Kirby

"What are you thinking about?" a low voice asks.

You jump slightly as Satan's arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder and chest pressed right up against your back. He's warm and he smells good.

"About how I would throw myself into the very fires of hell to make sure you were all happy."

"I'm not sure that's something to find funny," Satan murmurs, tilting his head so he can press his nose against your neck. You shudder, finding it harder to concentrate on your work. The door is slightly ajar from his entrance and you can hear Asmo yelling loudly at Mammon about something from the other room.

"Weren't you going to your room to read?"

"I missed you."

Ah. So he was in one of those moods. At times he could be like a cat, clingy, and wanting your attention more than anything else, and he'd do almost anything to ensure it. Your heart always fluttered when he behaved like this; it made you feel wanted and needed and, most importantly, loved.

"I have a lot of cleaning to do," you say, voice half pained as you glance at the remaining washing. "My hands are soaked, I can't even hug you back."

"Then you'll just have to let me help make your job easier."

At first you think that means he's going to get his hands wet and at least help dry up the dishes, but then one of his hands slips up under the hem of your shirt. You gasp out, eyes going wide as you glance to the side at him. From his position nuzzled into your neck you can barely see anything but his mess of blonde hair, but you can feel the way his lips turn up into a smirk at your reaction.

"Satan, but the others-"

"Then we'll have to be quick and silent," Satan half purrs, his hand reaching up to grope your breast. A loud gasp leaves your lips as he squishes it, letting out a hum of approval as his lips begin to work on your neck.

"I-I don't think..." you gulp out, closing your eyes. Satan's fingers pinch your nipple quickly, causing you to let go of the dish you were holding. It slips out of your hands and into the water, and you let out a sigh of relief that it doesn't smash and cause anyone to come running in. "It's... I can't think straight."

"Shame," he whispers, rolling your nipple between his finger and thumb. He gives another pinch and you buck yourself back against him, swallowing down a moan as you feel his hardness pressing against you. "See how much I need you right now?" Satan asks, pressing himself right up against you, sandwiching you between him and the counter so there's no escape from his body. You can feel every inch of him, his heartbeat against your back, his breath and lips against your neck as he bites, kisses, and sucks wherever he likes, and his erection rubbing against your ass cheeks.

"You really... can't wait?"

"I don't think you can either."

You want to tell him he's wrong, but you can feel the growing warmth between your legs, a wetness pooling there that hadn't been there before. You hum in response as he kisses your neck again, and you tilt your head to give him more access to the skin there. If you're not careful you're really going to lose all reason.

"But we... not here. They'll hear."

Satan pauses, then after a moment lets out an annoyed sigh and nods. "You're right."

A relieved sigh leaves you; it's not that you don't want to make love to him, it's just, well -- you'd rather do it behind a locked door where no one is going to walk in, and in a room that's enchanted so you don't have to worry about noise and the teasing remarks from the others the day after.

No doubt there'll be enough marks all over your neck to ensure that anyway, but--

Satan's hand leaves your breast, pressing down against your skin as he runs his hand along your stomach. You bite your lip, suddenly you feel like you're not going to be let off so easily, and when his hand slips beneath the waist band of your trousers, you let out another loud gasp.

"Shh," Satan coos. "We don't want the others to hear."

"But-"

"You can't touch yourself to relieve how you feel right?" He asks, fingers pressing against your panties. You whimper out, unable to even try to ignore how wet you're growing now. "Let me help out, then later..." he presses himself against you again to make his meaning clear. "Please?"

It's his soft plea to allow him to touch you that breaks you. It's quiet, soft, and unsure, and yet still full of love and need. He always makes sure you're okay with it, and you have no doubt that he'd walk away if you said no even once -- but you need him as much as he needs you.

You hesitantly nod, gulping down as you feel your nerves growing tight. If someone were to walk in--

"No one will come, if we're quick, so focus on me. Just me."

Satan's voice is gentle, guiding, as he pushes your underwear aside. His fingers brush over your wet folds a few times before he slowly sinks two fingers inside of you. A loud gasp escapes you and you bite down on your lip to keep all your noises to yourself.

You almost feel embarrassed, you'd think by your reaction he hadn't touched you in days, but it had only been that morning, and-

"Don't hide that you want me," Satan says, both asking and commanding. You know how much he loves it when you fully give yourself over to him, when you let him know how much you need him. He'd said once nothing turned him on more than knowing that you need him -- you'd been unable to forget that since.

Usually, Satan is much slower and deliberate when he touches you, but perhaps he's also aware someone could walk in and catch you, because his fingers slide in and out of you in a quick pace than what you're used to at first. You grind your hips against him and he anchors you back against him with his other arm around your waist, trying to keep you still as he continues to pump his fingers within you.

Small mewls of pleasure leave your lips as you forget the dishes and instead grip the counter in an attempt to keep quiet. His fingers spread inside of you, a sweet pressure that pulls more and more sounds from you until eventually he adds another finger.

You can feel tears welling up in your eyes as you continuously hold your breath. Perhaps he's aware of this because Satan picks up his pace, panting himself against your neck. "You smell so good," he breaths deeply, running his tongue along your jaw.

"Satan..." you gasp out. "I-I can't..."

"Don't hold back."

"But-"

"Trust me."

You wanted to point out the door and the footsteps you could hear passing by, but Satan presses his thumb down against your clit at the same moment. You gasp out as a loud moan leaves you --

Luckily the footsteps carry on, and Satan's movements become quicker and messier. You know you're close, you can feel your pussy beginning to clench around his fingers. Your sounds become louder and sweeter, reaching a crescendo at the same time as your orgasm peaks, and just as a scream of his name is about to leave your lips, Satan slips his arm from your waist and gentle presses his fingers into your mouth to muffle your sounds.

He continues to pump his fingers inside of you to ride out your high, using his body to keep you upright. You can feel his smug grin at how he's left you a mess, and you're positive he knows you're not going to be able to focus for the rest of the evening. Maybe you could offer to pay Mammon to finish for you--

Satan removes his fingers from both your mouth and pussy at the same time, and you let out a small whine of loss at the feeling. He's still hard against you, and it's only the suds still lining your hands that stop you from reaching around and giving him a taste of his own medicine.

Slowly he lifts his hand to his mouth, and you gasp out as you hear him take deliberately loud licks of each finger. You feel your entire body burn, especially your ears and cheeks. "Satan!"

"I just want to savour you," he purrs again, pressing an almost-too-sweet kiss against your cheek before using his clean hand to brush some of your sweat-damp hair from your face. Another kiss, this time against your temple. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"N-no..." you gulp. "But did you have to be so loud about it?"

Satan lets out a huff of laughter and places one more sweet kiss against your cheek before he pulls back and finally gives you space. You sigh in relief, closing your eyes to try and regain your composure but you're positive that you're going to be a mess for the rest of the evening.

“When Pride Chose to Kneel” [Lucifer]

A king without a crown, baring devotion in the language only the fallen understand. For once, not duty — but desire.

Lucifer would never propose on a whim. Every moment of his confession would be deliberate — a blend of ancient tradition and personal meaning. He’s waited too long, lived too long, and finally loved too deeply to treat this lightly. The proposal would be steeped in Devildom lore and royal elegance, but its heartbeat would be entirely human: his vulnerability.

Lucifer doesn't announce his feelings with fireworks. Instead, he whispers them through detail — a rare midnight bloom that only opens when fed by truth, a ring forged from obsidian mined from the same cavern as Diavolo’s crown, and music composed over centuries that tells the story of his love in every note. He doesn’t propose as a demon or an avatar — he proposes as a man who has finally found a reason to let down his guard.

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You’d known something was coming — Lucifer had been quiet lately, but not in his usual cold, aloof way. This was different. He looked at you longer. His touch lingered. And once, you’d caught him staring at the sky with a softness in his eyes that scared you. As if he’d made a decision he could never go back from. Tonight, he led you to the royal gardens at the top of the castle. Not the public one where nobles drank demon wine and whispered gossip — this one was sacred, tucked away beyond enchanted gates that only opened for blood and vow. You felt the magic curl around your skin as you entered, the air thick with ancient energy. The sky stretched wide above, dark and endless, and beneath it, the garden bloomed in silence. Midnight flowers — Nocturnis Lux, they were called — shimmered under the moonlight. Lucifer once told you they only bloomed when someone spoke their deepest truth. Now, they opened in waves around you. A string quartet played nearby, hidden behind a curtain of ivy and illusion. The music was haunting — slow, melancholic, composed in a minor key. You didn’t recognize it until halfway through the melody. It was his. You remembered the pages he'd once tucked away in his study, scribbled with passion and pain. He had turned your story into a symphony. Lucifer said nothing at first. He walked beside you, gloved hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable. When he finally stopped, it was beside an obsidian pedestal glowing faintly with enchanted fire — the kind used only for royal rites. He turned to face you, and his expression shifted. The mask cracked. “I had this ring forged from the same obsidian Diavolo’s crown was born from,” he said quietly, slipping the glove from his hand. “It’s imbued with an oath spell — not because I need it to mean something… but because I need you to know that it means everything.” He lowered himself to one knee — not in submission, not in performance, but in honor. His wings shimmered faintly behind him, half-unfurled, as if caught between instinct and emotion. “I once thought eternity was enough,” he said, voice raw. “That pride would sustain me. That duty would fulfill me. But then you came, and I realized… eternity means nothing without someone to make it feel like home.” He opened the ring box. It sparkled like starlight trapped in volcanic stone — elegant, dark, timeless. “I am Lucifer, First of the Fallen. I have rebelled, ruled, and been broken more times than I’ll ever admit. But tonight, I offer you the only part of myself I’ve never given away. My heart. My future. My eternity. Will you marry me, MC?” You didn’t speak at first — you couldn’t. Tears blurred your vision, but you nodded, stepping forward and taking his hand. It trembled. “Yes,” you whispered. The garden responded — flowers blooming wildly around your feet, music rising into crescendo. Lucifer stood, cradled your cheek with his bare hand, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your lips — reverent, slow, full of every vow he didn’t need words for. In that moment, pride ceased to be a sin. It became devotion.

“Worth More Than Gold” [Mammon]

The selfish devil who never believed he deserved love — until you showed him what treasure really means.

Mammon’s proposal is chaotic in theory, but pure heart in execution. He doesn't plan it like Lucifer, nor calculate it like Satan. For him, the idea takes root during a random moment — probably while watching you laugh at one of his dumb jokes or defend him when no one else does. That’s when he realizes: he could spend eternity proving he’s worthy of you. When Mammon proposes, it’s not about grandeur. It’s about truth. Raw, unfiltered, trembling truth. The ring may not be enchanted or royal, but it’s real. Bought with savings he never touched, chosen not for cost but for meaning. He’d risk everything — his pride, his fear of rejection, his future — just to ask the question. Because for once, he’s not gambling for riches. He’s betting everything on love.

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It started like any other ridiculous Mammon plan. He told you to dress up — not fancy, just warm — and meet him outside Devildom’s old carnival grounds at sunset. You expected a half-baked scheme involving cursed games or rare demon snacks. What you didn’t expect was this: The lights of the long-abandoned fairground flickered to life the moment you stepped through the gate. Strings of golden lanterns lit the cobblestone paths. The once-broken Ferris wheel creaked to motion, restored by magic that felt distinctly Mammon-esque — patchy but passionate. “I… uh, borrowed some spell cards,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck when you turned to look at him. “Don’t worry, I returned ‘em. Mostly.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Just grabbed your hand like it was the last lifeline he had and pulled you toward the center of the grounds. There, he’d set up a table — crooked, with uneven legs, but decorated with your favorite snacks, old photos of you both, and a little plush version of Goldie wearing a bowtie. “I know it ain't perfect,” he said quickly. “It’s not like Luce’s royal garden or nothin’. But it’s mine. Every light you see? I fixed it. Every charm holding this place together? I cast it. And I did it all for this one thing.” You blinked, stunned. Mammon — who once panicked when you complimented his cooking — was shaking. “I ain’t good with words, okay? I mess stuff up. I run when I’m scared. But not this time. Not with you.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a tiny black box. It wasn’t velvet, but it had a tiny golden sticker of a crow on it. Inside was a ring — silver, engraved with a tiny star and your initials. “I ain’t proposin’ ‘cause I think I’m good enough for ya,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m proposin’ ‘cause I wanna try for the rest of my damn life to be.” He dropped to one knee, fumbling the box a little. You heard a whisper from the shadows — probably Beel and Levi, hiding badly. Mammon didn’t notice. His eyes were locked on yours, wild and terrified and beautiful. “MC… Will you marry me?” You knelt down too, cupping his face in your hands. He flinched like he didn’t deserve it, but you kissed him anyway — slow, sure, grounding. “Yes,” you said. “You already won the bet, Mammon. I’m yours.” And behind you, the Ferris wheel lights shimmered into a heart-shaped glow.

“In Pixels and Promises” [Leviathan]

The shut-in demon who found his greatest adventure in loving you — beyond screens, beyond worlds.

Leviathan doesn’t believe he’s the kind of person someone proposes to, let alone the one who gets to propose. Love, to him, was always behind a screen — safe in fiction, predictable in games. But falling for you was a glitch in his system, a patch he never wanted to fix.

He plans the proposal like he’s crafting the perfect final boss sequence — every line of code, every moment, balanced between awe and intimacy. His biggest fear isn’t rejection — it’s you not realizing how serious this is. That you might think this is just another one of his fantasies.

So he crafts a digital world for you — one only you two can enter. A realm coded with memories, quests reflecting your journey together, and at its center, the truth he’s never been able to say out loud without a screen between him and the world: you’ve changed him. You’ve made him believe he’s worthy of love, not as an avatar, but as Levi — awkward, obsessive, vulnerable.

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He invited you to his room one night, sheepishly texting ahead: "come over pls. new game. v. limited release. u get to beta test lol." You expected a fun co-op adventure. Maybe a dungeon crawler or another otome parody. What you didn’t expect was the way the lights dimmed the second you entered, or how the screen pulsed with ethereal code in violet and gold — his colors. The title screen shimmered: "Player Two: The Game I Can’t Play Without You" "Okay, okay, I know it sounds cringe!" he said immediately, pacing like a trapped sea serpent. "But just — just try it! Please? I worked on this for, like… forever. I even stayed up three nights in a row and drank real coffee. Beel was worried." You took the controller, and the screen dissolved into pixels and stars. The game opened on a digital version of his aquarium, but more surreal — like you’d been submerged in a dream. 8-bit coral glowed. Fish with tiny anime faces swam by, and every level represented a piece of your time together: The first time he let you touch his figurines. That Deviltendo competition you both entered. The night he cried when you said you liked him just the way he was. And then… the final level. A throne room beneath the ocean, lit by moonlight through rippling water. At the center: a lone character — Levi’s avatar, cloak shimmering, holding something small in his pixelated hand. A text box appeared: “I never thought I’d get a second player.” “I always thought I’d be a background character.” “But then you came.” The avatar kneeled. “MC. Will you… stay in my party forever?” The game paused. Then Levi’s hand touched yours — real, trembling. He was holding something. Not a pixel sprite. A real box. Inside was a ring — ocean-blue gem, set in silver that looked like rippling waves. The design was unmistakably his — subtly anime, undeniably heartfelt. "I know I’m not a real hero," he said, barely above a whisper. "I’m not suave like Asmo or noble like Lucifer. But I’ll level up for you. Every day. I’ll protect you. I’ll— I’ll love you until my HP hits zero." Your voice caught in your throat. You pressed your forehead to his. "Yes," you breathed. "I want to be your Player Two. Forever." He blinked fast — once, twice — then let out a laugh that was half-sob, half-joy. And behind you, the screen exploded into golden fireworks and a new achievement badge: “♥ TRUE ENDING UNLOCKED ♥”

"A Quiet Flame for You" [Satan]

Behind his scholarly calm burns a fierce devotion — a love whispered between pages and shadows.

Satan’s proposal is a rebellion — not against rules or Lucifer this time, but against every lie he once believed about himself. That he was only anger. That love was too volatile, too human, too fragile. But loving you? It was the first time he didn’t feel like a vessel for wrath. He felt like a man.

He doesn’t stage his proposal like a dramatic scene — he curates it, like a rare book. Every element steeped in meaning. The location? A hidden sanctuary where ancient knowledge and rare magic converge. The ring? Forged from the metal of a fallen star once written about in a forbidden grimoire — beauty born of what once threatened to destroy.

Satan doesn’t declare love in loud ways. He proves it — in well-thumbed poetry, in books annotated just for you, in spells that keep nightmares away. When he proposes, it’s not the anger in him that trembles — it’s the part that hopes.

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It wasn’t a place most people knew. Tucked behind a shifting wall of the oldest library in the Devildom, there was a room sealed by a spell written in forgotten tongues. You once asked if it was real. He only smiled. Tonight, he brought you there. Satan walked ahead of you, fingers tracing the ridges of the wall until the enchantment responded — books shifting, bricks rearranging, like the building itself bowed to his will. With a low rumble, the entrance appeared. “Only opens for truth,” he said softly, stepping aside for you to enter first. The room was unlike anything you’d seen. High ceilings arched above, lined with floating shelves and glowing glyphs. Books hovered like stars in low orbit, their pages whispering softly as if exhaling secrets. And in the center, a circle of warm light, enclosing two chairs and a table set with tea… and a single book, wrapped in velvet. “I wrote this,” he murmured, voice oddly fragile. “It’s not a grimoire or a spellbook. It’s… our story.” He handed it to you, and as you opened it, you realized — each chapter detailed your moments together. Your laughter, your arguments, your silences. Your impact. The final chapter was unwritten. Just a title: “The Beginning of Always.” When you looked up, he was already kneeling. His eyes, usually so sharp and controlled, were full of raw light. “I’ve studied love,” he said, fingers curled around a small box. “I’ve dissected it in literature, tracked it in history, even tried to summon it. But nothing — nothing — prepared me for you.” He opened the box. The ring inside pulsed with a soft, celestial glow. Not flashy. Timeless. “I am not perfect. I still burn. But you…” His voice broke, and he swallowed. “You make the fire something holy.” He lowered his head, golden hair falling forward. “Will you marry me, MC? Will you help me write a life worth living?” The tears in your eyes blurred everything — the books, the walls, even the stars. But his face was clear. Honest. Yours. “Yes,” you whispered. The glyphs around you flared to life — not in warning, but in celebration. Books rustled like applause. And as you embraced him, Satan exhaled against your neck. “For the first time,” he said quietly, “I’m glad I exist.”

“The Heart Beneath the Glitter” [Asmodeus]

When the world only sees a mask of charm, he dares to show the fragile truth beneath — and finds love that stays.

To the world, Asmodeus is temptation incarnate — the Avatar of Lust, always smiling, always admired, always wanted. But when it comes to you, he doesn’t want to be adored. He wants to be chosen — not for his beauty or his charm, but for who he is beneath the sparkle: the loneliness, the hunger, the soft, scared heart that learned to seduce before it could speak its own needs.

Asmo’s proposal is neither grand nor scandalous. It is sacred — a vow not of possession, but of devotion. He crafts a moment where all masks fall away. No performance. No glitter. Just him. And you. And the unbearable, beautiful truth that he has never loved like this before.

When he proposes, it’s not the Avatar of Lust asking for your hand. It’s the boy who once fell from heaven, craving love in every mirror. And for the first time, he sees his reflection in your eyes — and finds it worthy.

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The invitation came in pink parchment, sealed with a kiss. Typical Asmo, you thought — until you opened it. “Meet me where we first danced. Midnight. Wear something that makes you feel like your favorite self.” The ballroom was abandoned, long since closed off for repairs. But when you arrived, the door opened for you as if pulled by invisible hands. Candlelight flickered within — soft, golden, warm. He was already there. Not in sequins. Not in silk. Just a simple black suit, his curls loose, his face untouched by glamour. No spell shimmered on his skin. No perfume clung to the air. He was radiant anyway. “You came,” he said, smiling gently. “Even after everything, you still choose me.” You reached for him, but he took your hand instead and pulled you toward the center of the floor. There was no music, yet your bodies swayed — a slow, silent dance in a world reduced to candlelight and breath. “I’ve had lovers,” he whispered into your ear. “Fans. Followers. But they all wanted the idea of me. The fantasy. You… you saw me. Even when I was ugly. Even when I cried. Even when I tried to push you away so you wouldn't see how much I needed you.” He spun you gently, then guided you to a tall, full-length mirror propped at the far end of the ballroom. You stared at your reflection — and gasped. It wasn’t enchanted. But somehow, it showed something more: every moment you’d shared with him flickered through its surface like memories — laughter, tears, kisses. The time he held your hand in silence. The time you stayed by his side after a breakdown no one else saw. “It’s not magic,” he said. “It’s just you. And me. And what we’ve built.” He stepped behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. Then slowly — reverently — he knelt, arms still wrapped around you, cheek pressed to your back. “I’m not asking you to love me forever,” he said. “I’m asking you to let me love you. Forever. Not because I’m perfect. But because with you… I want to be real.” He opened a small pink box. Inside was a ring shaped like a blooming rose, the petals formed from soft pink diamonds and warm gold — beautiful, but not overwhelming. Like him, stripped bare. “Will you marry me, MC?” You turned in his arms, kneeling to face him. Tears slipped from his lashes before yours could fall. “Yes,” you whispered. “You’ve always been real to me.” And in the mirror behind you, two reflections glowed softly — not idealized, not filtered. Just true.

“More Than an Appetite” [Beelzebub]

The gluttonous giant who hungered for something deeper — a soul to fill the emptiness inside.

Beelzebub’s love is simple, but never small. He feels things deeply, but speaks sparingly. To him, love isn’t about poetry or performance — it’s about being there. Carrying your weight when you’re tired. Sharing the last bite. Catching your hand when you trip — even if it means falling with you.

So when Beel decides to propose, it’s not because he’s worked up courage or found the perfect ring. It’s because he’s known, deep in his bones, for longer than he can remember. Loving you fills something he thought would always be hollow. A hunger that had nothing to do with food.

His proposal is quiet, but cosmic — a promise whispered in between breaths and bites, a vow baked into something homemade, something shared. Because to Beel, love is nourishment. And asking you to marry him is his way of saying: let me feed your soul for the rest of your life.

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It started with the scent of cinnamon and honey. Not a typical Beel dish — you’d expected meat, maybe something savory — but instead, your kitchen had been transformed. Counters dusted with flour. Dough rising quietly in the warmth. Spices in delicate balance.

Beel stood at the center, apron dusted, hair tied back. He looked up as you entered, and smiled that slow, gentle smile that could undo the world.

“I made something,” he said, lifting a tray with careful hands. “It’s a dessert from the Celestial Realm. We used to make it when… when things felt too heavy. It reminded us we were still alive.”

He placed a slice on a plate, set it before you. It glowed faintly — like light had been baked into it. The first bite was warm, tender. It tasted like comfort, like childhood memories you didn’t know you had.

“It’s missing something,” he murmured. “One last thing.”

He stepped away, rummaging through a nearby container. When he returned, he wasn’t holding a garnish.

He held a ring.

Simple. Handmade. A braided band of gold and copper, inset with a single orange gemstone that looked like crystallized sunlight. It pulsed faintly — the magic in it not showy, but steady. Alive.

He didn’t kneel. He didn’t need to.

He sat across from you, elbows resting on the table, eyes softer than candlelight.

“I didn’t think I could ever feel full,” he said quietly. “Not just my stomach. My heart. But when I’m with you… it’s not hunger anymore. It’s something else. Peace. Joy. Hope.”

He reached across the table and took your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I want to share every meal with you. Every quiet moment. Every sunrise and every ache. I want to protect you — not just from danger, but from loneliness. From emptiness. Will you marry me?”

You couldn’t speak. Not right away. You squeezed his hand, hard, and nodded through the tears.

“Yes, Beel. Always.”

He slipped the ring on your finger, and something settled between you — like the last puzzle piece sliding into place. He leaned forward, kissed the corner of your mouth, and smiled.

And for the first time in his long, aching existence, Beelzebub felt completely full.

“A Light in Eternal Twilight” [Belphegor]

Lost in shadows and sleep, he finds a spark that refuses to fade — a promise of love beyond the night.

Belphegor doesn’t trust happiness. Not because he’s incapable of it, but because it’s always been something fleeting — a soft thing that crumbles in his hands before he can savor it. Death has left fingerprints on everything he touches, and love… love felt like a dream meant for someone else.

But then came you. Not a dream. Not a delusion. Real. And terrifying.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to drown it in apathy, in sleep, in sarcastic deflections. But love snuck in — soft as twilight, steady as moonrise. You didn’t wake him from the darkness. You joined him in it. Sat beside his grief, held hands with his ghosts, and whispered, “You don’t scare me.”

So when Belphie proposes, it isn’t dramatic or well-rehearsed. It’s hesitant. Shaky. Real. Because this is the first future he’s ever dared to believe in — and he’s still afraid he’ll lose it.

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He asked you to meet him in the planetarium. Not the grand one open to the Devildom’s elite — but the abandoned one tucked inside the observatory near the edge of the Devildom sky cliffs, where forgotten stars still flickered on mechanical orbits, and the air smelled of dust and old dreams. You found him lying in the center of the domed floor, arms behind his head, eyes open — watching galaxies spin above. He didn’t look up when you entered. He just patted the floor beside him. You laid down. The silence stretched — not uncomfortable, but heavy. Sacred. Time passed like breath. Then, his fingers brushed yours. “I used to come here after Lilith died,” he said, voice low, almost inaudible. “I’d watch the stars and pretend she’d become one. That maybe, if I stared long enough, I could follow her.” You turned your head to face him. His lashes were wet. “I never thought I’d want to stay,” he whispered. “Not really. Even after the war, even after I forgave everyone. I thought I’d just drift until my body gave out.” He paused. Swallowed. “Then you came. And for the first time in eons… I didn’t want to follow the stars. I wanted to build something beneath them.” He sat up slowly, then stood — and reached into the pocket of his hoodie. “I don’t have a box,” he muttered. “Or a speech. But I have this.” He held out a ring — small, dark silver with tiny, faint constellations etched along the inside. At its center was a polished moonstone that shimmered like sleep. “I had it made from starstone. Same kind they use for grave markers in the Celestial Realm. It’s a stone for rest. For endings.” His voice trembled. “But I want this to be a beginning.” He knelt beside you. Not formal. Not poised. Just a boy who once hated the world, daring to love it through you. “I’m not easy to love. I know that. But you make me want to try. So… will you marry me?” You sat up and reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hoodie as you pulled him close. “Yes,” you breathed. “Even if we sleep under the stars for the rest of time — it’ll be enough. You’re enough.” His forehead rested against yours. His breathing hitched. And high above, the planetarium stars paused — as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath for you.