#can’t be intimidated can’t be battered(?) with..?? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dadsbongos · 5 months

Text

virgins can have kinks too!

4.1 k words / summary - multi-chap posts of me experimenting with smut writing

warnings - piv, unprotected sex + creampies, virgin shiggy, college au, porn with minimal plot, partially clothed sex, BRIEF suicide joke, fem reader, 18+ mndi

~~~

If Tomura could go back and change any one thing in his life, it'd probably be how you two met.

Touya is messy enough to live with, now Tomura was forced to account for all the dirt-clodded shoes and unwashed hands of strangers coming into contact with his possessions. Those first hinting throbs of a headache were beginning to tease at Tomura’s pterion, and unfortunately his only access to water was blocked off by a thick weld of moist, musty athletes. Not that they intimidated Tomura, of course, they were just… an optional pain that he’d rather avoid. All their clunky terminology went over his head, and in his experience the people that Touya invites to his parties are not the inclusive type. What Tomura did understand was that they were perfectly posted up against their kitchen sink so as to be as inconvenient as possible; intending to verbally batter whatever unfortunate girl tried snagging from the fridge.

To be fair to them, though, tap water was Tomura’s backup plan. His initial objective was to sneakily steal a plastic bottle before returning to his room. All those were gone, which is sooo funny to Tomura because he’s certain that he just bought a forty pack yesterday.

Yet if Tomura were to point that out, Touya would just shift blame back onto his recluse roommate for knowingly leaving out water when he was inviting people over. So he doesn’t bother finding the stupid punk.

Similarly, he doesn’t so much as attempt either bathroom sink for water. One being annoyingly split off between the kitchen and Tomura’s room, and the other in Touya’s room. Touya’s room was a self imposed no-no for Tomura during their day-to-day, so he can’t fathom a reason to enter during the degenerate’s party. Judging by occasional thumps and ever shifting shadows beneath the gap, Tomura assumes the shared bath is in no better shape.

Right as he sets to retreat, his eyes zoom across their open floor plan -- all the way into the living room, honing in on two girls. One familiar from their shared mythology class, and the other entirely foreign. Himiko Toga is curled around the shoulders of the second girl, twirling strands of mystery girl’s hair with her long fingers.

Himiko greedily consumes all things cute, she chews them up and keeps them between her teeth to amalgamate with the next adorable target her sights set on. By the end of her life, she’ll probably puke up a cat-eared ball of pink glitter tied up with bows and proudly proclaim it to be her life’s work.

Currently, he’s watching Himiko chow down on someone that he, surprisingly, also finds cute. It's distracting.

Himiko lowers her hands until both arms are wrapped around your waist, nails burrowing into the material of your shirt. Her cheek presses against your shoulder, loose strands of blonde hair tickling up your neck.

Your neck strangely captured Tomura, then. Thick with your pulse and tissue, he wants to feel it pillow under his teeth. His lips are rough and chapped and suddenly all he can think about is how they’d feel scarring up the soft flesh of your jugular.

Himiko must be thinking that too because he watches as she turns cheek and digs her nose into the juncture of your neck.

Oh.

Tomura blinks himself free of the stupor and shakes out his hands, then wiping them dry against his pants. He didn’t think Himiko could actually hold down a relationship.

“Whatcha starin’ at, boss?”

Voice so raggedy and low, almost a staticky purr at Tomura’s back, he can instantaneously pick out who it is.

“Did you know Himiko had a girlfriend?”

“Huh?” Touya steps forward, eyes narrowed out into the crowd, “Where? I can’t see shit.”

“I told you to just get contacts, moron,” Tomura grumbles, then pointing as inconspicuous as he can (not very at all) towards their mutual friend still slithered around the unknown girl.

“Kid, that’s not her girlfriend.”

Tomura looks up at Touya, glaring through tangled, powder blue bangs, “You’re joking, right? I’m not stupid.”

“Seriously, it’s not,” Touya snickers, “Why? You interested?” when Tomura can only silently seethe up at the man, Touya grins: a sight more disturbing than reassuring, his teeth are too big and prominent, the bags under his eyes crinkle up weirdly, and it reeks of selfish glee. Touya jams out his index and middle fingers, waggling the index first, “Which one? Blondie?” then his middle, “Or new girl?”

“I don’t want to talk about this with you,” Tomura knocks down the man’s hand with a disgruntled scoff, “You’re mental.”

“We’ve been friends awhile now, no?” Touya stubbornly returns to pointing, “I’ve never seen you get worked up over a girl, it’s funny. So, which one?”

“It’s funny?”

“I’ll set you up.”

Admitting to the fact he’s got a beating heart and libido is so embarrassing, which leads to Tomura halfheartedly muttering, “If I had a thing for Himiko, I wouldn’t have told you first.”

“You’re cute,” Touya quips, reaching up to pinch Tomura’s cheek between black-painted nails -- pointedly ignoring the annoyed huff and swat resulting. He steps around Tomura to venture through the jungle of his guests, “I’m on it.”

Touya is one of the best, and worst, people that Tomura has ever met. Touya is bothersome and rude and sometimes downright narcissistic, but also headstrong. Touya decided the day his dad bought him this house that he wanted to room with the dork from his freshman year geography lecture. Touya decided that Tomura and him were best friends when Tomura helped him pass their aforementioned geography class. Touya decided last year that the pair should bleach their hair together for a laugh. Touya decided just now to be Tomura’s wingman.

His singlemindedness pairs almost lethally well with his sense of loyalty. It almost made Touya seem… admirable.

Tomura internally gags over the thought, quickly refocusing on real life where Touya is leading Himiko (who is leading her mystery friend via deathgrip on your hand) back towards the kitchen.

Himiko giggles upon seeing Tomura, “You thought we were dating?”

Nevermind. Touya is just as insufferable as he was three years ago badgering Tomura for his lecture notes.

“Be nice. You’re so touchy, I’m sure everyone thought we’re together,” mystery girl squeezes Himiko’s hand, then smiling over at Tomura, “But I’m totally single.”

Oh.

Touya’s the most direct, masterminded person Tomura’s ever met.

All that masterminding goes to utter waste if Tomura can’t wake up and relearn social cues, though. Touya jabs an elbow into Tomura’s gaunt side, ribs aching from the blow.

“Okay,” Tomura nods dumbly, swallowing the unease trapped in his throat and once again drying his hands against his sweatpants.

“If you couldn’t tell,” Touya yanks Himiko into his side and out of your hold, “So is he.”

Himiko whines and reaches out as Touya drags her off, the pair slinking somewhere deep into the crowd of thrashing, bumbling bodies.

“You don’t look much like the party type,” you hum, maybe a little unhelpfully. Tried and true method of flirting, however, is being just a tad mean. A less fluffy version of the tragic come here often? line is sure to crack this man’s icy exterior.

“My roommate,” Tomura flings a thumb over in the direction Himiko was hauled off, “He’s the delinquent, I just share the space,” suddenly the insides of his sweatpants are too hot, and so is the flimsy white shirt on his chest, “I just wanted water.”

Sweltering air beats from the center of his chest down to his ankles, even tickling up his neck. The longer you stare at him, the hotter his body feels. Scorching up his face too, burning away layers of dried, ungroomed skin to reveal every muscle twinge. Tomura wants to both comb his hair back and hide behind the strands (most of all, though, he wishes he’d bothered brushing it whatsoever before making his venture). Being so trapped between either option makes his brain short circuit until he’s, rather bashfully, tucking hair behind his ear like some blushing ingenue.

Thankfully you don’t appear troubled by the sight, instead grinning wider and even laughing at his admission (Tomura likes your smile: lips giving prominence to flattering teeth, balls of your cheeks plumping, and lashes fluttering. Definitely more lovely than Touya’s). You fold your arms, “Poor thing. You probably don’t wanna be stuck out here, huh?”

Insecurity visibly crawls along the downward twitch of your lips, your brows furrowing. Tomura stares at you, committing each divot and angle of your body to memory. By the time he’s finished, he realizes you’re waiting for him to respond.

“Yeah…” he mutters lamely, scratching at the crackled film of skin over his chelidon, then smoothing a thumb into the depression as his heart hammers up his throat -- pressing a disarray of words against his palate. They linger by his uvula, gagging him into stunned silence, until he can finally choke out an uneven, “Do you wanna go back to my room?”

As soon as the question was in the air, buzzing unattended between your faces, Tomura wanted to claw out his eyeballs. Maybe rip out his tongue, too. Such gore would surely erase any memories of his implying he thought he had a chance with you. That was far preferable to the disgust about to cross your face.

Except, that disgust never comes.

Alternatively, you nod, “Sounds fun!”

Tomura kept his area tidy enough. A stack of bowls, two cups, three empty Dr. Pepper cans, and a single Maruchan ramen cup on his desk. A lump of clothes he’s procrastinated washing carefully lines the edge of his bed. But that was all, really.

He wanted his room to be livable, and if he felt so childish as to be proud of it then he liked the sight of his uncluttered carpet. How easily he could make the trek from bed to computer to door (and, of course, the desultory detours to his bookcase or closet) without tripping on trash or abundantly strewn clothes. If he felt further inclined to childishness, Tomura even congratulated himself on maintaining a room cleaner than Touya’s.

Even despite the stacked bowls and cups on his desk and emptied soda bottles cluttering his desk legs.

None of that is sufficient anymore. He’s inspecting your face like it’ll burst open with an alien race for any sign of judgment. Cautiously, Tomura kicks a tangle of loose shirts under his bed while you’re distracted ogling his decorated shelves.

“You like Omori?” your question startles him from kicking a pair of boxers under his bed.

“Huh?”

You’re pointing at a lineup of four acrylic stands -- not the complete set, Tomura only burdened his wallet with purchasing the main party over including Basil and Mari -- on the top shelf of his bookcase, “Omori, right? I didn’t think you’d like that type of game.”

“Do I not look like I would?” he doesn’t know why that inference hurts his feelings. Shamefully, he cards his fingers through his knotted hair, slotting more locks behind his ear, “I played it a long time ago. Now I’m too busy for anything else story-driven, so I’m mostly on League. Or Overwatch if I feel like killing myself.”

“You don’t look like you like suffering, I guess is what I meant,” you draw your bottom lip up between your teeth (he hopes it doesn’t sting, he wants to kiss it better if it does), “But knowing you play Overwatch…”

“I try to avoid it,” Tomura prays his self-grooming is subtle, or at least lowkey enough for you to not notice as you continue browsing his various knick knacks and figures, “You game?”

“Eh, RPGs usually. I don’t like working with others when I play, it makes me nervous to screw up.”

“That’s cute,” he doesn’t mean to say it aloud, honestly. Two measly words small enough to slip through his pursed lips. Two words big enough to ruin his night.

“Think so?” but you’re… smiling again.

“I guess,” Tomura’s eyes shift quickly over to his pillows. Are they soft enough? Should he flip them over? What the hell is fluffing, and does it actually do anything?

“Are you usually this shy? Or am I special?”

Not often does Tomura feel truly helpless, but your incessant teasing pairs lethally with your fluttering lashes and painted lips. He wishes he were more accustomed to conversing with strangers, especially pretty strangers that were interested in him. Part of him wants to believe that if you’re attracted to him now, you’ll be stubborn enough to stick out whatever cluelessness he bumbles out -- but he doesn’t. He simply cannot bring himself to buy that.

“You’re making me nervous, like I’m about to puke.”

“Flattering,” you join Tomura on his bed, soft knee nudging his, “I hope you don’t. It’d kinda ruin the mood.”

He’s terribly unable to keep the casanova impersonation up, though, “What mood?”

You throw your head back and laugh. Hearty and full and so mortifying for him, worse are your next words, “You know why people go into private rooms at parties, right?”

“Uhh…”

“You do. I do, too. That’s why I came back here, you know? If you only wanna talk, that’s fine -- you’re fun to just talk to! But I came back here ‘cuz I want to have sex with you, if you want to, too.”

Tomura can feel that dreaded heartbeat climbing up his chest and into his gullet again.

“You’re forward…”

You shrug, “I know what I want.”

Tomura claws at his sweatpants, chest aching and fingers numb from how your eyes are zeroed on him. He nods slowly, racketing another giggle from your chest -- you lean closer, your hand brushes his.

“Yeah?” you coax a hand around Tomura’s far shoulder, swiveling him to face you.

A rattle and hum from his ceiling fan gurgles the sound of his reply, you hate it.

From the shape of his lips, you can make out his agreement. With no specific intent and only a general sense of lust to guide him, Tomura leans into your touch. Snatching his hands, you shuffle his palms under your shirt, sifting the flesh up your warm belly until they’re cupping your tits. He squeezes blindly, teetering closer along his mattress. Finally, you strip off your top -- then greedily going for Tomura’s as well. He contently allows it, even lifting his arms to grant the removal.

“You’re so pretty,” Tomura noses at your neck, hot puffs of air warming your skin, “Can’t believe you’re actually here.”

His hands are soft from a lax life, if slightly clammy with nerves, and they feel nice squeezing around your hips. Tomura dips his pelvis downward, keeping your thighs scooped snug around him -- bonus for the momentary relief of pressure against his aching groin. His fingers bow beneath the waistband of your skirt until your own are tethering his in place.

“Can I leave the skirt on?” your thighs tighten around Tomura’s slim waist, you tilt your head so your soft lips press against his cheek, “Its kinda hot. To me.”

Tomura rolls his shoulders, whole body shuddering at the request. He nods with clenched eyes, digging his nails into your skin -- he likes your idea more than he can put into words (granted, his tongue may as well be superglued to his teeth right now).

“I can do that,” he manages to scrape out, drawing his fingers down the bunched material of your skirt and up your thighs, “Can I take these off?”

“Please,” you cant your hips up for Tomura to yank off your panties, he bundles them in one hand and stows the other where the material once laid. You swear you hear him whimper at the contact.

His fingers dance up your slit, gentle massaging that intensifies upon introduction of his thumb on your clit. Tomura drops your underwear off the side of his bed and uses the freed palm to work off his sweatpants, but just before he can snap the drawstring -- he stops completely.

“Wait,” he pants, “Hang on. Don’t move.”

Tomura runs out like he’s caught fire, slamming his bedroom door shut behind him and leaving you splayed on his mattress.

He returns with a fist curled around something, and determination written in the lines of his face. Replacing himself between your thighs, Tomura hides the contents in his hand under the pillow beneath you. Before you can shoot any questions, he’s lifting your skirt and lowering his chest to the bed.

As if he can sense the curiosity burning away your mood, Tomura hurriedly buries his face in your cunt.

One gasp is stuttered short by another, Tomura flicks his tongue inside you with a groan. Pulling back only to spit on your clit, the liquid bubbling down your slit until it catches on his prodding fingertips -- your thighs jolt around his shoulders at the act. Middle finger worming into you with ease, Tomura’s burdened by the vestige of Touya’s hand on his shoulder and husks into his ear.

Yeah, condoms are in the top drawer. You need advice?

He’d been uneasy initially, nodding uncertainly, but Tomura’s grateful now.

Just as he’d been instructed, Tomura curls his middle finger and screws the pad up until- your knee knocks into his skull and he keens at the rough treatment.

“S-sorry,” you stammer out, chest arching up.

Bypassing your apology, Tomura flattens his tongue on your clit and slithers a second finger inside you. Surely by tomorrow, his arm will be sore with the work he’s pushing through, but he’s equally sure it’s worth it as you clamp around him and seize.

Strumming your gspot in time with your clit, Tomura loses himself in the thought of how your snatch would feel around his cock -- grinding against the marshmallow mattress below to relieve the pressure. Your only relief is how he greedily sucks your clit; he lets you grab his hair with both hands and roughly tug him to and fro. He lets you fuck his face, eats it up in earnest.

Prying your thighs back from his ears, Tomura shoves his sweatpants down and reaches under your head. Pulling back a foil square that crinkles with each nervous shake of his hand. Tomura’s plain black boxers soon crash to the floor as well.

“Hey,” your voice pipes up meekly, a little slurred after your orgasm. Drowsy eyes half-lidded and even sweeter on him, “Can you, uh…”

Tomura’s burning hot, flushed and vaguely sticky; bangs slickened against his face with sweat and cum. His breathlessness axiomatic of how little composure he could maintain, “What?”

“Don’t…” a shyness that now seems bizarre overtakes you, your fingers curl into his palm and unfurl the condom from his grasp, “You shouldn’t… I wanna feel you.”

He blinks down at you vapidly. So stupidly blank he's immediately ashamed of himself for blanching at your plea.

“You want it too, right?” you reach up and paw at Tomura's shoulders, “You wanna fuck me raw?”

“Uh-huh,” again dumb.

Tomura spares that response no reconsideration, instead preoccupied by holding your thighs open to nudge his cock into you. His tip bobs at your clit in the first few jerks, but his thinly construed patience is rewarded on the third attempt. You tug on his hair as Tomura humps into your sex.

He whines upon feeling that first squeeze and suck of entering your cunt, his pelvis itching up against your clit with every thrust. Blunt nails carve into the fat of your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer -- Tomura’s cock carves deep into your gut, hot and heavy. Chapped lips sear up the length of your neck, his chest squashing against yours, he teeths at the lump of your pulse and lathes the thumping point with his tongue. Budding his knees right beneath your ass, Tomura burdens the tops of his thighs against yours. Then wrapping your waist with both arms, continuing to suck your soft skin between his teeth.

Tomura gasps as the warmth of your hands finds his back, rolling lower and lower until you’re actively pushing him closer. He likes this -- loves it, even. He’s horrified to know he could’ve been having sex his entire college career and simply didn’t.

He’s further horrified that perhaps he’ll never have sex again when you leave (but mostly, he’s finding that he just doesn’t want you to leave).

“Be my girlfriend,” delirious, he’s babbling into your ear, whining and shuttering and smothering your body with his, “Be my girlfriend…! Wanna fuck you every day-- need you every day. So fucking warm and soft, all perfect for my cock,” Tomura pulls up from your neck to kiss the thin stretch of skin over your collarbones and treading to your breasts, “Like you’re made for taking it.”

What you want is to have the mental cognition to respond to him kindly, but what you have is a mushy brain and a flourishing climax scorching through your body. Grey matter melting into the bowl of your skull as Tomura kisses and pants into your tits.

“Tomu’-!” is all you can manage to squeal, nails digging jagged red lines down the man’s back.

“You cumming?” he reaches between your bodies to incise the pads of his fingers across your sodden clit.

A final push into your sensitive body, the attention spiking your head back into his pillow. Faintly, through the rush of dopamine pumping through your extremities to where your hanging mouth is expelling wanton wails of Tomu’! and yes, God! and cumming!, you can hear Tomura. You can hear him chuckling low and deep with ecstasy, “So pretty when you cum. Squeezing me so tight, too. You like me that much?”

He whines unexpectedly, wrenching both hands to your hips and branding the imprint of his calloused palms there.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he grits his teeth, scratchy throat puking up pulpy, disjointed moans of your name and fuck, fuck fucks, “I’m gonna cum,” he latches onto your tit, muffling his pathetic mewls as your legs lock him in your cunt (trembly and weak as they may be), “Cumming, cumming- ! Fuck!”

Stilling above you, Tomura chokes out soft breaths and murmurs of appreciation as he cums. Sincerely thanking you as his spend paints your insides. Collapsing on you once his balls are empty. Tomura barely has the wherewithal to roll onto his side in order to avoid overheating you under him.

A rattle and hum from his ceiling fan regains your attention, but this time it doesn’t seem too bad. You can’t find yourself to be very annoyed, even when the music pumping from outside vibrates Tomura’s bedroom door. Above those sounds, the one you appreciate most is the soft pelting of Tomura’s breath against your neck; damp with a mixture of sweat and his saliva, and sore from his incessant teething.

“Did you mean it?” you’re probably being mean, asking such a layered question so immediately after his release.

“About?” his voice is raggedy, sharp to a bladepoint -- if you couldn’t see the dazed, awestruck film over his lidded eyes, you’d mistake him as trying to be rude.

“Me being your girlfriend. Did you actually mean that? Or did your dick have the braincell?”

“Oh,” Tomura pushes onto his elbows, arms shaking, his hair drops over his face and this time you’re the one to brush it behind his ear. Despite cumming in you minutes ago, he blushes at the gesture and looks at your bruising neck rather than your eyes, “I guess. I don’t have a car, so I can’t drive you around for dates.”

“I can take the bus, you know,” you laugh at how Tomura’s face suddenly sours at your words.

“As if I’d let my girlfriend take the bus by herself. Do you know how many freaks go on that thing?”

“‘Cuz you’d know.”

“Yeah, I’m one of them,” the giddiness rising in his chest over your giggling at his jab quickly overtakes his face, cheeks burning with a proud smile. Tomura hides his face in your neck, “I guess it’s up to you.”

“It's up to me if you were serious or not?”

Quietly, he hums, then rasps out something you could construe as a joke if you didn’t care so much about how he felt, “I only open to begging in the sheets. Being desperate to date the first girl I fuck is so pathetic.”

Which is so insane to you because you met this man only a few hours ago.

A broiling affection that builds between the slats of your ribs, bricking off your lungs and heart just to cook them up hot and gooey and primed for the man on your chest. At least Tomura’s burgeoning crush could be reasoned away with the fact he’s a recent ex-virgin (not like you, with visitors running rarer than Tanzanite).

Still fluttery and alight with the wash of your orgasm, you give your heart the braincell and nod sluggishly, “Yeah. I want you to be serious.”

Decidedly, you spare no mind how you two barely know each other.

#shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki smut #tomura smut #bnha x reader #bnha x reader smut #virgcore shiggy

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luveline · 5 months

Note

i would absolutely love a Hotch and stripper reader, him taking care of her after some kind of incident at her club or something? maybe a bit of angry hotch at the beginning, some angst? 💗💗💗

Your throat burns by the time his car pulls up.

You take the butt of the cigarette from between your lips and ash it next to the first. Your hand is sore between the index finger and thumb from a bad stretch, aching as you press into your pocket for your stolen box of Marlboro golds. You’ll apologise for taking them some other time.

You press the third between your lips and flick the lighter. You’re not good at lighting them, worse at the first inhale, your throat an agony that rivals the sting of your battered cheek.

Shoes on the sidewalk, a scratch of loose gravel. Your eyes well with another line of tears that you work hard to hold in, taking another quick, cruel drag. They don’t make cigarettes long enough, in your opinion. They don’t last.

He stops in front of you. Quiet, Agent Hotchner looks down at you where you’re sitting on the low wall, expression as steely as ever. You meet his eyes, worried your wobbly lip is giving you away, not sure calling him was the right thing to do after all.

When he raises his hand to the cigarette you let him take it. His fingers wrap carefully around the butt of it, the side of his thumb brushing your lips.

He flicks it to the ground and steps on it flat.

You don’t say hello. It’s obvious you’ll cry, he can tell too, and he doesn’t make you. You wince as he raises his hand again, your eyes squinting closed, but he isn’t going to hurt you. His palm is warm where it cups your cheek, turning your face to the light emanating off of the club neons.

“Do you know his name?” he asks.

“No.”

He raises your chin higher still. His frown turns to a glare, the brunt of which is directed elsewhere but intimidating all the same. His touching is gentle at least.

“What happened?”

“I told him no.”

His jaw ticks. “Can I take you home?”

You sniffle, turning your face out of his hand and down to your lap. He’s kissed you, he’s done more than that, but he knows you’d felt like you had no choice and so he’s giving it to you now. It’s exactly why you’d called him. It’s the man he is, and he should never have ended up looking after you.

“Sorry I called you,” you say, hiding your face in one hand. Pain flickers behind your eyes as tears mount for the tenth time tonight.

Hotch gives a sigh, sitting on the wall beside you. He wraps his arm behind your back and with a familiarity you need desperately. You press yourself into his side, sew your arm hesitantly over his stomach, the starch of a pressed shirt crisp on your clammy skin.

“It’s cold out here,” he murmurs, bringing both hands to your arm, one to hold you tight, the other to rub your cool skin.

“I think I want to quit.”

He nods into the side of your head. “I think you should,” he says, “if that’s what you want… honey, you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t think I can. I’m trapped and it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.” He encourages your head under his, your face to his neck. When he talks, it’s a quiet, lulling promise. “You’re not trapped. I’ll do anything you need me to do. If you want an apartment, I’ll get it for you. If you want to shut this place down, I will. The last thing either of us want is for you to work here when you don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to say work here like I’m not a glorified prostitute,” you say hotly, anger turned in rather than out.

“You don’t really think that.”

Being a sex worker is complicated. You don’t know how you feel about it, and you can’t ever understand why Hotch would bother with you. You’d worried at first that your vulnerability is what attracted him, like a kid with a broken bird, but he’s proved a hundred times that your job is pretty much separate from why he likes you. He thinks you're pretty. He loves your voice. You make each other laugh, and somehow inexplicably he’s the first person you call when things go wrong.

“Quit your job,” he says. “Even if it’s just to dance somewhere else.”

“You can say strip.”

He nods. “You shouldn’t have to worry whether your ‘no’ will be met with a backhand. You know that breaks my heart?”

You blink and pull away from him. He isn’t unemotional, but it’s a surprise nonetheless to hear him talk like this. “Aaron–”

“Please,” he says. “I shouldn’t ask you to. But there are better places for you. You deserve more.”

If it were anyone else you might get defensive. Only people who do your job could understand why you do it, it’s a hundred different things to you, but you do deserve more. You’re sick of leery men, sick of wolf whistles and bad tips and other people's hands. Hotch has never asked you to stop, but now he is, it’s to keep you safe.

You can’t begrudge him.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“No.” He rubs your arm. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And I’ll make it right.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’ll make it right,” he promises. “No matter what. No one gets to hurt you.”

You could quit. You want to. Even if it’s just for a couple of weeks, just so you don’t have to pretend you know what you’re doing. You’ll think about it in the morning. “Could I stay with you for a bit?” you whisper. “Just tonight. Please.”

Hotch taps your back for you to stand. He stands with you, brushing down your coat, his eyes impassive where they look over your face, your purpling bruise.

“You can wait in the car,” he says quietly. “I’m going to ask a few questions inside before we leave.”

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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greedyhoneyz · 5 months

Text

Welcome to Wonderland

.ೃ࿔*:･pairing: eren yeager x pregnant!reader

.ೃ࿔*:･synopsis: soon-to-be-parents embark on a joyous adventure, preparing for the arrival of their little one in a quest to find the perfect stroller.

.ೃ࿔*:･cw: none. fluff. domestic.

.ೃ࿔*:･authors note: inspired by baby mine from @tojigasm. im in a 'baby' mood and wanted to write something other than football. you can probably tell that I haven't watched the show but honestly, I've kind of based eren on his portrayals by other writers on this app and what I feel he would say and act like if he was a modern character. truthfully i just need to watch the show, but I'm honestly not good at keeping up with shows in general.

Onesies. Diapers. Bottles. Pacifiers. Cribs. Toys.

This was the world of babies.

Eren had never felt so intimidated— standing by the store doors, a trolley glued to his front as he gawked at the avalanche of ‘everything baby’ in front of him. The signs above the aisles, all printed with words that seemed important, taunted him with ridiculing laughter and bizarre speeches filled with phoney concern.

Hesitantly, Eren veered around and then glanced at (name). He swallowed deeply before speaking between shallow breaths. “Where do we start?”

(name) was quiet for a few moments as her eyes aimlessly scanned the store floor. She let out a breath and then paused, blinking, before glancing down at her phone. “Uh,”

She padded her thumbs across her screen and scrolled through her baby registry.

“Strollers,” (name) managed to breathe out. She nodded to herself, assured by her choice and peered up at Eren, nodding once again. “Yeah, I think we should look at strollers first.”

“Strollers…” Eren muttered back slowly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “…that's good.”

The metallic clatter and squeak of the trolley and its battered wheels followed Eren and (name) as they pushed the cart towards the “strollers & travel systems” section.

The trolley squeaked to a halt when (name) stopped. She blinked, rubbing her lips together and slowly stepped away from Eren.

“This is nice.” She spoke softly. She raised her hands, her curious fingers wriggling in the air, and fiddled with the straps and handle of the matte black stroller. From the platform where it was perched, she pushed it back and forth, whirling the stroller from side to side. “It moves nicely too.”

“This one looks good too.” Pivoting on the heels of her feet, (name) carefully stroked the handle of another. It was grey, except for its black frame, and carried a sizable basket beneath it unlike the other.

Eren hummed in response to (name) and shifted away from the trolley. He inclined forward and fiddled with the hood of the stroller, pushing it back and dragging it forward. He smoothed his hands across its aluminium frame and picked at the price tag, strapped at the handle. “Not bad, you like it?”

(name) shrugged. “It’s nice, but I think we should look around first before we decide on anything first.”

The trolley’s shaky rattle continued as (name) and Eren strolled through rows and rows of strollers in various colours, sizes and shapes.

The traditional strollers, with large wheels and adjustable handles, had quickly gained (name’s) favour, whilst the lightweight umbrella strollers, which were perfect for prompt trips around the town, perked Eren’s eye. The jogging strollers failed to reel both Eren and (name) in, and though their suspension and manoeuvrability brought ease and comfort, the couple could envision themselves going for light jogs across their neighbourhood with their little one in tow. It wasn’t their style.

“Is there anything here you like?” After a while of searching, Eren and (name) had broken off their stroll and huddled themselves into a corner and fueled themselves with the breakfast bars (name) had stashed inside her purse.

"No," Eren shook his head, swallowing, his face twisted.

“Well,” (name) began. “If we can’t decide on anything now, I think we should move onto bassinets–”

“What?” A baffled expression came to (name’s) face as she watched Eren shoot off directly to a larger display of strollers.

With a smile on his lips and sparkling eyes, he bent down to retrieve a car seat from the queue of strollers. He waved, beckoning (name) over and beamed down at the contraption below.

Gripping the metal ledge of the trolley, (name) towed it behind her as she walked.

She stopped, standing a few feet away and with an inquisitive brow, glanced down at Eren.

“Look.” Hanging his figure over the car seat, Eren turned his back to (name). He lowered his arms, positioning his hands on either side of the seat, its front and its back. He gripped the handle with one hand and tucked his other into the safety lock. He pressed the lock, heaving it upwards as its legs, tucked beneath, extended outwards. Setting it down on the floor, Eren carefully eased the handle from above the black hood and towed it above the seat. A quiet snap could be heard as he adjusted the handle to his hip with a single push of a button.

“Wow.” (name) gaped, her eyes wide and slowly circled the stroller.

“Cool, ain't it?” Eren smiled proudly. He pushed the stroller back and forth, wheeling it across the aisle in jagged lines. “‘Been looking at this online.”

“And it's good for travelling,” he boasted. “For when we fly. Oh, and it's light….it moves so nice….”

Resting her hand on the swell of her belly, (name) bent down and moved her hands across the seat, running her fingers against its smooth fabric. “But what happens when the baby gets too big and grows out of this?”

“Then…I…guess we buy two strollers?” Eren blurted out slowly.

“Babe… I don’t know.” Reclining back to height, (name) propped her hand on her hip and furrowed her brows together. She pulled her lips down into a frown and shook her head unhappily.

Eren could feel his heart plunge into the pits of his stomach as (name) scowled. He was convinced that the stroller parked before him was it. And now, as he stared at his wife, he wasn’t too sure she felt the same.

“Listen, baby, it's a great car seat and stroller,” he began. “C’mon, it's convenient and easy to use, we get this and it’ll make our lives so much easier when the baby comes.”

“Trust me, baby, I’ve done my research. I’ve watched videos and read reviews. This is the one.”

(name) thought a moment, gnawing at her bottom lip. After inspecting the stroller-car seat ensemble, she took Eren’s place at the wheel and rolled it across the aisle, and then back to him.

She stopped in front of him, parking the stroller a few inches from his feet and sighed. She blinked and blinked and then blinked again, and sighed, tracing her hand across its hood.

“Alright,” She said. “We’ll get it.”

Eren couldn’t help but cheer, thrusting his fists in the air before launching onto his wife. He wrapped his arms around (name), pulling her into his chest, her swollen belly pressed against his middle, and peppered kisses across her head, his nose bristling against her hair. “Yes!”

“Babe— Eren let go, you’re pulling on my hair.” Wriggling out from Eren’s grasp, (name) huffed, her eyebrows furrowed together and quickly patted away at her hair.

After calling for assistance, Eren, then armed with newfound instructions, made his way down the aisles to the shelf containing another replica of the stroller, with (name) in tow. Below it were two rows of boxes.

Eren reached out, bending his knees, wrapped his arms around the box and lifted it into the air. With careful feet, he hauled the box toward their trolley and plopped it into the basket.

“There.” He huffed. He wiped his hands and stared at the box, a twinkle glinted in his eyes, grinning from ear to ear as (name) looked on from the sidelines.

She approached Eren, a hand to the trolley, the other to her stomach, and studied him. In awe at the way, his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and his cheeks carried a gentle, rosy tint when he was excited. His joy was palpable, radiating out from him like a comforting blanket.

As she gazed at him, (name) felt a deep sense of gratitude. Most women weren’t as lucky as she was, having a man so involved, so excited it’s damn near infuriating. But she cherished his joy, his nervousness, his wonder. He was new to this world, this world of babies, as was she, and whilst at times it was overwhelming, it was beautiful and intriguing to come to learn and to love the little human cocooned inside her belly.

And as Eren looked up and caught her eye, (name) returned his smile with one of her own. In a silent exchange, they basked in each other’s warmth, arm in arm, sharing each other’s bliss.

#black!reader #eren yeager x black reader #eren x black reader #eren x reader #eren jeager x reader #eren yeager x reader #aot x black reader #aot imagine #aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan x black reader #attack on titan imagine

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unpopularwriter25 · 4 months

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A Gentle Wind

Summary: After the battle, the group arrives at the Butterfly Mansion for much-needed rest and recovery. When Sanemi's abrasive nature sparks a confrontation, the reader steps in to defend her friends. Her fiery spirit leaves the Wind Hashira stunned and unexpectedly smitten.

Warnings: None

The soft rustling of leaves in the Butterfly Mansion garden was a gentle contrast to the tension that crackled in the air. Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke had just arrived, weary and battered, seeking solace and healing. However, the atmosphere shifted as Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira, made his presence known with his usual bluntness.

"You three idiots better not mess things up here," Sanemi barked, his tone as sharp as his blade. "You're lucky to even be alive."

Inosuke bristled, fists clenching, but before he could respond, you stepped forward, your eyes blazing with determination. "That’s enough, Sanemi," you snapped, standing protectively in front of your friends. "They’ve been through enough without you berating them."

Sanemi's eyes narrowed, a storm brewing within them. "And who are you to lecture me? Do you know who you're talking to?"

"Yes, I do," you replied firmly. "I’m talking to someone who should know better than to kick people when they’re down. They’ve fought hard and deserve respect, not ridicule."

Sanemi's lip curled in a sneer. "Respect? From me? They're a bunch of reckless brats who need to learn their place."

"Reckless?" you shot back, stepping closer, undeterred by his intimidating presence. "They’re brave. They’ve risked their lives to protect others. If that’s what you call reckless, then maybe you need to rethink what it means to be a Demon Slayer."

Tanjiro placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, trying to calm you. "It's okay, [Y/N], we don’t want to cause any trouble."

You shrugged his hand off, not breaking eye contact with Sanemi. "No, Tanjiro. Someone needs to stand up to him. You’ve all done nothing but give your best, and you deserve better than this."

Sanemi's eyes flickered with surprise and something else—was it admiration? "You’ve got a lot of nerve talking to me like that," he muttered, his voice low.

"And you’ve got a lot of nerve treating people like they’re beneath you," you retorted. "Being a Hashira doesn’t give you the right to be a bully."

Zenitsu, hiding behind Inosuke, peeked out and added nervously, "She’s right, you know. We’re all on the same side."

Inosuke, ever the blunt one, huffed. "Yeah, what she said! Back off, Wind Guy!"

Sanemi's gaze softened just a fraction, but his voice remained gruff. "You think you’re something special, don’t you? Protecting them like this?"

"Yes, I do," you said, lifting your chin defiantly. "Because they are special. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you’re not as strong as you think you are."

A tense silence settled over the garden. The colorful butterflies fluttered around, oblivious to the conflict, while the sweet scent of blooming flowers filled the air. Your friends watched with wide eyes, clearly impressed by your courage.

"You've got guts," Sanemi muttered, a flicker of something softer passing through his harsh demeanor.

"I’m just protecting my friends," you said, turning on your heel with a huff. "Maybe you should try it sometime." With that, you marched back into the mansion, leaving a stunned Sanemi in your wake.

Sanemi stood rooted to the spot, the words replaying in his mind. The fire in your eyes, the unwavering strength in your voice—it was unlike anything he’d ever encountered. He watched as you disappeared into the mansion, his heart pounding in a way it never had before.

For the first time, the fierce Wind Hashira felt something other than anger and duty. He felt admiration, respect, and something he could hardly name. But as he stood there, surrounded by the serene beauty of the Butterfly Mansion, Sanemi was sure of one thing.

He was in love.

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 7 months

Text

Denim on Denim

A Seams x Grays crossover

Summary: Joel tries to get a haircut - but it turns out he can’t do anything in the QZ without getting into a fistfight, and you’re lucky enough to be in the audience.

Warnings: Mildly spicy thoughts, two sexy men fighting, language, reader was a hairdresser prior to the outbreak and has a nickname related to her job, no use of Y/N, no physical descriptions of reader, very lightly edited.

This oneshot can be read independently of the two series, but for the full experience, I recommend reading at least Grays. This is a post-outbreak AU of Grays, and is set before Seams Joel leaves the QZ. Part of the Shiv's salon drabbles.

Word count: 2.7k

Notes: A whole year after my random thoughts about how Joel's hair looks that good in an apocalypse and a random notif on this post that reminded of it, we finally get Joel to Shiv's salon... or do we? 🤷🏻‍♀️ I had a blast writing this oneshot - it's a bit silly, a bit spicy, I hope you enjoy it ❤️

‘Goddamnit.’

Joel swipes viciously at the curl hanging over eyes, like a boxer at a punchbag. Try as he might to slick it back, every time his shovel hits the dirt, the hair uncoils, bouncing obnoxiously in his field of vision.

He needs a fucking haircut. Tess usually does it for him every month or so, but she’s been in a mood - snapping at him, keeping him at arm’s length, she hasn’t even been to his apartment for two whole weeks.

This time of the year is hard for her. He knows all too well that he’s the same every September. They’re in each of their own time loops, a cage within the trappings of the QZ.

‘You look like you need a trim, bro.’

Joel barely glances up. He knows the guy, they share a surname after all. People call him Ben, or Benny, and even an old man like him knows he’s a good-looking son of a bitch.

They work the same shifts sometimes, and he knows Tess has crossed paths with him at the illegal fight nights. Joel has also seen him a few times at the bar, where he’s usually surrounded by even more good-looking motherfuckers.

Joel knows he’s a damn flirt too. He always has pretty words for Tess when he sees her. He’s harmless though, and he supposes that she deserves sweet nothings from at least one Miller since he’s no good at them.

Realising he hasn’t responded, Joel grunts noncommittally, self-consciousness prickling the back of his neck.

‘I know someone, she was a professional hairdresser before all this.’

Joel ignores him and keeps shovelling.

‘If you tell her you know me, she’ll give you a good rate.’

More shovelling.

‘Alright man, my shift’s up. See you ‘round.’

Five steps, and Joel sighs, digging the shovel into the dirt.

‘Wait.’

Joel stands on the doorway, and stares.

There’s an actual backwash in the corner of the dingy living room - well, living space. There are no doors in the tenement apartments.

‘You waiting for it to say hello back, or what?’

His eyes snap to yours, a scowl drawing his brows together.

Not that you look at all intimidated, one eyebrow arched high and an amused smile sitting lopsided on your lips, which he will admit throws him just a bit. He’s not used to having to work for it.

Giving you a tight nod, he takes two steps into the apartment. He recognises the layout, a mirror of his own, which is a few blocks away.

Closing the door with a flourish behind him, you ask brightly, ‘You’re here for a haircut?’

He’s about to answer when something winks at him, and he looks up, momentarily blinded by the reflection of afternoon light in the cracked mirror that hangs over a battered styling station.

Your apartment has windows that don’t look directly onto the next building, and sun floods the space. Even light is a real rarity in the shithole of a QZ, where everything indoors is dingy. He idly wonders if you had to bribe someone -

Distracted, he catches the sliver of a shadow moving from the corner of his eye a split second later than he would if he was on high alert. On reflex, his fingers find the hilt of his knife and he whips it out in a wide arc, swinging to his left where gunmetal catches the afternoon light.

‘Drop it!’ he barks, the same moment as the other man growls, ‘The fuck are you doing in my home with a knife?’

To Joel’s bewilderment, you chuckle somewhere to his right, amused. ‘C’mon guys. Dramatic, much?’

‘He snuck up on me,’ Joel growls defensively.

‘Frankie, put your gun away, dude’s just here for a haircut - I’m assuming anyway, he never did answer my question.’

‘Yes, I’m here for a haircut,’ he snaps, resheathing his knife. ‘Fuck would I be doin’ here if not?’

‘Fuck should I know, dipshit?’ retorts Frankie, tucking his gun in the back of his jeans. ‘You always bring a knife to your haircuts?’

‘D’ya always threaten to shoot paying customers?’

‘No, we definitely do not.’ You step into the space between the two men in case they get snippy with each other again. ‘Who sent you?’

Your customer crosses his arms, and you can’t help noticing the fabric of his shirt stretching across those broad shoulders. ‘Blondie.’

‘Blondie?’ you frown, confused. ‘Oh wait, you mean Ben? I thought I recognised you. I’ve seen you at one of his fights, with your wife? What’s her name now -’

‘Tess,’ he replies, then promptly looks like he wishes he’d stopped himself before he answered. ‘She’s not my -’ he trails off, and it’s clear he doesn’t like how you’re reading him at the moment, grumbling, ‘None of your damn business.’

‘Hey, you watch your mouth around my lady, old man,’ warns Frankie, ratcheting up the tension again.

Squaring his shoulders, the man seems to grow two inches. ‘Or what?’

Suddenly aware of being caught in the crossfire between your protective husband on one side, and this gruff, silvered stranger on the other, heat bubbles unbidden under your skin, the unexpected reaction from your body catching you off guard.

Biting your lower lip, you clear your throat, and somehow you sound steadier than you feel when you dispense the orders.

‘Ok, this is enough. Frankie, sit down over there,’ you say, pointing him in the direction of the couch on the other side of the room. ‘And you - since you’re Benny’s friend, two ration cards.’

‘’M not his friend,’ he almost spits out that last word, as if it tastes weird.

You give him a pointed look. ‘Three ration cards, then.’

He huffs, and hands you two from his back pocket. ‘Fine, I’m Benny’s friend.’

You grin. ‘If you’re besties, it’s one.’

‘Don’t push it.’

You back off with a chuckle. ‘Fine, not besties. Maybe next time. Now sit.’

Joel does as he’s told, awkwardly, in the styling chair, a relic from the pre-outbreak days. It creaks dangerously under his weight, and it wobbles, slightly off-kilter. The cracked leather is warm from the sun, which seeps into his skin, and he finds himself wondering when was the last time he went to a hair salon.

Sarah used to love cutting his hair. She always made an afternoon out of it on one of his rare days not working overtime, putting the music on, setting up her Barbie mirror on the dining room table, and having him pick out a hairstyle from a magazine (it never looked anywhere near like the photos). She’d even put a disposable raincoat over him like a hairdresser’s cape. She really wasn’t any good, there’s a reason why Tommy didn’t let her anywhere near his curls, but he always wore her handiwork with pride -

So lost in his thoughts, he reacts purely on instinct when, for the first time in decades, fingers other than his own find his hair.

Swivelling around, he’s out of the chair in a split second, fingers wrapped tight around your wrists. You yelp as he pushes you back against the wall, which he sees from the shape of your lips but doesn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears.

Joel barely holds you there for a second before he’s yanked backwards by a hand on the back of his collar, and he stumbles, crashing into the adjacent wall. He barely misses the fist heading towards his face, ducking just in time to save himself what would undoubtedly have been a broken nose.

He barrels into the younger man with his shoulder, expecting him to tumble back, and is surprised when he doesn’t budge. Joel’s aware he’s got a few years on him, but he more than holds his own against punks that age on the daily. This guy clearly has a background in combat, and it’s taking Joel everything to stay on his feet.

In the meantime, you’re still plastered against the wall, dazed by your customer’s reaction. Heck, you haven’t even gotten his name yet before he literally jumped you. He’s a skittish one, that’s for sure.

You smile at the memory of Frankie’s first time with you at the salon - he’d give this guy a good run for his money. Lucky for him, you’ve always been good at wrangling the nervous ones.

Speaking of, the two men are now literally wrestling in front of you. If you had to venture a guess by the grays in the hair, you reckon your customer is pushing fifty. He’s built like a fucking tank though, and he’s giving everything he’s got.

So you decide to watch for a little while. Boys will be boys, best leave them to let off some steam. Leaning against the wall, you get comfortable, and you think wistfully to yourself that Ashton would have loved this view.

You’re not sure how you missed that they’re both wearing denim on denim, and you would struggle to pick out which is your husband if not for the hat on his head. Yes, the damn cap survived the apocalypse with him.

They are remarkably similar in build, though your customer seems to stand just a couple of inches taller. His biceps flex and bulge through the shirt sleeves as he scuffles with Frankie, teeth bared; meanwhile, your husband plants his feet, jeans stretched tight over his adorable little ass, trying to hold the man back long enough to throw a punch.

If the room was warm when they were trading barbs, it’s positively sweltering right now.

All you can see are broad shoulders and fabric bursting at the seams, grappling fingers and clenched fists. Back muscles rippling through denim, teasing slivers of skin and soft bellies when shirttails ride up and jeans fall low. The cheerful afternoon sun kisses their skin golden, casting long shadows across the creaking wooden floor.

And they’re not quiet. Throaty grunts as they jostle, panted breath peppered with cusses, fuck’s and sons of bitches as they wrestle for control.

Suddenly, you’re the one who’s out of breath despite not moving a muscle.

As much as you would’ve loved to stand and watch, you can tell both men are starting to get winded. You don’t exactly want the show to end, entertainment is hard to come by in the QZ, let alone of such a visually stimulating variety, in your own living room. But you think you hear the older man wheeze, their shirts are now stained with sweat, and the frantic energy they started with turns heavy with lethargy.

With a rueful sigh, you speak up, ‘Frankie, come on, that’s enough now.’

He growls, ‘No fucking way. He tried to hurt you!’

‘He barely touched me. It was just his PTSD acting out.’

‘I don’t have PTSD,’ the man protests, shooting you a glare before dodging an elbow.

‘There’s no shame in having PTSD,’ you admonish him. ‘Or in getting help.’

‘Why don’t you give me a hand then?’ he scoffs, tipping his head at Frankie.

‘Yeah, looks like you can use it,’ your husband taunts him.

‘Sure you can’t, asshole? Can’t even take down an old man on your own?’

‘I hope you're hungry, 'cause you're gonna eat your words, asshole -’

Hands on hips, you roll your eyes at the exceedingly average trash talk. ‘You know what? I tried asking nicely - I’m going in.’

It’s a tight squeeze, but somehow, you find a space between the elbows and shoulders and knees, and you wedge yourself in. It’s hot and humid between the two men, who are still trying to get at each other, despite the fact that you now have one hand on each of their chests, trying to pry them apart. Trapped between the two solid walls of chest, their raw strength vibrates through you, through harsh panting breath, the musk of sweat and man, and denim rubs rough on your bare skin where you’re pressed up against them.

It’s not hard to imagine being in this position in an entirely different situation, with the axis tilted, on a softer surface. Heat prickles all over you like needles, and unbeknownst to you, your thighs press together, and your panties start to feel sticky -

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asks Frankie, incredulous as he looms over you, still grabbing onto the other guy’s shirt.

You bat your eyelashes at him, then crane your neck over your shoulder to wink at the other man. A little spiral of a curl dangles over his eyes as he glares at you, puffs of warm air hitting the shell of your ear.

Knowing that your best chance of breaking off this nonsense is to wildly offend both men, you purr, ‘Making a delicious sandwich ‘cause I’m famished -’

Frankie flushes bright red instantly, and he roars, ‘Get your filthy hands off my wife, son of a bitch!’

Not that his hands are anywhere near you (a tragedy), nonetheless, the man jumps five feet back, as if you burned him. He may deny Tess being his wife, but the look of absolute horror of being accused of touching you speaks volumes.

You can tell he would have doubled over catching his breath, hands on his knees, if not for his pride. Stubbornly, he stands tall, hands on hips, chest heaving.

‘Bit jumpy, are we?’ you quip.

‘You always that handsy?’ he retorts.

‘Can’t help myself with beautiful curls like yours,’ you wink, and your smile widens when he flushes.

Frankie throws up his hands in disbelief. ‘Shiv, I’m standing right here.’

‘You always are,’ you tease, pressing a kiss to his pinched lips. ‘Now, go take a walk, you've made enough of a scene.’

‘I’m not leaving you here with him -’

The older man scoffs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not interested in your woman.’

You feign indignation. ‘Hey! That’s hurtful.’

‘You should be, jackass!’ Frankie gripes, and promptly looks as confused as the other man at his own pronouncement.

Taking his hand, you pull him towards the door. ‘Go on babe, you were going to have a drink with Pope anyway. I got everything under control.’

‘Alright,’ Frankie relents, but not before he points a menacing finger at your customer. ‘If he tries anything -’

‘I know where the gun is,’ you finish his sentence.

Pressing one final kiss to your lips and throwing a glare over your shoulder, Frankie turns and leaves - and you preen at the knowledge that he trusts you can take care of yourself.

Once the door closes, you smile. ‘So… should we start over?’

The man snorts. ‘I’d say.’

‘I’m Shiv,’ you say, but you don’t offer him your hand. He doesn’t seem to be the handshaking type.

He picks up on your perception, studying you with curious eyes. ‘Joel.’

Pushing the swivel chair back to the styling station, you gesture at him to retake his seat, and this time, you make sure his eyes are on yours in the mirror while you stand over his shoulder.

‘Hair’s a bit long, huh?’ you remark, eyeing the ringlet over his eyes.

‘It’s drivin’ me nuts,’ he admits.

You hold up your hands this time, giving him plenty of notice. ‘May I?’

He nods, and you start small, wrapping the spiral around your index finger with a grin. ‘I wasn’t just saying it, y’know. You do have beautiful hair.’

He shifts awkwardly, the chair squeaking, obviously uncomfortable with compliments. ‘Dunno. I’m all gray and shit.’

‘As someone wise once said, grays are sexy as fuck,’ you assure him. Running your fingers through his curls, you study the texture critically, noting the blunt ends and uneven thickness. Nothing a professional haircut can’t fix. ‘Trust me, I’m very wise.’

He hums, unconvinced, but you can see the lines around his eyes crease in amusement. ‘If you say so.’

You wink at him in the mirror. ‘When I’m done with you, Tess will have the hardest time keeping her hands to herself.’

‘What makes you think she doesn’t already?’

It takes you a moment to unfreeze, stunned by his retort. At his arched eyebrow, you burst into laughter. ‘You’re a sassy one, aren’t you, Joel?’

He huffs, half-amused, and shakes his head. ‘It’s a haircut, not a miracle.’

You squeeze his shoulder, grinning when he doesn’t jump at the contact. ‘Trust me, I’m just that good at my job.’

More notes: If you enjoyed this oneshot, I wrote a series of drabbles of Shiv giving other Pedro boys haircuts - you can find them in the Grays masterlist 🩶 I may write more for this universe and some point if inspiration strikes again, thank you for reading!

And if you wanted an inspo shot of Joel's hair, here you go ❤️

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

#seams x grays #fuckyeahgrays #fuckyeahseams #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #joel miller fanfiction

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miguelhugger2099 · 6 months

Text

Teenager Miguel AU but it’s just TASM universe and you’re his gwen stacy

With one earbud in place, you gnaw on your pencil in thought as you try to understand your homework for the night. You had wanted to get a head start on your hectic pile of studies before dinner. For a split second, you wondered if Miguel would actually come after you invited him.

Your prayers had been answered, a dull thud sounding out on your left side. You turn over to see what had happened and notice Miguel kneeling on your fire escape.

You smile and put your pencil down, shoving yourself away from your desk and walking towards your window. You glance down at him and he looks up at you. Miguel gives you a cheesy wide smile, his sharp canines adding to his endearing presence.

You open the hatch and lift up the window, allowing him inside. “Hi.” You feel the heat rising to your cheeks. You stick your head out slightly and look back down at him to see he still hasn’t dropped his soft smile. “How did you…get up here?”

Miguel doesn’t take his eyes off you. “The, uh, fire escape.” He shrugs. “Your doorman is intimidating.”

“I live on the 20th floor….” You trail off, wondering if Miguel actually did climb 20 stories up just to avoid a simple doorman.

Miguel blinks and ducks his head as he enters your room. “It’s fine.” He shrugs again, wanting to move on from the topic.

He turns his head around as he takes in everything about your room. Pictures of friends and families, a small bookshelf filled with your favorite tropes, shoes casted off to the side. It’s all so…you.

“So…your room.” He nods in approval. He stands awkwardly like he doesn’t want to invade more of your space so he grips onto his book bag strap.

“My room,” You nod and stick out your arms in a vague direction. “Welcome.” You laugh awkwardly, your heart thudding and spreading warmth to your body.

“It’s—it’s nice.” He coughs and you nod again. He seems to remember something, crimson eyes going wide. “Oh! I, uh, got something for your mom.” Miguel slips his bag off his shoulder and zips it open, pulling out a flimsy and crumpled up handmade bouquet of flowers. They weren’t big roses, in fact they were average flowers you could pick at the park. Some stems were bent, petals half torn off and the ends littered with dirt.

“Oh!” You gasp and then giggle. “They’re—lovely.” You say sarcastically. Miguel laughs with you.

“They’re gorgeous right?” He plays along with you. While you stare at the bouquet, Miguel can’t keep his eyes off of the curl of your lips and the smile lines that deepened from his silly behavior.

“Beautiful.” You confirm but Miguel hides his embarrassment with the flowers, bringing it up to his face.

“No, no, no, no. It’s actually—really— amazing it held up like that.” You snort. Miguel stuffs the flowers in his bag.

“Y’know what I’ll just—I’ll keep ‘em.”

You rock on both feet while he wipes the remaining dirt off his hands. “Do you have your suit in there?” You ask.

Miguel freezes and snaps his head up to you. “My…my…huh?” He seems afraid or panicked? You couldn’t tell but it worried you.

“Your suit? For dinner? Are you gonna wear that?” You point to his battered clothes, dirt on his jeans and blue t-shirt with a black hoodie. “Not that it’s bad! Just to be sure—“

“Hey, sweetheart.” You hear your bedroom door open and your father walks in the room.

Both you and Miguel suck in a sharp breath. While Miguel steps back, you step in front like you’re attempting to hide him.

But your father has already seen the boy in your room. His eyes narrow at Miguel staring him up and down. Tongue poking the inside of his cheek in a poor job at hiding his annoyance of a boy in his daughter’s room.

“Must be Miguel.”

“Dad, this is Miguel.” You squeak out, fists clenched at your side. Your smile is tight and you give Miguel a subtle warning look that screams hurry up and make a good impression, we aren’t looking good!

Miguel catches it and takes a step forward with his hand outstretched. “It’s good to meet you, sir.” Your father shakes his hand firmly, pleasantly surprised at Miguel’s grip but his guard is still up.

“Nice to meet you. Dinner’s ready.”

A/N: this scene and the confession scene will ALWAYS get me.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel x reader #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x you #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse #miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #spiderman 2099 x you #spiderman 2099 x reader

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yanderenightmare · 1 year

Note

katsuki and darling in cooking club together🥺

Bakugou Katsuki

♡ TW: none

♡ fem reader

He knew there was something wrong with him when he started looking forward to Cooking Club even in the midst of hero-training classes.

Albeit a somewhat tedious task, he’d actually always liked getting his hands dirty with batter as opposed to smoke. But, to be spacing out when sparring? That’s unlike him to the point it’s worrying.

But, then again, he can’t really blame it on Cooking Club alone. As it wasn’t exactly cupcakes he was daydreaming about.

Or…

It wouldn’t be entirely wrong to call you a cupcake.

You were late the first day and ended up partnering with the only person left without one. Which, unsurprisingly, was the angry ash-blonde hero-course student with the skull print on his black apron.

He was intimidating to approach, but you hadn’t much choice as the angry chef you had for a teacher snapped his fingers at you and pointed over at the red-eyed muscle-bunt.

As though your entrance hadn’t given you away already, your complete lack of domestic skills was beyond evident once the assignment had been dealt, and you were left looking like a complete question mark once the tall muscled boy started barking out orders from the cookbook.

Not only couldn’t you coordinate for shit and hadn’t a single slightest idea what any of the cooking appliances’ names were, but you couldn’t take orders either, no matter the simplicity of them.

He’d tell you to stir gently, and you’d start whisking away. He’d tell you grams, and you’d measure kilos. Fuck, he’d tell you sugar, and you’d get salt.

You were hopeless.

Hopeless and cute.

♡ BAKUGOU KATSUKI masterlist ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 6 months

Text

Datura Pt 8

Author’s Note: Ya girl finally got a new laptop and can get this fic back up and running! It’s a little short, but more updates to come! 😁 For a quick reminder of what happened here’s Pt 7 and the rest of the series can be found here.

Summary: Trapped Under the Mountain, you make a bargain with a certain High Lord to try and gain your freedom.

————————————————————————

“I want you to help me kill Amarantha.”

“Bargains don’t come for free, Darling,” Rhys rasps, voice so ragged it has you leaning in to try and get the ruined collar off him. There are open blisters, bleeding across his throat, skin an angry shade of red from how hard he’d been pulling on it. “And you don’t have anything left to bargain with.”

You huff a laugh as you inspect the rusted metal.

He winces as it comes in contact with his skin, bleeding hands coming up to grab yours. “Don’t bother with it.” It looks like it takes all his effort to move off his knees into a more comfortable sitting position, battered body held up only because he’s now leaning against the wall. Amarantha and her guards had taken the light with her, it is hard to see just how injured he is in the dark, but that doesn’t stop you from leaning in, hands resting on his sides like you might be able to find them with your hands. His skin is flushed, dirt and sweat and what you can only assume is blood mingling into a fine film across his exposed body. He’s got to be freezing, wearing nothing but last night’s dress pants.

“I have everything I need to make a bargain,” you say carefully.

Rhys braces his head against the wall, shutting his eyes, breath rasping out of him.

There are sure to be things listening and reporting to the evil queen this deep in the dungeons, you have to be careful with your choice of words; if Rhys wasn’t looking like he would pass out at any given moment you would have asked for him to slip into your mind, but you know, somehow, as if you can feel it, that it would be the last of his power. That close to the edge a simple slip into your head could kill him.

“She didn’t take everything,” you start.

“Not yet,” he warns.

You shake your head even though he can’t see it with his eyes closed; you’ll have to find another way to explain it. A quick glance at the door confirms the two of you are still alone--though the shifting of things with claws outside the door is slightly concerning--and you focus your mental energy into dipping into the power well in your chest. This is not the place for a free fall, you focus your breathing, steadying yourself, willing the drop to come slower, less rushed. Darkness rises up to meet you and you reach out for it. For so long, it had been you against the thing that slept in your chest, but these last few weeks, learning to embrace it, to get to know it, perhaps it is not as intimidating as you had always made it out to be. Perhaps it was meant to help you; it deserved a chance, right? If you could give the High Lord of the Night Court a chance after all the stories you’d heard about him, you could give the thing in your chest one too.

“Just a little,” you whisper to it.

It threatens to overtake you like before, but you grab a mental hold of it, still focusing on breathing evenly, on learning to hold on instead of submit. It is yours to wield, not just to overtake you.

It manifests in your eyes, you feel them shift and change until you can see into the dark corners of the cell. There’s old hay scattered across the scarred stone floor, covering centuries of stains and filth.

Rhys cracks an eye open like it takes all his strength, but just can’t help but look. When he sees the shift, he pushes himself up off the wall to grab your face. “But you took the vial?”

“And I gave what I had taken from her first,” you whisper as his thumbs stroke over your cheeks. Your fangs threaten to poke out, jaw aching under the strain of holding it all at bay. It’s a skill you haven’t yet mastered, you’ll need him for that too you suppose.

“You can siphon?”

Was that what it was called? “I think. It was an accident, I couldn’t really control it. One minute she was on top of me-”

Rhys stills, the kind of stillness you’d often seen on fae males before they became very, very aggressive, whole body tense like a predator ready to pounce.

“She’d summoned some fire and got a hand around my throat and it was so hot..” There hadn’t been time to stop and think about it before, but recalling it now makes you shutter as the reality of what could have happened if your powers had not intervened settles in. “I thought it would kill me, and I don’t know what happened. I blinked and suddenly I had her fire in my hands and I’d thrown her into a wall.”

It’s only as you finish the sentence does Rhys release a shaky breath, hands once again stroking against your cheeks, as if he’s assuring himself that you’re ok. You find yourself leaning into his touch; it’s grounding, makes you feel more centered than you have in days.

“I thought it would disappear when I smothered the flames, but I still felt it until I took that vial.”

One of his hands slides lower, stroking over your throat to check for damage. The way he insists the wounds at his own throat are nothing while simultaneously checking on yours is not lost on you.

“Blisters healed right up as soon as I held the flame, like they couldn’t hurt me anymore.”

“If you took enough of them it wouldn’t,” he confirms.

A useful skill you think you might need later, but figuring out how to do it again, how to wield it to your advantage is a problem for later. First, you need to get back to the matter at hand while you still have the time to do so.

“So, with what I do have, I want to bargain. I’ll give you half of my powers-”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“I won’t take them from you.”

“Are they so terrible that you’d refuse to be responsible for them? Or is it me that’s the problem?” The words are out before you can bite them back, because despite all he’s done for you, that last conversation in his room still rings in your head.

He growls, actually growls, the sound low in his ruined throat as he grips your face a little more firmly. “No, because I would be just like her if I took them from you,” he snarls.

The anger that had been bubbling up in your throat sours in the pit of your stomach as you put yourself in his place. Amarantha has chained and abused him for fifty years, shackled to her by the very powers that were supposed to protect him from her and even though you knew he wouldn’t use yours on you like that, the wounds she’d made would be too deep. Would only remind him every day of her and how sick it had made him feel.

“Then what do you want, Rhys?”

His hands shake as he grips your face a little tighter. With your eyes shifted like this, you can see the way his own rove over you, the way he bites his lower lip in thought. It is the same longing you had seen in the cave on Calanmai, when he’d kissed you all those weeks ago.

“I want…” You can practically hear the thundering of his heartbeat. Was he… nervous?

“I don’t care what it is,” you say softly, and you mean it.

“Come back to the Night Court with me,” he says. “When this is over, when we’re free, come home with me.”

Back to the Court that had inspired Amarantha’s Mountain palace and the lovely court within. The stories of the Night Court had not been pretty, but could they really be worse than this place, if Rhys was their High Lord? Certainly the male sitting here on the floor with you couldn’t run such a horrific place as the stories said. Besides, when it was all said and done, could you bear to go back to the farmhouse and face your uncle? After all his lies could you bear to live with him? Could he bear to live with you either?

“You’ll help me train my powers then?”

“As best I can.”

“I want to see her head roll off her shoulders,” you saw lowly.

“I’d give it to you on a platter if I could, Darling.”

You huff a laugh, “Deal.”

A tingling sensation shoots its way through your body, clustering square in the center of your chest. The sensation swirls across your skin as it settles, angling its way over your heart. You peel what’s left of your dress back to assess your stinging skin, and half hidden by the dried blood crusted to your own skin are now whorls of what look like ink across chest and ribs. Above your heart sits a swirl of ink, of vines surrounding the blooming petals of a flower you know you’ve seen before, a cluster of three stars in its center.

“Bargains are made in ink in the Night Court,” Rhys says a little too smugly for your liking.

“Always on the chest, Rhysand?”

He shrugs. “I thought you’d appreciate the discretion.”

“I don’t think that’s the word I was looking for.”

“I liked the irony.”

“Of what exactly?”

He traces a finger over the edges of the flower and you can’t help but shiver. “It’s datura, a night flower, it grows best in the dark.”

A flower that would grow in his court; a flower that would bloom against all odds, in secret, while the rest of the world slept. A secret, lovely thing. You did, unfortunately, like the irony. You were not going to tell him that. “This isn’t the only flower you’ve been leaving me.”

He went still again. “No. No it’s not.”

“Why?”

“Thought maybe, I could get you out.”

“Careful, you sound like you care about me, Rhysand.”

He swallows, throat bobbing with the effort. “Would it be so bad?”

Your own words. Not quite the apology you should have gotten, but you supposed, here in this place, some cruel words were the last of your worries. With the bargain in place, you were not enemies. You could put it behind you.

“No, I don’t think it would be.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For all of it.”

You pull away to sit down against the wall, exhausted. “Tell me again when we’re free.”

He grunts as he sits down next to you. When he leans his head down against your shoulder, you don’t stop him. In fact, it’s you that slowly, dragging your hand inch by inch in the dark, takes his hand. This is a deal you can live with, a deal that doesn’t make you feel like you’ve sold your soul, but there is still an uneasiness here. You hope you both survive long enough to see it through.

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Taglist: @mariahoedt , @lovelydove , @twsssmlmaa , @sleepylunarwolf , @judig92 , @willowpains , @daughterofthemoons-stuff , @annnaaaaaa88 , @myheartfollower , @uniquecolorwizard , @eternallyelvish , @waytoomanyteenagefeels , @lovemesomevesey , @localfangirl09 , @isa1b2h3 , @starswholistenanddreamsanswered , @slytherintaco , @iluvyewman-blog

As always, if you wanted to be added to the list leave a comment below or shoot me a message :) Thank you everybody who commented and stuck around for the lengthy process of getting this next chapter up and running, ya’ll are awesome ❤️

#rhysand x reader #Rhys x reader #rhysand x y/n #ACOTAR rhys #ACOTAR x reader fic #ACOTAR fic #UTM!rhys #ACOTAR fanfic #my writing #my fanfic #Rhys smut (eventually)#Rhys angst

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her-satanic-wiles · 11 months

Text

October 23rd

Deepthroating & Facesitting, Mary Goore x Reader

Masterlist

Words: 2.9k

Warnings: Deepthroating; skull fucking; face sitting; public; exhibitionism; sex in a cemetery; cunnilingus; fingering; fellatio; vaginal sex; piv; unprotected sex; fear play; biting; elements of dubcon but not really dubcon; rough sex; praise kink; degradation kink (you know the drill by now); hair pulling; watersports;

Taglist: @sodoswitchimage @enchantedbunny @bitchywitchygardener @thew0man @sodomiser @the-did-i-ask @copias-sewer-rat @gehrmansbignaturals @deetz-ghuleh @onlyhereforghost @zombiesnips-blog

🔞 MDNI 🔞

As this is dark fiction, I'm choosing to rate it 21+. Please respect my rating. Thank you.

In the quiet, serene, and solemn embrace of the mist-laden morning, you walked hand in hand with Mary and ventured into the ancient, moss-covered graveyard - a morning tradition that spun the entire length of October. The misty air shrouded the weathered, weather-beaten tombstones, creating an eerie, mystical atmosphere. Tall, gnarled trees with their twisted, skeletal branches cast long, haunting shadows on the hallowed ground below. Your steps echo softly on the cobblestone path, leading you deeper into the melancholic, hauntingly beautiful cemetery.

It was always silent this early in the morning, even the birds were still asleep as your footsteps tracked through the frost-bitten grass and chilly gravel beneath you. Every snap of a twig in the distance had your heart pounding with worry and Mary’s throat to come alive with a chuckle. This was the perfect scene for a horror movie: two lovers exploring a place they shouldn’t be getting picked off individually by a mysterious stranger using the mist as a cloak. Mary would be the first to go; and you’d find him battered and bruised but alive, only to watch him suffer and perish at the hands of a monster.

A crypt sat in one of the corners of the cemetery, proud yet ominous with its intimidating Gothic arched door and stone walls. The glass windows were dirty with decades - if not centuries - of dirt, and the heavy, mahogany door, weather-damaged and rotting, was locked tightly shut by a rusted chain and lock. The crypt once belonged to the town’s founding father, the wealthiest family in the cemetery. For as long as you’d known him, Mary had been desperate to get inside to piss on the richest coffin around but he’d always been unsuccessful. Today, though, he wanted to try again.

You watched him rattle the door, hands wrapped firmly around the rusted handles and tug on it, trying to shift it even a little but to no avail. “I’m gonna go check the back,” he announced, “wait right here.”

“Mary, can’t we just carry on and enjoy the place while we still have it?”

“Babe, if we can get in there, just think of what I could do to you.” He winked and placed a kiss to your forehead. “Stay here. I’ll come back and get you.”

You don’t know why you did as he asked you to. You weren’t scared per se, the silence of the cemetery filled you with nothing but peace and you felt safe in the knowledge that most of the surrounding residents were still tucked up in bed as the sun was beginning to rise. But you were still exceptionally cautious, knowing that it was all the normal people who were in bed. The crazies were up and wandering as you stood there: the drug addicts, the dunkards, the criminals who operated under the shadow of the night were also out and about, making their way home after a night of who-knows-what. Ghosts didn’t scare you. The dead didn’t make you afraid - but the living did.

You tried to peak into the crypt, wiping some of the dirt with your index finger but realising it was pointless when you saw the layer that had swiped off onto your hand. You weren’t even sure what you were trying to see, perhaps you were just looking for something to do. But your concentration turned out to be a detriment to you, and the reason why what happened next occurred.

All you heard were two heavy footsteps thumping quickly on the dead leaves surrounding the crypt before hands came and gripped your body, the force of it causing you to drop your bag to the floor. A weight pushed you further into the stone walls and pinning you against them, one of those hands gripped onto your hip, the other came up to your mouth to silence you. A whimper escaped you, muffled by the cold hand of the person behind you - a whimper of fear, certainly, but there was an element of arousal in it too.

“You looked so delicious standing there alone and scared.” Mary’s voice sounded in your ear, so low it was almost a growl. “You looked so fuckin’ vulnerable. Easy pickings.” He pressed his body further into yours and you could feel his cock, rock solid but restrained in his jeans. “I can’t wait until we get home, baby girl. I’m taking you now whether you like it or not.”

His hand that was on your hip began groping whatever body part it could find. At first, he grasped hold of your ass cheek and firmly held it, but then he moved higher and higher until he was groping your breast, rough with his touches and squeezing you as he pleased. His mouth, now silent, moved closer to your ear and trapped the sensitive appendage between his teeth, nibbling and biting a little harder than usual. He released your mouth from his hand knowing that you wouldn’t let out an unwanted scream, and used that hand to fiddle with your clothes, pulling your skirt up to give him access to your panties. “Thank fuck you’re wearing a skirt today, baby.” He commented as he rutted himself into you, seeking desperate pleasure from your body.

Your panties were quite literally ripped off your hips - the sound of the fabric tearing filling up the surrounding cemetery and making you gasp at the force he’d used. Once you were bare for him, he gripped onto your shoulders, turned you round and pushed you to your knees. His hands came to work at his jeans, undoing them and freeing himself from them. “When you need to tap out, what do you do?”

“Tap you three times.”

“Good fucking girl. Now, open up for me.”

You braced yourself for impact, knowing that the mood he was in meant you were in for a rough but exciting ride; and of course you were right. He fed you his cock, inch by inch, ignoring your gag reflex and any uncomfortabilities you may have had and forced his way down your throat, groaning at the sensation of your tight, wet heat enveloping him. His hand flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as his mouth opened and he exhaled slowly, the subsequent intake sounding like a hiss. The first few thrusts were merciful, gentle, kind, tentative, enough to get you used to feeling his sizable length stuffed down your windpipe. But after that he became demonic.

His thrusts were nearly violent with how sharply he moved. His hand held your head as still as it possibly could be, trapping you where you knelt and using your face like his own personal fucktoy. It was his hand doing most of the guiding, pulling your head back and forth by your hair. He tipped his head back and let his mouth fall wide open. “Oh, fuck!” He growled. Every time you gagged around him, he chuckled at you. He found it amusing to hear you struggling to take him every time he shoved himself down your throat, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t commit those sounds to his memory and used them when you weren’t around.

He pulled your head off of him completely and let you catch your breath, laughing a little at you gasping for air and refilling your lungs as much as you could before his second onslaught. You also took this opportunity to fill your mouth with as much saliva as you could, knowing that Mary preferred a sloppier feel. He loved it when you got filthy, when your own spit would drip down your face and hang off your chin like a cheesy porno. You took this opportunity to use your hands and jerk him off a little, but eventually he grew tired and slapped your hand away. You took him back in your mouth and readied yourself for round two.

This time, he gathered all your hair into a ponytail and used that to pull you back and forth, slamming himself down your throat despite the gags and groans you made. Your nose repeatedly hit his well-groomed pubic mound, kept nice and neat for this very purpose. “That’s it.” He praised through gritted teeth. “Take it all down your fucking throat. Such a slut. Letting yourself get face-fucked in the middle of a fuckin’ cemetery. Fucking hell. Your throat is incredible. I don’t do this enough. Shit!” He bit his lip and groaned when you looked up at him, tears in your eyes from the exertion. The doe-eyed look you often gave him drove him insane, his own corruption kink coming to the forefront and losing himself in the thought of soiling something so pristine as you. Of course, you were just as filthy as he was, but you certainly didn’t look it.

“What’s this?” He asked, his eyes now fixated on your hands. While he’d been fucking your throat, you decided that it was too much to bear and dipped your hands under the hem of your skirt giving yourself the sweet relief you’d been craving since he pinned you against the walls of the crypt. “The little whore likes being face-fucked in a cemetery?” He tugged you off his cock and you stopped playing with yourself. “No, keep going! Don’t let me stop you slutting yourself out in public. You want my mouth, baby girl?”

You nodded.

He jerked your head back again by your hair. “Ah, ah. Tell me.”

“Yes! I want your mouth!”

“Aw,” he cooed, “desperate little slut. On your back for me.”

He guided you to lie on your back, and lifted your skirt, staring at your cunt that was now glistening from the slick of your arousal. You could feel the wet, morning dew from the grass seeping through into your clothes as you lay there, but that just turned you on even more to know he had you lying on the cold ground so he could take what he wanted from you. You wanted him just as badly as he wanted you. He stared down his nose at you, a somewhat evil grin on his face. He was about to make you suffer and you were so excited for it.

He moved to your head and lowered himself down so he was hovering above your mouth. “Open wide again, baby.” He told you. When you obeyed, he fed himself into your throat once more, but this time he’d leaned forward and took your cunt into his mouth, too, his cock brutally riding your face and taking his own pleasure from you.

Your hips bucked as much as they could from being pinned down by Mary’s entire weight on top of you as his lips quickly encircled your clit and started sucking as hard as they could. The tip of his tongue moved wildly, working different parts of your clit in different directions while he kept his mouth shut around you. His ministrations were intense and rough as he worked to get you to orgasm as quickly as he could, moving his head in all directions and sucking on your tender bud to keep the onslaught going. He was everywhere all at once - you could feel him everywhere. Mind clouded with nothing but him, scent, sight, taste. even his grunts and groans filled your ears more than the wind rustling the trees in the distance.

He continued in this manner constantly, ruthlessly pushing you ever-closer to the edge. Until his unrelenting motions caused your nails to dig into his bare ass as a warning you were about to cum. And so, reluctantly, he pulled himself out of your throat and continued his ministrations until you were cumming, loudly, around his tongue. Your eyes were screwed tightly shut as you came, teeth digging into your bottom lip to curb some of that volume as you screamed out for him. Your nails continued to grip onto his flesh as the entire world went black for just a brief moment, and eventually, when it was fine for him to do so, he released you from his mouth and climbed off you.

He seemed just as out of breath as you were, but he hadn’t cum yet, and therefore he certainly wasn’t finished with you. “Hands and knees,” he ordered, “ass in the air.”

Your back was hit with a wall of cold air as the damp cloth was exposed to the autumnal morning breeze. You spread yourself out for him, elbows to the ground and ass in the air, ready to receive whatever he would give you next.

He didn’t wait for your cunt to get used to his size; instead, he grabbed your hips and thrust all the way to the end. “Take that fucking cock.”

He started working right away, snapping his hips against yours quickly and hitting your cervix which made you scream every time. “Fuck, Mary!” You yelled.

Mary always felt wonderful inside of you because he was long and slender, stretching you out beautifully. By the time he was finished with you, you were typically a shaking, aching mess on the bed, unable to even think or breathe.

Your ass jiggled more than usual as you arched your back for him once more and moved your hips to meet his thrusts. He let out a string of profanities, each one reminding you of how much of a whore you were to him and how tight your pussy felt around him, how you got tighter every time a branch snapped in the distance or a solitary car drove by. How you got off knowing that someone could catch you getting fucked by your partner in one of the most wildly inappropriate places to ever exist.

He reached forward and grabbed your hair, pulling it once more by the roots to gain leverage and allow himself to bury deep inside of you over and over again.

Your hand reached down to play with your clit once more, fervently rubbing yourself in time with his rough thrusts to try and tip you over the edge.

“Fucking shit, always so tight for me.” He saw your pussy cream accumulating at the base of his cock and let out another growl. You felt so fucking good, and you were getting tighter and tighter by the second. “Baby,” he said, “I know we couldn’t get in there for me to piss on his coffin, but there’s another monument I could.”

You raised your eyebrows, and he didn’t miss the way your hand sped up at the thought. “O-on me?” You asked.

“Can I?”

“Fuck. Mary, do it.”

“Yeah? Move that fucking hand so I can piss on that filthy cunt of yours.”

You did as you were told and shuddered at the feeling of Mary pulling out of you, your hole twitching at the sudden emptiness and screaming for stimulation. You couldn’t see what Mary was doing behind you, but oh fuck did you feel it. It was a slow trickle at first but when the stream built up, and was angled right, it hit your clit perfectly just like the head of your shower did. The constant stream, however short it actually lasted, felt like it went on forever as it continuously hit that perfect spot, making your eyes roll back into your head. It took just a little more time and suddenly you were diving headfirst into another orgasm, the sensitivity of your first and the violent pounding of Mary’s cock beforehand leading you into a powerful second one. Mary’s fingers replaced his piss to finish you off, rubbing roughly to keep you frozen and cumming as hard as possible.

He could barely wait until you’d stopped convulsing, and shoved himself back inside you as soon as he could. “Filthy slut,” he chastised, hands gripping onto your hips as he pushed you flush to the ground and took what he wanted. His left hand was still wet from his piss and your cum, and you could feel it on your skin. “Can’t believe you just came from me pissing on you. What a depraved, cock-hungry little whore - so desperate to cum she’ll let me do anything to her.” Your hands dug into the hallowed soil, gripping tightly to ground you as he got rougher and rougher, slamming against your cervix each time and forcing you to cry out. “I’ll piss in your mouth next time. You want that, hm?”

“Yes! Fucking hell! Mary!” You didn’t care how loud you were, and neither did he.

“Or maybe I’ll piss inside your cunt next time, and punish you if any slips out - oh fuck - c-cumming!”

He let out a deep and gutteral groan as he came inside you, hips stilling to a halt and emptying his balls as deep as he possibly could. All his weight was on you, trapping you between him and the graveyard’s soil. Your own pubic mound resting in the puddle of piss that had formed underneath you both the more he pushed you down and held you still. He thrust tentatively, making sure you took every last drop of him. He let himself fall forward, and kissed your shoulder tenderly as if he hadn’t just beat up your pussy and abused you like a madman.

“Fucking hell that was the hottest thing we’ve ever done.” You said as you both were catching your breaths.

He grunted in agreement, still kissing your clothed shoulder and moving up to nibble and lick at your ear. “We’d better get you in the shower, eh?”

“Check my bag, there should be some tissues in there.”

He pulled out of you, both of you wincing at the loss again, and when he returned, he made sure to gently clean you as best as he could. But he’d make sure he’d clean you up properly when you both took a shower at home.

Previous Day ⛧ Next Day

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months

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Misery Loves Company

Epilogue for Sweet Treats AU: by character | chronological | epilogues

Warnings: these drabbles will include dark elements such as noncon, control, intimidation, violence, abortion, infertility, and other stuff that may not be specified. Take this as you chance to scroll by.

Please let me know what you think <3

🍓🍓🍓

The door closes but you stay hidden beneath your arm. Your sweaty back sticks to the metal as Tony continues to batter you. Your trip was two weeks of torture and the torment has yet to subside. Now you’re ovulating and have no reason to stop.

He bends over you, pushing your arm away as he frames your jaw with his hand. He growls down at you, pushing his forehead against your as the sleek fabric of his shirt rustles against you, his tie dangling crookedly between your bodies. He hammers into you hard as you grip the edge of the table to keep from sliding.

“Mm, I feel it this time, this is the --” He gurgles and moves so his cheek is flush to yours. He spasms as he spills into you with a strangled moan, “one!”

He rams harshly several times before he stills. You whimper as your thighs quiver uncontrollably. Every time hurts worse than the last. You’re sure that isn’t unintended.

He sighs and pushes his head back. He inhales deeply and smooth his hair with both hands, gripping his skull before he drops his arms. He chuckles as he looks at the door then back to his glistening dick. He grabs a wipe from amid the mess of the table top and cleans himself off.

You cautiously push yourself to the edge. He doesn’t stop you. You ease yourself down to the floor and your legs buckle. He zips up his fly and tucks in his shirt

“Did I forget to mention our double date?” He snickers.

“Oh, I don’t remember,” you murmur as you search around for your dress. He tore it off so quickly you can’t trace where he hurled it.

You’re only permitted that. No undergarments. No modesty. The other day he took you out for dinner and made you wear a satin sheath with nothing underneath. You were as good as naked as the fabric betrayed every curve of your body and the hard buds of your nipples. You find the short read baby doll and wiggle into it.

“Alright,” Tony hollers as he cross the lab, “we’re done.”

He didn’t even wait for you to clean up. His cum drips down your leg with your pride. As he lets Kitty and Peter into the lab, you sidle back against the wall, hoping they won’t notice.

Kitty is petrified as Peter leads her in by her hand. She wears her usual attire; modern pin-up with the highest heels. The cut of the dress accentuates her full hips and chest. She trembles and crosses on arm around her stomach as she steps around the scattered mess across the floor.

“Alright,” Tony claps with excitement, “so, a few questions before we do the scan.”

You don’t understand what’s going on. Scan? Why are they there? What has Peter done to Kitty? Why is she so afraid?

All you know it that it’s entirely your fault. You sniff and rub your cheek. The scent of Tony’s sweat clings to you still.

“When did you shrivel up?” Tony cackles and Kitty winces.

Peter tilts his head and tuts, “Tony.”

“Ah, sorry, bad joke. When did you get the bad news, honey?”

Kitty hesitates as her cheeks pinch, “When I turned thirty-eight. Something about hormones...”

She’s embarrassed. You are too as you realise what he’s asking. Oh god. You know this wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t asked for her help. It’s all your fault.

“Right, hormones, we can deal with those. Now, pussy cat,” Tony spreads his hands wide over the table, “you gotta strip down and we’re going to have a look inside.”

Her eyes round and she looks at Peter, then you.

“Here? Right now?” She wonders hollowly.

“Right fucking here,” he turns to slap the exam table behind him. “Don’t worry,” he beckons to you, “she’ll be happy to hold your hand. She’s owes you after all, doesn’t she?”

His allusion to your deceit makes your heart pang. Kitty raises her chin and sets her eyes. She takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“Alright,” she declares evenly, holding her head high, “Peter...” she only falters then as she glances at her husband. “Will you unzip my dress?”

There’s a moment of inaction. A pause of uncertainty. Peter swallows and slowly steps behind his wife. He tugs the zipper so hard she bobbles on her heels. She steels herself as the straps slacken and the bodice slumps forward.

“Shit,” Tony says as she shimmies out of the dress, “you know those things are only gonna get bigger, right, kid?”

Peter’s cheek dimples and he scoffs, looking up bashfully at the ceiling. It’s all just a joke to them. Your bodies are just vessels to be used. You aren’t people, just flesh and bone to be twisted to their pleasure.

You move towards Kitty and your eyes meet in commiseration. She nears the table and you help her with her bra. She curls her shoulders inward and tries to hide her middle behind her hands before she slides her thumbs beneath the waist of her panties. She’s so brave. She’s not crying, not like you.

#tony stark #dark tony stark #dark!tony stark #tony stark x reader #series #au #sweet treats #drabble #iron man #mcu #marvel #avengers

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cosycafune · 2 months

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DON'T GET CAUGHT, LOVE!

1.0k words. satoru’s incredibly horny, unable to resist you. shit, he’s extremely pussy drunk — whenever it comes to you. so right now, he can’t help but challenge you to sex roulette — fucking you on his best friend’s couch. his only requirement is… don't get caught.

acts: multiple creampies, riding, pounding, slight rough sex, praising, kissing, drooling, trying not to get caught, getting caught, skin slapping and constant finishing. mdni. 18+.

SATORU knows he shouldn’t, but he’s completely compelled by your fat cunt consuming him. Even as the two of you are in a public gathering, seated in a corner, Satoru can’t help but bounce you on his cock. Not a fragment of restraint takes him, but he doesn’t care — pushing himself into conquering you completely.

Your fat cunt’s oozing with his thick ropes of cum, battered and bruised entirely. You’re absolutely his, filled to the brim with ample arrays of cum. All you can let out is muffled yelps, knowing that you’re so close to puddling.

Even if you’re on Suguru’s couch, invaded by Satoru’s fat cock, you don’t care. A large part of you knows that there’s the thrill of being caught by him, Kento and Shoko in the kitchen. But right now, you don’t care — bracing yourself into prettily bouncing on Satoru’s cock. Prettily, you take every inch — constructing yourself into tenderly moaning against Satoru’s toned neck.

“Baby, you’re doing so well,” Struggling to conceal your moans, you allow Satoru to thrust into you with his praise — consumed by his breathless praise.

“Ah! They’ll…hear,” Sexually dumbified, you lewdly speak — bubbling with the urge to explicitly moan.

Ironically, audible skin slapping, intimidate squelching and groans can be picked up on. The mess you and Satoru make is incredibly noticeable, paired with your streaking tears and messy makeup. Everything within you longed to explicitly moan, to pour your sultry heart out, and to finally curl into voiced pleasure at Satoru’s strategic pounding.

Risk adorns you and Satoru, particularly with you struggling to fully handle Satoru’s thick girth. Currently, the two of you could hear the shifting that surfaces from the distant three — knowing they remain only a room above you. They blissfully occupy Suguru’s large bedroom, not knowing that Satoru’s greedy cock pulverises you.

“Mhm! Sato’,” Trembling, you painfully moan against Satoru’s intimidating gaze — overwhelmed with warmth at his cum-coated cock.

“Taking me so…good, lotus,” Naturally, Satoru’s voiced enjoyment prompts you into riding him further — positioning your knees to take him much deeper.

“‘Feels so…good, Sato’,” Cloudy, unable to resist informing him of your pleasure, drool slips from your lips.

The commotion halting at the stairs stirred adrenaline-stored butterflies in your stomach; an insatiable urge to be caught flooded you. Submission tints you, leaving you squelching heavily at the feeling of Satoru’s thick cock driving into you. Pleased, you felt as if it drove into your heart, tickling it immensely — fuelling you to ride further.

Tinted with subconscious entitlement, you evolve a little louder — curled into your pleasure’s grasp. Listening to Satoru’s breathy moans, you’re drawn further in — knowing his deft hands grasp your bubble butt. His burly, celestial hand completely covered your butt — allowing his previous shots of cum to stain inside of you and his sculpted thighs.

“‘Gonna…cum,” Knowing you can’t remain quiet any longer, you flaunt your glassy, doe eyes — warning Satoru.

“‘Gotta keep… quiet, baby,” Taunting you, Satoru thrusts impossibly deep within you — causing your eyes to roll back and your lips to lewdly part.

“F-Fu—”

Instinctively, Satoru brings his swole lips against your own — suppressing your desperate moans with his lips. The concept of getting caught completely plagued him, but he couldn’t resist the way you prettily pounced on his cock, housing his thick waves of cum, on his best friend’s coach.

Shit, Satoru shedded all of his self-respect the moment you flaunted your cleavage to him. And also, when you straddled him when Suguru, Shoko and Kento momentarily went upstairs. How could he resist you, his beautiful girlfriend? Even one small brush from you, against his insistent cock, left Satoru unable to resist you.

That’s probably why you’re both playing sexual roulette, using his subconscious breeding kink as a way to determine how long it’ll take for your friends to travel downstairs. Innately, you can’t help you loudly moan within Satoru’s mouth — throwing your head back with enthralment. Fulfilment clouded your cum-coddling abdomen; you’re swell with it, battered.

“Sato’!” Your outcries are captured by Satoru while you cum against his cock, trembling at the cruel force of your release.

“‘So…tight,” Choppily breathing, Satoru’s physique drags you further down his cock — by your toned hips — sinking you your lowest.

Embarrassingly, the only things that reserve your dignity are your clothed top halves and the light blue blanket that barely covers you two. A justified mess, you accustom yourself into stifling your mewling — scrunching your features with tears at each taxing thrust.

“Near…baby,” Pussy-stricken, Satoru announces his words — pouring every fragment of his tainted resolve into your gushing cunt.

As of now, carelessness is etched upon his demeanour. Satoru can’t help but pulverise your bullied cunt, listening to the extreme squelching that pours from you — thrilled at listening to your intimate melody. A melody that leads him into boyishly grinning, unable to resist pounding into you — filling and tainting your abdomen and womb with him.

“In…side!” A bleary mess, you naively exclaim — completely claimed by Satoru’s cock expanding within you.

Quivering, resembling roughened ocean waves, you tightly squeeze your eyes shut. You’re prodded by overstimulation, reigned by it. Handling all of Satoru’s cock, you endure his inhumane bucking — feeling the angry tip of his cock brutalise your warm pussy walls. You could tell Satoru’s enthralled by the way your walls consumed him, rubbing against his attention-seeking tip — blessing him with your clenching.

“S-Sure…” Crumbling, Satoru hazily agrees — lazily snapping his hips against your cunt.

Etched with sexual and romantic passion, Satoru casts himself into finding comfort within your lips — harshly cumming inside of you. He gasps rapidly, unable to steady himself as you collapse against his homely chest — shaking.

“Did so good,” Grinning, coated with sweat, Satoru comforts you with his praise — feeling your sticky pussy gush against his inner thighs.

“‘Need to clean up—”

“—Can you two stop fucking?!” Irritated, Suguru’s calculated tone ripples from upstairs — leaving you and Satoru to glance at each other in shock.

“Who said we were fucking?!” Defensively responding, Satoru pants against the curve of your shoulder — physically vulnerable.

“If I come downstairs now, you’ll be decent, right?” Taunting you, Suguru threateningly inquiries — marred intrigue powdering his voice.

“Give us ten minutes!” Satoru boyishly speaks, his lips discovering your own — knowing he’s bound to have his way with you again.

The two of you lost sex roulette.

#gojo satoru x reader #jjk #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo jjk #gojo smut #jjk gojo #gojo satoru smut #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jujutsu gojo #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #satoru x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jujutsu kaisen

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anna-the-undertaker · 8 days

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Gn Reader who is a monster hunter. So they wear a full set of armor at all time. They have swords that are made out of the claws of a ice dragon. Reader has no fear and is willing take on any challenge. They keep looking for demons/monster to fight. 🗡️O(👀 )O

This was such a joy to write! It took me back to my roots when I first started writing for Dragon Age. Thank you so much for the request. enjoy! :)

Forged in Frost and Steel

A Walking Fortress

MC is rarely seen without their full set of armor—an intricate and heavy suit that reflects their years of experience as a monster hunter. The armor, engraved with runes and symbols of protection, glows faintly in the dark. It’s scarred and battered in some places, proof of the many battles they’ve fought, but they wear it with pride. Every scratch and dent tells a story, and they treat it like a second skin. Beneath that armor, though, is someone who’s always ready for action. They’ve trained their body to handle the weight effortlessly, moving with a surprising grace despite the heavy metal that encases them. When the brothers first meet MC, they can’t help but be impressed—and a little intimidated—by the sheer presence they exude.

Swords of Ice Dragon Claws

MC’s twin swords are a sight to behold, crafted from the claws of an ancient ice dragon they once defeated in the frozen peaks. The blades shimmer with a frosty sheen, and when they draw them, the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. These weapons are not only incredibly sharp but also infused with the dragon’s icy power, allowing MC to freeze their enemies in battle with a single slash. They carry the swords proudly, often spinning them with practiced ease. The brothers are fascinated by the craftsmanship of the swords, though they’re all a little wary of the cold energy they give off.

Fearless to the Core

MC is the type of person who runs toward danger, not away from it. They’ve built their entire life around hunting down monsters, demons, and anything that poses a threat. Fear isn’t a concept they entertain—if anything, they thrive on the thrill of a challenge. Lucifer notices immediately that MC never hesitates, no matter the situation, and while he’s impressed, he’s also slightly concerned. After all, bravery can be a double-edged sword. "You need to learn to assess the risk," he warns, but MC just smirks and replies, "Risk is what makes it fun." Mammon, though nervous, can’t help but admire their confidence, while Levi thinks they’re straight out of one of his favorite fantasy games.

Always Looking for a Fight

Whenever they’re not on a mission, MC is searching for their next challenge. Whether it’s facing off against a particularly strong demon or taking on the next dangerous monster roaming the Devildom, they’re constantly on the lookout. If the brothers mention any local legends or rumors about monsters, MC immediately perks up. "Where?" is their first question, followed by, "How soon can we leave?" This relentless drive for battle often catches the brothers off guard. Even Beel, who’s known for his strength, is surprised by how casually MC takes on tasks that would terrify others. Asmo jokes that MC’s hobby is "collecting battle scars" while Satan appreciates their sheer determination.

Endless Confidence

MC’s confidence is unparalleled, to the point where nothing seems to faze them. They could be faced with a towering demon, its roar shaking the very ground beneath them, and all they would do is smirk and crack their knuckles, ready to jump into the fray. The brothers, used to being feared or revered by humans, find MC’s attitude refreshing and bewildering. MC doesn’t shy away from anyone, not even Lucifer. In fact, they have no problem challenging him head-on, which both irritates and intrigues him. "You think you can take me?" Lucifer asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I know I can," MC replies with a grin, their hand already resting on the hilt of their sword.

Unpredictable Tactics

In battle, MC fights with a combination of strategy and pure instinct. They’ve faced countless monsters over the years and have developed a unique fighting style that’s both efficient and unpredictable. They’ll use their environment to their advantage, launching themselves off walls or flipping over their enemies with ease. The brothers, who are used to traditional forms of combat, find themselves impressed by MC’s agility and creativity. When they see MC fight for the first time, they quickly realize why MC has survived as long as they have. Mammon often watches in awe, secretly glad that MC is on their side.

A Matter of Pride

For MC, hunting monsters and demons isn’t just a job—it’s a matter of pride. They’ve dedicated their life to perfecting their craft, and they’re proud of the reputation they’ve earned as one of the best hunters in their world. That’s why they wear their armor and swords so proudly, a constant reminder of the battles they’ve fought and won. Though they don’t brag about their victories, they don’t downplay them either. If someone asks about their latest hunt, MC will share the details with a casual confidence, often to the amazement of those listening. "You actually fought an ice dragon?" Beel asks one day, more curious than surprised. "It was a tough fight, but nothing I couldn’t handle," MC replies with a shrug, as if fighting dragons is an everyday occurrence.

A Cool-Headed Hunter

Even in the heat of battle, MC is calm and collected. Panic has no place in their life; they’ve seen too much and been through too many near-death experiences to let fear cloud their judgment. Their composure often surprises the brothers, especially in moments when others might be tempted to flee. When faced with a powerful opponent, MC will assess the situation, find the weak point, and strike with precision. This kind of confidence and tactical thinking earns them respect, even from the likes of Satan and Lucifer. "You’re not bad," Satan admits after watching MC take down a particularly difficult demon. "I’ll take that as a compliment," MC replies with a smirk.

Solitude is Second Nature

Being a monster hunter means MC is often on their own, and they’re comfortable with that. They don’t mind the solitude, finding peace in the quiet moments between hunts. But that doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate the company of others. While they may be used to traveling and fighting alone, they quickly adapt to working with the brothers. Over time, they find themselves enjoying the banter and camaraderie, though they rarely express it out loud. MC’s independent nature sometimes makes them seem distant, but the brothers quickly learn that when it matters, MC is fiercely loyal and protective of their allies.

No Fear of the Supernatural

MC has spent years hunting all sorts of monsters—dragons, werewolves, demons, you name it. So, the Devildom’s supernatural threats don’t scare them in the slightest. If anything, MC is intrigued by the opportunity to fight something new. When the brothers mention certain dangerous creatures lurking in the shadows, MC immediately wants to go after them. "What’s the point of coming here if I’m not going to test my skills?" they reason, much to the brothers’ exasperation. Levi thinks it’s cool that MC is constantly seeking out the strongest monsters, while Lucifer warns them not to bite off more than they can chew. But MC just grins, always ready for whatever comes next.

Lucifer

When Lucifer first meets MC, he can’t help but be intrigued by their presence. The sight of their imposing armor, coupled with the twin swords crafted from the claws of an ice dragon, gives them a commanding and fearsome air. He’s seen countless humans come and go in the Devildom, but none like this. MC’s confidence, their lack of hesitation in the face of danger, catches his attention immediately.

But that interest is quickly tempered by a sense of caution. Lucifer values order, discipline, and respect. MC, with their relentless thirst for battle and willingness to take on any challenge without a second thought, strikes him as reckless, someone who could disrupt the delicate balance of the Devildom if they’re not careful.

"You’re certainly bold," Lucifer says the first time MC challenges him directly. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes, though his tone remains authoritative. "But boldness without restraint is a dangerous thing. You should learn to think before you act."

MC, however, is unfazed. Their unwavering confidence—and perhaps their lack of reverence for Lucifer’s position—sparks something in him. While others might cower or bend to his will, MC stands firm, ready to face him, or anything else the Devildom throws at them, head-on.

Lucifer’s respect for MC grows, though he won’t admit it aloud. Their resilience, their strength, reminds him of himself in a way. However, that doesn’t mean he’ll tolerate any reckless behavior. "The Devildom is not a playground for your challenges," he warns, his voice low and commanding. "If you want to survive here, you’ll need more than just courage. You’ll need control."

Despite his stern words, Lucifer can’t deny that he finds MC’s unyielding spirit admirable. In a world where fear is the natural response to demons, MC’s fearlessness stands out. Over time, he comes to see them as an asset rather than a potential threat. Their power, if honed properly, could be invaluable.

Still, Lucifer often keeps a close eye on MC, making sure their eagerness for battle doesn’t lead them into unnecessary danger. When MC embarks on another one of their hunts, Lucifer will offer a warning, his voice calm but firm: "You may be strong, but strength without wisdom is a flaw. Don’t let your pride lead to your downfall."

In the end, Lucifer’s relationship with MC is one of both admiration and caution. He respects their strength but seeks to guide them toward balance, knowing that unchecked power can easily spiral into chaos—something he will not allow under his watch.

Mammon

From the moment Mammon lays eyes on MC, fully armored with those impressive swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, his mind starts working overtime. He notices the way they carry themselves—confident, almost fearless—and immediately sees a potential goldmine. After all, if MC is out there slaying monsters and collecting rare materials, someone should be making a profit from it, right?

"Oi, MC," he says with his trademark grin, sidling up next to them after one of their hunts. "Those ice dragon claws ya got there… they fetch a real good price, ya know? I’m talkin’ serious grim. How ‘bout ya let me handle the business side of things, huh? You do the fightin', I’ll do the sellin’. It’s a win-win!"

He’s barely even subtle about it, his eyes practically sparkling with the potential grim he could make. Mammon is quick to imagine all the rare materials MC could harvest from the monsters they hunt—rare scales, horns, fangs, and more—and how much they’d be worth in the Devildom's underground markets. His greed kicks into high gear as he starts picturing piles of grim, a smug smile spreading across his face.

"Just think of it!" he exclaims, already counting his imaginary profits. "We’ll be rich! I mean, you fight the monsters, but I’ll take care of the rest, yeah? That armor of yours is already impressive, but with a bit of extra cash, we could really upgrade it."

MC’s lack of fear and willingness to take on any challenge only fuels Mammon’s excitement. He’s constantly pestering them after every hunt, asking what kind of materials they collected and whether he can sell the remains. "What’d ya get this time? Some kinda rare fang or somethin'? Don’t be selfish now, let your pal Mammon handle the transactions!"

Of course, beneath all the talk about profit and selling materials, Mammon does genuinely care about MC. He’s the Avatar of Greed, sure, but he doesn’t want them to get hurt. Whenever MC goes off on another dangerous hunt, Mammon can’t help but feel a twinge of worry. "Don’t go doin' anything stupid out there, alright? I can’t make grim off ya if ya get yourself killed!"

Even with his schemes to make grim, Mammon keeps a close eye on MC when they’re in battle. If they ever get into a tight spot, he’s there to jump in—though he’ll deny it was out of concern and claim it was because he didn’t want to lose out on potential earnings.

But once the fight is over, it’s right back to business. "Now, about that haul from your latest kill… How ‘bout we split the profits? 80-20. I mean, I am the one who knows the best markets for this stuff!"

Leviathan

When Leviathan first meets MC, fully armored with twin swords forged from the claws of an ice dragon, his immediate thought is that they look like they’ve stepped straight out of one of his favorite fantasy RPGs or anime series. His eyes widen in awe, and he’s almost too flustered to speak at first. It’s not often that someone so cool enters his life, especially in the real world.

"Y-You… you look like a character from Magical Knights of Dragonbane! Those swords… the armor… you’re like a real-life hero!" His voice wavers between excitement and shyness, and there’s a spark of admiration in his eyes.

Despite his usual insecurity around others, Levi is completely drawn to MC because they embody everything he’s always admired in fictional heroes. Their fearlessness, their relentless pursuit of battle, and their undeniable strength hit all the right notes for him as a fan of epic stories and battles. Of course, that admiration quickly spirals into his typical jealousy.

"Not that I’m envious or anything," he mumbles, though his expression says otherwise. "I mean, I could totally do that too if I wanted to! It’s just… I don’t have those swords. Or that armor. Or the skills. But still!"

Levi starts treating MC like a real-life protagonist, often comparing them to his favorite characters from games and anime. He constantly talks about how their latest monster fight reminds him of a boss battle from Ruler of the Abyss or a particularly intense dungeon raid. "That battle you had with the three-headed demon? It’s just like the showdown in Knight’s Quest VII, where you have to defeat the Hydra! You totally pulled a legendary move back there!"

Levi’s fanboying can get a bit overwhelming, especially when he starts bombarding MC with questions about their weapons and techniques. "How did you get the claws of an ice dragon? Did you have to fight it solo? Was it like the Frozen Tundra Arc from Legend of the Snowblades?"

However, Levi’s admiration comes with his usual dose of insecurity. He’s impressed by MC’s bravery and skill but can’t help feeling a little envious. In his mind, they’re living the kind of life he’s only ever dreamed of—taking on dangerous monsters, wielding epic weapons, and being utterly fearless. "You’re so lucky," he mutters during one of their conversations, eyes downcast. "You get to be the hero in real life. I just… stay in my room and live through games."

Despite his jealousy, Levi can’t deny that MC has earned his respect. He’s fascinated by their adventures, and even though he wishes he could be as brave as them, he finds himself cheering them on from the sidelines. When MC tells him about their latest monster hunt, Levi’s eyes light up, and he listens intently, hanging on every word like it’s part of an ongoing story.

"That’s so cool," he blurts out after MC describes a particularly intense battle. "You’re like… a real-life protagonist. If this were a game, you’d definitely be the main character. I’d be… I’d be the support class, I guess." There’s a hint of self-deprecation in his voice, but it’s clear that Levi admires MC more than he lets on.

Over time, Levi even starts imagining what it would be like to join MC on their hunts, despite his fear of real-life combat. "If I ever went with you on one of your monster hunts, I’d be like the strategist or the mage, right? I’d stay in the back and cast spells while you go in with those epic swords!" He knows he’s not cut out for the front lines, but the idea of being part of the adventure appeals to him more than he’s willing to admit.

Even though Levi feels like he’ll never be as brave as MC, he slowly comes to realize that being their friend is enough. "I guess I’ll just keep being your number one fan," he says with a small smile. "Even if I’m not fighting beside you, I’ll always be here to support you, just like in the games."

In true Levi fashion, he’ll also try to get MC to play his favorite monster-hunting video games, eager to compare their real-life experience to the virtual world. "C’mon, let’s see if you can take down the Frost King in Night’s Fall! It’s just like the ice dragon you fought, except, y’know… pixelated."

Satan

When Satan first encounters MC, fully armored and wielding swords crafted from the claws of an ice dragon, his reaction is not one of awe or intimidation but of intense curiosity. Unlike the others, who might be impressed by the sheer spectacle of MC’s appearance, Satan’s mind immediately begins to analyze the practicality of it all.

"The claws of an ice dragon?" he murmurs thoughtfully, observing the swords with a critical eye. "That’s not a common material. You must have gone through considerable effort to acquire those."

Unlike Levi or Mammon, Satan isn’t concerned with how cool MC looks or how much grim they could fetch for selling parts of their kills. Instead, he’s far more interested in the intellectual aspect—how MC hunts, what techniques they use, and most importantly, the kinds of creatures they’ve encountered. For Satan, MC represents a rare opportunity to expand his knowledge of monsters and battle tactics, and that’s far more exciting than anything else.

He immediately begins asking pointed, detail-oriented questions. "How did you handle the ice dragon’s frost breath? I assume you’ve developed a method to resist extreme temperatures, given the nature of your weapons. And what about its speed? Ice dragons are known to be incredibly agile despite their size."

Satan respects MC’s abilities, but he’s also fascinated by the process behind their victories. He admires their strength, yes, but it’s their intellect and experience that truly captures his attention. To him, a successful monster hunter isn’t just someone who fights well—they’re someone who knows how to outthink their enemies, and MC’s fearlessness only enhances that aspect in his eyes.

"You approach battle with the same decisiveness I would in a pursuit of knowledge," Satan observes, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Calculated. Efficient. You don’t waste time with hesitation, but neither do you rush in recklessly."

However, Satan’s admiration isn’t without its critique. He’s someone who values control and precision, and while he recognizes MC’s fearlessness as a strength, he’s also quick to point out its potential pitfalls. "You’re fearless, which is commendable," he says, leaning against a bookshelf in the library as they talk. "But there’s a thin line between bravery and recklessness. You might be skilled, but even the strongest can be undone by overconfidence."

His words are not a reprimand but a cautionary lesson. Satan respects strength, but he respects wisdom even more, and he takes it upon himself to ensure that MC understands the balance between the two. "A monster hunter like you should know—monsters can be unpredictable. No amount of strength can save you from the consequences of a single miscalculation."

That said, Satan’s own curiosity sometimes leads him to ask MC to go after certain creatures, not because he wants to see them in danger, but because he’s interested in studying the monsters themselves. "There’s a particularly rare species of shadow fiend in the northern caves. I’ve been wanting to study one for some time now. Would you be up for the challenge?" He knows MC is always seeking their next hunt, and while Satan has no interest in accompanying them on the battlefield, he’s more than eager to read up on their findings.

Satan is also fascinated by MC’s lack of fear. He’s used to humans being intimidated by demons, but MC doesn’t so much as flinch in the presence of the brothers, not even Lucifer. That fearlessness intrigues him, and he can’t help but poke at it sometimes, trying to understand what drives them. "You’re not afraid of anything, are you?" he asks one day, his tone more curious than condescending. "I wonder if that’s born out of experience or if it’s simply who you are."

Over time, Satan’s respect for MC grows, not just for their strength but for their mind. He values their input, their insights on the creatures they fight, and the methods they use. In many ways, he sees MC as a kindred spirit—someone who approaches life with intellect and strategy, even if their battlefield is more physical than his.

Still, he never stops cautioning them. "Remember," he says one day after MC returns from a particularly dangerous hunt, "knowledge is your greatest weapon. Even more so than those swords."

Asmodeus

Asmodeus’s first reaction when he sees MC in their full, intimidating armor, wielding swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, is a mix of intrigue and slight distaste—though not for the reasons one might expect.

"Oh darling," Asmo says, with a dramatic sigh, giving MC’s armor a once-over. "That armor is so... functional, but it could use some flair! Have you ever thought about accessorizing? Maybe a bit of sparkle or color to liven it up?"

For Asmo, appearance is everything, and while he’s impressed by the sheer presence MC commands, he can’t help but think about how their look could be improved. To him, it’s a missed opportunity for some fabulous monster-hunting fashion.

But underneath his superficial comments, Asmo is genuinely curious about MC’s abilities. After all, they exude a confidence that even Asmodeus finds intriguing. Most humans are easily overwhelmed by the Devildom, but not MC. They’re fearless, something that both impresses and fascinates him.

"Look at you, so brave, fighting monsters and demons without a second thought," Asmo purrs, his eyes sparkling with a mix of admiration and amusement. "But darling, don’t forget to take care of your skin! All that armor must be so rough on it. You must let me give you a treatment. After all, you want to look good while fighting, don’t you?"

Despite his constant fussing over their appearance, Asmo quickly develops a soft spot for MC. He admires their boldness and their unshakable confidence, something that resonates with his own vanity and pride. Asmo is used to people fawning over him, but MC? They’re different. They don’t seem to care about his beauty the way others do, which only makes him more interested in them.

He’s often playful with them, teasing them about their relentless pursuit of danger. "Honestly, darling, you’re going to give me wrinkles with all this worry!" he says after hearing about one of their hunts. "But I guess there’s something charming about someone who’s willing to fight monsters head-on. Still, you should let me pamper you every now and then. A little self-care never hurt anyone!"

Asmo isn’t blind to MC’s strength, and while he’s not one for battles himself, he appreciates MC’s power in his own way. "You’re like the lead in one of those epic romance novels, charging into danger and saving the day," he gushes one day. "But even heroes need a break, don’t you think? Maybe a nice spa day, just the two of us?"

Though Asmo’s focus is often on beauty and luxury, he subtly keeps an eye on MC’s well-being. He doesn’t say it outright, but he does care about them, and he often expresses that care in his own, Asmodeus way. If MC ever gets injured or looks particularly tired after a hunt, Asmo will hover nearby, insisting on helping them recover, even if his methods involve an elaborate skincare routine.

And while Asmo may not be as direct as the others when it comes to acknowledging MC’s strength, he does have his moments of sincerity. One day, after watching them return victorious from yet another hunt, he smiles softly and says, "You really are incredible, you know that? Fearless, strong, and so confident. It’s... tantalizing. But promise me you won’t forget to take care of yourself, alright? I wouldn’t want to see someone as beautiful as you burn out."

Of course, the moment is short-lived as he quickly shifts back to his usual self, adding with a playful grin, "Now, let’s talk about adding some flair to that armor, shall we?"

Beelzebub

Beelzebub’s first reaction when he sees MC in their full suit of armor, wielding the massive ice dragon claw swords, is a mixture of curiosity and hunger—not for them, of course, but for the concept of power and strength they represent.

He doesn’t say much at first, observing them with his usual calm demeanor. Beel is used to sizing things up, whether it’s food or opponents, and MC’s imposing figure certainly catches his attention. "You’re strong," he says simply, with a hint of admiration in his voice. "I bet you’ve fought a lot of tough monsters."

To Beel, strength is something that commands respect, but he doesn’t idolize it like others might. In the beginning, he’s indifferent to MC, seeing them as just another human—albeit one who could probably put up a good fight if it came down to it. But as someone who has fought through hunger and struggles, Beel recognizes determination when he sees it, and MC clearly has plenty of that.

What intrigues Beel most is how calm and fearless MC is when hunting. It reminds him of himself during his hungriest moments—when survival is all that matters. "You don’t seem afraid of anything," he says one day, watching as MC polishes their weapons after a hunt. "That’s good. Fear slows you down."

Despite his initial indifference, Beel can’t help but be curious about MC’s hunting style. He’s not the type to pry, but during meals (where food is always the focus), he’ll casually ask about the monsters they’ve fought, especially if they’ve faced anything particularly tough. "So, what does an ice dragon even look like?" he asks, in between bites of his massive sandwich. "I’ve never fought one, but I bet it’s a strong opponent. What does it… taste like?"

That last question comes out unintentionally, but Beel can’t help it. His mind is always on food, and ice dragons sound like something that could make a good meal—if it weren’t for the fact that they’re not supposed to eat otherworldly creatures.

Despite his hunger-driven curiosity, Beel develops a sense of respect for MC’s strength and the way they approach battle. He’s blunt, as always, but there’s an underlying admiration when he talks to them. "I can tell you’re not just strong," he says one day. "You’re smart about how you fight. That’s important."

Beel also notices that MC is always pushing themselves, always looking for the next fight, and while he respects their drive, he also worries that they might overdo it. "You’re strong, but you should rest too," he advises, his tone gentle but firm. "It’s important to take care of yourself. Even the strongest can get worn out."

In his own quiet way, Beel becomes protective of MC. He knows what it’s like to fight through endless battles—whether it’s for survival or against his own hunger—and he doesn’t want to see someone burn out because they never take a break. "Next time you go on a hunt, let me know," he offers casually one day. "I might not be a hunter, but I’m strong. I could help if you ever need it."

And of course, Beel being Beel, he can’t resist asking one final, food-related question every now and then: "You think any of those monsters are edible?"

Belphegor

Belphegor's initial reaction to MC, clad in their heavy armor and wielding swords forged from ice dragon claws, is one of disinterest. He yawns the first time he sees them, barely glancing up from where he’s lounging in the attic. Fighting monsters? Chasing down challenges? It all sounds exhausting to him. He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to seek out danger when they could be napping instead.

"Fighting monsters for fun?" he says with a lazy drawl. "Sounds like a lot of effort for something you could just avoid." His typical apathy towards things that require energy is in full force, and he can’t comprehend why MC is always on the lookout for their next battle. To him, strength isn’t about fighting—it’s about conserving energy and doing just enough to get by.

However, despite his indifference, Belphegor’s sharp mind quickly picks up on MC’s relentless drive. It’s the exact opposite of his laid-back nature, and that contrast both confuses and amuses him. "You’re always moving, always looking for something to fight," he observes, his voice tinged with mild curiosity. "Don’t you ever get tired of it?"

Belphie doesn’t have the same admiration for strength that his brothers do, but he’s not oblivious to it either. When he finally takes the time to notice MC’s no-nonsense attitude and fearlessness, he can’t help but find it a little… excessive. "Why fight when you can just avoid the trouble altogether?" he muses, half asleep in his usual spot. "Seems to me you’re just looking for reasons to work harder than you need to."

Despite his usual teasing, Belphegor occasionally asks about MC’s hunts, if only to pass the time between naps. His questions, however, are more about their motives than the actual battles. "What’s the point of fighting all these monsters anyway?" he asks one day, leaning lazily against a pillow. "Does it make you feel more alive or something?"

It’s not that Belphie doesn’t respect MC—he just doesn’t see the appeal in their constant pursuit of danger. He’s more likely to poke fun at their endless energy than to admire their bravery. "All that running around," he says with a sleepy smirk, "you’re making me tired just talking about it."

Still, there’s a small part of Belphegor that envies MC’s drive. While he’ll never admit it, he sometimes wonders what it’s like to have that kind of unwavering determination, to constantly seek out the next challenge without hesitation. "Maybe you’re just crazy," he jokes lightly, though his half-lidded eyes suggest a deeper curiosity. "But I guess it takes a little bit of crazy to do what you do."

In typical Belphie fashion, his interactions with MC are filled with teasing, laziness, and an underlying amusement at their seemingly endless energy. "Next time you fight a monster, do it quietly," he says, half-joking. "I’d rather not be woken up by your battle cries."

However, beneath the teasing exterior, Belphegor slowly develops a grudging respect for MC. They’re not like most humans who are easily intimidated by the Devildom or the brothers. In their own way, MC’s tireless pursuit of challenges reminds Belphie of the persistence he sometimes lacks—and while he’ll never admit it, he appreciates that contrast.

But true to his personality, Belphegor would much rather nap than fight any monsters. "You go ahead and handle all the battles," he says with a lazy grin. "I’ll be here… sleeping."

Diavolo

When Diavolo first meets MC, fully clad in their formidable armor with swords forged from the claws of an ice dragon, his reaction is one of genuine excitement and curiosity. Unlike most who might feel intimidated by their imposing presence, Diavolo is immediately intrigued. His eyes light up as he takes in their confidence, their fearlessness, and the clear battle-worn nature of their gear.

"Fascinating!" he exclaims, a wide smile spreading across his face. "You’re truly unique. I’ve never seen a human so... driven to face monsters head-on. You must tell me more about your adventures."

Diavolo, being the future king of the Devildom, has encountered many powerful beings in his lifetime, but there’s something about MC’s relentless pursuit of danger that resonates with him. He respects strength, not just in terms of raw power but in character, and MC’s determination and fearlessness leave a strong impression on him. He finds their willingness to challenge even the most dangerous monsters admirable, as it reminds him of his own desire to push the boundaries of what’s possible in his realm.

"You possess an admirable quality," Diavolo says, his voice full of warmth. "The kind of courage it takes to fight monsters, especially in a place like the Devildom, is rare even among demons. And yet, here you are, unafraid and ready for your next challenge."

While Diavolo’s naturally enthusiastic, he also understands the importance of balance and self-care. As someone responsible for an entire realm, he knows the dangers of constantly pushing forward without taking a moment to reflect. He’s quick to offer advice, though it’s always tempered with kindness. "Strength is an incredible asset," he tells MC, "but even the strongest warriors need to rest. I’d hate for your potential to burn out too soon. After all, the Devildom could use someone like you for a long time to come."

Though he admires MC’s fearlessness, Diavolo also sees an opportunity to learn from them. He’s fascinated by their experiences as a monster hunter, their techniques, and the mindset that drives them to seek out battles most would shy away from. He often invites them to the castle, eager to hear their stories and discuss how their experiences might help shape the future of the exchange program.

"I think there’s much we could learn from your approach to challenges," Diavolo muses during one of their discussions. "You possess a rare resilience, and that’s something we could foster here in the Devildom. Imagine what we could achieve if more people were willing to face their fears like you."

But even with his royal duties and his grand vision for the Devildom’s future, Diavolo enjoys lighthearted moments with MC. Their lack of fear makes them a refreshing presence in his life, someone who doesn’t treat him with the usual reverence or hesitation. He appreciates the directness in their interactions, and while most are wary of challenging him, MC’s readiness to face anything head-on never fails to amuse him.

"You know," Diavolo chuckles one day, leaning forward in his seat, "I think you’d make an excellent sparring partner. It’s been a while since I’ve faced someone who isn’t afraid of a little risk."

In his usual upbeat and charismatic way, Diavolo respects MC’s strength but also seeks to guide them in balancing their drive with wisdom. He sees a potential ally in them, someone who could help shape a stronger connection between the human and demon worlds.

"You’re quite remarkable, MC," Diavolo says, his voice full of genuine admiration. "And I believe your presence here in the Devildom is going to make a difference. Not just for the exchange program, but for all of us."

Barbatos

When Barbatos first encounters MC, clad in their armor and wielding swords forged from the claws of an ice dragon, he remains as calm and composed as ever. Where others might react with surprise or intrigue, Barbatos’s expression remains neutral, though his sharp eyes take in every detail. He’s not one to be easily impressed, but he quickly recognizes that MC is far from an ordinary human.

"Impressive craftsmanship," he comments softly, nodding toward the swords at MC’s side. "Ice dragon claws are not a material one encounters often. You must have gone through great effort to acquire them."

Barbatos, as a servant of the royal household, values discipline, control, and efficiency. He immediately notices MC’s fearless demeanor and relentless drive to fight, and while he acknowledges their strength, he views their constant pursuit of battle with measured caution. In his mind, strength must be balanced with wisdom, and fearlessness must be tempered with foresight.

"Strength alone is admirable," Barbatos says calmly, "but do not let it blind you to the subtleties of the world. Not all battles are won with force."

He watches MC closely, especially when they speak of their adventures, and though Barbatos doesn’t share Diavolo’s exuberance, he is quietly intrigued by MC’s experiences. Their boldness and lack of fear are unusual for a human in the Devildom, and Barbatos finds their demeanor both refreshing and a potential cause for concern. He appreciates individuals who are willing to face challenges, but he also knows that reckless bravery can lead to unintended consequences.

"You seem to seek out danger wherever you go," Barbatos observes one day, his tone gentle but firm. "I wonder if you have considered the value of patience. Even the strongest warriors must know when to wait and when to strike."

Though he rarely expresses his thoughts openly, Barbatos does respect MC’s capabilities. He’s meticulous in everything he does, and he admires those who are similarly skilled. However, his primary concern is balance and ensuring that MC’s drive to fight doesn’t lead to unnecessary chaos. Barbatos is a master of control, and he values individuals who understand the importance of restraint—something he subtly encourages in MC whenever they speak.

"You have great potential," Barbatos says, his voice steady. "But even the strongest can be undone by rushing into battles without proper preparation. I would advise you to consider each challenge carefully before acting."

Despite his calm demeanor, Barbatos is not without warmth. He cares deeply for those in the Devildom, and while his advice is always practical, there’s an underlying sense of protectiveness when he speaks to MC. Though he may not show it as openly as Diavolo or the others, he does not want to see MC’s fearlessness lead to harm.

If MC ever returns from a particularly challenging battle, perhaps showing signs of fatigue or injury, Barbatos will quietly tend to them, ensuring they are taken care of without making a fuss. "Even the strongest need time to recover," he says, offering them a cup of tea with his usual elegance. "I trust you will take the necessary time to rest before seeking your next challenge."

Barbatos respects MC’s capabilities, but he never hesitates to remind them of the importance of balance, patience, and precision. To him, they are a strong and valuable asset to the Devildom, but one that must be guided with care.

"You are formidable, there is no doubt about that," Barbatos says with a rare, almost imperceptible smile. "But true strength lies not just in the ability to fight, but in knowing when not to."

Simeon

When Simeon first sees MC in their full armor, wielding swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, his initial reaction is one of quiet admiration, though not just for their appearance or strength. He’s always been more interested in the stories behind people’s actions—the motivations, the journeys, the moments that shape them. MC’s fearless demeanor and relentless pursuit of battle intrigue him, not because of the physical feats they’ve accomplished, but because of the story that must lie beneath it all.

"You have the air of someone who’s seen much and learned more," Simeon comments softly, his eyes warm and thoughtful. "I imagine you’ve faced quite a few challenges on your journey. Would you mind sharing your story with me sometime?"

As a writer, Simeon is deeply fascinated by character and narrative. MC, with their relentless drive and unyielding courage, strikes him as someone whose experiences could fill volumes. He often finds himself observing them from a distance, not out of judgment, but out of a genuine curiosity to understand what drives someone to seek out danger so fearlessly. While others might focus on MC’s strength, Simeon is more interested in the why behind it all.

"What compels you to fight?" he asks one day, his tone gentle but probing. "Is it the thrill of the battle? Or is there something else that you’re searching for?"

Simeon’s approach to MC is always soft and considerate. He doesn’t push them for answers, but he often invites them to share their thoughts or experiences over quiet conversations, always eager to listen. His fascination with their life as a monster hunter stems from his belief that every person has a story worth telling, and MC’s story, with its focus on battle and strength, is one he feels could teach him something new about the world.

"Your journey must have been filled with many trials," Simeon muses, scribbling in his notebook one day. "Perhaps there’s a lesson in it for all of us—a way to understand the balance between courage and vulnerability."

He’s not just a passive listener, though. Simeon often uses his conversations with MC as inspiration for his writing. He subtly draws parallels between their stories and the narratives he weaves, finding beauty in the tension between their unyielding strength and the quieter, more introspective moments they rarely show. In fact, he sometimes writes fictionalized accounts of their encounters, always with a focus on the inner conflicts that must come with being someone who faces danger so often.

"You remind me of a character I’ve been writing about," Simeon tells MC one afternoon, a thoughtful smile on his lips. "A warrior with a strong heart but a soul that is always searching for something more. Perhaps you’ll find what you’re looking for in these battles—or perhaps, it’s something beyond them."

Unlike others who might caution MC against pushing themselves too hard, Simeon never directly warns them about the dangers of their lifestyle. Instead, he gently encourages reflection, hoping they’ll come to their own understanding of balance. He respects their choices and believes that the path they walk—dangerous as it may be—is part of their own story, and only they can determine where it leads.

Still, there’s an underlying protectiveness to Simeon’s interactions with MC. He may not wield swords or fight monsters, but his concern for their well-being is evident in his gentle nudges toward self-reflection. "Even the strongest warriors need rest," he says one evening, his voice calm and soothing. "Perhaps the next battle can wait until you’ve had a moment to yourself. After all, it’s in the quiet moments that we often find the answers we’ve been seeking."

Simeon admires MC’s bravery, but his true connection with them comes from his desire to understand the deeper motivations that drive them. To him, MC is more than just a fighter—they’re a living story, full of complexities and emotions that make them all the more fascinating.

And in his own way, Simeon hopes to be part of that story, helping them see that there’s more to life than battles and that sometimes, the greatest strength comes from knowing when to rest and reflect.

Luke

When Luke first meets MC, clad in their full suit of armor and wielding swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, his eyes go wide with awe. He’s immediately fascinated by their appearance and presence, especially since he’s never seen a human so fearless—or wearing such impressive gear.

"Wow!" Luke exclaims, practically bouncing with excitement. "You look just like one of those knights from the stories I read! Did you really fight an ice dragon? What was it like? How big was it? Were you scared?"

His curiosity is boundless, and he peppers MC with question after question, his childlike excitement bubbling over. To Luke, MC is like a real-life hero, and while he knows they’re a monster hunter, his youthful imagination casts them as a noble protector, someone who slays evil to keep others safe. He looks up to them almost immediately, seeing them as a role model.

"I bet you’ve saved tons of people, right?" Luke asks, his eyes sparkling. "You’re just like one of those brave knights in the stories! You protect everyone from scary monsters!"

However, despite his admiration, Luke’s protective instincts kick in. Even though MC is clearly strong and capable, he still worries about them, just like he worries about everyone he cares about. "But… you have to be careful!" Luke adds, his tone turning serious, his small hands clenched into fists. "Fighting monsters is dangerous! You can’t just go around looking for trouble!"

Luke, despite being a child, takes his role as an angel seriously, and he views MC’s constant search for battle with a mixture of awe and concern. He can’t understand why someone would willingly put themselves in danger, even if they’re strong. To him, bravery is important, but so is knowing when to stay safe. "You don’t have to fight all the time to be a hero," he says earnestly, his big eyes filled with concern. "You can help people in other ways too, you know."

Whenever MC returns from a hunt, Luke is always the first to run up to them, checking for any injuries, even if they insist they’re fine. "Are you hurt? Let me see! You have to be careful next time, okay?" He may be small, but Luke’s protective nature knows no bounds, and he fusses over MC the way an older sibling might.

At the same time, Luke looks up to MC and wants to learn from them. "Do you think you could teach me how to fight like you?" he asks eagerly. "Not that I’d ever want to hurt anyone! But just in case I need to protect someone!"

Of course, despite his fascination with MC’s strength, Luke still can’t help but view them through his innocent, childlike lens. He believes in the good in everyone and hopes that MC’s battles are always for the right reasons. "Promise me you’ll only fight the bad monsters," he says one day, his voice soft but firm. "Because I know you’re strong, but it’s important to be kind too."

Luke may be young, but his admiration for MC is tempered with his natural protectiveness and deep sense of morality. He sees MC as a brave hero, but he also wants to make sure they understand that being a hero isn’t just about fighting—it’s about doing what’s right.

"Just promise me you’ll stay safe," Luke says with a determined expression. "Because I’d miss you if something happened."

Solomon

When Solomon first meets MC, decked out in their imposing armor with twin swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, his reaction is one of amused fascination. He’s always been one to appreciate the unusual and extraordinary, and MC is no exception. His eyes gleam with curiosity as he takes in their no-nonsense attitude and constant thirst for battle.

"Well, aren’t you a sight to behold," Solomon says with a playful grin. "An armored human, hunting down demons and monsters with no fear in sight. I must say, you’re quite the intriguing puzzle."

Unlike some of the others, Solomon doesn’t feel intimidated by MC’s presence. If anything, he finds it refreshing. He’s met countless beings over the centuries, but someone like MC—who walks into the Devildom, ready to face danger head-on without hesitation—piques his curiosity. In true Solomon fashion, he’s eager to learn more about their abilities, techniques, and the drive that keeps them hunting.

"You’ll have to show me those swords up close," he comments casually, eyeing the dragon-claw blades. "Ice dragon claws… that’s not something you see every day. I wonder what kind of spells we could craft using materials like that."

Solomon, being the mischievous and ever-experimental sorcerer that he is, immediately starts thinking of ways to involve MC in his magical experiments. He’s always pushing boundaries, and having someone as fearless as MC around sparks all kinds of ideas for new spells, potions, and challenges. "You and I should collaborate," he suggests with a grin. "Think of the possibilities! We could combine your hunting skills with my magic. I bet we could summon something really exciting."

Of course, knowing Solomon, his definition of "exciting" usually involves a lot of chaos and unpredictability, so his idea of collaboration comes with a certain level of risk. But he’s confident that MC, with their fearlessness and thirst for adventure, would be up for it.

Solomon’s teasing nature also shines through in his interactions with MC. He can’t help but poke fun at their constant search for a fight. "You’re like a dog chasing after every stick thrown your way," he says with a chuckle. "Do you ever stop and relax? Or is hunting all you think about?"

Despite his playful jabs, Solomon respects MC’s abilities deeply. He knows they’re not just a warrior looking for their next challenge—they’re someone who has honed their skills to perfection. That kind of dedication resonates with him, and while he might joke around, he’s always paying close attention to how MC handles themselves in battle.

There’s also a part of Solomon that enjoys watching MC’s fearlessness in action. He’s spent centuries mastering magic and dealing with demons, but MC’s straightforward approach is something he finds amusing and endearing. "You really don’t back down from anything, do you?" he asks one day, leaning back with an amused smile. "It’s almost reckless. Almost."

Still, Solomon can’t resist pushing MC’s limits. He’s constantly challenging them, whether it’s through magical experiments or philosophical debates about the nature of strength. "Being fearless is one thing," he says thoughtfully, "but have you ever wondered if there’s something even you’re afraid of? Maybe it’s not a monster or a demon—maybe it’s something a little closer to home."

His tone is light, but his words are probing, as Solomon often likes to peel back the layers of people around him, especially those as intriguing as MC.

In the end, Solomon’s relationship with MC is one of mutual respect, sprinkled with his usual chaotic energy. He admires their strength and courage, but never misses an opportunity to throw a little unpredictability their way, always curious to see how they’ll react.

"Oh, and one last thing," Solomon says with a sly smile after one of their more intense conversations. "If you ever need a break from all that hunting, I’m always up for a little magical chaos. Just let me know when you’re ready to try something really dangerous."

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me mc #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me belphegor #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me luke #obey me solomon

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