Angels aren’t as touchy and affectionate as demons are. Something about indulgence. You know?
The brothers learning Devildom customs is similar to a group of northerners moving to the south, and learning the customs there.
For example: Diavolo is very affectionate with Lucifer and Barbatos, and compliments them both regularly. Lucifer is the only one that gets uncomfortable. I like to think that it’s because angels don’t do that kind of thing.
Luke getting freaked out when people pat him on the head? No one in the celestial realm does that, so he gets weird about it.
I also think that vocalizations are a very important part of the culture in the Devildom. Growling and purring are common.
But the brothers have angelic vocal cords. A few of them evolved, but not all of them.
Lucifer can only growl. Nothing else. His “purr” can be forced, but it breaks and will make his voice go hoarse. He just growls really quietly instead.
Mammon can do it all, but that’s because I like the idea of him being so chalant that his body evolved to make it even MORE obvious to others how he’s feeling.
Levi can hiss, but nothing else. His vocal cords are also so damaged that he has trouble singing. (I always thought it was weird that an angel would canonically be a bad singer, so this makes sense)
Asmodeus can only purr, but he wouldn’t growl even if he had the ability to.
Beel can do it all, but his voice is a bit rough. He doesn’t necessarily sound like he smokes a pack a day, more like he’s just getting over the back end of a cold. If that makes sense?
Belphie can only purr. Literally too lazy to evolve.
I just think it would be interesting to watch them learn little things. Like: “oh when you bow you’re supposed to put your wings up” or “be careful when making eye contact for too long. People will think you want a fight” stuff like that.
Even better, watching Satan try to grow up in a family that can’t teach him manners or anything because they’re learning for themselves, too.
The reason he’s so prim and proper is because he’s literally learning from books. So he’s actually *too* formal sometimes.
Whatever the case, the brothers will still growl at each other. (The ones that can, anyway.)
You know how kids play tag and taunt each other? Stuff like that. Mammon beats Levi at DevilCart and when he says “good game” he just fuckin hisses at him because he’s mad.
Anyway! I will talk about biology until I’m blue in the face. No matter what species. Sorry for the long post! I genuinely am super passionate about stuff like that
𑁍ࠬܓ how they react when they see you hurt (housewardens & jamil)
synopsis: pain is not something he ever wanted to associate with you. but seeing you injured—knowing someone dared to harm you—shatters his composure. for some, it’s rage; for others, panic. and for a few, it’s cold, terrifying control—until he knows you’re safe. but one thing is certain: someone will pay for this.
featured character(s): riddle rosehearts, leona kingscholar, azul ashengrotto, kalim al-asim, jamil viper, vil schoenheit, idia shroud, malleus draconia.
content warning(s): angst, mentions of violence and implied revenge, mild injury descriptions (ex. bruises, wounds, pain etc.), spoilers for book 6 in idia’s part.
a/n: they’re just being silly, guys. <3
link(s): (masterlist)
riddle rosehearts
riddle prides himself on maintaining control.
his entire life has been shaped by discipline, by structure, by the belief that emotions must be ruled by logic. he does not allow himself to be reckless, does not allow himself to be overcome. everything he does is precise, calculated, deliberate.
but the moment he sees you hurt—
everything unravels.
his breath catches in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs, his mind instantly abandoning all reason. his entire world sharpens to a singular point—you—and all at once, every ounce of restraint he’s spent years perfecting is hanging by a fragile, fraying thread.
“who did this?”
his voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard it, trembling with something raw, something dangerously close to rage.
he’s beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees without hesitation, his hands hovering—not touching, not yet, because what if he makes it worse? what if he hurts you somehow? his fingers tremble, itching to reach out, to make sure—
“tell me where it hurts,” he says, but his voice wavers. “tell me what happened.”
his hands are gentle but firm as he checks you over, his usually practiced movements clumsy with the weight of panic. he doesn’t even realize his breathing is uneven, doesn’t even notice the way his shoulders are shaking as he looks you over, as he takes in every bruise, every wound, every sign that something happened—
something he didn’t prevent.
“you should have been more careful,” he scolds, but the words come out thin, forced, like he’s trying to hold something else back.
you try to tell him you’re fine, try to brush it off, but he doesn’t believe you. his eyes flicker with frustration, his jaw tightening, his grip on your wrist just a fraction too tense.
“don’t be ridiculous—you’re hurt,” he snaps, and then immediately exhales, forcing himself to breathe. “just… stay still. let me handle this.”
he refuses to let you wave it away. refuses to leave it alone. you are not fine, and he will not let you convince him otherwise.
but even as he focuses on making sure you’re okay, something else burns at the edges of his mind, pressing against his temples like an unbearable weight—
who did this to you?
his hands clench into fists. his breathing evens out, but his posture remains rigid, coiled tight like a string about to snap.
because once you’re safe—once he’s certain that you’re okay, that you’ll recover, that he didn’t fail you—
then, and only then, will he deal with the one responsible.
his mother may have taught him restraint, but some things are unforgivable.
and hurting you is one of them.
leona kingscholar
danger.
his body registers it before his mind does, his instincts kicking in the moment his eyes land on you—hurt, vulnerable, not okay.
his vision tunnels, his pulse spikes, and suddenly, the world around him doesn’t matter anymore.
“what the hell happened?”
his voice is a low, guttural growl, thick with something dark, something uncontrollable. his hands clench at his sides, every muscle coiled, his body ready—ready to fight, ready to destroy, ready to eliminate whatever put you in this state.
but then he sees it—sees the way you’re holding yourself, the way your breath hitches, the way you flinch just slightly—and suddenly, the anger has to be forced down, swallowed like bile in the back of his throat.
because right now, you come first.
so he moves, closing the distance in a single step, his hands reaching for you before he can stop himself. his hands are gentle from the start, unusually so. these hands of his are capable of devastation, of turning flesh to dust, of summoning ruin with a mere touch. but against you, they are careful, restrained. the second he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the tension in his hold eases, his hands softening, steadying you instead of breaking you.
“who did this?”
his voice is still dangerous, still thick with that barely restrained fury, but now there’s something else underneath it.
concern.
fear.
he hates how it makes his chest tighten. hates the way it lingers at the edges of his thoughts, nagging at him, clawing at something buried deep beneath his usual indifference.
he kneels in front of you, his sharp, emerald eyes scanning every inch of you with terrifying intensity. his fingers ghost over your injuries, his jaw clenched so tight you can hear his teeth grind together.
“tell me.” his voice is dangerous now.
and then—when you hesitate, when you try to brush it off, when you lie—
his patience snaps.
“don’t give me that.” his grip tightens just slightly, his expression darkening. “you’re hurt. don’t act like it’s nothing.”
there’s no room for argument in his tone. no patience for your stubbornness, no willingness to accept anything less than the truth.
if you try to keep it from him, if you refuse to say who’s responsible, then fine—he’ll find out himself.
because someone did this.
and once you’re safe—once he’s sure you’re okay, once he’s made damn sure you’ll recover—
then he’s hunting.
“stay here,” he mutters, standing to his full height, his tail flicking behind him in barely restrained aggression. “i’ll take care of it.”
and if you try to stop him?
his gaze flickers down to you, something sharp, something scorching, like the unrelenting heat of the desert sun at its peak—blistering, unforgiving, merciless.
“no one lays a damn hand on you and gets away with it.”
and then he’s gone, a storm of unbridled wrath, a lion on the hunt.
azul ashengrotto
azul is a man of careful calculations.
every word, every action, every decision he makes is deliberate. he has spent years crafting a persona of charm, wit, and effortless composure—one that allows him to stay in control, no matter the circumstances. he does not flinch, does not waver, does not lose to uncertainty.
but then he sees you hurt.
and suddenly, all of that control is gone.
his breath catches, his body locks up, and for one horrifying moment, his mind is utterly blank.
“you—what happened?”
his voice doesn’t sound like his own. it’s too sharp, too raw, lacking the usual smoothness he prides himself on.
he rushes to you without thinking, but the second he’s close enough to touch, he hesitates. his fingers hover inches above your skin, his knuckles white with the force of his restraint. his mind is screaming at him to act, to do something, but a terrible thought wedges itself into his panic—
what if i make it worse?
he doesn’t trust his own hands, doesn’t trust his own judgment, not when the sight of you like this is unraveling him from the inside out.
“tell me what hurts,” he demands, his words tumbling out in a way that’s almost frantic. “is it serious? how bad is it?”
his thoughts spiral immediately, jumping to the worst possible conclusions. is it critical? should he be calling for medical attention? what if you’re downplaying it? what if he’s not fast enough?
and then you try to brush it off.
“nothing?” he echoes, breath hitching. his voice almost cracks—and he hates that. “how can you say that when you’re—when you—”
his hands clench into fists, shaking slightly as he forces himself to breathe.
“just—just stay still,” he mutters, voice tight with strain. “i’ll take care of it.”
because if there is one thing he knows, one thing he can control, it’s fixing things. making deals. offering solutions.
“i’ll call a healer. i’ll get whatever you need—whatever you want.”
his words come too fast, his mind still racing, but through it all, his hands never leave yours.
his grip is too tight, fingers wrapped around yours like a lifeline, like letting go isn’t an option he’s willing to consider.
because if he lets go—if he loses you—
he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it.
and when it’s over—when he knows you’ll be okay—he still doesn’t let you out of his sight.
“you scared me,” he murmurs, quieter than before.
his voice is steadier now, but you can still hear the remnants of his fear, lingering in the way his thumb brushes absentmindedly over your knuckles, in the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this entire time.
and for the first time since you’ve met him—since he built the persona of azul ashengrotto, the untouchable businessman, the man always one step ahead—
he lets you see just how fragile he becomes when it comes to you.
kalim al-asim
kalim is always smiling.
he is a beacon of joy, a burst of light in every room he enters. when things go wrong, he looks for the silver lining. when people are hurting, he lifts them up with his boundless energy. sadness is something he refuses to dwell on, something he fights against with warmth and laughter.
but when he sees you hurt?
his entire world stops.
“oh no, oh no—”
the words leave him before he can think, his breath catching as his heart lurches in his chest. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause to process what he’s seeing—his body moves, fast and instinctive, rushing to your side.
his hands cradle your face, warm and steady despite the frantic tremor in his touch.
“are you okay? what happened? does it hurt? how bad is it?”
his voice is shaking. he’s shaking.
and when he finally really looks at you, when he takes in the way you wince, the way you hold yourself like you’re trying to hide the pain—his chest tightens, his stomach twisting into something awful.
“why didn’t anyone stop it? why didn’t i stop it?”
guilt. overwhelming, suffocating guilt floods him like a tidal wave.
“i should’ve been there! i should’ve protected you!”
his grip on you tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to let you know he’s here. he isn’t letting go. he won’t let go.
and then, before you can stop him—before you can tell him it’s not a big deal—his eyes start to glisten.
“kalim, are you—”
“i’m not crying!” he absolutely is. “i just—you scared me!”
his voice wobbles, and suddenly, he’s pulling you into a hug, arms wrapping around you too tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
“don’t move, okay? just stay right here! i’ll get someone to help—i’ll fix this, i promise!”
if it’s something small—just a minor scrape, a bruise—he still treats it like it’s life-threatening. he refuses to let you walk it off, refuses to let you act like it’s fine.
if it’s something worse? if you are seriously hurt?
he panics, but his movements are certain. without hesitation, he lifts you into his arms, holding you to his chest like you’re something precious, like you belong nowhere else but safe in his hands.
“i’ve got you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “i won’t let anything happen to you.”
and when he finally gets you to safety, when he finally knows you’re okay—
he still won’t stop fussing.
“you need to rest! do you want pillows? i’ll get you pillows! or tea! do you want tea? i’m sure jamil will—jamil! we need tea!”
“kalim, i’m fine—”
“no, you’re not fine! i was so scared!”
his fingers squeeze yours.
and later, when you’re patched up, when the worst of the moment has passed—
he presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes.
“don’t ever scare me like that again, okay?”
his voice is softer now, the usual excitement dimmed into something deeply sincere.
“i don’t ever wanna see you hurt again.”
jamil viper
jamil was raised to handle crises.
he has spent his entire life being the one who steps in when things go wrong, the one who fixes things while everyone else panics. no matter the situation, no matter the chaos, no matter the pressure—he is always in control.
so when he sees you hurt, when he registers the way you’re holding yourself, the way your face twists with pain—
his stomach drops.
but his body moves on instinct.
“where?”
his voice is steady. too steady. his mind is screaming, but his tone doesn’t waver, his movements are calculated, precise. he crouches in front of you immediately, eyes scanning you with sharp, assessing precision.
“how bad is it? let me see.”
he doesn’t waste time. doesn’t ask what happened—not yet. because right now, the only thing that matters is making sure you’re okay.
his hands are warm but firm, brushing over you carefully as he checks for injuries. his fingers ghost over your wrist, your arm, the side of your face—everywhere that might be hurt—his touch gentle but filled with purpose.
“it’s not broken,” he murmurs under his breath, half to himself, half to reassure you. “no major swelling… does this hurt?”
and then—when you flinch, when you let out the softest hiss of pain—
something inside him snaps.
his jaw clenches. his breathing slows.
“who.”
his eyes flick up to meet yours, and for the first time, there is something dangerous in his gaze.
“who did this?”
if there is a culprit—if someone is responsible for this—then they are not leaving unscathed.
but even as fury thrums through his veins, even as his mind races with ways to handle the situation, he forces himself to prioritize you first.
“can you walk?” his voice is softer now, his tone slipping back into something controlled, something measured.
if you say yes, he doesn’t let you prove it. he supports you immediately, one arm around your waist, guiding you effortlessly as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
if you say no, he lifts you without hesitation. no warning, no asking—just picking you up, his hold secure, unshakable.
“don’t argue,” he mutters, barely sparing you a glance. “just let me take care of it.”
because he will.
and once he gets you somewhere safe, once he’s made sure you’re being treated properly, once he knows with certainty that you are okay—
then, and only then, does he allow himself to breathe.
“you’re reckless,” he mutters, his voice a mix of exasperation and something far too raw. “i don’t have time to deal with this every time you get yourself hurt, you know.”
but his fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against your arm, betraying the truth behind his words.
because if something had happened—if things had been worse—
he doesn’t even want to think about what he would have done.
vil schoenheit
perfection is vil’s standard.
not just in beauty, not just in his work, but in everything—his composure, his discipline, the way he carries himself. he does not allow himself to be reckless. he does not make careless mistakes. he does not let emotions rule him.
but then he sees you hurt.
and something inside him fractures.
his lips press together, his expression unreadable, his body rigid—the only betrayal of the storm brewing beneath his flawless exterior is the way his fingers tighten just slightly at his sides, the way his breath is a fraction too controlled.
“where are you hurt?”
his voice is steady. cold. clinical. but his eyes—his eyes—
they burn.
he crosses the distance between you in two strides, his gloved fingers already reaching for you. his touch is firm but delicate, brushing over your skin with the kind of precision only someone like him could possess.
“sit down.” it’s not a request. “don’t move until i’ve assessed the damage.”
you try to downplay it, try to insist that it’s nothing, but his sharp gaze cuts through you instantly.
“do not insult me by pretending this is fine,” he snaps, his voice sharp as glass. “you are hurt. i can see it. so let me handle it.”
his fingers ghost over your injuries, his touch meticulous, searching. he catalogues everything—the severity, the placement, the way you react when he presses too close.
he is silent as he works, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.
“this never should have happened.” the words slip out low, almost a whisper, but the weight behind them is undeniable. “i should have—”
but he cuts himself off before he finishes the thought.
vil schoenheit does not dwell in should haves.
he fixes things. he prevents disasters before they happen.
but right now, all he can do is make sure you are okay.
“i’ll handle this,” he says smoothly, already preparing to tend to your wounds himself. “stay still.”
his movements are precise, every action perfectly executed—cleaning, bandaging, ensuring no imperfections remain. but his touch lingers just slightly longer than necessary, his fingers brushing over your wrist, your palm, the curve of your shoulder with a tenderness that is almost imperceptible.
and when it’s over—when you are properly cared for, when the worst of the moment has passed—he finally exhales.
“you worried me,” he murmurs, and it is softer now, less controlled, less rehearsed.
and then—just for a second—his fingers ghost against your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.
“i won’t let this happen again. not ever.”
his voice is gentle. his eyes are not.
because if anyone had a hand in this—if someone is responsible for this pain—
then they will regret ever daring to touch you.
idia shroud
idia doesn’t do well under pressure.
he was not built for high-stakes situations, for stress, for emotions so raw they leave no room for second chances. he hates unpredictability, hates chaos, hates not knowing what to do.
so when he sees you hurt—
his mind shuts down.
for a full second, he just stares, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, his fingers twitching but unable to move.
no, no, no, no, no—
his brain latches onto the worst possibilities immediately. how bad is it? is it fatal? what if you’re bleeding out? what if it’s internal? what if he doesn’t react fast enough?
what if he loses you?
his stomach twists violently, a familiar, awful panic rising in his throat, threatening to choke him.
because this—this exact fear—is something he’s lived through before.
he remembers the first time. the real first time.
losing ortho was something he never saw coming. something he never thought could happen. and even though he’s built him again, recreated him, brought back a version of his little brother—
he still remembers.
remembers what it felt like to be too late. to fail someone he loved. to stand there, frozen in horror, helpless to stop it.
and now—
now it’s you.
you, the only person who matters to him besides ortho. you, the person who understands him, who stays, who chooses him despite all the reasons not to. you, who has somehow become his entire world without him even realizing it.
“oh seven—okay, okay—don’t freak out—no, wait, i’m the one freaking out—”
he rushes toward you but stops short, his hands hovering inches away, shaking.
“w-wait, should i touch you? would that make it worse?? oh seven, what if i make it worse—”
his mind is short-circuiting. too many variables. too many possible failures.
“idia,” you start, but he whirls on you, wide-eyed and frantic.
“y-you have to tell me exactly how bad it is, okay? give me a numerical rating—no, no, wait, i don’t trust the pain scale, um—can you move?? do you need a doctor??”
his breathing is erratic, his fingers clutching at the edge of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
but then—just like before—you try to reassure him.
“i’m okay.”
he stops.
his whole body locks up, his mind struggling to catch up.
”…are you sure?”
his voice is so small. so uncertain.
because he’s already lost someone before.
and if he lost you too—if this was his fault, if he wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough—
he doesn’t know what he would do.
even when he’s finally convinced that you’re not dying, he still refuses to leave your side. he hovers awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, clearly itching to do something to make himself useful.
so he does what he knows best—
“d-do you wanna lay down? i, uh, set up a recovery station in my room. blankets. snacks. medkits—y’know, just in case. w-we can watch something comforting, i won’t even complain about the genre. promise.”
his voice is still wobbly, still slightly frayed at the edges, but the tension in his shoulders finally eases when you nod.
and later—when you’re safe, resting, and no longer in pain—
his fingers brush against yours, hesitant, unsure, before finally intertwining them properly.
“never scare me like that again, okay?”
his voice is quiet. but this time, it doesn’t shake.
because he won’t lose you too.
he can’t.
malleus draconia
malleus has lived longer than most.
a century and more has passed since his birth. he has seen generations rise and fall, watched mortals grow old in the blink of an eye. nothing unsettles him. nothing disturbs his calm.
but then he sees you hurt.
and the entire world stands still.
his breath halts, and the air around him shifts—the very atmosphere bending beneath the weight of something primordial, something as vast and unrelenting as the storm-laden skies over the land of briar.
his first instinct is not panic.
it is rage.
“who did this?”
his voice is low, steady, but beneath the surface, something dangerous lurks.
his emerald eyes gleam, faintly glowing in the dim light. the shadows stretch taller, the wind outside stills, the very earth itself seems to pause, as if the land itself knows what kind of wrath is building within him.
his hands twitch at his sides, claws curling, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips—not for you, never for you, but for whoever was foolish enough to harm you.
but he stops himself. forces himself to breathe.
because you come first.
he is in front of you in an instant, his movements as fluid as shadow, his expression unreadable. his hands—hands that could command storms, reduce castles to rubble, shatter the very sky—reach for you with an almost unnatural gentleness.
“let me see,” he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over your injury, tracing the bruises, the cuts, the places where pain lingers.
his touch is featherlight, his movements precise, but beneath it all, his body is rigid with barely restrained fury.
“who did this?” he repeats, quieter now, but infinitely more terrifying.
if you don’t answer, if you try to downplay it, if you lie—
his gaze darkens, something thunderous in his silence.
“do not shield them from me.”
he is not so easily deceived. he sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you waver, the way you avoid his gaze. if you refuse to tell him, it does not matter—he will find out on his own.
but first—
“hold still,” he murmurs, raising his hand.
a pulse of magic hums through the air, a whisper of ancient power curling around your form like a protective shroud. the ache dulls, the wounds begin to close, the pain fades.
“better?” he asks, softer now, something tender hidden beneath the weight of his fury.
but even as he tends to you, even as he ensures you are safe—
his mind is already elsewhere.
because someone hurt you.
and for that, there will be consequences.
malleus does not act rashly. he does not lash out blindly.
but the guilty party will know fear.
“stay here,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek for just a fraction of a second, his touch lingering. “rest. recover.”
and then, as he turns, the air thickens, the weight of his presence pressing down like the hush before a storm, like the crackling stillness before lightning splits the sky.
because someone has made a grave mistake.
and if the gods are watching, they would be wise to offer their mercy—because malleus draconia will not.
congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!
Emotional Walls Your Character Has Built (And What Might Finally Break Them)
(How your character defends their soft core and what could shatter it) Because protection becomes prison real fast.
✶ Sarcasm as armor. (Break it with someone who laughs gently, not mockingly.)
✶ Hyper-independence. (Break it with someone who shows up even when they’re told not to.)
✶ Stoicism. (Break it with a safe space to fall apart.)
✶ Flirting to avoid intimacy. (Break it with real vulnerability they didn’t see coming.)
✶ Ghosting everyone. (Break it with someone who won’t take silence as an answer.)
✶ Lying for convenience. (Break it with someone who sees through them but stays anyway.)
✶ Avoiding touch. (Break it with accidental, gentle contact that feels like home.)
✶ Oversharing meaningless things to hide real depth. (Break it with someone who asks the second question.)
✶ Overworking. (Break it with forced stillness and the terrifying sound of their own thoughts.)
✶ Pretending not to care. (Break it with a loss they can’t fake their way through.)
✶ Avoiding mirrors. (Break it with a quiet compliment that hits too hard.)
✶ Turning every conversation into a joke. (Break it with someone who doesn’t laugh.)
✶ Being everyone’s helper. (Break it when someone asks what they need, and waits for an answer.)
✶ Constantly saying “I’m fine.” (Break it when they finally scream that they’re not.)
✶ Running. Always running. (Break it with someone who doesn’t chase, but doesn’t leave, either.)
✶ Intellectualizing every feeling. (Break it with raw, messy emotion they can’t logic away.)
✶ Trying to be the strong one. (Break it when someone sees the weight they’re carrying, and offers to help.)
✶ Hiding behind success. (Break it when they succeed and still feel empty.)
✶ Avoiding conflict at all costs. (Break it when silence causes more pain than the truth.)
✶ Focusing on everyone else’s healing but their own. (Break it when they hit emotional burnout.)
andulkaphoto
2087
yousharknotpass
izzy806
origamiaround
jacobvanloon
