Bryan ⢠she/her ⢠twenty ⢠taurus ⢠lover of all things whimsical, magical, creepy, and strange â˘
asks will always be open// requests, prompts, and headcannons are open!
Iâll write for pretty much anything! I really love Harry Potter, the marauders characters specifically (although Fred was my first love). Iâll write for the creepypastas, Obey me!, Haikyuu, teen wolf, outer banks, many of the slashers, Mike Schmidt, stranger things, call of duty. Honestly pretty much anything Iâve ever dabbled in is open, if you want to see a fandom I havenât listed (bc thereâs MANY more) feel free to ask!
My masterlist will be below this, check it out to see everything Iâve posted so far, and thank you for checking it out!! <3
The divders used were made by @strangergraphics! I love her work so much, give her blog some love <3
Masterlist
Series
Nothing yetâŚ
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 âghostâ 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
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Hi my darlings!! Iâm on vacay rn and would loooove some requests!! For anything and anyone really, but dispatch in particular if we have any thoughts..đ¤đŤś
A weekend in soft lightâ Malevola x reader x Victor
Summary: a cozy night of face masks and movies turns into a slow-burn tangle of soft touches and mutual, aching affection between you, Mal, and Victor
CW: nothing crazy, just flirting, light romantic tension, loooots of fluff!
PHEW! This was a bit shorter than I wanted it to be, but still liked how it came out! I love Mal and Victor so much, and hope you guys love this!! <3
(I love the HCs Iâve seen of Victor with a little bat tail, so thereâs mention of that! And I wrote this with fem!reader in mind but didnât mention any pronounsâ pls lettme know if Iâm wrong!)
Dividers by @strangergraphics!
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 groundsâ 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 openâ and Mal filled the frame like sheâd 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 thatâ beneath the demon confidence and that not-so-subtle âI could eat you alive if I wanted toââ 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.
â⌠Well,â she drawled, leaning one hand against the doorframe. âIf I knew youâd show up looking like an absolute dream, I wouldâve actually brushed my hair.â
Behind her, Victor hovered with the stiff, guilty posture of someone whoâd spent the last ten minutes rehearsing how casual heâd be and then immediately forgot the lines. His white eyes flicked to you, widened slightly, then darted away like you were the sun and heâd forgotten his sunglasses.
âYou, uhâŚâ He cleared his throat. âYou look⌠good.â
A beat.
âNot that you donât always look good. I justâ this is⌠Iâmâ Iâll shut up.â
You stepped inside, letting your shoulder skim Malâs arm as you passed. A barely-there touch. Soft. Intentional. Enough to make her breath catch.
âLong week,â you murmured, tousling your hair once more for emphasis. âI wanted to be comfy. Hope thatâs not too scandalous.â
Malâs grin sharpened, but her voice dipped into something low, warm, almost reverent.
âScandalous? No. Dangerous? Absolutely.â
Victor made a small, strangled sound behind her. âYeah, noâ yep. Very dangerous. Lethal, even. A hazard. Should come with signage.â
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.
âWhatâd you bring?â Mal asked, leaning closerâ not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep the air charged.
âTreats,â you said lightly, pulling our jars and bottles. âFace masks for us, and a hair mask for Victor.â You tilted the jar toward him. âThis is my favorite one. The one you said you thought smelled nice.â
His entire posture crumpled into flustered disbelief.
âYouâ I mean, you remembered? I mentioned that once. In passing. Barely.â He rubbed the back of his neck, tail twitching behind him like a static-buzzed cable.
âGod, youâre gonna kill me.â
Mal nudged him with her elbow. âSheâs being nice Vic. Donât die over it.â
He whispered, âNo promises,â 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 airâ soft, floral, calming. You dipped your fingers in and gestured for Mal to lean closer.
The demon woman triedâ really triedâ 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.
âGentle hands,â she murmured, voice husky. âDidnât expect that.â
âWhy?â You teased, smoothing the mask across her forehead. âYou think I go around slapping spa products onto people?â
She huffed a laugh, low and warm. âWouldnât put it past you.â
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, heâd ruin whatever fragile luck delivered you into their living room.
âThis might be a little cold,â you warned, gesturing for him to move closer.
âOh, yeah, coolâ cold is goodâ cold is greatââ 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.
âRelax,â you said gently, combing the product through the silky tufts with slow, methodical care. âI wonât hurt you.â
âYou could,â he whispered.
Then louder, clearing his throat: âI meanâ not physically. Physically Iâm⌠mostly sturdy. I think. Probably.â
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 Victorâs hoodie. The low lamplight turned everything gold. You reached back into your bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of shimmery pink polish.
Malâs eyes sharpened instantly. âThatâs the color we picked out for you the other day.â
Victor leaned closer. ââŚWait. Thatâs the exact one?â
You lifted your hand, fingers splayed, nails already painted in the soft pink glow.
Their breath caught at the same time.
âI thought we could match,â you said simply.
Mal blinked once. Twice. Her voice softened, unexpectedly unguarded: âIâ weâd like that.â
You took Malâs 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 didnât know how to handle.
When you took Victorâs hand next, he held it so still it was almost comicalâ shoulders squared, toes curled, entire body clenched like he was preparing for impact.
âBreathe,â you whispered.
âOh. Right. Forgot that part.â
You painted in slow strokes, your fingers brushing his knuckles. He made a tiny, helpless sound, immediately pretending he didnât.
After the polish dried and the masks were washed off, the three of you curled into the couch like youâd been doing it for years. A blanket draped over the three of you, limbs overlapping in lazy, drifting touches.
Your head rested on Malâs shoulder.
Victorâs 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 itâ 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 couldnât.
You slept softly between them.
And they made a vow in the hush of their shared breath.
You were theirs.
Theyâd make sure you knew it, make sure you felt it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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Summary: a gentle dispatcher (in training) lets herself have fun for once, and Victor realizes just how far heâs fallen for her.
CW: alcohol use/tipsiness, drug mention, unwanted advances/creepy flirting, protective Victor, lots of cute fluff :)!
Guys. I just love him so much! If you guys have any dispatch requests pls send them over, my brain is ROTTEDđđŤś
Dividers by @strangergraphics <3
The club thrums like a living creature.
Every surface sweats neonâ purple smearing into blues smearing into hot pink streaks across the walls. Bass rattles the bones of the place, drowning out the city outside. Itâs 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, heâs aware. Sharply aware.
Because youâre here.
He spots you the moment the rest of the z-team funnels through the entranceâ 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 youâ who normally spends her hours with a headset on and a strange, steady patience like youâre holding the whole city together with kindness alone.
Now youâre stepping into a club of full heat and noise, and the contrast is so unfairly beautiful it sucker-punches him.
Youâre in something simple but prettyâ something that brushes your thighs when you walk and catches the light every time you move. Your hairâs 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.
Youâre already swaying on the dance floor, letting Prism and Malevola pull you into their orbit. And youâre goodâ loose in that tipsy, unbothered way that people who donât dance often tend to be once they give in. You toss your head back during the chorus, hair catching neon ribbons of light, and Victorâs chest tightens.
He tells himself itâs the drugs. Thatâs usually a safe bet.
But even he knows better.
You do this thing with your handsâ gesturing dramatically at Prism, teasing herâ and Malevola howls with laughter. You lean into it, cheeks flushed, eyes soft with warmth. Youâre always sweet at work, gentle in a way the rest of them arenât built for. But here, youâre something else. Unbuttoned. Playful. Still soft, yesâ 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 heâs watching you.
Because youâre 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 spinâ half grace, half tipsy enthusiasmâ and Prism has to catch your waist. You burst into laughter, clutching her arms for balance. Victorâs 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 canât look away.
You dance without restraint. Without fear of looking ridiculous. Without shame. Itâs 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 againâ full, warm, unselfconsciousâ he realizes heâs probably doomed.
And youâre 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 thatâs so sincere Victor watches them forgive you on the spot.
Youâre the kind of person people make room for.
The kind he wants to protect even if youâre perfectly capable of holding your own.
Heâs drifting toward the dance floor before he realizes it.
Not close enough to crowd youâ just in orbit. Just to make sure youâre okay. You laugh at something Malevola shouts, throwing your head back, and his knees nearly buckle.
Youâre not subtle, he tells himself.
He doesnât care.
When the song shifts, you breathe out, hands on your chest. âWater. I need water. Iâm ninety percent glitter and sweat at this point.â
Prism throws an arm around you. âThen go, little hydration fairy. Bring us liquid salvation.â
You do a little salute, giggling. âThree waters! Iâm on it.â
You start toward the bar.
Victor follows at a distance so natural nobody notices.
Heâll dance later.
Right now, heâs looking out for you.
Whether he admits why or not.
The club air tastes like citrus and heat and something faintly sweetâ 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 canât shake.
Youâre having a good night.
Likeâ shockingly good. You donât usually do clubs. Youâre a âquiet dinner with friendsâ person. A âmovie night with hot cocoaâ kind of girl. But tonight? Prism and Malevola swept you up like a pair of glittery hurricanes, and you let yourself get carried.
And youâre⌠proud of yourself.
You danced. You laughed. You let go.
The music still thrums in your bones.
âYou okay there?â The bartender asks kindly.
You grin. âIâm perfect. I need water, actually. Three of them, please.â
âComing right up.â
While he fetches bottles, you swat absentmindedly to the beat. Your hips canât help it; your bodyâs still warm and fizzy with movement. Youâre already imagining going back to the girlsâ Prism will cheer, Malevola will pretend she hates water and drink it anyways.
Youâre happy. Soft around the edges. Untethered in the nicest way.
Which is why the voice behind you makes you jump.
âYou dance pretty good for someone who looks like theyâre reading a book in the corner.â
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. âOhâ thanks? I think? Just having fun.â
âCome dance with me.â
You shake your head with a strained smile. âIâm with friends right now.â
He leans closer. Too close. âYou can come back to them later.â
âNo, really,â you say with that firm softness youâve perfected. âIâm good.â
He reaches outâ two fingers hooking your wrist.
Not hard, but insistent.
Something cold flickers under your ribs.
âI said come hereââ
âAnd she said sheâs not interested.â
The voice slips in behind you, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous.
You donât 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 calmâ the way people smile right before they ruin someoneâs whole evening.
âSheâs good,â Victor says lightly. âYou can go.â
The man scoffs. âMind your business.â
Victorâs smile widens, slow and soft. Too soft.
âMy guy,â he says, âher heart rate just jumped like thirty beats in three seconds. The only time it does that is when sheâs scared or when I make her laugh. And trust meâ you arenât funny.â
Your face warms.
Even tipsy, you glare at him for that.
Victorâs eyes flick to you. His smile softens in a completely different way.
Then he turns back to the man, voice a breath colder. âLast chance.â
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.
âYou okay?â He murmurs. âHe didnât hurt you?â
âNo,â you say softly. âHe just⌠grabbed my wrist.â
You lift your hand.
Victor gently takes it, checking the skin like heâs memorizing it.
âDoes it hurt?â
âNo,â you say again. âJust startled me.â
His jaw flexes.
Thenâ very quietlyâ âYour heartâs still fast.â
You make a small noise. âVictorâŚâ
He leans closer, lips brushing your temple. âIâm just saying. I can hear everything.â
You hide your face with one hand. âYouâre embarrassing me.â
âThatâs okay. Youâre cute when youâre embarrassed.â
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 youâre something precious heâs holding onto.
You donât mind his touch.
You lean into it, actually.
Somewhere between the bar and your friends, you realize your smile hasnât left once.
Prism cries out: âHydration goddess returns!â
Malevola steals her bottle instantly.
But Victor doesnât let go of your waist.
He doesnât even pretend to.
The next song swellsâ something slower, sweeter, warm as honey over the speakers. You finish sipping your water, and Victor steps in front of you.
âDance with me,â he says quietly.
You open your mouth automatically to deflectâ but then close it. Because you want to. Because the adrenaline hasnât faded yet. Because you feel good. Loose. Brave.
So you smileâ one of your real ones, brought and soft and a little mischievous.
âOnly if you promise not to make fun of my moves.â
Victor nearly stops breathing. âSweetheart, Iâve been watching you dance all night. Iâm trying not to propose.â
Your laugh is light and breathless. âOh my god, Victorââ
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 itâs almost unfair. His palms drift to your hips, thumbs brushing skin.
âYou scared me earlier,â he murmurs into your hair.
You sway with him, voice gentle. âIâm alright now.â
âYeah,â he hums. âI can hear that too.â
You roll your eyes. âYou and the heartbeat thing.â
âWhat?â He teases. âItâs convenient. Like having a built-in lie detector for flirting.â
âIâm not flirting,â you say.
âLiar.â He leans down. âYour heart just jumped again.â
You groan. âI hate you.â
âNo you donât,â he whispers. âYou like me. A lot.â
You lift your head, meeting his eyes. âAnd if I do?â
He stares at you.
Something shifts in his faceâ something unguarded, warm, and a little awed.
âThen,â he says softly, âIâm the luckiest idiot in this place.â
Your breath catches.
He doesnât kiss you.
But he rests his forehead against yours, swaying you gently while lights paint your skin in stripes of blue and pink.
âDo me a favor?â He murmurs.
âWhat?â
âDonât wander off alone again. Please.â
You place a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing the fur just under his eye.
âOkay,â you whisper. âI wonât.â
Something in him unspools at that.
You feel it in the way he exhalesâ 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 slowâ his heartbeat, your heartbeat, and the clubâs heartbeat weaving into something soft and bright and real.
Summary: a worn-out Robert comes home late to his sleepy girl, whoâs determined to pull him back together with soft hands, softer kisses, and all the quiet love heâs too tired to ask for.
CW: mild injury/patching up, soft intimacy and showering together (no smut), and a whole lot of disgusting domestic fluff <3
Guys Iâm absolutely obsessed with Dispatch and am in love with Robert!! Expect a LOT more of him (and sonar) :)!
Dividers by @strangergraphics!! I love her stuff sm, check her out <3
You donât remember drifting off. One moment you were curled on the couch with Beef pressed warm against your hip, wrapped in Robertâs hoodie like it was a borrowed heartbeat⌠and the next, youâre blinking awake to the faint scratch of a key turning in the lock.
Beef hears him before you doâ ears perked, tail thumping once, then twice, against the cushions. Itâs the sound that pulls you from sleep, hazy and slow and soft around the edges.
The door swings open.
Robert steps inside like heâs 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.
Youâre on your feet before he can straighten. Your body moves without permissionâ 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.
âHey,â he murmursâ 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.
Thatâs 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 himâ the kind you only notice if youâre this close.
âOh babyâŚâ you breathe, fingers slipping into his hair. âLong day?â
He nods against your skin. Doesnât speak. Doesnât 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 wincesâ small, instinctive, a tightening around his ribs. Your hands find his face instantly, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
âBathroom,â you whisper, voice still thick with sleep. âCome on.â
He triesâ triesâ to argue. Something about you needing rest. Something about him being fine.
You shake your head, tugging gently at his hand. âI said come on.â
He gives in with a soft exhale, letting you lead him down the hallway.
The bathroom light is warm and lowâ 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.
âMâsorry,â you murmur automatically.
He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it. âYouâre not hurting me.â
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 groansâ 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.
You smile, rinsing suds from his hair, watching the water bead on his lashes. âYou always say that.â
âBecause you always do it right.â
You brush water from his cheek with your thumb. He kisses your wrist again, slower this time, lips lingering like heâs thanking you without words.
The shower becomes quiet, warm, safeâ 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 youâre both rinsed and clean, you guide him out and wrap him in a towel. He leans into your touch like heâs 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.
âHard day?â You ask.
His eyes darkenâ not with pain, but with the weight you know he carries so quietly. âLong day. Long week. Just⌠a lot.â
You nod. You donât 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.
âYouâre falling asleep standing up,â 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 youâre done, you slide your hands down his chest and whisper, âbed.â
He standsâ slowly, a little heavilyâ and wraps an arm around your waist as if youâre 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 hairâ long, deep, like heâs finally exorcising the day.
You tilt your head, kissing the spot over his heartbeat.
Once.
Twice.
Slow, lingering. Sleepy.
He shivers.
âCâmere,â 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 youâre soothing away bruises the world canât see.
âIâm okay,â he murmurs, but his voice cracks on the last word.
âI know,â you whisper, fingers stroking his cheek. âBut I can still take care of you.â
His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. âSweetheart⌠youâre barely awake.â
âIâm awake enough,â you say, kissing him again. âI just want you to feel better.â
His eyes flutter shut. âI do.â
You settle back down, tucking into him, hoodie sleeves brushing his ribs. He pulls the blankets higher around your shoulders, tucks them in like heâs afraid the night might steal you away.
Beef curls at your feet with a heavy dog-sigh.
Robert presses a slow kiss to your foreheadâ warm and full of unspoken gratitude.
âYouâre so good to me,â he whispers into your hair.
âYou deserve it,â you murmur, already fading.
He swallows, arms tightening around you. âNot sure what I did to earn this.â
âYou came home,â you breathe.
That hits him harder than you intended. His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you impossibly closer.
âIâll always come home to you,â 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 youâ you drift.
Summary: Simon âGhostâ Riley comes home bruised and bone-tired, but in your arms, he remembers what peace feels like.
CW: I wrote this with fem!reader in mind but donât think I used any identifying pronouns (lettme know if Iâm wrong!), mentions of injury (post-mission), super disgustingly cute and fluffy!!
Iâm obsessed with the COD men and finally braved writing one for the first time!! Pls let me know if you want to see more of them ;))
Dividers by the wonderful @strangergraphics
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.
Thenâ his voice.
âOpen up, love. Sâalright. Itâs me.â
The mug clattered into the sink, half-full tea blooming like a bruise in the water. You didnât bother with slippersâ 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.
âChrist,â you breathed. âSimonââ
He didnât 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.
âDidnât tell me you were cominâ home,â you whispered against his chest.
âWanted tâsee your face,â he murmured, voice thick with that slow Northern lilt. âProper surprise, yeah?â
âNearly gave me a heart attack, you absolute bastard.â
He huffed a laugh, the sound rumbling through you. âAye, but worth it. Missed you somethinâ fierce.â
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.
âYouâre hurt,â you said softly.
âJust a scratch.â
âSimon.â
He sighed. âAlright, maybe. But Iâm here, yeah? Thatâs what matters.â
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 eyesâ those soft brown eyesâ were gentle, full of something fragile.
âYou look wrecked,â you whispered.
He smiled, lazy and crooked. âFeel worse. But youâ bloody hell, you look good. Always do.â
âFlatterer.â
âTruth-teller, love.â
You fished over him until he cavedâ 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.
âMissed this,â he said quietly. âMissed you.â
You smiled. âYou say that like you didnât talk my ear off over the phone almost every night.â
He chuckled, deep and rough. âNot the same. Canât kiss you over the line, can I?â
Your breath hitched just a little, and his grin turned wicked.
âGo on, then,â you said, eyes narrowing playfully. âYouâve got your chance.â
He didnât need more permission than that. His hand came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth before he kissed youâ soft at first, like he was remembering how. Then deeper, steadier.
When he pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours. âYou smell like home,â he murmured. âLike Iâve been fightinâ just to get to this.â
You laughed quietly, fingers tracing his jaw. âThatâs the most romantic thing youâve ever said.â
âDonât get used to it.â
âOh, I absolutely will.â
He laughed thenâ 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.
âYou stayinâ?â You asked sleepily.
He looked down at you, eyes warm. âNot goinâ anywhere, love. Not for a long while.â
Your fingers brushed over his hand, where old scars met new. âGood.â
He pressed a kiss to your head. âYâknow,â he said, words fading into a chuckle, âyou make the best bloody tea when Iâm half-dead. Think Iâll keep gettinâ myself shot just for the service.â
You smacked his chest, laughing. âYouâre impossible.â
âMm. You love it.â
âI do,â you said softly. âGod help me, I really do.â
He smiled against your temple, and for the first time in months, the world felt whole again.
Sorry Iâve been absent, lifeâs been a bit chaotic lately :(
But Iâm back and missing you all and writing!! So please please send any asks or requests, Iâd love to interact and get back into the flow of thingsđŤśđŤś
(And Iâm cooking up some ficsâ OCxcreepypasta and a readerxcreepypastaâ so be on the lookout for those ;)â¤ď¸)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Annelise and I are looking for some inspo! Weâd love any requests or comments on things yâall would like to seeâ we need a little push in the creativity department!
Hi babes! This is my second account I created with my bestie (who I got to start writing fanfiction >:))! Iâll be darting between the two, but please flood and send requests over there if youâre interested!
For those of you who have been reading my creepypasta fic I have some news!
I started the fic last summer and was super excited and started writing it without a real plan, so Iâve decided to delete it and rework it a bit so it flows better! Iâd like to have a better plan for it (including a posting schedule and full plot!)
Thank you guys sm!! Iâll have it started up again by the end of next month :))
Summary: Youâre helping Fred redecorate the flat above Weaslysâ Wizard Wheezes :)
I wrote it w fem! Reader in mind but there arenât any pronouns mentioned (correct me if Iâm wrong pls!), domestic fluff, short and super sweet!
Lettme know if yâall like this one :), I wanna write more oneshots! Pls send requests if thereâs anything youâd like to see me write <3
The beautiful dividers are by @cafekitsune :)
The flat above Weasleysâ Wizard Wheezes was a disaster zone. Half-assembled furniture was cluttered in corners, mismatched paint swatches smeared the walls, and an old sofa sat awkwardly in the middle of the room, like a relic of chaos. The air smelled faintly of fresh paint and Fredâs cologneâ a scent you could never quite place but always made your heart race.
âAlright, love,â Fred said, hands on his hips as he surveyed the mess with a grin. âWhatâs next on our list of tortures?â
âSecond,â you continued, grabbing the checklist from the table, âwe need to decide on a color for this wall. And I swear to Merlin, if you suggest purple and gold stripes again, Iâm walking out!â
Fred gasped, clutching his chest. âYou wound me! Those stripes were a stroke of genius!â
âThey were an eyesore,â you countered, grinning.
âFine, fine. You pick, but donât blame me when it turns out boring.â
You rolled your eyes, flipping through the paint swatches. âYouâre impossible.â
Fred leaned closer, resting his chin on your shoulder as you browsed. âAnd yet, youâre still here. Must mean you secretly like me.â His breath tickled your ear, and you nearly dropped the swatches.
âDonât flatter yourself,â you muttered, though the warmth spreading up your neck betrayed you.
Fredâs chuckle was low and soft, but he stayed close, watching as you pointed to a soft blue. âThis one,â you said firmly. âItâs calming. You need calming.â
âAre you saying Iâm not calm?â He asked, raising an eyebrow.
You smirked. âYou? Calm? Never.â
Fred straightened, grabbing the paint can with exaggerated determination. âFine, calming blue it is. But youâre doing the edges.â
âDeal.â
Hours later, you were both covered in streaks of blue paint. A smear trenched across Fredâs cheek like a war stripe, and your arms looked like youâd 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. âIâm a broken man.â
You laughed, sitting beside him. âOh, please. You painted, like, two-thirds of one wall.â
âExactly,â he said, turning his head to look at you. âIâve given everything I had. My blood, sweat, and tears.â
âMore like your bad jokes and terrible painting!â
Fredâs 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.
âYouâre good at this,â he said, voice lower than before.
âAt what? Painting?â
âMaking a mess look like a home,â he said simply.
Your heart stuttered, and you looked away, focusing on a random spot on the wall. âWell, someone has to keep you in check.â
âYouâre good at that too.â
Silence settled between you, but it wasnât uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that said more than words could.
âYouâve got a bit of paint⌠right here,â 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.
âFredâŚâ you started, but the words caught in your throat.
âYeah?â 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.
âI thinkâŚâ you began, but he didnât let you finish.
Fred leaned in, his lips brushing yours in the lightest of kisses, testing, waiting. When you didnât 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. âSo, does this mean you secretly like me?â
You laughed, leaning your forehead against his. âYouâre impossible.â
âBut loveable,â he said, pressing a quick kiss to your nose.
âYeah,â you admitted, your smile softening. âLoveable.â
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.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Summary: Youâre in attendance at a demon council meeting and completely distracted and enamored by Satanâs demon form. He notices.
Fluff, a little hint of spice?, small makeout sesh, cheesy flirting, short and sweet, soft Satan <3
credit to @strangergraphics for the dividers!! Check them out <3
Satanâs presence commanded the room. His demon form was a perfect balance of elegance and raw powerâ the sweeping horns, the golden adornments glinting under the chandelier light, and the sharp contrast of his piercing green eyes against his midnight-black attire. You couldnât keep your composure as you stood by his side at the demon council meeting. The room was vast and intimidating, but all you could focus on was him. He was magnetic, his every movement exuding authority and grace, and it left you utterly breathless.
When Satan turned to address one of the council members, his voice was steady and authoritative, carrying an edge that made your heart skip. He glanced at you occasionally, offering a faint, reassuring smile when he caught your wide-eyed awe. He noticed, of course. How could he not? Your gaze never left him, and every small movement of his sent a ripple of butterflies through your chest. Your thoughts were a mess, hopelessly entangled in just how breathtaking he looked. You tried to focus on the proceedings, but his presence consumed you, leaving you hopelessly distracted.
Caught off guard, you stammered, âI-I wasnât⌠I mean, you just⌠you look amazing.â 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.
Satanâs smirk faltered for just a moment, before softening into something warmer. âAmazing, hmm?â He repeated, tilting his head slightly as he studied your expression. He took a step closer, closing the distance between you. âComing from you, that means more than you know.â His voice dipped lower, and the sincerity in his tone made your chest tighten.
Before you could respond, Satan offered his hand. âCome with me. Letâs go somewhere quieter.â
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. Satanâs hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him as if he couldnât 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 youâd ever seen them. You could barely catch your own breath, your lips kiss bitten and buzzing from his attention.
âStay,â he said suddenly, his voice low and hoarse. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks. âStay with me tonight. Please.â
You didnât 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 youâd 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. âYou⌠you have no idea what you do to me.â
You smiled softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. âI think Iâve got an idea.â
He huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. âStill, itâs maddening. Youâre maddening,â 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.
âI like seeing you like this,â you admitted quietly. âAll undone. Just for me.â
Satanâs lips quirked into a small, lopsided smile. Only for you,â 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 didnât matter. For now, you were here, in his arms, and everything felt right.
This is dedicated to a lovely anon who requested headcannons for how the brothers would react when you have a chronic illness. I didnât know if they wanted me to post the ask publicly, so Iâm just putting the dedication here. Thank you so much for requesting anon, youâre so sweet!đ
Chronic illness (not specified), the use of a rollator and other mobility aids, super fluffy, comfort <3
Credit to the lovely @enchanthings for the dividers!
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 conditionâ 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 thereâs always a chair nearby when he knows youâll need to rest, crafting detailed excuses to Diavolo when you canât attend RAD, and personally delivering your assignments to keep your workload manageable.
When youâre 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. âYouâre resilient,â he murmurs one evening, his fingers brushing yours as he places a glass of water within easy reach. âBut that doesnât mean you have to face every struggle alone.â
Mammon
Mammon hovers without hovering, pretending heâs just hanging out when heâs really making sure youâre okay. He carries your cane for you if you need to use your rollator, and though he tries to act nonchalant, thereâs a noticeable spring in his step when you let him. âWhat, you think I wouldnât look after ya?â He says, grinning ear to ear, though his hands tremble slightly when he sees you falter during a dizzy spell. Heâs always ready to catch youâ literally and figuratively.
On days when you canât get out of bed, Mammon becomes your personal sunshine, bringing you snacks, fluffing your pillows, and cracking jokes to make you laugh. âIf ya need anything, just call your Great Mammon,â he says dramatically, plopping onto the chair beside you. And when you fall asleep mid-conversation, heâll 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. Heâll shyly offer you gadgets heâs 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 âoh, I just wanted to look at this anyways.â
When youâre 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. âI can carry you,â he says, both in-game and out, his voice tinged with both humor and sincerity. If you fall asleep during his anime marathons, he doesnât 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 youâre pushing too hard and gently redirects your focus, his voice calm and reassuring: âThereâs no shame in taking a moment.â
On bad days, Satan becomes a quiet source of comfort, bringing you books to read aloud if youâre too tired or simply sitting beside you while he reads. âYour strength inspires me,â he says one evening, his fingers brushing against yours as he passes you your meds. He means itâ it's in the reverence of his voice, in the way his gaze lingers on you like youâre the most remarkable story heâs 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 itâs âan accessory, darling, not just a mobility aid!â Heâs always attuned to your energy levels, subtly adjusting plans to suit your needs. âItâs not about where we go,â he says with a dazzling smile, âitâs about being with you.â
When youâre bedridden, Asmo brings the spa to you. He sets up scented candles, does your nails (even if youâre too tired to care), and reads silly magazine articles aloud just to hear you laugh. âYouâre gorgeous no matter what,â he says, his voice soft, stroking your cheek as you doze off. âI hope you know that.â
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. Heâs 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, âtake your time; weâre not in a hurry.â
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. âI donât like seeing you hurt,â he admits one evening, his large hand carefully cradling yours. âBut Iâll be here for you, no matter what.â 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 youâre not using it, insisting it âdeserves to be cozy too.â He has a sixth sense for when youâre overexerting yourself, tugging you toward the nearest soft surface with a sleepy grin. âYou need to rest,â he says simply, offering his lap as a pillow if no chairs are around.
When youâre confined to bed, Belphie takes it as an excuse to nap beside you. Heâll murmur quiet reassurances as he tangles his legs with yours, grounding you with his warmth. âDonât push yourself,â he whispers, his hand resting lightly on yours. âWeâve got all the time in the world.â In those moments, his love is the softest kind of devotion, steady and unspoken.