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summary; belphie thinks about what forgiveness really means and decides to meet you halfway this time
pairing; gn!reader x belphegor
genre; angst with a "happy ending" / slight character study
word count; 2,2k
warnings; references to nightmares and anxiety, belphie being generally horrendous at not being a brat
Belphie knows he's being childish, but he doesn't understand why you are being so stubborn about this.
The night had started simple, the way every night started, with you on your bed one hand scrolling through your phone, the other patting Belphie's unruly hair as he lay content on your lap. Belphie liked nights like these when it was just the two of you, none of his brothers to whine about why Belphie got to be the one getting cradled so gently in your arms⏤he supposed the only downside of this was the fact there was no one to look incredibly smug at. Just you and him, the steady sound of your heartbeat lulling him into sleep. He felt your warmth as he closed his arms around you, nights like these felt right. If Belphie was ever supposed to end up somewhere in the grand scheme of things, he felt it was here being held in your arms as you hummed a soft lullaby.
Then something happens, and it happens quickly.
For a moment you still, your melody cuts short and your hand freezes above him, then you sigh and it’s a heavy sigh, one filled with worries because as soon as you release it you move under him, tense.
Belphie doesn’t think much of it, which he supposes was his first mistake, because he’s heard you sigh like that before, sometimes you get anxious, sometimes something small takes a hold of you and you can’t help but worry, so Belphie decides to hold onto you a little tighter and speaks up:
“Don’t worry about it, I’m here.”
‘You’re such a brat,’ you’d mutter under your breath, but there would be a smile pulling at your laps as you pulled him closer, and you’d relax again.
But that doesn’t happen, instead, you pull back as if burned, pushing him off you somewhere between rough and gentle. He whines for a moment, but then you keep pushing almost stumbling out of your own bed in the process.
Belphie looks up, ready to complain, then he sees the look on your face.
Guarded.
He didn’t know you could do that.
He’d seen you angry, had seen your face morph into a scowl, he’s seen you cry, laugh, whine, Belphie envied that about you, just how much of an open book you were, just how much you wore your heart on your sleeve. He’d thought it stupid at first, thought you were a fool for being so honest around him, around demons, then he’d realized the purpose of it. You chose to feel every emotion in that little human body of yours to the fullest, and every time you did it radiated of you so much it became contagious.
Now, there was nothing, just a tight lip expression and a frown on your face.
The sleep that clouded his mind seconds before disappears in a puff of smoke and he leans up as you back away from the bed arms wrapping around yourself. Belphie never wished more to know what you were thinking.
“What’s wrong?” he asks and there’s an edge to it, a feeling of loss because he doesn’t know, he’s always known in some way what bothered you, but now he can’t even understand the look behind your eyes.
You pause mouth opening before clamping shut tight before you shake your head. “I⏤I don’t⏤”
You look lost, fragile, and Belphie finds himself reaching out.
You flinch.
There’s a moment of silence between the two of you, both of you stand frozen, neither sure what comes next. Belphie doesn’t know what’s happening, just one minute ago you were content, him in your arms, you were there and everything was right, and now...
He tenses up but makes no move towards you. “What a⏤”
“Just drop it, Belphie,” you say, and your voice sounds tired, lost as if you aren’t sure why this is where you draw the line either. “Ju⏤Just get out.”
Belphie pouts, but his shoulders are tensing and something in his stomach drops. “Come on,” he tries to whine, but it comes out with a slight tinge of worry. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Your face changes again, and something sweeps through, it almost looks like betrayal.
“Get. Out.”
The commands runs through his veins and something snares around his body all but flinging him outside your room, not long after that you slam the door shut.
He gives you an hour, an hour before you come knocking at the door to his and Beel’s room and talk to him about what’s bothering you, an hour until he’s back in your arms, an hour for things to feel right again.
The hour turns into hours, and when Belphie opens his eyes again it’s the next morning.
He’s used to getting his way, he knows this, so when you don’t show up the next morning to breakfast he doesn’t go to look for you. You’ll come looking for him, he thinks to himself, you always do, you always have. No matter the petty argument, no matter the words either of you would shout, no matter how annoying or insufferable he would get, you’d always find your way back to him. Belphie knew this, he felt comfort in the fact, in the constant you had become. It was almost laughable, a human becoming a constant for a demon. But it didn’t matter to Belphie, all that mattered was knowing no matter what, when he turned around you’d be standing there a little way of, still with a pout on your lips, but then he’d take a hold of your hand and things would be a little better.
He turns around before he leaves for his room again, you’re not there.
After three days he starts having trouble falling asleep, that’s when he starts to think.
The longer it takes for him to fall asleep the longer he thinks, and the more he remembers, remembers things he wished he could forget ever happened. Remembers the anger that stewed in his stomach, the disgust that coursed through his veins when he used to look at you. Remembers the feeling of his hands wrapped around your throat, the desperate look in your eyes, the please barely falling of your laps. Belphie clutches tighter onto his pillow, but the thoughts keep flying around his mind. Thoughts of how bridges he’d burned, and of how somehow you’d managed to cross over to his side anyway. He thinks about the way you’re arms wrapped around his and the fact there’s forgiveness there, the fact there was a choice on your end to let him close, to keep him close.
You were human, and yet you were the strongest thing Belphie had ever met in the three realms.
You’d clawed your way through every obstacle Belphie had thrown behind him in his resentment towards humanity, for every bridge he’d burned you’d build another one, and where there was a raging fire still going you’d ran trough head-first towards him with that stupid little smile of yours, and you’d wrapped your arms around him and forgiven him for a murder, your murder.
And when he thinks about it that’s such a you thing to do it almost makes him want to scream.
You who saw yourself die by his hands, who had your entire world flipped upside down for the whims of a few demons, you who had dealt with threats to your well-being around every corner, you who through all that just took a deep breath and continued putting one foot in front of the other. You, the strangest human Belphie had ever met, but one that found a way to worm themselves right into his heart all the same. And Belphie finally realizes a crucial fact, of all the humans Lilith could have sent to them, it would always have been you, whether you were her descendent or not wouldn’t have mattered because only someone like you could have done the things you did. It takes a special kind of strength to keep your heart on your sleeve no matter what, a special kind of human who could be threatened and die, and still say to themselves: no, I can keep going.
Then he realizes.
Three days ago it had been a year since Belphie had killed you.
And oh, if he’s ever fucked up before it’s here and now.
He finds you in the attic huddled under a blanket.
He doesn’t step towards you, your face still has that look on it, the lost look in your eyes, and Belphie is forced to face the fact he’s the reason for it. So he stays by the door, even if he could get to you with a few long strides, it feels as if you’re a world away. And in a way you are, mourning your own death, scared for your own mortality, a fear even he has been ignoring, one he doesn’t plan on conquering today. Babysteps he supposes.
Belphie never cared for spoken apologies, they didn’t mean anything to him, they were words, words you could easily lie about, but he knows you care, knows sometimes you need to hear the things Belphie tries to show you so even though it feels strange on his tongue and it comes out a little robotic in the end he breaks the silence with a small, “I’m sorry.”
At first, you don’t move, for a moment he thinks you didn’t hear him, then you let out a sigh. A heavy sigh he has no hope of ever understanding, then you pat the spot next to you still looking down at your hands, and Belphie moves towards you slowly as if approaching a scared animal trying not to startle it more, in a way, he supposes he is.
You both sit there for a while until finally, you speak up:
“I have nightmares about it,” you admit and Belphie feels something inside him break.
Because some part of him knew, some part of him knew you must remember some of it, even if it hadn’t been the you that sits next to him it had still been some part of you, a past version that would never be, a version that would never forgive him, a version that he could have befriended, could have been sitting next to and talk to. He killed a different you, and you’d forgiven him, but he’d never bothered to think about the fact that the you he killed might have been more opposed to the idea, and the way that thought fell on your shoulders.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare move, some part of him still hopes this isn’t real, that it’s some cruel nightmare, that any moment now he’ll wake up in your arms and things will be right again.
He doesn’t wake up, and next to him you continue voice tight and face unreadable.
“If I weren’t Lilith’s descendant,” you start and Belphie feels his heart drop, “would you have befriended me the way you did?
It’s a cruel thing to ask, Belphie sees it in the way guilt washes over your face the second you ask it, but it’s an even crueler thing for him to answer because he knows the answer, and he knows it’s not the thing you want to hear. Something about it is funny because the question is so irrevocably you that it almost makes him laugh. You don’t ask if he hates you. You don’t ask if he would kill you again. You ask if he cares, and if he would care in another world, another place where things are different, another place that isn’t here and now.
He doesn’t have the answer you want, so instead, he asks you a question, “If I didn’t would you have forgiven me the way you did?”
“Yes,” you answer, but then you pause a little. “Well, maybe not the way I did, but I’d have forgiven you.”
“Why?” he asks, and Belphie realizes he is nowhere close to understanding you because you smile at him, strained and with saddened eyes, but it’s genuine.
“Because,” you start, “I’m alive, that’s all that would matter, the rest could wait.”
And it had waited, but now they’d gotten to the place where the rest waited for you.
“I’ll never understand you,” he says, and he takes you into his arms.
There’s a pause, but then your hands clasp around him and finally, things feel a little more right.
“What do we do now?” you mutter, your head finds its way into his neck and your arms hold him tighter.
He thinks for a moment, then finally he speaks up, “Figure out the rest.”
Belphie doubts either of you will ever be able to forget what happened that day, but for now, you can start a new chapter, a better one, one where Belphie does right by you, and this time, one where here and now, you matter to him more than he can put into words, and one where he meets you halfway. Because at the end of the day you forgive him, you would forgive him in every world, whether it be through a bright smile or gritted teeth.
And some part of Belphie knows that in every world that little bit of forgiveness no matter how big or how small, would make him love you every time, not because you were Lilith’s descendent, but because it was you.
“Uh, sorry,” You squeak out. When the Magistrae's eyes swivel back on you, you wish the pillows would swallow you hole. “What’s this about exactly?”
“You will be going to the demon world, acting as a representative, starting next week.”
You shouldn’t have shown up when summoned, this is what following rules gets you. A ticket to Hell.
summary; in which you’re a witch-in-training who can’t manage a single fight yet the demon lord finds you a suitable candidate for exchange student. it gets worse from there.
genre; multi-chapter fic/prologue
word count; +/- 4k
warnings/notes; cross posted from ao3
When the head witch of the clan wants to see you, now , urgently at half past midnight, most people would start to panic, you're no exception to the rule.
As far as witching goes tough, you've been the exception to a lot of things from holding several well-renewed feats such as 'Most Likely to Set off Explosives on Field Trips ' and 'Most Consecutive Failed Demon Summonings ' to holding the title of witch-in-training for the longest amount of time in witch history. You don't think that last factoid is true, or any of them really, you're a little speck of dust in the history of witches, surely there ought to have been someone worse than you.
That's what you try to tell yourself at least, when another spell fizzles out into nothing or another potion tastes more like simple apple juice than the tears of sorrowful to call forth punishment. Most people thought it funny, then the years dragged on and things got a lot less amusing and a lot more, well sad, pathetic, abysmal, a disgrace to the very practice of witching, take your pick of words, because you've certainly cycled through all of them.
The Efram Clan has been kind to you, from the head of household and head witch Ophelia Efram taking you in, giving you shelter, food, clothes without a second thought, and letting you find your own way with magic at your own pace to the plain fact they haven't yet kicked you out after the garden shed accident two years prior.
No one knows why witching comes to you the way it does, which is to say barely if not at all or all at ones with a giant resounding bang, it only ever requires three things. Ways, words, and wills. From your perspective you've had all three since you finally dropped that lisp.
Yet magic almost bounces off you, as if repulsed by the mere sight of your hard-work. You almost hear it mocking you when a spell backfires or dies out with not even a spark of light to it: 'Gross! Look at this nerd trying so hard. Lame!'
Ophelia's office isn't a strange space to you, you've been there through the course of your life more times than you can count for every reason under the sun, from cleaning the floor until your own moody expression met you back to the several times you zoned out lectures. The entire office has an air to it, a mix between CEO office and cottage in a spooky forest, leather chairs neatly placed in front of the dark mahogany desk carvings of phoenixes and fairies along the front and side, cherry colored drapes flanking the floor to ceiling windows adorned with black steel detailing of the Efram's Emblem, a large pair of antlers the left one cracked at the tip, a star glowing in the middle.
Never however have you seen the Magistrae standing by the side looking red in the face, waving around a piece of paper as if he's to announce the end of times.
Ophelia's gaze is on another piece of paper you can't make out, and as soon as you take a seat and clear your throat the yelling begins.
The Magistrae turns to you, pointing one sleek finger at you. “Fess up! What did you do this time?!”
The last time you talked to the Magistrae–Well talked is a loose word here, since it was more him yelling at you while someone else ushered him out the room, had been last year during summer when the Council of Magic and Earthly Affairs had send him for the yearly evaluation of the clan: headcounts, new arrivals, damages and dangers, updated policies.
Bureaucratic nonsense old lady Mags used to say. “Taking the witching out of witches they are,” she’d say every year eyes narrowed in on the Magistrae and his entourage, seated on the porch frail hands working their way through a grimoire of ivory and willow as you swept fresh dirt out of the entryway. “With their rules and policies, those two things never made witching, to hell with those scummy bastards.”
Most of the older witches held the same regards to the Council and the Magistrae, order and rules had never gotten along well with their type of magic, the type that dappled into laws of nature and bent them until they broke rebuilding the broken pieces into something new.
Last summer you’d thought it an excellent idea to test another idea of yours, see if you could not only break the pieces but turn them to ash, the Magistrae had since then regrown his hair and the left wing of the Efram mansion had been rebuild, but you had no doubt he’d heard of every little mistake and slip-up you’d made, for someone who couldn’t manage but the smallest of ways you somehow seemed to bring forth more destruction than a seasoned witch.
Back in the days of Morgana that sort of destruction would have given you untold respect and fear, nowadays all it gets you is extra stable duty and morning sweeps in the entry way.
The Magistrae is a willowy man standing a head taller than even Ophelia, wearing a dark blue suit that seems to shimmer and twist in the evening light, you notice little dots of light swirling around as if constellations move on the fabric. Dark hair color of midnight curls to the nape of his neck, most neatly combed back and tucked behind his ears. He’s reasonably handsome in a way a demon can be reasonably kind with sharp features and slightly hollowed cheeks, striking grey eyes that could land him on the front cover of ‘Hot Ghouls Weekly.’ He has a temper though, one you yet again find yourself on the other side of.
For all the talk of scummy bastards and stuck up prisses Mags calls them, the Magistrae knows as much magic as anyone on the council, perhaps as much as Ophelia, the type of magic that could make you have a very not good time.
You swallow hard, wracking your brain, there has been nothing of late you could have done to offend the Magistrae this bad, not unless he’s very passionate about wearing a helmet on a bike or firework safety. Oh no. “Is this– This isn’t about the fireworks again?”
The red in his face fleets for a second, leaving him an odd pink. “Fireworks?”
“Again?” the dry voice of Ophelia finally speaks up, you catch her eyes in the reflection of the glass stark dark brown narrowed on you, then she sighs. “How many times do I– Not the matter, that’s not why you’re here.” She says your name, your full name, which is never a good thing. When she says it the Magistrae’s eyes cross over as if he isn’t quite hearing it right. “It seems somehow you’ve been chosen–”
“Preposterous!” the Magistrae screams. “There is no way they would pick them! We gave them the candidates this– This disgrace was nowhere on there!”
“Enough, they have been chosen, they will go,” Ophelia says. Sharply. Cold. Final. “We shall not offend the Demon Prince any further or need I remind you of the Council’s dealings with the Celestial Realm three years back? The fallout of which we witches and sorcerers have to deal with?”
The Magistrae has the decency to flush and look away in what could not be embarrassment, but perhaps is more a small dose of humility.
“Uh, sorry,” You squeak out. When the Magistrae eyes swivel back on you, you wish the pillows would swallow you hole. “What’s this about exactly?”
“You will be going to the demon world, acting as a representative, starting next week.”
You shouldn’t have shown up when summoned, this is what following rules gets you. A ticket to Hell.
The news doesn’t travel around the Efram clan, it explodes. By the morning everyone not only knows about the news, but is extremely invested in how you managed to mess this up so bad without even knowing about it. You want nothing more than to hole up in your room and spend the day reading grimoires and crossing your fingers you might get cursed from one of them so you can forget this whole ordeal and have a real pressing issue.
Instead you have chores, and everyone in a ten mile radius can't seem to read a room.
Sweeping the front of the mansion you do at six in the morning when most are still asleep yet a flock of four witches corners you at the entrance just as you're chasing a magic cloud of dust that keeps evading your broom. Asking how you've pulled this one of, and if you messed with the list on accident or on purpose. You smack the cloud of dust hard enough to kill it.
"I didn't do anything."
One of the witches, Parker, nods his head sympathetically. "It's alright, we all know you're accident prone."
Undeterred and bound to your job of playing errand person you go into town to get supplies for the inventory, but every shopkeeper you encounter has something or other to ask, even it seems the non-magical folks seem curious what's got so many people in the town all over the place. Even Mr Morrison, who at age 76 still has not caught onto the fact the town has witchcraft running trough the cobbled streets gives you a side-eyed look he gave you back when the town hall had caught fire. Which hadn't been you, entirely.
When you go to pick up a crate of Wolfsbane from Mrs Alba's Gardening Craft her youngest granddaughter asks how you know the Demon Prince.
"I didn't do anything."
She nods sagely, you think you hear her mutter, "Secret lovers." You decide you have bigger problems, part of you thinks it'll be funny if that rumor goes around town when you're in Hell, keep people on their toes.
By the time Audrey finds you, you're restocking the main storage room. You've decided there should be a HR-management managing all the gossiping happening around here.
"So what did you do?"
You make a noise as you move to reorganize the vials label maker in hand, you consider messing up the labels, if they're sending you to Hell, you might as well indirectly cause someone to have green hair in your absence.
"For the last time, I didn't do anything, I was just sitting there." You wave your hands dropping one of the vials, it crashes on the floor, a puff of pink smoke dissipates from the liquid. "And then your mother send me to Hell! Can you believe that?"
She looks at the vial on the floor, unimpressed. "Yeah, kind of."
Audrey is the only daughter of Ophelia, the next head of the Efram clan, the smartest witch you know, and in every category the person that should have been chosen for the program you are now stuck in. She has the same dark skin as her mother, almost the same black as the starless night sky, eyes the color of basalt yet shining as bright as the light spells where she finds her strongest magic. Every few weeks Audrey changes her hair, and today she seems to have called it quits on the poofy space puns and silky pink hairbands, and instead her black hair is done into twisted braids.
You've known Audrey since you showed up at the doorstep of the mansion bag in hands and soot covering your face determined to be the best witch the world had ever seen. Audrey has had first place tickets to watch that disaster collapse in on itself and die a slow merciless death, before stepping in and taking the crown for herself with ease, not a wrinkle in her white sweater vest or sweat on her brow.
You remember a few years ago during a field trip, already well-aware about your lack of potential, but still holding a fire in you to prove yourself when you'd managed to stumble into a cave where a zodiac lion had been asleep. Made of stars and night skies the thing was supposed to be dead asleep until the sun disappeared yet somehow you'd managed to wake it getting yourself chased half-way across the forest until Audrey showed up and beat the thing, put it to sleep, and send it back to its resting place with minimal efforts.
She'd always made it look so easy, like magic was supposed to come naturally to a witch, like wills, ways and words were really all there was to it.
Her name had been the first one on the list the Magistrae had shoved into your face last night.
Some part of you wants to brag, you've finally won something in this one-sided competition Audrey has sadly watched you play ever since you met. But the bragging sounds a lot less fun when the price is living with demons for you and the loss is peace and quiet for Audrey.
"This isn't you we're talking about. You'd have me kicked out of the clan by now."
"I wouldn't have you kicked out," Audrey says empathically patting your hand. "I'd have you on probation and ten miles away from any magical object, but I'd never kick you out."
You look at her, eyes almost teary. "Because we're family."
Audrey shudders at the suggestion flinching back. "Oh, saints no. Gross." She gags, a little mean and says, "Look, just fess up, what'd you do? Rearrange documents when you were cleaning because you spilled coffee on them and tried to hide the stain? Write your name down on a list because you thought it was for bingo night?" She gasps. "Did you go down into the Devildom and somehow-"
"Not even going to amuse that last idea." You cross your arms. "Why am I banned from bingo night anyway?"
"Because you cheat."
"I don't cheat, I'm lucky!"
"Yeah, because you cheat."
"You're just jealous of me."
Audrey has the nerve to laugh, the sound gentle and warm. "Jealous? Of what? Being able to blow up a shed with a simple blooming spell?"
"Blooming is one letter away from booming, it could have happened to anyone."
"Somehow breaking an unbreakable mug?"
"Everyone creates a paradox at least ones in their lives, it builds character."
"Hoarding useless magic items?"
"The anti-fly fly swatter isn't useless, I just haven't found a use yet."
"Getting orange juice when you try to make a sleeping potion?"
"Hey! Orange juice makes me sleepy, so that wasn't a failure!"
"Showing up on time for ones in your life and getting send to Hell."
You puff your cheek pointing an accusatory finger. "Now you're just being mean!"
Audrey shakes her head with a lopsided smile. "Sorry, sorry," she says looking anything but sorry. "I will admit, I am kind of jealous about how funny your life gets, to watch, not to live it obviously."
You grin proudly. "So you admit it, you'll be bored without me huh? Oh, well Audrey I supposed if you beg I'll see if we can switch places and–"
"No thanks," she says, straightening her bright baby blue skirt. "I quite like the sun so I’ll have to pass on that.”
"What? They don't have a sun down there or something?"
Audrey looks at you as if you're beyond hope. She says your first name, she almost sounds sympathetic, if not a little condescending. "You should read like, a pamphlet or something, they have a bunch of Hell tourist pamphlets in the library."
"What did I ever do to deserve a vitamin-D deficiency?"
"You want a list?"
It's another hour of bickering between the two of you before Audrey calls it quits and decides to go practice some spells before her night routine, she gives you another mean, horrible, uncalled for remark about not dropping any vials, like you'd ever do that, while you're cleaning up some stray glass before she saunters out the door.
The rest of the night is spend huddled on the floor in the traveling section of the Efram library reading trough tourist pamphlets and attractions to see what sort of hell you're in for. Pun not intended, actually an uncalled reminder about your situation if anything.
No sun, longer days, nights sometimes so cold it would freeze you solid in under five seconds, demons prying for shiny interesting souls. Good restaurants though by the look of it, Hell's Burger does sound quite appetizing, but it's severely undercut by the next tidbit about a sauna with a temperature that would boil you alive.
The more you read, the more you deteriorate, not even the thought of public free WiFi curtsy of a new initiative for modernization can calm you down at this points. This is a joke you decide, a very long joke that everyone in the clan is playing on you from the mansion residents to the scattered cottages in the nearby forest, to the few witching villagers in the town a few miles down, everyone's decided to get you back for all the trouble you've caused by dealing you psychic damage and mental anguish over the thought of going to Hell.
It's only for a few months, you try to reason.
If you can survive them.
God this punchline cannot come soon enough.
The week that follows is the weirdest one yet, people still seem convinced you've somehow managed to get yourself into this mess by faults of your own design and not some big cosmic joke you haven't figured out yet. Everywhere you go at least one person corners you and tries to get some sort of gossip or secret out of you, but all they get is the truth. Which apparently they've decided is far too boring.
It's not until the day you are set to leave that it finally seems to hit you: This isn't a joke, they're sending you to Hell.
An hour before your timed departure you kick down the door to Ophelia's office sobbing and dry heaving from all the stress and stairs respectively.
"I don't want to go to Hell, Ophelia!"
She looks up from the papers on her desk and sighs at the sight of you before looking back down, like she knew this were coming, but also doesn't want to deal with it. "You're not going to hell, you're going to the Devildom."
"Same thing!"
"Don't yell in my office."
"Same thing," you hiss. "Is this because I threw a pie at Audrey last month?"
Ophelia doesn't glance up from her papers, but you see her raise an eyebrow. "So that was you then huh." She points one perfectly manicured finger to one of the chairs in front of her. "Don't stand there moping, you look like a kicked puppy. Have some dignity, you're an Efram witch. Sit."
You pout arms crossed, the opposite of dignity, and move to sit in one of the chairs, only because your feet hurt and the chairs are comfortable, obviously.
Five minutes pass of you sunk into the chair pouting like a petulant child, the sound of Ophelia's pen scratching the paper ringing in your ears before you break.
"I didn't do anything."
There's the slightest bit of pause from Ophelia. "I know that, I checked."
You make an undignified noise, scrambling to sit straighter. "Then why–"
"You were hand-picked by the Demon Prince, what would you have me do, tell him he made a mistake?"
"But he did!" You gesture wildly at yourself. "Look at me! I wouldn't survive a day down there!"
Ophelia pulls another document from the pile next to her. "Don't raise your voice, it's late, you'll wake someone up."
"Lady Efram, please." Your voice sounds a little pathetic. "Why are you letting them send me down there? The council would probably jump for joy if you step in and give them anyone else."
Another minute ticks by, finally she sighs, the gesture alone seems heavier than whatever stress you've been holding. "Did you read the letter? Do you remember what was in there?"
"The acceptance one? I, yeah, blah blah, accepted in the exchange program, blah blah, itinerary, blah blah, free WiFi and food."
Ophelia looks up, she looks the tiniest bit tired of you. "I see you paid attention to the important details only," she says dryly, then clasps her hands in front of her. "The exchange program, did you read the details?"
You shuffle in your seat, looking away, but you can feel her eyes cutting into you. "I guess," you mutter. "What does–"
"There is no official school for witches, we are scattered into clans and groups, some holding steadfast at the old ways solitary and hidden. We Efram witches are one of the three oldest clans around. The Clan of Efram, we watch over–"
"The ways of witching," you recite with only the slightest monotone. "I know the motto."
Ophelia nods, she gets a look in her eyes and you try not to back peddle too quickly. "Alright then," she starts with a voice that has you cringing,"if you know so much then would you tell me what this is?"
She grabs the piece of paper she'd been reading moments ago and turns it to face you, you bite your tongue resisting the urge to be clever. Last time you got clever with Ophelia she put you on stable duty for two months.
Your eyes scan over the paper, it's a lot of political jargon you can't make out, a lot of long-winded sentences that take you minutes to figure out with your lacking vocabulary. After a good ten minutes you get the vague idea it's talking about glass and storage.
"Well?" Ophelia asks when you look up again.
"A lawsuit," you make out. She gestures at you to continue. "Something about the wrong type of storing for a magical potion, it ended up in some wood rotting or something. Who cares?"
"I do," Ophelia says, she pulls the paper back to her. "I have to, because that is my job as the head-witch of this clan, I read ridiculous law-suits and take them as serious as the person who gave them to me. I listen to the Magistrae as he marches in and accuses me of stirring up trouble, I do it with a sage nod, but firm hand. I let him talk bad about things he knows nothing about and then I call you into the office and do what I think is the best for us."
"Us?" you ask dryly.
"Witches." Ophelia looks at you, there's guilt in her eyes, but there's also something you can't understand a wisdom that comes with age and responsibilities, with the council pulling you into order and regulations, and your nature planting you in the opposite. "As I said we witches unlike sorcerers do not have one grand school for those who want to learn witchcraft, every clan has a difference to them, every witch brings something new. Even you. That is how we've thrived for centuries. We're adaptable, we know when to fight, when to hide... and when to do neither. There have been... strained relationships between the Celestial and Demon realm for quite some time, but for the last century we've found ourselves in the mix of it all as well. The Demon Prince wants peace between the three realms, for them to exist in harmony, this exchange program is his hope for that–"
"If the balance of three realms is at play here, why are you sending me?" Your voice is barely a whisper, but it's cutting. Ophelia doesn't flinch.
"I do not have the luxury to tell the ruler of the Demon Realm that his choices are incorrect, not after the council tried to go behind his back with the Celestial Realm."
You remember that dispute vaguely, having been too caught in your own world to bother with the grander politics of... anything really. You remember something about alliances being made, favorites being played, most of it was quickly swept up and brushed off.
It dawns on you there might have been a lot more going on behind the scenes than you heard.
There might still be a lot going on, and you're about to be thrown in the middle of it.
Ophelia sighs already catching up to your thought process. "I do regret sending you down there with your lack of political insights." You try not to feel to offended by the truth. "But...I believe you will be fine." She looks at you with softer eyes, a smile tucking at her lips. "You've a habit to garner sympathy."
"You think I'm pathetic enough that they'll feel bad trying to kill me?" you say dryly, Ophelia almost cracks a chuckle.
"Perhaps," she muses turning back to her papers. "Or perhaps you're more clever than you give yourself credit for. Who knows? Maybe you'll learn a thing or two about witchcraft from demons."
There's no more winning an argument after that, Ophelia gives you a last few vague words of encouragement, tells you to be ready to leave in an hour, and finally lets you know that she'll be in contact with the Demon Realm to make sure they're treating you well. The thought that Ophelia is side-eying the demons at every turn while you're down there puts you a little bit more at ease, but it keeps getting undercut by the very real knowledge about the dangers of the Devildom itself let alone the broader layers of Hell and the fact that at the end of the day you won't be able to defend yourself the same way Audrey can.
By the time you're in your room bag in hand, boxes send for you by one of the older witches, you're not sobbing and dry-heaving anymore, but your teeth still clatter against one another and Audrey is looking at you as if she's walking past a wet kitten in a cardboard box.
You doubt the expression will last long, and wonder if they'll throw a party the second you get send down to Hell, you already spotted a group of younger witches-in-training carrying balloons to the common area. Audrey however gives you a pat on the back and a sympathetic nod.
"Don't die," she says dryly, you go to bite back but you see something flash across her eyes not worry neither guilt, you can't read it but she shakes her head quickly. "Write a letter ones in a while so I know you're still breathing."
"What don't want me to text you?"
Audrey looks at you as if you're a lost cause. "There's no data plan that can send messages over to other realms."
"I know that, I was joking. No need to be a know-it-all."
"Sure you were." She pats your back.
'You've a habit to garner sympathy.' You hope it wasn't a lie to make you feel better, and you hope that pathetic sort of garnered sympathy works the same way on demons as it does most people here.
₊✩‧₊ like my work? buy me a ko-fi !
₊✩‧₊ The magic system of words, wills and ways is loosely inspired by the ones and future witches one of my favorite books, it's such a gem honestly. i'm taking some liberties with it and most of the world building will be well a little soft and not the main focus, mostly this story is just meant to be fun lose anecdotes with an overarching story line somewhere in there.
Most of this was just set-up to help get you the vibes of the story and the background, technically you can treat this as a bunch of one shots and jump between your favorite characters. Anyway hope you like it I have an exam to study for.
ok but am i the only one who doesn't think it's that unreasonable that solomon, the protector of humanity, is asking us to side with humanity if it ever comes to that
i see people out here acting like he's committing a war crime or something ?? sorry but I wouldn't want to fight on opposite sides of someone i love either ?? like that's valid??
God, this man has the absolute worst case of nostalgia based rose tinted glasses
In nightbringer itself Asmo says the day before they Fell he was hiding from Raphael for messing with him/pissing him off
All of Lucifer's siblings (minus Levi, as far as we know) were frequently sneaking into the human world while they were actively at war with the Devildom and while it was forbidden to interact with humans
Mammon used the angels as his own giant chess set????
Mammon used to sneak into the human world to collect pigeon feathers and sell them to angels by saying they were Raphael's feathers, which is hilarious but is also A FUCKING SCAM THAT CURRENT MAMMON WOULD ABSOLUTELY PULL
The others actually thought Mammon would Fall long before he did because he was such a shit head
Asmo used to have his Asmo parties or Asmo nights or whatever up in the Celestial Realm despite Raphael saying parties are bad (I feel like the actual word he used was "immoral"? )
Asmo used to sneak into the human world to go partying with humans
It is heavily implied in s3 that asmo was fucking & sucking his way through the celestial realm (good for him btw get those sticks outta the angels' asses babe i believe in you <3 )
The twins and Lilith used to frequently sneak into the human world
Lilith started a whole ass relationship with a human and lied her ass off about it so that she could keep it secret
Lilith compared Michael to a jellyfish???? the first time she met him and that pissed him off
Lilith held a hell of a grudge
Belphie used to skip work so he could go nap
The brothers, as a team, used to catch frogs, cut holes in books, put the frogs into them and wait for Raphael to open them
The brothers, as a team, used to dig pits in the ground and cover them up so that other angels would fall into them (at least the frog thing was kinda funny this is just them being straight up dicks)
Raphael was constantly chasing them around with his spears and getting on Lucifer's ass about them because of how troublesome they were
S4 implies that the reason the brothers' pranks are more refined as demons, compared to when they were angels, is because they now have Satan
So yeah, they were always asses
But even if there is some truth in what Lucifer said about them being kind & sincere (and honestly, there is. We've seen more than enough evidence of it in the events, devilgrams, chats & s1-4) :
Levi says he was depressed in the Celestial Realm and felt like he didn't fit in.
Both Mammon & Beel didn't fit in until Lucifer found them.
Lilith definitely didn't feel like she fit in.
Lucifer, as a demon, says he'll never want to go back. Talking with Diavolo as an angel made him lose a little faith in the Celestial Realm. His greatest fear is possibly his father. Even before they Fell something in the Celestial Realm was pissing him off so much that he managed to spawn a whole other conscious life form - Satan says he gained his own consciousness even before Asmo was created meaning that anger had been festering for a long time.
As far as we know Asmo & Belphie were the only ones who were genuinely happy throughout their entire time in the Celestial Realm (and I think once Asmo gets used to his demon form he'll appreciate the freedom in the devildom over the strictness of the celestial realm)
Mammon, in Nightbringer, says that they know there's no real difference between being an angel or a demon and that they're all just labels.
Whatever sincerity and kindness they, may or may not have, had in the Celestial Realm wasn't because they were angels. Or because of the Celestial Realm.
It was in spite of all that.
It was just what they are like as people.
And of course that sincerity and kindness aren't gonna shine through right after a horribly traumatic event that killed their sister and permanently changed their bodies. And due to such an event & their Sins becoming more...more, they'll obviously be different and treat each other differently as demons.
But at the end of the day they are good, kind people, even as demons.
a lot of fanart and headcanons sort of assume that mc looks like a demon in nightbringer for some reason or another and gives them horns, wings/a tail, etc. but i think we're all neglecting a much funnier possibility: mc is very clearly a human and just lying out of their ass about demon shit, making everyone look at them sideways but nobody can prove anything
lucifer, suspicious as all hell: "well, mc, if you're really a demon, then why aren't you ever in your demon form?"
The Demon King entered a coma before Mc came in Nightbringer because he knew if he was conscious for their arrival that he’d be no match for their sheer sexual magnetism
obey me imagines @devilldoms - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
