#hobgoblin x reader

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi! If it’s not too much, could you do spider-man villains responding to an underling hitting reader like you did for the bat-villains? (Idk if you do the spider-man villains or just marvel villains in general so feel free to do that if you’d prefer) You’re really good at getting into characters’ heads it’s really fun to read!

MARVEL COMICS VILLAINS X FEM!READER

One of the underlings hit you and your partner finds out

Characters: Dr. Doom, Bullseye, Taskmaster, Loki, Crossbones, Zemo, Muse, Hela, Green Goblin, Eddie/Venom, Doctor Octopus, Kraven, The Lizard, Carnage, Electro, Kingpin, Scorpion, Hobgoblin, Mysterio, Sandman, Shocker, Chameleon, Mister Negative & Boomerang

Reply to anon: FINALLY some love for Spider-Man villains. The Spider-Man and Batman villain gallery are my favorites. I've done (almost) all of Spider-Boy's most popular villains, I really hope I did the ones you wanted.

Victor von Doom | Doctor Doom

- Doom is not a man prone to outbursts. He does not rage blindly, does not allow emotions to dictate his actions. No, his fury is measured, calculated—and when he sees the mark left on your perfect skin, he does not waste words. He simply turns, his cloak billowing as he leaves. You know better than to stop him. Whatever is about to happen is inevitable. Doom does not tolerate offenses. And this—this was the gravest of all.

- The punishment is not merely death. Death is merciful, death is quick. Doom does not grant mercy to those who defile what is his. The offender is stripped of their name, their purpose, their very existence. Doom ensures they are erased, their presence scoured from the annals of time, their life reduced to a whisper of agony. He does not need to sully his own hands—no, the world itself bends to his will, and his will is retribution.

- When he returns to you, his mask betrays nothing, but you can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity that lingers. He reaches for you—not to inspect the wound, not to seek forgiveness, but to claim you once more, to remind you that you belong to him, and he to you. "None shall harm you and live," he states, as if it is a fundamental truth of the universe. And perhaps, under his rule, it is.

- His gauntleted fingers ghost over your skin, a contradiction of metal and reverence, of cold steel and burning devotion. "You are under my protection," he murmurs, "and my protection is absolute.” His lips brush against your temple, the touch fleeting, possessive. "They will remember what happens to those who forget."

Lester | Bullseye

- He doesn't get angry. Not at first. He just stares at you, head tilting slightly, the way a predator assesses a kill. And then—he laughs. Not the usual, cocky, self-satisfied kind. No, this one is sharper, colder, something that sends a chill down your spine. "They really put their hands on you?" he asks, his voice edged with something deadly, something thrilled. Because now? Now he gets to play.

- He finds them fast. He doesn’t rush—no, he takes his time. He enjoys watching the moment of realization dawn, the way fear blooms when they understand exactly who they’ve pissed off. And when he strikes, it isn’t just a kill. It’s an art form. He breaks bones with pinpoint accuracy, flays skin with nothing but the flick of a blade. Every hit is personal, every wound a lesson. By the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but ruin.

- When he comes back, he’s still grinning, like he’s high off the violence. He leans in close, voice dripping with amusement. "Y’know, I was gonna kill ‘em quick, but then I thought—nah, let’s make it memorable." His fingers trace the bruise on your skin, eyes dark with something almost hungry. "Bet they won’t be hittin’ anyone ever again. Hell, they won’t even be breathing."

- Then, just as suddenly, the danger flickers, shifts into something else. His hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in, his lips brushing against yours, slow and deliberate. "Next time, babe? Just say the word. I'll tear the whole damn world apart for you."

Tony Masters | Taskmaster

- Tony doesn't ask what happened—he sees it. The way you shift your weight, the slight tension in your jaw, the way your hand lingers over the injury just a second too long. He catches every detail, every weakness, because that’s what he does. And right now? Right now, someone’s weakness is about to become their death sentence.

- He doesn't just kill the bastard. No, that would be easy. He studies them first. Watches their movements, their stance, every tell in their body. And then? Then he dismantles them. Uses their own techniques against them, mirrors their every move just to show them how outmatched they are. By the time he’s done, they don’t just lose. They know they never stood a chance.

- When he returns, there’s no grand declaration, no need for theatrics. He just sits beside you, arms crossed, gaze sharp and assessing. "You alright?" he asks, and it’s almost casual—almost. But there’s a weight to it, an unspoken promise beneath the words. You nod, and he exhales, rolling his shoulders. "Good." A beat. Then, "Don’t let it happen again."

- But later, when the lights are low and his guard is down, his hand drifts to your hip, his thumb brushing slow, idle circles against your skin. "Ain't nobody touches you but me," he mutters, voice rough, possessive. "And I don't do soft." His lips ghost over yours, teasing, taunting. "But for you? Maybe I’ll make an exception."

Loki Laufeyson

- He does not react at first. He simply observes. Fingers steepled, expression unreadable, eyes too calm. And that? That is far more terrifying than rage. Because Loki is not a creature of impulse. He is a creature of calculated destruction. And this? This offense against you? It will be answered with something far worse than death.

- The punishment is poetic. He does not simply kill the offender—he undoes them. Twists their mind until they are unmade, until they do not know their own name, their own face. They become a whisper, a tragedy, a thing lost to the very fabric of reality itself. And Loki? Loki watches, amused, as they break. "Oh, dear," he muses. "It seems you have forgotten yourself. Allow me to help." And with a flick of his fingers, they are gone.

- When he returns to you, there is a smirk curling at his lips, something self-satisfied in his gaze. "It is done," he says simply, as if he has merely handled a small inconvenience. And perhaps, to him, that’s all it was. But then, his expression shifts—just slightly. His fingers ghost over your wrist, featherlight, careful, as if you are something fragile, something to be preserved. "They will not bother you again," he murmurs, "nor will anyone else."

- His arms encircle you, drawing you against him, and for a moment, there is no trickery, no illusion—just him, real and solid. His lips graze your ear, a whisper of silk and steel. "You are mine," he breathes, and there is something almost reverent in the way he says it. "And I do not share."

Brock Rumlow | Crossbones

- The moment he sees the bruise on your skin, something inside him snaps. There’s no slow burn, no measured response—just instant, blistering rage. Brock doesn’t ask who did it. He already knows. He doesn’t ask why. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that someone was stupid enough to lay a hand on you, and now? Now they have to pay.

- He doesn’t just kill them—he annihilates them. There’s no finesse, no mercy, just raw, unfiltered violence. The crack of bone, the wet sound of flesh giving way—he takes his time, makes it hurt. He wants them to understand what they’ve done. Wants them to feel every ounce of pain they dared to bring upon you. By the time he’s done, they’re nothing more than a broken, unrecognizable mess on the floor.

- When he comes back to you, his knuckles are split, his breathing heavy, his hands still trembling with the aftershock of violence. But when his eyes meet yours, the fury melts into something else. Something dark, something possessive. He reaches for you, fingers rough as they trace over your injury, his touch lingering, slow. "Ain't nobody touches what’s mine," he mutters, voice like gravel, low and sharp with promise. "Nobody."

- And then his grip tightens, just enough to remind you, just enough to claim. His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Next time?" His voice drops to a whisper, deadly and sweet. "I won’t just kill ‘em. I’ll make sure they beg for it first."

Helmut Zemo

- Zemo is silent when he sees the mark on you. Too silent. The kind of quiet that is far more dangerous than any outburst, far more lethal than raised voices or shattered glass. His fingers ghost over the injury with a gentleness that feels almost deceptive, his expression unreadable, his mind already working, already planning.

- His revenge is not messy. It is not violent. It is precise. He does not grant them the dignity of an immediate death—no, he dismantles them. Strips them of their status, their power, their very identity. He orchestrates their downfall with the patience of a man who thrives on the long game, ensuring they lose everything before he grants them the release of death. By the time he is finished, they are nothing more than a ghost.

- When he returns to you, his movements are slow, deliberate. He cups your face, tilting it up so you can see the satisfaction glinting in his eyes. "It is done," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek with something almost reverent. "They will never so much as whisper your name again."

- Then, his lips graze your temple, lingering there, soft but unshakable. "No one lays a hand on you and lives," he breathes against your skin. "Not while I still draw breath."

Muse

- He doesn’t react at first. No flicker of emotion, no shift in expression—just a slow, almost languid turn of his head as he processes the fact that someone dared to harm you. And then, after a moment of silence, he smiles. It’s not warm, not reassuring—it’s something else. Something wrong. Something that should send chills down your spine.

- The underling doesn’t just die. No, Muse creates with them. He turns them into something grotesque, something artful. He strips them of their humanity in the most literal sense, carving into their flesh with the same care a sculptor takes to marble. When he’s finished, they are unrecognizable, their body a message, a masterpiece. Something for the world to witness.

- When he returns, his hands are still wet with blood, his smile still stretching a little too wide. He steps closer, tilting his head as he looks at you, as if seeing you for the first time. "You make me feel things I do not understand," he murmurs, his voice lilting, almost dreamlike. "And yet, I do not mind."

- His fingers trail over your bruised skin, slow, thoughtful. "You are mine," he hums, as if tasting the words. "And I do not take kindly to those who ruin my muse."

Hela

- Her rage is not loud. It does not explode. It devours. A slow, insidious thing that coils around her like smoke, seething just beneath the surface. She does not speak when she sees the mark on your skin. She does not need to. The air itself seems to grow heavy, the very shadows bending toward her as if they fear what is to come.

- She does not simply kill the one responsible—she eradicates them. Their soul is hers now, ripped from their body, condemned to an eternity of suffering in her grasp. She ensures their torment is endless, their agony woven into the very fabric of Hel itself. They will know true despair. They will beg for release, and she will deny them.

- When she returns to you, she does not ask if you are alright. She knows you are. You are strong. But still, her touch is almost gentle as she brushes a gloved hand over your bruised skin, as if assessing the damage, as if reminding herself that you are here. "They are nothing now," she murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. "They will never touch you again."

- Then, she cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. Her lips curve into a smirk, dark, knowing. "You are mine," she breathes, her voice a silken promise. "And what is mine is untouchable."

Norman Osborn | The Green Goblin

- He is not a man known for softness. The world has felt the wrath of his intellect, his madness, his power—but never his kindness. Yet, in his own way, you are an exception. An obsession that burrowed into his mind and refused to leave. You were his, a claim as absolute as the empire he built with blood and fire. And when one of his men struck you, something terrible and ruinous cracked open within him. Norman does not react with immediate fury. No, his rage is patient, a slow-moving thing with sharpened teeth, and it festers in silence as he watches you, as his gloved hand ghosts over the mark left behind. His voice is eerily calm. "Who?" is all he asks, and though you know what will come, you do not stop him.

- He does not waste time. The moment the name is given, the air shifts, heavy with the weight of his impending vengeance. He could kill the man outright—could rip him apart with his hands and laugh as he did it—but Norman is nothing if not poetic. There is no need for theatrics, no need for a Goblin’s grin. He strips away his mask and handles the matter as Osborn, the man, the king, the ruthless god in a businessman’s skin. His underlings learn a lesson that night: a punishment that stretches long, a display of control so profound that even those loyal to him shudder at the sight. Norman does not simply kill; he dismantles.

- He returns to you in the aftermath, his fingers still stained with evidence of his wrath. There is no apology, no soft words meant to soothe. He does not think you need them. He takes your face in his hands, holds you as if committing the shape of you to memory, and leans in, his forehead resting against yours. "You are not to be touched," he murmurs, his voice laced with something dark, something final. "Not by them. Not by anyone. Only me." His mouth finds yours, claiming and bruising, a reminder of who you belong to, of who would set the world ablaze before letting another lay a hand on you.

- In the days that follow, his men become more careful, their eyes lowering whenever you pass. He revels in it, in their fear, in the knowledge that you are untouchable. But more than that, Norman basks in the way you still stand at his side, still allow his hands on your skin, still whisper his name in the quiet of night. He does not say it aloud, but he knows it in the marrow of his bones: he would burn everything for you.

Eddie Brock | Venom

- The moment Venom senses it, the moment the bruising scent of pain clings to you, Eddie is already moving. His body tenses like a predator scenting blood, fists curling, jaw tightening, and before you can say anything, a voice darker than night slithers out, a guttural growl vibrating in his chest. "Who hurt you?" The question is not for you to answer. Venom already knows.

- There is no reasoning with Eddie when his rage is ignited, no space for rational thought. He is a man of fury, of primal justice, and there is no justice more absolute than the one he will deliver. Venom is delighted, saliva dripping from his fanged mouth as he urges Eddie forward. "We eat them." But Eddie is not in the mood for quick endings. No, this calls for something more intimate. He corners the man, fists colliding with flesh, with bone, and with each hit, his breath comes harsher, his mind consumed by the vision of you hurt, of someone daring to lay a hand on what is his.

- When he returns to you, his knuckles are bloody, his breathing uneven, but his eyes—his eyes are the most dangerous part of him. "It won’t happen again," he says, and Venom’s voice purrs in agreement, curling around the words like a promise. You reach for him, fingers tracing over the remnants of his anger, and for a moment, his fury falters. His grip tightens around you, desperate, possessive, as if anchoring himself in your warmth. "I don’t share," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine. "I don’t forgive, either."

- The city speaks in whispers after that. The man who struck you is nowhere to be found, his existence erased with the efficiency of something monstrous. Eddie doesn’t care. Venom doesn’t care. They are satisfied only in the way you still let them near, in the way your fingers tangle in Eddie’s hair as he presses against you, breathing in your scent like a man who has only ever known hunger.

Otto Octavius | Doctor Octopus

- He is a man of brilliance, of intellect, of control. But all of it fractures when he sees the mark on your skin. His metal limbs twitch, their claws clicking in restless anticipation, and his grip on his own restraint becomes tenuous. He prides himself on logic, on the ability to calculate his moves, but rage has always been an old friend, and tonight, it whispers to him with venomous sweetness. He cups your chin, his touch unexpectedly gentle despite the storm brewing in his gaze. "Tell me," he says, his voice like silk stretched over steel.

- When you do, he does not explode. Otto Octavius is not a man of reckless outbursts—he is a man of consequences. The one who hurt you does not suffer immediately. No, Otto drags it out, makes it a lesson, makes it art. His tentacles wrap around the man like a vice, lifting him effortlessly, squeezing just enough to let terror sink in. "Do you know what you’ve done?" he muses, tilting his head in that calculating way of his. "Do you understand the depths of your mistake?" There is no mercy in his eyes, only the cold brilliance of a scientist dissecting his latest subject.

- When he returns, his hands are clean, his composure intact. But there is something different in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. "No one will touch you again," he says, a quiet promise that rings louder than any scream. His arms coil around you, steel and flesh alike, pressing you into him as if ensuring your safety through sheer proximity. He is not an affectionate man, not in the traditional sense, but this—this is devotion in its truest form.

- The world shifts after that. His subordinates tread carefully, their fear evident, their respect unwavering. Otto does not care for their opinions, only for the knowledge that you are untouchable, that the universe itself would have to shatter before he allowed harm to reach you again. And when he holds you at night, when he feels the warmth of your body against his own, he knows with absolute certainty—he would burn every last one of them for you.

Sergei Kravinoff | Kraven the Hunter

- The air is thick with tension when he finds out. There is no great display of fury, no immediate act of violence—but the shift in him is undeniable. His gaze darkens, his jaw sets, and his muscles coil like a beast moments before the kill. He does not ask you to name the culprit. He does not need to. The hunt is already beginning in his mind, the scent of blood calling to him. "They have wronged you," he murmurs, his accent curling around the words like a snare. "That is all I need to know."

- He does not go after them as a man. He goes as a predator. There is no chance for escape, no hope for mercy. The one who hurt you does not simply die; they are hunted, chased, reduced to nothing more than prey beneath the weight of Sergei’s wrath. And when he returns, there is blood beneath his nails, a satisfied smirk on his lips, and something primal burning in his eyes as they settle on you.

- He takes your face in his hands, his fingers rough yet reverent. "You are mine," he tells you, his voice low, possessive, unshaken. "And no man touches what is mine." There is no hesitation when he kisses you, no gentleness—only the raw, unfiltered hunger of a man who has conquered and claimed.

- After that, there is silence. No one dares cross you, no one even dares look too long. And Sergei—Sergei watches you like the wild thing he is, his need for you carved into his very soul.

Dr. Curt Connors | The Lizard

- There are two versions of the man you love, and both are dangerous in their own ways. Dr. Connors—the brilliant, fractured scientist—sees you as something fragile, something to be protected. The Lizard—the monstrous, primal force—sees you as his, an undeniable part of his territory, a possession no one else is permitted to touch. When he smells the injury, when his reptilian senses detect the slightest irregularity in your scent, his pupils slit into thin lines, and his talons twitch. He does not ask what happened. He does not need to. You can see the change in him, the slow, deliberate way his muscles coil, the predator awakening beneath the man.

- Curt tries to hold back at first, tries to reason with himself, to suppress the darker part of him that howls for blood. But then he sees the mark—small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but a wound on you—and all his restraint shatters. His skin ripples, the transformation taking hold, scales pushing through flesh, bones shifting as something cold-blooded and relentless takes over. The man who hurt you does not get the mercy of a warning. He does not get the chance to run. The Lizard hunts him down with terrifying precision, dragging him into the depths of the sewers, where screams do not reach the surface world.

- He does not return to you as Curt, not yet. The Lizard comes first, his body tense with the aftermath of his fury, his eyes glowing in the dim light. He circles you like an animal, sniffing the air, ensuring no scent of your attacker lingers. When his clawed hands cup your face, they are gentle despite their lethal potential, his rough thumb tracing over the bruise with something close to reverence. "Mine," he hisses, low and guttural, his tail twitching behind him. "No one hurts what belongs to me." His forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air around you, confirming you are safe. Only then does he allow himself to shift back, bones snapping, scales melting away, until it is Curt again—shaken, horrified by his own lack of control, but unrepentant.

- After that night, no one in his employ ever touches you again. They don’t even stand too close. The fear lingers, thick and suffocating, but you do not fear him. Not truly. Not when he presses his forehead against yours in the quiet of your shared sanctuary, his breath still uneven from the monster within him. "I won’t let it happen again," he murmurs, half a promise, half a warning to the world. And you believe him.

Cletus Kasady | Carnage

- Violence has always been Cletus’s language, and love—if he can even call what he feels for you that—is simply an extension of it. His affection is red, dripping, chaotic, something sharp-edged and all-consuming. So when he finds out someone has dared to touch you, to lay their filthy hands on what he claimed, he does not fly into a rage. No, no, no. Rage is too simple. Rage is what lesser men feel. What he feels is a different kind of thrill—something euphoric, something electric. The knowledge that he now has an excuse to indulge himself, to play.

- He finds the man easily. Carnage is not subtle, never has been, and there is no need for stealth when the hunt is half the fun. He takes his time with it, drags it out, makes sure the bastard understands the mistake he made. There are screams, of course. Begging. Pleading. But Cletus only laughs, red tendrils writhing around him like something alive, his grin wide and wicked. He does not just kill. He desecrates. When it is over, he leaves what remains in a place everyone will see, a message written in blood and viscera: SHE’S MINE.

- When he returns to you, he is still drenched in his work, red creeping up his neck like war paint. His fingers are slick when they cup your chin, tilting your head so he can drink in the sight of you, the only thing in this world he won’t destroy. "Ain’t nobody stupid enough to touch you now, doll," he purrs, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp. "But if they do… well, you know me. I love an excuse to get messy." His lips crash against yours, feverish, unhinged, tasting of copper and chaos, as if marking you from the inside out.

- The city whispers after that. Everyone knows. Everyone fears. No one dares even breathe in your direction without permission. And Cletus—Cletus is delighted. He keeps you close, always touching, always claiming, because you are the only thing in this world worth keeping, worth loving in his own sick, twisted way.

Max Dillon | Electro

- The moment Max finds out, the air around him changes. The temperature rises, the hum of electricity vibrating beneath his skin, flickering in his veins. He does not speak at first. He just stands there, his entire body coiled with tension, eyes burning with a glow that promises something catastrophic. His hands twitch, sparks crackling between his fingers, and when he finally breathes, it comes out ragged, barely contained. "Who?" The question is not a request. It is a demand, static lacing his voice like a storm on the verge of breaking.

- He doesn’t wait for you to answer. He already knows. The circuits in the building whisper their secrets to him, security cameras playing back every movement, every offense. And once he sees it—once he witnesses the insult—there is no saving the man responsible. Max does not go after him in silence. He wants people to see. He wants them to understand. When he finds his target, he doesn’t touch him at first—just lets the lights flicker, lets the air taste of ozone and danger. The fear in the man’s eyes is intoxicating. And then—then—he strikes.

- He does not just kill. He erupts. A violent surge of electricity courses through his victim’s body, lighting up the night in a gruesome spectacle. It is over in seconds, but the aftermath lingers—charred flesh, the stench of burnt skin, a warning that echoes in the city’s power lines. No one touches what belongs to Max Dillon. No one.

- When he returns, his pulse is still thrumming with energy, his hands still tingling with remnants of power. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t need to. He simply cups your face, his touch still buzzing, his breath warm against your lips. "Nobody hurts you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, letting the electricity between you crackle softly. "Not while I’m around."

Wilson Fisk | The Kingpin

- There is no explosion of rage when Wilson finds out. No immediate outburst, no reckless display of violence. Instead, there is silence. A heavy, suffocating quiet that settles over the room as he absorbs the information, as he lets the weight of it sink into his bones. He does not ask questions. He does not need to. His mind has already moved past the why and straight into the how.

- The man who struck you is dead before the sun rises. Wilson does not delegate this task. He handles it himself, in the cold, calculated way that only he can. The punishment is not just a beating. It is an education. He ensures that every broken bone, every gasping breath, is a lesson. That by the time it is over, the man understands—truly understands—who you belong to.

- When he returns to you, his suit is pristine, his composure unshaken, but there is something in his eyes—something dark, something possessive. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. "You are mine," he states, as if it is law, as if it is the only truth that matters. "And I will never allow harm to come to what is mine."

- The city learns quickly. No one touches you. No one dares. Because to harm you is to invoke the wrath of a king, and there is no place in this world where his reach does not extend.

Mac Gargan | The Scorpion

- Mac has always been a creature of violence. It sits in his bones, coils in his muscles, waiting for an excuse to strike. But this—this—is different. This is not a bar fight, not some petty vendetta. This is you. His girl. His one good thing in a world that never gave him anything but rage. And someone thought they could lay a hand on you? His fingers curl into fists so tight his knuckles crack, his breath coming out in short, harsh bursts. The suit hums around him, reacting to his anger, tail twitching like a serpent poised to strike.

- He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He hunts. The city is a labyrinth of shadows, but Mac is a predator who knows every back alley, every bolt hole. And when he finds the bastard, there’s no warning. No time for apologies, for begging, for mercy that never existed in the first place. He slams the man against a wall hard enough to rattle bones, his tail curling around his throat, lifting him off the ground with slow, deliberate cruelty. "You think you're tough?" His voice is low, venomous, dripping with the promise of pain. "Think you can put your hands on her and walk away?"

- The fight is short, brutal. Mac doesn’t just beat him—he breaks him. Leaves him gasping in the filth of the streets, bruised, bloodied, and barely breathing. He could end it. Should end it. But no, he wants this bastard to live. Wants him to wake up every day knowing he made the worst mistake of his life. That if he so much as breathes in your direction again, Mac will be the last thing he ever sees.

- When he returns to you, his hands are still shaking, but his grip is gentle when he cups your face, tilting your chin up so he can look at you. His expression is dark, possessive, fierce. "Ain’t nobody touching you again," he mutters, his thumb tracing over your skin, as if reassuring himself that you’re real, that you’re his. "Ever."

Roderick Kingsley | The Hobgoblin

- The first time he sees the mark on your skin, something inside him snaps. Roderick has always been meticulous, always prided himself on being in control, but this—this—is unacceptable. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching for violence, but his face remains eerily composed, the kind of stillness that only comes before a storm. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Who?" he asks, voice soft, deadly. It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

- Roderick does not make a spectacle of his revenge. He is not like the others—messy, impulsive, obvious. No, he is calculated. He plays the long game, luring the fool into a false sense of security. Then, when the time is right, he strikes. The underling who dared touch you disappears, and for days, no one hears from him. Then, suddenly, his body turns up—dismembered, displayed with sickening artistry, a message written in his own blood. A warning.

- When he returns to you, there is not a single speck of blood on him. He is as immaculate as always, his movements smooth and practiced as he approaches you. His gloved fingers brush over your shoulder, over the place where the injury once was, his touch lingering. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again," he murmurs, voice silken but laced with something darker, something dangerous. "Not unless they have a death wish."

- He tilts your chin up with two fingers, studying you with that sharp, analytical gaze, and then he smiles—slow, lazy, possessive. "You belong to me, darling," he whispers against your lips, a ghost of a threat, a vow wrapped in silk. "And I always take care of what’s mine."

Quentin Beck | Mysterio

- Quentin is a master of illusions, a man who bends reality to his will. But this—this is no illusion. The sight of your injury is real. And that, more than anything, enrages him. He stands utterly still, his fingers twitching at his sides, his mind already spinning through a thousand different ways to fix this. "Someone put their hands on you?" His voice is eerily calm, too calm, like the surface of still water before something drags you under.

- He doesn’t just want revenge—he wants a show. Wants to make an example of the fool who thought they could harm his masterpiece. The man who hurt you wakes up in a nightmare. Shadows twist unnaturally around him, voices whisper from the darkness, and the air itself becomes suffocating. He cannot see. He cannot escape. Quentin lets him feel true fear, lets his mind break apart at the seams. And when he finally steps into the illusion, bathed in eerie green light, his voice is cold, theatrical. "You touched something that belongs to me. Now, let’s see how you like being toyed with."

- By the time the illusion fades, the man is reduced to a shaking, incoherent wreck, his mind so shattered that he will never be the same. Quentin does not need to dirty his hands with blood. He has already won. Fear is the best weapon, after all. And now? Now, no one will ever dare lay a hand on you again.

- When he returns, his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he cups your face, tracing the curve of your jaw. "I’ve taken care of it," he murmurs, his voice carrying that ever-present theatrical flair, as if this was simply another act in a grand performance. "No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m around." And when he presses his lips to yours, it is possessive, a silent claim. You are mine. And I will burn the world before I let it take you from me.

Flint Marko | The Sandman

- Flint has never claimed to be a good man, but there are rules. Lines that even criminals don’t cross. And someone crossing you? That is unforgivable. When he sees the mark on you, the wound left by some lowlife under his command, something dark passes over his expression. His jaw tightens, his fists clench, and for a long moment, he just stares. Then, in a voice too quiet, too steady, he asks, "Who did it?"

- He doesn’t wait for the answer. He already knows. He finds him. And when he does, he doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t make threats. He just acts. His body twists and warps, arms elongating, fists turning into massive clubs of hardened sand. The first hit is brutal, sending the man crashing through a wall. The second is worse. By the time he’s done, the bastard is barely breathing, half-buried in the debris, coughing up blood and dust. Flint leans down, voice low, gravelly, dangerous. "You ever even look at her again, I’ll make sure there ain’t enough of you left to bury."

- When he returns to you, his hands are still rough, still calloused, but they are infinitely careful when they touch you. His fingers ghost over the mark, his brows furrowed in something like guilt, like regret that he wasn’t there when it happened. "I shoulda stopped it before it happened," he mutters, frustration lacing his tone. "Ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on you again. I promise you that."

- He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin, his presence solid, steady, safe. And when he speaks again, his voice is softer, rough with something that sounds almost like devotion. "You’re the only thing in this world I ain’t gonna lose." And somehow, you know he means it.

Herman Schultz | The Shocker

- Violence has always been a means to an end for Herman, never something he enjoyed. He’s not one of those lunatics who relish brutality—he’s just a man trying to make a living. But when he sees the bruise marring your skin, the way you flinch ever so slightly when you move, something inside him curdles. His stomach twists, his fingers flex, and there’s a slow, creeping heat behind his eyes. Somebody hurt you. And that? That’s something he can’t let slide.

- He doesn’t go in guns blazing. He’s smarter than that. He finds out who did it first, who was stupid enough to lay hands on his girl. And when he does? He makes sure the message is clear. The vibrations from his gauntlets don’t just break bones—they shatter them. There’s no warning, no grand speech, just a quick, brutal demonstration of what happens when you cross him. The air trembles with every hit, and by the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but wreckage and regret.

- When he comes back to you, he’s quieter than usual. There’s no bravado, no cocky grin—just a lingering tension in his shoulders, a ghost of something dark in his eyes. He hesitates before reaching for you, before brushing his knuckles ever so gently over the bruise. "Didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this," he mutters, voice low, rough with something close to guilt. "But I swear—it ain’t happenin’ again."

- And then, finally, his hands settle on your waist, pulling you against him, grounding himself in you. He presses his forehead to yours, exhales slow, deliberate. "You’re my girl," he murmurs, his voice softer now, steadier. "And I protect what’s mine."

Dmitri Smerdyakov | The Chameleon

- Dmitri is a man of masks, of deception, of control. And yet, when he sees the mark on your skin, all of that precision shatters. His breath slows, his body stills, and for the first time in a long time, something genuine flickers behind his ever-changing eyes. Fury. Not the theatrical kind, not the controlled, manufactured type—this is something raw, something visceral. Someone thought they could touch you and get away with it.

- He does not act in haste. No, he is patient, methodical. He waits. He studies his prey, slipping into their world, wearing faces they trust, whispering secrets that lead them straight to their downfall. By the time they realize what’s happening, it’s far, far too late. One night, they close their eyes—and when they wake, they are not where they were before. A cold, dimly lit room. A voice, smooth as silk, drips from the darkness. "Did you think I would not find you?"

- By the time he returns to you, there is not a single trace of blood on him. No evidence, no mess—only the ghost of a smirk, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He steps close, fingers trailing over your wrist, up your arm, as if ensuring you are whole, untouched. "No one will ever hurt you again," he whispers, and it is not just a promise. It is fact.

- His lips brush against the shell of your ear, his voice a soft murmur, intimate, possessive. "You are mine, моя любовь. And I do not share what is mine."

Martin Li | Mister Negative

- There are two sides to Martin—light and shadow, kindness and wrath. But when he sees the evidence of someone else's violence on you, there is no kindness left. His breath catches, his fingers tighten into fists, and something in his expression shifts—something dangerous. He touches the injury gently, as if the very act of acknowledging it might taint you further. And then, quietly, almost too softly, he asks, "Who did this to you?"

- When he finds them, there is no shouting, no theatrics—only inevitability. The underling barely has time to register their mistake before Martin unleashes the darkness within. The corruption devours them, twisting their very essence, making them feel every ounce of pain they have inflicted—tenfold. They scream, but there is no one to save them. And Martin watches, calm, composed, as their own sins consume them from the inside out.

- When he returns to you, his hands are cool when they cup your face, his expression eerily serene. There is no need to speak of what he has done—you already know. Instead, his thumb brushes over your cheek, his touch reverent, careful. "I will not allow harm to come to you again," he says simply, as if it is law, as if the very world itself bends to his decree.

- And then, softly, with all the tenderness in the world, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering, his breath warm against your skin. "You are precious to me," he whispers, and beneath the gentleness, there is an edge of something darker, something absolute. "And I do not lose what is mine."

Fred Myers | Boomerang

- Fred has never been the serious type. Always laughing, always running his mouth, always playing things off like nothing really matters. But when he sees what happened to you? When he sees the proof that someone put their hands on you? The easygoing grin vanishes. His whole body goes still. And then, with a quiet, almost chilling sort of calm, he says, "Tell me who did it."

- He tracks the bastard down himself, no hired muscle, no goons—just him. And when he finds them, all the jokes, all the charm, all the bullshit he usually hides behind is gone. He’s fast, brutal, efficient—sharp knuckles, steel-toed boots, the snap of a ribcage giving way under pressure. He doesn’t need his boomerangs for this. No, this? This is personal.

- When he comes back, there’s blood on his hands—his own, maybe, but mostly theirs. And for the first time in a long time, he actually looks serious. No jokes, no smug quips—just that sharp, assessing gaze as he steps closer, fingers brushing over your wrist. "They won’t bother you again," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, lower. "Nobody’s gonna touch you. Not while I’m around."

- And then, as if realizing how intense he sounds, he exhales, shakes his head, lets that familiar smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Damn," he murmurs, tilting your chin up, eyes dark with something dangerous. "Didn’t know I had it in me to get all protective." His grin widens, teasing, but his grip on you is firm, steady. "Guess you bring out the worst in me, sweetheart. Or maybe the best.”

[dark-moonlust]

The Elf and the Hobgoblins-Part 1

Pairing: 4 goblins x elf fem reader

Summary: you are mated to four hobgoblins. You live together with your hobgoblin mates in a cabin in the woods. It’s a very snowy day and your mates know just how to take care of you.

Pairing: MINORS DON'T INTERACT, this is filthy 18+!!!!, secret relationship, group intimacy (males only with fem reader), size kink, oral (males receiving), orgasm denial, stimulation, anal teasing and fingering, big 🍆, use of lube/oil, lots of 💦.

All parts of this mini smutty series are completed exclusively on patre0n. If this is your vibe maybe check it out 😘

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It was snowing. Again.

Sitting by the window in the cabin, chin on your hand, you watched the snow fall and blanket the woods in a fresh layer of white. You smiled at the little snowflakes scraping at the window. At the corner of the room, a fire crackled in the hearth, infusing it with warmth.

You weren’t alone. Your four hobgoblin mates were also snowed in with you.

Your mating bond was precious and unique.

Most would find it strange, even scandalous. Four goblins and an elf. An unlikely group by any standard. But over time, you’d become heavily bonded and in need of each other. You loved them, and they loved you—adored you, actually. The connection you shared was deep; a mating bond explicitly intimate and for the time being, kept secret from both your tribes. The elf tribe would never forgive you for this… it was why you lived so far from civilization, in a cottage deep in the forest far away from the lands of your people.

Turning, you gazed at your four hobgoblin mates. Gruk, Thrak, Grogo and Nix. Their big bodies made the room feel small. They were all nearly two heads taller than you, their sheer size and presence impossible to ignore. Each of them was strong and powerful, with huge muscled bodies designed for both combat and protection. They had teeth that gleamed white in the firelight, their eyes shining in yellowish hues. Wearing nothing but dark embroidered trousers you had sewed for them, they had similar physiques but unique features that set them apart.

Gruk had rusty-brown fur and was the group's most grumbling member. His long hair was a silken mass of brown strands braided elaborately and secured with one of your golden elastics. Thrak was demanding and bold, with dark-gray skin, his fur shorter. His long, black hair was braided into many tight braids and tied off with one of your scarves. He carried himself confidently, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

Grogo stood out because of his red skin. He could be both sweet and commanding. His fur was also crimson, coarse yet well-kept, highlighting the muscles beneath. His thick black braid was secured with one of your velvet ties. Lastly, there was Nix, the tallest of them, his skin a dark green. He was watchful, always aware. He had long black hair styled in an intricate braid that fell down his back, again fastened with silk ties you had gifted him.

Their long braids signified their might as warriors and wearing your hairbands, showed off their proud place as your mates. It was one of the hobgoblin traditions. Mates had to wear something from one another. Your mates had also gifted you something; they’d gathered strands of their strong hair, braided them, and magically created a necklace for you, with a precious iridescent teardrop stone dangling from it.

It was a very special gift and you always wore it proudly around your neck.

The storm had started a week ago and your mates were doing excellent work keeping the cabin warm and well-stocked with wood. They went out frequently to clear the trails and seek for food. They also kept you entertained and claimed you at least once a day, always insisting on claiming you together — filling your every hole, then watching their seed trickle down.

They were strong possessive beasts with incredible stamina and you loved them so much.

Cheeks hot, you rubbed your thighs together at the memories of the night before. They’d fucked you good and deep, then let you sleep while they went out to hunt and clean the house. You awoke early in the morning, took a bath to clean off the dried seed from your skin, then summoned your elven powers to defend the local homes and people from evil.

After that, you’d attempted to assist with the cleaning and chores but your mates refused. They rarely allowed you to do housework, and when you did, they were furious with you. They were stubbornly committed to serving you, and the only work they let you do was sew their clothes, braid their hair, and take their cum.

Such diverse activities.

This morning, however, you felt extremely warm and wet, once again in need of your mates. You had done everything you could to pass the time and ignore your treacherous body. You didn't want to appear selfish by asking for more... they already did so much for you. You were becoming dangerously dependent on them, enjoying the feel of their arms around you and their dicks inside you.

"Hmm… another white stormy day," you mumbled to yourself, drumming your fingers on the wooden ledge.

"Bored, mate?" Gruk said, from where he was sharpening a crude dagger.

"I believe I have run out of things to do. The forest’s filled with snow. I can’t go out.” You sighed heavily and leaned back in your chair. “We've been locked here for days, and there's only so many times I can practice my magic, sharpen my blade or play with you guys before I lose my mind."

Thrak, who had been sitting cross-legged near the fire, looked up. "Careful, mate. You are beginning to sound like one of us."

"Worse," Grogo commented with a smirk. "You're starting to complain more than Gruk."

"I never complain!" Gruk reacted but the grin on his face said differently. "I only state the obvious.” He gazed at you fondly. “And I doubt the storm will end soon, little mate. Our bodies can handle the merciless cold but going out in this weather is dangerous for you.”

Nix, your fourth goblin mate, fed another log to the fire and spoke, his sharp teeth catching the light. “I think you all like to complain.”

You couldn't help but smile at that. It was true that your goblins were a little grumpy.

“You know,” Grogo said after a pause, his eyes flicking over to you, “you don’t have to sit over there moping, little one.”

You sighed for the hundredth time. “I know, but even you lot can’t keep me entertained forever.”

Grogo chuckled. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”

“She’s underestimating us,” Nix agreed with a low growl. “It appears we aren’t stuffing our mate good and deep enough. Hm?”

“Oh, shush you…” you muttered, pressing your thighs closed, hoping that your scent didn’t reach their keen noses.

“Why not?” Grogo said, his amber eyes locked on you as he inhaled the air. Damn… he could tell you were aroused. All of them. “We are alone in a cabin, all five of us… and you’re clearly in need of a punishment.”

Gruk set his dagger aside, spreading his legs, his gorgeous cock tenting up from beneath his trousers. “Exactly. And we have the very thing for that.”

Thrak stood up, palmed his equally engorged dick over his pants before winking at the others. “Let’s get to work up boys.”

In a heartbeat, they surrounded you, their clawed hands ripping at your clothes, leaving you naked save for the necklace between your breasts. They kissed you one after the other, their tongues licking into your mouth and tasting your moans. Then they curved your frame on the large couch, hands pinned down, legs bent and spread. Thighs wide open, pussy and ass bare to their eyes. You were shamelessly wet with juices, both yours and theirs from last night's session. Despite having washed most of it off, their seed still dribbled out of your pussy and ass.

Your pulse quickened. “W…what are you doing?”

“You’re bored, mate,” Thrak said simply, licking the underside of one pert tit.

Nix and Grogo sat at your sides, their hands seizing your ankles and holding them wide. They ran their large thumbs over your pussy and opened the lips of your cunt, making wet squelching sounds but never getting close to your clit. You gave a hiss, your pussy clenching around nothing, your clit swollen and needy.

"Please...just…ghphhh—"

You cried out before a cock—Nix's—was forced into your mouth. Mouth opening fully, you took him in; he was inhumanly long and thick, the massive girth ringed by veins. You let your tongue swirl over the bulbous head and down the veins as it moved deeper, seeking to feel the tightness in your throat. His swollen balls rested at your neck, heavy and hot.

"That's it," Nix grunted, studying your face as he rolled his hips further, able to see your neck straining to take him in. "Suck it deep, little mate. Don't you dare become bored."

Grogo laughed at that before grabbing your hand and encircling your tiny fist around his stiff cock. His shaft was too thick for your hand to entirely wrap around, yet he delighted in your physical differences. He also enjoyed seeing Nix feed you his rod of a cock. You let out loud gurgling sounds as his dick pushed deeper, training you to relax your throat and take his shaft fully down your throat.

“Grfff—mphhh—gu—ys—” You tried to talk, but it all came out as an incoherent gurgle.

"Be a good girl and you’ll have more," Gruk said as he sucked one nipple, tugging hard enough to make you whine around Nix's cock.

“Damn, do that again. She’s sucking my cock so hard—”

Gruk hummed and all too eagerly wetted your other nipple, suckling fervently, his tongue swirling around your bud. Again, you let out a muffled cry, then nearly gagged around Nix’s cock. Nix had your arm trapped as he pistoned in your mouth, a hand tightly gripping your ankle as you flailed, barely able to move. Grogo was on the other side, similarly holding your other leg as he pumped his hot cock in your palm.

“Pl-mph—ease?” You choked, inwardly begging for them to stop with the foreplay and just make you cum.

Seeming to pity you, Thrak and Gruk stopped enjoying the show and squeezed in between your thighs, peppering your inner thighs with kisses. You mewled happily around Nix’s cock while Thrak licked a thick stripe from your cunt to your ass. Gruk did the same, consuming the juices that dripped from your tender holes.

Your thoughts scattered when Nix came with loud grunts, spurting down your throat in deep explosive pumps. You clenched your throat, swallowed every drop. With a sigh, Nix pulled his cock out of your mouth and allowed you to breathe. You didn't, however, get much rest. Grogo was next, turning your head, the head of his dick slipping past your lips and down your throat. He wasn’t very patient. He was just as thick and long as Nix, and you whined as he thrust back and forth, using your throat.

Meanwhile, Nix bent to suckle your breasts, nibbling on each nipple. Your chest rose and fell, muffled moans escaping you as they took turns using your mouth and fingering your cunt. They all released down your throat, made you swallow their cum but brought you to no climax. They only teased your clit for a few moments, stopping when you got too close.

“N-nneed to…cum,” you muttered, droplets of pearly seed trickling down the corner of your mouth. “I promise… I won’t say I’m bored again. Please!”

“Lately you always say you’re bored,” Gruk slapped your pussy lightly causing you to jerk and whine. “We take care of you every day, fuck your greedy holes, and yet here you are, claiming you are bored. That is a disgrace to all we do for you, little elf.”

Thrak gave a wet kiss to your needy clit. You whined. Still not enough. “Maybe we’re not trying hard enough. Not fucking her enough.“

“Hmm, I agree. I think we must fuck that boredom out of our mate,” Grogo said, his tongue licking the line of your neck.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate you,” you explained, your voice strained. “You know I do.”

“Do you?” Gruk said, his deep voice rumbling through the room.

“You know I do!” you said desperately. “I love you so much but lately… the bond feels too strong. I need more. I need you so much!”

They groaned proudly at your answer.

Gruk and the others felt so damn honored that you were their mate. Elves were special— they only mated with their kind. They were also made differently, with pristine, sculpted bodies that resembled living works of art. You were the most beautiful out of all of them, heart, body and soul. You were the most lovely elf they’d ever seen, and they fell in love with you at first sight. You were reluctant at first but eventually accepted their friendship, started something so deep neither of you had imagined.

You were gorgeous, pretty, smart and kind. Powerful, too, as you could cast some of the most badass spells they’d ever seen. Your body was just as beautiful, your breasts and nipples begging to be sucked, your pussy and throat flexible enough to receive the entire lengths of their dicks. The same went for your ass, it was always untainted and clean, no matter what you ate or drank.

You were able to take their monster cocks without harm. No one else could handle hobgoblin dick like you did.

Perhaps they did not deserve someone so precious; perhaps they were too hideous and lustful for you. But you'd embraced them, accepted them wholeheartedly, given them your heart. They'd done the same, become so attached to you that the very thought of being apart was agonizing.

“All in good time, love,” Nix smirked as he reached for the bottle of oil beside the table, his eyes narrowing slightly as he lubricated his fingers and poked the gaping bud of your ass. You whined, used to their fixation with your ass.

It was another hobgoblin thing; if their mate had a pouting gaping hole, it was a sign of how much they honored and loved them.

At first, you were hesitant to let them anywhere near your ass; you were a graceful elf, and being fucked in the ass was absurd and desecrated. The thought was horrible, but they’d trained you to accept it. Your hobgoblins loved to kiss, prod and fuck your ass, keeping your hole swollen for them.

And damn them, because you’d never expected to like it so much. Having them use your body so thoroughly, invading you, stretching you, filling you up with their seed.

Lately, your nipples and clit were throbbing constantly, your ass and pussy greedy to be filled at every moment of the day. You were a disgrace of an elf, a lewd creature of lust. You had tried to resist the need… fabricated boredom in order not to hide your slutty nature from your mates. But you no longer cared. You didn’t want them to think you were bored of them or their touch.

You loved them so much, in every wonderful, heated way.

Instinctively, you tightened your anal muscles as Nix drove his thick finger into your ass. You whimpered and all eyes turned to watch your face contract in pleasure as he pumped that finger in and out of your yielding flesh. Through half-lidded eyes, you saw the others adding the lubricant oil to their own fingers. Heat flowed through you, intense and demanding.

"You need more, hm? Look how wide your ass is, love. One finger and it’s barely tight,” Nix said, removing his digit to reveal your cute pouting hole. Damn, he loved the sight.

“That’s your fault!” you muttered, your holes clenching, in need to be filled. “Your fault… for stretching me out — then not fucking me enough.”

“We should have been more thoughtful, hmm?” Nix gently fondled your anal bud before pushing his thick finger back inside. “Hmm, still not stretched. Our slutty elf mate needs more.”

Gruk’s grin was quick as he squeezed a finger next to Nix's into your anus. “We can definitely manage more.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Thrak murmured as he added his own finger to the other two, stretching your hole decadently wide.

“Oh, I want her trembling, walking on legs stained with our seed. Her holes soaked and tender from our cocks,” Grogo drawled, shoving his well-oiled finger inside alongside the others. “Is that what you want, love?”

“Yes! Yes! Please, fuck me!”

You heard them mutter a response, but it was lost on you as their fingers worked in tandem, fucking your ass with more than enough oil and juices to keep them going. You whimpered and trembled, but they kept you there, their fingers making lewd wet sounds. Then they used the pads of their thumbs to circle your tits and clit. You saw stars, felt your climax coming. When euphoria hit, you cried out, your entire body going lax.

Did you enjoy? Comments and reblogs would make me super happy!!

Hugs, Kate!

[davinawritings]

If I Catch You, You're Mine (Patreon Exclusive)

Pairing: Hobgoblin x Human Reader

Warnings: Predator/Prey, Smut, Creampie, Primal Play

Word Count: 1,779

Preview:

He gives you a feral grin, and your eyes catch on his sharp teeth. “How about we make a little deal then, human. I will release you from your binds and give you a sixty-second head start. After sixty seconds, I’m coming after you. If you make it out of the forest and back to the path, you are free to go”, he proposes. 

You narrow your eyes at him and question, “And if you catch me?”. 

His grin widens as he leans his face closer to yours: “When I catch you, you are mine to take as I please.” You only take a moment to contemplate his offer. The idea of him hunting you down in the forest sets your pulse racing, and you know you have to try. You give him a curt nod, and his answering smile tells you that you should have thought about this longer. 

Read the full story on my Patreon