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Lucifer is a man of restraint.
He kind of has to be, right? Shame is so well acquainted with pride, after all, and even more so tied to the binding text that had defined his very existence before he’d been forced to trade it for an oath, all while on his knees.
One link of chains for another.
But what lay beneath these chains? A hunger, you’d deduced, in the most literal sense. Shrouded in a fathomless and pesky amount of clothing and prudish mannerisms, right next to that goddamn fork on the left at the fancy high-class dinner parties he was forced to attend, lay a streak of gluttony that could rival Beelzebub’s if adequately cultivated.
If…encouraged to grow.
You’d seen it, on his five thousand something’th birthday the first year you’d landed in the Devildom. It was a dormant beast born from a long, long existence governed by restraint and steeped in shame, but it was there. There, finally out to play, in his study, pouncing on the cake you’d baked for him. Three tiers of moist red velvet (the texture of his voice) slathered in the blackest cream cheese icing you’d ever managed to concoct (the color of his gorgeous wings). You’d gone so far as to pipe roses, petal by petal (like the eternal one he’d gifted you), had carved feathers out of white chocolate only to paint the top of them black for obvious reasons.
It was Lucifer, in a cake.
And half of that cake was inside him, and nowhere else. Not a slice shared with a single soul.
He’d shoved you out of his office, of course. Well, he shouted at you first, because clearly he was too stuffed to think about moving.
Meanwhile, you were too entranced to think about moving. Your legs simply wouldn’t budge, suddenly sentient with a single thought:
Touch him.
Specifically, the little curve testing the buttons of his dress shirt that had not existed thirty minutes ago when you’d presented him the cake and left to go get the candles (you resorted to the number ones, because his age is actually a fire hazard) only to get distracted by three different brother-induced crises vying for your attention. Maybe he thought you’d left him to his own devices, given you’d been whisked away for an hour against your will.
Lucifer had had other ideas, though. When yelling didn’t work – in fact, it had only seemed to draw you in on your sentient legs – he’d had to resort to heaving himself out of his desk chair and dear God was that a glorious sight. The blood that pooled south within you had risen within him – his cheeks were tinted a lovely pink, especially when it took him a moment to adjust to his new center of gravity. You’d never seen him encumbered by anything, let alone a…a belly…left so delightfully lazy by his gluttony that you escaped him.
Escaped Lucifer.
You’ve been a mess ever since.
To this day, three years later, neither of you had ever spoken a word of what happened that night. Not you, who could hardly weather a dinner in his presence without sinful thoughts, and he, who resumed his practiced restraint indefinitely, momentary bloat regrettably flattened back to rigid muscle. Two birthdays have passed now without a single sighting of that ravenous beast that lurked in your wettest dreams, with lips stained black with thick frosting.
But something about this birthday struck you as…different.
It started at breakfast. This morning, you decided to make him some apple pastries, which Luke had so kindly offered to assist you with. The little angel insisted that this wasn’t for Lucifer, despite it clearly being his birthday, and the fact that he usually doesn’t come over to help you with breakfast at six in the morning. In fact, it very well became a house effort. Asmo made the coffee, Mammon and Levi compiled the party poppers, Beel stole a pastry, Belphie consistently stood in your way the entire time you were baking, and Satan complained over Lucifer living another year, but still insisted on participating.
When presented these pastries at the table amongst the usual chorus of happy birthday cheers (and three muttered curses from Satan), the joyous gleam in his eye was quickly incinerated by a blazing intensity that always sent a shiver down your spine the moment the heat of his gaze settled on you. He was watching you watch him, watching the way your throat hitched when he grabbed his third pastry, a single pastry beyond his usual rule of two. It was subtle, something no one else would notice, and even if they did, it could be chalked up to birthday shenanigans, or that you’d been the one to make these for him so he would have extra.
Three was a safe number. Expected, even.
The fourth one was a shock.
The look on his face was only a glimpse of what you’d seen three years ago. A pointed bite blessed you with a peek of white, sharp canines, and a little spurt of sugary apple mush at the corner of his mouth. Maybe if Mammon weren’t here squawking that he’d be generous today and not ask Lucifer to use Goldie, you could lick that little spot from his flawless skin –
Or if Asmodeus weren’t here, who’s now in your ear, “What do you think, MC?”
The fifth one was a load of hot coals in the pit of your stomach.
What do you think? Could you even think at all at this point? About anything other than Lucifer with a gloved hand on his growing stomach, caressing it with satisfaction, a gesture that appeared completely average for anyone else but downright pornographic for you?
The answer is no, so you offer the avatar of lust a “yes.”
“Perfect! Lucifer wanted you to make his birthday dinner, so it’s all up to you!”
Wait, what? He wants you to make it? Not the annual visit to Ristorante Six, his known favorite, that serves comically tiny portion sizes to appease the seemingly tiny appetites of the nobility?
He’s always praised your cooking but you didn’t know he loved it this much.
Not only that but…
You turn your attention back to Lucifer, still lounging back in his chair, still with his hand on his damned belly, and quirk a brow only to be met with the quirk of a smirk. The apple mush rises with the corner of his lips until a delightfully pink tongue flicks out to catch it.
He’s onto you.
And for devil’s sake, you would suffer the consequences.
. . .
It had been three years since Lucifer had caught on to your little kink.
At first, he considered it regrettable, a shame that you’d seen him lose control of himself. After all, his birthday is the one day of the year that his grip on that padlock to this shameful gluttonous beast, starved from restraint, slackens. When you presented him with a cake that glistened with layers of decadent frosting, crafted to represent him blackened feathers and all, it had roused within him a hunger that often gnaws at him endlessly. That cake, with its icing as black as the Devildom sky and red velvet as red as his eyes, stupidly served as some eclectic mirror that reminded him of this ache within himself.
Ache? No, it was more like a void, put there when he’d fallen. And that cake?
Well, it would fill it.
And fill it, it did.
He could taste the love you’d poured into every grain of sugar, every masterfully crafted rose petal and white chocolate feather. This love you’d dole out so generously to him made him feel whole, but the resulting tidal wave of shame of your walking in on him had snatched the beast by the scruff and tossed it back in its cage. The avatar of pride you knew and loved was not supposed to look like a gorged tick, was not supposed to be filled to the brim with anyone’s love, let alone a human’s which he’d nearly murdered twice at that point…
Yet there he had sat, full of it, and wanting more.
This part of him he considered deplorable. Weak. He had been content to let the memory of it die, but there had been something haunting him for these past three years. Something that kept him up at night, something that slithered into his dreams as you lay sleeping next to him.
Your reaction.
Pupils dilated, knees trembling…your cheeks redder than his eyes, redder than the red velvet that had started this whole mess. There’d been a hunger there, too, in your own eyes, where they lingered on his embarrassingly swollen stomach. Your heartbeat had quickened, probably lept into your throat even, because you had been truly incapable of formulating words. He’d never seen you without an ounce of wit, but that day he’d reduced you to a fool by simply indulging himself.
It…made him want to finish the cake he’d halfway devoured, made him want to know how those hands, balled tightly into fists at your sides, would feel up his shirt. How they would feel massaging an actual, pliable belly rather than unyielding muscle. Your hands are always so warm, so soft, so pleasant…
These thoughts would plague him sporadically throughout his days ever since the birthday incident. Lately, he found himself caving, wanting more as the anniversary of this discovery drew closer. He’d catch himself in a mindless trek for seconds, or reaching for a third roll – one roll past his rule of two – to which he’d notice you squirm in your chair, or the corner of your mouth twitch. These little reactions only encouraged him, set aflame within him an adamant desire to perpetuate this bad behavior just so he could see your hands tremble as you held your fork. On a hunch, he’d even stifled a burp once, and the way your fork missed your mouth entirely, clattering loudly against your plate and drawing the room’s attention to your burning cheeks, was exactly the reaction he was expecting (and, not so secretly, wanting).
This morning, he’d polished off the apple pastries, even after you’d hastily retreated upstairs without so much as a quip. It was entirely unnecessary – he’d already accomplished what he’d set out to do with the first five. You were flustered, and he thought that was all that mattered.
…Until he was reminded how good it felt. To be filled so entirely by your baking it was verging uncomfortable. It was pure bliss, this feeling.
Once more, he runs a hand over the slight bloat in his middle, savoring the thought that this was your doing, shuddering when he imagines it’s your hand instead.
His eyes roam to where you’d fled somewhere down the hallway. The years you’ve spent with him have been filled with love and forgiveness of a level of which he didn’t deserve. Truly, the best birthday gift you could give him is another day by your side, but still you always went the extra mile to make him feel special.
This year, his gift to himself would be the look on your face when he invites you to join the beast in its cage.
Yes, Lucifer is a man of restraint; however…
For you, he would be ravenous.
. . .
Lucifer is pressed against you.
On any ordinary day, this would be welcome, but you’d spent the entire morning right up to this moment preparing a roast for his birthday dinner that he’d requested.
Even so, on any ordinary day, you’d be able to focus, if only a little, even when his hips were flush against your lower back, but today…
Well, today the curve of his belly fits perfectly in the dip of your spine, rumbling with such gusto that you can feel the vibrations against your back. Surely he isn’t actually hungry, there’s no way, not after the show he’s put on for you today. At the council meeting, he’d eaten four cupcakes (two past his usual rule of two) Asmo had brought from Madam Devian’s to share with everyone for his birthday, half-lidded eyes staring deeply into yours from across the table as he licked a dollop of icing from his finger. When you’d passed Lucifer and Diavolo in the hallway, your demon had caught your eye as he lifted a piece of chocolate to his lips. Not to mention the pastries from this morning…
He’s kept his belly full all day, and you can feel the results of half a day’s worth of gluttony press into you with every movement you make. He’s reduced you to a poorly arranged house of cards, one breath away from your collapse.
Needless to say, as distracted as you were, you hadn’t noticed the potatoes boiling over until the stove hissed at you, and nearly burnt the rolls in the process of mopping the mess of starchy water invading every inch of the stove. It didn’t help that during the entire fiasco, Lucifer never offered to help, instead chose to drape all over you like a cheap suit and snicker at the way you would fumble around the kitchen. You’re practically finished now, with only the potatoes left to mash, though this entire process was no easy feat. There was a reason you made this meal exclusively for special occasions – it takes a better part of an entire day, not to mention his birthday fell on a Tuesday this year. Luckily the beef tenderloin could be left alone for several hours to slow roast, so you had returned between classes to check on it.
When you start to stir the poison apple and Demonus reduction for the umpteenth time, his arms squeeze your waist a little tighter, voice rough in your ear, “How long do you intend to keep me waiting?”
“Maybe if you’d give me some room I’d actually be able to finish this faster,” you counter, feigning disinterest. It was a flimsy front at best, and you knew immediately he could see right through it.
Completely undeterred, Lucifer carefully calculates his next move, purposefully setting his hands on either side of you, just below the simmering heat of the stove’s burners. “I must apologize…the chocolates that I reserve for you that admirers leave on my desk, well…I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself today…”
The velvet rumble of his voice rattles you to your core, sending your heart pounding against the confines of your rib cage, every one of your cards trembling.
“The first one was rather bland, clearly not your doing, but the second and third? Spectacular…almost as if you’d divulged my personal preferences. Even the cupcakes in the council meeting…you planted your own at Madam Devian’s, you clever little thing. You act as if I wouldn’t recognize that apple cider flavor anywhere…” A gloved hand lightly brushes up your waist, and you can’t help but shudder, your body jolting with the light chuckle that rumbles in his chest. No longer is he going for the easy cards, but pulling straight from the heart of your house. “Do you take me for a fool, Lamb? As if I haven’t caught on to your little game…”
“You’ve orchestrated my diet for an entire day. Clearly, I was only permitted to eat food that you had prepared…I find that rather interesting.”
The potatoes begin to boil over on the stove, again, but you don’t even notice, not really. His fingers grip your waist, enough to discolor your skin, while his other hand moves to push the pot of potatoes off the burner.
“So what is it you mean to tell me? That you desire to be the one being that coaxes the avatar of pride to bow to gluttony, for my stomach to grow nice and round with only your cooking…”
Another card.
The pounding of your heart in your ears is almost deafening, an incessant thump thump thump that would have muffled his low, sultry purring had his lips been anywhere but the shell of your ear. If only you could blame the small trickle of sweat running down your temple on the heat of the stove at your front, but there’s a fire hotter still pressed to the back of you. It threatens to consume you, blazing and burning and crackling through you, as he slowly spins you around, where your eyes automatically drop to his stomach…
Your cards are on fire, swallowed by an inferno so intense you feel you might melt to the floor. It dries your throat, blazes through your veins down to your core, where you feel the heat of the situation begins to concentrate.
Lucifer’s gaze is on you, so intense and so very hungry that you wonder if the combination of all these feelings is what that roast feels like in the slow cooker. What you’d seen three years ago was nothing compared to what you saw, no, felt now. A whole day spent grazing had softened the sharp angles of his abs to a little round swell to which his dress shirt would cling. It’s firm, pressed up against you like this, packed so tightly with food yet you can hear it, feel it, growling for more.
The little drop of sweat from your temple runs down to your cheek, where a warm and wet forked tongue catches it.
“I’m famished, dearest…” he purrs, his breath fanning your cheek. As if in agreement, his belly groans loudly. “Surely your plans for me aren’t quite finished…”
He’s…! Going along with it? Just like that? It’s his birthday, yet it feels like you’re the one being treated today. You never would have guessed that the Lucifer that rots your brain when your hand is in your pants would appear before you on the anniversary of the day he’d first surfaced in your mind. There’s no way, it’s too good to be true —
A finger under your chin tilts your gaze up from the gorgeous curve sitting heavy and glorious in his shirt to glimmering ruby reflecting the warm light of the kitchen’s hanging lanterns.
“Lamb…are you going to feed me or not? My patience is waning.”
As if he had any patience to begin with. He’s right, though…you’ve been stalling. If you stand here looking in his eyes for one more moment, you’re sure your legs will forget how to keep you upright. After all, you’ve already forgotten how to breathe, you realize, sucking in a sharp, much needed breath when he squirms against you, impatient, almost as if that action were the equivalent of a whine —
Oh.
He’s hard.
You can feel him, prodding your torso just beneath the bulge of his belly. Does he…does he like this? This teasing…it hasn’t just been for you? All this time…has he wanted this too?
You don’t really have time to rewire the frazzled connections in your brain, though, because Lucifer has actually exercised quite a bit of patience for you already. You can tell he’s growing impatient, if he hasn’t made that obvious already, and it’s his birthday so what if he changes his mind what if the shame resurfaces what if —
Lucifer blinks, simply blinks, and somehow this incites a panic in you so visceral that you grab the first thing within reach — a roll slathered in butter — and shove it into his mouth.
He blinks again, this time in surprise, but quickly recovers his usual smirk as he eats half of the roll, waiting for your trembling hand to pinch the back of it before he fully tears off a portion of the fluffy bread, clearly not wanting to waste a crumb of it. You watch him swallow the first piece, paying no mind to how the tips of your fingers burn from the roll you’d just pulled from the oven a few minutes ago, too distracted by his lips closing around your fingertips when he takes the rest of the steaming roll into his mouth, too lost in the feeling of his cool tongue sliding over your burned fingers as he pulls back and hums in satisfaction.
“Excellent…” he sighs, swallowing again, and you swear you see him shudder in delight. “Truly, you never fail to impress.”
You hesitate a moment before you remember that there are six other demons in this house. The lump in your throat is impossible to swallow, so your voice sounds more like a croak than anything when you say, “S-Should we uh…tell everyone dinner’s ready?”
Lucifer’s eyes slide over you again before he chuckles lightly, stealing another roll from the baking sheet. “Did you think I had any intention to share with the rest of them today? 364 days of the year is quite enough for sharing everything I have, don’t you think?” He pops half of the roll into his mouth, savoring it, paying no mind to the human simmering with the stove in front of him.
“T-Then…all of this…” You gesture to the food, the words trapped in your throat.
“Yes, my clever little human…” he says softly, his voice a serpentine hiss. “All of it will join the rest of what you’ve provided here…”
He gently grabs your wrist, guiding your palm to rest on the smooth silk of his uniform’s undershirt, the jacket already discarded in its place in his room earlier, right on the side of his swollen belly. Your breath hitches, air now merely a trapped hiccup in your lungs. It’s so firm…fuck, how did he manage to fit this much in there? And he wants more? The other hand, previously dangling uselessly by your side, rises to join the other, exploring the unexplored expanse. So much here now where there was nothing but flatness before, still so firm but now in a different way until…
Your hand moves to cup the gentle swell of his underbelly – shit, he has an underbelly, fuck – to find it’s soft, pliable, even. That means he can fit more…
All of your thoughts grind to a halt the moment Lucifer whines. You heard it, clear as day, and the crimson blush on his cheeks that match the red of his eyes confirms that you hadn’t hallucinated it. He’d tried to hold it back, a fang clamped over his lower lip, but it’d been a lost cause. Then, all at once, all of your insecurities, your inhibitions, bleed away with his own as your bodies melt into each other.
There’s a timer chiming on the oven behind you, but it’s white noise, it’s nothing, because all that exists is the heady, half-lidded crimson that floods your vision, the buttery taste that lingers on his lips as you rise to your tiptoes to chase the flavors in his mouth – first savory, then a touch of sweet. The rough pull of your sweaty hands in his silky hair as you force him back, all the way back to the kitchen table, shoving him in the chair, still chasing his tongue as he roughly pulls you into his lap. He fills your mouth with a moan at the second squeeze to the precious pudge just below his navel, confirming your suspicions about this newfound sensitivity.
Nothing could pull you from this moment, from the smooth caress of his forked tongue and the pressure of his fingers gripping your ass. Nothing, nothing –
Except for a loud and long gurgle from his hungry stomach, followed by a groan against your lips.
“Hnnggg…Lamb…”
You break away from the kiss, though you linger still, forehead to forehead, panting in the heat of the kitchen. The first thought that breaks through the haze of lust is one you can’t resist voicing, “Not that I’m complaining, like, trust me this is hot, but…I gotta know…how the hell are you still hungry? Last time I checked, you’re the avatar of pride.”
A small smile ghosts over Lucifer’s lips at your obvious enthusiasm before he breathes a sigh. “I suspect Satan cursed one of your pastries this morning.”
You arch a brow immediately, surprised not by the admission but by his compliance. “And you didn’t notice?”
“Of course I did,” he scoffs, the heated leather of his glove moving to rest over the hand you have stilled at his belly. “Why would I dispel a curse that works in my favor?”
To prove his point, he shifts beneath you, his clothed cock brushing against your panties underneath your skirt, which, you now realize after an embarrassing whimper, are drenched. His smirk returns with a vengeance, as if this little display of pride could erase the memory of how he’d whined for you just moments prior. Of how he’s tortured you all day, silently and so obviously challenging you between mouthfuls of food you’d not-so-secretly planted to rouse this hunger you knew lay dormant within him.
Yet, he would so shamelessly attempt to preserve his pride by blaming Satan for this show of gluttony? (You had not a doubt in your mind that Satan did, in fact, curse one of the pastries, but that was beside the point.)
Nope. Not today.
“Interesting…” you scoff yourself, leering down at him. With his hand still atop yours, you drag your palm around to the front of his gorged middle, and with it, you’re rewarded a sharp breath. Grinning, you hiss, “Satan didn’t curse the cake I made for you two years ago.”
The effect is immediate. Lucifer’s expression shifts, to narrowed eyes and something heady and heated and frustrated and needy, all at once. You grab his chin like he often does to you, but unlike your tone, your touch is gentle. “There’s something in you that starves, isn’t there? You noticed that I noticed it…and this show you’ve put on for me today? Well, no…you act like it was for me, but no, this has all been for you, you gluttonous little thing. You’re using me as an excuse to get yourself off to your own glutted belly.”
You don’t need his cock to twitch against your heat or his jaw to clench to know that he knows you’re right, but you revel in seeing him squirm anyhow. The kitchen is eerily silent, aside from the incessant beep of the oven timer and the tick tick ticking of the clock on the wall.
“Don’t you think you should retrieve those cupcakes from the oven? Or is this year’s gift a house fire?” he growls, after you watch his throat bob with a thick swallow.
His grumbling is all an act, of course. He would never allow himself to shamelessly admit something he considers a flaw, despite how everything about his body language betrays the words from his lips. The scent of his favorite poison apples simmered with a bit of Demonus from one of the fanciest bottles in his collection fills the room in tandem with the smell of freshly baked bread and cupcakes that’ll be dry at best at this point. Still edible, though, you think. The warning in his voice in addition to the pride he desperately fights to preserve, all of it flies out the kitchen chimney when a little dribble of drool escapes the side of his mouth at the tantalizing smells that flood the kitchen.
Yep, Satan definitely cursed those pastries.
Your grin only widens as a purr, smug and sultry, rumbles in your throat, “What does it matter if I get them out now or in thirty minutes? You’d eat them anyway, wouldn’t you?” Almost condescendingly, you swipe your thumb over the little bit of drool that now trails down his chin, cooing, “You don’t have anything to worry about though…I’d never let my pride demon starve~”
The words are entirely sincere. Moving to cup his cheek ends in a purposeful smearing of his own drool over his face, to which he bares his fangs at you. It’s almost funny, endearing, even, that he’s this furious that you managed to turn his little game around on him. And judging by the way his tip pushes against your clothed entrance, it arouses him just as much as it infuriates him.
Another squeeze to the soft swell of his lower belly draws another gasp from him, much to his chagrin given the glare in his red, red eyes. The genuine lilt of your soft voice, however, is enough to smooth the harsh clench of his hardened jaw; you can feel it slacken under the palm still cupping his face, your thumb gently stroking the apple of his cheek.
“I want you to enjoy yourself today. It’s just you and me in this kitchen — I know you’ve enchanted the door — so please, let me see you relaxed and happy on your birthday. You know you don’t have to play pretend with me. I want this just as much as you.”
Lucifer leans into your touch, smoothed over by your soothing assurances. After a moment, he finally concedes with a cryptic, “Do as you please.”
Excitement renewed, you hop off of his lap with no resistance from him, much to your surprise. He’s content to watch you saunter over to the stove to prepare a platter for him after swiftly removing the cupcakes from the oven. It’s not his normal modest (and restrained) portion size, no, you’ve piled it high enough to resemble a plate Beel might order at Hell’s Kitchen. For a gluttonous pride demon, the avatar of gluttony would serve as the perfect template for an amount that should be unfathomable for a man who eats like the peacock he’s supposed to represent. You know he won’t be able to finish this…not without his stomach bursting, anyhow, but you wanted to see just how far you could take this.
Returning to him, you plop back down on his lap, the platter of food at the edge of the table within your reach. Lucifer immediately fixates on the juicy medallion of tenderloin speared on the end of your fork, like a dog would a treat dangling above its head. It’s marbled with flavor, dripping a mixture of juice and blood (pretty peacock likes it rare) and poison apple reduction. Slick strands of saliva connect his top teeth to his bottom when he opens his mouth to accept your offering, moaning as the flavor washes over his tongue. It’s gone within seconds, your fork already in his mouth with a second piece.
God, you never thought Lucifer could ever resemble his little brother, but now, as a forked tongue runs over his lips to collect any remaining juice from the tender beef, he looks more like Beelzebub than Belphegor ever could.
He makes quick work of the beef with eyes gleaming. Reaching behind you, you pop off the cork to a bottle of wine that you know pairs well with the savory spread and move to pour him a glass, but Lucifer stops you with a firm hand at your wrist. The other sweeps you closer to him by the waist, your legs forced to dangle over the arm of the chair as he presses your side flush against him, the subsequent shape of your body a perfect frame to rest his growing belly.
Your brain is reduced to TV static at this realization.
“You know all too well that glass is unnecessary,” he grins, guiding your wrist until the bottle grazes his lips.
“F-From the bottle? What happened to my classy demon?” you purr back at him, quickly regaining your composure after you stutter and tipping the wine into his mouth anyhow. You didn’t allow him the time for what would surely be a cunning quip because you’re gradually decreasing the angle of the bottle, watching the quickening bob of his throat with stars in your eyes. “Sshhh, we both know it’s all a front…” Your free hand caresses his middle, almost reverently, which you feel grows gradually with every gulp of wine. “You’re just so hungry, aren’t you? I can’t have the Devildom thinking I don’t take care of my pretty, pretty bird…~”
Lucifer’s cheeks glow as red as the wine, and you wonder if it’s from your words or the alcohol. Somehow he manages to finish the bottle, puffing out a soft breath, without so much as a dribble lost.
Ever the elegant one.
…Until his fingers weave into the hair at the nape of your neck and drag your face toward his, until you’re hovering only a few inches from his lips, where your eyes slide shut and your lips part in anticipation for what would surely be his tongue when —
A low, deep groan from his belly was your only warning before he flat-out burps in your face. It’s long and deep and there’s a few flecks of spit on your face and…and dear fuck why do you like it
“Of course you’d enjoy that,” he says, smirking widely at you, though his cheeks are painted a bright pink. He closes the tiny distance between your lips at last, giving you a kiss that was much too sweet after such a crass display you’d never thought you’d see from him. When he breaks the kiss, sheer affection tinges his voice a liquid gold as smooth as the wine coating his tongue, “My little heathen of a human…”
It takes you a moment to recover, stunned as you were after the most prim and proper being you’d ever met belched right in your face.
The audacity of this haughty demon.
You let out a snort. “Really? I’m the heathen?” You squish his cheeks between two fingers, feeling a little vain yourself when you discover they’re almost as heated as the rolls you’d pulled from the oven earlier. “The real question is how you’re gonna keep playing pretend for the snooty elite at your little parties after you’ve already given in to this desire you’ve kept hidden for God knows how long. Do you really think this’ll be the last time you come crawling to me to stuff you stupid?”
Lucifer grasps your wrist, pulling you away from his cheeks and rubbing a thumb over the faint web of veins there. His voice betrays all his vanity when he hums, “Why would I need to reduce myself to crawling when all I need to do for you to grant me my desires is to eat one roll too many?” He presses a kiss to your palm, heated eyes meeting your gaze as he does so. “I know what you want with every precious furrow of your brow and every twitch of your lips. You’re more transparent than a glass of water to me, dearest.”
He’s smug, so fucking smug. The embodiment of it, actually, true to his sin and now masterfully puppeteering two more. You want to wipe that smug grin off his face, but he’s moving your hand to rest at the crest of his belly and suddenly your brain is smooth jello. Gloved hand atop yours, he gingerly rubs his stomach in gentle circles, eyelids fluttering shut at the sensation. Sighing, he says, “Perhaps I have no intention of hiding how well my human spoils me.”
How can he be so vain and so very adorable at the same time? It made it terribly hard to say no to him, made it too easy for him to read you. Even still, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, even if he looked so content using your hand to rub his belly. You would never grow tired of the eternal push and pull between the two of you for the upper hand, despite your mountain of losses. This time, though, you’re more determined to win than ever before.
You’d have to one-up him, and you knew exactly how you would do it.
. . .
“You’re going to eat everything on this platter, Lucifer. All of it.”
Lucifer felt the command rip through him the moment the words left your mouth. Of course, he’d be the last to admit that it had startled him; you utilize the pact so seldomly that every instance you do is a complete surprise.
He couldn’t have dropped the platter, which appeared as mountainous now as it had before he’d finished the tenderloin, if he tried. His hands are magnetized to it, glued to a fork as he tackles the potatoes you’d hastily seasoned while preparing his plate. They settle heavily in his aching stomach, a stretched dichotomy of hunger and fullness and, beneath it all, pleasure.
The curse is getting a little out of hand, and by that he means it’s raced ahead of the beast you’d freed from his pride, now gorged and crawling to keep up with this immeasurable hunger that gnawed at his stomach, a hunger now forged entirely from the cursed apple pastry and absolutely nothing else.
He knew what worked in his favor previously eventually wouldn’t — this is simply the nature of curses. But how could he possibly dispel it when your eyes drank him in like he were a nectar from the gods? How could he possibly break this curse that led you down to the button of his pants, tented by a pleasure he never imagined he’d allow himself to experience?
The resulting rumbling that drowns out the ticking of the clock could either be interpreted as a cry for help or a plea for more; Lucifer himself cannot quite distinguish which one of the two it was supposed to be.
This seems to please you, however; your hand reaches for his belly, paws at the side of it in a massage that only marginally relieves this bottomless ache. His breath hitches around each mouthful, shallowing from the growing organ vying for every bit of space in his torso.
“That’s my good demon…fuck, look at you. I can hardly see you for this gut.” You grab his belly to exploit the firm swell beneath his navel that had grown impossibly sensitive, drawing a gasp from him. He couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed; his pride left the kitchen ten forkfuls ago when you’d issued the command. And you — he really can hardly see the crown of your head for his stomach — nestled between his legs and gripping his thighs as if he were a flight risk…well, you’re the only being in all of the three realms for which he’d abandon it.
The pressure of his straining buttons against his swelling belly is becoming unbearable, but your cool lips are glued to the hot skin peeking from the gaps in his shirt while your thumb brushes teasingly over the button fighting valiantly to hold his pants together. Through the mindless haze of cursed gluttony, he only wishes you would undo the damn thing.
The potatoes have vanished, and he’s just about to start on the broccoli casserole when you yank the plate from his hands and replace it with a fresh bottle of wine.
There wasn’t a chance in the Devildom he could finish it, but his belly rumbles anyway in an act of betrayal Lucifer hardly appreciates.
“MC —“ he begins, but his own treacherous hand, driven by the pact, cuts him off with the bottle to his lips.
Truly, you knew how to pair the proper wine with this meal. The flavor notes flow over his tongue in earthy undertones, bursting to life and melding together to create a smooth profile that slides like silk down his throat. You’d never been too keen on the flavor of wine, so the fact that you’d surely spent so much time researching the perfect bottle for his birthday dinner filled his heart with a joy food could simply never match.
You start to toy with the buttons of his shirt, held together only by thread by straining thread. He catches your half-lidded gaze, hazy with lust, as you stare up at him with your lips pressed to his navel through the widest gap in his shirt. “You couldn’t stop now even if I dispelled the command, could you, my pretty demon? You’re gonna keep going until you pop these buttons for me, aren’t you?”
Your voice is liquid sugar, a song sweeter than the call of a siren. It puts him in a spell more potent than Satan’s curse, a desire to please you purely of his own will greater than the influence of any magic.
This desire guides him halfway through the bottle. It was clear you could sense his unspoken plea for you to release him from his bindings, especially when he arches his back a little to push his belly into your waiting hands. With a playful smirk, you give his stomach a gentle pat before your hands slide down the curve of his front to the button of his pants, thumb grazing over it.
The anticipation is palpable as you tease him mercilessly, deliberately prolonging the moment. But then, unable to resist any longer, you swiftly pop the button open, allowing his pants to loosen around his expanding waist. A soft groan of relief escapes Lucifer's lips as the constriction finally eases. His body relaxes further against the chair when his stomach surges forward to rest heavily in his lap, his free hand finding its way to your hair, gently tangling itself in the strands. It’s almost euphoric, despite him being physically incapable of putting down the bottle until every last drop is drunk.
He’s nearing the end of it, though, the last of the wine splashing down his throat before —
Ping!
The button just above his navel launches itself against your forehead just as he’s finishing the bottle, rewarding you with a wide slit of smooth skin. Lucifer deflates, his belly heaving with his panting as his arm drops to dangle next to the chair, empty bottle still in hand before it clatters to the floor when he drops it to stifle a loud burp with his fist. Your eyes are sparkling in awe, pupils larger than he's ever seen them, that beautiful hue rising to stare at him as if he’d never fallen from grace — reverently, lovingly.
“Luci…holy shit…you’re gorgeous,” you breathe, gently prodding his belly before shoving your hands beneath it to lift it, testing the heft of it. His cheeks glow bright pink at your inspection; he’s never in his thousands of years looked like this (from food, anyhow), quite literally bursting at the seams, yet…you’d never ogled him more than you were now.
Intriguing…
Lucifer watches you with fascination as one would a creature in a zoo. It’s almost endearing…the way you’re kissing his stomach, cradling the sides of it. He can’t deny how pleasant it feels, the size and shape almost reminiscent of when he carried Satan…the tenderness and love with each touch something he wished he’d experienced at that time.
He would almost be content staying like this, but you commanded him to finish the platter, even if you’d accidentally nullified it in the midst of your captivation.
“Surely you don’t believe I’m finished?” he purrs, tightening his grip in your hair and pressing your face into his middle. It gurgles loudly at the action, drawing a little huff of surprise from you while reminding him that he’s teetering the line between pleasure and pain.
He wants to be finished, he should have been finished halfway through the tenderloin, but he wants to hold that heated gaze of fire and love and passion and pride for as long as he physically can.
You’re clearly pleased with this idea, grinning up at him from where your burning cheek presses into his stomach. “You’re right…you didn’t finish your plate. I’m not satisfied with you yet.”
“Nor am I,” he says, his grin a reflection of your own.
Though his stomach turns at the mere thought of more, this bottomless hunger from the curse would be enough to pull him through the final stretch of this imposing platter — the broccoli casserole you’d snatched out of his hands in order to fill him with more wine, the effects of which he’s beginning to feel already. It’s warm in his belly, spreading a heat through him so pleasurable he's reminded how painfully hard he's been during this entire ordeal.
Worse still, he knows he would become a spectacle if he dared to reach for the plate on the table which, in his current state, seems as if it’s miles away.
“Hand me the plate,” he commands you, and even he recognizes how uncharacteristically weak his voice sounds.
You’re tugging down his pants, half-moon eyes fixated on the bulge in his boxers. “Hmm? Can’t you get it yourself?” Pausing in your pursuit for a moment, your sultry gaze lifts to meet his eyes. “Without using magic?”
A command in the guise of a question, buzzing through his body alongside the wine, as if to mock him. Words unspoken hang in the air: ‘A command with teeth, unlike yours.’
“…You’ll pay for this tomorrow,” he hisses, and it’s a promise, but for now he’s drawn to the plate like a moth to a candle. The way he has to grunt to even move would be humiliating if you weren’t salivating at his belly pressed into your forehead as he leans forward, flinching when a harsh cramp rips through his gorged middle. It’s a struggle, but he somehow manages after much squirming and panting. By the time he’s leaned back with his plate, you’re grinning at him as smug as he’d been two bottles of wine ago, his cock twitching in your hand.
Stuffed as he is, he hadn’t even noticed.
“You have to be the most spoiled demon in the Devildom, Luci…” you murmur, tapping his cock against your lips. Your free hand slides up his bare thigh to cup the most sensitive part of his belly before you squeeze it, dragging your tongue across his tip at the same time. Lucifer nearly drops his plate, gasping as a shudder tears through his body at the contact.
Clearly, you’re not as surprised as he is by his actions — you laugh at him as you plant a kiss to his slit, licking the arousal from your lips where it already beads at his tip.
“And you, little Lamb, the luckiest,” he grumbles, glaring down at you through narrowed eyes. It’s difficult to be cross with you, of course, because you’re always smiling up at him like a lovestruck fool. You knew he would never harm you, and you use this fully to your advantage.
“Eat, my pretty bird,” you purr, and immediately the command shocks him into motion as if he’d stuck his fork in an outlet. Grin growing impossibly wider, you wait for him to take the first bite of the casserole before you take him into your mouth.
Lucifer can hardly focus on the food oozing down his throat with your lips wrapped around him, each languid lick pressed to his shaft accompanied by a tantalizing suck that forces him to groan around mouthfuls of casserole, noises that he doesn’t bother to suppress. He has nothing left to hide from you, after all, not after you’ve indulged his most hidden desire without an ounce of judgment. If anything, you might be enjoying it just as much, if not more, than he is.
The casserole is endless, but he would have kept going even if you hadn’t forced his hand; the reward, an obscene pop of your lips after sucking him slowly from the base followed by kitten licks to his tip, far outweighs the inevitable stomach ache.
Is the fog blanketing his mind from the alcohol or pleasure? Which is it…fuck, your lips feel incredible, and the way you’re sucking him, humming something nonsensical, it’s…
Just as quickly as the warmth of your mouth descended him does it disappear, replaced by the cool touch of the kitchen air. Lucifer hears himself whimper, a pathetic plea for the wet warmth of your mouth to return to him. It’s the least you can do; his belly aches, his mind is mush, all that he can think about is the bit of casserole that feels almost stuck in his throat because there’s no room left in his stomach; you’ve packed it taut with enough food to feed his entire family, minus Beelzebub.
Then he hears the clatter of the platter after it’s ripped from his hands and discarded, apparently empty, hadn’t even realized his eyes had slid shut from the pleasure of your mouth until they snap open from the sensation of something even warmer and wetter dragging a trail of slick heat up the curve of his heavy stomach.
You’re straddling him, skirt and underthings discarded, knees trapping his thighs in this godforsaken chair. You cup his cheeks in your hands (when did they get this hot?), thumbs gently circling them as you stare down at him with an expression representative of lust itself: drool peeks from the corner of your mouth, a perfect mixture of saliva and his own arousal, and your eyes…well, he finds he can only sink into the dark depths of them, so drawn in by your fall to temptation that it would be impossible to extricate himself from you even if his belly wasn’t weighing him down. It’s gorgeous…his human is stunning.
Oh so perfect…
“You know…we don’t have to end this today,” you whisper, leaning down, your heady gaze first focused on his lips before it slides down to his chest, to his stomach, where your cunt drools arousal down the swell of it. “Could keep you full every day, show the Devildom how well fed I keep their favorite pride demon. Always craving my food, this little belly always comfortably full…~”
Why does the idea sound so appealing? It’s unbecoming of him, it would never happen, this sinful swell is strictly for your eyes only…
Why is he groaning at the thought? Even before you roll your hips forward, grinding into his stomach, jostling him so that his birthday dinner sloshes audibly beneath your heat.
Fuck, it hurts it hurts but that expression on your face —
“What’s wrong, my pretty bird?” you purr, moaning into his ear as you slide back up the curve of him. “Do you think you deserve a reward for being such a good boy?”
Yes…yes! He’s impressed you enough, hasn’t he? You’re proud of him, he can feel it, and even more, the wine, but…he could impress you further, he’s sure of it…
“La…amb…” A sharp hiccup interrupts your pet name, the movement of it bouncing you up his stomach. You moan, loud and lewd, where you land in the crook of his neck, arms draped over his shoulders. He slides his hands up your thighs, cupping your ass.
Everything you’ve made for him now works against him, a moan of his own bubbling in his throat as the wine does in his belly. You’re panting, hardly composed, lips sucking and biting at the skin below his ear. Somehow your voice is even despite the mess you're making of his neck, despite the way you rock your hips into his taut stomach. “Hmmmm? I need you to use your words, Lucifer…”
Lucifer hardly recognizes his voice, this whimper that pleads for your attention to stray elsewhere with a word that feels foreign on his tongue. “Please…”
“Please what?” you murmur, smiling against his skin.
Tears prick at the corner of his eyes from the pressure in his belly, the pressure of you pressed up against it. He’s so hard, his cock twitching, aching for release, weeping from the tip in anticipation for you. He wants you, needs you, needs you now –
“Please, MC…fuck me...!”
Hardly have the words left his lips are you slamming down on his cock, so deliciously wet that you slide easily to the base of him with a sinful squelch. Your hands grip his shoulders, finding purchase there, nails digging into his skin as you ride him. Your movements are fast, hungry, your need for him to fill you as obvious as his need to feel you, not only your walls that flutter to accommodate him, but also every bit of skin, damp with sweat, within his limited reach. He tears off your shirt before he grabs your waist, dragging his tongue up the salty expanse of your abdomen, up the curve of your breast, where he takes a nipple into his mouth.
A cry rips from your throat, and he draws out yet another when his finger finds your clit, circling it as he feels you begin to clench around him.
“Lucifer, I’m…”
He’s about to answer, just about to command you to come for him until, yet again, you grab his sensitive underbelly and suddenly he’s chasing stars, faster, no longer concerned with the pain in his belly but rather he’s focused solely on chasing the heat of you, sweltering and slick, right up to the spot within you that has you arching your back, crying out his name as you come on his cock. His release follows immediately, enticed by your own, by the way your hand still grips his stomach. With your name on his lips, his body finally relaxes beneath you.
There, both of you remain, panting, until he feels your legs beginning to tremble where they still cage his thighs. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you as close as physically possible. A sticky mix of your combined arousal seeps from your cunt where he feels himself softening.
He sighs contentedly, rustling a few strands of your sweat-drenched hair. You instinctively melt into him with an ear pressed to his chest, listening to his racing heart begin to slow to a gentler rhythm.
So absorbed in enjoying this quiet moment of post-coital bliss with you, he hadn’t noticed the dull ache of fullness sharpen to excruciating cramps until you had begun to giggle, jostling his insides already roiling to digest an impossible quantity of food.
“I can’t believe you let me do this to you,” you laugh. Bile burns at the back of his throat when you slide your hand down the curve of his stomach until you find purchase just below his navel, squeezing and shaking him. He swallows thickly, the resulting shudder you mistake for arousal.
“I mean, look at you. I would’ve never guessed –”
He cuts you off. “Lamb.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I mean –”
A sickly burp bubbles from his burning throat, and finally you notice his expression tightening with pain. You remove your hand from his stomach as if you’d been burned, sitting stick straight in his lap as you lean forward, making sure to avoid his middle, and cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, your hand a kiss of ice to seething sand.
Concern taints the usual carefree chime of your voice, “Luci, are you okay? I didn’t think it was possible for you to look paler than normal, but here we are.”
“There is a reason Beelzebub remains unchallenged in his status as the avatar of gluttony,” Lucifer says, the pain straining his voice. You frown for a moment, contemplating something as you cradle his cheek.
“Here, let’s get you somewhere more comfy,” you finally decide, hopping off of his lap. Behind you, the state of the kitchen makes him wince. The stove is still flooded with starchy water from the potatoes, the reduction had popped while simmering, leaving flecks of apple and Demonus along the backsplash –
A huff brings his attention back to you, and he catches you rolling your eyes at him. “It’s your birthday, the fact that you’re thinking about cleaning is making me sick. Don’t worry about it, precious. Mammon owes me a favor anyway…”
“I’m curious to know what information you’ve hidden from me in order to obtain this favor,” he sighs, to which you shrug your shoulders.
“You know if it was something super bad, I’d be the first to tell you about it.” You extend your hands to him, offering your assistance as if he’d need it to get up. Nonsense. “It’s an old favor, anyways.”
Lucifer attempts to lean forward, but falls back immediately when he nearly vomits from the pressure of leaning forward. You stare at him in awe as he releases a long, measured breath, his hands automatically flitting to his aching stomach.
“Wait, are you serious? You’re that stuffed?”
He catches his reflection in the oven door just as you rake your eyes down his body, appreciatively, as if his hair wasn’t a mess where you’d run your hands through it. As if his shirt wasn’t ruined by his own gorged stomach, peeking through a window where his button popped and shining with your drying slick.
As if you thought…
“Fuck, you’re just the gift that keeps on giving. You’re so damn hot,” you finally breathe, fingers brushing over the side of his belly. His breath catches in his throat, stuck there with the damn casserole, while he whimpers pathetically at the minuscule bit of relief your caress provides.
Lucifer can hardly believe a human this peculiar exists. That you exist, a being so tempting and uniquely pure that he’d do anything for you, even reduce himself to a gluttonous mess.
And, even still, you would consider him beautiful, would stare at him like Asmodeus would his own reflection.
After a moment, your hand regrettably stills with a fresh idea, though, given the gleam in your eye, he doubts he’ll approve of it.
“…Lemme carry you,” you finally say, a wide grin dimpling your precious cheek.
Carry him? There was certainly no danger of that.
“And how do you intend to do that?” he asks you, merely indulging this impossibility. On an ordinary day, it was still a feat unachievable, but you expected a different outcome when he’s likely five pounds heavier?
Stooping down to fish through the pockets of your discarded uniform jacket, you pull out a small vial of shimmering blue potion. “Look, I thought of everything. I figured there was a super small chance of this kinda thing happening so I cooked up a strength potion with Solomon.”
Of course you did.
Hunger now sated and more, his pride rouses from its slumber at the thought of him being reduced to such a pitiful state that you have to carry him. He watches you pop the cork off the bottle and down the potion, thoughts racing.
He couldn’t allow it, wouldn’t allow it. If any of his brothers were to witness —
Your hands reach for him to sweep him off the chair but, in a burst of agility he didn’t think possible in this state, Lucifer manages to scoot the chair sideways to dodge you, forcing him to swallow a fresh wave of bile in the process.
You heave an exasperated sigh, watching his throat bob with another eye roll. “Wha — are you seriously gonna act like that? You can hardly move without gagging. Who gives a shit if they see you?”
Really? You’re going to act as if you haven’t lived in this house for four years now? As if he doesn’t have five little brothers (another circumstance in which Beelzebub is excluded) that love nothing more than exploiting rare moments of weakness, like sharks drawn to blood in the water.
One of your most irritating traits is your complete inability to take dire situations seriously. He’s reminded of the time you laughed in Lord Diavolo’s face when he first explained the Devildom’s acid rain, deadly to fragile human flesh.
“I do. If a photo of me in this state finds its way to Devilgram, I’ll burn this realm to cinders.”
Even now, you laugh away his very serious threat. “Well, before you can do that you gotta rest. C’mon, Luci, lemme carry you like a pretty lil demon lord deserves~”
“You’re not helping your case,” he hisses, shoving your hands away even as he feels remnants of casserole burn the back of his throat. After another thick swallow he realizes, with deep-seated disdain, that if he keeps this up he’ll end up embarrassing himself further. So, when you make another attempt to scrape him off the chair, he remains still as a statue.
“Awww, see how easy that was?” you coo, supporting his legs with one arm while the other bolsters his back. He can only offer you a piercing glare, though it’s futile when you’re looking at him like this, with metaphorical hearts in your eyes. He curses the blood rush to his cheeks, where you plant a soft kiss. “You’re so goddamn dramatic, ya know?”
Dramatic? Once he digests, you’re going to pay.
“Clearly I’ve been too soft with you. Your next punishment will be — hic! — hnngg...worse than…hic!…”
Each painful hiccup shifts the contents of his stomach, cramp after nauseating cramp clawing at his insides. It didn’t matter if he was interrupted by this cursed nausea…his threats are empty; they always are when it comes to you, but he would still do it anyhow. He had a reputation to keep, after all, even if he’s much more lax with you.
Gently, you adjust him in your arms as you head for the door, working valiantly not to jostle him.
You flash him a wide grin, sunny enough to blind him and warm enough to melt his heart.
And in this tender moment, of which you lean forward to give him a sweet and chaste kiss, he realizes there would never be a timeline in which he could deny you.
. . .
Lucifer is trilling.
It’s exactly the sound he makes when he’s content, comfortable, and satisfied. Exactly what you wanted to hear at the end of this special day.
It surprised the both of you when the trek to your shared bedroom went off without a hitch. How you’d managed to avoid all six of them was a birthday miracle, especially when Satan and Belphie could sniff Lucifer’s rare moments of vulnerability a mile away.
After you’d gently, oh so gently, laid Lucifer on the bed, it had taken a while for his stomach to calm to the point you could put any amount of pressure on it. Now, your cheek is pressed against his belly, the soft, satisfied rumbling of it a sweeter sound than any record in his collection. Red claws lightly graze your scalp while a pitter-patter of rain beats against the bedroom windows. This symphony of soothing sounds begins to slowly lull you to sleep along with the rise and fall of his gentle breathing.
“I think I’ll have to thank Satan tomorrow,” you murmur softly, the nail of your pointer finger as graceful as the brush of a skillful artist as it traces lackadaisical patterns around his shallowed navel. The Devildom’s eternal full moon casts its light through the windows of his room, setting aglow a creamy white canvas of flawless skin, maimed only by the trail of your light scratching. You couldn’t help but find him as beautiful as the stars hung in the sky, especially now, lying in pure bliss with his eyes closed as if to focus only on the ministrations of your gentle hand.
Lucifer’s smile when he imagines his son’s reaction to such a revelation is a touch sentimental, his voice a small breath of amusement, “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know that his prank was well received.”
No doubt the news would be met with a scowl…though he might take Lucifer’s inevitable starter belly as a victory. If that were the case, the curse was a win-win.
A weak hiccup jolts you from your thoughts, your head rising and falling with his stomach. “Does it still hurt?” you ask, raising your head in case you were accidentally hurting him. His normal porcelain complexion has returned, at least, only half a shade darker than the ghostly pallor he’d been sporting earlier.
“A trivial amount,” he sighs, gently guiding your cheek back to his belly as he opens one beautiful eye to gaze at you. There’s a warmth in them that reminds you of the first kiss of the sun’s rays on a pleasant summer morning in the human world, that same warmth now flooding your cheeks. “Your hands feel wonderful, as always…”
He pauses, then, “Thank you for today, my dear.”
You sigh yourself, basking in the warmth of him, curled around his gorged belly like a lizard would a heat lamp. “It’s rare for you to let me take care of you, let alone feed you. I’m just glad I got to spoil you on your birthday.”
Lucifer hiccups again, then groans immediately. You feel a pang of guilt, seeing his face contort in a grimace. You should’ve cut him off after the potatoes, at the latest. Gently, you start to rub his stomach, muttering the spell Satan had taught you years ago to try to soothe the ache. He sighs, melting into the mattress at your touch, pleasantly warmed by magic.
“Sorry…I didn’t mean to take it this far…” you mutter sheepishly, kissing the soft skin next to his navel.
His red gaze flicks down at you, unimpressed.
“Hardly believable.”
“Well, to be fair, you started it.”
“You enabled me.”
“You can only truly enable someone who wants what you’re enabling, though.”
Lucifer chuckles, meeting your gaze with a teasing grin. “Perhaps I’ll allow you to enable me again.”
Your eyes light up at his admission. Even if he was just teasing you by dangling this carrot above your head, you would gladly latch onto the idea that he’d let you feed him again. You’d already waited three years, after all. Led by your excitement, you slide up from his stomach until your head makes a new pillow out of his chest.
He laughs a light, airy laugh before he gently pinches your cheek. “But you will not carry me again.”
“Awwww, come on, don’t act like you didn’t love it,” you whine, pouting up at him. You couldn’t complain too much, though. Two miracles occurred today; the first was that he’d allowed you to feed him to the point of sickness and two, you got to carry him because he let you feed him to the point of sickness.
He doesn’t have to explicitly tell you that he enjoyed it — you saw it in the way his cheeks had bloomed pink. In the way he’d return your chaste kisses without an ounce of hesitation.
“I love you, little Lamb,” he murmurs instead as he kisses your forehead, one hand dancing up and down your back in a loving caress.
“I’ll take it,” you laugh, cuddling closer to him. The warmth radiates from him, wrapping you in a comfortable bliss that coaxes your eyelids shut.
Stomachache aside, you’d say this birthday was a success.
“Happy birthday, my pretty bird…I love you…”