A weekend in soft light— Malevola x reader x Victor
Summary: a cozy night of face masks and movies turns into a slow-burn tangle of soft touches and mutual, aching affection between you, Mal, and Victor
CW: nothing crazy, just flirting, light romantic tension, loooots of fluff!
PHEW! This was a bit shorter than I wanted it to be, but still liked how it came out! I love Mal and Victor so much, and hope you guys love this!! <3
(I love the HCs I’ve seen of Victor with a little bat tail, so there’s mention of that! And I wrote this with fem!reader in mind but didn’t mention any pronouns— pls lettme know if I’m wrong!)
Dividers by @strangergraphics!
The hallway leading to their apartment felt like stepping into the warm exhale of a tired city. It smelled faintly of cinnamon, vanilla creamer, and something like the ghost of late-night coffee grounds— comforting, lived-in, domestic in a way that made your bones soften. The hum of passing cars filtered through the thin stairwell window, gentle and distant, like waves smoothing out the edges of a long week.
You knocked once. The sound barely settled before the door cracked open— and Mal filled the frame like she’d been carved to fit it.
Her hair was down, a dark spill over one shoulder, catching the hallway light like ink poured over satin. Her grin started crooked and only grew more wicked the longer she looked at you. But underneath that— beneath the demon confidence and that not-so-subtle “I could eat you alive if I wanted to”— there was something softer. Almost startled.
Because you were standing there in sweats and a tank top, hair loose and a little messy from the wind, eyes tired but bright. Comfortable. Real. And beautiful in the kind of way that made people forget what they wanted to say.
“… Well,” she drawled, leaning one hand against the doorframe. “If I knew you’d show up looking like an absolute dream, I would’ve actually brushed my hair.”
Behind her, Victor hovered with the stiff, guilty posture of someone who’d spent the last ten minutes rehearsing how casual he’d be and then immediately forgot the lines. His white eyes flicked to you, widened slightly, then darted away like you were the sun and he’d forgotten his sunglasses.
“You, uh…” He cleared his throat. “You look… good.”
A beat.
“Not that you don’t always look good. I just— this is… I’m— I’ll shut up.”
You stepped inside, letting your shoulder skim Mal’s arm as you passed. A barely-there touch. Soft. Intentional. Enough to make her breath catch.
“Long week,” you murmured, tousling your hair once more for emphasis. “I wanted to be comfy. Hope that’s not too scandalous.”
Mal’s grin sharpened, but her voice dipped into something low, warm, almost reverent.
“Scandalous? No. Dangerous? Absolutely.”
Victor made a small, strangled sound behind her. “Yeah, no— yep. Very dangerous. Lethal, even. A hazard. Should come with signage.”
You laughed, the sound curling into the apartment like a bright ribbon of warmth. The space greeted you back with soft lamplight and the faint citrus-clean scent of a place someone had hurriedly straightened up. Pillows fluffed. A blanket draped just so. A mug forgotten near the sink with a pretty lipstick stain.
You set your bag down on the couch, the tiny clink of glass inside catching their attention immediately.
“What’d you bring?” Mal asked, leaning closer— not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep the air charged.
“Treats,” you said lightly, pulling our jars and bottles. “Face masks for us, and a hair mask for Victor.” You tilted the jar toward him. “This is my favorite one. The one you said you thought smelled nice.”
His entire posture crumpled into flustered disbelief.
“You— I mean, you remembered? I mentioned that once. In passing. Barely.” He rubbed the back of his neck, tail twitching behind him like a static-buzzed cable.
“God, you’re gonna kill me.”
Mal nudged him with her elbow. “She’s being nice Vic. Don’t die over it.”
He whispered, “No promises,” under his breath.
You moved to the couch, legs tucked comfortably beneath you. When you opened the first jar of cool, soothing lavender, the scent blossomed into the air— soft, floral, calming. You dipped your fingers in and gestured for Mal to lean closer.
The demon woman tried— really tried— to play it cool. But the moment your fingertips touched her cheekbones, when your thumb swept along the smooth angle of her jaw, she inhaled sharply. Almost silently. Almost.
Her eyes fluttered, then locked onto yours. Dark. Curious. Unsteady in a way she tried so desperately to hide.
“Gentle hands,” she murmured, voice husky. “Didn’t expect that.”
“Why?” You teased, smoothing the mask across her forehead. “You think I go around slapping spa products onto people?”
She huffed a laugh, low and warm. “Wouldn’t put it past you.”
You laughed, then turned to Victor.
He froze, sitting with his back straight, shoulders tights, hands balled into fists on his knees. Like if he moved, he’d ruin whatever fragile luck delivered you into their living room.
“This might be a little cold,” you warned, gesturing for him to move closer.
“Oh, yeah, cool— cold is good— cold is great—“ he muttered, then flinched the moment your fingers touched the fur along his jaw.
The sound that escaped him was microscopic.
Soft.
Half-swallowed.
Something between a laugh and a prayer.
“Relax,” you said gently, combing the product through the silky tufts with slow, methodical care. “I won’t hurt you.”
“You could,” he whispered.
Then louder, clearing his throat: “I mean— not physically. Physically I’m… mostly sturdy. I think. Probably.”
Mal snorted.
You tried, and failed, to bite back a smile.
By the time all three masks were on, the room smelled like coconut, lavender, and something gently earthy from Victor’s hoodie. The low lamplight turned everything gold. You reached back into your bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of shimmery pink polish.
Mal’s eyes sharpened instantly. “That’s the color we picked out for you the other day.”
Victor leaned closer. “…Wait. That’s the exact one?”
You lifted your hand, fingers splayed, nails already painted in the soft pink glow.
Their breath caught at the same time.
“I thought we could match,” you said simply.
Mal blinked once. Twice. Her voice softened, unexpectedly unguarded: “I— we’d like that.”
You took Mal’s hand first, warmth blooming in your chest. Her skin was warm under your fingertips, her thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in a way she pretended was accidental. She watched you like you were making art of her, each stroke of the brush an invitation she didn’t know how to handle.
When you took Victor’s hand next, he held it so still it was almost comical— shoulders squared, toes curled, entire body clenched like he was preparing for impact.
“Breathe,” you whispered.
“Oh. Right. Forgot that part.”
You painted in slow strokes, your fingers brushing his knuckles. He made a tiny, helpless sound, immediately pretending he didn’t.
After the polish dried and the masks were washed off, the three of you curled into the couch like you’d been doing it for years. A blanket draped over the three of you, limbs overlapping in lazy, drifting touches.
Your head rested on Mal’s shoulder.
Victor’s arm brushed your thigh.
Your fingers found both of theirs somewhere in the middle.
The movie flickered softly in front of you, but conversation rose and faded around it— quiet musings, teasing comments, soft confessions disguised as jokes. Nothing and everything all at once.
The room was warm, it smelled like home, and as your eyes slipped shut, Mal and Victor shared a look. They watched you with something tender, fierce, and quietly aching. Something they tried to hide, but couldn’t.
You slept softly between them.
And they made a vow in the hush of their shared breath.
You were theirs.
They’d make sure you knew it, make sure you felt it.