#<- TERRIFYING. WHY DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 5

Y’all begged for reader to get sick, so y’all got it, enjoy<3

cw: mentions of corpses and dead people, the boys going thru some serious shit, the word job uncensored, heavy nsfw mentioned, cursing, the usual, I’m not that satisfied with this part

SILENCE.

A miracle, honestly. No one’s ever been able to shut all five of them up at once before.

You start walking, still holding Mystery like it’s your turn to check him out of demon daycare. You don’t even look back at the others as you guide him past the couch, into the hall.

But he does.

And Mystery’s smile—wide, smug, sharp as sin—flashes behind the curtain of his hair. He doesn’t say a word, but his expression says everything. I win, suck my dick, she picked me, go cry about it.

Romance’s mouth is open. Jinu’s quiet, eyes narrowed in a rare flicker of actual surprise. He exhales through his nose, brushing a hand over the tiger’s head now lying empty on the rug without its girl. Baby’s face doesn’t show much emotion but the way he looks at Mystery says plenty. Abby just looks angry. Aggressive.

The hallway’s dimmer than the living room, not dark, just softer, quiet. Mystery doesn’t say a word as you guide him by the wrist, into your room. You let go of his hand as soon as you’re in. He stands by the door for a second like he’s unsure what to do with his arms now that you’re not holding him. So he puts them in his pockets, all casual-like. You don’t miss the way he adjusts his weight from one foot to the other.

You look at him, eyebrows pinched gently. “What happened?”

Mystery blinks at you, but you can’t see that. You can see his full mouth, the slope of his nose. His collar is stretched out and his shirt has blood on it. Not a lot. But enough to piss you off.

He shrugs.

You scoff gently. “All that?”

You walk toward him, slow and gentle, and he freezes like you’re about to stab him in the gut. Not from fear. Just… awareness. You get close, then closer, looking at his jaw, near a bruise starting to bloom. It’s not swollen yet.

“Who hit you?” you ask.

He blinks. Mouth opens slightly. Then closes again.

You sigh through your nose. “You’re such a boy.”

He smiles at that. Just a little. The kind that hides itself behind his lashes. Then he shrugs again, but this time it’s different. A little sheepish. A little charming.

“Some… girl.” he says finally. His voice is quiet, like always. Raspy and careful.

You nod solemnly. “Alright.” You motion to the bed. He sits slowly, like he’s not used to this. You sit next to him, legs tucked under you. You glance sideways.

He’s looking straight ahead. Shoulders stiff. But his hands—those long, elegant fingers of his—are sitting in his lap, not clenched, not guarded. Just… relaxed.

“Why do you let them drag you around?” you ask softly, tilting your head. “Abby’s always trying to make you do shit. He doesn’t even ask.”

Mystery smiles to himself. “He’s funny.”

Your heart does this dumb thing.

He adds: “He’s nice. When he’s not trying to throw me at walls.”

You laugh. “You literally bite him sometimes.”

Mystery doesn’t deny it. He just presses his knuckles to his lips and laughs once, soft and pretty and boyish. It’s not fair. He’s a demon. They’re supposed to be terrifying. Not the kind of person who makes you want to take a million blurry pictures of him just smiling at the floor.

“Do you like it here?” you ask suddenly. To get something out of him. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the soft buzz of the lights. Maybe it’s the warm silence. Or maybe it’s that no one’s here to interrupt for once.

A small nod.

“I like… you.” he says.

Oh.

Your lips part. But no words come out.

He glances away just as fast. He’s not very practiced in saying things out loud. He’s more of the “staring at you from three feet away” kind of guy.

But still. He said it.

You smile gently, genuinely. “I like you too, Mystery.”

He blinks at that.

You clarify: “Not like that.”

He hums. “I know.”

But the smile stays on his face, blooming a little brighter.

You reach for the edge of your comforter and throw it over both your legs. He doesn’t pull away when your knee bumps against his. You lean back against the headboard and close your eyes. You speak without opening your eyes, voice calm, soft, and laced with something deeper than just annoyance. “You know I’m still really, really fucking mad at you guys, right?”

Mystery doesn’t move.

“I mean it.” you continue. A pause. He still doesn’t say anything. You sigh and finally open your eyes. Your gaze falls to your lap, to the blanket over your legs, then to the edge of the bed where his knee bumps against yours. You’re not moving away. You don’t want to. “But,” you say slowly. “you’re also kind of… fun.”

That earns a shift. Just a tilt of his head. You peek over at him. You see the slight pull of a smile on the corner of his lips.

“Which is stupid,” you add. “because I should hate you.”

Another breath.

“You do?” he asks. His voice is a hush, barely more than a vibration in the air. But you hear it.

You stare at him for a long second. “I don’t know.”

And that’s the honest answer. The one you’ve been circling for weeks. You should hate them. You should be planning your next escape, counting the steps from the hallway to the elevator, scoping the back exits. You should be avoiding every dumb, cocky, boyish interaction and shutting down their flirtations with disgust. You should be making them regret every second of this. Instead, you’re here. Sitting next to one of them. Wrapped in a blanket. Letting your knee brush his like it doesn’t make your heart ache a little.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “Want to tell me something about you?”

You blink. You turn to him, almost suspicious. “Why?”

Mystery shrugs. “I want to.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You… want to know something about me?”

He nods.

It takes a moment to register that he’s not messing with you. Not prying to get intel. Not about to pull some demon trick out of his ass and suddenly chain you to the bed for betraying national secrets. He’s just asking.

“Uh.” you say. “I like watermelon but I’m too afraid to ask Jinu to bring some. I was a spoiled child. A popular kid, actually, if you know what that is.”

Mystery tilts his head, thinking that over.

“That’s… good.” he says eventually.

You nod slowly, eyebrows pinched. “You’re so fucking weird. What about you? You don’t talk about yourself.” you say. “You barely talk at all, but when you do, it’s never really about you. So… lemme think… what’s your favorite thing?”

Mystery breathes in. Looks at the wall. Then looks at you. A smile pulls at his lips. He pulls his legs up then leans in the tiniest bit, like he’s about to tell you a secret.

“You.”

Your throat tightens. Instantly.

He sits back like he didn’t just say that.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Thanks. Weirdo.”

He smiles into his knees.

Romance fucking crashes through the door, eyes glittering, hair wild, wearing one of those shirts that looks like he tore it in half on purpose just to show skin. Which, knowing him, he probably did.

“Hey.” he purrs, storming into the room. His voice is syrupy, sing-song, and far too cheerful for someone who’s about to commit physical assault.

You blink up at him, still under your blanket, utterly peaceful for once in your cursed new existence. You barely manage a “What the hell are you—”

Before Romance dives for Mystery’s ankles.

“Up, up, up, loser. Out. Pack your moody little silence and take it somewhere else.” he says, practically snarling as he wraps both arms around Mystery’s legs and yanks.

Mystery hits the floor with a dull thud. Hard. His skull audibly knocks the wood. You wince. That sounded like it could’ve cracked concrete. And somehow, Mystery doesn’t even flinch. Not a sound. Not a protest. The most he gives Romance is a blink, like this is fine, this is normal, he’s used to this.

Which, frankly? You don’t doubt.

“Ro,” you say flatly. “he’s literally bleeding.”

Romance stops dragging him halfway out the door just to look back at you, hair flopping over his brow, all breathless. “I know. Isn’t it tragic? He’ll survive. Barely. Maybe.”

Mystery’s arm limply lifts to give you a thumbs up from the hallway floor, face buried into the floorboards like it’s a nap mat. You gape.

“Romance,” you snap. “he was with me.”

Romance beams. “Exactly. That’s the problem. If I can’t have you, no one can. Didn’t you get the memo, sweetheart? You’re mine.”

“Excuse me—”

(Guys I know it sounds cringe but don’t take it the serious embarrassing maffia daddy way. Romance is panting and smiling and literally dragging a man away as he says it plz get the sweet vibe)

“Mine!” he echoes, dragging Mystery by the pant leg now with one hand and using the other to dramatically point at you. “My future wife. My muse. My moral downfall. My happy ending.”

Mystery finally moves—just a bit—using the momentum to flip himself over. “Dramatic.” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse.

“Ssshhh…” Romance shushes, tossing his hair. “You were hogging her, by the way.”

You stare.

Mystery is now lying spread-eagle in the hallway, just blinking at the ceiling. He has a small trickle of blood coming down from his temple. You feel awful. But he seems unbothered, as always. Honestly? If you asked him if he was okay, he’d probably just nod.

You sigh so hard your soul almost leaves your body. “What do you want, Romance?”

He wiggles his brows, then— “To take you out for dinner.”

“No.”

Behind Romance, Mystery finally sits up, dusting himself off, completely unfazed. There’s blood on his forehead, his shirt’s rucked up, and he still somehow manages to look like a fallen angel.

Before you can speak, Romance slams the door shut with one final wink, locking you in with the echo of his last dramatic declaration. “Remember, darling, you can run from your feelings, but you can’t run from me.”

The hallway goes quiet. You’re blinking in slow disbelief on your bed.

Romance.

Motherfucking Romance.

Him and his fuckass designer jeans. Delusional asshole. If he ever actually got you alone for more than five minutes without someone interrupting, you’re 90% sure the Earth would implode. Maybe the sky would crack open. Maybe he’d combust. Who knows. It’s Romance.

You exhale.

…god help you, you’re starting to find it endearing.

Meanwhile on the hall, Romance stares down at the mess he made—Mystery, still on the floor, half a smile tugging at his lips like this is nothing new, like he could do this all day.

And Romance, already smug from his “grand rescue” crosses his arms and juts out his hip. “Okay. Talk. What the hell was that?”

Mystery tilts his head, still on the ground. His hair is a mess around his face, his expression unreadable for half a second—until a slow, airy giggle bubbles out of him.

“What.” Romance says again, blinking. “What are you giggling about?”

Mystery pushes himself upright, arms dangling loose at his sides, as he rocks forward onto his knees. “We talked.”

“Come again?” Romance leans in.

Mystery doesn’t even answer. He just grins. The kind of grin that should be illegal on something with such a soft voice. Then he pushes Romance—two hands against his chest, not rough but sudden, catching him off guard.

Romance stumbles back a step, jaw dropping, then he pushes Mystery back. And then Mystery is running. Well—okay, it’s not quite a sprint. It’s more of a gliding skip, in socks, his laugh echoing soft and high, infectiously airy. Romance chases him.

Mystery yelps when Romance catches the back of his shirt and yanks, nearly tripping them both. They tumble into the wall, shoulder to shoulder, and now it’s all elbows and laughter and stomping feet.

They’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe. Mystery’s head tilts back, full smile, eyes finally visible as his bangs get shoved aside. Romance is breathless and loud, leaning into Mystery.

They’re a mess. Gorgeous, evil, boyish messes.

Romance slaps Mystery on the back. Mystery slaps him harder. They both nearly fall again.

It’s not like this all the time. Romance is extra, always. Mystery is quiet and weird. Their whole group? Horrible.

But this? This little moment?

It’s joy.

Unfiltered, glowing, stupid joy.

And Romance, when he finally hooks an arm around Mystery’s neck and ruffles his hair like they’re ten, can’t stop smiling either.

Mystery just wheezes. “Jealous?”

“Jealous?! I could have her if I wanted. You know that. I’m just—y’know. Pacing myself. Like a gentleman.”

They keep laughing. They don’t even realize Baby walked by, gave them a look of disgust, and just kept going.

They’re too wrapped up in it.

Wrapped up in you.

(A HORRIBLE time skip, which is only a few hours)

It’s dark, way past midnight. Like The lights are low, fridge humming. You’re barefoot in the kitchen, opening cabinet doors like you haven’t already scoured every single one twice. Still. You know there was a Snickers here last week. And if Baby didn’t eat it, then maybe Jinu moved it. Or Abby did baked it into a protein shake. Or Romance fed it to the tiger as a love offering. Or Mystery quietly tucked it into his pockets.

Where the fuck is the Snickers.

You exhale and lean into the counter, the cold of it pressing into your forearms. You’d been thinking about what Mystery said earlier. About you. Or rather, to you.

He really… likes you.

You’d brushed it off. Sort of. He wasn’t a talker. You weren’t a talker. Most of your connection lived in side glances and weird little moments. But it sat with you now, in the middle of the night, as you tried to mourn your lost chocolate bar.

And maybe… maybe he’s not the only one. You’d been brushing off all of them. Because obviously. They were demons. Liars. Idiots.

Sure, they absolutely knew what tits were. Big fans, actually. You figured they’d seen everything. Gotten their fill of tits and asses and whatever else humanity had to offer, but no. Lately, you’d started noticing their eyes higher. Up. At your face. At your eyes.

And that’s a lot for five grown, six-packed, emotionally constipated demons to carry in one apartment.

You hadn’t expected the conversation with Mystery to sit in your chest like this, all warm and alive. You just wanted to be with him to show the others that if someone’s nice to you, they get a little reward. And it shouldn’t surprise you, that maybe… just maybe, they’re not kidding. That they really do like you. In ways they haven’t liked anything or anyone in centuries.

It’s annoying. It’s flattering. It’s unsettling.

You hadn’t really taken it that seriously before. The boys flirting. The compliments. The weird glances. The bickering over who got to stand next to you, or who got to sit on the couch next to you when no one was even watching anything. It was so casual. So unserious.

And you’re definitely not supposed to feel whatever this is back.

A creak behind you makes you glance up, and it’s Baby.

He walks in like he owns the floor, the kitchen, the building, and the earth under it. Shirt and boxers only. No socks. Ruffling his hair with one hand. Half-lidded eyes like he just woke up but doesn’t give enough of a shit to explain himself.

He walks past you, brushing shoulders a little (which he absolutely didn’t need to do with how huge this fucking kitchen is), and opens the fridge, staring inside.

You narrow your eyes. “Not gonna wear pants or…?”

“No.” he drags out a bottle of something and sipping it straight from the cap. Then, without asking, without even pretending to ask, he throws himself onto the stool at the kitchen island, legs spread like he’s airing out his balls. He props his feet on the crossbar and manspreads. Not even pretending to care how much thigh is out. Boxers riding up. Shirt barely hanging on. Disgusting.

You glare. “Can you not?”

He shrugs. “You’re the one looking.”

You blink at him. “I’m not—”

He laughs. That raspy, bratty laugh that sounds like it’s made of smirks and smoke. “You’re funny.”

And yeah, he walks around like he doesn’t care. Always mean, always quiet, always evil. Like he’s not paying attention to shit. Like he barely even knows your name. But he does. He knows where you sit on the couch every time. He knows you like ice in your juice and not your water. He knows when you shower and how long you take. He always knows what room you’re in. He always knows when to shut up and when to look. When you’re not looking? He’s always watching.

You two don’t talk much. He’s not a talker. He’s the least chatty of the five, even less than Mystery, who at least giggles. Baby doesn’t even smile half the time. Just walks around like he’s above it all.

But sitting there like that, half-naked and shameless and still throwing you glances?

You made him learn something new about himself tonight.

He likes being slutty.

He won’t say it. Not in a million years. Not even if Gwi-Ma threatens to blow his eardrums out again. But he knows. And he’s leaning into it.

His knee bounces a little now. He’s watching you again. Chin tilted low. “Go on. Keep talking. I’m bored.”

He likes that you’re talking. He likes that you’re here. He’s not bored. He just doesn’t know how to say stay with me a little longer.

Because yeah.

He’s a dick. A bad person. A literal demon.

But he likes liking you.

You consider it. Then, “You know what? Sure, so I was actually thinking about, like, maybe getting back into painting? I used to paint. It was nice. Like, no one was ever gonna hang them in a gallery or whatever, but I liked it. There was this one I did that was just like, um… a peach. It was really ugly. I was proud.”

Baby raises a brow, head slightly cocked, one cheek squished in his hand as he leans into it. Silent, still slouched in his ridiculous spread, the little bottle now rolling on its side next to him, forgotten.

You keep going. “And I don’t know, I think Mystery would like painting. He seems like he would. I could teach him. That’d be cute, right? We could wear aprons and get paint on our noses and he’d giggle and I’d giggle and then Abby would come in and ruin everything—”

You glance over just in time to see Baby huff out a short breath of a laugh through his nose.

“—which is fair. Honestly, that’s what he’s for. And then Jinu would ask what’s going on, and he’d act so above it but he’d definitely be painting in five minutes.”

Another eyebrow from Baby. His lip twitches.

You’re so sweet.

He feels everything.

Of course he does. Super senses, duh. He knows your blood pressure is just a little higher right now because you’re excited. Knows your temperature’s up slightly from the late hour. Knows your hormones are dipping already. Felt the ovulation spike days ago—even Jinu went a little crazy, let’s not even talk about Mystery, and Romance had to disappear for like four hours to deal with himself—he also really wanted to make your mood worse when you were on your period, but for some reason he didn’t But right now, you’re fine. You took meds. He knows it’s gonna hurt when you wake up, though.

Baby is not a good man. He’s not kind. He’s not nurturing. He won’t rub your back or offer to help or remember your comfort food. He’s the guy that says “sucks” when you’re dying. He’s mean. He kicks Romance into walls for fun. He never shuts up about how stupid humans are.

But you?

You drive him insane.

He feels things he’s never felt before. Ugly, evil, messy things. Obsessive little loops in his brain. Dirty thoughts. Angry jealousy. That bratty kind of crush that makes him want to bite something. You’re his in his mind. Not even because you agreed—because he decided. Because you looked at him once and he saw it all. And now you’re here, arms folded, still talking about something like:

“—and I don’t know, I just think maybe when this whole kidnapping thing is over, if I ever get to go outside again, I’ll buy one of those tiny dogs. You know? They always have names like Mr. Pickles. Maybe I’ll get two. Or just one. Then he pees on the carpet and I cry.”

He’s leaning now. Both elbows on the counter. Chin in his hand. Legs sprawled. Eyes fixed on you in a way that says mine mine mine mine mine but doesn’t say it out loud.

You don’t realize it, but you just made him fall a little more.

He doesn’t talk. He won’t say it.

But god, he’s feeling it.

And here you are, chatting. Like he hasn’t fantasized about you more than any man should. About your thighs wrapping around him. About your neck in his hand. About your voice gone breathless. About you crying again—not sweetly like earlier, but whimpering, begging, fucked out.

It’s not cute in his head. It’s filthy. It’s evil. He knows that. And he’s so fine with it.

He watches you lean back on your heels and sigh and start talking again about god knows what now. Your favorite dumb little shows. The shape of pasta you like the most. You mention Abby somewhere in there. Your hands move when you talk.

He thinks about what they’d feel like curled into his hair. On his jaw. Wrapped around his—

He shifts in his seat a little. Like he’s adjusting his posture, but really? He’s giving himself something to do before he makes a mistake.

“You know what pisses me off?” you say. “The fact that Abby keeps putting the oranges with the vegetables. Like. No.”

Baby raises an eyebrow.

“Oranges. Aren’t. Vegetables. I know that! I passed high school! And I know that.”

Nothing from him. He just tilts his head slightly. Like go on.

“It’s kind of dumb,” you say. “but I think I like the tiger the most. Don’t tell the others.”

He hums, tilting his head. “Why.”

“He doesn’t talk.”

That makes him laugh, and god, god he’s pretty when he does. He looks down briefly, tongue sliding over his bottom lip, before he looks back up at you.

You are the softest thing he’s ever been near. And he’s the worst thing for it. He’s thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking. Has been for a while now. The kind of things that, if said out loud, would get Romance to blush and Abby to wince. Thoughts that are wrong not just because they’re vulgar—though they are—but because you’re you. Human. Kind. Angry, and smart, and hurt, and too real to be something he should touch.

But he wants to.

He always wants to.

And he’s convinced—because he’s Baby, and of course he is—that you want him too. That you must want him. That you’re playing some slow game of pretend or denial, but underneath all your eye-rolls and sarcasm is the same heat he feels when you look at him just a second too long.

You must feel it. Right?

Right?

…You don’t.

But that doesn’t stop him.

But when you pause your ramble to blink up at him and ask, “Are you even listening to me?” and laugh, softly, like you already know the answer—

He actually smiles back.

“…Yeah.” he says, voice low, head tilted, tapping the cap of his bottle against his knee. “I’m listening.”

And he is.

To everything.

You rub your eyes and let out the softest little breath—just a small sigh of existence, and it feels like it hits him in the chest.

“Anyway.” you say. “This tired me out. Like a lot. Jesus. You’re a good listener for someone who doesn’t talk.” You start walking toward the hallway, barefoot and slow, but you glance back over your shoulder to throw one last thing his way. “Good night. Don’t forget to put on pants next time, slut.”

“Night.” he says, lifts a hand, lazy wave, voice low and warm and just this side of teasing.

Alone.

Feeling.

Ugh.

He stares at the empty doorway for a second longer than he means to. Blinks. Sits back, arms folding, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

What the fuck just happened.

He misses you already?

No.

He scoffs to himself. Lets out a tiny breath, more annoyed than anything. This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. You tired yourself out from talking? Really? Who the fuck does that? What are you, a preschooler? You absolute dumbass. And why does he care what you do with your free time? Why does he care if you miss painting, or if you want a dog, or if your stupid face looked really cute when you got sleepy?

…It did look cute though.

Fuck.

He scratches the back of his head, then drops his hand with an irritated sigh. Then he stands up finally, arms swinging slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s not gonna follow you. He’s not gonna get all emotional and knock on your door like a loser. He’s not Romance. He’s not Abby. He’s not Mystery. He’s not even Jinu. He’s Baby. The one who kicks people into furniture and doesn’t apologize. And he’s not changing that because of a girl who talks about fruit and dogs.

Right?

He heads back toward his room with a little more energy than usual. And he doesn’t know it, not really, not yet, but this is going to be one of those nights where he lies on his back, arms behind his head, glaring up at the ceiling, and has to wrestle with thoughts he doesn’t know how to name.

Stupid. This is so stupid.

Okay, next morning.

Jinu’s reading emails at the counter like a professional, which would be really admirable if it weren’t for the fact that across from him stands Abby. Razor in one hand, shaving cream all over his face like a kid who just smeared frosting on himself.

“Jinuuu,” Abby says through foamy lips. “where do I stop?”

Jinu doesn’t look up right away. “I told you not to shave in the living room.”

“You also told me not to put a fork in the toaster and guess what I did yesterday.”

Jinu doesn’t even blink. “You can go more to the right.”

“Hm.”

Jinu looks up and gestures to his own jawline. “Stop here.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, but do it in the bathroom perhaps—”

Too late. The razor is gliding down Abby’s cheek. He makes a delighted sound.

Somewhere behind them, Romance is mumbling a song under his breath, turning an apple over in his hand. Baby is on the couch upside down, playing a handheld game and flips Jinu off for no reason.. And Mystery’s just… there. On the floor. Sitting.

“I think I have a cold.” you mumble, coming into the room. You look like hell.

You’re adorable, and they all stop breathing for a second.

Abby perks up immediately. “Wait, for real?” He walks over like he’s actually about to be useful for once. “Let me check. I’ve seen this in movies.”

You blink at him. He places the back of his massive hand against your forehead. Tilts his head. Frowns.

“��Hm.”

You sniff again. “Hm?”

“I dunno.” he says. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Yeah, no idea. I think you’re fine.”

“Am I hot?” you ask weakly.

“Obviously. But fever-wise, like—medically? I got no idea.”

You don’t even have the energy to insult him properly. Just swat his chest like, be fucking serious. And the thing is—they are. Serious. About you, anyway. Not about the world. Or schedules. Or being decent people.

Because outside of you? They are absolutely horrible. Actual villains. Jinu once cut a demon’s throat in silence and then got blood on his white turtleneck and didn’t give a single fuck. Romance has a list of people he’s cursed (and probably kissed). Baby killed someone in a bathroom and then stole their cologne. Mystery still hasn’t explained the pile of teeth in that little glass bowl in his room. Abby once body-slammed a priest for fun.

They’re evil.

But to you?

God, they mean well. So well it hurts.

They don’t want to be good.

They just want to be good to you.

Jinu doesn’t look up this time. “Y/N, rest. Bed. Now.”

The tiger rubs against your legs like a bus-sized housecat and then lowers itself so you can lean on it for support. You do.

And they’re trying.

Not because they care about humans.

Because they care about you.

Even if Abby is now dragging the razor down the side of his cheek and saying “ow” repeatedly with every stroke. Even if Jinu’s typing “Y/N medicine list” into a private document right now, pretending he’s not watching you shuffle toward your bedroom, the tiger walking beside you.

Even if they’ll lie to your face about everything else. Even if they’ve done this to you.

They still mean good.

For once.

About twenty minutes later, the sound of your door creaking open is lazy, half-hearted, no knock, no polite warning.

You’re curled up in bed. Hoodie on, nose pink, a mountain of tissues building up on the nightstand like a white flag of surrender. Derpy is pressed along your side, warm. The moment the door opens, the tiger lifts its massive head, glowing eyes narrowed, but it doesn’t move. It recognizes him.

Baby stands there in the frame, one hand on the door, the other shoved in his hoodie pocket. One brow is cocked. He looks like the embodiment of “whatever.”

“We’re going.” he says. No hello. No “how are you feeling.” Just a dull, half-grunted report.

You blink up at him from your pile of blankets. Your voice is quiet. “Going where?”

He shrugs. “Out. Don’t care.”

Your brows lift, sniffle dragging at your tone. “Then why are you telling me?”

He huffs. Exactly.

The others definitely sent him.

“I’m just here to check if you need anything.” he mutters, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe like the weight of standing fully upright is just too much.

“You were definitely sent.” you murmur, clutching the blanket higher.

He shrugs. “Told them you’d be fine.”

You cough gently into the sleeve of your hoodie. He watches that. Watches you blink tiredly up at him, tissues shoved under your arm, cheeks all soft and flushed from the fever, lips chapped and frowning. You’re small, quieter than usual, and visibly miserable.

“You look like shit.” he mutters.

“Thanks.”

“You want anything?”

“Sleep.”

“Cool.”

“You’re so kind.”

He snorts, pushing off the frame. The tiger growls lightly, just because it can. He flips it off.

You cough again, and in the hallway, he hears it.

And even though he’s halfway down the corridor now, even though you won’t see it, Baby rolls his eyes hard—and then turns the corner into the kitchen.

About another twenty minutes later, you’re still in your room but from somewhere around the house, you can hear:

“Bye, Y/N!” from Romance, who always has to say it first. His voice carries like a song. You imagine he’s fixing his hair in the mirror while he says it.

Then a quieter, lilting, “Bye…” from Mystery.

Abby: “Miss you already, babe.”

Jinu’s “Back soon.”

Baby doesn’t bother.

Then there’s someone hitting someone (again), the very clear sound of Romance singing and being absolutely cut off by someone burping loudly (probably Abby), and finally—

SLAM.

You don’t remember falling asleep after that.

Hours after, in the evening when they get back, Romance slips out of his shoes, throws his jacket at the wall (Abby yells “THE HOOK” but Romance ignores him), and beelines down the hall, already unzipping his hoodie. The moment he pushes your door open, he sees you bundled under every single blanket known to man—half of them not even from your bed. He recognizes Abby’s hoodie. One of Jinu’s coats. The tiger’s long, heavy body is curled against your side like a heating pad. There’s tissues everywhere. A bowl of soup, untouched.

You’re sweating, and pale, and your nose is pink, and your eyes are glassy. You blink slowly at him when the door opens. “…Romance?”

And he wants to melt.

He crosses the room instantly, sits down on the bed, one hand bracing on the edge of the mattress. “Baby.” he says, slow and low and too hot to be safe. “Ohhh, look at you.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Go away.”

“I would never.” He presses his palm to your forehead. “Shit, you’re burning up.”

“It’s fine.” you murmur, eyes slipping closed. “Just a cold.”

It’s not just a cold. It hasn’t been since this morning.

He can feel it. The exhaustion in your muscles. The weakness in your breath. The ache beneath your skin.

He wants to scream. He wants to pick you up and shake you and kiss your forehead and punch a wall and then cuddle you under every blanket in existence.

He does none of that.

The feelings in him are unbearable. Worse than the hunger. Worse than Gwi-Ma’s voice in his head. Worse than the years of rot buried in his gut. It’s like you’ve rewired his entire nervous system with a smile and a fucking tissue crumpled in your fist.

You sneeze.

Why is that cute? Why is you being sick still so sweet he can barely look at you without wanting to press his mouth to your skin?

What is wrong with him?

How can someone like him—someone full of filth and violence and hunger—feel like this for someone like you? You, with your snotty nose and bad mood and adorable raspy voice. You, who calls him a dumbass and refuses to look at his upper body even though you absolutely snuck a glance yesterday in the hallway mirror. You, who won’t love him back, probably ever.

He’s staring at you like you’re naked and willing and whispering his name between moans—even though you’re bundled in blankets and might actually be hallucinating. His fingers slip down to your jaw, your temple, the curve of your neck, tracing places you’re too tired to even flinch over.

You let out a little sigh.

He shudders.

His hand slips into your hair, brushing it back. It’s a mess, but it’s your mess. You’re real, you’re alive, you’re with him and that’s enough to short-circuit his entire system.

“God, you’re pretty.” he whispers.

Your only reply is a small wheeze.

He huffs a breathy little laugh. His fingers are threading slowly through your hair now, gentle and obsessive. Bedroom eyes going insane as he watches your lashes flutter, your dry lips part, your throat bob with every weak swallow.

You murmur something. He leans in.

“What was that?”

“…If you’re gonna sit here talking,” you rasp, eyes still closed. “at least go make me tea.”

“Yes ma’am.” He’s already standing, too fast, nearly trips over his own feet.

You crack one eye open, barely. “No demon magic.”

“Shit.” he groans dramatically. “There goes the secret ingredient.”

You lift a tissue to your nose with a weak sniff and give a tiny wave of dismissal. “Go, Romeo.”

He bows. Full-body. Right there at the door. Then he’s gone, practically skipping to the kitchen.

Because you asked for tea. You asked him to get it. You gave him a job, something he can do for you—and Romance, for all his flirting, all his filth, all his chaos, has always craved one thing:

To be useful. To be wanted. To be your something.

Even just the guy who makes you tea when you’re sick.

It’s pathetic.

He heads straight for Jinu’s room.

He leans his entire lanky-ass body in the doorway, arm stretched up to grab the frame, hair messy from running a hand through it a hundred times since you asked for tea.

“Hey, Jinu.”

Jinu, probably researching shit to be better at acting like stars, looks up with one singular blink. No change in expression. Nothing.

Romance still smirks. “Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m not your type, but I am beautiful.”

Jinu exhales through his nose. “What.”

“I need to know how to make tea.”

Jinu finally turns, squinting at him like he’s trying to make sure this is real.

Romance nods, dead serious.

“For Y/N.” he adds, and immediately softens. “She’s sick. She asked me. ME.”

“You don’t know how to make tea?” Jinu says flatly.

“No.”

“You’ve been alive for four centuries.”

Romance shrugs, smile lazy and smug. “I have other talents.”

Jinu stands without another word and gestures for Romance to follow.

In the kitchen, Romance is hovering behind Jinu, chin practically on the man’s shoulder as he watches him fill the kettle.

Romance leans his chin on his hand, watching the kettle as if it might hurry up for him. “You think she likes me?”

“No.”

“Hm.”

“Shut up and hand me a mug.”

Romance reaches for the prettiest mug in the cabinet—pink, with some dumb baby chick painted on it, definitely not theirs—and slams it proudly on the counter.

Jinu doesn’t even ask. He just pours.

“Thanks.” Romance says. “I mean it.”

Jinu just nods once.

And Romance takes the mug in both hands, lips tight, smile huge. Back to you. His sick little angel. Full pride in his step, tea in hand, and a whole dumb little smile on his face like ta-daaa, he doesn’t even make it two steps before freezing when pushing your door open.

Baby is already there.

On your bed.

Cross-legged.

You’re under a pile of blankets and cat, pale and sniffling and red around the eyes, cheeks flushed from fever. You blink slowly, dazed. “Hi.”

Romance almost drops the mug. “Hi.” He looks at Baby. “You were in the living room like thirty seconds ago.”

Baby blinks. “Walked.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

Romance sighs, stomping into the room. He slides the tea onto your bedside table—without even sloshing a drop, thank you very much—and turns to both of you with a palm on his hip. Then, with the world’s most obnoxious smirk: “Threesome?”

You blink blearily at him from under your mountain of blankets and giant tiger, one eye barely open, lip cracked and dry. Your voice is a croak when you whisper: “Shut… the fuck up.”

Romance laughs. Loud. Bright. Because even sick, even puffy-eyed and pale, you’re sharp. You’re fire. You’re you.

He sits on the edge of the bed, not too close, like the tea was already a risk, like maybe he’s being smart now. “God, you look awful.”

“Stop flirting.” you mumble.

You look worse than before. The flush on your cheeks is insane. Your lips are dry. Your breathing, shallow. There’s a tension in your brow you haven’t relaxed from in hours. The tiger lets out a soft huff and curls tighter around you, like even it knows something’s not right.

Romance swallows.

“Y/N…” he says slowly. “You, uh. You still with us?”

You blink at him. Then at Baby.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice hoarse, looking at Baby with bleary confusion.

“Sussie’s sleeping.” Baby mutters.

That’s not an answer.

“We’ll stay.” Romance says.

“Didn’t ask.” Baby murmurs.

“Didn’t say it for you, asshole.”

You don’t say anything, just sip your little tea. Well—more like wobble the cup against your mouth with both hands because your fingers are half-dead and you’re shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. The warmth helps, though. Kinda. Sorta. The heat seeps into your palms and then your cheeks and then your fogged-up brain, just a little.

“Be careful.” Romance says quietly, snatching the cup from you.

“I got it.” you rasp.

“You’re about to pour boiling water into your eyeball.”

You glare at him over your blanket, too weak to actually do anything but hold eye contact for a second and then blink slowly. “You’re about to get hit with this cup.”

Romance grins. Good. That means you’re not dying. Probably.

He gives it back to you anyway and you take another sip.

Romance leans forward like he’s gonna say something genuine, like maybe this is the moment, like maybe he’s going to try honesty for once, but instead he says, “You want me to tuck you in?”

You don’t even blink. “I’ll throw up.”

Baby smirks.

Romance holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, fair.”

They don’t admit they’re worried. Of course they don’t. That would mean facing the truth of how this all turned inside out, how you got under their skin and behind their ribs and became the center of a space they didn’t even realize was hollow.

You sip the tea, holding the mug in both hands, face buried behind it, nose red and skin clammy. Romance watches like he brewed it from scratch himself, the way he puffs up with pride when you swallow it without gagging. Baby rolls his eyes but doesn’t move.

You scared the shit out of them.

Even Baby, who doesn’t get scared, just… detached. He was with you in the kitchen the night before, he knew something was going on. But god forbid he say anything like, “Hey, Y/N’s not doing good, maybe we should take a look on her”

You let out a quiet, congested sniffle. Then you giggle.

Both of them tense.

You giggle again, slurred and sticky and sleepy, and quote—out of absolutely fucking nowhere—“’Til my soda pop fizzles out…”

And then laugh at yourself. Like, genuinely. You snort and press your cheek to the pillow, shoulders shaking gently with laughter, voice soft and woozy.

Romance opens his mouth like he wants to defend himself—he was going to claim it was a metaphor for sucking cock or something, really poetic—but then closes it again.

He can’t even be mad.

Baby’s eyes flick down to your face, the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth like maybe he wants to laugh too, but he doesn’t.

You just turn your face away from them, still grinning.

Romance watches you closely. You’ve gone quiet again. Almost too quiet.

And then you pet Baby’s knee.

His head snaps down, and he stares at your hand.

You’re rubbing your palm over his jeans, slow and distracted, like you’re comforting a pet or a plush toy. Like it’s unconscious.

Y/N ARE YOU WITH US???

Baby swears under his breath. He’s a cocky little shit, always has been, but something cold wraps around the back of his neck and slithers down his spine. You’re sick. Out of it. And still somehow found a way to crawl under his skin with the simplest gesture. He just looks at your hand. Small and warm, barely applying pressure, and the pads of your fingers brushing against his knee make his stomach ache in a way he doesn’t have words for. He wants to swat your hand away—wants to climb into your touch. Both.

You make it hard to be who he was before.

“Y/N?” Romance murmurs after a minute.

You don’t respond. You’re asleep, finally. Still breathing softly, hand still limp on Baby’s knee, tea now cooling on your bedside.

Romance exhales, deep. “She’s out.”

“Good.” Baby mutters.

And in both their heads, you’re perfect.

“Well,” Romance mutters, brushing your hair out of your face tenderly, looking at Baby. “you can go now.”

Baby doesn’t move.

Romance doesn’t look at him again, just keeps his eyes on you, makes a little tsk sound like he’s doing the responsible thing, like he’s offering Baby an out. “You know. Since she’s sleeping. Nothing else for you to do.”

Still nothing from Baby. Not a twitch.

Romance dares to glance sideways, just briefly—and sure enough, there’s the baby-faced bastard still sitting cross-legged, unmoved, unmoving, with that flat expression he always wears. His face doesn’t give away anything. But his eyes? Murder. Absolute murder.

Romance smiles wider, cocky, charming. He can feel Baby getting mad, and he thinks it’s funny. He enjoys this. He thrives in this.

But Baby’s jaw flexes once. That’s all.

Romance leans back on one elbow, shifting on the bed like he’s relaxing. “C’mon,” he whispers with a little grin, “don’t you have something else to do? You usually do.”

Baby blinks slow. Looks at him like he’s already dug the grave and picked out the headstone.

Still doesn’t move.

Romance raises a brow, eyes darting meaningfully toward the door. “You’re not gonna just sit there all night, right?”

You stir, only slightly—just a twitch of your fingers against Baby’s knee. Your breath hitches, your mouth opens a little in sleep. You let out the tiniest whimper, almost like a sigh.

Both boys freeze.

Then, Baby’s hand moves. Very slowly, like he’s been planning it for ten minutes, he reaches down and brushes your knuckles with his pinky. Barely a touch. It’s the gentlest thing he’s done in a decade.

Romance’s nose twitches. His teeth grind together behind that ever-pleasant smile.

This bastard’s not leaving.

Baby’s not playing. He’s not pretending to be calm. He is calm. He’s decided. He knows what he wants.

Romance shifts again on the bed, eyes narrowing just slightly, almost daring Baby to move. To try something. But Baby’s already seated comfortably.

The air between them is thick now.

And in the middle of it all, you, nestled in your blanket cocoon. Eyes closed. Cheeks flushed from fever. Breathing soft and warm.

Baby doesn’t move. Won’t.

Romance finally leans back, resting on his hands, gaze flicking over you again. “…Fine.” he whispers. “Stay. See if I care.”

Baby doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t grant that the statement deserves acknowledgment.

And for now—for tonight—Romance lets it go. But only because you’re still petting Baby’s knee in your sleep. And Romance is pretty sure you don’t even know whose knee it is. But Baby? Baby will remember this forever.

Romance shifts just a bit, reaching for the edge of your tea mug, planning to at least fix the angle or—hell, maybe steal a sip just to spite Baby—when a thump hits his hip.

He blinks. Looks down.

The massive tail of Jinu’s absurdly huge tiger is curling around. Slowly. Firmly. With intention.

He whispers a warning. “Hey. Don’t.”

Thump. The tail swipes again—harder this time. A very clear get out.

Baby’s already watching, elbow on one knee, cheek in his palm, smirking just a little. Not enough to be obnoxious. Just enough to be smug.

But the tiger doesn’t give a single fuck. It shifts its enormous body a little, tucking its legs tighter around you like you’re its favorite person on earth (you are), and then gives one final, long, sweeping tail-whip that knocks Romance right off the side of the bed.

Whuff.

“—fucking hell.” he curses under his breath, barely managing to keep the crash quiet as he hits the carpet with a heavy thud, limbs flailing.

Not a sound leaves Baby’s mouth, but his shoulders shake, and there’s pure joy in the way his eyes light up.

He’s delighted.

He’s—

The tail turns.

Baby’s expression dies in slow motion.

THWUMP.

The tail slams into his side and sends him toppling backward off the mattress, legs flying up before he hits the floor beside Romance in a graceless pile of limbs and insulted pride.

Romance bursts into actual laughter this time—quiet, wheezy, biting down on his knuckle so he doesn’t wake you—but he’s definitely enjoying every second.

Baby glares at him, scrambling upright.

As Romance starts to get to his feet, Baby trips him. Right in the ankle.

Romance goes down like a shot, muffling a yelp into his sleeve.

But they get out of your room, barely. Shut the door so gently and so quiet.

And once they’re on the halls, Romance pushes Baby back by the shoulders, slamming him into the opposite wall. “You’re a fucking brat.”

“You’re a jealous dick.” Baby mutters, voice low and smug, his hair in his eyes, hands shoving back with equal force.

“Yeah?” Romance huffs, smiling with too many teeth.

Baby’s done. He grabs the front of Romance’s shirt and shoves him again, this time harder.

Across the hall, Abby appears in the doorway of his room, holding a donut(??) and a dumbbell. Mystery’s already standing next to him, hair messy, smile tugging at his mouth.

“Five bucks says Romance loses.” Abby mutters, snorting.

“Twenty on Baby going too far.” Mystery whispers.

Jinu comes between them and shoves them apart, done with their shit. “Chill.”

Romance points an accusatory finger. “He started it—”

“No, no. Both of you. Shut up.”

Romance has his fist raised.

Baby’s mid-shove.

Both freeze.

Romance lowers his arm. Baby shrugs, as if to say whatever, but lets go of Romance’s shirt. Romance straightens his collar. Baby brushes tiger hair off his sleeves.

They don’t say anything, but the tension is dense as they shoulder past each other. Romance bumps Mystery’s shoulder as he passes, but Mystery just smirks.

When they’re gone, Jinu turns to your door and knocks once, out of habit, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he eases the door open a crack, just enough to look in.

Yeah.

There you are. Nestled deep in the blankets, wrapped in what looks like four layers of sweaters and socks and the literal massive striped beast that is his tiger. You probably don’t even realize your hand is still resting where Baby’s knee was earlier. Your cheek’s warm with sleep, your lips parted slightly, breath even and soft.

He stays there for a beat longer than necessary.

And then, gently, he pulls the door shut.

Click.

When he turns around—

“Jesus—”

Abby and Mystery are right there.

Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, looming behind him with their heads tilted at the same curious angle. Abby is so close he’s practically breathing down Jinu’s neck, while Mystery, half-hidden behind his hair, looks like he just wandered over.

Abby grins, unbothered. “How is she?”

“Fine.” Jinu mutters, brushing past them, but the smallest breath of relief sneaks into his tone. “Sleeping.”

Mystery just hums, barely audible. Satisfied. “Still sick?”

“Still sick.” Jinu confirms.

They follow Jinu as he walks back toward the main hallway. And Abby—being Abby—slings an arm over both Jinu and Mystery.

“So,” Abby starts, swaying them side to side. “what’s the schedule for tomorrow?”

Jinu sighs without stopping. “Rehearsal at ten, until three. The hunters have a show after that, we’ll be there.”

Abby laughs, still all warmth and big limbs and zero boundaries. “You’re such a good leader, Jinu. So organized. So brave.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you want a kiss?”

“I want you to vanish.”

“Damn, someone’s cranky.”

Jinu stops in front of the kitchen and leans both hands on the counter, head dipping briefly like he’s calculating how he can possibly make another day of a boyband work. Abby hops up to sit on the counter beside him like a damn toddler. Mystery slides into one of the barstools, turning a soda can slowly between his palms.

“She’s gonna be fine?” Abby asks, and for once it’s not a joke.

Jinu looks up, serious now. Nods once. “Yeah. Just needs rest.”

“Cool.” Abby says, kicking his feet. “Cool cool cool.”

Then he throws an arm around Jinu again, absolutely wrecking the quiet. “Okay, I’m off.”

“Brush your teeth.”

“Alrighty.”

Mystery stands too, and with that, the two disappear down the hall, the echo of Abby’s cackling trailing behind.

Jinu stays in the kitchen for a beat longer, eyes drifting to the hallway again. Quiet. Heavy.

And then, with a low breath, he turns off the lights and disappears too.

The next morning is… quiet?

They really do try for you.

It’s early. Jinu is already dressed. Silent steps. That’s how he moves. You’d never know he hadn’t slept a full night in weeks. That every time he shuts his eyes, he dreams of blood and old fire and the way you looked that night you cried into his chest, whispering that Abby was so nice.

He rolls his eyes a little at the memory, like he could shake the warmth out of his chest.

He moves to your door, pauses—listens.

Nothing. Or, more accurately, quiet breathing. One heartbeat slower than usual. Subtle shift in temperature, enough for him to smell how your body’s still trying to fight the fever.

He knocks once, gently.

Then opens the door.

And—oh. Yeah.

God.

You look like shit.

Honestly? You’ve stolen his creatures. That bird used to only perch on Jinu’s arm. That tiger used to… be dumb, okay, no big deal. Now look at them. Pets. Snuggle buddies.

Jinu’s eyes shift toward the two creatures also on the bed with you: his fucking bird perched smugly on your pillow and his massive tiger beast curled protectively around the bottom of the bed, tail twitching in rhythm to your breathing like he’s syncing himself with you.

You’re out of it. You look horrible.

He can’t even lie to himself about that. Your skin’s blotchy, your nose is red, and your mouth is half open with the driest breath in existence leaking out. Your hair is a mess. There’s a single tissue stuck to your hoodie’s sleeve.

Still, Jinu thinks you’re so beautiful it borders on physically uncomfortable.

And that just pisses him off.

Because this is wrong, isn’t it? The whole situation. He’s a demon—a real one, not the edgy-cute stage version. Four-hundred-plus years of destruction and indulgence and war crimes you probably couldn’t pronounce. He’s not built for… small, human kindness. He wasn’t made to witness someone cough into a tissue like a drowned kitten and feel something flutter in his chest.

So he stands there. Staring.

A long moment passes.

You look awful.

You look beautiful.

Then you stir. You don’t even open your eyes fully, just shift and let out a hoarse groan, squinting through a mess of hair and exhaustion, croaking something like, “…I feel like the inside of a shoe.”

Jinu’s mouth twitches. “I see. You planning to get up?”

You stretch. “Mmmmmyeah. Maybe.”

He doesn’t move. Just stays in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you as you finally, finally crawl out of bed. Every movement is wobbly and pitiful and you mutter a long string of complaints.

You pass him on your way to the bathroom, and he wordlessly falls into step behind you.

He just waits by the doorframe as you go into the bathroom and start your process, brushing your teeth, groaning at your reflection, attempting to wash your face while moaning “oh my god”

Jinu leans on the doorframe, watching with his arms folded.

You glance at him through the mirror. “You don’t have to stand there.”

He doesn’t move. “You could collapse.”

“I could collapse harder if you keep staring at me while I floss.”

His eyes flick away—finally—but he doesn’t leave. “Hurry up.”

You give a little smile around your toothbrush. It’s small. Tired. But god, it means something.

“Drink more.” he says without looking at you.

“I will.”

“Eat something when you can.”

“Kinda hard when I wanna die.” you joke.

He turns his head slightly to look at you. “Try not to.”

He watches your reflection while pretending not to. You rinse. Cough. Grab a towel and dab at your cheeks. You frown at the sight of yourself. Your voice, soft now: “I really do look like shit, huh?”

He says nothing for a moment. Then: “Not to me.”

You freeze. Turn a little. Look at him. But he’s already offering his hand.

You blink at it.

Then blink at him.

“…No.”

“Suit yourself.” he murmurs, retracting it just as easily, no offense taken.

Truthfully, he didn’t expect you to take it. You’re sick, not helpless. And you remember. You remember how this hand helped abduct you. How it’s choked the air from lungs that weren’t yours. You remember exactly who he is, even if you’ve started sleeping under blankets shared with his creatures and letting his music echo off your bedroom walls.

So he walks ahead, silent and patient, letting you shuffle behind like a very cute, very annoyed little ghost haunting him.

Abby’s shirtless, sweat on his temples like he just finished a run. He’s leaning on the counter, drinking from a carton you’re pretty sure he didn’t buy, and when he sees you, he gasps dramatically.

“Y/N! You’re ALIVE?”

“I’m trying.” you croak.

Mystery is perched on the counter, hoodie sleeves past his knuckles, swinging his feet lightly and watching you walk in with wide eyes. He doesn’t say anything—he never really does—but he waves. It’s slow and kind of awkward. It makes your stomach feel warm. You wave back.

Baby’s already seated at the island, chewing something that might be a cereal bar but looks more like some kind of demon jerky. He glances at you once, then away, uninterested—or pretending to be.

Romance? Romance practically LUNGES for you from the table, knocking his chair back with a loud screech.

“There she is!” he croons, reaching for your hand. “God, I was starting to think I dreamed you. I almost wept.”

You bat his hand away. “Touch me and you die.”

He grins. “There she is.” he says again, like he’s proud.

There’s something cruel about being sick in someone else’s home—especially when it’s your kidnappers’ home.

Especially if it’s Romance, who’s next bullshit is “Need someone to check your temperature, sweetness? I’ve got very gentle hands.”

Jinu is nudging you toward a stool. “Sit. Don’t engage.”

“I’m not.” you groan. “He engages himself.”

Behind you Abby grabs Baby by the hood, yanking it back.

You blink. “Pull up your pants, Abs.”

He does it with a wink, smug as ever.

Jinu hands you a cup of tea, gently placing a cool palm on your forehead. “Shh. Drink.”

You sip. It’s perfect. Too perfect. “You drug this?”

Jinu’s brows lift, mock-offended. “Would I?”

You stare at him.

He sighs. “Okay. A little.”

Behind him, Baby tosses a pillow at Abby’s head. Abby’s throwing hands. Mystery hisses. Romance sings something off-key but beautiful before touching the ends of your hair.

You jerk, groggy, sick, pissed. “Touch me again and I will throw you off this counter.”

“Mmm, promise?” he purrs. He’s already leaning in too close. “You’re so warm. You sure you don’t want me to feel your forehead with my lips? That’s what they did in the olden days—”

You slap his hand away so hard he makes a sound.

Abby leans in over you, plucks the cup out of your hand. You slap his hand, too.

“Hey!” you growl.

“Relax.” he drawls, setting the cup in the sink. “You’re not even strong enough to wipe your nose without breaking into a sweat. Sit down and let us take care of it.”

“I don’t want any of you to take care of anything.” you snap, slipping off the stool and nearly falling in the process.

Romance stands like he’s ready to catch you. Abby’s already got one arm behind you, steadying you without looking like he’s trying to.

They don’t look scared. But they are.

They fucking are.

You stumble to the fridge and yank it open.

Romance follows. “What do you want? Eggs? I’ll make you the most sensual omelet you’ve ever had—”

You grab the butter.

“…You want butter?”

You grab bread. Open the drawer. Butter knife.

Abby steps in, yanking the knife out of your hand before you can spread it. “Whoa there, killer. Not with those hands. Let men do the heavy lifting.”

“Oh my god.” you mutter, swaying slightly, gripping the edge of the counter.

Romance sees it first. His flirty grin falters for half a second. “Hey—breathe, okay? You’re looking a little, uh… soft around the edges.”

“One foot in the grave already.” Baby snorts.

“Stop following me.”

“Not following,” Romance purrs. “just… admiring. From a respectful—ow—Abby, you dick!”

“What are you even trying to do?” Baby asks from behind his phone.

“Make food.” you mutter.

“You’re barely standing.” Jinu says, clearly trying not to scold. “Let me.”

“No.”

You pull out an egg and nearly drop it. Your hand’s shaking. Not a good sign.

“Hey—hey—okay, time out.” Jinu says gently, stepping in. “You need to sit.”

“No.”

“Sit.”

“No.”

You make it to the stove and slap their stupid hands away when they try to take the egg. Your vision keeps doing that fun little tunnel thing, and your heartbeat’s way too loud in your ears, but damn it, you’re doing this. Your hands, burning hot and trembling, manage to crack the egg against the pan. The sizzle is satisfying. The shell falls half into the yolk.

“Fuck.” you whisper.

“Cute.” Romance whispers back.

You’re so sick. So goddamn sick. And you hate it, hate being this weak in front of them. They don’t deserve to see you soft or struggling. You want to snap at them. You want to win. But when you reach for the butter knife to scrape out the shell—

Abby steps in, easily plucking it out of your hand. “I got it, sicko.”

“Give it back.”

“No.” He expertly flips the egg like he’s been waiting to do this all week. He probably has.

“Fuck you.”

“After breakfast.”

Romance high-fives him over your head.

“Stop—” you grumble, swatting at them like flies, your knees buckling slightly. Jinu’s hands are immediately there, one at your lower back, the other curling around your arm. You hate how good he smells. Everything that could’ve been safe if not so wrong.

“I’m not sitting.” you insist.

He frowns—he worries. You can see it behind his smile. Behind him, Mystery glides in and wordlessly drags a chair behind you. You don’t even hear it. He just… appears. He nudges it with his foot. You don’t want to take it. You want to fight it. You—

You sink anyway.

“You’re so annoying.” you murmur.

He smiles.

You cough again, harder this time. Your whole body shakes. The chair feels too far from the earth. You’re definitely going to die here.

Romance drops to a crouch at your feet and rubs gentle circles on your thigh. “You okay, angel?”

You swat his hand again, but this time, it’s weak. He takes the hit like it’s a gift.

A hand smacks the back of his head—hard. Abby.

“Not helping.” Jinu mutters, carefully setting the plate you started, now finished by them, in front of you.

You eye it warily.

He puts a fork in your hand and curls your fingers around it. His thumb presses lightly against your palm. His eyes are so warm. There’s this depth to them—like he’s hurting with how much he wants to take care of you.

You take a bite, slowly.

And it’s… good.

Fucking hell, it’s good.

Romance watches your lips as you chew. Abby watches your throat. Baby looks away before he can be caught caring. Mystery’s standing behind you now. You feel his presence.

You stand up again.

“You’re done?” Jinu asks, voice calm—but watching you like you’re about to leap from a balcony.

“Yup.” Your knees wobble. “I’m gonna—uh, yeah, I’m going.”

“Going where?” Abby’s voice cuts in from the other side of the counter. “To the grave?”

You keep going. Even after Romance tries to physically block the hallway with his body.

“Out of my way, sex pest.” you murmur, shouldering past him. Your knees almost buckle. The hallway tilts a little.

No one says anything for a second. You think you might’ve won. You think—maybe—they’ve given up.

And then a shadow looms.

Big.

Solid.

“Alright.” Abby says, stepping in front of you, voice suddenly way too gentle. “You want a hug?”

“What? No—no. Fuck off—”

He wraps around you like a blanket of brick walls.

Jesus CHRIST.

His arms lock under yours, arm pressing across your back, muscles flexing around you. You get maybe half a breath in before you’re completely enveloped. Shoulder to shoulder. Stomach to stomach. Trapped.

His chest is against pressed into you. That absurdly hard, stupidly broad chest. You can feel each muscle—each one!—agaist you. His heartbeat thuds against you. His chin drops lightly onto the top of your head, his breath warm in your hair.

And it’s… weirdly… nice?

“Oh my god.” you breathe, forehead against his collarbone.

He chuckles softly. “Yeah. I give good hugs.”

“Let me go.”

“Not a chance.”

“Abby—”

“You are the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” he says, nuzzling lightly into your hair. “And I mean that with my whole chest.”

You roll your eyes. “Your whole chest, huh?”

“Mmhmm. Want a feel?”

You elbow him in the ribs. You might as well be elbowing concrete.

Then—without even asking—he lifts you off your feet.

Like it’s nothing.

Like you’re nothing.

Like you weigh nothing.

“What—put me down.” you croak, arms flailing. You start to struggle, but it’s pathetic. He’s carrying you down the hallway. And he’s so annoyingly strong. You can feel his arms under your thighs, his chest against your side, his skin warm and golden and—

This is so unfair.

“Abb—“

“Shhh.” he coos, bouncing you slightly. “Relax. Enjoy it.”

You peek back at the kitchen and wave limply. Just a little wave.

Only one person waves back, Mystery. A tiny little wave, like he’s five years old again. He’s… sweet. When he wants to be.

Jinu, of course, is already walking up behind Abby. “Be gentle, Abby.”

“I am gentle.” He angles you slightly so Jinu can see your face—and okay, yeah. You’re flushed. Your breathing’s shallow. Your eyelids keep drooping against your will. You are not doing well.

Jinu steps closer, walking beside the two of you now like he doesn’t trust Abby not to throw you over a shoulder and sprint off into the night.

Jinu sighs again. “Just… gently. Please.”

You groan. But your head tips forward again. Your body’s giving out. And even if you’ll never say it, the hug was perfect.

Abby grunts as he shifts you in his arms to reach for the doorknob, his biceps flexing under you. “Alright, angel. Bed time.”

“I can walk.” you mutter, voice hoarse.

Abby opens the door to your bedroom with his hip, stepping inside with all the careful grace of someone who is definitely not used to being careful.

“I don’t want to drop you.” he mutters, even though you’re practically melting in his arms. “So if you could, like, not pass out and slip through my fingers, that’d be great, baby.”

“Don’t drop her.” Jinu says, gently but firm, like he’s repeating it for himself as much as Abby.

“I got it, man.”

“Abby.”

“Fine, dad.”

Abby kneels beside your bed, careful not to jostle you too hard. You feel like you’re floating. He lowers you down like you’re made of something breakable, easing you onto the mattress.

“There.” Abby says softly, smoothing your hair out of your face with a weird gentleness that doesn’t match the rest of him. “See? Easy.”

You blink up at the ceiling, dazed. “Fuck off.”

“I can take her pulse.” Abby offers, one brow raised. “With my tongue.”

“Out.” Jinu says, tone flat.

Abby laughs, full-bodied and boyish, and backs up with hands raised. “Alright, alright. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

But the mood isn’t light. Because the two of them are hovering over you like you’re going to die any second. You’re human. You bleed. You sweat. You suffer. And they don’t know how to fix it. They can break necks and shatter bones with their bare hands, but you? You’re burning up, small and human and coughing into their expensive linens, and that terrifies them.

They’ve seen plagues. They’ve watched blood pour from mouths in alleyways. They’ve watched humans die under curses that had no names. They’ve fought things that smelled like death—rotted meat and smoke and something wet underneath the skin. They’ve seen it all.

“We’ll be outside.” Jinu finally says, voice low. “If you need anything.”

Then they leave. Abby first, rubbing his hands down his face like he’s trying to wipe off feelings. Jinu closes the door behind them with one last glance at you. He stops Abby in the hallway.

“Plans canceled today.”

Abby quirks a brow. “Like… all of them?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cancelling hunter hunting?”

Jinu sighs. Gwi-Ma’s gonna whoop his ass. “Not permanently.”

Abby leans against the wall, running a hand through his hair. His body is built to move—shoulders made for sprinting into chaos. Stillness doesn’t suit him. He shifts, fidgets. He’s never known how to sit with the quiet.

He hates that it’s not a person doing this to you. He could kill a person.

This?

This just waits.

He’s hugged thousands of fans. Dozens of flings. But that hug, god, that fucking hug.

You scared the fuck out of him. You always scare the fuck out of him, but this time it’s not because you flipped a knife at his neck or cursed him out mid-interrogation. It’s because you looked fragile. Small. Like you didn’t have enough fight in you to breathe.

He’d laugh, if it didn’t make him sick. He’s always been a fighter. They trained him like a dog. Fed him blood and steel and told him he was born for this. So he became what they wanted. Strong. Dangerous. Impossible. He kept himself like that, too. Like maybe if someone just touched him hard enough, they’d forget he’s held the dying, carried teammates in body bags, was once alone for three months in a bunker with only his brother’s corpse for company. (AN: guys I’m making lore up let me live)

But you fell asleep in his arms and he felt your heart beating against his ribs and it made him want to scream.

He’s used to bodies. Muscle. Bruises. Warm, worn-out people who only wanted the heat of him, not the truth. Sex without eye contact. Fights where he laughed through the blood. That was his rhythm. That was the pulse he built himself around.

If you asked for it? Right now? He’d take his clothes off without hesitation. Drop to his knees, spread his arms. He wouldn’t even expect to fuck. He’d just let you have him. Lay his body down like an altar and say: Here. For you. Everything. Take it. Please.

He thinks about you all the time.

He thinks about your mouth.

He thinks about you between all of them, sleepy and spoiled and worn out, covered in bruises from them, not because they were cruel—but because they couldn’t help it.

They’d worship you.

He’d lie down and let Mystery bite your shoulder while Romance made you sob and Jinu held your hand. Part of him thinks about you sandwiched between them, body warm and pliant, face tucked into someone’s chest while another pair of arms holds your hips. He imagines you being spoiled, worshipped by every single one of them. He’d let Romance kiss you while he held your thighs open. He’d let Baby whisper dirty things in your ear until you cried. He’d let Jinu fuck you slow and sweet. He’d even let Mystery leave marks down your chest because you’d like it.

As long as he got to hold your hand while it happened.

He’d share you.

He’d beg to.

Meanwhile, the big bathroom is a fucking sauna. Steam coats every tile. Water pours hot and endless from the tap, the kind of heat that could flay skin off if you weren’t a demon.

Romance is submerged to the neck in scalding water, chains still on, one leg perched on the tub’s edge. His hair’s wet, sticking to his cheekbones, lips parted.

Jinu knocks once.

“Come in.” Romance calls. “Clothes optional.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jinu opens the door just enough to be heard. “You’re staying home today.”

“Ugh.” Romance closes his eyes and sinks further into the bath, water lapping at his jaw. He doesn’t need to be told why. He just lies there, letting the water burn around him as Jinu leaves him alone.

Romance acts like he’s all flirt and friction. And maybe he is. But when no one’s looking, he sinks like stone. Into beds. Into bathtubs. Into any warmth that might feel like arms.

He wants to be touched. Wants to be kissed. Wants to be laughed at and hated and clung to. He likes hard, witty mouths, people who make it fun. And you do that—god, you do—but right now, you’re barely able to keep your head up.

But every time you enter a room, he has to pretend he’s not head over heels and a complete fool for you and his dick isn’t twitching. Pretend he’s not imagining what you’d sound like if he made you cry in a good way. Pretend he doesn’t want you bent over every surface in the house while the others watch.

Fuck.

He never had a heart that worked right. It wants too much. It wants you. He’d share, too. Gladly. Not even out of generosity. Out of need. He wants to see you loved in every way, all at once, until you forget what pain even is.

He’d take your lips when Abby’s done kissing your neck. Because he wants to be in the middle of it. Wants to have one of your hands in his, your back pressed to someone’s chest, your lips to someone else’s shoulder, and him—him—between your thighs, giving you something none of them can.

He wouldn’t even ask for much. Just a piece.

He thinks about it. Thinks about watching your face as someone else makes you fall apart—and his hands on your thighs, holding you open for it. He’d ruin you like worship, make you cry from love.

But if it meant keeping you? He’d do worse.

He should be shot.

He shifts in the tub, arms draped on either side, head tilted back. If he closes his eyes, he sees you under them. Crushed between Abby’s chest and Mystery’s hands, Jinu whispering comfort against your ear while Baby holds your chin and makes you look.

He should hate that he’d let them have you too. That he’d beg for it. That the thought of someone else making you cum while he watched with hands wrapped around your waist to keep you from running makes him throb under the water.

But he doesn’t hate it.

He dunks under the water.

On the other side of the apartment, the balcony is high above the city, wind cutting across Baby’s face, cigarette dangling from his lips. One leg hooked over the railing like he might jump just for the thrill of it.

Jinu opens the sliding glass door and says, “Put it out.”

“No.” Baby replies, not looking.

Jinu steps closer, arms crossed. “We’re staying in.”

“I don’t have plans.”

“I know.” Jinu stares at him for a long time, then quietly steps back inside and closes the door.

Baby stands alone. Mouth tight. Smoke curling upward.

Now he thinks caring is a disease. And he caught it. Somewhere between watching your hands shake and hearing you curse Romance under your breath.

He doesn’t even remember what he used to be. All he remembers is being a sweetheart, a betrayer, a backstabber.

Now he just watches.

He watches them love you. Abby with his muscles. Romance with his filth. Jinu with his hands. Mystery with his silence.

But he doesn’t know what to do with what he feels. Sometimes, he just wants to kiss your wrists. Other times? He wants to fuck you hard enough you forget your name.

Now his cigarette’s just ash, long dead in his fingers. He’s leaned against the railing, the city sprawling beneath him. He’s been watching people move. Living. Laughing. Going to cafes and touching each other.

He used to think he was above it. Above needing people.

We know who fucked that up, I’ll give a hint, you.

It’s awful.

He’s awful.

And he’d still share you.

Uuuuh, yeah, we’re back there.

Because he knows—deep down—they’re all thinking it too.

They want your moans like a melody. Your body like a feast. Your soul like a throne.

He wants to be the one you look at after. When it’s all done. He wants to see your eyes glazed and ruined and still full of that stupid, angelic light. He’d sit at the edge of the bed. Light you both a cigarette after. Pretend it doesn’t make his chest hurt. If he had to share you to get that? He’d do it.

One more cigarette. Then he’ll go in.

He’s said that five times now.

Not like it hurts him.

He flicks ash off the balcony, watching it float.

The library is mostly unlit, save for a reading lamp glowing like a firefly. Mystery is curled on the shaggy rug beside Derpy. He strokes the cat’s spine in long, precise lines. The thing purrs like a car engine. He doesn’t speak when Jinu enters. Doesn’t look up.

Jinu says, “We’re not leaving today.”

Mystery nods once. Doesn’t break rhythm. The cat shifts its weight. Settles in closer.

Jinu hesitates, as if wanting to say something else. Then walks away.

He doesn’t know love like they do. Not really. But he knows obsession. He dreams about biting you. About bruising your neck. About pulling your hair until you scream and then whispering thank you against your spine.

He’d learn. If it meant keeping you.

Now the tiger has fallen asleep with its tail wrapped around his thigh, and he’s just… still. Still, and listening. He’s always listening. For your breathing. For your coughs. For Jinu’s footsteps. He tracks every movement like a dog waiting for its master.

He doesn’t speak to the others, not about this. Doesn’t need to. He feels their desperation like it’s stitched into his own skin.

He’s worse than them.

Because he’s already accepted it. The obsession. The longing. The things he’d do.

He dreams of you at night, whimpers when you’re gone too long, curls up at your door when no one else is looking. He’s feral. He knows it. He’s okay with it.

He doesn’t just want you.

He needs you.

He would share. Of course he would. He already does. Their touches are his. Their kisses, his too. Every time you smile at one of them, he stores it away like a treasure. He doesn’t get jealous.

He gets off on it.

He’d kneel beside your bed and press kisses to your ankle while the others made you moan.

He wants you every way.

In Jinu’s room, the door clicks shut behind him. He exhales slowly. Then he sits. On the edge of his bed, hands resting on his knees.

He sees how close you are to slipping through their fingers.

You’re not a mission anymore. Not the little help. Not a toy.

You’re the thing. The one. He’s never hated the human body more than this moment—how helpless it is, how breakable. How much it can be taken away. And now you’re sick and small and soft, and it’s his fault you’re not in your own bed with people who love you.

He thought he was past this. Feeling things like this. He’d survived war. Massacres. Curses. Whole countries in collapse. He’d seen viruses rip through entire cities, heard the way people screamed when it reached their children first.

He hadn’t cried for any of it.

And now? Now he can’t stop thinking about the way your lips trembled when you whispered “I’m not going to tell you anything.” Even while they hurt you. Even while you bled.

He’s not the type to share.

But he would.

He would—god, he would—if it meant keeping you.

And the boys would kill each other for you. Or worse—share you. Hold your wrists. Your thighs. Your secrets. One of them between your legs while the other whispers in your ear. He’d take what he could get. If that meant Romance pressed against your other side in the dark, if it meant Abby’s hands holding your waist, if it meant Mystery’s mouth at your throat while Baby whispered filth in your ear—

If you were safe through it all?

If you stayed?

He’d say yes.

There are five demons in this apartment. They wear cologne and expensive shoes now. Laugh too loud, flirt too hard, eat cereal straight from the box. But underneath? They’re rot and ruin stitched into beautiful boy-shapes.

Gwi-Ma made sure of that.

They’ve been tortured. Starved. Burned alive and brought back. They’ve heard screams from rooms they weren’t allowed to enter, and held friends who didn’t have faces anymore. Gwi-Ma didn’t just control them—he owned them.

His pretty little monsters.

His pet projects.

His failures.

Jinu would rather earn a piece of you—an inch, a sigh, a touch—than hoard what was never his.

But the thought of you in all their arms at once? That thought ruins him. Not with jealousy. With need.

He tells himself it’s a dream.

But it’s not.

It’s a plan. One he’d never say out loud.

Gwi-Ma broke Abby’s hands once. Told him his strength meant nothing if it wasn’t used in service of darkness. But now with that strength, he can’t stop touching you. Hugging you. Grinning when you hiss at him, even when you’re pale and shaking. It’s not flirtation. It’s desperation.

Sleep isn’t rest for him. It’s a rerun of things he should’ve stopped. Missions he should’ve aborted. Screams he didn’t quiet fast enough. People he held together with his bare hands while they bled out, whispering that it was okay even when it wasn’t.

And that gets dulled, because yes, fuck, he thinks about you. Laying across his bed, sleepy, shirt off, one leg hooked around his waist. Thinks about Romance on your mouth, Baby on your chest, Jinu murmuring praise into your throat while he holds your thighs open.

He’s imagined you under him, hands tangled in his hair, voice cracking as he whispered, “Does that feel good, baby?”

But more than that? He’s thought about Romance kissing your neck while he did it. Mystery behind you, mouth against your shoulder. Baby watching, lip bitten raw.

Gwi-Ma didn’t torture Romance the way he did the others.

No. Gwi-Ma liked Romance.

Which was worse.

Romance learned to seduce. To arch his back for power. To purr for mercy. He kissed. He let people touch him. He sold parts of himself until he didn’t know which piece was his.

When you’re strong, he teases.

When you’re weak, he aches.

And when he touches himself late at night, face buried in a pillow to muffle the sound, it’s not some stranger in his head.

It’s you.

On your knees between them. Or spread out across Mystery’s lap while Abby feeds you his fingers. Or smiling at Romance from under Jinu’s arm as Baby growls at the edge of the bed.

He’d let Abby take your mouth. He’d let Jinu fuck you first. Slow. Reverent. He’d let Mystery watch in silence, eyes hungry and dark. Baby laugh at you.

He wants you any way he can have you. He wants you to fight. To cry. To cling to his wrist while he makes you see stars. Wants to pin you down and ruin you—only to kiss you afterward, slow and shaky, like he’s saying thank you.

He’s so fucked up over you he could scream. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lies in his room now, hips twitching, rock-hard and pathetic, whispering your name into a pillow he’ll never wash again.

Baby’s inside in his closet. He’s just hiding from the world, okay? From the others. From the idea of you slipping through his fingers. From the truth.

Because the truth is this: Gwi-Ma kept him in a cage. Metaphorically, luckily. Called him “pretty” when he obeyed and tortured him when he didn’t. Hurt people hurt people. His body is his own now, sure. But his heart? Completely ruined.

Until you.

He watched you sleep for three hours once. You didn’t know. You never will. He counted every breath. Timed the rise and fall of your chest.

He’d ruin you if he wasn’t careful. So he isn’t careful. Not in his mind.

You, shaking under him. Mystery holding your wrists. Romance laughing like a sin, Abby growling into your throat, Jinu whispering, “You’re okay.”

He wants it.

He wants all of it.

He’d never tell you. Never admit it. He’ll keep being an asshole and smoking when he shouldn’t. But if you asked him, really asked him?

He’d lie down like a good dog and beg for it.

For you.

For forever.

Mystery can hear it. That soft, sick inhale. The occasional whimper. The way your legs shift under the sheets. He catalogues it all. Commits it to memory.

He’s thinking of before. Of cages and chains and words that peeled the skin off his sanity. Gwi-Ma didn’t torture him the same way as the others. He made him like it. Made him crave his praise. When he disobeyed, he’d withhold it. Let him sit in the dark for days, whispering, “Good boys don’t make noise.”

He didn’t speak for two years.

Now? He still barely does.

But with you? You never force him. Never rush him.

Now he wants to curl around you like a beast. Wants to press his body to yours and watch you melt, soft and needy. Wants to feel your fingers in his hair, tugging when he growls at the others to wait their turn.

But if you looked him in the eyes and said you wanted them too?

He’d bare his neck and kneel.

Because love isn’t something he understands.

But obedience?

That, he’s mastered.

And if you command it—if you want him—he will follow.

Anyways, after putting you to bed, they didn’t know what to do with themselves because Jinu canceled everything.

You were bundled in warmth, finally resting, and without you, they were aimless. Disarmed. Feral with no leash.

Romance made it ten minutes before his shirt was off and his hand was halfway down his pants on the living room couch, claiming he was “just adjusting.” Jinu told him to go to his room.

Abby, meanwhile, was baiting a fight. No real reason. He’d made three laps around the kitchen, opened every cabinet twice, and then leaned into Baby’s space with a grin that was absolutely asking for violence. “Hey, brat. Bet I could knock your smug little ass out before you blink.”

Baby smirked. “Try it and you’ll eat through a straw.”

Two seconds later, they were flipping chairs.

Mystery got involved because he always did when someone hit Abby too hard—and then Romance jumped in just because he was bored. Suddenly fists were flying, Baby was biting, Abby was laughing like a psycho, and Jinu walked in with a mug of tea only to stop cold at the sight of four grown, supernatural men having an all-out wrestling match on his imported persian rug.

“Do you have brain damage?” he asked no one in particular.

Romance bitched about Mystery grabbing his hair.

Mystery bit him harder.

Baby slammed into the wall.

Abby shouted, “LET’S FUCKING GO” as he body-slammed Mystery into the floor, both of them laughing like murder was foreplay.

And when you stirred upstairs—just barely—coughing soft, your voice cracking like glass—

All five of them froze.

Like dogs hearing the front door open.

Abby spent the next hour shadowboxing the kitchen. Shirtless. Again. Kicked a hole in the wall by accident and then slapped Baby across the head. It devolved into a full-on brawl that ended with Jinu pulling them apart and Romance dramatically holding an ice pack on his own crotch for no real reason. He got thrown over the couch three times. Baby blew smoke into Jinu’s face.

Now, it’s the middle of the night. Around two am, and you hear your door open.

You blink yourself awake. Everything aches.

Mystery is the one standing there, half-lit by the hallway. Pale. Barefoot. Shirtless. Hair still messy from earlier. A bruise blooming on his cheek. A faint trail of blood down his shoulder—likely Abby’s elbow. Or the wall.

You sit up, weak and slow. “C’mere.” you whisper, patting the bed beside you. “You okay?”

He hesitates.

Then nods. One sharp, clipped motion.

You scoot over, blanket rustling. Every move takes effort. Your body feels like dying. But he moves forward anyway. Just sits at the edge of your bed.

You whisper. “You’re bleeding.”

“Not mine.” he murmurs.

You smile faintly. “Figures.”

He doesn’t reply, maybe that was his version of a laugh.

You fall back asleep, lips parted, really out of it. But with him near.

Mystery stays perched at the edge of your bed. Your fever warms the air between you and there’s something fragile about this moment. You curl into yourself in the night, shivering once, and he moves instinctively, slow and quiet, pulling the blanket over your shoulder. His knuckles brush your cheek. You’re still burning.

He stays long after you’re gone to dreamland. Watches the way your chest rises and falls in uneven rhythm. Memorizes it. Commits it to muscle, to blood.

And then right before sunrise he leaves.

You never even stirred.

Still in the middle of the night, the kitchen’s lit low with the soft glow of Jinu’s laptop screen. He’s sitting there, brows furrowed, typing one-handed while scrolling through symptoms.

He’s on his fifth medical site. A cold, probably. Flu, maybe. Something worse? No. Don’t go there.

Next to him, Abby’s half-leaning on the counter, one hand absentmindedly draped over Jinu’s back, palm flat and warm. It’s not romantic.

Jinu sighs. Doesn’t even look over. “It’s a cold.”

“Cool.” Abby says. And slaps him, hard, once on the shoulder like a congratulation. “Doctor Jinu, blessin’ us.”

Jinu rolls his eyes. Doesn’t shove him off.

They sit there for a while in silence. Then footsteps. Bare. Light.

Baby walks in. He’s wearing black sweatpants and one of Jinu’s old hoodies that falls off one shoulder. No phone. Just himself. And an expression like he hasn’t slept in a week.

He stops at the fridge, opens it, stares like maybe it’ll reveal the meaning of life.

Jinu nods to him. Abby says, “Yo.”

Baby grunts.

Jinu looks up. “How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“Didn’t look fine when Mystery nearly dislocated it earlier.”

“…still fine.”

And that’s the whole conversation.

He pulls out juice. Drinks it straight from the bottle. Abby flicks the back of his head. Jinu side-eyes him but doesn’t argue.

And then somehow… they’re sitting together. Abby sprawled across two chairs. Baby across from Jinu. No one saying much.

The stillness is nice.

Boyish.

They learned how to lock out each other’s noises, their brain ignores the little thing when it comes to each other.

That said, Romance put on a whole performance for himself. Candles. Oils. All just foreplay for his own fantasy. Because he couldn’t go into your room. That would ruin everything. You were sick. Vulnerable. Innocent.

But his imagination wasn’t.

Romance lay in steaming water, AGAIN, one hand lazily dragging over his chest, the other… buried in bubbles, making him whimper your name.

My point with this is that the others simply don’t hear his bullshit anymore. They could listen to Romance jerk off, but they won’t. Their brain ignores it at this point.

Anyways, he imagined you walking in, catching him, asking if he was okay. That shy little look you gave when you pretended not to notice how insanely hot he was. He imagined offering you a seat between his legs, whispering, “You’ll feel better with me, baby.”

He came so hard he nearly drowned himself.

Laid there after, gasping, fucked-out, and a little mad. He dried off lazily. Dragged himself to his room. Laid there on the bed with the sheets tangled around his legs and one arm slung across his eyes.

Romance has known a hundred bodies. A thousand beds. But the thought of your fevered breath against his neck? Made him ache like he was seventeen again. Like nothing had ever been taken from him.

And hours later, Abby’s snoring on his stomach. Jinu fell asleep with the laptop on his chest. Baby’s curled like a cat in the corner of the couch. Romance is face down on the bed, still kinda wet. Mystery fell asleep too, Derpy in the bed with him.

And you, in your room? You wake up in the morning to sunshine. A little less hot. A little more alive. But the bed’s empty beside you.

And when you listen carefully? The apartment sounds like boys. Shuffling. Grunting. Distant laughter. Cereal boxes dropping. Someone yelling “STOP DOING THAT WITH YOUR TOOTHBRUSH.”

You don’t even move.

Your body’s drenched in sweat, pillow humid with it. You feel disgusting. Hollow. Your mouth tastes like someone poured your own snot into it, stirred it with dust, and then punched you in the tonsils. Your muscles ache. Your sinuses are gloop.

But the fever’s lower. You can tell.

You don’t even get time to sit up.

There’s a crash.

A scrape.

A—“Shitfuck—ow, why is this—”

Boom.

Your door slams open. Hard.

Romance is clutching the doorframe with all the grace of someone who fell into it, and is trying very hard to look like he meant to. His shirt’s unbuttoned. And he’s already smiling.

“Baby,” he says, voice still soaked in sleep and sex. “you’re alive.”

You stare.

You are:

✔️ Sweaty

✔️ Coughing

✔️ Still dying

✔️ Not in the mood

He walks in. No knock. No asking. No hesitation. Just Romance. He makes his way toward the bed like you summoned him. Like he’d been waiting for the signal. The second your consciousness sparked back into your bones, he’d been on the move.

You try to sit up, weakly. “Romance—”

“Oh, don’t say my name like that.” he purrs. “You’ll make me blush.”

You roll your eyes. He sits at the edge of your bed without asking. Leans forward, elbows to knees, gaze crawling all over your face.

And that’s the thing about Romance. He is romantic. Too much. Speaks slow. Stares long. Makes everything he says sound like a prophecy. His voice is angelic. You know he flirts with everything—chairs included—but it still feels real when he talks to you.

“I was worried.” he says softly. A beat. “I mean. Not really. I knew you’d be fine. So stubborn. So—” his eyes flick to your chapped lips, then to the flushed color in your cheeks. “—hot.”

You scowl, half-hearted. “Fever.”

“I know.” he sighs dramatically. “And still. So soft. You should see yourself.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m in love.”

You groan. You try to pull the blanket up over your face. Romance moves faster, grabbing it and folding it down neatly like he’s tucking you in.

“You should drink something.” he whispers. “Tea? Water? There’s like seventeen kinds of ginger root downstairs. We can grind them into a potion or… I don’t know. You could just spit in my mouth. That works too.”

You shove him. Weakly.

Behind him, somewhere down the hall, you hear a loud: “Romance, did you break her door again?”

“Noooo~” he yells back, singsong.

It was absolutely him.

He looks back at you. “You’re still hot, by the way.”

“Still a fever.”

“Makes me want to catch it.”

“Get out.” you mutter, but your voice is soft.

Romance leans back just enough to stretch, arms above his head, shirt pulling up to show just a sliver of toned stomach. He catches your eyes looking. Smirks. Then he stands. Winks. He leaves your door open on purpose.

And you’re too tired to close it.

You should be furious.

You should be screaming. Trying to escape. Plotting revenge.

Instead?

You’re curled in a nest of too-soft blankets in an overpriced bed, and you’re thinking about—

Children.

Them.

As children.

But it’s not even weird. It’s just soft. Too soft. The fever’s dragging the walls of your mind down with it, and everything’s tender. You’re so weak for children. The idea of them as children… that vulnerability, that innocence—that before—oh fuck.

You sniff. You blame the fever.

But you keep thinking of little Mystery

What was he like? Before all this. Before the growling. Before he got so good at keeping his mouth shut and his hands fast and bloody.

He probably had a brother.

You know he did.

Older, maybe. The kind of sibling who always walked a little ahead, glancing back with just enough impatience to let you know he still cared. You imagine Mystery with short, wild hair. Smudged cheeks. A boy who ran barefoot. Skin scraped on rocks. A mouth full of laughter. Not growls.

He wasn’t shy.

Not at first.

He talked. He laughed. He ran too fast, climbed trees too high. He was probably the one who came home with bloody knees and half a frog in his pocket, holding it up proudly.

Until something happened.

Until everything happened.

And he went quiet.

And god, Baby. That little shit was always like this. You just know it. Mouth too quick, eyes always rolled. The kind of kid who got away with everything. You imagine him with dimples and a wild mop of hair, already giving attitude at age five. Pulling at skirts, rolling his eyes, stomping his little feet with purpose.

He was raised by women. You can tell. Aunties. Sisters. Maybe a mother who smacked him upside the head with a slipper and told him to fix his face before she did it for him. She loved him to death though.

You think of him—tiny, five maybe—stomping around a dusty house full of women. Sisters. Cousins. Aunties. Every last one of them rolling their eyes at his tantrums but loving him anyway.

He was probably spoiled.

Probably screamed when they cut his hair. Probably kicked every adult in the shin when they tried to pinch his cheeks.

He was loved.

Deeply.

You cannot unsee baby Abby with chubby cheeks. This little menace had cheeks. Chubby, kissable ones. You know it.

The kind of toddler who’d get swarmed by old women trying to pinch him and hated every second of it. Probably ran around with a wooden sword and no pants, demanding someone “duel him” at age three.

He was a mama’s boy. You just know.

You bet he climbed on everything. Fences. Trees. Horses.

Probably fell off them all, too.

He was soft once. Chubby hands in his mother’s. Wide eyes looking up in awe at the men in armor. You think maybe he wanted to be like them. He was born with that fire. But back then, he wasn’t scary.

Oh, Romance was noble-born. Absolutely.

He was the adored son. The perfect heir. Son of a nobleman with land, money, horses. You bet his mother dressed him in silks before he could walk. You bet his father loved him.

Romance was adored.

Told every day that he was handsome and smart and destined for greatness.

He probably kissed a boy in a courtyard once. And a girl the next week.

Romance loved everything. Always has.

You can imagine Jinu so hard to be good. To be useful. The perfect son. The perfect brother. You think he made hard choices even as a child.

There had to be a time when he was small. When he clung to someone’s leg. When he cried too loud and got picked up and held close and told it was okay.

He was clever. Beautiful. Eventually he got what he wanted. He always did.

You’re supposed to be plotting their downfall. You’re supposed to be spitting in their water bottles and flipping them off every chance you get.

Not lying here imagining them as kids. Imagining their mothers. Their little hands. Their lives before they were monsters.

But you can’t help it.

I literally got memes from THREE different people, thank you so much babies💋

~ 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

[wetforsylus]

Romantic Neighbour

☆ summary. your neighbour was a flirt. it was impossible to escape him unless you gave him that one thing he desired: your attention.  

pairing. sylus x fem!reader

warnings. dilf!sylus, SLIGHT perv!sylus, Luke n Kieran being the 'best' wingmen, teasing, p in v, oral, fingering, masturbation, dirty talk, reassurance, slight crack fic, tension, creampies, overstimulation, porn with little plot, kinda rushed, 3.4k wc

a/n. thank you for 1k and happy (late) sylusversary <3 the start is kind of choppy so sorry in advance.

“The house next door has been vacant for a while, no?” Tara asked, flicking a few cards the two of you were playing with, between her fingers.

You only shrug in response and glance at the window, staring at the shiny building, before averting your gaze back to Tara.

“I heard someone was house searching recently, but since it’s a fancy house it should take a while for someone to actually get it.” you reason, placing your card on top of hers, giggling at the fact you already had won.

“Mhm, let me know who moves in- heyy!”

A breathy laugh left your lips and you nod, “don’t worry i’ll let you know.”

--

Time went by and eventually, someone moved in, and everyone was talking about it. Apparently the said man who moved in was terrifying? He already had bad impressions like people saying he’d look like he’d kill you if you even glance at him. You didn’t believe it, but didn't want to risk introducing yourself.

But to your surprise someone knocked on your door a couple days later, you didn’t check who it was and opened it to be met with a pair of twins smiling up at you. The pair glanced at each other before one of them stuffed their hand in their pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

“Housewarming party next door, it’d be appreciated if you came.” one said enthusiastically while the other one nodded with his brothers’ words.

You stare at the paper in his hands and hesitantly take it, nodding at them, “thanks, see you later then.”

Both of their faces lit up and they nodded, waving you goodbye before you shut the door. A heavy sigh left your lips and you read over the invitation card, it was nothing fancy, all it was, was the address, the time to be there at, and a small message at the bottom, offering to let you invite a plus one, and you decided to take that opportunity.

It took a few tries to convince Tara to make her come with you, but since you had no other friends in the neighborhood, except her, you didn’t want to go alone. So once she agreed, the two of you got ready in a comfortable outfit, minutes after the party already started and walked over when you were finished.

The party just started minutes ago and people were already filling up most of the space in the backyard, and inside the house. It was like the twins invited the whole city! As you and Tara swam between the heavy crowd, she suddenly had to go to the bathroom and said she’d meet you at the drink stand.

You nod and head over to the drinks, picking up a drink and leaning against a wall, swirling the liquid in your glass as you wait for your friend.

--

“Sylus why don’t you talk to her yourself, she’s your neighbor after all.”

“Don’t pressure me, I'll talk to her eventually, alright?” Sylus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he glanced at you one more time. He was surprised you’ve been somewhat entertaining him, even if you were just standing idly against the wall, not even attempting to drink your drink.

Luke only chuckled in response before glancing at Kieran with a mocking grin on his face.

“Don’t do anythi–”

Before Sylus could finish his sentence, Luke turned around and started walking over to you, with Kieran following suit. Sylus sighed and followed the menacing pair, and before he could call out to them, Luke ‘mistakingly’ tripped over you and made your drink spill all over you.

“I’m so sorry, miss!” Luke said, panicked.

You chuckle in response and shake your head, trying to calm down the panicked twin in front of you.

“Sorry about them.” Sylus interrupts, intervening between the two of you before carefully grabbing onto your wrist and dragging you away from them, “let me help you clean up, yeah?”

You stammer a few words before nodding and following along Sylus who ended up dragging you to his bedroom.

“Seriously, you didn’t have to do that, my house is just next door.” You say as Sylus already had a damp towel pressed against your sticky skin, trying to carefully remove the mess Luke made.

“It’s fine, think of it as a way of introducing myself – though, this isn’t how I planned on doing so.” the last words left his lips in a mumble and you laugh.

“Are they your kids?” you ask, leaning further back against his bed as he pressed the towel lower on your body. His breath hitches at the sight and his fingers start getting shaky as he tries to compose himself.

Sylus hummed and fixed his glasses before continuing, “guess you could say that.”

As he finishes cleaning off the drink from your body, you sigh and stare up at Sylus who was quickly putting the towel away before heading back to you, his eyes gleaming down at your figure already leaving, wishing you could stay longer.

“I’ll see you later then.” you nod, walking towards his door, glancing back at the starstrucked man whose fingers only twitched at the sight of you already walking meters away from him.

“Shit.” he murmured, closing the door and plopped on his bed, burying his face in his shaky palms. Sylus inhaled a deep breath before his body twitched, and instead of him not introducing himself properly to you, something else seemed to be a problem.

He removed his face from his palms and stared down at the boner pulsating through his pants, hesitant to do something, he couldn’t control it anymore.

He stormed off to the bathroom, and shut the door behind him, hands grasping on the edge of his counter, gripping onto it as he tried to contain his breathing. Sylus stared at himself before muttering something incoherent under his breath and slipping his fingers under his pants.

He pulled down the fabric, staring at his already leaked boxers and pulled those down momentarily. He wastes no time and wraps his fingers around his cock, pumping his wrist in a quick movement, pleasure started to blind him as the only thing he could actually think about was you.

He winked an eye open as he tried to think of anything else but you, but everything around him started to remind him of you. It's a shame the two of you just met a few hours ago, and he's already acting like this? Sylus stared at the mirror for a second before slamming his back against the wall and sliding down against it, his fingers wrapping tightly around the head before slicking down, forcefully.

He swallowed a moan, lips quivering at the sensation as he tried to hold in his sounds. His teared eyes roll back as he reaches for release, hips jolting forward at the last few seconds and in a sigh, he plops on the ground, embarrassed.

There was no way he was going to act like that again.

--

The next day rolled along and you were beat. After you left Sylus’ room you found Tara, partied for a bit, then went straight home.

You were currently sitting in bed, scrolling through your phone until a knock jolted you from your spot, you stared at your door and hesitantly started going downstairs. Your fingers rested on the doorknob and without checking (again) you flung open the door to find Sylus staring at you with a crooked smile.

“Did you happen to know how to fix a shelf?”

You raise an eyebrow and eye him up and down, “you look like you’d know how to fix one though?”

A mocking chuckle left his lips and he shook his head, “I actually… do not, would you help me, sweetie?”

And you of course agreed, it barely took any more convincing and you were already standing in his living room in front of his slanted shelf, the boards slightly dropping off as the nails were barely on, also threatening to fall off soon.

“Alright..” you sigh, tracing the shelf with your finger, eyeing at where to start.

Before you could ask Sylus for the instructions or a screwdriver, the door flings open, making you flinch and turn around to see the twins holding a box of tools and a booklet.

“Sylus! we found the instructions and tools you need for us to fix the shelf- oh!”

“What's she doing here?” Kieran asks, pointing his finger at you, then back at the shelf.

Sylus laughs and struts over to the twins, taking the stuff from their hands and placing them on the ground next to you, “the two of you took forever so i asked nearby, she just seemed to be available.”

“We only took five min–ugh” Luke nudged Kieran and eyed at Sylus who was still staring at the two of them with a twisted smile, begging for them to leave the room and take the hint. They both eventually took the hint and left the two of you alone.

“What was that about?” you chuckle, picking up the instruction book and screwdriver, already starting on fixing the shelf.

“Don’t mind them,” he scoffs, leaning over you, fingers lightly tracing your hand before grabbing the booklet from you. “Let’s work on this shelf, sweetie.”

You agreed and surprisingly found fixing a shelf more fun than you thought. Both you and Sylus were kind of quiet but talked here and there, it wasn’t much except a lot of touching and working.

In some moments he’d brush his large bicep across your arm, linger there for a few moments before continuing to help you, and you weren’t complaining. There also was one moment where he didn’t have a ladder and wanted to carry you so you could fix the top.

You didn’t know his strength was great, especially when he was holding you with one arm, while the other one was only ghosting over you in case you’d fall. And for some reason, you knew he knew how to fix a shelf, but didn’t know why he had to ask you?

And before you knew it, you both finished fixing the shelf. It was already past noon and you were starving.

“You must be hungry, wanna eat?” Sylus offered like he read your mind. You stared at him, eyes glistening in excitement before you nodded and already made your way to his kitchen. He chuckled and followed you momentarily.

When the two of you reached the kitchen he led you to his fridge and opened it, revealing a lot of food that could feed more than just three people. You stare at the food filled fridge in awe and look back at Sylus with a convincing look, which he unfortunately fell for immediately.

“Go ahead.”

You giggle and bring out some food, “you could sit back and I'll make something for the two of us.”

Sylus agreed immediately and sat down, admiring you working in the kitchen, his eyes darting from your hard working hands and mistakenly looking at your tits bouncing at every move you made. God, he had to mentally slap himself for that.

And before he knew it, you were already done making the food.

You serve the food to him and the two of you eat together.

Sylus was surprised at your cooking, it was good, like really good. Once he finished eating he pushed his empty plate back and stared at you, who was still finishing up your last few bites, as you zone out, staring at the table.

“The food was good.” He said, breaking the deafening silence filling his kitchen. You laugh and nod, thanking him before plopping at the back of your chair, staring at the empty plates in front of you.

“Let’s have dinner together, this time I'll make something.” Sylus said.

“Really?”

He nods and picks up the plates on the table, putting them away in the sink and heading over to you, brushing past your slumped figure on the chair, wanting to so badly just lift you off and-

“What time should I come over?” you ask, glancing at the clock at his wall and back at his glowing ruby eyes.

Sylus stammered a response and without thinking, “Stay over until dinner.”

--

But the ‘staying over’ in question did not mean sitting on the couch and watching a movie, but instead meant having his tongue shoved deep in your pussy, eating – no, devouring you like you were his early dessert.

Well it did start off as a movie, but Sylus decided to pick the most rated-R movie out there which made you not focus on anything except his sultry voice teasing you throughout the film, sputtering phrases like, “focus on the screen.” “Come closer if you’re scared.” (and you actually did, how embarrassing.)

And after the constant teases you couldn’t handle it and asked him if he actually wanted to watch the movie, and the way you stared at him made him pause before answering. You did see his gaze flicker to your lips and before you knew it you and him were leaning in.

And that’s what led a little makeout session to him literally devouring you like an animal on his couch.

You gripped onto his hair, head thrown back as he shoves his tongue deeper in you, curling and pressing against your sensitive gummy walls, making you shudder in response, almost yanking his hair off.

“N-ngh slow down-” you whine, riding yourself against his face, feeling his glasses knocking against your skin, cold metal sparking you every second. Sylus groans in response, the grumble of his voice vibrating through your body as he continues to eat you out like a beast.

His hands stayed locked on your spread thighs, gripping on it for dear life as if you were going to disappear at his touch. He pulled away for a second to stare up at you for a second, then catch his breath. He presses his thumb against your clit, slowly spreading you further apart, watching the small mess pool out of you.

You blush in embarrassment when you feel his finger glide lower, teasing your sensitive folds before sliding a finger inside you, making you clench around him. He chuckled in response and pumped his finger in and out of you, watching you flutter at his touch. His eyes twist in desire, wanting to see more.

“Could you go for more?” he asked, licking his lips before sliding another finger inside you. You choke a moan and nod, fingers wrapping around his large wrist as you watched him fuck his digits quicker and quicker in you, making you spiral.

You suddenly felt him slide his fingers out of you and wrap his arm around you, lifting you off the couch and walking over to his room, flinging the door open and placing you on the same bed you were on the night before.

Sylus doesn't waste any time and cupped your knees with his large palms, spreading your legs again, staring at your fluttering hole, practically begging for him. He sighed at the sight, face heating up at the situation, he was about to go crazy any second now.

Sylus pressed himself against you, grinding himself in a slow movement, trying to savor the moment. The feeling of his throbbing aching boner hitting you on every thrust made you whine in response, unable to sputter out any words except noises you were practically begging for him to use you.

“I know sweetie,” he moaned, thrusting himself harder against you, making you shudder in response. Sylus brought one hand to his belt and yanked it off, sliding his pants off moments later, his cock twitched at the sight of you, and when he saw your teared eyes silently begging for him, he couldn’t take his sweet time anymore.

He pressed his cock against your hole, slowly sliding himself in, biting his lip at the feeling of you. He’s only met you a day ago, went insane for you the same night and now he’s inside you. A shaky moan left his lips before he thrust himself further in you.

“You okay?”

You nod, tightening your grip around his wrist, feeling him starting to slowly slick in and out of you. The air in the room started to feel hotter by the second, Sylus continued a steady pace, asking for reassurance every second.

When he took the hint that you were okay, he pushed his full length in you, making you wrap your legs around him, your pussy tightening around his cock and thats when a reaction was caused by Sylus.

You wink your eyes at Sylus and when he made eye contact with you that's when he lost the rhythm. The once slow, rhythmic thrusts that were sent in you minutes ago were now painted with an arrhythmic pace, his thrusts were brutally quick, too fast to keep up with.

Inch by inch his cock fills you up, your stomach hurting in a good way, you instinctively thrust yourself against him, letting him fuck you deeper and deeper, his tip kissing your cervix at every thrust as your gummy walls hugged his pulsating length buried deep in you.

“hngh y-you could handle one more round, right? riighht?”

Too much in a haze to answer you attempt to nod, your dizzy mind, trying to keep up with his words and with him inside you, you felt like you were going to crumble at one more touch. A relieved sigh left his lips and he nodded.

“Yeah? You can?”

“mh–mmghh”

Sylus caught his breath when he stared at your teary eyes and lowered his gaze to his cock suffocating your pussy. His pupils swirl at the sight and he presses his finger against your folds, stretching you as he eyed the mess seeping out of you.

“F-fuck gonna-”

He bit his lower lip, blood probing their way out his rosy flesh, sliding down his lips as he stared at the heavenly view. Before he could control himself his cock thumped louder and louder, making you squirm beneath him and in one final thrust, spurs of his mixture jolted right inside you.

You gasp in shock, catching your breath and eyed Sylus who stared at you through fogged lens. He whispered a hundred apologies, as he slowly slid out of you, gulping at the sight and before you could tell him it was okay, another surprised thrust knocked right through you.

“Ah- sy-” you tried to ask him what he was doing, but he leaned in and captured your lips in a hungry kiss, his tongue sliding against your padded folds, slicking in your mouth, tying his tongue with yours.

You moan in the kiss and slide your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, feeling him sink deeper in your mouth. Sylus continued to ride against you, hips rolling against your bare skin, smacking loudly, sounds echoing through the room.

“Sylus- p-please” you breathe, pressing your lips on the corner of his mouth, feeling your stomach ache more, pussy pulsating at his touch. Sylus nodded and his lips found yours again.

“Mhmm– l-let it out, yeah?”

--

You and Sylus ended up doing a lot more than you both intended to, after a long evening which ended up finishing up at night, you both were now having a late dinner after getting cleaned up. You wanted to go back to your house to shower and get ready but Sylus offered for you to do it at his place, and wear his clothes.

So now you had no choice but to wear his large pajamas that could practically be worn as a dress as you eat the food he made.

“I’ll go home after this.”

“Alright, sweetie.”

“Do you think.. Luke and Kieran heard anything?”

Sylus chuckled and shook his head, “of course not, they aren't even home. The whole thing was a set up, well the shelf was. The movie was not–”

“I knew it!” you interrupt, pointing your fork at him, "I knew you could fix it anyway, I don't even know why I helped.”

“Yeah? Wanna help me fix something else tomorrow then? It was fun wasn’t it?”

“Depends what it is.” you mumble, toying with your food on your plate.

“If you stay over then maybe you'll find out wha-”

“No.”

a/n: I might write more fics, sorry if theres any mistakes.

[sweetpianoxoxo]

I love the idea of small-town brown bear shifter John Price and a new resident spotted doe reader who is a horticultural technician and now runs the plant nursery on the outskirts of town.

Thinking about how, customary to bear courtship rituals, Price would stalk around the Doe, make sure she was safe, (without her knowledge of course) he would scent the trees surrounding her workplace, and when he found out they lived in the same neighborhood? Her whole property smelt strong of bear.

Of course, stupidly, he didn't consider how terrifying that would be for a Doe. Predator and Prey dynamics in hybrids weren't as strong as it might be in nature, but that didn't mean an overwhelming bear scent following her everywhere wasn't terrifying.

The deer had come to this town for a reprieve. She lived in the city where it was bustling, and there was nowhere for her to graze or two into any instincts. She didn't even know any other deer in the city she lived in, just birds, dogs, cats, rodents, etcetera. She just wanted to be a deer in peace.

She would think that this bear was trying to run her out of town. She didnt know why, just terrified of running into this bear face to face.

Johns attempts of courtship weren't working, and now he was just interested. He started asking every cervidae creature in town. What were the courtship rituals for a deer? What was customary for her?

Almost everything he was told either crossed over with what he was already doing or had to do with antlers. He doesn't have antlers. What does he do?

And so he took the human approach. He spent two or so days prepping his backyard to house a variety of fruits and veggies. He generally wasnt a fan, but deer were so he may as well be prepared. Once he had a garden made, he took his truck down to her nursery.

He waited down the road for almost an hour for her shop to open, but he could smell her, putting around in the actual greenhouse. When the time hit '10', he began driving into the property.

A bell jingled as he opened the door, and he was met with the smell of his deer, and also the most exquiste, earthy, sweet smells from all the flowers and fruits. Nobody was behind the counter, and John took the opportunity to look around.

"Ill be out in a minute!"

He saw daylilies, pansies, violets, morning glory, grapes, lettuce, spinach. All flowers and fruits and veggies deers liked. There were some other plants he didnt know the names of, lots, actually.

When the doe finally came to the counter, she tensed, and her smelt went sour. "Please i just want to live here in peace." The adrenaline pouring off her body almost made Price want her more.

"Relax, sweet'art. Not trynna run you out of town. Quite the opposite, actually." He took a cautious step forward, with his hands up for effect. "Smelt your sweet scent as soon as you entered town." Maybe it was still just her fear waring to shock, or maybe she was starting to understand the situation.

When a male meets their mate, they can smell them, and other males can sense the difference, but the frmales dont. They can't scent a male until the male nips their scent glands. This was something eugenics produced over years of women dying before breeding age due to an overwhelming amount of scents or alphas trying to claim them.

(This is not to say females can't smell a male generally, just not as deep and harsh. For example, doe can tell that there's a strong bear following her, she doesn't know he's her mate)

The deer started to become antsy, nervously shaking her fingers and swaying from side to side. "Come on now, dearie," the irony wasn't lost of Price either as he stepped even closer to the counter. "I know you start cleaning up at 6. I'll be coming back then, and we can have a nice dinner at Joanie's and talk about our situation."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't an invitation. It was firm command. She'd be taken out on a date by her grizzly bear mate, whether she wanted to or not.

[poekaryote]

successful confessions! (friendzoning ver. here)

ft. dazai, ranpo, akutagawa, chuuya, nikolai + BONUS ATSUSHI!

to everyone who needed a comfort version :) @hiitsme12345 @strawberry784 @kazuubaby @veyeruss @blueyescape and the nonnie who requested this in my inbox <3 (if you interacted with my post verbally i tagged you i hope that's ok ^_^; + here's the pin i got the banner from)

dazai. he’s tried to flirt with you before. actually, he flirts with you constantly—like a habit, like breathing. half of yokohama probably thinks you’re already dating.

but you never took him seriously. not really. and he understands why. it’s his fault. he’s too much of a joke to be taken seriously. too many empty smiles, too many lazy pick-up lines. he’s made a name out of playing pretend.

so this time, he wants to do it differently. no dramatics. no fake suicide attempts, no over-the-top metaphors. just him. just honesty.

the rooftop is quiet. the sun’s dipping behind the city, casting shadows across the edge of the building. he leans against the railing beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours.

“you know,” he says, voice gentler than usual, “i think you’re the only person who’s ever made me want to stop playing around.”

you glance at him, lips quirking. “is this another one of your lines?”

he chuckles softly. “no. that’s the thing. it’s not.”

he pauses, gaze fixed on the sky. “i don’t expect you to believe me. i’ve made it pretty hard to take anything i say seriously. but… i think about you a lot. and not in the flirty, ridiculous way you probably think. i mean the quiet kind. the real kind.”

you blink, surprised. he’s not smiling. not like he usually does. his voice is steady, eyes focused, like for once, he’s showing you the version of himself no one gets to see.

“i know it doesn’t mean much, coming from someone like me,” he murmurs, “but i like you. properly. and if you’d give me the chance, i’d like to show you that i can be serious about you.”

your breath catches. he finally turns to face you, expression unreadable—but not guarded. not distant. for once, he’s not trying to be clever or charming. he’s just… trying.

you smile. really smile this time. and when you reach for his hand, he exhales, shaky.

“okay,” you say. “then show me.”

his hand tightens in yours like a vow.

ranpo.

he waits until the office is empty.

no one to interrupt. no one to tease. just you and him, sprawled on the agency couch, feet propped up, the remains of too many snack wrappers littering the table.

“hey,” he says, leaning sideways so his head lands on your shoulder. “so. big secret.”

you raise a brow. “yeah?”

he peeks up at you, eyes sparkling.

“i’m in love with you.”

you laugh, like he’s being silly. “that’s a bold way to start a joke.”

“who’s joking?” he says, grinning. “you’re smart and sweet and you always bring me strawberry gummies. i decided like a week ago. i love you.”

“ranpo,” you start.

“no takebacks!” he cuts in. “now it’s your turn.”

you pause.

“…my turn?”

he nods dramatically. “you’ve been staring at me like i’m your favorite puzzle. so come on. say it.”

you roll your eyes — but you’re smiling, cheeks flushed.

“fine. maybe i love you too.”

he beams. “knew it.”

and then he throws an empty candy wrapper in celebration.

akutagawa.

he thinks about you more than he should. that’s the first thing he realizes. he doesn’t understand it, not fully. love has always been a concept that felt distant, messy, something he didn’t believe himself capable of. he’s sharp edges. he's violence in a coat and gloves. not the type to fall in love, and certainly not the type anyone falls in love with.

but you’re different. you talk to him like he isn’t a weapon. you listen even when he’s quiet. and worse—you smile at him. not out of fear, not out of pity, but real, warm, genuine.

it terrifies him.

so for a while, he stays silent. watches from the edges. offers you small things—tea when you’re tired, his scarf when it’s cold, walks you home when the sun sets too early. he doesn’t have the language for affection, but he does his best with what he knows.

his hands are shaking.

you don’t notice at first — it’s cold, and he’s always a little stiff in winter. but when he reaches into his coat and pulls out a folded letter, the tremble is unmistakable.

“…i wrote something,” he mutters, not meeting your gaze.

you take it, unfold it gently. the handwriting is stiff and neat. it smells faintly like ink and metal.

you read it.

twice.

it’s… him. awkward and formal and painfully sincere.

“i do not know how to express this well. but i want you to understand. i care for you in ways that are unfamiliar to me. i would like to be more than your friend, if you allow it.”

you look up at him — he’s still not looking at you.

“akutagawa,” you say softly. “you don’t have to write it down.”

he stiffens. “…i thought i would say it wrong.”

you tuck the letter close to your chest. “you said it perfectly.”

he finally meets your gaze.

and when you step closer, take his hand, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

chuuya.

chuuya’s always been a planner.

he doesn’t just wake up one morning and decide to confess—he thinks it through. overthinks it, really. you mean too much to him to mess it up.

so he makes sure the timing’s right. that you’re both free that evening. that the weather’s good, his shirt is steamed, and his hair is cooperating. he even goes to the nice florist two train stops away just to get the bouquet you always pause in front of.

he’s a little overdressed—navy coat, gold buttons, sleek slacks—but it’s all intentional. he wants to look good for you.

when he shows up at your door, flowers in hand and a nervous smile tugging at his lips, he clears his throat like it might steady his heart.

“i was wondering if you’d let me steal you for the night.”

you grin, teasing. “steal me? sounds criminal.”

“just dinner,” he laughs. “and maybe a few things i’ve been wanting to say.”

he takes you to your favorite place. gets a table by the window. even remembers how you like your food. he’s all charm and smiles—until dessert comes, and his fingers tap once against the table.

“alright,” he says, quieter now. “this might sound stupid, but…”

you look at him, waiting.

he reaches into his coat pocket and sets down a small velvet box. not a ring, not yet—but a necklace. gold. subtle. elegant.

“i like you,” he says, voice low but certain. “more than i probably should. and i know we joke around a lot, but i mean it. i think about you all the time. you’re always in my head. and i want—i want to be someone important to you.”

you go a little still.

“you don’t have to answer now,” he adds quickly. “i just… wanted you to know.”

you lean forward, resting your hand over his. his breath catches.

“you already are.”

chuuya’s eyes flick up. “what?”

“you’re already important to me,” you say, smiling. “i thought it was obvious.”

he lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—like relief.

“well,” he grins, cheeks warm. “i guess i worried for nothing.”

when he walks you home, he offers you his arm. you loop yours through it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the necklace stays in your hand the whole way back.

he’s still grinning when you kiss his cheek at your door.

nikolai.

you don’t know what to expect when he drags you through the empty carnival grounds at dusk, laughing wildly about a “grand surprise of cosmically romantic proportions!”

“there better not be pigeons,” you mutter.

“just one,” he grins, bouncing on his heels. “but he’s strictly here for moral support!”

the carnival’s closed. long empty. you’re about to ask how he even got in when he waves a glittery ticket stub in your face.

“it’s not trespassing if you bribe the gatekeeper with a bag of cotton candy and a song about love,” he says, then winks. “besides. it’s for a good cause.”

he tugs you past ghostly snack stands and darkened booths until you reach the carousel—paint chipped, horses frozen mid-gallop, the whole thing quiet and still.

“ta-da!” he flourishes an arm. “romance!”

you blink. “…you brought me to a haunted carousel.”

“correction,” he says, hopping up onto the platform and pulling you with him, “i brought you to the haunted carousel where i plan to confess my eternal love for you, complete with dramatic lighting and perhaps a confetti cannon.”

“perhaps?!”

he spins around one of the horses, hands flared wide. “now imagine—me, you, one slow rotation, the soft creaking of aged machinery, and then—” he twirls dramatically, catching your hand and dipping you like you're in a musical. “—i bare my soul.”

you laugh, cheeks warm. “is this your way of asking me out?”

he pauses. still holding you. still just a little too close.

“…yeah,” he says, softer. “it is.”

your breath catches.

he smiles. not wide and ridiculous, like usual. just a small thing. honest. there’s a flicker of nervousness in it. something a little too real.

“i know i joke a lot,” he says. “i know i’m too much. but i mean it. i’m not playing around with this.”

you stare at him, heart suddenly loud.

“…i like you, too,” you whisper. “you’re not too much. you’re just—you. and i kinda love that.”

his eyes widen.

then, in perfect nikolai fashion, he whoops loud enough to startle three birds from a tree and pulls you into the tightest spin-hug imaginable.

“YES! i KNEW the carousel would work!!”

you laugh into his chest, dizzy with him, with the moment.

he kisses your forehead, light and fleeting, before pulling you up onto the carousel horse beside him.

“ride of your life,” he promises, already reaching for the controls. “confetti cannon pending.”

atsushi.

he doesn’t have a plan. of course he doesn’t.

he tried to make one—really, he did. even wrote a list of all the things he could do to show you how he felt. but the truth is, atsushi is terrible at planning things when he’s nervous. and nothing makes him more nervous than you.

so you get a knock on your door at 7:43pm. he’s holding a paper bag and two cans of your favorite tea.

“…hi,” he says, sheepish. “i, um. didn’t cook. but i remembered you said you were too tired to make dinner, so…”

you let him in, and he fidgets while you open the bag. inside: takeout from your favorite place. nothing fancy. just exactly what you wanted.

you beam. “atsushi…”

“you deserve good things,” he says, then winces. “i mean—not that food is the only good thing, but—i wanted to make sure you ate. and that you know i care.”

he looks like he wants to disappear.

you walk up to him and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “you’re the sweetest person alive.”

he stares at you. like you just reset the universe.

“i… i am?” he stammers.

you smile. “you are.”

you spend the night on the floor, cross-legged, sharing food and watching old cartoons. atsushi’s shoulders slowly relax. he laughs more. he leans against you once, shyly—and doesn’t move away when you lean back.

eventually, you glance at him, gentle. “you’re always doing nice things for me. why?”

he fidgets with the hem of his sleeve.

“because i like you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “a lot.”

you blink. “you… like me?”

he nods, cheeks flushed. “i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. i just—I wanted you to know.”

you set down your drink. reach for his hand.

“atsushi,” you say, “you make me feel safe. happy. seen. how could i not like you?”

he blinks once. twice. and then—like sunlight breaking through clouds—he smiles. full and soft.

“…really?”

you nod. and this time, he’s the one who leans in first.

a/n my nikolai part was kinda ooc at the end but erm that's ok 😓 and YAYAYAY ATSUSHI i love writing for him. he's only in this version because i'd never dare friendzone him my love augh

[choerykiss]

Them Falling In Love With Another Idol

𝜗ৎ pining/drama/romance/f!reader ─ #around 150 wordcount each

✦ warnings : my dramatic writing . possessiveness (mild) . idol!reader . mild obsession

─ saja boys [ot5] jinu, abby, mystery, romance, baby saja

﹒𝓝𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: first kdh post!! :3 hope you guys enjoy <3

JINU

Jinu is used to being admired. The fans, the fame, the world—all at his feet. So when you step into the scene, with your honey-dripped vocals, power stage presence, and visuals that make gods second guess themselves?

At first, he’s intrigued. Then annoyed. Why is he… staring? Why does he feel like the one being overshadowed?

He watches your fancams late at night. Replays your encore stages. Not because he’s studying the competition—no. It’s something else.

The night of an awards show collab, you lock eyes on stage, and his demon heart thuds loud enough to drown out the music. You harmonize next to him, and for a moment—just a breath—Jinu forgets he’s a demon.

Falling for you feels like being alive, and that terrifies him.

“You shine… even in darkness. Are you trying to kill me?”

ABBY

Abby’s was always known for having muscles and a hype man, always energetic, cracking jokes, the type to flex after a performance. He doesn’t really do feelings.

Until you walk past him in the practice room—sweaty from your own rehearsal, hair pulled up, eyes burning with that fire—and he’s just. Gone.

He lowkey panics. Crushes? Not on the schedule. He tries to play it cool, but suddenly he’s working twice as hard. He has to match your level. He starts watching your choreography, learning them with heavy devotion.

Then, at a joint dance rehearsal, you compliment his freestyle? He nearly explodes right then and there.

“Don’t do that. Don’t smile at me like that—I’m not ready to fall in love on eight counts.”

MYSTERY

Mystery’s whole thing is being unknowable, untouchable, the mysterious prince of K-pop. But you?

You're a mystery he can’t solve.

When he first sees you backstage, barefaced and laughing with staff, he thinks: “Oh. She’s not real.” But then you go on stage and perform like a storm in heels and lip gloss—and now he’s spiraling.

He starts showing up wherever you are. Quiet, unnoticed… until you notice.

You say his real name once. He hasn’t heard it in centuries.

“You’re the one thing in this world that doesn’t fit into a riddle. And yet… I’m obsessed with solving you.”

ROMANCE

Romance is charming. Dangerous. He knows he’s hot, he knows the fans love him—but when it comes to you?

He’s the one who’s flustered. It’s so unfair. You’re funny. Stunning. Your vocals have bite and your dance lines are clean enough to make a grown demon cry.

He tries flirting—you shut him down with a wink and walk away. He’s stunned. And smitten.

He starts writing love songs. Not about you, obviously. (They are. All of them.)

“I thought I was the main character… but when you’re on stage, I’m just the fan.”

BABY SAJA

Baby Saja is the maknae with major ego but a soft little center. When he finds out he’s debuting alongside you—the idol everyone’s obsessed with—he tries to act unimpressed.

“Pfft. Whatever. I’m the real visual here.”

Then he sees your performance. And yeah. He’s DOOMED.

He goes from brat to fanboy in 0.3 seconds. Denies it the entire time. Teases you endlessly, flirts poorly, tries to make you laugh during live stages just so he can see you smile.

“I’m NOT blushing. Shut up. You looked good, okay?? Not a big deal!!”

[dumbdiscodragon]

This is true, and I'm not there; but another part of being an adult is learning/accepting that things take time. Growing takes time.

You're probably not going to go from fully loathing yourself over every perceived mistake, to radiating self-love and acceptance overnight. Especially if you're coming from a place where the idea of that disgusts and/or terrifies you. That's a really long way to travel!! It's exhausting to think about!

I know movies and stories often portray this kind of change in people as instant. For instance, someone has a phobia, and then they get through a situation or are pushed to show bravery, and the phobia vanishes instantly once it's over. All better now! Like magic! It can be satisfying to watch, I understand why they do it.

But usually it isn't add water, heat in microwave for 3 minutes, instant noodles you're a new person! Often the change is so gradual that you can't even see it in yourself. It's not your fault if you can't force it, that'd be an unreasonable expectation to have.

(And tbh from experience, even if something is a catalyst to a major turnaround, even if the change is positive, it can be extremely painful to go through)

And yeah, you might fuck up more on the way... And it'll suck! But that's part of it too. But you can get through it and do better next time. That's all anyone can do.

Adult realization: you will make mistakes, you will act irrationally. You will commit some wrongs that cannot be fully righted. People will dislike you and misunderstand you for all sorts of reasons. None of these make you a bad person. All you can do is try your best to be kind and just to people, grow and learn.

[fewuwa]

I hate how overlooked St. Pastry Order

like THAT'S THE WHOLE RELIGIOUS CULT IN COOKIE RUN??? AMAZING

But outside of that, I want to discuss how this important this cult is for some characters' narratives. This post won't have a structure, just general thoughts. Starting from... White lily cookie.

Do I even need to remind you who also spent her whole life in search of the truth of this world? ;)

(The church in general is very connected to MAIN narrative. In odyssey we learn that they also need soul jams for their plans coming true )

Not to mention the first time we ever discovered what happened with white lily was...related with St. Pastry Order. It's the first time we have ever learned that this cult exists. (Also, White Lily cookie in korean is actually SAINT lily cookie, idk why eng translation removed this religious undertone here... but oh well)

The major themes of St.Pastry Order is fate and finding purpose of life. Again, themes mainly related to white lily's character arc.

I think if wl will discover about the cult, she might be terrified with the very idea of it itself. They worship the gods who eat them, accepting their fate as just a food on a plate.. The very thing she couldn't accept herself, which twisted her soul and made dark enchantress exist in the first place.

I think White Lily will play a big part in cult's story . It just makes sense

There are  many secrets about the cult, which are going to be revealed in September. Like, what god outside of witches they worship?

It's totally avatar of destiny ( fate theme again). I also find it interesting how Black Forest Cookie's transformation resembles it. I have no idea tho what role will it play outside of being boss

Director in one of the interview mentioned that old characters will be relevant in the story again. It can be a great opportunity for pastry cookie to come back.

In general I hate how fandom demonized and treated her. She was manipulated in cult for a long time ( there's a description that her name is not even her own, and she was rebaked into this role. Methaphor or not, that's sad). SHE DOESN'T KNOW THE OTHER WAY... or at least didn't know?

She discovered the truth about  witches that day on tower and feels...very conflicted.I think it will be a great opportunity for her character development. To free herself from cult and find HER own way ( ofc if devs care about her enough lol)

And finally. Silent salt. Before his corruption, he resembles a paladin, a saint knight, probably devoted to some kind of an idea

I think it's  foreshadowed enough that silent salt must be connected to the cult. The main thing about both wl and salt's soul jam is solidarity, which represents freedom and silence.

Solidarity can be used in a twisted way. Cults in real life usually create a strong sense of unity by shared mission among their members. But it's also the main tactic for retaining its members. As soon as even one seed of discord appears, the best thing that can be done to maintain order is to silence the dissenters. And it can fit Silent Salt's character motive pretty well.

Idk what devs are cooking overall, but it's going to be exciting. There are so many things to address, and i hope story won't turn out to be a dissapointment

[inuiiwonderland]

Empire

Being crowned as empress of the Yuunkaedangon empire at the age of 17, you begin to start loving the new status and power. But it soon gets a bit boring and demanding the moment you turned 18. Harem? Heirs? Tf not!

Chapter 6

Words: 1.5k

-

The room was silent as Atsushi stared at his previous emperor with wide terrified eyes.

“W-what? But that’s impossible!” He screeches. Hands shaking with fear and anger.

The previous emperor gulps the remaining of his wine down, he knew to take this conversation somewhere private, knowing how loud atsushi can get when he’s surprised or angry.

“B-but it can’t be! The young empress has been doing a good job with keeping peace between empires and enemies!”

“I know atsushi I know, I even had some of my men go under cover and investigate it. The only thing I know as of now is that they’re planning on assassinating one of my empress concubines”

“WHAT?!” Atsushi is sure he’s going to give himself whiplash by how fast he turned his neck around to stare at the old emperor.

assassination?!

“But why?! What has the young-“

“I’m afraid it’s not because of my empress….but because of me”

Atsushi looked at him confused. Because of him?

“What do you mean?” The Old man stays quiet. He pours himself another glass before continuing with a heavy sigh.

“Many years ago when I was young and married my wife, the previous empress…I have gone to the dark forest the night my wife fell sick”

Atsushi gasps. Finally remembering that night.

“The night the previous empress almost died….she was pregnant with the young empress” He utters. Of course, how could he forget that scary terrifying night? No one has ever talked about it since it happened.

“Yes….and I was scared….so so scared that I was going to lose both my wife and my child that night”

Atsushi stays quiet. Listening intently as the old emperor talks about that fateful night.

“A witch told me she knew exactly what I needed to give my wife her strength and health back…told me she knew about one magical plant that can help my wife and my child”

“But it came with a very large price….and being the foolish young man I was, I told her anything. Name a price and it’s all hers. I should’ve known something wasn’t right when she only requested 200 thaumarks.”

“She gave me an old map that led to the dark forest. She said that it was the only place where I could find it before she vanished. That same night I gathered up over 300 guards to come with me to look for the magical plant in the dark forest. I lost a few men that night due to the dangerous creatures that lurked in that forest, hell I almost died a few times too! But after long hours of searching I finally found it…. The sunset flower”

He takes a sip before continuing.

“It was the only flower left….and I took it. Once we arrived I made sure it was prepared immediately to be served to my wife. I took so long I almost lost her as she waited for my return. I didn’t waste a second before feeding it to her-” He looks up and his eyes were glossy with unshed tears.

“My wife got better, she was comfortable for the remaining days of her pregnancy before she blessed me with my beautiful daughter. Both my wife and daughter were strong and healthy”

“But little did I know, while I had my happy ending, someone out there didn’t”

-

The man stares down at the hole in the ground with gritted teeth and a heart broken expression. His fist trembled with anger as he let out both a choked out sob and scream of anger.

“NOOOOOOOOO”

He falls to the ground as he punches and tears the nearby plants down. Two men both at his side tried to help him up but he pushed them both away.

“NO NO NO THIS CANT BE!! SOMEONE STOLE IT SOMEONE STOLE IT!!” He screams as he then repeatedly starts punching the ground.

“Master-”

“Please-”

“She’s dying! My daughter oh my beautiful daughter is dying! This plant was our only hope!”

The two men gave their master a sad look. Knowing that now there’s nothing else they could do.

That night the man came home to heart wrenching news. His wife stands in front of him with puffy eyes and a loud sob.

Their daughter has passed

Due to the lost of her precious daughter, the mother couldn’t handle it anymore and soon died due to a broken heart.

The man was left to grieve not only his daughter's death but also his wife.

-

“The ruler of the dark forest lost two of the most precious things to him that same night”

“So he’s back with revenge?” He was scared for the old emperor answer, but once the man nods atsushi pales.

“So what now? The young empress isn’t aware of this right? We should tell her! She needs to know so she can prepare-” but he is soon cut off by a stern voice.

“No”

“W-what?”

“No. She can’t know, not yet at least!” Atsushi frowns. Confused and also upset.

“B-but…the young empress has the right to know. Especially if it concerns her concubines and her future heirs!”

But the old man ignores him. Atsushi stood there confused and helpless. If he can’t tell you then what should he do? What can he do to help you and the others to stay safe along with the empire?

-

It was getting dark, the festival was still going strong as the crowd gathered around for the fireworks. You separated from the rest of the group, saying you needed a bit of alone time and that you’ll meet them before the firework show starts.

You walked down a small path that leads to one of the many bridges your palace has. You look down at the pretty koi fishes swimming in the pond. You smile down at them and their pretty scales, admiring their patterns and beauty.

As you were busy admiring the fishes, you didn’t notice the unknown figure creeping up to you. A loud leaf crunch brought you back and you turned to see a young man.

A beautiful young man actually

He didn’t seem to notice you yet, but you took that time to admire him. Short white hair, sun kissed skin, he seems to be wearing traditional clothing along with some gold jewelry and makeup- sevens he looks beautiful.

His eyes soon met yours and you were met with a pair of red eyes. His eyes widened once he noticed you.

“Ah! Sorry I didn’t know someone was already here! I’ll just go-”

“No” He stops in his tracks, a bit startled by your words.

“Huh?” You realize how weird you sounded and quickly straighten up as you awkwardly invite him to stay.

“You…can stay” he stays still for a moment which causes you to grow nervous. Sevens what if he thinks you’re a weirdo?

You two stayed quiet. You go back to admiring the koi fish as he just stares at the sky. The silence was soon broken when he turned to you and asked for your name.

“Mm? My name?”

He nods. You smile at him before telling him who you were. You were startled by his loud voice after you told him your name.

“W-wait? Y/n?! As in the young empress?!” You nod and his jaw drops. He quickly composes himself before respectfully bowing.

“Sorry for not asking sooner, young empress!” You blinked at him before letting out a small giggle at his antics. Giggles soon turning to laughs as he continues to apologize and bow and you had to physically stop him.

“And you? What’s your name?” You asked once he was done.

“Ah right! My name is Kalim Al-Asim! Prince of the scalding sands!”

Oh

OH

“Ah so you’re Kalim!” He nods joyfully. You smile before bowing.

“It’s really nice to meet you, we haven’t really gotten the chance to talk at all today”

“It’s nice to meet you young empress! I heard a lot of good things about you from my father!”

“Really? I sure hope so” you joked and the two of you laughed. Kalim continues to talk about his day at the festival, how much he liked the food, how beautiful the imperial palace looks and how they also do lots of lavish parties back home too!

You liked Kalim. He was funny and bubbly, something you wouldn’t mind having in your harem.

Your moment was soon cut short as a voice calls out to Kalim.

“There you are! You had me and your parents worried-”

“Jamil! Look, come meet the young empress! She’s really nice” Jamil was soon then in front of you. He blinked a couple of times before quickly bowing and introducing himself.

And well wow

Is everyone from the scalding sans this gorgeous?

His long silky hair was in a ponytail along with some of his hair in braids. He was also wearing traditional clothing with a few gold accessories. His makeup wasn’t as bold as Kalim but it did get the job done with making his eyes stand out.

“It’s very nice to meet you young empress”

Mm

These two would make lovely concubines…

The two of them looked at each other confused at your sudden change. Both watching you as you looked at them up and down before a mischief-like smile graced your face.

“Young empress?”

“Kalim what did you do?!”

“She was fine just a few minutes ago!”

-

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@keikeiluvyou

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What happens next? Is reader and their concubines going to be okay? Alsooo, new consorts?

[imnotjustreadingg]

How Not to Date an Avenger (According to Bucky Barnes) pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader (y/n) Genre: Fluff - miscommunication - Bucky's being adorable and clumsy Word count: 984 Summary: Bucky faced nazis, world wars, aliens, Thanos, survived in Siberia but his most difficult mission is to gain your heart

Bucky had survived a lot of terrifying things. Nazis. Hydra. Alien wormholes. Steve’s cooking. None of it compared to the soul-obliterating terror of standing outside your door in dark jeans, a navy button-up (Natasha-approved), and a box of macarons he bought in Brooklyn because apparently “normal” people brought gifts to dates.

He raised his hand to knock. Froze. Lowered it. Then raised it again. Then cursed under his breath and finally knocked before he passed out from overthinking. You opened the door in a navy sundress and a shy smile. “You clean up nice, Barnes.” He blinked. “You-you too. I mean. You always do. But now it’s like more.” You grinned. “Are those for me?” He looked down at the box like he’d forgotten it existed. “Oh. Yeah. I didn’t know what you liked, so I got the sampler. One of each.”

“That’s adorable.” He flushed. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not adorable. I’m six feet of PTSD in a metal arm.” You laughed and took the box. “You’re also standing outside my door looking like a nervous prom date. It’s adorable. Accept it.”

Location: The Little Diner That Time Forgot.

It wasn’t fancy. Bucky didn’t do fancy. But the diner had red vinyl booths, a jukebox, and the best grilled cheese this side of the Hudson. Plus, he’d gone there with Steve back in the day, and it hadn’t changed a bit. You slid into the booth across from him, eyes sparkling as you looked around. “This is perfect.” He relaxed a fraction. “Yeah?” You nodded. “I don’t need candlelight and foie gras to have a good time. I need fries and a guy who doesn’t talk about himself in third person.” He smiled. “I can do that.” The waitress, a woman in her 60s with cat-eyeglasses, recognized Bucky immediately. “Well, if it ain’t the Winter Soldier with a date.”

Bucky groaned. “Judy, please.” You looked delighted. “You’ve been here before?” “He practically lives here,” Judy said, pouring coffee. “Sits at that corner booth like a sad little war widow.”

“Judy-”

“Don’t ‘Judy’ me, James. You finally brought someone? I’m proud of you.” You sipped your coffee to hide your smile. Bucky glared at the table. “I’m never coming here again.”

“Yes, you will,” Judy said, patting his shoulder.

After ordering two milkshakes and a plate of fries “for the table,” Bucky started to relax. You were easy to talk to funny, smart, not afraid to tease him but never mean about it. “So, when did you know?” you asked, dipping a fry in ketchup. “That you liked me?” He hesitated. “Don’t laugh.” You held up three fingers. “Scouts honour.”

“I don’t believe you were a scout.”

“Fair. I was kicked out of Girl Scouts for accidentally lighting a marshmallow on fire and taking out a small bush.”

“…I believe that.”

“So?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It was the day you threatened to throw Steve off the roof because he said Empire Strikes Back was ‘just okay.’” You gasped. “That’s when you knew?”

“You were so passionate. And righteous. And terrifying. It was kind of hot.” You laughed so hard you choked on a fry. “Also,” he added quietly, “you’ve never treated me like a monster. Not once.” Your smile softened. “You’re not one.”

“Still. It means a lot.” You reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I like you, too, you know.”

“I was starting to get that impression.”

▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️

You were walking along the river afterward, holding the last of your milkshake, when it happened. A random guy in a hoodie rushed past you and tried to snatch your bag. You let out a yelp, but Bucky was already moving. One second, he was beside you the next he had the guy pinned to the pavement with his metal arm around his throat. People were staring. Phones came out. Someone started filming.

“Bucky,” you said gently, “You can… maybe let him breathe now?” Bucky looked down at the thief just a teenager really and realized his mistake. His grip loosened. The kid scrambled away, coughing, and disappeared down the street. Bucky stood there, jaw tight, hands shaking. Not from effort. From the sudden surge of adrenaline and shame. You touched his arm. “Hey. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I scared people. I scared you.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

“I’m not.” He looked at you like you were from another planet. “Why?” You stepped closer. “Because I’ve seen you mad. I’ve seen you scared. I’ve seen you eat six donuts in one sitting. You’re still you. And you protected me.” He swallowed. “I didn’t mean to overreact.”

“You’re working on it. That’s enough.” You laced your fingers through his. “C’mon. Walk me home?”

▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️

You stood outside your door, swaying slightly. “So,” you said, smiling, “did this count as a successful first date? Or are you still thinking about Judy?”

“Thinking about how to fake my death so I never have to face her again.” You laughed. “I had a really good time.” He looked down at you, a little dazed. “Me too.” A beat passed. Then two. “Would it be totally uncool if I kissed you?” he asked.

“You just tackled a guy and got called adorable in the same evening. I think we’re past ‘cool.’” You stepped onto your toes and kissed him. Warm. Sure. A little sweet. A little dizzying. When you pulled back, he was smiling. “Second date?” he asked. You grinned. “Try and stop me.”

Bucky walked into the kitchen the next morning whistling. Steve looked up from his oatmeal. “What’s got you in a good mood?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Did you finally beat level 42 on Candy Crush?”

“Y/N kissed me.” Steve choked on his spoon. Sam dropped his mug. Natasha, who had been reading in the corner, muttered, “Finally.”

[bnprime]

why aren’t there enough pediatricians? it’s all because we don’t live in a planned economy. look. we know what the population is, and what the demographics of the population are. thus, we can approximate to a very reasonable degree what our 1. medical needs are now, 2. what our medical needs will be in the future. we have more than enough students who want to be doctors. we could look at present and future demand, and then train exactly the right number of people to fill exactly those needs. no one would be overworked, no one would be underworked. it would be a fucking math problem. but we can’t. we can’t do it like that because of how our society works. we are, as a society, TERRIFIED of overpaying someone from the working class, or allowing someone from the working class to collect a cheque for anything less than a “full time” amount of work. and what is considered “full time” is an arbitrary number guessed by a consultant in 1963, and then passed around by management like it was gospel ever since. so the way it works is that you got the “employers” who tell the world that they think it would be profitable for them to hire one more doctor or one more nurse or one more janitor… really they need 17 more because everyone is overworked, but that’s how profit works. then on the other side, you got 18 year olds GUESSING about what careers might be fruitful 20 years down the road. then on a 3rd side you got post secondary schools GUESSING the number of students who will want to take loans to fill their seats and keeping faculty paid. the entire thing hinges on GUESSING on one side, and OVERWORKING PEOPLE FOR THE SAKE OF PROFIT on the other side. and in places where socialized medicine exists, the managers have to MIMIC THE CULTURE OF THE PROFIT SEEKING COUNTRIES, and so you get the same problem. in a planned economy you could streamline it all. the census people talk to the hospital people who (at the national level) talk to the universities, who tell the students how many people they can take. the med students (if they can make it through) are guaranteed a good job, and we all get pediatricians.

[cannofsardines]

Heeeyy,,,,, perhaps i could request an azure x affectionate ! reader who lowkey doesn't give half a chicken finger about his monstrous form and ,, just follows him around

could be platonic or romantic , im not picky hehehr

: Azure/GN!Reader who shows affection, ignoring Azure's monstrous form

—Slight change in the layout mm.. finally taking my time with requests once again because I realized how much I rushed the previous one

Content below : I dunno, fluff? A bit short, it's up to you if this is romantic or platonic

"—Azure!"

That voice again. A voice that belonged to a peculiar survivor. You, who just couldn't or wouldn't leave him be. Wherever he was, you were right behind him. Your teammate dying by multiple stabs caused by his slithery appendages? You just stood by with that damning look in your face that hit too close to his.. Former home, a home he misses but hates. It only made unpleasant memories he desperately tried to bury in the depths of his mind surface

"Shhh! Quiet —! We can't let them know we're here!"

He giggled, he held their hand and hid behind the wall as he placed a finger on his lips. Up close, he could see their curious gaze in response to what Azure was trying to drag them in this time

The former liked their face. A lot. The glint in their eyes, the way their eyes lit up even at the suggestion of mischief Azure had brewed in the back of his head, their lips curving upwards in happiness.. He wished that none of that would ever have to go away, and right now as he was living, he had faith in the spawn that this.. What they both had and experience will never disappear!

Until the warm blood pooling beneath him served as a reminder what they had was just something to offer to their God, the Spawn

He crossed his arms at the sight of you, but you could see a sliver of interest and curiosity made its way on his face regarding what you had for him. His big and terrifying form Towered over you, though you paid little mind to that major detail which serverd as a reminder of the size difference and instead presented a bouquet of different types of flowers. The bouquet was made out of paper that was delicately handled at best

Impressed, Azure would have to admit himself. Your creation wasn't lacking anything short, yet some flowers looked like they were wilting which you so obviously tried to hide with a shaky hand and a smile so sharp

You wanted to earn his praise that badly? You'll have to earn it. His mind echoed, Azure's expression shifted that to a terrifying scowl. Enough to have the most timid survivor of all faith in the spot, which the statement could be backed up from one occasion

His finger pointed at the wilting flowers— A glare pierced a hole through your head you were convinced, but that barely hindered your goal. A goal unachievable through the eyes of the other survivors, except yours. Why? Well you convinced yourself it was mostly due to their lack of thoughts in trying to bond with the killers! But this one was yours, you've already claimed

You questioned his obvious distaste, you asked if you wanted him to change it for him, which caught Azure off guard. Especially when you explained further on why they wilted. The thought he appreciated. The flowers that wilted, weren't in that state until you've kept them for so long.. To Turn them into a bouquet, just for Azure? That chipped the walls he created to protect himself a bit and he turned his head away to hide the expresssion he had which slowly eased the harsh edges

You begged him to keep the bouquet you made! After all, you hadn't followed him around for nothing. Today at least, and when he tried to walk away, you trailed behind him with little to no fear about the things he could do to you

The spectre was confused alongside him for once and only made noise of annoyance, they didn't like the fact that you showed no ounce of fear nor that Azure seemed to be brushing you off. He had an audience to entertain, for SFOTHS sake..

Throughout the whole round, you just followed in obvious admiration. Your teammates on the other hand, suffered the usual harsh unmerciful treatment of the killer. And as soon as you guys were back at the cabin, they couldn't help but wonder what you truly saw in him, Azure, of all robloxians. If he even was one still.. They also wondered how to confront you about this.. feeling, you clearly inhabited.

.

.

.

—This is short and took me a while due to school.. And because I have been drawing too much lately xaxaxa.. Either way I hope this is enough for a bit

[wonio]

( ✴︎ ) ‎‎ ‎ OFF THE RECORD ‎ ‎

• ‎ ‎ ‎ your anonymous campus podcast was supposed to stay secret ⎯ until soccer player jake sim accidentally leaks your latest episode and blows your cover. forced to team up to fix the mess, you clash, banter and accidentally start catching feelings somewhere between late-night edits and off-the-record confessions.

심재윤 ‎ ‎x ‎ ‎( park ) ‎fem!reader ‎ ‎ ୨୧ ‎ ‎romcom fluff light angst s2l slowburn break up mentions emotional conflict profanity soft hurt/comfort ‎ ‎ ‎ 3490 ‎ ‎ ‎ REBLOG ♥︎

you didn't mean to tell the whole campus your business. really. it just... happened. your podcast, off the record, was supposed to be anonymous. your little corner of the internet where you spilled your thoughts⎯on breakups, shitty friends, and the ridiculous world of college dating⎯without anyone knowing it was you. it was chill and quiet. healing, even. until jake sim⎯resident soccer player, sunshine menace, and the exact opposite of your type⎯accidentally leaked your latest episode during a school event. and now? everyone knows. "you're the girl from the podcast," he says, cornering you by the library steps the next morning, out of breath from chasing you down. as if you didn't already know. as if the stares from literally every person on campus didn't scream oh my god that's her. "wow. what gave it away?" you deadpan. he flinches, running a hand through his stupidly perfect hair. "listen, i didn't mean to⎯ it was an accident. i was trying to play a spotify playlist and your draft started playing through the speakers." "right. because accidentally pressing play on a private audio file happens all the time." he looks genuinely guilty, to your surprise. "okay, yeah. i fucked up. but i wanna fix it. let me help." you narrow your eyes. "and why exactly would campus golden boy wanna help a random girl with a microphone?" his smile tilts, soft and crooked. "maybe i'm not as much of an asshole as you think." you're not convinced. but you're tired, overwhelmed, and maybe⎯you could use the help. "fine. you wanna fix it? you're my tech guy now." his eyes widen. "wait, what?" "congrats. you just volunteered to edit my podcast. and that's how it starts. you, sitting across form him in empty study rooms, laptops open, headphones tangled between your fingers. him, surprisingly focused, surprisingy helpful, and surprisingly... not annoying. okay. sometimes annoying. but in an endearing way. the banter's nonstop. "you literally suck at audio cutting, what are you doing." "not of all of us are mysterious podcast girls, park." "ugh. don't call me that." but underneath the chaos, there's something softer building. late-night laughter, quiet confessions between edits, shared snacks during rendering breaks. you find our he's not just a soccer player. he likes r&b music and bad poetry and reading books when he can't sleep. he finds out you're not just the girl who rants about heartbreak. you love studio ghibli movies, you're scared of thunderstorms, and your last breakup left a scare you're still learning how to live with. the world keeps spinning. students gossip. your name trends on the campus forum for a week straight. but when it's just you and jake, it's quiet and peaceful. and it terrifies you. because feeling like this? you know how they end. it all crashes on a thursday night. you overhear someone say, "i bet jake's helping her for clout. imagine the pity points." it hits you like a sucker punch. you text him, "thanks for the help. i'll handle the rest alone." and you ghost him. no edits. no meetings. no goodbyes. but jake sim doesn't give up that easy. he shows up at your favorite café three days later, breathless and annoyed. "seriously? you're gonna ditch me over some stupid rumor?" you glare at him over your laptop. "it's easier this way. before one of us gets hurt." his voice softens. "you mean before you get hurt. because i'm already fucking scared, y/n." silence. "but maybe it's worth it." you don't know how to answer that. so you close your laptop, slide the headphones toward him, and whisper, "help me finish the next episode?" he smiles, "always." the next episode goes viral. not because of drama. but because for the first time, it's not anonymous. "hi, i'm y/n park," your voice says through the mic, steady but soft. "and i guess this is me.. off the record." jake's laugh in the background is the last thing the listeners hear.

you don't call it dating at first. too fragile. too soon.

but he holds your hand when you walk to class. and you steal his hoodie when the air gets cold. and suddenly, your playlists have his favorite songs too.

and that's enough.

one night, you sit on the soccer field after his practice. both too tired to move.

he nudges you. "remember when you hated me?"

you laugh, leaning into his shoulder. "i still kinda do."

he grins. "you're terrible."

"yeah. but i'm yours."

and for once, that doesn't feel scary.

because somewhere between anonymous confessions and accidental leaks, you found something real.

off the record. and maybe on the record too.

by wonio.

[officialspec]

UMMM WALL OF TEXT WARNING i finally wrote out my spamtenna thoughts/theory/headcanon/au/whatever. u can read it or not

i never like overriding canon especially with stuff like this because I really like the setups so some things will be vague simply because I know my answer could never replace whatever the dog has planned. that said, I'm turning the tone dial a few notches more dark/grounded because that's where I like to play. I really enjoy @/reallynormalart’s headcanons on twt so of course that is a major inspo MOVING ON

Thoughts: spamton is aware of the prophecy but its unclear how thats relevant. hes also desperate to Escape from it, which implies there's something in the prophecy that he doesn't like that involves him directly in Some Way

Something lead him to tenna (we dont know what), something helped him get famous, something made him scared enough to fuck off forever and something turned him into a puppet

The implication is that he made some kind of deal with the devil to Make It Big (via the phone, could be friend or gaster or a secret third thing). those kind of deals are famous for having conditions -> a requirement that, if broken, would break the deal and come with a big price to pay

I've been rotating the idea of why a puppet specifically, and of course the answer is 'ironic punishment': meaning hes being punished for desiring freedom MEANING desiring freedom was the condition that broke the deal MEANING the deal required him to do something he was okay with doing when the deal was made but, at a certain point, didnt want to do/keep doing anymore

It's likely that his instructions were to uphold the prophecy, since he knows about it and desires freedom from it. meaning there's a part of the prophecy he could have helped execute

The first thing that happened after the deal helps him get big is he starts working with tenna (remembering that something lead him to tenna), and he was working with tenna when the deal was broken, at the highest point of their relationship with eachother/when spamton was about to finally tell tenna his secret (which is the deal he made with Who Was Phone)

So signing the contract would have broken the deal/severed the prophecy. So there's a probable chance the prophecy he was in charge of executing involved tenna. of course the only prophecy about tenna that we know about is that he dies/is slashed by a blade

THIS IS WHERE THE YAOI GOGGLES GO ON

Spam starts in the gutter as per usual. Getting tossed around place to place, picking up bad habits, no respect or dignity. Spends a night or 2 in the dungeon on occasion. It's going bad

One of his nights in the dungeon, he makes an escape attempt and gets lost. Eventually he stumbles into the room with the scrap that would eventually become his NEO body - and the shadow crystal

Holding the crystal gives him a sudden insight into his fate, just a hint of a whisper of the prophecy, and it absolutely terrifies him. When he turns around to leave, behind him is a table with a phone sitting on it

The phone rings. Offers him a chance at success and freedom, everything he could ever desire - with conditions. Before they can elaborate, he agrees out of desperation and signs his stupid ass soul away

In my mind his deal with the phone is less ‘magic spell that makes you famous’ and more ‘guy who tells you the lottery numbers in advance’. Just the tiniest peeks into where to put his attention and when, and once it starts working he pretty much trusts the instructions unconditionally

His sponsor leads him around a bit, the phone appearing at crucial intervals, feeding him info to rise in the ranks. Lands him his first ad deal with bigshot motors, and he finally gets a taste of recognition

The rest of the addisons are getting more and more suspicious, a couple of them even corner him and rough him up a bit to try and get him to spill his secret. Of course, his real secret is that he’s a massive fraud, which would completely ruin any mote of credibility he’d managed to scrape together. He manages to escape when another addison breaks up the scene, but he’s left paranoid and scared

The phone operator takes advantage of that fear to steer him into Tenna - spinning a story about a desperate star clinging to fame that he could use both as a step up in the world and a shield against further suspicion, until he’s too big for anyone to fuck with again

His instructions are simple: earn Tenna’s trust, use him to get big, and then kill him. So he cleans himself up, walks onto set, and talks his way into a partnership

Tenna’s a classical businessman and fantastic with people but 10 years behind the times, spam is a fast-talker with no business sense and even worse people skills BUT he knows cyber city better than anyone. His figuring is that he can use tenna as a battering ram to muscle his way up to the top, and tenna’s so desperate to get back on stage he wont mind being used

Most of spam’s credentials are utter bullshit and his web of lies is growing more tangled by the day, but it works! He debuts not long after, and thus begins the infomercial age. The phone helps him keep up the facade, making it seem like he has everything to offer and more, dangling his Secret to Success just out of reach

Its honestly unclear if their partnership is getting Tenna anywhere, but having a partner is more fun than he expected it to be, and for a while they genuinely just enjoy working together (setting aside the usual lying, arguing, avoidance, deflection, scamming, bad influence/enabling etc)

Tenna’s had experience being broadcast all over the world in his heyday, but he’s a small local studio at heart and a bit of a bumpkin when it comes to cyber city lol. He takes spam’s word for most things about the city simply because thats his only frame of reference, and whenever they leave the studio he kinda just gets led around by the tie BUT remains overconfident in regular interactions. Hes a tv star, of course

Theyre both enjoying themselves so much that after a few initial, paltry murder attempts, spamton almost forgets about his side of the deal - he hasn’t needed the phone for a while, so it slips his mind entirely. Until he gets another call

The operator reminds him he has a job to do, and not to get too attached. Unfortunately its very very much too late for that; he keeps trying to put it off, constantly making excuses for his reluctance, more and more paranoid by the day. He visits the body in the dungeon and prays for freedom, the ringing in his ears never quite going away now

In the meantime tenna is getting impatient. He’s offered everything he has, written and rewritten the contract over and over, and nothing seems to be convincing enough. He wants more, wants spamton to take their partnership seriously, wants his secret, but despite everything it feels like he’s just getting more and more distant. Terrified of losing everything all over again, tenna decides to try one more time, pulling out all the stops

The next time they're off-air, tenna asks spam to meet him in his office for a private engagement. When spamton finally builds up the nerve to show up, he’s presented with the deal of a lifetime - tenna’s winningest smile, a shiny new contract, and two engraved rings. The sharpened crystal shard held behind his back burns in his grip. He can’t bring himself to do it

Always the escape artist, he decides telling tenna about his deal, about the prophecy, might be the only way to get both of them out of this alive. Details can come later, right now he just needs a way out. So he takes the ring, and agrees to sign

The phone rings. Wrong choice. The last thing he sees on his way out of the studio is tenna’s back, turned away from him, reaching for the receiver

Theres a visual in my mind of like, unseen strings catching his limbs while he’s running, and then in some cyber city back alley forcing his hand to reach into his pocket for the crystal shard and tearing his stitches from top to bottom, making space for the dummy to crawl out of his body before the remnants turn to wood shavings or ash and get blown away. I like the idea of his tv time blazer being left over, but im not sure if he would keep it or if its left for tenna to find later. Whatevers worse i guess

Ummmm and then canon follows basically as normal LOL i like keeping things canon-compliant even tho this is 100% made up for my own enjoyment. Do i think this is what actually happened?? Of course not. But it intrigues me which is more important. I HOPE U ENJOYED OR SOMETHING

[oogles]

THIS is what I'm talking about. I had to stop in the middle of Skinamarink because it was SO unnerving, and the topic of children being tormented scares ME specifically because a: I remember being a kid who got night terrors, had hallucinations, and a vivid imagination. And b: I now have my own kid, and after she was born this kind of subject matter really bothers me! Maybe it's not scary to some because of the subject matter, but god fear is SUCH a subjective emotion. Horror movies have never been appealing to a broad audience because of that. You don't have to like a style of movie but just take a second to think about WHY other people would like it and don't write it off with a broad sweeping statement.

When I think of atmosphere I also think of movies like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the Birds, The House on Haunted Hill, Psycho, and The Shining. I have heard all of these movies called boring, not scary, and cheesy because of the dating filming techniques, acting etc. People approach these movies with no sense of historical context, no sense of artistry, pacing or writing. They are unable to look past the quick-zooms and theater makeup and see the substance of the film. They don't try to place themselves in the shoes of the characters. What do you MEAN the thought of being chased through a huge building with NO ONE FOR MILES TO SAVE YOU and no way to communicate isn't scary?????? What do you mean that a mirror that slowly replaces your reality with its own without you knowing if it's all in your head or not isn't esoterically terrifying? What do you mean that a normal aspect of everyday life suddenly turning on you doesn't fill you with dread?

"This horror movie didn't scare me"

Horror is supposed to touch on aspects of the human psyche that are socially viewed as negative. Fear is one yes, but also dread, discomfort, sadness, grief, the filth of nature and the human body, the unsavory parts of our reality and our experiences. Diluting your expectation of horror to "this should scare me" can make you miss what that piece of media is trying to say.

Also like. What do you want, a medal? You want your big boy trophy for being the bwavest widdol media enjoyer alive? Kills you with my mind. Stabs you with a thousand tiny needles.

[channieschaoscorner]

New Beginnings - Part Six - Stray Kids x female!9th Member

Pairing: Chan x 9th Member

Summary: The break that you’ve been trying to hold back can’t help but happen when you and Chan go head to head in rehearsals. With the company putting pressure on you both leading up to the comeback, it was only a matter of time.

Warnings: There are some mentions of weight loss, avoiding food due to loss of appetite with stress

A/N: Hello hello my darlings <3 So fun fact this was so much longer but I’ve hit the max on a tumblr post soooo… next chapter tomorrow??? How are we all doing, let me know <3

Part Five

Masterlist

────୨ৎ────

Someone was shouting about socks.

Someone else had tripped over a charger cable and was now loudly blaming everyone but himself.

There was steam rising from the bathroom. Two bowls of cereal abandoned on the floor. Felix’s hoodie in the fridge for some reason.

Minho was swearing under his breath in three different languages.

Typical morning.

You stood in the middle of it all, half dressed, half focused, hands wrapped tight around a mug of coffee you didn’t even want. The bitter taste clung to your tongue. You’d already ignored the toast that Seungmin offered, then passed on Felix’s leftovers with a shake of your head. You were running on caffeine and adrenaline now. Nothing else.

“You should eat,” Minho said as he passed, not even looking up from his phone.

It sounded casual. Offhand. Like a throwaway comment tossed into the storm of noise.

But it wasn’t.

Because his eyes flicked up a second later, and they didn’t look away. Sharp. Quiet. Observing you the way only Minho could.

You tried to take another sip like it didn’t matter. Like you hadn’t skipped dinner the night before, too. Like you hadn’t skipped a lot of meals recently. Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know if it was hunger or something else. You felt his gaze still on you.

He was clocking it now. Not just noticing. Tracking.

“Didn’t you say you were going to make that soup today?” you asked, voice light, redirecting.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond.

You didn’t need him to.

Jeongin’s voice broke through the tension. “Hyung, your bag!”

Chan caught it one-handed without looking, still bent over the coffee table gathering his notes. His phone sat beside them, face-down.

You weren’t watching him. You weren’t paying attention.

Except you were.

Your eyes flicked to his phone without meaning to. Without wanting to.

And there it was.

Just the edge of it—tucked neatly inside his clear case, barely visible through the blur of stickers and scuff marks. A Polaroid border. Curled slightly at the edge.

Your fingers went cold around the coffee mug.

Because you knew what that was.

You’d searched your notebook for it last night, pages flipped frantically, hoping you’d misplaced it. But it hadn’t been there. Your only other hope being he’d taken it with him. Quietly. Without a word.

You barely hesitated.

When his back turned, you moved like instinct—smooth, quiet, practiced. You slid the phone toward you and popped the edge of the case open just far enough to see.

Your stomach flipped.

It was the Polaroid.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

But the relief didn’t come like you thought it would.

Because it wasn’t clean.

It wasn’t comforting.

It made your chest ache.

Your hands shook as you looked at it — you, caught in a moment that still lived under your skin, your face turned toward him, his shoulder brushing yours, both of you mid-laugh like it hadn’t hurt to be that close.

He’d kept it.

He’d chosen to keep it.

And it was right here, pressed against the only thing he always carried with him. Hidden behind plastic, behind all the noise, but still with him.

You didn’t know if you should feel relieved…

Or terrified.

Because if he felt even half of what you did, then why hadn’t he said anything?

Even when neither of you could speak. Even when you could barely look at each other for longer than a second without flinching. He still kept that moment. That version of you. Of both of you.

You pressed the case shut gently.

Put it back exactly where it had been.

When you looked up, he was already turning back toward you.

His eyes met yours.

Just for a second.

And in that second, you swore he knew.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t explain.

“Let’s go,” he said, adjusting his bag.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You didn’t look at Minho, but you knew he was still watching you.

You could feel it in the silence.

In the weight of his unspoken questions.

The kind you didn’t have the strength to answer right now.

So you drained the last of your coffee like it could fix the hollow ache in your chest.

And you walked out the door with the rest of them.

Pretending everything was fine.

Even though it wasn’t.

You mentally thanked the company for sending the van this morning so you weren’t forced to walk and be forced into a conversation you weren’t ready for. What you weren’t prepared for was when you took the very back seat that Minho piled in beside you. You took a deep breath and kept your eyes locked at the window.

“It’s only a short drive.” You told yourself, the hood of your hoodie—Chan’s hoodie— up over your head.

The van was full of sound.

Jisung was singing off-key. Hyunjin was yelling at him to shut up. Seungmin was smacking someone with a rolled-up hoodie, and Jeongin was narrating the entire scene like he was livestreaming it to a nonexistent audience.

Loud. Familiar. Safe.

Except none of it touched you.

You sat in the back row, pressed against the window, fingers curled too tightly around your phone. Your stomach was hollow. Your mouth was dry. The caffeine this morning had burned against the absence of food, but it was all you could stomach.

Minho was beside you.

Chan just beyond him, slouched into his seat, headphones on. Eyes forward.

But you knew he was listening.

You’d felt his gaze on you since you stepped out of the dorm.

Minho leaned in, subtle. “You didn’t eat again this morning.”

You didn’t answer.

He blinked at you, eyes unwavering.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you said finally, voice clipped.

“Right. Just like yesterday.”

You took a deep breath.

Minho shifted slightly, angling toward you. Calm. Measured. Focused.

“You know this pattern,” he said. Quiet. Just for you. “Don’t make me name it.”

Your jaw clenched. “I said I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

Your chest twisted.

You kept your eyes on the window, refusing to let him see the flicker behind them.

“I can handle my life,” you muttered. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting,” Minho said. “I’m noticing.”

His voice wasn’t sharp. It didn’t need to be.

It was steady. Certain. Inarguable.

“I’ve seen you do this before,” he added. “When things get hard. When you’re hurting and pretending not to be.”

Your hands tightened.

“You stop eating. You get quieter. You smile too much. You push us back just far enough that we start to wonder if you’re even still in the room.”

Your throat burned.

”Stop.”

You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to be the one anyone had to worry about. You didn’t want Chan—especially Chan—hearing this.

Minho dropped his voice even lower. “You know I won’t back off just because you snap.”

You swallowed hard.

He wasn’t flinching from your tone.

He never did.

Because he knew it wasn’t anger. It was defense.

It was fear.

“I just…” you said, barely audible, “I don’t want anyone thinking I can’t handle my life.”

“You’re not weak because you’re struggling,” Minho said. “You’re human. And none of us are buying the act.”

You said nothing.

Minho leaned back a little, not moving away so much as giving you space to breathe. “You don’t have to talk about it yet,” he said. “But don’t lie to me. I’m not going anywhere.”

You looked down into your lap, hands still shaking. You didn’t even try to answer.

Then, without turning your head, you glanced sideways—past Minho.

Chan was still wearing his headphones.

But his jaw was tight. His grip on his own phone stiff.

His eyes never left the back of the seat in front of him.

And you knew.

He’d heard every word.

────୨ৎ────

The van doors slid open and the cool morning air hit your face like a warning. You barely heard the others behind you — their laughter, the shuffle of bags and jackets, the familiar chaos of arriving at the company. It all blurred.

You needed to move.

Because if you slowed down now, if you paused for even a second, you might break open right here in the parking lot.

Chan followed close behind.

You felt him before you saw him — that low heat, that weight of his presence just over your shoulder. He didn’t speak at first, but you knew. The tension radiated from him in waves.

You reached the door to the building and he finally caught up.

“Y/N,” he said.

One word.

Too heavy.

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”

His hand hovered near your elbow but didn’t touch. “Can we just—can you just talk to me for a second?”

“We don’t have a second.”

The words came colder than you meant, but you didn’t take them back. You couldn’t.

You pushed through the door before he could try again.

He followed anyway.

“I’m worried,” he said, quieter now, trying to match your pace. “You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. I can see it.”

“I said don’t, Chan.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But your hands curled into fists at your sides.

Not now. Not when you were walking into a room full of people. Not when there were cameras. Not when you had to get on that dance floor and run choreography — with him.

You barely made it down the hallway before he caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not rough. Just enough to make you stop.

“Wait.” His voice was low, breath tight. Not angry. Worried. Which somehow made it worse.

The boys carried on past you, not registering that you’d stopped. They filed into the room letting the door click behind them.

You turned, already bracing.

“Chan, don’t—”

“I need to.”

His fingers let go as soon as you faced him, but the space between you was still too small. The corridor was too quiet. Voices echoing from the practice room. You had maybe thirty seconds before someone came looking.

“Please,” he said, eyes searching yours like he could see how close to cracking you were. “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

His voice cracked on the word, and that did it — something sharp and helpless unfurled under your skin.

“Then what do you want me to say, Chan?” you snapped. “That I’m stressed? That I’m so busy I don’t have time to eat most days? That I hate that I’m doing this, but I can’t stop? What do you want from me?”

He flinched like the words physically hit him. “I want you to stop pretending I don’t see it.”

”I know you can see it, and I hate that you can.”

“I don’t want to watch this happen to you from the outside again,” he said, voice thick.

“You think I want you to?”

His jaw clenched. “No. But you keep pushing me back.”

“I have to!” you said, louder now. “Because I can’t deal with this right now. If I talk to you about this right now—I won’t be able to hold myself together long enough to walk through that door.”

“You can talk to me,” he said, eyes burning. “I’m here for you. You’re my best friend. You’re not pushing me away—“

Your hands curled into fists.

“I can’t have this conversation with you,” you said. “Not when I’m like this. Not when we have to go in there and pretend like we’re fine.”

“But we’re not fine.”

“I know we’re not!”

The silence hit sharp.

You could hear the boys laughing distantly behind the studio door.

It made your throat ache.

Chan stepped closer, softer now. “I don’t know what to do when you start disappearing like this. I’ve seen it before. And I didn’t stop it then. I should’ve—”

“Stop.”

“You’re hurting.”

“So are you.”

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t have to.

The air between you was heavy with everything unsaid. The care that neither of you could speak out loud. The weight of what you felt but couldn’t name.

You looked away first.

He exhaled shakily. “Just let me in, even a little.”

“I can’t. Not now.”

“Then when?”

You shook your head.

The door creaked open down the hall.

“Hyung?” Jeongin’s voice. “We’re waiting.”

You turned before Chan could say anything else. “We don’t have time for this.”

He reached out but didn’t touch you. “I’m trying.”

“I know.”

And you left him standing there.

Frustrated.

Scared.

Still hoping.

────୨ৎ────

It had been a week since that morning.

Seven days of silence stitched into rehearsals, content shoots, cramped vans, and makeup chairs. A full week of half-sentences and sidelong glances. Of too much space where there used to be none.

You hadn’t touched him.

Not even by accident.

He hadn’t asked if you were okay.

You hadn’t asked why he hadn’t.

The space between you used to be safe — a kind of stillness, a breath. Now it crackled. Now it hurt.

And the group was feeling it.

They didn’t know what happened. But they knew something had.

You’d lost weight — not enough for the cameras to catch it, but enough for the boys to notice. Enough for Felix to quietly place a croissant on your keyboard during recording. Enough for Seungmin to slide a lunchbox into your bag “by mistake” and pretend not to notice when you didn’t return it. Enough for Jeongin to offer you the last bite of his sandwich without smiling, like it wasn’t a joke anymore.

You turned them all down.

Too sweetly. Too quickly.

Smiled like you always did. Talked when you needed to. Laughed when someone else gave you the cue.

But Minho was watching. Really watching.

And so was Chan.

He didn’t say anything. He barely looked at you when the others were around. But when he thought no one was paying attention — when you were across the room, back turned, quiet — you felt his eyes on you like gravity.

He looked worse.

Thinner. Exhausted. Like sleep hadn’t been an option in days.

You saw it in the way his hands shook just a little when he adjusted his mic. In the way he snapped too fast during rehearsals, only to go silent after. In the way he let the others tease him without pushing back — like he didn’t have the energy to fight for anything.

You hadn’t paired up with him since the hallway.

Not for TikToks. Not for partner dances. Not for games on variety shows.

Fans noticed.

They always did.

The first few comments were soft.

> “Is anyone else worried? They haven’t danced together in a while.”

>“Y/N usually sits next to Chan in these shoots…”

>“Their energy is different lately. I hope they’re okay.”

Then came the edits. The side-by-sides. The comparison clips. Screenshots of you sitting with Jisung instead. Chan turning just slightly away in a behind-the-scenes vlog. Minho acting as a buffer between the two of you. Still you both kept smiling, still performing — but never quite at the same time.

No one said it outright.

Not you.

Not him.

Not the boys.

Not the fans.

But it was there — in the stillness between seconds, in the ache behind your performance smiles, in the way everyone seemed to be holding their breath at once.

Something was wrong.

And whatever it was, neither of you could pretend much longer.

────୨ৎ────

It was just past 4am.

The dorm lights were low, nothing but the hum of the fridge and the faint scuff of your shoes as you slipped down the hallway toward the front door. Hoodie zipped. Bag slung. Music cued up but not playing yet.

You were trying to be quiet.

Trying not to wake anyone.

Trying not to think.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Maybe an hour here or there. Restless, shallow, useless sleep that left you feeling heavier instead of lighter.

You just needed to move. Get to the studio. Get inside the music before your own thoughts could catch up.

But as you turned the corner, shoulders still heavy with sleep deprivation, you nearly collided with someone coming the other way.

You both froze.

Chan.

He looked wrecked.

Hair damp from the drizzle outside. Hoodie clinging to his shoulders. Eyes bloodshot, jaw tight, steps slow and bone-deep tired. He wasn’t even surprised to see you — just… hollow.

You stared at each other.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

For a moment, it was just breath.

His eyes dropped to your hands — still holding your water bottle, keys clenched too tight. You couldn’t meet his gaze, not really. You tried, once, then looked down. Tried again. Failed again.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

You did the same.

The silence stretched. Thicker now. Warmer. Familiar in the way grief is familiar when it’s shared.

There were a dozen things you wanted to say.

None of them were enough.

Eventually, he just nodded — barely — and turned down the hallway toward his room.

You watched him go.

Watched the slow way his hand pressed to the doorframe before he slipped inside and let it shut behind him like an apology.

You stood there another moment, blinking hard at the wall.

Then you turned and walked out the door.

And headed for the practice room.

────୨ৎ────

The studio was too bright.

Too loud.

You were already running on fumes, muscles aching from sleep you didn’t get and meals that weren’t eaten.

The others didn’t notice.

Jisung was arguing with Jeongin about snack rights. Felix was trying to stretch while being pulled into Hyunjin’s absurd dance routine. Seungmin muttered half-hearted threats from the corner as he fixed the speaker settings.

And Chan.

Chan was going to drive you insane.

Practice had started off with a stiff energy neither of you could shake. You and Chan kept missing cues, the choreography feeling off and forced rather than fluid. Small frustrations bubbled up — a sharp glance here, a clipped comment there. You’d catch him spacing out just when you needed him most, and he’d snap back about your constant tweaks to the routine. The boys exchanged uneasy looks, sensing the quiet tension growing between you two. Every attempt to correct the moves was met with a little more edge in your voices, the frustration bleeding through your words even though neither of you wanted to admit what was really underneath. By the time the warmup ended, the atmosphere felt heavier, like you were both walking on thin ice, barely holding back what you truly wanted to say.

The more you tried to keep things professional, the more the irritation showed. Chan’s sighs grew louder, his patience thinning, and your responses sharpened in kind. The usual playful teasing had been replaced with snappy remarks, and you could feel the walls closing in. Neither of you could ignore it anymore — something was breaking, and it was only a matter of time before the tension exploded into a real argument.

Chan was pacing behind the mirrored wall, jaw tight, brows drawn low, fiddling with his phone in that way he always did when he was thinking too hard. Like if he just tapped the screen enough times, the answers would appear.

You were stretching in the corner furthest from him as if the small amount of space could help with the growing distance between the two of you. No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t shake off the irritation surrounding you.

And now, instead of being able to throw yourself into a group choreography or working with the backup dancers, you had to run that stupid duet with him.

To make it even better, you had an audience for this one.

Hyunjin lay sprawled across a mat by the mirror, giving up his antics now in favour of watching you, lazily kicking his legs in the air like a bored child. Changbin was halfway through a banana and humming the beat under his breath. Felix sat cross-legged with a soft grin, clapping once as the track started to play.

“This is gonna be cute,” he said, nudging Seungmin, who just rolled his eyes as he sat down signalling the speaker was fine now.

“Depends on how many times they mess up.”

Minho leaned back against the mirror, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “Twenty says Chan forgets the turn in the second verse.”

“No I won’t.” Chan muttered without looking at him, already adjusting his laces.

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t, just rolled your eyes and took your place in the middle of the room.

The music started.

You moved.

And it was a mess.

The rhythm was fine. The steps were there. But nothing clicked.

You turned late. He stepped too close. You brushed past him instead of meeting in the middle. Your hands—meant to graze during the second chorus—missed entirely.

Jisung tilted his head. “Huh.”

Hyunjin sat up. “That looked… stiff.”

“Are they okay?” Felix asked, brows furrowing slightly.

Minho didn’t say anything, but you saw the shift in his eyes.

The music ended.

You let out a breath.

“Again,” Chan said.

The track restarted.

And it didn’t get better.

If anything, it got worse.

You tripped on the same step. He turned late. Your arms didn’t sync. You both moved like magnets that refused to face the right direction—drawn to each other, but never quite touching.

“Start it again.” You sighed

Each correction was like another piece of weight on a trip wire. Your shoulders were tense and your neck ached. Chan’s jaw was tensing more by the second, fingers flexing like he could fling the anger out of his body. The added commentary from the boys wasn’t help and you were just about keeping your anger in not wanting to lose it in front of them but when you accidentally turned the wrong way during the lift—

Chan’s frustration exploded.

“Can you just focus?!” he snapped, louder this time, voice cutting through the room like a slap.

Seungmin’s hand froze before hitting pause.

Your eyes were burning a hole in the floor as your chest heaved. You inhaled deeply before turning to face Chan.

“Do you need a minute?” Your voice was steady, even, cold.

“I…no I just—” He shook his head eventually. “Let’s just go again.”

He moved to the side again and reset, it took you a second to follow him. You nodded to Seungmin who started the song once again, you’d lost count at this point. The music lulled you into a false sense of security as you moved, until you felt Chan’s hands take yours. Your first instinct in the past would’ve been to lean into him, now though you wanted to pull away and curl into yourself.

You swallowed and pushed through it. You counted steps in your head, braced yourself for when his hands would find you, steeled your own when you reached for him. You could feel the tension radiating off him when your fingers brushed. Then as the song quitened, the final beats echoing, when you were supposed to finish and stay in that beat together as it cut to silence, you couldn’t manage it. The song had barely finished before you pushed out of his arms, not that he cared, the speed his arms had let you told everyone his feelings on the matter.

You returned to your opposite sides of the room, that was the first time you’d been able to run the choreography the full way through. To everyone else it could’ve passed, anyone who didn’t know you would assume you were finding your feet but you knew better. You didn’t do ‘passable’.

You hadn’t landed your mark. Chan’s hands had hesitated—too high, too loose. Your foot missed the count.

Minho sighed. “Do you want to reset?”

You didn’t move, contemplating if you wanted to subject yourself to that again.

“We’re off.” Chan muttered.

“No shit.” you said.

He looked up, sharply. “You want to fix it or throw blame?”

“I want to stop wasting time,” you shot back. “That’d be a good start.”

Felix coughed gently. “Maybe you should take a break—”

“We’re fine,” you said.

“Are we?” Chan snapped.

The tension tightened around the room like pulled wire.

Hyunjin exchanged a glance with Jisung. Seungmin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent.

You stepped forward, ignoring the tightness in your chest and shook your head. “We’ll run it again later, we’re wasting too much time right now. I want to confirm solo rehearsals for next week. We’ve got the vibes pretty much down so I want to really start solidifying everything now. I’ve already worked with everyone except you, Chan. I need to know what you want for it.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt the shift.

He froze.

You turned toward him, brows drawing together. “We haven’t met at all actually about yours, when are you free? We need to get started.”

Chan hesitated—too long.

“We won’t need to actually.” he said finally.

“What? Why?”

“I’ve asked someone else.”

The words hit like a slap.

Even the boys stilled.

Hyunjin blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

The silence crashed down like a wave.

You blinked, trying to process it.

“You… what?”

“I asked someone from the in-house team.”

“You didn’t even tell me?” you asked, voice quiet and sharp. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” he said quickly. “I just… didn’t want to make this harder.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but it wasn’t amused. “So you made the choice for me.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

You stepped toward him, each word rising with the heat in your chest.

“You think I can’t separate my feelings from my work? That I’d let whatever this is get in the way of doing my job?”

“No,” he said, a little too fast.

“Then what is it, Chan?” you snapped. “Because I’ve choreographed every single one of your solos since debut. Every group comeback. Every performance. That’s our process. You produce. I choreograph. That’s what this group is built on. You fought for me to be here. You’re the reason I’m even in this group.”

He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t about that—”

“Then what was it about?” your voice cracked. “Because to me, it looks like you don’t trust me anymore.”

“I do,” he said, voice strained.

You shook your head. “No. You don’t. You decided I couldn’t handle it. That I couldn’t be professional. You didn’t even give me a chance to prove otherwise.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he said again, lower now.

You stared at him — and your hands were trembling.

“Well, you did.”

Silence pressed in.

“Get out.”

Changbin took a small step forward. “Y/N—”

You turned toward him, eyes shining but hard. “If he doesn’t trust me to do my job, he shouldn’t be in the room.”

Chan’s mouth opened, but no words came.

“This is my practice room Chan, it has been since we debuted and it was mine even before then, you know that. I won’t say it again. Get out.”

“You’re being unfair,” he rasped.

“No,” you said, sharp again. “I’m being honest.”

And then you said it again, softer.

“If you can’t trust me to do what I’ve always done for you… then you don’t belong here right now.”

You turned your back to him.

The silence rang.

And the worst part — the part that made your chest ache — was that he didn’t say anything else.

He just left.

No argument. No defense.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence he left in his wake was loud. No movement. No breath.

Just stillness.

You stood there, shoulders tight, staring at the floor like if you moved, it would all fall apart. Behind you, the others didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Minho stayed near the mirrors, arms crossed but eyes sharp, watching you like he was waiting for a fracture.

Jisung sat on the floor with his knees pulled up, eyes darting between you and the door. Hyunjin rubbed a hand over his jaw, frowning. Jeongin looked like he wasn’t sure whether he should shrink into the corner or try to hug you.

Seungmin lowered himself into a chair in the corner, his arms still crossed but his brows knit tight.

And Felix didn’t leave your side.

He hovered just behind you, close enough that you could feel him there. His fingers brushed the hem of your sleeve once — like a kid unsure if reaching out would help or make it worse.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stayed, like a little brother refusing to walk away from his older sister when she was too proud to cry in front of everyone.

“Y/N…” Minho started, voice low.

You held up a hand, not looking at him.

“I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

“I just…” You cleared your throat. “We have a schedule.”

You turned slowly, blinking away the burn in your eyes. “Whose solo’s up next?”

No one answered right away.

They all just looked at you — hesitant, fragile, a little lost.

“I need one of you to run your piece,” you said, too controlled. “I need to work.”

Felix shifted behind you, but still didn’t speak.

Jisung stood, slowly, raising a hand halfway. “I can go.”

You nodded. “Okay. Let’s run it. From the top.”

You walked over to the speaker, tapping at your phone with a precision that was all muscle memory — all the parts of you that hadn’t given out yet.

But your hands were shaking.

You hit play.

Jisung stepped into place, posture tense, eyes flickering to you more than the mirror. But when the music started, he danced anyway.

And he made it through the whole thing.

Every beat.

Every move.

Every breath.

When it ended, you let the music fade out slowly before speaking.

“Good,” you said, though your voice caught. “That was good. Well done.”

Jisung didn’t answer, just nodded once, letting the silence hold.

And you couldn’t stay still anymore.

You turned to the boys, voice thin. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

They didn’t ask.

Felix didn’t try to stop you — but he didn’t sit down, either. He stayed standing, eyes wide and worried, watching you go like he wasn’t sure if you were coming back whole.

You walked out of the room, fury in your chest and your heart breaking louder with every step.

Because no matter how much you’d told him to leave…

You knew he hadn’t gone far.

You knew he hadn’t left the hallway.

You knew he was still standing there, behind the door, just outside the frame, caught in the same loop you were.

────୨ৎ────

You opened the door with too much force.

There he was.

Sitting on the floor against the wall, just outside the studio — arms resting on his knees, hoodie still half-zipped, head tipped back like he was trying not to feel anything at all.

You froze in the doorway, your heart thudding like it was trying to break out of your chest.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Just spoke, voice low. “Thought you were gonna hit me.”

You stepped out and let the door close behind you.

“I told you to leave,” you said.

Chan’s head snapped toward you. “And I did.”

You scoffed. “You moved three feet.”

“You didn’t say how far I had to go.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. “So you just waited? What—were you hoping I’d come out and what? Apologise?”

“No,” he said, standing now, jaw tight. “I was hoping you’d calm down before you said something else you didn’t mean.”

You laughed, sharp and humorless. “Oh, I meant it. Every word.”

“Great,” he said, throwing his arms out. “So what now? You want me to grovel for making a call I thought would protect you?”

“No,” you said, stepping closer, voice shaking. “I want you to admit that it wasn’t about protecting me. It was about protecting yourself.”

His mouth opened. Shut. “That’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” you snapped. “You didn’t want to look me in the eye while I choreographed a dance about how much pain you’re in. You didn’t want to feel it. You didn’t want to face me in it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“And you know what’s not fair?” you said, voice rising. “That you brought me into this group. That you fought for me, told the company I was the only one you trusted to help build this — and now suddenly I’m too much of a risk to handle your solo?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Chan?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m not the person you trust anymore.”

“I do!” he shouted.

You blinked.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself — but his hands were fists and his voice was cracking.

“I trust you more than anyone,” he said. “And that’s exactly why I couldn’t ask you.”

The words hit like a slap.

You stared at him, blinking hard, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me.”

“Oh, well, great,” you snapped. “As long as it makes sense to you. Because God forbid we actually talk about anything like adults.”

He scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You stepped closer, nose almost brushing his. “You’ve always done this — you decide how I feel, what I need, and then act like it’s a favour.”

“You told me to leave.”

“And you didn’t.”

“I did!”

You both stood there, toe to toe, breathing like you’d run a mile.

And for a moment — just a split second — you looked at each other, really looked, and it was like you were both seventeen again. Arguing backstage. Deflecting because neither of you knew how to say what you really meant.

You weren’t angry.

Not really.

You were hurt.

So was he.

You shoved your hands through your hair, voice quieter now but still shaking. “This isn’t about choreography, Chan.”

“I know.”

“But we keep pretending it is.”

“I know.”

You looked at him — red-eyed, flushed, pacing a few steps like he couldn’t sit still in his own skin.

“You should’ve left,” you whispered as you turned around, ready to leave him in the hallway alone again.

“I couldn’t.”

The silence wrapped tight around you again.

His voice dropped into something rough. “You think it was easy for me? Sitting behind that glass and listening to you record your solo?”

You froze.

“I listened to you pour your entire heart into something and pretend it wasn’t about me,” he said, finally meeting your eyes. “And I had to sit there. Like it was just another track. Like it didn’t feel like someone was cutting my chest open with every lyric.”

You blinked hard, but the lump in your throat stayed.

Chan kept going. “You didn’t see it, but every time your voice cracked, every time it shook, I wanted to stop you. I wanted to— I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even look at you when you came out of the booth.”

You stared at him. “So what? You decided I shouldn’t have to feel the same?”

“I didn’t want you to go through that for me.”

“You didn’t want me to feel what you felt,” you said, quieter now — but angrier. “But that wasn’t your choice.”

His face twisted. “I was trying to protect you.”

“And I didn’t ask you to.”

You stepped toward him again, voice sharp. “You don’t get to make that decision for me. You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle. I’m not fragile, Chan. You’re not the only one who breaks.”

He laughed under his breath — bitter and breathless. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You blinked.

“Because you’re so good at this,” he said, he stood up, arms crossed, eyes glassy with frustration. “You walk out of a fight and go straight back to choreography like nothing happened. You put on that perfect face, and I’m the one sitting here falling apart!”

“I have to be good at this,” you shouted back. “Because if I stop, if I let myself fall apart, no one is going to catch me! And you—”

You shoved a finger into his chest.

“—you don’t get to treat me like I’m fragile and then punish me for being strong.”

Chan’s breath hitched, eyes narrowing. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, taking another step forward. “You’re so convinced you’re protecting me — but you’re just protecting yourself from having to admit how much I matter to you!”

He flinched.

And you hated that you saw it.

“You think I don’t see it?” you kept going, voice rising. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me and then look away? You think I don’t feel it when you step back instead of stepping in?”

He snapped, “Well, maybe I’m tired of having to hide it all the time!”

“Then don’t!” you yelled.

The air split between you.

Your chest heaved.

His fists clenched.

And then—

The tension snapped.

You lunged for each other at the same time — not reaching, not kissing — colliding.

His hands gripped your waist like he needed something to anchor him, bruising in the way they clutched you. Your fingers went straight into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him gasp.

Your mouths met in a crash, all teeth and fury and heat.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was devastation.

He kissed you like you were the fire and he needed to burn to feel anything at all. Your teeth caught his bottom lip, bit just enough to make him hiss, and he responded with a hand fisting in the back of your shirt, yanking you flush to him.

You gasped into his mouth — not from shock, but from how badly you needed this.

How much it hurt.

His grip tightened, fingertips digging into your ribs like he didn’t trust himself to let go. Your hand slid down to his shoulder, nails scraping, dragging.

You wanted it to hurt.

He needed it to.

Because at least if it hurt, it was real.

Because the feelings — the years of tension, the longing, the fear — were too big to name. Too dangerous to say out loud.

So you said it with this instead.

With the bruising press of lips.

With the way he shoved you back against the wall, mouth still moving hungrily against yours.

With the way he groaned when your nails raked down his neck.

With the way you kissed him like you hated him except you didn’t. You could never

Your breath hitched when he pulled back, only to kiss you again harder — like he had to.

Your hands shook in his hair, tugging him closer, anchoring your mouths together because space was the enemy now. There was no logic. No caution. Just this shared ache that had nowhere else to go but teeth and breath and fire.

It wasn’t about resolution.

It wasn’t about forgiveness.

It was the only language you had left.

Pain. Touch. Proof.

And the unspoken truth beneath it all, burning behind your clenched eyes: If I can feel it — if it hurts — then it has to be real.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t hear anything at first — not over the blood pounding in your ears, the crash of his mouth on yours, the bruising grip of his hands like he was trying to memorize you before he lost the chance.

But then—

“Should we check on them?” Jisung’s voice, muffled behind the practice room door.

“They’re probably yelling again,” came Hyunjin, far too close.

You both froze.

His forehead rested against yours. Your hands fisted in his hair. His breath shook against your cheek.

Neither of you moved.

His fingers flexed at your waist like he meant to step back.

You didn’t let him.

“We have to stop,” you whispered, though even you didn’t believe it.

“No,” he breathed, almost a plea. “Not yet.”

Your eyes met.

Footsteps.

Panic flared.

You grabbed his hand. “This way.”

Down the hall, past the stairwell, around the corner. You shoved open a dark, empty practice room, dragged him inside.

Everything collapsed again.

His hands were on your waist, then your thighs, dragging you into him like he couldn’t stand an inch of space. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, but it didn’t matter.

You were already gasping for him.

Your nails scraped his spine, yanking his hoodie off. His t-shirt followed, your hands greedy, desperate, clumsy with need. You needed to feel him. To burn out whatever this ache was.

He moaned when your mouth found his collarbone, when your fingers dragged across his ribs. “Fuck—”

“Don’t stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t reply, you didn’t need to.

“I can’t,” he said, voice cracked and trembling. “I can’t think when you touch me like this.”

“Then stop trying.”

You kissed him harder, your hips rolling instinctively into his. He cursed and bit down on a sound that might’ve undone him completely.

It was frantic.

Messy.

His hands beneath your shirt, rough and reverent. Yours in his hair, tugging. His thigh between your legs, holding you steady while everything else spun apart.

You kissed him like you were starving.

He kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your skin. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

“Chan—” You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“I should’ve trusted you.”

“Don’t say it now. Not here.”

He understood.

Because this wasn’t a fix.

This was fallout.

You kissed him again, slower, and that hurt worse. Like goodbye already lived in it.

Still, your hands stayed in his hair. Still, his touch dragged fire down your spine. One hand cradled the back of your head, threading through your hair. The other tugging your shirt up and raking across your bare skin like he could memorise you from touch alone.

He groaned. “Please. Just one more second.”

You gave it to him.

Again.

And again.

Until you were breathless. Until your knees nearly gave out.

He steadied you against the wall, forehead to yours, chest heaving. You kissed once more, slower, like maybe the world would pause for you just a moment longer.

But it didn’t.

“…probably came this way—” Hyunjin’s voice, much closer now.

“I swear, if they murdered each other, I am not doing this comeback alone.” Seungmin added.

“At least all the songs are already recorded?” Hyunjin offered.

“You know that means Minho would be the one choreographing for us then.” Seungmin sighed.

You could hear the gears turning in Hyunjin’s brain through the wall. “I should just put in the air fryer now then before he has the chance to.”

You barely held in the laugh that caught in your throat.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, breath shaky but quieter now. He chuckled under his breath — not his usual loud laugh, but something smaller, fond.

“Shut up,” you whispered against his lips. “They’ll hear.”

But you didn’t stop touching him.

“Your fault,” he whispered.

“You kissed me first.” You shot back, your nose brushing his temple.

“You yelled at me first,” he murmured, voice still rough. “I was emotionally vulnerable.”

You smiled against his skin, eyes still closed.

He shifted, just slightly — pressing a kiss to the corner of your jaw this time. No heat. Just… affection. Unspoken. Earnest.

When he pulled back to look at you, something in his expression had changed. Less urgency. More reverence.

“Are you okay?” he asked, soft enough that you barely caught it.

You nodded.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admitted.

“I don’t either,” he said. “But we’ll come back. When we’re ready.”

That promise lived between your hands, still loosely curled in the hem of his t-shirt.

He brushed your hair gently behind your ear, eyes tracing your face like he wanted to remember every detail exactly as it was.

Chan’s eyes were on yours, softer than they’d been in days. Weeks. His thumb brushed your cheek like he was still grounding himself in your presence.

The words didn’t come.

But they didn’t need to.

He leaned in—one last time—and kissed you gently. Nothing desperate, nothing bruising.

Just… real.

You sank into it, exhausted.

Not from him.

From everything else.

His lips lingered, then pulled back slowly. He looked at you like he wanted to remember this version of you—hair messy, cheeks warm, wearing the echo of his kiss.

He stepped back and pulled his hoodie back on, opened the door quietly and held it for you.

You stepped out with him, still silent, your arm brushing his just once.

Not on purpose.

Not entirely by accident either.

The hallway was empty now. Whatever chaos Hyunjin and Seungmin had stirred was gone, footsteps fading in the distance.

Chan walked beside you, not touching, but closer than he had in weeks.

When the practice room door came into view, you shared one last look — nothing dramatic, nothing said. Just a small nod. A quiet we’re okay.

You pushed the door open together.

Immediately—

“There they are!” Changbin threw his arms up like he’d just seen two ghosts. “Finally. We were about to file a missing persons report.”

Felix flopped dramatically to the floor. “Do you even realize the emotional damage you’ve caused?”

“Children of divorce,” Jisung muttered, crossing his arms. “We really thought this was the day.”

Jeongin nodded solemnly. “I was about to ask Minho hyung who we’d live with.”

“Definitely not me,” Minho said flatly. “I’d sell you all before taking custody.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Okay, enough. That’s enough chaos for now.”

Jisung grinned. “You’re just saying that because you know we’re right.”

“Practice,” you said, already walking toward the center of the room. “Now.”

“Yes, yes, back to it.” Seungmin teased, bowing so low it was clearly sarcastic.

Chan moved back into position next to you, quiet but grounded. He didn’t speak, didn’t joke.

But he met your eyes for a second.

And smiled.

It wasn’t big.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was real.

And this time, when the music started, it felt a little easier to breathe.

────୨ৎ────

The rehearsal picked up smoother than you expected.

You slipped back into your role—counting beats, correcting posture, running segments over and over. The boys fell into place, still teasing between takes, still loud, still them.

It helped.

The normalcy.

Even if your limbs ached and your mind still hadn’t caught up with your heart.

Chan stayed focused, quieter than usual, but his presence never strayed far. He followed your cues without question, stepped in to help correct footwork when you gestured. When you locked eyes mid-run through, he didn’t look away this time.

Just gave you the smallest nod.

That was enough.

Schedules split by mid-afternoon — some filming, some vocal training. You stayed in the practice room with Jeongin and Jisung to polish their solos, Minho popped in to fine-tune transitions. Felix and Hyunjin returned late in the day after content shoots, chaotic as ever but visibly keeping an eye on you, subtly checking in without saying anything at all.

Even Seungmin brought you water and didn’t make a joke about it.

The tension from earlier didn’t disappear completely but the boys moved through it the way they always did — loyal, loud, and learning to read the undercurrents.

By the time the sun dipped and the company lights buzzed overhead, your body was aching and your voice had dropped into something hoarse from hours of instructions.

You sent the last of them out with orders to eat, rest, hydrate, and reminded them to be on time tomorrow.

They groaned in unison.

But they left.

Eventually.

The studio was quiet, lights dimmed low and only one speaker still softly humming in the background.

You were mid-run of your solo choreography, hair pulled back, body warm with effort — focused, but fraying around the edges. You’d lost count of how many takes you’d done.

When the door clicked open behind you, you didn’t stop.

Not at first.

But the second you heard it close again, slow and careful, your body stilled.

You turned to find Chan standing near the doorway, a plastic bag in one hand, a familiar hoodie tugged over his head, curls still damp from a quick shower.

He didn’t speak immediately.

Just looked at you — quietly taking in the sweat on your collarbone, the slight tremble in your arms, the way your chest rose and fell with effort.

“I went back to the dorm,” he said finally. “You weren’t there.”

You tilted your head, curious.

He held up the bag slightly. “So I brought you something.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. Convenience store triangle kimbap?”

His grin was crooked. “Offended. It’s Minho’s soup, thank you very much.”

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, quieter now. “He made that for dinner tonight.”

Chan nodded and stepped into the room. “Told me to make sure you got some. Said, and I quote, ‘Don’t let her use choreography as an excuse not to eat again.’”

You couldn’t help it — your mouth twitched at that.

“Classic Minho.”

“Classic you,” he teased softly, already unpacking the container. “You lose your appetite when you’re stressed and get too busy to remember it even exists.”

You rolled your eyes gently but didn’t argue.

He knelt by the mirror, settled in, and opened the lid. Steam rose in slow curls.

You didn’t move.

Until he raised the spoon and offered it, his expression serious but the edge of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Say ah.”

You snorted. “Really?”

“I’m committed to the bit,” he said solemnly.

You walked toward him, arms crossed, eyes narrowing playfully.

He didn’t drop the spoon.

You sighed — dramatically — then leaned down, just enough to take a sip.

It was warm and perfectly seasoned, and suddenly you realized how long it had been since you’d actually tasted something that felt like comfort.

“Mmh,” you mumbled through the mouthful, blinking. “Okay, that’s not bad.”

“Thank Minho,” Chan said, smug.

You took the spoon from him with a small shake of your head, finally sinking to the floor beside him.

He didn’t press.

He just sat there, shoulder resting against yours, warm and familiar.

And for the first time all day — you let yourself slow down.

No pressure.

No fixing.

Just the two of you, sharing soup on a studio floor, the hum of your solo still faint in the background, and the quiet peace of being with someone who knew you well enough to show up, but not push.

────୨ৎ────

You finished the last bite of soup in silence, legs stretched out in front of you, spine finally relaxing into the wall behind you.

Chan stayed close — not quite touching, but never far.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Then—

“Tomorrow’s packed,” you murmured, glancing at the wall clock.

He nodded. “Photoshoot all day, they’ll be filming everything for content too.”

You leaned your head back with a groan. “And the comeback teaser shoot’s in a week.”

“Yeah.”

A beat passed.

Then, quietly, he added, “You ready?”

You paused.

Looked at him.

He was watching you carefully — not anxiously, not pushing. Just open.

You considered it.

Then shrugged, small and honest. “I’m getting there.”

His smile was faint, but warm. “Me too.”

Another moment.

Then, he shifted slightly. “You wanna run the duet?”

You arched a brow. “Right now?”

“No staff. No cameras. No pressure,” he said. “Just… us.”

You looked at him for a long second, heart kicking a little faster — not from nerves, but from the way he said it.

Us.

Still us.

You stood first, stretching your arms over your head.

“All right,” you said, voice light. “But if you mess up your timing again, I’m docking your coffee privileges.”

His laugh echoed off the walls — low and real. “Brutal.”

You hit play on the track, moved to your opening mark, and nodded at him.

Chan took his position.

The beat dropped.

And something clicked.

There was no misstep this time. No tension. No flinching. Just flow.

You moved through the choreography like you were breathing it — your bodies in sync in a way that only came from years of knowing each other.

When his hands found your waist, when yours slid up his arms — it wasn’t a mask. Wasn’t a performance.

It was truth.

And when the last beat echoed and the silence returned, you were both still close. Chest to chest. Breathing hard.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

But you both knew.

Something was mending.

Slowly. Quietly. But surely.

────୨ৎ────

You tossed your water bottle into your bag and pulled Chan’s hoodie back over your head — oversized and warm, comfort stitched into every inch.

Chan flicked the studio lights off as you locked the door behind you. The hallway was quiet, lit in that soft blue of too-late-to-be-here.

You fell into step beside each other like it was second nature again.

“I still can’t believe I let you guilt me into dancing after soup,” you muttered.

“I didn’t guilt you,” he said, smug. “I inspired you.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You tricked me with carbs and emotional safety.”

He grinned. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You nudged him with your shoulder — not hard, not serious. Just… playful.

As you reached the elevator, you yawned, stretching slightly. Chan hit the button.

“You sure you’re good for tomorrow?” he asked, voice quieter now.

”I’ll be fine.” You promised.

He watched you carefully.

”Ok I don’t love the idea of the photoshoot and the concept right now but I’ll be fine.”

“I get it.” He nodded.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and pulled Chan’s hoodie tighter around yourself, the warmth settling into your skin like muscle memory.

He fell into step beside you without a word as you stepped out into the night air, the JYPE building humming behind you like it was finally exhaling too.

The streets were quiet, lamplight casting long shadows over the pavement. It wasn’t cold, but his shoulder brushed yours every few steps anyway — like neither of you wanted too much space again.

“I can’t believe they want us on set at 6am.” you muttered eventually, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

“They want us on set at six. Hair and makeup first.”

Chan winced. “I’m not in until eight.”

“You’re joking?” You shot him a look. “So while I’m getting hair sprayed into oblivion, you’ll be sleeping?”

“I mean…” he shrugged, innocent and infuriating. “Probably.”

“I hate you.”

He grinned. “No, you don’t.”

You bumped his arm again. “I do. You’re going to show up late and well-rested and smug while I’ve been sitting under fluorescent lights for two hours.”

“I’ll bring you coffee?” he offered, as if that made up for everything.

“You always bring me coffee.”

”I’ll bring you good coffee.”

“You’d better. And not just any coffee — mine needs three shots of espresso, caramel syrup, and topped with an apology."

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “An apology?”

“For making me suffer alone while you’re sleeping.”

You turned the corner together, the dorm building in sight now. Neither of you rushed it.

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was soft.

Like you were learning each other again, slowly.

When you reached the hallway between your rooms, you slowed to a stop.

Chan didn’t say anything at first — just looked at you with a gentle tilt of his head.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, then hesitated. “It was a good day.”

He smiled — small, but real. “Yeah. It was.”

A pause.

Then, “You were right earlier, by the way.”

You narrowed your eyes. “About what?”

“Using carbs and emotional safety to get you to run the duet.”

You scoffed. “Unforgivable.”

“Effective,” he countered.

You laughed. That soft, tired kind of laugh that only happened at the end of a long day.

He watched you for a moment, then looked towards his door.

“You’ll be okay tomorrow before I get there?”

“I’ll survive. Just don’t forget the coffee.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

You nodded once, turning toward your own room, but his voice stopped you again.

“I’ll bring the hoodie too,” he said, tapping your sleeve gently. “Assuming you’ll be forced to give this one up to wardrobe.”

You tugged it tighter around yourself. “I might fight them for it.”

“I’ll back you up.”

You smiled — small, soft, tired.

Then walked inside.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like everything was falling apart.

────୨ৎ────

You’d been in the chair for nearly forty minutes.

The studio was still waking up — lighting rigs buzzing, cords being taped down, stylists quietly calling out for palettes and pins. Your makeup artist was focused on your eyes, gently blending shimmer along your lid, while the hair team worked on soft waves in your reflection behind her.

It was too early to talk.

Too early to think.

Your head was fogged, body stiff, and all you’d had so far was one sip of lukewarm coffee from the catering table before they’d whisked you into the chair.

6am had hit like a truck.

You were half wondering if you��d survive the day when a voice broke through the quiet, casual and just loud enough to be smug.

“You look like you’ve been here for hours.”

You blinked into the mirror — and there he was.

Chan.

Hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, coffee carrier in one hand, and the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You turned your head slightly, careful not to mess the makeup artist’s work, and gave him a flat look.

“It feels like it.”

He held up the tray like a peace offering. “With espresso, syrup and an apology that you suffered by yourself for 40 minutes.”

You reached for it immediately.

“Fine,” you murmured. “You’re forgiven.”

He smiled.

Not wide. Not smug anymore.

Just soft.

”I thought you weren’t supposed to be here until 8am.”

“Didn’t want you to start the day alone,” he said, quieter now. “Figured this was the least I could do.”

You didn’t answer.

You just kept sipping the coffee, letting the heat sink into your hands as he leaned against the counter next to you.

The air between you didn’t feel heavy anymore.

Just warm.

And as the studio bustled to life around you, lights flickering on, music testing through the speakers, stylists rushing past — you and Chan stayed in your little bubble of quiet.

────୨ৎ────

The morning passed in a blur of hands and voices, brushes and fabrics, the occasional sharp pull of pins and zippers. You’d been through countless photoshoots before, but something about this one sat heavier. Maybe it was the dress — long, light, and feeling far too bare. Maybe it was the silence. Or maybe it was the anticipation you didn’t want to name.

Chan had been whisked away at 8am on the dot for hair and wardrobe. You hadn’t seen him since.

The set was styled like a dream: hazy backlights, soft smoke curling at the edges, shadows and spotlights balanced to create something almost cinematic.

You were waiting near the edge of the backdrop, arms crossed and pretending the pins in your dress weren’t digging into your ribs.

“Too loose through the waist,” the stylist muttered behind you, adjusting the back. “You’ve dropped weight again.”

You opened your mouth to deflect it, but a familiar voice cut in from the other side of the set.

“She looks great.”

You turned.

And nearly forgot how to breathe.

Chan stood at the edge of the lights, dressed in layers of white, silver accessories catching the glow. His hair was styled perfectly — swept back but still soft around the edges, jaw sharp beneath the warm filters of the lighting.

You blinked once. Twice.

“You’re kidding,” you muttered. “You look like you stepped off the set of a K-drama.”

He gave you that small, knowing grin — the one that had once meant trouble and now felt like gravity.

“You’re not exactly subtle either,” he said, eyes lingering in a way that sent heat straight to your neck. “Beautiful doesn’t even cover it.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Flattery won’t make me forget you’re call time was two hours later than mine”

“Yes but don’t forget I got here earlier with coffee for you?” He offered.

You hummed in response.

“Coffee and compliments were my plan,” he said, stepping closer. “How am I doing so far?”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t move either.

The photographer clapped once, drawing your attention.

“Okay, everyone! Let’s bring them in.”

You both stepped into position beneath the lights.

Camera lenses clicked. Lighting shifted.

“Concept is tension and yearning,” the photographer said cheerfully. “Think unresolved. Think desperate. Like the thing you want most in the world is right in front of you, but you can’t have it. Got it?”

You and Chan both went still.

You turned toward him at the same moment he looked at you.

He raised an eyebrow, something dry and ironic sparking in his eyes.

You exhaled sharply, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Have they heard the song?”

”They know the general concept of it.”

The camera flashed.

“Subtle,” you whispered.

He leaned in slightly, his voice just as low. “It’s like they read your diary.”

You stifled a laugh, trying not to break the mood as the camera focused in. “I don’t have a diary, maybe they got hold of your laptop? Tell me, have you managed to forget it again and leave our entire discography behind somewhere?”

He snorted. “Maybe they installed cameras into the practice rooms?”

You dug your elbow into him.

And yet — the moment the shutter clicked again, and his hand brushed yours — it all came rushing back.

The practice room.

The hallway.

The way you’d kissed like you were drowning.

The way you’d pulled away like it nearly broke you.

And now — standing here, told to look at each other like you couldn’t have what you wanted most — it wasn’t acting.

It was memory.

It was truth.

And it took everything you had to keep it composed.

To hold his gaze without falling into it.

To not say I want this too much.

To not whisper we’re not done.

Because the camera was watching.

But so was he.

And your body remembered every moment you’d almost let go.

And now you were becoming surer than ever that you didn’t want to let him go again.

────୨ৎ────

The lights flashed again.

Shutter clicks echoed like heartbeats, the tempo only broken by the photographer’s exuberant voice slicing through the haze.

“Beautiful! That’s it! Yes — that’s what I want! Give me more of that unresolved ache!”

You blinked hard, willing your face not to react.

Chan shifted behind you, his hand ghosting along your waist, fingers grazing just enough to hold the pose — just enough to make your breath catch.

“Turn your head toward him,” the photographer called. “No, not too much. Just enough to suggest you’re afraid if you really look at him, you’ll break.”

You did.

You looked.

And immediately regretted it.

Because Chan was already looking at you.

And not just in character.

His jaw was tight. His eyes too soft. There was something in the way he watched you — restrained, careful, like every inch of him was fighting not to move.

Your breath wavered, just barely.

The camera clicked.

“Perfect!” the photographer crowed. “Now, back-to-back. Don’t touch yet — just let the energy simmer. That moment before you give in.”

You stepped into place.

Chan followed.

His arm brushed yours, but barely.

And still — you felt it everywhere.

You both exhaled at the same time.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, barely audible.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just let your pinky tap his, a soft press.

I’m still here.

The camera shutter snapped again.

“God, the tension,” the photographer moaned. “You two are ruining me. It’s like watching the finale of a drama where no one confesses until the last five minutes.”

Chan’s shoulder twitched with a laugh.

Your lips parted — a smile threatening — but you swallowed it.

Barely.

“Eyes closed,” came the next instruction. “You’re imagining what it would feel like to finally let go.”

You both obeyed.

And for a breath, a beat, a blink—

It didn’t feel like acting.

It felt like remembering.

It felt like wanting.

It felt like yesterday — your back against a practice room wall, his breath stuttering against your mouth, the two of you holding onto each other like the world was ending.

When the flash went off again, it startled you.

You blinked.

Stepped back too fast.

“Reset!” the photographer called. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you said, clearing your throat. “Just forgot to breathe.”

You glanced at Chan.

His gaze was steady.

But the corners of his mouth were twitching — not with a smile. With restraint.

And when the makeup artist stepped in to fix a strand of your hair, his hand hovered near your back without touching.

Close.

Protective.

Unspoken.

“Back into position, please,” the photographer called. “Same energy. You’re both so close to breaking — I can feel it!”

You rolled your eyes as you walked back to mark. “He’s very invested.”

“Little too much if you ask me.” Chan muttered as he joined you.

You looked at him, brows raised.

He looked right back.

No smile.

No tease.

Just held your gaze with a knowing look that made a shiver run down your back.

────୨ৎ────

You were back in the makeup chair again — touch-ups for the afternoon shoot, a second look that required more eyeshadow, more shine, more everything.

The stylist was pinning something new to your hair while the makeup artist delicately re-glossed your lips. You sat still, shoulders relaxed, but your stomach rumbled loud enough that the entire table of products vibrated slightly.

Someone snorted behind you.

“Should’ve known you’d skip lunch.”

You blinked into the mirror.

Chan stood behind the chair, holding a takeout bag with one hand and two chopsticks in the other. His shirt swapped for a hoodie, the sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, exposing forearms that looked far too good for how casual he was pretending to be.

“How long have you been there?” you asked.

“Long enough to know you haven’t moved in over half an hour.” He nodded toward the food. “Eat.”

You made a helpless gesture toward the makeup brush at your cheek.

He just stepped closer.

“I’ve got it.”

The stylist glanced at you with an amused smile but didn’t object. Chan cracked open the container and pulled out a pair of chopsticks with practiced ease.

The camera crew filming behind-the-scenes content caught the whole thing.

The way he blew softly on each bite before lifting it to your lips.

The way you rolled your eyes — but still leaned forward to eat it.

The way he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear while the stylist was focused on the pins on the other side.

The way he murmured, “Slow down,” when you chewed too fast.

And the way you didn’t even flinch when he wiped the corner of your mouth with a thumb and a napkin like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“What are they filming us for again?” you mumbled between bites.

“BTS of the shoot,” he said. “Mysterious chemistry, apparently.”

You snorted. “They’ll get more of you trying to spoon-feed me rice.”

“They’ll eat it up.”

“And then we’ll be trending again.”

He grinned. “Good. Maybe it’ll get rid of the rumours that we suddenly hate each other.”

You glanced at him sideways, watching the way he watched you.

Not like a secret.

Not anymore.

Just like someone who knew you — down to the way you’d lose your appetite when anxious, down to the moments you needed help but wouldn’t ask for it.

One of the staff called for Chan to get his wardrobe reset for the next series of shots. He started to move, then hesitated.

“You good?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Thanks for lunch.”

His hand brushed your shoulder — quick, light.

And then he was gone.

The behind-the-scenes camera stayed on you a moment longer.

Long enough to catch the way your smile lingered.

Long enough to capture something that wasn’t acting.

Not even close.

────୨ৎ────

The final shot clicked.

The lighting dimmed.

And just like that — it was over.

The staff began packing up lights, stylists shuffled wardrobe racks back toward the van, and the hum of the studio shifted from intense focus to end-of-day chatter. You stepped off the backdrop and slipped behind a screen to peel out of the final look, now pinned and stitched to fit you better than it had this morning.

When you stepped out in your own clothes — hair still styled, makeup softened — Chan was already waiting by the door.

He held up a hoodie.

Yours. Well — his, originally.

You took it without a word and slipped your arms into it.

His eyes followed the movement, something soft passing behind them.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “There’s a quiet corner in the back.”

You followed him down the hallway behind the set, past the dressing room mirrors and makeup stations. He opened a supply room door that had long since been cleared for extra seating and shut it quietly behind you both.

It was dim inside — just a small window letting in the end-of-day light, casting long shadows across the sofa and storage shelves.

You sat on the floor beside him, backs to the wall, both too tired to pretend anymore.

Chan tilted his head toward you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Tired.”

“You looked—” he paused. “You looked incredible today.”

You smiled faintly, curling your hands into the sleeves of the hoodie. “You didn’t look bad either. Very… brooding male lead.”

“Did my best.”

A quiet laugh settled between you.

And then silence.

But it was good silence.

Comfortable.

You leaned your head gently against his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Just let it happen.

After a long moment, you murmured, “It wasn’t acting.”

He was quiet.

Then — “I know.”

You let your eyes drift closed. “Do you think anyone noticed?”

“They noticed,” he said softly. “But I don’t think they understood.”

Your lips curved slightly. “Good.”

You stayed like that — shoulder to shoulder, the weight of the day pressing in, but for once it didn’t feel like too much.

“I didn’t think today would feel easy,” you said eventually. “Not after everything.”

“It wasn’t easy,” he said. “It was just… us.”

You turned to look at him.

And he was already watching you.

He leaned forward, his hand settling on the side of your face and softly pressed his lips to your forehead.

You say anything, just closed your eyes and leaned into the warmth of his hand.

You didn’t need to.

The quiet between you said enough for the rest of the evening

────୨ৎ────

Taglist: @rtyuy1346 @yxna-bliss @m-325 @imeverycliche @hynjnnie @mbioooo0000 @maddy24207 @brokendols-world @alisonyus @psychobitchsthings @thedanishprince @decaffeinatomi @geni-627 @linosgrape @river121798 @chaosandcandies @xxeiraxx @ateez-atiny380 @uhnanix @elzz123 @velvetstarss @miraculous-disaster @lveegsoi @lilkittenjenjen @joie-mills @lies-loki-and-mischief

[janeyseymour]

Smooth Like Whiskey- p5

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Summary: Your world is falling apart. Why would Melissa and Barbara do this to you? What are they even planning?

WC: ~1.9k

Melissa, despite knowing that she probably isn’t strong enough to handle your dead weight, lunges to catch you. After all of the pain you’ve already endured, she’ll be damned if she lets you hit the hard ground and hurt yourself more. She catches you with a grunt as she takes on the additional weight.

“Melissa, she’s okay,” Barbara tells her work wife, although she’d be lying if she said that she too wasn’t concerned at the way your body just gave out on you.

The redhead clings to you as she lowers you to the ground to the best of her ability. “How could she… How could she think that we were trying to hurt her?” Her voice cracks in the most heartbreaking way.

The kindergarten teacher sighs softly. “Sweetheart, you have to understand that right now, she feels like everything is collapsing in on her, and it is. It isn’t that she doesn’t trust you- us, all of us- it’s that she’s terrified. And I know the girl has hardly eaten lately.”

“But why would she think I was abandoning her?” your coworker whispers, and there are tears forming in her eyes. “I would never. I won’t ever.”

“She-” Whatever Barbara is about to say is interrupted when you slowly start to blink your eyes open. “She’s waking up, I told you she would be okay.”

Green eyes are the first thing you take in once you have some sort of clarity. Your heart begins to beat much more rapidly than it was.

“I’m fine,” you mumble when she starts to fuss over you. You do everything you can in your weak state to get away from Melissa, but she doesn’t budge.

“You are not fine,” she grits out as she continues to hold onto you with ease.

You continue to struggle. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to.” You try to sound as stern as possible, but it comes out as more of a whine.

“I don’t care what you want right now,” the redhead tells you. “You just passed out in the middle of my driveway. You need to rest, and you need to drink some water.”

No sooner is Janine crouching down next to you with a bottle of water and holding it gently to your lips. “Small sips,” she tells you quietly. “That helped me when I passed out at school.”

You listen to her instruction, but you stop immediately when Melissa begins to hold the water bottle to you instead of Janine.

“Keep drinking,” Melissa tells you. Then she turns to your other grade level partner. “I need you to go get Gregory to help me bring her into the house.”

You pause your drinking in order to fight back. “I don’t need Greg to help me into the house. And I’m not going in your house.”

“You’re injured, you just passed out, and you’re shaking so much that if I let you hold the water bottle yourself, it’d be all over both of us,” she deadpans. She turns back to the shorter woman. “Go.”

“I am not,” you protest. She just hands the bottle. When you start to shake with fervor, she just raises a brow as if to say, ‘I told you so’ before taking it back into her grasp. 

Gregory comes out of the house with a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, Jacob and Mr. Johnson following closely behind.

“You think I couldn’t do it!” Mr. Johnson is sighing.

“I think that this is a serious situation, and I want to make sure Y/N is okay as soon as possible,” the first grade teacher bites out, and that gets both of the other men to stop their fuss.

“Just pick her up,” Melissa instructs, and you immediately go to shake your head, but you stop when the world around you begins to spin.

Gregory looks uncomfortable with the idea, but a stern look from those determined green eyes has him squatting down with you and lifting you into his arms.

“Put her on the couch,” the redhead tells him as she struggles to stand. Jacob is at her side helping both her and Barbara up. The two dust themselves off before heading back for the house as well.

Ava, even she’s concerned for you, drapes a cool rag across your head once you’re laying down on the couch. “Just let us help you for once.”

Jacob comes in awkwardly with more damp cloths, and he places on on your burnt hand as Janine plants one on your stomach. Mr. Johnson makes himself useful by taking your shoes off and laying the cold rag on the burn spots on your feet.

You’re out of energy to fight this anymore, and you sigh and close your eyes.

It’s only once you’re asleep, and everyone knows that you’re asleep for a while now, that they begin to converse.

“This is a mess,” Melissa whispers, her eyes never leaving your frame. “Why- why would she think I’m against her in this?”

“Melissa, dear,” Barbara starts as she lays a gentle hand over her work wife’s. “She’s terrified right now, and while we all know that you were doing something to help her, she doesn’t know it like that.”

“But why would I run out on her?”

“You told me that I was not to tell her what was happening. She just thinks you ‘stepped out’, like you told me to say. I’m assuming she took that as you were running because you couldn’t handle it,” the kindergarten teacher explains.

“Sh-should we continue doing what we were doing?” Jacob points out to the cars. At Melissa’s head nod, the crew- even Ava, who isn’t trying to get out of work right now, makes themselves scarce. Gregory, Jacob, and Mr. Johnson head for the cars while Janine and Ava make their way back upstairs.

“I think you need to explain to her what’s going on when she wakes up,” Barbara states softly.

Melissa’s lips quirk to the side. “I guess. I just wanted it all to be a surprise.”

“I’m sure it still will be, but she needs some stability and grounding right now,” the kindergarten teacher says.

“And I’m going to give that to her,” the redhead says softly as she smiles down at you, still dead asleep.

It takes a long while for the Abbott crew to finish everything- especially without Melissa or Barbara to help direct the chaos, but once they do, they all go to head out.

“Thank you for your help, youse guys,” your coworker says softly. “I promise I’ll have some Italian treats in the break room next week.”

“Anything for Y/N,” Gregory wipes the sweat on his brow.

“If you need anything else, call Mr. Johnson,” Ava states. “I’m exhausted and in need of a bottle of wine.”

“Why you gonna volunteer me like that?” the custodian groans, but then he nods. “You need anything, you know where I’ll be.”

“Tell her we love her,” Janine tells the two veteran teachers on the couch with you.

“And that we’re always here for her,” Jacob calls as he’s pulled out of the house.

The door closes quietly, and Barbara and Melissa both sigh contently.

“Say what you want about our odd group, they all have some great heart,” the redhead grumbles. The kindergarten teacher feels inclined to agree silently.

Both of their eyes linger on you. “Should we wake her?”

“Let her sleep,” Melissa sighs softly. “If you need to go, I can stay with her for now.”

“I can stay, just let me text Gerald and tell him that I might not be home until late.”

By the time you wake up, it’s dark. It’s about as dark in the living room as it was when your eyes were closed. It takes you about half a second to realize that you’re in Melissa Schemmenti’s house still- that the soft snores you can hear from… is she over top of you? Oh… your head is in her lap- Melissa had moved you just slightly so she could sit on the couch with you while you were asleep. And the other snores coming from across the room? If you squint, you can make out Barbara Howard asleep in the arm chair.

Deciding that you just need to get out of here- you’ll find a hotel to stay in for the weekend so you can figure everything out- you sit up.

And then you realize that you don’t know where your purse is. Hell, your car is still sitting in the Abbott parking lot. The only thing that you have on you is your phone in your pocket.

You need to get out. You’ll call an Uber, or a Lyft, or… something. You don’t know. All you know is: you can’t be here. Not right now. You’ll get your things back… eventually… you hope.

So, with a soft sigh, you stand and make your way out of the house as quietly as you can. And you’re relatively successful until the carpet at the front door snags, and you curse quietly.

“Barb, stop making noise, so Y/N can-” Melissa’s sleep filled voice starts to say, but then she realizes that she doesn’t have your head in her lap anymore, and her eyes shoot open. They land directly on you. “Y/N.”

“I’m just leaving,” you tell her quietly, hoping to keep Barbara still sleeping. But your luck isn’t on your side (is it ever?) and the woman in the arm chair wakes too.

“Sweetheart,” the kindergarten teacher sighs out as she wipes the sleep from her eyes. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Yes I am,” you state finitely as you fix the rug. And the door closes behind you.

It takes all of two seconds for Melissa and Barbara to jam their feet into their shoes and come chasing after you.

“Y/N,” Melissa begs. “Please.”

“Why should I?” you ask as you sit on the curb, pulling up any sort of taxi app on your phone. “I heard what you said to Barb. ‘I told you not to bring her here.’”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” the redhead argues as she sits next to you. “At least not all of it.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The kindergarten teacher lowers herself to the curb as well, setting a hand on her work wife’s shoulder. “Melissa, you just need to tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

Green eyes look into yours. “I’ll tell you, but you have to come inside.”

“You can tell me here.”

“Inside,” Barbara steps in. “Come on, ladies. It’s far too cold to explain such a thing out here.”

“I- I’d better not,” you tell them, tears beginning to cloud your eyes. “I’ve already been enough of an inconvenience. I don’t want to impose anym-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence because the redhead who owns the house you’re now sitting in front of forces you to your feet and practically drags you into the house. She directs you up the steps and opens a door to a room you haven’t seen before.

Your eyes go wide.

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