OhmygodBryan ☼

Masterlist

Series

Nothing yet…

Oneshots

Obey me

In the quiet of your arms// mammon x reader

Keepsakes of a hidden heart// mammon x reader

Undone// Satan x reader

Harry Potter

Backstage blooms// Sirius x reader

Green smoke and golden smiles// Barty crouch jr x reader

Love is in the details// Fred Weasley x reader

COD

When the night came home// Simon “ghost” Riley x reader

Dispatch

Home// Robert Robertson x reader

Within Hearshot// sonar x fem!soft!reader

A weekend in soft light// Malevola x reader x sonar

Headcannons

Obey me

Headcannons about the seven brothers

Headcannons of the brothers missing MC

Headcannons of the brothers with an MC who has a chronic illness

Prompts

Nothing yet…

The hallway leading to their apartment felt like stepping into the warm exhale of a tired city. It smelled faintly of cinnamon, vanilla creamer, and something like the ghost of late-night coffee grounds— comforting, lived-in, domestic in a way that made your bones soften. The hum of passing cars filtered through the thin stairwell window, gentle and distant, like waves smoothing out the edges of a long week.

You knocked once. The sound barely settled before the door cracked open— and Mal filled the frame like she’d been carved to fit it.

Her hair was down, a dark spill over one shoulder, catching the hallway light like ink poured over satin. Her grin started crooked and only grew more wicked the longer she looked at you. But underneath that— beneath the demon confidence and that not-so-subtle “I could eat you alive if I wanted to”— there was something softer. Almost startled.

Because you were standing there in sweats and a tank top, hair loose and a little messy from the wind, eyes tired but bright. Comfortable. Real. And beautiful in the kind of way that made people forget what they wanted to say.

“… Well,” she drawled, leaning one hand against the doorframe. “If I knew you’d show up looking like an absolute dream, I would’ve actually brushed my hair.”

Behind her, Victor hovered with the stiff, guilty posture of someone who’d spent the last ten minutes rehearsing how casual he’d be and then immediately forgot the lines. His white eyes flicked to you, widened slightly, then darted away like you were the sun and he’d forgotten his sunglasses.

“You, uh…” He cleared his throat. “You look… good.”

A beat.

“Not that you don’t always look good. I just— this is… I’m— I’ll shut up.”

You stepped inside, letting your shoulder skim Mal’s arm as you passed. A barely-there touch. Soft. Intentional. Enough to make her breath catch.

“Long week,” you murmured, tousling your hair once more for emphasis. “I wanted to be comfy. Hope that’s not too scandalous.”

Mal’s grin sharpened, but her voice dipped into something low, warm, almost reverent.

“Scandalous? No. Dangerous? Absolutely.”

Victor made a small, strangled sound behind her. “Yeah, no— yep. Very dangerous. Lethal, even. A hazard. Should come with signage.”

You laughed, the sound curling into the apartment like a bright ribbon of warmth. The space greeted you back with soft lamplight and the faint citrus-clean scent of a place someone had hurriedly straightened up. Pillows fluffed. A blanket draped just so. A mug forgotten near the sink with a pretty lipstick stain.

You set your bag down on the couch, the tiny clink of glass inside catching their attention immediately.

“What’d you bring?” Mal asked, leaning closer— not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep the air charged.

“Treats,” you said lightly, pulling our jars and bottles. “Face masks for us, and a hair mask for Victor.” You tilted the jar toward him. “This is my favorite one. The one you said you thought smelled nice.”

His entire posture crumpled into flustered disbelief.

“You— I mean, you remembered? I mentioned that once. In passing. Barely.” He rubbed the back of his neck, tail twitching behind him like a static-buzzed cable.

“God, you’re gonna kill me.”

Mal nudged him with her elbow. “She’s being nice Vic. Don’t die over it.”

He whispered, “No promises,” under his breath.

You moved to the couch, legs tucked comfortably beneath you. When you opened the first jar of cool, soothing lavender, the scent blossomed into the air— soft, floral, calming. You dipped your fingers in and gestured for Mal to lean closer.

The demon woman tried— really tried— to play it cool. But the moment your fingertips touched her cheekbones, when your thumb swept along the smooth angle of her jaw, she inhaled sharply. Almost silently. Almost.

Her eyes fluttered, then locked onto yours. Dark. Curious. Unsteady in a way she tried so desperately to hide.

“Gentle hands,” she murmured, voice husky. “Didn’t expect that.”

“Why?” You teased, smoothing the mask across her forehead. “You think I go around slapping spa products onto people?”

She huffed a laugh, low and warm. “Wouldn’t put it past you.”

You laughed, then turned to Victor.

He froze, sitting with his back straight, shoulders tights, hands balled into fists on his knees. Like if he moved, he’d ruin whatever fragile luck delivered you into their living room.

“This might be a little cold,” you warned, gesturing for him to move closer.

“Oh, yeah, cool— cold is good— cold is great—“ he muttered, then flinched the moment your fingers touched the fur along his jaw.

The sound that escaped him was microscopic.

Soft.

Half-swallowed.

Something between a laugh and a prayer.

“Relax,” you said gently, combing the product through the silky tufts with slow, methodical care. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You could,” he whispered.

Then louder, clearing his throat: “I mean— not physically. Physically I’m… mostly sturdy. I think. Probably.”

Mal snorted.

You tried, and failed, to bite back a smile.

By the time all three masks were on, the room smelled like coconut, lavender, and something gently earthy from Victor’s hoodie. The low lamplight turned everything gold. You reached back into your bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of shimmery pink polish.

Mal’s eyes sharpened instantly. “That’s the color we picked out for you the other day.”

Victor leaned closer. “…Wait. That’s the exact one?”

You lifted your hand, fingers splayed, nails already painted in the soft pink glow.

Their breath caught at the same time.

“I thought we could match,” you said simply.

Mal blinked once. Twice. Her voice softened, unexpectedly unguarded: “I— we’d like that.”

You took Mal’s hand first, warmth blooming in your chest. Her skin was warm under your fingertips, her thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in a way she pretended was accidental. She watched you like you were making art of her, each stroke of the brush an invitation she didn’t know how to handle.

When you took Victor’s hand next, he held it so still it was almost comical— shoulders squared, toes curled, entire body clenched like he was preparing for impact.

“Breathe,” you whispered.

“Oh. Right. Forgot that part.”

You painted in slow strokes, your fingers brushing his knuckles. He made a tiny, helpless sound, immediately pretending he didn’t.

After the polish dried and the masks were washed off, the three of you curled into the couch like you’d been doing it for years. A blanket draped over the three of you, limbs overlapping in lazy, drifting touches.

Your head rested on Mal’s shoulder.

Victor’s arm brushed your thigh.

Your fingers found both of theirs somewhere in the middle.

The movie flickered softly in front of you, but conversation rose and faded around it— quiet musings, teasing comments, soft confessions disguised as jokes. Nothing and everything all at once.

The room was warm, it smelled like home, and as your eyes slipped shut, Mal and Victor shared a look. They watched you with something tender, fierce, and quietly aching. Something they tried to hide, but couldn’t.

You slept softly between them.

And they made a vow in the hush of their shared breath.

You were theirs.

They’d make sure you knew it, make sure you felt it.

The club thrums like a living creature.

Every surface sweats neon— purple smearing into blues smearing into hot pink streaks across the walls. Bass rattles the bones of the place, drowning out the city outside. It’s the kind of night Victor usually slips into like a second skin, dancing until the lines of his body blur into pure motion and the drugs smooth his mind into bliss.

But tonight, for the first time in forever, he’s aware. Sharply aware.

Because you’re here.

He spots you the moment the rest of the z-team funnels through the entrance— Prism shimmering in something holographic, Malevola dressed like she hexed the dress code, and in between them… you. Their newest trainee dispatcher. Calm, quiet, soft-handed you— who normally spends her hours with a headset on and a strange, steady patience like you’re holding the whole city together with kindness alone.

Now you’re stepping into a club of full heat and noise, and the contrast is so unfairly beautiful it sucker-punches him.

You’re in something simple but pretty— something that brushes your thighs when you walk and catches the light every time you move. Your hair’s a little messy from dancing on the way over. You laugh at something Prism whispers, and Victor feels the sound like an electric filament unspooling itself down his spine.

He leans back against a pillar, drink in hand, trying very hard not to stare.

He fails immediately.

You’re already swaying on the dance floor, letting Prism and Malevola pull you into their orbit. And you’re good— loose in that tipsy, unbothered way that people who don’t dance often tend to be once they give in. You toss your head back during the chorus, hair catching neon ribbons of light, and Victor’s chest tightens.

He tells himself it’s the drugs. That’s usually a safe bet.

But even he knows better.

You do this thing with your hands— gesturing dramatically at Prism, teasing her— and Malevola howls with laughter. You lean into it, cheeks flushed, eyes soft with warmth. You’re always sweet at work, gentle in a way the rest of them aren’t built for. But here, you’re something else. Unbuttoned. Playful. Still soft, yes— but more alive. Like color running outside the lines in the best possible way.

Victor takes a long sip from his drink, settling deeper against the pillar. He should join you. He wants to. His pulse is begging him to. His muscles twitch with the beat like they might drag him forward on their own.

But he hesitates.

Because he’s watching you.

Because you’re too fun to interrupt.

Because his heart is doing something stupid and spark-like that has nothing to do with chemistry and everything to do with your smile.

You turn in a loose spin— half grace, half tipsy enthusiasm— and Prism has to catch your waist. You burst into laughter, clutching her arms for balance. Victor’s hand twitches like he wants to be the one holding you.

He presses the heel of his palm to his eye.

Get it together, man.

Still, he can’t look away.

You dance without restraint. Without fear of looking ridiculous. Without shame. It’s like you trust the room to hold your joy. Like you trust your team to keep you safe. And the softness in that almost hurts.

And when you laugh again— full, warm, unselfconscious— he realizes he’s probably doomed.

And you’re dancing now. Really dancing.

Hands in the air, body rolling to the beat, eyes bright and half-lidded. You joke with Malevola about something, miming a dramatic gasp. You wiggle your eyebrows at Prism. You keep accidentally bumping into people and apologizing with a smile that’s so sincere Victor watches them forgive you on the spot.

You’re the kind of person people make room for.

The kind he wants to protect even if you’re perfectly capable of holding your own.

He’s drifting toward the dance floor before he realizes it.

Not close enough to crowd you— just in orbit. Just to make sure you’re okay. You laugh at something Malevola shouts, throwing your head back, and his knees nearly buckle.

You’re not subtle, he tells himself.

He doesn’t care.

When the song shifts, you breathe out, hands on your chest. “Water. I need water. I’m ninety percent glitter and sweat at this point.”

Prism throws an arm around you. “Then go, little hydration fairy. Bring us liquid salvation.”

You do a little salute, giggling. “Three waters! I’m on it.”

You start toward the bar.

Victor follows at a distance so natural nobody notices.

He’ll dance later.

Right now, he’s looking out for you.

Whether he admits why or not.

The club air tastes like citrus and heat and something faintly sweet— like the remnants of champagne spilled hours ago. The bar counter is a kaleidoscope of reflections. You lean with your elbow on the cool metal surface, catching your breath with a smile you can’t shake.

You’re having a good night.

Like— shockingly good. You don’t usually do clubs. You’re a “quiet dinner with friends” person. A “movie night with hot cocoa” kind of girl. But tonight? Prism and Malevola swept you up like a pair of glittery hurricanes, and you let yourself get carried.

And you’re… proud of yourself.

You danced. You laughed. You let go.

The music still thrums in your bones.

“You okay there?” The bartender asks kindly.

You grin. “I’m perfect. I need water, actually. Three of them, please.”

“Coming right up.”

While he fetches bottles, you swat absentmindedly to the beat. Your hips can’t help it; your body’s still warm and fizzy with movement. You’re already imagining going back to the girls— Prism will cheer, Malevola will pretend she hates water and drink it anyways.

You’re happy. Soft around the edges. Untethered in the nicest way.

Which is why the voice behind you makes you jump.

“You dance pretty good for someone who looks like they’re reading a book in the corner.”

You blink and turn. A man. Older than you by at least a decade. Close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath.

You step back politely. “Oh— thanks? I think? Just having fun.”

“Come dance with me.”

You shake your head with a strained smile. “I’m with friends right now.”

He leans closer. Too close. “You can come back to them later.”

“No, really,” you say with that firm softness you’ve perfected. “I’m good.”

He reaches out— two fingers hooking your wrist.

Not hard, but insistent.

Something cold flickers under your ribs.

“I said come here—“

“And she said she’s not interested.”

The voice slips in behind you, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous.

You don’t have to look to know who it is. The sense of safety that blooms in your chest is instantaneous.

Victor steps between you and the man, posture lazy, smile dreamily calm— the way people smile right before they ruin someone’s whole evening.

“She’s good,” Victor says lightly. “You can go.”

The man scoffs. “Mind your business.”

Victor’s smile widens, slow and soft. Too soft.

“My guy,” he says, “her heart rate just jumped like thirty beats in three seconds. The only time it does that is when she’s scared or when I make her laugh. And trust me— you aren’t funny.”

Your face warms.

Even tipsy, you glare at him for that.

Victor’s eyes flick to you. His smile softens in a completely different way.

Then he turns back to the man, voice a breath colder. “Last chance.”

The man mutters something and disappears.

You sag against the bar, breath leaving your lungs in a rush.

Victor turns to you immediately, brows knitting.

“You okay?” He murmurs. “He didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you say softly. “He just… grabbed my wrist.”

You lift your hand.

Victor gently takes it, checking the skin like he’s memorizing it.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” you say again. “Just startled me.”

His jaw flexes.

Then— very quietly— “Your heart’s still fast.”

You make a small noise. “Victor…”

He leans closer, lips brushing your temple. “I’m just saying. I can hear everything.”

You hide your face with one hand. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“That’s okay. You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

You nearly perish.

He steadies you with a warm hand at the small of your back after paying the bartender, guiding you gently through the crowd like you’re something precious he’s holding onto.

You don’t mind his touch.

You lean into it, actually.

Somewhere between the bar and your friends, you realize your smile hasn’t left once.

Prism cries out: “Hydration goddess returns!”

Malevola steals her bottle instantly.

But Victor doesn’t let go of your waist.

He doesn’t even pretend to.

The next song swells— something slower, sweeter, warm as honey over the speakers. You finish sipping your water, and Victor steps in front of you.

“Dance with me,” he says quietly.

You open your mouth automatically to deflect— but then close it. Because you want to. Because the adrenaline hasn’t faded yet. Because you feel good. Loose. Brave.

So you smile— one of your real ones, brought and soft and a little mischievous.

“Only if you promise not to make fun of my moves.”

Victor nearly stops breathing. “Sweetheart, I’ve been watching you dance all night. I’m trying not to propose.”

Your laugh is light and breathless. “Oh my god, Victor—“

He pulls you closer.

And then closer still.

The beat vibrates through your ribs as you settle your hands behind his neck, burying them into the fur there. You fit against him so naturally it’s almost unfair. His palms drift to your hips, thumbs brushing skin.

“You scared me earlier,” he murmurs into your hair.

You sway with him, voice gentle. “I’m alright now.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “I can hear that too.”

You roll your eyes. “You and the heartbeat thing.”

“What?” He teases. “It’s convenient. Like having a built-in lie detector for flirting.”

“I’m not flirting,” you say.

“Liar.” He leans down. “Your heart just jumped again.”

You groan. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he whispers. “You like me. A lot.”

You lift your head, meeting his eyes. “And if I do?”

He stares at you.

Something shifts in his face— something unguarded, warm, and a little awed.

“Then,” he says softly, “I’m the luckiest idiot in this place.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t kiss you.

But he rests his forehead against yours, swaying you gently while lights paint your skin in stripes of blue and pink.

“Do me a favor?” He murmurs.

“What?”

“Don’t wander off alone again. Please.”

You place a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing the fur just under his eye.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I won’t.”

Something in him unspools at that.

You feel it in the way he exhales— long, quiet, relieved. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you close like the promise matters more to him than the air in his lungs.

And for the rest of the song, you dance slow— his heartbeat, your heartbeat, and the club’s heartbeat weaving into something soft and bright and real.

You don’t remember drifting off. One moment you were curled on the couch with Beef pressed warm against your hip, wrapped in Robert’s hoodie like it was a borrowed heartbeat… and the next, you’re blinking awake to the faint scratch of a key turning in the lock.

Beef hears him before you do— ears perked, tail thumping once, then twice, against the cushions. It’s the sound that pulls you from sleep, hazy and slow and soft around the edges.

The door swings open.

Robert steps inside like he’s made of weariness and gravity. Shoulders bowed, hair mussed, shirt smudged with a constellation of grease, dust, and proof of a day far too long. He kicks his boots off with a tired grunt, a muted wince when one catches on the heel.

You’re on your feet before he can straighten. Your body moves without permission— bare feet hitting the cool floor, hoodie sleeves dragging over your hands, sleep still fogging your vision.

He looks up.

And the raw relief in his eyes knocks the air right out of you.

“Hey,” he murmurs— voice rough, worn thin, barely more than a breath given shape.

You cross the room in three soft steps and fold yourself into him, arms winding around his neck, cheek pressed into the warm hollow beneath his jaw. Not gentle. Not cautious. Just home.

He melts.

That’s the only word for it. His arms slip around your waist, pulling you in with a kind of desperate softness, his forehead pressing into your temple as if letting go would undo him entirely.

You feel the tremor in him— the kind you only notice if you’re this close.

“Oh baby…” you breathe, fingers slipping into his hair. “Long day?”

He nods against your skin. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t let go.

Beef noses insistently at his calf, then plops down on both your feet, making sure, in his dog logic, that Robert is truly home. Robert huffs out a small laugh, but even that sounds exhausted.

You pull back only when he winces— small, instinctive, a tightening around his ribs. Your hands find his face instantly, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“Bathroom,” you whisper, voice still thick with sleep. “Come on.”

He tries— tries— to argue. Something about you needing rest. Something about him being fine.

You shake your head, tugging gently at his hand. “I said come on.”

He gives in with a soft exhale, letting you lead him down the hallway.

The bathroom light is warm and low— honey gold against tile. You close the door, shutting out the rest of the world.

Robert stands there, tired and waiting, while you peel the day off him. You lift his shirt carefully, your fingers brushing the darkening bruise across his ribs. He inhales sharply.

“M’sorry,” you murmur automatically.

He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it. “You’re not hurting me.”

You kiss the center of his chest in apology anyway.

Steam fogs the air when you turn on the shower. The two of you step in together, the warmth enveloping you both in a soft cocoon. Water cascades over his shoulders, and he groans— a small, unguarded sound that makes your heart ache.

You reach for his hair without thinking. He bends his head so you can reach, hair damp and heavy beneath your fingertips. You work shampoo through his hair, slowly, dreamily, your nails grazing his scalp in tiny circles.

His breath stutters.

His hand finds your hips.

His forehead rests in the curve of your collarbone.

“Feels good,” he mutters, voice already slipping toward sleepiness. “Your hands…”

You smile, rinsing suds from his hair, watching the water bead on his lashes. “You always say that.”

“Because you always do it right.”

You brush water from his cheek with your thumb. He kisses your wrist again, slower this time, lips lingering like he’s thanking you without words.

The shower becomes quiet, warm, safe— your fingers tracing through his hair, his body softening under your touch. You trail kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the space beneath his ear, small and tender and meant only for him.

When you’re both rinsed and clean, you guide him out and wrap him in a towel. He leans into your touch like he’s been waiting all day to be held this way.

You tug him to sit on the closed toilet lid and step between his knees. He spreads them just enough to make room for you, hands sliding to the backs of your thighs in lazy circles.

The towel sits low on his hips, exposing the bruise along his ribs. You inhale softly, fingers brushing the edge of it.

“Hard day?” You ask.

His eyes darken— not with pain, but with the weight you know he carries so quietly. “Long day. Long week. Just… a lot.”

You nod. You don’t make him say more.

Instead you clean the scrape along his arm, blow gently to cool the sting, tape a bandage on his knuckle. His eyes flutter half closed as he listens to your breath, your movements, your heartbeat.

“You’re falling asleep standing up,” he murmurs.

You hum, eyes half lidded, and kiss his cheek without thinking. He leans into it. You kiss the corner of his mouth. He catches it. You kiss his jaw, his temple, the warm skin near the bruise around his eye. Each kiss makes his breath slow, deep, soften.

When you’re done, you slide your hands down his chest and whisper, “bed.”

He stands— slowly, a little heavily— and wraps an arm around your waist as if you’re his anchor. Beef is waiting at the bedroom door, tail wagging, eyes bright with sleepy loyalty.

In the soft dark of your room, you pull on sleep shorts and slide back into his hoodie. It hangs off your shoulder, sleeves too long, smelling like him and warm water and home.

He watches you with an expression that looks a little like awe and a lot like love.

The moment you get under the blankets, he follows, gathering you into his chest. Your legs tangle, your cheek resting against his heart. He exhales into your hair— long, deep, like he’s finally exorcising the day.

You tilt your head, kissing the spot over his heartbeat.

Once.

Twice.

Slow, lingering. Sleepy.

He shivers.

“C’mere,” he whispers, voice scraped soft. His hand finds the back of your thigh, pulling you closer.

You lift your head just enough to kiss his jaw, then the corner of his mouth, then the soft place beneath it. Little kisses, featherlight, scattered like you’re soothing away bruises the world can’t see.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs, but his voice cracks on the last word.

“I know,” you whisper, fingers stroking his cheek. “But I can still take care of you.”

His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Sweetheart… you’re barely awake.”

“I’m awake enough,” you say, kissing him again. “I just want you to feel better.”

His eyes flutter shut. “I do.”

You settle back down, tucking into him, hoodie sleeves brushing his ribs. He pulls the blankets higher around your shoulders, tucks them in like he’s afraid the night might steal you away.

Beef curls at your feet with a heavy dog-sigh.

Robert presses a slow kiss to your forehead— warm and full of unspoken gratitude.

“You’re so good to me,” he whispers into your hair.

“You deserve it,” you murmur, already fading.

He swallows, arms tightening around you. “Not sure what I did to earn this.”

“You came home,” you breathe.

That hits him harder than you intended. His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you impossibly closer.

“I’ll always come home to you,” he whispers, voice quiet and fierce.

You hum against his chest, sliding one sleepy hand up to rest over his heart.

And wrapped in his arms, wrapped in the weight of the day finally gone, wrapped in the warmth of your boy safe beside you— you drift.

Soft.

Entwined.

Breathing as one.

And the night, at last, becomes gentle.

You froze mid-step in the kitchen, still holding your mug. The world outside was quiet, thin rain whispering against the windows. Your pulse tripped over itself.

Another knock.

Then— his voice.

“Open up, love. S’alright. It’s me.”

The mug clattered into the sink, half-full tea blooming like a bruise in the water. You didn’t bother with slippers— just ran.

And there he was.

Simon stood on the threshold, massive and shadowed, the porch light catching the edge of his jaw beneath the black of his balaclava. The rain had soaked his shoulders, beads of water tracing down his gear. He looked exhausted. Alive. Real.

“Christ,” you breathed. “Simon—“

He didn’t say a word, just stepped forward and caught you in his arms, holding you so tightly you could barely draw a breath. He smelled of metal, smoke, and the long miles between them.

“Didn’t tell me you were comin’ home,” you whispered against his chest.

“Wanted t’see your face,” he murmured, voice thick with that slow Northern lilt. “Proper surprise, yeah?”

“Nearly gave me a heart attack, you absolute bastard.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound rumbling through you. “Aye, but worth it. Missed you somethin’ fierce.”

You stayed tangled in the doorway, rain sneaking past his boots, your fingers curled into the back of his jacket. When he finally pulled back, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness in his shoulders.

“You’re hurt,” you said softly.

“Just a scratch.”

“Simon.”

He sighed. “Alright, maybe. But I’m here, yeah? That’s what matters.”

You led him inside, hand never leaving his. He dropped his gear by the door like he was shedding a skin, all the weight and blood of the last few months left in a neat pile on the mat. When the mask came off, your heart stuttered.

His face was tired, beautiful in its ruin. A bruise saw high on his cheekbone; a cut ghosted across his lips. But his eyes— those soft brown eyes— were gentle, full of something fragile.

“You look wrecked,” you whispered.

He smiled, lazy and crooked. “Feel worse. But you— bloody hell, you look good. Always do.”

“Flatterer.”

“Truth-teller, love.”

You fished over him until he caved— bandaged, warm washcloth, tea. He sat on the couch while you cleaned him up, his long legs sprawled, eyes following your every move. The lamp threw a honeyed glow across the room, soft and slow, and when you leaned close to dab his cheek, he caught your hand.

“Missed this,” he said quietly. “Missed you.”

You smiled. “You say that like you didn’t talk my ear off over the phone almost every night.”

He chuckled, deep and rough. “Not the same. Can’t kiss you over the line, can I?”

Your breath hitched just a little, and his grin turned wicked.

“Go on, then,” you said, eyes narrowing playfully. “You’ve got your chance.”

He didn’t need more permission than that. His hand came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth before he kissed you— soft at first, like he was remembering how. Then deeper, steadier.

When he pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours. “You smell like home,” he murmured. “Like I’ve been fightin’ just to get to this.”

You laughed quietly, fingers tracing his jaw. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I absolutely will.”

He laughed then— a real laugh, the kind that cracked open the exhaustion and let the man beneath it breathe.

You ended up curled on the couch, your legs tucked under his, his head half-resting against your shoulder. The rain kept on, steady and soft.

“You stayin’?” You asked sleepily.

He looked down at you, eyes warm. “Not goin’ anywhere, love. Not for a long while.”

Your fingers brushed over his hand, where old scars met new. “Good.”

He pressed a kiss to your head. “Y’know,” he said, words fading into a chuckle, “you make the best bloody tea when I’m half-dead. Think I’ll keep gettin’ myself shot just for the service.”

You smacked his chest, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm. You love it.”

“I do,” you said softly. “God help me, I really do.”

He smiled against your temple, and for the first time in months, the world felt whole again.

“Second,” you continued, grabbing the checklist from the table, “we need to decide on a color for this wall. And I swear to Merlin, if you suggest purple and gold stripes again, I’m walking out!”

Fred gasped, clutching his chest. “You wound me! Those stripes were a stroke of genius!”

“They were an eyesore,” you countered, grinning.

“Fine, fine. You pick, but don’t blame me when it turns out boring.”

You rolled your eyes, flipping through the paint swatches. “You’re impossible.”

Fred leaned closer, resting his chin on your shoulder as you browsed. “And yet, you’re still here. Must mean you secretly like me.” His breath tickled your ear, and you nearly dropped the swatches.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, though the warmth spreading up your neck betrayed you.

Fred’s chuckle was low and soft, but he stayed close, watching as you pointed to a soft blue. “This one,” you said firmly. “It’s calming. You need calming.”

“Are you saying I’m not calm?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

You smirked. “You? Calm? Never.”

Fred straightened, grabbing the paint can with exaggerated determination. “Fine, calming blue it is. But you’re doing the edges.”

“Deal.”

Hours later, you were both covered in streaks of blue paint. A smear trenched across Fred’s cheek like a war stripe, and your arms looked like you’d been in a battle with a very enthusiastic artist. Despite the mess, the wall was finished, and it looked… surprisingly good.

Fred flopped onto the old sofa, groaning dramatically. “I’m a broken man.”

You laughed, sitting beside him. “Oh, please. You painted, like, two-thirds of one wall.”

“Exactly,” he said, turning his head to look at you. “I’ve given everything I had. My blood, sweat, and tears.”

“More like your bad jokes and terrible painting!”

Fred’s grin softened, and he reached out to brush a streak of blue off your cheek with his thumb. The playful atmosphere shifted slightly, the air growing quieter, warmer.

“You’re good at this,” he said, voice lower than before.

“At what? Painting?”

“Making a mess look like a home,” he said simply.

Your heart stuttered, and you looked away, focusing on a random spot on the wall. “Well, someone has to keep you in check.”

“You’re good at that too.”

Silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that said more than words could.

“You’ve got a bit of paint… right here,” Fred said, his fingers brushing your cheek again. His touch lingered this time, and when you turned to look at him, his eyes were already on you.

“Fred…” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

“Yeah?” He said softly, his gaze flicking to your lips for just a second.

You could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken something that had been building for weeks, maybe months. Your hand moved on its own, reaching up to rest on his wrist.

“I think…” you began, but he didn’t let you finish.

Fred leaned in, his lips brushing yours in the lightest of kisses, testing, waiting. When you didn’t pull away, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his free hand sliding to your waist. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in his paint-speckled shirt.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and a little dazed, Fred grinned. “So, does this mean you secretly like me?”

You laughed, leaning your forehead against his. “You’re impossible.”

“But loveable,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your nose.

“Yeah,” you admitted, your smile softening. “Loveable.”

Fred pulled you closer, and for a while, you both forgot about the mess around you. The flat above the joke shop might still have been a work in progress, but for the first time, it truly felt like home.

Caught off guard, you stammered, “I-I wasn’t… I mean, you just… you look amazing.” Your cheeks burned as the words tumbled out, and you bit your lip, wishing you could take them back. The heat spreading across your face was unbearable.

Satan’s smirk faltered for just a moment, before softening into something warmer. “Amazing, hmm?” He repeated, tilting his head slightly as he studied your expression. He took a step closer, closing the distance between you. “Coming from you, that means more than you know.” His voice dipped lower, and the sincerity in his tone made your chest tighten.

Before you could respond, Satan offered his hand. “Come with me. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

Your hand found his almost instinctively, and you let him guide you out of the council hall and back to the House of Lamentation. The walk was quiet, but tension buzzed between you, unspoken words lingering in the air. You kept stealing glances at him, marveling at how the moonlight seemed to soften his sharp features, highlighting the elegant curve of his horns and the glint of gold on his clothes. By the time you reached his room, your heart was pounding all over again. He opened the door, gesturing for you to enter first, and the familiar warmth of his space immediately wrapped around you. The scent of books and faint traces of his cologne made you feel both comforted and electrified.

The door clicked shut behind him, and when you turned to face him, the intensity in his gaze made you forget how to breathe. Without a word, you stepped closer, your hands sliding up his chest before wrapping around his neck. You whispered his name once, almost reverently, before pulling him down into a kiss.

This time, there was no hesitation. Satan’s hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him as if he couldn’t bear any space between you. The kiss was hungry and desperate, his usual composed demeanor utterly gone. You clung to him, your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging just enough to draw a soft, breathless groan from him. His lips left your briefly, trailing down to your jaw and neck, leaving you trembling with every touch. His hands wandered, tentative but firm, as if he was memorizing every part of you he could reach.

When you both finally pulled back, his face was flushed, his hair was an absolute mess, and faint marks from your kisses were already visible on his skin. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he stared at you, his emerald eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. You could barely catch your own breath, your lips kiss bitten and buzzing from his attention.

“Stay,” he said suddenly, his voice low and hoarse. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks. “Stay with me tonight. Please.”

You didn’t need to think twice. Nodding, you leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips, gentler this time, as if to soothe the storm you’d both unleashed. Satan exhaled a shaky breath, guiding you to his bed and pulling you down with him. His arms wrapped around you tightly, holding you close as if afraid you might vanish. He adjusted the pillows, ensuring you were both comfortable, before letting his hands rest on your waist, his touch grounding and steady.

Nestled against his chest, you felt his steady heartbeat under your ear, a stark contrast to how yours still felt. Satan buried his face in your hair, his voice a quiet murmur. “You… you have no idea what you do to me.”

You smiled softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Still, it’s maddening. You’re maddening,” he murmured, though his tone carried nothing but an intense fondness.

The two of you lay there in comfortable silence for a while longer. You shifted slightly, turning so you could look up at him. His eyes fluttered open, and his gaze softened further when it met yours. Reaching up, you brushed a few strands of hair away from his face, marveling at how dispelled and endearing he looked.

“I like seeing you like this,” you admitted quietly. “All undone. Just for me.”

Satan’s lips quirked into a small, lopsided smile. Only for you,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned down to capture your lips in one last, lingering kiss, his touch slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor the moment.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes falling shut as his breathing slowed. The weight of the night began to melt away, leaving only the warmth of his embrace and the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your hand. Whatever the world had in store for tomorrow didn’t matter. For now, you were here, in his arms, and everything felt right.

Lucifer

Lucifer is a fortress of reliability in your life, an unwavering pillar in the chaos of the Devildom. He watches you carefully, noting the subtleties of your condition— the furrow of your brow on harder days, the way your hand lingers on your pink rollator for balance. His care manifests in quiet ways: ensuring there’s always a chair nearby when he knows you’ll need to rest, crafting detailed excuses to Diavolo when you can’t attend RAD, and personally delivering your assignments to keep your workload manageable.

When you’re bed-bound, Lucifer steps into your room with his usual air of authority but softens immediately at the sight of you wrapped in blankets. He reads to you in his deep, velvety voice, carefully pacing his words so they become a soothing balm. “You’re resilient,” he murmurs one evening, his fingers brushing yours as he places a glass of water within easy reach. “But that doesn’t mean you have to face every struggle alone.”

Mammon

Mammon hovers without hovering, pretending he’s just hanging out when he’s really making sure you’re okay. He carries your cane for you if you need to use your rollator, and though he tries to act nonchalant, there’s a noticeable spring in his step when you let him. “What, you think I wouldn’t look after ya?” He says, grinning ear to ear, though his hands tremble slightly when he sees you falter during a dizzy spell. He’s always ready to catch you— literally and figuratively.

On days when you can’t get out of bed, Mammon becomes your personal sunshine, bringing you snacks, fluffing your pillows, and cracking jokes to make you laugh. “If ya need anything, just call your Great Mammon,” he says dramatically, plopping onto the chair beside you. And when you fall asleep mid-conversation, he’ll quietly tuck your blanket around you tighter, his face soft with adoration.

Levi

Levi spends hours researching chronic illnesses online, desperate to understand how he can help. He’ll shyly offer you gadgets he’s customized, like a compact fan for your rollator or an extra comfy cushion for your wheelchair. He insists on taking breaks during outings to give you time to sit, disguising his attentiveness as “oh, I just wanted to look at this anyways.”

When you’re stuck in bed, Levi turns your room into a haven. He sets up a laptop with your favorite shows queued up, brings snacks, and nervously asks if you want co-op a game with him. “I can carry you,” he says, both in-game and out, his voice tinged with both humor and sincerity. If you fall asleep during his anime marathons, he doesn’t mind, the sound of your steady breathing comforts him.

Satan

Satan is a master of planning, adapting seamlessly to your needs without making a fuss. He always knows the best routes to avoid stairs and will casually suggest a detour that leads to a bench, ensuring you never feel singled out for needing to rest. He notices when you’re pushing too hard and gently redirects your focus, his voice calm and reassuring: “There’s no shame in taking a moment.”

On bad days, Satan becomes a quiet source of comfort, bringing you books to read aloud if you’re too tired or simply sitting beside you while he reads. “Your strength inspires me,” he says one evening, his fingers brushing against yours as he passes you your meds. He means it— it's in the reverence of his voice, in the way his gaze lingers on you like you’re the most remarkable story he’s ever known.

Asmo

Asmo loves to help you feel beautiful, no matter how your body feels. He decorates your pink rollator with ribbons and charms, insisting that it’s “an accessory, darling, not just a mobility aid!” He’s always attuned to your energy levels, subtly adjusting plans to suit your needs. “It’s not about where we go,” he says with a dazzling smile, “it’s about being with you.”

When you’re bedridden, Asmo brings the spa to you. He sets up scented candles, does your nails (even if you’re too tired to care), and reads silly magazine articles aloud just to hear you laugh. “You’re gorgeous no matter what,” he says, his voice soft, stroking your cheek as you doze off. “I hope you know that.”

Beel

Beel is all about practical care. He carries snacks with him at all times, just in case you need salt or energy while out. He’s quick to offer his arm for balance, his movements so natural that you never feel burdensome. If you ever need to pause, he kneels beside your chair or rollator, keeping eye level with you and saying, “take your time; we’re not in a hurry.”

On bad days, Beel stays by your side. He cooks your favorite meals, even if you can only manage a few bites, and keeps his voice low and soothing. “I don’t like seeing you hurt,” he admits one evening, his large hand carefully cradling yours. “But I’ll be here for you, no matter what.” The sincerity in his eyes makes you feel safe, even on your hardest days.

Belphie

Belphie is all about creating restful spaces. He drapes blankets over your rollator when you’re not using it, insisting it “deserves to be cozy too.” He has a sixth sense for when you’re overexerting yourself, tugging you toward the nearest soft surface with a sleepy grin. “You need to rest,” he says simply, offering his lap as a pillow if no chairs are around.

When you’re confined to bed, Belphie takes it as an excuse to nap beside you. He’ll murmur quiet reassurances as he tangles his legs with yours, grounding you with his warmth. “Don’t push yourself,” he whispers, his hand resting lightly on yours. “We’ve got all the time in the world.” In those moments, his love is the softest kind of devotion, steady and unspoken.