The first night you and Satan had sex, he didn’t sleep a wink.
He kissed your neck in the afterglow, burying himself in your scent, listening to you catch your breath. Your chest caught the light as your lungs heaved in air, and the tiny moan you made when he shifted to a more comfortable position was music to his ears.
He helped you to the bathroom when you insisted you could walk. You leaned on his arm, and he happily supported your weight. He refused to let you clean yourself, instead telling you to relax. He washed you gently, making sure to get every bit of exposed skin. You shuddered when he reached the area in between your legs, and he stopped immediately to make sure he hadn’t hurt you.
He smoothed the covers around you once you got back to bed, making sure you were as cozy as you could be. Your head rested on his arm, your fingers on his chest. His hand rested lightly on your side, not putting its full weight on you, only hovering. His eyelids grew heavy, but he forced them open, waiting for your breathing to slow when you slipped into unconsciousness.
When he was sure you were asleep, he started to disentangle himself from you. He moved slowly, making completely sure he wouldn’t disturb your sleep. He pulled your hand away from his torso, replaced his arm with a pillow, and sat upright. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. He should be a gentleman, holding you in his arms beneath the blankets, basking in the intimacy of having his skin against yours in the darkness of night. Instead, he pulled his knees closer to his chest and watched you.
He’d read about men who watched their lover’s chest rise and fall while they slept. Yours barely moved, though, with the way you slept, curled up on your side. He was grateful for his demonic sight- he barely needed any light to make out your features. Your eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, your hair a tangled mess. Your mouth hung slightly open, with a tiny trail of drool snaking down your face and soaking into the pillowcase.
You were perfect. You were so perfect, and he was just a demon, watching you sleep. Instead of being chivalrous, protecting you from the world, he was sitting apart from you. He wasn’t touching you at all, letting the folds and creases of the blankets separate you from him. He wasn’t sure if he deserved to feel your skin.
Earlier, he could rationalize it away. You were getting something from the exchange- intimacy, pleasure, even the pride that came from the knowledge you were chosen by such a powerful creature. But now you were asleep, none the wiser to whether he was with you or not. If he laid down next to you now, there would be no pretense of mutual beneficence. No plausible deniability he could hide behind. No, the choice that he has laid out before him is a selfish one.
The question posed by your sleeping form is one he’s evaded since he could form a coherent thought. It’s not dressed up in whatever psychological terms he prefers, hidden from view by a thousand different layers of whisper-thin avoidance. It’s naked, as bare as he is on top of the mattress.
Does he deserve love?
Your love, specifically. But the answer to one question will resolve the other. Does he deserve to rest his muscles in your warmth? To risk waking you with his tossing and turning? To touch you, to hold you in his arms, and to trust himself that he will treat you with as much care as you deserve?
He can’t answer the question. Painfully, he realizes that his inaction is a choice in itself. The longer he sits here, watching you in all your beauty, the easier it is for him to decide that the answer is no. He doesn’t deserve you. Not the gentle touches you gave him as he tucked you into bed, not the gaze full of love that you use to devastating effect.
And yet… he’s a demon. He isn’t human, like you are. He doesn’t have that innate desire to balance giving and taking, to ensure that everyone else is having just as much fun as you are. He is not warm or inviting, he has none of your soft, fatty curves. He’s a filthy, degenerate, utterly selfish creature, who cares only for himself.
So he lays down beside you again. He makes sure you’re still secure beneath the covers, that his intrusion isn’t exposing you to cold air. He wraps one arm around your torso and tugs you just a bit closer, ears perking to the exhale that leaves your lips. He wipes the drool from your face and tucks your head beneath his chin, feeling your hair tickle his neck.
He doesn’t let himself sleep. He fights the pull of every part of his biology telling him that he is warm and safe. His eyes stay open, ears tuned to every breath in your lungs. Some instinctive part of him that he can’t quite name wants to fight against his body’s complacency. It wants to prove something: maybe if he can stay awake this time, protect you, attune to your being, he will begin to prove his worth.
As long as he can fight his nature, he might have a chance at deserving you.
EXPECTED CONTENT ➤ intended female reader, suggestive and sexual imagery, established relationship with Data Soong, cunnilingus, tasting of oneself.
WORD COUNT ➤ 790
To @trektracker — though short, I do hope you enjoy it. The captain’s chair scene is in the works.
His hands were cool against your skin, fingers outstretched and palms pressed. Each time you lay beneath him, Data was far too immersed—blinded by an ambition without reason. What remained of him was need, an unsettling want to prove and assure he was as natural a lover as any human man—how, if given enough time, you would want for nothing in his company. His need was not based on emotion, not innate as jealousy or primal as possession. What he needed was to excel, to prove you were right in choosing him.
“Data..?”
You whispered his name, curious as to why he had stopped.
His hands were now still, the zipper to your trousers within his grasp. There, on the bed, you lay half dressed—the top of your uniform discarded, brassiere undone.
“Apologies, I was—”
“Thinking?”
Between your legs, the android returned his gaze to your trousers, toying with its zipper before pulling it down. His actions were steady, voice calm as he spoke,
“I was retrieving a piece of literature. It is related to a method I wish to employ.”
“And what exactly are you about to employ, commander?”
You asked, unable to hide a hint of cheek in your tone.
Once more, the android paused—hands now firm on your waist. His lips were pursed, as if searching for the right words to use,
“It is my understanding, how before intercourse, there are certain acts done—such as erotic stimulation.”
“You mean foreplay?”
Amused, you propped yourself on your elbows and eyed him, curious about the kind of literature he read in his spare time. Soon, he met your gaze, his answer succinct.
“Precisely.”
Data then removed your trousers without another word, swift and without delay. The fabric rolled off from your legs with surprising ease, his fingers grazing your now bare skin.
“What exactly did you have in mind?”
You pried, fully aware of his intentions.
“It is better if I show you, lieutenant.”
His name fell like a heavenly orison, repeated in euphoric reverence—pitched to incoherent perfection. The sight of him between your bare legs, his mouth pressed against your weeping sex, was the picture of absolute sin. Even as you writhed and begged, his tongue remained on your sopping cunt, flicking the muscle forwards and backwards with feverish intent.
“O-Oh.. Data..!”
You whined, the sound so foreign as it escaped from your lips. Yet, as you continued to call his name, the android found himself desperate to hear more. To him, it became a chorus meant only for his ears—wrought from the pleasure his tongue and body could only give.
“Please—goodness—please, do not stop..!!”
Even before your pleas, the android was relentless in his pursuit—pressing his face deeper, even further if possible, against your wanton sex. The tip of his nose was now grazing your swollen bud, the friction so vicious, so delicious, as he continued his assault.
Frantically, your hands found purchase of his hair, fingers twining themselves into his darkened strands—nails scraping against his scalp.
Once again, as you neared the precipice, you enveloped your thighs around his head—tight as a vice and enough to choke a breathing man. Yet, like the first and second time you came, Data remained fervent in his service—not stopping once, long after you already finished.
Then, slowly, he inched away from your aching cunt, eyes still fixed on your slicked hole—almost mesmerized by the sight—until he met your haze-filled eyes,
“Was I sufficient?”
You could only manage a nod, watching him as his forefinger brushed against your slit,
“May I ask you a favor?”
Again, you nodded, willing to do whatever he asked. Then, with your approval, he plunged his finger deep until it reached his knuckle—the sudden intrusion a premature rapture.
Your mouth hang open, eyes staring to the ceiling as you felt the pressure within recede. He paid no mind to your protests or whimpers, only bringing his glistening digit to your lips,
“Because I do not possess the ability to taste, I would like you to describe it for me.”
Your eyes were fixed on his finger, the familiar shade of his golden skin further accentuated by the luster of your arousal. The thought of tasting yourself then describing it to him in detail—it was too tempting to resist.
So, without hesitation, you leaned forward and latched your lips, tongue swirling around the digit until it was licked clean.
“It’s… sweet, almost like biting into fruit… with a hint of musk and salt..”
His finger remained in your mouth, the tip of it now pressing on the bed of your tongue,
I like to think that once MC has a pact with the brothers, their eyes turn the color of their respective sin whenever MC is indulging in that sin/using their power. I love the color coding but also how many scenarios or fics crop up from it in my brain.
Imagine Mammon is worried about his cooking not being good enough for you until he sees your eyes go red as you take your first bite.
Or Lucifer sees you being insulted by a demon and he's worried you won't stand up for yourself, so he looks for the flash of green in your eyes.
Or Belphie makes a *questionable* noise while he stretches after waking up and barely catches the glint of pink before you turn away.
You had been out of service when he sent you those texts about an hour ago, and the typos in them had you worried. Solomon isn’t always perfectly dignified around you, but he tends to be a lot more indirect about asking you to spend time with him.
A tiny, pathetic sound comes from the living room of Purgatory Hall. You frown; was that Solomon? It almost sounded like a small animal, and you wouldn’t put it past the sorcerer to try and ply you with a new pet. Probably something with multiple rows of teeth, knowing him.
You peek around the corner to the living room, where you spot a familiar head of white hair. “Hey, Solomon, I’m-” your voice cuts off as you take in the disaster in front of you. The coffee table has been shoved to the far side of the room, crumpling the rug. The couch has also been moved out of the way, blocking the path to the kitchen and laundry room. Solomon kneels in front of his new centerpiece, a massive, ominous-looking circle drawn onto the floor. The candles set up around it denote it as a summoning circle, and you find the symbols for ‘earth’ and ‘human’ inscribed into the outer ring. A bottle of aged bourbon, nearly empty, sits dangerously close to the lit candles.
Solomon’s head shoots up when you speak, his hair catching the firelight. His cheeks are red, and his eyes are wet. “You- you’re here!” He laughs, sounding like he’s almost in disbelief. “You’re- did you- you came from the door?” He stands unsteadily, and you step forward to catch him if he takes a tumble. He takes the wrong hint entirely and launches into your arms, crushing you in a hug. The air is knocked from your lungs, and you struggle to take another breath, fighting against the constraints of his arms squeezing you.
“I saw your texts,” you wheeze out, and his hold loosens for a brief moment.
“Texts?” he asks, and you smell the alcohol on his breath in your close proximity. “I texted you?” he wonders, slurring his words at the ends.
“Yeah, you asked me to come back to you.” You pull up the chat history on your phone and show it to him. His face flushes an even deeper red.
“Oh. That.” He gives you a very unconvincing smile.
“Solomon, were you trying to summon me?”
He looks at you, then back at the summoning circle. A tiny pout forms on his lips. “It didn’t work.”
You laugh softly, extracting yourself from his arms. “I can see that.” You circle him and walk towards the middle of the room, taking care to step around the burning candles. He turns to watch you, and you can feel his eyes on you as you squat down to inspect his writing. From this angle, you can pick out your first and last name translated into demonic runes, the letters weaved into the inner ring. A small object you hadn’t seen earlier lies in the very center, and you can’t keep a smile off your face as you reach into the circle and grab it.
The tiny keychain dangles from your fingers. It’s a cheap piece of white plastic molded to look like a shooting star, with chunky glitter scattered across its surface. The glitter and the golden chain sparkle in the light, turning this way and that as you inspect it.
“I didn’t have a lock of hair or anything,” Solomon says defensively. “That was the only thing I had that was connected to you.”
“This is the thing I won for you at the academy, right?”
He nods, a fond smile spreading over his face. “They never disqualified humans from the Human Studies trivia contest, so I don’t know what they expected to happen,” he giggles. His long fingers take the keychain from you, and he holds it reverently in his hands, like it’s a precious artifact.
You let him admire it for a moment longer before breaking the silence. The smile on his lips is an easy one, not like the one you usually see. This expression has very little behind it, no whirling mass of thoughts and ideas and anxieties. It looks genuine, unguarded. You have half a mind to take a picture, but you settle for tracing his face with your eyes, carving every bit of it into your memory.
“Why’d you try to summon me?” you ask softly.
His face falls at the question, and you feel guilty for wrecking his peace. His fingers clutch the keychain a little tighter, like he’s scared someone might take it from him. His eyes rove around the floor, never moving to your face. “Just…” he frowns, trying to find the words. “Missed you.” His words are quiet now, almost whispering, and you take a step closer to him so that you don’t miss any of them.
“You meant what you said in that text, right?” you hedge, and the way his jaw tightens tells you you’re on the right track. “About the brothers taking me from you?”
He fiddles with the keychain, refusing to meet your eyes. “Yes. I meant it,” he says softly. His eyebrows are drawn together, his lips tight. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” You take another step, trying to bridge the distance that he’s suddenly putting between the two of you.
“I don’t have any right to you,” he says, smiling sadly. “Not like they do. You’re supposed to live with them for the exchange program. They’re the Avatars of Sin; they’re not really easy to say no to, even if you wanted to.”
You frown. “They don’t have a right to me, Solomon. I’m my own person; I can make my own decisions.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he shakes his head. “I mean, they can just ask you to do whatever, and you’ll do it because it’s them, you know?” His eyes start to fill with tears, and he tries to blink them away. “I thought- I hoped- maybe I could steal you for a night. Have dinner, do whatever it is they’re always doing with you.” He shakes his head again, like he’s trying to clear the thoughts out of his mind.
Your heart aches, looking at Solomon like this. Reduced to a tipsy mess because he felt ignored. It wasn’t fair to him; you could easily agree. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you can see the fog of alcohol starting to clear from his mind. His eyes dart around the floor, refusing to meet yours.
“Solomon, I’m sorry,” you start, trying to sound as sincere as possible. “I didn’t know you felt like this. I never meant to hurt you; I didn’t even realize how much you wanted to spend time with me-”
Your phone rings.
Solomon freezes. The little device vibrating in your pocket feels traitorous, like the very act of its jaunty ringtone is a betrayal to the man standing in front of you. Your hand pulls it out on instinct, and his eyes lock onto the glowing screen.
You tear your gaze away from Solomon's face, feeling a dense pit in your stomach. The screen is almost painfully bright, forcing your eyes to adjust from the candlelight. Mammon’s grinning face inhabits the little circle in the center of the screen.
Big Dumb Idiot is calling!
the screen proclaims proudly. Your phone vibrates again, startling you out of the tiny reverie you’d been lost in. Your heart is in your throat now, and all you can do is stand there and stare. You look back at Solomon, who meets your eyes. You can’t bring your mouth to form a single word. His eyes stare at your face, unblinking. Your phone vibrates.
He smiles. Just a small smirk, one you’ve seen a million times before. It’s an amused little smile, one you usually find on his face when he’s dealing with bloodthirsty demons or otherworldly threats. This time, though, there’s a sadness in his eyes, one so deep you think he might drown in it.
He chuckles softly, more of an exhale than a real laugh. “You should really get that, you know.” He gestures to the phone in your hand. “Sounds like someone important is waiting for you.” His voice is choked, filled with fake bravado. He turns around, steadier on his feet than he was just a few minutes ago. He bends to snatch the glass bottle from the floor, nearly knocking over a candle.
“Solomon-” you start, and he turns quickly. You take in another breath, ready to ask him to stay, when your phone makes a sad beep as the call disconnects. You curse under your breath, trying to unlock the screen. Your fingers shake slightly as you input the code, and when the missed call notification finally pops up, you pause before hitting the redial button.
You look up from the device to find that your screen is the only source of light in the room. The candles are extinguished, furniture left in disarray, and the sparkly little keychain lies on the floor in front of you. Solomon is nowhere to be seen. A shiver runs through your body, some primal part of your brain acknowledging that you are suddenly, deeply, utterly alone.
I dunno if this is still open but I saw you were looking for short requests? So Hmm, a silly little request? What about MC head bonking Satan like a cat would? Just like, when MC wants attention they just… head bonk
Tanks and toodles love!
YEAHH THANK YOU FOR THE REQ
to anyone who sees this- drabble requests are open for the forseeable future!
The first time you bonked your forehead into Satan’s arm, he nearly jumped out of his chair. “Excuse me?” he half-shouted, indignant. You snorted and gave him a sheepish wave. “I- what- how dare you.” He finished, and sat himself sharply back down in his seat. You were too close now, not having moved from headbutting range, and your knee was touching his thigh. Well, if you were trying to oust him from his spot, you ought to know you picked the wrong demon.
You lost interest and wandered away eventually, leaving him to think over your unusual behavior. He’d seen videos of goats and sheep from the human world headbutting their opponents- did you consider him an enemy? That might coincide with your invasion of his personal space earlier… the thought was almost laughable. You, a human, trying to assert dominance over one of the most powerful demons in the realm? You, with your bipedal structure, your weak neck muscles, and your frankly soft forehead? Please.
You did it again, and again, until it was happening almost daily. He noticed you would wait until he was engrossed in something else, then mount your attack. It was usually against his upper arm, but if one of you was at an awkward angle, you would choose the next best spot. These included his shoulder, the top of his chest, and once, the back of his head. He hated that one.
Occasionally, you would headbutt him multiple times in a row, for reasons unknown to him. You only seemed to stop when he was visibly annoyed, but his tolerance for your antics was growing day by day. His theory about asserting dominance was becoming less and less credible, since you never tried to increase your force or change to a different mode of attack.
He sighed, dropping his hand to stroke a stray cat on the outskirts of RAD grounds. He just couldn’t make sense of it. You had more than your fair share of strange human habits, but this one didn’t align with anything else he’d seen from you or any other humans. A squeak of a meow came from below his hand, and he idly felt around for the cat’s body. Thunk. A tiny head smacked into his knuckles, and several puzzle pieces fell into place.
You were trying to imitate a cat. You were behaving like his favorite animal so that he would show affection to you. Well- his brain struggled through that train of thought- that was ridiculous. You could always just ask for affection if you wanted it so bad. But even as he had the thought, he knew it wasn’t true. He would have scoffed at you, in his mind at least, if not to your face. So you had done the next best thing you thought of and acted like a cat.
The next time you did it, he was prepared. He had made himself a spot on the couch to read a book, leaving plenty of space at his side. True to form, you found him in only a few minutes. He tried not to smile as he realized you even stalked him like a cat, padding your way ever so slowly across the floor. You dropped into the cushions next to him and smacked your forehead into his arm.
He moved his hand behind your head and stroked your hair once. You froze. Satan kept his eyes on his book, but he could see you searching his face. You shifted to a more comfortable position, and Satan stroked your hair again. You sighed contentedly, leaning against his shoulder. He tried to fight the incredulous laughter bubbling up in his chest. All this time, this was what you’d been trying to get? Well, he considers… there were worse things than having a human at his side when he was reading. Much worse things.
I hc that the Devildom night/day cycle is a bit different, kind of as another overarching hc that everything just takes more time down there. I can't even remember when I came up w this but I think their days are 24 hours and nights are 12. So when MC comes into the picture they're awake hours before anyone else but they have to have a mandatory afternoon nap. This eventually results in unofficial HoL quiet hours to not incur the wrath of the human.
I'm imagining Mammon and Levi get into an argument not realizing it's MC's naptime, demon forms out and everything. Levi is facing the door and freezes mid-sentence. He locks eyes with his player two who looks strikingly like Belphie right now, and his tail wraps around his leg protectively. Mammon, not realizing what's going on, takes the opportunity to lay into Levi until he feels a hand on his shoulder. He whips around to see MC glaring at him with an anger he's never seen and they say, nearly in a whisper, "Mammon. Levi." The demons brace themselves. "Shut. The. FUCK. UP." And they turn around and walk back to their room.
Ever since that day every resident and visitor to the house start to check the clock when they haven't seen their human in a while. Even Lucifer gets shushed a couple times when he gets too passionate in his lectures, and as much as he hates being told what to do, the house remains quiet.
The people that Solomon loves never stick around forever. It's a fact he's had to accept time and time again over his life, that though he might see them in dreams or visions or memories, he will never have them by his side again. Sometimes he needs a reminder that you're still with him.
The first time you see Solomon after freeing Belphegor from the attic, he wraps you in his arms wordlessly. Almost subconsciously, his hand finds the hem of your shirt and slips beneath it. His long fingers find your waist and squeeze as he breathes shakily into your shoulder.
When the end of the exchange program comes, you notice how reluctant he is to let his hand fully drop from yours, even through your goodbyes to the brothers. You squeeze his hand and he smiles gently at you.
When he comes to collect you from the human world, he threads his fingers through your hair in a brief moment while you embrace. In that moment, you see him not as Solomon the Sorcerer, but as someone seeking assurance.
From then on, whenever you find him needing encouragement, all you have to do is brush his bare shoulder or stomach with your hand, and you can see the tension in his shoulders drop. Movie nights at Purgatory Hall are spent draped across each other as each of you basks in the warm bubble of comfort you've created. In the cold nights of the Devildom, your warmth is his refuge.
Okokok that Satan fic was incredibly cute and sweet!! I loved it so much! Thank you for writing it!
I promise I won’t spam your inbox but! Mammon and with MC that steals his hoodies and wears them around the house of lamentation. You can also tell me to go away lmao
T’anks, tooodles and loves!
❤️ Saori
ok this took longer than I thought but that's what I get for being important at work. I know this probably took a different (less cutesy) tone than what you were thinking of but that's where the words took me lol. drabble requests are still open! 1 in queue
Mammon’s closet is missing something. He knows exactly what he has in his room, and he definitely knows when something that should be there isn’t. Hm. Somebody should hear about this. Maybe they’ll confess. He sighs loudly, dramatically, hoping someone was close enough in the house to hear him. Then he sighs again, a little louder this time, just in case. He waits for a moment, ears perking for any noise. Nothing.
He rips open his door and slams it loudly, shoving his hands into his pockets so hard it nearly takes his sweatpants down to his ankles. “Shit!” he curses, hearing his voice ring down the hallways. Still nothing. Is everybody out of the house or something? He kicks at the carpet morosely and heads into the common room, hoping to spot somebody on the way. He stops mid-step, freezing in his tracks. Levi’s door is closed. He’s definitely in there.
Mammon considers trying to break down Levi’s door, but that hasn’t gone well when he’s tried before. Besides, his sweetie pie of a little brother should have some time to listen to his big bro’s troubles, right? So Mammon does the sensible thing and throws his full body weight against the door, rattling the hinges. “Man,” he groans, making sure his voice bounces all around the doorway. Silence. Is everybody just hell-bent on ignoring him today?
The carpet dips beneath Mammon’s feet ever so slightly. Someone is behind the door. “Levi? Let me in, c’monnn,” he drags out the last word.
“You know the rules,” the reply comes quickly. “No entry without a password.”
“Not even for your favorite big brother?” Mammon bats his eyelashes for added effect, even though he knows Levi won’t be able to see it.
“You’re only my second favorite big brother.”
Mammon grins. “But you have two big br- oh. HEY!” He slams on the door with a fist. “You oughta respect me some more! You know all those gacha games you love rely on how lucky you are, don’tcha?!” His rant is only met with more silence, and Mammon is left to seethe against a closed door. Wait- did he just catch a whiff of-
“LEVI!” he shouts. “YOU’RE THE ONE STEALING MY HOODIES?”
“As if I would ever wear your normie hoodies!” Levi fires back. “Leave me alone, Mammon. I’m busy.”
Greed stabs a hundred little knives into Mammon’s heart. Those are HIS hoodies. Bought with his money, gifted because of his charm, swindled with his dashing good looks- what does it matter? No one else can have them. Only him. Only Mammon. Everything should be Mammon’s, forever.
The doorknob rattles and turns. Mammon fills his lungs, ready to lash out with golden eyes and a silver tongue. But it’s not Levi. It’s you. With his hoodie hanging around your shoulders. And you do what’s probably one of the top ten stupidest things you’ve ever done.
You look him dead in the eyes, cross your arms, and tell him, “You’re not getting them back.”
Mammon splutters, red-faced. He’s indignant, jealous, righteously angry, and so, so flustered. “You- wh- you’re not- you can’t do that,” he says petulantly. He’s Greed. Not you. So why does he feel sort of okay with the fact that you just robbed him blind?
“I stole them fair and square,” you say defiantly. “It’s not like you were using them anyways. And look how long it took you to come looking for them. You only wanted them just to say you have them.”
Mammon’s brain stutters in confusion. Well, yeah. You’re right. What other reason would there be to want something? Wanting and having are pretty much the same thing in his book, so why are you getting all stubborn about this? “They’re mine,” is the only thing that comes out of his mouth, and he’s dimly aware of how his voice cracked on the last word.“Not anymore,” you decide, and walk straight past him out of the door. Your shoulder knocks against his, and he can’t help but take a whiff of your scent as you leave. Of all the audacious, off-the-wall, crazy things he’s seen you do, he didn’t think he’d see you go this far. Beel would share anything with you, Asmo practically begged you to steal his clothes, and even Satan would lend you most of his books. So the realization that you’d been stealing from him, greed personified… well. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel just a little special.
