Hi I have a head cannon scenario about mc returning to the hol because they were sent on a mission by the sorcerer society and when they get back the brothers sees them covered blood and mc reassures them by saying "Oh don't worry this isn't my blood"
The demon brothers’ reaction to the MC coming back covered in blood!!
Includes: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Belphegor
CW: Mentions of blood, violence, implied murder, Levi almost throws up (he also passes out), they’re all pathetic for u, Satan is kinda cringe methinks.
Lucifer’s used to you being busy: you’re competent, organized, and strong enough to work with the Sorcerer’s Society. He doesn’t like it, but he respects it. Until tonight.
He hears the door first: a slow creak of hinges that shouldn’t make him tense, but they do. He’s halfway through paperwork when your voice floats through the hall. “I’m home.” Calm. Too calm.
When he turns, the first thing he sees is the blood.
Your clothes are drenched, streaked down your sleeves, dripping off your fingertips onto the polished floor. You’re standing there like it’s the most normal thing in the world: messy hair, tired eyes, faint smile.
“MC-“ His tone breaks before he can stop it. He crosses the distance in seconds, hands hovering but not touching. “Are you hurt?”
You glance down, blink, and laugh softly. “Oh, don’t worry. This isn’t my blood.”
The words don’t help. They make it worse.
His expression hardens immediately, that sharp, barely-contained fury that he uses when his brothers do something reckless. But now it’s turned on you. “That’s not reassuring.”
You shrug, half teasing, half exhausted. “It’s the truth.”
You try to brush past him, but he catches your wrist: not roughly, just firmly enough that you stop. There’s blood smeared across his glove now.
His voice is calm, but it’s the calm of a man holding back a storm.
You try to downplay it: “A rogue familiar. The mission got messy.”
He doesn’t buy it. He looks at you like he can see through every word, every forced smile. “You nearly died.”
“But I didn’t.” You give him that tired grin again, trying to lighten it. “Mission accomplished.”
There’s a long silence. The kind that stretches thin and heavy. Then, quietly:
“You forget sometimes,” he says, “that you’re still human.”
He takes a deep breath, removes his bloodstained gloves, and cups your face carefully, thumb brushing the edge of a cut you didn’t realize you had. “You can’t keep walking into danger like this. Not alone.”
“You worry too much,” you whisper.
“And you don’t worry enough.” His gaze softens then, the edge breaking into quiet affection. “You’re shaking.”
You hadn’t noticed until he said it. He pulls you closer before you can argue, letting you bury your face against his shoulder. He smells like clean parchment and dark magic. His heartbeat is steady, grounding.
“Next time,” he murmurs against your hair, “I’m coming with you. If the Sorcerer’s Society has a problem with that, they can answer to me.”
You laugh, weakly. “You’d terrify them.”
“Good,” he says. “Maybe then they’ll stop sending you to clean up their messes.”
He doesn’t let go for a long time. Not until he’s sure the shaking has stopped, and the blood’s been washed away, and the faint scent of iron is gone from your skin. Only then does he finally exhale.
Later, when he thinks you’re asleep, he sits beside your bed: quiet, expression unreadable. “Not your blood,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
Mammon’s the first one who hears you come home not because he’s paying attention, but because he was literally leaning on the front door waiting for you like a golden retriever with attachment issues.
The second the door swings open and he sees the blood, he stops breathing. For a full two seconds. His brain just blue-screens.
“MC!! MC!! MC WHAT HAPPENED—?!?”
His voice goes up at least three octaves. He sounds like a dying kettle.
You try to speak, but you can’t even get one word out before he SCREAMS:
“STAY STILL, I’M GETTIN’ THE KIT! DON’T MOVE- DON’T YOU DARE MOVE-“
And then he’s gone. Full sprint. Full panic.
You hear multiple crashes, a yell, a curse, two thuds, the sound of something breaking, and then..
He’s back, skidding into you with… a first-aid kit, a roll of duct tape, and a plushie he grabbed for emotional support.
“Okay okay okay… lemme- lemme see where ya bleedin’-“
His hands hover everywhere but never touch, because he’s afraid one wrong move is gonna make your spleen fall out or something.
Literally freezes like someone hit him with Medusa’s gaze.
Slowly, very slowly, his expression changes from pure terror… to confusion… to angry relief.
“…Why would ya walk in here covered in someone else’s blood?!”
He starts wiping your face with trembling hands, muttering under his breath:
“Stupid humans… stupid sorcerers… stupid society… sendin’ ya out alone like yer some kinda immortal or somethin’…”
He’s trying to hide that his hands are still shaking.
You try to tease him. “Aww, were you worried?”
“Worried?! I thought ya DIED, MC. Like dead dead. Like Belphie’s-favorite-bedtime-story dead!”
Once he finishes checking you over for injuries (twice), he pulls you into a tight hug. No hesitation.
His head buries into your shoulder.
“’M never lettin’ ya leave like that again,” he mumbles. “Not without me.”
You pat his back. “I’m okay, Mammon.”
“Ya ain’t allowed to look like that again,” he grumbles. “I aged like fifty years in five minutes.”
It’s only when you lift your arms and he sees more dried blood crackling on your sleeves that he yelps again:
“NOPE! SHOWER NOW! GOIN’ WITH YA! NOT LIKE THAT BUT LIKE… NEAR YA! JUST IN CASE-“
And for the rest of the night, he follows you everywhere. Not subtly. Not coolly.
Hovering. Protecting. Muttering threats at the Sorcerer’s Society under his breath.
When you finally fall asleep, he sits on the floor by your bed, back against the frame, arms crossed.
“I ain’t sleepin’ tonight,” he whispers, watching your breathing steady. “Not till I’m sure ya ain’t disappear on me again.”
And he doesn’t. He stays awake the whole night. Just in case.
Levi doesn’t hear you come in, he senses it. Like a startled cat.
He peeks out of his door because you were supposed to be gone on a mission and he just, y’know… wanted to check you weren’t dead. Totally normal. Totally fine. Definitely not worrying himself to death.
Then he sees you. And all the blood. Levi makes a noise no human language can describe.
Something between a squeak, a scream, and a Windows error sound.
“MC—M-MC—WH—WHAT—NO—N-NO WAY—”
He’s already shaking. Like whole-body trembling. He steps forward, and then immediately steps back. And then steps forward again.
And then he bends over at the waist like he’s about to throw up.
* You calmly say, “Levi. It’s not my blood.”
He stops. Blinks. His eye twitches. And then he just… drops like a ragdoll NPC whose physics glitched.
You rush forward and kneel down, shaking him gently until he gasps awake and IMMEDIATELY starts dry heaving.
“I—I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD—MC—THAT MUCH BLOOD IS NEVER GOOD—NEVER—NOT EVEN IN SHONEN—EVEN IN SHONEN THEY DIE—AND—AND—YOU—AND—AND—”
You try to reassure him again, but he’s spiraling too fast to hear you.
“DID YOU FIGHT A DEMON KING?! A CURSED BEAST?! A WHOLE RAID PARTY?! MC, YOU ARE LEVEL ONE COMPARED TO THEM—YOU CAN’T JUST—YOU CAN’T JUST WALK IN HERE LIKE A BLOOD-COVERED DLC—”
He pauses. Realizes he’s yelling. Immediately turns red.
“S-Sorry… I just… I thought… I can’t—”
He hides his face in his hands.
“I don’t do well with… b-blood. Or… you being hurt. Or… you being gone at all.”
You sit beside him, leaning gently against his shoulder and he stiffens like you just upgraded him to premium affection content.
“Levi, I’m okay. Really.”
“But—but it was—there was so much—”
“I still almost threw up.”
You laugh, and it actually calms him a little. He peeks at you through his fingers.
“MC… next time… can you… I dunno… send a message? Or—or a selfie? Or maybe… maybe one of those ‘I survived’ stickers? I DON’T KNOW, JUST… SOMETHING??”
You pat his head. He turns bright red and looks like he might pass out again.
“Also-” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper—
“If you ever die, I’m joining you. Just so you know.”
You blink. “Levi… that’s not how-“
He buries his face in your shoulder this time, trembling but clinging tight.
And later, when you’re showered and resting, Levi sits on the floor by your bed, wrapped in a blanket like a traumatized cinnamon roll, whispering to himself:
“They’re okay… they’re okay… thank the anime gods, they’re okay…”
Satan hears the front door open and doesn’t think much of it because he’s in the library, sorting through books and sipping tea.
But then he hears Mammon scream. Then Levi gag. That gets his attention.
He steps into the hall, ready to lecture them both, and then he sees you. Blood-soaked. Dripping. Pale and exhausted.
Everything inside him stops. Then it erupts.
Satan’s rage doesn’t explode outward, not at first. It condenses. Sharpens. The air around him changes.
His voice is low, dangerous, the kind that makes even demons freeze.
“Oh, don’t worry. This isn’t my-“
He doesn’t let you finish. His footsteps echo like thunder as he closes the distance in seconds: hands clenched, jaw tight, pupils blown wide with fury.
It’s not a command. It’s a threat wrapped in grief.
“Satan, really, this isn’t-“
You touch his arm, and he flinches at the blood not because he’s squeamish, but because he thinks it’s yours.
Linked books on the shelves around you begin to tremble. Pages flutter. A pressure fills the air.
You finally manage to get the words out.
The rage pauses mid-eruption like someone hit a giant, explosive “pause” button on the wrath in his chest.
His eyes narrow, analyzing every inch of you.
“Is any of it yours? Any at all?”
And just like that, the explosive rage melts into something even more dangerous: cold, calculated fury.
“Then whose blood is it?”
“A demon we were sent after. It… got messy.”
He repeats the word like it’s poison.
“And they sent you alone?”
You explain that the Sorcerer’s Society assigned you a mission, that you couldn’t refuse, that you handled it fine. He's quiet for a moment. Too quiet.
And then he smiles. It’s not a nice smile. It’s the smile of a demon who has decided on murder.
“You’re not going back there without one of us.”
His voice is soft. Soft in the way that means he’s seconds from violence.
“They’ll learn not to use you as a disposable pawn.”
He gently wipes a streak of blood off your cheek with his thumb. His touch is tender. His gaze is lethal.
“I should have been there,” he mutters, voice cracking just enough that you feel it.
“If I’d known… if I’d sensed even a fragment of danger, I-”
He stops himself. Clenches his fists until his knuckles go white.
“You matter. More than they understand.”
When he walks you to your room, he stays close: not hovering like Mammon, not trembling like Levi. He’s calm. Dangerously calm.
After you fall asleep, he doesn’t leave immediately. He stands there, watching your breathing settle, jaw tight.
And then he says quietly,
“If that blood had been yours… the Devildom would’ve burned.”
You don’t hear it but he means every word.
Asmo is humming to himself down the hall, face mask on, nails drying, fully in his “self-care king” era when he hears the door open.
He turns around with a sparkle in his eyes:
He screams. Like, hand-to-chest, full-body, opera-level scream.
“A-AHHHH!! MC!! MC, WHAT—WHAT EVEN—IS—IS THAT—IS—THAT—BLOOD?!?!”
He stumbles back into the wall like he’s about to faint. His face mask literally slides down his cheek from how hard he gasps.
“NO, NO, NO—MC, DARLING—WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU—DON’T TALK—DON’T MOVE—DON’T—DON’T BLEED ANY FURTHER—OH DIAVOLO YOU’RE GOING PALE—”
“Asmo…It’s not my blood.”
He freezes. Blinks once. Twice. Then slowly rolls his lip gloss back onto his mouth like he needs strength for what he’s about to say.
“Now that I know you’re not dying…”
He points a perfectly manicured finger at you with pure judgment.
“THAT SHADE OF RED DOES. NOT. SUIT. YOU.”
He launches forward in a flurry of offended shrieks.
“Oh my DIAVOLO, MC!! Your undertones! Your vibe! Your aesthetic! You look like someone dipped you in tomato paste!!”
You try not to laugh as he circles you, snapping his fingers dramatically.
“This is a CRIME, an absolute CRIME against beauty! Whoever did this to you needs to be arrested for TREASON!”
“NO YOU ARE NOT. YOU CANNOT BE FINE WHILE LOOKING LIKE A CORPSE COVERED IN THE WRONG PALETTE.”
He grabs your wrist and yanks you toward the nearest bathroom like a mom dragging her kid into Target.
“We’re going to get this off you RIGHT now. And then I’m giving you a deep cleanse, a gentle exfoliation…”
His voice drops. Dead serious.
“…and then I want every single detail about who made this mess.”
He smiles. Not his cutesy smile. Not his flirty smile. His demon smile. Sharp. Beautiful. Terrifying.
“Because if someone splattered their ugly blood all over my lovely MC… I want to rip them apart for ruining your skin’s natural radiance.”
He puts a finger to your lips.
“Shhh. Let me be upset for you.”
His voice softens, warm and trembling at the edges.
“I don’t like seeing you covered in red unless it’s lipstick. My lipstick.”
Once he’s gotten all the blood off and confirmed you have zero wounds, he finally slumps against the counter in relief.
“Ughhhh, MC… I was sooo scared…”
His lower lip trembles. He hides his face in your shoulder like a child.
“Promise me you’ll come back in pink next time. Or at least something flattering. Something soft. Something you.”
And when you laugh and hug him back, he squeezes you tighter, whispering:
“Not your blood… but you still scared me half to death. Don’t do that again.”
Beel hears the commotion from the kitchen: Mammon shouting, Levi screaming, Satan’s magic crackling.
He drops the snack he was about to eat and jogs toward the noise, confused but alert.
He turns the corner and sees you standing in the doorway, drenched in blood. His breath catches. But instead of panicking, yelling, or fainting… He just stops. Completely still. His expression softens into something heartbreakingly sad.
His voice is so gentle it hurts.
He walks toward you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he moves too fast.
No fear in his tone. Just steady, quiet concern.
You smile a little. He stares at you. Not at the blood, at you. Searching your face, scanning for injuries, checking your breathing, making sure you’re standing upright.
Once he confirms you’re not in pain, his shoulders relax a little. And then comes the silent anger.
Beel doesn’t explode. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t show fangs. His eyes just harden. A slow, simmering fury that comes from deep in his chest, the kind that makes even demons step back.
His tone is dangerously calm.
“Sort of. They didn’t think it was that dangerous…”
His jaw clenches. That’s the only sign he’s angry. But the air around him changes.
“The Sorcerer’s Society was wrong.”
He looks at your clothes again and his brows pull together.
“You could’ve gotten hurt. They should’ve known.”
His voice is soft, but firm.
“They should’ve sent help.”
You try to reassure him, but he quietly shakes his head.
“MC… you’re strong. I know that. We all know that.”
He looks down, eyes full of worry.
“But you’re not invincible. And that scares me.”
He steps closer, gently wiping a smear of blood from your cheek with the back of his hand. He doesn’t flinch or recoil. Beel’s never been afraid of blood.
But seeing it on you makes his stomach twist in a way hunger never has.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “I’m coming with you.”
A vow in his warm, earnest voice. When he hugs you, it’s careful. Like he’s holding something precious.
You feel him exhale against your hair a long, slow breath of relief that you came home.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers.
“Are you hungry? I made dinner before you came back.”
He insists you eat something. Watches to make sure you do. And later, as you’re settling down for the night, he sits quietly by your door, leaning against the frame.
Because Beel doesn’t scream or rage. He protects because he failed before. And tonight, he’s not letting anything else get close enough to hurt you.
Belphie wakes up before you step through the door. He always does when something’s wrong. It’s that instinct of his, the same one that kicks in when Beel’s starving or when danger prowls the halls of the House of Lamentation.
He sits up on the attic bed, eyes groggy, hair a mess, but his stomach is tight. Something feels… off. Like a nightmare he hasn’t had yet.
Then he hears Mammon shriek. Levi gag. Satan’s magic flaring like wildfire. And Beel’s steady anger.
Belphie’s heart drops. He recognizes this atmosphere. He’s felt it before.
He’s already halfway down the stairs when he sees you. Covered in blood. Standing in the doorway. Breathing.
But that doesn’t matter, the sight hits him like a memory to the skull.
That day in the attic. Your body. The blood. The smell. The silence.
He freezes mid-step, pupils shrinking. His breath hitches, barely audible.
His voice cracks on the first syllable. You turn toward him and smile weakly.
“Belphie. I’m okay. It’s not my blood.”
It doesn’t help. It doesn’t reach him. Not immediately.
He walks toward you slowly, too slowly. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.
His tone is quiet. Dangerous. Too close to the voice he used the day he killed you. You swallow.
“I’m not lying. I swear. This isn’t mine.”
He stops right in front of you, touching your cheek with the very tips of his fingers like he’s scared to touch too much and confirm something horrible.
Then he suddenly pulls you into him. Arms tight. Desperate. Clinging.
His voice muffles against your shoulder.
He hates it. He hates how familiar it feels. How familiar you feel like this.
“I know,” you whisper. “I’m okay, Belphie.”
He shakes his head. Slowly. Like he’s in a trance.
His voice breaks. He grips your shirt tighter.
“I thought I would have to watch you die again.”
That’s when it hits him: it’s not your blood. Not your wound. Not your final breath.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes trembling.
“A demon the Sorcerer’s Society sent me after,” you explain. “It got messy.”
That’s all he needs to hear.
He says it plainly. Eyes lidded, voice cold.
“They don’t care if you get hurt. They don’t care what they put you through.”
You open your mouth to rebut, but he presses a hand over your lips.
His tone softens but the intensity in it doesn’t.
“I’m not letting them use you like that. Ever again.”
He guides you upstairs, half dragging you, half hugging you, refusing to look away even once.
“You’re sleeping with me tonight.”
Not a suggestion. Not a request. Not even a demand. A necessity.
When he tucks you into bed, he curls around you protectively: arms around your waist, legs intertwined, chin resting on your shoulder.
His hand stays over your heart, feeling its steady rhythm like he needs proof.
“I’m not losing you,” he whispers. “Not again. Not ever.”
And as you drift off, he keeps his eyes open, watching your chest rise and fall. Making sure this time, you stay alive.
Later that night, when you’re dreaming peacefully, he whispers to himself:
“If they ever send you into danger like that again… I’ll kill them before they get the chance.”
And the worst part? He means every word.
When you opened the door to the House of Lamentation, blood dripping down your clothes and pooling onto the floor, seven demons froze in place as if time itself stopped breathing. They’d all been waiting for you together, restless and anxious because your mission with the Sorcerer’s Society ran later than expected. Lucifer was halfway through lecturing Mammon about pacing holes into the floor. Levi was nervously scrolling on his D.D.D. Satan had been pretending to read the same sentence in his book for half an hour. Beel kept checking the window. Belphie dozed fitfully on the couch. Even Asmo couldn’t relax enough to paint his nails.
Then you stepped inside, and the room shattered.
Mammon screamed first, high and panicked, sprinting toward you like the world was ending. Levi choked on his own breath, gagging between shock and terror. Satan’s book slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground without him noticing. Asmo screamed so loud the windows rattled. Beel stared at you like he’d forgotten how to speak. Belphegor jolted awake so violently he nearly fell off the couch. And Lucifer… Lucifer went dead still, the color draining from his face in a way none of them had ever seen before.
“MC?!” Seven voices, overlapping, cracking, desperate.
You forced a tired smile. “Don’t worry. This isn’t my blood.”
But relief didn’t come. It only made everything worse.
Lucifer moved first, closing the distance in three strides, hands hovering but afraid to touch you. The rage in his eyes burned so sharply the air felt like it vibrated. “Not your blood?” he repeated quietly, as if tasting the phrase and finding it poisonous. “Then why… do you look like you barely survived a war?” His fingers brushed your cheek, trembling despite how controlled he tried to seem.
Mammon practically shoved him aside, grabbing your face with shaking hands. “Babe, babe what the hell?! Why didn’t ya call me?! Why didn’t ya call ANY of us?!” He wiped at the blood on your skin and made a strangled noise when it smeared instead of disappearing. “I thought you were… I thought—”
Levi pressed himself against the wall, pale as a ghost, eyes darting wildly between you and the puddles on the floor. “Oh no… oh no… oh no… this is like episode 97 of The Time I Reincarnated as a Demon when the protagonist comes back half-dead… MC I can’t—I can’t handle this in real life—” He looked one second from fainting again.
Asmo approached slowly, tiptoeing around the blood, face twisted in horror not at the gore, but at it being on you. “Darling… you look absolutely awful… this shade of red is doing you NO favors.” His voice wobbled. His hands trembled as he reached out, stroking your cheek gently. “Why would anyone do this to your pretty skin…?”
Satan said nothing at all. He simply stared at you with eyes that promised violence, fury radiating from him like heat from a furnace. The moment you met his gaze, he stepped forward, lifting your chin with a single finger. “Tell me who did this,” he said quietly, too quietly. “I won’t ask again.”
Beel was the gentlest. He knelt right in front of you and took your hands carefully, like you might crumble if he gripped too tight. His voice was soft, rough around the edges. “You smell like blood,” he whispered, and it broke him more than anything. “MC… you shouldn’t ever come home like this. You shouldn’t have to.” His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, steady and warm. “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of you.”
Belphegor reached you last but when he did, it hit the hardest. He grabbed your sleeve, eyes trembling, breath shallow. “You looked… you looked like this the day I…” He didn’t finish. Couldn’t. He buried his face into your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist in a vice grip. “Don’t ever walk in here looking like that again. You have no idea what it does to me.”
All seven closed in around you then, forming a tight circle: a barrier of bodies, warmth, magic, and raw emotion. Mammon’s chest pressed to your side, arms around you. Belphie clung to your waist like you might vanish. Levi clutched your sleeve, trying not to faint. Beel held your hand against his cheek. Asmo gently stroked your hair. Satan stood behind you, protective and vibrating with unspoken wrath. Lucifer rested a hand between your shoulder blades, grounding you with the weight of someone who almost lost everything.
They didn’t let go. Not when you explained the mission. Not when you insisted you were fine. Not even when you tried to step forward.
Instead, they slowly, carefully, guided you to the bathroom. Seven pairs of trembling hands washed the blood from your skin. Warm towels. Gentle touches. Quiet murmurs of your name. Lucifer’s palms steadying your shoulders. Mammon massaging shampoo into your hair with a softness he didn’t know he had. Asmo running warm water over your arms. Satan silently checking every inch of skin for injury with clinical precision. Beel holding your hand so you wouldn’t shake. Levi handing you clean clothes with red face and watery eyes. Belphie pressing kisses to your temple each time his hands passed your neck.
When you were finally clean, dry, and changed, they guided you to bed, not letting you walk alone for even one second. Lucifer pulled the blanket over you. Asmo tucked the corners in. Satan wiped a final smear of blood from your jaw. Beel pressed a snack into your hand “just in case.” Levi set up the pillows. Mammon lay down beside you protectively. Belphie curled around you like a second blanket.
And the others joined. All seven. Surrounding you. Holding you. Breathing with you. You fell asleep in a tangle of limbs, warmth, and quiet whispers:
Seven demons. One human. And the unshakeable truth that none of them could survive losing you, not again, not ever.
Up next: 🧛 Biohazard 🧛 (Solomon x Reader)
