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It was inevitable really, that things would have to come to a head like this. Despite their adventures together, despite the bond neither of them could deny that had slowly been growing between them, holding tenuously through thick and thin and battles won and lost, the story of the Hero and the Demon must always come back to this.
He is a three hundred year old Demon King with enough raw power to shatter the world and an army which had almost done just that.
She is an eighteen year old human with a holy sword and a grudge.
Their battle went about as well as could be expected.
The great Satan, Maou Sadou, grits his teeth in pain, clutching the bloody stump where his arm used to be and glaring across the dusty plain at his foe.
He doesn't know where his absent limb has ended up, to take his eyes off her long enough to spot it would only ensure his swift demise, and he certainly hadn't come this far for his demise to be anything close to swift. If god himself wanted him dead he'd have to come down and work for it, just like anyone else. Just like the vision of power and grace that had so recently come inches from splitting him neatly in two. So the arm can wait, it's not like it's going to be much use for anything other than a convenient bludgeon at this point anyway.
His barriers and armor have proven useless against the thin blade of the Better Half, the sheer condensed Celestial Force of the weapon carving through his most stalwart defenses like paper. It truly is the bane of all demonkind, a holy arm so terrible that even for him it's been all he can do to dodge her strikes. And even then it's still left its mark across his body in a series of bloody gashes that sputter and spark with a holy power that burns him deeper than flesh and bone.
To a creature like him that blade may as well be poison, anathema and arsenic hammered into deceptive elegance.
(But he knows it's not the weapon that's the real danger here.)
It's just like back then.
The lone hero who invaded his castle to face him. The angelic child who toppled his empire and nearly defeated him at the peak of his power, and is now poised to do so again. Who carves through his armies and schemes again and again with nothing more than her holy purpose and her indomitable will to guide her.
A grin stretches across his lips, euphoria flushing his cheeks and cutting through the pain and terror that had filled him moments before.
Oh he'd been human for too long.
How had he forgotten this? Forgotten that the blood in his veins was tainted with death and destruction. The simple honest pleasure of a job and a place in society- Could it even begin to compare to the thrill of mortal combat?
He can't help but laugh.
His form shimmers out of existence when she blurs forward in a reckless charge closes the distance between them, leaving the Hero's blade to cut through empty air as he twists away from it, far more nimble than his massive size would suggest. His foot comes around, and with a satisfying crunch- sends her plummeting to the dry earth below, cratering the ground with enough force that if they weren't in a barren wasteland someone might think an earthquake had struck.
When the dust finally clears she's already regained her footing, her helm knocked from her head and her silver hair blowing free in the wind.
But still she stands. Unbowed, unbroken, sword in hand and staring up at him with a burning passion in her eyes.
He's never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
His grin only widens as he meets her gaze, bringing his remaining hand to his empty shoulder to cauterize the wound with a flash of searing light. And it hurts, it hurts so bad that he grits his teeth around a hissing sob at the agony of it, but he refuses to go to his death with so pitiful a sound.
So he howls instead, palm still alight with burning power as he dives down through the air towards her, accelerating faster and faster until a thunderous crack echoes across the vast expanse of dirt and sand.
She bends her knees and raises her sword, turning his strike to the side as she twirls around his descending form. Holy fire sears across his back, but he ignores the sudden numbness and the scent of burning flesh, wings of crackling ebony power bursting from his skin to strike out blindly in retaliation. The pained cry he hears in response brings a moment of clarity, the world focusing down, narrowing until each second seems like an eternity.
He can feel her power drawing further away, his unexpected strike flinging her god knows how far. A hundred yards? Two? Either way it will take her several precious seconds to overcome the momentum of his blow.
That's an opening.
In fact, that might even be a chance.
Again power floods through his body, the lingering sparks of her holy power nearly drowned out by the ocean of magical energy he brings to bear. As fast as she is, he only has enough time for a single spell. Nothing fancy, obviously, not with all of this celestial force burrowing its way into his flesh and trying to burn him from the inside out. A barrier is out of the question, nothing he can produce has even slowed her down thus far.
Illusions? Too intricate.
Fire? Ice? Perhaps some kind of contained nuclear detonation? He gets the feeling she'd walk right through anything he could possibly throw at her without a scratch.
No, he needs something powerful, but simple enough to manifest in the few moments he has. Something that can counter her speed and her blade.
And most importantly: Something… poignant.
The sword forms in his hand almost before he consciously decides on his course, a massive blade that thrums with bloodlust as it coalesces. It's a weapon he saved her with once, atop some distant skyscraper beneath the light of a terrible moon. Not that it matters to either of them right now. All that matters is that now he has something solid to put between himself and her sword.
He turns the moment the hilt has settled in his grip, whirling about with a battle cry to meet the Hero that is already bearing down on him from behind. He's almost too slow, even knowing the extent of her power his eyes widen at the bare inches that separate the two of them, their swords shrieking against each other in a shower of sparks. There's a lull, barely a second long, and their eyes meet from across their locked blades.
"Don't think a sword will save you, Satan." The confidence in her voice raises his hackles, despite everything. She always did know how to rile him up though.
"You seem to think yours will save you, Emi." He doesn't know why he uses her assumed name and not her full one, but the narrowing of her eyes as he speaks proves... Something. It's not hesitance he sees there, nor guilt at her actions, but there's a spark hadn't been present before. Something he can't quite place.
He's seen it before, but where...?
His blood boils, the ocean of power crashing through his veins screaming at him to attack- To kill- To rend and tear and force this human to submit as so many have before her.
So he steadies his feet against the ground and obliges it.
His massive blade is outstretched in the one hand he has left, a quick shove ending their stalemate and sending her skidding back several yards, proving that despite her technique he still reigns supreme when it comes to raw power. It's all the more clear in the way he swings his sword, what must be hundreds of pounds of twisted black metal weighted down even further by the sheer volume of demonic magic forged into the blade being thrown about like its a toy.
They clash again and again, the sheer mass of his blade smashing through any defense she might have and forcing her on the defensive this time. He pushes his battered body to the limit, muscles aching from exertion as he chases her across the plains and back, unable to land more than a glancing blow. No matter the trick or technique he employs she dances around his sword with utmost grace, ducking and weaving, each blow turned to the side to slide harmlessly past her lithe form.
Fast as he is, she's always that much faster, though in return any counter she tries is easily stopped by the width of his blade.
It's a stalemate, though he's worse off for it. Missing an arm and bleeding from too many wounds to count... A battle of attrition isn't something he can win. Even his immense demonic stamina has a hard limit, and he passed it around the time she nicked him on the chin with a rising cut that nearly put him on his ass trying to dodge it. He's been running on fumes since, pushing through the pain and the exhaustion with the same bullheaded tenacity that earned him a castle and a kingdom back in Ente Isla.
Realistically speaking, he should have passed out the fourth or fifth time she winged him with that obnoxious demon-killing sword of hers. A lesser devil wouldn't even have lasted past the first, but then no one could ever accuse him of being lesser at anything.
Except, you know, morally.
He cracks his neck almost idly, a strange sort of calm washing over him.
All or nothing it is then.
Again his power suffuses his being, and though he can feel the sting of her blade a dozen times across his skin the second he lets his concentration split, he refuses to let it cease. The ground trembles around them, the very air igniting at the sheer volume of magical energy radiating from his body.
She backpedals. He thinks he hears her inhale, in the sudden silence the precludes his blow.
His arm rises up as he pours every last drop of that power into his blade to turn it into a crescent of malevolent power that splits the horizon.
And when he brings it down again, everything in the path of his blade is annihilated.
Earth and sky are rent asunder, the very sky screeching as if in pain as the abomination that is his power tears a bloody, gaping wound through reality itself. For a moment, the barest instant, he thinks it might even be enough. There's no way anyone, even the fabled Hero herself, could withstand the full extent of his might. Surely even God himself would fall to such power.
Once again he's proven wrong.
A single point of light appears before him, outshining even the power he's unleashed. He can only stare, mesmerized by the holy force that cuts a path through the darkness and blinds him with its radiance. His blade shatters in his hands, and though he can neither see nor feel it, he can imagine well enough what it looks like when the blade of Better Half buries itself to the hilt in his chest. He falls back beneath the weight of the Hero and her armored form, his body hitting the earth with a heavy thud.
And then, there is only darkness.
.
..
...
That he wakes up at all is the first surprise, one of many soon to come.
He blinks blearily at the blue sky overhead, his entire body throbbing with pain and more than a little confusion.
How long has he been laying here? Is the hero- Is Emi still trying to kill him? Or was she exploded into tiny little pieces in the blast?
The sound of boots crunching against the earth threatens to answer at least one of those questions.
"Please be Alciel, please be Alciel…" He glances to the side, squinting in the bright light at whoever is approaching him.
It's Emilia. Because of course it's Emilia, he never really expected anyone else. Her is armor dented, bloodied, and outright mangled in some places, before whatever power sustains it promptly gives out and it disappears into the ether from whence it came. She walks with a noticeable limp, her left leg dragging slightly behind her, but despite that she continues to approach him, sword clenched tightly in her hand until she stands over his prone form.
The tip of her blade presses lightly to his neck, resting there as she stares down at him in silent judgement.
Her hair is red again.
"Why is it never Alciel when I want him to show up?" He groans pitifully, practically pouting despite the dire situation he's currently in. He could go a hundred yen over budget and his over-protective general would be there in seconds, but when he's being attacked out of the blue by the god-damned hero the man's nowhere to be found.
She doesn't respond to him, not even a quirk of her lips to signal she'd heard a word out of his mouth. She just keeps staring. Fixing him with that unreadable expression. It's really starting to creep him out, as is the fact that he isn't, you know, dead.
"But I guess… I guess I'm glad it's you, at least." He lets his head rest against the ground softly, his eyes fluttering closed and a small, content smile pulling at his lips. His body aches with pain. The loss of an arm and so much blood, as well as the use of every bit of his power had left him drained. But he can't help the tiniest bit of satisfaction.
If nothing else, this is a fitting end for the great Demon Lord.
"If it was anyone else I might be mad, but you…" His body locks up in pain, a flicker of white-hot holy power kissing gently against his heart now. "Ngh- you deserve this."
Whatever he'd said, it must have finally gotten through to her. He feels her arm tensing through the tip of her blade, and he readies himself for his imminent end.
The second surprise comes when, rather than removing his head from his shoulders, the blade instead sinks into the earth inches from his ear, deep enough to stand upright even when her hand leaves the hilt.
"Shut. Up." Her voice is terse, grit out through clenched teeth and poorly contained fury as she quite abruptly drops none too gently on top of him, straddling his waist. He lets out a grunt of pain as he stares up at her in confusion.
"What are-?" She cuts him off by roughly grabbing the frayed collar of his shirt, pulling him limply upwards to a seated position.
"I said shut up." She shakes him with each word, and it's all he can do to keep his lunch down and listen. "You despicable, amoral, malicious, evil piece of trash!"
He (wisely) keeps his mouth shut, though he rolls his eyes internally at the lackluster description of him. She must be as off her game as he is if she's resorting to name calling of all things, maybe the loss of blood is starting to affect her as well.
It's only belatedly that he realizes she's stopped again, and that she's staring intensely at him from no less than a foot away. Just like him she'd reverted back to her human appearance at some point, and for the second time he's struck speechless at the sight of her. There's blood spattered across her face from her chin to her right ear, a spray of it decorating her skin until it disappears into her hairline. He blearily tracks a drop of it as it trickles down past the curve of her throat to pool in the dip of her collarbone.
That's probably his.
For some reason, that fact doesn't bother him as much as it ought to.
"I can't believe- With the Devil of all- God I'm an idiot." She mumbles, lowering her head for a moment and taking a slow, deep breath that breaks him from his brief stupor just in time for her to whip right back up and glare at him so fiercely he's momentarily convinced he's gone and murdered her parents. Again.
For the third surprise she kisses him.
It's a stilted, awkward thing, not at all what he'd dreamed about on the rare, rare occasion when he'd permitted himself to consider it. She tastes like blood, his or hers he can't tell, and when her lips part and her tongue brushes against his mouth he makes a quick and unanimous executive decision to give up any attempts to make sense of the situation.
It's clear that for all her experience with the sword, this is possibly her first time kissing. Not that he's any kind of expert, that sort of thing was for incubi after all, but he's had a few brief... dalliances. Perhaps not as many as one might expect of a three-hundred year old Demon Lord, but occasionally he'd been successfully tempted. His remaining hand slides up her leg to rest on her waist, causing her to clench her fists tighter at his collar. It's a warning, clearly, but they're both too far gone for it to progress much further than that.
Neither of them want to stop, not when they've finally come this far. Not when this heat that's been building up between them is finally being addressed.
She pulls back from him, panting softly and letting her forehead rest against him. She refuses to meet his gaze, but he can see that her face is nearly as red as her hair at this point, which is... Cute. Her grip has softened, turning from a method of trapping him in place for a potential murder into something more... Tentative. Ephemeral, even.
"It's done." The anger seems to have drained from her, all of her seething rage turning into what looks like resignation. Resignation at what he's not quite sure just yet, but he feels like he should be offended all the same. "I can't- I don't know if I'll ever forgive you, but I just can't hate you anymore."
She tenses atop him without warning, her lips parting in a soft gasp that bypasses his ears and higher brain functions entirely in favor of traveling somewhere much lower and much more dangerous. With her body pressed so close to his, and her lips so eager and wanting, a reaction was inevitable really. Obvious even. He can hardly blame his demonic blood for getting a little warm at the prospect of a pretty warrior goddess doing her damnedest to gut him with a sword. And then straddling his waist to kiss him with his blood still in her mouth.
It's her reaction to all of this that's up in the air at this point.
Maou is betting on finally getting decapitated, it's the only thing that would bring back the natural order in this crazy world he's somehow found himself in.
But no, instead she starts to move. Shifting her hips tentatively, her movements jerky and inexperienced but more than welcome all the same. He can feel the heat between her legs as it bleeds through what little remains of his pants, and he's certain that she can feel the hard length of him pressing up against her. A breathy moan escapes her lips as she grinds down against him, one she immediately fights back, clenching her teeth and trying her best to glare at him. It loses most of its effect when her cheeks are flushed so red and she still hasn't stopped rocking her hips slowly along his thigh.
He isn't unaffected by her actions however, and for every moan and muffled whimper she makes he has a low groan of his own to match it. Were he in any condition to do so he would have turned this situation around already, and every instinct in his body is indeed urging him to flip their positions. He might even try, were he not currently remaining upright by the tight grip she has on him and the dubious grace of some eldritch god. So instead he presses in, his remaining arm wrapping tight around her waist to fit her snugly against him. Her body stiffens as his mouth finds the curve of her throat, his tongue tracing the trail of blood he'd been so enraptured by earlier.
Yep. Definitely his.
She makes a sound, one that comes dangerously close to an 'eep' as his teeth scrape the hard slope of her shoulder.
Once he's heard that, there's no more chance of stopping. Again and again he lifts his hips up to grind against her, in time with her unsteady movements, and her grip on his shirt changes once more as she held onto him for dear life. He leaves his mark, teeth and tongue tracing the bloodied expanse of her neck, dipping to her collar and back up once more until her hands are suddenly in his hair, gripping tight and yanking his face upwards towards her so she can capture his mouth once more in another hungry kiss. He tastes his blood once more when she bites down suddenly on his lip, nails digging into his scalp and her back arching towards him.
One might think that all that time in the church has left her a little bit pent up, with the way she's trying to devour him so shamelessly.
But such thoughts can wait, all that matters right now is her warm, trembling body against him, each needy shift of his hips matched as she rolls her own down towards him. On instinct his hand begins to explore, sliding across smooth skin and over the taut muscles that lay beneath. She really is a perfectly crafted warrior, difficult as it might be to reconcile for those who have only ever only seen Emi Yusa the customer service operator. Emilia the Hero though? A work of art. He drinks in the soft curve of her rear, groping blindly and relishing the way she squeaks at his touch.
She hasn't stopped him though, and so his journey continues. His hand sliding up along the curve of her spine, fingers making the barest of contact with her skin as they trail around her side. Her shirt was already in tatters from the stress of their battle, hanging open to reveal an equally battered, but miraculously still intact, bra beneath. Not that he can see much of it from his position, but he can feel it as his fingers trace the edge of the fabric.
Her grip tightens in warning and he freezes with bated breath, waiting for her reaction. She swallows audibly, the only other sound being their quickened breaths in the still air.
"Alright… Alright." She mutters to herself, still refusing to meet his patient gaze as she takes a slow, steadying breath. Then she nods, once.
Permission thus granted he slips his hand upwards beneath the fabric of her bra, palming her modest breast. Encouraged by her subtle intake of breath he continued his exploration, fingers teasing around and across, gauging her reaction. She shudders at his touch, fingers clenching and unclenching at his collar before her hips begin to move once more.
It comes as a surprise when Emi tenses on top of him. Out of everything he might have expected, for some reason he never actually considered this outcome. Her movements become jerky, her back arching into his touch as she lets out a soft whimper and buries her face in the crook of his neck. He feels her teeth as the scent of her arousal spikes noticeably to his still-acute sense of smell. In response he simply holds on tight, keeping steady as she rides through her high and muffles a low moan into his intact shoulder.
It's nearly enough to do him in right then and there, it only takes his frazzled and probably-concussed body still miraculously capable of arousal despite all of the wildly painful shit still vying for attention in his currently short-circuiting brain.
When he finally reaches his own orgasm he's far from subtle, his sticky seed soaking into the already-damp fabric of his boxers and his teeth grinding down around a groan of his own. He can feel her biting down a smile where she's still pressed to his neck, slowly letting him lower himself back down to the ground. She follows him down, sprawled bonelessly across his bare, bloodied chest.
She looks... Content. And he finds himself in a similar state of mind.
And then it's over. They simply lay there basking in the afterglow, neither of them willing to move from the place they've ended up in. And though there were many questions that can and will be asked, neither of them want to be the first to break the silence that's descended on them.
Though when Alciel finds them, still lazing there with disheveled clothes and reeking of their debauchery in the cratered remnants of the countryside some twenty minutes later, he's more than happy to do it for them.