The Dateables Seeing You In Bed
Sometimes I think my friends don’t like me lmao
You send them a simple message. Just one sentence. A simple plea, asking if they can come to your room and in a few minutes, you hear knocking at your door. The knob turns and they take a quick step inside, closing the door behind them and shutting out the rest of the world. Just as they’re about to ask what you needed- or what you wanted- they see the sad look on your face and make their way to you.
It isn’t rare for you to message him throughout the day. You’ve expressed that you might be overwhelming him with your constant messages, but he snuffs out those worries each and every time they approach. Barbatos likes knowing that you want to talk to him, and when you send voice notes, he can just listen to you in the background, listen to your ramble on and talk about whatever comes to mind. Everyday, he looks forward to your messages, checking his phone and seeing your name pop up in his notifications. However, when you don’t message him, he starts to worry. Of course, you could have just been busy- living in the House of Lamentation, can take up much of your time due the brothers’ shenanigans. But then you message him, and you ask him to come over and there’s no emoticon, no follow up message, there’s nothing, it’s just a simple plea. Even without a pact, he feels compelled to listen to you, his legs already moving and abandoning the cleaning of one of the many rooms. He calls out to the prince, telling him that it’s urgent and there’s this pit in his stomach.
He knows that something is wrong when he enters the house and no noise greets him. As much as he can roll his eyes at the tomfoolery that happens in the house, it’s a nice change of pace, it’s fun and lively. It’s everything that the brothers brought with them in their descent. But now, it’s silent, and he knows that you’re in your room, and that something is wrong. He reaches the door, and it’s so foreboding, there’s a pit in his that whatever is wrong, is something that can’t be fixed- at least, not now. His knuckles rap against the wood, a hollow sound echoes in his ears. One second passes and he feels something lodged in his throat. Two seconds, and you still haven’t answered. Three seconds, and your voice is muffled by the wood, telling him to come in. The knob twists in his hands, and the metal knob chills his gloved hand.
The door closes behind him in a soft click, and the rest of the world is shut out. It’s so quiet in your room. When he speaks to ask if you’re okay, it feels criminal to break such a silence, like he’s ruining the safety of your room. He turns to see you, and finds you in the bed, curled in a blanket, the fabric twisted in your hands and pulled to your chest. You look so sad, and he rushes to you, dropping to his knees to look you in the eye. Your eyes quickly avert from him in something that he can’t decipher. Shame? Sadness? A mixture of guilt and loneliness? He pulls his gloves off and lays them on the floor beside him. Your eyes close when his hand cups your cheek, his thumb soothing an arch against your cheek. The blanket clenched in your hand relaxes, and he doesn’t speak when your mouth pulls into a thin line and you can’t look at him. For a moment, he worries that he had done something wrong- that perhaps he forgot an important date, that something, whatever it was or is, is causing you so much grief. But the way that you look so alone, and exhausted- he knows that it isn’t him. You’re the one who called him, you’re allowing him to keep his hands on you- you’re in need of his comfort, and he knows enough that that is all that you need at the moment.
It’s not rare for him to remain quiet, but in this situation where you can’t look at him and can’t bring yourself to talk, he is unsure what to do. He can’t speak, his words having lodged themselves in his throat, suffocating him and rendering him into nothing more than a demon kneeled before you. You open your eyes slowly, and they’re shining with dew, and he’s before you, the hand on your cheek curving to your bicep covered by the blanket. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, and you shift your eyes, and part your mouth, closing it without a word. He asks you if you need anything- if there’s anything that you want. You let the fabric fall and and your hands reach out, fingers curved and pulling back into a loose fist as if that action were too rash, too selfish and forward. He nods, and raises himself to kiss at your temple.
As he moves, the bed creaks under his weight, and he’s careful to not disturb you, careful to leave the blanket as it is. He lies beside you, and despite being clothed in his uniform, he pushes any thought of being uncomfortable away, hands curving around you, pulling your back close to his chest. With his hand on your chest, your heart beats against his palm, like a bird trying to free itself from a cage. In the next moment, he can hear your soft cries- the way that you take in shuddering breaths, the whimpers and whines that escape through closed lips; and he holds you tighter, kissing the back of your head and mumbling comforting words when a sob is louder than the rest. It’s clear that you don’t want to talk about whatever is making you feel upset, but you also don’t want to be alone. He won’t leave you alone. You could refuse to talk and only weep, and he would still be here, his duties forgotten as you lay beside him. Your nail scratches along the side of his index finger, and with wet lips, you kiss where you've scratched, mumbling a soft apology as if you would ever need to apologize to him. You twist in his arms and Barbatos finally sees the defeat in your eyes- how you blink away the fresh tears, and ignore the way that they wet the pillowcase under you. There are heavy bags under your eyes and with his hand, he cups your cheek. He kisses the tip of your nose, and you hug him, pulling yourself close to him, and he can feel your breath exhale against his chest.
The day is dragging by, turning seconds into minutes and minutes into hours and so on and so on. It’s a bore that he has felt before, something so heavy, like an anchor sinking him into a pit. His day is dragging by, consuming and slow, a detached reality that feels far too fuzzy and much like static. Surprisingly, you haven’t responded to any of his messages. Of course, you could be busy, but you’re so diligent with responding to him- or at the very least opening his messages. However, for today, you don’t seem to do any of that. As if committing a crime, molten gold is focused on the gap between the door and the floor, searching for any glances- fearing that a certain butler would pop in and chastise him for not being focused on the paperwork that’s been set in front of him. Diavolo has a good reason to glance at his phone and search for you on Devilgram, seeing if you had uploaded any stories that could give him an answer as to why you’re so radio silent. However, there is nothing there; the last update is from hours ago- from yesterday to be exact. His brows knit together and in that same moment, a message from you pops in his notification bar. He reads it in the next moment- you’re asking him to come over. It’s a simple request, one that you and he have asked each other plenty of times before, but for some reason, it feels different. There’s an added weight onto it.
He rushes out the door and before his sudden exit can be questioned or worried, he says in a hurried voice that he has to check up on you. The door isn’t full shut behind him- the cast of the yellow glow off the palace tiles shine into the outside, and then it’s gone- replaced by the doors to the House of Lamentation, and there’s an eeriness to it- something that makes him hesitate before he opens the door without warning. He doesn’t take notice of the silent house, how it’s far too quiet, far too lonely. His mind is set on you- on finding you, and- and- being with you. He stands at your door, and he hesitates to open the door. His hand is centimeters away from the knob, and he pulls away. He wants to enter, and he knows that you’re inside, blocked by a piece of wood that is far too easy to break. With restraint, he knocks against the hollow, and waits for you. It takes a moment for him to hear your voice croaking, allowing him passage into your room.
A yellow glow from your lamp illuminates the hallway for a moment before it’s snuffed out by the closing of the door. He steps inside and finds you in an instant, curled up towards the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around you and with red rimmed eyes that are still wet with tears. You give him a sad smile, and sniffle while doing so. He’s at your side in an instant, the knees of his pants stretched and dirtied by the floor. His words are said in a gentle manner, asking what had happened, and it only strives to make you whimper and shake your head, trying to bury it further into the pillow like a lost child too scared to face the monster under the bed. He hates to be the one to cause you to cry, but he presses further, asking if someone had done this to you, and once more, you shake your head, telling him your answer that’s muffled by the pillow.
You’re in no manner to talk at the moment. You try to stop your tears, trying so desperately to hold the cries in and all that comes out are pitiful whimpers. A heavy hand wipes away the tears that can be seen, that aren’t caught by the fabric of the pillowcase. In a strained voice, you tell him that you’re not feeling too well, that right now, things are just a bit too much. He has an inkling of what that feels like, but to see you reduced to tears and clinging at his wrist with a weak grip, he knows that right now, you need him in the way that he’s always needed someone like you. The bed groans under his familiar weight, and you turn, twisting the blanket above your body as you hold onto him. Your tears catch onto his shirt, and his arms encircle around you, pulling you close and running his hand down your back, hoping that it’ll soothe you in some type of way.
Every shake of your breath and sob, shakes your body, and he can only imagine what was the breaking point in all of this. But even that proves to be far too much for him- he doesn’t want to think about what you held onto for so long only to have it crumble. The silence in your room is broken by your cries and apologies, and he doesn’t know why you’re apologizing- for crying? For crying onto his shirt? He isn’t sure, but all the same, he tells you not to worry, to just let it out, and that he’ll still be here, waiting patiently until you’ve calmed down. Diavolo holds you, pulls you into him and tells you that no matter what, he’s here, he isn’t going to go anyway, whatever you want, you only need to ask, and he’d give you the world, he’d give you the sun and moon if you’d ask. If it was someone, you could mention the name, and he’d take care of it. He’d stain his hands and feel the grime underneath his nails if it meant that you would smile for him once more. For now, you’ll cry and apologize with a stutter and a tightening grip onto his shirt, and he’ll hold you all the same. Finally, you start to breathe, shakily and unevenly, and you start to whine and hiccup, and his eyes are heavy and so must yours. He presses his lips against your temple, and with the pads of his thumbs, he smears your tears across your cheeks. There’s a ghost of a smile that traces along his lips, and he kisses your crown, pulling you close to him.
The words on the document are blurring in his mind. The words don’t tell a story, but rather they are just words, empty and staining the paper before his eyes. Simeon raises his arms over his head, his eyes closed and joints popping from relief. His phone has been silent save for a few messages, none of too much importance, just a casual update or a picture sent. He is alone in his room, the solidarity making him feel constricted, his room too much of a prison rather than a haven for him away from others. With his eyes on the screen, he grabs at his phone on his side, and as he does so, the screen lights up in a notification. His lips turn upward at your name being displayed. Your message, however, makes his brows furrow and lips part in a soft frown. It’s unlike you- it’s candid. There is no follow up text telling him to take his time, or to not worry. There is no emoticon, or sticker sent to him. It’s a simple message that is unlike you- it has a different tone. Whatever this message is, it isn’t right- it’s worrisome. The chair scrapes against the floor, the door is closed and worry is eroding his mind. He’s unsure of what it could mean- you didn’t even give him a location as to where to go, but he knows where to go as if there is a string of red attaching him to you, leading him to you.
He wastes no time in knocking at the doors- the house is always open and despite the complaints that people come and go as they please, the doors never lock. The House of Lamentation is quiet upon his arrival. His steps echo, his heels clicking against the tiles and it steadily grows into a rapid pace as he rushes towards your room. His side collides with a decorative table in the halls, and a sound of pain wisps into the air and is forgotten behind him. At your door, he stands, catching his breath, lungs collapsing and filling with air as he raises his hand to knock at the door. There’s a sense of urgency as he knocks, and he isn’t fearing for the worst, but rather fearing that you’re alone, that you want him enough to call for him, that the House is silent and you’re alone and trapped in your room. He hears your voice- soft and raspy, muted by the wood that separates him from you- allowing for him to enter.
The knob is swallowed by his hand and the door creaks, extinguishing the silence in a mere second. With the door shutting behind him, the world outside is snuffed out of existence. His eyes find themselves at your bed, where you’re curled up, and you have this shameful look in your eyes. He can see the shining tears that wet your lashes, how you part your mouth to speak, but close it, unable to form any words. He walks swiftly towards you, back straight and legs giving out when he reaches you. He falls to his knees without a second thought, his hands prying yours out of the blanket and interlacing them with his. With his words tenderhearted, he asks what’s wrong, his voice not raising above a whisper.
You squeeze tighter onto his hand, unable to answer, and your brows knit together. He pulls his hand away from yours, tapping at the back of your hand to give you some type of comfort. His hand is empty, so he can brush the pad of his thumb between the wrinkles of your brows. The skin smooths out, and his hand curves to the back of your head. He sits on a knee, craning his neck to kiss the corner of your mouth. You look up at him with sad eyes, tears staining them and leaving marks against the curve of your face. A part of him knows what must be causing you such distress, but if you’d rather not talk about it, he won’t be one to pry. He gives you soft words, frowning when you whine and close your eyes, dew wetting your cheeks and bottom lip trembling, as you call his name in broken whispers. He hushes you gently, scratching at your scalp and running his thumb over your knuckles. His knees ache from the floor, sullied and imprinted with the floor patterns, but he stays there, waiting for you to calm, holding your hand.
With a quivering inhale of breath, you move away from him, your arm stretched long and hands holding onto him as to not let go of him even in this short distance. With this silent invitation, he stands, his knees and legs aching and stiff. His back is against the headboard, arms reaching to hold you close to his chest as your arms wrap around his midsection. His palms press into the wrinkled fabric of your shirt, feeling the soft skin that rests underneath a thin piece of cotton. His hands sink into you, and he’s holding you close, trying to find a place to rest his hands, fisting your own shirt in his, as you have done to him. You cling to him so desperately, so feverishly, as if you feared that if you let your grip loosen for a moment, he’d float away from you. At this moment, you need him. It was you who had called for him. And perhaps it’s selfish, but he’s elated that you had called him- that you had wanted him beside you, holding him and clinging to him with ears wetting his shirt. Simeon lies with you, kissing the crown on your head, and hushing you gently when you start to talk, only to find that the words are mismatched and that they run faster than you can hold onto them and form a coherent sentence. You don’t have to explain anything to him. He’ll lay here for an entire night, sit on his knees and hold your hands if it meant that you would have a moment of peace.
It's rare for you to not message him throughout the day. It’s become such a habit, such a norm, for the both of you to talk throughout the day, and when he doesn’t receive a message, he thinks that you must be busy. But then, he sends you one, and you don't reply to it, nor do you see it. Worry begins to settle in him- it’s far too late into the day for you to be asleep, and if you were out, you would have sent him a picture of something that reminded you of him or something that you found cute. And then his phone pings awake- the screen bright with your name displayed on it and the preview of your message showing for a moment. Solomon reads the text and his worry only deepens, filling him with a heavy weight that pulls down on him. You’re asking him to come over- no follow up text, no emoticon just a simple message and he’s rushing out the door.
Scenery blurs past him and it’s only part way that he realizes that he can place himself there; that he doesn’t have to waste time running to get to you. The words come out heaved and he thanks his lucky stars that he was able to remember them in such a state. His chest is rising and falling, his heart beating against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage and air is nothing more than a fleeting kiss to him, puffing past his lips in wisps. He doesn’t even realize how empty the house is- how it lacks all signs of life that it holds. The sorcerer is much too busy knocking against your door, his hand around the knob, and your name is hissed between his teeth. In the early days of the both of you arriving at Devildom, he had mentioned to you how he would like for the two of you to remain close since you were both humans and you had happily agreed. You’ve clung to those words ever since- seeking him out, wanting to befriend him despite all the rumors and words said about him. You wanted to be close to him, and he never wanted to leave you alone, he always wanted to be by your side. And now, wood separates the both of you, your name breaking on his tongue. He isn’t sure why he’s so worried. You must be fine- but then again, you hadn’t messaged him all day and when you finally do, he can feel the urgency behind it. It’s a deep rooted worry that’s clawing in the inside of him.
Your voice creaks past the wood and he stops himself, taking a deep breath that expands his lungs. The door opens and he rushes inside, already finding you at the bed, and there’s something in your eyes that makes his shoulders sag. The door locks behind him, and he sits at the edge of your bed, his hand on the curve of your back, fingertips past the collar of your shirt and tickling at your neck. He asks you what’s wrong and you can only lay there and shake your head slightly. A thick blanket covers your frame, and your eyes are heavy, circles underneath that indicate that you lack sleep- that at least you’ve been up with worry. There are no words that can be said, at least not without knowing what is ailing you. He can’t tell you empty words, he can’t make that promise to you and then have it break. He’d promise you the world, but only because it could be something that he could give to you.
He asks if it’s okay if he can join you in bed, and you nod, while looking at him. He’s at least glad that you want to be with him, that you don’t want to be alone. He lays beside you, his chest against your back and eyes closed. He can be witty, and somehow, he always knows what to say in response to something, but now, he doesn’t know what to tell you to make you feel better. If you don’t want to talk about it, then it’s fine, he won’t force you, but he does wish that he could help. You shift in the bed, turning until you face him, and your hands tremble as they pull themselves out of the blanket. They clutch at his shirt and he watches in silence as you move your hands under his arms, placing your hands against his back. Your nose presses against his breast, and his hands come to circle around you, holding your shirt and keeping you close to him. And you do the same, clinging to him and wetting his shirt and cooling it with your shuddering breaths.
In a pitiful voice, you apologize for ruining his shirt- for dirtying it with your tears. He can hear you sniffling and your voice is tight and congested. There’s no reason for you to worry about his clothes, not at this moment. He debates on making some remark, wanting to hope that it’ll put you in a better mood even if it’s just for a moment, but he decides against it when you apologize again and this time it sounds so deep, so croaked and dry, and he decides against it. With his lips against your temple, he tells you not to worry about it- that you matter so much more than the shirt that he could just wash. The sentence is finished with a kiss to you. Solomon wishes that he could help, that he could give you the type of comfort that you had hoped for and that you so rightly deserve, but he can’t seem to find anything that could comfort you. He holds you tightly, clinging to you and scratching dully at your back. You give so much to others, and are so careful with them, that he wishes he could at least be the same for you- that he could give you his all, that he’d give you his entire being, but he cannot. So, he lays in bed with you, hushing you and telling you a random story that even he thought he had forgotten long ago.