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queenofallimagines · 2 years ago

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Hi there! Can I please request headcanons if the obey me demon brothers + side characters (except from Luke obviously) with a female MC with naturally big breasts? Like whenever she hugs the demon brothers her breasts are always in their face and the demon brothers and undateables start to feel a bit dirty and naughty?it's fine if you don't want to do an NSFW if you don't want to.

You sure can!! (Me uploading after literally 4 years????) I am no longer burnt out and I’m hyperfixating HARD on nightbringer so *cracks fingers* 🤭😌

** also didn’t notice till uploading this that it just slowly gets filthier and filthier😭

Part 1

Lucifer:

- your so real for this anon bc I got them anime titties and I would definitely use them for evil😈

- This man is filthy if anything! Like you see how he’s always ready to invite you back to his room??

- So when you pressing up against him he’s actively trying not to get hard

- The type to be super touchy like “fixing” your uniform saying you buttoned it wrong(you didn’t)

- LOVES when you hug him really tight bc he can feel the curves of your body pressing into him and now he’s imagining you doing the same thing naked

- I’m telling you this man is worse than asmo

- If you’re in his office and lean in to help him with paperwork his eyes are starring holes into your chest

- He wants nothing more than to hold them in his hands and squeeze

- If you tease him about it he will definitely use that as an excuse to do it

- “Hm? Getting shy now after teasing me so much?”

- Like he WILL have you sit in his lap at his desk as he fondles your chest to his hearts content

- As a demon he’s naturally insatiable so he isn’t above pulling you out of class to indulge in his urges

- Leaves bite marks all over your chest

Mammon:

- absolutely cannot hide how much he likes them

- He’s glad he’s taller than you so he can just look down at you and get a perfect view

- When you hug him it takes every cell in his body not to rip your shirt open

- Wants to shove his face in em and suffocate

- Loves when you ride him because then he can have them directly in his face

- Whole ass has spent full classes just daydreaming about them

- Probably hides your bras so you don’t wear them

- If you have nipple piercings or want some he offers to pick the jewelry

- “NOT BECAUSE I WANT TO SEE IT ON YOU OR ANYTHING!!”

- Fighting for his life not to squeeze em

- Will fake having a headache to lay on your lap to stare up at them

- Leaves bite marks on em too

Levi:

- hentai watcher loves huge boobs

- Fighting worse than mammon

- Bc he will watch you walk down the stairs with no shame and then get flustered about it

- If you cuddle with him in his bath tub he can’t help but get handsy

- Wants to hold you up with his tail and watch them bounce in his face when he fucks you

- Like he will koala hold you and have his face in your chest as he fucks into you nice n deep

- Completely immobilized

- Might even consider coming to class just to watch you in your uniform all day

- Glitches when you hug him like literally his brain factory resets and he’s going through 7 emotions at once

- Your like awww you cute being shy but he’s freaking out bc he wants to do filthy unspeakable things to you

- Like In his head he’s like “oh my god??? Why tf do I want to paint their face it’s just a hug???”

- Banned you from his room for a while and didn’t say why but he’s damn near in heat the way he’s fucking his fist for hours thinking about you

- Will pretend to be normal but asmo can SEE the gears turning in his head

- “Levi is so cute how he gets flustered holding my hand!”

- “Yeah because he wants his hands around your throat,dear”

Satan:

- yeah he’s literally just a cat

- Lays on them and paws at them

- Will go shopping with you and compliment them in any tight shirt

- Might even offer to wash your uniform JUST to shrink it a few sizes so it’s even tighter on you

- He’s shameless just like the eldest but he has that flirtatious charm that’s not TOO overbearing like Lucifer

- Cat lingerie

- Puts you in a mating press just to see them squish together

- “Mind warming my hands?”

- Will shove his cold as ice hands in your shirt under the guise of “you’re a warm human I’m cold blooded🥺”

- You know how you squeeze your chest for comfort or just play with them sometimes for no reason? He does that for you

- And it’s all cool and normal until he starts pinching your nipples and kissing your neck🙄

- Like it was normal and now you can feel him grinding against your backside

- “Mmm I can feel your heart starting to race kitten”

- Will brush his fangs up against your neck also

- Wants to keep toying with your body until you start begging

- “Maybe if you ask nicely I’ll fill you up Hm?”

- He’s a sadist at heart so he can’t make it too easy for you

Asmo:

- Hear me out but it starts out normal

- He’s gunna make comments but he’s more enthralled with how they would look in various outfits

- So you and him are shopping 24/7

- You tired from trying on multiple outfits and bras

- He’s picking up more clothes from the rack so you press against his back and hug him from behind tiredly asking if you can stop your exhausted

- And that’s when he’s like…. I actually want to squeeze them

- Stutters a bit as he comes to this realization

- Smiles a sweet saccharine smile and tells you that you guys can leave and he will make you feel better after overexerting your body

- Looking down at you out the corner of his eye and watching them move as you walk

- Watching how they move when you breathe

- Fr like a scorpion about to strike

- And you’re none the wiser

- Pulling out all his nipple clamps and vibrating ones

- Before he was looking at them from a aesthetic standpoint but now all he can think about is them wrapped around his cock and finishing on your face

- “Open wide dear~”

- Will even pull out to cover them in cum so you might have to beg if you want him to finish anywhere else

- Body worship KING

Beel:

- whew

- Didn’t notice until you go to work out with him and then he’s like they look really soft

- Good enough to eat

- Might bite down a little too hard when marking you because he wants to really see the marks

- Sucking them like his life depends on it

- Breeding kink activated bc if he knocks you up they’ll get even bigger

- You just KNOW when he looks at you w those eyes and says he’s hungry what he wants

- Better find a quiet corner and unbutton your shirt

- Will stick to you like glue in gym class good lord

- Offers to pick you up a lot

- Fav position is when he’s on his knees for you and looks up to see you breathing heavily

- Will massage them bc his hands are huge

- Buuuuut like Satan he will get “distracted”

- Loves reverse cowgirl but is impatient and will sit up to hold them from behind and fuck up into you

- “Mc you taste so good”

- Hickeys will be there for weeks

- Will literally tire your ass out QUICK

Belphie:

- a clown

- Circus king actually

- He’s been peeped how big your chest is and he’s not shy about it

- He’s literally as shameless as asmo it’s crazy😭

- Will lay on you claiming their the perfect pillows but will also feel you up and just act like it’s not a big deal

- “Mmm your really soft mc”

- Whole body a stress ball😐

- Does this in full view of the others and won’t care in the slightest

- Hard to talk to beel about homework when he’s sliding his hands under your shirt and groping you

- You end up in an attic club sandwich often bc of this😔✊🏿

- Will join in the convo and probably take it over like he’s NOT pinching your nipples in a regular conversation

- Going to sleep is his escape card

- Don’t believe him none of the shit he says are exhaustion induced he means that shit fr

- Will stare at you w half lidded eyes and mumble something about how your tits look like they’d be perfect to shove his cock in between

- “Wandering hands as he sleeps” ass mf

- Man sloth and sleepiness is his DOMAIN please don’t let any of the lies about how he’s just sleepy he can’t help it fool you!!

- He will literally enter your dreams and leave hickeys all over them

- Will give you the most raunchy vivid sex dreams ever until you come to him begging for him to touch you

- You wake up actually feeling his touch and he will lazily smile at you from across the table at breakfast as you fidget under his gaze

- Loose hold as he latches onto you but his hands brushing up against your chest is no mistake

- Will straight up say he wants to suck your tits if you ask him what’s w his behavior

- Has the same energy as satan but where he’s smooth and charming belphie is blunt and honest about his desires

- No flowery words or poetic phrases

- He will look you in the eyes w the most bored expression and tell you how he wants to cover you in his cum

- Probably barely looks up at you phone as he says it too😭

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polymc · 2 months ago

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A HUGE REMINDER!!!

If you are under 18 or an ageless blog, respectfully GO AWAY!! I just had a 16 year old like my post and it makes me uncomfortable. I don't care if it's a sfw post or if you turn 18 tomorrow, do not like my stuff and go away if you are underage. As for ageless blogs, please add your age. I want to give you all a chance but it still makes me uncomfortable.

Thank you and sorry for this who are just enjoying my posts. TwT I just had to say something because it was upsetting that on almost all my posts it says

✗ Minors/Ageless blogs will be blocked. DNI. ✗ or ✗ Minors/Ageless blogs DNI, Please go away. ✗

Like do I need to write it in huge writing?? TT - TT Also Hi I'm alive! :>

#whb #what in “hell” is bad?#what in hell is bad #polyam #mc #obey me #x reader #polyamory #tokyo debunker x reader #tokyo debunker #tkdb #random #serious post #om! shall we date #love and deepspace #poly lads #lads x reader #lads

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clumsydolly · 3 days ago

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Hello, I recently found you, but I have been loving everything you have written! I was wondering if you could do Obey Me (+ datables too) x Leona Kingscholar! Reader, and maybe mention the sibling issues along with the inferiority complex. I’m sorry if it’s too much, feel free to ignore this!

Obey me! x Leona Kingscholar!Reader

Warnings!⚠️: Neglect, Feelings of insignificance, violence, blood, possible parental abuse. If there is anything I missed please let me know!

art credits to kura_usagi217 on twitter. Got the picture from himasagod

Thank you so much for the sweet words, love! I'm so happy people appreciate my work!

Lucifer

Lucifer noticed you the moment you walked into RAD not because you were loud or flashy, but because you weren’t.

There was something about the way you carried yourself. Regal without trying. Every movement slow, deliberate, like the world didn’t deserve your urgency. You didn’t talk unless you had something worth saying, and when you did speak? You could cleave through a room like a sword to the ego.

And Lucifer? Lucifer hated that he noticed.

Because you weren’t trying. You weren’t bending over backward to impress him like most of the student body. You weren’t one of those overeager exchange students begging for approval or praise. You strolled through the halls like a lion half-asleep, maybe, but still the apex predator in every room.

And when he finally spoke to you, you yawned in his face.

“Didn’t realize the great Lucifer was giving lectures today. I’d have brought a pillow.”

Lucifer’s eye twitched. He gave you detention on the spot.

You didn’t go.

He gave you another.

You still didn’t go.

By the third, he marched to your dorm himself only to find you lazily doing a puzzle that recreated ancient Diavolo-era battle formations by memory.

“You’re not unintelligent.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Then why act like this?”

“Why not?”

He hated that you turned his questions around like that. Hated that you didn't fear him, not even a little. Most of all, he hated how much you reminded him of himself not the pristine, polished version he wore like armor now, but the raw, bitter version. The Lucifer who still wanted to scream I mattered too in a Heaven that only cared about Michael.

Over time, he started seeing it. The weight behind your smirk. The exhaustion behind every lazy sigh. The way your eyes narrowed just slightly when someone called you “second-best” or “surprisingly capable” like you weren’t already a storm waiting to happen.

He saw the way you flinched barely when someone mentioned Diavolo’s brilliance or the House of Lords your sibling had attended or how proud your family must be of you, clearly doing so well for yourself here at RAD.

And yet no matter how many times people overlooked you, compared you, spoke of you like you were someone else's shadow you never broke.

You just grinned. Tilted your head. And made sure they regretted it later.

Lucifer began to respect that.

Not openly, of course. That wasn’t his way.

But he started assigning you more difficult tasks subtly. He made you his liaison for particularly irritating noble houses, watched how you dismantled their arrogance with one well-timed smirk and a passive-aggressive cup of tea.

You didn’t brag. You didn’t preen. You just got results.

You weren’t the golden heir. You were the disaster plan. The unspoken “just in case” they called on when things went wrong and you always fixed them, like it was no big deal.

Lucifer understood exactly how much strength that took.

He caught you one night after a council meeting where Diavolo, with perfect warmth, had praised your instincts but still called you by the wrong last name. You said nothing. Just smiled, bowed, and left early.

Lucifer found you alone in the gardens afterward, sprawled across a bench with your eyes shut, jaw clenched, tail twitching.

“You handled yourself well,” he said.

“Yeah?” you muttered. “Guess I’m good at pretending I don’t care.”

He said nothing at first. Then quietly:

“You are not lesser for being second.”

You opened one eye. “Tell that to the guy who got the throne. And the respect. And the family name.”

“Tell that to the brother who took the fall for defiance and got eternal punishment in return.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. And for the first time, you didn’t try to act cooler than you felt. You just… were.

Lucifer exhaled. The air between you grew soft, heavy, real.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he said.

You grinned. “Then why do I feel like I still do?”

“Because you’re still measuring yourself by their rules.”

“…Damn. That was almost deep, old man.”

Lucifer gave you a look, but he didn’t leave.

Instead, he sat beside you. Not to lecture. Not to scold. Just to exist. To acknowledge that being second didn’t make you less dangerous, less capable, less worthy.

If anything, it made you more.

He started inviting you to war councils. Debates. Assignments where your mind, not just your magic, was valued. And not once did he call you lazy again.

He knew better.

----

Bonus

You challenged Diavolo to a game of chess in front of the whole council. You won. Lucifer didn’t stop you. He smiled.

Lucifer once caught you napping in the RAD library on a pile of banned books. He left you a better pillow and told everyone else to mind their business.

Mammon

Mammon didn’t get you at first.

Scratch that, he thought he got you. First time he saw you, all cool confidence and lazy smirks, lounging in RAD’s hallway like you owned the place? He assumed you were just another hotshot with an attitude problem. A stuck-up noble brat pretending not to care about anything.

So naturally, he hated you.

Not actually, not in the “let’s throw hands” way, but in that Mammon-specific, “I’m irrationally jealous and masking it poorly” kind of way. He couldn’t help it. You just had this air about you. Like no matter what was going on, you were already two steps ahead, completely unbothered, probably planning a nap.

And he hated that you pulled it off.

“Oi, you ever gonna do something other than yawn through life?” he snapped once during a group mission. “Some of us are tryin’ not to get eaten out here!”

You cracked one eye open from your perch on a ruined pillar and lazily tossed a spell that knocked out three enemies in one go.

“I am doing something. I’m making sure you don’t die.”

Mammon’s jaw clicked shut. He didn’t say thank you. You didn’t ask for it.

He told himself he didn’t care. You were smug. Cocky. Thought you were better than him.

But then... you never rubbed it in.

You never tried to outshine him. Never laughed when he messed up. Never acted like you were special even when it was obvious you were.

And that was weird. Suspicious, even. Mammon had known plenty of people who looked down on him, especially other second-borns. Especially ones with power. But you didn’t look down on him.

You looked at him like you understood.

And that freaked him out way more than the condescending stuff ever did.

The turning point came when Lucifer chewed him out in front of the entire student body for blowing a mission.

Mammon, head bowed, trying to pretend the words didn’t hurt. Trying not to flinch when someone snickered. Trying not to shout back even though he wanted to, because shouting made it worse, and Lucifer never listened anyway.

And then you just… walked up. Right past the crowd. Right past Lucifer. Right up to Mammon. Calm, slow, zero drama. You pulled out a chocolate bar, handed it to him, and said:

“Next time, don’t skip the perimeter sweep. Rookie mistake.”

Lucifer glared. Mammon blinked.

“What?”

“You’re better than that. Thought you’d know by now.”

And then you walked off like it was nothing.

Mammon didn’t touch that chocolate bar for a whole day. He just kept looking at it like it might explode or disappear.

You weren’t pitying him.

You were… expecting more from him.

And not in the way Lucifer did, with disappointment. You actually thought he could be better. That he already was.

Which meant that when you said something like that… it kinda mattered.

A lot.

So he started watching you.

Realized real fast that you weren’t nearly as lazy as you pretended to be. You just had this whole… “minimum visible effort” thing going on. But behind the scenes? You were sharp. You caught things no one else noticed. You finished your assignments perfectly, if barely on time. And when no one was looking, you trained harder than anyone. You just didn’t want people knowing how much you cared.

He saw the way your tail twitched when people mentioned your brother. The way your jaw clenched when someone praised you by comparing you to someone else. The way you brushed it all off with a laugh like it didn’t matter.

Except… it did.

And Mammon got it.

Hell, he lived it.

So one day, when you dragged yourself back to the House of Lamentation after some political event with Diavolo—eyes shadowed, tie loose, clearly somewhere between angry and resigned, he didn’t say anything.

He just handed you a drink, scooted over on the couch, and turned on a movie.

Halfway through, he tossed out, casual as anything:

“Y’know... bein’ second born sucks.”

You didn’t answer right away. Then:

“Tell me about it.”

And somehow that turned into talking. Not big, dramatic confessions, just muttered complaints. Shared glances. A quiet, mutual understanding of how much it sucked to always be the “almost.”

Mammon started noticing you dropping quiet comments about his skills in passing. Not praise, nothing embarrassing, but the kind of remarks that let him know you saw him. That he was worth seeing.

So he returned the favor.

Started making sure other demons knew you weren’t just “the other one” from your family. Started betting on you in training matches. Started watching your back in battles, not because he thought you needed help, but because you deserved backup.

And one day, during a particularly chaotic RAD event where both of you had to go undercover as rich noble heirs, you turned to him in full glam, eyes sharp, grin lazy, and said:

“Guess we’re the disappointment duo, huh?”

Mammon scoffed, adjusting his ridiculous collar.

“Yeah. But we’re hot, smart, and still here. So... screw everyone else.”

“Amen.”

-----

Bonus

You and Mammon once got banned from a nobles-only tea party for being “too casual.” You left a gift basket of crumbling scones and slime bombs on the host’s doorstep. Neither of you confessed.

He calls you “Copycat” and you call him “Backup Plan.” Neither of you mean it. Both of you refuse to stop.

Mammon once punched a demon who insulted you. You knocked the guy out before the punch landed. Mammon’s still mad you stole the glory.

Levithan

At first glance, you and Levi were nothing alike.

He was all hunched shoulders and self-deprecating stammers, eyes glued to a screen. You were sprawled across the RAD courtyard like it was your kingdom, radiating bored royalty energy, tail flicking with irritation every time someone dared to speak too loudly.

Levi thought you were cool. In the “definitely-a-main-character” way that made him feel even more like a sidekick.

“Why would someone like that ever talk to someone like me?” he muttered to himself one day, watching from the shadows of the library stacks as you verbally dismantled a noble demon for misquoting historical literature.

He did not expect you to call him out that same afternoon.

“Hey, TSL guy. You’ve been staring at me since breakfast. What’s your deal?”

Levi promptly short-circuited.

“I-I wasn’t staring! I mean, I was, but not in a weird way! Not that I think you’re weird—I mean, I don’t, but—uh—sorry?!”

You just blinked at him. Then smirked.

“Relax. I don’t bite unless someone starts something. You’re in my alchemy class, right?”

That was the beginning of what Levi later described (in his journal) as the “Most Confusing and Possibly Dangerous Friendship Quest Ever.”

Because you were confusing. You never raised your voice. You didn’t try to “fix” him. You just showed up, sometimes at the library, sometimes at the gaming lounge, sometimes in the hallway, tossing out comments like:

“I heard you coded a RAD Discord bot. That's impressive.”

Or:

“If I have to sit through another ‘family legacy’ meeting, I’m dragging you with me. Misery loves company.”

It took weeks, months even, before Levi realized you weren’t just humoring him. You wanted to be around him.

That didn’t mean you liked everyone.

You brushed off flattery from others like it bored you. You got into heated debates with professors who tried to compare you to your older sibling. You had a temper, sure, but it wasn’t flashy. It simmered. You wielded sarcasm like a sword, especially when someone hinted you should be “more like your brother.”

And Levi got it. Oh, he got it.

Because when you finally admitted, in a low, offhand comment during a co-op raid, that your whole life you’d been “second best,” Levi practically dropped his controller.

“Wait—you too?”

You blinked at him, then offered the smallest, sharpest smile.

“Let me guess. They call you a loser and expect you to stay in your brother’s shadow?”

“YES. Thank you!”

That night, you both stayed up way too late swapping “Middle Child Misery” stories. Levi talked about Lucifer. You talked about your older brother the golden child, the crown prince of “why can’t you be more like him?”

Levi started looking at you differently after that.

Not like you were too cool to talk to him.

But like you were someone who got it.

And that was dangerous territory.

Because now he couldn’t stop thinking about how your tail twitched when you were irritated. How you leaned just a little too close when asking for help. How you’d fall asleep in the gaming lounge with your head tilted back, completely unbothered like the whole world could burn and you’d still get your nap in.

He started doing stupid things. Like programming a game mod where your avatar wore your RAD uniform and insulted NPCs in your exact tone. Or baking you themed cookies based on that dumb fantasy series you pretended not to like.

And okay, maybe he stared at your profile picture on Devilgram for way too long.

Not because he liked you or anything.

He just admired your confidence.

Your sarcasm.

Your hair.

…Shut up.

One day, during a student council meeting (that neither of you were technically supposed to be in), Diavolo asked everyone to describe their “greatest strength.”

You, in peak “please don’t make me participate” fashion, slouched in your chair and muttered:

“Being slightly less disappointing than expected.”

Levi choked on his drink.

Everyone stared.

You just shrugged.

Levi wanted to high-five you so bad.

Afterward, when you bumped into him at the vending machines, he didn’t hesitate.

“You know that’s not true, right?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s not true?”

“That you’re disappointing.”

You paused, expression unreadable. Then:

“I could say the same to you.”

For once, Levi didn’t turn into a tomato. He just smiled. Small. Real.

“Maybe we’re both bad at seeing what we’re good at.”

“Speak for yourself, Levi. I’m great at napping and annoying nobles.”

“I meant… emotionally.”

“Gross.”

Still. You didn’t deny it.

----

Bonus Buffoonery

You beat Levi at Mario Kart exactly once and he called it “a betrayal of trust.”

He once caught you rereading his favorite manga. You said it was “for research.” You were on volume six by the next day.

You custom-painted his gaming headset with your insignia. He cried. You told everyone he had allergies.

Satan

From the moment Satan met you, he swore he heard theme music.

You strolled into RAD late on your first day, tail swaying, eyes lidded with boredom, and proceeded to insult the entire student body by existing with exactly zero effort while still looking five times more put-together than any of them.

And then you had the nerve to yawn during his carefully prepared presentation on demon literature preservation.

“No offense, Blondie, but if I wanted to listen to someone drone on about dusty books, I’d go talk to my brother.”

Satan narrowed his eyes. “That was offensive.”

You grinned like it was a compliment.

He hated you. He definitely hated you.

Which is why he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Not in a “what are they doing, I want to be around them” way.

In a “why does their laziness make me want to scream and also why is that kind of hot” way.

You were chaos in silk gloves. You were intelligence hidden behind languid indifference. You were all pride and bite and buried resentment wrapped in a drawl that made everything sound like a challenge. And Satan? Satan loved a challenge.

Especially one that read obscure magical theory texts for fun, but pretended to sleep through class. Or who helped him trap a demon noble in a logic corner so twisted it took three professors to untangle. You didn’t do it for credit. You did it because it was fun.

“That guy said I was just here to fill a diversity quota. Couldn’t let him walk away after that.”

“So you destroyed his entire academic career?”

“Only temporarily. He’ll recover. Probably.”

Satan found himself torn between wanting to spar with you daily and wanting to see what it would take to make you drop the act.

Because he could tell. He’d seen it too many times in himself: the way you rolled your eyes at authority but secretly memorized every exam question. How you blew off club meetings but showed up to tutor another struggling student without ever taking credit. How you scoffed at ambition and then proceeded to outperform almost every demon in your year.

You had an older sibling, didn’t you?

It clicked during one of your arguments.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Satan had snapped.

“No,” you shot back, eyes sharp for once. “That’s his job.”

He didn’t press. But he remembered.

And he started noticing other things, too.

Like how you always picked the farthest seat from Lucifer in group meetings. How you’d tense whenever someone brought up legacies or family trees. How you joked about being “the backup plan” with a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He understood that. More than you knew.

So when he saw you in the library one afternoon, surrounded by books but not reading, just... staring, he sat beside you.

Didn’t say a word.

Just... sat.

Eventually, you spoke.

“You think it’s pathetic?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Trying to prove you’re worth something when you know you’re always going to come second.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then:

“I think it’s human. And demon. And everyone in between.”

“Philosophical,” you muttered.

“Honest,” he corrected.

And then you sighed, muttered something about “emotions are gross,” and shoved a book at him. “Here. Help me translate this before I change my mind and burn it.”

It became a thing after that. Late-night study sessions. Banter disguised as therapy. You bickering about how tea should be brewed while he wordlessly refilled your cup exactly how you liked it. Him ranting about his brothers while you made sarcastic commentary that somehow always hit exactly where it hurt (and helped).

He started bringing you pastries from Madam Scream’s after exams.

You started falling asleep in the library more often and waking up with a blanket over your shoulders and Satan’s coat nearby.

Neither of you talked about it.

That would ruin everything.

Because admitting that you cared meant vulnerability. And vulnerability meant weakness. And weakness

Well, weakness was what your older brothers always said you’d never be allowed to show.

But Satan didn’t want you to change. He just wanted you to let him stay.

Even if you only ever admitted it through arguments and eye rolls.

----

Bonus Bookish Shenanigans:

He caught you reorganizing the library’s cursed section out of boredom. You claimed it was for “aesthetic purposes.” He covered for you when one of the books tried to hex a teacher.

You “accidentally” slipped a love poem into his stack of notes. He turned bright red and spent a week analyzing it like it was a cursed grimoire. You never told him it was meant for him. You didn’t have to.

One time, when a demon noble made a snide comment about your academic standing, Satan calmly recited your GPA, your published essays, and your winning score on the RAD magical aptitude test. Loudly. In front of the entire hall.

“Just in case anyone forgot who’s actually at the top.”

“Simp,” you muttered under your breath.

“Librarian simp,” he corrected.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus knew beauty when he saw it, physical, emotional, the kind that sparkled when people finally let themselves be loved. He could spot it through any disguise.

So the moment you waltzed into the House of Lamentation looking like you just rolled out of bed after wrestling a lion and still somehow made it look good, Asmo’s interest was piqued.

You didn’t try. That’s what got him. Everyone tried with him, tried to impress, to seduce, to mirror his vibe. But not you.

“So, are you always this overdressed?”

“Only when I expect an audience.”

Cue: the tiniest flick of your ear, the cocked eyebrow, the lazy smirk that said “I’ve seen prettier, try harder.” Oh, he was hooked.

At first, he flirted like always, throwing compliments like confetti, touching your arm with practiced elegance, winking until his eye practically had its own cardio routine. You met it all with flat looks and muttered sarcasm.

“Aw, kitten, don’t pretend you’re not charmed.”

“I’m not pretending.”

Most people blushed. You scoffed.

And that only made him want to know more.

There was something feline about you, not just the ears and tail, but the way you moved, always relaxed but hyper-aware. You’d lean on walls with half-lidded eyes, pretending you weren’t paying attention, then deliver a one-liner that cut through three layers of someone’s ego like butter.

But it wasn’t just that.

It was the sadness.

Not the loud kind. The quiet kind. The kind people carry like a second skin.

He saw it when someone mentioned family hierarchies. The way your shoulders tensed ever so slightly. Or when Lucifer praised your performance in a mission and you waved it off with a grunt, as if succeeding was a fluke and not the result of years of survival instincts and quiet brilliance.

He could relate. People expected him to sparkle on command, to be perfect, to be happy and enough for everyone. He knew what it felt like to be seen and still not be understood.

So he tried something different.

He didn’t flirt. He talked.

At first, it was little things. Asking about your skincare (which was practically nonexistent, you claimed your good looks were “genetic aggression”). Inviting you to group events and then pretending not to notice when you skipped but always keeping a seat open anyway.

He brought you mango juice one day during lunch. Didn’t say a word, just placed it on the table. You stared at it like it had declared war.

“What’s this for?”

“You mentioned you liked it once. I remembered.”

“You remembered?”

“I don’t just remember compliments, darling.”

You didn’t thank him. You drank it silently.

He counted that as a win.

The breakthrough came during a self-care night he forced you to attend, complete with facials, snacks, glitter masks, and a playlist he insisted was “emotionally healing.”

You sat there, arms crossed, eyes darting to the door like it was your salvation.

“This is torture,” you muttered.

“It’s exfoliating.”

But then something strange happened. You relaxed. Somewhere between the hand massage and the foot soak, your eyes softened. You laughed, an actual, unguarded laugh, when Asmo recounted the time Mammon accidentally glued his own eyebrows together.

“You’ve got a nice laugh, you know,” he said, not flirty, just honest.

“You’re annoying,” you replied.

“Takes one to know one.”

Later, when you thought he’d left the room, he caught you examining yourself in the mirror.

Not admiring. Analyzing.

He leaned in the doorway.

“Looking for flaws?”

“I don’t need to. They’re obvious.”

“Funny. I don’t see any.”

“You’re not looking hard enough.”

“Or maybe you’re looking too hard.”

There was silence. Then you looked away and muttered something about not needing validation. But your voice cracked just a little.

And Asmo didn’t push.

He just smiled and passed you a moisturizing cream you never asked for.

----

Bonus

You once offhandedly called yourself “the family screw-up” during dinner. Asmo nearly choked on his tart. He then spent ten minutes dramatically praising every one of your accomplishments, including one you didn’t think anyone had noticed. You turned red and threatened to stab him with a salad fork. He said, “That’s my baby.”

After a particularly bad fight with your brother back in the human world (via D.D.D. call), Asmo dragged you to the Planetarium and made you lie down under fake stars until you relaxed. He let you pretend the tears were just from allergies.

You fell asleep in the middle of one of his long rants about fashion history. He covered you with his boa and whispered, “Rest, little lion. You’re still beautiful when you’re exhausted.”

He once painted your nails while you were asleep. You woke up furious but kept them. They were gold, with tiny little crowns.

Beelzebub

You and Beel weren’t exactly a dynamic duo on paper. He was steady, sincere, gentle in a way that made people underestimate him. You? You were prickly, sarcastic, and constantly teetering between a nap and a brawl. On the surface, it seemed like the only thing you had in common was your deep, eternal love of sleep.

But then again, maybe that was enough.

The first time Beel took notice of you was during one of the rare House of Lamentation quiet evenings. Most of the brothers were out causing some form of emotional chaos, and you had curled up on the couch like it was your personal throne, your tail flicking lazily as you scrolled through your D.D.D.

He entered the room with a sandwich the size of a small dog, paused mid-bite when he saw you, and blinked.

“You’re still here?”

“Am I not allowed to exist?”

“No, it’s just… everyone else is gone.”

“Exactly. Peace at last.”

Beel shrugged and plopped down next to you with the quiet heaviness of someone used to making room for others. You didn’t move. You didn’t even comment when the crumbs started falling dangerously close to your coat.

He noticed that too.

“You’re not yelling about the crumbs.”

“I’m conserving energy. Yelling takes effort.”

“…Smart.”

And that was the beginning of your weird little understanding.

It didn’t take long for you to realize Beel had a sixth sense for knowing when someone needed food. Not wanted, needed. You never asked, never said a word about skipping meals or being too tired to cook, but somehow, he’d always show up with something.

A protein bar. Half a sandwich. A peach.

“I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity. It’s food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Chomp

“…Fine. Maybe I’m a little hungry.”

He never pried. Never asked why you skipped lunch, or why you sometimes looked like you hadn’t slept in a week despite spending most of your time horizontal. But he did sit next to you every time, sometimes not even talking, just eating quietly while your presence filled the room like static.

It was weirdly… nice.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t demand anything. Didn’t try to flirt, tease, or even fix you. He just was there, calm and dependable, like a weighted blanket with muscles.

You found yourself relaxing around him before you realized it was happening.

One night, you stayed up late training, pushing yourself way past your limit, like always, like it was the only way you knew how to silence the voice in your head that said you weren’t good enough. That you were always second-best. Always overshadowed.

You limped into the kitchen around midnight, not expecting anyone to be there.

Beel was.

Of course he was.

He was cooking what looked like enough food to feed a small army.

“You okay?” he asked without looking up.

“Peachy,” you muttered, grabbing an ice pack from the fridge.

“You’re limping.”

“You’re observant.”

He said nothing. Just finished his prep, plated up a ridiculous mountain of food, and pushed a bowl toward you.

You stared at it.

“I didn’t come here to be mothered.”

“I didn’t come here to judge.”

That shut you up real fast.

You sat. You ate. You didn’t talk, and neither did he. But when your eyes burned a little too much, when your fork slowed halfway to your mouth, he just slid a napkin your way. No fanfare. No pity.

Just quiet care.

Later, Beel found you outside, curled up under a tree in the House of Lamentation’s back garden. It was one of your hideouts, a spot where no one usually came looking. You looked up, not surprised, just tired.

“You don’t give up, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Even when I’m a mess?”

“Especially then.”

He flopped down next to you with a grunt, munching on an apple.

“Do you ever get tired of being the strong one?”

“Yeah. Do you?”

“…Yeah.”

It was the first time either of you said it aloud.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt seen.

----

Bonus Snack-Sized Softness™

He keeps a secret stash of your favorite snack in his room. No one else is allowed to touch it. Mammon tried once. Once.

When you sleep on the couch, Beel tucks a blanket around you without a word. You pretend not to notice. You totally notice.

You once caught him holding one of your worn gloves like it was precious. He got flustered. You teased him about it for a week.

You grumble every time he offers you food, but when he doesn’t, you sulk like a kicked puppy. He caught on. He always offers now.

On your worst days, when the inferiority complex is eating you alive, Beel doesn’t try to fix it. He just sits with you. Sometimes, that’s enough.

Belphegor

It started with naps. Or more accurately, nap territory disputes.

You had staked out your favorite spot on the House of Lamentation’s sun-drenched balcony, tail flicking lazily, head pillowed on your arm, ears twitching at the distant sound of someone being yelled at. You were finally slipping into that perfect dozing zone when a shadow fell over your face.

You cracked one eye open.

“You’re in my spot,” Belphegor said, expression blank, blanket slung over his shoulder like a cape.

“Correction: I conquered this spot. You’re just late.”

“I nap here every Thursday.”

“Not my problem, Sleeping Beauty.”

From that point on, it was war. Quiet, passive-aggressive, sleepy war.

Belphie would sprawl out right next to you, tugging at your blanket like a cat trying to reclaim a stolen patch of sunlight. You’d kick him. He’d roll onto your tail. You’d elbow him in the ribs. He’d "accidentally" drop a pillow on your face.

Somehow, this became a routine.

You both pretended it was about the spot. But really, it was because being around each other was weirdly… relaxing.

You weren’t chatty. He liked that. You didn’t ask him about his feelings. He really liked that. And you didn’t care that he could be blunt, moody, and emotionally volatile. You could match that energy just fine.

He’d mumble half-asleep insults like:

“You always look five seconds away from committing regicide.”

To which you’d reply:

“I’ll add you to the list.”

Mutual understanding.

But sometimes, between the bickering and naps, things got quieter. More… real.

It happened one afternoon when you came back from a long mission. Your shirt was torn. Your arm was bruised. And your expression was the kind of hollow that didn’t come from physical exhaustion.

Belphie looked up from his book.

“What happened?”

“Nothing important,” you muttered, flopping down beside him like usual.

He didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch between you. You expected him to fall back asleep.

Instead, he said:

“You looked like that when I first met you. Like you’d been picked second too many times.”

You flinched. Just slightly.

Belphie didn’t look at you. Just kept his gaze on the ceiling.

“I used to hate waking up because it meant being around people who expected me to be something I wasn’t. Always smiling, always patient. I wanted to scream.”

“So you slept to avoid expectations?”

“Something like that.”

You looked away. Bit your cheek. Felt the words sit heavy on your tongue.

“…My older sibling’s perfect. Everything I’m not. I used to think if I could just prove myself, just once, I could stop being a disappointment.”

He didn’t say anything right away.

Then:

“That’s a stupid way to think.”

You blinked.

“Gee, thanks for the therapy.”

“I mean, I think you’re impressive. And I’m the most honest one here.”

You stared at him. He yawned.

“Besides, if your sibling really was perfect, you wouldn’t be here and they would. So shut up and nap already.”

You didn’t smile. But your breathing eased. And for once, the silence wasn’t heavy.

Belphie never coddled you. He never told you to “try harder” or “just believe in yourself.” He didn’t treat you like someone broken.

Instead, he leaned against you during naps. He shared his pillow when he noticed yours was thin. He kicked you in the shin when you moped for too long and told you to stop being pathetic, but always made sure to give you the bigger blanket.

You liked that.

----

Bonus Grumpy Softness™

You once muttered in your sleep about “finally beating [sibling's name] in something.” Belphie didn’t mention it… but the next day, he “accidentally” let slip in front of Diavolo that you’d aced a test he had bombed. Oops.

Whenever you came back injured, Belphie didn’t fuss. He just threw his blanket over your head, shoved a pillow at your face, and said, “Sleep. You’ll feel better.” He wasn’t wrong.

You caught him napping in your spot once and prepared to launch a full pillow-based assault, only to find a small note tucked under the edge of the blanket. “You’re not second. You’re just quiet about being first.”

You never brought it up. But you kept the note.

Once, Beel walked in on you two mid-nap, both of you sprawled across the couch like exhausted lions, arms tangled, frowns nearly identical. He blinked. Took a picture. Sent it to the family group chat. Chaos ensued. You both denied everything.

Belphie likes the sound of your voice when you read aloud. He’ll pretend to be asleep while you’re reading ancient demon literature, but he’s always listening. Especially when you do the voices.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!

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lynnslittlelife · 2 years ago

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Obey Me! Brothers x Little! Reader

I will be posting my first story on here later today! It’ll be with Lucifer, but if people find they like it and my writing style, let me know and I’ll do a one shot for each of the brothers.

I am writing assuming each of the brothers know, 1. that you’re a little and 2. that you are in a poly relationship with each of them. I could try to do a bigger fic with more than one brother, but for this short series it’ll be one brother at a time. For some little love with each individually!

I’m just gonna go in order of age, since that’s easiest for me to remember XD

If you’re interested let me know ^^

And if you like the series, I could try writing for other characters and their little! I mostly only know Dia, Barbados, 13, Simeon, Solomon, and Luke. If I was gonna do a Luke one, it would be that you’re both littles, and no romantic stuff at all.

#obey me! brothers x reader #little! reader x obey me brothers #x reader #Lucifer om x reader #mammon om x reader #leviathan om x reader #satan om x reader #asmodeusu om x reader #beelzebub om x reader #belphegor om x reader #x mc #poly om #poly obey me #sfw agere #agere #sfw little #sfw littles

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agoraphxnics · 2 months ago

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goth!fem!reader doing poly!141’s makeup~

it actually wasn’t you who brought up the idea. no, it was the ever curious scot who thought aloud on your lunch date.

“y’know, bonnie, you should do my makeup sometime.”

you blinked. “eh?”

“what, you don’t think i could pull it off?” that sly grin appeared on his face.

“no, i just didn’t expect you to be interested.” heat rose to your cheeks at the thought of him taking interest in your eccentric fashion choices.

“why wouldn’t i?!” his eyes puddled in that puppy dog way he always did when he tried to pull at your heartstrings; of course, it worked. rolling your eyes, you smile at his antics.

“then i’ll make you look like the coolest guy around.”

“i’m ‘ome!” simon called out, stepping into the safety of your cozy abode. a faint response was heard from the master bedroom upstairs, and he shrugged off his boots to see what his little lovebirds were up to. to his surprise, the bed was littered in various products and trinkets, the likes of which simon couldn’t even begin to name. in the center of them were you and johnny. your hands cradled his face as you tugged a black pen-like object across his eyes. simon couldn’t help but snicker at johnny’s pleased expression.

“hey, simon.” you acknowledged, not tearing your eyes away from your project. johnny went to speak, but your spare hand shot up to clasp his lips together. “you talk too animated.”

“our doll is turning you into one, too, eh?” simon asked, electing to sit behind you on the bed. once you finished a pass with the pen, he rested his head on your shoulder.

“he wanted to look pretty,” you cooed, sparing him a kiss to his covered forehead. the giant practically purred, removing his balaclava and nuzzling into your neck.

“that he does, doll.”

your hands continue to paint johnny, turning him into an edgy version of himself that makes you smile.

“honestly…?” you look to simon, who nods in agreement, “you could rock this all the time, baby.”

johnny’s smile reaches his ears as he bounds off to the bathroom, metaphorical tail wagging wildly. “ooo, yes! i could get used to this, bon. i love the little heart you put under me eye!”

all of your boyfriends loved and adored your style and subculture, but johnny was always your biggest cheerleader. he never made you feel different for your interests, always praised them and bought you whatever dark and broody thing you wanted. it’s not to say the others didn’t as well, but johnny just understood you on a level that made your heart simmer with love.

“‘ey.” simon butted your neck. you smiled in understanding. pay attention to me. “make me look pretty, too.”

there was something so endearing about big, mean simon, the boogeyman, the silent assassin, unraveling in your presence to become a whiny, desperate man in need of your affection and praise. he could break you in half at a moment’s notice, and yet here he is, all docile and pathetic on your shoulder.

“oh, simon,” you sighed, pulling away from him. “how can i refuse?”

the next victim to arrive was kyle, who couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of johnny parading around in your jewelry and simon sitting obediently while you drew your eyeliner around his eyes (he grew up with sisters; he knew what those ‘trinkets’ were). “don’t we look braw, kyle?”

“pfft, you look like you’re going to see bring me the horizon,” kyle chuckled.

“that’s what i was going for,” you mutter, transfixed by your new canvas. you and simon opted for a tradgoth style that resembled his skeletal mask. his face was painted ghost white, save for the black lines framing his new ‘skeleton’.

“you should let ‘er do you next,” johnny offered, sauntering over to the taller man to sling a spiked arm around his shoulder. black lips pressed to his cheek and left behind a lip print.

“oh, hell! it’s so sticky!” kyle grumbled, rubbing the spot with his now-stained fingers.

“johnny, i told you to quit licking your lips,” you admonished, finishing up simon’s left eye.

“it’s jus’ too weird, bon! it’s like jam on your lips.”

kyle went to the bed and plucked the tube of liquid lipstick. maleficent, the bottom label read. how apt. he twisted the cap and pursed his lips, applying the lipstick with the doe foot applicator. smacking his lips, he scoffed. “it’s not that bad, johnny.”

upon turning around, the latter began laughing, shaking his head. “go look at yourself, dafty.”

“what?” kyle furrowed his brow, walking into the bathroom. his lips were black, yes, but so was the skin surrounding them. and his philtrum. and somehow the tip of his chin?

“fuck me.”

“i hope this is easy to remove, bon, ‘cause it’s all over ‘im.”

“kyle!” you snapped, looking at his painted face. as loathe he was to admit it, he was just as ornery as johnny. you chuffed, shaking your head. “i’ll fix you in a moment. let me finish with si first.”

though he was sheepish, kyle was glad you’d be playing with him next. the two watched as you painted simon with grace, biting your lip in intense focus. the little details you put into making him look awesome, albeit for a silly little moment, made them swell with pride. they couldn’t have chosen a better partner. one so attentive to give them each a little piece of your beauty on their skins. with one last stroke (and a small black heart), simon’s was completed. he admired it in the mirror, nodding in approval. if he liked the heart, he didn’t say so (he absolutely did).

“now, let’s fix your lips, handsome.” kyle gushed at the pet name and took simon’s old place on the bed. dipping a q-tip in makeup remover, you rubbed at his face with determined fervor.

“can’t you go a little softer, luvie?”

“no can do. shit’s long lasting.”

thankfully, it was over quickly, but your eyes caught his and glossed over. it was time for the ‘johnny’ look. “can i give you some eyeshadow?”

while kyle was an expert on johnny denial, he couldn’t say the same for you. with a sigh, he nodded, smiling. “go for it. but i better look amazing, yeah?”

you bounced with glee. taking a square brush to his face, you packed on black pigment and used a second brush to feather it out. simple, yet effective. “all done,” you beamed.

the mirror showed kyle a look he’d never wear in any other context than for your pure enjoyment. judging by your happy expressions (and compliments of how sexy he looked), he might have to wear it again for you.

as if in cue, the final piece to your heart waltzed into the room, a deep laugh filling the air at the sight of his lovers. “what’re you all doing? playin’ dress up?”

“oh, i can get you all outfits, too,” you thought aloud, delighted by the idea john put into your head. “you all would look so good with spiked chokers.”

“don’t we look great, cap?” johnny smiled.

“our princess is quite the artist,” john agreed, stalking over to you and kissing your lips. “so talented.”

“would you want to join in?” you asked. you figured he wouldn’t care about makeup, and he probably didn’t, but just like the others, he got so soft for you.

“i’d love nothing more.”

yes i just made up the head canon that gaz has sisters just so he could know what eyeliner is, what of it?

also lmk if i used ‘braw’ correctly k bye—

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amie-777 · 2 months ago

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Authors Note: I've never in my life fucked (no idea if this is acurate), but here is some smut, because I have finals and you all deserve the treat. But if smut, all of it. [This is not proofread and obviously: MDNI]

Content Warnings: titty sucking (f and m), bj, p in v sex (wrapped in a condom), cunnilingus

Pairing: TF141x Reader and Poly!141

Word Count: 3k

Simon is the one you meet first. At the bar he is standoffish, especially when you mention you favor Arsenal (tha's a shame, would've 'aken you 'ome otherwise.) He doesn't end up leaving you dry, taking you home. As polite as he is, doesn't touch and doesn't let you touch him on the way there. Not in the cab you're taking. Not in the elevator.

But once you are home? Fuck off, if it would work the windows are steamed.

His hands are on you, every moment he can. Simon savours it, licks up, along your bones, drawing star patterns on your neck, leaving rives in his wake. You can only stare at him, run your hands over his muscled arms, filled with tattoes. A battleground, grenade, guns and there is a ballon.

Simon is one to start slow, making out, gentle. Guiding hands on either side of your face, holding you together while he unravels each part of you.

Everytime he undresses a clothing piece, he savours the skin found underneath. "I am sweaty, don't..." The complaint dies on your tongue, because Simon is already kissing down your left side, for each rib he leaves a little lick. (And if he is sniffing at your armpit just for a second, it is his secret.) His hands are careful, first removing the lacy shirt and then your skirt. His lips following his hands.

With trembling hands you open his dress-shirt, each button, each a kiss down his upper body. The reassuring words are only heard by Simon, you don't have to say them out loud. You trace scars with your tongue, making Simon groan and huff. His hips lifting in search for a relief.

Gently you slide and tug the shirt from his broad shoulders, giving the healed gunholes a butterfly kiss. Burying your face in his pectoral and resting for a second. "You alright?" His hands reach your face, moving away from your tummy. Simon's finger caress through your hair. "Savoring the moment." He huffs and presses a gentle kiss to your temple.

You, only clad in your underwear, follow Simon, half undressed, to his bedroom. The hickey's Simon sucked under your breast, pound in sync to your heartbeat. The cold air nips at both of your skin, Simon's nipple's standing to attention. But before you enter the door Simon blocks you, his hand tilting your chin into his direction. "You with me?" You nod, his gaze warm on you. "You wan' this?" "Yes, please." He grumbles, "Sweet.." Your hand reaches out for his, "and you?" "I wan' this." His eyes flick in between yours, a small smile on his lips.

His room is simple, there is a dresser, a hamper, double bed, sheets made to perfection and.. "Fuck Simon." His hand on your inner thigh caressing the soft skin there. But his other finger has hooked itself under your underwear, now gently caressing the swollen bud there.

Simon presses his nose into your cheek, closing his eyes, savouring having you here. In his flat, in his room, his finger pleasuring you. "Feel so good, luv." His lips are on the corner of yours, inhaling your spent air.

Things move slowly in between the both of you, there are kisses, shared huffs and a little scoff. But this is what the both of you need, want.

You take the time to learn how Simon likes his cock sucked, every nip at it you note his reaction. A fist in your hair, a rumble, a "fuck you." Sucking in your air and letting your cheeks hollow out. Your tongue orchestrating Simon's petit morte by sliding along the small vein.

After almost cumming on your gentle tongue, Simon lets you come up for a breath, a glass of water for the both of you and letting the cold night air through his window.

"Oh, sweet luv." Simon has his hand on your breast, twisting your nipple in between the two forefingers, enjoying your soft exhales. His cock twitches, your cunt answering in a pulse. Hips moving in tandem with eachother, teeth clashing together. Your lips settle on his left nipple, taking it in between your teeth and licking it gently. All while you ride him, the skin slapping echoing in the (virtually) empty room.

You've never seen stars quite like this, never hidden in the irises of his eyes, Simon shuts them throughout, groaning and shutting his eyes, your thumb caresses the crows feet there, Simon's mouth sucking at the edge of your jawline, hot air across the wet skin.

It's intimate, it's soft, loud, silent, hard, there are pleasures given and taken. It's an exchange and maybe even poetic. But it is you and Simon, ebb and flow.

With a groan the both of you distance yourself from the other. Your skin is blistering hot, unattractively sweaty but satisfied. The bed has space for the two of you, reaching out you touch his eyebrow. Follow invisible lines down to his lips, you gently place a kiss on his pec before departing for the bathroom.

When you come back, the bed is empty, sheets ruffled, clothes laying neatly on the floor. The bin besides the dresser has three or four tied condoms in them.

You put on a fresh boxer of Simon and your shirt. Looking in the mirror you're unsure and steal his black hoodie. Barefoot in search for Simon is next, he is standing, leaning out the window, inhaling is cigarette. On the stove a kettle is slowly hissing. And besides it two mugs.

He is leaning out the window, smoking. Simon is still naked. His untensed muscles are not visible, except the ones used keeping him partially in the flat. Between his moulded quads, his soft cock hangs, light hair peppering upwards. His belly button and a small hickey bruising beside it. His ribs and abdominals are tensed for balance, his nipples are hard, probably from the cold night out.

"Staring are ya? Rude." He finishes smoking, smouldering the small blaze on his windowsill, leaving the bud in an ashtray. "You're beautiful." His breath hitches, in time with the kettle.

But before either can pour some tea, he is on you. Smashing his lips with yours. Holding your forehead to his, breathing you in.

Kyle is the one you meet next. At your local coffee-store, he is not a regular (that is because you are a regular and you would know), but he pays for your drink and then charmingly writes his number on your hand (Who does that?).

Unsure if he really is asking you out, you forget he gave you a number. So you're surprised when he remembers you after two months. ("Why didn' you call? or tex'?") His hand is warm and it caresses yours. All while staring at you with those brown eyes (talk unfair).

You can hardly tell him the truth, so you lie, "I was unsure if you meant it." Okay half-truth. His grin is victorious and it matches yours.

Following to his flat is easy, his smile is easy, and the situation tingles in your stomach. Giggling you two steal kisses along on the way, even make out in the lift (you can cross that out on your bucket list).

Kyle is warmth, but not one that needs wood to burn, he is bright by himself. Lets you undress him, lets you kiss him all over. After a few minutes you spend admiring his body, his tensed muscles, the small crown tattoed on his triceps. "Matches my mate." He confesses and then it is on.

His nose knocks into your cheek, right before his lips are under your ear, the sounds tingling up your spine. You groan out. "Tha's it." He laughs, his fingers turn you naked quick. Not caring where the clothes go, you make out on his couch, leather.

Maybe not the best idea after you try to move and it chafes. You hiss and Kyle is off of you. "Did I hurt ya?" "No No, the couch." Still looking at the couch you almost miss Kyle laughing.

This is bright, his smile, lips stretch over his pearly whites. "Of course, the couch." He still grins when he picks you up, easy work. He deadlifts and benchpresses more than you weigh. "You okay with this?" He asks, gentle finger pressing into your skin. "Please." You say, hot air against his chest.

His bedroom is at a cooler temperature than his entire flat. But that changes nothing of how warm his hands are on you. "Fuck.." You groan, his mouth on you, your back against his door, legs tangling over his shoulders.

Kyle is fucking good with his tongue, first he licks out all your nectar and then it's heaven. Sucking in his cheeks and tugging at your clit, before blowing his spent air on the wet bud. It makes you cry out loud.

On his bed he is in you faster than you can beg his full name, teasing you with the cockhead for nearly four minutes just because he enjoys your pleas. Kyle silences them quickly with him entering and a kiss to your soft lips.

He still smells like mint and your lipgloss. His cock fits and shifts in and out of you, your walls tense, your abdominals flex and you huff out a breath.

Kyle is everywhere all at once where you need him, but when you finally get him under you and can start licking up his length you admire him. His muscles rippling, moans trying to reach you, his hand holding your upper arm gently. Just to assure him that you are here.

The other hand is fisted in the sheets, better than wildly trying to grab you still. Kyle is trying to let you explore where his pleasure lies, but he would like to adjust you, just a few centimetres.

That is when he communicates, "Jus' a break, love." You're off. A gentle kiss on his forehead and you opening the windows. The warm air dissipates into the night. Leaving you two alone to catch your breath.

You and Kyle burn eachother, when one's flame flickers the other burns them once more. The kisses are feverish, so are the touches. But you rely on the other, Kyle needs a breather, you go make him some tea and kiss his broad chest, when you start to tear up from the exertion, Kyle fetches a shirt and lets you rest in the sheets.

His finger follows your nose up and down, eyes fixed on your peaceful face. "Will fall asleep at this rate." You chuckle with eyes closed, Kyle smiles. "I think it's time.." You agree sleepily, "Up you go." Kyle helps you up and standing to go brush his and your teeth and back to bed.

John is the one you would've never followed home. You would've been to self-conscious to think he'd consider you. But apparently working at the office and having your boss's friend over helps you get a good fuck.

He is older, salt and pepper in his beard, joints popping, bright smile. Smelling like cigar and bourbon. Like his car, in which he drives you to his home.

It's old leather, and the radio is working with CD's. But it is John. So is his home, a bit outside of town. A house he will share with his teammates soon but you're too in a hurry to look at the pictures hung up on the walls

You giggle, because John is following and nipping at you like a dog. This chase goes on for a while, he tries to get your clothes off and you jumping over the leather couch to escape him. But when he catches a hold of you, he bites into available skin all while tugging at your trousers.

After you are both tired out already, he pries your clothes off, big hands opening your dress-shirt, opening your bra. Licking accross your chest. Your hands locked in his hair, while he devours your chest.

On the sofa you end up naked, uncomfortably on leather, brings back memories. "Could we go somewhere else? Leather on skin is not really comfortable." You huff out, while he is locked on your thighs, biting and sucking. "Sure, sweetheart."

In his bedroom you start undressing him, gasping at the metal bars on his nipples. You cannot resist putting your mouth on them, nose in his chest hair.

He chuckles, a gravelly sound, vibrating through his chest. "Go' them when I was younger." He confesses and looks down at them and back at you. "They are pretty." Your lips kiss the nipple then your thumb draws over the swollen bud.

Moving on from his chest, you take his trousers and boxers. Maybe admiring the small tattoos on the way down. "Come up." He intervenes before you can kneel on the ground to take him, holds your hand and takes you to his bed.

There he orders you to kneel on the bed, while he stands, his big hand stroking over your head, grabbing a hold of your hair. "You really wan' this? We could star' with something for you?" His other hand taps your chin, making you look up from his half hard cock. "Yes, please." So fucking polite, makes John's cock bop.

Sucking his balls is the gamechanger you have been searching for, his moans are deeper, his hips grinding into your face. Your nose is one with his cock.

Next is you, while John is lying under you, his thick finger is buried in your cunt, his tongue sucking. There are moons in your visions, your eyes pressed close, trying not to cum yet. Savouring this, heaven.

John is not used to fuck like bunnies anymore, but rather he gives you four orgasms from his tongue and penetration lasts at least half an hour. He is slow, soft and ever so gentle.

His cock drawing in and out of you, Johns hand is on your chin, having you focused on him. Slowly drawing out your mewls and moans. His thumb drawing your hood up and gently rolling your clit. "Fuck John." Tears escaping the corner of your eyes, closing them for just a second, resulting in John stopping his movements all together.

Rolling off the condom, tying it off while you lay limb in the sheets. "Fucked out properly." You whisper, and stroke over his hairy thigh. It probably has the size of your head.

John is already considering showing you off to his team. The jealous stares, all while he makes you the missus of the cabin. You just stare at the handsome man in front of you and contemplate to what sex god you prayed upon to being granted this much pleasure.

Especially when it turns to another round. After John has given you some tea and a quick dinner, it's on. Seeing you help with the dishes has unravelled something in his head.

Pounding you over the kitchen counter, making your mouth fall open, even unable to make a sound. Only little groans and huffs. The corner digs uncomfortably into John's side, which makes him slow down. Whispering into your ear: "Come on I'll take you back to bed."

It does not stop him from fucking you on his way there, soft hard all at once.

The bed has cooled, John closes the window and caresses your stiff breast. "Sweet girl."

Johnny is buzzing with energy. Back in the bar where you met Simon, he is there. Like a blue sky, bright and always there. His laugh makes you tingle, and so are his hands.

Especially when you are in the sticky bathroom, messily making out. "Never would've imagined my teenage daydream coming true." He huffs out, his hands on your hips, in your hair, under your shirt. "What.." Kiss. "Was.." Kiss. "Your Daydream?" Kiss. "Making out in a dingy pub bathroom." He rasps and pulls away, his thumb pulling your lower lip down.

Getting to his home is stressful, hanging onto dear life on this massive bike, wearing a helmet with a skull painted on. And you are sure this is not Johnny's own bike.

But it doesn't matter, not when Johnny lies on top of you like this. Rutting into your thighs while trying to get your trousers off. You chuckle and end up helping the poor man.

Still smiling when you get your own shirt off and then his trousers, but your laugh dies off when you spot the crown. Johnny draws your thoughts away quick afterwards. His mouth on yours, fingers already drawing up your wetness and rolling your clit. A breathy moan escapes you and a laugh from him.

His blue eyes watch for a reaction, his eyes fixed on yours. "It's a recuirement, bonnie." He sucks and pushes his thick finger into you. "Fuck John..ny." He chuckles into your cunt and you demand he does that again.

Johnny's cock is a proud thing, standing between his thighs, waiting, but already a flush red. He rolls a condom on and is on you the second he can. He tries to keep some of his weight off of you, but not all, so you can choke a bit under him.

His cock hilts inside you, drawing pathetic sounds out of you. "So good, fer me. All fer me." He moans back, your sounds are definitely not embarassing.

Your lips meet, teeth clashing, deep moaning into each others mouth. Johnnys cock softens inside you and you still pulse around him.

Gently he pulls out and rolls the condom off, cracking his back in the process and cockily winking at you.

Johnny doesn’t have a kettle, instead he pours you lukewarm water and leans back. His hair flows with the night air flowing into the kitchen. Both of you still naked, smiling at eachother.

What the both of you don’t expect is the sound of the door opening, you jump back from the kitchen door and stare at Johnny in horror. Even more so when John suddenly stands in Johnnys kitchen. “Oh sorry sergeant; wouldn’t have come down here if I knew you had a visitor.” Cheeky bastard, your hands still covering your chest and pussy, Johnny studies yours and Johns expression. “Away and bile yer heid, Cap’n. Where do you know him from, Bonnie?” He steps towards you, and the ‘Captain’.

Authors Note 2: Hope you enjoyed. And normally I am not a sucker for smut (prefer angst with a bit of comfort more) but I thought why not go all in. So this will probably also be all for the next two-three months, because finals. Love you all, take care <3

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bombuni · 1 year ago

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contains: poly!ateez x gn!reader, soft ateez taking care of u, non-verbal and self-isolating reader, implied depressed/chronically ill reader

you: babies i think it’s better if you don’t come over tonight

joong: Everything ok?

minmin: but im hungry and u said u’d make dinner :(

woo: WE’RE HUNGRY!!! OM NOM NOM

you: just not feeling it tonight. sorry

You shut your phone off with guilt weighing in your heart. You had promised your boys a nice home-made dinner after a hard week full of non-stop practicing. You knew they’d been looking forward to it the entire week, the stress-free time they’d get to spend with you, but, there’s a pit in your stomach that’s been growing the past week and now it’s big enough to stop you from doing anything else but wallow in your thoughts. Now the guilt just adds to it.

There’s times when you don’t have energy for anything. Not even for your favorite people on Earth and it’s simply your body’s fault. At least you try to tell yourself that.

There’s no response to your last message and you sent it an hour ago. Usually you’d be suspicious about the lack of whining and bickering, but you’re just too tired to worry as fatigue fogs your senses. You’re set for a night of self-pity when your front door unlocks, myriads of voices barging in and breaking the calm of your apartment. You already feel a headache coming on as Wooyoung, like usual, argues about whatever hill he’s chosen to die on.

You want to get up to greet them, but somethings stopping you. The pit in your stomach almost weighs you down, your limbs too heavy to move now. You sigh and surrender to your body’s fatigue.

Seonghwa watches you with a sad look on his face. He knows all the tell-tale signs of your sad ruts by now, the most obvious of all being when you go out of your way to isolate yourself. It hurts him because he wants to help you, but he‘s not quite sure how to do it right with you.

“Sweet thing,” he coos quietly and lays a gentle hand atop yours, “how do you feel?”

His attention turns a switch on in you, feeling yourself melt against his soft touch and caring voice. You shrug, feeling a loss of words. You don’t really have any to describe how you feel. Or rather, there’s a boulder in your throat stopping you from even attempting to say anything.

Hongjoong and San walk over, the latter immediately scooping you up into his arms despite Seonghwa’s protests. Hongjoong leans over the back of the couch, carding his fingers through your hair and tutting at the state you’re in.

“You’re not getting rid of us that easy, you know,” he mumbles.

San looks right at you even if you won’t meet his eyes, trying his best to communicate the worry he has because he knows words don’t work with you when you’re like this. Seonghwa flicks San’s forehead, pulling a loud noise of protest out of him, “Aren’t you supposed to be helping in the kitchen?”

San responds by pulling you tightly against him and closing his eyes in bliss. Seonghwa grumbles something about disrespect, but walks away to help in the kitchen himself. It’s starting to feel a little warm with San’s irresistible need to touch you and Hongjoong’s eyes not once leaving your form. It gets unbearably hot when you feel Mingi’s lips against the crown of your head, Wooyoung doing the same and immediately jumping into gently scolding you for pushing them away.

Hongjoong wants to agree but he knows it’s not what you need right now. He shushes Wooyoung, “Did you take your meds yet?”

You shake your head. Yunho walks up to you, bending down to hand you your medicine with a kind smile on his face. He takes your hand in his when you swallow your pills, kissing each of your knuckles gently, as if he fears scaring you away.

“Here.” Yeosang passes you a glass of water. There’s eight pairs of eyes on you and you can feel each one. It’s like they’re watching a zoo animal on display and you’d laugh at the thought in any other circumstance.

Jongho stands across you, intently staring you down, “You know you can’t just expect us to leave you alone, right?”

San pulls your head into his chest and throws protective arms over you as if you’re a kid getting a scolding, “Don’t be mean.”

Jongho is about to retort before Seonghwa stops him, “Ok! Ok, what Jongho means,” he kneels down next to Yunho with a gentle expression aimed at you, “Is that we want to help you, sweetheart. And it’s hard to do that when you don’t allow us to,”

Yeosang scratches at his neck as he finds the words, “We know it’s hard for you to do that, but…”

Hongjoong continues for him, “We’re just asking that you try at least. Okay?”

You hesitantly nod into San’s chest and you feel him let out a sigh of relief. Wooyoung speaks up from behind you, “You’re hogging ‘em, Sannie,”

He shakes his head violently and hugs you tighter, “No ‘m not.”

Mingi grimaces, “You totally are.”

It’s all-out war again and your body shakes between theirs as each one tries to take you for themselves. San’s still got a good grip on you as Yunho, Seonghwa, and Jongho fight to pull him off of you. Wooyoung and Mingi stand back and argue with San, really the only thing they’re good for. Hongjoong and Yeosang grimace and watch the events unfold, only waiting to step in if they notice you get overwhelmed.

But you don’t. You feel warm and loved and happy, and there’s a bubble of laughter forming in your throat and surpassing the boulder that was stuck in you before. You’ll take it one step at a time, and they’ll take that step with you.

bom note: this is for the gays with chronic fear of being emotionally vulnerable. i tried to make readers issues as vague as possible for u. Also realistically i would not want 8 men all up in my space when im in one of these moods but it’s fantasy ok shhh

#ateez #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez fic #ateez oneshot #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic #poly ateez x reader #seonghwa x reader #hongjoong x reader #yunho x reader #yeosang x reader #san x reader #mingi x reader #wooyoung x reader #jongho x reader

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nightsmarish · 1 year ago

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hiiiii this maybe weird but could i request a wolfstar x reader and she has like a lovey stuffed animal from when she was a baby she still needs to sleep with that she was trying to hide from the boys and how they’d react to finding out?? I love your writing :)

Poly!wolfstar x reader (Remus Lupin x Sirius Black x Reader) | 700+ words

A/n: a little short than I planned, but that's okay. Thank you for requesting, boo!

Tw: sleepy Remus, anxiety, first time the boys sleep at ur flat, kinda modern-ish, werewolf thing in implied a secrete r doesn't know? Kinda like a mid fic at best

★⋆｡°⋆𖦹✮₊★⋆｡°⋆𖦹✮₊★⋆｡°⋆𖦹✮₊★⋆｡

Most couples sleep over at eachother houses. It's completely normal. But, despite that fact, the nerves are eating you alive.

It was agreed before hand that the boys would crash at your place after your date. It is extremely late since the drive-in double feature ended at 2 a.m., and your apartment is much closer than Remus and Sirius' flat. Which means you've had ample time to hype yourself up, to tell yourself they won't judge you for sleeping with that bloody stuffed animal.

But now? Sitting in the passenger seat of Sirius' car with Remus half passed out with the nearly illegal amount of blankets and pillows the three of you brought? Your very not prepared for them to see the small stuffie.

Everyone stayed rather quiet throughout the car ride. Remus was already tired before the movies, probably because the moon was a few days ago, but you have no real conformation that affects him; all just speculation you've made the past few months of dating the boys. And Sirius is coming down from a sugar high, which leaves him calmer and more tired than usual. As well, with the added fact that he doesn't want to disturb your shared boyfriend as he goes in and out of sleep.

And the quietness stayed when the car parked infront of your apartment complex. Grabbing the blankets and pillows and helping a groggy Remus to his feet, the three of you manage to make it safely into your flat.

And while the boys just happen to conveniently be a bit distracted on assessing what blankets and pillows will be used to properly sleep in your bed, you sneak away to the bedroom.

There, laid out in the middle of your bed lays the little creature you've had for probably too long. You scurky on over to it and grab it, trying to quickly find a place that is both safe and well hidden for the night.

But, alas, one does not simply walk away from Sirius Black and expect him not to follow.

"Whats that, love?" Your shorter boyfriend stands in the door way, fluffy, dark green blanket in his arm. Behind him, in the living room, Remus is fighting, a little lazily, with two blankets that got tangled together.

"Wha-?" You glance down at the plushie in your hand, "This? Nothing. Nothing, why?"

Sirius quirks a brow, and dear Salazar, he can be intimidating; it's like his gaze is boring into your soul.

"Pads, leave 'em alone." Remus joins him in the door way, successfully having one of the two blankets.

"I'm not doing nothin' just wanna see who will be joining us tonight." He walks further into the room, throwing the green blankets onto the bed. Turning to face you again, gently grabbing your hip with one hand and cuping ome of your hands that holds the plushie, "assuming he will be joining us?"

You pause for a moment before practically melting into Sirius, who chuckles as he hugs your waist properly, "yeah- he's gonna join us. If that's okay." Your voice is muffled into the black t-shirt he's wearing.

"'Course, that's okay, dovey." One of the two is behind you now, having dropped the extra blanket on the bed as well. You can feel him press a light kiss to the top of your head from behind.

You move your head from where it laid on Sirius, looking at the two extra blankets that taint your bed. "I have enought blankets, we didn't need more."

The smile never leaves the boys face, letting go of you and landing unceremoniously onto your bed, looking up to you and Remus, "nonsense, darlin, how else will be over heat in the middle of the night?"

"We won't overheat in the middle of the night." The tall one gets in the bed as well, much less dramatically and soooo ready for bed.

"You are so confident in that." Sirius twists his body to see Remus getting comfy in the extremely messy bed, then glancing at you. "'Cm'on, doll, bring your friend and come join us."

A small smile graces your lips as you join the boys, one halfway to a dead sleep and the other welcoming you into his waiting arms after you turn off the bedside lamp.

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dearru · 7 months ago

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❀ basic info

⤷ mak. she/her. twenty. asian. virgo sun. intj. loves hinata shoyo. not fun at parties. appreciates em dashes and oxford commas.

⤷ as of feb 8th 2025, i no longer reblog on this acc! find my recs for art, fics, and more on @dearru-rb

❀ byf

⤷ i don’t write nsfw/dc (don’t rq it), but im okay if you do. feel free to follow! also, please don’t copy me! if i inspire smth you write, tag me!!

⤷ maybe try reblogging if u fw my work enough to spam like…

⤷ minors are allowed to follow my page as i am sfw and don’t reblog nsfw! just don’t be weird pls otherwise i’ll softblock

⤷ i love love love interacting via asks/comments (this is always welcome), but as far as becoming mutuals goes, i’d rather that happen naturally! please don’t ask to be moots, if we interact often enough, me following you back is probably inevitable.

⤷ i love interacting in asks, but i would ask you to please kindly refrain from venting! im glad you see me as a safe space, but my mental health is admittedly very fragile and i cannot be an outlet for you :( thank you for understanding!

⤷ moots may ask for my discord! if ur 18+ u can also ask for my socials :)

⤷ i try to write gn!reader so everyone can enjoy, but sometimes i do have fem themes in my works. i will always tag if pronouns other than they/them are used!

⤷ im a busy college student. posting + interactions may be infrequent!!

❀ fandoms

⤷ haikyuu. jjk. mha. aot. frieren. naruto. yotd. obey me. mystic messenger. bllk. others.

❀ favs

⤷ hinata shoyo. tsukishima kei. kuroo tetsuro. akaashi keiji. miya atsumu. kakashi hatake. geto suguru. gojo satoru. fushiguro megumi. itadori yuuji. choso. iida tenya. todoroki shoto. beelzebub (om). mammon (om). zen (mysmes). saeran (mysmes). isagi yoichi. bachira meguru. kunigami rensuke. others.

❀ requests: CLOSED

⤷ i do take requests! (note: requests may take a while for me to complete since i write sporadically)

⤷ i will not take requests for: nsfw (suggestive stuff is okay), male!reader (i usually write gn!reader), pregnancy aus, parent aus, ocs, part 2s for written works, poly fics (i am not against them i just struggle to write for this type of relationship!), ship content (i write ship content at my own leisure, not by request), or eating disorders (characters or readers having them)

⤷ only accepting rqs for hq atm but feel free to send suggestions my way abt any of the fandoms i’ve listed above!

⤷ it’s within my right to delete a rq i feel uncomfortable with/unable to do

⤷ you can send in rqs about whoever you want, but i prefer to write certain characters over others. if you rq a character i prefer not to write about, it’ll prob take me a long time to do it, and it may not be to your liking. click HERE for a comprehensive list of my preferences.

⤷ try to be specificish w the content of ur requests by telling me to use a particular dialogue prompt, scenario, etc. it helps me feel more inspired! don’t be so specific that it limits my creativity tho haha. use ur best judgement.

⤷ if u rq something abt shoyo the chances that i write it increase by x7292619191617181 btw

back to pinned

#navi ❀

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l3viat8an · 1 year ago

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Imagining MC in a poly relationship with Lucifer and Solomon, omg the potential ^^

At first it would be kinda tense since Sol is such a tease and Lucifer hates him but with MC as the buffer they would both come to understand each other on a deeper level. Lucifer would learn why Sol is the way that he is and realize that Solomon is genuine when he says he’s jealous of the family that Luci has as well as hear out Solomon’s backstory and why Sol acts the way he does. It would be a very sweet enemies to lovers arc where they go from just spending time with MC individually to bring a genuine throuple.

Omg yea!! I can definitely see it being really sweet! Tho it’s definitely going to take a long time for Lucifer to even listen to Solomon-

Lucifer can tolerate ‘the sorcerer’ and he loves MC so he’ll try. But he really doesn’t want to end up ‘close’ to Solomon. tho a nice date here ‘n there, something relaxing and MC pushing them together a bit will definitely help jsjsj

There’s some competition at first, both the boys trying to get more one on one time with you just so he can brag about it or act like he’s your favorite-

Demons are jealous creatures by nature, while Solomon is very possessive and protective of you….so while they can agree that they need to keep an eye on you at all times, it’s still dangerous for a lone human in hell after all- besides that Lucifer doesn’t really see a reason to hang around with Solomon.

Meanwhile Solomon genuinely wants to get closer to Lucifer and with your help it works ;) it’s still slow tho, Lucifer trying not too find anything else in common with Solomon.

Sure Lucifer can understand the importance of family and keeping them close, but Solomon’s always scheming something or trying to trick Lucifer into a pact so it’s hard for Lucifer to trust Solomon at first. This could all be an elaborate trick for a pact after all….

But!!

There is one easy was for Solomon to get closer to Lucifer! Human opera of all things- Solomon can just casually mention how he knew some famous composer or even a singer and Lucifer can’t stop himself from asking questions!!-

Before you know it those two will be chatting away about different singers and who’s version of a certain operas was better than the original (-and vice versa) ‘n this means you get a crash course in opera and who the best singers are / were lolol

Slowly more ‘n more dates would be all three of you rather then you and one or the other of the boys and it’s always fun!!-

Sometimes it’ll be going to the opera together ofc! Other times it’ll be going out to dinner or even just domestic things like shopping together. Just spending time together yk!!

#tldr yes it’d be so cute / fun with MC as a buffer <3 #jsjsjsjjsjsjsjsj #ro rambles #obey me!#obey me poly mc #obey me poly #obey me poly reader #obey me lucifer #obey me solomon #om!#obey me #om! poly reader

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another-lost-mc · 2 years ago

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are u more of a rare pair sandwich enjoyer (luci + barb, sol + satan, levi + diavolo etc) or do u have common tastes /derogatory (dialuci, attic club) or r u in the in-between (sololuci, mephisto + mammon, asmo + thirteen)

u probably alrd know but for clarification lmao i mean this in a poly sense

I don't read much OM! fic content that's not reader-inserts so that probably affects my preferences a lot. I think my tastes skew towards what's popular with a few obvious outliers. I admit this is one of those situations where polyships I like to write aren't necessarily the ones I like personally. (I don't post self-ship content on this blog but the fav bias definitely shows. lol)

Note: as I've mentioned before, the demon brothers in polyships together are platonic-only since I don't write demoncest.

I've written:

MC x Mammon & Levi

MC x Beel & Belphie

MC x Diavolo & Barbatos

MC x Asmo & Solomon

MC x Solomon & Simeon

MC x Simeon & Michael

MC x Simeon & Raphael & Michael

Polyships I'd consider writing/have wips for:

MC x Mammon & Levi & Asmo

MC x Barbatos & any combination of (Asmo/Solomon/Simeon)

MC x Satan & Solomon

MC x Mephisto & any combination of Asmo/Barbatos/Solomon/Simeon

MC x Lucifer & Satan

MC x Lucifer & Michael

MC x Asmo & Michael

#polyships for the oc's are more limited but they have their own list lol #that's another post though #poly!mc #jes.replies

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slxtmeri · 2 years ago

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I just found a reason to write some Ted x Schlatt x reader.

I’m watching the video “SCHLATT BLOWS UP HAWAII (ft. Ted Nivison) OTK REACTS” And Uh at 6:19 Schlatt writes on his fucking notes “golook at teds ass om g he is so handsome i am gonna cum im gona cum”

hehe anyway byeee

omg this is so real

i LOVE poly trope with schlatt and ted, it's just so perfect jdjsbs

#schlatt has a thing for teds ass fs #meris moots #jschlatt x reader #ted nivison x reader

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theyhavetakenovermylife · 2 years ago

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Hey!

So my brithday is oming up in like 2 days, and was wondering if you can make a 2012tmnt!poly x reader or MM!tmntpoly x reader :>

I am so sorry, but I don't write poly. I don't practice polygamy myself, and therefore I don't think I would be a good fit for such a request. I believe polyamorous relationships to be a valid form of having relations, and I fully support those who practices it and encourage them to continue💚

With that being said, I am more than willing to write NSFW with more than two people participating, though it will be with the reader only having an already established romantic relation with maximum one turtle💚🐢

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clumsydolly · 3 days ago

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Obey me! x Leona Kingscholar!Reader

Part 2

Warnings!⚠️: Neglect, Feelings of insignificance, violence, blood, possible parental abuse. If there is anything I missed please let me know!

art credits to kura_usagi217 on twitter. Got the picture from himasagod

Diavolo

When Diavolo first met you, he was thrilled. Not just because you were a new exchange student from another world though that was exciting, but because you had a presence. A kind of easy confidence that reminded him of high-ranking demons, or even noble families in the Celestial Realm.

You walked like someone who owned the ground, slouched like you were unimpressed by most things, and looked at people like they were mildly annoying puzzles.

He loved it.

“You have the bearing of royalty,” he had said the first time you were introduced.

“Try being the second-born disappointment long enough. You pick up a few tricks,” you replied, tone dry as desert wind.

He laughed.

You didn’t.

That was the first hint.

Diavolo didn’t get you at first, not really. You weren’t like Lucifer, who wore his pride like armor. You weren’t like Mammon, loud and easy to read. And you definitely weren’t like Solomon, who flirted first and explained later.

You were… tired.

Not physically, though you took naps like it was your personal religion. But emotionally? Spiritually? You exuded the kind of quiet cynicism that only comes from trying and failing too many times.

And yet, you still showed up. You still trained, still studied, still kept pace with the brothers (even when they were annoying as hell). You still helped out when things went wrong.

You just did it with your sleeves rolled up, a sigh on your lips, and a permanent case of “why am I the only one with two working brain cells?”

Which made him more interested.

At first, he tried to cheer you up. It was well-meaning. It was also a disaster.

He invited you to tour the castle.

You fell asleep on the royal couch mid-explanation of Devildom politics. (Barbatos silently offered a blanket. Diavolo cried a little on the inside.)

He offered to spar with you, prince-to-prince style.

You put him in a chokehold in under three minutes, then yawned.

“Is this how you woo people up here?”

“That was supposed to be fun!”

“Yeah, I had fun. You just suck at blocking.”

Diavolo was enchanted.

The turning point came during a RAD event where you were asked to speak about your world. You gave a brief explanation about your kingdom, your family’s expectations, and what it was like growing up under the shadow of a brother everyone compared you to.

Your voice never wavered. You didn’t cry. But there was a steeliness to it, a sharp edge that Diavolo recognized too well.

Later, after everyone had dispersed, he approached you.

“You don’t think you belong here.”

“Took you long enough to notice.”

“But you do.”

“Tell that to the universe. Maybe it’ll send me a medal.”

There was a long pause. And then, instead of spouting some royal nonsense, Diavolo surprised you.

“I used to think I only mattered because I’d be king.”

You blinked.

“But now… I think I matter because of the kind of king I want to be. Not the kind people expected me to be.”

You looked at him, really looked, and saw someone who wasn’t just a dumb, cheerful figurehead. Someone who had his own inferiority complex, his own pressure to live up to a legacy he didn’t choose.

And in that moment, maybe for the first time, you actually listened.

After that, things shifted.

You still insulted him, sure. But it got more playful.

He’d say, “I brought you some tea,” and you’d say, “Trying to poison me into friendship again?”

He’d declare, “You’re very capable!” and you’d deadpan, “Wow. Royal approval. Let me call my therapist.”

But you’d drink the tea. You’d keep showing up. You’d sit beside him during meetings, your tail flicking in irritation whenever someone talked down to you. He noticed.

And more importantly, he respected it.

Diavolo once tried to surprise you with a royal title for a day: “Duke of Controlled Chaos.” You responded by demanding castle taxes, firing three imaginary servants, and requesting a nap throne. He now refers to you as “Your High Napness.”

He once caught you curled up in the castle garden, snoring loudly under a sunbeam. Rather than waking you, he just sat nearby and quietly answered paperwork until you stirred.

When Barbatos told him you’d declined a personal honor because “you didn’t do anything special,” Diavolo paused mid-sip of tea and said, “Barbatos, what’s the legal process for forcibly boosting someone’s self-esteem?”

You once got into an argument with Lucifer in front of him and ended it by casually saying, “Y’know, at least Diavolo knows I’m not just a royal embarrassment.” Diavolo had to go take a walk after that one. He was red in the face and smiling like an idiot.

He never says it outright. You never do either. But there’s a kind of loyalty between you that neither of you really expected.

And when Diavolo looks at you, exiled pride, nap king of sarcasm, second-born with a chip on your shoulder, he doesn’t see failure.

He sees someone who could change kingdoms, if they wanted.

Right after that nap.

Barbatos

Barbatos noticed you before anyone else did.

Not just noticed, but understood. Maybe not fully, he was too polite for that kind of arrogance, but he knew your type. The slow-talking, fast-thinking ones. The ones who slouched and rolled their eyes but still heard every word in a room. The ones who weaponized laziness to disguise the ache of always being second best.

When Diavolo introduced you, Barbatos saw the quiet calculation in your eyes. The sharp edge under the disinterest. He didn’t miss the way you stayed back from the crowd, the twitch of your tail when people praised others for things you’d done better without applause.

You reminded him of a blade left in a drawer too long, still sharp, still deadly, but gathering dust because no one remembered to use it.

So he offered you tea.

Not because he expected you to accept, but because it would tell him everything if you did.

You did.

“You don't strike me as the social sort,” you said after your first few sips, head tilted lazily.

Barbatos smiled, pouring more into your cup. “Nor do you. And yet… here we are.”

You narrowed your eyes at him like he was a puzzle you hadn’t decided was worth solving yet. He merely folded his hands and waited.

You didn’t say it aloud, but that kind of patience unnerved you more than yelling ever could.

It became a strange little routine.

Whenever the noise of the House of Lamentation got too loud, or your own thoughts grew too bitter, you’d find yourself wandering to the castle kitchen. Barbatos would already have a cup set out, like he knew you were coming.

Which, knowing him, he probably did.

“You make it look easy,” you muttered one night, watching him roll dough with perfectly even pressure.

“I assure you, it is not,” he said, glancing at you. “But neither is pretending not to care when you do.”

You stiffened, ears twitching slightly.

He said nothing more.

That was the thing with Barbatos, he didn’t push. He just said one thing, perfectly aimed, and let it hang in the air until it either dissolved or landed like a weight on your chest.

Most days, it landed.

One afternoon, you were uncharacteristically quiet, even for you.

You didn’t slump into a seat or kick your boots onto his table like usual. You just stood near the counter, arms crossed, shoulders unusually tight.

Barbatos slid a plate toward you. Fresh scones. Still warm.

“You look like someone who’s heard too many comparisons today.”

You blinked.

“You always seem to know things you shouldn't,” you muttered, sitting down with a groan.

“It’s not magic,” he said. “Just… observation. And experience.”

You didn’t respond, just broke off a piece of scone and stared at it like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Y’know,” you said after a while, voice low, “people like to act like being second-best is a privilege. Like you should be grateful you’re not completely overlooked. But it still sucks.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I trained. I studied. I worked. And still, it’s always him. He was born first. He got the legacy. I got a lifetime of polite applause and no throne. And I’m tired. I’m so tired of pretending I’m okay with it.”

Barbatos placed a second scone on your plate, softer this time.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said. “Not here.”

You blinked rapidly. Once. Twice. Then shoved the rest of the scone into your mouth with a scowl.

“Whatever,” you grumbled, crumbs on your lip. “Still too sweet.”

He chuckled quietly and passed you a napkin.

Later, when you fell asleep at the table after helping him clean the kitchen, Barbatos didn’t wake you.

He just dimmed the lights, set a quiet ward around the room, and returned to polishing the silver.

Your tail flicked once in your sleep, like it knew he was still there.

You once challenged Barbatos to a baking contest because you were “bored.” It turned into a six-hour standoff with flour everywhere, and somehow the winning dessert was… a draw. (You both claimed victory. Diavolo was just happy he got two cakes.)

He caught you trying to sneak out of a formal event early and didn’t stop you. Just handed you a pastry wrapped in linen and said, “Try not to let the wind mess up your mane.”

When you found out Barbatos could see alternate timelines, you asked how many of them ended with you “not being a royal failure.” He looked at you and simply said, “More than you believe. But fewer than you deserve.”

You once jokingly asked if he had a timeline where you got to be king. He gave a faint smile and said, “Yes. And in that world, you still sneak into my kitchen for peace and quiet.”

Barbatos never coddled you. Never pretended the world was fair or that your pain didn’t matter. But he saw you.

And sometimes… that was enough.

Simeon

Simeon had met prideful people before. He lived among angels, after all. Pride came in many shapes, righteous, humble, quiet, loud, but he’d never quite met anyone like you.

At first glance, you were the embodiment of indifference. Leaned back in your chair during R.A.D. lectures, arms crossed, tail twitching like it had better places to be. Your tone was slow, almost lazy. Half your sentences were grumbled under your breath like you couldn’t be bothered to speak clearly. And your expression rarely changed, just a bored look framed by sharp eyes that saw everything and commented on nothing.

Simeon noticed how everyone mistook your silence for arrogance.

But he knew better.

He saw the subtle way your ears perked when someone praised your classwork, even if you acted like it didn’t matter. He noticed how you stayed behind after battle practice to help Beel lift fallen training dummies. He even caught you one evening, tucked away behind the library, fast asleep with a book on political diplomacy clutched in your hand.

You weren’t lazy. You were exhausted.

And Simeon understood what it meant to carry expectations you never asked for.

“You always sit alone at lunch,” he said one day, sliding into the empty seat across from you.

You didn’t even blink. “And?”

“Just thought I’d offer company.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, wary and sharp. “I’m not great company.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, smiling.

You clicked your tongue and went back to your sandwich. “Suit yourself, church boy.”

Simeon just hummed, unbothered.

It became a habit after that. Simeon sitting beside you in silence, sometimes reading, sometimes chatting about the weather, sometimes saying nothing at all. You never asked him to leave. He never forced conversation. Somehow, that balance worked.

You started calling him “choir boy” after that. He took it as a compliment.

One day, you both got caught in the rain walking home from R.A.D.

You didn’t complain, but Simeon noticed the way your tail curled tighter, your jaw set harder, the faint tremor in your shoulders.

“Bad day?” he asked.

“Every day’s a bad day when you’re living in someone else’s shadow,” you muttered. “Not that you’d get it.”

“I might,” he said, quietly. “More than you think.”

You scoffed, shaking water from your mane. “Doubt it. Must be nice—being the favorite. The golden one. Bet you never had to fight to be seen.”

Simeon paused, thoughtful. “You know… being the ‘golden one’ doesn’t mean you’re never lonely.”

You didn’t respond. But you walked a little slower, and he matched your pace without a word.

One night, Simeon found you pacing behind the House of Lamentation, muttering curses under your breath.

Apparently, your older sibling had made a surprise visit, charming, graceful, beloved. The golden child. Of course. You hadn’t said much during dinner. Just sat through the smiles and praise, your shoulders stiff and smile fake.

But now the fury was spilling out.

“I tried, okay?” you hissed, tail lashing. “I studied. I trained. I cleaned up every mess they left behind! And they still act like I’m some… some spare! Like I’m nothing unless I’m chasing their shadow!”

Simeon watched you for a moment, then reached into his coat and handed you a handkerchief.

You stared at it. “What the hell is this?”

“Your ears are twitching too much. I thought maybe you were about to cry.”

You growled, stuffing it in your pocket. “Not crying. Just—mad.”

“Of course,” he said gently.

You slumped onto the nearby bench. “I hate that I care so much.”

Simeon sat beside you. “Caring doesn’t make you weak. It means you haven’t given up.”

“…I kinda want to give up.”

“But you won’t.”

You shot him a glare. “How would you know?”

“Because I see you,” he said softly. “Even when you’re pretending not to care. Even when you’re hiding how much it hurts. You’re still here. Still trying.”

“…You sound like you write poems about sad lions or something.”

He chuckled. “Only for the most majestic ones.”

You groaned, hiding your face. “Stop being nice. It makes it worse.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

You once dragged Simeon into a prank war with Mammon and swore him to secrecy. He helped you rig the kitchen to explode glitter when the fridge opened. When Lucifer questioned him, he simply smiled and said, “Forgive me, but I was compelled by divine chaos.”

He taught you how to bake “as a method of stress relief.” You pretended to hate it, but you now make cinnamon rolls when you're upset. (He always shows up five minutes after you take them out of the oven, suspiciously.)

Once, in a rare moment of unguarded emotion, you muttered, “Thanks. For not treating me like I’m broken.” He only responded with, “You were never broken. Just tired.”

He calls you “Little Lion” sometimes. You pretend it annoys you. (It doesn’t.)

Simeon never asked you to be softer.

He never demanded your walls come down or that you stop snarling at your reflection.

He just stayed. Listened. Brought tea and patience.

And over time, maybe that was the thing that helped you breathe again.

Because it wasn’t pity. It wasn’t praise.

It was just… acceptance.

And it felt like peace.

Solomon

Solomon didn’t quite stumble into your orbit, he slid into it. Smooth, knowing, and about three steps ahead even when you thought you’d caught him off guard.

You’d been paired for a group project at R.A.D., and from the moment your names were called together, you knew it was going to be a mess. Not because you were incapable, but because he was insufferable.

“You sure you’re up for this, desert royalty?” he’d asked with that damn grin, resting his chin in his hand like he already knew what buttons to push.

You clicked your tongue, flicking your tail with practiced indifference. “As long as you don’t mess it up with one of your shady little rituals, sure.”

“I don’t do shady rituals,” he said smoothly. “I do effective rituals. There’s a difference.”

From that day forward, it was game on.

You’d walk into study sessions five minutes late with sand still clinging to your robes and an attitude sharp enough to cut stone. He’d already be seated, sipping tea like he owned the damn academy, offering you a smirk instead of a greeting.

You were used to being underestimated, misread, branded lazy or arrogant by those who didn’t understand how exhausting it was to be second-best in a family where first was everything. But Solomon? No, he saw through you, and not in the gentle, saintly way Simeon might. More like he found it fascinating.

He wasn’t put off by your constant sarcasm or the barely-restrained yawns when people tried to impress you. He actually liked the edge in your voice, the flat way you said “Whatever” when someone praised your work, like you didn’t trust compliments not to come with strings.

You weren’t sure if that made him brave or just stupid.

Probably both.

“You act like you don’t care,” he mused one evening, casually flipping through a cursed tome while you pretended not to listen. “But you wouldn’t try so hard if you truly didn’t.”

You didn’t even look up from your notes. “Bold of you to assume I try.”

He laughed. “You memorize half the curriculum before the rest of the class has even blinked. You rewrite spells until they’re more efficient. You’re trying, Leona.”

You finally met his gaze, eyes sharp. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“…Because it means you’re getting too familiar.”

Solomon raised an eyebrow. “You’re afraid of being known?”

“No,” you said, voice low, “I’m afraid of being misunderstood. Again.”

There it was, that split-second pause in his smile. He didn’t pity you. He didn’t flinch. He just looked at you, really looked, and gave the smallest nod.

“Then let me understand you properly.”

You never had to explain the sibling thing with Solomon.

He figured it out in pieces, when you stiffened at the mention of “family visits,” when your scowl deepened after receiving a letter from home, when your spellwork got sharper, angrier, every time someone praised you with the phrase almost as good as…

He never asked you to talk about it. But he’d quietly offer you something to throw when you looked like you were about to implode. Sometimes a pillow. Sometimes a cursed rock that screamed when it hit the wall. Always thoughtful.

You found yourself trusting him, against your better judgment.

And naturally, he exploited that trust with relentless teasing.

“Ah, so the great Lia does have feelings,” he’d whisper after you accidentally admitted you enjoyed his cooking. “I was starting to think you were made of sun-baked stone.”

You glared at him. “That’s rich coming from the human cryptid who stores curses in teacups.”

“Oh, you noticed that?” he said, delighted. “Careful not to drink from the one with the eye sigil. It bites.”

You found that you actually liked working with him. Which was strange.

He never talked down to you. Never tried to “fix” you or push you past your limits. He knew when to back off and when to needle you into trying just a little harder. Sometimes he’d drop casual praise when you least expected it.

“By the way,” he’d murmur as you passed each other in the hallway, “your summoning circle last night? Cleanest I’ve seen in years.”

It was never about flattery. It was recognition. That made it worse. Or better. You couldn’t decide.

And the worst part?

You caught yourself smiling more often around him.

He tried to gift you a “good luck charm” for exams. It exploded in purple glitter the moment you touched it. He swears it was a malfunction. You still don’t believe him.

You enchanted his favorite coat to grow extra sleeves every time he made a smug comment. He wore it proudly. “Now I can cast four spells at once.”

One night, you fell asleep in the library while reading a dusty old text. When you woke up, a blanket had been draped over you, and a note rested on your lap: “Even royalty needs rest. Don’t burn out before you rule.”

You never brought it up. He never admitted to leaving it.

But your tail flicked a little slower when he was nearby after that.

Solomon never asked for the throne you never wanted.

But he chose to walk beside you anyway.

And somewhere in the long nights of spellcraft, side comments, and thinly veiled care, you realized—

You weren’t second to him.

You were something entirely your own.

And for once, that felt like enough.

Mephistopheles

To say Mephistopheles didn’t like you would be inaccurate.

He loathed you.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

You were lazy. Arrogant. Constantly skipping class or napping during lectures, yet somehow still managing to land in the top 5 every single time. You never tried to make people like you. You didn’t throw parties or preen for attention the way he did, and yet everyone seemed to gravitate toward you like moths to a sand-blasted sun.

It was infuriating.

Mephistopheles considered himself the pinnacle of demonic refinement, sharp wit, flawless grooming, exceptional academic standing. And then there was you, walking into R.A.D. with your half-lidded stare and “couldn’t care less” attitude, yawning like the world bored you… and stealing every ounce of attention without even meaning to.

He couldn’t stand it.

(And yet he couldn’t stop watching.)

It all started when Lord Diavolo assigned you both to cover the R.A.D. school newspaper for a week. A week.

“I refuse,” Mephisto had declared, dramatically flipping his scarf over his shoulder. “I have standards.”

You leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed. “You also have a deadline, Pretty Boy.”

“Do not call me that.”

“I’ll stop when you stop whining.”

He should’ve hexed you on the spot.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and got to work.

You were chaos in slow motion.

You rewrote headlines with pun-laced titles that made Mephisto visibly age. You interviewed demons by asking them ridiculous hypothetical questions ("If you could replace your horns with anything, what would it be?") and somehow got better quotes than his carefully worded inquiries ever did.

Worse yet, when he tried to correct your grammar… you were always right.

“Who taught you syntax?” he hissed after your second correction of the day.

You shrugged. “I read. A lot. Gotta do something between naps.”

“Do you enjoy being the bane of my existence?”

You smirked. “Kinda. You make funny faces when you’re mad.”

And oh, the faces he made.

You drove him up the wall, and not just because of the way you challenged his every word with calm, disinterested sass. No, it was something subtler than that. You saw through him. You saw the effort behind his flair, the insecurity behind his dramatics, and you didn’t mock it.

You just… matched it. Not with performance, but with presence. Steady. Grounded. Lethal when provoked.

He recognized that weight. That buried inferiority complex. That deep-seated ache to prove yourself in a world that kept expecting someone else.

He hated how well you understood him.

(He hated it more when he realized he didn’t mind.)

It wasn’t all bickering. There were cracks in the tension, brief moments of realness.

Like the night you stayed late editing an article because he’d rewritten the headline six times and couldn’t settle on anything.

You didn’t say anything. You just handed him a coffee, scribbled a new title on a scrap of parchment, and slid it toward him.

It was perfect.

“You’re insufferable,” he mumbled, cheeks faintly red.

“Thanks,” you said, already packing up your things.

Eventually, the lines blurred.

Your arguments became routines. Your eye-rolls became inside jokes. The tension was still there, sure, thick and buzzing like a storm on the horizon, but it was no longer hostile.

You called him “Mephi.” He pretended to hate it.

He called you “Your Highness” with a theatrical bow. You told him to choke on his cravat.

He gave you grammar quizzes just to mess with you. You passed every single one.

You’d nap on the newsroom couch. He’d throw a blanket over you and loudly claim it was for aesthetic cohesion.

Neither of you addressed it.

(Neither of you wanted to stop.)

He absolutely challenged you to a writing duel after you casually roasted one of his editorials. You won. He demanded a rematch. You won again.

Once, during a heated argument, he shouted, “You are the most aggravating, stubborn, sand-obsessed nightmare I’ve ever met!”

You blinked. “So… you like me?”

He almost combusted.

He gifted you a quill pen with gold trim and your name engraved in it. You caught him doing it and raised an eyebrow.

“For professionalism,” he huffed. “Nothing more.”

You smiled. “Sure, Mephi.”

He once dreamt that you stole the front page layout from him and redesigned the entire paper in your sleep. He woke up in a cold sweat.

The day you two finally published the R.A.D. paper together, clean, clever, and wildly successful, he looked at you across the printing press and muttered, “Damn it… you’re actually good.”

You grinned, tail flicking. “Told you. Now admit I’m the better editor.”

“In your dreams.”

He would never admit it, not to your face, not even to himself, but somewhere between the snark and the deadlines, Mephistopheles stopped trying to outshine you…

And started trying to keep up.

Just don’t expect him to say it out loud.

(Unless you catch him at 3 a.m., muttering your name while rewriting his headline again.)

Thirteen

No phones. No backup. No Beel to bust down the door.

You sat on the floor, head against the wall, arms crossed.

She flopped down beside you with a groan. “Ugh. Boring.”

Silence.

Then she glanced sideways. “Sooo… what’s your deal, anyway? Always acting like nothing matters.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then: “It’s easier.”

She blinked. “Huh?”

You stared ahead. “Caring means getting let down. Over and over. By people who expect you to be perfect just so they can ignore you.”

“…Oof. That got real.”

“You asked.”

She snorted. “Well. Guess I gotta share now. Demon code and all.”

She didn’t say much, just enough. A few mumbled words about growing up around the dead. About how traps were easier than people. About how being “too much” was better than being forgotten.

You didn’t say anything.

You just passed her a protein bar from your pocket and looked away.

She smiled.

After that, the traps got… weirder.

Personal.

She set up a glitter bomb that spelled out “King of Naps 💤” above your bed. You rigged her locker to play children’s lullabies every time she opened it. She replaced your morning alarm with a demon screech. You put ghost pepper powder in her mouthwash.

It was glorious.

Eventually, the others stopped asking if you two were fighting or flirting.

The answer was “yes.”

She once declared a “Trap-Off” in the forest behind R.A.D. You both built elaborate Rube Goldberg nightmare machines. Neither of you fell for the other’s trap. The entire area is now a no-go zone.

She tried to prank Barbatos once while you were watching. You told her she was insane. “Don’t mess with the butler.” Her trap vanished. No one ever found the trigger. To this day, she insists Barbatos is an interdimensional cryptid.

When you fell asleep under a tree, she dropped a plastic spider on your face. You grabbed it mid-snore and threw it back at her without waking up. She screamed. You smirked in your sleep.

One time, she caught you smiling at one of her successful traps. You denied it, but she saw. She knows.

You never said you liked her. Not directly.

But when she pulled off a perfect net trap that left you dangling from a tree and you just stared at her upside down and said, “Took you long enough,” she laughed so hard she nearly fell over.

“Admit it,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You love this.”

You just grinned back, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t push your luck.”

(But you didn’t tell her to let you down.)

And she didn’t.

She sat there beneath the tree with you swaying above her, both of you watching the sky in silence, until the stars blinked out one by one.

It was kind of… nice.

You’d never say it.

But she knew.

Raphael

The first time Raphael saw you, he assumed you were lazy.

You were leaned against a tree outside R.A.D., half-asleep, sun in your face, skipping whatever class he’d just been assigned to monitor. You didn’t move when he passed, didn’t even blink. You just gave him the most unimpressed side-eye he’d seen since Mammon tried to talk his way out of a fine.

And then you yawned.

“I’m not a threat,” you muttered. “So you can chill.”

Raphael raised a brow, halo gleaming faintly in the Devildom haze. “I don’t recall speaking to you.”

“Didn’t have to,” you replied, eyes closing again. “Judgmental angels always wear it on their faces.”

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he stayed.

He kept running into you.

At first, it was coincidence. Then it was deliberate.

You fascinated him.

Because no matter how much he tried to provoke you with his silent judgment, his rigid rules, or the thin-lipped stares that scared most into submission, you never flinched.

“You sleep through half your responsibilities,” he said once.

“Still getting more done than you,” you fired back.

You weren’t kind. You weren’t social. You didn’t try to impress anyone. You just existed, quietly and confidently and somehow everyone still watched you when you entered a room.

Including him.

Which made him furious.

When you finally snapped at him during one of his lectures, it was less about volume and more about tone.

“Save the holier-than-thou act,” you muttered, arms crossed. “I already grew up in someone’s shadow. Don’t need a glowing one trying to stand over me now.”

That stopped him cold.

He hadn’t expected that.

Not the edge in your voice. Not the crack in it. Not the hint that maybe your indifference wasn’t just attitude, but armor.

That was the first moment Raphael didn’t see you as defiance personified.

He saw you as a mirror.

He started noticing things.

How you sat at the back of the room, close to exits. How your tail flicked just slightly when someone mentioned your family. How you avoided compliments like they burned.

You reminded him of himself, in ways he didn’t want to admit.

So of course, his way of dealing with it was… poorly.

“You should try harder,” he snapped once, when you skipped a meeting with Lord Diavolo.

“Maybe you should try relaxing,” you said. “I’m not going to combust if I’m not kissing royal boots 24/7.”

You never looked intimidated.

But Raphael, despite himself, felt challenged.

Intrigued.

Infuriated.

Drawn in.

One day, when the others were too busy arguing over snack rations and Mammon's latest debt, he found you alone again, lounging beneath that same tree.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you.

“You can sit, if it helps,” you finally said without opening your eyes. “I’m not gonna throw shade if you need a break.”

Reluctantly, he lowered himself to the grass beside you.

Silence stretched.

Then you cracked an eye open. “You always that uptight, or did I bring it out of you?”

“I simply value order.”

“Yeah, and I value napping. Guess we’re both tragically misunderstood.”

He stared at you.

And for the first time, smiled.

Barely.

But it counted.

From then on, things shifted.

He still gave you a hard time.

You still rolled your eyes every time he talked about rules.

But there were moments small ones where he’d defend your choices. Where he’d tell the others to back off when they questioned your commitment. Where he’d pause a little too long when you stretched in the sun, catching the light just right and looking so unconcerned with the world that he envied you.

You never talked about your brother, the pressure, the constant feeling of never being enough.

But you didn’t have to.

He knew.

And somehow, that made the tension between you thrum just a little louder.

Bonus Divine Interference:

You once challenged Raphael to a sparring match, mostly because you were bored. You lost (barely), but your tail smacked his face during the final move and broke his concentration. He hasn’t lived it down.

He scolds you for napping in forbidden places. You ask why he’s always there to see it. He has no answer.

When someone accused you of being a lazy freeloader, Raphael shut it down so quickly and with so much barely-contained wrath that everyone went quiet. He didn’t even deny the lazy part. Just said, “They’re more capable than any of you.”

He gave you a book once. Didn’t say why. Just dropped it next to you. “Thought it suited you.” It was a historical account of second sons and succession disputes. You never said thank you, but you kept it tucked in your satchel every day after.

He’ll never say it directly.

Not “I care.” Not “I see you.” Not “You’re the only person who doesn’t treat me like some angel on a shelf.”

But when you sit down beside him in quiet moments, letting your silence do the talking, Raphael doesn’t pull away.

He just lets it happen.

And sometimes, that’s all either of you need.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!

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