It’s such a long walk when you got somewhere to be; I just thought maybe you were gonna walk with me (chapter eleven)
story summary: MC decides all of the student council is going to therapy and hell hath no fury like a prepared human. They’ve got highlighters and they’re not afraid to use them.
chapter summary: plans
pairing: Lucifer/gn!reader
rating: m
chapter wc: 1.3k
warnings: angst & trauma; small text only for description; gn!reader; possible spoilers; not proofread; author rifled in canon’s pockets for loose plot
a/n: surprise, i’m alive
title taken from “therapy” by dresage & g smith
previous | series masterlist | ao3
Only Mammon and Lucifer accompany you home.
Despite their lackadaisical attitudes, all of the brothers take Council duties seriously. Even openly anti-royal Belphie follows his twin towards downtown, drawing up a game plan about what businesses to hit up. It’s Levi’s mutterings about training regimens that worries you.
“Is it really going to come to violence?” you ask Lucifer when the third-born departs.
“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “None of us think it will, not even Diavolo. This is just Barbatos being…overcautious.”
Mammon throws an arm around your shoulders, one leathery wing following to hold you closer to him. “He’s always been like this–makin’ sure we’re prepared just in case.”
Lucifer secures the house with a wave of his hand over the front door. The dark blue pulse that shivers up the walls distracts you long enough for Mammon to toss you unceremoniously over his shoulder. His sharp bones dig into your hip with every step of the stairs.
“Hey!” You squirm in his hold, only to get flicked in the ear by a wing.
“Effective, though a bit rude not to ask first,” comments Lucifer blithely.
You’re deposited in a comfortable armchair before Lucifer’s desk. Mammon drags a second chair over, hooking his ankle with yours when he sits. The pride demon in front of you discards his coat, tie, and gloves. With the first two buttons of his shirt undone and the sleeves carefully rolled back, he might as well be stark naked.
He raises his eyebrow at your sound of surprise. “The only people capable of getting in the house, much less this room, are family and the royals.” He flicks his wrist, three pristine glasses appearing in front of each of you, while a bottle of Demonus slips off the shelf to pour itself.
“Breakin’ out the good stuff,” purrs Mammon. “Remind me to send those Celestial bastards a thank you card.”
Lucifer snorts. “Trust you to know when I’ve reached for ‘the good stuff’, Mammon.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
Before Mammon can work himself into a tizzy, Lucifer raises a hand. “It was a compliment, I assure you. Aside from Barbatos, you have the best nose for Demonus that I know of.”
“Oh.” Mammon blinks. The motion exaggerates how much of his face is taken up by his eyes, especially when a blush darkens his cheeks. “That why you always drag me shopping with you?”
Lucifer inclines his head.
They draw up babysitting schedules while you sip your drink and watch. Both of them are awkward, the conversation stilted and on the verge of turning into an argument. Having a goal probably helps, of course. But it’s more than they would have been capable of a few months ago. The point both of them can agree on is not allowing you outside for any reason.
“Don’t be absurd,” chastises Lucifer. “It’s a week in a massive manor surrounded by beings that adore you, not solitary confinement in Newgate.”
“Newgate was torn down like over a century ago, brother. Try to keep up with the times.”
You ignore Mammon’s laughter in favor of glaring at Lucifer. “I can admit wandering around town is a bad idea, but you’re keeping me from attending classes and visiting the castle. RAD is safe. The castle, where Diavolo sleeps, might I remind you, is safe.”
“You are not Diavolo,” says Lucifer, as if you might be confused about your identity.
“And what about Rissa?” It’s a low blow, but desperate times and all that. “I’m supposed to keep seeing her. All of us are supposed to keep seeing her.”
Lucifer frowns, contemplating the remaining liquor in his glass. “We will just have to resume our schedules after all of this has finished.”
“No.” Mammon’s voice is clear and sterner than you’ve ever heard it. “She’ll have to come here. With all of this shit…” He shakes his head before fixing his stare on his brother. “We’re gonna need her around more than ever.”
A shaky compromise is established, though it is contingent on Rissa and the royals agreeing. The therapist will take up residence in one of the empty guest rooms of the house, with another being used as her temporary office. Lucifer is against modifying the wards to accept her coming and going as she pleases, and constantly drawing them down and back up again is taxing on the matrix.
Or something like that. Satan joins you three eventually and Lucifer draws him into a discussion on the intricacies of warding. You only understand about every other word and half the time it sounds like they aren’t even speaking an existing language.
You’re saved by a cloud of perfume and a soft hand on your shoulder. “Come with me, sweetheart. They’ll be like this for hours.”
Asmodeus draws you out of the study and into his room, draping you in a soft afghan and bundling you into bed. With the main lights down and just the flickering fairy lights lit, it’s like being in a private garden.
Asmo lays next to you and looks up at the canopy of his bed. Full face of makeup, still in his outside clothes. The Avatar of Lust is troubled, something a creature made for beauty and pleasure should never be.
“Asmo?” You peer over at him in the near dark. “What did Barbatos mean?”
He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean and you’re thankful not to have to explain it. The butler’s words had nearly been missed by you in the chaos of the meeting, but now they echo around your head.
Perhaps he wants to meet the person who did what he couldn’t.
Of all the brothers, Asmo is probably the least likely to lie to save your feelings. Mammon and Levi would change the subject. Satan would give you a perfectly political answer that says absolutely nothing. Beel would pretend not to know. Belphie would just go back to sleep. And it’s not like you can just ask Lucifer, not with how high his emotions must be running.
Asmo closes his eyes and intertwines his fingers with yours under your blanket. “Michael was…is somewhat obsessed with Lucifer. I can’t speak to the whole of their relationship, but what I saw was intense. Lucifer had other duties, not just dealing with his little flock of siblings, so he could never give Michael his whole attention.” He turns over, fixing his sunset eyes on your face with a small smile. “And then there’s you, with Lucifer wrapped around your finger.”
“I don’t think that’s how it is.” Your brows pinch together. Lucifer still works too hard, still has his temper, and still has shit he needs to work through. If anything, you often feel like the one around his finger, bending to follow his shifting tides.
“You’ve gotten more out of him than anyone, honey,” Asmo points out. “Except for maybe Diavolo, but that’s different.”
All of this for a jilted lover? It leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Trite. How many lives and livelihoods hang in the balance while a pissy ex gets curious over the new face?
Some of your irritation must show on your face, because Asmo giggles, the sound a muted melody in the dim room. “That’s the Celestial Realm for you.” He shrugs. “Not sure why they frown on us for being ruled by our darker emotions when they’re the ones who can’t actually handle them.”
Jealousy you can work with, though. It’s a human-enough concept. An old flame finding about the new lover. It’s not like Michael can just stalk your social media to sate his curiosity. A plan begins to form in the back of your head; and just the demon you need for it is right beside you.
“Asmo, let’s go take your makeup off,” you say slowly, sitting up and discarding your blanket. “I’ve got an idea you’ll want to hear.”
note: taglist added in a reblog. i’m no longer accepting requests to be added to the taglist from ageless blogs. i post too much non-osha-compliant shit to feel comfortable with that. if you’d like to get added to the taglist please make sure to have your age on your page before you ask~
It’s such a long walk when you got somewhere to be; I just thought maybe you were gonna walk with me
a/n: yah, @inb4belphienaps is an enabler. i’ve been threatening to send them all to therapy and here’s the start of that ig
summary: MC decides all of the student council is going to therapy and hell hath no fury like a prepared human. They’ve got highlighters and they’re not afraid to use them.
pairing: could be lucifer/reader, but i’m leaving it gen for now.
warnings: none; small text only for description; gn!reader; possible spoilers since author can’t remember when shit happened in canon; not proofread/betaread; author is a psychology grad student which is its own warning.
current rating: t; may change once later chapters come up, especially with belphegor.
wc: ~1.6k for this chapter. others should be longer i hope
title taken from “therapy” by dresage & g smith
Diavolo clears his throat, shuffling a few documents in front of him idly. “If there are no other concerns, we can—“
“Actually, I have something I wanted to suggest?” You raise your hand from the far end of the conference table.
Nine pairs of eyes lock in on you, a few surprised you would interrupt Diavolo in a formal meeting. You square your shoulders and focus on the prince.
“Please, go ahead,” he says with a gentle wave of his hand.
“Satan reported that the school extracurriculars are in the black this semester given the successful fundraising fair held after midterms.” You pause to look at the demon in question, who nods. “I know that extra funding is earmarked for gym upgrades, but is that a necessity?”
Beel sets aside his fifth granola bar and hums. “We did some upgrades last year and nothing is really out of date. I was thinking of replacing the flooring in the wrestling team’s practice room, but that’s just because of a few small tears.”
“Ooh, whatcha plannin’, human?” asks a grinning Mammon.
“Nothing you’ll find fun,” you say before he can get ahead of himself.
Diavolo leans forward, intrigued at the turn the conversation’s taking. “What did you have in mind?”
You brace yourself. It’ll be a hard sell, even for the most level-headed of the demons. Though you’ve practiced your speech, it’s far more daunting than you expected.
“Given the recent upheavals, stressful situations, and past traumatic experiences that the student council has dealt with, it would be prudent for the funding to instead be used for outside resources to be brought in to ensure no lasting damage has occurred.”
You manage not to stutter nor mumble. While the nine of them stare at you with mostly blank faces, you’re just happy your words came out coherent. Lucifer is the first to recover.
“This is why you were so dedicated to coming to the meeting today,” he says rather than asks. It had been a bit of a fight to get him to let you tag along for a “boring budgeting meeting”.
“Therapy,” clarifies Satan. “You want the entire student council to attend therapy with the extra money.”
“Oh fuck n—“
Asmo reaches over to smack Mammon on the head. “No cursing in meetings, idiot.”
A hint of a smile touches Barbatos’ lips as he watches the realization settle over the others. Even Diavolo makes a face of distaste at the idea. You keep your eyes on the butler, well aware of who really holds the reins around here. When the rest of the table descends into small arguments, he winks one vivid green eye at you.
“Gentlemen,” you start calmly. No one pays you any mind. Levi looks close to tears as Asmo and Mammon bicker on either side of him. “Hey! Don’t make me use the pacts!”
Silence prevails. Lucifer and Satan pull back from each other with red-tinged faces. Even Belphie is wide awake and sulking from his place next to an uncharacteristically somber Beel. Diavolo flushes when you train the same glare on him you usually save for the brothers.
“If we could get back to the matter at hand,” suggests Barbatos.
“MC, I don’t think you realize just how delicate a situation like that would be,” says Lucifer.
Diavolo nods. “Many of the things you’re alluding to would be considered state secrets at best. Finding qualified counselors who could pass the clearance checks required would be incredibly difficult.”
This one you prepared for. You owe Solomon a favor now, but he promised it wouldn’t be anything too weird. You stand and rummage through your bag, tossing a heavy tome onto the table, followed by a thick manila folder. Even Hell has proper office stationary, apparently.
“Good thing I took the preemptive measure of finding such therapists, as well as the vows one could take to ensure secrecy,” you chirp. “Who knew demonic medical texts could be so interesting?”
You flick the book open to a section titled “Patient-Clinician Confidentiality Vows” and slide it down the table to Diavolo. Next, you pull out your carefully crafted list of demonic counselors and send it to Barbatos. Finally, a schedule for individual and group meetings—color-coded and triple-checked against classes and extracurriculars—is passed down to Lucifer.
“You’ve broken the group meetings down strangely,” he says after a moment.
“Not at all,” you counter. “I’ve identified the most stressed relationships within the group and planned accordingly. The actual therapists might make changes; this is just a hypothetical mock up.”
Belphie glances at you from under his bangs. “When did you get time to do all of this?”
“Some of us don’t sleep 20 hours a day.”
The youngest demon scowls at you, but there’s no heat in it. He presumably hasn’t seen that you’ve listed your relationship with him as one needing extra attention. That’ll be a fun conversation.
“It seems like you’ve thought of everything,” says Diavolo cautiously. He trades reading material with a stunned Lucifer. “But why have you included Barbatos and myself?”
You try not to fidget as the bomb drops that you’ve basically said the two most powerful demons in hell need therapy. “Both of you are involved in the recent…situations,” you hedge.
“That’s not everything, though.” Barbatos raises a brow at you in a challenge. Come on, say it outright, it seems to convey.
You inhale sharply. To hell with diplomacy. “Fine. Diavolo has been sheltered and isolated his entire life from what I understand. You have been in a constant state of servitude for millennia. The very idea of you taking a single day off nearly sent you both into hysterics. Nevermind the co-dependent flavor of that, but neither of you seems able to exist outside of your roles.”
“MC,” barks Lucifer in reproach. You ignore him in favor of staring down Diavolo.
“I have had lunch with you nearly every day for almost a year and you still were shocked when I referred to you as a friend two weeks ago,” you continue. “And Barbatos, I came over last month to hang out—not follow you around doing chores I know you could have delegated.”
Exactly how many humans could get away with mouthing off at the Duke of Hell and the future Demon King? One, apparently, since neither appears pissed off.
“MC, that’s enough,” snaps Lucifer.
You fix your eyes on him. “Don’t get me started on you too.”
It’s no secret you’re softer on the eldest brother than you are on the rest of them. Your relationship took some time to reach this point of mutual respect, but Satan and Belphie kicked you out of the Anti-Lucifer League a while ago. It was very dramatic; they even confiscated your personalized member pin.
Your pact mark with Satan warms on your skin, snapping you out of your staring contest with Lucifer. Wrath isn’t going to be the way to win with him now.
“We can talk about this later,” you say with far more calm than you feel. “But the overall plan is sound and would be beneficial from an interpersonal standing and a governing perspective.”
Levi, of all people, nods. “I have something similar set up in the Navy. After a hard or stressful mission, I make sure the regiment gets counseling and proper debriefing. It usually results in the team being more effective together on their next mission anyway.”
Right. He helms the entire Royal Navy. Easy to forget when he’s tapping away at his gacha games in a Ruri-chan shirt.
“If there is no more discussion, can we move to a vote?” suggests Barbatos. “MC, as the presenter, you’ll be excluded from the vote.”
You nod and take your seat. Crystals the size of your fist appear in front of each demon seated at the table.
“All in favor?” asks Diavolo.
The previously dim crystals glow with the color of their respective demon’s magic. Diavolo’s looks like it holds black fire. Shimmering teal radiates from Barbatos’. The next to light is a deep orange, then a deep red. Asmo’s pink somehow manages to look as petulant as the pouting demon himself. The sickly green you associate with Satan flares into existence. Mammon huffs before his crystal alights with a cheerful gold. The youngest demon in the room closes his eyes and flicks his finger, spinning a lazy purple within his crystal.
Only Lucifer is left. He ignores the other council members in favor of looking at you. Backing down from his stare would be a mistake. Instead, you lift one eyebrow in a mockery of the expression he often wears. His assent isn’t needed for the vote to pass, but it means something to you.
He was the reason you had the idea in the first place.
Lucifer frowns, though his pact mark twinges. He can keep his mask of reluctance, but you know he is proud of the way you’ve handled this—the way you’ve handled him.
You let yourself smile in satisfaction as the last crystal glows royal blue.
“The motion passes,” announces Diavolo. “MC, Barbatos and I will take it from here on planning. Everyone should expect their appointment schedules within the week.”
The meeting is dismissed without further discussion. Lucifer retreats to his room with dinner and speaks to no one for the rest of the night.
This is a process, you remind yourself as you fall asleep without your usual post-dinner quiet time with the eldest.
You can only hope that you don’t push him away for good in trying to help.
It’s such a long walk when you got somewhere to be; I just thought maybe you were gonna walk with me (chapter ten)
story summary: MC decides all of the student council is going to therapy and hell hath no fury like a prepared human. They’ve got highlighters and they’re not afraid to use them.
chapter summary: student council meetings and an unexpected request.
pairing: Lucifer/gn!reader
rating: m
chapter wc: 2.5k don't @ me i'm tired
warnings: angst & trauma; small text only for description; gn!reader; possible spoilers; not proofread; author rifled in canon’s pockets for loose plot
title taken from “therapy” by dresage & g smith
previous | series masterlist | ao3
“No, no, you’ve got it totally backwards,” exclaims Levi, pausing the anime you’re watching and waving his hands. “The love interest is never the redhead! They’re always the red herring before the main character picks the other one!”
You roll your eyes. “That pun was so bad, I’m taking custody of Henry 2.0 for the next month. He doesn’t need to be around to hear this crap.”
“How are you going to lug his tank into your room?” asks Beel around a mouthful of chips.
“Obviously, I’m going to get you to carry it.”
A sharp knock on Levi’s door precedes Satan ducking his head in. “Guys, a Council meeting has been called.”
“When?” groans Levi. “We just started season two and it’s getting good!”
“Now. Get dressed and be in the foyer in ten minutes,” says Satan before disappearing again.
Unusual. The situation is very odd. Usually, you’re given at least a day’s notice before a meeting. Everyone’s schedules are so packed that it’s impossible to do otherwise. Something must be wrong for Diavolo and Barbatos to call a meeting so suddenly.
Anxiety shoots into your fingertips as you hurry across the house and into your room. Very little disturbs the royals, not with their ranks and power levels. Is there a threat? Some kind of coup forming? There’s been backlash to the exchange program and some of the aristocracy isn’t happy about how human- and angel-friendly Dia can be.
No, that can’t be it. Chances are, you wouldn’t be included in such a meeting. Your status as a Council Member is hazy and there are times when your presence isn’t needed. You’ve been outright excluded from some of the more confidential meetings. Satan didn’t say Simeon or Solomon are on their way to keep you company, so you must be included. You’re part of whatever this is.
You don’t bother doing up your jacket or finding a tie. The trek from Levi’s room ate up most of your allotted time on its own, and if someone throws a fit, they can fix you up themselves.
Your fingers stall as you lace your boots.
Simeon. Angels.
Fuck.
“Thank you for joining us on such short notice,” greets Diavolo after he opens the meeting. “I’m aware that you are all quite busy, and your presence is appreciated.”
“Of course, my lord,” says Lucifer, glaring at his brothers like he’s daring them to disagree.
There’s tension in the room. The edges of Diavolo’s smile are too forced. Barbatos’s face is so neutral it looks painful. Belphie is awake, eyes staring hard at the royals.
A childhood book flashes to your mind. Something is not right.
“What’s happened?” you ask, words sharper than you intend.
Diavolo sighs, his ever-present grin softening a tad. “Always so straight to the point.”
“As some of you may be aware, the Celestial Realm has been…difficult as of late,” says Barbatos.
Mammon shifts a coin across his knuckles, the gold nearly a blur in his relentless energy. “When are they not?”
“They’re always complaining about something,” bemoans Asmo. The nail file in his delicate hands looks more like a weapon than a tool. “Last time I sent a report over, I got a whole thesis back on proper font choices.”
“Silence.” Lucifer’s voice doesn’t raise beyond a normal speaking tone, but all of his brothers jump.
Diavolo clears his throat. “As Barbatos was saying, they’ve refused to continue with trade negotiations until their demands have been made.”
Several curses and grumbles pop up around the table, fury evident on all faces.
“Those little–”
“How fuckin’ dare they–”
“–need to trade just as we–”
“High and mighty bastards–“
You snap your fingers, pushing enough magic into the act to make a small explosion. “Gentlemen. Let them finish.” The silent threat of what happens to those who disobey hangs in the air.
Lucifer casts you a thankful glance, while the others wear various shades of shame.
“How did we ever get through meetings without you?” asks Diavolo, rubbing his temples.
“Loudly,” drawls Barbatos. “Now, their demands are quite simple. In fact, it is just a single demand, but it is one we have fought against as hard as we could.”
Neither of the royals are looking at you. Fear bubbles under your skin, sickening and feverish. Something is not right.
“MC, would you silence the brothers with your pacts, please?” Diavolo keeps his eyes on his hands.
Lucifer startles a bit. “My lord?”
“All of them, MC,” repeats the subdued prince.
“Quiet.”
You’re hyperventilating, somewhere outside your body and watching from another perspective. This is what it feels like to panic. This is what fear feels like. Heart racing distantly, mouth dry, eyes wide, hands clutching the sleeves of your coat.
A cool pulsing starts on the middle of your thigh before spreading over the rest of you. Rhythmic and consistent, the chill washes through you like the ocean’s waves. It settles your frantic heart and evens out your breathing. The current takes your adrenalin with it as you come back to your body.
Levi’s eyes glow in the dim light of the room. You smile at him, tasting saltwater on your tongue. He nods once and ducks his head to hide his blush. The waves fade to the background, but never fully leave you.
“What’s the request?”
Diavolo looks up from his hands, his expression grave and tired. He finally looks his age–ancient, with every year present on his youthful face. “Michael wants to meet with you.”
Mammon’s hands slam down to the table, yet they fail to connect with the surface. Your order had been vague enough to keep them from making any noise. He trembles with impotent rage, fangs lengthening to press dangerously to his lips.
He is the most obvious in his displeasure, though Asmo is a close second. The lust demon shifts his form, gorgeous in his monstrous anger. Wings sharper than any blade flutter behind him as if searching for prey to slice.
Satan and Lucifer are the calmest, if you didn’t know them. The former’s breathing is restricted to a calming pattern, though his horns flash in and out of existence on his head. The latter is still, not even his chest rises. It’s only when you look at the claws tearing into his palms that you see his unease.
“Why?” Your voice is dull, even to your own ears.
“We don’t know,” confesses Diavolo, shaking his head.
Barbatos scoffs. “Perhaps he wants to meet the person who did what he couldn’t.” Distaste drips from his every word.
“Barbatos–”
The butler is unfazed by his master’s chastising. “He’s never stopped with his obsession and you know it. This has nothing to do with the exchange program or trading. It has everything to do with the brothers.”
You don’t miss his pointed look at Lucifer.
“When?” You direct the question at Diavolo, as Barbatos’ simmering rage isn’t something you want to touch with a ten foot pole.
Six silent demons erupt in a flurry of hand-waving and mouthed words. You keep your eyes on the exhausted prince in front of you.
“Soon,” he admits. “We’ve tried to avoid this as best as we could, but they won’t budge. Probably by the end of the month.” He turns to Barbatos. “Can you check for the most likely time?”
Your fury and fear will come later: when nine demons aren’t relying on you to stay calm. You can fall apart and rage when Beel isn’t shaking and Mammon isn’t green in the face. When Lucifer looks like he’s actually breathing.
Barbatos’ pupils shrink to catlike slits, green shining eerily out from under his fringe. His lips press together in a harsh line. “We’ll be lucky to get a week.”
“Gimme that,” you snap at Belphie on your right, holding out your hand for his untouched stationary set. He jolts in his seat, coming out of some daze, before he passes it over.
To Whom It May Concern,
I welcome the opportunity to meet with representatives from the Celestial Realm. My interactions with the Celestial exchange students have been wonderful. Given my status within the Infernal Realm, I would require two attendants. Being mortal necessitates security wherever I go, no matter the realm I am in. I am sure you can understand the need, as the pact-bond between sorcerer and demon is quite intense. I would hate for my demons to be hurt by any harm done to me.
I look forward to a meeting at the Demon King’s Castle with your representatives, Prince Diavolo, Duke Barbatos, myself, and my attendants. Hopefully, Simeon and Luke may attend, as I am sure they would love the chance to see some familiar faces. Please send your reply by way of Duke Barbatos.
Sincerely,
MC
Council Member, Royal Academy of Diavolo
You flick the letter to Satan after you finish, cancelling the command on him in the process. “Well?”
“Clever,” he says with a nod. “You’ve reached out as an equal and emphasized your status. The threat that we would be hurt by someone hurting you is a good touch. Whom are you going to bring?”
Barbatos stretches across the table to snatch the paper. “Michael can’t challenge me directly, nor can he keep me out of the meeting.”
“I was thinking Mammon and–wait, what?” You turn on the still-fuming butler. “What do you mean by that?”
You’ve never seen Barbatos’ other demon forms. The delicate horns and split tail are all you know, but you were a fool to think it was all he had to offer. Barbatos widens his mouth in a mockery of a grin, sharp black and white teeth filling more space than they should. His smile stretches beyond what should be physically possible–nearly reaching his ears. The fragile-looking horns form a crown of bonelike wings; they twitch and shudder, like hands flexing before snatching prey.
His eyes and tails–plural in this form–glow with something akin to bioluminescence. Old magic radiates with a dark pulse. No, Michael couldn’t challenge this creature. God himself probably couldn’t.
“Point taken,” you reply, raising an eyebrow. “You’re making Levi nervous, by the way.”
Barb shakes his head, dispelling the shift. The poor envy demon next to him sighs in relief.
“My apologies, Leviathan.”
Diavolo looks between you and his butler with a curious glance before likewise shaking his head. “As you were saying, Mammon and…?”
“Perhaps we should allow the others a chance to give their input?” asks Satan with a pointed look at you.
Truthfully, that sounds like a bad idea. None of them really know the meaning of “chill”. You wave a hand anyway and hope for the best.
You are instantly proven right. Mammon, Asmo, and Levi begin shouting their opinions while Beel and Belphie wait for their own opportunities. Lucifer won’t look at you, nor does he say anything.
“One at a time or, so help me, I’ll find a way to ground you,” you growl into the chaos. Their panic and emotions are bleeding into yours. Even Levi’s waves don’t take all of it away completely.
Your words seem to enact the pacts. All of them except Mammon are instantly quiet.
“–terrible fuckin’ idea,” he continues. “No fuckin’ way am I allowin’ ya anywhere near those bastards.”
“We don’t have a choice, Mammon,” sighs Diavolo. “If we can’t trade with them, we’ll lose access to many ingredients we rely on for healing.”
Barbatos nods. “That’s not even to mention how the economy will crash based on the loss of the non-necessities. You know the financial situation of the realm better than anyone. Think this through, Mammon.”
Heavily ringed fingers tap out a staccato rhythm on the table as Mammon’s eyes unfocus. Levi makes a move across the table towards his brother, but Asmo catches his wrist with a hiss. “Let him think, dummy!”
Eventually, Mammon looks up from the table with a grimace. “Barbatos is right. A week is a generous guess, to be honest. Any longer and we’re gonna have the lower classes in uproar. They’re already feelin’ the strain.”
“Satan, Asmo, I want you two starting up public events for charitable works in the coming days,” orders Diavolo, the Monarch in his voice. “Clothing, food, money, whatever–you’re both popular enough to get the upper classes in a frenzy if you try.” He turns to the twins. “Beel, Belphegor, I trust you two can work with local businesses to support Asmo and Satan’s work.”
Barbatos passes Levi a folder. “New recruits I’ve personally vetted. See that they’re up to speed as quickly as possible.”
“And us?” asks Lucifer, gesturing between him and Mammon.
“They’re with me, right?” Nine heads swivel in your direction. “Chances are that if there is going to be an attack, it’s going to come while we’re scrambling to prepare for their arrival–and dealing with the economic fallout.”
For all the Infernal Realm’s power and might, they are still under the thumb of the Celestial Realm. “Separate but equal” is a nice thought, but it’s not true in practice. The demons need the angels more than the angels need the demons.
“Yes,” says Diavolo with a nod. “I don’t want you going anywhere unaccompanied by both of them.”
Mammon’s typical grumbles don’t even register as you cock your head. “The only angels in the realm are those in Purgatory Hall.”
“We can’t discount the possibility that one of them could harm you on Celestial authority,” murmurs Satan.
That doesn’t feel right. While your relationship with Luke is a bit strained (due to your closeness with the seven brothers), you very much consider Simeon a friend. “They wouldn’t–”
“Even Luke could be a lethal threat against you,” says Barbatos. Something like grief passes over his features before that cold neutrality returns. “Solomon will train you in defense, just to be safe.”
Lucifer still hasn’t spoken.
“If there is nothing else, we can adjourn.” Diavolo rises from his seat. “Pass all communication through Barbatos or Lucifer, unless it is something urgent.” There is nothing of your friend in his face or demeanor; in this moment, he is solely the Devil’s Heir.
As sad as it is, the Prince can protect you better than Dia can.
A gloved hand clasps yours as your group leaves the council room. Lucifer’s expression is blank, reserved, and far away, but he holds onto you tightly. You decide not to push, especially as you’re still in public. You squeeze his hand in yours twice. I’m right here. I’m still here. You’re not alone.
Lucifer repeats your gesture, and you know the message was understood.
note: taglist added in a reblog. i’m no longer accepting requests to be added to the taglist from ageless blogs. i post too much non-osha-compliant shit to feel comfortable with that. if you’d like to get added to the taglist please make sure to have your age on your page before you ask~
It’s such a long walk when you got somewhere to be; I just thought maybe you were gonna walk with me (chapter eight)
story summary: MC decides all of the student council is going to therapy and hell hath no fury like a prepared human. They’ve got highlighters and they’re not afraid to use them.
chapter summary: A trip to see the royals and a surprise meeting with a certain celestial being.
pairing: Lucifer/gn!reader
rating: m
chapter wc: 3.3k
warnings: angst & trauma; small text only for description; gn!reader; possible spoilers; not proofread; descriptions of violence/death; author takes liberties with canon
title taken from “therapy” by dresage & g smith
previous | series masterlist | ao3
Your group separates when you return home. Most disappear into their rooms, except for Mammon and Asmo. The second-born mutters something about the casino before he’s gone again, while the fifth-born grabs a bag and heads for Purgatory Hall. You’re left standing in the common room wondering what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.
Rissa left no room for arguments with her homework assignment; you need to write a letter too.
But who have you harmed? You haven’t wronged anyone in a way that would warrant a whole apology letter. Well, you snapped at Beel last week for eating the rest of your leftovers. And you threw a pen at Satan for bitching about you making notes in your book a few days ago. You’re not the nicest person in the morning, so there’s a whole list of offenses you’ve committed before you’ve properly woken up. But those are petty things–small fry compared to everything else in the house.
It probably wouldn’t count if you wrote letters over things like that. Rissa would frown at you.
You haul yourself off your bed with a groan. This is more work than the pile of essays you’re ignoring. You need a distraction or at least another pair of eyes on this. The contacts list in your D.D.D. is hilariously short, but you scroll anyway, hoping for inspiration. Your thumb rests on Diavolo’s name. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, not unusual with his schedule, but you could use a little sunshine.
“MC? Is everything alright?” he asks when he picks up.
“Yeah, I just wanted to see if you were busy today.” You hesitate before continuing, “We haven’t hung out in a bit.”
A wave of loneliness hits you as you speak the words. You miss him terribly, you realize with a frown. When it became clear that Diavolo was desperate for true friendship, you made it a point to spend time with him. Lucifer huffed about propriety, of course. Some of the others (Belphie, mostly) muttered about prissy stuffed shirts. The general consensus was you should spend your time with them, not any other demons.
You pay them no mind, not when Diavolo beams at you for remembering something he said offhand or when you can hear your own slang come out of his mouth.
Diavolo sighs in the phone. “I know. I’m drowning in paperwork at the moment, but you’re welcome to come over, if you don’t mind me working. I’m sure I can convince Barbatos your presence is an incentive, not a distraction. And he’d love to see you as well, of course.”
You’re shoving your laptop and books into a bag before he finishes the invitation. “Send a driver?”
True to form, Barbatos is amused when he greets you in the foyer. You probably look a wreck compared to him, but you’ve grown out of feeling awkward in the castle. Your scuffed shoes have wandered these halls far too often to feel out of place.
“The Young Master said you’re here to act as an incentive?” asks the butler with a raised brow, taking you by the arm and leading you further into the castle. “He does realize that excuse has long stopped working, yes?”
“Let him have this,” you laugh. “He sounded miserable on the phone.”
“True enough. The meetings have been…interesting for us all.”
You glance over at him, but Barbatos’ face reveals nothing. Truthfully, you expected Rissa to get nothing out of either of the royals. Long established habits of privacy and silence are hard to break. The implication that the two of them are actually participating is not something you can currently address, so you let it pass.
“Tell me about it. I think I’ve seen Rissa’s office more often than my own bedroom at this point,” you say.
You’re rewarded with a low chuckle before Barb raps lightly on the door to Diavolo’s office and brings you both inside. The prince looks up and smiles when he sees you. He stands, greeting you with a hug and gestures for you to sit. This is familiar. Your preferred armchair waits for you in front of his desk, rather than the usual chair. A cup of something that smells mouthwatering sits on the side table, as does an extension cord for your laptop.
Barbatos excuses himself, leaving the two of you alone with a small smile.
“It’s so good to see you,” sighs Diavolo. He gestures at the mess on his desk. “It has been one hell of a week.”
He definitely looks like he’s been put through the wringer. His hair is mussed, probably from running his hands through it–a frustrated habit of his. His coat and tie have long since been discarded, leaving him in his button-down with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. You narrow your eyes at that detail. Usually, he’s meticulous about rolling them up properly.
What concerns you the most are the dark smudges under Diavolo’s eyes. Demons require less sleep than humans and the prince is no average demon, but even he needs rest occasionally.
“When’s the last time you slept, Dia?” you ask quietly.
As always, the nickname brings a light to his eyes. They seem to glow slightly in the candlelight. His happiness dims as your words register. He tilts his head back, glaring at the ceiling. There’s a smudge of ink on his jaw. “You sound like Barbatos.”
You huff. “So, someone who cares about you?”
“I am fine,” he says, closing his eyes. “The Celestial Realm has just been difficult in working out a trade deal, nothing more.”
“They’re always difficult,” you counter. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be sleeping.”
Diavolo shakes his head slowly, but he doesn’t argue. You grab a tissue from the box on his desk and dip it in his water glass. The prince doesn’t move as you get up and round the expanse of his desk. If it weren’t for the tense expression on his face, you might think he had fallen asleep.
“You’re a mess, Dia.”
The ink is stubborn, but you manage to scrub most of it away. Diavolo keeps his eyes closed while you fuss, smoothing out his hair and fixing his sleeves. Part of you wonders if he’s just that used to other people taking care of him or if he’s just comfortable with you. This isn’t the first time you’ve reached out and touched him casually. You make it a point to treat him no different than you would treat any of your other friends, rank and status be damned.
When he’s finally presentable again, you poke his cheek. “Up. We’re going outside.”
The intense gold of his eyes never fails to surprise you, as does the peculiar slit shape of his pupils. He rolls his head to look at you blearily. “Barbatos is going to throw a fit if I don’t get this all done today.”
“And he can take it up with me,” you retort. “Now get up because I physically can’t carry you.”
Diavolo snorts, probably at the mental image of you hauling him around, but he follows you out to the gardens. His worries about the butler are unfounded. A small stack of folded blankets and a picnic basket wait for you both under a large wisteria tree. You spread the blankets out, making sure there’s enough length for Diavolo to lay down. When you sit crosslegged and point at your lap, he frowns.
“Gimme your head,” you say.
“MC, what–”
You tug on his pant leg until he complies, resting his head in your lap with a confused expression still marring his face. The bemusement melts away when you start to push his hair back, dragging your nails across his scalp. Immediately, Diavolo closes his eyes and lets out a sigh.
Barbatos may make sure his charge is taken care of physically, but the emotional aspect often gets neglected. All of them are so touch-starved it makes your heart hurt; Diavolo is probably the worst of them all. He practically purrs under the attention, tilting his head into your hand.
The butler has mentioned before how young the prince is from his perspective, though he’s young for a demon anyway. When you asked for a translation, he explained Diavolo is akin to a human in their early twenties. Far too young for the amount of responsibilities he has and even younger to be constantly alone.
“Just rest, Dia.”
He’s already drifting off, one hand reaching up to slip into your free hand. A gentle squeeze is the only thing you get from him for a long while.
Simeon finds the pair of you under the wisteria tree.
“A little bird told me you were here,” he says with a cryptic smile, sitting next to you on the blanket.
Diavolo doesn’t stir beyond a deep sigh full of contentment. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest stays consistent despite your new guest. Simeon’s face softens at the sleeping prince in your lap. “We have our differences, but he’s quite sweet like this, no?”
You hum in agreement, continuing to run his brilliant red hair through your fingers. It’s soft to the touch, no doubt the work of a retinue of expensive products and Barbatos’ magic. As hard as you find it to believe such a vibrant shade is natural, carmine spills untainted. The only aberration is his dark, full eyelashes.
“Did you have a meeting with him?” you ask quietly.
Simeon shakes his head. “No, I just had a feeling you might want to talk. Asmodeus told Solomon about the true meaning of all the secretive meetings the council has been taking. He blabbed to me, naturally.” The angel shrugs delicately.
“It’s been one hell of a week.” You keep your voice muted even as you laugh. “I have to write an apology letter to a housemate I’ve wronged, apparently. I can’t think of anyone to write to.”
“Have you wronged any of them?”
And there lies the issue. No, not really. You’re curious to a fault, but your nosing around in the family secrets wasn’t for nothing. Did Lucifer really expect you to just blindly follow orders after you’d been dropped into a strange situation? Probably. But that was his mistake, not yours. And the two of you talked out that period in your lives. Unless he was lying, which was unlikely, Lucifer was fine with everything that happened.
“Not that I can think of?” you reply hesitantly.
Simeon picks up a fallen wisteria stem, twisting it in his fingers. “Is there anyone in the house you can think of that you’ve done wrong to?”
His wording is strange. On the surface, he’s just restating his original question. There’s more to it, though—another layer underneath the casualty that you can’t quite pick apart. You start to ask him to clarify, but Diavolo stirs under your hands.
“Time is it?” he mumbles, face scrunching in a truly impressive yawn. The thick, long fangs make him look like a lion waking up from a nap under the sun.
“It’s only been a few hours,” you assure him with one last pat on the head.
Diavolo blinks, peering up at you with heavy lids. “You should have woken me. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You needed it, especially considering you were out in minutes,” you tease, just to watch the embarrassment creep over his face.
When you look over to Simeon, he’s gone. The bloom he’d been fiddling with is the only trace the angel was ever there.
The royals ask you to stay for dinner and you can’t find a reason to say no. Not that you want to, of course. Spending time with the two of them is a rare treat. They’re a pleasant distraction from the drama at home.
Home. It’s still strange that you consider the House of Lamentation home. Your room feels more like you than anywhere else you’ve lived, especially when you can hear the others puttering around outside. You’ll have to get used to being without the background noise of seven other people living with you when you return to the human realm. It’s a depressing thought, not one you like to linger on, but the year is nearly done.
“Dia, what happens at the end of the school year?” you ask over a lovely dessert that’s no doubt one of Barb’s creations. “With me, I mean.”
Diavolo frowns, holding up a hand while he finishes his bite and wipes his mouth. “You’ll return home, of course.”
“What if…” You shake your head, feeling childish for the thought. “Nevermind.”
Barbatos’ appraising eyes see more than you’d like. “I’m not certain you could remain here,” he says, not unkindly. “The Devildom isn’t built for long-term human inhabitation.”
It’s the answer you were expecting, but not the one you want. You nod anyway and try to keep the disappointment from your face. You don’t succeed based on their grim expressions.
“Humans, even those with pacts, age,” continues Barbatos. “Theoretically, you could have centuries ahead of you, but time wins in the end. I am not saying you’ll never see any of us again; you absolutely will. But think of it like…”
“The difference between a human and a hamster?” you guess, bitterness coloring your voice with something sharp. Barbatos and Diavolo wince.
“That’s not exactly accurate–”
“You know I would love nothing more than for you to stay here,” interrupts Diavolo.
Shame creeps over you from the pleading sadness in his voice. His hands are tied by the law; even an absolute monarchy–which the Devildom isn’t–cannot guarantee your stay. Taking out your grief about the situation on the royals is unfair and unproductive.
“I know, Dia,” you soothe, reaching over to grasp his hand on the table. “I’m sorry, both of you. I’m just frustrated, I guess.”
Something cool curls around your ankle and squeezes lightly. Across from you, Barbatos gives you a small half-smile.
The rest of the evening passes peacefully, finishing with coffee in Diavolo’s private sitting room. Their company always makes you feel at ease. When the three of you discuss movies you’ve seen and laugh about the antics of your friends, it’s extremely easy to forget they’re eons-old demonic rulers of Hell.
Barbatos sees you off with a driver, giving you a hug so quick you almost thought you hallucinated it. Your little meltdown is forgiven apparently.
All’s quiet in the house when you return. It’s late, far later than you expected, and everyone is probably asleep. You don’t bother with the lights in your bedroom, dropping your shoes and bag near the door. Cleaning up is tomorrow’s problem, nevermind that it technically already is tomorrow.
Your foot connects with a soft lump on your floor. The mass grunts, shifting until a pair of bright pink and purple eyes glow in the blackness of your room. Your vision adjusts to the darkness and he’s laying halfway under your bed frame.
“MC?”
“Why are you on the floor?” you ask, trying to cover your surprise.
The monster under your bed groans. “You said you wanted distance, so I thought you wouldn’t want me sleeping in your bed.”
“Get up there before I step on your tail or something.”
You flick your wrist at the candles, relieved when they light to fill the room with a soft luminescence. Belphie heaves himself up and drops his blanket-wrapped frame on your comforter. He’ll be asleep again by the time you get changed and ready for bed, so it’s probably best to handle this now. You sit next to what you assume is his head and pat him gently. “What’s up?”
“Wanted to give you this,” he mumbles. A crinkled envelope shoves its way out of the mass.
You take it gingerly, half expecting it to have some kind of prank hex on it. When nothing happens, you set it on the nightstand. “Thank you.”
“You’re not gonna read it now?”
How someone can sound so tired and yet still so petulant is a mystery to you. He’s truly talented.
“It’s like the middle of the night,” you say. “Just roll over and get under the rest of the blankets. I’ll be back.”
True to form, Belphie is asleep when you come out of the bathroom, but at least he’s managed to lay in the bed correctly. You don’t like sleeping with him. You don’t like even being close to him necessarily. You could slip upstairs into Lucifer’s room or Mammon’s; hell, you could even go take Belphie’s empty bed.
The envelope on the nightstand stares up at you, your name written messily on the front in his chicken-scratch. He made an effort, perhaps you can too.
You increase the brightness of the candle near your bed, being mindful not to turn it up too far. Belphie’s curled on his side, facing away from you. He doesn’t stir when you get in next to him or when you quietly break the seal on the envelope.
MC,
Rissa probably assigned this homework with the intent for us to apologize to Mammon, but we both know you’re the one who deserves this the most. I’m sorry. For manipulating you, killing you, and, most of all, acting like it never happened. I wanted to forget. I think we all did really. I didn’t know you remembered. I’d like to say things would have been different if I had known, but I can’t say that for sure.
I wanted to pretend like we met after everything with Lilith was explained. That wasn’t fair to you.
I think part of me always knew you were uncomfortable with me. You’re so quick to allow Beel and Mammon and everyone into your personal space, but you hesitate with me. I ignored it and I shouldn’t have. I felt like Levi and I swapped sins or something; I was so jealous of all the time everyone else had with you and how close you all were. And it was my fault. I was the reason I wasn’t there to get to know you like they were.
I held onto hate for so long because I thought it was all I had. It was so much easier to be angry at humans for taking my sister away. I’m not like Lucifer. I couldn’t just shift my grudge onto the one that really killed my sister. It was His fault, not humanity’s. Not yours. You didn’t kill my sister. Diavolo didn’t kill my sister. She died because of an old man’s strict adherence to laws of his own creation.
Sorry, this wasn’t meant to be me rambling about shit that happened forever ago.
What I want to say is thank you. Hate isn’t the only thing I have; I still have my family and you’re the reason for that. Thank you for giving me back my family. I’m sorry it took so much from you.
When you live as long as we do, change doesn’t come easily or quickly. You’re the exception to that. In less than a year, you’ve managed to become part of this family–part of us. Not as a replacement, but as your own person. It’s wild to me that I can say again that my family is seven other people.
You don’t have to forgive me for what I did. I don’t necessarily forgive myself for it. Just being in your life is enough for me, in any way you’re comfortable with. You’re so important to me. Do you remember when we were in the observatory and I was telling you about the different constellations? You were so surprised that the Devildom shares the North Star with the Human Realm. You are my North Star, no matter what realm you’re in. You keep me on course.
It’s such a long walk when you got somewhere to be; I just thought maybe you were gonna walk with me (chapter nine)
story summary: MC decides all of the student council is going to therapy and hell hath no fury like a prepared human. They’ve got highlighters and they’re not afraid to use them.
chapter summary: Birds and the weight of the past.
pairing: Lucifer/gn!reader
rating: m
chapter wc: 3.3k
warnings: angst & trauma; small text only for description; gn!reader; possible spoilers; not proofread; descriptions of violence/death; author rifled in canon’s pockets for loose plot; greater demon form!mammon because i deserve nice things; yes there’s a poe quote in there but idc
title taken from “therapy” by dresage & g smith
previous | series masterlist | ao3
There’s a pile of feathers on Mammon’s bed.
The soft, white down is vaguely demon-shaped. Gentle noises escape from somewhere near the lump’s head. You poke cautiously at the fluff. The answering growl tells you all you need to know. You don’t blame him for the indignation, as it’s not even close to what passes for dawn in Hell.
“Scoot over, pretty bird,” you whisper.
A massive wing lifts itself, revealing a mostly-asleep Mammon. His greater demon form is more avian than you first expected; a gold beak sits prominently on his sharp face, while matching claws curl in protectively under his chest. He looks more akin to a giant bird of prey than a demon–albeit one with four legs instead of two. He’s huge like this, tail feathers jutting out several feet from the end of the bed. His whole head barely fits in your lap.
Mammon sleeps on his stomach with his head tucked into a wing. All of his eyes are closed, sparing you the confusion of which one of them to look at. Not that you’re entirely sure of the exact amount of eyes he has; the answer must change constantly, otherwise you’re probably losing your mind a bit.
Bits of gems are studded on his beak and throughout the feathers covering him. The first time you’d tried to give Mammon head scratches in this form, you’d managed to cut your thumb on a sapphire the size of a marble. It took some learning to figure out under the wing is safe and to always use a light hand when touching him.
It was several months before he felt comfortable enough to let you see him in this form. He worried about frightening you, nevermind everything else that had happened to you by that point. Fear was not the emotion Mammon elicited in you when he shifted. His greater demon form is just so pretty and, when paired with Mammon’s typical gentleness, you turn into a soft puddle of mush for him.
He barely stirs when you tuck yourself under his wing and snuggle into the delightful plush of his side. Like a massive weighted blanket, the wing comes back down to keep you close and warm. The familiar pressure draws out a pang of melancholy in your chest.
Lucifer used to wrap one of his wings around you like this, especially when the eternal night of the Devildom made you cold. Most of your favorite naps have taken place under a blanket of black feathers.
Paper crinkles below you as you try to adjust yourself in Mammon’s hold, the sound pulling you away from your depressing thoughts. You roll over, grabbing the crumpled up papers. Mammon clicks his beak in his sleep before he makes a deep, rumbling sound.
You weren’t aware birds could snore.
There are only two pieces of paper, despite the racket they made. You struggle under the weight of Mammon’s wing, but you can vaguely make out sharp calligraphy on one and delicate loops on the other. Realization strikes you like a hot iron and you drop them in your shock.
Asmo and Satan wrote Mammon apology letters.
It shouldn’t be a surprise; the second-born deserves them the most from his brothers. You had an idea of how the letters would get passed around when Rissa gave the assignment. Three out of seven have given their letters to your knowledge and the weekend isn’t over.
With Mammon dead to the world, you carefully pick the letters back up and stretch to place them on his nightstand. Curiosity plagues you over what they said to him, but it isn’t your place to know that. If any of them want you to know, they’ll tell you themselves. Reading the letters without consent feels like a violation of their trust in you.
Still, you can’t help but wonder how the rest of the house is going to shake out. Mammon could easily write a letter for anyone regarding his kleptomania. Leviathan is a bit of a wildcard; the easy money is on him picking Mammon, though he could go for Lucifer or even you. As far as the eldest brother, he could pick anyone for a number of reasons. If pressed, you probably would bet on Satan. Beel is a bit like you–there isn’t really anything he would have to apologize for. He’s more than made up for basically breaking your bedroom and the kitchen.
You idly pet the soft feathers under your fingers, straightening out a few crooked ones. Simeon asked you if there was anyone in the house you had wronged, which is completely different from asking which housemate you’d wronged. The angel has always been one to choose his words carefully. You could be overthinking this, certainly, but it’s unlikely.
As much as you want to stay wrapped up in Mammon’s embrace, you need to get up now and get this done before you lose the spark. He struggles with letting you go, even when you press gentle kisses to his beak and coo promises to come right back. Get the hard work done and you can sink back into his comforting protection. Mammon only allows you to leave after a few more scratches, though little tufts of white cling to your clothes.
Your feet carry you to the library. The fireplace roars to life roars to life when you cross the room’s threshold. There are neat piles of clean parchment on the various desks, but you grab the first ratty notebook you see and dig out a cheap ballpoint from the couch cushions. It doesn’t need to be tidy and pretty. You just need to get the words out of your mind. Let them go, get them out, they’re not yours anymore.
You don’t hear the brothers waking up and beginning their day. You don’t hear the door creak open as someone checks on you. You don’t hear it quietly shut. You don’t hear the settling of wards on the old wood to keep the others from disturbing you. You don’t hear the steady sound of boots walking away, no longer destined for the hidden study.
The ballpoint skips and digs as it flies across the page. You’re misspelling things without caring, only scratching out phrases that don’t fit. After you got past the first line, everything spills out almost faster than you can write. The tight ache in your thumb tells you that you’re holding the pen too hard, but your breathing eases with every word.
It’s catharsis, a purging, an exorcism. It’s ripping out your guilt and your grief and letting them burn outside of your chest for once.
Get the words out. You are finished with having this feeling in your throat, like you could scream at the sky until your voice abandons you entirely. The ballpoint runs out before you do and you find someone’s discarded fountain pen. There’s enough ink left in the cartridge for you to finish this. Hopefully.
You stall somewhere near the bottom of the page, crossing out a whole section hastily before sitting back in your chair. Is there anything else? Any final apologies to add? Have you torn out all the fragments of guilt?
Probably not, if you’re being honest with yourself. You’ll carry this for the rest of your life. This is only taking out the stitches after surgery; the skin will remain scarred and changed.
You make a clean copy of the letter, choosing the typewriter over the pen to save your poor fingers. The gentle rhythm of the keys is soothing after your frantic writing. There’s no need for a second copy, but something about it feels right. You make small corrections as you type–fixing your spelling and run-on sentences mostly.
What you’re left with is less manic, more composed. The peace at the end of your emotional storm tempers the harsher, desperate edges. It’s not perfect. You’ve somehow managed to fuck up “affect” vs. “effect” again, even though you triple-checked. But it’s fitting. When you take the page from the typewriter and read over what you wrote, you finally feel calm again.
I am sorry that you were the one that died.
No, that’s not right. I’m sorry that you had to die for me to live. Barbatos’ powers still don’t entirely make sense to me and I know that you’re not dead–that I’m not dead. You’re me. But you did die. It hurt and you were scared and you didn’t wake up but I did. I’m sorry for that.
I see you in the mirror sometimes, you know? I can’t pinpoint exactly how I know it’s you and not me, but there’s a look that I know isn’t mine. It’s only been a few months, yet you look younger than I remember being. Maybe it’s the naïve innocence in your eyes. Strange thought to have about someone with six demon pacts, I suppose. You are more innocent for your blind faith in others and relentless optimism. I used to think it was stupid, actually, but now I think you’re braver than I was.
I’m sorry I wasn’t kinder to you when we were one and the same. It’s something I’m working on.
I wish I could tell you with absolute certainty that letting you die was for the better. Barbatos seems to think so. I mean, I don’t want to die or anything. I’m still trying to wrap my head around us being separate but the same. Was it all worth it? Coming here, filling out the Avatar Bingo Card, nearly dying, actually dying…
It was, I think. Even if you take everyone else out of the equation, my own journey from being you to being me is worth it. I understand now that happiness is something hard-won. And it tastes all the better for it. Your ignorance might have been sweet, but I’ll take the sour kick of knowing how fragile contentment really is any day of the week.
That might sound mean and I promise I don’t intend it like that.
But I’m tired of feeling your ghost lingering over my shoulder. You can stop haunting me for being the one that lived.
So, yeah. I’m doing okay now. And I hope you are too.
Lucifer finds you staring into the fire as the pages all burn. He sinks to the floor next to you, passing over a warm thermos and taking a sip of his own mug. The quiet hangs in the air and you can’t decide if the silence is a gift or a curse. The coffee is hot on your tongue, the bitterness you once despised warming you even further with its meaning.
His pristine handkerchief carefully wipes at the ink smears on your hands. The white fabric alone isn’t enough and Lucifer wetting a corner of it on his tongue startles you out of your daze. He keeps his expression blank, but a spark of mischief hides in his eyes.
“You’re going to give me cooties.”
He snorts. “I apologize for offending your delicate sensibilities. I’ll leave you to walk around with ink on your face then, hmm?”
“On my–”
The wet handkerchief swipes at your jaw before he pulls back to show you the new spot on it.
Ridiculous man. He’s enjoying this. It’s not as apparent as it would be with someone like Asmo or Levi–always so exuberant and loud in their joy–but you’ve learned to read Lucifer’s tells. His lips curl just slightly at the edges. His posture eases into something less stiff. He discards the mantle of Avatar, Closest Advisor, Eldest Brother. It’s the smallest he can be and still more than you could ever ask for.
Lucifer sets the stained handkerchief aside and takes off his gloves. His cool fingertips massage out the tension in your palms from your frantic scribbling. He’s waiting for you to address it, but only if you want to. Opening up is terrifying and there’s every possibility that you’ll come across as finally having lost the plot. But you want to explain. Keeping everything locked inside your chest isn’t an option anymore.
“I didn’t have any other way of delivering it.”
His fingers stall in their movements for a moment before he shifts, cradling both of your hands in his. “Did it work?”
“Maybe? I’m not entirely sure. I just…” you trail off.
“You know yourself better than anyone else,” he points out. “Did you say everything you needed to?”
You snap your head towards him, locking your eyes on his. A thousand words sit on the tip of your tongue and none of them are the right ones. So much of your relationship with Lucifer feels like trying to communicate without a common language. No matter how much either of you try, translation fails and you’re left exhausted and confused.
But hasn’t he done this himself? Made peace with the person he used to be?
You’re moving before you consciously realize it, brushing his hair away from his forehead and tracing the shape of the hidden diamond. “Did you?”
He smiles, leaning into the touch. Shaking his head gently, he laces his fingers with yours. “I don’t know if I’ve figured that one out quite yet,” he says.
You wait. Lucifer’s not finished and he deserves the chance to get his thoughts together. Living in a house of seven demons, one human, one mythological hellhound, a murder of crows, one goldfish, and innumerable illegally smuggled cats means being heard can sometimes require talking over others. While it’s a necessity in larger groups, sometimes it’s better to just stay quiet and listen.
Especially with someone who doesn’t open up all that often.
“There are days when I think, yes, I’m satisfied with where I am in life and everything that has transpired,” continues Lucifer after a moment. “I don’t feel the weight of the past or wonder what might have been.”
The fire crackles merrily in the silence that follows. True quiet in the house is a rarity and there must be a spell of some sort in place for you to get this bit of peace.
Lucifer sighs when you slips your hand down to cup his cheek. You mark the changes in his appearance almost idly–lighter circles under his eyes, lips no longer chapped and bitten, the hair at the back of his neck newly trimmed up. You’ve learned to keep track of him through these infinitesimal details. To outsiders, he probably looks no different than how he normally appears.
But you can see it. He’s better now, far better from how he was even a few days ago. He actually looks like he got some sleep last night, which is a feat in itself.
Of course, “better” doesn’t mean “completely fine.”
“Then there are days where I wake up and forget,” he says into your palm, eyes closed. “For a small moment, my back aches with the phantom pain of my other wings. My head feels heavier from my horns, even in this form. It takes a second for the last who knows how many years to come back and it always hits me like a blow to the chest.”
You’ve seen him on days like that. He always looks like he has a headache (unrelated to his brothers for once) and he moves like he’s suddenly geriatric. Never one to admit a weakness, Lucifer still granted you a small, slightly pained smile when you started ordering his brothers about on his bad days. Keeping them quiet, out of trouble, and away from him requires herculean effort, but it’s worth it if it helps him out a little.
“Trauma doesn’t have an expiration date,” you remind him, stroking your thumb over the sharp curve of his cheekbone.
He makes a face. “You’re spending too much time with Rissa.”
“Be nice or I’ll tattle to her.”
The sound of his laugh heals something in your chest and you know the two of you will be okay.
Later that night, after a relatively calm dinner and a movie that didn’t end in a massacre, you opt to stay in Lucifer’s room. Frankly, you’re not used to sleeping on your own anymore. All of the brothers have made you into their own personal body pillow at one point or another; even Levi once demanded you crash in his room (not next to him, of course, since his poor heart probably would give out entirely).
Your quiet evening of reading in bed while Lucifer does work beside you is interrupted by something tapping at the window. Lucifer looks up from his paperwork, reading glasses slipping down his nose a bit. If you weren’t so concerned with the persistent tap tap tap, you’d snag a picture of him to send to Diavolo.
“‘Suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door,’” he says to you, eyebrow raised in amusement.
“If something starts croaking ‘nevermore’, I’m sleeping in my own room,” you reply tartly.
There is not a raven at the window, but there is a crow. One of Mammon’s, judging by the small, gold band around an ankle. The bird hops in with all of his masters’s dramatics and regally presents Lucifer with the envelope he carries in his beak. The dignified effect is lost when the bird trips on the windowsill, squawking loudly.
You click your tongue, calling the affronted creature over to you. He snuggles into the blankets on your stomach like the embarrassing incident never happened.
“Replacing me already?” asks Lucifer. A poorly hidden smile twitches the ends of his mouth up.
Returning to your book, you leave one hand petting the crow while the other focuses on levitating the book at eye level. “Don’t you have mail?”
“He’s not sleeping with us.”
You tune Lucifer’s muttering out. The letter is no doubt a Rissa-ordered apology from Mammon and you want to give him the space to process it on his own. Letting him distract himself with you is unhelpful. Plus, the grimoire you’re reading mentioned something about a salve that wards off chapped lips for up to a month.
Lucifer goes quiet after a while, sitting on the couch that faces his bed for some unknown reason. From what you can see over the top of your book, the letter isn’t particularly long and Lucifer is a quick reader. The amount of time he spends looking over the chicken scratch-filled pages must mean he’s reading it several times.
Slowly, he rises and moves to his private desk. The letter slips into a false bottom of a locked drawer. Flashes of blue light appear as he resets the drawer’s wards. Lucifer says nothing when he gets back into bed, only idly reaching out to pat the crow in your lap.
“Anything interesting?” you ask, feigning disinterest and distraction.
He readjusts his glasses and pulls his paperwork back out. “It was largely unnecessary, though appreciated.”
“Be sure to tell him that in the morning. Emphasis on the appreciation, though.” Soft, warbling snores from your lap sound in agreement.
The crow sleeps in between you and Lucifer, curled up in a makeshift nest of blankets and pillows. You try not to sound too amused about it in the morning, but the bird radiates smugness when he finally leaves.
Lucifer is still picking feathers out of his hair at breakfast and Mammon’s cheeks are distinctly pink below reddened, watery eyes.
No one comments, but the air in the dining room is as light and cheerful as a spring morning in the human realm. The repaired relationship between the two eldest leaves a ripple effect of happiness across the whole family.
However, dark clouds still linger at the edges of the room. Mammon’s treatment may have been one of the biggest issues, but it’s far from the only one. As you smile at the demons around the table, you take note of the oncoming storm. You can only hope that it passes by with minimal damage to the ragtag group you call your own.
note: i’m no longer accepting requests to be added to the taglist from ageless blogs. i post too much non-osha-compliant shit to feel comfortable with that. if you’d like to get added to the taglist please make sure to have your age on your page before you ask~
It’s such a long walk when you got somewhere to be; I just thought maybe you were gonna walk with me (chapter seven)
story summary: MC decides all of the student council is going to therapy and hell hath no fury like a prepared human. They’ve got highlighters and they’re not afraid to use them.
chapter summary: Mammon.
pairing: Lucifer/reader
rating: m
chapter wc: 3.7k
warnings: angst & trauma; small text only for description; gn!reader; possible spoilers; not proofread; descriptions of violence/death; author takes liberties with canon
title taken from “therapy” by dresage & g smith
previous | series masterlist | ao3
The sound of shattering glass greets you as you walk into the common room later that night. A mug had been hurled at the wall, splattering its contents on the no doubt priceless painting hanging there. Before you can see who threw it, Levi is on his feet and shouting at Mammon.
“Why are you such a waste of space?!” His demon form slips out, claws digging into his palms. “I told you not to touch my stuff–”
“I didn’t touch shit!” rebukes Mammon.
“It was addressed to me!”
Asmo sneaks into the room behind you with a malicious giggle. “What’d the idiot do this time?”
The dark red spreading across Mammon’s cheeks reaches his ears.
“This moron stole my Akuzon package!”
“I told ya, I didn’t fuckin’ take it! I wasn’t even home–”
You’re paralyzed in the doorway as both Levi and Asmo start laying into Mammon. It’s disgusting watching them pounce. Mammon never snaps back, not like they do. He takes their scorn and loathing without retaliation because he could hurt them if he tried. He’s second only to Lucifer in their little hierarchy. And the others take advantage of his gentleness to make him the family scapegoat.
“Enough!” you shout, cutting off Asmo’s gleeful venom. “I am so over this bullshit!”
Levi crosses his arms and furiously nods. “Yeah, me too.”
“All of you can fuck off right now,” you hiss, stalking across the room to grab Mammon’s wrist. “Stay the fuck away from both of us until I say so.”
The pacts activate with a lurch in your chest. Asmo and Levi scramble to the back of the room as you drag Mammon out. He’s silent and shaking, but he lets you pull him across the house and into your room.
Mammon doesn’t ask about the hastily placed wards you throw on the door after you slam it closed.
He’s special to you in a way the others will never be. Your protector, your first demon, your best friend. He’s never hurt you, never even tried to. At his core, Mammon is exceedingly gentle. And you’re sick and tired of the others abusing that fact.
“Sorry ya had to see all of that,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and staring at his shoes. “Dunno what Levi’s even talkin’ about.”
You wrap your arms around him tight, burying your face in his t-shirt. Mammon freezes up like he always does when you touch him. It takes a few moments for him to hug you back, awkwardly patting your shoulder at first. When you refuse to let go, Mammon melts into the embrace so fully you’re nearly holding him up.
“It’s not your fault,” you mumble into his shirt.
He scoffs out a dry laugh.
“I’m serious,” you repeat, moving back to take his face in your hands. “Their behavior is not your fault. They were out of line.”
Mammon only meets your eyes when you shake his face a bit. His cheeks are warm under your palms, no doubt a result of the flush spreading across his skin. He starts to stutter something about “touchy humans”, but you pinch the dark red apples of his cheeks.
“I’m not going to stand around and listen to them talk to you like that, especially when I have the ability to shut them up,” you continue.
He drops the act, leaning into your hands and closing his eyes when you start to pet his hair. Asmo might be the touchiest of the brothers, but it’s Mammon who basks under physical touch the most. He practically drops all his weight onto you, forcing you back with the sudden movement. It’s easy enough to wrangle him onto your bed–just as long as you don’t stop petting his hair.
“I’m gonna put a movie on, okay?”
Mammon grumbles out something that sounds like an agreement as you prop your laptop on your lap and snuggle in next to him. You can’t actually see the film you pull up, since he decides to make your chest his pillow. It doesn’t matter, not when the creases of his face smooth out and he relaxes against you. His arms are tightly wound around your torso. The embrace should feel constricting, suffocating even, but the pressure is comforting.
Levi asked you once (in one of his little jealousy fits) why you were always so soft on Mammon. There were a hundred different reasons you could have given him; the second-born is sweet, caring, and kinder than most humans you’ve met. But that wasn’t the reason you gave Levi. Instead, you settled on the simplest answer–the truest one, perhaps.
“No one else ever is.”
When you’re certain Mammon’s asleep, lulled into unconsciousness by the gentle music of the movie and your heartbeat under his ear, you shoot off a text to Rissa.
It’s about time this was addressed.
---
“MC, do you have a moment?” asks Lucifer after breakfast.
“Sure.”
The rest of the brothers (minus Asmo and Levi who still haven’t attempted to apologize and, therefore, haven’t been allowed around you and Mammon) watch with wary eyes as you leave the dining room with Lucifer. You know very well what this is about and this is only going to be the first battle of many.
“My entire schedule has been cleared for the day,” he says, settling on the couch of the library. “When I asked Diavolo about it, he said it was per Rissa’s orders.”
You nod and keep your eyes fixed on his. “The entire house is going to meet with her on campus. Everyone’s schedules have been cleared.”
No backing down, not on this. Your iron will is something he respects. To falter under the weight of his annoyance would show weakness.
“I see.”
There is a different tactic you can take in the face of his disapproving frown. Here, without anyone else around to judge him for being weak, you can appeal to that heart he keeps so distantly locked away.
Your steps are slow, allowing him the ability to watch your every move. Lucifer doesn’t flinch when you stand in front of him and kneel down to his level. You approach him as carefully as you would some big cat, mindful of the sharp claws and large teeth.
And there’s the softness you know. Lucifer’s face gentles as you brush the grey strands of his fringe back. The mask melts just a touch–just enough for you to press a chaste kiss to his forehead.
“You know what happened yesterday?” you ask softly. He nods, eyes closed and leaning on your palm. “This conversation needs to be had. Don’t make me pack him up and run away.”
It’s an empty threat, both of you know this, but you’ve had the thought before: Mammon in the human world, sharing some dingy flat neither of you can afford, eating take-out and watching bad TV. Your friends would like him, eventually. He’d charm them one-by-one until he was integrated into your friend group like he’d been there the whole time. No one could yell at him or degrade him. His brothers wouldn’t be there to accuse him or blame him.
A pipe dream completely unmoored from reality. But it’s a nice daydream when Mammon puts his head in your lap and hides from the vitriol of his brothers.
“You’d bring him back the minute he committed some kind of white collar crime,” jokes Lucifer, unaware of the meandering path your thoughts have taken.
You tug gently on a grey-tinged lock of dark hair. “Depends on the crime. There’s a few CEOs I’d like to put in bankruptcy. Or prison. Maybe both.”
He laughs at your careless shrug, sitting back to look in your eyes. You hope he sees the exhaustion and pain just under the surface. It seems like he does when he leaves a lingering kiss on your palm.
“Very well.” Lucifer stands and brushes nonexistent lint from the front of his vest. “We’ll take a look at your list after the meeting, hmm?”
The possibility of Lucifer-condoned mischief boosts your mood enough for you to rescind the order on Asmo and Levi. They won’t be able to attend the meeting with it in place anyway. You’re mentally tallying up the biggest business whales you’d like to see beached through the whole walk to campus.
Mammon clings to the hem of your sweater, not talking to the others, not even the occasionally-neutral Beel. You keep one hand on the flighty second-born and the other on a travel mug of coffee Satan had passed you on your way out the door. While he hadn’t been home for the big blowout, he could be part of the Mean Girls clique with Asmo, so the coffee was probably a bit of a bribe. Still, you’ll drink his guilt if it makes the morning pass easier.
Rissa’s pulled out all the stops for this meeting. Somehow she’s managed to turn an empty conference room into a homey living room. Comfortable sofas form a square around a low table laden with snacks and drinks. A glass bowl full of those squeeze toys has a prominent place on the table, bringing an embarrassed heat to your face. The smiling demoness beckons your group in with a wave from her squishy armchair.
“Everyone get comfortable,” urges Rissa. “I forgot just how many of you there are!”
Her joke has the intended effect, bringing out laughs across the room. You are a bit much as a group, especially considering just how large some of the brothers are.
Mammon squawks indignantly when you push him down onto a two-person sofa. His huffing is replaced with preening as you plop next to him. The change is adorable, even if your seating choice makes the others pout. They can deal with it; none of them are going to like you much for the next few hours.
“So, MC, do you want to explain why you called for this meeting?” asks Rissa.
Six pairs of eyes land on you, obviously confused. Only Lucifer looks unsurprised.
You take a deep breath, focusing on Mammon’s hand in yours. “I am this close to invoking the pacts to make all of you treat Mammon better.”
“What?!”
“MC...”
White nails dig into your hand. He inhales sharply before relaxing his grip.
“Please, no interruptions,” says Rissa over the cacophony.
Your thumb rubs back and forth over his. It’s possible that he would handle this better if you had prepared him first, but you didn’t want to give him the chance to run.
“Last night was only one instance of you being needlessly cruel to him,” you say after they quiet. “I have seen many since I’ve been here, even after I made it clear that it wasn’t acceptable. Levi, what happened to your package?”
“It was in Satan’s room,” he mumbles. “He thought it was one he was waiting on.”
You sip your coffee to keep yourself from throwing it. “There you go. Mammon said he wasn’t even home and you still blamed him. And that’s not even getting into all the insults you all toss around like nicknames.”
“‘I’-statements, MC,” Rissa reminds you patiently.
“Right,” you huff. “I am not going to tolerate watching you all abuse him anymore. Frankly, I find it disgusting and appalling.”
You keep your eyes on Mammon’s trembling hand. Whatever expressions the six of them have—whether they’re of guilt or stubbornness—you’re not ready to see.
“Mammon, how do you feel about this?” Rissa brings the attention to the demon of the hour.
He jolts at the mention of his name, shrinking slightly in his seat. “Eh, I mean...I’m used to it?”
“You shouldn’t be,” you mutter darkly.
“I dunno, like…Yeah, it sucks when no one believes me about shit and I really hate bein’ called names, but…” He shrugs. “It’s been like this for years.”
You shift on the sofa, pulling Mammon’s hand more into your lap so you can press the side of your body against his.
“Half the time you really did fuck something up, though,” drawls Belphie. His twin smacks him lightly on the back of his head.
“Not helpful,” says Beel.
A spark lights in Mammon, drawing him up straighter so he can glare at the youngest. “Yeah, that’s still only half of the time! What about the rest of it, huh? Seems like every time somethin’ goes wrong, everyone’s gotta point the finger at me!”
“That’s a fair point,” says Rissa before Belphie can retort. “What kind of names are we talking about here?” When no one answers her, she looks to the most shame-faced person in the room. “Asmo?”
His concealer isn’t enough to hide the dark circles under his eyes. He bites at his lip, chewing on the bare skin. Asmodeus seems almost wilted without his sparkling lipgloss and bright smile.
“Where to start?” He chuckles, though the sound is hollow. “Moron, idiot, stupid, dumbass…”
“You forgot ‘waste of space,’” growls Mammon.
Levi winces. It must have been him that tossed that one out.
Rissa eyes the group appraisingly. “Lucifer, you’ve yet to speak. What’s your opinion on the situation?”
“Sometimes you have to be harsh with Mammon to get something to stick,” he says after a moment. “The amount of money he’s wracked up in bills is…astounding, to say the least.”
“That doesn’t excuse the cruelty and you’re often responsible for the worst of it,” you snap.
“MC, let him finish.” Rissa’s voice is harsher than before, but you can’t bring yourself to apologize.
Lucifer looks as unperturbed as ever, back straight and hands neatly folded on his lap. “I have to keep everyone in line.”
A hand laden with rings claps over your mouth before you can interject. Mammon shakes his head at you.
“What other options do I have?” asks Lucifer with a huff. “I have tried a million different ways of keeping chaos at bay. He doesn’t respond to anything other than punishment.”
You wrest Mammon’s hand away from your face. “Have you tried talking to him?”
Rissa doesn’t protest this time, sitting back and watching like the rest of them.
“Of course I have.” Irritation draws his eyebrows together and deepens his frown.
“You don’t listen, though,” says Mammon quietly.
Lucifer flinches at the soft accusation. His brother is hunched over, halfway behind you on the couch, not looking up from where you trace his thumb ring.
“You never listen, none of ya do. Oh, it’s just fine if Asmo gives into his sin and parties or Belphie sleeps all day. Satan blew up and wrecked his room again? No biggie, it can be fixed. Me, though? I can’t do nothin’ right. Ya think I wanna be goin’ through this shit? I can’t help it sometimes. None of ya bat an eye when Beel eats enough for 12 at dinner, but I snatch one watch some prissy bastard won’t miss and there’s hell to pay.”
Mammon lets his eyes rest on each of his brothers. None of them meet his gaze.
“It’s like I’m battlin’ a war on two sides,” he continues. “I gotta deal with my sin and the rest of ya.”
Beel is the first to speak. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Since you’re the second-born, it makes sense your sin would be stronger,” says Satan, ever the logical one.
Mammon shifts in his seat, simultaneously pulling you closer and coming out from behind you. “I have some control over it, but half the time I’m so worried one of ya is gonna just…” He breaks off with a shrug.
“Be the way we always are?” finishes Asmo.
“Yeah. Even when I’m not doin’ shit, I feel like I gotta be constantly on guard.”
“That must be stressful,” says Rissa in that gentle voice you’ve grown familiar with.
The demon next to you shrugs, jostling you in the process. An awkward silence hangs over the room. Levi’s fingers twitch like he’s craving some kind of device to fuss with. The tapping of Satan’s shoe against the floor is just loud enough to be noticeable. Even Beel seems uncomfortable, picking at the cupcake in his hands.
“You never really said anything?” hesitates Asmo. “Like, I didn’t think it really bothered you?”
Mammon scoffs. “Course it bothers me.”
Satan leans forward to snag a bottle of water. “Asmo has a point,” he says. “I was pretty awful there for a while and you never even blinked.”
“You were a kid.” If he grips your hand any harder, you’re going to be digging out pieces of his claws for a week. “What was I supposed to do? Ya barely came up to my knee, for fuck’s sake.”
“Understandable that you didn’t say anything to him then,” interjects Rissa calmly. “But what about when Satan was older?”
“Didn’t really think about it. Guess by that point I was just so used to it.”
It’s painful watching everyone fidget in their seats. Even Lucifer looks uncomfortable at the resignation in Mammon’s voice. Part of you is satisfied that finally, finally they get it. The rest of you just hurts for Mammon’s sake. When he speaks again, though, even you can’t resist a wince.
“Figured it was better if they weren’t lashin’ out at each other.” Mammon doesn’t seem to notice the impact his words have. “I mean, I could take whatever, but they could really hurt each other, ya know?”
Lucifer reacts first, bringing his hands up to his face and digging his fingertips into his hair. His skin is a a vague green color and you wonder if he’s about to be sick. “Fuck.”
“Mammon…” says Beel hesitantly before shaking his head.
While Levi often looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole, he might actually accomplish it if he sinks any further into the couch. “That is so fucked, like…”
“Better me than the rest of ya!” shouts Mammon abruptly. “Or did everyone forget about the time Asmo and Satan nearly killed each other over a damn popularity contest? They wrecked the entire second floor of the house!”
Both demons in question flinch at the reminder.
“What about the twins?” he continues. “It’s rare, yeah, but the last fuckin’ time they had a disagreement, MC ended up dead! None of ya have any kind of control over shit and someday, someone’s gonna actually get hurt.”
Beel opens his mouth, probably to protest over Mammon’s version of your worst memory, but snaps it closed when Rissa holds up a hand.
“That shouldn’t be your responsibility, though. They’re grown-ups who have had plenty of centuries to get control of themselves.”
Lucifer clears his throat. He’s paler than he should be, but the nausea appears to have passed. Still, his hand shakes as he pushes his hair out of his face. “It’s part of being an older brother. Something I’ve clearly forgotten.”
The agreement startles everyone, but especially Mammon, who freezes next to you. The eldest turns his eyes on Mammon, expression unguarded for once. “I am so sorry.”
“For?” you prompt when Lucifer doesn’t continue.
“Everything,” he sighs. “For letting this behavior develop, for participating in it myself, for not seeing just how much it affected you. Mammon, you should not be the proverbial—or literal, in my case–punching bag of the family. I didn’t…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t think. It was just easier to blame you for everything and that is so unfair to you.”
Mammon’s lips wobble, matching the rest of his shaking form. You push at his back a little. “Go on.”
Both of them are up and throwing their arms around each other at the provocation. You nearly get taken along too, as Mammon almost forgets to let go of the death grip he has on your hand. No one mentions the obvious tears on Mammon’s face or the fact Lucifer doesn’t look that far behind him.
Asmo dabs a delicate handkerchief under his eyes, shooting you a watery smile when he sees you notice. “Picked the wrong mascara today, I guess.”
When the brothers settle again and tissues have been passed around, Rissa smiles approvingly at the room.
“Very good today, everyone. I’m glad we were able to work some of this out,” she says. Before anyone can preen under the praise, she holds up a hand. “However, one conversation does not fix centuries worth of discord and hurt. Actions are necessary to show actual improvement. Everyone is going to have a bit of homework for the weekend.”
Levi, Belphie, and Mammon groan in unison.
“Ah ah,” chastises Rissa. “I won’t see any of you until after the weekend and I promise it won’t be hard. I want each of you to take the time to write a letter to one of your housemates that you feel you’ve harmed. It doesn’t have to be long, just as long it’s genuine. Give the person the letter. Whether they want you there while they read it is up to them, but the important thing is that you express how you feel.
“If you do receive a letter, you are not obligated to read it immediately or ever. It is completely up to you. Just thank them for taking the time to write it and come to that decision yourself.” Rissa pauses to let that sink in, nodding at you when you glance at her questioningly. “You’re included in this too, MC.”
Everyone mumbles some form of acceptance to the assigned task, like tired schoolchildren on a Monday afternoon.
Rissa isn’t done though. “Finally, I know Lucifer and Mammon made some progress, but I’d like the rest of you to work on your relationship with him as well. In my experience, a genuine apology can go a long way. I think I can safely assume all of you are regretful over your treatment of him?” She waits for five nods. “Then tell him. All of you have received some tips from me on conflict resolution and healthy discussion. Approach the situation calmly, truthfully, and without putting the focus on yourself.”
With the same cheerful smile she wore at the beginning of the meeting, Rissa releases the eight of you back into the wild.
It’s such a long walk when you got somewhere to be; I just thought maybe you were gonna walk with me (chapter three)
a/n: don't be fooled by how quickly these are coming out; i usually take 5-7 business years to post.
story summary: MC decides all of the student council is going to therapy and hell hath no fury like a prepared human. They’ve got highlighters and they’re not afraid to use them.
chapter summary: There is so much more to Asmo than what he shows the world.
pairing: lucifer/reader
warnings: angst & trauma; small text only for description; gn!reader; possible spoilers since author can’t remember when shit happened in canon; not proofread/betaread; author is a psychology grad student which is its own warning; descriptions of violence/wounds; cursing
rating: m; changing it now as we get more into the nitty gritty of their experiences
chapter wc: 2.7k
title taken from “therapy” by dresage & g smith
previous | series masterlist
Asmo sits next to you in Comparative Lit—eschewing his normal perch in the back of the lecture hall with his flock of admirers. It takes a single frown from him for them to leave you both alone.
“The control you have over your entourage is scary sometimes,” you remark when the last of his little puppies crawls away with their tail between their legs.
He shrugs, unconcerned with the crying coming from the back of the room. “For lust demons, they can be too greedy.”
You barely resist commenting about pots and kettles. It’s not often you get alone time with Asmo, after all, and irritating or upsetting him would send him flying back to his admirers. As you watch him meticulously reapply lip liner, you realize you don’t actually get much alone time with him.
One of his brothers (if not more) usually clings to you when you’re home. If you two go out, you’re bound to pick up a few of his fans trailing behind you.
“Asmo, how the hell do you put up with all the constant…people?”
He blesses you with one of his songlike laughs, tucking his mirror and makeup bag away. “What do you mean?”
You open your mouth to respond, but the professor bursts into the room in his usual display of rumpled feathers and scattered papers.
“All of you better have read Oscar Wilde’s postmortem essay on cultural differences,” he booms out.
Asmo nudges you with one sharp elbow. “Now, could I tell you stories about that man.”
You blink. The one time you had a Dorian Grey phase comes rushing back to you. The titular character’s face superimposes over Asmo’s in your mind. It explains a lot, really.
Whatever the professor has to say about Oscar Wilde goes in one ear and out the other for you, as Asmo keeps up a litany of anecdotes from his time with the author—both before and after his death. Hopefully, Satan (sitting dutifully in the front row) takes better notes than you manage. Your beleaguered professor doesn’t even bat an eye at Asmo’s slacking off; he learned to stop trying after the second class.
Asmo slips one soft hand into yours when the lecture ends, pulling you to your feet. “Come have lunch with me,” he coos.
It’s a demand, not an invitation.
“I’m supposed to meet up with Beel to review for Politics,” you say, gently extracting your hand so you can pack up your things. “We have a test next week—“
“Come on!” He pouts. A flurry of action in the back of the room starts up. If he tantrums, the entire school might go into a meltdown.
“Asmodeus,” you try to scold him.
His charm doesn’t work on you but that doesn’t mean he stops trying. With big, tearful eyes and a trembling bottom lip, Asmo is the picture of a lost kitten. All that’s missing is Sarah McLachlan crooning in the background.
You sigh in defeat. “Just you. No one else.”
Asmo squeals, gathering you up in his arms and spinning you both around. “Yay!”
Beel will understand. Probably. If he didn’t actually forget himself. You text him anyway as Asmo drags you out of the room.
It’s not so much lunch as it is snacking and laying on the grass. He takes a few selfies, yanking you into the frame for some of them. You consider it an acceptable trade-off for actual alone time with him.
“You never answered me,” you say once he puts his D.D.D. away. He tilts his head. “Earlier, about how you deal with so many people around all the time.”
“Oh!” He rolls onto his stomach and props his chin on his hands. Picturesque as usual, though you wonder how much practice went into such an effortless move. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
You bop him gently on the tip of his nose, just to watch it scrunch up. “You’re constantly surrounded by your brothers or your fans or your friend groups…”
“It’s not a big deal to me. I just like having people around, I suppose,” he says lightly, pouting when you tap him again.
“Asmo.”
He shrugs his lithe shoulders. “Seriously.”
You drop the subject when you notice the tension in his mouth. Anything that could potentially wrinkle his immortal perfection is usually a no-no, so seeing him frown like that is a warning sign. Instead, you opt to tousle his hair and lay back next to him.
It’s quiet for a bit—as quiet as RAD can be at lunchtime. Various birds of prey call out in the trees, while students chatter as they walk to classes. Asmo hums under his breath, some melody you can’t quite make out. It’s dreadfully peaceful, and you worry you’re going to fall asleep and miss the rest of your classes.
“MC?” asks Asmo, startling you out of your reverie.
“Hmm?”
The demon beside you shifts on the grass, flipping over onto his back to look at the sky. “You went with Levi yesterday, right?”
His usual singsong tone is absent. There’s a gravity to his presence you don’t normally see.
“Yeah. Rissa, the therapist, said it seemed to help. She asked me to come back with anyone who wanted company.”
When you turn your head to look at him, Asmo’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Careful,” you scold, pinching his glossed lip and tugging it out of his mouth. “You’ll end up tearing it.”
He nips at your fingers. “We’re out of crackers. What else am I supposed to bite?”
“Calm down, Beel.”
“No!” gasps Asmo, clutching his hands to his chest. “How could you?!”
His dramatics have the intended effect—both of you giggling and poking each other in outrage. He’s good at this kind of thing. It’s hard to be in a bad mood when you’re around Asmo, even if he’s the one who originally pissed you off. Even when he’s flirting, it’s usually taken to such a level that you can’t help but laugh.
When you both calm down, that pensive expression is back.
“Come with me?”
It’s an invitation, not a demand. He’s not looking at you when he asks. All of his playful, cooing persona is missing.
You twist in the grass to press a kiss on his cheek. “Of course.”
Rissa brightens when you come in the door behind Asmo. The juice she warned you of yesterday is missing from the tray, showing her hope would be here today. Her introductory speech is much the same as the one she gave Levi, though she seems far more familiar with Asmo.
“She’s a succubus, darling,” croons Asmo when you ask.
Fair enough.
Rissa directs the conversation to the fall. Asmo’s version differs from Levi’s.
“I stayed with Mammon, mostly,” he begins, voice a bit distant and slow. “Though I know at one point I was with the twins and Lilith. Lucifer…” He shakes his head. “Lucifer was dealing with Michael for most of the battle.”
You tap his knee lightly. “You were with him at one point, though.”
Neither of them asks how you know that, much to your relief.
“Wait, no you’re right. Lucifer got caught by some of Uriel’s arrows and I had to get them out,” says Asmo, rapidly blinking. His hands tremble where they’re folded in his lap. “It was nasty work, but we didn’t have a proper field medic. You’re not supposed to just yank arrows out.”
He shudders. The motion isn’t delicate or graceful like you expect from him. His usually luminous face is nearly green. You hold one of his hands between both of yours to keep him from picking at his cuticles.
“That sounds like it was hard,” says Rissa. Her easy smile is replaced with patient neutrality.
“Afterwards, well…” He shrugs. “Mammon and I had Satan to deal with, so most of the following decades were taken up with that.”
Rissa narrows her dark eyes, making a note you presume is about the avoidance of Lilith. “And how did that go?”
“Oh, he was a nightmare of a child! The tantrums alone were enough to drive anyone insane!” He’s back to laughing, though it doesn’t quite ring as genuine.
“He seems to have turned into a fine demon regardless.”
Asmo smiles—a true smile, soft and mindless. “He’s okay. Not as good as me, obviously, but he’s probably my favorite.”
Rissa uncaps her second soda of the meeting. You wonder idly if demons just don’t get cavities or if you should be worried about her. “Parenting after a traumatic experience isn’t easy,” she comments.
Asmo flinches.
“And you were quite young for an angel, correct?”
He nods jerkily, though Rissa’s looking down at her tablet. She crosses something out and scribbles over it.
“We aren’t supposed to meet again until next week, but I want to talk with you and Mammon more,” she says eventually. “He wasn’t much older than you if I remember correctly.”
“Not by much.” His voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard it.
Rissa looks up at him with a kind smile. “It’s okay, Asmo. I just want to talk a few things out with you two. Nothing major, but I hadn’t realized how much of the parenting of Satan fell on you both.”
“It was a long time ago,” replies Asmo, waving his hand dismissively.
“That doesn’t erase that it happened.”
He frowns in response. The expression looks unnatural on someone you’re so used to seeing with a smile. This is where you’re meant to step in, you realize, though you’re at a loss for how. It’s easy to forget just how ancient all of them are in comparison to you. Their histories stretch back centuries. Even Satan, the youngest of the bunch, has lived more days than you can comprehend.
You drop your head on Asmo’s shoulder, leaning all of your body weight into him. The pressure seems to bring him back to reality a bit. He kisses your forehead and squeezes your hand.
“So, joint meeting with Mammon later this week?” he asks Rissa. “Sounds like a party.”
She doesn’t keep you after the meeting ends, letting you get tugged along behind Asmo as he dances out the door. His “other people” persona is back in place.
“I know there are classes tomorrow, but my friend is having her album release party at The Fall tonight!” he informs you, tapping away at Devilgram with his free hand. “You have to come!”
You shake your head. “If I cancel on Beel twice in a row, he may actually lose his mind. We really need to study.”
Asmo pouts but drops it for the rest of your walk home. He abandons you in favor of his closet, calling out to Satan for help in picking out something to wear. Not the person you would’ve chosen for wardrobe assistance, but both of them seem happy enough when they disappear into Asmo’s room.
Beel’s already waiting for you at your desk, books and notes spread out on the table. A small hamper brimming with snacks occupies the chair next to him.
“Satan leant me the study guide he made last year, so this should be pretty easy,” he says cheerfully, gesturing at a paper filled with Satan’s cramped handwriting.
“Oh, thank—“ You smack your hand over your mouth at the last minute. It’s been months since you’ve had a slip up like that. “Sorry—“
Beel’s head is in his arms as he shakes with laughter. The sound is muffled by his jacket, but not by much. You end up giggling in spite of your own mortification just from how red his face turns.
“You really—thank—Satan!” he howls between laughing fits.
Something groans from the pile of blankets on your bed. A messy head of dark hair pops out, though the creature’s face is still hidden in fabric.
“Beel, some of us are trying to sleep,” whines Belphie.
The monster in your bed huffs when his twin just laughs louder and burrows back under the covers.
You both manage to decipher Satan’s handwriting without much work. Some scrawled notes in the margins let you know what was actually on the test and what was not. You resolve never to tease the fourth-born for his nerdish qualities ever again.
The twins finally branch off from you at dinner. The chair at the head of the table sits empty, though no one’s bothered setting a place anymore. Mammon just shrugs when you ask if he’s seen his oldest brother recently.
“Said he’s got a lot of work to do. Dunno if it’s true or not. Just know he’s not breathin’ down my neck for once.”
You’re worried. Worried, worried, worried. Lucifer could lecture Mammon in his sleep. He doesn’t even need to look up from his desk to identify what the greed demon’s done wrong. His disappearance feels less like an absence and more like a hole torn straight through the house. Knocking at his study door proves fruitless, as does trying his bedroom door. He has to be home. It’s nearing midnight and he gets up earlier than everyone else.
You find yourself at the stairs leading to the basement, though you don’t dare venture any further. He wasn’t in the attic, nor in the library. You’ve looked for him everywhere that isn’t someone else’s bedroom.
“Lucifer?” you call out into the dark.
Something large huffs a breath and rumbles. Cerberus, you expect. The very reason you don’t leave the threshold.
“Lucifer?” you try again, louder this time.
A hand at your lower back makes you scream, nearly tripping over your shoes and down the stairs. Bright red eyes meet yours as you’re turned around and caught.
“MC, what the hell are you doing here?” demands Lucifer.
Rather than wait for a response, he hauls you away from the stairs and through the house to your room.
“Will you let me go?” you snap. “I’m not a toddler you need to carry around!”
He scoffs, shutting the door firmly behind him. “Really? Is that why I just had to keep you from wandering into a room you know houses a creature that would consider you an appetizer?”
“I was looking for you!”
The shout surprises you just as much as it does him. He takes a step back, putting even more distance between you.
“I’m right here. What is it?” Lucifer is calm, deceptively so. His palms are turned to face you as if he’s trying to pacify some feral thing.
It’s not working.
You’re across the room quicker than you believed possible, jamming your finger into his chest. “Where the fuck have you been? I haven’t seen you in days, nor has anyone else! Don’t feed me that bullshit story you told Mammon about work. You haven’t even been at meals!”
Lucifer blinks at your vitriol, for once at a loss for words apparently. You roll right over his silence.
“You don’t answer texts. You don’t answer calls. I knock on your door and get nothing in response. It’s like living with a ghost. Worse! At least a ghost would make its presence known!”
Tears are building in your eyes but you shove them down to glare at him. The rage in your body coalesces at Satan’s pact mark, burning fever-hot under your skin.
“I hadn’t realized my absence was so noted,” says Lucifer finally. He’s unmoving in the face of your outburst, still halfway to the door with his hands up.
This is the response you get? After days of avoidance?
You spin on your heel and stalk away from him so he won’t see you cry.
“Just go. If you’re that dedicated to your ‘absence’, then go.”
He’s gone when you emerge from your bathroom. On your bed is a neatly folded sweater—threadbare and marked with the occasional hole. You slip it on in spite of your… frustration? Grief? Some nebulous point between the two?
A small posy rests on your blanket under the sweater. Delicate yellow flowers tied with a piece of twine that seem brighter than day in the dark of your room. You tuck them into the greenery around your bed and wrap your arms tight across your stomach.
You fall asleep drowning in the smell of parchment, leather, and smoke.
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It’s such a long walk when you got somewhere to be; I just thought maybe you were gonna walk with me (chapter six)
story summary: MC decides all of the student council is going to therapy and hell hath no fury like a prepared human. They’ve got highlighters and they’re not afraid to use them.
chapter summary: Barbatos has answers. Belphie and MC meet with Rissa.
pairing: Lucifer/reader
rating: m
chapter wc: 3.4k
warnings: angst & trauma; small text only for description; gn!reader; possible spoilers; not proofread; descriptions of violence/death; author takes liberties with canon
a/n: many thanks to @abberant-butler for the barb help; he’s 100% your OC and i am but an unworthy worm dragging the butler into my sandbox
title taken from “therapy” by dresage & g smith
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There’s an air of wrongness and ridiculousness to Barbatos sitting across from you in the common room. Cross-legged on the floor (like you), he still keeps his usual grace and poise (unlike you). Making such a demon sit on the rug with you hadn’t been your intention, but the fire was just so warm. Barbatos takes in your bewildered expression with a smile.
“I am comfortable, don’t worry,” he assures you. “I tend to run a little cold, so being by the fireplace is a bit of a relief. This house can get so drafty.”
“Aren’t demons usually warm as—“ you sputter at what you were about to say.
His lips pull into a genuine grin. “Hell? Yes, usually. Some of us that are…older have a slightly different experience.”
You blink, trying to parse what exactly he’s saying. Conversations with the butler often leave you scratching your head—convinced he said something but not sure exactly what.
“Older demons are cold-blooded?”
“Not all of us, but I am,” he says, removing one of his gloves. He offers his hand to you. “Feel the difference from where I was holding my cup.”
The back of his hand is freezing, while his palm is nearly as warm as your own. You’ve never seen him without his gloves and the exposed skin almost feels obscene. Heat rises in your cheeks as you pull your fingers back. You chastise yourself for getting so flustered over the sight of his hand like some swooning Victorian.
“That’s not in my biology class. They talk about how most demons are born in hellfire and that’s why everyone’s so warm; their blood retains the heat of their creation,” you point out.
Barbatos slips the glove back on, sparing your poor heart the sight of his exposed wrist. “Most are, yes. Some of us have been here since before hellfire itself.”
Ancient. He existed before the proper creation of Hell. Were he human, you’d think he was maybe in his mid-twenties at most. The dissonance between his appearance and the truth steals the breath from your lungs.
“That serves as a good introduction, I think,” continues Barbatos. “I was created long ago. The Young Master, the brothers, Solomon…they all are quite young from my perspective. I remember when Lucifer was created—the first of his kind. And the Young Master, of course.”
You sip your tea to hide the tremble in your hands. “I must seem like, I don’t know, a speck of dust to you.”
“Not at all.” He smiles. “Young, yes, but giant in your presence and effect.”
The green of his eyes glows as bright as the fire beside you. He seems to see through you, past you. It’s jarring, but stops just short of making you uncomfortable. Barbatos snaps back with a blink, shaking himself slightly.
“Not small or insignificant,” he says.
You tilt your head. “Were you just looking at the timelines?”
“Yes. You feature quite prominently in most of them.” He raises his cup to his lips, glancing at the fire.
Not surprising given how entrenched you are in the brothers’ lives. You let the comment drift by without responding. Pestering him with questions isn’t the right tactic to take; Barbatos will explain what he wants to on his own time. And any answers you get are more likely to confuse you further.
“What do you know about parallel universes?’ he asks finally, still looking into the fire.
“That I’m technically in one.”
He laughs, the sound low and pleasant. “Not quite correct. You’re from an alternate universe that no longer exists. Identical to this one in all ways except for that night. When I collapsed the timelines down, I brought the two together and blended them.”
That makes…absolutely no sense in terms of reality. Sure, in theory you can picture what he’s talking about, but—
“Up until that night, everything was the same,” he continues. “Your experiences here, up in the Human Realm, all of history, everything was the same. The night you died was the branching off point. Essentially, both versions did happen; they happened to you, even if no one else experienced it.”
“I am so glad I didn’t promise to understand.”
Barbatos hums, amusement creeping into his voice. He stands suddenly and holds a hand out to you. “I think I might know a better way to explain it.”
You’re not allowed to touch the ingredients on the counter, though you’ve got an apron on. As much as he claims this is just for explanation’s sake, the butler takes his baking very seriously. He rolls out the dough, his movements practiced and precise. Several complex folding and rolling patterns later, Barbatos gestures at the stack of dough.
“Can you identify each individual layer?” he asks.
You peer at the puff pastry, tilting your head at the thin lines. “Uh…?”
He snaps his fingers and the counter once again holds the unrolled dough with its layer of butter. “Watch.” His movements slow this time around, letting you see the layers form.
“The timelines are like the layers,” you guess. Barbatos nods.
“Correct. Individual, yet indistinguishable once put together. I simply folded them together.” He continues turning at the same unhurried pace until a stack is formed again. “If you tried to pry this apart, it would just make a mess. It is the same for the timelines; everything has melded together.” He waves his hand and it all vanishes, probably off to the castle’s kitchen.
“Where does that leave me?”
Barbatos’ face is serious with no hint of his usual polite amusement. All of the years are visible in his eyes, heavy and haunting. There’s a sadness to him, but not for himself. It reads like pity almost, though it must be closer to empathy. The corner of his lips twitches, stopping just short of hinting at a smile.
“I am sorry for the burden I’ve placed on you,” he says. “Ignorance was an indulgence I could not let you have.”
You hear the underlying question: would you forget if you could? “I’d rather know, I think. It was horrible, but forgetting feels like–”
“Betrayal?” He nods when you agree. “Yes, I’ve had the same thought.”
Barbatos guides you back to the common room with a gloved hand on your elbow. The fire still crackles merrily in the fireplace and both of your teacups are full and steaming again. “The alternative was unacceptable. Even if we don’t take the beneficial effect you’ve had on them since your death into account… Belphegor’s murder of you would have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak.”
“Their relationships would have never recovered,” you summarize.
“Correct.” He takes a deep drink of what you no longer believe to be the same tea in your cup. “If you had gone home after that night, they would have been fine. The same as they’ve always been, I suppose, just maybe a touch more sad.”
You wonder if it’s revealing too much, but it doesn’t matter at the end of the day. “Lucifer asked if I wanted to go home. He said he could work something out with Diavolo if I really wanted to leave. I told him no.”
Barbatos’ face betrays no surprise; if he hadn’t seen it, he’d probably surmised as much. He nods again, lost in thought as he stares into the fireplace. Sharing time is over it seems. You scoot closer to him on the rug, careful not to jostle either of your cups, and drop your head on his shoulder. He flinches slightly at the contact, but makes no move to remove you. Instead, he leans in closer until his head rests on yours.
“Part of it was selfishness,” he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “I knew we were going to be friends.”
Your fingers are as hot as the fire compared to his gloved ones, but you intertwine them anyway, gripping his hand tight.
“You’re allowed to be selfish.”
Neither of you look away from the fireplace or move away from each other. A comfortable silence reigns over the common room for a very long time.
---
You’re treated to mundanity for the rest of the day. Satan cooks, taking care to include a few of your favorites, and there’s 30 minutes of bickering before a movie gets decided on. With Mammon and Asmo clinging to your sides as you watch the rom-com no one is truly satisfied with, everything almost feels back to normal.
The glow of lidded purple and pink eyes occasionally darting your way tells you differently.
Lucifer walks you to Rissa’s room himself the next day. You’ve been excused from classes, so you feel a bit out of place next to him without your uniform. He’s quiet on the walk, one hand loosely holding yours. You squeeze his hand to break him out of his thoughts.
“You okay?”
His eyes refocus before settling on your face. “Of course. Just thinking.” He pulls you a touch closer so he can wrap his arm around you. “You’re fond of that sweater.”
It’s thin, practically threadbare in places. There are holes in the soft, black fabric showing how well-loved the garment is. Touches of magic at the seams keep it from falling apart altogether. But best of all, it smells like his room: smoke and incense–the warmth you’ve come to associate with his presence.
“It’s yours,” you offer simply.
In moments like this, where he smiles with an unassuming gentleness, you can believe the stories Simeon tells you. Morningstar, made of Venus’ brilliance and so beloved by all. The best of the angels. A being so adored that he drew others in to war against God. His lips on your forehead as he bids you goodbye would be enough to pull you down the garden path.
Rissa laughs when you shut the door behind you. “Enjoy your escort today?”
“He’s going to be the death of me someday,” you grumble, scrubbing your face like that’ll take the dopey expression off.
“Not a bad way to go,” she teases with a wink.
Belphie joins the two of you before you can pout at her further. Speaking of your untimely end, he grunts a greeting and sinks into the couch. It’s nowhere near any time that could be considered “morning”, but that makes little difference to the embodiment of Sloth.
“Shall we get started?” asks Rissa pleasantly.
There is plenty of room on the sofa, but Belphie manages to take up most of it. Unless you sit on the arm, you have to make peace with being pressed up against him. Rissa’s gaze misses nothing when you flinch at his arm brushing yours.
“MC, I know you haven’t been to a true shared meeting, so I just want to go over a few things first. Nothing said here leaves this room without the other’s explicit consent. I don’t tolerate interruptions; everyone will get their chance to speak.” She waits for your nod. “Okay. Now, I want to start with your nightmares.”
Belphie glances at you with a bit more life in his eyes than normal. “You’re having nightmares?”
“Yes,” you sigh. “Mostly when I sleep alone.”
“You look confused, Belphie. You told me that you do dream checks every night for everyone in the house,” says Rissa.
“I asked him not to for me.” You shift on the couch. This is already uncomfortable. Everything’s going to come out. The cracks in the dam are visible and water is creeping through.
Belphie snorts. “You ordered me to with the pact.”
“I told you, it makes me feel weird knowing my mind isn’t completely private.”
Rissa slips another of those stress balls into your hand with a look. “We’ll come back to that. What are your nightmares about?”
You bite your lip, twisting the toy around. “Everything. That night, of course, but everything that’s happened really. Sometimes it’s not…accurate? Like, it’s distorted and different.”
“That’s normal for dreams,” says Belphie quietly. His stare stays focused on the floor.
“Sometimes it’s not you that…kills me. Each of your brothers takes a turn too. Or they’re on your side and actually cheering–” You choke on the words, but now that your mouth is open, it’s like you can’t stop. “But the worst is when it’s just a memory. I’ve woken up hearing Mammon’s screaming more times than I can count. And the pain–I thought you weren’t supposed to feel pain in dreams?”
“Myth.” He looks up at you suddenly. “Wait, ‘memory’? You remember…”
“Dying? Yes.”
Horror creeps over Belphie’s face, fair skin paling further and eyes widening. He shoves his hair out of his face with a harsh movement. “Fuck.”
He looks like he’s about to be sick. His hands grasp the edges of his pillow and he hunches further into himself. You stop yourself from comforting him, your first instinct when one of the brothers is in pain. This is his own fault. You won’t soothe the guilt he’s rightly earned.
“There was no other way,” you say without a shred of emotion. “When Barbatos righted the timelines, there wasn’t any other option. So yes, I remember everything–even the stuff that technically didn’t happen here.”
“Like?” he croaks.
Untangling it all feels like too much. What does it matter if it wasn’t this Belphegor that was locked in the castle dungeons? What does it matter if this Lucifer isn’t the one that attacked Beel in the library? It still happened and you remember and you have to live with it.
“You were charged with treason. Lucifer barely escaped the same punishment for protecting you from Diavolo. Beel and I had to break him and the others out of house arrest to try to convince Diavolo to let you go. Jury’s still out on whether we succeeded, by the way.” You shrug.
Belphie says nothing. Did he ever even apologize?
“That’s not on you, though,” you continue, heedless of the way he startles at the sudden venom in your voice. “What is on you is the way I still can feel your hands around my neck. What is your fault is the fact I don’t trust people the same. And everyone just expected me to move on!”
The stress ball tears under your nails. Neither Belphie nor Rissa attempt to stop your rant.
“You, of all people, got so fucking clingy with me afterwards. Always touching me, always talking to me, always hanging off of me, like you hadn’t killed me three days prior! Like, are you kidding me?” You turn to him, glaring at his curled figure.
Belphie has a habit of playing the baby. It gets him out of everything: dishes, class, treason charges, murder. You understand it, you do, but he’s so coddled by the others that he’s never experienced repercussions for his actions ever. Not this time. He’s a grown adult who needs to understand exactly what he did to you.
“I didn’t know you remembered,” he mumbles.
You scoff. “It doesn’t matter. I was murdered by your hands and everyone was just cool with you acting like we were besties! How do you not see how fucked that is?”
“Why didn’t you say anything? You could have told me or Beel or even Lucifer,” he points out. “Communication is a two-way street.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll just tell Beel that his other half–that he’s so excited to have back–is the last person I want to be around. Or Lucifer, who’s just so grateful to have all of his family getting along. Yeah, that would work out really well.” You push the pieces of the stress ball together to keep yourself from throwing them at him. “I tried talking about what happened and I got shut down every time.”
Rissa clears her throat to gain your attention. She’s more serious than you’ve ever seen her, no trace of her usual smile on her face. “Did you try talking to Belphie?”
“No,” you allow.
“That’s what matters here. Your problems with how the others handled things aren’t relevant to your relationship with Belphie. It’s unfair of you to take out that anger on him,” she says calmly.
LIke how he took out his anger at the human realm on me?
Snapping back at Rissa is useless. She didn’t break most of the bones in your body.
“Belphie, what do you have to say about all of this?” she asks.
His eyes are shut, though the white of his knuckles on his pillow tells you he’s still awake. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have been so ‘clingy’. I just…I didn’t have anyone else that would actually talk to me, except for Beel. And you know how he was. He wasn’t acting normal. I hated how everyone else was walking on eggshells around me. I wanted it to go back to before, like how you and I would talk and stuff. I thought if we just didn’t talk about it, everything would just go away.”
Belphie pushes his bangs back and reclines in his seat. It’s probably the most you’ve heard him speak in one sitting.
“Because repression has worked out so well in the past,” you huff.
“Old habits.” He shrugs. “Everyone started acting normal after you seemed to accept me.”
“So you were using me. Again.”
He opens his eyes to glare at you. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I just said I wanted to be around you. The rest was just an added benefit.” Belphie scrubs his face harshly, but it’s not enough to erase the exasperation etched into the skin. “You were our last connection to Lilith–”
“Don’t fucking act like she’s the–”
“MC,” warns Rissa.
You quiet immediately, feeling chastised by the low tone of her voice. She gestures for Belphie to continue and it’s hard not to take it as a betrayal. She knows what he did to you, what he caused. And she’s just going to let him spew this utter bullshit?
Warmth flares under Satan’s pact mark before fading, taking some of the white-hot rage with it. Satan doesn’t drain it all, of course, but it’s enough to let your head clear.
Rissa and Belphie both look at you as you take a deep breath and try to center yourself.
“Pacts can be useful,” you say as an explanation. “Sorry, I’m fine now.”
Rissa shakes her head. “Don’t apologize for having emotions. It’s one of the things demons and humans have in common–we all have feelings and we can be at the whims of them sometimes. This is a space for everyone to be able to speak, though, so try not to interrupt, okay?”
You nod. It’s like being scolded by Hell’s version of Mary Poppins, to be honest.
“I can’t change what happened,” sighs Belphie, exhaustion radiating off of him. “I don’t know what you want me to do here.”
“An apology would be a start.”
Everyone talks about the differences between the twins: their personalities, energy levels, hobbies. But they’re more similar than not. It’s never more apparent than when one of them turns the full weight of that purple and pink gaze on you. Beel’s heart and kindness is visible behind the dark shadows rimming Belphie’s eyes.
It’s probably why you trusted him in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I used you and attacked you. And I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much it affected you…how much my presence in general affected you. The way I treated you wasn’t fair.”
Actions speak louder and all that, so even though you accept his apology, you warn him that you’ll need to see actual change. “It’s uninitiated touch, really. Like, if I reach out first, it’s fine. Just try not to startle me?”
“That’s doable.” Belphie looks down at his pillow again, fidgeting with the tassel. “What about your nightmares?”
“I’m really not comfortable with you in my head.”
“No, no. I wouldn’t be in your head,” he assures you. “I can put a charm on your pillow or something that keeps them away. I used to do it for my brothers a lot before I figured out how to do nightmare checks.”
Oh. The implications of that force your heart into your throat. After the fall, after Lilith, with powers he still didn’t understand–even younger than he is now with enough survivor’s guilt to drown a city.
He’s meeting you halfway with this offer; it lets him do something that helps you but keeps your mind private. Rissa’s encouraging nod reaffirms that for you.
a/n: if you want to be added to the taglist, shoot me an ask! (and if you want to be removed don't feel bad just let me know); it took so much not to accidentally make this barb/mc but we’re staying strong and not falling for it
