fights with asmo always feel like a slap to the face, lust twisting into hideous displeasure. he shines a bright, vicious smile your way as sweet poison drips from his tongue and seeps into your skin. and his claws dig into the meat of your arms, never seeming to let go.
but you’d grown stubborn in your time in the devildom. stubborn and defiant and daring. all too used to being involved in dangerous quests and having to face the consequences for your thoughtless actions. so, when the corners of asmo’s lips begin to twitch upwards into something sick and sinister, you let your blunter teeth curl into a snarl and bare your own scathing words.
it’s an ugly fight, filled with savage looks and even crueller words. neither of you are willing to let the other have the last say, each sentence parried with growing harshness. and it’s only when lucifer emerges from his office, face holding all the trouble of a storm, that the both of you stalk back to your own rooms, feet stomping heavily against the floor.
brewing in your room, you know what asmo wants, what he expects: you - the pitiful, fragile human - apologising. better yet, on your knees at his feet, begging for forgiveness.
because asmodeus, avatar of lust, does not say sorry. he’s never had to, with a trail of adoring fans always climbing over each other to get his attention, always wanting more, more, more, so long as it got them closer to the demon. any issues and he’d turn to his next plaything, bumbling attempts to amend only half heard. asmodeus hadn’t even had to charm them. and yet, he couldn’t charm you. the bitterness of that truth had long been tucked away under his skin, pulsing beneath his veins.
“you’re different,” asmo had hummed in the midst of the night, limbs tangled with your own, hidden away beneath plush blankets. and you were, are. you adore the devildom, almost as much as the realm loves you in return, inhabitants immediately taken by you during the exchange programme. you adore his brothers, seven pact marks decorating your body for no small reason, though never once exploiting their powers or their inherent sin. and you adore him, in such a way that made asmo afraid of tripping and falling, afraid to play with you and cause you hurt as he had done to so many others.
asmodeus is soon reminded of his compliment, now causing a frown to settle upon his lips than a smile, previously sticky with fondness. come morning, you’re already sat at the dining table when asmo enters the room, looking much more presentable than the demon had hoped.
you meet asmo’s eyes with a steely gaze, refusing to share even a drop of emotion for him to recognise. it makes asmo purse his lips ever so slightly as his frustration gets the better hand over him, just for a split second. but it’s enough, and you hide your smile by taking another sip of your blood strawberry juice.
you finish your breakfast quickly, not letting your attention flicker to asmo again during the meal. and it’s only when you grin a “thank you” to belphie who’s on dish duty for the day, before linking arms with satan to head off to rad, that asmo loosens his grip on his knife and fork. you’re different.
the first change comes five days into your continued disregard of all things asmodeus. a giftbox sits in front of your bedroom door, tag advertising luscious soaps and candied lotions with more nourishing properties than you can begin to understand. you leave the present there, your silent treatment persists.
you hate to admit it but your will chips away with each gift - sweet perfumes gone unsmelt and silky clothes left unworn. and it’s only when a small mountain has formed in the hallway that you finally cave.
picking up the smallest box from the extravagant pile, you gaze at the tube of lipstick. simpler than you’d expected, but costly no doubt if the brand was anything to go by. back in the comfort of your own room and facing a mirror, you press it to your lips, painting them a deep red that you can’t help but admire. asmo always did know what you’d best suit, what you’d best like.
but if there’s one thing you knew about asmo, it was his cunning. he’s slyer than his brothers with tricky thoughts and a devious facade, able to widen his eyes and push forward his chest in all the right ways. because no sooner are your lips coloured crimson do they begin to sear.
your breath quickens at the sensation, lips burning hot. your chest is heaving in panic, fingers swiping at your mouth desperately, half ready to claw away at the terrible feeling.
because asmo had decided you’re different, and if you wanted to resort to not speaking to him, you’d not speak at all. lips sealed shut, a muffled scream echoes through the house of lamentation. sharp, threatening smirk returned, asmo wonders how long to wait before he tells you all it takes is a kiss for the curse to break - and how long to wait before he gives in to your wordless pleas.