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bloodynectarine · 1 year

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Boiling point

After weeks of holding himself together and setting clear boundaries, only for them to be broken over and over again, MC snaps.

tags. male mc, post-lesson 16, belphie is his own trigger warning, angst, ptsd, mild violence, hurt and comfort.

notes. i don't want therapy, i want revenge. everyone got over belphie killing us way too quickly, and i find it frustrating. you know what would be really fun? to punch belphie. love him, but the amount of serotonin he would bring into my life if i could just… punch him once. a boy can dream.

Dying and somehow living to tell the tale was not exactly in your plans when you decided to help the demon stuck in the attic.

Sure, you knew it was dangerous and sure, you understood it was a gamble. But you never quite got that your life was at stake until you felt Belphegor's cold grip around your neck and your vision started to get fuzzy at the edges.

Oh, you thought, with startling clarity.

I'm going to die.

You may still be here, but no, you did not survive Belphegor's wrath and hurt. The sensation of phantom hands pressing down your throat never quite left you.

And Belphegor is nothing but a cruel reminder of the night you died.

First, comes the terror. Even with the pact to protect you, in the days following the event, you can't help but freeze every time Belphegor is in the same room.

As you get used to his presence around the House of Lamentation, as he insists in siting next to you during breakfast and in holding your arm on your way to class, the terror slowly subsides, opening way for a different, less familiar feeling.

Annoyance. Anger. Borderline rage.

Who does he think he is?

Who does he think we are? Best friends, family?

“Belphegor…”, you call for the demon that's already laying on top of your lap, with a tense smile hanging from your lips.

This week's movie night was held in your room. It was one of the rare occasions in which all the inhabitants of the House of Lamentation were present. Even Lucifer is here, looking comically out of place, regal and all seriousness, as if he were in the middle of a meeting and not watching a three-hour-long romance anime film.

Mammon got off from his “rightful place” (“DIBS”, the demon of greed shouted as soon as you sat down, throwing himself across your lap), to rip the remote control out of Levi's hands, who kept rewinding the same scene over and over again (“It's really important for the plot!!!”).

And in the middle of the squabble, Belphegor appeared out of nowhere to climb into your lap, and just. Cuddle.

At your call, he looks up and blinks lazily at you, with his big eyes and his messy bedhead. And the image should be endearing, really, but your chest feels cold, and you can feel your limbs locking in place. You feel trapped, uncomfortable. Ah, it's fear.

“I need. A bit of space. Could you sit somewhere else?”, you manage to let out, and your voice is the only sound in the room. Quarrel and movie long-forgotten, everyone is watching the two of you. Beel was the one who took over and put the film on pause.

Belphegor blinks the drowsiness out of his eyes. His brow furrows, just a little, and if anything, he looks put off by the question, a little lost.

“I don't want to sit anywhere else. I know Mammon was here just seconds ago, but I'm a better cuddle-partner than him anyway. You can ask anyone.”

And he doesn't move. He lays his head against your chest with a yawn.

“I don't…” want to be close to you. You stop yourself from uttering those words, mindful and considerate, truly doing your best. You don't want to lie either, so you decide to play around with the phrasing. “I'd rather you gave Mammon his place back. Or, you know what? I can change seats myself.”

Your tone is as lighthearted as you can manage, and you start to get up from the couch, with Asmo, who's sitting next to you, moving out of the way to give you the space that you need. The space you very specifically asked for.

But Belphegor's weight is heavy against you and traps you in place. Not only that, but his hand reaches for your arm and pulls, looking at you with the same bewildered expression as before, genuinely confused. When you fall against the couch, still under him, you're reminded of how strong he is. Of how weak you're in comparison.

“Oi, Belphie. No one is better at cuddles than me”, says Mammon after a too long pause. “And of course he wants to be with the great Mammon, everyone does. Now move, we still have, like, two hours left of the movie and if we don't finish it tonight, Levi is going to complain all week.”

Levi, who would normally jump into the conversation to defend himself, is barely visible, half hidden between Beel and Satan. His eyes dart between you and the hand that's holding your arm.

“Well, we are already so comfy, so I won't get up”, you wonder who “we” is. Belphegor talks lazily and moves the hand that isn't holding you in a dismissing manner, as if this was not more than a bothersome request, interrupting his nap for nothing.

Your teeth grind together, and there it is, once again. The ugly pressure that holds your gut in a tight grip, the heavy discomfort in your throat. Once foreign, but now you can tell it apart so easily. Anger.

“Belphegor. You heard him already.” This time, Lucifer is the one talking, and he sighs as he gets up, coming closer in an attempt to pry him away from you.

“Oh, please.” Belphegor rolls his eyes, clearly irked by Lucifer's intervention. “We are okay. Right?”, he looks back at you, and this time around his voice is filled with doubt, bordering hopeful, searching for something in your eyes.

“We aren't.” At last, you say it, flatly, and it comes out sharper than you intended, if the way Belphegor flinches and Asmo whimpers is any indication. You're tired, what little patience you have left is quickly running out thanks to the stubborn remarks and your words falling on deaf ears. “Let me move.”

The demon on your lap has the gall to look affronted, hurt. His bewildered expression does nothing more than increase the feeling already boiling deep within you. You can feel Satan's eyes boring in your cheek, but you refuse to look at him.

“Hey… Relax”, Belphegor mutters, now looking a little concerned too. For you. He's worried about you, and yet he still won't get up. “Are you okay? What's wrong?”

What's wrong.

What's wrong?

You're so taken aback by the question that by the time you react, his hand is already on its way to hold your cheek.

The most violent of flashbacks comes through you, a whiplash that hits you with the force of a truck. His handprints on your neck, trying to catch your breath, feeling cold all over, with the only warmth coming from your own blood ringing loudly in your ears, flowing right next to his voice, so full of hatred.

You can't freeze this time around, you need to move, you need to run, you need to do something, anythi--

“Belphie, I don't think you sh--” Satan tries to warn him, but it's too late.

By the time Belphegors fingertips touch your cheek (and this time they're warm, not dead-cold, you notice with surprise) your fist is already hitting against his nose, punching him right in the middle of his face, with a force you didn't even knew you had in you.

Not that you've ever done it before, but you can imagine this is what it feels like to hit a wall. Your hand hurts and goes numb.

The impact pushes Belphegor against the cushions, his hands flying to cover his nose. And any other day it would have been impossible, your punch would never land (he's that much faster, that much stronger), but right now he was so worried about you, so desperate to stick by you. His guard was as down as it will ever be.

His nose is bleeding, you notice, at the same time as Asmo gets up with a gasp. Levi shrieks in the background, and Mammon let's out this weird noise, a mix between one of his “Oi”, your name, and a scream.

Everything stands still, and, to your credit, you're just a shocked as everyone else.

With the punch, all anger has left your body, and now you're just a bunch of nerves, looking at Belphegor with big eyes. Belphegor looks back at you, so shocked, and you suddenly feel like crying. Oh, how much you hate being an angry-crier.

Satan is the one that breaks the silence, with a heavy sigh. “Told you so.”

Beel comes next, taking two steps in your direction but stopping when you raise your palm. You're trembling, but you come close to Belphegor all the same, refusing to back down.

“Asshole.” It's the first thing you say, and defying the impossible, Belphegor's eyes grow even wider as you tower over him, kneeling on the couch.

“Are you deaf? Wasn't I clear enough? Loud enough?”, and when you raise your fist in the air, Lucifer approaches, but all you do is gently punch Belphegor's chest. Again and again. “I told you to move. Several times. And still, you didn't. I was… I was dying of fear, and you weren't moving.”

“You, inconsiderate shit.” Punch. “You, deaf moron.” Punch.

“You… Stubborn cow.”

Belphegor has let the blood simply flow across his face, and now he's kneeling in front of you, holding his own hands, the same surprised look on his face.

And that's that.

You let your arms fall with a groan and simply sigh. For Diavolo, violence really isn't for you, you are so tired.

“S-Should we separate them?” Levi asks in a trembling voice, frantically waving his hands, unable to decide whether to approach or flee.

“No. He has more to say.” Satan gently holds Levi's wrists, and waits.

That's when you realize that yes, you got more to say. In fact, you've had something to say for way too long, and now you're dying to get it off your chest.

“I gave you my trust, and I knew I was being childish and reckless in doing so, but all I wanted was to help. I cried for you, I felt for you, and I did everything I could to be by your side even though all I had to offer was just. Just me. Mortal, human. And in response, you killed me.” Belphegor recoils at your words, but you go on.

“It hurt. It still hurts, even now. Sometimes I see you and all I can think about is your betrayal.”

Belphegor looks down, biting his lips, in silence. You can see his hands shaking, and you remember your talk under the stars, his eagerness when he offered you a pact. When he gave you the control you needed. His hands were shaking back then, too.

With a groan, you reach out to hold his chin, lifting his face. You take the long sleeve of your pajamas and begin to wipe the blood running down his chin, across his lips. Slowly, with care.

Your fingers run through his hair just to be able to look directly into his eyes. He looks anxious, fearful, and you know that your next words have the power to break or mend his heart.

So you decide to, once more, open yours and leave the rest in his hands.

“I don't hate you. And this isn't me cutting our ties. I understand your pain, I really do. Please, understand mine.”

Your thumb caresses over his forehead. Carefully, gently.

“I need time. I'll let you know when I'm ready.”

Belphegor inhales and exhales deeply, holding your gaze. Slowly, but surely, he takes your hand between his, from his forehead to his lips, leaving the lightest of kisses against your palm. You feel the pact mark that binds you together tremble and sing.

“I'm sorry. For the pain, for my insistence, I just… Wanted to be close. I need to be close. I'll wait for you.”

Straightforward as ever. But you are struck by the sincerity in his voice, in his eyes, and this time around it takes you no more than a second to nod.

“Right. Be good and wait for me.”

Unable to resist, you pat his head, just as you would to a small, rebellious child. He's the baby of the family, after all. He groans, and you laugh, feeling so much lighter. And unbelievably tired.

By the time you remember that you're not alone in the room and turn around to placate the others, you make eye contact with Satan.

He's looking prouder than ever, the little smile on his lips telling enough. “Go on”

The brothers needed no further prompting to launch themselves at the two of you, a jumble of limbs and shrill voices.

“MC, that was, as usual, reckless. From now on, fist fights are forbidden in and out of the house. Evade further conflicts.”

“B-But wasn't MC so cool?!?! Belphie is so much stronger, but he was down with one punch! W-way too op, MC!!”

“Oi! Human, how dumb can ya be?! Tell me before you go around punchin' demons, I can punch them for ya!”

“I knew you were good at controlling your anger, but I never imagined that much. You are full of surprises.”

“Belphie, gosh, your clinginess finally got you in trouble, mh? Your surprised face was so cute! Do you need concealer?”

“Belphie, does it hurt? Do you need ice? We have popsicles in the freezer… Wait, I ate them all yesterday, sorry Belphie… Do you want me to go and buy more? MC, which flavor would you like?”

“We are good, Beel.” Belphegor answers, still looking at you. “Right?”

You laugh at his not-so-subtle search for assurance, and your chest feels astonishingly full. “We will be, for sure.”

Movie night turns right into a sleepover after that, as every single one of the demon brothers refuses to leave your room. Lucifer might roll his eyes, but he still settles on your couch, right next to Satan.

And for the first time in weeks, you're able to close your eyes and rest, feeling safe and at home.

ao3 ― writing tag

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bloodynectarine · 2 years

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Pants are for the weak, and I'm strong af

MC refuses to wear pants. Chaos ensues.

tags. male mc, amab reader, shameless mc, mix of crack and fluff, slightly suggestive content (a healthy dose of horny grip), all the brothers.

notes. this is my first fic ever and my debut post, oof, sweats. what does one says. open up? enjoy the meal? come back soon?

After everything you've been through since your arrival at Devildom, including (but not limited to) a murder (yours, to be precise), you've slowly but surely carved your own way into the brothers' chaotic life.

Every time you wake up tangled in Mammon's arms and legs, you simply snuggle in, even when you were pretty sure you went to sleep to an empty bed the night before.

Walking around school holding Satan's arm feels as natural as breathing, and if you end up close enough to lay your head on his shoulder, so be it.

Whenever Asmo crosses the room to fix your hair or touch your face, rambling about how long your lashes are, how soft your skin feels, you lean in and bask in the attention.

Naps with Belphie are an everyday thing now: you let him lay on top of you, hide his face against your neck and snuggle anywhere between fifteen and forty minutes.

You already know every single one of Beel's eating habits. You can tell when a 108 seeds salad will do the job, and when you'll have to phone Barbatos, asking for his Bloody Terrine recipe.

Anime binges with Levi have introduced you to so many new series you love, and the amount of inside jokes the two of you share is probably a bit unhealthy.

If Lucifer decides to make eye contact with you from across the table at dinner, you have no problem to hold it, and if you let out the secret smile here and there, you're rewarded with an identical one.

They love it. They indulge in the way you let one wall down after the other, relishing in your company, constantly wondering, how close can they get? How much can they take from you before you stop them?

And still, when yet another wall crumbles down, and you show up late for breakfast one fateful Sunday morning with nothing but a long white t-shirt on —rubbing your eyes, tumbling in, clearly more asleep than awake—, the silence is loud, deafening.

“Legs” is the first thing that Asmo blurts out, immediately shutting up at the glare he gets from Lucifer. Nothing and no one can stop him from looking though.

“What? What leg?” You ask, voice low, slow, and drowsy as you sit down on the only available seat, between Levi and Beel.

Not even half a second later Levi gets up, muttering something about someone please switch places with me, do you want me to die, is that what you want, a shitty otaku like me isn't built for this, this is one of my favorite tropes--.

On cue, Mammon and Satan get up and rush to take the now free seat. The winner is Mammon, “That should teach ya!! Taste the power of the second born! THE Mammon!” he shrieks, loud but uncharacteristically evasive, face and neck as red as they get whilst holding intense eye contact with Levi's cereal bowl.

You laugh, as you always do, no longer surprised by their weird antics. “What's with that? Already fighting, so early on?” Elbow on table, cheek on hand, and the oversized t-shirt slides down, flashing an incredibly soft-looking shoulder.

While Levi chokes up with his own saliva and Beel reminds him he needs to breathe, Belphie sighs and shakes his head, unfazed, biting into his toast “Humans are pretty oblivious, uh? So dumb”, and if he moves his chair a little bit closer to try to get a better look, it's no one's business but his.

“Calling me dumb as soon as I get here? Mean”, you halfheartedly complain. Belphie might be onto something this time though: you have no idea what's going on.

Beel resumes chewing as he puts down a half-eaten cookie in front of you, “Saved this one for you”, which gets him a smile. In the next breath, Asmo puts two cookies (unchewed) on your plate “And I saved these for you, honey”, which gets him an even brighter smile.

Before everything gets out of control —he can already see his brothers wrestling until filling up your plate to the brim—, Lucifer decides it's time to intervene, “MC. Where are your pants.”

It's not a question, you notice. You scratch your neck and tilt your head, suddenly overly-conscious of your attire (or lack thereof) “Well. In my room. I hope.”

That gets you an exasperated sigh. Weird, that was even faster than usual. “Let me ask once again, and this time answer accordingly. Why are you not wearing your pants.”

“Oh. Haha. Actually, it's super funny” It's not. “But, you see, back in the human world I used to do this all the time.”

“This as in… Walking around naked?” Satan is the one asking, but while Lucifer sounds every bit of judgmental, he sounds playfully curious, his voice carries an obvious smile, even as he tries to hide it behind his mug (it's the one you got him, with cat ears, and a heart-shaped tail as the uncomfortable-looking handle).

“Not naked” How ridiculous would that be? You roll your eyes, reaching for your own mug (the one that has “Why be a demon hunter when you can be a demon kisser?” in bold red letters) and stopping halfway, thinking. “Surely I'm wearing boxers right now.” And to corroborate that you are, in fact, not walking around naked, you look down and lift the shirt. Just to be sure.

You've barely got a glimpse of black fabric (great, you didn't forget, that could've been embarrassing) when Mammon comes back to life, reaching out with both hands and pulling down to cover you once again, with more than enough strength. “Oi, oi, oi! W-w-what do ya think ya're doin'?! Are ya really that stupid?! Don't go around lettin' them s--”

A glimpse of your left nipple as the t-shirt slides even lower is apparently the straw that broke the demon's back, if the multiple gasps and squeals, delighted giggles (pretty sure those are Asmo's) and Lucifer's loud groan are any indicative.

“Enough. From now on, pants and t-shirts that actually fit are mandatory in and out the house.”

“Thank you, but no, thank you. I can't go back to wearing pants, they're suffocating. Also, it's only inside the house, so it should be okay, right?”

“It wasn't a question, this isn't about you agreeing or not, it's regulatory, and--”

“I say, if my darling doesn't want to wear pants, let him be, maybe it's a strange human tradition? We should join him!”

“That can't be the case, I haven't read anything like that before.”

“C-couldn't you at least wear a longer t-shirt? I'm going to pass out, it's exactly the same as in the second episode of I Turned Into a Bat Thinking My Childhood Friend Wouldn't Care But We Ended Up Married in The Afterlife where the protagonist--”

“It looks comfortable, MC. You probably can eat a lot in that.”

“And naps in a long t-shirt are the best, right? We should test it out. Right after breakfast.”

“Oi!! No! It's a no-go! Don't ya think I don't see ya lookin' at my human all over! Do I need to remind y'all who his first man is--”

“I don't see why it is such a big deal”, you mumble, pointedly not looking in Lucifer's direction, finally biting into a cookie as you let the t-shirt slide and move as it pleases, feeling snug and comfy in its embrace. So soft. “Aren't we all guys? There's nothing that I have that you don't.”

You continue chewing, eyes widening at a sudden realization “Or there is?” you ask, mouth full of cookie, trying to recall your limited knowledge in Demon Anatomy. Not your best subject, if you're being honest.

And thus a new round of shouting and squealing starts, so chaotic that getting a word in is impossible.

Or, at least was, until the ringing of the bell stops everyone in its tracks. Getting a few crumbs off your hands with the help of your very controversial t-shirt, you get up, walking towards the door with all the confidence of someone who's actually wearing pants.

It seems like ages since the last time all seven siblings agreed on something, but right now, they all scream in unison “Don't open the door!”.

ao3 ― writing tag

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bloodynectarine · 1 year

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I could just eat you up

Asmo decides that there's no better way to boost your self-esteem than to aggressively make out with you for an hour. Or two.

tags. asmo x mc, dominant asmo, gender-neutral mc, insecure mc, body worshiping, nsfw (mostly kissing but undeniably horny), mdni.

notes. i think that asmo is the type of guy (demon) that would get really hurt if you feel insecure about the way you look. it's my first time writing something that goes beyond hand-holding, but it had to be done, i want more dom asmo out in the universe.

“You can never go wrong with a clear lip gloss.”

“I don't know, gloss makes my lips feel kind of sticky.”

Asmo let's out a tiny whine of disagreement, but his hand is steady as he puts the aforementioned gloss in your lips, carefully, with ease.

So close to him, you get a first row seat to the orange of his eyes that borderlines gold at times, and you're so transfixed by the way the color moves and changes that you stop your complaints and let him do whatever he wants. You promised to be “his pretty little doll” for today, after all.

“This isn't human-world gloss, silly. You'll hardly notice it's there, promise... Aaaaaand done. What do you think?”

Satisfaction is such a pretty look on Asmo, that's what you think, when you catch his reflection in the mirror of his vanity, the one you're sitting in front of, while he stands next to you, a hand on his hip.

The contentment in his face is reward enough for the weekly four and a half hours he likes to spend dolling you up. Your “Asmo Time”, and everyone in the House of Lamentation knows better than to try to interrupt your Asmo Time —the only one that keeps trying from time to time is Mammon, but that's just how Mammon is (endearingly persistent)—.

From skincare, to hair, to makeup: he has paid attention to every single detail. It still amazes you how much joy Asmo gets out of taking care of you, how he seems to never get tired of it.

And even if it'll never be as fun for you as it is for Asmo (who seems to love looking at you almost as much as he enjoys looking at himself), you can't deny that you enjoy his attention and company immensely.

Asmo, who never runs out of things to talk about, that listens attentively and laughs at your multiple stories, remembering even the tiniest of details. (So much so that you're sure that if you were to insist one more time, today would be the last day he puts gloss on you. But he's right, this demon-world-gloss is truly great, you barely feel it against your lips).

Your Asmo Time is precious to you, it really is. And yet, by the end of it, you find yourself unable to look at your reflection. Every single time.

“You are truly the best at what you do, Asmo” you say cheerfully, after looking at yourself in the mirror for exactly 0.5 seconds, enough to notice that the glitter eyeshadow is pretty, but not long enough to really look at yourself. You can't. Not now, not ever.

“The best at what I do, and what's that, mh? Being the prettiest brother? Oh, love, I already know I'm the best at that” and while his voice carries the same flirty and flippant tone as always, when you make eye contact through the mirror, he looks way less cheerful, thoughtful. You can feel the change in the air, and silence settles between the two of you, while he continues to assess you through the reflection, playing with your hair.

Well, you might have been able to fool any other of the seven siblings for a bit longer, but this is Asmo we're talking about.

Now, you're wondering how to put it. (“It's not your fault, Asmo. The makeup is great, I'm sure, I just don't like looking at myself!! No big deal though, don't worry, haha” doesn't sound too good). It will have to do for now though, you'd hate it if he thought you didn't like the makeup. Or worse, you realize, he might think you do not enjoy your Asmo Time.

With urgency, you decide to start. “Hey, Asmo, it's not--.”

It's probably for the best that you don't get to go on, with Asmo's lips stealing the words right out of your mouth. Kissing with Asmo is a common occurrence, with his preferred form of greeting being a peck against your lips. However, you can tell this is different.

The little gasp you let out is a natural reaction to the softness of his lips against yours, so sudden and yet welcomed, pressing right back.

Ripe peach, with a hint of something earthy, almost like the smell of morning dew, hits your nose, and you recognize it right away as the smell of Asmo's skin that you've noticed before, but never this close. Never this inebriating.

The hand that was playing with your hair just seconds ago scratches against your scalp, making you hum against his mouth and straighten your back. It travels down until he's holding your nape, an anchor in the middle of the storm, angling your head just so he can meet your lips even more full-on.

The way he licks into your mouth is so full of intent, of purpose, leaving no room for doubt or what ifs, the message loud and clear: Want. Desire.

When he flattens his tongue against yours, more than hearing him, you can feel him groan against you, and the sensation travels from your lips and sits in your chest, making you tremble in return.

The chair scrapes against the floor with the force he uses to press you against it, and your heart leaps, thinking for a fraction of a second that you are going to fall. Your hands reach out to hold his neck, his chest.

Overwhelmed as you are, you've failed to notice that Asmo is already holding the chair. He laughs, but it's far from the playful sound you're used to. It's breathless, so much so that you can barely hear it.

When he sucks your tongue and starts to pull back, you half-open your eyes and whine, loud and clear in the middle of his room, missing his taste. You gasp when you find him already looking at you, with half-lidded eyes. They're almost cherry red.

The hand in your nape travels to hold your face, pulling from your lower lip with his thumb, making sure you keep your mouth open as he resumes kissing you, sucking and biting into your mouth. Full of greed, of hunger, of lust.

You spend an eternity and a half like that, gasping for air whenever your lips grow apart, but chasing his mouth with even more urgency. While Asmo's hands keep you steady, yours press against his chest, run through his hair, and pull whenever you want more.

Everything about him is pleasant to the touch. When he parts from your lips for good, it leaves you reeling, trying your best to catch your breath.

You feel him move behind you and push the chair until your hands lay against the vanity, just to hold something, still trying to make sense of how kissing could feel that good. You almost want to reprimand him for using his sin against you, but when you lick your lips you can only taste Asmo, not a single drop of magic.

And that means that the pleasure that coils in your gut is all yours.

“Darling”, and you raise your eyes just to make eye contact through the mirror. He's holding your shoulders, bending down to whisper against your ear. You start to turn, attempting to see him face to face.

“No”, his hand holds your chin, keeping you in place, “Look at yourself.”

And so, out of sorts, you do.

He has made a mess out of you. Your hair is sticking in all kind of directions, your lips as red as they could get. Your eyes shine, and glow. You look close to tears.

Mortification stars to crawl in your skin. You are a wreck, you are--

“What's there not to adore about you?”

At the breathless voice, you lock eyes with Asmo once again. And you take a sudden intake of air, startled by the look in his eyes.

He is transfixed. His eyes travel across your face, and he looks absolutely mesmerized, completely lost.

You feel and see him as he turns and licks your ear, but when you whimper and jump at the jolt of pleasure, you aren't too sure if it's in response to the press of his teeth against your earlobe or to the phantom touch his eyes leave on your skin.

“Asmo, I--”

“You are absolutely perfect”, he goes on, and his hands shift down, with one gripping your neck, and even without pressing, its touch brands you, it feels like hot coal against your skin.

The other one goes even lower and cups your chest, making you moan as he starts to caress your nipple through the thin layer of cloth. Your face reddens when you realize he's still watching you. He looks so hungry.

“From head, to toe. There's nothing that I don't love about you, darling”, he groans, right against your ear, his hand still pressing and pulling from your nip as you grasp into the vanity, whimpering, unable to close your eyes.

When he starts to lick against your neck, your head tilts to give him more space. At his mercy, he bites and sucks, groaning against your skin. “What should I do, to make you understand?”, as if rewarding your submissiveness, he lets go of your neck, and his hand goes down instead.

You don't recognize the noise you let out when you feel his nails scratch against your jeans, right on top of your crotch. An up and down movement, small motions that manage to be too little and too much at the same time, your legs spasming at the pleasure. You sob, and you can feel a tear or two getting stuck in your lashes, overstimulated.

“Should I fuck it into you?”, is the growl that rumbles against your neck, gruff, and it takes you a second to recognize this voice as Asmo's.

“If I make you cry, if I fill you up to the brim. Would that help you get it into your pretty little head? How utterly gorgeous you are, how much I want you?”, his palm presses down and makes you keen.

A flick of his wrist and you can hear the door locking. His smile is almost angelic when he looks back at you, and in your muddled mind, your only coherent thought is that the two of you are going to be very late for dinner.

“It can't hurt to try, right, my love?”

ao3 ― writing tag

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bloodynectarine · 1 year

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And yet, here I am, yearning

Lucifer experiences what he (belatedly) recognizes as heartbreak in the middle of one of Diavolo's parties.

tags. gender-neutral mc, angst, missed opportunities, (kinda but not really) one-sided lucifer x mc, implied mammon x mc.

notes. today i bring you pain. tomorrow? who knows. i tried to write lucifer's sin getting in the way of his feelings for you. also, for this one to work, mc refused to attend any parties for quite a while upon arriving to the devildom.

Lucifer has been playing host along Diavolo all night long, and he can already feel his face hurt. Being on his best behavior was exhausting; as if demons were anything but cunning.

Half of the guests are here in a poor attempt to get on Diavolo's good side, and the other half just want to get a peek of the new inhabitant of the House of Lamentation. “Have you heard? That human is here”, an oblivious demon whispers to him, only to disappear just as fast, clearly in a hurry upon realizing who exactly was he talking to.

Of course Lucifer has heard.

His eyes scan the sea of people, searching between green, purple, and red garments, until spotting you in your bold white and gold suit. Even if you weren't the star of the show already, heads would've been turning your way with just your attire, such a daring choice. How fitting.

And just as last week when you tried the suit on for the first time and excitedly broke into his office for a little fashion show, you look… angelic.

The white makes you look exquisite under the light of the chandeliers, and each one of the multiple accessories you are drowned in is tastefully done.

They work as a warning, of course; not just anyone in the Devildom can wear jewelry of such a deep gold as the one in the choker that covers your throat, in the pins that hold your hair in place and in the multiple rings around your fingers. They speak of power.

But they also speak of love.

It's subtle, in the way it would've been impossible for you to stylize your hair alone, or to get into the intricate suit on your own without ending up looking like a mess. Everything about the ensemble you're wearing speaks of someone caring for you enough to handpick everything, to make sure you look perfect.

And if Lucifer remembers correctly (and he knows he does), Mammon was the one who stood by you every step of the way. He didn't even let Asmo step in for the makeup, or listened to Satan's advice for color and styling. How unusual of him, he thought at the time, to want to shoulder all the responsibility instead of leaving all the work to somebody else.

Looking at you now, he gets it. Everything about you screams Mammon, so it's no surprise to see him stuck by your side. He looks so pleased: the pins in his hair and yours match perfectly.

The second born seems to have a knack for holding your attention. Right now he's practically shielding you with his body while the both of you talk, taking over your personal space, getting closer than you would have allowed him to just a few weeks ago.

Uneasiness settles in his gut. When did you start to lean in instead of flinching away?

While he can tell you've warmed up to every single one of his brothers, your relationship with Mammon went from strangers to attached to the hip in what seems like the blink of an eye.

The two of you are a lot to handle when you are together.

You've encouraged Mammon's impulsive nature with your ride-or-die disposition, always ready to take part in his (often stupid, often insane) plans, orbiting around him.

In return, you can do no wrong in Mammon's eyes. He is the fire to your fuel, just as ready to indulge you, craving ―and lately demanding― every bit of your attention.

It's true that upon your arrival, Lucifer decided to trust you in Mammon's care, convinced that the two of you would at least work around each other…

He greets each guest that moves past him with a barely-there smile, and a nod of his head, not doing much more than acknowledging their presence, preoccupied with keeping an eye on you.

And that's why he sees it, almost in slow-motion, how your hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind Mammon's ear. It wasn't even out of place to begin with.

Leaving you in his care, he expected Mammon to be willing to help, as always. He was ready for him to slowly put his bravado aside, to bond with you, to call you a friend, maybe. But he never expected… this.

This feeling, that's tearing his chest apart. This urge, to reach for your hands and hold them prisoners in his. The desire, to come impossibly close and ask you, with all the pride of a petulant child, why him?

And not me?

The revelation is such that he feels himself tremble from head to toe.

How long has it been? When did he start to wish to take you away and keep you for himself? Has this feeling always been there, doomed, since the very first time he saw you? Or has it slowly crept into him, catching him at the worst of times, when it's already too late?

He remembers, he does, how in the beginning you always sought him out, to talk, for help, just to be near him. Your eyes full of stars, of wonder, every single time you looked at him. When did you start to move out of his reach?

Was he… the one to push you away? With his elusive nature, always distrusting, with the one hundred and one walls that surround him at all times. Has he ever… let you in?

Last week. What exactly did he said to you when you showed him the suit? You were clearly looking for praise.

He asked you to step outside, didn't he. Stop interrupting me in my working hours, MC.

What was your expression like, back then? Did he make you sad, upset? He didn't even remem--

“Lucifer, old friend, how are you enjoying the party? Does the demonus suit your tastes?”

Lucifer makes sure to set his cup down on the table before answering, adjusting his expression with practiced calm. If his shaking hands are too noticeable, Diavolo doesn't mention them.

And even if in his shock he hasn't taken a single sip, he answers, with a probably crooked smile. “Bitter. It's a little bitter.”

By the time he looks up and across the ballroom, you and Mammon are already long gone.

ao3 ― writing tag

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bloodynectarine · 1 year

Text

The devil is in the details

You try (and fail) to spoil Diavolo on his birthday, as he picks a grocery store of all places to spend a night with you in. Or, the shortest sugar daddy career ever.

tags. gender-neutral mc, crack and fluff, diavolo x mc, mc is whipped, but so is diavolo.

notes. I'M LATE, november went by in a blur, what's up with that. even so, i wanted to finish this one and i'm shameless, so please pretend diavolo's birthday is around the corner while reading.

thanks to @property-of-diavolo for hosting #diamonth2022 sorry for the delay (!!)

As of late, you can't help but feel self-conscious every time you set foot in the Demon Lord's Castle.

You've become suddenly hyperaware of the fact that you're not only stopping by to join sweet, attentive and easygoing Diavolo for a cup of tea but… Well. You're actually hanging out with the ruler of the Devildom.

Naturally, you already knew that. But trying to find the perfect birthday gift for a soon-to-be-kinda-already-king has brought a ―drastic, sometimes suffocating― change of perspective.

What could you offer to someone that seems to have everything and anything he could want? There's no avoiding it: sooner than later, you find yourself noticing details that you've swiftly overlooked before.

The almost translucent centerpiece that sits on the dinner table between you and Dia, the gold-lined curtains that he carelessly shoves away to show you how big the moon looks tonight, the unnaturally-blue mirror that blinks back at you whenever you fix your hair right before entering his office, as giddy as ever to see him.

You're starting to get why Mammon tries to steal something every single time he visits, and that's a dangerous train of thought that you would rather avoid following.

One afternoon, out of curiosity ―you're no cat, but you should've known better―, you ask Barbatos how much is the pen you're currently holding. It's of such a bright red, and it feels cold, heavy in your hand. The deep voice coming from it whispers a trail of suggestions as you write down your grocery shopping list, getting ready for your brief visit to the human world.

Barbatos tilts his head, a bit taken aback by your inquiry but answering anyway, as willing to help as always.

“It has been in the castle for generations and its curse is excessively unique. Originally, it was worth merely thirty millions, but to decipher its current price range, a proper assessment is in need. The only answer I can provide with at the moment is that it's, well, priceless.”

Of course it is. When you laugh, it comes out more like a cry, and one look at Barbatos' politely confused expression has you laughing even louder.

In your rush to put down the pen as fast as possible, your shopping list is long forgotten.

Well, if it isn't the consequences of my own actions. That exact list is what has brought you here, in the human world, on the eve of Diavolo's birthday, about to enter a three-story 24 hours grocery store accompanied by Devildom's ruler.

“Dia… Lately I've been picking up a few extra hours in Devil's kitchen, maybe I could take you to the movies for your birthday? An amusement park? We can go to a concert. A spa. Or camping.”

The inhabitants of the house of lamentation have seen you running around like crazy this last month, trying to squeeze some extra hours of work whenever you could, all with one objective in mind: spoil Diavolo on his birthday.

You forgot a tiny little detail though: to ensure that said demon is willing to being spoiled.

“I thought you needed groceries? That list was quite long”, he answers, and watching him push a shopping cart through the dairy aisle is surreal enough to have your mind reeling. He is towering over everyone and everything, wearing the human-grocery-shopping outfit you helped him pick ―black graphic tee (yours, oversized on you but fitted on him) and jeans, with a white beanie and a cozy-looking coat on top―.

“Yeah. I can go out to get groceries any other night, though. And I know you wanted to come here for your birthday, but… Is that really okay? Wouldn't you like to go, I don't know, anywhere else more fun?”

“More fun? Than this?”, and it's the genuine confusion in his voice what takes you by surprise, any further questioning getting stuck in your throat when you gaze directly into the molten gold eyes that look at you in earnest, as sincere as ever.

To disarm you further, Diavolo takes your shopping list out of his wallet and deciphers your handwriting without a problem, looking around in amazement, so regal and achingly familiar at the same time.

(Has he kept it in there all this time? It has been almost three weeks since you left it behind, and it was nothing but a crumpled piece of paper, with a couple of tea stains here and there. The careful way in which he holds it has your belly in knots)

And he looks… Excited. Relaxed and happy. And isn't that everything you could ask for and more?

Your concerns seem trivial and distant in the face of his excitement. Of course, trust Diavolo to pick a night spent with you in a grocery store over a fancy tea set, or an expensive wine ―gift options you've considered before, you admit shamefully―.

You can see him talk, gesturing with both hands, but you're too busy spacing out to really listen, feeling lightheaded with relief upon realizing that Diavolo is and will always be Diavolo around you.

By the time you manage to pay attention, Diavolo is holding a carton of milk in each hand, examining them with the wonder of a five-year-old and the solemn expression of someone that's holding something invaluable.

“So many options, and it's just milk! What's the difference? Maybe a different cow for each of them? Mh, I see.”

It's so unfair. He's just standing there, and yet your heart decides it's the perfect time to do some flip-flops.

“Ah, yes, as expected, 'Almond' is a pretty suitable name for a cow. '2%' is a little bit underwhelming as far as cows' names go, but I'm sure their milk is just as lovely as Almond's.”

You nod solemnly, without contradicting such a sound conclusion, making quick work of getting your phone out and ready.

“Could you hold the carton closer to your face? Let me take a picture of you and Almond”.

Hours later, you come out of the store with arms full of bags and your camera roll overflowing with pictures of Diavolo ―some of them you already shared to the group chat, graciously ignoring the multiple missed calls after that one picture of Dia trying to get into the shopping cart―.

The face that the cashier made when Diavolo excitedly explained he came here to celebrate his birthday was unforgettable. Almost as amusing as the one pulled by that old lady that overhear the both of you talking about “bringing Lucifer a few snacks”.

The night air feels icy-cold against your cheeks, and yet, you cannot stop smiling. Feeling your chest impossibly full, getting even more stuffy once you turn around and see an even bigger smile on Diavolo.

He comes closer and carefully places the beanie on your head, probably adjudicating your red ears, cheeks, and nose, to the cold.

“Thank you. I haven't had fun like this in years.” Voice charged with intimacy, without breaking eye contact. Your overall redness only increases once he holds your face in his hands, thumbs sliding across your cheekbones. Surely another effort to keep you warm.

“Truth to be told, today must've been the first time I've enjoyed myself this much.” He adds, with a chuckle. And you know it's true, he can't be lying, not Diavolo, and not with the way he would light up whenever people barely glanced his way; unbothered and oblivious.

With the way he's looking at you, you have to control yourself before spitting some nonsense about buying him the whole grocery store if he wants you to (you have no idea how, but you would).

You have to settle for the next best thing: raw sincerity. “First of many. We can do this again, you know? We don't have to wait for your next birthday. You have me, after all.”

An open door. And by the looks of it, Diavolo recognizes it, if the way his hand travels to take one of the bags out of your grasp, all to intertwine his fingers with yours, is any indicative.

You share a secret smile. You don't know if you can go back to shopping alone after this.

“Human world dinner on me! I'm all ears for the birthday boy, any food you'd like to try? Sushi, maybe? Steak? I know a pretty good lobster place.”

“Oh! I've heard about 24 hours fast food, and I find it fascinating. How fast is it? Do we have to chase it? I would like to try it!”

“… Dia, I'm begging you, let me buy you something that is at least six dollars.”

ao3 ― writing tag

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