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qrowsofafeather · 2 years ago

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*DISTANT SCREAMING*

THANK YOU

I absolutely hated how it’s canon that Belphie whines about it not being fair his brothers got so much more time with you/us/MC. I’m like “bruh?? there was a reason you didn’t get time with us!” It just feels like gaslighting to me.

Been living vicariously through writers filling in the gap where Belphie actually works to apologize for the murder-death, but I didn’t realize this was something I needed, too.

You can feel Satan’s eyes boring in your cheek, but you refuse to look at him.

“Belphie, I don’t think you sh–” Satan tries to warn him, but it’s too late.

Satan is the one that breaks the silence, with a heavy sigh. “Told you so.”

*chef kiss*

Boiling point

After weeks of holding himself together and setting clear boundaries, only for them to be broken over and over again, MC snaps.

tags. male mc, post-lesson 16, belphie is his own trigger warning, ptsd, mild violence, hurt and comfort.

notes. i don't want therapy, i want revenge. everyone got over belphie killing us way too quickly, and i find it frustrating. you know what would be really fun? to punch belphie. love him, but the amount of serotonin he would bring into my life if i could just… punch him once. a boy can dream.

Dying and somehow living to tell the tale was not exactly in your plans when you decided to help the demon stuck in the attic.

Sure, you knew it was dangerous and sure, you understood it was a gamble. But you never quite got that your life was at stake until you felt Belphegor's cold grip around your neck and your vision started to get fuzzy at the edges.

Oh, you thought, with startling clarity.

I'm going to die.

You may still be here, but no, you did not survive Belphegor's wrath and hurt. The sensation of phantom hands pressing down your throat never quite left you.

And Belphegor is nothing but a cruel reminder of the night you died.

First, comes the terror. Even with the pact to protect you, in the days following the event, you can't help but freeze every time Belphegor is in the same room.

As you get used to his presence around the House of Lamentation, as he insists in siting next to you during breakfast and in holding your arm on your way to class, the terror slowly subsides, opening way for a different, less familiar feeling.

Annoyance. Anger. Borderline rage.

Who does he think he is?

Who does he think we are? Best friends, family?

“Belphegor…”, you call for the demon that's already laying on top of your lap, with a tense smile hanging from your lips.

This week's movie night was held in your room. It was one of the rare occasions in which all the inhabitants of the House of Lamentation were present. Even Lucifer is here, looking comically out of place, regal and all seriousness, as if he were in the middle of a meeting and not watching a three-hour-long romance anime film.

Mammon got off from his “rightful place” (“DIBS”, the demon of greed shouted as soon as you sat down, throwing himself across your lap), to rip the remote control out of Levi's hands, who kept rewinding the same scene over and over again (“It's really important for the plot!!!”).

And in the middle of the squabble, Belphegor appeared out of nowhere to climb into your lap, and just. Cuddle.

At your call, he looks up and blinks lazily at you, with his big eyes and his messy bedhead. And the image should be endearing, really, but your chest feels cold, and you can feel your limbs locking in place. You feel trapped, uncomfortable. Ah, it's fear.

“I need. A bit of space. Could you sit somewhere else?”, you manage to let out, and your voice is the only sound in the room. Quarrel and movie long-forgotten, everyone is watching the two of you. Beel was the one who took over and put the film on pause.

Belphegor blinks the drowsiness out of his eyes. His brow furrows, just a little, and if anything, he looks put off by the question, a little lost.

“I don't want to sit anywhere else. I know Mammon was here just seconds ago, but I'm a better cuddle-partner than him anyway. You can ask anyone.”

And he doesn't move. He lays his head against your chest with a yawn.

“I don't…” want to be close to you. You stop yourself from uttering those words, mindful and considerate, truly doing your best. You don't want to lie either, so you decide to play around with the phrasing. “I'd rather you gave Mammon his place back. Or, you know what? I can change seats myself.”

Your tone is as lighthearted as you can manage, and you start to get up from the couch, with Asmo, who's sitting next to you, moving out of the way to give you the space that you need. The space you very specifically asked for.

But Belphegor's weight is heavy against you and traps you in place. Not only that, but his hand reaches for your arm and pulls, looking at you with the same bewildered expression as before, genuinely confused. When you fall against the couch, still under him, you're reminded of how strong he is. Of how weak you're in comparison.

“Oi, Belphie. No one is better at cuddles than me”, says Mammon after a too long pause. “And of course he wants to be with the great Mammon, everyone does. Now move, we still have, like, two hours left of the movie and if we don't finish it tonight, Levi is going to complain all week.”

Levi, who would normally jump into the conversation to defend himself, is barely visible, half hidden between Beel and Satan. His eyes dart between you and the hand that's holding your arm.

“Well, we are already so comfy, so I won't get up”, you wonder who “we” is. Belphegor talks lazily and moves the hand that isn't holding you in a dismissing manner, as if this was not more than a bothersome request, interrupting his nap for nothing.

Your teeth grind together, and there it is, once again. The ugly pressure that holds your gut in a tight grip, the heavy discomfort in your throat. Once foreign, but now you can tell it apart so easily. Anger.

“Belphegor. You heard him already.” This time, Lucifer is the one talking, and he sighs as he gets up, coming closer in an attempt to pry him away from you.

“Oh, please.” Belphegor rolls his eyes, clearly irked by Lucifer's intervention. “We are okay. Right?”, he looks back at you, and this time around his voice is filled with doubt, bordering hopeful, searching for something in your eyes.

“We aren't.” At last, you say it, flatly, and it comes out sharper than you intended, if the way Belphegor flinches and Asmo whimpers is any indication. You're tired, what little patience you have left is quickly running out thanks to the stubborn remarks and your words falling on deaf ears. “Let me move.”

The demon on your lap has the gall to look affronted, hurt. His bewildered expression does nothing more than increase the feeling already boiling deep within you. You can feel Satan's eyes boring in your cheek, but you refuse to look at him.

“Hey… Relax”, Belphegor mutters, now looking a little concerned too. For you. He's worried about you, and yet he still won't get up. “Are you okay? What's wrong?”

What's wrong.

What's wrong?

You're so taken aback by the question that by the time you react, his hand is already on its way to hold your cheek.

The most violent of flashbacks comes through you, a whiplash that hits you with the force of a truck. His handprints on your neck, trying to catch your breath, feeling cold all over, with the only warmth coming from your own blood ringing loudly in your ears, flowing right next to his voice, so full of hatred.

You can't freeze this time around, you need to move, you need to run, you need to do something, anythi--

“Belphie, I don't think you sh--” Satan tries to warn him, but it's too late.

By the time Belphegor fingertips touch your cheek (and this time they're warm, not dead-cold, you notice with surprise) your fist is already hitting against his nose, punching him right in the middle of his face, with a force you didn't even knew you had in you.

Not that you've ever done it before, but you can imagine this is what it feels like to hit a wall. Your hand hurts and goes numb.

The impact pushes Belphegor against the cushions, his hands flying to cover his nose. And any other day it would have been impossible, your punch would never land (he's that much faster, that much stronger), but right now he was so worried about you, so desperate to stick by you. His guard was as down as it will ever be.

His nose is bleeding, you notice, at the same time as Asmo gets up with a gasp. Levi shrieks in the background, and Mammon let's out this weird noise, a mix between one of his “Oi”, your name, and a scream.

Everything stands still, and, to your credit, you're just a shocked as everyone else.

With the punch, all anger has left your body, and now you're just a bunch of nerves, looking at Belphegor with big eyes. Belphegor looks back at you, so shocked, and you suddenly feel like crying. Oh, how much you hate being an angry-crier.

Satan is the one that breaks the silence, with a heavy sigh. “Told you so.”

Beel comes next, taking two steps in your direction but stopping when you raise your palm. You're trembling, but you come close to Belphegor all the same, refusing to back down.

“Asshole.” It's the first thing you say, and defying the impossible, Belphegor's eyes grow even wider as you tower over him, kneeling on the couch.

“Are you deaf? Wasn't I clear enough? Loud enough?”, and when you raise your fist in the air, Lucifer approaches, but all you do is gently punch Belphegor's chest. Again and again. “I told you to move. Several times. And still, you didn't. I was… I was dying of fear, and you weren't moving.”

“You, inconsiderate shit.” Punch. “You, deaf moron.” Punch.

“You… Stubborn cow.”

Belphegor has let the blood simply flow across his face, and now he's kneeling in front of you, holding his own hands, the same surprised look on his face.

And that's that.

You let your arms fall with a groan and simply sigh. For Diavolo, violence really isn't for you, you are so tired.

“S-Should we separate them?” Levi asks in a trembling voice, frantically waving his hands, unable to decide whether to approach or flee.

“No. He has more to say.” Satan gently holds Levi's wrists, and waits.

That's when you realize that yes, you got more to say. In fact, you've had something to say for way too long, and now you're dying to get it off your chest.

“I gave you my trust, and I knew I was being childish and reckless in doing so, but all I wanted was to help. I cried for you, I felt for you, and I did everything I could to be by your side even though all I had to offer was just. Just me. Mortal, human. And in response, you killed me.” Belphegor recoils at your words, but you go on.

“It hurt. It still hurts, even now. Sometimes I see you and all I can think about is your betrayal.”

Belphegor looks down, biting his lips, in silence. You can see his hands trembling, and you remember your talk under the stars, his eagerness when he offered you a pact. When he gave you the control you needed. His hands were trembling back then, too.

With a groan, you reach out to hold his chin, lifting his face. You take the long sleeve of your pajamas and begin to wipe the blood running down his chin, across his lips. Slowly, with care.

Your fingers run through his hair just to be able to look directly into his eyes. He looks anxious, fearful, and you know that your next words have the power to break or mend his heart.

So you decide to, once more, open yours and leave the rest in his hands.

“I don't hate you. And this isn't me cutting our ties. I understand your pain, I really do. Please, understand mine.”

Your thumb caresses over his forehead. Carefully, gently.

“I need time. I'll let you know when I'm ready.”

Belphegor inhales and exhales deeply, holding your gaze. Slowly, but surely, he takes your hand between his, from his forehead to his lips, leaving the lightest of kisses against your palm. You feel the pact mark that binds you together tremble and sing.

“I'm sorry. For the pain, for my insistence, I just… Wanted to be close. I need to be close. I'll wait for you.”

Straightforward as ever. But you are struck by the sincerity in his voice, in his eyes, and this time around it takes you no more than a second to nod.

“Right. Be good and wait for me.”

Unable to resist, you pat his head, just as you would to a small, rebellious child. He's the baby of the family, after all. He groans, and you laugh, feeling so much lighter. And unbelievably tired.

By the time you remember that you're not alone in the room and turn around to placate the others, you make eye contact with Satan.

He's looking prouder than ever, the little smile on his lips telling enough. “Go on”

The brothers needed no further prompting to launch themselves at the two of you, a jumble of limbs and shrill voices.

“MC, that was, as usual, reckless. From now on, fist fights are forbidden in and out of the house. Evade further conflicts.”

“B-But wasn't MC so cool?!?! Belphie is so much stronger, but he was down with one punch! W-way too op, MC!!”

“Oi! Human, how dumb can ya be?! Tell me before you go around punchin' demons, I can punch them for ya!”

“I knew you were good at controlling your anger, but I never imagined that much. You are full of surprises.”

“Belphie, gosh, your clinginess finally got you in trouble, mh? Your surprised face was so cute! Do you need concealer?”

“Belphie, does it hurt? Do you need ice? We have popsicles in the freezer… Wait, I ate them all yesterday, sorry Belphie… Do you want me to go and buy more? MC, which flavor would you like?”

“We are good, Beel.” Belphegor answers, still looking at you. “Right?”

You laugh at his not-so-subtle search for assurance, and your chest feels astonishingly full. “We will be, for sure.”

Movie night turns right into a sleepover after that, as every single one of the demon brothers refuses to leave your room. Lucifer might roll his eyes, but he still settles on your couch, right next to Satan.

And for the first time in weeks, you're able to close your eyes and rest, feeling safe and at home.

ao3 ― writing tag

#Im taking my own approach to the /you burnt the bridges you gotta rebuild them/ theme #obey me fanfic #obey me fic #obey me writing #obey me drabble #obey me Luciver #obey me Mammon #obey me Leviathan #obey me Satan #obey me Asmodeus #obey me Beelzebub #obey me Belphegor #Lesson 16 spoilers #obey me MC

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theseshipsshallsail · 8 months ago

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Summary:

The minutes soon blur in such blissful suspension, and as the unshuttered windows turn an inky black, Oliver immerses himself in the whens, wheres and inestimable hows of their blossoming reality. What he and Elio share defies definition, yet the idea of losing it is truly abhorrent. He needs this. Needs them. Everything they’re capable of being together. The promise and potential contained therein. There’s no turning back even if he wanted to, and drawing a hand up Elio’s flank he rests his chin upon his sweat-damp crown. Wonders when the hummingbird-flutter at his core became love, before deciding maybe it always has been, and he was just too afraid to acknowledge it.

The Difference Between Possible And Impossible (Lies Mainly In Determination)

He’d been dreaming, Oliver realises, as a drunken holler from the Piazza Navona interrupts the doze he had zero warning of slipping into. His mind’s eye transporting him to the villa’s orle of paradise. Elio swimming lazy laps in a set of borrowed bathers. The next day’s pages for Signora Milani all but forgotten as he apricated from head to toe; donning his tinted Persols in deference to the azure sky above.

In all honesty, the scene mirrors memory more so than imagination, and the sluggish warmth it leaves in Oliver’s veins feels pleasantly reminiscent of the vintage scotch he’d savoured his final night in B. At Annella’s insistence, dinner was a family affair in light of his imminent departure, but with the feast devoured and dishes cleared, the professor ushered him to the study for a well-earned digestif. The pair of them discussing his varied plans for Rome, even as a sombre rendition of Debussy’s Clair de Lune drifted from the living room opposite; tearing at Oliver’s heartstrings with every mournful chord.

“Ice, born of fire, that in turn holds fire,” his mentor mused at length, swirling the mahogany liquid in his lead-crystal tumbler. “È notevole… is it not? How under the right circumstances, something so obstinate as sand itself can be transformed entirely. Reborn, one might say, to the inverse of its maker.”

In terms of subtlety it left a lot to be desired, and Oliver’d masked his quiet desperation behind a measured sip, unable to quash the hard knot of regret that threatened to choke him. Regret, that fails to exist in the liminal twilight of their Corso del Rinascimento hotel room. Banished, as it was, the second they’d watched the plastic wall clock outstrip the hour of his flight’s departure.

He’s been damn-near euphoric ever since.

Giddy as a ninth-grader playing truant.

For the first time in years, he’s chosen the road less travelled, but with Elio in his corner - and sheer determination to guide him - Oliver’s certain that together they’ll move mountains if necessary, to forge a path that’s theirs and theirs alone.

Again, a commotion starts up in the streets outside. Several joyful voices raised in concert. Oliver doesn’t recognise the song - though it’s somewhat harmonious compared to his own rendition of Fenesta Ca Lucive with the German tourist - and a helpless smile graces his lips when Elio grumbles in response; letting loose a snuffling snore alongside his collarbone.

The gossamer gleam from the balcony gilds his features in a diffuse palette: covetous swaths of rosé and gold that chase the encroaching shadows from his sleeping form. It’s grounding, Oliver finds. The steady exhalations that tickle his Adam’s apple. The rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders; perfectly in sync with his newly unshackled lungs. They’re two halves of a whole - cut from the same cloth - and rubbing the grit from his scratchy eyelids he moulds a palm to Elio’s slender waist, sighing in contentment when the other man burrows closer, one leg inveigling itself between the snug harbour of his thighs.

Wonders when the hummingbird-flutter at his core became love, before deciding maybe it always has been, and he was just too afraid to acknowledge it.

In due course, blunt-nailed fingertips splay across his sternum; crafting a subconscious chord above his too-full ribs. Elio’s lashes are a charcoal smudge against his cheek, and the rumbling purr that escapes his throat invokes a mental slideshow of their wanton activities earlier. Unsurprisingly, the earthy scent of passion hangs thick in the muggy air; overpowering the honeysuckle sweetness adorning the trellis outside. The salty ghosts of tears, also, shed by two star-crossed lovers who’d feared being reduced to a cautionary tale: a Grecian tragedy for the modern age.

Schmaltzy, perhaps, but their truth is inescapable, and at the first sign of Elio stirring beside him, Oliver can’t help but press a lingering kiss to the riotous curls at his temple.

No more speeches, he thinks, as Elio arches like a pampered tomcat.

“I swear I’ll make you happy,” he whispers instead, and the thousand-watt grin that follows settles deep and thrilling and forever in his soul.

#call me by your name #cmbyn fanfic #elio x oliver #new fic #cmbyn #armie hammer #timothée chalamet

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