ZaZnaya

His hair is freshly trimmed, the ash blond strands still slightly damp from his shower, pushed back messily from his forehead. The sleeves of his black compression shirt cling to his shoulders and arms while the expensive button-up he plans on wearing hangs neatly from the bathroom door beside pressed slacks he spent way too long picking out earlier. Even his watch sits carefully beside the sink instead of abandoned somewhere random like usual. The entire thing feels too deliberate. Too polished. Too much like he gives a shit.

Which he doesn’t.

Obviously.

Except his stomach has felt weird since he woke up this morning.

Not nervous. Definitely not nervous. 

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he clocked off hero work or how much time he spent at the gym so he could show off a pump tonight, nor can he try to convince himself it isn’t for the reason he doesn’t want to admit. He just wants to look good.

And that’s it. Simple as it sounds. No reason for him to choke on stuttering breaths.

The razor scrapes harder against his jaw this time as he rinses it aggressively under the sink. Hot water rushes over his fingers, turning the tips of them pink.

The celebration dinner is stupid to begin with, if you ask him.

Shoto gets ranked top two after the downtown incident last month, Endeavor immediately turns it into some flashy media spectacle about family legacy and hero society, and somehow all of Class A gets invited because the public still eats up that “golden generation” garbage years later. Old classmates pretending they all still keep in touch more often than not. The entire thing sounds exhausting.

But you’re gonna be there.

That’s the problem.

For all he cares, it’s been—what? Three years?

Three fucking years since he’s properly seen you.

Not in passing through articles online. Not blurry photos people tag him in accidentally after hero events. Not hearing your name mentioned by Mina or Sero every couple of months when they gossip over drinks.

Actually seeing you.

As in, In person.

Close enough to touch.

Because when him and you were no more, instead of running back to him like you’d always do, you moved out of Japan, got a job somewhere else in the world. You blocked him on all socials, blocked his number —even the agency landline— and for a while, he didn’t care to contact you. He didn’t care to check up on you, because who checks up on someone who said they wished they never met you? He went out of your life as quietly as you went out of his. Not caring if his last words hurt you, like you did.

Katsuki braces both hands against the sink and stares downward as water drips steadily from the faucet. His reflection blurs at the edges from the steam still clouding the glass, turning him into something distorted and unfamiliar.

Pathetic.

The worst part is he doesn’t even know what version of you is walking through those doors tonight.

Maybe you’re angry.

Maybe you barely look at him.

Maybe you’ve become one of those calm, polished heroes that smile perfectly for cameras now, the kind that know exactly how to navigate crowded rooms without making enemies out of everyone in them.

Or maybe you’ll look through him entirely.

That thought digs somewhere unpleasant beneath his ribs.

Fair enough, honestly.

He earns that.

The memory still crawls up on him sometimes when it gets too quiet. Usually late at night after patrol when he’s too exhausted to keep his thoughts from wandering somewhere ugly.

In all honesty he did try to talk to you. Last year, after he found out he wasn’t blocked anymore. But he was angry, vulgar, everything you’ve ever said you hated about him. And for better or for worse you had only told him you knew he’d never change. And he had left it there, not pressing anymore, not needing anymore proof to accept you just weren’t coming back.

Maybe this is why he won’t wear the polished clothes he’s picked out for tonight. Maybe the Nike sweats he tumble dried this morning and a t-shirt will make him look more casual, put together in a way fancy clothes won’t.

Because tonight is casual to him. It should be, at least, amidst picking up Kirishima and Izuku in his new car. He shouldn’t even care that you’re going to be there.

He keeps staring at himself anyway.

Like maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll suddenly figure out why this feels so fucking strange.

The bathroom light washes his skin pale while steam curls slowly around the edges of the mirror, softening the sharpness of his reflection. Katsuki barely recognizes the version of himself standing there sometimes. Not because he looks different—he does, obviously, older and broader and rougher around the edges—but because somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five, the anger inside him changed shape.

Less explosive.

Much more exhausting.

He reaches for the towel hanging off the counter and drags it roughly over his face before tossing it aside. The nick near his chin still stings faintly. Tiny. Irritating. His eyes flick toward the button-up hanging from the bathroom door again, then away immediately.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

The idea of showing up looking like he spent hours trying to impress you makes something hot crawl up his neck. It feels pathetic now. Worse now, somehow, after standing here spiraling like an idiot for nearly forty minutes over a dinner he doesn’t even want to attend.

Katsuki grabs the hanger off the door and shoves the expensive shirt deeper into the closet on his way back into the bedroom.

Fuck that.

The softer lighting from his room settles easier against his eyes compared to the harsh fluorescent buzz of the bathroom. Outside the windows, the city glows orange and blue beneath the darkening sky, traffic crawling between towering buildings while distant sirens echo somewhere far below. His apartment sits high enough that most nights the noise blends together into background static.

Tonight it all feels too loud.

He yanks open a drawer harder than necessary and pulls out the black t-shirt he wears for training. The fabric stretches tight across his shoulders when he changes, outlining muscle built from years of relentless schedules, combat drills, patrols, sleepless nights at the gym whenever his head gets too crowded to sit still inside his own apartment.

Not for you.

Obviously.

The thought comes so defensive it almost makes him scoff at himself.

The sweats are clean at least. Black Nike joggers fresh from the dryer this morning, soft at the inside, fitted enough that Kirishima once called them “boyfriend material clothes” before Katsuki threatened to blast him through a wall. Casual. Comfortable. Like he isn’t thinking about tonight at all.

Like he didn’t spend an embarrassing amount of time earlier deciding between watches.

His jaw tightens again.

This is ridiculous.

You’re just another person he used to know.

That’s it.

Three years changes people. Hell, maybe you aren’t even the same woman anymore. Maybe you cut your hair shorter now. Maybe you picked up some accent overseas since your Japanese seemed too weird the last time you talked. And— and maybe, like the thoughts that used to consume him before he ever reached out to you last year, there’s somebody else waiting for you back home after tonight, somebody softer than him. Somebody easier. Someone your shared friends know about but won’t let him know of.

That thought lands badly, like he woke a dragon from a millennial slumber. His chest immediately feels too tight for it.

Katsuki snatches his car keys off the counter before he can sit with the feeling any longer.

His hone buzzes again from the kitchen table as he passes by. Probably Kirishima. Maybe Deku. Maybe another last-minute reminder about tonight’s schedule.

He ignores it.

The kitchen still smells faintly like coffee from this morning, dishes abandoned beside the sink because he hasn’t had enough energy lately to care about cleaning immediately after meals. There’s protein powder spilled near the toaster from breakfast. A hoodie tossed over one of the dining chairs. Tiny signs of somebody actually living here instead of the spotless, polished apartment magazines keep trying to photograph whenever reporters sneak glimpses during interviews.

For a second, his eyes drift unconsciously toward the balcony.

You used to stand out there all the time. Especially during storms.

Wrapped in one of his hoodies with your arms folded over the railing while Musutafu lit up below you in blurred neon reflections. You always complained the city looked lonely from this high up.

Katsuki used to think that was stupid. Now he gets it.

His throat feels strangely dry.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath.

The worst part is he genuinely has no idea how tonight’s gonna go.

Maybe you’ll smile politely at him like he’s an old coworker and he’ll have to be casual about greeting you, though he doesn’t want to.

Maybe you’ll avoid him altogether.

Maybe Mina’ll force everybody into some obnoxious group photo and suddenly he’ll be standing beside you for the first time in years pretending his heart isn’t punching against his ribs hard enough to bruise merely at the thought of it all.

Or maybe—

Maybe you’ll just look heavenly good.

That’s the real problem, honestly.

Because he already knows you will.

Not because of makeup or clothes or whatever expensive shit pro heroes wear to these events now. You always looked good to him in ways that annoyed the hell out of him. Half-asleep in his shirts. Sitting on his kitchen counter eating takeout straight from the carton. Yelling at him from across the apartment while he ignored you on purpose just to hear you get louder.

Three years later and his body still remembers stupid things about you automatically.

The sound of your laugh.

The weight of your legs thrown over his lap.

The smell of your peachy shampoo lingering on his pillows after arguments where one of you stormed out dramatically only to come back two hours later.

Katsuki grips his keys tighter.

Nope.

He’s not doing this tonight. He’s not showing up already halfway dragged into the past because of somebody who made it painfully clear they didn’t want him in their life anymore.

That should matter.

It does matter.

And honestly, he understands why you left.

Back then he was still angry at everything. Angry at hero society. Angry at himself. Angry at how badly he wanted somebody and how terrified he is of needing them at the same time. Every conversation between you eventually turned into him snapping before you can get too close to whatever ugly thing sits underneath his ribs.

You called him cruel once.

Not loudly. Not even during a fight.

Just tired.

And somehow that had struck him worse than any screaming ever could. That’s when it clicked to him, that no matter how much you said you saw the good in him, you never truly could. Even if one of your last sentences to him was that you loved him, he didn’t believe you could ever love someone you thought was cruel, someone you wish you never met. 

Katsuki locks the apartment behind him harder than necessary before heading toward the elevator.

The hallway lights flicker softly overhead while he waits, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. His reflection stares back at him from the metal elevator doors—broad shoulders, tired eyes, black compression shirt clinging too tightly against muscle that suddenly feels more like armor than confidence.

Casual.

Tonight is casual.

Just old classmates catching up. Nothing more.

Then his phone vibrates again.

EIJIRO: don’t be weird tonight bro

A second message immediately follows; something about sitting shotgun in his new car.

Katsuki stares at the screen for a long moment. Then another vibration.

IZUKU: Kacchan are we still meeting downstairs in 20?

His jaw flexes hard enough to ache.

Because somehow, despite everything, despite all the years and silence and blocked numbers and ugly last conversations—

A part of him still feels twenty-two again. Twenty-two and convinced that no one could love the way he expressed himself.

______

By the time Katsuki parks outside the izakaya, the knot in his stomach has already settled into something meaner. Sharper. Musutafu glows around him and his friends in streaks of reflected neon against rain-dark pavement while a valet moves between cars beneath the izakaya entrance. The place itself is ridiculously upscale even if it is just traditional, all warm golden lighting spilling through enormous glass windows and polished black stone.

Kirishima lets out a low whistle from the passenger seat as he climbs out. “Can’t wait to see everyone.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki mutters automatically, already slamming the car door closed harder than necessary.

Cold evening air immediately brushes against the back of his neck. Somewhere nearby, traffic hums steadily through the city while muffled laughter spills from the izakaya entrance every time the doors open. Izuku smooths anxiously at the sleeves of his suit beside the car, glancing toward the building with that same nervous energy he’s carried since high school.

“Do we think Todoroki planned all this himself,” he starts, adjusting his tie, “or do you think Endeavor hired—”

“Deku,” Katsuki interrupts flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “if you start analyzing anything, i’m leaving.”

“I wasn’t gonna analyze the—”

“You literally were.”

Kirishima snorts loudly beside them, and normally the familiar bickering would loosen something in Katsuki’s chest. Tonight it barely registers because his attention keeps drifting toward the entrance before they even reach it, heartbeat strangely steady in a way that feels worse than panic. Like his body already knows something his brain is still trying to avoid.

The hostess opens the doors with a practiced smile, and warm air immediately wraps around them alongside the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. The restaurant is crowded with heroes, old classmates that are lingering discreetly in sorted tables near the back, all surrounded by polished wood and amber lighting that makes everything glow soft and expensive.

Katsuki barely notices any of it.

His eyes find you almost instantly.

Of course they do.

You’re seated near the center of the room beside the girls, half-turned toward Mina while Ochaco laughs at something across the table. The lighting catches warmly against the side of your face, softening the curve of your expression while gold jewelry glints subtly against your skin every time you move. Your hair is longer now than the last time he saw you in person, falling over your shoulders while one hand curls loosely around a sake glass. You look comfortable there. Relaxed. Like you belong in rooms like this now.

And for one awful second, Katsuki genuinely forgets how to breathe.

Three years vanish instantly beneath the weight of recognition. His body remembers you before his brain does, something visceral and humiliating tightening beneath his ribs before he can stop it.

Fuck.

You look different, but not enough to feel unfamiliar. Older, maybe. Sharper around the edges in the way everybody becomes sharper with time. There’s confidence in the way you sit now that wasn’t fully there before, something steadier beneath your posture. You carry yourself like someone who’s finally learned how to exist without apologizing for taking up space.

Then Mina notices them entering.

“Oh my god, finally!” she calls immediately, waving dramatically across the room. “You guys are late as hell!”

Several heads turn at once.

Including yours.

Katsuki feels it immediately, that split second your eyes land on him from across the room. It happens so fast he almost convinces himself he imagined it. No widening. No visible surprise. No anger flashing across your face. Your gaze settles on him briefly before moving smoothly toward Kirishima instead.

“Oh, Eiji,” you smile warmly, standing slightly from your pillow as the group approaches. “Hi.”

The knot in Katsuki’s stomach twists tighter.

Kirishima grins instantly. “There she is. Damn, it’s been forever.”

“It literally has,” Mina groans dramatically. “This bitch abandoned us internationally.”

You laugh softly at that, embarrassed enough to duck your head slightly.

The sound lands somewhere dangerous in Katsuki’s chest.

Ochaco immediately stands to greet Izuku while the others start talking over each other all at once, greetings and questions colliding noisily together after years apart. You converse with everyone easily. Kirishima gets pulled into a quick side hug while you squeeze Ochaco’s hand excitedly across the table. You ask Izuku about agency work overseas, laugh when Kaminari nearly trips over a table trying to sit down, you smile politely at Jirou when she teases your accent sounding slightly different now.

But Katsuki gets nothing.

At first he tells himself maybe you just haven’t gotten there yet. Maybe it’s awkward. Maybe you’re nervous too and trying to settle into the conversation before acknowledging him properly.

Then Kirishima nudges him lightly with his elbow.

“Oi,” he mutters under his breath, “say hi, silly.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

His eyes flick toward you again, but you’re already sitting back down beside Mina, smoothing your sleeve absentmindedly while listening to Momo speak. Completely relaxed. Completely normal.

Like he isn’t even there.

Something hot immediately crawls beneath his skin, but it doesn’t feel like anger. Anger would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to understand. This feels uglier than that.

Because you aren’t being cold.

You aren’t glaring at him or avoiding eye contact dramatically or making the tension obvious for everyone else at the table.

You’re just indifferent.

Clean, casual, effortless indifference that makes it painfully obvious you’ve already figured out how to exist in the same room as him without it affecting you at all.

Katsuki pulls form to his seat harder than necessary across from Kirishima, the sharp scrape of the table flinching away from him against the floor briefly cutting through the table conversation. Nobody reacts except Mina, whose eyes dart toward him automatically before flicking carefully toward you.

You don’t even look up.

Jesus Christ.

His chest suddenly feels too tight.

“You look good, by the way,” Mina says suddenly, leaning dramatically against your shoulder. “Like suspiciously good. What the hell are they feeding you overseas?”

You laugh quietly, almost embarrassed by the attention. “Literally just less stress, probably.”

The joke lands casually around the table. Kaminari laughs. Jirou snorts into her drink. Ochaco starts teasing you immediately about abandoning Japanese work culture.

Nobody else notices anything strange about the comment.

But Katsuki does.

Of course he fucking does.

Less stress.

Like loving him had exhausted you so thoroughly that leaving the entire country became the healthiest thing you’d ever done for yourself.

His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the menu sitting untouched in front of him.

“Still working with that rescue agency?” Izuku asks curiously.

You nod. “Mostly disaster relief now, yeah. It’s quieter than here.”

“Quieter?” Kaminari repeats incredulously. “Why would you want quieter?”

“Because some people enjoy peace,” Jirou answers dryly.

“Exactly,” you laugh.

And there it is again, that strange feeling pressing heavier against Katsuki’s ribs every time you smile. Because you do seem peaceful now. Not forced. Not pretending. Actually peaceful.

Your posture stays relaxed through every conversation. Your smile comes easier than he remembers. Even your voice sounds lighter somehow, no longer carrying that constant tension that used to sit beneath your words whenever the two of you argued. Back then, loving each other always felt loud. Intense. Like every conversation teetered dangerously close to becoming a fight neither of you knew how to stop once it started.

Now you just seem… calm.

Katsuki suddenly feels too large in his seat. Too rough around the edges for this version of you. His broad shoulders, his obnoxiously loud voice, the constant restless energy simmering beneath his skin all feel painfully obvious in comparison to the quiet ease you carry now.

Mina notices it first.

Her eyes flick carefully between the two of you once. Then again.

Her smile falters slightly.

Because now it’s becoming noticeable to everybody else too.

You still haven’t acknowledged Katsuki properly once since they entered the izakaya.

Kirishima notices next, judging by the awkward way he shifts beside Katsuki before clearing his throat.

“So, uh…” he starts carefully, eyes darting between you both. “Crazy seeing everybody together again, huh?”

“Mm,” you hum politely before taking another sip of your drink.

That’s it.

No tension sharpens your voice. No bitterness leaks through your expression. Nothing about your reaction feels forced or emotional at all. Katsuki Bakugo has somehow become just another former classmate sitting at the table across from yours instead of the man you once shared a bed and apartment and entire future with. 

You used to tell each other that by the time you’re twenty-five you’d surprise your friends and old classmates by popping a kid out of the blue in one of these events. You used to laugh at the thought of him flaunting a baby bump on you, dreaming that you’d hide your engagement ring from everyone until it was the right time to announce you’d get married.

In another life, it may have been different.

Instead of that, you and him are forcibly strangers now; the realization settles, once again heavily in his stomach.

At least showing hatred towards him would mean he still mattered enough to ruin your evening.

This indifference feels like being erased entirely.

______________

The longer the night settles around the izakaya, the more Katsuki realizes he completely misjudged what this dinner was supposed to be.

Not some polished, high-class event packed with cameras and stiff hero society bullshit.

Just an izakaya. Despite how fancy it is.

A crowded, noisy, familiar little place tucked between glowing Musutafu storefronts where the tables are too close together and the air smells like grilled meat, fried oil, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke clinging faintly to old wood. Somebody in the back is laughing loud enough to echo over the music while waiters squeeze through narrow spaces carrying trays overloaded with skewers and drinks. Half the group’s jackets are already tossed carelessly everywhere.

Casual.

Comfortable.

The kind of place Class A used to practically live in after internships.

Which somehow makes this worse.

Because you fit into it too naturally even if you’ve missed the majority of it.

Time passes eerily as Katsuki watches from across the table while Mina complains dramatically about agency interns stealing her skincare products, and you laugh so easily at something dumb Kaminari says that for a split second it genuinely feels like no time has passed at all.

Except it has.

He notices it in tiny things.

You don’t interrupt people as much anymore. Back then you used to talk over everyone whenever you got excited, eyes bright and hands moving while you argued passionately about absolutely everything. Now you lean back when people speak, quieter in a way that feels more intentional than shy. You still smile the same, though. That part hits him unexpectedly hard.

Same slight squint around your eyes. Maybe a few subtle wrinkles now, that still manage to look good on you.

Same habit of hiding your laugh behind your drink or your hand sometimes.

It’s awful how quickly he notices all of it.

A waiter slides another round of drinks onto the table, glass clinking loudly against wood.

“Bakugo,” Sero grins from farther down the booth, already flushed pink from alcohol, “you’ve been weirdly quiet all night. You sick or somethin’?”

“I’m always quiet,” Katsuki answers flatly before taking a long sip of beer.

The table immediately erupts.

“That is literally not true,” Jirou snorts.

“Shut up! It is!”

“Me when I lie” Mina snorts.

“You used to start fights with strangers in restaurants,” Kaminari points out.

“Correction,” Kirishima says, grinning, “he used to start fights with strangers everywhere.”

“I remember that guy at karaoke—”

“He deserved it.”

“You didn’t even know him!”

Katsuki barely listens.

Because across the table, you’re smiling into your drink again, shoulders shaking slightly with quiet laughter while Mina nearly falls sideways into Ochaco from laughing too hard.

And you still won’t look at him.

Not really.

Your gaze passes over him occasionally in that absent, polite way people acknowledge furniture in crowded rooms, but nothing lingers. No awkwardness. No tension. No visible effort to avoid him either still, which somehow stings too much.

It’s like you already adjusted to his presence within the first five minutes of arriving.

Meanwhile he feels painfully aware of every movement you make.

The way your rings tap softly against your glass.

The faint crease between your brows whenever you listen closely to someone speaking.

The small scar near your wrist he remembers kissing once while you laid half-asleep across his chest.

His stomach twists hard enough to make him irritated with himself all over again.

This is fucking ridiculous.

“Bakugo.”

His head lifts automatically.

Momo’s looking at him from across the table. “Did you hear me?”

“No.”

“I said,” she repeats patiently, “Shoto wants everyone at his agency anniversary event next month too.”

“Absolutely not,” Katsuki answers immediately.

Kaminari groans. “Dude, you say no to everything.”

“Because everything sounds terrible.”

“See?” Mina points accusingly toward you. “This is why our sweetie over here escaped the country. We’re emotionally exhausting.”

The comment is obviously meant as a joke and the table laughs.

Even you smile.

But Katsuki feels the words land somewhere unpleasant anyway.

Before he can stop himself, his eyes flick toward you.

For the first time all night, you finally look directly back at him.

It lasts maybe two seconds!?

Three, max.

Then, when Kirishima opens his mouth it’s as if he can’t stop being a moron. Like he never could have guessed what the context of ‘time and place’ is. He points at you, then Katsuki.

“Remember when you guys sneaked out during the winter festival and everyone thought you were kidnapped?”

The entire table immediately erupts.

“Oh my god.”

“They were gone for HOURS—”

“Because SOMEONE turned their phones off,” Kaminari wheezes.

“You guys came back looking guilty as hell,” Mina accuses dramatically.

Katsuki feels his shoulders tense instantly. He sees you shrink into a timely creature in your seat.

Back then, you’d dragged him behind the gym building because you were freezing and irritated and insisted his body temperature was “unnaturally useful.” He remembers pinning you against the wall afterward just to shut you up after you laughed at how red his ears got.

He remembers kissing you until neither of you could breathe properly. 

The memory hits hard enough to feel physical. Youthful kisses, teenage love— he remembers how it felt when he kissed you first and when he had kissed you then. He remembers making out in your dorm late at night when he should’ve been resting his injuries after the war.

Around the table, everyone’s still laughing.

Except you.

You’ve gone still beside Mina, fingers tightening almost invisibly around your drink before you take another sip.

Then, calmly, casually—

“So,” you interrupt smoothly, turning toward Ochaco and Tsuyu instead, “how’s hero life treating you two?”

Clean cut. Effortless for anyone who can’t read behind your eyes.

The conversation immediately shifts away from the topic entirely.

Like you did it on purpose. Like the memory embarrasses you now.

Katsuki drops whatever sits at the top of his tongue like it stung too much to be spoken out loud. Like he was given a sound reminder that his words are always unnecessary.

___________

Everyone eventually becomes too careless despite the fragility of the situation.

Alcohol warms the tables steadily, loosening voices and posture until conversations start overlapping loudly across the cramped izakaya booth. Kaminari is practically hanging halfway over Sero now while arguing about hero rankings nobody else cares about, and Kirishima’s laugh keeps booming loudly enough to earn irritated glances from nearby tables. Even more empty beer glasses crowd together beside greasy plates streaked with sauce while waiters weave expertly through the narrow aisles carrying fresh rounds of skewers and drinks.

Normally Katsuki would be right in the middle of it all.

Tonight he barely said a word, even if he found himself at your table for some reason.

Because every single time the conversation drifts naturally toward old memories involving the two of you, you choose to redirect it before it can fully land.

Always subtle enough most people probably don’t notice.

But he notices.

Every single time.

When Mina starts retelling the beach trip where the two of you once again disappeared from the bonfire for over an hour, you smoothly interrupt to ask Jirou about her latest music project overseas. When Kirishima almost brings up the apartment you used to share in the heart of the city, you casually wave down the waiter and ask if anyone wants another round of drinks before he can finish the sentence.

And the worst part is how effortless you make it look.

You aren’t visibly uncomfortable. You aren’t tense or bitter or awkward every time his name comes up paired with yours. You navigate around him cleanly, naturally, like you’ve already spent years learning exactly how to exist comfortably in spaces where even if Katsuki Bakugo is present, he can simply be erased.

The notion starts irritating him more with every passing minute. It sits tighter beneath his ribs by the second. Makes his heart beat in fragile, irregular beats.

A doctor had once told him to keep track of arhythmic beats like this. 

Tonight he does not. But usually, he does.

Across the table, you tilt your head back slightly while laughing at something Ochaco says, fingers still loosely wrapped around your glass. The soft amber lighting from the hanging lanterns catches against your face warmly enough that Katsuki immediately looks away afterward, jaw tightening hard.

Then your phone lights up beside your plate.

His eyes catch it automatically, assumption quick to replace every spec of vermilion in his irises.

A name flashes briefly across the screen before you casually turn the phone face down against the table.

It’s a nickname paired with a heart.

It could be a friend, but for that he’s unconvinced.

Something twists violently low in Katsuki’s stomach.

Immediate. Sharp enough to genuinely piss him off.

Three years.

Obviously there’s somebody else now.

What the hell did he expect? That you spent years overseas grieving a relationship that ended with both of you saying things cruel enough to permanently carve into each other?

His fingers curl tighter around his beer glass.

Mina notices instantly.

Her eyes flick carefully between him and you before she awkwardly clears her throat. “Okay, wow,” she says carefully, trying to laugh through the tension, “this table energy’s getting kinda weird.”

“Only because your face gets louder every time you drink,” Jirou answers dryly without looking up from her glass.

“No, seriously,” Mina insists now, glancing more cautiously toward Katsuki. “Everybody’s acting strange.”

“Nobody’s acting strange,” you answer calmly before finally looking directly at Katsuki for the second time all night.

And somehow that feels worse.

You really are fine. Not pretending. Not secretly emotional underneath the surface. Fi—ne. Almost too cold.

You are completely, genuinely fine sitting across from him after three years apart.

Something reckless rises inside his chest almost immediately.

“You got somethin’ to say?” Katsuki asks suddenly, attention fully turned to you. “Then say it to my face.”

For once, he manages to keep your eyes in his.

The table quiets.

Not completely, but enough that nearby conversations and clinking glasses start bleeding awkwardly into the silence between your group.

Your brows pull together faintly before rising. “What?”

“You’ve barely looked at me all night.”

“Why would I?”

When you respond, Kirishima visibly winces beside him.

“Bakugo,” he mutters quietly under his breath.

An effort for calmness that pays out fruitless soil. Katsuki barely hears him now that the irritation’s already pushing its way out.

“No, seriously,” he continues, eyes locked onto yours. “What’s the deal?”

The atmosphere around the table shifts immediately.

Mina looks horrified. Izuku suddenly looks like he wants the floor to physically open beneath him—he hasn’t said anything about you up till now. Not on the phone, not in the car when Katsuki snapped like broken glass at every single thing. He didn’t even say anything about you when Katsuki told him that if he treats everyone like they’re special, then no one really is special to him. (When does Katsuki ever get so emotional?)

Even Kaminari goes quiet for once.

You stare at Katsuki from across the table for a long moment, expression unreadable beneath the warm restaurant lighting. Then you blink slowly before setting your drink down carefully against the table.

“…There’s no deal. You made sure of that.”

The calmness in your voice instantly makes his irritation worse.

“You’ve been ignoring me all night.”

“No,” you answer evenly, “I’ve been talking to everyone.”

“Except me.”

The silence afterward settles heavily between you both.

Around the table, nobody moves. The noise of the izakaya suddenly feels distant compared to the pressure building in the booth. You lean back slightly in your seat, eyes finally holding his properly instead of sliding politely past him like earlier.

“What exactly are you expecting from me here, Katsuki?”

The question catches him off guard immediately.

Not because of the words but because of the exhaustion in your tone that has completely replaced anger.

“I dunno,” he answers flatly, defensive before he can stop himself. “Basic acknowledgement maybe.”

You stare at him another second before letting out a small breath through your nose. Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just tired.

“I said hi when you walked in.”

“No,” Katsuki says immediately, “you said hi to Eijiro.”

Kaminari audibly mutters “oh my god, bets. Bets now!” under his breath before Mina immediately kicks him hard beneath the table.

Your fingers tap once lightly against your glass before stilling again completely.

Then, finally, something shifts in your expression.

And it’s not sadness.

Just plain right resignation. Like you’ve already given up.

“You want honesty?” you ask quietly.

Something inside Katsuki’s chest tightens instinctively.

Because now everybody at the table is looking literally anywhere except the two of you. Kirishima suddenly becomes very interested in his drink. Ochaco stares fixedly at the condensation sliding down her glass. Even Sero awkwardly clears his throat under his breath.

“Fuck yeah, stop playing games.”

You hold Katsuki’s gaze the entire time when you speak again.

“I ain’t got shit to say to you in front of everyone.” You say, bluntly, “but since you say we don’t have to play games, I didn’t ignore you because I hate you,” you continue. “I ignored you because every single time I look at you, I remember the last conversation we had.”

The words land directly against his sternum. Heavy. Sharp like a swirly blade and enough that for a second he genuinely forgets how to respond.

The memory crashes back immediately whether he wants it to or not.

Rain hammering against pavement outside the apartment.

You crying so hard your voice kept shaking despite how badly you tried hiding it.

Him saying things he knew would hurt before they even left his mouth.

You standing there afterward like he’d physically reached inside your chest and twisted something apart with his bare hands.

“I wish I never met you.”

Katsuki remembers that part perfectly.

Worse, he remembers exactly what he said right before to make you say it. Something cruel. Something calculated. Something along the lines of “you’re lying to yourself when you say you love me.”

Because back then hurting each other always came easier than admitting how badly neither of you wanted things to end.

Across the table, your expression remains composed, but now he notices the strain sitting carefully beneath it. The effort it’s taking you to stay this calm. To keep your voice level instead of letting old wounds split open in front of everyone.

“I’m not trying to make tonight uncomfortable,” you continue more quietly now. “I came because I’m back in Japan and I missed everyone. That’s all.”

Everyone.

But not specifically him.

The distinction settles ugly and heavy enough inside his chest that he and everyone else in this room are short of words

The atmosphere around the table changes only when the emergency hero alert rings on everyone’s phones.

Around you, everybody moves at once.

Years of training erase the awkwardness almost instantly. Drinks abandoned. Jackets pulled on. Conversations cut short mid-sentence while tables scrape across wood flooring. The emotional wreckage sitting between you and Katsuki gets shoved violently aside beneath instinct and urgency.

You stand automatically too.

And for one humiliating second, relief floods through you so fast it almost makes your knees weak. Because now you don’t have to stay sitting across from him anymore.

You don’t have to survive whatever expression is currently sitting on Katsuki’s face after what you just said.

You don’t have to keep pretending your heart isn’t beating so hard it physically hurts.

The group spills out into the cold Musutafu night in a rush of noise and movement. Sirens already echo faintly somewhere ahead, reflecting red against rain-slick pavement while civilians stop to stare at the sudden crowd of pro heroes flooding onto the sidewalk.

You breathe in sharply the second cold air hits your lungs.

It helps. Barely. Your hands still feel shaky and so fucking stupid..

Because the worst part—the genuinely humiliating part—is that none of what you said was a lie.

You did ignore Katsuki because looking at him hurts.

But not in the way everyone at that table probably assumed. Everyone, including him, thinks it’s because you stopped loving him.

And honestly that—would’ve been easier.

The problem is, that standing across from Katsuki after three years still feels dangerously close to standing too near an open flame. Like one wrong moment of weakness could drag you straight back into him before you remember all the reasons you left in the first place.

And God—you wanted to.

That’s the pathetic part.

The second he walked into the restaurant tonight, broad shoulders filling the doorway, looking so pretty even if all the boyish charm had abandoned his face for good, while his eyes immediately found yours across the room, something inside your chest reacted so violently you almost forgot how to breathe.

Three years.

Three whole fucking years.

And your body still recognized him instantly.

You hated that.

Hated how good he looked. Hated how familiar his voice sounded. Hated that even now, after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted to walk straight across the room and touch him just to prove he was real. Kiss him so you at least be able to go back to your friends overseas and let them know you got the kiss of closure you’ve been wanting so desperately. 

But you knew better now.

You had to know better now.

Because loving Katsuki always felt like standing too close to an explosion and convincing yourself the heat wasn’t burning you alive.

You pull your hair back quickly while jogging after the others down the crowded sidewalk, the heels of your boots striking wet pavement hard enough to ground you back into the present. Neon signs blur overhead while people move aside hurriedly at the sight of pro heroes rushing past.

Beside you, Ochaco glances over briefly.

“You okay?”

The question is gentle enough to make your throat tighten unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you answer immediately.

Too quickly.

Ochaco’s expression softens in that awful way people look at wounded animals they aren’t sure how to help. That facade that all heroes put on when they’re helping a missing child find their mommy.

You look away to let her go before she can say anything else.

Ahead of the group, Katsuki is already moving faster than everyone else, irritation practically radiating off him in waves while sparks crackle faintly against his palms. The familiar sight hits somewhere deep in your chest with painful precision.

God.

There he is— Still carrying himself like the entire world personally offended him for existing.

And somehow you still love him enough it makes you feel sick.

You wonder briefly if he knows.

If he’s always known and if so, why he’s denying it.

Maybe that’s what made the breakup so unbearable in the first place. Katsuki understood exactly how much power he had over you, and every time he got scared of needing someone that badly in return, he lashed out before you could hurt him first.

________

The robbery cleanup drags longer than expected.

Statements. Damage reports. Civilians needing reassurance. Media helicopters circling overhead long enough to become irritating background noise.

By the time everything finally settles, the sky above Musutafu has turned that heavy shade of black and blue. The streets are quieter now, washed silver beneath streetlights while exhausted civilians slowly reclaim the sidewalks. Neon signs remain glowing in the background of it all.

Katsuki feels wrung out.

Not physically, though. Physically he’s fine. His heart, at least, has finally stopped palpitating. It’s everything else which isn’t his heart that's clawing at the inside of his chest that’s making him tired.

After an agonizing thirty minutes of broken communications on splitting the bill with everyone else, he gets dragged into easy conversation.

“Alright, alright,” Kaminari groans dramatically while stretching his arms over his head. “I’m officially declaring tonight cursed.”

“You declare everything cursed,” Mina replies instantly.

“Because everything is cursed.”

Kirishima snorts beside them while Izuku adjusts the strap of his gauntlets. “At least nobody got seriously hurt.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki mutters distractedly, digging his car keys from his pocket.

His mind hasn’t stopped replaying the familiar sound of your voice through your conversation for the past twenty minutes. The kind of familiar that dug straight under his skin and stayed there.

Katsuki hates how much those words affected him. Hates that part of him wanted to turn around and ask what the hell that tone meant after everything that’s happened between you before leaving for his hero duties.

Instead, he shoved it down where everything else goes. The pit of his dropping stomach.

The group behind him, after enthusiastically rejoicing and pleading for even a sight of his car, reaches the parking structure entrance together with him, footsteps echoing faintly through the concrete levels while fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Mina’s still talking about how good the food was. Kirishima’s half-listening while Denki complains loudly about tomorrow’s paperwork.

Normal. Everything feels painfully normal again.

Izuku has already left to chase after Ochaco. Katsuki gets to go home with one less friend to lash out on and half a heart.

“Later, man,” Kirishima says to a far away Izuku raising a hand.

Katsuki barely listens while waving him off with a lazy flick of his hand.

Then he sees you. And every thought in his head immediately cuts clean in half.

You’re standing beside his car. leaning against it casually. Not waiting in some cinematic pose.

Just there.

Hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket while cool garage lighting spills softly across your face. You look tired now. More tired than you did at dinner. Hair slightly messy. Faint smudges of eyeliner still near the corners of your eyes.

Real. That’s the first thing that hits him. Just you. Waiting for him.

Kirishima notices you first from the whole group.

“Oh, hi.”

Mina stops talking.

Denki’s eyes widen slightly before darting rapidly between both of you like he accidentally walked into live explosives.

Katsuki’s pulse kicks hard once against his ribs and his neck.

You look at him quietly before speaking.

“…Can we talk?”

Simple words. Calm voice. And somehow they hit harder than that joke of an argument earlier.

Nobody moves for about two seconds. Then Katsuki clicks his tongue sharply without taking his eyes off you.

“Oi.”

Kirishima straightens immediately. “Yeah?”

“Get lost.”

Denki nearly chokes.

Mina looks openly offended. “Wow? Rude.”

“I said leave.”

“Actually,” Kaminari says nervously, already backing away, “I think that’s a fantastic idea.”

Kirishima hesitates longer.

Katsuki notices it instantly.

The concern. The don’t blow this up worse look sitting all over his face.

“Tch,” Katsuki mutters. “I’m not gonna start shit in a parking garage.”

“That’s not super reassuring when you phrase it like that,” Mina says.

You huff out the faintest breath beside the car—almost a laugh.

The sound catches Katsuki off guard badly enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically. Because he forgot for a second what it sounded like when your amusement wasn’t forced. He’s forgotten what it was like when he used to make you laugh, being so caught up in the destruction of it all.

Kirishima notices too. Something in his expression softens before he finally sighs heavily and throws his hands up. “Alright, alright. We’re leaving.”

“But if either of you commits emotional crimes,” Mina warns dramatically while walking backward toward the elevator, “I’m intervening.”

“You say that like you’re emotionally qualified to help anybody,” Katsuki shoots back automatically. “Or like you have to wait around here.”

“See? This is why therapy should be mandatory for heroes!”

The elevator doors of the garage close over the sound of Denki cackling.

And then they’re gone.

Silence settles almost immediately afterward. Not awkward exactly.

The parking structure hums quietly around you both, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while distant traffic echoes faintly from outside. Somewhere farther down the level, water drips steadily from a pipe into concrete.

Katsuki shoves one hand into his pocket to stop himself from fidgeting.

You still haven’t moved from beside his car.

Up close now, he notices the exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes properly. The careful composure from dinner looks thinner somehow. Like tonight finally wore through it.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then—

“You really think I hate you?” you ask quietly.

The question lands so directly he almost flinches.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens automatically. “You ignored me for four fuckin’ hours.”

“I ignored you because I was trying not to ruin my own night.”

That catches him off guard enough to shut him up briefly.

You look away first, arms folding tighter across yourself.

“I spent three years trying to get over you,” you admit quietly. “Do you understand how humiliating it is that seeing you again almost reset all of it instantly?”

Katsuki feels something sharp twist low in his chest.

Because your voice still doesn't sound angry. It  sounds like you’re simple frustrated with yourself.

“I didn’t know what version of you was gonna walk into that restaurant tonight,” you continue. “And honestly? I was scared that if I talked to you normally for even five minutes, I’d forget why we broke up in the first place.”

The parking garage suddenly feels too small, too warm. Katsuki stares at you, heartbeat starting to thud harder beneath his ribs again in a way that has nothing to do with fighting anymore. He starts thinking of every single moment today where his thoughts remained the same as yours.

You laugh softly then, but there’s no humor in it.

“And the worst part is,” you murmur, eyes dropping briefly toward the concrete floor, “I still wanted you to come sit next to me. I keep thinking I want the goodbye kiss that I never got. I can never fully leave you behind and I think it’s just because I don’t want to. Last year when you messaged me, I found myself excited at the thought of us getting back together.

The words hit him harder than any fight tonight did.

Just honest enough to split something open clean down the middle.

Katsuki stares at you like he genuinely forgot how to move for a second. Because he’d prepared himself for anger; —resentment, perhaps. Even the mischellanious instant where you’d be maybe telling him you moved on and he was pathetic for still carrying pieces of this -you- around like shrapnel under his skin.

He didn’t prepare himself himself for this right now in any of his overthinking scenarios.

You standing in front of him at nearly two two in the morning, exhausted and vulnerable and still admitting you wanted him back once too. The million dollar question is: do you still?

The fluorescent lights of the parking lot above you the two of you flicker faintly.  Somewhere deeper in the garage, a car alarm chirps once before falling silent again—Katsuki barely hears any of it.

“When I saw your message,” you continue more quietly, “I remember staring at my phone like an idiot for an hour before answering.” A weak laugh leaves you. “My friend literally had to pry it out of my hands because I kept rereading it.”

His chest tightens painfully.

Because he remembers sending that message.

Sitting alone in his apartment after patrol with alcohol burning down his throat while he typed and deleted different versions of I miss you for nearly twenty minutes before settling on something colder instead. Something easier.

“Why would you fucking unblock me?”

Pathetic.

“You sounded angry,” you admit softly. “But I still kept hoping maybe underneath it… maybe you missed me enough to try again.”

Katsuki looks away sharply, jaw flexing hard.

He did.

That’s the worst fucking part.

He remembers pacing around his kitchen waiting for your replies like his life depended on them. Remembers the stupid spike of hope every time his phone buzzed. Remembers ruining the entire conversation because the second things started feeling vulnerable again, panic crawled viciously straight up his spine and turned everything mean.

Same old him as always.

“You told me I never changed,” he mutters roughly.

Your expression shifts slightly at that. Not regret exactly. Something sadder.

“Because you hadn’t.”

The honesty stings immediately because part of him knows you’re right. Back then he’d still been treating love like a fight he needed to win before somebody could abandon him first. Katsuki drags a hand hard down his face before laughing once under his breath. Bitter. Exhausted.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Probably deserved that one.”

Silence settles again after that. Raw, void of the hostility every other silence between you tonight. However, this time, the hostility of any previous silence between you tonight, is missing. Everything is raw and open like an oozing, fresh wound.

Had that been the case, he’d known better of.

You’re still standing near his car with your arms folded tightly across yourself like you’re physically holding your own chest together. Katsuki notices your fingers trembling slightly against your sleeves.

You’re nervous.

That realization hits unexpectedly hard too. Because he also forgot what it felt like knowing he could still affect you like this.

“I hated you for a while,” you admit suddenly, voice quieter now. “Or—I tried to, at least, at least.” You shake your head faintly. “I wanted to, anyway. It would’ve made moving on easier.”

Katsuki doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t trust himself to.

“But then stupid things kept happening,” you continue, eyes unfocused now like you’re talking more to yourself than him. “I’d hear someone laugh like you at work and my whole day would get weird after. Or somebody would burn coffee and suddenly I’d remember your apartment.” Another soft, embarrassed laugh. “There’s this hero overseas that yells exactly like you during meetings. I almost walked out the first time because I started tearing up.”

Something dangerously warm starts spreading low in Katsuki’s chest.

Not ego. Not satisfaction.

Something worse—Hope.

Small and so fragile and so, so terrifying. and plainly—

You finally look back up at him then, expression open in a way he hasn’t seen in years.

“And honestly?” you say quietly, “I think part of me kept waiting for you to come after me.”

That one nearly knocks the air clean out of him.

Because he wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

He remembers standing in airports during patrol assignments wondering what country you were in. Remembers opening your chat box dozens of times— knowing which one it was simply by how many weeks ago was your last conversation— just to close it again before typing anything. Remembers seeing your name finally appear in his Instagram chat box instead of ‘User’ and feeling his stomach drop so hard he had to sit down.

But wanting something and knowing how to hold onto it were always two different things for him.

Katsuki swallows hard before speaking.

“You said you wished you never met me.”

Your face changes instantly. Pain flickers there, between your worried brows so quickly he almost misses it.

“I know.”

“You meant it?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

Too fast for it to not be honest. Katsuki would crack up a cocky smile if the sound of its admission didn’t hook directly beneath his ribs.

You inhale shakily afterward, eyes dropping again.

“I said it because I wanted to hurt you back,” you admit. “And because you’d just spent an hour making me feel stupid and calling me a liar for telling you i loved you.”

The words land heavy between you both. Katsuki feels nausea twist unpleasantly in his stomach because he remembers that night perfectly now more than any other time.

Not just the fight.

Your face.

The way you looked at him like you were begging him to give you one reason to stay softer with each other instead of turning everything into a bloodbath.

And he had spectacularly failed, spectacularly.

“You really thought I didn’t love you?” you ask suddenly, quieter now.

And since the answer to your question is humiliating, Katsuki’s throat feels tight.

“…Yeah.”

You stare at him for a long moment after that. Then you laugh again, but this time it sounds closer to heartbreak.

“Katsuki,” you whisper softly, “I moved across the world and still couldn’t stop loving you properly.”

That one hurts.

Not in a bad way.

Worse.

Because suddenly all three years between you feel unbearably visible at once. Every missed call never made. Every airport not boarded. Every message typed and deleted. Every lonely apartment. Every night spent pretending this wasn’t still sitting unfinished between you both. It never actually had to be that way. 

Katsuki looks at you standing there beneath harsh garage lighting with tired eyes and shaky hands and too much honesty spilling out at once and realizes, with horrifying clarity, that if you were to claim your goodbye kiss; if you so as kissed him right now, he genuinely doesn’t think he’d survive it quietly.

Neither of you says anything for a while after that.

The parking garage hums quietly around you, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in uneven intervals while rainwater drips somewhere deeper in the structure with slow, hollow echoes. The city outside has started slipping into that strange hour between night and morning where everything feels softer around the edges. Traffic is thinner now. The distant sounds of Musutafu blur together into something low and tired beneath the concrete silence.

Katsuki can hear your breathing.

Not because the garage is particularly quiet, but because he’s standing too close to you again after three years and his body keeps locking onto every tiny thing automatically.

The way your shoulders rise slightly every time you inhale. The faint tremble still lingering in your fingers. The exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes.

You look nothing like the polished, untouchable version of yourself he built up in his head over the past few years. Standing here now, you just look human again.

Real enough to ache over.

To you… Does he look that way too?

“Let’s go, I’ll take you home.” Katsuki shifts his weight once before dragging a hand through his hair roughly. “We should probably get outta here before Mina decides to come back and interrogate us.”

The corner of your mouth twitches faintly. “That implies she never actually left.”

“She’s probably hiding behind a concrete pillar right now.”

“She absolutely is.”

The tiny bit of shared amusement loosens something dangerously fragile between you both.

Katsuki unlocks the car with a sharp click of the key fob. Then you glance toward the passenger side before looking back at him again, uncertainty flickering briefly across your expression like you’re second-guessing whether this is a good idea.

Honestly, he’s wondering the same thing.

Because every second around you tonight has felt like standing near something unstable with no self-control left to keep his hands off it.

Still, he opens the passenger door for you anyway.

You hesitate only a second before climbing inside.

The interior of the car smells faintly like leather, rain, and burnt caramel coffee from whatever drive-through Kirishima dragged him through earlier this week. Soft dashboard lights glow low against the dark while droplets of rain slide slowly down the windshield overhead. The city reflects across the glass in blurred streaks of neon and gold.

Katsuki rounds the front of the car slowly, pulse thudding heavier with every step.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the air inside already feels too warm.

You’re sitting angled slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely across yourself while the glow from passing streetlights softens the side of your face. Your makeup’s mostly worn off by now. There’s still a faint smear of eyeliner and mascara at the corner of your eye.

He has to physically stop himself from reaching over to wipe it away.

Silence settles again, but it’s different inside the car.

The enclosed space presses everything tighter together until even breathing feels too noticeable.

Katsuki rests one hand against the steering wheel without starting the engine. “So what now?”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose before leaning your head back against the seat. “I don’t know.” you sigh “I didn’t really think this far ahead.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Me neither.”

Rain starts tapping lightly against concrete again. Thin at first. Then steadier.

Your eyes drift toward the sound automatically. “It always rains when we talk about serious shit.”

Katsuki snorts softly before he can stop himself. “That’s because you always picked fights during storms.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

A small laugh escapes you then, quieter than before but real enough that something in his chest twists painfully around it. God, he missed that sound. Missed sitting beside you while conversations slipped this easily between silence and teasing without either of you forcing it.

A newer realization scares him a little; It would be so easy to fall right back into this. Too easy.

You turn toward him slightly then, knees shifting against the seat. “Can I ask you something?”

“Tch. You usually do anyway.”

Your eyes narrow faintly at the automatic attitude, but there’s no real heat behind it now. “Why didn’t you come after me?”

The question settles heavily into the space between you both.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

Outside, headlights slide briefly across the windshield before disappearing down the garage ramp. He watches the reflections fade instead of looking directly at you.

“Didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Of course it isn’t.

You were always annoyingly good at pulling honesty out of him even when he fought it.

Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose before speaking. “Because I thought if I showed up and you looked happier without me…” He laughs once under his breath, rough and humorless. “Didn’t think I could handle that. It’d just fucking prove i’m hard to love and you’re better without me.”

The space between you afterward feels fragile.

When he finally looks over, your expression has softened into something unbearably tender.

Fuck, fuck—Fuck.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur quietly.

There’s no cruelty in it. Maybe a tad of acceptance. A smear of sadness.

Your eyes flick downward briefly then back to his face, and suddenly Katsuki becomes painfully aware of how close you’re sitting. The center console feels too small now. The air feels thick with old history and exhaustion and everything neither of you managed to bury properly.

His gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop it.

He notices immediately when your breathing changes.

Slight.

Barely there.

But enough.

The tension inside the car shifts all at once after that.

Not explosive and immediate, like he’s used to. It’s slow and dangerous. Like something pulling tighter inch by inch.

Katsuki’s fingers flex once against the steering wheel. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”

Your throat moves subtly when you swallow.

“You first.”

Fuck. Shit!

The flirtiness in your tone hits him hard enough to feel somewhere low in his stomach.

Rain streaks slower down the windshield now, blurring neon lights outside into smeared ribbons of color while the heater hums faintly beneath the dashboard. The whole car feels suspended outside time somehow. Separate from the rest of the city. With nothing left to do but park at the side of the road, Katsuki swerves the steering wheel towards his new direction.

When he shuts off the engine, you’re the one who moves first.

Barely.

Just enough to lean a little closer and more tentative toward him. You’re giving him room to pull away if he wants to.

Katsuki doesn’t. Neither pull away, nor want to.

His hand reaches for your face almost automatically, rough palm settling carefully against your jaw like muscle memory never left him at all. The contact pulls a shaky breath from you instantly, and that sound alone nearly destroys whatever restraint he still has left.

He kisses you before he can think too hard about it.

And it feels exactly like coming home to something he convinced himself no longer existed.

Warm.

Familiar.

Devastating.

You make this tiny broken noise against his mouth the second the kiss lands properly, fingers grabbing instinctively at the front of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. Katsuki feels his entire chest cave inward around the feeling of you kissing him back just as desperately. His lips ache with buzzing numbness and he tries his very best to even remember the steps to a kiss he’s trained to fit perfectly into.

Three years of missing each other crashes together all at once inside that kiss.

His other hand slides against your waist, pulling you closer over the center console while rain drums steadily overhead. Your lips part against his almost immediately, breath shaky and uneven as the kiss deepens into something messier. Hungrier.

Katsuki kisses like he’s starving.

Always has.

Like every emotion he doesn’t know how to say properly gets forced violently through his hands and mouth instead.

You remember that instantly.

He feels it in the way your fingers tighten against him. The way your breathing starts breaking apart every time he kisses you harder. The way you lean into him like you missed this just as badly as he did.

When you finally pull back for air, neither of you gets very far.

Your forehead rests shakily against his while both of you breathe the same recycled air inside the dark car. Katsuki’s hand is still cupping your jaw. Your fingers are still twisted tightly into his shirt.

With one swift movement, Katsuki’s hand forces your jaw right into his, your lips slamming against each other's once again.

The kiss turns rough immediately.

Not careless —Never careless with you.

Katsuki’s just overwhelmed by the sheer force of finally having you this close again after years spent trying to convince himself he could survive without it.

Your breath catches sharply against his mouth when he kisses you deeper this time, fingers twisting harder into the front of his shirt while the center console digs awkwardly against your hip from how far you’ve leaned toward him. Rain continues sliding steadily down the windshield outside, blurring neon lights into streaks of gold and red across the dark interior of the car.

Katsuki barely notices any of it anymore.

All he can focus on is you.

The warmth of your mouth.

The familiar way you melt and tense at the same time whenever he kisses you too hard.

The shaky inhale you keep failing to steady every time his thumb brushes beneath your jaw.

His chest feels unbearably tight.

Because this isn’t nostalgia anymore.

It isn’t just memory. You’re actually here. Actually kissing him back with enough desperation that it almost hurts.

A strained sound escapes him before he can stop it, muffled against your lips while he pulls you even closer over the console. His hand slips from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling carefully at the base of your neck like he physically cannot stand another inch of distance between you both.

You break the kiss first this time, but only barely. Only enough for more air.

Your lips still brush his when you speak.

“Katsuki—”

His name falls apart halfway through your breath, soft enough that he nearly loses whatever remains of his self-control entirely.

Because you still say his name the same way.

But now he knows it means something. He can accept it means something.

Katsuki’s forehead presses hard against yours while he tries and fails to regulate his breathing. The inside of the car suddenly feels too hot, thick with condensation and recycled air and of unresolved feelings collapsing violently into each other all at once.

“You gotta stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters hoarsely.

Your brows pull together faintly. “Like what?”

“Like you and i will—” He cuts himself off immediately, jaw tightening hard enough to ache.

The words refuse to come out cleanly.

You stare at him for a second too long after that, your expression softening into something that almost looks painful.

“Katsuki,” you whisper quietly, “I literally just told you I couldn’t move on.”

Yeah. He knows.

And somehow hearing it still doesn’t feel real.

“But if we y’know—now,” he coughs “maybe you’ll regret it.”

His eyes search your face automatically like he’s trying to find evidence that this is temporary. That you’ll wake up tomorrow and realize kissing him again was a mistake. That eventually you’ll remember all the reasons loving him became unbearable in the first place.

The fear must show somewhere across his expression because your hand suddenly lifts toward his face.

Your fingertips brush against the side of his jaw where the faint razor burn still sits from earlier tonight, and the tenderness behind the touch nearly destroys him more effectively than the kissing did.

“Katsuki, are you talking about sex?” you murmur softly, whispering the last word extensively. 

A weak huff of laughter leaves him despite himself. His lower lip pouts out.

“You always get this line between your eyebrows whenever you get shy like this.”

Your thumb smooths unconsciously against the spot moments later like muscle memory. Katsuki feels his stomach twist painfully around the familiarity of it.

God.

He missed this.

Not even the kissing specifically. Not even the sex. (And he’s missed these two plenty)

Just this.

You knowing him so instinctively that his body reacts before his brain catches up.

“I wouldn’t regret it. I’ve wanted it so much even though I was convinced it’d never happen again. I can’t regret doing something that I want to do.”

Your words settle heavy enough in his chest that suddenly he needs to kiss you again before he says something humiliating.

His mouth crashes back against yours harder this time.

You make another soft noise into the kiss immediately, one that sounds dangerously close to heartbreak, and Katsuki swears he feels the sound straight through his ribs. His hand tightens carefully at the back of your neck while your fingers slide upward into his hair, slightly damp strands catching between your knuckles.

The angle is awkward across the center console.

Neither of you cares.

Your knee bumps clumsily against the gear shift while Katsuki leans further toward you, broad shoulders pressing you deeper into the passenger seat unintentionally from the sheer force of how badly he’s kissing you now. Every breath between you feels uneven. Messy. Shared.

Three years disappears frighteningly fast like this. Just temporarily drowned beneath the overwhelming relief of finally touching each other again.

Katsuki feels your hand trembling slightly where it cups the side of his face.

The realization makes him pull back barely enough to look at you.

Your lips are swollen now. Eyes glassy beneath the dashboard glow while your breathing comes apart in shallow bursts that mirror his almost exactly. Then your expression shifts suddenly, something vulnerable flickering across it fast enough to make his chest tighten again.

“What if we do this again?” you ask quietly. “What if we try again and it ruins us worse this time?”

The question lands hard because it’s real. Not dramatic or hypothetical. You’re genuinely afraid. Because it’s been over three years since you’ve kissed, even more since you were intimate with each other, since you held an actual conversation.

And honestly? So is he.

Katsuki stares at you in the dim car lighting while rain taps softly overhead, your fingers still resting against his jaw like you’re scared to let go completely.

Then, slowly, he turns his head just enough to press a kiss against the center of your palm,vermillion eyes locked in yours..

The gesture feels strangely vulnerable coming from him.

“I think,” he says roughly afterward, eyes still fixed on yours, too sceptical, “it already ruined us the first time.” His thumb brushes carefully against your waist, then, sensually across your ribs “Didn’t stop either of us from wanting it again.”

It feels strangely fragile now that the adrenaline of finally kissing each other has settled slightly. Not awkward exactly. Just painfully real in a way neither of you can hide from anymore. 

Neither of you seems fully willing to let go first.

You look mentally exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and bleeds across the surface of your skin; heart beating fast, eyes wide open and desperate. Katsuki, for worse luck despite it all, probably looks the same.

Your eyes drift downward briefly before you let out a small breath through your nose. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

Katsuki huffs quietly. “Yeah.”

“But I really don’t care right now.” you admit “do you?”

“Hell nah!”

Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //

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izuku kissing you and looking at you and perceiving you is the last thing you need right now. if he makes eye contact with you for long enough he’ll know that you’re being weird and he’ll surely ask you about it, so you need to buy yourself some time to calm down.

not that you have anything to hide. not really. 

you decide to craft the perfect exit, sitting up with purpose, but not too abruptly. 

he’s already groaning and starting to reach for you when you swoop down, plant a kiss on his forehead and say, “morning love, i have to pee real quick,” before swinging your legs over the side of the bed and scrambling towards the bathroom.

it’s the right choice. his voice, scratchy with sleep, calls, “no, stayyy–“ a yawn cutting him off before he continues, “baby, come back an’ cuddle with meee…”

you can’t help but snort. “i will literally be right back!” 

as you scurry down the hallway to the toilet, you pat your hands on your cheeks, tapping to try and dispel the heat simmering there that threatens to boil over. 

you veer into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub, rubbing your eyes vigorously to clear your head; when you close them, you can still picture the dream, every gory little detail. what strikes you more than the actual events in the dream is the feeling of it, one that still lingers in your chest. 

you’d been in your bed; nothing too crazy! 

the visuals are hazy in the way dreams are after waking, but you know you’d been gripping and clawing at someone’s broad back, with taught muscles rippling under your fingers. you remember the feeling of hot breath at your neck, with the occasional kiss or nip tugging vulnerable moans from your lips. 

whoever it was was grinding into you deep and slow, tip kissing your cervix with each thrust. with your ankles locked around his torso, you prevented him from getting too far away, keeping your hips practically flush. 

you remember feeling overwhelmed, overcome, something stirring in your gut that felt an awful lot like an intense, focused affection. the whole dream held an air of warmth and connection, like something familiar. 

you’d carded you hands through soft locks, pulling and tugging at the strands, wanting whoever it was to kiss you. when you looked up at him, finally focusing your gaze, all too familiar eyes met yours – eyes the color of fresh blood, or a ripe cherry. the hair you’d been playing with blonde and spiked, but softer than you’d thought possible. 

in the dream, you’d cupped his cheek, and his skin felt silken, damp with a sheen of sweat; you’d kissed him hard, kissed him messy, kissed him like you needed his lips to survive. you distinctly recall that there’d been a string of spit connecting you to each other when he pulled away. 

right before slipping back into consciousness, you’d gasped his name like a prayer, like confession…

“katsuki, ka-katsuki!” 

when you open your eyes now, ass freezing against the chilled porcelain of your bathtub, your lips part, forming an oh. you allow yourself a small chuckle as you relish in the feeling of the dream before it dissipates. 

it really isn’t a big deal, right? now that you’re waking up more, the disorientation you felt upon waking is fading. that was… confusing, certainly, but with a clearer head you can acknowledge, it was just a dream. nothing to worry about. nothing here to overthink!

before leaving the bathroom, you flush the toilet so izuku doesn’t wonder and go ahead and wash your hands; maybe it will help you feel a little less… dirty. 

you give yourself a once over in the mirror, wiping any trace of the dream from your face. not that you’re hiding it, you just don’t really want to endure the teasing that will absolutely occur if you admit that you had a sex dream about kacchan. 

god, you shudder at the thought. izuku never let you live it down. it’s best to keep it to yourself.

back in your bed, he wraps himself around you the second your body hits the mattress, nuzzling your face with his nose and planting kisses all over your cheeks. it makes any more thoughts regarding the dream vanish from your mind. instead, you just bask in the steady stream of adoration.   

“you took forever,” he mumbles, and you laugh because really, there’s no way you were gone for longer than five minutes. “next time ‘m coming with you.”

it’s a good thing you’re so head over heels in love with him, because the intensity with which he cares for you, loves you, needs you isn’t for the faint of heart. “so needy,” you chide, curling into him and adjusting your position until you fit like two puzzle pieces. one of his emerald curls is sticking out above the others and you twist it around your finger. 

for just a moment, you see a flash of blonde hair instead. all of the sudden it feels a little harder to get a good breath.

soft lips are pressing against the hollow of your throat when he murmurs, “can’t help it.”  he tucks his head into your chest, biting once before resting his cheek against the soft flesh of your breast. 

“izuku,” you murmur. 

“hm?”

“can you grab my phone?” without moving from his position, the arm slung over your waist gropes around behind you, searching your nightstand. he strains, trying to grab the phone without getting up from his comfortable position, until he finally grasps it and holds it above his head, mumbling something that sounds like ‘here’ into your skin. “thanks,” you say, taking it from him. 

at first you go through the motions; checking your notifications, responding to a few texts, and briefly skimming your email before opening instagram to check your feed. of course, the first photo is of a certain explosive pro hero, suit half off and tied at the waist to expose a tight white tank top. flexed biceps fill your field of vision when you hold the screen closer, peering over the photo with a particularly attentive eye. 

katsuki looks good. like, suspiciously good. the last time you remember him posting on instagram was…. well, you honestly can’t remember the last time he posted. despite the little blue checkmark by his name, his profile was pretty much empty, save for semi-annual posts announcing hero rankings and obligatory photo ops with hero safety commission officials. 

well, his profile used to be empty, but it isn’t anymore. clicking his account and scrolling down, you find at least ten new posts. they’re all shots of katsuki in his suit, at his desk, on patrol; they’re great photos, and he’s even smiling in a couple of them. he looks ruggedly handsome in all, with over half exposing the definition of his bare arms. someone has to be behind this. 

“hey,” you say, “did kacchan hire a new publicist or something?”

izuku’s voice is muffled when he answers, “yeah, after that incident with the camera guy, remember?” 

ah, yes, the incident where katsuki had rather unceremoniously destroyed a camera belonging to a nosy reporter. sure, the reporter was kind of asking for it, trying to force an interview while katsuki was in the middle of a dangerous job, but still, the footage made him look pretty bad. he’d dropped two spots in the rankings, and complained about it for days afterwards. 

“right, right…” your reply is absentminded, as you’re too busy grinning to yourself and typing out a comment under the most recent post: 

someone tell him to put those guns away, i feel threatened

unable to stop yourself, you like and comment under all of the new posts. the hero fangirl inside of you seemingly takes over your body as you appreciate this latest photo campaign.

his new publicist is great at their job, with each photo serving a specific purpose: some to make him look sexy, some to make him appear tough on the outside and soft on the inside, some giving him a certain… approachability. considering his reputation, it’s no small feat – one photo, clearly a candid, shows him tenderly scratching a stray cat behind the ears, and you giggle at the vulnerable expression adorning his features.

once you’ve admired all the new posts, you click your phone off, tossing it behind izuku and burying your hands in his hair. it earns you a gentle little sigh, encouraging you to scratch softly at his scalp. 

“it’s about time,” you joke. “he could be in the top five easy if he just locked in.”

izuku laughs, shifting his head so that he can gaze up at you. “kacchan has always struggled with his attitude.”

“that’s a nice way of putting it,” you mutter, kissing his temple before shifting towards getting up. “c’mon babe, let’s get up and make breakfast.”

“speaking of kacchan…” izuku mumbles, stretching like a cat before rolling himself out of bed. “what do you think it would take to get him to come over and cook for us right now?” he says it with the cadence of a joke, but you know he’s secretly wistful, and you share in the sentiment. 

“more than either of us can give him,” you sigh ruefully as you slide into slippers and wrap a throw blanket around your shoulders. “i’ll put the kettle on.”

later that week, katsuki drives you to an appointment. 

it feels a little like torture, being trapped in a car with him. all you can seem to think about is how good he smells, and how nice this is, and how for some reason you kinda wanna reach out and touch his arm…. you surprise yourself when you do it, and his muscles tense beneath your fingertips. but he doesn’t pull away. 

if you didn’t know better, you’d notice the tick of his jaw, or the way he readjusts his grip on the wheel, gripping it harder. you’d notice the glances he keeps sneaking when he thinks you aren’t looking. 

but you do know better. so even if all these things register somewhere in the back of your mind, you ignore them. 

if you didn’t know better, you’d have sent him off with a smile and a wave and a thank you. you’d have said goodbye in the car, instead of walking around to his window. 

it seems maybe you don’t know better after all. 

there’s no plan when you tap on the glass, no plan when you find yourself patting his shoulder. your body reaches for him without your permission, wanting to touch, to feel. it’s without forethought when your lips press against the sizzling skin of his cheek, and you pull away fast, like you’ve been burned. that’s why you turn and bolt, trying to ignore the heat in your cheeks as you run away. 

after your appointment, you think about that car ride the entire train to ua. something about it felt charged, like a spark that had turned into a proper flame and was now demanding your attention. it was something that had been simmering quietly, ever since that dream you’d had; easy to ignore at first, but not anymore. 

your arrival at ua’s campus aligns with the end of the last classes of the day. luckily, you come around often enough that you’ve been awarded your own permanent visitor’s pass, and it allows you to breeze right through security and make a beeline for izuku’s classroom.

he had promised to get off as early as possible today, so the two of you could spend some quality time together.

you hate that you’re almost nervous to see him. it’s not like you really have a reason to be. no crazy lines have been crossed – it’s perfectly acceptable to platonically kiss your friend of several years on the cheek, right? 

except that something about it didn’t feel… platonic. being really honest with yourself, you can acknowledge that maybe you kissed katsuki to prove your gut feeling wrong. if you kissed him and felt nothing, then that was that, nothing more to it. but you hadn’t felt nothing. 

in fact, you’d distinctly felt something. like a bloom of warmth in your chest that spread into your tummy, through each limb and to the tips of your fingers and toes. 

there’s this nasty whisper of guilt churning along with the warm feeling too. you listen to it, let it guide you to the truth.

you feel guilty.  you feel guilty because you feel like you crossed a boundary.  you feel like you crossed a boundary because… something about that kiss felt like more than friendship.  and what about izuku… what would he say if you told him about it? probably nothing. almost certainly nothing.  so why does it feel like you’ve done something wrong?  maybe because of the way your gut twisted when you got close to katsuki.  something about the way he smells, the way his skin feels, the way it made your heart flutter… well, you’re only human, can’t help your body’s reactions.

so then why do you want to chase that feeling? 

all these thoughts flood your mind in a rapid succession, and your heart starts to pound as the implications of this realization hit you: for whatever reason, you’ve developed a little crush on your boyfriend’s best friend. 

just as you come to this conclusion, you reach the door to izuku’s classroom. there’s no time for you to pause a moment and gather your thoughts, because the last few students are trickling out the open door and izuku sees you from his desk, breaking into a smile and waving.

there’s only time to take a deep breath in, and then let it out. you’ll deal with… whatever it is you’re feeling later, when you’re by yourself and can process through it. 

you and izuku chat passively as he finishes up the last of his work, grading a couple of late assignments and answering some emails. true to his word, he finishes much earlier than he usually does.

on the train home, you sit in a comfortable silence, hand wrapped around his arm as you gaze out the window and he fiddles with his phone. he squeezes your leg gently and you glance over at him. 

“did we have dinner plans?” he half whispers, gesturing to the map on his screen. it indicates you’ll need to get off soon if you plan on stopping at the store before heading home. 

you nod. “we have leftovers from the last time kacchan came over, remember? they’re in the freezer, shouldn’t take too long to heat up.” his face brightens a little bit as he nods, rubbing the same spot on your leg softly, as if to say: alright, you can go back to your window gazing now. 

the next few minutes pass quietly, until you notice from the corner of your eye that izuku is analyzing his phone with an intense look on his face.

when you look over, your heart drops into your ass; he’s got katsuki’s instagram pulled up, and one of your comments is at the top of the screen, clear as day. as he swipes through the profile, you notice that he pulls up the comment section on each photo he looks at, although his face doesn’t give any more away. 

in fact, as he scrolls, he develops this little smile on his face. when he sees the photo with the cat, he laughs quietly and screenshots it. 

turning to face him, you lay your head against his shoulder, peering at his screen with a casual air, trying to make it seem like you haven’t been watching him for the last five minutes. although, you don’t think he even notices you, too engrossed in checking out pictures of katsuki.

“whatcha lookin’ at?” you murmur, calling his attention to you. in reply, he enthusiastically shows you the photo currently on the screen. it’s the same one you’d seen a few weeks prior, with kacchan’s arms all flexed and sweaty, smirk burning your skin  through the screen. 

izuku’s voice is shaky with the effort he uses to keep it quiet. his excitement is radiating out of him in waves, contagious and frankly, adorable. you want to cup his face and squeeze his cheeks, but instead you just sit and listen as he launches into all of the subtleties of the photo you hadn’t even noticed: how it’s a different version of the hero suit usually kacchan wears, how he’s not wearing his gloves in this photo but he is holding them, how he took a picture of izuku’s hair for the exact shade of green and sent it to his developer, how healed the scars on his arm look. 

izuku zooms in with a flick of his fingers, showing you the pale pink marks that curve around his friend’s arm. he’s right, but that’s not what you’re paying attention to, raking your eyes over the bulge of muscles that lie underneath the scars instead. 

like he can read your thoughts, he says, “y’know, i think he’s been working out more too.” you quirk an eyebrow, and he seems to take it as an invitation to go on. “kacchan looks so buff in this, don’t you think? or this one–“ 

as he proceeds to show you several pictures (all of which you’ve already seen) you’re not really paying attention to the photos anymore. you’re focused instead on the man holding the phone. 

izuku is beaming, glowing really, when he talks about katsuki. someone who doesn’t know him as well as you do might not be able to see it, but to you he almost appears to be… blushing. 

the more you stare, the more you think that he’s definitely flushed, even if it is only slightly. there’s this glimmer in his eyes, and you realize with a start that it feels so familiar because it’s what he looks like when he talks about you. 

“–or this, with the cat? babe, did you see this one?” he interrupts your train of thought and you blink, looking back at the photo in his hand. 

“i love that one,” you say. 

“i think it’s my favorite,” izuku agrees. “he looks so… soft. it’s definitely good for his image and all, but…” he’s looking at katsuki with such gentleness, such adoration, that you feel like your heart skips a beat. “i’m just happy that other people might get to see him how we do, see what he’s really like.”

for some reason, it feels like you might start to cry. you take one of his hands in both of yours, kiss his knuckles before intertwining your fingers. “yeah,” you agree. “our kacchan is a big softy.” 

he just presses a kiss to your temple and goes back to his instagram admiring, but you’re done looking for now. you’re afraid if you look at izuku’s face for even a second longer you’re going to burst into tears on this train, and then you’d have some real explaining to do. 

later that night, after the two of you have cooked and cleaned and showered and not watched the movie on the tv, you lay in your bed. the lights are off, and your bedroom is shrouded in darkness. it’s good, and with izuku sleeping soundly beside you, it forces you to close your eyes and take deep breaths and think. 

having a crush while being in a relationship isn’t unheard of. it isn’t even the end of the world. sometimes feelings can be complicated and that doesn’t mean you have any intention of acting on them. 

still, you can’t shake that feeling from the train. every time you think about izuku’s face when he talked about katsuki, a wave of emotions crashes over your head, overwhelming and confusing. some almost sad, twinged with the strangest sense of grief and jealousy. 

but mostly? there’s just completely unbridled joy. you feel so overcome with a euphoric sense of jubilation that it fills your cup and runneth over.

tears slip and slide their way down your cheeks now, and you let them. 

there aren’t really words for this feeling. it’s like the crushing freedom of recognizing the truth. you want to cling to the past, cling to what you know, cling to what’s comfortable, but deep down you know that you can’t. 

it’s like a veil has been lifted, and now everything is so bright and so high definition it hurts your eyes, but god, there’s so much to look at. 

you fall asleep like this, swimming in a cocktail of melancholy and exhilaration and fear and curiosity and shame and tears. 

and love, too. there’s lots of that in your heart when your eyes finally flutter closed and sleep curls around your mind like a cat, lulling you back to dreamland where your brain can process while your body rests. 

this time the dream is different. 

you’re alone, in a room and a place you don’t recognize. it’s a house, or maybe an apartment – it’s unclear, everything is fuzzy around the edges. 

you’re sitting in a chair in a living room. vaguely, you register an open window, with fresh air filtering in. you stand, moving to run your hands through the undulating curtains, but you’re stopped in your tracks when you hear a sound come from your left. 

unaware of it until this moment, you turn to see a hallway, unlit, beckoning. it’s more like a tunnel, and the door the end is closed, just begging for you to open it and find out what’s on the other side. right now in this moment, it feels as though the whole world is waiting for you on the other side, and you’ll stop at nothing to see it. as you drift down the tunnel in almost a trance, you think that your palms might be sweating, but you can’t be sure. 

and then one of them rests against the knob, and you pause. lean in, press your ear against the door, and listen. 

there’s this familiar cadence, familiar tone and lilt to the voices you hear. what they say isn’t clear, but the occasional moan, or gasp, says it all. a chime of laughter, a gruff chuckle. the sound of panting and skin against skin. 

your heart is pounding in your chest and in your clit, and your knees rub together as you listen, body fully against the door now. 

you can almost see behind the door, like a flash of light blinking in and out in your mind; see the tongues dancing and hands being pressed down into the pillows; practically hear the breathless little whimpers and taste the sweat and sex on the air and you want to go in, you want to see, you want to touch, and when you hear the name, izuku, tone pleading and wrecked, when you hear that oh so familiar, condescending little hum in response…

your eyes fly open and you shoot straight up in bed, sweating, blood pumping furiously like you’ve just gone for a run. izuku jolts awake beside you, instinctively scanning the room before turning to you and running his hands over your arms to check for signs of injury. once he seems satisfied that you’re physically unharmed, he studies your face; his posture is hunched and he’s holding back a yawn, but his eyes are sharp and alert, trying to trace the source of your unease.

with a gravelly voice still heavy with sleep, he asks, “hey, what’s wrong?” 

you press your hand to your chest and rub the spot over your heart, trying to trick it into slowing it’s rapid fluttering. sitting up so fast has disoriented you a little, and you fall back to the mattress, tugging izuku with you and curling into his side. “i jus’ had a dream,” you whisper, “m’okay, sorry.” 

turning on his side to face you, he gently pulls you closer and rubs soothing circles into your back as you nestle your head under his chin. face pressed into his chest, you focus on the sound of his heartbeat, letting it lull you into a relaxed state.

it’s starting to feel like your dreams are trying to tell you something. there’s this idea rolling around the line between conscious and subconscious, and you cling to it, coaxing it forward and into the light. a simple concept, really. 

the heart wants what it wants. 

when you wake the next morning, still wrapped tight in izuku’s loving embrace, you know what you want. you feel a little lightheaded as you finally, truly admit it to yourself.

you have feelings for katsuki. crazy, intense feelings of yearning and longing and all that. real feelings. and you’re pretty sure izuku does, too. maybe you’ve both had them for a while now. and you want, you need… something you don’t know how to define yet.

but first things first, you have to find some way to confirm your suspicions. 

when sunday rolls around, you find yourself anxiously anticipating katsuki’s arrival. it’s pretty typical for the three of you to have dinner at the week’s end, but today feels different, or maybe it’s just you who feels different. you flit about, wiping counters that have already been cleaned and sweeping the same part of the floor three times. 

“are we expecting royalty this evening?” izuku calls cheekily after your second pass with the vacuum. he’s sitting at the table, poring over a pile of papers he needs graded by tomorrow. you scoff and unceremoniously yank the cord out of the wall, and he chuckles, focus still directed to the work in front of him. “kacchan isn’t that judgmental, what’s going on?”

“i just…” you sigh. pause for a moment to think things through. “i guess i’m just a little… worried.” 

he looks up at you then, patting his lap to call you over. his tone is laced with concern when he says, “what are you worried about?”

you cross the room and sit, smoothing your clothes as you perch on the edge of his thigh, and he rolls his eyes, tugging you all the way on to his lap and squeezing your waist gently. 

“do you think he ever feels… like, taken advantage of?” 

“like… by us?” you nod and izuku loosens his grip on your waist, resting a hand atop your thigh as the other taps his chin. “honestly, i’ve never thought about it. although i guess we are kind of dependent on him sometimes, and we have to consider the fact that we live together so he always ends up coming over here, plus the fact that we don’t have a car and he ends up spending more on gas, and sometimes he has to bring his fancy cooking stuff with him which could be an added hassle…” he looks at you with wide eyes. “gosh, i hope he doesn’t. maybe we should say something tonight.”

you nod again. “yeah, maybe we should. just so he knows how much we care, y’know?” 

when katsuki arrives soon after, he seems a little distracted and irritable. you ask him about work and he just grunts in response, and when you lightly kick at his shin and say, “hello, earth to kacchan?”, he starts.

“the hell was that for?”

tilting your head, you say, “you seem a little out of it, are you feeling alright?” when you reach forward to feel his forehead, he lurches away from your hand, nearly smacking against the wall behind him. 

“yes woman, you’re being paranoid. go away and let me cook in peace.” is it your imagination, or is there the faintest rouge tickling his neckline?

you try and help him anyway, despite his groans that you’ll mess up his process.

“katsuki bakugou, are you kicking me out of my own kitchen?” you tease, crossing your arms and giving him a playful glare. 

despite his sour mood, he cracks a smile and rolls his eyes, shoving your face away with no real fight. “think i cook in this kitchen more than you do,” he argues back. “so yeah, i’m gonna call the shots.”

from the table in the other room, izuku calls, “yeah, kacchan loves to call the shots.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” katsuki barks, and you laugh, hopping up on to the counter and giving up any hopes of making yourself useful. with the look he gives you, you think he really does prefer this, you out of the way and sitting pretty while he works. 

he’s still distracted at the table after the meal has been cooked and plated, and he looks downright sick when you and izuku talk to him about how much you appreciate him. you can tell that your boyfriend is concerned, but there’s something in the way that katsuki refuses to look at you both that tells you it’s something deeper that’s bothering him.

it’s not surprising when he abruptly announces his departure. 

katsuki has never been a good liar, and it’s obvious his excuses for leaving are just that – excuses. when you close the door behind him, there’s this feeling of anxiety that’s swirling in your chest, like something left unsaid that needs to be heard, trying to claw it’s way out of your windpipe. izuku materializes behind you, and you turn, looking at him imploringly. 

“you agree he was being weird, right?”

he nods, then says, “i think i’m gonna go check on him.”

except that he can’t, because a small part of you needs to be alone with katsuki again. clarity is currently a valuable and finite resource, and right now you need it more than izuku does. 

“wait – let me. will you get started on cleaning up?” he gives you a wry smile, assuming you’re just trying to avoid the worst of the evening chores, but doesn’t say anything; just kisses your temple and turns towards the kitchen. even though there was no lie, you didn’t even say anything, you feel a little guilty again. it feels like you’re hiding something from him, and you despise the foreign feeling, so used to telling him everything. 

still, your inquiring spirit wins out against the discomfort, and you grab a robe and run out the door, down the hallway and the stairs, and around the block. he’s just reaching his car, and you call after him “–katsuki, wait!”

when you stumble to a stop before him, chest heaving with the effort of your brief but furious sprint, he seems to be sizing you up, debating something in his head. one of his hands rests on top of the car, and it’s seriously, unbelievably unfair that he looks like a freaking super model even now, when he supposedly isn’t feeling well. the way his lips are curved into the slightest pout is unbearably endearing, and you find that your breathlessness has another source when he leans over you just slightly, letting his imposing frame hang in your entire field of vision. 

when you start to speak, he cuts you off, saying “–hold on–“ before launching into some awkward spiel about charms and his agency and something about his publicist, but you aren’t really listening because you’ve noticed the box in his car, eyes widening when he reaches for it and holds it out to you. 

inside rests a bracelet with dynamight charm attached, and you inspect it with awe. 

“katsuki...”

he says he basically got it for free but it’s become instantly priceless to you, and you have to fight the sudden urge to wrap your arms around him and never let go. the way he’s looking at you, you wonder if he’s thinking something similar – you’re not sure you’ve ever been the target of such softness from him.

you snap the box shut and shove it in your pocket, too overwhelmed to look at it for even a second longer. it breaks the tension, and he trains his eyes on the ground like he’s afraid you might scold him.

instead, you say, “izuku wanted me to check on you.” the lie passes your lips before you can think twice about it. 

what’s even the point of lying about that? you wanted to check on him, too, but it’s like… you can’t stand this being your idea. it feels too vulnerable, too dangerous to admit that you think of him when he’s not around, even if he was just there. 

you say your goodbyes when the tension in the air is too thick to tolerate anymore, scurrying back inside. before you return to the kitchen, you slip the bracelet box in your purse hanging by the door. you can show izuku later, for now it feels like a secret gift meant just for you, and you alone. 

“everything okay?” izuku’s voice winds down the hall, beckoning you. 

“yeah,” you call. “he’s just tired.”

your second attempt of the night to be helpful is once again thwarted when izuku stubbornly refuses to let you help him with the dishes. “please go sit down,” he insists. “you can be my cheerleader, or something. i got it.”

so you watch him, sharing jokes and feeling awfully beloved at this moment in time. 

he’s started on making tea when you get an idea, just a small one, a harmless one. it’s inspired by a memory of a conversation you’d somehow forgotten about until now. 

“hey izuku?” you ask. he hums in response, not looking up from the cups he’s preparing. “‘member when you said you used to have a crush on kacchan? like when you were younger?” 

his head snaps up sharply, like he’s suddenly very interested in your conversation. he looks at you suspiciously. “yes…?”

“and you said you got over it because you were sure he didn’t feel the same way?” you fiddle with your thumbs, trying to appear nonchalant. deciding to change tactics, you lean back with your hands flat against the table and stare him down.

raising his brow slightly, he says “yes baby, why do you ask?”

“what if he did?” 

some of the stress visibly drains from izuku’s face, and he cracks a smile. “ohhh, are we playing the rhetorical question game again?” 

you snort. “what, i’m not allowed to ask questions?”

izuku finishes pouring the hot water into the pot and sets the kettle down, then crosses the room to wedge himself between your legs. he eyes you for a second before answering. “well, i don’t know… but he didn’t, so… it’s kind of a moot point, right?”

“i guess….” you say, intentionally trailing off. “like, do you think we would still be together? if you had known about something like that?”

it feels a little unfair, manipulating izuku in this way. sure, it’s pretty harmless; you only brought up something the two of you have already discussed. still, you already know exactly what he’s going to say before he says it, know exactly the right way to soften him up before planting the seed of an idea in his mind. 

“aww, babe. i would search for you in any universe, in any lifetime. every part of me is constantly yearning for you, and i would do anything to make you mine. you know that, right? it’s important to me that you know that.” 

even if you knew he was going to say it, or something like it, izuku’s sappy romanticism makes your heart sing. somehow, his cliched declarations of love and loyalty melt you into a puddle each and every time. 

“yeah,” you say with a timid smile. “of course. and me too, just for the record–“ 

bracing himself against the table, he leans into your space and looks down at you with hungry eyes. they’re cloudy in a way that tells you you’re starting to lose him a little; it’s time to wrap it up. 

it’s fine, you said everything you needed to, and his caging arms are becoming particularly distracting. your body responds to izuku like an instrument in the hands of a practiced musician; reaching out, you grip his bicep, then lazily run your hand up and down his arm, tracing the lines of scar tissue with your fingers. it’s no accident that his muscles are on display for you now. you’ve never been subtle with your ogling of his exquisite form, and he knows exactly how to entice you, having memorized the subtle movements that get you right where he wants you. right now it’s like he’s practicing scales, warming you up for a real performance. 

you’re nearly tunnel visioned for your boyfriend, but there’s something that’s keeping you from getting completely lost in his verdant eyes, something tugging at the back of your mind. it’s like a familiar sound, although you can’t place where you’ve heard it before. 

for half a second, your eyes flicker to the window, registering how it’s open, and you recognize the familiar curve of a black sedan parked outside… but before you can think about it too hard, izuku is distracting you again.

he exhales a little huff and curves his neck down until his nose nearly touches yours. “my love,” he breathes “are you going somewhere with this?”

a shiver runs down your spine. you’re just about ready to give in and let him get his hands on you and make some real music, but you just have one more question. 

“i just… like, what if you found out he had a crush on you now?” 

“all i know for certain is that i’m with you, and that’s never going to change.” he ghosts your jaw with his lips, gently nipping at your earlobe. “is that all?” 

after a nearly imperceptible nod from you, he pulls back just enough to make eye contact.

“can we have sex now?”

the last dream of your trilogy as good as confirms your suspicions. 

it’s that same night, after you washed izuku’s hair in the shower and he carried you to bed. 

you’ve had plenty of sex dreams about him. most of them are about him, actually, like you can’t get enough, even while you’re asleep. and this one feels no different… you’re perched in his lap, pawing at his pants like a cat in heat, trying to loose his cock so you can beg him to use it. 

no different until you feel a second set of hands curl around your biceps, pulling you back and flush with a muscled chest. 

“greedy little thing, aren'tcha?” katsuki observes, turning your head so he can see your face. you can feel izuku press against you from the other side, so you’re completely enveloped by larger bodies, and trapped between them you feel like a mouse in a cage with nowhere to run. the only difference is you want to be the subject of their experimenting, want them to use you however they see fit. 

“i-i, uhm–“

“don’t lie,” izuku interrupts. his tone is smooth like honey but his words are carry another undertone, one that reminds you what happens when you lie. he shares a condescending look with katsuki as you fumble in your head for the right words to say. 

“i-i want… what i want?” you finish, voice lilting in question at the end. 

katsuki snorts. “wow, d’you come up with that yourself? really specific.” he uses his grip on your arms to turn you to face him. you’re perched on your knees between the two men, palms pressed into katsuki’s thighs for support as izuku shifts suspiciously behind you. “sorry sweetheart, but right now i think right now we’re gonna do what i want.”

“w-wait, what’re you–“ you start, but falter when you feel a hand press into the back of your head, not pushing per se, but guiding your gaze down, down, down. 

“y’know what i want?” izuku’s voice is a siren song in your ear, and you try to look at him, but katsuki’s grip on your chin and izuku’s palm on your head keep you facing forward. “i think i want you to help kacchan feel good… can you do that?” 

you lift your eyes to katsuki’s piercing red ones and gulp when a shiver runs through you, the pulsing between your legs growing stronger with every heartbeat. he’s looking at you with blown pupils and slightly parted lips, like he’s not even sure how he got himself in this position but he’ll be damned if he’s going to waste the opportunity. 

there’s a gleam in your eye when you slide your hands higher up his legs. he feels impossibly big beneath your fingers, which splay across the tensed muscles of his upper thigh. looping a few fingers around his belt, you tug on it, not enough to take it off, just enough to tantalize. the set of his jaw is offset by the desperate look in his eyes, which flit between you and izuku behind you.

you start to slide the belt undone, movements painfully slow, feeling watched from every angle. the throbbing in your core is enough to send a trickle of sweat down your back; if you don’t get some attention, and fast, you fear you may combust on the spot. 

“yeah,” you murmur, meek but determined. you flit your eyes up to katsuki’s one more time before unbuttoning his jeans, biting your lip when you get a look at what’s inside. 

his boxers are forming an angled tent, the front damp and sticky from the pre that’s gushing from his tip. you let out a quivering breath and lean closer, not touching yet, just inspecting. everything feels slow and warm and unhurried as you stare, learning the slight curvature of his dick through the clothing. when you slide your fingers into his waistband to test something, he lets out the shakiest groan and bucks his hips a little. 

“if you just sit an’ stare for any longer you might as well take a picture,” he mutters, and you smirk. 

“really? izuku, hand me my–“

“christ,” katsuki huffs, and izuku chuckles behind you. 

“later, later, c’mon baby. focus, okay?”

so you do, finally tugging the waistband down and letting his veiny cock spring free. it slaps against his lower stomach – you and izuku simultaneously react with small little gasps. 

“so pretty…” he coos as you gather the glob of saliva pooling in your mouth, leaning down and spitting, watching as the slick lands right on target and cascades down his length in little rivulets. behind you, izuku hums in approval. 

some of your spit sticks to your lip, and katsuki moves like he means to wipe it off, choosing instead to smear it around your face with a slight sneer, which grows even wider when a whimper escapes your lips. you relish in the feeling of his thumb applying gentle pressure, and while he’s got you occupied, izuku pulls your panties down without grace, just enough to expose the slick mess between your legs. 

you finally lean down, settling your hands tentatively on katsuki’s legs to support yourself, and speculatively lick the sticky, salty pre and spit from his tip. he moans, puts his hand on your head like part of him wants to force it down but he doesn’t, just let’s it rest there without pressure as you take your time opening up for him. 

slowly, slowly, you finally part your pretty lips and run your tongue down the underside of his shaft, taking him fully in your mouth. it’s disorienting, adjusting to his particular girth and length, tip hitting the back of your throat far sooner than you’d anticipated. you gag a little, saliva pooling, and feel his cock twitch against the inside of your cheek.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he exhales, finally applying just that little bit of pressure to keep you choking for just a second longer, grunting with pleasure when a few tears prick the corners of your eyes. izuku coos in your ear and rubs soothingly at your lower back, before he presses into it, like he’s asking you to arch.

they seem to be on some mission to overwhelm you; as katsuki holds you down, izuku pulls your hips up and into the air, spreading your legs just a little bit so he can wedge his face between them. the steeper angle forces you to lower your hands down to either side of katsuki’s hips, and he grips at your hair to help guide your head. 

izuku licks a long line up your slit from behind, causing you to moan without restraint; the reverberations rattle through katsuki’s bones and he can’t help but buck his hips one more time. it sends a fresh wave of tears cascading down your cheeks. 

when you slide off his cock, it’s with a loud, squelching pop – just for a second, so you can catch your breath. you pause, mind reeling as izuku focuses attention on your pretty little hooded bundle of nerves that’s been begging to be touched. only when katsuki’s thumb traces along your scalp do you refocus, locking eyes with him and sinking down again. hollowing your cheeks as he helps you strike a steady pace. everything is too much but it’s so good: katsuki’s fingers are tugging on your hair, and your breaths come short and quick. everything feels hazy as your brain goes a little dumb, the lack of oxygen going straight to your cunt.

izuku fucks you with his tongue, groaning into you when you clench around it. your pussy is soaked, each of his movements resulting in lewd, creamy sounds as he drinks up every drop of arousal you have to give. getting lost in the sensations, your pleasure coils tight in your gut, making every muscle contract and every nerve scream. 

time, and your perception of it, are skewed. somehow, everything feels stretched to last hours, in this position, always kept right on the edge but never crossing the line into oblivion. your nails digging into skin, your muscles all locked with unspent release, as you’re kept perched… on the edge…. and the edge and the edge and the edge…

slowly, you start to shift back into the land of consciousness. 

the first thing you register is how impossibly warm you feel, heat pooling between your thighs and burning you from the inside out. 

next, the position you’re in: one leg is hiked higher than the other, dangling over izuku’s shoulder and held in place gently by one of his strong hands; the other is curled around his back, his head practically resting against the meat of it, settled comfortably in between the two. 

third, the way he pulls away from your lapping at your messy cunt as he finally coaxes you from sleep, one of his hands reaching for one of yours, grounding you, calling your attention and focus to him. 

“morning, sweetheart,” he mumbles, planting teasing kisses along your inner thigh. 

you shift and squirm with the blinding, all consuming need to cum. there’s no telling how long izuku has had to work you up; for such a large and strong man, his touch can be so achingly gentle. everything in you is coiled tight like a rubber band that’s about to snap. 

“please,” you plead, and he squeezes your hand, then lets it go, bringing it down to slide one finger into your needy cunt. it glides in with no resistance, and he clicks his teeth, always so fascinated with the way you suck him right in each and every time. a second finger follows after the first slides in so easily, and he curls them, pushing at the fluttering walls of your pussy, tugging a shaky sigh from your lips. 

when he attaches his mouth to your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue, your thighs squeeze around his ears and your back starts to arch off the mattress. sleep is still lingering in the edges of your vision, so you squeeze your eyes shut and tangle your fingers in his hair. when he nips at your clit, it precipitates your orgasm; gasping his name, you cum on his fingers as they graze against that extra sensitive, spongy spot inside of you that always makes your toes clench. 

you're panting with an arm over your eyes when he lovingly places a little kiss right on your clit, before sliding up your underwear and emerging from underneath the covers, hair all tousled and face flushed. he gives you a toothy grin, grabby hands moving up and down your sides.

you tug him up and kiss him, tasting your own arousal on his tongue. smirking a little, you rake your hands through his curls, messing them up even more. “good morning, izuku.”

he just laughs, kissing you again and nestling into your neck, inhaling deeply and letting out a little sigh. 

as you lay there, skin still prickled with heat, your mind spins, turning the dream over and over and over. if you had doubts about what it is you really want before, they’re all gone now.  

you move through the rest of the morning in a slight daze, going through the motions and thinking about your dream the whole time. it’s burned behind your retinas, demanding to be noticed every time you look at izuku’s face. 

for the rest of the week, it’s practically the only thing you can think about. you’re on edge, all jumpy and tense. 

one morning, you and izuku grab coffee before work. without thinking about it, you wear your new bracelet, metal cool against the skin on your wrist beneath your sleeve. you shift your arm, and the chain catches the light.

when the barista notices it, you freeze, suddenly feeling caught in an omission of the truth. you know izuku notices your strange reaction, know he notices your over the top recovery when you emphasize how it was a gift from your boyfriend’s friend. 

he’s heard you call katsuki your friend many times over, so why was he suddenly just izuku’s friend? 

you could talk to him about it. you should talk to him about it… but truth be told, after your dream, you’ve been needy and tunnel visioned, and the only thoughts that linger in your mind are wicked ones. the more you think and ponder everything, the more things you’ve noticed, little interactions that seemed like nothing at the time and suddenly hold more weight in this new light.

the three of you are like a powder keg just waiting to explode – the only needed now is a spark.  

“i wanna go to the beach,” you announce. 

izuku glances up at you from his position on the floor. he has student profiles and personal notes he’s taken sprawled over the floor, poring over them carefully to sort them based on quirk type. when he’s done, each student will have an individual quirk improvement plan for their summer break. so izuku, always so thoughtful and just a little overkill. 

“that sounds like fun,” he agrees, leaning back against your legs when you tug on one of his curls. “hm?”

“when is your next full day off?” you ask, reaching for your phone. “we should make a day trip out of it. i have some time off saved up, so i can probably go whenever…” you start to craft a text, typing furiously as izuku thinks for a second. 

he looks down at the work in front of him. “if i get these done before next weekend, maybe we could go then.” you’re still typing when he stops talking, finally hitting send on the following:

you: take next saturday off? :) we wanna go to the beach

“hey,” izuku says, turning to rest his arm on your legs. “do you think that will work?”

you start, looking up from your screen and clicking it off. he glances down, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, but he just tilts his head at you. “yes,” you breathe. “and... i invited kacchan. is that okay?”

“yeah, of course,” he says like it's obvious, turning around again. in your lap, your phone buzzes once, then twice. you open it. 

you: take next saturday off? :) we wanna go to the beach kacchan: done kacchan: i will pick you up

saturday goes better than you could have anticipated. you’ve put yourself in the perfect position, an abundance of eye candy to enjoy while you lounge on the sand. 

when izuku gets clearly flustered and awkwardly excuses himself with an obvious lie about filling his water bottle, you and katsuki sit in an awkward silence. it stretches for a long moment, too long, before you both can’t take it and start speaking at once.

“i–"

“so-"

cutting yourselves off, the two of you fall silent once more. the more you refuse to address the elephant in the room, avoiding each other’s eyes and, in your case, distracting yourself with the sand on the beach, the more unbearable the tension in the air becomes. it’s stifling, making the sun beating down from above feel hotter, brighter. eventually you just can’t take it anymore. 

“he’s not really filling his water bottle,” you manage. 

“obviously,” katsuki replies, glancing in the direction izuku scurried off, then back at you. his expression is serious, focused. the double entendre in his words is not missed on you when he says, “so... why’s he so worked up?”

why is izuku so worked up? you’re not a mind reader, so there’s no way to know for sure... but izuku’s probably the most observant person you've ever met. he’s definitely been keeping mental tabs of your unexplained behavior over the last month or so, and if you had to take a stab at it, you’d guess he just pieced at least part of the puzzle together. 

with his eyes boring holes into the side of your face, it feels safe to assume that katsuki is or has been piecing little things together on his own. 

“it’s probably… my fault.” you admit, with caution. “i’m… i don’t have a very good poker face.”

he quirks a brow, leaning on one of his arms to span a little of the very intentional distance between your bodies. “poker face?” your heart is pounding in your chest as you stare him down, refusing to be the one to break eye contact. his lip curls into a mean little smirk. “what have you got to hide?”

you flush, heat rising in your cheeks as you break, looking away and out over the water. “nothing.”

katsuki doesn’t reply, just sucks his teeth and stands. “gonna make sure deku wasn’t kidnapped or somethin’” he says, jabbing his thumb in izuku’s direction. he starts to strut away when you feel a wave of anxiety. 

“wait, katsuki–” 

he turns over his shoulder to smile at you. “everything is gonna be fine,” he says, sounding calm and collected, almost serene. he shakes his head at your pained expression.

as he continues away, you can hear him grumbling about paranoia and dramatics, and it makes you smile. 

your smile grows even bigger a few minutes later when you see them heading back towards you on the beach. 

right away, you can practically smell the tension. they stand just slightly too far apart, with katsuki’s hands shoved deep into his pockets. his face carries a wistful expression, and something about it makes him look… younger. harder.  

what happened in that bathroom?

your half baked plan working feels almost too good to be true, but it feels true when they sit down on either side of you. both sit close, closer than earlier and maybe closer than they should, and they keep sneaking knowing glances over your head like they think you can’t see, only of course you can see. 

you know that feeling in your chest right before a storm? the wind picks up, the scent of petrichor is rich on the air waves and a distant rumble of thunder rolls across the sky… these are the signs. but the feeling, like you want to hide and run into the thick of it at the same time, like you want to witness the way the force of nature rattles the world around you, but you’re scared... this feeling courses through you now, and curiosity burns in your gut right along side apprehension. 

the feeling lingers the rest of the day, and amplifies on the car ride home. you all sit in relative silence, with you gazing out the window in the front seat and izuku watching anxiously from the back. katsuki’s eyes stay locked on the road ahead of him, jaw set in a line that refuses to budge. 

when he drops you and izuku off at your apartment, it’s with few words. you want to spill your guts so badly, but you know that you need to talk to izuku first. the two of you owe it to each other. 

bags dropped by the door, you turn to each other right away. 

you go first. “i have to tell you something–“

“i think you have feelings for kacchan and i think i do too,” izuku blurts out, covering his mouth with both hands as soon as the words are uttered. his eyes are wide and brimmed with shiny tears that threaten to spill over as you open your mouth to speak, and then close it again. 

then you laugh. it starts small, then bubbles out of your throat, uncontrollable laughter that causes your own tears to leak from your eyes. until this moment, you hadn’t realized how tightly wound you’ve been. all at once, the stress and tension melt from your body and you laugh in relief and cry as izuku starts to laugh, too. 

you reach for him, and he pulls you close, sinking to the ground while you both just sit with the overwhelming mix of emotions that fill the room. 

“well... that’s what i was going to say,” you finally manage after several minutes, and it sets you both off again, more laughter and more tears and soon you’re going over the timeline of events and sharing things you’ve never said out loud before. 

it’s late into the night, and you’ve both ridden a rollercoaster of emotion. now though, you’re settled into a somewhat comfortable silence, everything finally laid out in the open. there’s only one thing that’s missing. 

“we should call him,” you murmur into the quiet air of the apartment. you’re perched in izuku’s lap, head tucked into his chest. he hums. 

“or we could invite him over.”

you glance at him. “you think he’s still awake?” he shrugs. 

“can’t hurt to try.”

so you pull out your phone, thumb trembling slightly as you pull up a group chat with three names. you look at izuku again. “you type first.” he nods, swallowing thickly. 

izuku <3: hey you: are you up?

maybe thirty seconds have passed when both of your phones buzz. 

kacchan: i’m on my way over. 

He couldn't help but get lost in his thoughts as he stared at the ceiling of his dorm room. Maybe he's already blown his chance because you saw him as some sort of brute.

For what may be the first and only time, Katsuki Bakugou, one of the most promising student-hero in Japan, felt caught up because of a crush.

It was so stupid. He's not the type of guy to bottle up his emotions. If anything, he's the opposite with his explosive personality. It felt so restrictive to stay quiet about his thoughts.

He isn't asking for much. Just a glance, a smile, and maybe a conversation. The smile doesn't even have to be towards him! Just a smile in his direction!

Maybe... Maybe he doesn't even like you! Yes, yes—he's just a little infatuated right now.

He thought about it for a moment, if he could get advice from someone.

Shitty-hair probably doesnt have any experience with girls.

Pikachu might have some, but he'd die before going to that guy for advice.

Mina? Nah she would tell you.

"Everyone's so goddamn useless," Bakugo groaned as he burried his face in a pillow, pushing so hard one might mistake it for suicide by suffocation.

Oh who was he kidding... He totally has a crush on you.

In a beat his phone buzzed with a notification. He didn't immediately check it, taking his sweet time suffocating himself out of sheer frustration.

Finally, he lazily opened his phone to see—and boy does he regret not checking sooner.

It was a notification of you and your like to his Instagram story—which is him playing the drums to a song in the background.

: I like that song too!

Bakugo quite literally felt his world quiet down for a moment, as if presenting him with a chance, a solution on how to get closer to you.

It felt embarrassing, almost—to try and get your attention through posting on social media. But hey, a guy's gotta try.

Bakugo read your chat through the notification over and over, contemplating on what to reply. He can't seem too desperate, but he can't push you away either, but he also can't be bland. How annoying!

Finally, he opened your chat to reply. His hands hovered over the keyboard for a while before hitting send.

Dynamight: i dont like that song. it was Pikachu's idea to cover it.

Yikes, too cold.

: Oh that's a shame.

: Well, you didn't seem like the type of guy to like that kind of genre anyway.

He stared at your chat longer than he should've. A minute passes—he wants to keep your conversation going for longer, but he's out of replies.

It'd be suspicious if he started asking questions or be too nice... But then again, he does want you to notice him.

Dynamight: tf is that supposed mean?

Dynamight: you should stop listening to crappy music

Forgive him, he's racking his brains to not sound desperate.

: What's your idea of good music if your taste is so superior?

Bakugo chuckled as he read your reply. He might be going insane, but he swears he could hear your voice through the screen.

Dynamight: *spotify playlist link*

Dynamight: no need to thank me for blessing you

Since you noticed him via that Instagram story, he started posting more and more.

It was subtle at first, just the usual stuff he'd add to his story. An ugly picture of his friends, a game, a manga page he found cool.

Then it started to become... Performative.

He heard from Mina that you liked sunsets, so he started posting them more often. All the little things that reminded him of you went to his story. Even the random flowers he walked pass in the streets.

Along with that, he started posting more pictures of himself, at the gym, during drills, and random fitchecks—hoping dreaming you'll compliment him.

The bakusquad definitely noticed the change, especially Mina, who was more observant and better at reading people than the others. They all had their suspicions—but they were all sure on one thing—Bakugo was trying to get someone's attention. The question they couldn't find the answer to was: who?

You, however, didnt seen too interested, as you'd only like his stories once in a while and never reply.

Bakugo was going insane trying to think of what would get you attention. He tried posting drum covers again to artists he knows you like, yet to no avail, his effort were met with only a like.

Even in class it was almost the same. You and him weren't close at all, but in a class of only 20 students, it shouldn't be that hard to have an interaction.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't overthinking it sometimes. That maybe he was too rough and arrogant in your first chat, that maybe he had driven you away.

If so, he was done! If you're not going to notice him with all the effort he was making, maybe you're simply not interested.

That was it, he's not going to post anymore stories or be performative for your attention. He felt stupid he even tried that method in the first place.

A week passes and instead of his usual story every other day, it reduced to basically zero. No one can pinpoint the reason, but it's visible Bakugo has become more irritable in class—not until report cards were issued and his grades was on top.

He randomly posted it on his story—his report card with scores all above 90, and kirishima's, with scores better than his previous grade. He captioned it "hardwork pays off. Even though tutoring @RedRiot was harder than actually studying."

He felt pretty proud of himself, and for once, he posted something not for anyone's attention but rather, his own gratification.

Barely an hour passes after he posted his story when he gets a notification... From you.

: Dude, you gotta tutor me!! Im actually failing T°T

you were a princess, born with noble and royal blood that carried the weight of generations before you. it was a quiet certainty that had never once been questioned as it settled into every part of your life from the moment you first opened your eyes.

as the youngest princess of the emerald empire, your place in the world had been decided long before you were old enough to understand what it meant, long before you could even speak your own name.

your older brother was raised to be the heir, the future king who would rule with authority and knowledge, taught to lead and command and carry the legacy of your family forward, while you were something else entirely. you were softer in appearance but just as important. a princess who would one day be placed where she was most useful, a piece in the quiet and constant game that was the monarchy.

you were loved, there was never a doubt about that.

it showed in the way your parents looked at you, in way your brother indulged you, in the way the entire palace seemed to soften around your presence. you were the only princess, the youngest child, and you were treated as something precious, something to be protected and cherished, and they spoiled you in ways that made your life comfortable and warm, but even in that warmth there were rules that never changed.

your family was traditional, deeply so, and their love never wavered from the expectations they held for you.

from a young age, you were taught what it meant to be a woman in your position, and those lessons were repeated so often that they became second nature, something you accepted without hesitation.

a woman’s first duty was to be a wife, to stand beside her husband and give him children, however many he desired, without complaint, without question, because that was her purpose. the second duty followed naturally, to be a mother, to raise those children, to nurture them while the husband worked and ruled and carried on the responsibilities outside the home.

it was a cycle that had existed long before you and would continue long after, and you saw it in the women who came before you, in your mother who carried herself with quiet grace as she fulfilled her role, in your grandmother, in your great grandmother, and every woman in your lineage who had done the same without hesitation.

you never questioned it, not once, because it was all you had ever known, and there was a kind of comfort in that certainty.

this is what you are meant to be.

the thought came easily and without resistance, and you accepted it as truth.

while your father spent his time guiding your older brother through the complexities of ruling, teaching him about politics, the history of their land, the alliances and conflicts with foreign nations, you were guided down a different path entirely.

your mother oversaw your upbringing with careful attention, shaping you into what she believed a proper royal woman should be. she taught you discipline, how to hold yourself, how to move, how to speak with intention and restraint, and she taught you grace, the kind that made every action appear effortless even when it was practiced a thousand times before.

you spent countless hours learning what was expected of you, your days filled with lessons in etiquette where every gesture mattered, where the way you held a teacup or greeted a noble could reflect not just on you but on your entire family. you learned to dance, not simply for enjoyment but as a skill, something that would be required of you in court and gatherings, your steps precise and controlled under the watchful eyes of your instructors. you studied cultures beyond your own, memorizing traditions, customs, and expectations of other lands so that one day you would not embarrass your future husband’s court.

and above all else, you were taught obedience. it was a necessity. it would allow you to become the perfect wife you were meant to be.

you listened, you learned, and you never resisted, because there was nothing in you that wanted to. you were good, you were proper, you were everything they needed you to be.

so when the time finally came, when you reached the age where marriage was no longer a distant idea but an immediate reality, you did not protest when the arrangements were made, you did not question the decision when your future was decided for you.

you were told where you would go, who you would marry, and what it would mean for your kingdom, and you accepted it with the same quiet understanding you had always carried.

that was how you found yourself leaving the emerald empire, the only home you had ever known, and being sent to the scarlet region.

the difference between the two lands was impossible to ignore, it settled into your senses the moment you crossed the borders, the shift so stark that it almost felt unreal.

the emerald empire lived up to its name in every sense, a land rich with deep green forests that stretched endlessly, fields of flowers that bloomed in colors that softened the eye, rivers that reflected the sky like glass as they wound through the kingdom. the air there had always felt light, fresh, filled with the scent of earth and life, and the palace itself stood tall and elegant among it all, a place that felt open and welcoming even in its grandeur.

the scarlet region was something else entirely.

it rose from the land like something carved from the bones of the earth itself, a kingdom built atop a massive dark mountain that seemed to loom over everything around it. the stone was not polished or soft in appearance, it was jagged in places, heavy as if it had been shaped by fire and force rather than careful hands. the ground beneath it was uneven, darkened by ash and heat, and the closer you came, the more you could feel the difference in the air. it was thicker, warmer, carrying the faint scent of smoke that never fully disappeared.

the mountain itself stretched high, its peak often hidden behind dark clouds that clung to it as if they belonged there, and somewhere deeper within. there was the constant reminder of the volcano that gave the region its name, a presence that could not be seen fully but was always felt. it was not a place of soft beauty, it was a place that demanded attention. it felt alive in a harsher, more dangerous way, and yet there was something undeniably powerful about it.

the fortress that stood upon it was just as imposing, built from the same dark stone, rising high with sharp edges and heavy walls that spoke more of strength than elegance. it was not delicate, not meant to impress with grace, but with dominance, with the kind of presence that made it clear this was a kingdom that did not bend easily.

this was where you were meant to belong now, far from the green and gentle lands of your home, in a place that burned in scarlet and shadow, where everything far less forgiving.

and yet you stepped forward without hesitation, because this was your duty, and you had always known that one day you would be sent away to fulfill it.

you knew since you were ten.

the memory had settled into you quietly, it wasn’t a shock to you, it was inevitable. it had always been waiting for you even before you were old enough to understand what it meant.

it had been a warm afternoon in the emerald empire.

you had been seated beside your mother, your hands folded neatly in your lap as you were taught to do, your back straight even then because discipline had already rooted itself deep into your bones.

your father and your older brother had been speaking across the long table, their voices calm but firm, their words carrying weight even if you did not fully grasp them at the time. you remembered the way your mother’s hand rested lightly over yours, a silent instruction to listen, to pay attention, to understand that what was being discussed was important.

it was then that you first heard of the treaty.

not just a simple agreement, not just a passing arrangement between two lands, but something far more binding, something that would shape the future of both nations and, though you did not know it yet, your own life.

the emerald empire, prosperous and abundant, a land overflowing with natural wealth, had long held resources that other nations sought after. among them, the most prized were the emeralds themselves, stones that were not only symbols of status and power but also held practical value in trade, crafting, and even in certain forms of energy use that had been developed over time.

the scarlet region, in contrast, was not a land of abundance in that sense, but it held something far more dangerous and far more valuable in times of unrest.

power.

military strength that few could rival.

the treaty, as it had been explained in terms that would later become clearer to you as you grew older, was both an agreement of peace and a formal alliance. it was structured with precision, written in language that left little room for misinterpretation, signed under the authority of both ruling powers to ensure its permanence.

the emerald empire shall supply the scarlet region with an agreed upon and consistent quantity of emerald resources, the amount determined through mutual negotiation and subject to periodic reassessment under stable conditions.

in return, the scarlet region shall provide military support to the emerald empire, offering protection, reinforcement, and armed assistance in times of conflict, threat, or war, under the obligations defined within the alliance.

it was balanced and it made sense, even to those who were not directly involved in politics.

one land provided wealth, the other provided strength. together, they ensured stability, or at the very least, the illusion of it.

but treaties like that were rarely sealed by ink alone.

they required something more binding, something that ensured loyalty beyond written words.

and that was where you came in.

the alliance was finalized not only through the signatures of two rulers but through a betrothal.

between you, the youngest and only princess of the emerald empire and the sole heir of the scarlet region, katsuki bakugo.

you did not know his name at ten in the way you would come to know it later.

back then, it had just been a name spoken among many others, one that held importance but did not yet carry weight in your mind. you had simply listened, your gaze lowered as expected, your fingers resting against your mother’s as she gently squeezed your hand once, a quiet reassurance or perhaps a reminder.

this is your duty.

as you grew older, the details became clearer.

the scarlet region did not follow the same traditions as your homeland. where the emerald empire upheld strict customs, where succession was determined by lineage and only passed on upon death to the oldest son, the scarlet region operated under a different set of rules, ones that were far less rigid and far more dangerous.

there, a ruler could step down whenever they deemed it appropriate. there was no obligation to rule until death. there was no enforced waiting.

at first, it sounded almost freeing, almost progressive in a way that contrasted your own structured upbringing. but as you learned more, as history lessons became more detailed and less softened for your ears, you began to understand what that truly meant.

power did not remain in the hands of those who were unwilling to give it up.

not for long.

stories, whispered at first and then later taught more directly, spoke of rulers who had been found lifeless in their chambers, their bodies still and cold before any official declaration of abdication had been made. others were said to have fallen ill suddenly, their decline too quick, too convenient, leaving the throne open for the next in line.

poison.

assassination.

betrayal.

these were not rare occurrence, they were part of the system.

the scarlet region thrived on strength, and strength was proven not just in battle but in the ability to take and to hold power by any means necessary. it was a land where weakness was not tolerated, where hesitation could mean death, and where loyalty was often conditional.

they were barbaric in nature, as many in your homeland described them, though never in official statements. it was a quiet understanding, one that lingered beneath formal diplomacy.

and yet, despite that, or perhaps because of it, they were powerful.

that power was what your kingdom needed.

that power was what secured your fate.

katsuki bakugo had ascended the throne in his early twenties, far earlier than most rulers in your own land would have ever been allowed to. but his case had been different.

his father had never wanted the crown. that much had been made clear in every account you had heard.

he had ruled because he had to, because the position had been his responsibility, but there had never been any true desire behind it. and so, the moment he believed his son was capable, the moment he was certain that the boy had grown into someone strong enough to take over, he stepped down.

willingly.

a rare occurrence in a land where most rulers had power taken from them rather than surrendered.

that was how katsuki became king.

young, powerful, and already carrying a reputation that spread far beyond the scarlet region itself.

they called him the dragon king.

the title alone was enough to spark curiosity when you first heard it, but the explanation behind it made it something else entirely.

he rode a dragon.

not just any beast, not just some distant creature tamed through force, but one bound to him in a way that was deeper, more personal, more dangerous.

eijiro kirishima is a dragon hybrid and katsuki’s right hand, his closest companion, his weapon, and his ally.

the stories described them as inseparable, two forces that moved as one, their presence on the battlefield enough to turn the tide of war before it had even fully begun. it was said that when the dragon king took flight, when the skies burned with the presence of that creature beneath him, there was no room left for doubt.

fear followed then victory followed short after… always.

and now, that same man was the one you were meant to marry.

though the pair interested you more than anything.

hybrids were rare.

even in lands filled with strange creatures, old bloodlines, and ancient magic that had existed long before kingdoms were ever built, hybrids remained uncommon enough to be spoken about with curiosity and caution. stories about them traveled across nations in whispers and rumors, changing slightly depending on who told them, but one thing always remained the same.

once a hybrid found the one they belonged to, their loyalty became absolute.

it was said they did not serve the way ordinary soldiers served a king. it went deeper than duty and far beyond simple obedience. the bond between a hybrid and their chosen master was something fierce, instinctive, almost animalistic in nature. once formed, it lasted for life.

they protected, obeyed, and stayed.

even death itself was said to struggle separating a hybrid from the one they devoted themselves to.

you had heard stories growing up in the emerald empire. servants whispered about dragon shifters in hushed voices while preparing your baths or brushing your hair. noble women spoke of them with fascination during gatherings while men discussed them as weapons that could change the outcome of wars. some stories painted hybrids as dangerous beasts pretending to be human while others claimed they were more loyal than any knight sworn by oath.

you had never seen one before.

not until now.

the realization settled into you the moment the large doors of the throne room opened.

the room was massive, carved from dark stone that stretched high above your head into towering ceilings supported by enormous pillars etched with old markings and scars from time. fire burned from iron braziers mounted against the walls, their flames casting flickering orange light across the gloomy chamber. unlike the bright halls of the emerald empire filled with sunlight and polished marble, this place felt heavy.

ancient.

the air itself carried the faint scent of smoke and iron.

your footsteps echoed softly as you walked forward.

the king’s council and court lined both sides of the long walkway leading toward the throne, their eyes fixed entirely on you. warriors stood among nobles instead of guards standing separately from politicians like in your homeland. here they seemed to blend together into one brutal court where strength mattered just as much as status.

you could feel their stares. some were curious. some judgmental. some openly assessing you as though trying to determine whether the foreign princess walking toward their king was worthy enough to stand beside him.

still, your posture never faltered. not once.

your head remained high, your expression calm and serene exactly as you had been taught since childhood. every movement was graceful and measured as you walked across the dark stone floor.

your dress stood out immediately against the dullness of the castle.

soft lilac silk flowed around your body with every step, the fabric delicate and elegant beneath the firelight. silver embroidery climbed along the sleeves and bodice in intricate patterns resembling vines and blooming flowers from your homeland. sheer layers of fabric draped from your arms and trailed lightly behind you across the floor.

in this dark place of stone and ash and smoke, the dress almost looked unreal.

the only other strong color in the room came from the red-haired hybrid standing beside the throne.

his hair was bright like burning crimson beneath the firelight, wild and striking against skin. large dragon wings rested folded behind him, the scales along them dark red and gleaming faintly. even from where you stood, you could see sharp scales trailing along parts of his neck and arms while red horns stuck on his forehead.

and his eyes never left the king.

you understood the stories then.

slowly, you reached the foot of the stairs leading toward the throne.

without hesitation, you lowered yourself into a proper curtsy, bowing your head respectfully. though you were royalty yourself, you stood in a foreign kingdom before another ruler. your mother had drilled that lesson into you countless times growing up.

respect the customs of the land you stand in.

your voice was soft and composed when you spoke. “my king.”then you lifted your gaze and finally saw him properly.

katsuki bakugo sat sprawled across the throne like he had been born for it… like the throne itself belonged beneath him.

his vermillion eyes locked onto yours immediately, sharp and intense enough to make your breath still for a moment. his ash blond hair looked messy and untamed as though no one would dare attempt controlling it.

he looked dangerous, beautifully dangerous.

his entire torso was bare, leaving every inch of hard muscle exposed beneath the firelight. scars littered parts of his skin, old marks that only made him appear even rougher, even more intimidating. his body looked carved from stone itself, broad shoulders leading down to a powerful chest and strong arms wrapped with strips of orange fabric around his forearms and hands.

a dark red cape lined with thick fur rested across his shoulders, the heavy material falling behind him while the fur framed his neck. black tattered pants hung low on his hips tucked into worn brown boots that looked made for battle instead of ceremony. and around his neck hung layered necklaces made from stone, jade, teeth, and rough beads that clicked softly whenever he moved.

beside his throne rested a massive broadsword. the blade alone looked large enough to split a man in half.

the room had gone silent.

completely silent.

your eyes remained locked with his as he slowly stood from his throne. the movement alone shifted the atmosphere in the room. he descended the stairs with slow swaggering steps, each one heavy against the stone floor. he did not rush. he looked like a predator approaching something that had caught his attention.

his eyes never left yours.

not once.

when he finally stopped in front of you, his body towered over yours easily.

you suddenly understood why stories about him spread across kingdoms because there was something overwhelming about him, something that demanded attention.

your breath caught quietly in your throat when he suddenly lifted a hand and pinched your chin between his fingers. his touch was rough as it was warm. he tilted your head upward slightly so he could look at you better.

the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

you could feel his gaze dragging across your face slowly, studying every detail in silence for several long seconds… then his lip curled.

“tch. at least they had the decency to send me a pretty little princess.” his voice was rough and deep, carrying easily through the silent throne room.

heat crept beneath your skin instantly.

before you could even react, he scoffed and released your chin before turning away slightly. “i might actually kill them then myself if they had given me one that looked like a mountain troll.”

a few people in the court laughed nervously.

you stayed perfectly still.

then katsuki waved a hand dismissively. “eijiro, send the woman to her quarters.”

the command was directed toward the red-haired hybrid beside the throne.

unlike katsuki’s permanent snarl and sharp gaze, the hybrid smiled warmly at you the moment his name was called.

and somehow, in this cold dark throne room filled with warriors and strangers, that smile was the first thing that felt welcoming.

you walked through the dark halls of the castle in silence, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly against the stone beneath your shoes as the heavy doors of the throne room closed behind you.

in the corridor, the walls were made from dark stone carved rough in some places and smooth in others as though parts of the castle had been built directly into the mountain itself. large torches lined the hallways every few feet, their flames flickering wildly and casting shifting shadows across the walls and floors. the firelight painted everything in deep shades of orange and gold, but it did little to soften the gloom surrounding the place.

there were no large windows letting sunlight spill through the halls. no fresh scent of flowers drifting through open corridors. instead the air carried traces of smoke, leather, iron, and something faintly earthy that reminded you of ash after rain.

in front of you, eijiro walked at an easy pace as he guided you through the winding halls just as the king had ordered.

your eyes drifted toward him quietly.

back in the throne room, nearly all of your attention had been trapped on katsuki bakugo himself. it had been impossible not to stare at him when he looked the way he did sitting upon that throne like some wild king from ancient stories.

now, with the two of you alone in the halls, this was the first time you truly got a proper look at the dragon hybrid.

your gaze slowly scanned over him.

like katsuki, his torso was completely bare beneath the warm firelight, exposing toned muscle across his back and shoulders that shifted with every step he took. his body looked strong in a different way than the king’s. where katsuki carried sharpness and intimidation, eijiro looked sturdy and grounded… protective.

metal pauldrons rested over his shoulders, dark and jagged in shape almost resembling broken pieces of rock layered over one another. leather bracers wrapped around his forearms while fitted leather pants and armored boots completed the rest of his attire. several knives rested securely along the belt around his waist.

but none of that held your attention for long. your eyes kept returning to the scales.

patches of deep red scales spread across parts of his arms and shoulders, blending into his tan skin naturally. more scales traced along the sides of his face near his jaw and temples, catching the firelight whenever he moved.

his hair was a vivid red that matched the horns protruding from his forehead. large leathery wings remained tucked behind him neatly despite their size, the dark red membranes shifting slightly every now and then as he walked.

you had never seen anything like him before.

your staring lasted just a second too long.

eijiro glanced over his shoulder before a grin spread across his face. “y’know, princess, if you keep staring at me like that i’m gonna start thinkin’ you like what you see.”

heat rushed to your face instantly. your eyes widened before you quickly looked away. “i’m so sorry,” you said softly, your voice embarrassed. “i did not mean to stare.” you hesitated for a moment before glancing back at him carefully. “it is just... this is my first time seeing a hybrid in person. let alone a dragon hybrid.”

eijiro let out a warm chuckle. “hey, don’t worry about it,” he said easily, waving a hand dismissively. “seriously. there’s no need to apologize. i get that a lot.”

his relaxed tone eased some of your embarrassment almost immediately.

you looked at him again, more carefully this time. “does it bother you?”

“nah.” he shrugged. “people get curious. especially people from other kingdoms. honestly, i’d probably stare too if i saw somebody with giant wings for the first time.”

you found yourself smiling faintly at that. the sight seemed to encourage him further.

“plus,” he continued with a grin, “you’ve been pretty respectful about it. some people act weird.”

“weird?”

“yeah.” he snorted. “either they’re terrified or they ask if i breathe fire.”

your brows lifted slightly. “can you?”

eijiro barked out a laugh so suddenly that it echoed through the hallway. “okay, see? that one’s fair.”

you lowered your gaze quickly, suddenly feeling foolish. “i apologize. that was inappropriate.”

“hey, no.” he shook his head immediately. “i’m messing with you. i do breathe fire. only on my dragon form though.”

his easygoing nature made conversation strangely comfortable despite how unfamiliar everything around you was. for a moment, the tightness sitting in your chest since arriving at the scarlet region loosened slightly.

“so,” eijiro said after a moment, glancing at you curiously. “what’s the emerald empire really like?”

your expression softened. “It is beautiful,” you answered quietly. “very different from here.”

you looked around the dim hallway before continuing.l “there are gardens everywhere. flowers grow along most parts of the palace grounds and the walls are covered with vines and roses during warmer seasons.”

eijiro listened closely. “sounds nice.”

“It is peaceful,” you admitted. “the air smells sweet during spring.”

“huh.” he smiled. “guess this place probably feels kinda… intense compared to that.”

you hesitated before nodding slightly. “a little.”

he laughed softly. “yeah, sounds about right.”

for a few moments the two of you continued walking while talking quietly.

you asked him questions about the castle, about the scarlet region, about dragons and hybrids. he answered all of them openly, seeming almost excited by your curiosity rather than annoyed by it.

in return, he asked about your home, what kind of things you liked, whether all nobility in the emerald empire were taught so formally.

“pretty much,” you admitted softly.

“that sounds exhausting.” eijiro said.

“it can be.” you let out the faintest laugh.

eijiro glanced at you again before speaking carefully.“you nervous?”

you knew immediately what he meant. your fingers tightened lightly together.

“about the king?”

he nodded.

you were quiet for a moment before speaking honestly. “i do not think he likes me.”

eijiro suddenly laughed. not cruelly, almost fondly. “trust me,” he said, shaking his head. “you’d know if katsuki doesn’t like you.”

“I would?” your brows furrowed slightly.

“oh, definitely.” he grinned. “he’s not exactly subtle.”

you thought back to the throne room. to the way katsuki had looked at you, the roughness in his voice, and to the way his fingers had held your chin.

your face warmed slightly at the memory.

eijiro noticed immediately and grinned wider. “see?”

you quickly looked away. “i simply assumed he was displeased by this arrangement.”

“well,” eijiro admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “he definitely wasn’t happy about being forced into marriage at first.”

your chest tightened slightly, but before you could speak, he continued.

“katsuki’s just bad with people sometimes. especially women.”

you blinked. “women?”

“pretty women,” he corrected with a teasing grin.

you looked down immediately, embarrassed at his constant compliments towards you.

eijiro laughed softly again before continuing more gently. “seriously though, don’t overthink him too much. he’s rough around the edges but he’s a good person. you’ll see pretty soon how he actually is when he dislikes somebody.”

the conversation slowly drifted again before you asked quietly, “how long have you known him?”

eijiro’s expression softened immediately. “since we were kids.”

you looked up at him curiously while he smiled faintly down at you.

“hunters caught me when i was eight,” he explained. “dragon hybrids sell for a lot depending on where you are.”

your eyes widened slightly. you remembered learning about how hybrids treated in some parts. some were either killed and butchered to be sold for their parts, or they were sold for entertainment. hybrids were rare as it is, but dragon hybrids were even more rare making them more valuable.

“they kept me trapped for a while.” his tone remained casual but you still felt sadness curl in your chest. “katsuki found me,” he continued. “he was around eight too. little psycho fought grown men with a knife.”

you stared at him as you listened, trying to take it all in.

“seriously. kid was terrifying… and i was a kid!” eijiro laughed.

you could strangely imagine it. after seeing katsuki earlier, just from that brief interaction, you can already tell he was much of a menace at eight as he is now.

“he saved you.” you said.

“yeah.” his voice softened. “and i stayed with him after that.”

“you are loyal to him. i’m not surprised.” your gaze drifted toward his wings.

eijiro looked at you for a moment before nodding once. “always.”

something about the way he said it made the old stories about hybrids echo through your mind again.

once a hybrid found the one they belonged to, their loyalty became absolute.

eventually, the two of you stopped in front of a massive pair of doors at the end of a quieter hallway.

“welcome to your new quarters, princess.” eijiro pushed them open.

you stepped inside slowly and was met with an enormous room.

dark stone walls surrounded the space but heavy curtains in deep crimson softened parts of it while large fur rugs covered portions of the floor. a massive fireplace burned along one side of the room, filling it with warmth. shelves carved from black wood lined the walls while candles flickered across various surfaces. the bed itself was enormous, layered with thick dark fabrics and furs.

despite the roughness of the castle’s aesthetic, the room still felt strangely luxurious.

eijiro watched your reaction carefully. “i know it’s probably completely different from your home,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “but the king made sure your quarters were comfortable for you.”

your eyes widened slightly. “he did? really?”

eijiro smiled sheepishly. “well... not really.”

your brows lifted in confusion at that.

“but he approved of all the things brought to your room! so that’s something!”

you could not help the soft laugh that escaped you. he reminded you strangely of a large puppy, earnest and friendly.

“thank you, eijiro. truly.” you nodded politely.

his grin returned immediately. “no problem. you are the future queen of the dragon lord. i live to serve you for you are his.”

his.

he stepped back toward the doorway. “i’ll send your new servants in to help with your bath before you retire for the night.”

“thank you.” you nodded again.

“get some rest, princess.” with that, he stepped outside and slowly closed the large doors behind him.

silence settled over the room.

you stood there for a long moment before slowly walking deeper inside, taking every little thing in. finally, you sat down carefully on the edge of the massive bed. your fingers brushed against the heavy sheets beneath your hands.

it was soft, warm… and foreign.

your gaze drifted slowly around the unfamiliar room.

this is my home now.

and for the first time since arriving in the scarlet region, the reality of it truly settled into your chest.

the last couple of weeks quickly fell into a repetitive pattern that slowly wore away at your patience no matter how hard you tried to remain understanding about the situation.

every morning you would wake up inside your chambers high within the dark stone walls of the scarlet fortress and ask one of the servants or guards whether the king was available, only to receive the same carefully rehearsed answers in return.

the king was occupied. the king was handling important matters. the king had already left the castle grounds before sunrise.

after hearing those excuses day after day, you eventually stopped asking as often because humiliation started creeping beneath your skin each time another servant avoided your eyes while informing you that your own betrothed apparently had no time for you.

most of your days were spent alone inside your chambers afterward. you ended up reading nearly every single one of the books on your shelves out of sheer boredom.

the books inside the scarlet region were nothing like the gentle romances and elegant poetry collections kept inside the libraries of the emerald empire. these stories were brutal and excessive and strangely honest about the people who lived within this kingdom.

there were tales about ancient wars fought between dragon riders that ended with entire mountainsides collapsing beneath fire and bloodshed. there were stories about barbarian kings who conquered lands with their bare hands and queens who poisoned enemies during feasts. some books were so violent that you occasionally found yourself staring blankly at the pages afterward trying to understand how someone even thought to write such horrifying details.

others were scandalously inappropriate.

one evening you accidentally spent an entire hour reading a story about a warrior taking a noblewoman against a castle wall. one of your handmaidens nearly dropped a tray in shock after realizing what you were reading. afterward she refused to look you directly in the eyes for the rest of the night while you quietly closed the book and pretended not to understand why her face had turned bright red.

still, despite the strange books and lonely silence surrounding most of your days, there was one part of your routine that you genuinely began looking forward to.

eijiro.

the dragon hybrid visited you almost every single day without fail.

sometimes he would arrive during breakfast and keep you company while the two of you ate together inside your chambers. other times he would take you through different sections of the castle while explaining the history behind certain halls and statues carved into the stone walls.

he told stories easily and enthusiastically, often speaking with his hands while his large red wings shifted behind him whenever he became excited.

unlike katsuki, who felt sharp and difficult to approach, eijiro was warm in a way that made conversation come naturally.

he answered your endless questions without irritation.

he explained the volcanoes surrounding the scarlet region and the old traditions involving dragon riders. he told you about battles fought generations ago and pointed out ancient carvings etched into the fortress walls. sometimes he made you laugh without meaning to. sometimes you caught yourself smiling more around him than you had since arriving here.

over time, your nervousness around the hybrid slowly faded.

and if you were being honest with yourself, there were moments where you quietly wondered who exactly you were supposed to be marrying. because while katsuki bakugo remained nothing more than a distant shadow constantly avoiding your presence, eijiro kirishima was the one actually beside you every day.

by the time three weeks had passed since your arrival in the scarlet region, you realized with growing disbelief that your wedding was only a week away.

a single week and yet you still had not properly spoken to katsuki since the first day you arrived. the realization irritated you more than you cared to admit.

that evening you sat in front of the vanity mirror inside your chambers while slowly brushing through your hair with careful strokes. soft firelight flickered across the room while one of your handmaidens prepared fresh oils nearby. you were waiting for eijiro again because he promised earlier that morning he would visit after finishing training with the soldiers.

you had begun expecting him.

which was exactly why surprise shot through you when the chamber doors suddenly burst open hard enough to slam against the stone walls.

your head snapped upward immediately.

katsuki bakugo stood in the doorway.

for a second, the entire room felt painfully still.

his broad figure nearly filled the entrance as firelight danced across his exposed skin and the heavy fur draped around his shoulders. his ash blonde hair looked slightly messy like he had run his hands through it repeatedly and those sharp crimson eyes locked onto yours instantly with an intensity that made your breath catch inside your throat.

it had been weeks since you last saw him.

weeks.

slowly, you stood from your seat before lowering your head respectfully. “my king,” you greeted softly. “what an honor it is to finally be graced by your presence.”

katsuki stared at you for a moment before clicking his tongue. “quit talking like that,” he muttered as he stepped further inside the room. “you sound like one of those damn council fossils.”

you lifted your gaze carefully toward him. “forgive me. i was simply trying to greet my future husband properly.”

“yeah, well, stop it.” he said, and despite his harsh tone, his eyes remained fixed on you far too intensely for comfort.

you slowly set the brush down against the vanity table. “to what do i owe this sudden visit?” you asked calmly. “i assumed you were occupied with your duties… as usual.”

something unreadable flashed across his expression at that.

then you continued before he could answer.

“it has been difficult, i must say. when the king is always occupied with ‘state affairs’ and his right hand is the only one willing to provide a tour of the grounds.”

katsuki’s jaw immediately tightened. “hair-for-brains has been babysitting you?” he asked sharply.

you frowned slightly at the insult. “eijiro has been kind,” you corrected as you stepped away from the vanity. “he told me about the volcanoes, the dragon-kin, the hybrids, and the history of this region. he has been a better guide than my own betrothed.”

a rough laugh escaped katsuki though there was no real amusement behind it. he moved closer until the warmth rolling off his body surrounded you completely. “kirishima’s an idiot who gives away secrets for free,” he scoffed. “if you wanted to know about this kingdom, you should’ve come to the source, not the help.”

your eyebrows lifted slightly. “i tried,” you answered, your voice firmer than expected. “every time i approached your chambers, your guards informed me you were busy breathing fire at your generals. eventually i began wondering if you were hiding something.”

for the briefest second, something shifted across his face. his stare softened just enough to notice before the scowl returned again. “i wasn’t hiding,” he said roughly. “i was preparing. do you have any idea what it takes to merge an emerald seat with a scarlet throne? despite the treaty, the court is looking for a reason to tear you apart the moment you step onto the altar.”

the words struck harder than you expected. your breath caught quietly in your throat and for a moment, you simply stared at him.

you had known this marriage was political from the very beginning. kingdoms did not bind themselves together through royal blood for romance. this union meant trade routes, military alliances, security, power, stability between two lands that could strengthen each other greatly. you understood that. you had been taught that since childhood.

but despite understanding all of that, despite knowing nobles could be cruel and proud and difficult, a part of you still had not expected that there were truly people within this castle who looked at you and saw someone unworthy.

you had crossed an entire continent for this marriage, you had left your home behind, your family, your kingdom, everything familiar, and somewhere within these dark stone halls, there were people waiting for you to fail.

they were watching and judging you, hoping you’d slip and fall and break you neck on the way down.

katsuki reached toward you suddenly, his gloved hand hovered near your chin. for a brief second, it looked as though he intended to touch you. then his jaw tightened sharply and he pulled his hand back with visible irritation, almost seeming angry at himself for the impulse.

“i didn't have time for royal pleasantries,” he growled. “but since you and shitty hair seem to have hit it off so well, i suppose you’ve learned enough to hold your own.”

despite yourself, your lips twitched faintly. “i’ve learned that the king is temperamental, guarded, and apparently very jealous of his second-in-command,” you said softly, tilting your head.

katsuki froze, his eyes widened for the briefest moment before narrowing into dangerous slits, a low sound rumbled from deep in his chest.

it sent a chill crawling down your spine.

“jealous?” he repeated sharply. “don't flatter yourself. i just don't like what’s mine being lectured by a soft-hearted mutt.”

his words made something uncomfortable twist in your chest.

your his property.

slowly, you stepped closer toward him until barely any space remained between your bodies. you could feel the heat radiating from him like fire against your skin.

“is that all i am to you?” you asked quietly. “property?”

katsuki stared down at you, his pupils shifted strangely. the sharp crimson of his eyes darkened until the color looked molten beneath the torchlight.

when he leaned closer, your breath caught, his forehead nearly brushed yours. “you’re a week away from being the queen of the scarlet region,” he said in a low gravelly rasp. “you’re not property, princess.” his gaze dragged across your face slowly, too slowly. “you’re the only thing in this godforsaken fortress that isn't made of ash.”

your heart stumbled painfully inside your chest. before you could respond, he continued.

“and if you think i’ve been busy playing soldier, you’re wrong.” he leaned even closer, close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips. “i’ve been making sure that when you finally walk down that aisle, no one is left alive who thinks they can challenge us.”

us.

“eijiro kept you distracted,” he muttered. “i kept you safe.”

silence filled the room after that.

your mind struggled to keep pace with everything he was saying.

you had thought he hated this arrangement. thought he was avoiding you because he wanted nothing to do with you. yet now he stood before you speaking about protecting you as though it had become his responsibility long before you ever wore his name.

“there are truly people here who oppose me that much?” you asked quietly.

katsuki scoffed. “there are people here who’d oppose the sky if it changed color for too long.” he stepped back slightly before dragging a rough hand through his ash blonde hair.

“the scarlet court is full of old bastards obsessed with bloodlines and strength. you’re foreign, soft, and refined. they think emerald nobles spend more time playing music than surviving winters. despite the benefits this wedding can give our kingdom, they don’t think you’re fit to be queen.”

“that is not true.” your brows furrowed faintly.

“i know that,” he snapped immediately. “they don't.” his jaw clenched again. “they think you’ll break.”

something stubborn rose inside your chest at that. you lifted your chin slightly. “and what do you think?”

his eyes locked onto yours instantly, intensely burning. “i think,” he said slowly, “that anybody who crossed kingdoms to marry into this hellhole without crying halfway through has more spine than half the idiots sitting in my council chamber.”

heat rushed unexpectedly into your face.

before you could answer, katsuki abruptly turned away. “come with me.”

“what?” you blinked.

“you heard me.” he strode toward the door.

confusion crossed your face immediately. “your majesty, where are we going?”

“tch. just move.”

you hesitated only a second before following after him and the moment you reached him, his hand suddenly grabbed yours. your breath caught sharply. his grip was large and rough and overwhelmingly warm around your hand.

before you could react properly, he yanked you forward behind him. “quit dragging me,” you gasped softly.

“quit dragging your feet.”

the chamber doors burst open as he pulled you into the corridor.

the dark halls stretched endlessly ahead, lit by fire torches burning against black stone walls. shadows flickered across the floors as servants quickly moved aside at the sight of the king storming through the castle with his future queen in tow.

you struggled slightly to keep pace with his long strides. “where are we going?” you asked again.

“you ask too many questions.”

“that usually happens when someone drags another person through a castle without explanation.”

he shot you an irritated glance over his shoulder. “you wanted to know why i’ve been busy so badly, right?”

you blinked. “yes…”

“then shut up and keep walking.”

despite his harsh tone, he never let go of your hand, not once. and somehow that fact lingered in your mind more than anything else.

katsuki continued dragging you through the castle halls with long aggressive strides that forced you to keep close behind him if you did not want to stumble over the hem of your dress. his hand remained wrapped tightly around yours, rough and calloused from years of swordsmanship and battle, his warmth almost startling against your softer skin.

you tried not to stare too openly at everything around you, but it was difficult. the scarlet region fascinated you. even after weeks of exploring with eijiro it still felt foreign to you.

your eyes drifted upward as you noticed enormous carvings etched into the high ceilings.

“those are incredible,” you murmured softly.

katsuki glanced upward briefly before grunting. “hm.”

you looked back at him. “what do they mean?”

“they’re old carvings.”

“i can see that.”

his eyes flickered toward you and for a second, you thought you caught amusement there, almost hidden. “smart mouth,” he muttered.

“i was simply asking.” you blinked innocently at him.

he clicked his tongue before finally answering. “they tell the story of the first kings. every ruler in the scarlet region traces their bloodline back to them.”

you looked back toward the carvings again with interest. the dragons were enormous in the stone art, wings spread wide across the ceiling while warriors stood beneath them holding weapons toward the sky.

“so the real dragons did come first?”

“obviously.”

“you do realize not everyone grew up here, yes?”

“annoying.” he let out a sharp exhale through his nose. despite the insult, he still answered. “before the kingdoms were built, dragon ruled these mountains. then people started worshipping them. eventually the strongest warriors bonded with them.”

“bonded?” your eyes widened slightly.

“dragon pacts.” his grip tightened faintly around your hand as he continued leading you down another hallway. “some humans formed bonds with dragon-kind. loyalty for loyalty. strength for strength.”

your thoughts immediately drifted toward eijiro. “is that why hybrids exist?”

“partly.”

“you sound reluctant to explain.” you looked at him curiously.

“because you ask too many damn questions.”

“and yet you keep answering them.”

he shot you another look over his shoulder. this time you definitely saw it, the corner of his mouth twitched. gone almost immediately.

he’s enjoying this.

you followed him down a massive staircase leading deeper into another section of the castle. the air grew warmer the lower you went, enough that you could feel heat brushing against your skin.

“why is it hotter here?” you asked.

“lava tunnels under the mountain.”

your eyes widened. “there is lava beneath the castle?”

“we’re built into a volcanic mountain, princess. what did you think was under us?”

you stared at him. “rocks?”

he barked out a laugh suddenly, a real one. rough and sharp but genuine enough that it echoed through the corridor. “unbelievable.”

heat crept into your cheeks at the sound. you had not expected him to laugh, especially not because of you.

the two of you continued walking until the hallway opened into a massive chamber lined with weapons mounted against the walls. swords. axes. spears. shields. some looked old enough to belong in museums while others appeared freshly sharpened.

you slowed immediately. “this is beautiful.”

“it’s an armory.” katsuki snorted.

you stepped closer toward one of the blades hanging on the wall. the sword was massive, far larger than anything you had ever seen used back home.

“people actually fight with these?” you asked.

“what the hell do you think they’re for?” he spat, his eyebrows furrowing as he spoke.

you glanced at him carefully. “you truly speak as though every question pains you.”

“because half your questions have obvious answers.”

“for you, perhaps.”

he stared at you for a moment before crossing his arms over his bare chest. “you really know nothing about this place.”

there was no mockery in his voice this time. only observation.

you looked down briefly. “i was taught about diplomacy between kingdoms and trade agreements and court etiquette. not weapons and volcanoes and dragon pacts.”

silence settled between you for a brief moment.

then katsuki spoke again, quieter this time. “that explains a lot.”

“what does that mean?” you looked back at him.

he shrugged. “you walk around this place looking at everything like you got dropped into another world.”

“perhaps i did.”

his gaze lingered on your face longer than necessary. you felt suddenly aware of how close he stood, how large he was compared to you, and how intense his eyes became whenever he looked directly at you.

your fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of your dress, trying to steady yourself before you cleared your throat softly. “what are scarlet region weddings like?”

“why?” katsuki’s brows furrowed immediately.

“because i’m marrying you in a week.” you said with an obvious tone of sarcasm.

“unfortunate for you.”

you ignored that as you asked again. “i would like to know what to expect.”

he sighed dramatically before leaning against one of the stone pillars nearby. “there’s a ceremony.”

you waited for more, but he stared back blankly.

“…that tells me nothing.”

“there’s fire. vows. drinking. fighting.”

your eyes widened. “fighting?”

“friendly fighting.”

“those are two words that should not belong together.”

“depends who you ask.” he shrugged.

you could not help the quiet laugh that escaped you.

katsuki’s eyes flickered toward your mouth immediately at the sound. you noticed it again and suddenly forgot how to breathe correctly for a second.

“what about emerald empire weddings?” he asked abruptly.

you blinked at the sudden question. “ours are more formal.”

“sounds boring already.” katsuki rolled his eyes as if he regrets asking.

“there is music and dancing.”

“boring.”

“poetry readings.”

he looked at you, horrified.

you smiled despite yourself. “decorated gardens.”

“if anybody forced me into a garden for my own wedding i’d burn it down.” he said, his expression tight as if he was already picturing it in his head.

you laughed at the look on his face while katsuki stared at you like he had never heard that sound before, like he wanted to keep hearing it. the realization made warmth spread slowly across your chest.

maybe he truly was avoiding me because he did not know what to do with me.

and somehow that thought felt far more dangerous than hatred ever could have been.

a week passed after your walk through the castle with katsuki, and somewhere within those seven days, something between the two of you shifted. it was not a dramatic shift. there had been no grand confession or sudden tenderness that transformed him into a different man overnight.

katsuki bakugo remained exactly who he was. he was still rough around the edges, still aggressive in the way he spoke, still impatient whenever somebody irritated him which happened often enough that you were beginning to think irritation was simply his natural state of being.

but despite that, things changed.

he was still busy constantly buried beneath matters of court and military discussions and whatever else dragged the dragon king away for hours at a time, but now he made space for you within those busy days.

sometimes he would appear at your chambers without warning only to stay for a few moments.

you would be seated near the fire reading one of the strange books from the scarlet region shelves when the door would suddenly swing open, revealing katsuki standing there with his arms crossed over his chest.

“what are you reading?”

you had looked up in surprise the first time it happened. “a history book.”

he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “why?”

“because i enjoy learning.”

“sounds miserable.”

yet he still walked over and glanced down at the pages resting in your lap before grunting.

another time, he had appeared during your evening meal and simply sat down across from you without invitation. you remembered staring at him while servants awkwardly scrambled to bring another plate.

“your majesty?”

“what?”

“you are in my chambers.”

“obviously.”

then he started eating your food as though he had always belonged there.

sometimes he barely spoke during those visits. he would simply sit nearby while you read or embroidered or drank tea. strangely enough, the silence never felt uncomfortable.

other times, he joined you and eijiro during your walks through the castle grounds.

those were perhaps your favorite moments.

eijiro would be speaking enthusiastically about some story from his childhood only for katsuki to suddenly appear beside the two of you with an irritated scowl already on his face.

“why the hell are you telling her that story again?” katsuki would ask.

“because she likes hearing it,” eijiro would laugh.

“your stories are stupid.”

“you listened to all of them too.”

“shut up.”

yet he would stay, always.

and slowly, without realizing it, you started learning him in pieces.

you learned that he hated overly sweet wine but liked stronger drinks that burned your throat. you learned that he became quieter whenever he was exhausted instead of louder. you learned that although he complained constantly, he still noticed everything around him with sharp frightening precision. you learned that whenever he was thinking deeply, his fingers tapped against whatever surface was nearest. you learned that he looked at you intensely even during moments when he thought you were not paying attention.

and before you fully realized it, the day of your wedding arrived.

you stood outside the massive doors leading toward the throne hall with your heart pounding heavily inside your chest. the halls around you glowed with torchlight while distant music echoed through the stone corridors.

your wedding dress felt heavier than anything you had ever worn before.

scarlet region wedding attire differed greatly from the soft flowing gowns worn in the emerald empire. instead of delicate fabrics and flowers, your gown was designed like something worthy of a queen standing beside a warrior king.

the dress clung tightly around your torso with dark crimson fabric embroidered with thin golden threads shaped like dragon scales. the sleeves draped long around your arms while black sheer fabric layered beneath the heavier crimson silk. gold chains decorated your waist and hips, hanging against the fabric with tiny ruby stones attached to them that caught the firelight whenever you moved.

the neckline dipped lower than dresses from your homeland normally allowed, exposing the tops of your collarbones where matching gold jewelry rested against your skin. even your veil was different. instead of white lace, dark red fabric trailed behind you like smoke.

you barely recognized yourself.

then, the massive doors slowly opened and heat rushed into the hall immediately.

inside, the throne room had transformed completely. huge fires burned from enormous iron braziers positioned throughout the chamber while crimson banners hung from the towering walls. drums echoed loudly through the room in a deep steady rhythm that vibrated through your chest. warriors stood lining the aisle holding torches while musicians played harsh beautiful melodies from instruments unfamiliar to you.

this was nothing like emerald empire weddings filled with soft music and flower petals.

before you knew it, you were walking down the aisle and all eyes turned toward you immediately. the eyes of court katsuki’s councilmen, foreign guests from distant lands, warriors dressed in heavy armor, and nobles covered in jewels and furs.

you spotted katsuki’s parents seated near the front. the former king looked relaxed despite the importance of the ceremony while his wife sat beside him watching everything sharply. you had met them during your first week in the scarlet region and quickly realized katsuki had inherited more from his mother than his father. mitsuki bakugo possessed the same fierce presence as her son though hers carried far more control.

your gaze shifted toward the opposite side where your own family sat. your mother already looked emotional, clearly trying not to cry. your father sat tall with pride written across his face. your older brother, however, looked like he was considering starting a war simply to drag you back home.

you almost smiled. when your eyes met his, you gave him a reassuring look.

i’m alright.

slowly, your attention moved again, then you spotted eijiro.

the dragon hybrid stood near the front dressed in dark ceremonial armor lined with crimson detailing. the moment he saw you looking toward him, his entire face lit up with the biggest grin.

it was so warm and genuine that you nearly laughed. you quickly hid the smile threatening your lips before finally looking ahead.

and there he was.

katsuki.

your future husband stood waiting near the throne platform.

for once, his chest was not bare. instead, he wore ceremonial battle robes made from black and deep crimson fabric layered with pieces of dark armor over his shoulders and forearms. fur lined the heavy cape hanging behind him while gold clasps shaped like dragon claws held it together across his chest. thick leather belts wrapped around his waist where a dagger rested beside an ornate sword.

he looked terrifying, beautifully terrifying.

his vermillion eyes locked onto yours instantly and as you approached him, you noticed his gaze slowly travel over your body, from your face, to your dress, to the jewelry against your skin, then back to your eyes again.

the look in his expression made heat crawl into your cheeks.

the ceremony began shortly after.

instead of gentle vows spoken softly between lovers, scarlet region traditions felt almost ritualistic.

the officiant stood before a massive fire while chanting ancient words in the old tongue of the region. wine was poured into ceremonial goblets. your hands and katsuki’s were bound together briefly with crimson cloth symbolizing unity through blood and kingdom.

through most of it, you barely listened because katsuki kept staring at you, and somehow, you realized you were staring back just as much.

the rest of the room blurred around you. time itself felt strange and distant. until finally the officiant spoke again.

“seal this union beneath fire and blood.”

eyes widened slightly and before you could even fully process the words, katsuki suddenly grabbed the back of your neck. a sharp breath escaped you then he pulled you toward him.

his lips crashed against yours.

the kiss stole every coherent thought from your mind instantly.

he kissed you firmly without hesitation, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other settled against your waist. heat flooded through your entire body as his mouth moved against yours with rough confidence that left your knees weak beneath the heavy layers of your gown.

oh gods.

your fingers instinctively grabbed the front of his ceremonial robes. you could hear distant cheering erupting around the throne room, but it sounded muffled beneath the pounding of your heartbeat.

when he finally pulled away, your lips tingled painfully, you stared at him completely stunned. katsuki’s eyes looked darker somehow, his thumb brushed briefly against your waist before he stepped back.

the celebration afterward became a blur of noise and firelight and endless drinking.

true to scarlet region tradition, there were fights just like katsuki mentioned.

warriors and duelists stepped into the center arena one after another while crowds roared around them.

sero hanta from katsuki’s inner circle defeated one soldier after a brutal sword fight that ended with both men bleeding and laughing. denki kaminari won his own match shortly afterward while shouting obnoxiously toward cheering spectators.

eijiro fought next.

you found yourself watching in amazement as the dragon hybrid moved with terrifying strength and speed before ultimately defeating his opponent.

then came katsuki.

the entire room seemed to erupt when the king stepped forward. his opponent looked almost honored to stand across from him.

the fight started with swords.

metal clashed violently beneath roaring cheers while sparks flew from each impact. katsuki fought like something feral unleashed into battle. he was aggressive, brutal, and overwhelming.

eventually the swords were discarded. then they were on the ground beating each other bloody.

you sat perfectly composed at the royal table, but beneath it, your hands gripped tightly against your dress. stress twisted painfully in your chest.

suddenly, warmth covered one of your hands.

you looked beside yourself and found eijiro smiled reassuringly at you. “don’t worry,” he said gently. “katsuki’ll be fine. i’ve seen him survive worse.”

you swallowed slightly. “that is not comforting.”

he laughed softly. “when we were sixteen he fought three mountain raiders at once after getting stabbed in the shoulder.”

“what?” your eyes widened in horror.

“he won.”

“that really does not make it better.”

eijiro grinned at your expression of worry.

your eyes shifted back toward the fight where katsuki slammed the other man hard into the ground making you winced. “besides… it’s not him i’m worried about,” you admitted quietly.

eijiro blinked before immediately understanding, then he chuckled. “ah.”

you looked at him helplessly. “that poor soldier.”

“trust me, he’s honored.”

you stared at him incredulously, not entirely sure what to reply to his reassurance.

eijiro leaned closer slightly before explaining. “in the scarlet region, it’s tradition to fight for the person you love.”

your brows furrowed.

he nodded toward the arena. “me and the others fought earlier because we’re unwedded. it’s meant to show strength, protection, and devotion for our future partners.” then he looked toward katsuki. “but katsuki’s fight is different.”

“different how?” your stomach tightened.

eijiro’s smile softened. “the longer the fight goes and the more blood he draws from his opponent, the deeper the devotion is believed to be.”

you froze completely.

eijiro continued quietly. “he’s fighting for you, my queen.”

shock rushed through you instantly. you had never heard of this tradition before, never read about it, never learned it during your lessons back home. yet suddenly everything felt different watching katsuki fight down there beneath roaring firelight.

every brutal strike, every drop of blood, every second that continued was for you.

eventually the soldier finally collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss.

the room erupted into cheers.

breathing heavily, katsuki straightened before immediately turning his head toward you, his eyes locked onto yours across the hall then slowly, a smirk twitched against the corner of his mouth. he walked directly toward you afterward. you noticed the blood that stained his knuckles, his lip was split slightly, yet he looked almost pleased with himself.

once he reached the table, he dropped into the seat beside you and threw one arm casually across the back of your chair. “you look pale,” he said.

you stared at him. “you nearly killed that man.”

“he’ll live.”

“why does everything think that’s comforting?” you replied back.

he snorted then his eyes dragged slowly across your face. “you watched the whole thing?”

you swallowed softly. “…yes.”

“good.” his smirk deepened slightly.

the grand hall roared with celebration, the air thick with smoke from roasted meats, the bitter tang of ale, and the deafening clash of warriors re-enacting battles for entertainment.

you sat at the high table, your new husband beside you, a solid, immovable presence. katsuki downed the last bit of his wine, a deep, dark scarlet that matched the banners of his kingdom. he swallowed it like it was water, not savoring it, just consuming it. the heavy goblet clunked onto the wooden table.

then his arm, which had been draped loosely around the back of your chair, moved. his hand landed on your shoulder, a firm, heavy pat. once. twice. a third time, each impact a little heavier, a little more deliberate.

your shoulder tingled under the weight.

he stood up. the noise in the hall seemed to dip for a moment, the crowd’s attention shifting to their king. he held his hand out for you, palm open, fingers curled slightly while you looked at his hand, confused.

the festivities were still raging. it was relatively still early. then you turned your head to meet his eyes. dark red, like cooled lava, intense and utterly focused on you. in that instant, the confusion evaporated, replaced by a cold, clear understanding that rushed from your head down to your toes.

it was time. your duty. the consummation.

your fingers, trembling slightly, reached out and grabbed his hand. his grip was instantaneous, tight, almost crushing as he pulled you to stand. you rose, your wedding gown suddenly felt like a ridiculous, fragile costume.

as you stood, you noticed katsuki’s eyes flick to eijiro who sat on your other side, giving him a quick knowing look.

eijiro’s smile faded into a serious nod, his own crimson eyes understanding. they seemed to speak without words, a silent communication that made your eyebrows furrow.

what did that mean? what had they planned?

but before you could dwell, katsuki was pulling you away from the table, his stride long and purposeful. he didn’t walk with you; he dragged you.

your hand was captive in his, and he led you through the archway out of the hall, into the colder, darker corridors of the castle. the warmth and noise of the feast died behind you, swallowed by the silence of the passageways.

katsuki looked intense, his profile sharp in the torchlight. his jaw was set, his brows slightly lowered. he didn’t look at you as he walked, his focus was on the path ahead, on getting to where he needed to be.

silence filled the space between you, thick and heavy. it wasn’t peaceful. it was a tension that crawled over your skin, a prickling awareness of where you were headed, of what was about to happen in the dark, private heart of his domain.

he didn’t lead you to the wing where your chambers had been for the past few weeks. he turned down a different corridor, one guarded by two massive stone dragons carved into the archway. he stopped before a door of dark, aged oak reinforced with iron bands.

“this is my chambers,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet hall. “now it’s ours. i had the servants move your things here this afternoon.” his tone was matter-of-fact, final. there was no discussion. this was where you would live… with him.

katsuki opened the door. it swung inward without a sound.

you were met with a room similar in structure to your old one but vastly different in spirit. it was bigger, dominated by a massive bed with a dark wood frame and black linens. the air smelled like him—like smoke, leather, and something wild. weapons lay around not as decoration, but as tools temporarily set aside: a sword on a table, its edge gleaming; a pair of axes leaning against a chest; pieces of armor on a stand. scrolls and maps were piled haphazardly.

it was chaotic, masculine, and utterly his.

“it’s very… you,” you said softly, stepping inside after him.

“it’s a fucking room,” he grunted, closing the door behind you. the click of the latch was loud in the silence. “it serves its purpose.”

you turned to face him, now alone in the intimate space. the tension from the corridors condensed here, in the few feet of space between you. he finally looked at you directly, his sharp eyes sweeping over your body in the elaborate dress.

“you wore this shit all day,” he stated, not a question. “must be heavy.”

“they told me it is the traditional gown of the scarlet region for a royal wedding,” you replied, your voice gentle. “they told me it represents power and prosperity.”

“it represents a lot of fucking fabric,” he said, a slight, sharp smirk touching his lips. “you look… good in it. but i’ll prefer you without it.”

your cheeks warmed at his blunt words. you didn’t know how to respond to such directness.

he stepped closer, until you were face to face. his warmth radiated against you. one of his calloused hands came up to gently play with a strand of your hair that had escaped its intricate styling.

the contrast was startling, the brute king touching you with such deliberate softness.

“do you know what’s about to happen now, hm?” he asked, his voice lower, gravelly.

you swallowed, your eyes wide. “i-i know my duty to my husband,” you whispered. “to… consummate the marriage. to bond both our kingdoms.”

his fingers continued their slow movement through your hair. “duty. bond.” he snorted softly. “i may be a brute, princess. i may be have a temper and called a barbarian. but i won’t do anything to you if you’re not ready.” the words were gruff, but the meaning underneath was startlingly clear.

he was giving you a choice, within the cage of this marriage.

your body reacted to his soft touches. a shiver went down your spine that wasn’t entirely fear. your eyes closed for a moment, feeling the rough texture of his fingers against the sensitive skin of your neck, behind your ear.

it was soothing and terrifying all at once.

you opened your eyes to find him watching your face intently, studying every flicker of reaction.

“i… i want to,” you promised him, your voice timid but clear. “i am ready.”

a low sound, like a grumble of satisfaction, emanated from his chest. his eyes darkened, shifting from assessing to predatory. his fingers left your hair and traced down your shoulder to the back of your gown, finding the complex laces of the corset.

“you love learning, right? reading those historical books,” he said, his voice now a seductive murmur as his fingers began to work the first lace. “so learn this. in the scarlet region, we don’t consummate marriages like they do in other kingdoms. it’s not clinical. it’s not prude.”

another lace loosened.

your breath hitched as the structure of the dress began to give way.

“they call us brutes. barbarians.” another lace. “and they’re right.” the final lace came free with a soft pull. “we fuck like animals. and tonight, i will make sure every single morsel and peasant in this kingdom knows what we’re doing. i won’t hold back.”

you shivered as his words washed over you, crude and thrilling.

the last of the fabric, freed from its bindings, pooled around your legs and slid to the floor with a whisper of silk. you stood before him, bare except for the delicate necklaces on your neck.

his eyes raked over your body, no longer obscured. his gaze was hot, possessive, and utterly focused. his warm, calloused hands followed his eyes, roaming everywhere—your shoulders, the curve of your waist, the outside of your thighs. his touch was firm, mapping you.

your breathing became uneven, shallow as you watched him.

“fuck,” he breathed out, the word almost reverent in its roughness. “look at you.”

then he grabbed you, not gently. his hands hauled you into his arms, your bare body pressing against the warm fabric of his attire. you felt the hard planes of his chest, the muscles of his arms. for a second, you were enveloped in his scent and strength before he threw you onto the bed. you landed on the black linens with a soft gasp, the cool fabric against your skin.

he hovered over you, still fully clothed, a giant silhouetted against the torchlight.

his eyes grew darker, hungrier. he didn’t bother with ceremony. his own clothes were removed with swift, efficient movements, the ornate jacket torn off, the shirt pulled over his head and discarded carelessly on the ground, the trousers shoved down and kicked away until he was bare like you.

you shyly eyed his body from where you lay on the bed. he was… gorgeous. carved from muscle, scars mapping old battles across his skin.

“see something you like, huh?” he growled, noticing your wide-eyed look.

“you’re… very b-big,” you whispered, your politeness clinging to you even in this raw moment.

“ha! damn right i am,” he said as he moved onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. his hands pushed your thighs apart, making you shyly whine at the sudden exposure.

your palms came up to push against his chest lightly, a reflexive gesture of modesty. “i… i haven’t done anything like this before,” you confessed softly, your eyes pleading for understanding.

katsuki’s eyes softened for a fleeting moment. he leaned down, not entering you, but lifting himself up to kiss you.

it wasn’t a gentle kiss.

his lips crashed onto yours, hot and demanding. his tongue invaded your mouth, a battle you couldn’t hope to win but were compelled to join. there were bites; sharp nips on your lower lip that made you gasp, and shared spit, and breaths that grew ragged. you whined into his mouth, small sounds of overwhelm that only spurred him on. he groaned, a deep sound from his chest, and the wrestling of tongues was wet, messy, and utterly intoxicating.

“gonna taste every part of you, wife,” he muttered against your lips before breaking away.

he moved down your body, his hands holding your hips firmly. his mouth found your core, and he didn’t hesitate. he ate you out with the same aggressive dedication he did everything else. his tongue was relentless, exploring, licking, pushing inside you while grunted against your skin.

“so fucking sweet… like a prize… all mine…”

“s-shit—oh! katsuki… so g-good…” you moaned, a high, shaky sound.

katsuki groaned in between your thighs, his mouth moving messily on your mound, swishing vibrations through you that amplified the pleasure he was already giving you.

your body writhed on the bed from the shocking, unprecedented sensations crashing through you. your hands gripped the black sheets. you were confused by what you were feeling; this building, tightening coil of pleasure deep inside you, something you had no name for.

“i… f-feel—nghh…” you gasped.

“let go,” katsuki commanded, his voice thick. “just let go for me.”

and you did.

the coil snapped, and a wave of intense pleasure broke over you, making you arch off the bed with a sharp cry. he kept working you through it until you collapsed back onto the linens, trembling.

he moved back up, his body aligning with yours. his cock, heavy and hard, pressed against your slit.

“i can’t fucking wait any longer. i need to be inside you… been wanting you since i laid eyes on you,” he said, his voice dark with promise. “i’m gonna enter you now and you’re gonna take all of me like a good wife, hm?”

you were delirious in pleasure. just from that one orgasm, you felt indescribable pleasure from your husband. slowly but surely, you wanted everything and anything he was willing to give you. “p-please.” you begged.

katsuki glided his cock into you slowly, an inch at a time. you moaned at the intrusion, a mix of pleasure from before and the new, stretching feeling. he grunted, his own control evident in the slow pace.

“so f-fuuucking tight… wrapping around me like a damn vice…” he breathed.

you held onto him, your arms around his shoulders as he slowly inched deeper until he was fully seated inside you. it was a fullness that stole your breath, gasping as you clutched onto him. “ha—”

“painful?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.

“a little… but… it’s fading,” you whined softly. “p-please… move.”

“how can i deny such an honest plea?” katsuki teased, chuckling at your expression before he began to move.

his thrusts started slow but quickly gained speed and force. he fucked you on your back with a driving rhythm that shook the bed frame. each thrust punched a moan or a whine from your lips.

“oh! ah—ngh… s’good.” you threw your head back.

“such a good little wife… taking her king so perfectly…” he growled, his praise landing on you like a brand, making you cling to him tighter.

he paused for a moment, looking down at where your bodies joined. “fuck… you’re so small… made for me…” his thrusts became deeper, more harder. “gonna fill you up… gonna put my heirs right in here.” his desire was raw in his words, each slam of his hips a promise of possession beyond tonight.

“katsuki… please!” you begged, your nails clawing down his back.

“please what? need more, huh? you gonna cum again fro me?” katsuki groaned as he continued to plow into you.

“i… i don’t know—f-fuck!” you bit down on his shoulder as you ground up at him, meeting his thrusts.

“you do know, baby. feel it. come undone for me again.” katsuki nipped at your ear.

and you did, another peak crashing over you as he drove into you relentlessly, his own release following with a roar that echoed in the dark chamber, filling you with his cum as he collapsed atop you, breathing heavily into your neck.

but he didn’t stop.

the moment your second orgasm faded into tremors, katsuki kept driving into you, his hips setting a brutal, possessive rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. each thrust was a deep, claiming slam that made the bedposts creak in protest.

“k-katsuki…” you moaned, the name a broken sound on your lips. your hands scrambled against his sweat-slicked back, fingers digging into the hard muscle.

“that’s it, we’re not done yet. just like that, baby—oh, fuck,” he grunted, his voice rough with strain and pleasure. “moan for me. let the whole fucking castle know who you belong to.” his own moans were guttural that vibrated through his chest into yours. “so fucking good. taking me like you were made for it…”

katsuki’s hands, which had been braced on either side of your head, slid down to grasp your thighs. his calloused palms caressed the soft skin of your legs as he held them open, his grip firm, almost bruising in its intensity. he used that leverage to pound into you harder, deeper.

you arched off the bed, a sharp whine tearing from your throat as he hit a spot inside you that sparked white behind your eyelids. “right there… oh, gods, right there!” you sobbed.

“i know. found your sweet spot, huh? that feel good?” he growled, a smirk in his tone. “i feel you clenching around me, princess. greedy little thing.”

the sound of your bodies meeting was obscenely wet, a rhythmic slap of skin on skin that underscored every groan and whimper.

then, with a sudden, powerful shift, he manhandled you. his hands left your thighs to grip your waist, and in one fluid, dominant motion, he flipped the two of you around. you gasped as the world spun, finding yourself straddling him, his cock still buried impossibly deep inside you. the new position made you feel him even more profoundly, every inch of him stretching you.

“ah! fuck!” you moaned, eyes wide, hands flying to his chest to steady yourself.

“look at you,” he rasped, his vermillion eyes blazing up at you. “riding your king as if you’re riding a dragon yourself. so fucking perfect for me.” his hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking the bone. “c’mon. show me what my good little wife can do.”

you were obedient, eager to please. tentatively, you lifted yourself up, a slow, trembling movement that made you both moan as he slid partially out. then you lowered yourself back down, sheathing him fully, a grunt punched from his lips.

“fuck yes. that’s it… just like that,” he praised, his eyes watching your face with a dark, satisfied smirk. your expression was one of overwhelmed bliss, mouth slightly open, eyes glazed. he cooed at you, the sound strangely tender coming from him. “such a pretty queen. taking her king so well. now… set the pace f’me.”

your confidence grew with his constant praise. you started to bounce on him, slowly at first, then faster, finding a rhythm. each descent made your breath hitch, each rise brought a needy whine. your arched your back, your hair spilling over your shoulders.

“katsuki… it’s so… i feel so full…” you whimpered.

“you are full,” he agreed, his voice thick. “full of me. and you look so fucking small wrapped around me… perfect fit.” his lust for you bled into the words, the awe in his gaze as he looked at where your bodies joined.

but the heat from the friction on your inner thighs began to burn, making you slow your movements with a pout and a soft whine of discomfort.

katsuki chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “tired already? my delicate little flower.” he cooed at you, his thumbs still caressing your hips. “it’s okay. let me help, hm?”

instead of bouncing, you began to grind on him out of desperation. circular motion drew a deep groan from him. then you leaned forward, collapsing against his chest, tucking your face into the hot skin of his neck. you were surrounded by his scent, his heat, and it was intoxicating.

“please… please, katsuki,” you begged, your voice muffled against him. “i need—fuck… i don’t know what i need anymore… need more.”

“shhh,” he cooed, one hand cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. the other stayed on your hip, possessive. “i know what you need.”

katsuki planted his feet firmly on the bed, gaining leverage. and then, with a single, powerful beat of his hips, he started ramming up into you. he was fucking up into you from below, each upward thrust spearing you deeply, knocking the air from your lungs.

“ah—ngh… yes! right there!” you shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. your moans and whines became a continuous stream against his neck.

“just let me do all the work,” he grunted, his own breathing becoming ragged. “a king serves his queen… especially in bed.” his thrusts were relentless, powerful pistons driving you up and down on his cock even as you lay pliant against him. you were putty in his hands, letting him use your body exactly as he wanted, your face hidden in the safety of his neck.

the sounds filled the room; his guttural grunts, your high-pitched whimpers, the wet slap of his hips meeting yours, the creak of the bed, the filth coming out of your husband’s mouth. it was sinful.

“gonna breed you so deep—fuck—fill this perfect cunt with my heirs… mark you inside and out…”

your only replies were broken syllables, your desire for his praise making you sing with every rough compliment.

katsuki’s thrusts started becoming erratic, sloppy, losing their military precision as his own peak approached.

“i’m close… fuck, I’m so close,” you whined, your body tightening around him.

“i am too,” he gasped, his voice strained. he pulled back just enough to look at your face.

your expression was one of utterly ruined bliss. your eyebrows were drawn together, lips swollen and parted, eyes half-lidded and hazy. you looked so pretty to him, so perfectly claimed.

katsuki leaned up and placed a sudden, soft kiss on your forehead, a shocking gesture of tenderness amidst the carnal frenzy.

you clutched at his biceps, your nails biting into his skin. “k-katsuki… i’m gonna…”

he grunted, and with effort, he stopped thrusting.

before you could even whine in complaint at the denied release, his arms were scooping you up. katsuki stood from the bed in one powerful motion, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as you clung to him, his cock still buried to the hilt inside you.

“wh-what…?” you gasped, startled.

“tch. patience,” he growled, his own need evident in the tension of his body.

he gripped your thighs firmly, his hands huge and warm. and then he began to move you himself, bouncing you on his cock as he stood there, using the strength of his arms and the leverage of his stance to fuck you onto him.

the thought of it… of him manhandling you so easily, picking you up and using your body like this, made you physically shiver. that shiver traveled inward, making your inner walls clench tightly around him, which drew a ragged groan from his throat.

“fuck… you just got tighter,” he breathed, his pace increasing. “you like that? like when i just take what’s mine and use you?”

“yes… yes, i do like it. please… i’m close again, katsuki, please—ha…” you begged, your head falling back.

katsuki hummed, coaxing you over the edge. “give me another one, my good girl. cum again for your king and i’ll give you a reward.”

that promise, coupled with the overwhelming sensation of being fucked in mid-air by your powerful husband, was too much. a coil tightened deep in your belly, winding to its breaking point.

“shit! i’m—fuck, i’m…!”

“that’s it. let go,” he commanded.

“k-katsuki…” you whine, the sound muffled, as another wave of sensitivity makes you clench around him, where he’s still buried deep inside you.

a low, guttural groan vibrates through his chest and into yours. “fuck,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. one large, calloused hand comes up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your disheveled hair.

“gonna make you cum again. come on, baby. come undone for me again. you want to, don’t you?”

you nod frantically, a desperate little mewl escaping you as you moved desperately up and down on him.

“say it.”

“yes—cum… gonna cum f’you. only you.”

he smirks, that feral, triumphant curl of his lips while his free hand grips your hip, fingers digging in, helping you find a rolling rhythm even as he holds you locked to him. the sound of your slick skin meeting his, the wet slap of each movement, fills the heavy air of the chamber, mingling with his grunts and your broken cries.

“so good for me.” thrust. “so fuckin’ tight.” thrust. “all mine.” thrust. “gonna keep you full of me.” thrust. “always.” thrust. “breed you so deep you’ll feel it for days.” thrust.

when the next orgasm rips through you, it’s slower, deeper, a molten unspooling that has you sobbing into his mouth, your body seizing around him in rhythmic pulses. he follows you over with a sharp, choked-off roar, his hips jerking up to bury himself to the hilt as he spills hot inside you, his grip on your hair tightening almost painfully.

before you can even form a coherent thought, he’s capturing your mouth again. this kiss is messy, sloppy, all hungry tongue and possessive pressure. it’s wet and it steals the air from your lungs. you can taste yourself on him, salty and sweet.

he pulls his head back just a few inches, his eyes blazing down at you, pupils blown wide with lust. his lips are swollen, his breathing harsh. “look at you,” he growls, the words rough with awe. “my perfect little wife. took me so damn well. fuckin’ gorgeous f’me.”

katsuki nuzzles into your hair, his lips brushing your temple. his voice is a low, satiated rumble. “since you’ve been so good… so obedient… you get your prize.”

prize? oh yeah, he said something about a prize. your hazy mind struggles to comprehend.

you feel him shift beneath you, still intimately connected, as he lifts his gaze from the top of your head to the chamber door.

“ei. get in here.”

your entire body goes rigid. confusion floods you, cutting through the blissful fog. your eyes fly open, wide and bewildered, staring at the carved wood of the door.

eijiro? as in kirishima? now? why? while we’re… we’re like this…!

“katsuki?” your voice is small, trembling. “what are you talking about?”

the door swings open silently. and there he is.

eijiro kirishima fills the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the frame, his chest bare, the hard planes of his abdomen and the dark trail of hair leading downward on full display. his crimson eyes, usually so warm and friendly, are dark, intense, and they lock onto the two of you immediately… onto you, specifically.

was he outside this entire time?

you feel the burn of his gaze like a physical touch, sweeping over katsuki’s hands on your bare skin, over the curve of your spine, over the intimate join of your bodies.

a hot, shameful flush explodes across your face and chest. you try to shrink further into katsuki, but he’s already moving, walking with you still impaled on him, one arm hooked under your thighs. he walks you both towards eijiro, and the casual display of his strength makes your head spin.

“i’m not stupid,” katsuki says, nonchalant as if he wasn’t still buried inside you. he stops a few feet from eijiro. “saw the way he looked at you for weeks. like you were water in a desert. and you…” he glances down at you, his smirk deepening. “you greedy little thing got attached to your friendly dragon babysitter, didn’t you? spoiled princess.”

your heart hammers against your ribs. “i didn’t—i didn’t mean to make you feel—”

katsuki cuts you off with a low chuckle, his free hand stroking a soothing line down your sweat-damp back. “shh-shh. you didn’t do a damn thing wrong, princess. you just… showed me something.” his eyes slide back to eijiro, hungry and possessive. “showed me what turns my blood to fuckin’ fire. the depravity of it. the idea of him,” he thrusts up shallowly, making you gasp, “wanting what’s mine. touching what’s mine.”

he shifts his gaze fully to eijiro. “i’m right, aren’t i?”

eijiro’s eyes haven’t left you. a slow, deep hum resonates in his chest, a sound more beast than man. “i am bound to you, my king,” he says, his voice thicker, rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “my life is yours. my loyalty.” his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “and what is yours… is yours to command.”

katsuki’s grin is all sharp edges and dark promise. he looks down at you again, his expression turning curious. “so? is it okay with you, my greedy baby? if i share you? if he gets to have a taste of what belongs to me?”

the question is so blunt, so shockingly crude, that your mind blanks. but your body betrays you instantly. a violent, involuntary clench around katsuki’s still hard length, a fresh trickle of wetness that has nothing to do with fear.

katsuki grunts, his head throwing back with a sharp hiss. “fuck! see that, shitty hair?” he says, talking about you as if you weren’t clinging to him. “got even tighter just hearing it. her pretty little cunt’s begging for it.”

“seems eager to please,” eijiro murmurs, taking a step closer. the heat radiating from his body rivals katsuki’s.

“she’s a good girl,” katsuki agrees, his voice dropping to a coaxing rumble directly in your ear. “aren’t you? can you be good for me, hm? for us?”

the choice is no choice at all. not with katsuki’s seed still leaking from you, not with eijiro’s hungry eyes devouring you.

“yes, please. i’ll do anything for you.” you nod, eagerly, desperately, a whine caught in your throat.

“good,” katsuki purrs. he gives a single nod to eijiro.

in one smooth motion, katsuki pulls himself from your sensitive flesh, a gasp ripped from your lips at the sudden emptiness and the cool air on your wet skin. then his hands are on your waist, and he’s transferring your weight.

eijiro’s arms come up to catch you, and he is just as hot, just as solid as katsuki. you’re cradled against a chest that feels like carved stone, your bare skin flush against his, and you bury your flaming face in his neck, breathing in his scent of smoke, spice, and something wild.

katsuki strides over to a large ornate chair near the bed and sinks into it, sprawling with kingly indolence. he’s still gloriously naked, his cock hard on his belly. “alright,” he says, his voice a command. “i wanna watch. kirishima… eat her out. clean up my mess. then get her ready for you.”

eijiro lets out another one of those low, rumbling hums. “as my king commands.” he carries you to the bed as if you weigh nothing and lays you down gently on the rumpled silk. your eyes are glued to him as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and pushes them down.

your breath hitches at the sight.

he’s… huge. thick and long, already fully erect, the tip flushed and leaking. the sight sends a jolt of pure, dizzying arousal straight to your already throbbing core.

“like what you see, princess?” katsuki asks from his chair, a dark amusement in his tone. he’s lazily stroking himself, his eyes glued to the scene.

“she’s blushing all over,” eijiro notes, his voice softening as he kneels on the bed between your spread legs. his gaze is a physical weight, traveling over every inch of your exposed body; your peaked nipples, the flutter of your stomach, the glistening, well-used flesh between your thighs, dripping with katsuki’s release. he leans over you, caging you with his arms, his face inches from yours. his eyes search yours. “can i kiss you, sweetheart?”

you nod, wordless.

eijiro no longer waits. his mouth immediately captures yours.

it’s nothing like katsuki’s kiss. where katsuki is fire and possessive, eijiro is deep, lingering warmth. it’s sweet, almost reverent at first. a soft press of lips that quickly deepens into something more devouring. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you slowly, thoroughly. it’s no less possessive, but it’s a different kind of claim.

“good girl,” katsuki grunts from the side. “let him taste you.”

eijiro breaks the kiss with a soft sound, trailing his lips along your jaw, down the column of your neck. “so sweet,” he murmurs against your skin, his hot breath making you shiver. “so perfect.” he moves lower, taking a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently before swirling it with his tongue. he pays equal attention to the other, his hands skimming down your sides as he kisses a path over your trembling stomach.

he doesn’t stop until his face is level with your aching core. the scent of sex and katsuki is thick in the air. eijiro’s eyes lock with yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that pins you to the bed.

“lick her clean, ei,” katsuki orders, his hand moving faster on his own length.

eijiro doesn’t look away from you. “with pleasure,” he rumbles.

his tongue was broad, hot, and surprisingly soft. it drags through your soaked folds in one long, deliberate stripe. he gathers katsuki’s cum and your own on his tongue, his eyes fluttering closed for a second as he savors it. a low groan vibrates from his throat into your flesh.

“fuck yes,” katsuki breathes. “doesn’t she taste so good?”

eijiro opens his eyes again as he hummed in agreement, watching your face as he does it again. and again. each slow, languid lap makes your back arch off the bed, a broken moan tumbling from your lips.

he’s cleaning you with a thoroughness that is obscene, worshipful, and unbearably erotic.

then he zeroes in on your clit.

his mouth closes over the swollen bud and he eats you like a man starved. his tongue flicks and circles, then presses hard and flat against you before spearing deep inside your entrance, fucking you with it, tasting both of you mixed together.

“oh gods—eijiro!” you cry out, one hand fisting in the sheets above your head, the other tangling in his red hair.

the sounds he was making were filthy. wet, sucking noises, his low growls of appreciation, your escalating whines and sobs.

“so good,” eijiro mumbles against your flesh, his words muffled. “taste like heaven. so fucking perfect.” he shifts, his hands sliding under your thighs to hike them over his shoulders, spreading you wider, opening you up for his devouring mouth.

“that’s it,” katsuki praises from his throne, his grunts joining the symphony. “make her cum on your tongue. show me how good my wife tastes.”

you tear your eyes from the ecstasy on eijiro’s face to look at your husband. katsuki is stroking himself in earnest now, his gaze locked on where eijiro’s head is buried between your legs. he looks utterly captivated, a smirk of pure male satisfaction on his lips.

“k-katsuki! eiji—ugh’ngh,” you wail, feeling the coil within you wind impossibly tight.

“cum for him,” katsuki commands, his voice rough. “give him your reward for being so patient.”

eijiro redoubles his efforts, sucking your clit into his mouth while thrusting two thick fingers inside you, curling them to stroke that perfect spot.

the dual assault shatters you. you scream, your body bowing off the bed as a brutal orgasm tears through you, your vision whiting out at the edges as you clamp down around his fingers.

eijiro rides it out with you, drinking every drop, until you collapse back onto the sheets, boneless and trembling. and when he finally lifts his head, his chin glistening.

“that’s it, baby,” katsuki’s voice is a low, approving rumble as you tremble through the last waves of your climax under eijiro’s mouth. “so good for us. but we’re not done.” he stood up from his seat before standing in front of you, his fingers, still tangled in your hair, give a gentle but firm tug, guiding your face up to look at him. his eyes are molten, dark with a possessive heat that makes your insides flutter anew. “up. on your hands and knees for me. show me how well my queen can listen.”

your body, still humming with pleasure, obeys before your mind fully catches up.

you push yourself up, limbs shaky, and maneuver onto your hands and knees in the center of the massive bed. the silk is cool against your flushed skin. you feel exposed, vulnerable, and utterly wanton.

katsuki moves with a predator’s grace. he moved to sit on the bed, positioning himself right in front of you. he shifts to sit up against the carved headboard, his back supported, his legs spread.

he’s the picture of royalty, a king surveying his spoils. and you are on display before him.

a moment later, the bed dips behind you. eijiro’s large, warm hands settle on your waist, his thumbs stroking the dip of your spine. he leans in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the small of your back, then another higher up, his breath fanning over your sensitive skin.

a desperate, hungry sound escapes you, a whine that’s almost a sob. you push your hips back instinctively, seeking more of his touch, more of anything.

the refined manners of the emerald kingdom, the years of etiquette lessons, the poised grace of a princess—it’s all gone, incinerated in the scarlet heat of this room, of these men.

you are need and hunger given form.

katsuki watches you, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest as he thought of the same thing. “look at you,” he muses, his voice thick with dark amusement. “where’s my polite little princess now? huh? all those pretty curtsies and soft-spoken words… fucked right out of you.” he leans forward slightly, his gaze searing into you. “good. that girl belonged to them. this?” he gestures at you, trembling and eager on your knees. “this is mine. you’re my wife. my queen. and you’re in the scarlet region now. i could fuck you raw in front of my entire war council and not a single bastard would bat a fucking eye.” the sheer, brutal ownership in his words makes you clench around nothing, a fresh trickle of wetness slicking your inner thighs.

katsuki sees it, his smirk widening. “but i won’t do that. ‘cause this… this filthy, desperate, perfect look on your face… that’s for me. and for him.” he nods toward eijiro behind you. “no one else.”

his attention sharpens, focusing solely on you. his voice drops, softening into a coaxing, dominant croon that’s somehow more overwhelming than his shouts. “c’mere, pretty. closer to me.” you shuffle forward on your knees until you’re between his spread legs, his hard, thick cock standing proudly just inches from your face. the musky, masculine scent of him is overwhelming.

“i know you haven’t done this before,” he says, his tone surprisingly gentle, like he’s instructing you in a sacred rite. “that’s okay. i’m gonna tell you exactly what to do. just be my good girl and follow my words, yeah?”

“i will. m’good girl,” you nod, your eyes wide and fixed on him, on the ruddy tip already beading with pre-cum.

“yes you are,” he praises you. “first… just taste me. use that pretty little tongue.”

leaning forward, you tentatively extend your tongue and lick a slow, careful stripe over the broad head. the taste is salty, uniquely him, and it sends a jolt of pure lust straight to your core.

“fuck,” katsuki hisses, his hips giving a tiny jerk. “just like that. perfect. so fuckin’ obedient for me.” his hand comes to rest on the top of your head, not pushing, just holding. “now… wrap your hand around me. show me how big i am for my queen.”

you reach out, your fingers seeming so small as you wrap them around his girth. you can’t quite close your thumb and forefinger. a soft, awed sound leaves your lips. “… so big.”

katsuki’s chuckle is ragged. “see? you need both hands. go on.”

you bring your other hand up, stacking it over the first, and finally manage to form a loose ring around him. the heat of him is incredible, the skin like velvet over steel. you begin to stroke, up and down, watching in fascination as his expression tightens with pleasure.

“yes… just like that… f-fuck, your hands are so soft,” he groans, his head falling back against the headboard for a moment before he forces it up to watch you. “doing so good. such a fast learner for me.”

meanwhile, eijiro is worshiping your back. his mouth is everywhere, sucking dark marks onto your shoulders, licking a hot path down your spine, biting gently at the swell of your ass. each touch, each possessive mark, makes you whimper and push back into him, your strokes on katsuki becoming less coordinated.

“so eager,” eijiro murmurs against your skin, his voice a gravelly vibration. “so perfect for him. for us.”

emboldened by their praise, by the fire coursing through your veins, you lean in again. this time, you drag your tongue from the very base of katsuki’s shaft all the way to the tip in one long, slow, wet lick.

katsuki’s reaction is instantaneous. a sharp, guttural “hnng!” rips from his throat, and his hand fists in your hair. “shit! where’d that come from, you greedy little thing?” but he’s grinning, all fierce pride.

you don’t answer with words, instead you open your mouth and take the head of his cock inside, sucking gently as you had seen done in erotic book and illustrations.

“oh, fuck yes,” he moans, his fingers tightening on your hair. “just like that… take me deeper now. slow—just like that. good girl…”

you obey, sinking down inch by agonizing inch. he’s so big, stretching your lips wide, filling your mouth until you feel him nudge the back of your throat. your eyes water, but you hold there, breathing harshly through your nose.

“look at that,” katsuki breathes, awe in his tone. he glances over your head, his eyes meeting eijiro’s. “she’s taking me so well… now it’s your turn, ei. fuck her. fill her up while she sucks me off.”

eijiro’s answering growl is pure hunger. you feel the blunt, hot head of his cock nudge against your dripping entrance, still stretched and sensitive from before. “gonna put it in now, sweetheart,” he coos, his voice a rough contrast to his gentle warning. “gonna fill you up just like your husband wants.”

you moan around katsuki’s length, the vibration making him curse and thrust his hips up minutely.

the sensation is overwhelming. the stretch and burn as eijiro slowly pushes inside you from behind, and the heavy fullness in your mouth.

“that’s it… take him,” katsuki groans, his hand guiding your head down a little further, helping you take more of him. “ffuuuck, your mouth… so hot and tight.”

eijiro bottoms out with a deep, satisfied sigh, his hips flush against your ass. “gods… she’s s-so tight,” he rasps.

then he begins to move. slow and deep thrusts that have you seeing stars. each forward drive pushes you further onto katsuki’s cock, making you gag softly. each withdrawal pulls a desperate whine from your throat.

“listen to her,” katsuki pants, his own hips beginning to move in tiny counter-thrusts to eijiro’s rhythm. “listen to those pretty little sounds she makes for us. fuck her harder, shitty hair. make her fucking feel good.”

eijiro obeys, his grip on your hips turning vice-like. his thrusts become harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room accompanied by his guttural grunts and your muffled cries. “so good… taking us both… our perfect queen.”

katsuki’s control is fraying. his thrusts into your mouth become less measured, more urgent. “gonna cum… fuck, you’re gonna make me cum down your pretty little throat,” he snarls, his voice strained. he fists your hair tightly, holding you in place as his pace turns erratic. “you want that? want me to cum in your mouth?”

you’re eyes stayed on his as you hummed in agreement.

“then earn it, baby. cum for eijiro while you suck me like the good girl you are.” katsuki says.

the challenge, the sheer depravity of it, ignites something frantic in you.

determined to feel that shattering pleasure again, to please him, you bob your head faster, taking him as deep as you can manage, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the sensitive head on each upstroke.

katsuki throws his head back with a ragged roar, his entire body tensing. “yes! just like that! fuck, baby! i’m gonna—!”

the first hot, salty pulse hits the back of your throat. he holds you there firmly as he empties himself with sharp, jerking thrusts, groaning your name mixed with filth and praise. “take it all. swallow it… be a good girl for your husband…”

as you struggle to swallow, tears streaming down your cheeks, katsuki cups your jaw with his other hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. his eyes are blazing, demanding. “look at me,” he commands, his voice raw. “give me your eyes while you swallow my cum.”

you force your watery gaze up to meet his. the connection is electric, intimate and degrading all at once. you see the raw possession, the awe, the unadulterated lust as you gulp him down.

“so fucking good… perfect girl,” he whispers, his thumb wiping a stray tear. he glances at eijiro over your shoulder. “now make my wife cum.”

with a look from katsuki, eijiro changes his angle, driving into you with deep, punishing strokes aimed directly at that spot inside you that makes you see white.

you fall forward, your arms giving out, but katsuki is there. you collapse against his chest, your face buried in his neck as eijiro pounds into you from behind. “ah! hngh—f-fuuuck. m’close. so close.”

“that’s it… let go… cum on my cock,” eijiro grunts, his rhythm becoming brutal, relentless. “gonna fill you up… breed you…”

katsuki holds you to him, one arm wrapped around your back, his other hand stroking your hair. his mouth is at your ear, a constant stream of filth and praise. “feel him? feel how deep he’s fucking my cum deeper into you? you’re gonna be dripping with us for days… our perfect, shared little wife… come on… let me see you fall apart.”

“katsuki, eiji!” you scream into katsuki’s skin as an orgasm more intense than any before tears through you, a convulsing, mind-breaking wave that has you clamping down on eijiro so hard he shouts.

“fuck! she’s—!” eijiro’s thrusts become erratic, then he slams home one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he roars his release.

you feel the hot rush of his seed joining katsuki’s inside you, the overwhelming fullness making you sob through the last tremors of your own climax. “ngh… fu—no more. ah…”

katsuki holds you through all of it, whispering praises into your hair. “i got you. just ride it out… that’s my girl, took us both so well…”

slowly, gently, eijiro slips out of you, leaning forward to press a tender kiss between your shoulder blades. “you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice reverent.

you are utterly spent, a boneless, trembling mess between them.

katsuki shifts, lying back and pulling you with him so you’re sprawled half on his chest. eijiro settles behind you, his big body curling around yours, one heavy arm draping over your waist to splay possessively on katsuki’s stomach. you are sandwiched in their heat, in their scent, filled with their essence.

the last thing you feel is katsuki’s lips brushing your forehead and his final, drowsy murmur. “ours.” the last thing you hear is eijiro’s low, content hum of agreement against the back of your neck.

then the world dissolves into warm, dark, satiated nothing.

༘⋆ 🏷 @contently-cringe @stanfordswifey @phiastarss @prettysweet02 @lynnwolf15 @bakulena @anitheonion17

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Not dead—worse. Driven away by the suffocating weight of shame, by Valentino’s invisible leash tightening around his throat, by the belief that he had nearly destroyed the only family that had ever chosen him. His room sat untouched, the door closed, his laughter conspicuously absent from the halls.

Alastor, however, appeared untouched by grief.

He moved through the lobby with a jaunty hum, his cane tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. His staff was whole again, his power settled comfortably beneath his skin, humming like a well-tuned radio frequency. The wound in his chest—once a grotesque reminder of near-defeat—had faded to little more than an inconvenience he stubbornly ignored.

He was, by all outward appearances, in excellent spirits.

Lucifer watched him from across the lobby, arms crossed, irritation etched into every sharp line of his face as he leaned against a fractured pillar. “Oh, I thought you left,” he muttered, his voice thick with disdain.

Alastor didn’t even slow his pace. “My, my, I’m surprised you haven’t died from that weapon, considering how weak you are, Lu,” he replied smoothly, his grin sharpening.

Lucifer’s eyes flared. He pushed off the pillar and rolled up his sleeves. “You better watch it, pal, or I’ll—”

“Sir,” Vaggie cut in sharply, stepping between them with her spear angled downward but ready. “You’re still injured. Maybe sit down before you make it worse.”

Before either demon could retort, the air itself seemed to fracture.

A blinding, prismatic light erupted from the center of the lobby, radiating outward in shimmering waves that bent color and shadow alike. The temperature shifted. The scent of ozone and something impossibly clean filled the space.

Charlie gasped, hands flying to her mouth, eyes shining with unrestrained hope. “Oh! It must be Emily!”

Alastor’s grin faltered—just slightly. One brow arched as the light intensified.

Then a figure dropped from above, landing with feline grace, boots barely making a sound as they met the floor. His back was to the group, posture relaxed yet alert. He wore a cream-colored coat that shimmered like pearls in sunlight, embroidered with subtle gold accents. His hair was a soft, vibrant red, neatly styled, and his presence alone felt… wrong here, like a hymn echoing in Hell.

“Good heavens,” the stranger murmured.

When he turned around, the lobby fell into stunned silence.

The newcomer and the Radio Demon locked eyes.

For a brief, surreal moment, it felt as though reality itself hesitated.

Then, in perfect, horrified unison, they spoke.

“What the fuck?”

“Who are you?” the angel demanded, his voice sharp but controlled.

“I could be asking you the same question,” Alastor snapped back, shadows at his feet flickering like living ink.

The angel’s expression shifted suddenly, alarm flashing across his face. He threw out an arm protectively. “Stay behind me, darling!”

He turned sharply, eyes searching—then widening in panic.

“Darling?!”

A scream cut through the air from above.

The angel didn’t hesitate. He leapt, coat flaring as he caught a falling figure mid-air with effortless strength. A woman, light as breath, clung to him as he landed. She had soft deer-like ears, delicate features, and an aura that radiated warmth and grace so intense it made the demons in the room recoil instinctively.

“Mon cœur,” he whispered, holding her bridal-style, his voice trembling despite himself. “Are you alright, my dear?”

“Oh, my stars, Alastor!” she gasped, arms tightening around his neck. “I was frightened you fell, and suddenly I did too…” Her gaze drifted as she took in the jagged crimson walls, the broken furniture, the infernal atmosphere. Her ears drooped. “W-where are we, love? Who are you all?”

“I don’t know, darling,” the angel replied quietly, eyes scanning the room with growing concern. “But we seem to be in quite the predicament. Stay close to me, my love.”

Her eyes finally landed on the Radio Demon.

She blinked. Then blinked again, slowly looking between the two identical figures.

“…My,” she said softly. “There are two of you.”

The lobby seemed to tense as one.

Alastor felt something unfamiliar coil in his chest. Genuine shock—raw and unscripted. He stared at the woman, at her untainted grace, and then at the version of himself standing beside her, radiating warmth instead of menace.

“I assure you, my dear,” the Radio Demon said, his voice dropping into a static-laced snarl as his grip tightened around his cane, knuckles whitening, “there is only one Alastor. And I have no idea who this sentimental trespasser thinks he is.”

The angel ignored him, gently setting the woman on her feet. “Are you certain you’re alright? You didn’t fall too hard, did you?”

She smiled, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “I’m quite alright, sweetface. And… I don’t sense any danger coming from these beings.”

Charlie stepped forward hesitantly, her excitement barely contained. “Okay, wow, this is… a lot. Um—hi! Who are you guys? We were actually expecting Emily…”

“Oh! My apologies,” the woman said, offering a graceful curtsy. “My name is Y/N. And this is my husband—”

“Alastor,” the angel added warmly, offering a polite smile that looked profoundly wrong on that familiar face. “A pleasure to meet you all.”

Vaggie leaned toward Charlie, whispering, “He looks like a nicer version of our Alastor.”

“Oh shit,” Charlie muttered, then shook herself. “Okay—uh—can you go back? How did you even get here?”

“Well, we came from Heaven—” Y/N began, then paused, staring at her hands as faint dark mist curled around her feet. Her breath caught. “Oh goodness… honey? Have we… fallen from grace?”

Her eyes glassed with worry.

“We will figure something out,” the angel said firmly, golden light flaring in his eyes. “This was clearly a mistake.”

“There was no mistake,” the Radio Demon hissed. “If you are me, then you belong down here.”

The angel straightened, gripping his cane as he looked the Radio Demon up and down with clear disdain. “We are not the same, good fellow. I possess far more class than you, obviously.”

Alastor tapped his cane once, sharply. “I assure you, you’re nothing of the sort.”

He stepped forward.

The angel replied, stepping to meet him without hesitation. “And I’d advise you to watch yourself. I wouldn’t want my vines catching on that tacky coat of yours.”

Golden, thorned vines erupted from the floor, radiant and alive, while pitch-black shadows poured from the Radio Demon’s silhouette like smoke.

“ALASTOR, NO!” Charlie screamed.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea, love—” Y/N started, but pride had already locked the two in place.

Alastor’s neck snapped as his demonic form surged forth, antlers branching like jagged lightning. The angel doubled in height, radiant wings unfurling, antlers forged of glowing gold. Heaven and Hell mirrored one another in violent symmetry.

“BOYS!” Y/N shouted, stomping her foot.

The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot.

Both Alastors froze instantly, snapping their heads toward her.

“You are both acting like fools,” she snapped, arms crossed.

The angel shrank back to normal, blinking. “…Wait. Me too?”

“Yes, you too.”

She turned to Charlie. “Who is in charge here?”

“That would be me,” Charlie said weakly. “Charlie. Princess of Hell. Owner of the hotel.”

Y/N’s expression softened immediately. “It’s lovely to meet you, dear. And I do apologize for my husband.”

The angel stepped behind her. “Sorry, love, I was just—”

She didn’t look at him.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yes, dear,” he said quietly, glaring at the Radio Demon over her shoulder.

Baxter peeked out from behind his laptop. “It appears they’re from another dimension. The destruction of the angelic weapon likely caused a localized rift. It’ll take time to calculate the next window.”

“Wow, okay!” Charlie clapped her hands nervously. “Well, until then, you guys can stay here! We have plenty of rooms. I’ll put you in the suite next to Alastor and my dad.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Y/N said warmly.

“Alastor?” Charlie called.

“Yes, Princess?” both replied at once.

They glared.

Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is going to be a nightmare. How about we call you ‘Al’,” she pointed at the angel, “and you stay Alastor.”

Charlie nodded quickly. “Can you please show them where they’ll be staying in the meantime?”

Al made a face. “Must it be him? Surely you can show us, Princess. You seem far more suitable than… this.”

The Radio Demon laughed, sharp and distorted. “Why, nonsense! I am the host.”

He leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper thick with static. “Try to keep up, old boy. It’s a long walk to the penthouse—and I’d hate for you to trip on your own self-righteousness.”

Alastor led the way down the corridor with long, unhurried strides, his cane clicking sharply against the floor in a rhythm that felt deliberate—measured, territorial. The hotel’s upper halls were dimmer than the lobby, the lighting tinged red and gold, casting warped shadows along the walls where wallpaper peeled in curling strips and framed portraits watched with too many eyes.

Beside him, Al walked with a protective hand settled at the small of Y/N’s back, his touch instinctive and constant. His posture was relaxed, but his nose wrinkled faintly as he took in the surroundings—the warped décor, the heavy scent of brimstone, the faint hum of distant screams bleeding through the walls like bad insulation.

Alastor noticed.

“Oh, I do hope it suits your tastes,” he said mockingly, his grin stretching wide as he glanced back at them. “Although I must say, it’s a far cry from the fluffy clouds and harp music you’re used to, I imagine.”

Al’s golden eyes flicked toward the peeling wallpaper, then to the flickering lights overhead. “We had gardens, actually,” he replied smoothly. “Lush, vibrant greenery. Fountains. Trees that sang when the wind passed through them. Not this…” He gestured vaguely at the corridor. “…delightful shade of scab red you’ve chosen.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying the walls thoughtfully. “I think it adds a bit of character,” she said after a moment, smiling. “I like it.”

Al’s expression softened instantly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he looked down at her. “Of course you would, my dear,” he said warmly, pressing his thumb against her back in a gentle, reassuring stroke.

Alastor’s smile twitched.

She glanced ahead again, ears flicking as something occurred to her. “Oh! Alastor?” she asked suddenly, looking up at the Radio Demon. “Where is your wife?”

Alastor let out a sharp laugh, the sound buzzing faintly with static. “My dear, I am a solo act,” he replied lightly. “I’m not particularly one for—” He paused, eyes sliding pointedly toward Al and Y/N before narrowing. “…domesticity. Such as this.”

He made a vague, dismissive motion in their direction.

Al shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Y/N blinked, clearly surprised. “Oh my,” she murmured. “Are you not… lonely?”

Alastor chuckled, low and dark, the sound reverberating faintly through the hallway. "Of course not, my dear! I find that other people are simply… clutter." He leaned in closer to her, his eyes turning into radio dials. "I have my broadcasts, my deals, and my dignity. What more could a man want?"

Al stepped between them instantly, his golden antlers shimmering with a warning light. "The only thing he wants is power, evidently," Al remarked dryly. He turned his back on the demon, guiding Y/N further into the room.

They reached the end of the corridor, where a pair of large, ornate doors loomed—polished brass accents gleaming against dark wood carved with elaborate, almost predatory designs. Alastor stopped abruptly, planting his cane with a decisive tap.

“Here we are,” he announced grandly. “The Executive Suite. Conveniently placed directly between my own quarters and the King’s.” His eyes gleamed. “Do try to keep the celestial humming to a minimum. Some of us enjoy the sound of a good thunderstorm. And do refrain from 'blessing' the linens. I find the smell of sunshine and rainbows quite tiresome.”

He turned slightly, grin sharpening again. “We’ll be having dinner shortly. Why don’t you come down and join us?”

Al opened his mouth. “As much as we would like to, we—”

“We’d love to!” Y/N said brightly, cutting in without hesitation. “Thank you so much again for your hospitality.”

Al blinked, then smiled despite himself. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Thank you.”

"And I find the scent of sulfur and failure tiresome, yet here we are!" Al retorted over his shoulder, a polite but sharp smile fixed on his face.

Alastor narrowed his eyes. He began to back out of the room, but Y/N called out one last time. "Alastor? If you ever wish for a cup of tea and a chat... our door is open. No one should be alone in a place this loud."

The Radio Demon paused. For a fraction of a second, the static stopped. He looked at her—at the way she held Al’s hand, the way she looked at this 'nicer' version of him with such effortless devotion. It was a mirror reflecting a life he had never even considered, a life that felt like a weakness.

"I’ll keep that in mind," Alastor lied, his voice a smooth, radio-filtered purr. "But I wouldn't hold your breath, darling. I’m a very busy man."

Alastor’s grin widened. “Well then—”

Al then reached forward and slammed the doors shut.

The sound echoed down the hall.

Y/N gasped. “Honey!”

Al folded his arms instantly, scowling at the closed doors. “I do not like that man.”

She turned to him, concern softening her expression as she stepped closer. “You have never acted like this, my love,” she said gently. “Please… why are you behaving this way?”

Al exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his shoulders as he lifted her hand, pressing it against his cheek. His eyes closed briefly. “You’re right, ma chérie,” he murmured. “Forgive me. I shall behave.”

She smiled faintly, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “Thank you. These people may be different from us, but they’ve shown us kindness and hospitality. Dearest...”

He opened his eyes, meeting hers, and nodded. “You’re right, my love.”

He kissed her knuckles softly, lingering there for just a moment longer than necessary, as if grounding himself—before straightening, resolve settling back into his posture.

The next few days passed in a way no one at the Hazbin Hotel could have predicted.

Al and Y/N didn’t merely stay—they settled.

Where Alastor’s presence always felt like a challenge, a looming performance sharpened to a knife’s edge, Al felt… approachable. He greeted everyone with warmth that never felt forced, his smile easy rather than predatory, his voice calm without losing its authority. It unsettled some at first. Comfort in Hell always did.

Charlie, especially, gravitated toward him.

Whenever she burst in with a new idea—half-formed, overambitious, brimming with nervous excitement—Al would pause whatever he was doing and give her his full attention. No smirk. No mocking laughter. Just focus.

“As I was saying, Charlie, the décor here is—oh, hold on a moment, dear,” he said once, reaching out gently. “You’ve a bit of lint on your collar. There we go! Perfectly radiant.”

Charlie blinked, cheeks warming as she laughed softly.

“Now,” Al continued smoothly, tapping the blueprint she held, “what if we shifted the color palette slightly? Something warmer near the entry—inviting, but not overwhelming. You want guests to feel seen, not judged.”

By the time he finished, Charlie was practically glowing, her mind buzzing with fresh inspiration. Vaggie stood beside her, arms crossed as usual—but her posture was looser, her scowl less severe.

She didn’t say it out loud, but she appreciated how Al spoke to her. He never talked over her. Never dismissed her instincts. When she corrected him, he listened. When she disagreed, he adjusted.

Husk, on the other hand, was deeply unsettled.

He watched Al refill glasses without being asked, offer a chair before someone realized they needed one, and remember everyone’s drink preferences by the second day.

“…What’s his angle?” Husk muttered into his bottle.

“I don’t believe there is one,” Al replied pleasantly, passing by. “Though if there were, I’d wager it’d be forty-five degrees. Optimal for balance.”

Husk stared after him, baffled. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”

Niffty was the last holdout.

She watched Al suspiciously at first, circling him like a territorial cat, clearly offended by how good he was. Too polite. Too clean. Too… well-adjusted.

Then one afternoon, she nearly vibrated out of her skin when he gently took one of her knives, examined the dull edge, and frowned.

“My dear girl,” he said kindly, “these are far too dull. If one must use a knife, it must be sharpened properly.”

He disappeared into the maintenance room and returned minutes later, handing them back—gleaming, perfect, deadly.

Niffty gasped.

“They’re better for stabbing!” she shrieked, hugging them to her chest.

From that moment on, Al was officially accepted—even if Niffty insisted on calling him a “good boy” in the same tone she used for murder weapons.

Alastor could only glare.

Every time Al helped Charlie brainstorm. Every time Lucifer laughed—actually laughed—at one of Al’s dry observations. Every time the staff relaxed in a way they never did around him, Alastor felt something coil tighter in his chest.

He hated it.

Hated how soft this version of him was. How open. How unguarded.

Weak, he thought bitterly.

Good to the point of boredom.

He stood near the edge of the lobby, arms crossed, watching Al demonstrate breathing techniques to Vaggie during training, golden light briefly outlining her stance as he nodded approvingly.

Y/N noticed his expression and chuckled quietly.

Alastor turned sharply. “And what, pray tell, is so amusing?”

She giggled again, not even trying to hide it. “You look like an angry cat.”

Alastor’s smile twitched—a sharp, jagged movement that threatened to crack his porcelain-perfect composure.

“An angry cat?” he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, static-laced rumble. “I assure you, my dear, I am far more predatory than a common house pet.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned in slightly, eyes bright with amusement. “Oh, I don’t know. The way your ears flatten when Al helps Charlie… and that little tail-flick of yours? It’s quite the display of pique.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “My Alastor used to do the exact same thing whenever I suggested he wear a color other than red.”

Across the lobby, Al was holding a blueprint for Charlie, gesturing with a glowing golden pointer.

“Now, Charlie, if we move the lounge area closer to the windows, the natural light—or what passes for it here—will boost serotonin levels significantly,” he explained. “And Vaggie, your stance earlier was excellent, but remember to breathe through the strike, not after.”

“He’s insufferable,” the Radio Demon hissed, turning back to Y/N. “A walking sunbeam. Nauseating. How do you stand the constant… helpfulness?”

Y/N’s smile softened, something wistful flickering in her eyes. “It wasn’t always like that,” she said gently. “He was sharp. Cold. Very, very lonely. He thought being ‘the best’ meant standing alone at the top.”

She folded her hands together. “It took years of me refusing to be intimidated by his shadows—of staying—before he realized that having a partner didn’t take away his power. It gave him something to use it for.”

She reached toward Alastor’s sleeve, then hesitated, letting her hand fall.

“You’re so busy protecting your image,” she continued quietly, “that you’ve forgotten how to actually live in the world you’ve built.”

Alastor’s eyes flickered, briefly transforming into radio dials.

“I live quite well,” he snapped. “I am the master of my domain. Beholden to no one.”

“Is that why you look at my husband with such longing?” she asked softly.

He let out a sharp, discordant laugh. “Longing? I look at him with disgust! He is a watered-down, lobotomized version of me!”

“No,” Y/N said calmly, stepping closer. “You look at him because he is the version of you that got everything he wanted without losing his soul to do it.”

She met his gaze without fear. “You’re jealous, Alastor. Not of his light—of his peace.”

Before he could respond, a loud THUD echoed from the kitchen.

Niffty burst out, clutching her knives. “The sparkly one made them better!”

Al followed her, wiping his hands with a silk handkerchief. “A sharp tool is a safe tool, Niffty darling! Now—who’s ready for afternoon tea? I believe I found chamomile that hasn’t turned into sentient sludge.”

Everyone drifted toward the dining hall without hesitation.

Even Lucifer.

Laughing.

“Come along, Alastor,” Y/N said gently, offering her arm. “Don’t be a sourpuss. I’m sure there’s enough tea for two of you.”

Alastor stared at her arm. Then at the group. Then adjusted his bowtie, his grin tight and dangerous.

“I suppose I can tolerate a cup,” he said coolly, stepping forward. “If only to ensure he doesn’t poison me with excessive sugar.”

The dining hall was thick with a tension that even the finest jambalaya couldn't mask. Al pulled his chair back just enough to guide Y/N onto his lap, his arm wrapping around her waist with possessive tenderness. He plucked a small, sugar-dusted pastry from a plate and held it to her lips, watching with a doting, soft-eyed expression as she took a bite.

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder, her ears twitching contentedly. "Thank you, love."

The sight was enough to make Husk choke on his drink. "I still can’t get used to this," he rasped, wiping his mouth. "It’s weird seeing... you... just be the total opposite of, well, you."

Alastor scoffed, the sound a harsh burst of static. He rolled his eyes so far back they nearly disappeared. "The sooner he leaves, the better," the Radio Demon muttered, his grip tightening on his silverware.

"Agreed," Al countered smoothly, though his smile didn't reach his eyes this time. He pulled Y/N a fraction closer. "The farther my wife is from you, the better."

The Radio Demon’s eyes began to glow a deep, threatening crimson, the radio dials in his pupils spinning. Al didn't flinch; instead, his own golden eyes glinted with a celestial fire, a sharp, predatory grin mirroring his counterpart's perfectly.

"Please, guys," Y/N pleaded softly, sensing the air beginning to crackle with power. "No need to fight."

"Sorry, love," Al murmured, though he didn't break eye contact with his shadow.

"Fucking weak," Alastor spat, the word dripping with venom. "Look at you. Why are you like this? Trapped in the clutches of sentimentality like a common house pet."

Al’s smile turned sharp as a razor. "I’m not weak, old pal. In fact, I can take you on right here and right now. I suspect my 'virtue' packs a punch you aren't prepared for."

Alastor snarled, his neck cracking as he began to grow, shadows bleeding from his silhouette. Al matched him, his own angelic aura flaring into a blinding, white-hot halo.

The table shook. Plates rattled. Charlie reached out a hand to stop them, but Y/N was faster.

She abruptly stood up. "No more of this! Enough!"

Her voice wasn't loud, but it had a weight to it that silenced the room. She stood between the two towering entities, her chest heaving. "If you all start arguing and doing a little contest based on your pride, then I swear I will beat you both and tie you to a chair until you get along! Do you hear me?!"

The two Alastors glared at each other over her head, their pride too great to back down first.

SLAM!

Y/N brought her hand down on the table with a force that cracked the wood. "Do you understand me?!"

Al’s golden glow flickered and died. He shrank back down to his normal size, looking remarkably like a chastised schoolboy. "...Yes, dear."

The Radio Demon opened his mouth to deliver a witty, soul-crushing retort. He wanted to tell her that no one commanded him—not a King, not a Seraphim, and certainly not a woman with a penchant for sweets.

But as his eyes met Y/N’s, he saw a spark of something. It was a fierce, maternal authority mixed with a terrifying, quiet resolve. It was a look he hadn't seen in decades—not since a small house in New Orleans. It was the look his mother gave him when he had crossed a line.

The static in the air died. The shadows retreated. Alastor cleared his throat, adjusting his monocle with a trembling hand. "I understand, my dear," he said, his voice unusually small.

"Good," Y/N said firmly. She smoothed her dress and sat back down in her own seat, picking up her fork as if she hadn't just cowed two of the most powerful beings in the room.

The rest of the table sat in stunned silence. Lucifer leaned over to Vaggie and whispered, "I like her. Can we keep her?"

The rest of the meal passed in a silence so dense it felt almost physical, pressing against the walls and settling heavily over the table. Cutlery clinked softly against porcelain, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. Al kept his gaze firmly fixed on his plate, shoulders tense, occasionally stealing cautious glances toward Y/N as though trying to determine whether he had been forgiven for his earlier behavior. Each time their eyes almost met, he would look away again, ears flicking with guilt.

Across from him, the Radio Demon sat unnervingly still. His posture was immaculate, his back straight, hands folded neatly beside his plate. His signature grin remained carved into his face, but it was tighter than usual—strained, almost brittle, like porcelain pulled too thin. The laughter and easy banter that had followed Al throughout the hotel were conspicuously absent here, replaced by a charged quiet that no one quite knew how to break.

When the plates were finally cleared and the last cups of tea drained, Al pushed his chair back a little too quickly. “I, ah—” he cleared his throat, standing. “I should inspect the perimeter.”

Everyone at the table knew exactly what that meant.

Charlie nodded politely, though her brow creased with concern. “Okay! Just… don’t go too far?”

“Of course, dear,” Al replied with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He didn’t look at Y/N as he left, already halfway out the door, cream coat swaying as he disappeared down the corridor that led toward the gardens. Within moments, the faint sound of the door opening to the outside drifted in, followed by silence once more.

Y/N lingered in the parlor, settling into one of the velvet armchairs with a book she hadn’t actually been reading. The fire crackled softly nearby, its glow painting warm highlights across the red-and-gold walls.

She sensed him before she saw him.

Alastor moved like a shadow unmoored from its owner, appearing suddenly in the armchair across from her, his presence announced only by the faint buzz of static and the soft tap of his cane against the floor.

“You have a very… effective way of commanding a room,” he remarked casually, though his voice lacked its usual razor-sharp edge.

Y/N looked up from her book and smiled, calm and unbothered. “It’s not about command, Alastor. It’s about boundaries.” She closed the book gently in her lap. “Even a man as powerful as you—or my husband—needs to be reminded that pride doesn’t put food on the table or keep a home peaceful.”

Alastor hummed thoughtfully, his fingers tapping a slow, uneven rhythm against the head of his cane. “You mentioned earlier,” he said, leaning forward slightly, the radio dials in his eyes pulsing faintly, “that your Alastor had a… dark path ahead of him. That he chose to let someone in.” His grin thinned. “Tell me—what was the turning point? What could possibly convince a man who values his soul above all else to… share it?”

Her answer was immediate.

“His father.”

The effect was instant.

Though the Radio Demon’s posture remained rigid, the shadows in the room flickered violently, as if caught in a sudden, unseen draft. The fire crackled louder for just a moment. Alastor’s hand tightened around his cane, a sharp, involuntary flinch betraying him before he forced himself to go still. He smoothed his expression back into polite indifference, though the static in the air rose to a higher, more agitated pitch.

Y/N didn’t seem to notice—or chose not to.

Her gaze drifted away, unfocused now, fixed on something far beyond the crimson walls of the parlor. “We were childhood best friends,” she said softly, a small, bittersweet smile touching her lips. “He went through so much as a child. He was quite the charmer back then… brown curls and a smile that could make any girl swoon.”

Something twisted in Alastor’s chest.

He remembered those curls. He remembered the effort it took to keep that smile bright and effortless, even when his ribs ached and the house felt too quiet without his mother’s voice.

“As we got older,” Y/N continued, her voice dipping into something heavier, “the world became… crueler. His father grew harsher, more demanding. And his mother…” She paused, swallowing. “She had just recently passed. He was hurting so deeply, Alastor. That cruelty from his father only grew. He was standing on the edge of a very dark wood.” Her hands tightened around the book in her lap. “He was ready to become a monster because he believed that was the only way he’d never be hurt again.”

“And what did you do?” Alastor asked quietly. His voice crawled low and rough, the radio filter no longer sounding performative, but defensive—like armor pulled too tight. “How do you stop a man who has already decided the world deserves his hunger?”

Y/N turned to him then, truly looking at him. Her eyes locked onto his with startling clarity, the kind that felt less like judgment and more like understanding. “I didn’t stop him,” she said gently. “I walked into the woods with him.”

Alastor’s breath hitched, just barely.

“I told him that if he was going to be a monster,” she continued, “then I would be the one to remind him why he was human in the first place. I gave him a place where he didn’t have to wear the mask.” Her voice softened further. “But he chose me. He chose us. So… we ran away. We got married.” A faint smile returned. “And he became the most successful radio host in our world.”

She reached out then, her hand hovering just inches from Alastor’s clawed fingers resting atop his cane. At the last second, she flinched—hesitated—and drew her hand back.

“He didn’t share his soul because he was weak,” she said quietly. “He shared it because carrying it alone was the heaviest thing he’d ever done.”

Alastor stared at her, his grin frozen in place, thoughts spiraling chaotically beneath the surface. Memories surged—his mother’s gentle smile, the way she’d brushed his hair back and told him he was a good boy, even when the world told him otherwise. He thought of the isolation he’d built around himself, brick by brick, shadow by shadow, until nothing could get in… or out.

The silence shattered as the front doors creaked open.

Al stepped back inside, his cream coat dusted with a few stray petals from the garden, golden light faintly clinging to him like an afterimage. His eyes immediately found Y/N—and then narrowed slightly as he noticed how close she sat to the Radio Demon.

“Darling?” he called, his voice warm but edged with concern, and something else—possessive, protective.

Alastor stood abruptly, his chair scraping faintly as his shadows snapped back obediently to his heels. “A charming tale, truly!” he boomed suddenly, his voice returning to its loud, polished broadcast tone. “Though I suspect it’s mostly fiction. Real life is rarely so… poetic.”

He turned sharply on his heel, cane clicking loudly against the floor. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hotel to oversee. There are bugs to squash and souls to—well, you know the drill!”

He didn’t wait for a response.

The walk to his room felt longer than usual, the hallway stretching and warping as though Hell itself was conspiring to give him too much time to think. He reached his door, shut it with a decisive click, and leaned his forehead against the wood.

The grin faded.

For the first time in over a century, the Radio Demon stood alone in silence—and felt the crushing weight of it press in from all sides.

Alastor told himself the curiosity meant nothing.

At first, it was merely observation—clinical, detached, the way one studied a rival before dismantling them. He noticed how Y/N looked at him not with fear, nor awe, nor the brittle politeness most demons adopted in his presence, but with something dangerously unfamiliar.

Kindness.

It unsettled him far more than hostility ever could.

She met his gaze without flinching, without shrinking, without that telltale tightening around the eyes that screamed threat detected. There was no calculation in her expression, no frantic attempt to appease or placate. Just calm attention, as though he were… normal.

He hated that.

And yet, as the days passed, he found himself watching her more closely than he intended.

He saw how she moved through the hotel, her presence subtly shifting the atmosphere wherever she went. Not overpowering, not commanding—simply steady. She spoke gently, but never hesitated. When something needed addressing, she faced it head-on, voice even, eyes clear. There was no fear in her posture, no tremor in her hands when she spoke to him—or anyone else.

At first, he told himself the fascination was purely aesthetic. He could admit that much without surrendering ground. She was beautiful in her angelic form—radiant without being blinding, graceful without fragility. It stood to reason that she must have been striking in life as well. The kind of beauty that lingered, not screamed.

But it wasn’t just that.

It was her calm.

The way she listened. The way she chose her words carefully, not out of fear, but intention. The way she offered warmth without expectation, kindness without obligation.

Alastor began to understand—against his will—why Al had married her.

He watched them together from a distance, his grin fixed as ever, eyes sharp. Al was not weak. That much became undeniable. He could be annoyed, irritated, even sharp when pushed. He had opinions. He had pride. But the moment Y/N entered the room, something in him shifted.

Al’s shoulders would relax. His voice would soften. The tension would drain from him like water from a cracked glass.

He would smile at her.

And she would smile back.

It was sickening.

Alastor thought it was disgusting—this mutual softness, this ease. A vulnerability so openly displayed it bordered on reckless. He scoffed at it, dismissed it, told himself it was proof of inferiority.

And yet.

He found himself wondering.

If he had someone like her… would he have turned out the way he did?

No. Of course he would have, he told himself sharply. The world had carved him into what he was. There had been no alternate ending. No gentler path.

But the question refused to die.

After everything—after the blood, the screams, the deals and the decades of isolation—if he had someone like her, would he have found peace? Would he have been able to set down the constant vigilance, the ever-present hunger, even for a moment?

Would he have been able to relax in her presence?

The thought lingered longer than it should have, curling in the quiet spaces of his mind, warm and dangerous and utterly unwelcome.

And that, more than anything else, made him uneasy.

That afternoon, Alastor moved through the hotel with a meticulous precision that could have rivaled the most masterful of conductors. Every step, every gesture, every tap of his cane was deliberate, orchestrated to perfection. A minor “structural emergency” on the hotel’s balcony—conveniently requiring an angelic touch—had drawn Al away, leaving Y/N alone in the kitchen, though Alastor insisted this was merely an opportunity to test his own efficiency.

Al lingered at the kitchen threshold, his golden eyes narrowed in a sharp glare that promised celestial retribution if even a single hair on Y/N’s head was harmed. But she, ever serene, simply patted his hand with a soft smile.

“I’ll be fine, love. Go help Charlie,” she said gently, her voice carrying that rare mixture of warmth and authority.

Al’s expression softened slightly at the reassurance, though his hand lingered in hers for a brief, almost imperceptible heartbeat before he finally stepped back, vanishing through the doors to the balcony with the grace of someone both reluctant and protective.

Now, the kitchen was quiet except for the rhythmic bubbling of a pot on the stove. The scent of simmering spices filled the room—thyme, paprika, garlic—all mingling with the faint, lingering tang of brimstone that seemed permanently woven into the hotel’s air. Y/N wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face the Radio Demon, who had appeared silently behind her.

“Now,” she said softly, tilting her head, “what is it that you’re so curious about that you wanted me alone?”

Alastor’s head tilted at the question, one eyebrow raised, his grin stretching wide, static buzzing faintly at the edges of his smile. “Whatever do you mean, dear? I simply thought we could use a head start on tonight’s dinner. A host must always be prepared!”

Y/N chuckled lightly, unimpressed. “Alright, Alastor. What about some jambalaya and cornbread? Perhaps a few beignets for dessert?”

“Excellent choices!” Alastor said, clapping his hands together once. “And if I might—oh! Why don’t I suggest a recipe for the—”

“I already have one,” she interrupted, calm and assured, a gentle smile on her lips that seemed to deflate his enthusiasm ever so slightly.

Alastor froze, the radio static in his eyes flickering faintly. “Oh?” he murmured, the word sharp and curious.

“It’s your—well, Al’s—mother’s recipe,” she said quietly, reaching for the cornmeal. Her voice held no judgment, only quiet respect, yet even that simple mention struck Alastor like a physical blow.

He instinctively moved to grab a heavy ceramic bowl from a high shelf, his movements a touch too forceful, sending a faint vibration across the counter. The shadows at his feet quivered.

“You two are a lot alike,” Y/N remarked softly, watching him carefully, noting the tension in his movements, the imperceptible tightening of his jaw.

“I assure you, my dear,” Alastor’s voice dropped an octave, radio static humming with sharp, electric undertones, “we are not alike in the slightest.”

Y/N stepped closer, the calm radiating from her like sunlight in a cavern. She didn’t flinch at the static or the antlered shadow that now loomed behind him. Instead, she reached out, placing her hands firmly over his, guiding the bowl down onto the counter. Her touch was warm, grounding, and yet it demanded attention.

“I know you,” she said softly, her eyes locked on his. “You’re not my husband, no… but you are the version of him who burned all his bridges just to keep warm. You went down the dark path he almost took.”

Alastor’s grip tightened on the counter, porcelain-white knuckles pressing into the wood until it creaked under his claws. The shadows around him writhed like living things, sensing the swell of emotion.

“And I’m sorry,” she continued, her voice like a balm to a wound long ignored. “I’m sorry that you had no one to help you. I’m sorry that you went through what you went through alone. I see it in your eyes, Alastor. You react just like my husband does when he’s cornered. But the difference is… you have made no peace.”

She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper that cut through the white noise of static and chaos around him. “Just like your static… your thoughts are chaotic and loud, dear. You’re trying so hard to drown out the silence of being alone.”

Alastor’s shadow stretched taller against the wall, the jagged antlers behind him seeming to quiver in anticipation of violence he didn’t release. His eyes flickered rapidly, the radio dials spinning with intensity, voice crawling into a distorted, haunting timbre.

“It is… dangerous to give pity to a demon like me, Y/N,” he hissed.

She did not recoil. She did not hesitate. Her hands remained on his, warmth seeping into his grey skin as if dissolving the ice built over a century of isolation.

“It’s not pity, hun,” she said gently, a sad, knowing smile on her lips. “It’s recognition.”

For the first time in centuries, the mask on his face slipped just slightly. The grin faltered, the perfect façade cracking to reveal something hollow and aching. His voice dropped, no static, no broadcast—just him, raw and unshielded.

He saw her—not as a tool, not as a puzzle, not as a nuisance—but as the person who could have changed everything.

The silence that followed was no longer oppressive; it was dense, weighted with possibility, with life and choice and memory.

Alastor’s throat constricted. The static in the room thickened, a tangible, suffocating pressure that pressed against his chest.

“Recognition,” he repeated, a distorted, glitching echo of the word leaving his lips. He tried to laugh—a sharp, rattling sound—but it fell flat, a gesture of old habits rather than amusement. “You speak as if I am a puzzle to be solved, or a stray dog to be brought in from the rain! I am the Radio Demon, my dear! I have toppled overlords, made the streets run red with the blood of those who dared oppose me!”

“And yet here you are, with me,” she said softly, voice slicing through the theatrics with precision. “Executing your little plan to get me alone. Why, Alastor? If you are so superior, why do you crave the perspective of a ‘pawn’ like me?”

The static spiked violently, a shrill, piercing whistle that made the glassware on the shelves vibrate and quiver. Alastor jerked his hands away from hers, spinning sharply to grip the edge of the sink. His claws dug deep into the porcelain, spiderweb cracks forming beneath them. Shadows twisted and writhed in the corners of the room, responding to the turmoil in their master.

“What do you want?” he hissed, voice tight with fury and confusion. “Why tell me these things? To mock me with a ghost of a life I never had? To show me how ‘noble’ your version of him is?”

“No,” she replied, calm and unwavering. “I’m telling you because you’re hurting, Alastor. And you’ve been hurting for so long that you’ve mistaken the ache for power.”

Her hands moved, lifting the wooden spoon she’d been using. She began to stir the pot again, slow, rhythmic, grounding herself—and him—against the chaotic hum of his shadows and static.

“I’m telling you because you look at my husband and see a ‘weak’ man,” she said, voice steady as the beat of the spoon against the metal, “but I look at you and I see a man who is terrified. Terrified that if the static ever stops, you’ll have to hear your own heart breaking. You don’t have to be the Radio Demon with me. You don’t even have to be a ‘good’ man. You just have to… be yourself.”

Alastor’s shoulders shook, his jagged grin faltering entirely. The weight of her words settled into his chest, spreading warmth through cracks he didn’t know existed. For the first time, his shadow didn’t writhe with violence or threat—it lay flat, tentative, wary, as if even it recognized her honesty.

“I’m not scared,” he admitted finally, voice stripped of its filter. Hollow, dry, human. “I am… just… confused.”

He did not turn to her fully, though the corner of his eye caught her form, calm and composed, a lighthouse in the storm of his mind.

“I know I am not a good man like your husband,” he murmured, the words bitter but honest. “Even if I had… even if I hadn’t followed through with my darker impulses… I enjoy the carnage. I enjoy the terror. Having power… it is the only thing that makes the silence bearable.”

And yet, even as he said it, even as the shadow of his past loomed over him, he felt an unfamiliar tug. An almost unbearable curiosity.

He glanced at her again, this time fully, taking in the calm kindness of her expression, the way her hands moved with such quiet confidence.

“Why would a woman like you—someone who knows the best version of me—even bother looking at a creature like this?” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “I am the rot in the garden you spoke of… the shadow you could have avoided… and yet… you look at me like… like I am not poison.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. And for the first time in a century, Alastor didn’t feel the need to broadcast, to perform, to hide behind static. He felt something else—warmth.

Alastor’s words hung in the air, trembling on the edge of confession, and for the first time, the usual static hum of his presence felt uneven, almost fragile. He could feel the pulse of the shadows at his feet, restless, sensing the shift in their master’s heartbeat—something dangerous, something unknown, and yet… not violent.

Y/N turned fully toward him, her amber eyes calm and unwavering. She took a step closer, so close that the warmth from her presence brushed against his cold, grey skin. She didn’t flinch at his antlers, didn’t shrink from the sharpness of his gaze. Instead, she let herself meet him fully, without hesitation or fear, as though daring him to drop the mask he’d worn for centuries.

“You asked why I would look at you like… like you are not poison,” she said softly, her voice carrying a gentle resonance that made the hair on his arms stand on end. “And the answer is… because I see the man behind the static. The man behind the shadows and the chaos. You think I’m looking at your cruelty or your power, but I’m not. I’m looking at you, Alastor. Not the Radio Demon, not the monster everyone fears. Just… you.”

Alastor stiffened. The words struck him like an unexpected chord, sweet and discordant all at once. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. His static twitched, low and wavering, as if his very essence was struggling to reconcile the honesty of her gaze with the thousand years of carefully honed menace he carried.

“You… you see me?” he rasped finally, his voice stripped of its usual bravado, trembling with something almost like disbelief.

“I do,” she said, a small, sad smile curling her lips. “I see the pain you’ve carried, the solitude you’ve wrapped around yourself like armor. But I also see the potential for… something more. Someone who can stand in his own shadow and still let warmth in. Someone who doesn’t have to be alone. Someone… who could choose to let someone care, even if it’s terrifying.”

Alastor’s eyes flickered from the corner of her face to her hands, still resting lightly on the counter. His antlers twitched, shadows shivering with agitation—and something else, something unspoken. The warmth in her voice, the unwavering steadiness of her gaze… it was foreign. Confounding. And, alarmingly, it was beginning to make the corners of his grin soften.

“Warmth,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I… I have not… felt it… in such a way… since…” He stopped abruptly, the admission catching in his throat, unfinished, raw.

Y/N’s gaze didn’t falter. Instead, she took another careful step closer, tilting her head, studying him as one might study a delicate instrument, aware of its fragility yet intrigued by its hidden resonance. “You don’t have to fear being seen, Alastor,” she said softly. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen all of it. And… it doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t push me away. Not you, not the darkness. Not the shadows that crawl at your heels. I see the man underneath it all, and I… I care for him. For you. Not the legend, not the demon—the man.”

The room seemed to shrink around him. The sound of the bubbling pot, the ticking of distant clocks, the faint hiss of static in the corners of his perception—it all faded into a low, steady rhythm, one that somehow matched the beat of something else inside him. His chest constricted. His claws twitched, not from anger, but from the strange, unfamiliar sensation that was not fear, not lust, not hunger.

It was warmth.

He could feel it, radiating from her, filling the hollow spaces in him that had gone centuries unacknowledged. And with it came a realization he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit. The careful mask he had worn, the grin that had become his signature weapon, the laughter that had echoed across Hell like a gunshot—they were all defenses. Against what? Against this. Against the possibility that someone could see him, truly see him, and not recoil.

Alastor’s jaw tightened. He looked at her from under lowered lids, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in an almost protective intensity. “And if I… allowed such… warmth,” he began, voice hesitant, faltering slightly, “if I allowed someone to… care… what would become of me? Would it… ruin me?”

Y/N’s smile softened, and she shook her head gently. “It wouldn’t ruin you, Alastor. It might frighten you, at first. It might make you feel vulnerable, even exposed. But it wouldn’t ruin you. And maybe, for the first time, you could… relax. Let someone in. Not as a weakness, but as a choice. Because even the strongest shadow can benefit from light, if only to understand its own edges.”

Alastor’s antlers twitched again, the shadows trembling slightly at his feet. He felt a shiver run down his spine, an unfamiliar ache that was neither hunger nor anger. He looked at her again, truly looked, and something in him shifted. The grin he usually wore, jagged and predatory, softened ever so slightly, though his pride would never let him admit it.

He noticed how her eyes didn’t waver, even when his shadows writhed and the static climbed in intensity. He noticed how she held herself with such calm, such certainty, yet still radiated warmth. How she spoke with patience and understanding, how her presence seemed to smooth the jagged edges of his mind.

And for the first time, Alastor allowed himself the dangerous, forbidden thought.

If I had someone like her… would I have been able to find peace? Could I have relaxed in someone’s presence without the world crumbling beneath me?

He shook his head almost violently, as though trying to cast the thought aside, yet the echo of it remained, resonating with each pulse of his shadow.

“And yet…” he murmured, voice low, almost unrecognizable even to himself. “Even knowing… even understanding… I… I cannot… help… but wonder… if I… could have…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. She understood. She had always understood. And in that understanding, Alastor felt something dangerous stir—a warmth in his chest that had no right to exist, a curiosity about her, about her light, about how she could look at him like he was… normal, like he was more than a monster, more than the Radio Demon.

Y/N reached out again, a tentative, gentle gesture, letting her fingers brush against the back of his hand—not touching, not holding, just… acknowledging. The warmth was deliberate, soft, grounding, and Alastor, for the first time in a century, let himself be affected.

And the thought that followed, quiet, insidious, terrifying, and… thrilling, slipped into his mind:

Could I… fall for someone like this?

The days that followed blurred together in a way that unsettled more than just the hotel’s residents.

Alastor changed.

Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone could point and accuse him of weakness. But the difference was there, threaded through his behavior like a subtle modulation in a familiar broadcast. His booming laughter no longer filled every room he entered. His commentary, once sharp and needling, softened into dry observations or, more often, silence. He watched more than he spoke, and whenever Y/N was present, his attention inevitably drifted toward her—never obvious, never crude, but unmistakably focused.

He listened when she spoke.

He remembered what she liked.

He found himself… adjusting.

When Charlie rambled excitedly about new programs or decor ideas, Alastor no longer interrupted just to hear himself talk. He let her finish. Occasionally, he even offered thoughtful suggestions instead of theatrical mockery. Husk noticed first, blinking in confusion when Alastor simply nodded at him instead of delivering a cutting remark. Vaggie remained wary but couldn’t deny the shift. Even Niffty paused mid-scurry once, staring at Alastor as if expecting him to snap at her—only for him to merely step aside so she could pass.

It was unnerving.

And it was Y/N.

Their conversations became more frequent, more… personal. Quiet talks in hallways, in the kitchen, in the parlor when the hotel settled into its late-night hush. She spoke to him like a person, not a threat. She asked questions and listened to the answers without judgment. And Alastor—damn him—answered. Not fully. Not recklessly. But more than he ever had with anyone else.

He found himself anticipating her presence.

Looking for her.

Waiting.

The Angel Al noticed everything.

He saw the way the Radio Demon’s posture shifted when Y/N laughed, how the jagged grin softened just a fraction, how the shadows no longer bristled when she came near. He felt the shift in the air, the subtle tightening of something old and dangerous. This wasn’t idle curiosity. This wasn’t rivalry.

It was fascination.

And fascination, Al knew, could rot into desire if left unchecked.

He refused to give it space.

If he could not confront it directly without causing conflict—or risking Y/N’s temper, which he knew far too well—then he would answer it with presence. With devotion. With reminder.

He became her constant companion.

His hand rested at the small of her back whenever they walked together, fingers warm and grounding. His arm circled her waist without apology. His wings, when unfurled, subtly shielded her from crowded rooms. He spoke her name often, softly, anchoring himself to her in every space they occupied.

Y/N noticed, of course.

She always noticed.

That night, when they finally retreated to their suite, the world beyond the door seemed to exhale. The air inside was cool and faintly perfumed with the heavenly jasmine she favored, the soft glow of the lamps casting warm light across the room. Y/N stood before the vanity, slowly brushing out her hair, her movements unhurried, relaxed.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She felt him before she heard him.

Al stepped up close, his presence immediate and enveloping, arms sliding around her waist with a firmness that made her breath hitch. He pulled her back against his chest, grounding himself in her warmth as if he’d been holding himself together all day purely for this moment.

She smiled at their reflection in the mirror, leaning her head back slightly so it rested against his shoulder. “Oh… hello, my love,” she murmured, amusement lacing her voice. “Are you alright? You’re… quite clingy tonight.”

His answer wasn’t verbal at first.

His grip tightened—not painful, but possessive—before he lowered his face to the sensitive curve of her neck. His breath was warm, lingering, and his antlers, usually glowing with steady, tranquil light, pulsed faintly, betraying the restless energy beneath his composed exterior.

“I’m alright,” he murmured against her skin, his voice low and vibrating through her. “Just… it’s been quite a minute since I’ve had you to myself.”

Her cheeks flushed a deep, dusty rose, heat spreading beneath her skin. “Honey…” she whispered, half a warning, half an invitation.

He didn’t stop.

Slow, deliberate kisses traced along her shoulder, reverent and unhurried, up toward her ear. Each one lingered just long enough to make her breath stutter. She lifted a hand to her mouth instinctively, stifling the soft, involuntary sound that escaped her. “Baby—”

Al turned her gently but firmly in his arms, guiding her to face him. His golden eyes were darker now, burnished with something raw and primal that she rarely saw in the gentler version of him. He leaned down, inhaling deeply—her hair, her skin, the familiar warmth of her presence anchoring him completely.

“Mine,” he whispered, the word carrying weight, devotion, and a flicker of jealousy he didn’t bother to hide. It was a vow as much as a claim. “You are mine my darling doe.”

Y/N’s smile softened, her gaze filled with warmth as her fingers threaded through his soft red hair, drawing him closer without hesitation. “Yes, my love,” she replied, calm and certain, as if the truth of it required no emphasis at all. “I’m yours.”

Al pushed Y/N against the vanity with a firm, possessive grip, his white antlers catching the dim light as he maneuvered her body like she was his most treasured possession. Her doe ears flattened against her head in anticipation, a soft whimper escaping her lips as he wedged himself between her trembling thighs. With effortless strength, he lifted her onto the edge of the vanity, her angel wings fluttering slightly behind her, brushing against the cool surface.

He dropped to his knees, his red hair tousled and wild, and pressed his lips to the sensitive skin between her thighs. Y/N moaned into her hand, muffling the sound as heat flooded her core. Her voice came out shaky, laced with worry. "A-Alastor, please... what if they hear?"

Al looked up at her, his eyes gleaming with dark promise. "No worries, my dear," he murmured, snapping his fingers. A golden light shimmered around them, enveloping the room in a magical barrier. The air hummed faintly with the spell's power, sealing their intimate space from the outside world. "I've made it so no one can hear us. Is that better?"

She nodded, her breath hitching, doe ears twitching as relief mixed with desire.

"Good," he purred, his voice low and commanding. "Now, my dear, let me taste you."

Y/N gasped sharply as his mouth descended, his lips trailing hot kisses along her inner thighs, teasing the soft flesh there. He parted her legs wider, exposing her slick pussy to his hungry gaze. Starting slow, he flicked his tongue over her clit with gentle, deliberate licks, savoring the way her body jerked in response.

"Love—" she started, her voice breaking.

"Shh, sweetheart," he interrupted softly, his breath warm against her folds. "Let me enjoy my darling wife, yeah?"

A shaky moan tore from her throat, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes from the building intensity. "Baby, love— I can't—"

He increased the pace, his tongue lapping faster at her swollen clit, delving into her wetness with fervent strokes. "Yes, you can, my love," he growled against her, the vibrations sending sparks through her. "You will, darling."

Al devoured her pussy like a man starved, his tongue plunging deep into her entrance before circling back to suckle on her clit. He was utterly pussy drunk, lost in the taste of her arousal, the way her juices coated his lips and chin. His hands roamed her body in worship—caressing the curve of her hips, tracing the delicate feathers of her angel wings, thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples through her thin top. "You're exquisite, my sweet doe," he praised between licks, his voice muffled but reverent. "So wet for me, so perfect. These thighs... this pussy... all mine to adore."

Y/N shook uncontrollably, her fingers tangling in his soft red hair, gripping tight as she sought purchase. Her hands slid higher, clutching his white antlers for leverage, the bony protrusions warm and smooth under her palms. Al's wings ruffled behind him, a low rumble of pleasure vibrating from his chest as she held on, pulling him closer.

The pressure built relentlessly, her body coiling tight. When she came, it shattered through her like lightning—her angel wings spreading wide in ecstasy, feathers quivering as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She moaned loudly, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, her hips bucking wildly. She tried to squirm away, oversensitive and overwhelmed, but Alastor held her thighs pinned with unyielding strength, his mouth never ceasing its assault.

He didn't stop. Instead, he slipped two fingers inside her clenching pussy, curling them with expert finesse to stroke that sensitive spot deep within. He pumped them in and out with purpose, his tongue still teasing her clit, drawing out every aftershock. Her wings ruffled erratically, folding and unfurling as fresh tremors rocked her body.

Alastor smirked up at her, his eyes locked on her tear-streaked face, drinking in her vulnerability. He finger-fucked her harder, the wet sounds of her arousal filling the soundproofed room, his praises turning husky. "That's it, my angel... give me everything. You're so beautiful like this, falling apart for your husband."

Overstimulation hit her like a tidal wave, her moans turning into desperate pleas, but he pushed her through it until she was a quivering mess. Finally, he pulled away, his fingers glistening with her cum, and rose to capture her lips in a deep, claiming kiss. She gasped into his mouth, tasting herself on his tongue.

"Good girl," he whispered against her lips, his voice tender yet triumphant. "I knew you could be a good girl for me, darling."

Y/N's chest heaved with ragged breaths, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her release. She leaned back against the mirror of the vanity, her angel wings partially folded but twitching with residual sensitivity. Al's hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts as he pulled her into another kiss, slower this time, letting her taste the remnants of her own essence on his lips. His antlers grazed her forehead lightly, a gentle contrast to the raw hunger in his eyes.

He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down her neck, nipping at the soft skin there. 'My beautiful wife,' he murmured, his voice a low radio static hum that sent shivers racing down her spine. "You've given me such a gift. But I'm far from done with you." He groaned softly, the sound rumbling from his chest as he inhaled her scent.

Y/N whimpered softly, her doe ears perking up slightly as his fingers hooked into the hem of her top, tugging it upward. She lifted her arms obediently, letting him strip the fabric away, exposing her bare breasts to the cool air. Her nipples hardened instantly under his gaze, and he wasted no time, leaning in to capture one peak between his lips. He sucked firmly, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud while his hand kneaded the other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. A deep moan escaped him, vibrating against her skin as he savored her taste.

"Ah—Ala-," she gasped, her hands finding his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his coat. Her wings fluttered behind her, brushing against the vanity's edge.

He hummed in approval, the vibration traveling straight to her core, reigniting the ache between her legs. Switching sides, he lavished the same attention on her other nipple, grazing it with his teeth just hard enough to make her arch into him. "These are perfect," he praised, his free hand sliding down her stomach to dip between her thighs again. His fingers teased her soaked folds, circling her entrance without entering, drawing out fresh moans from her—and a low groan from him as he felt her wetness coat his digits.

She bucked her hips instinctively, seeking more friction, but he pinned her down with his weight, his body pressing her further into the vanity. "Patience, darling," he chuckled darkly, releasing her breast with a wet pop. "I want to savor every inch of you." He let out a ragged groan, his breath hot against her collarbone.

Standing fully now, Al shrugged off his coat, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. His shirt followed, revealing the lean, toned muscles of his chest, marked faintly with old scars from battles long past. Y/N's eyes roamed over him hungrily, her hands reaching out to trace the lines of his body, fingers lingering on the base of his antlers as he bent to kiss her once more. He moaned into her mouth, the sound muffled but intense.

With a swift motion, he unbuckled his pants, shoving them down along with his underwear. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already glistening with precum. It throbbed visibly, veins pulsing along its length, and Y/N's breath caught at the sight. She reached for him tentatively, wrapping her fingers around his shaft, stroking from base to tip with a feather-light touch.

Al groaned deeply, his wings unfurling slightly behind him, red feathers ruffling as pleasure coursed through him. "That's it, my love," he encouraged, thrusting shallowly into her hand, another moan tearing from his throat. "Touch your husband like you mean it."

Emboldened, she pumped him firmer, her thumb swiping over the slit to spread his precum, making his length slick. He watched her with hooded eyes, one hand bracing on the vanity beside her head, the other guiding her wrist to set a rhythm. But soon, his control wavered—he captured her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss her knuckles before stepping closer. A guttural groan escaped as he felt her grip tighten briefly.

"Enough teasing," he growled, lifting her hips slightly to position himself at her entrance. The head of his cock nudged her pussy, parting her folds as he rubbed it up and down, coating himself in her arousal. Y/N's doe ears flattened again, her wings spreading wide in anticipation, feathers quivering. Al moaned low, the friction against her slick heat driving him wild.

"Please," she whispered, tears of need gathering in her eyes once more. "I need you inside me."

With a triumphant grin, Al thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. Her walls clenched around him, hot and wet, pulling him deeper. They both moaned in unison, the sound echoing softly in their enchanted bubble—his a deep, resonant groan that vibrated through his body into hers. He paused for a moment, letting her adjust to his girth, his forehead resting against hers.

"Tight as ever," he breathed, starting to rock his hips slowly. Each thrust was deliberate, grinding against her clit with every inward push. Y/N's legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back to urge him on. Her hands clutched his antlers again, using them as leverage to meet his movements. Al groaned with each slide, the sensation of her pussy gripping him pulling more sounds from his lips.

He picked up the pace, fucking her with steady, powerful strokes that made the vanity creak beneath them. His wings beat once, twice, fanning warm air over their joined bodies. "Feel that, darling? How perfectly you take me," he panted, one hand slipping between them to rub circles on her clit, heightening the sensations. A sharp moan broke from him as her inner muscles fluttered.

Y/N cried out, her body arching as pleasure built anew. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with sweat, but she didn't care—only the feel of him filling her, stretching her, mattered. "Yes—oh god, baby—harder," she begged, her voice breaking.

Obliging, he slammed into her faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady as he chased their mutual release. Her pussy fluttered around him, signaling her impending climax, and he angled his thrusts to hit that spot inside her relentlessly. Groans poured from him with every deep plunge, his control slipping as ecstasy built.

"Cum for me again, my angel," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Milk my cock—show me how much you love it." He moaned loudly, the words barely coherent through his pleasure.

The words tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, walls spasming wildly around him as she screamed his name. Her wings flared out fully, knocking a few bottles from the vanity in her thrashing. Al followed moments later, burying deep as he spilled inside her, hot ropes of cum flooding her pussy. He roared softly, a series of deep groans accompanying his release, his antlers glowing faintly with angelic energy, wings enveloping them both in a cocoon of feathers.

They stayed locked together, panting and spent, as the golden barrier around them shimmered. Al peppered her face with gentle kisses, wiping away her tears with his thumb. "My perfect doe," he whispered. "Forever mine."

Y/N smiled weakly, nuzzling into his neck, her ears twitching contentedly. "And you're mine, love. Always."

After some aftercare, Al carefully draped the covers over Y/N’s sleeping form, his expression softening from one of genuine adoration to something far more deliberate, measured, and precise. His eyes lingered on her delicate features—the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the faint twitch of her ears as she shifted in her sleep, the tiny curl of her lips that seemed to hold some private, unspoken thought. There was a warmth in him, one he had never allowed to surface so freely before, but it was quickly replaced by calculation. He knew the extent of the Radio Demon’s range, the sharp precision with which his counterpart could sense every nuance of sound. The sensitivity of those delicate deer ears wasn’t just a quirk; it was a tool, a weapon if wielded correctly. With a snap of his fingers, Al had crafted a carefully contained sphere of silence that enveloped the master suite, shielding the Princess, the King, and the hotel staff from the auditory evidence of what had occurred, while purposefully leaving a tiny, strategic leak that seeped directly toward the room next door.

It was a subtle, exquisite little reminder. A celestial middle finger, wrapped in silk, polished to perfection, a message that only the Radio Demon could decipher: some things were forever beyond his reach.

Next door, Alastor was undergoing a torment unlike any he had ever known, a slow, burning torture of the senses that no amount of static, no volume of noise, could drown out. He, the master of sound, the conductor of chaos, the unparalleled Radio Demon, was now subject to an auditory onslaught so intimate and precise that it cut him to the bone. He lay rigid beneath the sheets of his bed, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling as the static in his skull—a constant companion he had used as armor for decades—failed utterly to drown out the reality of the room beside him.

The rhythmic creak of the bed, the sharp, ragged intake of breath, the wet, unmistakable slap of flesh against flesh—every sound etched itself into him, sharper than any blade.

He twisted and turned, claws digging into the tangled sheets, his dark tail lashing in agitation, not from disgust but from the sudden, terrifyingly hot rush of blood coursing through him. Every nerve in his body screamed in a way it hadn’t for centuries. The voice—her voice—was the cruelest, most exquisite weapon.

“Alastor…”

She had whispered his name. Even if she meant the other one, the sound was his alone, impossibly intimate, searing through him with all the force of a live wire. Every vibration of the word carried a weight he could not bear, a connection that, by all rights, should not have existed. The syllables hit him with a precision only someone who knew him, all of him, could ever achieve.

He thrashed beneath his covers, tossing them aside in desperation, trying in vain to block the sound, but nothing could mute the memory, the essence of her voice reverberating in his bones. It was maddening. Infuriating. And disturbingly, painfully arousing in ways that made him clench his fists and hiss under his breath.

Finally, unable to endure a single second longer of the relentless auditory assault, Alastor snapped. A hiss, a crackle, and a puff of smoke later, he had vanished from his room, reappearing in the dimly lit lobby bar, chest heaving, bowtie slightly askew, claws still trembling as if the effort of restraint had been a physical trial.

Husk, polishing a glass as always, looked up with a frown, immediately noticing the state of his boss. “What’s wrong, boss? Rough night?” he asked, sliding a bottle of something strong toward him without hesitation, familiarity in his movements belying concern.

Alastor’s claws dug into the polished edge of the bar, leaving faint scratch marks. “You don’t hear it?” he rasped, the static in his voice fluctuating violently as though his control over his usual broadcast persona had weakened. His eyes, normally sharp and predatory, flickered with raw, unfiltered frustration. “You… you don’t hear it?”

Husk tilted his head, one ear twitching as he glanced around the silent lobby. “Hear what? It’s quiet as a grave down here. Even the King’s snoring has stopped.”

Realization hit him like a physical blow. The Angel had done this deliberately, with malicious artistry. He had orchestrated a private, intimate broadcast of marital ecstasy—precisely tuned, perfectly placed—designed solely to torment Alastor, tailored with exacting precision so that he could hear every sound, every breath, every small, intimate detail that made him want to tear his hair out and simultaneously grind his teeth in impotent rage.

“Nevermind,” he hissed finally, snatching a glass with shaking fingers and pouring himself a drink. The rye burned all the way down, a sharp, bitter comfort, but it did nothing to erase the sound, nothing to dull the memory of her whisper, her softness, her unguarded, trembling acknowledgment of the other version of himself.

He lifted the glass with a trembling hand and took a long, searing gulp, tasting fire and humiliation in equal measure. How, he wondered bitterly, was he supposed to face her in the morning? How could he look at her—the woman who knew the most intimate, private, and unspoken parts of his alternate self—and remain himself? How could he possibly reconcile the image of her calling out in pleasure with the cold, meticulously curated mask of the Radio Demon that he had worn for centuries?

He felt like a child caught eavesdropping on a conversation far too adult for him, like a beast in the cage of his own mind, clawing at the walls and screaming in frustration, powerless to stop what he had heard or how it had affected him.

And yet, beneath the frustration, beneath the scorching wave of irritation, there was something else—a seed of dangerous curiosity, a warmth that he could neither name nor fully suppress. He realized with a sudden, shocking clarity that his shadow, huddled like a shivering animal at his feet, mirrored his embarrassment almost perfectly. The darkness itself seemed unnerved, as though even it were unprepared for this new, confusing sensation that stirred through him.

He pressed his clawed hands to his face, dragging them down to his jaw, gripping his own cheeks as if physical restraint could keep the chaos at bay. His teeth ground together in a jittery rhythm, but the sound didn’t matter; it would never matter. The memory of her voice would not be erased. It would linger, a stubborn, infuriating echo embedded in the very fabric of him, reminding him of something he hadn’t felt in centuries: desire, longing, and the maddening, destabilizing power of seeing himself through someone else’s eyes.

The Radio Demon, the predator, the master of all he surveyed, sat there in the dimly lit lobby, claws white, chest heaving, shadows pooling at his feet, completely undone, utterly human in his fury and fascination—and utterly, irrevocably aware that this was far from over.

Morning broke over the hotel in a way that felt entirely too bright for Alastor’s liking. The hum of the building had returned to its usual frequency, the clink of distant cutlery and the muffled footsteps of staff filtering through the halls, but for him, there was no comfort in routine. He sat stiffly at the kitchen counter, posture immaculate despite the faint dark circles beneath his eyes, fingers wrapped around an untouched mug as though it were an anchor. The scent of fresh coffee filled the room, rich and bitter, but even that familiar pleasure failed to steady him. His ears twitched at every sound, hyper-aware, oversensitive, betraying the exhaustion he would have rather died than admit to.

That was when Al—the Angel—strolled in.

He moved with infuriating ease, sleeves rolled up, wings tucked neatly as he reached for the coffee pot. One look at Alastor was all it took. A slow, smug smile spread across his face, the kind that said I know exactly what you heard. He didn’t say anything at first, just poured himself a cup, humming softly under his breath, deliberately off-key.

Alastor’s jaw tightened. “Good morning,” he said sharply, his voice crackling faintly, smile rigid and brittle.

“Oh, it is,” Al replied pleasantly, shooting him a sideways glance as he stirred his coffee. “You look… tired, my friend. Rough night?” His tone was syrupy sweet, every word carefully chosen to press where it hurt most.

Alastor’s grip on his mug tightened just enough to spiderweb a fine crack along the porcelain. “I slept fine,” he lied smoothly, though his ears flicked back, betraying him entirely.

Before Al could push further, Y/N entered the kitchen, hair slightly tousled, expression soft and serene in a way that made Alastor’s chest do something deeply inconvenient. She greeted them both with a warm smile, but her eyes lingered on Alastor for half a second longer than necessary, her brow furrowing just a touch.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently. “You look exhausted.”

The Angel laughed quietly into his coffee. “He’s just… sensitive this morning,” Al said lightly, then leaned closer to Y/N as if sharing a secret. “Aren’t you, Radio Demon?”

Alastor shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Al, clearly enjoying himself far too much, set his mug down and straightened. “I’ll be back later. Need to check on Charlie,” he said, then leaned down, brushing a kiss to Y/N’s cheek. As he did, he murmured just loud enough for Alastor to hear, “Be careful, my dear. He seems a bit… delicate today.”

Y/N blinked, confused, while Alastor bristled. Al smirked, casting one last triumphant look over his shoulder before leaving the kitchen, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, there was silence.

Alastor cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the surface of the counter. His usual swagger faltered, replaced by something awkward and uncharacteristically hesitant. “Miss—ah—Y/N,” he began, then stopped, radio static fluttering faintly at the edges of his voice. He shifted, clearly debating with himself, before finally straightening and offering her a strained but polite smile. “May I… have a word?”

She nodded immediately. “Of course.”

He gestured stiffly toward the side of the kitchen, guiding her a few steps away from the counter. When he turned to face her, there was color in his cheeks—actual color—and his eyes refused to quite meet hers.

“I want to preface this by saying,” he began, words coming out a bit too quickly, “that this is not a complaint, nor is it a judgment of character, nor is it—well—it’s merely a logistical concern, really.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and she leaned in, attentive. “Okay…?”

He inhaled, then blurted out, “If—purely hypothetically—there were to be a next time, perhaps you might consider… keeping it down.”

There it was. Out in the open.

Y/N froze. Then, slowly, the realization dawned on her face. Her cheeks flushed a deep, vivid red, ears flicking in pure mortification. “Oh my god—I—Alastor, I’m so sorry,” she rushed out, words tumbling over one another. “I didn’t even think anyone could hear, I mean Al did that silence thing and I just assumed—and I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or disturb you or—”

She kept going, rambling nervously, hands twisting together as embarrassment overtook her completely.

Alastor stared at her.

The flustered apology, the genuine concern, the way she looked at him not with fear or mockery but with earnest regret—it hit him far harder than the sounds ever had. His blush deepened, spreading beneath his eyes as he raised one hand quickly, palm out.

“It’s—ah—it’s quite alright,” he said, voice softer now, less static, more… real. “Truly. I only wished to make the request. Nothing more.” He cleared his throat again. “Just… please keep it down.”

She nodded rapidly. “I will. Absolutely. I promise.”

Satisfied—and more unsettled than he cared to admit—Alastor inclined his head politely and stepped back, giving her space. She shot him one last apologetic smile before hurrying out of the kitchen, clearly intent on finding her husband as quickly as possible.

Alastor remained where he was, staring after her long after she’d gone, heart doing something profoundly irritating in his chest. He lifted his coffee at last, took a sip, and grimaced faintly.

Cold.

He set the mug down again, shadows curling at his feet, and exhaled slowly.

Later that day, the energy in the hotel was a mix of excitement and melancholy. Baxter stood in the main lobby, adjusting his glasses and shuffling through his notes with the precision only he could muster. “Well,” he began, clearing his throat, “it seems that the dimensional rift has stabilized enough for your return. You’ll be heading home shortly.”

Charlie’s shoulders slumped slightly, her usual effervescence dampened by the news. “Already? So soon?” she said, pouting just a touch. “I mean, I’m really glad I got to meet both of you, but… I was kind of hoping we’d have a bit more time.”

Al’s hand found Y/N’s, squeezing it gently as he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Relief softened his features. “It’s alright, my dear,” he murmured. “Home is waiting. Somewhere safer. Somewhere familiar. We’ll be together, and that’s what matters.”

Y/N nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips, but her eyes flicked toward the doorway just as she noticed a familiar figure slipping silently away. Alastor, the Radio Demon, had excused himself, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable.

Something in Y/N’s chest tightened, a mixture of concern and intuition, and she followed quietly, keeping just far enough behind to avoid startling him. She found him standing on one of the upper balconies, gazing out over the jagged red horizon, shadows pooling around his feet in a restless wave.

“Well, Alastor,” she said softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach him. “It was truly a pleasure knowing you.”

He turned slowly, one eyebrow quirking, and a harsh laugh escaped him, as if the words themselves were ridiculous. “Really?” he asked, his usual bravado struggling to mask a flicker of something softer.

“Yes,” she replied gently, stepping closer. “I mean it.”

There was a pause, and for a heartbeat, the Radio Demon allowed himself to simply be. No clever quips. No predatory games. Just the quiet recognition that someone—someone extraordinary—had seen him as more than the chaos he cultivated.

Without another word, she stepped forward and embraced him. Her arms were warm, firm, and grounding, and the gesture seemed to pull at something inside him he hadn’t dared touch in decades.

“I hope,” she whispered into the crook of his neck, “that you will be able to find your peace.”

Alastor stiffened momentarily but then awkwardly returned the hug, his sharp edges softened under her touch. “Thank… you,” he murmured, almost faltering on the words.

She pulled back slightly, her hand brushing against his chest. “You have shadows… you have your own demons,” she said softly, her voice carrying a confidence that made him pause, “but I know someone will be there for you, regardless.” She smiled, and in that small gesture, there was the weight of understanding, of care, of hope.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she pressed her hand against his chest. A gentle, radiant glow spread outward, warm and luminous, and Alastor felt a strange, soothing sensation ripple through him. The wound that had long burned and throbbed along his chest—painful and stubborn—healed, knitting together as if it had never been.

“What—” he breathed, stepping back, eyes wide, hand instinctively pressing against the newly healed skin. “How did you—?”

She smiled, soft and knowing. “A parting gift,” she said simply.

Alastor let out a soft, incredulous chuckle. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, voice low, reverent even, and a faint warmth crept through him, something foreign yet welcome.

She straightened, a serene smile on her lips, and began to step away. “Y/N—wait,” he called, his voice barely above the wind.

She turned, tilting her head slightly, her smile gentle and luminous. “Yes?”

He swallowed, shadows flickering faintly around him. “Safe travels.”

“Thank you. Be good,” she replied, a playful lilt in her voice.

“No promises,” he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, watching as she disappeared from view.

Alastor stood there long after she had gone, the glow of her touch still faintly lingering against his chest. A small, genuine smile broke through his usual mask of jagged perfection. For the first time in centuries, the emptiness that had clung to him felt… a little lighter.

Night had fallen over the hotel, the crimson skies deepening into a rich, molten red that glimmered like liquid fire. The lobby was alive with bittersweet energy. Staff, friends, and residents alike had gathered, their expressions a mixture of joy for their impending return and sadness at the thought of parting ways. Baxter fussed nervously, checking the portal’s stability for the hundredth time, while Charlie hovered near the edge, her usual enthusiasm tempered by a twinge of melancholy.

Al and Y/N stood hand in hand, the faint glow of the portal illuminating their faces. The swirling light painted them in gold and crimson hues, highlighting the serenity in Y/N’s features and the rare softness in Al’s usually composed expression.

“Are you ready, my dear?” Al asked, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of anticipation.

Y/N nodded, squeezing his hand. “As ready as I’ll ever be. It’s… it’s been wonderful, Al. Truly.”

The portal swirled higher, casting prismatic reflections across the walls, and the air buzzed faintly with magical energy. Slowly, they began to ascend, Al’s hand gripping hers tightly as they were lifted from the ground, moving with effortless grace into the open maw of the dimensional rift.

Y/N turned slightly, her eyes bright, and waved to the assembled group. “Goodbye, everyone! Thank you for everything!” she called, her voice carrying over the hum of the portal.

Charlie waved frantically, a smile bright despite the sadness tugging at her heart. “Goodbye! Safe travels! Come back soon!”

Vaggie raised a hand, Husk and Niffty following suit, and even Alastor—the Radio Demon himself—stood near the edge of the group, watching quietly. His jaw was tight, but his eyes held that same faint glint of reluctant warmth, a softening of his usual predatory gaze.

As Y/N’s gaze swept across the group, it finally settled on him. Alastor met her eyes, and for a heartbeat, the chaos of Hell and the noise of the portal faded from his perception. He gave a subtle nod, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice low, threaded with a quiet sincerity.

She returned his smile, soft and full of unspoken gratitude, her hand still firmly clasped in Al’s. “Goodbye,” she whispered back, her voice carried on the wind and the faint shimmer of the portal.

With that, they ascended fully into the light, the portal’s swirl enveloping them completely. The golden-and-crimson glow reflected off their hands as they soared upward, leaving Hell—and the hotel—behind.

The portal finally closed with a shimmering snap, leaving the lobby silent for a brief, echoing moment. Only the soft murmur of the staff remained, and the faint glow that lingered in Alastor’s eyes told a story of something quietly changed—a reminder of the warmth, the kindness, and the impossible peace that had touched even a creature as dark and solitary as the Radio Demon.

A month had passed since Al and Y/N had returned to their own dimension, and on the surface, everything at the hotel had slipped neatly back into its familiar rhythm. The halls still echoed with distant arguments and laughter, the air still hummed with magic and old grudges, and Alastor still strode through it all like he owned the place—which, in many ways, he did.

Yet some things refused to settle.

Alastor found himself pausing more often than usual, his cane tapping idly against the floor as his thoughts drifted where they had no business going. He remembered Y/N’s face with startling clarity: the warmth in her eyes, the way she looked at him not with fear or awe, but with simple, unguarded kindness. He remembered her voice, steady and gentle, even when speaking to a monster like him.

He smiled at the memory, faint and private.

Peace. He had scoffed at the idea his entire existence, dismissed it as a lie told by the weak to justify complacency. And yet… if such a thing existed, perhaps it wasn’t a place. Perhaps it was a feeling. A moment. A presence.

Would he ever find it? He doubted it. Truly, he did. Old habits, old wounds, old sins clung too tightly.

Still.

That afternoon, as he went about his duties—mentally outlining themes for his next broadcast, debating whether to lean into carnage or comedy—he strolled down one of the hotel’s long corridors, the crimson carpet muffling his footsteps. His thoughts were elsewhere, drifting lazily through frequencies and half-formed ideas.

And then—

Thump.

A solid collision jolted him back to the present as something warm splashed across the front of his coat.

Coffee.

Dark liquid spread over the pristine red fabric, dripping slowly toward the floor.

Alastor’s smile sharpened instantly, static crackling faintly in the air as his head snapped downward.

“Watch it, you—”

He stopped.

Standing directly in front of him was a doe.

A sinner, unmistakably so, with soft antlers and warm, expressive eyes, her ears flicking anxiously as she stared up at him in horror. Her form was demonic, yes—tail, hooves, faint markings along her skin—but there was something achingly familiar about her. Something that struck him straight through the chest.

She was beautiful. Not in a polished, predatory way—but in a quiet, earnest one.

Alastor’s breath caught.

“…Y/N?” he whispered, the name slipping from him before he could stop it.

She blinked rapidly, clearly flustered. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry!” she rushed out, her words tumbling over one another. “I sincerely apologize, mister—I wasn’t looking where I was going and—oh!”

Her eyes widened as recognition dawned.

“Oh! Mr. Radio Demon!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, I really am!”

Alastor didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He simply stared at her, his grin frozen in place as the world seemed to tilt ever so slightly off its axis.

She fumbled with her cup, setting it aside before stepping closer, gently brushing at his coat with frantic concern. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to spill it on you—oh goodness, it’s everywhere—”

She paused, then quickly pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from her pocket and held it out to him. “Here, please, take this.”

Her voice was nervous, polite, sincere.

Real.

Alastor finally found himself again, the static receding as his expression softened—just a fraction.

“It’s quite alright, my dear,” he said smoothly, taking the handkerchief. “Accidents happen.”

She let out a relieved breath. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Radio Demon.”

“Please,” he replied, dabbing at the stain with measured elegance, “call me Alastor.”

She smiled then, small and shy, her ears tilting back slightly. “I’m sorry, Alastor. Truly. I can pay for your dry cleaning if you’d like.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm rather than mocking. “That won’t be necessary.”

He tilted his head, studying her more closely now—the familiar gentleness in her posture, the kindness that radiated from her even here, in Hell of all places.

“May I ask,” he continued, voice lowering pleasantly, “what’s your name, darling?”

“Oh!” she said, straightening a bit. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you. I’m… kind of new here.”

His eyes widened, just slightly.

“Well,” Alastor said after a beat, his grin easing into something genuine, “welcome to the hotel.”

Her cheeks flushed faintly. “Thank you.”

He felt it then—clear and unmistakable. That same warmth. That same strange, comforting pull in his chest.

“Perhaps,” he added casually, tapping his cane against the floor, “sometime I could show you around. Properly, of course.”

Her smile grew, brighter now, more confident. “I’d like that.”

And as they stood there in the hallway, coffee-stained coat and all, Alastor realized that for the first time in a very long while, something inside him felt… familiar.

Not power. Not hunger.

But something close.

Something almost like peace.

Not dead—worse. Driven away by the suffocating weight of shame, by Valentino’s invisible leash tightening around his throat, by the belief that he had nearly destroyed the only family that had ever chosen him. His room sat untouched, the door closed, his laughter conspicuously absent from the halls.

Alastor, however, appeared untouched by grief.

He moved through the lobby with a jaunty hum, his cane tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. His staff was whole again, his power settled comfortably beneath his skin, humming like a well-tuned radio frequency. The wound in his chest—once a grotesque reminder of near-defeat—had faded to little more than an inconvenience he stubbornly ignored.

He was, by all outward appearances, in excellent spirits.

Lucifer watched him from across the lobby, arms crossed, irritation etched into every sharp line of his face as he leaned against a fractured pillar. “Oh, I thought you left,” he muttered, his voice thick with disdain.

Alastor didn’t even slow his pace. “My, my, I’m surprised you haven’t died from that weapon, considering how weak you are, Lu,” he replied smoothly, his grin sharpening.

Lucifer’s eyes flared. He pushed off the pillar and rolled up his sleeves. “You better watch it, pal, or I’ll—”

“Sir,” Vaggie cut in sharply, stepping between them with her spear angled downward but ready. “You’re still injured. Maybe sit down before you make it worse.”

Before either demon could retort, the air itself seemed to fracture.

A blinding, prismatic light erupted from the center of the lobby, radiating outward in shimmering waves that bent color and shadow alike. The temperature shifted. The scent of ozone and something impossibly clean filled the space.

Charlie gasped, hands flying to her mouth, eyes shining with unrestrained hope. “Oh! It must be Emily!”

Alastor’s grin faltered—just slightly. One brow arched as the light intensified.

Then a figure dropped from above, landing with feline grace, boots barely making a sound as they met the floor. His back was to the group, posture relaxed yet alert. He wore a cream-colored coat that shimmered like pearls in sunlight, embroidered with subtle gold accents. His hair was a soft, vibrant red, neatly styled, and his presence alone felt… wrong here, like a hymn echoing in Hell.

“Good heavens,” the stranger murmured.

When he turned around, the lobby fell into stunned silence.

The newcomer and the Radio Demon locked eyes.

For a brief, surreal moment, it felt as though reality itself hesitated.

Then, in perfect, horrified unison, they spoke.

“What the fuck?”

“Who are you?” the angel demanded, his voice sharp but controlled.

“I could be asking you the same question,” Alastor snapped back, shadows at his feet flickering like living ink.

The angel’s expression shifted suddenly, alarm flashing across his face. He threw out an arm protectively. “Stay behind me, darling!”

He turned sharply, eyes searching—then widening in panic.

“Darling?!”

A scream cut through the air from above.

The angel didn’t hesitate. He leapt, coat flaring as he caught a falling figure mid-air with effortless strength. A woman, light as breath, clung to him as he landed. She had soft deer-like ears, delicate features, and an aura that radiated warmth and grace so intense it made the demons in the room recoil instinctively.

“Mon cœur,” he whispered, holding her bridal-style, his voice trembling despite himself. “Are you alright, my dear?”

“Oh, my stars, Alastor!” she gasped, arms tightening around his neck. “I was frightened you fell, and suddenly I did too…” Her gaze drifted as she took in the jagged crimson walls, the broken furniture, the infernal atmosphere. Her ears drooped. “W-where are we, love? Who are you all?”

“I don’t know, darling,” the angel replied quietly, eyes scanning the room with growing concern. “But we seem to be in quite the predicament. Stay close to me, my love.”

Her eyes finally landed on the Radio Demon.

She blinked. Then blinked again, slowly looking between the two identical figures.

“…My,” she said softly. “There are two of you.”

The lobby seemed to tense as one.

Alastor felt something unfamiliar coil in his chest. Genuine shock—raw and unscripted. He stared at the woman, at her untainted grace, and then at the version of himself standing beside her, radiating warmth instead of menace.

“I assure you, my dear,” the Radio Demon said, his voice dropping into a static-laced snarl as his grip tightened around his cane, knuckles whitening, “there is only one Alastor. And I have no idea who this sentimental trespasser thinks he is.”

The angel ignored him, gently setting the woman on her feet. “Are you certain you’re alright? You didn’t fall too hard, did you?”

She smiled, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “I’m quite alright, sweetface. And… I don’t sense any danger coming from these beings.”

Charlie stepped forward hesitantly, her excitement barely contained. “Okay, wow, this is… a lot. Um—hi! Who are you guys? We were actually expecting Emily…”

“Oh! My apologies,” the woman said, offering a graceful curtsy. “My name is Y/N. And this is my husband—”

“Alastor,” the angel added warmly, offering a polite smile that looked profoundly wrong on that familiar face. “A pleasure to meet you all.”

Vaggie leaned toward Charlie, whispering, “He looks like a nicer version of our Alastor.”

“Oh shit,” Charlie muttered, then shook herself. “Okay—uh—can you go back? How did you even get here?”

“Well, we came from Heaven—” Y/N began, then paused, staring at her hands as faint dark mist curled around her feet. Her breath caught. “Oh goodness… honey? Have we… fallen from grace?”

Her eyes glassed with worry.

“We will figure something out,” the angel said firmly, golden light flaring in his eyes. “This was clearly a mistake.”

“There was no mistake,” the Radio Demon hissed. “If you are me, then you belong down here.”

The angel straightened, gripping his cane as he looked the Radio Demon up and down with clear disdain. “We are not the same, good fellow. I possess far more class than you, obviously.”

Alastor tapped his cane once, sharply. “I assure you, you’re nothing of the sort.”

He stepped forward.

The angel replied, stepping to meet him without hesitation. “And I’d advise you to watch yourself. I wouldn’t want my vines catching on that tacky coat of yours.”

Golden, thorned vines erupted from the floor, radiant and alive, while pitch-black shadows poured from the Radio Demon’s silhouette like smoke.

“ALASTOR, NO!” Charlie screamed.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea, love—” Y/N started, but pride had already locked the two in place.

Alastor’s neck snapped as his demonic form surged forth, antlers branching like jagged lightning. The angel doubled in height, radiant wings unfurling, antlers forged of glowing gold. Heaven and Hell mirrored one another in violent symmetry.

“BOYS!” Y/N shouted, stomping her foot.

The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot.

Both Alastors froze instantly, snapping their heads toward her.

“You are both acting like fools,” she snapped, arms crossed.

The angel shrank back to normal, blinking. “…Wait. Me too?”

“Yes, you too.”

She turned to Charlie. “Who is in charge here?”

“That would be me,” Charlie said weakly. “Charlie. Princess of Hell. Owner of the hotel.”

Y/N’s expression softened immediately. “It’s lovely to meet you, dear. And I do apologize for my husband.”

The angel stepped behind her. “Sorry, love, I was just—”

She didn’t look at him.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yes, dear,” he said quietly, glaring at the Radio Demon over her shoulder.

Baxter peeked out from behind his laptop. “It appears they’re from another dimension. The destruction of the angelic weapon likely caused a localized rift. It’ll take time to calculate the next window.”

“Wow, okay!” Charlie clapped her hands nervously. “Well, until then, you guys can stay here! We have plenty of rooms. I’ll put you in the suite next to Alastor and my dad.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Y/N said warmly.

“Alastor?” Charlie called.

“Yes, Princess?” both replied at once.

They glared.

Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is going to be a nightmare. How about we call you ‘Al’,” she pointed at the angel, “and you stay Alastor.”

Charlie nodded quickly. “Can you please show them where they’ll be staying in the meantime?”

Al made a face. “Must it be him? Surely you can show us, Princess. You seem far more suitable than… this.”

The Radio Demon laughed, sharp and distorted. “Why, nonsense! I am the host.”

He leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper thick with static. “Try to keep up, old boy. It’s a long walk to the penthouse—and I’d hate for you to trip on your own self-righteousness.”

Alastor led the way down the corridor with long, unhurried strides, his cane clicking sharply against the floor in a rhythm that felt deliberate—measured, territorial. The hotel’s upper halls were dimmer than the lobby, the lighting tinged red and gold, casting warped shadows along the walls where wallpaper peeled in curling strips and framed portraits watched with too many eyes.

Beside him, Al walked with a protective hand settled at the small of Y/N’s back, his touch instinctive and constant. His posture was relaxed, but his nose wrinkled faintly as he took in the surroundings—the warped décor, the heavy scent of brimstone, the faint hum of distant screams bleeding through the walls like bad insulation.

Alastor noticed.

“Oh, I do hope it suits your tastes,” he said mockingly, his grin stretching wide as he glanced back at them. “Although I must say, it’s a far cry from the fluffy clouds and harp music you’re used to, I imagine.”

Al’s golden eyes flicked toward the peeling wallpaper, then to the flickering lights overhead. “We had gardens, actually,” he replied smoothly. “Lush, vibrant greenery. Fountains. Trees that sang when the wind passed through them. Not this…” He gestured vaguely at the corridor. “…delightful shade of scab red you’ve chosen.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying the walls thoughtfully. “I think it adds a bit of character,” she said after a moment, smiling. “I like it.”

Al’s expression softened instantly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he looked down at her. “Of course you would, my dear,” he said warmly, pressing his thumb against her back in a gentle, reassuring stroke.

Alastor’s smile twitched.

She glanced ahead again, ears flicking as something occurred to her. “Oh! Alastor?” she asked suddenly, looking up at the Radio Demon. “Where is your wife?”

Alastor let out a sharp laugh, the sound buzzing faintly with static. “My dear, I am a solo act,” he replied lightly. “I’m not particularly one for—” He paused, eyes sliding pointedly toward Al and Y/N before narrowing. “…domesticity. Such as this.”

He made a vague, dismissive motion in their direction.

Al shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Y/N blinked, clearly surprised. “Oh my,” she murmured. “Are you not… lonely?”

Alastor chuckled, low and dark, the sound reverberating faintly through the hallway. "Of course not, my dear! I find that other people are simply… clutter." He leaned in closer to her, his eyes turning into radio dials. "I have my broadcasts, my deals, and my dignity. What more could a man want?"

Al stepped between them instantly, his golden antlers shimmering with a warning light. "The only thing he wants is power, evidently," Al remarked dryly. He turned his back on the demon, guiding Y/N further into the room.

They reached the end of the corridor, where a pair of large, ornate doors loomed—polished brass accents gleaming against dark wood carved with elaborate, almost predatory designs. Alastor stopped abruptly, planting his cane with a decisive tap.

“Here we are,” he announced grandly. “The Executive Suite. Conveniently placed directly between my own quarters and the King’s.” His eyes gleamed. “Do try to keep the celestial humming to a minimum. Some of us enjoy the sound of a good thunderstorm. And do refrain from 'blessing' the linens. I find the smell of sunshine and rainbows quite tiresome.”

He turned slightly, grin sharpening again. “We’ll be having dinner shortly. Why don’t you come down and join us?”

Al opened his mouth. “As much as we would like to, we—”

“We’d love to!” Y/N said brightly, cutting in without hesitation. “Thank you so much again for your hospitality.”

Al blinked, then smiled despite himself. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Thank you.”

"And I find the scent of sulfur and failure tiresome, yet here we are!" Al retorted over his shoulder, a polite but sharp smile fixed on his face.

Alastor narrowed his eyes. He began to back out of the room, but Y/N called out one last time. "Alastor? If you ever wish for a cup of tea and a chat... our door is open. No one should be alone in a place this loud."

The Radio Demon paused. For a fraction of a second, the static stopped. He looked at her—at the way she held Al’s hand, the way she looked at this 'nicer' version of him with such effortless devotion. It was a mirror reflecting a life he had never even considered, a life that felt like a weakness.

"I’ll keep that in mind," Alastor lied, his voice a smooth, radio-filtered purr. "But I wouldn't hold your breath, darling. I’m a very busy man."

Alastor’s grin widened. “Well then—”

Al then reached forward and slammed the doors shut.

The sound echoed down the hall.

Y/N gasped. “Honey!”

Al folded his arms instantly, scowling at the closed doors. “I do not like that man.”

She turned to him, concern softening her expression as she stepped closer. “You have never acted like this, my love,” she said gently. “Please… why are you behaving this way?”

Al exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his shoulders as he lifted her hand, pressing it against his cheek. His eyes closed briefly. “You’re right, ma chérie,” he murmured. “Forgive me. I shall behave.”

She smiled faintly, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “Thank you. These people may be different from us, but they’ve shown us kindness and hospitality. Dearest...”

He opened his eyes, meeting hers, and nodded. “You’re right, my love.”

He kissed her knuckles softly, lingering there for just a moment longer than necessary, as if grounding himself—before straightening, resolve settling back into his posture.

The next few days passed in a way no one at the Hazbin Hotel could have predicted.

Al and Y/N didn’t merely stay—they settled.

Where Alastor’s presence always felt like a challenge, a looming performance sharpened to a knife’s edge, Al felt… approachable. He greeted everyone with warmth that never felt forced, his smile easy rather than predatory, his voice calm without losing its authority. It unsettled some at first. Comfort in Hell always did.

Charlie, especially, gravitated toward him.

Whenever she burst in with a new idea—half-formed, overambitious, brimming with nervous excitement—Al would pause whatever he was doing and give her his full attention. No smirk. No mocking laughter. Just focus.

“As I was saying, Charlie, the décor here is—oh, hold on a moment, dear,” he said once, reaching out gently. “You’ve a bit of lint on your collar. There we go! Perfectly radiant.”

Charlie blinked, cheeks warming as she laughed softly.

“Now,” Al continued smoothly, tapping the blueprint she held, “what if we shifted the color palette slightly? Something warmer near the entry—inviting, but not overwhelming. You want guests to feel seen, not judged.”

By the time he finished, Charlie was practically glowing, her mind buzzing with fresh inspiration. Vaggie stood beside her, arms crossed as usual—but her posture was looser, her scowl less severe.

She didn’t say it out loud, but she appreciated how Al spoke to her. He never talked over her. Never dismissed her instincts. When she corrected him, he listened. When she disagreed, he adjusted.

Husk, on the other hand, was deeply unsettled.

He watched Al refill glasses without being asked, offer a chair before someone realized they needed one, and remember everyone’s drink preferences by the second day.

“…What’s his angle?” Husk muttered into his bottle.

“I don’t believe there is one,” Al replied pleasantly, passing by. “Though if there were, I’d wager it’d be forty-five degrees. Optimal for balance.”

Husk stared after him, baffled. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”

Niffty was the last holdout.

She watched Al suspiciously at first, circling him like a territorial cat, clearly offended by how good he was. Too polite. Too clean. Too… well-adjusted.

Then one afternoon, she nearly vibrated out of her skin when he gently took one of her knives, examined the dull edge, and frowned.

“My dear girl,” he said kindly, “these are far too dull. If one must use a knife, it must be sharpened properly.”

He disappeared into the maintenance room and returned minutes later, handing them back—gleaming, perfect, deadly.

Niffty gasped.

“They’re better for stabbing!” she shrieked, hugging them to her chest.

From that moment on, Al was officially accepted—even if Niffty insisted on calling him a “good boy” in the same tone she used for murder weapons.

Alastor could only glare.

Every time Al helped Charlie brainstorm. Every time Lucifer laughed—actually laughed—at one of Al’s dry observations. Every time the staff relaxed in a way they never did around him, Alastor felt something coil tighter in his chest.

He hated it.

Hated how soft this version of him was. How open. How unguarded.

Weak, he thought bitterly.

Good to the point of boredom.

He stood near the edge of the lobby, arms crossed, watching Al demonstrate breathing techniques to Vaggie during training, golden light briefly outlining her stance as he nodded approvingly.

Y/N noticed his expression and chuckled quietly.

Alastor turned sharply. “And what, pray tell, is so amusing?”

She giggled again, not even trying to hide it. “You look like an angry cat.”

Alastor’s smile twitched—a sharp, jagged movement that threatened to crack his porcelain-perfect composure.

“An angry cat?” he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, static-laced rumble. “I assure you, my dear, I am far more predatory than a common house pet.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned in slightly, eyes bright with amusement. “Oh, I don’t know. The way your ears flatten when Al helps Charlie… and that little tail-flick of yours? It’s quite the display of pique.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “My Alastor used to do the exact same thing whenever I suggested he wear a color other than red.”

Across the lobby, Al was holding a blueprint for Charlie, gesturing with a glowing golden pointer.

“Now, Charlie, if we move the lounge area closer to the windows, the natural light—or what passes for it here—will boost serotonin levels significantly,” he explained. “And Vaggie, your stance earlier was excellent, but remember to breathe through the strike, not after.”

“He’s insufferable,” the Radio Demon hissed, turning back to Y/N. “A walking sunbeam. Nauseating. How do you stand the constant… helpfulness?”

Y/N’s smile softened, something wistful flickering in her eyes. “It wasn’t always like that,” she said gently. “He was sharp. Cold. Very, very lonely. He thought being ‘the best’ meant standing alone at the top.”

She folded her hands together. “It took years of me refusing to be intimidated by his shadows—of staying—before he realized that having a partner didn’t take away his power. It gave him something to use it for.”

She reached toward Alastor’s sleeve, then hesitated, letting her hand fall.

“You’re so busy protecting your image,” she continued quietly, “that you’ve forgotten how to actually live in the world you’ve built.”

Alastor’s eyes flickered, briefly transforming into radio dials.

“I live quite well,” he snapped. “I am the master of my domain. Beholden to no one.”

“Is that why you look at my husband with such longing?” she asked softly.

He let out a sharp, discordant laugh. “Longing? I look at him with disgust! He is a watered-down, lobotomized version of me!”

“No,” Y/N said calmly, stepping closer. “You look at him because he is the version of you that got everything he wanted without losing his soul to do it.”

She met his gaze without fear. “You’re jealous, Alastor. Not of his light—of his peace.”

Before he could respond, a loud THUD echoed from the kitchen.

Niffty burst out, clutching her knives. “The sparkly one made them better!”

Al followed her, wiping his hands with a silk handkerchief. “A sharp tool is a safe tool, Niffty darling! Now—who’s ready for afternoon tea? I believe I found chamomile that hasn’t turned into sentient sludge.”

Everyone drifted toward the dining hall without hesitation.

Even Lucifer.

Laughing.

“Come along, Alastor,” Y/N said gently, offering her arm. “Don’t be a sourpuss. I’m sure there’s enough tea for two of you.”

Alastor stared at her arm. Then at the group. Then adjusted his bowtie, his grin tight and dangerous.

“I suppose I can tolerate a cup,” he said coolly, stepping forward. “If only to ensure he doesn’t poison me with excessive sugar.”

The dining hall was thick with a tension that even the finest jambalaya couldn't mask. Al pulled his chair back just enough to guide Y/N onto his lap, his arm wrapping around her waist with possessive tenderness. He plucked a small, sugar-dusted pastry from a plate and held it to her lips, watching with a doting, soft-eyed expression as she took a bite.

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder, her ears twitching contentedly. "Thank you, love."

The sight was enough to make Husk choke on his drink. "I still can’t get used to this," he rasped, wiping his mouth. "It’s weird seeing... you... just be the total opposite of, well, you."

Alastor scoffed, the sound a harsh burst of static. He rolled his eyes so far back they nearly disappeared. "The sooner he leaves, the better," the Radio Demon muttered, his grip tightening on his silverware.

"Agreed," Al countered smoothly, though his smile didn't reach his eyes this time. He pulled Y/N a fraction closer. "The farther my wife is from you, the better."

The Radio Demon’s eyes began to glow a deep, threatening crimson, the radio dials in his pupils spinning. Al didn't flinch; instead, his own golden eyes glinted with a celestial fire, a sharp, predatory grin mirroring his counterpart's perfectly.

"Please, guys," Y/N pleaded softly, sensing the air beginning to crackle with power. "No need to fight."

"Sorry, love," Al murmured, though he didn't break eye contact with his shadow.

"Fucking weak," Alastor spat, the word dripping with venom. "Look at you. Why are you like this? Trapped in the clutches of sentimentality like a common house pet."

Al’s smile turned sharp as a razor. "I’m not weak, old pal. In fact, I can take you on right here and right now. I suspect my 'virtue' packs a punch you aren't prepared for."

Alastor snarled, his neck cracking as he began to grow, shadows bleeding from his silhouette. Al matched him, his own angelic aura flaring into a blinding, white-hot halo.

The table shook. Plates rattled. Charlie reached out a hand to stop them, but Y/N was faster.

She abruptly stood up. "No more of this! Enough!"

Her voice wasn't loud, but it had a weight to it that silenced the room. She stood between the two towering entities, her chest heaving. "If you all start arguing and doing a little contest based on your pride, then I swear I will beat you both and tie you to a chair until you get along! Do you hear me?!"

The two Alastors glared at each other over her head, their pride too great to back down first.

SLAM!

Y/N brought her hand down on the table with a force that cracked the wood. "Do you understand me?!"

Al’s golden glow flickered and died. He shrank back down to his normal size, looking remarkably like a chastised schoolboy. "...Yes, dear."

The Radio Demon opened his mouth to deliver a witty, soul-crushing retort. He wanted to tell her that no one commanded him—not a King, not a Seraphim, and certainly not a woman with a penchant for sweets.

But as his eyes met Y/N’s, he saw a spark of something. It was a fierce, maternal authority mixed with a terrifying, quiet resolve. It was a look he hadn't seen in decades—not since a small house in New Orleans. It was the look his mother gave him when he had crossed a line.

The static in the air died. The shadows retreated. Alastor cleared his throat, adjusting his monocle with a trembling hand. "I understand, my dear," he said, his voice unusually small.

"Good," Y/N said firmly. She smoothed her dress and sat back down in her own seat, picking up her fork as if she hadn't just cowed two of the most powerful beings in the room.

The rest of the table sat in stunned silence. Lucifer leaned over to Vaggie and whispered, "I like her. Can we keep her?"

The rest of the meal passed in a silence so dense it felt almost physical, pressing against the walls and settling heavily over the table. Cutlery clinked softly against porcelain, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. Al kept his gaze firmly fixed on his plate, shoulders tense, occasionally stealing cautious glances toward Y/N as though trying to determine whether he had been forgiven for his earlier behavior. Each time their eyes almost met, he would look away again, ears flicking with guilt.

Across from him, the Radio Demon sat unnervingly still. His posture was immaculate, his back straight, hands folded neatly beside his plate. His signature grin remained carved into his face, but it was tighter than usual—strained, almost brittle, like porcelain pulled too thin. The laughter and easy banter that had followed Al throughout the hotel were conspicuously absent here, replaced by a charged quiet that no one quite knew how to break.

When the plates were finally cleared and the last cups of tea drained, Al pushed his chair back a little too quickly. “I, ah—” he cleared his throat, standing. “I should inspect the perimeter.”

Everyone at the table knew exactly what that meant.

Charlie nodded politely, though her brow creased with concern. “Okay! Just… don’t go too far?”

“Of course, dear,” Al replied with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He didn’t look at Y/N as he left, already halfway out the door, cream coat swaying as he disappeared down the corridor that led toward the gardens. Within moments, the faint sound of the door opening to the outside drifted in, followed by silence once more.

Y/N lingered in the parlor, settling into one of the velvet armchairs with a book she hadn’t actually been reading. The fire crackled softly nearby, its glow painting warm highlights across the red-and-gold walls.

She sensed him before she saw him.

Alastor moved like a shadow unmoored from its owner, appearing suddenly in the armchair across from her, his presence announced only by the faint buzz of static and the soft tap of his cane against the floor.

“You have a very… effective way of commanding a room,” he remarked casually, though his voice lacked its usual razor-sharp edge.

Y/N looked up from her book and smiled, calm and unbothered. “It’s not about command, Alastor. It’s about boundaries.” She closed the book gently in her lap. “Even a man as powerful as you—or my husband—needs to be reminded that pride doesn’t put food on the table or keep a home peaceful.”

Alastor hummed thoughtfully, his fingers tapping a slow, uneven rhythm against the head of his cane. “You mentioned earlier,” he said, leaning forward slightly, the radio dials in his eyes pulsing faintly, “that your Alastor had a… dark path ahead of him. That he chose to let someone in.” His grin thinned. “Tell me—what was the turning point? What could possibly convince a man who values his soul above all else to… share it?”

Her answer was immediate.

“His father.”

The effect was instant.

Though the Radio Demon’s posture remained rigid, the shadows in the room flickered violently, as if caught in a sudden, unseen draft. The fire crackled louder for just a moment. Alastor’s hand tightened around his cane, a sharp, involuntary flinch betraying him before he forced himself to go still. He smoothed his expression back into polite indifference, though the static in the air rose to a higher, more agitated pitch.

Y/N didn’t seem to notice—or chose not to.

Her gaze drifted away, unfocused now, fixed on something far beyond the crimson walls of the parlor. “We were childhood best friends,” she said softly, a small, bittersweet smile touching her lips. “He went through so much as a child. He was quite the charmer back then… brown curls and a smile that could make any girl swoon.”

Something twisted in Alastor’s chest.

He remembered those curls. He remembered the effort it took to keep that smile bright and effortless, even when his ribs ached and the house felt too quiet without his mother’s voice.

“As we got older,” Y/N continued, her voice dipping into something heavier, “the world became… crueler. His father grew harsher, more demanding. And his mother…” She paused, swallowing. “She had just recently passed. He was hurting so deeply, Alastor. That cruelty from his father only grew. He was standing on the edge of a very dark wood.” Her hands tightened around the book in her lap. “He was ready to become a monster because he believed that was the only way he’d never be hurt again.”

“And what did you do?” Alastor asked quietly. His voice crawled low and rough, the radio filter no longer sounding performative, but defensive—like armor pulled too tight. “How do you stop a man who has already decided the world deserves his hunger?”

Y/N turned to him then, truly looking at him. Her eyes locked onto his with startling clarity, the kind that felt less like judgment and more like understanding. “I didn’t stop him,” she said gently. “I walked into the woods with him.”

Alastor’s breath hitched, just barely.

“I told him that if he was going to be a monster,” she continued, “then I would be the one to remind him why he was human in the first place. I gave him a place where he didn’t have to wear the mask.” Her voice softened further. “But he chose me. He chose us. So… we ran away. We got married.” A faint smile returned. “And he became the most successful radio host in our world.”

She reached out then, her hand hovering just inches from Alastor’s clawed fingers resting atop his cane. At the last second, she flinched—hesitated—and drew her hand back.

“He didn’t share his soul because he was weak,” she said quietly. “He shared it because carrying it alone was the heaviest thing he’d ever done.”

Alastor stared at her, his grin frozen in place, thoughts spiraling chaotically beneath the surface. Memories surged—his mother’s gentle smile, the way she’d brushed his hair back and told him he was a good boy, even when the world told him otherwise. He thought of the isolation he’d built around himself, brick by brick, shadow by shadow, until nothing could get in… or out.

The silence shattered as the front doors creaked open.

Al stepped back inside, his cream coat dusted with a few stray petals from the garden, golden light faintly clinging to him like an afterimage. His eyes immediately found Y/N—and then narrowed slightly as he noticed how close she sat to the Radio Demon.

“Darling?” he called, his voice warm but edged with concern, and something else—possessive, protective.

Alastor stood abruptly, his chair scraping faintly as his shadows snapped back obediently to his heels. “A charming tale, truly!” he boomed suddenly, his voice returning to its loud, polished broadcast tone. “Though I suspect it’s mostly fiction. Real life is rarely so… poetic.”

He turned sharply on his heel, cane clicking loudly against the floor. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hotel to oversee. There are bugs to squash and souls to—well, you know the drill!”

He didn’t wait for a response.

The walk to his room felt longer than usual, the hallway stretching and warping as though Hell itself was conspiring to give him too much time to think. He reached his door, shut it with a decisive click, and leaned his forehead against the wood.

The grin faded.

For the first time in over a century, the Radio Demon stood alone in silence—and felt the crushing weight of it press in from all sides.

Alastor told himself the curiosity meant nothing.

At first, it was merely observation—clinical, detached, the way one studied a rival before dismantling them. He noticed how Y/N looked at him not with fear, nor awe, nor the brittle politeness most demons adopted in his presence, but with something dangerously unfamiliar.

Kindness.

It unsettled him far more than hostility ever could.

She met his gaze without flinching, without shrinking, without that telltale tightening around the eyes that screamed threat detected. There was no calculation in her expression, no frantic attempt to appease or placate. Just calm attention, as though he were… normal.

He hated that.

And yet, as the days passed, he found himself watching her more closely than he intended.

He saw how she moved through the hotel, her presence subtly shifting the atmosphere wherever she went. Not overpowering, not commanding—simply steady. She spoke gently, but never hesitated. When something needed addressing, she faced it head-on, voice even, eyes clear. There was no fear in her posture, no tremor in her hands when she spoke to him—or anyone else.

At first, he told himself the fascination was purely aesthetic. He could admit that much without surrendering ground. She was beautiful in her angelic form—radiant without being blinding, graceful without fragility. It stood to reason that she must have been striking in life as well. The kind of beauty that lingered, not screamed.

But it wasn’t just that.

It was her calm.

The way she listened. The way she chose her words carefully, not out of fear, but intention. The way she offered warmth without expectation, kindness without obligation.

Alastor began to understand—against his will—why Al had married her.

He watched them together from a distance, his grin fixed as ever, eyes sharp. Al was not weak. That much became undeniable. He could be annoyed, irritated, even sharp when pushed. He had opinions. He had pride. But the moment Y/N entered the room, something in him shifted.

Al’s shoulders would relax. His voice would soften. The tension would drain from him like water from a cracked glass.

He would smile at her.

And she would smile back.

It was sickening.

Alastor thought it was disgusting—this mutual softness, this ease. A vulnerability so openly displayed it bordered on reckless. He scoffed at it, dismissed it, told himself it was proof of inferiority.

And yet.

He found himself wondering.

If he had someone like her… would he have turned out the way he did?

No. Of course he would have, he told himself sharply. The world had carved him into what he was. There had been no alternate ending. No gentler path.

But the question refused to die.

After everything—after the blood, the screams, the deals and the decades of isolation—if he had someone like her, would he have found peace? Would he have been able to set down the constant vigilance, the ever-present hunger, even for a moment?

Would he have been able to relax in her presence?

The thought lingered longer than it should have, curling in the quiet spaces of his mind, warm and dangerous and utterly unwelcome.

And that, more than anything else, made him uneasy.

That afternoon, Alastor moved through the hotel with a meticulous precision that could have rivaled the most masterful of conductors. Every step, every gesture, every tap of his cane was deliberate, orchestrated to perfection. A minor “structural emergency” on the hotel’s balcony—conveniently requiring an angelic touch—had drawn Al away, leaving Y/N alone in the kitchen, though Alastor insisted this was merely an opportunity to test his own efficiency.

Al lingered at the kitchen threshold, his golden eyes narrowed in a sharp glare that promised celestial retribution if even a single hair on Y/N’s head was harmed. But she, ever serene, simply patted his hand with a soft smile.

“I’ll be fine, love. Go help Charlie,” she said gently, her voice carrying that rare mixture of warmth and authority.

Al’s expression softened slightly at the reassurance, though his hand lingered in hers for a brief, almost imperceptible heartbeat before he finally stepped back, vanishing through the doors to the balcony with the grace of someone both reluctant and protective.

Now, the kitchen was quiet except for the rhythmic bubbling of a pot on the stove. The scent of simmering spices filled the room—thyme, paprika, garlic—all mingling with the faint, lingering tang of brimstone that seemed permanently woven into the hotel’s air. Y/N wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face the Radio Demon, who had appeared silently behind her.

“Now,” she said softly, tilting her head, “what is it that you’re so curious about that you wanted me alone?”

Alastor’s head tilted at the question, one eyebrow raised, his grin stretching wide, static buzzing faintly at the edges of his smile. “Whatever do you mean, dear? I simply thought we could use a head start on tonight’s dinner. A host must always be prepared!”

Y/N chuckled lightly, unimpressed. “Alright, Alastor. What about some jambalaya and cornbread? Perhaps a few beignets for dessert?”

“Excellent choices!” Alastor said, clapping his hands together once. “And if I might—oh! Why don’t I suggest a recipe for the—”

“I already have one,” she interrupted, calm and assured, a gentle smile on her lips that seemed to deflate his enthusiasm ever so slightly.

Alastor froze, the radio static in his eyes flickering faintly. “Oh?” he murmured, the word sharp and curious.

“It’s your—well, Al’s—mother’s recipe,” she said quietly, reaching for the cornmeal. Her voice held no judgment, only quiet respect, yet even that simple mention struck Alastor like a physical blow.

He instinctively moved to grab a heavy ceramic bowl from a high shelf, his movements a touch too forceful, sending a faint vibration across the counter. The shadows at his feet quivered.

“You two are a lot alike,” Y/N remarked softly, watching him carefully, noting the tension in his movements, the imperceptible tightening of his jaw.

“I assure you, my dear,” Alastor’s voice dropped an octave, radio static humming with sharp, electric undertones, “we are not alike in the slightest.”

Y/N stepped closer, the calm radiating from her like sunlight in a cavern. She didn’t flinch at the static or the antlered shadow that now loomed behind him. Instead, she reached out, placing her hands firmly over his, guiding the bowl down onto the counter. Her touch was warm, grounding, and yet it demanded attention.

“I know you,” she said softly, her eyes locked on his. “You’re not my husband, no… but you are the version of him who burned all his bridges just to keep warm. You went down the dark path he almost took.”

Alastor’s grip tightened on the counter, porcelain-white knuckles pressing into the wood until it creaked under his claws. The shadows around him writhed like living things, sensing the swell of emotion.

“And I’m sorry,” she continued, her voice like a balm to a wound long ignored. “I’m sorry that you had no one to help you. I’m sorry that you went through what you went through alone. I see it in your eyes, Alastor. You react just like my husband does when he’s cornered. But the difference is… you have made no peace.”

She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper that cut through the white noise of static and chaos around him. “Just like your static… your thoughts are chaotic and loud, dear. You’re trying so hard to drown out the silence of being alone.”

Alastor’s shadow stretched taller against the wall, the jagged antlers behind him seeming to quiver in anticipation of violence he didn’t release. His eyes flickered rapidly, the radio dials spinning with intensity, voice crawling into a distorted, haunting timbre.

“It is… dangerous to give pity to a demon like me, Y/N,” he hissed.

She did not recoil. She did not hesitate. Her hands remained on his, warmth seeping into his grey skin as if dissolving the ice built over a century of isolation.

“It’s not pity, hun,” she said gently, a sad, knowing smile on her lips. “It’s recognition.”

For the first time in centuries, the mask on his face slipped just slightly. The grin faltered, the perfect façade cracking to reveal something hollow and aching. His voice dropped, no static, no broadcast—just him, raw and unshielded.

He saw her—not as a tool, not as a puzzle, not as a nuisance—but as the person who could have changed everything.

The silence that followed was no longer oppressive; it was dense, weighted with possibility, with life and choice and memory.

Alastor’s throat constricted. The static in the room thickened, a tangible, suffocating pressure that pressed against his chest.

“Recognition,” he repeated, a distorted, glitching echo of the word leaving his lips. He tried to laugh—a sharp, rattling sound—but it fell flat, a gesture of old habits rather than amusement. “You speak as if I am a puzzle to be solved, or a stray dog to be brought in from the rain! I am the Radio Demon, my dear! I have toppled overlords, made the streets run red with the blood of those who dared oppose me!”

“And yet here you are, with me,” she said softly, voice slicing through the theatrics with precision. “Executing your little plan to get me alone. Why, Alastor? If you are so superior, why do you crave the perspective of a ‘pawn’ like me?”

The static spiked violently, a shrill, piercing whistle that made the glassware on the shelves vibrate and quiver. Alastor jerked his hands away from hers, spinning sharply to grip the edge of the sink. His claws dug deep into the porcelain, spiderweb cracks forming beneath them. Shadows twisted and writhed in the corners of the room, responding to the turmoil in their master.

“What do you want?” he hissed, voice tight with fury and confusion. “Why tell me these things? To mock me with a ghost of a life I never had? To show me how ‘noble’ your version of him is?”

“No,” she replied, calm and unwavering. “I’m telling you because you’re hurting, Alastor. And you’ve been hurting for so long that you’ve mistaken the ache for power.”

Her hands moved, lifting the wooden spoon she’d been using. She began to stir the pot again, slow, rhythmic, grounding herself—and him—against the chaotic hum of his shadows and static.

“I’m telling you because you look at my husband and see a ‘weak’ man,” she said, voice steady as the beat of the spoon against the metal, “but I look at you and I see a man who is terrified. Terrified that if the static ever stops, you’ll have to hear your own heart breaking. You don’t have to be the Radio Demon with me. You don’t even have to be a ‘good’ man. You just have to… be yourself.”

Alastor’s shoulders shook, his jagged grin faltering entirely. The weight of her words settled into his chest, spreading warmth through cracks he didn’t know existed. For the first time, his shadow didn’t writhe with violence or threat—it lay flat, tentative, wary, as if even it recognized her honesty.

“I’m not scared,” he admitted finally, voice stripped of its filter. Hollow, dry, human. “I am… just… confused.”

He did not turn to her fully, though the corner of his eye caught her form, calm and composed, a lighthouse in the storm of his mind.

“I know I am not a good man like your husband,” he murmured, the words bitter but honest. “Even if I had… even if I hadn’t followed through with my darker impulses… I enjoy the carnage. I enjoy the terror. Having power… it is the only thing that makes the silence bearable.”

And yet, even as he said it, even as the shadow of his past loomed over him, he felt an unfamiliar tug. An almost unbearable curiosity.

He glanced at her again, this time fully, taking in the calm kindness of her expression, the way her hands moved with such quiet confidence.

“Why would a woman like you—someone who knows the best version of me—even bother looking at a creature like this?” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “I am the rot in the garden you spoke of… the shadow you could have avoided… and yet… you look at me like… like I am not poison.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. And for the first time in a century, Alastor didn’t feel the need to broadcast, to perform, to hide behind static. He felt something else—warmth.

Alastor’s words hung in the air, trembling on the edge of confession, and for the first time, the usual static hum of his presence felt uneven, almost fragile. He could feel the pulse of the shadows at his feet, restless, sensing the shift in their master’s heartbeat—something dangerous, something unknown, and yet… not violent.

Y/N turned fully toward him, her amber eyes calm and unwavering. She took a step closer, so close that the warmth from her presence brushed against his cold, grey skin. She didn’t flinch at his antlers, didn’t shrink from the sharpness of his gaze. Instead, she let herself meet him fully, without hesitation or fear, as though daring him to drop the mask he’d worn for centuries.

“You asked why I would look at you like… like you are not poison,” she said softly, her voice carrying a gentle resonance that made the hair on his arms stand on end. “And the answer is… because I see the man behind the static. The man behind the shadows and the chaos. You think I’m looking at your cruelty or your power, but I’m not. I’m looking at you, Alastor. Not the Radio Demon, not the monster everyone fears. Just… you.”

Alastor stiffened. The words struck him like an unexpected chord, sweet and discordant all at once. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. His static twitched, low and wavering, as if his very essence was struggling to reconcile the honesty of her gaze with the thousand years of carefully honed menace he carried.

“You… you see me?” he rasped finally, his voice stripped of its usual bravado, trembling with something almost like disbelief.

“I do,” she said, a small, sad smile curling her lips. “I see the pain you’ve carried, the solitude you’ve wrapped around yourself like armor. But I also see the potential for… something more. Someone who can stand in his own shadow and still let warmth in. Someone who doesn’t have to be alone. Someone… who could choose to let someone care, even if it’s terrifying.”

Alastor’s eyes flickered from the corner of her face to her hands, still resting lightly on the counter. His antlers twitched, shadows shivering with agitation—and something else, something unspoken. The warmth in her voice, the unwavering steadiness of her gaze… it was foreign. Confounding. And, alarmingly, it was beginning to make the corners of his grin soften.

“Warmth,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I… I have not… felt it… in such a way… since…” He stopped abruptly, the admission catching in his throat, unfinished, raw.

Y/N’s gaze didn’t falter. Instead, she took another careful step closer, tilting her head, studying him as one might study a delicate instrument, aware of its fragility yet intrigued by its hidden resonance. “You don’t have to fear being seen, Alastor,” she said softly. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen all of it. And… it doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t push me away. Not you, not the darkness. Not the shadows that crawl at your heels. I see the man underneath it all, and I… I care for him. For you. Not the legend, not the demon—the man.”

The room seemed to shrink around him. The sound of the bubbling pot, the ticking of distant clocks, the faint hiss of static in the corners of his perception—it all faded into a low, steady rhythm, one that somehow matched the beat of something else inside him. His chest constricted. His claws twitched, not from anger, but from the strange, unfamiliar sensation that was not fear, not lust, not hunger.

It was warmth.

He could feel it, radiating from her, filling the hollow spaces in him that had gone centuries unacknowledged. And with it came a realization he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit. The careful mask he had worn, the grin that had become his signature weapon, the laughter that had echoed across Hell like a gunshot—they were all defenses. Against what? Against this. Against the possibility that someone could see him, truly see him, and not recoil.

Alastor’s jaw tightened. He looked at her from under lowered lids, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in an almost protective intensity. “And if I… allowed such… warmth,” he began, voice hesitant, faltering slightly, “if I allowed someone to… care… what would become of me? Would it… ruin me?”

Y/N’s smile softened, and she shook her head gently. “It wouldn’t ruin you, Alastor. It might frighten you, at first. It might make you feel vulnerable, even exposed. But it wouldn’t ruin you. And maybe, for the first time, you could… relax. Let someone in. Not as a weakness, but as a choice. Because even the strongest shadow can benefit from light, if only to understand its own edges.”

Alastor’s antlers twitched again, the shadows trembling slightly at his feet. He felt a shiver run down his spine, an unfamiliar ache that was neither hunger nor anger. He looked at her again, truly looked, and something in him shifted. The grin he usually wore, jagged and predatory, softened ever so slightly, though his pride would never let him admit it.

He noticed how her eyes didn’t waver, even when his shadows writhed and the static climbed in intensity. He noticed how she held herself with such calm, such certainty, yet still radiated warmth. How she spoke with patience and understanding, how her presence seemed to smooth the jagged edges of his mind.

And for the first time, Alastor allowed himself the dangerous, forbidden thought.

If I had someone like her… would I have been able to find peace? Could I have relaxed in someone’s presence without the world crumbling beneath me?

He shook his head almost violently, as though trying to cast the thought aside, yet the echo of it remained, resonating with each pulse of his shadow.

“And yet…” he murmured, voice low, almost unrecognizable even to himself. “Even knowing… even understanding… I… I cannot… help… but wonder… if I… could have…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. She understood. She had always understood. And in that understanding, Alastor felt something dangerous stir—a warmth in his chest that had no right to exist, a curiosity about her, about her light, about how she could look at him like he was… normal, like he was more than a monster, more than the Radio Demon.

Y/N reached out again, a tentative, gentle gesture, letting her fingers brush against the back of his hand—not touching, not holding, just… acknowledging. The warmth was deliberate, soft, grounding, and Alastor, for the first time in a century, let himself be affected.

And the thought that followed, quiet, insidious, terrifying, and… thrilling, slipped into his mind:

Could I… fall for someone like this?

The days that followed blurred together in a way that unsettled more than just the hotel’s residents.

Alastor changed.

Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone could point and accuse him of weakness. But the difference was there, threaded through his behavior like a subtle modulation in a familiar broadcast. His booming laughter no longer filled every room he entered. His commentary, once sharp and needling, softened into dry observations or, more often, silence. He watched more than he spoke, and whenever Y/N was present, his attention inevitably drifted toward her—never obvious, never crude, but unmistakably focused.

He listened when she spoke.

He remembered what she liked.

He found himself… adjusting.

When Charlie rambled excitedly about new programs or decor ideas, Alastor no longer interrupted just to hear himself talk. He let her finish. Occasionally, he even offered thoughtful suggestions instead of theatrical mockery. Husk noticed first, blinking in confusion when Alastor simply nodded at him instead of delivering a cutting remark. Vaggie remained wary but couldn’t deny the shift. Even Niffty paused mid-scurry once, staring at Alastor as if expecting him to snap at her—only for him to merely step aside so she could pass.

It was unnerving.

And it was Y/N.

Their conversations became more frequent, more… personal. Quiet talks in hallways, in the kitchen, in the parlor when the hotel settled into its late-night hush. She spoke to him like a person, not a threat. She asked questions and listened to the answers without judgment. And Alastor—damn him—answered. Not fully. Not recklessly. But more than he ever had with anyone else.

He found himself anticipating her presence.

Looking for her.

Waiting.

The Angel Al noticed everything.

He saw the way the Radio Demon’s posture shifted when Y/N laughed, how the jagged grin softened just a fraction, how the shadows no longer bristled when she came near. He felt the shift in the air, the subtle tightening of something old and dangerous. This wasn’t idle curiosity. This wasn’t rivalry.

It was fascination.

And fascination, Al knew, could rot into desire if left unchecked.

He refused to give it space.

If he could not confront it directly without causing conflict—or risking Y/N’s temper, which he knew far too well—then he would answer it with presence. With devotion. With reminder.

He became her constant companion.

His hand rested at the small of her back whenever they walked together, fingers warm and grounding. His arm circled her waist without apology. His wings, when unfurled, subtly shielded her from crowded rooms. He spoke her name often, softly, anchoring himself to her in every space they occupied.

Y/N noticed, of course.

She always noticed.

That night, when they finally retreated to their suite, the world beyond the door seemed to exhale. The air inside was cool and faintly perfumed with the heavenly jasmine she favored, the soft glow of the lamps casting warm light across the room. Y/N stood before the vanity, slowly brushing out her hair, her movements unhurried, relaxed.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She felt him before she heard him.

Al stepped up close, his presence immediate and enveloping, arms sliding around her waist with a firmness that made her breath hitch. He pulled her back against his chest, grounding himself in her warmth as if he’d been holding himself together all day purely for this moment.

She smiled at their reflection in the mirror, leaning her head back slightly so it rested against his shoulder. “Oh… hello, my love,” she murmured, amusement lacing her voice. “Are you alright? You’re… quite clingy tonight.”

His answer wasn’t verbal at first.

His grip tightened—not painful, but possessive—before he lowered his face to the sensitive curve of her neck. His breath was warm, lingering, and his antlers, usually glowing with steady, tranquil light, pulsed faintly, betraying the restless energy beneath his composed exterior.

“I’m alright,” he murmured against her skin, his voice low and vibrating through her. “Just… it’s been quite a minute since I’ve had you to myself.”

Her cheeks flushed a deep, dusty rose, heat spreading beneath her skin. “Honey…” she whispered, half a warning, half an invitation.

He didn’t stop.

Slow, deliberate kisses traced along her shoulder, reverent and unhurried, up toward her ear. Each one lingered just long enough to make her breath stutter. She lifted a hand to her mouth instinctively, stifling the soft, involuntary sound that escaped her. “Baby—”

Al turned her gently but firmly in his arms, guiding her to face him. His golden eyes were darker now, burnished with something raw and primal that she rarely saw in the gentler version of him. He leaned down, inhaling deeply—her hair, her skin, the familiar warmth of her presence anchoring him completely.

“Mine,” he whispered, the word carrying weight, devotion, and a flicker of jealousy he didn’t bother to hide. It was a vow as much as a claim. “You are mine my darling doe.”

Y/N’s smile softened, her gaze filled with warmth as her fingers threaded through his soft red hair, drawing him closer without hesitation. “Yes, my love,” she replied, calm and certain, as if the truth of it required no emphasis at all. “I’m yours.”

Al pushed Y/N against the vanity with a firm, possessive grip, his white antlers catching the dim light as he maneuvered her body like she was his most treasured possession. Her doe ears flattened against her head in anticipation, a soft whimper escaping her lips as he wedged himself between her trembling thighs. With effortless strength, he lifted her onto the edge of the vanity, her angel wings fluttering slightly behind her, brushing against the cool surface.

He dropped to his knees, his red hair tousled and wild, and pressed his lips to the sensitive skin between her thighs. Y/N moaned into her hand, muffling the sound as heat flooded her core. Her voice came out shaky, laced with worry. "A-Alastor, please... what if they hear?"

Al looked up at her, his eyes gleaming with dark promise. "No worries, my dear," he murmured, snapping his fingers. A golden light shimmered around them, enveloping the room in a magical barrier. The air hummed faintly with the spell's power, sealing their intimate space from the outside world. "I've made it so no one can hear us. Is that better?"

She nodded, her breath hitching, doe ears twitching as relief mixed with desire.

"Good," he purred, his voice low and commanding. "Now, my dear, let me taste you."

Y/N gasped sharply as his mouth descended, his lips trailing hot kisses along her inner thighs, teasing the soft flesh there. He parted her legs wider, exposing her slick pussy to his hungry gaze. Starting slow, he flicked his tongue over her clit with gentle, deliberate licks, savoring the way her body jerked in response.

"Love—" she started, her voice breaking.

"Shh, sweetheart," he interrupted softly, his breath warm against her folds. "Let me enjoy my darling wife, yeah?"

A shaky moan tore from her throat, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes from the building intensity. "Baby, love— I can't—"

He increased the pace, his tongue lapping faster at her swollen clit, delving into her wetness with fervent strokes. "Yes, you can, my love," he growled against her, the vibrations sending sparks through her. "You will, darling."

Al devoured her pussy like a man starved, his tongue plunging deep into her entrance before circling back to suckle on her clit. He was utterly pussy drunk, lost in the taste of her arousal, the way her juices coated his lips and chin. His hands roamed her body in worship—caressing the curve of her hips, tracing the delicate feathers of her angel wings, thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples through her thin top. "You're exquisite, my sweet doe," he praised between licks, his voice muffled but reverent. "So wet for me, so perfect. These thighs... this pussy... all mine to adore."

Y/N shook uncontrollably, her fingers tangling in his soft red hair, gripping tight as she sought purchase. Her hands slid higher, clutching his white antlers for leverage, the bony protrusions warm and smooth under her palms. Al's wings ruffled behind him, a low rumble of pleasure vibrating from his chest as she held on, pulling him closer.

The pressure built relentlessly, her body coiling tight. When she came, it shattered through her like lightning—her angel wings spreading wide in ecstasy, feathers quivering as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She moaned loudly, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, her hips bucking wildly. She tried to squirm away, oversensitive and overwhelmed, but Alastor held her thighs pinned with unyielding strength, his mouth never ceasing its assault.

He didn't stop. Instead, he slipped two fingers inside her clenching pussy, curling them with expert finesse to stroke that sensitive spot deep within. He pumped them in and out with purpose, his tongue still teasing her clit, drawing out every aftershock. Her wings ruffled erratically, folding and unfurling as fresh tremors rocked her body.

Alastor smirked up at her, his eyes locked on her tear-streaked face, drinking in her vulnerability. He finger-fucked her harder, the wet sounds of her arousal filling the soundproofed room, his praises turning husky. "That's it, my angel... give me everything. You're so beautiful like this, falling apart for your husband."

Overstimulation hit her like a tidal wave, her moans turning into desperate pleas, but he pushed her through it until she was a quivering mess. Finally, he pulled away, his fingers glistening with her cum, and rose to capture her lips in a deep, claiming kiss. She gasped into his mouth, tasting herself on his tongue.

"Good girl," he whispered against her lips, his voice tender yet triumphant. "I knew you could be a good girl for me, darling."

Y/N's chest heaved with ragged breaths, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her release. She leaned back against the mirror of the vanity, her angel wings partially folded but twitching with residual sensitivity. Al's hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts as he pulled her into another kiss, slower this time, letting her taste the remnants of her own essence on his lips. His antlers grazed her forehead lightly, a gentle contrast to the raw hunger in his eyes.

He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down her neck, nipping at the soft skin there. 'My beautiful wife,' he murmured, his voice a low radio static hum that sent shivers racing down her spine. "You've given me such a gift. But I'm far from done with you." He groaned softly, the sound rumbling from his chest as he inhaled her scent.

Y/N whimpered softly, her doe ears perking up slightly as his fingers hooked into the hem of her top, tugging it upward. She lifted her arms obediently, letting him strip the fabric away, exposing her bare breasts to the cool air. Her nipples hardened instantly under his gaze, and he wasted no time, leaning in to capture one peak between his lips. He sucked firmly, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud while his hand kneaded the other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. A deep moan escaped him, vibrating against her skin as he savored her taste.

"Ah—Ala-," she gasped, her hands finding his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his coat. Her wings fluttered behind her, brushing against the vanity's edge.

He hummed in approval, the vibration traveling straight to her core, reigniting the ache between her legs. Switching sides, he lavished the same attention on her other nipple, grazing it with his teeth just hard enough to make her arch into him. "These are perfect," he praised, his free hand sliding down her stomach to dip between her thighs again. His fingers teased her soaked folds, circling her entrance without entering, drawing out fresh moans from her—and a low groan from him as he felt her wetness coat his digits.

She bucked her hips instinctively, seeking more friction, but he pinned her down with his weight, his body pressing her further into the vanity. "Patience, darling," he chuckled darkly, releasing her breast with a wet pop. "I want to savor every inch of you." He let out a ragged groan, his breath hot against her collarbone.

Standing fully now, Al shrugged off his coat, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. His shirt followed, revealing the lean, toned muscles of his chest, marked faintly with old scars from battles long past. Y/N's eyes roamed over him hungrily, her hands reaching out to trace the lines of his body, fingers lingering on the base of his antlers as he bent to kiss her once more. He moaned into her mouth, the sound muffled but intense.

With a swift motion, he unbuckled his pants, shoving them down along with his underwear. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already glistening with precum. It throbbed visibly, veins pulsing along its length, and Y/N's breath caught at the sight. She reached for him tentatively, wrapping her fingers around his shaft, stroking from base to tip with a feather-light touch.

Al groaned deeply, his wings unfurling slightly behind him, red feathers ruffling as pleasure coursed through him. "That's it, my love," he encouraged, thrusting shallowly into her hand, another moan tearing from his throat. "Touch your husband like you mean it."

Emboldened, she pumped him firmer, her thumb swiping over the slit to spread his precum, making his length slick. He watched her with hooded eyes, one hand bracing on the vanity beside her head, the other guiding her wrist to set a rhythm. But soon, his control wavered—he captured her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss her knuckles before stepping closer. A guttural groan escaped as he felt her grip tighten briefly.

"Enough teasing," he growled, lifting her hips slightly to position himself at her entrance. The head of his cock nudged her pussy, parting her folds as he rubbed it up and down, coating himself in her arousal. Y/N's doe ears flattened again, her wings spreading wide in anticipation, feathers quivering. Al moaned low, the friction against her slick heat driving him wild.

"Please," she whispered, tears of need gathering in her eyes once more. "I need you inside me."

With a triumphant grin, Al thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. Her walls clenched around him, hot and wet, pulling him deeper. They both moaned in unison, the sound echoing softly in their enchanted bubble—his a deep, resonant groan that vibrated through his body into hers. He paused for a moment, letting her adjust to his girth, his forehead resting against hers.

"Tight as ever," he breathed, starting to rock his hips slowly. Each thrust was deliberate, grinding against her clit with every inward push. Y/N's legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back to urge him on. Her hands clutched his antlers again, using them as leverage to meet his movements. Al groaned with each slide, the sensation of her pussy gripping him pulling more sounds from his lips.

He picked up the pace, fucking her with steady, powerful strokes that made the vanity creak beneath them. His wings beat once, twice, fanning warm air over their joined bodies. "Feel that, darling? How perfectly you take me," he panted, one hand slipping between them to rub circles on her clit, heightening the sensations. A sharp moan broke from him as her inner muscles fluttered.

Y/N cried out, her body arching as pleasure built anew. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with sweat, but she didn't care—only the feel of him filling her, stretching her, mattered. "Yes—oh god, baby—harder," she begged, her voice breaking.

Obliging, he slammed into her faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady as he chased their mutual release. Her pussy fluttered around him, signaling her impending climax, and he angled his thrusts to hit that spot inside her relentlessly. Groans poured from him with every deep plunge, his control slipping as ecstasy built.

"Cum for me again, my angel," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Milk my cock—show me how much you love it." He moaned loudly, the words barely coherent through his pleasure.

The words tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, walls spasming wildly around him as she screamed his name. Her wings flared out fully, knocking a few bottles from the vanity in her thrashing. Al followed moments later, burying deep as he spilled inside her, hot ropes of cum flooding her pussy. He roared softly, a series of deep groans accompanying his release, his antlers glowing faintly with angelic energy, wings enveloping them both in a cocoon of feathers.

They stayed locked together, panting and spent, as the golden barrier around them shimmered. Al peppered her face with gentle kisses, wiping away her tears with his thumb. "My perfect doe," he whispered. "Forever mine."

Y/N smiled weakly, nuzzling into his neck, her ears twitching contentedly. "And you're mine, love. Always."

After some aftercare, Al carefully draped the covers over Y/N’s sleeping form, his expression softening from one of genuine adoration to something far more deliberate, measured, and precise. His eyes lingered on her delicate features—the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the faint twitch of her ears as she shifted in her sleep, the tiny curl of her lips that seemed to hold some private, unspoken thought. There was a warmth in him, one he had never allowed to surface so freely before, but it was quickly replaced by calculation. He knew the extent of the Radio Demon’s range, the sharp precision with which his counterpart could sense every nuance of sound. The sensitivity of those delicate deer ears wasn’t just a quirk; it was a tool, a weapon if wielded correctly. With a snap of his fingers, Al had crafted a carefully contained sphere of silence that enveloped the master suite, shielding the Princess, the King, and the hotel staff from the auditory evidence of what had occurred, while purposefully leaving a tiny, strategic leak that seeped directly toward the room next door.

It was a subtle, exquisite little reminder. A celestial middle finger, wrapped in silk, polished to perfection, a message that only the Radio Demon could decipher: some things were forever beyond his reach.

Next door, Alastor was undergoing a torment unlike any he had ever known, a slow, burning torture of the senses that no amount of static, no volume of noise, could drown out. He, the master of sound, the conductor of chaos, the unparalleled Radio Demon, was now subject to an auditory onslaught so intimate and precise that it cut him to the bone. He lay rigid beneath the sheets of his bed, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling as the static in his skull—a constant companion he had used as armor for decades—failed utterly to drown out the reality of the room beside him.

The rhythmic creak of the bed, the sharp, ragged intake of breath, the wet, unmistakable slap of flesh against flesh—every sound etched itself into him, sharper than any blade.

He twisted and turned, claws digging into the tangled sheets, his dark tail lashing in agitation, not from disgust but from the sudden, terrifyingly hot rush of blood coursing through him. Every nerve in his body screamed in a way it hadn’t for centuries. The voice—her voice—was the cruelest, most exquisite weapon.

“Alastor…”

She had whispered his name. Even if she meant the other one, the sound was his alone, impossibly intimate, searing through him with all the force of a live wire. Every vibration of the word carried a weight he could not bear, a connection that, by all rights, should not have existed. The syllables hit him with a precision only someone who knew him, all of him, could ever achieve.

He thrashed beneath his covers, tossing them aside in desperation, trying in vain to block the sound, but nothing could mute the memory, the essence of her voice reverberating in his bones. It was maddening. Infuriating. And disturbingly, painfully arousing in ways that made him clench his fists and hiss under his breath.

Finally, unable to endure a single second longer of the relentless auditory assault, Alastor snapped. A hiss, a crackle, and a puff of smoke later, he had vanished from his room, reappearing in the dimly lit lobby bar, chest heaving, bowtie slightly askew, claws still trembling as if the effort of restraint had been a physical trial.

Husk, polishing a glass as always, looked up with a frown, immediately noticing the state of his boss. “What’s wrong, boss? Rough night?” he asked, sliding a bottle of something strong toward him without hesitation, familiarity in his movements belying concern.

Alastor’s claws dug into the polished edge of the bar, leaving faint scratch marks. “You don’t hear it?” he rasped, the static in his voice fluctuating violently as though his control over his usual broadcast persona had weakened. His eyes, normally sharp and predatory, flickered with raw, unfiltered frustration. “You… you don’t hear it?”

Husk tilted his head, one ear twitching as he glanced around the silent lobby. “Hear what? It’s quiet as a grave down here. Even the King’s snoring has stopped.”

Realization hit him like a physical blow. The Angel had done this deliberately, with malicious artistry. He had orchestrated a private, intimate broadcast of marital ecstasy—precisely tuned, perfectly placed—designed solely to torment Alastor, tailored with exacting precision so that he could hear every sound, every breath, every small, intimate detail that made him want to tear his hair out and simultaneously grind his teeth in impotent rage.

“Nevermind,” he hissed finally, snatching a glass with shaking fingers and pouring himself a drink. The rye burned all the way down, a sharp, bitter comfort, but it did nothing to erase the sound, nothing to dull the memory of her whisper, her softness, her unguarded, trembling acknowledgment of the other version of himself.

He lifted the glass with a trembling hand and took a long, searing gulp, tasting fire and humiliation in equal measure. How, he wondered bitterly, was he supposed to face her in the morning? How could he look at her—the woman who knew the most intimate, private, and unspoken parts of his alternate self—and remain himself? How could he possibly reconcile the image of her calling out in pleasure with the cold, meticulously curated mask of the Radio Demon that he had worn for centuries?

He felt like a child caught eavesdropping on a conversation far too adult for him, like a beast in the cage of his own mind, clawing at the walls and screaming in frustration, powerless to stop what he had heard or how it had affected him.

And yet, beneath the frustration, beneath the scorching wave of irritation, there was something else—a seed of dangerous curiosity, a warmth that he could neither name nor fully suppress. He realized with a sudden, shocking clarity that his shadow, huddled like a shivering animal at his feet, mirrored his embarrassment almost perfectly. The darkness itself seemed unnerved, as though even it were unprepared for this new, confusing sensation that stirred through him.

He pressed his clawed hands to his face, dragging them down to his jaw, gripping his own cheeks as if physical restraint could keep the chaos at bay. His teeth ground together in a jittery rhythm, but the sound didn’t matter; it would never matter. The memory of her voice would not be erased. It would linger, a stubborn, infuriating echo embedded in the very fabric of him, reminding him of something he hadn’t felt in centuries: desire, longing, and the maddening, destabilizing power of seeing himself through someone else’s eyes.

The Radio Demon, the predator, the master of all he surveyed, sat there in the dimly lit lobby, claws white, chest heaving, shadows pooling at his feet, completely undone, utterly human in his fury and fascination—and utterly, irrevocably aware that this was far from over.

Morning broke over the hotel in a way that felt entirely too bright for Alastor’s liking. The hum of the building had returned to its usual frequency, the clink of distant cutlery and the muffled footsteps of staff filtering through the halls, but for him, there was no comfort in routine. He sat stiffly at the kitchen counter, posture immaculate despite the faint dark circles beneath his eyes, fingers wrapped around an untouched mug as though it were an anchor. The scent of fresh coffee filled the room, rich and bitter, but even that familiar pleasure failed to steady him. His ears twitched at every sound, hyper-aware, oversensitive, betraying the exhaustion he would have rather died than admit to.

That was when Al—the Angel—strolled in.

He moved with infuriating ease, sleeves rolled up, wings tucked neatly as he reached for the coffee pot. One look at Alastor was all it took. A slow, smug smile spread across his face, the kind that said I know exactly what you heard. He didn’t say anything at first, just poured himself a cup, humming softly under his breath, deliberately off-key.

Alastor’s jaw tightened. “Good morning,” he said sharply, his voice crackling faintly, smile rigid and brittle.

“Oh, it is,” Al replied pleasantly, shooting him a sideways glance as he stirred his coffee. “You look… tired, my friend. Rough night?” His tone was syrupy sweet, every word carefully chosen to press where it hurt most.

Alastor’s grip on his mug tightened just enough to spiderweb a fine crack along the porcelain. “I slept fine,” he lied smoothly, though his ears flicked back, betraying him entirely.

Before Al could push further, Y/N entered the kitchen, hair slightly tousled, expression soft and serene in a way that made Alastor’s chest do something deeply inconvenient. She greeted them both with a warm smile, but her eyes lingered on Alastor for half a second longer than necessary, her brow furrowing just a touch.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently. “You look exhausted.”

The Angel laughed quietly into his coffee. “He’s just… sensitive this morning,” Al said lightly, then leaned closer to Y/N as if sharing a secret. “Aren’t you, Radio Demon?”

Alastor shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Al, clearly enjoying himself far too much, set his mug down and straightened. “I’ll be back later. Need to check on Charlie,” he said, then leaned down, brushing a kiss to Y/N’s cheek. As he did, he murmured just loud enough for Alastor to hear, “Be careful, my dear. He seems a bit… delicate today.”

Y/N blinked, confused, while Alastor bristled. Al smirked, casting one last triumphant look over his shoulder before leaving the kitchen, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, there was silence.

Alastor cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the surface of the counter. His usual swagger faltered, replaced by something awkward and uncharacteristically hesitant. “Miss—ah—Y/N,” he began, then stopped, radio static fluttering faintly at the edges of his voice. He shifted, clearly debating with himself, before finally straightening and offering her a strained but polite smile. “May I… have a word?”

She nodded immediately. “Of course.”

He gestured stiffly toward the side of the kitchen, guiding her a few steps away from the counter. When he turned to face her, there was color in his cheeks—actual color—and his eyes refused to quite meet hers.

“I want to preface this by saying,” he began, words coming out a bit too quickly, “that this is not a complaint, nor is it a judgment of character, nor is it—well—it’s merely a logistical concern, really.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and she leaned in, attentive. “Okay…?”

He inhaled, then blurted out, “If—purely hypothetically—there were to be a next time, perhaps you might consider… keeping it down.”

There it was. Out in the open.

Y/N froze. Then, slowly, the realization dawned on her face. Her cheeks flushed a deep, vivid red, ears flicking in pure mortification. “Oh my god—I—Alastor, I’m so sorry,” she rushed out, words tumbling over one another. “I didn’t even think anyone could hear, I mean Al did that silence thing and I just assumed—and I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or disturb you or—”

She kept going, rambling nervously, hands twisting together as embarrassment overtook her completely.

Alastor stared at her.

The flustered apology, the genuine concern, the way she looked at him not with fear or mockery but with earnest regret—it hit him far harder than the sounds ever had. His blush deepened, spreading beneath his eyes as he raised one hand quickly, palm out.

“It’s—ah—it’s quite alright,” he said, voice softer now, less static, more… real. “Truly. I only wished to make the request. Nothing more.” He cleared his throat again. “Just… please keep it down.”

She nodded rapidly. “I will. Absolutely. I promise.”

Satisfied—and more unsettled than he cared to admit—Alastor inclined his head politely and stepped back, giving her space. She shot him one last apologetic smile before hurrying out of the kitchen, clearly intent on finding her husband as quickly as possible.

Alastor remained where he was, staring after her long after she’d gone, heart doing something profoundly irritating in his chest. He lifted his coffee at last, took a sip, and grimaced faintly.

Cold.

He set the mug down again, shadows curling at his feet, and exhaled slowly.

Later that day, the energy in the hotel was a mix of excitement and melancholy. Baxter stood in the main lobby, adjusting his glasses and shuffling through his notes with the precision only he could muster. “Well,” he began, clearing his throat, “it seems that the dimensional rift has stabilized enough for your return. You’ll be heading home shortly.”

Charlie’s shoulders slumped slightly, her usual effervescence dampened by the news. “Already? So soon?” she said, pouting just a touch. “I mean, I’m really glad I got to meet both of you, but… I was kind of hoping we’d have a bit more time.”

Al’s hand found Y/N’s, squeezing it gently as he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Relief softened his features. “It’s alright, my dear,” he murmured. “Home is waiting. Somewhere safer. Somewhere familiar. We’ll be together, and that’s what matters.”

Y/N nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips, but her eyes flicked toward the doorway just as she noticed a familiar figure slipping silently away. Alastor, the Radio Demon, had excused himself, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable.

Something in Y/N’s chest tightened, a mixture of concern and intuition, and she followed quietly, keeping just far enough behind to avoid startling him. She found him standing on one of the upper balconies, gazing out over the jagged red horizon, shadows pooling around his feet in a restless wave.

“Well, Alastor,” she said softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach him. “It was truly a pleasure knowing you.”

He turned slowly, one eyebrow quirking, and a harsh laugh escaped him, as if the words themselves were ridiculous. “Really?” he asked, his usual bravado struggling to mask a flicker of something softer.

“Yes,” she replied gently, stepping closer. “I mean it.”

There was a pause, and for a heartbeat, the Radio Demon allowed himself to simply be. No clever quips. No predatory games. Just the quiet recognition that someone—someone extraordinary—had seen him as more than the chaos he cultivated.

Without another word, she stepped forward and embraced him. Her arms were warm, firm, and grounding, and the gesture seemed to pull at something inside him he hadn’t dared touch in decades.

“I hope,” she whispered into the crook of his neck, “that you will be able to find your peace.”

Alastor stiffened momentarily but then awkwardly returned the hug, his sharp edges softened under her touch. “Thank… you,” he murmured, almost faltering on the words.

She pulled back slightly, her hand brushing against his chest. “You have shadows… you have your own demons,” she said softly, her voice carrying a confidence that made him pause, “but I know someone will be there for you, regardless.” She smiled, and in that small gesture, there was the weight of understanding, of care, of hope.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she pressed her hand against his chest. A gentle, radiant glow spread outward, warm and luminous, and Alastor felt a strange, soothing sensation ripple through him. The wound that had long burned and throbbed along his chest—painful and stubborn—healed, knitting together as if it had never been.

“What—” he breathed, stepping back, eyes wide, hand instinctively pressing against the newly healed skin. “How did you—?”

She smiled, soft and knowing. “A parting gift,” she said simply.

Alastor let out a soft, incredulous chuckle. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, voice low, reverent even, and a faint warmth crept through him, something foreign yet welcome.

She straightened, a serene smile on her lips, and began to step away. “Y/N—wait,” he called, his voice barely above the wind.

She turned, tilting her head slightly, her smile gentle and luminous. “Yes?”

He swallowed, shadows flickering faintly around him. “Safe travels.”

“Thank you. Be good,” she replied, a playful lilt in her voice.

“No promises,” he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, watching as she disappeared from view.

Alastor stood there long after she had gone, the glow of her touch still faintly lingering against his chest. A small, genuine smile broke through his usual mask of jagged perfection. For the first time in centuries, the emptiness that had clung to him felt… a little lighter.

Night had fallen over the hotel, the crimson skies deepening into a rich, molten red that glimmered like liquid fire. The lobby was alive with bittersweet energy. Staff, friends, and residents alike had gathered, their expressions a mixture of joy for their impending return and sadness at the thought of parting ways. Baxter fussed nervously, checking the portal’s stability for the hundredth time, while Charlie hovered near the edge, her usual enthusiasm tempered by a twinge of melancholy.

Al and Y/N stood hand in hand, the faint glow of the portal illuminating their faces. The swirling light painted them in gold and crimson hues, highlighting the serenity in Y/N’s features and the rare softness in Al’s usually composed expression.

“Are you ready, my dear?” Al asked, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of anticipation.

Y/N nodded, squeezing his hand. “As ready as I’ll ever be. It’s… it’s been wonderful, Al. Truly.”

The portal swirled higher, casting prismatic reflections across the walls, and the air buzzed faintly with magical energy. Slowly, they began to ascend, Al’s hand gripping hers tightly as they were lifted from the ground, moving with effortless grace into the open maw of the dimensional rift.

Y/N turned slightly, her eyes bright, and waved to the assembled group. “Goodbye, everyone! Thank you for everything!” she called, her voice carrying over the hum of the portal.

Charlie waved frantically, a smile bright despite the sadness tugging at her heart. “Goodbye! Safe travels! Come back soon!”

Vaggie raised a hand, Husk and Niffty following suit, and even Alastor—the Radio Demon himself—stood near the edge of the group, watching quietly. His jaw was tight, but his eyes held that same faint glint of reluctant warmth, a softening of his usual predatory gaze.

As Y/N’s gaze swept across the group, it finally settled on him. Alastor met her eyes, and for a heartbeat, the chaos of Hell and the noise of the portal faded from his perception. He gave a subtle nod, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice low, threaded with a quiet sincerity.

She returned his smile, soft and full of unspoken gratitude, her hand still firmly clasped in Al’s. “Goodbye,” she whispered back, her voice carried on the wind and the faint shimmer of the portal.

With that, they ascended fully into the light, the portal’s swirl enveloping them completely. The golden-and-crimson glow reflected off their hands as they soared upward, leaving Hell—and the hotel—behind.

The portal finally closed with a shimmering snap, leaving the lobby silent for a brief, echoing moment. Only the soft murmur of the staff remained, and the faint glow that lingered in Alastor’s eyes told a story of something quietly changed—a reminder of the warmth, the kindness, and the impossible peace that had touched even a creature as dark and solitary as the Radio Demon.

A month had passed since Al and Y/N had returned to their own dimension, and on the surface, everything at the hotel had slipped neatly back into its familiar rhythm. The halls still echoed with distant arguments and laughter, the air still hummed with magic and old grudges, and Alastor still strode through it all like he owned the place—which, in many ways, he did.

Yet some things refused to settle.

Alastor found himself pausing more often than usual, his cane tapping idly against the floor as his thoughts drifted where they had no business going. He remembered Y/N’s face with startling clarity: the warmth in her eyes, the way she looked at him not with fear or awe, but with simple, unguarded kindness. He remembered her voice, steady and gentle, even when speaking to a monster like him.

He smiled at the memory, faint and private.

Peace. He had scoffed at the idea his entire existence, dismissed it as a lie told by the weak to justify complacency. And yet… if such a thing existed, perhaps it wasn’t a place. Perhaps it was a feeling. A moment. A presence.

Would he ever find it? He doubted it. Truly, he did. Old habits, old wounds, old sins clung too tightly.

Still.

That afternoon, as he went about his duties—mentally outlining themes for his next broadcast, debating whether to lean into carnage or comedy—he strolled down one of the hotel’s long corridors, the crimson carpet muffling his footsteps. His thoughts were elsewhere, drifting lazily through frequencies and half-formed ideas.

And then—

Thump.

A solid collision jolted him back to the present as something warm splashed across the front of his coat.

Coffee.

Dark liquid spread over the pristine red fabric, dripping slowly toward the floor.

Alastor’s smile sharpened instantly, static crackling faintly in the air as his head snapped downward.

“Watch it, you—”

He stopped.

Standing directly in front of him was a doe.

A sinner, unmistakably so, with soft antlers and warm, expressive eyes, her ears flicking anxiously as she stared up at him in horror. Her form was demonic, yes—tail, hooves, faint markings along her skin—but there was something achingly familiar about her. Something that struck him straight through the chest.

She was beautiful. Not in a polished, predatory way—but in a quiet, earnest one.

Alastor’s breath caught.

“…Y/N?” he whispered, the name slipping from him before he could stop it.

She blinked rapidly, clearly flustered. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry!” she rushed out, her words tumbling over one another. “I sincerely apologize, mister—I wasn’t looking where I was going and—oh!”

Her eyes widened as recognition dawned.

“Oh! Mr. Radio Demon!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, I really am!”

Alastor didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He simply stared at her, his grin frozen in place as the world seemed to tilt ever so slightly off its axis.

She fumbled with her cup, setting it aside before stepping closer, gently brushing at his coat with frantic concern. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to spill it on you—oh goodness, it’s everywhere—”

She paused, then quickly pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from her pocket and held it out to him. “Here, please, take this.”

Her voice was nervous, polite, sincere.

Real.

Alastor finally found himself again, the static receding as his expression softened—just a fraction.

“It’s quite alright, my dear,” he said smoothly, taking the handkerchief. “Accidents happen.”

She let out a relieved breath. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Radio Demon.”

“Please,” he replied, dabbing at the stain with measured elegance, “call me Alastor.”

She smiled then, small and shy, her ears tilting back slightly. “I’m sorry, Alastor. Truly. I can pay for your dry cleaning if you’d like.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm rather than mocking. “That won’t be necessary.”

He tilted his head, studying her more closely now—the familiar gentleness in her posture, the kindness that radiated from her even here, in Hell of all places.

“May I ask,” he continued, voice lowering pleasantly, “what’s your name, darling?”

“Oh!” she said, straightening a bit. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you. I’m… kind of new here.”

His eyes widened, just slightly.

“Well,” Alastor said after a beat, his grin easing into something genuine, “welcome to the hotel.”

Her cheeks flushed faintly. “Thank you.”

He felt it then—clear and unmistakable. That same warmth. That same strange, comforting pull in his chest.

“Perhaps,” he added casually, tapping his cane against the floor, “sometime I could show you around. Properly, of course.”

Her smile grew, brighter now, more confident. “I’d like that.”

And as they stood there in the hallway, coffee-stained coat and all, Alastor realized that for the first time in a very long while, something inside him felt… familiar.

Not power. Not hunger.

But something close.

Something almost like peace.