The devil experiences human lust, much to his dismay.
The new neighbor's gift is helping mitigate the dire food situation somewhat, but the udon will only last for so long. Hence his willingness to let Suzuno come and go as she pleases, despite her clearly suspect motivations for playing housekeeper. Maou knows that she's almost certainly a church lackey, and if anyone should be paying for Urushihara's costly presence in their postage-stamp apartment, it's the church. Whatever resources she attempts to ply them with in an effort to lower their guards, he considers restitution.
As he walks home, Maou dutifully recites the tenants of the shift manager training manual Miss Kisaki gave him. Mere days from now, he will need the knowledge at his beck and call, and anything less than perfection is an outcome he cannot afford—quite literally, with a new roommate eating up the very limited resources of the devil's castle. Their only hope to sustain like this—if Urushihara proves to be as useless an earner as Maou expects—is for the devil to quickly climb the MgRonald's ranks.
From the street, Maou can hear the sounds of Suzuno lecturing Lucifer about vegetable preparation in her overly formal cadence, with his far more casual answering complaints. It isn't until Maou nears the stairs that he catches a faint whiff of something familiar, but out of place. A honey-sweet aroma that always spells trouble for him.
Emi. Oh, this ought to be—
Before he completes the thought, the pounding of heeled feet echoes above and the hinges of the door to the landing squeal as it's thrown open. Pink hair whips around as Emilia the Hero careens gracelessly off the top step and directly into his arms—for some maddening reason perfectly extended to catch her.
It's the second time in a week a woman has tumbled down those stairs into him, but the lurching in his stomach and shake of his knees is new. He tells himself it's the princess hold he has Emi in—more weight on his joints after a long shift. Anyone might tremble.
The sweat-soaked button down she's wearing that's plastered to her skin and translucent enough that he can make out the shadow of her bra beneath has nothing to do with it. The hot press of her abdomen into his side, the slick thigh against his left hand—they're utterly inconsequential. Disgusting even. Here he is, overheated and low on fuel, and this infernal woman who isn't even supposed to be here throws her drenched self at him out of nowhere?
He should be irritated or…offended, even. Yes! A heavy dose of exasperation will cover the way his hands are clenching slightly into the fabric at her shoulder, pulling her tighter against him.
"I don't think you actually know how to use stairs," he snipes.
"Maou?" Emi blinks open her eyes, dropping a wincing grimace, and Maou scowls back at her.
"Seriously, you need to practice or something."
Her eyes narrow, then widen again, a peculiar sort of humiliation dancing in them. Her attention darts down to her knees, the pencil skirt she’s wearing having ridden up well above where the demon was gripping to hold her aloft. He thinks he should probably drop her now, or at least gently set her back on her feet. She cannot be allowed to glean any ammunition from this. But before he can move, her freehand crashes into his cheekbone with the power of celestial force.
He reels, still somehow maintaining his grip on her, and she strikes again—this time with a sharp knee, catching him square in the nose. His vision goes black as he falls backward, and the last sound he hears is her crying out as she hits the grass.
—
Later, after Emi had thoroughly insulted him and positioned herself as guardian over the girl who was clearly a representative of the same organization that tried to kill her barely two weeks prior, Maou finds himself alone again with his two roommates. He sits against the wall, a manga propped on his knees, pretending not to think about going after Emi and shaking some sense into her about Suzuno.
Urushihara lets out a smug sort of sigh, leaning back on his hands in front of his computer and turning his head. "So…you and Emi are awfully cozy. Even Suzuno noticed." Maou's eyes narrow and leave his book to meet the sly half-smile Lucifer's directing at him. "I thought it was weird how you were protecting her when me and Olba attacked you, but now I get—"
"Ashiya!" Maou exclaims in mock excitement. "Did you hear that?" The man in question stirs in his sickbed, looking wearily up at his compatriots.
"What is it, sire?"
"Urushihara here just volunteered to handle the shopping until you're feeling better. Maybe Suzuno has been a good influence on him, afterall."
"What the crap, man? No, I said that you—"
"Oh, what's that? You want to look for a job, too, once Ashiya's back on his feet? How responsible of you!"
Urushihara falls silent with a roll of his eyes, returning his attention to the computer. "Whatever, man. Live in denial."
"What you're implying is out of the question," Ashiya half groans, turning on his side toward the window. "Our lord has seen no end of trouble from that woman."
Maou humphs an affirmative, returning his gaze to his manga, while his treacherous brain steeps with thoughts of Emi's hot skin against his.
Don't get it twisted; we will never be intimate, she had declared when Suzuno probed her on the subject. Maou had studiously continued washing the dishes during this exchange, hiding the uncomfortable pinch that appeared between his eyebrows at her words. His brain flits back to their conversation following the battle in Sasazuka.Don't make it sound like such a challenge, Hero, he'd told her. And damn her, she just can't help herself, can she? Every fierce denial hangs in the air like the draw of her sword—an invitation to lock eyes and meet her in the middle.
Full in-progress drabble collection on AO3 under the title treacherous fondness.
