#censoredbysimeon

You hand one to Mammon, who downs it without hesitation. You barely have started sipping yours.

He's smacking his lips now in appreciation of the taste; but a faint aftertaste lingers in your throat. You can't name the ingredient, it wasn't there when the teacher had made it.

"What did you add at the end?" You inquire, looking over the table where everything lies scattered. The ingredients are the correct ones, and the preparation was something you and Mammon had drilled into your 'thick skulls', as Lucifer claimed. The demon's leaning back on the chair, hands behind his head as he rocks it. Looking too pleased with himself.

"Everthin's been followed according to protocol, relax. Taste's fine, look's fine, smell's fine." He drawls on, and then adds. "If somethin' were to go wrong we won't be here sitting normally."

You open your mouth. Then close it.

"I suppose you're right."

He makes an offended noise behind your back as you put the ingredients back in their places, you chose to ignore it.

Fungi in the box, starter liquids in the cabinet, utensils in the drawer, apron hanging on their hooks. Everything spick and span so that no one doubts you. Even Barbatos won’t be able to figure out, you dare say.

You clean the counter with a rag. "We should go out after tomorrow's test is over. I'm thinking....Hell's kitchen."

"Mhm. I'm craving their burgers."

You could tell him you want to go to the outermost circle and dance with basilisk and he's follow you.

After having cleaned up, you and Mammon go back home, sneaking over the iron gates (which always cream in an ominous welcome) and go back to your beds. Everyone's asleep at this hour, and no one should doubt you.

Minty toothpaste that once belonged to Mammon, hair pulled back by a hairband that Asmodeus has given you. At this ungodly hour, your eyes should be heavy with sleep. Yet, you feel more awake then ever.

Tomorrow, you'll sail through the exam smoothly with Mammon's planning. And then Hell's burgers, with their tangy sauce that is a symphony of flavours on your tongue, and the satisfaction of getting your cake and Mammon's hands as they hold your chin to tease you—what.

You spit out the toothpaste and blink.

Focus, MC, Focus!

You rinse your mouth after, place the toothpaste back in the stand and plop on the bed in hopes of getting some sleep. But then your body heats up all over as if you’ve just taken a hot shower.

And your limbs don’t bother consulting your brain after that.

Mammon barely gets a moment to open the door before you're jumping on him.

"Hey—what's—what's wrong?"

You shake your head, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as he's forced to walk backwards towards the bed, narrowly avoiding the clothes and consoles on the floor. "I feel so hot. Fuck, warm all over." You mumble, inhaling the scent of his skin. Mammon falls on the couch with a wheeze, and you take the chance to bite into the skin which you had been nuzzling.

"Ack! What's gotten into ya!" He barely manages to pry you off his skin to hold your face. "I'm not food!"

You look....flushed, for a lack of a better word. His hands run warm, but your skin feels even hotter to the touch. There's a haze in your eyes which seems too much like a fever, your breathing's uneven too.

He places a hand on your forehead. "You sick or somethin'?" Furrows his brows and tries hard to gauge whether you're sick or just drunk off some ingredient which was left unmarked in the kitchen. He'd just have to label the items next time.

You grab his palm just to nuzzle into it. Then he remembers that it was raining yesterday afternoon when you had come back from the market. Mammon gives you a pointed look: the one given when you go and do something reckless. “I told ya not to go out in the rain earlier! That's what happens!"

His cheeks feel warm.

"M' not sick.." you whisper into the palm, pressing a kiss to the skin there. You stretch your thighs wider to accomodate your frame on his lower half. "You're—I—ugh, I need you."

You're whining into his skin now, and Mammon can't help but gulp at the close proximity of your body to his. Being this close to you, with all your attention on him, without anyone intervening, it's everything he's ever wanted. Just you, always you.

He manages to steady your movements which have turned more into grinding. Hand on your waist, the other holding your face. You're so close that your breaths mingle.

Shit.

Then he catches a whiff of it. Intoxicatingly sweet like Asmo’s perfume but with a sharpness that cuts through the saccharine. It’s on your breath, and if Mammon leans close enough he can almost taste it.

"Did ya drink any blood poppy syrup?"

He racks his mind as to where you would have found it.

"Does it matter?" You groan, grabbing his thumb just to suck on it. "Don't go around asking questions now." You say with your thumb in his mouth, and the vibrations go straight to his blood.

You resume your movements, and Mammon stiffens.

Catches the implication.

He has to stead his breathing lest it turn erratic, barey manage to keep you at a respectable distance even as you try and try to be close. Has to admonish the demon that wants to claw his conscience away. Don’t you fucking dare. You can't, MC's not in the right state of mind, and there's a test tomorrow—

"We can't, I can't—you're under an aphrodisiac, MC." He says, though it sounds muffled to you. Everything is muffled except for his scent. "You're not thinking straight right now. Come on, let's get ya to your bed." He attempts to stand with you in his lap, but barely manages to get up halfway before you push him back down.

"No!" You hiss, slapping a hand over his mouth. "I don't want to sleep. I want you!"

Fuck, and you're being so blatant about it too.

But you've always been blunt.

He removes it. "You're under the effect of a syrup!"

You groan. "And you were under it too once!"

"What are ya exactly suggesting?!"

Do exactly what his Master had desired. Even then, even now, he’d fall to his knees faster if it means you are pleased. But back then it was just a kiss. Even if he'd let you take what you want from him, and you would let him do the same.

And patience runs low in the exchange student. So MC settles for grabbing his hand, on which the rings feel so blissfully cold against the warm of their skin, and settle it right in between their legs, their core.

Mammon can only swallow dumbly.

Wide-eyed, he stares at your clothed cunt, mouth dry. You've never looked more sure of anything in your life, and when he drags a thumb across your clit mindlessly you gasp.

"Good, that's good." You mutter, settling your hands on his shoulders. "Mhmm, more, please." You look too much like one of the cats that purr when Satan's fed it treats.

He stares at you.

Then, he lurches.

Mouth on yours before you can blink, his weight and gravity throwing you with your back on the mattress. Your senses are filled with him, him, him. The feel of his lips on yours, the lip balm's (your lip balm) flavour, and the mint from the toothpaste still lingering.

You kiss back, lips gliding against his.

You nip his lip, and he whines; the sound reverberates in your skin. Put his knees between your own legs, holds your hands in his own as he angles your face. His hair tickles your forehead.

You pull him back by his hair.

Only to lunge at his neck.

Soft kisses pressed to his neck, bitter perfume on your tongue. He whines again, and you kiss his Adam's apple. Smile as you nip there too, and it bobs under your touch. You make him turn over now, muffle his yelp by swallowing his sounds with your mouth.

"You're—" He grumbles, which turns into a moan when you bite his chest. "You're not playing fair." It's whinier than intended.

"When have I ever?" You smirk as you say it, pressing kisses to his stomach, shirt all bunched up. His sweats are loose on his hips. You nuzzle into his crotch, inhaling deeply, his bulge hot and hard in your face.

Whatever retort Mammon had on his tongue stops at your action. Brain freezing as he watches you devour him whole.

You lick along the clothed length, and the demon's hips jerk. "Fucking hell.." He groans, letting you untie his drawstrings and pull the garment down along with his underwear, impatient as ever in discarding it somewhere across the room.

He thinks he’s in a dream during some moments, except the heat in in his core is very, very real.

You hold the length of him, hot and heavy, using your thumb to swipe at the head, smearing precum. Mammon makes something akin to a half-growl, half-whine and cups the back of your head. Your fingernails dig into his thigh as you steady yourself, hot breath on his cock.

"Please, MC, I—I'll—don't fuckin' stop! I’ll do whatever ya want, just please—"

You press a kiss to the tip, smirking up at him. Tongue darting out to trace the vein there, eyes never leaving his. There's a flush to his cheeks, the weight on your head light, tracing the shape of your skull. You suddenly feel as if you're stripped bare. So you lower your head to suck at one of his balls, jerking the length of him slowly, precum and your saliva making it a smooth glide.

Above you, Mammon sounds half-ruined already.

And you haven't even taken him properly yet.

"Feels good?" You mutter into his skin, and then break off only to take him in your mouth, tongue moving around the head. His hips jerk sharply when you do that, and the tip reaches the back of your throat. You gag, but do not relent.

You place your palm on his thigh for a better grip.

Mammon leans back on the bed to watch you. There's a flush on your face too, pupils dilated as sloppy sounds reach his ears. And your mouth, god that sinful fucking tongue—

"Aah!"

His thighs tremble as you swirl your tongue around him. Straining with the effort of not just bucking in your mouth immediately and rutting into your throat. You look at him, and think, ‘big mistake,’ because when he already looks so ruined just because of your tongue, you want to be cruel.

Deny him what he wants, just to see him grovel. Coo and nip at his skin and claim your ownership. Your first.

“Okay,” he laughs shakily, breaking off into a moan when you hum. “Come on, get up, I wanna feel ya now.”

Insistent as ever, you ensure to suck his tip again, marvelling the flush on his visage before detaching yourself and wiping your mouth. “Close already.”

“Shut up.” Mammon pulls you up in his lap, placing your legs over his hips. One hand cupping your head and the other your ass as he tastes himself on your tongue. Bites your lower lip just like you had done, doesn’t break away and smiles when you whine.

You fed him pawing at your tits through your nightshirt, groping and breathing heavily. You’re not wearing a bra right now, and Mammon noticed. He pinches a nipple and you hiss.

“Get them off.” He grunts, impatient, and when you move to pull off the garment he beats you to it, getting it off your head and throwing it somewhere on the couch.

Then proceeds to stare at you slack-jawed.

Holy fucking shit.

"I know honey," you quip, amused and a little flustered at his reaction. His eyes keep darting from your breasts to your face, and Mammon can't decide where he wants to look at. You'd be embarrassed, but with Mammon there's no such thing as hiding yourself. It's never been so in the past, why should it differ now? You can give and give and he'll gladly take what you give him, ever-greedy for more.

His left hand comes to grasp at one of your tits, the metal on his rings cold against the heat of skin. His touch is reverent, careful, and then he's coaxing you to bend forward, shift your weight to your legs and his upper body as he palms your back in encouragement. "That's it..." he breathes out, your chest finally in his face. His breath hits your skin as he takes a nipple in his mouth, tongue laving over it.

He gives the same attention to the other one, biting you lightly. You moan and pull at his hair. There's a wetness blooming in your core, and you wonder if Mammon can feel it. Your scent. When he hums in satisfaction, the sound reverberates through your bones. And then he's sucking and nipping at the area.

"Mhmm, Mammon..." you mumble, letting yourself grind in his lap. You want more.

He pulls off with a wet pop, darkened skin already blooming on your chest. Kisses your sternum and inhales your scent as if he'll die without it.

"You want more, huh?"

You nod feverishly. "Please, more, I want more—ah!"

He slaps your cunt. Grins at you like he just won a trophy. "Already so wet f'me. Haven't even touched you there yet properly."

Then in a flash, Mammon has you on your back on the bed, a pillow conveniently placed under your head already. Removes your pants too. He opens your legs wider and sits in between them.

There's a sharp curse that spills past his lips at the sight.

You're so fucking wet that it's visible through the fabric, the outline of your pussy so enticing. Your scent heavy in the air. Yours, and it's all for him (not for his brothers but for him and him alone).

You want to close your legs in embarrassment. You want to grab a fistful of Mammon's hair and shove his head in between your thighs and keep him there, keep that mouth of his occupied, which can spill words which might make you laugh sometimes, ruminate some other moments and indulge in tomfoolery all the same.

Your thighs move before your brain can process it. "Tch." He clicks his tongue, holding your legs only to settle your thighs on his shoulders. The soles of your feet on his back. "I've finally got ya here like this, and now you're going to hide?"

His tongue darts out to lick through the fabric, and your brain nearly combusts.

Mammon moans below you.

Nuzzles through the fabric, nose rubbing on your clit. His fingers dig into the plush of your thigh as he holds you closer. Wanting more, true to his nature and always so greedy. He nips at your inner though and you cry out, but then the sensation of his tongue soothing the mark renders you speechless.

When his lips suck your clothed core, you moan. "Fuck—nghh—Mammon!"

"That's it, juusst like that babe." He smirks, the self-satisfied one where he's just won a gamble or gotten what he wanted. "I'm going to take good care of ya."

He snaps the band of your underwear, chuckles as you jolt at the slight sting. You tighten your thighs around his head, watching him grunt in surprise, caging him in in retaliation.

But when he pulls the gusset of the fabric aside to finally, fucking finally put his mouth where you desire it the most, all is forgiven and forgotten. His tongue laves over your drooling pussy all over, tracing the shape of his name. Pulls you a bit closer by your thighs just so that he can suck on your clit.

"Fuck." You cry out softly, eyes closing.

You jolt when you feel his finger slipping in, and you're so wet that there's no resistance, just the sloppy sounds of your cunt taking him in. "You're so wet, MC." He moans, more to himself than you. "And ya taste divine."

He adds another finger, scissors you gently, coaxing you open for him. Curls his fingers justtt right and hits a spot that makes your knees buckle.

Your cunt throbs. "Agh, shit—Mammon, right there!"

"Shhh," he laps at your clit, twisting his fingers at the same time. "Gotta open you up to take my cock like a good little human." Sucks harder, making your thighs tremble and your fingers gripping his hair tighten. "You like it, don't ya? Of course you do, pussy's leakin' all over my hand."

You rest your head back on the pillow, eyes closing in bliss. You're so close right now.

"W-Wait!" You say abruptly, and Mammon halts in his movements.

"What—What happened?! Did I hurt ya? Shit sorry—"

You coo, gently removing your legs from his shoulders. "No, no, baby, you never hurt me." He pulls out his fingers, shiny and slick with your arousal as you shift. Gossamer strands which catch the light.

"Want your cock, please." You pant, eyes blown wide. Mammon gapes at you in astonishment. Grabbing his fingers which had been inside you moments before, you place them in your mouth, tongue swirling around them to taste your own arousal. The demons swears he will combust this very moment. Fuck, you can't just go around and take his fingers in your mouth like that while staring at him with those eyes—

You pull off with a pop. "Please?" You say, knowing that he'll give you whatever you want anyways. Be it jewels, food, himself even.

"You just can't......" He trails off, then shakes his head. Laughs softly and then pulls you in his lap. "Come here, MC."

Hot and heavy against your cunt. Soft yet firm at the same time.

Your arousal coats his cock, and when you make the slightest of movements he groans. Looks down at the sight and moans, moving you on his lap.

"I can't wait any longer—need you so bad baby—please—"

"Shh."

You soothe, grabbing his cock to place it against your entrance. The head briefly catches on your clit and the both of you hiss in sensitivity. You glance at Mammon then, watching his face shiny with a sheen of sweat, pupils blown wide and hair a mess. Your bitemarks on his neck.

You inhale, then slowly sit down on his cock.

The stretch is unlike anything you've ever felt before. Burns, but in a good way. Uncomfortable, but you'd not have it any other way. The earlier penetration had helped.

Mammon doesn't touch you, only watches you take his cock in your pussy like a good little human. His human.

Shit.

Then, without any warning, he grabs your shoulders just to pull you towards him.

In a grip that screams 'I need you otherwise I will combust.'

The movement makes you sink further down till the base, and you gasp. Your ass against his thighs, skin to skin like it was always meant to be. Your sound is swallowed by his own as he plunges his tongue in your mouth, hand in your hair as you angles you better. You let him do it all, breathing heavily as you are devoured whole.

All teeth and tongue, he's in the mood to take and take and take.

Drool slips down your chin, towards your neck. Mammon laps it up to you. Burrows his face in the crook of your neck, flustered suddenly. "Shit, we really are doing it."

You laugh softly. "No shit, Sherlock. You're balls deep in me." He makes a choked sound; pulls you even more closer as your tits press against his chest.

You lean back a bit while he massages your hip. "Does it hurt?" He asks, eyes flitting over your expressions for the most minute signs of discomfort. You've always had a habit of hiding your own problems from others, while being the first to help others with their own.

"Not really. The stretch is kinda uncomfortable. Give me a minute to adjust." You feel so full.

His lips are warm against your neck as he bites and sucks, even more hickies blossoming on your skin. Soothes the sting with his tongue and blows on it.

You take the initiative to move, given his heavy breathing, and the movement evokes a moan out of you both.

"MC, ya—fucking squeezing my cock, ha," he gasps, hands on your sides. "Fuck, you look so pretty like this—all f'me."

Rutting your hips against his, everything is overwhelming. The heat of his body on yours, the almost-burning heat of his palms on your sides, thumb underneath the swell of your tits. And the way he makes such pretty noises.

"Could say—ha—the same for you too, Mammonie," you blurt, slowing your movements just to grind on him. "Such a pretty man."

At the nickname, he pulls you forward, plants his feet firmly on the bed just so that he can match your pace, let his hips roll to feel you and your velvet warmth. He hits a spot that makes you gasp, breath catching in your throat.

His smile turns sharp, then he's doing it again and again, pinching a nipple as he abuses that one spot over and over again.

And your moans and cries are his reward, of course. "You're so mean!" you cry out, even if your hips meet his own movements in sync.

"Demon, remember?" he rasps, impatient in pulling you forward just so that he can drive his tongue down your throat. "I'd never act otherwise."

You wrap your arms around him, chest to chest now, meet his eagerness with your own and be a bit mean in biting him.

The force of his thrusts rocks you, tits bouncing as his pace turns frantic.

You pull at his hair and he groans, giving you no warning before he's turning you over on your back, pulling your legs over his shoulders.

And when he moves again, the angle allows him to go deeper than before.

"Fuck—Mammon—that's, that's good." You cry out, hands scrabbling at the sheets for purchase, anything to ground yourself when faced with the extent of his lust. He's panting now, skin shining with a sheen of sweat that you want to taste. You must be clenching your thighs together because when your legs tighten around his head he moans.

His balls slap against your ass, and the lewd sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room. The fabric of the bed is wet, you can feel it dripping down.

"Fuckin' hell, look at you," he grunts, pulling at your hand with blind enthusiasm so that you can hold his hand instead of gripping the sheets. "All fucked out already and I haven't even made you cum yet."

He kisses your hand, shoves two of your fingers in his mouth just to suck and lick on them. His mouth is so warm too, you dumbly observe, brain stuttering.

You pull him closer by his hand with a muffled yelp, slam your mouth against his and shove your tongue in his mouth. He has to bend to meet your demands

A whine spills past his lips, and because in this new angle with your legs bend to your chest, folded in half and nearly being fucked into the mattress by the force of his thrusts, you can't stop the moan that the action evokes.

"What happened to-to that mouth now?" You gasp, smile on your lips in satisfaction. The sloppy sounds of your cunt should make you embarrassed, but all you know is the way his cock drives into you and reduces your shame to mush. Mammon can only whine. You're being so mean, mean, mean. "You're going to cum, baby?"

"Please, MC, baby, please—oh fuck." He feels his balls tighten, and then his gaze falls on the Cheshire grin on your face. You look so pleased with yourself, slapping his face lightly as encouragement.

Without any warning he shoves two of his fingers in your mouth, presses down on your tongue and ignores the way the vibrations of your sounds make him want to hiss in pleasure. You gag when he nearly reaches your throat, hooks a fingers on the side of your cheek and lets the drool coat his fingers. "I should keep you here like this—ah—all fucked out and drooling for me. Pretty pussy's already begging for me." He snickers, then looks down where the both you meet. "And look, you've made a mess of the sheets already."

You roll your eyes. Moments before he was the one whining and begging. You bite down on his fingers and he hisses, lets you gag once more on his fingers before adjusting himself just to slam into you harder. Your eyes are glossed over, pupils dilated as he meanly thrusts again, making your legs tremble.

He removes his fingers from your mouth, smears the saliva on your tongue just to lick your lips after. So fucking nasty.

You dart your tongue out to meet his, drool slipping down your chin and onto the pillow. Sneak a hand down to rub at your clit, already sensitive.

Mammon sees it, and he's sliding a hand down to meet your own, guiding your movements just to rub circles with your fingers on your clit. The dual sensation makes you gasp. Your cunt feels so full, your senses are filled with him and him alone.

"I'm going to cum," he grits out, and you palm his head just to pull him closer, speak against his lips.

"Go on, Mammon, I've got you."

And then he's whining and moaning in your mouth as he ruts into you like a man crazed, bed creaking with the movements. More slick drips down the sheets, skin meeting skin echoing in the room. You feel your lower half throb.

When he rubs your hand against your clit you groan.

"That's it baby—oh, good boy! Right there, Mammon—you—"

Your breath stutters halfway through your throat as your eyes close. Your cunt throbs and clenches hard around him, making him moan too. More liquid gushes out, desecrating the sheets further. All you can feel is the crash of your orgasm, the way his cock feels so right against your walls.

And then, what follows is overstimulation.

Mammon doesn't stop thrusting, if only, it spurs him on. Faster and faster as he chases his own high, whining so pretty in your mouth and swallowing your cries. Angles his hips and gropes your tits, blindly fumbling for any part of you that he can grasp to ground himself. When he cums, he does so with a strangled cry. His cock twitches inside you as he releases inside you, some of it already spilling out and coating everything a mess of shiny white.

You both stay there for a few moments to catch your breath, heartbeats going back to their normal rhythms. He's still pressing kisses to your throat, down your collarbone and on the top of your chest where your heart is. "Thank you, thank you, fuck, that was everything." He mutters into your skin.

And as Lucifer says, 'create your own heritage.'

Elevator hums and music plays softly through the speakers as the ascension begins. Five seconds, and when he steps out his associates and colleague greet him. Luxury watches and rings; gold-nibbed fountain pens and statistics. Our stocks have increased since the last quarter, someone says, and the name of Mr. Iyer comes to mind. Global director for the South Asian region. Some more familiar faces bob by, and Diavolo hides the crease of his brows and tames it when he hears a lie. Smiles with all teeth and gently retraces the route to his office, a gold plaque and cursive with his name, awarded with title of CEO.

As soon as he settles in, Barbatos will reward him with more documents. Piles and piles, some pulled up on a Macbook. "For review," he says, hands him a cup of tea and leaves. He knows his Lord cannot venture much and desert his work in such a state. The air conditioner comes to life, and the demon sighs as he opens up a document.  

His room is soundproof, away from the chatter and murmurs of others. No one can see nor get in without his permission. Not like they could, since the events for today have already been planned in advance. And in between pie charts and quarterly reports, his hands keep itching to open the tablet. 

Spy the pretty little thing he has set his eyes on. She would be arriving soon, doe-eyed and with the signature scent of vanilla and cloves with her. He unlocks the device, tapping the familiar app to catch a peek. Stepping out of the taxi now, he observes, stockings and skirts. All despite his insistence for a private vehicle. Stubborn girl.

The clock reminds him of his duties though, and he diligently finishes reviewing the documents even as his cock hardens in his pants at the thought of defilement. Enjoyment. Right now, you will be making your way to the reception. Then to your supervisor's floor to report.

He should change that, he decides, and looks over the acquisition of land near the coast in some corner of Greece. Signs digitally, spins the Montblanc after as he waits. The tea is still hot, still perfect as he takes a sip. One day in this realm for appearances. And indulgence too. He is demon after all, is he not?

Though that enjoyment is something even man falls prey too. Diavolo is merely following his nature.

The door swings open, Barbatos brings a tray of macarons. The kitchen on this floor has been designed only for him. Poisoning concerns, the staff had been told, and no one had batted an eye. A new document is opened, the door opens again.

"Good morning, sir." Hesitancy. You hold your laptop to your chest, clothes as immaculate as ever. The smell of vanilla and cloves hits him harder, a conditioned stimulus which sets his nerves alight. He nods his head, pushes down the urge as he gestures you to sit. 

The plush chair swings as you sit, skirt riding up an inch before you shove it down with your fingers. He does not look. Pretends not to see as he opens up another document. All proposals and signatures, these days. Pointless meetings which drone on and on with coffee and tea and yawns. You open your laptop too, nails typing the passcode. 

He might as well tell you not to have one, given he can access your device. Every download, every web search. Thoughts laid bare. "Update on the reports?"

You nod earnestly. "Yes! Sir—I had sent those on your mail earlier since you weren't in office. Mr. Barbatos said that you would be present today. Been waiting since....then." Pursuing your lips, you wait for his response.

He wants to laugh. "Very well, I'll look them over."

His hand moves, index finger clicking the mouse as he scrolls down.  Nine out of twenty-five done. A meeting at twelve, one hour and fourteen minutes from now on. The silence is deafening. Nothing but the whir of the air conditioner and the sound of your breathing. "By the way," he says, not looking up from the reports. "Try some macarons. They're good."

You outstretch a hand, hesitant, taking one. There's a meek thank you under your breath as you bring it to your mouth and take a bite. Diavolo swallows when you moan at the taste, finger clicking the mouse simultaneously. "This is—so good!" You say in between bites. 

He chuckles, then. Finally looks up from the screen and pushes the ceramic plate towards you gently. "You can take more." He smiles, and doesn't look up again just to hear you. Gives him enough time to complete three more reports and take a break. Twenty more minutes then you will have his undivided attention. 

Twenty minutes of you feasting on Barbatos's cooking as he works. 

Then, when a glance at his Cartier confirms it, Diavolo finally breathes again. 

"Since your internship is halfway done, mind if we look over some company brochures together? Will help you get a better understanding." 

You nod eagerly, dabbing your mouth and chin with a handkerchief, just in case. A lotus embroidered on a corner, folded back into your pocket. You pull up a chair and sit besides him when he asks, but just enough to maintain appearances. "The projector's not functioning," he says, pulling up the mentioned information on the Mac. "We'll have to make do with this." He sighs in perfunctory annoyance. 

"That's alright!" You chirp. "I don't mind."

Ten minutes in of looking at the information and his blood threatens to boil over. Vanilla seems to infiltrate his senses. He watches the careful concentration on your face as you look over each word, throat bobbing when you take a sip of water from your bottle. Something carnivorous in him awakens. 

"Mind coming a bit closer? I can see you squinting at the text."

"Ah, yes please!" You're bashful as the wheels glide on the floor, closer to his own chair. "The text is always so small in these presentations." You both resume, with occasional insights and comments from you that he stores away for later. Your hand is next to his own, and so small compared to his. 

Behave. He admonishes himself, pulling his tie tighter, a collar meant to keep him in check. He's been at expert at this for eons. Do as an ideal ruler would do. Do as you are expected to. But you must be temptation sent to test his resolve, because he is faltering, inhumane instincts begging him to snap his neck towards you and sink his teeth into the flesh, literal and figurative. He lowers the temperature of the air conditioner, inhales and leans back in his chair as your gaze is still occupied by the screen.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale—

A stuttering exhale.

His eyes tear open, black pupils almost narrowed into slits. Golden swallows the rest.

The scent hits him like a train. Heavy and thick, seeping into his bones and demanding that he undo the leash of restraint. Fucking hell, you're so wet. And that too while sitting next to him. Looking so focused and diligent, while your thighs are undoubtedly pressed together, pussy all wet and clenching around nothing too.

Poor thing.

The clock still ticks, air con still hums and the office is soundproof. 

And Diavolo is but a fiend.

"The government has put a ban on importing goods from this country," he points out, readjusting his foot on the floor. Leather shines. You pause. "They're the only providers we have for our electronics. Got any alternatives in mind?"

He leans back, observes you stutter. 

Grins, all teeth and tongue. 

"Or were you too busy thinking about......this?" Voice low, murmured between his lips as the diamond-studded finger taps at your clothed cunt. You recoil at the touch, watch the black fingernail as it recedes. He looks at you then, watches the fear on your face manifest as you realise that you have been caught.

"What—what are you doing—sir this is harrassement—" You protest, mouth opened in surprise as you close your legs, turning towards him. He looks at you, then checks the time. Ignores the way your mouth gapes at him in shock, form freezing as he adjusts his bearings.

"Ten minutes till the directors arrive." He clicks his tongue, runs two fingers along your thigh until they delve underneath your skirt, knuckles tenting the fabric in its filthy, filthy way. You hold your breath, back ramrod in your chair as you freeze. "You should be formulating reports, and oh, the fabric is already so wet." Diavolo's voice is a mockery, and before you can think of a suitable response he pinches your clit through the fabric. You jolt, and he laughs.

Your hands dart out, but they don't grab his wrists. Instead, settling for grabbing the edges of the desk. 

"Mind telling me who you're thinkin' of?" He murmurs in your ear, bending down a bit as he grabs your chin to focus your gaze on the laptop screen, numbers and histograms now useless. "Dirty girl." He croons, and his cologne invades your senses. Your brain stutters to a halt at the proximity. You realise this internship had more purposes than experience.

At your silence, he refocuses.

"We can go back to how things were before," he whispers, hand on top of yours as he makes your index finger click the mouse. His rings are cold. "Or you can leave. I won't stop you. You'll get the certificate and the recommendation letter in your mail." You can feel your heart thudding in your chest, the hum of the aircon and the city alive beneath. There are people on this floor. People who think the intern's getting real work done, who's worked so hard to gain experience in M&A. 

You can't trust the man. Can't trust the person whose so brazenly groping you. Can't trust anyone in this damned company, really—

The intern, who decides to lean back and focus on rutting her hips against his touch, fingers grazing her clit.

His laugh is rich. "Oh? Already chosen your third option?" He swipes a finger. "Smart girl."

Girl, not woman, even though you're an adult. Girl, in that sweet condescending tone of his.

You have to bite your lip to prevent the sounds from your throat. Diavolo takes it as invitation to grab you as if you possess no real weight and deposit you on his lap. Straight on the thighs, starchy material rough against the skin of your thighs. Stockings torn halfway from his nails. Legs spread wide over his, forced to accommodate the width of the man. The stretch burns in a good way. His perfume hits harder now that you're in his lap, back to chest. Every inhale he takes feels rotten, and yet you are still so fucking wet.

No one can see what's happening underneath the table. No one can see the way his fingers paw at your cunt, separating the labia majora from the minora just to coo at your bashfulness. Tap at your clit too, and watch you jolt.

"Guess you wanted the benefits along with the certificate." He laughs then, a throaty chuckle that shakes his shoulders. You want to laugh too, but at your own reaction. "I'll ensure to give you the relevant experience," he promises, leaning forward, forcing you to bend a bit too, as his nose finds your cheek, stubble pricking the skin there. 

He's a fiend, that's what he is.

The door opens then, a tall dark-haired man with eyes as red as blood walks in the room. Your feet attempt to get up and return, but Diavolo only grabs your waist and hauls you up further on his lap. 

There's a hardness in between your thighs now, and the visitor is staring more at Diavolo than you.

"Right now, here, of all places? Really?" He drawls in disbelief, folder with the logo of the three-legged crow in hand. You remain frozen as you shrink into Diavolo, hands fixed on grabbing the desk. You realise you might as well be invisible in this room. "We've got deals to be finalised."

"Oh, trust me Lucifer, I can work just fine!" He's too cheerful, grates your ears. You force yourself to remember who this intimidating man is. One of the persons on the board of Directors, ah, Lucifer Morningstar! "Besides, our intern wanted to gain more experience." Pets your hair then, doesn't make a move to speak more as he takes the remote of the projector. 

You want to remind him that the projector does not work, that to please leave, for Lucifer Morningstar to do something and—

The director sits down on a swivel chair across. Mutters something underneath his breath that is lost due to the blood rushing past your ears. Drums his fingers on the desk. "Nevermind. Get started then."

A click, the projector comes to life.

The realization isn't lost on you.

The shame isn't yours for you to bear alone. He wanted this. He had orchestrated this. He's equal parts a sinner in this twisted turn of events. And worse, your epiphany is ignored by him. He adjusts you further on his lap, your fingers automatically grabbing the fabric, crumpling it in an effort to steady yourself. Diavolo hums, watches as the screen changes to a powerpoint presentation about the latest acquisition of another minor hotel chain in the west. Figures and pie charts follow the scene, analysis of the security providers and facility management companies. Blue and white, calibri sized large because Lucifer is nearsighted. Your benefactor shakes his leg; rocks you along as Morningstar pulls out the pair of black spectacles. Your panties are soaked, fabric catching on the rough material of his trousers as he gropes your chest through your buttoned top. The Cartier says one twenty, and you bite your lip as he flicks a nipple. 

"Mephistopheles had mentioned about Phalango being the top catering and facility management company in that region. A good chunk of the market share too. Advised us to choose that for the latest acquisition." Lucifer informs, posture pridefully straight as he does not even spare you a glance. Your little whimpers might be lost on him too. 

Spare you the attention, but not the humiliation. "Tourism season is at its peak in April to August. We would have to keep the management overstaffed, anticipating an increase in the demand." Diavolo says behind you, nudges the Corvo-carved pen into your hand as he brings the notepad in front of you. The message is clear, and so you shakily write whenever Lucifer comments, words wobbly and ink nearly bleeding into the starchy paper when Diavolo makes you rut a bit harder on him. 

The announcement's not made public yet, you write, simultaneously biting your lip when your clit throbs. It's so hard to focus, harder more when they treat it as something ordinary. It's not, and the absurdity of it all might make you laugh. You must be being too loud then, because then he moves.

"And yes," he purrs in your ear. Meant to ground. "We can make an announcement about our purchase of the three hotel chains soon." Lips besides your ear, grazing the shell of it. He spreads his legs wider; you are forced to accommodate. The fabric on his trouser catches you clit, soaked and transparent through your panties. 

You gasp. He hums, diamond on his finger catching the light and so cold when it presses against your neck, right over the thundering pulse. Keeps you quiet, keeps you compliant as he finalises business deals. The three-legged crow group's emblem on the wall stands out, majority stakeholder being the man whose making big decisions that would cost companies fortunes while you hump his leg.

"Please." You whisper under your breath, and he ignores it. The pleading is futile on him. The rings are cold against the heat of his fingers as he shoves them in your mouth. Keep quiet, the message is clear. Your tongue swirls around the digits as he makes you hump him, cock hard in his pants. Cotton fills in your ears, everything incomprehensible except the fingers in your mouth and the burning in your core. He pulls them out with a pop, string of saliva which connects both before breaking. Diamond wet with your spit.

Though the attempt at being quiet is futile given the audience is right here. You turn your head to look; meeting Lucifer's intense gaze. 

Diavolo's hand rests on your ass as he speaks again. 

"What do you say, Lucifer?"

The man mentioned raises an eyebrow, perfect in the gesture as he leans back in the leather chair. Really looks at you then, smiles in the way a carnivorous animal would. His eyes are too intense. You want to look away.

"We will proceed then." Declares with the tone blunt, gets up to move. The shoes click against the polished floors as he bends a bit to look at you up close. Diavolo holds your chin with his index finger and thumb in anticipation, smiles in your hair when Lucifer croons. "Pretty little thing thinks so too, right? Or are you too dumb?"

The words hit you like whiplash, and behind you a hand pets your hair. "Oh, don't be mean, Lucifer! She's doing wonderful so far." Lucifer, Lucifer, the name which sounds like honey when he speaks, a fondness to it you can't quite gauge the depth of. The devil in question has his face imperceptible as he leans even closer. You can hear the inhales of his chest and feel the air hit your face. The back of your head hits Diavolo's chest and you realise you were moving backwards.

A heavy hand slaps your pussy then, and you jolt.

Enough for your mouth to graze against Lucifer's, who laughs in amusement before he traps your lips with his, licks your closed mouth and has his palms face down on your thighs. The nails dig into your skin. The pressure increases as he moves harder, faster, when you open your mouth and relent being so fussy. Good girl, the fiend coos as your breath is swallowed by the man in front of you.

It's certainly not a kiss.

More of a devouring, uncaring, as his tongue mingles with your own. Saliva smears your chin and lips, and Bergamot and sandalwood fills your lungs. Black-tipped nails massage your jaw, coaxing them to stay open. You claw your nails over his forearms when breathing becomes something scarce, muffled whines swallowed by his greedy maw as he licks over your teeth. Diavolo coos behind you, mutters something about being so feisty as he takes your hands in his own, restraining their movement. You are being devoured, you think, in this office, as something massages the hinges of your jaw and his cock which rubs against your core. As Lucifer explores the cavern of your mouth with his tongue, uncaring of your comfort.

He pulls back just in time, a string of saliva connecting you both before it breaks in the afternoon sun. The blinds are not closed. There are buildings all around. 

The man pats your cheek, takes in your flustered appearance and nods his head.

He looks at Diavolo then, and you can't bring it in you to look upwards. The hand cradles your jaw still, and then he tells him something in a language you can't decipher. They're not from this country, clearly, yet it's something they don't want you to hear.

The words are grating to hear, and you want to flinch at the unpleasantness of it. But you don't dare to show it.

Lucifer doesn't spare you a glance when he leaves, shutting the door behind him. You sag against Diavolo's chest, and he moves his hand to make it so that you're looking up at him. His golden eyes outshine everything else. He swipes a thumb across your spit-shined lips, brings it to his mouth next. "Good girl." He mumbles, but doesn't let you bask in the praise. 

You're picked up and put on the table before you can blink, the cool surface of the furniture a shock for your hot skin. Your hands clutch at anything, and you find the paperweight of a snake. Cool to the touch. You wonder if you can smash it on his head and leave, but the idea is forgotten when he scoots his chair closer and parts your thighs. His hands are even hotter than yours, and his fingers pull at your panties, pushing them down until they come off. 

The white material looks like a mockery; gusset wet in his hands. 

Diavolo looks at it then, but bends a bit just to press a kiss to your inner thigh. You whimper at the sensation, and his fingers fumble a bit before the white material is shoved into the back pocket of his trousers. 

You can see the contours of his back through his white shirt, the way the sinews of his muscles stretch and contract as he moves up higher. Teeth graze the skin, dangerously close to your core, and your hands reach out without thinking to grab at his hair. You'd normally guffaw at the action, but all decorum and professionality was shed the moment he made you mount his lap. He nips there, sucks the skin hard enough for the capillaries beneath to break. Bites your flesh between his canines and lets go with a pop.

"You're still so wet," he observes, tapping a finger on the hood of your clit. You clench around nothing. 

"Such a pretty pussy too." He says into your inner thigh, and the sound seems to resonate. Blows air on your cunt too, delights in your squirming. 

"S-Stop teasing!"

"Yeah? Straight to the point?" His tone is amused. All you can see is the outline of his head underneath your skirt, now crumpled. Maybe he would have liked your honesty, because then something hot and wet licks up from your fluttering hole to your clit.

You whine at the sensation, and Diavolo does it again and again and again. His nose rubs at your clit, and he encourages you to place your feet on his back for leverage, because then his mouth is on your cunt again, sucking there, without any restraint. Stubble rubs against sensitive folds. You jolt, fingers gripping handfuls of his hair as a garbled whimper escapes your throat. You feel as if you'll be eaten alive. Fear commands your body still when his incisors graze your clit. You jerk forward when he flattens his tongue; smoothening over your cunt and then you feel him inserting a finger.

Fuck.

You're whimpering now, thighs burning with the effort of keeping them open. When Diavolo adds another finger your thighs clamp around his head. He only laughs at your reaction, curls his fingers deeper as your wetness dirties his fingers and drips down on the table. "Guess the papers are unusable now." He jokes, before his lips wrap around your clit and suck, fingers scissoring you open at the same time. Your lips part in a shaky moan, and his free hand coaxes one of your legs to relax just so that he can grab your thighs and pull your body towards his face even closer. 

It continues like that. Because that is Diavolo. He gives and gives, because that is what is expected of him. 

He feels your fingers clutch at his hair when he traces his name on your pussy. The sounds he's pulling from you and this pretty pussy are downright sinful. When he sucks on your clit again, curls his fingers and doesn't stop, that's when your thighs clamp again around his head. 

You cum with a strangled cry, and Diavolo wishes he could have witnessed the look on your face and burned it into his memory. He'll make you recreate it later, he thinks.

When the throbbing between your legs has finally subsided to a bearable ache, does he come up from underneath your skirt. Fingers come free with a lewd squelch that makes your cheeks feel warm. The sight steals the breath from your lungs. Because the hair on his head is a mess, lower half of his face still glistening with your arousal. You want to look away, but then he parts your lips with the same two fingers in your cunt moments before, the digits now heavy on your tongue as he encourages you to suck on them. Lets the taste sit heavy on his tongue until it diminishes into nothing, knowing his fingers will reek of you until he washes it off. 

You do, tongue swirling around the tip as you taste yourself. Diavolo only hums. "Now, how shall you entertain me next?"

Retrieving his fingers, he puts them in his own mouth as he leans back on his chair. Looks at the woman in front of him disheveled: upturned skirt and pupils blown wide. The slick between your legs that is now starting to cool and dry. You notice his chest is heaving a bit too, and then when given a taste of sin, who would resist? Who could resist? 

Instinct drives your next actions, and your knees fall on the floor with a thud. The pain is ignored. Golden eyes are trained on you, expecting, as he parts open his legs, outline of the bulge clearly visible. You pop open the zipper without looking at him, pull his cock from his boxers with a grip bordering on impatience. Saliva pools heavy in your mouth seeing it; wet patch already darkening the indigo blue of the underwear. You rub a thumb along the head and he hisses, you grasp the base and meet trimmed hair.

When you finally look up at him, it is to take the tip of him in your mouth and suck softly.

Arousal pools heavy in his core as he looks down at you, runs a hand along the hair that is already half a mess. You look fucked out already, he laughs, and he hasn't even fucked you yet. He places a heavy hand around yours, gestures the exact pressure he wants. Groans softly when you get it right. "Good girl," he croons, observes the way your pupils widen a bit at the praise. "So good f'me—shit—so good for Daddy." He places the hand on your head next to anchor, Cartier cool against your temple as he guides your movements. Presses down gently so that you take him further into your mouth, until he feels you gag around him. 

Repeats the movement, fingers pressing down when teeth graze his length. "Swirl your tongue." He says gruffly, throws his head back in the chair and sighs when you do exactly as you're told. The afternoon sun warms his skin, but it is too bright. A remote kept on the table is pressed, Diavolo having to lean forward to fetch it, resulting in you gagging around him once again as you're forced to take him a bit deeper. "Sorry," he says in a mawkish way. The blinds draw shut, the lights come on. 

Your neck and chest is wet with drool, he notes, white fabric turning translucent. He opens his thighs, pops his cock free from your mouth and guides you towards his balls. Your nose rubs against the length as you do so, gently licking and sucking at each of the testicles after. When he's satisfied, he pulls you upwards by a gentle tug of your hair that stings slightly. Don't even need to think as his hands wrap underneath your arms to tug you up; nestle you on his lap and have the chair creak, feel the dampness of your cunt against his length; spit-soaked.

And oh, such a needy girl, he chuckles, watches your hips grind against his own. Poor pussy's fluttering around nothing. Shouldn't I give her my cock?

"Didn't know you were so bold. Where's that shy girl now?" Licks the shell of your ear as he holds your hips, presses down just to have you squirm. "Being so good." When you glide across his length, he counts. One, two, three, four and five—

The tip of him pops past your lips and your breath catches in your throat. Agonising stillness, the hum of the aircon and laboured breathing the only anchor as you're slowly filled up more deeper than you've ever reached with your fingers or toys. Diavolo's hissing now, a low moan escaping when he finally hilts to the base and revels in the heat that surrounds him. His underwear is wet, combined fluids sticking to the skin. Barbatos will give him extra paperwork as penance later, but the prince will take your slick-soaked cotton for himself. No one else.

Only him, he thinks, when he slowly thrusts upwards. The chair creaks, you're nearly thrown off balance. He surveys you with clamouring intensity, watches the way your breath hitches when he stays there and grinds; your eyes fluttering closed as your fingers rest on his torso; muscle beneath the layer of chub he's gathered. "Feels good?" 

You nod fervently, thighs stretched wide around his frame. It burns, and your legs will protest later. But you still move your hips, raising them just to sit back down on his cock with a lewd schlick.

With both feet planted on the ground, soles on polished floor, Diavolo leans back.

And thrusts.

Again and again.

Sets the pace to a rhythm that he knows will make your breath stutter in your throat, render you a blubbering mess. That's how he likes you, after all. Wide-eyed and full of his cock. The chair creaks in perverse pageantry, your moans harmonising with his grunts as your teeth come to sink into his neck, tasting the salt and the cologne. Such a fussy puppy. Skin slaps on skin, sweat beading at the back of his neck. "Like being full of me?"

"Mhm, please...."

He grins into your hair. "Please what?" Thrusts a bit meaner, rests a hand on your shoulder to anchor. The chair is wet too, staining the leather. It'll reek of you both. He wants that.

Desperation brews in your core. "Your cock, please—harder—"

He leans back, cool leather a welcome reprieve for his overheated skin. You follow along, and with a lazy hand he unbuttons your top and bra, reveals perked nipples along the swell of your chest. He watches them bounce in time with his thrusts, chokes a bit when you clamp around him harder. Instinct drives him; he leans forward and rolls one in his mouth, nibbles on it just to hear you yelp. His laugh resonates in your chest. His stubble prickles the soft skin there, hot breath fanning over your tits.

And oh, look at the time.

He pulls you to his chest in a firm motion, hand cradling your skull as he hides your face in the crook of his neck. The pulse pounds beneath his skin. Your skirt has ridden up to expose the swell of your ass; Diavolo can't help but smack it. You jolt, stiffening, and clench around him. "People are coming."

At that, you try to move. Free yourself from his grip and cock but he doesn't let you. "Shh, I won't let them see you. Just take my cock like a good girl." He thrusts upwards just to adjust. "Unless," his voice is high-pitched, sing-song, "you want them to see you, oh, did you just clench around me again? Such a slut."

The words make you wetter than they should. He's being mean, mean, mean.

The door knocks; both of you freeze. 

Despite the warning, Diavolo's affirmation sends adrenaline straight to your heart. You attempt to scramble, but he reels you in by shoving two fingers in your mouth, hand heavy at the back of your head. The visitor's greeting has died in their throat halfway though, you can only feel the eyes heavy on your body. And what a sight you must make. 

"I, uh, should I arrive later, my Lord?"

Recognition makes your heart stutter. Mephistopheles, the CCO who had helped you gather your documents when you had dripped on the polished floors the earlier week. He'd hemmed and hawed, but handed your documents after picking them up on the floor. Made of money too, given the watches and the suits. Reeked of wealth. And the same man whose watching you bounce on Diavolo's cock.

You don't even get to question the use of that title because Diavolo only shoves his fingers further, makes you gag as he slowly thrusts again. "Not at all! Come, sit." The invitation should have you reeking in mortification. Yet, you only move your hips along with his. "Pretty little thing I've got on my lap, excuse her. What's the update?"

Diavolo watches Mephistopheles stumble and falter in his tracks before he composes himself with a shaky breath. The demon looks at you, and a low growl threatens to escape his chest when he observes his pupils dilate. Mine, mine, mine. A chair is pulled, Mephistopheles sits across him, tries to ignore the pretty little thing in his Lord's lap and fails. "The Council demands a revocation of the bill passed. The House reasoned that it would significantly impact the revenue for the coming century."

Words turns to mush in your brain as Diavolo keeps thrusting. Your tongue swivels around his fingers. wetness now evident in the sound as you rut your hips. You suppose his words would have made Diavolo angry, because when he thrusts again, it's harder than ever. You cry out around his digits, he soothes you with a hand running through your hair.

Mephistopheles politely clears his throat; Diavolo apologizes.

"My apologies. Tell the Council they can fuck off. The bill will be passed no matter what." At his own brashness, the prince is rendered surprised. He corrects himself. "Placate them the best you can. The rest I shall handle."

Before Mephisto can leave, Diavolo beckons him closer. "Come on, don't be so shy now. Want a taste of the pretty thing I've got on my lap?" Diavolo turns your head without asking, lets the man see your wrecked state. So throughly fucked out too, and still rutting her hips weakly. He can see the swell of your breasts. And there are only demons in this room, presented with temptation that can only bring downfall to the mortal.

When Mephistopheles moves again, it is to cup your face in his hands. Brush the tears and coo, mock you even as his hand moves towards your neglected clit. 

Sense seems to have been revived in him, because now at least he has the decency to look sheepish.

"Sorry," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "I was really hungry, and uh, thank you."

"Don't worry." You wave with your hand as you stand again, having finished looping the last of the straps in the soles. "I was going to give it to the deers anyway."

"Have you seen them around?" He blurts, and you appear dumbfounded. 

"Uh, yeah, before your footsteps came and they ran away." You shake your head, picking up the muslin and gingerly taking your basket from him. "To the river, I'm pretty sure."

He looks around and takes a deep inhale.

"Thank you." He mumbles, and then strides into the undergrowth, each steps heavy with intent.

Like an elephant's footsteps.

You watch him leave, and then depart towards your home.

Hunger often turns men into monsters.

And in your case, berry-craving ones.

You're taking an evening walk when you cross him again.

Deer follow you, squirrels and birds trail your path. Foxes laugh and the wind howls. There's a scarf around your neck to protect you from the wind which seems to have taken on a slight chill, preceding the arrival of autumn. And like the squirrels, you must stock up on supplies. Not for you but others who may find themselves at your doorstep. Out of the several things drilled into you as a child, being a good host for the lost stood out amidst everything else. 

You traverse the winded-down route, feet finding the correct path without having to look twice. You walk past three bushes and then wonder as to why they have been stripped bare. Even squirrels leave some for the others. And bears who eat a lot don't traverse this area much.

A huff escapes; you set out in search for more.

Evening means winding down, for some it means coming alive.

Leopards jump down from branches at twilight, and a small knife isn't exactly a good enough weapon. The leaves rustle under your feet as your pace increases, the basket light. You swing it in annoyance as you search. You find the man then, again, sitting underneath a tree, devouring berries.

He looks up at you.

Swallows, then takes in the empty basket in your hand.

"You could have at least left some out for the animals."

He gulps. "M'sorry." He says, and you decide to leave it at that. 

You shift your weight on your feet, wrap the scarf around you again as the wind gets colder. The man swallows the last of the fruits and gets up. His frame swallows the view of the trunk against which he was resting. He has the decency to appear sheepish. "I'll leave some next time. I'm very hungry."

You survey him with furrowed brows. "You could hunt deer again." You mutter, and look at your nails with dirt still stuck underneath them. You had buried an animal last night with only half a skeleton left, bone stripped clean and cracked open half a mile away from your home. "Or live in civilisation."

"You don't." 

"I do not wish to," you say, shaking your head. The stranger's face still has his lips in a thin line, red juice on the corner.

You stand on your tip-toes without thinking; swipe at the stain with your thumb. The man'e eyes widen. When your feet finally meet the earth again do you realise your audacity.

"I'm sorry!" You squeak, clutching your basket tightly. "I-I didn't mean—"

"It's alright." He interrupts, face flat again. Then his gaze falls on the purple on your thumb, and he picks up your arm with his hand, and the heat of his skin is felt through the fabric on your arm. He takes your thumb and licks it, tongue wet and firm and hot. Closes his eyes as he drops your hand, savours the taste, minute as it may be.

You try to ignore the shudder wracking your body.

"You live around here?" You inquire, watch him shake his head in refusal.

"I'm a traveller." He says when the silence gets unbearable. "What about you?"

"I live here."

"Oh." He wets his lip. "What's your name?"

"_____." You say. It's been a long time since you've spoken it. "And your's?"

"Beelzebub."

The sky turns orange-red above you.

You're reminded of the time. "Well, Beelzebub, I'll see you around. I gotta get home." Adjusting your clothes and your basket, you take a few steps back. "See you around. Get home before dark."

"Likewise." He mumbles, and the sound is so low that it nearly blends in with the forest.

He stands, then turns around. Walks into the forest again as if he owns it. You leave as well, suddenly in a hurry. The wind rushes past your ears as you break out into a sprint, the scarf fluttering behind you. You absentmindedly swipe at your lips with the same thumb he had licked before.

Beelzebub, beelzebub, Beel, beel. You let the name roll on your tongue and taste it as you get home.

The third time he is considerate enough.

You run into him again, and briefly think that he's stalking you. Because the routes are well-travelled by you, and no two-legged beings approach this path except you. 

And what do they say, ah, that the scariest beings walk on not four but two feet?

But you cannot bring yourself to give two fucks. So with your basket you traverse the path. Your usual companions are missing, probably because of preparations for the harsh winter. Leaves have started to brown, some dropping on your head and clothes which you have embarrassingly mistaken for a spider more than once. At least the forest will spill no secrets about your loss of composure.

If Beelzebub has taken all the berries again, you will throw your basket over his head and strangle him with your scarf. Even if he's twice your size and has a breadth of chest so huge you could hide in it. Enough of taking all the fruits and berries for himself. 

You stumble across a small clearing; find him feeding berries to a squirrel.

The first thing that you notice is the comical size of his hand compared to the squirrel. He's holding a berry in his hand while cross-legged on the earth, watching the animal shove the fruit in its cheeks, bulging with bounty. His head snaps towards you when your shoes crush a twig, and Beel says nothing.

You say nothing, too, and settle for leaning against a nearby tree and supervising the scene.

"You know...travellers don't stay in one place for long."

He looks a little flustered. "I, uh, wanted to stay for longer." Beel caresses the squirrel then, trailing his index finger along the lines on its body. "This forest is nice."

"It is." You add, and kneel down in front of him. The animal stares at you with its big eyes. If you stare hard enough, you can see your reflection in its gaze.

Beelzebub pulls some more berries out of his pockets and offers it to you. Palm outstretched, bright purple standing out against the callouses of his hand. You mutter words of gratitude and take one, biting into it without second thought, let the sweet juice dance on your tongue. He shoves the rest in his mouth, chews and swallows in the blink of an eye.

The squirrel decides to wrap its tiny hands around his index finger. Beelzebub lets it do what it wants. 

"You should name it," you say, and watch his lips part slightly.

"A name?"

"Yes?"

He says nothing for a minute, and the insects buzz in the air before he speaks again.

"Jamun." He utters, and you parrot it back to him.

"Sounds fitting." You declare.

Then, something wet hits your head. You assume it is water from condensation on the leaves. But then another droplet, and another, and even Jamun runs away into the bushes. 

Both you and Beel look up at the dark rain clouds.

"We both should be getting home." You get up, knees cracking in the process. Basket still empty, you pay it no mind. Beelzebub adjusts his clothes. "How long will it take you to reach your abode?"

He wipes away some droplets that have fallen on his eyelashes. "Uh, quite some time."

Above you, the sky grows angrier. 

"You can wait at my place," you say with haste, and hold your garments with one hand to ensure they don't get stricken with mud. "Come on, why are you standing there?"

His hair sticks to his forehead, eyelashes clumping together as he blinks back the water. You take the chance to grab his wrist and lead him, and Beelzebub allows himself to be lead. Following like a dog, you break out into a sprint alongside him until you reach the stone steps outside your house's entrance.

You fiddle with the locks, and the door swings open. He doesn't have time to look around since you drag him in, and the man has to bend his head as to avoid it being slammed by the frame. 

You remove your mud-stained footwear and throw Beel a cloth to dry himself off with, while you wring out the water from your hair with another. Through the process, you notice how he dwarfs the space he is in. Your house, large for you, feels smaller given his stature. 

There's wood lying around.

"l'll get the fire started," you rush, removing your scarf and upper layers. "I don't have anything that will fit your size, so you can remove your upper layers so that they can dry alongside the hearth's heat." Beelzebub nods, and removes the garments without second thought.

The broad expanse of chest like a lion's, shoulders of a bull. Truly, a force of nature this man is. He can find employment in a king's army, or establish his own tribe, even. Why he chose to be peripatetic wanders around in your mind. 

You turn around, just in time before he meets your gaze and realises you've been caught in the act. Rushing to another room, you close the sandalwood door and change, throwing your soaked garments into a pile on the floor. With dried garments and drying hair, you feel more at ease.

When you step out again, you start the fire and he puts his wet clothes spread out to dry. 

"Thank you," he mutters, and you look up. The fire highlights the contours of his face, and the depth of his gaze. At you. "Any way I can be of help?"

"You can chop up the vegetables and meat. I'll make some stew." You gesture towards another straw-woven basket full of vegetables and mutton, acquired from the village nearby.  

He fumbles around the kitchen for a while looking for knives and plates, while you focus on getting the house warm as the rain thunders outside. When you turn back after closing the windows, you see Beelzebub chopping up carrots and onion into fine pieces, fingers curled around the knife as if they've been trained for it. When the mutton is chopped up to, he presents it to you. You start by heating up the oil and letting the cumin seeds temper in a vessel, adding bay leaves and the veggies after. In between the sizzle of the ingredients and the smell of garlic and onion, conversation follows.

As the mutton releases its liquid, you ask about his family. Wouldn't they be worried if he doesn't come home on time? Beel shakes his head and smiles, placates you by saying they won't mind. When the broth finally starts to boil, you let him taste it by offering him a spoonful of it. His eyes go wide as soon as his tastebuds savour it, and he hums.

You smile and turn back to stirring the pot, then cover it.

"What about you?" He asks.

"My family lives far away." You say, washing your hands to rid them of the scent. "Visiting them would be at least two days journey by horse or cart." 

"Why did you choose to stay here?"

"I wanted to."

"Okay."

The thunder crackles again, but not before lightning. You take a glance at his half-dried clothes and look for some shawls. He sits on the carpet awkwardly, legs pressed to his chest. 

You find one after rummaging through your clothes; hand it to him. When he puts it around his shoulders, the tassels tickle his skin. The liquid threatens to leak from the pot and you remove it just in time with a spare cloth. You ladle two servings into bowls and give one to Beelzebub.

While nursing your own stew and chewing through the meat, you can't help but notice how the bowl looks so small in his hands. He could take two swings and the contents would be empty. And to your surprise, he does.

Two swings of the still steaming broth and mutton which would burn the roof of your mouth if you attempted such a stunt are now down his throat. You watch his Adam's apple bob as he chugs it. Beelzebub merely wipes his mouth after with the back of his hand before you can finish biting your piece.

"You can take more." You say, and watch his demeanour improve. 

"Thank you." He mutters, and in between sips of your own stew you watch him finish the pot in the time it takes for his clothes to completely dry.

You just shrug and take a bite of the carrots.

He wears his clothes after, still wears the shawl over them. Cleans the pots and utensils with ash and water as thanks, sets it to dry. When you start to yawn, he's still awake. So you bid him goodnight and go to sleep in your room, rain still pouring.

Myna birds are chirping when you wake up.

Petrichor greets your nostrils after, and when you look outside the window the earth has turned into a vibrant green. Inside, Beelzebub is nowhere to be found. 

Upon further inspection, you find the shawl neatly folded on a chair, along with a skinned rabbit. 

Later, he comes again when you are attempting to fish by the river. 

Fast-flowing water, you wait patiently for any to take the bait. Sitting on some rocks warmed by the sun, you wait. But no fish catches the bait, and when you are tethering on the impulse to give up Beelzebub comes again.

Near the river, you have to crank your neck just to look up at him. The midday surrounds his head like a halo. 

"Need some help?"

"You bet."

Without warning, he folds up the fabric of his pants and throws away his shoes, revealing the expanse of his calves and feet, the delicate line of his achilles heel in the light glinting from sweat. The water ripples as he moves, giant of a man he is, and then bends down with both his hands in the downstream water. His forearms flex; he pulls up a Rohu in his hands, squirming about in search of air. He aims it at your desolate straw basket and deposits it there. You watch it gasping for air and give it a quick death with your knife. Painless. "Thank you!" You scream, and the sound is nearly swallowed by the roar of the river.

With alarming dexterity he deposits five more in your basket; you declare it fitting and for him to stop. Beelzebub is rewarded with three grilled fish for his help, and you both make conversation under a tree before he leaves again.

"I'm not going to come back for quite some time." He says, and you carefully remove a bone from between your lips. The news fills you with a heavy kind of feeling in your chest.

"When will you be back?"

He throws the bone into the grass, which will be taken over by the earth. "Don't know." He grunts before biting into the head. "Hope to see you soon though."

"Me too."

You're sewing together your torn clothes when he finds you again.

"Did you get into an accident?" 

"Left my window open," you say cooly. "An animal got in and tore all of it up. Some I can salvage, some I cannot." 

Beel stands in a corner, unsure of what to do. He's never learnt how to sew properly, it seems, given he stares at the bone needle in your hand with a perplexing intensity. "It must be a chore."

You chuckle. "That's what I get for having a house in the middle of nowhere. Felines will tear up my clothes, such is their nature. Why should I blame them for acting according to how nature decreed them to be?"

"That's.....true." Beelzebub sits besides you, watches the needle and thread move in your hands as you repair the tear. The sunlight filters in, highlights the violet of his eyes. You criss-cross the stitch and make the knot; he fixates on the taunt thread which is cut in half by your scissors. "My third oldest brother knows how to stitch like you."

"Oh?" You smile.

"He made an outfit for himself in two days for an event from scratch. It looked good." 

"You should learn to stitch too, you know? Will always come handy."

He looks up at you. "I don't know how to." He confesses. "Whenever I attempt sewing I end up poking my skin with the needle or tangling the thread with the fabric."

"I can teach you."

He perks up at that. Beams at you. You're reminded of the sun. 

Winter, you find, is colder than usual.

You've had to layer yourself more, plus chop more wood in anticipation of the cold nights. Your chest still heaves with exertion as you plop on the floor and lean your head on the stone.

Looking back, now that Beelzebub hasn't come back in a long time, you finally assume he's on his travels as intended. It was also very foolish of you to invite a stranger in your home. You could have been murdered, and no one would be there to assist you. But thankfully Beelzebub is none of that.

Then something comes knocking.

It's Beelzebub, decked out in furs.

You open the door with eagerness and an alarming lack of survival instinct. He bends down to go past the doorway.

"Hi." You beam, staring up at him. 

"Hello." He greets, shedding the uppermost layer. Looks around the space and makes note of the wood, overlooks the layers you have on.

"How are your travels going?" You inquire when the man has finally sat down on a rug, hands in his pocket and bare despite the cold. Cheeks and nose red.

"Explored a lot, but I got bored." He says, and then looks up at you. "How have you been?"

"Good. Winter's a bit harsh this time but I think I can manage."

"Oh. That's good."

Awkward silence follows.

"....We've run out of topics to speak about, haven't we?"

"....Yup."

You both awkwardly nod and stare at the fire, feeding it wood. Food is made later, and you wordlessly lay out extra bedding for Beelzebub this time. More quilts and blankets. He sits cross-legged next to you as you hand him his bowl.

Between bites of the venison and carrots, Beelzebub speaks. Tells you about his family and the seven brothers, and one sister. His eyes shine when he says her name. Lilith, he tells you. About the falling out with his family and what had followed. How rage turned his youngest against the oldest, and how she eventually passed away.

"I wonder how she must have fared sometimes." He muses, and then bites into the bone to seek out the marrow. You watch without blinking. "It must be liberating being human. One has the power to choose." Beelzebub murmurs, and your brain comes to a halt. "Demons are bound by desire. Celestial by perfection. Humans can choose any." He slurps the last of the soup and sighs. 

"You are human too," you say, taking a sip. "What have you chosen?"

"Depends on what my stomach wants."

"Fair enough." Then quietly, you mumble. "I suppose that's a way of seeing things I haven't considered before." You hum, taking his empty bowl and yours. Getting up with a grunt, you prepare to complete the chores. 

You put the dishes to be washed with hot water later. Stifling a yawn, you mumble. "It would make you very, very sleepy." Behind you, he grunts, and you hear the sounds of blankets being unfurled. You both get into your respective blankets, burrowing in the heat.

Even as the days grow colder, Beelzebub stays, this time.

With you in your home, bringing along more firewood than required, and hunting even more. You keep finding bones nearby, some of which you craft into tools and weapons, others which you leave alone. He brings you rabbit and sometimes deer, having the decency to at least make it look palatable, given his tendency of mauling his dinner, and you have the decency to remain quiet.

Graciously, you accept his offerings and make meals out of it. Sometimes you teach him out to sew from the needles crafted from bone, and you find out that he is terrible at it. The stitches were lopsided and his skin pricked with blood. Still, he had practiced, hunched over in front of the fire, shadow forming on the wall. 

With Beelzebub, winter passes by like nothing.

You're never cold with him, not even once, because the man brings tons of firewood along with game. And when your hands are freezing, he places his own over yours, clasps them in his grip and lets the heat from them seep into yours. He is a furnace on his own, warming your space (and you). Shovels snow away from the entrance without asking, takes the shovel from you when you protest. You're being taken care of well too. Don't have to go hunting nor foraging as much. He brings you tender, fat cuts of meat from animals that would require a tribe to hunt. Says it is luck as he feeds you spoonful after spoonful. Like all hibernating animals, you gain a bit of weight, something that hasn't happened years given he does not let you shoulder all the work.

Sometimes, he comes home late amidst heavy snowfall, white clinging to his eyelashes. Shushes you when you protest at the cold that had seeped in due to him opening the door; bundles you up in furs and pets your head to soothe you back to sleep. When you ask him about it later, he only tells you that he was out hunting.

(In the snow, amidst the darkness?)

(Animals move around a lot at night, easier to hunt.)

You find footprints in the snow sometimes when you venture, deep imprints if into which you place your own feet look small, and the soles of deer which appear to flew from those. Sometimes paw prints of wolves, too.

The cold passes by with plenty, making way for soft warmth.

Then spring arrives, rebirth and colour along with it. Decay turns into new life. You show him the flowers that have bloomed, planted earlier, and the fruits that will eventually show after the flowers. Ripened for him to consume. No one else, no one else. He eats a lot, sure, but a man of his stature will need to. Yeah. That's all. He bickers with you while picking flowers, braids some into your hair and lets you make it into a crown for his head. 

It's easy to excuse the intricacies of his behaviour as the foreign habits of a foreign traveller. It's easier to explain everything else. 

Sometimes, you find yourself searching for him. Find yourself indulging more and more in gluttony despite him being right in front of you.

(Beel, where are you going?)

(Beel, is this looking alright?)

(Beel, you don't have to leave yet, yes, that's it)

But for someone like Beelzebub, loving him would be like breathing air. Automatic. Unconscious. 

One night, everything unravels.

When Beelzebub closes the door on his way out, you can't soothe yourself back to sleep. There's no buzz of insects in the air, no hooting of owls. Just an alarming silence which settles cold in your bones. And the forest being silent is never a good sign. 

The last time it went silent, you came across the mangled corpse of one of the wolves. Paws and teeth missing, poachers. They sell as charms for a huge price in the market.

You need to call Beelzebub home before it is too late.

Hastily wearing your boots, you step out into the night with a lantern fuelled by clarified butter, closing the door behind you. The grass is wet, and every step you make sends sounds to the trees. Human in the vicinity, fresh prey. 

"Beelzebub!" You shout his name with urgency, and the words bounce back right at you. There's no answer.

Your feet move faster with urgency, lantern flickering.  "Beelzebub! Can you hear me?"

The forest grows denser, deeper, bark starting to look more like the harrowed expression of men rather than what it actually is. You force yourself to move forward and ignore the warning signs nature begs you to see. 

You come across the lower half first.

Shoes, leather ones and padded too. Haphazardly thrown. You stretch out the hand holding the lantern and see the earth dragged into the bushes. Something large, something heavy.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

No, it can't be—

"Beelzebub! Answer me!"

This time, you are rewarded with a growl. Guttural than anything you've ever heard before, like one of the beasts that reside in the foreign lands. You should turn back. Really turn back, given how goosebumps rise on your skin and your own blood thumps in your ears. But you have faced predators before and lived.

So you move.

Deeper, till the trees give way to a small clearing. 

His hair comes into view first, then the smell of metal in the air.

"Beel, are you hurt? What are you doing?" He says nothing, just recedes further into himself as if to hide something from you, and oh.

Man.

Without shoes, blood on the face and a throat which has collapsed onto itself. Your lantern falls on the ground and then Beelzebub turns around to look at you.

You really wish you hadn't.

Because his face is stricken with blood, man's blood, and his teeth have blood on them and oh god was he eating the man?!

You shriek, and the soft earth gives way as you flee.

"____!" There's a shout of your name, but you don't look back.

Instinct overrides conscience, and so you run further and further until you reach your abode, trembling hands opening the door just to lock it from the inside. You close the windows too, settling on the floor just to catch your breath. The adrenaline has left you shaking all over. Beelzebub has killed a man. You're residing with him in your home. His face was streaked red. The man's face looked caved in.

There's a knock at the door. You jolt.

"___? It's me, Beelzebub."

You stay silent for a moment, the lump in your throat preventing you from speaking. "Go away!" You squeak, crawling away from the door; your legs refuse to stand up. The door rattles, and you feel that the frame might collapse on itself for a moment. More beast than man, you suddenly feel very afraid.

You swallow to find your voice. "G-Go away!"

You can imagine the frown on his face now; fumbling as you realise you'd shown him where you keep your spare key. Unbearably foolish of you, you admonish. Giving one entry into your home, too trusting.

He doesn't use the key.

"Please, we can talk and figure it out." Voice calm, rational, despite whatever that had happened was not. You pick up a spare knife which had been used to cut fruits earlier and grab the wooden handle like a lifeline. 

"No we don't." You blurt, shoving a chair in front of the door. The screech is unpleasant.  "I saw you with blood on your face, that man dead. What conclusion do I make?"

"I can explain everything," he says with conviction, and you know Beelzebub never lies. "Give me one chance. If you are unsatisfied, I will leave." You still clutch the knife to your chest, heart thudding and your legs trembling. 

"No!"

You imagine his frown at the response. "Please, just let me speak. If you do not accept it still, I will leave."

You remain silent.

"Please."

"No—you're a demon, you're, you're not—a—" You can't bring yourself to call him that. Can't bring yourself to call Beelzebub a monster when he has been more humane to you than humans.

The door splinters, and before you know it it is opened the wrong way, off the hinges. The chair is pushed to the side with one hand. You can only step further and further away into a corner, knife clutched to your chest like a lifeline. The forest is silent, the forest is dead. You will be dead, too, maybe. Beelzebub steps in and squares his shoulders, abandoned lantern in one hand and sees the woman standing in a corner with a knife still clutched to her chest. Looks at him with wide eyes and legs which still tremble like a newborn fawn's. He closes the door, the sound of it swinging like a declaration, and sits on the outstretched chair.

"I—You—!" The scent of his which was calming before is now foreboding, you have never been intimidated before by his size but are now. "Why—you—leave!" You sputter, eyes wide as the wood presses against your back. You feel small. "Just, please, leave—"

"—That man had no good intentions." He interrupts, hands in his pockets. "He would have butchered and plundered your home. I did what was right." Beelzebub looks sullen at the same time despite the self-assurance, looking like a kicked puppy.

You swallow. "What you did, Beelzebub, was kill a man."

"The forest does not follow human rules of propriety. Nor do I."

 "But this is my home," you get up on shaky knees. "And you shall follow my rules." 

Something in him flares at that. "I shall leave then, ______." He mumbles, running a hand through his hair. "You said you can't blame beings for acting the way nature decided it to be. I'm a demon. You can't expect me to be benign towards everyone."

Your face contorts in anger. "You never told me about your origins. I had to find out myself. Had I known you were a demon, I would, I would—" 

Words fail you.

He smiles. You smile grimly too, despite everything. "Fair enough." He says.

Exhaustion stays heavy in your body as you run a hand across your face.

The knife in your hand is tossed on the floor. You walk towards Beelzebub, who still has blood staining the cuffs on him. "Had you told me in the beginning, I would have still accepted you." Looking him in the eye, you place a hand on his chest. His heart thumps beneath the skin, too fast for a human's. You don't what you're doing anymore, don't know what you're feeling anymore. "You have killed a man, Beelzebub."

He stares baffled. 

"I should really drive you out," you mumble, wiping a smear of dried blood from his neck. His throat bobs as you do that. "But you still are Beel, despite everything."

You saunter away from him then, and still don't feel like turning your back to him. Eyes follow the back of your head as you walk towards the kitchen. "You must be really hungry."

At that, he gulps. "Offer me satiation, then." He rasps, and watches you nod without thinking. 

You've watched him consume man. "Okay." You're grasping a basket of fruits when his hand comes into view. Takes the basket and deposits it back to its place. Your breath dies halfway in your throat. All you can smell is Beel, beel, beel, and not the soot and ash and spices.

Without ceremony, he turns you around. You're face to face with the demon; eyes shimmering with something foreign. He takes a bunch of grapes from behind you from the basket and looks you in the eye as he pops one into his mouth. "But I don't want food." His fingers grab a grape, and he places it between your lips, urging you to open.

They part with reluctance, the weight of it suddenly heavy as he eats in front of you, trails the same finger across your lips and traces it down to your chest until it rests on your lower stomach, heat from his hand searing into your skin even through your layers. Right on your womb.

"What I want," he whispers, chewing, looking you in the eye as he silently urges you to bite. "Is this."

You bite into the berry, let the juice of it smear across your tongue. Beelzebub gazes at you satisfied, rubs a thumb across your cheekbone.

The forest is silent. Your heart is pounding in your chest.

Beelzebub.

Beelzebub.

Beel.

Beel.

"May I?" He whispers, and then he's bending down, pressing kisses to the column of your throat. Your heart pounds in your ears, his lips so warm against your flesh. "Please?" He whimpers, nuzzling into the scent of your skin. Pleads as if he's offering worship, tone so sweet and so low. When you remain silent, his kisses grow harder, tongue darting out to lap up the sweat on your skin, trailing it and leaving a trail of wetness which follows. Your body shivers at the contact despite the heat.

You gasp at the sensation. "Okay," you say. "You may."

His hands find your hips then; grasping, groping, thumb massaging circles into the area where the bone is felt. "My hunger leaves me single-minded, forgive me, forgive me." A chant, and his hands feel you all over, huge; on your face, vision covered by his fingers so that you can only see glimpses of the way his chest heaves between the gaps. 

Beelzebub picks you up with one hand, deposits you on your bed. The blanket is thrown to the side, and before you know it you are supine on the material. You are trembling, but not from the cold. 

"Always smell so sweet," he pants, trailing his mouth down your navel and pulls apart the garments on your lower half like paper. You yelp as it happens, the fabric tearing and then scattered around you. "Always wanted a taste, mhm, so fucking decadent."

Cold air meets your pussy, and Beelzebub trails a finger down the curls there, lies in between your thighs on his forearms, eye-level with your cunt. Index finger on the hood of your clit, revels in the jolt you produce.

"And so wet too." Blows air on it and makes you huff. Like a man starved, his stomach growls and it sounds more like that of a ravaging beast than anything else. Calls for sustenance, anything, maybe the blood or flesh of man. When he licks a strip from your fluttering hole to your clit, something in him snaps. He smacks his lips, which shine in the lamplight. 

He doesn't give you any warning before his hands are underneath your thighs, grabbing and pulling you closer to his face. You can barely squeak out a protest before he's diving into it, tongue so wet and so hot against your clit, sucking, slurping. You can only croon and grab handfuls of the furs to hold on to.

"Mhm, Beelzebub, slow down—slow down!"

But he is not man but a demon who is indulged in his own feast. A worshipper lost in his devotion, pulling your thighs closer like they are the altar just to please his god. But what is god here, expect his gluttony? He slurps and grunts when you pull at his hair; and he takes it as a signal to suck even harder on your clit, eliciting a moan out of you.

"No use being quiet," he mutters in between your cunt. "No one will disturb us." To cement his words, he takes two of his fingers and inserts them into your clenching hole, and you can only gasp and watch as arousal drips down his forearms and soaks the fabric beneath. Beelzebub inserts his tongue in your cunt along with his fingers, and your thighs lock around his head like a live wire in an attempt to maybe stop or steady yourself. The door still swings, and the lamplight still flickers. The forest remains dead awaiting the passing by of the predator which lives in your home. You had offered it residence too.

He curls his fingers then, feels the wet heat of your pussy taking him in further. "She's begging for more," he says, looking up at you. His chin is wet. "Shouldn't we give her what she wants?" 

Rocks his fingers upwards then, holds your thighs when they tremble. A thumb circling your clit too, for good measure "You-ah, you were the one who wanted—"

"You want it too, don't you?" 

You can't bring yourself to answer that, but Beel finds his response when he finally focuses on removing his fingers and eating you out like a man starved. Slurping, sucking. Uncaring of whether you flail about or protest, he only has to bend your knees and push them upwards to your chest. His nose swipes against your clit, stubble on his chin lightly scratching the delicate skin. "Fucking hell," you mumble, eyes rolling when he presses his tongue in and you clench. "I-ugh-"

He will devour and devour and devour—

The sheets are wet beneath you now. Something in you comes alive when he sucks on your clit, alternating between that and your clenching cunt. Too rough, too fast, too hard. Blood rushes in your ears and your cunt, every nerve alight with sensation as the demon draws figure eights on your cunt. His mouth is cruel in its taking, and oh god—

Take and take and take—

Teeth graze your pussy in warning when you attempt to squirm; and your body locks up in fear. He hums in satisfaction and the sound seems to vibrate as he sucks again. You come apart with a strangled cry, legs trembling as you clench around his tongue. He seems utterly unbothered; sucks meanly again and twists his fingers at the same time. Your legs flail about, mouth opening and gasping for a reprieve he will not give.

His tongue, hot and wet, finally licks up again from your leaking hole to clit, making you jolt. You are left panting as he removes his shirt, the contours of his body in the lamplight prominent that ever.

You scramble up as he unbuckles his pants.

"One isn't enough." He blurts, single-minded focus as the leather falls to the floor. "Won't ever be enough."

He leans towards you, knees on the floor as he looks at you, eyes-half lidded and burning with intensity. His breath is hot on your face, and when your lips meet your mind blanks. Everything turns warm and soft, and when he slots his lips against yours you revel in the feeling. Teeth clank against each other and your breath mingles with his.

You can feel his hunger now; burning hot and bright and angry, years and years of control in not devouring whole. You lick into his mouth, then, and Beel moans. Slots his fingers in your hair and nudges you on the ruined sheets, laps up the drool that is spilling past both your lips. Beelzebub raises his head then to look at you, but you grab him by the hair and pull him towards you, impatient, hungry. Sliding your tongue into his mouth, he's left dumbfounded at the greed you display. But embraces it all the same, lets his tongue collide with yours and explores your mouth too. 

He's removing your upper garments then, in between kissing you. As soon as newfound skin is revealed, his mouth leaves no space blank. Sucks bruises into the skin and nearly bites. Lets the sting in his hair from your pulling make him feel alive again. Your knee accidentally nudge between his thighs, you feel the hardness there. Beel groans at the contact, hips rutting for more of the sensation as your breasts spill open from the garment. Takes one into his hand; feels the softness of it as he sinks his mouth onto another. His tongue is hot, wet and slippery as he wraps his lips around a nipple and sucks.

You pant softly, hand cradling his face as he looks up at you. Beelzebub kisses your hand then, rests his face in your palm as the other hand moves downwards to flick your clit. "Beel!" You gasp, still sensitive. He grins into your skin. 

"Sorry," he says, still smiling.

He removes his lower garments then, lets his manhood free from the confines of cloth. You wrap your fingers around it without thinking and he gasps above you. Soft yet hard at the same time, pulsing with warmth, and oh, dripping too.

You swipe your thumb across the head, smearing the liquid, and the demon hisses. "You like that?" You ask, looking up at his scrunched eyebrows and the pink of his ears. It's so unfair when you're looking at him like that so sweetly as you pump his cock.

"Yess."

He lets you experiment some more, until the ache in his core starts bothering him again, an endless pit begging to be filled. He parts your thighs, sees the glistening arousal on your cunt and rubs the length of him across; both of you moan in unison.

You have to part your legs wider just to accommodate his frame, and he's so hot and heavy against you. 

"Beel, please."

And he knows to never make you ask twice. He prods the tip at your entrance, revels in the sensation as your walls flutter around him. "Fuck." He groans, one hand near your face as he steadies himself. "So damn tight and wet."

Liquid arousal pools in your stomach, the sensation of being stretched out not entirely unpleasant. You can take more and take more, always, of Beelzebub. Yeah. He'd keep you full and fed forever. He adjusts the pillow underneath your head as his hips roll further into you, pelvis pressing against your own. The coarse hairs there rub deliciously against your clit. 

Finally all the way in, you both stay still jus to revel in the sensation. There's a sheen of sweat on his face, and when you beckon him towards you he obliges.

You pull him in at the last second; nearly drawing blood from his lip in eagerness. The action is sloppy, and when his mouth moves over your you feel as if he might just devour you whole. Your pleas to move are swallowed up by him, and you cry out into him when he finally moves.

Pulls back, just to thrust again.

The air is knocked out of your lungs at that, walls fluttering in an attempt to keep him in. You put your hand over your face and try to contain the sounds that he elicits from you. But it is Beel, and the only thing he desires is that you not hide from him. Let him know whether he's doing it right, doing everything right.

The veins on his arms bulge, muscles locking in an attempt to not place his full weight on you. He's not even picked up the pace yet Beelzebub feels his thighs tremble. You wrap your legs around his back, pulling him in, trapping him in, and he stumbles before regaining his balance. "Okay," he laughs softly, grabs your hips to place them a bit higher. "I promise I won't let go."

The sting stretch has turned into something impossibly decadent; pulsing, throbbing, in time with his thrusts. Both your moans are a lewd symphony, owls now hooting outside. The forest is alive again, life has started again.

He watches your tits bounce in time with his thrusts, grabs one and pinches it just to see you squirm. Bends down to suckle on the other; ruts just a bit harder into you. The fabric beneath you both is crumpled now, the blanket forgotten. "Ah," you moan softly, running a hand through his hair. "Glutton."

"When am I not?" He says against your skin, blows air on the nipple. 

Puts his weight on his forearms to truly look at you. The blooming bruises on your neck, the spit-slick lips and the haze in your eyes which mirrors his own. Because nothing else matters right now, nothing else except you and him.

You're pulling him in again; a huff escapes his lips and before he knows it he's grabbing your thighs just to press them to your chest, breasts crushed together as he nearly folds you in half. But never too rough, ensures that the pillow stays underneath your head. The new angle allows him to go deeper, makes his hips rutting into you a tad easier.

And you're panting now, and if Beelzebub flicks your clit in time with his thrusts he can hear the whines you've not been letting him hear. His balls slap against your ass, the sound lewd in the room. He's kissing you again, mouth hungry for your taste. "Don't—hah—please don't tell me to leave. I can't."

He can't he won't he can't he won't—

You grunt when he removes his forearms and lets his full weight fall on you. Grabs your face with both of his hands and ensures you don't hide away. You feel crushed. You feel overwhelmed. You don't want to let go. And the warmth they possess is overwhelming. His cheeks are red from exertion, eyes half-lidded and lips as shiny as your own. Your's and his saliva. The new angle and the weight on you makes everything intense. Makes you forget the sound of the forest and only focus on Beelzebub.

"Won't tell you to leave ever. Don't let go." You groan, watch as his lips turn up at that, fangs peeking out in the lamplight. He kisses you harder, steals the breath from your lungs and laps up the drool that strays down your cheek. Because all this time, with Beel by your side, everything is better. 

Your legs tremble in warning, and when he ruts his hips deeper that is all it takes.

You cum with a strangled cry, the sound swallowed up by him as your nails dig into the skin of his back. Scratching, grabbing, grounding. Your cunt flutters, white-hot pleasure overtaking you as Beelzebub doesn't stop. Another wave of wetness soaks his length and the sheets pillow, and it's downright filthy.

"Hear that?" he croons, trailing a finger down your cunt where you two are joined. Puts the same finger in his mouth, watches you stare at him wide-eyed. "Tastes so good too."

And always the one to share with his loved ones, he parts your lips with that same finger, lets it hit the back of your throat. Smiles when you gag around the intrusion, only moves his hips harder. You want to cry out, too much, too much, and yet you do not want it to end.

That's the way it is with Beelzebub.

Your pussy squelches with every thrust, and tomorrow you'll have bruises on your hips. And tomorrow he will frown looking over them and rub salve into the mottled skin with his thumb. But tonight he will partake in your defilement, carry it out with his own two hands. Tonight he will indulge his sin in the one thing he does not want to let go.

You can feel him groaning in your mouth, which turn into moans. His cock feels simply divine inside you, and you can tell he is close given the way his hips have started going deeper.

He grits his teeth as he moves to pull out in time; you wrap your arms around his head to stop him. "No," you say. "Want it inside."

If you ask he would never deny you of anything. 

Beelzebub grunts, utterly ruined as he spills inside your velvet heat. You can feel him filling you up as his thrusts slow down, hips stuttering in their pace as his body locks up.

He collapses, after, full weight on you and cock still buried in your cunt. You both attempt to catch your breath as he presses sloppy kisses on your shoulder. The room has gone silent, the world reduced to a pleasant blur. Maybe time has stopped for you both.

Morningstar.

The second-born's knees hit the floor as you haul his upper body up. Do you know how easy it would be for Mammon to turn the tables on you? Pull you by your knees on the ground and grab both of your wrists by one hand alone. Manhandle you into whatever position he desires.

Morningstar.

Joints popping as the carpet scuffles beneath both your feet. You're inferior when compared to demons. Fragile in mind and body, with joints and hinges that creak and might dislocate if pulled apart too much. Do you know how easy it would be for Mammon to drag you to a secluded corner and tear into your flesh?

Morningstar.

The door finally closes, footsteps receding. And yet Mammon lets you. Because of the pact. Your trump card. He can give into his baser instincts and doesn't chose to, because he has made a pact with you. Fondness has been cultivated in his mind.

And then Lucifer breathes.

Looks over the budget for the economic policy for this century, thumb smoothening over the words. His spectacles slide down his nose; he doesn't bother fixing them. Gold prices have been dropping drastically this time, and oh, a proposal to increase the tax on handcrafted items? How utterly ridiculous. He wants to laugh at the foolishness of it all, but doesn't bother reading the rest of the document. 

He merely picks it up and throws it to the fireplace.

Doesn't have the patience to deal with it tonight, with the fools who wrote this veritable document filled with ignorance and the depraved politics of the House of Lords. 

And he wants to laugh at himself too. First-born, Avatar and Seraphim, reduced to a jumbled mess just because of a human.

His hands find the pen again to write a memorandum. All the while his thoughts dance in his mind and travel downwards towards his groin. You should come to his room to give him some tea, he thinks, and writes down the first point. Then with your soothing words and touch tilt his chin up and rub your thumb under his eye, while the other hand loosens his tie.

Lucifer swallows; writes the second point. Trail your hand downwards with a featherlight touch that makes his body flutter, hand delving in between his thighs just to paw at—

And he's written that in the memorandum. 

He stares at the words, eyes narrowing into slits. His lower lip catches between his canines, threatening to break skin. Perhaps the denizens tomorrow would be reading about how much the Avatar of Pride wants to get into a human's skin, and the exchange student, nonetheless. 

And yet he can't the image of you on your knees out of his mind. Under his desk, your eyes gazing up at him as he hooks a finger in your cheek and feels the soft flesh, presses down on the tender flesh and licks up the drool that spills down your chin.

He's already being accused of favouritism. 

The document is discarded by fire, a new one written. This time, without the mention of his hands staining the lamb's body.

You are utterly ignorant, he has decided. Or foolish. Maybe both.

With the way you're intruding in his space, your perfume settling in his senses. It was his idea, let me tutor you, MC, your grades have been slipping since this semester. Now he's wondering when a simple tutoring session turned into him gripping the wood underneath his desk, nails splintering the blood oak. You are too close for comfort.

"I've been getting this problem wrong every time," you say, leaning forward to point at a barely discernible patch of numbers. "Five tries and I still haven't gotten it right." You pout, pressing your arms together, and the movement causes your breasts to push together. His gaze falls on it by mistake.

And he looks away almost instantly, ruby eyes hardening into something incomprehensible. "That's because you keep multiplying that number by the square when it should be the root." He points with his feathered pen towards the error. "The formula is correct, but you are too hasty in getting it over with." He looks at you through his spectacles, clicks his tongue. "Patience."

You stare dumbly at your own handwriting. "Oh."

Oh, indeed.

"Thank you Lucifer!" You tell him, gathering your notebook. "I won't make that mistake again, promise!"

You say something more, lips parting to speak words his mind refuses to perceive. He only nods and picks up his pen again to write something, until you finally leave. 

And then shame overtakes him.

Pathetic, he tells himself, pawing at his rapidly hardening cock through his slacks. You're losing it over some cleavage like a horny demon. He pushes down the zipper and feels the damp patch his arousal has made. Curses under his breath as he fists the base of his cock too tightly, wonders how your hands would feel doing that. Rubs the head with his thumb and swipes the precum, groans at the image of smearing it on your lips. Lips, which speak out of line and too much (too much!) and are too bold for their own good. 

His thighs tremble with the force he's subjecting his cock to. Rougher than he usually is, perhaps punishing himself. Reduced to his base desires, juvenile in its very nature.

Do you do that to his brothers too? The one you've made pacts with? Look them in the eyes as you stroke their cocks, temptress that you are, in human form. He can imagine your gaze on him as you would have stroked his length, looked at him with those damned eyes as you took him in your mouth, tongue swirling around the head (he groans at the thought). Be the good little human you are desired to be in this programme and go along with the demands of others. His hand is wet now, lewd sounds in the air as he indulges in the thought.

Maybe Lust is rubbing off on him. Maybe he's been spending too much time indulging in the fifth born's sin.

Maybe he's simply being demonic. 

He has to bite into the skin of his palm when he cums, (too fast not enough) teeth digging into the webbed skin between his thumb and finger so hard it leaves imprints. There's hot wetness all over his hand and garments now, some even on his shirt. His dick is softening.

Lucifer pushes back at his hair which is falling in his eyes and sighs.

Opens the drawer on the right and pulls out a box of tissues kept handy, and wipes. Shame occupies his mind after. 

He fixes his appearance again, to be prim and proper no matter the hour. Fixes his hair which is ruffled, ivory-toothed brush curling the wild ends, and puts on fresh clothes. 

Goes for an inspection at midnight as the self-assigned sentry.

The windows are open again, bless his brothers's absent-mindeness! Then they'll start complaining about all the bugs and pests that make their way into the house, sometimes cats which will tear up the curtains and birds that will eventually find their destination of glass windows. Lucifer curses each brother out as he closes the windows one by one. Thinks about biting into something sweet with juice that drips down his chin and makes its way into the depression of his clavicle. 

His mouth salivates, and he swallows it down. The trip around the House takes him exactly twenty-two minutes. In those twenty-two minutes, he checks on each of his siblings. Removes Satan's book from his hands and replaces it with a quilt instead. Dims the lights in Mammon's room and puts a pillow under Leviathan's neck. Places a glass of water for Asmodeus and dusts the crumbs from Beelzebub's bed; opens a fan for Belpheghor.

And for his nightly routine, you might ask?

Your room, of course!

His secretive indulgence, something he can never get rid of. His footsteps have increased their pace, heart thudding in his chest no matter how many times he does it, over and over. Lucifer ensures no one follows him, his brethren having been tucked into their beds very snug, all the windows closed to hide his evil deeds.

But is it truly evil if you're in the realm of demons?

He opens the door to your room quietly, ensures that the hinges do not squeak. The brothers kept wondering about this extra chore of oiling every hinge of every damned door in this House, not knowing the benefactor is him and you.

And you're fast asleep—moonlight through the curtains on your face, with your hair spread around you, some of it obscuring your closed eyes, which Lucifer gently arranges with his hand (no gloves) and admires your creation.

Pulls away the blanket off your form, drags one hand up your naked arm. Your skin is so soft too. Truly, more angelic than human. The oversized t-shirt you sleep in slides down one shoulder to reveal the line of your collarbone, skin so smooth. 

Entranced, he can only trail one finger along it; you remain unmoving. 

Saliva pools in his mouth, Lucifer has to swallow it just so he can gather himself. Reduced to a man just at the sight of a human.

His mischievous hand now traces up your calf, to the front of your thighs, muscles under skin. Below it is softness, and when he spreads your legs apart his fingers sink into it. Sin, he's committing sin. He feels like a new demon all over again, fresh from metamorphosis and new horns, new with purpose and want. 

His fingers are now dangerously close to the crease of your inner thigh, the seam of your underwear now in contact.

He should stop.

Really stop.

Because you are the exchange student, you are MC. And he's a demon. Lucifer scoffs, taking a step back to pet your hair. And demons defile what they touch. That is their very nature. To turn something pure into something tainted. 

He can exercise restraint, yeah.

So, with the conscience born from his own, not demon or angel, he stops.

And then you grumble, and his heart stutters in his chest. You've been caught, Lucifer. Got groping and being a creep. Is this who the Avatar of Pride really is? But you don't open your eyes, only turn around in the bed and fall still again. That damned t-shirt falls to reveal newfound skin, and with it, one of his brother's pact mark.

Damn you.

He has to grit his teeth and contain the growl that wants to escape his chest, admonish the jealously that stains his vision red. Dammit, he curses under his breath, and derisively lays a hand on you again. 

It cups the swell of your ass, groping there through your pajamas, admiring how the fat is so squishy under his fingers. He reminisces how often he'd have to look away when you wore something form-fitting, or bent in front of him unknowing of the unholy thoughts in his brain. Too oblivious, too naive. He should take you right in front of everyone else, let all those impenitent demons know that the human is his. MC is mine, he'd pridefully declare it while fucking you in front of everyone.

His cock swells at the thought, blood rushing down and making his trousers feel uncomfortable. 

Not right now. No. Something in him admonishes his thoughts, makes his hand pull back sharply before he touches you where your scent is the strongest.

And then Lucifer decides on the final act of defilement (for tonight).

He walks over to where your hand is palm-down on the bed. So small when compared to his, and so warm too. And the Devildom is so awfully cold sometimes. His thumb caresses it, then he picks it up to press your limp fingers to his lips.

He hums then, with thudding heartbeats traces your hand down to the bulge in his lower half, all for you, all because of you. When your fingers unconsciously graze his length the demon jerks, guiding your hand to pet his cock through the fabric. Precum already stains the blackness of his pants, and he purposefully rubs your fingers there, ensuring to swipe your thumb over the head.

Lucifer inhales sharply, nostrils flaring, and he's not satisfied yet. Never might be as well.

But again, restraint.

So he puts down your hand, stained now, again next to your face as it was previously. His chest heaves as he watches over you, wonders whether you've been awake this whole time. But you seem to sleep like the dead, and he's willing to take a chance.

Your scent is on him now. Good. He hopes it'll stay even after you shower.

Then, he adjusts his bearings. Smoothens his shirt and runs a hand through his hair, closes the open window and casts a protective spell, affirming the boundaries of the house. 

Leaves, like a good dog.

You fight the urge to curl your lips at him.

“You never told me to stop, did you?” Your hand palms his chest, makes the medals clink together. “Even held me down.”

“To keep you quiet.”

Levi’s eyes widen after he says it. “Ooh—you would like that, won’t you, MC? Can’t believe you would—”

His head shakes in disbelief as he grins, fangs peeking in the low light. A chuckle.

“Of course you would. Acting like a slut, where anyone could see you. On your knees while I'm in a meeting. Anyone could have bent down and seen you.” His hand palms your breast, pinches a nipple in envy of others seeing you like that. You cheer in victory inside, even as your mind blanks. “You’re just as deranged as me, huh?”

“Yes….” You hiss as his tail finds your cunt, covered by your cotton underwear. You’re wet already. “Just like you, Leviathan.”

Your thighs tremble when the tip of his tail finds your clit. You jerk at the sensation, and the demon watches in fascination as his tail works on you.

This is what you wanted, huh? So do I, so do I.

“Go on, where’s that brave little thing I saw earlier?” His voice is mocking, tone light and cheery. Your breasts pop out as he pulls down your top. Nipples pebbling as the air hits them.

A whine threatens to spill past your lips as his movements grow faster, friction so delicious it brings you to the edge too fast that your thighs tremble. You close your eyes in pleasure.

And it withdraws.

“What—I was—” You cry out, watch as Leviathan loosens his tie a bit. Grins at your frustration.

His tail then pulls you forward, wraps around your chest and squeezes your tits together as it pulls you in between his knees. The aiguillette shifts as he puts one hand on the armrest.

“You want it so bad, huh?” The demon clicks his tongue, watches as your eyes stare into his before nuzzling into his crotch. So desperate already. His hand cups your head, guides you to where he wants contact. Feels the fabric there dampen and stick as you lick him through his uniform.

"Do it, then."