My brain just fizzled up an idea! Alright, the 7 brothers (Obey me!) x reader who is prone to just falling asleep literally anywhere. Like it dosnt matter where or what they're doing, just boom! Asleep! A walk in the park? Suddenly they disappear and are found dead asleep in/on/under a tree.
I totally see it! 👀✨️ Thank you for the request.
Next is Haikyuu request! And after it request with "Janka" ship from gachiatuka in poly relationship with reader 💪🏼✨️
_________________________________________
Mammon's initial reaction is pure panic every single time. The first incident happens during one of your casual walks through a quiet park in the human world (or a suspiciously similar green space in the Devildom). You're chatting about some get-rich-quick scheme he's hyped about, laughing at his dramatic gestures—and then you're gone. Not literally gone, but slumped against a tree trunk like you'd been hit with a sleeping spell. He turns around mid-sentence ("—and then we'll be swimmin' in Grimm, ya hear me?!") and nearly has a heart attack.
"Oi! Human! What the—?!" He shakes your shoulder gently at first, then more frantically. "Hey! Don't scare me like that! Ya can't just keel over!" When he realizes you're just dead asleep, snoring softly with leaves in your hair, his face goes from terrified to bright red. He mutters something like, "Tch… stupid human, makin' me worry…"
From then on, it becomes a running thing. And Mammon—despite all his bluster—turns into your unofficial sleep guardian.
In public? He's constantly scanning for you like a hawk. You vanish for two seconds to "just sit for a minute" on a bench? He's already sprinting back with his jacket off, ready to drape it over you like a blanket. If someone (usually one of his brothers) teases him about it, he snaps, "Shut it! Ya think I want 'em catchin' a cold or gettin' kidnapped while they're out cold?!" (The kidnapping part is only half a joke—he's paranoid about it.)
During group hangouts? Movie night at the House of Lamentation turns into Mammon subtly shifting closer every time your eyes start drooping. The second your head lolls, he's there—arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side like it's no big deal. "What? Ya were gonna fall anyway! I'm just savin' ya from hittin' the floor, ya ungrateful human!" But his grip is gentle, and he stays perfectly still for hours if it means you stay comfy.
The infamous tree incident. You go missing mid-walk again.....Mammon freaks out, yelling your name through the park until he finds you curled up under a massive tree root like some kind of forest creature, fast asleep with your hoodie pulled over your head. He facepalms so hard. "…How do ya even fit down there?!" He ends up sitting beside you for like an hour, grumbling the whole time.
At home? His room becomes the safest nap spot because he baby-proofs it for your random crashes. Extra pillows, a spare blanket he "found" (stole from Belphie), even a little bell he jokingly ties to your wrist so he knows when you conk out. If you fall asleep on his couch mid-rant about his latest scheme, he just sighs dramatically, tucks you in, and keeps talking quietly anyway—like you're still listening. It's his way of staying close without admitting how much he likes the quiet company.
Bonus✨️ tsundere protectiveness. If anyone else tries to move or wake you (especially Lucifer barking orders or Asmo wanting "cute pics"), Mammon turns feral. "Back off! They're restin'! Touch 'em and I'll repossess every last one of your fancy creams, ya hear?!" He's loud about it, but the way he hovers makes it obvious—he's proud to be the one you trust enough to just shut down around.
Beelzebub is used to sleepy people—he lives with Belphegor, after all🧍♂️—so when you first start dozing off mid-conversation or mid-anything, he doesn't panic. He just tilts his head, orange hair falling slightly into his violet eyes, and quietly assesses the situation like he's deciding whether to eat the last donut or save it for later.
If he ever lost sight of you (because, for example, you fell asleep while walking, under a tree), Beel would immediately stop, a little dazed. Looking like a puppy who'd lost his master. He would sniff the air, an old habit, and then calmly follow the scent of your perfume/shampoo/whatever. And when he found you, he would simply lift you onto his back and carry you to your room.
During a movie night in the living room, you lean against his side, eyes drooping. Five minutes later, you're fully slumped in his lap, snoring softly against his chest. Beel just shifts so you're more comfortable, one arm around you like you're the most precious thing he's ever held (and in his mind, you kind of are—more than food, even). He keeps eating snacks one-handed so he doesn't jostle you.
At the gym after training together. You sit on a bench to "catch your breath" and boom—head lolls forward, asleep sitting up. Beel notices instantly, scoops you up bridal-style without breaking a sweat, and carries you home. He likes how you instinctively nuzzle into his neck when he does that.
In the kitchen while he's cooking (or devouring). You hop up on the counter to keep him company, swinging your legs... then slowly tip sideways until your head lands on his shoulder. He pauses mid-bite, smiles that rare, tiny, genuine smile, and keeps one arm looped around your waist so you don't slide off.
He never teases you about it the way Mammon or Asmo might. To Beel, it's just... you. Another thing he loves and wants to protect. If you're prone to crashing anywhere, he'll start carrying extra blankets, pillows, even a spare hoodie that smells like him (and faintly of whatever he last ate). He'll gently wake you only when necessary, voice low and rumbling: "Hey... time to move. Or do you want me to carry you?"
And if you mumble "carry," half-asleep? His heart does that funny flip thing, and he'll lift you like you weigh nothing, cradling you close as he walks.
Because you're his favorite person to find asleep under trees, on benches, against walls... anywhere, really. As long as he gets to be the one who keeps you safe while you dream.
(And yeah—he might sneak a tiny kiss to your forehead when he thinks no one's looking. Shh. Don't tell Belphie.)
At first, he plays it up for drama, of course.
"Oh my stars, darling! Did you just fall asleep on me again? In the middle of the park? While I was telling you about the new limited-edition shimmer gloss that would look divine on you?" He fans himself dramatically, even though no one's around to appreciate the performance except a couple of confused hell-crows.
But then he spots you: curled up under that massive, twisted Devildom oak tree you somehow managed to tuck yourself beneath like it was a custom-made blanket fort. Leaves in your hair, soft little breaths puffing out, completely oblivious to the world. His complaints die in his throat.
He crouches down gracefully (because even in a crisis he refuses to look anything less than flawless), brushing a stray leaf from your cheek with the lightest touch.
"You really are something else, you know that?" he murmurs, voice dropping the theatrical lilt for something softer, almost fond. "Most people would kill for even five minutes of my undivided attention, and here you are, using me as background noise to nap."
He sighs — long, exaggerated, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him.
With a quick glance around to make sure no one’s watching (he has a reputation to uphold, after all), he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over you like the most luxurious blanket in the three realms. Then he sits beside you, legs crossed elegantly, scrolling through his D.D.D. while keeping one hand resting lightly on your arm — just in case you roll into something pointy or a stray hellbat decides you look snack-sized.
When you finally stir, blinking up at him groggily, he immediately launches back into diva mode.
"There you are~! I was starting to think I'd have to carry you home bridal-style in front of the entire Devildom. Can you imagine the scandal? The photos? The likes?" He winks, but his thumb is still tracing absent little circles on your wrist.
You mumble an apology, rubbing your eyes, and he just laughs — light and musical.
"Apologize? Darling, please. If you weren't so cute when you're unconscious, I might actually be offended." He leans in, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead. "But you are. Insufferably so. Now come on, up you get. We're going back to my room for a proper nap. Silk sheets, mood lighting, my arms around you so you don't wander off and pass out in my perfume cabinet again."
(That happened once. He still brings it up every chance he gets, mostly because the memory of you drooling on his favorite rose-scented shoulder pillow makes him feel oddly... cherished.)
Other times it's less dramatic.
You're at one of his photoshoots, sitting just off-camera, and the lights are warm, the chatter is low, the scent of his cologne lingers in the air — next thing he knows, the director calls for a break and you're slumped against a pile of prop cushions, fast asleep with your head tilted at an awkward angle.
Asmo excuses himself mid-pose (the photographer nearly faints from shock), saunters over, and gently maneuvers you so your head rests on his thigh instead. He strokes your hair while the crew resets, humming softly.
"You're going to ruin my aesthetic with all this sweetness, you know," he whispers. "How am I supposed to look irresistibly seductive when I'm busy melting over you?"
He ends up posting a single, tastefully cropped photo later: just his manicured hand resting on someone's sleeping form, soft lighting, caption reading:
"Sometimes the most beautiful things happen when the world isn't watching. 💕 #MyFavoriteView #SleepyAngel"
(Everyone in the comments loses their minds trying to figure out who it is. He never confirms. He just smiles at his screen like he's won something precious.)
And on the nights when you crash in the middle of his skincare routine — face half-masked, cucumber slices abandoned on the counter — he doesn't even complain. He just scoops you up (bridal style, naturally), carries you to his bed, and tucks you in before finishing his routine one-handed so he can keep the other on you.
Because here's the thing Asmodeus won't say out loud: your random, shameless naps make him feel needed. Not wanted for his looks, his charm, his status — but needed in the quiet, simple way that someone trusts you enough to just... shut down around you. Vulnerable. Safe.
So yeah. Keep falling asleep literally anywhere.
He'll always come find you.
He'll always make sure you're comfortable.
And he'll always — always — tease you mercilessly about it the second your eyes open again.
Because that's how the Avatar of Lust says "I love you." 🫡✨️
Belphegor thinks it's the best thing ever when he realizes just how much you two align on the sleep front.
At first, he's a little smug about it. You're out here dropping like a rock in the middle of a casual stroll through the park—one second you're chatting about the weird-shaped clouds, the next you're gone. He glances over, expecting you to be tying your shoe or something mundane, only to find empty space beside him.
A quick scan later and there you are: curled up under a low-hanging tree branch like you personally claimed that patch of grass as your new bed for the next three hours. Leaves in your hair, one arm flung out dramatically, completely dead to the world.
He stands there for a second, before a slow, lazy grin spreads across his face.
"Seriously?" he mutters, but there's zero actual annoyance in it—only amusement and something warmer underneath. "You're worse than me."
He drops down beside you without hesitation. He doesn't even try to wake you. Why would he? If anything, he feels oddly... proud? Like he finally found someone who gets it on the same level he does. No lectures about "getting up and being productive" or "you're wasting daylight." Just pure, unfiltered acceptance of the fact that sometimes (most times) the body says "sleep now" and that's that.
It becomes a running thing between you two.
During a movie night in the living room? You nod off against his shoulder mid-scene. He just shifts so you're more comfortable, tucks his cow pillow under your head, and keeps watching with the volume low. If one of his brothers tries to make noise, he shoots them the deadliest, sleepiest glare until they tiptoe away.
On a group outing to the Devildom markets? You vanish for the third time that hour. Beel finds you first (he's got a sixth sense for locating sleeping people thanks to years of dealing with Belphie), slumped against a stack of crates behind a fruit stall, fast asleep with a half-eaten skewer still in your hand. Belphie shows up seconds later, sighs like it's the most predictable thing in the world, and scoops you up princess-style without breaking eye contact with his twin.
"Told you they'd do it again," he says flatly to Beel, who just nods and offers to carry the snacks.
Stargazing on the roof? You make it about ten minutes into pointing out constellations before your head lolls onto his lap. He freezes for half a second—then relaxes, fingers idly threading through your hair as he keeps talking softly about the stars anyway. Your soft breathing is better background noise than any lullaby.
He starts carrying little things just for these moments: a spare blanket in his bag, that ultra-soft pillow he swears is enchanted for perfect naps, even a tiny bell charm he clips to your clothes so he can hear if you wander off and crash somewhere weird (like that one time you fell asleep halfway up a staircase and slid down three steps before wedging yourself in place).
If anyone teases him about how whipped he is, he just shrugs.
"They're mine. If they wanna sleep on a random bench in the middle of nowhere, I'm not gonna stop 'em. Means I get to nap too."
But the real tell is how fast he notices when you're starting to drift. Your eyes get that glassy look, your steps slow, words slur just a tiny bit—he's already scanning for the nearest soft surface or shady spot before you even fully clock out.
And when you wake up later (usually to him curled around you like the world's laziest big spoon), blinking at wherever you've ended up this time, he just smirks down at you, sleepy and content.
"Welcome back. Nice spot you picked. Ten out of ten for comfort. We staying here or moving to the attic?"
You mumble something incoherent and nuzzle closer.
He chuckles low, already closing his eyes again.
(He secretly loves it more than he'll ever admit out loud. You're the one person who makes even his sloth feel... shared. Like napping isn't just his thing anymore—it's your thing too. And honestly? Nothing feels better than that.)
At first, he'd be annoyed. Picture this: the two of you are out on a supposedly calm walk through one of the Devildom's quieter parks—maybe he suggested it as a rare break from paperwork and his brothers' chaos. You're chatting, enjoying the (admittedly eerie) fresh air, and then... silence. He glances over, and you're gone. Vanished. His pride stings a little at how easily you slipped away from his side, but the real panic sets in when he starts searching.
He finds you curled up under a gnarled, ancient tree, fast asleep on a bed of suspiciously soft moss, looking far too peaceful for someone who just boom—dropped like a rock mid-conversation. Lucifer stands there for a long moment, arms crossed, crimson eyes narrowed in that signature "I am disappointed but also intrigued" stare.
"How utterly ridiculous," he'd mutter under his breath, though there's no real venom in it. He sighs deeply, the kind of dramatic, long-suffering sigh only Lucifer can pull off—before crouching down. He'd gently shake your shoulder at first. "MC. Wake up. This is no place for a nap."
If you mumble something incoherent and snuggle deeper into the moss, his expression softens just a fraction. Pride won't let him admit it outright, but the sight of you so vulnerable and trusting in such a random spot tugs at something protective in him. Humans are fragile; the Devildom isn't exactly safe for impromptu naps. What if some lower demon stumbled across you? Or worse—one of his brothers decided to "prank" your sleeping form?
So he scoops you up bridal-style without another word. He carries you all the way back to the House of Lamentation, ignoring any curious glances from passersby. If anyone dares comment, they get the full-force Lucifer Glare. Once you're safely in his room (because obviously he's not leaving you in your own bed where Mammon or someone could bother you), he lays you down carefully. He might even remove your shoes and pull the covers over you with more gentleness than he'd ever confess to. Then he sits at his desk, pretending to work, but really he's keeping watch—every so often glancing over to make sure you're breathing steadily.
Over time, this becomes routine. Lucifer starts anticipating your random crashes:
During student council meetings? If your eyes start drooping, he slides a subtle pillow (that he "just happened" to have) behind your head and lets you rest against his arm. Diavolo finds it endlessly amusing; Lucifer pretends not to notice the prince's knowing grin.
In the library? He tracks you down with a tracking spell on your D.D.D. (he installed it "for safety reasons," he claims) and carries you to a secluded corner couch instead of letting you slump over a table.
At a formal event? He keeps you close, one arm around your waist like it's the most natural thing. When you nod off against him mid-conversation, he smoothly excuses both of you, murmuring something about "human fatigue" while internally preening that you feel safe enough with him to let your guard down completely.
He'll scold you—lightly, always lightly when it's you—about taking better care of yourself. "If you're this exhausted, you should have said something. I could have arranged for rest." But the scolding comes with him tucking a strand of hair behind your ear or pressing a rare, feather-light kiss to your forehead when he thinks you're fully out.
Deep down, though? Lucifer adores it. Your unpredictable naps are proof that you trust him implicitly—that even in a chaotic, dangerous world, you feel secure enough to just... shut down. It's a quiet intimacy he never knew he craved. And if anyone else tries to tease you about it (looking at you, Asmodeus), they get a very pointed reminder of why Lucifer is feared.
Eventually, he might even start carrying a small blanket or pillow in his coat "just in case." But if you ever point it out, he'll deny it with every ounce of his pride.
"You're imagining things, MC. Now come here—before you decide the floor looks comfortable again."
The first time it happened, he froze, book still open in his lap, staring at your peacefully slack face. He checked your pulse, confirmed you were simply asleep, and then—after a long, considering moment—gently extracted the novel from under your cheek, marked his page, and draped his coat over you like a blanket. He didn't move for the next hour, content to let the quiet stretch while he watched over you, one hand absently stroking your hair.
A walk in the park becomes an adventure in hide-and-seek. One minute you're holding his hand, laughing at some dry observation he made about the overly dramatic fountain statues. The next, you've vanished. He sighs, already scanning the area with the patience of someone who's done this thirty-seven times before (he's counted).
He finds you under a low-hanging willow tree, curled on your side in the grass like you belong there, using your own arm as a pillow. A stray leaf has landed on your nose. Satan crouches beside you, plucks it away, and murmurs,
"You really have no sense of self-preservation, do you?"
No answer, of course. Just soft, even breathing.
He debates leaving you (the grass is clean enough, the area is warded against lesser demons thanks to his subtle spells), but the thought of some stray cat curling up on you—or worse, one of his brothers spotting you and never letting him live it down—wins out.
With practiced ease, he slips one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and lifts. You're light to him, always have been. He adjusts you against his chest so your head tucks naturally under his chin, then starts the walk home.
Sometimes he talks to you while carrying you, voice quiet enough not to wake you but steady enough to feel like conversation.
"You know, there's a chapter in 'The Enigmatic Case of the Vanishing Scholar' that reminds me of you. The protagonist falls asleep in the archives and wakes up three days later with an entire mystery solved around them. Perhaps you're secretly brilliant in your sleep."
A small huff of breath against his collarbone—your version of a laugh, even unconscious.
He likes these moments more than he'll ever admit. The Avatar of Wrath isn't supposed to find peace in something so mundane, but there's something soothing about your utter trust. You fall asleep anywhere, anytime, because on some level you know the Devildom (and he) will keep you safe. That knowledge settles something restless in him, quiets the low simmer of anger that never fully leaves.
Back at the House of Lamentation, he doesn't take you to your room. Not immediately. Instead he detours to his own, easing you onto his bed amid the carefully organized chaos of books and cat-themed trinkets. He removes your shoes, pulls the covers up, and sits on the edge for a while, watching your face smooth out in deeper sleep.
"You'll be the death of me," he says softly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. "One day you'll doze off somewhere truly dangerous, and I'll have to tear the entire Devildom apart looking for you."
But there's no real heat in it. Just fondness, wrapped around the edges of his usual composure.
He leans down, presses the lightest kiss to your temple, then settles beside you with a book—because if you're going to nap, he might as well get some reading done.
And if anyone (Lucifer, probably) knocks later asking why he's missing dinner?
Satan simply replies through the door, calm as ever,
"Occupied. Come back never."
Then he turns the page, one hand finding yours under the blanket, and smiles—just a little—when your fingers curl around his in your sleep.
Leviathan would absolutely lose his mind (in the most endearing, flustered way possible) over a partner who just... naps anywhere like it's no big deal.
At first, he'd be panicked every single time it happens. You're walking together through the RAD gardens or along one of the quieter Devildom paths because you somehow convinced him to leave his room for "fresh air" (he grumbled the whole way about how normies do this for fun, but he came anyway because it was you). One minute you're chatting about the latest limited-edition Ruri-chan merch drop, the next you're gone. Poof.
He freezes. "H-Huh? Where did they—?! NORMIE SPOTTING! Wait, no, that's not— MC?!"
Cue him speed-walking in circles, tail flicking anxiously behind him, muttering "this is bad, this is so bad, did they get kidnapped? Did they fall into a pit? Did Lotan eat them—wait no I didn't summon him today—". Until he spots you curled up under a tree, using your own arm as a pillow, completely dead to the world with soft little breathing sounds.
His brain short-circuits. Levi.exe has stopped working.
He crouches down super slowly like he's approaching a rare legendary Pokémon that's about to despawn, cheeks already flaming orange. "H-Hey... MC...? You're... you're asleep. Out here. On the ground. Like some kind of... outdoor IRL save point?!"
He debates waking you up (because what if bugs crawl on you? What if someone else sees you vulnerable and teases him about it later?). But then he notices how peaceful you look, how your hair's fallen across your face, and suddenly he's hit with that overwhelming "this person chose ME, a gross otaku shut-in, and now they're napping like they feel safe around me" wave of feelings.
So instead he sits down cross-legged next to you — very carefully, like any sudden movement will ruin everything — and pulls out his D.D.D. to quietly play a low-volume gacha game or watch an episode with one earbud in. Every few minutes he glances over, whispering to himself, "Normies would wake their partner up... but I'm not a normie... so it's fine... right? Right. Totally fine."
If you shift in your sleep and end up leaning against his side or using his lap as a pillow? Instant death. Full-body blush. Steam practically coming out of his ears. "W-Why are humans built like this?! This should be illegal! I-I mean, not that I'm complaining—wait no I am complaining! This is too much damage—!"
He ends up staying there until you wake up on your own, at which point he immediately starts stammering excuses: "I-I wasn't watching you sleep or anything creepy like that! I was just... guarding the area! Yeah! Like a knight in an isekai protecting the protagonist while they rest at an inn! N-Not that you're the protagonist or anything—wait you kind of are—argh forget I said anything!!"
Over time though, he gets... used to it? Sort of? He starts carrying little things "just in case": a spare hoodie in case the ground's cold, a portable charger so his D.D.D. doesn't die while he waits, even a tiny travel pillow he pretends he bought "for Henry 2.0's tank setup" but totally got for you.
Because for someone who spends so much time feeling like he doesn't belong anywhere, having you fall asleep around him — trusting him enough to just shut down wherever you are — makes him feel like maybe, just maybe, he's not such a worthless otaku after all.
(He'll still panic-scream internally every time, though. Some things never change.)
