Demon Summoning for Idiots [BNHA x female reader]

Aizawa, part 2

Your life is going great, amazing, so well you almost can't believe it. You get a solid eight hours of sleep every night. You're eating healthier now that you share your food with someone else. And you have an adorable cat roommate that understands you when you talk.

A month passes this way, and once you come down from your euphoria, worries begin to creep in. What if it's not actually happy with you? What if it wants to go back? You'd understand completely, but your book got burnt to a crisp. You have literally no clue how to send it home.

"Do you want to go back?" you ask uncomfortably, and it glares at you for talking over the travel show it's watching. You wait politely till the commercial break to continue the conversation.

"I'm really sorry about burning the book," you say, "but I'm sure I can find a way to send you home if you want!"

It stares at you. You haven't felt this nervous since your job interview.

"Do you want to go back?" you ask, nervously, feeling very much like you're trying to ask a small animal not to break up with you.

"Meh," it says, and you didn't know cats could make that sound. It rolls its shoulders in something strikingly similar to a shrug and pads a little closer, so it can sit right up next to you on the sofa, and you try not to weep with joy. Not too dramatically, at least.

---

You're insufferable at work, telling everyone who walks past about your amazing cat and shoving photos in the faces of anyone who even looks in your direction.

A colleague, who's as obsessively into cute animals as you are, insists on visiting your apartment to meet it personally, and shows up completely decked out with toys, snacks, and a DSLR. The cat looks offended at the mere sight of him, but tolerates his photo-taking and gentle petting once you whisper an explanation about wanting to show off your awesome roommate.

It doesn't, however, tolerate him leaning closer to you for a better photo. The moment he rests an arm on your shoulder to prop his handheld flash up, it swipes at him with one paw, growling. You haven't heard it growl in weeks. Your colleague dodges with the split-second reflexes of a seasoned cat lover, and it huffs, disgruntled.

It's adorable. You want to squeeze it, but you value your unscratched skin.

The next day, when an ad for a small, portable, self-defense taser device comes on the television, it hops onto the table and won’t let you change the channel until you pick up the phone and buy it. Adorable.

---

You order it a cat bed. It turns up its nose at it. You bring back a fancy baby cot, and it looks at you, aghast.

"I thought you'd want your own place to sleep," you say, but it just hops back up onto your bed and makes itself comfortable. You try to hide your sigh of relief, but it just blinks its red eyes slowly, eyeing you, and it’s pretty clear you’re not fooling anyone. Not even a cat.

---

It’s been three months, and you hardly remember a time when you didn’t have a small, fluffy cat curled up beside you when you go to sleep or wake up. You try not to think about whether it’ll decide to return home in the future, and what that means for your temporarily-cured insomnia. It’s always there, slacking about the apartment, or wandering around the neighborhood with you, or sitting beside you watching whatever you’re streaming on your laptop.

It’s tolerant, furry, and absolutely perfect, and you honestly don’t know what you’d do without it, which is why when you come home one evening and find your apartment door unlocked and ajar, you’re instantly gripped by a heady combination of fear and paranoia. Did it leave? Did it get bored? Did it decide to abandon you to endless sleepless nights, never to experience the joys of having a feline companion ever again?

You slam the door open and run into the living room, and there’s a homeless man, there’s a fucking homeless man standing on your carpet, staring at you through his unkempt bangs with wild, bloodshot eyes. That’s fine. You can deal with that. The only thing you care about right now is your cat-

You see a small scarf, barely visible in his clutched hand, and you pull out your taser and go straight for the neck.

“Stop,” he says, then “it’s me,” as if spouting nonsense is going to spare him from half an hour of nonstop electric shocks. You don’t stop, of course, because you’re fully intent on committing grievous assault, and giving serious consideration to homicide.

He reaches out and grips your wrist, and time stops. Absolutely stops. You can’t move. He leans in closer, and you’re certain you’re going to get brutally murdered, but he just carefully slips the taser out of your hand, dropping it to the floor.

“It’s me,” he says again, and you look closer, and his eyes are definitely wild and bloodshot- but they’re also glowing red.

A pause, and time is flowing normally once more, and he waits patiently for the entire ten minutes it takes you to stop hyperventilating.

---

“Are you a cat,” you say, intelligently, when you can form proper words again.

“The cat is the form I use to save energy,” he says, like he’s a walking talking demon battery. Why would he even need to save energy? He’s a demon. 

He looks at you, and then slowly over to the fridge full of energy drinks, and you suddenly find yourself unable to look him in the eye. You think about how many months he’s had to go in cat form because you tried to summon him using garden rocks and magic markers, and shrink a little more in your seat.

“My bad,” you mutter, and he looks exceedingly underwhelmed, but at least he’s not feasting on your organs or harvesting your soul or anything. In fact, he’s sitting right where he used to sit in cat form, beside you on the sofa- taking up way more space, but somehow still looking remarkably cat-like.

“I still need energy,” he says, and you glance at the empty fridge, making a mental note to buy more food. Lots more food. And maybe toss out all those energy drinks.

He shakes his head, leaning forward, and suddenly you find that he’s taken up most of the space on the couch, and you’re backed up against the armrest.

“I need my blood,” you say, queasily, but then realize that if your super cute, super tolerant cat roommate needs blood, it can drain you dry, you don’t even care. Maybe he could do it in cat form, though, because those red eyes in human form are terrifying. His hand comes up to tilt your head to one side, brushing your hair away from your face.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and what the hell is a demon asking you that so politely for? You nod, and he moves even closer, and you’re still saying goodbye to your body’s supply of blood when he leans down and presses his lips against yours.

Does this count as bestiality is the only thought that goes through your mind for a second, and you really need to learn to focus properly, because while you’re distracted, he tilts your head a little further and slips his tongue into your open mouth. He’s careful, and slow, and kind of not what you expected demons to be in general. You can feel his stubble brushing against your face, and it’s not nearly as nice and soft as cat fur, but when you reach up to brush his hair, it’s a pretty close match. Then his hand moves from your face to your side, fingers splaying out over your waist, and your body temperature immediate ratchets up to what’s probably a very unhealthy level.

He pulls back. “Do you have a fever?”

No, it’s just my body handling life poorly as usual, nothing to worry about, you think, but just shake your head and hope the flush hasn’t spread all over your face yet. He helps you sit up, feeling your forehead.

“I’m good for now,” he says, getting up. “You should get some rest.”

You look at him. He looks at you. In the bright light of the living room, his pupils have narrowed to slits, making his eyes look even more cat-like.

“So, uhm.” You say. “Where are you going to sleep?”