#om! x reader

── .✦ Mammon holding you close, nose buried into your neck, enjoying himself in your scent ✶

── .✦ size kink <3 ✶

── .✦ folding you in half to where he reaches deeper than before ✶

── .✦ watching his cock glide in and out of your sopping pussy ✶

── .✦ two hands holding onto your asscheek firmly, thrusting you up and down his cock. mammon has to let you know how good you feel around him, moaning into your ear ✶

── .✦ fucking you up and down his cock, your tits pressed against his face ✶

── .✦ intimate sex is Mammon’s favorite, being able to fuck and kiss you ✶

── .✦ making each other feel good ✶

── .✦ eating you out ✶

── .✦ face down, ass up ✶

☆ satan:

- he is an active reddit user and argues with people who disagrees with him on an anonymous account

- literally always fantasizes about being your personal tutor and will throw a hissy fit if you choose someone else to teach you

- like he’s right there bro why would you choose someone else like he’s literally the smartest person in the room and has solved 21828 cases (in his head)

- would be a really good theatre kid if you think about it

- crashes out over leviathan’s multiple anime pins on his backpack and ID bc it makes so much clicking sounds

- one time simeon mentioned that lucifer would get annoyed over it too and he crashed out harder

- despises people who hate sphynx cats ★

- can’t grasp why the angels wear such revealing outfits and choose to wear it ★

- block blast lover (has a higher score than leviathan but we need to shhh about that or else big things will happen) ★

- he a thought daughter 😹✌️ ★

☆ asmodeus:

- occasionally misses the celestial realm sunlight because he claims it’s good for his skin

- if he were to choose only one makeup product to bring it’d be lip gloss! ★

- it’s necessary for him to give and force mc to have a fashion show in his room atleast once a week because he just hoards so many clothes he can no longer fit in his closet

- you have a lot of his old clothing and he always pesters you to wear it even in R.A.D

- i genuinely don’t think he’s easily frightened by things. asmo is mostly known for keeping up a certain persona as a service to his 4187337733839019 fans 😣

- on a rare day, that persona will sleep and if you by chance try to scare him, he deadass will just stare at you blankly before realizing like oh shit i forgot to sct scared lol haha so silly of me 💕

- i think he’s biggest fear above all is losing is family, and you

- he owns a 24 karat gold labubu 🥺💛

- has shown up in multiple “culturally significant moments” on devil tok

- had to hide a few scandals back then bc he can be such a huge bitch

☆ beelzebub:

- has a highlight on devilgram dedicated to gym stuff but the difference is he’s not cringey like these fuckass gymrats who are “heartbroken”

- BUT if he ever did get his heart broken he will use working out as an excuse to cope (besides eating that is)

- he is still trying to convince lucifer to have a vacation down the human world to meet you but also to have some crumbl cookies 🍪

- doesn’t pay for spotify premium and doesn’t care about a break from the ads

- kids love him a lot because he talks to them like they’re adults. he can’t really “baby” talk them or whatever you call it lmao. he’s also the best one to piggy back on 😭

- picked up one cologne once at a store and liked the smell. ever since then he’d always buy the same one if he runs out.

- most of the time it takes him a while to finish a bottle because it was never really part of his routine. if he doesn’t smell bad then he doesn’t care

- but after you started becoming more of a relevant figure in his life, his colonge bottles started to run out more often because he became more conscious of his appearance and smell around you

- he doesn’t smile in photos unless you’re in it 🥹🫶🏻

- he says borgar unironically ★

☆ belphegor:

- belphegor buys completely useless shit because he’s lazy. like an egg machine that can crack eggs. but he has the balls to judge other people who do it

- idk if i mentioned this in my previous headcanons or posts, but he’s a massive fan of cigarettes after sex, he probably even sings like them 🥹🫶🏻 ★

- has a pregnancy pillow and no he’s not ashamed of it

- speaking of pillows, everytime the brothers go on a vacation and have to sleep in the same room, belphegor just hogs all of them and the rest know better not to take any (except beel)

- serves face even when he’s asleep

- i think it’s safe to say he’s the bitchiest out of all the brothers. i can’t tell wether it’s him or asmo sometimes

- as far as i know, he has nothing going on with his covered eye so he’s either too lazy to change hair styles or purposefully keeps it covered to see people less 💀

- flips off his brothers more than you think he does ★

- he is most likely the one to start a school shooting

Lucifer

You were a curiosity to Lucifer from the moment you stepped into the Devildom.

Not because you were human—he had encountered countless humans before—but because you were unlike any he had met. Reserved, observant, and possessing an unsettling calmness, you navigated the chaos of the House of Lamentation with a detached grace that piqued his interest.

While others were quick to react to the peculiarities of the Devildom, you remained composed, often more intrigued than alarmed. Your eyes, sharp and discerning, missed nothing. You analyzed your surroundings with the precision of a seasoned scholar, noting the subtle shifts in magic, the hidden tensions among the brothers, and the unspoken rules that governed this realm.

Lucifer found himself both impressed and slightly unsettled by your demeanor. He was accustomed to being the one in control, the one who observed and assessed. Yet here you were, a human, matching his scrutiny with your own.

One evening, he found you in the library, surrounded by ancient tomes on demonic flora and fauna. You were engrossed in a text detailing the properties of a rare Devildom herb, your fingers tracing the intricate illustrations with reverence.

"Studying late, are we?" he inquired, his voice smooth and commanding.

You looked up, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "The Devildom's flora is fascinating. So many plants with unique properties. Some could be quite useful... or dangerous."

A hint of a smile played on his lips. "Dangerous, indeed. One human such as yourself, must be cautious when handling such things."

You tilted your head, a glint of amusement in your eyes. "Caution is important, but understanding is paramount. Fear stems from ignorance."

Lucifer chuckled softly. "Spoken like a true scholar."

Over time, your interactions with Lucifer became more frequent. He would find you in the greenhouse, tending to exotic plants with meticulous care, or in the kitchen, experimenting with ingredients to create concoctions that were both medicinal and, occasionally, explosive.

Your knowledge of poisons and antidotes was unparalleled, and Lucifer couldn't help but be impressed by your expertise. He began to consult you on matters involving rare toxins or magical ailments, valuing your insights and analytical mind.

Despite his initial reservations, Lucifer found himself drawn to your quiet strength and unwavering determination. You challenged him, not with defiance, but with intellect and composure. It was a refreshing change from the chaos that often surrounded him.

One day, during a particularly tense family meeting, a minor dispute escalated into a full-blown argument among the brothers. Voices were raised, tempers flared, and chaos ensued.

Amidst the turmoil, you stood up, your voice calm but firm. "Enough."

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to you.

"This bickering is unproductive," you continued. "If we focus on the issue at hand rather than personal grievances, we might find a solution."

Lucifer watched as his brothers, chastised by your words, settled down. He felt a surge of admiration for you. In that moment, you had managed to do what few could command the attention and respect of the seven demon brothers.

After the meeting, he approached you. "You handled that well."

You shrugged modestly. "Sometimes, a different perspective is all that's needed."

Lucifer nodded. "Indeed. Your presence here has been... enlightening."

You smiled softly. "I'm glad to be of assistance."

As the days turned into weeks, Lucifer found himself seeking your company more often. Whether it was discussing ancient texts, sharing a quiet meal, or simply enjoying each other's presence in comfortable silence, he cherished the moments spent with you.

You had become an integral part of his world, a steadying force amidst the chaos. And though he rarely expressed his feelings openly, Lucifer knew that you had captured his heart in a way no one else ever had.

Mammon

You confused the hell outta Mammon.

Not in the “you’re from the human world” way he was used to that. Not even in the “you’re smart” way there were plenty of nerds in the Devildom (Satan alone accounted for 80% of them). No, you confused him because you weren’t scared of anything.

Not demons. Not curses. Not Lucifer. Not the borderline-lethal concoction you found bubbling in a forgotten hallway that you sniffed before saying, “Huh. Shouldn’t be reacting like that. Someone’s messed up the ratios.”

Mammon had watched you from behind a pillar like you were the terrifying one.

You didn’t talk much unless you had something to say, and when you did talk, you’d say the most unhinged, hyper-specific things with complete calm like suggesting that Asmodeus might want to stop using a certain brand of bath oil because it would probably cause mild hallucinations in lower-tier demons.

“H-How do ya even know that?” Mammon asked once, after watching you neutralize a potentially lethal jellyfish with two herbs and a death glare.

You blinked at him. “I used to be a poison tester in the imperial court.”

“...You what?”

He started following you around after that.

He claimed it was because you were “just a weak lil’ human who’d totally get kidnapped without The Great Mammon lookin’ out for ya,” but he was clearly more afraid of you than for you. He trailed after you like a confused stray cat, half-tempted to steal your weird apothecary satchel but too scared of what might happen if he touched anything in it.

“You got like—death flowers or somethin’ in there?”

“No. Those are in the other pouch.”

You didn’t smile much, but when you did tight-lipped, sardonic, often after diagnosing someone with you absolute idiot poison yourself again? Mammon’s brain short-circuited.

And yet, he still tried to flirt.

“You ever think about ditchin’ all this poison stuff and goin’ into business with me? We could open a potion shop. Or like… a crime-solving duo thing. You know, brains and beauty.”

“Which one are you supposed to be?”

“I—I’M BOTH, OBVIOUSLY—!”

But your sarcasm never felt cruel. Just… dry. Focused. You were like one of those super rare stones he saw in cursed auctions: plain on the outside, but the longer you looked, the more intricate you realized it was. The mystery only made him want to dig deeper.

You never gushed over him like other humans did. You didn’t even blink when he name-dropped himself as The Great Mammon. Which hurt his pride a little, but also made him spiral into wondering why he wanted your attention so badly.

And then came the day he nearly died.

It was a dumb bet with Levi, something about who could handle a cursed snack from a shady Devildom vending machine. Mammon took two bites, collapsed, and was foaming at the mouth by the time you got there.

You didn’t panic.

You crouched beside him, sniffed the half-eaten snack, and muttered, “Dumbass,” before jabbing him in the neck with a silver needle from your pouch and muttering an incantation under your breath.

He woke up ten minutes later, drooling and half-conscious, with your jacket rolled up under his head and you quietly cataloging the cursed ingredients.

“You—you saved me,” he croaked.

You looked up, unamused. “You’re not allowed to die until you pay me back for that mess you caused in the potions lab last week.”

Mammon turned beet red. “T-That’s your way of sayin’ you care, right?! I knew it! You do like me!”

You stared at him. “You’ve been poisoned for less than fifteen minutes and you’re already back to being an idiot. I should’ve waited longer.”

Mammon called it flirting. You called it honesty.

But after that, he followed you with a different kind of urgency. Less of the showy bravado and more quiet awe. He brought you snacks (after making you test them first), asked you endless questions about apothecaries, and even tried to memorize your antidote recipes, though he forgot them the second you stopped talking.

He never stopped calling himself your bodyguard, but now it came with an odd mix of reverence and pride like being near you made him smarter, braver, better.

And though you rolled your eyes every time he got in your personal space, you stopped pushing him away.

Some poisons, you realized, didn’t need an antidote.

Leviathan

Leviathan knew you were dangerous the moment you corrected a potion label in front of Satan.

He didn’t even know it was wrong and that was Satan, the walking library. But you just stood there, arms folded, expression flat as you looked down at the bottle and said, “That’s not mandrake root. That’s detura. If you drink it, you’ll hallucinate a five-day fever dream and probably confess a decade of unresolved guilt to a wall."

Leviathan had never seen Satan go speechless. You just turned and walked out after that. Didn’t even gloat. Just dropped the bomb and vanished like a cutscene NPC who leaves the party after revealing tragic backstory.

Levi's respect for you skyrocketed instantly.

He didn’t talk to you for three days. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how. You were like one of those elite SSR gacha characters with maxed-out poison resistance and triple damage intelligence stat. A mysterious loner with a morally questionable skill tree. And worst of all, you were calm.

Like, actually calm. Not shy, not awkward just… quiet. No wasted words. Unbothered. The kind of person who could say something absolutely horrifying, like "This mushroom could make a man think he's married to a table leg," in a voice so deadpan Levi would spiral about it for an hour.

He started inventing reasons to hover near you.

“Oh wow, is this the hallway that leads to the cursed greenhouse? Whoops, guess I took a wrong turn for the sixth time today.”

You didn’t even look up from your mortars. “Stop breathing like you're trying to do a boss battle. I can hear you."

Levi yelped and almost dropped his D.D.D.

You never mocked him, though. Never teased or pushed or prodded. You just… observed. Like he was some weird little amphibian in a tank. One day he asked if you even liked people and you just stared at him, blinked slowly, and said, “They’re loud. But not entirely useless.”

It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him that week.

You two bonded slowly, in the weirdest possible ways. You’d hand him a potion without speaking, and he’d take it like you’d just passed him an ancient relic. He’d offer to show you his favorite magical girl anime and you’d shrug and say, “Fine. As long as there are poison scenes I can fact-check.”

You had notes. You always had notes.

“That’s not how belladonna works. If she really drank that much she’d be blind and speaking Latin."

Levi was enchanted.

He started compiling a “Y/n Factbook” on his D.D.D. — a private entry log of everything you said, from trivia about demon flora to mildly threatening advice like “never trust someone whose hands smell like vanilla and rust.”

He didn’t know if he liked you romantically or if he wanted to be the sidekick in your morally ambiguous spin-off series. Either way, you were already living rent-free in his head.

One day, you caught him muttering to himself in the corner of the library, panic-sweating over a failed alchemy assignment.

“Why are you whispering the instructions like a confession to your diary?”

Levi jumped. “I—I wasn’t! I mean I was, but like—respectfully! I just—can’t get this transmutation to stabilize and I don’t want to fail again and let everyone down and—”

You interrupted his spiral with a precise flick of your wrist and calmly adjusted his ratios.

“Your catalyst is too wet. Dry it with wyvern salt before the reaction.”

He blinked. You weren't judging him. You were helping. Quietly. Effectively. Like you were just… used to people falling apart around you.

“...Thanks,” he said, after a beat. “Why’d you help?”

You tilted your head at him. “Because you looked like you were about to cry, and if someone cries in the library again, Lucifer said I have to clean it up.”

He laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you were. In that unintentionally deadpan, wildly competent, emotionally unavailable kind of way.

From then on, you two became a strange little unit. You’d make dry comments, Levi would overreact, you’d roll your eyes, and somehow it worked. He’d bring you obscure potion-themed anime, you’d roast their scientific inaccuracies, and he’d listen, nodding like you were revealing forbidden lore.

You weren’t touchy or affectionate you were factual and deeply suspicious of affection. But Levi? Levi was patient. He liked puzzle boxes. And you, Y/N, were the most interesting one he’d ever found.

Satan

It starts with an argument in the library.

No raised voices, no drama just a quiet but intensely sharp back-and-forth over an old Devildom pharmacology text. Satan insists that the listed dosage of wolfsbane in ancient hex cures is symbolic. You, Y/N, tilt your head at him and calmly say, “No, it’s just incorrect. That amount would liquefy someone’s liver in under ten minutes. Symbolism doesn't cause renal failure.”

He blinks.

You blink back, unbothered.

That’s when he knows he’s doomed.

Satan spends most of his time surrounded by people who are loud, arrogant, or too busy trying to impress him. You? You stroll into his favorite reading space, sniff a sample herb someone left on a desk, and casually go, “Hm. Trace arsenic. Someone here’s got clumsy enemies.”

And then just sit down like it’s not the most suspicious sentence he’s ever heard.

Satan doesn’t even know your full background yet all he knows is that you showed up at RAD one day, ignored everyone’s nonsense, and only spoke when something was wrong. Terribly, poisonously, scientifically wrong.

You didn’t flirt. You didn’t grovel. You just existed like a quiet, exhausted cat who wandered into hell and decided it was mildly tolerable.

And that? That was fascinating.

He tried to test you. Not in a mean way, more like an academic curiosity. He’d “accidentally” misquote a potion theory in front of you to see if you’d catch it. You always did.

“You’re using a 4th-era stabilizing method. That formula was disproven in the 6th century after it exploded in a royal alchemist’s face.”

You didn’t gloat. Just corrected and moved on. Like facts were facts and anything else was a waste of time.

Satan was obsessed.

He started inviting you to the library more, and was always just “coincidentally” around when you were there. At first, you didn’t seem to care. You had the emotional range of a highly judgmental squirrel one eyebrow permanently raised, zero small talk. If you had feelings, you buried them beneath seventeen layers of medical analysis and herbal notes.

But he started catching little things.

The way your fingers tapped when someone else said something incorrect. The tiny lift in your lip when a rare text surprised you. The sharpness that dulled slightly when he asked your opinion instead of assuming it.

One day, after a long silence, you looked at him and said, “You’re smarter than I expected. For someone who collects cats and grudges.”

Satan grinned like he’d just been handed the demon equivalent of a marriage proposal.

You two formed a rhythm not quite friendship, not quite rivalry, but something crackling and intelligent. You didn’t fill space with meaningless conversation, and he stopped trying to impress you with big gestures. You’d both just read, share knowledge, occasionally argue, and sometimes exchange sharp little observations like daggers dipped in honey.

“You know,” he murmured once, closing a book, “I’ve read hundreds of texts on poison. But I’ve never met anyone who could explain them in such... coldly vivid detail.”

You glanced up. “Most authors don’t work in death wards or test antidotes by taste.”

He paused. “You’ve tasted poisons?”

“I mean, not on purpose. Mostly.Mainly.Somewhat."

That was it. He was in love. Or in awe. Or both. It was hard to tell, and honestly, he didn’t care. Your mind was like a maze of sharp corners and unexpected traps, and he wanted to run through it until he either solved it or got bitten.

You weren’t openly affectionate you didn’t have the time or energy for that. But you started leaving rare medical texts at his desk. You made offhand comments about his bad sleep habits. Once, you handed him a cup of tea without looking and muttered, “Don’t drink the others. Mammon’s has a mild sedative.”

He didn’t even ask how you knew. He just drank yours.

Satan, who usually hated being underestimated, didn’t mind how you always looked at him like you were calculating how many ways he could die in a locked room. He liked it. It meant you took him seriously. And in a world where everyone either tiptoed or exploded, your steady apathy was oddly comforting.

One day, during a walk through the gardens, he said, “You know, most people are intimidated by me.”

You replied, without looking up from your sketch of a poisonous toadstool, “That’s because they don’t know what you’re really capable of. I do.”

He stared. “That supposed to be comforting?”

“No,” you said. “But it’s honest.”

Satan smiled, heart pounding far too hard for someone who just got lightly threatened in a whisper.

He decided then and there: honesty with you was better than flattery from anyone else.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus never expected to be caught off guard by someone like you.

He’s the Avatar of Lust, after all, the center of attention, the king of charm and flirtation. But then you appeared, Y/N, with your quiet confidence and a kind of cold, clinical brilliance that made him rethink everything he thought he knew about attention.

It started when you arrived at RAD. Unlike the usual adoring fans or awkward admirers who blushed and fawned, you barely spared anyone a glance. You moved with purpose, eyes scanning everything but rarely meeting anyone’s directly. Your hands were always busy jotting notes, examining herbs, or carefully handling little bottles filled with suspiciously lethal substances.

Asmodeus was instantly intrigued. Here was someone who didn’t care about appearances or popularity, and that was a new challenge entirely.

He tried to get your attention the way he always did—grand entrances, teasing smiles, and compliments dripping with double meaning.

“You know, darling,” he said one day, lounging on a velvet chaise near the potion table, “most people would be dazzled by a prince’s charisma. But you? You look like you’d rather be dissecting a snake than talking to me.”

You barely looked up from your vial, calmly replying, “I’m not here for entertainment. I’m here to test poisons. They’re far more interesting.”

That was the moment Asmodeus realized this wasn’t going to be a typical game. You weren’t like the others who chased his light, you were perfectly content in the shadows of deadly substances and hidden dangers.

He started lingering around you, under the pretense of curiosity about your poison tests. He’d watch you carefully, noting how your face changed when you identified a new toxin or discovered a hidden antidote. There was a strange kind of beauty in your precise, almost surgical movements, how you handled things too dangerous for most demons with an ease born of experience.

One afternoon, you caught him staring and said with a dry smile, “Do you want to learn something, or are you just here to look pretty?”

Asmodeus blinked, then laughed. “I’m always here to learn. And to look pretty, of course.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Pretty doesn’t survive long around poison.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Maybe that’s why I need someone like you—someone who knows how to handle danger.”

The banter between you was sharp and constant, like a duel of wits with no clear victor. You’d correct him when he mispronounced the names of rare herbs, and he’d tease you about your serious demeanor, calling you his “deadly little enigma.” There was an electricity in every exchange a tension built on mutual respect and something more teasing, more intimate.

Despite yourself, you found his confidence infectious. He never pushed too hard, never asked for more than you were willing to give, but he had a way of making even poison-testing sessions feel like an adventure. You started to look forward to his visits, to the sound of his voice cutting through the sterile air of your workspace.

One evening, Asmodeus showed up with a bouquet of strangely fragrant flowers. You raised an eyebrow.

“For you,” he said with a wink, “because even poison testers deserve a little softness now and then.”

You took the flowers carefully, studying them like you would a new specimen. “These are... safe?”

“Absolutely. Unless you want me to test them for you.”

You smirked, the corners of your mouth twitching with amusement. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Over time, you found yourselves sharing more than just the chemistry of toxins and antidotes. You talked about your pasts, his life of endless parties and masks, yours filled with hidden dangers and silent battles. You found in him a rare vulnerability beneath the layers of vanity, and he found in you a strength that didn’t need to shout to be noticed.

Your relationship was unconventional neither loud declarations nor grand displays. It was a quiet understanding, a dance around danger and desire, a blend of sharp intellect and softer moments stolen in between.

When Asmodeus teased you about your serious face, you’d reply with a sly grin, “Don’t mistake professionalism for coldness.”

He’d just smile back, eyes gleaming. “I like it when you’re cold. It makes the moments when you thaw all the more special.”

You might not have been the typical admirer, and he wasn’t the usual partner, but somehow, your worlds collided perfectly. Poison and perfume. Danger and desire. Science and sensuality.

And in that clash, you both found something worth holding onto.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub never imagined meeting someone like you would change the way he saw the world.

The Lord of Gluttony is known for his big appetite and easygoing nature. He loves food, comfort, and laughter, always making sure everyone around him feels cared for. But when you arrived at RAD, carrying your notebooks and vials of poisons with calm precision, he was curious in a way that went deeper than his usual playful interest.

You moved with an unshakable focus, eyes flicking between herbs and formulas, your hands steady as you tested substances that could kill if handled incorrectly. There was no trace of fear, no hesitation, just a determined calm that seemed to contrast with Beel’s warm, carefree energy.

At first, Beel watched from a distance, unsure how to approach someone so serious. You didn’t seem interested in parties or sweets, the things he loved. But then one day, he found you hunched over a tray of plants, carefully grinding leaves into powder.

“Hey,” he said gently, trying not to startle you. “What’re you making?”

You glanced up, expression cool but not unkind. “A new antidote. Someone might need it soon.”

Beel’s eyes lit up. “Whoa. That sounds important. You’re like a real-life hero, huh?”

You paused, then allowed a small, almost amused smile. “I prefer ‘poison tester.’ It’s less dramatic, but far more accurate.”

That honesty, paired with your quiet competence, drew Beel in. He started spending more time near your workspace, often bringing snacks and sweets to share, hoping to see that rare smile again. He’d joke about how you needed to eat more, but you’d just roll your eyes and remind him that poison didn’t mix well with sugar highs.

The contrast between you was striking, his easy warmth to your focused seriousness, but it was what made your friendship grow. Beel learned about your meticulous work testing every sample, your patience when experiments failed, and the weight of responsibility you carried to keep others safe.

One afternoon, he caught you examining a strange-looking mushroom with a magnifying glass. “Careful with that,” he warned softly. “Could be dangerous.”

You looked up, meeting his worried gaze, and said simply, “That’s why I’m here.”

Beel admired your bravery. You handled lethal substances without blinking, balancing risk with knowledge, and he felt a protective urge swell inside him, not because you needed saving, but because you deserved to be cared for.

He started sharing stories of his own struggles, moments when he felt overwhelmed by expectations or loneliness beneath his jovial exterior. You listened without judgment, offering thoughtful observations and practical advice in return. Your sharp mind and calm demeanor were a balm to his restless spirit.

“Sometimes,” you told him one evening as you both sat in the garden, “knowing what can kill you is the first step to knowing what’s worth living for.”

Beel nodded slowly, touched by the weight behind your words. “I get that. You’ve got a strength I never knew I needed.”

Your bond grew beyond simple friendship. Beel began to see you not just as the serious poison tester but as someone who could laugh, dream, and share quiet moments away from the chaos of RAD.

He’d bring you favorite fruits and gently tease you to take breaks. You, in turn, let your guard down enough to accept his warmth, sometimes even letting him hold your hand when the stress of your work weighed too heavy.

Their connection was natural, a balance between his big-hearted kindness and your sharp intellect. You challenged each other in the best ways he encouraged you to enjoy life’s sweetness despite its dangers, and you reminded him that strength came in many forms.

One day, Beel surprised you with a picnic under the stars, a quiet celebration of friendship and trust. As you sipped herbal tea, safe and carefully brewed by you, he smiled and said, “You’re my favorite mystery, you know. Complex and dangerous, but worth every moment.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you’re flirting.”

Beel laughed, that warm sound that filled the night. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just glad to have you here.”

There was no need for grand declarations, just a steady presence, a shared understanding, and the unspoken promise that whatever dangers came, you’d face them together.

In a world where poison lurked in every corner, Beelzebub and Maomao found a rare kind of sweetness: a friendship that nourished the soul and a bond that could survive even the deadliest of tests.

Belphegor

Belphegor didn’t trust you at first.

You were far too quiet, far too observant — eyes always narrowed in calculation, mouth set in a line that said “I’m tired of your nonsense before you’ve even opened your mouth.” It was a bit too familiar. You reminded him of Lucifer, if Lucifer were tiny, female-coded, and came with a tray of deadly mushrooms and a habit of muttering chemical formulas in the corner of the room like a gremlin.

So naturally, Belphie’s first instinct was to poke.

He’d lean over the back of the couch where you were scribbling notes about herb interactions, yawning loudly and asking, “So, if I wanted to poison Lucifer, how long would it take him to die if I mixed this with his coffee?”

You didn’t even glance up. “Depends. Is he drinking it on an empty stomach?”

That was the exact moment Belphie fell in like.

He wasn’t used to humans who could match his energy or, more accurately, laziness-disguised-as-malicious-compliance energy. You, with your unimpressed stare and unshakeable calm, were different from the other exchange students. Where others panicked, you planned. Where others fumbled through Devildom chaos, you studied it like a patient scientist poking a venomous snake.

He once watched you calmly explain to Mammon that the “weird buzzing” in his ears was not, in fact, a hex, but likely dehydration and stress. And then you made him a bitter tonic that tasted like despair and herbal resentment. Mammon cried. You didn’t blink.

Belphie was obsessed.

At first, his affection came in the form of mild torment. He’d sneak into your apothecary workshop and move your vials two inches to the left. He’d rearrange your note pages just enough to ruin your filing system. He even let a small gremlin demon loose in your lab once.

You countered by placing a slow-acting itch powder in his hoodie. He didn’t figure it out for two days. He was impressed.

Your war of casual menace slowly gave way to something more companionable. Belphie would crash in your workroom, curled on the floor like a lazy cat while you crushed dried petals or scribbled toxicology charts. He didn’t talk much, and neither did you, but the quiet was never awkward. It was the kind of silence you could rest in, the kind where no one demanded anything of you.

“Why do you care so much about poison, anyway?” he asked once, eyes barely open.

You stared into your steaming beaker. “Because poison doesn’t lie. It either works or it doesn’t.”

Belphie cracked one eye open. “That’s... surprisingly dark. I like it.”

He didn’t say it, but he understood your obsession with control, with knowing outcomes in a world that constantly shifted. It reminded him of what it felt like in the attic, alone, uncertain, relying only on himself. You were the same: guarded, meticulous, always keeping a wall between you and everyone else.

So Belphie stopped trying to knock it down.

Instead, he leaned against it. Teased you gently. Sat close without crowding. Asked questions without expecting answers. He became a quiet, sleepy presence at your side, someone who didn’t demand vulnerability but made space for it anyway.

And you, in your own slow-burning way, began to let him in. You brewed tea for him when his insomnia got bad. You mumbled out dry compliments when he helped you move crates. You even admitted once, in a whisper so fast he almost missed it, that you didn’t hate his company.

“I’m honored,” he said, grinning, and you smacked him with a notebook.

One night, after a long day of chaotic demon politics and poisoned pastries (long story), you both lay sprawled on the floor of the observatory, staring at the ceiling.

“You know,” he murmured, “if I died from one of your potions, I’d probably forgive you.”

You snorted. “You’d haunt me and rearrange all my ingredients.”

“I’d spell insults in dried rosemary.”

You let the silence stretch between you for a while before quietly replying, “You’d probably be the only ghost I wouldn’t mind.”

Belphie blinked. Smiled.

No grand gestures. No big confessions.

Just two tired minds tangled together in quiet companionship, finding comfort in the certainty that neither would ever be forced to explain themselves too much.

And for once, that was enough.

Thank you so much for reading! 🩷 I hope you all enjoyed! Please send more asks! As usually Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!😋