Damien LaVey

The school day had finally wound down, and as Damien and you made your way home, the world around you seemed to slow in rhythm, the usual chaos of Spooky Academy replaced by an almost unsettling calm.

The sky above was muted, painted in fading shades of gray, while snow drifted lazily down, blanketing everything in a soft, silvery hush. Each step crunched faintly beneath their boots, leaving twin trails behind them as though the world itself was being rewritten with every movement.

The air was sharp and cold, but Damien barely noticed it—not when his eyes kept betraying him by stealing glances at you.

Snowflakes caught in your hair like shards of crystal, glittering faintly in the dim evening light, framing your face in a way that made you look annoyingly radiant. It wasn't fair. You didn't even try, and yet you walked there beside him, glowing like some painting come to life, while he felt this ridiculous, suffocating warmth in his chest every time he looked at you.

He could almost feel the edges of a smile tugging at him, and he hated it. Absolutely hated it.

Admitting something like that? Admitting that you made him feel like the snow wasn't just cold but kind of... magical? Not happening. Never. Not in a million years.

Damien shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, scowling at nothing in particular, jaw set like stone. "Stupid snow," he muttered under his breath, almost like a curse against the peacefulness around him. "Making everything all... cute." His gaze flicked toward you for a half-second, catching the sight of the snow tangled in your hair, and instantly he forced his eyes forward again, shoulders tightening.

The quiet stretched between the two of you, thick with the kind of unspoken tension Damien could never really explain. Something between irritation and affection, annoyance and yearning? He hated silence almost as much as he hated his own thoughts, so he cleared his throat abruptly, forcing sound into the empty air as though that might disguise how warm his ears felt.

"Hey, doofus," he grumbled, the words spilling out sharper than he meant them to, but maybe that was better. "You got something in your hair."

And before you could even turn to ask what he meant, he acted on impulse.

With one swift shove, he sent you stumbling forward. The snowbank beside you welcomed you face-first, soft and cold, with a muffled whump.

Damien barked out a laugh, his voice sharp and triumphant, like he'd just scored the winning goal. "Ha! How's it taste?" he jeered, grinning down at you. His tone carried all the mockery in the world, but beneath it was a bubbling amusement he couldn't contain.

And yet, somehow, you still looked too damn cute.

His grin faltered for the briefest second when he felt the heat creeping up his neck. He could blame it on the winter wind, sure, but deep down he knew it wasn't just the cold. He prayed you wouldn't notice. The last thing he needed was for you to realize that behind the teasing, behind the shove and the laughter, was a softness he couldn't seem to bury.

But this was how Damien worked. He ruined quiet, peaceful moments on purpose. He disrupted them, filled them with shoves, smirks, and insults, because that was the only way he knew how to keep you close without completely falling apart.

After all, just because you were dating didn't mean he'd stop bullying you. If anything, it meant you had to endure it twice as much. That was his role, wasn't it? The demon boyfriend who couldn't go a single evening without making fun of you, teasing you, and pushing you around. It wasn't that he didn't care. Quite the opposite. He cared too much.

Still, as he watched you scramble up, he couldn't help the smirk tugging at his lips. Oh yeah, you were absolutely going to get him back for this.