Request: I just saw your arranged marriage with diavolo and I loved it! But it had me thinking :00000 how would their “night of the wedding” be like, I’m pretty sure awkward as hell cause reader would probably consent cause uhh like they started catching feelings?
A/N:I went looking for this only to find that it was like near the top:’)
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Diavolo isn’t sure if during the wedding, if Lucifer had grazed you- just enough to let some of his Pride seep into you- to give you the courage and grace to get through the ceremony. Lucifer must have given how nervous you are now. He can smell it off of you- even behind the door that separates the both of you. The fear, the anxiety, the way that your sweat almost overtakes that of the cream and perfume that you wear- the one that he bought you. He can hear your footsteps, and the soft muttering you give to yourself- the sound of you skin slapping, and he’s sure that you must be patting your cheeks or surely pinching at them to regain some sense of control.
Worry oozes off of you in thick waves of aroma. He’s glad that he had used the beach house for the honeymoon portion of the weekend. He’s calmed you down plenty of times before. Once when you got lost in the plaza of Devildom, another when you made your first appearance and stuttered over the words, or when you had woken up from a nightmare that you couldn’t quite place why it felt so real. But it was never anything like this. It was never because of him. During the first month or two, it was, but you were always in front of him where he could reassure you that there was no malicious intent on his end. And now, you’re stuck in a bathroom, fretting over him.
You’re taking far too long in the bathroom, and he’s unsure if he should knock against the door and check in on you, or if he should just stand there. You’ve locked the door, so surely you must want privacy. You told him to give you just a minute, but it’s been so much longer than a minute. If it weren’t for his hearing, he would have broken down the door to make sure that you were still there. But, on the other hand, you could be waiting for him- hoping that he would come and knock on the door, asking for you and cooing you out into the room. You might just need that little bit of reassurance and here he is, standing in his suit, wondering if he should knock against your door, or stand like a fool.
Calloused hands drag down his face, and he can feel the age wearing upon him. He wonders if he looks like his father at the moment. He should be calming you, but he’s the one who’s giving you anxiety. All he has to do is knock on the door and ask if you’re okay, but then he can hear your breaths- the short, labored ones that he knows all too well. The sniffling and desperate attempt to keep your cries silent even if you do know it’s all futile. He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong. You’ve always been like this- at least for as long as he’s known you- and sure, there are moments where he’s peeking past your guard, where you aren’t so tense and you’re clutching onto him in fits of laughter, but you’re still nervous around him. Despite how much he promises he would never harm you. He’s failed you once, and it’ll forever be seared into him. He’s always hated how you cried, never knowing if him comforting you made it any worse or better, and now he’s simply stuck.
The tie around his neck chokes him and stops him from breathing. As surprising as it may be, he’s grown far too hot in his suit, the fabric sticking to his skin and he finally understands just how taxing worry can be. It knots in his stomach, and makes his chest tight. It makes him clammy and unable to think properly, and he hates that you have to feel this way. His hands undo the tie, and he’s taking in a rasping breath, stepping closer to the bathroom door, hoping that you’d open it for him once you saw his shadow on the other side. Once you felt him coming in and wanting to be with you. Perhaps he should have changed into his nightly wear, but what if you had mistaken that for something else? He doesn’t want to force anything out of you. He just wants to see you. He wants to know that you’re still there.
You step out of the bathroom, a matching pajama set where you pull on the hem of the shorts. Your face is flushed, and eyes are wet with tears, and his anxiety be damned at the moment. He’s by your side immediately, crouching down and cupping your face. There’s no reason for you to cry. Not on the night of the wedding- the night of his wedding, and the night of yours. You shouldn’t feel how you do- scared. This is meant to be a happy day, and he’s calling your name, and even with your head held by his hands, your eyes refuse to meet his. Your face is hot, burning with tears and shame, and he’s wiping what he can with his thumbs, asking what’s wrong- to just talk to him and he can make it all better. You step closer to him and your hands clutch at his dress shirt, wrinkling it in your hands. You look down and he lets his hands lift away from your face, hesitantly going to hold your back. He wants to push you closer to him, but he knows that you need to go to him, that you need to understand that he really won’t do anything more than listen.
Finally, you begin to speak. You wrap your arms around him, your head turned and hands splayed across his back in a desperate attempt to simply keep him there with you. He wraps his arms around you, trying to restrain from giving you too tight of a hug. You want this to be a memorable night for him, and yet you’re here crying to him over being too nervous to do anything. You know what a wedding night means- at least in human customs, and slightly in demon customs. You want to share that moment with him, and you so desperately wish you could just take the step, but you’re unable to. There’s too many variables that could go wrong and- and you’re clinging to him, trying to mute your cries into his chest.
All that he can do is smile softly down at you, and move you to the bed. It dips under the shared weight and you lean onto him, and you’re lowering your head, your eyes stuck on the reflection to see him and he smiles at you, lowering his head to kiss the top of your crown. He grasps your hands in his, leans into you. It’s an expectation- but it isn’t necessary. Whatever it is that you want to do, he will gladly follow suit. And if that action is simply doing nothing, then he’s willing to do nothing. He’ll do nothing for the remainder of his life if it meant you wouldn’t cry. The marriage is already set, there’s no need to do anything. You don’t have to worry about anything. He’s a demon, but he’s your demon. Even without a pact, he’d gladly follow your orders without hesitation. Whatever it is that you want him to do, he’d gladly do it as long as he could remain by your side. Slowly, he grabs your hand and lifts it to his lips, your knuckles so much smaller than his, dances across his lips in small kisses and when your smile returns, he lets your hand rest once more on your lap.
With a kiss pressed to your crown, he rises from the bed, stating he’s going to change in the bathroom. The door closes behind him and he can still feel your warmth against his lips. Your wedding attire is neatly placed on a hook, hung onto the shower rod, and he smiles, letting the tips of his fingers trace over the designs. He’s glad he got to see you dressed in something so ornate. He places his own attire besides yours, giving it a final glass before he exits the bathroom. Once changed into a matching pajama set, he returns to the room, a smile meeting his eyes as he sees you have already cuddled under the blankets. He stands on the empty side of the bed, and you motion for him to join you. You reach out with your hands, rising from your comfortable position to grab onto him. You’re so much warmer when you reach for him.
There’s still something on your mind, but you’re by his side, clinging onto him, your head resting on his chest, and you’re silent. But he can feel how your heart beats so rapidly, against his own torso. His hand is placed above yours, and he’s staring at the ceiling, listening to your breaths- how soft and deep they’ve gotten with him just being there. He’ll regret what he’s about to do, but he has to let you know, let you go to sleep with worry free from your mind, with any doubt erased. Diavolo calls your name and it stirs you from your slumber. You can barely make out a sound, your hand tapping at his side in a tell to show him that you’re listening. He tells you that nothing has to happen- not now or tomorrow- it could be years, or it could be decades, but nothing has to happen. You simply have to be by his side, he’ll ask for nothing more as long as you show him the same softness you always have, as long as you believe and know that he’ll never hurt you. It must have taken all of your strength to rise to a sitting position, eyes barely open, and heavy with sleep, and your name is whispered on his lips, only to be silenced with a press of your lips against his own, and you smile so sweetly at him, one that makes his face warm and a shiver run its course through his body. You tell him goodnight, and he spends the rest of his waking moments, with his fingertips over his lips, committing the feeling to memory, not wanting to forget the mint on your lips and your warmth breath.
