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do-not-lick-the-walls · 1 year ago

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a devil put aside | chapter six - communion

masterlist | read on ao3

(gif via @goodsirs)

beelzebub x fallen angel!reader

summary: you have a drink with the council.

(she/her pronouns are used for reader, no use of y/n)

warnings: religious themes & trauma, strong language, drinking/drunkenness, some sexual undertones, peer pressure(?)

ineffable taglist: @sarcastic-sourwolf , @angelofthenight <3

a/n: sorry the end of this is kinda rushed, as I unfortunately have responsibilities other than this fic (boooooooo) which currently includes a lot of college auditions. Alas, in order to become the funny little gay on TV, I must sacrifice some of the fic about the funny little gay on TV. So it goes. Pretend it was all on purpose because she's drunk djdjdndjdjxjd

---

You're bad at a lot of things, but round two is looking like it's about to involve some of your worst.

Skidding through your first Council meeting has injected you with a nervous high, an unblinking energy that makes your teeth hurt and your fingers bleed while half-carved anxieties play catch with your pulse. You can't make it slow (will you ever tame the horrible throbbing of this heart?) the tha-thump is going too strong for that (will you ever get used to it?) so you're resigned to live out your agitation on this couch, picking at your nails until you're thrown back in the ring.

This backroom is surprisingly cozy, making it all the more unfamiliar. The light is warm here, rather than green, cast from several vintage lamps and the fireplace. Little statues, trinkets, and other curiosities decorate the mantle with a slice of the room's casual grandeur. There's a settled-in feeling to the place, telling you both that you're welcome and that you don't belong.

While Hastur and Ligur hang their coats by the door, Beelzebub sprawls out at the other end of your couch like a very relaxed corpse. They let out a sigh reminiscent of a balloon slowly deflating.

"Welcome to our little hideaway. Make yourself comfy," Ligur invites. With an effort, you cross your legs and lean back some. He does a much better job of it, flopping down on the sofa across from you, soon joined by an uneasy Hastur. Dagon perches on the arm of an old recliner.

"Eric, bring us a couple bottles!" Beelzebub shouts. (You flinch.) They're seemingly confident that whoever Eric is can hear them despite the closed door and whatever distance there may be. You don't question it. The past thirty hours have carried weirder stuff, and you're more concerned about what Eric's bringing.

At least you knew the rules of a meeting. Granted, it was the oddest meeting you've ever been in, but still, you had a basic understanding of the game. You've been in tons of meetings. It's a meeting. It's fine. You have no idea what the rules of "having a drink in the back" are, except that you're pretty sure drinking is one of them.

To calm yourself, you let your eyes wander the room some more. The dark, swirling brocade of the wallpaper is almost soothing to your nerves, as is the half-felt drag of your shoe's heel across the rug when you pull your foot back and forth. Oil paintings of evil's greatest triumphs hang proudly, and you wonder if they were just miracled into existence, or if somebody spent hours and hours on them. You wouldn't be surprised if someone had; subject matter aside, they're beautiful.

After the paintings, your eyes fall on a boxy contraption in the corner. It's placed atop a cabinet, lid propped open to reveal silver bits of machinery on the inside. Unsure if it's within the rules to ask aloud, you nudge Beelzebub, glance at the box, and raise your eyebrows.

They laugh. "That's a record player, doll."

"Oh." You pause. "I don't know what that means."

"Here," Ligur gets up and pulls an envelope from the cabinet, then a black disc from the envelope. He places the disc in the machine and fiddles around a bit with the silver pieces. Then, something clicks into place, and the box begins to make an unfamiliar kind of sound.

You scrunch your eyebrows together, frowning. "I don't..."

"It's music," Dagon explains. "It's playing a record."

"Oh." The tension in your forehead slowly drops away as you listen. It doesn't sound anything at all like the angel choirs you sing in. There's a heartbeat at the base of it. Not an unpleasant, flighty one, though, a steady bounce that's felt more than it's heard, like the constant pace of a perpetual motion machine. And over top of those beats, a funky, squiggly sound chases itself back and forth with abandon. It strikes an urge to do something in time with the whole affair. "I like it."

Just as you're starting to tap your finger a little, the door slams open, tearing a very un-demonlike yelp from you and sending your pulse into double-time.

"Alright, alright, alright! Got a nice selection for you tonight, Lords, all reds as always, got some lovely flavors here," says the intruder, a tall, skinny demon with his arms full of clinking bottles and glasses, and who is presumably Eric. You take a few breaths, hand to your chest, while he sets the collection on the coffee table.

Centuries of politeness-instinct makes you open your mouth to thank him, even though you don't mean it, but Beelzebub gives you a subtle kick, and you clumsily glare instead. Eric responds with an encouraging smile and a thumbs up.

"Very nice, very nice! You must be the Seraph, then! Nice t'meet you, I'm Eric. I'm kind of the everyman around here, you can find me pretty easy, so just call if you need anything, yeah?" He bombards, "How's hell for you?"

You open your mouth again, only to be cut off with variations of "Fuck off, Eric!" From four different directions. Eric doesn't seem to mind in the slightest, and gives you a cheery wave before he leaves.

"You'll get used to him," Dagon says, while you avoid watching Ligur pour the wine. "He's annoying, but he's useful."

A concerningly pleasant aroma floats through the air as the demons pass around their glasses. There's no cheat for this, no trick, and there's no calling for backup when your backup's handing you the cup. This trial is four against one. This is a hurdle you have to jump yourself.

You accept the full glass from Beelzebub with both hands, letting it nest in your palms. It's heavier than expected. You feel like a child, awkwardly holding something a little too big for her, and afraid of being punished should she drop it. Wine, blood, what's the difference when it's spilled on the floor? The cup you're cradling doesn't look too different from the pinpricks of red on the fingers that hold it.

Four sets of evil eyes are trained onto you. Curiosity, suspicion, apprehension, faith. The tempting, fruity aroma of sin kisses your nose like it did Eve, exciting your heart again before it even got the chance to fully calm down.

A smile ticks at the corner of Beelzebub's mouth. They hold out their glass. "Cheers. To you."

The glasses ring when they knock together.

The wine is sour on your tongue, then sweet after you push it down your neck, and it tastes like red. It tastes very much like you're not supposed to have it. Somewhere in your throat it catches, and you choke, then force it to stay down. You make a face.

Beelzebub laughs. "It's an aquired taste, love. Keep drinking, you'll come to like it."

You grimace, but take another sip. It's not as bad the second time, and you do better with the whole swallowing thing. Still not good, but not as bad. Maybe it can be appreciated, if you get used to it. You swirl around the glass, watching the red whirlpool form, then dissipate.

Hastur lights a cigarette by engulfing his entire hand in flame. "So, how are you liking hell?" He asks, tentative, as if poking a lion with a very long stick. You shift around.

What you want to say is, "It's hell, what do you think?"

You don't say that.

Instead, after an awkward pause and a mental dig, you blurt out, "I like the clothes."

Well, you landed somewhere honest. You do like the clothes. There's variety down here, styles, colors and shapes you didn't realize were options, all far more interesting to look at than heaven's raiment.

"I can see why," Ligur chuckles. "Beez dressed you nice. You look right well in them."

Beez???

"Wait, wait, hold on a second, is that---" Dagon sets her glass down, leans in, then falls back with a bark of laughter. "She's got their pin on!"

The room erupts into snickers, lighting sparks on your face. You look to Beelzebub for help, find them emptying their glass, and decide to follow suit. You can't pound it like they do, but your hands and the cup give you somewhere to hide.

"I knew you liked your new pet, Beez, but I didn't know you were already so attached!"

Wine sloshes out of your glass as you shoot to your feet, sputtering. "I am not a pet!"

"Ooh, bit fiesty, are we?" Ligur teases, then grunts as Hastur throws an elbow in his side.

"Shut it, all of you!" Beelzebub shouts. They pour themself another, buzzing, and tug you back down. "Don't mind, love. They're just teasing. If anything, means they like you."

Your face is still burning, but you calm a little as you sink back into the leather. This is not heaven. This is a different game, with different rules, you remind yourself, and finish whatever wine you didn't spill. Play the game.

Fiddling with the pin, you take a breath. You're bad at a lot of things, and choosing the right words might just be the worst of them.

You try anyway.

"It's okay that you're jealous, Ligur. I would be too," you joke, then immediately slap your hand over your stupid mouth. Beelzebub chokes on their wine.

But there must've been a miracle left in you, because he whistles high, and breaks into a grin. Relief untenses your shoulders. "I was right, you are fiesty," he laughs, "Beez, I take it back, I'm glad we didn't feed her to the hellhounds. She's fun."

You laugh along nervously, also glad they didn't feed you to the hellhounds, but keenly aware that it's not off the table yet. Still, you snag the golden piece of approval, and you let the want for more of it refill your glass.

"I told you all, she's got it," Beelzebub smiles, then turns to you, "Oh, careful there, love. It's your first time, and you're on an empty stomach."

Waving them off, you sit back and take a sip. It's starting to taste good, and the amused look you pull from them tastes even sweeter. Their arm rests along the top of the sofa, as if tempting you to come curl into their side. You drink.

Little shocks flutter in your fingertips as a pleasant haze rolls in over the next few minutes, and then much longer after that. For the first time in many days, you feel unheavy. Floating instead of falling, instead of sinking. You kick off your shoes and pull your feet onto the couch, pulse matching time with the music, to which you've started tapping your fingers along with. You're contented just to listen for a while. To the record player, and to the idle, demonic chit-chat.

Maybe you have another glass, or maybe you just make this one last a while, you're not really sure. Which is quite funny, now that you think about it. You should know that, but you don't, but that's okay, because it's fine. You laugh at yourself, and then again at the sound you make. When's the last time you laughed? It feels good, you should really do it more. No wonder you're sad all the time.

With that problem solved, you turn to Beez---the name makes you giggle again---to ask for another drink.

Oh.

Fuck.

You already knew they're gorgeous. This shouldn't be a surprise. But holy shit, are they beautiful, looking so at ease, so in control, sprawled out like they own the place. Which they do.

You want to touch their face. You want them to touch you. You want them to burn sunsets into you with their hands, kiss your neck like they didn't before. You just want them.

Their side is still open, inviting, and you give in this time. After all, why shouldn't you? They make an 'oomph' noise as you fall into them, then a squeak, then a "shut the fuck up," in response to a chorus of snickers. They're warm, they're beautifully warm, and they're safe. You're safe. You could bury yourself here.

"Alright, you're officially drunk, then," they laugh, "Should've known, you've got no tolerance for it."

"Mmmmmnnhhhnn," you respond.

"What's that?"

You sigh, wrapping your arms around them, and press in closer. If this is being drunk, you don't see what makes it such a sin. You're at peace, in safe hands, and free to stop thinking. It's an altar you'd worship at any day.

A hand runs down your back, and you remember what it is you wanted to say.

"You're so nice."

#fic #good omens #beelzebub #beelzebub x reader #good omens x reader #x reader #beelzebub good omens #good omens beelzebub x reader #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #ft eric my favorite little guy lol #poor eric everyone always tells him to fuck off

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