#my petty self won but on the bright side if I run into my ex HOO I'm ready to flaunt it

[rdlain]

I look damn good in bangs, the con is it also can make me look about 12 years old depending on what I'm wearing

[oh-boy-me]

Could I get a headcanon of the demon boys' reaction to MC who is surprisingly string for their size or build?

I’m going back to some older asks--sorry it took so long to get to this!

Lucifer

“Humans are weak,” he thought.  “MC needs my help to survive,” he thought.  Haha bitch no they don’t.

The first time Lucifer sees MC lift something they really don’t look like they should have been able to carry, he’s about to rush over to take it from them.  But, seeing them not struggle at all, he’s so shocked that he ends up cemented in place.  He was gaping a little bit, but good luck getting him to admit that part.

He’s never going to truly get used to it, but he does appreciate the extra pair of hands around the house.  However, MC has to be really careful about what they take up.  Helping Lucifer move some heavy boxes because there’s a lot of them and it’ll save time?  Sure thing.  Helping Lucifer move a heavy box because it looked heavy?  His pride won’t let them get away with that.

On the bright side, Mammon’s suddenly pulling his weight around the house.  Lucifer can’t complain about that.

Mammon

Ok so what you do is set up an arm-wrestling stand and make mad bank and then

Mammon is in quite the pickle, because he keeps trying to show off to seem cool in front of his favorite human, but every time he offers to carry something they say they can do it and then actually can do it????  How is he supposed to look cool when they’re cooler?!

Maybe he’s being self-conscious, maybe it’s just an easy out, but he starts blaming MC’s strength for things that don’t make any sense.  “If it weren’t for MC and their dumb muscles, I wouldn’t have forgotten to buy eggs!”  Mammon, what are you talking about?

It’s not a problem, because literally everyone calls him out on how that’s bullshit and doesn’t make sense.

His quest to look cool in front of them never truly ends, so he’ll fight heavy lifting out of their arms and take care of it instead, under the guise of “you’ll hurt yourself” and “I’ve gotta protect my human.”

Leviathan

MC is lucky that Levi is technically still stronger than them, because that envious streak isn’t one that they’d want to have to deal with.

And since Levi is technically still stronger than them, we instead get the whiny, petty “why can they do that and I can’t?”  Maybe it’s because you haven’t exercised in 500 years, Leviathan.

He’ll beg them to share their secrets with him.  They’re human, right?!  It has to be easier than whatever it is that Beel does!  He wants to be stronger too, like the hero in I Want to Ask My Childhood Friend Out, but She Said She Would Only Date Me if I Won a Triathlon and I’ve Never Run a Day in My Life Because I Have Wings.

It’s definitely not because he wants to spend more time with them and hog their time and maybe see them in their element.  Nope.  No way.

Kind of wants to be carried by them, just once.

Satan

Little known fact about Satan: jars have a vendetta against him.  Or, at least that’s what he says.  In truth only about one in every ten jars he tries to open give him trouble, but when everything pisses you off that adds up to every single jar personally being out to get him.

And let me tell you, it doesn’t really make him feel better when sweet, unassuming MC is able to force it open when he wasn’t.

Oh but he’s not angry at them!  He’s just VERY angry at the jars.  Ok, well.  He’s a little angry at MC for one-upping him, but he controls himself because strong or not, MC is still human and he could snap them like a twig if he isn’t careful.

Moving forward, he appreciates that he can ask MC for help with lifting and the like instead of Mammon or Levi or, ex-father-but-not-really forbid, Lucifer.  But he’s not going to be direct about it.  He kind of just pointedly complains about it until MC gets the hint.

Low-key he also wants to see MC beat someone up (preferably not him).

Asmodeus

To say that Asmodeus finds that attractive would be an understatement.  Ooh, there’s just something about someone who could bench press you that’s so thrilling.

And to say that Asmo will walk anywhere ever again is a foolish assumption.  Have fun carrying him, MC.  He’s not very heavy, luckily, but he’s basically dead weight in their arms with how he drapes himself.  And knowing that MC can support his weight, he will jump into their arms without warning.  Or on their back.  Anywhere, really.

He’s also never lifting a finger again, so have fun with that as well, MC.

If anyone threatens him or gives him attitude, he’ll threaten them in return, saying that he has a really strong human.  And then he’ll actually call MC to try to get them to put Asmo’s money where his mouth is.  Please don’t humor him here, MC.

It all seems rather selfish, but Asmo really adores MC and their strength, and he makes sure he drowns them in compliments whenever he’s being a spoiled princess.

Beelzebub

Beel is as strong as he is because of exercise and dedication.  He breaks the assumption that he’s by default the second weakest of his brothers, so the fact that MC is also stronger than they look doesn’t surprise him all that much compared to the others.

(I feel like that’s a common thing with Beel--I guess he’s just good at accepting whatever new nonsense life throws at him lolol)

More importantly, though: does MC have a workout routine?  Because if they’re doing something to hide all that muscle in that body, Beel wants in on that secret.  Also he wants a workout buddy.

Can and will drag MC to the grocery store because that’s more bags of food to carry.

He can lift MC easily, but he’s excitedly looking forward to the day that MC can lift him.

Belphegor

The best word that Belphie can think of for this is “convenient.”  Because he’s light for his size, and MC could probably carry him as well.  And that means that finally--FINALLY--he has one more person he’s comfortable letting carry him to a better napping spot.  When Beel isn’t home it’s really tough for him, y’know?  Under the table isn’t fun, but no way in hell was he gonna let Levi pick him up.

Like Lucifer he’s a little bit like “what?  I thought humans were all baby.”  And yet he kind of thinks it’s cute?  MC is so… human.  But they can give a good fight.  Like a small bear.

He will bribe and dare MC to get into trouble with him.  “Hey MC, don’t you think that whole marble statue would look better in the middle of Lucifer’s study?  Right on his desk.  Or even better, let’s block the door.  Yeah, the feng shui of the room is all messed up and I think a giant statue in the way would really help.”

They’re both going to get in so much trouble but seeing Lucifer’s face is enough of a reward.

Masterlist

[edgymegatronus]

The Pits of Kaon

The lights of the arena where always blinding. Searing white light that chiseled its way into your optic nerves, washing away any other surrounding colours so much that one may think they’re joining with the Allspark once they step out onto the ashy plain. This is purposeful, of course, for the arena was a stage for the barbaric, where the onlookers can see it’s actors, but the actors cannot gaze back at them. Once you have shuttered your optics several times and they begin to adjust, only spots of bright light decorating your vision for a short while, the arena comes heaving into view, stagnant and intimidating. Massive, beyond comprehension, the blackened jewel of Kaon. You’d have to squint to see the opposite end of the Energon-crusted pit. The steep, cold grey sides rocketed up towards the skies, the heavens where the audience sat to eagerly absorb the slaughter. Every brandish of a sword, every amputation of a limb, every scream or victory holler, every spark taken was feasted upon by those hunger bound optics. In the lower areas of the arena, closer to the action, there were boxes reserved for the higher caste aristocracy from great cities like Iacon and Vos. Above them, with a more strained view, sat the rest of the Cybertronain populous. It was never correctly calculated how many the arena could house- it depended on how tightly the lower class worker mechs packed themselves together to watch the entertainment. There was always shoving and drunkenness, fights began over the limited space and smaller mechs often simply got crushed under pede if they didn’t move fast enough. Very few actually from Kaon ever got to sit in the golden boxes, where quality high-grade Energon flowed like ground oil as its famed patrons gawked down into the pit. The atmosphere was always rancheros, the first death spelled out the kick-off for the day's events to begin. In the mornings there were petty fights. Weak slaves pitted against each other, unarmed mechs left to the mercy of some of the most vicious beasts Cybertron had to offer. This got the crowd vying to see more Energon spilled on the ashy floors of the pit. As the hilarity reached its crescendo into the afternoon, we were brought out.

Titled ‘Gladiators’, we were prime time entertainment. Romanticised as strong mechs each with some characterisation the media invalidated us with to entice the onlookers into made up rivalries between us, adding passion to the murder. Some mechs actually sank into this, and took signature moves and mottos played into their characters, worked to gain support from those oppressing them. Usually, this was the quickest way to die. The arena owners would only allow a Gladiator in the limelight for so many matches and killed them before they became too boring, and to make the audience more invested as each match progressed. They died deluded, for we were just slaves with swords. Brought from all over Cybertronain, but most commonly hailing from places like Kaon, Tarn, and Praxus. Sold off from our previous services because we were no longer needed, a better model had been introduced, rule-breaking, being damaged, or because our masters had taken a general disliking. Being sold to the arena was most times a death sentence, an execution in front of the masses. Gladiators were ones who had won their petty matches by some flailing chance of Primus, and in turn proven their metal, and therefore their worth as a mascot. We were not Gladiators.

Our namesake competed by choice, for fame or honour or glory. For a fractured misconception of what they believed to be justice or righteousness. We were slaves, forced to kill our peers, and stare them in the optics as we did, giving a good performance. Refusal meant immediate death, and showmanship was integral. Most of us only lasted a few months before losing a match and being offlined, the longest-reigning mech making it just over a year before the Arena Owners decided he had nothing left to give, no new tricks, and threw him in the pit unarmed with four Krystar Iron-Bears. Some audience members genuinely cried when he passed. But by the next week, he was replaced by a new favourite Gladiator to root for.

I was on my fifth month. My last match had been a near miss. Bad damages all over my frame, lost an arm and my sword-wielding servo was crushed. Inches over and my spark chamber would’ve known the cold of a blunted blade. My opponent was of a bigger build than me, but still new, he had chosen the name ‘Ignode’ for himself after the Arena Owners had given him a flashy new red paint job, replacing his basic menial grey. For some appalling reason, he’d made the mistake of choosing two weapons, rather than one and a shield. An underestimation, I suppose. The new Gladiators, nicknamed ‘Pickrings’ by the rest of us, often got too cocky and suffered the consequences. The day I was declared fit for fighting it was a ‘Winner stays on Tournament’ these often drew larger crowds due to the anticipation and tension aspect that was attached to them. Clearly my medical bills were going to be well paid for by this grotesque procession. The objective to continually kill, over and over, to vanquish spark after spark until eventually, you grew so weak from each consecutive battle that you could no longer hold your own – and you were killed, your deathbringer taking up the mantel and the cycle continued deep into the night while the crowds drank and laughed and indulged.

The bellowing winds that spun like a lifeless tornado around the arena whipped uncomfortably over the exposed cables on the back of my neck. The piece of armour plating that usually protected it had been lost last round and was therefore subject to the treatment of the blowing grit and ash that made a point of invading every crack and gap in plating. Everything felt too heavy, most notably my spark. I had just completed round fifteen, downed fifteen opponents, and somewhere I doubted if Primus would accept me into his loving cradle. My frame was ex-venting in long, drawn out drags. An attempt to cool my shot systems. Every inch of plating was dented or scarred, with slices and holes, faintly missing main Energon lines or mobility joints. I smiled. Before entering the arena, each slave got to choose two tools to utilise during the match. Almost classically, I wielded a long sword with some form of age old forgotten crest on the hilt. I had nicknamed it ‘The Pick’ and it occupied my right servo. To my left brandished a thick oval-shaped silver shield, decorated dashingly with chipped paint and emblems. These things were my trademark, my protection, my symbol, and my saviours.

The spotlight swung intricately around the arena floor once more towards the pit entrance. The thick metal gates opening with the same slow dramatism to reveal my newest combatant. The light fell on him, illuminating his thickset grey frame for the crowds to gawk at, tantalising their optics with the slick view. He smelt like blood and burnt circuitry. They were enraptured, seeing that I was weakening and that this new rival seemed finely built to deliver onto me the final blow, one of those agile miner types. I sized him up immediately; hazarding a guess the Arena Owner’s hadn’t expected much to come from him, only bothering to add spiked red paint under his optics and the larger areas of his expansive grey plating. His optics were stifling, staring directly at me as I stood blatantly forward with my shoulders rolled back, awaiting. We couldn’t yet commence as the Announcer hadn’t yet called for us to do so. Most Gladiators took this brief interval to entertain the crowd, picking up the bodies of mechs they’d killed and throwing them, giving grand victorious gestures and shouts with their weapons, lapping the arena, cheering. I stood still and stared, unwilling to give them any more than the battle.

“Welcoming! Megatronus of Tarn! A heavy-hitting ground-build from the Mines of Messatine! During his petty match earlier this week, Megatronus won against two fellow contestants and a Decopodian in record time! Let’s see how he will fare against our reigning Knight! May Round Sixteen Commence!”

Of course- I had viewed that match from my cell screen. Looking at him now, his crimson optics dimmed. He seemed like a mech who had slaughtered millions, not just two. He made the first step forward, revealing to me his weapons. A small, lightweight shield and a ridged axe. A very decent choice for a mech of his stature. A bow or daggers would’ve been suicide, he was too stocky to be properly dexterous with them, and he was clearly aware. A mech overtly aware of his own capabilities was inherently more dangerous than one who overestimated, or even underestimated themselves. I resumed my ‘defensive stance’ as his larger frame drew closer, each step meticulous and powerful and calculated. He was so self-assured, confident in his ability to wield and kill on his first ever Gladiator match. His EM’s were almost suffocating. I struck the first blow, my long sword firmly embedding itself between his thick shoulder plating. The weapon felt so leaden in my tired arms, each movement causing a low static to run through my circuits as they protested in earnest. My frame was tired, and my processor malcontent. The grey mech swooped his axe low and he raised his smaller shield, directing it precisely so my sword repelled off of it, the force driving my abused frame backwards – into the sharpened blade of his axe.

The Arena began to swirl maliciously as I opened my optics, my HUD showing severe damages to my left leg, and to my back spoilers which had taken the brunt of the hurt as I hit the engulfing floor of the pit. Through the static shock that vibrated through my audial, the faint crazed shouts and cheering from the crowd, layered over the Announcer speaking in a hurriedly excited tone. They were joyful in the revelation of my oncoming demise.

He stared down at me blankly, lifting the axe while calculating the weakest points to strike in my neck or spark chamber. The lights of the arena shone brighter than ever, searing into my optics as they flickered and faded.

He took his victory unlike any other, simply lifting his arms and throwing away his weapons in retribution. They hit the floor of the pit with an almighty clatter, and the crowd cheered and chanted his name, making members of the elite recoil.