DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE NEANDERTHAL CHILD WITH DOWN'S SYNDROME? Because They're All I've Been Thinking

Spotting Beelzebub alone on a couch is a very dangerous trap that must be avoided at all costs.

He may appear to be minding his own business, sitting there innocently, scrolling his DDD. Maybe chewing on a mint. But make no mistake, this is a trap.

Should you choose to sit next to him, your fate is sealed. Beelzebub may put a hand around your shoulder or pull you towards his lap. He may just remain still. Yet every single time, Belphegor will appear. Very swiftly, very silently.

Belphegor will sit so close to you that he's practically on top of you and will proceed to squish you into his twin. He throws a leg over your knee, over Beelzebub's too, and lets his body go slack. Gravity takes care of the rest as he topples into you like a domino. He's heavy. Arms cover your head as you disappear from view.

Shout as you might, Beelzebub allows this to happen. With his hands on either side, there is no escape. You sink down and your cheek winds up pressed against his naval while Belphegor cozies in close, his breath flooding your nose. You can flail your lower legs until someone gets tired of the squirming and holds them down. The twins will cuddle you until they feel satisfied.

The Attic Club Sandwich shows no mercy.

Lucifer looks over at the passenger seat. Asmo quietly puts on makeup. In the mirror, he sees everyone else. Satan reads at one windo seat, mammon happily looking at the sleeping MC on his shoulder. In the very back is quiet munching of beel as belphe sleeps on him with levi playing some game on his swich. (I decided he has one) lucifer sighs. The nicest, quietest car ride. There all thankfully you came.

Thought I would expand on this post a bit...

Pairing: Johnny x fem!Reader (american, unfortunately), tried to keep the reader's body type and race relatively neutral (but this lil fic is also completely self-indulgent and I'm fat and Asian so take that as you will).

Tags/warnings: alcohol, suggestive language, some semi-public making out, but no explicit sex (yet?), bad scottish accent. (if I left anything out please let me know!!)

A/N: This is my first time doing any sort of creative writing since college and I wrote this in my notes app so please be so nice to me. I'm sorry this isn't smut galore, it's more just a set up for everything. Although I do have plans to make things more spicy, I'm just a lil nervy about it. Anyways.... enjoy!

Your eyes follow the trail left by the bead of condensation as it makes its slow descent down the side of your frosted martini glass. Picking up the speared olives by the skewer, you twirl it between your fingers before sliding one off into your mouth. Savoring the briney bite before washing it down with a sip of your cocktail.

You had an early flight tomorrow and weren't planning on being hungover for it. Just attempting to decompress after a day of meetings and to soothe some of the jitters for your upcoming trip at a pub down the street from your hotel. There weren't many patrons this evening, and the dark lighting allowed for some additional anonymity. 

In your peripheral, a body slides into the stool a few down from you. Not looking for any small talk tonight, you keep your eyes trained on your glass. You take another sip and finish off the second olive.

A deep voice colored with a rough Scottish brogue asking for whiskey makes you glance up. You find sparkling blue eyes already on you. They're on a roguishly handsome face. Attached to a devastatingly built body. The man tilts his head, catching you in the act of ogling him.

"Stiff drink for a Monday, no?"

You huff out a laugh. "I suppose, but could say the same to you," nodding at the drink the bartender had placed before him.

He shrugs. "So... American? What brings you to London?"

Maybe small talk isn't so bad if it's with a statue of a Roman god come to life. "Oh, I'm here for a work trip. Last day, actually."

"Ah, a shame. I've just started my leave. Military," he explains. Though you could've guessed from the size of his biceps.

"How'd the UK treat you?"

You mull the question over a sip. "It was mostly enjoyable. Though I'm looking forward to finally having food with seasoning again," you say with a small, teasing smile.

"Cannae blame ye lass. The Brits went through all tha' trouble with the spice trade and promptly forgo' about 'em," he says with a sad shake of his head. "Ye should come to Scotland."

"What's the difference?" Feeling brave, you scoot over one chair. "The food's worse? I've heard about haggis, you know."

"Och, ye wound me!" Feigning injury with his hand clasped over his chest, he slides across to the stool next to you, your knee now brushing his. "Maybe an acquired taste, but a delicacy still."

He's looking at your face with amusement, but you're trying not to stare at the way his denim jeans look like they're painted onto his muscular thighs.

Tearing your eyes back up to his, you can almost count the dark lashes framing his eyes. But before you get too lost in the deep blue, you take in his rather silly haircut. 

"A mohawk?"

"Aye, it's tactical. Gives a bonnie lass something to hold onto," he smirks.

Eyeing his dark locks, "Not sure how having less hair to grab would make that any easier," going to finish off your drink.

"Already thinking about pulling my hair, lass? Very forward." He leans closer. "I like it."

You sputter at the insinuation, and he chuckles, leaning back, giving you some space.

He's hitting on you. This absolutely stunning man is hitting on you, and you're not sure why.

You can't help but notice the way his long fingers wrap around his glass as he takes a small swig of the amber liquid. They look strong. And thick. This close to him, you get a faint whiff of cologne and something more natural, as well. It's heady. More intoxicating than your cocktail.

The look on his face says he knows what you're thinking. You've been caught, and you feel your face warm.

"But last night, ye say?" he questions, stretching his arms over his head, gifting you with a peek of his stomach and dark happy trail. "Swear I could make it the highlight of your wee trip."

You have no control over the way your jaw drops, dumbfounded. 

Are you actually going to entertain this? The man is arrogant and a complete stranger. You really aren't the type to hook up with handsome men you’ve talked to for less than five minutes. Not that you’ve ever been presented with a situation like this before. But there's a magnetism about him, something pulling you closer to this man. Maybe just the martini hitting you quicker than you were expecting. You can't ignore the heat pooling in your core at the thought of his offer.

The rational part of your brain says to politely depart and get a good night's rest. But the part of your brain focused on the fact you haven't had sex in months after a particularly nasty break up says fuck it. There's an obviously interested, gorgeous man in front of you. Fuck him.

You slap some money down for your drink, saunter towards the door, and turn back, quirking your eyebrow at the Scotsman.

He seems a little shocked, but he scrambles to put a couple bills down and throws back the rest of his whiskey as you push out the door.

You're at the mouth of the dim alley next to the bar when you feel firm hands grasp at your middle, spin you, and pin you up against the wall.

He's got one hand up against the bricks, leaning over you as his other hand drifts down to your hip. Taking in his broad shoulders, you can't help but put a hand out to graze the outline of his pec, feeling the muscle underneath tense. 

The Scot looks hungry, eyes trailing up your body. A veritable feast. His gaze lingers on your lips for a moment before his eyes meet yours again.

He starts to open his mouth, and you can tell he's going to say something that could make you regret leading him out here. You quickly clutch his shirt, bring his face down to your level, and crash your lips onto his to shut him up.

Fortunately, he gets the hint.

He deepens the kiss, bringing the hand that was bracing him on the wall down to cradle your face. The other kneading the fat of your hip.

His lips are surprisingly soft and clearly experienced. You feel him roll his hips into yours, and a gasp escapes your lips. He takes the invitation to begin exploring your mouth with his tongue. His kiss still has the bite of whiskey, which has you moaning into his mouth. Your hands trail down his chest over his toned torso. Wandering fingers just reaching the waistband of his jeans, when his breath hitches.

Raucous laughter explodes at the opening of the alley as the doors to the pub burst open, a group spilling out. They don't look your way, but still, you draw your hands back up to his shoulders as you pull away slightly. He groans.

"I'm not really an exhibitionist."

"I think I could change tha'," he murmurs with a gleam in his eye. 

You roll your eyes. "I'm staying just around the corner," you offer.

"Well then, what are we waiting for? Lead the way, lass."

You grab his hand and start towards your hotel.

"It's Johnny," he says when you reach the sidewalk.

"What?"

"My name. It's Johnny. You'll need it so you can scream it later."

That almost causes you to stop in your tracks. You were so blinded by lust that you hadn't even gotten the name of the man whose tongue was down your throat moments ago. You give him your own name in return.

He hums. "Pretty. Though I think I'll call ye mine," he quips with a wink.

Could you strain your eyes from rolling them too much? You might need to be careful if he keeps his oneliners up.

"We'll see about that lover boy," you toss over your shoulder, hauling him down the street towards the privacy of your room before you can change your mind. 

--------

You wake up early in the morning with a slight ache in your hips, shocked that you received zero noise complaints last night. 

There's a faint rumbling next to you and a heavy arm draped over your stomach. Johnny's sleeping peacefully. He deserves it, you suppose, after the work he put in last night.

A glance at your phone shows you miraculously managed to wake up before your alarm, but it's still almost time to go. You thank your past self for having the foresight to pack up before going out yesterday.

Trying your best not to wake him, you shimmy out from under his arm and sneak your pillow into the space you were occupying. You freeze when he stirs. For a moment you think he might wake up, but he just squeezes the pillow closer and his soft snores resume.

You change into the comfy travel outfit you had set aside. Sweats, your softest tee, and a sweatshirt. After slipping on your sneakers, you turn to the small desk against the wall, eyeing the thin hotel stationary notepad and pen.

You think to write Johnny a note, but you don't want to leave your number or anything. No need to stay in touch. You opt for a little rating of your night together. It's fun. Maybe a little demeaning, but ultimately harmless since you know you'll never see him again. Not that you would turn down another night with the sexy Scotsman. You just had a flight to catch and no intentions of returning to London anytime soon. You scribble out a quick review:

4/5 stars. Nice hands and ate pussy like a god. Talked too much and fuckass haircut though.

You smirk to yourself as you slide the note onto the bedside table. Grabbing your suitcase, you make your way out of the hotel room. Fingers crossed he's up before check out.

These are the type of texts you’d get from Levi after you two start dating btw

For my favorite Levi simp @l3viat8an lemme know if these fit him lovely 💛

The seven shitty sins

Mammon : I want shit

Levi : I want your shit

Satan : I'm going to wreck shit

Asmo : I'm into some freaky shit

Beel : this is some tasty shit

Belphie : Im to tied to do shit

Lucifer : i am the shit

Ok but like husband Katsuki and y/n with kids. Story can be whatever you want, but GOD I just need this

hhhhheeeyyyyyy i got dadsuki papagou on lockdown for u

a part of me // katsuki bakugou

Jeff the killer general smut headcanons:

Jeff is definitely into knife play. I mean... I firmly believe that he would carve some stupid drawings on his act partner.

He's into bondage. Jeff tries to convince at least himself that he's strong enough and he's in control, due to the fact of his physical weakness and megalomania.

Jeff's also into self harm! Killer will fuck the brains out of himself until he'll shot blanks and have a biggest headache.

He has some bugs in his asshole. Due to being scared of Jane getting to him at night, he oftentimes sleeps outside the Slendermansion, wandering around.

Due to being generally unhygienic, as part of self-harm, he scratches his ulcers frequently and openly and likes them scratched by an act partner as well, especially if they're trying to fight him away.

He's also a junkie, and that makes his urge to scratch even more.

Jeff is a KILLER after all, so i guess his into a little chase, but because of his control complex he never goes to far. He already had a "bad" experience, his pray got away and he had to migrate. That was a lot of pain in his ass and Jeff's also lazy so he made a word for himself to control his "inner animalistic nature".

He likes to get high during or after the act, and it can cause him to do werider crap. For example, Jeff is hungry often, since he hasn't much money due to being an addict, so he might start to bite the act partner.

For Jeff, if there's a hole there's a goal: he doesn't have a preference for a partner's gender. However, keeping his past with male bullies in mind, he will probably be much more violent with male victims.