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SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSINTANT!READER 10

Y/N my shayla :(

cw: implied female reader, she/her used, cursing, injuries and describing them in detail, I don’t know shit about taking care of deep cuts so tell me if I wrote bullshit or blame google for misleading me, some genuinely creepy shit, unfairness, men masturbating, mentions of: murder, boners, jerking off, stealing underwear, boys kissing, sex, group sex

The boys are gone, the tiger’s sleeping in some sun patch on the floor, and you’ve just finished pulling a tray of cupcakes from the oven. Jinu did a good job getting what you wrote down for him.

You set the tray down on the counter, admiring the rise on each one. You’re reaching for the cooling rack when—

Poof.

“Hey, Baby.” you say flatly.

“Hm.”

You turn your head just enough to see him in the living room, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room. He does this sometimes, teleports back home to you when he gets tired of the boys. The others would do this too, but Baby’s the only one who genuinely does not give a fuck about Jinu scolding him.

“Ever think of using a door like a normal person?”

“No.”

Figures.

You look him over. “What’s up?”

“Not much.” he says, hopping up onto the counter opposite you. “Everyone else is out.”

“Obviously.”

“About to fight. I bailed.”

You glance up. “With who?”

“Huntrix. Obviously.”

Your hands still over the cupcakes. “…What?”

“They’re in the middle of something. Whole vibe’s tense. Could blow up.”

They never tell you when they’ve been near your girls. Never. Because they know—know—you’ll get mad. And now Baby’s here, just… casually mentioning it. You set the cupcakes down slowly. “Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs. “Seemed relevant. They’re arguing. Yelling. Abby’s doing that chest-puff thing he does. Jinu’s playing diplomat, but it’s not really working. Romance is… I dunno, making it worse on purpose. Mystery… I don’t care.”

You glare.

Baby doesn’t blink. “Wanna hear something worse?”

“No.”

He leans back on his hands. “They lie to you.”

Your jaw tightens. “No kidding.”

“No, like… lie a lot. About where they go. Who they fight. Who they don’t fight. About what the girls are doing.”

“I already figured that out.”

“Oh, and they’ve been in your room. More than once.”

You want to throw something at him. Instead, you turn back to your cupcakes, needing something to do. You grab the piping bag you’d already filled earlier, start swirling frosting. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him reach forward, hand hovering over the nearest cupcake.

“Hot.” you say without looking up. “Wait a little.”

He freezes. Pulls his hand back. Nods once. Doesn’t argue. Then, as you’re mid-frost, he keeps going: “They also talk about you when you’re not around. Not in a mean way—usually. But they make decisions about you. All the time. Jinu’s an ass.”

You swirl the last cupcake, lips pressed together so hard your jaw aches.

“Romance steals your underwear.” he says, deadpan. “Keeps them in his room. Don’t know if he sniffs them or just likes the idea, but they’re there. Told Mystery. Mystery told me. And now you know.”

You blink. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m not the one sniffing them.” he says, reaching toward the cupcakes.

“Still hot.”

He draws his hand back, no argument, and keeps going. “Abby killed a detective who was on the street just talking about you. Sweet guy, middle-aged. Had a family. They didn’t even let you know someone was looking.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“Mystery’s worse.”

You slam the piping bag down. “Stop.”

“He likes to watch you sleep.”

You look so cute like this, looking at him, speechless. God, he wants to kiss you. But more than that, he wants to ruin the others’ reputations. That’s what he’s here for. To push the others under the bus. Instead he glances at the cupcakes again. “Done yet?”

You sigh. “Couple more minutes.”

“They tell each other everything about you. Little stuff. Big stuff.”

You stare. “You’re—”

“—Dead serious.” He cuts you off, leaning back again. “You know Mystery threw Abby into the wall last week? Full shoulder-check. All because Abby ate something. Better one, Romance pushed Mystery down the stairs once. Whole flight. Just because Mystery wouldn’t tell him what you were wearing that day.”

“…What else?”

“They all sat in the living room one night going through your old social media. Pictures, posts, tagged shit. Even old exes. Abby found your prom photos.”

You feel your stomach twist. “They’re insane.”

He shifts his weight, tilting his head. “You know Abby and Jinu almost kissed once?”

You blink. “What?”

“Accident.” Baby says, smirking now. “Or at least, that’s what Jinu called it. Abby was pinning him down, they both leaned in for some reason, and Romance yelled ‘gay’ so loud Mystery got scared. Oh, and Abby’s the one who broke your hairbrush.”

“My what?”

“Yeah.” Baby says. “It wasn’t Mystery, like Romance told you. Abby snapped it trying to brush his own hair. Then threw it away and said ‘she won’t notice.’”

Your blood pressure spikes. “That bastard—”

“He also stole panties.”

“What?!”

Baby smiles. Now, he smiles. “The white lace ones. I watched him take them out of the laundry. Didn’t even hesitate. Slipped ‘em in his pocket.”

You grip the edge of the counter. “And you just… let him?”

“Why would I stop him?”

You glare at him. “If you’re trying to make me hate all of you, it’s working.”

“Romance tells us everything you say to him.”

You squint. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

“But—“

“Mystery’s been in your room more times than you’ve been in the kitchen.”

“That’s—”

“Abby said he wanted to bend you over the kitchen counter. Romance offered to film it.”

Your jaw drops. “What the fuck.”

“Mm-hm.” He sits back, smug.

There’s a pause now. The cupcakes are cooling. The air smells like sugar. And you’re leaning against the counter, arms crossed, trying not to let him see the way your mind is spinning with all this new intel.

You look him over. “You’re stirring shit.”

“Mhm. You know Abby jerks off in the shower after play fighting?”

You blink. “…Excuse me?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “All sweaty, all hyped up, testosterone pumping, straight to the bathroom. You can hear it if you walk by. Sometimes sings, too.”

You stare at him. “…Why are you telling me this?”

He grins, that whatever mask cracking just enough to show the brat underneath. “Why not?”

“What else?”

Baby looks bored out of his fucking mind, but he do enjoys this. “Mystery has a thing about blood.”

“…In what way.”

“In all the ways.” His tone is flat. “He’s into it. Cuts, scratches, seeing it on himself, on someone else… licking it.” Baby shrugs. “Once he split his lip in a fight and made Romance kiss him just to taste it.”

You blink slowly. “…That’s sick.”

“That’s Mystery. Romance didn’t even hesitate, by the way. He just went for it. Tongue and everything. The tiger was watching.”

“Jesus.”

“Abby sleeps naked. Sometimes. Once Mystery watched him.”

You choke on a laugh. “Why?”

“Fuck knows. He used to fight in illegal pit matches.”

You raise your brows. “Like… bare-knuckle fights?”

“No.” Baby shrugs. “Like to the death.”

You stare at him.

“Sometimes not against humans.”

“…Oh.”

“He didn’t even get paid most of the time. Just liked it.”

You’re quiet for a beat. “…That explains a lot.”

“Mm.”

“More.”

He licks his teeth, obeying. “Romance eavesdrops. Constantly.”

Baby’s clearly enjoying himself. You realize quickly, he’s not telling you because you need to know. He’s telling you because it’s fun for him to pull their reputations apart while they’re not here to defend themselves.

“You know Mystery jerks off with your hair ties, right?”

“…What now?”

He shrugs again. That same flat tone, that same expression. “Yeah. Keeps one in his pocket. Uses it to have on his wrist when he’s—” he makes a vague jerking gesture “—you know. Guess he likes the smell. Wouldn’t put it past him to put it on his dick.”

You stare at him.

“Abby caught him once. Didn’t even stop, just made eye contact.”

You’re genuinely speechless. This is too much.

“Romance,” he says, pointing at the counter like he’s lining up accusations in order. “Licked one of your coffee mugs. All over the rim and the inside.”

Your stomach turns. “…When was this?”

“Last week. You were asleep. Left it in the sink, he fished it out, gave it a nice long tongue swipe. Then made himself tea in it. You drank from it the next day.”

“Are you serious?”

“Mhm.”

Your mouth is agape. He thinks about putting his fingers in there, maybe something bigger and better looking(in his humble opinion) but this is more fun now.

“You know that grey blanket you keep in your room? Abby used it.”

You freeze. “…Used it how?”

“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh—and Jinu.” He finally moves, walking over to snag a cupcake from the tray, ignoring your earlier warning. He bites into it, talks around the mouthful. “You ever notice how sometimes you smell that mint aftershave in your room? He goes in there when you’re sleeping. Stands there. Watches. Don’t even touch you, just… stands. Breathing. Real quiet.”

You feel your skin prickle.

Baby licks frosting off his thumb. It’s ridiculously hot, you can admit that.

“Mystery once cut his own tongue and let it drip on your pillow. Romance kept the tissue you used when you had that nosebleed, I found it in his bed. Abby stole your chapstick. Used it in front of the mirror. Smiled the whole time. Jinu picked up your shirt after you left it on the bathroom floor. Folded it real careful. Pressed it to his face before putting it away.”

You stare at him in open disgust. “You’re lying.”

“No.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you? What’s your disgusting habit?”

He shrugs. “I’m perfect.”

You snort. “Bullshit.”

“Okay, fine.” he says, unbothered. “Sometimes I open your door a crack just to see what you’re doing. Not in a pervy way.”

You give him a flat look. You want to throw the frosting bag at him.

“You’re welcome.” he says finally.

“For what?”

“For telling you the truth.” And then, he pushes off the counter, grabs another cupcake, and walks out. Doesn’t even look back. “Bye.”

Poof.

Gone again.

…What the fuck.

It’s actually ridiculously funny that shit like this happens to you. I mean, the torture and the whole hostage situation is not funny, I mean that it happens to YOU. It’s always you in the middle of all bullshit, all because of HUNTR/X needed a sweetheart assistant.

After a few hours, they’re back. You’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked up under you, blanket draped over your lap. You hear them before you see them. Shoes on hardwood. Voices overlapping. Abby’s laugh, loud and cocky. Mystery’s low hum to some bullshit Abby just said. Jinu’s instructions, so mean actually. Such an asshole. Romance is laughing at whatever stupid idea Abby just spat out. They’re boys. They bring noise. (AN: guys when we first see the boys in their human forms in the movie—y’know when the girls think there are fans coming—the boys have a conversation what is actually just them saying something like “totally, nice” in such a boyish tone. No idea what I wanted with this, I just wanted to point it out bc I love it sm)

Normally, you’d look up. Not to greet them, just to see what state they were in, whether they’d come back bloody, whether anyone was limping, whether the tiger was with them when not with you. But today is one of the days you don’t do that.

Baby’s little truth dump is still sitting in your head. Mystery and the hair tie. Romance and the coffee mug. Abby and your blanket. Jinu in your room at night. You don’t even know if it’s all true. But it feels true. Too specific. Too ugly to be a lie. And yet, you’re not shocked. You should be, maybe. But they’re not human. They never pretended to be.

It’s their nature.

They take. They hunger. They fixate. They do things that make no sense to you because they aren’t built like you.

Romance sniffing your underwear? Disgusting, yes. But you know who you’re living with. Not like you can do anything about it. What if it’s loneliness? What if it’s not about the underwear but about you, about having something of you when they can’t touch you? What if Abby’s… thing with the blanket isn’t just gross, but some fucked up form of comfort? You remember the look on his face sometimes when he’s laughing, like he’s performing for everyone else, like no one’s actually with him. What if Jinu standing in your room is less predator, more… guardian? Watching because it’s the only way he can make sure you’re safe, even if it’s fucked and creepy beyond normal boundaries. What if Mystery’s hair tie thing isn’t just some depraved fetish, but a special thing for him? Proof you’re real, that you’re here, when the world they walk through is made of horrible, horrible things.

You’re horribly empathetic.

“Hi, Y/N.” Jinu says, coming into view and petting Derpy.

You nod. Nothing more.

Abby walks in, brushing past him, tossing his shirt onto the couch arm. “Hey, sunshine.”

You don’t answer. Just adjust your blanket.

Romance is next, flipping his hair out of his face. “No welcome home kiss? Tragic.”

Mystery comes in, silent, takes a look at you to confirm everything’s okay.

Baby doesn’t let them see that something happened between you two. He planted the seed in your head, it’s going to grow. He doesn’t make eye contact with you, nothing suspicious. He’s surprisingly smart.

They don’t push. You’ve been cold before. It’s not new. Sometimes you freeze them out for hours, days, when you’re angry. They’ve learned to let it pass. What they don’t know is that tonight is different. That tonight, you know a lot more than last night.

Romance leans over the back of the couch at one point, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne, and your brain flashes with the image of him licking the inside of your mug. You keep your face still. Abby brushes past you to grab the remote from the coffee table, and all you can think about is that blanket in your room. Jinu pauses behind you to ask if you’ve eaten. You nod, keeping your eyes forward, thinking about him in the dark, silent in your doorway. Mystery sits on the floor, idly running his thumb over something small in his palm. Not a hair tie, but from now on you’ll pay attention to that.

And the thing is… you believe Baby. Because you’ve felt this from them before. The way they look at you. The way they circle you without touching. The way they obey the rules but bend them in ways that keep you around.

It’s disturbing.

And it’s real.

It’s. their. nature.

They’re demons. They live off want and hunger and possession. They stalk and take and keep. Why would you be surprised? But knowing it—really knowing it—puts a weight in your chest. You can’t unsee it. Can’t unknow it.

And you hate that a small part of you, the part that’s gone soft, keeps whispering: What if they’re just lost?

You push it down.

They’re evil. So evil. And you’re not letting yourself forget that.

Abby’s sprawled on the couch, one foot on the table, lazily scrolling his phone. Romance is perched half on the arm of the couch, flipping through a glossy magazine he’s not actually reading, his foot touching you(lmfao). Mystery’s sitting cross-legged on the floor near the tiger, head slightly bowed, hand on fur. Baby’s leaned against the kitchen counter in the background, chewing gum, pretending to be uninterested while his eyes flick toward you every few seconds, he’s waiting for the consequences of whatever he started earlier.

You stand, pulling the blanket tighter around you as you head for the hallway.

“Going to bed?” Jinu’s voice follows you.

You pause, turn slightly, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah.” Then, with casualness: “Actually… can you bring me some stuff tomorrow?”

He straightens slightly, attention immediately locked in on you. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Chocolate. A lot of it. Milk and dark. The expensive kind, not the corner store stuff. Toothpaste—minty, not that gross gel kind. New socks. Shampoo. A hair mask. That cinnamon tea I liked—”

He’s already nodding, filing it all away.

“—and maybe a candle? Like, a vanilla one. Oh, and fresh fruit. Mangoes if they’re ripe, cherries if they’re not overpriced, and don’t you dare get underripe bananas again. I’ll know.”

Romance has lowered his magazine completely, grinning. Abby’s smiling, looking at you, head tipped back. Even Mystery’s head has turned slightly toward you, though his hair still hides most of his face. Baby doesn’t look at you, but does he ever look at anyone? But he knows what you’re doing.

They spoil you. Always. It’s not even a question anymore, if you ask, you get. Like that time you complained once, once, about the kitchen not having your favorite brand of peanut butter, and three hours later Abby came back with an entire crate of the stuff. Or when you idly mentioned missing that silk pillowcase you had at home, and there was one folded neatly on your bed the next morning. You wish you knew who was that. Or when Romance brought back the stupidly expensive perfume you were washing off your body when you first met him(in the shower, remember?) he’d gone out of his way just to find the exact bottle.

They didn’t even expect thank-yous. That was the weirdest part. You’ve wondered if it’s guilt, some fucked up attempt to balance out the torture, the captivity, the constant presence in your space. A demon’s version of making it up to you. Or maybe it’s not guilt at all. Maybe they just want to see what you’ll ask for next.

Jinu’s still waiting, patient as ever, a faint smile on his lips. “That all?”

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks toward the others for half a second, like he’s aware of their attention but choosing not to care. “Alright. I’ll get it.”

Jinu is different. Always has been. Actually, he’s not. Not really. He’s just better at holding onto the scraps of whatever he used to be before he turned demon. The others, they’re further gone. Hungrier. More obvious in their want.

“What did you guys do today?”

He thinks for a second. “Rehearsal, mostly.”

The others start giggling. You have a slight suspicion that they’ve been fucking with him the whole time. Jinu sends a done look towards them, but then his eyes are immediately back on you.

The corner of your mouth quirks, but you don’t laugh.

It’s easy to talk to Jinu. Too easy. But the question in your head is ugly: How much of that is real? How much of what he tells you is truth, and how much is performance, just another mask over the same nature Baby told you about? Because Jinu’s a manipulative asshole and you know that way too good.

The conversation drifts to little things, a book you’ve been reading, a broken mug in the kitchen. It’s nice. Normal.

Your hand brushes his as you walk past him, slow and casual. A little touch. On purpose.

“Thanks.” you murmur, letting your eyes catch his for a moment.

The room stays quiet as you leave. You can feel the others’ eyes on you, but you don’t look back.

Not so cute time skip to the next morning. They’re gone.

You stand in the middle of the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of your hoodie, staring at the row of closed doors. You have one job today. The things Baby said are daring you to confirm them. And you… you do want to confirm them. Not because you want to be right, but because there’s something almost unbearable about not knowing. About living next to a locked door that might be empty or might be holding your name carved into the walls.

You’re going to look.

Carefully.

Not a single thing out of place, not a sheet folded differently, not a sock moved an inch.

First, you open Mystery’s room, slow, slow, slow, letting the latch slide silently. It smells like him, you think Jinu makes him wear this perfume. It’s also messy, not filthy, but it’s cluttered in a way that tells you he does not give a single shit about “aesthetic.” Piles of clothes. One of those sleeveless shirts he wears hanging halfway off the back of a chair. A low table littered with different things, a chipped mug, a lighter.

The bed’s not made. Sheets tangled, pillow kicked halfway onto the floor. You catch yourself imagining him sleeping like that, restless, limbs flung out, hair in his face.

You shake it off. You’re here for a reason.

You start with the obvious, the desk shoved against the wall. There’s no laptop, no electronics except a single lamp with a bulb that flickers when you touch it. A small tin with matches. Some papers. You open a drawer. You pay attention to it, so you notice the hair ties. Not all of them are yours, but some are. You can tell. Some still with a hair or two stuck in the elastic. Others stretched out, twisted, worn down.

You close that drawer very, very slowly.

The closet is not organized by clothing type. It’s organized by meaning. One side is those sleeveless sweater shirt things Jinu puts on him. The other is other things. Scarves. Scarves that aren’t his. A necklace you recognize because you lost it months ago. A folded hoodie that’s definitely yours, tucked between two black t-shirts.

You reach out and touch the fabric, then pull back fast, heart in your throat. You can smell your own detergent still faintly clinging to it.

The bed is your last stop.

You hesitate. Still, you check the space under it. No shoeboxes. Just a duffel bag, half-zipped. Inside a knife, two spare shirts, that’s about it.

You step back, scanning the room once more to make sure it looks exactly as it did when you entered. Messy, yes, but it’s his mess. And now you’ve walked through it, touched it, felt it.

Mystery’s collecting you in pieces. Quietly. Always.

You close the door without a sound.

Next, Romance’s. You put your hand on the knob. Breathe. Turn.

Damn, there’s an atmosphere in here, heat and… and fucking great mood lighting that gets you a little jealous tbh. Not the leather-and-chains sex dungeon you’d expect from someone with his stage persona, though you do clock a couple of suspicious hooks in the wall.

The bed has a canopy frame. There’s a mirror bolted to the ceiling above the bed. Lots of mirrors around the room in general. And soft fabric everywhere, throws, rugs, pillows.

You don’t even let yourself look too long at the nightstands, because from the glint of metal and the shapes of things, you know you don’t want to catalogue them in detail. You spot the bottle of lube sitting on it though. Next to it, a half-empty glass of red wine, lipstick print on the rim that definitely isn’t yours.

Or is it?

The walls are lined with shelves, but instead of books there are… objects. Glass bottles. Candles. Coils of rope in different colors. A pair of handcuffs, gold. A leather crop leaning casually against the corner like it was just used. Some things you don’t even have a name for, hanging neatly on hooks. One of the ropes has a small knot tied into it, and you recognize the thread, it’s from the cardigan you wore once before it disappeared into the laundry.

You keep moving, slow, scanning for anything else, careful not to touch what you can’t put back exactly the same. There’s a vanity against one wall, the surface crowded with cologne bottles, rings, and a dish with a handful of… random things. Trinkets. There are makeup palettes, brushes, highlighters, bottles. He’s got more lip products than you, and some of them are shades you’ve worn. Literally worn. You spot a coffee mug. The mug. The one you’ve been missing for weeks, the one Baby swore Romance licked the inside of after you drank from it.

You move carefully, eyes scanning for anything useful. But Romance’s organization system is pure chaos. Every drawer is a gamble. One has condoms. Different colors, textures, still in boxes. Another is full of silk scarves, all smelling faintly of his cologne.

At the foot of the bed, there’s a trunk. Polished wood, brass clasps. You crouch, open it just a crack, and shut it again.

No.

What you did see in that half-second was enough, a blur of lace, a flash of satin, something unmistakably shaped like a whip.

There’s a magazine on the floor by the nightstand. You pick it up, half-expecting porn, and… yeah. Porn. Pages curled from use. They still make these?? Omfg.

You carefully put it back. Then kneel down, careful not to touch the piles of god-knows-what scattered across his floor, and hook your fingers into the edge of the mattress.

Fabric.

A lot of fabric.

The first thing your brain registers is color, pale, pastel, lace. Then you realize what you’re actually looking at.

Your underwear.

You freeze, eyes scanning the little pile like maybe they’ll disappear if you stare hard enough.

No. Still there.

A pair you haven’t seen in weeks, the soft blue lace you liked. The black silk with the tiny bow. And oh, another one.

Fucking amazing. Great.

You don’t need to see more. You back away toward the door, pulse steady but stomach tight.

Baby was right about him, too. You’re starting to wonder if he undersold it.

The door clicks shut behind you. Two rooms down. Abby’s is next. His door is cracked open just enough to make you suspicious. You push it open slowly.

This room is messy. This is just… mess. Clothes everywhere. Some clean, most not. Sneakers kicked into corners. The faint scent of aftershave. It’s also bigger than you thought, Abby’s the kind of guy who probably claimed the largest bedroom without asking. The bed is wide enough for three people, sheets wrinkled, and clearly never washed unless someone else forces him to.

You step inside.

Clothes everywhere, clean, dirty, impossible to tell which is which. The bed is a heap of pillows, blankets, and at least two duvets because apparently Abby sleeps like a king.

The desk in the corner is your first stop. Loose change, and a cracked pair of sunglasses, an empty beer can. You dig through the drawer, condoms. So many condoms. Different brands, like he’s been testing them. Some opened but unused. He also has a stash of old-school porn magazines, some folded open to pages so worn they’re almost soft.

The nightstand has a lamp, a handful of crumpled receipts. There’s also another porn magazine spread halfway open, glossy pages sticking slightly from—yeah, you’re not touching that.

You move to the closet next. It’s full of clothes that aren’t his size. Does Jinu make him wear these? Otherwise it’s chaos. And in the back, a pair of high heels. Not yours. Too big. But the straps are worn down like they’ve been handled a lot.

You crouch to check the floor of the closet. There’s a gym bag. You unzip it, there are resistance bands, a jump rope, and another porn mag shoved between a towel and a spare pair of socks. And your phone.

Wait, your phone?

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not just cracked. It’s obliterated. Screen shattered into glittering pieces, battery pried out. It looks like someone snapped it in their hands.

You pick it up carefully, a shard of glass catching the light. You turn it over in your hands, thumb brushing the case you used every day, and your stomach twists.

He made sure you’d never use it again.

You put it back exactly where you found it.

You take one last sweep of the room before slipping out and leaving the door just like you found it.

Jinu’s door is next.

It smells… neutral. Not scented like Romance’s incense, not pungent like Abby’s cologne-and-sweat cocktail. Just… clean air, maybe faintly soapy. It’s not pristine—Jinu’s not that type—but it’s lived in. Bed’s unmade, but only because someone actually slept in it. A sweater tossed over the chair.

You start moving through it carefully. No condoms. No lube. No hair tie collections. No underwear trophies. At first glance, this is the cleanest of all their rooms, maybe even boring. On the desk, a closed laptop which you don’t even try, you know he’ll notice, a stack of pens, and—most interesting—a black notebook.

You pick it up, flip it open.

…you don’t understand the language. You flip a few more pages, trying to find a clue, but it’s all the same, symbols and words you can’t solve.

The rest of the room is not shocking. The closet is… surprisingly normal. Clothes, neatly hung. Coats, jackets, shirts, belts that you’re lucky he didn’t whoop your ass with back when you weren’t this free and kept acting up. A small safe tucked in the corner—yeah, you’re not getting into that without tools.

You leave the room exactly as you found it, the neatness making it easy to retrace your steps without leaving a trace.

You move on. Then stand there, hand hovering over Baby’s door, and for once you don’t know if you should. Did he expect you to look into his room? Anyway, this is your one shot to find out.

The air inside is heavier than you expect, warm, faintly sweet with whatever cologne he’s wearing lately, layered over smoke. Cigarettes. The curtains are half-drawn, filtering the daylight into stripes across the bed. It’s… not a disaster. Not tidy, but not apocalyptic. A few empty bottles roll lazily when you shut the door, glass knocking against wood. Cheap. Expensive. He clearly doesn’t discriminate.

You crouch and peek under the bed, more bottles, half-crushed cigarette packs, and a hoodie that looks like it hasn’t been washed in months.

On his desk, there’s a scattering of coins, a lighter, and yep, a switchblade.

You look at the bed. Nothing interesting.

And then, when you straighten and glance at the pillow, something catches your eye.

White.

Fabric.

You lift the pillow.

They’re panties.

Your panties.

Who else’s would they be? These guys don’t bring girls home. They have you. And you can only try not to imagine Jinu wearing a thong.

You just stare at them for a moment.

There’s a small, dark, awful part of you that likes it. The wrongness wraps around you in a way that feels… close. Intimate. It’s disturbing and validating all at once, this is proof he thinks about you even when you’re not there. Proof you’ve left a mark on him, even if it’s the kind you’d rather not.

Your hand almost twitches to take them back. But you don’t. You put the pillow back exactly where it was, like you were never there.

Baby’s told you about Romance and Abby having your stuff. He enjoyed ratting them out. But he never mentioned himself. Bitch.

You stand there a moment longer than you should.

They’re creepy. You should feel disgusted, furious, grossed out.

You do.

But…

It also does something else. Something you’re not going to put into words. Something you don’t want to even admit to yourself.

You straighten, dust your hands off like nothing happened, and step away from the bed.

One last sweep of the room. Nothing too wild. Baby’s not hiding a sex dungeon or a ritual site, he’s just in his own world.

You leave the room, shutting the door with the same quiet care you’ve given all of them. You’ve seen everything you came to see. And maybe… more than you wanted. Maybe you wanted to find these. Not just because it’s evidence, not because it’s leverage. But because it’s proof of something that no one else can see but you.

Proof that they’ve crossed a line.

Proof that they’ve thought about you, held you in ways you never gave permission for.

And somewhere in the fucked-upness(is that a real word) of this situation… that feels nice. It’s sick. You know it’s sick. You know you’re not supposed to like it when someone steals from you, touches what’s yours, twists it into something dirty. You’re not supposed to enjoy the thought that Baby kept something so intimate, slept with it under his pillow.

But the longer you stay in their world, the harder it gets to separate “supposed to” from what actually happens.

They’re violent, lustful, chaotic, feral. They kill, they lie, they manipulate. Some of them have a taste for things that would make your stomach twist if you let it. And yet… You can’t look away. There’s a quiet, strange admiration that’s already begun to take root. Underneath all the filth, the mess, the brutality… there’s something incredibly, disturbingly beautiful about them. They’re so handsome that you find yourself obsessing over them sometimes when you’re alone, replaying the way Mystery’s hair falls in his face, the shape of Abby’s jawline, the impossible smoothness of Romance’s skin, Jinu’s expressions. Even Baby’s shit posture has its own pull. And it’s worse when they’re in demon form. You’re supposed to find that terrifying, the marks across their skin, the glow in their eyes, the shapes of their mouths. But they’re still beautiful like that. Otherworldly. Some part of you wants to trace those marks with your fingertips, see if they’re raised or smooth, if they burn to the touch or shiver under it.

It’s pathetic.

There’s a connection now. One you didn’t ask for, but it’s here. It’s not normal. It’s not safe. It’s sick. It’s intimate.

And you do feel bad for them sometimes. You see them fight, see the flash of their real faces, see how quickly they burn through everything they touch.

They’re demons, yes, but you’ve seen them come home messed up and laughing, or messed up and not laughing, and it twists something in you. On those nights, you want to give them big hugs. Wrap your arms around them and say I get it. I know it’s not easy. You want to curl them into your arms and make everything okay, even though you know it can’t be. Even though they’d probably snap at you for trying.

You feel drawn in, like gravity. Like you’ve lost control, even though you’re still technically free. You notice it creeping in. You find yourself waiting for them to come home, listening for the sound of their footsteps in the hallway, even when you’ve sworn you’re too angry or annoyed to care. You replay small interactions in your head, analyzing every tone, every inflection, every glance. Did they smile because they like you? Did they growl because they’re frustrated with themselves? Did they do that thing with their eyes because… because you don’t even know? You forgive things faster than you should. The mess, the smells, the filth, the borderline criminal behavior, they’re all… endurable. Somehow. You also start to mimic their habits a little.

And yet, at the same time, you feel little bursts of rage at them. You feel fear. You feel arousal. You feel empathy. You feel frustration. You want them gone. You want them close. You feel trapped by them. You feel drawn in voluntarily.

Fear. Adoration. Rage. Lust. Confusion. Empathy. It’s all there. Layered, overlapping. You’re angry at them for kidnapping you, for torturing you, for exposing you to a life you never asked for. And yet… when they’re out of sight, you can’t help but miss them. You think about how they look when they’re not performing for the human world, how dangerous, how elegant, how hot they are. Even the scars, the marks, the demon traits… somehow, they’re beautiful to you.

You think of the panties under Baby’s pillow again, and your chest tightens. You feel a little guilty for that flutter of heat, for the weird, perverse, thrilling tug in your stomach. But… not like you can do anything about it.

You sit down on the couch, a pillow tucked beside you, and just breathe.

It’s disturbing. It’s intimate. It’s your new reality.

You don’t know how you’ll deal with it when they return. You don’t know how you’ll resist them, how you’ll keep control. Because despite yourself, you feel a small, guilty pull toward them all. A longing to hold them. A longing to forgive them. A longing to… stay.

Please accept my genuinely ass time skip to hours later, like late night. Derpy’s massive head is resting in your lap, his tiger breath warm against your thighs as you absentmindedly scratch under his chin. His tail thumps lazily against the couch every so often.

The door swings open, them arriving back from… whatever the hell they were doing. You never know. Sometimes you don’t want to know.

“Hi, Y/N.” That’s Jinu first, hands are full of bags.

“Hey, love.” Romance chimes in right after. Now there’s no smirk, no lazy up-and-down like he’s undressing you with his eyes. Just… a smile. It’s disarming enough that you blink, your fingers pausing on Derpy’s fur.

Abby’s voice comes next, but he’s not really speaking to you, he’s mid-sentence with Mystery, his arm casually slung over Mystery’s shoulders. You catch pieces of it, something about a fight, something about “should’ve seen his face.” Mystery grunts in reply, which is Mystery-speak for I’m listening but don’t expect a monologue.

Baby’s the last through the door. When his eyes lock on you, something flickers there. It’s quick, too quick for the others to catch, but you see it. You’re supposed to, because you two have a secret together.

“Hi.” You say it back now.

Jinu crosses the living room, drops bags in front of you. “For you.”

“Thanks.” you say, and he just nods before disappearing down the hall.

Romance follows Abby and Mystery’s conversation, still talking about something ridiculous, his voice rising and falling. Abby throws his head back laughing at whatever joke just landed, and Mystery’s lips twitch into a smile.

Baby lingers for half a second. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Just… looks. That I-know-you-know glint in his eyes. It’s ridiculous, but your pulse ticks up a notch. There’s something about being the keeper of a secret that feels hot.

He’s the one to break eye contact first, heading for his own room without a word.

When the door to the last bedroom shuts, you exhale slowly. Derpy shifts, sensing your movement as you stand and scoop up the bags. Some are lighter, some heavy enough to clink when you set them on the kitchen counter. You like this part. Unpacking groceries. Putting things in their place. The boys know you like doing it, too. That’s why they always leave the kitchen things for you. It’s sweet from them, actually.

You put everything in the fridge and cupboards without hesitation, knowing exactly where everything goes. You can almost pretend this is your kitchen, that you live here by choice. The sound of your own movements is soothing, the crinkle of bags, the soft thud of bottles being set in place, the faint hum of the refrigerator when you open it. The boys aren’t hovering. No one’s breathing down your neck. You can almost… breathe.

You’re sliding a carton of juice into the fridge—

“Boo.”

You yelp—loud, embarrassingly loud—and spin around so fast your hair whips your face.

Abby’s grinning. Of course he is. Ridiculously tall, stupidly broad, annoyingly gorgeous… and yet somehow, somehow, good at sneaking up on you like a damn ghost.

“Jesus fu—” You stop yourself halfway through cursing, mostly because your brain is catching up to the other detail. He’s not just close. He’s pressed against you. Not brushing, not hovering, pressed. You can feel the heat of his chest, and that casual lean of his body into yours like he’s claiming the air you breathe.

You exhale hard and shrug him off, turning away from him. “Get off.”

He doesn’t move right away, but he does ease his weight back after a second. “That’s not nice.”

“Don’t care.” you mutter, turning back to the counter.

“Oh?” His tone shifts, still playful. “You know what else isn’t nice?”

You glance over your shoulder, already suspicious. “What.”

“Looking through other people’s rooms.”

The carton in your hand suddenly feels about fifty pounds heavier. Your grip tightens just enough to make the cardboard creak.

Fuck.

Your pulse skips. For half a second you freeze, eyes flicking up to his. You force yourself to turn back to the fridge, shoving the carton inside like nothing’s wrong. “Okay. You know. And? No big deal.” You don’t look at him. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But your brain is suddenly very aware of every step you took that morning, every door you opened, every drawer you peeked into. The broken pieces of your phone in his closet. The fact that he’s not guessing. He knows.

Everything’s fine. He knows you went through his room. Then what? That doesn’t automatically mean he knows you checked the others. Still… your body betrays you. Your pulse kicks up. Your breath comes a fraction faster. And you hate that you know he can smell it and feel it. He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t call you out for being rattled. But his eyes are heavy on you, tracing the way your shoulders have stiffened, the way your weight shifts in place.

“Relax.” he says finally. “I’m not mad.”

“I am.” That’s Baby’s voice though.

You and Abby both turn, and there’s Baby leaning on the wall. One hip cocked, cigarette unlit between his fingers, eyes cool and flat in that I’m-bored-but-you’re-screwed way only he can pull off.

For a moment, the kitchen goes silent except for the faint hum of the fridge. Then, slowly, oh-so-slowly, Abby’s gaze swings back to you. “Ohhh… so it wasn’t just my room you snooped in, huh?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. You want to play it cool, shrug, roll your eyes. You do shrug, but it feels stiffer than it should, your shoulders jerking just a little too sharply. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Abby chuckles low in his chest. Baby just watches you. The cigarette spins lazily between his fingers.

“Y/N.” Romance’s voice from behind you. You didn’t hear him come in, didn’t hear anything. He says your name like it’s a sigh, like you’ve disappointed him on some deep, emotional level, except you know it’s fake.

You turn your head to look at him. He’s not mad. If anything, he looks impressed. Flattered, even.

“Going through my room?” Romance tuts, walking forward. “Tsk, tsk. And here I thought you were shy.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts in smoothly.

“You did.” He’s close now, circling to lean a hip against the counter opposite you. “Tell me… what did you think? Did you like what you saw?”

“Jeez.” you mutter, pressing your lips together and grabbing another bag from the counter just to have something to do.

Abby still to your right, Baby in the doorway behind him, Romance now blocking the space directly in front of you. It’s not aggressive exactly, but it’s a cage all the same.

Your brain’s scrambling for something clever, but it’s just not working. You’re genuinely stressed.

“Cat got your tongue?” Romance tilts his head, watching you too closely.

You want to say something—anything—but your throat feels dry, words catching. You end up just standing there, holding a box of cereal like it’s a shield.

Abby raises his brows. “Look at her. Speechless.”

Baby finally moves, stepping into the kitchen. “You’re sloppy.”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“You missed things.”

You hate how that makes your stomach drop again. Because now you’re wondering, what did you miss? What else is hidden in their rooms that you didn’t see?

Romance chuckles softly, leaning forward on his elbows. “See, Baby’s right. If you’re going to snoop, you’ve gotta be thorough. Careful. I mean…” He smirks, eyes dragging over your face. “If you’d asked, I would’ve just shown you.”

“Shut up.” you snap, heat rushing to your cheeks before you can stop it.

You don’t give them more. You slide the cereal onto the shelf, grab the next item from the bag. They can talk themselves in circles for all you care.

Except you do care. Your chest is tight, your skin buzzing with that uncomfortable awareness that they’re peeling you open without even raising their voices. And beneath the irritation, there’s something hotter, sharper, that you refuse to look at too closely.

Romance sees it. Of course he does. He leans in slightly. “Nervous?”

Abby leans in, still crowding your right side, his shadow stretching across the counter. He makes that exaggerated “ow” face, then hisses softly. “Naughty.”

Romance, is shaking his head slowly, almost mournfully. “I’m just… disappointed.” His tone is mock-serious. “I expected better from you.” Then he looks over his shoulder. “Hey, boy.”

Mystery is in the doorway, Romance noticed him sooner than you did.

Romance nods at him. “She been in your room too?”

Mystery nods once. It’s so simple, so plain, and yet it feels like the floor drops an inch beneath your feet.

Abby lets out a low whistle, and then he reaches over and gives your shoulder a firm shake. Not playful, not gentle, not exactly cruel, but too much. Enough to jolt your balance a little. Enough to send your pulse skittering. “Look at you.” he says. “Little sneak.”

Romance hisses, dragging the sound out, making it annoying.

And yeah, maybe it is a joke to them, but their kind of “joking” always comes with edges. They’re not gentle. They’re never gentle.

Suddenly, you remember the torture. The way their hands didn’t just hold, they restrained. The way they stood too close, making escape not even an option worth thinking about. The way their voices could switch from sweet to sharp in a single breath.

You told yourself you’d adapted, that you knew the difference between when they were playing and when they were hurting. But right now, with Abby’s grip a little too tight and Romance’s smirk a little too fixed, those lines blur again.

Your stomach’s sinking. There’s a strange hollowness there, a dropping sensation that makes it hard to breathe evenly. Your chest is tight, that particular tightness that’s a split-second away from tears, but you’re not crying. You’re not even blinking faster. You’re just there.

Then, footsteps again. Jinu steps into view, sees the way everyone’s positioned, sees you. He knows too. That’s why he came.

They all know.

They’re not just looking at you, they’re sensing you. They can feel it, the way your pulse is too quick, the way your breath is shallower, the way you’re holding your shoulders like they’re trying to fold inward.

You’re panicking. Not in a loud, flailing way. In that quiet, locked-up way where your body is screaming move, but your feet aren’t listening. Fight or flight, but you’re stuck in the third option—freeze.

It’s not the same as the day they first dragged you here, or the nights they decided you needed to be “taught a lesson.” But it’s close enough. Close enough that your skin prickles with memory, that your thoughts are looping too fast to grab hold of one.

It’s so stupid, you knew getting caught was a possibility. You knew they’d find out eventually. But you didn’t think it would be like this.

Romance finally breaks the silence with a soft, “What’s the matter?” His tone is honeyed, but there’s an undertone there, a quiet acknowledgment that he knows exactly what’s the matter.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t look so scared.” Abby says, smiling like it’s all harmless fun. But his size, his proximity, the weight of him, none of it is harmless.

You can’t even look at Jinu, because you know if you do, you’ll see that same quiet, knowing stare he had when he caught you in smaller lies before.

Romance’s gaze drops briefly to your hands, then back up. “You didn’t touch anything in mine, did you?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the sound that comes out is thinner than you meant. “I didn’t break anything.”

Romance smiles faintly at that. “Not what I asked.”

Your throat feels tight, like it’s going to pinch your words before they make it out. But you manage to spit them out anyway. “What… what did I do wrong?”

It’s an honest question, shaky in its delivery because you genuinely don’t know which way this is going to swing.

Romance blinks once. Abby actually tilts his head like you’ve just asked him to solve a math problem. Mystery’s expression doesn’t change, but you can tell he’s turning it over in his head. Baby leans against the counter like this is mildly interesting background entertainment. Jinu… is just looking at you.

They glance at each other, silent, but definitely communicating.

Abby shrugs. “Mm. Nothing.”

Romance nods. “Yeah, no. You didn’t mess up.”

Mystery gives the smallest half-shrug, which in Mystery-speak is agreement.

Jinu clicks his tongue once, almost thoughtful. “You were actually good at it.”

Baby, deadpan: “Could barely tell.”

Abby gestures lazily toward you. “We could smell it though.”

“Yeah,” Jinu adds. “could tell right away.”

Oh, so that’s how they figured it out.

Romance even chuckles. “We weren’t mad, sweetheart. Just… y’know. Curious.”

Jinu tilts his head slightly, lets his mouth pull into that faint, disappointed downturn that somehow feels worse than yelling. “Still, you went behind our backs.”

Romance catches on immediately, mirroring Jinu’s tone. “Mmh. And after everything we do for you…”

Abby leans in again, two hands on his chest, his voice dropping into mock-betrayal. “Hurts my feelings, doll.”

Mystery actually shakes his head. It’s so cute seeing him actually do things with the others.

Even Baby, without moving from his post, lets out a quiet, disapproving “Tch.”

It’s so obviously an act, an exquisite manipulation, that it almost makes you laugh. Almost. Because they’re good at this. Too good. They’re pressing down just enough to make your chest tighten again.

This turns them on.

They like you a lot. Too much. On a pathetic, feral level. And the fact that you just gave them a brand-new game, one where you’re clever enough to almost fool them but not quite, is thrilling to them. It’s the hunt. It’s the power shift. It’s knowing you broke a rule, knowing you’re capable of being bad, and knowing they caught you. You cornered. You caught. You flushed and fidgeting and trying to figure out whether you’re actually in trouble.

“But,” Jinu adds. “you could’ve just asked. We’d have shown you anything you wanted to see.”

“Well,” you start. “I suppose you’ve gone through my stuff too. Multiple times.”

Jinu’s brows lift the tiniest bit. Romance’s smile doesn’t falter, but it changes, turns sly, like he’s been waiting for you to say something like this. Abby tilts his head like he’s assessing how much trouble you’re trying to start. Mystery just blinks at you. Baby’s mouth twitches, not quite into a smirk, but close enough that you catch it.

“Don’t lie.” you say, firm this time. “This builds on trust.”

You watch the words settle over them, see the way Jinu’s jaw ticks slightly before he smooths it over. Romance gives a single, quiet laugh, like oh, you’re learning to play. Abby’s face says I’m not even mad, I’m impressed.

They don’t outright deny it. They’re not stupid.

You don’t mention Baby on purpose. You don’t tell them that if it weren’t for him opening that bored little mouth and spilling the filthiest truths about them over cooling cupcakes, you wouldn’t have been creeping through their rooms.

You keep it tucked away. Your secret. His secret.

He knows you’re not going to sell him out. And god, does he respect it. The five of them can be greedy, possessive monsters, but this? This is something only you and he know. A little slice of something between you that none of the others get to touch. And the fact that it’s about them—their dirtiest habits, their most pathetic secrets—makes it so much better. It’s hot to him. Unbelievably hot. The idea of having a secret together in this pressure? It’s like you’ve just tied a little invisible string between the two of you, one that tugs every time you make eye contact.

Having a secret together is unbelievably hot.

Romance opens his mouth, probably to say something charming, but you cut him off with a simple, “Save it.”

You feel the weight of Baby’s stare even as Abby keeps looking at you, even as Romance gives a small, disappointed “tsk” for show, even as Jinu sighs like he’s processing how best to handle this misbehavior.

You manage to swallow down the tight, dry feeling in your throat long enough to get words out. “Alright.” you say. “I’ll leave your stuff alone… if you leave mine.”

For one, tiny second, there’s quiet.

Abby doesn’t even change his face. “No.”

Romance almost laughs, almost, but what comes out is more like a hum. “Cute.” he says, tilting his head. “But no.”

Jinu doesn’t even pause before he’s shaking his head. “That’s not how this works.”

Mystery doesn’t speak, but the faint shape his mouth picks up is a silent agreement.

You blink once, slowly, because the refusal is so immediate, so matter-of-fact, that it’s actually unbelievable. “So… you’re telling me, you can snoop in my stuff—touch it, take it, break it—but I can’t—”

“Correct.” Romance cuts in, leaning slightly against the counter now, folding his arms.

They’re not even pretending to be fair. Not even pretending to negotiate. They don’t care that it’s your stuff. They don’t care about rules unless they’re the ones writing them.

“That’s—” You almost choke on it, but you push through. “That’s bullshit.”

Romance gives you this faux-sympathetic smile, like he’s sorry you feel that way, except he’s not sorry at all. “Maybe. But it’s still the way it is.”

Jinu sighs. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Not unless,” Abby says. “you want us to do worse to yours.”

Your jaw tightens. “You already do.”

Jinu shifts his weight. “We could do more.”

And that’s when it really sinks in, they’re genuinely trying to get you to agree to a one-way deal. They honestly think you’ll just accept that they can pry into every corner of your life but you can’t touch theirs. The sheer arrogance of it makes your skin buzz.

“No.” you say finally.

Romance blinks, just once. “No?”

“No.” you repeat, sharper this time.

Abby smiles. “Then you’ll deal with the consequences.”

“Bring them.” you snap, and the words leave your mouth before you can think them through.

There’s a tiny pause after that.

Baby finally speaks, but even that’s a: “Careful.”

It’s not a threat. Not quite. But it’s not not one, either.

You can feel your pulse in your throat again, even though you’re still standing your ground. Because deep down, you know they like this. They like the push and pull, the challenge.

But you’ve never been angrier. Not with them. Not with this whole, suffocating power dynamic. Though you don’t know what you expected. They’re demons. Unfair. Evil. It’s in their nature to tilt the scales so the weight always lands on you. You could scream yourself raw about fairness, justice, privacy, it would slide right off them. You could pull the scar card, too. Remind them how they tortured once, twice, over and over. But what would that do? Nothing will work. And you know that.

“Leave me alone.” you say quietly, stepping past, trying to make the whole thing over before it spirals into something you’ll regret.

Abby’s hand clamps around your arm before you even register the motion. His palm is huge, hot. It burns. Not physically, but in that wrong way, that reminder that they can take your space, your breath, your movement whenever they want.

You immediately scratch him with your nails, digging hard enough across his wrist that the skin gives.

He jerks back with a hiss. A real one through his teeth, more irritation than pain, but still, it landed. He lets you go. Drops your arm with a little flick, like fine.

It’s been a while since you hurt one of them. At least tried to. The last time you had that much bite in you was back when they were still trying to pry secrets out of you. You’d clawed, snapped, bit down on Abby’s shoulder so hard he bled. You remember the taste of iron, the way Romance had howled with laughter while Jinu peeled you off him.

You leave. You know they’re watching you, Abby still nursing the sting of your nails, Romance biting back a laugh because he thinks everything you do is either hilarious or adorable, Jinu torn between disapproval and worry, Baby with his narrowed eyes calculating what to do with this new piece of data. Mystery… dude I always want to say so much about him but what is there to say? He doesn’t give us anything to work with, he’s just quiet and pretty.

You feel satisfaction. Still, it’s complicated, isn’t it? Because the guilt does creep in too. Watching you walk away, they probably feel both. Bad—because there’s a tiny part of them that wants to keep you safe, happy, whole. Good—because the sting of your defiance feeds the sick hunger in them that craves fight as much as it craves surrender.

They’re fucked up.

And maybe you’re fucked up too, because there’s a piece of you—tiny, secret, shameful—that relishes this too. Relishes that they’ll be thinking about you all night now. That every time Abby flexes his hand he’ll remember the scratch marks you left. That Romance will tease him endlessly for “letting the little human get teeth in.” That Jinu will probably check on you later, never giving up. That Baby will keep the secret. That Mystery… fuck, man. I’m trying I swear.

This push and pull, these tiny wars, this blend of tenderness and cruelty, it’s the only intimacy they know. The only intimacy they offer. And you’re starting to get used to it. That’s a horrible thing, but there’s no point in denying it, babe.

You slam your door shut harder than you mean to. It rattles in the frame and you freeze for a second, waiting, half-afraid they’ll scold you again for it like when they used to when you were still questioned.

You breathe. In. Out. Again. Again. Chest heaving like you’ve just run a sprint when all you did was scratch Abby and walk away.

What is this feeling?

This… push and pull inside you. Your logic is loud. It tells you this is wrong. Everything about this. The unfairness, the manipulation, the way they pin you into corners with their hands and their words, the way they deny you the simplest freedoms and then act like they’re doing you favors when they toss crumbs of choice your way. They’re demons. They’re cruel. They’ll never play fair.

And you are angry about that. Anger makes sense.

But your heart? Your heart is not angry. Not capable of it, apparently.

Like, you remember Abby, huge and jacked and cocky Abby, sitting at the edge of your bed that one night when he came to apologize. The best he could. Clumsy, not even close to enough for what they did, but still. Words you never thought you’d hear from his mouth. And you’d sat there with him, knees almost touching, while he opened up just a little.

You’d felt something then. Something that should never have been allowed to bloom in you. Because all it took was that, a half-assed apology, a demon’s weak attempt at vulnerability, and suddenly you wanted to forgive him. To let it go. To erase the torture, the bruises, the ropes, the endless nights of being cornered, questioned, pressed too far. One conversation and you wanted to wipe the slate clean.

And that’s what drives you crazy. Not them. Not even their cruelty. But you. How quickly you fold at the barest flicker of softness from them.

You curl onto your bed now, knees tucked up, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling doesn’t talk back. It doesn’t tell you what this sickness is, this crawling, gnawing thing in your chest. It doesn’t explain why their attention—so wrong, so terrifying—sometimes feels like true love.

You know what this is.

But knowing doesn’t stop it.

It’s like there are two versions of you living in your body. One logical, furious. She remembers every hit, every scar, every time they reminded you that you’re not free. And then the other—the softer, pathetic one—she clings to the scraps. She keeps rerunning Abby’s apology in her head. She wonders if Romance flirts because he’s lonely. If Mystery’s silence is just his way of trying not to hurt you. If Jinu’s kindness is real, or if he’s simply better at faking. She wonders if Baby’s bratty cruelty is just a mask over something fragile underneath.

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead until it hurts, until the pressure makes spots dance in your vision. You wish you could squash that softer version of yourself. Kill her. But she keeps breathing. Keeps whispering. Keeps aching for them.

But they’re art. You catch yourself staring sometimes at Abby’s shoulders when he stretches, at the curve of Romance’s pretty mouth, at the way Mystery’s hair falls into his eyes, at Jinu’s throat when he swallows, at Baby’s sharp jawline when he’s lighting a cigarette.

You obsess, even when you hate yourself for it.

And maybe that’s why it feels good when you lash out at them—scratch, bite, snap—because for once, it’s you holding something that can hurt, even if only for a second.

They’ve ruined you.

And you hate it.

And you crave it.

What would Mira say if she saw you like this? She was always the first to notice when you weren’t okay, always the first to squeeze your hand under the table. She’d probably glare at you until you cracked, until you spilled the whole rotten story, then she’d tell you you were insane if you thought she’d ever let this slide. She’d fight for you. Rumi would wrap her arms around you, tell you how unfair all of this is, how you don’t deserve it. You can practically hear her voice shaking as she tells you to stop trying to understand them, stop letting them crawl into your veins. Zoey would understand you better than any of them. She wouldn’t look at you with pity. She wouldn’t cry. She’d listen. She’d nod. She’d get it. And maybe she’d say the words you’re too afraid to: you don’t just want freedom, you want them too.

God, you miss them. Miss them so much it makes your chest ache just thinking about it.

You tell yourself you can’t let this happen to you. Not all the way. Not yet. Maybe it’s already happening, maybe it’s too late, but you can’t just roll over and let it. You have to at least try to prove to yourself that there’s still a part of you that wants out. So the next morning, you didn’t come out until they left. And when they were gone, you approached the door. You used your maximum brain capacity, every ounce of patience, to just… look. To trace your eyes along the frame, the hinges, the screws. To test with the gentlest touch, the faintest wiggle, what might give way if you tried.

You loosened just a couple things.

And when you heard the elevator later, heard them coming home, you didn’t panic. You went to the sauna. Sat there until your skin felt like it was on fire, until your head was light and your lungs weak. Sat there long enough to cook the adrenaline out of your pores, to make sure they’d smell nothing but steam and heat if they tested the air around you.

You nearly died in there. But you came out looking flushed and lazy, and that was all that mattered.

Now it’s night.

You think they’re asleep. All of them. Probably sprawled in their messy beds. So you got dressed, and your feet are bare, and you’re moving slow. In the kitchen, quietly, you’re looking for a knife. Something precise, something that can fit into a screw head and twist. A replacement for the tools they took from you after the last time you tried.

You’re careful. You’re slow. You pick up one, test the tip with your finger, set it down. Another, too thick, won’t fit. Another, serrated, useless. Your breath is controlled too. You’re getting good at this. And finally, you find it. Not perfect, but workable.

You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re doing fine.

You kneel at the door. You’ve got the knife clenched in your hand, your wrist steady, your breath controlled. You’ve mapped this out, you’ve thought this through. You’ve been careful, quiet, patient. If anyone’s going to outsmart demons, it’s going to be you.

The first screw gives a little under your twisting. Just a faint shift. Enough to make your heart leap, enough to remind you that yes, you can do this.

You grin, or maybe it’s a grimace. Your lips twitch either way. “You’re a fucking god.” you whisper to yourself, so soft it’s just breath.

And then, the knife slips.

It’s fast, it’s stupid. You press too hard, angle too wrong, and the thin blade skates right off the head of the screw and into your arm.

Your forearm gets the hit.

“—fuck!” you hiss, jerking back.

At first, you think it’s just a scratch. Just a little sting, nothing to panic over. But then it wells up. A fat bead of blood slides down your skin, then another, then another, and suddenly it’s not a bead, it’s a stream.

It’s deep.

You drop the knife without meaning to. It clatters against the floor, too loud, way too loud, and you freeze. The sound bounces down the hall, echoes in your chest.

But worse than the sound is the sight, your blood, red, dripping onto the floorboards in lazy drops.

They’ll smell it. They’ll know.

You slap your hand over it, squeezing, trying to stop the flow, but it’s slick and hot and it hurts, god it hurts. Your chest tightens, your breath breaks into ragged little gulps. The calm, slow rhythm you trained yourself for shatters in an instant.

“Shit, shit, shit—”

You scramble, scooping the knife up, wiping the blood on your shirt, pressing your hand harder against your arm. It’s too much, too fast. Already your palm is soaked, your fingers sticky. Already the metallic tang is in the air.

They’ll smell it. They will.

You stumble back from the door, staring at the mess. Drops dotting the floor, a smear on the wood where you grabbed at yourself too late. No time to clean it properly, no way to make it invisible.

Your vision tunnels. The edges of the room go dark. Your whole body feels like it’s pulsing in time with the wound, every heartbeat forcing more out of you.

You try to breathe slow again, but your lungs are stuttering. The tight feeling is back, the one that means you’re about to cry, except now it’s worse, now it’s laced with raw animal fear. You have to sit down. You should move, but all you can do is sink into the floor, back against the wall.

You are prey.

You are bleeding prey in a house full of predators.

They’re already angry at you. God, they’re so angry at you.

Your mind races in jagged flashes. Do you run to the bathroom, rinse it, hide it? Too loud. Too risky. Do you crawl back to bed, pretend it never happened? You’d stain the sheets. They’d see. Do you—what, what, what?

Your hand trembles against your arm. Your legs feel too weak to stand.

They’re going to know.

The floor creaks.

Not yours.

Not your movement.

Your stomach drops so hard you almost throw up.

They’re awake.

Or at least, one of them is.

Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure it’ll give you away before anything else.

Its Jinu. Messy hair, shirt half-rumpled from bed, he was clearly asleep just minutes ago.

Your mouth opens before your brain can stop it. “Jinu.”

It isn’t just his name. Not the flat way you sometimes say it, not the annoyed version, not even the curious one. It’s need. Pure and stupid and childlike. Like when a little kid falls and they keep crying for their parent without thinking, because they want their parent from instinct. And to be honest, you meant it. You want Jinu. Right now, with your arm torn open and your pulse rattling in your ears, you want him.

His eyes snap to you, and the first thing you see is confusion. His gaze flicks to the knife, to the screws, to the blood dripping steady between your fingers. And then, fear.

“Y/N.” His voice is low, urgent, gentle. You’ve heard him cold. You’ve heard him calculated. You’ve heard him frustrated. You’ve heard him manipulative. But this, this is a voice that actually sounds like it cares.

You feel the adrenaline hit you all at once. Your chest seizes, your throat closes, your breathing turns jerky, shallow. You can’t seem to get enough air. You press your hand harder against your arm, as if pressure will solve everything.

“I—” Your voice cracks, small and shaky. “It—it slipped—”

He’s already crouching down, already reaching. Not rough, not demanding, just… present. His hands hover before touching you, like he’s making sure you’ll let him. “Let me see.”

You shake your head, instinctive. “No—”

“Yes.” He doesn’t snap it. Doesn’t bark. Just says it firm enough that you hear the wall of no-argument behind it. He takes the knife from you gently, prying your fingers loose one by one. He tosses it down the hall, far away. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I swear. Let me see.”

Your hand loosens, almost against your will. You feel the tacky drag of blood as he gently pries your fingers away. And then you see the wound. Deep, red. You want to throw up.

He inhales sharply. You think it’s disgust for half a second, until you see his wide eyes. “Oh… fuck. Okay. Okay.”

You’re shaking now, because the adrenaline’s peaked and you’re crashing hard. Your body can’t decide if it wants to fight, cry, or collapse.

He notices. Of course he does. He always notices.

“Breathe.” His voice is steady, low. “Look at me. Just me.”

And you do. You don’t know why, but you do. His face is tired, his jaw is tense, but his eyes are locked on yours.

You inhale ragged, try to steady it. He mirrors the rhythm, slower, exaggerating it, like he’s lending you his breath to copy.

Inhale. Exhale.

It works. Not perfectly, you’re still trembling, your throat still feels tight, but it works enough that you’re not drowning.

“Good.” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

He pulls the hem of his shirt up and presses the fabric against your arm. The warmth of him seeps through immediately. He’s gentle, gentler than you thought he could be. Almost clumsy.

“Hold this here.” he says, guiding your hand to press the makeshift bandage. His fingers brush yours and you cling to the contact more than the cloth.

Your voice comes out small. “Am I—” You swallow. “Am I in trouble?”

It’s pathetic. You hate yourself for asking. But you ask anyway.

His eyes flick up to yours, startled for half a second. Then they soften. “No.”

You nod, a weak little movement, but your chest loosens a fraction.

He adjusts his crouch, shifting closer. His knee brushes your leg. “You scared yourself.” he says quietly. “That’s all this is. An accident.”

An accident.

You look down, ashamed. Blood seeps through the shirt against your arm, hot and sticky. You press harder.

He exhales, long and slow. “Y/N. Look at me again.”

You do. You can’t not.

“I don’t care about the door.” he says. “Or the knife. Or—” He stops himself, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Or what you were trying to do. I care about this.” He nods toward your arm. “You. Hurt.”

The words knock the air out of you.

You blink fast, throat stinging. Tears threaten, uninvited. You bite the inside of your cheek hard, but it doesn’t stop the wet blur gathering at the edges of your vision.

You want to argue. You want to tell him he’s lying, that he should care about the door, that they will care about the escape attempt. But the way he says it, the way he looks at you, short-circuits your brain.

You believe him. For now.

Your body leans toward him, just slightly, without permission. The urge is sudden and stupid, to bury your face in his chest, to let him hold you, to feel small and safe and protected.

You don’t. You can’t. But god, you want to.

And he knows. Somehow he knows, because his posture shifts, subtle, like he’s bracing for you to collapse against him. Like he’s already decided he’d catch you if you did.

Your voice is shaky, quiet. “Jinu… don’t—don’t tell the others.”

That earns you a pause. His brows pull together, the faintest crease between them. He doesn’t answer right away.

You hold your breath, waiting, begging silently.

Finally, he nods. Small. Reluctant. But a nod.

“Okay.” he says. “Not tonight.”

Not tonight.

Which isn’t never, but it’s enough for now.

He knows you’re terrified. He can smell it, taste it, practically feel it radiating off your skin. So he doesn’t rush you. “If you don’t want them to smell it, you’ll have to get up though.”

Right. Of course. Demons. Every drop of blood you’re leaking right now might as well be a dinner bell.

You look at the floor, then the door, then anywhere except at him, because panic is surging again and you don’t have the breath to say so.

But he says it calmer, softer, guiding: “Y/N, come on. Up. You’ll be worse if we wait.”

And you do. You let him help you stand, his hand firm at your elbow, his body close enough that if you stumbled, he’d catch you before you hit the ground. The walk down the hall feels endless, every sound loud suddenly, your footsteps dragging, your breath unsteady, the faint wet drip of blood against the wood. You pray the others don’t stir, don’t come out, don’t see.

When be opens his door, he says “Bathroom.” and leads you in there. From a drawer he pulls out a first-aid kit so pristine it looks unused. “Didn’t think I’d ever actually open this thing.” he admits.

The line is nothing, but it works. It distracts you for a heartbeat.

“Sit.” he says, pointing to the thick edge of the tub. You do.

Your arm feels like fire now that you’ve stopped moving. You watch him uncap a bottle of antiseptic, pour it onto gauze. He’s surprisingly good at this. The sharp smell of alcohol stings your nose.

“This will burn.” he says. Calm. Informative. Not sugarcoating. “You’ll hate me for the next thirty seconds.”

He isn’t lying.

The second he presses it to your arm, you jolt back, hiss through your teeth, a strangled sound tearing out of you.

“Fuck—stop, stop—” You try to pull away. Your shoulder slams into the tile wall.

Jinu’s hand is already there, catching your wrist, holding steady. Not tight, not brutal, but firm. “Y/N. I know. I know it hurts. It has to.”

Your chest heaves. Tears prick your eyes. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice sharpens just enough to cut through. “Stay with me.”

Another swipe of the gauze and you almost bite your tongue bloody to stop the scream clawing its way out.

“I hate you.” you gasp, breathless.

He huffs the barest laugh, humorless but gentle. “I know.”

The worst passes. The sting fades from unbearable to manageable, and your muscles sag, trembling from the effort of staying still. He swaps to saline next, flushing the wound with a careful pour. Clear liquid runs pink down your arm.

“You did good.” he says quietly. “Better than I expected.”

You want to snap at him, tell him you’re not a dog he gets to praise, but the words die in your throat. The tone is too soft. Too genuine.

He sets the saline down, digs in the kit again. When you see the sutures packet, your stomach flips.

“No.” Your voice is thin. “No stitches. No.”

His eyes flick up, steady. “It’s deep, Y/N. It won’t close without them.”

You shake your head, panic clawing up your throat. “No. Please. No.”

His jaw tics. For a second, he looks like he might argue. But instead he sighs, long and controlled, and nods. “Fine. But,” he adds, pulling out butterfly closures instead. “we’ll approximate it with these. They won’t hold as well. You’ll scar.”

You nod quickly, anything to avoid the needle.

And when the first butterfly strip pulls your skin together, the sharp tug of flesh against flesh makes you cry out. You try to twist away. Instinct. Survival. Pain. But Jinu doesn’t let you. In one swift motion, he steps in close, his arm sliding around your waist, his chest pressing flush against your back. He holds you, keeping you pinned gently against him. His breath brushes the side of your face.

“Stay. Please.” The word please sounds addictive.

Every part of you screams at the closeness, his chest against your back, his breath near your temple, the unyielding strength in his arms. It’s too much. Too intimate. But also… grounding. Solid. Like if you thrashed, he’d hold, but not hurt. Like restraint without cruelty.

You shove your face into his neck, tears smearing hot across his skin. A strangled, childish sound tears out of you, half-cry, half-whine. The pain sears sharp under every pull, and you can’t bite it back anymore. You cry into him. You whine into his skin, small, desperate noises muffled against him as he does that whatever the fuck, you don’t dare look.

Jinu wasn’t ready for this, for you to do this. But he doesn’t show it. His chin lowers, almost instinctive, brushing the crown of your head. His arm around you tightens, careful not to crush, but enough to tell you he’s here. That you’re not slipping away.

God, he likes it.

He likes that you called his name like that. He likes that you came willingly into his arms, even if it was pain that pushed you there. He likes the warmth of your breath against his skin, the tiny, raw sounds you make only for him.

Buried under that dark, selfish pull is something else, something he barely lets himself feel, worry. Genuine, bone-deep worry. The kind that makes his stomach twist, that whispers: What if the cut had been worse? What if I hadn’t heard you? What if you bled out on that floor before I woke up?

He can’t stand that thought.

So he holds you tighter. His cheek brushes your hair. “I know, I know.” he whispers into the air between you, words meant more for himself than you. “Almost done. Just a little more.”

You sob again, pressing harder into his neck, like you’re trying to crawl inside him to escape the pain. He feels it all, the wetness of your tears, the tremble of your body, the way your good hand grips his bicep, which you don’t even seem to notice, because your sobs vibrate against him, raw and unguarded, and it fucks him up in a way he didn’t expect. You’re not just scared. You’re hurting. And you chose him to see it. Something in him likes it, your weakness pressed so close, your trust laid bare.

And when the last closure sticks, when the wound is finally held together, he doesn’t let you go right away. His hands stay firm on your waist, his neck damp with your tears.

“It’s done.” he says finally, loosening his hold but not moving away just yet.

You don’t answer. You just sit there, chest heaving, cheek nearly brushing his shoulder, the ache in your arm dulled under the bandages.

For one insane second, you don’t want him to let go.

Jinu doesn’t move. His arms stay wound around you even after the wound is closed, even after your sobs start to stutter into weaker hiccups against his neck. But eventually, slowly, he forces himself to loosen his grip.

“Okay.” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Okay.”

He leans back, peeling himself away carefully. His hands skim your shoulders as if to keep you upright without caging you anymore.

He crouches down onto the cold tile, knees bending until he’s more in level with you.

Your face is blotchy, puffed from crying, lashes clumped wet. Strands of hair cling to your damp cheeks and temples. Your nose is red. Your lips tremble. Your arm twitches faintly at the fingers, a painful, involuntary spasm. You clutch your other hand into your shirt. You’re breathing too fast. Still in shock. You’re pale under the bathroom light, your eyes glassy and unfocused, your mouth open like you can’t quite catch enough air.

“I wasn’t—” You stop, then continue. “I wasn’t trying to stab myself, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “Doesn’t matter.”

You shake, shoulders heaving with each little sob. Your lips part like you’re trying to say something, but only wet sounds come out.

Jinu stares at you, chest aching. How is he supposed to deal with this? He’s good at silence, good at watching, good at pulling strings from shadows. But this? You, torn open in front of him, trusting him to hold the pieces…

It terrifies him.

“…Are you angry?” you murmur.

He blinks, startled. “What?”

“Are you mad at me?” The words fall out unfiltered, raw honesty spilling faster than you can contain it. “For—fuck—for being stupid, for—” You break on a hiccuping sob, “—for everything? For making a mess? For… making you deal with me?”

He shakes his head instantly. “No.”

“You should be—God, Jinu, you should be. I messed up, I—I keep—” You gasp for breath. “—keep breaking things, keep snooping, keep being mean to you, keep—” You almost choke on the last word. “—failing. I don’t know why you even—”

“Y/N.”

You look at him, trembling.

His eyes soften. “I’m not angry.”

You sniff. “…Why?”

He stares at you a beat too long. His lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes. He doesn’t have the words. Not for this. So instead he exhales slowly and stands. His knees pop from crouching too long. He brushes his palms against his thighs.

“Bed.” he says, voice firm. A command, but softened.

Your mouth opens, ready to argue, but the word sticks. You don’t have the strength to fight him. So you nod faintly.

He steps closer, offering a hand, and when you hesitate, he just places it against your back, guiding you up gently.

For once, he doesn’t have the luxury of thinking like a demon. There’s no instinct for this in his bloodline, no reflex for comfort or caretaking. There’s only him, and the terrible uncertainty of it all.

On the hall, Jinu matches your pace, every step measured, his hand never leaving yours.

But Abby’s leaning against the doorframe of his room, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are narrowed, irritated. His gaze goes from you—tear-stained, leaning into Jinu—to your bandaged arm, and his jaw tightens.

Beside him, Mystery stands silently. His posture is the usual, leaning into the side a little, but his lips are left open a little.

Abby doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just lifts his hands slowly, palms up, in a gesture that could mean a hundred things—what happened? where are you taking her? what the fuck did you do?

Jinu’s eyes flicker to him once. Just once. And then he looks forward again, walking away with you. No explanations. No excuses. No room for anyone else in this moment. He’s all about you.

Abby’s nostrils flare, a muscle ticking in his jaw. You can feel the weight of his stare burning into your back as you walk with Jinu, but Jinu doesn’t so much as glance again. It’s infuriating to Abby. He wants to argue, wants to demand answers, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Mystery tilts his head, curious, but says nothing either. Just watches.

In your room, you’re sitting at the edge of your bed, still trembling slightly from everything, when Jinu crouches in front of you again, like he can’t trust leaving you upright until you’re settled.

You sniff hard, trying to claw back some dignity. “I need to wash my teeth. Before bed.”

Jinu tilts his head. “No. You don’t. You need sleep. Nothing else.” His voice is gentle but immovable. “Trust me, you don’t.”

There’s something strangely comforting in how absolute he sounds. No room for you to wrestle, no options that make you think more. Just a single direction, bed.

He pulls the sheets up around you with the sort of tenderness that feels alien on him, even clumsy. Like he’s never tucked anyone in before, but his hands figure it out anyway.

“I’ll let you rest.” he says, voice quiet. He hesitates by the side of your bed, his fingers flexing once at his thigh, as though debating whether to reach out and smooth the hair from your face. He doesn’t. But his eyes linger on you like the touch is there all the same.

“One last thing.” he adds, softer now. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”

You want to believe him. You nod, your throat too tight to answer.

And with that, he slips from your room.

Meanwhile, Romance and Baby are standing over the knife.

The smell of blood had woken them all. At first, it had stirred something feral, nostrils flaring, hunger, the old itch for violence and heat. But now, staring at the actual mess by the front door, the knife lying abandoned, the streak of red against the frame, the faint handprint on the wall, that hunger has been replaced with something much… dreadful, if that’s the right word.

Romance’s expression is… sassy. There’s no better word for it. He even makes a little tsk under his breath, shaking his head slowly. “Somebody’s been busy.”

Baby snorts, leaning one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed. “Busy being an idiot.” he mutters. His eyes stay locked on the blood smeared near the door, jaw clenching tight.

They both know there’s no prying you from Jinu’s hands tonight. You’d called his name. You’d gone with him. You’d stayed in his room. The realization doesn’t make them jealous, not exactly. It makes them restless. Because if you’re bleeding, and you’re hurt, and you’re not with them, then where does that leave them?

Jinu closes your door softly behind him. Abby’s already there, broad body taking up a lot of the hallway. His arms are folded, his face obviously angry, the irritation from earlier still on him.

“What happened?”

Jinu shakes his head before the second word has even left Abby’s mouth. Quick. Decisive. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t explain, doesn’t even glance up. Just brushes past the bigger boy like he doesn’t exist, not even caring that half of his shirt is still covered in your blood.

Abby’s jaw tightens. His fingers flex like he wants to grab Jinu, drag the truth out of him. But he doesn’t.

Jinu disappears down the hall, the door to his room shutting behind him with a quiet click.

Silence.

Abby exhales through his nose, a frustrated sound. He rakes a hand over his hair. He hates being kept out, hates being shoved to the sidelines when it comes to you. He doesn’t even know what’s happening to you.

Fine.

Mystery walks up beside him. His hand rests casually against the front of his pants, fingers hooked in his waistband, thumb dragging slow. Y’know that hot posture he has in the movie too.

Together, they walk to the front door.

Romance and Baby are still there, standing over the scene. The knife glints dully under the hallway light. The smear on the frame has already begun to dry, dark and tacky. The scent is all around them, stubborn, refusing to fade. The four of them stand in silence, forming a loose circle around the blood. It’s actually kind of hilarious when you see it from the outside.

Romance lets out a little huff of breath, almost a laugh. “You boys smell that?” he says lightly. “How clumsy.”

Baby shifts his weight. “It’s not funny.”

Romance hums, tilting his head, but doesn’t argue.

Abby crouches, lowering his big frame to get a closer look. His nostrils flare as he inhales, face grim. His hands hover just above the bloodstain like he wants to touch it, but he doesn’t.

Baby, on the other hand, crosses his arms, leans his weight into one hip, and lets his mouth curve into something uglier. His eyes flick from the knife to the droplets that trail toward Jinu’s room, and then back again. He clicks his tongue and glances away, irritation prickling.

Mystery’s trying to map how it could’ve happened, but he knows he won’t fully know the truth until you or Jinu tell him. He leaves it to be, watching the others now.

All of them woke up the same way, pulled from sleep by the metallic tang of blood. It hit them like a drug, sent a shiver down their spines, even got them a little hard. It’s instinct. But then their minds caught up. Then they realized. It was your blood.

And they don’t know what the fuck happened.

They hate that. They hate not knowing. And they hate that Jinu does. They hate standing there like idiots while Jinu holds all the cards. While you’re behind your closed door, tucked into bed, and they’re out here with nothing but the scraps.

This isn’t the first time you’ve tried something desperate, let’s be fucking fr. You’ve been clever enough to make it entertaining, bold enough to make it infuriating. But none of those left the hallway painted with your blood. None of those had Jinu shutting them out like a slammed door.

It’s not just the failed attempt. It’s the evidence. The proof that you got hurt enough that even their sharpened senses spike with unease.

The smell itself is maddening. It should thrill them. And it does, in the rawest, ugliest way, your blood is uniquely yours, sweeter than anything they’ve tasted before. Just one inhalation is enough to thrum through their veins, a burn in the pit of their stomachs. Romance even chuckles under his breath at how easily aroused he is by it, leaning a little closer as though he’s flirting with the stain itself.

But it’s not right. Because you’re hurt. And the fact that the thing twisting them up inside is both lust and worry makes them feel filthy.

It would be easier if they could just be violent. Rip the truth from Jinu’s hands, force him to cough up what happened, throw him against a wall until he broke. That’s their way. Their instinct. But they’ve learned the hard way that it doesn’t work with Jinu. None of them want to risk turning tonight into that. Not with you involved.

So they’re left with the one thing they despise, waiting.

“So…” Abby murmurs. “Who’s cleaning it up?”

The question hangs for less than a second. Then Romance vanishes, teleporting so fast the air snaps behind him. Baby’s gone the very next heartbeat, leaving the faintest echo of a scoff behind him.

Mystery hasn’t moved, his hand resting at his waistband.

Abby watches him for a moment, then steps closer, his heavy palm landing against Mystery’s back. A rough pat.

“You’ve got it.” Abby mutters.

And then he’s gone too, his steps echoing back down the hall, fading into his room.

Which leaves Mystery.

He pushes off the wall finally, exhaling through his nose. His gaze drops to the blood again, to the knife lying abandoned on the floor. He crouches slowly, stretching out his long legs, his hand lazily picking up the blade. He twirls it once in his fingers, studying the smear of red against the steel.

“Messy girl.” he murmurs under his breath.

He sets the knife aside carefully and actually starts cleaning it up. Respect tbh.

That night, when finally all five of them went to bed, Gwi-ma whispered to them. Need her. Break her. Devour her. She’s yours. You’re hers. She’s hurt. You’re hurt. Don’t let him have her. Don’t let her go. Over and over.

They hate him for it, but he’s not exactly wrong. His words feed the beast in them, the one they keep on chains only for your sake. That chain feels thinner every night.

Meanwhile, you… you actually slept. Derpy padded into your bed somewhere in the night, curling up against your side. Even Sussie was around. You slept good. Too good. You didn’t hear them moving, didn’t sense their unrest.

But they were awake.

They’re predators. That’s the simple truth of it. Predators dressed in human skin. They always know where you are. Even if you tried to hide, they could close their eyes and point to you with animal accuracy. Your heartbeat is always in their ears, your scent mapping the apartment for them without fail. When you’re gone too long, their shoulders tense. When you step into the kitchen, they know before you open the fridge. They don’t need to look to track you, they’re wired for it.

They don’t lose prey.

And you are, to them, prey.

But not just prey. Something else. Something caught in the impossible space between prey and mate, between object of hunger and object of worship. That’s why it’s unbearable, the mix of it. The push-pull. The fact that every day with you is a tightrope walk over their own instincts.

Mystery feels it when you walk past his door, the scrape of your bare feet like thunder in his chest. Abby feels it when you roll your shoulders in the kitchen, the crack of bone and tendon calling to him like music. Romance feels it when your shampoo lingers in the air, when your hair brushes your cheek, so small and subtle that it drives him insane. Baby feels it when you laugh at something, or when you don’t laugh at all, when he can hear that sound way too food. Jinu feels it most of all when you breathe near him.

They are animals, and animals don’t ignore scent, sound, blood. You can’t turn that off. You can’t change their wiring. They always know where you are. Always. Even if you slipped out the front door, even if you outran them, even if you cut the world between you with oceans and walls, they would find you.

And yet here you are, asleep in bed with Derpy and Sussie, oblivious to the feelings outside your door. Oblivious to the five sets of eyes burning in the dark.

And the smell lingers. The blood is gone from the floor, wiped clean by Mystery’s hands(and maybe a finger he licked clean), but the air still holds the ghost of it. They breathe it in even as they try not to, even as they roll onto their backs, onto their stomachs, digging claws into sheets, biting down on their tongues.

They should be there with you. They should have been the ones to carry you. To press your wound. To hear your sobs. To feel your face pressed into their necks.

Instead, Jinu took it.

The next morning the sun is warm on your cheek, warm against the side of your body where Derpy has wedged himself, his weight pressing you into the mattress. Your breath is slow, soft. You don’t notice that the tiger’s thick paw is stretched protectively across your hip, claws sheathed, fur tickling your shirt. You don’t notice that your arm—the injured one—is propped carefully atop a pillow.

Jinu did that.

He’s sitting on the edge of your bed, chin in hand, eyes locked on you. It’s not often he lets himself just… look. He’s always glancing, checking, skimming, but not like this. His gaze traces your features. Puffy eyes, lashes clumped from dried tears, the little twitch of your lip when you exhale. Fragile. So fragile.

Should he wake you?

He doesn’t want to. God, he doesn’t want to. He wants to let you stay like this forever, wants to guard you from the world until your cut is healed, until the fear is drained from your body, until you can breathe without that little hitch of pain.

Reality is ugly, and Gwi-Ma’s leash is tight. If they’re late, if they dare skip anything about the plan again, there will be hell to pay. Last time they stayed behind for you, when you had a cold, the old fucker ripped them apart in their minds. Mystery paced so long that Romance had to tie him to the radiator.

They can’t risk that again.

And yet, Jinu looks at you, curled into Derpy, your breath fogging the tiger’s fur, and the thought of shaking you awake feels like cruelty. Will you fall back asleep? What if you don’t? What if the moment he leaves, you get scared? What if he breaks this rare peace by nudging your shoulder, by calling your name?

Still. He has to.

He sighs, the sound soft, pained. His fingers hover above your shoulder before they finally land, gentle as moth wings. “Y/N.” he says, low, careful, as though he’s not waking you but inviting you back.

You stir. Not violently—thank god—but with a slow twitch of your lips, a blink of lashes, a groggy roll of your head toward him. Your voice is rasped from sleep when you whisper, “…Jinu?”

Something about hearing his name from your lips like that, sleepy, trusting, lodges in his chest. He swallows, masking it. “Morning. We’re heading out soon.”

You rub your eyes with your good hand, sluggish, clumsy, and look at him properly. For a heartbeat, he sees the childlike version of you, soft and unguarded. It’s disarming. Beautiful.

“Your arm—you’ll need to keep it clean. Just leave it. Don’t move it too much. If the bandage loosens, replace it with the kit I left in your drawer. And…” His gaze flickers to your lips, then away. “Watch out for yourself, alright?”

Your throat tightens at the way he says it. Like he’s begging.

“Y/N.” a voice coos.

You both turn.

Romance is leaning on your doorway.

“Oh, love.” he croons, sweeping in with the grace of a man who’s been planning this entrance. “Look at you, all tucked in with your knight.”

Before Jinu can react, Romance is on his knees at your bedside, pushing at Jinu’s legs. “Scoot, lover boy. You had your shift.”

But Romance doesn’t look at Jinu again. Not once. His whole focus is on you.

“God, you’re a vision.” he says. His hand flutters to his chest as though your puffy-eyed, bedheaded self is enough to knock the wind out of him. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

You freeze, caught between irritation and embarrassment. Your hair is a mess. Your bandage feels clumsy and ugly. Your face is swollen from crying. What the fuck is wrong with him?

But he’s so earnest about it, like he actually means it. Like the sight of you this fucked up is still art to him.

You open your mouth, but Romance is faster. He leans forward on his knees, both hands gripping the edge of your blanket, eyes wide, syrupy. “You scared us last night, you know that? Nearly stopped my heart, sweetheart. What would we do without you? What would I do?”

His voice cracks on purpose. A dramatization, sure, but also just enough truth underneath to make it sting.

You glance at Jinu for help, but Jinu is pinching his nose bridge, eyes closed.

Romance’s hand dares to brush the blanket near your injured arm, not touching skin, but close enough that Jinu shifts.

“Shhh, baby.” Romance coos, fingers ghosting along the blanket like he’s petting feathers. “Close your eyes again. Don’t let us keep you.” His voice dips into a whisper so syrupy it should rot teeth. “Rest. You deserve it.”

Your lashes flutter, torn between suspicion and the exhaustion still pulling you down. But his tone is lulling, strangely gentle. He brushes a lock of hair from your forehead, sighs and them he leans over kisses your forehead a little.

Jinu doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His jaw ticks once, then stills.

Romance straightens with a satisfied little hum, as though tucking you back into a dream. “That’s it.” he whispers. “Dream sweet.”

And before you can fully process what just happened, he’s rising gracefully to his feet, snagging Jinu by the sleeve, dragging him out the door.

The second the latch clicks shut behind them, Jinu rips his arm free. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what, tiger cub? Don’t tuck her in? Don’t let her rest?” Romance, the minute you can’t see it, is back to being a selfish asshole. “You looked like you needed the break.”

Jinu exhales hard through his nose. He wants to argue, but the truth is written in the ache of his shoulders, in the exhaustion gnawing at the corners of his eyes. He did need the break. He just hates that Romance knows it.

Romance claps a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. She’s sleeping. No one’s stealing her from you in five minutes.”

And then, right on cue, Abby rounds the corner first, hair messy, still shirtless, irritated. He’s already scowling when his eyes dart to your door. “What’s up?”

Baby and Mystery are also there.

All three of them want in.

Romance spreads his arms, smile wide, cocky. “Gentlemen. Don’t bother. Sleeping beauty needs her rest.”

Abby growls. “Move.”

“No.” Jinu’s voice is flat, solid, immovable. He doesn’t raise it, he doesn’t need to.

Abby’s chest rises, falls. Mystery’s eyes narrow, shifting between the two blockers. Baby crosses his arms, silent but seething, the weight of his glare like a blade pressed to skin.

“Step aside.” Abby repeats, voice lower, more dangerous.

Romance chuckles like this is a game, like he’s delighted by the confrontation. “And what? Let you stomp in there, wake her up, scare the poor thing half to death with your scowl? Not a chance, big guy. She’s sleeping.“

Abby steps forward, looming. His size eclipses Romance, makes Jinu look smaller by comparison. But Jinu doesn’t flinch. He shifts slightly, blocking the door more deliberately, a wall of quiet defiance.

“You’re wasting time.” Baby murmurs.

Romance hums, almost singsong. “We’ve got all the time in the world, baby boy.”

Abby snarls under his breath, storming off down the hall, frustration radiating off him. Baby follows slower, stiff. Mystery lingers a moment longer, eyes slitting at Jinu, at Romance, at the door, hungry, calculating, before he finally walks away, silent.

The hall quiets again, leaving only Romance and Jinu.

Romance stretches his arms overhead, sighing theatrically. “Well. That was fun.”

Jinu doesn’t respond. He leans against the wall beside your door, rubbing his face, bone-deep tired.

Romance watches him. “You’re welcome, by the way. If it were just you, they’d have ripped that door off its hinges. But me? I’m charming.”

“You’re unbearable.”

Normally, this would devolve into snarling, maybe even a fist through the wall, or Abby pinning Mystery against a wall until Baby calmly pulls them apart. Because the truth is, none of them mind throwing punches at each other if it means getting what they want.

But that was a lot of blood you left there. They don’t want to scare you now.

Eventually, they leave. It takes longer than it should, longer than any of them would admit out loud. Petty. Angry. Crazy, really. But for them, that’s normal. They’ve all been through worse than this. Traumas that make this kind of behavior—snapping, snarling, throwing elbows—almost look healthy. If they were human, you’d call them dysfunctional. As demons? It’s almost… expected.

You wake around midday. Your arm is the first thing you notice, a throb so deep it feels like your entire body’s pulsing with it.

You roll onto your back and lift it to look.

Jinu was surprisingly good at what he did. The bandage is already blotched with spots of red, dark and dried at the edges, fresher closer to the center. The pain is fucking with your nerves every time you so much as flex your fingers. And god, the memory of last night…

The knife slipping. The slice. The blood.

Your stomach flips just thinking about it.

Realistically? You know it’s not something you can shrug off. It’s deep. Not enough to kill you—not unless you somehow ignored it for days—but deep enough that if Jinu hadn’t stopped the bleeding, you could’ve done real damage. Arteries are the fear, right? You don’t think you hit one, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now, but veins bleed plenty. And cuts like that take forever to heal. They throb, they pull open with the wrong movement, they scar ugly if you don’t take care of them. Butterfly closures will keep it together, but they’re fragile. One wrong move, one wrong bend of your wrist or forearm, and it could rip again. You know Jinu told you not to stress it, but… yeah. You’ll have to be careful. Maybe for weeks.

You lower your arm back down onto the blanket, sucking in a breath through your teeth.

Replaying last night feels like it was a dream to be honest. The adrenaline. The panic. The shame. That animal urge to run, to claw your way out, only for it to end with you bleeding all over the damn floor. And then Jinu. The way his name fell out of your mouth. The way his arms felt around you, pinning you against him. The way you cried into his neck, of all things.

You’re not sure what’s worse, the memory of the pain or the memory of your vulnerability. Because it wasn’t just physical pain, was it? It was all of it, the tension from Abby grabbing you, the teasing, the suffocation of all of them cornering you with their jokes, the flashbacks of torture you’d endured before. That stomach-tightening dread of being powerless. And then the knife. Blood.

You rub your free hand down your face, muffling a groan. Because last night cracked something in you. Shoved open a door you’ve been trying to keep locked. A door that says maybe you want them near, maybe you want them close, even though your head knows better. Even though logic screams at you that they’re demons, unfair, evil.

But your heart… oh, your heart. Your heart remembers Jinu’s hands, careful on your skin. His voice. Romance kneeling by your bed, kissing your forehead. Even Abby’s stupid big hand letting go when you clawed at him, like he remembered you were human and breakable.

All of it swirls together until you’re left with this, this ache, not just in your arm but in your chest. This push and pull that drives you mad.

What the hell are you doing here, Y/N?

You don’t do much through the day—can’t do much, really—but you always like having the place for yourself during the day.

You test your hand, flexing your fingers. They twitch fine, a little stiff, a little shaky, but they work. That’s good. You angle your wrist and forearm, checking how much movement makes the cut scream. You find out quick. Okay. Don’t do that. You cradle it after. The bandage is already bothering you, itching and tight. But you know better than to mess with it too soon. Jinu would kill you if you did.

You drink water. You eat something small, careful with your left hand clumsily fumbling at utensils. (AN: If you’re left handed then ignore this) You wander from your bed to the couch, then to the kitchen, then back again, like pacing but slower, weaker.

You rinse the dishes from last night, your challenge being that you have to do it with one arm, also wiping the counters until they shine. The rhythm of cleaning soothes you, it always does. You like when the kitchen looks nice, organized. Doing it with one hand only was fun, actually.

You linger there longer than you should, fingers tapping against the edge of the sink, staring at the cupboards. Thinking. Thinking about your boys. You hate yourself a little for calling them that in your head, but the word fits.

Abby… huge and ridiculous, sneaking up behind you. You can still feel the weight of his hand on your arm, the sharp flare of panic when you scratched him. The memory makes you shudder, but also… not entirely with fear. He’s scary, yes. He’s hot, too. Stupidly so. The way he could snap you in half but sometimes chooses not to. You hate how much that thrills you. You remember how he fed you with Romance when you were cuffed to the fucking fridge. Then, it was unbearably annoying. Now, it’s almost fun to think back to it.

Now that we mentioned Romance, you actually liked the way he dropped to his knees by your bed, cooing you back to sleep, forehead kiss and all. He’s infuriating, fake in a way, and yet you can’t get rid of that fun he brings with himself.

Mystery. God, Mystery. He didn’t say much last night, does he ever, but he was there and that’s what matters. Or just the smell of your blood drew him out, anyways, he was there. But sometimes he’s also at the foot of your bed, sleeping with you. You don’t think he does that for your blood, nuh-uh.

Baby. The panties under his pillow flash in your memory and you want to laugh, except you don’t. It’s creepy. It’s so creepy. But something about the audacity of it, telling on the others but being just as bad as them is somehow thrilling to you. And fuck, you can’t deny it anymore, it’s so hot that he’s such an asshole!!

And Jinu. Oh, Jinu. Manipulative, selfish fucker, but you’ve curled into his tiger when he wakes you, you whisper his name when you’re bleeding, you sob into his neck when you’re in too much pain. Why did you want him then? Were you just in need of someone? Doesn’t matter what’s the truth, you still wanted him and can’t change that. Do you want to change that?

You think and think until the thoughts twist into knots in your stomach. Because it’s wrong, isn’t it? All of it. This fuckass connection you have with them. They still scare you. They push you around, play with you. You’re angry, you’re terrified, you know it’s unfair. Logically, you should want nothing but escape.

And yet.

And yet your heart doesn’t feel the same as your head.

You want to hate them cleanly, but you can’t. They’re too present, too beautiful, too much a part of your world now. Even their demon marks, the terrifying flashes of their real forms, they’re still pretty. Too pretty.

How crazy are you, Y/N?

At one point, you sink onto the couch with Derpy, scratching behind his ears until he flops into your lap, purring like he doesn’t care that you almost bled out on the floor last night. Sussie is just watching you, but that means a lot more than someone would think. You stay there, half-dozing, half-thinking, tracing the edge of your bandage with your fingers, feeling the pull and throb of it. Every twitch reminds you how close last night came to something worse.

Let’s talk about this, Gwi-Ma waits. He watches. He knows exactly when to come for someone. He waits until you’re crawling through your own failures and grief. That’s when he strikes. That’s how he got them. Romance. Abby. Baby. Mystery. Jinu. Each of them caught at the worst moments of their lives, each promised something they were desperate enough to believe in. Power. Protection. Meaning. Love.

So why not you? Why doesn’t Gwi-Ma come to you when you’re vulnerable, when your eyes sting with tears, when your arm throbs with pain and you feel small and human and weak?

Because he doesn’t need to.

Because your fragility gives him far more leverage than breaking you ever could.

You are not his target, you are his weapon.

He doesn’t have to whisper in your ear, doesn’t have to drag you down into his pit, because the boys are already tethered to him. You’re their attachment, their distraction, their girl. He doesn’t need to taint you directly, he only has to dangle your life above their heads like bait, and suddenly he owns them twice over.

The girls mentioned his name to you in passing, maybe even warned you. But your mind never clicked it together. Your brain refused to stitch that name to the five demons who you live with now. You’re too busy surviving them to connect the dots about who holds their leash. So you go on thinking your prison ends at these four walls. You don’t realize it’s bigger, deeper. That somewhere beyond your sight there’s a pretty fire(love the colors alright?) smirking every time you fold against one of the boys’ chests instead of running from them. That Gwi-Ma isn’t just letting this happen, he’s counting on it.

He’s patient.

You fell asleep eventually. The cut on your arm pulled with every shift of your body, every little movement, but you were learning to live with it the same way you’d learned to live with everything else here. You curled up on your side, pulled the blanket over yourself, and let your eyelids drag shut.

Just a nap.

Derpy padded into your room somewhere in the middle of it. He always knew when to leave you alone, and when to tuck himself against you. His fur brushed your legs as he climbed up onto the bed, careful—like, genuinely careful—not to jostle your arm. Animals know. His wide eyes blinked up at you, bright and clueless, but he knew something was up. Sussie curled into your neck while you slepy. Properly slept. Not twitching half-awake in paranoia, not listening for footsteps.

When you woke up again, hours had slipped by. You’d read a little, distracted yourself, touching Derpy’s fur, organizing a drawer, scrolling your mind through memories of Mira, Rumi, Zoey. You told yourself you could handle this.

But now you’re half-asleep again in your bed, post-nap grogginess, when your door slams open without warning.

You jolt upright, heartbeat spiking, and Abby walks in.

You didn’t even hear them come home.

“What’s up, babe? Didn’t even say hi.” he says, voice is too loud for your pretty room.

Before you can answer, he’s dropping his heavy frame right onto the edge of your bed. The mattress dips under his weight, tilting you a little toward him. He’s close. He’s always close.

“C’mon, lemme see.”

You hesitate, sitting there with the blanket clutched at your side, lips pressed tight. You’re barely aware of what’s happening, that’s how tired you are. But Abby doesn’t look away. He’s waiting.

So slowly, stiffly, you pull your arm free and unwrap the half-ass bandaging you’d re-done.

It’s ugly. It hurts like hell.

Abby whistles. “Damn.” he mutters, leaning in closer, elbows on his knees as he inspects it. “Looking good, babe.”

You blink at him. You probably have a lazy eye right now.

“Bet it stung like a bitch.” He shifts, one hand lifting as if he’s tempted to touch, then thinking better of it. “What happened anyway? Hm?”

Your voice comes out hoarse, sleepy. “Knife slipped. Wasn’t on purpose.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You keep your words short because if you don’t, you’ll spill. Because deep down, the cut isn’t “just it.” It’s not a funny accident you can brush off with a shrug. It was panic and desperation and adrenaline burning through your veins, and for one wild second, you really thought you might have nicked something bad enough to bleed out right there.

Abby doesn’t need to know that. He studies you for a long moment. His hand lifts again, hovering near your arm, then pulls back.

“…Hurts, yeah?” he asks finally.

You nod once. That’s all you give him before you start carefully wrapping it back. It’s not that good. You’ll ask one of them later to do it for you, until that this is fine, loose but fine.

For a second, he looks like he might say something real. Something heavy. But then he shakes it off, forcing the grin back onto his face, leaning closer until his broad shoulder nearly brushes yours. “Tough girl.”

You could’ve died last night. And it scares him more than he’ll ever say out loud. So, to deal with that horrible feeling, he climbs fully onto your bed. One knee first, then the other, his large frame easing back until he’s sitting next to you against the headboard. The wood creaks under the combined weight, but he doesn’t care.

“You’re huge.” you mutter, side-eyeing him.

Abby grins, smug, flexing his chest. “Damn right I am.” He settles in, his thigh warm and heavy where it presses into yours.

The two of you sit in the quiet of your room, leaning against the headboard. It’s strange, half tense, half comforting. He just breathes beside you, every so often he glances at your arm, then back to your face, then away again like he’s checking you’re still breathing.

“You gonna be okay?” he asks eventually, quieter than before.

“…Yeah.”

Before you can figure out if you should say something else, there’s a knock. It’s almost polite—gentler than Abby’s entrance, at least—but before you can answer, the door creaks open. Mystery leans halfway in.

He just lifts a hand and gives you a wave.

You wave back, small, awkward.

Abby raises his arm and waves too. A lazy, one-handed lift, like he couldn’t care less but still did it anyway. It’s actually such a sweet picture if you think about it.

Mystery steps inside, closing the door behind him. He just stands there, eyes shifting between the two of you(though you can’t see that), waiting.

Finally, you clear your throat. “Do you… want to sit?”

Without a word, Mystery crosses the room. He slides onto the bed on your other side.

Abby smirks at the situation immediately, leaning closer with a grin. “Well, look at that. You’re popular today.”

Mystery doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. His silence says plenty, he wants to be here.

Abby, of course, breaks the quiet again. “Gonna need a bigger mattress, babe.”

You shoot him a look, but it doesn’t faze him. Nothing does.

Between them, you feel impossibly small. Not just physically—though that’s true enough, squeezed between Abby’s bulk and Mystery’s height—but in the sheer gravity they bring. Demons on either side, crowding your space. But you don’t tell either of them to leave.

“I cut myself last night.” you turn to Mystery. “Accidentally. That’s what happened.”

Abby looks at you without moving his head, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You take a look at Mystery. He’s watching you. “With the… with the knife. At the door. It was bad. I thought it was just a scratch but, it wasn’t.”

Mystery tilts his head, his gaze lowering briefly to your arm, then back up. “Nice.”

Your smile a little. “Thanks.”

On your right, Abby snorts. He turns his head, pulling at something, and with exaggerated annoyance, he spits a strand of hair from his mouth. “Christ. Your hair’s everywhere.” He picks at another strand stuck to his lip and holds it up between his fingers like evidence.

You blink. “…Sorry?”

He shrugs, smiling. “I don’t mind. Kind of like it. Means you’re around.” He flicks the strand away, then adds, “Baby complains all the time, though. Says he finds it in the sink, on the couch, even on his clothes.”

That makes you pause. Baby? Complaining? You’ve never heard it.

Abby must see the confusion on your face because the handsome smile turns into a smirk, rolling his shoulders like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, you didn’t know, huh? That’s ‘cause he doesn’t say it where you can hear. Acts tough, but he’s careful not to dump shit like that on you. Not like me.” He leans in closer. “I’ll tell you everything. Always.”

You shift, unsure whether to roll your eyes or thank him. It’s hard to tell when Abby’s being honest or when he’s just posturing for your attention. Probably both.

But outside your room, just beyond the wood of your door, Baby stands. Eavesdropping. He isn’t pressing his ear to the door like in movies, he doesn’t have to. His senses are sharp enough that every word spoken inside comes through clearly. His posture is ass like usual, clearly paying attention with his ears, but his eyes turn yellow for a second when he sees someone coming.

Jinu.

Their eyes lock.

Baby doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. His eyes narrow, the message is clear in every line of his body: If you breathe a word about me standing here, I’ll kill you.

Jinu freezes, blinking once. His gaze flicks away, like he never saw Baby at all. He walks to your door, and pushes it open.

You glance up immediately. Abby leans back slightly, eyes narrowing with faint irritation, while Mystery doesn’t move at all, only watching.

Jinu steps inside, his gaze going straight to you, scanning quickly over your puffy face, the tired slump of your shoulders, the careful position of your bandaged arm. He looks relieved that you’re still upright, still breathing, but his eyes flick once toward the other two boys, wary, then back to you. “How are you feeling?”

You swallow. It’s a simple question, you open your mouth to answer, but Abby speaks first.

“She’s fine. Told me all about last night. We’re bonding.”

Jinu’s brow furrows, his lips pressing tight, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he looks back at you, softer, waiting for your answer.

“I’m… tired. Still hurts.” You glance down at your arm. “But better.”

Jinu exhales slowly, relief flickering over his face. He nods, stepping closer, but Abby stretches his leg out, blocking the path to your side of the bed with an infuriating smirk.

Jinu pauses. He’s gonna bash this motherfucker’s head.

Mystery tilts his head, watching the silent tug-of-war play out, then flicks his gaze toward you again.

Abby puts his arm around your shoulders, heavy and warm and big, pinning you comfortably against him. The way he leans into you makes your shoulder ache a little under the weight, but you don’t shrug him off. Not yet. Your energy is too low, and maybe—if you’re honest—you don’t want to. Not right now.

Jinu notices, though. He notices everything. His eyes narrow slightly at Abby’s grip, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he sits carefully in front of you on the bed, not caring about Abby’s leg, moving slowly like he’s approaching a wild animal. He doesn’t reach for you right away, his gaze drops to your arm, where the layers of gauze are already showing faint spots of red where blood seeped through.

“Can I?” he asks softly, and when you nod, he leans in. His hands are steady as he begins to peel the edge of the bandage back, revealing the wound beneath.

You wince immediately. The air feels bad against the cut, and you instinctively curl a little into Abby’s side, who gives a low, amused chuckle.

“Scared of your own arm?” Abby teases, his thumb brushing idly over your shoulder.

You don’t answer. You’re too busy staring at the angry, raw gash Jinu just uncovered.

It’s bad.

Last night, you didn’t have the clarity to really look. Everything blurred together between adrenaline, panic, and Jinu’s careful, hushed reassurances. But now, the cut looks deeper than you remember. The edges are swollen, the skin around them irritated and flushed. Dried blood crusts along your forearm, staining the skin a mottled brown-red. The wound itself has stopped actively bleeding, thank god, but the gauze shows it still oozes faintly. Not a nick. Not a scratch. A deep, serious slice that probably needed stitches but you were so against it Jinu didn’t have the heart to force it on you.

Jinu inhales slowly through his nose, his lips pressing into a tight line. “It’s holding.” he says, mostly to himself. “But it’s deep. I should’ve… I should’ve stitched it.”

Your stomach lurches at the word, and Jinu glances up immediately, catching your expression. His voice softens. “It’s okay. The closures are keeping it together for now. We’ll just need to clean it again, replace the bandages. Keep pressure on it.”

Abby leans in to see it. Mystery, who’s been unnervingly quiet this whole time, leans in a little too, taking a look at whatever’s going on with your arm.

You glance between the two of them—Abby grinning, Mystery steady—and you feel a sudden, sharp disconnect. Why aren’t they bothered? Why aren’t they even a little horrified?

Where your stomach churns at the sight of your own skin split open, where your chest feels tight at the thought of blood leaking from you, they’re… relaxed. Comfortable. Like this is nothing.

“Doesn’t freak you out?” you ask quietly, surprising yourself with the words.

Abby just snorts. “What, a little blood? Nah. Seen worse. Way worse.”

Mystery gives a single nod, his eyes flicking back to your face. “Much worse.”

You stare at them, unsettled. They say it so casually. Worse. How much worse could there possibly be? You don’t want to know, you decide. You don’t even want to imagine.

Jinu clears his throat softly, pulling your focus back to him. He stands up, leaves you to Abby and Mystery while he looks into the drawer he mentioned he left the things for you in. He finds it, and comes back to you on the bed. His hands are gentle as he starts winding fresh gauze around your arm, careful not to tug too tightly. “Ignore them.” he says quietly, almost in a whisper meant just for you. “You’re hurt. That’s what matters.”

But Abby just leans in closer, smiling. “She’s fine, Loverboy. Aren’t you, Y/N?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy looking at the fresh white layers wrapping your arm, at the way Jinu’s fingers move with a precision that makes your chest ache.

Fine. The word feels too small. Too empty.

“Don’t let it close dirty.” Mystery murmurs.

“Yeah, thanks, doc.” Abby mutters, rolling his eyes.

Still, the casualness of both their tones makes you want to scream. You want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and say This is my arm, my blood, my pain. Don’t just smile at it.

But the words die in your throat. You’re too tired. Too raw.

Jinu finishes tying off the fresh bandage and sits back, exhaling softly. He studies your face for a long moment.

Meanwhile, Abby’s still relaxed at your side, his arm heavy and warm around you, like none of this is life or death. Like it’s just another night. Mystery sits on your other side, quiet as a shadow, his dark gaze not visible but steady on you.

And you… you sit between them, staring at your wrapped arm.

What have they seen, that this doesn’t even register?

Meanwhile somewhere down the hall, Romance is in his own room, probably doing whatever it is he does best in that ridiculous sex dungeon of his. He knows where the others are, knows they’ve all piled into your room. He misses you, sure. He always does. He’d kill for your company right now. But he’s not worried. He trusts—strange as that is—that you’ll be fine. You’re always fine. And that, when it’s his turn, you’ll be waiting.

Baby hasn’t moved from his post outside your door. He’s leaning on the frame, half-crouched to keep his balance, ear tilted so close to the wood he might as well melt into it. Every shift of your bed, every murmur of your voice, every chuckle from Abby, he hears it. And he hates it. He doesn’t even realize how deep his claws have sunk into the frame of your door until the wood creaks beneath him.

Mystery clears his throat softly. “What did you do today?”

You freeze. It’s so simple a question, so normal, so human, but coming from him it feels like an earthquake. That’s… progress. Actual, real progress. He asked on his own, not repeating something one of the others would’ve wanted to know, not poked out of him by necessity. He asked. You feel a strange warmth in your chest, pride you won’t admit out loud. If you did, he’d probably clam up, crawl right back into that wordless shell. So you don’t. You just nod slowly.

“Not much.” you say, your voice getting back to normal now. “Woke up late. Spent most of the day in bed, I guess. Didn’t really… do anything.” From the corner of your vision, you notice Jinu’s long fingers buried in his tiger’s fur. You keep talking, if only to fill the silence Mystery leaves hanging. “I thought about going out to lay in the sun. Didn’t, though. Just… laid around. Tried to read a little. Not my best day.”

Abby snorts beside you, still half draped around your shoulders. “Sounds like a rest day, babe. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

You shoot him a glance, and he flashes you a lazy grin like yeah, I’m listening too, don’t look so surprised.

“Good.” Mystery says finally.

Jinu looks up at you then, Derpy’s head still resting against his thigh. His eyes soften a little, as though even he knows this is something rare, something worth noticing. Mystery never asks. And yet here he is. Almost like when he tried for the very first time, except now nobody told him to try. He tried on his own.

You look back to Mystery. “So… what about you?”

His brows lift slightly, but you can’t see that. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’d you do today?”

There’s a pause, as if he doesn’t know how to answer. His eyes dart briefly to Jinu, then back to you. Finally, he says flatly: “Same as always.”

“Which is?”

Another pause. Then, with no change in tone: “Work.”

Abby barks a laugh beside you, shaking the bed with his broad shoulders. “Work. That’s one way to put it.”

Mystery’s expression doesn’t shift, not like you’d see much of it, but his silence says he doesn’t intend to elaborate.

You sigh, leaning your head back. “Well. That’s better than nothing, I guess.”

Abby squeezes your shoulder, his voice teasing. “Don’t expect a novel outta him, honey. You get one word, that’s a whole damn miracle.”

But you don’t mind. You don’t need a novel. You got something today. A question. And that’s enough. So you clear your throat, and quietly ask, “Um… would it be okay if I went back to sleep now? Just… me. I mean—without you guys here?”

It hangs in the air for a second too long. Your cheeks heat with the shame of it, because you know how fragile it sounds, how close to begging. Not “get out” with teeth and claws, not even “leave me alone.” Just a shy, quiet request for space. But they get it. Because all three of them are moving at once.

“Right, yeah, babe, sleep’s important.” Abby says quickly, his hand sliding off your shoulder in a rushed, almost clumsy motion. He gets to his feet with that big, lumbering grace that still makes your bed creak when he moves.

“Rest.” Mystery says bluntly, already pushing up from the mattress.

Derpy is brushing against Jinu’s leg as he stands. Then he says, “Good night, Y/N.”

And suddenly, they’re all trying to talk at once, Abby telling you to dream something good, Jinu reminding you not to touch the bandages for now, Mystery muttering something that could be either “sleep well” or “don’t die.” It’s a jumble, their voices overlapping, all of it washing over you. Then, all three finish the moment the same way. “Good night.” Then, they leave.

You lie back down slowly, exhaling. Derpy crawls back into your side. You stare at him. He stares back, his big eyes unblinking, and for a moment the two of you just… look at each other. You just reach out to scratch under his chin, and he leans into your touch with a happy little noise.

Outside your room, the door shuts behind the three boys, and almost immediately their gazes snap to the side, three pairs of eyes locking on the figure leaning lazily against the wall across from your room. Baby. He’s slouched, arms crossed, chin dipped low, eyes narrowed into slits. There’s no mistaking the tension in the air, he’s been standing there the whole time, listening, watching.

Abby shifts first, his massive frame blocking half the hallway light, his jaw tight. Mystery doesn’t move, but his stare sharpens. Jinu’s expression flickers once, irritation, then dismissal, as if he already knows this is about to be pointless.

The three of them stand together. Baby spits the words at them: “The fuck you lookin’ at?” It’s not even a real question. It’s a statement. A warning. An insult.

Abby’s lip curls like he’s about to say something—something nasty, something that’ll only escalate it—but then he shakes his head, mutters something under his breath, and walks off down the hall.

Jinu’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t give Baby the satisfaction of a word, just turns his back, walking after Abby.

Mystery lingers last, looking at Baby, long enough to make the hallway feel suffocating. Then he claps a hand once against Baby’s shoulder. not friendly, not gentle, but not quite hostile either. A wordless I see you. I don’t care. And then he walks past him.

Baby stands there, jaw tight. His hand twitches like he wants to punch a hole in the wall, or rip the door off your room, or both. But he doesn’t.

They’re done. All of them, so, so done with each other. The fighting, the glaring, the constant one-upmanship. They’ve lived through hell itself, clawed their way out of nightmares most people couldn’t survive and now have to play boyband and deal with annoying fans, and yet somehow, it’s you, your fragile presence, your blood on the floor, that’s truly fucking them up. But they know you’ll be fine. You always are. Somehow, against odds, against logic, against every danger they’ve put you in or you’ve wandered into, you bounce back. Fragile, yes. Breakable, yes. But fine. And with that knowledge lodged safely in their skulls, the worry begins to dull. In its place comes something else.

The scent of your blood.

It’s been hanging in the apartment since last night, sweet, tangled with the thrum of your adrenaline, the crash of your panic. They tried to push it aside while it was still fresh, while Jinu was patching you up, while your sobs echoed in the walls. But now? Now that the bandages hold, now that you’re sleeping steady in your room with the animals curled at your side and keeping you safe…

Now they let themselves feel it.

Romance is sits in his chair before his wide mirror, tilted just enough to catch the curve of his face, the fall of his hair. He runs his tongue across his teeth, slow, remembering how your voice trembled last night, how clear he could hear it even though he wasn’t the one with you. His hand drifts lazily, knuckles brushing the swell in his pants, teasing the tension. He hums, low in his throat, eyes on his own mouth in the glass. The blood clings to memory, rich, warm, unbearably yours. His hips roll, subtle, and he pictures you standing at the doorframe, doe-eyed, watching. He takes himself out of his boxers and picks up a pace. He coos at himself like he coos at you.

Abby takes it differently. He storms into his room, shuts the door too hard, it slams, then he makes a face, hoping it didn’t scare you. He stands in front of his mirror, shirtless, muscles flexed under the soft lamplight. His reflection stares back, massive, broad, dominant. He squeezes his own bicep, hard, veins raised against skin, and imagines how tiny your hand would look wrapped around it instead.

“Fuck.” he mutters, low, guttural. His other hand is already inside his sweats, pumping slow, then faster, his jaw clenched. The thought of you—shaky, pale, scared—makes his chest thrum with pride. His girl. His fragile girl. He grits his teeth, lets out a grunt, flexing harder in the glass as if it’s you whispering that he’s strong, invincible, everything. His strokes match the rhythm of that fantasy.

Mystery’s already half-sprawled across his mattress, one arm slung over his head, his shirt pushed up to his ribs. His breath comes heavier when he lets himself replay the sound of your sobbing, your voice catching, the subtle whine muffled into Jinu’s neck he could hear way too clear. He doesn’t need the mirror, doesn’t need anything. Just the replay in his skull is enough. His hand slides down on himself smooth and slow, like it always does. He doesn’t rush. He always does because he got used to it, but not now. Now our boy savors. His fingers curl around himself like claws into prey. Every shiver of memory pleases him already, your face tilted, your throat tight, your tears streaking. His hips twitch upward, needy, as if searching for the warmth of you instead of his palm.

Jinu’s guilt doesn’t stop him. He sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, and his stomach flips with something tangled, protective, horrified, aroused. His hand drags down into his lap before he even registers the motion. The band of his sweats pulls low as he strokes himself, movements unsteady, almost ashamed. He remembers the way your body folded into his when the pain spiked, the way your face pressed into his neck, breath hot, wet with tears. He remembers wanting to stay like that, to hold you tighter, to never let go. He groans into his shoulder, muffling it, but doesn’t stop.

And Baby. He sprawls out in his chair, legs wide, one arm hanging loose at his side while the other works him over. His teeth bare, breath hitching. He doesn’t try to disguise the sounds that rip from his throat, half-growl, half-moan. He’s been on edge since the hallway, since catching your scent, intoxicating, since picturing you bleeding, trembling, helpless. That’s what does it for him, the helplessness. The thought of you too weak to pull away. Too dazed to fight back. His hips buck upward, rough, chasing it. His mind flashes to you whispering his name instead of Jinu’s. His grip tightens.

Five demons, five rooms. Each in their own head, each lost in their own fantasy. The scent of your blood fuels all of them, saturates the air until it’s indistinguishable from the throb of lust itself. They hate each other. They want to tear each other apart. But in these moments, they’re the same. Animals. Predators. Obsessed with the same fragile, breakable thing curled up in bed down the hall.

You.

There’s no use denying it. Not for them, not anymore. When it comes to you, there’s something beyond reason, beyond what any of them could fight. It’s not romance in the way you understand it, not even lust in the way humans hold it. Their biology is tuned like a violin string, stretched taut around you. Every time you bleed, cry, laugh, sweat—anything, really—it vibrates inside them, makes the string hum in their bones. It isn’t fair. It isn’t avoidable. It’s instinct.

And last night, that string nearly snapped.

They all need you. They all ache for you. And no matter how much they hate each other—loathe, even—your scent keeps them circling the same center. Their senses are wired around you. Not around any human. Just you. Every shift in your breathing at night, they notice. Every change in your body’s heat, they taste it in the air. The beat of your heart, they can feel it in their own ribcages if they’re close enough. You bleed, and their entire biology riots. It drives them mad with hunger and lust and that deep, snarling mine.

Romance is still in his chair, knees spread. His strokes are lazy now, slowing down, teasing himself. He keeps imagining your face tilted in confusion when he kissed your forehead this morning. He bites his lip, watching his own reflection’s mouth, imagining it’s you looking at him.

Romance’s body reads every micro-expression of yours. The tiniest tremor in your lip sets his blood rushing. The salt of your tears is like wine to him, but like y’know, a really good one. When you cry, his heart rate spikes, his hormones dump into his system, telling him: closer, closer, closer.

Even now, remembering your crying noises from last night, his cock twitches in his hand, and he moans sweetly at himself like he’s talking to you. He’s not just jerking off. He’s worshipping the idea of you.

Abby’s panting in front of the mirror, sweat slick on his shoulders, chest heaving. His cock pulses hard in his hand, grip fierce enough to bruise if it were anyone else’s body. He’s not quiet about it, grunts, curses, low growls rumbling.

His blood floods with testosterone when he’s near you, a constant fight-or-fuck reflex buzzing in his muscles. His body doesn’t know how to process fragile, so it interprets it as protect, cage, dominate. Every time you step closer, his adrenaline spikes. Every time you step away, he wants to chase.

He imagines it now, you curled up in bed, small against the massive shape of him. His bicep flexes, his hand working faster. The fantasy always ends the same, you looking at him like he’s a god, whispering that you need him. That you want him. His body thrums, veins bulging, his orgasm tearing through him.

Mystery’s quieter, but not calmer. His hips roll slow into his fist, breath hissing sharp between his teeth. His eyes are closed, but it doesn’t matter, he can smell you. Your sweat, your blood. It lives in the back of his nose, burns down his throat. He jerks faster, then slower, edging himself.

Mystery’s biology is the most predatory of all five. His sense of smell isn’t just heightened, it’s engineered to track you. He could pick your blood out of a sea of bodies, your heartbeat in a stadium. His cock stiffens at the scent alone, body translating it as: prey close, prey trembling, prey mine. He imagines pinning you down, the sharp thud of your pulse against his palm. His orgasm builds with that thought alone, the wet slick sound of his strokes filling his otherwise silent room. He doesn’t fight it. He lets himself drown in the biology.

Jinu hasn’t moved much. Still sitting on the edge of his bed, hands trembling, eyes locked on his own hands. His strokes are uneven, half-hearted. He whimpers quietly into his shoulder, body jerking.

His biology is a little more complex, he’s tied to your vulnerability. When you’re weak, when you lean on him, when you whisper his name, his brain floods with oxytocin, dopamine, things meant to bond. He doesn’t just want you, his body believes he belongs to you. And worse, it believes you belong to him.

When you cried into his neck, his cock throbbed even though he hated himself for it. Even now, remembering your tears soaking his shirt, his strokes quicken until he spills with a low, broken groan, shame and need tangled into one.

Baby’s chair creaks under him, his pace violent, unrelenting. He doesn’t care about quiet. Doesn’t care about anyone hearing him. His hips buck into his fist, sweat dripping down his temple, intense. For Baby, your biology works like gasoline on fire. Every stumble of yours, every crack in your voice, every fresh bandage, it spikes his dopamine like a hit of a drug. You’re the weakness he can exploit, and that makes him harder than anything else in the world.

He groans openly, head thrown back, hand pumping rough, imagining you whimpering his name instead of anyone else’s. The orgasm tears through him, and he rolls his eyes, half-pleasure and half annoyance at the world itself, riding it out with a shudder that rattles the chair beneath him.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t have to. They know. Every one of them can sense what the others are doing, smell it, feel it in the air. Your body is their trigger. Your biology completes theirs.

Now, afterglow. Let’s go over each of them again. Grrr I love doing this.

Romance’s mirror is streaked with fingerprints where his hand slid against it during the worst of it. He slouches back in his chair, cock softening against his stomach, his thighs sticky, staring at himself in the mirror, cum dripping from his hand down his wrist. He doesn’t move to wipe it. Doesn’t even care that his shirt is stained. He just gazes at his reflection, soft mouth open, flushed cheeks, eyes heavy-lidded, and pretends it’s you staring back at him. But he doesn’t stop thinking about you. He can’t. What if he kissed you for real? Not on the forehead, not playful. What if he pinned you back against your sheets and took your bottom lip between his teeth? What if he got to see your eyes flutter shut at his touch, hear your breath catch for him alone?

There’s the fantasy of you leaning over to fix the collar of his shirt, close enough that he can taste your breath. You letting him brush your hair, his fingers catching at the strands. You on his lap, knees straddling him, whispering you don’t want anyone else. And then you crying, whispering please don’t leave. You clutching his arm in fear when the others scare you. You asleep, mouth soft, trusting him with the most fragile thing you have.

He groans quietly, cock twitching again, the fantasies too sweet, too many.

Abby’s still in front of the mirror, chest heaving, cum streaked across his abs, then he sprawls on his bed like a dead man, sheets a ruin under him, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. He flexes his arm again, bicep twitching, and again, thinks about how small your hand would look wrapped around it. Then he thinks about that same hand clawing down his back. Then he thinks about your voice, not quiet, not shy, loud. Screaming his name, begging.

Abby’s head is a flood of scenarios. He doesn’t even try to narrow them down. He wants them all. You straddling his waist, his hands crushing your hips, your voice weak from screaming his name. You trying to push him away, but your tiny palms are nothing against his chest, and he laughs while pinning you down. You holding onto his shoulders while he fucks into you against the wall. You in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, handing him a mug of coffee while he palms your ass. You whispering “harder.” You whispering “softer.” You whispering “Abby.”

And louder, he wants you loud. He wants to hear it echo off the walls. He wants the others, hell, the whole building, to know whose name you scream. He wants to ruin your voice with it.

He jerks his hips into his hand again even though he’s still dripping from the first time. He groans in frustration, pressing the heel of his palm against himself like he could shove the thoughts away. Doesn’t work. Never does.

Mystery’s slower to recover, body still slow, cock sensitive in his sticky hand. He imagines your scent stronger. Not just blood, skin. Warmth. Sweat. He imagines pressing his face into your throat and staying there until you shove him away. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d shiver but let him. Maybe you’d tilt your head and expose more. The idea makes him shudder, thighs tightening.

In his fantasies, it’s not just you with him, it’s you caught by him. You walking down the hall, thinking you’re alone, when he pins you against the wall. You cooking something in the kitchen when he slides up behind you, hand clamping your mouth shut. You asleep in your bed, not even stirring when his fingers trail under your blanket. Mystery loves the chase, so every fantasy ends with you trembling, with him catching you, with your body thrumming under his hands. He can feel his cock twitch back to hardness as he thinks about you crying against his palm, your breath wet against his skin, and him whispering shhh, it’s just me.

He breathes out hard, shuddering, rolling his hips up into his sticky hand again. He doesn’t even care that he already came. His body doesn’t stop wanting. Not with you. Never with you.

Jinu’s curled on his side, knees tucked, back pressed to the wall. Cum sticky across his thighs, shirt damp with sweat, breath still shaky. His sheets are wet, his hands still shaking from the orgasm, but the memories won’t leave him alone. You crying into his neck. You whispering his name. You depending on him like he was the only one who mattered. He knows it was awful, knows you were in pain, but his body won’t let go of the memory. He remembers your face, puffy with crying, whispering if he’s angry. He remembers you burying your face in his neck, how he got goosebumps. And his cock stirs again, half-hard, traitorous.

Then another thought slides in, you crying harder, begging him not to leave you. You clinging to him after a nightmare. You choosing him over the others, whispering you only feel safe with him.

And each fantasy ties another knot in his gut, makes him hate himself more, but his cock is hardening anyway, his fist clenching around it, pumping with a desperate rhythm.

Baby’s the least apologetic. He sprawls in his chair, still half-hard, his hand sticky. The mess is everywhere, streaked across his stomach, dripping down his thigh. He laughs once, low and bitter, at himself. At all of them. At you. At his fantasies with you pressed against the wall, glaring at him, but still trembling. You cursing his name while he makes you moan anyway. You trying to run and him catching you in two steps, dragging you back by the wrist. You pressed into the mattress, gasping against the sheets while he pulls your hair. You trying to crawl away, but he grabs your ankle and yanks you back. You glaring at him, spitting fire, and him fucking you harder until you’re shaking.

He pumps his cock rougher, chasing another orgasm even though he’s overstimulated, biting back a growl as his cum spills down his hand again.

Pathetic. They all know it. Hundreds of years old, predators, killers, demons, and they’re sitting in their own filth, lovesick. And yet the fantasies keep breeding. One becomes ten, ten becomes a hundred. Each louder, each needier. They won’t tell each other. They don’t have to. The scent in the air will betray them all when they cross paths in the hall, knowing that the thing in their mind was you. It’s always you. They don’t talk about it out loud. They couldn’t. It would rip the whole fragile balance of their home to pieces. But in their heads, all five of them think it. The idea of sharing you.

Romance. For him, it’s beauty. Two, maybe three of them at once, hands everywhere, mouths everywhere, you caught in the center of it like the star you are. He imagines you glowing from it, touched by so much affection that your skin would shine. He can see it so clearly, you on his lap, lips parted in a kiss, while Jinu kneels behind you, whispering sweet nothings into your neck. Or maybe Abby holding your legs apart while Romance strokes your hair, telling you how lovely you look. Even Baby, snarling in the corner, could be part of it if it meant you’d finally let go enough to take them all. You deserve to be adored by all of them, he thinks. You deserve to be worshipped. And if that means sharing you, then he’d do it gladly.

He closes his eyes, rubbing himself back to hardness, sighing at the thought of your voice split into five different names, your body never without a touch. He sees you in the middle of the bed, curled between him and Jinu. Romance stroking your hair, whispering how beautiful you are, while Jinu kisses your wrist, the edge of your bandage, telling you you’re safe. Romance loves that one, the idea of double worship. Two sets of lips, two voices crooning at you. You sighing, overwhelmed, because you’re too small for both their arms around you, but you let it happen anyway.

Then, you and Mystery. Mystery behind you, one hand wrapped over your mouth, his sharp teeth grazing your neck. Romance in front of you, kissing your tears away, whispering “just look at me, baby, just me.” The cruelty and the comfort together, it makes Romance leak against his palm again, shame burning hot under his skin.

Him holding your hand while Abby spreads your thighs, Baby laughing in your ear while Mystery holds you down so Jinu can eat you out and they can watch. All of them inside you, in different ways, voices clashing, and you smiling. Loving it. Crying, but with joy. With surrender.

You on your back, hair fanned out across his sheets. He’s kissing your lips, soft and tender, while Jinu’s mouth moves down your stomach, trailing reverent kisses that turn to eating you out like a man starved. He imagines you turning your face, gasping, caught between them.

Sometimes, he imagines being cruel with it. Holding your chin, making you look at him while Baby ruins you from behind. You’d be flushed, fucked out between them, and he’d coo encouragements while Baby grits his teeth, using you raw.

Other nights, his mind sees Baby at your chest, mouthing at your tits like the greedy bastard he is, while Romance keeps your lips occupied, swallowing every whimper. He doesn’t even hate Baby in this one, he wants him there, wants you drowning in too much sensation, wants your little body torn between them. He even lets the thought go to Abby holding your wrists down while he and Baby ruin you.

Abby’s fantasies of sharing are loud. Messy. He doesn’t care who’s there, as long as you’re loud enough. He imagines you riding his cock while Mystery fucks into your ass from behind, your voice so ruined that you can’t decide who to scream for. He imagines Baby holding your wrists while Abby pounds into you, and Baby taunts him the whole time, tells him he’s too slow, that you need it harder.

He imagines Romance kissing your tears away while Abby fucks you into the mattress. Every version of the fantasy has you screaming, hoarse, raw, ruined, and every version has Abby snarling with pride because he did that to you. Even if another’s hands are on your skin, even if another’s mouth is on your throat, he’ll still know it’s his cock that makes you scream like that.

Abby jerks himself hard at the thought, cursing under his breath, chasing another orgasm. The jealousy burns, yeah, but it’s a good burn. It means you’d need all of them to handle what only one of them could never give. Like the image of you on his lap, bouncing, your voice breaking. But not just you and him, you reaching over to touch Baby too, stroking him while Abby fucks you. Abby loves that one, because it’s competition. Even in his fantasies, he wants to prove he can make you scream louder, make you cum harder.

He imagines you in a tangle with Mystery. Mystery holding your wrists above your head, Abby spreading your thighs wide. Mystery makes you beg, but Abby makes you yell. The thought alone makes Abby grunt into his palm, muscles straining, the sound of your voice echoing in his head.

And then a softer one, you in bed between him and Romance, the two of them holding you, stroking you, kissing your shoulders. Abby telling you you’re his girl, while Romance hums sweet nothings into your ear. The two of them not fighting for once but giving you everything you want. That fantasy makes Abby’s chest ache, makes his cock twitch harder than the violent ones.

Abby doesn’t care if it’s pathetic. He just wants to hear you. With any of them. With all of them. With your legs wrapped around his shoulders, his mouth buried between your legs, loud and greedy. But then he can’t stop imagining another mouth, right beside his. Mystery, maybe. Or Baby. Tongues colliding, sharing your taste, fighting for it. He pictures you moaning, confused, overstimulated, torn between pushing them away or dragging them closer. And him, oh, god, him, drunk on the thought of not being the only one to do this to you. Like the fantasy where your hands are on his chest, tiny against his bulk, trying to shove him back. Not because you don’t like it, god no, it’s just too much. But Romance is behind you, whispering in your ear, holding your wrists, feeding your denial into something else. Abby loves that. Loves thinking of you with more hands than you know how to fight off. He wants to hear the noise of it. He wants the floor shaking, the bed breaking, the walls echoing with more than one voice. He wants to make you so overwhelmed you don’t even know whose hand is whose anymore.

Sometimes, he pictures Mystery pinning your wrists down while Abby fucks into you hard, deep, merciless. He imagines you crying out Mystery’s name while Abby laughs, jealous but drunk on the sound.

He imagines Mystery in your mouth, your lips stretched around him while Abby fucks into you from behind. He can hear both your noises at once, your muffled whimpers around Mystery, your choked moans every time Abby pushes deeper, and Mystery whining. Or sometimes it’s Mystery holding your thighs apart, keeping you wide open while Abby fucks you.

Sometimes it’s Jinu stroking your hair while Abby ruins you from underneath, whispering soft lies like “it’s okay, he’s just helping you.”

Sometimes, it’s Baby. Two of them fighting over you, literally, even while you’re crying under them. He imagines Baby spitting curses in his ear, Abby snarling back, both of them pulling at you like wolves with a kill. It makes him harder than he’d like to admit. He imagines you screaming into the mattress, and Baby goading him on: “Harder, man. She can take it.” He imagines you bouncing on his cock, voice breaking with each slam of your hips down, and Baby behind you, mouth on your tits, groaning while he squeezes handfuls of your ass. Two of them using you at once, your voice screaming, loud enough to echo, loud enough to make the walls shake.

You gagging on Romance’s cock while Abby pounds into you from behind, your throat bulging, your eyes tearing. He jerks himself harder at the thought, imagining your strangled noises, your nails digging into the carpet. He doesn’t even need the mirror this time. He just leans back, strokes himself fast and rough, picturing you screaming his name while three other voices drown you out. Pathetic, yeah. But it feels too good.

Mystery imagines you caught between them, no escape. You pinned down, one wrist in Baby’s hand, one wrist in Abby’s, legs forced apart by Jinu’s strength while Romance strokes your hair and tells you it’s okay. And Mystery, always the shadow, is the one thrusting into you. The fantasy isn’t kind. It’s overwhelming. Too many hands, too many mouths, too many cocks pressing against you at once. You begging them to slow down. You crying out in pleasure. And he loves it. He loves the idea of you never knowing who’s touching you at any given second, your body trembling under the weight of all of them.

He groans, low in his throat, grinding his palm against his cock even though it aches. He doesn’t care. The idea of sharing you makes him wild. He loves the idea of trapping you with more than one of them. He imagines pinning you to the wall while Jinu kneels between your thighs, his mouth on you, his hands steadying your shaking hips. Mystery would cover your eyes, tell you not to peek, make you guess who’s touching you where. The thought of your confusion, your whines, your writhing, it makes him pant, hips jerking into his fist again.

Then the imagine of Abby kneeling at your feet, spreading your legs apart with those big hands, licking into you while Mystery keeps your wrists pinned. Your hips buck up, but there’s no escape. Abby groans into you, and Mystery watches every twitch of your body, his cock aching. Sometimes Baby barges into the fantasy too. Baby kneels at your head, cock pressed to your lips, forcing them open while Mystery holds your jaw steady.

Or your legs on either side of Mystery’s head, your thighs trembling. Abby’s laugh nearby, wet sounds filling the air. Two mouths on you. He doesn’t care whose tongue brushes his if it means drowning in your taste.

Or the thought of you riding him, slow, tight, unbearable, while Jinu kneels behind you, kissing the back of your neck, whispering words Mystery can’t quite catch. Your head thrown back, his hands gripping your hips, but Jinu’s hands covering yours, guiding you. He imagines your voice cracking. Imagines you losing yourself so much that you forget who’s inside you.

He imagines holding you down while two of them use you, your wrists locked in his grip, your body trembling as you try to take all of it. He’s not even the one inside you in these fantasies, sometimes he just likes to watch. To keep you pinned while Abby thrusts into you and Baby shoves his mouth over your tits, sloppy and greedy. Other times, he’s behind you, one hand knotted in your hair while Romance fucks your mouth, and Jinu whispers soothing things just out of reach. He imagines you begging, voice cracking, “It’s too much, please, I can’t—” and Mystery only smirks, tightening his grip, because of course you can. Of course they’ll make sure you do. He lets himself imagine you enjoying it, spreading your legs wider for them, crying out for more, looking right at him and moaning Mystery, don’t stop.

Then one where it’s you and Baby, both of you crying, Baby from laughter and you from the sting of it, and Mystery keeping you both in line with his hands, rough and punishing. The chaos, the wildness of it, the way you wouldn’t know whether to scream or laugh, he loves it. That fantasy makes him clench his teeth, cum dripping down his wrist, chest heaving with shame.

Jinu likes the thought of sharing because it means you wouldn’t be afraid. You’d know you’re surrounded, but not trapped, safe, even, because all of them would be there. He imagines you crying his name while Abby fucks you rough. You sobbing while Mystery holds you still. You clinging to Romance while Baby makes you choke on his fingers. And Jinu there, always there, whispering that it’s okay, that they’ll take care of you. He hates how much he wants it. How much he wants you broken open enough that you’d finally trust them all at once.

He sees you on his lap, clutching his shirt, crying, but not alone. Romance behind you, kissing your neck, whispering pretty words while Jinu steadies you, strokes your thighs, tells you it’s okay. He imagines the two of them together, overwhelming you with too much gentleness.

He also imagines Abby. Abby rough, pushing you down, but Jinu there to catch you, to tell you to breathe. The idea of you caught between their two extremes makes him go crazy. He imagines Abby holding you steady, forcing you to take Jinu’s cock while you’re already falling apart from Abby’s. He imagines the noises you’d make, muffled into Abby’s chest.

All of them sharing you, but you choosing him. Even while Abby makes you scream, even while Baby laughs in your ear, even while Mystery bites your shoulder, your eyes would only ever look for Jinu. Your hand would always reach for his. That one destroys him. Makes him spill across his stomach again. Pathetic.

He imagines you curled against him in bed, safe, while the others take turns with you. You holding his hand, clutching, while Mystery’s mouth is between your legs and Romance is kissing your throat. Jinu doesn’t even have to move, he just stays there, letting you cling to him, whispering that it’s okay, that you’re okay. He holds your face steady and kisses you deep. At the same time, Abby kneels between your legs, holding you open wide, making you scream. Baby’s fingers are on your throat, controlling every gasp, while Mystery presses down into your stomach, kissing bruises into your skin.

Sometimes he imagines more. Imagines you tired, half-asleep against his chest while Baby keeps fucking into you, unwilling to stop. The others watching, waiting for their turns, all of them keeping you from rest. Jinu’s torn in those visions, part of him furious, part of him thrilled at the thought of you trusting him enough to fall asleep even then.

He imagines you sprawled out on his bed, Baby sucking at your tits while Abby pushes into you, your eyes watery, your hands trembling as you cling to Jinu’s shirt. He’s there, right by your side, whispering reassurances while the others tear you apart.

Sometimes, he imagines you crying into his neck, begging him to slow them, while his cock throbs at the thought of holding you still for them. His stomach knots at it. Other times, he imagines himself sharing you more tenderly, you in his lap, his cock buried deep inside, while Romance kisses you sloppy and desperate, and Mystery strokes circles into your thigh to soothe you through the stretch. You whimper into Jinu’s throat, and he’s half-crazy from the idea of keeping you there, safe and ruined all at once.

Baby imagines pushing you to your knees in front of him while Abby holds your hair back. He imagines Romance kissing you while Baby fucks you, the softness of one feeding the roughness of the other. He imagines Jinu whispering pretty words while Baby snarls the opposite into your ear. He loves the idea of you being confused. Whose cock do you clench around hardest? Whose voice do you whine for? Which one of them breaks you first?

In his fantasies, you cry harder with every touch, every kiss, every thrust, because you can’t take it all. And Baby grins at the thought, because no matter how many of them touch you, you’ll still glare at him the most. Still hate him the most. And that means you’ll never forget him. There’s the picture of you crying under him while Abby holds your wrists down, both of them fucking you in turns. Baby loves the idea of using you as a prize between them, of making you earn your way free, your voice hoarse from screaming.

Or you in his lap, back to his chest, while Abby forces your legs wider. You crying against Baby’s neck, nails digging into his skin, while he smirks at Abby like yeah, look at her now. Sometimes after a position change, he and Abby would high-five over your back, fucking you from both ends until you scream. He imagines other scenarios, like you screaming on Abby’s cock while he sucks at your breasts, biting and groaning, your nipples swollen from his mouth. He loves the thought of you writhing between them, cock in your pussy, cock in your throat, his tongue on your chest.

Or you and Mystery, one of them in your mouth while the other does you from behind. Baby imagines the tears in your eyes, the spit dripping down your chin, your broken moans. He loves it.

But then he imagines you between him and Romance, the two of them feeding you kisses, stroking your hair, treating you like you’re delicate. Baby hates himself for wanting it, but he wants it anyway. He wants to know what it feels like, to have you smile at him like that. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning, still sticky.

But the one that makes him moan, the one that makes him buck into his own fist, is you on your knees with all five of them around you. Tears streaming down your face, spit and cum dripping down your chin, your voice hoarse from begging. And Baby laughs in the fantasy, leaning down to tell you how good you look. Or you’re not kneeling, but it’s still them surrounding you, Jinu holding your hands, Mystery keeping your thighs open, Abby pounding into you while Romance fucks your mouth. Baby just moves from one tit to the other, sucking until your chest is red and wet, until you’re clawing at his hair and begging him to stop.

He imagines you tied down, squirming, glaring, that glare he loves so much, the one that makes him want to both kiss you and rip you apart. But then he imagines the others with you too, and his stomach twists because the anger isn’t at the thought, it’s at how much it turns him on. Like forcing your head into Romance’s lap, keeping you there until you sob, and Romance pretending to scold him even as he pets your hair.

Other times, he imagines softer, you lying on your back, his head on your chest, mouth busy while Jinu eases into you gently. His cock jerks at the idea of your hand tangled in his hair, holding him there like you need him as much as he needs you.

They’re all pathetic, but they don’t care. Not tonight. More than three hundred years of cruelty, of hunger, of waiting, and the only peace they ever get is in the fantasies of you. So they let themselves have it. They let themselves imagine sharing you, touching you, drowning in you. They let themselves fall deeper into the mess, into the heat, into the shame. With fantasy after fantasy, sometimes it’s two of them in one. Sometimes three. Sometimes all five, crowding you, overwhelming you, drowning you in every possible sensation. Two mouths between your thighs. Someone at your chest. Someone in your ear. Hands everywhere. Teeth. Tongues.

For demons like them, relief is rare. They’re lucky to have this now.

God, the situations you get in. You’d think being the girls’ assistant would mean running after them and giving them what they call for. You didn’t sign up for this much blood. You didn’t sign up for a kitchen knife jammed into your arm, Jinu’s bathroom stocked like a back-alley clinic, or five demons pacing outside your room. It’s hilarious, in the most are you kidding me kind of way. This is the very top of the list of the things that have happened to you. The smell of your blood filling the entire apartment. Jinu playing nurse while you sobbed into his neck. The others circling, snapping at each other in the hall, barely restraining themselves from tearing each other apart just to see you. You passing out with Derpy curled against you, while on the other side of the wall five demons were each jerking themselves raw to the thought of sharing you. You don’t know that last part, of course. But if you did, you’d probably add it to the growing list of hilariously fucked-up things I’ve dealt with this year.

You’re a human. A fragile human. One who, by all rights, should have been eaten alive in the first week of this gig. Yet somehow, you’re still here. Still alive. And every day, the situations get worse. The knife accident was proof. A simple mistake, maybe an accident, maybe your desperate attempt to run, maybe both, turned into a night of blood, whispered reassurances, and enough sexual frustration from the others to burn the building down.

Who else but you could end up here? God, the situations you get in. And yet… you wouldn’t trade it. Not really. Even if they do creepy things, like steal from you. Even if it started off with torture in all the ways. Even if you can’t look at a bathtub with cold water in it. Even, even, even…

Even though a lot of things happened to you here, you don’t want to go right now.

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

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

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iamactuallysocute · 5 days ago

Note

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

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

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

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

“WHO’S A GOOD BOY?”

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

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

JINU

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

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

You just like to play with it, alright?

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

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

He places it into your hand.

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

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

You already know which way it’s going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It does something to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All it took was four little words.

And the rest of the night?

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

ROMANCE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Under the sink, behind the basket.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “No.”

“Don’t make me come get you.”

“Romance—”

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

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

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

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

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

You try not to smile.

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

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

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

“The best boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would almost be adorable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slut.

Every little movement is a wordless conversation.

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

ABBY

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

Then you drop your hair tie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do it again. A little harder this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you push.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now he wants it even more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s being good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffs. “You know it does.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MYSTERY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You thank him without looking back.

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

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

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

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

But he’s not hovering for the cookies.

He’s hovering for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s ridiculous how hot it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BABY

Baby does not want to be here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Straighten.” you repeat, softer this tim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s… close enough.” you say.

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Useless fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes flick up at you.

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

“Yeah. I feel it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, he inhales sharply through his nose.

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

“No.” Quick answer. Too quick.

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head. “Baby…”

His eyes cut to you. “What.”

“You’re hard.”

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

You just grin. “It’s cute.”

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

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

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

“That’s it.”

“Perfect.”

“Just like that.”

“Good boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nnh—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forward. Back. Forward. Back.

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

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