May I request Dia x MC who is afraid bc she doesn't wanna have a kid but she knows Dia needs an heir? It's okay, If not. (I also said she, since yk, pregnancy)
Thank you for your request, and I hope you’ll enjoy what’s coming next! 💕
Characters: Diavolo x femMC!
Genre: Angst / Hurt-Comfort / Introspective Romance
MC, though deeply in love with Diavolo, carries a fear she hasn’t dared to voice: she doesn’t want to have children. Not because of Diavolo , but because the idea of pregnancy terrifies her.
The ballroom shimmered in a warm, ethereal light, soft gold interwoven with glimmers of opaline white, like sunlight filtered through morning mist. The glow seemed to dance along the high vaulted ceilings, catching in the folds of gossamer drapery and flickering off chandeliers that hung like frozen constellations. From the towering obsidian pillars, rich silken banners cascaded downward in long, regal streams, purple, and midnight blue, swaying with the movement of the air, as though the room itself breathed. The scent of burning lavender and crushed pomegranate curled through the vast chamber like an invisible enchantment. It clung to the air, sweet and spiced, familiar yet otherworldly, luring the senses into reverie. It was the perfume of forgotten summers, of sacred rituals, of whispered promises sealed in secret.
Your heels clicked against the marble floor with a delicate rhythm, the sound almost lost beneath the swell of velvet music that poured from a hidden orchestra, violas weeping in waltz-time, flutes trilling like birds in a golden cage. The marble beneath your feet gleamed like still water, reflecting fractured glimpses of gowns, masks, and jeweled finery as you moved. At your side, Diavolo walked like a vision carved from fire and shadow, his presence magnetic, unquestioned. You followed him through the sea of nobles, creatures of elegance and excess, each one adorned as if they stepped from a dream. Gowns bloomed like exotic flowers, shimmering with pearls and moonlight. Capes fluttered like the wings of mythic birds. Masks hid secrets behind feathers, lace, and gold, their eyes glinting with curiosity and quiet hunger. Laughter danced like wind chimes caught in a breeze. Glasses clinked, catching the light like cut crystal stars. Every voice was dipped in honey or smoke, every gesture laced with old grace and newer intentions. The atmosphere was heavy with charm and something deeper, something unspoken. It was a world wrapped in velvet and perfume, dressed in masks, stitched together by music and illusion. And you, poised within it all, felt the surreal weight of the moment: the grandeur, the unreality, the pulse of magic that thrummed just beneath the surface.
He looked radiant tonight. Not just handsome, not merely royal. Radiant. The rich red and black of his formal robes caught the light just right, and the smile he wore as he nodded to guests and shared short laughs was genuine, warm. He had a presence that demanded attention, and tonight, all of it belonged to him.
And you were by his side.
He had made sure of it. You weren’t just his guest. You were his partner, his consort in all but name. You'd spent the evening quietly observing how he reached for your hand without thought, leaned closer to whisper jokes, introduced you with pride. It should've felt like a dream. But there was an invisible weight pressing against your ribs. It had started earlier in the evening, when one of the older nobles had approached you both. An elegant woman, maybe a duchess or a countess, with eyes like onyx and a smile too sharp to be genuine. She had bowed low to Diavolo, then turned to you with a glimmer in her eye. "When the royal heir arrives, I hope they have your grace, young one. The Devildom could use beauty and strength together in one crown." It was a compliment. Everyone laughed. Even Diavolo gave a soft chuckle and thanked her. But your breath had caught in your throat like a hook.
Heir. Your fingers had clenched slightly around your wine glass. And the thought had festered since.
Now, as you stood at the edge of the dance floor, pretending to be focused on the music, your thoughts were all over the place. You kept your expression calm, kept your posture steady, but inside, everything was spinning. You knew it was only a matter of time. Diavolo was a prince, the future king of the Devildom. His life wasn’t entirely his own. It was tied to tradition, to duty, to things older than either of you. No matter how kind he was, no matter how modern or gentle or loving, there were some expectations that even he couldn’t escape.
And you... You weren’t sure you could give him what everyone else expected. It wasn’t just about saying no. It was fear. Real, gut-deep fear. You’d read about what pregnancies were like in the Devildom. About how the presence of demonic energy made everything more intense, more unpredictable, more dangerous. The way the body had to adapt to something it was never meant to carry. The way the child wouldn’t just take from you physically, but magically. Spiritually. How some didn’t survive it.
And his mother? Dead. She died giving birth to him.
That thought stuck with you. You couldn’t shake it. The idea of your body being pushed past its limits, of something growing inside you and feeding off your mana, your strength, your very sense of self, it scared you more than you could admit out loud. What if you broke? What if loving him meant losing yourself completely?And yet... what would it mean to walk away?
The ballroom had grown louder, the laughter and clinking of crystal echoing against the polished marble walls of the castle. Music floated through the air like silk, elegant and noble, underscoring the carefully orchestrated warmth of Lord Diavolo’s evening gathering.
You stood not far from the refreshments, a glass of wine held lightly between your fingers, half-forgotten. Your smile, if one could even call it that, was gentle but strained. The kind of expression meant to blend in, not stand out. Your gaze drifted across the crowd, past nobles in dazzling attire and masked strangers engaged in charming conversation, but you weren’t really seeing any of them. Your mind was somewhere else entirely.
Thoughts you didn’t want. Feelings you didn’t ask for. Words from earlier still lingered in your chest like dust refusing to settle. “It’s only natural,” someone had said, in that casual, well-meaning tone people use when they don’t realize they’re holding a knife. “He’ll need an heir, eventually. It’s tradition.” They hadn’t said it to hurt you. Maybe they hadn’t even been speaking directly to you. But it had landed anyway, heavy and quiet, like a stone dropped into a deep lake. You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since.
You brought the glass to your lips, but didn’t drink.
Around you, the celebration pulsed on, laughter, elegance, the soft swirl of gowns against polished floors. Everything was beautiful. Everything was perfect. And yet, you felt out of place. Like a ghost in silk. A guest in a life you were still unsure you belonged to.
Would Diavolo understand? Could he? He was so full of light, of warmth and vision. But this, this fear inside you, wasn’t something that could be reasoned with or softened by kind words. It wasn’t about logic or even love. It was something deeper. Something that lived in your bones. Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass. You didn’t want to ruin this night. You didn’t want to be the shadow at the edge of his golden world. But the truth was still there, sitting quietly behind your eyes. And it wasn’t going away.
You hadn’t noticed Diavolo watching you.
He had been speaking with Lucifer, head dipped respectfully as the two exchanged a few quiet words about upcoming arrangements, another RAD engagement, another ceremony, another responsibility waiting to be handled. But even as he nodded and responded with practiced ease, Diavolo’s gaze kept drifting, slipping past Lucifer’s shoulder, drawn back to you.
The shift in your body. The way your posture had straightened a little too suddenly, shoulders a touch too tense. The fingers wrapped around the stem of your glass, still, but not relaxed. And your face… calm, composed, but not present. Your smile had faltered. Just slightly. Just enough for him to know something had turned inside you. There was a sadness in your eyes, quiet but unmistakable. An ache he recognized with painful clarity.
He didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to wait.
Lucifer was still speaking when Diavolo set his own glass down with a soft clink and murmured a gentle, “Excuse me.” No excuses. No delay. Just calm, focused urgency in his stride as he stepped away from the conversation and walked straight toward you.
You blinked in surprise as his presence wrapped around you like a sudden warmth, the familiar shadow of him stretching across your feet. “Dance with me,” he said, simply. There was no command in it, no expectation, just an invitation. Soft and steady. A request spoken with the kind of warmth that slipped into your ribs before you could think of saying no. A request meant for you, not for the room. You didn’t even have time to process it fully. His fingers had already brushed against yours, light and reassuring, and with the faintest tug, he led you away from the sidelines and into the heart of the ballroom. His other hand settled gently at the curve of your waist, and before you realized it, you were moving.
You swayed beneath the golden chandeliers, wrapped in the music’s slow and elegant rhythm. It carried you like a tide, and Diavolo moved with you effortlessly, graceful and attentive, every motion designed to keep you steady. His hand at your back pressed just a little closer, not possessive, but grounding. Reassuring. You could feel the quiet strength in his touch, not just physical, but emotional. As if through every step, every soft pivot, he was reminding you: I’m here. I see you. You’re safe. You hadn’t even noticed that you’d stopped breathing properly until your breath caught in your chest.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured after a moment, voice low, nearly lost in the music. His head lowered just enough for his cheek to brush close to yours, not quite a kiss, but intimate in the way only familiarity allows. “I know what it means when you smile like that.” You swallowed, your voice barely above a breath. “Like what?” He didn’t hesitate. “Like it’s for everyone else… but not for you.”
Your chest tightened in response, an involuntary reaction to the truth laid so gently in front of you. He didn’t ask you to explain. He didn’t probe or press. Instead, he just stayed close, as though the nearness itself might ease whatever storm was building behind your ribs. And in some small, invisible way, it did. It didn’t make the feelings go away, but it made them bearable. Softer at the edges.
The music faded behind you like a memory you weren’t ready to keep. You stepped back from Diavolo’s arms with a softness that almost felt like apology. He didn’t resist, just blinked in quiet surprise as your hand slipped free from his, your smile polite, practiced, and far too tight around the edges. “I… just need a moment,” you said gently, and for the briefest second, your eyes met his. You silently begged him not to ask. Because if he asked, you wouldn’t lie. And you weren’t ready to tell the truth either. “I’ll be right back.” He didn’t stop you. You turned before the hesitation in his face could crack through your resolve. The grand marble doors opened with a soft, reluctant creak, and closed again behind you with the sigh of layered enchantment, the warmth, and the glow of golden candlelight.
Outside, the gardens stretched around you like a dream softened by night. The dark velvet of the grass shimmered faintly under the moonlight, interrupted only by pale marble statues and floating lanterns that hovered in the air like fireflies, flickering gently. The air was cool against your skin, cooler than expected, with the faint, familiar scent of nightflowers that bloomed only beneath the silver Devildom moons.
It was quiet. Still. Calmer than the ballroom. As if the world had exhaled. And for a moment, so did you. Until... “Oh! MC?” You turned, startled, to find Simeon approaching from beneath one of the ivy-covered arches. The moonlight made his white and silver robes glow faintly, casting a soft halo across his calm, open features. Beside him, Luke clutched a little silver tray with the remains of desserts, evidence of their own escape from the noise of the party.
Simeon stepped toward you, gentle concern already etched in the soft crease of his brow. “Is something wrong?” he asked. Luke chimed in quickly, his small face pinched with worry. “Yeah… you look kinda… not happy.” You gave them a smile. Not fake, exactly. Just enough to keep things steady. “It’s nothing. I just needed some air.” Luke didn’t seem entirely convinced, but after a pause, he gave a slow nod. Simeon’s gaze lingered a second longer, patient, perceptive. He always had a way of seeing the things people weren’t saying..“Alright,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “We’ll let you be. But if you ever feel like talking—" “I know.” You gave him a grateful nod. “Thank you.”
The two of them passed by, continuing down the garden path with soft steps and low voices. Luke said something that made Simeon laugh gently, and the moment slipped away, leaving only you, the night, and your thoughts.
You moved without thinking, feet leading you toward the familiar marble bench nestled beneath the moonvine tree. Its branches arched high above, draped with silvery blossoms that shimmered faintly, as if brushed with starlight. The petals rustled with the breeze, soft, soothing, ancient. You sat down slowly, folding your hands in your lap, back straight despite the weight pressing down on your chest.
Above you, the Devildom sky stretched wide and endless. Constellations you didn’t know blinked down at you, beautiful and strange. The stars here didn’t move like they did in the human world. Sometimes they pulsed. Sometimes they changed. You never asked why. You just watched them. Something inside you ached. Not pain exactly. Something deeper. Tighter.
The pressure of fear you hadn’t named aloud. The pressure of love sitting too close to reality. The quiet tension of wanting to give everything, almost everything, but not at the cost of losing yourself in the process. You loved him. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what love might eventually ask of you. What being beside someone like Diavolo could mean when the world started to press in harder. When duty began to weigh more than affection. When expectation looked less like a future and more like a sacrifice.
The laughter from the ballroom had begun to fade. You could hear the final notes of music winding down, the clink of glass softening, the voices of nobles trailing off as carriages rolled over enchanted stone. The castle, once full of warmth and noise, was beginning to fall quiet. The celebration was coming to its natural end. But still, you sat beneath the moonvine tree, unmoving. And for the first time all evening, you let yourself feel the weight of it. Not just the fear. But the longing, too.
You heard him before you saw him. Heavy footsteps, unhurried but deliberate. They echoed softly down the garden path, calm, grounded, steady. Not like a king making an entrance, not full of pomp or weight. No, this was something else. Someone looking for something he couldn’t bear to lose. You didn’t turn right away. But his presence settled behind you, unmistakable. Not loud. Just there, like gravity gently pulling at the center of your chest. A silence that meant more than most words ever could.
Then, softly: “…You left.” You closed your eyes. His voice wasn’t sharp. It carried no accusation. No wounded pride. Just quiet concern. A question wrapped in care. Maybe even sadness.
“I needed to think,” you said, barely above a whisper. There was a pause. You could feel it, the way he stood still, just a few steps away, giving you space, but holding the moment steady between you. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but delicate. Like silk drawn taut. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you,” he said finally, his tone low and careful. “I noticed something shift… during the dance. I couldn’t pretend not to see it.”
You looked over your shoulder then.
His eyes, catching the light of the lanterns and stars, had softened in a way that unraveled something deep inside you. He took one quiet, cautious step closer, but didn’t reach for you. Not yet. “I would never ask more of you than you’re willing to give,” he said. “Not even if the whole realm demanded it. Not even if it was something I thought I was born to need.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “…Even an heir?” The words hung in the air, heavier than either of you wanted to admit. He didn’t flinch.
His expression shifted, not with shock or resistance, but with something quieter. Sadness, maybe. Understanding. As if he’d asked himself that same question before, and never quite found a clean answer.
“I want a future with you,” he said slowly. “But not one built on fear. Not one that costs you pieces of yourself. If it ever came to a choice… I’d choose you. Over tradition. Over bloodlines. Over everything I’ve ever been told I was meant to be.” You turned toward him, fully now, and the look you gave him must’ve carried all the weight you hadn’t spoken aloud, because his hand moved instantly, gentle and open, reaching but not demanding.
His fingertips brushed your cheek. “I won’t lose you,” he whispered. “Not to duty. Not to fear. Not even to fate.” Your lip trembled, and when you spoke, your voice cracked at the edges. “I was afraid,” you admitted. “Not just of… what pregnancy might do to me. But of failing you. Of not being enough for you. For this.”
And in that moment, his arms came around you, solid, warm, and certain. You sank into him. Not because you had nowhere else to go, but because he was where you wanted to be. His embrace was firm, but gentle. Like he was holding something precious. You felt the way his chin came to rest lightly against your hair, how his thumb moved in slow circles across your back, steady as breath. “You’re already more than I ever dreamed I’d have,” he said. “You don’t need to be anything else.” You let your forehead press against his chest, breathing in the scent of him, ancient and comforting, familiar in a way that made your ribs ache. Like stone warmed by sunlight. “I’m tired,” you murmured, a confession more than a statement.
“I know,” he replied quietly. And before you could protest, he lifted you into his arms. Your breath hitched in surprise, but he only chuckled, low and soft, like thunder wrapped in velvet. “You’re allowed to be carried,” he murmured at your temple. “Just this once. Let someone else carry the weight.” You didn’t argue. Your eyes fluttered shut as your arms came around his neck, the tension in your body loosening inch by inch. His heartbeat was a steady rhythm beneath your cheek, slow and sure. The scent of the garden, the warmth of his skin, the gentleness of his hold, it all blurred together. Sleep pulled at you like a tide.
He walked slowly, steadily, back through the quiet, glowing halls of the castle. The golden light had dimmed, the celebration now only a memory lingering in the tapestries and stone. He didn’t speak. But you felt him lower his head slightly, pressing his face into your hair. A soft inhale. A silent moment. Even as your breathing slowed, he could still feel the tension lingering in your shoulders. And so he whispered, just for himself, not for you to hear: “I’ll wait.” A vow, soft as starlight. “No matter how long it takes.”
With every fiber of his immortal being he meant it.
