Obey me x Maomao!Reader! Part 2!
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Diavolo
Diavolo was immediately intrigued the first time he met you.
Jinshi 🤝 Diavolo
Not because you bowed with flawless etiquette, or because you had a mysterious air about you, or even because you wore a faint expression like you were calculating how many ingredients it would take to paralyze everyone in the room.
No, he liked that you were so obviously unimpressed by him.
That alone made you fascinating.
“Y/N, is it?” he beamed, clapping his hands together as if greeting an old friend. “I’ve heard you’re a specialist in… toxic substances?”
You blinked. “Medicinal compounds with occasional unfortunate side effects.”
Barbatos visibly tensed. Diavolo laughed.
You were used to authority figures looking down on you. The upper court at Jinshi’s palace, the demons who mistook your small frame and quiet tone for harmlessness all the same breed. But Diavolo was different. He didn’t underestimate you. He overestimated you with overwhelming enthusiasm.
“You simply must come to the next diplomacy dinner! We’re hosting the Eastern realm’s nobles imagine the tension! You’ll love it!”
“I won’t,” you said flatly.
He invited you anyway.
Your relationship with him started with mild panic. You were allergic to optimism. Diavolo had it in gallons. You were realistic, careful, skeptical. He ran on vibes, big gestures, and the blind confidence of someone who’d never failed a group project in his life because he was the group project.
He once brought you a demonic fruit with glowing thorns and said, “It reminded me of you, small, dangerous, mysterious!”
You stared at it. “This is a class-five paralytic spore pod. Did you… touch it?”
“I may have.”
You administered an antidote in record time.
Over time, you discovered something unsettling: Diavolo was actually competent. Chaotic? Yes. Loud? Absolutely. But he paid attention. He remembered that you hated sweets but liked tart plum wine. He asked questions about your remedies, not just to be polite but because he genuinely wanted to learn. He listened when you muttered under your breath about dosage ratios, and he asked why you wore three different perfume oils layered in specific order, not realizing it was to hide the scent of toxic herbs from curious demons.
“I’m amazed you get away with so much,” he said once, not disapproving, just curious.
“I’m small,” you replied. “People talk over me. I listen.”
His golden eyes gleamed. “Sounds like you’d make an excellent spy.”
You sipped your tea. “Sounds like you’re planning something stupid.”
He grinned. You were correct.
Where Diavolo really surprised you was how much effort he put into making you comfortable. He didn’t push you to speak in crowds. He redirected attention when nobles got nosy about your past. He offered you your own private garden lab in the castle, stocked with ingredients from the human world. When you raised an eyebrow and asked if this was all a bribe, he replied, “It’s a thank-you. For saving my entire council from poisoning last week.”
You let it slide. Barely.
There was a moment, during a long diplomatic meeting where you quietly slipped him a remedy for a pounding headache, when he caught your hand mid-pass and held it just a second longer than necessary. His smile softened. You rolled your eyes, yanked your hand back, and hissed, “Don’t get sentimental. It makes you look weak.”
He laughed. Loud and bright and unbothered. “That’s where you’re wrong, Y/N. It makes me look approachable.”
The two of you made an unlikely duo. You, all edges and science and suspicious glares. Him, a walking sunbeam in royal regalia who could charm even the crankiest demon into playing charades. And yet, somehow, it worked.
When chaos erupted at a royal banquet (because of course it did), you were the one who noticed the subtle signs of magical contamination in the wine. You snatched the goblet from Diavolo’s hand without hesitation, sniffed it, and muttered, “Told you letting Mammon host the bar was a terrible idea.”
“You care about me,” he said cheerfully.
“I care about not having to resuscitate the future king of the Devildom at midnight in front of fifty nobles.”
“Same thing."
You elbowed him. Lightly.
The strange thing was, you never planned to get close to someone like Diavolo. But he cracked past your walls without force. Just sheer consistency. Endless, annoying warmth. Unshakeable belief in your worth — even when you muttered things like “love is a chemical imbalance" and “you’re definitely going to die from something stupid.”
He’d just laugh, hold your gaze, and say, “If I do, I hope you’re the one who prepared the poison.”
You never answered.
But you stopped diluting his tea.
Barbatos
Barbatos knew from the moment he saw you that you were going to be trouble.
Not in the traditional Mammon way, loud, dramatic, chaotic, but in the quiet, calculated sort of trouble that made you linger in a room two seconds longer than anyone else… just long enough to overhear something you weren’t meant to.
You were unassuming. Polite. Soft-spoken in that “I’m not threatening unless you breathe wrong” sort of way. And Barbatos, of course, noticed the vial of powdered belladonna hidden beneath your sleeve. He also noticed that you never drank from the same cup twice and that you smelled faintly of medicinal herbs and something metallic.
You made him nervous. That didn’t happen often.
You arrived in the Devildom as part of a "cultural exchange," and somehow immediately developed a reputation as the weird little human with a poison cabinet and zero social fear.
Lucifer called you unsettling.
Mammon called you cute and also “probably cursed.”
Asmodeus begged for your secret skincare routine and screamed when you said “tiger leech salve.”
Barbatos watched it all unfold with faint amusement and absolutely zero trust.
“You’re not what you appear to be,” he remarked once, as you worked quietly in the castle garden, rearranging the Devil’s Trumpets by petal size.
You didn’t even look up. “Neither are you. I saw that time magic twitch earlier.”
He paused. Blinked.
Then smiled.
“Interesting.”
What started as mutual suspicion quickly morphed into something else, an elaborate, unspoken contest of wills. You found ways to sneak into his pantry without setting off traps. He “accidentally” rearranged your herb drawers so your paralysis powders were alphabetically misfiled. You left a salve on his desk labeled “For Tired Butler Joints.” He returned it two days later, perfectly sealed, with a note: Too obvious. Try harder.
You bickered over the best way to brew antidotes. He called your preservation methods “quaint.” You called his magic shortcuts “cheating.” And yet when a visiting noble collapsed from a cursed drink during a banquet, you moved in sync like you'd practiced it.
You slipped the counter-agent into his tea before he hit the floor. Barbatos caught him mid-fall.
“I was already on my way to intervene,” he said mildly.
“I noticed you took too long,” you replied.
There was a strange, quiet rhythm between you. Both of you understood the value of observation. Both knew how to weaponize subtlety. And both knew how to play the long game.
Barbatos was the only one who didn’t underestimate you but he also didn’t try to soften you. He didn’t say you should smile more. He didn’t ask you to share your past. He respected the fact that you didn’t want to be known and perhaps that was why you found yourself letting him know you, anyway.
It started in your shared experiments long hours in the lab, murmuring theories, exchanging ingredients without needing to ask. He gave you access to rare magical plants from his time-locked garden. You gave him a toxin that could knock out Beelzebub without permanent damage (just in case, you said).
You didn’t flirt. You traded threats like compliments. You told him he was terrifying. He called you “endearingly unhinged.” It was weird. It worked.
One night, after a particularly long session cataloguing mutagenic effects on soul residue, he offered you tea. Not the poisoned kind. The real kind. Carefully steeped. The scent was soothing, complex, almost… thoughtful.
You stared at the cup. “Did you poison it?”
He smiled. “Would it matter?”
You drank it anyway. He took that as trust. You took it as a test.
Neither of you were wrong.
When Diavolo inevitably roped everyone into some ridiculous team-building retreat, you tried to opt out. Barbatos didn’t stop you, but the next morning, you found a packed bag with your exact favorite snacks and a note in neat cursive: Just in case you reconsider.
You rolled your eyes. You still brought the bag.
There was no dramatic confession. No grand romantic gesture. Just two terrifyingly competent people gradually orbiting each other until it was too obvious to deny.
“I trust you,” Barbatos said once, apropos of nothing.
You paused. Blinked.
Then smiled.
“Interesting.”
And from then on, you started drinking from the same cup more than once.
Simeon
Simeon had met many humans in his long, long life, saints and sinners, poets and philosophers. He liked to believe he had seen it all. That is, until you walked into Purgatory Hall with a blank expression, ink-stained fingers, and a jar of fermented toad bile in your bag.
"Hello," you said calmly, completely ignoring the fact that Luke was clinging to Simeon’s leg like he’d just seen a ghost. "Do you have a clean surface where I can extract venom?"
That was the beginning.
Simeon had always appreciated calmness, but yours wasn’t serenity, it was eerie control. You were polite, yes, but in that “I will dissect you with tweezers if you annoy me” kind of way. You did not simper. You did not flatter. You did not giggle.
When Luke asked what your hobby was, you answered without hesitation: "Analyzing blood samples for fungal infections."
There was a silence.
You didn’t blink.
Simeon blinked twice.
Still, he was intrigued.
You weren’t needlessly cruel, in fact, you were deeply compassionate in an intensely practical way. You didn’t cry when someone got hurt. You immediately started assessing whether their organs were intact. You had no patience for theatrics but carried candy in your sleeve for distressed demons. You treated wounds with detached precision and refused to take credit.
Simeon caught onto it quickly: you didn’t like attention. You didn’t trust affection. And if someone tried to compliment you, you’d deflect it with a clinical fact about digestive parasites.
But he was patient.
He noticed how you always tested your potions on yourself first. He noticed the way your hands trembled after healing someone, only when you thought no one was watching. And he noticed that, for all your talk of being “just a humble apothecary,” your knowledge bordered on terrifying.
"You know," he mused gently one afternoon as you sorted dried corpse lily petals, "you remind me of the old doctors in Celestial records. The ones who treated wounds with wine and prayer and knew more than they let on."
You didn’t look up. "That’s flattering. Unless those doctors also got burned at the stake for being too smart."
He chuckled. "Some of them did. But the best ones lived long lives. Quiet ones."
You gave him a look. The Look. The one that said I’m too nosy for a quiet life and you know it.
He smiled.
And you didn’t smile back exactly, but your eyes softened.
You weren’t interested in Simeon at first. He was too kind. Too gentle. You assumed it was a performance, like most people’s sweetness was. But over time, you started to realize, it wasn’t that he was oblivious. It’s just that he didn’t expect anything in return.
He praised your work without hovering. He brought you sun-dried tea leaves for no reason other than “I thought you might find them interesting.” He’d listen patiently to your tangents about poison resistance in low-grade demons, and never once interrupted.
He didn’t try to fix you. Or change you. Or even interpret you.
He simply stayed.
And that, more than anything, disarmed you.
One evening, after treating a sick noble’s curse-infested lungs (which involved more screaming and pus than anyone cared to describe), you showed up at Purgatory Hall looking dead-eyed and bloodstained.
Simeon didn’t say anything. Just handed you a clean towel and gestured to the porch. You sat together in silence, side by side, the stars soft and patient above you.
"...I think I hate people less when they’re unconscious," you murmured.
He laughed, warm and quiet. "That’s one way to avoid disappointment."
You blinked at him. "That was almost cynical. I’m impressed."
"I’ve been spending time with you," he said, teasing just a little.
You didn’t say thank you. You never did. But the way you didn’t leave for another hour spoke volumes.
Eventually, people started assuming you and Simeon were together. Neither of you confirmed it. Neither of you denied it. And when someone asked, you’d just quip, "He’s good at keeping me from poisoning myself accidentally. It’s symbiotic."
Simeon would smile gently beside you, sipping tea he let you steep, even though it tasted vaguely of bark and regret.
And somewhere in the quiet understanding between your logic and his grace, something bloomed. Not fast. Not loud. But real.
He never asked you to soften.
But you did anyway.
Only for him.
Solomon
Solomon knew danger when he saw it.
And when you walked into the House of Lamentation, no invitation, no fanfare, just a calm, mildly irritated look and a paper-wrapped bundle of dried centipedes under your arm, he recognized a kindred spirit.
"You’re the human alchemist," you said by way of greeting, eyeing him like he was a questionable ingredient.
"And you’re... the one who just tried to barter bat spleens for library access?"
"Bat spleens and moldy sugar cane," you corrected. "I’m not an amateur."
It was the start of something disastrous.
Delightful, but disastrous.
Solomon was used to people being intrigued by his magic. Curious. Awed. Afraid. But you? You treated his century-old spellwork like a homemade experiment gone slightly wrong.
"This charm circle is crooked," you said during your first shared lesson. "You sure you didn’t summon a mild stomach flu instead of protection?"
He grinned. "You try drawing a perfect circle with a sleep-deprived demon chewing on your arm."
"That’s why I use chalk infused with nightshade oil. Dries faster. Burns less."
You were brilliant. Terrifyingly brilliant.
Solomon was enchanted.
You, on the other hand, didn’t trust him at all. You made that clear within the first ten minutes of your acquaintance.
"I’m familiar with charming types who smile too much and keep secrets like currency," you said flatly. "If you sell my soul to a minor demon, I’ll reverse your blood flow with herbs."
He thought he was immune to fear. But you said it so calmly.
He might have fallen a little in love right then.
Still, he knew how to earn your attention, and more importantly, your respect. It wasn’t through flattery (you deflected every compliment by questioning his sample size), or gifts (you sniffed all potions twice before accepting), or grand romantic gestures (you literally ran away when someone gave you a flower bouquet, “What do I look like, an invalid?!”).
No. What worked was evidence. Consistency. Challenge.
He'd show up with new ingredients you’d never seen before, venomous jellyfruit, glowing mold spores from the northern caves, just to hear you theorize their chemical properties. He’d let you rework his potions when you mumbled, “Your ratio’s off. This will evaporate in ten seconds.”
Eventually, you started calling him “Functionally Useful.”
Which was, coming from you, high praise.
You’d argue about the best antidotes for experimental curses like other people argued over dinner plans. You made a game out of who could sneak poisons into each other’s tea without causing permanent damage. You both ended up in the hospital wing at least twice a month, grinning like maniacs while Lucifer screamed in the background.
"What happened this time?" the nurse would sigh.
"Y/N switched my sugar cubes with freeze-dried banshee spleen."
"He started it," you’d mutter, poking Solomon’s forehead to make sure he hadn’t died.
Solomon, in turn, never quite knew whether you were flirting with him or plotting his assassination. Sometimes you’d drop deeply personal insights about him mid-conversation, then immediately switch topics to fungal decay rates.
"You pretend to be easygoing, but you’re scared of being forgotten," you said once, not even looking up from the dried herbs you were grinding. "Also, your body temperature rises by two degrees when you lie."
"...Is that why you always hand me a thermometer during conversations?"
"Just verifying."
He wanted to kiss you and/or run far, far away. It was unclear which feeling was stronger.
But despite the games, the sarcasm, the poison threats , he noticed you were always gentler than you let on. You insisted on testing volatile mixtures on yourself first. You checked Solomon’s pulse twice after each experiment even when he laughed it off. You grumbled about his recklessness but always left antidotes in his coat pocket, labeled only with things like “If your skin starts melting, take two.”
Eventually, you stopped threatening to dissolve his kidneys in acid and started saving the best samples for him. Which, in your language, was a confession.
And Solomon… Solomon stopped flirting just to push your buttons and started doing it because your eye rolls were softer now. Because you made the world interesting again. Because, under all your prickly logic and cold detachment, you cared.
He noticed when you finally stopped checking his tea for toxins.
He noticed when you started saving the seat next to you without comment.
And when you casually said, "You’re still irritating, but I’ve decided to let you live," Solomon grinned and replied:
"That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me."
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