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You tried to sleep. You really did. But every time you closed your eyes, the itch in your brain got worse, and the weight on your chest grew heavier, and no amount of mindful breathing or sheep-counting could distract you from the distant, nagging awareness that something wasn’t right.
The blanket was just a little too heavy, the sheets just a touch too soft. The pillows were too fluffy. The mattress was too hard. After a while, you gave up trying to identify the individual facets of your discomfort, because in the end, they weren’t the reason you were still awake.
You rolled onto your back and stared up into the darkness and tried not to think about the demon locked in the attic somewhere above you.
You also tried not to think about the demon who was currently asleep on the couch, a stone’s throw from your bed.
No. Not your bed. His bed.
“Beel?”
He didn’t answer.
Which made sense, seeing as he was asleep and all.
“Your pillow smells like sugar cookies,” you said, because it was true, and also because you weren’t entirely sure he actually was asleep. He might just be ignoring you. Which would also make sense, seeing as you were the one who had caused him to lose his shit and Hulk Smash the kitchen a few hours ago.
“Please don’t be mad at Mammon. It wasn’t his fault. Not really.” You sighed and scrubbed your hands over your face. “I almost passed out on the way to class the other day, and he’s been losing his goddamn mind worrying about me. He thinks I’m not eating enough.”
“Are you?”
You blinked up at the dark ceiling. And then you sighed. “No.”
“Is it the food?” he asked, quieter this time.
You frowned and sat up, crossing your legs beneath you. “What do you mean?”
“Do you… not like the food, here?”
“It’s not that.” Devildom food was… interesting, to say the least, but wasn’t terrible; you just made sure to give a wide berth to any dish made from an ingredient that had more than four legs, and pretty much everything that Mammon recommended, and you were fine. “I just… can’t eat when I’m stressed.”
You couldn’t see him, because there was no darkness quite as deep and impenetrable as the darkness of Hell itself, but you knew the couch was pushed up against the wall directly across from you, about fifteen feet from the end of the bed.
So when his voice came from much closer than the couch – as in, literally right next to you – you yelped in surprise.
"Why?" he asked.
You shuffled backwards and leaned over to switch on the bedside lamp, and…
Yep.
He was standing beside the bed, and… hoo boy, that was a lot of shirtless demon right there, wow. You’d known Beel was a well-built guy, but you’d never imagined anything like this.
Okay, that was a lie.
God, he was built like a tank. He looked like he’d been sculpted from marble and painted with the colors of sunset, and your hands twitched at your sides, desperate to reach out and touch.
It wasn’t fair. Why did he have to be so beautiful?
And why was he scowling at you?
“Why can't you eat?” he demanded. "Why are you stressed?"
You flinched away from the anger in his voice, and then you got angry at yourself for flinching, and then you got angry at him for making you angry at yourself for flinching.
And then you remembered the look on his face when he’d stepped out of the rubble of the ruined kitchen, the shame and frustration and disappointment in his eyes as he’d brushed past you, studiously avoiding your gaze.
Your anger melted into a leaden ball of guilt that settled heavy and cold in your chest.
“Dunno.” You lifted one shoulder in a tired shrug. “I just am. It’s my natural state of existence.”
“Starvation is your natural state of existence?” He hummed thoughtfully, and then he crouched down beside you, waited very patiently until you looked over at him, and smiled. “Sounds familiar.”
You huffed a laugh, and then you shook your head and sighed, because how the hell were you supposed to get any decent self-loathing done when he was walking around being so… shirtless? And nice?
“Stress makes me lose my appetite,” you said. “Been that way since I was a kid.”
Beel nodded. “That happens to me, too.”
You tried to keep your expression neutral, you really did. But, apparently, you failed, because he took one look at you and started laughing.
And damn.
That just wasn’t fair.
And it was really not fair how shirtless he was.
And when he lifted his arm to run a hand through his hair, the muscles in his chest and shoulders coiled and flexed, and not only was that not fair, but it was also really not good for your blood pressure.
“You still haven’t answered my question, you know,” he said.
That was because you’d been too busy staring at his chest.
Wait.
Were you still staring at his chest?
Stop that.
Stop it.
“Um. What was the question?”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the bed so that he could look up at you with a small smile and a glint of mischief in his eyes. God help you.
“Why are you stressed?”
Well, shit. You couldn’t very well tell him the truth, could you? Aside from the guilt still sitting heavily in your chest, the main reason that you were so stressed out was because you’d very recently – as in, like, an hour ago – learned that the demon you’d found imprisoned in the attic last week was actually Beel’s twin brother, Belphegor.
And you couldn’t say a fucking word about it.
“Ah, you know…” you made a vague, helpless gesture with your hands. “Lots of reasons.”
“Do any of those reasons have names?”
You blinked at him, but otherwise remained perfectly still.
Except on the inside.
On the inside, you were screaming like a little bitch.
“Maybe?” you squeaked. “Why?”
He shrugged those broad, beautiful shoulders and smiled. “Because I’d like to kill them for you.”
Oh.
That was so fucking sweet. Also, a little bit terrifying, but mostly just… so incredibly sweet, and thoughtful, and supportive, and…
And now your eyes were burning. And your vision was blurring. And you knew you were crying, but you didn’t know why, because there were so many reasons, too many to name, and the shadows of your sins were laughing and screaming and clawing at your soul and the tears kept coming and you just couldn’t fucking stop…
And then his arms were around you, and he was lifting you onto his lap, and when you pressed your head against his shoulder, you could feel his heart beating in his chest, slow and steady and hypnotic, and it made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t entirely lost. Not yet.
He smelled amazing, like chocolate and peppermint and everything good and wonderful in the world. After a while, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on the top of your head.
And you were okay.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, sweeping his hand down your back. “I didn’t mean it. I won’t kill anyone, I promise.”
You snorted a laugh. “No, it’s fine, that’s not…” You squeezed your eyes shut, struggling to clear the haze of grief and exhaustion from your mind. “I just… I didn’t…”
For fuck’s sake. Words. They were a thing. Use them.
“Thank you, Beel,” you whispered. “You’re the best.”
“At... at what?”
Oh.
Bless his heart.
He had no idea.
“Everything,” you said. “Literally everything.”
His laughter sounded different when you were wrapped in his arms like this. Still low and deep and filled with amusement, but now it was everywhere, all around you, and it filled you with a languid warmth that reminded you of sunlight. If you’d been a cat, you would have purred, but since you were not a cat, you had to settle for making a soft, contented noise in your throat.
For a few moments, Beel stopped breathing.
“We should… probably get some sleep,” he said in a slightly strained voice.
You hummed in agreement, because that sounded like a lovely idea.
Except now, Beel was shifting around beneath you, and it was beginning to occur to you that when he had made that suggestion, he had probably meant ‘in our own separate, individual sleeping locations’ and that sounded like a fucking terrible idea, actually.
When he lifted you off his lap and set you down on the bed beside him, you didn’t fight. But when he started to move away, you reached out and touched his arm, and he froze.
“Beel?”
He looked at you, and then away again. “Yeah?”
“You could… I mean, the bed’s big enough, and I wouldn’t mind…”
He hesitated. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.
And, really, you should have seen this coming, because while Beel was a consummate gentleman when it came to anything other than food, he was astonishingly oblivious when it came to you.
And as much as you craved any and all physical contact with him, and as much as it felt like your heart was being carved out of your chest with a dull knife at that moment, you said nothing, because this was his choice, and you weren’t going to push him. If he didn’t want to share the bed with you, that was okay.
You’d get over it, eventually.
“Are you sure?” he asked in a hesitant voice. “I want to, I just… I don’t want you to feel uncomfortab-oof!”
When you launched yourself at him, he caught you in his arms and fell back against the pillows with a grunt of surprise. Then he laughed and curled his arms around your waist, and for a while you just stayed like that, draped on top of him like a lumpy, neurotic blanket with no respect for personal boundaries. And he let you, because he was the best.
“Don’t wake me up when you leave,” you mumbled. It was almost dawn – figuratively speaking, since the sun did not rise in Hell – and even though it was a Saturday, you knew Beel would still be rising at an ungodly hour to go for his morning jog.
“I won’t.” He gave you a gentle squeeze. “Are you sure this is okay?”
You huffed in annoyance, which made him twitch, since your face was pressed against his neck.
“Beel, you sleep in my bed all the time. How is tonight any different?”
He didn’t answer. You lifted your head and met his eyes, and when he smiled up at you, it damn near broke your heart, because that was the same smile he always had when he talked about himself, and it was a smile of pain and resignation and defeat and…
God, you fucking hated it.
Every time you saw that smile, it made you want to wrap your arms around him and hold him as tight as you could until he stopped being sad, but that wasn’t how it worked. Hugs alone could not fix a lifetime of grief and regret and self-loathing.
You knew that, better than most.
“I lost my temper, earlier, and I made a mess of everything.” His smile faded. He looked away. “I never wanted you to see me like that. I’m sorry.”
You laughed quietly and shook your head.
“Don’t be,” you said. “It wasn’t your fault.” You hesitated, debating the merits of admitting something so random and silly to him, and then shrugged to yourself, because what harm could it do? “Besides, I’ve wanted to see your demon form since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
His eyes snapped up to meet yours, bright and sharp. “You what?”
Okay, so maybe it could do some harm? Apparently?
But… he didn’t seem angry. He had a look on his face that reminded you of the one he always got when he saw food, except he wasn’t looking at food, he was looking at you, and you were not food.
Right?!
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly. “Should I not have said that? I didn’t mean to upset you, I promise.” Had you fucked up? Had you somehow deeply offended him by admitting that you were curious about his true form?
Oh, no, he was still staring at you.
“Beel, why are you looking at me like that?”
Oh, no. Now he was smiling at you.
“Beel, what the fuck? Why are you…”
Your voice failed you as the first sparks of his power tingled across your skin. Magic blazed to life around him, buzzing and crackling as bolts of golden light arced down his body.
It was over almost instantly, leaving you breathless and confused and blinking rapidly to clear your vision.
Beel hadn’t moved. He was still laying underneath you, still shirtless, and still smiling.
But now he had horns. They were black as sin and wickedly sharp, and you wanted to touch them so bad, but you didn’t, because you weren’t sure if he’d be okay with that and your brain couldn’t quite work out the complexities of speech just yet.
Your eyes swept down his body, following the dark, elegant tattoos that curved across his neck and chest.
Yeah, you wanted to touch those, too.
And, oh. He was glowing. It was very faint, just a hint of golden light that pulsed across his skin in time with his heartbeat, and for some reason you found yourself utterly entranced by it, by the way the light seemed to come from within him, as if his soul was so bright and pure that his body couldn’t entirely contain it.
“Holy shit,” you breathed. “Holy shit, Beel. You’re fucking beautiful.”
He chuckled. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that, before.”
“Then everyone else is blind and stupid,” you muttered, trailing your eyes down his body. “You’re beautiful, and sweet, and amazing, and…” you glanced down at his feet, “wait, did you get bigger?”
He didn’t answer. When you looked up, you found him watching you with a faint, almost wistful smile.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he said quietly.
You lifted an eyebrow at him, then glanced pointedly down at your body, which was still pressed flush against his. “Did you think I was?”
He blushed and glanced away. “I just… I thought you were being nice. You’re always nice, even to people who don’t deserve it.”
People like me.
He didn’t say it out loud; he didn’t have to. You heard him, anyway.
“Beel.”
He tensed, but he still refused to look at you.
“Yeah?”
Without a word, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
He sucked in a ragged breath, and the light that pulsed beneath his skin flared bright and hot. When he turned his head to look at you, you touched your forehead to his and closed your eyes.
“Everyone deserves kindness,” you said quietly, “especially those who don’t know how to be kind to themselves.”
For a long time, Beel remained silent and still.
And then he burst into motion, and the world spun as he rolled you onto your back, pinning you beneath him so that he could bury his face against your neck and squeeze you in a tremendous, rib-crushing hug.
“Beel,” you rasped, “can’t breathe.”
He grunted and loosened his grip, but he did not release you.
“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his words muffled against your skin.
You laughed breathlessly, and slid your arms around his waist.
“Yeah, I’m the best, aren’t…” your words dissolved into an incomprehensible shriek, and Beel jerked his head up, eyes wide and alert.
“What?” he asked sharply. “What’s wrong?”
“Beel,” you said in a voice filled with love and wonder and sheer fucking delight. “You have wings."
He blinked, staring down at you as if he wasn't quite sure how to react.
Which was fair, because you weren't quite sure how to react, either.
Because he had WINGS.
Part of you wanted to wriggle out of his grasp so that you could get a good look at them, maybe touch them, if he’d let you, or ask him some of the many questions that were now swirling around in your head. But the other part of you was already beyond the point of exhaustion, and seemed perfectly content to remain wrapped in his arms until sleep claimed you.
Beel glanced over his shoulder, then back to you, and his alarm faded to confusion.
“You didn’t see them, earlier?”
“No.” You made a face. “Mammon shoved me in the pantry before I could get a better look at you.”
Beel’s eyebrows shot up. “A ‘better’ look?”
Ah, damn. You were blushing.
“I told you, I was curious,” you said with a huff. “Not my fault you’re so nice to look at.”
He blinked, and a slow smile curled his lips.
“You really aren’t afraid of me, are you?” he mused.
You shrugged. Or you tried to; it wasn’t easy with a demon lord wrapped around you like a cuddly boa constrictor. “I trust you,” you said simply.
For several moments, he didn’t move.
And then, without a word, he swooped down and kissed your cheek.
Your brain blue-screened. Every nerve in your body lit up like a Christmas tree. You squeaked in surprise, and he made a pleased noise in the back of his throat as he buried his face in the curve of your shoulder.
When it became apparent to you that he had no intention of moving or speaking, you gave his ribs a gentle poke.
He grunted.
You frowned. “Beel?”
“Go to sleep,” he murmured.
“But I want to see your wings,” you whined.
“Tomorrow, you can look at them all you want,” he said, and then, with a thoughtful hum, he added: “if you eat breakfast with me.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a yawn.
“Fine,” you grumbled, turning your head so that you could nuzzle your cheek against his hair. “But I wanna touch them, too.”
His low, sleepy laugh made your heart stumble in your chest.
“Deal.”