Technically Not Your Ex!isagi The Boyfie That You Are...

technically not your ex!isagi the boyfie that you are...

everybody put on your delulu caps

imagine dating isagi in like middle school/ early high school. he's the prototypical My First Boyfriend, i don't make the rules ok? he asks you out with all of his (and your) friends watching during lunch time and when you say yes, he asks for permission to hold your hand

he texts you good morning and good night every day and you guys hold pinkies during class. he tries (and often fails) to win you stuffies at the claw machine when you go out to the arcade after school, and you tutor him in geometry bc he doesn't understand why they put letters in math. he's your first kiss, and all your friends tease you about him at the cafeteria during lunchtime.

then one day, he loses a soccer game. it's his last chance at nationals, and you're almost as crushed as he is. you lose sight of him when the team leaves the field, and he doesn't respond to any of your texts or calls. he stops coming to school after that day. you're too shy to ask his parents where he is (you're not even sure if he told them the two of you were dating)

eventually, you give up on contacting him and move on. you spend the rest of your high school years focusing on your studies, trying to get into a good school for college. your hard work pays off and you spend the rest of the summer celebrating with your friends. one night at a sleepover, your best friend curls up in your bed (a little tipsy) and decides to google the boy who ghosted you. you're a little surprised to find out he somehow became a pro athlete, but you got into a prestigious university so hey, dreams do come true booboo

you really don't think much of it, and put it out of your mind to focus on making plans for your upcoming beach vacation. you and your friends spend a chaotic week and a half in tokyo and another weekend in kamakura. you have the time of your life, and gorge yourself on fancy yakiniku and ice cream in every flavor imaginable before you have to go home to pack for school.

and then The Funniest Thing Happens

you come home, sunburnt and sore. you head straight to the nearest konbini for aloe vera gel and a canned coffee. and who the fuck do you see? i know you know.

it's him! isagi Mother Fucking yoichi. after your initial shock, you give him a suspicious once over and why? WHY? is he still wearing the same stupid little twine friendship bracelet you'd made him for your 100-day anniversary?

you're so occupied with delivering your best incredulous stare that you don't even notice bachira stepping out of the shop to stand alongside him.

"oh hey! are you a fan?" you feel yourself starting to get hot under the collar because you might actually be the opposite...

you're still trying to find an appropriately indignant response when isagi answers for you

"oh well, uh we dated when we were younger..."

bachira picks up the end of the sentence seamlessly, equal parts eccentric and presumptuous "ohhh, exes huh?"

and isagi winces at the wording. "well, i mean technically we never formally broke up"

your head is cocked all the way to the side at this point because the audacity?? well it has you gobsmacked. struck dumb, even.

and all the while he's scratching the back of his neck like this is all some charming meet cute and you're FUMING because now his friend is shaking your hand and asking for your phone number so the three of you can hang out together during the football off season and you're a nice normal person who has a sense of propriety and this Very Odd Pro Athlete has already sent you a link to the restaurant they're going to tonight and obviously he's paying for your meal so he can hear more about isagi's high school sweetheart that he talks about so much!! because HE STILL TALKS ABOUT YOU??

and oughoughough it's too much for me i'll die actually

Oh God, What Have We Done??: Father!Solomon Headcanons

You know what? I'm a Solomon love-hater but I'll go to bat for him too. You could pick worse.

Contents: Unhinged Ms. Frizzle-style parenting, the horrors of human biology, possible pregnancy implications, fluff

~♡♡♡~

So. I can see this happening intentionally. Solomon craves a happy family, so I absolutely see the thought of rasing a kid with MC coming up once or twice.

That said, I think zero planning actually went into making it happen. This is a spur-of-the-moment decision made by two lovesick dolts. Not a damn thought was spared for the consequences, and it shows.

For starters, MC and Solomon both agreed to raise a child together while they were in the human world and told NOBODY ELSE. So from the outside looking in, they just left the Devildom for “training purposes” and returned with a random infant!

No call ahead. No fanfare. They both stepped out of the portal with a flying stroller and bottomless diaper bag, grinning from ear to ear like it all was just souvenirs from Disney World!

Naturally, all hell broke loose. The brothers were collectively hyperventilating, Simeon almost fainted, and Diavolo noticed that Barbatos wasn't moving or blinking, so the Little Ds had to carry him away like a malfunctioning android...

Does Solomon having a kid make him a grandfather…? He is not ready to ponder that thought. No one is.

Despite Mammon and Belphegor’s insistence they had to “Put it back!” after MC made it clear that raising a baby was what they wanted and that Solomon was there to stay, the brothers made peace with it… to varying degrees.

Asmo was the only one thrilled that his favorite humans now have an even cuter mini-human to take around because he'd get to try his hand at baby fashion design! The least happy was probably Belphegor because a baby means that MC is going to be way too busy to nap now. Plus, he had to deal with a lot more Solomon in his life, which very few people ever ask for...

The crew's reaction to the baby's development is actually pretty funny to see. Humans age much, much faster than their supernatural counterparts so, from their perspective, the new baby is growing at lightning speed!

Mammon was with them when they were teaching the baby to crawl and he started freaking out because, “How’re they movin' already!?” The first day their child came running, physically running, into the HoL without any help actually made Levi scream in fright.

The House had a complete meltdown when Beel was watching the child one day and they lost a tooth while eating some hard candy. They all thought that MC and Solomon were going to burn the place down, so imagine their surprise when the overjoyed parents kept congratulating their kid for losing a baby tooth...

And don't get any of them started on the growth spurts...

The one to take to the kid the most as they grew was, funnily enough, Lucifer. Most likely because their various milestones reminded him of when his brothers were doing the same things.

The child is more than happy to tell “Uncle Luci” anything, which he acts like he only tolerates, but in reality he loves being their favorite brother.

Barbatos is EXTREMELY protective of them. Nearly as protective as he is with Diavolo.

Their kid, of course, has no clue. He's just nice Uncle Barbie (he refused to be called Grandpa) who makes them sweets and watches over them in the Castle. But anyone who get too close while they're playing gets a stare down worse than all of Cerberus’ heads combined...

Mammon swore in front of them once and Barbatos strung him up so tightly that even Lucifer thought it was overkill.

Luke seems to enjoy having a baby sibling of sorts to look after, but he is going to be so upset when they get taller than him in the blink of an eye. He’s going to be their guardian angel for sure, btw.

As a father, Solomon is… spirited. Anyone can see that he’s ecstatic to be a parent, it’s just…

Well, years of isolation on top of being a once-in-a-lifetime prodigy may not have made him the most “in touch” with children these days, you know? MC has absolutely come home to find Solomon has propped up their 6-month-old with a stack of books to start teach them how to play chess.

Daddy-Baby adventure always end in spectacular fashion. Solomon is a very “hands-on science teacher” kind of guy with unwavering confidence in his abilities to keep his child safe. This, to be fair, isn’t unwarranted, however...

Does that mean you should make a plans to take your child to forbidden places for some sightseeing? Or let your child touch, paw at, and gnaw on any magic item that suits their fancy in the name of a making a new teaching experience...? Probably not, but it’s also how he learned so…

It must be assumed that whatever kid these two have, biological or not, will be a magic powerhouse of destructive proportions. All that training from Solomon himself since infancy? They'll have a wand in their hand before they can even work a fork!

I like to imagine that Solomon's kid would have a very, very hard time controlling their magic and it would get uncontrollable at times. Like, a sneeze could knock over a bookshelf or getting angry makes things go flying. But Solomon would never ever scold them for it like it’s they're fault.

He'd never make them feel the same isolation and shame that he did at their age.

It would be very, very sweet. But it also means that MC could come home to a flooded house and, instead of cleaning out the water, Solomon would teaching their child how to snorkel in the living room.

Pure chaos, but MC could never find a prouder father. Solomon would devote his entire being to giving their child all of the love and happiness they deserve. Their kid almost never sees him without a grin on his face, just ready to just wrap them a bear hug for no reason.

On quiet nights, he'd cradle them or rock them to sleep while holding back tears. MC has found him over their crib like he’s still trying to convince himself that they're real, that he's gotten this lucky.

He's not a conventional father. Hell, he's not a conventional human either. But he’s grateful for day he gets to be a parent... Every. Single. One.

this has been sitting in my drafts for sooooo loooong, it's mostly born from how mean people can be in this fandom about poor Oli looking the way he does. I love his messy 'I don't have my life together' look, it's very relatable, but today we putting him under tha razor!

summary. when Oliver finds himself forced to get a clean shave for some important club event he tries to rope you into doing the work for him. and you do it, cause he is too charming and you can't resist spoiling this man

pairing. Oliver Aiku x reader

wordcount. 2,6k

warnings. some slight mention of nsfw stuff but veeeery slight, it's mostly domestic fluff, just pure distilled domesticity shot straight into your veins, you've been warned

"Really Oliver, you pestering me during work hours to do that for you?"

Giving one last hard stare at your screen, you groaned and swiveled you chair around to face the man currently breaking the peace in your office. With hair still damp from his shower, Oliver stood bare foot before you - a trail of wet footsteps clear behind him. God, you'd lost count of how many times you'd told him he'd end up sick if he kept doing that.

"Oh come on, it's not that big of a deal," he insisted, cutting off your thoughts, pouting as you fitted him with a steely gaze. "I neeeeed you."

You roll your eyes at his whiny antics - and complete disregard for your work life. It was almost funny to see a grown man pout like this, especially when you contrasted the silly expression with this statuesque of a man. You couldn't help but let your eyes roam free for a moment, taking in the sight of him. Water droplets still rolled down his strong torso, taking your gaze to the short hair trailing down his lower abs, to the point where his sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. Shit, he was diverting your attention.

"Oliver," you sigh, rubbing your eyes to try and exorcise the images stealing your focus, "you've been doing that by yourself your entire adult life, you don't need me."

"That's not true, it goes way better when you do it for me," Oliver whined again, and even in his husky tone, you could hear it, the begging, so shameless.

At this moment he looked every bit like a dog, a ragged mutt pleading for attention at his owner's feet. Hell, he was even trying to shoot you the best puppy eyes he could muster, pout returning to those pretty lips. You'd say it was ridiculous, but maybe it was the smell of soap or maybe the warmth emanating from his skin, but something was making you want to give in.

"That's nonsense," you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose as you tried to convince yourself to not let him sway you. "I'm not a barber, and you've been shaving your own damn self for years. I'm pretty sure you can keep your eternal stubble under control on your own."

"Well, I could," Oliver shrugged, remaining unfazed by the exasperation in your voice. "Though, this time I'm gonna have to shave it clean."

"What?" Suddenly, you were fully immersed in the topic, even though you felt like you'd fallen into a trap.

Oliver had to contain his smile when you suddenly went from nonchalant to interested. It was really cute. He knew you liked feeling the scruff around his face, which he always thought was absolutely endearing. Now, sadly, he'd have to part ways with it, albeit temporarily.

"You remember tomorrow's party? Well, the team's president is an old school kinda guy. He's gonna get pissed if he sees the team's captain shows up looking so unclean for an important event," he answers with a full body sigh, eyebrows arching high as he raises his shoulders.

"That's ridiculous," your words cut so dry that Oliver can't help but laugh at the barely contained disgust in your tone.

"Well, I think so too. But I like my position right now, if the old man wants me clean for the party, I can make the sacrifice," he answered with a wave of his hand, stepping closer to your chair before leaning in, using his hands to prop his body onto your armrests. "But it could be less painful if you helped me."

You sat in silence, staring him down for a long minute as he leaned in close, that charming smile never faltering. From this close, you could smell the conditioner on his hair and feel his breath on your skin. Shit, you could feel yourself falling for it. Rubbing a hand over your face, you slumped further down the chair, sighing as you went.

"Fine," you groaned, looking back up to his beaming face. "Go soak the soap and the brush, I'll be right there."

Closing the distance between you, Oliver met your lips with his in a short kiss before pulling back in a breath, his skin still damp and warm from the shower. "Already done that, I'll go get myself a chair."

You hummed as he got up, lifting your body heavily off of the chair after he'd disappeared into the hallway. You spoiled him too much, you were sure of it, but you guessed he had the same type of charm as a big dog who still believes they are lap sized. It was hard to say no to that.

Following the wet footsteps, you found yourself in your en suite bathroom, Oliver sitting on a high chair he'd taken from the kitchen counter. At least he'd left everything ready, so all you had left to do was commit the dismal crime of doing away with his stubble. A pity, you'd miss the feeling of it on your skin. For however many days the shave would last, that is.

Picking the plastic bowl of shaving soap, you started moving the barber brush in circular motions to begin lathering it up. Taking a step forward, you approached Oliver as your hands worked, shaking your head as he snaked an arm around your waist.

"You are spoiled," you mumbled, feeling him laugh as he looked at you both in the mirror, your gaze following his.

"Maybe," he hummed, "but I spoil you plenty too."

"Well, here we go I guess," you said with a chuckle, making him straighten to give you a better access to his face and neck.

When the soft brush touches his face Oliver hums, closing his eyes as you begin spreading the soap over his jaw. It felt nice, both the gentle smell of lemon grass and the feeling of having you taking care of him. Yeah, he was spoiled, he knew it, but could he really be blamed for liking being pampered?

Oliver was only human after all, and having to unwillingly part ways with his facial hair was not his favorite thing. So it only made sense that he'd try to squeeze whichever little joy he could from this situation. And having you do that for him was joy enough on his book. Between feeling the warmth coming from your body and the comfortable silence that had settled, he could almost forget he was being forced to do this.

Opening his eyes he found your face close to his, gaze set in concentration as you moved the brush around his neck, finishing lathering it up. It was beautiful, really, sometimes you'd focus on something so much you wouldn't even see the things around you. Cute, and he couldn't resist the urge to take advantage of that, lowering his lips to meet yours in a quick peck.

"Oliver," you exclaimed as he laughed, "you gotta cooperate, you bastard. Now I got soap on my face," you grunted, looking at the mirror and then back to him.

"Just a little bit," he chuckled, reaching out to clean your face with his hand as you sneered at him.

You shook your head and turned to put the brush back, watching from the mirror as he still chuckled at you. Pestering you when you were focused never seemed to stop amusing him. And to boot, you couldn't deny there was something infuriatingly endearing about it. Or maybe you were just blinded by the casual charm of his smile - again.

Picking up the safety razor, you turn back to him again. "Now, you better behave if you don't wanna have to clean your blood off of the white floor."

"So mean," Oliver pouts before smiling that heart shattering smile again. "Alright, I'm in your hands then."

You roll your eyes as he straightens up, hands gripping the sides of the chair. When the blade first meets his face you feel Oliver shiver at the cold touch of the metal, but as quick as it happens, it's gone. You move your wrist and the blade glides down his warm skin in short strokes, following the grain of the hair on his stubble. Oh, it's gonna be so sad to see it gone. Especially knowing how a good part of Oliver's appeal came from how he looked at least a little like a mess. You couldn't even recall the face of his club's president, but you now hated the old man.

There is ease in the silence that settles as you carefully work the sharp blade along his face and neck. Only the rough sound of metal scraping against the hair and skin fills the bathroom as an oddly well-behaved Oliver sits in stillness. It feels almost suspicious, even, but you guessed he had no interest in showing up to the party with a cut on his face. Not that you believed even that could do much harm to his good looks.

When that first pass is done you turn to the sink and wash the razor before picking up the brush start the cycle and lather his face again. Though, just as you turn back he catches you off guard, forward and capturing your lips in a quick kiss - but he almost topples his chair over in the process. Desperately you steady him up, pushing his large frame back by his shoulders.

For a moment there the scare takes the best of you, brows furrowing in a scowl, ready to chastise Oliver for the stupidy. But then he starts laughing, the warm and husky sound enveloping you as they echo off the walls, breaking your defenses. You laugh along, slapping his shoulder but leaning against him for a short moment. Sometimes he could be an idiot, but that too was part of the appeal.

Once you both recover you go back to your work, lathering his face, putting the brush back in place, picking up the razor, and bringing it to touch his face. This time you move it cross grain, once more enjoying the sound of the metal moving over his skin. It's all peaceful, for at least half of the process until Oliver grows bored, his large hand finding your bare leg, fingers traveling over the back of your thigh until they reach the hem of your shorts.

You grunt in warning and he only hums quietly in what sounded like a mocking acknowledgment. Oliver disregards your death glare completely, his palm touching your thigh, rough fingers massaging your skin as they move. Even then he doesn't stay put, hand traveling up and groping your ass, kneading the flesh under your shorts just as your reach his neck. For a moment you consider giving into the desire to leave just a little gash on his skin, but you manage to resist.

Just as you try to turn back again he he uses the hand on your ass to pull you closer in. You don't even have time to protest as his lips crash against yours - and you can already notice the strangeness of not feeling his stubble. Still, he doesn't give you much time to think on it, tongue slipping past your lips and exploring the wet insides of your mouth. He tastes like coffee, and you can't help but let the taste lure you in, the sensations enveloping you, warmth rising in your face until then it's gone.

His lips part from yours with a quick peck and you are already missing the kiss - what a bastard, teasing you like that. You huff and shake your head when Oliver winks at you, slapping your ass as you turn around and repeat your previous motions of washing the razor and grabbing the brush again.

You lather his face, then throw the brush in the sink before picking up the razor and letting it touch his skin for a final pass, this time against the grain. Oliver hums when you lean in and it sends shivers down your spine, his hand finding your leg again but this time he just let it dance over your thigh absentmindedly. You find comfort in the warmth of his palm and in the ritualistic nature of this whole thing - it's a soothing type of repetitive task.

This time the blade hugs close to his skin, and when you get to his neck you can feel his steady pulse. Sitting so still, so calm, the beating of his heart feels strangely slow, yet heavy and powerful. You know it's the telltale sign of that athletic resistance and ungodly endurance, but the slow rhythm never ceases to seem almost eerie.

When you finish you run a hand over his face, feeling the smooth, still damp skin. It's strange, but you take solace in knowing it's temporary. Soon enough it'll be gone, though not without leaving Oliver itchy for at least a day, and you always found it funny how bothered he was by that. He smiles at you and you can feel it go straight between your legs - fuck, you are sure he did that on purpose.

But you don't give the pleasure of attention, instead turning around to rest the razor on the stone sink. You hear Oliver yawn from behind you, and watch from the mirror as he stretches as you pick a towel from the rack. Turning back to him you pat his face dry, and as if he wasn't already being spoiled enough, you rub the aftershave lotion on his skin. When it's all done Oliver climbs down from the chair and pulls you in by the waist, placing a soft kiss on your lips before you both turn to the mirror.

"There you go," you say, resting your hip against the sink as Oliver leans in, "how you feeling?"

"Like I'm seven years younger," he responds, touching his face with his free hand. "Which is a nightmare, actually," he pouts.

"Oh, come on, it's only temporary. You gonna be back to having the stubble and looking great again in just a few days."

"Hey," he grunts, squinting his eyes at you, "what do you mean by that? You talk like I'm not handsome anymore," he almost growls in a joking threat, a smile playing at his lips as he cages you against the stone counter, hands on each side of your body. "What's up with that, huh?"

You chuckle as Oliver says the question low in your ear right before assaulting your face with soft kisses. You laugh, grabbing at his shoulders as he snakes a hand around your waist. He's rubbing his face against yours and you can't help but notice how odd it is not to feel the stubble you'd grown so used to.

"Oliver," you laugh, dual colored eyes looking up at you as he peppers kisses over your neck, "this is so strange, your face is so smooth."

"Ah, but you gonna have to deal with it," you laugh as he rubs his face against yours almost like a cat before taking his lips to yours and placing a quick peck. "You gotta make up to me for saying something so mean."

"I've just done your shaving for you, ain't that enough?"

"Nah, I can think of something better."

He pulls you in closer, rubbing his pelvis against yours, letting you feel the large bulge under the the fabric of his sweatpants. Of course, he was like that, it didn't surprise you at all. But you guessed you could spoil him just a little bit more, as a reward for behaving so well even under such difficult circumstances. Yeah, he deserved a bit more pampering, why not?

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It took a while to remove his clothes; he took his time with the straps and buckles of his armor. Finally, he had removed the last piece and was left with nothing but his ill-fitting skin. He tucked his hands behind his back and stood on display for her like a soldier standing to attention. This was only one of the many times he'd had to do this but that didn't make it much easier.

She was especially beautiful today with flowers tucked into her hair that complimented the gold blooms embroidered on her wedding dress. She pushed the veil back now like she wanted to get a better look at him.

"Oh," she breathed. "You..."

 He didn't look her in the eye, wanting to save himself from whatever he'd find there. Would she even stay long enough to spend the night with him? Would she sleep in the same bed? Forget about consummating their marriage, he'd be lucky if she even looked at him the same after this. Still, she was in the same room as him with her delicate scent engulfing his senses. It took a lot of willpower not to get visibly aroused.

"There are so many scars," she breathed. "How did you get such a collection?"

"Different monsters throughout the years," he muttered. "Are you done?"

 "It's fascinating. So, each scar has a memory." She reached out to touch a prominent one on his chest.

Despite seeing her reach out it still startled him when her soft hand fell on his skin. He reacted far too strongly to that, jumping back and nearly tripping over his discarded shoes. He caught his balance with a hand on the foot of the bed and stared at her, unwilling or unable to explain himself.

She had stepped back too and now stood with her hand lightly touching her neck, looking vaguely horrified. He knew he seemed more like a wild animal at this point than a man. Hilarious.

"When was the last time you were touched by anyone at all?"

 "A long time ago," he admitted, straightening from the half-crouch he'd been in.

"The Great Dragon of Elinia, too powerful to touch," she tried to joke.

He stared at her with a flat, unwavering gaze. She came alive, taking a small step towards him. He forced himself not to back away and huffed out a breath, watching her carefully. Many of his ill-fated marriages had begun and ended with his bride trying to kill him on the first night, often with a knife she had hidden in her dress.

But this bride either had no knife or was simply awaiting a better opportunity. She lifted her hand again and gently placed it against his skin. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, eyes fluttering shut as a little tension washed away from him.

"You're beautiful," she murmured.

His eyes snapped open and he tensed again, a snarl trapped in his mouth. He worked his jaw for a moment and then said darkly,

"Liar."

"I'm not! Not many can endure a dragon's flame and come out not only alive but gifted with its power," she said earnestly. "I admire your strength."

He was partly amused but largely angry.

"Does it look like it was worth it?" He sneered. "Look at me."

"I am," she said softly. "And I think you're beautiful."

He jolted away, seething. "You don't mean it. You cannot possibly mean it. What is your ulterior motive? What do you want from me? Money? Fame? My heart on a platter to take back to Galamath?"

"We're married. I know it was out of convenience for both our families, but you interest me. I could do worse."

He snorted and turned away.

"Others have tried to kill you," she said it like it was a new revelation.

"You didn't know?" He turned back slowly. "The world is cruel to its own, woman. Crueler still to mutants."

"But you help people."

"It makes no difference to them," he said. "Change out of that dress."

 She clutched at the piles of silk along her waist and raised her eyebrows.

"We have to share the bed," he grunted. "That's all."

"You wish only to sleep?" She frowned, her eyebrows furrowed. "What about-"

"I do not want to get killed in my sleep so don't even try." He strode into the bathroom without a backward glance.

He could hear the rustle of her clothes as she struggled out of the many intricate layers. It sounded like she needed help, but he didn't move.  He could almost picture himself helping her, pulling on those delicate ribbons that held up her dress in the back. And she'd be exposed to him, delicate and womanly. He gritted his teeth as he became aware of a fierce throbbing between his legs. He looked down, biting his lip.

 He braced himself with one hand against the wall and hesitantly touched himself. He stifled a grunt as he wrapped his hand around his cock. His palm was a little too rough and dry but he didn't care. He jerked himself off, biting down on his bottom lip to keep from making too much noise. He came hard all over his hand, spilling onto the marble floor. He cursed and fetched a towel, grumbling to himself.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom he was freshly washed and dressed in a pair of silk pants. It wouldn't hide an erection but it was comfortable and he figured in the dark it wouldn't matter. She turned to him, his brush in her hand.

"Sorry, it was the only one I found." Her gaze lingered on his bare chest.

"It's fine." He lay down and folded his hands over his stomach. "When you're ready for bed, turn off the lamps," he said.

She went into the bathroom and he closed his eyes. When she came out, he kept his eyes closed and breathing even so that he looked like he was asleep. She came around to his side of the bed just like he thought and he waited for her to strike him. But, she never did. After a few seconds of staring at him, she turned off the lamps and went around to her side of the bed, and lay down.

In the darkness, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He waited several minutes until her breathing slowed. She was asleep! After nearly half an hour, he fell asleep as well. But he was ready to wake up the moment she tried something. He was eventually woken up as she turned over and rolled against him.

His eyes opened and he held still. However, she was not awake, only moving in her sleep. Her nightdress had ridden up above her thighs and was pushed up even further as she slung one leg over both of his, pushing closer, murmuring. He could feel the warmth radiating from between her legs inches away from his leg. He was slightly ashamed to feel the blood rush to his cock. He tried to shift away but her hands came out and clutched at him and with a blissful sigh, her hips moved in a sinuous rolling motion against his thigh.

He hissed in a breath, feeling hints of her feminine parts brush against him. What was she doing?

"Oh," she moaned groggily, eyes opening slowly.

He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to take the blame for her actions. She was the one pressing against him, she couldn't say he'd done anything. But she didn't shake him awake and demand answers. Instead, she let out a tiny moan and opened her legs wider, pressing harder against his thigh. He licked his lips, thinking she was mad to believe he'd stay asleep while she ground against him like that. Her actions were beginning to make a wet spot on his pajama pants and his nostrils flared as the scent of her arousal permeated the air.

He clenched his fists into the sheets to keep from reaching for her. She probably still thought he was asleep and he didn't want to scare her.

"Fuck," she hissed in frustration, unable to bring herself to climax against his thigh alone and he bit back a small smile.

And then her hand happened to brush against his cock and they both sucked in a breath. Him in arousal, her in surprise.

"How long have you been awake?" She asked, her form barely visible thanks to the moonless night.

"A while," he said, staring at the ceiling.

She hesitated and he almost thought she would return to her side of the bed, but then her hand brushed against his cock again and his legs jerked minimally, trapped underneath her own. He bit back a groan.

"Maybe we can help each other?" She said courageously. "Please?"

 She didn't even have to ask for him to say yes but she didn't need to know that.

"What do you want?" He asked, voice low and gruff with lust.

"Help me cum," she said, and her unabashed words shot bolts of electricity through his body.

"Are you sure?"

She straddled his thighs, pulling her night dress up around her waist.

"Please," she said and he grunted in acquiescence.

The dark shrouded them like a blanket and even though he could see better than her, she took his hand and helped to guide it between her legs.

"There," she whispered as his finger pressed against her clit. "Oh god, yes."

She was so very wet. He wondered enviously, which man had she dreamt of before she awoke. She moaned sweetly, bracing her hands on either side of his body.

"Please," she whispered, wet and slippery against his fingers. "Give me more."

He pressed a finger against her entrance and felt it sink into her hot walls. She sat up, tense and breathless.

"You have such thick fingers," she mused. "Add another."

He did, enjoying the sound of her moans as he searched for the best way to press into her that had her hips jerking forward to ask for more. So he added a third finger and she froze breath catching.

"Slower. Let me have a moment to adjust," she asked, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Are you a virgin?" He frowned.

"No. It has been a while. My first took what he wanted and left. I don't blame him because he didn't know better but it wasn't a wonderful experience."

 "And now?" He couldn't help but ask.

"What do you think?" Her voice trembled and broke. "Your fingers feel so good inside me."

He couldn't help but groan in response. She had been frank and quick to speak her thoughts when they had first met at the wedding party but he hadn't expected the same in the bedroom.

She took a deep breath and said, "The next time I was with him I got on top of him and I didn't let him cum until I had twice. Some people need to be taught. But you-" She gasped and shivered. "You know exactly what to do."

Indeed, he did. Then again, she was curiously receptive and sensitive to his touch. Perhaps the dark made it better when she couldn't see him and his mangled, scarred skin. She came hard against his hand, squeezing around his fingers as she made a small sobbing sound and fell against his chest.

"Are you all right?" His free hand stroked her hair and he licked his fingers clean, shivering at the pure sensuality of her taste.

"That was amazing," she hummed. "You were very patient."

 "I don't see what you mean," he replied, freezing up when she shuffled herself down his legs and seized his cock which still throbbed.

The heat returned with vengeance and he heaved himself up on his elbows, peering down at her.

"You mustn't force yourself," he muttered. "I can take care of myself."

"Nonsense. Let me repay the favor," she said, tugging on the band of his pants.

He lifted his hips for her and she pulled them off, running her hands over his scarred thighs. Her hands quickly found his cock, almost like she was impatient to hold it in her hand.

"Now this is a prize," she murmured, rubbing her thumb over his slit, which leaked a rather copious amount of pre-cum over her fingers.

"Are you always this virile?" She giggled.

His breath caught in his throat and blocked whatever he wanted to say. He was already so worked up that it wouldn't take much to get him to explode. The pace she set was edging him and he was far too wound up to tolerate it. He put his hand around hers and increased the pace, throwing his head back against the pillow.

"You're so handsome like that," she murmured. "I can't believe I get to have you."

"Shut up," he hissed but she paid him no mind.

"I'll get you to believe me eventually," she said in determination.

His response came in shambles as she brushed his hand away and leaned over to kiss the tip of his cock. He tried to keep his noises to a minimum but couldn't help snarling like an animal as she took more of him into her mouth. He clutched at the pillow to keep from clutching at her hair instead. His hips moved of their own accord, thrusting his cock into her warm, wet mouth. She mumbled unintelligible words but they sounded encouraging.

"Fuck," he rasped and his hand came down to rest on her head, pushing her further down on him until she choked on his length. "Stop," he hissed, battling against his desires. "Stop, damn it."

She lifted long enough to catch her breath and utter an imperious "no" before she wrapped her lips around him again. He couldn't help himself anymore and came, spilling in her mouth. She swallowed and licked him clean, humming contentedly. His chest heaved as he struggled to calm his racing heart. She giggled and tucked her body against him.

"That was perfect," she said.

He grunted and held her close, breathing in her scent. He slept deeply this time, deep enough that she could take up the jewel-encrusted dagger that she had hidden behind the lamp on the side table. He had been so suspicious of her and he'd be furious if he found it but she didn't care, because that dagger was not for him. He was hers now and she had no intention of hurting him in any way. People had already done plenty of that.

When he woke up, it was so sunlight creeping in through the blinds to warm his naked skin. He sat up, combing his hands through his tangled hair. The space beside him was empty. He stared for a long time and sighed. So, she had decided to leave after all. This was another thing he was used to; his brides escaping into the forest around his house and getting lost. He would always retrieve them and bandage any wounds they had gotten and send them back to their homes and return to his alone.

How many more marriages would he endure in this fashion? He stood and dressed briskly and went straight down to the stables to saddle a horse and go after his bride. The stable hand, a usually quiet lad, was unusually talkative. But he wasn't in the mood for conversation and held up a hand to silence him. As soon as he was in the saddle, he cantered off into the forest.

Three hours later he returned in defeat, sweaty and pissed. It wasn't often that they went far enough that he couldn't find them. Or worse, they had already been attacked by a wild animal. But he had found no traces of blood so he could only assume that she had found her way out of the forest by herself. He stormed into the house, snapping for a maid to heat water for him to bathe.

He yanked his jacket off, trying to suppress the urge to put holes in the wall.

"So, you do care about me," someone said softly.

His head jerked up. There was his bride, unharmed, wearing his robe. She had never left. Suddenly, he realized that must have been what the stable hand was trying to tell him. He felt a little foolish and simply stood and stared at her, confused.

 "Why are you still here?" He asked roughly.

"I mean to stay," she said, stepping forward and slipping her arms around him in an embrace. "You need a bath and your hair is a mess. Come, I'll help you."

He followed her quietly, contemplating the warmth blooming in his heart. It was a foreign feeling he did not yet know, but he would soon learn that it was called love.

Bakugou is, for all intents and purposes, a massive baby.

God forbid you leave him for ten minutes before he starts wandering around the house looking for you. Mercy on you if you go out to the grocery store and don’t take him. And how dare you even consider get up to get a snack when he's in the bathroom, letting your shared spot get cold.

These things, he can not let go easily.

Naturally, this slips your mind every once in a while because a peaceful life with Bakugou Katsuki doesn't exist. When you forget, he makes it his mission to force you to remember his clingy ass.

Tonight, it would appear to be no different.

It's 02:30 when you snap back to reality, bleary eyes blinking to get your bearings back.

The lamp on the side table blinds you momentarily, there's music coming from the tv- credits, you deduce, from the show Denki had raved to you both about. When you angle your head up, you're met with a firm jawline that lets out a loud snore from the slight disturbance.

Katsuki never was good at staying awake during these things.

Smiling up at him, you're quick to place a tender little kiss on his chin, watching as the corners of his mouth twitches slightly. Gently, you slip out of his arms and cover him with the blanket, using the parted lips releasing the smallest little snores to ensure his slumber. He smacks his lips and turns slightly on his side, as if chasing the warmth you'd taken away, and you click the tv off to keep him in the dark. You shuffle your way into your bedroom to get your own rest; you shiver once you slip under the covers, the fabric cold from the lack of use and lack of Katsuki's body heat.

The minute you do warm up, however, you're out like a light, and you remain so for a few hours.

But then, there's someone at the end of your bed. You feel them, and it wakes you just barely. You shift the blankets higher on your shoulder for protection from whatever your subconsious picks up, and just when you feel normal, something speaks.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

The raspy voice coming from the foot of your bed is more than enough to snap you from your sleep, but it isn’t until you see the massive, bulky frame that your heart sinks and you scream, you scream as loud as you can, immediately scrambling to the corner of your bed.

“Stop screaming, it’s me.”

Your shaking hands immediately shoot to the lamp next to your bed and upon flicking it on, you’re greeted by a sleepy Katsuki, blanket around his shoulders and sleepy scowl on his face, as if you’re the one who just inconvenienced him.

“You freak! What are you doing!” You snap, quickly rubbing your eyes to knock the sleep from them to properly scold. He merely shrugs and smacks his tired lips, indifferent to the previous heart attack he’d given you.

“Left me alone on the couch,” he says, dropping the blanket onto the floor before crawling into bed next to you, casually. “We were snuggling. You abandoned me.”

“You-! I was-! Why-!”

“You’re lucky I love you so much,” he says, burying his face into his pillow and making a grabby hand for you, “c’mere, wanna spoon.”

Your heart, still pounding in your chest, finally lets breaths of air in, your hands trembling as you flick back off the light. You’re still mad, now shaking with fury, and as you roll to have your back facing him, you try to take deep breaths to calm down and not smother the man you somehow chose to love with a pillow.

“Hey,” he grumbles, tugging your sleep shirt. “Come here.”

“I can’t fucking stand you, Katsuki. I don’t even want to be in the same bed as you right now, you scared the fucking shit out of me.”

“Didn’t mean to,” he says softly. “Jus’ wanted to be close to you.”

“And you thought threATENING ME AT THE END OF OUR BED WAS A GOOD WAY TO DO THAT?”

He goes silent, and you almost think he’s given up, and just as you blink your stinging eyes, he suddenly rolls on top of you, knocking the wind out of you at his heaviness.

“Katsuki!” You scold, but it’s shrouded in laughter, an absolute contrast of how you just were talking all of ten seconds ago.

“Now you can’t leave,” he says, cockily. “You wake me again and I will kill you.”

“You woke me up just now! You could’ve easily come to bed like any sane person!”

“….”

“Katsuki!”

“Cant hear you, I’m asleep.”

“KATSUKI!”

TW: violence, gore, female reader, cursing

When Muzan sniffs the wind, and catches the scent of human, he hisses softly, his lips peeling back from his pointed teeth.

He’s not pleased. He hasn’t seen or smelled a human in decades—and now that he’s managed to carve out a territory, there’s one coming back to the mountain? Hell no.

He jumps between the trees, gracefully leaping from branch to branch. He’s going down the mountain, down to the foothills where the scent’s coming from. There’s a house there, he remembers—humans used to live there, hunters, before he killed them all. So, some foolish human’s moved back in.

They’ll be a foolish, dead human soon, before they get near his kin.

He thinks of Rui, caught in an iron-toothed trap and crying like a fawn. He thinks of Gyutaro and Daki, starving and exhausted, driven from their forest to his. He thinks of Zohakuten, trying to carry his brother’s body through the snow, leaving a black trail of blood behind them.

No human will touch them again.

When he lands on the long bough of an oak that stands beside the small house, Muzan notices the gray car drawn up out front, and the boxes on the porch. His nose wrinkles. This isn’t good. The human’s planning to stay.

He doesn’t see one, so he drops down, and takes out his anger on several of the nearest boxes. His claws shred through cardboard, tape, and everything inside—which turns out to be pillows, blankets, and a few clothes. Irritated, he swipes at another box, intent on finding the traps or guns or nets—and his claws shatter glass. The pieces stick in his fingers, and he snarls in pained surprise. He leans over, and sees a small drawing in a frame. His claws broke the glass covering it, but they didn’t rip the drawing.

It’s simple, black lines on cream paper. He cocks his head, and the lines resolve into a forest, waterfall, and pool of water. It’s strangely beautiful, appreciative of the woods and the water in a way Muzan couldn’t imagine from a human.

“Yeah, I heard something outside. It’s probably just some small animal or something. Don’t they have tanukis here?”

Muzan, startled, scrambles up the side of the house and onto the roof. His hands ache and sting, the glass still stuck in the skin.

A human comes out, a phone pressed to her ear. He can tell she’s female, smell it on her. Usually, humans use phones to tell others to come, to join the hunt—but she’s saying, “No, no, I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to come, Aunt Reese, I’m serious. It’s perfect.”

She slips the phone into a pocket of her clothes, and then she notices the wreckage of the boxes.

“What the hell?” she murmurs, squatting to examine the scattered remnants of pillows and bedding and clothes. “Okay, that definitely wasn’t a tanuki.”

When she sees the other box, she gasps and tears it open, sagging with relief when she finds the drawing unharmed. And then she notices the broken glass, which, Muzan suddenly realizes, has his dark blood on it.

“Oh, wow,” she murmurs. “What are you?”

She starts sorting things into piles—unusable, and usable, Muzan thinks—and sighs a few times. She seems more attached to her belongings than he expected. Maybe if he rips up more boxes, she’ll leave.

But he’s going to pick the glass out of his skin first.

You learned very quickly that whatever it was, it didn’t care for your presence in the house.

Every morning, you woke up to find something broken, scratched to ribbons, or just plain unrecognizable. At first, it was just your car—the tires ripped up, the glass smashed, huge divots torn out of the metal like butter—and then the house. Windows scratched, screens with gaping holes. It was like living in a haunted house, and it always happened at night.

But it hadn’t come inside the house. Until now.

The pen and ink drawing your mother made—the last one before she died, before her cancer got worse again, before everything—isn’t in its frame.

You slowly walk out onto the porch, your gut sinking. The sky is still dark, dawn too far off, and the front door is hanging open—and the drawing is on the wood, torn into so, so many pieces.

You sink down on your knees, and as you sift through the wreckage of the last part of your mother, you burst into tears.

Muzan had tried everything to make the human leave, shy of attacking her. He’d demolished her car, her house—and she still wouldn’t leave. She’s a threat. She’ll bring others, hunt him and the others down.

Muzan can’t afford to let her stay.

She cares about that drawing, so he’s going to destroy that paper tonight. See if she’ll stay without it.

So, when the human’s gone to sleep, he creeps up to the house. He goes in the door, into the first room he comes to. And there it is, on the wall. He pulls it out of its frame.

The thing on the wall, the round white thing with black marks around the edge, suddenly makes a noise. A long, loud noise, like a bell.

Muzan jumps and runs, panicked, onto the porch. Movement inside tells him the human’s getting up, and so, hurrying, he shreds the paper and jumps onto the roof. The human won’t stay. He’s made sure of that.

And then she comes out, and she sees the scraps of paper, and she bursts into tears. Muzan pauses. Something in his chest tightens, oddly, when she cries, trying to gather up the pieces.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” she suddenly shouts, her face still wet. “You hate me! You want me to leave! But I—“ She gulps on a sob, voice breaking softly. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. And this is all I have left. So please, please, just leave me alone!”

He should be happy. He should. But he isn’t. Muzan’s chest clenches. He’s gotten used to her face, her smile, the way she whistles off-key while she does her chores. Seeing her break breaks something in him.

Does he care about her?

She goes inside, drooping, and comes back with something strange. Muzan, curious, watches, and she starts using clear things to put the drawing back together. It stays, so the clear strips must be sticky.

A loud ringing sound. Muzan knows it by now—she uses it to know when to get up. Sighing, she gets up, goes back inside.

Muzan drops silently onto the porch, and pulls a strip of clear stickiness off the plastic thing. And he starts sticking the paper back together. He remembers the drawing. It must have really mattered to the human, then.

He’s sorry, oddly. She doesn’t seem to have any guns or knives or traps, and he made her cry.

He doesn’t like to see her cry.

You switch off your alarm clock, and stand beside the bed for a minute, sighing as it sinks in. You don’t have anywhere else to go, but the creature in the woods has made its opinion very clear. You can’t stay.

Slowly, you make your way back out to the porch, and when you see it, you stop.

The drawing’s fixed.

You hadn’t put more than half of it back together, and now it’s all there in one piece. The tape dispenser is scratched—by long, sharp claws you’re more than familiar with by now—but unharmed.

It feels like an apology.

So you take the drawing, and put it back in its place, and then you go through the fridge and bring out some eggs, some bacon. You fry the bacon, scramble the eggs and salt them, and plate the lot—and carry it outside.

“I think you can understand me, or at least some of what I say,” you tell the woods, the sun still out of sight. “You’re a predator, right? So you’ll probably like this. And, um—thank you.”

You leave it on the porch and shut the door. The creature likes its privacy, so you eat your own breakfast in the living room, humming quietly as you stare up at the repaired paper. The creature’s very intelligent—you can hardly tell the drawing was torn at all, from how well it was fixed.

When you check the plate, it’s been licked clean. Literally.

Maybe things are finally looking up.

Muzan sits on the long, overlooking branch of the same oak, watching the human plant a small garden. He smelled the seeds yesterday, when she left them outside. Edible. Nothing dangerous.

He tells himself that if she ever proves dangerous, he’ll drive her off.

He knows perfectly well that he won’t.

She talks to him now, though he still hasn’t let her see him. When she’s outside, or when she has the windows open, she’ll say things like, “How are you?” Or, “That was a bad storm last night. Hope you didn’t get too wet.” Or even, “I wish I could show you this show I’ve been watching on Netflix. You probably have no idea what that means, do you? I think you’d like it.”

When the fall’s cold snap came, she started leaving blankets out for him. Muzan brought them back to the den, for Rui and Zohakuten and the others. They’ll be warm this winter. When he goes into sleep with them, they’ll be warm until spring.

So he left his human a few birds he hunted, on the porch. She’d laughed, and said, “I—have no idea what to do with these. How about you not hunt for me? I’ve got food, I promise. But thank you!”

Muzan had taken back the birds, and left something from his collection behind. Like all his kind, he’s drawn to bright things, and he keeps the best ones for himself, in his part of the nest. So he left her a silver button, and a red ribbon, from his hoard.

She liked those. Muzan’s seen her wearing the ribbon, using it to pull her hair back.

A few nights ago, he started coming to the house at the same time, around sunset, every day. He’s done it since. She’s noticed—she talks more when she knows he’s there.

Yesterday, she teased him, and he dropped a nut on her head. She laughed until she almost fell over.

Muzan thinks he might like this human.

When your creature doesn’t come back all winter, you realize he’s probably hibernating. Some large predators do that. He’s probably one of them.

You were really worried the first week he didn’t turn up, though.

You’re not sure when he stopped being an it, when “the creature” became “your creature,” but you’ve gotten attached to him. You can tell when he’s there. He visits around sunset every day. Recently, he started interacting with you—dropping nuts and other things to make his point—even if you still haven’t seen him.

You spend the winter wondering what he looks like, if he’s warm enough. If he’s safe and comfortable and happy, while the snow falls outside and you turn up the heating.

When spring comes, you’re excited to have him back. And he comes back.

One night, you hear a knock at the door. It’s still a little cold at night, so you pull a blanket around yourself to answer it, not thinking about who the knock came from.

You pull the door open.

And there he is, letting you see him. Your creature. You let the blanket fall, unable to think of anything else.

He’s tall and thin, but lined with muscle—and he could almost pass for human, except for the dark tint on his forearms shading into black on his hands, or the deep red of his eyes, or the claws tipping his long, graceful fingers. He licks his lips, his eyes dropping nervously, and you catch a glimpse of sharp teeth and a long tongue.

His hair is long and black, but well-cared-for and clean, not draggled. His skin is porcelain pale, and he’s nude—but unlike a human, he doesn’t have any obvious genitals, just a smooth mound. (You immediately kick yourself for even looking.)

Very, very slowly, he holds out a hand toward you. It’s hesitant, almost fearful, so you meet him halfway with your own hand and squeeze his.

He jumps a little, startled, but then he leans closer, his eyelids fluttering. He has long lashes, you realize. Before you know what you’re doing, you lift your hand to his face, cupping his cheek. And he leans into it, turning to nuzzle against your palm.

“You—do you want to come in?” you ask.

It takes some time, but eventually he grows comfortable enough to show himself more frequently. When you’re gardening, struggling to pull a particularly stubborn sweet potato, he’s suddenly there to nudge you aside and dig it up with clawed hands. When you’re making breakfast, he shows up at the kitchen window and hands a few berries though it. He’s always there these days, whenever you turn around.

The first time he speaks, you almost jump out of your skin.

You’re talking to him, telling him about something inane—something you saw on Netflix—without expecting anything to fill the silence.

So when he says, “What is Netflix?” in a low mellow voice, you start, spilling your morning tea all over yourself and your blanket in the chair on the porch.

“Did I scare you?” he says, worried, and your heart jumps.

“I—I’ve never heard you speak. I didn’t even know you could,” you say, shoving the blanket off and rubbing your legs. The tea was still hot, and your thighs are hurting.

He kneels down in front of you, looking at your legs intently.

“It hurts,” he says softly. “Did it burn?”

“I don’t think so,” you manage, almost tongue-tied from seeing him so close to you. “But you—how did you learn English?”

“You,” he says, still intently studying your legs. “I listened to you.”

You huff an incredulous laugh. “Well, I always knew you were clever, but this is—“

He chuckles, and it’s a wonderful sound that makes your heart feel light and warm and full.

“I think you should change your clothes,” he says gently. “And then you can show me your Netflix.”

You do show him your Netflix, and other things around the house—the microwave, the fridge—and every time he sees something new and unexplained, he learns quickly. He adapts too; the television is not a threat, it’s entertainment. He doesn’t like the fridge, but he understands that the microwave makes food warm again, and he likes it better that way.

You learn too, more about him. His name is Muzan. He eats a lot of meat—preferably animals he hunts himself, though he seems to like eating with you—and has incredible senses. Smell seems particularly important to him; he can tell what you’ve eaten hours before, and find you unerringly with just your scent to go on.

After a little while, Muzan gets comfortable enough to visit every day, coming inside the house. He’s very intelligent, and spends a lot of time pouring over your books or discussing what he’s read with you. He likes documentaries or meaningful films, but generally doesn’t care for shows. If you want to watch one, he’ll settle himself beside you, reading silently.

And time passes like that, for weeks and months.

When summer is coming to a close at last, Muzan asks you to walk with him in the forest. He seems almost nervous when he asks, twisting his hands together. You often walk together on the paths, but this seems different somehow.

“What is it?” you ask gently. “Muzan, is something bothering you?”

He huffs a soft laugh.

“I want you to see my den,” he admits. “And meet my family.”

You can’t keep the smile off your face. You’re touched by the clear trust in that gesture. The two of you have come so far.

“Do they know I’m coming?” you check.

“Yes.” Muzan bites his lip. “They…may not trust you as I do right away.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to.” You slide your hand into his larger, dark-tinted one. “You’ve been hunted by humans, so you hunted them. I’m guessing they’ve experienced the same. Trust would be a big ask after that.”

Muzan pulls you into a fierce embrace, nuzzling into your neck.

“Thank you,” he says softly, his voice almost breaking.

The den is a cave, the entrance fairly cramped. Muzan guides you very carefully through it, at one point using his hand to stop you from slamming your knee into a sharp rock. It’s much bigger on the inside, with a pile of very familiar blankets directly in front of you on the floor. There are a few ledges, which seem to be full of bright things—buttons feature prominently, but so do shiny rocks and strips of cloth.

Muzan’s a bit like a crow, actually. Now you know where your button and ribbon came from—you’re wearing the ribbon in your hair today.

Zohakuten emerges first. He has black hair, like Muzan, and they’re clearly the same species. But he’s small, about the size of an 8-year-old. He’s glaring at you.

Muzan slips a hand around your waist. You take a deep breath.

“You’re Zohakuten, right?” you ask, squatting down. “I brought something for you.”

Muzan had explained that for his kind, their collections were very important. New members of a family group usually gave each other gifts, so you’d brought a few things.

Carefully, you hold your hand out. In it is a wooden dinosaur. “My uncle was a whittler,” you tell Zohakuten. “And he made this when I was little.”

Zohakuten sniffs it before he takes it.

“Your uncle ate a lot of cheese,” he says. Your brows rise.

“You can smell that?” When Zohakuten nods, you say, “You must have a really good nose.”

He smiles. Just a little.

Gyutaro comes out next, with Daki behind him. His hair is black; hers is white.

“You’re the one who gave us the blankets,” Gyutaro says flatly.

“Yeah. I’ve got something else for you though. Muzan told me you like knives, Guytaro.” You hand him the little pocketknife your mother gave you when you turned sixteen. “You want this one?”

Gyutaro looks it over. Then he takes it. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“So, do I have something?” Daki asks.

“Yeah, you do.” You give her a piece of embroidered cloth. “My mom’s mom made this when she was little.”

“What’s it for?”

“Being pretty,” you say, and wink. “Just like you.”

Daki squeals and hugs you. As she and her brother go to curl up in the blanket mound, you hear Gyutaro say, “You smell gross now.” Daki swats him, and snaps, “Nice things aren’t gross and she was nice, so she doesn’t smell gross. You’re gross.”

“Your hair’s gross,” Gyutaro mutters.

Apparently kids are still kids, even when they’re creatures in the woods.

When the sun sinks, and Rui still doesn’t come out, Muzan asks if you should go home. He’s worried about you being outside in the dark.

“Muzan,” you tell him, hands on hips, “if it’s okay with everyone, I’d rather stay.”

Zohakuten laughs. When you both look at him, he shrugs.

“I like her.”

Daki runs over and pulls up and down on Muzan’s arm.

“Can she stay? Can she please?”

Muzan looks over at Gyutaro. The boy shrugs.

“She doesn’t smell that gross,” he says, his arms folded. “I guess.”

Muzan sighs. “All right.”

Daki squeals with delight and drags you over to the blanket mound, pulling you down beside her. She curls up next to you like a cat, and starts telling all about everything in her collection. Halfway through, she starts yawning. A bit later, she falls asleep.

Gyutaro plops down next to her, stares at you for a second, and shuts his eyes. Zohakuten leans his head against your knee, looking over his gift again. And very gently, Muzan tucks himself against your other side, smiling.

“You’re smiling,” Zohakuten says, surprised.

Muzan puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t wake your siblings,” he says softly. Zohakuten wrinkles his nose.

“You’re going soft, papa,” he whispers.

Muzan shows his teeth playfully. “Oh, am I?”

“Definitely,” Zohakuten says. “You like her. You like her a lot.” He stares at you in the dark. “You’re all mushy now. You didn’t used to be mushy.”

“I’ll show you mushy,” Muzan warns. “In the morning.”

As Zohakuten rolls over, still holding his new present, he mumbles quietly, “That’s just what a mushy person would say.”