creforage

[creforage]

𝐢. Six appendages.

𓄿: tags/notes . . . obey me, gn reader as per canon, can be considered a little as body horror on the side, mostly Michael centred.

𖤛 synopsis . . . | after your death in unforeseen circumstances, you are reborned in the celestial realm as one of their own. But are you?

You wake up with an unfamiliar body.

Feathers. So many of them you spotted, at every angle your head turned to. Everything felt sore —like the layers of your skin had been forcibly ripped, and folded into something entirely different in the gentlest, cruelest of ways.

This is not who I am, you thought to yourself, as you sat up with grievous struggle. Your back feels so, so heavy, as if something is dragging it down even further. The very implications set your heartbeat into a fiery, terror fit. Yet, silent you remain, as you take in your surroundings.

Light surrounds you. Engulfes and encompasses all that you were and will be. You can understand that you're laying atop the softest bed you've ever felt, and it's quite a spacious room —gold and glistening curtains blinding your eyes.

Oh, speaking of eyes. They feel different now. Claustrophobic, in an unexplainable way; you can see everything without having to focus your pupils into a specific area. The amount of details you're processing sets your comprehension into a distress in itself. You clear your throat.

Something is shifting impossibly close to your hearing —which also feel frustratingly sensitive — and your auditory senses quickly conclude; it's not on you, around you, or outside of you, belonging to another.

The noise is within you. It belongs to you, you're the producer and its host. Your breath hitches and so does your body, entirely, it heightens the ruffled, soft noise —oh… it's caressing your eyes and arms.

You dare not look down or behind. You dare not touch yourself. In fact, as you finally bring yourself to your feet and push yourself towards the windowsill, your consciousness forbids you from even processing what you see on its reflection.

You no longer possess pupils to lull them to the side of protection. Illusioning yourself is feeble, after all; every twitch of the protruding, stunningly gentle shift of the appendages around both sides of your ears and back are demanding to be acknowledged, one way or another. (Now you understand what was so heavy on your back. The dead weight cascading along your tailbone and dragging across the floor like a thousand corpses. You just didn't want to face it yet.)

You don't even acknowledge it. Rather, you look outside.

You're in the Celestial realm. Unsurprising to no one, really. It's always so bright there. How do they even live that way, always in the light? Do they not tire of it? Your personal musings aside, you're forced to double away from the beautiful visage as a sharp pang of pain hits all across your body again. It's been like this since you woke up, or, more so —in your state of limbo. You felt it, faintly then, full-force, now.

You could only describe it as your own cells and muscle tissues rearranging themselves. They keep shifting, patching onto another, pulling each other apart and reproducing its essentials to what they now declare a state of perfection.

Ah, also, someone has been incessantly calling your name this entire time. A little after you woke up and walked over.. … .. It's familiar.

“[Name],” it says, again and again. Something shuffles from behind. Your perception takes into account another being, probably of belonging here. (Unlike you.) “How do you feel?”

“Michael,” you say, just barely. Your voice is different, but not as much as the rest of you, thankfully. You lean away from the window and, in a fatigued state, call out the intruder's name once more, just for the sake of familiarity. For a shred of comfort. “Michael.”

He's been smiling this entire time, but it widens even further upon hearing your voice. “Hello. You recognized me fairly quickly… I have to wonder, how come? But, ah..” He takes you by the arm, gently, and leads your astray form to sit back down on the edge of the well plushed bed. “No matter. Your well-being is more important right now. Now tell me, how do you feel? Are you aware of where you currently are?”

“Celestial.” You say, but the words come out more of a breath than an answer. Your brain spins. Try to finish your sentence. “Realm. In the celestial realm.”

“Good, good. Your name?”

“.............”

“Do you remember your name? I just used it earlier, if that helps.”

You half hum, then startle yourself. You're still not used to the different timbre in your voice. “I remember.”

He hasn't taken his eyes off of you for a moment. More precisely, what's folded into themselves on your back and such. He lifts a hand to gingerly brush an index finger along the ridges of troubled feathers, and you flinch away from the touch enough for his eyes to widen. He retracts his hand and sighs quietly in what sounds like concern, if you're desperate enough for sympathy.

“This process is quite different with who were inherently born into a respective role here.” He says to your keenly listening ears. “We're all Father's children, and such were we raised, despite its complications and risk. The better we understood and developed, the stronger and efficiently were we molded into Father's image eventually. Take Luke for example. He's been ‘living’ for a time that would normally preceed any regular human, but he's still a child. He hasn't grown out his wings in a result of it, as I'm sure you know by now.”

You nod faintly. He continues. “Which is why, [Name], this not only differs from our Father's sacred custom, but your soul and importance have been enough to be amongst us. You weren't initially born into who you are now, [Name], that's why you are in immense pain as of yet.”

“I never,” you croak out through the rearing pain that digs its heels into every open nerve within you. “asked, for this —”

He stands up suddenly. Smoothes down his robes and turns back to you. “For your own sake, [Name], I'll plead you to not finish that sentence. You're in enough pain as is,” he gets on his knees —Michael the Archangel himself, hands on your shoulders. They're warm, a contrast against you, which confuses you —because angels would normally emit warmth — but oh, but ah, you're a little something entirely different, aren't you?

“Rest.” he ushers you onto your back. You wince and bring your hands against your chest reflexively —seems some senses stay rooted within, even as another, huh? “You'll be accustomed to it soon enough, as will the pain cease. Don't think too hard on it for now, alright?”

You'd expect him to leave by now, but he sits by your side instead, his weight dipping the bed sheets considerably. You're aware of his eyes staring at your face. You don't sense any ill intent. They're low lidded, softer than you might have ever imagined. “You probably would've preferred to have Simeon here to take care of you, wouldn't you?”

The mention of his mere name jolts a reaction out of you. You remember Michael words again. Don't think too hard now. If you start to think further, your body will only punish you for it.

“He would do a better job of it, I'm sure.” He mumbles, and you don't quite like the way he allows his hands to so simply run against your cheek, up, and down again. He pauses. “A shame he's no longer allowed here after his treachery, isn't it?”

You don't answer, because there would absolutely be no point in neither wasting your breath, nor getting into verbal sparring with someone like him. He resumes his semi-petting. You don't like the fact that it's actually proving to be calming your torched nerves and aching flesh. Perhaps it's his angelic properties playing part. Or perhaps he's just genuine. Is it that hard to believe, [Name]?

“I don't know why I'm still speaking to you, or why I'm here,” he says. “I think I've been lonely without anyone to speak to for an agonizingly long while, since the brothers and Simeon —even Luke, and Raphael have departed from our sacred palace. Yes, yes… . I've been lonely.”

You close your eyes, and realize that is about as much freedom as you'll ever be able to afford now. Now, you don't have to bear witness the look in his eyes. The light pouring into the room and chaining its promise around your ankles.

[creforage]

[creforage]

I know the OBM writers couldn't ever decide when was the appropriate time to slap some downright morally questionable 'comedic' points across actual serious topics, but this entire ordeal might have changed my view of Lucifer and Solomon altogether.

They make it absolutely UNBELIEVABLE to accept they're about ten million years older than us (Lucifer's own hyperbole words in nb) when they're as incompetent and have this EQ bankruptcy as they do so often. I feel a lot worse for Mammon now, all things considered

i am about to get so emo on Mammon's behalf

HUUUGE average jer nonsensical freak out below

i need to explain what happens here bc ten pictures per post limit but pretty much he asks this absolute L of a man what to do (never a good idea) and after a really gross couple of messages he finally tells Mamm to ask some witches to be the girl's guardian up in the human world. continuing on..

the reason why Mammon is constantly in debt (or at the very least is a big reason why) is because he is trying to make a life for his little girl (and the guardians canonically exploit him)

i feel SICK I am going to CRY myself i am going to CRY and YELL and THROW A FIT and THROW UP IDC IDC IDC IDC IDC IDC IDC IDC

i ahte this stupid fucking game i hope everyone agrees too i hate it it sucks shut the hell up oh my hod everyone else can leave and hit the road and go to hell just leave me alone

[creforage]

YOU!! 🫵🫵🫵 tell me your favourite thing about obey me :> pretty please

[creforage]

Meheheh HEHEHE I LOVE MY POOKS HEHAJEJAB

[creforage]

The Pact Reversal

ੈ✩ pairing: Brothers + Solomon x Gn!Reader

ੈ✩ 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 old 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.

@virelia

[creforage]

A Hidden Figure

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊‧──────

I stated this in a previous post about Michael and his insecurities. I wanted to take a deeper dive into what I mean, and Michael’s character in general.

•The Mysterious Angel

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑ ⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

Michael is a character that has been mentioned since the beginning of the game, yet we haven’t seen him. Not only do I believe that this is intentional, I believe it’s a huge part of who Michael is and what he is like.

We know the basics of what his personality is like:

He loves sweets and Astronomy

He has a good fashion sense

Michael is prone to rambling

He can act childish at times

Tends to think selfishly at times

Is the opposite of Lucifer, visually at least

A bit of a sadist

He likes to collect souvenirs

He can be considered lazy

This is just to name the basics.

Michael hides himself and I believe it’s on purpose. At first, I thought it was just the devs being lazy and not wanting to introduce another character (might be true still). However, with everything that’s happened when Michael is in the picture, it seems to be apart of his character.

I spoke in my first post about Father being the reason for Michael’s insecure behavior, which I believe. Michael hides himself and it seems to be on purpose. I doubt devs would be go out of their way to make Michael hide behind light and another person’s body just for the sake of being too lazy to show him. I feel like that’s just more work for them than actually showing him would be. They wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t a cannon part of his character.

A character that hides himself and has been since the beginning of the game; it’s not simple laziness, it’s insecurity. Michael is a character that not only has insecure behavior, but to an extent, self loathing behavior.

Self Loathing VS. Insecurity

Self loathing and insecure behavior are similar, but two completely different things.

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Self Loathing: Extreme criticism of oneself; a constant belief or feeling of worthlessness, failure, inadequacy, and incompetence.

Insecurity: Uncertainty or anxiety about oneself; lack of confidence.

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While insecure behavior is expressed more as anxiety and uncertainty about oneself, self loathing behavior is essentially self hatred.

Michael is a character that is not only insecure, but arguably has self loathing behavior. This stems from him physically running from problems. However, the thing is, when Michael ran from Raphael, he was in his body. He wasn’t hiding behind someone else, or a blinding light. He was in his own body, facing another person. When he was in his own body, he ran away. He hides himself and even went as far as hiding behind someone else’s body to hide himself. There is no way Michael would be happy with himself. We learn that after the war, he felt immense guilt. If Father has any role in his insecure behavior, that might play a huge factor in his self loathing behavior. He is an insecure character, which is obvious. Never once showing himself, and ultimately running off when he did. This is insecure behavior on the surface. But, if one were to look between the lines, it can be seen as self loathing.

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Reading Between the Lines

When you delve deeper into each of our interactions with Michael, and what other characters say, his behavior could teeter on the self loathing side of things. This mainly stems from 3 things:

•Hiding himself every time we meet him

• The Ring of Light vs. The Ring of Wisdom

•Physically running away from conflict

If anything, the first and the third have potential to be related to each other. Michael hiding himself might be him avoiding conflict. Maybe conflict with his siblings, or even with God. Which leads to the second idea: Favoritism. God may have been the stepping stone leading to Michael’s self hatred. He favored Lucifer, and even though it’s said Michael is God’s most “loyal” he still favored Lucifer because he was (potentially still is) God’s definition of perfection.

Michael, God’s most loyal angel; the one who doesn’t question his father’s authority . . . isn’t the favorite? Being insanely loyal and devoting your life to someone, only to be pushed aside for your sibling that fell from grace. An entire war broke out, and everything fell on Michael. The blame, anguish, pain, and regret of the battle. The deaths and the loss of siblings had to have taken a toll on Michael as well, not only the demons brothers. Imagine that: choosing between the God you devoted your life to, or the family you love dearly. It’s not an easy decision to make.

The loss of siblings, favoritism, and the blame.

Michael was blamed for the brothers falling from grace. Sure, our focus should be on the brothers and how they dealt with it. But when we meet Angels, they always show remorse and regret of what happened. One major example I can think of is Raphael dreaming of the brothers returning to the Celestial Realm. Raphael, Michael’s closest confidant, wishes they were back in the Celestial Realm. If Raphael wishes that, imagine what Michael wants?

When everything is added together, Michael doesn’t sound like a villain. He sounds like another victim. I wouldn’t be shocked if characters in game also view him as some sort of villain, which would contribute to Self-Loathing behavior in Michael.

[creforage]

dibujo todo equis de levi y su pejcao (pose altamente basada en una foto de vernon y un pez luna jajkdjkdjk)

[creforage]

When you marry someone for their cat, clothes, cooking, bed, blanket-

[creforage]

general OBM spoilers talk ahead. I think that, aside from how rushed the entire thing was (lesson 16), the reason the demons hadn't minded much of the death of their original timeline's MC is partly because they have an entirely different understanding of mortality.

Thinking about it. If the same circumstance were to happen during when they were Archangels and the like, it could very well have turned out differently. I don't remember the Celestial realm in general being too actively involved with the human world (or allowed to, for that matter), but angels, at least in their realm, aren't born into a specific role by default. They rise through the ranks and earn it, as well as even having the freedom to choose something else. It implies that at some point —the seven brothers only were angels that carried out the more low-tier work —no doubt that would include the "watching over/guiding humans/encounters in missions" in their list.

That in itself already means an innate understanding of a human's mortality would be in mind back then. But how long has it's been since they were casted out of the Celestial realm, becoming full fledged demons that would now not even consider a human more than a particularly shiny soul to resist consuming, for the exchange program's sake?

Not to mention, they are over thousands of years old —their entire physiology, as demon and angel alike, are far superior in terms of fragility and endurance. While it's not necessarily out of malice, it could be why they have been unconsciously expecting you to be so quickly over it. (Another side thought is that: as such, even if you were to explain the natural traumatic effect a human would have on their psyche after lesson 16 — they still could not completely understand, nor grasp the severity of it. What they would try however would be treating you considerably more carefully if you were to be actually vocal/obviously not faring well.)

[creforage]

"Get ready, we're having a tea party at the Demon Lord's Castle."

Half visible from their spot in the bed, they could see Lucifer leaning a hand on the door frame, sporting a handful of papers sure to be Mammon's contribution to the weekly bills. A quick creak snapping the door shut again had the human moving to get ready for the ineviavtable interogation sure to occur from the recent shenaigans.

Really, it was their own fault for being hasty. A choice they made, time and time again. Nonsensical situations and events, always a new danger looming on the horizon. Between the people they loved and their own life, they would always choose their loved ones. A pity said loved ones had an opinion on that.

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The Demon Lord's Castle gardens were beautiful, as if Barbatos would allow for any less of the Little D's that maintained it. A little table, almost comically small for the three demons gathered around a human who could never outpace them all. Lucifer flanking them, Diavolo across from them, and Barbatos readying Hellrose tea with blank smile beside Diavolo.

As ever the leader, Diavolo leaned forwards and began, "Last week, you endangered yourself. This is not a new situation, you've also attempted prior to protect the others with your own life. I would like an explaination."

Straight shoulders and calm voice, trying not to be too forceful while retaining authority. This wasn't their Diavolo, gentle and kind and lonely, always reaching for a connection he didn't quite have the social grace to make. This was the Demon Prince, dealing with a threat to the human he considered his to protect. A threat they seemed to be posing to themselves, recently.

There really wasn't an opportunity to get away from this. If it wasn't the Royals, it would be the the Angels, the Brothers, or the Sorcerer. May as well start a fire, if it's bound to be an unavoidable problem. Moving from problem solving to damage control, it's always been their specialty.

"I'm human. We live, what, a century? I've given my life candle to Beel, I think the food here has poisioned me enough a Chinese emperor would be jealous, and my life is in near constant danger."

Lucifer stared, Diavolo stared harder. Barbatos had stopped pouring and was now white-knuckling the teapot under his gloves. Hopefully it wasn't one of his favorites.

"If someone has to go, I'm the one who should. I won't live like you." Spoken with the monotony of someone who could only speak like they played pranks with Death itself, they continued their ramble. "I love you. I love the Devildom. I can never be safe here, but it'll always be better than the Human world because the people who love me are here," They paused a moment, "If I need to die to keep you all safe, I will."

It felt, not good, but better to admit. Unfortunate that no one else seemed to take it well.

Lucifer was gripping their thigh tightly, an abnormally distressed look usually reserved for the worst of their families rampages. Diavolo had taken their hand, and was leaning far enough across the table it had begun to lean. Barbatos' smile had dropped alongside the cracks beginning to appear in the pretty little teapot, painted flowers splintering under the weight of his grip.

"I believe I should see you to the Young Lord's guest room, little lamb." The teapot was set down, and quicker than they could see, Barbatos was offering a hand at their side. Taking their hand as the other two released them, Barbatos quickly escorted them out, leaving Lucifer and Diavolo behind with the broken teapot, now cold.

The two quietly looked to each other, grim and considering and ever too nonchalant.

"Solomon was once mortal too."