#something something brothers grimm.

[etruatcaelum]

This is the first thing Salem learns, after the brothers leave Arziant in flames behind them: that the creatures of grimm know kindness.

Everything turns to fire.

Even the air itself screams with a heat so intense that her skin cannot regrow before it starts to melt and blister again. Salem burns alive and burns alive and burns alive and—

When she wakes from mindless agony, she finds herself in the sweltering warmth of a deep cave and bathed in the stagnant-water stench of grimm. These creatures she was taught to hate and fear as abominations pace in silent circles all around her, everything limned with the sunset glare of their fiery eyes, their pitch-black flanks singed and smoking. They do not in any way acknowledge her presence; but they brought her here with them, to shelter from the inferno outside, and she will never be able to look at a grimm and think monster again.

Time slips so easily away from her. Days, weeks. Months. Eight thousand nine hundred twelve: the number branded into her soul by hunger. Eighty-nine hundred and twelve times she starves to death before she loses track.

That hollow feeling. The ache, before light rakes her apart and sutures her back together and she rises again, unsteady. Searing pain clarifies itself; the hateful golden furnace of infinite life burns crimson through the brittle membrane of her skin. Eight thousand—

It doesn’t matter.

The plangent echo of her pulse fills the deathless silence at the end of the world: a catathymic note throbbing in the nexus of planetary song; that awful cosmic heartbeat, in the tearing aftershock of violent divinity. Sometimes the deteriorating scrim of human delusion peels away and she falls into hematic convulsions as the world turns inside her chest, pulverizing meat and bone to gory pulp while she writhes in transcendent agony. Creation—an inchoate redness—life. Everything begins in pain. The first taste is always blood.

She understands—

After fire comes darkness, and then even the grimm begin to waste away: unspooling their flesh in long ropes of slime as what little survived the cauterizing of the shattered moon withers under the scorched-black sky. Salem flays herself to feed them, for all the good it will do. Starvation still dissolves them one by one.

She just wants to save something. Wants to give life instead of death, for once; and the grimm were kind to her, in their way.

Hunger makes them brutal. The last grimm in the world tears her apart, and it hurts, and…

…and she is on her knees in a wide but shallow river of water clear as glass. Mist treads softly through the quiet darkness, and the air tastes fresh and sweet.

Salem stays where she is for a while, eyes half-closed, basking in the soothing peace of a rare pleasant dream—but nothing remains still in the river for long, and it dawns on her gradually that she is not alone. Kneeling beside her, resting a hand between her shoulders, is a giant woman of wicker and painted clay.

She asks: “What are you? Who are you?”

The woman answers: “I am the germinating seed and the mouth that opens. I am the circle drawn by itself. I am the Artisan.”

“…Is this real?”

“It is real to you.” The Artisan’s thumb caresses her back, and Salem curls in on herself, ragged and tearing at the seams before the vicious claws of even that small tenderness; at her choked cry, the hand lifts away, leaving her huddled in miserable anguish. “You can leave this behind,” the Artisan says, “if you would like.”

“Leave–?”

“It is the nature of things to change. Living things grow.”

“I don’t,” Salem rasps, “understand.”

“You cannot die,” says the Artisan, and she flinches, “but you can change. Leave behind the burden of what you are now to become something new. If you let the river wash you away, who could you be?”

The water flows over her hands, pure and cold. Her eyes sting with unshed tears. She whispers, for the first time since before the end of the world daring to hope, “Could I find Ozma? Is this—what happens when people die?”

“You are the first of your kind to come here,” the Artisan tells her gently. “The one you love is in the place the Brothers made for their creations.”

It feels like her heart breaking all over again, and her fingers curl and become clawed. “Are th– are they happy?” she breathes.

Maybe it can be okay, as long as she knows they’re safe and well wherever they are—maybe. Maybe.

“They are at rest,” says the Artisan. “Preserved, feeling and knowing nothing.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

“But—” A nameless horror overwhelms the words. Her mind conjures up an image of Ozma on their deathbed, insensate; the notion that that is their eternal fate—the fate of everyone who ever lived—to lie in feverish oblivion until the end of all things, is unbearable. It is not to be borne. “No.”

“It is the truth,” the Artisan says.

Salem throws herself onto her feet as a keener fire than the embers of hope kindles in her soul: she names it wrath, and cradles it against her heart. “I will not leave them behind,” she seethes. Just as they pulled her from her tower, she will find a way to win them free from theirs; free everyone slaughtered in her name. “I—”

How? How, when the world lies dead and broken and even the grimm cannot survive? Salem squeezes her eyes shut, trembling. Afraid.

She has never felt so small.

“What is this place?” she asks, plaintive. “Where did you come from?”

“This is the place that is,” says the Artisan. “It is the drawing together and drawing asunder that is maker and made of all things. It is the transformations of fire. I am the shaping hands of what was ever before and will be ever after.”

“…of fire,” Salem echoes, turning away. The river flows and flows forever in silence. She can feel the Artisan watching her.

Of fire.

She takes a breath. “Your face is fired clay. Will you allow me use of your kiln?”

———

There is a fire. Salem builds a forge, digging slabs of clay out of the riverbank with her bare hands in this strange, protracted dream. Sometimes the Artisan sits at their workbench and talks to her while they sculpt, and sometimes there is a thing with feathers that perches above the kiln to give voice to a hollow, keening cry. Mostly, she is alone.

Infinite life hurts so much. Not a single part of her can die; immortality riddles her with cancerous, painful light. The God of Light did not understand what he asked for when he bade her to heed the importance of life and death: and perhaps that is why his brother had grinned.

Destruction, to clear the wilderness away.

She claws her belly open and pulls out the vermillion meat of herself in fistfuls, gasping but undeterred by the pain. The wounds seal over and blood congeals on her skin while she feeds herself to the ever-living fire, and as the forge feasts her flesh and blood melt together into iron. It takes time—it takes trial and error and more tries than she could count—but Salem forges herself a sword.

The blade blazes like the sun when she holds it. It sings of pain and desolation: it doesn’t know how to be anything else but what it is. But it makes the light hurt less.

“Can I come back?” she asks,

and the Artisan says, “You will find the door again when you need it.”

When she returns to Arziant, the world is still dark and terribly cold. Nothing lives—not even the grimm, whom she mourns almost as deeply as she mourns her own kind.

Her sword sunders the darkness, burns the poison out of the sleet, thaws the sheets of ice. She wanders: a solitary vagrant so delirious with hunger that she takes to gnawing her own arms until her teeth hit bone. The sky turns blue again. Sunshine bathes a landscape of churned mud and barren rock. For—years, decades, centuries—for an age, she combs the planet, searching for even the smallest sign of life.

There has to be something.

Finally—finally—she finds a newborn colony of fungus poking through the muck, spongy and soft, finger-shaped, dull yellow and rancid on her tongue. She digs a second one up, careful to disturb the rest as little as possible, and returns to the place that is.

In her absence, the Artisan has begun to work the forge, but when Salem asks for use of it again they press the hammer into her hand with a patient smile. The idea in her mind is clearer than before, and she has a better sense of how. When she casts the little fungus into the flame it bursts and turns to gold; she alloys it with her memories of sunlight, of wheat fields, of oceans and blue skies.

This time, she makes a staff. Its haft radiates the warmth of summer, and the crystal setting at the head glows with the pure, rarefied blue of mountains on the horizon.

(It reminds her too much of Ozma; it aches.)

When she clambers back into the carcass of Arziant with the staff in her hands, the whole world seems to shiver. The little fungi have swelled and flourished into vast, peculiar forests; and there are other kinds now, as life heaves itself bodily from the mire. Wherever she goes, carrying the staff as a walking stick, new things begin to grow. (Most of them foul: it comes as a surprise the first time she tastes something and finds it sweet.)

Notions of self bleed away. Past and future slough away too, neither cognizant of the present; there is only and always the work. Existence, in a trancelike artistic fugue. Sometimes the sword, sometimes the staff. Death and life. Life and death. There is a rhythm to it. A kind of song. The planet flexes its claws and remembers how to breathe; the wilderness dances, ever-shifting, a symphony.

(Later—much later—she will turn these memories over in her hands like fragments of a dream. Some of it, she’s certain, was real; and equally certain that some of it wasn’t. Reason dictates that she was alone, but she won’t remember solitude.)

The world begins to look familiar again. It is the sound of birdsong that draws her out of waking dreams to the hush of surf on a rocky beach and the feeling of cold, clean rain on her face. She falls to her knees and weeps for missing Ozma, grief splitting her open as if she had lost them only yesterday, because the world is beautiful again and she wants so desperately to share it with them.

So Remnant is born from the grave of what was, and brings Salem back to life with it. She is not its creator, not its maker—she does not feel like any kind of god—but it is born by her hand. If pressed, if coaxed, she might offer instead the suggestion of midwifery.

She does not go hungry anymore. She eats seaweed and crabs and oysters until she collects a handful of pearls, and these she fills with moonlight before she returns, once more, to the forge whence the river flows.

The third time Salem asks to use the Artisan’s workshop, she already knows what will become. The pearls gleam like glacial ice when she nestles them in the coals of the ever-living fire. They run together as molten glass, and she fills out their shape with sorrow and joy and anger and love—she loves so, so fiercely, it is all she knows how to do—and sets the shining bauble in gold spun from the names of every person she has ever known.

The lamp gives illumination of a kind the God of Light could never and will never know. It is the heart of Remnant which never forgets. When she journeys up the long dark spiral of the path to her world, she can see the barest shape of something by lamplight, an inkling on the edge of her sight, a whisper.

She brings the lamp to the top of the world, where the air turns thin and the snow never melts and the broken moon hangs almost close enough to touch. (She wants to see. She is trying to see.)

There, she finds a grimm: sleek and pantherine, midnight-black, still soft as newborn clay.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I wanted so much to save you.”

And, “I hoped this one would bring you back.”

It doesn’t attack. It needn’t starve. The sword and the staff and the lamp can feed it all it needs, and it seldom leaves her side. (Salem likes to pretend it enjoys her company; she can almost imagine that it forgives her.)

There is one more left.

She is not sure how, but eagerness gnaws in her with a relentless, esurient pain. She wants—and the grimm wants—

“You should have a name,” she tells him one day. “Do you want a name? I think Firwitt would suit you well.”

He collects feathers for her to try, but it needs to be right—it needs to be perfect.

In the end, she gets what she needs by happenstance. A storm, like so many others. Lightning lances the air and splatters the sand on the beach like so much glass, and Salem catches a molten droplet in her hand and thinks: yes. This will do.

Feathers of ravens and hawks and sparrows in one hand, liquid glass in the other, she dives into the place that is to ask, for the fourth time, for the last time, to use the forge.

“What will you make?” the Artisan asks,

and Salem says, “A crown, this time. For what might be.”

The lightning-struck glass and the feathers turn first to blood and then to rubies when she offers them to the primordial flame. For the rest, as with the sword, she gives of herself: a braid of her hair, a breath from her lungs, a drop of blood, a long strip of flesh, soldered together with all the words she cannot say.

The crown is beautiful and it is cruel, in the way that only hope can be, silver as moonlight and burning with the fires of dusk. It is defiance and spite and willpower and it will, she hopes, be freedom too.

(It is not.)

When she ascends to Remnant once more, Salem kneels in the meadow that reminds her most of them and dons the crown. With Firwitt curled around her and the sun and moon and all the stars wheeling overhead, she tries—she casts herself far and wide, she rakes the talons of her will over the chains and rattles the bars of the cage and burns and howls and goes blind before the fierce white light and still the gates of death will not open; until at last hunger whittles her down again and she falls out of the dream to wail, face pressed into the inky flank of the only grimm in the world.

Aura seeps into the ruined sockets of her eyes, sluggish, foaming over scorched retinas in jittery sprays of crimson etched with gold. It is hours before she can open them and see anything through the scintillant haze besides a grainy impression of blue.

Despair wells up in her chest.

“I don’t know—” she begins desolately, and then stops:

Because she does know.

The place where the font of creation had been is not difficult to find, though the land has torn and shifted long since. It has remained stubbornly bare and lifeless through all her efforts: a vitrified expanse of rock which had, eons ago, been wrung dry of the water that now flows in her soul. Her footsteps make no sound against the glassy rock as she climbs to the apex, sword in hand.

She whispers: “Destruction,” and plunges the sword into the stone.

The ground heaves; the glass shatters; the lifeless blister craters at long last, and Salem goes down with it. The liquid rushing up from beneath is not alive, but when the rocks crush her the sterile water mingles with her blood, and when it rushes down her throat it remembers how to breathe, and the possibility of life ripples out and out until it laps against the distant, sandy shores of a new sea.

She leaves the sword buried in its basin, and retreats into dreams while the currents drag her ever so slowly back to land.

It is weeks before she finishes choking up saltwater.

Next, she travels east, traversing the vast ocean to the desert at the opposite end of the world. In the desolate, burning center of those windswept sands, she plants the staff and murmurs: “Creation.”

The dune ripples and becomes water, becomes soil, becomes lush vegetation as a great tree with silver flesh and golden leaves surges out of the desert to engulf the staff. Salem rests for a long while in that luxuriant oasis, basking in warmth and living on fruits that exist nowhere else in the world, giving names to the things that come to eat and drink and doze in the shade, until she is ready to move on.

North, then: to the highest peak at the top of the world, where the sun never sets in the summertime but the darkness of the winter lasts for months. She sculpts a lighthouse from the ice at the summit, and nestles the lamp inside. She says, “Knowledge,” and the winter night fills with a ghostly memory of sunlight, a promise that the sun will find its way home and daybreak will come again.

And, finally, she sails south to a place where the ocean swirls and churns in a great whirlpool, the basin miles below straining to hold back the inchoate rage of darkness below. She hurls the crown to the maelstrom, and when the water takes it she breathes, “Choice.”

And the land screams upward to meet it in the most violent eruption the world has ever and will ever know. It forms a jagged scar of barren rock and mud and molten tar, but it will grow into life when it is ready, and the crown will roam in the rivers far beneath the waves.

Finally, having given of herself and feeling dizzily light for the absence of their weight, Salem washes back ashore, and holds Firwitt’s face between her hands, and asks him, “Where did you come from?”

(“Fate,” the spirit chained to knowledge will one day say, “led her back to the land of darkness;” but that is only half true.)

She is afraid, a little. She does not want to die. Even more than that, she fears she will be wrong. When she approaches the black dome of the night’s domain, the jagged rocks unfold for her like a great maw, and she stands quivering on the shore of a boiling lake of atrum that has not changed. Unthinking, she reaches out to Firwitt for comfort, for reassurance—for nothing, because he is not there.

(He never has been. The realization is abrupt and thorny. In a way, it makes it easier to clamber into the largest outcropping.)

The sun burns overhead. Salem kneels above the pool of grimm, feeling the heat of it on her face, the foul vapor, and bows her head in prayer to any god who cares to listen that this will be the answer: to Darkness, to the fire, to the Artisan, to the Singer, to the sun and the moon and to all the stars, perhaps even to herself. If this is not it she does not know what she will do or what she will become. So she prays, shaking, wetting the rock with her tears until the moon claims the sky.

Then she closes her eyes, and lets herself fall.

She expects it to burn: it does not. She expects to be flayed apart: but the atrum is gentle, and the grimm simply fold around her and bear her down and down to the heart of the world, where the pressure is infinite and the blackness radiant.

There, slowly, grows the sense that she is lying in the coils of some vast serpent; that its head rests on her back, scales sharp as knives but caressing her skin too delicately to do her harm, its breath a reverberation of her own.

“What are you?” she asks.

I am the roots, it says. The Walker in the deep.

“Am I going to die?”

It is strangely meditative. Her eyes remain closed. She curls her hands against the scales, the bark, half-sleeping. The Walker says, there is no death here. Only stillness, and motion. Stay, and we will become one, you and I; I dissolving into you and you settling into me; to cease, and be renewed.

“That is a semantic distinction.”

…Perhaps. Or, if you prefer, ascend: and go away changed into yourself.

“I wanted to bring people back,” she whimpers. “I wanted—”

You have, says the Walker. That world is not of the Brothers now; it is of you. Time stands still here, in the roots, but it runs in circles above and your kind pour forth from the sundered gates. Dear child, you have not failed.

She sobs: with relief, with old anguish, with new hope. “Then I want to live. Please.”

If you return, the Walker says, no less gently than before, you will bring the darkness back with you.

“Grimm?”

As you call them, yes.

She feels a half-hearted flicker of hesitation. Of something too base to call nobility: she wonders what Ozma would think. But she wants to live. She wants so very much to live.

And the grimm saved her once, and she had wanted to save them in return.

“I want to live,” she whispers.

Then rise, answers the Walker. Become what you will and be free.

[solomiracle]

ITS THEM

[b4kuch1n]

more sk8. I think the cindereki stuff is extremely stupid but I am not immune to trying to conceptualize a princess gown in any setting

[carcarrot]

LAURENCE HARVEY a.k.a. LARUSHKA MISCHA / ZVI MOSHEH SKIKNE (born october 1st, 1928 - died november 25th, 1973)

“I always believed in Laurence Harvey, even when nobody else did. Especially when nobody else did.”

“Most people imagined they knew and understood Larry with little trouble. That was a big mistake. They didn't know how deep and complex, how elusive, he remained behind his social mask.” - Paulene Stone, his wife

“I cannot yield to failure, it would make far too many people happy.”

[lesbianfakir]

Reading a bunch of Hans Christian Andersen stories for my fic and it’s like buddy your ideas are incredible but the execution is so lacking sorry. Someone needed to break this guy out of his Christian guilt complex so he could write about other stuff too

[5-pp-man]

v intrigued by the 4th one so far. i love how its, once again, a completely different setting and time period than all the others

[bitegore]

i wanna write a fairytale pastiche, can you guys send me your favorite fairy tales (preferably in the form of links to online hosted pages) so i can steal the style

[kramphyx]

No one come at me BUT doesn’t Ruby and Yang parallel the brothers Grimm in a way?

Like, so, we have the older sibling, the golden one. Which one am I on about? Yang or the god of light?

Then we have the younger sibling, the darker one. Which one am I on about? Ruby or the god of darkness?

Then there’s the other part of it, right, the silver eyed sibling and the purple eyed sibling. Which one am I on about now? The gods or our dear RWBY sisters?

Just a thought. No hate please.

[cocoaletta]

we don’t need to talk about the dog lol

[glitch-h]

I get it but it is in fact germany in general thats fucked up

I enjoy a joke about fucked up German fairy tales as much as the next nerd, but it's genuinely striking how often the source for the really fucked up stuff turns out to be "yeah, this is only in the Brothers Grimm version and doesn't appear in any extant oral tradition, and we're like 80% sure they added it themselves". To a large extent it's not German fairy tales that are fucked up, it's two specific German dudes.

[theshalesky]

No one gets me like the Brothers Grimm...

[daytaker]

The Gang React to You Petting Their Hair

Lucifer

"I am only going to say this once: stop."

You get one warning. One. If you do not cease and desist, he is throwing you out of his study, so help him Diavolo's Dad. No, he does not like it. No, not even a little bit. You really aren't going to stop? You're just a glutton for punishment, aren't you?

....You're very lucky he's too busy to hurl you bodily from this room. He'll just endure it for now.

Mammon

"Hah?! What's the big idea?! This is the revered hair of THE Great Mammon, I'll have you know. So that'll be 100 Grimm a touch, thanks! ....Hey, no, wait, why'd you stop?"

Once he's done turning bright red and clearing his throat, he'll try to capitalize on this whim of yours by offering you a discount on hair touches. A very poorly-planned scheme, because you're not going to pay to do something he'll start begging you to keep up as soon as you stop.

Oh, so Mammon is willing to let you touch his high-value hair for free? You're so honored. What a good boy you are, Mammon. (You can expect a bit more sputtering and some denials that he is anything like a good boy, but bro's into it big time. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.)

Leviathan

*shrieks in confused, touch-starved otaku*

Wait, no, he didn't say to stop! What's with these mixed signals? Petting his hair then stopping just because he shrieks a little bit? Did you want to touch his hair or not? Is it greasy? Oh god, when did he last bathe? ...It was only the other day. You have no reason to be disgusted. You're just a bigoted normie who assumes all otaku are crusty and gross!

Ahhhh?!?!?!?! Again?! Fine! Just don't change your mind again, because that's super confusing! And yeah, obviously he's blushing, you're petting his head and it feels nice and kind of tickles! ....Mm.... You know, once he's settled into it, it's really relaxing, actually...

Fast forward an hour or two and he's probably conked out with his head in your lap, drunk on affection and mostly asleep.

Satan

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

It feels weird. Why are you doing that? Wait, you're petting him? Like he's....a cat? Hmm. Interesting. He'll allow it. But you should do it properly. None of this mussing his hair around with wild abandon. You have to be gentle and use small movements. Maybe use your knuckles? Gently though. There, that's it.

So this is what it feels like. Admittedly, he probably wouldn't take kindly to this if anybody else was doing it, no matter how well they imitated proper cat-petting technique. But you're a special exception, so in the future, if you feel the need to do this, just let him know. And for the love of all things unholy, don't breathe a word about this to his brothers.

Asmodeus

"Oh, you like my hair? Isn't it soft? I'll show you the conditioner I use."

Asmo loves having his hair played with! Or brushed, or combed, or tugged (just not too hard, please!) His hair is silky smooth thanks to a mixture of his natural good looks and his shampoo/conditioner combination. He'll let you borrow them if you're interested. Your hair will look amazing! And it'll feel even better!

This is cozy. He'll just settle in and let you do this as long as you want. Careful you don't get too handsy; he knows how irresistible he is.

...Well, maybe if you're a little handsy he'll let it slide, but just because it's you.

Beelzebub

"Are you....petting me?"

Kind of weird, but it feels nice, so he isn't complaining. It's a little bit embarrassing, just because it makes him feel a little bit like a puppy, but then again, who doesn't like puppies? He'll be able to continue to go about his day not minding you petting his hair now and again. The only awkward part is how damn tall he is. You might need to keep a step stool handy.

Belphegor

"Nnngh, knock it off...! ... ... ...I changed my mind, do it again."

His initial reaction to being woken up to you stroking his head is annoyance, because dammit, he was sleeping. But once he shakes the cobwebs out of his brain, he'll realize that it actually felt really good and he could absolutely fall asleep under these circumstances.

He'll wait a little while, hoping you'll give it another try of your own accord, but if you don't, he'll eventually cave and grumpily ask you to do it again.

Diavolo

"Hahaha... That's enough, now."

He isn't actually a fan. Maybe it's the fact that he's a prince and has been acting as an autocrat more or less for centuries, but being stroked like an adored pet feels really degrading. Of course, he won't hold it against you, but seriously, stop.

Barbatos

"Are you finished playing around quite yet?"

Another one who isn't into this at all. He's more than happy to spend his free time petting you, if that's what you're interested in, but he is a petter, not a pettee. Read into this what you will.

Solomon

"You're so forward!"

Solomon likes it very much. Too much, possibly. Are you flirting with him? There's something incredibly intimate about touching someone's hair, don't you think? No, please, continue.

Simeon

"Um, what are you doing? ...As long as you're enjoying yourself, I guess!"

Simeon is more bewildered by this than most. Like, are you trying to scratch an itch for him? Is this one of those "viral memes" he's heard so much about? Well, it feels nice, and it isn't as if it's hurting anybody. He'll indulge you for now.

A little to your left, please. Ahhhh, that's the spot...

Luke

"Hehe, that tickles... Hey! Is this a Chihuahua joke?!"

It feels kind of nice, but as soon as he takes a second to think about it, he realizes that you're treating him at best like a little kid, and at worst, like a dog, and he isn't having any of that. He'll scold you for treating a Celestial being so casually, remind you that he's actually a lot older than you, technically, so who's the real baby, and secretly pine for more pets for the rest of his life.

[bilbobagginsomebabez]

ehhh this story is suited for this time, this place, and the little girls that occupy it. the original cinderella folktale was intended for women of a different time and place. it’s not a bad story because it’s not applicable to us in the same way anymore

imagine… Alma Deutscher: Finding Cinderella

Musical prodigy Alma Deutscher aged 11 (seen here with younger sister Helen), is staging her first full-length opera, Cinderella.

Composer, pianist, violinist… Alma learned to read music before she could read words. She began playing the piano aged two and at four years old she was composing her own music.

[fandoms-x-reader]

Overdramatic! MC

Requested By: @yeosanityyyy

Headcannons

Summary: The brothers and an overdramatic MC. The Seven Demon Brothers x Reader (separately) Word Count: 2,268

Lucifer always did his best to do his job properly.

Whether that was maintaining order at the House of Lamentation or serving as the right-hand man to Lord Diavolo, he always put one hundred percent effort into his work.

And while you both admired and respected him for that, sometimes it got in the way of your relationship with him.

And, whenever that was the case, you made sure your feelings were known in the most dramatic way possible. 

You and Lucifer were supposed to spend the night together when he had gotten a phone call from Lord Diavolo.

You were sitting on his bed as he paced around his room, speaking in a monotone voice while he conversed with the future King of the Devildom.

“I’ll be right there,” Lucifer told Diavolo before hanging up the phone.

You had a frown on your face before he even turned around to face you.

“Lucifer, tonight is supposed to be our night,” you stated, looking up at him through your lashes.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be quick, I promise,” Lucifer replied, gently stroking your cheek before moving to leave.

That’s when you dramatically threw yourself onto your back in his bed, your arms crossed as you stated, “Oh how I wished you loved me more than Lord Diavolo.”

Lucifer froze in his spot as your words hit his ears. Did you just say what he thought you said?

If you were trying to be cute, it didn’t come across. If anything, Lucifer took your statement as a challenge.

In a flash, he had called Lord Diavolo back and told him that something had come up and that he would have to drop by tomorrow.

Get ready for him to spend the entire night showing you exactly who he loves.

“Mammon!” you shouted as you burst through the door to his bedroom causing him to jump and let out a small shout of surprise.

“What are ya’ thinkin’ barging in like that?” he asked, his hand over his heart as it raced.

He was sitting on his couch, surrounded by Grimm that he had been counting as he looked over at you.

“You have to help me,” you stated, walking further into the room. 

Mammon didn’t see anything noticeably wrong with you, so he decided to drag this conversation on a bit.

“Sorry, I’m busy right now,” Mammon replied, continuing to count his Grimm.

That’s when you moved in front of him, sitting on your knees as the two of you locked eyes.

“Mammon, this is an emergency,” you pleaded, your eyes holding a sparkle that he was so weak to.

And now Mammon was starting to worry a bit. “What happened?” he asked, his brows furrowed as he began to run through all the possibilities in his head.

“Come on,” you stated, taking his hand in yours. He willingly left his seat and followed you as you dragged him to your room.

As soon as you entered your room, you closed the door behind the two of you. “What is it?’ Mammon questioned, turning to face you.

That’s when you suddenly rushed forward and wrapped your arms tightly around him, embracing him in a hug.

A blush rose to his cheeks as he suddenly realized what your “emergency” was. You wanted his attention.

But, in true tsundere fashion, he couldn’t let you know that he was enjoying this hug. So, he told you, “H-Hey, I was doin’ some real important stuff, ya’ know?”

And that’s what triggered such a dramatic reaction from you.

You pulled away from him, looking at his chest as you said, “Oh - so you would rather spend your time with Grimm than with me.”

Mammon’s eyes widened as you looked up at him, tears forming in your eyes.

“Wha? No! That’s not what I meant!” Mamon tried to protest.

But you were already pulling away from him as you told him, “It’s okay, I get it.”

Mammon was now pulling you back into his arms as he told you, “No, really! I’d rather be here with you!”

That’s how Mammon ended up spending the night in your room.

Levi was not good when it came to you acting overdramatic.

This was mostly because he wasn’t the best at picking up on social cues, so he couldn’t tell if you were genuinely upset or just being overdramatic.

You were the only person who made him feel like more than a yucky otaku, so he always strived to make sure you were happy.

He had been playing some video games and asked if you wanted to keep him company.

You had come over expecting to play games with him.

But, when you got there, you found him on comms with a rando. They were filling your coveted spot as his number two player.

You hadn’t played the game before, but that didn’t matter. You could learn!

He was excited to show you the game, not even thinking twice about the fact that he was playing with someone other than you.

But, you were ready to ensure that he knew exactly how you felt about the situation. 

You were watching him play when your lips turned to a frown and you told him, “I guess I wasn’t a good enough player two for you.”

Levi immediately froze, his character losing health points as his mind raced with thoughts. 

When his character finally died, he turned to you. He couldn’t believe he made you feel this way!

“O-Of course you’re good enough! Here, let me connect a controller! I’ll teach you how to play! Please don’t be mad at me!” he pleaded, scrambling to grab another controller.

You grabbed the controller he handed you and started playing the game with him.

Part of you felt bad for the rando he abandoned, but he was your Levi.

He would make sure to never ask someone else to play with him before he asked you.

Satan wasn’t normally one for theatrics. He tended to be straightforward and honest when speaking. 

So, it was a bit of an adjustment for him when he realized how overdramatic you could be at times. 

That side of you especially came out when the two of you were alone together.

He was reading a book peacefully when you decided that you wanted some attention.

You started out slow, gently resting your head on his shoulder and looking up at him, but he didn’t pay you any attention.

You let out a small sigh, moving in front of Satan to peer at him over his book. Your eyes were staring intensely at him.

So intensely that you thought he would have for sure noticed your presence.

But, he just kept reading, his eyes not missing a single word.

What did you have to do to get this demon’s attention?

After that attempt was unsuccessful, you dramatically collapsed in Satan’s lap, your arm over your forehead. 

The action startled him and he finally tore his eyes away from his book, moving it to the side to look down at you.

You complained to him about how boring you must be that he couldn’t even look away from his book to give you two seconds of his time.

Satan wanted to roll his eyes at your words, but you noticed the small smirk that rested on his lips. 

He pulled you further up, adjusting you so that you were fully sitting in his lap and he wrapped his arms around you.

If attention was what you were seeking, he would give it to you. He placed a small kiss on your forehead before pulling his book back up to read. 

He didn’t say how much attention he would give you.

Asmo and you were unstoppable when it came to being overdramatic because you both had a knack for it. 

He would fight you for the title of “Drama Queen/King”.

He loved when you would come to him and dramatically complain about something that happened that day.

It could be something completely mundane and you would come to him and act as if your entire world was ending.

And you better believe he’s matching your energy, fake tears threatening to fall from his eyes as he holds you close.

The other brothers tended to stay away from the two of you when you were having one of these moments because they knew it was a situation that had been blown out of proportion and they didn’t want any part of it.

But when you decided to act overdramatic towards Asmo, it threw him for a loop.

He had been doing a makeup tutorial on a livestream for his fans and you had been trying to pull him away for the last thirty minutes.

You needed Asmo time too.

When you realized that he wasn’t going to stop what he was doing, you hopped into his livestream and left comment after comment.

Some of them were about you missing him, and some of them were you telling him that you wanted to spend time with him.

But when he didn’t respond to a single one, you snapped and sent one final comment that stated, “You don’t love me.” Which was of course followed by multiple crying emojis.

Asmo immediately panicked but before he could respond, you left the livestream. “No, I do love you!” he shouted before ending the livestream.

He immediately ran to your room and found you lying on your back in the bed, your eyes closed and face motionless. As if you had died from lack of attention.

Asmo immediately rushed to the bed, tears streaming down his cheeks as he stroked your cheek.

“Please, don’t leave me,” he cried over you, placing kisses all over your face until you finally broke, your lips curving the slightest bit upwards.

He invented being overdramatic. 

Beel was an absolute sweetheart. There was no doubt about it.

But, he was a bit slow when it came to picking up on when you were being overdramatic.

You would say something over the top or complain in a way that was definitely over-exaggerated and Beel would act as if the world was ending.

He would immediately try and fix whatever was causing you so much distress.

Based on previous experiences, you should know better than to act overdramatic in front of Beel. 

But, sometimes you didn’t think about it and it just happened. Today was one of those days.

Beel tried not to let his hunger get in between the two of you, but sometimes, it was unavoidable.

He hadn’t gotten the chance to eat nearly enough so you offered to take him out to dinner for a date.

He was so eager to go so that he could not only eat but also spend time with you.

But, it seemed that his mind was only focused on the former of those two options.

You had tried to make conversation with him on a couple of different occasions, but he was so absorbed in his food that he either didn’t hear you or simply didn’t respond.

You let out a loud sigh as he once again ignored you and that sigh at least caught Beel’s ears as he focused on listening to you.

“If only you looked at me the way you looked at food,” you stated with a frown and Beel’s attention immediately snapped up at you.

He is immediately panicking. “I’m sorry!” he stated, moving his chair closer to you and pulling you into his arms. He never wanted you to think you were less important to him than food.

You’ll have to reassure him you were only playing or he’ll go down a spiral on how he can prove his love to you. 

Theatrical and sarcastic didn’t always pair together in the best of ways. Especially when it came to Belphie.

He loved to tease you whenever you were acting particularly overdramatic.

Belphie was not nice in his teasing either, often calling you a crybaby or something along those lines. 

And that would always elicit a frown and/or pout from you.

But occasionally you could do this when he was in a good mood. And, on that note, occasionally you would get a good reaction from him.

You were lying in bed next to Belphie and you weren’t having it.

He always laid on top of you, so why he decided his pillow would be a better option for tonight was beyond your comprehension.

And you made your feelings known.

“I guess I’m not a good enough pillow for you,” you huffed out and Belphie opened one eye to look at you.

You looked so adorable as you pouted beside him. So adorable that he didn’t want to give in. He just wanted to watch as you made that face.

That was until you started getting out of bed and said, “Maybe I’ll go and see if Mammon or Asmo think I’m a good pillow.”

Belphie’s arms are immediately around you, pulling you back into the bed and laying on top of you.

He’ll 100% call you out on your theatrics. “Don’t be overdramatic,” he stated, knowing that he could bring a pout to your lips one more time.

Then he added, “You’re the only pillow I would ever want.”

It was sweet in his own way and a smirk rested on his lips as he saw you smile.

He may not always give in to you being overdramatic, but at least he knew how to bring a smile to your face.

[shooting-love-arrows]

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄 — 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄

SYNOPSIS: 𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬!𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 characters and their yandere tendencies. PAIRING: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 (!aged up to be a legal adult!) x reader [romantic]; 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐄𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 x reader [romantic]; 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 x reader [romantic]; 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 x reader [romantic]; 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐬 x reader [platonic]; readers gender isn't impiled/mentioned/specified Tw. delusion, delulu is the solulu, obsessive thoughts/behavior, possessive thoughts/behavior, witchcraft/dark magic, mention of love making, manipulations, controlling behavior, tyranny (?), concent? what is it?, stalking, worshiping, creepy behavior, creepy people, hunting, mention of m*rder, punishments, yeah… A/N: I hold Snow White close to my heart. However, as much as I adore the animated version, I find the book more interesting. So this is based on German fairy tale or folk tale, [Snow White] written by the Brothers Grimm (Jacob Ludwig Karl Grimm and Wilhelm Karl Grimm). Snow White is AGED UP!

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 who thinks of you as her first, last and only love. She, just like most women her age, believes in soulmates. It's just so...romantic.

It happens that in her opinion, you're the one. Since the moment she lays her doe like eyes on you, she just knows that your souls are tied and destined to be one.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 fantasies about you. A lot. At first, those are innocent fantasies. Scenarios about you running around each other, playfully starting your courtship. Then your feelings shall grow deeper, the roots growing deep into your heart and so your courtship becomes more prominent and serious. Those playful touches become more affectionate. Holding a deeper meaning and reaching down into your essence of being. Then, you'll propose to her, in the most dreamy way one can imagine. Fret not, she'll (shout) say yes. Wedding preparations will follow soon after, then a grand, royal wedding itself and finally, you'll spend your first night together. Ah yes, the moment your bond will materialize in the form of a night full of passionate love making. The spiral goes on deep and each time 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 starts the imaginary movie roll over, her daydreams take a darker turn. 

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 becomes very needy for your attention. She's just so touch starved to be noticed by her object of affection that she's just about to do something to make you see her as your potential wife. She'll dress up for you, looking like a princess that she is, otherwordly beautiful and charming; make sure to sing when she knows you're near acting like a siren who is ready to catch you in her net of love; showing off her many talents especially those she knows will catch your attention and let her start a conversation with you. And every time you do talk, it's like the whole world disappears, leaving only you. You find it a little concerning with how much 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 sighs and flutters her long eyelashes. Sometimes you wonder if she even pays attention to what your saying (or worse, that you bore her), since she seems to be stuck in her head. And her eyes seemed to have that strange glint that appears only when she looks at you…

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 starts being interested in witchcraft. It is an unexpected turn but I feel like she searched for something deeper. Knowing that your soulmates (it's her opinion) just isn't enough. She must be sure. A way to truly bind you together. So…uh…like mother, like (step) daughter?

Don't get me started on what she writes in her diaries…

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐄𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 who commands you to be her lover. Simple as that. She doesn't wait, nor ask for your opinion in that matter. After the (not so) mysterious disappearance of her husband – the King and Snow's White father – she'll have absolute power in the Queendom. And since she's the Queen and the most entitled person around, you'll have to comply with her wishes. Otherwise, she won't hesitate to force you to via poisons and dark magic.

She'll force feed you all sorts of aphrodisiacs, make voodoo dolls either of you or someone from your surroundings and in the end reduce you to being her puppet. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐄𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 doesn't need you to think. Just look pretty (but not as her) and submit to her entirely. Be her best and most treasured accessory, hm?

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐄𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 often uses a spying mirror to stalk you. Whenever she's not busy leading the Queendom or simply desires to see you, she'll sit in her lavish chambers and command her mirror to show you. She knows it can only tell her the truth and only the truth, so additionally she'll ask all sorts of questions about you. Are you loyal to her? Do you have a family she shuld take care of? Do you have feelings for someone? If she finds out that you do have and it's not for her, the very next day a public execution is made for your crush. 

You're not safe from her wrath and mood swings either. Like mentioned before, 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐄𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 isn't afraid to punish those who are against her in any way. She won't kill you but your punishments will be severe. Whipping and isolation are her way to go. Scars shall be your reminder to not cross her and loneliness borderlining to madness will thrust you right in her arms. Just like she didn't hesitate to assassinate Snow White, she'll make sure you understand your place and take your role as her lover seriously. 

She's all you need now and in the future. Your family, close friends and anyone you had connection with were taken care of. You're her loyal subject, made to worship her and serve her by giving her your never ending supply of love and affection.

She'll make you see that.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 who is your devoted worshiper. He sees you as some sort of higher being, who graced this dirty Earth with your pure presence. Who has graced him and his hard life with a drop of your soothing presence. The moment you showed him some kindness, even unintentionally, he's ready to carve his heart out of his chest and be at your every beck and call.

Although he is no knight by no means, definitely lacking those virtues, he's skilled within his field of work. It means that whoever dares to bother you (even if they don't) or worse, taint you (start courting you) is automatically a threat he needs to eliminate. Just like 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 does to his prey, he'll haunt them deep in the great forest by shooting arrows at their running form. But unlike his usual ethics to make it as painless as possible to the animals, he’ll deliberately make sure to make this person suffer as much as possible. He's ruthless. 

Don't be surprised when you'll find some ‘gifts’ from him. He's a man of a few words, not a drop of romance and hardened by life. Plus his yandere tendencies. So 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 gifts tend to be…disturbing. More often than not, you'll find already prepared quarries of his. You get furs, meat and even polished antlers/horns to hand in your chambers. 

Of course, he'll remain anonymous through this whole time, because he doesn't feel worthy enough to officially make contact with you. 

In the dark of the night, when he lays in his cot, he'll pray to you. That you'll allow him, a sinner, to be by your side. He doesn't dare (but secretly wishes) to be your lover, perhaps even your...husband? Whatever you'll pick, he'll agree on anything. He's that desperate for you.

One day…one day he'll overcome his insecurities and will speak to you…

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 who is a lovesick puppy, ready to marry you right then and there when his eyes fell on you for the first time. He's hopeless, really. 

He's always there when you're out of the castle. Lurking just around the corner, ready to start luring you into coming with him. At first, 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 offers are subtle but slowly and surely, they become bold. From promises to give you safety, stable life to making you his Queen and offering to conquer the Queendom as a wedding gift from him to you. He doesn't understand why you wouldn't want to come with him. He's the crown prince, only heir to a prosperous kingdom and a future king, ready to shower you in gold, gifts and power before you could even think of it.

He's a gifted singer and poet. He'll use that to his advantage to catch your attention, especially when you're in the castle where 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 obviously can't go. If it's possible, he'll stop his horse just under your window, hop down and that's when the performance starts. He'll sing ballads about your beauty, recites all sorts of poetry also related to love, sometimes even pray for you to come and grace him with your presence. His words are easily pouring out of his mouth in abundance. They're all about how he deeply feels towards you or about you. And he sincerely hopes they'll trap your heart.

In the dark of the night, he'll look at the portrait of you he had commissioned shortly after meeting you. Of course it didn't do your justice at all but it was just to pass the time until he'll have the real you by his side. He'll sigh dreamily at the canvas, whispering words of pure adoration for you.

His patience is running thin and the wedding day is nearing so fast...!

✿ BONUS ✿

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐬 [platonic] who are fiercely overprotective of you. They are greedy and dangerous beings by nature. They’ve killed before and they have no problem doing that again. Especially when some pathetic excuse of a pests seemed to be lurking around their hut, where they were keeping you locked in. There are seven of them, ripped with muscles because of a daily work in the mines and without any remorse in them. The opponent stands no chance. 

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

[aventurineswife]

can you write how any of the om brothers would react with a bimbo(in a gn way) mc. like they are stunning and so so sweet.. but just so fucking stupid it's honestly astounding .

Obey Me! Brothers with a Thembo!MC

Tags: Lucifer x Reader, Mammon x Reader, Leviathan x Reader, Satan x Reader, Asmodeus x Reader, Beelzebub x Reader, Belphegor x Reader, Thembo!MC/Reader, Fluff, Soft Romance, Comedy, Protective Characters, Domestic Moments, Gentle Teasing, Affectionate Dynamics, Wholesome Vibes, Slice of Life.

[Obey Me! Side Characters ver]

Lucifer

At first, Lucifer is utterly baffled. How can someone so stunning be so naive? He’ll try his best to guide you, carefully explaining things, but after a few blank stares, his frustration will start to show. He’s constantly torn between wanting to help and wondering if you’re messing with him. Eventually, though, he finds your innocence endearing and even refreshing. He’ll start sticking around more, ready to gently steer you away from trouble—often with an exasperated sigh, but always with a soft, knowing smile reserved just for you.

“MC, I asked you to write your name at the top of the form. Not sign it. And why ‘Beautiful Genius’? ... Never mind, just—please, no more surprises, alright?”

Mammon

Mammon is immediately charmed and overwhelmed. He’s head over heels for your sweetness and good nature, but it never ceases to amaze him just how oblivious you are. He’s fiercely protective of you, always standing up for you when others might tease. While he loves bragging about your beauty and kind heart, he conveniently leaves out the moments when he’s had to explain the simplest concepts. Your innocence and cheerful demeanor are his favorite things, and he wouldn’t trade them for anything.

“You really gotta stop givin' stuff away for free, MC! And what’s with buying a lamp for 100,000 Grimm? 'Cause it’s shiny? Come on, you're better than that!"

Leviathan

Levi is completely flustered by your innocence. He’s used to complex strategies and serious gaming, so interacting with you is like trying to explain the basics of a game to a toddler. Despite that, he finds your undivided attention both adorable and overwhelming. Every time you cheer him on—even when he’s just rambling about something nerdy—he melts a little. Your constant sweetness makes him feel warm inside, even if you don't understand half the things he says.

“W-Wait, you’re cheering me on? We’re just in practice mode, MC… No, no need to bring snacks—oh, but you did anyway? Thanks, I guess?”

Satan

At first, Satan tries to keep his composure, despite how shocked he is by your cluelessness. He’ll be patient, explaining things in detail, even as you misunderstand or misinterpret. Instead of getting frustrated, though, he finds your quirks fascinating and kind of endearing. If anyone dares to mock you, (Satan’s wrath is swift and brutal). Over time, he comes to cherish your unique interpretations of things and even looks forward to them.

“MC, Shakespeare isn’t a vegetable… Wait, you want to make a ‘Hamlet salad’? No, that’s not what—oh, you know what? Fine, let’s just read it together.”

Asmodeus

Asmo is completely smitten with you. He’s in awe of your beauty and your adorably naive misunderstandings. Every time you misinterpret something, he finds it endlessly amusing. He’s always showering you with compliments and making sure you feel appreciated. He’s also more than happy to explain anything you don’t understand, often in the most dramatic and theatrical ways. Asmo is incredibly proud of you and loves showing you off—though maybe not when you mistake sunscreen for tea.

“Darling, you’re absolutely stunning, but sunscreen goes on your face, not in your tea. What kind of skincare routine is that?!”

Beelzebub

Beel is the epitome of patience. He loves how sweet and genuine you are, and he’s more than happy to help you out when things go over your head. If you ever get confused or make a mistake, Beel gently explains things without ever getting frustrated. He loves spending time with you, and even when you accidentally order fifty cakes, he’s just happy to be there with you. Honestly, he thinks there’s no such thing as too much cake, especially when it's more for the two of you to share.

“MC, when they asked if you wanted one dozen or two, they meant for you to eat, not order. But hey, no big deal… More for us, right?”

Belphegor

Belphie finds your innocence a little amusing at first. He’s smug about it, especially when you come to him with questions that seem too simple for him to answer. But underneath the teasing, he secretly finds your sweet, untainted view of the world a nice contrast to the chaos around him. He’ll never let anyone else make fun of you, and over time, he actually starts finding your quirks comforting. He’ll tease you about your little missteps, but he can’t help but keep some of your adorable misunderstandings as little mementos.

“MC, you’re seriously searching ‘sheep facts’ for me? Yeah, good luck with that… Wait, you actually did? Hah, fine, I’ll keep this list... it’s cute, okay?”

SOMEONE PLZ REQUEST FOR THE UNDATEABLES!! PLZZ IM BEGGING!! I WANNA WRITE FOR MY PRETTY GOTHIC REAPER WIFE, WANNA WRITE FOR ANGEL HUSBAND WHO LOVES SOLOMON'S COOKING AND THE THAT BARNEY LOOKING AHHH DUDE!!! (JK I LOVE MEPHISTO TOO!!! 🤭💜) 🛐🫣