Thats Why It Feels A Bit All Over The Place - Tumblr Posts
Asmodeus’s Favorite Scents
Or alternatively, what does Asmo smell in an Amortentia potion?
The smell of muted saffron and something smoky.
Ozone. Mint blue flames flickering in the shadows. Spices and sparks. Burning ice and something sweet on the edge of the coldness. The air charges with old magic, something dangerous brewing under the surface that sends him shuddering in anticipation.
Asmo is mostly neutral towards Solomon but he can't deny the rush he feels when Solomon summons him, when he practices his magic. After all, it's the reason Asmo agrees to a pact with him in the first place.
His magic is different, one-of-a-kind, and oh so powerful. He doesn’t think he’ll find anything else quite like this.
(Until you.
You keep surprising him, summoning him without a pact and with a greater magic than his current pact-holder. You're a mystery he wants to learn and, oh, how delicious your magic feels in his blood.
“I've made up my mind. Make a pact with me,” he says to you.)
A floral scent that he recognizes as the smell of roses.
It makes Asmo think of the perfume that he has only worn once after buying it because he doesn’t want to waste it. Of his favorite pair of earrings, pink diamonds resembling the shape of flowers. Of the roses in his room, flowing down the footboard of his bed and placed in glass vases.
(“The purple ones means enchantment and love at first sight,” Asmo says with a wink, when you ask him about their meanings, “and the pink roses means adoration and love, just like how the world adores me!”
Except you, he wants to say, you who never fall for his charms, you who he cannot command to love him.)
It makes him think of sketches of clothes he designs just for you, pages upon pages of breathtaking dresses that he thinks will suit your style. Of pink paint splattered on his hands.
"I didn’t know you could paint, Asmo. Would you ever consider painting me someday?" you ask, half-joking.
He would. He have. His last work in progress is a painting of you, surrounded by roses, pink ones, and he wonders what drove him to paint the golden halo around your head.
He never shows you the painting.
Something familiar and sweet, that smells like honey and vanilla.
Asmo feels as if he’s smelled this somewhere before.
Like the bakery he always goes to when he wants freshly baked Wicked Cupcakes, like his scented candles scattered around his room, like hugging you as tight as he can without hurting you and feeling your heartbeat against him and burying his nose in your hair and—
Oh.
He sits down, a growing pit in his stomach. The realization he may like you more than he likes to think he does hits him hard, and he has to admit that he has been thinking of you more than he thinks about himself.
He never imagined it would be this scary, loving someone.