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#gnocchiwrites
gnocchighoul · 4 years
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Operation Hot Potato
Summary: 
“See? She’s just a baby~” you coo, gently wiggling the kitten in his face.
Lucifer grimaces. Takes another, larger step back. “If a baby is what you want, I’d rather give you one myself.”
(You bring home a kitten and try to hide her from Lucifer. Unfortunately for you, nothing gets past the House of Lamentation’s resident pet-hater.)
Word Count: 3.6k
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You found a kitten.
Well—kind of. It’s debatable.
You think it’s a kitten. She certainly looks like one—fluffy little thing with snow-white fur, blue eyes, a poofy little triangular head, and the most perfectly pink toe beans you’ve ever had the pleasure of squishing. 
The reason why you’re so hesitant to call her a kitten? 
She breathes fire. Hiccups fireballs. Sneezes flaming hot streams of… well, flames.
You learned that firsthand ten minutes ago, when you nearly got your eyebrows singed off by a particularly dangerous sneeze. All you wanted to do was give her a smooch on her wittle pink nose, you weren’t expecting to get blasted in the face with an orangey-red inferno.
But you know what? It doesn’t matter if she’s a little strange. You’ve sworn your everlasting love to your newfound daughter—your secret daughter that the demon brothers can absolutely not know about under any circumstances whatsoever, because you just know that Lucifer will make you put her back in the wild where you found her.
Your fire-sneezing, bouncing baby girl wouldn’t last another day out in the harsh wilderness (aka the dumpster that you retrieved her from). In the forty-seven minutes that you’ve had her, she’s grown accustomed to belly scratches, sleeping in your bed, and gnawing on only the finest tortilla chips in the Devildom. 
Her name is Tater Tot.
She sticks out like a sore white thumb among your colorful assortment of pillows. Not that she cares. She’s living it up in the lap of luxury. Tater Tot stretches—turns around with every paw in the air, proudly showing off her rotund little baby belly, and mrrps at you.
Its the cutest thing you've ever fucking seen. You just wanna SQUEEZE her. Ugh, who would've guessed that a little trash fire baby would steal your heart so quickly?
And it’s not like you broke the rules and brought home a pet on purpose. Tater Tot had chosen you. By choosing to rummage around in that specific dumpster that you just so happened to walk past on your way home from RAD, Tater Tot had effectively decided that you were to be her new caretaker. 
It’s fate. Kismet. You’ve wanted a pet for so long—dog, cat, dragon, gremlin, doesn’t matter. You’ve spent hours upon hours bitching and moaning to anyone that’ll listen about how badly you’ve wanted a pet to smother with your love. Nobody has been able to escape your woe. Everyone—the brothers, the angels, Solomon, and even your good buddy Diavolo (somehow, Barbatos has managed to evade you) have all been forced to listen to your lamenting about the pet-shaped hole in your heart. 
But finally—finally—your prayers have been answered.
With a fire breathing kitten. 
Oh yeah. Kismet.
You’re fairly certain that Tater Tot has never lived in a house. She had been perfectly content to snuggle up in your school uniform like some kind of tiny, pouch dwelling, heat seeking creature, until you had snuck into your bedroom and closed the door behind you. 
The second you set her on the floor, it was like a switch flipped. Tater Tot had shown off her unnatural strength by flinging her little puffball body around the room like a possessed tumbleweed, spastically crashing around the room and knocking over furniture and keepsakes alike.
You had finally cornered her under your bed and sat peacefully nearby, humming quietly to calm her. It didn’t take long for you to coax her out with snacks—she liked the chips, but passionately disliked the gummy worms—and within twenty minutes you had Tater Tot lounging with you on the bed, rubbing her soft little cheeks into your palm for rubs and scritches. 
You need to come up with a plan to hide your beloved child ASAP. It’s only a matter of time until either Lucifer hauls you off to his room or one of the brothers decides to camp out in yours for the night, and if word gets back to Lucifer that you’re harboring a fugitive animal… Well, favoritism or not, it won’t end pretty.
Though perhaps there is one person who can help you with this little secret.
Satan. The cat-loving fourth brother. 
Man oh man, he’s going to be thrilled with sweet little Tater Tot. You have to be careful though—you reckon that there is a 96% chance that he’ll try to steal her away from you. Trying to juggle custody battles and harboring your secret daughter from Lucifer all at the same time sounds like such a pain.
But… That would still be better than having to put Tater Tot back on the streets.
With the threat of big-meanie-Lucifer looming over you like a particularly gothic and pet-hating phantom, you come to a final decision. You’re just going to have to pull on your big girl pants and accept the soul crushing truth of the situation.
Satan is your only hope. 
But how are you going to sneak your daughter all the way over to his room?
You look around your own room for something, anything that can hide your beloved dumpster pet and—ohohoho.
 ~
“Darling?” 
You freeze midstep.
Busted.
“What’s up, Lucifer?” You try so hard to keep your voice calm and normal. So hard. 
Judging by the way Lucifer looks at you, you’ve failed. And you were so close. Satan’s bedroom is literally right there! Only a few yards away! If only you’d just had ten more seconds to yourself in the dark hallway... Alas, the warden your beloved Lucifer aka the resident pet hater stands between you and the dusty salvation that is Satan’s library of a bedroom.
You shuffle your feet a bit nervously. Readjust your grip on the cardboard box. A bit warily, Lucifer eyes it.
“What’s in the box?”
You panic. “What box?” 
Fuck.
Lucifer cracks a smile, though it doesn’t meet his gaze. He gestures to the cardboard box that you are currently holding near to your chest like some sort of ugly, cubic liferaft. 
“Oh!” You laugh. It’s too high pitched. Suspicious. “This box? It’s just some books for Satan, it’s nothing—”
The box sneezes.
Your mouth snaps shut and you thank all the fucking stars in heaven that this sneeze didn’t flambé you.
Lucifer’s eyes narrow accusingly. Tone icy and sharp, he says, “Books? Is that so?” 
Fuck fuck fuck fuck—
You wilt a bit under the intensity of his gaze. “They’re… cursed books? Yeah, so cursed and dangerous and only Satan knows how to nullify the evilness of these books so I’m gonna just slip past you—”
Lucifer takes a step to the left, planting himself firmly in your path and effectively thwarting your desperate grand escape. A single blade of moonlight cuts through the curtains and slices through the shadows, Lucifer now caught in the spotlight and—oh that fucker did that on purpose. Ugh, what a drama queen.
Red eyes practically glowing in the dark, he nods menacingly at the box. “Go on then. Open it.” 
“I dunno, I really shouldn’t because of the curses and—”
Clearly not in the mood to entertain your scheming-slash-rambling, Lucifer takes matters into his own hands. Before you can twist away, one of his hands darts out to knock the lid off of the box and—
Books. It’s filled with books.
He frowns. Lifts one up and—nope, there’s just more books underneath. “...What?” 
“Happy? Now if you don’t mind I really should get—”
“Let me help you with that.”
Your reflexes aren't fast enough. Before you can leap back or Sparta kick him away, Lucifer plucks the box right out of your arms… and reveals a squirming lump beneath your sweater, right inbetween your breasts. The box hits the floor. Lucifer stares at your newly acquired mass with a very particular sort of horror that you’ve never seen before. 
You panic. Again.
“...I grew a new boob. I think the Devildom air is toxic or something, but it’s okay! The more the merrier, right? We can still—gET YOUR HANDS OFF MY TIDDIES—”
Lucifer presses one hand to your lower back, trapping you, and yanks down your zipper, revealing the purrito that is wrapped kind-of-securely to your chest with a scarf. He recoils backwards, looking equal parts horrified and peeved off.
Time for Plan B.
93% sure that you can still recover from this situation that is rapidly soaring downhill, you stuff your hands into your pockets and then throw them outwards, flinging fistfuls of rainbow confetti into the air. “Surpriiiise! You’re a daddy! Say hello to our daughter.”
“No.”
“Her name is Tater Tot. Personally, I think she takes after you.”
The Tater in question shimmies out of her silky prison and tumbles nose first into your palms. You hold her right up to Lucifer’s face, grinning like a goddamn sociopath when he takes an alarmed step backwards. Little puffball paws desperately try to swipe at his nose. Lucifer looks downright offended by the assault of pink toe beans.
“See? She’s just a baby~” you coo, gently wiggling the noodle-limp kitten in his face.
Lucifer grimaces. Takes another, larger step back. “If a baby is what you want, I’d rather give you one myself.”
“As fun as that sounds, we have a perfectly good one right here!” 
“That thing is not a baby. Where did you find it?” 
There’s a concerned little scrunch in his brow that you wanna smooth over with your thumb, but when you try to close the distance between you two, he moves further out of reach. Frowning, you hug Tater Tot to your chest. She snuggles her face into the crook of your neck and purrs like the smallest biodiesel engine in all of the realms.
“I found her in a dumpster!” you say, perhaps a bit too proudly. 
Lucifer’s eyes widen. “In the city?”
“Why is that so shocking? Does the Devildom not have stray cats?” 
“That’s not a cat.” 
“Well yeah I kinda figured, what with the whole fire breathing thing and all, but—”
“It’s a chimera.” 
You stare at Lucifer. Try to gauge how serious he’s being. Tater Tot nibbles on your thumb with little needle-like teeth. 
Surely he’s joking. 
“...Like the lion-goat-lizard thing? That chimera?” 
Lucifer nods. 
Like you’re in some twisted version of the Lion King, you hold Tater Tot up in the beam of moonlight that Mr. Doom and Gloom had previously been occupying. Examine her totally normal kitten-features. The distinct lack of goat hooves. Miss Tater licks her nose. A Chimera? Her?
Surely he’s fucking with you.
But… it would explain the whole fire-breathing thing. Kind of. You’re not fully convinced he’s lying, but the truth doesn’t make much more sense.
But if she is a chimera… that’s so badass.
If Lucifer thinks for one second that Tater Tot being a nightmarish Hell creature is going to scare you into giving her up, then he is sorely mistaken. (You did choose to date him, after all. You're an expert at loving on Hellish beings.) At the end of the day, whether Tater is a chimera or a cat or whatever the hell else, you’ve already bonded with each other. She’s your baby and you are not going to let him get rid of her. 
If he gets Cerberus, then you get your funky little Tater Tot, dammit.
Lucifer watches this journey of emotions play out on your face. His eyes narrow. He says your name slowly, strained—a thinly veiled warning in his voice.
The grin that overtakes your face can only be described as evil. 
“We’re keeping her.”
“Absolutely not.” 
 ~
“You can’t be serious.” 
From the depths of your blanket fort, your hand emerges to flip Lucifer off. He scowls. 
“This blanket fort is only for Tater Tot and me.”
“Then perhaps you should relocate to your bed.” Lucifer growls.
You snuggle further into the black sheets cocooning you. With impressive speed, you had raced back to Lucifer’s room and stripped every piece of fabric from his bed in record time. From there, it was simply a matter of combining the dark sheets with a bunch of pillows and voila. You had created your very own anti-Lucifer fortress, right in the middle of his bed. 
Tater Tot army-crawls across your thigh and worms her way into the sheets, vanishing like a ninja.
"What?" You peek at Lucifer through a small opening in the fabric. “But then you would just ignore me and Tater Tot.” 
“Yes, exactly. I’m glad that we’re on the same page.”
“No! We’re not on the same page at all,” you scowl. “I’m not moving until you bond with her.” 
“Then I suppose you’ll be stuck there forever.” 
“Maybe I will!”
You can’t see him right now, but you know in the depths of your heart that Lucifer is rolling his eyes at you. 
Which, y’know. Fair. You are being a little bit ridiculous. But what choice do you have? The confetti didn't work and Lucifer needs to form an everlasting bond with Tater Tot. He needs to experience how lovely and precious and wonderful your little baby is, so that he won’t make you put her back in the dumpster where you found her.
You have one last tactic. It is by far the absolute worst. 
Talking to him. Like some kind of functioning, responsible adult, because apparently that's what you're supposed to do in a healthy relationship. Blegh. 
While you agonize over stooping to this final resort, Lucifer climbs into the bed without a word and settles himself in like he owns the place. Which he does. But that’s beside the point. 
One of your arms emerges from the blanket shield to poke at his pajama clad thigh. He doesn’t react. So naturally, you poke him again. And again. And again, until finally he sighs, “What?”
You squirm your way out of the stuffy blankets, gulping down air once you're free—sweet baby Jesus, fresh air has never felt so good—and Tater Tot flies out after you, rocketing across the mattress at the speed of light and tumbling around like a little white pom pom. While she does her own thing, you worm your way into Lucifer’s side so that you’re halfway on top of his chest. He huffs and lays there like a board, refusing to hug you, so you grab his arm and wrap it around your shoulders yourself.
Here goes nothing. 
“Why are you so against having a pet?” you ask, dancing the pads of your fingers over his chest.
Lucifer cracks one eye open. “The first and last time I allowed pets in the house, Satan brought home 48 cats. In one hour.” 
...You really should have seen that one coming.
“Oh. Well, I mean… Is that reallyyy a bad thing—ow! You jerk, I was just kidding.” You pout. “You didn’t have to pinch my butt that hard.” 
Lucifer snickers and pats your butt consolingly. “Mmm, no, I didn’t. But I wanted to.”
Briefly, you consider headbutting him right in the chin. But alas, that wouldn’t solve anything, so you settle for pressing a kiss to his collarbone, then reach a hand up to play with his hair, just how he likes. It’s not very ~vengeful~ buuut it’s bound to put him in a better mood. 
You trace cutesy little heart shapes on his right pec. “You know what I want?”
Lucifer closes his eyes—lets his head fall back onto the mattress. “We’re not keeping her.” 
You snuggle into his chest with a happy little hum. “Yes we are.”
“...Just for the night. Tomorrow you're putting her back where you found her."
 ~
You wake up in agony. 
It feels like you’ve had a lung ripped out and replaced with serrated knives. Or shark teeth. Each breath drags oh so painfully at your—just kidding. 
You wake up well rested and tangled in the bedsheets, your head hanging off the side of the mattress. You’re a little hazy-brained and your skull feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, but that’s probably because of all the blood rushing to your head. When you roll over and haul yourself back up onto the bed, a noise escapes you that is definitely not fit for polite company.
The murky depths of slumber threaten to take you again, so you pat around the bed with your hand, looking for your favorite demon-slash-body pillow. You pat. And keep patting. Where the hell is Lucifer?
You crack one bleary eye open, trying to find Lucifer and—
Where the hell is Tater Tot?
Your heart jolts in your chest as you realize a few things all at once.
One: Lucifer is missing. 
Two: Tater Tot is missing.
Three: You slept through breakfast, but that’s less important. 
You’re off like a shot, wrestling yourself out of the sheets and flinging them to the floor, then stumbling across the room to get to the door before your brain can even fully wake up. It’s fine, you don’t need 100% brainpower, you just need to find your baby. 
You’ve barely taken four steps into the hallway when you slam nose first into Mammon. He catches you, saving your face from becoming acquainted with the floor, and you grab him by the leathery lapels of his jacket. 
“Where’s Lucifer?!” you hiss.
Mammon desperately tries to squirm out of your feral grip. You shake him like a polaroid picture.
“Geez, knock it off would ya?! He’s in his office, what the hell is up with you? Wh—HEY! I’M NOT DONE TALKIN’ TO YA!”
Whatever the Weenie has to say to you is less important than finding your child, so as soon as you acquire Lucifer’s location, you haul ass to Lucifer’s study.
 ~
In a raging fury that could rival Satan’s existence, you fling open the door, ready to tear Lucifer a new one for not even letting you say goodbye to your beloved kitten and—
And your heart melts into a warm, gooey puddle. 
Lucifer is sitting at his desk. Tater Tot is draped across his shoulders.
Lucifer glares at you, but there's no real bite in his gaze. “Keep it down, Phobos is sleeping.”
You blink stupidly, your brain racing at a thousand miles an hour to catch up with whatever the hell you’re currently feeling that has you all mushy and moon-eyed. “Phobos? What the hell? That’s not her name at all.” 
“My love, we are not naming our daughter after potatoes. Her name is now Phobos. She and I came to a mutual agreement that it is far more fitting of a name for a creature of her pedigree.”
...You’re so torn. On one hand, you want to argue that Tater Tot is a lovely name for your dumpster kitten-chimera-thing, but on the other hand… he called her ‘our daughter’. As in your guys’s daughter. This can only mean one thing, and you clutch at your heart when you realize what’s happening.
They bonded.
It damn well might bring a tear to your eyes.
You make your way over to Lucifer, shove aside the papers on his desk, and perch your happy ass right on the hardwood.
With a bone deep sigh, Lucifer leans back in his chair. “Why do you always do that? My lap is available, you know.”
Tater Tot wakes up and lifts her heavy little sleep-addled head to meep at you.
You grin—hook your ankles around the armrests of his chair and pull him closer. “So… does this mean we’re keeping Tater Tot?” 
“... Yes, we’re keeping Phobos. But that’s it, no more pets.”
“Okay, wait. Hear me out. What about a dog?”
“Absolutely not.”
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Lucifer plucks another white hair from his RAD uniform and holds it up to the moonlight, scowling at the offensive thing. Why in all the realms did you have to find a white cat? The damned thing has only lived with you lot for two days and yet somehow its hair has already gotten over every article of black clothing in his wardrobe. It’s infuriating.
His gaze wanders across the courtyard to where you’re sitting pretty on Beel’s shoulders, clawing at his face with your fingertips and screaming in terror at how high up you are. He grins. 
He can put up with the shedding fur, so long as he gets to see how your eyes shine like the stars when you see Phobos.
Still though. Why couldn’t you find a black kitten? 
“Lucifer! There you are!” 
Lucifer flicks the cat hair—lets the breeze catch it and float it away. Before he can even get a proper greeting in, Diavolo is pulling him in for a bone crushing hug.
“You’re here a bit later than usual. How’s life with the new kitten treating you?” Diavolo asks.
Lucifer steps out of the hug and eyes Diavolo warily. “Just fine, thank yo—wait. How do you know about the cat?”
Diavolo blinks innocently. “Surely you told me about her, didn’t you?” 
No, he definitely did not—oh no. 
Lucifer stares, slack jawed and horrified, because in that moment, he realizes something that he refuses to accept.
No.
No. It can’t be.
Diavolo would never do that to him. He would ne—oh fuck, he absolutely did.
Diavolo planted the cat. He knew that you would find her in that dumpster and take her home.
Lucifer has never known a betrayal quite like this. Diavolo says something about heading off to his office, but he doesn’t hear him over the rushing in his ears.
“Diavolo.” 
The demon prince in question pauses in his escape to look back at Lucifer. “Yes, Lucifer?”
“Why did you have to pick a white cat?”
And oh, Diavolo laughs. A full belly laugh that quite honestly kills Lucifer. Just a little bit.
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gnocchighoul · 4 years
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Gains and Goofs
Summary: In which Beel just wants to do push-ups and Belphie is a brat. MC gets stuck between them :)
Reader is gender neutral :D 
Warnings: None, this is pure fluff 
Word Count: 1.7k 
AO3 Link
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Hell has officially frozen over.
Sort of. Not all of Hell—just your little corner of it. Specifically just the House of Lamentation. 
The AC broke. Of course it didn’t break normally though—oh no, it just so happened to be the one AC unit in all of the Devildom that broke by chilling the house to arctic temperatures. It’s not even an exaggeration—the windows are freezing over. From the inside.
If Lucifer hadn’t taken your D.D.D hostage, you would’ve followed through on your threat to call up Lord Diavolo and beg to stay at the demon lord’s palace. Lucifer might enjoy suffering in this arctic hell, but you sure as heck don’t. The whole thing is such a shame, really—the lonely prince would have totally loved the imposing company. 
Alas, you’ll probably never see him again. RIP to your biweekly sessions of afternoon tea and gossip. By your calculations, you are precisely 96 minutes away from turning into a human popsicle. You probably would have lasted longer, were it not for the thieving and hoarding of a certain snuggle monster.
The snuggle monster in question, Belphie, is in his bed, tucked away within a massive fortress of blankets. The little shit had gone into your room and stolen yours, as well as Beel's, and Spiderman only knows who else’s—you can hardly see him amidst all the colorful fabrics. A flash of skin here, a patch of clothing there—he's so wrapped up that you aren't even sure if he's breathing. 
And then there's you. Halfway tangled in Belphie's nest, halfway out in the cold and violently shivering your tush off. You had desperately tried to squirm your way into the mass of fabric, but Belphie was a master at cocooning himself. The layers of blankets made for a frustratingly effective armor, and your unsuccessful efforts left you sprawled on top of him, miserably tangled up in the first two layers like a fish in a net.
You are suffering. 
Even your high-and-mighty roommates are suffering. Last time you had seen him, Lucifer had been wearing his jacket normally—not like some kind of cool, vampire-y cape. Even Asmo, Mr. I-Wear-Sleeveless-Shirts-In-Freezing-Weather had caved and bundled up in layers. Cashmere, respectively. 
You’re pretty sure that Levi has gone into a deep-sleep coma, much like a Floridian iguana. The poor, cold-blooded thing. At least he’s sleeping for once. He’ll be fine. Probably. You don’t know how Satan and Mammon are dealing with the cold. Because of their silence, you’ve come to the conclusion that they’ve also frozen solid and perished. They will all be missed.
There is only one member of this household that is not suffering. One could even say he’s thriving. And who might that be?
Beelzebub. 
Apparently, one side effect of having a black hole for a stomach is an insanely fast metabolism—Beel constantly runs warm because of it. He may as well have a bonfire in his tummy—that boy is like a damned furnace. You could roast marshmallows in the heat that comes off his body. Really good ones, with just the right balance between crisp and fluff.
Needless to say, Beel is enjoying these tundra temperatures. At some point during your failed attempt to leech off of Belphie’s snuggles and stolen blankets, Beel had settled into his workout routine—which so far has consisted of push-ups. Lots and lots of push-ups.
He’s currently somewhere in the upper 400 range, with no signs of slowing down or stopping anytime soon. He’s hardly broken a sweat, and there isn’t a trace of fatigue in his form. His muscles are unbearably distracting—you’re supposed to be attacking Belphie’s fortress of warmth. But how on earth are you supposed to concentrate on doing that when the big beefy boi is literally right there looking like a whole snack?
A draft of bitter air wisps over you, and you hug your knees tighter to your chest. Your body feels brittle—like a single touch could shatter you. Your brain is probably more ice than gray matter at this point, and you don’t know how you’re going to fight off the cold. It’s not like Belphie is going to let you warm up in his kingdom of blankets any time soon.
Your eyes tick around the room, looking for something—anything—that could save you. You glance at the closet—you guess that another sweater or two (or five) might help. Your eyes stray lower, to the floor, and—
Oh. Oh my. Now isn’t that a very appealing opportunity.
Beel’s palms are pressed firmly against the floor, elbows slightly bent and back perfectly straight. His eyes are trained steady on the floor space between his large hands, where his D.D.D is playing a video of the cooking show variety. 
Perfect.
You roll off the bed and stagger over to Beel, burying your nose into the collar of your sweater in a feeble attempt to block out the icy air. He’s so focused on the enormous gourmet pizza in the video that he doesn’t notice your presence until you clamber on top of him. 
It’s a feat that you execute with immense precision and grace—you certainly don’t just flop onto his back with a very unattractive “oof” and cling onto him in the hopes that you won't just bounce off his back.
And hoo boy this is a thousand times better than any old mess of blankets. 
Beel pauses on the ascent, which gives you just enough time to wrap your arms loosely around his neck, your legs crossing securely around his lower waist. You cling to him like a baby koala and smile against his firm shoulder. You’ve only just settled, but the warmth of his body is already seeping into your frozen limbs and thawing you out. Oh yes, he’s wonderful.
“Whatcha watchin’?” you ask, peeping at the phone.
“Bon Appédevil.” Beel says. He carries on with his push-ups, completely unaffected by your clingy human antics.
“Is this alright?" 
"Mhm. Just don't fall off, okay?" Beel turns his head slightly to crack a smile at you. When he dips down low to the floor, you can feel how his corded muscles tense and shift, flexing taut each time he completes a push-up. 
"Aye aye captain!" You lift a hand to salute, then the world spins horribly when you lose your balance and pitch to the right. Beel snorts and gives you a second to readjust, unable to move much anyways due to your panicked grappling, then continues once you've securely latched back on.
You stay like this for a good amount of time. You’re not sure how long exactly—the combination of Beel's warmth and the steady rhythm of his push-ups has you happily dozing off, but suddenly, you are dragged back to the moment by the fussy sloth monster himself.
From the cozy depths of the blanket mound, a muffled voice slurs, "Where’d you go? Whas goin' on over there?" 
"Push-ups." Beel says.
Belphie's head pops out of the blankets—tufts of hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes glassy from sleep—and you're a bit surprised because you thought his butt had been there. Had you been laying on his head that whole time??
You shoot him a grin that is most certainly not smug in any way shape or form. “'Sup, Bells?"
Belphie sits up with a great big stretch, then collapses back onto the mattress with all the grace of a discombobulated panda. He squints at you. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be snuggling with me."
"You call that snuggling?" you say. "You wouldn't even let me in the blankets! I was freezing."
A lazy smile pulls at Belphie's lips. "I wanted you to work for it." 
"You're such an ass." 
Your surroundings stop moving up and down as Beel pauses mid-pushup to click on a new video. When he resumes, Belphie reaches out to you like a child and whines, "Come baaaaaack."
You cling tighter to Beel. "No way. This is a thousand times better than just laying on a bed."
"Oh, really?” 
He’s got that tone in his voice. The plotting tone.
You’re expecting him to do something petty—pry you off of Beel and haul you to the bed, or push you to the ground and take your place. 
You’re not expecting him to collapse on top of you and crush you like a bug, but that’s exactly what he does. He laughs at the pathetic wheeze that’s squeezed out of your lungs and winds his arms snugly around you and Beel, at the same time hooking his ankles around Beel’s and effectively caging you with his body.
Somehow, throughout the whole ordeal, Beel manages to keep doing push-ups. It’s impressive and a little bit scary.
“Go away, you jerk!” you twist your hips, trying to knock Belphie off your back, but he just clutches onto you like a determined and horrible sloth. 
“Hey, you were right. This is nice.” Belphie snuggles his face into the crook of your neck with a happy hum and squeezes you tighter. You can’t move. This is not in accordance with your plan. “We should do this more often.” 
“You’re squishing me,” you wheeze.
“Don’t be such a wimp, you’re fine.” 
“Can you two stop squirming? It’s getting hard to focus.” Beel says.
Defeated, you let out an exaggerated sigh and go limp. No point in holding on when Belphie’s doing all the work for you. 
This isn’t so bad, you suppose. Being stuck in the middle of a demon sandwich. Maybe it’s even a little bit nice. The twins are cozy and warm, and they smell like a homey combo of sugar and spice—it’s only a matter of time before you start to smell like cinnamon cookies. 
As far as broken AC experiences go, this is a surprisingly good one. You could be worse off—like, for example, Levi, who you’ve completely forgotten about, what with him being all comatose. You were supposed to check on him like 30 minutes ago, but he’ll be fine. Probably. You’re having a great time and that’s all that really matters!
Who would’ve guessed that Hell freezing over would turn into such a wonderful experience for you?
((likes and comments are v appreciated 🥺👉👈))
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gnocchighoul · 4 years
Text
the threads that bind us
Summary: For the first time, Lucifer realizes what it truly means to be in love with a mortal.
Warnings: angst, death
A/N: Picked my heart raw to write this one :')
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Your grave is a modest, standard thing.
One cracked and worn, sunbleached headstone floating adrift in a grassy sea of them. You rest eternal with family, strangers—humans. 
Lucifer doesn’t visit often.
But, when he does, he brings flowers. Baby’s breath and red roses—classic. Like you. Like him.
Full of memories, too. 
~
Lucifer didn’t care for flowers much, before you.
They’ve always just been things. Decoration. Gifts to present on special occasions. Short lived accessories that he sometimes braided into Asmo’s hair. No second thought required.
You changed that. Like so much else in his life, you changed that. Time and time again, you opened his eyes—pried him open and breathed life back into his drawn-out existence. 
You had wanted a house in the human world. A second home. A cute, suburban thing. Acres of manicured lawn. A porch with string-lights and blue trim. Lots of big windows that flood the living room and kitchen in morning sunshine. Roomy. Not for long, though. Hopefully. 
The two of you often took up residence in the shade of the great big willow tree in the backyard, just behind the flower garden. Your own little bubble, protected beneath a web of arching branches, guarded by a curtain of green reeds. 
You had been awfully quiet that day. The muggy summer air weighed heavy on you both, pressing into your skin and settling into your hair, only just bearable in the shade. It was hard to do much of anything, let alone string a coherent thought together. 
Yet still, you were occupied with doing… something. When Lucifer had tried to get a glimpse, you had defensively curled your body around the thing in your hands and had scolded him for nearly ruining the surprise. He’d rolled his eyes and huffed indignantly—but averted his gaze anyways. Found himself studying the flower bed instead.
Daffodils, roses, bleeding hearts, and giant, vibrant blooms that he doesn’t yet have names for. They’re all pretty, though perhaps a bit droopy in the sweltering rays of the sun. A hot breeze stirs the overgrowth—assaults him with scents of flora and earth.
Your watering can—the seafoam blue one that you had spent hours upon hours hunting down on the internet—has long since been discarded on it's side in the lush grass. Water drips from it slowly. Hypnotic. While you work silent and diligent beside him, Lucifer watches the water, zoning out—when a flash of movement grabs his attention.
His gaze turns upwards, to the ruby red bird feeder. A hummingbird—chubby little thing, throat feathers the color of blood and round like lizard scales, tummy pudgy soft and white-green—perches on the crystal feeder, eyeing you both curiously. It hops in place, twitchy.
Lucifer narrows his eyes. Briefly considers threatening it (why is it just staring?) but, you’re now swatting something leafy at him.
Baby’s breath flowers, twisted and braided into a wreath, stark against the navy blue backdrop of your dress. Little blooms of white floating bubbly over threaded green branches.
“My cousin wore one at her wedding,” you say, by way of explanation. You’ve already fixed one on your own head, while he was otherwise occupied. “Thought it looked pretty.”
Lucifer eyes the thing like it’s going to come to life and bite his fingers off, but he takes it anyways. Never was one to tell you no, if it could be helped. He rubs a leaf between his fingertips. It’s smooth—the crescent of his thumbnail presses in just the right spot, and it folds a bit.
You take the wreath back from him—look at him expectantly. Lucifer snorts. Bows his head with a smile and lets you tenderly fix the circlet into his own dark hair. You scratch his scalp gently with your nails as you work, and just like that, the rest of the world falls away, forgotten.
There is only you. Gazing at him like he strung the stars up in the sky. For you, he would.
“A wedding, hm?” He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Smiles. “Is that what you want, my love?” 
Mischief dances in the color of your eyes. “‘Til death do us part, Lu?” 
You say it without thinking. Joking.
And it’s like the breath is ripped from his lungs.
Death.
He knows. Knows that you are mortal. That your time together is limited—that one day the stars in your eyes will burn out and he’ll lose you forever. Doesn’t he know? 
He forgot. 
Wanted to, even.
You are holy, in some way. There is something rooted within you that is deep and ancient—something like magic. Maybe it's enough.
He wants to believe that everything will be okay—wants to believe that the two of you were destined from the beginning, that fate threaded your souls together so intricately that the two of you can’t—won’t—ever be tugged apart. That half of your love story won't die with you. Stars, he wants to.
But he knows that hope alone isn’t enough to save the dying—that there are meddling people and cruel fates, and to ask for one more miracle would be sacrilege. 
“Lucifer.” 
He startles at your voice—eyes desperately seeking out your own. 
You scooch closer. Cup his cheek with one loving hand. You know. 
“It’s okay.”
It’s not. 
You kiss him, then—slow as molasses and twice as sweet. Drown him in honey—like you can sweeten this bitter separation that you are both hurtling towards. 
“Oh, Lucifer.” you croon. “Not even death could take me away from you. I’ll come back to haunt you—the prettiest ghost you’ll ever see.”
~
Lucifer doesn’t visit your grave often.
But, when he does, he brings flowers. Removes the old, wilting ones, and lays new roses to rest at the foot of your headstone. 
It doesn’t matter how long he sits or stands at this manicured plot of grass, waiting. Seconds, minutes, hours—the result is always the same.
You’re not here.
You’re gone.
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gnocchighoul · 4 years
Text
peach bubbles & cherry wine
Summary:
“Just once more, my love.” Lucifer says. You can feel the words as they move through his chest and past his lips—like the soft rumbles of a cat purring.
“Now be a good girl and spread your legs.” 
A/N: inspired by a convo about Lucifer’s bathroom with @thedemonstherapist​​ , and a drunk anon :D (definitely go check out her blog, she wrote something for this concept as well and it’s *chefs kiss*)
AO3 Portal
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“Don’t move.”
“If I don’t I’ll drown!” 
“Just—fuck, here.” Lucifer hooks his hands under your arms and lifts you up, just slightly out of the water. He straightens out his legs, still holding you up with the ease of a bodybuilder lifting an orange, and yeah, you’re a little bit jealous at how strong he is.
Warm water closes around your hips as he gently lowers you back into his lap, and you can’t help but think about all of the things you could accomplish if you had that supernatural strength. For instance: you could probably lift a car, all by yourself. Or a really heavy bookcase. A sturdy one, made from really expensive wood. Pink ivorywood. Dalbergia. Or—
Oh, what is wrong with you? Who even cares about all of the theoretical things you could do with unimaginable strength when you are literally butt ass naked in a tub with Lucifer! And you accomplished this all on your own, with only the vastly underrated power of puppy eyes. 
Also, wine. So much wine. 
You swirl what’s left in your glass—the red liquid twisting in a dark vortex. It swallows up the dim light of the bathroom—looks more black than red. You know that color intimately. It’s nearly the same shade as Lucifer’s eyes—gleaming bright in the dark room as he dripped cherry wine into the hollow of your belly button—lapped at the red juice with his fleshy tongue and got you all sticky.
Which is how you ended up here, lounging together in warm, bubbly water. Not that you’re complaining.
Honestly, if you had known how nice Lucifer's personal bathroom is, you would have set out on your quest to date bone him so much sooner. 
It’s a lot like his room—far too much black. All doom and gloom and gold metal. Black floors. Black walls, carved of marble with gold veining, and a few floor to ceiling mirrors. The ceiling is a dizzying mural, saturated with (you guessed it) more black, but white and gray too. Sometimes, if you stare long enough—you think you can see shapes dancing in the fog of it. 
(Though that may just be a hallucination conjured up by your alcohol addled brain.)
The best thing about Lucifer’s bathroom though, by a landslide, is the massive tub situated right in the center of the room. Carved entirely of smoky quartz and the size of a small pool, you could quite literally spend hours lazing around in bubble bath bliss. Which you do, quite often. It’s borderline an obsession at this point.
(The first time you commandeered the bathtub, you had read an entire book in one sitting—as you were finishing up the last chapter, Lucifer had burst into the room all feathery and freaked out and totally convinced that you had managed to somehow drown yourself. A fair assumption—in his defense, you had been awfully quiet.)
With a tub like this, you would never use the shower again. And yet, for some horrible and awful reason, Lucifer insists that the shower is better. (Which is actually quite nice as well, but that’s neither here nor there.) When you had interrogated him about it, he just casually confessed that he hardly ever used the beautiful tub. Said something about 'showers are just more practical’. Pah. What does he know? Nothing, apparently.
But now? Well, it isn’t a challenge to coax him in with you.
Lucifer tips his head back against the cool ledge of the tub, eyes sliding shut. “Who’s idea was this anyways?” 
You down the rest of your wine, scrunching your face like an accordion when the bitter flavor bursts on your tongue. “Yours.” 
“That can’t be right.”
“Well it’s not left."
Lucifer groans loudly, acting like your totally great joke caused him real physical pain, and you tch at him.
You lean into him—rest the back of your head on his shoulder and set your empty wineglass aside on the broad, flat rim of the tub. His right arm snakes around your waist, tugging you up tight against his chest, fingertips tracing shapes into the side of your ribs and sending shivers racing across your skin.
You eye the mountain of white bubbles in front of you—lift a poofy handful out of the water. The smell of peaches brightens the room—all sun kissed and sweet.
You wonder if Lucifer is drunk enough to let you give him a bubble beard. 
"Hey, babe—"
"Don't even think about it." 
"Wh—you don’t even know what I was going to say!" 
Lucifer nuzzles his nose into your hair. "Keep the bubbles away from my face."
"...You’re such a killjoy sometimes." 
“Am I?” He threads his fingers through your hair—pulls slowly to tilt your head to the side and ghosts his lips over your neck, pausing to nip at your pulse point. Slides one hand over your breast, rolling your hard nipple between his soft fingers.
You feel it again, then—the pleasant ache still between your thighs, softened by the water's warmth settling into your body.
Lucifer bites down on your neck with sharp incisors, pulling a soft mewl from you.
You squirm. “Again?” 
You’re not actually surprised. Saturdays are devoted just to the two of you—marathon fucking and unwinding from the weekly chaos. It’s a necessary tradition, especially after a week like this previous one. You had barely seen your beloved, thanks to his boyfriend keeping him busy .  
(Lu has made it very clear that Diavolo isn’t his side piece, but like. Would it really be that bad if he was? You could invite him over for your Saturday Fuckfest, which is a very appealing thought. Who wouldn’t want a piece of that princely cake?)
“Just once more, my love.” Lucifer says. You can feel the words as they move through his chest and past his lips—like the soft rumbles of a cat purring. “Now be a good girl and spread your legs.”
Fuck. He sure as hell doesn’t need to tell you twice.
His fingertips skate down your stomach, deftly moving lower to brush teasingly over your clit and your head lolls back with a strangled little mewl. You turn to the side—he captures your lips with his own, swallows down your little cries. Tastes like cherry wine and dark chocolate. 
It’s too much, and not nearly enough. The damp slick of his chest against your bare back, his hand cupping your breast. He toys with you slowly, teasingly, pressing only the lightest of touches to your clit, and you want—need—more. You rock your hips back, right up against his aching cock and he hisses—pinches your nipple and slips his fingers inside of you in tandem, stretching you wide and exploring as you desperately grind against his hand.
He spent all day teasing you—pushing you to the brink and then taking his sweet time unraveling you. Playing you like a finely tuned instrument until tears pricked at your eyes and you dissolved into a begging, whimpering puddle. That fire still burns in your belly—kindled back to life, red hot and unforgiving as he presses his fingers deeper inside of you.
When it comes to fucking, Lucifer is far more patient than you are—something he’s proven a thousand times over. He enjoys it—breaking you. Ruining you. Pushing you to the brink and leaving you there, time and time again. 
But right now—you want more than just his skillful fingers.
You squirm out of Lucifer’s grip, confusing him for all of two seconds, until you turn around and straddle his strong thighs. Bubbles stick to your arms and tummy like little clouds. 
“I want you inside me.” you pout.
“Was I just not?” he says, cheekily, and you glare.
He suddenly bucks his hips up once into your own, threatening your already questionable balance—nearly sends you careening face first into his shoulder. Sudsy water sloshes over the dark rim of the tub as you steady yourself by placing both hands on his chest. You glare at his smug fucking face. 
His eyes, vibrant and jarring, meet yours—sparkling with delight. Crimson shot through with so much black that you’re not sure where the pupil ends anymore. 
You grab his chin with your slick hand—dig your fingers into his jaw and pull him into a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and heat. Relish the taste of his mouth and the slide of his lips, wordlessly begging for what you want.
He grins against your mouth. “Such a needy little thing.” 
You don’t entertain him with a reply—just grind your hips down on his cock, catching your throbbing clit, leaving you keening.
He sucks the plush of your bottom lip into his mouth and bites as you sink down on the heavy weight of cock, inch by agonizing inch until he’s buried to the hilt. He murmurs praise against your lips as he fills your pussy to the brim—sends white hot sparks shooting up your spine. You burn. 
Experimentally, you roll your hips. Lucifer meets you halfway—always does. Grinds his hips languidly into yours, easing the painful stretch of his cock between your walls into a pleasant fullness. There’s no urgency—he’s already ravaged your sweet, tight cunt. 
Lucifer feasts on your mewls—swallows them whole as he thrusts his hips up, sloshing more water over the tub rim. His hands dig into your hip as he grinds up into you with sharp, short jabs—buries his face into the crook of your neck and bites down hard. Draws blood to the surface and lingers there. Leaves behind berry-red marks. 
Your nipples rub against his chest and you grip his shoulders—dig your nails into the taut, firm lines of muscle. Your thighs tremble as you bounce on his cock, rocking down faster—needy. 
Heat spirals and coils in your belly, winding tighter and tighter until your blood is singing with it, leaving you breathless and dizzy and alight. He snakes a hand down between your legs—fingers finding your clit and your hips spasm, squeezing him so tight that it pulls a hiss from him.
Your climax hits you hard—steals your breath away and makes your vision all fuzzy and dark. Your walls clench and Lucifer pulls your hips down, again and again and again, spurred on by your gasping and whimpering. Dragging your tight, warm pussy on his pulsating cock as he floods your womb with his seed.
As his cock softens inside of you, he releases that bruising grip on your hips—tugs you into a close embrace with absolutely no possibility of escape, squishing your slippery breasts against his chest. Heart drumming a furious beat beneath your skin, you wrap your arms around his neck and melt into his arms. 
For a few beats, it’s silent. You can tell that he wants to say something—he’s practically buzzing with words unspoken.
You lean back to see his face properly and tap the pad of your pointer finger against his chest. “Out with it, handsome.” 
“You know that I love you.” A statement, followed up by a softer, “Right?”
A smile tugs at your lips. As if that’s even a question.  
“Well I'd certainly hope so, because you're stuck with me. Forever.”
He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth slide upwards into that dazzling grin you love so damn much. Then he shifts his hips, reminding you that he's still very much inside of you, and nudges his cock over that little patch inside of you that makes you see sparks but is also far too sensitive right now. Your breath leaves you in one great big whoosh and you bite down hard on your swollen lip.
"You're so mean." 
Lucifer hums in agreement, looking far too thrilled by your reaction. Presses a kiss to your jaw and murmurs, "Say it back."  
"What?" 
He leans back. Searches out your gaze and meets it with his own. "Say that you love me." 
Oh.
You would think he'd be reassured by the fact that his dick is literally still inside you, but… you suppose it wouldn’t hurt to use your words, too. 
You hold his hand—link your pinky finger with his own and say, "I love you."
It’s a promise. 
You relax back into his arms, content to just sit quietly amidst the peach-scented bubbles and confessions.
…For about ten seconds.
“So… About that bubble beard…”
Lucifer scoffs. Presses a kiss to your temple and smiles there. 
He really does love you.
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gnocchighoul · 4 years
Text
wax feathers // melting sun
summary: 
He can’t be serious.  You squint. Diavolo offers you a playful grin—innocent and boyish. Holy shit, he’s serious.
(Diavolo catches your eye and you come to realize that angels aren’t the only ones at risk of falling. It’s the beginning of the end.)
warnings: mc is wearing a dress, but pronouns aren’t specified.
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The sight of the Demon Lord’s Palace is one that never grows old. It’s a vision straight out of a dark fairytale—black stone walls that crack open the waxy full moon, branching off into a vertical maze of arching bridges and twisting towers. Golden light spills out of the glass domed ballrooms, swallowed up by the black maw of sky. 
It’s ancient. Humming with an energy older than time itself—something powerful. Forbidden and curious. 
In your more rational moments, you think you should be afraid. That you shouldn't try—shouldn't want—to get too close. To the palace. To the golden boy within.
It’s a bit too late for that.
You glance briefly at the party goers, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lord Diavolo. He’s nowhere in sight—all around you are demons of all shapes and sizes, horns and scales and sharp teeth gleaming in the golden lights. 
The fruity fragrance of alcohol pierces through the savoury scent of food, pulling your attention to a long table, stationed near the enormous champagne tower. An enthusiastic Beel has settled himself in and is already tearing into an impressive spread of food.
In the edge of your vision you see Asmo, prowling nearby and nursing a flute of Cristal Acid Champagne. Sinking his teeth into his first target of the night: a flustered waiter who is very quickly losing interest in their job, clearly more taken with the prospect of Asmo—well, ah, taking them. Across the way, a brunette woman in magenta chiffon is eyeing the two of them in a very brazen manner, and you can’t help but make a face when Asmo beckons her over with a grin that’s all pearly-white teeth and unspoken promises.
The Avatar of Lust isn’t the only one attracting attention. This isn’t your first rodeo at the Demon Lord’s palace, but with the way demons are openly ogling you, it certainly feels that way. Unless you want to get swept up into a dance with a stranger, you need to find one of the brothers in the next five seconds—
“You’re here!” booms an awfully familiar voice, and you pivot, heart jumping in your chest, yards of sky blue satin twisting with you. Diavolo stands before you, arms spread wide, grin shining bright as the sun. He swoops in for a hug, and in an instant his arms are around you—enveloping you whole, crushing you against his left boob and all but knocking the air from your lungs. He pulls back after a moment, holding you at an arm’s length to admire you. “You look stunning.”
Heat travels down your neck—you nervously smooth down the fabric of your dress. "I think Asmo did well in the outfit department.” 
“Better than well,” Diavolo says, and your breath catches in your throat. His voice is a low timbre, rich like honey and twice as sweet and oh what you wouldn’t give to drown in it.
But, you notice it then—music. Light and airy, swelling slowly into something buoyant and thrilling. 
Whatever you were going to say to Diavolo dies on your tongue as a few couples stride past, and you peer around him to see what’s going on. Between the gaps of the crowd you catch sight of couples dancing, twirling around the dancefloor in a colorful, well versed harmony.
“Hm?” Diavolo notices your momentary lapse of attention and looks back over his shoulder. “Oh, I see. I’m quite fond of this waltz… Dance with me?” He smiles, and holds his hand out to you, palm up.
Your eyes widen, and you think, Oh, shit.
Dancing. Waltzing. In theory? Simple. But in reality… 
“I’m not very good,” you confess. 
“No worries. I’ll lead.” he says.
Briefly, you wonder if this is allowed. The idea is a striking one—you, weird little human that you are, dancing with the Prince of Hell. 
This has to be a breach of conduct, surely. The Devildom is rife with customs that you haven’t fully grasped, and even more that you’re simply unaware of. One little dance can’t hurt though… probably. You are one of Diavolo’s exchange students, after all—it would be weirder if he didn’t pay you any attention. Right? 
After all, Lord Diavolo is the one pushing for good relations between all three realms, so spending time with you in a public setting would probably be good for appearances. Yes.
Ugh. You sound like Lucifer.
Diavolo looks amused by your hesitancy—his molten gold eyes dazzling. 
Warmth. Like the sun. 
You think of Icarus. Of wax and feathers—of a light heart that knew nothing of fear. 
You’re supposed to be having fun.
You slip your hand in Diavolo’s own, much larger one, a smile tugging at your lips. “Alright.” 
He beams at you, and your heart flutters within your chest. There’s no time to dwell on it—he’s already tugging you towards the other dancing couples, feet moving in time with the music.
Diavolo stands directly in front of you and gently guides your left hand up his right arm, laying it just below his shoulder. Your fingers thread nervously into the soft black fur of his shawl—you’ve known for some time now that the future king is a beefcake, but holy hell is he dense. His right hand comes to rest firmly in the center of your back as he takes your free hand securely into his own. He pulls you closer. You have to tilt your head up to look at him.
He makes you feel so small.
“Ready?” Diavolo asks.
You nod, pushing your shoulders back and your chin up. 
You’re a little stiff and a tad clumsy. Diavolo takes it in good stride, thousands of years of experience making up for your woeful lack of. You’re so focused on where your feet are going and trying to not get tangled up in your skirts that you don’t notice the curious observers around you. 
Diavolo murmurs instructions for you, counting in time with the music. You don’t have time to be embarrassed, focused as you are on not stepping on the prince’s feet. 
...For a third time.
As if he can read your mind, he cheerily says, “You’re catching on fast! Why, you’ve only stepped on my foot twice!” 
There’s a teasing lilt to his voice that raises heat to the tips of your ears. 
Out of the corner of your eye you see Lucifer, who most definitely heard that and is now gawking at you like you’ve chopped off your hand and hurled it at him. You know in your heart that you’re going to get an earful later. Phooey.
You squeeze Diavolo’s hand, only a little bit accusingly. “I did try to warn you.” 
He makes an agreeable mm sound. “Well, you’ve got me there.” 
He pauses then—eyes shining like he’s got the winning hand. “Let’s try something else, yes?” 
He stops moving, and you with him—he leans in close, whispers into your ear.
You blink, once. Twice.
“Wait… seriously?” 
Diavolo nods.  “Mhm."
He can’t be serious. 
You squint. He offers you a playful grin—innocent and boyish. 
Holy shit, he’s serious.
Well, in that case… 
You step onto his shoes, this time on purpose (it’s free real estate, baby), and now you’re moving. Gliding. The song swells into something bright and joyful, and a laugh bubbles past your lips when he spins you in a wide circle. You feel like a child again—a bit ridiculous, excitement thrumming through your veins and a lightheadedness that leaves you intoxicated. Weightless. Free. 
You could stay like this for hours, you realize. Part of you wants to, even. 
All too soon, the music begins to fade. Diavolo spins you to the edge of the crowd and slows to a stop. A bit regretfully, you take a step back, the sudden lack of his warmth stinging bitter cold and hollow in your chest.
He smiles, then—presses soft lips to the back of your hand and murmurs, “Thank you for the dance—the first of many, I hope.” 
You melt, a bit.
Diavolo burns like the sun and you know—you know—that to stand by his side, to feel his warmth on your skin and to bloom in his light—you will pay a certain price. Plucked feathers and waterlogged lungs.
You wonder if Icarus regretted it. 
Your eyes stray for a moment, gaze passing over Diavolo’s shoulder—locking with red-onyx ones.
You smile.
“I would like that.” 
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gnocchighoul · 4 years
Text
((just some... fluff? comfort fluff? with Lucifer! I’m not sure what to label this as 😅 enjoy!))
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Lucifer is laying down in your lap, muscular arms wrapped around your waist—cool, clean moonlight spilling across the expanse of his back. His chest rises and falls gently with each soft breath—a far cry from the furious tizzy he’d been in twenty minutes ago. 
Calmed now, though maybe not quite all the way. You shift ever so slightly to avoid getting poked in the tummy by his horns, jostling him in the process, and massive, raven dark wings ruffle agitatedly against the bed sheets. You snort—he’s such a brat, sometimes—and hook a leg snugly around the back of his left thigh. Gingerly, you rub your palm across his skin, fingertips mindful of the spots where flesh turns to feather. He grumbles and his grip on you tightens, but his wings relax against the mattress once more.
Humming softly, you run your fingers through his hair—tugging gently at the dark strands. Silvery white at the ends, catching moonlight like the strings of a spider's web. Graying, possibly, but in reverse. Unless it’s the opposite—had his hair been white, once? It’s an appealing thought, but you suppose it doesn’t matter, really. It’s hard to imagine him looking any differently, breathtakingly gorgeous as he already is.
He’s warm too. Crushing your hips a bit, but the trade off is so worth it. It’s not often that you get to wrap him up and squeeze him like the massive, brooding, touch-starved teddy bear that he secretly is. He prefers to be the one wrapping you up, so moments like this are few and far between, and always leave you wanting for more. 
If you ever want to be the big spoon in this relationship, you’re going to have to take a stand. Act assertively. And cunningly. You need to get your hands on some Princess’s Poison Apples to bribe him warm him up to the idea. Maybe a new fountain pen, and a voodoo doll of Mammon, too. You can assemble a gift basket—call it the ‘Let Me Be The Big Spoon For Once, You Boomer’ Basket. He’ll think it’s dumb (which it is) but there’s no way he’ll be able to resist your bizarre but endearing charm. 
...Probably.
You drag your nails lightly against Lucifer’s scalp, right at the base of his horns. He sighs, a puff of warm air against your thigh that sends shivers down your spine and goosebumps across your skin. He’s all toffee soft and melting into your lap like a milk-drunk kitten, so you figure that now is as good a time as any to ask about what exactly it was that had pissed him off. Thanks to a few frantic texts from Mammon, you have an inkling of what went down—an argument of some sort with Belphie.
While mostly civil, their relationship is still a bit... stormy, at times. To put it nicely. Part of the problem is that they’re both so stubborn and hardheaded that the chances of you turning into a werewolf and going apeshit on the neighbors is astronomically higher than either of them apologizing on their own. So, if you find out the details, you might be able to meddle mediate. 
You cup Lucifer’s cheek with one hand and ask, “Do you wanna talk about it?”
He goes rigid.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you add gently, stroking the cut of his jaw with your thumb. Your touch is soft, soothing—slowly, he unclenches his teeth. “Just want you to know that you can, if it’ll make you feel better.” 
He ponders over your words for a moment, then shakes his head, mindful of how the side of his horn bumps your tummy. He forgets sometimes, how human you are—how soft. Forgiving. Nosey.
“Not yet. Just—don’t let go.” 
“I won’t.” You squeeze him tight—brush a lock of hair away from his eyes. “I’m here.” 
~
((part two))
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gnocchighoul · 4 years
Text
Big Spoon Bribery
Summary: This is the second part of this drabble! 
Reader is gender neutral :D
Warnings: Mild angst and allusions to spicy times. This is mostly fluff.
Word Count: 3k
A/N: thank you @beelzebubs1trulove​ for the title 😘
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You have three missions. In order of importance, they are—
Acquire the coveted position of big spoon.
Help Lucifer and Belphie make amends.
Don’t die trying
Alright, perhaps maybe that last one should be higher up. But you just really really really want to be the big spoon. So badly. Like, you put together a gift basket to bribe Lucifer badly. In your totally humble and neutral opinion it’s a stunning work of art—lacquered black wicker basket three times the size of your head, stuffed to the brim with Princess’s Poison Apples, Coffee of Melancholy beans, some incredibly luxurious stationery, black booty shorts with ‘Enemy of The State’ in bold red print across the butt, and a bottle of Demonus, all surrounding the pièce de résistance: a voodoo doll of Mammon.
Oh yes. Tonight is going to go incredibly well.
The plan is simple and straightforward—foolproof. Suffocate Lucifer with presents and love, and then, when he's in a good mood and not expecting it: beg.
You reckon the odds are 51 to 49, in your favor. You’ve risked your life on worse—your short history in the Devildom is a glowing testament to that. It’s good enough. You’ve already cast the die. Now all that's left is to see where it lands.
To increase your chances of success, you’ve pulled out all of the stops for this momentous occasion. No expense was spared in making Lucifer’s room as clichély romantic as possible. The fireplace? Lit. Pillows? Fluffed. Lights? Dimmed. Rose petals? Scattered. Tastefully.
Even the big, (still) nameless skeleton—the guardian perched ominously in the corner of the room—is in on your shenanigans romantic gesture. The pair of black sunshades you had so skillfully taped onto it’s face have been replaced by an even better pair—oversized, bubblegum pink and heart shaped. Courtesy of your wardrobe, of course.
Now, you wait.
You throw one last fistful of crimson rose petals at the hardwood, then dive face-first into bed. In the distance, thunder rumbles. Though that might have been Beelzebub’s stomach. No way to know for sure.
This is fine. Totally fine. You’re an expert at being patient. A master, even. If RAD gave out degrees for being patient—well, you wouldn’t have one, because you’d have to wait for it. But it would be fine because you’re just so good at that. Waiting.
Patience. Paaaaaatience. Pay-shens. It’s fine. Yep. Nothing awful about this at all. You’re just going to wait.
And wait.
And keep waiting because apparently he’s working late again and totally disrupting your amorous plans, god dammit.
You toss your D.D.D aside and turn your attention out the windows, to the forest. The night sky is darker than usual—the moon swallowed whole by a maw of angry storm clouds, the darkest you’ve ever seen. The center of it crackles with purple lightning, splintering down to lash teasingly at the treetops.
You shift—adjust your mess of pillows and blankets, so that your head is at the foot of the bed. It’s not like you have anything better to do (not until Lucifer gets here) so you might as well watch the storm.
~
“Hm? What’s all this?”
You wake with a start—desperately try to pretend that you weren’t just drooling into the pillows. Lucifer is stood over your gift, examining it with shining eyes and upturned lips.
“Surprise!”
He’s already in pajamas. He totally saw you knocked out.
Lucifer tilts his head—lifts the voodoo doll and turns it over in his hands. Pokes at it’s plush belly with an index finger. Jabs a finger into its cheek, right next to the black-stitch smile. Holds it upside down by one foot. Your highly advanced Lucifer-reading skills tell you that he’s pleased. Poor Mammon. You should probably send him an apology gift basket.
Lucifer shakes mini-Mammon like a maraca. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion! I just felt like spoiling you.”
“You don’t say?” He drops the mini-Mammon back into the basket and makes his way to the bed—the mattress dips as he moves to hover over you, hands coming up to cage your head, one knee planted firmly between your thighs. Mirth dances between the red and black of his irises. “I should return the favor.”
He dips down to kiss you and your lightning fast reflexes kick in—your hand snaps up to cover his mouth. You feel his lips turn down into a scowl and you grin, shifting some beneath him.
“Chin up, buttercup. Don’t look so grumpy, I have something else in mind.” You waggle your eyebrows, and now he just looks confused—as much as he can with you pawing at his mouth—but perhaps a bit more hopeful. Sweetly, you whisper, “There’s something I want.”
He glances at the basket, eyes narrowing suspiciously, and knocks your hand away. He can’t help but wonder—why are you being so cryptic? What in the realms are you plotting now?  
A little apprehensively, he says, “Is that right? What do you—”
“I’m so glad you asked! Lemme be the big spoon.”
“... That’s it? ”
You stare him down with the biggest, saddest, most heart-wrenching puppy eyes that you can muster. “Pretty please with a poison apple on top?”  
He stares at you, disbelieving. Quirks a single neat brow and—oh. There it is. That all too familiar look in your eyes. Searing determination that burns brighter than the flames of Hell. Fierce and vivid. You’re entirely serious.
“That’s what you want?”
“Yes.”
“...You went through the trouble of making all that—” he gestures loosely at the basket. “Just because you want to be the ‘big spoon ’?”
You pat his cheek with a dopey grin. “No trouble at all when it’s for you.”
Lucifer ducks his head. Pink stains his cheeks. “You’re a menace.”
"Only for you, my love~"
~
You’re on cloud nine. Over the moon and stars. Walking on air. 
At long last, you are the Big Spoon.
You understand now, why he’s so insistent on being the one to hold you. This is even better than the occasions when he’ll angrily throw himself into your lap and demand to be pet, which is saying something because those are some damn good times.
But this? This takes the cake.
You’ve got one arm snaked around his chest, the other up and playing with his hair. You could spend an eternity like this—content to listen to the rain pelting against the windows, your face buried in the crook of his neck.
There’s a small scar, just hidden by his hairline. You wonder if he even knows about it. If he remembers how it got there. It’s more recent—not as faded as the jagged twin scars carved into the center of his back, hugging his spine.
There are some things—very few things—that you don’t bring up. Lucifer’s missing set of wings is one of them. You have your theories, of course—you’ve seen the frayed raven feathers that Satan brandishes around his neck, not dissimilar to a trophy. You know of how he was created—of the bond that chains him to Lucifer. You know.
But, there are some things better left unsaid.
A proverb that you are absolutely about to contradict.
You have a mission, after all.
Slowly, stealthily, you lift a leg, hooking it around his hip so that he can’t escape.
“What are you doing?”
Okay, so maybe not as stealthy as you thought. He knows something is up, so you tighten your hold on him, just in case he flips when you start to pick at his feelings like a scab.
His apprehension, combined with how comfortable you are almost makes you want to throw in the towel. You could. Probably even should. This has gone above and beyond your expectations—your stomach twists at the thought of souring such a perfectly sweet moment.
Alas, your family is in turmoil, and you are but a humble knight in shining pajamas. Literally—silk is just so shiny.
Unless you want to end up with a face blasted full of feathers, you need to approach this carefully. You’re in the danger zone now—the risk is high, but so is the reward.
“Hey, Lu?”
“Hm?”
Carefully, now.
“Why did you and Belphie fight?”
You’re not sure how he manages it, what with your intense octopus hold on him, but with infuriating ease, he manages to twist around in your grasp so that he’s facing you. His upper lip curls into the slightest snarl, revealing sharp incisors.
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“Because you… said so.” your tone is flat—offended. Heat ignites between the rungs of your ribcage, swirling around your lungs, sudden and consuming. It’s not the good kind.
He glares down his nose. You can see yourself in the black of his eyes—see the pinched furrow of your brow, the acidic bite of your own gaze. “Yes. Because it’s none of your business.”
“None of my business? You’re both my family and therefore both my business. And even if you won’t tell me, I still know that you shifted first. Usually the one who throws the first punch is the one that also needs to apologize first, y’know?”
“I see.” Lucifer’s eyes narrow—harden. He’s gone tense in your hold. You briefly consider squeezing him like a stress ball. “You’re taking his side.”
“Taking his—I don’t even know what the argument was about!”
Lucifer says nothing. You stare. Silence.
Seriously? Is that what he thinks you’re doing?
“Lucifer.”
He turns his head away.
“Lucifer. ”
He doesn’t look at you. Won’t look.
When Lucifer gets like this, you can’t afford to be tentative and gentle. He needs force—needs to be handled. Just a bit.
So, you take matters into your own hands. Literally.
You smush his cheeks between your palms and hold him in place, waiting for him to turn that bitter gaze upon your own. He looks like an angry goldfish—the handsomest goldfish that you’ve ever had the pleasure of spooning. Also, the only one.
“I’m on your side, Lucifer.” With a feather light touch, you brush your thumb across his cheekbone. “That’s why I think you should make the effort to just talk to him. You’re happier when your whole family is getting along.”
Your observation is right. It’s a truth that’s still too tender, too raw, but, it’s the truth. You know it. He knows it.
So, naturally, he escapes your grip and tries to flee.
“NO!” You swing a leg over his hips and shove him back into the mattress. He goes down hard, and before he can escape, you perch your happy little ass right on his chest, locking his arms against his sides with your thighs and praying to Diavolo that he won’t hurl you across the room at mach 5.
He doesn’t splatter you against the wall, but he does smile for a split second. Somehow that’s scarier.
Your heart chisels away at your ribcage now, and somewhere, in the recesses of your mind, you wonder if he can hear it.
“Look.” you ease the death-grip of your legs—nervously sweep a piece of lint off his shirt. “When we started dating, we made a deal. Remember? ‘No holding back’. Sealed with a pinky promise and everything. You and I are a team. A pair. Two peas in a pod. The heart and the brain! Tui and La. Co-captains! Pilot and co-pilo—”
Another twitch of the lips. “I get it.”
You nod sagely. “You get it. You don’t have to tell me the details of what happened if you don’t want to. I mean, it’d be nice because you know how incredibly nosey I am—stop nodding—but I’m willing to compromise if you at least tell me how you’re feeling. I want to know where your head is at. I know you’ve done this by yourself for thousands of years, but it’s not just you anymore, okay? I’m here, now. You’re stuck with me and I’m going to get that through your thick ass demon skull even if I have to—”
“Okay, okay, okay.” With a heaving sigh, Lucifer sits up, knocking you into his lap like a turtle on its shell. Before you can squirm away, he pulls you up—maneuvers you both so that his back is against the headboard, you straddling his lap. Eye to eye. “I take it you wrote all that down before I got here.”
You relax into him—loop your arms around his neck. His hands settle on your waist. “Yep. Two drafts. The other version had a lot more cussing. Wanna read it?”
He chuckles—presses a kiss to your temple and smiles there. “Of course.”
You two stay that way for a bit—content to sit in the silence and listen to the soft pattering of rain on the windows. You’re 99.99% sure he still isn’t going to talk about this, but you think that you got through to him. Somewhat.
Baby steps.
“Promise you’ll at least try to talk to him?”
Lucifer sighs, a bit dramatically. “I suppose so.”
You lean back to give him a look that says Really?
“I mean it. I will.”
You hold up your pinky finger and he stares at it, looking absolutely scandalized by your youthful ways. You tap it against his chest once, twice. Nothing. You tug the hair at the nape of his neck, and waggle your pinky. “C’mon, handsome. Make a pact with me.”
He rolls his eyes, but wraps his own firmly around yours, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. When you try to drop your hand, he threads his fingers through yours, and tucks you back into his chest.
“So…” your voice is small, muffled against his neck. “Can I still be the big spoon tonight?”
((Thank you for reading! Didya catch the atla reference? :D I just couldn’t help myself~ I’ve got two braincells rn—one of them is for obey me and the other is for atla. Dual wielding hyperfixations at it's finest. likes and comments are v appreciated 🥺👉👈 ))
His laugh is the second sweetest thing you’ve ever heard—the first being the totally betrayed gasp that bursts past his lips when you blow a big fat raspberry into his neck.
~
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gnocchighoul · 4 years
Text
Worm?
Summary: Would your favorite demon brother still love you if you were a worm? You’re determined to get an answer. 
Reader is gender neutral :D (and not an actual worm)
Warnings: Cursing. Lots of it. Apologies in advance for that. Brief mentions of death, but nothing too heavy. It’s used for humor, not sadness, I promise 💙
Word Count: 5.2k
A/N: This was inspired by a trend I saw on twitter :D Hence why it's a little ridiculous lol
AO3 Link
**My writing is not allowed to be posted to other websites without my written permission, though likes and reblogs are welcome. Thank you!**
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Lucifer
You stretch lazily across satin sheets—staring hard at the hooded figure in the corner of the room. What on earth are you going to name it? It needs to be a good name—something regal, but not obnoxious. Something saucy.
It has to be a fitting name for something so… weird. Asking Lucifer for suggestions hadn’t done you any good. For some unknown reason, he doesn’t seem as invested in this predicament as you are.
Truth be told, you’re still in a state of disbelief over the whole thing. Who goes through the trouble of installing a giant crouching skeleton in the corner of their room only to leave it nameless?
Lucifer, apparently.
It’s the sad truth—he’s content to leave your poor pal without any identity or individuality. 
Because of this whole ordeal, you have a nagging suspicion that Cerberus did not get his badass name from Lucifer.
Flames flicker steadily in the fireplace, warm light dancing across the floppy sunhat and sunglasses you had placed on the skeleton. At least he was on board with your attempt at dressing the damned thing. When he’d walked in on you masterfully and craftily duct-taping the sunglasses over its eye sockets, he’d just stared.
You had frozen in place, hoping that he wouldn’t be able to see you if you stayed still for long enough.
Before the prolonged silence could become agonizing, Lucifer had shaken his head and sighed, “It works, somehow. Why, though?”
That had been a relief—even if it was a slightly lackluster reaction.
Not that you were complaining. You were now 1,000 grimm richer thanks to Lucifer’s controlled response. Mammon had sworn up and down that the eldest brother would ‘skin you alive for messing with his sacred space’, and you had replied ‘Bet, bitch’.
Mammon had put his money where his mouth was, and long story short—it was all yours now.
(You have your suspicions. Lucifer likely knew about the bet and wanted Mammon to lose. But that was just your guys’ little unspoken secret.)
Now if you could just find one of those rainbow lei necklaces to complete the skeleton’s fresh new look… and brighten up the room a little bit. Maybe you can get Lucifer to get it for you, next time he goes up to the human world. You should ask him.
Actually, there’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask him, too. Despite the late hour, he’s still awake next to you—tapping away at his D.D.D. Your own D.D.D has been lighting up for the last thirty minutes, and despite not having checked it, you just know that something is going down in the House Of Lamentation group chat.
That, or the little angel, Luke, is having a breakdown in your DM’s again. Regardless of what it is, you don’t have the energy to deal with it right now.
You roll over, turning your back on the nameless for now skeleton, and poke Lucifer’s bicep.
“Hey.” 
“Hm?” 
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” 
Lucifer blinks slowly, fingers hovering over the screen of his D.D.D. “...Pardon?” 
You shoot up into a sitting position, only a little bit dizzy from the sudden head-rush, and the thin blanket pools into your lap. Determination is sharp in the set of your shoulders, and you clasp your hands together, resting your chin atop them and embodying the look of a jaded detective interrogating a hooligan.
“A worm, Lucifer. If I was a worm, would you still love me?” 
He stares unblinkingly at you—features painted with a charmed, fondly exasperated look. He tosses the D.D.D onto the mattress, gifting you his full attention.
“...The implications of what you’re asking are—”
“Yes or no, babe, just answer the question.” 
His red-black eyes—vibrant and jarring in the dark—meet yours, sparkling with an answer that you know is going to be more than you bargained for.
“Do you wish to be my pet that badly?” 
“Pet?!” you squawk. Heat raises to the tips of your ears and down the back of your neck. 
His grin is all Cheshire and teeth when he says, “You could have just asked. You wouldn’t have to be a worm. I like you as you are.” 
“Wait—hold on, that’s not what I—oof!” A hand reaches up to loosely clamp around your wrist, and with a single tug, you topple back into the bedsheets, defeated—no longer a shining pillar of strength, determination, and bedhead.
A strong arm hooks around your middle, and you grumble when Lucifer tucks you into his side, him snickering at your fluster. You have to cover your warm face with both hands for a full minute, because you’re a little bit in love but you also can’t look at him right now.
It isn’t the worst answer, you suppose. 
But it still isn’t a yes or no.
“...What if I was a giant with four arms and a—”
“Go to sleep.”
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Mammon
Oh yeah. It’s all coming together. You’ve got this in the bag.
You take a deep breath—steadying your hands as you pull back the pool stick. Your striped targets are sitting there patiently on the green felt, waiting to take you down the path of victory. If you can sink them both in one shot, you’ll be home free.
“13 side pocket and 15 in the corner.” 
Mammon whistles lowly. “Gettin’ a little greedy, babe. Trust me, I know, I’m an expert.” 
You lean a little bit to the left, lining up the shot with the white cue ball and—CRACK.
You snap the stick forward and the ball goes sailing, hurtling towards the striped 13. 
13 sinks into the side pocket, but it’s not over yet. The white ball is still rolling. It knocks straight into the striped 15, and there it is. 15 goes into the corner pocket, basically sealing your victory. The only one left for you is the black eight ball, and then Mammon can get down on his knees and kiss the ground you walk on.
“What the fuck?” Mammon stares at you over the rim of his glasses, bewildered. “I thought you didn’t know how to play!” 
With your free hand, you pat his hip. Smiling sweetly, you say, “I just have a great teacher.” 
And there it is—that embarrassed, rosy blush of his that you just wanna smooch. Mammon clears his throat, nervously crossing his arms over his chest as you line up your next shot. 
“That’s right, and don’t you forget it.” he says, voice cracking only a little. “You’re just lucky that I like ya.” 
“Oh?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?” 
“I’ve thought about this!”
You pause, mid-shot—narrow your eyes at him. “...What? Are you planning something?”
“If ya cut a worm in half-”
You nearly drop the pool stick. “You want to cut me in half?!” 
His fingertip pushes against your lips, shushing you, and you briefly consider biting it off.
“Ah ah ah- listen! If ya cut a worm in half, then you have two worms! So I would cut ya up into an infinite amount of worms, then marry one of ya and we’d be king and queen of the worms, with guards and a castle and a worm army!” 
You blink slowly, brain cogs whirring away at a mach five as you try to process the jarring realization that your boyfriend is going to accidentally kill you one day.
“Mammon... I don’t… I don’t think it works that way.”
“‘Course it does, sugar!” 
You stare at him—disbelieving, and so, so fond of this idiot. “You would seriously marry me, even if I was a worm? How would that even work?”
“Well, yeah. We’d find a way—haven’t you seen the bee movie?” 
You smack his ass with the pool-stick, eliciting a surprised yelp from him. It’s not even the worst you could do—your boyfriend just admitted that he wants to cut you in half. 
“When we get married, we’re signing prenups. And you are not allowed to turn me into a worm under any circumstances.” 
Mammon stops pathetically rubbing his butt and pouting to stare at you open mouthed. Ten agonizing seconds pass, but he still doesn’t move. Worried that he’s going to start catching flies, you flick his shoulder. 
“Mammon?” And—oh. Oh fuck. “Are you crying?! I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would actually hurt you—”
You sort of know that it's coming, but you aren’t entirely able to smother your squeal when Mammon flings his arms around you in a bone crushing, breath stealing hug. 
“Ya wanna get married?! To me?! Really?!”
“Well, yeah,” you laugh. You reach out, swiping a stray tear off his cheek with the soft pad of your thumb. “Do you not want to?” 
Mammon screams, and you startle. “No!” 
You arch a single brow, and it takes all of the self control you have to not laugh. “You… don’t wanna get married?” 
“No, no, no! That’s not— wait, yes! No! No, wait that’s not what I mean! I don’t mean no I mean—GAH—” 
As much as you enjoy watching him squirm, you decide to have mercy and put him out of his misery. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and that shuts him up instantly. 
Works like a charm, every time.
“I know what you mean, you goof.”
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Levi
Your boyfriend is weird. There’s no sugarcoating it. 
Levi’s a fish out of water. He’s weird in the way that french fries and ice cream are—a little bit repulsive to anyone with a sound mind at first, but once you actually try it, you realize that yeah, okay, this isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s even a little good.
He’s weird and you love him because of it.
But there’s one thing—one single ceramic thing that you haven’t been able to wrap your pretty little mind around.
He sleeps in a bathtub. He sleeps in a bathtub.
Yeah, you get it, he’s Leviathan. Fishy water monster of doom, or something. Grand Admiral of Hell’s Navy. Harbinger of tsunamis, hurricanes, watery-terror, and anime.
But a bathtub???
He had gotten weirdly defensive when you’d asked him about it. 
“It’s—it’s comfortable! Don’t judge me, you sleep on a mattress like a normie!”
He had a point. Maybe it was a tad unfair of you to judge him for sleeping in a bathtub, when you’ve never had the experience yourself.
Which brings us your current situation. 
Slouched down in his bathtub—bedtub? Bathbed? And beyond?—watching him play video games from a comfortable distance. 
And you know what? It’s not that bad! Sure, it’s like sleeping on the hardest hammock in the Devildom, and yeah, your spine is going to be aching and full of kinks in a few hours, but all in all? Not a horrible experience. You’re actually kind of comfortable, somehow.
Cozy? Yes. Bored? Incredibly.
Your gaze drifts lazily over to Henry the goldfish’s enormous tank. Your fishy step-son is swimming brainlessly in happy little circles, despite the massive amount of space he has. Seriously, the tank takes up the whole wall and is the size of a small room. Why does he only swim in one place? It’s madness.
Levi suddenly cries out in frustration, his head dropping onto the desk with a THUMP. Your eyes flicker over to him, and you snort. He’s been at that desk for hours now—wait. 
Now that you think about it, you’re not sure that you’ve ever seen him sit anywhere else in his room. You’re pretty sure he sleeps in that damn chair, despite how viciously he denies it.. 
You look back at Henry.
Then back to Levi. 
Oh.
Well. Like father like son, you suppose.
Fuck, you’re bored.
“Levi?” 
He startles, computer mouse jerking against the desk. “Y-yeah?” 
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” 
That gets him to swivel around, eyebrows squished together confusedly. The sight he’s met with doesn’t clarify anything—why are you in his bathtub? Don’t you prefer the super-big super-soft beanbag? And why are you slouched so that he can only see above your eyes over the rim? Are you pretending to be an alligator or something? 
“A... worm?” 
You nod. “Yes.” 
“Like an itty bitty worm? Or a worm the size of you?”
“A worm sized worm.” 
Levi leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his tummy, and pensively stares up at the slow-moving waves in the ceiling.
“Hmm… It’d be hard to date a worm ‘cause there wouldn’t be any cuddles or hugs or kisses—” his eyes suddenly light up with an excitement that, quite frankly, strikes fear into your heart. Where is he going with this? “But you could ride on my shoulder like a Pokemon! I’d give you the best mulch, and buy you a classy glass terrarium with dirt, and maybe a rock… Do worms like rocks? OH! I could sing Sucre Frenzy’s greatest hits to you! And if you ask me what I think about birds—”
...You didn’t expect him to put so much thought into his answer.
You grab onto the nearest pillow, hug it to your chest and settle in, warmth curling in your stomach. That look in his eyes is familiar— he’s not anywhere close to being done rambling, and you’re happily in it for the long haul.
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Satan
You’re supposed to be reading.
‘Supposed to’ being the key words. But you can’t. Not when there’s something far more interesting to look at.
You’ve been living in the House of Lamentation for some time now. You really shouldn’t still be entranced by this sort of thing. But who wouldn’t be? These demons have a life-sized dragon statue looming menacingly over the fireplace in the common room, and they just act like it’s totally ordinary! Which, you suppose it kind of is for them. But still. It’s criminal.
You shift over an inch so that you can study it in better lighting. You’re laying flat on your back on the leather couch—paperback lying open and forgotten on your tummy, your legs hanging over Satan’s lap. He’s sitting with a stillness that only an immortal could have, nose buried deep in a book.
He’s reading a mystery novel of some sort—you don’t know what it’s about, but it had sounded interesting when he’d described it to you. So interesting.
Okay, truthfully, no it hadn’t. But Satan was just so cute when he got all passionate about his books, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him that you had no idea what he was rambling on about. You’re supportive, dammit, even if you’re still not sure what exactly you had supported. It was probably fine.
All that said—there was something that had managed to capture your attention.
The dragon.
Solid silver, extremely detailed, and about the size of a small sedan. You have yet to see a real dragon in person, but in your unprofessional opinion, this one looks very lifelike.
You have questions. Such as—who put it there? Why did they put it there? More importantly: is it hiding secrets? 
It has to be there for a reason. You’re convinced that the House of Lamentation has a bunch of hidden passageways and rooms. The demon brothers have denied it, of course, but you know better. You’re determined to find them all. It’s only a matter of time before you do.
Or—maybe, just maybe—the dragon comes to life at night! You just need to find the solid gold ancient Egyptian tablet that gives it life and—wait, no. That can’t be right. The Devildom never had a version of Ancient Egypt… Probably. Also, that’s the plot of a kid’s movie. It would be too obvious.
You should just ask Satan about it. He’s got an incredibly vast wealth of knowledge up in that blonde noggin—he’ll probably have an answer.
“Can I ask you something, Satan?” 
He doesn’t look up from the book. “Of course.” 
But wait. 
What if he’s the one working behind the scenes to keep you out of the secret passageway system? You can’t just let him know that you’re this close to cracking the case! What kind of detective would that make you?! A piss poor one, that’s what.
Satan arches a brow pointedly, and your brain flat-lines with panic. You have to ask him something now, or he’s going to catch on to your scheming—
You blurt out, “Would you still date me if I was a worm?” 
… You did not just say that.
“What?”
Fuck, you did.
You have to run with it. You don’t have a choice. There’s no time for you to escape by smoothly acquiring a fake body and burning down the house. You’ve made your (dirt) bed, now you have to lie in it.
“You heard me. Would you still date me if I was a worm?” 
Satan must be at a good place to pause, because he decides to humor you. He sets down the book on the coffee table and rests his arms on your legs.
“Am I also a worm in this scenario? Or is it like Romeo and Juliet and I’m actually a bird and our love is forbidden? Or is it like lady and the tramp where you are both the lady and the iconic spaghetti noodle?”
Why is he thinking so hard about this?
Satan takes your .03 second long silence into consideration, then says, “I don’t know, love, there are just too many factors to consider and not enough information. I’m sorry if that breaks your hearts.” 
You shoot him a withering look. “You broke all five of them. Apology not accepted.” 
Why does he even know about worm anatomy? Why do you know about it?
Satan’s eyes widen with alarm. He does a quick scan over you, as if he’s checking to make sure that you haven’t suddenly transformed into a slimy little annelid. “Why do you ask? You haven’t gotten cursed or something, have you? Please tell me you haven’t.” 
“No!” 
“Oh. That’s good.” relieved, he sags back into the couch. “I don’t think I have enough room for another enclosure anyways. My Halloween crab probably wouldn’t like having another animal around either.” 
“An enclosure?” Your eyes light up like firebugs. “So you would still love me! But would you date me?” 
Satan wrinkles his nose. “Absolutely not.” 
You clutch at your heart (just the one) like you’ve been shot. “Why not?” 
“Worms don’t do it for me.”
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Asmo
The shopping district is cloaked in a shimmering haze; kissed by neon lights that reflect off the cobblestone streets. You love this part of the Devildom, almost as much as Asmo does. Plant trellises loom above you, parallel to the street and peppered with string lights. A brief respite from the Devildom’s eternal night sky.
In some ways, it reminds you of home. The buildings and shop fronts are fashioned similarly to the modern style of the human realm—stirring up feelings of familiarity in you that the extravagantly stuffy House of Lamentation can not. 
The Devildom is your home now. You love it here—there’s no question about that.
But, sometimes, in your weaker moments… you miss your roots. 
You miss the sunshine.
Asmo has picked up on this. You know that he has, despite the aloof front that he likes to put up. You don’t like to talk about it though, and he never pushes you to—just does what he can to make your world more vibrant and warm.
Though sometimes his methods are a bit… interesting.
For example—he recently bought you a sunlamp. 
(You question if it was fully for you though—with the amount of time he spends using the damn thing, you’re beginning to think that you’re actually dating an overgrown, narcissistic lizard.)
Today had just been one of those days—where even your beloved sunlamp couldn’t fully resuscitate you. You had woken up feeling all wilty and had just resigned yourself to a mopey movie day in bed.
Your lizard had other plans.
In classic Asmo style, he’d dressed you to the nines and taken you out on the town to cheer you up. You had protested a bit, at first—now though, you were so damn glad that you had trudged along.
When it comes to you, Asmo pulls out all the stops. Today he’d shown you the vastly underrated wonders of retail-therapy, pressed limoncello kisses into your mouth at lunch, then surprised you with the promise of a weekend long spa experience.
Just like that, the ache in your heart was forgotten.
The two of you leisurely walk back to the House of Lamentation, hands interlocked, and armed to the teeth with shopping bags of all shapes, sizes, and colors. You don’t remember half of the things you bought, but, that just means the excitement of the day gets to last a little longer.
You can’t wait to get home and dig into your newfound treasures, but there’s no real rush. 
Despite the absurd amount of bags hooked on his arm, Asmo somehow manages to scroll through his Devilgram feed, and as you two walk, he occasionally tilts the screen of his D.D.D in your direction. Sometimes it’s to show you the beginnings of a new social trend, other times to make fun of a particularly ugly cat, and twice to make fun of Mammon.
Which reminds you… a few days back, you saw a trend on Devilgram that you’ve been dying to try on him. Figuring that there’s no better time than the present, you say, “Asmo, would you still love me if I was a worm?” 
If you didn’t know better, you would think that you just heard him gag. But there’s no way that’s right—he wouldn’t dare, because he loves you—
“We just ate lunch, dear,” he sniffs politely. “Are you trying to make me throw up? Because that’s not very nice.”
“Wh—oh, c’mon! It would still be me! Just… wormy.” 
“Why a worm?” Asmo pouts. “Why not something sexy, like a—”
“Ah ah ah!” your shout silences him. There are some things you simply do not want to know. “Finish that sentence and I'll have you arrested.”  
“Oh?” Asmo smiles—a line of perfect white teeth—and his eyes glitter with mischief when he says, “I’ll allow it, but only if you’re the one putting me in handcuffs, darling~”
“What if I handcuffed you as a giant worm?”
He gags.
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Beelzebub
You empty most of the contents from the fridge onto the countertop, which isn’t saying much, truthfully. For the third time this week, you guys are nearly out of everything thanks to Beel’s insane appetite. 
Speaking of.
“Do you want an omelet?” you ask over your shoulder. Beel freezes in the doorway, looking like an overgrown deer caught in headlights. He’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen—eyes all wide and doe-like, hair sticking up in tufts, still wearing his soft gym clothes.
“Yes,” he says automatically, before his brain can catch up with his mouth.
You smile at him, then turn back to the fridge to pull out spinach, mushroom, bell pepper, and onion. Lots of it.
You’ve only just set down everything in your arms when Beel says, “Wait, no. Well, yes—but that’s not why I’m here. I need to ask you something.”
“What’s on your mind?” 
He makes his way over to you—there’s a little crinkle in his brow that you want to smooth over with your thumb. Whatever he wants to ask you about really has the gears in his brain churning away—you hope that he hasn’t gotten into another argument with Belphie. If that’s the case, you’re going to have to make apology soup, and you simply don’t have the ingredients on hand for the Quetzalcoatl brain soup that Belphie loves.
You’re already strategizing how to get your butts to the store ASAP. Your wallet should be on the desk in your room still, and it’ll only take you a minute to get it, so you should have more than enough time to—
“Can you step on me?” 
Your brain blue-screens.
“Like—like on your foot? I don’t—what are you asking me?” 
He frowns. “No. I messed up my back while I was working out, and I can’t get it to pop. Usually I’d ask Belphie, but he’s asleep and I don’t want to wake him up, so… Can you walk on my back?” 
...Oh. Context. A lovely thing to have.
You spare a quick glance at the beginnings of your omelet—it’s not going anywhere. Your man needs you to—to step on his back, and you’ve gotta help him, dammit. But the kitchen floor is cold, so...
“Do you wanna go to the common room or—”
“Here’s fine!” Beel breaks out into a grin, and he looks so happy and grateful that you can’t help but feel so fucking fond of this big lug. 
Next thing you know, Beel is laying tummy down on the stone floor, arms folded under his head and—oh damn, that is one nice tushy. 
You nudge his hip with your fuzzy socked foot—and it’s like nudging a warm, dense brick. 
“So, what—you want me to just… stand on your spine?”
“Yeah. Like a tightrope?” 
You fold your arms behind your back and roll onto the balls of your feet, nervous suddenly. What if you step on the wrong spot and he gets a pinched nerve? What if he has a serious injury and you stomping all over him makes it worse? What if he ends up paralyzed?
It’s not impossible, you reckon—you read a news article once about a guy who had a broken neck for forty years and had no idea until one fateful day when he turned his head just slightly wrong. 
Is this safe? You really don’t know. Maybe you should watch a tutorial on DevilTube first? 
“Okay, I know I said yes, but are you sure? What if I hurt you?” 
Your voice is high, somewhat uncertain, and Beel smiles into his sweater sleeves. “You won’t.” 
You hesitate still, but only for another second or two. Then, you decide, fuck it, say, “‘Kay, I’m gonna stand on ya now.” and step onto his back.
CRACK.
You freeze.
Oh. Oh god—oh fuck—you KILLED him.
He’s dead. Gone. You, puny little human that you are, snapped his spine in half, a la mortal kombat. Beel perished and you’re standing on his fucking corpse—
“Hey, you’re really good at this—”
You freeze, heart slamming painfully into the back of your chest, because oh god oh fuck the love of your life is dead and now you’re stuck loveless in a world with witches, angels, demons and now ZOMBIES—
“Honey, I’m fine. I’m a demon, remember? You probably couldn’t hurt me if you tried.” 
Oh. Riiiight. Demons. Beel’s a demon. A demon who picks up on your anxieties like they’re a second language and smooths them over no problemo. 
“Are you okay?”
“Never better!” You step on the spot right between his shoulder blades, and another impressive crack sounds through the air—this one a tad less alarming than the last. Beel sighs and practically melts into the floor. Man, you are good at this. Who needs DevilTube tutorials? Certainly not you.
“I love you.” Beel mumbles. You feel the words moving through his chest more than you hear them, and now you’re the one feeling all toffee soft and melty. 
You want to say something sweet like, “aw, I love you too!” or, “why are you the sweetest boy in all of the realms?” but Beel isn’t the only one who has a mouth that works faster than the brain.
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You step onto the center of his back this time and grind your heel into his spine when you don’t hear a pop.
He’s quiet—too quiet— and for a moment, you wonder if you actually killed him this time.
“Bee?”
“I’d put you in a little jar of dirt. Keep you misted.” 
And man oh man, if that isn’t one of the sweetest (and weirdest) things you’ve ever heard.
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Belphie
Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea, your mind chants as you waltz up the staircase. Yes, what you’re doing is a bad idea. Are you gonna do it anyways? Absolutely. Do you have any sense of self-preservation? Apparently not. 
You hit the landing and it’s full speed ahead to the attic room. Buttery golden light spills out into the comfortably sized hallway, and you head straight in before your survival instincts can kick in and save your life.
You want attention, dammit, and you’re going to get it.
And there he is. Belphie. Sprawled out on the large, circular mattress in all of his sleepy, drooling glory. 
Ugh. You love him.
Quiet as a mouse, you tip-toe over to the bed and shove aside a ridiculous amount of pillows, clearing up a space just large enough for you to crawl onto.
You poke gently at Belphie’s cheek. It takes a few minutes, 76 pokes, and a bottomless well of patience, but finally, one amethyst eye cracks open to glare heatedly at you.
“What?”
“I need to ask you something. It’s important.” 
He knuckles gently at his eyes, looking only a little peeved off at you for waking him up from his sixth nap of the day. “What is it?”
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” 
“I would feed you to Levi’s goldfish.” 
“Don't be mean!” 
“You woke me up for that?!” 
Belphie moves far too quickly for someone who’s only just risen from the depths of slumber—snagging his arms around your waist, spinning you around and all but body slamming you into the bed like a luchador. With deceivingly strong arms and legs, he latches on to you like a.. Well, actually, like a sloth. A freakishly strong, impossibly cute sloth.
You shift and squirm around, trying your hardest to escape, but it’s too late. You feel the muscles in his arms and chest clench from the effort of keeping you in place, and finally, with an exasperated sigh, you give in to his whims. 
One of the little D’s skitters past the attic room, and you stare mournfully in its wake. Belphie is a lot of things—one of them being a hard-headed snuggle bug. By now you should know that there’s no escaping the demon of cuddles. You’re stuck until dinner time or until one of his brothers comes to your aid. 
Oh noooo... you had been so looking forward to studying… Ha!
Belphie lets go of you with one arm, clumsily patting around the mattress behind him in search of something. After a few seconds, he mutters, “A-ha!” and pulls a blanket over you both. It’s the soft purple one that he knows you love, and yeah, okay, maybe it wins you over. Just a little bit.
In return, you take one of his hands into your own and shove it up against your chest, right over the steady beating of your heart. Sometimes he needs the reminder.
Belphie smiles into your hair. “I can’t believe you woke me up to ask that. What’s wrong with you?” 
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?! I can’t believe you’d feed me to Henry!” 
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gnocchighoul · 4 years
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(。•̀ᴗ-)✧
AO3 Portal
Meet my MC, Venus! 
everything on this list with emoji ratings is ___ x reader
(☀️) -- fluff   (🌙) -- smut    (🥀) --angst   (🦕) -- gender neutral 
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operation hot potato [Lucifer/MC] ☀️
big spoon bribery part one & part two [Lucifer/MC]  ☀️🦕
the threads that bind us [Lucifer/MC]  ☀️🥀
gains and goofs [Beel/Belphie/MC]  ☀️🦕
would you still love me if I was a worm? [Brothers/MC]  ☀️🦕
wax feathers // melting sun [Diavolo/MC]  ☀️🦕
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Tater Tot’s adventures (hcs for Tater Tot, Lucifer and MC’s cat from operation hot potato) ☀️
Diavolo the zumba-loving mimosa mom 
the creation of Mammon (as seen by Lucifer)  
Lucifer the musician ☀️🦕
angry Lucifer ☀️🦕
sleep hc for Lucifer ☀️🦕
romantic Levi ☀️🦕
Belphie summons cows in unfavorable places ☀️🦕
theory about luke  
the demon brothers get turned into cats ☀️🦕
the undateables get turned into cats ☀️🦕
the demon brothers + a touch starved MC ☀️🦕
the undateables + a touch starved MC ☀️🦕
surprising Luci by getting up early to make him breakfast. kind of. ☀️🦕
the demon brothers reactions to finding out MC is a vampire ☀️🦕
assorted headcanons! 
how the brothers react to MC getting a nosebleed ☀️🦕
what do the demon brothers smell like?
how the demon brothers react to being called an angel ☀️🦕
snuggling the demon bros after a bad day ☀️🦕
the RAD baby project  ☀️🦕
the shirtless calendar 
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Fics
peach bubbles and cherry wine [Lucifer/MC]  🌙
~
Headcanons
how each brother reacts to walking in on MC pantless  🌙
undateables reaction to walking in on MC pantless  🌙
lucifer sex hc  🌙
~
breeding kink series  🌙
[Diavolo/MC] & [Lucifer/MC]
[Mammon/MC] & [Asmo/MC]
[Beelzebub/MC] 
~
if scrolling through everything is more your speed, fics are tagged as gnocchiwrites and headcanons are tagged as gnocchicanons 💙
((I made a ko-fi page! If you enjoy my work and want to see more, please consider buying me a coffee! 💗))
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