Ugh I adore ur work so bad I just want to eat it up!!!
But I’d love to see a blurb or headcannons even your take on an mc who is still recovering from everything that happened with belephagor about the whole snapping neck and pushing down the stairs
In my opinion I love belphie but the game moved past it to quickly I love the concept of other mc having neck pains or a rush of fear / survival instincts around belphie and / or stairs I just think that mc will clealry be traumatised bcs I know that even if they are all powerful that it still must affect them
You can do the brothers reaction to this or however you want to inter put it into headcannons!!
Thank u so much have a good day!!!
The demon brothers helping their partner with the trauma of being killed.
Includes: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Belphegor
CW: PTSD, trauma, non-graphic references to strangulation and attempted murder, panic responses, nightmares, emotional distress, self-blame and guilt, references to eating disorders, and others I may have missed
Lucifer is the first to notice that your body reacts before your mind does. The way you stiffen when someone stands too close behind you. The way your steps slow at the top of the stairs, like your legs forgot how to work. He never calls attention to it in front of others. He just adjusts: positions himself between you and railings, offers an arm without comment, reroutes paths like it was his idea all along.
When the phantom sensation hits, your hand flying to your throat, breath hitching like something invisible tightened there, Lucifer stays calm. He doesn’t ask questions right away. He places his hand over yours, grounding, steady, warm. Low voice. Simple instructions. “You’re here. You’re safe. Look at me.” He doesn’t let panic spiral, but he never minimizes it either.
Hair pulling becomes a bad habit before you realize it. Stress, guilt, fear all tangled together. Lucifer catches it gently, fingers wrapping around your wrists, easing your hands down like he’s done it a hundred times. He’ll offer something else to hold instead: his sleeve, a pen, his hand, so you’re not just told to stop, but helped to redirect.
Nights are harder. He knows that. He can hear the difference between normal tossing and the sharp intake of breath that means you’re not fully awake anymore. When nightmares leave you disoriented and shaking, he sits with you until your breathing evens out, reminding you of the date, the room, the fact that time has moved forward, even if your body hasn’t caught up yet.
Lucifer struggles with his own guilt. He doesn’t say it often, but you can feel it in how protective he becomes. How controlled. Like if he’s perfect enough, vigilant enough, nothing like that will ever happen again. Sometimes that control cracks, and you catch the anger underneath that’s not at you, never at you, but at himself for failing once.
He doesn’t push forgiveness. Not for Belphegor. Not for anyone. When you admit that your instincts still scream around him sometimes, Lucifer doesn’t correct you. He says, “That’s your body trying to protect you,” like it’s not something to be ashamed of.
Recovery, with Lucifer, is quiet and structured. He helps you build routines that make you feel less fragile: steady meals, predictable schedules, small choices that give you control back. He praises progress softly and treats setbacks like facts, not failures.
Above all, Lucifer never asks you to be over it. He makes space for the truth: that surviving didn’t end the trauma.
Mammon notices in the small, messy ways. The way you flinch when someone moves too fast. The way you linger in doorways instead of committing to entering a room. He jokes at first, soft, deflecting humor, but the second he realizes it’s fear and not awkwardness, he stops laughing.
Your trauma shows up as restlessness. You pace. You fidget. Your hands pick at your sleeves, your nails, anything loose. Mammon becomes your distraction without realizing it: dragging you into dumb errands, insisting you sit with him while he counts Grimm, pulling you into noisy, grounding activities that keep your thoughts from spiraling.
You hate stairs. Not consciously at first, but your body knows. Your chest tightens, heart racing like you’re about to fall even when you’re standing still. Mammon always takes them first, exaggeratedly clomping down like a shield, or he offers his hand with forced casualness. “C’mon, ya ain’t fallin’ if I’m right here.”
When panic hits hard and fast, Mammon doesn’t try to intellectualize it. He swears, paces, rubs your back too hard at first, then gentler when he realizes. He keeps talking: rambling, grounding, familiar. Stories about nothing. About his brothers. About dumb things he wants to buy. Anything to keep you anchored to the present.
You sometimes feel stupid for still being scared. Mammon shuts that down immediately. Gets uncharacteristically serious. “Hey. Don’t talk about my human like that.” He means it. He doesn’t need to understand trauma perfectly to know it wasn’t your fault.
Your coping slips into avoidance. Skipping places. Dodging people. Mammon covers for you without making it obvious: lies to his brothers, makes excuses, takes the blame like he always does. If anyone’s gonna get yelled at, it might as well be him.
At night, when the memories creep in and you can’t sleep, Mammon lets you cling. He pretends he’s annoyed, but he never pulls away. Your grip on his shirt tightens when your thoughts go dark, and he stays put, heart racing because he’s terrified of losing you too.
Mammon is bad with words when it matters most, but he’s good with presence. He stays. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re scared of your own thoughts. Even when you’re not fun to be around. Especially then.
Sometimes he admits it in a whisper, half-joking, half-breaking: “If ya disappear on me, I’d lose it.” It’s not guilt. It’s honesty. He wants you here: not healed, not perfect, just alive and next to him.
Levi doesn’t understand trauma right away. He notices your flinches and anxiety, but his first instinct is “is this a puzzle I can solve?” He’ll study your reactions like logs in a game and it takes him a while to realize this isn’t something he can “fix”.
He notices the stair reaction first. One second you’re walking normally at his side, the next your breath catches and your steps stop. Levi freezes and literally doesn’t know what to do. His voice comes out in this weird, strained whisper: “Uh… are the stairs bad? We can… uh… take the other route?” He won’t realize until later that the fear isn’t about stairs.
When episodes hit suddenly, like your chest tightens, breath sharp, panic flaring, Levi’s first reaction is genuinely confused. He’ll blink rapidly, like he’s buffering, and then blurt out something like: “MC? Are you choking? Is it the tea? Should I call someone? Do you wanna, um, breathe into a cloth?”
His solutions are questionable… but his desire to help is 100%.
He doesn’t understand grounding right away. He tries facts (“Um, your pulse is… here!”) when what helps you is physical comfort or rhythmic guidance. Once he notices that your panic subsides when he’s close and calm, he awkwardly offers his presence.
Phantom sensations around your neck are the worst for him. Sometimes you’ll freeze mid-sentence, fingers instantly clutching at your collar like a reflex, and Levi literally backs up like you’re about to explode. He’ll say, quietly and awkwardly, “Uh… I’m here. But I’m over here. Right here. If you need me.”
It comes out rough because he doesn’t know how else to be near something so vulnerable.
Levi tries breathing exercises once. He sits too close, mirrors you like an unskilled mannequin, and nearly hyperventilates trying to follow his own instructions . You end up laughing before panic dissolves, and he just flushes red, murmuring, “Sorry. That… wasn’t helpful.”
He fumbles with coping tools: scratch mitts, stress balls, plushies, then accidentally invents new ones:
Counting game (he insists you both count colors in the room).
Rhythm touch (he taps your shoulder once for inhale, twice for exhale).
When nightmares hit and you wake gasping, Levi jumps. Not in a dramatic way, just instinctively, like you startled him. Then he clears his throat and sits beside you, arms awkwardly open. Because he doesn’t know how to say, “I’m right here,” he just stays near, offering proximity instead of perfection.
If you flinch when someone stands behind you, Levi will blurt out something like:
“Oh no, don’t hop away! I mean, unless you want space. I mean, uh, I’m not trying to be… close. Unless you want me to be. I… never mind.”
You calm him by simply adjusting your distance, and he notes it.
Levi loves distraction coping. If you’re overwhelmed, he suggests the most random, over-thought strategies: “We could replay the same anime opening a hundred times. Or memorize this snack’s ingredient list! Or… reorganize my figures by eye color!”
You gently steer him toward simple grounding: like textures or slow breathing and he lights up like he solved a mystery.
When you have a good day: you brush your teeth, or shower, or make it through somewhere you thought you couldn’t, he doesn’t gush. He goes quiet, eyes wide, and says,
“Wow. You did that. That’s… that’s impressive.” His awe is shy and sincere.
Levi becomes your go-to when your mind spins. Not because he’s perfect at emotional support, but because he tries so hard. He watches your responses carefully, adjusts his tone when needed, sits closer when you want warmth, backs off when you need space sometimes all in the same minute.
Most of all, Levi doesn’t treat you like you suddenly need “fixing.” He sees your struggle, but he also sees the you behind it: the person he trusts, laughs with, and wants beside him. And when you panic, he doesn’t turn away. He may be awkward, he may word things poorly, he may offer weird grounding games, but he stays.
Satan notices before you say anything. The way your shoulders tense on stairs, the way your breath shortens when someone stands too close behind you, the way your hand drifts to your neck without you realizing it. He never calls it out publicly. He files it away quietly, respectfully.
He believes you when you say you’re not “over it.” No minimizing, no rushing. He treats trauma like something real and ongoing, not a problem to be solved quickly. When you apologize for reacting, he gently shuts that down: “Your body learned something it thought would keep you alive. That isn’t weakness.”
Satan is big on informed consent in comfort. He always asks first. “May I touch your hand?” “Would pressure help, or space?” “Do you want distraction, or do you want to sit by yourself?” The choice being yours is grounding in itself.
When panic hits, he guides you through structured grounding without overwhelming you. He prefers the 5-4-3-2-1 method, but adapts it to you: five things you can see, four things you can feel, three things you can hear. If words are too much, he does it silently with you, pointing things out until your breathing evens.
He notices your jaw clenching and hands tightening before you do. If you start digging your nails into your palms, Satan gently cups your hands and replaces the sensation with something safer: a smooth ring to twist, fabric to grip, his sleeve under your fingers. Redirect, not reprimand.
Satan introduces progressive muscle relaxation during bad nights. He sits beside you and quietly walks you through it, starting from your toes and moving upward, reminding your body that it can unclench. His voice stays steady, low, never urgent.
Nightmares don’t scare him away. When you wake up disoriented, he doesn’t ask what you saw unless you want to share. He focuses on anchoring you to the present. “You’re here. You’re safe. Your neck is fine. I can see you breathing.” Facts, not platitudes.
He is careful with anger around you. Satan’s rage is famous, but when it comes to your trauma, he contains it. He knows uncontrolled anger can feel unsafe, even if it’s on your behalf. Instead, his anger becomes quiet resolve: making sure triggers are minimized, routines respected, boundaries enforced.
Satan helps you reclaim stairs slowly, on your terms. Sometimes that means sitting halfway and just existing there. Sometimes it means holding the railing together and counting steps. Sometimes it means turning around and trying again another day. He treats every attempt as progress.
He encourages journaling but never demands it. When words are hard, he suggests alternatives: writing fragments, drawing shapes, underlining sentences in books that feel familiar. Bibliotherapy is his thing, so he’ll hand you a book and say, “This helped someone once. Maybe it’ll help you too.”
Satan never pushes forgiveness. Not for Belphegor, not for anyone. He believes healing doesn’t require absolution. When you admit feeling conflicted: fear mixed with affection, anger mixed with guilt, he nods like it makes perfect sense. “Two things can be true.”
He teaches you how to spot early warning signs in your own body: shallow breathing, dissociation, sudden irritability, zoning out. Not to scare you, but to empower you. “Catching it early gives you options.”
When you’re exhausted from managing yourself all day, Satan steps in without making you feel broken. He brings tea, dims the lights, sits with you in silence. Sometimes support is just shared quiet.
He never treats your trauma like a defining trait. He sees your curiosity, your kindness, your stubborn streak. When you make it through a tough moment, he doesn’t praise you like a child, he respects you like someone who survived something real.
And when you have setbacks, Satan doesn’t look disappointed. He looks patient. Like he always expected healing to be nonlinear, and like he’s prepared to walk beside you for as long as it takes.
Asmodeus notices the smallest changes first, even before you do. A flinch when someone reaches for your neck, the way you startle at mirrors when you catch your own reflection at the wrong angle, the way you suddenly stop wanting to be seen. It hurts him in a quiet, sinking way because Asmo’s whole world is built around being perceived, and you’re pulling away from that.
Your trauma shows up as shame more than fear around him. You feel ugly when you’re triggered. Broken. You apologize for crying, for freezing, for needing reassurance. Asmo never lets those apologies land. He cups your face, makes you look at him, and says softly, “Nothing about pain makes you unlovable.”
You cope by dissociating from your body. You go numb, floaty, like it isn’t really yours anymore. Sometimes you avoid looking at yourself at all. Asmo recognizes this immediately: he’s painfully aware of how much identity can be tied to the body and it devastates him that yours feels unsafe to live in.
When panic hits, you don’t lash out or spiral loudly. You go quiet. Distant. You stop responding to compliments because they feel like lies. Asmo tries jokes at first, brightness, sparkle and when that doesn’t work, it breaks his heart a little.
His coping support is deeply sensory and gentle. Warm baths with soft lighting. Silky fabrics draped over your shoulders. Lotions massaged into your hands so you can feel something kind where your body once felt danger. He’s careful never to touch your neck without permission.
Asmo helps you reclaim mirrors slowly. At first, you look together, him standing just behind you so you’re not alone with your reflection. He points out neutral things before anything pretty. “Your shoulders are relaxed today.” “Your eyes look tired, but that means you tried.”
You pick at your skin when anxious, not even realizing you’re doing it. Asmo gently takes your hands and replaces the habit with care instead of control. Nail oil. Rings to fidget with. Letting him hold your hands while he talks, filling the silence so your thoughts don’t spiral inward.
Nights are the worst. When you wake up from dreams where hands are at your throat or you’re falling again, Asmo doesn’t rush you. He stays close, brushes your hair back slowly, reminds you of what’s real. “You’re here. You’re safe. I can see you.”
He struggles with guilt more than the others. Asmo wonders if he ever pushed you too hard to smile, to perform, to be okay. He replays moments where he might’ve missed signs. This self-blame makes him unusually quiet when you’re hurting.
Asmo encourages self-expression as healing, but never forces it. Sometimes that means dressing you up because it feels empowering. Other times it means oversized clothes, bare face, no expectations. He follows your lead, even when it goes against his instincts.
He teaches you affirmations, but not the cheesy kind. Real ones. Hard ones. “My fear makes sense.” “I don’t owe anyone quick healing.” “I am still desirable, even when I am scared.” He repeats them with you until you believe them more than you doubt them.
Asmo is the one who cries when you admit you still feel hands that aren’t there. He doesn’t hide it. His sadness is open, aching, full of love. “I wish I could’ve protected you,” he whispers, even though he knows it wasn’t his fault.
He never pushes you to forgive Belphegor, but he does help you grieve the version of yourself you were before. The carefree touch. The easy trust. He mourns that loss with you, openly.
When you finally have a good day, when you laugh without forcing it, when you let yourself be seen again, Asmo doesn’t make a big show of it. He just smiles softly, like he’s afraid to scare the moment away.
To Asmodeus, loving you after trauma isn’t about making you beautiful again. It’s about reminding you that you never stopped being worthy of love, even on the days you can’t stand to look at yourself.
Beel notices the change in your eating before anyone else does. He always notices food. Portions left untouched. You pushing plates away with an excuse. The way your eyes linger but your hands don’t move. It hits him hard, slow and heavy, like gravity settling in his chest.
Your trauma doesn’t look like panic with Beel. After having your body taken from you, hurt without consent, food becomes something you can refuse. Hunger becomes proof that you’re still in charge of something. Beel doesn’t understand it at first, and that hurts him the most.
You flinch at stairs, at sudden movements, but with Beel it’s quieter. You curl in on yourself. You grow smaller. You apologize when you’re full after two bites. You say you’re fine even when your hands shake. Beel believes you at first. He wishes he hadn’t.
Beel starts blaming himself. He thinks if he ate less around you, maybe you’d feel safer. If he didn’t talk about food so much, maybe you wouldn’t look guilty every time you swallow. He never says this out loud, but it eats at him worse than hunger ever could.
Your coping mechanism is restriction paired with dissociation. When your body feels weak, the memories feel quieter. When you’re dizzy, the fear dulls. Beel notices you sitting more, lying down more, letting him carry things you used to do yourself.
He doesn’t pressure you to eat. Ever. Instead, he starts offering food the way someone offers comfort. “I made this because it reminded me of you.” “You don’t have to finish it.” “We can just sit with it.”
Beel’s coping response is presence. He sits with you through meals even if you don’t touch anything. He eats slowly so you don’t feel watched. Sometimes he just holds your hand under the table so you don’t feel alone with the food.
The saddest nights are when his hunger doesn’t bother him because he’s more worried about yours. When you say you’re not hungry, he believes you, but later he lies awake counting the hours since you last ate.
You get cold easily. That’s when Beel really starts to break. He wraps you in blankets, pulls you close, shares his warmth without comment. He presses his forehead to yours and asks softly, “Can I help?”
When you do eat, even a little, Beel never celebrates. He doesn’t clap or praise. He just looks relieved in a way that makes your chest ache. Like he’s been holding his breath all day.
Your trauma response around him includes guilt. You feel like you’re failing him, the Avatar of Gluttony, by not wanting food. Beel reassures you in the simplest way possible: “You don’t have to eat for me. I just want you here.”
Beel helps by making eating less about fear and more about safety. He suggests eating on the floor together. Or during a movie. Or while doing something else so your brain isn’t screaming at you. No rules. No expectations.
He struggles when others comment. When Mammon jokes. When Asmo worries out loud. Beel steps in front of you without raising his voice. “Stop.”
Sometimes you admit you’re scared of needing food. That needing anything makes you weak. Beel doesn’t argue. He just tells you about the times he’s been starving and survived because someone fed him. He says it like a story, not a lesson.
The saddest part is how gentle he becomes. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds too tight. He measures his strength. His words. His hope.
Beel never gives up on the idea that one day food won’t feel like punishment to you. Until then, he stays. He waits. He sits with you through hunger, fear, and the long quiet between bites, loving you without conditions.
Belphegor notices your fear before you ever say it. The way you stop talking when he enters a room. The way your body goes rigid instead of relaxed. The way you hesitate on stairs if he’s behind you. It makes his chest twist in a way he doesn’t have words for, so he pretends not to see it.
He tells himself you’re just jumpy. That it’s not about him. That if he ignores it, it’ll go away. That’s the brat in him.
The first time you flinch when he reaches out, he freezes. Fully freezes. His hand just hangs there between you, useless. He scoffs, mutters something lazy like “Wow, dramatic,” and leaves the room before you can see his face fall.
Your trauma response around Belphie is hypervigilance. You track where he is. You avoid sleeping near him. When he naps in shared spaces, you sit farther away, etc.
Belphie hates that most of all. Naps were safe. Quiet was safe. He ruined that.
He copes by minimizing his guilt out loud while drowning in it privately. He jokes. He pokes at you. He acts normal because admitting how badly he messed up would mean facing the fact that he hurt someone who trusted him.
When you start having nightmares again, Belphie knows they’re about him. He knows because you stop sleeping as deeply, and he’s always been good at noticing who’s awake in the dark.
He starts sleeping lighter. On purpose. He tells himself it’s annoying anyway, but really he’s listening for you. For pacing. For shaking breaths. For the sound of fear.
Your coping mechanism around him is avoidance mixed with guilt. You don’t want to hate him. You don’t want to be scared. But your body doesn’t care what you forgive, it remembers.
Belphie tries to make things right in the worst possible ways. He stands between you and stairs without explaining why. He positions himself so he’s always below you, never above. He refuses to touch your neck, ever, even accidentally.
He never asks for forgiveness. He doesn’t think he deserves it. Instead, he settles for proximity without pressure. Sitting near you without touching. Falling asleep on the floor instead of the bed if it means you’ll stay.
The saddest moments are when you apologize for being scared of him. Belphie snaps back, sharp and defensive, “You don’t get to apologize for that.” It’s the closest he gets to saying I’m sorry.
He starts calling himself a monster again, but quieter now. Not as a joke. Not as a tease. Like a fact he’s accepted.
When you do choose to sit beside him, even for a second, he doesn’t comment. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t tease. He stays very, very still, like a wild animal afraid of being chased away.
Belphie’s way of caring becomes restraint. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t provoke. Doesn’t poke at wounds for amusement anymore. He learns that loving you means letting you decide when he’s safe.
He never forgets what he did. Even when you start to heal, even when you laugh with him again, that moment stays burned into him. And maybe that’s his punishment, to love someone who has every reason to fear him, and still choose to be better anyway.
Being in a relationship with all seven of them changes the way your trauma shows up. There’s no single “safe” person, safety becomes collective, and when one of them slips, the others notice immediately.
After what Belphegor did, your body doesn’t distinguish between brothers at first. Raised voices make your pulse spike. Sudden movement behind you makes you flinch. Arguments between them can send you straight into freeze mode, even if none of it is directed at you.
They learn quickly that love alone doesn’t fix trauma. You can adore them and still panic. You can trust them and still feel hands around your throat when no one is touching you.
The biggest change is how protective they become as a unit. If one brother notices your breathing change or your hands start shaking, the others quietly adjust. Voices lower. Movements slow. Space is made without you having to ask.
Lucifer sets house-wide boundaries because of you. No yelling near staircases. No sudden grabbing, even as jokes. He frames it as “rules,” but everyone knows it’s about keeping you grounded.
Mammon sticks close during group moments. If you dissociate while they’re all together, he’s usually the first to notice, tugging you into his side and talking just to hear your voice answer back.
Levi becomes the designated distraction. When the atmosphere gets too heavy, he puts on a show, a game, something familiar. Not to fix it, just to anchor you in the present.
Satan watches your coping mechanisms like a hawk. If he sees you start spiraling into self-blame, he redirects the conversation gently but firmly, reminding the others to avoid language that turns anger inward.
Asmo struggles the most emotionally. Loving you means seeing you hurt, and he takes it personally when he can’t make it go away. On bad days, he’ll hold you and whisper reassurance until his voice cracks, pretending it’s no big deal afterward.
Beel’s love shows up in care routines. Eating together. Drinking water together. Sitting with you even when you can’t bring yourself to do either. He doesn’t push, he just stays.
Belphie is quieter in the group now. He lets the others take the lead when you’re fragile, but he never leaves. He sits where you can see him. Where you can choose him.
You sometimes feel guilty for needing all of them. For being “too much.” They shut that down fast. If you apologize for ruining the mood, seven voices overlap telling you to stop.
Your nightmares don’t belong to just you anymore. When you wake up shaking, there’s always someone awake, or someone waking up, pulling you back gently, grounding you with touch you’ve consented to a hundred times.
Healing becomes communal. Slow. Messy. There are setbacks. Days where Belphie’s presence is too much, and days where he’s the only one you want near you. The others adapt without resentment.
Loving all of them means learning that safety doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from consistency. From seven demons choosing, every day, to be careful with your life because they love you.
Up next: ⛓️💥 Bovinophobia ⛓️💥 Side Chars Ver.
