cw: sexual content, nudity, rough/chaotic physical affection, dominance play, possessiveness, loud yelling, comedic interruption, consensual power dynamics. Art by milkkbunnz
You didn’t even hear him coming, because of course you didn’t. August only makes noise when it benefits him, never when it benefits your nervous system.
You were sitting on the couch, legs folded under you, leaning toward your little pocket mirror—the one he “borrowed” and doodled flowers all over like he was five and in love with stationery. You were reapplying your chapstick, pressing your lips together until they shined. Everything calm. Everything quiet.
And then—“AAAAAH—SUP GIRL!”
Your soul left your body, grabbed a suitcase, and booked a train to anywhere else. Your heart plummeted straight into your ass but your face stayed painfully neutral out of pure pride.
August burst through the doorway like a grenade with legs, voice echoing off every wall in HQ. Before you could blink, he launched himself onto the couch, half on you, half on gravity’s mercy, draping across your thighs with zero dignity and even less stability. You made a noise of protest that he absolutely ignored.
His hand shot out, snatching your claw clip mid-air like he was catching prey. “Gotcha,” he crooned, already clicking it open and closed obnoxiously near your face like a deranged baby bird demanding worms. Click. Click. Click.
You narrowed your eyes. “August—”
He clipped it into your hair. Not even nicely. Not even functionally. Just somewhere on your face. You exhaled through your nose so hard your soul might’ve re-entered your body for a moment.
He wasn’t done. He plucked the clip back out, inspected it like treasure, then clipped it proudly to the strap of his dungarees—right next to the other three he’d stolen this week alone.
“I. missed. you.” Each word punctuated with another smug little click of the clip. His grin was so stupidly wide you felt your annoyance crack at the edges.
You tried to go back to tying your hair—failing, because he was basically sprawled across your lap like a cat that had never been denied anything in its life. You pushed lightly at his shoulder and he responded by melting deeper into you, head landing against your thigh like he’d died dramatically for attention.
Then he noticed your chapstick. “—oooh. shiny…” he murmured, pupils dilating like a crow discovering a loose coin.
“No,” you said immediately, lifting your chin in fake authority. Your mouth was already fighting a smile.
He ignored the refusal, as always and leaned in, really close, practically nose-to-nose with you, like he was trying to inhale the cherry scent without admitting he liked it. He watched your lips with embarrassing focus. “This one’s new,” he murmured, voice dropping half an octave like he was studying an artifact. “It’s got—what’s that—glitter? Is it edible? If I lick it, will I die? Can I try it? Let me try it.”
You grabbed his face with both hands before he did something stupid, your palms warm on his cheeks, thumbs brushing over felted charcoal smudges he’d never washed off. August froze, muscles going quiet like you’d hit an off-switch he didn’t know he had.
Then you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. A little tint left behind. A little shimmer. A little claim he absolutely felt.
He made a sound. Not a normal human sound. A delighted, smug, dying-bird coo that vibrated straight into your kneecaps.
“—awwwww sick,” he said, touching the stained spot like he’d been knighted. “I will wear it with honor.” He puffed out his chest like a rooster. “People are gonna think I fought a sparkly ghost and lost.”
“You would lose,” you said, and he gasped as if wounded.
“You wound me every day,” he declared, rolling dramatically across your lap until he ended up upside-down, head hanging off the couch, hair brushing the floor. He peered up at you from this cursed angle. “Do it again.”
“No.”
“One more.”
“No.”
“Half a one.”
“There’s no such—”
He sat up so fast your mirror almost fell from your hand. He caught it, flipped it open, and angled it toward your face in a ridiculous imitation of your earlier pose. “Look,” he said, tapping the glass he had drawn tiny smeared flowers over, “you can see the cherry color better in my mirror. It’s got charm. It’s got artistic integrity. It’s got me.”
“You literally vandalized it.”
“You kept it,” he sang, leaning his entire weight onto your shoulder again, heavy and warm and absolutely starved for touch in a way he pretended was casual. “Which means you love my art. And me.”
“Definitely not you.”
“Ohhh she lies,” he said, nuzzling his forehead against yours like an affectionate gremlin. “Tiny, tiny lies from a tiny, tiny heart.”
You flicked his forehead. “My heart is not tiny.”
He gasped. “Violence.”
You didn’t answer, only smoothed a hand through his hair—because he was already in your lap, and honestly, resistance at this point felt fictional. He melted instantly, like he’d been waiting all day for someone to pet him. His eyes fluttered, his breath went embarrassingly soft, his shoulders slumped. A stray strand of your hair fell into your face, he pushed it back behind your ear, solemn for two seconds before he ruined it.
“I’m keeping this clip,” he whispered proudly.
“You’re not.”
“It’s already clipped. Nothing can stop me now.”
“August.”
“Yes, my love?”
“Give it back.”
He tightened his arms around your waist. “Come take it.”
You swatted him. He laughed so loudly half the HQ probably assumed someone was being murdered. You couldn’t help it and grinned.
He buried his face in your shoulder, voice muffled and smug. “Mmm. Cherry flavor. Maybe tomorrow you should do… peach. Or mint. Or something that tastes like danger. I’ll find it. I’ll judge it. I’ll steal it.”
“You’re not tasting my chapstick.”
“We’ll see,” he whispered, sounding unbearably pleased with himself.
August’s obsession didn’t calm down after that couch incident—if anything it escalated into a lifestyle choice. He was suddenly everywhere, bursting through hallways, dropping onto couches, hanging off doorframes like a problematic chandelier. Every time you walked past him, he had at least four of your hair ties banded around one wrist, a scrunchie puffing up the other like some ridiculous statement piece, and a claw clip proudly clipped to his dungaree strap like war decoration.
You pretended to glare every time. You said things like “Give it back.” You rolled your eyes. You scolded. You acted bothered.
But every time you caught sight of your stuff on him—bright little pieces of you sitting against his denim, dangling from his wrist, hugging his hair—your chest warmed in a way that made you want to strangle him lovingly.
He, of course, noticed every flicker of softness you tried to suffocate. And he fed on it.
He visited your room constantly. Not to see you—no, of course not. That would be too normal. Too honest. He came to “borrow” things, which meant entering silently like a raccoon, scanning the shelves, and stealing whatever glimmered. One morning you realized a whole small bowl of your clips had vanished. Another day, your ribbon was gone. Another—your mirror. The one he decorated. He claimed he was “updating the art.”
If you tried to scold him, he would cup your chin between his fingers dramatically, kiss your forehead without warning, and say, “Shhhh. Art in progress.”
You shoved him. He cackled.
So when you heard him in the hallway the next morning—howling—like actual guttural, animalistic, deeply unwell howling—it didn’t shock you. It only made you sigh and march toward it.
His door was half open, the inside already radiating the unmistakable aura of August: chaos, loudness, and the faint scent of metal and sweat. You slid the door the rest of the way open.
“You good?” you asked, voice flat, as your eyes slowly adjusted to the war crime that was his room.
August spun toward you with wild eyes—hair sticking up like he fought a wind god, one of your scrunchies barely hanging on by a thread. “You—YOU—cannot just—YOU GOTTA WARN ME WHEN YOU COME IN I’M BUSY—”
You stepped inside. Took two more steps. Then gasped.
Because in the corner of his shelves, crowded together like rare artifacts—were your things. Your clips. Your ties. Your mirror. Your old broken bangle. A ribbon you lost three days ago. A folded piece of paper you’d doodled on. Everything arranged in an absurd little shrine. “August…” you breathed. “That’s my—my—my stuff!”
He puffed up like a pigeon protecting its eggs. “That’s my you altar!” he declared proudly.
“Your—WHAT—” you sputtered, pointing at it. “That’s my shit!”
“Nuh uh,” he said immediately, crossing his arms.
Your eye twitched. “Fuck you mean nuh uh?!”
He leaned forward defiantly. “Nuh UH.”
You stared at him, full offense activated. “You did not just ‘nuh uh’ me.”
He nodded slowly. “Nuh.” Then again. “Uh.”
You threw your hands in the air. “August that doesn’t MEAN anything!”
“It means,” he said, pacing in a circle like a lawyer preparing a case he absolutely should not be allowed to deliver, “that you left these items unattended. And I—kind, gentle, generous—rescued them. For art. Meaning they’re mine now.”
“That is not how property works.”
“That is EXACTLY how property works,” he argued, grabbing one of your ribbons and twirling it around his finger like it was a rosary. “If I love it enough, it’s mine.”
“That’s not a rule!”
“It is NOW,” he shouted triumphantly.
You scrubbed a hand over your face. “Oh my god I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” he said instantly, pointing at you with the same ribbon. “You kissed me. You love me actually.”
“That was your cheek!”
“Still counts!”
“No it doesn’t—”
He marched up to you, shoved the ribbon into your hand, then grabbed your wrist in return. You nearly jumped at the contact because he was warm, too warm for someone who complained about literally everything else being warm. His hand clamped around yours like he was anchoring himself, eyes squinting at you with that ridiculous too-happy expression he got whenever he felt seen.
“You came into my room,” he announced, voice dipping into a theatrical whisper. “Which makes you obsessed with me.”
“I came in because you were SCREAMING.”
“That’s attraction.”
“That’s concern.”
“For ME,” he added, leaning in so close your noses almost brushed. “Obsessive. Dangerous. Passionate concern.”
“Shut up,” you muttered, but you didn’t pull away.
He noticed. Oh, he noticed. August’s grin spread across his face like a sunrise if the sun was unhinged and needed therapy. “What chapstick is it today?” he asked, switching topics like a feral magpie, eyes dropping to your mouth immediately.
“Cherry. Again.”
“Ohhh,” he hummed, licking his lips exaggeratedly. “The shrine approves.”
“It’s not a shrine—”
“My YOU altar,” he corrected, reaching past you and adjusting one of your claw clips like he was arranging flowers. “Gonna grow it. Gonna expand it. Gonna steal more.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You can’t stop me. I’m fast.” He wiggled his hands like spirit fingers. “Fast and motivated.”
You bit your cheek to hide a smile. He caught it immediately and lit up like a lantern.
“Awwwww,” he cooed, leaning all of his weight against your shoulder until you staggered. “She likes it.”
“I DON’T.”
“She wants to kiss me again.”
“NO I do not—”
“Then why you standing so close, hm?” he whispered, eyes sparkling with feral triumph.
You pushed him away and he stumbled dramatically, fell onto the floor, and yelled loudly enough to alert everyone in a three-room radius. Then he sat up, ribbon still tied between his fingers, and grinned up at you.
“You’re lucky I’m in love with you,” he said casually.
You froze. He blinked. You blinked. Then he shot finger guns. “—with your STUFF. In love with your STUFF. Your items. Your belongings. Your… things.” He coughed violently. “Deeply romantic feelings only for accessories.”
You took one single step toward the altar when something slammed into your waist from behind. August launched off the floor like a missile made of denim and chaos, arms hooking around you as if you were a prize he had been training for his entire life. Your balance vanished. The world tilted. You landed right in his lap with a graceless thud as he dragged you backward.
“YOU absolute asshole!” you yelled, palms smacking against his chest as he only held you tighter, legs bracketing your hips like he was trying to glue you to him permanently.
He gasped dramatically, clutching you harder and swaying like the two of you were in some romantic spinning ballroom instead of on a filthy HQ floor. “Babygiiiirl, that’s my stuff, my stand, my altar, MY ART,” he declared at full August volume, breath hot against your ear as you tried to pry his fingers off. “You leave your little gremlin fingers away from it! I curated that with love! With soul! With passion!”
He wriggled his own fingers right in front of your face like he thought jazz hands could win arguments. They were long, lanky and the sheer arrogance of them made you lean forward and bite one.
“OW—OHMYGOD—SHE’S BITING ME!” he shrieked, yanking his hand back while shaking it, eyes wide with betrayal and delight all at once. “Nobody appreciates artists anymore! I suffer! I bleed for my craft!”
“You stole my shit,” you hissed, trying to twist off his lap, but he tightened his grip around your waist like a vice, dragging you even closer. His laugh erupted out of him—loud, full-bodied, unhinged—the kind that shot straight through your ribs and made you want to slam him into the nearest wall and kiss him just to shut him up.
“You love when I steal your shit,” he said with a voice so smug it practically shimmered.
“No, I—”
“Yes, you do,” he sing-songed, nose brushing your cheek as he tried to peek at your expression. “Every time I clip your claw clip on my strap I see your little smiiiileee—”
“I do NOT smile!”
“Mm-hm. Sure, sweetheart. You frown in happiness. It’s adorable.”
You elbowed him. Hard. He groaned dramatically, letting his head fall back and his arms fall even lower on your waist like you had just mortally wounded him in a very sexy Shakespeare play.
“Why are you like this,” you groaned.
“Because you make me like this,” he shot back immediately, tightening his arms again like he expected you to run. “Now stop trying to steal my altar offerings or I’ll have to—ah—hey—HEY—stop leaning—STOP—”
Because you had leaned forward again—this time trying to grab the scrunchie he had yanked from your hair earlier. He used his entire torso to drag you backward, limbs flailing, both of you yelling over each other. You were so loud neither of you heard the footsteps outside.
Enjin slid the door open. The silence that hit the room was violent.
He stared at the scene with the blank, exhausted face of a man who was absolutely done with both of you. Your hair was a mess, your shirt slightly wrinkled from being wrestled. August had one arm around your waist, the other planted on your hip like he was posing for a very inappropriate portrait. His glasses were hanging crooked off one ear, hair sticking up in every possible direction, claw clip still attached proudly to his strap, and he looked entirely too happy for someone caught in such a compromising position.
“…What the hell are you two doing?” Enjin asked in a low, tired voice, like he already regretted opening his mouth.
You froze. August froze. Even the dust motes in the air froze. The only thing moving was August’s chest against your back as he inhaled sharply, then—he laughed. Loud. Obnoxious. The kind of laugh that shook his whole body and made his arm squeeze you accidentally tighter. His grin split across his face like a demon waking up.
“Ohhh~~ ENJINNNN,” he purred, flipping his hair back with a single obscene motion that did absolutely nothing to fix how deranged he looked. His grin widened even further. “Didn’t know you were into performance art.”
“Performance—” you sputtered, trying to get off his lap, but August locked his arms around you like a koala that refused to acknowledge breakups. “August, let go—”
“No,” he whispered, eyes gleaming as he looked up at Enjin like this was the best morning of his entire life. “She tried to steal from my altar. I defended my faith.”
“That is NOT—”
“RELIGION,” August declared, looking at you again with gleeful intensity. “Love is religion. I am devout.”
Enjin stared for a long, painful second. He rubbed his forehead. “I’m leaving,” he muttered, sliding the door shut so forcefully dust drifted from the ceiling.
You sat frozen in August’s lap until the footsteps faded. Then you twisted around and smacked his shoulder. “You’re fucking impossible.”
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he shot back, voice still bright with that reckless heat that made your stomach twist. He leaned forward, glasses sliding even lower, eyes flicking to your lips again. “Is that cherry chapstick still on? Lemme see.”
“You’re not getting a taste.”
He grinned, pulling you closer by the waist again. “We’ll see about that.”
You shoved him, laughing despite yourself, and August lit up like you’d handed him the sun. “Round two?” he asked, already bracing to tackle you again.
“Try it,” you warned, “and I’ll bite harder.”
He grinned like you’d just proposed marriage and only leaned back for a second, not to release you, no, never that—but just far enough to look at you like he’d already won whatever game he thought you were playing. One arm stayed locked around your waist, palm warm on your hip, fingers flexing like he was making sure you wouldn’t escape even if you tried.
“No chance, girlypop,” he purred, voice hot and smug and way too pleased with himself. “You’re not going anywhere.”
You narrowed your eyes and grabbed him by the collar—fisting the fabric, yanking him toward you so fast his glasses slid halfway off his face. His breath hitched, barely noticeable but there, and your lips quirked because you felt the shift in him. The moment where his bravado cracked just enough to show the burn beneath it. “You are obnoxious,” you hissed, pulling him closer until your noses were almost touching. “An obnoxious thief.”
He gasped dramatically—one hand flying to his chest. “Me?” he exclaimed, eyes wide with fake betrayal. “Moi? A thief? A criminal? An innocent, humble artist accused of—”
You tugged the collar even harder. His rant cut off with a small stunned noise that he’d deny until death.
He slid his glasses up into his hair with one slow push, revealing those sharper, unfiltered eyes beneath. They flicked down at your mouth, then back up—something hungry, playful, and absolutely dangerous sparking behind them.
“You shouldn’t hold me like that,” he said, voice dropping a tone too deep. “I’ll do something stupid.”
Before you could answer, he hooked his free hand behind your back and pulled you straight into him—chest to chest, breath to breath, heat to heat. It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even playful. It was deliberate.
He tilted his head, lips brushing yours, barely a breath away but close enough that you felt the shape of his smile curve against your skin. “Say it again,” he whispered like it was a dare. “Call me obnoxious.”
“You are.”
“And a thief?”
“That too.”
He grinned. It was fast, reckless, almost clumsy with how badly he wanted it, his mouth crashing into yours with all the pent-up chaos he had been vibrating with since the second you stepped into his room. His hand tightened on your waist, fingers digging just enough to pull you down fully into his lap, and you felt his whole body melt and ignite at the same time.
He tasted the cherry chapstick. You felt him react instantly, his breath shuddering through his nose, a low satisfied noise caught somewhere in his chest as he deepened the kiss like he’d been waiting weeks for it. His thumb stroked your hip, his other hand slid up your back, holding you like if he let go you’d disappear entirely.
You pushed back. Hard. He made a noise—half surprised, half starving—and kissed you even harder, laughing breathlessly against your mouth because of course he did. Of course August Stilza would laugh during a kiss. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. Just a few centimeters. Just enough to look at you with his lips swollen and tinted red from your chapstick.
“Ohhhhhh,” he breathed, voice cracked with delight. “I’m gonna be intolerable now.”
“You already are.”
He cupped your jaw with both hands like you were something breakable. “Babygirl…that was criminal. That was theft. YOU stole my soul. I should arrest you. Or kiss you again. Maybe both.”
You shoved his face lightly. He just laughed, loud and obnoxious and so happy.
You didn’t even give him time to finish that smug little inhale he was taking—your hands slid up, cupping his face firmly between your palms, thumbs brushing the high points of his cheeks, and you pulled him back in for another kiss.
This time you kissed him first and August made a sound so helplessly startled, so soft, so needy, so unlike the loud feral gremlin he pretended to be, that it shot straight through your spine.
A tiny whimper. Barely a breath.
His fingers tightened on your waist instantly, the grip nearly bruising as he tried to anchor himself from melting straight into the floor. His whole body jolted like he hadn’t prepared for affection to come in such a direct strike. He kissed back messily, desperately, chasing your mouth when you pulled a tiny bit away just to breathe.
God.
He made you want to strangle him. He made you want to laugh. He made you want to bite him just to hear that sound again.
“That was sweet,” you said against his lips.
He blinked up at you like you’d personally unplugged his brain. His lips were tinted cherry from your gloss; his glasses were still shoved up in his messy hair; his pupils blown wide like he was in danger of confessing something he wasn’t ready for.
“Girl—” he whispered, voice wrecked, breath shaky, “you are going to kill me…”
But even as he said it, his hand slid behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulled you back down into him again like he couldn’t live a full second without your mouth on his.
This kiss was hotter and hungrier, his lips parting under yours as he chased every movement, every shift of your breath. His thigh tensed beneath you, his shoulders shaking with how hard he tried not to groan. He laughed into your mouth once, that bright chaotic laugh that made your teeth vibrate, then kissed you deeper as if to make up for it.
“God,” he managed when he surfaced for a heartbeat, nose brushing yours. “Do that again. Do that again or I’m gonna lose my whole mind—”
“You don’t have a mind,” you shot back, breathless.
“EXACTLY,” he replied, dragging you forward by the waist until you collapsed fully against him. “YOU TOOK IT—you—that was theft—criminal intent—premeditated—kiss me again—”
You grabbed him by the collar again and he practically moaned. The noise was choked, cut off immediately like he didn’t mean to make it, but it was there. Oh, it was there.
You pulled back—barely. Not even a full hand’s width, just enough for air to cool between your lips and for August to feel the loss like a punch to the solar plexus.
His breath hitched. His hands froze on your waist. His pupils stayed blown-out and heavy, fixed on your mouth like he could drag it back to his with sheer willpower. And then the realization hit him.
You were teasing him. You were doing this on purpose.
He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, something between a gasp and a wounded animal yelp. He followed you forward instinctively, almost chasing your mouth, but your hand flattened on his chest to hold him back. That tiny barrier, your palm against him, your weight still settled across his lap, made his whole body tense.
“Ohhh you—” he managed, voice cracking embarrassingly as he tried to keep the volume down and completely failed, “you EVIL woman—don’t pull away, why did you pull away—come back—what are you DOING—”
You raised one brow, slow and deliberate. “What’s wrong?”
He blinked at you like you’d just shot him point-blank. “What’s—WHAT’S—girl, PLEASE—”
His voice broke on the last word. Broke. And you had never seen him lose his swagger so completely, so fast. You shifted on his lap just a little, only a shift of weight and he sucked in a breath so sharp it could’ve cut glass.
“Don’t—move—like that—” he choked out, voice gone thin with tension, and then immediately clapped a hand over his own mouth as if he hadn’t meant to say it.
You smiled. Slowly. Sweetly. Wickedly. He looked like he might die on the spot.
“Oh my god,” he whispered through his fingers. “You’re TRYING to kill me. This is murder. Premeditated. You’re sitting here—on ME—and doing THIS—on purpose—”
“Hmm,” you hummed, leaning in close enough for your breath to brush his cheek but not touching, not giving him what he wanted. “Maybe.”
He practically bucked under you.
“STOP,” he squeaked, voice going high with panic and need, “you can’t just—say it like that—girl—PLEASE—kiss me again, I’m begging. I’ll bark. I’ll scream. I’ll confess to crimes I didn’t do—just—COME BACK—”
You tilted your head, letting your lips hover a hair above his. “Why? You seemed fine.”
He grabbed your waist with both hands, fingers digging in—not rough, just desperate. His glasses slid further back in his hair as he stared up at you with the most chaotic, flustered expression imaginable.
“I’m NOT fine,” he blurted. “I’m the opposite of fine. I’m—look at me—I’m malfunctioning—my brain is soup—I can’t even form threats—I just want your mouth—PLEASE.”
You stifled a laugh behind your fingertips. His ears went red.
“Are you… embarrassed?” you teased softly.
August slapped a palm against the floor behind him and practically howled, “I AM AROUSED AND OFFENDED, ACTUALLY—”
You snorted and finally leaned in again, brushing your lips over the corner of his mouth without fully kissing him.
He shuddered. Entirely. Visibly.
“PLEASE,” he whispered, all the volume knocked clean out of him. “Don’t tease. Don’t be nice and mean at the same time. You’re gonna break me in half.”
You kissed him then—savoring the way he melted instantly, hands gripping your waist like he needed you steady on him. His whole body went hot under your touch, every breath shaky, every movement chasing yours with an urgency he couldn’t hide anymore. When you pulled away again, just a breath, he followed helplessly. “You good?” you asked, smiling against his mouth.
“No,” he said immediately, voice wrecked and honest. “I need—more—god, girl, PLEASE—don’t stop sitting on me—don’t stop kissing me—don’t stop anything—”
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. His fingers curled tight at your hips. “If you pull away again,” he whispered, loud and dramatic even while breathless, “I will scream so loud Enjin will file a noise complaint.”
You laughed, sliding your fingers into his messy hair.
“I hate how much I like you,” he muttered into your neck, and then—mumbled even softer—“and how good you smell. And taste. And sit.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face. Cherry tint smeared on his lips. Glasses crooked. Hair ruined. Eyes hungry and undone.
God, he was a mess.
After that day, peace became a mythical creature. A rumor. A bedtime story. Because August had discovered that kissing you didn’t kill him. It only made him worse.
He was obsessed with you, loudly, dramatically, shamelessly and you let him. You let him hover, cling, nip at your calm like a caffeinated mosquito. But he still scared the absolute shit out of you at least once a day. You’d be minding your business, tying your hair back, drinking water, existing—and suddenly—
“HEY GIRL—” And your soul would leave your body through the roof.
Your hair ties? Gone within hours. They escaped, according to him. They “chose their new home.” Your scrunchies migrated to his wrists in packs, like wild animals. And every time you smacked his arm for stealing another, he just went soft-eyed and happy, like you’d complimented him.
If you kissed his cheek—just a tiny smooch—he almost detonated. He’d stomp in a circle, hands in the air, yelling incoherent things like, “SHE DID IT AGAIN—THIS IS NOT FAIR—I’M A VICTIM—”
If he stole a kiss in the hallway—quick, messy, his hand grabbing your waist like he was claiming stolen treasure—he acted normal for three seconds, then practically levitated with smugness.
He whispered the filthiest, stupidest things in your ear during meetings too, words that made you choke on your breath and nearly throw a shoe at him.
“Sit on my lap and pretend I’m a chair. It’ll improve morale.”
He was unbearable with others but with you? He was all of that plus something warmer, something softer, something that made your stomach curl in a way you absolutely refused to talk about.
And now, weeks later, you found him lying flat on his back on the HQ floor like a corpse. Again. Nothing new. He did that like it was a hobby.
So you simply stepped over him and sat right on his stomach.
He made a startled “OOF—” as the air punched out of him, eyes going wide before melting into total devotion. His hands immediately came up to hold your hips like gravity had finally given him a gift.
You leaned forward, tapped his nose with one finger and he blinked up at you, glasses crooked and hair in total disarray. “What’s going on in that little brain of yours, babe?” you asked, your tone warm, teasing, a little smug.
August stared up at you like you had just descended from the heavens to ruin him personally. He placed a hand over his chest, dramatically. “Babe,” he said softly—too softly for someone like him—then pitched his voice up, flustered and loud. “BABY. GIRL. PLEASE. You can’t just SIT on me like I’m a—like I’m a FLOOR DECORATION—”
“You were already on the floor,” you pointed out calmly, tucking your legs more securely around his hips. “I just joined you.”
“YOU JOINED—YOU—SAT—ON ME—oh my god—she sat—on me—” he rambled, voice cracking, eyes darting everywhere like someone had short-circuited his entire brain. “And then she BOOPED ME. Do you know what that does? To a man? A REAL man? A ME man???”
You grinned and leaned closer. “So what’re you thinking?”
He slapped both hands onto your thighs, not hard—just firm, warm, grounding himself so he wouldn’t float off the floor. His breath stuttered. His eyes flicked between your lips and your eyes, as if trying to decide whether to confess or combust.
“I am thinking—” he said in one long exhale, “that if you don’t stop being cute on purpose, I’m gonna pass out from emotional overheating.”
“Emotional overheating?” you repeated, laughing.
“Yes.” He nodded aggressively. “My brain is a toaster right now. It’s BURNT. You FRIED IT. With your ASS sitting on my SOLAR PLEXUS.”
You slid your hands up his chest slowly, deliberately. He trembled. Full-body. Like someone turned the gravity up inside him. “And you like that?” you asked quietly.
“LIKE??” he exploded, throwing his head back against the floor. “Girl, I am in LOVE with suffering if it’s from YOU—sit harder—no, wait, I didn’t mean it like that—I MEANT—WAIT—”
You laughed so hard he covered his face with both hands, groaning into them like he wanted to sink into the floor.
Then he peeked through his fingers at you, smile creeping back in, hot and flustered and adoring. “…Boop my nose again,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll kiss you after.” He paused. “Like, violently.”
You leaned down. Slow. Teasing. Deliciously cruel. He arched up into you like a live wire. When your finger reached his nose he made a tiny whimper you would absolutely tease him about later.
And true to his word, August surged up, grabbed your face in both hands, and kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.
He became a constant orbit around you—messy, obsessed, clingy, dramatic—and you let him. You teased him back. Kissed him back. Sat on him whenever he sprawled on the floor. Let him explode in noise every time you touched him. And he only got worse. Softer. Needier.
One night—deep night, the kind where HQ hallways were quiet and lights dimmed—you were already in your bed, half-asleep, wrapped in your blanket. Finally. Silence.
Then: knock-knock-knock-KNOCK-KNOCK—
Your soul left your body.
You dragged yourself up, opened the door and August teleported inside. Literally. He moved with the speed of a feral raccoon that smelled food.
“I want you so bad I’m shaking,” he announced, way too hyped, way too loud, voice echoing down the hallway like he was confessing a murder.
Your eyes went wide. You slapped your hand over his mouth on instinct. “SHUT UP—” you hissed, half whisper, half strangled growl, “it is the middle of the night, oh my GOD, use your indoor voice for once in your goddamn LIFE—”
He blinked at you. Innocent. Wide-eyed. Already inhaling for another shout. You saw it coming.
He sucked in air—You slapped your hand back over his mouth instantly. “NO. Absolutely not. That’s your yelling breath. STOP IT.”
He whined loudly into your palm—deep, dramatic, and vibrating with pent-up chaos. His hands grabbed your waist, squeezing like he might burst if he didn’t touch you. Then he grabbed your shoulder with both hands and shook you a little like a dog shaking a toy.
“August—” you whispered, mortified, “please—stop—shaking me—”
He didn’t. He was vibrating. He was happy. He was turned on. And he was completely, utterly unhinged.
You pulled your hand away to scold him properly and he grabbed both your wrists.
Not rough. Just firm. Playful. And so full of want it made your knees weak. His grin was feral. “Okay. Listen. I’m being so respectful right now,” he whispered in a tone completely incompatible with the way he was breathing. “But I’m gonna do something stupid if you don’t stop me.”
“You are doing something stupid—”
“GOOD,” he said, far too proud.
He kicked the door shut behind you—loudly—locked it, then walked you backwards with a determined, chaotic energy that made your stomach flip. The moment your legs hit the bed—
He pushed you down. Not violently. Not forceful. Just needy with want glowing through every movement. He practically jumped onto you, arms braced on either side of your shoulders, hair falling into his eyes, glasses askew, before crashing his mouth onto yours.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cautious. A shocked laugh escaped you against his lips as he kissed you like he’d been holding it in for weeks. His hands grabbed yours, pinning them against the blanket, not hard—just to keep you there, keep you close.
“You’re gonna wake everyone—” you whispered into his mouth.
“I don’t care,” he whispered back, voice cracking, kissing you again. “I’ve wanted you all day. All week. Forever.”
He kissed you harder, his body weight sinking onto you, legs tangled with yours. His breath came fast against your cheek—warm, shaky, desperate. His fingers threaded into your hair, pulling you closer into the kiss until his whole body trembled with it.
“You’re shaking,” you murmured, nipping his bottom lip.
He whined softly, an embarrassing, beautiful sound and buried his face in your neck. “I TOLD YOU,” he practically sobbed into your skin. “I want you so bad—my legs are vibrating—my SOUL is vibrating—my everything is vibrating—kiss me again before I start SCREAMING.”
You clamped a hand over his mouth again. “Indoor voice.”
He nodded violently. Then kissed your palm. Then kissed you again.
Clothes? Gone.
How? Couldn’t say. Must’ve been the wind. Or gravity. Or maybe August’s hands had gotten so fast even physics gave up trying to track them.
One second you were just making out, the next you were both bare and tangled, him worshipping your skin with a desperation that was almost religious. The way he touched you—kissed you—like your whole body was a cathedral and he was a very unhinged, very loud pilgrim on a mission.
He was a menace. A very horny menace.
He spread your legs reverent and unhinged all at once. “So bendy—” he marvelled, like you were a new toy he’d just figured out, not a human with joints. Then—of course—he slapped his hard length right against your pubic bone, like it was some kind of ritual greeting, and bit his lip. “Mhm.” It was, somehow, both the most annoying and hottest thing he’d ever done.
The real problem? Even now—even while inside you, with you squirming under him and your hands all over his chest, he wouldn’t shut up.
August Stilza, self-declared saint of Not Knowing When to Be Quiet, kept talking. Dirty talk. Play-by-play. Running commentary like a sports announcer. Telling you how hot you were, how good you felt, how “fucking bendy” you were, how he was “definitely gonna see stars—wait, are those freckles? Adorable—oh god, do that again—”
But god you had enough.
You twisted, hips grinding, using his own momentum against him, and pushed him flat onto his back. You sat on him, one hand pinning his wrists above his head, the other planted firmly over his mouth. He looked up at you—eyes huge, wild, hair in full disarray, utterly, completely yours.
“Mhh—god—” he mumbled, eyes rolling a little with bliss.
You just stared at him. Deadpan. He tried to talk again. You pressed your hand harder.
“Indoor. Voice,” you said, dry as sand, watching him go a little cross-eyed from the mix of arousal and indignation.
His chest heaved beneath you, completely unable to stay still—so you tightened your thighs around his waist for good measure. He whined into your palm, that loud, strangled sound that was both complaint and praise.
You didn’t move your hand. Not yet. Not until he earned it. His hips bucked, he tried to talk, he tried to kiss your palm, he tried every trick in the book—nothing worked.
Finally, you arched your brow, unimpressed. “You done?”
He shook his head violently, eyes pleading.
You sighed, shifted your weight, and leaned in until your mouth was just at his ear. “If I take my hand away, are you going to be good?”
He nodded—immediately, enthusiastically, and you already knew it was a lie. You waited one more second. He wiggled under you, desperate, a little pathetic, a lot obsessed.
You grinned. Finally, you let go. And, as expected, the first thing out of his mouth, loud as ever, full volume, absolutely delighted—
“I’M NEVER GONNA BE GOOD, BABY—DO THAT AGAIN—”
You clamped your hand back down before he could finish. And he moaned, all muffled and filthy, like it was the best thing that ever happened to him. Honestly, for all his chaos, he made it worth it.
August’s hands shot up to your hips, fingers digging in, and suddenly all that pent-up, twitchy energy channeled straight into a rhythm so desperate it actually knocked the air out of you. He fucked up into you with all the subtlety of a man who’d spent weeks fantasizing about this exact scenario—messy, frantic, absolutely obsessed.
You gasped, whole body jolting, trying to keep your balance as he drove into you over and over, but then he started moaning.
Moaning, groaning, talking, praising, making every sound in the catalogue. No filter. No volume control. Just a relentless stream of filthy, shameless noise.
You slapped both hands over his mouth, pressing his cheeks together, trying to muffle the madness. It barely helped. His noises just changed shape, turning into low, breathy, muffled cries that vibrated straight into your palms. His eyes rolled up, lashes fluttering, hair splayed wild beneath him as he kept fucking up into you with a kind of needy worship that was equal parts reverent and ridiculous.
“Shut up, August,” you managed, breathless, half laughing, half overwhelmed.
He only fucked harder, as if the act of being silenced did something to his brain, his hands tight on your hips, dragging you down onto him, his whole body straining for more, for closer, for everything.
You pressed your hands even harder over his mouth, and he groaned, loud, desperate, and completely unashamed—eyes squeezing shut as his hips stuttered, his whole body shuddering with how much he needed you.
Every sound, every gasp, every bit of his wild devotion, all trapped under your palms until you felt your name, muffled and frantic, against your skin.
He wasn’t quiet. He would never be quiet. But god, the way he moved beneath you, the way he bucked up, the way he felt—You couldn’t complain.
And you wouldn’t. Not when his hands tightened, not when he pleaded into your palms, not when he looked up at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him shut up and the only thing that ever could. You leaned down, eyes meeting, hand still over his mouth, and whispered, “If you want to make noise, you better earn it.”
The way his hips jerked—yeah, he got the message.
And he tried even harder. Of course he did.
The sun was barely crawling through the window when you finally surfaced, blinking, sore in that delicious, bone-deep way that only ever meant one thing: August had, once again, made good on his promise to ruin your night’s sleep. In every sense.
You shifted under the blanket and immediately felt him and his whole body pressed up behind you, big and sprawling and clinging like he’d grown roots in the mattress. One long, warm arm was tucked under your head, cradling you. The other snaked around your waist, palm splayed possessively across your stomach, his thumb curled just under your breast.
He was nuzzling into your shoulder, breath warm against your skin, his face half-buried in the mess of your hair. Every now and then he mumbled something incoherent, probably a compliment, probably a brag, probably just “mine, mine, mine” in that half-conscious, half-feral way of his. His legs were tangled hopelessly with yours, one knee slotted between your thighs like he belonged there. Like he always had.
You didn’t dare move. He was heavy, yes. And clingy, definitely. But he was also perfect. The perfect weight, the perfect heat, the perfect mess of limbs and possessive hands and wild morning hair and the tiniest smile brushing your shoulder as he sighed in his sleep.
You lay there for a long moment, letting yourself enjoy it—the ache in your thighs, the warmth of his chest at your back, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. The utter stillness after weeks of noise.
Then he tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you closer, humming drowsily as his hand slid up your ribs just enough to make your breath hitch. He pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then grinned against your skin.
“Mornin’, princess trouble,” he mumbled, voice hoarse, eyes still closed, mouth slurring the words with a satisfaction that was all August. “You sleep good? ‘Cause I didn’t. Wonder why.”
You snorted, too exhausted to scold him. You just leaned back into him, tangled and claimed and completely, absolutely his. He squeezed you a little tighter. “I’m not done cuddling. Or gloating.”
You smiled, shutting your eyes, letting him hold you. Yeah. Perfect.
You both drifted in and out of sleep, tangled in warmth, the morning creeping by slow and hazy. You weren’t sure when you started to doze off again, but the next thing you heard wasn’t a gentle whisper or a sleepy kiss—it was a voice echoing through the entire HQ like the wrath of God.
“AUGUST—!”
Enjin’s yell rattled the walls. You barely had a second to process it before August jolted upright, nearly launching you off the bed. He gasped, wild-eyed, hair in every possible direction. “Oh fuck—I forgot my deadline—oh god, that was due two days ago—” he half-yelled, already tumbling out of the sheets.
You watched, half-delirious, as he scrambled to find his pants. He yanked them on at a speed that defied the laws of physics, buttoning them crooked, shoving a leg through backwards, then shoving his shirt over his head so fast it landed inside out. He didn’t care. He looked at you with one last, frantic, lovesick grin. You just laughed, buried yourself under the blanket, and listened to him half-trip over his own feet as he charged toward the door.
“COMING!” he hollered back, voice cracking, slamming the door behind him. You cackled, muffled and gleeful, alone in the soft echo of his chaos.
A few minutes passed before you stretched and tried to gather yourself, bracing for the day. You reached over the side of the bed, fishing for your underwear—fingers sweeping along the floorboards, searching for that familiar fabric.
Nothing. You frowned. You looked. Nothing under the bed, nothing on the nightstand, nothing caught on the sheets or the back of the chair.
You sat up, blanket still around your shoulders, and scanned the room.
Nowhere.
And then, like a curse, the realization hit you:
That bastard had taken your goddamn panties with him. As a trophy. Or a security blanket. Or just because he was a menace with no boundaries and too much affection for your suffering.
Of course he did. Of course.
You let your head flop back on the pillow, half laughing, half groaning at the ceiling. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, grinning despite yourself.
Somewhere down the hall, you could already picture him smirking, flushed, grinning to himself as he tucked your underwear into his pocket like it was a prize. Probably bragging to nobody. Definitely thinking about you.
You pulled the blanket tighter and resolved to get him back for it.
Eventually.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
That scene from Demon Slayer where Tanjiro wakes up in the hospital bed and is asking about Inosuke and says "Oh then I must be hallucinating him on the ceiling" and everyone looks up to see Inosuke literally crawling on the ceiling above him.
germansingergirl
blakekathryn
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