jawsoffate

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part XI (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

So sorry for not updating in a while, college has been kicking my ass these days, but here we go <3 taglist: @seabasscevans

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI

Part XI: For Academic Purposes Only

Emma was awake in the middle of the night. The clock read 2:13 AM, and the silence in the apartment felt far too heavy for her. Sleep wouldn’t come, and her mind was spinning with thoughts and feelings she didn’t even know how to name.

With a sigh, she grabbed her laptop from the table beside the bed and opened the book document. Maybe putting it all on the page – or the screen – would help clear her head. Her fingers began to type, tentative at first, then more boldly.

It was a different scene from the ones she’d been writing the past few days: this time, her characters were sharing a moment of intimacy, a whispered conversation full of glances that said more than words. Delicate details, soft touches, hesitations, and small gestures that made hearts race.

As Emma wrote, Vessel – completely invisible to her – was sitting on the bed beside her, reading every word with wide eyes.

The cursor blinked slowly on the screen, pacing her rhythm. She described a hand reaching out, fingers brushing gently against the character’s neck. Then, held breaths, hesitant touch, intense gazes filled with unspoken questions. A near-kiss interrupted by hesitation, by doubt, by fear of ruining everything.

Vessel leaned in slightly, almost hypnotized.

The way she wrote... there was something raw and unguarded in it. It wasn’t just sensual – it was emotional. Intimate. So different from the sarcasm with which she usually faced the world. And so far beyond the boundaries he, a being from hell with a questionable reputation, knew how to navigate.

He tried to laugh. Tried to turn that strange warmth in his chest into mockery. But the laugh didn’t come.

“You really have… that ability?” he thought. “To imagine these things. To… want them?”

Emma bit her lip, unaware – or unfazed – that she was being watched. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, her fingers flying freely over the keys. She wrote about intertwined hands, synchronized breaths, bodies drawn to each other by need, not whim. Desire, yes… but with affection. With curiosity. With fear of getting hurt, yet still moving forward.

And it hit him like a calm punch to the gut.

He wasn’t supposed to care. She was just a random human with a vivid imagination, a looming deadline, and sleepless nights. But seeing – feeling – Emma through those words, that open… it made him vulnerable. And vulnerability was the opposite of everything he stood for.

She sighed, and he felt the sound as if it had been made against his own skin.

Vessel didn’t move. He just watched.

Emma kept writing, unaware of the presence lingering around her. The bedside lamp cast a golden glow on her skin, highlighting the faint sheen of sweat on her temple, her eyes slightly glassy – not from sadness, but from deep concentration. As if every word she typed came straight from her heart, unfiltered.

And the words... the words spoke of touch. She imagined these things. Maybe she missed them.

Vessel felt a strange weight in his chest as he realized that. Emma was human. Of course she was. But he had never thought much about what that actually meant. She slept, ate, got annoyed at traffic, laughed too loud at silly videos. And now… he saw she also longed. She felt lonely. She had fantasies. Desires she didn’t share with anyone.

There was heat in her. A kind of heat he didn’t understand. Didn’t know if he wanted to understand.

She paused, staring at the screen. Bit her lower lip, thoughtful. Vessel felt her gaze like a punch in the dark, even though it wasn’t aimed at him. She was returning to that scene... like someone slipping back into a good dream. A safe place.

And he didn’t belong in it. Or... did he?

The thought shook him more than anything else. What could he possibly offer other than chaos, dirty jokes, and sarcastic commentary? But there he was. Watching. Feeling something dangerously close to... jealousy? Curiosity? Lust?

Maybe all of it at once.

She started typing again. Now she described the male character running his fingers down the protagonist’s back, slowly, as if memorizing a map. Vessel swallowed hard, even knowing it was a thoroughly human reaction.

His thoughts were chaos. A demon, millennia old, cornered by a sleepless girl and a Google Doc.

“Ridiculous,” he told himself. But he didn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

She was human. So human. With her desires, her tenderness, her needs hidden under layers of sarcasm and irony. And he, who had always seen humans as predictable, petty, fragile creatures... was now beginning to fall captive to one.

________________

Vessel was acting strange.

Not that he was ever exactly predictable, but... something was different. Fewer snarky comments. Fewer jabs at her newfound addiction to fancy scones or the melancholy playlists she listened to while writing. There was silence.

Lately, he seemed... hesitant.

Like he was always about to say something but stopped himself at the last second. Or like he was avoiding getting too close, even while invisible.

Emma noticed.

At first, she thought it was just in her head. But then came the stares – or rather, the feeling of being watched. And when she spoke to him, sometimes he took a moment to answer. As if distracted. Or trying not to listen.

On Thursday, while editing the part of the chapter where the main couple shared a sweaty kiss in a field of flowers, she paused, feeling that familiar chill.

“You didn’t like the part where the shirt gets pulled off with the teeth?”, she asked aloud, smiling at the screen.

Silence.

“Vessel?”

More silence.

Then he answered, voice low and almost hoarse:

“It’s... convincing.”

Emma’s eyes widened.

Convincing? That didn’t sound like irony. Didn’t sound like provocation. And definitely didn’t sound sarcastic. Vessel complimenting a romantic scene was like a cat clapping. It just didn’t fit.

She stared at the blinking cursor on the sensual paragraph for a few seconds. But didn’t push. The last time she tried to understand any of the demon’s emotions, he’d spent an hour ranting about how ridiculous it was that humans cried during dog movies.

Still... something wasn’t right.

“Vessel, seriously. You’re being weird. Like, weirder than usual. You’re a constant nightmare, like back pain or unpaid bills.”

Silence. She took a deep breath.

“Because honestly, it’s more disturbing to have you go quiet than to hear your gross jokes about bodily fluids, you know?”

A second of tension. Then, he answered – his voice so close she instinctively stepped back.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Emma frowned. His voice sounded... tense? Or maybe restrained. She’d never heard him like that. Vessel was walking sarcasm, a living avalanche of unsolicited opinions. But now, there was something she couldn’t name.

“Then what is it?”

He hesitated. Then murmured:

“I’m just... trying not to interfere.”

“Interfere with what?”

Silence. And then:

“Your creative process.” His voice again, low, almost casual. But there was tension there, a carefulness in his word choice that she recognized immediately. Like he was walking on broken glass.

She bit the inside of her lip. The silence between them stretched, thick.

“You’re talking about my writing? The scenes?”

“I am.”

“Wow”, she said with a nervous laugh. “You got embarrassed? Since when do demons get shy?”

“I’m not embarrassed”, he replied too quickly. After a beat, he added, “I just thought... it was curious.”

She turned to the window, trying to ignore the sudden heat in her cheeks. Of course he’d read it. Vessel read everything, especially what he wasn’t supposed to. Still, knowing he’d been reading while she wrote those intense scenes made her... unsettled. In a hard-to-define way.

“Didn’t know you were a romance reader, Vessel.”

“I’m not. But you seem... committed.”

Emma let out a breathy laugh, and for a moment, the atmosphere returned to something familiar. But then the tension slipped back in, like a shadow in the corner of the room.

“Do you... want help?”, he asked, suddenly.

She frowned.

“Help? With what?”

Silence. Then he answered, voice lower than usual, each syllable dripping with that venomous, deliberate sarcasm:

“Physical demonstration.”

Emma choked on air.

“What?!”

“You seem to be struggling with sensory descriptions. Touch, reactions, human physiological responses to desire. I could offer... practical assistance. Purely academic, of course.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”, she muttered, staring wide-eyed at the nothingness where he presumably was.

“I believe it could be educational. Demons have different anatomies from humans, and you did say you wanted “authenticity” in your book.”

She jumped up from the couch, suddenly flustered. The room felt too small, too hot.

“You’re just messing with me”, she said, pacing.

“You’re human, Emma. You have desires. It’s not wrong to write about them. Or... explore them.”

She fell silent, trying to make sense of what was happening. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t them. And yet, a part of her – a dangerous, quiet, curious part – wondered what would happen if she said yes.

“Okay, she said softly. Just... a kiss. Her voice was hesitant, shaky. For... curiosity. Strictly academic purposes. Narrative accuracy. Field research. Whatever.”

Still silence.

Emma rushed on, like she needed to justify it to someone—maybe herself.

“It’s just that I’ve never... I mean, if I’m going to write about this, I need to know what it’s like. For real. But just one kiss. That’s it. And if it’s weird, we pretend it never happened. We go back to normal. Right?”

“Just one kiss?” he repeated, his voice husky, like he was testing the promise.

Emma nodded, unable to speak. Her throat dry, her thoughts a mess.

“Academic, he said, tasting the word. Empirical methodology. Got it.”

He moved closer, slowly, like he was crossing some invisible line between the world they knew and something entirely new.

Vessel raised a hand and, with surprising gentleness, touched her face. His thumb brushed her cheek, and Emma realized she was holding her breath.

Then he kissed her.

Vessel’s lips touched hers with a deliberate slowness, like every second mattered. There was no rush, no teasing. He moved with reverent precision, as if uncovering an ancient secret that should never be spoken.

Emma kissed him back without thinking, forgetting every academic excuse. Her hands clenched against his chest, fingers trembling on bare skin. He was warm – she would’ve sworn demons were cold – and the heat spread through her body like a current.

Vessel pulled her closer, but didn’t demand. He just held her with that careful, steady touch, like she was something too precious to break.

Time stopped.

When he finally pulled back, it was with clear reluctance. Emma took a deep breath, trying to catch both her air and her senses.

“Okay... that was…”, She ran her fingers across her lips, as if trying to capture the moment. “Enough. Thank you. For the... contribution. Purely scientific.”

Vessel smirked, like he’d just heard a joke.

“Always happy to support research.”

She gave his chest a light push, quick and fleeting.

“Now go back to being unbearable. That’s more familiar.”

He took a step back, still smirking.

“As you wish.”

But Emma knew – and so did he – that nothing was the same.

Nothing would go back to exactly the way it was before.

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part X (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X

Part X: So… Demons Have Sex?

Earlier that week, Emma sat with Isla and Harper at the college cafeteria table, the hum of student chatter and the smell of fresh coffee filling the air. They were finishing lunch when Isla, with a mischievous grin, decided to stir things up.

“So, Emma... how was the date with Oliver?” Isla asked, flipping her hair.

Emma nearly choked on her juice. For a second, she wanted to flee, but her two friends were already watching, waiting for her answer.

“It was... normal,” she said, trying to sound casual while attempting not to recall the grumpy Vessel criticizing her every move at dinner.

“Normal?” Harper raised an eyebrow. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Emma gave a sheepish smile. Beside her, Vessel twisted midair and crossed his arms.

“Normal? It was a gastronomic disaster,” he muttered disapprovingly.

Emma shot him a quick glance and continued, “He’s nice, you know? Polite, friendly, tried to make conversation and all that. But he eats in this... really loud way. Like, mouth open, chewing like he’s alone in his kitchen at 3 a.m.”

Isla cringed. “Ew! No one deserves that.”

Harper laughed. “Well, at least he was straightforward, right?”

“Straightforward? He was like a chewing machine with a microphone. Worse than trying to ignore a rock band inside your head. Emma, is your friend okay?” — Vessel said.

Emma nodded – to Vessel – and replied to her friends, “Yeah, and he didn’t even notice I was dying of secondhand embarrassment. And every time he talked, all I could think was how nice it’d be if Vessel handled him. But nooo, the demon just kept roasting me in my head, as usual.”

Harper’s eyes widened. “Who’s Vessel?”

Emma hesitated for a moment, biting her lip, trying to come up with a not-too-revealing explanation. “Uh... he’s kind of a voice in my head,” she said, a bit embarrassed. “Like a... I don’t know, a critical inner voice? Always throwing sarcastic commentary.”

“That’s what I’ve become? Your inner critic? I am so much more than that,” Vessel huffed.

Emma shot him another glance and kept going, trying to sound nonchalant, “It’s nothing supernatural, just... a habit I have of overanalyzing everything.”

Isla gave her a knowing smile. “Oh, I get it. Like that little voice that never stops judging?”

“Exactly,” Emma nodded, relieved she didn’t have to go into details. “Sometimes it’s helpful, sometimes it’s just annoying.”

Harper laughed. “Must be hard to date with that voice in your head.”

Emma gave a crooked smile. “It was exactly like that. He tried to be nice, but Vessel wouldn’t shut up about every move he made, and I tried to ignore it. But the conversation just didn’t flow, you know? And the way he ate... well, let’s just say Vessel wasn’t the only one bothered.”

“I told you it’d be a disaster. Torture, really.” Vessel made a dramatic “I told you so” gesture.

Emma shook her head. “Anyway, I think I’ll take a break before going on another date. I need some silence in my head and to finish this book for my final project.”

Isla and Harper chuckled. “We get it,” Isla said. “And if you ever need us, we’re here.”

Emma smiled, grateful she could count on her friends – even if her “inner critic” remained very much present and invisible to everyone but her.

___________________

One week later, Emma had not achieved any sort of spiritual enlightenment, but at least her legs had stopped aching. Sitting on the couch, she stared at the blank document on her laptop like it was a portal to another dimension.

“Okay, here we go: what’s it like being a demon?”

He couldn’t have sighed more dramatically if he tried. “It’s basically like being a government employee in the underworld. Just with fewer vacation days.”

Emma rolled her eyes and started typing. “Right. So you have a boss?”

“I do. But he’s on an infernal retreat at the moment. Inverted meditation, closed-chamber screaming... that kind of thing.”

“Fascinating,” she muttered. “And do you guys have, like... traditions? Infernal Christmas? Dinner with tortured souls?”

“Actually, we do Secret Santa. Last year’s prize was a skull signed by Elvis.”

Emma stopped typing and looked at him. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. There was a fight over it, too.”

She blinked and sighed. “Okay. Next question: do you really have an HR department? And do angels apply to work in Hell?”

Vessel slowly turned toward her. “Of course we have HR. Officially it’s called Hyperdimensional Relations. It’s a whole floor. Packed with tie-wearing demons and beige-blazered angels. Pure chaos. They do team-building exercises on Mondays and serve terrible coffee.”

“And the angels?”

“Oh, they’re always showing up with resumes, thinking they’re going to be revolutionaries. ‘I want to bring empathy to the emotional torture division,’ you know?” he said, voice dripping with fake sweetness.

“And do you hire them?”

“Of course not. They’re terrible at sarcasm. And they never follow the dress code. One of them tried to wear Crocs into Sector Seven’s volcano. Offensive.”

“Okay, next,” she said, taking a deep breath. “What’s the biggest lie you’ve ever spread on Earth?”

Vessel took a moment, thinking. “That meetings that could be emails are actually necessary. That was us. A modern classic.”

She smacked the keyboard like she’d just had a divine revelation. “That’s just evil.”

“I know,” he replied, shamelessly amused.

“Alright, now we’re getting into more... delicate territory,” she said. “The question is: do demons... have romantic relationships?”

He tilted his head, and she could practically see him raising a brow. “You mean, like, dating? Posting selfies with captions like ‘my literal soulmate’? That kind of thing?”

Emma stifled a laugh. “It’s a valid question! I need this for the book, to develop the character realistically. And that means I need to know about emotional connections, romantic involvement, steamy kisses during the apocalypse... for research.”

“Sure,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Some demons date. Others have contractual marriages with symbolic sacrifice clauses. And some only hook up with entities who speak ancient Latin and enjoy haunting humans.”

Emma opened a new tab and began furiously taking notes. “Okay, okay... and do you guys kiss? Like... with mouths?”

“No, with elbows. Emma, please.”

“It’s a valid question!”

Vessel sighed, long and dramatic. “Yes, we kiss. But since we deal with multiple physical forms, sometimes a kiss feels more like astral fusion. There was this couple once who blew up half a French cemetery during their first kiss. It was romantic. And mildly radioactive.”

Emma stared into space, equal parts fascinated and horrified. “And... do you fall in love?”

“Some do. Others prefer emotional distance. But passion, for us, is... intense. Could involve spontaneous levitation, accidental possessions, cursed poetry and... other things.”

“That’s... intense. And... do you guys have sex?”

Vessel didn’t answer right away. “Ah, finally the question that’s been itching to come out.”

“Research is research,” she said, lifting her chin with as much dignity as she could manage.

“Yes, we have sex. But not exactly like on your plane. Less about sheets and more about collapsing energy fields. Sometimes there are ritual chants. Sometimes, just a sad harmonica playlist.”

Emma spat out the sip of tea she’d just taken. “A sad harmonica?!”

“It’s a kink for some demons, don’t judge.”

She burst out laughing, forehead hitting the keyboard. “Oh my God.”

“He’s a tough one to explain to,” Vessel added.

“This is genius,” she said.

“I should be getting royalties.”

Emma was still laughing as she went back to typing. The once-blank page now came alive with carefully documented absurdities.

She looked at Vessel, floating nearby with his usual expression. “Hey, if you can touch things... can you make yourself visible to other people? Like, not just me?”

“I can. I just don’t like to. Being visible has consequences, you know? Panic, seizures, maybe some interior design damage.”

Emma paused, thinking. “But can’t you control that? Be visible only when you want? Maybe change your appearance? Can demons shapeshift?”

He gave a crooked smile. “Yes, I can. But being visible means dealing with curious stares, screaming, and people wanting selfies. I prefer the peace of invisibility.”

Emma raised a brow. “Do you think you could appear just once when we go out? So I don’t look like I’m talking to myself like a lunatic?”

Vessel paused, considering. “Hmm... difficult. That would require planning. And energy. And picking an outfit.”

“You don’t wear outfits. You wear a cloak. And weird shoes.”

“Exactly. So imagine the effort of planning a whole look just to follow you to the grocery store?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Just throw on a hoodie.”

She crossed her arms. “One day I will make you show up. Even if it’s just on Halloween.”

Vessel smirked. “There it is. An appropriate date. When people will think I’m just another guy in heavy makeup.”

“Then it’s a deal. On Halloween, you’re coming with me. Dressed as... I don’t know. A vampire?”

“Vampires are so dramatic. Absolutely not. I’ll be a retired soul accountant.”

“Oh, that’s going to be so fun.”

“You and I have very different definitions of ‘fun,’ Emma.”

She smiled and went back to typing. “Lucky for you, I’m the one writing this story.”

“Lucky or cursed, still undecided.”

[jawsoffate]

I need an omegaverse ii x reader.

Not even going on anon for that.😂

(No pressure. At all. Whatsoever. ♡♡♡)

i want to write an omegaverse ii SO BAD for like weeks and i'll definitely do it as soon as i end diabolically yours first

also, ii just has a dom aura, doesn't he??!.... or is it just me...

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part IX (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX

Part IX: From Date Night to Downward Dog

Emma opened the apartment door with more force than necessary; the heel of her left shoe caught on the entry rug and she nearly fell flat on her face. She managed to steady herself, but not without muttering a quiet curse. With a dramatic sigh, she tossed her bag onto the couch, kicked off her shoes like they were responsible for the downfall of civilization, and marched straight to the kitchen.

Everything about her screamed frustration, from the strands of hair falling into her face to the zipper on her dress that kept poking her every time she bent down to grab the wine opener from the drawer.

"Never again," she said to no one, opening the fridge and pulling out a half-forgotten bottle of white wine from the back. "Never again am I going on a date. If I wanted to watch someone chew like a cow having an existential crisis, I’d put on a nature documentary."

The pop of the cork was almost therapeutic. She poured the glass like she was pouring out the liquid disappointment of the night. She took a long sip, only then realizing she was still in the dress. Rolling her eyes, she headed to the bedroom, swapping it for an old sweatshirt with a cat print and a pair of sleep shorts.

When she returned to the kitchen, a pizza box had magically appeared on the counter.

"I swear to everything that’s holy, if this is a hallucination—" Emma began.

"It’s not," said a familiar, lazy voice.

Vessel was sitting on one of the living room sofas with a crumpled napkin balanced between his fingers. He wore the blasé expression of someone who viewed existence with deep skepticism.

Emma grabbed a slice of pizza, dropped the wine glass on the counter, and looked at him like she was stuck in a prison cell with a chatty bunkmate.

"I don’t know what was worse: him comparing Ursula Le Guin to linguine or the sound of his chewing. I can still hear that cursed rice echoing in my skull."

"You know, there are demons specialized in auditory torture? Open-mouth chewing is top three. Just behind fork scraping on plates and electronic music at seven in the morning."

Emma bit into the pizza with rage, chewing like it was a declaration of war.

"I tried, I swear I tried. Tried to focus on the content of the conversation, the good intentions... But how is anyone supposed to be attracted to someone who pronounces ‘Le Guin’ like it’s pasta?"

"No one is. Not even in hell. And trust me, the bar is way lower down there."

Emma let out a short laugh, despite herself. She sat on the kitchen counter with her legs crossed, holding the pizza in one hand and the wine glass in the other.

"You know what’s worse? Part of me feels guilty for being bothered by all of this. Like... maybe I should be more patient and give people another chance. Be more open. No one’s perfect."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. Just a little.

"This right here is the peak of my social life. Sitting in the kitchen with pizza and wine, talking to a demon from the underworld that only I can see."

"At least I don’t talk with my mouth full," Vessel said.

"Sad that I can’t argue with that."

Vessel fell silent longer than she expected.

Emma chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the now-almost-cold pizza slice in her hand. The TV was on, but at low volume, playing some ridiculous reality show neither of them was really watching. The light in the room felt softer than usual, like the world had turned itself down so she could breathe.

"You know it’s not your fault, right?" Vessel finally said.

Emma looked up, surprised by the lack of sarcasm.

"What isn’t?"

"The date. Things going wrong. You don’t have some invisible defect that ruins everything. Some people just... don’t vibe with your frequency."

She hesitated, then set the pizza back in the box and leaned into the couch.

"Sometimes I feel like there’s something wrong with me. It’s not a logical thought, just... a feeling. Like, if no one sticks around, there must be a reason. And what if that reason is me?"

"Or you just don’t have the patience for clueless people. Which, honestly, is fair. Have you seen the state of the world lately?"

Emma gave a small smile, but it faded quickly.

"I try so hard to seem normal, to not be weird, to not scare people off... but after a while, it gets exhausting."

She looked at her own hands like they might hold some kind of answer.

"Have you ever considered that maybe the people asking you to change aren’t worth the effort?"

She turned to face him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone.

"That was... kind."

"I know. I regret it already. Don’t expect it again for a while," he said.

Emma raised her glass in a mock toast.

"To pizza, wine, and demonic honesty. Best combo of the night."

She smiled, truly smiled, feeling a weight lift off her chest. Sometimes, all she needed was to hear those words... even if they came from her personal demon.

________________________

The next day, Emma woke up with a somewhat absurd but determined resolution: it was time to try something “normal.” And so, with a mix of courage and desperation, she signed up for a beginner yoga class. After all, if she was going to work on her social life, it might as well come with some stretching and, who knows, that inner peace everyone pretended to have on social media.

Upon arriving at the studio, the smell of incense and the soft sound of flutes already made Emma question whether she was in the right place or had accidentally joined some sort of mystical cult. She stretched awkwardly and sat down on her mat.

“Okay, just breathe, just breathe,” she muttered to herself.

Not too far away, since he didn’t have the luxury of leaving, Vessel appeared, sitting cross-legged on his own yoga mat.

“Breathe? Honestly, I’d go with a strong dose of caffeine or, I don’t know, a heavy metal playlist to liven up this meditation. This place feels like a funeral,” he muttered, his face clearly unimpressed by all the supposed serenity.

Emma shot a glance toward the nothingness.

“If you keep this up, I’m going to think you’re trying to sabotage me.”

“Never! I’m only trying to ensure this experience doesn’t turn into a tragic comedy.”

The instructor began the class, explaining how to “sync breath with body movement.” Emma tried to follow, but her body seemed determined to ignore every cerebral command.

“Inhale,” the instructor said.

“Brilliant. Very zen,” Vessel muttered.

Emma huffed and tried to focus on her breathing while her hands trembled in position. Beside her, Vessel pretended to execute the pose with exaggerated precision, legs crossed like a Zen master.

“I can literally see your foot floating,” Emma murmured, glaring at him.

“And you’re literally shaking like a gelatin in an earthquake,” he shot back with a lazy smile. “Delightful balance.”

The instructor walked among the mats, correcting postures with a gentle touch and words like “fluidity” and “inner connection.” When she neared Emma, the girl winced involuntarily as her thigh muscle tingled.

“Relax your shoulders,” the instructor said in a voice as sweet as chamomile tea. “And leave your ego outside the mat.”

“Already did. The problem is the demon came in with me,” Emma replied automatically, before realizing she’d said it out loud. A few heads turned. She blushed.

Vessel nearly choked with laughter.

“Even I wouldn’t have been that bold. I’m impressed,” he said.

In the middle of warrior pose, Emma tried to focus on her supporting leg, but her mind wandered, to the half-finished coffee, to the email she needed to answer, and of course, to the demon who insisted on commenting on every movement.

“This is ridiculous,” she whispered, sweating. “If regret could kill, I’d already be in hell.”

“Fully agree,” Vessel said, now lying on the floor like he was on a beach.

During savasana, the final part where everyone lies down as if they’re sleeping, Emma tried to relax. Vessel, of course, was already sprawled beside her, hands behind his head, humming an ironic snippet of Highway to Hell.

“I can’t even have peace with you around, can I?” she whispered with her eyes closed.

“And where’s the fun in that?”

Emma sighed. Maybe the yoga class hadn’t brought her spiritual enlightenment, but at least it would make for a good story. Someday, many years from now.

After forty minutes, the longest of her life, Emma rolled up her mat, feeling every muscle in her body silently protest the torture of the past hour. Beside her, naturally, was Vessel, sitting on the floor cross-legged, yawning dramatically.

“You survived,” he said. “For someone who barely knew how to breathe properly, it wasn’t a total disaster.”

“Thank God you’re here to remind me,” Emma replied, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Because I almost thought I’d be kicked out for causing a disturbance.”

“Disturbance? You were the star of the show. If clumsiness were a sport, you’d take home the gold,” Vessel commented, that devilish grin on his face.

Emma gave a tired smile, pulling on her jacket and adjusting the backpack on her shoulders.

“Seriously, I don’t know if my body is begging for mercy or plotting quiet revenge. I can barely bend my back.”

“Well, that’s the price you pay for trying to be zen,” he replied, faking a wise tone. “Or at least trying, in your case.”

They walked toward the studio exit, where the sunlight felt more inviting than ever.

“So you’re saying that the next time I want to feel at peace, yoga’s not the answer?” Emma asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I recommend tormenting some souls or scaring a few humans, works great. We could collect on a demonic pact one of these days, it’d be wonderful.”

“You know what? Why not?” she said, glancing at Vessel. “If yoga didn’t work, maybe chaos is a viable alternative. I’m probably going to hell anyway.”

Vessel grinned wide, satisfied.

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part VIII (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part). This one can be gross for some people and I apologize for that, if anyone wants to skip this, please, feel free to do so, it won't affect the reading of Part IX (you'll only miss vessel being... well, vessel).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII

Part VIII: Manners from Hell

Emma arrived at the restaurant five minutes early, which was a personal victory worthy of applause. But the truth was, she was nervous – even if, technically, it was just dinner.

Oliver was already at the table when she arrived. He smiled when he saw her, standing up with a calm and natural elegance. He wore a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a discreet wristwatch.

“Emma?” he said, with that slightly enchanted tone of someone who still couldn’t quite believe the match was real.

“Hi, Oliver. Sorry I’m late…” she began, even though she wasn’t, but he was already making a dismissive gesture, as if brushing the apology from the air.

“You’re right on time.”

Emma smiled, sitting across from him. The table was set with gleaming silverware and glasses that looked far too expensive to touch. A candle burned softly in the center.

But before she could say anything, a familiar voice – low, sardonic, and absolutely not human – whispered right in her ear:

“Oh wow. A candle. How original. All that’s missing is a violin soundtrack and an impulsive marriage proposal.”

She didn’t turn her head. Didn’t blink. The last thing she wanted was to look insane. Hearing voices from beyond in a fancy restaurant would definitely land her in the ‘certifiably unhinged’ category.

“Everything okay?” Oliver asked, leaning in slightly.

“Great,” she said, a little too quickly. “Just thinking this place is really beautiful.”

“I heard the mushroom risotto here is amazing. But only if you like mushrooms, of course. I don’t want to be that person who pushes their food preferences right off the bat.”

“How sweet. Adorable,” Vessel muttered acidly. “A real gentleman. Any sweeter and he’ll turn into a muffin.”

Emma tried to ignore him. She really did. But it was like trying to ignore a sarcastic leaky faucet dripping inside your skull.

“You look stunning tonight, by the way. Blue really suits you.”

“Oh, my demons,” Vessel groaned theatrically. “What a cliché of a compliment. Two points for effort, that was terrible.”

Feeling her face heat up and biting her tongue to avoid responding to Vessel, she said:

“Thank you. You look very handsome too.”

Just then, the waiter appeared beside the table with a notepad and a slim pen.

“Good evening! May I take your order?” he asked with a professional smile.

“Yes,” Oliver replied. “I’ll have the mushroom risotto you recommended.”

“Excellent choice. And for you, miss?” the waiter asked, looking at Emma with a slight smile.

Emma glanced at the menu, still feeling Vessel’s eyes on her.

“I think I’ll have the same,” she said, trying to sound confident.

Vessel huffed.

“Classic coward’s choice. Where’s the boldness, Emma? A little fire on the plate, please.”

“Great pick,” the waiter said, jotting it down. “Anything else?”

“Maybe dessert afterward,” Emma answered.

“Of course. I’ll bring the dessert menu later.”

The waiter walked off, and Emma leaned back in her chair, letting out a small breath.

“So…” Oliver leaned forward a little. “Tell me more about yourself. What are you studying?”

She was about to answer, she had the response ready, but before she could open her mouth, Vessel stretched, and she felt it like a shift in the air temperature.

“Careful with this one. ‘I’m studying literature and writing about a human who summons a demon and becomes co-author of her own downfall’ might be a bit much for a first date.”

Emma closed her eyes for half a second. Took a deep breath. And decided to stick to the safe version.

“Literature. I like writing sometimes, longer pieces. I enjoy playing with fantasy, metaphors… that kind of thing.”

“Interesting. I used to love reading as a kid, but with work and school, I kind of fell off. Now I’m trying to get back into the habit.”

“Well, look at that, Emma,” Vessel commented, voice dripping with sarcasm. “A man who admits he stopped reading but wants to try again. A solid five. Redemption nearly secured. You can give him a peck as a reward.”

She took a sip of water, pretending to savor the coolness just to hide how close she was to losing her patience.

“And you?” Emma asked. “What are you studying?”

“I’m in my last year of Environmental Engineering,” Oliver replied with a calm smile, looking her in the eyes. “I think it’s all about taking care of the planet and figuring out how to use science to make things better.”

“That’s amazing,” Emma said, genuinely interested. “Kind of like a modern-day superhero.”

“Exactly.” He laughed. “I don’t wear a cape, but sometimes I think I should.”

Vessel muttered lowly, just for her:

“So far, I’ve seen a barista trying to win someone over with food. Three and a half points. Could improve.”

Emma tried to hold back her laughter. It wasn’t easy to have a conversation while ignoring a demon only she could hear.

“I used to watch you at the café sometimes,” he said, a little more serious now, with a shy smile. “But I never had the guts to ask you out. Always thought you were too busy and would say no.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. I’m really enjoying tonight,” she said, smiling.

The waiter returned with their plates, carefully placing the risotto in front of them. The scent of fresh mushrooms and parmesan cheese was inviting, and Emma’s stomach gave a quiet rumble. Oliver picked up his fork and, without ceremony, stuffed a large bite of risotto into his mouth.

“So, tell me,” Oliver began, speaking with his mouth half full, the chewing loud and nearly exaggerated, “How was your day?”

Emma looked away, trying to focus on her own risotto and not on what she was seeing. But with every noisy chew – mouth open, chewing and swallowing sounds – the attraction she’d felt toward Oliver started circling the drain.

“He eats like he’s alone in the kitchen at 3 a.m.,” Vessel grumbled, his voice so disgusted Emma instinctively recoiled.

“Jeez, no need to be so rude,” she muttered without thinking, shaking her head and forgetting only she could hear him.

“Rude? I’m being polite. This is grounds for eternal torture in the underworld,” Vessel shot back, snorting.

Oliver kept talking between bites, completely oblivious to his mortifying behavior.

“So… have you ever written a horror story?” he asked, scooping up another bite and nearly talking with his mouth full again.

“Um, I’ve tried,” Emma replied with a tight smile. “But messy and gross stuff isn’t really my thing.”

Oliver chuckled with his mouth partly open, a few grains of rice visible on his tongue, and leaned forward enthusiastically.

“This risotto is amazing,” he said, voice muffled by the food.

Emma smiled again, a bit more strained this time, and stirred her risotto as if looking for a mushroom that would save her from the situation.

“Amazingly revolting,” Vessel muttered, sounding genuinely offended. “He’s drooling so much he’s gonna found a swamp on that napkin.”

Emma coughed to hide a laugh that nearly escaped. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to look casual, but her eyes were already scanning for the exit.

“And you…” Oliver continued, chewing as he spoke, “do you have a favorite author? Someone who really inspires you?”

Emma opened her mouth to answer, but Vessel was quicker:

“You could just say: ‘Anyone who knows how to chew with their mouth closed.’ Do it for me. Please.”

She had to turn her head for a second, disguising it with another sip of water.

“I like Shirley Jackson…” she said, dragging her voice a little. “And Ursula K. Le Guin. But it depends on my mood. Sometimes I like more introspective stuff…”

Oliver nodded, still chewing.

“Oh, cool. Really cool. I don’t know either of them, but the second one’s name reminded me of pasta.” He gave a little laugh, still chewing. “Le Guin… Linguine… get it?”

Emma blinked. Vessel, on the other hand, sighed like a thousand souls gave up all at once.

“I’m done. Get me out of here, Emma. I swear I’ll go back to the circle of liars, take double shifts – just don’t make me sit through ten more minutes of this.”

Emma gripped her napkin tightly and tried not to laugh or groan in despair.

“Want dessert afterward?” Oliver asked, wiping his mouth with the napkin carelessly, leaving a streak of sauce at the corner of his lips.

She stared at his face for a second. The dirty corner. The risotto-covered teeth. The sound of chewing echoing like a demonic drum.

“Sorry, I just remembered I have to wake up really early tomorrow for a class,” she said, still with a polite smile.

Vessel whispered, satisfied:

“Praise common sense.”

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part VII (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII

Part VII: Demons Make the Worst Chaperones

Emma looked at her phone for the fifth time in ten minutes, smiling to herself. She had finally agreed to go out with Oliver, the barista from the café. They had exchanged phone numbers that afternoon, amid shy texts and emojis. The plan was simple: dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant nearby—nothing too fancy.

Emma stood in the middle of her room, surrounded by Isla and Harper. The place was covered in clothes, and Isla held up a delicate necklace that sparkled under the soft light of the lamp while Harper distractedly played with her hair.

“I think this will be the perfect touch,” Isla said, showing the necklace to Emma, who was already wearing the light blue dress they had picked out.

Emma felt a mix of nerves and excitement, fidgeting with the fabric of her dress. It was comfortable and, at the same time, made her feel ready for something special.

“If you get too nervous, try taking deep breaths,” Harper said, offering a bit of advice that sounded obvious but was rarely ignored. “You’re still you, after all.”

Emma nodded, smiling softly. It was hard not to feel butterflies, but she liked those butterflies—the promise of what was to come.

Meanwhile, Vessel kept a respectful distance, lingering just at the edge of the bond that tethered them. He hovered in the shadows of the hallway, frowning, grumpy as always.

“All this fuss over a barista,” he muttered to himself, invisible and inaudible to the others. “He’s not even that good-looking. He’s weird.”

Even though Emma knew Vessel was there, she did her best to ignore his comments, focusing instead on the moment and her friends’ reassuring words. When she was finally ready, with the necklace around her neck and her hair down, the three of them stood there, smiling knowingly.

“Ready to conquer,” Isla said with a grin.

“Or at least to try,” Emma replied with a quiet laugh.

“You’re going to kill it,” Harper said, pulling Emma into a quick hug. “And if you don’t, we’ll just call it a learning experience.”

“Just text me if he’s one of those guys who says ‘I’m a Sagittarius, but I have a rising sign in superiority,’” Isla added, already laughing at her own joke.

“I promise to stay alive and away from men who bring up their star charts before the appetizer,” Emma said, trying to sound calmer than she felt.

They all laughed, and Isla and Harper finally left the apartment. As soon as the door shut, silence filled the space for a moment.

“Great,” came a voice dripping with sarcasm and disdain just behind her. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to torture me like this.”

“Come on, this is going to be fun. You need to get out too, and I could even order something for you without raising suspicion.”

“This is going to be fun, you say,” he replied in that theatrical tone of his. “For you. For me, just another night watching a mortal drool over your cuticles while I pretend I don’t exist. Can’t wait.”

“If you feel uncomfortable, let me know,” he started again, “I could give him a mild case of intestinal distress. Very mild. Nothing serious. He’d only be in the hospital for a week.”

Emma didn’t even slow her step as she crossed the street, but her eyes narrowed with playful exasperation.

“You’re not touching him, Vessel,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth still turned up in a restrained smile. “You can’t touch him.”

“Says you,” he responded sarcastically. “I can totally touch people.”

“What do you mean you can touch people?” she asked, keeping her voice low, but raising her eyebrows in disbelief. “I’ve never been able to touch you.”

Vessel stopped, as if she had asked something obvious.

“Of course not. You’re the anchor of the bond. Touching each other would mess with... stuff. In your brain, in mine—it’s dangerous. Annoying. Almost romantic, depending on how you interpret it. But other people?” He shrugged. “They’re not connected like that. They’re just… matter.”

Emma blinked, taking that in. The light changed, and she started walking again, partly to hide the strange chill running up her spine. For two months, she had lived with Vessel without ever imagining this. That he could touch the world, somehow. She had thought he was just… shadow. Presence. Hallucination.

“So, you’re saying you could, technically, slap someone in the face?” she asked.

“I could. But I prefer more creative options—less legally traceable,” he replied, clearly pleased with his own mystery.

She huffed, crossing her arms. Part of her found the idea absurd. Another part, dangerous. And another, smaller, quieter part wondered why he’d never told her this before.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” she asked, like someone who hadn’t meant to but couldn’t hold it in.

Vessel hesitated. Just for a second. But he did.

“Didn’t think it mattered.”

That silenced her.

For a moment, Emma completely forgot she was heading to a date. That Oliver was waiting at a restaurant with soft lights and handmade pasta. That she had put on perfume and perfectly winged eyeliner.

She just stared at Vessel. Then, after a while, she turned away and kept walking.

“Still, no hospitalizing Oliver,” she said firmly.

Vessel huffed but followed her.

“Okay, okay, fine. You’re no fun.”

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part VI (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI

Part VI: Caffeine and Date Invitations

The cold morning light filtered through the windows of room 304, where Emma was struggling to keep her eyes open while the professor talked about “narrative arcs and the construction of multidimensional characters.” Her firm, monotonous voice felt like the perfect soundtrack for an academic horror film—except no one actually died, just the will to pay attention.

“Remember,” the professor emphasized firmly, “complex characters experience internal conflicts that transform them. Without that, there’s no real story.”

Emma scribbled a quick note: “internal conflict = engine of the plot.” She tried to focus, but Vessel was already whispering quietly, just for her.

“Transformation... And here I am, still stuck in this ridiculous accidental summoning.”

She rolled her eyes subtly, keeping her gaze fixed on the professor.

When class ended, Isla stretched her arms and yawned.

“Finally!” she said.

Harper, already standing, looked at Emma.

“Coffee?” she asked. “My life depends on it.”

“You’re not alone,” Isla agreed, already grabbing Emma’s hand.

Emma sighed, following her friends down the hallway crowded with hurried students. Vessel floated just behind, visible only to her, as always.

“Another day, another meeting to discuss human emotions,” he muttered. “How inspiring.”

“Stop being such a grump,” Emma whispered, smiling.

When it was her turn at the counter, the curly-haired barista with a bright smile greeted her.

“Hey, Emma! The usual? Hibiscus tea with lemon, no sugar?”

She smiled shyly and said, “Not today. I’ll have a regular coffee and a little pastry.”

“Got it,” said the barista, looking at her face a bit longer than necessary. “By the way, you look especially beautiful today.”

Her friends paused for a moment, exchanging curious glances.

Emma swallowed hard, her face flushing slightly. She tried a discreet smile but couldn’t quite hide the blush.

Vessel, who had sat in the empty chair beside her, crossed his arms and let out an exaggerated sigh, whispering just loud enough for Emma to hear:

“‘Especially beautiful’? Ugh. The creativity of a bargain shoe store salesman.”

She laughed quietly, rolling her eyes at the barista, who was already walking away, smiling faintly, maybe shy after saying too much.

Isla smiled and said, “Looks like you’ve got a fan, Emma.”

As they sat down at a table, Emma tried to focus on the conversation. Harper was talking excitedly about a documentary she’d watched, and Isla was commenting on a new series.

Suddenly, the barista appeared at the table, carrying their orders.

“Here you go,” he said, carefully handing out the drinks and muffin.

When he got to Emma, he hesitated for a second, as if gathering courage.

“Emma...” he began, looking into her eyes with adorable shyness. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me sometime. Maybe dinner, or a walk in the park. Whatever you’d prefer.”

Emma’s face grew warm, and she looked at her friends, who exchanged surprised glances.

Before she could answer, Vessel whispered:

“Don’t you dare.”

Emma bit her lip, trying to ignore him. Vessel continued:

“Don’t put me through this torture, Emma.”

Emma finally found her voice.

“I... I’d love to,” she replied, still with a shy smile. “But I need to organize a few things first. Can we plan something later?”

The barista smiled, relieved.

“Of course! Whenever you’re ready.”

Harper looked at Emma with a mischievous grin.

“So, we’re definitely helping you pick what to wear, right? No going out in just anything.”

Isla laughed, nodding.

“Exactly. If he asked you out, we’ve got to make sure you’re dressed for the occasion.”

“We could do a little outfit try-on day. Like, experiment with different combos and see what works best,” Harper added.

Emma smiled, still a bit shy, but warming to the idea.

“I’d love that,” she joked.

Vessel tilted his head back and muttered:

“This is a bloody nightmare.”

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part V (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Part V: Poetic License and Other Crimes

And when their eyes met, there was an ancient inevitability there – as if that pact had already been written in the stars.

"Lie," murmured a voice behind her. "It wasn’t in the stars. It was in a poorly translated PDF."

Emma sighed but didn’t stop typing.

"Can you get off my shoulder? You’re distracting me."

"I’m saving your credibility. That line? ‘Ancient inevitability’? You didn’t even know how to conjugate ‘to summon’ in Latin before you summoned me."

"Poetic license."

"That’s emotional fraud."

She spun around in her chair to face him. Vessel was leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, wearing a pose of pure judgment.

"That’s what the committee wants." She turned back, now facing him head-on. "The entire course revolves around emotional narrative. Character connection. Affective trajectory. They want us to explore ‘intensity and subjective transformation.’ And that’s exactly what I’m doing, writing a story with cohesion, development, climax, and guess what… romance."

"Romance is a slow poison."

"And yet it sells."

She went back to typing, purposefully narrating aloud:

She didn’t know when she started noticing the details. The way he stayed quiet when she needed space. The way his eyes – dark as an eclipse – seemed to understand her without words.

"‘Eyes dark as an eclipse’? You can’t even see my eyes."

"I’m trying to give your character depth."

"My character is a millennia-old demon who hates coffee, humans, and cheap sentimentality."

Emma smiled, teasing:

"And yet, in chapter fourteen, he holds the protagonist in his arms and says: ‘You’re not just a mistake. You’re the most important mistake of my existence.’"

"YOU MADE THAT UP!" And he even dared to stomp his foot like a petulant child.

"Of course I did. It’s fiction."

"This is fanfic written by an eleven-year-old girl." He gestured as if that were a grievous insult. "I would never say anything even remotely like that."

"Yet." Emma gave him a sideways look, all innocence. "The book’s just getting started."

Vessel stared at her with a mix of indignation and… something else he didn’t name.

"Why do you want so badly for this to become a romance?"

She thought for a second, then replied more seriously:

"Because I like the idea that even the wrongest encounters can still go right."

"That’s stupid."

"It is. But it’s also beautiful."

Emma went back to typing. In the chapter she was working on, the protagonist – a version of herself with better hair and fewer under-eye circles – sat across from the infernal being who haunted her day and night. They argued, of course. They always argued. But there, in the middle of the night, after a nightmare and a cup of chamomile tea, something shifted.

He didn’t touch her – because he couldn’t. But if he could, maybe his hand would hover over hers. Just for a moment. Just to prove that even demons knew what a companionable silence felt like.

"Companionable silence?" Vessel read over her shoulder, voice through gritted teeth. "That doesn’t even sound like me! I don’t do silence!"

"Oh, but in the book you do. In the book, you’re mysterious, restrained, full of repressed emotions, covered in tattoos, and with a single horn—"

"In the book, I’m a cliché the color of cheap red wine."

Emma huffed and got up from the couch, heading to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. Vessel followed, still indignant.

"Just for the record," he continued, voice dripping with sarcasm, "since you’re writing about me, I demand battle scenes, thunderous summonings, and at least one dramatic mirror entrance."

"Noted." She returned to the living room. "Flaming sword battle scene. Forbidden kiss before the apocalypse."

"You want to write a kiss?"

"Of course. And more than one, actually. It’s the emotional climax." She grinned, excited now. "Picture it: the world on the brink of collapse, you holding the protagonist’s face like hating her would be safer than loving her—"

"I don’t even have a solid face!"

"Technical detail. Visual metaphor."

"This is sacrilege." He threw his arms in the air, defeated. "I am a creature made of dense energy and primordial chaos. And you want me to have a ‘forehead-touching moment’ with a soundtrack?"

"Yes. And a single tear rolling down your cheek, because you finally understand what it means to be human."

"That’s offensive." But his voice was quieter.

"That’s beautiful."

She returned to the computer, starting a new paragraph.

“His touch was something impossible. But in that moment, it felt like the boundaries between realms gave way. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to believe that even a summoning mistake could become a refuge.”

Emma smiled.

And standing silently between the kitchen entrance and the living room, Vessel watched her.

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part IV (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Part IV: Sugar, Spice, and Demonic Advice

The following days were a hands-on lesson in the dangers of mixing summoning rituals with poor attention to detail and badly translated PDFs.

Emma tried to live her life. Write, send résumés, buy bread. Human things. But nothing was exactly simple when you had a demon bound to you by a mystical tie – especially one only you could see.

Going out in public with Vessel had proven to be a daily exercise in self-control. He was there, all the time, walking beside her with that intense, impossible-to-ignore presence. It was like wearing perfume that was way too expensive: everyone thought it was you, but only you knew it came from somewhere else.

"You seriously have to leave the house in that outfit?" he asked as she adjusted her coat in the mirror.

"It's a normal outfit. Business casual. Job interview."

"Business casual? That thing screams ‘hire me, I’m miserable and willing to accept emotional compensation.’"

"It’s what I’ve got. And you’re not even supposed to care."

"I care about your image. We’re a pair now. If you embarrass yourself, I get dragged down too."

"Only I can see you!" Emma rolled her eyes and walked out the door. Vessel floated half a meter off the ground behind her just to be annoying, though no one else could see or hear him. To the outside world, Emma looked like a woman talking to herself in the middle of the street.

Which, naturally, drew stares.

"You should smile more," he whispered as she waited for the bus.

"Careful. That line has caused serial demon murders in feminist novels."

"I love danger."

On the bus, he sat beside her and started narrating the lives of the passengers in an overly dramatic voice:

"That one probably dropped out of philosophy school to open an iguana pet shop. The lady in blue... definitely a retired spy. And the guy with the earbuds? Addicted to true crime podcasts and secretly bakes cakes."

"Can you shut up?" she hissed as quietly as possible.

"I can. But I won’t."

Emma tried to ignore him. At the final stop, as she walked toward the publishing house where her interview would take place, Vessel bounced alongside her like a chatty, inconvenient shadow.

"You should introduce yourself like this: ‘Hi, I’m Emma, and I have an accidental pact with a demon who gives bad advice and hogs the couch.’ Shows personality."

"I’m going to shove you into my dirty sock drawer."

"Delightful. I’ve always wanted to know what accumulated shame smells like."

At reception, while she waited, he leaned close to her face.

"You’re nervous. Your heart rate’s up. Any specific reason, or should I cause a power outage so you can leave the interview dramatically?"

She pushed him – or tried to, since her hand passed right through his shoulder.

"Okay, okay… I won’t get in the way," he said, lounging against the wall. "But if you stutter, I’m making the phone ring and telling them your cat’s on fire. Now tell me that’s not an amazing excuse."

________________

After the interview – which turned out to be a smaller disaster than she expected, which already counted as a win – Emma suggested a strategic break. Nothing like a dose of caffeine to pretend life was under control. Vessel, of course, followed her to the coffee shop with the enthusiasm of someone heading into medieval torture.

“Human cafés. Where beans are burned and emotions are sweetened,” he commented, glancing around with theatrical disgust.

The place was charming, all dark wood and hanging potted plants. The scent of coffee and fresh-baked cake filled the air. Emma was just beginning to relax – until the barista, tall, curly-haired, with a smile that could warm iced coffee, approached the counter.

“Hey again,” he said, leaning his elbows on the counter and smiling straight at her. “Going with the usual? Hibiscus tea with lemon?”

“I am, thanks for remembering,” she replied, with a smile she tried to keep neutral – but it came out a bit sweeter than intended.

“And this time, no sugar. Or... okay, just one,” he winked.

“One it is,” she confirmed, blushing slightly.

Vessel, behind her, made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a barely restrained growl.

“Fascinating,” he muttered. “The power of the human smile. Amazing how your heart rate spikes just because of that.”

“Shut up,” Emma whispered, still wearing a sheepish grin.

The barista handed her the tea with a folded napkin on the side. In neat handwriting, it read: “For a great follow-up after your interview,” with a little star drawn next to it.

“You said you were nervous yesterday... hope it went well,” he smiled again, and Emma felt her face catch fire.

“Thank you. It was... less catastrophic than it could’ve been.”

As she walked away with her drink, Vessel floated alongside her in silence for a moment, until:

“You know that little crush on the barista is pointless, right?”

“He’s nice,” she replied, blowing on the tea and trying to hide her smile. “And he remembers my order.”

“He also writes notes. How romantic,” Vessel crossed his arms, hovering beside the table where she sat. “What’s next, singing to you?”

“Better than your poetic growls.”

“He used to put two sugar packets in your tea until last week. That’s basically a crime.”

“He smiles at me.”

“I smile at you too.”

“Yeah, but you don’t mean it.”

“Exactly,” Vessel said, resting his chin on his hand like he was bored – but his tone gave him away. “And yet, you blushed.”

Emma tried to hide her burning cheeks by dramatically sipping her tea – only for it to be too hot and burn her tongue. She let out a low groan, embarrassed, and Vessel stifled a laugh.

Before she could retort, the barista returned to the table with a small plate and an overly wide smile.

“On the house,” he said, placing a brownie in front of her. “Thought you deserved something sweet after a tough interview. And, well... sweet goes with sweet, right?”

Emma’s eyes widened for a second, surprised, then she gave a nervous laugh.

“Thanks... That was... really kind.”

“If you want to come back later and tell me how it went, I’ll be here,” he winked.

Vessel watched the exchange with a tight-lipped expression that looked suspiciously like disgust. When the barista walked away, he crossed his arms and muttered:

“‘Sweet goes with sweet’? Seriously? That worked on you?”

“Oh, shut up.” She bit into the brownie, trying to hide her smile. “It was cute.”

“It was mediocre. You deserve better flirting. Something with fire, mystery... a hint of danger.”

“Like what, you?”

He didn’t answer.

She laughed, shaking her head, and leaned her elbows on the table.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

“I don’t get jealous. Demons don’t have those weak human flaws.”

“Sure.”

He leaned dramatically back in the chair, trying to look completely uninterested – but his eyes didn’t leave the barista, who was now stacking cups with unnecessary enthusiasm.

Emma bit her lip to stop another laugh.

“I think I’ll come here more often.”

“So will I,” Vessel replied calmly, but with a sharp glint in his eye. “Just to make sure no one adds extra sugar to your tea.”

“It’s not like you have a choice, do you? Wherever I go, you go and all that…”

She took another sip of tea, still feeling the warmth in her cheeks. Maybe it was the drink.

Or maybe not.

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part III (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III

Part III: Brainstorming with a Hellspawn

"No romances. There are too many of those in the world already. You need something more... unique," Vessel said, standing in the middle of the living room.

It had been hours since they’d left the library, and Emma was on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees, fingers hovering hesitantly over the keyboard. The damn cursor blinked at a merciless pace, as if mocking her inability to come up with an idea that was... good. Vessel stood in front of her, hands on his hips, watching.

"You need something more... visceral. A story that bites. That scratches. That doesn’t ask for permission before climbing into the reader’s head," he went on, now pacing in circles around the couch like a literary coach possessed by Nietzsche and espresso.

Emma rubbed her temples.

"I just want to turn in the assignment and pass. I don’t need to become Sylvia Plath."

"You don’t need to become anyone. You need to become you. Unlocked version, you know? Blood in the eyes, nothing to lose."

She stared at the screen. The first sentence she’d written: "Once upon a time, in a forgotten village…" Now felt like a personal insult.

"I hate all of this."

"Excellent start. Hate is a great fuel."

Emma huffed.

"Can you stop parading around like a Broadway villain and just give me a decent suggestion?"

Vessel stopped. Turned to her slowly, like he’d just had a profane epiphany.

"You should write about us."

She choked.

"What?"

"Exactly. A lonely human who accidentally summons a demon. Sounds like an irresistible metaphor for youth, frustration, and shattered expectations. Throw in a little chaos, a dash of sarcasm... done. Autofiction with an infernal pact."

"That’s ridiculous."

"That’s genius. It’ll confuse your professors, intrigue your classmates, and get you a great grade. No one will know where the metaphor ends and the breakdown begins. That’s art."

Emma stayed quiet for a few seconds. Then, very slowly, she began to type:

"She didn’t mean to summon anything. She just wanted to finish a short story. But sometimes, the universe confuses intentions with declarations. And then he appears. With sarcasm in his eyes and questionable taste in reality shows."

Vessel read over her shoulder, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Now that has soul."

"That has you, which is basically the opposite of soul."

"Touché."

Vessel leaned back on the arm of the sofa, watching Emma type with the kind of concentration that only appears under the threat of a deadline or demonic possession. She didn’t look at him, but she felt his presence hanging in the air like a strong incense scent — annoying, yet strangely comforting. Maybe it was just a side effect of sleep deprivation.

The cursor blinked in rhythm with her heartbeat. For the first time since the semester began, Emma felt like she was writing something that truly represented her. Not a mechanical exercise of structure and technique, but a story that hurt a little to tell — and precisely for that reason, it was worth it.

"You know what’s the most ironic?" Vessel said, fiddling with his rings, distracted. "You summoned a demon trying to write about humans. And now you’re writing about a demon to try to understand yourself."

Emma stopped typing.

"And what are you quoting now? Voltaire?"

"I’m just being myself. A chaos agent with a flair for drama."

She leaned forward, cracking her fingers carefully.

"This isn’t about me. It’s just a story."

"Sure. And I’m just an inconvenient guest who steals robes and unlocks creative insecurities. Nothing symbolic."

She stared at him, eyes half-closed.

"You love sounding deep."

"I am deep. I have layers. More than onions and collective trauma."

Emma laughed, unwillingly. And she hated it a little — hated actually laughing. At him. At the situation. At herself.

Vessel smiled too, satisfied. Like someone who had just won an invisible battle.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he said, suddenly quieter, almost in a tone that sounded… human.

Emma turned to him, suspicious.

"Here we go."

"This —" he gestured around, encompassing the messy room, the stacked books, the laptop on her lap — "is way more interesting than corroding the souls of corrupt bankers. At least you listen to me. Complain, grumble, but listen."

She frowned.

"That was… kind?"

"No. That was factual. Kindness is an infernal design flaw."

"Oh. Good to know."

The silence that settled this time was less tense. Vessel lay down on the carpet like a sloppy demonic cat. Emma resumed typing, and he just followed the sound of the keys like it was music.

"So, what happens next?" he asked, almost in a whisper.

"Next?"

"In your story. The girl who summons a demon. Do they become friends? Rivals? Does she learn a lesson? Does he disappear in the end? Have you decided yet?"

Emma hesitated. Looked at the screen. Then at him.

"Not yet. I think... they’ll figure it out together."

"Hmmm. Nothing like a good character arc to keep things interesting."

"Just don’t get used to it. When I hand in this assignment, you disappear. Remember? That was the deal."

Vessel closed his eyes, a lazy smirk on his lips.

"If life were as simple as a deal..."

She ignored him. Or tried. And kept writing, even knowing — deep down — that she was no longer just writing a story. She was documenting something that had already started to happen.

"I’m hungry."

Emma didn’t look at him. "Then go devour some delivery guy’s soul, I don’t know."

"I mean real food. Burger, fries, maybe a milkshake. The kind of feast that makes the human gut cry for mercy. Come on, I’ll pay."

"You’re a demon, Vessel." She sighed, still typing.

"So? I still get paid for my work, thank you very much."

That made her stop, her mind going static.

"Demons get a salary?"

"Yes, and a very good one. In Hell, everyone gets paid. It’s a flawless infernal meritocracy. I have stocks, properties, shares in surface companies, and a Black card that works in any plane of existence. Believe me, the heaven folks envy how well we get paid — they’re always asking HR to switch plans and come down."

Emma blinked, confused.

"Wait. You’re telling me that… you’re rich?"

Vessel smiled, satisfied.

"Filthy rich. Multiplanar millionaire. I could buy a restaurant right now if I wanted. Or a fast-food chain. Or this building. Want sushi? A ten-course tasting menu? A taco truck parked outside?"

"You have a card?"

"I have an app too. Super handy."

Emma ran her hand over her face, exhausted. Too much info at once. More than she expected to be real.

"I can’t believe my accidental demon is a sugar daddy."

"Don’t abuse the term. I prefer ‘occasional cosmic provider.’"

"Okay, provider. So why haven’t you asked for anything yet?"

"Because I like when you give in first. Creates an illusion of control. But since you brought it up…"

He snapped his fingers. A digital menu floated in the air, glowing red and gold.

"Choose whatever you want. But if you try to order just a salad, I’ll swap your bath salts for a really crappy brand."

Emma laughed, because of course he’d be theatrical even in delivery.

"Fine. But dessert is my choice."

"Always."

She swiped her finger across the floating interface, trying to ignore how everything was starting to feel… normal. Ordering food with a demon. Talking about infernal payment. Laughing at jokes that, weeks ago, she would swear were clear signs of madness.

"Do you have a first-time coupon?" Emma asked, half-mocking.

"I know the chef. If you want, I can call and ask him to customize your pizza with a rune of inspiration."

"I just want carbs. No magic."

"Coward," he replied, but clicked the "confirm order" button with gusto.

Minutes later, the doorbell rang and Emma got up to get the food. They sat on the living room floor, among pillows, scattered papers, and stacked books. Emma opened the box and let out an almost religious sigh seeing the steaming pizza.

"This looks like something from a movie. Like… a ‘Midnight with the Devil,’ culinary version."

"Or ‘Eat, Pray, Summon,’" he suggested, grabbing a slice.

She laughed with her mouth full.

"Okay, confess. Do you do this for everyone who summons you?"

Vessel pretended to think, chewing with demonic dignity.

"Not always. Once in 1984, a guy tried to summon me to win a dance contest. We ended up founding a tap dance school in Oslo. Long story."

"And you became friends with him too?"

"No. He hated me. But he danced well."

Emma laughed again, and for a moment forgot about deadlines, professors, the story she needed to finish. She was just there, sharing a pizza with a being who could probably cause an eclipse with a sneeze — and yet told bad jokes and stole the stuffed crust edges.

"You’re nothing like I expected, you know?"

Vessel smiled, tilting his head.

"I’m everything you didn’t know you needed. And a bit more. Literally, I am chaos incarnate. But, let’s be honest, chaos with good taste."

Emma finished the slice and looked at him with a furrowed brow.

"I still think one day I’ll wake up and find out this was a caffeine-induced delirium."

"Maybe. Or maybe it’s the start of the best story you’ll ever write. You never know, right?"

A comfortable silence settled, the rare kind, made of crumbs and silent contemplations. Outside, the night went on indifferent, while inside, among books, pizza leftovers, and infernal sarcasm, something strange and almost beautiful began to take shape.

Vessel looked at the laptop screen, still open beside the sofa.

"After dessert… we’ll get back to your story. I’m feeling it’s almost there. Just missing a twist. Or an unexpected ending."

Emma nodded, feeling — for the first time in days — that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so lost after all.

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part II (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III

Part II: Comparative Literature and Other Forms of Torture

Emma hadn’t been able to sleep since she accidentally summoned the wrong demon four days ago. Which is the bare minimum one might expect after summoning an entity by mistake — especially when he decides to sit in your favorite armchair, wear your comfy slippers and your post-shower robe, and grab the remote like he’d rented the place on Airbnb.

"There’s no Netflix in Hell, you know?" Vessel commented, flipping through reality shows and horror movies with the same enthusiasm someone might show for the weather forecast. "We’ve got something similar, but it’s more... eternal. And involves more screaming."

"Are you really staying there?"

"Are you really pretending this is comfortable?" He slapped the armrest. "This is foam with a dead grandma print."

Emma huffed.

"Okay. Rules. First: no sarcasm before 9 AM."

"Ha ha."

"Second: no possessing electronic devices. My laptop already crashes on its own."

"I promise to only possess things in extreme cases. Like commercials with annoying jingles."

He turned to her, smirking.

"You know, if you wanted a pact, you could’ve asked for something more useful. Money, power, I don’t know... flirting skills."

"I do have flirting skills."

"Sure. That’s why you’ve been single for… how long again?"

She crossed her arms.

"That’s invasive."

"I’m a demon. Invasiveness is my strong suit. I sabotage, disturb, and occasionally give unsolicited advice. Teasing is for cupids and ghost coaches."

She ran her hands over her face.

"This is punishment."

"Technically, it’s a cosmic consequence of your failure to properly read occult texts. Punishment is what happens if I have to sleep on the couch."

He got up from the armchair and began inspecting the room like a picky landlord. He stopped in front of the bookshelf, tilted his head, and let out a judgmental "hmm."

"‘Contemporary romance with a touch of drama and questionable endings’..." He read the titles aloud. "You’ve got good taste. Predictable, but good."

"Don’t touch my books."

"I’m just analyzing. Promise. Still processing the fact that I was summoned by an Ali Hazelwood fan. Explains a lot."

"Like what?"

"That you should be careful what you wish for, human. Sometimes the enemy shows up... but the romance ends up in debt."

Emma narrowed her eyes but didn’t respond. It was hard to argue when the guy you wanted to kick out of your room was wearing your lilac bathrobe and philosophizing about contemporary fiction like a bored literary critic.

"Look," she started, raising a finger, "if you came here to destroy my self-esteem and my literary taste all at once, congrats. Mission accomplished."

Vessel gave her a lazy smile and pulled a book off the shelf, flipping through it like it was some strange artifact.

"And if you wanted the right demon, maybe you should’ve double-checked your pronunciation and, I don’t know, used... what’s it called, Gorgul?"

"Google. It’s called Google."

"Yeah, that. You didn’t do that and now you’re stuck with me — a dramatic catalyst for your life’s plot. You know, every protagonist needs one."

"I’m not a protagonist. I’m a senior lit student trying to finish her final project without completely losing her mind. And you", she pointed at him like she was facing off with a flying cockroach, "are what happens when sleep deprivation meets sketchy grimoires from the internet."

"Exactly," he replied, proudly. "I’m the plot twist you didn’t ask for, but now have to deal with."

She rolled her eyes and collapsed onto the sofa, sinking into the cushions like they could shield her from the supernatural avalanche in the shape of a man currently invading her life. He returned to the armchair, now chewing on a bookmark like it was a toothpick.

"What’s your full name again?" she asked, too tired to keep denying reality.

"Oh. Now you ask… Gonna try to gain power over me by learning my name? Hate to burst your bubble, but that’s just superstition. Doesn’t work."

He dropped the bookmark and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as if about to share a precious secret.

"My name is Vessel. Just Vessel. The rest is unpronounceable in human tongues and causes spontaneous combustion in recycled paper."

"Great. So, Mister Vessel, what exactly do I need to do to dissolve this arcane bond or whatever it is?"

He shrugged.

"Like I said, something grand. A deep personal achievement. Could be an act of true love, an emotional epiphany, or... turning in that assignment with your soul in it."

Emma raised a brow.

"You’re telling me if I write a good short story and get a high grade, you’ll disappear?"

"Maybe. Or maybe you’ll realize you like having me around and decide to keep me for a few centuries. Imagine that? The first human to keep a demon as a literary consultant. You’d blow up on Shick-Shack"

"It’s TikTok. And I’d rather have a cat named Cersei."

"And I’d rather be haunting a corrupt banker right now, but life’s full of surprises."

A brief silence settled between them, broken only by the low drone of the TV, where reality show contestants were yelling for absurd reasons.

"Fine," she said at last. "Let’s make a temporary deal. You stay out of my dreams, my drawers, and my personal drama. In exchange, you can... comment on my drafts. But only if you promise to stop wearing my robe."

Vessel looked down at the purple fabric wrapped around him with a thoughtful expression.

"Tricky. It’s absurdly comfortable."

"I’m not negotiating, I’m threatening."

He raised his hands in surrender.

"Very well, human. We have a provisional truce. But fair warning: I’m excellent at subtext and terrible at boundaries."

Emma sighed.

"Why me?"

"Because you said the wrong words, in the wrong tone, at the wrong time. And deep down, you wanted an impossible story. Congrats. Now you’re living one."

He smiled sideways.

And for a second — just one — Emma had the distinct feeling her life had officially gone off the rails.

________________

Emma thought that, after accidentally summoning a demon, nothing else could surprise her. She thought. Because on the fifth day of forced cohabitation, she found herself trying to attend her Comparative Literature class while an infernal being made sarcastic remarks in her ear like some kind of hellish commentator, audio-description version for those who never asked for it.

"Seriously, you're debating the narrator's function for the third time this week?" Vessel yawned, floating beside her chair. "Have you considered summoning the narrator's spirit and asking directly? Much more efficient."

Emma gripped her pen so tightly it almost turned into a weapon.

"Shut up."

The girl sitting next to her, with a thick braid and a curious look, turned slowly, frowning.

"What?"

"Nothing!" Emma forced a smile. A stiff, tense smile. "Just… talking to myself, no big deal"

The girl nodded with an awkward little smile and went back to her notes. Vessel chuckled.

"Nice save, Emma. Totally natural."

"Why are you here?" she whispered through clenched teeth. "You don't have to follow me to college."

"Of course I do. Arcane bond, remember? Until it dissipates, I go where you go. Including your Literary Analysis classes that smell like boredom and mildew. Oh, and there's something dripping from that ceiling fan. Just saying."

Emma looked up. Yep. It wasn’t demon sweat, unfortunately.

He rose and hovered a bit higher, observing the classmates, the whiteboards, the motivational posters taped to the walls. It was the first time he seemed genuinely curious.

"Humans put motivational quotes on walls when they lack internal motivation, is that it?"

"Shhh!"

Vessel let out a sigh, and she imagined he rolled his eyes too, before beginning to recite the posters in a dramatic tone as she tried to copy the projected slides:

"You are capable of everything you haven’t tried yet.' How poetic. And vague. Have you tried flying, Emma?"

"I will curse you if you don’t shut up," she hissed.

"Too late, sweetheart. That’s my job."

During the break, she tried to seek refuge in the library. A sacred place. Quiet. Cozy. At least until Vessel discovered the computers.

"Wow. This place is a relic. Smells like ancient dust and burnt cookies." He turned on a terminal with a snap of his fingers. "The system froze before it even opened the browser. Impressive."

"Please don’t touch anything."

"Too late. I found YouTube. Look at this! A channel called ‘Apocalypse Cooking’. There’s a video on how to make doomsday garlic bread with just three ingredients."

"You’re going to crash the system, and the librarian’s going to kick me out again."

"Relax, she can’t even see me. In fact, she’s looking at you right now like ‘this girl’s been talking to herself for way too long’."

Emma gave the librarian a fake smile and waved. The woman blinked slowly, like someone who had long since given up trying to understand young people.

When she finally sat down to write her story for the Creative Writing class, on her own laptop and not the library fossils, Vessel sprawled — invisible — on the floor between the bookshelves and started narrating his own demonic contract with the tone of a French cult film trailer.

"‘Partial invocation. Potential emotional bond. Guaranteed chaos for an indefinite time. Not recommended for minors or emotionally unstable adults.’ Dramatic enough?"

"Vessel..."

"‘Any exorcism attempt will result in public embarrassment, nausea, and academic failure.’"

She looked up, pushed her laptop aside, and stared at him.

"This is a nightmare."

"No, this is college. Hell is less bureaucratic."

He stood, circled her chair, and pointed at her laptop screen.

"Okay, but seriously. This dialogue in your story? How do humans say it? ‘Meh.’ Needs more chaos. Emotion. Subtlety. Want help?"

Emma raised an eyebrow.

"You were serious when you said you could help me write the story?"

"I’ve inspired tragedies since Ancient Greece. I was the muse of three cursed playwrights. One has a festival named after him. Another choked on parchment. The third... fell in love with a tree. Long story."

She sighed.

"Well, I did try the ritual for this exact reason... but if you make me get a bad grade..." She left the threat hanging, staring at him in what was meant to be intimidating. It’s hard to scare a demon who’s been alive for millennia.

"I have millennia of tragedy under my belt, darling. I’m basically a walking infernal genius. And better than most people charging fifty bucks an hour."

Emma shut the laptop with a snap and looked around. The library remained silent, the other students oblivious to the supernatural being sprawled in front of her.

"Okay, but we’re not doing this here. I’m not about to become known as the crazy girl who talks to herself in the library. Let’s go home."

She looked at the empty space — or rather, at Vessel — and muttered with the expression of someone who had already given up fighting fate:

"What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

Vessel grinned, already wrapped in an aura of false innocence.

"The best version of your existence. Now let’s go home and write your story. I want metaphorical blood and emotional climax. And preferably no happy endings. There’s already too much romance on those shelves."

[jawsoffate]

*emerges from headphones covered in blood* the album's really good you should listen

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part I (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

A/N: I'll try update regularly because i'm really excited with this idea. This is also something new that i'm trying so, please, bear with me. It's being crossposted on ao3 too.

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II

Part I: Where Everything Goes Wrong

Emma wasn’t the kind of person who made deals with demons. At least, not until that weekend.

She was the kind of person who organized her mugs by color, cried during movies with dogs, and said “excuse me” even to store mannequins. But she was also the kind of person who was absolutely fed up.

Fed up with a stagnant life, with a pile of ignored résumés, unpaid freelance gigs, family gatherings full of invasive questions like “so, any boyfriends?”, and above all, fed up with relying on luck.

So why not cheat a little? Not much. Just enough.

It was just a basic pact. A “mystical agreement with an underworld entity for moderate personal gain.” No soul-selling involved (she read three blogs that guaranteed this), no sacrifices, nothing too heavy. Just a simple ritual with easy-to-find items: black candle, red chalk, coarse salt, and blood from the summoner. There was even a tutorial on YouTube — dubbed.

The goal? To summon a useful demon. Nothing too ambitious. One specialized in creativity, literary inspiration, maybe a bit of extra charisma — things that would help boost the frustrated writing career Emma so badly wanted to take off.

She even chose a specific name: Belmior, the Demon of Eloquence. 

According to the grimoire Forgotten Spells and Hidden Codes (available as a PDF on Telegram), Belmior was polite, focused, wore a linen suit, and helped artists create masterpieces.

Perfect.

The ritual was set up on her bedroom floor: rug rolled up, furniture pushed aside, window slightly open to “oxygenate the energy.” Emma lit the candles, drew the circle with chalk and salt, put on the suggested ambient music (something ethereal with harps, very conceptual), and recited the words in a firm voice:

“Domine voco te, Belmior, Artifex Verbi, Veni et responde...”

The ground shook. The candles blew out on their own. A cold wind blew from nowhere.

Emma smiled. It was working!

Until, with a sharp crack — like a lightbulb bursting — the air split in two and a figure appeared in the center of the circle.

But… it wasn’t Belmior.

He wasn’t wearing a suit. He didn’t radiate serenity. He didn’t bring a quill and inkpot. What emerged looked like it had stepped out of both a ceremonial nightmare and a divine painting.

The figure was tall, lean, with dark skin that shimmered with an unsettling metallic sheen. His face was covered by a pale mask, adorned with golden lines and glowing green symbols that pulsed like living magical veins. Where eyes should’ve been, there was only shadow. And where there should’ve been a mouth… the silence was sharper than any scream.

He wore a dark cloak with gold details and chains hanging from his body as if they were part of him, decorating his chest like cursed jewels. On one shoulder, a white piece of ornate armor — fit for a king or a celestial executioner.

He looked ancient. Solemn. And completely out of place in Emma’s room, between a half-dead plant and a bag of cookies.

“Seriously? You used finger blood for this?” he said, in a deep, slightly hoarse voice, clearly annoyed.

“Great. A hysterical human with a blog ritual.”

Emma went pale. “You... you're not Belmior.”

“And you’re not smart. But let’s deal with one problem at a time.”

He looked around, scowling at the crooked circle on the floor, the fallen candle, and the harp music still softly playing in the background. Then he looked back at her.

“My name is Vessel. And you’ve just made the worst kind of ritual mistake: summoning me by accident without a clear purpose.”

“I just... wanted creative help!”

“And you summoned a demon of dimensional disruption. That’s like calling a plumber to fix a broken heart. Congrats.”

Emma stood in silence for a moment. Then she sighed. Deeply. “Okay. Okay. This can be fixed, right? You can just… go back?”

“I’d love to. Really. But there’s one small detail: you called me incorrectly, with an incomplete connection and an unfinished contract. The result?”

He stepped toward her, and she instinctively stepped back. He took another step. She backed up again. He followed, like they were dancing some kind of supernatural tango.

“We’re stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“Stuck. Glued. Bound by a partial arcane link. You summoned me and didn’t release me. I can’t leave until... the bond dissolves through some sort of great personal achievement.”

“This is a joke.”

“My entire existence is, darling.”

Emma sat on the floor, dazed.

“I just wanted to write a good story for my semester project. It’s worth 70% of my grade.”

“And now you’ve got a demon as your personal coach. What an opportunity.”

She glared at him.

“You’re going to mess everything up, aren’t you?”

“Most likely.”

Emma squinted, trying to figure out if this was real or just a caffeine-fueled creative breakdown.

“So now what?” she asked, voice still shaky. “What happens next?”

Vessel stretched his arms as if waking from a nap. He looked absurdly comfortable in the room, as if Emma’s bedroom were just an extension of hell — which, given the scattered clothes, might not be that far off.

“Now? Now... we live this nightmare together. I follow you around, you try to get rid of me, and somewhere in the middle, you learn a lesson.”

Emma stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I have literally centuries of experience with botched summonings”, said Vessel, folding his arms and leaning against the wall like someone commenting on the ending of a predictable TV show. “It always ends the same way.”

He raised a hand and started counting on his fingers:

“First: the human learns a touching emotional lesson.” One finger. “Second: they cry. Always cry. Sometimes ugly cry”, two fingers. “Third: I get banished dramatically, surrounded by smoke, cheap candle scent, and an existential crisis that lasts about fifty years”, three fingers. He dropped his hand and sighed theatrically. “The only variable is the candle scent. Vanilla, cinnamon, jasmine... a scented hell.”

Emma raised an eyebrow at him.

“And yet you keep coming?”

“The entertainment makes up for it. Plus, humans are... delightfully messy. I never know if I’ll end up in a gothic castle, a suburban garage, or” he gestured broadly “a room with shelves full of cheesy romance novels.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“If you want it to be.” “Right. And in the meantime, you’ll just... stay here? With me?” “Of course. Unless you want to find out what happens when we’re apart.” “What happens?”

He smiled. That should’ve been illegal. It was the kind of smile reserved for perfume commercials with French names and a lifetime contract with sin.

“Try it. Go on. Walk thirty steps in any direction. I’ll wait.”

Emma hesitated. Her rational brain screamed that it was a bad idea. Her curiosity said “what’s the worst that could happen?”

She took ten steps to the bedroom door. Nothing. Fifteen. Vessel stood still, arms crossed. At twenty, a light pressure hit her chest. At twenty-five, it turned to dizziness. At thirty, it felt like an emotional anvil was dropping onto her heart.

She staggered. “Okay! Okay, I get it!”

Vessel appeared beside her before she could blink, hands behind his back and a mock-innocent expression.

“You reached the limit. Congratulations. We’re officially mystical Siamese cats. Isn’t that cute?”

Emma leaned against the wall, catching her breath.

“This is a nightmare.”

She stormed back into the room, flopped onto the couch. Vessel sat in the armchair like exiled royalty. “And don’t you have, I don’t know, a hellish boss to report to?” “I do. But he’s busy with an interdimensional conference. Don’t get involved with demonic bureaucracy — it’s worse than a bank queue.”

Emma frowned.

“You’re really taking this well.”

“Like I said, this isn’t my first time stuck with a clumsy, cute human who mispronounced arcane words like a margarine commercial.”

She arched a brow.

“Did you just call me cute?”

“I said clumsy and cute. Don’t take it out of context.”

“Are you flirting?”

“I’m breathing. In my species, that’s already halfway to flirting.”

She turned her face, trying to hide the small smile that slipped out.

“And what if I just... ignore you?”

“I sing. Loudly. And my voice makes dogs cry.”

“Lovely.”

“And I know the entire ABBA discography.”

“That... that’s not a threat. That’s a promise.”

Vessel smiled genuinely for the first time. Emma noticed that, behind the irony, there was something almost... comforting. Like a presence that, despite the chaos, fit better than anything else she had ever tried to summon into her life.

“Fine.” She took a deep breath. “You can stay on the couch. But no dream invading, no touching my chocolate drawer, and absolutely no commenting on my sad song playlists, got it?”

“Got it.” He paused. “But I can help you write. I’m great with sarcasm and irony.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’ll be useful after all.”

“Oh, Emma... you haven’t seen anything yet.”

[jawsoffate]

beating it raw (ii x reader)

Summary: reader and ii have spicy time on a drum. Happy iisday yall

TW: P in V, a drum is being used for other than usual purposes, the gif is self-explanatory really.

I tried something different with this one like writing from a first person pov, let me know if it's any good. If anyone has a request or an ideia (or just want to say something, anything), please, feel free to send them here :)

💖 masterlist

The sound of the drums reverberated through the makeshift home studio, vibrating through the walls, the floor... through me. I was standing there, leaning against the half-open door, watching the man sitting behind the instrument as if he had control not only over the sound but over the space itself.

II.

The blonde hair fell in loose strands over his sweaty forehead, his defined arms moving with absurd precision, strength and technique blending in a way that made my legs weak. He played with anger. With hunger. As if he were making love to the drums, pulling from them each sound with desire and power.

The drumsticks spun between his fingers naturally, but it was when he dropped them and began playing only with his hands that my body responded in a nearly shameful way. His palms struck the drum skins as if marking an internal rhythm, something instinctive, masculine. The deep sound echoed through the room as he also moved his legs — hitting the pedals with a coordination so precise it seemed choreographed.

The beat was primal. Rhythmic. Hot.

And I needed him.

I pushed the door open with more force, and he saw me. His blue eyes sparked with recognition, and a crooked smile formed on his lips — sweaty, breathing heavily, his bare chest rising and falling with the adrenaline of the performance. No words were spoken. They weren’t needed.

I closed the door behind me and walked towards him, slow, feeling my own heartbeat match the rhythm of the drums. He slightly spread his legs, still playing with his heels and toes — without stopping. The deep, continuous sound filled the air, making everything wetter, denser.

“Come here,” he said, his voice hoarse and low, as if he hadn’t stopped playing. As if I was just part of the music. “I want to try something different with you.”

I moved closer and climbed onto his lap, facing him, my thighs wrapping around his hips, feeling the heat of his body against mine. His legs moved beneath me, still hitting the pedals, creating a continuous vibration that traveled up my thighs until it lodged itself between them.

He didn’t stop.

His hands kept striking the drums, alternating between sharp cracks and deep rumbles, while his feet commanded the pedals with unwavering precision. The sound of the drums filled the studio, pounding in my chest as if each beat were a touch on my skin.

He smiled at me with the corner of his mouth, never stopping. His body sweated, muscles tightening under the effort of maintaining the rhythm — of the music and the tension between us. It was brutally beautiful, absurdly sexy.

“Come up,” he ordered, his voice muffled by the sound of the plates vibrating in the background.

I climbed onto his lap, my knees resting on either side of his firm thighs. I felt his hard erection pressing against my center, warm even over the sweatshirt. He wouldn't stop. His hands alternated between the sticks and the drums, in a fast, hypnotic rhythm.

Then he put down one of the drumsticks and moved his hand to the waistband of his own pants, without stopping his feet. He pulled the fabric down just enough and looked at me.

“Take off your panties and sit on me.”

My body obeyed before my brain could even process it. I pulled my panties aside, moaning lowly at the wet friction, and held his cock in my trembling hand. It was hot, throbbing, thick. He gasped, but his hands were still beating - one on the tambourine, the other on the snare drum, interspersing strokes with a precision that seemed impossible to maintain in that situation.

I went down slowly, feeling him invade me, centimeter by centimeter, until he fitted me completely. I gasped loudly. My body trembled.

But he didn't stop.

With every movement I made on his lap, the sound of the drums accompanied it, creating a raw, erotic soundtrack, as if he were fucking my body and the music at the same time.

“Fuck…” I mumbled, holding onto his shoulders and starting to move, sitting down harder. “This is insane…”

He stared at me, intense, insatiable.

“Go on, love. Use me. Come while I play”

And that's what I did.

I moved hard, hungrily, letting my body dictate the rhythm - but he was in control. The sound of the drums dictated my hips, dictated my moans, each beat like a slap against my skin. The cymbals vibrated, the drums roared, and I was completely surrendered, riding with desperation on the lap of a man who played as if he were possessed.

My hands slid down his sweaty back, feeling every muscle, every fiber under tension. He was a machine of pleasure and control, and even though my body was shaking with arousal, he kept his focus on the pedals, the drumsticks, my body, my pleasure.

“Look at me,” he demanded between his teeth, without stopping. “I want to see your face when you cum on my fucking cock.”

“I... I'm almost there,” I confessed, my breathing labored, my moans mixing with the loud sound of the drums. “Fuck, II…”

He let go of one of the drumsticks just for a second, took his hand between us and started massaging my clitoris with his thumb, while his legs kept hitting the pedal with precision, the low sound vibrating underneath me, going up the bench, resonating straight into my womb.

The pleasure rose abruptly. An explosion announced, inevitable.

“That's it…” he whispered, his mouth touching my jaw, his eyes locked on mine. “Come. Give me that come.”

And I did.

The orgasm hit me like a violent wave, taking me hard and sweeping away everything that existed before it. I moaned loudly, my head thrown back, the muscles in my thighs contracting as my whole body pulsed around him. It was more than pleasure — it was total, raw, urgent surrender. My nails dug into his shoulders, and I trembled in continuous spasms, feeling as if each beat of the drums was a direct shock between my legs.

And he didn't stop.

His feet still set the rhythm firmly on the pedal, the bass drum vibrating beneath me as if it were inside my body. His hands, even between touches on the drums, returned to my waist, guiding my movements with a mastery that was pure instinct. I could barely breathe, and he held me, tightly, without letting me move away for even a second.

“Yes, love,” he whispered, still breathing heavily. “Exactly like that”

I moved slowly at first, the afterglow still overwhelming me. But every thrust he made underneath, every slap of his thighs against mine, made me moan again. He slid inside me easily, but not gently. It was rhythmic. Raw. Precisely calculated - like the music coming from the drums and cymbals around us.

He leaned forward, biting my neck with a force that made me shudder. The muffled sound of his breathing mingled with the cadence of the drums. I was riding him more hungrily now, without shame, without a filter. My breasts brushed against his sweaty chest, and the friction of the skin, the music and the tension brought me unbearably close to the edge again.

“Fuck, yeah”. His voice was huskier, lower. “Look at me while you fuck me. Don't close your eyes”

I did. My hips rotated against his with desperate movements, and II's gaze on me was almost more intense than the sex itself. His jaw locked, his eyes squinted, his concentration divided between the sound he was still making with his feet and hands - and what he was pulling out of me with each thrust.

“You're going to come again for me,” he said, without giving me a choice. “Now… don’t stop”

My skin shivered at the tone of his voice. He changed the angle of his hips, thrusting deeper, straighter, right into that spot inside me that was taking me apart. His left hand came down, while still holding the drumstick, and slammed it into my ass, the sound mixing with the music he was creating.

I gasped, I screamed, I trembled. I came again.

Harder, faster, dirtier.

The second orgasm came in uncontrolled spasms. I grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him in a hurry, thirstily, moaning into his mouth. It was a sweaty, desperate, uncontrollable kiss - and he still wouldn't stop.

The sound wouldn't stop.

He was a demon in control of everything. And I was just flesh and instinct riding him, obeying the rhythm he imposed with his body and the music.

“Your pussy drives me crazy” he growled, now with both feet accelerating the pedals, creating a more intense, more brutal rhythm. “You were born to sit on me like that.”

He took one of his hands off the drums and grabbed the back of my head, pulling my face forward and holding me in his gaze.

“You're going to make me come now. But you're going to give me one more first. Can you?”

“I... I can” I stammered, trembling, my mouth ajar, my lips trying to form words while my whole body imploded.

“Then come again for me, baby.”

I moved. With all my strength, with all my will, I rode him like my body was on fire. The slap of skin against skin competed with the sound of the snare drum and the kick drum. With every move I made, he hit the drums harder. I no longer knew where the sound began and the sex ended. It was all one thing. A frenzy.

His legs trembled beneath me, his muscles tensed. His eyes were on fire.

“Fuck, yeah.” He bit his lip, his forehead touching mine. “Go on, come. Come on”.

The third came like an electric shock that ran up my spine and exploded behind my eyes. My scream echoed through the studio, mixed with the last crash of the cymbals. His mouth latched onto mine, swallowing the sound I made, while his body stiffened beneath me.

And then he exploded inside me.

With a low, hoarse, brutal growl, his hips thrust hard one last time, burying himself to the bottom. His hands finally let go of the battery, gripping my waist as if he was going to lose himself. His come came hard, hot, pulsing, and I felt each spurt as if it were another beat against my own limit.

He groaned long, a raw sound that reverberated through my chest.

We stood there, both of us shaking, panting, sweaty, glued together.

He ran a hand through my hair, straightening a few strands that were messy.

“Wow…” he said with a silly smile, still trying to catch his breath. “We should have done this sooner”

I laughed, snuggling closer to him, enjoying the feeling of having him so close. He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, and the lightness of the moment enveloped us.

“Now, shall we take that bath?” he suggested in a soft voice, already starting to pull me towards the bathroom.

“Only if I can stay close,” I joked, and he looked at me, smiling.

[jawsoffate]

make it better (alpha!ivy x reader)

Summary: reader's heat is upon her and she needs alpha!ivy

TW: Pin V, bathtub is being use for something other than bathing.

Hello!! I'm back, after getting a massive writer's block, but here's another ivy one-shot for everyone to enjoy <3

If anyone has a request or an ideia (or just want to say something, anything), please, feel free to send them here :)

💖 masterlist

The clock on the wall seemed to mock her. Every tick-tock was a reminder that time was passing, yet her body didn’t seem willing to cooperate. At first, it was just discomfort, a slight pressure in her chest, something she tried to ignore as she focused on the spreadsheets in front of her. The heat was there, like an invisible presence, a soft wave rising up her neck, but she forced a smile and kept typing.

But the sensation grew stronger, like a shadow slowly extending, and soon it became impossible to ignore. Her senses sharpened—the smell of coffee in the room grew stronger, as if the aroma was invading her body and making her more aware of herself.

Her stomach twisted strangely, sharp pangs intensifying low in her belly, and unconsciously, her hand went to her nape, feeling the slight dampness of her skin there. The heat was rising, and her body was beginning to adjust to this new reality, to this demand she could no longer ignore.

She looked around, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. She knew that with Ivy’s mark, there was no risk of another alpha approaching her invasively. His scent enveloped her like a protective cloak, but still, the discomfort was growing. Memories of what was about to come flashed vividly in her mind. Heat was a physical process, but also an emotional one. It made her feel vulnerable, exposed, even if no one else could tell what was happening to her.

She tried to focus on her work, but her thoughts were far away, her muscles tense. Every movement felt heavier, every breath harder to contain. The heat wasn’t just in her temperature; it was spreading slowly, reaching her shoulders, her stomach, her legs.

The secretary sitting across from her got up to deliver a report. As she walked past, the woman’s perfume hit her hard, tightening her chest, and the feeling of being watched became almost unbearable. She forced another smile and looked away, struggling to keep control.

But then the heat intensified again. It was almost as if fire was burning inside her, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer. Her heartbeat quickened, and she abruptly stood up from her chair, feeling a wave of dizziness as she forced herself to walk toward the restroom.

The corridor was empty, and the silence was a relief. She took a deep breath, trying to fight the rising panic. But each breath seemed to feed the fire within her. And then she felt it—the subtle but unmistakable tingling in the lower part of her abdomen. The beginning of an uncontrollable desire, spreading and taking over every inch of her being. She knew her body wouldn’t let her wait much longer. She had to get out of there. She needed refuge.

When she reached the bathroom, she slammed the door shut behind her and leaned against the cold wood, struggling to regulate her breathing. The words “you'll leave soon” passed through her mind, but there was no calming her. The heat was overtaking her body, and there was no turning back.

With a heavy sigh, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were misty, her lips fuller than usual. The heat pressing in her chest seemed to reverberate up her throat. She bit her lip, trying to control the rhythm of her breathing, while the desire began to pulse more fiercely inside her.

She left the bathroom, still battling the overwhelming wave of need. The pressure inside her was unbearable, but she forced herself to maintain control as she grabbed her bag and car keys. The heat in her chest and cheeks made her even more uncomfortable, but she needed to leave.

The walk to the car was torture, each step heavy, each breath harder than the last.

She got into the car, started the engine, and drove off. The streets were quiet, but her body was anything but peaceful. At every stoplight, at every acceleration, she felt the fire spreading through her veins. The back of her throat was dry, her lips began to burn, and she had to adjust her grip on the steering wheel to fight the rising discomfort. Her mind was a haze, broken only by flashes of desire. She knew that if she didn’t get home soon, it would only get worse.

Streetlights flickered through the car windows, and she clenched her jaw as she forced herself to breathe slowly. Thinking of Ivy helped, at least a little. Thinking of how he always knew exactly what to do to soothe her, how he was always there, firm and steady—her alpha, her musician—with the power to ease the pressure inside her with just a glance, a touch. But he was at the studio and wouldn't be home anytime soon.

She parked the car in the garage, exhausted and desperate. Her skin was burning to the touch, the heat seeping deep into her bones, her body already responding to primal instincts. She hurried inside, locked the door behind her, and rushed through the house.

She barely crossed the entryway before heading straight for the bathroom, stopping in the kitchen just long enough to grab a bottle of wine in a desperate attempt to soothe herself. She undressed quickly, each piece of clothing feeling like a heavy weight being shed, only increasing the pressure inside her. The wine was there, waiting. She poured some into a glass with trembling hands, took a quick sip, feeling the smooth liquid slide down her throat—but it wasn’t enough to quench the fire burning inside her.

She slipped into the bathtub, letting the hot water envelop her, foam gathering around her body, covering her only partially. But it wasn’t enough. The heat, the desire, the yearning... they were all growing stronger by the second. Her body was begging for Ivy, begging for his presence, for the relief only he could bring.

She closed her eyes, letting the warm water wrap around her. But the loneliness, the repressed need for him by her side, was crushing. With every minute that passed, the heat inside her grew. She could already feel her breathing becoming uneven, her heart pounding faster. The heat wouldn’t leave her alone, and she knew she was about to lose the little control she had left.

It took about half an hour—an eternity—before she heard footsteps in the house. Slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes locked on the bathroom door, sensing his unmistakable presence.

Ivy.

The door opened softly, and he entered with a calm smile, but his eyes were charged with an intensity she knew all too well. He was calm, but she could see the way his muscles were tense, the way he, too, felt the electricity in the air.

He stopped at the doorway, watching her in the bathtub, her hair pinned up, the water glistening around her naked body. The sight of her, bathed in foam and wine, made his chest tighten. He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving her, without saying a word.

She looked up at him, her eyes glistening, and her voice came out muffled, almost a desperate whisper.

"Ivy..."

His response was silent but firm. He crouched down beside the tub, his fingers skimming the hot water gently, as if testing the temperature, and then his eyes found hers. The desire was clear in his gaze, as was the certainty that he knew exactly what she needed.

He shed his jacket, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons as he watched her, and moved even closer, his steps soft but filled with authority. When he crouched in front of her, she couldn’t hold herself back. The pressure in her chest intensified again, and she leaned toward him, desperate, as if her body couldn't wait another second.

He tilted his head, pressing his lips tenderly to her forehead, but the touch quickly became more demanding. His blue eyes burned, and she knew the moment had finally come. Relief was about to wash over her entire body when Ivy pulled her closer, his hands firm around her.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked softly, his voice laced with gentle reprimand, his eyes locking onto hers with intense calmness. He traced the back of her hand with his thumb, a soothing motion.

She couldn’t speak, her throat tight and her body pulsing with heat. But at his touch, her fingers slowly closed around his hand, seeking comfort. Ivy noticed and tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating his next move.

With a sigh, he removed his shirt and leaned in closer, his blond hair falling softly over his shoulders. He hadn’t even touched her yet, but his proximity alone made her skin shiver.

"I should have gotten here sooner. You should have told me it started early," he said, his voice thick with tenderness, his hands gliding along the edge of the tub. He was trying to remain calm, but she could feel the care in every movement, in the way he looked at her, as if afraid something had happened.

She closed her eyes for a moment, one hand rising to touch his collar, craving more contact. He didn’t hesitate. His fingers gently brushed a strand of hair stuck to her face, and he sighed—a deep, heavy sigh, as if releasing some internal tension.

She nodded faintly, a weak smile curving her lips, but she couldn't speak. Her breathing was heavy, and the pressure in her chest kept building with each passing second. It was hard to even keep her eyes open.

Ivy stood slowly, never breaking contact with her skin. His gaze roamed over her as he unbuttoned his shirt with deliberate, controlled movements. When he came closer again, his fingers gripped the sides of the bathtub, his body tense as he crouched in front of her.

Without another word, he slid his hand through the water until he found the damp skin of her thigh. The touch made her sigh, a small fraction of the tension leaving her body.

"Let me take care of you, okay?" he murmured, his tone gentle but now more commanding. He pulled her hair back again, his breath ghosting against her ear. Just hearing his voice calmed her, her chest pounding but finally finding some relief with his presence.

He continued to move her gently in the water, his fingers now gliding over her skin more possessively, as if his touch was the only thing capable of soothing the overwhelming heat consuming her—and it was.

She didn’t reply, just leaned into him, her palm pressing against his chest as her eyes fluttered shut, her muscles relaxing under his firm, grounding touch.

The hot water seemed to vibrate around them, creating an intimate atmosphere that deepened their connection. Ivy leaned closer, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened, becoming urgent, demanding, as his hands explored her body with a perfect mix of tenderness and possession.

She responded with equal intensity, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The heat that once overwhelmed her now transformed into something different—something that bound her to him completely. Each touch, each movement, was a promise:

I’m here. I understand you. I will take care of you.

Ivy pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.

"Are you with me?" he asked, his voice soft but loaded with an intensity that made her heart race even faster.

She nodded, unable to form words, but her gaze was answer enough.

He then began to trail his hands over her body, exploring every curve, every line, as if rediscovering her. The hot water seemed to amplify every sensation, every touch, and she felt herself completely wrapped in him, both physically and emotionally. His lips found her neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses that made her shudder.

"I love you," he murmured against her skin, his words echoing like a mantra, calming her and exciting her at the same time. Tears slipped from her eyes—not from sadness, but from relief, from gratitude for having him there, for feeling so thoroughly understood and cared for.

"Let me see you," he whispered, his voice low and hoarse, thick with raw need.

The air between them seemed to crackle with static. Ivy ran his tongue over his lips, savoring the moment, admiring every detail of her—the goosebumps on her skin, her erratic breathing, the blatant hunger in her every involuntary movement.

He leaned in, brushing his lips along the line of her jaw until he found her mouth in a hungry kiss. This time, there was no room for gentleness. He claimed her, and she surrendered, their mouths molding together in an almost desperate urgency.

His hands roamed over her body as if memorizing every curve, every sigh. A firm hand gripped her waist, pulling her closer, and she gasped, feeling the hardness of him pressing against her, undeniable proof that he was just as lost as she was.

"You are mine," Ivy growled against her ear, his voice so deep it vibrated straight between her legs, drawing a soft moan from her. "Only mine."

The heat flared higher, tinged with possessiveness.

She grabbed his hair, pulling him even closer, their bodies glued together, the sweat starting to bead where their skins touched. He kissed down her neck, nipping at the sensitive flesh, leaving a blazing trail that made her squirm beneath him.

When his hands finally slid down her thighs, parting them effortlessly, she didn't hesitate. She opened herself to him with a surrendered sigh, giving herself without reservation.

Ivy's touch was firm, knowing, precise. He explored, teased, dominated—but always attentive to her body's every signal. She felt lost, yet safe. A devastating contrast only he could create.

When he finally entered her, it was like a wave of pleasure crashing over her, engulfing her completely.

She arched her body, a muffled cry escaping her lips as Ivy filled every empty space inside her. The sensation was intense, raw, necessary.

He gripped her hips tightly, setting a deep, steady rhythm, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure up her spine. She clawed at him, moaned his name, surrendered without fear, feeling her body vibrate with his.

"Ivy... please," she begged, lost, desperate for more.

"I know, my love," he answered, his voice strained with the effort to maintain control. "I know. Let me take care of you."

His words were as vital as his touch—she clung to them, to him, as her only anchor in the storm of sensations.

When he slid his hand between their bodies, seeking the place where she needed him most, she shattered. She cried out his name, feeling the climax tear through her like lightning, ripping her apart from the inside.

Ivy didn’t stop.

He kept moving inside her, supporting her, prolonging the sensation until she no longer knew where she ended and he began.

When he finally gave in, it was with a deep, primal groan, burying his face in the curve of her neck, his body trembling against hers in an ecstasy so profound it seemed endless.

They stayed there, breathless, sweaty, connected in a way that transcended the physical. Ivy caressed her lazily, his fingers tracing slow patterns on her skin, as if anchoring her back to reality.

He hugged her tightly, whispering promises against her damp hair. Still entangled, Ivy pulled her even closer, as if he feared losing her. His warm breath brushed over her skin, and despite the heavy exhaustion between her muscles, she never wanted to let him go. The heat now was different—a comfortable, intimate warmth, unlike the urgency that had consumed her earlier.

Ivy slowly ran his hand down her back, tangling his fingers in her still-damp hair.

"I need to feel you again," he murmured against her neck, his voice rough and drunk with desire. "In bed this time."

She moaned in response, her body reacting instantly to his tone. She was still sensitive, each touch of his sending delicious electric shocks through her nerves. But she wanted more. She needed more.

He helped her out of the tub without pulling away from her for more than a second. The towel he grabbed was more symbolic than practical—he ran it quickly over her skin, but it was his warm, firm hands that truly heated her.

He looked at her as if she were sacred. Every curve, every sigh, every mark he left on her—she was his now. And she knew it.

"You have no idea," he whispered, brushing his lips along her jawline, "how much you destroy me."

She smiled softly, pulling him by the nape until their bodies collided again. No rush, no fear. Just pure, desperate need.

Ivy positioned himself between her thighs, his gaze burning into hers, asking for permission without words. She arched her hips, offering herself, feeling a new, raw heat bloom between her legs.

When he entered her again, it was different. Slower. Deeper. As if he wanted to engrave every second of that moment into her skin.

The movements were rhythmic, intense, but filled with something more: devotion.

He kissed her between rough groans, their bodies molding together in desperate perfection. Each thrust made the bed creak beneath them, the muffled sounds of their passion filling the room.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, wanting to feel him in every inch of her soul.

"Ivy..." she panted against his lips. "Don't stop... ever."

"Never," he promised, burying his face in the curve of her neck. "You're everything to me."

He brushed his lips along the curve of her neck, breathing her in as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. With every heavy breath, the heat between them grew thicker, more unbearable.

His hips moved with more intent, driving deeper inside her. The moan that escaped his lips was almost a sob of pleasure.

"Can you feel it?" he growled, his voice rough against her senses. "How much I belong to you?"

She answered with a broken moan, arching her body to take him even deeper. Their hips moved in perfect synchrony, a primal, uncontrollable dance that consumed everything around them.

Ivy slid his hand along her side, down her belly, until he found the spot where she needed him most. His agile fingers teased, circling slowly, torturing her until she was arching, begging for more.

"Look at me," he commanded, his deep voice vibrating directly through her center.

She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze—two burning blue flames locked onto her. His eyes set her on fire, stripped her bare more than his hands ever could.

"That's it, beautiful," he praised, quickening his pace, teasing her mercilessly. "I want to see you break for me."

And she broke.

With a ragged scream, her entire body trembled, violent waves of pleasure tearing through every inch of her. Her legs shook, and she clung to him as if she might drown, her nails digging into his shoulders.

But Ivy didn’t stop.

While she was still unraveling from the explosion, he flipped her easily, pulling her to straddle him without ever pulling out.

"More," he growled against her lips. "Give me more."

She obeyed, moving over him, riding the pleasure like a wild, unstoppable wave. Their bodies slid together, sweaty, frantic, the sound of skin against skin filling the room with an obscene, perfect symphony.

Ivy gripped her waist firmly, guiding her movements, helping her rise and fall over him with a hunger that seemed endless. His eyes never left hers, as if every moan, every shudder, every spasm of pleasure were sacred offerings.

When the next climax approached, she screamed his name, desperate.

"Ivy... God, Ivy, I—"

"Let go," he growled, squeezing her waist even harder. "Let me see you lose yourself for me."

And she did.

The pleasure exploded again, even stronger, ripping a broken, visceral sound from deep inside her. Ivy groaned low, pulling her flush against him as he surrendered too, his whole body trembling beneath hers.

For long moments, they remained motionless, simply breathing the heavy, humid air they shared.

She collapsed against his chest, her heart racing wildly, while Ivy caressed her back in slow, possessive strokes.

"I will never... get enough of you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, still inside her, still connected, as if separating was unthinkable.

She smiled against his skin, feeling tears burning again in her eyes—tears of love, of belonging, of a desire that would never fade.

And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was the only place in the world she ever wanted to be: Straddling him, tangled with him, completely and irrevocably his.

Forever.

[jawsoffate]

streamer (iii x oc!reader)

Summary: iii is streaming and reader wants attention

TW: oral sex, Pin V, computer table is definitely being used. This was sparked by the recent events, but no descriptions of faces or names are being used, besides the eye color and hair.

💖 masterlist

The apartment was immersed in a comfortable twilight, illuminated only by the bluish light of the screens. The sound of buttons being pressed echoed softly, mixed with the deep, relaxed voice of iii, talking into the microphone with his friends. The occasional laughter broke the silence, creating a laid-back and engaging atmosphere.

She entered the room quietly, observing iii in profile as he was fully immersed in the game. His platinum blonde hair fell lightly over his forehead, emphasizing his intense blue eyes that were fixed on the screen. His large hands moved skillfully on the controller, and the slight furrow of his brow indicated concentration.

For a few moments, she simply watched him, gently biting her lower lip. The tension was already in the air, latent. She knew he was aware of her presence, even though he hadn’t yet shifted his gaze from the screen.

Finally, she decided to act. She approached slowly, letting her soft footsteps be noticed. She stopped behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and applying a slight pressure. He relaxed instantly under her touch, releasing an almost imperceptible sigh.

"Are you busy?" she asked in a low voice, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath against his neck.

He chuckled softly, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"I always have time for you." The response came quickly, yet laced with a hint of provocation.

She slid her hands down his shoulders, slowly descending his arms until she reached his hands on the controller. With a firm movement, she made him drop the object, leaving it on the table. Finally, he turned to face her.

His blue eyes met hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. He pulled her closer, until she was sitting on his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist. Both of their breaths were faster now, as if anticipation had taken over every cell of their bodies.

"You know I’m live, right?" he murmured against her neck, his lips grazing lightly, sending waves of heat through her body.

She smiled, sliding her hands through his hair, pulling gently.

"Turn it off." That was all she said.

He didn’t hesitate. With a quick motion, he disconnected the headset and turned off the stream. Now, the only sound left was the rush of their breaths and the faint hum of the electronics around them.

Without wasting any time, iii lifted her slightly, placing her on the gaming table. His large hands held her thighs firmly, spreading warmth wherever they touched. She leaned forward, capturing his lips in an urgent, deep kiss full of repressed desire.

His movements were precise, firm, as though he knew exactly what to do to provoke her. His fingers traced the outline of her thighs, slowly rising until they reached the hem of the fabric separating them from his touch. She arched her back slightly, encouraging him to continue.

"You look gorgeous like this, did you know that?" he whispered against her lips, his blue eyes shining with a mix of admiration and hunger.

She smiled, pulling him even closer, feeling the heat and weight of his body against hers.

"And you talk too much..." she teased, before pulling him into another kiss, deep and intense, letting actions replace words.

He kissed his way down her neck, slowly sliding to her collarbone and further, leaving a trail of heat on her skin. His firm hands helped her lean back, supporting herself on the table as he knelt before her.

With an intense, desire-filled gaze, iii gently pulled the piece of clothing that separated them, revealing her warm skin, eager for more. He stared at her for a moment, as though imprinting every detail in his memory.

"I want to feel you…” he said, his voice low and hoarse, before leaning in to kiss her again.

He ran his hand along the side of her face, his fingers sliding gently over her warm skin, as though he wanted to remember every detail. Without rushing, he held her by the waist, laying her on the computer table. The soft lights of the monitors flickered around them, but iii’s focus was entirely on her.

She felt a shiver run through her body. It wasn’t just his touch that set her on fire, but the words that came charged with a truth that made her heart race. Without hesitation, iii slid his hands down her thighs, slowly parting them. The cables and controllers were pushed aside with a careless gesture. He wanted space for her. He wanted every inch of that surface occupied by her body.

He leaned in, kissing her deeply, but this time there was a slowness to his movements. He wasn’t in a rush, not impulsive. It was as though he was savoring every second, every sigh, every shiver she let slip.

"Do you know what you do to me?" he asked against her lips, his fingers exploring the outline of her waist, rising until they reached her breasts.

She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling in a quick rhythm.

"Yes" she challenged him, her voice rough with desire. "But tell me again.”

He paused for a second, his eyes locked on hers. The light in his blue eyes was a mix of raw desire and something deeper, more intense.

"You drive me crazy. You always have." He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear, making her moan softly. "You make me want everything… with you.”

She felt her heart race, and before she could respond, he kissed his way down her neck, leaving a hot trail down to the center of her chest.

"I want you to feel how much I want you" he whispered before lowering himself even more, kneeling between her legs.

With a firm gesture, he slid the fabric separating them, leaving her completely exposed. His blue eyes fixed on her, and she squirmed slightly under his intense gaze, as though he adored her.

"Beautiful..." he murmured, his fingers tracing a soft path along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

She gasped, her body responding to every touch of his. Her fingers pulled at his hair again, eager to feel him closer, to end that sweet torture.

But iii liked to tease her. He started slow, his tongue sliding gently, exploring her with patience and precision. Her reaction was immediate – a deep moan that filled the room, echoing between the electronics.

"That’s it..." she moaned, her hips moving slightly against him, seeking more contact. "Don’t stop…”

He smiled against her skin, pleased with her reaction. His hands held her thighs firmly, keeping her in place as he dedicated himself to each movement, alternating between soft touches and firm pressure.

"I’d never stop" he said, his voice muffled, but full of desire.

She felt her whole body ignite. Her fingers gripped his hair tightly, pulling him closer as her own body gave in completely to the pleasure he was giving her. Her moans grew louder and louder, uncontrollable.

"Please..." she whispered, lost in the sensations. "Don’t stop... I’m so close…”

He quickened his movements, his tongue and lips working in perfect sync to take her to the edge. When she finally exploded in an intense climax, her whole body trembled, and she let out a scream that echoed through the apartment.

iii slowly rose, kissing his way back up her body until he reached her lips again.

"You taste amazing..." he murmured, his lips still moist, a satisfied smile plastered on his face.

She pulled him closer, her eyes shining with intensity.

“Now it’s my turn..." she said, her voice full of mischief, but before she could move, he grabbed her by the hips, laying her back on the table.

“Not yet.” His voice was firm, but full of affection. "I’m not done with you yet.”

He kissed her again, and this time, as their bodies aligned perfectly, she knew he was giving himself completely. There was nothing else but the two of them in that moment, the passion and desire burning intensely.

When he entered her, it was with a mixture of urgency and devotion, as if each movement was a silent promise.

“You’re mine.” The words came out between his teeth, as he moved inside her with strength and precision. "Always have been, always will be.”

She held him tightly, her nails digging into his back as they moved together, their bodies in perfect harmony.

“And you’re mine,” she replied breathlessly, her eyes fixed on his.

The rhythm increased, the sound of their bodies colliding echoing through the apartment. But it wasn’t just the sound of their skins slapping together in sync. It was more than carnal desire"there was something visceral, a silent understanding that ran through every touch, every glance they exchanged.

She arched beneath him, seeking more, and he met each silent request with precision. The force of their movements made the table creak slightly, but neither of them seemed to notice. The lights on the monitors flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls around them, as if they were accomplices in this moment.

“Do you feel that?” iii murmured against her skin, his voice husky with desire. “How much do I want you? How much do I need you?”

She couldn’t answer with words. She was lost in the pleasure he was giving her, each thrust deepening the connection they shared. Instead of speaking, she pulled him into a deep kiss, their lips meeting in a clash of passion and need. Her hands were everywhere"on his back, on his shoulders, in his hair, as if she wanted to anchor herself to him, as if he were the only thing keeping her grounded. He held her hips firmly, his large fingers leaving soft marks on her skin as he moved with an almost calculated precision, yet still full of surrender. 

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, his blue eyes boring into hers. “Always have been. From the beginning.” She moaned in response, her eyes closing momentarily as she felt a wave of pleasure course through her body. His words held weight, laden with a devotion that made her heart race even faster. 

“And you’re mine,” she replied, her voice thick with emotion and desire. “Not just now… Always.” 

His movements became deeper, as if he wanted to mark those words in her soul, and she followed him, their bodies moving in a rhythm that was only theirs, a dance that seemed to have been rehearsed forever.

“Faster…” she begged, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Please…”

He complied, intensifying the pace. One of his hands went up to her neck to squeeze it. Each thrust made the table shake, the sound echoing through the room along with her moans and ragged breaths. His eyes remained fixed on her, watching every reaction, every tremor that ran through her body.

“I love how you react to me,” he murmured, a satisfied smile on his lips. “How you give yourself… It’s only for me.”

She smiled between one sigh and the next, her lips parted, her eyes shining with passion.

He slid one of his hands to the lower part of her back, pulling her even closer to him, deepening the connection between them. The pleasure was almost unbearable, as if they were both on the edge of the abyss, ready to throw themselves together.

She felt her entire body light up, an electric current running through every nerve.

“Don’t stop…” she begged, her voice trembling with desire. “I’m so close…”

He held her even tighter, his hand on her neck tightening his grip. The way he moved inside her was both possessive and adoring, as if he were recording that moment in his memory.

“I’ll never stop,” he promised, his eyes shining with emotion. “I’ll never get tired of you.”

The climax was approaching for both of them, like a wave building, ready to crash. She dug her nails into his back, pulling him closer, while he maintained the perfect rhythm, deep and intense.

“Look at me,” he asked, his voice low, almost a command. “I want to see you when it happens.”

She opened her eyes, meeting his. The look they shared was more than desire"it was a silent pact, a promise that this moment was just the beginning.

“Now,” he whispered, his voice thick with urgency. “Come with me…”

The words were the key that unlocked everything. She gave herself completely to him.

She leaned against him, her entire body shaking as a wave of pleasure washed over her. He followed her soon after, his body tensing before relaxing completely, as if she had taken everything from him.

For a moment, time seemed to stop. Only the sound of their panting breaths filled the space.

He fell on top of her gently, supporting himself with one arm so as not to press her completely. Still, he kept his face close to hers, leaving small kisses along her jaw.

"That..." he whispered, with a satisfied smile. "That's all I need."

She ran her fingers through his blond hair, pushing the damp strands away from his forehead.

"And I only need you."

The sound of their breathing began to calm, their heartbeats slowly synchronizing. He pulled away a little, still standing next to the computer desk, and looked at her with a satisfied but calm smile, as if the world around him had slowed down. She, still lying with her head resting on her outstretched arms, looked at him, her eyes still shining with the reflection of the intensity they had just shared.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice now soft, as if he cared about every detail of her well-being.

She smiled, her smile sweet and serene, and moved her fingers, as if she wanted to feel his presence once more, even after the moment of passion.

“I’m fine,” she replied, her voice soft, but full of affection that enveloped every word. “I just… I don’t want this to end.”

He leaned over, placing a hand on the table, close to her, and bent down to kiss her forehead, the gesture simple, but full of affection.

“We can stay like this as long as we want,” he whispered with a laugh, his voice warm and comforting. “There’s no rush.” She laughed softly, still breathing heavily, and pulled him closer, laying her head on his shoulder, as if she wanted to anchor herself there forever.

“Yeah… because this table is super comfortable,” she said, teasing.

“Come on, I think we need a shower.”

She sighed with a peaceful smile, feeling completely safe in his arms, and snuggled even closer to him.

“I accept.”

“Let’s go,” he said finally, pulling away gently and offering her his hand. “A shower and then, who knows, a little more time for the two of us on the couch.”

She smiled and accepted his hand, feeling happy and complete, already anticipating the next peaceful moments they would spend together.

[jawsoffate]

video game nights (iv x oc!reader)

Summary: IV is playing video games and reader decides to have some fun

TW: description of explicit sex, teasing. This was adapted from a one-shot that I had (the vinny mauro one that a posted a few days ago), so maybe it can have face descriptions that passed me by when editing.

💖 masterlist

The smell of melted cheese and buttered bread filled the kitchen as she finished preparing the sandwiches. The night was cold, and the room warmed by the fireplace created the perfect setting for a moment of tranquility. She arranged the plates on the tray, along with two glasses of drink, before heading to the living room.

Ivy was sprawled on the couch, the video game controller firm in his hands while the bluish light from the TV flickered in flashes. He was deeply focused, his blue eyes fixed on the screen, and his fingers moved quickly over the buttons.

“I brought you something so you don’t starve,” she said, placing the tray on the coffee table.

Ivy glanced up briefly, a slight smile appearing on his lips.

“You’re the best. You know that, right?”

She laughed, shaking her head before sitting next to him.

“I know, but you can say it more often.”

He grabbed one of the sandwiches, but his attention quickly returned to the game. She watched him eat distractedly, her lips curving into a smile as she noticed how immersed he was. The way he got while gaming made her smile—a mix of concentration and relaxation that made him irresistibly comfortable.

She leaned back on the couch, pretending to watch the game, but her attention was entirely on him. The loose t-shirt he wore revealed parts of his tattoos, and she felt a familiar warmth grow inside her as her eyes traced every detail. He was so focused that he seemed not to notice her gaze, and that’s when her idea came to mind.

She leaned closer, sliding her fingers along the side of his thigh. He didn’t react immediately, merely letting out a low sound of acknowledgment, still focused on the game. But when she pressed her lips against the curve of his neck, he paused briefly, his fingers hesitating on the buttons.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice hoarse, though his eyes stayed on the screen.

“Nothing,” she replied, her innocent tone contradicting her actions. Her hands slowly moved up, tracing the lines of his tattoos until they reached the waistband of his pants. “Just missing you.”

He chuckled softly but couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through his body.

“You’re impossible.”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she slid to the floor, kneeling between his legs. Her eyes locked on him, a mischievous gleam as her skilled hands worked the elastic of his sweatpants. Ivy finally tore his gaze from the TV, the surprise visible on his face before being replaced by something darker and more intense.

“Seriously? Now?” he asked, but made no move to stop her.

“Now,” she confirmed, the teasing smile still on her lips.

She pulled his pants down just enough to expose what she wanted and wasted no time. Her hands gripped him firmly, and when her mouth took him in completely, he let out a low curse, his head falling back against the couch. The sight of his distracted expression, his jaw tense as he tried to focus, was a temptation she couldn’t resist.

“Damn… you know I’m in the middle of a game, right?” he asked, but his voice faltered.

“Yes, and if you don’t pay attention, you’ll lose,” she replied, alternating between licking and sucking. He tried to refocus on the game, but his fingers faltered on the controls, and the sounds escaping his lips betrayed how much she was throwing him off balance.

“I’m not going to lose,” he said, his voice hoarse but slightly hesitant.

She knew he was lying. She knew the control he thought he had was slipping away quickly. And with that in mind, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his shaft before taking him fully into her mouth.

Ivy let out a low sound, almost imperceptible but heavy with frustration. It wasn’t the game that frustrated him. It was her, and she knew it.

“Really?” he asked, glancing down just enough to see her begin to kiss his skin.

“Yes, really,” she answered, without stopping, her eyes sparkling with amusement as her tongue traced a slow, teasing path.

He tried to return his focus to the screen, but his fingers began to falter on the controls. The sensation of her mouth distracted him in a way he couldn’t ignore. She was meticulous, alternating between licking and taking him in entirely, every movement calculated to leave him on the edge of losing control.

When she finally took his full length into her mouth, he let out a low curse, his eyes widening for a second before closing again. His hand automatically moved to her hair, his fingers tangling in the soft strands as he breathed deeply, trying to maintain some level of control.

“You know I’m in the middle of a game, right?” he asked, but his voice cracked at the end, betraying his attempt to sound indifferent.

She just responded with a look, moving her mouth up and down on him, the steady rhythm making him lose his breath. Ivy couldn’t look away; he always loved when she could take him to the base—which wasn’t easy, given his size and girth.

It was at that moment that the sound of defeat echoed through the room, as the game screen displayed a large "Game Over." Ivy looked at the TV and then at her, chuckling softly but clearly exasperated.

"Are you happy now? I lost," he said, though he didn’t seem too upset.

She pulled her mouth away for a moment, her lips swollen and a mischievous smile on her face.

"I always win."

"Oh, really?" he asked, leaning forward, gripping her chin, and forcing her to look at him.

With a swift motion, he pulled her onto his lap, his eyes shining with something almost wild. His hands gripped her waist, holding her firmly as his lips captured hers in a fierce kiss. There was no gentleness in the way they tore the remaining clothes off each other—just raw, unbridled desire.

She adjusted herself over him, feeling the growing pressure between their bodies. He tilted his head, lightly biting her lower lip before leaning into her neck, his teeth marking her skin as she gasped.

"You like teasing me, don’t you?" he murmured against her skin, his voice hoarse but loaded with authority.

"Maybe," she replied, her tone carrying the defiance he loved.

Without warning, he lifted his hips, pressing against her, and she couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped her lips as he entered her. His movements were firm, almost possessive, as his hands roamed her body, as if wanting to claim every inch of her.

She pulled at his blond hair, her fingers sliding to the nape of his neck as she kissed him again. But he quickly took control, gripping her hips and guiding her movements, making her move at the pace he wanted.

"You’re mine to use and do with as I please," he declared, his voice low and full of conviction.

Ivy held her waist tightly, his fingers digging into her skin as he guided her against him. His body was a mix of tension and pleasure, the muscles beneath her taut as he maintained full control over the rhythm.

"I told you not to distract me," he murmured against her ear, his voice deep and full of teasing.

She gasped as he gripped her hips even harder, dictating the pace he desired. Each movement made her tremble, the growing heat between them fueled by the possessiveness in his actions. He tilted his head to bite her breasts, his teeth marking her skin as soft moans escaped her lips.

"Keep going," he ordered, his blue eyes locked on her as he watched her obey.

She started moving on her own, sliding against him in a rhythm that left her breathless. Her hands moved to rest on his shoulders, her fingers tracing the tattoos covering his arm as she rode him. He watched her intently, his eyes narrowing as a predatory smile appeared on his lips.

"Just look at you..." he murmured, gripping her breasts firmly, his thumbs teasing her nipples. "So beautiful, losing yourself for me."

She couldn’t respond; she was lost in the intensity of the moment, the sounds of their bodies echoing through the room. Ivy pulled her closer, his hands firm on her waist as he increased the pace, guiding her with precision and making it clear that he was still in control, even with her on top. He tightened his grip on her waist, forcing her down with each thrust, making her feel the weight of his dominance.

"Faster," he ordered, his voice rough but with an unmistakable tone of authority as he grabbed her hair and made an improvised ponytail.

She obeyed, adjusting the rhythm, her movements now more intense and desperate. The friction between them was unbearably good, each clash of their bodies drawing low groans from him.

Ivy tilted his head back, his blue eyes fixed on her, his jaw tense as he watched her completely surrender.

"Look at me," he demanded, gripping her chin with one hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I want to see how much you love my cock."

She met his eyes, the intensity in his gaze making her tremble. He pulled her closer, his lips capturing hers in a fierce kiss as his hips moved harder.

When she began to lose her rhythm, her body trembling with the proximity of climax, he held her firmly and started thrusting into her, taking complete control. His movements became deeper, more intense, driving her to the edge without mercy.

"You’re going to come for me," he stated, his voice low and gravelly, but leaving no room for doubt.

She couldn’t respond, only clinging to his shoulders, her entire body shaking as the climax hit her like an overwhelming wave. Ivy didn’t stop, continuing to guide her through the pleasure until she had no strength left to move.

He held her tightly against him, his own movements becoming erratic until he also reached his peak, a low, hoarse groan escaping his lips as he buried his face in her neck.

They stayed there, their bodies entwined and sweaty, as both of their breaths gradually returned to normal. Ivy traced lazy circles on her back with his fingers, a satisfied smile on his lips as he looked at her.

"I guess losing the game was worth it," he murmured, chuckling softly.

She laughed too, tired but content. He pulled her closer, his tattooed arms wrapping around her as they both relaxed on the couch, the bluish light of the TV still flickering in the background.