Pre relationship headcanons with mirio like oh my GODDD this man would be so obvious if he had a crush I'm in shambles #needthat 😫😫
Also i have to say i love your work!! Thank you very much for keeping us fed queen
Pre Relationship Mirio
fem!Reader
Mirio who really can’t help but be open about it. He’s not about to let anyone else swoop in and take his place, but he’s also not trying to pressure you into anything. So, he’s very content with what you two have now. He’s perfectly fine with the “One-sided” yearning he’s doing now.
Mirio who’s not a super possessive person, but the second he hears someone refer to you as “Mirio’s Girl” he’s done for. His ego is soaring. He really never thought about having a “claim” over you, but hearing it from others? Other people knowing you basically belong to him? Yeah, maybe he is a possessive person.
Mirio who’s really attentive. He listens to everything you have to say, memorises it even. Even the embarrassing things. You once mentioned how you liked a very specific pokemon? He’ll buy a plush of it or a cute card and pretend like he just saw it while passing by, when really he went out of his way to find it. He’ll remember a really obscure snack you once mentioned wanting to try, and will randomly show up with it one day, urging you to try it. He will not let anyone else try it before you. And if you really like it? He’s magically got three more in his bag.
Mirio who’s so loud. Everything he does. His actions are not subtle at all. He has absolutely no shame, if you asked him to do something super embarrassing the only question he can really bring himself to ask is if it’s gonna give you the ick. He’s also super open about giving you compliments, and will encourage others to do the same. “Isn’t Y/n just so pretty today?” And he will sit there waiting for the person to agree, if not he’ll probably take on a more teasing tone and follow it up with something like “Oh? So you don’t think she’s pretty?” But of course it’s all in good fun…
Mirio who will do anything to spend time with you. Especially when he’s got all that free-time when he loses his quirk. He won’t let it get him down, so he makes the most of that time, spending it with the ones he loves. He’ll literally BEG to join you and the pro you’re shadowing on patrol, it never works but he can’t help it. He’ll break into your dorm before you get back, and sit there just to talk about your night.
Mirio who stumbled upon Eri drawing a picture. One that had a male figure that looked a little too much like him and one that perfectly resembled you. And when he asked her what she was drawing his heart almost stopped. “I drew you and your girlfriend! See! I even put a heart!” He makes sure to keep that picture forever, tucking it into his wallet. But don’t worry he’s definitely shown you way more than once.
I… may have an oral fixation lmao. (This may be obvious if you’ve seen some of my other writing) but godddd Muriel kissing you sloppy style during sex is just everything to me.
It’s his best means of communication. When words fail him when his brain is mush in his head and nothing but drool slicked moans are dripping from his lips Muriel kisses you to tell you how much he loves you.
As if the way his hips rut against yours isn’t loving enough, so carefully trained initially to prioritize your pleasure because he’d been so eager to please you, but now he’s just chasing his own high grinding himself against you riding you/fucking you with a sloppy uneven pace that betrays his earnesty, his desperation, his hunger—his love.
Oh but what if you don’t know that? What if you don’t realize that what you’re doing to him, what you’ve melted him into was a raw unfiltered expression of his love? What if you didn’t remember all the times he said I love you just minutes before? Did he say I love you over and over and over again or did he just say it in his mind? What if you’re just as fucked out as he is? Whining and keening and drooling so so so prettily, light catching on all the drool and slime like fallen stars scattered around your twined bodies….
Well he has to kiss you. To remind you through all the brain fog… to say I love you without words…
Of course, sometimes there’s the issue of a height difference. Whether it’s the position you’re in or an actual difference in size, sometimes Muriel had to pause, to untangle your bodies just a bit, just enough that he can meet your lips.
Of course in the state he’s in—in the state you’re in—he wouldn’t be so foolish as to deny you. Wouldn’t have the willpower to deny himself at that point tbh, so his solution? Use his skilled hands to help you while he ruts against your leg like a dog<3
He just wants to kiss you… let him kiss you please? Please?? Just wants to convey how much he loves you in a (body)language you speak both in and out if sex
You can get back to fucking after the kiss! Or maybe during the kiss if you aren’t too tangled… but he can treat you so so sooooo good with his hands… he’s had so much practice on you remember? He knows you inside and out so won’t you let him kiss you?
This skewed to a more submissive Muriel but I am a believer that this man’s got range so like also also also like…
Imagine he’s the more sane one. More put together cause he made you cum on his fingers & tongue like 5+ times already, all with a careful loving touch, hands sweeping appreciatively over the sensitive flesh of your thighs or over your tummy and hips or even your chest as he gives you a moment to breathe before he dives right back in, fully intending to try and make you go as insane as he feels whenever he just looks at you. It’s only fair after all, right?
But that doesn’t stop him from wanting to kiss you. Doesn’t stop him from leaning on the crutch of that all too familiar silent form of communication that so obviously means “I love you” maybe he worries that his words just aren’t getting through to you so he has to kiss you to make sure of it.
Ah but when I say he’s sane don’t think he’s somehow so completely unaffected by you whining and moaning and begging for him. He’s not-so-subtly grinding his cock against your leg while he kisses you, melts against you at the feel of you gasping for air at every little shift of your lips on his but leaning into the kiss almost as fervently as him. He’s doing his best to stay the “rational one” as you come apart at the seams but you’re just so enticing and amazing and sweet and he loves you he loves you he loves you he loves you.
Maybe he accidentally cums on your leg without getting to put it in you… maybe he manages to shove himself inside fucking you nice and hard just in time to fill you up…
Maybe he brings you to the brink of cumming before he takes you inside of him.
Whatever the case his mind would go absolutely blank, whining and keening at the sheer overwhelming amount of pleasure you gave him, the amount of pleasure he was able to give you…
And maybe he’s a little bit teary-eyed after all of it, coming down from that high, finally escaping that delirium….
And what else does does he do but nestle himself between your arms wrapping his own tight round you in turn, letting you feel the rapid beat of his heart in his chest pressed against your own, and kisses you, long and sweet and deep, still gasping in the kiss until his breath evens out enough to him at the way you suck on his tongue, the way your tongue feels when he wraps his around yours….
Mateo can feel whenever you use your blanket for, other things. He enjoys being able to help you out and bring you to that pleasure you chase.
Yeah so, it's basically just smut I guess.
🩵💙🩵💙
NSFW/MDNI
You stayed up late again. Scrolling on that dumb phone reading smut before bed. ‘Just one more chapter’ you’d tell yourself ‘then I’ll go to bed.’ Only for that one chapter to become 2. And for those 2 chapters to become a completely different fanfic altogether.
You seemed to be hitting a goldmine tonight. Each fic provides really everything you were looking for. Your favorite rare-pair has some new fics. Your favorite crack ship? There’s about 4 new fics posted recently. A fic you’ve been following for awhile? IT’S BEEN UPDATED. And, everything seemed to be tagged properly too!
You have no idea how long you've been up at this point. Surely way past the time you planned on going to bed. Ignoring the pixels that make up the time on the top of your screen for a reason. You'll go to bed soon, you can feel your eyelids becoming heavy.
That was until you got to a really good part. Goodness, your favorite character just said one of the hottest things ever and now your whole body feels as if it's on fire. The ache below your navel becomes apparent. As if it's screaming at you for anything, any sort of friction.
So- you roll over onto your tummy. Balling up your orange knitted blanket and stuffing underneath your pelvis. Rolling your hips against it, experimenting with the angle until you hit against it just right. Lips parting as a shock of pleasure shoots up your body.
________________________
Mateo does his best to give you privacy whenever you're reading, especially when it's uh, ‘spicy’. Unlike Betty who tends to look over your shoulder and read along with you. He doesn't mind what happens while you read though. Normally you snuggle up with him wrapped around you. All cozy like as you fall deep into whatever story that decorates your screen. To you, your blanket is just wrapped around your body. To him? He's sitting behind you, chin resting on your shoulder and arms wrapped around your waist. Holding you close and keeping you warm.
A secret to him, that nobody but Betty knows, is that he really does enjoy the aftermath of your nightly reading. When you get so hot and bothered your body aches for attention, so you use him to chase that pleasure you need. Just like you are tonight.
“Ah-” Mateo breathes out as you grind against his member. Hands on your hips, keeping you steady as you chase what is rightfully yours. His head falls back, gaze staying on you as he watches your face contort from the pleasure.
The tent in his bottoms jumps whenever you let out one of your pretty soft sounds. The way you pant when you're close sounds like music to his ears. Over the years, he's learned your tics and signs. Able to tell easily when you're just so close.
He knows you can't actually hear him, but he indulges anyway.
“Go on Mi Vida, finish for me-” His heart races, burying his face into the crook of your neck. Inhaling your scent as your hips shudder.
“Good job, so good.” Rubbing your back with soft circles. Wishing that you could somehow feel the comfort he's doing his best to provide.
Sure he didn't finish. Usually you don't go long enough for him to get the chance to. Knowing your body the best and reaching your climax quickly. But that's okay. Maybe one day, he'll get to finish with you. With you actually able to hear and see the real him. Gosh, he can only hope.
*the last ones would (probably) be more in character for them in step 2 but since they only date mc in step 3 i decided to put their step 3 versions there instead :p
Can u do 🙈⛓️🚨 with the hanks from date everything pls
🙈 something they’re shy about asking for
Contrary to popular belief, while the 5 of them are a package deal, taking all 5 of them into the bedroom at once is not compulsory.
Unless, you know, you were into that… 👉👈
⛓️ kinky headcanon
They all have different kinks, some overlap, some are unique. Hank 3 may not necessarily be the kinkiest, he’s just the most vocal.
One thing I don’t see talked about much, though, is their affinity toward your clothes. They like helping you dress, they like when you smell like them, but also just touching and smelling and maybe even wearing your clothes. They’re your hangs, and they just have an innate urge to be involved in your dressing and undressing as much as possible.
🚨sex that sent me to the ER headcanon
They’re so safety-forward, it’s hard to believe there would ever be a time they would let something slip so bad that you could get injured from it. That would be super irresponsible, house homie. But then, there are five of them, and it’s easy to let things slip through the cracks in the throes of passion. 5 pairs of hands grope and pull at you, vying for your attention and affection, surely one of them might pull too hard, twisting your arm in a way that’s it’s not meant to go, or overreaching and accidentally tugging you off the bed, causing you to tumble to the floor.
Hiiii I'm a new follower and I have a request if you can be able to...
Could you please write some headcanons of how the upper moons 1-3 + muzan would eat you out? 😩
(I just started watching demon slayer not too long ago and omg the demons are finnnnnneeee)
how the upper moons would eat you out !!
including: kokushibo, douma, akaza, muzan.
a/n: hii tysm for followinggg, i actually had a fun time writing this! alsoo im soo sorry for posting this late i was supposed to finish this the day you asked but i was locked in on roblox🥹✌🏽
mdni, smut below cut !!!
Kokushibo
Kokushibo approaches the act with the same methodical precision he applies to his swordsmanship. There is nothing hurried, nothing careless about the way he touches you. He positions you before him like a ritual preparation—body arranged just so, limbs placed with deliberate intention, the atmosphere heavy with anticipation.
He does not speak. Words are unnecessary when his actions convey everything.
His hands are the first point of contact. Long fingers, calloused from centuries of gripping his blade, trace the inside of your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship. The touch is light at first—feathery strokes that map your skin, memorizing every contour, every sensitive patch. He watches your reactions with those six eyes, cataloging each twitch, each sharp inhale, each trembling exhale. He learns your body like a technique he intends to master.
When he finally lowers his head, it is with the grace of a falling leaf. His breath ghosts over your cunt, warm and measured, before his lips press a single kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Another. He works his way inward with excruciating slowness, building anticipation until your hips shift involuntarily, seeking his mouth.
He denies you at first.
"Patience," he murmurs, the first word he's spoken. His voice is deep, resonant, vibrating against your sensitive skin.
His tongue emerges like a blade from its sheath—controlled, precise, devastating. He traces your folds with the tip, following the natural lines of your body like calligraphy strokes. The pressure is exact, never too much, never too little. He finds your clit not by accident but by design, circling it with a rhythm that feels premeditated.
He maintains that rhythm without deviation. He does not speed up, does not slow down, does not vary his technique until you are arching into his mouth, breath catching, fingers gripping the sheets. Only when your body signals impending climax does he change his approach—and even then, it is calculated.
He slides two fingers inside you, curling them with surgical precision, pressing against that spongy wall of nerves while his tongue continues its relentless circles. The combination is devastating, orchestrated to push you over the edge with mechanical efficiency.
When you come, he does not stop. He draws out every wave, every contraction, licking through your orgasm until you are trembling and oversensitive. Only then does he pull back, a thin string of saliva connecting his lips to your center.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression unreadable.
"Acceptable," he says. But the faintest curl at the corner of his lips betrays his satisfaction.
He will do it again, you realize. He has cataloged your responses, identified your weaknesses, and he will refine his technique until "acceptable" becomes "perfection."
Douma
Douma views the act as performance.
Not in a self-conscious way—he is beyond such mortal concerns—but in the sense that he approaches every interaction as a spectacle, a show to be witnessed and appreciated. That he happens to be the performer and the audience simultaneously is simply part of the entertainment.
He is theatrical from the moment he begins. He kneels before you with exaggerated reverence, pressing his palms together in mock prayer, a beatific smile spread across his features.
"Let us begin our communion," he says, his voice dripping with false piety. His rainbow eyes glitter with amusement. He knows exactly how ridiculous he looks. He does not care. If anything, he revels in it.
He takes his time undressing you, not with the reverence of Kokushibo but with the flair of a showman. Each piece of clothing removed is accompanied by a dramatic sigh, a murmured compliment, a lingering touch that borders on teasing. He treats your body like a gift he is unwrapping, savoring the reveal with theatrical delight.
When he finally settles between your thighs, he presses a kiss to each one, then to your mound, then to your clit through the fabric of your underwear—if you're still wearing any at this point. He looks up at you through his lashes, that infuriating smile still in place.
"This is my favorite part," he announces, as if sharing a delightful secret.
He is chatty. Gods, is he chatty.
"You taste divine tonight. Have you been eating something different? Or is it simply the anticipation making everything more exquisite?"
He punctuates his commentary with licks, each one deliberate and showy. He has a tendency to pull away at the worst moments—right when you're getting close, right when the pleasure crests toward its peak—just to make some observation or ask a question.
"Do you like it when I do this? Or perhaps you prefer—"
He demonstrates both options, watching your face with clinical fascination. He takes notes. Not literally, but you can feel his attention sharpen, cataloging your reactions with the same intensity Kokushibo uses, but for entirely different reasons. Douma wants to entertain you. He wants to be the best you've ever had, not out of pride but out of a deep, incomprehensible need to be interesting.
He switches techniques constantly. Fast, slow, broad strokes, pointed flicks, suction that borders on painful before softening into something gentler. He hums while he works, melodies from forgotten eras, the vibrations adding another layer of sensation.
When he brings you to climax, he does not stop talking.
"Yes, that's it. Beautiful. Absolutely exquisite. You should see your face right now—I wish I had a mirror—"
He licks through your orgasm with enthusiasm, lapping at you like a man dying of thirst. When you finally collapse, trembling, he sits up, chin glistening, and claps his hands together.
"Bravo. Encore? No? Perhaps later."
He will absolutely bring it up at dinner. "Remember that thing I did with my tongue? I've been thinking of variations."
Akaza
Akaza is intense.
There is no other word for it. The moment he decides he wants to taste you, everything else ceases to exist. The world narrows to the space between your thighs, and he attacks it with the same ferocity he brings to combat—but tempered with a desperation that borders on reverent.
He does not ask. He takes.
Not violently—never violently, not with you—but with a certainty that leaves no room for ambiguity. He pushes you onto your back, settles between your legs, and buries his face in your cunt like he's been starved for it. His first contact is a full-mouthed kiss, tongue pressing flat and firm, tasting you in long, greedy strokes.
He groans against you. The sound vibrates through your core, making your hips buck.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word muffled. "You taste—fuck."
His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. He does not seem to notice, or perhaps he does not care. His focus is absolute, his attention laser-locked on the act of devouring you.
He is not methodical. He is not theatrical. He is hungry.
His tongue moves with desperate, frantic energy—licking, sucking, pressing, probing. He alternates between deep, broad strokes that cover your entire cunt and sharp, focused attention on your clit that makes you see stars. There is no rhythm, no pattern, just raw, unfiltered need.
He pulls away only to breathe, and even then, his mouth hovers over you, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes wild and intense.
"More," he growls. Not a question. A demand.
He dives back in.
He uses everything—lips, tongue, teeth (gentle, careful pressure that borders on pain before backing off), his nose pressing against your clit while his tongue works your entrance. He brings you to the edge so many times you lose count, each time pulling you back just before the fall, savoring your desperation.
"Please," you gasp, not knowing what you're begging for.
He groans in response, the sound desperate. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, pulling you closer, deeper, until his face is completely buried in your cunt, nose pressed against your clit, tongue fucking into you.
When he finally lets you come, it is with a roar of satisfaction that vibrates through your entire body. He does not relent, does not slow, does not stop until you are sobbing from the overstimulation, pushing weakly at his head.
Only then does he pull back, his face slick, his eyes burning with possessive fire.
"Mine," he says, and the word is a vow.
He will do it again within the hour. He will not be satisfied until you are completely wrecked, until you cannot walk, until the only word you remember is his name.
Muzan
Muzan does not kneel.
This is the first thing you must understand about him. He is the progenitor, the king of demons, a being who has lived for over a thousand years and answered to no one. The idea of him placing himself beneath anyone—even in an act of intimate service—is almost incomprehensible.
And yet.
He does it because he chooses to. And that choice makes it infinitely more significant.
He arranges you on the bed with imperial precision. He does not undress you himself—that would be beneath him—but he instructs you to do so, watching with cold, appraising eyes as you comply. His gaze moves over your body like a general surveying a battlefield, assessing worth, calculating value.
When he is satisfied, he approaches.
He does not lower himself to the bed. Instead, he remains standing, looking down at you with an expression of detached curiosity. His hand reaches out, fingers tracing down your torso, pausing at your hip, your thigh, before sliding between your legs.
He examines you like a specimen. His fingers part your folds, exposing you to the cool air, to his unblinking stare. He does not touch where you want him to—not yet. He simply looks.
"So this is what you offer," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Interesting."
He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting your essence with the deliberation of a sommelier sampling wine. His eyes close briefly, and when they open, there is something new in them. Interest. Perhaps even hunger.
He finally kneels.
But even on his knees, he exudes authority. He does not grovel. He does not plead. He positions himself between your thighs with the grace of a predator settling into a strike, and when he lowers his head, it is with the deliberate intention of a king bestowing a gift.
His tongue is inhuman.
Not in the grotesque sense—it appears normal, pink and wet and warm—but in its precision, its control, its ability to adapt in ways no human tongue could match. He can make it longer, thinner, can change its texture from smooth to rough with a thought. He uses this ability with calculated cruelty.
He starts with soft, broad strokes that cover your entire cunt, his eyes fixed on your face, watching every micro-expression. He finds the spots that make you gasp, the angles that make you moan, and he files that information away for later use.
He does not rush. He takes his time, drawing out the experience, savoring your responses like a connoisseur tasting a rare wine. Occasionally, he pulls away entirely, leaving you aching and empty, just to see the frustration flicker across your face.
"You want more," he says. It is not a question.
"Yes."
"Do you deserve more?"
The question hangs in the air. He waits for your answer, his tongue tracing lazy patterns on your inner thigh, deliberately avoiding where you need him most.
"Please," you finally say.
He smiles. It is not a kind smile.
"Good answer."
He returns to your cunt with renewed purpose, his tongue now focused on your clit, flicking and circling with inhuman speed. He adds fingers—three, four, more? It's hard to count, hard to think when he's doing that—curling them inside you, stretching you, filling you.
The pleasure builds like a storm, overwhelming and relentless. He does not let up, does not slow, does not give you a moment to catch your breath. He drives you toward climax with merciless efficiency, and when you finally break, he does not stop.
He keeps going, drawing out your orgasm until it borders on painful, until you are shaking and crying and begging him to stop. Only then does he pull back, licking his lips, his expression one of cold satisfaction.
"Adequate," he pronounces. "We will try again tomorrow. I expect better results."
He will not tell you what "better results" means. He will simply push you harder, demand more, and take immense pleasure in watching you fall apart beneath his touch.
Bonus: All Four Simultaneously
In the impossible scenario where all four Upper Moons decide to share you, the experience would be overwhelming in every sense of the word.
Kokushibo would focus on your upper body, pinning you in place, whispering instructions in that calm, measured voice. "Breathe. Do not fight it. Surrender."
Douma would narrate the entire experience, offering commentary that ranges from poetic to obscene, laughing at the absurdity of the situation even as he buries his face between your thighs.
Akaza would consume himself with one goal: making you come as many times as possible. He would track each orgasm, pushing for the next, never satisfied until you were reduced to a trembling, incoherent mess.
And Muzan would watch. He would stand apart, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with cold amusement, directing the scene like a conductor leading an orchestra. His pleasure would come not from physical participation but from the absolute control he holds over every aspect of the experience.
It would be too much. It would never be enough.
And you would never be the same.
i felt generous soo i added a bonus🥹🫰🏽
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