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kingdumkum · 2 years

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WHAT ARE YOU THE GOD OF, AGAIN?

feat: Lucifer ( 1182 ) ∻ Mammon ( 1748 ) ∻ Leviathan ( 1315 ) synopsis: turns out, fallen angels can have more than one sin. cw : afab!reader | overstimulation (f!receiving), squirting (if you squint); servicedom!Lucifer, oral (f!receiving), some sacrilegious connotations (heavy in Lucifer's, but they're literally a fallen angels though so that should probably go without saying) | implied nsfw; confessions; pretty tame, actually, it’s mostly just heavy-petting and fluff and i swear i *tried* to make it slutty but we’re in our ~feels~ with Mams today | oral (m!receiving); soft!Levi (but *not* sub!Levi); kinda bimbo!reader; kinda collaring but ~stylish~ a/n: check the bottom for links to the other brothers+undateables on this theme, coming soon to a theater near you

∻ Lucifer ↠ p r i d e ⤲ g r e e d

As the avatar of pride, LUCIFER knows a thing or two about confidence. After all, to be proud is to feel deep pleasure at one’s achievements, and you’d be hard-pressed to name a single thing Lucifer ever wanted that he hasn’t achieved.

But there is nothing–nothing–in heaven or hell or any realm between that gives him more pride than you.

Your sweet laugh, your infectious smile, the way your eyes close when you’re so fucked you nearly forget how to breathe… every piece of you makes him feel alive in ways he never thought possible; a startling truth he’s reminded of every time you say his name. A hard truth he can no longer pretend to loathe when he’s between your legs, coaxing out your third orgasm of the day, your hands knotted in his dark hair and voice weakly repeating his name like a prayer.

Lu-ci-fer.

Each syllable slow and broken, but there–there, for him, because of him. Not Mammon, or Diavolo, or that other wretched human–him.

It’s the only prayer he’d ever grant. God may have made you, but Lucifer has claimed *you, and he will spend every day for the rest of eternity proving that. You are *his, and not in the way Mammon is his to torture or he is Diavolo’s to command or Satan is the very flesh from his bone; no, you are his because you chose him.

Who wouldn’t be proud of that? Who wouldn’t want to spend their days on their knees, worshiping every crevice of your perfect body, pulling every sinfully hedonistic sound and look and quiver from you–you, the one who changed everything without even trying. Who would ever be so stupid as to think they could have had enough of you?

You could have anyone in the devildom at your altar, but you choose him to be your disciple. And he reminds you why for the third time that night, dragging his gloved fingers slowly in and out of your drenched cunt, his sharp nose rubbing against your clit as your legs shake on either side of his head. “Just like that, my love,” he murmurs into your fluttering core. “Keep saying my name. Be a good girl and give me another, and I’ll let you cum on my cock next.”

You struggle to catch your breath, barely able to keep your chest upright enough to try and lock eyes. Lucifer’s dark gaze meets yours, a smirk tugging on his lips when you start to tremble from a brief puff of hot air against your sensitive clit. You’re not sure if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away when your fingers dig into his scalp but damn it all, the only thing your body is capable of doing is moaning each syllable of his name like it’ll be the last thing you ever say.

“P–please, Lu–Luci–I just want–you–”

He slaps your clit, but it’s the way he chuckles at how your body spasms that sends shivers down your spine. “Is this not enough?” His face hovers over your folds, thumbs gently spreading you apart. “Aren’t my fingers and tongue good enough for you?”

He asks as if he wouldn’t spend the rest of your life between your legs; as if the mere act of giving you pleasure hasn’t made a mess of his own pants once or twice already; as if he weren’t the one watching you with pleading eyes, a look of barely-veiled desperation begging you to let him keep worshiping you.

Your lower lip trembles, and your initial protest of, “s’not the same–” is drowned out by an obscene moan as Lucifer plunges his tongue inside you completely. A thumb continues to rub at your clit, and faster than you thought possible, your thighs are clenching the demon’s face. If he’d been a normal man, he wouldn’t have had the strength to keep your hips pinned with one hand *and *a steady pressure on your clit with the other, while simultaneously pulling away enough so your liquids completely cover his lower chin and blissed-out smile–but Lucifer is not a normal man.

He is a demon, and demons take what they want… and he wants you. Now, and tomorrow, and for the rest of his existence. To be on his hands and knees, servicing you, pleasing you–

Never has he felt like this before. Never has he felt so helpless, so weak, so–human.

It’d make him furious, if it wasn’t for the fact that you hoarsely whisper his name, kiss-swollen lips sounding holier than any saint. If it wasn’t for the way your hand finds his, fits in his, holds his so gently, as if you’re afraid he might be the one to break, not that he’d broken you.

“Good girl.” Lucifer stands and kisses your sweat-slick forehead. Humans, *he thinks in equal parts disgust and reverence. *So… fragile.

Your eyes flutter in exhaustion but stubborn refusal at missing a single second with your lover; drenched in sweat, breathing as if you’d just run a marathon. Weak, and fragile, and human, and–he needs you. He needs you, now, and tomorrow, and forever, but if he didn’t get you right this second, there would be hell to pay.

So despite knowing your body can’t handle much more, he unzips his pants, gently stroking your inner thigh to try and relax you for what’s to come. “I knew you could do it, my love. Do you want your reward?”

Eyes still closed, you nod instantly. Hands already lifting from the bed and reaching for him, weakly trying to sit up so you can provide him even just a fraction of the pleasure he’d been providing you. “Ah!” Lucifer slaps your hand away, gently stroking his leaking cock as he settles between your legs once more. “Use your words. Do you want your reward?”

“Yes,” you breathe, settling back on your forearms and forcing your body to awaken as you watch your lover with giddy anticipation. “Lucifer, please, please, I want–I want you inside me–”

With a growl, Lucifer bends over you, catching a leg and hitching it over his hip. The mewl of desperation you let out when he hesitates nearly makes him cum on the spot.

“You’re a desperate little thing tonight, aren’t you?” he coos mockingly, gently stroking your face before he grips your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. Your hand catches his wrist, increasing pressure to match his, until you’re writhing beneath him–made all the worse by the heat you can feel from his cock, but not him. “That’s alright, my love. I’ll give you what you want. Just one more, alright? I have work to do.”

It won’t be the last. You know it, he knows it, probably even God knows it–but that doesn’t matter. Not when you feel like heaven, not when you pull him close and tell him over and over and over that *you need more, you need him,**Lucifer please–*

Maybe his father was right. Maybe not all humans are bad–maybe some of them are worth serving, after all.

∻ Mammon ↠ g r e e d ⤲ s l o t h

If anyone were asked who the greediest one in all of the Devildom was, it would unanimously be considered MAMMON. It is his sin, after all; he is the physical embodiment of excessive desire, and just as Beel’s appetite for food knows no bounds, Mammon’s cravings for material things is equally limitless.

So why is it you who can’t get enough?

You’d gone to Mammon’s room earlier with the copy of notes he’d asked for. It started out innocent enough; you knocked, he let you in, then he begged you to stay and help him study. It was like every other day, from the way he sat so close to you on the couch that his thigh was flesh against yours and how he managed to barter correct answers for kisses, and today, like every other day, you found yourself settled comfortably in his lap, arms lopped around his neck as you read off questions from the last multiple choice quiz he’d failed.

The only difference seemed to be in how Mammon was getting an unusually large number of questions right.

“If I didn’t know better,” you laugh breathlessly as Mammon trails his lips up the hollow of your neck, “I’d say you’ve been studying.”

“‘Course I’ve been studying,” he murmurs, hot air tickling the sensitive skin below your jaw, “whaddya call this?”

“Fun,” you tease, pulling back to cradle the white-haired demon’s face. “And I believe you’re the one who said studying could never be fun–”

“Stand corrected,” Mammon huffs, immediately diving forward to capture your lips once more. His hands roam down to your hips, where he squeezes the flesh gently. Feeling emboldened, you rock your hips, then giggle when Mammon’s forced to pull back from your kiss with a groan so low, it rattles your bones. “Studyin’ is fun. S’long as it’s with you, though.”

You laugh and lightly kiss his lips. “Good answer.”

Once, twice, then on the third, one of Mammon’s hands darts up to your head and holds you in place. His lips, so soft against yours, so sweet on yours, move slowly. Gently, he parts yours with his, and as his fingers start to twine in your hair, he dips his tongue in.

This kiss is like no other the two of you have shared… and you’ve shared a lot. The quick, chaste ones when you first began this arrangement; the teasing, smirking ones he’d steal when he got an answer right you’d expected to be wrong; the open, messy ones that were almost more moan and spit than actual lips and air and inevitably led to someone’s shirt being ripped off; the gentle, caring ones on exposed shoulders or foreheads at the end of your “study” sessions that, somehow, so slowly you didn’t even notice, became more intimate than the way he filled you perfectly.

But this… this kiss was somehow all the old yet something new, all at once. It was deep, and not just in the way he sucks on your tongue but how he pulls you in to him, fingertips pressing into your skin as if he couldn’t get close enough–not that you mind, as you wrap a hand around the back of his head and try to bridge the very atoms of space between you. His lips move slowly, his air warm but fresh as he doesn’t even pull away to breathe; instead letting you be the one to give him life. His palms, large and slender on your frame, slowly travel over your body, from the base of your spine to cradling your cheek, and then he pauses. He pulls back. He rests his forehead against yours, wipes a thumb across your cheek, and breathily laughs. “You’re so–beautiful, ya know that? Prettiest treasure I’ve ever seen.”

And how are you supposed to respond to that? To being flattered by the Avatar of Greed, who’s notorious for never being satisfied; to being kissed like you mean something to him, to your first, to who you hope to be yours forever–to the growing dread in your heart that one day, likely soon, the Avatar of Greed will want more than you can give, and he’ll leave you.

And yet–every time you try to speed things up, try to hastily slacken his tie or unbutton your shirt and try to remind him why he should stay, stay now and stay forever, his hands catch yours. “Not yet,” he whispers, and when you whine in protest, he merely starts to kiss you like that again.

Like you’re what he cherishes most in the world. Not his gold, his clothes, or his car–but you. And you always would be.

“Mammon,” you breathe into his lips, “please.”

“Not… yet,” he answers. His hands trail along your sides, lightly bunching your shirt before letting the material fall as he cradles your face. You catch his wrists and pull back from his kiss with a pout.

“Why not? Don’t you want me?”

Mammon has the audacity to laugh. “Are ya serious? Can’t you tell?” He snaps his hips up, chuckling at the harsh intake of air you suck in when his cock, straining hard against the zipped fabric of his uniform, slides against your clit. “‘Course I want ya, silly girl. I want ya s’bad, makes me stupid.”

You roll your eyes and shove at his chest, only for Mammon to catch your wrists, keeping you pinned against him. “Evidently not, since we’ve spent all this time studying.”

Mammon shakes his head, his smile soft and contagious as he leans towards you. “Ya know what they say, precious… practice makes perfect.”

His lips silence whatever snappy retort you don’t have time to conjure, and instead, you lose yourself in him. In the way his lips move in tandem with yours; the way his hand presses between your shoulder blades, arching your back into his chest; the way his eyelashes flicker against your cheek every so often; and the low way he whispers your name when you try gyrating your hips against his.

“Ya tryin’ to be the end of me or somethin’?” he drawls in exasperation, resting both palms on your hips to still your movements. He rests his forehead against yours, staunchly avoiding your gaze as he keeps you still.

“I’m tryin’ to get laid,” you drawl back, dragging your fingers down Mammon’s wide shoulders to rest on his abs–just the way you know he likes. “I thought–that’s what you wanted?” Mammon tenses, and you pull away. Your hands come up to grab his chin, forcing him to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, and despite not protesting at the way you move his body, his eyes refuse to meet yours. “Mammon? Isn’t… that why you invited me? To fuck?”

He holds out for precisely 1.4 seconds, before his eyes flick to yours and he loses all composure. “Yeah,” he admits, and he doesn’t know whether to be encouraged or heartbroken at the way you seem to be able to breathe again. “But–”

He pauses. He watches your eyes widen, he feels the air catch in your throat, and then he watches your neck remain still. One heartbeat; two heartbeats; three heartbeats–

“Jus’... wanna take my time with ya today, s’all.”

There’s something more desperate about the way he sucks on your neck now, something that has you squirming and moaning and pulling his head back before just the feeling of his lips on your skin makes you unravel.

“What’s so special about today?”

Mammon shakes his hair free of your grasp and latches onto your neck again. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close. “Nothin’. Somethin’. Dunno, jus’... jus’ realized somethin’. S’nothin’.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing…” you tease, rather enjoying this secretive side of him. “Doesn’t feel like nothing, either.” With a pointed roll of your hips, Mammon lets out a groan, and he bites your neck in retaliation. Just a little nip; not enough to break skin, but enough to bruise. Enough to leave a mark that won’t fade for a few days, at the very least.

The first mark he’s ever left.

“Mammon!” you scold, but it lacks bite; especially when the white-haired demon meets your gaze while licking a soft stripe along the already-bruising skin before pressing a gentle kiss on the most tender spot.

“Like it when ya say my name,” he responds, pressing kisses all the way up to your lips. “Like it better when ya moan it.”

So you do; over and over and over, even though he does nothing besides kiss you. Occasionally, he’ll bounce his leg; and occasionally, he’ll let his hands roam to cover your breasts, teasing your painfully erect nipples briefly before trailing back to your hips; but that’s all.

“I think I like whatever it is you’ve realized,” you say when the two of you finally break apart. Your breath is heavy in the air, chest heaving as fingers trail up and down Mammon’s still-clothed chest.

Mammon smiles. “You don’t even know what it is.”

You hum in agreement, then laugh. “Don’t have to. Not if it means you’ll keep kissing me like that.”

Meeting Mammon’s gaze makes your heart do funny things. Both rapidly beating and seizing at once, shrinking four sizes but growing so large it might burst; making you feel so full, so complete that it just slips out before you can even think to catch it.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Time freezes. The weight of the world hits like an ice bath, and it’s all you can do to close your eyes. Your fingers knot in Mammon’s shirt, and you try to memorize the way the fabric feels; the softness from his detergent, the heat emanating from his chest beneath, the steady pulsing of his heartbeat, the rough callouses of his fingers as they wrap around your wrists–

“Hate to one-up ya, precious, but I know I’m in love with ya,” he says, and time comes crashing down. “S’what I realized today, and s’why I wanna take my time with ya tonight, and s’why I’m gonna spend every day by yer side, doin’ whatever ya want, s’long as you let me–”

The rest of his confession is cut off by your lips, but for once, Mammon doesn’t mind being interrupted. Not if it means he can take his time with you tonight and prove to you that an eternity of him by your side is something to be certain of.

∻ Leviathan ↠ e n v y ⤲ p r i d e

LEVIATHAN thought he knew what pride was. He thought it was the feeling he gets when he finds a rare Ruri-chan doll that they stopped manufacturing decades ago and he has the highest bid, or maybe when he beats a tournament he spent all weekend holed up in his room competing in, or maybe even accurately translating the hidden chapters of TSL that appeared after seven years of radio silence.

But none of that comes close to the way he feels right now; to the way his heart threatens to burst in his chest as you softly lick the underside of his heavily erect cock, tits threatening to burst over the top of your maid uniform, remnants of his last orgasm still glimmering on your breasts.

“What’s wrong, Leviachan?” you ask, sweetly popping off his cock and lazily flicking your wrist. “You look flustered.”

Levi lets out a pitiful whine and sinks lower in his gaming chair. A hand reaches out to knot in your roots, guiding your mouth back to where he desperately needs you. “Don’t-don’t tease,” he tries commanding, but the way his voice cracks gives him away. “This is–this was your idea, remember?”

And it was; it always is. Because even though it makes Leviathan’s heart so full to see you on your knees for him, it never happened because of him. You decided when the best time to suck him off is; and like your perfect plaything, Leviathan always let you. He could never say no to you, his pride and joy. His favorite collectible; the only one of your kind.

It irritates him, a little. The fact that you hold this much power over him. The fact that you can show up in a trench-coat while he’s in the middle of beating his latest video game (a puzzle game, one that requires complete concentration or you have to restart from scratch), and with a simple unknotting of a belt and ring of a bell, have him wrapped around your finger.

If it wasn’t the maid outfit you wore beneath your coat, it was the fluffy handcuffs you attached to his wrists before sinking to your knees that rendered him speechless; and if it wasn’t the way you sunk to your knees, nuzzling your cheek against his thigh and batted your pretty eyelashes as you begged your Leviachan to help you feel good that broke him, it was seeing the dainty choker spelling out his name in silver letters along your throat.

His release had splattered over your chest before he could even process what he was looking at, and by the time his mind caught up to his body, you were already suckling at his flushed cockhead once more.

Leviathan’s wrists yank weakly against the handcuffs as his hand travels from your scalp to where the lowlight of his gaming console illuminates the silver letters dangling against your throat. His heart stalls as he hooks his index finger around the chain, and a throaty giggle slips out your lips as he yanks you forward with just his finger.

No, he wasn’t imagining it when he came; that really is his name, adorning your body, for all the Devildom to see.

“Mine?”

With a smile, you nod. A smaller hand wraps around Leviathan’s slender wrist, and your press a kiss to the pulsepoint just within. “M’all yours, Leviathan. Figured the others should know, too.”

The handcuffs were just for show–or if they weren’t, they are now, because Leviathan snaps them with ease. He stands roughly, stumbling slightly as his pants catch around his ankles. His grip on your neck never falters as he raises you with him, then tugs you backwards on top of him as he collapses on the floor.

“Need you,” he mutters through feverish kisses, plastered messily all over your face and neck. His hands fumble with your get-up, and although you laugh when he rips the material clean off your body, your whine of, “Levi, that was expensive–” causes him to nip your ear.

“I’ll buy you another.”

He doesn’t even both removing your skirt–if that’s what that sliver of material could be called, anyway. It barely hides your ass, pooling atop your thighs in the place he wishes his hands to go. With the fluffy handcuffs, now broken, still decorating each write like cotton candy bracelets, Leviathan lifts the pads of his fingers to your mouth. Obediently, your lips part and you lick them slowly, tongue wrapping around each digit like it had just been lapping at his cock.

Leviathan whines. He flips you on your back, hovering over you as your own hands messily unbutton his shirt, lips meeting in a sticky conglomeration of spit and desperate pleas to feel each other. His spit-slicked fingers are gentle compared to the ferocity with which he kisses you, stroking between your folds before dipping in, catching your release and spreading it along your clit.

“All for me… r-right, baby?” Leviathan pants as he pistons one finger in and out of your gummy walls. “All dressed–dressed up for me, all wet–all wet for me–”

“Yes,” you mewl, “for–for you, Levi–only for you!”

That’s all it takes for Leviathan to lose the last of his composure. He slides into you without warning, filling you to the brim. The breath is knocked loose from your lungs, and the way Leviathan is quick to cover your lips with his, swallowing any further moans or whimpers of his name.

He pulls back when he feels your walls fluttering around him. Your heels dig into the small of his back, pressing his hips even deeper into you–as if that was possible. As if Levi hadn’t taken advantage of every single second to be buried as deep as possible within you.

Tenderly, Levi brushes some of your sweat-slicked hair out of your face, and even more careful, he presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, right above where his name sits pretty. “You look so pretty… is this because—because of me, b-babe? You look all pretty—because I—make you f-feel this way?”

You nod desperately, carding your fingers through his silky purple locks. “All–all ‘cause of–of you, Levi–”

That’s all it takes to push him over the edge, and with him–you. You come undone around him, meekly burying your moans into the taut muscle of his bicep as the world briefly fades to white.

Levi is filled with that feeling again; the one that makes his chest seem too small. The one that causes all sounds but your staggered breathing to fall away, and all sights but the one of your flushed cheeks and lovesick smile and fluttering lashes disappear to darkness, and all feeling but the sensation of you snuggling into his chest feel as foreign as the human world.

He may be a shut-in, he reasons as he tucks his head into the crook of your neck. He may be an otaku, and awkward, and you might be able to do a hell of a lot better than him–but he did this. He makes you do bold things, like wear a maid outfit under your coat all day just to tease him, or bring handcuffs you know can’t hold him just to see if he’ll listen, or make the absolute prettiest sounds he’s ever heard in his life. He makes you feel better than you’ve ever felt, and that makes him feel good.

Really good.

Good enough to start pressing light kisses up your neck, teeth catching on your new silver chain, hand gently trailing along your side. “D-don’t forget that,” he says through grit teeth. You link your fingers with his, slowly parting your legs to reallow him entrance. “I make you feel good, right? Me. Don’t–don’t ever forget that.”

“Never,” you promise–and just like that, the heart Levi didn’t think could get any fuller grows two sizes.

| Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor | Barbatos, Diavolo, Simeon, Solomon |

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