rozhliena

[rozhliena]

mc x mammon

you construct intricate rituals in order to touch the skin of the avatar of greed, ambiguous season but i would venture it's still during s1 of the original game, mostly just palavering about the gaze nothing actually occurs

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.

"Don't you get eyestrain?" you ask Mammon, tilting your head as you sink back into the pillows on your bed. "With the sunglasses." It isn't bright in your room, the lights set just shy of their dimmest mode as you get ready to go to bed, and neither is his D.D.D.'s brightness set high. But he wears them all the time anyway, even in the evening. "Or are your eyes just sensitive?"

From where he's leaning at the side of your bed, frantically tapping some blinking lights on his D.D.D., Mammon shakes his head. "Nah, my eyes are fine," he says. "I just like the look of 'em."

A fair, if somewhat odd, assessment. You can't say you dislike the look, either, which has grown as familiar as the sight of him in your room — you're actually not sure why he's here today. It just seems like a given, some routine you've fallen into. There are two toothbrushes in the bathroom connecting to the bedroom, and there is a hamper in the corner for clothes that aren't yours, though they never seem to make it into the basket without your help, and the extra hangers in your wardrobe have lately been put into use more often than not. It's not exactly normal, you know that, but it comes so naturally.

"Are you gambling on mobile games again?" you ask, reaching over to pluck the sunglasses off his face, wondering if you should feel amusement or concern at the fact that he hadn't reacted to the motion at all. But maybe that's natural to him, too. You look at the orange-tinted lenses curiously. "You probably shouldn't, you know."

"I'm gonna win this one, serious, y'know, statistically and shit — "

When you put the sunglasses on, they're slightly large on your face, and they really aren't special aside from being from a Devildom designer brand that sounds suspiciously similar to the human world's Gucci. A typical pair of polarized sunglasses. You sigh, pulling them off. You lean over to place them back on Mammon's face, slightly askew. "Still losing?" You know he is; he's already out of in-game currency. Sure enough, the lights on the animated slot machine go red.

"Hey! You jinxed me!" he complains, adjusting the crooked sunglasses as the plaintive whine of a loser's trombone plays from his phone's speakers, but he turns off the game and stretches across your bed. His eyes peek out above the tinted lenses of his sunglasses, toward you. Like he's expecting something. You wonder if he's even aware of the way he looks at you sometimes, so intently it seems to go right through to the back of your neck.

"What's up," you say.

His gaze shifts, lands on the second hamper in the room, half-filled with his clothes by someone who isn't him. He's thanked you for it before, but you wonder what he actually thinks about the entire thing. "I dunno. Just lookin'." At this angle, you can only make out the blue in his eyes.

You sit up. "Are demon eyes different from human eyes? Like, in terms of biology."

Mammon looks at you, a little incredulously, and then laughs. "Man, how the hell would I know that? I ain't a nerd like Satan."

You shrug, moving so you're facing him properly. "I don't know. But can I check?"

He grimaces, but he's already folding up his sunglasses and hooking them into the collar of his shirt. "Like, you're not gonna poke 'em or anything, right? Would you even know the difference between, y'know, human and demon eyes?"

"Maybe. I don't know." When you moved just now, your hand brushed against his, where below the knuckles is the faded smudge of a stamp he'd had to get at one of Beel's games. Identical to one on your own hand. The game itself hadn't been particularly intriguing, and what you remember more than anything else is that it had been cold that day. You and he had to huddle up together beneath a blanket, and Mammon's bony elbows poked into your ribs to such an extent that you wondered if it wasn't less comfortable in the blanket than outside of it. But when he turned to you, smiling sheepishly, looking at you the way he does, warmth bloomed in your chest and you couldn't even feel the ache over it.

Mammon looks at you the way he does and shrugs. "Whatever. All yours."

There's no way to make this seem normal, you know that. When you take his face in your hands you don't think too much about how easily his face fits against your palms as you angle his head toward the light. His cheeks are warm. He doesn't resist at all. "Don't close your eyes so I can look at your pupils."

It's not an order, but Mammon goes along with it anyway, though his eyes tremble a little, avoiding your gaze, when you lean in to inspect.

When the light hits them, the pupils constrict like they would in any other eye. Whenever Mammon looks over his sunglasses, his eyes are like the bright blue sky of the human world above a sea of sand, but up this close, they're entirely normal. The same pupils, irises, sclerae. Tear ducts. The delicate blood vessels along the white of the eye. Eyelashes, to keep out debris. It's almost disappointing. The only distinction anyone could make between his eyes and those of a human's is that his irises are unnaturally vivid and possess two colors, but even then, there are some humans with those same traits.

"I can't tell the difference," you admit. "They look like any other set of eyes."

The set in question flicks to yours, narrowing slightly. "Hey, just 'cause I'm being generous doesn't mean you can go lumpin' me in with everyone else." He reaches up, his hand finding purchase at one of your wrists like he's going to wrench you away from him, but he just keeps it there. "I'm the Great Mammon, y'know?" The warmth bleeds into your skin.

"I know that," you say softly, still not thinking. "Hey, close your eyes." Again, it's not an order, no force behind the words, but again Mammon obliges. His eyelashes are so light they're almost transparent. You brush the pad of your thumb over the thin skin of the eyelid, over the light oily sheen there. His closed eyes quiver beneath your touch.

"Does eyeshadow give you trouble?" you ask. "Because of your eyelids."

"Lil bit," he says. "When I do gigs I gotta prime 'em and carry those blotting things. But hey, I always end up lookin' good, yeah?" His mouth turns up in a contagious grin.

"You do." It comes out of your mouth so easily. His cheeks go warm at the admission, but he doesn't say anything this time. He's letting you feel around his eyes like it's nothing, and you think, maybe there isn't any real difference between demons and humans, after all. Eyes or otherwise. You let your fingers trace along his face to under the chin, angling his head upward. During the game, you had reached down to one of his arms and squeezed, not because it accomplished anything for heat, but because it was instinctual, like scratching an itch, or like blinking.

Your faces are so close. Kissing Mammon would be so simple — twist of the wrist, tilt of the head. You'd land his lips in one try; it would come naturally, and his mouth would be soft and warm. You wonder if he would let you kiss him.

Mammon's eyes flutter open. His grasp on your wrist tightens slightly. You can feel his breath on your face. Your own breath catches in your throat. "What're you doing?" he whispers.

"Just looking," you whisper back. He doesn't let go.

[rozhliena]

LOOK AT ME!

ASMODEUS X DEMON!READER

: IN WHICH you watch asmodeus realise he deserves better.

: NOTES written in second person, gnc!reader, reader isn't mc.

Asmodeus loves you. You think you’re sure of this.

Then the human arrives, and something changes.

Asmodeus is easy to talk to. Easy to be with. He takes you by the hand and leads you to places you’ve never been before. He slots you into his life as easy as breathing, calls you up in the middle of the night and says, Listen, I just had the wildest thought. He tells you about his day and asks after yours.

You wonder, as he tells you about his new housemate, if he ever talks about you. And if he does, does he talk just like that? With such utter devotion in his voice? Does he say, sometimes, and does his voice break as he says, sometimes, I think I want to be better for them?

And then, does he stop seeing others?

It's not about the nights. Asmodeus loves himself, respects himself. He is Pride's younger brother. Lust is his vice but affection, intimacy, love... that is his virtue. If the human disagreed, he would not love them. (Because that is what this is: love. It's in his voice, in his smile, in his hands. You wonder if it's reflected in his eyes. You don't look.)

It's about affection. It's about needing affection, from anyone who will give it. Anyone he can convince to give it.

(You close your eyes when he looks at you, turn away when he smiles, meet his lips and breathe him in and you never, never meet his eyes, and you think it's enough. Of course it's not.

You're just running away.)

Sometimes it's you, sometimes it's others, but you think you're the only one who's allowed to linger, to watch shitty romcoms in his room and greet his brothers like the family of a friend. Of a lover. Satan lends you the book you've been dying to read, Mammon helps you pick outfits for your dates. You think you're special. You know you're special.

You're not enough.

He calls you less. When he does, it's with all his usual anecdotes of life in the House of Lamentation, but now, they all center the same person. Beelzebub breaking down the kitchen wall becomes a story about the human not being able to use their room until the wall is fixed, so maybe I should ask them to stay with me, what do you think, could I do it? After all, no one can resist me! Leviathan locking them in a time loop becomes the tale of the human granting all their desires and isn't it funny? I thought demons were the ones granting human desires!

(He tells you the story the very day of and asks you if you think it’s ridiculous. You remind him of that book you saw in the library the other day about time curses and don’t answer.)

He's happy like you've never seen him be. But you thought you were special. You were special. So why couldn't he be this happy with you?

Asmodeus doesn't ask you to come over anymore. He doesn't take you on dates. He doesn't tell you when he's out in town hunting for Devilgrammable pictures and wants a second opinion before he hits post.

He doesn't call you.

(Because there's someone else to spend time with, someone else to try Madame Devine's new parfait with, someone else to tell him how pretty his new outfit looks on him. There's someone else next to him. Someone better.)

But you're still at all the same parties, hearing all the same stories. He smiles and greets you like nothing's changed, he disappears with other demons. The succubus you meet at Lucifugus' rave tells you they had the night of their life with the Avatar of Lust yesterday and suddenly you can't hear anything else they say, because all you're thinking is wasn't I special?

Asmodeus found someone he wants to be better for. But... the only thing that's changed is you.

He's better without you?

You stumble home from the party alone. Someone might have tried to stop you. The succubus you were talking to. You don't remember what you did, but they don't try a second time.

It's Lucifugus who tells you Asmodeus left alone, too, whining about you ruining the party. He said the same thing when a demon confused you as Solomon's lover and tried to kill you the other day, so you ignore it.

Instead, you open your chats with Asmodeus. The message history scrolls endlessly; years and years and years of small talk and shared pictures. You liked his voice, you liked listening to him talk, and he was always happy to oblige. All your texts ended with Are you free to call? and the answer was always your D.D.D. ringing with his name on your screen.

It makes the last few months feel so unreal, seeing the easy way you used to talk, seeing the way he hasn't called since New Year's Eve.

It's lonely.

You spend ages wondering what to type. You can't remember the last time you felt so anxious just thinking of him; it's usually so much easier. I saw you in this month's Majolish or I can't believe you didn't tell me you met Rubezahl! or Oh, my god, someone asked me for Mammon's autograph, do you think he'll let me keep half if I get them to pay for it? Little things like that, just to let him know you're thinking of him, let him know you're missing him, let him know you want to talk.

And he was always there.

You didn't think you were his first priority. Sometimes, he would be gone for days and come back with the most ridiculous stories about his newest adventure. Sometimes, he would meet someone who caught his attention, who made him come alive with curiosity and interest.

He forgot them just as quickly. (You always thought you were the exception.)

The text you end up sending says, How are you?

It aches.

He doesn't read it until the next day. That's fine. You don't demand each other's every minute, that was never your relationship. And yet you find yourself looking back again and again at the chat icon, opening every notification you get immediately so there's no way for you to miss his reply.

Which brings you here, jumping at your D.D.D. in the middle of potions. Solomon laughs at you. “Looking forward to hearing from someone, huh?”

You don't answer. You're staring at your screen.

I'm feeling great! Ooh, I had just the best night! ♡

He sounds the same as always. You should be relieved, but your heart disagrees.

(He doesn't ask how you are. He's not always direct about it, more a nudge or a hint that you don't always have to be the one listening, a I saw that movie you were talking about the other day or a Is the weather this terrible at your place too? He loves hearing himself talk and he loves talking about himself, but he listens, too.

This feels dismissive, somehow. Somehow, it feels like he's saying you're not needed anymore.)

“Y/N?”

“It's Asmodeus,” you say, and you look at Solomon just in time to see his smile fall. Solomon looks at you with something so alike pity it makes your blood boil.

If it weren't for the pact, you think, I could kill him for that.

You put your D.D.D. away before you can lose the rest of the class to typing a response and try to pay attention. It doesn't keep thoughts of him away.

“Take care of yourself,” Solomon says when you part ways after class.

“Why?” you ask, despite yourself, despite all your common sense telling you what a fool you are. "Why, was it like this for you, too?”

Did you think you were special? And then, did you find out you weren't special enough?

Did he find you wanting, too?

Solomon doesn't answer you. He just shakes his head and walks away, leaving you alone with a burning sensation where his pact mark sits. It rings of anger, you know from experience. Solomon is your master and one of the most powerful sorcerers alive; you should be grateful he let your comment go.

It just makes you feel worse.

You don't see Asmodeus for a long time. You're running away, like you always are.

You can't run forever.

You ring the doorbell at the House of Lamentation with dread coiling in your stomach. Leviathan is the one who opens the door. (It's always Asmodeus. It's always Asmodeus waiting by the door to meet you, to pull you inside with his excited chatter as he says Oh, you're not going to believe this! It's always Asmodeus.) His brothers know this, too; Leviathan asks if Asmodeus knows you're here. You tell him he called you over. He looks unconvinced, but lets you in anyway.

You meet the human in the hallway. You're more afraid of Diavolo than you are of your own heartbreak, and besides this isn't about them (it's about you not being enough and Asmodeus not needing you, it's about you, it's always been about you), so you greet them politely and ask, “Is Asmodeus in his room?��� like you would to any of his brothers.

The human looks at you with an emotion you can't place and nods. They walk right past you. Asmodeus' pactmark peeks out from under their collar.

This isn't jealousy, you think. This is something worse.

Asmodeus... is normal. He smiles when he sees you, gushes over your new haircut and shows you his newly-painted nails and offers to do yours. You can't find a reason to decline. You know this is ending today, but it can't hurt to have something to keep. Just for a while.

He holds your hands gently. He picks your favourite colours. You wonder why you expected him to forget.

He tells you a long, rambling story about the House of Lamentation's last two weeks. It fascinates you, as it always does, how so much can happen so quick when the Devildom's strongest demons are stuck in a house together. But more than that, it's his voice that captures you, that keeps you smiling and asking And then? and exclaiming Oh, he didn't! and saying You look happy.

And Asmodeus freezes then, hands around the lid of nail polish he just finished applying. Oh, that's too bad, you think, he only got through one hand.

You can feel it coming. The inevitable end.

“Yeah,” he says, the lid still not screwed on. “I feel happy. You know I feel really happy, lately, and you're...”

I'm happy, and you're not there.

He doesn't say that. It's too cruel, even for him. Instead, he says, “I want to be better for them.” You bite your tongue on the urge to ask who, your brothers? and play it all off as a joke, but that would be cruel. You don't want to be cruel, do you? Not to him. Never to him.

(You always smile when you see him, always laugh at his antics, always listen attentively to his stories of the time he spends with others and you never, never ask if you can join him. You never invite him to your plans, never ask him out on dates. Because he's busy and so much better than you and you need to be careful of where you stand even if you are special. You're considerate like that.

You're a coward like that.)

“What about you?” he asks. “Are you happy?”

Do you want me to be? Do you want me to be fine without you? Don't you want me to need you?

Don't you need me?

“Of course I am,” you lie. “Why,” you add on a laugh, desperate to fill the space between you and him, “do you think I can't be happy without you?”

Asmodeus smiles. (You wonder if it reaches his eyes, and carefully avert yours to the bottle of nail polish still held in his hands. He puts it down.) “I would never think that,” he promises.

You don't want to be left behind. To be unneeded.

So, you leave.

(You still can't look him in the eye. As always, you miss the way he watches you.

You miss the way he waits, waits, waits for you to look up, to look at him just once, to turn around even for a second.

You don't. Despite everything, despite all the time you've shared, despite it ending, you never look him in the eye.

You never stop being afraid of him.)

:: whoo, first fic for obey me! the original idea was reader having one-sided feelings in a kind of fwb situation and asmo not needing reader anymore when mc provides all the affection he needs and more, but i'm a sucker for miscommunication and i loved the idea of a flawed reader, so this happened instead.

here, reader is terrified of asmo from the beginning of their relationship all the way to the end, even as he proves himself again and again to be trustworthy. maybe its not ur fault; asmo is one of the lords of hell and close to the demon prince too, for the average demon there has to be some fear. but u are friends and u could have been lovers and meeting mc makes asmo realise he doesnt need to cling to someone who cant trust him, who will always be above all else, afraid of him. so he lets u go, and u dont try to fight it, bc uve never been able to deny him.

aaaa i hope i was able to portray that thru the fic itself. i tried to edit it to make it flow better but that only made it worse so here it is.

[rozhliena]

mc x thirteen

we need to interact with thirteen more, mainly talking, you know how sometimes you have to be annoying to get someone to say more than 15 words at a time to you. it's like that

You have no good reason to get buddy-buddy with a reaper.

"Hey." You don't know what's driving you to this, what's urging you to sit next to her. A good number of these demons would kill to get within ten feet of you, and yet you want to sit next to Ms. Grim Reaper. It's probably that main character complex getting to you at last, that underlying assumption that the world revolves around you, that everyone exists in relation to you, that you're the favorite of whoever's calling the shots up there—or maybe it's nothing so dramatic, but the bottom line is this: you have no good reason to get buddy-buddy with a reaper. Unless there are lifespan benefits for it...? But you doubt that.

Thirteen's head, which had been bowed low near the table as she squinted to work on her convoluted trap diagrams, pops up with a start. For a moment her expression is surprised, but it quickly makes its way into mild annoyance.

"Hey yourself," she says shortly. "What's up with you? Don't you have demons to snuggle up to?"

She doesn't pull any punches, this one. "Actually, I was thinking you looked kind of lonely. As the first student in the exchange program, I feel it ought to be my responsibility to help you acclimate to your new surroundings..." It kind of amazes you how good you've gotten at bullshitting. You could have put it on Diavolo, though, instead of attributing this frankly stupid idea to yourself. "...And they're all in some boring meeting. Student council and all."

She raises an eyebrow, but nods. "I see." The pause is long and awkward enough that no one would fault you if you gave up and walked back to the House of Lamentation right now—actually, that option would probably be encouraged. But you are nothing if not bullheaded and, quote, "too damn gutsy," so you stick around a little while longer. Thirteen seems to consider moving away from you, but shrugs and returns to her diagram, face so close to the parchment that it's like she's trying to absorb it through her eyeballs. On a closer look, her writing hand is smudged with ink, and she's got heavy pressure while drawing. Probably gets nasty cramps. "I'm busy, if you couldn't tell."

"What kind of trap is this?" you ask on impulse—can't help it, you're nosy.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Thirteen replies without missing a beat, so easily that it sends an involuntary chill down your spine. After a moment, she adds, "That's a joke, by the way."

It didn't sound like one, and she deals in death, but you don't say that. "Is it for Solomon?"

"Most of them are."

"Is this one?"

Thirteen sits up again, looking at you incredulously. "Is this part of your accli-whatever routine, too?"

You shrug, letting yourself smile. "Meet them where they're at, is my motto. Whether they like terrible cooking, gossip, or setting up traps—I'm there. It's part of the job description, you see."

"Mhm." Thirteen cocks her head, snake eyes narrowing. "You can just admit you're curious. It's not like I'll kill you for that." A strand of multicolored hair falls over her eyes, and you have the strangest urge to tuck it behind her ear. She blows it out of her face before you can do anything stupid like that. "It's bad for business, you know."

"Oh, is that how it works?" You pick at the buttons on your RAD school uniform, absently debating whether Thirteen would look good wearing it properly or if she would look like a clown in a court meeting. Probably the latter, through no fault of her appearance—she's cute, but the uniform isn't meant to display individuality. "So, human lives are like... wine."

She wrinkles her nose like you've just said something morally reprehensible, her painted mouth in a deep frown. "Something like that, I guess." Definitely unimpressed. You can feel the main character complex shrinking in real time.

You plow on anyway, "So am I more valuable the longer I live? Is that why you're after Solomon?"

"Wow, you really are a busybody," she says, but she pushes her diagram to the side as she shifts in her seat, leaning a bit closer to you so she doesn't have to crane her neck. The slight change in proximity brings warmth to your chest—damn this stuffy uniform. "Yeah, that's it. He's cheated death for so long, someone has to knock him down a peg. A soul like that—mm, it's ripe. You as an individual, on the other hand..." Thirteen's voice trails off, and she leans in close now, so close that you can smell her perfume, some scent that's almost too sweet, almost dizzying. "I don't know what to make of you."

You manage a laugh. The nearness makes it so you can see the specks of glitter in her lip gloss. "In a good way or a bad way?"

"Neither, yet."

"That's too bad."

Death's got beautiful eyes, but it's hard to win a staredown when those eyes are so intensely focused on you. But you don't draw back, because that would be like giving up, or losing, so you decide to look at her mouth until something comes of it. She wouldn't do anything because there's no reason to, and neither would you, but it's funny to think of the headlines—"Kiss of Death?! Exchange Students Cozy Up in the Cafeteria"—or whatever. It's probably ten seconds before Thirteen backs off, her usually-pale cheeks dusted with the lightest shade of pink imaginable.

"You've got that dopey look again," Thirteen says brusquely, burying her face in her diagram again, heavy hand smudging ink along the surface. Her ears are pinker than her face, the only visible sign of embarrassment.

"Sorry." You don't mean it at all. You prop your elbows up on the table, chin in your hand as you watch her work. Thirteen makes no move to shoo you away. Maybe there are a few good reasons to get tight with a reaper, after all. 

[rozhliena]

gen, mc and lilith

thinking about lesson 16 (as one does), rife with headcanon, mc is kinda mean

What happens between death and rebirth?

Flash of light, and you open your eyes.

Except you don’t really open them, because you have no physical form here. You backtrack to the events prior, tracing your steps. Walking through Barbatos’s door, hiding in Lilith’s room, going up to the attic—

Oh. There it is.

“He’s a charmer, isn’t he?“ you mutter under your breath. Your neck, or where your neck should be, hurts like—well, like hell. Feels like a nasty bruise in the shape of a thin handprint. In this realm, which you think must be some sort of Purgatory just for people who died in the Devildom, you don’t actually have the fucked-up windpipe or artery, but there’s still this remembrance on your skin, subtle but insistent. And after all you’d done for him. “You should have warned me, Lilith.”

Lilith—or whatever she is now, spirit, ghost, force of nature—laughs nervously. You can’t see her, but there’s a chill in the air that tells you she’s to your left, even though looking in that direction gives you no visual cues. It doesn’t help to ease your mind much. “I didn’t think he would be so…”

“Fucked in the head?” you supply wryly.

“Volatile, is what I was about to say.”

“Volatile.” It doesn’t taste right in your mouth. Murder as something erratic—to your knowledge, he’d been planning that moment since he had seen you. Volatile. You click your tongue. “Even now, you’re looking out for him, huh? And here I thought we had something special.” You use special very loosely. It’s more like a trade-off. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. You lend me your ghostly soul powers, I help your brothers reconcile even when one of them kills me.

“I chose you, but he’s my brother,” she says. You’d call it soft but her voice doesn’t travel though the air so much as it hits you from one side of the brain to the other, echoing. “I chose you because he’s my brother.“

Your brother just killed me. I just died, you want to say, but you don’t think you can say it without your voice cracking. Mentally, you take a breath and sigh, even though you would rather do it physically. There’s nothing here—it’s hard to say if here is a place at all, because it feels like when you close your eyes, but without the darkness. Just void, as if you’re having an out-of-body experience or something of the sort. It’s a weird position to be in.

“Okay, well, what am I supposed to do now?” you ask.

“I’ll… I’ll bring you back, and hopefully nothing awful will happen.”

Nothing awful that hasn’t already happened, she means. “How is that going to work? I’m dead.”

“I can bring you back,” she insists. “It will be fine.”

“And if he kills me again?”

You imagine that she’s shaking her immaterial head, that she’s looking at you all soft, but there’s nothing to see. “Belphie won’t. He’s lost, you know.”

Whatever that means. He’s lost. All this for someone who choked you out as soon as he got the opportunity—so what if he’s lost? He will not be found by you. But you have your end of a deal to hold up, and so you have to follow through.

“All right,” you say. “Take me back.”

[rozhliena]

mc x asmodeus

golden hellfire newt syrup with asmo bc i didn't like his part in the game, mc is indecisive in many many ways, they hold each other and there's angst

"Hey, does it always hurt?"

Yes, you think, Love always hurts.

“No,” you say. “Not always.”

Asmo gasps, falling onto his enormous bed before you can even let him down easy, gently the way you know he wants you to. This faux-illness is almost too realistic, enough that you consider, momentarily, that the syrup can cause disease. But no one had mentioned that. He calls your name so desperately that it makes your face heat up.

“Not so loud, they’ll think we’re having an orgy,” you mutter, wondering if the syrup has any effect at all on humans. You’re starting to get dizzy, but you guess that any human can only stay so sane after almost having their bones jumped by three demons. “Can demons even die?” To his credit, he’s broken into a sweat, cheeks flushed pink, to the point that you almost think maybe he is on his deathbed.

Asmo groans and curls up on his side, hair spilling onto the quilted comforter like liquid bronze. He looks pretty even when he’s crying, though they’re crocodile tears. “Lucifer has a will,” he says, as if it explains anything.

That makes you scoff. “Probably for like, three billion years in the future or something. What, are you going to make me write yours?”

“I could just whisper it to you.” He reaches out for your hand and you can’t help but oblige when he looks at you like this. He’d done this before, back when you’d first formed the pact. He had traced over your palms and examined your fingers and nails like he was the beauty pageant judge and you were the contestant. But he’s gentler this time. Almost tender. He doesn’t even say anything about the shape of your nails or the state of your cuticles.

“Come closer,” he whispers. Says your name like it’s a prayer—and you recall that moniker he’d had. Jewel of the Heavens. It checks out.

“No funny business?” you ask, leaning down a little, even before getting the answer. It would be so easy to make it into an order, but you don’t. It doesn’t even matter.

Asmo leans in before you can draw back. His breath tickles your ear, mouth almost pressed up against it. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Is that so?”

He laughs through his nose, puff of air on your neck. You imagine his pact mark searing itself into your spine. You hadn’t even noticed it at all, back then, until he had told you about them. Of course, mine is the most beautiful, he’d said. “I’m on my deathbed and you think I’m still trying to have sex with you?” His voice is weak. He’s an amazing actor, you’ll give him that. “You flatter me.”

“Well, aren’t you?” you laugh, squeezing his hand, readjusting your grip to entwine your fingers with his. You can’t see his face, but you think he takes a sharp breath. “Trying to fuck me, I mean.”

Asmo giggles and pulls away, falling back onto the bed. He tugs lightly on your arm, but suddenly it’s like he’s gripping your hand instead of the other way around. “Lie down next to me or I’m going to die right now.” He scoots to the other side of the bed, looking at you expectantly. Against your better judgment, you lie next to him, sighing.

“I didn’t know you could die at will. Also, please don’t.”

“Is that an order?”

“I think it’s a suggestion.”

“Good. It wouldn’t be any fun if it ended here.” Which only confirms that he lied just to get you next to him. But you don’t feel mad at all, don’t even know what you’re feeling, really. He snuggles up to you, his body impossibly warm, and you give in and turn to him. His eyes almost seem to produce light all on their own. You had almost forgotten how pretty he is, the warm gold of his eyes, the arch of his brows, the sweet curl of his lashes. You’re staring, now, but what else are you supposed to do in front of Asmodeus? He’s staring at you, too, anyway.

Then Asmo laughs, his pretty mouth splitting into a grin. Definitely not the face of a demon on its deathbed. “Remember when I tried to hypnotize you?” he says, breathlessly, and it makes you feel lightheaded.

“I try to forget the early days,” you say absently, wondering if it’s safe to zone out to the sound of his voice, the warmth of him next to you. “They weren’t very fun.” As soon as it leaves your mouth, you know that it wasn’t the right thing to say.

Asmo keeps his eyes on you, mouth opening as if to speak, but he doesn’t say anything. Not like he needs to, with the furrow in his brows. You wish you could take it back, smooth it over, but what you said is true, so you won’t. Sometimes it’s hard reconciling the first months of the exchange with the way things are now. Asmo’s grip tightens on your wrist, but not enough to hurt. With his other hand, he traces the lines of your muscles, working his way up. His skin is warm on yours, hands soft. He’s working that damn beauty process to the bone—you can’t even blame him, with how well it obviously works. Asmo reaches up and squeezes your bicep. It makes your breath hitch, but you try not to show it. “I don’t remember all this,” he says. “Have you been working out?”

“Not as much as I want—”

You can’t finish. He sweeps his eyes over your figure like he’s never seen you before, lingering just long enough that the quiet between you two feels heavier than usual. It had never been like this before you left. He narrows his eyes slightly. “Did you lose weight?”

“I don’t think—”

He reaches out and touches you on the waist before you can do anything about the quiet or the weight of your breath in your lungs. “You did.” His voice is soft. He lets his hand settle along the curve of your side, above the hip. Even through your shirt, he’s warm. “Wasting away for want of me, perhaps?” he asks, smiling.

Here’s territory you can handle. “Asmodeus,” you warn, pulling your hand from his, preparing to get off the bed and leave if he tries anything. No orders. Not yet. The smile drops from his face as if it had never been there at all.

“I won’t do anything,” he says quickly. “I promise. Don’t go.” His eyelashes are so long, cast down in deference. There was a push and pull between them that you had missed while you were home, this imaginary cord drawn taut. And there it is. You missed this. “Just put your arms around me for a moment? Please.”

You’ve always had a soft spot for him. You’re certain it’s impossible not to. So you hold him. Asmo feels so delicate in your arms, fine-boned like a rabbit. He isn’t moving anymore, and so you stupidly think for a moment that he really is dead, but then he tentatively pulls closer, resting his forehead against your sternum. You wonder what he’s thinking. You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat. It doesn’t have to matter even if he can.

“I’m not actually dying,” he says.

“I knew that.”

Silence. “You always do.” Then, “Do you want to know what the syrup is doing to me?”

“Please spare me the glorious specifics of physicality.”

He giggles. You feel the vibration in your chest. “You’re adorable,” he whispers. “Tell me how the others acted, first. What did you do with them? Give me the juicy details.”

“Well, first, we didn’t fuck.”

“You’re too much of a prude for that, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You first.” No lilt to the familiar words. Just an ache.

“Whatever,” you say curtly, a bad habit, when things get too serious it’s easy to turn sour. “They just—I don’t know. It’s like getting drunk and horny.”

“I know that feeling well. The horny part, not the drunk part.”

You laugh. Can’t help it. “Nothing worth mentioning happened with any of them, anyway.” You draw a line up his spine, stopping where his pact mark would be on your own body. You remember him mentioning that his back was sensitive, wonder if you’re imagining him trembling. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s up with you? Are you extra horny or what?” You would be expecting him to rip his own clothes off at the sight of you. But what else could the syrup do?

Asmo laughs, a little shakily. “That would make this easier. I’m good at horny.” He looks up, eyes like firelight. “I wasn’t lying when I said looking at you made my chest hurt.”

You blink. That’s new. It would be easy to give him an order and end this, right now before it can go any further. But not yet.

He traces the edge of your hipbone almost with a sense of wonder, his hand gentle. Not probing like it had been then. Why did it feel like a lifetime ago? “Please don’t leave me,” he begs.

“I won’t.” You consider taking his face in your hands, but don’t. He closes his eyes, and for a moment, you think he might start crying for real.

“You would,” he says. “You did. You come and you go and it’s going to tear me apart one day.” He runs his hand up your side, touch heavy like he wants to do more than just that. “And I’ll let it.” His voice cracks when he speaks, and this is too far, territory you don’t want to—can’t—breach, but your voice catches in your throat, useless. “I’ll let it because I love you.”

Not love. You wish it were anything else. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Anything else at all. No one tells you what it means to love and be loved and have no place for it all to go. You close your eyes. It can’t be love.

“You don’t mean that,” you say.

He whispers your name. “I love you more than anything or anyone. Even myself.” Asmodeus buries his face in your neck, lips brushing up against your jaw. “You’d order me to stop if you hated this, right?” he whispers. “You’d tell me to quit if you couldn’t take it anymore?”

You feel his spine arch beneath your hand as he kisses your throat. His teeth at your pulse, but he doesn’t do anything. Leaves no marks. And with a lack of action, there is no reaction. Only inertia. “Yeah, I’d tell you.” What else are you supposed to say?

“The syrup doesn’t work on me like it does for the others,” he says. “I need you.”

God, he’s good at pulling this stuff out of nowhere. You’re feeling lightheaded, but maybe that’s the smell of his perfume. His lips brush against your jaw again and you shudder.

“I missed you,” he whines. “All of it meant nothing without you. Nothing. The parties, the galas. I couldn’t sleep without you.” He says your name and says your name and says your name, and your eyes sting with it. He moves back to look at you, cradling your face in the palms of his soft hands. It feels like a sunburn. “Hey, does it always hurt?”

Yes, you think, Love always hurts. The warmth of Mammon nudging you in the ribs, Levi’s stutter, Beel’s hand engulfing yours, Asmo tracing circles into your back, how Satan leans in when you ask him a question, the rise and fall of Belphie’s chest, Lucifer’s imperial gaze turned into something that falters when he meets your eyes. Seven pact marks searing into your skin like brands.

“No,” you say. “Not always.”

“But it hurts now,” Asmo says, and even though his skin burns you wherever you make contact, you press your lips to the heel of his palm. He flinches for the briefest of moments, and you think maybe you’re burning him too.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“Please, just give me an order.” Asmo’s eyes are so wide and vulnerable and soft in a way they never are, raw like an edge of broken glass. “Something, anything.”

You tell him to kiss you, so he does. Just not the way you expect him to, no hunger or lust to it, a half-healed bruise that goes tender under pressure. Sweet the same way an overripe peach is sweet—cloyingly so—but you accept this, letting his sunburn touch run itself through you. He sighs against your mouth, and that sends an aching sensation straight to your chest.

Asmo draws back, like he knows. “Do you love me?” he asks, and the effects of the syrup should have worn off the instant you made your command, but there’s this residual softness in his eyes that shouldn’t be there.

Don’t ask me that, you want to say, because any answer you can give him will require an addendum, something else to say to explain yourself—I love you, but not exclusively, not the way you want. It’d be easier to just tell him no, but then you’d be lying.

“You’re beautiful,” you say, can’t add anything, interrupted by Lucifer’s materialization in the room. It doesn’t matter.

[rozhliena]

Do you mind if I ask what readers you're comfortable with writing? Like gn, m, f, etc?

i don’t mind! i default to gender neutral with no pronouns mentioned because it’s least alienating in my opinion (as well as easiest for me to write)! i’ll take requests for a specific gender/set of pronouns/etc if asked but generally speaking i am most comfortable writing gn readers

[rozhliena]

mc x mammon

mammon is touch-starved, lots of navel-gazing in this one, mc is terribly oblivious, set not too long before the end of season one

Lately, he's been thinking a lot about equilibrium.

When the human had shown up, of course Mammon hadn’t been into it. Humans and demons just didn’t go together. Something like oil and water—he was sure there was some law about it, some science bullshit of a rule. He figured he’d show them around and then let them figure the rest of for themselves.

But you—you just wouldn’t let it be. You had roped him and his brothers into pacts, blown up the kitchen, listened to him when he said things that no one else would pay attention to. The Belphie thing threw them all, but it didn’t take long for you to bring it back to normal. You’re something else like that. Not like he would have let it stay awkward between you two—he’s your first friend down here, your first pact, your first everything.

And so it had settled. Or something. A routine of school and scheming and trying to avoid anything that would throw everyone out of whack. Mammon vaguely remembers this nerdy concept, something Satan had explained to him offhand. It was like, when opposite forces were equal, so the overall effect came down to zero. There’s a name for it, but he can’t remember. That’s what the two of you are in right now.

“It’s not that hard,” you say now, pointing at a hand-drawn timeline you had made for him a few days ago. Human history. It makes him want to slam his head into a wall. “Seriously, it’s just rote memorization.”

“You’re not teachin’ it right,” he whines. “This human world history is so boring, anyway.”

You laugh. “It is,” you agree, reaching out to fix his hair. It’s always messy, but you tousle it more. If anyone else were to do the same, he’d be pissed off, but you can do whatever you want. You trace behind his ear, tugging at his lobe with your thumb and forefinger. It doesn’t hurt. You would never hurt him.

“What’re you—”

“Have you ever considered getting another piercing?”

“Fuck no. Just the lobes hurt like hell.”

“You’d look good.” Your eyes are half-lidded. You’re looking at him but it feels like your gaze is going further than that. It scares him, a little, for no reason that he could explain even if he wanted to. Come back, he thinks. Just thinking it makes him feel like a child.

Aloud, he says, “The great Mammon always looks good.”

You hum and keep staring, that look in your eyes illegible. “That’s true,” you say, in a tone that could have been joke or serious. You keep touching him, edge of your nails pressing lightly into his neck. Usually you would bring it back to the homework, but not this time.

He closes his eyes. “You mean it?” he asks, because he swears you’re always talking like that. Touching him like this.

“Do I mean what?”

“Don’t play coy with me!” he snaps, doesn’t mean for it to come out that sharp. You let go of him without any fuss, and the emptiness that sets into his gut is almost instantaneous. “Y’know, when you say shit like that. Like, compliments and whatever. You—you mean it?”

You snort and swipe at his shoulder, but it’s not the same kind of touch. “Of course I mean it. You think I’d just lie to you for fun?”

“You could,” he blurts. Him and his big mouth. You’ve never taken advantage of him like that, but he knows you can. Everyone else does. There’s always the capacity for it.

You must catch onto something that he didn’t even know he was showing, because you nudge him, a little more gentle now.

“You’re good-looking, Mammon.” Your eyes meet his, grin on your face widening. “You need me to say it?” Your arm makes its way around his shoulders, a casual hold between friends. You don’t even know what it means to him. “Need me to hold you and call you a good boy?” This is a joke. He knows it, and yet—

His face is warm and he buries it into your shoulder, trying not to think of how good you smell. He’d only gone into a fragrance chain store once before getting banned permanently, but one of those scents in there, you smell like that. You smell like home, except that the House of Lamentation doesn't smell like you at all. Either way, it grounds him, and all he wants to do is forget the homework and sink into you. You’re running your fingers through his hair, working through tangles he hadn’t even known were there, nails scraping against his scalp. Mammon wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“Good boy,” you murmur. “You’re a good boy.” If you notice him trembling, you don’t let it show. You keep whispering pretty words into his hair and it makes his body buzz when you touch him. Makes him want to—something. What does he even want from you?

Everything has been closer to a game of limbo than anything else, all his brothers trying to prolong the rest of the year, dancing around feelings and things that they want to say to you. But he’s been thinking so much lately. Thinking up any scenario where you would touch him, praise him, and tell him that you love him more than anything or anyone in the three realms: replacing every idea for a new pyramid scheme, every scam, with the thought of you.

If he were to look up right now, and you’re still holding him, would he want to kiss you? Would that make him happy? Would that be enough, to just have that one little thing? Mammon knows he’s greedy—of course he knows, it’s in the name, it’s a part of him. But this is different. You’re different. Greed is wanting, wanting, wanting, more than anyone could possibly need, but sometimes it feels like he does need this. Needs you. He just has the sneaking suspicion that you don’t need him at all.

Mammon isn’t smart like Satan is, but he knows what happens when you throw something off-balance: something else has to fall. The golden rule of algebra is to do to one side what you do to the other side. If he needs you, but you don’t need him, then what he has on his hands is an imbalanced equation. Scrap. In terms of physics—

Equilibrium, that was the word. The equilibrium would be lost.

“For real? You think that for real?” He looks up at you, and your eyes are soft.

“Seriously. Why would I say it if I don’t mean it?”

You called him a good boy another time, earlier this year. He doesn’t think you remember it at all, but he remembers it almost too well. The way your voice dropped low as you moved past him, your hand on the small of his back to guide him out of your path. Good boy, you said under your breath, once he got out of your way.

Mammon rests his head against your collarbone. “I dunno,” he mutters. He doesn’t know much of anything. He’ll think about equilibrium and balancing equations later, but for now? Your arms are warm around him, and you smell like home.

[rozhliena]

mc x belphegor hatefucking

blowjob, mc does not get pleasured at all, power dynamics, allusions to bdsm but it's really not all that, unhealthy relationship like seriously mc is a terrible person, takes place after the syrup debacle but before simeon's play

Some things don’t change in the House of Lamentation. No one is anyone’s keeper down here, so no one cares when Belphie slips away to the attic after dinner. They barely care when you follow suit because they’re all too busy arguing with the angels and talking about the next big ball—you don’t care about all that. There’s enough stress from everything else, which is maybe the real reason that you wind up chasing after Belphegor.

“Got room for one more?“ you ask, don’t wait for a reply before you open the door on your own.

“Rude. What if I’d said no?” But Belphie moves over to give you a place to sit.

“I’d use that pact.” He shrugs, even though he looks disbelieving. You sigh. “They’re so loud.”

“Usually you can handle it.”

You laugh, forcing it out. “Usually I’m not this tired.”

“Take a nap,” he suggests. “I’ll even let you sleep with me.”

And you shake your head at that, closing your eyes. “Not that kind of tired. I mean I need to blow off steam.”

“Oh.” He says this one a bit too meaningfully. You open one eye and he’s looking at you, head tilted, a smile playing on his lips. “Do you need help?”

Usually, you would laugh and say No, thank you very much, but you’re tired and need to do something, anything, and Belphegor can’t be the worst lay you’ll have by any stretch of the imagination. After everything, what else could you have left to lose? So you put some approximation of trust in him, and take a breath. “Yeah, sure. But no hands,” you say. Don't command, just on principle. “Don’t touch me.”

“Fine by me.” Immediately he backs you up against the wall, because he’s into that. “Do you want to tie my hands behind my back?”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” God, you could get claustrophobic in a place like this. The attic ceiling is maybe six inches from your head, and even less for Belphie. You run your hands through his hair, tugging hard enough that it has to hurt, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Watch your mouth,” he says, then nips at your ear, which makes you shudder less from the sensation and more from the sound, some imagined grind of metal on metal, you don't know where it comes from. You impulsively pull his head back by the hair, watching how his eyes glitter as you do.

“It’s kinda pathetic,” Belphie whispers. You sigh and bump your forehead against his, wishing you could stop all this, the mind games and the seeing, but of course you can’t. He presses his mouth to the edge of your lips, and he's smiling. “You keep coming back to me. Even now.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” you ask, sharply. “I don’t want to hurt them.” You dig your nails into the back of his neck, hoping to draw blood, or at least to leave angry red marks in his pale skin. “I can’t—I don’t want to.” You can’t talk like you usually do, articulation gone, words lost to the space between your bodies. You shift your weight so his back is to the wall now. He seems to like that a lot, grinning when he speaks again.

“Do you think you’re hurting me?” He goes and says your name so sweetly you could believe it means something.

You reach under his shirt, drag your nails down his back, feeling the bones in his spine, trying to break skin. You imagine the terrible sound of flesh uneasily coming apart. Belphegor doesn’t even flinch. “I hope I am.”

He laughs. His hair brushes up against your face when he leans down, eyes locked on yours. “You’re terrible,” he says, some undercurrent to the words, like fondness, or respect.

You don’t respond because you already know it. Belphegor kisses you softly, no clack of teeth, no teeth at all. You undo his jacket, pull off his shirt, and then his undershirt. Belphie draws back and you knew he’s letting you look, but there’s nothing much to see. Nothing that you haven’t already seen. He’s thin, skinny like some of the boys you could have fucked for fun anytime back in the human world, all ribs and hipbones, but this is the first time you’ve really looked at his body in the light. Makes you want to ruin him more.

You yank off your own shirt, not giving him a moment to ogle, and then kiss him hard, hands gripping his neck. He makes this strangled sound in the back of his throat, a cross between a gasp for air and a sigh, and you feel his hands try to grab your waist before he remembers the order. Good boy. You would never say that one aloud, but you pull back to compliment him on his restraint, lips brushing against his ear.

“Why are you so afraid of commitment?” he asks, before you can speak. He smells half like Beel’s body wash and half like something else entirely—it’s impossible to say what. Forget the compliments, you think. You put some pressure on his throat as you sink your teeth into the lobe of his ear, just enough to leave marks. Intake of breath, rise of shoulders, and no other reaction. You wonder how far you’d have to go before he breaks into his demon form and tries to kill you again. Wonder if that’s something he’d do at all, now. You don’t like thinking about it. Force him down to the ground—though it isn’t really forcing when he complies like this. He looks pretty and fragile, splayed out on the floor of this attic, soft and exposed like the lamb that he isn’t.

“I’m not,” you say, letting go of his neck to feel him up, thinking that he’s probably never let a human do any of this to him before, run their hands along his bare skin, kiss his neck, all that. It feels almost like an honor to see the red marks on his white flesh, even though it’s more of a trophy than anything else. You press your thumbs under the rise of his hips, feel him stiffen for a moment before he relaxes. At this rate, you’ll really have to suck him off.

“Then why don’t you do something?” he says, a little strained, but not undone enough.

You want to pretend you don’t know what he means. Instead, you kiss him loosely on the mouth, hands moving up to his ribs, thinking that his premolars could make scars if he used them. He tastes like something sweet, something with a note of tang to it, but you can’t place what. It doesn’t even matter. You run your hands along his chest and hear him groan, this tiny noise that you would have missed if you hadn’t been paying close attention. Finally, something interesting.

“I don’t want to break anything,” you say when you pull away. Unless it’s you. His face is pink, but his voice is as even as ever.

“What are you scared of?” His eyes seem to flash with a light of their own, and you don’t care anymore.

“Nothing,” you spit. You crouch down, eye level with his hips, and reach out to undo his belt. You look up and lock gazes with him, wondering if you’re imagining the shudder of his body. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

It isn’t difficult to get him hard—already he is, already you could stroke him stupid, throat him right till there’s nothing left inside him. But what fun would that be? The gratification too instant. Hand on the bulge in his boxers, massaging it till he squirms, till he can’t meet your eyes anymore. That’s more like it. You want to ruin him, one way or another, or at least to frustrate him. You pull his boxers down and hover your mouth over his cock, letting your breath fan out over the head of it; his hips almost buck up despite himself. There it is. You could have fun with this. “If you move I’m not even going to let you come.”

“Like you’d let me anyway,” Belphie says curtly, but you see the look in his eye, that demonic urge to prove you wrong. His lips curl up in something like a grin. “Whatever. Fine.”

You click your tongue. “Brat,” you say. You trace the tips of your fingers along his shaft, watching the shudder of his long eyelashes, then abruptly wrap your hand around it and laugh at the way he gasps, how his head falls back against the pillows, the red rising to his face. “Who’s scared now?”

You take him in without warning, rolling your tongue around the tip of his cock, watching. Waiting. To his credit, he doesn’t move, except for his eyes, frantically locked on yours. Good. You grab the base of his cock and pull at the same time you bring your mouth farther along him, letting the taste of pre-cum fill your mouth—a bit earthy, sweet. You hear a mild “Shit” under his breath, feel his muscles tensing with the urge to fuck you in the face, but he doesn’t move.

His cock hits the back of your throat and there’s a groan, then, involuntary if you know anything about him, but lusty. You can’t laugh like this so you swallow instead, drawing back just to press a kiss to the edge of his hip, still working him hard with your hands. You kiss him gently enough that the subsequent edge of your teeth elicits a whimper from him.

“I’m going—”

You hum, run the tip of your tongue along his skin, sucking a scarlet mark into it. “You going to come?”

Belphie inhales sharply. “I’m going to—kill you,” he says with difficulty, which does make you laugh, no humor to it. You bite down on whatever skin you can get between your teeth, the thin, tender portion just in the dip above his thighs, relishing the feeling of—ruining something. Being unfair, because none of this is fair. He sure wasn’t.

You twist his cock just enough that he hisses, half-pain half-pleasure, throbbing in your hand. Never again. You lick your lips, the aftertaste bitter on the tongue, acrid down the throat. Push his hips down, spreading his thighs apart as far as he can go, and scoff, giving him one last look before going in for keeps.

“Be good, why don’t you?” Brushing your lips over his tip, licking along the length of it till he gasps, bringing his cock back into your mouth, too good to him. This is far more than he deserves. You shouldn’t even let him come at all. But he stays still, he’s good at that, the only moving part of him the involuntary twitch of his cock. You raise your brows and fondle his balls, finally taking him all the way down the throat. You listen for the tiny, sweet moan in the back of his throat, feel the jerk of his hips. How about now?

He shakes silently, but you hear another intake of breath and hope he’ll be beyond coherency by the time you’re through. Belphegor cries out your name breathlessly, a sound that burns—you suck him down, swallowing, maybe too good at taking it, satisfied with his vibrations of pleasure because you think they’re all you can get from him—

But he comes like he’d never come in the millennia he’d been alive, thick and rich in your mouth, back arching so well it’s almost beautiful. You take all that, pleasantly surprised, and pull off to examine his flushed face. Quiet but not brooding, that perpetual sulk evened out into something else entirely. When he looks like this you can’t resist kissing the jut of his hip in earnest now—the pleasure of the flesh or something like that, nothing major. The rise and fall of his chest under your hand sure is something, and you look at the bruises on his skin with some pride.

His dick is softening already; you tug it lazily once more just to hear him whine, smallest vocalization. Your hands drift along his body, chest and hips and thighs and neck. You kiss up his stomach to his nipples, kiss those, too, flicking your tongue against them just because you can. Belphie shifts weakly under you now and you’re surprised that he’d even lasted that long, if nipple stimulation alone can get him like this. You move to his neck; his pulse strong beneath your thumb, just as strong under your teeth. There’s that urge to tear out his throat, but you let him off with a small hickey that will fade soon enough.

“Was—was that good enough for you?” he asks, voice uncharacteristically breathy, that post-coital daze caught up to him. You gauge his expression, almost-glassy, eyes framed by those long lashes of his.

“Just awful.” You catch his mouth with yours, slow and deep. Afterglow physicality, nothing to it—you would do this with anyone after giving them head, and he tastes sweeter now than he had earlier. Belphie moans against your lips, all semblance of dignity lost.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs.

“Whatever. Was it good enough for you?”

He kisses you softly. “Worst cock-sucking I’ve ever gotten in my life.”

“And how many of those have you had altogether, including this?”

“One.”

You snort. “So it was also the best.”

“I guess you could say that.” Belphegor draws back, looking at you through his lashes, almost too at home on the floor. “What about you?”

“I’d like to think I give a good blowjob.”

“You know what I mean. Did you let off enough steam?”

So that’s where this is going. You scoff. “Yeah.” It could be nice, the fact that he asked, but the fact that he’s the one doing the asking is too much. His eyes aren’t so glazed-over now, and it’s harder to have that approximation of trust when they’re clear like this. “I’ll jack off on my own, thanks. Your brothers will be wondering where we went, anyway.”

“You hate relying on other people, don’t you? Or being indebted.”

“I hate when you touch me, is what. I can’t stand it.”

He goes quiet at that. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” You’ve been through this one already. It doesn’t heal anything. It doesn’t bring you back to life. “Put your clothes on and clean up a little. I’m washing up.”

In the tiny attic bathroom, you wash your hands till you can’t even feel the residue, rinse around your mouth and gargle till the taste of him is gone, wipe yourself down just for the sake of it. You splash your face and stare into the dirty mirror, cold water dripping down your chin. Keep looking till the weak, diluted expression in your eyes becomes just that—an expression and nothing more. And soon you can’t recognize yourself at all.