Fandom Galore

Jess. She/her. 36. Minors: Please move along, nothing to see 4 U here. Come back when you're 18. Thanks & stay safe.💖 Sarcasm feeds my soul. 💗 Humble fan of various fandoms.

[anotherrickinthewall]

Masterlist

I'm trying my hand on posting my stuff (if I upload something that is) in one place. So here we go:

Remeber: NO MINORS! OK? Bye and enjoy ;) Come back when you're 18!

Credit for those awesome pictures goes to the people who created them, so if you know any artist of those give me a holler I'll credit them properly!

Call of Duty:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Run Me In Circles: Credit for the top right picture (this is what Simon looks like in my head and I'll die on this hill <3) goes to Moony (@lielowatmoonys)-I hope you don't mind that I borrowed it- on X check those pictures out they're all awesome!

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Dead By Daylight:

Play like grown-ups

A/N: Hello lovely people! I've had this fic sitting in my WIPs way too long... I've wanted to write more but yeah well. I devour smut like

Bucky Barnes:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Random blurbs & stuff:

Coming sooner or later, if I decide to post all the random shit sitting in my WIPs 😅

[willgrahamscock]

me when I reblog a post specifically for my mutuals

[satirickitty]

Everyone in the reblogs

[beebymoonlight]

baby mine — ghost x f!reader

when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.

type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."

[anotherrickinthewall]

Tonight we can feast 🤩 because that was delicious 🤤

[assassin1513]

⚜️🌊⚜️The Beauty of AC Odyssey⚜️🌊⚜️

[wombywoo]

hey gang! just gonna give another lil push for my patreon 😌🫰

Patreon link here! ⭐

At the start of the year, I made a conscious decision to shift into art that I felt more comfortable and confident making, but that also meant a substantial loss in subscribers. I've taken a step back from doing weekly nsfw posts, and instead, my patreon has become a place for me to share all my new pieces (as well as the occasional erotic art 😏) and I've really begun to feel like I'm creating a community of people who inspire and motivate me to continue sharing my unique stories <3

Times are tough for everyone at the moment, but it would mean a lot to me if you could consider joining, or share to spread the word! Even getting one new member from this post would give me such a boost 🌟 Thank you!! 💛

[jacklineart]

[todaysbird]

that’s a whole man.

[starsinfight]

you can't leave off the photo the sawmill worker took of the kiwi

[sleepytrain]

Koban

Yoyogi, Japan 2026

[dinchenix]

Seaside Breeze Timelapse 🎞

[sparrowvarrow]

Sebastian... Sebastian my beloved.....

[wombywoo]

firestarter

[marieecup]

Tw: size difference, size kink.

It all began in the briefing room when the task force returned from a long deployment. Everyone was exhausted after being stuck in those cargo planes for hours. You couldn't get comfortable in your chair; your backside was aching from those shitty, cold, netted seats.

​Price was rambling about information you all already knew, gesturing at diagrams and maps, but your head was somewhere else. You were trying hard not to whine about the pain, scanning the room for anywhere more comfortable to sit. Suddenly, your eyes landed on Ghost’s well-defined, muscular thighs, and dear God, did they look cushioned.

​"Ghost," you whispered, trying not to draw attention to yourselves. "Hey."

​"Wot?" he grunted, his eyes fixed on Price.

​"My ass really hurts from those shitty aircraft seats. I’m literally dying here. I was wondering if I could sit on your lap?" you begged.

​"What? No. We’re in a bloody meeting."

​"Please! It really hurts!"

​Ghost remained silent for a long moment, analyzing the situation. You were just about to give up when you saw him spread his legs and pat his thigh softly. "You bloody nightmare."

​You blinked several times, then immediately crawled onto his lap. Thank God—they were just as comfortable as you’d imagined. It was like sitting on a damn cloud. Seeking even more comfort, you grabbed both of Ghost’s arms and wrapped them around your waist. He was so massive that he simply rested his chin on the top of your head.

​"The next mission will take place on—" Price cut off abruptly in the middle of his sentence, his eyes locked on the two of you.

​"What? My ass hurts; you really should change the bloody seats on the aircraft," you defended yourself against Price’s judgmental stare.

​That didn't stop you, though. From that day on, you were always found in your usual place: perched on Ghost's thighs. Without fail.

Oh I was CRAVING for something like this i just adore how fucking massive this man is RAWR

[kenmaspuddinghair]

Tattoo artist reader having a crush on simon

Simons only ever had one tattoo artist, every tattoo on his body was done by you. And Simon’s starting to think you have a crush on him. And he wouldn't be wrong. You've known Simon for years, seen more of him then anyone has, and every time he comes in he’s hotter than the last time. The tattoos you've given him are just so hot and then every time he comes in you get so close to him and those nice big muscles. Not only is he so hot, but he’s actually comfortable around you, talks to you, cracks jokes, even some small flirting. 

Simon decides to find out if you actually like him. He comes in like usual, asks you to tattoo something on his chest, he sees the way your face gets red but of course you agree. Simon keeps his mask off even though he doesn't need to, he keeps his eyes on you the whole time, and shamelessly flirts. Still nothing happens, you're definitely more shy and blushing the whole time but that's not enough for Simon. Simon always tips generously and in cash, this time when he handed you your tip he also gave you a paper that said ‘date, Saturday night?’ Simon watched you read it, your head snapped up as soon as you finished reading it, you looked so surprised before you started smiling and nodded. Yeah, Simon would never choose a different tattoo artist.

[graywrenhart]

“God,” Nina sighs, leaning over her desk. “He just walks like it’s heavy, doesn’t he?”

You hum in agreement, one arm slung lazily over holster as you watch Simon Riley stride past.

The two of you stare after him appreciatively, like you’re admiring a prize stallion cross the pasture. His broad frame moves with such a fluid confidence, a quiet strength that makes his weighty kit look light as a feather.

“No, seriously,” you mutter, watching that slight pinch in his waist as he shifts his weight. Woof. “Body tea.”

You both snicker to yourselves, but Ghost freezes mid-step. His mask whips towards you, silencing you immediately. 

“D’you say somethin’ about tea?”

You snort, laughing again as you turn back to Nina. “Fuckin’ brits.”

[dinchenix]

Shop Info: now that my little con-athon is finished, I have reopened the shop!

Item spotlight (because they were sold-out at con): Notepad Paint Classic & Aqua! "Where we all learned to be an abstract artist." 👾🎨

Find it: dinchenix.com/products/notepad-paint

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Tiny Little Demon || Dante Sparda ||

The first sign something was wrong was the growling.

Not the terrifying, earth-shaking demon kind Dante was used to hearing during jobs.

No.

Tiny growling.

Tiny angry growling.

You looked up from the kitchen sink slowly, already suspiciously quiet in the office for the last five minutes, which, with Dante and your daughter involved, usually meant property damage.

“…Honey?” you called carefully.

Another growl answered you.

Then Dante’s absolutely delighted laughter erupted through the building.

“Oh my God!!! sweetheart do that again!”

You dropped the dish towel immediately.

The Devil May Cry office looked like a tornado had passed through it.

Pizza boxes were overturned. One of Dante’s coats had somehow ended up hanging off the ceiling fan. Ebony and Ivory were safely locked away thankfully because apparently even Dante had enough survival instincts to babyproof firearms around a half-demon toddler.

And right in the middle of the chaos stood your daughter.

Tiny.

Furious.

Glowing.

Little crimson horns poked through her soft white hair while a thin tail lashed violently behind her. Her eyes glowed bright demonic gold as she stood atop Dante’s desk in footie pajamas covered in strawberries.

She looked genuinely terrifying.....if she wasn’t three feet tall.

“She bit the table,” Dante informed you proudly from the couch.

Your jaw dropped. “She WHAT?”

“She got mad because I said she couldn’t have ice cream before breakfast.” Dante snorted loudly. “Then boom.... tiny Devil Trigger.”

Your daughter pointed a chubby little finger at him and hissed.

Actually hissed.

Dante burst into another fit of laughter. “Ohhh she’s got ATTITUDE.”

“Dante!” you snapped while hurrying toward her carefully. “Don’t encourage her!”

“She’s adorable!”

“She’s demonic!”

“She’s our demonic.”

Unfortunately, he had a point.

Your daughter stomped her foot angrily the second you got close, tiny claws scratching against the desk surface. Smoke puffed dramatically from her nose like an offended little dragon.

“Oh no,” you whispered. “Baby…”

Her glowing eyes immediately filled with tears.

And just like that the terrifying demonic rage melted into distressed toddler emotions.

“Mama,” she whimpered. Your heart shattered instantly.

You scooped her up carefully despite the claws and tail whipping around anxiously. Her little horns bumped against your shoulder while she buried her face into your neck, sniffling miserably.

Dante’s laughter softened immediately. “Aww, c’mere bug.” He stood from the couch and approached slowly this time, much gentler than before. “Hey…hey, you’re okay.”

“She doesn’t know how to turn it off,” you realized softly.

Your daughter whined pitifully as another tiny growl escaped her hiccups.

Dante crouched beside you both, resting his chin against the top of her head thoughtfully.

“Huh,” he muttered. “Y’know, my first Devil Trigger was way messier.”

You gave him a look. “Not helping.”

“Just saying, she’s doing great.”

Your daughter peeked up at him with glowing eyes, little lips wobbling. “…Daddy?”

Dante melted instantly, completely.

“Oh I am SO screwed,” he whispered dramatically, clutching his chest.

Despite yourself, you laughed softly and then your daughter sneezed.

A burst of demonic energy exploded outward in a tiny shockwave that sent papers flying everywhere and launched Dante backward into the jukebox.

The entire office went silent.

Dante sat there sprawled against the machine staring at the ceiling for two seconds before slowly grinning. “…Okay,” he said proudly. “That was kinda badass.”

And now your daughter was officially exhausted, that was the real problem. It wasn't the horns, not the glowing eyes. Not even the tiny tail currently wrapped tightly around your arm like an anxious cat.

She was overtired, overwhelmed, and emotional — which apparently mixed terribly with dormant demonic instincts.

The Devil Trigger itself had started flickering now.

Little sparks of crimson energy blinked unevenly around her tiny body while she sniffled against your shoulder miserably. Every few seconds the horns would shrink slightly…then pop back out again when she got frustrated.

“Oh honey…” you whispered, rubbing her back carefully.

Another hiccup escaped her as a tiny puff of smoke followed it.

From across the office, Dante watched thoughtfully while leaning against the jukebox he’d been blasted into ten minutes earlier. His expression had finally softened from amused chaos into something gentler.

Experienced.

Because unlike you, Dante remembered what it felt like.

The overwhelming rush.

The fear.

The emotions that got too big too fast.

And judging by the tiny scrunched expression on your daughter’s face, she was scared now too.

“Hey, bug,” Dante said softly.

Your daughter looked up immediately at the sound of his voice, golden eyes watery.

Dante held his hands out toward her slowly. “C’mere for a sec.”

She hesitated then immediately reached for him.

Dante took her carefully against his chest, one large hand supporting the back of her head while her tiny tail wrapped around his wrist instinctively.

“There she is,” he murmured.

Your daughter whimpered quietly. “Daddy…stuck.”

“I know.” Dante sat down on the couch with her curled against him, his hand slowly rubbing up and down her back while the office lights buzzed softly overhead.

“You wanna know a secret?” he asked quietly.

She nodded weakly.

“The first time Daddy transformed, I cried too.”

Your daughter looked up at him with wide glowing eyes. “You did?”

“Oh yeah.” Dante nodded seriously. “Whole thing was a mess. Screaming, breaking stuff…probably looked uglier than you too.”

A tiny giggle escaped her through the sniffles.

“There it is,” Dante grinned softly. “That’s my girl.”

The energy around her flickered again.

Dante’s expression shifted slightly then, becoming more focused. More careful. “Alright,” he murmured. “Listen to me, sweetheart.”

She stared at him intently.

“You gotta breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“You’re panic breathing.” Dante tapped her nose lightly. “Slow breaths. C’mon. Like this.”

He exaggerated one deep inhale then a slow exhale.

Your daughter copied him shakily.

Again & again as the red glow around her dimmed slightly.

“There you go,” Dante praised immediately. “See? You’re controlling it now instead of letting it control you.”

You watched quietly from nearby while your daughter focused entirely on Dante’s voice.

It hit you suddenly then how terrifyingly good he was at this.

Not because he was powerful.

But because he understood her.

Dante rested his forehead gently against hers rocking her gently. "Being part demon doesn’t make you scary,” he told her softly. “Okay? It just means your feelings get really big sometimes.”

“…Like you?”

Dante barked out a laugh. “Oh sweetheart, unfortunately yes.”

Another tiny giggle and this time the horns shrank noticeably.

Dante immediately pointed dramatically. “AYYY there we go!”

Your daughter gasped, reaching for the top of her head.One horn remained as the other was now gone.

“Daddy!” she squealed excitedly.

“Focus, bug, focus!” Dante laughed. “Can’t celebrate yet.”

She concentrated again with the most serious little expression imaginable.Tongue sticking out slightly, tiny fists clenched.

And with one final flicker of crimson light the remaining horn disappeared as tail vanished next.The gold faded from her eyes until they returned normal.

Silence settled over the office.

Your daughter blinked once.Then immediately burst into tears again. “I DON’T WANNA BE SCARY.”

“Oh, baby…” you breathed.

But Dante pulled her close before you could even move.

“Hey.” His voice came firm this time. Certain. “Look at me.”

She sniffled hard.

Dante brushed messy white hair from her forehead gently. “You know what I saw today?”

Your daughter shook her head. “I saw my kid do something incredible.”

Her lip trembled. “But I got angry…”

“Everybody gets angry.” Dante shrugged. “Hell, your Uncle Vergil built his entire personality around it.”

A startled laugh escaped you from across the room.

Your daughter giggled weakly too soft hiccups as her tiny hands clutched his shirt.

Dante smiled softly before kissing the top of her head. “You’re not scary, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’re Sparda blood.”

Your daughter curled closer against his chest sleepily while he held her securely in his lap.

Five minutes later she was fully asleep.

Tiny snores.

Sticky strawberry pajamas.

One little hand gripping Dante’s shirt tightly.

Dante looked down at her with this quiet overwhelmed expression, his voice soft.“…She got your nose.”

You smiled tiredly. “And your chaos.”

“Yeah,” Dante sighed fondly. “Poor kid.”

[anotherrickinthewall]

That was so cute! 🥹

[necrocto]

🔪x🔪