Surely spending that long in solitary confinement with unresolved grief and seething rage can't be good for anyone, huh? Perhaps it's time to observe Belphegor's experience in the attic...
My Obey Me! fan game, Nightmare of the Attic, is now available to play for free on itch.io! You can download it HERE!
Thank you so much for your support while I worked on this, I genuinely couldn't have completed this without your encouragement :) If you play and you have any thoughts at all pleasepleasepleaseplease let me know!!!!
You hit post, uploading your selfie to Devilgram for all to see. The number of haters and mean messages had been increasing for some time. Nasty anti-human comments flooded your notifications on the daily, getting worse every time Asmodeus referenced you in his story or Diavolo mentioned you in a speech.
Your image caption read, "btw when you're being mean to me, this is who you're being mean to."
No hashtags. People would find it anyway.
It was a normal photo. You thought the light was kind of flattering and you captured a decent angle. You didn't look special, though. You were center frame, in your everyday RAD uniform, making a peace sign with your fingers. You hoped most demons understood what a peace sign was.
Beside you were the Seven Rulers of Hell. Their presence looked so relaxed that any common demon who was used to their cold and untouchable visages would immediately do a double-take.
Lucifer had his hand on your shoulder in a gentle yet possessive grip. Next to him was Mammon, reaching over to put his sunglasses on your face. Beelzebub rested his chin on the crown of your head as Asmodeus gave the two of you bunny ears with his fingers. Leviathan poked out from under your arm, which was linked around Satan's elbow. The top half of Belphegor's head barely made it in the frame. He was crouched under Lucifer, grabbing on to the side of your shirt and partially blocked by your hand that was taking the selfie.
It was a sweet image with a crystal clear hidden message:
Don't mess with our human.
The mugs are still there—unused, dry, waiting to be picked up.
No one in the house uses them. Even when all the clean cups run out, they would rather wash some than use those utensils.
They’re sacred, in a solemn way. That they are yours, and that you will someday come back to use them. Complain after climbing the counters, annoyance in your tone as you grab your beloved porcelain mugs. They retain heat better, you would say, and they look so cute!
The handle with a cat's tail, a capybara in another.
Beelzebub wipes the dust from them religiously, once a week, as if for the utensils to be collecting dust means a personal insult. Might as well be. In a fight that had broken out a few weeks before, he came to the kitchen in shambles, Satan and Beelzebub with fangs bared at each other, but that corner of the cupboard untouched.
Desecretion would not be tolerated.
He’s never seen his brothers so guarded.
Lucifer snaps out of his thoughts when his D.D.D. pings with a text from Lord Diavolo. Fifty-five pages of audit reports which need to be reviewed. He puts down his empty coffee mug and gets to work with a sigh.
Over the video call, as numbers and charts are shared, he finds it easy to get lost in them. In the drudgery that work brings, focuses on budget optimizations and new contracts. The Mausoleum needs restoration. Barbatos brings it up—seepage in the lower walls, a threat to the structural integrity over time. That is why they are having this video conference. The contractor on call with him is a renowned one, having restored previous other structures in the realm. A deal is made.
Guaranteed to last at least another one thousand years! He had read it on their website, glasses sliding down. The last time such a renovation was done was when Leviathan decided to give Mammon the silent treatment. Temporary annoyances, renovations and all. Man-made structures in the human world have it done more frequently that demons do. Lucifer wonders how much of a pain in the ass it would be.
He really should take a bath soon, his face and body feel sticky.
He cracks his neck and holds his head in his hands. Then he picks up the pen with his left hand, the right one picking up his D.D.D. to type a text to the contact he never deleted with eagerness and hope associated with that name:
"Will you be free to visit the opera with me tomorrow?"
There's a sharp curse that breaks the silence, and the man puts the device down.
Habits are hard to break.
He wonders whether he will forget this one in the coming millennia.
Belpheghor's the one to alert the others.
He never screams, never has the raucous voice that some of his siblings do. So when he calls, it's urgent.
His inhumane hearing picked up on the tone, his baby brother's voice breaking off at the end, and Lucifer's breath caught in his throat as he set down his quill too harshly, departing for the garden.
The soil is wet under his shoes, clinging to the soles as Belpheghor stands in front of the flowerbeds, jaw clenched. "What is it?" Satan asks on one side, furrowing his brows, and the youngest moves to give a clear view.
There's a gasp heard from someone, and Lucifer crouches down to stare at the plant.
The black Poinsettias planted by you have shrivelled up and died.
The brothers are trying to not think about the implications.
"T-The soil's too damp!" Mammon blurts out from behind him, picking up the earth to inspect it, letting it brown his fingers and stain his rings with mud. Brown clings to gold. "Too wet! S'why its happenin—we outta talk to Barbatos to revive it—"
The flower has folded into itself, petals and leaves now a sickly color, reduced to half its height. He could have sworn it was lively the last time he saw it.
"......I'll see what can be done." Lucifer declares. "Everyone, back with your work."
He departs before the others can see his expression.
The plant survived a decade with you. Thrived and bloomed, its scent reminiscent of you. It isn't fair, it isn't fair, it isn't fair.
The demon is still clinging onto whatever parts of you he can still access. Your clothes, with your fading scent, your books with scribbles, your hair clip and your scrunchies.
The death of this flower feels like defeat, loss seeping into his life and colouring it grey.
Asmodeus asks about Barbatos's visit later at dinner. Lucifer lets the taste of deviled zebra steep on his tongue before it turns to disgust. "I've asked him to visit tomorrow, we'll see what can be done about the matter at hand."
Then his gaze falls at the empty spot, and his resolve hardens.
He feels as if he is dining with ghosts sometimes, two beings gone more lively in the silence in the grim life that the ones alive bring. Without you, everything is dull. That's why you should visit more often.
He has to make it mandatory for dinner to be had at the dining table, desired the added conundrum it would bring with the inconveniences. At least for one meal, he has to see them together, in front of him.
"Put the phone down when you're at the table," a chide, and Mammon groans. "Jeez, you're being more uptight than ever. It's not like we talk!"
Mammon's casualness irritates him.
"Then shall we discuss vital matters at this table? Especially your grades." The younger demon winces. "Minus C in Potions and Hexes." Lucifer announces, taking a bite of the food, then his eyes fall on another. "Belpheghor, no sleeping in your soup."
The next day, Barbatos arrives. Saturday, when there are no classes.
He inspects the wilted flower with a clothed finger, cradles it in his hand while Lucifer stands and watches, impassive. The air is heavy with humidity, makes the back of his neck feel sticky. The brown grocery bag is neatly folded on a bench, ah, the port market is open today.
"It cannot be revived. There is rot from within."
He dusts off the dirt and stands gracefully, not a wrinkle on his clothes despite the movement. Maybe he starches his garments, Lucifer thinks. Irons them thoroughly at night so that it is always crisp. "My apologies."
Of course, the words are softer. He's not apologising for the plant.
Lucifer hums quietly. Nods his head as he gawks at the sight with a straight face. Ignores the way his breath stutters halfway through his throat.
At night, he finds himself waiting near the entrance. Coat absent, tie loosened and hair a mess. His eyes dart every once in a while towards his watch. Two in the morning, and is this a time to arrive at home?! Must this occur every weekend?! He should impose a curfew, Lucifer thinks, pacing around. Make it so that repeated offenders are punished. Maybe hang them from the chandelier or prevent them from going out anymore.
Keep them on a tight leash so that no more mistakes can be committed, no lethal ones, no fatal ones, no more no more—
The door swings open, and his head darts towards the sound. The scent of perfume hits him first: Devildom rose and something fruity in its layering. Then he arrives, the reason for this act in the middle of the night, stumbling and giggling, hiding his face in his arms as he haphazardly removes his footwear.
Lucifer watches with narrowed eyes, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue. But Asmodeus does not let him say anything, shushes his mouth before he can open it to speak. "Luciferrrr" He slurs, and the alcohol on his breath hits him. "Were you waiting for me by the door? That's so sweet of you! Hic-were you worried for me?"
The eldest has a thousand reprimands on his tongue tonight. But he assesses the state the fifth-born is in and concludes that he won't even register the admonishment.
"Wash up and go to sleep." He steadies his brother, lets him grab onto his forearms as he sways. His jewellery catches the light. "I will scold you tomorrow."
There's glitter on his clothes now, evident in the light, and the demon dreads washing it. Glitter in the rest of the laundry, washing machine, shoes. Great.
"All you do is scold—" A manicured finger at his chest, nail polish glittering in the light—"and scold. Noooo fun. Loosen up." Asmodeus whines, and the eldest narrowly manages to avoid him from hitting his head on the nearby pillar. Helen would have been pleased. "Maybe I should call MC—they never failed to make you smile."
Yeah, he is drunk.
He straightens his posture. "Go to sleep, Asmodeus." His voice is flat now. Measured. Controlled. He manoeuvres the fifth-born towards the stairs. If he falls he falls. That would be a good lesson learnt. Do not get so wasted as to fall off from the stairs when you arrive sloshed at home despite having a curfew imposed.
His brother frowns and stumbles for his room.
Lucifer adjusts the footwear in the shoe rack, and sits down on the steps. Cradles his head and sighs in anticipation of the headache that will form in the next thirty minutes.
Ignisprofen.
And a glass of water.
It was decided that your belongings would never be tampered with.
Safely tucked away in your room with a spell to prevent the ravages of time from affecting it. The arrangement worked well for a century or two, then the house flooded with water one fine day because of Leviathan's anger, submerging the ground floor.
With the water drained and the wood restored, your room put back in its proper state, Lucifer assumed everything was saved.
But the tree in your room was rotting, the usually firm trunk now soft and soggy, leaves falling off discoloured on your bed. Air damp and bedsheets wet.
It's not like anyone is going to inhabit this room anytime soon.
They won't let anyone else.
You were theirs.
While searching for damage, your digital camera was found in a corner of your closet. Conspicuous, dust clinging to it, with those worn out stickers still on it. Dolphins and Blackjack, now smudged and half-torn. Mammon had stared at it before taking it along with him too; unwilling to part with it. Snatched it up and held it as if it were more precious than Goldie, fingers cradling the body, thumbing over the torn part of a sticker.
Lucifer picked it up from his brother's room when Mammon was away.
He had to see it.
Despite the heartache that would come with it.
So, after a week filled with meetings that seemed to go on for hours and hours, soothed by Barbatos's tea and sleep that came fitfully, he decided that it would be opened.
His memory fails him now. What pictures and videos were there in it? You had always been possessive of it, never letting one of his brothers even take a glance. The camera came with you on trips—aquariums, zoos, Siren beach— Lucifer does not know what he was expecting to see.
You would have wrenched it out of his hands by now, if you were here, that is.
He sees the first photo, has to jog his memory to remember. Oh, the underground maze, with Henry 1.0.—wait—did they sneak in there without informing anyone?! The demon's brows furrow, then a chuckle resounds in the room. At least its funny now. Then another photo, then another, another, another—
His vision blurs, the candlelight morphing into a yellow-orange halo. The man sits back in his chair and chokes on a sob.
A photo of him laughing at Cerberus’s antics, the moonlight catching on his cheekbones. Another with Mammon on his device, headphones in his ears. Leviathan in his bathtub, grin evident on his face. Satan petting a calico in an alleyway. Asmodeus in the club, with glitter on his body shining. Belpheghor cheering for Beelzebub in a Fangol match.
Countless others—all of them were of him and his brothers.
He tears his gloves off, throws them somewhere, just to grab and pull at his hair.
While they all had been holding onto you for centuries, you had been holding onto them when alive.
The soundproofed walls are his saving grace.
Lucifer's in the human world on behalf of Diavolo's business when he sees it.
In the middle of a crowded street, headphones and earphones and chatter that hurts his ears. Too chaotic. Something rushes by past him, and his attention comes to a hault.
That same shade of hair!
Recognition bubbles in his chest, and he's partly horrified by the fact that he didn't remember that color for the previous five decades. Being immortal does that to you.
But it isn't you.
He finds himself laughing at his brothers antics some weeks, watching Mammon peel onion with the hairclip that was yours, complains about Beel's underwear on the chandelier, Asmodeus's headache-inducing perfume and the fact that he can never put wet towels in the laundry. Belpheghor's tardiness and stubbornness, Satan's scheming and Leviathan's karaoke matches that shake the windows.
It doesn't make itself known.
But it shows up when he goes to make himself coffee late at night and finds his hands picking two cups. Or when shopping for groceries and purchases the flavour of ice-cream you loved. Still hasn't throw away the hellfire rose you gave him on a date. Keeps it pressed in his book. Cooks for you in remembrance. Takes care of himself because you would want him to.
And maybe, you will live on through him and his brothers. Because you were theirs and they were yours.
You'd stayed in the Devildom for them, and they would stay for you.
ੈ✩ summary: In a single, shattering moment of silence, the pacts between you and the seven demon brothers break—quietly, without warning. You forget your shared past, the love forged through pain and trust. What remains is only confusion and politeness where once there was deep, burning connection. The brothers spiral—desperate to reclaim what’s been stolen.
ੈ✩ wc: 3.3k
The moment it happened, the House of Lamentation shuddered — not with sound, but with silence.
Deafening, uncanny silence.
As though the Devildom itself had held its breath.
The pacts broke.
Not with fire.
Not with screams.
But with a quiet so total, it rang through every wall like the echo of something sacred being defiled.
You were in the kitchen. Cutting fruit.
The blade slipped, and the scent of blood bloomed in the air like a warning.
You blinked at the red trickling down your hand. Confused.
You couldn’t remember why it felt so strange.
And outside that room — in every corner of the House of Lamentation — something broke.
Mammon felt it like a punch to the chest.
Cards slipped from his hands mid-toss, and he staggered like the floor had tilted beneath him.
“No. No no no—”
He ran.
Not toward anything. Just away from the silence that followed.
Lucifer’s pen snapped mid-sentence.
His spine stiffened. His soul felt it — the unraveling of something ancient, something precious.
He rose without a word and strode out of the room.
Not to investigate.
He already knew.
Levi’s controller hit the floor.
Beel crushed his shake without noticing.
Satan stared at the same paragraph for minutes before realizing he couldn’t read.
Belphie woke with a gasp, clawing for breath.
Asmo stared into the mirror, but something was wrong with his reflection —
not the face, not the clothes. The eyes.
Something inside them had dimmed.
They found you in the kitchen.
You looked up, blinking at the sudden gathering. You smiled.
Soft. Polite.
“Oh, hey. Did I miss something?”
Mammon stumbled forward.
Lucifer stepped in, voice low.
“Do you know who I am?”
You tilted your head.
“Well… you’re Lucifer. Right? From the House of Lamentation?”
“And do you know why you’re here?” Satan asked.
You laughed, nervous.
“I’m an exchange student. For RAD, right?”
Nothing else.
Not the pact-marks burned into your skin.
Not the nights pressed between warmth and hunger and whispered promises.
Not the first time Asmo kissed your palm or the time Beel carried you home after you fell asleep at the gates.
Gone.
Lucifer watched you for a long moment.
Then he turned, slow and stiff, and left the room.
He made it halfway down the hall before his legs gave out.
He braced himself against the wall, fists clenched so tightly his gloves split at the seams.
He stayed there for a long time.
Satan followed next.
But not before grabbing the nearest book and tearing it straight down the middle.
Mammon stood there, staring.
You offered him the fruit you had cut.
He looked down at your bloodied finger, took a breath — but said nothing.
Then he left, his hands shaking.
The truth came like rot unearthed:
A curse. Old. Celestial. Twisted.
Someone had done this to you.
A memory thief.
And with the memories gone, so were the pacts.
Because a pact isn’t just a spell. It’s a recognition.
You no longer knew their names as more than titles.
No longer remembered your hands entwined, the days you bled for them, the nights they whispered your name like a lifeline.
They tried everything.
Rituals. Blood rites. Forbidden names scrawled on walls.
They summoned Solomon, begged Barbatos.
Lucifer offered anything. Asmo wept. Satan threatened everyone.
Nothing worked.
You remained a stranger.
Smiling. Gentle.
Not theirs.
Still, they refused to let go.
Lucifer reinstated your RAD schedule personally.
Watched over every class. Threatened professors who dared treat you differently.
He checked your grades, your reports, your meal plans, your escort routes.
If he could not have your trust, he would ensure your safety — obsessively, exhaustively.
One afternoon, he passed you in the RAD hallways, just outside the Student Council Room.
You used to fix his tie there, smoothing the knot with warm hands and soft reminders to breathe.
He remembered how you once stood beside him, laughing quietly, straightening the collar of his coat with fingers that shook from nerves but never from fear.
Now, he stood in the same place — tie slightly crooked — and you walked past him with a polite nod.
“Sir.”
Not Lucifer. Not anything more. Just “sir.”
He didn’t fix the tie. He let it hang there, off-center.
Mammon tried to be casual. Joking, teasing.
He offered to walk you to class, bribed you with snacks, left trinkets in your bag with no name.
Sometimes you found little notes. “This used to be your favorite,” written in his handwriting.
But he never asked you to remember.
Once, he passed you in the garden where you used to nap in the sun.
He remembered you pulling him down beside you, tangling your fingers through his hair while he dozed.
That day, you only waved from a bench.
Levi rebuilt an old game you once played together — from scratch.
He didn’t tell you what it was, only offered it like a shy creator giving a gift to a streamer he admired.
When you said you liked it, he cried.
You used to sit with him for hours in his bathtub fortress, headset on, shoulders touching.
Now, you stood in his doorway, confused. “Do you need help with your stream settings?”
He swallowed the sob.
Satan compiled a library for you.
He removed every book you might recognize, reorganized the entire west wing.
“Let’s build new favorites,” he said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
He remembered when you used to fall asleep on his lap mid-reading, when you challenged him to debates over fiction and made him laugh until his chest hurt.
Now, he caught you staring at a book with his notes inside and quietly slid it out of reach.
Asmo did your hair one morning.
You had casually mentioned you didn’t know how to braid it.
He showed up with ribbons, oils, and tears barely hidden under powder.
“You used to like this color,” he whispered, fingers gentle.
He remembered you once painting his nails for him, even though you were bad at it.
He’d worn them chipped for weeks.
Now, you asked him if he took appointments.
Beel made you lunches. Extra portions.
Your favorites — or what used to be.
He watched you eat with quiet eyes, always hoping for a flicker of something familiar.
He remembered when you used to sneak bites from his plate and laugh when he pretended to growl.
Now, you offered him a cookie. “I made too many. Want one?”
Belphie was the one who didn’t pretend.
He lay beside you sometimes in silence.
When you asked if he was okay, he only muttered, “Not really.”
But he always stayed.
He remembered you holding his hand during nightmares, kissing his hairline when he trembled.
Now, you tucked a blanket over him in the attic and asked if he wanted space.
They didn’t give up.
Lucifer gathered every scholar, occultist, and Celestial exile he could reach.
Simeon offered his blessing.
Diavolo gave full diplomatic immunity for forbidden rites.
Barbatos opened time itself, searching for where the curse had rooted.
Solomon was the one who found it.
“It’s a memory-severing pact,” he said.
“Not erased — just sealed. They’re still inside them. But buried. Violently.”
The only way forward was a gamble.
A ritual so dangerous it had been banned from both realms.
Something ancient. Something that required… blood. All seven of them.
They didn’t hesitate.
You were brought into the ritual circle — not forced, but persuaded.
Lucifer told you only what you needed to hear.
“It’s a memory restoration rite,” he said. “You were injured once. This might help.”
You trusted him. Of course you did. He was Lucifer.
Just Lucifer.
Not yours.
You sat in the center of the circle.
Seven brothers surrounded you — hands marked with pact seals that should no longer burn but did.
They offered you pieces of themselves.
Words. Objects. Emotions.
And then they bled.
One by one.
Lucifer cut his palm and offered the fabric from the first uniform you ever wore.
Mammon gave you the earrings you lost at a casino long before.
Levi placed your broken phone — the one he fixed and never told you how.
Satan slid forward a letter you once wrote him in a rage.
Asmo poured a vial of perfume — your perfume — crafted to match your skin’s chemistry.
Beel offered a half-eaten charm from your birthday cake.
Belphie gave you his pillow.
You blinked down at the items, confused. “Why do I—?”
Lucifer began the chant.
The room turned cold.
Wind swirled without origin.
The circle pulsed.
You gasped.
You saw flashes. Images.
A hand brushing yours.
A rooftop. A dance. A scream.
A night under the stars with six bodies pressed to yours and one curled at your back.
And then—
Pain.
A surge of heat so brutal it cracked through your chest.
You screamed.
The pacts flared.
Each brother staggered — burning from the inside out.
Your eyes widened —
You stared at them, not with recognition, but with terror.
“Stop it—! What are you doing to me—?!”
Lucifer stepped forward.
You scrambled back. “Don’t touch me—!”
Mammon’s heart broke in his chest.
Beel moved instinctively, but froze when you flinched.
“Don’t—please, don’t—!”
The ritual collapsed.
The circle split. The wind died.
And all that remained was silence.
You sat in the center, trembling.
They had hoped — hoped so desperately — that something would come back.
Instead, you looked up at them, chest heaving, and said,
“Why did you do that?”
None of them answered.
Lucifer’s hands were still bleeding.
Mammon was staring at the floor like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Asmo had his hands over his mouth, muffling sobs.
You were pale, shaking. Afraid.
Afraid of them.
Satan stood first. Walked out.
Not in fury this time. Just… emptiness.
Levi followed, whispering something under his breath you couldn’t catch.
Beel hesitated, then reached for the door — paused when you flinched again — and left.
Belphie was last.
He looked at you, really looked, and for a moment something in his chest cracked open wide.
“We should’ve never tried,” he said. “You’re not ours anymore.”
And then he was gone too.
Only Lucifer and Mammon remained.
You looked at Lucifer, eyes wide.
“You said it was just a memory restoration. You didn’t tell me it would feel like dying.”
He said nothing.
He couldn’t.
Mammon didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Just looked at you like his whole world had shattered.
You stood slowly, clutching your arms.
“I don’t know what you were hoping for. But this… this isn’t right.”
Lucifer bowed his head.
You walked out of the circle, past them, through the shattered remains of their hope.
Solomon stepped in.
He pulled you gently from the circle, shielding your view from their faces.
You leaned into him.
They noticed.
From that day on, you didn’t smile as much.
You didn’t remember why the ritual had scared you.
Only that the faces looking down at you had felt like knives.
Lucifer assigned a permanent guard — Solomon.
The brothers noticed.
And hated it.
Because you trusted Solomon.
You laughed with him in the RAD courtyard. You asked him questions about human world magic. You let him walk you home. Sometimes he held your hand when you looked nervous in crowds.
Once, Mammon watched from a rooftop as you leaned into Solomon’s side, tired.
You fell asleep on his shoulder.
Mammon didn’t come home that night.
The others noticed too.
Asmo tried to outshine him — flirted more than usual. But you only smiled politely and asked if he’d help you get new clothes for the Devildom’s changing weather.
Levi tried to invite you to a two-player game night. You declined. You already had plans with Solomon.
Beel saw you giving Solomon a homemade bento.
Satan heard you ask him about protective spells.
The same ones you used to ask Lucifer to cast.
Belphie passed you in the garden once. You looked up and waved. Then turned, laughing at something Solomon said.
He didn’t sleep for days.
Barbatos stayed neutral — always respectful, always composed — but he saw the way the brothers changed.
How Asmo stopped posting selfies.
How Lucifer’s gloves went unrepaired.
How Satan’s books gathered dust.
And how Mammon stopped going near your wing of the house at all.
Simeon brought you pastries once. You invited him in for tea.
You didn’t see the way Satan stood in the shadows behind the doorframe, watching, listening.
You didn’t hear the quiet way he asked, after you left the room, “How do you talk to them like it doesn’t hurt?”
Simeon didn’t answer right away.
Then: “Because I never got to know them the way you did.”
Sometimes you said things. Fragments.
To Belphie:
“I dreamed I was holding someone while they cried.”
To Beel:
“I always make too much food. Habit, I guess.”
To Satan:
“There’s this book I swear I’ve read before.”
Once, to Mammon — who hadn’t spoken to you in weeks:
“I found this weird car key under my pillow. Does it belong to someone?”
He stared at it.
It was his.
To the ignition of his favorite car — the one he never let anyone else drive.
He didn’t say a word.
Lucifer passed you in the halls sometimes.
You’d smile. “You look tired. Don’t work too late.”
He almost answered the way he used to: Not without you beside me.
He didn’t.
He turned away and didn’t look back.
They never found who cast the spell.
Every lead dissolved.
Every suspect cleared.
Every trail vanished like smoke before it could be gripped.
Even Barbatos, with all his timelines, found only dead ends.
Diavolo waited. Hoped. Bargained.
But the Devildom was not a place that could afford instability — and a human without protection, without memory, became a danger to themselves and others.
“I’m sorry,” he told Lucifer, voice low. “There’s no choice. They have to go back.”
Lucifer said nothing. Just turned away.
Barbatos looked at him for a long time. Then said, softly,
“They was never just a guest.”
Lucifer didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
The night you left, it rained.
You didn’t understand why everyone looked so somber.
Why Belphie wouldn’t stop crying, why Satan had torn pages from a book he couldn’t name, why Asmo’s makeup was smeared down his cheeks.
You smiled, nervous. “It’s not goodbye forever, right?”
No one answered.
Each brother left you a parting gift you never knew was goodbye.
A book, slipped quietly into your bag by Satan the night before you left. No note. Just a green ribbon pressed between pages like a bookmark. It was your favorite novel — the one you used to read together by the fireplace. He’d annotated the margins in his tidy hand, but only the final line was underlined: “Come back to me.”
A charm, tucked into your jacket pocket by Mammon when you weren’t looking. A tiny golden sigil shaped like a fox, warm to the touch. Handmade. Slightly crooked. You wouldn’t find it until days later, and when you did, you’d feel a strange ache in your chest you couldn’t explain.
A game, sealed in shrink-wrap — limited edition, hard to find — slipped into your suitcase by Levi. He didn’t ask you to play. He knew you wouldn’t remember the old matches, the laughter. But the character on the cover looked a little like you. The in-game name? Already registered under your old Devildom username.
A recipe card, handwritten by Beel with tiny grease smudges on the corners. Simple, comforting food — the kind he’d helped you learn. “It’s easy,” he told you with a soft smile. “If you ever get hungry.” There was a chocolate stain on the edge. He’d made it the night before. He never got to give it to you in person.
A ribbon, pale pink and perfumed, tied around the handle of your travel bag by Asmo while you weren’t looking. It shimmered faintly with enchantment — protective magic hidden in beauty. He chose it because it matched the dress you’d worn to one of his parties. “If you ever wear pink again,” he whispered when you weren’t listening, “maybe your hands will remember mine.”
A plush, small and soft, shaped like a sleepy cow — Belphie’s favorite. He left it on your bed before you packed, the scent of his pillow still lingering in the fabric. It was worn and a little matted. One of the horns was loose. It had been his comfort since you stopped sleeping beside him. Now he gave it to you. You didn’t know why you held it so tightly when the portal shimmered open.
Lucifer gave you a coat.
Yours — the one you'd once worn in the Devildom winter, left behind months ago when you grew out of it. You found it hanging by the door that morning, newly mended and refitted to your current size.
You ran your fingers over the lining — velvet-soft. It still had the secret inside pocket you used to hide candies in. The buttons gleamed like obsidian. His crest was stitched discreetly beneath the collar — where only you would find it.
He didn’t explain why the inside smelled like his cologne.
He didn’t need to.
Mammon walked you to the portal.
He didn’t let go of your hand until it flickered.
You tilted your head, confused. “You okay?”
Still, he said nothing. Lucifer waited until the very end. You stood at the portal, glancing back one last time — rain clinging to your lashes, your suitcase beside you.
He stepped forward, stiff and formal.
“You’ve… served the exchange program well,” he said. The lie caught in his throat. “Your safety will be ensured in the human world. Solomon will accompany you until your arrival is confirmed.”
You smiled. Respectful. Strained. “Thank you, sir.”
When you vanished —
Mammon collapsed.
Not because you said goodbye —
You didn’t know what you were leaving behind.
But because he did.
Because he’d watched you slip away once, memory by memory —
and now again, for good.
And this time, he couldn’t chase after you.
This time, he had to let you go.
You left behind ghosts.
Lucifer returned to his desk. The chair beside him remained empty.
He kept your old reports stacked beside his — untouched.
Beel set extra portions at dinner. They grew cold. He stopped asking anyone to eat them.
Levi stopped playing your favorite games. But your saves were still there
Asmo stopped making videos. His fanbase thought he was taking a hiatus.
Satan walked the library halls and could not read. Every word blurred into one.
Belphie fell asleep in your room, curled around your missing shape.
And in the human world—
You stood in a bookstore, hand resting on the spine of a novel you didn’t recognize — and wept.
The wind carried a familiar voice through a crowd, and you turned — heart racing — but no one was there.
A raven flew past the window and left behind a single black feather on your coat.
You kept it.
Without knowing why.
Solomon checked in on you.
Often.
He was careful not to push. But sometimes he watched you too long when you smiled at something bittersweet.
Sometimes he caught you staring at shadows on your wall like they were waiting for someone.
You never asked why.
Bittersweet endings don’t end.
They echo.
In the quiet spaces between footsteps.
In the hums you sing to yourself without knowing why.
In the way they look at you when you’re not watching.
Like you’re a story they were written into once —
and now read from afar.
And even if you never remember the words —
they will never forget.
Hello! Starting at 2pm on May 14th, Japan time, I will be selling the Lucifer and MC Yume Manga Doujinshi here: https://suiminzai666.booth.pm/ (there are no products in stock at this time!) The price is 700 yen in Japanese yen, but since I have selected anonymous shipping, it will cost an additional 370 yen. It may be that shipping costs will be a little more for those overseas...I apologize if that is the case...!! Still, I would be happy if you would pick it up if you are interested, thank you❗️
someone please help me find this fic (in the hopes that it wasn’t deleted)
on ao3 there was a fic i read about asmodeus helping to protect a victim of sexual abuse by tracking down the abuser and having him assaulted by a bulking silent demon named “big daddy” i think his name was.
it was surprisingly well written and i need help finding it 😭
The fifth oldest of the brothers, Avatar of Lust and former Jewel of the Heavens. A connoisseur of beauty and slave to satisfying his desires.
Asmodeus might appear harmless in comparison to his brothers. Welcoming or indifferent at most. Infatuated with his reflection, too indulged in hedonism to care for anything else.
Beware, human! His tongue is cruel—inhumane sentiments coated by honeyed words. You can fall prey to his whims and fancies, and if you bore him out, you will be discarded. It is but a matter of time as to when it happens, and nothing has been able to hold his interest for long so far. (Ask Helen in the Demon Lord's Palace, she will lash out with a bitter tongue at the mere mention of his name.)
Do you want to get lost in fervent devotion? Until your throat is raw from chanting words of worship at the top of your voice, and your eyes watering since you cannot bear to even not look at him for a fleeting moment? If so, you are at the right place.
Avoid the above by ensuring not to stare into the demon eyes for a moment too long—be lost in them once—and you will be lost forever. I'll let you in on a little secret-not even the eldest is immune to this particular 'ability' of his.
Him and Solomon have a pact. The latter will be elaborated upon in the upcoming rules. This piece of knowledge is vital for you.
Take any gifts he bestows upon you with caution. Sure, the hand mirror crafted by the finest architects in the Devildom and with a handle made of obsidian is breathtaking, but is it worth using in exchange for your devotion to him? Only and only him?
Be wary when you are in his room. The plants are alive, in the sense that they eat flesh. And a living, breathing human is in the vicinity.
Asmodeus might invite you with him to bathe. His bathroom is separate from the rest—lavishly decorated, but exercise caution. Demons bathe at temperatures of 150 degree celsius for a lukewarm bath, and at a hundred degree celsius water boils. And beings of this realm haven't had a human visit in so long, they are likely to forget your anatomy.
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. A universal fact. But remember to not show your preference more for any other in his presence. He is the most beautiful. The most desired. The most cherished. Still a Jewel of Hell, if not Heavens. How dare you think of him as lesser?!
Maybe he fears that underneath that shiny exterior you would not find anything of worth at all.
The fifth oldest of the brothers, Avatar of Lust and former Jewel of the Heavens. A connoisseur of beauty and slave to satisfying his desires.
Asmodeus might appear harmless in comparison to his brothers. Welcoming or indifferent at most. Infatuated with his reflection, too indulged in hedonism to care for anything else.
Beware, human! His tongue is cruel—bitter sentiments coated by honeyed words. You can fall prey to his whims and fancies, and if you bore him out, you will be discarded. It is but a matter of time as to when it happens, and nothing has been able to hold his interest for long so far. (Ask Helen in the Demon Lord's Palace, she will lash out with a bitter tongue at the mere mention of his name.)
Do you want to get lost in fervent devotion? Until your throat is raw from chanting words of worship at the top of your voice, and your eyes watering since you cannot bear to even not look at him for a fleeting moment? If so, you are at the right place.
Avoid the above by ensuring not to stare into the demon eyes for a moment too long—be lost in them once—and you will be lost forever. I'll let you in on a little secret-not even the eldest is immune to this particular 'ability' of his.
Him and Solomon have a pact. The latter will be elaborated upon in the upcoming rules. This piece of knowledge is vital for you.
Take any gifts he bestows upon you with caution. Sure, the hand mirror crafted by the finest architects in the Devildom and with a handle made of obsidian is breathtaking, but is it worth using in exchange for your devotion to him? Only and only him?
Be wary when you are in his room. The plants are alive, in the sense that they eat flesh. And a living, breathing human is in the vicinity.
Asmodeus might invite you with him to bathe. His bathroom is separate from the rest—lavishly decorated, but exercise caution. Demons bathe at temperatures of 150 degree celsius for a lukewarm bath, and at a hundred degree celsius water boils. And beings of this realm haven't had a human visit in so long, they are likely to forget your anatomy.
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. A universal fact. But remember to not show your preference more for any other in his presence. He is the most beautiful. The most desired. The most cherished. Still a Jewel of Hell, if not Heavens. How dare you think of him as lesser?!
Maybe he fears that underneath that shiny exterior you would not find anything of worth at all.
Mammon is highly possessive of you. It shows in all gestures big and small. From insisting you take the window seat so you're less visible from the train aisle, to wresting you away from his slimy brothers when they get too close. He takes out predatory loans to buy you a little something when you're feeling down. Usually treats and getaways. They're rumored to bring lovers closer together when shared, but you don't need to know about that. He reminds you that he's your first - that means he needs to be the priority in your life. Don't you forget it.
Mammon is also incredibly tsundere. "Whaddya think you're doing!?" he'll exclaim, pushing you away. His cheeks are as red as his savings account. "Tryin' to worm your way into my arms like that? Ain't never heard of a human as bold as you."
Except, he forgets that he's the one who grabbed you. Curled his arms protectively around you and pulled you into his chest as if shielding you from rains of hellfire. Guarded you from prying eyes of lesser beings and swept you away somewhere more secluded, all because a random salesman grabbed your shoulder. Only he's allowed to touch you like that. Only when his heart is ready.
Hello! Starting at 2pm on May 14th, Japan time, I will be selling the Lucifer and MC Yume Manga Doujinshi here: https://suiminzai666.booth.pm/ (there are no products in stock at this time!) The price is 700 yen in Japanese yen, but since I have selected anonymous shipping, it will cost an additional 370 yen. It may be that shipping costs will be a little more for those overseas...I apologize if that is the case...!! Still, I would be happy if you would pick it up if you are interested, thank you❗️
I feel seven layers of stupid😭 I’ve seen ‘denizens’ be used all over the place with OM fanfic. I thought it was a fanon term for demon citizens. Y’ALL ITS A REAL WORD
gummygunk
kianamaiart
andulkaphoto
