too-long sleeves over your knuckles, as if you could hide yourself from the princeâs discerning gaze.
âi do not blame you,â you continue, hoping he will not grow bored of the conversation out here as well. âi imagine feasts such as these become⊠rather repetitive, do they not?â
baelor blinks at you, releasing a breath of air before he continues.Â
âindeed,â he agrees, âwe speak of naught but potential betrothals and newly imported taxes on grain. and-â
â-there is only so much to be said about grain,â you finish quietly, laughing to yourself before you realize what you have done. âoh. i did not mean to interrupt you, your grace, i apologize-â
âdo not apologize,â he urges, and you feel the nervousness at your misstep melt away completely.Â
his words seem to have an imposing effect on you, but not at all in the way you had thought they would. it seems as though your body feels the need to comply with his wishes before your mind can understand what he has said.
it is odd, to say the least. a kind, gentle prince. you have heard tales of the young princes, though their names seem to escape you now too.Â
the one named after the king is a drunk, if the rumors are to be believed. but you have never given much thought to those. there is no telling what has happened in his life to lead him to drown out his thoughts and sorrows in cups of wine.
and there is another oneâthe brightflame, as heâs fashioned himself.Â
he had ridden in the tourney earlier today, somewhat impressively, you had surmised from your seat beside some of the guests. you had watched clearly though, as he had asked for the favor of some other beautiful noble lady instead of your cousin, smiling to yourself at the thought as heâd trotted away to ready his lance.
and then you had felt badly about it immediately after at the flustered, discomposed expression of your aunt and cousin.Â
it could have been worse, you imagine, though the thought would never reach the ears of another soul. if he had asked for my favor instead. that slight would have stung harsher.Â
though something like that would never have happenedâa childâs folly. you are not the type of lady to catch a princeâs eyes at a tourney and be crowned a queen of love and beauty andâÂ
âyou have not misspoken, if that is what you fear.âÂ
you find yourself nodding as you listen to his words.
âyes, your grace,â you say, though you do not know what you are agreeing to.
âindeed it is quite dull. and it grows duller still when i am being propositioned with betrothal requests for a son who is already wed,â the prince says, and you find your eyes growing wider.
ânot truly? they forgot he was married?â
you try to put the rest of the pieces together in your mind. you know only one of the young princes is married, the son ofâ
âtruly. i fear the rest of the conversation after that was already doomed.â
you laugh at his words, and the ease with which he says them. it is odd that he does not seem more offended. the other prince, the older one with the bright silver hair on the other side of your uncle, did not seem nearly as good-humored.Â
though, you can imagine a dinner besides your uncle could turn any man beyond the point of frustration and venturing well beyond anger. you laugh at that thought too, meeting the princeâs eyes again.
âbut⊠this is quite nice,â he says, and you blink quickly, your smile melting away. he looks alarmed for a moment. âto talk to someone else, i should say.â
âdo you not spend your days talking, your grace?â
âcertainly more than i spend in silence,â he says, craning his neck to look about your garden.Â
you join him, staring at the trees and then towards the vines you had been fumbling with and adjusting before he had found you. you play with your hands, brushing off whatever soil might still be remaining on your skin.
âsilence can be quite enjoyable, can it not?â you say absentmindedly. Â
âindeed. especially in a garden as beautiful as this one.â
you smile brightly, the words rushing to your head and making you feel dizzy.
âthank you,â you say excitedly, not realizing that you have revealed yourself. âit takes a great deal of time but it is so worthwhile. i-â
the prince stares at you, tilting his head slightly, this time in confusion, no doubt.
âyou tend to the garden yourself?â you can imagine that he might be putting together the true story in his mindâthat you are not just another guest. that you live in this castle and attend the feasts but are not important enough to be introduced to him at the time of his arrival.
whatever questions he has, you suddenly feel a pit in your stomach at the thought of answering them. but he is a prince, and you cannot simply ignore him.
âi⊠i oversee the garden, yes. sometimes i will tend to it, butâŠuh,â you lie, trying to think of the next words to complete your thought. you trail off into silence, waiting with a bated breath for his response.Â
he will think you odd, no doubt. odder than you have already presented yourself as. you sigh without intending to, saddened that the conversation between you and the prince will likely endâ
âwell, you have done a remarkable job in your oversight,â the prince says, and you can do nothing but blink dumbly at him. âit is quite beautiful.âÂ
âthank you, your grace,â you say, looking around the gardens again.Â
it is beautiful. small, yet lovely. it always smells fragrant and looks colorful, with the yellow evening stars and white jasmines, the lavender mixed in with the bright roses. you take a moment to admire it, not noticing as the prince focuses on the dirt marking your hands.
you meet his eyes again, and though you should look away or even return inside, you find it rather hard to do so.Â
they are so unique, an unusual pairing. even in the faint light you can still make out their stark difference, entranced by the princeâs eyes as though it is something out of a fairy tale.
perhaps it is so unusual because they are not what you had expected. they wereâ
ânot purple,â you mumble, tilting your head as though that would help you piece your thoughts together. not purple like the lavender. one is the color of a winter rose and the other is the earthâs soil, you settle on firmly. it is hardly but a whisper, and you do not realize you have said anything at all.
at least, not until the prince starts speaking again.Â
and first, he laughs. deeply, with his shoulders rocking for a moment. you stare wide-eyed.
âindeed, not purple. i take after my mother,â the prince says, and you release a rush of breath you had not realized you were holding inside.
âoh gods,â you breathe. âi-i did not, uh, i had not meant to-â
âhave no fear, my lady,â he says, and once again, you feel the innate urge to comply with his demand. âi am not offended. it is nothing i have not heard many times before.â
âi-i only meant that⊠i, i have never met a prince before. all the valyrian histories always mention the purple, so i⊠i shall stop talking now.â
âindeed they do,â he says, with another quiet laugh, but you feel as though he is concealing something. âbut please, do not stop talking on my account.â
you pause for a moment, trying to organize your thoughts. but when you open your mouth, something else entirely comes out.
âit is⊠rather lovely, to take after oneâs mother. i have always thought so.â
the prince makes a small noise of agreement.
âis that so?â he asks, and you feel yourself shirk slightly under his gaze, as intense as it feels to you.Â
your head spins for a moment, as though you have overindulged in wine, but you cannot recall even finishing your first cup at dinner.
âi think that i do too,â you admit quietly, unsure of where the words came from. âthough i cannot say for certain. i do not possess many memories of her.â
âoh,â the prince says, his eyes softening as he continues to look upon you. you turn your head down, staring at the silk of your skirts as it swishes around your ankles. âis there no one else to help remind you?â
you shake your head, your fingers beginning to tremble again. you grip the side of your gown tightly to steady it.
âmy family does not speak much of her. but at least you know for certain. it is a blessing, is it not?â
âthat is not what the court thinks,â he answers, his face contorting slightly into a grimace. he returns back to his normal, kind expression within a mere moment.
âwell, they are wrong,â you assert. âone day she will not be here and you will take great happiness in knowing she lives on in your face. i often think of that when i am feeling sad.â
the princeâs eyes finally reveal whatever sadness he is trying so hard to concealâwistful and hopeful and perhaps even appreciative of your words all blending together.Â
it is a great deal for even his eyes, as lovely as they are, to express.
âis that very often, my lady?â
âoh, no my prince. i-â
âbaelor. you should call me by my name. we have been speaking long enough.â
âbaelor,â you repeat, a little too loudly. âi knew that! i-i did, um, your grace-â your voice falters, slowing down until you stare at him silently.
he tilts his head at you, surprised that you did not put up more resistance, perhaps. you think he is even attempting to hide his laughter.Â
âi do not doubt it.â
âright. well, i-i cannot say your name. i should not have said it at all. if someone were to overhear-â
âthen i would defend you. you should have no fear of that.â
âi have many fears. i⊠suppose i could strike that one away for now,â you reply quickly.Â
baelor laughs at your silliness again.Â
prince baelorâthe crown prince.Â
gods above.Â
you are in your garden with the crown prince all alone, with not even a guard or a maid to chaperone. it seems for the entirety of the encounter, your senses had escaped you completely. you were laughing and speaking with him as though he was a friend of yours, notâ
âyour grace?â you question, your words sounding hesitant.
even you, with all your nerves that have suddenly been silenced, cannot deny that this meeting is most unusual. and even if no one inside has recognized that you are missing, there is no doubt in your mind that they have noticed prince baelorâs absence in the high chair.
âyes, my lady?â he asks gently, smiling at you in a way that makes your mind turn away from your worry for a moment. it melts away from your body before you can help it, your lips turning up to return his expression.Â
âshould we not return?â
âyes, yes of course. my apologies-â
âno,â you insist. itâs loud and unseemly, but you continue. âi certainly do not wish to return. i only meant that⊠i did not want for them to notice your absenceâŠâ
you trail off, unsure of precisely what your words were going to be, wringing your hands as you glance back down at your slippers. the hem of your skirt looks dirty.
âi understand,â prince baelor says, and you bring your head back up quickly to look at him. you lock eyes, for perhaps the last time ever, attempting to memorize the mismatched shades. âgo ahead. i shall follow momentarily.â
how he is able to determine your thoughts without you expressing them clearly, or even finishing your sentences properly, you do not know.
all you know is that you feel saddened to depart.Â
âof course. i apologize, i-i know you wanted a moment alone, and i-â
âdo not apologize,â baelor says quietly. his eyes seem to shine at you. âi interrupted you, remember?âÂ
you nod slowly, lifting your too-long skirts to curtsy. your feet do not want to carry you away, put you still force them to move, walking on the stone path back towards the entrance to the corridor.Â
âthank you, my lady,â you hear from behind you. you glance back towards him, confused.
âfor what, your grace?â you blink, smiling before you can help yourself.
but prince baelor does not answer. he only returns your smile.Â
in the hall, you had sat back in your chair flushed, unable to stop the foolish feeling of joy from overtaking you. it had felt so sweet, so calming, so⊠gentle, to be in the princeâs company.
he is still not at all what you might have expected from a prince.Â
you ruminate on it, allowing yourself to indulge just for an evening, you tell yourself. no more after tonight.
perhaps it was the decorations and the fine food and wine altering your senses.
because suddenly, everything in this keep that you so wished to escape seemed almost magical.Â
the lights appear brighter as the flames of the candles danced. the guests around you feel perhaps a great deal more tolerable. even your arbor red tasted sweeter.
and foolishly, that sweet smile that you had mirrored towards the prince would not leave your face. you toyed with the remnants of dessert, unable to stomach the slice of honeycake.
there seemed to be an abundance of butterflies already residing in your belly. they fluttered around, soaking in the newfound feeling.Â
a conversation, and that too with a prince.Â
he had even laughed with you, at your remarks. it had felt light-hearted without even trying. is this, perhaps, what it would be like to speak with him everyday? butterflies and laughter and a precise, unmeasured sort of gentleness that you are not accustomed to?
though it feels as both the most difficult and the easiest thing you have ever done, you finally move your eyes to look towards the high table.
you comb through the facesâthe blond princes, your cousins, your uncle.Â
and prince baelor.Â
sadly, you think that he had looked a great deal more at ease in your garden.Â
out there, his shoulders had relaxed, devoid of the tension you see in them now. he entertains your uncle most politely, you are certain, though you can discern he does not truly have any interest in the conversation. perhaps about grain, you think, smiling to yourself.
illuminated by the candle-light now, prince baelor still looks different than he had earlier, both when you had sat down for the feast and in the garden moments ago.Â
he is undeniably handsome. you had never thought of it before, but the way the gray mingles with the dark of his hair, the etched lines by his eyes, even the way he runs a hand over his beard whilst trying to pay attention to a boring subject.
all those things make him more handsome, still.Â
but perhaps it is not only thatâhis appearance.Â
it is the gentleness of his words, the sincerity in which he had spoken to you. that he cared to listen to you ramble about your garden. that he might have been touched by your words about sharing his motherâs appearance.
his lovely mismatched eyes turn away from his host, though you notice your uncleâs mouth still does not stop moving. the ramblings of a man trying to convince his grace to find a princeling for his daughter, no doubt.Â
the idea, white-hot and almost painfully covered in hope, spears through you for an instant. if his grace would remember you and your conversation. if he might have been pleased with your company. if he would ever go so far as to bring up your name when your uncle prods about betrothalsâ
you blink, your eyes moving quickly to find your aunt. she is glaring at you, her face twisted in shielded anger.Â
you are staring, you realize, at the prince. and perhaps your aunt is not the only one who has noticed. you return your flushed, heated face to continue looking at your dessert plate.Â
you had turned so quickly that you had not realized the prince was already looking at you.Â
in fact, you had not realized this until baelor had told you himself, some weeks after your wedding.
the memory feels sweet and pure, untouched by the burdens of time.Â
you can recall it with ease now. how the silk of the sheets felt soft against your bare skin. the heat of your husbandâs hand, tracing patterns on the exposed skin of your back. how rough the hairs of his beardâthe very one you had been staring atâfelt against your neck. how the thickness of his fingers and the metal of his rings felt when heâ
you had flustered even then, trying to find the words to properly ask the question. all you wanted to know was when he had decided to ask for your hand in marriage.Â
but you had still been all nerves, then, so new into this marriage. you had instead stuttered through a half-question, before going silent altogether whilst you felt the rumble of baelorâs laugh against your body.Â
you were going to tell him that you did not truly need a response, not when his presence alone was such a comforting answer to you. but just as the night you had first met, you did not need to express your words clearly for your husband to understand exactly what you meant.
and he had told youâof how he had been staring at you all night after the chance encounter in the gardens. how he had been unable to look away, how you had stabbed at a slice of honeycake until the feast was over. how he wanted to ask you for a dance but could not find the courage, how he had decided the next morning that he could not leave without seeing you again.Â
you cannot recall the rest of the memory without flushing. you had forgotten then, you recall, to ask why, so distracted as you were by the feel of baelorâs mouth littering kisses along the column of your neck.Â
why you? what had he seen in you that you could not discern yourself? what quality or what trait or which sentence had changed your life without your realization?Â
now, you may never knowâ
âyour grace?â you hear the words, but you do not turn your head. it feels very far away as you try to submerge yourself in the sweetness of the memory. âprincess?â
the maid, one of the ones you recognize who had been gossiping in your chambers, the day that baelor had recalled jenaâs passing, bows in front of you.Â
âyes?â for a moment, you do not recognize your own voice. it sounds hollow.
âprince maekar is outside. shall we⊠tell him you are otherwise occupied?â
you swallow, almost painfully. the thought of denying him entrance briefly crosses your mind. who could blame you if you did? it is not enough that baelor does not remember you, but now you learn that whatever he pretended to know had come from his brotherâs mouth.Â
and you are certain maekar does not even know the entirety of the story. that he has just as many lapses as your husband. you feel an urge to hug your knees and bury yourself under your blankets, that everyone might think you are asleep and leave you alone.Â
but that would be a lie. you do not wish to feed any more lies unto them, despite whatever false truths they have told you.Â
gods, you are such a fool. just as your family back home never failed to remind youâgetting your hopes up over nothing at all.Â
it feels as though it was only yesterday, the morning after the feast.Â
your cousin with her sour expression because none of the young princes had asked for her favor. you believe the one heavy in his cups had taken her for a spin about the room, at his fatherâs urging, but the dance had been short-lived.Â
before the song had even fully finished, he had returned your cousin to her seat and chased after another flagon of wine.Â
you knew she had wanted the other one, brightflame, to ask for her hand to dance. and even if you had not already guessed, you could have surmised it after a mere moment of conversing with her, that he had not done so. it was all she spoke of while stabbing at her plate of eggs and bread.
you thought to try and comfort her, but you could not find anything to say.Â
you still felt giddy, despite everything else. the secret memory in a lonely garden, one that only you and the prince will ever possess. it felt safe and treasured in your heart, knowing that no matter what they did, no one could take it away from you.
even one day if you were indeed wed to some household knight or third son, you would still have that special moment. the night a crown prince made you feel like a true lady, not just a stain to be hidden away in your familyâs home.
so you had stayed silent. when your cousin had finally stalked away, you remember being stopped before you could leave too. your auntâs cold hand around your wrist as she chastised you for staring at the prince, entirely unbecoming, entirely embarrassing to them.Â
strangely, you could not remember what, if anything, you had told her. it all felt so veryâ
âmy prince,â the maid says, lowering into a curtsy again. âi was only asking her grace as you requested-â
âyes, very well, now leave,â maekar says, and you bite your cheek. your maid turns to look at you once last time, her eyes wide with fear of the man standing before you, before she scurries away. âi require a word.â
âand if i had been indecent? had you thought of that?â
maekar blinks, his head tilting slightly, no doubt assessing the sharpness of your words.Â
you cannot recall a time you have ever spoken to your brother-by-law in such a manner. after a moment of silence, he continues.
âi knew you were not.â
âevidently, you know many things.â
maekar sighs, perching himself at the foot of your settee. he runs a hand over his beard.
âi only need a moment. i wanted to inquire about your⊠state of mind.â
you bite your cheek again, trying to prevent yourself from saying something you will regret. you blink up at him, meeting his violet eyes again, unsure if you had ever spent so much time with him before as you have for the duration of this last fortnight.
âmy state of mind is none of your concern.â
âit is my concern,â he replies, pinching the bridge of his nose before releasing and peering towards you.Â
you do not meet his gaze, because you know what is to come.
something sharp and entirely too harsh, something maekar-like. he will scold you for acting as an petulant child. perhaps remind you that your husband is alive and in good health, and that is more of a blessing than you had previously thought possible. that this small lie should mean nothing in the grand scheme of your marriage. that you should forgive him, perhaps forgive them both, because that is what a princess of this house might do.
and you even have your argument all lined upâyou are, after all, not a princess of this house. you are a lady who foolishly married for love without realizing just how close to torture it can truly be.Â
if you had never fallen in love to begin with, the realization that your husband does not love nor remember you would certainly not feel this agonizing.Â
would it?
you do not say anything, but maekar speaks again.
âhis heart had good intentions,â he says gently.
you turn to see him more clearly, blinking fast as more tears line up in your eyes. you had not wanted to cry in front of maekarâyou feel that he would not know what to do with your tears, just as he had not know for the past moonâbut you cannot help it.
such a small sentence, and yet it has broken through your chest and ribs and plunged straight into your heart.
you sniffle, wiping away your tears. you had not expected such tender words from him, but still, you cannot forget everything you have so carefully thought through in the hours since you last saw baelor.
âi am not concerned about his heart, rather his tongue. he lied to me so easily.âÂ
you try to make yourself sound sterner than you truly feel, but you do not know if you have succeeded in that regard.Â
âto protect your feelings,â maekar insists. your eyelids shut until you see nothing but darkness, and for a single moment, you pray that when you open your eyes, he would not be here. âhe did not wish to see you hurt further-â
â-and lying is the way to absolve me of that? i acted as though everything had returned to the way it once was. he must think me so foolish.âÂ
âhe does notâhe would never-â
âwhy have you come here, maekar?â you interrupt, your words sharp as you feel the last of your strength buckle. âto makeâŠi donât⊠why?â you demand, your words faltering.
but maekar is not his brother.Â
he does not know what you mean even when you do not have the proper words to express it. he cannot understand your mind from a single glance, or from a broken sentence.Â
âheâs beside himself. you know it cannot be good for his health,â maekar says, and his words feel as though they have sliced your skin.
âi⊠i believe i have only worsened his health with my presence.â
âhe wants to see you. i urged him to go but he wanted to give you peace before-â
âpeace?â you cry out. the word sounds louder than you intended. âi have no peace. i had but⊠one sanctuary. one person who could make me feel better. and now even that is taken from me,â you say, your hand trembling again.Â
âi know you are upset,â maekar says, and you find yourself staring at your skirts to avoid his eyes. âbut i know my brother. he⊠he loves you. very much so. i believe him to be falling in love with you twice over now.â
âthen why would he lie about his memories?â you challenge, holding back another sob. âwhy would he pretend? you do not have to lie further. i know the truth now.â
âand what truth is that?â
that i am such a fool to believe him. i will not make that mistake twice.
âthat a man who has just lost his beloved wife has not fallen in love with me. not only once but twice in the same lifetime. i know, maekar, that he is just being himself. polite, chivalrous, so that i do not lose the child. i know. i know, so stop lying, please, stop-âÂ
you do not know when you begin to sob, only that your vision goes blurry with hot tears. you feel your shoulders shaking, feel that awful sorrow you have been trying so hard to leave behind take over you again.
it is almost a surprise when you feel maekarâs strong arms wrap around you. you lean against his shoulder, crying until the fabric of his doublet is soaked with your tears, as he holds you in silence.
your brother, comforting you. it is more than you could have hoped for, more than what you had imagined those nights after the betrothal back in your childhood bed. you wondered how prince baelorâs family might treat you, if they would be kind, if they would accept you.
back then, you warned yourself not to get your hopes up too high. but every now and again, they found ways to surprise you.
when maekar releases you from his tight grip, you sigh, wiping away the last of your tears. he is being so kind, and yetâ
he is not my husband.Â
âi know you are hurt. but the two of you are blessed,â maekar says, his hand warm on your back, over the cloth of your dress. you turn to look at him, your mouth falling open and blinking quickly. âi knowâit may not seem that way. and i know i should not be the one to say this. but⊠at least he returned to you.Â
the pain his eyes makes your heart thud hard and fast in your chest.
âi know,â you whisper. âbut he does not know me. not truly.â
âhe wants to. i know he does.â
a name rings around your head.Â
jena.Â
âi believe you. but perhaps, while he is healing⊠it may be best for us to be parted,â you breathe, your hands steadying in your lap as you grasp them. the words feel painful to admit aloud.
âparted?â maekar questions, his fingers tensing on your back.
âdoes your offer of leaving for summerhall still stand?â
synopsis: you were under the impression that you were stable in your secret long-term relationship with three of the four marauders, until it becomes clear that you aren't the girl they want anymore. (so you think). will you lose them before its too late? or have you already?
pairings: fem!reader x poly!marauders ` poly!marauders x lily evans
warnings: NO LILY SLANDER!! SHE'S PERFECT AND BEAUTIFUL AND ITS NOT HER FAULT!!, cusswords, ANGST, depressing, a blip of reader skipping meals on the radar but it's srsly nothing crazy, insecure reader, the marauders besides peter are dicks, reader is a little naive, the marauders borderline cheat on you, no happy ending, there might still be one thoughhh, possibly slytherin!reader if you squint?,
part one in the conan gray series
A/N!!: In some of the fic i use colors to represent a certain character! Orange is Lily, Red is James, and Green is Barty :3
wc; 2.4k
LIFE WAS AMAZING, which is not usually how stories begin.
You felt so safe and secure in your secret relationship with Hogwarts' once most eligible bachelors... The Marauders.
The rush of excitement that coursed through your veins every time you shared a hidden glance with Remus, or hiding in the showers of the Gryffindor boys locker room with James after his quidditch victory, and sneaking off to empty classrooms where anyone from anywhere could catch you with Sirius.
It was heavenly, these boys were all you would ever need.
until... now.
You were in Remus' sweater, he said it looked better on you than it did him. If only he knew how much you liked him...
The fireplace erupted with a citrine glow, illuminating the Gryffindor common room beautifully.
Most impactfully, it lit up Remus' scar-kissed features.
His freckles looked as if they were painted onto his face with careful hands by a renaissance painter.
His eyes half-lidded from his lack of sleep from the incoming full moon that was slowly approaching, it pained you to know how much they hurt him.
For once, Remus wasn't in a sweater. Since his was rested comfortably on your body, as your scent comforted The Wolf greatly.
And his scent comforted you, too.
Remus' book had suddenly landed on your lap, and though it startled you a bit. You didn't bother to ask why, until you sat up.
Remus was locked in a passionate conversation with Gryffindor's resident golden girl, Lily Evans.
"Evans, it's lovely to see you."
"Same to you, Lupin."
Godric, was she beautiful.
"I just stopped by to see if you had gotten any of the Defence Against The Dark Arts homework done?"
Lily Evans was as radiant as an angel who blessed anyone with her presence.
"I have; actually, I just finished my paper."
Remus seemed mesmerized by her, the golden gleam from the fire painting her features gorgeously in that same citrine glow as Remus'.
"Could I have a look of it? Not to copy it- obviously, I just want to see how others are wording the question."
You weren't even half as pretty as Lily.
"Of course, and I know you'd never cheat."
"You're the smartest witch in our year."
You tried not to mind other girls flirting with your boys.
Just because you knew that later that night they'd be back to your boys again, and only yours.
As she was about to go, she planted a soft kiss on the side of Remus' cheek, leaving him blushing softly as he bid her goodbye.
Your heart clenched, it was merely a pleasantry. You were being dramatic.
"Are you alright, dove?" Your head perked up at the sound of Remus' voice.
"Hm? Yeah, I'm fine." You mused, albeit a bit absentmindedly.
"Are you tired?" He asked carefully.
"I am, actually..." You forced a sweet smile onto your lips, as he leaned down to kiss them softly.
That kiss was the last one that felt anything more than a chore, an obligation.
That was also your last kiss with Remus.
Cheering James on at the quidditch pitch was just the thrill you needed after that melancholy moment with Remus.
He soared through the field like he was on top of the world, the players scattered around the pitch for one common goal: to win.
Gryffindor had won the game with 60 points, and James had caught the snitch like usual.
This game was also a rain game.
Just as you were about to head down to showers when you spotted Lily excitedly trailing after James.
You knew full well that James chased Lily tirelessly since they started school, that was also well before you came into the picture.
You also knew that she wanted nothing to do with him or the other marauders, so what was with her infatuation now?
Why your boys? She couldn't find her own boys?
But maybe she was just being friendly, right? The boys would never ever cheat on you... right?
You heard Lily giggle as James so graciously held the curtain open for her to enter the locker room, and your heart clenched.
You followed them in, jealously.
"James?" You called, as James poked his head from the changing area. Sweat glistening off his abs.
"Hi, Y/N." He shut the curtain behind him, as if he had something to hide.
Also; he barely just called you by your first name.
"You didn't come to see me after the game?" You questioned, grazing his cheek gently as he spoke."
"Sorry, Y/N. It was a long one." He excused, as he clearly looked a bit flushed.
"You look red, are you dehydrated?"
"Godric, y/n. you are hardly my mum."
You giggled as if it was a joke, yet he seemed quite stone faced.
You cleared your throat embarrassingly once you realized.
"I... just wanted to congratulate you on another win." You forcefully smiled again.
"Thank you, I really appreciate that." Then, he flashed his classic grin at you.
The grin he hadn't flashed at you since he realized he genuinely liked you.
What the fuck?
"Victory kiss?" You asked quietly, with some false hope mixed in.
"Of course." He pecked your forehead quickly, before hurrying off back to his changing area.
And with that, you had also left the steamy tent and outside into the cool, soft rain once more.
A forehead kiss? whenever he used to give you victory kisses they'd be full-on make outs in that same changing room or the showers.
James was falling out of love with you, and you knew it.
Luckily, you could easily disguise your tears with the excuse of it raining.
"Victory kiss?" Lily mewled, from her position on the stool in his changing spot.
"Just on the forehead, lovely."
You stopped showing up to breakfast, as the one time you decided to go Lily was sat in your spot next to Sirius.
Dorcas was nearly at her wits end with the boys and their antics.
The motley crew of Slytherins were the only ones who knew of your relationship, and they were pissed off.
"Treasure, surely they aren't fucked enough to know that you are the best thing they've ever had!" Barty explained, laying upside-down on his bed across from you.
"I-It's no use, Jr." You cried softly, mirroring his position yet on your bed instead. The tears (and blood) rushing to your hairline instead of your face because Dorcas said 'Your makeup is too pretty to ruin, love.' .
"There is a use, Y/L/N. we'll kill them-"
"Jr, absolutely not." Regulus chided, rubbing your shoulder.
"She's clearly upset, I don't see the issue."
"Murder is never a good option, Barty." Dorcas scolded gently.
"So what are we gonna do then? My Treasure can't go on like this!"
"You said you've already talked to James and Remus? Maybe you can go talk to... eh... Sirius." Clearly, that name was hard for Regulus to get out.
"*Sniff* yeah, yeah- I'll go talk to him..." You sat up half-hazardously, and strutted out of the dorm-room to go (hopefully) save your relationship.
You still remember the third of December.
Sirius lounged on the couch while speaking with the other marauders, about some sort of prank on the other group of Slytherins.
"And then, we'll-"
"Hi, Siri." You sat next to him, beaming up at him (hopefully).
"...y/n." He greeted casually, before continuing to talk.
Your smile faded, as he continued to talk to your other boyfriends friends about this horrible prank.
Instead of leaving, you sat quietly next to them, as if you were some decoration or trophy wife.
This was truly your breaking point, as you saw Lily sit down on the couches of the common room as she caught all of their attention, you hadn't seemed to do that for ages. Though, she was wearing something familiar...
Remus'... sweater...
Remus'- YOUR Remus' sweater.
"How's it look?" Lily asked, giving them a twirl. Their eyes locked on her.
"Gorgeous, doll." Sirius flirted, shooting her a wink.
"Truly a sight for sore eyes." James grinned.
"It looks better on you than it did me." Remus took her hand and helped her sit down on the couch in between him and James.
That's exactly what he said to you...
He put his arm 'round her shoulder,
suddenly you got colder.
She's got them mesmerized... while you die.
But how could you hate her?
She's such an angel...
But then again you wished she were dead.
"Why would you ever kiss me?" You asked impulsively.
"What?" James looked up from Lily, all eyes on you.
"I mean- I'm not even half as pretty."
"Y/n, You're overthinking it-" Remus started it.
"You gave her your sweater!" You shot back.
"It's just polyester!" Remus defended.
"But you like her better." You felt the tears rush to your waterline.
"We're done." You whispered, leaving Lily looking so confused and the common room dead quiet.
"What does she mean by that...?" Lily seemed horrified.
"We... weren't really dating.." Sirius attempted to defend.
"Yes, we were, you tosser!" James shoved him.
"You said yourself that you were bored of her!" Remus stated matter-of-factly.
"Was I seriously the other woman?" Lily mewled, her hands clutching the sides of her head.
"Nonono- No, we were planning to break up with her but- because we all wanted you-" Sirius tried again.
"Then don't fuck around with her feelings just to get me!" Lily yelled, standing up quickly.
"I appreciate the admiration- but I need time to process, okay? You all were absolute... arseholes to her, I'll admit." Lily started,
"Are you saying no?" James quickly cut in.
"...No..." Lily ended.
After crying your eyes out to Barty and Regulus over your breakup, December 7th rolled around.
The day that students were meant to be studying for their OWLS and other end of term exams.
You would usually be in the library 24/7.
Lily, had finally come around and accepted the boys' proposal, and their relationship became public quickly.
Lily obviously still felt this bitter taste of guilt in her mouth, as did all of them.
So today, Lily had convinced them all to apologize to you for borderline cheating and lying and manipulating and gaslighting-.
But, you were nowhere to be found.
"Regulus! Regulus, wait up!" Lily ran through the hallways to get to her.
"Evans, Brother.. Potter... and Lupin.." She said those last three names with utter disgust.
"We're trying to find Y/n, have you seen her?" Remus asked quietly, he was definitely feeling the most guilt.
"Y/n? Well, If she was here, I think she'd completely refuse to see you lot." Regulus explained bluntly.
"W-What do you mean "If she was here"?" James questioned.
"I mean, Her, Junior., and the Rosier twins completed their OWLS early and hightailed it to Junior's holiday house for the rest of the break." He explained casually.
"What?" Sirius scowled.
"What the hell is my girl-... Y/n doing with them?" James had the same expression as Sirius.
"They are simply better friends then you were to her, hm? I don't blame her."
"When will she be back?" Lily asked breathlessly.
"End of December, If she ever returns." Regulus strolled away, potions book in hand.
I want someone to tell me that they "wouldn't want me to break a nail," not to mock me, but because they understand how much I care about my nail care, they know I would genuinely be upset, and they don't want me upset over anything, no matter how big or small it seems to them.
"Why can't I hold you in the streets? Why can't I kiss you on the dance floor?"
Synopsis: being in a secret relationship is not easy, especially if you are hiding it to the whole world. â or â the heavy weight of the strained relationship you have with Bada has just become too overwhelming.
cw: major angst, mentions of breaking up, kinda toxic relationship,language, long ass storyâ i didn't count
When BeBe got invited by Mnet to compete for the second season Street Woman Fighter, all of us were ecstatic, especially our team leader and my girlfriend, Bada Lee.
I know just how much Bada wants to showcase each of her members talents to the whole world, and how important this is for her, especially for her career as a choreographer and dancer.
Before the day of the first filming, Bada and I had come to an agreement to keep our relationship in secret in order to keep a professional image in front of our opponents and to the viewers. I didn't mind it, its not like this the first time we are keeping our relationship a secret after all.
As a matter of fact, our relationship has always been kept private, as we are both professional dancers and choreographers, only a few close people knew about our relationship.
We kept our personal life separated from our work life which let us have a nice private and peaceful life as a couple, just in each others arms with no one trying to pry on our relationship or any personal matters.
Everything is perfect. Everything was perfect.
After the first episode had aired, Bada's popularity blossoms and soon had her own fan base. I was so proud that to see her grow in her career.
But as the team and Bada's popularity grew each day, the pressure to meet the people's expections also rises, and it had affect Bada the most.
After the Kpop Deathmatch Mission, Bada has pushed herself to be better, which means she also pushes the team to be better. She becomes more strict to us, but still kept her bubbly personality when it is appropriate to goof around.
But it all went down when we got the feedback of the other groups for the Mega Crew Mission. When we learned that all of our opponents predicted that our team will be the next to go home, Bada broked down into pieces. The negative feedback had causes her to lose her confident on herself and as her girlfriend, I tried to comfort her.
"Babe, don't mind what they said, they were probably doing this to messed us up, after all we won the last challenge right? We got this, okay? I believe in us." I tried to comfort the crying Bada on my lap that night and although it had seemed to work as Bada was now more determined to prove those people wrong about what they think about her and her team.
But, It just doesn't feel right at all, yes Bada have improved a lot and was now more motivated to do better, but the more she focuses on winning the challenges and mission, the more distant she becomes to me.
After that night, Bada never stopped talking about the routines she can think of for the upcoming missions and how it will be a new step for Bebe.
It was all that she talked about, to the point she even forgets that tonight is your anniversary night.
"...I'm thinking maybe Lusher or Tatter would be the center for the first part and then we will use the..." Bada kept mumbling about the dance choreo and other stuff related to the competition and as a great girlfriend, I tried to be understanding.
I really did try my best.
But it only gets worse from there, with Bada's fame grew more, people can't help but get attracted to her, which is understandable.
It was a typical fan behaviour, and I know that Bada has this charisma in her that just makes her more attractive. But, I drew the line when people starts shipping my girlfriend to other participants like Audrey or Kirsten, heck even Redy who used to have beef with Bada.
It was pathetic, I know. But the fact that Bada was becoming closer to Redy once again after the first battle made me feel insecure.
Maybe it was the additional stress from the already strained relationship I had with Bada that makes me more anxious and jealous when in reality it is just an fantasy fans and shippers had built to satisfy their delusions. But it is starting to get to me slowly and slowly.
And this night is the final straw...
Bada kept staying up late, busying herself with making choreos, too busy to even realize that I'm not even sleeping in the same bed, let alone the same room anymore as I had moved to the spare bedroom in our apartment a week ago.
And the fan edits of Bada with other girls and guys, occupy every single social media I have. Almost like it was taunting me.
I broke down that night. All the stress from the competition and my relationship with Bada is finally having an affect on me. That night I was restless, my eyes are puffy
The next day was Bebe's practice for the New Song Challenge, where we will be choreographing Hwasa's song 'Chile'.
There were cameras set up on the dance studio we were practicing on, documenting the progress of our team. Which also means that Bada and I won't be able to interact once again.
"Ok let's run that part one more time" Bada said as everyone went to their places and the song starts.
During the part of the hook where we are doing the '7' sign with our hands, I was at the wrong position making me bumped into Bada as we danced.
And my blood runs cold when I looked at the taller girl behind me who is glaring at me intensely. I mutter a quick sorry, to which she just ignored and replayed the part again.
I feel like breaking down once again. Everyone in the team Bebe noticed the red, puffy eyes that I tried to hide from the camera by wearing a hat, the dark cloud that looms over me at my sulken face. Everyone noticed that, except Bada.
"Y/n, go back to the first position!" I flinched when Bada raised her voice, she is obviously pissed off at me now.
I am trying so hard not to cry infront of the camera and my crew as I bit my lip hard enough for me to taste a bit of blood.
The practice continues as the tension between me and Bada thickens. Looks like the show found the highlighted drama they want for the next episode.
Once the practice was over and the cameras sre all turned off, I quickly made my way out of the room I was in, not even waiting for Bada as I made my way home, eventhough Bada drove the both of us here.
I stopped by a convenience store to buy an ice cream and some sour candies to shock my system and stop me from breaking down. Before making my way back to our apartment.
And just as I thought, Bada is already there, she has a car whilst I walked home for the most part, so it makes sense.
As soon as I stepped inside, Bada is sitting on the couch, her elbows are pressed on her knees, as her fingers are intertwined.
I can sense she is very angry, but I'm way too mentally and emotionally unstable for any confrontations as I walk passed her figure, attempting to go to my bedroom, which is the stupidest decision I ever think of since it just made Bada even more mad.
"Oh so now you're gonna ignore me? Gonna act like you didn't just walked out after practice and then going home late?" Bada glares at me as I stop on my tracks.
I stare back at her, but all I can see from her is how pissed she is. I can't even recognize her.
Just a few months ago, we were fine, we were happy. But now here we are, acting like we're not even in a relationship.
"Y/n!" I flinch again as Bada raises her voice once again, "What, are you just gonna stare at me like a deer in a headlights? Answer me goddamit? What is your problem? You are so off today, your performance is already way worse than before? Are you trying to sabotage the teamâ"
Bada's voice faded out in my mind, all I can think of is how we used to be. This is totally different from the secret relationship we had when we are at work.
Bada has become way to obsessed with the competition that I don't she recognize my role in her life anymore. I think she already forgot that I'm her girlfriend, all because of how often we restrain ourselves from showing affection in public.
A lone tear runs down my face as Bada keeps on rambling and nagging me about my performance today.
"Stop fucking crying and answer me. What is your problemâ"
"MY FUCKING PROBLEM IS THAT YOU DON'T EVEN TREAT ME LIKE YOUR FUCKING GIRLFRIEND ANYMORE!"
Bada was shocked from my tone and by my answer. She stayed silent, feeling nervous as this is the first I got angry this bad.
"Eversince we kept our kept our relationship a secret from the whole world, you continued the act even when it's just the two of us." Fat tears are now rolling down my cheeks as my legs started to feel weak.
"I'm so sick and tired of hiding everything. I just want to be held by you in public. I mean you did it with Redy, heck you even kissed Kirsten on the cheek after you were both auditioned for the main dancer title on the first mission, why can't you do it to me?" My legs finally give out as I sat on the floor while Bada stood next to me.
"How can you flirt and be affectionate to everyone but your own girlfriend? Am I still even your girlfriend?" I looked up to her as Bada now have a hint of regret on her face.
Bada can't talk back, she was in deep thought as her mind fills with regrets.
"You forgot our anniversary last week, you talk about me leaving you behind earlier while you left me behind on everything you do. You are so obsessed with the competition that you pushed me and our relationship out from your thoughts. Honestly by now I'm justing waiting for you to break up with me." Bada's felt a pang on her chest as she kneels down next to me and hugged me, I let her but I didn't hug her back.
"I just want to stop hiding anymore..." my tone is much more softer now as I hear Bada's sobs. "You even forgot that todayâs my birthday..." I tear up again as Bada starts muttering her apologies.
We both cry in silence, as we finally realize how much damage hiding did to our relationship.
"I'm sorry... It hurts me too when I can't hold you in front of many people. I'm sorry I didn't know how much I hurt you until now... I-It was stupid of me." Bada looks in to my eyes as she says those words.
"I'm sorry I forgot about you...I-" Bada chokes on her tears as she just squeeze my hands.
"I wanna get back from all I did the past few months since the competition... please give me a chance... I-I will be better." Bada looks at me desperately.
"Bada, what I want is for to us to stop hiding anymore..." I cup her cheeks. Bada contemplates at the mention of going public and it was very evident at the sudden change in her expression.
My heart breaks even more when I saw that Bada is having second-thoughts about my request.
"...so that's your answer, huh?" I sighed as I tried to stand up once again and walk to my bedroom. âWhy is it so hard for you to tell the world that Iâm yours?â I said before closing the door. Bada stumbles on her feet as she tries to follow me but I locked the door before she can even enter.
I broke down once again, seeing as there's no hope that Bada will ever agree to making our relationship public...
A/n: this is honestly really weird, I might revised it later but there might be a part two for this... I'm just too tired to finish it right now. Also, here you go, @badasgirlfriend ... anyway hope you enjoyed thisâeven if it's a bit trashy and incomplete
every single country that has voiced support for israel's "self defense", every single politician, anchor, news outlet, zionist, and person baying for the blood of palestinians is complicit in genocide. (Oct. 17) a hospital was purposefully bombed today, killing 500 people (the death toll bound to climb as reports come in), and israel says "hamas" as a paper-thin flimsy excuse to justify murdering doctors, patients, and everyone sheltering there. western media pieces of shit will say "major loss of civilian life" in the face of real-time genocide like it was simply an unfortunate incident or natural disaster. like isarel didn't deliberately murder human beings. israeli historian and genocide scholar said this a textbook case of genocide. and the west still does nothing, and worse than nothing: aiding and generating propaganda to justify it. COMPLICIT. COMPLICIT IN AND PARTY TO GENOCIDE.
CONTENT. Angst. Homophobia. Both being dumb asf. Tek Knight (yes). Slyly mplied smut.
NOTE. Iâm nervous about this one pls be kind hehe also English isnât my first language so the grammar sucks, thereâs gonna be a part two with a happy ending i swear. Donât forget you can leave some feedback because itâs the first time writing with flashbacks :-) itâs always appreciated. PLEASE LISTEN TO THE STORY OF US ON LOOP !!
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You looked at yourself on the bathroom mirror. You sighed. You looked so messy and you only had half an hour to get ready so you pull out your make up bag. Why would you keep doing this? Why would you keep pretending that everything is good, when everything was fucked. You closed your eyes for a bit as you finished getting ready, or at least looking more decent, deep breathing and playing with your fingers as you tried to get yourself together.
Fuck.
The class started at 9:30. Good, you were five minutes late and even if that wasnât a lot, that teacher was a fucking dick and you know what to expect. Once you arrived to the classroom, you felt all the eyes on you. Especially, their eyes. Those eyes that have been avoiding you for a while now. You gave a small smile to the teacher and he asked you to sit down, you nodded while bowing slyly to show that you were sorry for being late. You werenât.
You saw Marie and Cate as they smiled at you, you sat behind them as you grabbed your books, lost in your thoughts for a few minutes as you searched for the page that they all were. 67? Nah, they did that a few weeks ago. 97? What even is this. You were lost.
âMiss (Y/LN)?â You heard, all the eyes on you once again. You looked at the teacher, he has a devilish smile on his face. Fuck, thatâs why he didnât tell you a thing when you were late. He was about to crushed you. âAre you sick, miss? Arenât you able to talk?â
You nodded, quickly looking at Emma while she was literally speaking at you with her eyes. Speak. Right, shit. You cleared your throat. âUh, yes, sir. Iâm sorry.â
âGood.â He said as he started to walk around the classroom. âSo, can you explain to us, as Iâm aware that you, little miss, are such a smart student, what was the most important thing that you could highlight about last class?â FML.
The truth is that, you were lost weeks ago, since what happened with them. Your jaw clenched as you try to think. Your head was empty. âIâm sorry, sir. I donât remember.â You finally spoke, quietly. The teacher nodded at you.
He walked a little between sits, until he put his hand on one of Jordanâs shoulders. âJordan, please solve me this issue.â They nodded, unsure. They didnât even looked at you now. âDo you think that itâs okay for a student to come to class this clueless? Knowing that we all are there to become a better, responsable person, for the good of our country.â They looked intensely to the teacher. âNo, professor, I donât think itâs okayâ He nodded again. âDo you know what we do with lazy students?â They nodded this time. âThey have to get out of class, sir.â
Your heart stopped, all you felt was annoyance again. âMiss, you already heard Mr. Li, grab your things and goâ You did. You grabbed your things, but first you looked at Jordan, praying for them to look at you, to see how much you were pissed about this, but you didnât receive a thing. Not even a pity look.
Fine.
Once you were out you breathe, deep and slowly just to calm down. You knew Jordan didnât want to be involved with you now, they made it very clear, but it was getting to much.
You ran to your dorm, jumping on your bed looking for comfort, comfort that you only found in them. But they cared more about their pride, than you. Suddenly, all the memories started to run through your head. Please, not again.
___________
âStop!â You yelled between laughs, they were tickling you. âJordan, you little fuck, Iâm gonna pee myself.â You tried to punched them, but they were obviously stronger than you.
âOh, baby, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?â They laughed as they gently stopped, being on the top of you still.
âNo, but I do kiss you with my dirty mouth.â You giggling while you were sticking out your tongue.
Jordan suddenly silenced themselves, as their gaze was on you. They stroked your hair a bit, you both were so close that a few wild long hairs of them were touching slyly your face. âWhat?â You whispered, still laughing a bit.
âNothing, just⊠you are everything Iâve always wanted.â They could feel their cheeks getting hot and slyly pink.
You both keep getting nervous and shy around each other knowing that you were hanging out like this for two months now. âWas that too much?â They chuckled a little as they saw you didnât answer.
âNo, baby, not at all. Itâs just that no one said that to me, ever. I canât believe that I make you feel like that.â You smiled brightly as you spoke. âIâm so happy knowing that the person who I love the most feels the same about meâ Your hands were around their neck. âOh, get that grin out of your face.â You teases them as they started laughing.
âI love you so muchâ And thatâs the last thing you heard from them, because they continue to kiss you, softly and caring, grabbing your hips.
You could feel butterflies in your stomach, maybe this is it. This is were you belong. With Jordan by your side.
___________________
You smiled, melancholy. Staring at all the pics you took with them, kissing, laughing, pictures you took of them while you were on dates. You never deleted them, you just couldnât.
___________________
Jordan stared at their phone as you two hold hands. The room was tense. You both just posted each other on Instagram, making your relationship public.
âWait, they started to leave comments.â You said quietly, opening the app.
âLove, look at me. Letâs not listen to them if they say something hurtful andâŠâ They stopped as you started to smile, finally looking at them. âWhat?â They asked and you passed them your phone, jumping slyly on your on side of the bed.
âSome of them are so funny, some of them are sweetâ You laughed as you watched Jordan smiled too.
âLook, Cate just commented, that little brat I swearâ They chuckled a little as you saw your screen. âYeah they are cute but (Y/N) was mine first yâallâ she said, which made you laugh too.
You decided to look at Jordan, just to find their eyes already on you. âI guess this went wellâ Jordan nodded as they grabbed your hips, pulling you close. âHonestly, I can wait to show you off to everyoneâ They said as they started to kiss your neck. Your whole body shiver. âShould we, I donât know, celebrate?â They whispered into your skin, making giggle.
âLet me think.â You faked a indecisive grimace. âOh, shut upâ They chuckled as they pushed you slyly against a wall.
___________________
A tear threatened to fell down from your eyes as another memory came in. The one you hate the most.
___________________
You knew what your problem was. You were a people pleaser, you donât know how to establish limits. What you didnât knew is that that was going to ruin your relationship.
Jordan was at the gym, working out, while you were on their bed, playing some games on your phone when a notification pop up on your screen. You were added to a new group chat.
With curiosity, you checked the group chat just to find ex classmates from your high school. You licked your lips as you saw name by name. They were your, if you can call them that, friends. You have to admit that it was a very toxic friend group, there was so much envy, backstabbers and the list continue.
You were on the chat while they were talking, this time was normal, chill. You know, they were talking about their life once they graduated out of college. You were laughing at some jokes they said, but once you saw you name, someone asking for you, you started to type.
Laughing as they keep joking around, a âfriendâ of yours asked the first fucked up question.
âSo, (Y/N) are you really dating that guy from GodU? You have to tell us everythingâ a grimace appeared on your lips.
âThey arenât a guy.â You typed, unsure of what to say, you always have been so nervous around them.
âAre you a homo then? Damnnn, (Y/N). What a waste.â One guy said.
âBut, I mean, we could tell, remember how she dressed in high school, I knew you were a lesbo, go girl I guess.â You read as everything started to send laughing emojis. You felt a rush of anger run through your body.
âYou are all full of shit, fuck yâallâ You left your phone on the desk, laying on the bed again, angry.
Suddenly that anger turned into sadness. Of course they making fun of you and your partner, what did you except of the girl that was bullied by her own friends. You rubbed your hands on your face. Why didnât you say something else? Now, you have made progress, you could stand up for yourself, but as they were making fun of you, you freeze as you remembered everything youâve been through in high school. Tears starting to felt down to your face.
_____________
You whipped your tears as you kept playing in your head how Jordan started to distance themselves from you, being less clingy, turning down your dates, being cold. Until they broke up with you.
You tried every night to think what made them leave, because since you got those messages, after deleting them the next day, you decided to be a better girlfriend, to support Jordan a little more, to kissed them a little more, to show them off a little more, to love them a little more if thatâs even possible.
But, even then, you felt like you failed. You failed completely.
Suddenly, a notification popped out on your screen, it was Emma.
âBaby, can we talk? Iâm so sorry.â You raised your brows, confused.
âSure, but why? What happened?â
âWait, you didnât watch the newest interview of Jordan with Tek fucking Knight? That fucking asshole.â Your heart stopped beating.
You went to Twitter as fast as you could.
Fuck.
âSo, tell me, Jordan Li, why (Y/n) and you arenât together anymore? She seemed like a really attractive and smart young lady, what changed? Because, as far as I know, you guys were the couple of the year.â
âUh, you know, it just didnât work out for us.â Jordan smirked. âWe wanted different things, if you know why I meanâ Tek Knight laughed with them, nodding. âOh, I know how girls can be sometimes, annoying right? Maybe she wanted something really serious. Wait, did she wanted to marry you? Dear godâ He chuckled again, teasing Jordan, wanting to made them stop pretending and tell him the truth.
âYeah something like thatâ Jordan said, shrugging their shoulders as they let out a cocky smile. âI donât care about settling down right now, I mean, Iâm too young and she wasnât the one.â You felt sick. But Tek knew, he knew how much they were pretending, how much it hurt them saying those things, so he smiled. âAnd as you know, Iâm more focused in other stuff, one of that is my career, being TopâŠâ
You thrown your phone across the room, sobbing. Thatâs it. You couldnât help it anymore. You felt so stupid, having even a bit of hope Jordan would come back to you, but they already made it very clear.
You needed to get out of here.
Your phone rang as you saw Cate on your screen, you ignore her, putting all your clothes that fit in your bag. You needed a break, a long break.
In which you accidentally go back in time because of a friend's stupid dare and catch the fancy of the prince because of your platinum dyed hair. Hey, that rhymes.
"You are aware that everything you like about me comes from a bottle, right?"
Scene I: you guys into roleplay or what?
âš Poll I for Scene II
Scene II: he kinda looks like my ex boyfriend
âš Poll II for Scene III
Scene III: i told you to hold my hand! [coming soon]
A/N: idk, couldn't shake this idea out of my head. i'm calling them scenes because they're gonna be stand alone fics in the same universe. might make more parts but i'd rather not hype everyone (and myself) up and then not commit HAHHAAH
What if Daemon Targaryen married Cregan Starkâs sister instead of Rhea Royce? What if instead of murdering her, she died in childbirthâŠgiving birth to you.
Y/n Targaryen, a dragon raised by wolves. You grew up knowing only the North as your home, Cregan acting as your mentor and elder brother throughout your life.
Now you have been summoned to join the court of Viserys Targaryen a few years after the grueling incidents on Driftmark with no knowledge of why. A Stark rides South at the behest of a King.
What a familiar story.
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
(ONGOING, SLOW-ISH UPDATES BECAUSE S2 HAS NOT COME OUT!)
The start to an angst-ridden little story, wherein the reader, Aemond's dearest friend (and clandestine love) learns of his apparent new paramour, Alys.
themes/warnings: angst, jealousy, fwb type situation, Aemond is kind of a clueless twat
part two âȘïž part three âȘïž masterlist
edit(!): this oneshot seems to have taken a life of its own, like most of my fics, quite unexpectedly! I've changed the title from (sapphire) blue heart to sapphire-hearted, and part two will be out in a few hours! is out now!
"Why do you not look at me?" He gently pries your face towards him with his free hand, as you both lie naked on his sheets, his arm wrapped around you. "Have I done something wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing, Aem." You shake your head, letting his hand fall.
He takes one deep breath. He knows you like the back of his hand; he knows something isn't right.
"You're not fooling me, gevie." Beautiful, he calls you, as you sit up and bring your knees to your chest. You feel the cold air on your back, and then, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare skin.
Gevie. You wonder if he calls Alys the same. After their rumoured trysts. After she is seen leaving his bedchambers. Has she lain among these very sheets herself, where you are now?
You and Aemond were not together, no. You were not betrothed. Your House was too lowly to allow you to wed a Targaryen prince. But he had said he was yours. Just yours.
How has that changed so quickly?
"Speak to me," he pleads. He sits up behind you, kissing the back of your neck. "You know I have my methods of making you do so. Shall I employ them?" You can hear the amusement in his voice, the assuredness.
You thought you loved it more than anything, but now it feels like some cruel jest.
You turn to face him directly. "Is she better than me?"
He leans back, fully aware of who you mean. "Hmm," he purses his lips. "Jealousy does not become you, it seems."
"I'm glad you think me amusing." You bite back, looking away.
"This is amusing. How can you be jealous of her?"
You aren't sure what to make of that question. Is he mocking you, and the justification of your envy? Who are you to him anyway? Just a friend, no?
"Aemond. I thought... that we..."
"You know what we are. How we are. Isn't it enough?"
"Not if I have to share you with some witch!" you rise from his bed, and wrap your cloak around yourself. "I've turned down the finest suitors, simply because you wished me to. Simply because you were jealous. Don't you think you owe me the same courtesy?"
His voice is colder when he responds, "What do you think I am doing with Alys, hmm? Do you think I enjoy having her grace my bedchambers, and have her clawing at me?" He stands too, towering over your stature. "I have never wanted to bed anyone other than you. What I am doing with her... what I have to do with her... It is for the good of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Spare me, Aemond." You swat his hands away, when he reaches for your arms. "Don't..." He tries again, much quicker this time, and he holds your forearms tightly against his bare chest.
"She has magic." There is a wild look in his eye when he says this, and it makes you uneasy. "She sees things, Alys. She can predict what the enemy's next move is, where they'll be. What I am doing with her, lying with her, is but a small price to pay."
"What if you don't lie with her? You don't have to..."
"She asks me to."
"You don't have to. You're the prince! She answers to you, not the other way around."
"I refused, of course, in the beginning." He holds your face gently in his hands now, trying to make you understand. "That did no good. She gave me nothing. I could have her tortured. But this will only serve to distance her even more from our cause."
"So, to get what you want... to hear her incredible visions and benefit from her magical spells, you have to fuck her? Very astute of you, Aemond."
"Careful, my love." He tilts his head, trying to work through your anger.
You use your palms on his chest to push him away. He only stumbles a little, the faint sound of his low growl reaching your ears.
"You know what I'll do?" you threaten, your cloak falling back to the floor as you wave your arms dramatically. "The next dashing Lord that asks for my hand, I'll take. It could be Lord Manderly's son or... Lord Beesbury's eldest boy has made an offer, too. I'll wed him, whoever he is, why not? Even if I don't love him, it will only be a small price to pay," you sneer, mirroring his words from before. "It is what's expected of me, after all. It is for the good of my House."
Aemond's jaw clenches in his rage. "Then I shall have him captured and quartered to pieces in the dungeons before he can even get the chance to - "
"No," you shake your head at his nonsense. "No, you would not. You would not do something like that to me. How would that be fair? You and I, we'll never marry. As it stands, you'd sooner wed your witch than I."
"I would marry you in a heartbeat." He moves closer now, desperation creeping in his voice. His lips meet yours in a haste. Wet and demanding. When you turn your head, he only continues kissing the side of your face. Then he stops, pressing his forehead to your temple. "You know this, my love. You have to know this. Alys is nothing compared to you. Without her, I might lose the war. But without you... I lose myself."
You nearly cave in at that, as you always do when it comes to Aemond. But now, you remind yourself to stand your ground.
"Then prove it to me," you whisper, and a stray tear falls down your cheek. "Do as I ask. Stop being with her."
Seconds pass. Aemond's mind races at the possible outcomes. His heart aches at the sight of your sadness, but he feels compelled to think of other things too.
The war. Defeating the Blacks. Easily gaining the upper hand through dark magic.
At the end of it all - and if he does what he does, it should all end very soon - he will still have you. He's sure of it.
You will always come back to him. You will understand.
"I cannot," he says, his words striking through your heart.
You feel numb all over, but you force yourself to step away from him, and hurriedly put your dress back on.
"My love, please..." He watches helplessly as you tie the strings of your skirts, preparing to leave.
"My prince," you cursty, when you've managed to put yourself together. "I am not certain when, but you're invited to honour us with your presence at my coming marriage ceremony."
"I'd sooner command Vhagar to burn Westeros to ashes."
"You mean, you'd sooner bask in the pleasures that only your witch can offer?" you laugh mirthlessly. "Of course."
You start walking away, determinedly. Ice has flooded your veins and your heart, turning you cold and blue. But you press on. The pain will have to wait for later.
"You'll come back to me," he calls after you.
"Oh, I wouldn't hold my breath, if I were you."
You slam the door behind you.
Angst!!! We all need this sometimes. I swear it riles me up so good, I almost wonder if something's messed up with my romantic ideals ....
.... who are we kidding? Of course there is. Because I would marry our one-eyed Vhagar-riding war terrorist in a heartbeat.
A tale in which, during his marriage to Alicent, Viserys falls for a Dornish Lady of the Court and takes her as a second wife behind closed doors.
His relations were kept secret to all but his Hand and his Queen, at the behest of his young lady-wife.
Alicent is grateful for the reprieve, as although Viserys remains a dutiful husband, he has started to visit her chambers fewer times as his love for his newest wife grew.
This, of course, irked Otto Hightower. The man grew worrisome that if Viserys' third wife were to bear a boy, he would hold greater favour to be named as heir than his own daughter's children.
So when Viserys' third wife gasped her last breath in the midst of agonising and violent labours, leaving only a daughter in this world before passing into the next - well no one truly batted an eye, for a woman's labour and the task of birth, though an expected duty was a cruel and gruesome fate some failed to survive.
But Viserys' heart grew softened towards his surviving daughter, who somehow managed to resemble his first wife and last.
And thus, was born Viserys' youngest daughter - Alaynha Targaryen.
