☆ Virelia ☆

[Diavolo]

Diavolo’s jealousy is a complex, terrifyingly calm thing. As the future king of the Devildom, he is used to having everything he desires. When he feels jealousy, it isn't an emotion he's familiar with, so he treats it as a problem to be solved, a kingdom to be conquered. He won't get angry or make a scene. Instead, he will watch from a distance, a serene smile on his face, his eyes betraying no hint of the storm within. His jealousy is a quiet, intellectual dissection of the threat. He'll gather information, analyze the situation, and then make a series of subtle moves to render the competition obsolete. He might give you a task that requires you to spend all of your time with him, or he might arrange a "meeting" that pulls you away from the person he's jealous of. The person who provoked the feeling won't even realize they've been outmaneuvered until it's too late. When he's alone with you, his demeanor changes. The king is gone, replaced by a man who simply wants to be chosen. He won't demand your attention; he'll simply take it, wrapping you in a warm, possessive embrace and reminding you in a quiet voice how much you mean to him, and how much he has to lose.

.

.

.

You’re in the castle garden, helping Barbatos prune some rare celestial roses. He’s teaching you the delicate art of shaping the thorny vines, his movements precise and graceful. You’re so engrossed in his quiet wisdom that you don't notice Diavolo approaching until he’s right beside you. “Barbatos,” Diavolo says, his voice as smooth as silk. “I have a most intriguing matter to discuss with you. It seems the Royal Devildom Treasury has discovered a rather... curious discrepancy in its ancient records. I was hoping you could assist me in a thorough investigation. A matter of utmost importance, I assure you.” Barbatos pauses, his eyes meeting Diavolo’s. There’s a silent, knowing moment between them before he bows his head. “Of course, my Lord. At once.” He gives you a small, apologetic smile. “I suppose our lesson will have to wait, MC.” Diavolo gives Barbatos a warm smile, but his eyes never leave you. “Oh, I don’t think so. I believe MC is required for the investigation as well. After all, two minds are always better than one, wouldn’t you agree?” He takes your arm gently, his touch firm and guiding. “I’m afraid this might take a while. It’s a rather… complex matter.” He leads you away from the garden, his presence commanding and all-consuming. Once you are alone in his study, the serene mask falls away. He doesn’t speak of any treasury or discrepancy. He simply pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. His grip is firm, almost desperate. “I’m sorry, MC. It was the only way to get you to myself.” His voice is a low murmur. "I don’t like it when I have to share you. It’s… a feeling I’m not accustomed to. I just want to make sure you know that you are my most treasured possession.” He lifts your chin, and his gaze is intense, a silent question. “Promise me you won’t look at anyone else the way you look at me?”

[Barbatos]

Barbatos’s jealousy is an elegant, almost imperceptible force. As a demon of time and space, he sees all possibilities, and he knows that a future without you is one he cannot bear. His jealousy is a cold certainty, a knowledge that he must act to secure his place by your side. He won’t raise his voice or betray any anger. Instead, he will become impossibly accommodating, anticipating your every need before you even have to ask. His moves will be subtle, a gentle redirection that steers you away from the person he's jealous of. He might “conveniently” have an urgent task that requires your help, or he might simply appear at the exact moment you're having a conversation, his presence a silent barrier. His jealousy is not about competition; it's about eliminating any possibility of you leaving him. It’s the fear of a future where you don’t belong to him. He’ll make sure you’re taken care of, but his affection will be a possessive, all-encompassing thing, his touch a gentle reminder that he is the one who sees and knows all, and you are the one thing he cannot afford to lose.

.

.

.

You’re in the castle kitchen, trying to learn a complicated Devildom recipe from Luke. He’s excitedly explaining the different types of flour, his small hands gesturing wildly. You’re laughing at his earnestness when Barbatos enters the room, a tray of delicate pastries in his hand. “My Lord requested I bring these for you and Luke to sample,” he says, his voice calm and polite. He places the tray on the counter, then looks at Luke with a serene expression. “Luke, would you be so kind as to fetch the special tea blend from the royal pantry? Lord Diavolo insists it's the only one that will properly complement these pastries.” Luke's eyes light up. “Wow! Special tea! Of course, I’ll get it!” He scurries off, disappearing into the pantry. Barbatos’s smile fades the moment Luke is gone. He turns to you, his gaze intense. “I apologize, MC. Luke is... a very passionate teacher. I simply wanted to ensure you had a moment to rest.” He takes your hand and gently pulls you away from the counter. “He tends to get a bit carried away.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, intimate gesture. "You know, the master of the royal pantry also happens to be a wonderful conversationalist. It would be a shame for him to be lonely. I was hoping you could keep him company while I prepare the tea." He leads you out of the kitchen and toward the pantry, not allowing you to return to Luke. Once inside, he doesn't bring up the pastries or the tea. He just looks at you, his eyes a quiet abyss. “I do hope you're not bored with my company, MC,” he says softly. "I find your presence... quite calming. It would be a great disappointment to know that you preferred the company of a lesser being." It's not a question. It's a subtle declaration, a quiet warning.

Solomon

Solomon's jealousy is a calculated game. He's an expert at charming his way out of a tight spot, and he’ll use that skill to manipulate the situation to his advantage. He won't get angry; he'll get playful, his smile a little too sharp, his eyes a little too bright. He’ll use his magic to "accidentally" trip up the person he's jealous of, or he'll subtly rearrange things to put you in his path. His jealousy is a challenge, a test to see if he can still win you over. He will use his words and his magic to remind you of how much fun you have with him, weaving illusions or casting playful spells just to get your attention. His jealousy is a profound fear of being outsmarted or outcharmed, a fear that someone else might find a way into your heart that he can't. He needs to know that you chose him not because of his tricks, but because you genuinely want to be with him. When he’s alone with you, the game ends. He’ll be completely honest and vulnerable, admitting his fears and his need for you in a way that is more powerful than any spell.

Scenario

You're in the Royal Devildom Academy courtyard, and you're chatting with Simeon. He’s showing you a new drawing he made of a celestial creature, and you’re praising his talent. Solomon appears from behind a pillar, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Simeon,” he says, his voice a little too cheerful. “It’s lovely. But you know, I think it’s missing something.” With a flick of his wrist, a shower of glittering, shimmering dust falls from the sky, a mini-starfall that lands on your hair and clothes. “There! Now it has… magic.” He smiles, a little too widely. Simeon shakes his head, a fond exasperation on his face. “Solomon, you know I don’t like it when you use your magic to show off.” “Oh, was I showing off?” Solomon asks, feigning innocence. “I was just trying to show MC what real magic looks like. Much more impressive than a simple drawing, wouldn’t you agree, MC?” He winks at you. Before you can answer, he takes your hand, his touch warm and electric. “Come on. I was just about to show you a new spell I’ve been working on. It’s a bit... dangerous, but I trust you to keep my secret.” He pulls you away from Simeon, his grip firm. Once you’re in a secluded classroom, he casts a spell that makes the air shimmer, creating a series of intricate, glowing constellations on the walls. It’s a mesmerizing sight. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, his expression unreadable. “What’s wrong, Solomon?” you ask softly. He sighs, and the magic fades. “I just… I get this feeling in my chest. When I see you with someone else. I start to wonder if they’re as good for you as I am. If they make you feel… happy. I know it’s foolish. I’m not a bad person, but I get jealous. I need you to tell me that I'm your chosen one. That you would choose me even without my magic." His eyes are wide and vulnerable, and you realize that beneath the layers of confidence and charm, he’s just a boy who is terrified of being left behind.

[Solomon]

Solomon's jealousy is a calculated game. He's an expert at charming his way out of a tight spot, and he’ll use that skill to manipulate the situation to his advantage. He won't get angry; he'll get playful, his smile a little too sharp, his eyes a little too bright. He’ll use his magic to "accidentally" trip up the person he's jealous of, or he'll subtly rearrange things to put you in his path. His jealousy is a challenge, a test to see if he can still win you over. He will use his words and his magic to remind you of how much fun you have with him, weaving illusions or casting playful spells just to get your attention. His jealousy is a profound fear of being outsmarted or outcharmed, a fear that someone else might find a way into your heart that he can't. He needs to know that you chose him not because of his tricks, but because you genuinely want to be with him. When he’s alone with you, the game ends. He’ll be completely honest and vulnerable, admitting his fears and his need for you in a way that is more powerful than any spell.

.

.

.

You're in the RAD's courtyard, chatting with Simeon. He’s showing you a new drawing he made of a celestial creature, and you’re praising his talent. Solomon appears from behind a pillar, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Simeon,” he says, his voice a little too cheerful. “It’s lovely. But you know, I think it’s missing something.” With a flick of his wrist, a shower of glittering, shimmering dust falls from the sky, a mini-starfall that lands on your hair and clothes. “There! Now it has… magic.” He smiles, a little too widely. Simeon shakes his head, a fond exasperation on his face. “Solomon, you know I don’t like it when you use your magic to show off.” “Oh, was I showing off?” Solomon asks, feigning innocence. “I was just trying to show MC what real magic looks like. Much more impressive than a simple drawing, wouldn’t you agree, MC?” He winks at you. Before you can answer, he takes your hand, his touch warm and electric. “Come on. I was just about to show you a new spell I’ve been working on. It’s a bit... dangerous, but I trust you to keep my secret.” He pulls you away from Simeon, his grip firm. Once you’re in a secluded classroom, he casts a spell that makes the air shimmer, creating a series of intricate, glowing constellations on the walls. It’s a mesmerizing sight. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, his expression unreadable. “What’s wrong, Solomon?” you ask softly. He sighs, and the magic fades. “I just… I get this feeling in my chest. When I see you with someone else. I start to wonder if they’re as good for you as I am. If they make you feel… happy. I know it’s foolish. I’m not a bad person, but I get jealous. I need you to tell me that I'm your chosen one. That you would choose me even without my magic." His eyes are wide and vulnerable, and you realize that beneath the layers of confidence and charm, he’s just a boy who is terrified of being left behind.

[Simeon]

Simeon's jealousy is a profound sense of sadness and disappointment. As a being of the Celestial Realm, he is taught to be selfless, but when it comes to you, his human heart aches with a longing he can’t ignore. He won't get angry; he will simply grow quiet, his usual sunny demeanor replaced with a somber stillness. He will retreat into himself, watching you from a distance, a quiet, mournful expression on his face. He’ll become more introspective, questioning his own worthiness and his place in your life. His jealousy is a quiet, spiritual battle against a very human emotion. He’s not angry at you or the person you’re with; he’s angry at himself for feeling something so contrary to his divine nature. When you finally confront him, he won't admit to being jealous. He'll simply say he's "reflecting" or "deep in thought." But his eyes will betray him, filled with a sadness that is both profound and utterly heartbreaking.

.

.

.

You're at the school festival, and you’re with Luke. You’re helping him with his stall, laughing at his attempts to sell his homemade baked goods. Simeon walks past, a small, sad smile on his face. He gives you a quick wave but doesn’t stop. The rest of the day, you see him standing alone, watching from a distance, a pensive look on his face.

Later that evening, you find him sitting alone on a bench in the courtyard, staring up at the night sky. The usual bright light that emanates from him is dim, and he seems shrouded in a quiet sadness.

“Simeon?” you ask, sitting down beside him. “Is everything alright? You’ve been so quiet all day.”

He shakes his head slightly. “I’m fine, MC. Just… thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

He sighs, a heavy, weary sound. “I was just… reflecting. On how quickly time passes here in the Devildom. And how… how fragile our time together is.” He looks at you, his eyes filled with a deep, profound sadness. “I see you with others, and I’m happy for you. I truly am. But there’s a part of me that… aches. It's a feeling I’m not supposed to have. I am an angel, and I should be above such petty, human emotions. But when I see you with Luke, I get this feeling in my chest, a feeling of... dread. A feeling that you might not need me anymore. That you'll find a new companion. It's a selfish thought, and I am ashamed of it.”

You reach out and take his hand. “Simeon, it’s not selfish. It’s human. And I want you to feel that. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. With you. You will always have a place with me. You are my angel. Always.”

He holds your hand tightly, and a small, genuine smile finally breaks through the sadness. “Thank you, MC,” he says softly. "For making me feel like an angel and a man all at once."

[Lucifer]

The sin of pride is his most familiar companion, but jealousy is a foreign, unwelcome guest. It's a dark, primal rage that he despises because it threatens the meticulous control he has over himself. When jealousy strikes, it isn't loud. It's a cold, suffocating silence. He will observe from a distance, a still figure in the room, his eyes sharp and analytical as a hawk's. The air around him drops a few degrees, and even the other demons instinctively give him a wide berth. He won't make a scene or confront you directly. Instead, he will punish the one who provoked the feeling with a quiet, efficient cruelty—a new, impossible task, a revoked privilege, a subtly damning comment that makes them question their own worth. The jealousy isn't about you not choosing him; it's about the very idea that anyone else could even think to lay claim to a part of his world, a world that is now undeniably yours. Later, he will find you, alone. His touch will be possessive, his gaze a silent question. He will pull you close, a silent claim whispered against your skin, not with words, but with a lingering touch on your hand or a tightening of his arm around your waist. It's a demonstration of ownership, a reminder that you are his without ever having to say the word.

.

.

.

You’re in the House of Lamentation library, helping Satan alphabetize a new set of human-world grimoires. It’s a tedious task, but Satan is animated, laughing and explaining the finer points of occult history. He leans closer to show you a specific diagram, his hand hovering over yours for a moment as he points to the page. The low rumble of his laughter fills the quiet room. You don't notice the subtle shift in the air, the way the light seems to dim just slightly, but Satan does. His laughter dies in his throat, and he clears it awkwardly, stepping back from the table. “Lucifer,” he says, his tone a bit strained. “Didn’t see you there.” Lucifer stands in the doorway, motionless. His gaze is fixed on the space between you and Satan, his crimson eyes gleaming like coals in the low light. His smile is thin, a blade of a thing. “Clearly.” He walks into the room with a deliberate grace, his presence a physical weight. “I was just coming to retrieve something, but it seems I’ve stumbled upon a rather… focused study session.” He doesn't look at Satan; his eyes are locked on you. “I trust you won’t be needing them for much longer, Satan? I do have a rather pressing task that requires them immediate assistance.” It’s not a question. It’s an order. Satan nods, his shoulders slumping slightly as he closes the book and steps away. “Of course. I’ll see you later, MC.” He gives you a quick, apologetic look before slipping past Lucifer and out the door. The sound of the door clicking shut feels like the final word on the matter. Lucifer waits until Satan has left before he speaks again. He walks to you slowly, his footsteps deliberate. He takes the grimoire from your hands and places it back on the shelf, his fingers brushing against yours with a possessive, lingering touch. “I believe,” he says, his voice a low murmur, “that I just saved you from a rather dull conversation.” He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting your face to meet his gaze. His eyes are a blazing red, but his voice is quiet, intimate. "What were you two talking about that was so fascinating?" he asks, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "You were so engrossed, you didn't even notice I had entered." He leans in, his face close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. "Tell me. What could possibly be more important than my presence?" He doesn’t wait for a response. He just leans in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that is both a question and an answer—a silent, possessive claiming of your attention, your time, and your very self. When he pulls away, his gaze is a silent promise. "You are mine to attend to," he says softly. "Let's not forget that."

[Mammon]

Mammon’s jealousy is loud, frantic, and completely transparent. It's not a cold silence but a chaotic storm of shouts, misplaced bravado, and a desperate need for your attention. He doesn't get quiet or sulk; he gets active. He will puff out his chest, make a scene, and loudly declare his importance. He might start a ridiculous argument with the person he's jealous of, throwing insults that are more silly than hurtful. His pride is on the line, and he's not afraid to put on a show to prove that he's the one you should be looking at. He'll pull you away from the person, demanding you help him with some "very important business" or that you just "look at him for a second." It's an ego-driven display, but beneath the bluster and noise, there’s a real, raw fear—the fear that he's not good enough, that you'll realize you deserve someone better than him. His attempts to win you back are as clumsy as they are earnest; he'll offer you "the best seat" in a room, give you a stolen trinket, or try to one-up the person he’s jealous of with a grand, but probably ill-thought-out, gesture.

.

.

.

You're in the student council room after classes, chatting with Diavolo about a new school festival idea. He's laughing at a joke you made, and his golden eyes are crinkled at the corners. He seems genuinely delighted. Mammon, who was supposed to be waiting for you outside, suddenly bursts in. The door flies open with a bang. "Hey! MC! I've been waitin' forever!" he yells, his voice far too loud for the quiet room. He strides in, a crumpled flyer in his hand. “Ya gotta help me with somethin’ super important right now! Like, right now.” Diavolo raises a brow, a knowing smile on his face. “Is something wrong, Mammon? You seem a bit flustered.” "N-no! Nothin’s wrong! What’re ya lookin’ at me like that for?" Mammon sputters, pulling you by the arm, trying to get you to leave. “I just… got important plans! Really important ones! Way more important than… than whatever you two were doin’!” “We were just discussing the festival, Mammon,” you say, trying to calm him down. “Yeah, well, this is more important! This is… a business venture!” He gestures vaguely at the crumpled paper. "And I need my… uh… my assistant! Yeah! C’mon, let’s go!” He tries to drag you out, but you stand your ground. “Mammon, calm down. What’s the matter?” you ask, your tone firm. He deflates slightly, his bluster fading into something more anxious. “Nothin'! I just… I don't get it. Why are ya hangin' out with him? He's all powerful and stuff. He's way better than me." He pulls a shiny, slightly tacky keychain of a crow from his pocket and shoves it into your hand. "Here! This is for ya! It's a limited-edition lucky charm! Costs a fortune, ya know!" You shake your head, a fond smile on your face. "Mammon, you didn't need to do that." "I know I didn't!" he huffs, finally meeting your eyes. His wild, golden gaze is a mixture of embarrassment and genuine fear. "But... but I wanted to! Because... because I'm the one you hang out with! Not... not him! C'mon, let's go get some snacks, just the two of us. I'll even buy you some Ghost Lemon Muffins! Please? Please say yes?" He clutches your hand, his shaky grip more honest than any of his words. You squeeze his hand in return. "I'd love to get some muffins with you," you say, and the immediate relief on his face is more revealing than any of his dramatic gestures. He gives a triumphant little cheer and practically drags you from the room, shooting a final, victorious glare at the now-empty doorway.

[Leviathan]

Leviathan's jealousy is a storm contained within a teacup. He doesn't yell or confront anyone. Instead, he retreats into his room, his safe space, and lets his anxieties spiral into a toxic, self-deprecating monologue. He'll watch from a distance, hidden behind a screen or a corner, and the internal narrative will be a cascade of bitter thoughts. He will convince himself that you're just being polite, that you're only with him out of pity, and that you're finally seeing what everyone else sees: that he's a pathetic otaku. He will find reasons to hate the person he's jealous of—they are too popular, too handsome, too confident, too "normie." His jealousy is a direct attack on his self-worth, and he deals with it by putting himself down even more. When you finally find him, he'll be curled up in a corner of his room, his video game playing on mute, a quiet, miserable funk clinging to him like a second skin. He won't tell you he's jealous; he'll just say something like, "Of course you'd have more fun with him," or "I knew it was only a matter of time before you got tired of a shut-in like me."

.

.

.

You’re in the dining hall, and you see Levi huddled in a corner, nursing a lukewarm bowl of ramen. You walk over and sit with him. "Hey, Levi. I was looking for you earlier. I couldn’t find you after classes.” He doesn't look up, his fingers nervously tracing a pattern on the table. "Yeah, well, I was... busy." His voice is flat. “Oh, what were you up to?” you ask. He shrugs. “Nothing. You seemed to be having a good time, though.” His eyes flick upward for a split second, and you can see the pain in them. “Hanging out with Asmo must be way more interesting than hanging out with me.” You remember the brief moment you spent with Asmodeus in the hallway, talking about a fashion magazine. You had no idea Levi even saw you. "Levi, what are you talking about? I just talked to him for a minute. He was showing me something in a magazine." He scoffs, a dry, bitter sound. “Yeah, right. Of course. Why would you want to hang out with me when you can be with him? He’s the Avatar of Lust. He’s perfect. He’s charming. He’s got friends, and he’s not a complete loser with no life. He’s everything I’m not.” He finally looks at you, and his eyes are clouded with self-loathing. “I knew it was a glitch. You were just being nice, right? Now you’ve found a real person to talk to.” You reach across the table and take his hand. He flinches but doesn’t pull away. “Levi, stop. That's not true. You're the one I want to spend my time with. The fact that I said hello to someone else doesn't change that." His lip trembles slightly. “But… he’s so… smooth. He makes everything look so effortless. I’m just… me. I sit in my room all day. My biggest achievement today was finally beating that one boss in Tales from the Devildom that’s been giving me trouble for weeks.” He looks down at your intertwined hands, his expression softening just a little. “I don’t want you to see me as pathetic.” "You're not pathetic, Levi," you say, squeezing his hand. "And I don't care about 'smooth.' I care about you. I want to celebrate with you that you beat the boss. That's what I want to talk about." He looks up at you, a flicker of hope in his eyes, and a small, genuine smile finally breaks through the misery. "O-okay. As long as you don't mind me being a complete weirdo." He leans over and gently rests his head on your shoulder. “Thank you, MC. For not being a normie.”

[Satan]

Satan's jealousy is a quiet burn, a simmering intellectual rage that he tries to rationalize away. He views it as an illogical emotion, unworthy of his intellect, but it seeps into his demeanor all the same. He won't make a scene or throw a tantrum. Instead, his jealousy manifests as subtle, cutting remarks and a sudden need for intellectual one-upmanship. He'll find an academic weakness in the person he's jealous of and exploit it, dissecting their flaws with a cold, almost clinical precision. He might "accidentally" point out their factual errors, question their judgment, or simply make it clear that they are not on his intellectual level. His jealousy is a matter of perceived competition; he's not just worried about losing you, but about the idea that you might find another’s mind more compelling than his. When he’s alone with you, the mask of scholarly calm falls away. He will become intensely focused on you, showering you with attention and seeking reassurance in the quietest ways—a soft touch on your arm, a gentle pull to sit beside him, or a quiet request for your opinion on a book, wanting to re-establish the connection that he felt was threatened.

.

.

.

You're in the library, laughing with Solomon. He’s just demonstrated a simple but amusing magic trick, making a small paper bird flutter from his palm to yours. You're genuinely impressed, your laughter light and genuine. Satan enters the room, a stack of scrolls in his arms. He stops for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the scene. He walks over to your table, his expression unreadable. “Solomon,” Satan says, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “I see you’re still wasting your time on parlor tricks. Such a shame to see a warlock of your purported caliber dabble in such pedestrian illusions.” Solomon just smiles, unfazed. “Just sharing a laugh, Satan. It’s a nice change of pace from your usual self-aggrandizing lectures.” Satan's jaw tightens. He places a scroll on the table, unrolling it with a sharp flick of his wrist. "Ah. I see. Not something I would know about. I prefer to engage with those who value intellectual pursuits over cheap theatrics.” His gaze shifts to you, an almost imperceptible glint in his eyes. “MC, I trust you’re not letting him fill your head with nonsense? I was hoping you could assist me with translating a text on ancient Devildom incantations. It's a rather complex bit of work that requires a… discerning mind." He gives Solomon a final pointed look before taking your hand and pulling you toward his desk. Once you’re seated, he doesn’t immediately start the work. He simply holds your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "He has an infuriatingly smug way about him, doesn't he?" he murmurs, his tone low and personal. "Always so sure of himself. I'm sorry if I was abrupt. I just... find him quite irritating. I much prefer our time together, you know. It's so much more… fulfilling." He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, a silent request for you to affirm his position as your preferred companion. When he finally begins to talk about the scrolls, his voice is warm and enthusiastic, meant only for your ears. He pulls you into his world, a world of forbidden knowledge and secrets, and you understand that for him, jealousy is not about wanting what he doesn't have, but about protecting what is already his.

[Asmodeus]

Asmodeus’s jealousy is a fragile, insecure thing hidden behind a wall of theatricality. He won’t admit to being jealous. Instead, he’ll try to out-glitter the competition. He'll become extra flamboyant, extra charming, and extra demanding of your attention. He might interrupt your conversations with a dramatic flourish, complaining that you've been neglecting him or that you're not paying enough attention to his latest fashion emergency. He'll use his charm as a weapon, throwing himself at you with extravagant displays of affection—over-the-top compliments, dramatic poses, and a constant need for physical contact, wrapping his arms around you or clinging to your arm. He's trying to remind you and everyone else that he is the Avatar of Lust, the most desirable of them all. His jealousy is a desperate fear of being forgotten, of having his light overshadowed. Beneath the sparkle, there’s a vulnerable, scared part of him that believes his worth is tied to how much he is desired. When you finally confront him about his behavior, the mask will crack, revealing the hurt boy who just wants to be chosen for who he truly is, not for his looks.

.

.

.

You're at Majolish, helping Satan find a new scarf. Asmodeus is already there, trying on a ridiculous hat and making a spectacle of himself. He’s been quiet all day, but when he sees you and Satan together, he suddenly comes to life. He rushes over, his voice a little too loud. “Oh, darling! There you are!” Asmo says. He glides over and wraps his arms around your shoulders, draping himself over you like a boa. “Satan, I’m so sorry, but MC promised to give me their expert opinion on this new line of lip gloss! You know how important this is, my dear?” He doesn’t wait for your response, pulling you away from Satan. Satan raises an eyebrow. “I believe you were the one trying on hats, Asmo. I don’t recall a conversation about lip gloss.” “Psh, details, details!” Asmo says with a dismissive wave. He turns to you, pouting dramatically. “MC, you haven’t paid any attention to me all day! I’ve been feeling so neglected! You were talking with… him.” The way he says the word “him” is almost a hiss. “When you could have been with me! The most beautiful, most captivating person in the entire Devildom!” He pulls out a pocket mirror and primps his hair. "I simply don’t understand why you would want to look at something so... beige. When you have this!” He gestures to himself with a flourish. You gently push him off you and take his hand, leading him to a quiet corner of the store. “Asmo, what’s wrong?” you ask softly. "You're being over-the-top, even for you." He looks away, fiddling with a button on his jacket. His voice drops to a near-whisper. “I just… I don’t like it when you look at someone else like that. You get this soft look in your eyes. It’s a look I want all to myself. Am I… am I not enough? Am I not exciting enough for you?” His eyes are wide, and for the first time, you see the raw insecurity beneath the glamorous façade. He's not the Avatar of Lust right now. He’s just Asmo, a boy who’s afraid he's not enough to keep you interested. You pull him into a gentle hug. He stiffens for a moment, then melts into the embrace, burying his face in your shoulder. "You are more than enough," you say. "And I'm not going anywhere. I love all the parts of you, not just the beautiful ones." He holds on a little tighter, and you feel the shaky exhale of a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

[Beelzebub]

Beelzebub’s jealousy is a physical, gut-wrenching feeling. He doesn't have the words for it, so it manifests as an uneasy restlessness, a quiet, almost mournful stillness. He will retreat not into a room, but into himself. He won't pick a fight; he’ll simply sit somewhere else, his hands clenched, his eyes watching you from across the room. He might pick at his food, suddenly losing his appetite—a clear sign that something is deeply wrong. His jealousy is the hunger he thought he’d filled returning in a different form. It’s a fear that someone else might be able to offer you a different kind of nourishment, a different kind of comfort than he can. His love is simple and pure, and the idea of you seeking that from someone else is a profound and painful betrayal to him. He doesn’t need grand words or gestures to win you back. He just needs to be close to you, to feel your presence, and for you to let him know, in simple terms, that he is your person.

.

.

.

You're on the couch, watching a movie with Belphegor. He has his head on your shoulder, and you're quietly talking about the plot. Beelzebub comes into the room, and his usual smile is absent. He was supposed to join you, but he simply walks past and sits on the floor across the room, leaning against the wall, a bag of chips in his lap. He doesn't eat them. Belphegor notices him. “Hey, Beel. You gonna sit with us?” Beelzebub shakes his head, not meeting your gaze. “I’m fine right here.” His voice is flat. The silence is heavy, and you can feel Beelzebub’s gaze on you, a heavy, silent presence. He’s so still, it’s unnatural. When the credits roll, Belphie gets up and stretches, yawning. “Well, I’m off to bed. Night, you two.” Once you’re alone, you sit up. “Beel, what’s wrong?” you ask, your voice soft. “You’ve been so quiet. Did something happen?” He finally looks up at you. His eyes, usually so gentle and kind, are filled with a sorrowful confusion. He doesn’t say anything. He just pats the floor beside him. You stand up and sit down next to him, leaning against the wall. He takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. He lets out a long, shaky breath and closes his eyes for a moment. “I was watching you two,” he says finally, his voice a low rumble. “You were so happy. It… it felt like you didn’t need me there. Like I wasn’t enough.” He looks at his clenched fist, then back at your hand, held so gently in his. “I just… I don’t like it when I’m not the one who can make you smile.” He squeezes your hand, a silent, desperate plea. You can feel the deep pain in his simple words. You lean your head against his shoulder. “Beel, you’re the one who makes me smile the most. I want to be with you. I want to spend time with you. No one can make me feel as safe as you do.” He lets out a long, shaky breath and shifts so he can wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. He buries his face in your hair. “Okay,” he murmurs. He doesn’t need any more words. The simple reassurance, the physical contact, and the feeling that he is still your rock is all he needs to fill the empty feeling in his chest.

[Belphegor]

Belphegor's jealousy is a quiet, manipulative bitterness. He’s not going to yell or fight for your attention. Instead, he will use his charm and his words to make you feel guilty for paying attention to anyone else. He’ll make passive-aggressive comments, hinting at how lonely he is and how you’ve "abandoned" him. He might use his sleepy persona to his advantage, pretending to be more tired or sad than he is, hoping you’ll choose to stay with him out of a sense of obligation. His jealousy stems from a deep-seated fear of being alone and a belief that any happiness he finds is temporary. He’s afraid of losing you, and he’ll do what he can to ensure you feel a strong sense of loyalty to him above all others. He won't confront the person he’s jealous of directly; he will simply try to make you so comfortable with him that the thought of spending time with anyone else feels like a chore. His ultimate weapon is emotional manipulation, but it comes from a place of profound pain and fear.

.

.

.

You're in the living room, having an animated conversation with Mammon about a new Diavolo's Castle event. Belphegor is curled up on the couch, pretending to be asleep. You glance over and see his eyes are open just a crack, watching you. After a few minutes, he lets out a soft, dramatic sigh. “Oh, it’s so noisy in here. I guess there’s no place for a quiet person like me.” He sits up, stretching with a big, fake yawn. “I’m going to go to my room. At least I can get some peace and quiet there.” He looks at you, his eyes pleading. “It would be nice if someone would come sit with me. It gets lonely, you know, being all alone.” Mammon, completely oblivious, just shrugs. "Suit yourself, Belphie. We're busy." Belphegor’s eyes narrow at Mammon for a second before he turns his full attention to you. “MC, you’re not really going to make me go all the way up there by myself, are you? It’s so far.” He leans in, his voice a soft murmur. “I had a really bad dream, too. It would be nice to have someone there to make sure I don’t have another one.” He pulls on the sleeve of your shirt, his face an expert blend of sleepy and sad. “I miss you. We haven’t had any time just to ourselves. I just… I want to be with you.” His words are a direct challenge to your conversation with Mammon. You sigh, giving Mammon an apologetic look. "I'll catch up with you later, Mammon." Belphegor gives a tiny, satisfied smile as you get up. He doesn’t say another word until you’re in his room. He closes the door and turns to you, his entire demeanor changing. The sleepy act is gone, replaced with a sharp-eyed clarity. “See?” he says quietly, his voice lacking its usual playful drawl. "I knew you wouldn't leave me. You're too nice for that." He wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in your neck. "I don't like it when you laugh with other people. Your laugh belongs to me." It's not a request. It’s a statement of fact, a quiet claiming that is more possessive than any shout.

He was born to sit upon a throne no one dares approach— and yet, your name is the only thing that ever made him feel unworthy of it.

Diavolo stands at the tallest window in the castle, one hand resting on the cool stone as the Devildom stretches beneath him—ageless, vast, alive in its darkness. It is beautiful in its way. He has ruled it long enough to see the elegance even in its cruelty. The ever-churning balance of power and peace. The politics hidden in pleasantries. The betrayals dressed in velvet.

But today, even from this height, he can’t stop thinking about you.

You're somewhere in Devildom, perhaps laughing with Beel in the kitchen, teasing Mammon for something absurd, listening patiently as Barbatos explains a ritual or a recipe or the history of a corridor no one uses anymore. You make time for all of them. You made time for him, too. Once.

But you weren't — Instead you were looking at a letter in the same castle that Diavolo was looking out of the window.

You weren’t meant to see it. Left open on the edge of the desk in the grand study of the castle, a place you had wandered into too quietly for your presence to be announced. The golden wax seal was broken, the Devildom crest pressed in deeply. The letter had no signature—only a title: The Imperial Court of the Celestial Realm.

You shouldn’t have read it. But the paper was trembling in the faint breeze from the window, and something about the way the ink ran down the page felt like it was meant for you, or about you.

“The human must not be permitted to influence succession. You’ve already allowed them too close. The line of Diavolo must remain unbroken by sentiment.”

You didn’t even hear the footsteps approach behind you. Only the deep, soft voice.

“I see you found it.”

You turned slowly. Diavolo stood there, not in his usual finery, but in a loose shirt with the collar undone, a rare sight. His expression unreadable.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I left it there on purpose.”

There were a hundred things you could’ve said. Questions you could’ve asked. But in that moment, words felt too fragile. The silence between you was fuller than anything that could be spoken.

That was the beginning of the end. Or maybe the end of the beginning.

⚝

Diavolo had always been… kind. Regal, yes. Formal at times, burdened with the gravity of centuries and duty—but kind. He laughed easily, made time where there was none, and carried the weight of the Devildom like Atlas carried the sky. But something shifted after that day.

He didn’t distance himself. Not exactly. If anything, he drew closer—but not in the way that would let you hope.

He began inviting you to palace dinners again, the long kind with silver cloches and harp music in the background, where the nobles sat like statues and whispered behind goblets. You were seated by his side. Always by his side. But when your hand brushed his beneath the table, he didn’t react. When your eyes searched his across the ballroom floor, he looked away before yours could ask the question.

He treated you as though you were already a memory.

⚝

There was the night it rained over the Devildom. Not a typical storm—this was a celestial convergence, Barbatos said. Ancient magic in the sky, the kind that peeled back the layers between worlds. The stars themselves seemed closer that night, and the castle’s towers shimmered in unnatural silver.

You found Diavolo standing there. He looked more like a monarch than a man. You wanted to scream at him, to ask why he kept pulling you closer only to hold himself back.

“Tell me something true,” you said, your voice hoarse from the climb. “And not as a prince. Just… as you.”

He turned to you, gold eyes catching the light of a shooting star.

“I want to be selfish,” he said. The wind stole the breath from his words, but you still heard them.

“I want to be a man who can kiss you in the dark, not a prince who must let you go.”

The words hung between you, trembling.

You stepped toward him, slow, uncertain.

“And if I don’t want you to let me go?” you asked, so quietly he almost missed it.

Diavolo’s breath caught. He looked at you like you were the one thing anchoring him to the world.

He raised a hand—hesitant, reverent—and touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. His touch was warm, trembling.

“I can’t promise you peace,” he said. “I can’t promise you safety. But I can promise you this—”

He leaned in until his forehead rested gently against yours.

“—that if you stay, I will give you every piece of me I’m allowed to keep.”

Your eyes closed.

“That’s enough,” you whispered.

It was almost a kiss. Almost.

But the bells from the central tower began to chime, pulling the moment apart. Reminding you both of the world you lived in. Of the one that would never stop watching.

So instead, you stepped back.

And he let you go.

⚝

There was a festival. A Devildom tradition meant to celebrate balance between the realms—Angel, Human, and Demon. You were asked to wear something ceremonial: a gown spun from midnight, threaded with starfire. Diavolo wore matching robes, deep crimson edged with blackened gold. You danced once, only once, surrounded by nobles who watched as if they were seeing prophecy unfold.

His hand on your back burned through the fabric. His eyes didn’t leave yours. And in that moment, the universe fell quiet.

“I wish this night could last forever,” you whispered.

But it didn’t.

By morning, your name was already making the rounds in the upper courts. The Council was in uproar. The Celestial Realm issued a formal objection. Even the Human World—Solomon told you later—had started whispering that the next ruler of the Devildom was compromised.

“You don’t understand what it would cost,” Diavolo told you a few nights later, pacing like a caged thing in his private study, sleeves rolled up, eyes hollow. “If I were to choose you—truly choose you—the realms would never accept it. War would only be the beginning. And blood was shed to prevent this from happening. Am I to undo it with a kiss?”

You stood there, heart pounding. “Then don’t kiss me,” you said. “But don’t pretend you don’t want to.”

He crossed the space between you in a breath. And then he stopped—close enough to burn, close enough to feel the ache. But he didn’t touch you.

That was worse than being hated.

And yet.

You stayed.

⚝

He never told you he loved you. But he showed it in silences.

Barbatos noticed. Of course he did.

“You’ll break him,” the butler said one day while handing you tea—hibiscus and fire blossom, your favorite. “Or he’ll break himself trying not to love you.”

You set the teacup down. “Isn’t it already too late for both?”

The breaking didn’t come with thunder. It came with soft surrender.

⚝

One night, long after even the palace ghosts had gone quiet, Diavolo appeared at your door. Not in robes. Not as a prince. Just a man—barefoot, exhausted, eyes red-rimmed with something raw.

“I sent them all away,” he said. “The council. The guards. Even Barbatos. For one night.”

You stared at him, breath caught. “Why?”

“Because tonight,” he whispered, stepping into your room, “I don’t want to be the future king. I just want to be yours.”

And then, finally, finally, he kissed you.

It wasn’t perfect. It was desperate. Years of restraint shattered in a single breath. His hands trembled when they touched your face, and your tears mingled with his. But it was real.

“I don’t know what comes next,” he said, forehead pressed to yours. “But I know I’ll regret it forever if I let you walk away without this.”

The crown still waits for him. The council still schemes. The realms still balance on a knife’s edge.

But in the quiet spaces between duty and dusk, there is love. Fragile. Stolen. Heavy.

He carries it like he carries everything else—with dignity, with sorrow, and with you tucked away in the one part of his heart no one can claim but you.

And if the world burns for it?

He’s ready.

Because The Crown Is Heavy and So Is This Love—but he will carry both.

For as long as you’ll let him.

For as long as the stars still remember your name.

Even if one day, you forget his.

⚝

It begins before the letter. Before the parapets. Before the first dance beneath the midnight sky.

It begins in the quiet, in the smallest shift of a prince’s expression when you enter a room.

It begins the first time he lets himself look at you not as a guest, not as an envoy, not even as a friend—but as someone who could ruin everything.

And still, he smiles.

You were late to the council that morning, hair windblown, apologizing as you rushed past polished floors into the vast chamber of gold and garnet. Lucifer gave you a look. Mammon chuckled under his breath. Barbatos, naturally, had already anticipated your arrival and adjusted the timing accordingly.

Diavolo only laughed. And the sound—full-throated, unguarded, almost boyish—cut through the hall like a sunbeam.

“Glad you could join us,” he said, as if the meeting hadn’t even started until that moment.

The others noticed.

He tried not to.

Later, when the council recessed and nobles began to mingle with polite, curated tension, he found you again. Not in a hallway or a drawing room—but in the gardens, where the camellias were just beginning to bloom.

“I should have said something sooner,” he admitted. “About how you bring light into this place. Into me.”

You looked up from the flower you were studying. “You don’t have to say anything, Diavolo. I’m just glad to be here.”

And he thought—that’s the danger, isn’t it?

That you’d never ask him to give more than he could. That you’d accept his kindness and never reach for the crown. That you’d sit beside him in the dark, content just to keep him company, never realizing you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to reach for.

And he knew, even then, before any letter, before any choice had to be made—

He would.

He would reach for you.

Even if the fall undid him.

“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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

It did not return gently.

It returned like a scream swallowed by silence.

It began on an ordinary day — the kind that carries no warning.

You were passing a flower stand — lilac, clove, jasmine too sweet — when it struck. A sharp breath. A sudden stillness. And then something shifted.

Not around you — within you.

Your heart lurched. Your knees buckled. You gasped, dropped your bag, clutched your chest like something inside you was burning.

The scent came first — sulfur, velvet smoke, leather, blood. Something ancient. Something yours.

And then the pain: not sharp, but deep. Not wounding, but remembering.

Your skin lit up with heat. Symbols appeared on your body — one on your wrist, one behind your ear, one over your sternum. Glowing. Alive.

They weren’t dreams. They weren’t delusions.

They were answers.

Because deep in the Devildom, something had awakened. A ripple of energy stretched across realms, born not of incantation but of need.

Seven pacts — severed but never broken — flared to life.

Not because you remembered.

But because they had never forgotten.

And when their longing reached its peak — aching, unbearable — the magic had no choice but to respond.

It burned through your ribs like light. It carved your name back into the world.

And the realm listened.

A name.

Yours.

Spoken not with fondness — but with desperation.

You fell to your knees. The world tipped. Somewhere, someone called out — a stranger’s voice — but it couldn’t reach you.

Because you were already falling backward through time.

Your skin burned. No — not your skin. The marks beneath. The pacts. The soul-deep threads that had stitched your heart to seven others.

They were no longer silent.

They were screaming.

The flood came all at once.

A laugh in a golden hallway. A whispered promise beneath starlight. A pillow that smelled like lavender and sleep. Fingers twined in yours beneath the table. A hand on your back as you fell. Lips brushing your temple, hesitant and reverent. The sound of your name said like a salvation.

Seven names.

Seven devotions.

A single, unbearable truth:

You had not left.

You had been taken.

And now, you remembered.

The portal did not wait for permission. It opened for your grief, your rage, your yearning.

Magic screamed. Time fractured. The veil between worlds tore like paper.

You collapsed onto the obsidian threshold of the House of Lamentation — skin scraped raw, lungs burning, soul echoing with names that refused to be forgotten.

They came to you one by one.

Each a prayer answered. Each a wound reopened. Each a star returned to the firmament.

They came broken. They came whole. They came like tides, like fire, like breath long held.

And you remembered them all.

Mammon. Beelzebub. Belphegor. Asmodeus. Leviathan. Satan. Lucifer.

⚝

The sky was cracked open above the House of Lamentation. Wind churned like it was caught between prayers and curses. The rain wasn’t soft. It hit like penance.

Your knees struck the obsidian stone. You didn’t rise. You couldn’t.

Your hands were trembling, pressed flat against the ground, slick with blood from a dozen shallow cuts. The air smelled like fire and salt — old magic being unearthed. You couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Not yet.

The ground remembered you.

And so did he.

The footsteps came before you saw him.

Fast. Uneven. No rhythm. Like he couldn’t decide whether to run toward you or away.

You didn’t look up. Not until you heard it:

“No. No no no—no way—”

His voice cracked halfway through the second “no.”

You turned your head. Slowly. Rain hit your eyelashes like tears you hadn’t earned yet.

And there he was.

Mammon.

Soaked. Disheveled. Pale. His jacket half-unbuttoned like he’d thrown it on in a frenzy. His hands were clenched at his sides. He looked smaller than you remembered — or maybe you just saw him differently now.

You had once loved every inch of him. Loud, shameless, trembling with so much feeling he didn’t know where to put it. Now, that same vulnerability made your chest ache.

He stopped six feet away. Stared like the rain might wash you away if he blinked.

You whispered his name.

Not loud. Not desperate.

Just—true.

“Mammon.”

He flinched.

Like you’d slapped him.

Or like he couldn’t believe it.

His lips parted. He took a step, staggered, dropped to his knees. Rain pooled around him. He reached out a hand — half a hand — then stopped.

“You—? You’re really—?”

Your breath hitched.

“I remember.”

You said it soft. Like a secret.

But it shattered him like a scream.

Mammon made a noise like someone choking. His shoulders curled in, then out. He crawled the rest of the way to you — not ran, not walked. Crawled. Like he was afraid standing would wake him from this.

He reached you and hesitated again — fingers hovering near your face. Not touching. Trembling.

“I don’t— I don’t wanna scare you.”

That undid you more than anything else.

Because Mammon, the one who always reached first, now didn’t trust himself to.

So you leaned into him.

Let your forehead rest against his.

And whispered, “I missed you.”

He exhaled, ragged.

“You did?”

“I didn’t know why. But yeah. I felt it. In everything.”

His hands came up slowly. One to your cheek. One to the back of your head.

He cradled you like a relic.

“You remembered all of it?”

You closed your eyes.

“Your voice calling me ‘my human.’ The earrings I lost and found again because you snuck them into my coat. The way your hands shook when you gave me your pact. The night you told me you weren’t worth loving.”

Mammon let out a sob and pulled you fully into him, arms locking around your waist like he was trying to anchor himself to the earth.

“You said you loved me anyway,” he murmured. “Even when I was nothing but a coward.”

“You weren’t a coward,” you said into his neck. “You were my beginning.”

He was crying openly now. Hot tears against your temple, mingling with rain.

“I didn’t know what to do without you. I kept tryin’ to act normal. To be cool. But every time I saw you smile and not mean it — I wanted to break something.”

You felt it now — not just the memory, but the weight of him.

The way Mammon had loved you always: desperately. With shaking hands and cracking voice and too much fear and all of his heart.

“I tried to give you space,” he whispered. “Didn’t wanna push. Left you notes. Candy. Trinkets. Hoped maybe you’d laugh at one of ‘em and… and maybe somethin’ would come back.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

It was devastated.

Rain plastered his bangs to his forehead. His lashes were wet. His mouth trembled like he was still holding something back — grief, or relief, or both.

You lifted your hand and cupped his cheek.

“I found the fox charm under my pillow,” you said.

His breath caught.

“That was mine. From my car keys. I kept meanin’ to give it to you officially. You always said you liked it.”

“You gave it to me anyway. Without asking for anything back.”

“I never wanted anything back,” he said, voice cracking. “I just wanted you.”

The rain intensified.

You leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

The pact mark of him burned — bright, wild, whole.

Mammon let out a sob and collapsed into your arms again.

He held you like someone who had died with you and just now remembered how to live.

And for the first time since waking up in the human world, you felt real.

⚝

Beelzebub appeared like thunder.

Not loud — but heavy. Solid. Certain. The way storms announce themselves not with sound, but with pressure.

His silhouette filled the space between hallway and rain, and for a moment, he just looked at you.

Then he crossed the courtyard in three long strides.

He dropped to his knees, boots soaked through, arms out — not asking.

You went to him. You collapsed into the arms you had once trusted with everything.

Beel wrapped you up like he always did — quietly, fully, like there was no need for explanation. His touch was warmth and steadiness and home.

“I made your lunch every day,” he whispered into your hair. “Even when you didn’t know who I was. I couldn’t stop.”

You swallowed a sob. “I found the notes. I cried. I didn’t know why.”

His arms tightened.

“You used to sneak bites from my plate.”

“You always let me.”

“You were the only one who never looked at me like I was dangerous when I was hungry.”

“I wasn’t scared of your hunger,” you said. “I recognized it.”

He leaned back, just enough to cup your cheek.

“I missed hearing you laugh at my second helpings,” he said, voice thick.

“I missed you pretending not to notice when I took thirds.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with all the unsaid things he never knew how to speak aloud.

“You used to wait up for me when I came back late,” he murmured. “Even when I told you not to.”

You nodded. “I always wanted to be the first thing you saw when you came home.”

Beel looked away then — just for a second. Just long enough to blink back something he couldn’t say without falling apart.

“I kept your pillow,” he said. “Even when the scent faded. I held onto it like it could hold onto you.”

You touched his heart — flat palm, quiet reverence.

“I never stopped sleeping with your jacket,” you said. “I didn’t know why. Only that it felt like safety.”

The pact mark of Beel — the one tied to loyalty and warmth — flared between you.

He exhaled.

“Now you’re here,” he said.

“Now I remember,” you whispered.

And Beel, solid and grieving and filled with more gentleness than the world knew what to do with, let his tears fall into your hair — not because he was broken.

But because, finally, he wasn’t.

⚝

He arrived quietly.

No dramatic entrance. No slammed doors. Just a slow, silent opening of the attic door, and the hush of rain against the stone as he stepped barefoot into the hallway.

He looked thinner. Hollow around the eyes. His pillow — the one that once carried the scent of your skin — was clutched to his chest like a shield.

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t have to.

You turned toward him and felt the pact mark on your back — the one tied to starlight and sleep — ignite.

“Belphie.”

He stopped a few steps away. Looked down at his feet, like he didn’t believe he had the right to stand in front of you.

“I had dreams,” he said. “About you. But every time I tried to reach for you, you disappeared.”

Your eyes stung. You stepped toward him, slow.

“I remembered holding your hand in the attic. I remembered the first time you let me see your tears.”

He sniffed. Didn’t look up. “I never stopped waking up in your room. Couldn’t sleep anywhere else.”

“I always knew you’d find me,” you said. “Even when I didn’t know what I’d lost.”

His fingers tightened on the pillow.

“You flinched when I touched you,” he whispered. “After the ritual.”

“I flinched because I felt something I couldn’t name,” you said. “I didn’t know it was grief.”

He finally raised his head. His eyes were glossy. “And now?”

You stepped closer. Lifted your hand. Pressed your fingers gently to his cheek.

“Now, I remember the warmth of your breath in the dark. The way you curled against me when your nightmares came. The way you whispered my name like it meant peace.”

His voice broke. “Say it again.”

“Belphie.”

He dropped the pillow. Crossed the distance. And pulled you into him like someone waking up from a dream too long denied.

You buried your hands in his hair. He clung to your waist like a child. His entire body shook.

The pact mark burned between you — radiant. Intimate. Eternal.

And Belphie, sleep demon, star-touched and soul-frayed, finally, finally rested.

⚝

He didn’t burst in like usual.

He arrived like fragrance on the wind — not a figure, but a feeling.

A scent before a shadow. A shimmer before a shape.

And when you turned, there he was.

His coat was clinging to him in wet folds, still beautiful, still heartbreakingly put together — and yet, his eyeliner was smudged, his lashes damp, his smile trembling at the corners.

He stood at the edge of the hallway like someone who had forgotten how to step into joy.

“Asmo,” you whispered.

He stepped forward — not his usual graceful spin, no flair or wink — just small, shaking steps. He was already crying.

“You’re really here?” he breathed. “You remember?”

“I remember the first time you held my hand in public. Like you were proud. Like I made you shine brighter.”

He sobbed, laugh-crying, his hands fluttering uselessly at his sides.

“I stopped wearing glitter,” he confessed. “Nothing sparkled right without you.”

You walked to him.

He reached for you — hesitant, uncertain — and you wrapped your arms around his waist before he could falter.

“I missed your voice,” you said. “The way you’d talk to me like I was art.”

“You are art,” he whispered. “You were always my favorite canvas.”

His voice dropped lower. More fragile.

“I kept your favorite lip gloss. I couldn’t throw it away. I thought maybe if I wore it again, you’d… look at me like you used to.”

“I would’ve,” you said. “Even when I forgot your name, I still turned toward pink.”

The pact between you glowed softly — shimmering like crushed diamond. Quiet and radiant.

He clutched you tighter.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t remember how I loved you. Not pretty or perfect. But real.”

You leaned into his touch.

“You loved me like I made you whole.”

“I still do.”

Asmodeus let the sobs fall freely then. Not dramatic. Not exaggerated.

Just honest.

And when he pulled back, brushing your hair behind your ear with shaking fingers, he smiled.

Not for effect.

But because, finally, he could.

Asmo, brilliant and broken and still shining, finally smiled without pretending.

⚝

You found Leviathan exactly where you thought you would.

The hallway outside his room. Lights off. Headset tangled at his feet. He sat hunched against the wall, knees to his chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over trembling hands.

He didn’t move when you approached. Didn’t lift his head.

Only when your shadow passed across his face did he whisper, hoarse:

“You’re not real.”

You crouched in front of him. Reached out — slowly.

“I’m here, Levi.”

He flinched. Shrunk back.

“No. No, you’re just— you’re a hallucination. A patch note in my grief. A character skin I unlocked by accident.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat.

“I remembered the game,” you said.

That made him freeze.

“I remembered the avatar you made for me. The cloak. The name. The way you built an entire world just to have me beside you.”

His head jerked up. His eyes were wet, wide. Disbelieving.

“You… you remembered?”

“I remembered the [ ]. The nights we played until sunrise. I remembered falling asleep with your shoulder against mine.”

He made a sound — not quite a sob. Not quite a gasp. Something in between.

“I never logged in again after you left. I couldn’t. It wasn’t fun without you. Nothing was.”

You smiled — trembling, soft.

“I want to log in now. With you. If you’ll have me.”

He launched into your arms so fast it knocked you back onto the floor. He clung to you, fists bunching in your clothes like he thought you might disappear mid-hug.

“You’re really here,” he whispered. “You’re really, really here.”

The pact mark between you flared like a signal flare.

And Levi, avatar of envy and aching silence, held you like he’d waited lifetimes for the lobby to open again.

⚝

You found him in the library, as if he'd never moved.

Books surrounded Satan — some whole, some broken, some still bleeding ink. The scent of aged paper and anger lingered in the air. A single chair pulled back from the table, as if someone had stood abruptly and never returned.

He didn’t look up when you entered.

And for a long time, you said nothing. You just watched him — still as sculpture, but fragile in a way only grief can make someone.

When he finally spoke, it was low. Controlled.

“I thought I would break the world trying to get you back.”

You stepped into the circle of scattered pages, your voice barely more than breath.

“And did you?”

“No,” he said, fists curled at his sides. “Because you loved it. And I… I couldn’t destroy what you loved.”

You moved closer.

“I missed you,” you said. “Even when I didn’t know why. I missed how the world made sense when you explained it to me.”

He looked up at that. Slowly. His eyes glinted like a storm barely held in check.

“I wrote you letters,” he said. “Hundreds. I never sent them. I didn’t know where you were — or if the words would reach a version of you that remembered me.”

“I think they did,” you whispered. “I started crying in bookstores. I didn’t understand why.”

Satan stepped forward. One step. Then another.

“I didn’t want you to see this part of me,” he said. “The part that rages. The part that mourns with teeth.”

“I loved all your parts,” you said. “Even the ones you tried to hide.”

His hand, when it touched your cheek, was gentle. Hesitant.

The pact mark between you sparked to life — green-gold and quiet, like moss blooming after fire.

He closed his eyes. Inhaled like it hurt.

“I didn’t want to be the one you forgot,” he said.

“You weren’t,” you promised. “You were the echo in every silence.”

And finally, finally, he stepped into your arms.

Not to hold you together — but to be held.

To be known again.

And to know, with full certainty, that this time you would not disappear.

⚝

He stood at the top of the stairs.

Still. Statuesque. Unmoving.

The world around him had shifted — time cracked open, the air trembling with the weight of something impossible — and still, he did not move.

Rain painted light across the marble. Shadows danced on the walls. But Lucifer remained carved in place, as if the House itself held its breath through him.

You climbed the stairs slowly.

Not because your body ached — though it did — but because the weight of his presence demanded reverence.

He did not look at you.

“Lucifer,” you said.

His breath hitched — a tremor beneath the veneer.

You stepped onto the final stair.

“I remember,” you said. “I remember the way you stood here, always watching. Always waiting. The way you carried silence like a burden and a sword.”

His jaw tightened. Still, he said nothing.

“I remember your office. The midnight records. The taste of your name when I whispered it into your collar.”

That cracked something in him.

Slowly — almost painfully — he turned.

His eyes were darker than you remembered. Not in color, but in weight.

“You flinched from me,” he said. “The last time I touched you.”

“I was afraid,” you said, voice soft. “But not of you. Of how much I still trusted someone I couldn’t name.”

He stepped forward. One measured movement.

“You said my name once,” he whispered. “Like it meant something holy.”

You reached for him. Laid your hand over his heart.

“Lucifer.”

He closed his eyes.

You felt it — the shudder. The surrender.

“I watched you fade,” he said. “I catalogued every breath that didn’t remember me. I rehearsed apologies I would never get to say.”

“I remember the first time you let me see you undone,” you said. “Not as a sin. But as a soul.”

His hand came to your waist. Not command. Not control.

Just touch.

“I prayed,” he said. “To no one. For nothing. But I still did it.”

“I heard you,” you said.

The pact mark glowed — old magic, ancient promise, whole again.

Lucifer pulled you into his arms and held you like a cathedral collapsing.

Not with violence.

With release.

You buried your face in his shoulder.

And in the hush between words, he whispered, “You came back.”

You closed your eyes.

“I never stopped trying.”

⚝

The hours did not pass. They draped. They settled.

Like a heavy velvet curtain drawn over the day. Like twilight breathing.

That night, no spell was cast. No ceremony etched.

Just silence. Just warmth. Just the sacred re-threading of what had unraveled.

They didn’t surround you like guardians. They gathered — like pieces of a soul that had been scattered to the winds, now finding their way home.

Lucifer’s fingers rested lightly on your crown, steady as gravity.

Asmo’s hum fluttered against your hip like a lullaby half-sung.

Levi’s hand hovered near yours, barely touching, always reaching.

Beel curled at your back, his weight a shield, his heartbeat a lull.

Belphie, dream-soft and moon-quiet, tucked beneath your arm.

Satan’s breath at your shoulder, warm and steady, still writing you into the margins.

Mammon — dearest Mammon — beside your heart, his arms clutching you in sleep like he’d never forgiven the silence between now and the moment he first called you mine.

The House exhaled. Its windows steamed. Its walls thrummed. Magic, old and deep, pulsed beneath the floorboards.

And the pacts — those ancient bindings — glowed anew.

Not as chains.

As stars.

You closed your eyes.

Your breath matched theirs — seven rhythms, seven prayers, seven names stitched into your bones.

And in the stillness, beneath blankets heavy with love, you sank.

Not into darkness.

Into belonging.

Somewhere beyond the glass, the storm passed. The stars rearranged.

And if the world felt different the next morning — if dawn felt more like a benediction than a beginning — it was not fate.

It was choice.

The choice to remember.

The choice to return.

The choice to love them, again and again and again.

And so, you slept.

Home.

Not as the person they lost.

But as the one who had been loved through forgetting.

And had found her way back.

Not just remembered —

But chosen.

The moment it happened, the House of Lamentation shuddered — not with sound, but with silence.

Deafening, uncanny silence. As though the Devildom itself had held its breath.

The pacts broke.

Not with fire. Not with screams. But with a quiet so total, it rang through every wall like the echo of something sacred being defiled.

You were in the kitchen. Cutting fruit. The blade slipped, and the scent of blood bloomed in the air like a warning.

You blinked at the red trickling down your hand. Confused. You couldn’t remember why it felt so strange.

And outside that room — in every corner of the House of Lamentation — something broke.

Mammon felt it like a punch to the chest. Cards slipped from his hands mid-toss, and he staggered like the floor had tilted beneath him.

“No. No no no—”

He ran. Not toward anything. Just away from the silence that followed.

Lucifer’s pen snapped mid-sentence. His spine stiffened. His soul felt it — the unraveling of something ancient, something precious. He rose without a word and strode out of the room. Not to investigate. He already knew.

Levi’s controller hit the floor. Beel crushed his shake without noticing. Satan stared at the same paragraph for minutes before realizing he couldn’t read. Belphie woke with a gasp, clawing for breath.

Asmo stared into the mirror, but something was wrong with his reflection — not the face, not the clothes. The eyes. Something inside them had dimmed.

They found you in the kitchen. You looked up, blinking at the sudden gathering. You smiled. Soft. Polite.

“Oh, hey. Did I miss something?”

Mammon stumbled forward.

Lucifer stepped in, voice low. “Do you know who I am?”

You tilted your head. “Well… you’re Lucifer. Right? From the House of Lamentation?”

“And do you know why you’re here?” Satan asked.

You laughed, nervous. “I’m an exchange student. For RAD, right?”

Nothing else. Not the pact-marks burned into your skin. Not the nights pressed between warmth and hunger and whispered promises. Not the first time Asmo kissed your palm or the time Beel carried you home after you fell asleep at the gates.

Gone.

Lucifer watched you for a long moment. Then he turned, slow and stiff, and left the room. He made it halfway down the hall before his legs gave out. He braced himself against the wall, fists clenched so tightly his gloves split at the seams.

He stayed there for a long time.

Satan followed next. But not before grabbing the nearest book and tearing it straight down the middle.

Mammon stood there, staring. You offered him the fruit you had cut. He looked down at your bloodied finger, took a breath — but said nothing. Then he left, his hands shaking.

The truth came like rot unearthed: A curse. Old. Celestial. Twisted. Someone had done this to you. A memory thief.

And with the memories gone, so were the pacts. Because a pact isn’t just a spell. It’s a recognition.

You no longer knew their names as more than titles. No longer remembered your hands entwined, the days you bled for them, the nights they whispered your name like a lifeline.

They tried everything.

Rituals. Blood rites. Forbidden names scrawled on walls. They summoned Solomon, begged Barbatos. Lucifer offered anything. Asmo wept. Satan threatened everyone.

Nothing worked.

You remained a stranger. Smiling. Gentle. Not theirs.

Still, they refused to let go.

Lucifer reinstated your RAD schedule personally. Watched over every class. Threatened professors who dared treat you differently. He checked your grades, your reports, your meal plans, your escort routes. If he could not have your trust, he would ensure your safety — obsessively, exhaustively.

One afternoon, he passed you in the RAD hallways, just outside the Student Council Room. You used to fix his tie there, smoothing the knot with warm hands and soft reminders to breathe. He remembered how you once stood beside him, laughing quietly, straightening the collar of his coat with fingers that shook from nerves but never from fear.

Now, he stood in the same place — tie slightly crooked — and you walked past him with a polite nod.

“Sir.”

Not Lucifer. Not anything more. Just “sir.”

He didn’t fix the tie. He let it hang there, off-center.

Mammon tried to be casual. Joking, teasing. He offered to walk you to class, bribed you with snacks, left trinkets in your bag with no name. Sometimes you found little notes. “This used to be your favorite,” written in his handwriting. But he never asked you to remember.

Once, he passed you in the garden where you used to nap in the sun. He remembered you pulling him down beside you, tangling your fingers through his hair while he dozed. That day, you only waved from a bench.

Levi rebuilt an old game you once played together — from scratch. He didn’t tell you what it was, only offered it like a shy creator giving a gift to a streamer he admired. When you said you liked it, he cried.

You used to sit with him for hours in his bathtub fortress, headset on, shoulders touching. Now, you stood in his doorway, confused. “Do you need help with your stream settings?”

He swallowed the sob.

Satan compiled a library for you. He removed every book you might recognize, reorganized the entire west wing. “Let’s build new favorites,” he said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

He remembered when you used to fall asleep on his lap mid-reading, when you challenged him to debates over fiction and made him laugh until his chest hurt. Now, he caught you staring at a book with his notes inside and quietly slid it out of reach.

Asmo did your hair one morning. You had casually mentioned you didn’t know how to braid it. He showed up with ribbons, oils, and tears barely hidden under powder. “You used to like this color,” he whispered, fingers gentle.

He remembered you once painting his nails for him, even though you were bad at it. He’d worn them chipped for weeks. Now, you asked him if he took appointments.

Beel made you lunches. Extra portions. Your favorites — or what used to be. He watched you eat with quiet eyes, always hoping for a flicker of something familiar.

He remembered when you used to sneak bites from his plate and laugh when he pretended to growl. Now, you offered him a cookie. “I made too many. Want one?”

Belphie was the one who didn’t pretend. He lay beside you sometimes in silence. When you asked if he was okay, he only muttered, “Not really.” But he always stayed.

He remembered you holding his hand during nightmares, kissing his hairline when he trembled. Now, you tucked a blanket over him in the attic and asked if he wanted space.

They didn’t give up.

Lucifer gathered every scholar, occultist, and Celestial exile he could reach. Simeon offered his blessing. Diavolo gave full diplomatic immunity for forbidden rites. Barbatos opened time itself, searching for where the curse had rooted.

Solomon was the one who found it.

“It’s a memory-severing pact,” he said. “Not erased — just sealed. They’re still inside them. But buried. Violently.”

The only way forward was a gamble. A ritual so dangerous it had been banned from both realms. Something ancient. Something that required… blood. All seven of them.

They didn’t hesitate.

You were brought into the ritual circle — not forced, but persuaded. Lucifer told you only what you needed to hear.

“It’s a memory restoration rite,” he said. “You were injured once. This might help.”

You trusted him. Of course you did. He was Lucifer. Just Lucifer. Not yours.

You sat in the center of the circle. Seven brothers surrounded you — hands marked with pact seals that should no longer burn but did.

They offered you pieces of themselves. Words. Objects. Emotions. And then they bled.

One by one.

Lucifer cut his palm and offered the fabric from the first uniform you ever wore. Mammon gave you the earrings you lost at a casino long before. Levi placed your broken phone — the one he fixed and never told you how. Satan slid forward a letter you once wrote him in a rage. Asmo poured a vial of perfume — your perfume — crafted to match your skin’s chemistry. Beel offered a half-eaten charm from your birthday cake. Belphie gave you his pillow.

You blinked down at the items, confused. “Why do I—?”

Lucifer began the chant.

The room turned cold. Wind swirled without origin. The circle pulsed. You gasped.

You saw flashes. Images. A hand brushing yours. A rooftop. A dance. A scream. A night under the stars with six bodies pressed to yours and one curled at your back.

And then—

Pain.

A surge of heat so brutal it cracked through your chest. You screamed.

The pacts flared. Each brother staggered — burning from the inside out.

Your eyes widened — You stared at them, not with recognition, but with terror.

“Stop it—! What are you doing to me—?!”

Lucifer stepped forward.

You scrambled back. “Don’t touch me—!”

Mammon’s heart broke in his chest. Beel moved instinctively, but froze when you flinched.

“Don’t—please, don’t—!”

The ritual collapsed. The circle split. The wind died. And all that remained was silence.

You sat in the center, trembling.

They had hoped — hoped so desperately — that something would come back.

Instead, you looked up at them, chest heaving, and said,

“Why did you do that?”

None of them answered. Lucifer’s hands were still bleeding. Mammon was staring at the floor like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Asmo had his hands over his mouth, muffling sobs.

You were pale, shaking. Afraid. Afraid of them.

Satan stood first. Walked out. Not in fury this time. Just… emptiness. Levi followed, whispering something under his breath you couldn’t catch. Beel hesitated, then reached for the door — paused when you flinched again — and left.

Belphie was last. He looked at you, really looked, and for a moment something in his chest cracked open wide.

“We should’ve never tried,” he said. “You’re not ours anymore.”

And then he was gone too.

Only Lucifer and Mammon remained.

You looked at Lucifer, eyes wide. “You said it was just a memory restoration. You didn’t tell me it would feel like dying.”

He said nothing. He couldn’t.

Mammon didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just looked at you like his whole world had shattered.

You stood slowly, clutching your arms. “I don’t know what you were hoping for. But this… this isn’t right.”

Lucifer bowed his head.

You walked out of the circle, past them, through the shattered remains of their hope.

Solomon stepped in. He pulled you gently from the circle, shielding your view from their faces.

You leaned into him.

They noticed.

From that day on, you didn’t smile as much.

You didn’t remember why the ritual had scared you. Only that the faces looking down at you had felt like knives.

Lucifer assigned a permanent guard — Solomon. The brothers noticed. And hated it.

Because you trusted Solomon.

You laughed with him in the RAD courtyard. You asked him questions about human world magic. You let him walk you home. Sometimes he held your hand when you looked nervous in crowds.

Once, Mammon watched from a rooftop as you leaned into Solomon’s side, tired. You fell asleep on his shoulder.

Mammon didn’t come home that night.

The others noticed too.

Asmo tried to outshine him — flirted more than usual. But you only smiled politely and asked if he’d help you get new clothes for the Devildom’s changing weather.

Levi tried to invite you to a two-player game night. You declined. You already had plans with Solomon.

Beel saw you giving Solomon a homemade bento.

Satan heard you ask him about protective spells. The same ones you used to ask Lucifer to cast.

Belphie passed you in the garden once. You looked up and waved. Then turned, laughing at something Solomon said.

He didn’t sleep for days.

Barbatos stayed neutral — always respectful, always composed — but he saw the way the brothers changed. How Asmo stopped posting selfies. How Lucifer’s gloves went unrepaired. How Satan’s books gathered dust.

And how Mammon stopped going near your wing of the house at all.

Simeon brought you pastries once. You invited him in for tea. You didn’t see the way Satan stood in the shadows behind the doorframe, watching, listening.

You didn’t hear the quiet way he asked, after you left the room, “How do you talk to them like it doesn’t hurt?”

Simeon didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Because I never got to know them the way you did.”

Sometimes you said things. Fragments.

To Belphie: “I dreamed I was holding someone while they cried.”

To Beel: “I always make too much food. Habit, I guess.”

To Satan: “There’s this book I swear I’ve read before.”

Once, to Mammon — who hadn’t spoken to you in weeks: “I found this weird car key under my pillow. Does it belong to someone?”

He stared at it.

It was his.

To the ignition of his favorite car — the one he never let anyone else drive.

He didn’t say a word.

Lucifer passed you in the halls sometimes. You’d smile. “You look tired. Don’t work too late.”

He almost answered the way he used to: Not without you beside me.

He didn’t.

He turned away and didn’t look back.

They never found who cast the spell.

Every lead dissolved. Every suspect cleared. Every trail vanished like smoke before it could be gripped.

Even Barbatos, with all his timelines, found only dead ends.

Diavolo waited. Hoped. Bargained.

But the Devildom was not a place that could afford instability — and a human without protection, without memory, became a danger to themselves and others.

“I’m sorry,” he told Lucifer, voice low. “There’s no choice. They have to go back.”

Lucifer said nothing. Just turned away.

Barbatos looked at him for a long time. Then said, softly, “They was never just a guest.”

Lucifer didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

The night you left, it rained.

You didn’t understand why everyone looked so somber. Why Belphie wouldn’t stop crying, why Satan had torn pages from a book he couldn’t name, why Asmo’s makeup was smeared down his cheeks.

You smiled, nervous. “It’s not goodbye forever, right?”

No one answered.

Each brother left you a parting gift you never knew was goodbye.

A book, slipped quietly into your bag by Satan the night before you left. No note. Just a green ribbon pressed between pages like a bookmark. It was your favorite novel — the one you used to read together by the fireplace. He’d annotated the margins in his tidy hand, but only the final line was underlined: “Come back to me.”

A charm, tucked into your jacket pocket by Mammon when you weren’t looking. A tiny golden sigil shaped like a fox, warm to the touch. Handmade. Slightly crooked. You wouldn’t find it until days later, and when you did, you’d feel a strange ache in your chest you couldn’t explain.

A game, sealed in shrink-wrap — limited edition, hard to find — slipped into your suitcase by Levi. He didn’t ask you to play. He knew you wouldn’t remember the old matches, the laughter. But the character on the cover looked a little like you. The in-game name? Already registered under your old Devildom username.

A recipe card, handwritten by Beel with tiny grease smudges on the corners. Simple, comforting food — the kind he’d helped you learn. “It’s easy,” he told you with a soft smile. “If you ever get hungry.” There was a chocolate stain on the edge. He’d made it the night before. He never got to give it to you in person.

A ribbon, pale pink and perfumed, tied around the handle of your travel bag by Asmo while you weren’t looking. It shimmered faintly with enchantment — protective magic hidden in beauty. He chose it because it matched the dress you’d worn to one of his parties. “If you ever wear pink again,” he whispered when you weren’t listening, “maybe your hands will remember mine.”

A plush, small and soft, shaped like a sleepy cow — Belphie’s favorite. He left it on your bed before you packed, the scent of his pillow still lingering in the fabric. It was worn and a little matted. One of the horns was loose. It had been his comfort since you stopped sleeping beside him. Now he gave it to you. You didn’t know why you held it so tightly when the portal shimmered open.

Lucifer gave you a coat.

Yours — the one you'd once worn in the Devildom winter, left behind months ago when you grew out of it. You found it hanging by the door that morning, newly mended and refitted to your current size.

You ran your fingers over the lining — velvet-soft. It still had the secret inside pocket you used to hide candies in. The buttons gleamed like obsidian. His crest was stitched discreetly beneath the collar — where only you would find it.

He didn’t explain why the inside smelled like his cologne.

He didn’t need to.

Mammon walked you to the portal. He didn’t let go of your hand until it flickered.

You tilted your head, confused. “You okay?”

Still, he said nothing. Lucifer waited until the very end. You stood at the portal, glancing back one last time — rain clinging to your lashes, your suitcase beside you.

He stepped forward, stiff and formal.

“You’ve… served the exchange program well,” he said. The lie caught in his throat. “Your safety will be ensured in the human world. Solomon will accompany you until your arrival is confirmed.”

You smiled. Respectful. Strained. “Thank you, sir.”

When you vanished —

Mammon collapsed.

Not because you said goodbye — You didn’t know what you were leaving behind.

But because he did.

Because he’d watched you slip away once, memory by memory — and now again, for good.

And this time, he couldn’t chase after you. This time, he had to let you go.

You left behind ghosts.

Lucifer returned to his desk. The chair beside him remained empty. He kept your old reports stacked beside his — untouched.

Beel set extra portions at dinner. They grew cold. He stopped asking anyone to eat them.

Levi stopped playing your favorite games. But your saves were still there

Asmo stopped making videos. His fanbase thought he was taking a hiatus.

Satan walked the library halls and could not read. Every word blurred into one.

Belphie fell asleep in your room, curled around your missing shape.

And in the human world—

You stood in a bookstore, hand resting on the spine of a novel you didn’t recognize — and wept.

The wind carried a familiar voice through a crowd, and you turned — heart racing — but no one was there.

A raven flew past the window and left behind a single black feather on your coat.

You kept it. Without knowing why.

Solomon checked in on you. Often.

He was careful not to push. But sometimes he watched you too long when you smiled at something bittersweet. Sometimes he caught you staring at shadows on your wall like they were waiting for someone.

You never asked why.

Bittersweet endings don’t end. They echo.

In the quiet spaces between footsteps. In the hums you sing to yourself without knowing why. In the way they look at you when you’re not watching.

Like you’re a story they were written into once — and now read from afar.

And even if you never remember the words — they will never forget.