Yandere Toons x Reader: An Anthology of Headcanons and Scenarios

Mephisto Pheles & Amaimon (Platonic Scenario - "The Narrow Gate")

Warnings: Catholicism, religious fanaticism, demonic possession, exorcism, stalking, abduction, home invasion, workaholism, violence, death, drowning, immolation, insects, blood, emotional/psychological manipulation, toxic mindset.

Word Count: 12,943.

A.N. - Just in time for Amaimon's anniversary!

Mephisto was often the brightest part of his office, with the height of the walls shadowing his rows of anime figurines and associated paraphernalia.

The sheen of his deep purple hair faded the lower the sun fell, but the rise of the full moon cast it in a misty glow akin to the surface of the ocean. The white cloak around his shoulders and his equally white dress shirt and clownish pants reflected light on the darkest days.

Amaimon lacked his older brother’s shine, but he compensated for it by moving around the room more than a restless hound locked in the backyard. The bottom of his oxblood red tailcoat darted from the ceiling to the floor then the corner of your desk, which sat adjacent to Mephisto’s on a less extravagant but more packed scale.

The younger demon king had spiked hair like a tree in a patch of grass, and it rose above the mountains of thick folders and loose papers standing on either side of your head.

The poke on the edge of your mouth went unnoticed by your haggard mind for several moments, its energy having been poured into the tax returns unfolding before your eyes. When you shifted your gaze in an almost robotic fashion, you noticed the spherical shape of a gobstopper raising the corner of your upper lip as it was pushed against your teeth.

You dropped the pencil in your grip and nudged the half-gloved hand away. “I can’t afford to break my teeth right now,” came your murmur, half the words slurred from disorientation.

Before you could rediscover the correct line of the tax history, Amaimon maneuvered his upper body around the towers of unfinished work and peered into your mouth.

“Your teeth are flat,” he noted as if he were the first to ever do so. “Not like mine. See?” He opened his mouth with a long “blah” sound and exposed his teeth to the yellowish light of the desk lamp.

As soon as his lips parted, you were slapped with a rancid odour so foul and startling that it nearly compensated for the three hours of sleep you had gotten the previous night.

It was bits of sweet and sour candies that had never been swallowed, the acids in his saliva having melted them but the passage of many years having calcified them on his gums and teeth.

It was the stink of a mouth that had not touched toothpaste for centuries, and you attempted to distract yourself from it by pondering how his teeth were not falling out of his skull like leaves from a tree in autumn.

The sharp edges of his canines were well-defined and resembled those of a wolf. At the front of both his upper and lower jaws were a pair of elongated fangs, their placement reminiscent of vampires in the age of black and white television.

Multiple strings of spit connected his upper teeth to his lower teeth, yet he continued to lean closer, push his tongue farther, and extend the “blah” sound.

Mephisto glanced at the origin of the noise in bewilderment, only to squeeze the pen until his knuckles turned white and contorted his expression into a grimace. “Amaimon!”

He almost shouted the name but steadied his disgust to a veneer of shaky composure, folding his hands on top of each other and straightening his back to a rigid degree while his left eyebrow twitched. “Leave them to their work,” he muttered through clenched teeth.