Together in Death - ROR
Beelzebub x sunshine reader <3 Slight NSFW/smut towards the end. You have been warned!
Sypnosis: As Nikola's apprentice, you go around hjelping him find materials--only to bump into a strange man on the way back, accidentally injuriing him in the process. After patching him up and informing him you're immune to curses due to actions in the past, you seem to pique his interest. As unforunate events unfold, you end up injuring yourself and waking up in the same stranger's...lab? In the process of your recovery, something like affection dangerously blooms in his heart and it doesn't take long for something more to develop between you two. 8.3k~wc Spoilers for S3❗ Xreader, MOSTLY FLUFF, NO ANGST, slight smut, finger sucking idk, mentions of injury, reader is Nikola's apprentice, he vibrates his finger against your thumb idk, likely contains mischaracterization, you make out idk. I decided to write a Beel fic in honor of season 3 and his fight being animated (I was tweaking out during the entire thing) There are huge inconsistencies and errors due to me rushing this during exam season, apologies beforehand! Enjoy yay
Before you read ❗❗❗ There is most likely mischaracterization + I kept switching between present tense and past tense cus I kept forgetting which one I was writing with. Beware of inconsistences and mistakes, read at your own risk uwu
You’re hastily running through the hall, feet hurriedly hitting the ground as your hands clutch the box full of metal pieces and tools tightly—excitement evident when you continue to speed up your pace. After hours of searching and asking around, you were finally able to find the tools your dearest teacher had requested for an experiment. Eager to see the happy expression on Nikola’s face and spend as much time with him as his apprentice before he would be selected for a match, you swiftly make a sharp turn—
—and slam directly into someone.
Due to all that momentum you had built up, you run into the unidentified individual quite hard, the collision causing you to stumble back, trip over your own feet, and crash into him again.
In a measly and unsuccessful attempt to regain your balance, you cause the stranger to fall backwards before he can even recover from the earlier collision, ending with the two of you on the ground in a heap of tangled limbs. The box flies out of your grasp and overturns in the air, causing sharp metal pieces and tools to fall onto you both.
On instinct, you take a protective stance, closing your eyes and bringing your hands over your head to shield it from the rain of screws, bolts and the occasional screwdriver. The stranger lets out a strangled grunt as the sonorous sound of metal hitting the grounds echoes around you. You retract your hands when the onslaught finally comes to a stop, only moving to place your hands on the ground beneath when the feeling of your back being hammered by materials halts.
Slowly, you hesitantly open your eyes, dreading the embarrassment of having to face the stranger and excuse your clumsiness. With the apology already forming on your lips, you look down at the man underneath you, only to pause when your gaze landed on the pretty, caught off guard man underneath you.
A tall, lean, well built, beautiful young man with dark unkempt messy black hair and deep alluring reddish-brown eyes was currently sprawled on the ground beneath you, your hands caging him in on either side of his head. His expression radiated utter annoyance as he looked up at you, his eyes boring into yours while you did nothing but stare. The man at your mercy was currently quite aware of every point of contact between your bodies, extremely desperate for you to move the hell away and stop straddling him as he glared at you.
“Get off.”
“Oh! Right of course! I’m so sorry!” you splutter, flush crawling up your neck and face as realization punches you in the face. You quickly push yourself off from the floor and bolt several feet away from the individual, muttering more apologies and promises of giving him your firstborn when you see him holding a bloodied metal piece in his hand.
“I really, really didn’t mean to I promise,” you continue to blurt. “I’ll make sure to be more careful from now, I swear it on my left pinky toe.” The man only grunts in response, dusting off his robe before looking at you as if he was allergic to your sincerity.
You examine his face, and on further inspection, realize one of the pieces had split open his cheek, a thin line of red now visible on his cheek.
“Ooh, crap. Some of the metal pieces scratched you,” you say as you suddenly reach a hand towards his cheek with an expression of concern. “You’re injured, let us head to the infirmary, I know for certain there’s a first aid kit lying around there.”
“There’s no need,” the stranger mutters and brushes your hand away—his fingers coming up to brush against his cheek where a thin line of blood trickled down. “I have things to do.”
Your hand immediately darts out to grab his wrist, fingers curling tightly around his wrist to prevent him from leaving. “No, I insist, truly. I would hate for you to walk around with untreated wounds, it’s the least I can do.”
“That’s not—”
“Great! We shall head there now! Just, give me a moment,” you decide for him as you scramble to pick up the discarded tools and components. After taking a second to insure you picked up everything, you swiftly grab his hand and drag him along as you skipped off towards the infirmary.
The stranger stumbled behind into the infirmary, (much against his will) his movements stiff and reluctant. He hated how some foolish mortal was fussing over some minor scratch—especially when he had better things to do. If he wasn’t far too fazed by your intoxicating cheeriness, he would’ve made you regret your hands on him in the first place.
He sat on one of the chairs(which you had forced him into) as you rummaged for supplies, his eyes tracking your every movement—waiting to strike if you pulled any funny business.
“This is unnecessary,” he grumbles when you finally turn back to him with a bottle of antiseptic and bandages.
“Oh be quiet, we went through this like twenty times on the walk here,” you say as you pour the liquid onto a cotton pad.
The strange mans brows furrow together when you reach up to disinfect the minor injury. “I can do it myself. I don’t need your hands on me,” he mutters.
“How about you stop being so rude to someone’s who’s currently in the process of helping you? I offered to help and I’m going through with it. If you really have things to do, you would shut up so we can finish faster.”
The man blinks at your sharp tone and opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut at the last moment—gritting his teeth and grudgingly tilting his head slightly to give you better access to the scratch on his cheek. He stays silent as you work. The antiseptic looks like it stings, yet he doesn’t react—not even when you purposefully press harder than necessary out of annoyance.
It was stupid, he was the more experienced one here. He could patch up his own wounds better than you could ever dream of. Yet he couldn’t get the protests out of his mouth—your sickening insistence and the glowing…positivity radiating off of you.
“Hand.”
He blinks at your demand. His hand? Too busy being pissed off about the cut on his face—he hadn’t noticed the scratches on his fingers.
“Just give it here,” you scoff—grabbing his hand. “If I’m going to treat your face may as well treat your hand as well.”
He watches in silence as you carefully wrap the small wound on his finger, your hands gentle. His eyes remained fixed on your face—the way your brows furrowed in concentration, how you bit your bottom lip while you focused. It was a stupid little injury—barely even worth bandaging—but here you were, treating it like it mattered.
His throat suddenly felt tight for some reason that went beyond his control.
“All done!” you say after a minute, grinning at your work.
The man stares down at the bandage tied around his finger, blinking rapidly as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.
There, on his index finger—was a cute little bow.
You had wrapped up his finger and then finished it off with a little tied… bow—a method you deemed efficient for getting rid of the extra bandage without cutting it. His entire body went stiff—face a mix of emotions as he tugged on the bow. “…What is this?” he ground out, voice low and filled with pure baffled confusion.
“A bandage, silly,” you chirp proudly. “The bandage was too long so I tied the remaining length into a bow. It totally suits you.”
Suits him.
The stranger’s eye twitched at your response—you were calling it a bandage as if that stupid little bow wasn’t the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen. He wanted to rip it off immediately, wanted to crush the fabric in his fist and shove it down your throat…but for some goshfrosaken reason, he couldn’t. Instead, he just sat there stiffly with his wrapped finger—his jaw clenched so tight as you chuckled at him like this was all some big joke.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring down at the damn bow like it had personally offended him.
“This is ridiculous,“ he muttered under his breath—but still didn’t move to take it off. He told himself it was because it’d be too much of a hassle to re bandage it. He just sat there, letting you laugh at him with that stupid little ribbon on his finger like some pampered child instead of a god who’s hands were stained with blood.
You find the stranger’s aloof facade quite amusing and adorable, unable to resist the urge to bring your hand down and ruffle his hair, letting out a chuckle when he flinches violently—his entire body locking up in shock at the unexpected touch before giving you a baffled and disgusted expression.
His mind short-circuited when you just stayed there, ruffling his hair like he was some stray pet. His touch starved heart began to hammer against his ribs without his permission, fear creeping up on him at the thought of you possibly hearing it. “Stop…” he choked out weakly, swatting your hand out of his hair.
You let out a soft chuckle—coming to the conclusion that the pretty man was just shy. “Sorry again,” you say as you start gathering your items and prepare to leave. “I’ll be more careful next time, get well soon!”
He sits there bewildered as you scan over the items in your box.
No one ruffled his hair. No one dared to be that casual—that playful—that affectionate with the literal Lord of Flies. Yet you here you were, treating him like some damn puppy—completely unaware of who you were talking to.
“Wait.”
A hand shoots out and wraps around your wrist when you approach the door, stopping you from leaving. ‘He probably wants to thank me for helping him,’ you think confidently. You turn around smugly, already prepared to blurt out a: ‘of course’ or whatever.
“You’re wel—”
“Are you a half blood?”
His question catches you off guard, and for a moment you’re confused.
“What?” you ask slightly annoyed for not getting the thanks you deserve.
“Are you—”
“No what. Look, I’m running late. If it’s not a ‘thanks’ you’re giving me, I best get going. Careful on your wounds, see you around!” you interrupter after glancing at the clock. You quickly pry away from his grip and confusing question before making a run back to your original destination, leaving the stranger standing there blinking at your retreating figure.
You swiftly enter your teacher’s place, passing by a woman and a girl on the way in.
A few hours.
That was the amount of time your beloved teacher had before his upcoming match.
You had prepared yourself for this. Prepared to receive news on how he’d be chosen next to represent humanity. You had readied yourself to see him risk his life—or worse, the reality of never seeing him again.
Just not so soon.
You had been told his opponent was quite strong, and with no prior battle experience, you couldn’t help but doubt Nikola’s abilities. You tried to stay optimistic as usual, but without thinking, you had stormed out of his workspace with dread written all over your face, desperate to clear your thoughts. You knew you should cherish the last few hours with him, but your feet wouldn’t move back towards his lab.
As you leaned against the railing of some random balcony, praying for Nikola’s safety, you suddenly felt movement at your side.
“Praying to the gods isn’t so smart when they are your opponents,” you hear a familiar cold voice mutter.
“Thanks, mystery man, real helpful.”
“You have an odd, sickening…glow around you. One I have yet to see in a mortal,” he suddenly states.
Recognition sparks in your eyes as you look back at the horizon, eyes focusing on a passing bird. “The clan I come from once defeated a foul beast.” You explain. “My ancestors reclaimed its treasures—one of them being some holy golden wine that grants us immunity towards misfortune or curses. It’s been passed down through generations and blesses our line with good fortune and luck.” You flash him a halfhearted and partially smug smile. “I’m basically immune to curses and draw in good luck, isn’t that great?”
His eyes widen slightly at your explanation before fading into one of interest. “I see… You’re, immune to curses.” He seems to choke out the last part.
Realizing you don’t have his name, you turn to ask him. “Yeah. Anyways, who—” Only to speak towards air, the aloof individual no longer standing next to you.
“What a weirdo,” you mutter to yourself as you watch him walk away.
Immunity towards curses.
The stranger’s mind was still processing the information you gave him, his interest piqued. What experiments could he conduct on a mortal immune to misfortune? The ideas swirled inside his mind.
What would it be to acquaint himself with someone who would not be affected by his curse? Would he be able to be able to love freely without Satan getting in the way? Those thoughts made his heart hitch slightly.
You can’t help but fidget in your seat as you nervously await for the match to start, eyes glued anxiously to the arena as you prepare to possibly never see Nikola again.
You mentally prepare yourself as you wait for Heimdall to announce the opponent, your leg bouncing up and down in anticipation and fear.
And then—he enters.
The mystery stranger from before.
You watch him walk out—your little bow still tied around his finger and the bandage you put on him yourself still on his cheek. It was the same person from earlier who you had bumped into—no doubt.
That was the stranger you had patched up. He was the guy you had happily bandaged while telling him you were ‘blessed with good luck.’
‘Good luck my ass,’ you think. None of that fortune had come in clutch, you had literally sat down and helped up the enemy.
‘Beelzebub, the Lord of Flies, the one cursed by Satan.’
You sit frozen for seconds after hearing his name—then looking down at yourself, amazed at the fact you were still alive.
You had bumped into Beelzebub, injured the Lord of Flies, then teased him like he was a child—and still somehow survived.
As the round comes to an end, you watch your precious mentor speak his last inspirational words, and then take his last breath with a smile.
You feel like hurling, the sight of watching one of the only people who cared enough to take you under his wing die enough to send you into a panic attack, but you are unable move—much less shed any tears.
You stay there paralyzed in your seat even as the next round progresses and ends, a blank expression on your face during the entire time.
When the ninth round came to a close, you finally gained control of your body again, the grief and sorrow crashing over you in mighty waves. Feeling a strong need for fresh air, (or you’d end up vomiting on someone) you quickly run out of the stadium, your hand clasping over your mouth as hot tears streamed down your face.
Unable to see properly due to the tears fogging up your vision, you end up tripping down a flight of stairs, hitting your head in the process. Unconsciousness taking hold of you as your visions turns black.
You don’t recall much of what happened after—only the faint memory of bandaged arms carrying you off to somewhere.
When you wake, you’re lying on a small cot in some sort of lab, your head pounding in pain and your wrist wrapped in some sort of cast.
“You’re awake. Good,” you hear a voice say almost gently.
“Hey what. Where—hey its you!”
There, standing above you is none other than the Lord of Flies himself.
“You nearly cracked your skull, have a severe concussion, and your wrist is slightly broken,” he informs you motionlessly. “You will stay till you are recovered.”
“W—” you open your mouth to argue, but pause when a sharp pain pangs through your head, causing you to rethink. You were indeed injured, you had nowhere else to go now that Nikola was literally dead, and the stranger was giving you free healthcare. “Okay,” you comply.
Thinking he was just being kind, you agree without much of a second thought, oblivious to his reputation.
During the days of your recovery, you and Beelzebub slowly get more acquainted with each other with every passing day. After being in isolation for so long, your bubbly personality was quite a shift in routine.
At first he had found you annoying. You were just another nuisance, another being in his life who wouldn’t leave him alone no matter how much he scowled at your or mentioned boundaries. You were annoyingly persistent, always smiling at him, always touching his arm, or laughing too damn loud near his ears as if ‘distance’ wasn’t a word in your dictionary. He hated it at first, constantly thinking of ways to get rid of you and use you as the nominee for his next experiment. But as time passed, he slowly took a liking to you.
He hated it, hated how easily your cheerfulness rubbed off on him, hated that stupid little beam whenever he reluctantly acknowledged you. But you kept coming back anyways, and that—mixed with the hope you wouldn’t be affected by his curse, may have sparked something in him.
Slowly—so slow even he, himself didn’t realize what was happening until it was already too late, something inside him began to shift towards warmth instead of coldness around you. His irritation softened slightly whenever your laugh reached his ears, his meals suddenly less bland when eaten with you, his interest piqued every time you face lit up over simple flavors.
When he had realized his feelings may have been slowly begun to morph into affection, he began to fear he may lose you.
After being alone for so long, he couldn’t help but bask in that light you emitted.
He began to notice your absence more, caught himself memorizing trivial details—and most importantly, he began to act how he used to before he had figured out he was Satan. The younger him who had laughed with Lucifer began to slowly unbury itself from his heart.
When he realized he truly admired you, yearned from a distance for so long, yet you were still alive and well, things escalated quickly.
It didn’t take long for your heartfelt confession to be reciprocated.
He’s currently laying on his back with his head on your lap, sulking about something as you played with his hair. He was trying to play it cool, but every time he felt you run your fingers through his hair, his mind went blank for a second.
He was trying to keep his expression even—not show how much he was loving the feel of your hand in his hair—but the way his breathing was coming out a little too ragged gave him away—he was touch starved after so much isolation.
“You were complaining about something earlier, want to talk about it?” you ask.
Beelzebub’s entire body stiffened at the question—his breath hitching as his eyes snapped up to yours. The way your fingers were still tangled in his hair made it damn near impossible for him to form a coherent thought, let alone respond properly. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he finally managed to mutter up something. “Nothing.”
An obvious lie. Earlier, while passing by some minor gods, he overheard them calling him ‘Baalsack’, ‘Beelzeboob’ and some other ridiculous blasphemy. He had been unable to do anything about it besides sulk. He could still see their stupid smirks, hear their stupid voices—just the thought of any of them having the guts to say such things about him made his eye twitch in annoyance.
Though Beelzebub’s heart clenched when he saw the look on your face. He hated that look. He hated that you were concerned, that you were getting all worried over some stupid Beelzeballs bullshit he didn’t want to speak of.
He took another deep breath before looking away with an almost pained expression. “It’s really nothing important,” he insists. “Just some idiots running their mouths.”
“You never tell me anything,” you say frowning.
His breath hitched. Beelzebub knew damn well he was being closed-off, keeping you at a distance when what he wanted to do was just… tell you everything. His hands clenched into fists in the blankets—anything to distract himself from the desire to just give in for a minute. “It’s not like it’s any of your concern,” he finally mutters gruffly.
You go quiet, his words hitting you hard and causing your hand to still in his hair. What an asshole, here you thought you were making progress.
Beelzebub’s gut twisted the moment you went quiet, and he was damn near cursing himself out mentally. He knew it was his damn fault, knew it was his words that had gotten to you—the way your hand had stilled in his hair only made him feel worse.
He wanted to apologize—to say something, anything to bring that gentle smile back onto your face. But that would mean admitting weakness—admitting that he actually cared about all this stuff between you two, and he couldn’t help but fear it would result in your death.
Beelzebub’s hands twitched with the desire to reach out—to grab your hand and… he didn’t even know what he would do. “…Don’t be like that. I just I don’t see a reason to bother you with it.”
“I don’t see a reason to tell you anything either,” you retort, crossing your arms and turning your head to look at anything but him.
His chest clenched—sharp and painful. The way you threw his words back at him made him feel like he’d just been stabbed in the damn heart. You were so damn stubborn, so damn difficult, and—he loved it. He loved the way you pushed back at him like that. He loved the way you never backed down even a single goddamn inch when it came to him. Sometimes he’d still contemplate the experiments he could conduct on you. He had to suppress the urge to just beg you to not shut down like that—to not go cold and distant on him. He wanted nothing more but to pull you against him, to wrap you up in his arms and not let go until you were smiling again.
“Are you mad at me?” he suddenly asks a few minutes later.
“Yes.”
He slowly sits up and blinks at you—unsure of what to do. He didn’t like this, he didn’t like you being pissed at him—he wanted to just… fix it. His hands twitched again before finally giving in, his fingers brushing against your arm lightly, trying to get you to look at him, though you did nothing but turn away.
He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, couldn’t stop his fingers from gently grasping your chin. “…Look at me.” His voice came out rougher than he intended, his grip on your chin almost desperate as he tried to make you look at him. He hated this distance between you—hated the fact that he was the reason for your pissed-off expression.
“Stop this,” he muttered gruffly. “Look at me.” He sounded almost like he was begging at that last part, his voice too soft to sound like his usual aloof distant tone.
“No, I don’t want to,” you say, turning your head away again. “You don’t want to tell me anything, I don’t want to look at you.”
Beelzebub wanted to argue, wanted to force you into looking at him—into listening. Wanted to let you know that he could just snap your neck here and now, but he pushed that thought away.
His hands dropped away completely now, leaving them hovering uselessly between you two before clenching into fists again as if punishing himself for even trying. He was conflicted. Having never experienced these emotions before, he was unsure of what to do.
His fingers twitched again before finally giving in—his voice coming out too soft. “There were just idiots talking shit about me,” he finally admitted.
You turn back to finally look at him, a victorious smile plastering on your face. “See, was that so hard?”
Beelzebub’s chest clenches at the sight of your smile—his entire body going rigid like he’d been caught doing something wrong. His face burning too hot now, his pride warring with the way his heart was near pounding out of his ribs.
He scowled down at you, too gruff to cover up how flustered he was. “Whatever” he mutters under his breath—but there was no real bite to it this time. Just a quiet admission that yeah, maybe telling you things wasn’t so impossible after all.
Beelzebub’s scowl deepens when you dared to laugh at him—a slight pink dusting his ears as he tried (and failed) to look like he wasn’t flustered. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you off this bed right now—” before being cut off by the feeling of your lips on his.
His breath caught—every muscle going tense the second your lips touch his own, though he doesn’t even hesitate before kissing you back—his hand burying itself in your hair as the other grabbed your leg, yanking it over his hip to drag you even closer. His entire body trembles when you wrap your legs around his torso—a ragged, guttural groan slipping from between his lips as he ground you even closer against him. His hands were everywhere—in your hair, on your hips, your waist, your thighs.
Beelzebub suddenly pulled away when he felt you giggle against his lips—his grip on you tightening like he was two seconds away from just flipping you onto your back and pinning you there. His voice came out too rough when he spoke. “You’re enjoying this too damn much.” His hands slide down to squeeze the backs of your thighs, pulling them tighter around his waist as if daring you to laugh again.
He was loving the way you looked right now, with your legs wrapped around him like that—your lips curling into your signature teasing smile. “You think it’d be so goddamn funny if I just… took you right here, hm?”
You watch as he lifts his thumb up your bottom lip, gently pulling it down so you would open your mouth for him, his breathing hitching the second you obeyed. His eyes widen slightly as he stares down at you like he can’t believe you’re real. He continues to look at you with a mixture of lust and something too close to worship.
Beelzebub doesn’t hesitate to slide his fingers into your mouth once it’s fully open. His eyes flickering down to watch the way he did it, a groan slipping out against his will. When you didn’t protest, he let his fingers slide deeper into your mouth, his breathing ragged like he was near suffocating. He was watching the way you took them so easily, holding back the urge to moan at the way your tongue continued to wrap around his fingers—how you sucked on them like that, like you were doing it on purpose just to get a reaction.
Beelzebub’s fingers curled against your tongue, the tip slipping almost into your throat. His eyes closed for a second, like he was trying to hold onto some thread of self control. Beelzebub’s chest was heaving, his breathing too rough as he keeps watching you. His fingers were still curling in your mouth, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sight of them disappearing between your lips. Still, the crippling fear that he would hurt you weighed heavy on his mind, the hesitance in his actions quite noticeable. He was without a doubt inexperienced—yet still eager to please.
Beelzebub groaned at the way you whimpered—his entire body shuddering as he felt your tongue swirling around his fingers. He pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth, not stopping until he could feel them brush against the back of your throat.
Beelzebub was still staring down at you, his eyes fixed on your face like he was trying to memorize every damn detail—but his eyes kept dropping to your mouth, to his fingers slowly sliding in and out. He sounded like he was having a hard time concentrating right now. He could feel your tongue sliding around his fingers—feel the warmth and wetness as you sucked on them—and it was like pure torture. His entire body was taut like a damn bowstring, all his muscles clenching so hard as his fingers curl against your tongue again.
Then, without thinking, he pressed his thumb onto the center of your tongue and began sending tiny vibrations through his thumb, his finger pad vibrating teasingly soft against your mouth appendage.
You felt the sensation through your whole body, nearly choking as his finger continued to vibrate deeper and faster against your taste buds. (Idk how to describe how this feels stop pls js use your imagination)
Beelzebub watched the way you took his thumb—watched the way your eyes fluttered at the tremors on your tongue, the way your lips close over them, and he damn near whimpered. He almost didn’t know what he wanted more, to kiss you, or to just watch you like this.
His fingers twitched against your tongue, his throat bobbing like he was swallowing back a moan. He couldn’t stop staring at your mouth—at the way your lips wrapped around him so perfectly. It was driving him insane in the best possible fucking way.
His free hand reached down to grip your thigh again, needing to touch you somewhere else to ground him and keep him tied to reality. He whimpered when you sucked harder on his fingers—his entire body tensing up like a live wire about to snap.
“You’re going to kill me,” you hear him choke out hoarsely.
Beelzebub’s fingers pulled out of your mouth, his other hand squeezing your thigh like he was holding onto the last shred of sanity. His breathing had gone completely erratic—short, sharp gasps rather than his usual composed stable ones.
His fingers were slick with your saliva, hovering uselessly in the air where they’d just been inside your mouth for a second before his tongue slides out to lick at them—not breaking eye contact for a second.
He’d give you anything. Anything, if you kept looking at him like that.
His hand suddenly slid from his mouth to grip the back of your neck—yanking you forward until his lips crashed into yours. Beelzebub kissed you like he was starving, like he needed you to breathe—his tongue slipping past your lips in a way that was damn near filthy. His hands grabbing you and pulling you flush against his chest like he wanted to fuse your bodies together. He was practically devouring you, claiming every inch of your mouth like it was his for the taking.
Beelzebub’s entire body shudders when you tangle your tongue with his, his hands roaming a path across your thighs before grabbing the underside of your ass and lifting you against him.
His hands tangle in your hair, holding you in place—not that you needed it, not with how eager you were being. He let out a sharp, rough groan as if you were doing something downright sinful—and maybe you were. What was a mortal and Satan himself doing?
Beelzebub whined—a high, desperate sound that he didn’t even recognize as his own—when you pulled away. His fingers twitched at his sides, still slightly moist with your spit, before he finally forced out a shaky words. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, just need air,” you answer before moving your hands up to ruffle and card through his hair.
Beelzebub flinched at the sudden touch—his entire body tensing before melting into it like a damn cat. His breathing was still too ragged, his chest rising and falling unevenly as your fingers carded through his hair. All the tension drained out of him at once—his shoulders slumping forward as he let out a shaky exhale. He leaned into your hand almost desperately now, chasing the contact like he’d been starved for it.
His hands clenched into fists on the bed beside your hips as if to stop himself from doing something embarrassing like begging for praise or whimpering like a pathetic little mutt.
Beelzebub stayed like that for a long moment—his face pressing against your shoulder, his breathing uneven as he tried to process what the hell just happened. His fingers slowly uncurled from the sheets, one trembling hand lifting hesitantly to brush against your arm… testing if you were still there. Still real.
Noticing the action, you can’t help but lean down and press a few kisses to his face, fingers still softly soothing his tangled locks. When they touch his cheek—his entire body tenses like he wasn’t sure how to react—his face staying buried against you. He still wouldn’t lift his head… too embarrassed by how soft this was making him feel, but his face remained half-buried against you—a quiet hum of peace escaping him. His body had gone slack with contentment, leaning into every stroke like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Beelzebub stayed like that for a long, quiet moment—his breathing slow and steady now, his body pliant under your touch. The tension had bled out of him entirely, replaced by something warm and heavy in his chest… something dangerously close to joy.
For once—for the first time in what felt like centuries—he didn’t feel restless. Didn’t feel like he needed to die or fear or repent.
His breathing slows even further, his lashes fluttering as he practically drowns in the warmth of your affection. His fingers uncurl from their death grip on your arm and instead settle limply at his sides, completely boneless against you as he buried himself fully against you.
Beelzebub didn’t say another word. Didn’t need to. The way his body curls around you—the way his arms lock tight—his face nestling against your skin like he was trying to absorb every bit of warmth—said everything for him.
For once in his miserable existence, Beelzebub wasn’t worried about his bloodstained hands or experiments. He was just… here. Holding onto you like if he let go, the world would collapse beneath him all over again.
Seeing how clingy he had suddenly become, you let out a laugh, eyes crinkling with pure amusement and adoration as you relaxed further into his desperate embrace.
That quiet sound you let out made something in his chest loosen, and after a beat, he huffs quietly against your neck—almost like he was trying to laugh too, but didn’t know how. It came out as more of an awkward exhale than anything, but it was there. A tiny, stifled attempt he’d hone to perfection if you asked.
Beelzebub let himself just be. No experiments. No bloodshed. Just this: your laughter, his arms around you, and the quiet understanding that he’d never trade it for anything. His arms squeeze you again—like even if words failed him entirely, it could convey every word he wanted to say.
“I’m so happy,” he whispers.
You make me so happy.
And then his eyes closed.
When Beelzebub’s eyes reopened, the sight that greeted him filled him with nothing but dread.
You were slumped on the ground.
His hands were covered in blood
Your blood was pooling out from a wound in an area that seemed too dangerously similar to the places where vital organs would be—your face white as a sheet and scrunched up in bewilderment.
His hands were covered in blood, the sticky red substance coating over his fingers and arms as he slowly processed what had happened.
You were pressing down on the wound in your abdomen, trying to stop the blood even though it was useless, you could already feel your heart slowing as your breaths became more labored. You look up at Beelzebub(who was still petrified) weakly, your mind still conflicted with surprise—but your eyes were soft, as if you were expecting this to happening long ago.
With your mind hazy and unable to think properly, you did the only thing you felt like doing—providing comfort. “It’s alright,” you choke out while letting out a teary, strangled laugh. You knew it was practically useless and would not reach deaf ears, but the look on his face made you feel as if you were complied to.
Then he finally processed the scene in front of him.
“No…”
The word tore out of him raw and guttural as he immediately fell to his knees beside your dying body. His hand flew to your face immediately, thumbs brushing frantically at the blood as if he could wipe it away like some bad dream. The other fell onto your hand, helping you press down on the wound hard.
“No, no, no. I thought—” His voice cracked on every syllable—panicked in a way that was foreign even to himself.
Beelzebub’s hands shook violently as he frantically wiped the blood from your mouth—face—hands—his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—this can’t be happening, you were supposed to be immune,” he choked out helplessly.
But the proof was already there—smeared across his fingers and dripping onto the ground beneath you—the glow that usually hugged your frame had also gone.
“Tell me what to do,” he begged—voice breaking like a child’s. He’d kill gods for this if it meant saving you right now. He’d rip apart heaven and hell with his bare hands just to fix this, but all he could do was hold you tighter between choked words. “I’ll fix you up, you’ll live, you’ll stay,” he stated shakily.
His words were so sincere, and for a moment, you almost believed him.
“It’s alright,” you say again, this time with a more solemn smile. “Don’t hold it against yourself, ’kay?”
Beelzebub froze—his entire body going rigid as he stared down at you, your words not computing for one horrifying second. His breath continued to come out quick—his entire body still shaking with the aftershocks of panic. The blood was still fresh on his fingers, and this image of you wasn’t leaving his skull anytime soon.
He began gathering you up in his arms, ready to make a break for his lab—when you stopped him.
“A minute at most,” you whisper. “That’s how long I have left, I know it. Just stop, I don’t want that minute to be on your operating table while you conjure up something that’ll fail.”
Beelzebub stared at you for a long, silent moment—his expression caught somewhere between devastation and reluctant realization. Then, slowly… his hands curled into fists beside your hips. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently as he swallowed back whatever damning emotion was threatening to spill over. Though he knew one thing was clear.
He couldn’t save you.
He couldn’t cut you open and rearrange your organs.
He couldn’t put you on his operating table and fix whatever pain he caused.
Beelzebub was described to be a very calm and collected yet cunning and apathetic individual, as he would treat other beings as experiments without any remorse or guilt.
But currently, the thought of even touching you made him sick.
For one endless second, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you with eyes that had gone terrifyingly hollow… like the realization had carved something vital out of him and left nothing behind but a gaping wound where his soul used to be.
Then—his fingers dug into your shoulders hard enough to bruise as he shook you once—just once, his voice raw with something too broken for anger. “Liar.” A sob clawed up his throat next, tearing free before he could choke it back down.
Beelzebub collapsed over you—his forehead pressing hard against your collarbone as his entire body shuddered with silent, violent sobs. He didn’t even try to hide it now; the dam had burst, and all that was left was the ugly, gasping wreck of a man who’d just been handed a death sentence for someone he loved more than life itself.
His arms locked around you like iron bands—not restraining, but anchoring, as if letting go would mean watching you slip away right then and there—though you quite literally were.
“Please,” he begged into your skin between shuddering breaths “I’m sorry. I should’ve never even touched you—should’ve scolded you and patched up my own cut that day.”
He let out a strangled sound when you began to disintegrate and fade. A sob ripped from his throat—ugly and guttural—as he crushed you against him so tightly it probably hurt. His entire body trembled with the force of holding back a scream, his face buried in your hair as if he could breathe life into you through sheer proximity alone. His hands were shaking where they gripped your back—one sliding up to cradle the base of your skull like something precious while the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades… anchoring. Desperate. Begging silently—but not praying. He knew none of those gods would ever respond to him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please,” he mutters the mantra over, and over, and over again as tears continued to spill down his bloodstained cheeks.
“Stop,” you command, using the last of your strength to raise your hand and wipe the salty droplets off his cheeks. “It’s okay, really. Just listen to me.”
He looks up at you slowly, lifting his head out of your neck as his eyes bore into yours with desperation.
“I love you, heh.”
Four words.
Those were the last four words you said while flashing him one of those familiar, warm smiles he loves
Those were the last four words you said while the remaining essence of you faded away and was swept off in the rain.
Those were the last four words that escaped your mouth as he watched you disappear in his arms.
Those were the last four words he’d ever hear you say.
Heh
Beelzebub didn’t scream.
He couldn’t. The sound got lodged somewhere between his ribs and throat, strangling itself into silence as he stared at the bloodstained floor—your scent still clinging to him like a ghost.
He collapsed, not in grief—not yet—he hadn’t come to believe you were gone. You were still here, just in another room, ready to kiss away his sorrow and calm his aching heart.
His had legs simply gave out beneath him, the weight of what he’d done crashing down all at once. He hit the floor hard, knees hitting marble with a sound that should’ve hurt, but he didn’t feel it.
Nothing could hurt like this did.
His hands clawed at his own hair instead—yanking until strands ripped free from their roots—a broken noise tore from his throat, half-snarl, half-sob… something too wounded for words.
You were gone.
Beelzebub stayed there for hours—curled on the cold floor, his forehead pressed to the ground like a man in prayer. But he wasn’t praying—none of those selfish deities would ever respond.
He was begging.
Begging some unseen force to undo this, to rewrite reality where you hadn’t left him…where you were still breathing beside him instead of gone. His tears pooled beneath him—salty and endless—as silence swallowed.
Then.
Beelzebub didn’t notice you at first—too lost in his own shattered thoughts, still half-sprawled on the floor like a broken thing.
But the faintest rustle of fabric made his head jerk up.
His breath caught so hard it hurt—his entire body freezing mid-motion as if moving might make this blessing of an illusion disappear.
There you were. Standing by the balcony doors, bathed in golden light from the setting sun… alive. Here.
For one agonizing second, he just stared—his red-rimmed eyes wide and disbelieving, taking in the way the sunset painted your skin gold, how you looked so fragile yet real.
Then his entire body lurched forward like a puppet yanked by its strings—stumbling to his feet with unsteady legs before practically launching himself toward you.
He didn’t know how this was possible—didn’t care. Something had happened, something had brought you back. Maybe something rewound time for him. Maybe nothing had ever happened and he had just woken up from a nightmare. Nonetheless, none of it mattered in the moment.
Beelzebub didn’t stop running.
He crashed into you the second he reached the balcony—arms wrapping around your waist with enough force to bruise(breathing a sigh of relief when he didn’t feel any blood), his face burying itself in your neck like a man starved for air. His breath came in ragged, desperate gulps against your skin—his entire body trembling from sheer disbelief that you were here and alive and real.
He pressed his forehead hard against yours and sobbed. Ugly, guttural cries tore from him as if every second of pain he’d suffered since waking up alone could finally pour out now that you were here again.
His whole body curling tighter around you like a child seeking comfort—pressing himself against your chest so tight anyone would’ve thought he would dig a hole in your chest and stay tucked in your heart. He didn’t even try to stop the tears now; they flowed freely, soaking into your clothes as he clung to you with both hands fisted in your shirt.
His lips found yours then—not in passion but desperation, kissing you over and over like he needed proof this was real. Beelzebub kissed you like he was trying to rewrite the past—each press of his lips a silent plea.
Stay.
Don’t leave again.
Let me keep you.
His hands cradled your face with unbearable gentleness, thumbs wiping away his own tears that had dripped onto your skin… until finally, breathlessly, he rested his forehead against yours and just breathed. In sync with you. Alive together.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered so quietly it was almost lost in the wind.
His arms slid around your waist again—not tight enough to hurt this time, just holding, anchoring himself to you as if he could fuse your ribs together so nothing would ever tear you apart again. His hands then slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he tilted his face down to meet yours properly this time, kissing you with something painfully close to reverence.
It wasn’t hungry or desperate anymore—just slow and aching, pouring every unsaid apology into it.
The kiss deepened—soft, lingering, the kind that felt like a vow. Beelzebub’s hands cradled your face with near worship now, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones as if memorizing every detail all over again. When he finally pulled back, just enough to see your eyes—his own were still wet but steadier than before.
Then, he did something so unexpected even he seemed surprised by it.
He kissed you on the forehead next. A gesture tender and simple, one he’d never given anyone else in his long existence. Beelzebub’s lips lingered on your forehead—a silent prayer against your skin, his breath warm and uneven. When he straightened again, there was something new in his gaze, beneath his lingering grief, because you were here. You’d come back.
But when you didn’t speak a word after—infact you hadn’t uttered a word at all, he began to panic.
“Stop that,” he choked out, closing his eyes and swiping roughly at his own tears with the back of one hand while the other stayed curled possessively around you. “Say something,” he quietly pleaded. Yet his request was only met with your soft unmoving expression.
When he reopened his eyes and removed his hands, he was back on the bloodstained ground.
It was just a dream.
The world as he’d known it, the future he’d dared to believe in…all of it was gone now, snuffed out like a candle in the wind. He didn’t get up from the floor. Didn’t move, didn’t speak. The only sign that he was even still alive was the ragged, shaking breaths he took occasionally and the silent tear tracks trailing down his otherwise expressionless face.
Whether your immunity to curses wore off or you just never had it, there was one truth he was now sure of:
As long as Satan is within him, he will forever harm those he comes to love.
He will drown in self loathing and guilt for the rest of his existence.
A/N: help did yall fr think there was gonna be a good ending
anyways reqs are open and apologies again for mischarztation n mistakes! with exam season here ion have time to throughly edit and i was hella sleep deprived while writing ts 🧍♂️ low-key I'm js realising how many unnecessary em dashes I used but can we ignore that pls i had some obsession with em dashes or sum
there will probs be another beel fic but it might be angst idk oops
edit: BRO SOME OF Y'ALL NEED TO STOP ACCUSING ME OF USING AI IDK WHAT IN THIS FIC SCREAMED AI EXCEPT MAYBE THE EXCESSIVE AMOUNT OF EM DASHES BUT I JUST DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO USE THEM BACK THEN😿.
I DON'T USE AI OMG 🧍♂️🧍♂️🧍♂️"y-y-y-y-you AI generated this 🥺" I'M NOT GONNA ASK SOME AI TO "WRITE A FIC ABOUT BEELZEBUB FROM ROR SHOVING HIS FINGER DOWN YOUR THROAT " ALL MY FICS ARE AI FREE I SWEAR BRO I JUST LIKED EM DASHES BACK THEN STOPSPSPPSOSPPSPPSP NWOWOWNWO🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬❌❌❌🤬🤬❌🤬❌🤬
