#hell-drabbles

“So they just… pop out? Completely recovered?”

“They do.”

“That…” you scratched the back of your neck, “that sucks.” No point in trying to put it delicately. That straight up sucks.

“I wanted this, so there’s no need for pity.”

“…of course you do.” You pinched the bridge of your nose because what were you expecting? Every angel you’ve ever seen, in and off the battlefield, have this weird… preference, almost, for self-punishment. Penance, as you’ve heard it called. Built into the very foundation of their worship. Hurting themselves because that’s what it means to be faithful, apparently.

Punish yourself enough and you’ll finally be on the right path. You’ll finally be rewarded. And you’ll finally be forgiven.

But you’re not thousands of years old. Nor are you nigh-impossible to kill. And you’ve been around Lucifer long enough to know that all of this comes with the package of befriending him. They’re not your wings, nor do you really know of the full scope of his baggage, so you can’t exactly ask him to stop.

Besides, it’s not really pity. You’re just baffled, at the extent of which angels, and all that grew up with them, are willing to hurt themselves. Is it just built into their being or was it encouraged?

Or… does it just not matter to them?

“Well, you’re gonna rip them out, right?” Because you’ve only ever seen your friend with those stumps bleeding. You kinda just assumed that they were eternally like that, and not that they regrow back spontaneously.

Lucifer made a noise that you knew to be confirmation.

His wings twitched and it made you aware of just how large those feathers of his are, wide and voluminous things that they were. Lucifer was barely waking up and it showed in the minute lag of his responses. In the lazy shuffling and light stretching of his limbs and wings.

It felt weird, witnessing just how at ease Lucifer is with moving his wings when he’s inevitably going to rip them out again. And again, until he finally decides to stop. Also doesn’t help that you’re just used to those bleeding stumps of his. As bad as that is, you have debated asking him if you can just… rip out that one curving bone that just sticks out of him. But you didn’t say anything, cause that’s not your bone.

You got up from your chair, place directly across from Lucifer in this protected greenhouse. “Alrighty, don’t let me stop you.” You’ll probably get Gamigin to get some towels or something. Or run a bath cause it’s going to get bloody. Unless Lucifer’s also the kind to let it all dry into a crusty mess like you’ve seen a lot of other devils do after a battle. Though in his case it would probably be out of a sheer lack of energy. Probably.

“You’re not curious?”

“Hmm? About what?” You were halfway into your jacket.

Lucifer was sitting up straighter, right on the edge of his seat, like he was going to get up to trail after you. He opened his wings wide, feathers barely missing the ground, nearly overtaking his side of this little greenhouse. “My wings.”

“Well, sure. What about it?” Is he…?

“You can feel them.” Not a single twitch to be found, in his voice or face. Said it with the same air he has when giving you his half of his overabundant breakfast. Well, more like pushed it towards you, but still. It applies.

Because his feathers were brushing against your forearms, exposed to the air after you rolled your sleeves up. Back and forth, back and forth, oh so gently. Almost as if he’s testing the waters.

“I… don’t think I’ll mind.” Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, aimed at your arms, your hands, and then you finally got it.

“Alrighty then. Why not? It’s not like I got anywhere to be.” You’re going to go along with it, naturally. Your friend’s trying to poke a hole in this bubble of his. Figure out where his comfort begins and ends, see if anything’s changed at all. And he’s trusting you enough to do that little experiment, even if he’s going about it in a roundabout way.

“Do as you please.” Settling his left wing on your arm, Lucifer tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Seemingly nonchalant, but you know that he’s keeping his senses open.

First thing you did was strum down his primary feathers, like you were walking through a street of wind chimes just waiting to be played with. They bent back, the vane parting in thin strips but blended back into place just as quickly with a subtle shiver. It was minute, but you caught the momentary pause in Lucifer’s breath. The slight lifting of his chest but nothing screamed danger.

And so you walked in a bit, let your fingers play around with the layer above his lowest feathers. Here, the warm of his body, of the shoulders of his wings was clear. Lucifer wasn’t a devil that ran hot. Body temperature was always a little on the cool side, probably on the account of all the blood he’s losing on a daily basis. Even with all the time he spends basking in the sun’s rays, he barely hotter than a tepid glass of water. You parted the layers, let your fingers tap on the quills just because you could, and hummed when Lucifer stretched his wing out some more. Not quite ramrod straight but getting there.

Your friend was still sitting perfectly still, face to the skies and soaking in the sunlight, like his wings were simply acting on their own.

Step by step, you walked down, palm feeling over the muscles twitching beneath all the soft plumage, barely putting any weight into it. You keep a careful eye on Lucifer’s neck, shoulders and hands. Waiting for any kind of change, for any tension that’s liable to snap and make Lucifer want to crawl inwards into his skin.

The tightness was there, but only in ripples. Slight jumps, but the closer you get, the more spaced out they were. Lucifer hasn’t fully relaxed, not with that ghost of a frown, but he’s not about to jump out of his seat to get away.

Finally, you were in front of him. Between his legs and completely covering his sun. Lucifer opened his eyes just as you laid your hands on his most intimate feathers. You tugged his after-feathers, just a light one, and you saw a hint of his teeth bite into his bottom lip.

You pulled back with a smile. “Reached your limit, huh?”

Lucifer took a deep breath in, and breathed out on your shirt. He hummed with a nod.

“Okay then.” You shrugged your shoulder and made to back off, but you spotted Lucifer lifting his hands. He placed them above your wrists, then caressed upwards, smoothing his palms over your skin. His fingers slid inside your rolled up sleeves and he gripped the back of your arms. “Hmm.”

Lucifer lingered on your face, the tight corners his lips finally relaxing. He pulled you in and embraced you with both his arms and wings.

“I’m not gonna be moving for a while, am I?”

“Hmm.”

Satan:

You know, Satan thought that, the more alcohol you get into your system, the more…hungry you will get for violence. He likes it when you're tipsy, because when you're tipsy, you're bitey. You don't hesitate to sink your teeth deep into his muscles until even his very veins crunch under your incisors. Blood becomes a flavor enhancer to you. When you're like that, you seem no different than any of his citizens. Made Satan feel proud, in a weird way, that he can draw this side out of you.

Right now, however, he was just feeling bothered. And horny. Because you weren't biting down on his neck as he sat on your lap. You were nibbling, always stopping short of piercing his skin, leaving indents instead of wounds. He slid on your lap, hoping that you would take bites in other places now that you were plastered, but instead you were testing his limits. His nails clawed into the wood of the bar behind you, his teeth creaking under the force of his jaw, and legs trembling to keep from closing around your hips and potentially breaking them.

At least you probably won't remember this. Satan really hopes you won't remember the way he could not get off your lap.

Mammon:

You tugged at his robes and tested the material between your fingers, not really registering the fact that you were pinching his skin along side. Well, you did notice at first, but you have long since succumbed to the drunken haze and are just entirely focused on the way his clothes feel in your hands. Mammon didn't mind indulging in your curiosity. It is, after all, a very new side to you that he hasn't seen before. One that you probably kept very closely tied up inside. And now it was released, so no matter what you do, Mammon will not stop you.

You grabbed the edges of his robes and pulled. His sash became undone, and for whatever reason, Mammon has never felt more exposed. It felt…almost shameful that this excited him, because your gaze was empty of any heated wanting. You were powered by alcohol and curiosity.

"Where's the tag on this thing" Your breath, made heavier with the alcohol, wafted over his head. Maybe if Mammon held still long enough, you'll try and search for that tag in his pants next?

Leviathan:

Nothing. You were drunk out of your mind, and you were doing nothing. Well, Leviathan couldn't hope for a better result. At least like this, in this celebration that he's arranged, you won't ruin the atmosphere he so wanted. You're behaving, but just barely. If you so much as sighed too loudly, Leviathan will have you hanged outside the party doors. Make an example of you.

But how dare you. How dare you let your clothes fall open by a few centimeters. How dare you lick your lips as you caught every single drop of alcohol that slid past. How dare you swallow and make your throat bob, and let out a sigh that was just quiet enough to not break the rule he just made.

You've always been like this. Always intense in the way you presented yourself and yet never careless enough to truly let anyone catch you off guard. Leviathan could very well discipline you. It's well within his right, but that would require him approaching you, and perfect does not seek, it is sought after. And so, all he can do is watch as your fingers idly played with your glass cup.

Beelzebub:

While it was a shame Beelzebub wasn't allowed to make any special mixes for the bar, he will admit, it's fun to catch your shot glass when you slid it his way, fill it up with your choice of beverage, and slide it right back. There weren't any words, you didn't make a big deal out of his being here. It made him feel like a fleeting shadow, of sorts. He was here, at a party that he was probably invited to but forgot, blending in as if he both belonged and yet didn't.

Beelzebub idly chewed on a straw as the music continued to thrum through his body. He wasn't really listening, more focused on the way your tongue moved the ice around for hidden drops of your drink. It took a few seconds for him to realize your glass was back in his hand. Out of boredom, Beelzebub put his straw in the ice and blew hot air in. When there was enough water, Beelzebub noisily slurped it up.

You somehow heard and looked back to him, eyes lightly glazed over. If he concentrated hard enough, he could pretend you were looking at him with heated interested rather than exasperation. He couldn't help but chuckle and wave his straw at you with his lips.

Lucifer:

You haven't stopped touching Lucifer's face. A finger over the bridge of his nose, a caress on his cheek, turning him this way and that just to watch the way his curls bounced against his skin, smoothing hands under his jaw before reaching back and pinching his ears. It didn't annoy him, but it was certainly more than he ever expected. Though, to be fair, he also wasn't expecting you to get drunk. Tipsy yes, but drunk was another matter entirely. Lucifer will remember to prepare something for you when you wake up with the inevitable hangover.

But, for now, Lucifer leaned into your hands as you silently memorized his skin. He didn't mind. He wasn't planning on doing much of anything besides watching his little…family go about their celebration with zest. He did mind a little when he heard the heavy breathing of them behind him, but since you didn't say anything, he won't say anything as well.

Before Lucifer could take a small nip at your fingers, you had found your way into his hair. Tingles scaled down his scalp and over his spine, resting right at the base of his hips. He closed his eyes, if only to savor the feeling further. He ready to fall asleep when you guided his head to your shoulder. Bury your fingers into his hair, or into his bleeding wings, it bring warmth to him all the same.

Asmodeus:

Being who he is, a celebration is never complete without an orgy of some variety, and that doesn't change even while you're present. But, after going through a few glasses, you said you wanted some peace and quiet to enjoy the rest of your drinks, and so he promised you that you will get exactly what you want, in only ten minutes.

And so, instead of bringing his current row of lovers to the edge of ecstasy and then drawing back to have them wanting for more, he spoiled them. He gave them exactly what they wanted, drove them past the peak again, and again, and again, without any shred of mercy. All the while silencing them with his tongue.

And, as he promised, everything was silent save for the music once the ten minutes have passed. Asmodeus was nowhere near satisfied when he sat next to you, but the drink you offered him got his heart near to full bursting. He nearly split the table in two when you glided behind him, gathered his hair, and began to tie it back up. Simple gestures, that's all they were, and it had him wanting to bit into his own knuckles from how squishy his insides felt.

Belphegor:

Only half of Belphegor's torso was actually on the plush chair, the rest of his body was splayed on the floor because he couldn't be bothered to hold any posture.

Perhaps out of boredom, perhaps a small bit of cruelty within you, he wouldn't know, you reach out a leg and kicked his chair right from under his back. It slid out and Belphegor's entire body crumpled to the floor like a lifeless ragdoll. You snorted and slammed your drink down on the table, pounding on your chest as you coughed. A part of him wanted to glare, he was comfy where he was but…

He will admit, this was doing something for him. Putting aside the fact that the floor was kinda comfy in it's own way, it does give him a fun little fantasy to play around with, and probably jack off to later. He's on the floor, clothes spread open and barely hiding his bits while you sit in your chair, pointing and laughing at the mess you've made of him. You lightly pushed at him with a foot, probably asking him to get up, but his dick was convinced that you were rubbing delicious salt in the throbbing wound.

Satan:

It’s as if his brain stuttered to a stop. You walk through the halls of his palace, stretching out your neck as if you woke up from a particular nap, donned in the clothing of Paradise Lost. Clothing that was…less than what you usually wear. Your back was open, limbs free and exposed to the elements. Sometimes you don’t even wear shoes. Satan’s lungs itched to poke fun at it and stare at you until you decided to throw dirt or whatever into his eyes, but he can’t.

The cogs in his brain stopped working, distracted by your skin, but was kicked back to working order at the feathers. At the the multiple, misaligned wings that continue to sprout feathers, at your hands that had become claws.

Satan did suspect something. A little seed that he didn’t want to look at, a skip of the heart that he buried under because, at the time, it really didn’t mean anything to him. But here, he can hear a roaring. Can feel a pull within his bones to just dip his fingers into the folds of your clothing just to feel a second of your warmth.

Mammon:

The feather in his hand was far from perfect. It curled, as if warped by heat, plumes weaved together into a clumped mess and had little value to be drawn from it. It fell from your ribs after all. You didn’t care for it. All of these falling feathers have become little more than white noise for you.

You had no wings. You’ve ripped them out, refusing yourself the skies above. Hey, did you know he once dreamed of that? Of you laying on gold clouds, drifting off into a nap that no one will disturb you from? He crafted a private little statue, just out of boredom. Boredom, and nothing more, surely.

Out in the distance, you shoved Ra-on’s head into his cake. He popped up, blinked at the frosting and feathers that stuck to his forehead before you both started laughing from the bottom of your lungs. The plumage that sometimes covered your back, and sometimes didn’t, shivered as you pounded on the table. More open now, for those wretched limbs, but alive and happy.

Before he decided to make his presence known, Mammon tucked your feather inside the folds of his robes.

Leviathan:

Why must you choose this day to shine against the light? To hum a meaningless tune in a chair against the window as you soaked in the heat of the coming day?

And yet, he could not disturb you. Could not reclaim this envious moment in time, because so many days were already robbed from you. Cruelty may be his tool towards chiseled perfection, but it’s not to be used as a weapon.

You were…comfortable again, that much Leviathan could see. Well, as much as you could be, with all that angel residue that refuses to leave your body. As though the angels, as though Heaven itself didn’t want to give up ripping you of all of your humanity. Feathers over your arms, ending in claws and ripped out wings in places they don’t belong. But, even with all that, you looked…better. At peace. It was…not an unagreeable sight.

…he shoves that thought aside with a click of his tongue as he mentally noted to add more chairs around the palace.

Beelzebub:

He will admit, he kinda didn’t want to see you, so he did what he always did when something complicated popped up in his brain: wander around, focus on other things and eventually forget about it. Leave it all for future him. Or his underlings. And it worked. Worked so well actually that he forgot why he was wandering around in the first place.

He spotted you from the distance, because of course he did. Of course his attention would latch onto you, your more exposed clothing and the feathers that continue to cover and grow on your skin so.

When your head twitched in Beelzebub’s direction, he made sure to be out of sight. Better to leave that, all of those warm and squishy feelings to a future version of himself. Or, perhaps, another version of himself altogether, but that would be cruel, wouldn’t it? Ah, it’s all so complicated.

Lucifer:

“Hey, buddy, can you help me out?” You still can’t raise your arms all that high. Or stretch that far. Lucifer knows your limitations rather well, being one of your many personal doctors. He also knew you, that you’d rather grit your teeth through discomfort than ask for too much help. But you called him “buddy.” You wanted him around, even at your most bare.

Lucifer helped your limbs through your sleeves. He tugged at the collar, smoothed out a wrinkle and gently urged your wing stubs out of the folds of your clothing. This was his morning ritual, an almost sacred routine that urges him to murmur a prayer before and after he enters your room. But he won’t, because you’re not God. You’re not holy, and you’re certainly no mythical being birthed from a myth.

You are yourself. A life that will inevitably be swept by the tides of time, and was nearly snuffed out. Human, oh so human, with a will that defends itself so. A beautiful existence, no matter the form you may come in.

Asmodeus:

He will admit, Asmodeus indulged in a bit of vicious mockery when he saw the various brains of random devils practically flat-line. While he certainly won’t take himself out of the equation–his own heart stuttered like a fresh maiden would, oh my–he has spent far too long stewing in silent worry that the sheer relief of seeing you up and about again nearly had him become a sack of flesh upon his chair. He wasn’t even paying attention to your clothing until he noticed the way you angled yourself. The way you avoided relaxing your back against the chair next to him.

Open back, exposing feathers blooming forth from ripped out stumps, continuing down and out long after your wings ended and where your flesh began. Like it was still trying to reclaim what made you, you. Trying to wrap you up in this veil of supposed purity that never belonged to anything human.

“Hoo, are you sure you’re comfortable? Surely a few more articles of clothing can be discarded. It’s okay, I won’t mind.” Asmodeus clicked his nails on the table, wanting to run them over your arms, but stopped short upon seeing you reach over to your papers, clawed hands nearly slicing through them all. You merely glanced at him from the side, a tired puff of breath escaping you. A laugh, however tired it was. A laugh,when you have been spending days just trying to learn to breath again.

Oh how envious he is of Lucifer and Ra-on, with how preciously you treasure them.

Belphegor:

You know what he thought when he first saw you walking on your own, passing by a window he found himself sleeping at? That it would be nice to sleep on you. On your arm, or your shoulder, or anywhere really. Could even lend him your hands and Belphegor’s pretty sure he’d fall asleep.

Eventually, Belphegor woke up on one of his many beds. In the blurry moments between the dreams and the waking, he felt there was something missing. A warmth, a body. A feathery one. And that shocked him awake, even started to wheeze a little because come on. That was pathetic, even for him.

He’ll probably keep it to himself. It’s a bit too much effort to say it anyone. Not like he’ll have the energy to bother cleaning up that mess, so better to let the thought sink down under the oblivion of sleep.

Beleth:

As far as he knows, Beleth isn’t acting any different towards you. Sure, he’s not the best actor, not the best at…trying to say his words in a good way. And he also knows that it isn’t a secret that Beleth is a little sweet on you, but he’s a little sweet on everyone. Devils and humans, they’re all cute, really.

He will admit, he didn’t realize how bad it really was until he saw you in that free outfit of yours. Sure, sure it was something needed. Beleth can’t imagine you wearing your old clothing with all of those feathers and broken wing stumps without something nasty festering under the surface, but still. Made his heart beat in his throat like he was seeing a naked body for the first time.

“Hey,” Beleth said, bumping his hip against your body like he didn’t nearly trip over his own feet. “How’s the mornin’ treatin’ ya?” You clapped his shoulder in greeting, your claws nearly piercing his skin, but still, you smiled.

Lucifer never made a lot of himself known. He appears, he exists and lets his close devils do what they want around him, but he never feels…present, if that made any sense. Ra-on would argue that he's too present, that his power was so overwhelming that it blanketed over everyone else, but that wasn't what you're talking about. Not your focus at all.

Physically he was there, but Lucifer himself was always elsewhere. He walks but it always felt like he'll never stop. Like there's something he wants, but good luck to anyone trying to get that out of his lips. Hell, getting him to admit he's hungry is a challenge in and of itself, let alone when he's sleepy.

So, you couldn't help but stop your reading when you saw…something in his eyes. Not a sparkle, not a flame or anything like that. He looked no different than usual actually. Same apathetic stare, same slumping of the shoulders as he sat on a chair clearly made for devil smaller than himself. But he was staring nonetheless. At a corner being bathed in orange sunlight.

"You seeing something?" You asked, words pulled right out of a social script rather than any serious thought put behind it. You were just paying attention to his eyes, waiting for something about them to change. To see if this was a minefield or not. You didn't mind if he gave an answer or not.

"Michael," he said, without any hesitation. Not so much as a blink as he continued to stare.

But, there was nothing there. No flapping of wings, or the pattering of endless tears splattering on the ground. Couldn't hear the angels sing their praises at the presence of a single seraph, nor could you hear the hollering of devils going to war. It was all silent. Just you and Lucifer, in a guesthouse rather than a guestroom near the greenhouse you've taken your morning walks in, bathing in the light of the sunset.

Michael wasn't here, but devils can't lie.

"In the corner?" You pointed. "How does he look?"

Maybe he looks like a dust mite? Perhaps that seraph is flea-sized to Lucifer's eyes? Or perhaps he's just kneeling in the corner, praying or hitting himself with a whip? It has to be something. Lucifer can ignore a lot of things, but apparently not this.

Lucifer, however, didn't say anything. Just continued to watch that corner, letting silence fold awkwardly into the conversation. Probably too loaded of an answer for him to give, so you just shrugged and went back to your book detailing past devil kings.

"Small, barely above my knee." Lucifer took a deep breath in and gave a full body sigh like old dogs do. "He gave himself a haircut. Lopsided on his left. I can see his ear."

"Really?" Huh, ain't that funny? You suppose even little tiny angels can't resist the urge to give themselves a haircut when one has hair, scissors and an impulsive dream. "Was he crying about it?"

"No." Warmth rumbled through his tone. A smile soon followed. He even reached out his hand, as if wanting to brush against that phantom that lingers in the corner. "He's proud. He wanted to show me."

You snorted. "With sparkling little eyes, huh?"

"The brightest." The barest huff of a laugh escaped your friend's body. He closed his eyes and turned away, smile still painted on his face. Then, he began to hum a joyful, wordless melody. An old, old song, surely. One he probably hasn't hummed in a while.

You noticed that Lucifer has been sighing lately. A bone-deep sigh that starts as soon as he wakes up. Reminded you of those old dogs that would settle their heavy heads against their paws. Lucifer looked just as sad. Well, as sad as he could look, considering how good he is at keeping his face blank.

And so, that morning, while Lucifer laid on his chest in your bed, feeling heavier than he has ever felt, you decided to massage him. Just a simple pressing of your fingers and palms against his back. Perhaps your hands can't do anything against his muscles, you know little about how a devil's body works, but you can tell Lucifer's enjoys it.

Lucifer, after ten minutes of you pressing around his spine, gave another sigh. One that anyone releases when they finally found a comfortable position to sleep in.

"Feels nice, huh?" you said, knowing that you're right.

Lucifer made a noise, a little too lost in your touch to reply verbally.

"Alrighty, let me get your lower back." You settled on his thighs and snorted when you felt his whole body twitch. He tensed up all over again when you began to dig into his waist. "Okay, settle down. It's just my hands."

His torn wings fluttered, flecks of blood splattering on his shirt. You began to press against his skin, making sure not to dig in too deeply. Keeping a calm and even pace just so you don't tire yourself out too quickly. Devil's have near infinite stamina, you can only imagine it takes just as long to get centuries of building stress out.

As the minutes went by and the sun continued it's brilliance in your room, Lucifer slowly began to change his position. His hips slowly got higher and higher. Curving his waist, lifting it in hopes that your hands would fall lower.

You didn't need to see his face to know what he wants.

And, you being you, didn't want to give it to him. So instead, you adjusted yourself and clapped your hips against his. Lucifer's body jutted forward, back tensing up as he continued to face away from you. Again, you didn't need to see his face. You can tell he's biting his lip just by the tension in his jaw.

You wanted to laugh when Lucifer swiveled his ass back. Carefully, as if experimenting if he's allowed to do that or not. You responded in kind, wordlessly giving him permission to grind against you. He never fails to be cute in your eyes, and cute things deserve to be spoiled, right?

Lucifer's breathing got deeper, shivering as his skin became glittery with sweat. One hand gripped the pillow below his head, and the other settled on the wooden headboard. As if the simple action of grinding his ass against your hips was too much for him. You were both fully clothed, and yet he seemed a few minutes away from losing it entirely.

He really is adorable.

"Haha, so how about this?" You pulled Lucifer's arm, forcing his back into a lovely arc, ass further squishing against your grinds. It's always nice to see just how well he filled out his pants. Nice and full, a plump thing that juggles.

Lucifer's grip tightened on the wood, but the most that came out was a series of little hums. Too lost to say anything, fully into the pace you've set. Loving it, even.

You let go, letting Lucifer flop onto the sheets before you bent over him to grab a pillow.

"Alright alright, let me help you out." You shook your head before guiding his legs open, "this should feel nice. You trust me, right?"

You stuffed the pillow between his legs, take a second to listen to whimpers that rumbled and died in his throat, before setting a brutal pace. Making sure that every thrust and grind hit just right for him.

"I can bite your ear," you suggested over his cheek like it was a casual day at a cafe, as though you weren't rocking Lucifer's hips into oblivion on this pillow, "or your neck, shoulder, maybe even your thighs?"

The headboard splintered under Lucifer's fingers, a harsh hiss steaming through his clenched teeth. It ended in a quiet, almost shy whimper.

You may be feeling a little evil today. Lucifer cuts a powerful yet relaxed figure, one that speaks of his quiet confidence towards the world, and towards the people that surround him. He wears his pride in the same way he wears his love: with gentle dignity and without shame.

So can you really be blamed for hooking your fingers through his black thong and yanking it deep into his ass?

Lucifer's panting died with a choked whine. He buried his head in his arms, black fingernails digging into his scalp as you watched his back shudder almost violently. You caressed his waist under his shirt, less to comfort him and more to admire just how small it was. It was made for grabbing.

And despite this clear desperation hanging on his shoulders, on his hips, Lucifer still stopped when you did. You can feel his every muscle twitching, and you also felt it when he suppressed it. Following your rhythm, as he always does. You hummed a nameless tune, plucked from a memory of your days as a bouncer in a night club, and waited for Lucifer to calm down.

His face had a delicate blush when he finally looked at you over his shoulder. His mouth parted open, hair curled over his eyes. His waiting, wanting eyes, begging for something. Begging for you.

You let go of his underwear. You trailed your fingers over the column of his neck, stopping at the side of his jaw. You cupped his cheek and pushed his face towards yours. His own hand came up, grasping your shoulder as if you couldn't have kissed him fast enough.

There's always something so…entertainingly desperate about the way he craves your kisses. He liked it when you touched him, pinned him or cuddled him during the lazy hours of the day. But out of everything, you kissing him was what got him clinging to you most.

You pulled away, only to laugh when you felt an insistent, almost bratty tug on your shirt. Lucifer's eyes were narrowed, scary to anyone that didn't know him as well as you do. You can see the little sparkles in them. How adorable.

"You'll get another one as soon as I feel like it, okay? Just be patient and you'll be rewarded." You carded through his messy, sweaty hair, fully knowing what Lucifer's response was going to be.

You smiled at his small nod and he buried his face once more with a small sigh, both parts exasperated and miffed.

It was rare of you, to be this silent, this still. When your eyes overflowed with colors of hymns, when your shattered halo spun, reformed and broke once again with the sounds of all manner of prayers, everything within your…unsightly human soul would rebel. Would roar to be the loudest voice within the mourning cacophony you're drowned in.

Gabriel once thought it ugly. It still is, in fact, but even ugly things can become cute, if one listens it long enough. And, lately, sounds have becomes so much more tolerable when it's you making them.

The sound of pearl strings clicking together, the silky rub of gossamer sleeves as they brush against the delicate lace, the strain of pulling ribbons upon crooked, melting, and mending wings. Sounds that angels have made, have heard first, before humans were created and were able to make such things. They have stolen what God had made beautiful to Gabriel.

And now, while the process was excruciatingly slow, Gabriel was finally reclaiming what was taken.

"These pearls were difficult to shape," Gabriel said as he threaded his fingers through the glittering strings, letting them click against his nails, "they had lumps, but what would I expect out of the creatures they came from?"

He'll never forgive those clams for smelling as horrible as they do. But, at least they were easy to get through.

It was just you and him, within this white room high above the clouds. The sun poured in through the glass-stained windows, multi-colored light being absorbed by the white drapery. You liked color, evidently, as this was the only room you're willing to sleep in. It was also the only room where you can be kept calm, in all states of being.

And about the only place Gabriel could even attempt to put clothes on you. You don't quite deserve the fabrics of Heaven yet, so he had no choice but to compromise and have these clothes fashioned in your home. The transformation will eventually be complete, there's no harm in testing the waters and seeing which would suit your figure best, even if the fabric of human origin would be subpar at best.

"There we go, now don't we look better?" A calm mind leads to a calm figure, leads to a calm beast of Heaven to be decorated. "While I doubt it'll last long, this suits you better, since this is by my design. You're getting closer to perfection."

And farther from your origins.

"Though, make no mistake," while your wings don't leave much room for your back to breath, Gabriel has long since learned the particular way they like to crowd, and his fingers had no problem finding and stroking your spine, "you're far from being one of us, but you can no longer call yourself one of them, now can you?"

You bent lower, as if in reverence.

Then, you spoke.

"You designed this?"

…your voice rolled over his ears, stroked his ribs and cascaded down the entire length of his body. Gabriel did his best to suppress a shiver and focus on the fact that you still haven't given yourself up to that beautifully burning light. And it annoyed him that, beneath that disappointment, was a little spot of relief.

Perhaps boredom of the same, bestial behavior from all the other angelified creatures was getting to him. Yes, that was all.

And yet, he can't get his mouth to move. All he can do is watch your face.

Your hands grabbed at the fabric, lifting it closer to your face to view all of the delicate details sewn within. Your eyes narrowed and your halo sparked an angry light, "it smells like you."

Your fingers gripped at the collar, then you pulled. Your body flexed, your wings twitched and fluttered beneath his fingers as you ripped the shirt up. Months of work, month of waiting for this special commission to be finished, and you tore it up without a second thought. You threw the strips of fabric and strings of pearls away, tossed it as you would a clump of hair from a shower drain.

You were bare once more, and the anger simmering beneath his belly gave Gabriel his voice back.

There is little you know about Hell itself. You know it's filled with devils that indulge and encourage desires, to the point of ignoring anything and everything that bores them. You know they follow a hierarchy that's bound to cannibalize itself as soon as this tentative truce breaks. And you also know that Hell is frustratingly ignorant about human beings despite their access to them.

You've seen the libraries of the devil kings when they manage to whisk off Ra-on. Labyrinthine things, and the section that's dedicated to humans? Long out of date, and very, very small. As if it wasn't a study worth looking into.

Humans are not worth it if they can't be fucked. Those libraries you've visited? Filled with books written by devils that tell you which humans are worth targeting and which should be ignored. Those devils that initially expressed interest in you? You're less than wind, not really worth acknowledging.

And so you ask Asmodeus, the very embodiment of this carnal freedom every devil indulges in, this on one random afternoon on a blanket you brought, "What's your reason, for your visits on Earth?"

This morning was…a time. Ra-on decided to sleep in so you decided to wander around. Enjoy the morning. It was quiet and calm, at least, no battles to worry about so far, and little sign of any invasions as far as you can tell. But, quiet days tend to make things louder. Make your own human existence louder. Make the fact that you're not quite…welcome here louder. And when you're not welcome, you're not really treated like a person.

So, you tucked yourself away, found a part of this city that was calm and wasn't strangling itself to block the sun. Here, you can pretend you're back home for a little bit.

Of course, it wasn't long before you got a visitor. Asmodeus, of all people. He didn't say anything. Merely settled down next to you, sunglasses on his nose as he unwrapped his robes to the open air. He's odd, and predictable to you to an extent.

He's also never failed to draw the chaos away from you when you simply aren't fit to handle it. He told you of this spot too. You suppose he needed his quiet time.

"I've met and mated with every devil in any kingdom imaginable, I thought I saw all that there was to see, and humans, with their infinitely short lives, never fail to surprise me." Mated, of course he'd say that. "Devils are slow to change, you know. While there is delight to be taken in familiar flavors, I have never been a devil that's been satisfied with routine."

"Really now?" Devils, stagnant? Well, you haven't been here long enough to know. Because too many devils are unwilling to engage with you. You want answers? You have to be entertaining. You have to be cutey or pathetic or worshiping. Do something that isn't you, and only then will they say something.

...and that makes Asmodeus all the more odd to you, in the same way Lucifer is.

"And so, I scurried off towards the world of humans. And my, what a trip that was. Eye opening really. That gap within myself when I realized how little I knew of humans? It hungered to be filled." The sparkle in his eye and the wagging of his tongue was a common sight to you. Irritating on some days, and a little irritating now. "Of course, once I had a taste, how could I not fall in love?"

But, not as much. More, funny than it is irritating.

You raised an eyebrow. "Love, huh? Having a hard time believing that."

Asmodeus's face relaxed, settling into a smile that was just the slightest bit smarmy. "Devils can't lie," so he sang.

"I know," you sighed out, a whisper of a smile on your lips. Then, you felt a sharp nail poke your cheek. "…what is it now?"

"You're smiling," his voice was low and giddy, as if he was telling you a juicy secret.

"…I am. And?" Why state the obvious?

"And? I'm just enjoying the simple joy of it. Is that wrong?" Asmodeus continued to tap at your cheek even though your face was back to being as blank as ever. He was still smiling, still looking at you with an odd fondness that you're still not used to seeing any devil that wasn't Lucifer.

"Nah, not really. Can you stop touching me now?" The sun's nice and the blankets too comfortable for you to want to move.

"Will you bite me if I don't?" Ah, there's it is, the classic dip into sensuality as soon as the prospect of your bites come up. You don't need to look at him to know his cheeks were flushed, mind hazed over with fantasies of your teeth on his neck. And other places. Asmodeus still hasn't stop trying to goad you into biting him.

"I'll leave if you don't," Only then did Asmodeus relent, lips pulled into a frown.

"How long are you going to stay curled up on the floor?"

It's not the first time you had to eat shit, but this time you were cutting it pretty close. You had a pipe, yes, but there's only so much you can do against flying angels while being surrounded by demons that forget you're there or not as durable as them. Just takes one well placed slam and knock you out.

You can't tell if it's a blessing or not that you weren't conscious when that building fell on you. You didn't feel any pain, so at least there's that, but you're not sure how to feel about that either. You're not gonna lie, it's kinda terrifying that a good enough knock to the head can leave you unaware of everything, even the pain of fractured and broken bones.

And so, here you are, bed-bound and in a better state than you expected to be. A "not-dead" state of being, and a semi-movable one. Just a cast on one leg and a couple of cold compresses being pressed against your ribs. Hurts to move but the limbs are responding so at least nothing happened to your nerves. Hurts to breathe but you are breathing period. Not the worst situation to be in, but that's hardly a comfort to anyone, let alone you.

…let alone you and your friend, curled up on the carpet laid out against the wall farthest from you. Ra-on's been there for a while. You've had moments where you drifted in and out, probably high on meds, and Ra-on was always there. And if you knew him as well as you do, then he hasn't left this room for anything besides to use the bathroom.

This, too, was also not the first time. Ra-on's been rooted to one spot before. It's gotten…better, in the sense he's gotten number and number to these paranoia spirals. His stomach no longer lurches when anyone approaches and it's easier to coax him away from the spot he's picked. Still, there was a time where every little cold or sprain you or Minhyeok would get would lock Ra-on inside his own brain. Ra-on didn't care if he collapsed from hunger or popped multiple blood vessels from jacking it too much, but if any of you two had a fever, he'd park himself right in the hallway between your two rooms. Like a dog, wanting to come in but waiting for some kind of signal, a signal only he would see, that everything's going to be okay.

…no, that's kinda rude. Can't be saying that to a person that's losing sleep over you. Ra-on's now awake, curled tightly into a ball, dressed in his old clothing from earth that he's learned to repair recently. He barely looks lucid. When he heard your voice, he scrambled behind himself, picking up pillows, cold compresses, water, and a number of medications. But he couldn't carry it all, and kept dropping them again and again. Can barely keep a steady grip on them, let alone his own balance.

So, you let your arm flop over the bed. Your fingers skimmed the clean floor before you snapped them. Ra-on jerked at attention and finally dropped everything back down. He turned to you, eyes haunted and shrouded by the heavy weight of worry, hunger, thirst and insomnia. His clothes practically swallowed him, made his whole frame look wiry, frail.

The memories grip you sometimes. Of Ra-on stuffing himself in corners of tight closets, or in the little spaces underneath beds while hugging tightly to blankets his parents used to use.

You didn't mumble, but you did make a noise. Come on, your hands free.

Ra-on was slow. He crawled forth, inch by inch with the caution of an animal that doesn't know if what he sees is real or not.

You don't know how you looked. You could be the picture of recovering health for all you know but Ra-on would still think you're at death's door. Probably thinks you still are.