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Across the realms, Solomon was known for two things: his unique grasp of sorcery and the multitude of demons he held under his thumb. Most of his skin bore the marks of both old burn scars and pact sigils running down his back. He took a certain pride in his powers and accomplishments, though he tended to keep his trophies hidden beneath layers of black cloth and his cloak. Despite his pride, he understood that wearing all your tricks on your sleeve was a poor strategy in a situation as precarious as his.
Still, for all his scheming and composure, he had a favourite among his pact-mates. That was reason enough to spend his night off in Asmodeus’ room, hands slick with oils, the scent of roses so thick he could barely breathe.
He told himself he was here for purely selfish reasons: scholarly interest and keeping one of his assets happy. Though demons didn’t work like humans, they still performed better when content and, in the best-case scenario, when they trusted their summoner enough to let their guard down.
Right now, Asmodeus looked both content and relaxed, so Solomon guessed he had already achieved his goal for the night. The demon was sprawled out on his bed, his left cheek pressed gently into a mountain of silken pillows, watching Solomon’s movements with half-lidded eyes as Solomon massaged his wings.
It was surprisingly quiet here, though the House of Lamentation usually bustled with life—just a wall separating them from a chorus of yelling, the faint spin of Lucifer’s record player, or the chaos caused by whoever had kitchen duty that night. Solomon wondered whether Asmo had warded the room, or if it was simply far enough away to escape the noise. Whatever the case, he felt himself lulled by the calm, his shoulders easing as he ran his fingers down the soft leather of Asmodeus’ wings.
“Thank you for helping me out,” Asmo murmured cheekily, eyes never leaving his face. “They get quite tense when the weather turns colder.”
Solomon gave a small nod, fingers tracing the lines of bone just beneath the surface. They both knew the gesture meant something more. It wasn’t just about helping out—Asmo was particular about who got to touch him like this. He might not mind strangers’ hands on him, but he drew a firm line between casual indulgence and moments like these. Neither of them spoke of the way they always seemed to drift toward each other without thinking.
“I didn’t expect them to feel so… soft,” Solomon said, letting his fingertips wander over the edge of one wing.
“What did you think they’d feel like?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Less smooth. More like a bat’s wing.”
“Rude. You make them sound like ingredients in a potion. If you try to cut something off, I will end you.”
“Fear not. You’d be entirely unsuited for potion-making. Too many unknown properties, and all that. I wouldn't know what to do with you.”
“You really know how to make a man feel special,” Asmo quipped, eyes drifting shut as he leaned further into Solomon’s touch.
"You are special," Solomon said, the words leaving his lips before he could stop them. And he truly meant it. Master of so many—and yet, this was the one demon he kept coming back to, unable to stay away for too long.
They had kissed once, he remembered. It had been well past midnight, Solomon’s mind half-asleep, and Asmo had been doing that thing where he stretched his long legs and hooked his foot around Solomon’s calf, batting his pretty eyes with an easy smile on his lips. Solomon had wanted to kiss it off him, so he did. Asmo knew what he was doing to the sorcerer, of course—he was as much self-aware as he was self-obsessed. In the end, he knew all the tricks to get what he wanted, and sometimes, Solomon found himself on the agenda, always willingly.
It had been a quiet chase, a simple press of lips, and it had been over as soon as it began. They never mentioned it again and let the awkwardness fade. Back then, Solomon had been surprised at how hurt he felt. Rejected. Asmo chose his partners so often, so freely, yet he seemed to shy away from his pact-mate at every turn, uncharacteristically skittish.
On the bed, Asmodeus cracked one eye open, lazily. "Keep talking to me like that."
Solomon’s hands stilled where they rested against the ridge of Asmo’s wing, fingers splayed lightly. He could feel the warmth pulsing through the body beneath him—almost hot to the touch, memories floating back. How close they were back then, skin upon skin and now, no barrier between them.
"You don’t need any more boosts to your ego. People are already climbing over each other to get your attention."
"True," Asmo said, reaching up to catch Solomon’s wrist, halting his movement. "Yet you are the one here, apple of my eye. And touching me like a lover, I might add."
Solomon’s breath hitched. In the low candlelight, Asmo’s eyes looked even more otherworldly than usual, pink gems glistening with the flicker of flames. He felt caught and enchanted in equal measure, his core laid bare and open for only Asmo to see. If he wasn't careful, he could get addicted to the feeling.
"I’m just touching you like someone who knows what he’s doing," he said—his voice a bit too soft to be convincing.
"And I’m letting you," Asmo replied, slow and wicked, lips curling up. "Now what does that say about us?"
"That I’ve earned your trust," Solomon answered quickly. "Or your curiosity. Possibly both."
Asmo’s hand dragged across his chest as he let go, shifting just enough to roll onto his back. He looked good like that. He always looked good.
"Absolutely both."
Solomon didn’t dare look away, leaning in a little—moving closer, just to lose himself in the sight.
He had no idea what came over him. He knew better than to fall for the demon’s ruses. People tended to underestimate Asmodeus, seemingly delicate and soft beside his brothers. Dainty limbs, the sing-song of his voice. Bolder than all the rest without needing to demonstrate strength. A trap laid bare, out in the open and still enticing enough for humans and demons alike to press forward, to press closer.
Solomon hovered there for a breath longer than he should have, searching for a crack in Asmo’s mask. Even now, that smile seemed a little too practised, too perfect—the very picture of temptation. More than anything, he wanted to find a way beneath Asmodeus’ skin, break it apart, past the pretence, to discover what waited beneath it. He caught glimpses here and there, hints of a true self concealed under layers upon layers of performance. Then, without thinking, he leaned in.
Not a kiss, just yet—just a brush of his temple against Asmodeus’ cheek, a breath shared between them. The gesture felt more daring than anything else he had done before.
Asmo’s fingers caught Solomon’s chin with an iron grip, tilting it just slightly.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, unreadable. Goosebumps spread across Solomon’s skin. This could be fatal—he just knew it. A thin line between playfulness and something unspeakable, something that could change the dynamic between them forever. He was poking a nest of wasps disguised as a field of lovely flowers. Beyond the calm demeanour, he could sense a flicker of something sharper. He had long learned that provoking the Avatar of Lust could have serious consequences, despite all his sweetness.
There was no answer. A heartbeat or two passed, and then Solomon’s lips were on his again—this time slower, deliberate, digging deeper. Asmo lifted his upper body up, pushing against him, cradling the sorcerer as if he was about to devour him.
And then, suddenly, he pulled away with a sharp twist.
“You’re awfully bold tonight, my dear,” he said, masking his surprise behind an odd chuckle. Hesitantly, Solomon moved away, giving him some space, cursing the distance between them.
"I thought you liked bold," he said, meeting the other's gaze head-on, his nerves on fire.
“Oh, I love bold,” Asmo purred. “But I also don’t like playing games—at least not with you. You’re rather tough to figure out, and I can never shake the feeling that you’re about to cheat in some way. So—"
He sat up fully now, almost bare shoulders catching the candlelight. His hair framed his face wonderfully, brushing against rosy cheeks. He was breathtakingly beautiful—always had been, had been designed to be that way. His fingers caught the edge of Solomon’s collar and smoothed it down, as if straightening a servant’s uniform.
“—if you want something, darling, ask properly.”
"I don’t think you'd like what I’m about to say," Solomon started. The tension in the air forced a shiver down his spine, but he kept perfectly still, his face a calm mask.
"What makes you think that?" Asmo asked, wrapping an arm around his neck—loose enough that he could pull away at any moment, another one of his little tests.
And that made Solomon wonder, just briefly, if maybe, just maybe, they did feel the same way. That hesitation. That care. So little certainty in the face of their dance, neither of them quite knowing where the lines were drawn, how far they could go, or whether any of it was more than just a game. There was a real chance that by morning, Asmo would cast him aside like the rest. A passing flight of fancy, nothing more. Heat beneath the sheets, a few love bites, quickly forgotten, quickly replaced.
And that thought—Solomon despised it. A part of him longed for nothing more than to stay here forever, in the soft, quiet bubble they’d built. It would be so easy to burst it, to get it over with. To go back to where they started.
Instead, he grasped Asmo’s waist, steadying himself.
"I'm not sure if you would want me like I want you," he said, deciding that the only way forward was silly, frightening honesty. "You pushed me away the other time I tried."
The atmosphere between them was fragile, brittle. Asmodeus’ eyes flicked across his face, then darted to something far off above Solomon’s shoulder. He didn’t let go but clawed his nails into his flesh, almost enough to hurt. For once, the Avatar of Lust looked startled, not sure what to say, clearly in fight or flight mode. And then something else flickered across his face: not guilt, exactly, something much more complicated.
“I didn’t push you away because I didn’t want you,” Asmo said softly, the corners of his mouth pulling inward—not into a pout, something rarer. Seriousness. It almost looked like a wound on his fine features.
“I did it because I was scared I might.”
Solomon blinked, confused.
“I’ve had centuries of being wanted,” Asmodeus continued, drawing lazy circles against the sorcerer’s chest with a single finger, brows furrowed as if studying a particularly difficult problem. “But not like this. Not in a way I couldn’t control. And you—” His voice dropped to a murmur. “You’re too good at peeling things back. I let you in too far, and suddenly I’m wondering whether you see me or whether you just want to conquer me.”
"I don’t need to do that," Solomon reminded him, breathlessly, hopefully. "I already have your pact."
"Not what I meant."
“Asmodeus," Solomon said, brushing back a lock of hair behind his eyes. "For a long time, I tried to convince myself that you’re just a powerful weapon, especially in the right hands—in my hands. That I kept you close because I’d be a fool not to. But I realised, I don’t want to possess you. I want to choose you.”
Asmo exhaled, a shaky little laugh escaping him. “You’re not supposed to say things like that. Not to me, at least."
"But it’s the truth. I want you. Not just because you’re useful to me but because I enjoy being with you. I like who you are, even if I don’t always understand you. I like when you’re overly sweet, and I like when you’re mean,” Solomon admitted before his bravery ran out, forcing each word through his teeth. He wasn’t made for sweetness like this.
“There are so many parts to you, and I like them all, even if they terrify me at times. It’s intoxicating.”
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other. Solomon didn’t reach out again. He waited patiently for Asmodeus to decide what he really wanted.
And when Asmo leaned in this time, all his doubts drifted from his mind. No curated angle, no deliberate smoulder, no show for the camera. Just lips brushing Solomon’s, slow, careful. His hand came up to cup the back of the sorcerer’s neck, fingertips threading lightly into his silver hair.
Suddenly, Solomon was overcome with the need to close the space between them, so he held on tight and then dipped Asmo back, pressing him into the mattress. It was bliss, the heat building between them. He reached for anything he could find with his eyes closed, exploring the man in his embrace with utmost care, following the curves of his body, the way his muscles moved against him.
Asmo’s mouth tasted sweet like the chocolate pralines he kept on his desk—combined with the lack of air from kissing for too long, it made Solomon thoroughly light-headed. He’d be chasing this feeling for the rest of his life, he thought. To have such a powerful being so close to him, so deeply intertwined with him, in more ways than one. To have such a lovely creature returning his kiss with unmatched enthusiasm, any facades crumbling into dust.
He drew back just enough to catch his breath, resting their foreheads together.
“You’re dangerous, Sol," Asmodeus finally whispered against his mouth.
Solomon smiled faintly. “And you’re not?”
“I’m predictably dangerous,” Asmo said, teasing creeping into his voice, back in his element.
“But you. I knew you could ruin me, and I would even enjoy it.”
“That can be arranged," Solomon said, eager to get his lips back on him.
Asmo huffed, not holding back his grin. “You’re awful. Be glad you're cute.”
Solomon only kissed him again, worrying his tongue across Asmo’s bottom lip. With a gentle sigh, Asmo opened his mouth, letting him taste him better, their hips meeting each other with unashamed desire.
"Is this what you want as well?" Solomon said, just to make sure.
"Do you even need to ask?"
"I want to hear you say it."
Asmodeus blinked up at him, nails grazing the soft skin beneath Solomon’s jaw, almost rough enough to draw blood.
“You’re such a tease,” he murmured. “Fine. I want you. I want this. I’ve wanted this for longer than I care to admit.”
His voice dropped lower, silken and hot. “I want you, Solomon. Is that what you wanted to hear? Come here, ravish me, undo me, piece by piece, make me forget my own name. Take what you desire."
Fine fingers curled around his throat - Solomon’s head swam with need and long-repressed fantasies.
“Be still, then,” he whispered back, “and let me.” His hands framed Asmo’s face in silent worship, wanting nothing more than digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks.
"Say it again."
"I want you." It was nearly a growl.
“Then be good,” Solomon whispered, dragging his hand down Asmodeus’ side.
Asmo shivered, eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his head in offering. Solomon’s teeth brushed against the spot between his neck and shoulder, then bit down.
No more words followed. Just the sound of lips on skin, of gasped breaths and slow, drawn-out pleasure that bled into the room’s silence. Hopefully the door was locked, Solomon thought, buried his fingers into the silk of Asmo’s wings and let go.