#chocolate mirror glaze

[fullcravings]

Chocolate Raspberry Mousse Cake 2.0

[fleuralie]

[cheriestim]

[thickest-slimiest-malware]

i made a cake themed after the dance scene in revolutionary girl utena!!!

[the-good-neighbors]

more????? ::0

whatever could this be for????

[cerbreus]

Technically officially my bday look at the test cake I made :-)

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (1) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

we cannot change who we are at our core.

type: limited series, part 1 (6.4k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

Whenever she woke up marked the last day of the rest of your life. One moment, the world inside of your head was unnervingly quiet. The next, someone else was there, whispering in the dark, taking over.

You aren't proud of her. No, you hate her. There is no one you hate more, you don't think, because she lets the direction of the fucking wind distract her from what really matters. She paints her environment in a soft, glazed picture, and she tries to hold up her canvas and convince you that her reality is real. But then you blink, and you get flashes of how dull the sky really is and the dirt that stains your shoes, and you know that she's just a liar.

A controlling, desperate thief.

When you heard her voice for the first time, you begged your reflection in the mirror to just kill you already.

If you were an alpha, maybe you could've just drawn away into yourself and lived a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. If you were a beta, perhaps the weight of nothing would've given you a little more freedom to do the things you wanted to do.

But no. You're an omega. Nature's servant. A natural follower. Destined for nothing except to open your legs and say, "yes, alpha, all for you," because if you are anything but complacent, you're unwanted and a waste of your very being.

Your eyes stung when you took your first little pill. They rattled in different colors in a little orange bottle, and it felt like sand as it dissolved under your tongue. Even though it makes you sick, you take them anyways. Even though the pills change colors and shape and efficacy because you buy them from someone different every time, you take them because it makes your omega shut the fuck up finally.

You bury her. And you won't let her out.

The truth of it is that you're only fighting yourself. Your omega, she is you, isn't she? She's a part of you, she makes up your very genetic makeup, and to hate her is to hate yourself. But nature is cruel–it gave you years of freedom. Years to know what life was like without her, when she was dormant, asleep, just waiting for you to finally wake up.

Then your very self locked the cage. Your fingers claw at the bars, but it's no use. It's your very own punishment. So in turn, you bury her, too, silencing her cries, quieting what she wants most in the world, because it isn't fair, fuck you, you whiny bitch.

She's a pathetic puppy; and you are more than happy to step on her fucking neck.

Your aim is off today. The sound is muffled through the earphones you wear, but they've never thrown off your balance before. When you lean over the railing and squint at the target papers towards the back, you can see the bullet holes just a few inches off center.

You're never off-center.

"Getting rusty on me, Kit?"

You turn around, setting the gun down, and you smile wide when you see a familiar face. You pull the headphones off, putting them aside before making your way towards her.

Kate Laswell is surprised when you throw your arms around her and hug her tight. She smells good; she smells like chocolate, dark chocolate, something bittersweet. She's got that edge to it that they all do, something a little heady and all-encompassing, but she's the only alpha that you've ever found comfort being near. You see her nose scrunch a little when she embraces you back.

You must stink like synthetics. You care, only because you hate to make her nose sting this way. It's never been meant for her. At times, you thought maybe you could do a little convincing; maybe if you batted your lashes enough, she’d take pity on you, hide you away in some CIA shack with her deep on a Montana farm and play house. You’d cook, and she’d protect, and you’d be perfect little alpha and omega until the end of your days.

But Kate doesn’t like baggage. Not even the sweet kind, and especially not the kind that makes it even more difficult to make the hard decisions.

Kate isn’t a soldier. She makes choices based on the greater good, the lesser evil. She doesn’t get to be selfish. She doesn’t have that luxury.

When you pull away, she looks down at you strangely. She looks tired. Her dark hair is in a mess of a braid tucked under a cap, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Her attempt of a smile emphasizes the lines around her eyes. You open your mouth to tell her something, but she shakes her head.

"I'm not here as a friend," she says softly, and you frown a little.

"Aren't...haven't we always been friends?" You ask, and Kate lets out a shaky sigh, nodding her head behind her.

"We need to talk. C'mon."

You retrieve the gun and holster it, fastening it into your thigh holster before you follow her. She has a car waiting outside, a big, black SUV with the door already open for her. When you get inside, she knocks on the divider, and the car immediately starts moving. You brace yourself against the side of the car as it speeds off, reaching for a seatbelt.

"Jesus, Kate, what's going on? I-I have training later, I can't–"

"You're not...going back to base," she says evenly. You frown a little, leaning back in your seat, and you put your hands in your lap as you try and get a read on her. Even exhausted, Kate is hard to decipher. She has a stone-cold expression, calm and unbothered, and you curse her CIA training for making her impossible to understand, to even get a glimpse of what she might say next. Her face makes you anxious, and the scent in the car that changes puts you on edge.

"Okay," you scoff a little. "Then where am I going?"

Kate sniffs a little, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't break eye contact with you when she says, "Wheels up in 30. I have an assignment for you." She reaches under the seat, pulling out a manila folder, setting it down beside you. When you pick it up and flip it open, you narrow your eyes.

"I'm..." You shrug your shoulders, "I'm not really CIA. You don't give me orders."

"As of one hour ago, you're mine. And this...this is your duty."

Your eyes blur as you skim the text on the pages. You flip through the papers flimsily, getting more and more irritated until you throw it at her, your chest rising and falling fast as you pant, barely able to see her through your tears.

Program. UK. Field assignment. Mate. All the keywords to make your stomach curl and your autonomy shrink in front of your very eyes.

"Kate, don't do this," you beg her softly. You soften your voice, and you let your omega drip syrup into it. You want to see her eyes dilate–you want to make her protectiveness kick in just enough that she might just appease you. It’s desperate, and you know it’s wrong, but you do it anyways, you have to. "Please don't do this. Please. You fucking promised me, you promised–"

"You need to understand that I don't have a lot of fucking choices," she says sharply. She pities you, that much you can tell. She looks pained, but it doesn’t matter how pained she might feel because it isn’t happening to her. It’s happening to you, and she put you on that base so that it wouldn’t happen to you, and she tricked you into getting into this car, and now it’s her–

"Kate, I'll do anything, please," you gasp. You reach over and grab her hands, tugging her towards you. "You know. You know what...w-what I've been through, what this all is, you know...please. Please..."

You promised me. You gave me your word.

"I can't–"

But the CIA can’t be trusted for shit.

"I'll be yours," you try, squeezing her palms. Appease. Beg. Bare your neck. Give her what she really craves. "Just claim me yourself, a-and...and we don't have to do this, w-we can...I-I can go back to–"

Her face contorts, offended, disgusted. You try and swallow down the sting of her rejection, but you cannot help yourself. You would do anything to not be subjected to this fate, to the fate she promised she'd save you from. The only alpha you have ever trusted, and she's pulling away from you, bit by bit.

"I could never do that to you," she interrupts, shaking her head. "I couldn't."

"But you'll do this instead?"

"It's the lesser evil," she says finally, pushing your hands back. It aches. Despite you never leaning towards her, it is still an alpha turning their nose up at you, and the thing inside of you cries at the feeling; she begs you to do more, but you swallow her down, fingers itching for another pill just so you can really squash her singing. "And in my world, that is the best I can hope for."

"It's punishment!" You cry, and she reaches over, cupping your cheeks, pulling you close. You scrunch your face at her touch. Her hands are cold, and they do not welcome you. "A-And for what? For being something that I can't change?!"

"It's mercy," she whispers. Her thumbs stroke your cheeks in soft circles. "I can't protect you anymore, do you understand? They don't want you there, and I can’t take you with me. Even taking meds, even spraying yourself to shit, they don't want you, and I can't protect you if they send you away, do you understand me?" You start to cry, closing your eyes, and you hear the familiar voice in your head preening. She's desperate, slipping through the cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try and force her backwards. You’re panicking, and maybe she’s trying to help, but you hate her. "I have to get you out of there, and this is the only way."

"Please..."

"I can't protect you," she says gently. "But he can. And he'll be good to you. I promise, this...this I can promise."

You rip yourself away from her, curling into yourself as you scoot away from her as far as possible. You press yourself against the door, tucking your knees into your chest. Whatever passes by outside is a blur, and your brain doesn’t register any of it. The only thing in your head is betrayal, traitor, those sick, stupid bastard alphas, all of them–

"Fuck your promises," you whimper, and when she reaches out for you again, you flinch, burying your face into your hands.

Kate is a liar. She never keeps her promises; that’s her job, it is what she does. The CIA is nothing if they aren’t incredible liars–it’s what they’re known for, and Kate takes to it like a fish to water. As far as you are concerned, she lured you in with bait, and now she's shut the door on a trap. It is lined with padding, soft, delicate, but it still holds you back, it still keeps you still and stagnant and forever chained to an existence that you detest more than anything. She used you; it was in her best interest to keep an omega under her thumb, to do with you as she pleased when she needed one, and you suppose once you are taken, she will find another to do the same with. She will give another desperate one like you false hope, and when she needs another omega to keep someone else complacent and willing, she will offer them up with her signature on paper–just like that.

She tries to touch your hand before you board the plane. She tries to meet your eyes, get your attention, anything. You cower when she reaches out, and when she steps backwards, you walk on.

You never look behind yourself. Not even when you sit, and not even as the ramp closes shut.

Fighting is futile when you are who you are. It's unexpected. It's frowned upon. You are made up of something that is intended to be docile, to be big-eyed and soft. If you were a dog, they would want you to roll over and bare your belly and forget how to do anything but obey, but that is not the kind of thing that you ever wanted to be, even when you were small, even before you knew what you really were.

You hate what you are. You medicate yourself to the point of being incoherent, you bare your teeth and aggravate the submissive nature you inherit to deter any kind of match. You make yourself undesirable, not just in your physical nature but in the very essence of yourself.

You want to start over, as something else, or you want to never have been at all. You hate this place, you want them to cast you out, you want to be left to your own devices because dying alone and unwanted is better than submission; it;s better than the imprisonment that your kind subjects themselves to, willing or not.

It sickens you. You watch your own kind fall to their knees, close their mouths, and allow their very being to disappear just to make another satiated. Happy. Their entire lives, reduced to being someone else's waiting hand, someone else's property. It's sad, it's pathetic, it rocks you to the very center of yourself, and you demand more of it, you reject this life and the voice in your head that fights with you every single day of it.

She hates you, too, your omega. She claws at your insides and begs for something to drink, but you dry her out. You don't allow her to even breach the surface of the wasteland you've suffocated her with. She is naïve; she doesn't know what is good for her, she doesn't know that you are saving her from a life of constant torture. She screams for you to let her out, but you take another pill and force her back into the dark.

Or at least you did. You haven't taken a pill in days. They won't let you, even when you asked, even when you began to beg. You promised to be good if they just appeased you. You promised to be quiet if they just slipped it under your tongue, even if they injected it into your very veins, anything, just please, please, I don't want to–

Everything is surreal. You feel like you're seeing everything in color. What used to be dull and uninteresting now sparkles in your very eyes, it glows under the sun. Everything is sharper and less blurry. Sounds are clearer. You can hear the wind more loudly in your ears and feel it under the soles of your shoes. But what dizzies you the most is your sense of smell.

Everything before had been so bland. You have been under the effects of suppressors for so long that you don't think food has ever smelled so bad and so good (eggs make you gag now, and the crisps they give you make your mouth water).

They keep you confined in a small room. You are not allowed in the presence of any alphas; you can smell them passing by the door, but whenever the stink of one of them lingers, there's loud voices, lots of heavy boots. A beta comes to collect you to do a daily workout and to shower, and then you are back in your room, your meals delivered on a tight schedule (and the food, after a few days of your tray being barely picked at, gets so much better–it's better quality than you've seen on any military base, and when you asked, all they said was "lieutenant's orders").

Today is different. Today, along with your breakfast, a large black hoodie is folded underneath the tray that they leave on the end of your bed. You set the food aside, picking up the hoodie, and when you unravel it, you spread it out, gawking at the size of it. Whoever this hoodie belongs to is more bear, more beast, than human. An enormous thing, but when you pick it up, you immediately pick up on its strong scent.

You press the front of it to your nose. Your eyes flutter shut, and you sink into the bed a little as you take a deep breath of it. Warm, but gritty, like charcoal. Cigarettes. Military-issue soap. Clean. Eucalyptus. Fire. Something with depth, something with teeth. You don't realize what's happening to you until it's too late.

Alpha. It smells undoubtedly like alpha, and you're certain by the size of it that it belongs to one. You nuzzle your face into it a little, instinctively, and you don't even register your omega knocking, peering through the door that's been cracked open for her.

She squeals with delight. She's getting dizzy, drunk, and you feel a soft noise in your chest bubble as she pets the back of your mind, keening at the introduction of it. She’s giggling. You can feel her tugging at your insides, whispering in your ear–See? I told you. I told you that you’d like it.

They smell strong. They smell capable. They smell pure.

When you put the hoodie down, your legs are pressed together, shaking from how hard your thighs are squeezed. When you relax, you refrain from the need to touch yourself, but you failed before you even started. You can feel how wet you are; your panties must be soaked, and you feel yourself pulsing with some sort of distinct urge to give in, give in, give in.

It's unnerving, the lack of control you have. Your omega has always been a few feet underwater, but she's breaching the surface now, her lips gasping for air.

You try to push her back.

Stay down.

When the clock strikes for dinner, you aren't surprised by the knock. But you are surprised that when the door opens, there isn't a beta in uniform holding your tray. Instead, you cover your nose a little, blinking harshly as a large man comes into the room. He's got a strange beard and a floppy hat, and when he smiles, he reminds you of a teddy bear. You can tell just by his physique what he is, but his eyes are kinder than you're used to.

You will yourself not to trust them. You trusted kind eyes before, and now you’re locked in a prison of your own making.

"'ello," he introduces himself, holding out his hand. "'m Captain John Price. 's nice to meet you."

You glare at him, not saying a word. When he figures you won't shake his hand, he just nods. He lets his hand drop, hooking his thumbs into his tact vest, and he rests at ease.

"I've come to collect you," he says lowly. "It's time."

You pick up your tray of food from behind you and hurl it towards him. He ducks just in time, moving one shoulder backwards as the metal hits the wall behind him and clatters to the floor in a splattered mess. John shakes his head a little, scratching the back of his neck, and he clicks his tongue. You’re unnerved and a little pissed off when a hint of a grin flickers over his face.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes. "Yeah...you'll do."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's go," John snaps. "Won't ask again."

When he reaches for you, you swipe the fork from the bed, stepping close and sticking the little prongs up against his chin. You aren’t satisfied until you can feel his scratchy beard against it, piercing the skin just enough.

"If you touch me, I'll shove this right up your chin through your goddamn nose," you threaten, and John’s nostrils flare, his hands going up flat beside his head.

"Easy," he murmurs, and you feel like he’s talking to a skittish mare. "Just need to guide you, that's all."

"Well, I don't want to go anywhere."

"If you don't do this, I have to send you back," John explains. "And Kate made it very clear that is supposed to be my last resort. And you don't want to go back."

"Anything is better than this," you hiss, and he narrows his eyes.

"Not this. What they do to unruly omegas..." He leans forward, snarling a little. "Ones like you. Ones that bite. And scratch. They don't deal with them. They'll sedate you and use you as training practice. And while Kate might have a heart big enough to keep you outta that place, I don't have it. So get your arse moving. Now."

You put your hand down, dropping the fork, letting it clatter to the floor. He grips you by the collar of your shirt, urging you forward, and all the hairs stand up on the back of your neck as he gets dangerously close to scruffing you. It's enough of a threat that you immediately relax, your own body betraying your emotions as it tries to make itself smaller. To appease. To submit.

"This can't wait any longer," John mutters. "Has to happen today."

Your lip trembles.

"What has to happen today?" You ask.

"You're meeting your mate," he says. You know that was the answer, but you had to ask it anyways. You think of the hoodie you received all those hours ago. The smell of him, complete intoxication. "Simon."

Simon.

"Sounds like an asshole," you snap, irritated, and John chuckles a little.

"Mmm. He is. You'll adore 'im."

You flinch at the flickering fluorescent lights as he leads you down a narrow hallway. When you pass other soldiers, John puts you in front of him, glaring and baring his teeth a little. You're confused by this sudden display of aggression on your behalf, but when you spot the looks in others’ eyes, you're grateful for it nonetheless.

You know your scent is strong; piercing the walls around you, displaying your displeasure, discomfort, fear so plainly. It's an awful thing to not be able to hide how you feel, to not feel like you have any control over how you present to others, but you have no practice masking any of it. You have been drowning your omega for so long that you didn't realize the strength of her building up behind the synthetic walls you had built. She's livid, angry, permeating the spaces in your mind that you thought were solid and now are broken and hollow inside.

You stop in front of an unmarked door. John looks over you, eyeing the jacket you wear.

"Take tha' off," he says lowly. You frown, stepping back, but he nods again. "Take it off. You'll get it back, just give it to me."

You shrug your jacket off gently, handing it to him. John holds out his hand for yours, and when you cautiously give it to him, he rubs the fabric against your wrists to soak it in your scent before disappearing behind the door. You wait outside, pressing your ear to the metal, but you hear nothing but low mumbles. You do hear a heavy gait, big feet moving around that don't belong to Captain Price, and you close your eyes as you try and see if you can hear his voice.

You don't.

The door is opened just slightly, John cocking his head to the side.

"He wants to see you."

You raise a brow.

"Your mutt?" You ask smartly, and John scoffs a little, kicking the door open wide finally. Behind it, you can see a small little office situated. Dozens of file cabinets, a stained wooden desk, a peeling leather chair. There are papers everywhere, a disorganized mess and walls filled with medals, plaques, letters, pictures of faceless men. And standing beside the desk, towering over it with his head nearly hitting the ceiling is a bear.

A fucking bear.

He's so tall. Over six feet of hulking man, big shoulders taking up too much space. You can tell just by looking at him that he has to duck his head and move his body sideways to get through the doorway you're standing in. He has big hands and thick thighs, and your lips part when you realize his thigh holster has been released as much as possible just to still fit snugly around him. He's wearing dark jeans and a thick black hoodie, and he looks even bigger with a strapped tact vest that holds numerous little gadgets, weapons (fuck, he looks like he can kill you with the pencil laying haphazard beside him).

You can't see his face. He covers it with a mask, a snug covering tucked under his hoodie with the plastic front plate of a skull sewn to its front. He's holding your jacket in one hand, the other clenched in a tight fist as you step through the door.

"Is this your dog, Captain?" You ask finally. Simon doesn't speak. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you, taking in the way you look from the tips of your combat boots all the way up over your head. His gaze lingers on your middle, the wideness of your hips and the curve of your body.

John crosses his arms over his chest.

"Suppose so," John shrugs, rolling his eyes a little. You blink, finally making eye contact with Simon. His eyes are dark and beady. He's intense, just as his scent had been. Your omega warms your throat and screams in your ear.

Grab him. Latch onto him. Don’t let him go. Do you see him? Look at him–

"Does it bark?" You wonder, glaring. Simon unclenches his fist, rolling his fingers out a little. They twitch beside his leg. His face twitches a little, too, you can see the mask move just slightly.

"When he wants to."

"Does it bite?"

John snorts. "Mmm. Afraid so." He opens the door behind him. "Don't kill each other. If I don't see her for supper, Simon, I'll hold you to it."

When you are alone, Simon still remains silent. He hasn't moved from his spot by the desk, still in a strange staring contest with you as you stand there trying to read him. Like Kate, he's impossible; this time, you don't even have the luxury of looking over his face, although you suspect even without the mask, he must have mastered some kind of expression of nothingness. He seems like the kind of brute to give nothing away. Not even his displeasure.

"Hope you're good on a leash," you say finally, crossing your arms over your chest. "I like to go on walks."

His face moves under the mask again. Finally, he moves. He unravels your jacket in his hand, holding it open for you to put on again. You eye him strangely before coming closer to fit your arms into it.

When you turn your back to him, you realize how much of his shadow you're tucked under. When he drops the fabric back on your shoulders, you still as he leans over one side of you, bending. Without thinking, your head tilts to the side, giving him more space into the side of your neck. You do it without even thinking. Your omega bleeds through you, and you feel her warmth everywhere now, making you move, but you let her this time.

Your scent gland pulses there under your ear. He can see it, hear it practically, rushing like the blood in his ears. You close your eyes when you feel him come closer, the cotton of his mask just barely grazing your neck as he takes a deep breath.

The growl he lets out shakes you to your core. Your pupils get blown wide at the sound, and your head flops back slow, exposing more of your neck. He uses the opportunity to bend just that much more, until the front of his mask is pressed against the gland, and he can breathe you in, right at the source.

He's snarling under the mask. You can hear his teeth knock together, his tongue wetting his lips. You shiver, leaning into him, your hand raising up to caress the back of his neck as he nuzzles his nose there, taking another deep breath. You step back enough that he presses up against you from behind. You can feel his pelvis right against your ass, and you arch your back just enough to fit him right where he belongs. A gloved hand catches you at your waist, and you put your free hand on the desk in front of you until his cock is right there between your ass.

Your omega is panting. She's clawing, right there at the edge, fighting against quicksand as she's desperate to meet him. The feeling of him, the scent of him so close, it's an aphrodisiac, potent, suffocating. Something warm is wrapping around you, sliding along your skin, tickling your toes. It's between your thighs, in your mouth, wetting your tongue. You're not sure what this feeling is, but it's thrilling.

He's purring. Big, rumbling sounds coming from deep in his chest. More animal than man as his tongue comes out under the mask, and you can feel him lick a nice stripe over the raised, warm skin under your ear. Your omega is being pulled to the forefront. She’s like a magnet to him. The closer he gets, the stronger she bites into you. Your mouth drops open when his hand falls between your thighs, gripping onto you and pulling you up against him in one, slow grind. You can feel the length of him, fucking enormous, and you’re leaking into your cargos as his fingers squeeze the fat of your thigh.

"Fuck–okay!" You pull away abruptly, turning to face him. You put your hands on his chest and push him back a little. He doesn’t move at your touch, but your voice startles him enough that he moves his hands up and away from you. He straightens up, blinking away the haze in his eyes, and you swallow hard. "T-Too much..."

He huffs, moving forward to bury his face into your neck again, but you step back, putting a hand on his chest firmer this time. You have stepped out of the cloud that surrounds him, but you can still taste it, and it’s pulling you back, and you’re losing control.

"Simon," you say his name gently, and he stops, his face scrunching a little under the mask before he stands back up again. "If I have to be your mate...we need to set some boundaries." He blinks, saying nothing. "Like...a-asking for permission."

You can tell by the way his mask twitches that he doesn't usually ask for permission. He wants, and he receives.

Typical.

“What?” You ask, scoffing. “You don’t talk?”

He doesn’t move. You crane your neck to look up at him a little better, and you smooth your hands lower on his chest. You can’t help but appreciate what you feel. He’s wearing a tactical vest, but you can still feel the deep breaths he’s taking, the strong, fatty muscle under your palms. He is the epitome of sheer strength and undeniable ability. Your omega draws your hands back up his chest, over his pecs that pull taut, and they wind up around his neck as you stand up on your toes and lean into the curve of his jaw. You put your nose to it, barely. Simon moves his hands down, cupping you under your ass and picking up your weight with not even a grunt until you can press your face deep into him.

Fuck, it’s like a drug. It’s addictive. His scent impales you. He smells like war. Like chaos and smoke, and your mouth starts to water as you keep breathing him in. You pull back just enough, blinking up at him. You look a little dizzy and intoxicated, and he squeezes your ass to hold you steady as he puts you back onto your feet.

“Uhm…” You sniffle a little, holding onto him. Your hands curl around his shoulders, and you keep yourself upright like this. “I didn’t wanna be here. I don’t…I don’t want this. I never did.” You blink away tears, but he sees them when you draw your eyes back up to his. “T-They made me. It hurts.”

“Wot hurts?”

His voice scares you when you finally hear it. Your lip shakes, and when you blink again, your tears fall down your face. Simon snarls when he sees them, reaching up with hands too rough and wiping them off your face, but they keep coming.

“I’ve never been o-off my meds–” You gasp, and your breaths start to come in panicked and too fast. “Everything hurts. T-The lights are too bright, everything hurts my nose, the sheets are too itchy, and I-I can’t breathe–”

Simon moves away from you immediately. He closes a fist and pounds the lightswitch, and only the yellow glow of the lamp on his desk illuminates the room. You curl into yourself, hugging your own arms, and Simon comes back to stand in front of you, narrowing his eyes.

“I did not want you either.”

“That’s just grand, this is perfect,” you hiccup, and Simon grunts.

“But I have orders.”

“You act like your Captain is just debriefing you for a fucking mission,” You snap, glaring at him. “I’m a fucking person. I know your kind may not see us that way, but I am. I’m not a mission. I’m not something for you to win or to conquer, you fucking asshole!”

When you raise a hand to hit him, he catches your wrist before it lands. He squeezes just enough to hold you at arm’s length, and you lean forward and spit on him instead. It wets the mouth of his mask, and he nearly loses himself as his eyes flash with something dark. He looks away from you for a moment to collect himself. When he turns back, he uses his other hand to cup the back of your head, silencing you.

“You listen ‘ere, omega–” The way he says your title makes the fight in you shrink. Your omega squeaks, ducking her head, that bubble of submission pilling in your throat as he holds you so close to your naked scent gland. “Dunno wot anyone told you, but I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” He ducks his head, pulling you closer, and you freeze when he presses his masked mouth at the base of your pulsing scent gland. It wafts into his nose, dilating his pupils, and he snarls. “And when you inevitably lose control of yourself–you already fuckin’ are, you reek of it–I’m goin’ to sink my teeth right ‘ere, and then it won’t fuckin’ matter ‘ow you feel.”

Your eyes blur with angry tears. You gasp, your breaths hitching, and Simon seems to feed off of your fear, your misery. If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you imagine he’d be licking your tears for a chance to taste your sadness. The worst part of it all is that your omega adores it. She’s been aching for so long for this kind of authority. For that edge to tickle her right under her chin where she likes it. The whiff of alpha that she’s getting is driving her out of control, and you don’t know how make her quiet down. She’s so loud in your head, banging against the walls–give it to him, give it to him, give it to him.

“You’re a fucking monster,” you whisper, glaring up at him. It’s no use–you will never scare him. Simon is what scares other alphas into submission. In one paw, he could crush your windpipe if he wanted to, with just a squeeze. Simon hums, and you imagine him smiling under that mask, some kind of vicious grin that you would love to smack off of him.

“Tha’s right, swee’eart,” Simon mutters. “I am. ‘n now you belong t’me. Everything that you are–” He smooths his hand down your neck. You seize when his hand slides over the curve of your waist until it cups under your ass and forces you up against him. “‘s mine. Your omega–’s mine. Your mouth–mine. Your arse–mine. That cunt that’s going to take my knot like a good little omega should–mine. So y’r gonna get y’r things, and y’r gonna move them into my quarters, and then we’re gonna go get supper, and y’r gonna shut y’r fuckin’ mouth.”

“I hate you. You’re the biggest son of a bitch I have ever met in my entire life, you are exactly the kind of asshole I knew you would be, you are no different than I thought. You’re a terrible, awful, horrible–”

“I can smell you,” Simon snaps. “Don’t try to be fuckin’ smart with me, I can smell how wet your cunt is, so why don’t you just be a good girl and do as I say?”

You bare your teeth a little, and Simon sticks a gloved thumb into your mouth. Without thinking, you relax. You suck it into your mouth and sigh, and Simon rubs his thumb against your tongue, shutting you up nice and well. He traces your teeth with it, and you start to cry. You cry because you don’t know why you can’t fight. Your grip his forearm, but your nails won’t dig. Your feet are planted to the ground, and you can’t move. Your mouth sucks, and he pushes, and you’re frozen here.

He knows what to do. Doesn’t he taste so good?

He seems to like your teary eyes. The big, fat tears. His eyes crinkle, and you know he’s smiling, and you wish you could rip that expression off his face, but all that stares back at you is death. Simon growls, and every bit of resistance in you fails. Slow, like molasses, your knees buckle, and he catches you. He pets your mouth, and when he leans in and presses his mouth to your ear, all you can do is cry.

“That’s it. Good kitty.”

NEXT

[cherokeeseebalack]

Making a Chocolate Mirror Glaze

[i-cried-and-i-was-in-the-impala]

Making a Chocolate Mirror Glaze

[lovebugism]

i feel like eddie doesn’t seem himself as “hot” but obviously you do. you’re on your way to a pool party and steve’s and he walks out in just swim trunks asking if he looks okay (they were thrifted and he’s just making sure they fit correctly okay 🥹). y’all barely even make it to steve’s because you can’t get over how GOOD this man looks.

you're so real for this anon. ty for requesting :D — the one where eddie munson has no idea how pretty he is (established relationship, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of body insecurity and allusions to smut 18+ | 1.1k)

Eddie stands in the corner of your bedroom, before the full-length mirror propped against the wall, and pokes himself once in the stomach. The pale, pudgy skin there dips under his pointer finger before bouncing back in place. He can’t stop looking at his tummy, which sits just barely over the hem of his swim trunks. 

It’s hardly noticeable. Nothing anyone else would bother looking twice at. But to him, it’s so distressingly obvious that the sight alone makes his chest ache.

“Do these look okay?” Eddie mumbles absentmindedly, not looking back at you as he runs his ringed fingers under the elastic edge of the plain black shorts. The gesture is obviously an anxious one — like, if he does it enough times, maybe he can stretch it out a bit. (It hasn’t quite worked for him yet.)

Your silence is palpable and hardly encouraging. 

Eddie looks at you over his shoulder, deep brown eyes glimmering with melted chocolate and distant worry, half-hidden behind his wild curls. He finds you lying in the middle of your bed — with your head in your palms and your feet kicked up behind you — staring right at him.

Your eyes meet. You blink hard, face burning as your glazed-over gaze regains its life once more. “Hm?” you hum, then clear your throat.

Eddie’s lips quirk faintly upward. A mere flicker of a smile at your coyness. “I asked if these looked okay.”

You look him up and down to admire his form, (which you’d been doing the entire time, in truth, only now you’ve got the go-ahead for your unabashed leering.) 

Your boy is a tower of milky white quartz — full of lanky limbs, fading tattoos, and dustings of sparse hair. As far as you’re concerned, Eddie Munson was carved by Michaelangelo himself. A hand-crafted sculpture lost to time who somehow wormed his way into your heart and Forest Hills trailer park alike. 

Your eyes trail from his pretty face, to his long neck, to the black widow tattooed on his collarbone. They land finally on the happy trail below his belly button that disappears into his swim shorts. 

Your breath catches in your throat. You swallow hard and try to come up with something to say as your brain short-circuits.

“Yeah. Yeah, they look— they look great, Eds,” you stammer, rising from your lounged position on the bed to sit along the edge of it. You squeeze your thighs together when a dull throbbing settles suddenly between them. “Do they fit okay?”

Eddie, unaware of your blossoming desire, turns away. He looks back at his reflection, and his eyes fall immediately to his stomach. He runs his pointer fingers under the hem of the shorts and pretends it does something. Though, it doesn’t change how much of his torso is on display just now. Or how pale his lanky legs are after being hidden all summer season.

“I think so,” he murmurs with an unconvincing waver to his voice. He shifts his weight on his bare feet and caves. “I don’t know— I think I’m just gonna change.” 

You rise from the squeaking mattress. The oversized tee you’re using as a makeshift cover-up floods your smaller form. You catch the boy’s wrist before he can reach for the clothes he left in a pile on your floor. 

“You promised you weren’t gonna wear jeans!” you protest in a playful whine.

Eddie meets your pout with a more exaggerated one — brows twisted, nose scrunched, mouth snarled.  “I know, but I hate these,” he says with a louder whine.

“I don’t want you to get heat stroke and die,” you confess, mousy and obviously sarcastic, as you fall into the boy’s bare chest. 

You wrap both arms around his waist and rest your chin on his sternum, blinking up at him with pretty, glittering eyes. You can smell the floral shampoo in his hair from here, and the musky cologne on his neck you bought for him last Christmas.

Eddie cups your cheeks with softly calloused palms. “Good to know,” he quips with a lopsided smile that he then kisses you with. The crooked grin tastes faintly of nicotine and boy — a nostalgic feeling more than a real flavor.

“I’m serious, Eds,” you tell him with a stern glint in your eyes, chin bobbing against his chest with every word. “They look great on you, okay? Cross my heart.”

His chest sparkles at the compliment. Warms so much it starts to hurt all over again. 

And it’s not that he thinks you’re lying, he just wishes he believed you more. Or that he could see himself through your eyes or something. They always get so squishy around the edges when you look at him — with an adoration he doesn’t know he deserves.

“You’d tell me if I look like an idiot, though, right?” he wonders, half-joking.

“I tell you you look like an idiot all the time,” you deadpan, equally half-joking.

That gets a laugh out of him. “Fair enough,” the boy nods with a quiet chuckle.

“But I like these. Seriously. You should wear them,” you advise firmly and step back from him. Eddie mourns the warmth of your body when only your hands reach out to touch him. “And you can blame them for making us late…”

Eddie’s brows furrow at the mischievous lilt in your voice. “We don’t have to be at Steve’s for another, like, fifteen minutes,” he insists with a breathy laugh that gets caught in his throat when your hand dips under the hem of his swim trunks. “Oh?” he hums with a crooked smile.

You nod with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. The fuzzy hair of his happy trail tickles the soft skin of your fingertips. His skin is soft and warm and inviting. Your hand starts to ache with the longing to feel him completely.

Eddie forgets how to breathe when you cup his stiffening cock in your supple palm. His eyes go heavy as his pink mouth falls softly agape. “Oh…” he repeats, deeper and more far away this time.

You grin in the face of his distant pleasure, which you seem to give him with little effort now (like a total fucking minx.) Eddie’s chest twists at the roguish twinkle in your eye. He knows he’s surely in for it now, but he doesn’t mind it. He yearns for it, really.

He only hopes that Steve won’t mind either — when the two of you show up at his place a half hour or more late, mussed with an obvious pleasure and reeking of it just the same.

[hellishjoel]

secret recipe

581 words / pairing: joel miller x f!reader

← masterlist | notifications blog | seasons of life challenge masterlist

word: hot chocolate

warnings/information: secret relationship, implied age gap, fluff, descriptions of food

a/n: this is my roommate/besties hot chocolate recipe and you must try it!! we've had it everyday for a week and it's so damn good! puts me in a happy winter mood <3 my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!

It’s warm, swirling in your mouth and spreading across your tastebuds like wildfire. It’s sweeter than you expected, leaving you wanting more.

“Mm, Joel,” you moan softly, eyes fluttering open after a blissful first taste. “This hot chocolate is amazing. Definitely better homemade. All my parents ever did was warm up a cup of milk in the microwave, then pour one of those Swiss Miss hot chocolate packets into it. This is delicious.”

Joel’s warm, deep chuckle fills his small kitchen as he slowly stirs the hot chocolate with a ladle. The whisk lies forgotten on the spoon rest, watching as he fills his owl mug with the sweet chocolate liquid.

“I can’t take all the credit. Sarah stirred it up one night and taught me how to make it. Now, whenever she’s visiting from school, I make it for her in the winter. Pretty good, huh?” He raises his brown-amber glazed mug to your navy blue one in a cheers, both of you letting out a satisfied sigh after the sip.

The hot chocolate rests warm in your stomach and mellows your entire body temperature.

“Mm,” you hum with more in your mouth, quick to swallow it down. “Do you have mini marshmallows?”

Joel tuts, a playful smirk on his lips as he already starts walking towards the pantry. “Do I have mini marshmallows.. course I do.”

And with that, he’s sprinkling a handful of white marshmallowy fluff into your mug, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You’re so happy you could burst, your legs dangling as you sit on the countertop doing little kicks of joy.

This is damn near perfect. Joel in his green and orange flannel, you in your sneakers, your eyes dazzling as you draw him in for another soft kiss.

Damn near. Like, your best friend is upstairs getting ready with no idea that you’re down here kissing her dad. Damn near.

“I’m ready!” Sarah’s voice bellows from the stairs. As soon as her footsteps are in earshot, you’re off the counter and Joel is at the farthest point in the kitchen.

He sends you an apologetic smile, one that you mirror.

“Thanks for that recipe, Mr. Miller.” After another long sip, you share the mug with Sarah who smiles around the edge of it. “What’s in it again?”

Joel casually shrugs and crosses his arms, his broad body leaning back against the counter. “S’pretty simple. Start with two cups of milk in a saucepan over medium heat. Stir in a tablespoon of sugar, a tablespoon of brown sugar, and two tablespoons of cocoa powder. Once it’s warm and whisked together, add a quarter cup of chocolate chips and two tablespoons of milk chocolate. Let that melt and blend together, then stir in a teaspoon of vanilla extract right at the end. Keep stirring until it’s smooth and creamy—don’t let it boil. That’s it. Perfect hot chocolate, every time.”

[fullcravings]

Chocolate Raspberry Mousse Cake

[aventurineswife]

Hello again! I was wondering if you could make a pastry reader.

Which makes them mostly try their desserts until one day they are given a dessert inspired by them, for example; Aventurine = It would be a small vanilla cake with chocolate and blackberry and strawberry filling.

Just to give an example, with the characters Aventurine, Sampo, Childe and Kaeya (separated). Take your time!

-🩵

Inspired by You

Tags: Childe x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Kaeya x Reader, Sampo x Reader, Fluff, Lighthearted Romance, Lighthearted, Pastry Chef!Reader, Playful Banter, Hidden Vulnerabilities.

(Header credit)

It had started with a simple request.

"Just a little something to brighten the day!" Childe had said, leaning casually against the counter where you worked. He always had that mischievous gleam in his eyes, like he knew something you didn’t. You had become used to his presence in the bakery, coming and going with his usual swagger, always asking for something new, something bold, something that would surprise him. Today was no different.

“Do you have anything... intense?" he asked, his smirk unwavering.

Intense? It was a word you could easily work with. You nodded and began to prepare the dessert—something wild and dangerous, much like Childe himself. You wanted to capture his essence in pastry form. The result: a dark chocolate torte filled with a rich, blackberry-strawberry compote and finished with a hint of vanilla bean cream. It was decadent, layered with complexity, and every bite burst with a different flavor, just like Childe’s unpredictable nature.

When you handed it to him, he raised an eyebrow. “This... this is for me?”

“You asked for something intense.” you replied with a playful grin.

He took a bite, and his face lit up with that familiar grin. “Not bad, pastry chef. It’s got layers... I like it. Bold, but sweet.” He paused, eyes glinting. “Just like me, huh?”

“Maybe," you said with a wink. "But you’ll have to try more of it to find out."

The sweet aroma of pastries filled the cozy bakery as you carefully arranged trays of desserts, each one crafted with precision. Aventurine, who had come in to visit you between meetings, watched with his usual amused smile, one hand resting on the counter. He loved tasting your creations, and you enjoyed surprising him with new flavors each time.

Today, however, you had prepared something truly special. "I have something just for you," you said, smiling as you set a small cake before him. The cake was adorned with a delicate chocolate glaze, and inside, layers of vanilla, blackberry, and strawberry hinted at a decadent surprise.

Aventurine raised an eyebrow, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. "Inspired by me, hmm? I didn't know I was worthy of such treatment," he teased, running a finger along the glaze before taking a careful bite.

The flavors unfolded slowly—smooth vanilla balanced with rich chocolate, and the tartness of blackberry and strawberry that left an unexpected zing. He paused, caught off guard by the mix of sweetness and slight bitterness, a taste that somehow mirrored the guarded depths he kept hidden.

"You’ve outdone yourself," he finally said, his smile softer, almost reflective. "Sweet, a touch bitter, and altogether surprising... I’d say you captured me quite well." He took another bite, savoring the thoughtfulness behind the cake as much as the flavor itself.

In that quiet moment, it felt like he was lowering his mask, just for you. And as you watched him, you realized that perhaps a simple dessert could reveal the hidden depths of someone you thought you knew so well.

(Header credit)

After weeks of watching Kaeya sample your treats with his usual charm, you finally set your sights on something special. You prepare a caramel tart with salted almonds, accented with a drizzle of dark chocolate—complex, balanced, and just a bit indulgent.

When you hand it to him, Kaeya raises a brow, a smirk playing at his lips. "You really do know how to get my attention, don’t you?" he murmurs, bringing it up to his lips for a small, thoughtful bite.

He lets out a pleased hum, clearly savoring it. "Ah, a perfect mix of sweetness and bite. I think you’ve outdone yourself this time," he says, his voice softer than usual. "Dare I ask what inspired this masterpiece?"

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Just something… layered, with a bit of a hidden edge. Thought it suited you."

He chuckles, leaning closer. "You’re quite the charmer," he says, his fingers brushing yours briefly. "Perhaps I’ll need to return the favor someday." His words carry a promise, and you wonder just how many layers there are to him, waiting to be revealed.

The bustling bakery quieted as Sampo strolled in with his usual carefree grin, tipping an imaginary hat in your direction. "Fancy seeing you here! You got anything for a tired traveler like me?" he asked, his eyes glinting with mischief.

You smirked, setting down a treat that had been prepared with him in mind. "As a matter of fact, yes. Here’s something inspired by you." you said, revealing a tart topped with fresh mint leaves, chocolate shavings, and a dusting of powdered sugar. Inside, the tart held a mix of light cream and hints of citrus—a refreshing and vibrant combination that seemed fitting.

Sampo’s eyes lit up as he leaned in, sniffing appreciatively. "Inspired by me, you say? You sure know how to charm a guy." Without hesitation, he took a large bite, savoring the blend of rich cream and zesty citrus, the mint adding a touch of surprise. He let out a satisfied hum.

"This is fantastic," he declared with a wink. "Just the right amount of sweet and a hint of bite. But are you saying I'm a little... tart?"

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Well, you do have that sharpness beneath the charm."

Sampo laughed, a genuine sound that softened his usual sharp demeanor. He took another bite, glancing up at you with a rare, thoughtful expression. "Y’know, not many people go to this much trouble for me." He leaned in, lowering his voice with that signature smirk. "Better be careful, or you’ll make me feel... special."

You felt your cheeks warm as he took another bite, clearly enjoying every bit. And in that small exchange, it was as if the tart, like Sampo himself, had revealed something sweet beneath its complex layers.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hello i love your word lists and i was wondering if i could request one specifically for baking! i need title inspo for a story i'm writing :)

Some Baking Vocabulary

Aeration - the treatment of batter or dough by charging with air to produce increase in volume

Ancient grains - all whole grains are considered ancient because we are able to trace their roots back to the beginning of time

Caramelization - cooking sugar until it’s brown or golden

Chocolate - from the Aztec word xocolatl, meaning "bitter water"; a food derived from the cacao bean fermented, dried, roasted, ground and processed into cocoa powder; a liquor used to make a variety of chocolate products

Citron - the sweetened rind of a fruit

Clarify - to make a substance clear or pure

Courverture chocolate - high quality chocolate used for tempering and glossy coating

Crescent rolls - crescent-shaped bread rolls having a flaky texture

Crushing - formation of dry crust on surface of doughs due to evaporation of water from the surface

Currant - the acidulous berry of a shrub, usually dried and dark in colour

Essences - aromatic compounds used for flavouring confectionery; can be natural or synthetic, or blends of both

Ganache - a rich, smooth mixture of chocolate and cream is used as a filling, frosting, or glaze

Genaese - fatless sponge cake used as base in decorated cakes

Glaze - coat a dessert with a liquid, like melted chocolate, mirror glaze, sugar glaze, etc.

Hearth bread - yeast bread baked in round, oval or free form on hot, flat baking surfaces in an oven

Liqueur - spirits sweetened with sugar and flavoured with essences, fruit juice, or essential oils

Macerate - to soak the fruit in liquid, often sugar or alcohol, to soften it and enhance its flavor

Marble - creating a swirl effect by incorporating two doughs or batters of different colors or flavors together

Mise en Place - a French term meaning “everything in its place,” referring to the preparation and organization of ingredients before baking

Molasses - light to dark brown syrup obtained in making cane sugar

Old dough - yeast dough that is overproofed; dough may have tripled in volume and fallen

Oven spring - the rapid rise of bread dough during the first few minutes of baking due to the expansion of gas bubbles; critical for achieving a good loaf volume and a light, airy crumb

Petit fours - small fancy cakes that can be placed in the mouth in one piece

Plaiting - the weaving of one or more ropes of dough into an ordered design

Ramekin - a small dish made of glass or ceramic that is used for serving baked goods like custards, cakes, souffles, and more

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: Word Lists

So glad to hear this, thank you! Hope this helps with your search. Would love to read your work if it does. Otherwise, you could go through the sources, perhaps I wasn't able to include the right word/phrase for you. Also have more food-related posts here :)

[devildom-enthusiast]

Working During The Holidays | Lucifer x Reader

1.1k words | GN! Reader | CW: None

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Christmas time was never an easy time for Lucifer. It’s when most students in RAD get into trouble. Fist fights, pranks, and just more general chaos that would all end up either as students in his office or as paperwork on his desk. He would take more work from Diavolo during these times, knowing the Prince would want to join the festivity. Lucifer wouldn’t be able to stand the look on his face or the constant complaining that made his head pound and ache. 

Until they showed up, their entire being seemed to light up the House at all times. It was close to midnight on Christmas Eve. His eyes began to glaze over, stacks of paperwork blurring into one giant pile. His head had a dull ache that didn’t seem to want to leave. Lucifer rubbed at his temples, trying to blink the sleepiness away. It didn’t seem to work. He reached for his cup of coffee, the fifth one today, yet it was empty. 

Still, so much to do and so little time. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the lack of light would ease the ache that was pounding in his skull like his brain was trying to claw its way out. Creak. His door slowly opened, a familiar face poking their head in. Their face fell, noting his exhausted expression and the recognizable look of when Lucifer was about to collapse. 

MC entered the room with a disappointed expression, which would typically be mirrored on Lucifer, but he was too tired to care about them judging him. As Lucifer went to reach for his pen, MC got to it first. 

“Absolutely not. You’re coming with me. Now.” Lucifer was secretly grateful but knew he needed to finish this work. 

MC grabbed his hand, held it gently, and rubbed circles on the palm. Their eyes seemed to sparkle with a light that never seemed to dim. He scooted his chair back slowly, and they hugged him tight, breathing in the rich scent of his cologne. He rested his chin atop their head, simply enjoying being able to hold them so close.

Being with them made him feel more awake, more alive. They pulled awake first, which slightly disappointed him, but one look into their eyes made him feel guilty. They gave him those puppy-dog eyes that MC knew always worked on him. They squeezed his hand the slightest bit, a pleading gesture. When he went to stand, and the black dots clouded his vision, he knew he definitely needed some rest.

He made it to the door without stumbling, but he was exhausted. MC walked beside him, hand in hand. The hallway was festive, but the bright red and green lights worsened his headache. Once in his room, they gently pushed him toward the bed, silently telling him to lie down. As Lucifer stumbled toward the bed, MC was beside him, having magicked two cups of hot chocolate. MC put one on Lucifer’s nightstand and kept the other.

As they both got comfortable, MC pulled the blanket around both of them, keeping warm and cozy. Lucifer patted around the bed, searching for the remote, his face a frown when he couldn’t find it. However, the frown softened when he looked toward MC, who was holding the remote with a teasing.

“You really are mischievous.” Lucifer murmured with a soft shake of his head while MC’s grin widened.

They rested their head on his shoulder as the TV turned on, and they searched for Christmas movies to watch. Lucifer pulled them closer, resting his face in their hair and inhaling their fruity shampoo scent. He truly loved them. He was honestly glad that he had to work; he didn’t want to deal with his brothers’ antics. 

As MC settled on a movie, Lucifer tilted their chin up with his index finger, gazing into their eyes with love and devotion in his. Then, he kissed them softly and with all the love and care he could put into it. Once MC broke away, their face was bright red. They buried their face in their hands with a sappy smile they didn’t want him to see. He peeled their hands away, though, and had his own soft, sappy smile.

Being so exhausted made him feel softer. Not that he wasn’t soft with them, but just in general. He almost gave Mammon a free pass earlier; just the thought of it made him wrinkle his nose. His brothers always seemed to take advantage of his kindness, so having someone like MC was nice. He knows his brothers never truly mean harm, but… this was about MC and him, not his brothers. 

The movie was playing, but Lucifer wasn’t fully paying attention; he was just watching MC’s face and thinking about how amazing they looked today. He felt quite lucky that they liked him and he could be with them for as long as possible. A particularly funny moment made them smile so happily. They really were his sun, his light, his everything. He hated to be overbearing but… he let out a soft sigh while continuing to admire their features.

“Come on, watch the movie, not just me.” MC teased, and he blinked back to reality, a slight blush coloring his face.

“Can I not admire a fine piece of art?” MC’s face went redder than his, an embarrassed grin growing. 

They didn’t respond, perhaps too embarrassed by his compliment. Lucifer’s eyelids began to feel heavier and heavier the longer he tried to stay awake. He didn’t want to fall asleep during the movie, but it seemed his body was shutting down. Finally, his eyes shut, and he was pulled into a restful slumber. When he awoke, it was early morning, and MC was nowhere to be seen. 

He pulled the Christmas-themed blanket off and stood, slightly disoriented from having just woken up. As he left his room, he noticed a light shining from underneath his office door. He felt a flicker of anger, assuming one of his brothers was trying to set up some prank or bother him more, but when he opened the polished door, MC was seated at his mahogany polished desk, working on the paperwork he should have gotten done last night.

Once they glanced up, a nervous smile bloomed, as if they got caught doing something they shouldn’t be doing.

“Darling, are you-” Lucifer got cut off by MC’s nervous blurting.

“Yeah, I felt bad you looked so tired so I thought I would do it..” MC trailed off, unsure if they had messed things up.

“Thank you..” It was genuine thanks; he truly hadn’t expected that from them.

“Go get some coffee or breakfast, then you can come back.” MC was being quite bossy, but Lucifer just agreed and left the room, unaware of the fact that MC had completed all of his paperwork, leaving time for the both of them to celebrate the holiday.