Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

A Teen Wolf/Shall We Date: Obey Me! Crossover

By Sif Shadowheart

Prologue: Chaos Has Come Again

“See the nogitsune feeds off of chaos, stife, pain.

Her pain?

You took it all …”

The Nogitsune to Scott McCall, TW Season Three

“Looks like they think they have a plan.”  Sōta commented across the Go! Board to his host, humor flashing in dark teal eyes that even in his human form retained their vulpine shape.

A wicked smirk flashed across his companion's face as he nodded slightly before making his move on the board.

Ahhh.

He would miss Stiles.

Even before his imprisonment he hadn’t had such an entertaining companion since he was little more than a kit with his litter in the Devildom.

“Scott always thinks he has a plan.”  Stiles said, half in exasperation and half in affection for the alpha werewolf.  “It’s the collateral damage that’s usually the problem.”

Sōta pouted a bit at the warning hidden in Stiles’s words.

He was fond of the human.

Was it really so terrible that a demon with fondness for a human would want to deal out a little chaos on those that had harmed him?

Sōta didn’t think so, though that inconvenient morality that sparks up at the worst times that Stiles possessed (mainly instilled by his father) disagreed.

“You won’t strike out at them, no matter how much they deserve it.”  Sōta complained.  “Once they ‘free,’” Sōta rolled his eyes.  Stiles was far less trapped than everyone seemed to believe, but that was the sort of chaotic truth that even Sōta wouldn’t want to spill considering the consequences on his current favorite human.  “You, your rules for my behavior will be null and void.”  His fangs flashed.  “You won’t be able to stop me from acting then, Stiles.”

“Then I’ll have to figure out another way.”  Stiles gave his...fuck his friend a warning of his own.

Though at what point they’d gone from warring against each other to actual friendship even Stiles still had a devil of a time figuring out.

“Catch me, catch me, if you can.”  Sōta half-sang as he grinned at his human, Stiles mirroring his expression.  “It will make for a most exciting game.”

“When I win.”  Stiles said a long time later.  “I want your pact without having to forfeit my soul.”

“And when I win.”  Sōta countered.  “That shiny, tempting soul of yours will be mine.”

The two shook on it, and the deal was set.

May the best (or worst, depending on how one looked at it) win.

Peter Hale studied the lithe figure he’d discovered sitting on the stump of the Nematon during his patrol.

Stiles had always been his favorite, to the point that he never stopped kicking himself over biting his fail-beta Scott instead of the burgeoning spark that night in the woods.

If only he hadn’t been completely out of his mind, he would’ve been able to plan a bit better than just “make a beta.”

Oh, the things he would’ve been able to accomplish with Stiles working with him instead of against him, he thought wistfully.

“None of them have figured it out, you know.”  Peter said as he strolled up to the edge of the Nematon, those whiskey-gold eyes watching him suspiciously every step of the way.

Stiles would have made a magnificent wolf.

“Figured out, what exactly, Zombiewolf?”  Stiles asked arching a brow as the - fucking handsome, damnit - Hale wolf that Lydia had pegged dead to rights as Satan-in-a-V-neck decided to stop lurking and actually approach him while he was meditating.

Because, Peter Hale being Peter Hale, he had an innate sense of timing for the worst moments to show up.

“That the only casualties from the Nogitsune weren’t random at all.”  Peter announced smugly.

Stiles felt the almost-ever-present urge to smack the smarmy grin off of Peter’s face (usually with his baseball bat) ramp up to a hundred at that provoking statement.

“How d’you figure?”  Stiles let his legs unfold and dangle over the edge of the stump, leaning back casually on his hands that he propped behind his hips.  “Demons like that are forces of nature.  They just are, with not a lot of purpose beyond what they’re summoned to do or acting on their nature.  His whole deal was chaos and strife.  Not a whole lot of intention otherwise beyond staying free and powered up.”

“See,” Peter shook his head.  “That alone is more information about the Nogitsune than anyone in town managed to scrape together until Noshiko started talking.  You know him, and more importantly:” Peter leaned forward with a predatory grin.  “He knew you.”

“So?”  Stiles shifted anxiously.  “What’s your point, Creeperwolf?”

“The others haven’t put it together, they probably never will.”  Peter shrugged, leaning back.  “The random chaos made a hell of a cover, I’ll give it that, but the deaths, the major injuries?”  Peter arched a brow, shaking his head with a tsk.  “Those are telling if one is willing to look beneath the surface.  Allison Argent.”  Peter couldn’t help it: he enjoyed the fuck out of the way Stiles swallowed harshly and finally looked away.  “Who kidnapped two of her classmates and helped torture them.  Who knew Derek was held captive by Kate for a week and never did anything.  Who knew you were being held by Gerard and never did anything about it.  Who was never held accountable for any of her many crimes.  And now she’s dead.”

Peter felt a satisfied tingle rush down his spine over another member of the Argents being dead in the ground.

He continued.

“Aiden Steiner, a member of the Alpha Pack.”  And really, did Peter need to say anything more than that?

He didn’t think so, even as Stiles rose to his feet and hopped off the Nematon entirely, pacing up to Peter who turned to face him.

Peter didn’t have a death wish, and Stiles had been far too vocal over being willing to put him back in the ground to want to have him on his flank.

“Lydia, who derided and dismissed you for years, but never did physical damage: tormented but untouched.  Derek who hurt and tossed you around more than once: tossed into a pillar.   Both Derek and Chris locked up.”  Peter clucked his tongue with a shrug. “I could go on, but…”

Really, what would be the point beyond beating a dead horse?

“What do you want, Peter?”

“Just to congratulate you, Stiles.”  Peter smiled.  “Two enemies gone, a third running away with his tail between his legs.  I’d ask how you tamed a Nogitsune, but I have a feeling that it was less that and more a case of quid pro quo.  Tell me,” he cocked his head to the side as those eyes lit with the most stunning display of temper.  “How long exactly was the Nogitsune in full control...and how much of all the chaos that had the pack running in circles was actually you?”

“If I’m as dangerous and unhinged,” Stiles hissed, eyes narrowed.  “As you seem to think, what’s going to stop me from lighting you up?”

Again.

Peter rolled his eyes.  “Come now, Stiles, no need to be rude.”   He chided, ignoring the teen’s snort.  “I’m expressing my admiration, not leading up to threats or blackmail.”  He smirked, then turned away, tossing the last bit over his shoulder.

His verbal coup d’grace if you will.

“I’ll make a left hand out of you yet, kit.”

Well, fuck.  Stiles sighed, letting his shoulders slump and scrubbing his hands through his hair.  When Peter-fucking-Hale was expressing his admiration, he knew he’d crossed one of his Dad’s lines.

Stiles would just have to ensure that no one else ever figured it out.

Whatever it took.

He pouted.

Guess he’d have to hold off on summoning Sōta and making their pact.

Somehow, he knew that having a demonic contract with a nogitsune would come back to bite him in the ass around the pack, even if he never used it.

No...better to be safe than sorry.

This time.

And if all else failed, he had the deal and ability to confirm the pact in his back pocket.

Just in case.

Elsewhere:

Inside a massive stronghold, a sudden breeze gusted through an open window, stirring piles and piles of paperwork hither and yon to the disgruntlement and dismay of the office's owner.

"Hmm?"  A strong hand, gloved in black leather, reached down and plucked up the sole piece of paper - an application, after a fashion - that fell gently at his feet.

And on the other side of the realm, a black and teal nogitsune, a wild type of a fox demon, gekkered to himself.

If he couldn't go to Stiles...well.

Stiles would just have to come to him.

A promise was a promise, after all.

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

Chapter One: The Senior Year from Hell

June 15, 2018; Beacon Hills, California

Stiles was walking home from clearing out his assigned locker in his school’s gym locker room when he felt it again: the sensation of eyes on him.

It wasn’t an unusual feeling for him to get.

Beacon Hills might be a small city compared to New York or Chicago or Los Angeles, but it was a city nonetheless...and that was before the whole supernatural shenanigans thing was added in.

People were always around.

And if they weren’t...well, with the way wolfy hearing and senses worked, that wasn’t a guarantee that he wasn’t being observed anyway.

After the Nogitsune, Stiles was the main, ah, culprit for the pack to keep an eye on.

They said they didn’t blame him.

They said it wasn’t his fault.

But they didn’t trust him anymore, regardless.

Add in the way he looked - which often was just as much of a curse as it was a blessing, he even had generations of family lore to back that up, no matter what his friends have said since he’d grown out his hair and grown into his limbs - and yeah.

He was used to knowing when he was being watched.

What was unsettling about the sensation that had started occurring off-and-on again for the last couple of weeks, was that unlike the looks and stares he was used to noting and shrugging off, this sensation was one he couldn’t direct back to any one person.

And that?

That tingled his spidey-senses in all the wrong ways.

Clenching his jaw tight, he took a breath through his nose and forced his limbs to loosen and relax, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, as he continued forward.

It still took conscious effort to avoid tensing up, or worse grabbing for the crossbody strap of his duffel bag, but he managed it.

After all the time his dad, the Beacon County Sheriff, and his deputies had spent over the years on self-defense training for his only child he had better manage it or else it would’ve been Dad’s patience and Stiles’s time wasted in scads.

Then he started hearing things to go along with feeling like he was being watched (because with his luck that was good news) and from there?

Well, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration that everything went to hell as he stepped forward and into nothing at all.

“Are you certain that this is the one?”  A voice asked, though it seemed impossibly close and yet miles away at the same time.

“My visions were clear, Young Master.”  Another answered, far more formal in tone than the almost-genial growl of the first.  “Of all the options, this path forward carries the greatest chance of success.”

“I put my faith in your advice as always, Barbatos,” the growling-intonation almost disappeared behind a sudden sense of humor filling the voice at what it said next.  “Though I doubt this one will fool my General into believing they are nothing but an average human for long…”

The voices faded away, and then he felt as if he was falling into nothing all over again.

Lord Diavolo, Crown Prince of the Devildom, watched six of his most powerful underlings - and friends, no matter that at least one of them would try and deny it - with discernment as they in turn studied the unconscious form lying before them of their newest “exchange student.”

He’d had thousands of years to learn their expressions and reactions down to the last iota.

There was nothing they could hide from him anymore than they truly could each other - despite that they all acted otherwise.

Literal eons of love, loyalty, and companionship had made the Deadly Seven into an unit that had far more in common with a single symbiotic entity than the dysfunctional family of dangerous misfits they’d chosen to portray in recent times.

Even when at odds with each other or splitting into factions, nothing could truly undo the bonds that heaven had both forged and been unable to break - all to the Creator’s wrath and the Seven’s assumed ruin.

And Diavolo’s benefit.

Outsiders might try and exploit cracks in the unit, but that was folly.

Diavolo may be the only demon around to know the truth behind their Fall - and that the Seven were once Eight - but many had still discovered that his own father and King of Hell hadn’t granted the Fallen archangels their titles out of whimsy or to spite His heavenly counterpart.

Often, to the ruin of those who’d made such foolish attempts as to upset the delicate balancing act that was the stability of the Seven.

He restrained the urge to grin in vicious satisfaction as to a one they all nearly twitched with interest as the slender man woke but managed to not give that fact away...at least if any of them had been humans anyway with the dampened senses to match.

Eternity could drag on, even for the likes of them.

Dangle something - or in this case, someone - interesting in front of any demon, and all of their instincts would scream to investigate, if not chase and take.

It was what came after that initial spurt of curiosity that had given even Diavolo pause in his latest endeavors.

But then again: he wasn’t the Crown Prince of the Devildom for nothing.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Stiles knew he wasn’t in a place he knew, before he even opened his eyes.

And for a simple, if often neglected, reason:

It didn’t smell right.

Scent, for a human, was one of the first senses to become fully developed and one of the last to fade in most people.

Subtle, powerful, and generally overlooked in the day-to-day, Stiles’s nose told him he was in trouble long before his brain or eyes could confirm it.

That wasn’t to say that what he smelled was bad or awful by any means.

Just that it wasn’t right.

Except in the driest weather, his home always carried at least a hint of moisture in the air, tangled up in the green of trees, moss, and in the summer the tang of hard-packed earth, and in the center of the city an almost ever-present coating of car exhaust and pavement.

There was no heavy-laden perfume of Mrs. Cleary’s rose bushes, or the snap of the rosemary hedge.

Stiles knew down to his bones even as he kept his breath from stuttering and giving his aware status away, that he was very far from home.

This, unfortunately, wasn’t his first rodeo when it came to kidnapping.

Or rather abduction now that he was over eighteen.

Then someone spoke and all his plans to assess first and act afterward went flying out the fucking window.

“Oi oi!  Is it tryin’ to play dead or somethin’?”

Just who the fuck was some asshole calling an it?!

A twist and flex of his body, and Stiles went from lying supine upon the floor to being crouched in a runner’s ready position...with a single, important variation.

Rather than having both hands planted upon the floor to propel him forward with a burst of strength, his left (main) hand was held down and at the ready as the blade he always carried (see: paranoid father, runs with wolves) was bared with the blackened steel blade gleaming dully in the torchlight of the strange... grand hall?

What the actual fuck?

“Hmm, interesting instincts.”  

One of the... people, beings?... that read not right to Stiles’s interesting instincts sounded far too amused for Stiles’s preference.  Then the voice itself registered: deep, rumbling with an undertone that was kinda a purr but also very much not, and with an overtone of Command that even someone as relentlessly and casually defiant as Stiles could pick up on; and Stiles had to take a steadying breath.  Even before he spotted the male that the voice belonged to as it alone was enough to spark a not-helpful-in-this-situation below-the-belt reaction.

And then he put the voice to the black haired male with, he blinked in disbelief, red eyes, and he had to shove another entirely visceral reaction that had nothing to do with the caution and fear shouting in the not-sidelined part of his hind-brain aside to focus on the part of him that was much more concerned with staying alive than it was getting laid.

You know, usually.

Fuck you, fear boner, fuck you.

The conversation that followed, even when it was directed at him, took a momentary background as he drank in the scene he’d somehow fallen into.

His libido was instantly at war with his tendency towards self-preservation (more beaten into him by supernatural bullshit over the last couple years but, hey, at least it existed now) but he heard it all even as his hearing took a backseat to his sight for the moment.

The smells he’d noted as not right made significantly more sense as he took in the room: block-stone floor and walls, towering windows that looked out over a landscape like nothing he’d ever seen before.  Iron (maybe? It was black anyway) chandeliers dripping with crystals and light, thick carpets in rich colors of red and purple and gold softening the acoustics of the room.  A dais that...he couldn’t call it contained or held.

Even without the explanation that he was in hell (or rather the Devildom) and the male beings watching him with varying expressions of boredom, apathy, and the rare flash of interest were demons, he knew that they weren’t the sort of creatures that could be contained even if they would stoop to allow it.

Perhaps the one in the center with the red militaristic uniform and overwhelming persona of geniality that did absolutely zilch to hide his potential danger from Stiles.

The others might be dangerous to his well-being, especially if he pushed them the right way, but everything in him was screaming that ‘Lord Diavolo, Prince of the Devildom’ was the most dangerous creature he’d ever met or likely ever would meet.

Up to and including insane hunters, koo-koo for cocoa puffs alpha werewolves, and his personal favorite of a nearly-insane nogitsune.

Stiles could respect that about Diavolo, as it made the geniality seem much more sincere than the almost-plastic expression the green-eyed blond wore.

If he was the biggest badass to ever badass, then why not be pleasant?

Diavolo didn’t need to impress anyone with who he was: he didn’t need to wave his dick around or shout to make himself heard.

He simply was and others backed the fuck out of the way.

It was an almost shocking contrast to his buttoned up-and-down left hand in Lucifer, the owner of the sinful (heh) voice and stunning face who put the Stern into Spank Me Please! And just about Dom’d his way from sitting on the dais over to Stiles’s side despite it only taking the Lord of Pride a split second to manage the distance.

Diavolo finished introducing himself and his generals, Lucifer zipping over to Stiles, and he took that as his cue even as he slipped his knife back away.

If this was real (and all his senses were saying it was, along with him never having a dream this vivid before even when they were more on the side of hallucinations than dreams) and if they were who Diavolo said they were then...well.

Stiles wasn’t dumb or naive enough to think that a piddly little mortal dagger (no matter the enchantments it supposedly had and he’d yet to really test) would do more than tickle a being made by the Creator and who’d survived both the Uprising and all that came after.

He wasn’t the most versed in angelic or demonic lore, knew just about as most people who’d followed popular culture or been raised in a church plus what he’d pried out of Sōta, but that much he was certain of.

“That’s great.”  Stiles said, holding onto his patience.  “But it doesn’t explain why I’m here, or how I managed to step through the ground in California and wake up in the Royal Academy of Diavolo.”

“Magic,” the blond who was apparently Satan answered blandly regarding the second.

Right.  Stiles thought sarcastically, barely restraining the urge to roll his eyes.  Why didn’t he think of that?

Oh.

Because until like two seconds ago, he didn’t truly believe magic like that existed considering the limited uses he’d seen it put to over the last few years.

“You are here to help usher in a new age of peace between the Devildom, the Celestial Realm, and the human world.”  Diavolo cut off what (Stiles was guessing based on the look on Asmodeus’s face) would have been a less-than-helpful addition.  “Here at RAD you will be able to attend lessons with others, including Lucifer and his brothers, and learn about magic as well as the demonic and celestial realms.  It is my hope that fostering such understanding will lead to peace between the realms.”

Stiles tilted his head a bit at Lucifer, who almost robotically proceeded to welcome him “on behalf of the rest of the student body.”

“Again,” Stiles grasped the fraying edges of his (infamous) temper with both hands and held tight.  Losing his shit with capital-D-Demons probably wasn’t the best plan for surviving...whatever the fuck this actually was.  He doubted they’d find it as cute and entertaining as Sōta had.  Wait.  Sōta.  Now there was an idea...  “Why am I here?”   Seeing that no answer other than what he’d already been given was going to be forthcoming as Diavolo merely smiled, bright gold - actual fucking gold - eyes flashing with amusement, Stiles gave in.  “Answer my question.”  He snapped, flicking his eyes over the brothers, and parsing what little he could from their reactions to his impudence.

Which, infuriatingly enough, seemed mostly indulgent amusement.

Like he was, was, a damn puppy yapping at them or some shit.

“Interesting.”  Lucifer arched a brow, glancing back at his lord who just smiled one of his little grins that gave precisely nothing away.  “This one is nothing like Solomon.”

Then the demonic lord addressed Stiles once more:

“You are part of an exchange program between the realms to strengthen their bonds. Two of our students have been sent to your world, two to the Celestial Realm, and in exchange, we are hosting two students from each realm as well. You will stay here for one year, after which you will submit a writeup of your experience here.”

Alright, that was the absolute limit.

“So first I get abducted,” Stiles ignored the spluttering from Diavolo and the cackles from several of the brothers in preference for having a glare off with Lucifer.  Though, granted: probably not the best idea as the literal embers in the fallen angel’s eyes glowed brighter with every moment he refused to back down.  “And then I have to write a fucking paper on the experience at the end of it?  I call bullshit.”  He snapped, eyes narrowing and propping his hands on his hips.

The white-haired demon snorted a laugh as his... brothers all seemed to swallow back chuckles of their own as Lucifer’s expression went deadpan.

Even high lord demon Daddy Diavolo smirked.

And all of a sudden, mouthing off to demons seemed like less and less of a good idea, even if both his libido and his temper seemed to think it was the best thing since curly fries.

Alright...and maybe part of his problem was being a bit hangry but they’d snatched him before he could get dinner on the way home so that part wasn’t really his fault.

“I’m not asking for your doctoral thesis.”  Lucifer’s voice could’ve been used to blacken roasted peppers it was so dry.  “A summary is all we’re asking for.”

“Still doesn’t make-up for the abduction bit.”  Stiles snarked.  “My Dad is going to have kittens. ”  Again.

“Technically, we didn’t.”  Diavolo decided to nip that sticking point of the human’s in the bud before Lucifer’s fraying temper gave out.  Not that he wouldn’t enjoy it.  But the human was already wary enough without adding in any more ammunition to their riled up instincts.  “Or did you not apply for multiple exchange programmes for the upcoming school year, hmm?”

Stiles bit back a curse, which only Lucifer should have been close enough to notice but from the expressions on the others’ faces he wasn’t so certain about that.

He had applied for every exchange program BHHS was involved with for a ‘gap year’/work-experience-deal since he’d already finished his graduation requirements but didn’t really want to go to college yet.

Plus his Dad wanted him the hell, heh, out of Beacon Hills before it literally killed him and Stiles was just tired enough from all the bullshit to at least take a shot at an exchange slot to make his old man happy after all the lying and hiding and such he’d put the Sheriff through.

But he’d been thinking more along the lines of France or Poland if he was lucky, or even stateside if not, not attending Demon U. for a year.

Which just figures.  He thought sardonically, considering his maternal family history.  The Gajos curse strikes again.

“The details have all been taken care of.”  Diavolo waved an airy hand as a deep gong reverberated through the room and the rest of the demons - except for Lucifer - took their leave.  “Welcome to the Devildom, Mr. Stilinski.”

At first, Lucifer intended to greet Lord Diavolo’s latest guest and then dump them into Mammon’s lap to handle while Lucifer got back to work.

Then he actually met the human, and that plan went right out the window.

He’d spent less than an hour in the presence of the vaguely interesting human and already knew that this Stiles Stilinski would run literal rings around Mammon if his brother acted his usual lackadaisical self when it came to anything other than his positions as Lucifer’s Second and Avatar of Greed.

As much as it grated on him (Lucifer wasn’t the Avatar of Pride for nothing) Lord Diavolo’s hidden agenda behind this exchange program wasn’t without merit.

In the last centuries, Lucifer and his brothers had all fallen into a rather unprecedented state of ennui.

He still thought his Lord could have chosen a less annoying angelic guest than Luke (or at least one that brought up less painful memories) or a human who was less of a risk than Solomon, but Simeon at least was relatively innocuous.

For one of Lucifer’s former brothers, anyway.

As for Stiles...his temper aside, Lucifer had decided to withhold judgement.

For the moment, anyway.

Even if it meant handling the human’s initial introduction to the Devildom personally before handing him off to Mammon to protect.

And handle, if necessary.

There was no sun in the Devildom.

The sky was no less beautiful for the lack: a mural of purples, blues, and reds that as far as Stiles knew never changed.

(He was a little right, as it turned out.  The sky lightened some during the ‘day’ hours and turned almost endlessly black and dark purple at ‘night’ but there wasn’t a true division of the two as there was in the mortal realm.  It wasn’t long, about a week in fact, before he found himself reluctantly thankful that among those details that had been handled on his behalf included a set of special lights for his room that mimicked daylight or else he’d miss the sun even more than normal for a guy who sometimes lost days in research spirals.)

It made a strange kind of sense.

The Devildom wasn’t a planet.

It didn’t revolve around a distant star.

It was a realm according to what he’d been told and been able to infer.

One inhabited by beings of myth and nightmare: everything and anything that went bump in the dark.

A sun was no more normal to them in the end than constant twilight-to-darkness was to him.

Lucifer was kind (or more likely dutiful enough to his Lord from how easily he’d constantly deferred to Diavolo earlier) enough to point out different points of interest as he led Stiles through RAD and out into the city to where he’d be staying.

The House of Lamentation, the only guest and non-demonic resident of the dorm that housed exactly seven demons: Lucifer and his brothers.

Well, supposedly.

Either the trip through realms had rattled Stiles more than he’d thought or he’d only counted six lords of hell present not counting Diavolo.

One was missing, the Avatar of Sloth (or Acedia, depending on what source material this realm was closer to than others.)

Something about that oversight, an intentional one if Stiles wasn’t reading too much into things, prodded at him but even as irritated, outraged, and secretly fucking terrified as he was, he knew better than to poke too hard at Lucifer’s patience all at once.

Archangels had, according to his Sunday school studies when he was a kid, the power to make and unmake entire worlds.

Popular culture tried to paint them as benign, even benevolent, but like anyone who’d been raised the way he had, and been involved in the events he had been, Stiles found it hard to forget that the way one of the only archangels to get lines in the Bible had had to announce themselves with the phrase Be not afraid.

If that wasn’t a glaring red warning signal when he was dealing with the Fallen version of that, Stiles didn’t know what would be.

Angels in the source material were heaven’s warriors first, and everything else after.

And Lucifer and his brothers?

They had been heaven’s most fearsome generals and weapons aside from/including the likes of Michael, the Sword of Heaven.

Anyone of the brothers could squish a human on accident let alone on purpose.

Which was rather the reason for the escort to his dorm and being assigned a glorified babysitter as much as the infringement on his autonomy aggravated him.

During the tour/walk, Lucifer handed over what looked like an average smartphone, except the part where it came with a demonic helper-app and had a bit of a reddish glow surrounding it, and walked him through signing up for classes at RAD and where to find his e-textbooks and school map.

As well as his list of “tasks” to earn his way while he was playing human ambassador.

Which, actually, was probably the least irritating part of the whole situation, earlier protest regarding paper-writing aside.

Not having to rely entirely on his demonic hosts for his every need as well as his protection?

Um, yes please.

Thankfully, before either of their tempers could snap and have them snarling at each other (bossy and snarky, never a particularly great combination on the best of days) Lucifer led Stiles up the stairs through the House of Lamentation and to a beautifully carved wooden door.

The House was far more (and somehow, far less at the same time) than Stiles had expected of a dorm that housed the seven most powerful Lords of Hell.

Behind the actual King and Crown Prince anyway.

It wasn’t a palace by any means, more like an old school gothic manor that sprawled over acres of manicured grounds behind a towering wrought iron (or the Devildom equivalent) fence and gate that featured seven of the same icons from the tapestries in the RAD great hall.

The sigils of the brothers, if Stiles had to make a bet on it, and he’d be right.

Stiles’s door wasn’t too deep into the manor, and if he was mentally picturing the layout correctly, shared a wall with the kitchen.  It was made of what he thought was solid oak and polished to a high shine, carved with simple lines and had his name engraved on a bronze nameplate in the center.

“My room is there,” Lucifer pointed just down the hall to an all-black door that had bright blue inlays of some kind.  “With Mammon across the hall.”

Both of which were intentional: Mammon’s and the human’s placements.

Better to keep potential trouble contained to a single area rather than the alternative.

“If you need anything, your DDD has the contact information for myself and my brothers, though Mammon is your official guide while you are here.”

And should be bothered first.  Stiles filled in the rest for himself, then nodded to show he understood the implication.  And made plans to hook up with Sōta, who he was starting to view as his ace up his sleeve, even if a thousand year old nogitsune probably (most definitely) wouldn’t be on the same power level as the lords of hell.

At least he’d be something more than human and maybe able to buy Stiles time to run away if any demons got the bright idea to try and munch on the Stiles.

With that, Lucifer reached around Stiles and opened his door, then pressed the suddenly immobile human into the room and closed it behind him when he was clear.

Out of sight at last, Lucifer let a wicked grin flash across his face.

If his Lord had had to force a human on him and his brothers, at least he’d chosen one as potentially interesting as he was a beautiful temptation.

Which also, he scowled down the hall in the direction of Asmodeus’s rooms, made him into a potential problem as neither Lucifer nor his brothers were either blind or the sort to deny themselves what they wanted anymore than any other demon was.

While Lucifer had been cataloging what about the human made him not quite what Lord Diavolo had told him to expect, his brothers had been making their own assessments.

And while they would log reports on what sort of problems each anticipated to arise, as was their duty, he had no doubt that not a single one of them missed Stilinski’s eyes, face, and form.

Almost-gold eyes, rich chocolate brown hair, beautiful pale skin dotted with beauty marks, and a build that was deceptively muscled despite being of above average height for a male of Stilinski’s origins.

That he was all fire and flare was only likely to inflame them as it was a challenge.

Asmo and Satan in particular were likely to be problematic given their personal tastes.

What Lucifer wasn’t willing to consider, was that Stilinski was just as much a problem for him given his own preferences as he was any of his brothers.

Far be it for the Avatar of Pride to admit such regarding a mere human... even to himself.

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

Chapter Two: More Than Meets the Eye

Day 1, RAD Exchange Program; House of Lamentation, The Devildom

Stiles paid little attention to Lucifer pushing him into his new room and shutting the door on him.

It was the kind of high-handed behavior that outside of Derek (he liked his throat intact, thanks) would have him going after the presumptuous asshole with vigor, but even someone as stubborn as him knew when he was at saturation and just couldn’t deal with anything else right now.

For him, the noping-out point was apparently being dropped into hell - excuse him The Devildom - as part of an exchange program that had to be a cover for something else, meeting both the Avatars of Six of the Seven Deadly Sins and the Crown Prince of Hell, and then stepping into his dorm room for the next year to find that boxes filled with his research of the supernatural kind were all stacked neatly in his, ah, sitting room?

Stiles blinked hard several times, then reached up and rubbed his eyes hard after absently slipping his DDD into his front pocket and slipping his duffel (that he’d been wearing this whole time) off and onto the rug that rested just inside the door.

Even with having powerful demonic dorm-mates, Stiles had been thinking of ‘dorm’ as in the average college student experience, not what he found behind a door with his name on it in the House of Lamentation.

The damn thing was massive with an open concept the size of his childhood home’s entire first floor.  

It opened on a bit of a foyer area with a rack for shoes (his own plus some that explained the Uniform Sizes section on the form that Lucifer had pulled up at one point to head off another round of abduction accusations) and a coat-tree, plus the thick rug he was standing on over polished wood floors.  From there it spread out in a half-circle, a study area with bookshelves and a desk on his left; sitting area with fireplace, couch, chairs, and coffee table ahead; and then his sleeping area to the right behind a couple of decorative screens.  Some smaller boxes that contained his most personal belongings were stacked on the coffee table, with book boxes and laptop/computer set up in the study, and given the shoes on the rack and his jackets/sweatshirts hanging up in the foyer he was going with his clothes and toiletries in his bedroom.

And, yep, as he rounded the screens he saw his fluffy plush red blanket on the end of the massive (larger than a king, which he didn’t know was a thing) bed.

He hoped they grabbed his pillow too, he just didn’t sleep right without it.

Two doors flanked his new nightstands, one of which held a charging cradle for his DDD.  The first he merely peeked inside, finding the expected clothes plus additions in the militaristic-style uniform that all the demons had been wearing at RAD.

Behind the other was an ensuite-bathroom straight out of some Better Homes and Gardens luxury porn (his interests and research binges were vast), that had him blinking and shaking his head again, but almost made this whole nightmare worth it after a lifetime of communal bathrooms.

Like with the other rooms, his things that weren’t overtly personal were already set up, an invasion of privacy that if he had the energy he’d be extremely pissed off about above and beyond the bedroom-raiding but at the moment couldn’t work up to more than a resigned meh, at least he didn’t have to unpack or decorate an entire apartment.

Shrugging out of his hoodie, Stiles barely remembered to put the DDD in the cradle to charge and set an alarm for dinner before he collapsed onto the bed face-down into the over-the-top mound of pillows (that thankfully did include the one from his bed) and passed the fuck out.

The six of the seven brothers present in the Devildom arranged themselves around Lucifer’s private office.

(Not his study in his suite, but his actual office as Diavolo’s second.)

If anyone else were present or had seen the scene for themselves who hadn’t known the brothers before the last couple of centuries, or had somehow forgotten what they’d been like before that, they never would have believed their eyes.

There was no fighting.

No arguing.

No name calling or teasing.

Down to the last of them, each was quiet, intense, and focused on their DDDs as they read through the day’s reports, especially each of their impressions of the newest exchange student.

To even more potential shock, Mammon was the last to finish, but not because he was slacking or fucking around - but because he was Lucifer’s second and it was his duty to run threat assessments to forward onwards to his brother and commander.

It was easy to forget, even for them at times, that the facades they wore to ease their allies and enemies alike were just that: facades.

All seven of them together, including the absent Belphegor, represented the most dangerous combined force in the three realms, one that only their erstwhile Father was capable of besting at once.

And it wasn’t, despite what many thought, because of their sheer power alone.

A look from Lucifer prompted Mammon from his thoughts.

“He’s not a normal mortal human.”  Was his immediate take after letting all of their various impressions - each of the brothers focusing on their own areas of expertise - collate and create a cohesive picture inside his mind.  “Did Lord Diavolo ever expressly state that the new exchange student was supposed to be one, or was it implied?”

Lucifer turned that question over in his mind, crooking his forefinger to rest lightly against his chin, then had to nod in reluctant agreement with Mammon’s immediate concern.

It never had been stated as such, but that had been the assumption all had been left with after the Prince’s last announcement regarding the program.

A grin tugged at the side of his mouth.

Diavolo.

Still dealing cards from the bottom of the deck that even Lucifer couldn’t predict even after all these centuries.

“His looks aren’t normal.”  Asmodeus confirmed.  “The eyes alone are a giveaway that we’re dealing with someone more than an average mortal.  What that more might be however is very much the pertinent question.”

“Satan is going to have to be careful around him.”  Mammon moved on to his next most salient point.  “All of us tested his reactions to our powers during your walk to the House.  Under all that sass is a lot of anger and wrath waiting to burst out.”  He smirked a little over at his older brother.  “He’s also a greedy little thing, but it’s not monetary, and envy isn’t far behind.  We need to know more about his background.”

Lucifer sighed, he’d been afraid of that after he’d gotten almost no reaction to his aura of Pride or Beel to Gluttony.

Asmodeus had gotten a pleasing reaction to Lust, but it wasn’t anywhere close to Satan’s with Wrath, coming in at a distant fourth...which was unusual in its own right for a human where Lust generally tended to be in their top three hierarchy of personal sins whether they were the most chaste of nuns or the dirtiest politician.

They’d seen much over the centuries but that particular trifecta of sins in that order...it spelled out nothing good about his history, even if the human didn’t recognize it for himself.

It had the potential to make their jobs of keeping him in one piece significantly more difficult, even for them.

And without Belphegor present to test him against Acedia, they had no way of predicting the true splash zone of one of the human’s inevitable lashouts or his triggers.

“That shiny soul of his is going to be a problem, even with that dark undertone on it.”  Leviathan pointed out the obvious that likewise had an obvious solution as much as it wasn’t necessarily the easiest route to keeping Diavolo’s plan on track.  Darkness in a soul didn’t necessarily tarnish it or diminish its worth.  On the contrary: depending on the soul, it could, as with their new headache’s case, make the rest of it significantly more vibrant and tempting for the contrast.  “Add it to the pretty packaging and he almost has Nummy Demon Treat Deluxe tattooed on his forehead.”

“Levi, Mammon.”  Lucifer handed them their orders regarding the issue they could work on immediately.  “Pull him in and test him further.  If he is going to be a danger to us, or the Prince, we need to know exactly what kind before we have our former brothers.”  He sneered, an expression of disdain shared by the rest.  “Interfering where they’re not wanted and ruining the Prince’s plans.”

“Has he shared exactly what those are yet?”  Satan, ever the strategist and seeker of knowledge pressed.  “Or is he still going with his peace and harmony line?”

Lucifer’s grimace was enough of an answer for all of them, and they moved on to updating their patrol and security schedules for the Devildom and their legions rather than pour salt into that particular open wound in Lucifer’s armor.

Bang!

Stiles levered up in bed as his - his, oh fuck, it was real - dorm room door slammed against the stone wall with an echoing crash.

“Oi oi, human!”  The white haired demon from before - fucking gorgeous demon, with that bright white hair, tanned skin, and wicked grin...bad, bad Stiles!  No fucking the demons who could eat your soul if you piss them off - Mammon rocketed into his space without even a passing glance at being polite about it.  “What’s with wasting the Great Mammon’s time huh?  Time is money, and I ain’t about to waste any waitin’ on the likes of you so let’s gooooo...huh?”

Mammon stopped and cocked his head with a blink of bemusement when a dagger went flying by his ear and embedded in the sturdy (demon-built, ya know) room screen behind him with a thunk.

“Ooh, feisty.”  He teased the cute human with a bedhead that even Belphie would be proud of.  “Might wanna be careful ‘bout who you try’n play those kinda games with though, princess.”  He warned the next moment, tipping his sunglasses down his nose and glaring over the rim, showing off vivid aqua blue eyes.  “Not every demon is gonna be so magnanimous about it as me, see?  Now, c’mon.”  He snapped his fingers twice in quick succession at the human that was pulling itself off the bedspread.

Tch.

Maybe this was going to be a bigger headache than he’d thought…

“Dinner is soon an’ you don’t wanna be the one gettin’ in between Beel and feedin’ his bottomless pit or else you might end up on his plate instead.”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Stiles waved Mammon off and stumbled over to his closet now that his imminent heart attack had settled down.

Like fuck he was going down to dinner with the lords of hell in a rumpled t-shirt and holey jeans.

They already were patently put-upon over this whole clusterfuck, he wasn’t going to give them anymore ammunition or show off any more weaknesses than he already had.

His Dad might have had his issues on the parenting front at times, but he hadn’t raised a fool.

And Stiles had no intention of becoming a demon snack, no matter how seemingly pretty (or just flat-out hot) the demon in question might be.

Stiles took the chair he was directed to between Mammon and Beelzebub or “Beel” as everyone seemed to call the largest of the brothers - both in height and sheer muscle mass.

Which was saying something, as other than Asmodeus “call me Asmo” all of them were tall, muscled stacks of male that if Stiles hadn’t come to terms with his own lack of bulk would be giving him a complex.

And even Asmo’s smaller height and slim figure wasn’t anything to scoff at.

As it was, he had to take a moment as he started eating - some of which was really strange but he was assured was human-safe food - to take in, process, and then file away all of the shiny.

He might be a virgin, but that didn’t mean he’d been a monk when it came to research and, ah, self-service.

And every single one of the demons he’d met so far were fucking gorgeous of one type or another.

There was overtly masculine Beel, with his fiery-orange hair and purple (not violet like humans could get sometimes but an unreal shade of bright purple) eyes and slender-and-too-pretty Asmo with his golden curls and rose pink eyes.  Leviathan wasn’t as pretty as Asmo but was a similar smooth kind of handsome with his indigo-and-gold eyes and purple hair, but Satan’s face could probably stop traffic if he ventured a sincere smile.  Mammon was a study in contrasts that belonged on a magazine cover with a built body to match.

And Lucifer…

Well, Stiles could see why he was often described as being the most beautiful of the legions before his fall.

The last brother was still missing, but given the lack of place setting Stiles also wasn’t expecting him to show up but when/if he did he wouldn’t be surprised in the least if he kept up the gorgeous trend.

He wanted to blame it on them being fallen angels, but then there was Diavolo and yeah.

The demonic Prince kinda threw that theory right out the damn window.

Taller and broader than even Beel, with blood red hair, golden eyes, bronze skin, and a face that could’ve been carved by a master, Diavolo could fit right in with the brothers when it came to swoon-worthy looks.

“So, Stiles.”  Satan leaned forward around Levi to get a better view of their new pet project.  “What classes have you decided on for summer quarter?”

Jolted out of his quiet detachment from the conversation around the dinner table, Stiles looked up, meeting those bright neon green eyes with hints of royal blue that didn’t even begin to match the fake smile underneath them.

“A bunch of remedials,” he explained, remaining calm at suddenly and once again becoming the focus of six of the most powerful beings in the Devildom.  “Since I want to take a couple higher level classes later in the year.”

One thing was for sure, if Stiles had to be here and attend what he was starting to think of as the demonic version of Hogwarts on Crack based on the course offerings in the e-handbook on his DDD, he was going to make it worth it and find out just what it was about him that made Sōta and Deaton so damn giddy and/or cagey.

“Oh?”  Satan cocked his head to the side in curiosity.  “Like what?”

“Comparative Magical Languages.”  Stiles wrinkled his nose.  Which meant he’d have to brush up on his Latin and learn at least the basics of Aramaic and probably a couple others.  Not that he wasn’t capable of it, but it wasn’t his favorite way to kill time either.  “Magical Contract Law, Runic Magic, Interspecies Relations, stuff like that.”

Satan blinked at the first two, the other one at least making sense from the standpoint of going with the flow as even a human who was as magical as the average lamppost could at least attempt to talk their way out of trouble if they knew the right approach..

But not runic magic, and he couldn’t think of a single reason why a human would care about magical contract law.

“I have ADHD and get bored easy.”  Stiles answered the question that the Avatar couldn’t quite bring himself to ask - likely that lowly human thing in play that he was already sick of.  “And I know nothing about demons that’s not second-hand or worse so…”

He left out that even if he didn’t have the slightest chance in a physical fight with a demon, as Mammon had spent the trip to the dining hall pounding into his head along with the advice to ‘just run if you want to live’, so knowing their vulnerable spots - magical or physical - could only come in handy.

Even if the comparative demonic philosophy class that took place in the same time block as demon bio in the Fall sounded fascinating.

Survival first, last, and always had to be his motto if he wanted to make it back to see his friends and Dad at the end of the year.

Stiles gestured behind Lucifer’s place at the head of the table using the painting hanging on the wall as example of his diverse interests given that he recognized it following his research binges on demonic lore.

Probably the original, given that they were the lords of hell.

“Rosetti’s Dante’s Dream.”

Satan just nodded, accepting that answer for the moment, and Asmo jumped into the void to learn more about their new guest.

Managing, while he was at it, to disguise his interrogation behind his rapid-paced chatter that disarmed - at least a little - even the guarded Stiles and the rest of the meal quickly passed as the brothers left Asmo in peace to do his work.

Except where an interjection was needed to keep Stiles off-balance or from growing too suspicious over Asmo’s goal behind the questions.

The next day was almost shockingly normal in comparison to the one that came before it.

Stiles had breakfast with the brothers, worked on setting up his room to his liking while the demons mostly left him alone to ‘acclimate’ except for the random text, and then made his way down to the gym for a work out (he wasn’t going to slack when his odds of survival might depend on his ability to run away) before lunch.

Which he managed to spend with only Leviathan in attendance, as the rest of the brothers were off doing...demony things or whatever.

He didn’t really believe ‘school duties’ were school duties, he wasn’t a blithering idiot, even if the wisdom behind cycling upper-tier demons and other residents of the Devildom through RAD every century or so made sense even to him.

Continuing education was something he was solidly approving of for anyone, add in literal eternity and, yeah, he got it even if it was nothing like what he’d thought hell would be like.

Lots of demons, not so much on the tortured souls, hellfire, and brimstone.

At least, so far.

However, finding himself the sole focus of one lord of hell wasn’t any less nerve-wracking as it turned out than having six of them dividing their attention between him and each other as with previous meals at the House of Lamentation.

If anything, given that it was Leviathan, who was the third most powerful of the brothers and far less easy to read than Mammon, it was worse.

That the brothers were categorized by age-order based on their power and not how old they were was interesting...and apparently due to none of them actually remembering how old they were, other than the fact that Lucifer was indisputably the actual oldest along with being the most powerful.

Glancing up from his DDD, Levi smirked as the human hesitated in the doorway.

“Stop spilling anxiety everywhere, normie.”  He snorted, shaking his head.  “I’m not gonna bite.  I’m not Beel or Asmo.”

Reacquainting himself with himself, new demonic housemates aside, Stiles rolled his eyes with a snort.

“Strangely not comforting.”  He shot right back, gaining an actual full-frontal look at Leviathan for the first time as the indigo-haired Avatar lifted his head like a wolf scenting blood.

And damn.   He’d known that Leviathan was right up there with his other brothers, but his bangs hid the effect of his eyes a lot of the time.  Or his expression was blank.

Slap a smirk on that full mouth and dark amusement in his eyes, and Leviathan wasn’t taking any prisoners in the looks department.

“Wasn’t meant to be.”  Levi felt genuine interest regarding the strange human spark to life.  He’d registered before as more than a meat sack, mainly due to not taking as much shit off of Lucifer as most demons let his big brother get away with let alone a mere mortal.  But if snarky was his usual setting and not just a knee-jerk reaction, with the potential brains to back it up…

Yeah, it was probably a good thing Satan had been warned off.

Add in being a rope bunny and Stiles would ring all of his little brother’s bells hardcore.

Which, if the intention was to return the mortal to his realm uncorrupted, letting Satan loose on him wouldn’t exactly be helpful and almost as bad of a plan as giving Lucifer himself free reign to tempt the shiny-shiny soul in its equally-shiny human packaging.

“Skipping school?”  Stiles asked, drifting away from that topic, thanks.

“Nah,” Levi shrugged, seeing no harm in giving a little for the chance to dig more info out of the shiny before Lucifer had a coronary over whatever it was about this one that had Diavolo playing games with them all.  “I do e-learning now that it’s a thing.  I could go to physical classes, I have a schedule, but why bother?”

Fair enough, though it broached the question of why the other lords of hell didn’t do the same...but with a glance at the almost expectant look on Leviathan’s face, Stiles decided to be a brat and not take the bait the demon was dangling out there.

He was among demons.

Not for a moment could he let himself forget that everything had a cost, and more often than not, it wasn’t going to be one he wanted to pay.

Levi pouted a bit when Stiles didn’t want to play, even as he was reluctantly impressed as the human quickly grabbed a couple sandwiches and peaced out without making it seem like he was running away.

Smart.

Levi’s control was good - it had to be given his power - but even so it was better not to tempt his predatory instincts to hunt and chase.

Score one for the human.

At this rate, Lucifer was either going to kill the shiny-squishy out of sheer paranoia or Stiles would end up as a Consort - though to who was the question.

Either way, the show at least should be moderately entertaining, and Levi would make sure to get decent video of it all.

For blackmail, if nothing else, or he’d have to turn in his demon card.

Sōta knew the moment that his plan fell into place and Stiles was pulled through one of the portals between Devildom and the mortal plane.

Their unfinished pact, well, tingled for lack of a better explanation.

He grinned in wicked satisfaction.

Even with helping things along a bit, there’d been no guarantee that Lucifer and Lord Diavolo would choose his favorite human.

But nevertheless, he’d had to try when it became clear for whatever reason that Stiles was holding off finishing their pact.  Sōta could make a couple of guesses.  All of which started with either “Dad” or “Scott” for why.  In the end, it didn’t matter.

In the Devildom, those mortal concerns were highly unlikely to continuing holding sway, and then Sōta wouldn’t have to live with an unfinished pact nagging at him like a sore fang every fucking day.

From the moment Stiles landed in the Devildom, Sōta had been on high alert for his summoning.

Which meant that when it came almost a full day later, he didn’t know whether to be panicked or epically pissed off.

If he sprang and tackled his human as a result of his body’s mixed signals when he came out the otherside of the summoning spell to see flashing near-gold eyes and a grinning smile, well…

That was no one’s fault but Stiles’s for keeping him waiting.

Never had Stiles been happier that he’d chosen to meditate in bed than when he’d used the summoning spell Sōta had taught him to call the chaos demon to him.

He hadn’t expected being pounced but at least it was back into a pillow mound and not onto the hard floor of his bedroom.

That would’ve hurt like a motherfucker given how strong Sōta was.

(As evidenced by being able to toss the built form of one Derek Hale around like the bigass werewolf was a feather pillow when he was possessing Stiles.)

Chittering and gekkering filled the room, as about fifty pounds of fluffy fur and waving tails - all nine of them and wasn’t that interesting? - in black and teal pinned him by the shoulders to the bed and filled his lap.

Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle at the display before pointing out:

“Ya know, whatever it is you’re scolding me over, it’ll probably be a lot more effective in your human form and using English...just sayin’.”

And then within a heartbeat Stiles had a lapful of two hundred - or so - pounds of pissed off nogitsune instead of furball and had reason to regret all of his life choices as Sōta let him know - at length - exactly what his malfunction was.

But eventually even a thousand year old demon had to slow down and they were able to seal their pact - the delay of which being the reason behind the scolding - via blood.

In Sōta’s case using own sharp claw to prick his finger - that Stiles had to eww, drink - and for Stiles came in the form of Sōta’s bite over his Lichtenberg figure scarring where it started on the back of his left hand.

That, along with the evisceration scar on his stomach and the kanji for ‘self’ behind his ear, being the only physical remainders of Stiles’s time as Sōta’s host.

Unlike the mental ones, which even though Sōta and Stiles eventually came to terms, were ever-present, unhealing, and an epic pain in Stiles’s ass in the form of worsened PTSD, memories that aren’t his invading his head, and the always-fun night-terrors.

But then, Stiles still managed to be friends with Scott, create an amicable alliance with Peter the Giant Creeperwolf, and tolerate Chris Argent, all of whom had played into his gaining PTSD in the first place so...really given the givens and that Sōta had held up his end of the deal re: pact not costing his soul, Stiles felt he might’ve actually come out ahead this time.

Which, terrifyingly enough, felt like a first since the night he’d been dumb enough to drag his best-friend into the woods looking for half a dead body.

Fuck his life, seriously.

“I missed you too, buddy.”  Stiles told Sōta when with a golden flash the pact between them sealed and the demon was able to unwind and drop onto the bed next to Stiles with a sigh.  “Now,” his grin flashed.  “Tell me everything about Diavolo, Lucifer, and his brothers.”

If any of the brothers had borne witness to the matching smirks and flashing eyes on the pair, at least one of them would have had the sense to duck for cover.

As it was, Stiles and Sōta were alone in his room, and they had hours to kill before Stiles would be expected for dinner.

It wasn’t enough time for Sōta to fill his favorite human in on all the good gossip, but he’d at least be able to hit the high notes.

Which should be enough to keep Stiles from riling one of them up into trying to kill his human...he hoped.

Though it was Stiles so...he gave himself fifty-fifty odds.

“You were possessed?!”   Jaws dropped around the dinner table that night as the brothers had started questioning - or interrogating depending on whether one asked them or Stiles - their guest regarding Asmo seeing one of the more powerful of the minor chaos demons leaving the House when he arrived.

Questioning which quickly took a turn as Satan and Lucifer, being the most magically astute of all the demons in residence, noted the pact mark that Stiles tried-but-failed to cover with the too-long sleeves of his worn-in hoodie and knew it for what it was.

Which in turn led to questions about one: how Stiles knew a minor chaos demon; and two: how he convinced it to make a pact with him without giving over his soul in exchange.

“Only for like,” Stiles shrugged.  “Six months.”

Eyes rolled all around the dinner table, except for Beel who was too focused on eating (Lord of Gluttony and all) to pause and engage in the discussion when it didn’t really involve him or matter to his interests.

“How’d you survive?”  Satan was almost salivating over the heretofore unprecedented event - and having a firsthand account to dissect for new knowledge.  “Nogitsune always end up, ah, ending their hosts.”

Mainly because no one calls down a chaos demon for fluffy acts of light magic, but that was semantics versus historical reality.

“My friends topside,” Stiles waved in the vague direction of the ceiling with his fork before stabbing some more of what he thought might be the Devildom version of potstickers.  Whatever, it was on the human-safe china (gotta love color-coding, which had the brothers putting anything not-safe on eye-searing red plates) so he was going with it even if they tasted just a bit off.   “Know a werewolf with more magical knowledge than ever seems feasible but,” he shrugged.  “Peter’s weird that way.  Cornered Sōta so that it was more viable to just pack it in and exit Chez Stiles than it was to stay.”

The brothers all digested that for a moment, Satan and Lucifer eventually both wearing expressions that said they weren’t one hundred percent sold on that explanation but that it was good enough to let it go - for the moment anyway.

Then Mammon pointed out the problem:

“Oi!  That doesn’t explain how ya got the little fox’s pact without givin’ up your soul.”

Stiles grinned, Asmo leaning in almost unconsciously at the sight of the expression on the human’s face - and how dangerous (and dangerously tempting) it made him look.

“We made a deal before he, ah, left.”   Stiles’s expression could be called almost foxy as he gloated.  Mildly, but still.  “If I could figure out a way to banish him, he’d make a pact without claiming my soul.  If not, pact and he could claim it.”

“You figured out how to banish a nine-tailed, thousand year old chaos demon, after he’d been possessing you for six months?”  Lucifer summed up, brows raised in surprise.

“Wasn’t the hardest puzzle I’ve ever had to solve.”  Stiles demurred, thinking darkly of the Darach and the hopeless search for his father once he’d been abducted by the dark druid for her ritual.  “Believe me.”

“Hmm…”  Lucifer hummed under his breath, trading glances with his brothers’ over the human’s head.

That solidified it: there was definitely more to his human than met the eye.

They’d have to be wary, lest things spiral out of their control and threaten Lord Diavolo’s plans.

Whatever those happened to be, at any rate.

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

Chapter Three: Not So ‘Normal’ After All

Day 3, RAD Exchange Program

Lucifer apparently considered one day long enough to acclimate to the Devildom for Stiles, and as a result the human found himself showering and tugging on his new RAD uniform to attend school the morning after sealing his pact with Sōta.

Ugh.  Uniform.   Not only did it go against everything that made Stiles, Stiles, but it also was in a military style which just...no.

World of no.

Unfortunately, as was already becoming a habit Stiles was sick of, demons which made getting out of wearing the uniform a long shot at best and ignoring the dictate and dress code an excellent way to sign up for evisceration-via-Lucifer.

Damn it.

On the plus side, a uniform with militaristic styling left him with plenty of room to hide shit like daggers and baggies of mountain ash.

Just in case.

He didn’t even know if mountain ash would work on demons in the Devildom rather than the earthly plane, but he figured it would be better to try and fail than to dismiss it and find out later that he could’ve saved himself a mauling with a little bit of anti-demon-dust.

Though it had to be said, other than the uniform, there weren’t a whole lot of downsides that he could see to attending RAD.

That the other students might want to kill and/or eat him wasn’t even all that different from the last two years of regular high school, so when learning actual magic was added to the equation...yeah.

Stiles was fucking stoked aside from that whole pesky abduction thing.

Magical theory.  Demonic biology.  Runic fucking magic.

Hogwarts: eat your heart out; RAD’s class offerings were sick.

He was already planning out his schedule for the year to ensure he didn’t miss any prerequisites for classes like Basic Magical Combat or Enchanting, as this summer semester was basically catch-up and like, how not to get eaten 101.

The class information for most of them offered a test-out option, except for Remedial Combat that was, if he wasn’t reading things completely wrong, the equivalent of demonic PE.

(He really, really hoped he wasn’t reading things wrong.)

Missing his Dad was a steady ache behind his breastbone, there was a hit of homesickness for his bedroom and Roscoe, but for the most part he thought he was adjusting to, well, hell well enough.

(If he had to stop and count his fingers every couple hours to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating, that was his own business.  He also reserved the right to have a screaming, crying, mental breakdown at some point.)

Stiles made a face at the buttoned-down, perfectly-pressed image in the mirror before reaching up and loosening his tie and flipping open the first button on his shirt.

Better, even if it still wasn’t him but some nightmarish military-school version of him.

He’d deal.

To learn how to use magic and maybe, possibly, finally, be something more than the vulnerable human sidekick who was good for plans and research and not much else, he’d deal with a lot more than a shitty uniform and demonic housemates.

Here was hoping, however, that his Gajos luck eased up and fate or the universe or whatever didn’t take him up on that unstated dare.

Stiles didn’t know if it was of the pact, or if Sōta was feeling possessive and/or territorial, but no sooner had Stiles made it through breakfast with the demon brothers than his favorite chaos demon came sauntering through the door.

Today Sōta was in his humanoid form - not as fully human-seeming as Diavolo and the brothers, but not his full fox form either - complete with foxy ears on top of his head, claws and fangs, tails waving behind him in a mixture of teal and black fur, and vulpine slitted teal eyes.  The fox demon gave a wicked grin at the sight of Stiles, the latter not having to give much thought to what had him so amused - Sōta had lived in his head, he knew how Stiles felt about just about everything - and it might’ve started a bitching rant.  If it weren’t for how the demon was dressed.

As in: Sōta was wearing the exact same uniform as everyone else.

That cagey little bastard, Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes as Sōta grinned, obviously pleased with himself.

With everything they’d discussed the night before, his favorite demon had somehow left out the information that Sōta would be attending RAD right along with Stiles - even if they weren’t likely to have the same classes, unless fifty years locked away in the Nematon was enough to toss a nogitsune into remedial lessons.

Stiles didn’t think it would be enough, he was well aware of just how intelligent and cunning Sōta was, but hey: demons.

What was normal for them was impossible for Stiles to accurately predict at this point.

“Stiles.”  The tone in Lucifer’s voice had even someone with Stiles’s authority issues snapping to attention and turning to face him before he could take off with Sōta.

“Yep?”  He asked warily, eyes narrowed on the Avatar of Pride who just watched him with that same blank expression that from what he could tell Lucifer wore most of the time unless he was irritated with his brothers.

“Mammon has been assigned as your, ah, demonic guardian while you are here.”  Lucifer reminded him blandly, ignoring the way those whiskey eyes lit with temper at the ultimatum.  “At least until you have proven yourself capable of keeping yourself alive and unharmed whilst living in the Devildom.”

Sōta snorted from behind Stiles, the human batting ineffectively back behind him in reprimand over his reaction and the muttered ‘good luck with that’ that went along with it.

“Demon babysitter.  Yay.”  Stiles rolled his eyes, voice deader than Gerard Argent with mountain ash poisoning and a bullet in his head.  “Let’s go, greedy.”  Stiles sighed, jerking his head towards the door.  “Time is money, remember?”

“Oi!  Don’t go thinkin’ you can boss me around, human!”  Mammon groused...even as he followed one step behind the pair of human and nogitsune from the House.  “The Great Mammon has better things to do than follow you around, ya know…”

Silence lingered behind the trio’s exit, but not for long.

“Ten thousand grimm says that that innocent looking human has Mammon eating out of his hand in less than a month.”  Asmo threw down his prediction - and his bet - with a shit-eating grin at Lucifer whose pride couldn’t resist the temptation to take him up on it.

“I’ll take that bet,” the oldest brother nodded, arms folding across his chest.  “And see you another ten thousand that Mammon ends up in a pact within three months.”

“Done!”  Several voices - notably only missing Beel who was too focused on his breakfast to bother - agreed.

Not that it was a hard sell.

All of them had reason to be wary of pacts for one reason or another, to the point that only Asmodeus was commonly known to have any with a human besides Mammon himself.

And as for that pact that was held by their cocky second-in-command?

Well, it was the reason that all of them were wary of pacts in the first place.

There was no way Mammon of all demons would end up in a pact with another human, no matter who it was after the consequences of the one he was already bound to.

No. Way.

Lucifer just smirked, eyes flashing in that infuriating way that said he knew a secret.

Too bad for his brothers that he wasn’t interested in sharing...or else they might’ve been wise enough to change their wagers before it was too late.

Stiles was right about Sōta - after a fashion.

Fifty years both was and wasn’t enough time away to have him dropped into remedial classes over the summer quarter.

It was more why he’d been away that was the reason behind his attendance, as well as his next enrollment at RAD being moved up several decades.

Which once Sōta explained the reasoning behind it, did make sense.

If you were dumb enough to get caught, you both had to pay the price and deal with the consequences in the form of additional training once you were back in the Devildom.

Stiles approved (and laughed his laugh off later about how disgruntled his friend was) even if the only remedial classes Sōta had to deal with were magical theory and combat compared to the filled-to-the-max schedule Stiles was dealing with to get ready for Demon U.

Mammon on the other hand could only take being ignored for so long before breaking up the buddy-buddy fest between his new charge and the minor demon, which ended up being shown by the Avatar snagging Stiles by the shoulder and towing him away as soon as they hit the RAD gates.

He said it was to show Stiles to the office to pick up his student ID...but not even Scott on his most innocent and gullible days would’ve bought that when Mammon made a point of waving Sōta off.

Demons.  Stiles silently rolled his eyes behind Mammon’s back as he towed him away.  So damn territorial, even if they hadn’t - necessarily, he knew there was a lot of undertone and background stuff going on he was missing between the Avatars - chosen the territory.

Or in this case, been charged with keeping Stiles alive or face the wrath of Lucifer.

Lucifer gave him a tour on his first day, but either there hadn’t been students wandering around or he’d been so zonked from being yanked out of Cali and into the Devildom that he hadn’t noticed them.

Yeah, who was he trying to fool, there hadn’t been students around.

Mainly because no matter how out of it Stiles had been, nothing would’ve kept him from doing at least one double-take at the clearly-not-human attributes on display.

Honestly, the only reason Stiles wasn’t goggling and staring like a rude fucker at all the...demony-ness, was because he’d become innured to fangs, claws, and fur a looong time ago.

Wings though...that was a new one for him, the same with the varying types of horns, scales, and/or antlers on display as Mammon chivvied him from the RAD office (manned by a demoness with wicked blue and silver scales instead of human skin) to the library to pick up his course books to his locker, and then finally dropped him off at his first class.

Remedial magical theory, where Sōta had saved him a seat.

Awesome.

Stiles flopped into the empty seat, pen, textbook, and notebook all out and ready within moments, and prepared to have his mind at least mildly blown.

Sōta and Deaton both told him he was a spark.

It was about goddamn time he learned what that meant - and how to use it, whatever it ended up being.

Harry Potter, eat your heart out, Stiles Stilinski was going to rock the shit out of magic, now that he had actual knowledge within his grasp instead of the incredibly unhelpful vagueness of Deaton the Druidic Douche.

Sōta only had a half day at the school, and that was with having a two hour break between magical theory (Stiles was right: it was awesome ) and basic combat, which had the nogitsune leaving Stiles outside the door to remedial demonic literature and throwing pouty looks over his shoulder as he walked away.

Mainly because while Stiles could accept the need for some protection, he drew the line at a twenty-four/seven bodyguard.

Even with his pact-demon.

Demons he figured were like everyone else or maybe far worse when it came to preying on the weak.

A little help was fine as he went about his day ignoring all the whispers and covert stares.

Making it seem like he couldn’t even navigate RAD without having his hand held?

That was creating a major weakness that just begged to be exploited.

And Stiles couldn’t stand even the thought of that.

He was used to being the human, to being the physical weak link in a pack of supernatural beings.  But what he’d lacked in strength and claws, he’d always made up for in sheer cunning and ruthlessness.  He wouldn’t let the Devildom be any different - he couldn’t let the Devildom be any different, not if he wanted to survive and learn everything he could while he was at it.

Take for instance the first thing he learned in magical theory.

A ritual, spell, or tool was only so effective as the one using or powering them and the strength of their intent and/or will.

In other words: even mountain-ash-line-breaker Scott McCall could be contained with the substance...if the one using it just wanted it bad enough and had the willpower to back it up.

A wicked smile crossed his face at the thought of the fun that could be had with that.

Payback was gonna be a bitch, and Stiles had hours and hours of Scott skipping out on bro-time, or using it to gush about his lady-loves to pay the alpha back for.

Mountain-ash his ass in place and make Scott listen to inconsequential bullshit for hours.

Maybe an ode to Beelzebub’s biceps or chest or...cause, honestly, no matter that he was a demon, that man’s bod was a work of art.   Michaelangelo and his dudes would’ve begged on their knees to sculpt a butt that perfect in marble.  Not to mention Lucifer’s face, or Mammon’s grin …  He digressed.

Scott.  Mountain ash.  So much payback, now that he knew it could be done anyway.

Which, thinking of Scott, that brought up another issue.

Stiles’s regular cell phone apparently didn’t get coverage in hell.

That...was going to be a problem, one he’d have to talk to Lucifer about.

Because ‘arrangements’ or not, approximately no-fucking-body was going to believe that Stiles of all people took off for an exchange program and cut off all contact with Beacon Hills and his peeps.

One or two of them - maybe, after the last year.

Everyone?

Ha, yeah right.

So unless they wanted the supernatural population - or a chunk of it anyway - causing a shit-show as they tried to find where he disappeared to, they needed to figure out a way for him to be in contact with a couple of people at minimum if they weren’t going to give him unlimited communication with the earthly realm.

Though, he had to admit, part of him didn’t want to warn Lucifer.  Just so he could sit back and watch the fallout.  If it was Scott or even his Dad alone, it wouldn’t be much of one as neither knew that many strings to pull or rocks to kick over.  But once Lydia and the Hales were added into the mix?

Oh yeah.

The potential for entertainment when Lydia marched into the Devildom to ‘save’ her research buddy would be phenomenal.

What kept him from acting on that shit-starting impulse was both simple and compelling, however:

Lydia would also kick his ass all over the three realms for not letting them know he was okay instead of being used in some kind of demonic ritual or being made the devil’s plaything.

Although.

With as outrageously, inhumanely hot Lucifer was, being his plaything might not be all that bad…

Good thing Stiles was used to being a hot topic of discussion between his dad being the sheriff and recent supernatural shenanigans or else the demonic students at RAD would be giving him a complex.

“Hey check it out,” a demon with two swishing dog-like tails told their companion.  Some kind of mermaid-ish-demon maybe.  Well there were gills and webbed digits so…  “That’s the human that everyone’s been talking about.  You think it’s true that Mammon’s turned into a babysitter?”

The mer-demon’s gills fluttered with a soft snorting sound.

“Well, then I’d say that actually works in our favor, dontcha think?  If we wait and strike when he’s not paying attention, that airhead will never figure out it was us…”

Ahh...great.  Stiles heaved a silent sigh and looked up in a plea for patience.  New school, same dumbasses everywhere.

Though he had a feeling - call it whatever you want - that the demonic flavor of idiot would be capable of dealing out vastly more damage to Stiles than his usual flavor of lunkheaded jocks who were offended that Stiles shared their precious air.

“C’mon,” the mer-demon jerked its head towards Stiles.  Subtle they were not.   “We should devour the human before Lord Beelzebub does.”

Stiles casually reached his hand back for his enchanted knife, while making a mental note to continue carrying snacks even though he no longer had wolfie friends to feed.

He wished that everyone was joking about the “Beel might eat you” thing, but with humans being nummy treats to demons and Beel being the Avatar of Gluttony, Stiles’s sense of self-preservation highly doubted that there was anything funny about the possibility of Beel trying to munch on him if he got too hungry around him.

Snacks would hopefully head off any impromptu munching on the Stiles, much like they’d fended off hangry wolven maulings in the past.

Hopefully.

Stiles turned, having kept the pair in his peripheral vision when they hit his problem-o-meter, knife ready but still concealed, only to be stopped short by a voice being far too close.

“Hey, you there.”

He twisted a bit, noting as he did that the two demons quickly backed off - in fact backed off so far that before long they were out of his sight and maybe out of the school altogether - at the sound of the...human’s? voice.  Or maybe not human.  The brothers and Diavolo had all been walking around in human form, so it was possible this was either the missing seventh brother or another powerful demon.

Not even for an instant did Stiles consider that the man with silver hair and grey eyes wasn’t something.

Stiles might be new to trying to actually use his innate magic - which was a thing he’d learned in magical theory, magic being innate: either you had it or you didn’t, even if sometimes it required a jumpstart to be able to use it - but he wasn’t new to knowing a threat that’s other no matter how benign it might seem.

It was whether anyone ever believed him that, say, geriatric Grandpa Argent was dangerous as fuck, that was the question.

“Yes, you,” one slender hand waved in his direction, beckoning him closer.  “The human that looks like you don’t know whether you’re going to run screaming or take someone out at the kneecaps with that look in your eyes.”  The pretty man crossed his arms over his chest and raised one hand to hold his chin as he studied Stiles when he came closer, chuckling softly.  “My, you almost scream ‘Come and eat me!  I’m scrumptious!’ with those big doe eyes.  Your name’s Stiles, isn’t it?”

The man held out a familiar looking DDD with a smug little smirk.

“This DDD is yours, right?”

“Don’t try and say you found it after I dropped it.”  Stiles cut him off as he snapped the demonic cell phone out of the other’s hand.  “How’d you pickpocket me without me feeling it?”

Considering that Stiles had been on high alert since the moment he’d fallen through California into the Devildom, he had to know if his skills were slipping or if some demons - or whatever this guy was - could get around his senses.

The other man laughed, smug smirk widening into a genuine smile of amusement and eyes lighting up in interest.

“I’ve been around a long time, Stiles.”  He said, dancing around the subject.  “You’d be surprised what you can pick up in the Devildom - even when you’re human.”

Stiles blinked, tilting his head a bit to the side as he studied the other man even closer.

Two things in particular stuck out to him, even as the guy - Solomon, apparently - introduced himself as the other human exchange student: there was an old, chunky ring on his right hand, kinda like an old lord’s seal or something from a historical documentary; and he wasn’t wearing a regular tie like everyone else.

Even Stiles...damn it.

Like the food plates, he’d noticed that the RAD ties were color-coded.  Lucifer in all black, Mammon with a golden tie, Asmo’s was kinda a pink floppy thing, etc.  The rest of the students all had plain red ties.

Except for Stiles, and now Solomon.

But while Stiles’s tie was just a regular - if silk, he thought, maybe given the rich feel of the uniform’s fabric - white tie, Solomon’s was a white bolo that had an inch or two of blue banding above the solid-silver metal tips.

To make things even odder, the slide for the bolo was a large golden crest.  A cabochon of a green gem - Stiles didn’t know enough about jewelry to say for certain what kind - was centered in the gold oval, and around that were lines radiating outward.  Like the green stone was the center of a spark or a star.

Human this guy may be.  But average?  Regular?  Stiles didn’t think so.

He was, on the other hand, starting to understand why one of the first things Lucifer said about him on meeting was that he was nothing like Solomon.

“Listening to gossip much?”  Stiles asked, arching a brow, rather than take the bait and pretend that he wasn’t a topic of gossip and conversation.  Literally so, as not two minutes before he’d overheard discussion regarding his edibility.  Finding out his name wasn’t exactly a feat worthy of shock and awe...or whatever reaction Solomon was angling for.

“Around here it pays to be informed, Stiles.”  Solomon nodded slightly in oblique agreement.  “I’m sure you’ve already figured out that much.”

Solomon looked over Stiles’s shoulder and frowned fleetingly to the point that if Stiles’s weren’t paying as much attention as he was trying to figure out Solomon’s angle then he would’ve missed it.

“I have to go.  See you again soon.”

With that he took off, not running but definitely not wasting any time either.

And if Stiles were either a lot dumber or more naive, he might’ve ignored the abrupt exit.

Instead, he turned around and almost groaned.

Lucifer.  Heading his way.  Greattt.

Still, it was interesting that Solomon skittered off as soon as Lucifer popped up.  He wondered what the deal there was?  With as devoted as Lucifer seemed to be to making Lord Diavolo’s plan for the exchange students work out, he doubted Solomon was in fear for his life or anything.

Which meant that there was another issue between the two...though what was the question du jour.

“Ah, Stiles.”  Lucifer came to a stop beside him.  “Good afternoon.  You’ve become quite the celebrity here, it seems.”

“Good afternoon.”  Stiles returned the greeting easily enough.  No pissing off the Morning Star, he reiterated.  Even if you’re already irritated, no pissing off the Morning Star.

“Was that Solomon I saw you talking with?”

“Unless he was lying about his identity, yeah.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed a bit at the cheek before smoothing out into his genial, blank mask.

“You and he are the only humans attending RAD, and the only ones in the Devildom outside of some witches and warlocks who attend Rites here.  It’s only natural that you two spend time together - however.”  Lucifer’s tone turned dark.  “You can’t trust him.  You might have some form of magic or Other nature in your background - even if what kind is too early to say without more investigation - but Solomon is a powerful magic user and owns a ring that imbues its wearer with great wisdom.”

“Sounds like the sort of person I’d want on my side then.”  Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the hallway wall.  Yeah, he was playing with fire goading Lucifer, but it was for a good cause.  Information, the pursuit of knowledge that might keep him alive and kicking, such was always a good cause in his mind.  “Since I don’t want anyone trying to turn me into a meal while I’m here.”

“Perhaps.”  Lucifer had to allow that much, as ill as it sat with him.  “But the fact remains that he isn’t to be trusted.  He’s the type of man who would subjugate even a powerful greater demon if he gets the chance, let alone a baby spark who’s yet to decide on a path for himself.”

Stiles flexed his left hand at the mention of demonic subjugation.  Sōta may have offered the pact, may have wanted it, hell Stiles had wanted it.  But while he’d only sat through one hour of Demonic Law and Society, he'd quickly figured out from the syllabus and how much time was given to the subject that pacts were one of their big deals.

And while the one between him and Sōta was as equal as it could get from all the information he’d pulled out of Sōta’s lingering memories that were tucked away in Stiles’s head, not all demonic pacts were so balanced.

More often than not, it was the demons who came out ahead - and usually with shiny nummy souls in their possession.

But the professor had made it crystal clear to both Stiles and the - he couldn’t think of them any other way given they way they acted and spoke - preteen demons who were in the class, that if a demon wasn’t careful a smart and cunning human could swing the pact the other way, making a veritable slave out of the demon.

Given all that had happened to Sōta, and to Stiles while he was possessed, that particular nasty side to pacts and demonic contracts had left a truly foul taste in his mouth.

Not that Lucifer could have anyway to know that, or to know right where to poke to rattle Stiles’s ethical code, (unless he read minds, which Stiles still wasn’t dismissing as a possibiity) but all that meant was the big bastard had truly impeccable timing.

“Solomon uses his magic to subjugate demons?”  Stiles scowled fiercely at the idea.  “And y’all still invited him as part of the exchange program where he’d be surrounded by demons to subjugate?”

Because that made total sense.

Not.

“Not necessarily.”  Lucifer could admit that much, now that it seemed the interesting little human was taking his warning seriously.  And also allieviating his concerns regarding how swiftly he’d fallen into a pact with a powerful nogitsune while he was at it.  Nogitsune were insatiable.   For one of nine tails to agree to a pact without taking Stiles’s soul in the process...it was concerning.  After all, his age and his power weren’t a patch on that of a greater demon, but it was still significant nonetheless.  “But what is it humans say?”  He tilted his head a bit to the side in consideration.  “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure?”  He chuckled darkly, seeing that his goal had been achieved.  “Run along Stiles.”  He shooed the human away.  “It wouldn’t do to be late to class on your first day…”

“Bastard.”  Stiles grumbled as he shoved off the wall and darted for the stairs after a glance at the clock on his DDD.  “All of them.  Time-chewing bastards.”

“Hmm.”  Diavolo melted out of the shadows and came to rest at his second’s shoulder, both greater demons watching as Stiles disappeared up the stairs and out of sight.  “He is an interesting one.  A human who showed offense at the idea of one of their own subjugating demons?”  He tsked, shaking his head.  “Quite odd.”

But fascinating in the extreme.

“Already I’ve found that Stiles has a flair for the unexpected.”  Lucifer sighed, allowing his shoulders to slump a bit with only Diavolo as his audience.  “Keeping him alive and whole might be a bigger hassle than I’d thought.”

“Not so normal or simple of a human after all?”  Diavolo grinned wickedly at his put-upon best-friend.

Lucifer snorted.  Not hardly.

“But to trust him with…”  Diavolo started to broach the subject he wanted most to speak of, only for Lucifer to stop him.

“I’m not.”  Lucifer scowled.  “Not yet.  Putting the pieces on the board isn’t the same as making the moves, you know this better than anyone, my lord.”

“True.”  Diavolo allowed with a shrug, then eyed him carefully before giving a caution of his own.  “But do not forget that people aren’t chess pieces, my old friend.  They have a tendency to move on their own and often at the most inopportune times.  If you set the board, you might end up having to reap the outcome - no matter what it might be.”

“It would be worth it.”

“Would it?  Are you certain?”  Diavolo pressed.  “Even if we have both misread Stiles’s character and his abilities?  What if your plan leads to a far worse situation than the one at hand?”

“Then I will do what I have always done,” Lucifer cast his lord a burning look before turning away to attend to his duties.  “Protect my family - no matter the cost.”

“Is there going to be a problem here, boys?”

Stiles wished he could say he was even a little annoyed or surprised to find both Sōta and Mammon waiting for him outside his last class, but at this point all he could manage was tired and resigned.

Sōta was propped on the near wall of the corridor, Mammon across from him, the latter with an irritated scowl on his face and crossed arms while Sōta was, Stiles took another glance, yep he was doing his you’re so beneath me I’m completely at ease and not taking notice of you thing.

Hence the question once Stiles cleared the doorway behind his demonic classmates only to see the - mild, he’d say given that he was dealing with actual demons - standoff occurring outside.

Occurring and keeping him from booking it straight home as a result, which was where the wish that he had the energy to drum up annoyance came from but whatever.

He’d deal with it.

Blood might not even be shed in the process.

When neither answered beyond breaking their stare-off to focus on him, Stiles called it a win and started walking towards the closest exit.

“Stiles?”  Sōta called as he skittered to catch up with his long-legged stride.  It would never stop bothering the nogitsune that his human was bigger than him in everything but age, including his height and muscle mass.

“Oi!  You gotta wait for me or Lucifer is gonna have both of our asses!”  Mammon had an easier time of catching up, even though it took him a second longer than the other demon to realize that: no, Stiles wasn’t going to wait for their asses before taking off.

Stiles snorted in derision at the idea of waiting for their little territorial display to be finished, like he was a damsel in distress or the bosom-heaving heroine of a bodice ripper paperback.

And he wasted exactly no time in enlightening them as to why:

“I have two demonic languages plus Aramaic to learn from scratch.”  He started rattling off his list of ‘tasks’ both from his professors in the form of homework and from Lucifer that were part of his acclimatization program.  “Brush up on my Latin, read at least a chapter from the text for all of my classes except remedial combat, complete two pages of runic arrays, and somehow find the time to complete a worksheet for Devildom Law and Society.  I have precisely zero fucks to give regarding demonic bullshit right now and if some idiot thinks I’d make an easy snack at the moment I wish a bitch would.”  The last bit came out almost in a snarl that Derek would have been proud of.  “I could use the stress relief.”

“And if they actually killed you?”  Sōta asked dryly, though Mammon was thinking along the same lines.

It was just of the two of them, only Sōta already had an idea of what Stiles’s answer was going to be.

“Then I’ll be too dead to care about homework: that’s what I call a win-win scenario.”

“We seriously have to talk about your lacking self-preservation instincts.”  Mammon announced, blinking in shock at the human’s at least half-serious sassy rebuttal.

“Been done.”  Sōta muttered with a sigh too low for Stiles to pick up.  “Didn’t take.”

“Damnit.”

“Mhmm.”

Then the two realized they were commiserating with each other, and it was back to glares at ten paces.

But at least Stiles got back to the House of Lamentation with plenty of time for homework, so he was going to call it a success regardless.

Demons.

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

Chapter Four: Alphas, Hunters, Kanimas, Druids, Darachs, Banshee, Nogitsune, Oni, and Humans: Oh My!

Day 4 RAD Exchange Program; Royal Academy of Diavolo, The Devildom

A text from Lucifer the next day just before lunch had Stiles heading towards the ‘student council’ chambers before big and grumpy was forced to track him down personally.

Yesterday after school had proven one thing to Stiles at least: the demon brothers didn’t have any better of an idea of what to do with him as a housemate than he did with them.  It was kinda nice, he couldn’t lie.  The first few days he’d been in the Devildom had felt like he was constantly trying to swim through jello - even finishing the pact with Sōta hadn’t gone exactly to plan.

Not in a bad way...just he hadn’t been expecting the blood exchange bit.

It had been Sōta’s idea for Stiles to spread out in one of his homework/studying/research circles in the House's library instead of keeping his personal brand of chaos contained in his room.  And Stiles wasn’t hard to convince.  That library was insane and had all kinds of books, scrolls, and tomes that he couldn’t wait to get his hands on for one.

And Stiles felt like being a little shit sometimes for two.

Satan had been the first one to spot them: Sōta sprawled out in one of the library chairs and giving Stiles clues when asked for, and Stiles sitting on the floor with a circle of open books, notebooks, pens, and worksheets spread around him.

The Avatar of Wrath had seemed torn between irritation and curiosity at first, watching Stiles with a little frown on his face for a long moment that slowly turned a bit horrified as he watched Stiles flit from subject to subject in a pattern that really only made sense to Stiles and his ADHD.

And yet, despite the disorganization of it, Stiles managed to work through the homework surrounding him at a steady clip.

Satan had backed slowly out of the library, and thereafter Stiles and Sōta had been treated to a parade of demon brothers coming to - presumably - check out the crazy human that they were playing host to.

It had been entertainment at its finest, and had only ended when Lucifer showed up and told him to pack it in before dinner, shooing Sōta away while he was at it.

The buzzkill.

Entering the student council chambers - which looked a lot more like a conference room crossed with the massive assembly hall that Stiles had been dropped in on arrival than any school room he’d ever been in - Stiles found his eye immediately drawn not to the form of Lucifer or Asmo or even Solomon, but to the two figures who could not look more out of place in the Devildom.

And considering that Stiles was a human and he fit in better than them was really saying something.

They were a study in contrasts even as they contrasted with their surroundings: one tall, slim, and gloriously beautiful with dark skin and strong shoulders on display in white and gold robes over a black vest.  The other was smaller, with chubby cheeks that spoke of the kid being much younger than anyone else Stiles had met in the Devildom, and his robes and floppy pageboy cap were white with gold and blue - and far more ornate than his taller companion’s.  If pressed, Stiles would describe the smaller one as a child, but yet there was an aura he could describe as nothing short of power that made calling the tiny one a child feel both incorrect and inappropriate.

Compared to Lucifer, they seemed to be pure light against his seductive dark, even as the part of Stiles’s mind that played host to Sōta’s memories chimed a warning.

Without it, Stiles thought he still would’ve come to the same conclusion given the information at hand, but it was still nice to have confirmation.

Angels.   He thought as he regained his ability to breathe - only to lose it all over again as brilliant blue eyes, the color of a midnight sky down to silver flecks for stars, turned to him at his entrance.  They have to be the angels from the Celestial Realm that were playing exchange students.

Nothing else even began to make sense.

Not when the taller one’s beauty was nearly on par with that of Lucifer and the smaller one made Stiles’s protective instincts want to wrap him up in a blanket burrito with chocolate milk and chicken nuggets to keep him safe and happy.

Holy shit, I’m really going to meet angels!

Even for someone with Stiles’s exposure to the supernatural, it was a bit of a high point, right up there with meeting the Crown Prince of Hell and Lucifer himself.

When he got back to Beacon Hills, he was going to hold this over Lydia’s head for ages.

“Ah, Stiles.”  Lucifer turned from one of his most recent and entertaining pastimes - poking at Luke - in preference for the whole reason the two angels were invading the student council chambers.  “I didn’t have to send Mammon to fetch you.  Good.”

Stiles bit back a scathing reply to that, chanting in the back of his mind in the process: don’t provoke the General of Hell, don’t provoke the General of Hell; as a reminder of why he was playing nice - or at least nice-ish - with his hosts.

Even when said hosts were making him sound like a misplaced tennis ball.

Both Sōta and his memories had been very clear on this point: while they might have once been angels, archangels even (except for Satan which he’d yet to get an explanation for), now they were the Lords of the Devildom and were capable of atrocities as mighty as they’d once been forces of good.

Stiles had already spent time as one demon’s plaything - a lesser demon at that - and he really didn’t want to learn firsthand how much worse it could be when it wasn’t just greater demons in the mix, but the greatest of them all.

Yeah, he’d pass on the super-deluxe-demonic-chewtoy special.  Thanks ever so much.

At least half the time the Lords seemed entertained by his snarky personality instead of pissed off, so there was that.

From what he could tell, it was just when there was “official” business to take care of that they collectively lost their sense of humor.

Or maybe that was just Lucifer, it was probably too early to tell given that he wasn’t even a week into life in the Devildom and all.

“Stiles, these are the representatives from the Celestial Realm.”  Lucifer interrupted the staring match between his houseguest and his former-brother.  He shoved down disgruntlement that there was anything to interrupt in the first place, remembering Stiles’s immediate jump into attack mode at meeting him and his brothers.  Though he supposed of the two angels that the human could have been entranced by, at least it was the significantly less-annoying Simeon over Luke.  “Simeon,” the dark angel, one of the ishim, nodded without tearing his gaze away from the human.  “And Luke.”

Who was the closest thing to Michael’s loyal attack Chihuahua as existed in the angelic ranks - likely why his most holier than thou former-brother chose the irritating cherubim in the first place for the program.

Luke couldn’t wait any longer, excited down to his toes to meet his first new human in centuries outside of their resting place in the Celestial Realm, bouncing forward to greet Stiles.

“Hi!  I’m Luke!  I’m so excited to meet you!”  He proceeded to gush, rambling on for several minutes in that same vein.

When he finally slowed to a stop, it wasn’t due to finally winding down - but rather he realized that Stiles’s quiet wasn’t due to awe at meeting angels after being around nothing but scummy, awful, untrustworthy demons for several days.

Rather, as a new demon - one he’d never noticed around before - slammed into the student council room and shoved Luke away with one arm, sending him sprawling as the fox demon crowded up against the human, Luke started to get the idea that something was very very wrong.

Luke hopped to his feet, cheeks blazing a furious red and fists clenched, holy fire crackling to life in his soft blue eyes at the sheer affront of being angel-handled by a lesser demon of all creatures.

Before he could return blow for blow with the minor demon who had moved to holding Stiles’s pale cheeks between his hands and speaking to him softly, a large dark hand came down firmly - but gently - one his head and forced him to remain in place.

“Stop, Luke.”  Simeon commanded softly, gaze still rapt on the human.  “The demon is trying to help the human.”

“With what?”  Luke huffed, blowing out a breath.  “What could a demon help a human with that an angel couldn’t handle better?”  All I did was say hello…

“I believe,” Simeon tilted his head to the side in consideration, then finally glanced down at his much-younger charge.  “That the human is having a panic attack.”

“Well, sure.”  Luke nodded - as much as he could anyway with Simeon still pinning him in place.  “He’s in the Devildom.   This place isn’t healthful for humans.”

Simeon sighed softly at Luke’s bullheaded stubbornness, but before he could correct him, Lucifer - never one to let an opportunity to poke at Luke - did so instead.

“Stiles hasn’t had a panic attack once in the past three days, not even when he arrived, despite being in the Devildom and surrounded by demons, Chihuahua.”  Lucifer chuckled darkly, a smirk tugging up the side of his mouth at the delicious irony of the situation.  “He’s panicking because of you. ”

The power hit him like a tidal wave.

A total and complete force of nature that swept him up and carried him under before he even had a moment to blink, let alone think and process.

Thick and warm and caring, like sun-warmed honey.

Only instead of it being soothing or comforting, to Stiles it was like drowning.

Smothered, breathing in goodwill and happiness and virtue until he choked on it and the sticky-taffy feeling of artificial...no, it wasn’t artifice.  It didn’t have intent behind it.  It just... was.   Rushing and pouring off of the smaller angel in waves of treacle syrup overwhelming Stiles’s senses in a single breath and then clinging with a stubborn tenacity that was cloying and lethal instead of comforting and all-things-good.

Even innocently meant, Stiles didn’t - couldn’t - have any reaction except reaction to a power that was designed to affect perception.

Not after what he’d been through - and unfortunately for everyone his time as a demonic host wasn’t his first run-in with magics meant to manipulate his mental or emotional state.

It was just the most complete and pervasive.

One-two-three-four-ff-five.  His body went trip-wire taut in an instant, skin paling as sweat dotted his forehead and Stiles struggled to keep breathing around lungs overflowing with the angel’s...aura?  Maybe?  Or whatever it was that was reaching out to Stiles and pouncing to wrap him up in itself.

At his sides, his thumbs tapped against his fingertips as he counted.

One-two-three-four-five.

Six-s-seven-

Six-seven-eight-n-nine-ten.

Ten fingers.

He wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming.

He was alive.

He was awake.

And he was drowning on dry land in a kid angel’s... something magical power.

“Fuck.”

Lucifer thought that the chaos demon - Sōta, member of Diavolo’s personal enforcers within the eighth legion, infamous for possessing nine tails and having never broken a deal as he’d learned when he’d researched his housemate’s choice in demonic pact - summed up the situation nicely when the nogitsune stormed into the student council chamber.

For a scene as potentially fraught as it was, there was little sign of it behind the human’s sudden pallor and his ticking fingers.

To that end, the sight of Sōta with his tails lashing behind him and fangs on show was a needed bit of drama to impress upon the irritating little angel that Michael had sent to annoy Lucifer about the dangers of throwing his powers around every mortal he met.

A problem - Lucifer would be sure to point out during his next communication with the Celestial Realm - that Luke was exhibiting literal centuries after he should have outgrown it.

Especially if Michael was going to have the yappy little creature around humans.

This human might have extenuating circumstances in his background that made him far more sensitive to magic than most, but he nonetheless made Lucifer’s argument for him regarding Luke’s disregard for non-angels.

Demons might look at humans as little more than snacks on legs to be exploited, but at least they were honest about it.

Splashing around his aura like that on Luke’s part was both inconsiderate, and just sloppy.

Lucifer never would have...well.

That was a thought train that led to nothing good, Lucifer quick to stop it in its tracks.

Besides, he had a Chihuahua to scold.

Sōta didn’t even bother with a snarl for the others in the room with Stiles, or acknowledge them at all beyond a flash of a fang as he rushed over to his human, picking up one of Stiles’s hands and pressing it to his chest.

“C’mon, little brother, breathe for me.”  Sōta murmured, reaching up and holding Stiles gently by the cheeks once he was sure Stiles’s hand would stay in place as the demon modeled the slow, deep breaths that would - hopefully - help pull Stiles out of wherever he’d gotten lost inside his head.  Not even noticing what he called his former host in the process - though the others certainly didn’t.  Especially Lucifer as it answered a few questions he’d had over their interactions.  “In, one, two, three, four, five.  Out, one, two, three, four, five.  In…”

He felt a flash of concern spark through him as he kept one ear on the others.  Lucifer’s jab at the angel might have been a low blow, but the one supremely infuriating truth about the Avatar of Pride was that he was rarely ever wrong.  If he thought the angel caused Stiles’s panic attack, then he most likely did - and given Stiles’s past it wasn’t hard for Sōta to put the pieces together regarding how.

Finally - after what could’ve been hours as easily as seconds to the pair - Stiles’s breath stuttered and then fell into sync with Sōta’s.

The nogitsune like a soft smile flash over his face as those whiskey eyes started to clear, even if they had a long way to go before regaining Stiles’s usual razor-sharp focus on his surroundings.

“There we go,” he murmured, keeping Stiles’s head in place when the human started to become more aware.  Mainly to keep him from turning his focus away from Sōta and his attempts to finish his work calming him before he could see his audience and panic all over again at what Stiles would definitely categorize as a major show of weakness in front of Lucifer and a pair of strange angels.  It would be weeks before his human stopped brooding about it.  Even so, Sōta wasn’t in any hurry for Stiles to get a head start on the process.  “That’s it, just follow my voice.  Deep breaths.”

About a minute later, enough clarity had returned to Stiles - both in his eyes and in their pact-bond that had flooded with Stiles’s panic and sent Sōta rushing to his side - for him to engage Stiles’s brain away from whatever spiral he was still dwelling inside and stopping him from coming fully out of his panic.

“Everyone has it, and no one can lose it.”  Sōta repeated one of his riddles from his time living inside of his human’s mind, and before he’d fully possessed him.  “What is it?”

It was like flipping a switch or snapping his fingers, so deeply ingrained inside Stiles’s psyche were Sōta’s riddles from then in Stiles’s subconscious.

Brown eyes sharpened to the edge of the finest blade, and panic turned in a split-second from freeze to fight.

Everyone tended to forget that part of the mammalian danger response: freeze.  It went right alongside fight and flight, but was rarely mentioned.  A dangerous oversight, and one that Sōta and his kind never stopped having fun playing with.

Only in someone like Stiles, who seemed to never stop moving and always was ready to rush either ahead or back, his freeze response was far more lethal than it would be in another as it took more to set it off - and unfortunately, therefore more to snap him out of it than others.

“A shadow.”  Stiles sucked in a conscious breath, hand curling into a fist momentarily against Sōta’s chest and then tapped once in wordless thanks before he moved back out of the nogitsune’s hold and focused once more on their audience.  “Don’t do that again.”  He spoke directly to the little angel who seemed far less innocuous now that he’d felt the weight and force of his halo or aura or whatever-it-was pressing down on him than he had before.  “I don’t respond well at all to manipulations of any kind, but especially magical.”

“That was…”  Simeon took the lead after patting an upset (and pouting) Luke on the head and moving forward to half-block the juvenile angel from those accusing golden-brown eyes.  “An extreme reaction to Luke’s angelic aura.  Most humans find our presence comforting.  Safe.  Even uplifting.”

He didn’t verbalize his question - really, all of theirs from how Lucifer and Luke were both studying the human - but then he didn’t need to from what he’d heard about the second human chosen to represent the earthly realm in Diavolo’s exchange program.

Mieczyslaw Stilinski was known to be many things among those who watched over the earthly realm, and foremost among them was intelligent.

This situation - while upsetting all-around except for Lucifer who as with most things was an outlier - was no different now that the human was back to himself.

“From alpha werewolves to darachs to nogitsune,” Stiles waved off Sōta’s rueful-but-pleased glance.  “People have been trying to manipulate me through words or magic for years.  To the point that I have guarded against it.”  He cocked his head to the side then studied the pair of angels carefully.  “Angelic magic is new to me, so the little one’s aura or halo or whatever punched right through them.  I’ve patched the holes and will take it into account going forward but I’m warning you all the same,” Stiles dared a glance at Lucifer, encompassing the watchful demon with the warning as well.  “Now that I’ve felt it, I’ll be far more likely to lash out than to freeze if it were to happen again.”

“Understood.”  Simeon nodded agreeably, then glanced down and arched a brow at Luke - who stubbornly looked away even as he continued to blush.  “I am certain the lesson has been well-learned for all involved.”

“It has,” Lucifer’s warning to Luke was implied by his implacable tone, which only had the young angel even further on the defense due to the wordless or else.  “Perhaps the two of you would be so kind as to warn your housemate as well?”  He oh-so-kindly suggested that the angels remove themselves before this first meeting could devolve further.

Even though he knew that in private he and his brothers would be positively gleeful over the hash Luke had made of meeting the interesting human.

“Of course.”  Simeon conceded the field gracefully, ushering Luke along.  “Come Luke, let’s go see what mischief Solomon has gotten up to, shall we?”

Which, much to Stiles’s immediate discomfort, left Lucifer alone with his resident headache - and his headache’s furry protector.

Joy.

“Explain.”  Lucifer commanded, crossing his arms over his chest and turning to face the human and lesser demon head-on.  “Now.”

Stiles and Sōta exchanged a look, one that made it clear Sōta was going to leave Stiles’s history up to Stiles alone to explain, which had Stiles making a mulish face for a moment before giving a slight nod.

Sōta leaned up at the wordless agreement and rubbed their cheeks together.  Scenting.  Not just for werewolves but also for fox demons too, as Stiles had learned the hard way.

Then Sōta took his leave, returning to his legionnaire duties that Stiles’s distress had called him away from, as ill as it sat with him to abandon Stiles to Lucifer’s not-so-tender questioning.

But, his human was immovable, and embarrassed.

The last thing he wanted was for another audience as he bared his soul - figuratively - over his PTSD.

“Which part?”  Stiles sighed, closing his eyes to block Lucifer’s immediate glare, reaching up to rub the pads of his fingers against his temples in the vague hope that it meant do something to lessen his post-panic-attack headache.

(Shocker: it doesn’t.)

“Having PTSD or where I threatened a couple of angels?”

Which...now that he said it outloud, Stiles could barely believe he’d done that.

Fuck.

Less than a week away from Scott and his Dad, and he was threatening motherfucking actual angels.

At this rate, he should’ve just given in when Peter offered him the bite.

At least he would’ve been on the same plane of existence as his artificial means of pretending to have a moral compass that pointed somewhere other than south.

What would happen when he’d been there a month, let alone the whole year, he couldn’t help but wonder even as Lucifer strode over and loomed, his shadow seeming to stretch farther than physics would deem possible.

Shit, at this rate, there’d be another Celestial War, only it would have nothing to do with Stiles dying, and everything to do with him taking on heaven itself.

Actually, thinking about it objectively, the fact that he did shit like threatening angels and throwing knives at demons would probably be the bits that his Dad didn’t doubt for a moment.

Both of them were far more believable than Stiles willingly wearing a school uniform for one.

Or that he didn’t irritate Lucifer into returning him in less than a week for two.

(Though he still had time on the latter, and his focus issues seemed to be juusst the ticket if the throbbing vein at Lucifer’s temple was any sign.)

Lucifer snorted when he noted that he had the human’s attention once more.

The focus issues would abate soon enough if his experiences with other powerful magic users coming into their gifts were any sign, and it was unfortunately far out of the boy’s control - and therefore not an issue that Lucifer could punish him over.

Until then, they’d all have to simply bear it when the boy’s mind visibly wandered off into the ether, no matter how it tried all of their virtually non-existent patience.

Demons were creatures of impulse.

What they wanted, they took.

Though, perhaps, having to exercise restraint for the first time in almost five thousand years might do his brothers some good.

“I’m not talking about normal forms of manipulation triggering a panic attack.”  Stiles finally found his way to an explanation that wouldn’t see him eviscerated by the annoyed Avatar of Pride.  “The stuff that goes on in any interaction when one person is trying to get their way.  That’s normal crap and doesn’t phase me.  But when you have a kanima running around killing off family friends because it’s controlled by a complete psycho, or have a darach using virgin sacrifices to keep everyone blind to their true identity, or…”

“Have been possessed by a nogitsune?”  Lucifer suggested drily.

“Or that.”  Stiles nodded with a grimace.  As much as they were good now, Sōta’s initial psychotic behavior had definitely left its mark.  “Or seen your best friend being mind-fucked by the feral alpha that bit them,” he waved a hand in an ‘and so on’ gesture.  “All of it leaves a mark.  Add in a cryptic fucking wanker of a druid, everything about Kate and Gerard Argent, a banshee being manipulated from the grave by a dead guy, and oni who tore through most of my hometown searching for Sōta in everyone they saw, and I have issues with magical manipulations and the mental/emotional sort that’s more blackmail or extortion than anything else.”  He shrugged.  “I have shields, usually they work.  I’d just never run into angelic or whatever magic before.”

Lucifer let that all process for a long moment, fitting the new spate of information into the puzzle that he was forming out of tidbits of the human’s background and behavior.

They’d all known that there were, ah, problems in his history given how he responded or didn’t to the different auras of the Avatars.

(Though it was of note that their trials of their powers against him had at least been subtle enough not to set off one of his triggers…. or just didn’t register the same as having Luke trying to force-embrace a human with his angelic aura.)

Somehow, Lucifer had the impression that the scant information Stiles was providing was merely the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

And left him wondering just what kind of human Lord Diavolo had selected after all, other than a strange one.

That much had become more than readily apparent.

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

Chapter Five: Precautionary Measures

Day 6, RAD Exchange Program; The House of Lamentation, Tartarus City, The Devildom

By some unholy magic (that might simply be the power of Lucifer’s glare) Stiles actually made it all the way through his first (partial) week of school at RAD.

He grabbed a quick bite to eat from the kitchen next to his rooms and then zoomed down to the House of Lamentation’s gym.

Life in the Devildom was a whole new level of stressful and there were times where only the knowledge that he had Sōta at his back kept him from a total breakdown.

Working out helped him keep that stress level manageable, but even so: the sooner he learned what he could do with his spark the better.

Stiles had finished his warm up on the treadmill and was getting into his run when the door to the gym opened and in wandered a massive distraction that almost had him tripping over his feet: that of one Beelzebub in all his toned, stacked, and ripped glory wearing a teeny-tiny pair of workout shorts and nothing else.

Derek Hale eat your heart out: Beel was one Grade-A slab of pure demonic beefcake.

Lifting his hand to his mouth, Stiles had to check and make sure he wasn’t actually drooling after he reclaimed control over his feet.

Damn.

There was hot and then there was Beel who was unfairly hot even for a creature forged in literal hellfire.

Shaking his head, Stiles resolutely put the picture Beel made out of his mind and focused on his workout.  He’d dealt with his crush on Derek “I’m Allergic to Shirts” Hale, learned how to work around and ignore when someone who was hot like burning was around him.  This was no different even if it was on a different scale.

He’d been attracted to Derek.

With a little encouragement - or even just less abuse - it could’ve grown into something far stronger.

What Stiles had been bombarded with since stepping through the earthly plane and into the Devildom had been desire - and that was a whole different ballgame.

And by the slight, cocky smirk that flashed over Beel’s face before he went back to his normal blank affect (or at least normal as far as Stiles has seen) Beel was no more ignorant of Stiles’s knee-jerk reaction to his everything than Derek had been.

Right.

Demons.

If Sōta was any sign of what demons were capable of, then Beel (and all the rest, oh fuck what is his life anyway…) could pick up on silent signals like pheromones with the same or better pinpoint accuracy of a werewolf.

Ugh.

Fucking cheaters.

Stiles may have learned how to lie to a wolf - or at least grown very capable at skirting the truth - but controlling his pheromones was a nearly impossible ask.

Wait.

He had a brainwave even as he turned back to finishing his run.

He couldn’t physically control his body chemistry and what it told the supernatural/preternatural beings around him about him.

But…

That didn’t mean that it was impossible.

What was magic after all but a force that was applied to the world to do the impossible?

Yes.

He was decided and had a new high-priority item for his to-do list.

Finish his workout, complete whatever scraps of homework or “tasks” Lucifer assigned for his stipend that week, and then he would be hitting the magic-books in the House of Lamentation library to find a muffling spell.  Or a suppressing spell.  Or something, anything that would allow him to keep some of himself to himself.

Or else he foresaw himself trying to kill a demon quicker than initially anticipated.

And not out of self-defense either.

(Based on current impressions, probably Asmo, since of all the demons, he seemed the most incorrigible and most likely to keep pushing at Stiles long past when the others might get bored or otherwise lose interest.)

Beacon Hills, the Earthly Plane:

“Scott…where the hell is Stiles?!”

The True Alpha tried to hide a nervous gulp as he stared down the remnants of the Hale Pack - all two of them, now that Derek had escorted Cora to a safe haven well away from the living nightmare that was Beacon Hills.

Not that that helped.

Cora Hale was a badass, but in comparison to either her brother or her uncle, barely registered as a threat.

The same could not be said about them.

Especially when for a moment there, it’d…it’d almost seemed like Derek’s eyes had flashed red instead of icy blue.

Which was impossible, ridiculous.

Dr. Deaton had told him months and months ago that once an Alpha Spark it burned out or given up, that it couldn’t just spontaneously reignite inside a wolf.

“Ah…hey guys, um…”

Peter rolled his eyes extravagantly, sighing and crossing his arms over his massive, muscled chest and locking his gaze on Derek’s.

“They lost the smart one.”  Peter sighed, shaking his head as he turned back to eyeing Scott, his greatest mistake ever.  And given Peter’s past, that was saying something.  “Because: of course they did.”

“No, no, we didn’t lose him…per se.”  Scott rushed to explain, eyes wide and panicked, his true alpha bravado deserting him in an instant.  “He went on an exchange program!  He just…kinda…didn’t tell us that before he left.  And, kinda, maybe, hasn’t answered any calls or texts or emails or anything since.”

“We know,” Derek growled.  “Or else we wouldn’t be here looking for him!”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”  The Hale Snark™ was particularly strong in the living family members, Peter was pleased to report as Derek’s tone visibly withered Scott where he stood.  “Oh.”

“I can…call a pack meeting?”

“You do that.”  Peter snorted derisively, trading another glance with his nephew as they started making other arrangements now that they had an idea of the scope of the issue.

Fucking McCall.

Fucking Beacon Hills. 

House of Lamentation, the Devildom:

Levi groused and complained - mainly for form - as he wandered his way out of his room and down towards where his senses told him the strange little human was hunkered down: the library.

Again.

He was so weird compared to everything Levi had seen of humans over the last centuries.

Most would’ve jumped all over the offers that were made by Asmo to get themselves outfitted Devildom-style on a demon’s dime.  Others would’ve been complete wrecks.  But then there was this guy: just blinks, registers his new reality, and carries on.

And then there was the pact he made almost as soon as he arrived, and with one of the more powerful nogitsune around at that.

A member of the Eighth Legion, Sōta owed no allegiance to anyone but Diavolo himself - and that was a potential problem that he already knew was driving both Mammon and Lucifer up the wall on how to nullify without pissing off Diavolo…if it ever became necessary, anyway.

Tracking the strange human to the library was simple enough, though he mentally braced himself before going inside.

As entertaining as it had been to watch his brothers trip out over what was clearly a human’s ADHD coping methods, Levi wasn’t without his own quirks - and gathering information was one of them.  It wasn’t a gluttonous need for knowledge.  Not the sort of trigger like what Beel - due to his powers - and Satan due to his thirst for knowledge would have to cope with or work around.  But it was there nonetheless.

Watching how that tricky mind that had already tripped up more than one of his brothers - particularly Mammon and Lucifer which was just priceless - made connections and devoured information was interesting.

Worse: it was unique, and Levi with his powers based in envy had to watch himself around people and things that were unique lest his domain attempt to escape his control.

Fortunately for Levi’s state of mind, when he entered the library their current human-shaped project wasn’t doing anything overtly odd.

Rather, Stiles was hunched over and attention rapt on a single tome, several stacked up on his right and left at the large table in the center of the library with none of his previous chaotic energy when it came to completing his homework and Lucifer-assigned tasks to be seen.

Tilting his head a little as he approached the human, Levi arched a brow as he read the titles on the books that Stiles had collected.

While his course options had pointed to such, it seemed as if Stiles wasn’t content to simply allow RAD to educate him in the opportunities studying in the Devildom afforded him.  Each and every books surrounding Stiles (and Levi would have to assume the one that currently had his undivided attention) was on magic.  And not just any magic, but the sort that seemed designed to level the playing field between human witches and sorcerers and everything else that went bump in the night.

Protective magics, in other words, depending on how one looked at it, which should keep Lucifer from an entire paranoia spiral when Levi reported as such to the others.

Really, what kind of mischief could a single human even do with spells on/around scent of all things?

(Little did he know it in the moment, but Leviathan would come to deeply regret that moment of dismissive complacency.)

“Was there something you wanted?”  Stiles asked mildly before looking up to see that his current demonic-stalker was Leviathan rather than one of the other brothers.  (Mammon.  To be honest, he was expecting Mammon or even Asmo rather than who appeared to be quite the introvert in Leviathan.)  “Or is it your turn to play Stare at the Human?”

Levi merely rolled his eyes, not a sign of his internal considerations to be seen, and tossed the human a small envelope.

“Lucifer and Diavolo finally approved your - limited, and screened - access to the human world’s information systems.”  Levi explained succinctly as Stiles arched a brow and peered into the padded mailer at the contents: a SIM card in a protective case and a small USB dongle, for his DDD and laptop respectively.  “We have a protection net on our networks, any attempt to send information about demons or the Devildom will get your emails or whatever flagged and re-routed to me or Lucifer depending on the type and number of flags.”  Levi continued, giving the teenager a look at the glint in his eye.  “You don’t want them to end up on Lucifer’s radar, trust me on that.”

“What kind of access am I looking at here?”  Stiles asked, trying to clarify before he got himself on tall-dark-and-dangerous’s shit list.  “The entire internet or…?”

“You’ll be able to send and receive calls and texts from the human world, though sometimes they might drop or be delayed in sending depending on the,” Levi tried to think of an explanation that would make sense to a human’s minimal understanding of the Devildom.  “Magical Atmospheric conditions of the Devildom.”  He decided on, figuring it was as good of an explanation as any that didn’t give away sensitive information like that that atmospheric condition relied heavily on the moods of the reigning and sitting monarchs - such as Diavolo and his father.  “The USB adapter will give you access to email platforms and that’s about it.”

Damn, Stiles resisted the urge to sulk.  He’d been looking forward to a Dark web deep-dive to see where/if the Devildom or the witches everyone talked about/around had a presence there.  He’d managed to dig some interesting and even factual supernatural information out of the dark and/or deep web before, so wasn’t counting there being information on the Heavenly and Demonic planes out of hand.

Too bad it seemed like Lucifer or whoever wrote up the permissions for Stiles had anticipated that.

Or it was just too big of a hassle…but Stiles wasn’t sure if he believed that.

Not yet, anyway.

“At least I’ll be able to keep my dad from having a heart attack.”  Stiles decided to focus on the positives: he wouldn’t come home to an absolute clusterfuck of his dad and the pack thinking he’d been missing for a year.  Small blessings.  “Thanks, Levi.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”  Leviathan rolled his eyes and sauntered away.  “Keep your emotions away from me, human.  I don’t want to catch anything.”

Stiles snorted, entertained by the demon’s put-upon air almost despite himself, and left it at that.

A moment later had him opening up the back of his DDD and slotting the SIM card in with a satisfying click.

Time to call off the hounds of war.

And depending on whether his dad reached out to the Hales or not when Stiles didn’t show back up from clearing out his locker at BHH…that might just be literally instead of metaphorically.

"Hey Daddio, it's me..."

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

Chapter Six: Halehounds

“Hey Daddio, it’s me…”

Sheriff Noah Stilinski had been going out of his goddamned mind for almost a week.

Ever since his son Stiles drove over to the high school to clear out his locker and never came home.

Worse yet: his phone and car keys had been found on the school grounds.

Worst still: his room at their house had been virtually cleaned out with all of his clothes, toiletries, shoes, electronics, and even down to the random bits and pieces of paper he had flung around in his latest bout of research-wizardry missing as if they’d never existed in the first place.

Noah had tried to be smart about it: the first thing he’d done was check all the ways they communicated with each other, not so secretly hoping for either an All-Clear note or even an SOS.

There was nothing to be found.

Stiles was nowhere to be found.

In fact, the only sign of his son that Noah found at all were the phone and keys he dropped outside the school and a bullshit letter on the kitchen table congratulating him on his son being selected for an exchange program.

To use one of Stiles’s favorite words: something smelled hinky.

Noah was less-than-surprised to have Scott blow off his worries.

Things hadn’t been great between the boys for more than a year.  Since Scott was bitten and turned, probably.  But since the nogitsune…well, to be frank that hadn’t even been what Noah could call good, let alone anything near the almost-brotherhood of their younger years.

So, when the Hales showed up on his doorstep to find Noah with reddened eyes, he’d clung to that sliver of hope with all the desperation of a father drowning in fear for his only, beloved, child.

“It’s been six days.”  Noah said, more than a little broken.  “It’s like he’s just…gone, disappeared into thin air.”

Worse than when the nogitsune had taken off wearing his son like a costume.

At least then they’d known what was happening.

With this…it was the not knowing that was almost worse than Stiles being missing in the first place.

“Tell us,” Derek demanded, though gently.  “Tell us everything.”

Noah nodded and began:

The locker, finding the phone and keys, his room cleared out, the letter on the table, Scott being useless, the total radio silence…

“...wait, repeat that.”  Peter stopped him, holding up a finger as his eyes narrowed in thought.  “Stiles was accepted where, exactly?”

Then, before Noah could explain the letter - or hell, just go get it so Hale could see it for himself, his phone rang.

His personal phone rang, with a certain irritating tone:

One that only a certain beloved brat would find funny, the theme song to COPS.

Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do…?

Noah bolted to grab his phone before the call went to voicemail, shaking fingers stabbing at the screen frantically as he put it on speaker to hear a formerly-missing voice:

“Hey Daddio, it’s me.”

“Stiles?!”  He said brokenly, slumping down into a chair at the table as the Hales traded glances and came fully into the room with that predatory prowl that made so much sense once he’d been brought into the hairy little secret as Stiles put it.  “Stiles, where are you, are you alright?!”

“Heh, told them you wouldn’t fall for whatever bullshit they tried to feed you if I was incommunicado.”  Stiles almost cackled in victory, but refrained out of respect for his Dad’s clearly-frayed nerves.  “Yeah, yeah I’m fine.  But, ah, Dad, you’re going to want to sit down.  This one…this one’s kinda hard to believe.”

By then Peter, who’d been snooping like the inquisitive wolf he was, had nosed out the infamous letter of the Sheriff’s heartbroken retelling and found his brows creeping higher and higher towards his hairline with every word.

“That explanation wouldn’t happen to include the Devildom, would it Stiles?”  Peter asked with faked idleness and unconcern, blue eyes flashing with internal ice before settling back down.

“You, you called the Hales.”  Stiles blew out a breath where he was seated in the House of Lamentation’s library on the other end of the phone, rubbing one hand over his face.  Just once he’d like to be wrong about a worst-case scenario.  Please.  Just once.  “Of course you called the Hales.  Hi, Creeper!Wolf, hi Sourwolf.  How’s it hangin’?”

“The Devildom, Stiles?”  Derek repeated his uncle’s question, brows lifting in surprise once Peter showed him the letter.  “Really?!”

Stiles could feel the judgment coming from Sir Sourwolf of Judgey Town even from an entire realm away, he really could.

“Yes, the Devildom, which given how big they are on secrecy I imagine wasn’t mentioned on whatever garbage they gave my dad, speaking of,” he continued before the Hales could try and derail the conversation again.  “Daddio, you okay there Pops?”

Noah sucked in a shaky breath that almost turned into hysterical, relieved laughter at the sound of his son, his Stiles, bantering with the Hales as if nothing was wrong.  As if nothing had happened.   How fucked up were their lives that he could disappear for almost a week and then act like nothing was wrong because he got back into contact eventually?

“I’ve been going out of my mind, kiddo.  Where the hell are you?”

“Heh, funny choice of words, Pops.  I’m actually kinda glad that the Hales are there, snark and all, because otherwise I’m not so sure you’re going to believe this one…”

Later that night:

“...and then one of them gave me a SIM card to contact you guys and yeah…”

“Only you Stiles,” the recording playing in Lucifer’s office for the edification and delight of the Demon Brothers was crystal-clear quality.  Owing no doubt to the sort of technology that Leviathan was known to covet and hoard.

As a result, the put-upon sigh of a loving father was heard loud and clear from an entire realm away.

“Do you need anything?”  One of the “Hales” they were assuming, the gruff voice assigned to “Sourwolf” asked.

“Nah, now that I can keep in touch I’m golden.  Lots of things to learn.”

“That’s excellent to hear, Stiles,” the other Hale, Creeperwolf, said, voice almost dripping sarcasm and smarm in equal measures.  “Since unlike my dear nephew, I happen to be aware when I’m attempting to punch outside of my weight class, and given the name of your sponsor, well…”

“Yeah, I wasn’t really thinking any of you would manage a rescue op, even if I really was in trouble.”  Stiles snorted.  “Thanks for the thought anyway, Zombiewolf.  Also,” they could almost hear the smirk.  “Derek, tell Lydia she needs to change Peter’s nickname.  Now that I’ve met Satan, I can safely say that Peter looks nothing like him and he probably doesn’t own a single V-neck.”

All eyes turned to the aforementioned demon, Satan’s brows lifting in surprise at the turn the conversation was taking.

There was a dramatic sniff, then: “I should say not, a wolf of my…”

“He’s way too handsome to be confused with an old wolf like you.”  Stiles cut off whatever the wolf - wolf?  One of his werewolves perhaps - was going to say that would inevitably lead to Satan taking an excessive and bloody revenge.  

“Old?  Old?!”  Peter - or so they were assuming based on the evidence - spluttered in indignation only for Stiles to carry on.

At least it wasn’t only them that the human had that effect on.

Small comfort that it was.

“Don’t let Scotty drag you into anything that could kill your furry asses while I’m not there to save them.”  Stiles continued.  “And take care of Pops for me.”

“I’m a real, live, law enforcement officer son.  I can take care of myself.”

“Mmhmm.”

“We’ll keep watch,” Derek promised, then moments later goodbyes were said and a time for another check-in was arranged.

Meanwhile, back in the Devildom:

“I’m starting to understand his ability to remain unphased.”  Asmodeus mused, Leviathan mentally agreeing having had several hours to review the recording and think on it and its implications.

“Well I want to know the inside joke about this Peter Hale and Satan.”  Mammon leered at the Avatar of Wrath.  “Especially since we all know that Stiles is wrong and Satan absolutely owns V-neck shirts.”

“Shut up, Mammon.”  Satan scowled at Lucifer’s Second, unimpressed with his antics.

As if the curiosity wasn’t killing him inside too.

“I find it interesting,” Lucifer said in a slow, soft tone that was far more dangerous than any amount of shouting could be.  “That without an explanation or Stiles slipping it in, that these wolves knew that he was in the Devildom by only seeing the letter left to explain Stiles’s absence as part of an exchange program.”

“There was no mention of the Devildom at all in the letter.”  Leviathan confirmed at a grim look from Lucifer.  “I printed it on earth-side paper and typed it exactly as you told me, Lucifer.  We even kept it in an iron-lined case until the Little Ds were done packing up his room to prevent any magical or demonic traces from getting on it.  It was clean.”

“Interesting connections doesn’t begin to cover making that kind of leap.”  Satan added, diverted for the moment from being pulled into an argument with Mammon.  “That’s how the Hale wolf was described by Stiles: knowing a wolf with interesting connections, knowledge, etc. however he put it.”

“It seems it isn’t only our human who is more than meets the eye, but also his background and history.”  Lucifer hummed lightly under his breath.

How very interesting.

“Levi, task one of your teams.  I want to know exactly what has occurred in this Beacon Hills over the last few years.”

And without any of the… colorful edits that Stiles himself would be inclined to include…or erase.

RAD, the Devildom, RAD Exchange Program Day 8:

Following the excitement of being able to talk (finally!) to his dad, the night and day afterward were a bit of a let down.

Even with Stiles finding what he thought would work as a type of masking spell for his scent.

No luck so far on anything that would control other tells to those with supernatural senses like the sound of his heartbeat or the microexpressions his face made in reaction to stimuli, but hey.  One was better than nothing.

Well…

To be honest he did find a spell that would hide all of his “tells” but, ah, it did it by erasing them entirely which kinda defeated the purpose.

He wanted to keep his cards close to his chest, not wave a big fucking red flag that shouted he had something to hide.

Life was trying to settle into a routine.  School was school and had a cycle to it, even when that school was founded by a demonic prince in the demonic plane where they learned everything from comparative religious philosophy to casting 101.  That part he had handled.

It was handling the demons who were supposed to be handling him that was the problem.

It wasn’t just that they were all, to the last one, unfairly hot.

Or that they kicked his libido into high gear just by existing in his general vicinity.

It was that they were intelligent - whether sneakily or blatantly so - and seemed determined to uncover each and every one of his secrets.

That he wasn’t best pleased about.

There were things that Derek, Peter, his Dad, Scott!, didn’t know about him.

Who he was, what he’d done.

The hell he wanted to share them with a bunch of nosy demons who just could not let it rest whether it was Asmo being all perky and relentless or Levi quietly watchful, or Mammon who was the sneakiest motherfucker behind his loudmouthed mask.

No.

Those secrets were his and he wasn’t inclined to share, thank you very much.

So there.

They’d just have to learn to live with their curiosity.

And their disappointment over leaving it unsatisfied.

Of course, he was up against the literal Lords of Hell.

Nothing was ever what it seemed.

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

Chapter Seven: New Plan!

House of Lamentation, the Devildom; RAD Exchange Program Day 15

“Okay, I’m going to say it.”  Mammon crossed his arms over his chest as he slouched in “his” chair in Lucifer’s office, the rest of his brothers (except for Belphie, who was in the human realm) watching him carefully.  “We need a new plan.”

Asmo groaned in blatant relief that someone finally said it after just over two weeks of making almost no headway with their latest project.

“Thank you, Mammon.”  Asmo sighed, rolling his head on his shoulders.  “I was ready to throw in the towel days ago.”

“He’s stubborn.”  Beel snorted softly.  “And crafty.”

The latter of which the Avatar of Gluttony felt was an understatement, given that the little human had figured out how to block his scent a week before, which was frustrating as fuck given how good he was at controlling his other tells.

Except for his heartbeat.

Stiles still hadn’t figured that out, and now that Satan removed all the books on magical camouflage from the library, hopefully he wouldn’t either.

Not all of them could be Lucifer or Diavolo after all with their power to detect lies albeit for very different reasons.

The rest of them had to rely on other identifiers and with his scent magically masked to blandness, they had nothing to go on other than his heartbeat.

That little bastard of a fledgling sorcerer.

“The problem is he’s smart,” Satan stated confidently.  “More than anything else.  Not just book-smart, he knows how to look and see the things that are being hidden from him - or at least the shape of where those things should be.  Which in turn gives him an avenue of investigation.”  He made a soft noise that was almost impressed.  “And worse: he knows that he’s vulnerable so he’s actively doing everything he can to conceal any weakness that might be used against him.”

And not just from demons in general, such as at RAD, but from the Lords themselves.

“He’s still young, despite being legally an adult in his country and culture.”  Asmo tossed out there.  “I could seduce him.”

Easily, as a matter of fact, given that Stiles’s lusts have only increased the longer he lived at the House of Lamentation.

They spiked significantly around several of them, but even the lowest amount of attraction that Stiles felt around the brothers was enough for Asmo to manipulate as it was always significant if not the nearly-overwhelming arousal Stiles felt towards certain persons.

Like Lucifer, and whoo boy does that say A Lot about what trips Stiles’s trigger.

Stiles was hot for any-and-all of them, but for Lucifer in particular there was a nearly-volcanic level of lust rising off of the human, which only got more intense after every time the pair snarked at each other.

Add in Diavolo and Asmo halfway expected to find a pile of ash in Stiles’s place instead of a human teenager, the heat was that overwhelming.

Asmo would find the restraint Stiles was showing impressive if it wasn’t so fucking inconvenient.

“We’re not going to use our powers to manipulate him.”  Lucifer shot that down immediately, though he appreciated the ruthlessness the offer implied.  “That would kill any chance of Lord Diavolo’s plan succeeding as we’ve witnessed just how negatively Stiles reacts to magical influences.”

Which in turn shot down any offers Satan or Leviathan might make, given exactly where Stiles’s primary vices were located on the spectrum of the Seven.

“This might seem a radical idea,” Mammon offered after a long moment’s thought.  “But why don’t we try not trying?”

Lucifer and the others blinked at the suggestion that was far more in tune with something the absent Belphegor would suggest than the usual tactics Mammon favored.

“Go on,” Lucifer made a beckoning gesture, intrigued despite himself.

“None of our attempts to get close enough to him to discover what is at the core of Stiles’s otherness or why the Prince truly chose him of all mortals have borne fruit.”  Mammon rattled off his thought process behind the suggestion.  “Not only that, but if anything they’ve only made him more wary of us rather than less.  He clearly is suspicious of everyone’s motives, whether due to being pulled into the Devildom or prior trauma or most likely both, and even holds his pact-demon at arm’s length at times.”

“And he may not have said or done anything overt.”  Satan added with a sigh.  “But he is holding a grudge over being pulled abruptly out of his life and into Diavolo’s exchange program, even if technically he consented via his application.”

“The nogitsune has revealed little of what led to their pact beyond that he once possessed Stiles.”  Mammon continued, as due to being Stiles’s assigned bodyguard he’d spent the most time around the pair of anyone.  “But their bond is brotherly, and Sōta doesn’t bother to hide who or what he is from Stiles, nor does Stiles shy away from the less… human-friendly aspects of his pact-demon.”

“When you say stop trying, you mean stop trying.”   Asmodeus said with a wicked smile crossing his lovely face.  “You mean to have us stop hiding who and what we are as the nogitsune does.”

“Stiles is perceptive.”  Mammon shrugged, unphased by the incredulous looks he was subject to from most of his brothers, save for Lucifer who appeared to be deep in consideration of his idea and Asmo who was wickedly intrigued.  “From everything I’ve noted regarding him, the only way we’ll learn what Diavolo might be scheming under the cover of the exchange program by bringing him here is through actual honesty or simply a lack of dishonesty, perhaps.”

“Very well,” Lucifer came to a decision.  “Within the walls of the House of Lamentation, while we must still keep the safety of the human in mind, do not bother to conceal yourselves from him.”

“You’re agreeing with this idea?”  Satan asked skeptically.  “You?  Mister Lord of Controlled Appearances?  Actually showing Stiles who he’s dealing with?”

It wasn’t an unfair lapse of faith, Lucifer had to admit, if only to himself.

Lucifer’s powers and station - even before the Fall - had always demanded the highest level of control from him, a fact which had bled into every aspect of his being and life.

The last time he’d truly lost control, Satan had been created in the backlash of his power, the literal embodiment of all of Lucifer’s once-hidden wrath.

Allowing even a fraction of his control to unravel, to be pulled back and reveal what it was he controlled to Stiles…it was unthinkable.

“Not for myself.”  Lucifer corrected with a cutting glance.  “For all that Stiles may desire me, I’ve too firmly established myself in a position of power and authority over him that can’t easily be changed into something more flexible or inviting.  No.”  He said firmly, brooking no discussion.  “I will remain as I always am, which may serve as a foil against your own endeavors.”

“There’s no may about it, brother.”  Asmodeus waited for the others to take their leave before speaking.  “Stiles truly desires you more than anyone else.”  He rose slowly with a short bow of respect to his eternal leader.  “Take from that what you will, do with it what you will, but do not attempt to lie to yourself or us regarding it.”

With that, the Avatar of Lust took his own leave, already plotting his path down this new course they were to undertake.

Lucifer had given his command after all.

It was for the rest of them to see it carried out.

No matter the consequences that may come.

The demon brothers were up to something.

Correction.

The demon brothers were always up to something from what Stiles could tell, but whatever the illusive “it” was, they’d either changed course/tactics or changed targets because the brothers he met on his sixteenth morning in the Devildom were not the same ones he’d been dealing with and/or observing for the previous fifteen days.

Well, all except for Lucifer, who was some sort of obdurate unchanging rock of authority in the midst of his brothers’ chaos…except when he was losing his temper and hanging Mammon from random light fixtures anyway.

The sudden change in their behavior simultaneously threw Stiles and his plans into utter confusion.

It was the weirdest fuckin’ thing.

All at once, Stiles was totally confused by the brothers, and his paranoia had ramped up to DEFCON 4.

But at the same time, he strangely, oddly, inconceivably found them less offputting in their behavior.

It was like watching Derek in public versus Derek in private.

Or the difference between Peter who was chronically disingenuous - except the rare, almost mythical moments when he wasn’t - and his dad who for all his tact was also one of the realest people Stiles had ever met.

Watching as Asmo outright hissed as Mammon stole the last piece of havoc-devil bacon from under the lust demon’s nose, Stiles reframed his comparison in his head.

It was like watching Derek with the other Hales - or even, dare he think it, Stiles - versus everyone else.

Epiphany broke over him in a wave.

The brothers were acting like demons instead of like overdone stereotypes of what a human might think a demon should act, or pretending to be human so thoroughly that they smothered their non-human tells to the point that it was more like playacting as a different species than anything else.

Stiles didn’t know what test he’d passed - or maybe failed - but it was fun to watch (and remember) as despite the distinctly non-human aspects of their tiffs and even their conversation over breakfast devolving into a demonic tongue instead of English more than once, it all actually seemed like them instead of an act they were putting on.

The change allowed a tension he’d been carrying to uncoil deep inside him.

Stiles knew how demons behaved.

Between Sōta’s memories and interacting with the demon himself, he even knew quite a bit about the differences between lesser and greater demons.

And that was before all the interactions and behaviors he’d noticed at RAD were taken into account.

Finally.   He thought with a deep, mental sigh.  Finally, he could start figuring these demonic bastards (and what they really wanted with him) out.

And he knew just where - or rather, with who - to start.

Ten Days Ago:

Stiles felt the magic reach out to him as he was winding down his phone call with the Hales.

His dad had conferenced them in after their own round of tears, outbursts, and denials had come and gone as Stiles had been right: when Stiles went missing, the Halehounds had been unleashed.

And then they'd decided to stick around, which he was happy about given that it gave Stiles someone topside to keep his Dad from going off the deep end with the rescue-Stiles plots.

(Though he was a little foggy on whether they’d started looking for him under their own prerogative or if his dad had gone to them for help.)

“This isn’t trying to save me from a random pixie attack, Daddio.”  Stiles interrupted and heartlessly scuppered his dad’s latest devolution into plotting an attempt to “save” him from his demonic hosts.  “This is the Lords of the Devildom and all of the hosts at their command, even if we disregard Diavolo and the entirety of the demonic hordes he can command as the Crown Prince.”  He lifted his brows in a knowing expression when the Sheriff scowled and the Hales huffed a little at the implied slight to their wolfy prowess.  “Putting all that aside, it’s an exchange program, Pops.”  If he staunchly ignores the tingle in the back of his head that said there was something more behind Diavolo’s little peacemaking attempt.  “I’ll be back in a year, actually less than that now, with an education in what to do with my Spark that I was probably never going to get from Deaton or sorting the truth from lies on the dark web.”

“I think I speak for everyone, Stiles.”  Peter spoke up after sharing a long, silent look with both Derek and Noah.  “When I say that we would all feel better if you at least weren’t there alone.”

Stiles darted a look away, mouth tightly closed for a split second as he squashed any-and-all urge to explain about demonic pacts and Sōta.

Peter would get it - and from the slight widening of his eyes at Stiles’s reaction, he actually might’ve put something together already - but the rest…

Yeah, he wasn’t planning on explaining demonic pacts to his Pops like ever.

Derek, maybe, at some nebulous point in the future.

But not his Dad, the Sheriff with his unbending moral compass.

“Technically I’m not.”  Stiles countered after a flicker of a delay wrestling with his knee-jerk reaction to come clean to his father.  “There’s a human sorcerer here as the other earth exchange student, and a pair of angels who’d have my back in a hot second if they thought I was in legitimate danger.  I’m fine guys…”

Of course, it was just as Stiles was getting done with his latest round of handling their worries that the tingle of magical something started flirting with his mind - despite crashing and burning against the wards that he’d built up higher and reinforced after his first encounter with Luke (as well as having access to better source material.)

His protections were good enough to keep him from being affected by whatever-it-was that was trying to tempt his natural curiosity, but not so thorough to keep him from knowing that something was trying something to do with him in the first place.

And Stiles being Stiles, even knowing that convincing him to investigate was probably the point of the spell, he wasn’t about to just let it go.

Especially here in the Devildom, where if this was someone’s starting point - a spell strong enough that he could still feel it even if it didn’t act like it was supposed to - he didn’t particularly want to find out what would happen if he didn’t at least pretend to play along.

“I want at least a daily call, kid.”  Noah could tell that his son’s attention - and patience - was starting to drift away.

Stiles snorted softly, rolling his eyes.  “You’ll take a text a day and a weekly call and like it.”

“Twice daily texts including codewords,” Noah shot back, ready and willing to argue for a little more peace of mind than Stiles’s independent streak would be immediately able to grant.  “And five calls a week.”

“One text a day including a code.”  Stiles narrowed his eyes as he felt the calling of the spell grow stronger to the point that he could almost hear the compulsion sneakily embedded in it.  That was some deft work.  Definitely not any run of the mill magic, to the point that if it actually grew stronger he knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore it.  Damn it.  “And three calls: one midweek, one weekend, and one random, all subject to how busy they keep me, with the understanding that if you don’t pick up Daddio that I’m entitled to call one of the Hales instead.”

“Deal.”  Noah snapped up the concession of an extra call above and beyond what he thought he was going to manage to argue for.  “Use the police code system for the texts.”  Noah continued.  “Any code.”

“He should alternate police codes with something else, Sheriff.”  Peter pointed out logically.  “Otherwise someone with knowledge of the mortal realms might catch on or at least be able to randomize a set of numbers to keep suspicion down if something does happen.”

Noah groused but couldn’t deny that the older Hale had a point.

Though it was Derek that suggested something completely out of left-field and yet also totally within Stiles’s capabilities.

“Floriography.”  Derek said, a bit hesitant.  “I know Stiles has at least a basic understanding of it, and we have Google to help us decode the messages on our end.”

“What.”  Noah sent the younger Hale a deadpan look.

“Flower language, Pops.”  Stiles frowned a little, confused over how Derek knew Stiles knew a thing or two about the Victorian practice.  “Like red roses mean  I love you, and stuff like that.  I’ll randomize between flowers and police code, always using prime numbers though.”  Stiles suggested.  “So, like, if on the sixth text in a series you get a sixth police code instead of a flower, I dunno, pray.”

“To who?”  Peter snorted, rolling his eyes.  “You’re not exactly within easy grasp of the heavenly forces, sweetheart.”

“To Simeon, the ishim.”  Stiles clarified with an eye roll of his own.  “And if that doesn’t work, as an absolute last resort, try either Luke the cherubim or the archangel Michael.  But I’m serious, Dad.”  He shifted, growing more and more uncomfortable the longer he ignored the spell insisting on his attention.  “I’m talking absolute last resort.  Like I’ve been missing for days and Simeon isn’t answering kinda last resort.”

“I’m not going to promise you that.”  Noah told him utterly unrepentant like the total overprotective DAD he was.  “But I will take your preferences under advisement.”

And was absolutely going to start praying to this Simeon character to keep watch over his son, whether his son liked it or not.

“You better,” Stiles grumbled before saying his goodbye-for-nows to the earth-bound trio.  “If I end up with the angelic version of a chihuahua nipping at my heels because of you, we’re going to have words when I come home old man.”

“As long as it means you’ll come home, I won’t apologize for it.  Love you kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

And now, Stiles thought to himself with an irritated glance towards the interior of the house where he felt the spell pulling him.  To take care of an asshole who does not know who they’re fucking with…

Present Day:

“Belphegor, my most murderous of demon lords.”  Stiles sauntered through the lone corridor of the House of Lamentation’s attic to a decorative arch - complete with iron bars for that wonderful horror movie aesthetic.  “How’s it hangin’, big boy?”

The glare that the sleepy demon lord leveled at Stiles was nothing less than scorching.

When he’d followed the call of Belphegor’s spell through the House of Lamentation a week and a half before, he hadn’t had the first idea what to expect aside from what he could only describe as demonic fuckery.

Especially given that the six free lords of the Devildom had still been acting like a cross between dramatized stereotypes mixed with frat boys aside from the rare moments where he saw bits of the actual ancient beings behind the overdone masks.

Since the spell was targeted at Stiles’s curiosity and not anything else like lust or greed, he honestly thought he’d find Lucifer, Beelzebub, or even Satan at the other end of it.

With most of his mental debating coming down pretty heavily in Beel’s favor.

After all, Sōta had said it the best when he was possessing Stiles: he was insatiable - at least in Stiles’s case when it came to knowledge and solving puzzles - and with Beel being the avatar for gluttony which came in more forms than just food, yeah.

He’d thought it’d been a weird summons from the copper-haired sixth brother.

Under orders from Lucifer, maybe, but his mental wager had been on Beel.

Not the one brother that at that point Stiles had had yet to meet: Belphegor, the seventh and “youngest” of the demonic lords/fallen angels, and the Avatar for either Sloth or Acedia or both depending on the reference material Stiles was looking at.

When the spell had led him to a staircase saturated in alarm and notification spells with a significantly dark magical tint, he’d known things were a little more involved than just the brothers deciding to poke at him.

But those spells after a bit of trial-and-error only saturated the staircase.

Not the landing above or below it.

And Stiles…well.

Stiles hadn’t played host to a chaos demon who traveled through shadows for nothing.

With the pact between him and Sōta in play, and a bit of practice, three days after the initial beckoning spell had hit him - only to let go once he’d made it to the staircase, like that wasn’t suspicious in and of itself - or rather three nights later, Stiles had managed to clear the staircase without setting off a single one of Lucifer’s spells.

Shadow travel wasn’t a normal demonic power, as Stiles found out once he hit the books to figure out if there would be any weirdness for Stiles if he used it, but one reserved for Diavolo’s personal legion.

Sōta’s legion, that didn’t answer to anyone or anything but the crown prince and (theoretically) his father the King of Hell.

Too bad, so sad for Lucifer’s preparations that Stiles had never really been a normal human, even before he knew a damned thing about the supernatural.

Too different, too weird, too willing to ask questions.

Or in the case of figuring out what wanted him in the attic: too willing to take risks.

Despite Belphegor’s rather weak depiction of a human prisoner, one filled with logical fallacies and plot holes, or maybe because of it, Stiles’s suspicion had already been at DEFCON 4 before he’d even made it to the bars keeping the demon lord trapped.

Trapped in a rather lavish room, complete with basically every comfort imaginable except for his freedom, but trapped nonetheless.

Stumbling block for whatever bullshit Belphegor was planning on feeding him also looped back to Stiles and his pact: he’d asked Sōta on his first night after completing their pact about all of the demon lords.

All seven of them.

And Belphegor, who was supposed to be on the earthly plane according to everyone around him, was known for harboring the greatest loathing and disdain for humans.

Bar none, including lesser demons and the other greater demon lords who weren’t one of the seven avatars of the deadly sins.

So yeah.

Stiles wasn’t inclined to be exactly trusting when he conveniently found a “trapped” human who had eyes that changed colors, superhuman beauty, and the ability to lure him to the attic despite being contained by what was apparently Lucifer’s spellwork according to the prisoner himself.

He’d listened to the spiel, played along, and then promptly tore the ruse to shreds with a steady application of logic and a smidge of deductive reasoning.

No, at the time he had no proof that the prisoner was Belphegor.

But.

C’mon.

Take one missing human-hating demon lord, add an imprisoned demon kept secret from the rest of the brothers by Lucifer, and Stiles didn’t need to be a MENSA candidate (though he was) to put that puzzle together.

Ever since, poking the human-hating demon lord had kinda become something of an entertaining pastime.

Especially since Stiles needed someone to rant about demonic fuckery to who wasn’t one of the fuckers themselves (like Asmo, who could be a surprisingly good listener when he wasn’t playing the vapid ditz) or who would feel inclined to try and do something about his frustrations like Sōta or his dad.

Hence: a literally captive audience to rant to and Stiles having zero guilt about taking advantage of it because he was an expert at making loopholes his bitch and he’d heard more than one in the “promises” Belphegor had tried to make him in exchange for his freedom.

Like, say, that his brothers wouldn’t hurt Stiles once Belphegor was free?

Dude, Stiles wasn’t born yesterday and after more than a year of dealing with Peter Hale and his twisty way of thinking Stiles could absofuckinglutely see the problem with that wording thanks.

“I loathe you with every fiber of my being, mudmonkey.”  Belphegor hissed at the fucking infuriating bit of biological waste that Diavolo had chosen to inflict on the Devildom.

Stiles snorted, rolling his eyes.  “You and every other jerkface who I’ve out-thought since I was in kindergarten, dude.  Join the club, I’m pretty sure they have t-shirts.”

Belphegor merely sneered and made a rude gesture, muttering insults in an archaic version of old demonic tongue that Stiles had yet to start learning.

Rude.

Anyway.

“Your brothers are up to something.”  Stiles announced, complete with jazzhands.  “On a scale of one, meh; to ten, holy shitballs batman it’s the apocalypse, how concerned should I be?”

“I don’t know, parasitic amoeba.”  Belphegor told him deadpan, sighing now that the original greetings had been gotten over with and knowing from already far too much experience that if he wanted to be left in peace to resume his napping - not that there was much else to do other than read, thanks Lucifer, fuck you very much - he had to humor the fleshbag.  “What are they doing?  It’s not like I have my DDD up here to keep up on the group texts, idiot.”

“I dunno how to describe it, exactly.”  Stiles frowned softly, folding himself down onto the floor and resting his back against one side of the arch containing the bars to Belphegor’s prison, as the demon couldn’t reach through and grab at him - he knew, he’d tested it - but that let him see the demon where he was flopped and sprawled on what looked like a very comfortable pillow-pile on the floor.  “It’s like…”  He trailed off, thinking and looking away, missing Belphegor’s there-then-gone darted glance at his face.  “It’s like they’ve stripped away a bit of the playacting.  Maybe?  Less High School Musical: Devildom Edition and more early series Supernatural before the whole villain and power scaling issues with the narrative made everything over the top.”

Over Stiles’s dead body would Belphegor ever admit that he’d followed both of those human pop culture references.

Belphegor couldn’t begin to guess what the goal was with his brothers’ actions: either the pretending to be goofy, if slightly dangerous, teenage versions of demons or reverting back to what sounded more like their normal behaviors.

One thing he did know however was whatever the motivations in play, such a dramatic switch could have only been caused by an order either from Lucifer or Diavolo himself.

And either way: if Belphegor was going to remain a prisoner and be subjected to the fleshbag’s rants, at the very least he could get a measure of satisfaction out of ruining his beloved oldest brother’s plans or those of Lucifer’s oh-so-wonderful and infallible Prince Diavolo.

“Sounds to me,” Belphegor broke in, interrupting Stiles’s rant illustrating exactly what he meant about the behavioral switch, having assumed that the demon lord didn’t get his references.  “Like they’re finally acting more normal.”

“What?”  Stiles’s frown cleared a little as he tilted his head to look closer at the bored demon.  “What do you mean?”

“At the very least,” Belphegor continued without explaining, quite enjoying the look of enraged frustration that washed over Stiles’s face.  “They’re not pretending to be humans with a bit extra power.  The growls, the hissing, the flashing eyes and fangs and claws.  Surely you’ve noticed at RAD that that’s normal demon behavior by now?”   His tone at the end was nothing short of derisive in regards to Stiles’s supposed intelligence if he hadn’t noticed.

“I noticed.”  Stiles said shortly, nostrils flaring with restrained temper over the implied slight in Belphegor’s tone.  “But since I’ve never met a greater demon other than your brothers and Diavolo, I assumed…”

“Wrong.”  Belphegor sighed, shuffling onto his side and preparing to actually ignore the human if it decided to lurk after his implied dismissal.  “If you’re attending RAD you’ve probably been around several greater demons and just not noticed because they weren’t muzzling their behavior like my idiot brothers and the prince.  Barbatos and Mephistopheles are two you should’ve met by now off the top of my head, and there’s likely more.  RAD isn’t only for lesser demons.”

With that, Belphegor closed his eyes and remained silent - no matter how annoying Stiles’s objections to being ignored got until the human gave up and stomped away, muttering under his breath all the way.

A slight, wicked look that was too dark to be called a smile flashed over Belphegor’s face as he stared at the human’s retreating back.

He may be imprisoned with no clear avenue to escape, this was true.

But so long as Stiles was foolish - or curious - enough to continue visiting, well.

All hope of fucking with Lucifer and his plans was not yet lost.

It was a petty revenge when compared to imprisonment, true.

But Belphegor was a demon.

Petty was absolutely allowed.

For his part, once he was out of earshot of the demon lord - and he’d tested it over and over again with the brothers to figure out exactly where that range was, and found like most things to do with the demons that it depended on which demon was being tested, damn it - Stiles stopped the muttering and stomping he’d put on for Belphegor’s benefit.

The trapped demon was a perverse, prickly fucker - but he was a perverse, prickly fucker with a grudge.

And that made him predictable.

“They’ve stopped suppressing their demon behaviors, huh.”  Stiles mused to himself, shooting a gloating glance up towards the attic, then turning resolutely towards the library.

He'd scored double-time: both on the pretty-solid idea he'd had that the brothers were actually acting like demons now and not putting on a different kind of show for him, and on the vague hypothesis he'd formed about the power of the demons enrolled at RAD.

Yeah, he was no closer to figuring out what the brothers and/or Diavolo actually were after when it came to this whole exchange-student thing, but: details.

Looked like he had more research to do.

And a pact-brother to interrogate-er-question.

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

Chapter Eight: Self-Control? Check.  Self-Preservation…Not So Much

RAD Exchange Programme: Day 17

Stiles woke from his latest round of research-bingeing with a lowkey eyestrain headache and a grumbling stomach - as well as no friggin’ clue what time or even day it was.

He’d also learned a few pertinent facts throughout all the repetitive information on demons and the Devildom he’d devoured.

First: that his own theory and Belphegor’s information were correct - there were far more greater demons than just the lords of the Devildom.  In fact, there was a simple, but important, demarcation between lesser and greater demons: greater demons were capable of commanding others whilst lesser demons were commanded.  That didn’t mean that every greater demon was, for example, in charge of a legion.  But it did mean that greater demons were far more dangerous in different ways than he’d originally considered.

Second: that there was a catch to all that power and ability.

Greater demons as a result of all that power streaming through them, power that revolved around a singular hell domain, were far more tied to the source of their powers than lesser demons.

Asmodeus literally fed off lust, though he also ate like his brothers.

Mammon’s greedy acquisition sprees and Beel’s binge-eating were part-and-parcel of satisfying their domains and keeping control over their own powers.

And Lucifer?

A serious blow to the demon’s Pride would probably cripple him - at least for a time.

The third tidbit he’d stumbled on had come when he was vaguely considering the idea of trying to form a pact with one of the brothers.  Not a slavery-type pact or anything like that, hell no.  But something along the lines of what he had with Sōta.

He’d been considering it, he had to admit, pretty much since he’d learned of pacts.

On the face of it, the idea seemed like his best - if not only - plan to survive an entire year in the Devildom: securing a pact with one if not more of the Lords of Hell.

It was only what he learned about pacts and how they’re used and abused - on both sides of the bargain, to be clear - that he’d really hesitated and taken a step back.  Sōta was powerful, and was actually feared by other demons from what Stiles could tell.  He was respected and as a member of the eighth legion he didn’t have to answer to any demon but Diavolo and probably Barbatos as Diavolo’s closest lieutenant despite Lucifer ostensibly being the prince’s right-hand man.

Stiles was pretty sure that made Barbatos, Diavolo’s left hand, and from his experiences with wolf packs and Peter fucking Hale, that made him far more terrifying a threat to Stiles’s peace of mind than Lucifer even on a bad day.

Lucifer would just kill him; Barbatos would scar him for life and then allow him to keep on living.

That step back might as well have been a mile-long-jump when he met Belphegor and the demon tried to lull him into believing his little act.  An act that Belphegor put on for a singular reason: to convince Stiles to create pacts not just with one of the demon’s brothers, but all of them.  Suspicious much?  Stiles might not be one hundred percent - or fuck, even fifty percent - conversant on demons and how they functioned but anything that the greater demon voted most likely to wipe out the human race (he wasn’t even joking there was a poll he’d found in a deep dive of the RAD newsletter when he’d been looking up information on all the brothers) wanted something from a human it was absolutely in Stiles’s best interest not to give it to him.

It was in that research regarding the brothers and pacts that he’d stumbled on a sentence in one of the dusty tomes on demonic contracts in the House of Lamentation library that honestly shocked him: of all seven of the brothers, only two were known to hold contracts with humans.

Asmodeus, who was pact-bound to Solomon (which explained Lucifer’s cautioning Stiles about the sorcerer.)

And Mammon.

Mammon who was bound not to a singular person but to an entire coven.

That tidbit pretty much wiped any thought of Stiles forming a pact with one of the Lords of Hell right out of his mind, even if it was sort of a Hail Mary type idea to keep his snarky ass alive for the next fifty weeks.

(He was absolutely counting.)

It was with all that swirling around in his brainpan: pacts and powers and legions, that Stiles made his way from the library to the kitchen, glaring bleary-eyed at the tiny clock on his phone that beamed up at him and let him know that he’d been research spiraling for hours: 03:13 AM.

Fuck a duck.

He had class tomorrow at RAD as well as more “tasks” to complete for Lucifer to make some grimm.

Yeah, Diavolo had set him up with an account and the demonic version of a debit card, complete with an allowance - as much as the idea chafed - to take care of his basic needs.

But the tasks that Lucifer assigned helped pad that allowance out by a lot.

Not enough if Stiles wanted to buy anything extravagant or go out to eat every day, but it helped for sure.

Stiles still wasn’t confident enough in his power and ability to fend off every demon who might decide to try and snack on him and his (apparently) shiny soul to take one of the part-time jobs advertised at RAD.  Eventually though…maybe.  Pretty much dependent on just how badly he decides he needs some of the tomes on magic or whatever that’re for sale to take back to earth with him.  Though there was a lot of other cool junk he wouldn’t mind owning…both magical and not.

It was a grumbling-to-himself Stiles who was less than happy over his upcoming school day on almost zero sleep that shambled his way over to first the fridge and then the cupboards only to hiss in disdain at their nearly-empty status.

Beel.

The Avatar of Gluttony had clearly slipped Lucifer’s watch and gone on a binge through the kitchen.

Again.

For the tenth time in the just-over-two-weeks that Stiles had been in the Devildom.

Motherfucker.

Grousing softly to himself, Stiles did a deep dive into the nearly-bottomless depths of the House of Lamentation’s freezer.

It was a dark, unholy task but hunger waited for no man.

Or breakfast, for that matter.

Pulling himself out of the darkest depths known to demonkind, Stiles smirked victoriously at the half-gallon carton of caramel-praline swirl ice cream he’d found buried behind trays of ice cubes and what he’d thought was something shiny and golden frozen literally into an ice cube.

Whatever, not his problem what weird shit (to a human anyway) the brothers got up to.

Rummaging for a spoon, Stiles eyed the deep-frozen carton speculatively.

There was no note on it like the custard he’d stared at for a long moment weighing the pros-and-cons over whether Beelzebub would forget that he’d stashed it in the fridge in the first place.

Logic said: no, Beel would probably forget it if he didn’t actually see it with the way he ran through food.

Stiles’s desire to survive on the other hand screamed to leave the custard a-fucking-lone and deal with whatever dregs he scraped up from the frozen abyss of the must-be-enchanted chest freezer.

The ice cream was so frozen it was more like a solid block of ice - including some freezer burn at the top that he literally cut off with a knife he’d run under hot water - but he figured if he sealed it back up and ran the sides under water it would help loosen everything up to an edible state.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

(He was really fucking hungry, okay.)

“Oi!”

And just like that, Stiles’s little late night/early morning snack before bed was ruined.

Arching a brow, Stiles hopped up on the island countertop and fished out a heaping spoonful of illicit snackage, staring down Mammon the entire time as he felt the creamy sweetness hit his tongue and his stomach growled at finally having calories hit it.

“What?”  He asked once he’d swallowed when Mammon just stared at him in shocked disbelief.

“You,” Mammon nearly spluttered at the audacity.  Seriously.  He knew why he’d suggested the new tactic, but he hadn’t thought there’d be a difference that quick.  It’d only been a day after all.  And while Stiles had never been afraid of what seemed like anything or anyone, there was a stark difference between not afraid for his life and this, this level of sheer comfortable sassery.  “What’re you doin’, weren’t you asleep?  Where’d you even find that?”

“Depths of the freezer,” Stiles waved a spoon at the ominous appliance in question, silently taking in the confirmation that the demons at least somewhat kept track of him even when he wasn’t in sight.  Given that he’d waited until he’d been quietly laying in bed - with no activity on his phone at that - for a half hour before going up to bug-er-question Belphegor.  “I was getting light headed after ignoring my stomach while I had a late night study session.”

Mammon winced.  “Don’t ever say something like that to Beel.”  He warned.  “He doesn’t like people to go hungry around him, with his powers he can feel it and it bothers him.”

Stiles wasn’t the only person in the house who had a bad habit of ignoring shit like food when he got distracted after all, and they did not need another repeat of one of Satan’s first reading-binges that set off an epic tantrum in Beel when the Avatar of Gluttony came across the then young demon.

Mammon would never admit it, even under threat of Lucifer, but the fact that Stiles actually managed to find food after one of Beel’s fridge raids was honestly impressive - no matter his species of origin.

“Noted.”  Stiles nodded, having already taken to lobbing small snacks at Beel whenever the big demon started to get that sad, abused puppy look that graced his handsome face whenever his constant hunger crossed a certain threshold.  

Though the idea that Beel - and as a result maybe the other brothers and perhaps other demons - could feel what those around them felt was interesting.  It wasn’t empathy, at least he didn’t think so without more research and testing, but the way Mammon made it sound it was like if something crossed into the domain of one of the brothers they could sense it.  Which made him want to break out in hives given what Asmo’s domain was.

Fuck.

Wolfy - and demon - noses were bad enough.

If Asmo had actual radar for when anyone around him was turned on…ugh.

Something new to be completely mortified over until he dies then, great.

Which was almost right then as he almost choked on his ungainful looting of the freezer as Mammon made what could only be called a chirp as he finished rooting through the freezer and darted back upright with a chunk of…ice?  In his hand.

No creature as powerful and potentially deadly as the second most powerful demon lord should sound that fucking cute.

Seriously.

It had to break a cosmic law or something.

“Goldie!”  Mammon’s grin was nothing short of beaming as he stared at the ice cube in his hand.  One that seemed to have formed around…

A credit card?!

“Goldie, I found you.”  Mammon actually crooned to the ice-encased credit card now that Stiles had gotten a better look at it.

Damn.

He’d heard of freezing someone’s assets before but whoever stole Mammon’s credit card and froze it was being both literally and metaphorically cold.

As well as ridiculous.

But apparently effective from how Mammon was crooning and whispering how much he’d missed his credit card and how mean and awful and terrible Lucifer was to hide it.

Ahh.

Okay.

That makes more sense.

Given the dynamic Stiles had seen between Lucifer and Mammon, he wasn’t surprised that Lucifer had done something completely out of left field in order to keep Mammon from finding his credit card.

(Was it hard if not impossible for demons to request replacement for lost/stolen cards?  Or was Lucifer on the account somehow?  Inquiring minds were suddenly much more interested in the ins-and-outs of demonic realm finance.  He had questions.)

“What’s that about?”  Beel asked, appearing from the hallway behind Mammon - causing the demon who was being downright worshipful of his returned credit card to let out a shriek and flail, nearly dropping his precious.

Stiles snickered to himself, even as he offered up a spoonful of ice cream to the interested Beel.

With a soft growl of approval, Beel bent down - way down, that demon was too big for Stiles’s own good - and accepted the tribute before handing the spoon back to Stiles and turning to do a second raid of the kitchen for the night.

He returned moments later with his custard from the fridge and a spoon of his own, hopping up sans-hands in a show of absent strength and dexterity.

“Mammon found his card where Lucifer apparently hid it in the freezer.”

Beel let out an understanding hum of approval as they sat together like two peas in a pod enjoying their sugary treats and the show that Mammon put on as he gently melted the ice under the hot water of the kitchen tap and returned to crooning sweet nothings to a credit card.

It was a surprisingly peaceful moment, Stiles had to admit.

Without his bristling and side eying everything the brothers were doing for authenticity, it was almost…nice.

Which meant, given Stiles’s luck, that something had to happen to ruin it.

“One.  More.  Time.”

Lucifer stood with his clawed fists propped on his hips and a dark scowl on his face, ink-black wings spread out behind him and the symbol of his father’s disappointment vivid between his brows.

AKA Lucifer the Fallen Angel was large and in charge as he surveyed the rubble and broken remains of his kitchen.

As well as the wall that used to separate Stiles’s bedroom from the kitchen itself, but: details.

“What happened?”

A sheepish Beel and Mammon traded glances whilst Satan just fumed and Stiles looked anywhere but at Lucifer between glares at what was once a wall of his room.

Demons, honestly.

Was he still relieved that he didn’t have to be constantly on edge because of customer-service-style smiles and fake human behavior throwing him off?  Yes.

Was he happy that acting like themselves apparently also made for demon-sized brawls over ice cream of all things and a new hole in one of the support walls for the house, making his room unlivable?  (And most likely destroying some of his possessions in the process?)

No.

That he could’ve done without.

Though: damn.

He finally got how normally calm and collected Satan was the Avatar of Wrath given how he’d blown up over seeing Stiles (and eventually Mammon) eating what was apparently his ice cream.

Which Stiles explained to Lucifer rather succinctly:

“Satan lost his shit over me eating his unlabeled ice cream that he hid forever ago in the freezer and forgot about.  Mammon kept me out of the line of literal fire and Beel handled Satan, but,” he waved his hands in the air to encompass the ruins of the kitchen/part of his room.

He craned his head a little.

Awww, man.

Rest in Pieces comfy bed, RIP.

Lucifer growled at his brothers, and then seemed to come to a decision.

“You can’t stay in your room while it and the kitchen are being repaired.”  He announced pragmatically.  “However, despite Satan apparently being the instigator of this little,” he growled again, deep in his voice.  “Mess, his room is in no state to host you.  Beel,” Lucifer sent the massive, if usually gentle, demon a commanding look.  “As your punishment for escalating events instead of sending for me immediately, you’ll be responsible for hosting Stiles while the repairs are completed.  Satan, you’ll clean this up.” He snarled at the Avatar of Wrath who bared a fang at him but didn’t argue.  “We’ll discuss other reparations later.  And Mammon…”  He trailed off, exhausted.

“Mmm?”  The penultimate demon lord of the brothers hummed a little, arching an expectant brow at his commander.

“Good work.”  Lucifer uttered words that he used but rarely in recent days as they worked to keep their carefully-crafted images intact.  With Stiles no longer subject to the posturing they utilized outside of their home - all of them were very cognizant that power aside they were all considered new blood by the nobles of the Devildom - he was for once free to actually praise his second in the moment instead of having to reserve his words for privacy.  “As there is a distinct lack of nogitsune present, you must have acted with all due speed to ensure Stiles’s safety, just as I would expect from you.”

Mammon blushed softly, undone as he always got when Lucifer was particularly genuine with him, and took his leave ahead of the others.

Satan snarled under his breath even as he rolled up his sleeves, Lucifer striding off down the hall towards his room, and lastly Beel shifting awkwardly before ushering Stiles away towards the opposite wing of the house.

Better to get out of Satan’s way - and range - before they ended up setting off his temper…again.

“Oh, wow.”  Stiles blinked as he followed Beel’s broad form into the suite he shared with the currently-imprisoned Belphegor.

It was quite literally like night and day.

Decorated on one side with daytime motifs of the sun and Beel’s favored orange, with the opposite side done up in midnight shades of blue and dark purple with images of stars.

There were three doors, which given the lack of dressers or wardrobes Stiles assumed led to a pair of walk-in-closets and an ensuite bathroom much like Stiles’s own guest room, but rather than an attached sitting room or study area, he spied a spiral staircase that led up to a loft where he could just barely see the edge of a couch.

Eyeing the purple “night” side of the room, Stiles debated saying something once more only to dismiss the urge.

Most of what dripped out of Belphegor’s mouth might be bullshit when he’d originally been trying to manipulate Stiles’s sentiments and morals, but when it came to how his brothers would likely react to the news that Lucifer imprisoned him…yeah, Stiles could only see that fight being just as potentially apocalyptic as Belphegor laid out given that a single temper tantrum from Satan alone basically wiped out their kitchen and part of Stiles’s room.

“Umm,” Beel rubbed one hand over the back of his neck, following Stiles’s gaze to Belphie’s untouched bed and nightstand as he came back from ducking into his closet and pulling out a spare set of pajamas for his temporary roommate.  “You can take my bed.  I wouldn’t feel right about letting someone sleep in Belphie’s bed while he’s not here to agree or object.”

Stiles frowned up at the big guy, even as he took and fiddled with the soft set of worn sweats and tank top, eyeing the sheer bulk of Beel and then craning his head to try and get a better look at the couch in the loft.

“What, and let you sleep on that couch?”  Stiles asked, incredulous.  “There’s no way you’ll fit on that thing, and I’ve slept in way weirder places than a couch trust me.”

On his floor or at his desk from passing out during a research binge immediately sprang to mind.

As well as on the tiny couch in his dad’s office at the station.

Or…

Yeah.  He could definitely hack it for a bit on Beel’s couch while his room got fixed and Lucifer or whoever replaced his bed.

Beel just arched a brow, dragging his gaze over the tall, if lithe, human with a soft snort.

“You’re not that much shorter than me, you know.”  Beel pointed out flawlessly.

“It’s not just height in play though, is it?”  Stiles shot right back with raised brows, glancing significantly at the sheer breadth of Beel’s shoulders.  “I’m like, half your size, two-thirds tops.  There’s no way you’ll fit on that couch - or any couch for that matter - easier and more comfortably than I will, dude.”

Beel opened his mouth to keep arguing the point then saw Stiles steady himself before he swayed on his feet from exhaustion, watching him carefully.

He knew that kind of stubbornness.

He’d lived with it for eons, each of his brothers and himself either blessed or cursed with their own form of utter intractability.

“You’re not going to let me win this are you?”  He asked with good humor.  “Even if I point out that having you stay here is a much lighter punishment than what Lucifer could have levied against me for what happened?”

Stiles shrugged, unbothered by the argument and prepared to argue back that given that Beel had been trying to stop more damage - including to Stiles’s oh-so-human self - from occurring that to a reasonable person he shouldn’t have been punished at all.

Though he knew better than to actually argue that with Lucifer.

The Avatar of Pride wasn’t necessarily a reasonable person especially when it came to someone trying to interfere with himself and his brothers.

There was this look that Lucifer got whenever anyone (usually Satan or Asmo) mentioned witches that sent a shiver of fear running up and down Stiles’s spine.

Stiles saw it for the first time when Lucifer warned him about trusting Solomon, but it kept popping up and not always in regards to the sorcerer himself or even the fact that Lucifer clearly didn’t approve of him having a pact with Asmo.

He knew there was a story there, even if he’d yet to gather either enough bravery or stupidity to actually ask about it.

“Alright,” Beel sighed, giving in - for the moment anyway.  “You can have the first turn in the bathroom, Stiles.  There should be a spare toothbrush in one of the lowest cabinet drawers.”

And that was that - until they’d both recharged their batteries and were ready to argue anew, anyway.

“Ooh, Stiles…”   The sing-song quality of Asmodeus’s voice sent a chill of warning down Stiles’s spine as he made his way between his magical theory and demonic language classes at RAD.

It was a distinctly different sort of warning than what he’d felt the night before when Satan lost his shit.

One that warned of fuckery afoot rather than mortal danger.

And without even thinking about it, Stiles knew what it was that had caught the demon lord’s attention.

“Whatever it is, the answer is no.”  He at least had to make an attempt - however ultimately futile - at shooting down who, from his observations, was the single most mischievous of the demon lords.

“Oh?”  The foxy grin on Asmo’s too-pretty face spelled nothing good, especially given that he was accompanied by a literal fox in Sōta who seemed both compliant and confused over finding himself with Asmo hanging off his arm.  “Are you sure about that, lovely?”

“What did you do?”  Stiles narrowed his eyes on the pair, feeling his recent banked paranoia roar back into full flower and flare.

“Moi?!”  Asmodeus gasped as if offended, his free hand pressing to his chest.  “Why I haven’t done a thing.  You on the other hand…”  The expression on his face could be described as nothing but salacious.

Stiles felt his suspicion melt into confusion.

What the actual fuck…?

“Tell me,” Asmo leaned close as if imparting a juicy secret, ignoring the demonic students ebbing and flowing around them on their way to class.  “How was your night with Beel?  He’s quite the gluttonous beast when motivated, isn’t he?”

Stiles quietly filed that away as confirmation that the brothers were more brothers in the sense of “brothers-in-arms” than any sort of familial way.

Or if it was familial, it was definitely incestuous as fuck, especially with the way Asmo tended to flirt with any of the others who happened to breathe in his immediate vicinity.

Now, it could be argued that Asmo was just trying to get a rise out of him, the demon had turned being provocative into an art form - in more than one way at that.

But, honestly, Stiles didn’t think so.

Especially with what Sōta had told him about how demons handled sex far more casually than even the most open-minded human.

“Nothing happened, Asmo.”  Stiles said with a put-upon sigh, sending Sōta a disappointed look for getting caught up in Asmo’s bullshit even as the nogitsune detached himself from the demon lord and got all up in Stiles’s space, inspecting him as if worried that Beel had taken a literal chunk out of him.  “With my room currently missing a wall, Beel is hosting me since his room has the space.  That’s all.”

Asmodeus pouted, crossing his arms with a soft huff.

Boring.

“I don’t get you.”  He finally admitted, utterly deadpan and serious instead of playing cute or overly flirtatious.  “You’re like a fountain of repressed lust and desire, and you have to know by now that any of us would be happy to help you with that, and you just…”  He waved a frustrated hand in the air as he stared at the human in confusion.

“You guys are hardly the first beautiful creatures I’ve been around, even in close quarters.”  Stiles said dryly, Sōta nodding reluctantly when Asmo looked his way for confirmation as the nogitsune literally wrapped himself tails and all around his pact brother.  “I do possess self-control - and more importantly more self-esteem than to just jump into bed with the first hot demon that offered.  Especially given that there’s no way I can predict what kind of strings one of you might try and put on my giving into temptation.”

With a lift of his brows when Asmo just wrinkled his nose, Stiles turned and returned to making his way to class.

Albeit with a Sōta-shaped attachment, one with an important question to ask:

“Why didn’t you call me, if Satan was that furious?”  Sōta whispered, upset that he was hearing about the dust-up second hand hours later instead of directly from Stiles.

“I dunno,” Stiles shrugged, not wanting to think - let alone admit - that he might be starting to trust his hosts.  At least…one or two of them anyway.  “It just all happened really fast, I guess.  And Beel’s one of my favorites of the brothers so it’s not like it’s a hardship to share space with him for awhile.”

Sōta nodded thoughtfully.  Yeah, that tracked.  Still…

“You know that Asmodeus is going to use this as an excuse to finally drag you shopping right?”  He pointed out, only a little viciously satisfied with Stiles’s cursing under his breath.

Hah.

Served him right for getting into a fight with the likes of Satan without calling for Sōta to help him.

He knew Stiles’s sense of self-preservation was broken but, wow Stiles.

Wow.

Chapter Text

Chaotic Consequences

Chapter Nine:  The Shopping Trip from Hell

“And Stiles?”  Diavolo asked, leaning back in his desk chair, one leg crossed over the other as Lucifer finished his daily report.  “It has been noted that he has refrained from seeking additional pacts.  How is he really adjusting to the Devildom and the programme?”

“He is…strange.”  Lucifer said, words slow and careful.  “After his experience with possession and magical manipulation, that he is hesitant towards making demonic pacts is, perhaps, understandable.  However…”  He hesitated, only for Diavolo to lean forward in interest, shifting so that both feet were once more on the floor.

“However?”

“A few days ago, after a fortnight of little to no progress with understanding our housemate, Mammon suggested stripping away the facade due to how comfortable Stiles is with Sōta - and has been since the beginning - versus his tension around myself and my brothers.”

“Oh?”  A dark crimson brow lifted in interest, as that was not a tack he predicted that the brothers would take.  Not for some time at least, if ever, depending on how accurate Barbatos’s visions proved to be.  “How has he responded?”

“Flawlessly.”  Lucifer admitted, almost sighing as Diavolo’s presence shifted from watchful to a warmth that spoke to his pleasure at the news.  “His ability to sense dishonesty both in actions and words is almost as refined as I’ve ever seen from a magic user.  He no longer holds himself ready to lash out at every moment - at least within the House - now that my brothers are allowing themselves to be more…free with their behavior.”

He paused, then added, testingly: “Stiles is no normal human.”

Diavolo hummed under his breath but didn’t take the bait, instead seeking more information from Lucifer on Stiles’s acclimation to the Devildom:

“How did he respond to Satan’s temper?”

“Steady.”  Lucifer couldn’t help the corner of his mouth twitching up in approval at how Stiles had kept his cool and listened to Mammon and Beel, keeping himself unharmed by Satan’s power as a result.  Even if it did cost Lucifer his kitchen and Stiles himself many of his garments - as well as some sulking over a pillow? that upset him seemingly more than being a potential victim of a demon lord’s wrath.  “He followed directions, and didn’t express any discomfort or disgust towards my brothers’ demonic visages.  If anything, he was exasperated over Satan throwing a fit over a minor irritation like ice cream ownership, rather than afraid as Sōta was never once called through their bond.”

Most excellent news, except:

“How are your brothers being punished for putting our most important human representative at risk?”

“As Satan’s actions were the majority of the problem,” Lucifer smirked.  “I have him bearing the burden of the majority of the recompense…”

Thanks to Sōta’s warning, Stiles was, if not agreeable, at least resigned when after he’d gotten out of his last class of the day on remedial devildom history he walked out into the hallway to see a clearly-gloating Asmo taunting a sulky Satan as they waited on him.

Damn it.

He’d successfully avoided having to go shopping with Asmo despite multiple offers in multiple ways - including outright bribery and pouting - since he arrived almost three weeks before.  But now his fate was sealed.  Thanks to Satan’s temper-tantrum having taken out Stiles’s wardrobe as well as his bed, Stiles had no choice but to replace his things somehow, and Asmo had gotten his claws into the situation before Stiles really had a chance to protest.

A fact which was summed up neatly by the pair waiting on him:

“Lucifer decided as an additional punishment for the damages and potentially endangering you that I have to pay to replace your ruined belongings.”  Satan told him with a put-upon sigh.  “I’ve already ordered new uniforms, Asmo insists on coming along for the rest.”

“Of course I do!”  Asmo caroled out, dancing over to Stiles’s side and beaming with delight when the human - part-human? they were still trying to uncover what was up with him - for once didn’t immediately start trying to shrug out of his hold.  Ooh.  Maybe he was finally getting used to them now that his instincts weren’t pinging that something was off from their playacting!  (Mammon was going to be impossible to live with over being right if so.)  “He deserves better than just having you shove your DDD at him to use your Akuzon account!”  Asmo scolded, eyes narrowed on the unrepentant Avatar of Wrath.  “For the inconvenience, if nothing else!”

“I mean…”  Stiles huffed a short laugh, glancing down at Asmo’s designer-chic-self, the demon already changed out of his RAD uniform.  “Akuzon would probably be more equitable to most of the stuff destroyed.”  He admitted, to dismay on the part of Asmo and amusement - or maybe schadenfreude - from Satan.  “Except for a couple pieces that were gifts, nothing I own, er, owned clothes-wise was expensive.”

It was the cumulative cost of replacing it all that would hurt, especially with his ability to earn money, or grimm in the Devildom, curtailed until he felt more comfortable venturing out alone and taking a part-time job.

Between the stipend - allowance by any other name - that Diavolo supplied as part of the exchange program to cover incidentals and hygiene supplies and stuff, and the minor bits of grimm he earned for completing tasks assigned by either Diavolo or Lucifer, he wasn’t rolling in cash.  Enough to buy snacks, sure.  Or to go see a movie if he wanted, or eat off-campus during lunch.

Not to replace his entire wardrobe including uniforms after being incinerated by demonic wrath, even if most of what he owned came from thrift shops or Walmart.

Especially once he started running with wolves, who between the claws and the blood had ruined more than one set of his things over the last year.

Asmodeus tsked in disapproval, ignoring the out that Satan would’ve otherwised jumped on as if he wasn’t a demon lord and more than wealthy enough to replace a single human’s entire wardrobe - including Asmo-approved upgrades - a thousand times over without feeling the pinch.

“No.”  Asmo shut that down at once, twining his arm through Stiles’s and hauling him off, away from RAD’s campus and towards the higher-end shopping district he preferred.  As did Satan, even if his haughty brother would never admit it.  “We’re shopping, Satan’s paying, and nothing short of a direct order from Lucifer or Diavolo is going to stop it.”

Stiles and Satan shared a - rare - commiserating glance over top of Asmo’s rose-gold blonde head and then accepted their collective fate.

The House of Lamentation’s resident fashionista had spoken.

If Stiles knew anything about people who acted like Asmo and shopping, it was better to give in than deal with the backlash that came with refusal and fighting.

Even if he was tempted to reach for his DDD and see if he could put that contact for the Devildom’s Crown Prince to good use…

A thought he would’ve done more than entertain but might’ve actually (not really, Lydia had trained him well) acted upon if he’d known that Asmo was going to drag him into Majolish of all damn stores - and that was only their starting point for the afternoon/evening shopping fest.

Majolish was like, from what Stiles could tell after a wide-eyed look around and shoving his hands deep into his uniform pants pockets, the Saks 5th Avenue of the Devildom.

It wasn’t as massive, there were less designers and brands available, but it was still a large one-stop-shop for clothing, shoes, and accessories as well as high-end hygiene and cosmetic products.

Asmo led him right over to the private VIP fitting rooms, where Stiles saw at once that he had been both predicted and played.   This wasn’t “shopping” to replace his things.  This was an ambush.

A demon attendant with ink-black hair, eyes, and horns let them into the prepped room with a key that they handed over to Asmo, and that was that:

Trap sprung, Stiles was now in for a time as he played dress-up doll for the Avatar of Lust.

With the literal racks that lined each of the four walls of the private dressing area, each heaving with garments, shoes, and accessories, there was not a doubt in his mind that Asmo had been planning this for a while, potentially even before Stiles actually arrived and the demon lord got his horny mitts on his application form and the required uniform sizes page.

Because all of that, that he saw once they were ushered into the room?

Even with magic, it was not the product of less than twelve hours’ preparation to carry out.

Stiles had been had.

Though, from the bitter expression on Satan’s face as the other demon lord present got a good long look at what Asmo’s idea of “replacing” Stiles’s wardrobe looked like, at least he wasn’t the only one.

He dragged his eyes over the racks of clothing as Asmo pushed him towards a curtained-off area next to the tri-fold mirror/podium set up that took up the middle of the room’s far wall, trying to get an idea of what he was in for - beyond sartorial torture.  Stiles narrowed his eyes as the first items shoved into his hands were a pair of silk-blend boxer-briefs in black, flicking his gaze from the underwear to the racks and back as Asmo chattered at him.  There was a lot of black, grey, and jewel tones, and from what he could tell not a single plaid shirt or printed t-shirt in the lot.

Ugh.

This was going to suck.

“...try on only the one pair.”  Asmo finished up his coaxing-spiel to get his second-favorite human out of his baggy boxers - he’d seen what Stiles had brought with him, or at least the remnants, and if more had survived than what he was admitting to, at least before he…took care of it, that was between him and his non-existent conscience - and into decent underwear.  “We don’t want to ruin the lines of the rest of the clothes, or else it will be so much harder to get everything right!”

“Gimme a full outfit, Asmo.”  Stiles sighed, giving into the inevitable.  “I’m not going to let you approve how my underwear fits or see for yourself.”

Asmo pouted extravagently to hide his satisfied expression.  “At least tell me if I got the sizing right or if I need to send for another.”  He bargained.  Then leered.  “Unless you want to go without because…”

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you.”  Stiles held up his hand to stop that thought in its tracks.  “Fuck.  You win.”

Satan snorted from where he’d settled himself down in one of the plush chairs with a flute of champagne, waiting for the fashion show ala Asmo to begin.

As if any other outcome was possible when Asmodeus was on a genuine mission to spoil someone.

Even if it was on Satan’s grimm.

What followed was a marathon of trying on not just clothes but entire outfits including shoes and accessories under the commanding and exacting eye of Asmodeus, with the occasional comment from Satan.

Which, on paper, sounded like it should be a circle of hell all on its own.

Only…it didn’t quite work out that way in practice.

Asmo had a keen eye for what looked good on Stiles, and neither demon lord was shy about telling him exactly how good.

It was almost intoxicating, and Stiles knew that he was far from keeping his cool under the onslaught but he couldn’t help it: he’d never had anyone pay such consistent and unrelenting attention to the way he looked before.

His brain - sure.

People complimented his intelligence all the time.

But…his looks?

Making it clear just how attractive they found him?

Never.

Outside of the Queens at Jungle, no one had ever had so much positive to say about the way Stiles looked other than his Mom before she died (and she had to think he was cute and/or adorable, she was his mom.   It didn’t count.)

Stiles knew that any of the six demon lords he had daily contact with would be willing to take him to bed.  Maybe even Belphegor if he caught the bored prisoner on a good night.  But there was a world of difference between being willing to fuck someone and actually appreciating the way they looked the way that both Asmo and Satan were making it clear they liked Stiles’s face and form.

“Mmm.”  Asmo nearly purred when Stiles stepped out in the first outfit.  A full ‘fit, as requested, since Stiles was too shy to let them see how he filled out the much higher quality underwear that Asmo had handed over.  “All that time you spend down in the gym with Beel is paying off, Stiles.”  The lord of lust giggled, eyeing up a truly biteable bubble butt before he jumped up and started checking the fit of the clothes once Stiles took his place on the podium.

Stiles just gave him a look, and swatted a hand away from “checking” the inseam of the medium-grey jeans.

The first outfit was casual, something that Stiles would’ve chosen for himself (if with a print t-shirt instead of plain) but of much higher quality from the skin-out.

Grey jeans that were already soft and worn-in that fit without being baggy or pinching in places, a silk-blend t-shirt in black that was almost too small, a black belt made of a strange type of hide with a graphite-grey buckle, and the Devildom version of black chucks.

Nothing special, except that it fit almost perfectly without being tailored - or at least Stiles was assuming Asmo hadn’t had all the racks of clothes around him somehow magically tailored to fit Stiles - and the materials being higher quality than anything Stiles had owned in his life.

Even when Lydia bullied him into shopping with her, this stuff was all better.

And probably more expensive, but he wasn’t going to think about that, no sirree.

Not when it was on Satan’s grimm, and the demon lord’s temper-tantrum had played into Asmo’s hands so flawlessly.

The hot-headed jerk.

Once Asmo was finished typing in notes on his DDD - or at least, that’s what Stiles thought he was doing - he was ushered back behind the changing curtain with another set of clothes, all different brands from the first set, and that set the pattern for the trip.

Asmo didn’t have him wear anything that was identical to anything else.  The casual clothes were all different cuts, fits, or brands from each other.  None of that trying-it-on-in-every-color bullshit that Lydia liked to pull.  It was always changing, most of it fit like a dream, and Asmo or Satan had a compliment on at least one thing for each round of dress-up.

Then they came to the formal wear, which they had only brought down Stiles’s old sport coat that was a hand-me-down from his dad, and the same suit he wore to all the formal dances at school, and the trip went from replacing Stiles’s wardrobe to extending it with one firm look from Asmo when Stiles tried - fruitlessly - to argue.

“You need formal wear, Stiles.”  Satan piped up, one arm slung casually along the top of his chair as he watched the byplay with an amused, cat-like, expression.  “It hasn’t been announced yet, but Diavolo is planning a series of mixers, parties, and events while the exchange students are present.”  He blew out a gusty sigh, complete with eye roll.  “Trying to show off the best and brightest of the Devildom for our guests.   So unless you want to upset Diavolo…”  He trailed off, arching a brow at the cloudy expression on that cute face.

“Fine.”  Stiles grumbled, then turned and marched back to the changing area like a man going off to battle.  “But I want my protest noted!”

“Done.”  Asmo chirped, then thrust a bloody-crimson suit at him, forcing the human to take it and the accompanying shoes or risk it all collapsing onto the floor in a mess.  “This one first!  It’ll look amazing with your complexion!”

To no small amount of relief (and also suspicion, as it meant he didn’t see what all was purchased) when they were done, Asmodeus announced that everything was being delivered.  Some of it that night, like casual clothes and athletic wear that didn’t need tailoring (Stiles was wrong, he didn’t have it pre-tailored, Asmo was just that good at eyeballing sizes.) but others next week once the repairs to the House were finished.  Which made sense to Stiles: no point in filling up Beel’s room with bags of clothes when he really only needed enough uniforms and around-the-house stuff for a week.

That wasn’t, as it turned out, the end of it.

Oh no, Asmo had gotten his claws into Stiles, and he wasn’t about to let go of him that easily, as several hours after the demon lord ushered him into Majolish, he was ushered right back out and down the street into another store.

This one even higher end, if such a thing was possible, and that at a glance looked like the sort of bespoke custom tailor who made the sort of suits James Bond or John Wick might wear.

Only one or two suits were on display, all sleek designs, with a few more shirts watching over tables laid out with the atelier’s wares that weren’t wholly made-to-order.

There were even bolts of whole cloth and embellishments.

“Asmo…”  Stiles started, already more than done after the marathon at Majolish, hungry, and not loving the idea of spending even more time being used as a dress up doll before he could get fed.

“One fitting.”  Asmodeus turned eyes made large and liquid gold on Stiles as he leaned into the taller male’s chest, one hand resting just below his heart.  “Just one, and then we can go eat out - my treat - before going back to the House.”

Stiles took a deep, steadying breath, then glanced around realizing that they’d lost Satan somewhere between the Majolish fitting room and the atelier’s.

“Where-?”

“Oh, Satan has other things to take care of.”  Asmo waved that off.  Like ensuring that the take-out ordered for the house arrived and wasn’t all devoured by Beel before the others had a shot at it.  Lucifer was irate enough over the news that the contractor they always used for repairs couldn’t finish the kitchen/Stiles’s room issue for almost a week.  Letting him get hungry on top of that would only be painful for everyone around - but Satan most of all as the lead offender in the conflict.  “He’ll meet us back at the House later.  This one is on me.”

“Asmo…”

“Please?”

Ugh, he was such a sucker.

“One fitting.  One.  Then I want to go somewhere we can have curly fries.”

“Whatever you say, darling!”  Asmo trilled, summoning the tailor with a wave and pushing Stiles over towards the raised platform.  “Down to your underwear, now!  Trust me: you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of!”

“Asmo!”

“Stiles!”

Getting fitted for a custom suit wasn’t actually as bad as he thought it’d be.

Which, honestly, might as well be his theme for the entire day: not as bad as expected.  Not great.  Still exhausting and dancing on his patience, but not completely fucked up either.

The demon tailor had been quick, hadn’t poked Stiles with a pin once, and it had only taken a single look from Stiles to get Asmo to put the shirt made entirely out of white lace back on the table he found it upon rather than on Stiles’s body.

Asmo was a demon of his word, and took Stiles to a nearby diner that specialized in human world cuisine - including his much beloved curly fries that he could get with or without a Devildom poison-spice dusting.  Asmo even deigned to pick at the curly fries along with the rest of their meals.  A fancy seafood paella for the demon lord, and a steak made from an actual cow instead of havoc devil for Stiles.

Humor restored by the good food that for once didn’t have Stiles throwing up a mental question mark regarding just what it might be made of, he only huffed a little as Asmo pulled him into a bath-and-body story called Hush to pick up a pre-packed order before heading back to the House of Lamentation.

He was less obliging when as soon as they made it to the dorms and Asmo pointed out that bags waiting on them in the lobby - a solid dozen of them - that contained the “bare necessities” until the rest of his wardrobe arrived.

“How much, exactly, did you have Satan buy, Asmo?”  Stiles asked, half afraid of the answer as he poked at one of the bags - which had a Devil’s Secret logo that he did not remember trying on or visiting said-shop - sceptically.

“Enough.”  Asmo answered cryptically.  “I had Satan buy enough, until we can convince you that you need more than one bespoke suit to get through a year as one of Lord Diavolo’s honored guests at his events.”

Yeah, Stiles was afraid of that.  And from the way Asmo dropped the Hush bag in Beel’s bathroom, he didn’t stop at buying clothes either.  Yep, it was official: Asmo had played him hard.

Fuck.

That cunning little bastard.

Beel at least took the Asmo-led invasion of his space with good grace, helping carry all the bags up to his room, and helping Stiles sort it all out after he finally had enough and kicked the diva out.

“He meant well.”  Beel’s rumbling voice was soothing after an afternoon of listening to Asmo cajole, whine, cheer, and manipulate.  “Vanity plays a large part in Asmodeus’s domain.  The same with all of us.  It may not be an official sin, but it contributes.  Asmo wanted you taken care of with clothes and stuff from the start because he could tell that you knew you weren’t dressing and caring for yourself as well as you could.”

Stiles thought on that for long moments, even as he tucked the Devil’s Secret bag and its silky contents out of sight.  He’d take care of that when Beel wasn’t being so sweet and… Beel about everything.  His workout buddy didn’t contribute much to the public chit-chatting and arguments among the brothers, but in private he often explained things in a way that just made sense to Stiles.

That didn’t mean he wanted the gentle (usually) giant to get an eyeful, let alone his paws on, Stiles’s underwear.

“Like how it’s not good to go hungry around you.”  Stiles said at last.  “Or get too angry around Satan.”

“Mhmm.”  Beel nodded, pleased that his human, or human-ish, friend was getting it.  “Asmo is already on edge all the time because of his main domain.  Like me.”  He shrugged.  People - human, demon, it didn’t matter - were hungry or horny more often than not.  They wanted and desired.  It was just often a coin-flip on whether that put them in Beel’s domain or Asmo’s.  “Taking care of the little stuff, like soothing his vanity by helping with your own, helps keep the big stuff in check.”

“Fascinating.”  Stiles murmured, as much to himself as to his friend, then focused once more.  “What else can I do to help you guys from getting aggravated by what you feel off of me?”  He decided he didn’t have anything to lose from asking.

Especially not from Beel, who was the least likely of the brothers to try and turn it around on him.

Beel just looked at him with a frown, not quite understanding what he meant.  Or that Stiles really understood himself what he was asking.

“I make sure I don’t get too hungry for you.”  Stiles explained.  “And if dressing in Asmo-approved clothes and using Asmo-approved shampoo and stuff helps him, then sure.”  He shrugged.  “It’s not the easiest thing for me to accept, but if there’s an underlying reason beyond just trying to fix me or make me better, then I can go along with it.  Is there anything else like that I can do to help you and your brothers, I dunno, keep control around my breakable human self?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”  Beel shot back with a scowl.  “You don’t need fixing or to be better.”

“Yeah, I know.”  Stiles arched a brow, kinda amused by the insta-defense.  “I mean, I could do without the PTSD and trauma stuff, but generally I like who I am.  That’s why I wouldn’t do anything like this,” he waved his hand over the neatly-folded piles of clothes that were destined for being stacked on the coffee table in front of Beel’s TV up in the loft area that was temporarily Stiles’s new home.  “For Lydia when she used to complain about how I dress, or why I didn’t grow my hair out until people stopped complaining about how I looked with it short.  Asmo just wants me to look and feel good, which is an entirely different motivation than Lydia who looked at me like a project or something.”

Which was one of the reasons why his crush on her had been so ill-fated, and it was a good thing they never did end up dating, along with him now thinking he was far closer to gay than bi , but anyway.

“You have good enough control that I wouldn’t worry about it.”  Beel answered after a long pause, mentally filing away what Stiles said about this Lydia to look up later or add to the pile to research when it came to their houseguest.  “Unless someone mentions an issue specifically, but even then: we are demons.  Checking with a third-party first before giving in to any of us on a request isn’t a bad habit to curate if it seems odd or suspicious.”

“Thanks, Beel.”  Stiles smiled over at the orange-haired demon before he started to scoop up his new clothes and ferry them up the spiral staircase.  “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, Stiles.”