Dialuci One-shots

I Love You, I'm Sorry

In case you didn't read the last update erm. This one is a lil sad. Not a lot. But a little. Lucifer is scared of loving Diavolo, and Diavolo thinks he's un-lovable.

I stepped out of the bathroom, black hardwood floors barely making a noise in my presence. I looked around at the black, red, and gold accented room, settling my eyes comfortably on Diavolo’s figure on the charcoal sheets of his room. His hair was still damp from his shower before mine, but his form had already dried, likely due to his unusually high body temperature.

I sighed, pulling the towel from around my waist to dry my hair, and I could feel his gaze rake my body over like he hadn’t just indulged in it minutes before. “Let me help.”  He lazly got up from the bed, softly walking over to take the red towel from my hands without much objection. I let myself be small and tired in his hands, they somehow always had that effect on me. They could easily strip me of my walls and defenses, and I would calmly let them.

It was domestic. These moments with him. The way he would gently hold me, wash my hair and dry it, walk around in nothing because we had seen one another bare a thousand times over and over again. He would embrace me until dawn, when he would quietly slip out of bed and get ready for the day, and suddenly we would be strangers all over again. It was a dance we had been doing for hundreds of years, and I always told myself just one more time. But it was never the last.

He stilled behind me, lips softly kissing my shoulders like they would for some reason shy away from his touch. I suppose he was always scared I would.

His hands draped the towel around my neck so they could wander down to my slim hips, bony and weak to his hands. He continued the light kisses, knowing in unspoken words I would never allow for anything more. 

“I love you.” He whispered so tiny it could have been ignored and we could both pretend he never said it. But he did. I didn’t say it back. I rarely did. Only on nights where he would call me sobbing would I ever tell him back how much my chest ached whenever he said it. The stabbing sensation in my chest when he grinned wide enough for fangs to peak out from under full lips. It pained me for him to know how much power he had over me, and in return he was never really sure if I was humoring him or if my feelings were real. 

“I know.” I settled for, and his presence was merely a ghost on my shoulder as he stepped back, already I grieved the sensation. His hands let go, and moments later fingertips brushed the small of my back, pulling away like I was hot to the touch.

“You wish to feel them?” I asked, painfully knowing where he yearned to place those wretched hands of his. I hated many things about Diavolo, most of all I hated his hands. The way they curled just right inside of me, the way they stole slight kisses of my knuckles when we walked side by side through RAD, and the way they so easily broke me down into my most naked self. I hated it all.

“I’m sorry.” He indirectly answered, and I took a deep breath, letting the thought that this would all be gone in the morning soothe the ache that told me I was already all his, all he ever had to do was ask.

“This once. You may touch them this one time, and you will let it go by sunrise.” That was all the permission he needed, and I felt those poisonous hands trace the scars, dipping and rising with the bones that had once been there for a reason. Reflexively, instinctively, they rustled under his light palms, shifting under the skin like they had something to move. 

“Thank you for indulging me.” His voice was so uncharacteristically lonely, a voice I’d only heard him use in these domestic nights. How he could be here, cradling my broken pieces, and be so far away. Truthfully I knew I wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted a family, I wasn’t that, not by a long shot. I was still so scared of how much I’d fallen for him, a shadow of my original self, a replica housed in my previous shell. All by his own unknowing creation. An angel more shaped and touched by the hands of the devil than its own god.