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Life in the Devildom is stifling, at first. You move through the first few weeks in a trance, letting yourself get pushed and pulled every which way by the seven brothers. You find yourself in the middle of their convoluted family drama, the resolution of centuries of drama weighing heavy on your shoulders. The responsibility to heal the wounds you managed to split open overpowers the depressive apathy of being ripped away from everything you’d known.
You find yourself bound to the brothers, one by one, until the only one left is Lucifer, aloof as ever. He isn’t simply a figurine to collect, after all, and the thought of permanently bonding yourself to him is rather unnerving. You doubt you truly know him or most of his motivations, though his love and loyalty for his brothers is evident in his actions.
You wonder, some nights, why you agreed to make a pact with any of them.
Mammon’s started as a result of Leviathan’s want for revenge, and it was possibly the most impulsive, the inky blackness of his sigil appearing high on your left forearm. You regret his the least, however. He won you over quickly, wearing his emotions on his sleeve despite his obvious efforts to hide them. Your third week at RAD, he’d dropped everything to take care of you through an especially bad panic attack, holding your hands when you tried to dig your fingers into the flesh of your palms, waiting patiently for you to regain speech and mobility. For all Mammon’s blundering, you know he cares, know that his motivations are for anything but your friendship. After all, what monetary value could the Avatar of Greed possibly see in you? You aren’t rich, aren’t going into a field that will guarantee a high salary. In darker moments you wonder why he’s interested in you at all, wondering if it’s somehow all a prank. Then, you see him again, and you see the wide smile that spreads across his face when he sees you. You see him blush and fidget when you touch him, whether it be a touch to his shoulder to let him know you’re there or you worming your way into his arms, late at night when it feels you’re the only two awake in the world. You see how he yearns to make you laugh, to gain your praise, and you find yourself wanting the same from him. Coins and strange jewelry occasionally drop from your pockets.
The way your pact with Leviathan started still makes guilt coil in your gut, his sigil painted on the back of your left hand a constant reminder. You’ve never been the type to intentionally provoke someone, however standoffish or rude they are to you. But Mammon managed to convince you that it was the only way, so you ignored your doubts and went along with it anyway. At the very least, you were able to apologize later, and you quickly found that you could relate to him. While you wouldn’t go as far as to call yourself an otaku as he does, you’ve gotten into a few anime yourself, and you’ve always been a fan of fantasy in general. All it took was you mentioning a show you both liked, and Levi warmed up to you fast, even introducing you to a game you now love. Many weekend nights were spent in his room, gaming or marathoning shows or just talking until your throats were sore with use. You still roll your eyes whenever he utters the word “normie”, however.
Beelzebub’s was for his own sake, in a way, to help reunite him with his lost twin, his sigil inscribed on the inside of your right wrist. Beel scared you at first, a voice whispering in your ear that you could end up one of his meals, but you knew better now. He’s quiet but affectionate, and you no longer hesitate to snuggle up next to him in casual situations. He’d been the one to initiate contact, on the night of your first TSL marathon, then on the movie nights you’d started having after. One of the nights, you watched a trilogy of fantasy movies you’d loved as a child with Beel, Levi, and Mammon. Sometime in the middle of the last movie, the four of you fell asleep on the nest of pillows and blankets you’d made on your floor, and you awoke to find that you’d used Beel’s chest as a pillow that night. It’s hard to literally sleep on someone and not feel more comfortable around them after.
Asmodeus’s pact was the first that felt like an accomplishment, his sigil curled on the bottom left of your ribcage. After all, you had impressed a demon, and the experience opened up the possibility of magic for you. While you couldn’t ignore Solomon’s help in the matter, it was a rush to realize that you brought out that power. You’d not been particularly close with Asmo before then, knowledge of his magical charm making you wary. The more you got to know him, however, the more you saw him. A few weeks after you’d made your pact, he invited you to a spa night of sorts in his room. It felt, to you, like a sleepover, though you couldn’t complain. The night was spent with face masks and skin creams and laughter and fashion magazines, and more wine than either of you intended to drink. Asmo was quiet while drunk, curling into himself, and you found yourself with a strong urge to comfort him, to let him be vulnerable around you. He admitted things you had already begun to guess, expressing doubts in himself and a surprising amount of loneliness. You told him that he didn’t have to pretend around you. You were no stranger to insecurities yourself, after all, and you could empathize with feeling inadequate and with the fear of being unloved. While you still don’t return his flirtations, you try to show your love with kind words and gentle touches, which seem to fluster him more than any pickup line could.
Satan’s started out... messily. His argument with Lucifer, their accidental body switch, everything buzzed with tension. But, you could understand his frustration, and you accepted his pact after the situation resolved, his sigil appearing on the back of your neck. Satan was and is more than his anger, time spent talking with him about his passions taught you that. No one stops to fawn over cats due to anger, after all, and genuine laughter is easy to spot, no matter how good a person is at faking it. And he does fake it, hiding his anger, smothering its flames with a thick blanket of manners and niceties and smiles. He’s meticulous with his persona. But you’ve seen it slip, not just in moments of rage, but during quiet nights in his bedroom, surrounded by books old and new, during afternoon study sessions in the common room, warmth from the fireplace causing his eyes to droop and limbs to grow heavy. One night after the pact was made, while the two of you were listening to a record in the common room, you took his hand in yours and asked if he wanted to dance. Taken aback, blushing, he accepted, holding you gently, gently, as you swayed to the soft song coming from the record player. You smiled at him, affection painted across your face, and something in his gaze softened. Pulling him closer, just slightly, you continued the conversation you’d been having, drinking in the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He’s more than his wrath. Little by little, you try to convince him of it.
When Belphegor first offered to forge a pact with you, you’d declined. Trust isn’t easily regained after manipulation, after the feeling of dying at one’s hands. His face frequented your nightmares, you clawing at your throat as you wake, suffocating at his grip once again. He was sorry, desperately trying to regain what had been lost, but how could you not doubt his intentions? It took not-so-subtle intervention from Beel to begin to bridge the gap, inviting you over to their shared room to watch movies. You went for Beel’s sake at first, knowing that you’d be safe with him there, at the very least. One thing you and Belphie agreed on from the beginning was that Beel made a good pillow, solidifying him as the physical and metaphorical buffer between the two of you. Tensions eased gradually, over shared interests and Belphie’s reignited curiosity about humanity. You accepted his pact sitting in the middle of his bed, after Beel had left to retrieve his midnight snack, the sigil curling on the inside of your wrist, your hand resting on top of his. You couldn’t forget what he’d done, but you could give him the chance to make up for it.
Now you’re midway through the year, your closest friends literal demons, the seals of the Lords of Hell permanent reminders on your body. The House of Lamentation feels like home as much as your one in the human world. You’ve faced angry devils and lived.
You’ve wondered about the unique circumstances of your soul. Both human and angelic, and now bound to six lords of hell. Hopefully, death will be a long way off, but you can’t help wondering what will happen when it comes.