#i can't wait to see how your mc's will feel about all this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

another-lost-mc · 4 months

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Okay but what if, before MC is taken to the future by nightbringer, they had a big fight with the brothers?

Like, they fought about something and said something along the lines 'go away' ' I don't want to see you', but then, when you don't return they start feeling guilty.

At first they'll think you're angry and don't want to talk with them, but when time passes and you don't return they start to get so worried, looking everywhere for you, regretting that the, possibly, last words they said to you were harsh confrontation.

The angst potential 😭😭 how do you think each of the bros would react?

😈🍬 anon

a/n: well, nightbringer sure is a blessing for angst fans.

the worst goodbye | the demon brothers

2.8k words | gn!reader | sfw | angst

cw: mentions of lesson 16 in belphie's part.

Lucifer goes to his office and pretends that he's not angry. He attempts to distract himself with paperwork, but all he does is read the same paragraph a few times over and over again before he throws the page down with a huff. He taps his pen against his desk while he sifts through the emotions clouding his mind. All he felt earlier was wounded pride—that's why he scolded you with more force than necessary, speaking with his cruel, barbed tongue but regretting it just as quickly. He admires and loathes your feisty temper. You're his stubborn, brave little human that stands up to him when most demons wouldn't dare to try.

He plans his apology like a mantra and goes to your room; he knows if he's sincere, you'll give him a chance to make things right. You don't answer your door when he knocks, and he peeks his head inside to confirm that you're not there. He sends you a message with his D.D.D. and shuffles awkwardly in the hallway while he waits for a reply. He asks in the family group chat, but no one's seen you recently and he ignores the initial tendrils of icy fear that make his chest feel tight. Surely you wouldn't have stormed off in a sulk? But he checks the rest of the house and his brothers realize slowly that something is wrong—you wouldn't just leave. Lucifer searches for you himself, around the House of Lamentation and all around the Devildom, searching for anyone that might've seen you, or any hint of where you've gone. But in the early twilight hours, he pours a glass of Demonus that remains untouched while he stares absently into the fire of his private study. His heart freezes over in your absence. Your warmth thawed his icy demeanor, and the roaring fire crackling nearby can't stop the chills that wrack through him when he tells himself that you're gone and he has no one to blame but himself.

You rarely fight with Mammon these days, but when you do, it spirals out of control. He spits out scathing remarks about how he's sick of you trying to pry your nose into his business because he hates admitting that you're right. You try so desperately not to yell (or cry, or both) when you plead with him to forget about whatever risky scheme he's got planned. It's not worth risking Lucifer's wrath and whatever punishment lies in store when Mammon's plan inevitably fails to his own detriment. He stalks away and ignores the sound of your voice cracking in pain when you call his name one last time—and maybe if he were less incensed, he would stop and turn around and apologize. But today he feels particularly stubborn and he doesn't look back. He fully intends on leaping in his car and driving off into the night to burn off some steam, but he slumps against his bedroom door with his head in his hands and tries to remember why he was so angry with you to begin with. He can't pinpoint the reason and he knows you only have his best intentions at heart.

It feels like hours later when he ends up outside your door, head down and tail tucked firmly between his legs. He shouts through the wood when you don't answer and he swears he didn't mean it, that he'll do whatever it takes to make it up to you. You're too patient and kind and loving for your own good, and he tempts fate every time he takes your forgiveness for granted. He opens the door and scratches his head in confusion when he realizes you're not there. He spots one of his brothers at the end of the hall, and his confusion sours into something ashy on his tongue when he asks him where you are. I haven't seen them—we all thought they were with you!

Leviathan plays his game, tapping the buttons on his handheld with more force than necessary, as simmering anger from your fight earlier darkens his mood. He didn't mean to forget about your lunch date, so why did you get so mad? Maybe calling you a worse nag than Lucifer was over the top, but he planned on making it up to you later! He gets lost in his thoughts and plays his game until he realizes it's been a couple hours and his D.D.D. has been surprisingly silent. Sometimes you message him and invite him to talk things out in your room once you've both had time to calm down. He has no idea what it means that you've ignored him all this time and when he tries to message you first, they go unanswered. He shuffles to your room guiltily and hopes you'll be willing to talk face-to-face. It's almost dinner time, and maybe if you're feeling up to it, he can take you out for dinner. He even canceled his raid tonight so he can spend the evening curled with you on the sofa watching movies instead.

He doesn't expect to hear a commotion as he walks down the stairs to the first floor, and his brothers are crowded outside your room in various states of panic. Lucifer sees him and rushes to explain what's going on, but the words turn to radio static in Levi's head. He doesn't even notice that he drops his D.D.D. and it clatters to the ground, cracking the corner of the plastic case you gave him as a present not too long ago. Instead of cuddling with you on the sofa that night, he curls around his body pillow in the tub, his tail twitching noisily against the porcelain while he buries his head and deafens his whimpers in the tear-stained cotton. Come back, come back, please come back—

When the rage subsides, Satan glances wearily around his room and the terrible mess he's made. Some of his favourite books are ripped and torn to shreds across the floor, but the sight hurts less than the memory of your heartbroken face crumpling in pain as you fought back tears. He's done many terrible things in his life he's not proud of, but insinuating you don't care about him might be the lowest blow he could use during a fight. You've only wanted what's best for him, and you try so hard to show the world that he's more than the violent, angry creature that lurks deep inside him.

If only the world could see you the way I do.

Regret quickens his steps and he leaves the broken chaos in his room to find you because he shouldn't have even let you go. Why did it take him so long to apologize? He doesn't deserve it, but if you'll only give him a chance, he swears to himself he'll make it up to you. He hastily wipes away the tears pooling in the corner of his eyes when he notices his brothers lingering outside your room. They're too distraught to notice the sharp bite in his words when he demands to know what's going on and where you are. Nothing they say makes any sense—you wouldn't just leave, right? He’s the first to tear through the house in a panic to find you, ignoring his brothers’ nervous pleas for him to calm down. You're nowhere to be found and eventually he returns to his room in a trance. No one knows how long he stands there, trembling with regret and shame and fury that someone or something dared take you away from him. All his brothers know, judging by the noise echoing through the halls, is that his room is nearly destroyed as he unleashed his heartbreak in a maelstrom of destructive rage.

Asmodeus takes another selfie and posts it on Devilgram. He hopes the notification will pop up on your D.D.D. and you'll see him having the time of his life at The Fall. He wants you to see it—he hopes it fills you with regret for arguing with him earlier. He doesn't fight with you often, but your tongues are both sharp and laced with venom when you do face off against each other. He enjoyed the anxious gleam in your eye when he backed you into a wall and leaned down so you were nearly nose-to-nose, the sweet scent of his lip gloss lingering in the gap between you while he cooed about how pathetic you looked. But that was almost an hour ago, and he can only pretend for so long that he doesn't regret leaving you stunned and hurt in the front hall when he waltzed out the door and slammed it behind him. The pounding music can't drown out the wicked things he said to you, and the crowd can't distract him from your absence that weighs heavily in his heart. There are many demons nearby who'd kill for his attention, but he knows deep down that the only hands he wants roaming over his body are yours.

It's not long after that he pushes his way out of the club and into the cool night air, but he still hasn't heard from you. Surely you've seen his Devilgram posts by now? You're smart enough to recognize his desperate ploys for attention. Your attention. Are you ignoring him on purpose? Maybe he deserves it, but he's anxious to talk to you and sends you a message on his walk home anyway. Message could not be delivered. The red text pops up on his screen, and he frowns and tries again. Message could not be delivered. He quickens his pace as he taps your contact name and calls you instead. Is there something wrong with your D.D.D.? "The number you have dialed is not in service."

He breaks into a run until the House of Lamentation peeks into view ahead. He bursts through the door and ignores Lucifer's angry shouts behind him as he rushes down the hall to your room, but all he sees is one of your favourite club outfits laid out on your bed, as if you were getting ready to come see him after all. Where are you? His brothers hover behind him and he borrows one of their phones so he can try calling you again. He tells himself that it must be a problem with his D.D.D. because no other explanation makes sense. "The number you have dialed is—" Asmo whimpers pitifully while he listens to the robotic voice drone on speaker for everyone to hear, and his brothers finally realize that something is wrong and split up to search for you. He chokes out your name and slumps onto your bed, inhaling your familiar scent when he holds your shirt, one that he bought you, to his face and sobs. He can hear his brothers' heavy footfalls throughout the house while they look for you, but deep down, he already knows you're gone.

Beel glances at the stands and wipes sweat and dirt from his brow. He can spot his brothers easily enough—it's hard to miss them, with the way Asmo's waving the glittery handmade sign with his name in bold pink lettering—but he doesn't see you. There's an empty space between Mammon and Levi where you normally sit, and they've kept it free for when—if—you show up. You've never missed one of his games, not ever. Maybe the argument earlier upset you more than he realized. He knows you don't normally eat his food on purpose. He knows you meant it when you sputtered apologies when you realized your mistake. He knows how hurt you were when he shouted at you in a hungry rage. The rest of the game passes by in a blur. He moves on autopilot, his mood growing more and more despondent each time he checks the crowd and realizes you're still not there. He barely recognizes his team's happy cheers when the game ends in victory. He has a quick shower and makes his excuses to his teammates because he already has plans for dinner tonight, with you, hopefully. He stops by Hell's Kitchen and picks up your favourite takeaway order and heads home. It's a peace offering, one of many apologies he owes you.

By the time he knocks on your door, he's eager to see you. Silence. He knocks again and waits, and he hesitantly pushes the door open when his greeting goes unanswered. You're not in your room, and after a quick search of the house, he realizes you're not anywhere. He visits your room over and over again as if you'll finally pop out and tell him you were just teasing him, because you wouldn't ever leave him on purpose, right? His name on a handmade sign on your bed, and one of his old jerseys he gave you, are all that you left behind and he wonders if he would've been able to stop you leaving had he come home to you sooner. (Your takeaway dinner remains uneaten in the fridge in case you come back, and Beel refuses to eat it himself or let anyone else eat it either. One of his brothers has to throw it away when it eventually turns rancid—Beel can't bring himself to do it, because it means admitting you may never come back.)

Belphie doesn't like sleeping alone. Most nights if he sleeps alone, it's by choice—his choice. Tonight should've ended like most nights do: with the both of you sharing the bed in the attic. He sleeps better when you're close. You're a warm weight curled against him, and the smell of your shampoo and your minty breath are small comforts when he has bad dreams. Sometimes he wakes up in a panic, his shirt damp with cold sweat, and he listens for your quiet snores, proof that you're alive, that the nightmare of your windpipe crushed in his deadly grip isn't real. Belphie sleeps in the attic alone tonight because you decided you needed space. It's petty revenge for earlier when he woke up from a nap in a foul mood and snapped at you in his frustration. He fluffs his pillow and his bottom lip juts out in a pout. He can't get comfortable and it's your fault. The house grows quiet as his brothers retire to their rooms and fall asleep, and Belphie senses when you finally drift off to sleep too. If he wakes up before you tomorrow, he'll crawl into your bed and hope that you'll be more receptive to his apology when you wake up.

It takes longer than usual but he finally falls asleep and feels content. Even when he's unconscious, he instinctively reaches for your presence and it calms him. Your dreamscape is like a little pond, and he watches from his own nearby shore as your thoughts pass by in a blur, like slick oil paintings skimming over a watery surface. He doesn't like to intrude on your dreams if he can help it—he only interferes when he senses them slipping into nightmares instead. He tells himself it's not selfish to erase them for you, but the truth is that he's not sure he can stomach seeing his own face reflected in your dreams anymore, not with its wicked sneer and bloodstained teeth. He's not sure he forgives himself for what he did to you, and he wonders if you've truly forgiven him too.

Something odd in your dreamscape shifts suddenly and it catches Belphie's attention. The images in your subconscious grow murky and twisted, like they're being sucked down into some unseen void. Your presence is like sand falling through his fingertips, and it's harder and harder for him to feel you. He reaches out to your mind to wake you up because he doesn't know what's wrong, but something about this scares him. He jolts awake in the attic, chest heaving with the final memory of something snapping in his mind, like the cord that tethered you to him was suddenly cut. Eventually his brothers get up too and he can hear the commotion coming from down the stairs. He makes his way to your room in a trance before they can come find him. He already knows what his brothers are struggling to understand, the truth that no one can explain. You're gone somewhere far away, impossibly out of his reach, and he dreads falling asleep and feeling the void your absence left behind.

Sleep evades him until he forces himself to try and rest, and he finds himself in your bed instead of his own. He curls himself around your pillow underneath your sheets, clinging to the last whiffs of your scent, and he hopes you'll wake him up and tell him this was nothing but a bad dream. (Your scent fades away long before the nightmare ends, and he stops sleeping in your room after that.)

read more: obey me masterlist

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rae-writes · 8 months

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when it's time for mc to return to their original timeline how do you think the [nightbringer] characters would react if mc told them that they were from future and it's time for them to go back to the present timeline and that they'd meet them then

The common room was silent— so silent, it sounded like the entire Devildom was sleeping all at once. There was tension so thick you could cut it by just swiping at the air- there were eleven pairs of eyes trained onto Mc; the single tear that dripped down their face was like a harsh shock wave.

"I'm sorry...but I have to leave- I have to go back to my timeline now..I'll see you again when I return, okay? I promise."

Lucifer is absolutely flabbergasted, red eyes wide as he scanned your face for any signs of humor, but you weren’t joking. His hands trembled uncharacteristically, fingers twitching as he stretched his arm out to try and grab at you; "What do you mean you have to go? Don't...your place is here, with us, you can't leave- what the hell do you mean you'll see me 'when you return', I'm me! I'm right here! Don't go-!"

Mammon doesn't fully process your words, only really catching the part where you said you had to leave. He feels nauseous and scared as he immediately begins to stammer and stumble over to you, grabbing your hand and pulling you closer so he can feel that you’re still there; "Y-you can't leave! Why would you want to leave- your home is here, you belong with us- with me- I'm right here, where are you going? Don't leave me behind! I-I need you! Please!"

Levi instantly has tears in his eyes, too preoccupied with watching you start moving away from him to realize you said you’d see him again. His tail whips out to circle your waist, arms frantically grabbing at you as he cries; "W-w-wait-! D-don't go, don't leave...did I do s-something- a-are you leaving because of m-me? I-I'll fix it, I p-promise, just please don't go..."

Satan's first instinct is to get angry- to throw a fit and throw anything in reach and scream and lash out, but he just stands there staring at you. He understands the concept of time travel and other timelines- he's read all about it- and essentially knows that he'll see you in less than a minute once you go back, and yet...; "Leaving...? You're leaving? I- I don't...I don't want you to go..don't-...just..Mc, please."

Asmo hears everything you're saying, but he just doesn't understand! He practically curls his whole body around you as he stutters through his denial, trying so hard not to cry because it would ruin his makeup; "What do you mean you're leaving, hon? Time travel is nonsense..you belong here, with us! Y-you're not actually going to leave me, right? Not me...don't leave me.."

Beel immediately panics as his thoughts run rampant about losing you and never getting to see you again, despite you assuring him that you'd see him very soon- he can't lose someone close to him again, not you- and the way he grabs onto you shows his desperation; "No! I-I mean...no, you can't leave us- why would you leave us? I thought you were at home here, with us, please...I can't lose you, too..."

Belphie, like his twin, is panicking- but he's in a hysterical panic. He breaks down into sobs and apologies right at your feet- apologizing for any time he was snippy with you and especially the time he got so mad he almost hurt you after finding out you were human- he's so sorry, just..don't leave-!; "No, no, no! You can't! You can't leave us, please, don't leave, I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything I've done wrong to you- just don't leave me! Please, don't leave me..."

Diavolo understands the concept of what you're saying, though it's still hard for him to grasp the fact that you're leaving to go back to a different him...why couldn't you just stay with him in this 'timeline'? Didn't...didn't you still like him either way?; "What...what? Mc, I don't understand...just stay. Here. With- with me, with us, I don't...why must you go back? Don't you like it here?"

Barbatos shouldn't be worried. He knows exactly what you're talking about and what you mean by 'see you again when I return' and yet he can't help but feel at a loss, torn between letting you just walk away or trying to stop you- he doesn't want you to go back to future him...he wants you here with this him; "I...wait, Mc..don't-...don't go back. Stay, please..I know I'll remember the time we spent together here when you return, but I...I don't want to let you go.."

Simeon is in an odd state between panicked and calm. One on hand, he trusts you. If you say you promise you'll see him again- whatever that means- he believes you. But on the other hand, he's already lost so much in life and he can't possibly bear to lose you too, so he grabs you and holds on tightly; "Go? What do you mean 'go'? I...Mc...I don't want to let you go..I don't want you to leave- please stay...with us. With me."

Luke's confusion dances across his face as he latches onto your waist, firing a thousand questions at once, as fast as he can speak them; "What do you mean you're leaving? How can you see me when you 'return'- what does that even mean?! I'm the only me...and I'm right here- where...where are you going?! Don't leave me! I don't want you to go!"

bonus :

Solomon is there to wrap his arms around your waist tightly for comfort, keeping the others from coming too close; he can't let them take you away from him- won't let them convince you to stay. Your place is in your own timeline, with the present versions of them, with him. He promised he'd bring you back home with him and no one is going to stop him; "Come on, Mc...let's go. We need to go- this is what we've been working towards remember? You'll see them in less than a second once we go through the portal. I'm here with you, I'm not ever going to leave your side. You trust me don't you? Let's go home. Together."

#obey me x reader #obey me nightbringer x reader #om x reader #nb x reader #omnb x reader #lucifer x reader #mammon x reader #leviathan x reader #satan x reader #asmo x reader #beel x reader #belphie x reader #diavolo x reader #barbatos x reader #om simeon x reader #om luke x reader #solomon x reader

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zayneslady · 3 months

Text

Summary: they seem to prefer their hunter friend more than you and you're tired and hurt about it

Warnings: angst, open ending(?. The reader is not MC, if that makes sense.

Characters: Zayne, Xavier, Rafayel x reader (separately)

a/n: feeling angsty tonight. Hope you enjoy my first post!

Classification: scenarios

Rafayel

"Haaah." What a big sigh. "I miss my bodyguard..."

Was that something you could say in front of your girlfriend? You flushed to the tip of your ears. Shame ran through your body with a chill that made your skin crawl. You left the fork on the plate, and the sound made Rafayel turn around to look at you. His eyes soon saw the color on your face and he gasped, suddenly realizing the mistake he had just made, but it was too late. You both knew it.

"No," he said almost breathlessly. "That was not what I-

You rose from your seat before he could continue.

"I think... you want someone else around you at the moment," you said calmly, finally daring to look at him through blurry sight. "M-Maybe, we can have another date... some other time. Now, excuse me, Rafayel."

"No, wait! Come back!"

You rushed out of the restaurant, feeling curious eyes on you, making your skin become even redder. You felt so humiliated. It was not the first time something like this had happened, one could only take so much. You were not the jealous type, on the contrary, knowing Rafayel's personality, you tried to be relaxed around him, but, perhaps... he wanted to forget his bodyguard using you?

That was so lame and pathetic!

A sob made you tremble and you lowered your head, trying to avoid anyone seeing you as you walked as fast as you could to the bus station.

"Wait!" He called your name, running to catch up with you. To your misfortune, the bus was not there yet and you both arrived at the station at the same time. "Listen to me, please," he said breathlessly and you shook your head.

"I don't want to," you mumbled, trying to hide your tears, but it was impossible. "Rafayel, why did you come here? I left you so you could call your bodyguard."

"Please don't say that, I really didn't-

"You did!" You finally looked at him, your lower lip trembling. "Rafayel, I understand... I truly understand, but if you have feelings for her... why are you even with me? You're hurting me, you know?"

He flushed as he grabbed your shoulders. "I do not have feelings for her! I... I really don't have feelings for her. I want you. I have feelings for you, can't you see?"

You shook your head, choking on a sob. "I can't. I can't see it when you say such things in front of me, Rafayel." Oh, how much you loved saying his name. It felt so nice against your tongue. It made your heart tingle lovingly... how stupid.

"No, listen! I don't - I didn't... I don't know why I said that, I swear. I just... I am so sorry, please."

"I'm sorry too, Rafayel. You know this is not the first time... Every time we see each other, you say something related to her. 'What do you think my miss bodyguard is doing right now? She must be really busy doing that job of hers', 'Whoa, my bodyguard really likes these candies! I'm gonna get her some, wait here', 'I'm gonna order this food, it's my bodyguard's favorite!'... Rafayel, I'm not made of wood, you know?"

He was speechless. Pupils trembling slightly. He hadn't even realized all that. That only made you feel more hurt. Did he ever take your feelings into consideration?

"I am sorry," he mumbled, helplessly.

"I am too...," you repeated, listening to the bus approaching. "I gotta go now, Rafayel. I hope... You can sort out your feelings and tell her how you feel. Now, excuse me."

"No, please! I really want to be with you, I-

"See you, Rafayel."

Zayne

"M-Miss Hunter? Bit-

"Yes," he said, checking his phone one more time before giving you some money, your cheeks flushing. "I forgot I had a date with her. You don't mind if I leave, right? Take this, you can pay for our food with this."

"... I-

"I promised her," he said, as if begging for you to let go of him... but you never really had any right to make him stay.

"You promised me too. You said you took your day off for me... was it a lie?"

"No. It wasn't a lie, but right now I-

You nodded. Also getting up. "Zayne... Zayne are you sure you wanted to have a relationship with me?"

He frowned, his expression just slightly surprised. "Of course I am sure. Why are you asking me th-

"Or did you just want a replacement for someone you cannot have?" His eyes widened, but you continued. "I also have feelings, Zayne. I am not asking you to put me above all but... you can't even respect our time together? If you want to go out with miss Hunter, go ahead, I don't mind. But don't make plans with me and cancel them when we're in the middle of it. You could also pay me a bit more of attention instead of texting her all the time don't you think?"

Zayne blinked, reaching out for you, but you stepped back. "Listen, this is not what you think. I do want to be with you, it's just-

"I think... It's better if we leave things here, Zayne. My heart can only take so much. You're free to go."

"Are we....breaking up?"

You nod, forcing the tears back. "I think it's for the best, Zayne to end up here. Thank you for your time, I'm sorry I was taking a bit too much of it. I was just greedy. You don't get your crush to fall in love with you too often... I think I was wrong in that as well."

Tears rolled down your cheeks, no matter how hard you tried to stop them. "You can take your money back. You don't have to pay me for my time. Lunch's on me."

He said your name, almost desperately. "Wait, please. Let me explain this. Please."

"Goodbye, Zayne."

"No, please. Let's talk. I really-

"She's waiting for you. Don't make her wait much more."

Xavier

Wow. You had never seen him smiling like that. His eyes were lit up like beautiful stars on a summer night. His lips curled upward, showing beautiful perfect teeth. He really looked attractive. It would be great if he was looking at you too.

"W-What's so funny, Xav?" You asked sheepishly, smiling shyly at him.

"Hmm?" He raised his eyes from his phone and met yours, his smile erasing completely as he put his phone down. "Oh," he said, disappointedly, your ears heated up. "Nothing. I was just texting with my partner."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Y-Your partner?"

"Yes," he said firmly, his voice making you feel tiny. "She's the hunter I work with. I've talked about her before."

"Yes..." Plenty.

"Mhmm," he sighed. Laying down against the picnic blanket under him. "She asked me if I wanted to go eat with her. I had to tell her no because I'm with you... Hey, how long do you think- are you crying?"

You were. Tears streaming down your face nonstop. Xavier sat up, gently grabbing your shoulder, but you softly moved away as you covered your eyes from him.

"H-Hey, what's wrong? Where are you going?"

You sniffed, looking down at him as you grabbed your bag. "Xavier... I'm sorry. I did not know you would like to go out with your partner more than me."

His eyes widened as he also got up. "No. No, you got it all wrong. I-

"Please. Please stop making excuses. No matter what I do and how hard I try, I'm never enough for you, Xavier."

"..."

"You don't smile like that when you're with me. In any case you look bored and annoyed," you gasped, trying to calm your voice between sobs. "I tried not to mind it... I thought that was your expression, but when you talk about her. Your eyes look so beautiful. So lively and warm. And your smile is so bright and sincere and... happy."

"Please, listen to me..."

"I think I'm the one that makes you unhappy."

He shook your head, but didn't do much more than that and you thought you really had enough.

"I won't make you suffer anymore, Xavier. You were never mine completely, but that little part I desperately hold on to, I let it free. You're free to be with her," you smiled softly. "Thank you... for being with me for as long as you did."

"Don't go, please. I want to be with you."

Your lower lip trembled as you nodded a little. "It would've been nice if you didn't make me feel the other way around, Xavier."

"W-Wait, please!"

"Goodbye, then."

#love & deepspace #love and deepspace #Zayne #Rafayel #Xavier #Zayne x Reader #Rafayel x reader #Xavier x reader #love and deepspace scenarios #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace xavier #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace rafayel #*mine #*scenarios

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chifuyudck · 8 months

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the brothers being caught jerking off content is sooo good, would you be down for writing a reverse where MC gets caught jerking off thinking of the brothers? (and the dateables!)

the brothers + dateables (minus luke) reaction to walking in on MC touching themself.

the brothers + dateables x gn!reader

summary: caption guys.

warnings: embarrassment, masturbating, stuttering, cocks, eating out, fingering.

a/n: guys school started so i didn't really write a lot and my laptop crashed a few mins ago while i was almost done with writing and it didn't autosave, i'm so thankful for all the love on my other posts. i tried to keep this as genderneutral as possible. requests are still open!! --------------------------------- LUCIFER

he knocks on your bedroom door but doesn't give you enough time to fix your pants.

you stare at each other for a bit until he clears his throat and looks away so you can fasten your pants again.

while waiting for you to fix yourself a tent is forming in his pants, thinking back on the way you laid splayed out, hair stuck on your forehead, cheeks rosy colored, making his clothed cock twitch.

might as well call you to his office later to talk about it, maybe add some physical touch too, since his cock won't stop bulging in his pants at just the thought of you.

MAMMON

knocking? what's that?

when he catches you in the act, hand still on your private part, he needs some time to realise what just happened.

shakes his head in disbelief, thought you were a saint who would never do this, will not stop thinking about it when he's alone in his room.

secretly hopes you're busy with yourself again, every time he enters your room, so he can ask if he can join you, since he regrets he didn't ask it the first time.

LEVIATHAN

doesn't knock either, and just storms into your room.

he doesn't even realize what you were doing until he sees how red your face is, the way your eyes are glossy from embarrassment, your pants still open, and your intimate part still visible.

literally just runs away and stays in his room the whole day, doesn't go to dinner either, just because he's embarrassed to see you.

all that time alone with his own thoughts about you has his dick going hard, he might as well be fisting his cock the whole day while thinking about you, alone in his room.

SATAN

normally does knock, but of course, the one time he doesn't, this happens.

''oh... how unfortunate.'' 🧍‍♂️, he says that while he knows he loves it, sees how embarrassed you are so he just leaves you alone.

when he tries to read his books, he catches himself re-reading the same sentence four times now. he just can't stop thinking about you.

will definitely make remarks, and tease you but more in an indirect way, so it stays between you two.

ASMODEUS

of course he won't knock, why would he? what do you have to hide from him anyways?

''you were doing this, without me?'' he pouts as he comes closer, closing the door behind him.

if you allow him, he'll show you how good he is with his hands, fingers softly stroking and teasing.

if you don't he'll just watch you masturbate, since you look so cute when you do so.

BEELZEBUB

ended up in your room after following the amazing scent he had been smelling.

is a bit shocked when he realizes where it's coming from.

''can i try it out?'' he asks you with puppy eyes, he was so excited to feel it in his mouth after he's been so eager to find this scent of your arousal.

is unsurprisingly good with his mouth, tongue lapping around, swirling, sucking and he won't stop. it's like endless plates of food for him, it isn't until you have to beg him to stop, that he stops.

BELPHEGOR

suddenly he's wide awake when he sees what's going on.

loves the view, stands with arms crossed in the doorstep as he licks his lips, tells you to keep going, no matter how embarrassed you are, and doesn't even understand what you're so embarrassed of since you look so damn good.

his pants start pressing up against his crotch, so he'll have to release his hard cock now.

whenever mammon brags about how he's your first man, he'll definitely ask him if he ever saw your private part too, now he has something to be first in with you too.

DIAVOLO

stands there for a bit, not sure of what he's supposed to do.

when he sees how embarrassed you are he leaves.

but comes back in your room fully naked, now you won't have to feel embarrassed anymore, right?

wrong. you feel even more embarrassed, this will now forever remain as a core memory.

BARBATOS

knocks, definitely knocks.

the way your appearance looks messier than usual doesn't go unnoticed by him, and he quickly connects the dots and realizes what you've been doing.

he smiles softly, happy that you're feeling comfortable enough to do so.

will add a light aphrodisiac in your tea, so you can continue where you started off when he leaves.

SIMEON

''oh, mc! i'm so sorry!'' he says as sweat buds appear on his forehead, he's in so much distress and embarrassed about what happened.

after you calmed him down and told him it's alright he still doesn't leave. ''you can continue, i don't want to be a burden.''

you awkwardly continue masturbating after he's been so eager for you to do so.

will chant your name and cheer you on when you climax.

SOLOMON

there's no way you didn't do this on purpose. that's what he thinks even though he is the one that walked in on you.

he tells you how cute you look when you masturbate, and doesn't even care that you're super embarrassed.

a bulge starts forming in his pants and he swiftly releases his cock with a soft groan.

''mc, wanna help each other out here?'' he asks with a big grin.

#obey me #obey me x mc #obey me smut #obey me dateables #lucifer #mammon #leviathan #satan #asmodeus #beelzebub #belphegor #diavolo #barbatos #simeon #solomon #om!#obey me x reader #smut

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harunayuuka2060 · 7 months

Text

Azul: Jade, did you hear something about Floyd writing an autobiography of Granny?

Jade: Why, yes.

Azul: ...

Azul: Does he have the motivation to do that?

Jade: *chuckles* I'm not sure. However, you will see him writing in the kitchen.

Azul: ...

Jamil: How's that autobiography you're doing, Floyd?

Floyd: Going well~.

Ace: Are you seriously writing it? You haven't gotten bored on it yet?

Floyd: What are you trying to say, crabby? That I don't have perseverance?

Ace: N-Not at all, but-

Jamil: Can we read it when it's done?

Floyd: Sure. Granny will read it first though. Hehe~.

Floyd: *showing to Granny the autobiography he's written of her*

Floyd: What do you think, Granny?

Grandma MC: Oh, this is beautiful. The cover and your handwriting... Did you make all of these?

Floyd: *happy nod*

Grandma MC: *genuinely happy smile* I am going to treasure this forever.

Floyd: You should, Granny. I will never make this again to anyone.

Grandma MC: *chuckles* Oh, I feel so special knowing that.

Grandma MC: What would you like as a thank you gift?

Floyd: Surprise me, Granny.

Grandma MC: I'm not really good with surprised, but I will try my best, son. *smiles*

Vil: *reading Granny's autobiography* ...

Vil: We need to make a TV series out of this.

Rook: Oui! I completely agree!

Epel: Um... No offense.

Epel: But I would rather not see anything like that...

Vil: Why not?

Epel: ...

Epel: I think no one in Twisted Wonderland can depict what Granny is like.

Vil: ...

Vil: You have a point.

Rook: You're certainly right, himeringo. How about we travel back in time instead?

Vil and Epel: ...

Malleus: I can't travel back in time, however, it is possible for me to view someone's past.

Lilia: Indeed. That would need some magic which will not be a problem for Malleus.

Sebek: Rejoice, human! Waka-sama has granted your wish!

Ace: Should we do like, a movie viewing?

Riddle: If there's a way to record the events-

Idia: I'll do it. With the help of Ortho, of course.

Ortho: Sure thing!

Vil: Have you informed this to Granny?

Deuce: Yes. She told us to enjoy and she'll cook us food while she waits for us.

Trey: *chuckles* We're all getting spoiled.

Vil: I'll be informing Leona, Azul, and Kalim about our plans.

Lilia: It would be easier if we just make an announcement.

Grandma MC: Are you not going to join them, Grim?

Grim: Hmph! It's way better to stay here and enjoy your food, Granny!

Grandma MC: *chuckles* Is that so? Or you just don't want to be jealous?

Grim: Me? Jealous? As if! *has read in the autobiography that Granny had her first-ever cat*

Grim: You know that, Granny! I can't be compared!

Grandma MC: Of course. *cuddling him* Grim is a very handsome and smart kitty. *petting him*

Grim: *giggles* Praise me more, Granny!

#twisted wonderland #twst grandma mc #twst azul #twst jade #twst floyd #twst vil #twst rook #twst epel #twst malleus #twst lilia #twst sebek #twst riddle #twst ace #twst jamil #twst idia #twst ortho #twst trey #twst deuce

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misc-obeyme · 1 day

Note

what kind of face do you think Barbatos would make if he learned I microwave my tea? i need a constant stream of tea usually and microwaving is the fastest way to get a cup of hot water, if the hot water kettle isn't already going. 1 minute and tea bag and it's already drinkable.

if he told me to wait and went to make me a proper cuppa id probably wither and just beg him to microwave water and a tea bag. do you think he would disown me?

Yes, anon. I do think he would disown you.

I mean, no I don't actually think he'd disown you, but it'd be kinda cute, right? He's so appalled that he just kinda has to take a time out. Can't think clearly about it until he has his own calming cup of tea. And then he feels better and starts brainstorming ideas to help you with this issue.

Now, when you say the hot water kettle are we talking the traditional stove top situation? Because you know they make electric kettles, right? They're muuuuch faster. You can also get a Keurig type situation.

Why does this matter? you may be asking. It all makes water hot, right?

Yeah, technically. But in order to steep tea correctly, your water has to be a specific temperature. And you can't really get a specific temp with a microwave. Whereas most Keurigs and electric kettles either automatically heat the water to the correct temperature or you can change their settings so they do.

This is so your tea isn't too bitter.

And if you want my honest opinion, I doubt Barbatos uses tea bags, either.

He strikes me as a loose leaf only kinda guy, maybe using a tea bag if he's in a pinch or something.

However, I think Barbatos is likely to just... make you a whole pot. He'll put the loose leaf tea directly into the pot, followed by the water already heated to the right temperature, then let it steep the correct amount of time depending on the type of tea. Then he'll have a little strainer for you to catch the tea leaves in as you pour the tea from pot to cup.

A pot will last you a lot longer than a single cup. And I'd be really surprised if he didn't have a spell for keeping the pot warm until the tea is gone.

And then he'd just make sure you never run out.

Of course, if you have any interest in iced tea, you wouldn't need to worry about any of this. Because you can cold brew any type of tea. Leave a pitcher of it in the fridge over night and bam - tea all day.

HOWEVER. Since you did ask me what kind of face he would make, I'm going to subject you to my terrible art skills to demonstrate how I think it'd go. Now you can all see why I'm not an artist.

He's upset.

I mean, I would be too if someone drew me so badly. I'm sorry, Barb. My MC is an artist, but I'm not, I'm afraid. I just realized I forgot to give him a nose. I MEAN that was totally on purpose, it's a style choice. Anyway, I hope the frown at least conveys how sad he is about you microwaving your tea lol.

#I mean he could potentially give you a more D: kind of face #but he would also be trying not to make you feel bad so I think it'd just end up as :(#anyway I suppose it also depends on what you're drinking the tea for #but I think it'll taste better if you use a different method #I've never tried the microwaving myself #so I can't actually compare them #maybe I should #now I'm kinda curious #obey me #obey me nightbringer #obey me barbatos #anon asks #misc answers

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yeyinde · 1 year

Text

in undertow | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

They won’t shut up about why he wears the mask.

This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before.

Maybe, then, it's the rookie inside of you still burning to be included, to be acknowledged, accepted, that makes you flick your mic on with a single press of your stupid little finger. Makes you open your stupid little mouth, and say:

"You're all wrong, boys; he's just keeping my seat warm."

(a joke at your lieutenant's expense has unexpected consequences.)

part ii

tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; face-sitting: oral - f!receiving; female!reader; male-solo: Ghost makes himself cum whilst drowning in pussy; some plot. kinda. but it’s mostly 7K+ of clownfoolery

notes: Ghost eats pussy like he’s starving. that’s it. that’s all, folks.

(also, this is so thirsty. this man is making me feral. send help pls)

*bonnie-scottish term of endearment, kinda similar to hen or lass, and is not a name. MC is not named.

It's not uncommon to tune into a channel on downtime, and hear your Lieutenant being mentioned in some manner or another.

Ghost is infamous. Legendary. The men in your unit, and the ones you ally up with, are–in equal measure–his biggest fan, and his bitter rival.

It's all one-sided, of course. If Ghost was any other man, you'd confidently say that he didn't even know who they were, but he isn't. And he does. Which, of course, makes the rivalry all that more bitter, blistering, when he refuses to acknowledge their challenges.

He proves himself time and time again, and isn't even trying to.

So, they flex their arms– see, bigger than yours –but he hardly notices, much to their chagrin.

Sometimes, they'd turn to you–the unofficial arbitrator, a denomination that seemed unanimously decided on by the whole team; Ghost, bemusingly, included–and ask stupid questions:

Who's arms are bigger? Mine, come have a feel, lass.

Ghost seemed decidedly tolerant of these moments, watching with those dangerous eyes as your hands flexed around the bulk of your teammates' bicep, cooing cloyingly at him. Ooh, working out, I see. Feels like the leg of a fawn!

Now 'im, they'd say, your heart would warble in your chest.

A strange, off-rhythm pulse that almost hurt. He'd match your gaze when you looked over your shoulder, peering at the imposing man lurking in the midst of everyone else. Firm, steady. Unflinching. He'd hold it, always.

He does that, doesn't he?

When Ghost looks at you, the air in your lungs dissipates; dissolves into ashes, then into smoke.

(Sometimes, he stares at you, and it feels like a challenge. Like he's waiting for something.)

Your smile folds, wan. Lieutenant–

Go on, then! He ain't bigger than me.

It turns several shades of apologetic when you slide up to him, palms spread flat, docile. Walking up to him feels like approaching a predator. Any sudden movements, and he'll have your neck between his jowls. He never would, you know this deep down. But still.

You, uh, don't have to let me.

His head would duck down–too tall to look at you without bringing a kink to his neck–and his eyes would waver in the light. Midnight black to charcoal. Smoke. Ash. The same taste in your lungs.

S'alright. He'd prop his arm up for you, eyes dancing. Best get it done with before these geezers get into a fit.

He doesn't look away. Doesn't break contact. It's intense. Too much.

You demure.

You're not submissive to anyone. Your teammates, the enemy, politicians–no one makes you break. No one makes your chin lower to your chest, your eyes drop. You can't–not, really. Not here. Not in this world where everyone is looking at you like you're too soft, too vulnerable, to be of any use. When even your teammates slip sometimes, try to carry you despite knowing how capable you are on your own.

The hurdle you have to fling yourself over just to prove yourself to your teammates, your backers, is a skyscraper.

They call you Nile –the moniker born from the startling resemblance to the aggressive, territorial crocodiles that live in the water–and you do your best to live up to the comparison.

You don't shy away from anyone.

Except him.

Your eyes fix on your feet. Hands tremble as they slide over the hard muscle of his biceps–firm, unyielding: flesh-covered iron. Your stomach in knots. Chest too tight.

Ghost's eyes are glued to your face. His muscles flex under your exploratory fingers. Ticking, bulging. His flesh jumps when you touch him. The heat of his skin sear your fingertips, so hot you think it might burn the prints off your hands.

You both love and hate these moments.

When hypoxia flashes through your head–dizzying, nauseating–you step back, clear your throat, and stammer out the winner.

Ghost, always Ghost.

His eyes are shades lighter. Slate-grey, now. Amusement, you think.

The men around you riot, demanding a rematch.

(You blame it on testosterone.)

One such occurrence happens to be right now. The comm is clogged with feverish conspiracy theories as to why Ghost wears the mask ranging from the grounded (to conceal his identity–he's a big OP: can't go showing his ugly mug to everyone) to the absurd (he's probably hideously deformed; heard he took a hit to the face–considering what I heard is under there, I'd say he's doing us all a favour), and everything in-between.

This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before.

"You're all wrong, boys," you purr, eyes fixed on the weapon you were tinkering with. "He's just keeping my seat warm."

The line goes pin-drop silent. A poignant shush. It's so eerily, unnaturally quiet on the comm, that you look up, blinking. Was it frozen?

You glance at the computer, checking the channel to see if you'd changed it by accident. It's on. And–

Open, it says. Open mic. Open broadcast.

It never occurred to you to check the channel they were using.

It's not a private one between groups; it's the main one.

Why would these bellends use the main comm to talk about a man, their superior officer, on the channel he preferred, the one he was always tuned into?

You pale. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You blame your stupid little mouth, and testosterone. Mostly, testosterone.

Maybe, Ghost wasn't listening. Maybe, he –

"Jesus Christ," Soap groans after several agonising seconds. Soap, who was on recon with Ghost. Soap, who was with Ghost. Soap who –

The line falls dead once more. No one says anything. Not even a murmur of how well and truly fucked you are. Then, it crackles again. You jump, tensing. Please be some stupid rookie. Please be someone else. Please don't be–

"Fuckin' hell," comes the brassy timbre, the sandpaper tone scratching your ear.

You shiver. You're fired. No, no–they can't fire you, you know too much. You're dead. You're–

"Rookie," he barks. You struggle to stifle a whimper. "Report to me when I get back."

You weakly stammer out a yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir.

"And everyone else – get off the main channel."

Nervous would be an understatement.

It's the crushing weight of utter humiliation, embarrassment, and shame all admixing into an imbroglio of dire consequences looming ahead. Your stomach is in knots.

There are murmurs of sympathy from the others when they eventually make their way back into the pseudo-compound, but you notice none of it. Eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete. Shoulders up to your ears. Cheeks stained the colour of the Russian oligarch you gunned down the night prior.

Nile is nowhere to be found. You're no longer the wet-behind-the-ears Rookie, barely of legal age, as you clamber through the ranks in a spiteful, feverish effort to prove yourself. Now, a fully fleshed adult: moulded by your determination and grit to persevere.

You're the little girl pushed to the pavement. Skinned knees, blistered palms. Drenched in rain, and told you're not enough.

"Fuck me," comes the slurred drawl of Soap. You flinch.

"Yeah," you agree.

No words need to be said. You're done. Over. You stroke the barrel of your rifle, and wonder if you'll be forced into an office job, running the numbers, working in a barren cubicle that sinks of fresh paper and ink. The only action comes from Martha's affair with Josh in Finance.

"Y'know…," he adds, because apparently, some words need to be said. Your gaze flickers toward him. He leans against the metal pillar, arms folded. "Never seen the Lieutenant speechless before."

You let out a whimper. Fucked, royally, of course–Soap only confirms what you already know. What you've known the moment you looked up, a stupid little smirk on your stupid little face, and saw the meagre amount of respect you clobbered together from your Lonewolf–actions have consequences and if it were you or the mission, don't even bother asking what his choice is Lieutenant being summarily flushed down into the depths. Obliterated because you couldn't keep your stupid little mouth shut.

Because you heard ugly and deformed and immediately thought of smoke. Ashes. Gasoline. Gunpowder. Firm biceps that leapt at your touch–the only man to do so when you feigned annoyance and reluctantly felt them up–and the velvet steel of his bulk. Your hands didn't fit around the thick of him. It made your head dizzy. Made your heart ache. Heat throbbing between your legs in a way that most men never even accomplished with you spread out and willing. And–

Eyes darker than the ocean, framed by ashen lashes that fluttered when he glanced down at you, brushing over the coal smeared around his face.

You thought of him–that stupid Cockney mouth and those stupid jokes–and how – how stupid he makes you, and you –

Stupid.

Full stop. End. Done. Fin.

Maybe, you can grovel for transfer. Please don't kick me out completely, I've done so much to simply prove myself – more than most of the men here because I've had to, and I don't want to lose it all because I'm–

"Stupid." You spit the word like a curse.

Beside you, Soap huffs.

"Ain't the only one, bonnie."

Shame blisters your cheeks, and the burn of it makes you a coward. Weak.

You spend the rest of the day idling away in your makeshift quarters (a closet, really) in the compound loaned by the government who requested your aid. Stiff-limbed, you lay back on the cot, and try to commit everything around you to memory.

Noises from the men downstairs. Chatter and laughter. Loud and raucous. The heady scent of testosterone is thick in the air, mixing with the cloying tang of cigarette smoke, cigars, and the bitter taste of gun oil. Kerosene rich, and stifling.

The bed is lumpy, but in the middle of nowhere luxury is hardly needed when you're making a massacre of men who want to start a war. It's far more than you'd gotten before. Alvarez jokes, saying at least it isn't the ground. You're inclined to agree.

Your gear sits in the corner, tightly packed as it had been when you'd first arrived, and dropped it there. You never unpack your things. Experience gives you the foresight to know it's useless, dangerous. Your location can be slipped at a moment's notice. Gunfire ripping through the metal on a whim.

Ghost never unpacks, either. Soap. Most of the men here don't.

But now you wish you had.

The pile of it feels like an omen as it sits, mocking you; ready to go when you're given the boot.

You wrench your eyes away from it when the salty burn of tears you haven't shed since Porthmadog rear. It's fine. You clench your fists into tight balls by your side. It'll be okay. You'll get on–your experience and insight make you a desirable name to have; someone lusted after when they needed intel only you managed to wiggle out, and get. Another team will be easy to find once the politicians paying for them read about your exploits.

On paper, anyway.

Nile is a name that makes their fingers spasm.

You, however, are a name that makes them hesitate.

You'll have to start at the bottom again. Kissing the gravel with your palms once more; struggling to find your foothold along the chossy that wants you weak. Wants you broken, and docile. Obedient.

Ghost never asked that of you.

He looked at you, hands curled into half-moons by your side, eyes unwavering as you glared at the man backing the mission, and ground out your accomplishments like you were spitting in his face.

"I don't know…" he started, hesitating; his eyes flickering down the length of your body. Too small compared to the men they'd seen before you. Too fragile. Giving.

All at once, you were back in Porthmadog. Salt on your cheeks. In the air. Your throat. Gravel digging into your palms. Broken down into a crushed shell with nothing inside. It was the day you realised you were empty. Hollow. Nothing. Vacant. A vacuum.

Worthless.

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? Ghost speaks for the first time, and your eyes find his through the palpable cloud of rejection. So, what've you got to lose, soldier?

Soldier. Not girl, not Dame, not Duchess, Princess. Soldier.

You square your shoulders, eyes blazing. Everything, you vow. All the substance you pushed inside of the barren landscape of who you once were, filling it with purpose, and dignity. A reason to live. A reason to be. Everything.

His head tipped back. The whites of his eyes were fuller under the flushed lamp on the desk.

Inside, you could almost glimpse that same emptiness you found when they'd broken you into pieces, and nothing spilt out.

"A'right." He nods. "Welcome to the team."

The team. The patchwork family of people far too unhinged to fit into the rest of the world. Names and faces came and went. Many were lost to the effort, to the cause. Time to mourn took place outside of this microcosm when no one was around to see you break.

You'll miss them. It rings out in the hollow gap between your rib and your heart, an aching sting that has your hands spasming around the sheets to stem the sudden hurt. Fuck, you'll really miss these goddamn idiots.

And Ghost, too.

The prickly leader who says he'd sacrifice all of you if it meant finishing the mission, but still throws himself into the fire so none of you gets burnt. The man who bites at your heels, snaps at your attempts to get closer, but brushes his fingers along the seam of your arm, chin jerking toward the only closet in the compound where he'd dropped your cot.

Up there, soldier.

He's a bastard of the worst kind. Surly, mean, and gruff around the edges, but he's a good man despite what he says. He's a great leader–the best, undoubtedly, that you've ever had. That you will have.

And you might be a little bit in too deep already. Washed out to sea in the middle of a hurricane, and left floundering as waves crashed over you in the form of a brutal, off-limits affection for a man who keeps everyone at a distance.

Maybe, this is for the best. Leaving here now, when these feelings are simply tugging at you, and not yet dragging you under. It might be a better alternative than being discovered with your head under the waves, and your lungs filled with salt from the sea.

It's better this way, then.

The call comes hours later. The compound is empty. Silent. Your comm rings, and it feels like a guillotine being hoisted into position.

Right.

You haul yourself out of the cot, and go meet your end.

You will yourself not to demure under the heavy slate of his eyes, but it's futile. You wilt, pathetically submissive to this behemoth of a man. Face downcast, shoulders hunched.

"Let's not fuck about, alright?" the gritty timber of his voice makes your chest shudder.

You nod. Sharp, and deep. Dutiful soldier. You brace yourself for it. He won't draw it out. He isn't the type.

But you falter when his hands tug on the end of his mask.

"Keepin' it warm, huh?" He asks, but you know by the tone alone that it's rhetorical.

"Sir, I–" you falter, stammering into a terse silence. What excuse do you have?

"Well," he asks, lifting his head. Eyes brand your body. The command is clear. "Aren't you comin' to take your seat, Rookie?"

You sputter. Shattering. The world as you know it flips on its axis. Upside down and wrong.

It's a joke. It has to be. A cruel one. A bad dream that will leave you in aching shambles when you wake, stealing with it a piece of yourself that you'll never reclaim. Another etch in the exterior of who you are. A fracture.

"S-sir–," you gasp, choking on the word when his hands lift, pulling up the bottom of his mask until a full, pink mouth is revealed to you. "What–"

"It's gettin' cold, now."

Seeing him speak is blindsiding. You're so used to painted jowls moving, a mockery of bared, white teeth, and a warped jawbone. This is – this is too much. This is –

Not good.

Ghost doesn't seem bothered at all when he settles, leaning on the back of the desk, eyes burning through you. Bulging forearms cross over his massive chest. The ripple of ink flexing, breathing, with his impatience that thrums in the air like a heartbeat.

"Best hurry up." His tongue–his fucking tongue; blood-red and wet –flicks out, gliding over chapped lips.

"Lieutenant–," his title is a strangled wince from the depths of your bewilderment, flavoured with uncertainty. "This is–is a joke, yeah?"

His head tilts. "Do I look like the joking type?"

And that's such a misleading question. So utterly stupid, you choke a little on a bark of hysterical laughter.

"How am I supposed to answer that?"

"Or were you joking, soldier?"

The breath sucked in between clenched teeth is audible.

"Fuckin' hell," he rasps in response. "Then stop muckin' about and get over here if you want it."

If you want it.

He addresses the power imbalance by placing the choice in your hands. By giving you the freedom to decide what to do with this. Take the step, or leave his office, and never speak of this moment again.

If you stay– sit on his face –you're not entirely sure how you'll handle being around him afterwards. Will it be a–a thing? A one-off?

And could it just be a one-time thing for you? Once you have him so intimately, can you forget it, move on? Go back to the pining. The slow descent into an inescapable chasm where you have feelings– blasphemous –for your Lieutenant. For Ghost.

But could you just walk away from this?

You don't know. Neither question has a clear answer, and you're once again treading frothing waters. Left to sink or swim all on your own.

Ghost says nothing while you mull it over, but there's a weight in his gaze that makes your stomach prickle with want. A heaviness inside the inky black of his stare that makes your thighs squeeze together, pussy aching with need.

The choice is pretty obvious.

Your hands drop to your trousers, fingers peeling off the buttons.

For once, your eyes never leave his.

For the first time, Ghost is the one to look away.

His tongue slides out again when you wiggle out of your pants, thumbs crooked in the band of your panties, until you're bared before him. Your trousers pooling at your ankles. Panties caught on your calves.

His swallow is a gunshot. It clicks in his throat.

"Christ, Princess."

You step out of them, licking your lips. "No muckin' about."

His eyes darken at your words. "Get the fuck over here, then."

"Is that an order?"

"Affirmative, soldier."

With your approach, he sinks to his knees on the floor, eyes only for you. His breath is haggard when he catches a glimpse of your cunt when you're less than an arm length away from him, eyes fixed on your mound.

"M'gonna touch you, now." His head lifts, stare bores into you.

The brass in his voice makes your belly tingle, makes heat bloom inside of you. It has you whimpering your consent, and the moment it leaves your throat, his hands–fever hot and rough–are on you.

They settle, heavy and firm, on your hips, pulling your stomach into his face. The plastic of his mask digs into your skin when he presses his covered nose above your mound, breathing in deeply.

His eyes flutter shut. Ashen lashes brush over the bulge of his mask where it sits, piled up, on the bridge of his nose. You want to reach out, and touch. Slip your fingers through his hair. Cup his jaw. You want to press your mouth against his, and taste the flavour of his tongue. You want, you want –

His eyes snap open. Black holes. Unfathomably deep, and quivering around the edges.

"C'mon, Princess," his voice sounds like it was wrenched through barbed wire, smokey and thick. "Kept it nice and warm for you."

You can't stop the shiver that rockets down your spine at his tone, dark and primal. He looks at you, and you feel like a meal. A lavish banquet in face of a man starved.

"Fuck, Ghost–" you moan, your hips jerking in his hold.

"Simon," he rasps, tongue flicking over to taste the skin of your mound. You feel the knick of teeth, grazing and blunt, and it almost wrecks you. He hadn't even started, and your knees are practically knocking together; cunt dripping slick down your thighs.

His hand glides down the curve of your flesh until he meets the seam of your legs. "Spread 'em, pet. I wanna see your pretty cunt."

Fuck–

Your knees quiver, almost giving out under you at the base tone, drenched in the slick coil of want, hunger. He's there, hands firm and unyielding on your body, a low chuckle falling from his lips when he catches the shake in your legs.

"Little fawn is just achin' for it, ain't you?"

"Please, Simon –" he pulls your thighs apart, peering at the apex where your glistening sex is waiting for him.

He buries his head in your belly, groaning at the sight of you–all pretty and pink for him, and so wet he can see where it leaks out, drenching your flesh.

"Fuck, pet," he grinds the words out from between clenched teeth, inhaling deeply as if he can't get enough of your scent. "You're gonna make a mess outta me, aren't you?"

You've never heard him sound so excited before. The tremble in his voice is enough to keel you over, sending you toppling down into an inescapable abyss where his eyes brand your flesh, and his mouth devours you whole.

Your hands fall to his shoulders. The plea you utter is painted in the colour of desperation, and it makes his eyes flutter again, makes them spume with that white-hot desire, that dark promise of how much he's going to ruin you.

He takes one last breath, nose pushed against the bottom of your mound, as close to your pussy as he can get, and he moves.

One of the things you've never really understood was how a man so massive managed to move the way he did. Agile, lithe. Like his body was elastic. Liquid.

He's on the floor, mask pulled up high until his nose and mouth are bared to you, and then he's beckoning you forward with a crook of his finger. His eyes burn like wildfires when you tremble down beside him–all of your honed, practised grace dissolving into nothing with just a flick of his too-red tongue wetting his lips for you.

You fumble, pussy clenching with the thought of having his mouth on you–soon, so soon; and yet, not nearly quick enough–and settle before him, kneeling by his head.

"C'mon," he snarls, the bite in his tone blistering.

It has you whimpering, cunt spasming at the urgency, the impatience, in your once-cold leader. Distant, unshakable. You've never seen him so eager, nearly driven mad by the frustration of not already having your weeping slit on him, the taste of you on his tongue.

You've never sat on someone's face before. When you tell him this, his eyes shudder, blunt teeth digging into his lower lip to keep the filthy groan from rolling out.

You can't say shit like that, he grouses, his hands gripping your hip, pulling you closer.

He helps you settle over him, thighs spread over his head, ass resting on his chest.

His eyes are glued to your cunt as it opens up for him.

There is a war raging inside of you, one that taints the room with the scent of ichor. It fuels you, makes you bite your lip, coy and playful, and notch your knees further apart until you're bared, fully, to him. Fingers slipping over the hem of your shirt, hiking it up so he can see all of you. Teeth sink into the end of it, keeping it up as your hands drop–one to your covered nipple, the other to your soaked pussy. Two fingers glide over your mound, your clit sitting in the V. You spread them slowly, splitting your folds apart.

Your cunt pulses with the vibrations of his chest as he groans again, low and deep, at the sight of you spread out before him. A breath away from his lips.

It feels like a battle when his hand grips your flesh until it bubbles between his fingers. You'll be bruised when he's finished–a mosaic of black and blue and purple and yellow; a palette startlingly similar to his own–and it's the notion of his mark on your body, the proof of that his indomitable man, this untouchable entity, was between your thighs, gazing at you as if he wanted nothing more than the pink folds of your swollen slit on his tongue.

You shiver. Pleasure stroking through your body as your knuckles graze your clit.

You're not submissive to anyone–can't afford to be in this world–and you feel the swell of that intoxicating confidence return to you, the incipient spume of what made them liken you to an apex predator, one who hunted human men for sport pooling inside of you.

Does he see it when his lids lift, eyes seeking yours instantly. Does he read in the list of your head? The flutter of your lashes. You drop your shirt. Your hand falls to the side of his face, the brush of his skin on your fingertips somehow more intimate than this. He's warm. Feverish. You burn, too.

"Is my seat ready?" You purr, belly filling with victory when his eyes twitch, lowering back to your aching cunt.

"Always," he grunts, a soft sound polluting the word with the noxious promise of more.

You shudder, panting, now as you rock forward onto your knees, arched over his mouth.

Ghost's hands settle on the outside of your spread thighs, fingers gripping your flesh. He tugs, harsh and demanding, and you quickly settle, body turning into malleable polymer in his burning hands. He manoeuvres you until your pussy is right where he wants it, eyes flickering up, catching your glossy gaze. He holds it, lashes fluttering as he inhales, deep and long, and then breathes it out through his mouth, warm breath ghosting over your exposed, slick cunt.

"Well?" He drawls, the word nearly shredded and raw when it slips out of his throat. "You gonna take your seat, pet?"

You shudder again, shoulders tensing so tight, it aches. Pet. Pet. Pet. Fuck –

"Yeah," it's a whisper, a gasp. Needy and quivering.

Your hand moves from his face, fingers chilled without his warm skin against them, and you settle it on the desk beside you, muscles in your thighs straining as you slowly position your sopping wet cunt over your Lieutenant's waiting mouth.

His lips brush the seam of your pussy, and the groan he lets out rumbles over your flesh. Liquid pleasure blooms. He hasn't even touched you yet, and you're already aching for release. Already inching toward that precipice.

When you're close enough, he pulls; glueing you to his mouth. He wastes no time before diving in.

His tongue laves over your drenched folds, dipping inside your swollen pussy to dance over your aching clit, your throbbing hole. You press your wrist to your mouth, biting down hard to stifle the moans that threaten to spill out–somehow more taboo than having your Lieutenant eating your pussy out like he's starved for it.

Pain blooms on the fat of your ass cheek, your surprised gasp swallowing the sound of his hand smacking your flesh.

"I want to hear you," he growls into your cunt, wrecked and drunk off your taste. His words are slurred, accent thick and heavy. Almost incoherent.

His eyes are pits. Little black holes. The pupil completely eclipsed his irises. Desire spumes.

When you pull your hand away, settling it on the corner of the desk instead, he flashes his approval, and then buries his face back into you. His tongue is demanding as it licks over your folds, circling your throbbing clit.

Liquid pleasure seeps from the tip of his tongue to the base of your spine, where it pools into a molten puddle of bliss. It's good. No, it's better than that. It's –

Your head drops back, hips rutting into his mouth, chasing that euphoria his tongue brings when it toys with your flesh, then slips down, pushing into your drenched, fluttering hole. He fucks you with just the tip, groaning when your hips cant into his face, smearing your wetness all over his chin, jaws. He'll be drenched in your slick by the time this is over.

He's still your superior. Still your boss, technically, but fuck –

Your hand drops from the desk, sliding into the fabric of his mask until a fistful sits in your grasp. A tug makes his eyes snap open, darting up to meet yours. Is this okay? you want to ask, but the question is swallowed by the filthy groan he lets out into your cunt when you pull a little harder, accidentally snatching the hair beneath.

It's good, then. You pull a little more. His mouth drops, panting into you.

You whine when he stops, hips bucking into his mouth. "Please, please, don't stop–"

"Fuck, Princess," he slurs. "That's it. Ride my face, c'mon."

You're a good soldier. So, so good. You could never deny a command from your superior officer.

It's clumsy at first–hesitant. A slow roll of your hips, too afraid of smothering your Lieutenant, and having to fess up to being the one to murder him with your cunt keeps you from pushing your core into his face, taking your pleasure. You want to, though. Want to so bad your thighs quiver with the effort of holding back.

The room is filled with the sticky slick sounds of your sopping centre dragging over his eager mouth. Breathless pants spill from your throat at the obscene pleasure that burrows into your core.

And his groans.

God, his noises are enough to make you whimper. Filthy growls into your aching pussy as he eats you up, as if he can't get enough of your taste. As if he's parched and your wetness is the first drink he'd had in years.

It rumbles through the slick, softness of his tongue, and straight into your clit. The vibrations make your head numb, fuzzy, until you're stupid off the way he devours you whole.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes into you–voice reverent as his molten tongue slips inside again, as if he can't get enough of it. "Gimme this pretty lil'pussy. C'mon… yeah, that's it…"

His voice is muffled when your hips rock faster against him, but the praise in his tenor has you shamelessly bucking into his mouth, against his tongue. The sounds wrenched from your throat are wonton, and needy, a breathless plea for more. Fuck, so much more –

His tongue parts your folds, gliding through the drenched slick until he's pressing the tip into your aching hole, splitting you apart. It pushes into you–quick flicks, a pistoning motion; a facsimile of what you want his cock to do to you so badly. It has you keening. Has you riding his face, unbothered whether or not he suffocates between your thighs so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with that sinful fucking tongue that has you singing, has your eyes rolling back in your head, reaching so far you can see the cosmos.

It's a deep, toe-curling pleasure. The dangerous kind–the one that teases, that makes dark promises against your core about how badly it'll mess you up, get you hooked on the taste of it, and then absolutely delivers. The kind of bliss that has your stomach clenching, roiling with molten heat that happens too fast, you barely have enough time to warn him before you're begging for it, whining for the thickness of his tongue inside of your throbbing cunt.

His fingers bruise your thighs when they grip your flesh between his fingers, dragging your puffy, drenched pussy over his mouth to suckle on your aching clit until Nirvana flashes behind your eyelids. A whiteout so divine, you nearly slip into him when your knees give out.

His responding grunt sends pleasure blistering through your core when you lose yourself in the rasp of his tongue sweeping over your weeping slit.

Ghost's hand leaves your thigh as you tremble through the shockwaves sputtering out, leaking molten bliss through each synapse, each nerve, until you're moaning, shameless and desperate with the release that bludgeons through you.

The world dissolves into white noise. The buzz of it rings in your head as you break apart, ground, once more, down to atoms and molecules that burst with the undulating wave of molten euphoria that drags over you.

The white static in your head fades in a gradual ebb and flow as the world slowly pieces itself back together again.

His mouth hasn't stopped.

He rides you through it all, tongue laving over you as you clench around nothing but the phantom thought of how good his cock would feel inside of your soft, fluttering walls.

You pant, heaving for air, and grip the edge of the desk tight when his insistent licks become too much.

"Simon," you whine, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't slow.

His tongue drags through your folds, thrusting back into you. You clench around the thick muscle, whimpering as whips of pleasure spark through your core once more.

It's too much, too intense; the pleasure is battered into you until you're forced to accept it, forced to take the bliss he flicks into you with a quivering gasp, and trembling thighs.

He's not done with you. The taste wasn't enough.

You lean back, almost desperate to get away from that greedy mouth that consumes you, but the slick sound from behind you makes you pause.

Pleasure rolls through you again; a molten pulse of agonising want, pulling taut and snapping against you like a rubber band.

He's touching himself.

To the taste of you. To the feeling of your pussy drenching his face.

Fuck. Fuck –

You peer over your shoulder, whimpering when you catch sight of his furious strokes over his hard, weeping cock. The tip is flushed blood-red, leaking spend all over the mushroomed head, and down the long, thick length of him. Your thighs snap together, knees pressed taut to his ears.

He grunts into you but doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. His tongue fucks into you at the same pace as his almost brutal strokes. Thick prepend puddles around the base of him, soaking his trousers, his hands. His fist.

"Fuck, Simon," you purr, too blissed, too far gone, to think properly. "You're so big." You grind down against him, eyes fixed on his hand. "I want you inside me. I want you fuck my pussy with your fat cock–"

He makes noises against you that sound like a wounded animal–low bellows into your swollen lips, groans of a starving man–and his relentless devouring of your cunt has your belly fluttering with the lashing of pleasure spooling in your core. It's everything–the hungry sounds he makes as he consumes your taste; the furious, almost desperate way he fists his throbbing cock in his hand, hips jerking into the tight seal of his palm as if he was imagining how the clutch of you would feel around him.

He could have taken his pleasure in reciprocity. Had you on your knees, sucking him off until he came down your throat. He could have bent you over the desk, and fucked into you like he so clearly wants.

He could've had you any way he wanted; he put you in any position he desired, and you would have gone willingly, eagerly.

But he doesn't.

His mouth glues to you like he can't get enough, like he doesn't want to stop, and he takes his pleasure from the taste of you alone.

It's –

It's so agonisingly hot.

The mask is rough between your fingers when you grip it tight, rolling your hips against his mouth–a tease of how you would ride him if he let you–and the sight of him, hips battering into his hand when you move, sinful groans whispered into your slit, sends you plunging into those depths once more.

It takes you by surprise: the orgasm is ripped from you, stolen by the sight of his cock twitching, spitting out ropes of cum all over his hand, his stomach.

You keen, toes curling as he squeezes every last drop out, panting into you as he rides himself through it, nose pressed taut to your raw clit, swollen and so sensitive it hurts.

He grounds out your name, a wrecked whisper into your pulsing slit, and the sound of it has your head dropping, gaze cresting down to gaze at him.

Simon's eyes are lidded. Heavy. All black. Endlessly so. They flicker up, as if he can feel your stare, and the glazing of pleasure in those slate-grey eyes makes you lose your footing once more, hurtling over the edge of a precipice too steep to climb out of.

A chill grazes your spine. Fuck. You're fucked. You're absolutely, utterly, irrevocably fucked.

He's a mess, absolutely drenched. Slick with your wetness, and covered in his own cum.

You hate how enticing he looks.

You sit on the ground, knees pressed together, watching him as he cleans up, wiping his hand on his shirt, and then dragging the hem up to his mouth.

The muscles in his thick abdomen make you squeeze your thighs together, a low throb brimming up at the sight of his inked, bulky flesh. Fuck. He's good-looking. Maybe. You only saw a peak of his face. A glimpse of his chest. But God, it's enough.

He could be a troglodyte under there, with just a handsome chin, and full pink lips, a long, curved nose, and you wouldn't care.

You'd gladly sit on his ugly mug any day.

He releases the bottom of his filthy shirt, and tugs the ends of his mask down. You wonder if he still smells you under there. If it whets his appetite as much as the thought of it does yours.

There are things you want to say, questions you want to ask, but they slip, reluctant, and–for the first time since Porthmadog– fearfully into the recesses that broke open when you'd said those stupid words. When you came face to face with the hideousness of wanting a man who wasn't allowed to want you back.

Simon– Ghost, now; Lieutenant–is an amalgamation of every bad decision. He's wrong and off-limits personified.

It's not that he's a bad man. Far from it. If there were any good men left in this world, then he was undoubtedly one of them.

But he's an illicit drink. Ambrosia. A forbidden elixir.

He's a man you're not allowed to want—a man you're not allowed to touch, to covet, to need.

It's all moot. Rendered out into ashes, dust. You can't have him.

You turn away when he straightens out. Ghost has the uncanny ability to read you unlike anyone else. He'll see this moment of weakness when your defences are in shambles.

"Y'alright?"

Your chest thunders at the rawness in his voice. "Y-yeah…"

"Good," he murmurs, hands falling to his sides, shoulders straight.

You pull yourself together. Try to, anyway, but it's hard when he's staring at your sticky thighs when you shakily stand up, and wrench your pants on.

"Hey," he calls, softer than you'd ever heard him speak. It makes you tense; the blistering sting of rejection is already there in the periphery.

"Yeah?"

He's quiet for a moment, and you risk a peek over your shoulder. It's –

Well.

It's fleeting. There for a second, and then gone the next. Barely a flicker. Had you not spent a whole year in the desert with him dodging scorpions, and men with machine guns and a lust for blood, you might have missed it.

But it was there. You saw it in passing.

His resolve seals over the fissure. His eyes are blown black and distant.

"We move out tomorrow."

You respect the fact that he doesn't press, doesn't push. He doesn't ask if you're good, if you're okay. Doesn't try to hash things out when you have death looming over you in a few short hours. He compartmentalises. Draws a thick delineation in the sand, and picks a side. Instant. Effortless.

Right.

Your fist quivers. You shove it in the pocket of your trousers.

When you look up, the gleaming gaze of a crocodile lurking in the murky waters stares back.

"Roger that, Lieutenant."

And you leave. It's simple. Effortless.

(Another hole in the veneer. Nothing leaks out.)

A week later, and the world around you is at peace once more. Mission: successful.

You keep your feelings a tightly guarded secret, and tuck them inside your ribs for safekeeping, unwilling to let them go quite yet.

You're a dutiful soldier. A professional. You look him in the eye, and don't flinch. You face the men around you, and pretend you don't know what Ghost sounds like when he grunts your name in pleasure. He, in turn, acts as if his breath doesn't carry the taste of you. As if you don't linger behind his front teeth; piquant and damning.

It's a dance.

The choreography is new, but the rhythm is the same. You follow the beats, and let him lead you around the ballroom until the cracks inside have been plastered over. Something normal settles–or, rather: something as close to normal as you can get when you can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin.

Soap looks on with something a bit too keen in his eyes, but mercifully says nothing at all. He isn't the type to pry–least of all when it comes to Ghost.

The others pick at it like a scab, watching it peel and bleed for their amusement. To them, nothing happened. You got reamed out, reprimanded, and that's all. A slip of the tongue; a joke gone too far. It's nothing new. Stuck in a foreign country with men trying to kill you at every corner, tempers fly. Fists, too.

When the dust settles, all is forgotten. New again.

They hear you call out to Ghost over the comm, and when he responds back–tone pinched and gruff like it always is–they know it's done. Dealt with.

Sometimes, they mock you.

Never in front of him, of course: not when the last man to do so, tapping his chin with a toothy grin, and a singsong, gotta seat for you right here, doll falling from his lips, was met with the brunt of his Lieutenant's anger. Scathing words that slash, deadly and sharp, pointed enough to vivisect a man clean through the gut.

"I hope you have a brain in your skull to use instead of just that tiny pecker in your trousers, because if that's the only one you got, I think it's safe to say we're all fucked, aren't we?"

And with that, it's over. Done.

The world goes back to shades of espionage and counterterrorism. Games of poker between putting a bullet in a man's head. A drink after cutting the throat of a shady politician. Drenched in blood. Dressed in metals.

When the mission finishes, you find yourself staring at your bags already packed up in the corner, and wonder if you'll ever unpack them one day.

(You wonder if he ever will, either.)

It's Soap who knocks on the door. "Wheels up in twenty."

"Roger."

Soap doesn't usually linger, but today he hesitates.

You lift your chin and meet his pinched expression.

"Alright, bonnie?"

The bags mock you. Filled to the brim with things that should be a necessity, but haven't been used in years. It's bursting. Chock full. Pushed to its mettle. And yet, decidedly empty at the same time.

A picture of what you do, what you are.

Your head lists to the side. "I think so."

His nod, too, is sharp and deep. A soldier, a brother in arms.

"Hey… you, uh… what did you mean by–um." You falter. It's your turn to hesitate.

"What?"

"Before, you know… with Ghost."

The confusion slips deftly into understanding. And then a distinct grimace. "Why?"

"Curious, is all."

There is a weight in his stare, too, but it's different from your Lieutenant's. Less intense. Invasive. Soap looks at you like you're an idiot. A wet-behind-the-ears rookie nursing a crush on the one man who is firmly off-limits. And really, that's what you are, in a sense.

In that single degree of separation, you think you find the substance you were looking for all along. You think it's been there the whole time. Mocking you like the bags in the corner. Untouched. Unnoticed. Waiting.

You suck in a breath at the thought.

It's not enough. Not yet. You need to know–

You do what you’re good at. You gather the intel.

Soap shakes his head. An imperceptible movement, almost missed.

But you catch it.

"Bonnie," he says, heavy. His shoulder sags against the door frame. Then he sighs. Shakes his head. "There are very few people out there that can distract him from a task. From a mission."

Your heart is in your throat, featherlight. The wings of a small bird preening its plumage.

Your breath shudders out of you.

Mission, you think–

"Better know what you're gettin' into."

You smile, wide and bright. Bigger than any you'd carried with you in Porthmadog. "I think I do."

He always sits alone on the plane unless he needs to go over the game plan, or discuss positions with others. Head always turned. Eyes shuttered, fixed out the window.

He never looks up. Never moves.

You think about that thing you saw. The vague glimmer in his eyes. It's the bolstering confidence you need, the one that carries you.

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? It propels you forward–a mantra, a gospel–and you use it, now, in this sleepy jet that reeks of men, gunpowder, and sweat. They're all riding high on the success of a victory–one with no casualties on your side: a rarity–and most of them are out cold, or blubbering over finally going home to their family.

It's an earned break. Deserved.

You don't know what to do with it. Where to go. Home hadn't felt like home since you sunk your palms into the pavement, and stained the gravel with your blood. Years on the move, living in the shadow, has reduced the idea to a whim, an evanescent thing. You don't quite mourn its loss, but you miss the compunction that used to sit low in your belly when you turned your back to the place, and shouldered your duffle bag.

Now, it's just another city on the list of many.

His head lifts when you approach. Your heart stammers, featherlight, and heavy as a paperweight.

You find his eyes over the pews that separate you.

Slate. Charcoal. Black holes.

You wonder if he'll tear you apart if you get too close.

Your fingers ache to find out.

"Rookie," he grouses, hoarse from the meagre sleep the night prior. It's a bland acknowledgement in itself, but his look alone belies the nonchalance in his greeting. There's a question there.

You have one, too.

The sun crests over the plane when it rises, drenching him in ochre. Your smile feels a little too full and a touch too wobbly, when it quirks on your lips.

His shoulders ease. Eyes drop, lidded and heavy. Unguarded, disarmed, for the first time in years.

You think if he could, he'd be smiling, too.

"Is this seat taken?"

#simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost x reader #call of duty #cod #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #myfics #Simon Ghost Riley

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sparkbeast20 · 10 months

Text

Can't guess

Part 1

Lucifer: What do you mean, you can't tell who's the father!

Solomon: Normally, we can do a Paternity test to know who's the father.

Solomon: So I took MC to the human world-

Diavolo: Without my permission I may add.

Solomon: 😊

Solomon: So we got to the clinic and... Let's just say this pregnancy is too dangerous for the human's mind.

Satan: So that counts you out, since this baby is supernatural-

Solomon: Oh? I'm as powerful then any of you. Just because the child cause the doctors and nurses to go insane that does mean I'm out of the count of the potental father of this child.

Belphie: Of course, being here you're causing us to go insane.

Simeon: Wait, are the humans alright?

Solomon: They're fine. *He was lying*

Diavolo: ...

Solomon: Now back to the pregnancy.

Solomon: We can only make a guess on who's the father by MC's change of behavior.

Solomon: In the past, the mother display aggressive behavior when they were carrying a demon spawn.

Solomon: From what I gathered, they didn't know who was the father of those spawns, so we don't know if the mothers would display the behavior of the demon father or its a common symptom of Aggression.

Lucifer: How long would the pregnancy take?

Solomon: ... About 12 months.

Mammon: What!!!

Solomon: Or 6 months. Again there isn't actually a solid pattern of these demon to human pregnancy.

Simeon: What about an Angel Pregnancy?

Solomon: Don't know, no one gets to record them since "Someone" Keep interfering.

Simeon: What's the suppose to mean, friend?

Solomon: You know exactly what I mean, Simeon.

Simeon and Solomon glare at each other.

Barbatos: Oh my.

Lucifer: can you two stop being petty- What's with the grin Diavolo?

Diavolo: Oh? It's nothing.

Barbatos: I sense something bad about this.

Diavolo: Well. if you two must know, I think I have a higher chance of being the father.

Lucifer, Barbatos, Satan, and Belphie: ...

Diavolo: My blood is the strongest-

Belphie: I call bullshit on that!

Diavolo: Oh? *Turn to Lucifer and Barbatos, waiting for them to interject*

Lucifer: What? I agree with Belphie.

Diavolo Oh!

Barbatos: Smugness doesn't suit you, Milord.

Meanwhile in the other room

MC: I can I have some Beel

Beel: *Feels conflicted* Sure

MC: Yeah!!

Mammon: *Enters the room and growled when he saw Beel feeding you* Oi!!

Mammon: *He rushes over and pull you close to him* Who said that you can feed her?

Beel: *Deep down, he feels challenge by Mammon* She was hungry, and ask if she wants some.

Mammon: Oh? What! you think that the kid is yours?

Beel: *Stood up and looms over Mammon* Yes.

Mammon: *Gently push you to the side and got up at Beel's face and growled*

Asmo: Oh? the tension is real!

Asmo: Anywho, I'm taking MC to my room-

Asmo: *Stopped when a tail wrapped round his arm* Let go, Levi

Levi: No.

MC: *Senses trouble you slowly back away and quietly leave the room*

MC: Damn, these fuckers are going to kill each other before the baby is born-

Luke: Baby?

MC: Gah! Luke! When did you get here?

Luke: Simeon and Solomon took me along but said I should stay at the kitchen because they are having "Adult talk" with the brothers

MC: I see.

Luke: You're having a baby!!

MC: Yeah, it seems like it.

Luke: Who's the dad?

MC: ...

MC: We... Don't know exactly.

Luke: Huh? I thought you'll know the dad the moment you found it.

MC: "How am I going to say that I was whoring around with all the guys"

MC: It's a mystery.

Luke: ... *Looks down*

MC: What's wrong?

Luke: No-Nothing.

MC: Come on, Luke. You can talk to me.

Luke: ...

Luke: Would you still love me, even if the baby comes.

MC: Oh! Luke *You pull him into a hug* You'll always have my love. I can't never ignore you.

Luke: *Smiles and hugs you back*

MC: *Pulls back* Now, lets get out of here. Stay here is stressing me out.

Luke: Yeah! Stress is bad for the baby.

You nod and the two of you head out. As you two got far you both hear a loud crash from the HOL.

Luke: What was that!!

MC: Ignore it. When hasn't a day when something in that house broke.

Luke: Hm... Good point.

#obey me #omswd #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me solomon #obey me luke #obey me mc #obey me nonsense

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asmosmainhoe · 5 months

Text

Mammon, Asmo & MC sneak Diavolo out for the night

This is looooong, but I had SO MUCH fun writing it

Mammon Asmodeus Diavolo Barbatos Lucifer

Gender: neutral

Warnings: heavy language, alcohol consume

Actually the plan was for only you, Asmo and Mammon to go out tonight, but you invited Diavolo to join you guys. It's because when you told him about it he got so excited for you three in a way that made you sad which lead you to what you did

You send Diavolo a quick text that the small group is coming over to his castle for some "tea" in his private chambers

Asmo packed some stuff like makeup, accessories etc for everyone to get ready at the castle. Since it's a lot to carry you and Mammon put some in your own bags after Asmo threatened you to take good care of his stuff

Everyone starts getting ready after successfully getting past Barbatos who found it more than odd that the tea would be served in the Lord's bedroom instead of in one of the usual rooms, but oh well. Diavolo is known for doing strange things from time to time

"I'm done!"

"Uh..."

"Lord Diavolo..."

"No you're not done."

The demon prince is standing there in full royal attire. You, Mammon and Asmo aren't sure where exactly to start the list of things that are wrong about his appearance

"Everyone will recognize you like this, Dia. Don't you have anything that screams less royalty?"

"What do you mean? This is my most casual outfit."

"Oh hell no."

Asmo gets immediately to work by removing the jacket and tie and continues his work by unbottoning Diavolo's black dress shirt

"What are ya doing, Asmo?! You can't undress Lord Diavolo like that!"

"Calm down! As much as I'd love to do that, I'm only opening up the dress shirt a little bit. See? It looks way more casual like this."

The beautiful demon managed to change Diavolo's entire presence with only a couple small adjustments, but there is still a tiny problem

"How do we cover his face?"

Again Asmo comes to the rescue! Without any hesitation he combs the Lord's hair back to expose his entire face and puts a very real looking fake mustache over the top lip

Wait what?

"Why do you own that, Asmo?"

"And why did ya bring it with you?"

"Instead of questioning me you should be thankful that I have this thing in the first place!"

Diavolo looks nearly unrecognizable unless someone would stare at him real intense

Even if you might not be a big fan of mustaches you have to admit that he kinda looks attractive that way. Mammon finishes the look by handing the Lord his sun glasses

"Are we all feeling sexy?"

"Yes!"

"Perfect! Let's go!"

Who knew that climbing down a balcony located on the highest floor of a castle could proof to be so difficult? Especially when one is all dressed up!

The first destination is a restaurant where you lay out your plans for the night to Diavolo and have a quick meal before the fun starts

Throughout the entire time the demon prince looks as excited as a child who's allowed to stay up longer than usually

"And you really don't mind the risk that comes with it?"

"Oh I'm not worried at all! Asmodeus did such an amazing job that I didn't even recognize myself in the mirror!"

"I made reservations for a small VIP area at the club. It's nothing too fancy so we won't attract much attention, but it's enough to give us some peace."

Mammon and Asmo exchange disappointed looks with each other when you mentioned the part about not attracting attention, but they're staying quiet

"Thank you so much for letting me be a part of this. It's my first time going out like this and you have no idea how grateful I am for you three to risk your lives like this."

"No problem Lord Dia- wait what was that with riskin' our lives?"

"Oh, you know in case Lucifer or Barbatos find out about it."

The tension in the air is so thick it could be cut with scissors. None of you have even thought about the obvious possibility of the first born or the royal butler to find out about your doing. Now that Diavolo mentioned it this might as well be the last night you three are alive

If Diavolo catches onto the fear building up inside you guys then he sure as fuck doesn't seem to mind. Instead he's digging into his meal with a wide grin while your appetite has vanished into thin air

After the awkward last supper you slowly make your way to the club and with some light hearted conversations the worries quickly fade away and get replaced by a more relaxing mood

The demon at the entrance let's you pass almost immediately upon hearing your name

"Before you four enter the area, can I get the names of your friends first? We've had some issues lately and need them for security reasons."

"I'm the great Mammon, this is my brother Asmodeus and this is our...uhm...Stephen."

"Your Stephen?"

"...yes."

Much to your relief the demon doesn't question you any further and let's you in, but not without giving you all a skeptical side-eye

"Shit, Mammon, was that seriously the best you could come up with?"

"You could have taken over if you wanted to, ya know!"

"I'm Stephen."

Once your group falls down onto a couch in a more secluded area you start to think about what to drink

"They have a Merlot! I might take that."

"No, we're doin' shots tonight!"

The two boys stopped addressing Diavolo with his title a while ago and he looks anything except bothered by it. In fact his grin has gotten even bigger over time and you notice how much more comfortable everyone is now than at the beginning of the night

Everyone is having a great time and everything seems to go smoothly even though you lost count of the amount of drinks your small group has ordered

Until your D.D.D. lights up from a call

"Guys, it's Lucifer."

"Don't answer! We texted him that we're sleepin' over at Diavolo's so if you don't answer then he might think we're asleep!"

"My name is Stephen."

Drunk Mammon is surprisingly reasonable so you decide to go with his suggestion and ignore the call

Just as your anxiety retreats Asmo gets a call from the first born as well. That can't possibly be a coincidence right?

You all receive at least one call that none of you answers. After a while there's nothing happening and you're starting to imagine Lucifer bursting through the ceiling to give you the beating of a lifetime

But your phones stay silent and you collectively let out a sigh

"We're safe."

But then your D.D.D. lights up again from something far greater than the threatening call of Lucifer. It's a message

"Where are you?"

Your mouth dries out completely and you're unable to form a coherent thought. Mammon takes the phone from your hands to see what got you so petrified just to turn into a living statue as well

One by one you all freeze. Luicfer is easy to avoid and it wouldn't be the first time you become the target of his wrath, but angering Barbatos is a whole other story

If the royal butler comes for you then all that's left to do is lay down and pray that he'll have the mercy to make your death go by fast

"You have to answer him, MC."

You're simply texting him that you guys are on the way to the castle

This is where the fun ends. The walk home consists of Diavolo apologizing every five minutes and you telling him that it's not his fault. It was your idea after all and you'll be the one to take full responsibility

"Ya can't do that, MC!"

"Right! There's no way we will let you take the fall for us."

"No, I was the one who came up with this thing so I will be the one to take the hit. Besides, Lucifer and Barbatos are going to go easier on me than they will on you two."

The royal butler is awaiting you four at the entrance of the castle with a smile cold enough to freeze over the entirety of hell

No one dares to say a word as you enter and Barbatos lifts his hand when you open your mouth to say something

"I want you to know that I'm not mad."

Phew

"Just disappointed."

"Barbatos, you have to know that this is completely my fault. Mammon and Asmo didn't have anything to do with it."

He ignores your words

"Lucifer asked me to send you back home. I brought it upon myself to pack your belongings so you don't have to stay longer than absolutely necessary."

This is the politest way someone has ever kicked you out, but it still hurt like shit

Diavolo puts his hand on your shoulder and squeezes it lightly which provides you with a little bit of comfort. The kind smile on his face tells you that he will do his best to set this right for you and the brothers

You squeeze his hand back with your own and with your bags you, Mammon and Asmo leave for the house of lamentation where the upset first born awaits you

Lucifer's lips are a thin line and his eyebrow can't seem to stop twitching. Judging by the dark aura around him he's barely holding himself back from throwing every curse known to mankind at you

"I don't expect much from my brothers, but I do expect more from you, MC"

"We wanted to have fun!"

"By kidnapping the prince?"

"Lucifer, please-"

"Get out of my sight! All three of you! We'll continue this tomorrow morning before I can't control myself and rip you all to shreds."

BONUS:

(Group chat with you, Mammon, Asmo & Diavolo the next morning)

Diavolo: I'm sorry that you guys got in trouble. I'll try to sort this out as quickly as possible

Mammon: Can ya do it before Lucifer kills us?

Asmo: Yes, it would be much appreciated

MC: Either way, thank you for trying

Diavolo: It's the least I can do

Diavolo: And Asmodeus? What glue did you use for the fake beard?

Asmo: Why?

Diavolo: The mustache won't come off...

---

Masterlist

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me x reader #obey me brothers #obey me diavolo #obey me dia #obey me mammon x reader #obey me mammon #obey me diavolo x reader #obey me mc #obey me brothers x reader #obey me asmodeus x reader #obey me asmo #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo x reader #tw alcohol #tw alchohol mention

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lou-struck · 11 months

Text

They Said No... Part 2

Obey Me! x MC!

Featuring: Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Belphegor

Part 1 HERE

Part 3 HERE

~We all get asked to do things sometimes that we do not want to do. And it's okay to say no, but sometimes you need a little extra help to get the point across.

Warnings: Pushy Demons, talk of pact control, Threats, Betrayal

Satan:

The Avatar of Wrath has a bit of cat fur on his usually pristine uniform but has never been happier, RAD is hosting an animal adoption event, and he has spent most of his morning with the adoptable cats having the time of his life. The only thing he is missing is you.

You would love every minute of the event, and so Satan has made it his mission of the day to find you and bring you to the feline-filled classroom.

Stepping into the nearly empty corridor, he sees you sitting on one of the ancient stone benches, mindlessly scrolling through your DDD with one hand and toying with a button on your uniform with the other.

"Mc, there you are." a voice interjects before he can even open his mouth; you lift your head and look towards the owner of the shrill and unfamiliar voice. A Demon Satan doesn't care enough to recognize steps towards you. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

"Oh, hi." You don't meet their gaze, opting instead to stare at the ground in a way that tells Satan you would rather be anywhere else than talking to them. It irks him greatly, but he can't just interrupt yet.

"The brothers aren't here, so you can speak freely now. Did you see my messages?" they ask, taking another step towards you. "You know I've liked you for a while now, but I don't understand why you won't go out with me."

You look up at them apologetically but take a step further away from your not-so-secret admirer. "I'm so sorry, but my feelings are not the same; I've told you before that I am not interested, so can you please leave me alone.

"NO," the lesser Demons shouts, "you don't understand. I like you, which means you are Mine."

That is all Satan needs to hear, and his legs move forward on their own. His anger at this lesser Demon threatens to bubble to the surface as he approaches. Stepping between the two of you protectively.

The Demon flinches but doesn't back down entirely. They open their pathetic little mouth to babble out some delusional retort, only to have their words die on their tongue.

"MC said they were not interested in the likes of you," he growls, his emerald eyes aglow as he stares down your harasser. "I suggest you leave before you manage to make me even angrier than you already have."

The Demon leaves satisfyingly quickly, leaving Satan with you. He notices that you look a bit shaken up but utterly relieved to be rid of that Demon. The wrath he felt earlier disappears as you throw yourself into the safety of his embrace.

The cat can wait, but for now, he just needs to make sure you are okay.

Asmodeus:

Asmodeus is feeling particularly radiant today; the only thing that he thinks he can attribute this glow to other than the universe recognizing his beauty is that his elation to be going on this special little outing with you is showing for all the Devildom to see.

How lucky are they?

He feels light on his feet as he walks down the cobbled streets of Majolish to the little bistro you promised to meet him at for your Devilgrammable date.

His Peach-colored gaze scans the plaza until it finds you sitting at one of the adorably small tables on the patio, your figure clad in the sweater he bought for you a few weeks ago. You just look so cute. He feels his heart flutter in a way that doesn't quite fit the Lust for which he has been known.

But you are not alone; standing over you is a demon he has seen you frequently talking to at RAD.

A friend of yours?

Maybe?

But something feels off about the way you are looking up at them as if they are making you uncomfortable. As pretty and kind as you are, Asmo knows that you are trying very hard to keep your emotions undetectable. He has to know why.

Focusing on your conversation, he is able to hear what the other Demon is trying to talk to you about.

"Mc, y-you said we were f-friends," they whine in an exasperated voice. "Why won't y-you help me?" large tear drops run down their pearl-colored skin and onto the pavement below.

"What you are asking me to do is wrong," you say calmly. "I would never do that to Asmo or anyone else for that matter."

"All you have to do is tell Lord Asmodeus to love me as I love him." they huff. "But you wouldn't even do that for me. I love him, and I deserve to have him for my own."

"I wouldn't be telling him you want me to order him to do it," you say. "I don't think I can be friends with you anymore."

The Demon waves your words off as if they were nothing of consequence, an action that makes Asmo narrow his eyes as he starts to approach. "I never wanted to be friends with some ugly human in the first place, I only wanted Asmodeus, and you were a means to an end. But it seems that you just want to keep all the Brothers for yourself."

"Even if Mc did want to keep us for themselves, they deserve to," Asmo interjects at last, hugging you from behind and placing his head on your shoulder. "I mean, just look at them; they are soooo cute."

The earlier cruelty that had been on the Pearl demon's face vanished in an instant as their cheeks flushed heavily. "L-lord Asmodeus," they breathe. "I didn't mean it like that; the two of us were just having a bit of a friendly disagreement, that's all."

All of the annoyance and irritation that Asmo had been feeling comes forward, and he exudes a threatening aura as he stares down the Demon, not caring enough to charm them into submission. "Yeah, no, I heard more than enough to know that you need to stay away from Mc." he sighs, lowering his voice enough to send a shiver down the other Demon's spine, and they rush away.

Now alone, Asmo turns his attention to you and smiles brightly as if nothing had happened. "Sorry I'm late, Hon; let's go and order our drinks; I think after that, we both need a little extra love."

Beelzebub:

Beel feels like he's going to die of hunger. Whenever RAD does schoolwide exams, he is not allowed to eat in the classroom. It seems like ages since he has last eaten. The test took him a lot longer than he thought it would take. But before he leaves to go to Hell's kitchen, he wants to find you and bring you along with him. He doesn't quite understand why, but food always tastes better when you are with him.

He hears your voice from down the hall, a happy smile resting on his face as he follows the sound. He says you sat at one of the long study tables in the common room, a mountain of books at your side, and one of your classmates standing over you.

"I'm sorry," you say softly. "But I told you before. But I have too much on my plate right now. You'll have to do that part of the assignment yourself. "

Your classmate sighs, shaking their head in disapproval. "And I thought you were a nice MC, the kind of human who wouldn't hesitate to help out someone who needs it. You obviously don't have anything better to do, so just do my portion of the project. I'll pay you for your work."

What?

Why is this Demon being so mean to you?

Beelzebub truly doesn't understand why your classmate is treating you this way; you were very nice in turning them down. And he wouldn't want to do someone's project, either.

You clear your throat, "It's not about the Grimm; I just don't have time to do someone else's work. If you're struggling, I suggest you ask a professor to give you an extension."

Your classmate is hovering over you now, trying to intimidate you with their size. "You don't seem to know your place, Human; when a demon asks you to do something, I expect you to bow your head and do it obediently."

The Scene before him is too much for poor Beel; angrily, he steps forward, placing a large hand on the other Demon's shoulder. "That's close enough, Mc said they did not want to do anything for you."

The Demon flinches as he turns towards Beel in shock. "B-Beelzebub, I'm sorry, but I needed to remind this human that we demons are superior.

Beel's hunger and anger have fused into one, and he looks down at the Demon with disdain. "Mc is and always will be more important than you; if anything, you should be doing their work."

"no, they don't; I just need them to do their own work." You interject

"R-right, thank you." They mutter, picking their bag off the floor and running away.

"Are you alright, Mc?" he asks, looking at you with a violet gaze of adoration. "That must've been pretty scary."

You nod and take his hand, "I'm okay now, Beel, thank you for stepping in. Can I buy you lunch as a thank you?"

"Could we go to Hell's Kitchen?"

"Absolutely," you smile, "anything for my hero."

Hero? He likes the sound of that for some reason; he smiles happily, picking up your books as the two of you walk side by side out the doors of RAD.

Belphegor:

It's the stiffness in his neck that wakes Belpheghor from his nap. Maybe taking a nap on top of all of these decorative pillows wasn't that good of an idea after all. He sits up slowly, rubbing out the knot in his neck, feeling quite annoyed at the situation.

"Oh Belphie, you're awake." you smile, poking your head into the doorway, "I just placed an order for food. It should be here soon if you're hungry."

Just like that, all of his annoyance has vanished. "Thank you, Mc." he grins boyishly; moments like these make him happy to be awake.

"No problem, I think they are getting close; I'll wait by the door until it arrives," you say before disappearing down the hallway.

It's then he realizes that you probably had to order a lot of food since Beel is getting home from the gym soon and will need help carrying it all to the dining room once it gets here.

Belphie gets up from his seat and heads over to the front door where you must be waiting.

"You sure ordered a lot of food. Do you need any help bringing it in?" a voice asks. The delivery driver must be here already.

"Yeah, I guess I did go overboard," you say good-humoredly. "But It will all get eaten, I promise you that."

"You're pretty cute, aren't ya?" The delivery man cooed, pulling back the bag playfully. "How about you give me your number, and then you get your food?"

You laugh nervously at his words. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that."

"and why not?" They laugh cockily. "Are you feeling a little shy? Because that's cute too."

Belphie's jaw clenches as he wonders what is with this guy. How dare he try and take you away from him.

"I'm taken," you respond, the irritation slipping through your voice as you meet his gaze.

They scoff, tossing the bag of food on the ground roughly. "Aren't you just a fricken tease then? All I ask for is your number, so how about you be a good human and give it to me?"

Belphegor knows you could have handled this guy, but he was honestly so irritated he had to step in. "Ugh, you're so annoying. Mc already paid, so you can go on your way."

Your harasser is arrogant, not stupid. He knows that he has no chance against one of the seven avatars of sin. He shuts his annoying mouth and stomps down the steps of the House of Lamination.

You watch him leave with a relieved smile on your face, "are you okay, Mc?" he asks, grabbing your hand.

"I am now," you smile "Thank you for helping me, Belphie."

#obey me nightbringer #obey me shall we date #obey me scenarios #obey me x reader #obey me #obey me headcanons #belphegor x reader #belphegor fluff #obey me beelzebub #obey me satan #omswd x reader #satan x reader #asmodeus x reader #asmo x reader #beelzebub x reader #beel x reader

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