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iamactuallysocute · 6 days ago

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SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 2

Pasta. Small talk. The period topic because it had to come too. Super senses. But you’re not exactly out of there yet. Less misfortune for you now, at least. Part 3 here

cw: menstrual cycle and talking about it, still implied fem reader, use of Y/N, another ton of cursing, Romance’s idea of flirting in general, could be a hard read there and there but it’s on purpose!! awkward conversations make the best relationships or whatever they say

AN: guys I promise this is not Romance and Abby centered, it’s just their nature to be always on your dick—y’all will get more of the others too, but they need time to come around!!

Honestly? They’re kind of dumb.

Not in a tripping over their own feet way. Not that dumb, but still not the sharpest knives in the drawer.

They’re good at this—the keeping you here part. The manhandling. The mind fuck that keep you pacing your room at night, jumping at the way Baby sometimes just… appears. They’re good at being demons. Good at playing with you like a cat does with a bird.

But smart?

That’s a generous word.

Abby, bless him, is basically the muscle brain ever. His biceps arrive before his thoughts do. And sure, he can lift you like a dumbbell and still smile, but when he talks? It’s like being dropped headfirst into a gym locker room.

Romance is smarter, in that street level, scammer way. He’s slick, talks fast, moves faster. But his brain is wired for one thing and one thing only: women. You. Them. Himself in the mirror. If it’s got a curve, he’s distracted. If it doesn’t, he’s bored. He can strategize, technically. He just doesn’t unless the reward is worth it.

Baby’s different. Not loud. Not muscular. Not flashy. But the thing is—he’s mean. Not necessarily with words, because Baby rarely speaks unless it’s worth it. But you feel it. The kind of low-level, ambient danger that simmers under that baby-faced grin. He’s not dumb. He’s just petty and doesn’t care to try harder than necessary.

He doesn’t need to know what the capital of Switzerland is when he knows how to make you panic with just a glance.

Mystery… Mystery is a different species altogether. Half-feral, part-theatre kid. You don’t know if he’s smart or not because he doesn’t talk. Just growls. Attacks. Watches you.

Never attacks you, though. Only the boys. Respect for that.

Once you saw him reading a book upside down. For twenty minutes.

And then there’s Jinu.

Your only real threat.

Because Jinu listens. He thinks. And unlike the others, he doesn’t laugh when you try to outsmart them. He watches you. Quietly.

He knew you were hiding a pin under your tongue before you even tried to pick a lock. He knew you were faking sleep before your breathing even slowed. He knew not to touch you when you were crashing out, not because he was scared of you—none of them are—but because he understood.

Understood the human part. The fragile, messy, emotional mess they’ve taken in and turned into their favorite little chew toy.

He might be the warmest.

The others mess with you because it’s fun.

Jinu’s the one who might actually understand what he’s doing to you.

You’re not even sure which is worse.

For an example, once you were walking past the kitchen, and you heard Abby in there, trying to explain to Romance why you can’t toast eggs.

“It’s not the same, bro.” he was saying, voice full of conviction. “Like, they’re both breakfast but one’s, like, a solid and one’s like… an egg.”

Romance, clearly entertained, just nodded. “Okay, but what if you did toast it, though? Like, what happens?”

You froze behind the doorway, staring into the middle distance.

You heard a wet splat. A hiss. A beep that did not sound like it should be coming from a toaster.

Baby walked past behind you, muttering, “Told them not to microwave the shell.” before disappearing.

You didn’t even have the strength to ask.

Smartest captors in history? Absolutely not.

Most dangerous because they’re unpredictable dumbasses? Tragically, yes.

And you’re stuck right in the middle.

Send help. Or maybe a better toaster.

Now though, the kitchen is quiet.

No distant grunting from Abby bench-pressing the living room coffee table. No bone-deep growls of Mystery body-slamming someone for breathing too loud. No Romance humming some song into your ear just to see if it’ll get you to slap him again (he lives for it).

Just you. And a pan. And some half-decent pasta.

The water hisses gently on the stove. You stir the noodles with a slow rhythm. It’s almost domestic. The life you once had before being stolen away.

You’d found the pasta by accident, digging through their absurdly stocked pantry—who even bought this stuff? You doubted any of them cooked. Or even knew what half the ingredients were.

So pasta it was.

Then, the sound of a door slamming open.

Laughter.

Footsteps.

“Angel?”

You don’t even have to turn. That voice is unmistakable. Smooth, way too close, Romance.

Then he’s right there, chin hovering just over your shoulder, arms caging you between him and the stove.

“Is that for me?” he breathes, voice dropping into a murmur that’s clearly meant to make your skin crawl—in a good way. “You shouldn’t have, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t.”

Then, “Y/N?”

This one’s louder. Dumber. Friendlier.

Abby.

He leans on the counter like he’s helping, but mostly just manages to look huge and tragically eager.

Romance sighs dramatically beside you, stealing the spoon right out of your hand. “This isn’t how you stir it.” he mutters, absolutely lying. “Let me show you. Elbows in, baby.”

You snatch it back. “I will strangle you with linguine.”

“Threaten me again.”

They’re unbearable.

Abby grabs a piece of uncooked pasta from the counter and crunches it loudly, nodding. “Mmm. Chef’s kiss.”

“I hate all of you.”

Romance presses in closer, whispering so only you can hear, “Say that again but slower.”

You elbow him in the ribs.

Then behind them, near the arch that leads into this part of the house, you catch movement.

Mystery.

You look at him. He doesn’t say a word—does he ever?—but he nods. He nods a little.

He wants pasta.

You blink. That… was actually really cute.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. They’re evil. Not just morally—they’re emotionally evil. Sadists with pretty faces. They’ve kidnapped you, tortured you, kept you trapped.

They shouldn’t get pasta.

But then your mind does that thing again—betrays you with kindness. You think of all of them, hundreds of years old and utterly brainless, probably never having had someone make them dinner just because.

When was the last time someone fed them with genuine love? When was the last time anyone saw them hungry and gave instead of demanded?

You don’t have to ask to know the answer.

So you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. But you reach for another pot anyway.

“Fine.” you mutter, already boiling more water. “But I swear to god, if one of you breathes on me while I cook, I will throw this spoon.”

Romance grins, settling back like he orchestrated the entire thing. Abby lets out a victorious whoop, clapping Mystery on the back, who merely blinks at him, probably wondering why humans—and their hybrids—are so goddamn loud.

They linger.

Abby tries to help by opening the jar of sauce like you’re weak. Romance throws a towel over his shoulder and starts calling himself “Chef Daddy.” Mystery does nothing, which is somehow the most helpful of all.

You keep cooking. Because fuck your empathy. And maybe fuck all of them too.

But also… maybe not yet.

Because Romance had this look on his face like he just caught scent of a very interesting meal.

It was you.

He leaned against the counter, spoon still hot from the pasta pot in your hand gently tapping at his shoulder, which he absolutely refused to take as a rejection.

You didn’t budge. Instead, you reached up with the spoon and nudged his forehead with it.

“Back. Off.”

He stepped back obediently—exactly one step. Then came right back in again, eyes dark and dancing. “Why? You’re so fun when you’re bossy.”

You shoved the spoon at his chest again. “I will put this boiling water in your pants.”

“I’d consider that pleasuring.”

“Out.”

“Make me.”

So you started to. Not seriously—more of a push than a shove, the spoon becoming your makeshift weapon as he kept leaning in, melting into your space. Every time you pressed him back, he’d disappear for half a second, then return, closer.

You shoved.

He smiled.

You swatted.

He leaned.

This went on for an embarrassingly long time.

It became a game. Not one you agreed to, of course, but it was entertaining. You pushed with the spoon, he came back with a wink. You stepped on his foot, he gasped, but it didn’t hurt him.

Abby didn’t help.

He stood by the fridge, watching with unreal levels of enthusiasm. Loved the show, really. Eating handfuls of raw pasta while at it.

Meanwhile, across the room, Mystery was sitting on one of the stools, elbows on the counter, watching the chaos with unsettling patience. Every now and then, he tilted his head slightly.

When you glanced at him, he blinked. Nodded.

“Don’t worry.” you said to him, half-exhausted, half-warmed by the tiny approval. “You’re getting your pasta. You’ve been good.”

Romance sighed, letting his head drop back. “God, I love it here.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, “I can tell.”

Then Jinu came into the kitchen too. After a shower, you’d guess, he looked fresh. Yeah, def a shower.

He was unbothered by the heat in the kitchen, or the chaos of Abby biting dried pasta again like a literal caveman. His eyes immediately went to the pot, then you, then Romance standing far too close with the grin of a man who had never been told no as many times as he had today.

“Everything fine?” He checked.

“I got harassed.” you replied dryly. “Repeatedly.”

Romance waved. “Hi.”

Jinu didn’t ask further. He never needed to.

Meanwhile, Baby finally showed up too—he was probably in his room—plopping down on the sofa with the smugness of someone who knew the pasta would appear eventually and refused to waste energy until then.

He didn’t say anything, of course. Just snorted at you as you turned back to the stove, one hand keeping Romance at bay, the other stirring the pot.

You were feeding demons now.

And they loved it.

“You know,” Romance purrs, voice smooth. “if you ever get tired of stirring that pot, I could give you something else to—”

You press the wooden spoon flat against his chest without even looking. “Do not finish that sentence.”

“Baby, I was just gonna say knead. For dough. You really think so low of me?”

You press the spoon to Romance’s forehead.

He lets it rest there, unbothered.

“I’d make it good, you know. I’m not all talk.”

He wants that cookie.

You shove the spoon against his mouth. “Back. Up.”

“Feed me and maybe I’ll consider it.”

Abby’s laugh booms in the background. He’s practically vibrating from how funny this all is to him.

Romance leans his chin on your shoulder. “We could have a normal evening too, you know. You and me. Candles. Lighting. Towels.”

You elbow him in the ribs, again.

But he doesn’t move. He just stays there, chin balanced lightly on your shoulder, humming quietly and beautifully to himself, spoon still resting against his lips where you’ve frozen mid-shove.

It’s ridiculous.

Romance drapes himself halfway across the counter now, cheek in one hand, the other idly tracing little circles in the air as he watches you with a look that says he thinks this is foreplay. Slow blinks. Loose lips. That permanently lazy, sinful smirk.

You jab the spoon into his chest and shove.

“Back.”

Romance stumbles half a step but returns instantly.

You do it again.

Push. He retreats.

Returns. You push.

Retreats. Back again.

“Oh, angel, so rough.”

Push.

“Is this what you’re into?”

Push.

“You and me, we could have rounds, baby.”

You pause at that one.

He grins. Real smug.

Yeah. He said it. Or no—offered it. Boldly.

He wants that cookie BAD.

(He absolutely needs that pussy I’m not even kidding.)

You jab the spoon harder this time, jamming it right between his ribs with a grunt. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hm.”

Abby’s behind him, absolutely wheezing, not even trying to hide how much he’s enjoying this little routine. He’s got one hand braced on the fridge, shoulders bouncing.

So that’s two pasta bowls. Well, three, if you count Romance, though he seems far more interested in eating you than anything with carbs.

You roll your eyes and keep stirring. This used to be your job, after all—feeding hunters. You were the background person. The gear girl.

Jinu moves past Romance and Abby—giving neither of them more than a glance—and reaches for a glass of water.

“I could help.” Romance says, leaning in like it’s a secret. “I’m good with my hands.”

You swing the spoon up so fast he flinches.

Abby cackles.

You turn your back to him just to focus on plating, but you’re smiling. Just a little. Because for all the bullshit, the teasing, the chaos—they’re… oddly easy to fall into.

Then, instinct. Like muscle memory, like the part of you that used to trail behind the girls and silently hand them this and that. The part of you that feeds people because that’s just what you do.

So even as you’re fighting off Romance with a spoon, your mouth betrays you.

“Do you guys want some too?”

Silence. Immediate. Unforgiving.

Even Romance pauses. That grin still carved across his face, but for a fraction of a second, he blinks—once—like he’s recalibrating something.

Your face burns.

Too late to take it back.

Jinu, standing near the sink now, glances up from his glass of water. His eyes find yours. Level. Patient. You brace for some kind of comment. Anything. A joke. A smirk. A deflection.

Instead, he just tilts his head slightly, and nods once.

“Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

That’s it.

Of course, the moment Jinu answers, Baby perks up from the couch. You don’t even have to look. You can feel it.

You glance over, and sure enough, he’s got that same unbothered look on his face. One knee pulled up on the couch, head resting against the back like he was born lounging. His chin lifts just slightly, that lazy sort of nod. Like he’s saying, “Yeah. Me too. I’m not about to say ‘please’ though.”

You sigh. “Okay. Pasta for five it is.”

Romance reaches out to touch your skin.

The spoon swings.

He dodges. Barely.

The garlic sizzles, sauce heating up in the pan. Mystery is still lurking by the counter, calm but observant. You wonder, sometimes, if he even eats human food. Or if he just likes the idea of it.

Meanwhile Romance is watching you with his chin propped in his hand and that usual look—smug, flirty, lazy. Except it’s not just lazy anymore.

It’s lingering.

The way you move, the little sounds you make when you stir the sauce, the way your nose wrinkles when you pout. You look like every girl he’s ever wanted to seduce and none of them at all.

He watches the way your shoulders roll when you lean over the counter, the way you slap Abby’s hand away when he wants to eat dry pasta again.

He could be in love with you.

Could be in love with you for a whole night in a king-sized bed for sure.

But also?

He’s starting to think he could be in love with you a little longer than that. A little slower.

His chest actually aches a little when you hum while plating the food.

He likes you in a way that makes him feel… young. Human. Almost stupid.

Abby, despite the meathead bravado and the shit-eating grins, watches you like someone who’s never really been taken care of.

He sees you move with purpose. The way you mutter numbers under your breath, checking the water levels, making sure everyone has a plate, a fork, a goddamn napkin. You’re on autopilot, maybe, but it actually means something to him.

You’re a little addictive.

He flexes near you sometimes. On purpose. Sure. He enjoys the way you roll your eyes and tell him his ego’s bigger than his chest. But deep down? There’s something grounding in you.

You’re tiny. Mortal. Fragile. But you got this way of swinging that spoon and facing five demons like you’re not even scared.

He likes that.

He doesn’t think about love. Not really. But if someone asked him to pick a girl to guard for the rest of his immortal life? Yeah. You’d be on the list.

He wonders if you’ll ever cook like this for someone who loves you. Really loves you.

And he kind of hates the idea that it won’t be him.

Mystery doesn’t understand half the shit you do. Not in a language sense—he gets the words. But the meaning, the little things, those human rituals, are harder.

Still, he watches.

You interest him. He’s never had anyone that close before, not without claws drawn, not without blood on the floor.

He watches how your chest rises when you sigh, how your fingers flinch when oil spits, how your neck tenses when the others crowd too close. He likes when you fight them off. That fire. That bite. You’re small, sure. Delicate, in that mortal way. That makes him feel better about himself.

He’s just watching. Not creepy. Not really.

Curious.

Your towel moment earlier still replays in his brain. The way your legs moved. How soft your thigh looked when you kicked Abby. He remembers softness. Barely.

You made him not want to snarl and want to snarl at the same time. Though the second one might be just because of all the new feelings.

Baby hasn’t said a word. Not a real one. He’s sprawled sideways on the couch with his knees up.

But he’s watching.

You don’t see it, not really. He’s good at being lazy. Detached. But every time you move, his gaze tracks you. He doesn’t flirt like Romance. Doesn’t joke like Abby. Doesn’t hover like Mystery.

He just watches.

And when you bend forward to grab the plates, the tip of your shirt riding up just an inch

Yeah. He’s looking.

You’re so… human. In the exact way he’s forgotten people could be. You breathe like someone who expects to wake up tomorrow. You speak like someone who knows how the world works. You make pasta.

He doesn’t even remember the last time he was fed without being manipulated.

Maybe he never was.

So yeah, he’s watching. And the look he wears isn’t just perverse. It’s intrigued. Interested.

You’re growing on him, whether he’ll ever say it or not.

And then there’s Jinu.

Still by the sink. Still sipping water, though the glass has been empty for a while now. He’s not thirsty. He’s thinking.

You’re an anomaly.

When he first saw you—struggling, kicking, furious in Romance’s arms—he figured you’d scream yourself hoarse and eventually give up. People collapse under pressure.

But you sulked. You bit. You kept making breakfast.

He sees it in your eyes—quiet intelligence, ruthless practicality, and something else he can’t quite pin. Compassion, maybe. That doomed, bleeding-heart sort of strength. It’s frustrating. Admirable.

And he feels something pull when you scrape sauce into the pan. Something small. Maybe stupid.

He’s glad it was you.

Out of all the humans. Out of all the possible options.

He’s glad you’re the one here.

He wonders, briefly, what your life might’ve looked like if none of this had happened.

And then he hates that he cares.

You click off the heat, twist your wrist, and scoop that steaming, creamy, cheesy pasta into mismatched bowls.

“Alright. Eat. Before I dump it all in the trash.” you say, loud and so fucking clear.

They’re moving.

You don’t even turn around to look anymore—you can feel them converging. Sharks to blood. Hyenas to bone. Fuckass demon boys to pasta.

Romance sighs loudly, arms up like he’s just come home from war. “Ugh, I knew I was in love.” he says to no one in particular, grabbing his bowl and practically moaning after the first bite. His idea of a thank-you. You roll your eyes so hard your neck cricks.

Abby ruffles your hair on the way to the counter—big hand, too warm. “You’re the best, short stack.” he grins, teeth gleaming, before lifting two bowls (his and Romance’s, obviously) with one hand and strutting off, Romance right behind him.

Mystery just slides up, grabs his bowl, and nods once—slow and respectful. A knight’s gesture. His way of saying, I won’t growl at you for the rest of the night.

High praise, honestly.

Jinu is last. He doesn’t rush, ever. But when he takes his plate, he meets your eyes again, gives a small smile—a real one, soft and rare like a whisper—and murmurs, “Thanks.” Just like that. Quiet. Real.

And then there’s Baby.

You glare at him already as you pass him his food, just because.

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t even nod. Just takes the bowl like it was owed to him, curls his pretty lips into that tiny, smug smile and stabs his fork into the noodles like he’s trying to kill it.

You mutter, “You’re welcome, Your Highness.” and storm off before you throw something at him.

You slip into your room and shut the door with your foot.

Click. Lock slides in.

The room is still warm from earlier. Your bed is unmade. The little hoodie you haven’t worn since the first week lies forgotten on the chair. You place your plate down, sit on the floor, and finally take the first bite.

Perfect.

But that’s not what gets you.

No, it’s the absurd realization—once again—that you just made dinner for five demon boys who kidnapped you.

And worse?

You’re the one who told them to eat.

You.

You did that.

Fucking hell.

And yet… you chew slowly. Rest your head back against the side of the bed. And breathe.

It’s quiet now.

For once, they’re not poking, teasing, calling through the door. No flirtatious taps, no dumb scratching, no towel-related things.

You can almost pretend for just a second that you’re here on purpose.

Like you’re a roommate.

Or a girlfriend.

Or…

No.

You stopped that now.

…

(idk how to make a timeskip w vibe)

It’s about an hour later.

The house is quiet now, blessedly dim. The kitchen has gone still, bowls left half-eaten in the sink because of course no one cleaned up. Baby probably tossed his fork onto the floor just to annoy others. Romance probably left his somewhere suspicious, like on the bathroom counter. Abby probably flexed at himself in the hallway mirror on his way to his room.

But none of that is your concern right now.

No, right now—you’re in your room.

Alone.

In peace.

Your sanctuary. Your cell. Same thing, honestly.

Oversized T-shirt that falls just barely past your hips and a thong. You’re not trying to be a slut, just comfortable. Your skin’s clean from a quick shower. Your limbs are warm and soft and your book is finally open in your lap, spine bent.

You’ve finally exhaled.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

You freeze.

You already know who it is. You don’t need him to say a damn thing. That knock is practically trademarked.

“Hey.”

Yep. Abby.

His voice is cocky, light. Way too familiar. “Can I come in?”

You stare at the door. Your face scrunches up like you just smelled something rancid. You don’t even get up.

“No!” you call out, still seated cross-legged with your book. “You can’t. I’m literally in a thong!”

THUMP.

A thud, really.

A full body collision with your door.

Followed by—

“FUCK—”

Groan. Pained.

That was Romance.

You blink. Your jaw drops. You clutch your book.

Did… did he just run into the door?

Did the word “thong” break his entire sense of spatial awareness?

Outside your door, there’s shuffling. Coughing. Romance muttering something like, “My fuckin’ nose” followed by Abby’s absolutely delighted, obnoxious laughter.

You can hear it so clearly.

There’s the sound of a scuffle outside. A shuffle again. Possibly a slap. You imagine Abby’s smacking Romance in the back of the head, because that’s definitely what you would do. You already know Abby’s face is pressed against the doorframe, smiling, arms probably crossed over that ridiculous chest of his.

You shut your book and slap it on your lap, expression blank. Then you shout again, louder this time “GO. AWAY.”

There’s a pause. And then: a muffled giggling sound. High-pitched. Unholy. Absolutely not okay.

You hear shifting.

A breath.

A low hiss like someone just whispered something they shouldn’t have.

You close your eyes and let your head fall back against your pillow.

They’re grinding into the fucking door, aren’t they.

You sit up just enough to yell, “I swear to God, if you’re humping the door, I’m out of here!”

From the other side, laughter. Messy. Guilty. Absolutely unapologetic.

“Just the idea of you in a thong, babe.” Romance groans. “Why would you say that? Why—why—would you tell me that?”

You glare at the door. “BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WOULD MAKE YOU GO AWAY.”

You sit there for a good one minute from that, doing your best impression of someone who is not highly aware that two overgrown demon boys are still stationed just outside your bedroom.

You don’t even try to read anymore. You know they’re out there even if they’re silent.

Romance had gone silent, but not gone. You know that much. And Abby? Abby has the subtlety of a grenade. You can hear the occasional, suppressed laugh. A little foot shifting. A deep sigh of exaggerated suffering.

You throw your blanket off with an annoyed grunt.

You’re so done. Beyond gone.

You stomp across your room in your stupid big shirt and even stupider thong, muttering curses under your breath. Fists clenched. Eyes narrowed. You reach the door. Breathe.

And open it.

Immediately, a body drops to the floor.

Romance, apparently, had been sitting right against the door. Probably with his ear pressed to it. Definitely waiting to ambush you with some stupid line or desperate plea. Instead?

Now he’s laid out on the hardwood, one leg awkwardly folded under him, hand still up like he’s trying to casually greet someone if u know what I mean.

His head turns. His eyes lift.

And there you are.

Standing over him.

Towering.

In nothing but your big shirt.

And your thong.

And his face is exactly level with the sacred, forbidden place between your thighs.

Romance gasps.

Like, literally gasps.

He’s not even trying to be subtle about it. You watch the awe crash over his face like a wave—lips parting, pupils dilating, body going completely slack on your floor. Utterly starstruck.

You don’t even cover yourself. You just blink down at him, tired. So, so tired. “Are you done?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are still locked on the space where your thighs part. You swear you can see the popcorn pop from his eyes.

“ROMANCE.”

He blinks.

“—Huh?”

“Get off my floor.”

He doesn’t move.

Behind him, leaning coolly against the hallway wall, Abby is just watching. Arms crossed. When he sees your eyes flick over to him, he raises a brow and smiles.

“Hey, cupcake.”

You step over Romance’s splayed body—he whimpers, actually whimpers as you do, and you don’t even ask questions anymore—and plop down onto your bed.

“Alright.” you mutter. “What do you want?”

Abby shrugs and walks in. He flops down beside you, his weight making the mattress dip, knees spread, like this is his bedroom too and you’re just the guest.

Romance finally drags himself off the floor, but not before another try of sneaking one last look under your shirt. He gets an angry look from you for that. Not that he minds. Probably because of it.

Then he slides onto the bed too, flopping dramatically across the mattress. His arm brushes yours. His skin’s warm. His head lolls onto your shoulder and he sighs, dreamy.

You should tell them to leave. You should throw them out. But they’re warm. They’re here. And for once, they’re not demanding, or teasing (well, not a lot), or plotting.

They just… wanted to be around you.

They’re not here to flirt.

They’re not even here to torture you, mess with your head, or demand information through grinning teeth and “accidental” touches.

They’re just… here.

With you.

And they don’t know how to do it.

Romance, still curled at your side like he’s never sat this close to another living thing without grinding against it, shifts and says:

“So, uh… how do you feel about… blood?”

You blink. Look at him.

He blinks too.

Abby chokes on a laugh. “Dude. No.”

“What? That’s a conversation starter.”

“That’s a fucking threat, man.”

Romance frowns. “I’m trying.”

You sigh. Push his forehead gently back with two fingers. “You sound like you’re trying to eat me.”

Romance’s eyes sparkle. “Would that work?”

“NO.”

“…Okay but if I said it softer—”

“Romance.”

“Alright.”

They fall into silence again. Not the heavy kind. The awkward kind. The what do we say now kind.

And it hits you:

These ancient, powerful demons who’ve probably fought gods, torn souls from bodies, destroyed empires—don’t know how to have a normal conversation.

They’re smart in ways that count when there’s fire and blood and strategy.

But here? In a bedroom?

Absolutely no idea what they’re doing.

They don’t say it outright—god forbid they ever just say what they want—but it becomes clear pretty quickly: they didn’t come in here to grope you, tease you, or steal your panties for some demented demon ritual. (Although if you left them out, you’re pretty sure at least two of them would still risk it.)

No, they just… wanted to hang out.

“So… do you, uh… eat?” Romance asks, voice unsure, like he’s never asked a real question before and isn’t sure he’s doing it right. “Like, for fun?”

“…What?”

Abby snorts.

Romance frowns. “You know. Like… just… eat? Even if you’re not, like, starving?”

But his face is earnest. So serious. So confused.

You realize it’s a genuine question.

They’re trying.

Clumsily. Awkwardly. But really trying to have a normal, human conversation with you.

And failing.

So painfully failing.

Abby adds something next, equally off the rails: “Do you… sleep flat?”

“Like, on your back?” Romance says, suddenly invested.

You blink twice. “Do I what?”

Abby shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Just wondering.”

This isn’t torture. This isn’t manipulation. This is… two demon boys who don’t know how to people.

They’ve been around humans before. Of course they have. They’ve scared them, maybe seduced a few. But this? Not a chance for them.

“I can teach you.” you say softly, watching them both lift their heads like dogs hearing a treat bag crinkle.

Abby’s brows arch. “Teach us what?”

You smile, gentle and a little mocking. “How to talk to people. Like… humans.”

Romance sits up, leaning in like you’ve just told him the meaning of life. “You’d do that?”

You shrug. “You want to know, don’t you?”

They nod.

“Okay.” you say, folding your legs under you and facing them fully. “First step, small talk. Start with something simple. Like ‘what’s your name,’ or ‘what’s your favorite color.’”

Romance blinks. “…That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That feels stupid.”

“That’s the point.” you say. “It breaks the ice.”

Abby leans in now, elbows on his knees, studying your face. “Alright. You’re the expert. Let’s see it.”

You smile sweetly. “Ask me something.”

Romance clears his throat. “…What’s your name?”

You grin. “You already know my name.”

He glares. “I’m practicing.”

“Okay, okay.” you laugh. “Try again.”

He nods solemnly. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“What’s your favorite… animal?”

You tilt your head, considering. “Hmm… cats, maybe.”

Abby is watching you with a rare softness. “…Do another one.”

“Alright.” You think. “Ask about hobbies. What do they like to do in their spare time.”

Romance cocks his head. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“I like…” You pause. “Stand up paddling. SUP. Have you ever heard of that?”

Both of them stare at you.

“…S’what now?” Abby finally asks.

“SUP. It’s like a big board. You stand on it. Paddle across water. Lakes, the ocean, whatever.”

“That’s… real?” Romance asks.

You nod, grinning. “Very real. I love it.”

They both just… watch you. And not in a gross way. Not even in that I want to undress you with my eyes way Romance usually leans into.

They’re watching you like you’re the moon. Like you just said something impossibly beautiful, and they don’t know what to do with it.

“If you want to talk to a human girl—or anyone really—you start by asking something normal. Like… what music they like. Or what they had for breakfast.”

They both blink. That’s it. Just blink.

“…You ask people what they ate?” Abby asks, genuinely confused.

You nod. “Small talk.”

Romance looks concerned. “Isn’t that just a weird way to track someone’s dietary weaknesses?”

You groan. “No, it’s not about poison, oh my god.”

They watch you like children learning how to hold a crayon.

You soften.

Okay. So they’re terrible at this. But they’re trying. In their own… wrong way.

And that—that does something to you.

So you sit back against your headboard, legs tucked under you, and begin teaching them how to talk.

“Okay.” You clear your throat. “When you want to talk to someone, especially someone you… like” you choose your words carefully “you ask about things they care about. Things that make them light up. Memories. Hobbies.”

Abby raises a hand.

You squint. “Yes, muscle-for-brains?”

He grins. “What if the thing I care about is you?”

You groan, but can’t quite hide your smile.

Romance leans in closer. “Okay, okay—so like, I should ask you… what makes you happy?”

“Exactly.” you say, stunned he got it. “That’s actually… yeah. That’s right.”

He beams. And it’s annoyingly beautiful. His eyes crinkle. His lips curve.

“Damn, I’m good.” he says proudly.

“Don’t get cocky.”

Too late.

You look between the two of them and sigh again. But this time, there’s something warmer in your chest. Like… pity, almost. But gentler. Familiar. Like watching stray cats try to figure out how to meow at the right pitch to get someone to feed them.

“Alright.” you say. “Let’s practice. Abby, ask me something a normal person would ask someone they like.”

Abby sits up a little straighter.

He thinks. Really thinks. You can almost see the gears creaking in his skull.

Then, with all the confidence in the world:

“If you were an animal, would you let me ride you—”

“Try again.”

“Okay. Fine. Uhh…” His expression softens just enough that it surprises you. “What’s the best thing that’s happened to you this year?”

You pause.

Then blink.

Huh.

“That’s actually… really sweet.” you murmur.

Romance nods. “Yeah, man.”

You smile. And you answer, just a little. Just enough to let them practice. They listen. Like, really listen. And when you give them a pointer—“don’t interrupt,” “smiling helps,” “use their name sometimes”—they actually nod, soaking it up like sponges, eyes wide, brains buzzing.

Romance, who usually can’t keep his eyes above chest level, is just… listening. Watching your mouth move. His hands still for once.

Abby, isn’t smiling now. He’s watching. And when you catch him doing it, he doesn’t look away.

“Okay.” you say after a small breath, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you glance between them—two demons sitting awkwardly on your bed, desperately trying to look casual and not like they’re both on the verge of falling in love with the same girl. “Now it’s your turn to answer.”

Romance perks up immediately, cocky little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ask me anything.”

Abby just nods, one arm slung lazily over his knee.

“Alright.” you say, drawing in a breath. “What’s your favorite color?”

Romance: “Red.”

Abby: “Black.”

You blink. “Alright. What’s your favorite food?”

Romance immediately: “Whatever you’re cooking, baby.”

You shove him lightly, biting back a smile. “Seriously.”

Abby hums, thinking. “I had pizza once. It was… stupid good.”

You blink. “You’ve had pizza?”

“I’ve been around.”

You try not to picture that. The demon boys—scattered across decades, slipping in and out of cities, tasting food for the sake of curiosity, hunger, or just to feel something. It’s weirdly intimate, knowing that some of their experiences are so… ordinary. And still out of reach.

“And you?” you ask Romance.

He leans in a little. Not to flirt, not this time. Just… leaning. Like he wants to be closer to whatever this is.

“I remember once,” he says slowly. “there was this stall at a market in… I don’t know, Prague maybe? Early 1800s. Meat pies. They were greasy. Burned my tongue. I liked that.”

You study him for a second. The way his lashes lower just a touch.

“How long ago was that?” you ask gently.

He shrugs. “A while.”

You nod.

Abby watches you with quiet eyes. He hasn’t said much. Maybe because he doesn’t know how. He’s all strength, sure, but even now you can see it—that lost-boy softness under his armor. The way his shoulders settle just a little when he looks at you.

So you ask him something next. “What do you like to do for fun?”

He snorts. “Fun?”

You nod, a small smile on your lips. “Yeah. Not fighting. Not seducing. Not soul-selling. Fun.”

He looks down, thinking hard. And it kind of breaks your heart that it’s hard.

Romance takes over. “He likes lifting heavy shit.”

“I like punching Romance.” Abby mutters.

You laugh. “That’s a hobby?”

Abby finally meets your eyes. “It is when he squeals like that.”

“Bitch.” Romance murmurs, shoving him, and you giggle.

They’re not just bad at human conversation. They’re bad at being human. Period.

Somewhere between the centuries of war and death and demon deals and killing things, they forgot. They forgot how to talk without needing something. How to touch without taking. How to exist without destroying.

And it shows.

It shows in the questions they ask. In how slow they talk. In the way Romance stares at your lips a little too long, not because he’s being a flirt but because he’s trying to figure out how you make words sound so soft. In the way Abby looks down when you smile, like it’s too bright, too much, like he’s not worthy of being seen by something that pure.

They’re so old. You feel it.

Not in their faces. Not in their bodies. They’re still stupidly hot, of course but, they’re tired.

So tired.

You wonder when the last time was they sat on a bed just to talk. You wonder if they even remember what normal feels like. You wonder if—

“You alright?” Romance asks suddenly, tilting his head, brushing his knuckles against your knee.

You blink, coming back to now. “Yeah. I just… I was thinking.”

You don’t blame them. Not really. Even after everything. Even after the kidnapping, the torture, the mind games, the way they keep you like a pet in a house you can’t escape. Because you see them now. A little clearer.

You’ve always been too soft for fucked up things.

“What else?” Abby asks, voice quiet now.

“Ask someone what they love.” you say, swallowing a lump in your throat. “That’s a good one. What they love doing. What makes them feel like themselves.”

And the room goes still. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… quiet. Like they’re both thinking the same thing.

That they don’t know the answer.

That maybe they haven’t felt like themselves in a long, long time.

And you sit there between them, quietly wondering… if demons can fall in love the way humans do.

And if so—

Are they starting to?

You sit back, resting your palms on your lap, the hem of your oversized shirt draping over your thighs.

“You guys are actually really fun, you know?” you say, words a bit shaky from the weight of your honesty. “I know that’s not the goal here or whatever, and I know none of us asked to be in this whole situation, but… you’re funny. And weird. And charming.”

Romance’s mouth opens like he’s about to make a joke out of that, but nothing comes out. Just this little twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Abby looks surprised. Not stunned. Just… touched. Like maybe he hasn’t heard a compliment that didn’t involve his biceps since the civil war.

You glance down at your knees, then back up, slowly. “I mean it. You make me laugh. And you make me feel… less alone in this, I guess. And this—” you wave your hand in the space between you “—this is communication, too.”

They both blink.

Romance squints slightly. “What is?”

“This.” You gesture again. “What I just did. Sharing feelings. Being honest. Not in some dramatic, cry-on-the-floor way, just… expressing something real. It’s a kind of language.”

“Oh.” Abby says slowly. “So that counts?”

You nod. “That is communication. Just like when someone tells you what they like, or don’t like. Just like when they laugh at your jokes. It’s all part of… understanding someone. And being understood. I think you can be good at this.” you say softly. “You’re just… rusty. Out of practice. Maybe no one ever taught you how.”

They’re quiet again.

You glance toward the clock. Then flop back on your bed with a sigh, resting your head against the pillows.

“I’m also communicating,” you say after a beat, one arm thrown dramatically over your eyes. “that I’m tired.”

They both blink.

Romance points at you. “That’s communication?”

“Mhm. This one’s going to kick you both out in a second.”

But they don’t move. Not yet.

They just sit there—on your bed, in your space, in your warmth—looking at you like maybe the last few hundred years didn’t make sense until this exact second.

Romance’s brows pull together like he’s got something stuck between his teeth—something that might be a thought, or a feeling, or both. “So like… how do you know when you’re communicating too much?”

You raise an eyebrow. “When the other person stops listening.”

They both nod slowly, absorbing that.

Then, as if choreographed:

Romance: “I’m listening.”

Abby: “Me too.”

You groan. “I’m tired. This is me saying leave. This is me—communicating.”

Romance puts a hand to his chest. “I respect that.”

And then lies back beside you on the bed.

Abby follows, sitting against your headboard.

You sit up halfway, eyes narrowed. “This is not respecting anything.”

Romance grins, eyes already closed. “Just communicating how comfy your bed is.”

Abby lets out a deep breath. “Communicating how I might nap.”

But you don’t tell them to go again. Not yet. Because maybe you like teaching them. Maybe you like the feeling of giving something small and kind to creatures who’ve only known blood.

Maybe… this is your own form of rebellion.

So you reach over, grab your pillow, and throw it over Romance’s face.

…(cutie timeskip again guys how do I make it look good w this form of writing paragraphs)

They had slept in your bed. You had every intention of kicking them out. You swore you would. And then… warmth. Just a little shoulder pressed into your back. A breath falling slow and steady beside your neck. A chuckle that rumbled into your spine. It was nice.

They didn’t even try anything, for once. Though Romance had definitely tried to stretch that definition when he asked you, point blank, “so… does spooning count if there’s tongue involved?” He got a pillow to the face for that, obviously. But otherwise that, they just stayed close. They liked you. You could feel it in the way Romance stilled when you shifted in your sleep, like he was ready to grab you if you fell off the bed. You could feel it in the way Abby woke up before you and pulled the blanket a little higher over your body, like his muscles had finally found a use other than threatening or flexing.

It was… hard to process, actually.

Romance curled into your back, breathing softly against your neck and humming now and then like he was thinking of a song only he could hear. Abby had been your wall, broad and solid, warmth radiating off of him. You didn’t speak much. None of you did. There wasn’t really anything to say.

But god, it had been nice.

You’d woken up warm too, with one leg flopped over Romance’s hips, Abby’s hand lazily curled around your wrist even in his sleep. Neither of them commented on it in the morning. Just… yawned, stretched, and let you walk away.

That was two days ago.

You don’t let yourself think about it too long. Here you are again, crossing through the living room on your way to the sauna.

You’ve got a towel tossed over your shoulder, a bottle of water in one hand, and your flip-flops make quiet thwack-thwack sounds on the floor. You’re in your comfiest shorts and a top that might be a little too fitted, but you’re past caring. It’s your me-time.

You glance up as you pass Baby, slouched on the corner of the couch like a little prince. He looks like he doesn’t give a single fuck about your existence, and yet… his eyes are locked on you. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. But he’s listening. You know it. You don’t bother saying hi. Neither does he. That’s the rhythm between you two.

Jinu’s in the kitchen, doing something quietly, back turned.

A tug on your leg.

You freeze mid-step.

There’s a hand on the fabric of your shorts, right near your thigh, tugging just enough to make you stumble. You turn slowly, your towel sliding slightly down your shoulder.

Mystery.

He’s curled on the couch, one leg up, looking up at you.

“How was your day?” he asks.

And your heart? It does this stupid thump thing, because this is Mystery. The one who growls more than he speaks. Who communicates in grunts, body checks, and the occasional perfectly-timed, absolutely terrifying death stare.

God. Okay. You breathe out a laugh that comes out a little breathless. He’s trying. He’s actually—trying.

“It was… fine.” you say softly, eyes narrowing just a little. “Yours?”

He opens his mouth, pauses, seems to forget what words are—and then his head darts sideways, toward the hallway.

You follow his gaze.

Romance and Abby are standing just far enough down the hall to be out of sight for you, but not for Mystery. Both of them pressed flat to the wall, not even hiding the way they’re watching like proud moms.

Romance gives a big, exaggerated thumbs up.

Abby nods like he just watched his kid graduate college.

You look back to Mystery. He hasn’t moved. Still holding the edge of your shorts, still looking like you might eat him if he messed this up.

Oh. Oh.

They taught him.

They used the shit you taught them and passed it along. Mystery, who probably had never asked someone about their day without also threatening to eat them, had practiced this. Had agreed to it. Had tried.

Your chest tightens with something warm. Too warm.

“It was actually a little boring.” you say, crouching down just enough to make eye contact. “I read. Napped. Thought about breaking a few things. But now I’m going to the sauna.”

Mystery nods, slow and satisfied.

And then, miracle of miracles, he lets go of your shorts.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too much. “That was small talk, you know. You did it.”

He tilts his head. “Was it good?”

“Yeah.” you say, genuinely. “It was really good.”

Mystery leans back, curling his leg underneath himself again. You watch as his fingers twitch, like maybe he’s already mentally rehearsing what he’ll say next time.

You shoot one last glance down the hall.

Romance is clapping silently. Abby does a little victorious fist-pump before turning and vanishing from sight.

You keep walking.

Since that, life had been… weirdly manageable for the last couple of days. You’d found a rhythm: dodging Mystery’s curiosity, swatting Romance away with wooden spoons, pretending not to notice when Abby flexed on purpose just because you happened to be walking by, letting Jinu pretend he wasn’t watching you. Even Baby, asshole that he was, started giving you something like respectful silence. Not kindness—but he hadn’t licked your spoon just to piss you off in like, three days. A record.

Until you got your period.

You sat there on the edge of your bed for a full five minutes, blinking slowly into the void, your body already starting to get that annoying cold-sweat feeling. You debated it. Debated and debated it until there was nothing left but the obvious.

You have to ask.

You have to ask Jinu to go buy you tampons.

Because he is the only one out of the five who would a) not flirt with you during this humiliating mission, and b) actually come back with the right size and not lube or condoms just to be funny. Romance would definitely buy you a vibrating tampon “for the experience.” Abby would get lost in the aisle. Baby wouldn’t go. Mystery would growl at the store clerk and end up on a watch list.

So. Jinu it is.

You pull on a hoodie over your too-large sleep shirt, dragging your feet down the hall. His door is half open, of course—he has that habit, always just slightly ajar.

You knock anyway.

“Jinu?”

“Come in.”

You do, hands wringing at the sleeves of your hoodie, eyes not quite meeting his. He was sitting on the bed, elbows on knees, phone in one hand. Calm. Alert.

That bigass cat/tiger is next to him, watching you. You like that fatass but haven’t really had the chance to interact with it yet. It comes up to you sometimes. You talk to it. It walks away. That’s the usual rhythm.

“Hey.” you say, almost sweet. “So, um. This is kind of awkward, but…”

Jinu just raises a brow. “You need something.”

“Yeah.” you say. “Kind of a… girl thing. I mean, obviously. I just—could you maybe go out and get me—”

“You’re bleeding.” he says, not unkindly. Just… factually.

You pause. “Oh. So you believe me?”

Yeah, you might have tried to pull the period card a few times to escape. Obviously, it never worked.

He sets the phone aside. “I can smell it.”

“Oh.”

Jinu just looks at you, serene as always, and adds, “We all can.”

FUCK YOUR LIFE<33

You groan into your hands, your entire body folding in on itself. “That’s disgusting.” you mumble.

“It’s biology.” Jinu replies.

You peek up at him through your fingers. “So what, everyone’s been just… casually aware?”

“Probably. They haven’t said anything.”

“Oh good.”

“I’ll go.” he said, already reaching for his jacket.

You exhale, finally letting your body slump against the doorframe in relief. “Thanks, Jinu.”

“You’re welcome.” he says. “Take something for the pain while I’m gone.“

“I owe you.”

And then he left, just like that.

Jinu, please come back fast.

You made it back downstairs somehow. You didn’t know how. You disassociated at some point around the base of the staircase and came back to yourself in the kitchen.

Of course, that’s when Baby walks in, gives you a once-over, snorts, and keeps walking. Not a word. Not a single syllable. Just that awful, knowing look. The smugness.

Followed by Mystery, who tilts his head slightly in your direction and does that sniffling thing you now recognized was NOT a cold.

You want to cry.

And then.

Then came the worst.

Romance.

Leaning on the fridge.

“Y’know,” he said casually. “some cultures think it’s a sacred time.”

You don’t even look up.

“I will hit you with a tampon. Don’t test me.”

“Do I get a choice in where?”

“Romance.”

“Fine, fine.” He raises his hands in surrender. “Just saying. Nature’s got you glowing.”

You reach for the nearest spoon.

He backs off immediately, chuckling all the way down the hall.

Abby, mercifully, hadn’t shown up yet. Probably off lifting a car or doing squats with Mystery on his back. That was good. Abby was not known for his subtlety. You did not need to hear anything about “female cycles” in that big golden retriever voice of his.

Jinu, true to his word, returned an hour later.

He told you he asked a lady there and fans followed him around.

God.

Fuck him for being good at everything.

This life was ridiculous.

But the heating pad worked wonders.

Anyways, quick topic change,

Humans were foolish. That had always been true.

Weak, irrational, predictable, full of desires they couldn’t control and attachments they couldn’t explain. Obsessed with meaning, choking on dreams. And the boys had learned that the hard way, over and over again. Humans screamed and cried and made art and made love and still, in the end, they died as soft and breakable as they had arrived.

So yes. They were above most humans. Far above.

They couldn’t afford to love humans. Not anymore. Because loving something that would die before you even began to understand it? That was suicide on a hundred year timer.

But you made silly expressions when the stove was too hot. You muttered sarcastic threats when they teased you. You tried to cut fruit perfectly symmetrical. You thought of everyone else before yourself and cursed yourself for it later. You were soft in a way that didn’t weaken you, but opened you instead. You spoke gently when they were awkward. You taught them things without mocking them. You saw the worst of them—kidnapping you, locking you up, testing you—and you were still nice. You helped them learn how to ask, “How was your day?” And maybe, for you, it was just a moment. A kindness. A lesson you offered like a flower you didn’t mind giving away.

But for them?

That was the first goddamn flower they’d held in centuries.

Romance told himself that it was just lust. At first.

Of course it was. He was Romance. He lusted. He loved. He prowled.

He would’ve hit it, honestly. He’d hit it seven times in one night in a king-sized bed with candles and jazz and let you ride his face into the afterlife.

It had started with your face. Sure it did. He’d been watching you since the night he dragged you out of that shower, your mouth open in shock and your wet hair dripping down your back as he told you, so gently, so intimately, to speak or be stolen.

You hadn’t spoken. He’d never loved you more.

That was new.

And exciting.

Abby, sweet dumb Abby with muscles for brains and that golden glow that always made you sigh.

He didn’t get his feelings. He didn’t try to.

He’d been worshipped before. Respected. Feared. Adored. But he started standing taller around you. Tried to be funnier. Nicer. Lighter.

He just liked seeing you move. You were so small, so alive. Tbh he missed when you used to run. That first week? When you’d slip out of your room in the middle of the night, sprinting barefoot down the hall? When he’d catch you, laughing like a fucking idiot, spinning you around while you kicked and screamed and cursed him?

Yeah. He missed that.

He liked what he liked, and what he liked was you.

He knew that when you smiled—like, really smiled—it made him want to do pushups until the world ended.

And that he couldn’t say no to you. Ever. Not even once.

He didn’t have the words for it, not the way Jinu or Romance would. But he knew this: you made him feel full in a way taking souls never did.

Mystery didn’t process it like the others. He just… stared.

You were interesting. You moved differently. You didn’t fear him, even when you should have. Even when he growled, bit, scratched—tested your patience—you treated him like a person. Not a weapon. Not a dog. Not a threat.

He followed you without meaning to now. Watched you stir your coffee. Tried to figure out why your heartbeat changed when you read romance books. Sniffed at your shampoo when you walked by.

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

And when you answered his awkward “How was your day?”—his first ever attempt at small talk—he felt something shift in him. Something… warm.

Something that hadn’t existed in him for a very long time.

Baby would never say anything.

Ever.

Not to you, not to them, not even to himself.

But he watched. He always watched.

You were good. A much better person than him.

He still wouldn’t thank you. Still wouldn’t talk about it. But when he walked by you in the hallway and bumped your shoulder with his as lightly as possible?

That was something.

He didn’t talk to you much, no. But he listened. He always listened. And the fact that he’d now killed three spiders for you without a word?

Total love language.

Jinu… Jinu didn’t fall.

He chose.

And in you, he saw something—bright, determined, stubborn and sweet. Something unselfish.

He didn’t think it was love. Not yet.

But it was something.

And in all the centuries he’d walked this cursed earth, there hadn’t been many somethings worth keeping.

You? You might be the first.

They were demons.

Older than a lot of religions. Tired of the cycles. So tired.

And then came sweet, stubborn, soft hearted you.

They had no business loving you.

What could a human ever offer them?

What did you matter, with your little hands and your sleep-stuffed eyes and your soft, stubborn heart that kept beating even when they broke it open a little?

You didn’t even fight them anymore. Not the way you used to, at least. There was no more throwing things at their heads, or trying to crawl through the vents (twice, and Mystery bit you the second time), or crying to be let go in that hoarse, desperate way that used to make Abby’s jaw clench.

Now you woke up quietly. You padded around the apartment with tired, careful feet. You cooked. You spoke softly. You answered questions with dry sarcasm and patience that stretched longer than they deserved.

You were sweet.

Too sweet.

And that sweetness did something to them that centuries hadn’t.

But how long can they keep that to themselves?

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy

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

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obeythebutler · 2 months ago

Text

Ways in which You, the MC, raise the Characters Blood Pressure

All characters, except Luke

Cw: suggestive, spoilers and lesson 16 mentions.

Lucifer

You arranged the bottles of liquor in his study. It is order, you claim. In height and color, but for Lucifer it is chaos. It is a mess, he declares, his hands having to re-route every time they search for the intended bottle.

You do not wear weather-appropriate clothing. Look at the waistcoat on him, MC, with gloves and a dramatic flair which mimics a peacock. It is about to snow, and you do not have a jacket on. You're not cold, you affirm, but the goosebumps on your skin say otherwise. What a pity, here, have his coat.

You send him those god-awful, brainrot reels on Devilgram and expect him to watch every single one. Not his feed, not his brick, but it is there thanks to you.

You decide to climb the shelves to reach for the jar of choco-chip cookies. Yes, demons are taller, but please just use a stepping stool or ask for assistance. Imagine his plight when he walks into the kitchen half-dead from exhaustion and sees you scaling the shelves like a monkey, feet and hands gripping the wood for dear life.

You act flamboyant. Not too much, but with your head held high and that smirk on your face, fully aware of your capability and achievements, throwing him a sly glance as he takes the coat off your shoulders at a ball in the Demon Lord's castle. It gets him weak.

You participate in his brothers tomfoolery. They decided it would be a great idea to rearrange the dining room's furniture. Everyone is bickering about the ideal placement, there are streaks on the floor, and is that fire???!!! Mammon he can string up in the living room, Satan and Belphegor can be on bathroom cleaning duty, but you—what does he even do with you?? When you sheepishly apologise and give that godforsaken smile, he has no choice but to relent.

You get a little too buddy-buddy with Solomon. He's from the human world, sure, it is natural to bond with one of your kind, but when he sees you two together with almost identical smirks on your faces his brows furrow. In resignation. And a little bit of trepidation. What are you planning, MC?

Mammon

You threatened to take away Goldie when he did not listen to you. Stack it away nicely in a place where he can't reach it. Maybe the freezer. Maybe the toaster. He doesn't know.

You run headfirst into danger. Listen, Mammon knows you are very strong. Capable and headstrong. But please, please, MC, thats an Abyss Snake! Those creatures have venom so potent it can obliterate demons, and you are a human! Blessed, even though, but still, have some consideration for his heart before he runs after you, who is insistent on petting it.

You get a little too close to others. Nothing wrong with that, but his brain can't stop but cry out in protest. Biology deems it so. He's your first man! Don't you forget it! Lesser demons don't get too close though, because his scowl is enough of a warning. And he's not just all bark. Second-oldest, don't you forget.

You own him. Others demons trying to get close to him, subtly trying to slot their bodies against him at a club, or even in public. You glare and with ease tug Mammon towards you, until your lips nearly touch, intent on showing them that he's not available. Only for you.

You ate his noodles, leaving none for him.

You don't pick up his calls when you're in the human world. Crows he can send in every corner of the Devildom to look for you, assured of your safety and wellbeing. But in the human world, he can't. Six missed calls, MC, better pick up the seventh, before he decides to conjure a portal and come down there.

Leviathan

You criticised the figurine in his room. It looks weird, you say, like a blob of soup. It's magic munchkin from Igotreincarnatedinto soupduringtheTangdynasty, he says. Normies don't appreciate art. Hmpgh.

You cosplayed as Henry 2.0. and crept into his room at 3 am. Imagine his plight when he opens his eyes because he feels as if someone is watching him, only to see you decked out in full fish, contacts and all. He woke up the whole house with that scream.

You don't react to every single Devilgram reel he sends you. Friends send each other reels, sure, but these are fifty reels in a span of an hour. Just an hour.

You denied sleeping in the bathtub with him when you came over to his room for movie night, choosing to sleep in your bed instead. You claim its because the bathtub is uncomfortable. He assumes its because you hate his presence. Please just bring a mattress next time, MC, our Envy Avatar is in low spirits.

You take control. Shoving him against his chair, sitting on top of him as if you own him. Your smile is just a tad cruel, hands finding their way to the spots where he reacts the most. It makes him go blank. Please don't stop please please please

You stare at another demon too long. His envy can't help but take over. What is it that the demon have that he does not? What is it that enchants you so? Self-loathing follows after.

You forget to send him AP and receive it from your daily in-game logins. Sin.

Satan

You took the liberty of arranging the pile of books in his room. Like Lucifer, he has a natural order for them in mind, which you disrupted. Physics on the left, biology on the right and astronomy in the middle. Now its alll goneeee. No order. Chaos, however orderly they make appear.

You pet a cat and did not send him a picture. He knows from the cat fur on your clothes and the happiness on your face. Where is the kitty, MC, send him a pic now. He needs to meet the feline.

You asked Solomon for help with your studies. Sure, he's a very, very renowned sorcerer with whom even the demon likes to debate with, but study sessions are you and Satan's thing. Not with Solomon. Now you have got two intellectuals helping you study, as Satan acts passive-aggressive towards the sorcerer.

You two throw debates on random topics head to head. Intelligence is sexy, and that smile when you've outwitted him? Satan is about to swoon like a Victorian woman.

You don't walk alongside him. MC has the habit of frolicking along the path like a sheep. Cute. Maybe they have a faster pace than him. But he can't help but feel as if you are trying to avoid walking alongside him, unintentional that may be.

You add irrelevant items to the shopping cart when you both are out. Stick to the budget MC, stick to the budget, Satan chides, as he slips in a pack of the chocolate you prefer into the cart.

Asmodeus

You used a beauty product which he hates. Yes, that chaos snail cream is trending right now, but it gave him breakouts! Stop that, MC, here, use this instead!

You don't comment on his latest post/story/reel. You've been too busy with studies and Sorcerer society, we know. But you know he anticipates your comments the most! He wants YOU to look at him!!! Admire him!! You better add some heart emojis next time, MC.

You insist on cleaning together. He denies. At first. Complains all throughout, then insists on taking a bath together to get cleaned off.

You go out in public wearing an outfit that would have been put together by the enemy of fashion themselves. No, MC, you're so sexy haha please don't go out like that, when you've got Asmodeus right here to style you! He's already taking off your jacket and shoes, ready to drape you in finery. Always looking like a snack, his MC.

You see him for him, not for Asmodeus, Jewel of the Heavens. Your Asmodeus. Not the public image of him, not the impression he's curated of himself, but just the the person you see at home. At his most vulnerable. This sets him on fire like nothing else. Also when you match his freak

You insist on doing his nails. He's sweating for his life as you work on his fingernails. A very interesting choice of color there, MC, and oh, this nail buffer, seems a bit too.....rough.

Beelzebub

You don't look both ways before crossing the street. Sure, you are an accomplished sorcerer, but the inhabitants of the Devildom are still getting used to the law and order declared by Prince. That includes speed limits. His heart nearly jumps into his mouth during those moments.

You surprise him after his Fangol match. Him, all sweaty and red in the face. You, electrolyte in hand and that saccharine-sweet smile on your face that makes him weak. You could shove him against the wall and he would crumble.

You don't think before taking risks. Nothing peeves Beelzebub more than when you disregard your own safety. Please think twice before making hasty decisions that involve potential injury. For his sake, please, and the integrity of your physical body. Let him fuss over you.

You don't try your hair after you bathe/shower. You'll get a cold, he says, and a hairdryer is already in his hand. Sit down MC, and let Beel dry your hair. It will be quick.

You go out without him to eat. Eating together is love for Beel, nothing better than sharing a meal with your partner. So please don't deprive him of your company, MC, food tastes better when you are there with him.

You kill a fly. That was his friend, MC. His pal.

Belphegor

You downplay your injuries. Anyone who saw you fall down the stairs in the library knows that it would have hurt. You laughed and walked it off. He noticed the way your pace faltered, the hiss of pain when no one was looking. Please, take care of yourself, MC.

You leave hair ties around the house. Belphegor woke up to one next to his pillow, another on the RAD bench. One on top of the cabinet. And it drives him crazy. You're wondering how your supply of hair ties is running out fast, meanwhile, his supply is full, ready to be given when desired.

You put him in his place. He knows he's bratty at times, being the youngest comes with its own traits. When you bite back at him, grabbing him by the hair, showing him how brats are treated, he's gone. A demon deceased. At your mercy.

You make cow puns. Yes, he can talk to cows, yes, his clothes have a similar pattern. But enough with the jokes now, MC, go along and get mooooving—

You take his favourite pillow to be washed. It is dirty indeed, but Belphegor cannot sleep without it. He's sitting by the washing machine and waiting. Until its ready to be used again.

You crack your fingers. The sound can't help but remind him of that time when you fell down the stairs, and he watched from above in damned glee—until he saw the expression on his brothers faces and the way you gasped in pain. Please do not do it in front of him.

Diavolo

You decide to serve him pickles. It's good to try new things, you say, content on eating your own serving of pickles. Diavolo stares at the offending item as if it has committed regicide.

You make him finish his work. Yes, there is a pile of reports waiting to be signed, but its only a ten minute break, MC, what harm can it do? You're like Barbatos sometimes, hovering over him. Maybe if he jumped out the window to make an escape it might work.

You challenge his authority. Diavolo has been questioned plenty of times in the past, when he was still new to governance without his father overseeing affairs. The House of Lords opposed many of his orders. But you, you are different. Standing in front of him, challenging his opinion, so bold in stating your opinion and your claim. On him. Only him. Excuse his meetings for an hour, minimum, there is a very urgent matter right in front of him, one whose wishes he's willing to bend to eagerly.

You team up with Solomon. Diavolo cannot tell what you two are planning. Nothing but chaos is guaranteed. He's already bracing himself for a surprise.

You refuse to accept his gifts. You deserve the best of the best. What do you mean, MC, that this hundred thousand jewellery set is too much? that the piles of gifts outside your room is too much? None of that now, none of that.

You wear a strong perfume. His nose is sensitive, and the scent is so harsh that it makes him nauseous. Too polite to comment, he silently bears it while you wonder as to why he keeps leaning out of the window. Maybe there's something going on outside.

Barbatos

You don't tie your hair up while cooking. It gives him the ick like nothing else can, and before you can even start on chopping up the potatoes he's already working on tying your hair, clips and a headband magically appearing.

You showed him Ratatouille. Barbatos dropped the item he was holding. You thought he had gone catatonic after.

You serve him instead. He's accustomed to being the one assisting others, but when you do it it's different. When you straighten out his tie in the way you deem satisfactory, hands running down his chest for a brief moment, he's a demon gone.

You decide to make tea incorrectly, or incorrect in his eyes. The temperature has to be a perfect 40 degree celsius, MC. Ginger has to be shredded, not cut. Milk has to be warm, not straight from the fridge. MC—just let him—he'll do it. Just sit down and he'll make you a cup. With a bloody strawberry pastry.

You went inside his room, and ten different versions of you came out. He had to spend an hour trying to ensure all your versions did not meet each other, with Diavolo asking for him every fifteen minutes.

You go to the port market without him. Sacrilege. When he sees you with fresh groceries in hand, Barbatos feels betrayed. Without him?! He'll subtly make quips at you, and the next outing will be at the port, and you're going to be besides him. For safety, he says.

Simeon

You decided to stay at Purgatory Hall for the night, but not in his room. See, MC, he has a bed right here for you! And cookies!! Four pillows!! Please don't deprive him of your company.

You fold clothes incorrectly. The sleeve is hanging out, wrinkles already forming on a pair of trousers. The handkerchief is crumbled up into a ball. Simeon just sighs. Takes the clothes from your hands, gently sets it aside.

You act as the knight in shining armour. Sweeping in with just what he needs. He gazes at you in longing, perhaps one of a thousand years. Just kiss him MC, he'll be so good. He promises.

You text him in lingo he does not understand. "So true, bestie." ??? "Not very sigma of them." ???? "I've got major tea about the two demons who made a ruckus during curses and hexes." Tea???? Send him some reels, MC, maybe then he will get it.

You chew on a pen. People do it when they're in deep thought. Sure. But Simeon can't help it when he sees the indentations left on the body and the head. That poor pen. Crime committed.

You decided to teach Luke slang. Now he's cursing like a sailor. What will he do now, MC? Look at that sweet boy, now yapping. You've spoiled him with bad influences. How will he undo this?

Solomon

You don't sit on his lap. Never mind that there are plenty of seats around. His lap is the best seat. The chair on which you are currently sitting on feels like nettles. The sofa is too hot. His lap is the only option left.

You get a little too close to Asmodeus for his comfort. Solomon can't help but feel a pang of jealousy in his heart when you warm up to him. He's not so subtly interrupting you both, and acts as if everything is alright. Yeah, just apply that facemask on him too, he'll eat the cucumber.

You shove him into a nearby closet or an empty classroom. He barely has time to breathe before you are on him, hands fisting in his shirt, all his senses occupied by you. It drives him mad like nothing other.

You wake him up in the morning. He's catatonic at that hour. Any attempts to wake him up will be met with groans and grunts. Shaking him awake does not work. Mandatorily kisses are prescribed to wake him right up. Doctor, he needs them to wake up!

You deny his help. He knows you're a capable sorcerer, your power immeasurable. But let yourself rely on him sometimes, he's more than happy to help you. He'll drop everything to come to the aid of his beloved apprentice.

You dress up to go outside, expectedly staring at him. Solomon's sweating bullets internally, wondering if he missed a date. A special event. His book lies abandoned while he racks his brain. Was it today? Or tomorrow? Oh no no no no

Thirteen

You brought a bug in the house once. Claimed it cute and adorable. Thirteen climbed on top of the closet, did not come down till you let it outside. Banned, she tells you, from bringing them inside.

You didn't admire her latest creation well enough. She spent such a long time on it, MC! The giant bazooka!! And you gave it a glance and nodded!! Her heart!!

You get too chummy with Solomon. She declares it a crime. His cooking made her see stars during the day, and she woke up a whole day later on top of a bridge. Why do you have to hang out with that loathed sorcerer, MC?

You give her that smug smirk of yours, and she feels weak in the knees. Getting too close to her, acting so nonchalant. Her heart is doing cartwheels in her chest.

Mephistopheles

You forget titles while referring to Lord Diavolo. It's "Your Majesty," and "Lord Diavolo," MC. Don't be so rude towards his sovereign. He'll spend the whole day correcting you.

You ruffle his hair. Such an innocent gesture, but Mephistopheles can't help but stutter when you do it so casually. He's stuttering. Face hot.

You don't read the latest edition of the R.A.D. newspaper. He spent so long proofreading and collecting information, MC. And you still haven't read it. The demon is hurt. Better read it now, MC.

You bring out a chihuahua from your bag and place it on the desk. During a meeting. The tiny thing trembles. He sighs.

Raphael

You sew hastily. He can see the haphazardly put together stitches. Raphael is already gesturing you over, needle in hand. Sit down and let him fix it.

You find yourself in trouble due to the brothers shenanigans. He walks out of Purgatory Hall and sees you upside down on a tree. He sighs. Takes his spear and removes the branch, catches you in his arms.

You manhandle him. Something about the way in which you effectively guide him away from your path by grabbing his hips, or even pulling him closer gets him going.

You stop him from sampling Solomon's cooking. Its a culinary delight, he says. It is assault on the tastebuds, you claim. He's offended, already grabbing a spoonful of his food. Heaven, he sighs.

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rosemaryhoney27 · 3 months ago

Text

“Danny vs. Gotham: Rogues, Riddles, and Regret”

aka: Gotham's Villains Realize They've Made a Terrible, Terrible Mistake

Vlad wanted to leave. He wanted to scoop Danny up, fly far away, and pretend the Gotham trip never happened. But Bruce had insisted Danny stay another week for “family bonding.” And Vlad—against his better judgment and his rapidly thinning sanity—had agreed.

What he hadn’t agreed to was sending Danny out on a “light patrol run” with Red Robin and Spoiler.

“He’s a child!” Vlad hissed. Bruce shrugged. “He suplexed a gang leader and sword-fought Damian with a smile.” Tim sipped his fourth espresso and muttered, “Kid’s got better reaction time than half of us. Might as well let him stretch his legs.” Vlad: internal screaming intensifies

Later That Night – Gotham Financial District, 10:22 PM

It should’ve been a routine patrol.

SHOULD’VE.

But this was Gotham. So naturally, they ran into Riddler. And not just Riddler. Riddler with a microphone, a speaker setup, and a slideshow.

“Riddle me this, Batbrats!” he declared, laser pointer in hand. “What flies forever, rests never, has no lungs but can still scream?!”

Danny blinked. “That’s wind.”

Riddler paused. “…I—I wasn’t done.”

“You said it in the wrong order. Classic misdirection. Also, you did this one in Amity Park two years ago. You posted it online.”

“…What?”

“Yeah, it was part of your ‘multi-state riddle tour.’ You rhymed ‘obfuscate’ with ‘paperweight.’ My friend Tucker roasted you for a week.”

Spoiler wheezed. “OH MY GOD.”

Tim was filming. “This is gold.”

Danny smiled like a polite little demon. “If you want new material, I can send you Tucker’s podcast link. He does villain reviews.”

Riddler stared, brain lagging. “I—I have—graphics—”

“You spelled ‘cerebral’ wrong on slide 4.”

“…I hate it here.”

Five Minutes Later

Riddler’s henchmen surrendered unprompted. Riddler ran face-first into a recycling bin while trying to flee. Danny phased him through the lid and said, “Please stay in there until Gotham has better riddles. Thank you.”

Tim couldn’t breathe. Spoiler was crying laughing. Danny handed Riddler a sticker that said “I Tried My Best (And Failed)” before floating away.

But It Got Worse

Because then, Scarecrow showed up.

And naturally, he released his newest fear gas on the group.

“Let’s see what horrors hide in your soul, little ghost,” Crane sneered.

Danny blinked as the gas swirled around him.

Then sneezed.

Then sniffed it.

Crane: “What—what are you doing—?!”

Danny: sniff sniff “Ooh. Cinnamon and despair. Very vintage.”

Crane: “THAT’S NOT HOW FEAR GAS WORKS—”

Danny exhaled, glowing green, and the gas dissipated.

“I’ve been inside the Ghost King’s mind, dude. This is like spa day fog machine levels. You want real terror? I have a VHS of Tucker’s high school poetry.”

Crane dropped his canister and backed away. Spoiler whispered, “He’s ungasable.” Tim, still filming: “That’s not even the weirdest thing I’ve seen this week.”

Danny offered Scarecrow a cough drop and a tissue.

“Bless your heart,” he said.

Crane ran.

Later – Back at the Cave

Danny was handing out debrief cookies. Again.

Bruce was watching the security cam footage with the face of a man who was trying to process “he sniffed the fear gas.”

Dick leaned over. “This kid’s either going to save Gotham or traumatize it into behaving.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “He gave Riddler a sticker. That’s psychological warfare.”

Damian looked up from sharpening his sword. “He told me he once bit a cursed toaster.”

Vlad, in the background, was staring at the Batcomputer like it had personally betrayed him. “I—he—he ate fear gas. He corrected Riddler’s grammar. He is not normal.”

Bruce looked at Danny, who was humming while reorganizing the med supplies.

“…He’s a Wayne.”

Vlad: “NOOOOOOOOOO—”

#dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #vlad plasmius #vlad is tired #damian wayne #jason todd is a little shit #the riddler #scarecrow #danny fenton is a little shit

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

Mr Oblivious

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar Piastri is absolutely oblivious to the fact that people try to flirt with him. It drives Lando nuts. Felicity finds it very amusing though.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Lando Norris had a very simple opinion about Oscar Piastri:

The man was smart, fast, loyal to a fault — And completely, hopelessly, oblivious.

Especially about certain things.

Like, say, the fact that every now and then, some thirsty influencer or overly-friendly interviewer decided they wanted to test their luck around one of McLaren’s golden boys.

Case in point: today.

It was supposed to be a simple media day.

Smile, wave, answer a few questions without accidentally swearing — easy stuff.

And then she showed up.

Some influencer.

Lando didn’t catch her name.

Didn’t want to.

Her outfit was orange enough to suggest she'd Googled "McLaren colors" five minutes before showing up.

Her laugh was the kind that made Lando want to put himself in an ice bath.

But what really got him was the way she locked eyes on Oscar from the moment she walked into the room.

Like a hawk spotting a particularly delicious rabbit.

And Oscar — sweet, pure, unsuspecting Oscar — stood there politely, posture perfect, nodding like he was about to explain suspension geometry to a cactus.

She sidled up to him with all the grace of a Bond girl in heels, flashing teeth and dimples and Lando could see it coming.

Could see the slow-motion train wreck unfolding with the inevitability of a Ferrari strategy call.

She sidled closer.

Tilted her head. Big fake lashes, even faker laugh.

"So, Oscar," she purred, "looking very fit this season. What's your secret?"

Lando, standing just off to the side, already felt his skin crawl.

Oscar, meanwhile, nodded thoughtfully like she’d asked him about chassis balance.

"Consistency," he said, serious as anything. "And good hydration habits. Also core strength. That’s really important for maintaining control in high G-force corners. I’ve been working with a new strength and conditioning coach. Core engagement and flexibility training. Lots of functional range mobility exercises. Very important for endurance."

Lando nearly dropped the can of Monster Energy he was carrying.

He physically turned away, took a moment to compose himself, and turned back — and she was still going.

She giggled — the kind of giggle Lando associated with botched lip filler and red flags — and twirled her hair like they were in a teen movie from 2004.

"Flexibility, huh?" she said, her voice doing That Thing™. Then winked.

WINKED.

Oscar, God bless him, nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. Critical for cockpit comfort. Limited hip mobility can lead to premature fatigue during longer races."

Lando just stared.

The influencer stared.

Oscar stared earnestly back. Oscar blinked at her with the open innocence of a Labrador Retriever about to explain knee cartilage.

It was like watching someone flirt with a toaster.

And then — then — she tried it.

She went for the kill.

"Well," she said, laughing in a way that definitely wasn't natural, "maybe you could show me some... flexibility exercises later?"

Lando choked on air.

Oscar, bless him, just looked mildly puzzled.

Lando’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Oscar thought she wanted workout advice.

Meanwhile, this woman was basically trying to climb him like a tree.

"I mean," Oscar said, frowning thoughtfully, "I guess? If you’re interested in physiotherapy protocols? There's a lot of hip flexor and thoracic mobility involved."

He paused.

"Although," Oscar added very seriously, completely unaware he was standing in a verbal minefield, “you should always get a doctor’s clearance before starting any high-intensity exercise program.”

The influencer blinked.

Lando stared at the heavens.

Why.

Why had the universe given this man a marriage, a child, and a heart of gold, but no flirting radar whatsoever.

Lando was so angry on Oscar’s behalf he actually saw red.

Because it wasn’t just the flirting.

It was the disrespect.

Oscar — who had a wife who fixed racing models better than half the paddock. Oscar — who had a four-year-old daughter who beat engineers at Sudoku. Oscar — who literally carried his entire family in his heart wherever he went.

He wasn’t available.

He wasn’t interested.

And he damn well deserved to have people respect that without needing to tattoo MARRIED. TAKEN. HAS A BUMBLEBEE-OBSESSED DAUGHTER across his forehead.

And then — because clearly the universe wanted to personally test Lando’s self-control — the influencer winked.

Like, full-on, slow-motion, cartoon-style winked at Oscar.

Oscar blinked back, confused.

Then said, very seriously:

"You should also stretch regularly to avoid cramping."

Lando actually made a noise — somewhere between a groan and a dying animal.

The influencer tried to recover, laughing awkwardly, but Oscar had already turned — calm, unfazed — and was politely thanking the PR rep for organizing the media day.

Lando stormed over, practically vibrating with protective rage.

"Mate," he hissed when Oscar finally wandered off-stage, "you realize she was hitting on you, right?"

Oscar frowned. "Was she?"

"YES," Lando hissed, arms flailing. "She was basically ready to throw herself at you!”

Oscar looked genuinely perplexed.

"But... I’m married."

"YES," Lando repeated, louder, like he was explaining quantum physics to a pigeon. "You are married. You have a kid. You are the dictionary definition of off-limits."

Oscar scratched the back of his neck.

"Maybe she didn’t know?"

"She definitely knew," Lando muttered darkly. "You are actually wearing your wedding ring for once and Bee’s little bead bracelet. You might as well walk around holding a sign that says 'I love my wife and daughter more than oxygen.'"

Oscar shrugged, entirely unfazed.

"I mean... it’s true."

Lando stared at him.

Somewhere between admiration and absolute rage.

When they reached the McLaren motorhome, Felicity was there — perched on the couch, Bee asleep with her head on Felicity’s lap, Button the Frog tucked under her tiny arm.

Oscar’s whole face lit up like a sunrise.

He crossed the room without hesitation, dropped a kiss onto Felicity’s hair, and gently stroked Bee’s back.

Felicity smiled up at him, all soft and warm and easy, like they had a language no one else could hear.

Lando stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching it all unfold.

Watching how Oscar's whole world just locked into place around them, without hesitation, without second thought.

Yeah.

Let them flirt. Let them try.

Oscar Piastri had everything he needed right here. And he was smart enough — good enough — to never even glance anywhere else.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1TeaSpill: BREAKING: Influencer tries to flirt with Oscar Piastri.

Oscar responds with “core strength” and “doctor’s clearance.”

Meanwhile, Lando Norris nearly combusts in the background.

[attached: video clip]

@/pitlanechaos: Not Oscar offering that woman a PHYSIOTHERAPY REFERRAL I’m losing it. He thought she wanted professional advice. He’s too pure for this world.

@/felicityfanclub (pinned tweet):

‼️OSCAR PIASTRI IS MARRIED

‼️HE LOVES HIS WIFE

‼️HE LOVES HIS DAUGHTER

‼️HE IS OBLIVIOUSLY LOYAL

‼️AND WE ARE HERE TO DEFEND HIS GOLDEN RETRIEVER ENERGY

@/formulawoah: This man said “consult your doctor” instead of realizing she was flirting. He’s not oblivious. He’s loyal at a molecular level.

@/landohmygod: Lando Norris being 1 second away from lunging across the paddock like an angry chihuahua deserves its own Emmy. He was FIGHTING for Oscar’s honor.

@/suspension_nerd: If I was that influencer and Oscar hit me with “thoracic mobility is important” when I was trying to flirt, I would simply evaporate on the spot.

@/gridgossip: This man has a wife who fixes telemetry errors in her sleep, and makes him bento boxes everyday. AND A DAUGHTER WHO BEATS ENGINEERS AT SUDOKU. What did you THINK was going to happen??

@/F1psychology: Watching Oscar Piastri react to flirting like it's a sports injury safety video is the most fascinating psychological case study I’ve ever seen. Also, Lando's visible rage is priceless.

***

Oscar waited until Bee was down for the night.

She’d fallen asleep curled up around Button the Frog, one arm flung dramatically across her pillow like she was staging a nap-themed protest. He’d kissed her forehead and tucked the blanket under her chin, switching the night light to its soft pink glow before slipping out of her room on quiet feet.

He figured... if Felicity was going to hate him, she probably shouldn’t have to do it in front of their daughter.

Which was stupid. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

But the pit in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

He was sweating, suddenly aware of how clingy the collar of his t-shirt felt. His hands wouldn’t sit still — twitching, tapping, twisting his wedding ring around and around until the skin beneath it burned.

He felt fifteen again. Awkward and uncertain and too full of words he didn’t know how to say.

And then Felicity padded into the living room, hair twisted into a lazy bun, bare feet soft against the floorboards, wearing one of his old McLaren hoodies that hung off her like it still didn’t understand how it ended up lucky enough to be wrapped around her.

She looked soft. Tired. Safe.

She smiled when she saw him, sweet and a little sleepy, like she was expecting him to ask about what tea she wanted or whether he’d remembered to order oat milk.

Oscar nearly chickened out.

Instead, he sat up straighter — awkward and abrupt — and blurted:

"Someone tried to flirt with me today."

Felicity blinked.

Tilted her head slightly, eyebrows raised — curious, not alarmed.

"Okay," she said, in the same tone she might use if he told her they were out of clean towels.

Oscar frowned.

"No, like — really tried. At a media thing. In front of cameras."

She just blinked again. Still calm. Still patient.

Still not mad.

Just... waiting.

Oscar swallowed.

"And I didn’t realize it was flirting until Lando nearly had an aneurysm."

That earned him a real laugh — soft, sudden, surprised. The kind of laugh she gave him when Bee said something absurd or when Oscar accidentally fixed something in the kitchen by whacking it with a shoe.

It went straight to his chest.

God, he loved her.

"And I was worried—" he continued, words stumbling out now like they’d been dammed up too long, "I was worried you’d think I was — I don’t know — encouraging it or — or being stupid, or not noticing because I wanted to miss it—"

Felicity crossed the room in three quick steps, not breaking eye contact once.

She dropped onto the couch beside him, slid her legs over his lap like she did every night, and tucked herself against his side like she’d always belonged there.

"You thought I’d be mad," she said, amused, "because some random influencer tried to flirt with you?"

Oscar nodded miserably, guilt still clinging to the back of his throat.

Felicity pulled back just enough to look up at him.

Eyes shining. Smile small and full of something dangerously close to laughter.

"Oscar," she said slowly, "I saw the whole video. You tried to offer her hydration advice."

He groaned, already regretting every decision he’d made since opening his mouth.

"Please don’t remind me."

"You told her to stretch her hip flexors," Felicity said, delighted. "Oscar, you sounded like a yoga instructor trying to scare off a client."

"Bee probably would’ve handled it better," he muttered, rubbing at his face.

Felicity laughed — a real one this time, head back, eyes crinkled, full-body kind of joy.

Oscar melted a little.

She curled closer, arms winding around his waist like she didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.

"I’m not mad, love," she said gently, brushing her nose against his shoulder. "She never stood a chance."

Oscar blinked down at her, stunned. A little breathless.

Felicity grinned up at him.

"You are so... mine, it’s not even funny."

She said it like a joke. She said it like a truth carved in stone.

Both were true.

Oscar let out a long, shaky breath, tension finally bleeding out of his chest.

"I just didn’t want you to think—"

She kissed his cheek, quieting him with the ease of someone who knew every version of him — the champion, the kid from karting, the dad who braided Bee’s hair with frog clips.

"I married you," Felicity whispered. "I know exactly who you are. I trust you with my life. And frankly, if anyone tries to flirt with you again, I might just send them a condolence card."

Oscar laughed, startled and in love and still trying to figure out how he’d ever ended up this lucky.

"And also," Felicity added, smirking like a fox who had absolutely won, "it’s way too funny to be jealous about."

He buried his face into her neck, overwhelmed by the warmth of her, by the sharp edges of her wit and the soft edges of her love.

"You’re ridiculous," he mumbled, muffled by her skin.

"And you," she said, threading her fingers through his hair like he was something precious, "are very bad at realizing when people want you." A beat. "And your brain is permanently stuck on ‘wife good, daughter best, car fast.’"

Oscar smiled, eyes closed, letting her steady him with nothing more than her heartbeat and her presence.

"You really aren’t mad?" he asked, still half-disbelieving.

Felicity leaned back, just far enough to look at him fully — bright-eyed and ferociously sure.

"Oscar," she said solemnly, "you are the most obliviously loyal man I’ve ever met. If I had to design a loyalty test, it would look like you."

Oscar kissed the curve of her throat, slow and reverent.

"Good thing I only ever wanted you," he murmured.

Felicity’s arms tightened around him, like she could will him into her bones.

"Exactly," she whispered.

Exactly.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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nanenna · 7 months ago

Text

This Phone Call Could've Been a Text

More Sleepy King Here

-----

Batman moved to sit at the table in the kitchenette, his hand absently moving to adjust a cape that wasn’t there. He pulled out a tablet and brought up the camera feed for the bedroom, the audio from the bugs he’d planted in his ear. Nearby the JLD had finished agreeing on their plan and were setting it in motion, it seemed Dr. Fate was the first to go cast spells at the boy.

Diana came into the room. “The boy has several blessings.”

That caught everyone’s attention. “What kind of blessings?” Constantine asked warily.

Diana shook her head, “I couldn’t tell, I just know he has several blessings from powerful beings.”

“The boy or the king?” Raven asked.

Diana shook her head again.

“Something else for us to look into,” Zatanna said with a tired sigh. Discussion between the JLD members picked back up, kept carefully hushed, as if afraid the boy (or the king sleeping inside him) would somehow hear.

Diana came and sat down next to Batman, he changed the angle on the tablet so they could both watch. That’s all either of them could do right now, sit and watch.

Diana sighed, “He looks content.”

Batman turned his attention from Dr. Fate casting his spells to Danny, seemingly dead to the world as magic flashed over him. “He does.”

“I hope it stays that way, I hope we are able to find a solution before he wakes.”

Batman simply nodded, he hoped so as well.

Dr. Fate finished with his spells and quietly made his way back to the kitchenette. There was a brief discussion from the group, then Zatanna was taking her turn.

Their discussion continued even after the Sorceress Supreme left, Batman catching brief snatches of magical jargon. He technically knew the definitions of the words he heard, but he knew his understanding was surface level at best.

Dr. Fate approached their table. “Wonder Woman, you said the blessings were laid by powerful beings?”

Diana nodded, “Yes, quite powerful.”

“Can you describe how powerful?”

Diana’s brow furrowed as she thought the matter over, “I believe they were on par with the gods, though it didn’t feel divine.”

Dr. Fate nodded, then returned to the huddle to discuss the matter further.

Batman and Diana watched as Zatanna finished her round, then conceded to Captain Marvel. They expected him, as the champion of magic, to have the most insight, yet when he walked back into the room he looked quite disappointed as he shook his head. “I fear the wisdom of Solomon has failed me.”

“Is it perhaps the same block that has kept us from noticing Amity Park?” Diana asked, standing up to join the JLD in their huddle.

“Most likely,” Zatanna agreed. “I couldn’t even get a read on the blessings you spoke of.”

“Was there anything you could scry?” Diana asked.

While their discussion continued, debating whether it was better to figure the block out or attempt to blindly work around it given their unknown limit, Batman kept his eye on the feed of Danny’s room. Clark leaned forward, the blankets shifted, then Danny was sitting up while yawning and stretching.

“Danny’s woken up,” Batman said.

The room fell silent.

Constantine sighed and nudged Raven, “C’mon, luv, let’s get outta the way.” He waved a hand and the lights dimmed. “Remember, keep him half awake as long as possible. And try to look like you’re here for a reason, make a cuppa or something.”

There was a mild flurry in Constantine’s wake as the others bustled about making a quick cup of tea or popping off-brand toaster pastries into the provided toaster. Not a bad plan, it’ll make the room smell homier and would give the magicians an excuse to be there.

Diana placed a half full glass of water near Batman, sitting down with her own steaming mug. The kitchenette now smelled of warm tea, toasting pastries, and ozone. Batman closed out of the surveillance and switched over to a note taking app.

Clark eventually entered, gently guiding Danny along. The boy had Batman’s cape over his shoulders but it was dangerously close to slipping off one, Clark fussily rearranged the cape as the bleary eyed boy shuffled slowly into the room. Danny hadn’t even seemed to notice his audience as he slowly made his way to the table and plopped gracelessly into a chair.

Marvel handed off the quickly plated pastries to Clark, which he gently placed before Danny. Zatanna offered a steaming mug, which Clark also gently placed in front of the boy.

“There we are, Danny, you hungry?”

Danny mumbled something as he absently picked up his pastry, chocolate this time, and began nibling it.

There was an exchanging of glances between the room’s occupants, as if unsure how to proceed. Then Zatanna and Dr. Fate both lifted a hand each, inscribing runes into the air.

“How are you feeling now, champ?” Clark asked awkwardly.

“Mmm… better,” Danny mumbled, crumbs tumbling from his mouth. He followed it with a yawn, yet again moving his hand as if to cover his mouth and missing far and away too much to hide his sharp fangs.

Clark glanced down at the mug, then nudged it closer. “Have some hot cocoa.”

Danny hummed in agreement and reached for the mug, just holding it in his hands.

Batman glanced back at the magicians. It seemed Zatanna was having difficulty with whatever spell she was attempting, and from the similar expression on Marvel’s face he was in the same situation. Or perhaps all three were attempting a combined spell.

Danny slowly lifted the mug and took a careful sip. “Hmmm… s’good.”

“That’s good,” Clark said with a gentle smile. “Eat up, you’re a growing boy.”

“Still growing,” Danny mumbled, but did as he was told. He held his pastry back up and nibbled more.

Batman felt the hairs on his arms raise despite being covered head to toe, the tension from the three magicians’ combined spell clearly filling the room.

The tension broke suddenly with a gasp at the same time a faint jingle played in the room. Batman frowned, unsure what had caused that. From the wide eyed stares from Marvel and Zatanna, they weren’t sure either. Or perhaps they knew exactly what was going on and were shocked.

The jingle played again, this time Batman placing it as coming from Danny’s direction. He watched as Danny absently reached up to touch his ear, a white ear piece with a little arm and neon green mic on the end simply appeared.

There were choked gasps, Batman spared a quick glance to find all three magicians reeling back in stunned shock.

“... ‘llo?” Danny mumbled.

#sleepy king #nenna writes #fanfic #fanfiction #dpxdc #dc x dp #danny phantom #dc comics #justice league #justice league dark #danny just keeps doing such baffling things #first he *checks notes* slept like a teenager!#now he's *gasp* answering a phone call!#let's be fair... no teen would answer a phone call

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sunvylovebug · 3 months ago

Text

Domestic life

↬Warnings: No warnings …⁠ᘛ⁠⁐̤⁠ᕐ⁠ᐷ

↬ Gender Neutral!Reader, they/them pronouns and third person narration (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

↬Author Note: Maybe a bit OOC? I'm still playing the demo and I'm soooo in love with him, I can't help but write! (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

↬Summary: A routine morning between Sol and you.

↬ Word Count: 740 Words

Masterlist

Sol hummed softly, fingers brushing against the hard surface of the kitchen counter the only noise filling the otherwise silent home. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, a welcome comfort on the cold winter morning. His movements were kinda methodical, precise like a well-oiled machine and at the same time almost rhythmic, naturally elegant.

He prepared simple scrambled eggs with a little bit of cheese, some bacon on the stove and toasts popping up from the toaster with a funny click.

Coming from the hall, he heard the faint rustling of blankets being tossed aside, followed by a soft groggy voice "Sol?"

"Mhm, just a minute." He said back over his shoulder, cracking an egg with a practiced motion. Sol grinned as he heard the shuffle of footsteps, knowing that the other person was still half asleep and looking so cute.

A few moments later, they appeared in the kitchen doorway. Barefoot, hair still messy from sleep, wrapped in one of Sol’s oversized hoodies and a thick blanket. "Morning." They muttered, voice thick with sleep.

Sol offered them a plate with crispy bacon first. "Good morning pumpkin. Here you go, I made breakfast for us. Your favorite." He said, as if that alone would make everything better.

Their eyes fluttered open a little more, taking the plate, but not without a soft chuckle. "Oh? You always say it is..."

Sol shrugged with a smile. "You're right but it's always your favorite when I make it."

They sat at the small table by the window, the sunlight slanting through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. The air was still crisp outside, but in here, everything felt calm and safe. It was moments like this, when the world was still quiet and the noise of the day hadn’t begun to intrude, that Sol cherished so much.

He moved to set down the scrambled eggs, handing the plate over with a gentle smile. "You’re gonna want the eggs. Trust me."

They took the plate, but instead of immediately diving in, they simply stared at him for a moment, their expression unreadable. Sol didn’t ask what they were thinking. Sometimes it was enough just to be there, and why would he question them? Having their eyes on him was like a blessing, a dream that was finally coming true, it was the most precious gift that life could give him.

"Thanks," they finally said, breaking the silence. It was simple, but in this moment, it felt like everything.

"Of course, pumpkin." Sol settled in at the table across from them, his coffee in hand. He didn’t need to ask how their night had been, or what had been on their mind. The quiet moments spoke louder than words ever could and he didn't need to, he knew them like the back of his hand after all.

They both ate in silence for a while, the occasional clink of silverware and the distant hum of a passing car were the only occasional distractions. Outside, the world continued to move, but in this house, at this table, everything was still, a quiet moment captured in time. And even though they were so accustomed to routine, it was still fascinating for the young man who looked at his partner with such devotion.

Sol watched them for a moment, unable to suppress a smile. "We need to get a smaller table." He said, his tone casual but carrying an undercurrent of something more.

They looked up, blinking slowly. "Smaller? Why?"

"So I can be pressed right against your body, pumpkin." Sol teased with a cheeky smile, making their partner's cheeks turn red.

They sighed. "How can you act so shameless so early in the day?"

"Can't resist to tease you when you look so cute all flustered and shy."

"Shut it."

"Yes, my love."

Argue? No, they never argued. Pumpkin would tell Sol to shut up, and he would obediently do so, a puppy eager to follow any command his owner would give him, taking it without questioning or complaining.

They didn’t say anything for a long while. Instead, they just nodded, a soft understanding passing between them. And in that moment, as they ate breakfast together in the gentle morning light, Sol felt a sense of peace he was getting used to, one that could only come from these simple, domestic moments. The kind that filled the house with more warmth than any elaborate gesture ever could.

#solivan brugmansia #sol brugmansia #x reader #x y/n #x yn #fluff #solivan x reader #sol x reader #the kid at the back sol #tkatb sol

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nizhspo · 2 months ago

Text

genre: mha imagine, fluff, smut

pairing: katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

summary: beachboy by mccafferty (seriously, go listen). senior week. north carolina coast.

“shut the fuck up.”

bakugo’s voice cracked through the hot, humid air of the car like a whip, low and guttural, sharp enough to cut through denki’s high-pitched cackling. the speakers were rattling. the AC was barely spitting. and the entire backseat smelled like spilled bud, mango juul, and red gatorade.

“bro,” denki wheezed, face buried in his lap as he desperately tried to realign the torn rolling paper, “bro, can you stop braking like that? you’re messing my shit up.”

“you’re rolling on my fuckin’ seat,” katsuki barked. “your dumbass ash is gonna stain the upholstery—”

“it’s not ash, it’s dust,” kirishima said, laughing way too hard for someone trying to be the voice of reason. “like, premium keef or whatever. it’s practically a blessing.”

“a blessing?” bakugo nearly swerved into the turn lane. “if one more fleck of your blessing hits my seat, i swear i’m dumping both your asses on the boardwalk.”

mina flinched beside him, one perfectly glittered hand flying to her ear. “can you not scream like a linebacker in my ear canal? you’re not the only one suffering in this metal oven.”

“roll the fucking window down, then,” he grunted.

“or just admit you’re being an asshole because you’re nervous,” she shot back, licking gloss onto her bottom lip and adjusting the strap of her tiny tank top in the mirror. “you’re not good with crowds, and you know your little summer thing might still be here. that’s what this is about.”

he didn’t answer.

she smiled. “called it.”

they were headed down to shorepoint, north carolina, that sleepy beachfront town that woke up every summer just long enough to let chaos bloom. it was the kind of place that barely scraped by in the off-season but turned electric by june, pulsing with flip-flop traffic and beach towels and 7/11 parking lot meetups. kids from every county within spitting distance descended on it like gulls, hungry for one last, sun-soaked bite of youth before fall slapped the future into their mouths.

last summer, they’d spent two months holed up in denki’s old little league coach’s vacation condo, free of charge, thanks to the likely fact that the guy was definitely fucking his mom. the summer had ended in a shattered bathroom window, one fully detached door, and a near kitchen fire involving tequila, leftover pizza, and a very misused toaster oven. safe to say, they weren’t invited back this year.

not that it mattered.

they were only staying for a week this time. senior week. the final lap. the week before jobs and boot camp and community college and life.

kiri had reserves lined up. mina was going straight to campus. denki had two semesters of GPA repair at community college ahead of him. bakugo hadn’t figured out what came after yet, only that this week still felt like a breath he was holding.

he kept his hands on the wheel. jaw tight.

he could already see it in the distance, shorepoint’s weatherworn welcome sign, sun-bleached and slanted, the big surfboard sculpture half-painted and tagged with “SENIORS!!” in faded black spray.

they curved down the main strip, same as it ever was. strip malls, old neon, the smell of fried shrimp and sunscreen. the boardwalk crowd was already thick, bodies in swim trunks and tank tops, bikes weaving between crosswalks, a group of girls walking barefoot and laughing with popsicles in hand.

and then they passed it, that motel. the seagrass inn.

across the street from their airbnb.

bakugo didn’t say anything.

but he saw it. the chipped stucco walls. the busted vending machine. the old chlorine-drenched pool out back where last summer, after stumbling out of a too-small, cigar-reeking motel room packed shoulder to shoulder with juniors and vodka breath, you’d grabbed his hand and pulled him straight into the water, shorts on, shoes off, giggling against his mouth, whispering some joke he couldn’t even hear over the sound of your laugh.

he’d tossed off his tank top and jumped in after you.

drunk on you. more than anything else.

the airbnb was two blocks from the beach and smelled like lemon cleaner and moldy HVAC.

inside was chaos.

mina called the biggest room immediately, claiming squatter’s rights and throwing her tote bag across the bed like a flag on a newly conquered nation. kirishima took the bunk bed room and almost hit his head on the ceiling fan. denki got the pullout couch after fifteen minutes of negotiating and threatening to sleep in the bathtub out of spite.

“i’m not sharin’ with any of you degenerates,” bakugo muttered, kicking open the door to the smallest bedroom and throwing his duffel on the bed. “i’ll sleep in the fuckin’ car if i have to.”

“you’ll sleep in your rage cave,” mina snorted from the hallway.

he flipped her off and shut the door.

it was barely three in the afternoon. the room was too bright. the ceiling fan squeaked. his head ached already, and he hadn’t had a sip of anything yet.

so he laid back. closed his eyes. breathed in.

tried not to think of you.

…

“hey, designated driver.”

mina’s voice yanked him out of sleep.

her phone was inches from his face, glowing with some blurry instagram story post, neon text over a hazy backyard: shorepoint kickoff @ 7 beachwear optional ;) music, jungle juice, plugs on deck + dj reese

bakugo blinked. “how the fuck did you already find that?”

“because, unlike you,” she said, too smug, “i actually kept in contact with people in this town.”

she shot him a look.

and he didn’t say anything. because he hadn’t. he hadn’t kept in contact. not with you.

not since last summer, since the motel kiss, since the promise, since the way you hugged him on the hood of his car the morning they left and said, “don’t be a stranger.”

but he was.

it wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you. he just… couldn’t. not when you weren’t in front of him. not when your name lit up on his screen and made his chest ache. not when the texts piled up and he stared at them for hours and didn’t answer.

you were still in shorepoint.

he saw your posts. your selfies with the ocean behind you. the way you wore the same sundresses and made them look new every time. your nails were always fresh. your eyes still looked like trouble.

and he didn’t know how to face any of it.

but he was here now.

and he knew, no matter how long he’d ignored it, he’d be seeing you again. probably tonight. probably soon.

you were here, somewhere in shorepoint, barefoot on a back porch or dancing in somebody else’s kitchen, still impossible not to notice, and the idea of seeing you again sat heavy in his chest. like dread. like want. like both at once.

he didn’t have words for it. so he didn’t try.

he laced his sneakers in silence while the rest of the house spun around him, small, sticky, way too alive already.

mina had the speaker balanced on the stove, blasting rae sremmurd loud enough to shake the cabinets. her playlist was half old party bangers, half cursed internet relics that had no business making a comeback. the bass rattled the windows. the heat stuck to everything. the a/c unit was wheezing in the corner, doing fuck-all.

kaminari was shirtless, grinning wide, pouring blue raspberry svedka into three cups at once with no aim whatsoever. the counter was already tacky. the air smelled like weed, armpit, and bath & body works body spray.

mina had her phone out.

“i like to drink with kami,” she said, faux-british and too loud, swinging her arm over his shoulders. “’cause kami is my mate!” they shouted together, laughing.

“and when i drink with kami—”

kami lifted the cup above his head like it was a trophy, already grinning too wide.

“he takes it down in eight!” mina finished, throwing her arm up like a victory pose.

but denki was late. too busy laughing, too drunk to aim.

“eight!” he finally shouted, then tried to knock it back and wheezed halfway through it, chasing it with gatorade and pride. mina turned the camera on herself, sparkles on her collarbone catching the kitchen light.

kiri was on the couch, legs spread, already red from the heat and smirking like a dumbass, blunt resting easy between two fingers. “you guys are so loud.”

“we’re celebrating,” mina said, twirling in place, glitter puffing off her skirt. “it’s senior week. grow up.”

“we’ve peaked,” denki declared. “it’s all downhill from here.”

katsuki didn’t say shit.

he just watched the sun bleed through the blinds, streaking the wooden floor with gold. their bags were packed. their outfits picked. everyone was ready, in theory. no one was moving.

the night was waiting.

and he still didn’t know what he’d say.

mina emerged from the bathroom in a bikini top and cargo pants, hair pulled into two messy buns. she had a half-melted popsicle in one hand and was dancing while trying to put on earrings.

“don’t smoke in the fucking house,” bakugou barked, watching kiri spark up anyway, passing it to denki.

denki blew a lazy ring and grinned. “airbnb already has my card on file.”

“then you can pay the fee. I’m not helpin’ with that shit when they charge us three-fifty for burnin’ their curtains.”

“we won’t burn the curtains,” kirishima said from the couch. “we’re being super respectful.”

bakugou rubbed his temples. tried to breathe. didn’t help.

because behind the noise, behind the smoke and music and chaos, his pulse was already going.

he wasn’t drinking. of course he wasn’t. designated driver. mina had told him three times already. “we’ll be grateful when you’re the only one who doesn’t throw up in a cooler tonight.”

but he still felt buzzed.

not from the music. not from the smell of weed and sweat and perfume.

from the nerves.

the sun was setting outside, bleeding in through the slats of the blinds, painting long streaks of orange across the floor. it was golden hour, and shorepoint was waking up all over again.

from the back window, he could see it all. teens on every corner, flip-flops slapping pavement, shoulders glowing under the last light of day. a group was already gathering near the convenience store parking lot, passing a watermelon smirnoff bottle around in a brown paper bag. someone biked by with a towel slung over their shoulders. the silhouette of the boardwalk was just visible in the distance, a 25-minute walk, maybe, if you didn’t stop to flirt or smoke or hop a fence for a shortcut.

this was the hour the town glimmered.

this was when it all started.

and bakugou could feel it in his spine, the night unfolding. the chance of seeing you again sharp as salt on his tongue.

he tugged his shirt down. combed his fingers through his hair. adjusted his watch for no reason.

tried to act casual. failed.

and then—

“alright, let’s go!” mina shouted, already halfway out the door with a tote bag and a plastic cup filled with what smelled like betrayal. “driver to the front. passengers, don’t puke in the car unless you want to sleep on the porch!”

the screen door slammed behind her and bakugou followed. jaw set. eyes steady.

because it was time.

and he knew, somewhere out there, you were already laughing, already dancing, already dressed like sin and saltwater and everything he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past ten months.

they pulled up to the house just as the sun was sliding behind the trees, bleeding gold onto the roof and painting the windows peach-orange. it wasn’t even a house, really. more like a raised shack, pale wood graying from salt air, porch lights swinging as kids spilled out of it in swimsuits, half-buttoned shirts, and gleaming shoulders.

someone was already throwing up in the grass. someone else had two jello shots in each hand and was trying to climb the porch banister. the air reeked of booze, beach salt, sunscreen, and too many expensive body sprays.

“you comin’ in or what?” kirishima asked, already halfway out the car.

“i don’t do parties,” katsuki muttered.

“that’s not what bakugo last summer would’ve said,” mina sang sweetly, closing the passenger door behind her. “stop being such a wuss and go get your girl.”

he sat in the silence after they left. the engine ticking. the bass from the house pulsing through the ground.

the house was fuller now. sweatier. louder. bodies pressed wall-to-wall, beer cans on windowsills, sand tracked in on sticky floors. and then— he saw you.

standing near the open deck door, ocean air curling around your bare shoulders, sundress riding high on your thighs. your drink was half-melted. your hair was a little frizzy from the humidity. your eyes were crinkled, laughing at something the guy next to you said.

the guy was taller than katsuki. wearing a sleeveless tee and a chain, backwards cap tugged over a head of thick curls. he said something that made you grin, big, toothy, the kind of grin that used to make katsuki’s lungs feel tight. your hand lifted lazily to rest against the guy’s chest and katsuki’s stomach dropped.

not because he was jealous. not really.

but because that was his favorite version of you, flushed and smiling, talking with your whole face, dancing like the beat was made for you. and someone else was seeing it. soaking it in. breathing it like air.

he didn’t move. didn’t storm over. didn’t say your name.

but then you looked up and your eyes locked.

your whole body shifted. just slightly. something behind your expression flickered, surprise, maybe. recognition. something warm, but also a little tense.

you didn’t excuse yourself right away. of course not. you weren’t rude. you waited for the guy to turn his back, to get distracted by his friends, before slipping past him with a gentle hand to his arm and a soft smile.

then you crossed the room, weaving through people like you weren’t even touching the floor, and katsuki forgot how to breathe.

“hey, stranger.” your voice was light. unbothered. not even trying to be coy, just tossing it out like a shell into the tide, casual and smooth and dangerously you.

fuck. up close you were even prettier than he remembered.

sundress hanging off one shoulder. glossy lips wrapped around the edge of your straw. flower tucked behind your ear like you’d forgotten it was even there. you looked like a goddamn painting. like the sun caught in your collarbones and the corners of your mouth. like everything he hadn’t let himself think about since he disappeared on you.

“thought i scared you away,” you said, like it was nothing. like the silence he left you in hadn’t carved out months of wondering.

he felt the guilt immediately, a low, tight pull in his stomach. sharp. ugly.

but you didn’t look mad. didn’t look like you gave a fuck at all.

and maybe that was worse.

maybe he wanted you to be hurt. maybe he wanted some kind of proof that he mattered. that you weren’t just this perfect, untouchable girl who had someone new for every season: someone to kiss in june, someone to hold in july, someone to fuck before august ended.

he clenched his jaw.

“how was the drive?” you asked, like this was easy.

he swallowed. “shitty. shitty people.”

you smiled like you knew exactly who he meant. “so mina, denki, and kiri made it here in one piece i assume?”

“yeah.”

you took another sip of your drink, then lit up. “good. i can’t wait to see them again.”

he looked at you. really looked.

you were glowing. not just from the heat or the drinks or the party, but from the inside. like the year hadn’t dulled you at all. like every minute without him had only sharpened what made you irresistible.

and he regretted it. not texting. not calling. not trying. he regretted it with every cell in his fucking body.

you pulled your phone from your tiny bag, lit up the screen, checked something. then smiled.

“you know,” you said slowly, voice sweet, “today makes exactly one year since you fingered me on the boardwalk ferris wheel.”

he choked. like actually choked.

“what—?” his voice cracked. his eyes snapped to yours.

you just looked at him, lashes heavy, smile lazy. teeth sinking into your straw. “what?” you asked, all innocent. “you did it. not me.”

he stared. speechless.

you giggled, soft, sugar-high, lethal.

“you definitely had something to drink tonight, huh?” he muttered.

“maybe.” you stepped closer, so close he could smell you again, vanilla and vodka and sweat, warm and intoxicating. “you gonna do something about it?”

his breath hitched.

because you were right here. after all that time. after all those texts he never answered and nights he stayed up staring at your page and thinking about your mouth and the way you said his name when your legs were wrapped around his waist and your fingernails left half-moon dents in his shoulders—

you were here.

looking at him like you were already winning.

and you were. god, you were.

you held his eyes for a moment longer, head tilted just slightly, like you were trying to decide whether to push further, then smiled like you’d already made up your mind.

“you look like you could use a sip,” you said, offering him your cup, some half-melted cocktail mix of juice and something cheap, sloshing lazily in the glow of the party lights.

he blinked. “i’m DD.”

“okay?” your brows lifted, playful. “and it’s literally like 80% juice. i watered it down so bad. just have a sip. it’s no fun to party alone.”

he should’ve said no.

but that was the thing about you; you never even had to try. your voice didn’t beg, didn’t whine, didn’t press. it just suggested. it floated. and whatever you wanted— whatever crossed your lips, he found himself doing it like it was already decided.

he took the cup from your hand. brought it to his mouth.

and you watched him. not like it was casual. not like it was background. your eyes followed every movement, slow, steady, lashes dipped low. and when he sipped, he swore he could taste your lip gloss lingering on the rim. sweet. synthetic. sticky like melted candy.

you.

his tongue flicked against the inside of his cheek as he handed it back, jaw tight like he was holding something back.

you placed the cup behind you on the counter and smiled, pleased.

“that’s better.”

your hands rose, smooth and deliberate, sliding up his chest, fingers tracing the shape of him through his shirt. one hand hooked around his neck, the other playing with the edge of his collar, and then both arms looped behind his shoulders as you stepped in close, pressing against him like you were always meant to be there.

his hands found your waist instinctively, like gravity. like muscle memory. his thumbs pressing lightly into the soft skin there, right where your ribs curved in. he felt your breath catch just a little, the way your body molded to his like something made and remembered.

“mm,” you hummed softly, nose brushing his. “that’s better too.”

and then you kissed him.

not fast.not wild. not needy. just slow, soft. like a promise. like an apology he never gave. like a secret whispered between sunburned shoulders.

he leaned into you, and let himself sink. his mouth opened under yours, matching your rhythm, following the tilt of your head, the curve of your lips, the sweetness that lingered like peach juice and heat.

you kissed like you knew him. like you remembered what he liked. like you never forgot.

and his hands gripped you tighter. not rough, just anchored. grounding himself in the press of your waist, the slope of your back. the way your dress shifted beneath his fingers, thin fabric catching and sliding against sun-warmed skin.

you were too much. your taste. your heat. your goddamn mouth.

and when you pulled back, breath slow, lips parted—he nearly chased you down. his body tilted forward before he stopped himself, heart thudding hard against his ribs like it hadn’t caught up yet.

you smiled. not at him. not even for him. just to yourself.

“looks like you did miss me,” you said, eyes still soft, voice barely louder than the beat pulsing from the next room.

his ears flushed instantly. he grumbled, “maybe a little.”

your lips were still warm on his mouth when the shout came.

“bitch!”

you turned just as your friend came stumbling in, glitter on her arms, plastic cup in one hand, and the other outstretched toward you like she’d been looking for you in every room.

“come on,” she giggled. “they’re doing karaoke by the pool. someone brought a speaker and first day out is on the queue.”

you laughed. that wild, sun-sparked laugh that always made his shoulders drop, and gave katsuki one last look. mouthed a soft sorry, but didn’t wait. didn’t hesitate.

you never did.

you slipped your hand into your friend’s and disappeared down the hallway, hair bouncing, flower tucked just behind your ear, already lit up by the party again.

katsuki blinked. then turned back to the kitchen, lips still tingling, only to be met by—

“jesus christ.”

denki. leaning against the counter, mouth twisted like he’d just caught katsuki sneaking a second slice of cake.

“you good, bro?” he grinned. “i mean, damn. the kitchen?”

“like, people eat in here,” kirishima added, snorting. “she couldn’t wait till y’all found a closet?”

katsuki’s face went hot. “shut the fuck up,” he growled, but it was too late. denki was already wheezing, miming a kiss with both hands while kiri fake-moaned and slid down the cabinet.

“i’m serious,” denki said between laughs, “you were like—” he threw his head back dramatically, arms spread. “right here. next to the fucking microwave.”

“i said shut up—”

he wasn’t even sure why he was so pissed. maybe it was the embarrassment. maybe it was how easy you made him forget himself. maybe it was because you were already off, back in your element, while he was stuck here getting clowned by people who knew damn well he didn’t kiss girls at parties. didn’t kiss girls in public. didn’t do this.

but you weren’t just any girl. and that was the problem.

“guys,” mina said suddenly, appearing with a roll of her eyes and a drink in each hand, “can you stop making out with your own egos and leave him alone?”

she shoved a drink into kiri’s chest and shot katsuki a wink.

“some of us still remember what summer is for.”

…

the party moved.

spilled across rooms like dye in water. stretched into the backyard, where the pool glowed pale blue under string lights. someone pulled out a lighter. someone else lit sparklers on the porch. kids from three towns over were already half-naked in inflatable chairs.

katsuki made it as far as the back wall. saw two girls he vaguely remembered from home ec. one asked for his number.

“i’m gay,” he said.

she blinked. “oh.”

“yeah.” he walked off before she could ask any follow-ups.

and still, he ended up back in the kitchen. because no matter how far he drifted, he was always just trying to orbit back to you.

and like always, you found him again.

two arms snaked around his waist from behind, warm, bare, glitter-dusted, and he tensed instantly, shoulders locked, breath catching.

then he exhaled.

because only you would do that.

“katsuki,” you sing-songed into his back, breath soft against his shoulder. “you disappeared.”

“you’re the one who ran off,” he said, voice flat, but not angry.

“karaoke emergency,” you grinned, moving to stand in front of him, flower now tucked behind your other ear, hair a little more mussed, cheeks even more flushed.

you looked like you’d been living, like the party was yours and you were letting everyone borrow it for a night. “come on,” you said, tugging his hand. “come dance.”

he hesitated.

you pouted. “what, you’re too cool for me?”

“i don’t dance.”

“you do with me.” you said, like it was obvious. like you knew him better than he knew himself.

he didn’t argue.

the music was loud, a mess of old bangers and new remixes, the kind of shit that hit you in the chest and rattled through your bones. the crowd pulsed with it, jumping, shouting, hands in the air, drinks spilling.

and you were glowing.

dancing like you were built for it, like your hips moved on instinct and your shoulders rolled with the beat. you jumped, you laughed, you sang along like you were on stage and every word mattered.

katsuki stood behind you, hands on your hips, grounding himself. letting you take him wherever you wanted.

you reached back, fingers threading into his hair, pulled him down a little so your mouth brushed his ear.

“i hope we never die,” you whispered. “just like this. forever.”

he swallowed. tight.

because the way you said it, not heavy, not tragic, just true, felt like a wish he didn’t deserve to want.

he tightened his grip on your waist, pulled you closer. your back hit his chest. your body swayed into his like it was nothing. like it was everything. and he let it. because when it came to you: dancing, drinking, smiling with your eyes all blown and cheeks all flushed, he’d do whatever you wanted.

he’d fly.

and every time he thought he could breathe, you tugged him somewhere else.

back into the music. back into the crowd. back under the lights strung between palm trees and sagging porch rails, places he’d never have walked into on his own, places he didn’t belong.

but you made him belong.

you moved through the party like you were born inside it, and all he had to do was keep up.

your dress kept riding up as you danced, not indecent, but short enough that eyes followed, and every time, katsuki’s hands found your hem, tugging it down with a scowl, like it was a reflex. you didn’t say anything. you didn’t need to. just grinned to yourself, leaned into him, kept moving.

you kissed him again after the cornhole game.

not just him, but everyone. you jumped up, arms in the air, shouting “we fucking won!” and planted messy, glitter-sticky kisses on the cheeks of every member of the winning side. kirishima. denki. some girl you barely knew who landed the final shot. and then him, last, your lips catching the corner of his mouth, breathless, laughing, sweaty from dancing, and radiant.

he swore the world blinked out for a second. just you. just the taste of you. just your hand in his again.

you worked the party like a hostess, like the queen of shorepoint. you pulled him from person to person, introducing him like he was yours, katsuki, the one i told you about. sometimes they knew you from middle school. sometimes they were your cousins from a street over. sometimes they didn’t even look old enough to be here.

he just nodded. gave gruff hellos. stood beside you while you chatted and hugged and laughed.

and every time your eyes found him again, he felt steadier. like he fit here. because you made room for him.

and then, you spotted someone in the crowd.

“oh my god—”

you didn’t finish. just grabbed katsuki’s hand and dragged, weaving through bodies like you were swimming. he muttered a few excuse me’s behind you, getting bumped by elbows and plastic cups, but you were already locked onto your target, one hand guiding him, the other lifting in a wave as you broke through.

“mina!” you squealed, launching into her arms. “i swear, i kept up with your prom pics, bitch, you looked gorgeoud.”

she hugged you tight, laughing, shoulder glitter catching in the light. “you’re literally insane. i’ve missed your ass.”

katsuki slowed to a halt behind you, catching his breath, watching the way you lit up. you were flushed again, not from embarrassment, just from energy. from the buzz of everything. your dress clung a little more now. your flower was halfway tucked into your braid. you looked like you belonged in this light.

you turned, beaming.

“obviously you already know katsuki,” you said, and mina rolled her eyes.

“unfortunately. notoriously bad driver.”

“rude,” he muttered, but his lips twitched.

“you still yelling at people in the car?” you asked, turning to him, cheeks heating, rocking back on your heels.

he couldn’t stop staring at you. not the way you talked, or laughed, or even moved. just the way you were. the way you charmed a room with nothing but your presence. the way you saw people, and they felt seen.

you were talking again, something about a friend of yours who had a crush on her. “i swear he told me he thought you were cute,” you were saying, nudging mina. “hold on—”

you waved someone over. a guy who’d been hovering nearby, pretending not to watch.

“this is him,” you grinned, and turned to the rest of them. “okay. group dance. now.”

no one argued.

the song changed. bass deep. familiar. bodies surged in again, sweatier, freer now. arms in the air, hands on hips, friends spinning friends, girls screaming lyrics that didn’t match the beat.

katsuki didn’t dance. except with you.

your back pressed to his chest. your hand gripped his. your hips rolled, and his body followed. your laugh was against his jaw. your lips brushed his throat when you turned.

he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun.

you made him laugh, loud, even, when you botched the lyrics to a rap verse and freestyled something so awful, so cursed, it made the girls around you double over.

you winked up at him and he thought, i want this forever.

you spun again. pulled him in. whispered something hot and stupid against his mouth, and he just nodded.

because he’d follow you anywhere. because this was the part he never got enough of. because you, loud, glittery, reckless, good, were it.

the party blurred, but you didn’t. you stayed sharp. you stayed his.

when you guys make it back outside, the deck is strung with paper lanterns and the night’s too warm for jackets. your sandals are gone. you’re barefoot, skirt fluttering just above your knees, moving like your body’s made of music.

he’s sitting in one of the sagging lawn chairs, half-sunk, arms folded, pretending he’s still above it all.

but his eyes never leave you.

you come back to him every few minutes. drape yourself across his lap. kiss his cheek, his temple, his jaw. murmur something stupid about the moon or how hot it is or how your thighs are sore from dancing.

he grunts. always grunts. but his hands find your waist every time. grounding you. keeping you.

you come back with a solo cup, glitter pink, half-melted ice, definitely too much. he plucks it right out of your hand before you can sit.

“uh-uh,” he mutters, holding it out of reach. “i think you’ve had enough.”

you pout, stumbling into his lap anyway. “you’re no fun.”

“nope. not tonight. not when you’re already—” he gestures vaguely to your everything. “this.”

you roll your eyes. press a kiss to his cheek. then another, slow and sticky, to the corner of his mouth. “mean.”

“you’ll live.”

your hands wander up his chest. slow. lazy. fingers splayed like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him again. you cup his face in both hands, fingers warm, firm, just beneath his jaw.

“you look so pretty like this,” you whisper, lips barely brushing his ear.

he doesn’t say anything. just exhales. closes his eyes for a beat too long. lets it sink in.

the house behind you has shifted. mellowed.

the playlist’s changed. no more scream-along anthems, just loose, messy pop songs about driving nowhere, fucking in back seats, talking about everything and nothing under gas station lights. someone’s cousin passed out facedown in the hallway. a dog showed up on the deck thirty minutes ago and no one’s claimed it. the beer pong table is now home to three strangers in wet hoodies tangled together like seaweed.

but you’re still glowing.

“alright,” katsuki muttered, jaw tight.

he stood. stretched once. cracked his neck. then turned to where kirishima and denki were leaned against the fence, giggling at nothing, half-dead. “hey, let’s go.”

“aw, already?” mina appeared from nowhere, sipping something clear from a mason jar.

“now,” katsuki repeated, already herding the three of them together. “get in the car. she’s coming too.”

you grinned, letting him hook a hand behind your back and steer you down the deck stairs.

at the edge of the lawn, you tugged his arm. “piggyback?”

he turned, one brow raised.

you blinked up at him, pout barely formed, voice low and innocent: “please? my feet hurt.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you’re not that drunk.”

you shrugged. “still in pain.”

he rolled his eyes but crouched anyway. you jumped, arms around his shoulders, chin on top of his head, laughing in his ear.

from the porch, kiri and denki were grinning like jackals. mina snapped a photo.

“shut the fuck up,” katsuki barked.

they put their hands up in surrender, snorting.

…

he didn’t have to drop the others off first.

he could’ve taken you home on the way. it would’ve made sense. would’ve cut the route in half.

but he didn’t.

he parked in front of the bnb, nudged kiri and denki with the back of his hand. “out.”

“what about—” kiri yawned, rubbing his eyes. “you’re not—?”

“droppin’ her off last,” katsuki said. “just move.”

denki, half-asleep, winked as he tumbled out of the car. “have fun,” he slurred. “use protection.”

“what the fuck—”

“don’t worry,” you cut in, voice syrupy, leaning toward the window, “we will.”

the door shut. silence.

katsuki stared straight ahead, fists flexed on the wheel. his ears were burning.

the drive back to your place was short. quiet. not awkward, just full.

he didn’t remember the turns, even though he’d been to your house countless times last summer. you didn’t say much. just curled your legs up on the seat, flower in your hand now, twirling it absentmindedly. your head rested on the window. the streetlights streaked your face gold.

and then, the house.

when he walked you to the door, it was late enough that the neighborhood was dead quiet. porch lights flickered across trimmed lawns. a single moth circled the bulb above your steps.

your porch light was soft, warm yellow, fuzzy around the edges. it made everything feel smaller. safer. like it couldn’t touch the rest of the world.

you turned to him. still smiling. flower askew. hair frizzy. cheeks flushed.

he reached out. brushed his thumb along your temple, fixing the flower again. gentle. like it mattered.

“thanks for tonight,” you whispered.

he didn’t say anything. just leaned forward. kissed your forehead. soft. slow. the kind of kiss that wasn’t about being seen. the kind of kiss that meant more than he knew how to explain.

he started to pull back but your fingers caught his shirt.

“you know…” you said, voice low, light. “you can come in. if you want.”

your hand slid up his chest. one acrylic trailing up the line of his jaw, slow and sweet.

“just gotta be quiet.”

you winked and his breath caught in his throat. then, as if you knew he’d follow you inside, you turned and opened the door.

your house was dim. not dark, not eerie, just quiet, touched only by the blue glow of moonlight leaking through linen curtains and the far-off hum of cicadas. no hallway lights, no TV. just the soft creak of the floorboards under your bare feet as you led him through.

“don’t step on that stair,” you whispered over your shoulder. “it creaks.”

his hand stayed curled in the back of your dress. your fingers caught his, tugging gently as you tiptoed past the garage door, up the narrow stairs. everything smelled like detergent and citrus. like the place had been cleaned too fast, like someone was expecting company and didn’t know why.

you pushed open your bedroom door.

he remembered it, even in the dark. the faint shimmer of string lights, the shelves stacked with old books and folded notes, a cluttered desk that hadn’t changed since last summer. your bed was unmade. your fan was spinning. your walls were still covered in pinned-up postcards and disposable film memories, curling a little at the corners.

you stepped in first. turned. closed the door behind you with the softest click. and when you looked up at him, all quiet, all flushed, all his—he knew exactly why he hadn’t dropped you off first.

he didn’t even wait. didn’t ask.

just stepped forward, hands on your waist before you’d taken another breath, mouth catching yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you melted. instantly. like you’d been waiting for this all night, or all year, or maybe just since the moment he stopped calling.

slow. unhurried. soft as cotton.

you reached behind your neck and tugged the zipper down, letting the sundress slip off your shoulders, then your hips, until it puddled at your ankles. you stepped out of it, bare, glowing, gorgeous. your skin caught the light like it had been dusted in sugar. no bra. no shame.

his breath caught, sharp, staggered, when he saw you like that again. you weren’t nervous. weren’t posing. just you. standing there, looking at him like you’d been waiting for this exact moment all year.

“fuck,” he whispered.

and his hands were on you immediately.

they swept up your sides, over your ribs, slow and reverent. his palms skimmed your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples, just enough to make them harden under his touch. his lips found your collarbone, then lower. kisses open-mouthed, heavy, tongue flicking just to see you squirm.

he dropped to his knees in front of you, arms looping around your waist, face pressed against your stomach. his voice was rough, muffled: “you’re not fair.”

you giggled, threading your fingers through his hair. “never said i was.”

he kissed down, teeth grazing your hipbones, hands sliding behind you to cup your ass. you gasped softly when he squeezed firmer the second time, his mouth already kissing up your thigh, warm and wet and hungry.

“get on the bed,” he said, voice low.

you did. you climbed back, slow, the mattress creaking beneath your knees. you laid back on your elbows, eyes never leaving his, and opened your legs just enough to be inviting.

he followed.

he settled between your thighs, dragged two fingers through your folds, slow, deliberate— then circled your clit, gentle, coaxing. you moaned softly. legs twitching.

“already wet,” he muttered, almost to himself.

you bit your lip, nodded.

he pressed one finger in. then two.

your breath stuttered. hips jerked. one hand flew to his wrist, not to stop him( just to feel him.

his fingers curled. massaged. not fucking, just opening you, spreading you, easing you wider with soft, deliberate pushes. his thumb never stopped moving on your clit, not once, even when your hips bucked.

your thighs shook. your mouth dropped open. “katsuki,” you whispered, voice breathy, broken.

“shh,” he said. “just let me.”

and you did. you were panting by the time he finally pulled back, fingers glistening. he kissed the inside of your thigh again, then climbed up, bracing his weight with one hand, staring down at you like you were holy.

your legs wrapped around him, pulling him in.

“come on, sweetheart,” you whispered. “take ’em off.”

he did.

dragged his pants off, then his boxers, breath heavy, body tense. he looked wrecked already, like the taste of you had scrambled something in him he couldn’t fix.

you sat up, eyes wide, hand trailing down to guide him, slow, certain.

“wait,” you said. “can i…?”

he nodded. and you climbed into his lap.

hands on his shoulders. breath hot between you. your fingers guided him again, the head of his cock slipping through your folds, catching at your entrance.

he kissed your neck. gripped your hips.

and you sank. inch by inch.

the stretch was so deep it knocked the air from your lungs. your nails dug into his shoulders, head dropping, a sharp moan caught in your throat.

“you good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

you nodded, lips parted. “not… not yet.”

you paused halfway down, breath trembling. he kissed your throat. his hand stroked your back, slow, grounding you. and then lower. deeper. until he was fully inside.

you let out a helpless mewl, high and soft and desperate.

he groaned. “fuck. you feel—” he didn’t finish. just held you. let you adjust.

and then, slow, you rocked your hips.

he met your rhythm, matched every roll, every arch. his hands gripped your waist, guiding you, breath stuttering in your ear.

you moaned again, louder this time.

he clapped a hand over your mouth. “i’m not trying to get murdered by your fucking dad,” he hissed.

you whined behind his palm, breath stuttering, voice broken. “he’s not that harm—” you gasped.

he thrust deeper, silencing whatever was left of that thought. he didn’t stop.

neither did you.

you moved together, bodies slick and hot, mouths brushing but never quite kissing, hands everywhere. his forehead pressed to yours. your fingers clawed into his back. he moaned against your cheek.

your breath hitched. you were so fucking loud.

his hand didn’t leave your mouth, not until your body started to tremble, not until your nails dragged down his chest, not until your thighs started to shake from the edge.

you u were close. so close, and trying, trying so hard to keep quiet. you bit your lip, hard, teeth digging into the swell of it as you rocked against him, slow and steady, clenching around him tighter every time your hips rolled down.

your breathing got shallower. chest rising fast. back arching. he felt every twitch of your thighs, every gasp that broke past his fingers, hot, desperate, muffled into his palm.

and then—a sharp little whimper escaped you. high. panicked. real.

his eyes shot open.

your fingers gripped his shoulders. you stiffened suddenly. not from fear, not from sound. just sensation.

because the orgasm hit without warning.

it wasn’t violent. wasn’t loud. wasn’t anything you expected. it just happened, soft and drawn out, like your body forgot to hold itself together. like you were melting.

your mouth dropped open. your legs clenched tight. and you came with your forehead pressed to his chest, breath stuck in your throat, hips still rolling through it, slower now, like your body didn’t know how to stop.

his hand dropped from your mouth. he was too wrapped up to remember silence, too lost in the feeling of you, of your thighs squeezing him, of your walls pulsing around his cock, milking him.

you kept moving. barely. still grinding through the aftershocks, hips shifting mindlessly.

“fuck,” he breathed, voice tight. he wasn’t going to last.

you leaned into him, chest to chest, lips brushing his throat. still shaking. still riding it out.

and then— creak.

his head snapped up just as the bedroom door burst open like it had been kicked.

“what the fuck?” your dad’s voice cracked the air like a gunshot.

you froze.

katsuki didn’t even get the chance to breathe or finish. his whole body locked. he didn’t mean to look, didn’t mean to move, just stared. fucking stared as your father’s face contorted from shock to rage in real time.

you were still in his lap.

he was still in you.

naked. glowing. breathless.

your mouth parted like you were about to say something. anything. but nothing came out as you fumbled with the sheets to cover yourself.

“holy fucking shit—” he choked, hands suddenly frantic, trying to lift you off him, not roughly, not even fast, but like he couldn’t think. like every nerve in his body was screaming to move.

you slid off with a soft gasp, legs too shaky to catch yourself. he helped guide you to the mattress, hand on your hip, wide-eyed, panicked.

he scrambled for his boxers, found them on the floor by the fan, yanked them up just as your dad took another furious step forward.

“katsuki, the window.” you hissed, grabbing his pants and flinging then at him like a grenade.

he didn’t argue.

he was already climbing out in his boxers, half-dressed, pants in his teeth, sneakers in one hand, nearly slipping on the siding of your roof as he landed, hard, on the overhang below.

your father charged toward the window.

“i’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, boy.” he bellowed. “you better not ever show your goddamn face on the street again!”

katsuki didn’t turn around. he ran.

barefoot across the lawn. pants clutched in one hand, boxers twisted, socks still on.

he found the car. somehow. slammed the door shut, heart beating so loud it drowned everything else. his hands were shaking on the steering wheel. his chest was bare, legs scraped from the landing.

he drove home like that.

window down. shirtless. breath coming in gasps. he funbled with his pants at a red light and drove with his pant legs half-rolled.

heart still stuck in your mouth.

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