arlucent

[arlucent]

Jade Leech’s Reaction to You Leaving to your world.  

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🍄⃘ :*･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🌊✧*:･ﾟ

1. Initial Reaction:   

- Jade would listen calmly, fingers steepled, smile unchanging.  

- "I see. How... interesting." (His tone is pleasant, but his pupils might dilate slightly —the only tell.)  

- He’d ask logistical questions in a detached, academic way: "How does the portal function? Is it a permanent severance, or might there be... exceptions?"

- If you cry, he’d hand you a handkerchief (monogrammed, because he’s extra) and murmur, "Tears are such a waste when we still have time to problem-solve." 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🍄⃘ :*･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🌊✧*:･ﾟ

2. Behind the Scenes: The Subtle Campaign to Keep You  

- Jade wouldn’t force you to stay—he’d make staying the most appealing option.  

 - He’d "coincidentally" arrange for you to experience exclusive Octavinelle luxuries—private aquarium tours, rare teas, moonlit boat rides—all under the guise of "giving you fond memories to take home."

  - He might casually mention how your world lacks his mushroom cultivation expertise, or how he’d "miss our tea sessions terribly." (Guilt? No, just facts.)  

- If you express doubt, he’d smile. "I’m merely ensuring you have all the data before making your decision."  

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🍄⃘ :*･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🌊✧*:･ﾟ

3. The Last Night: A Calculated Goodbye

- He’d prepare a perfectly tailored farewell gift—something useful yet hauntingly personal:  

 - A journal filled with pressed mushrooms from all your shared outings.  

 - A sound-recording crystal of the Octavinelle tide (so you can "hear the sea when you’re homesick for it").  

- His goodbye kiss would be soft but lingering, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Do write, if you’re able. I’d hate for our correspondence to grow... stale."  

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🍄⃘ :*･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🌊✧*:･ﾟ

4. If You Leave: The Long Game

- Jade wouldn’t chase or demand—he’d wait and observe.  

 - His letters would be infrequent but precise, each one subtly reminding you of what you’re missing:  

  - "The blue-glowing fungi in the caves have bloomed. You’d have appreciated the pattern."

   - "Floyd nearly set the Lounge on fire again. How dull it is without you to laugh at him."  

- If you don’t reply, he’d pause—but not out of anger. He’s simply recalculating.  

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🍄⃘ :*･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🌊✧*:･ﾟ

5. The Reunion (If You Return)

- Should you ever come back, Jade would greet you as if no time had passed:  

- "Ah, you’re just in time for tea. I’ve acquired a new blend from the Coral Sea."

- Only the slight tremor in his hands as he pours your cup betrays him.  

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🍄⃘ :*･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🌊✧*:･ﾟ

6. If You Never Return: Quiet Acceptance 

- Jade is too pragmatic to rage—but he’s also too meticulous to forget.  

 - He’d preserve your favorite teacup in his office, a "memento of a fascinating variable."

- On the anniversary of your departure, he might visit the shore, watching the horizon with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  

- And if, years later, a rumor reaches him about a dimensional rift reopening? Well. He does have a sudden interest in cross-world travel investments. 

[arlucent]

Enchanted Souvenir

A Lyney x fem!Reader

☄️⋅⊛🎩✮♟⚝♠✦♠⚝♟✮🎩⊛⋅☄️

The golden chandeliers of the Opera Epiclese trembled with the force of the audience's applause as Lyney took his final bow, his crimson coat swirling like liquid fire under the stage lights. You found yourself clutching the velvet armrests of your seat, knuckles whitening from how tightly you'd been holding on during his grand finale - a breathtaking illusion where he'd seemingly stepped through a mirror, only to reappear dangling upside-down from the balcony railings, roses cascading from his sleeves.

As the house lights came up and the crowd began shuffling toward the exits, you remained frozen in your seat, fingers tracing absent patterns on the plush upholstery. That's when you saw it - a glimmer of porcelain peeking out from where your skirt had brushed against the seat.

The figurine was no larger than a thimble, yet impossibly detailed. A ballerina frozen mid-pirouette, her delicate features painted with strokes so fine you could see the blush on her cheeks. When your fingertips made contact, the cool porcelain suddenly warmed beneath your touch. Then - impossibly - she moved.

Your gasp echoed in the nearly empty theater as the dancer completed her spin, tiny satin slippers tapping a soundless rhythm against your palm. Around you, the last stragglers chattered obliviously as they filed out, completely unaware of the miracle unfolding in your cupped hands.

☄️⋅⊛🎩✮♟⚝♠✦♠⚝♟✮🎩⊛⋅☄️

The backstage area smelled of greasepaint and ozone, that peculiar metallic tang that always lingered after a magic show. You wove through a maze of rolling set pieces, your pulse hammering in time with the distant clatter of stagehands breaking down the performance.

Lyney stood near his dressing room door, still in full performance regalia - the high collar of his shirt slightly askew, a sheen of sweat making his silver hair cling to his forehead. He was signing playbills for a cluster of giggling noblewomen, his stage smile never faltering even as his fingers twitched with exhaustion.

Then his eyes met yours.

You saw the exact moment he registered the figurine in your hand - his practiced grin slipped, just for a heartbeat. With effortless grace, he extricated himself from his admirers, murmuring something that made them titter before turning his full attention to you.

"Ah," he breathed, his voice lower than it had been on stage, rough around the edges now that the performance was over. The ballerina chose that moment to execute a perfect grand jeté, leaping from your palm to balance en pointe on Lyney's outstretched finger. "I wondered where she'd wandered off to."

When you tried to return it, the figurine rebelled - pirouetting away from Lyney's grasp to nestle back into the hollow of your collarbone, where she promptly curled up as if settling in for a nap. Lyney's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared beneath his fringe.

"Well," he said after a stunned pause, his lips quirking in a smile that looked... different. Not the polished stage smile, but something warmer, more genuine. "It appears you've been chosen."

☄️⋅⊛🎩✮♟⚝♠✦♠⚝♟✮🎩⊛⋅☄️

The rooftop garden of the Opera Epiclese was deserted at this hour, the only sounds the distant hum of Fontaine's nightlife and the occasional splash of a Fontemer Aberrant in the waters below. Lyney had led you here with a conspiratorial finger to his lips, the figurine now wide awake and dancing circles around your joined hands as you walked.

"She's not just enchanted," Lyney admitted, leaning against the stone balustrade. Moonlight caught the silver threads in his waistcoat, making him look like part of the night sky had stepped down to earth. "She's... alive, in her own way. A fragment of magic given form."

The ballerina chose that moment to spring onto Lyney's shoulder, tapping his cheek with one tiny foot as if scolding him. He laughed - a real, unguarded sound you'd never heard during his performances - and gently lifted her back to your palm.

"I made her years ago," he continued, voice softening. "She's never taken to anyone like this before." A pause. Then, quieter: "Neither have I."

The admission hung between you, fragile as the first bubble in a champagne flute. The figurine seemed to sense the moment's significance - she stilled, then began a slow, tender waltz across your connected palms, her tiny hands outstretched as if inviting you both to join.

☄️⋅⊛🎩✮♟⚝♠✦♠⚝♟✮🎩⊛⋅☄️

The morning sun streamed through the leaded glass windows of Café Lucerne, casting diamond-shaped patterns across the white linen tablecloth. You sat at your usual corner table, the porcelain ballerina perched delicately on the sugar bowl as you stirred your Earl Grey. The rich bergamot scent mingled with the café's signature vanilla-infused air—until your teaspoon suddenly lifted from the cup, suspended mid-air as if held by invisible strings.

The ballerina stood en pointe on the rim of your teacup, one tiny arm extended toward the floating utensil. A startled gasp escaped you as the spoon began pirouetting above the table, sending droplets of tea arcing through the air like amber jewels.

"Now that's a trick even I haven't mastered."

Lyney's voice—warm and laced with amusement—came from directly behind you. Before you could turn, his gloved hand reached over your shoulder, deftly plucking the spinning spoon from midair. His chest pressed briefly against your back as he leaned in, the faint scent of his cologne (cardamom and something smokier, like extinguished candlewicks) enveloping you.

The moment he withdrew, your teacup levitated three inches off its saucer.

Patrons at nearby tables gasped. A Fontainian lady dropped her macaron.

Lyney sighed dramatically, snapping his fingers. The cup settled back with a delicate clink. "Terribly sorry," he announced to the room, his stage voice effortlessly commanding attention. "Experimental magic." He slid into the seat opposite you, propping his chin on one hand. "Though I suspect *someone*—" he tapped the now-innocent-looking ballerina's head "—wanted an encore performance."

His knee brushed yours under the table. Neither of you moved away.

☄️⋅⊛🎩✮♟⚝♠✦♠⚝♟✮🎩⊛⋅☄️

The ballerina had been restless all afternoon, tapping her tiny feet against your collarbone until you relented and followed her insistent tugs down the Opera's labyrinthine back corridors. Now you stood before Lyney's dressing room door, hand raised to knock—

The door swung open before contact.

Lyney stood shirtless, a makeup wipe dangling from his fingers. The sharp lines of his abdomen glistened with sweat from that evening's performance, the low gaslight sculpting shadows between his ribs. Your mouth went dry.

"Well," he purred, leaning against the doorframe. The ballerina immediately leapt from your shoulder to his, nuzzling his jawline. "If I'd known this was how you'd use her, I'd have given her to you sooner."

A blush scalded your cheeks. "She—she brought me here herself!"

Lyney's smirk softened as he studied your flustered expression. Slowly, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingered at your earlobe. "I know," he murmured. "She's been trying to get you backstage all week." He stepped aside. "Come in. I'll show you how the vanishing cabinet really works."

The ballerina applauded silently from your shoulder.

☄️⋅⊛🎩✮♟⚝♠✦♠⚝♟✮🎩⊛⋅☄️

Fontaine's weekend market bustled with noise and color—vendors hawking rainbow macarons, children chasing mechanical songbirds, the briny scent of fresh seafood mingling with rosewater perfumes. You were examining a display of Snezhnayan nesting dolls when the ballerina yanked so hard on your necklace chain it nearly choked you.

You spun around—and collided with a familiar chest.

Lyney steadied you with hands at your waist, his eyebrows raised. The morning sun turned his hair molten silver. "Are you following me, or is she?" he teased, nodding at the now-vibrating figurine.

Before you could retort, his expression shifted. The ballerina had gone utterly still, her tiny face turned toward Lyney's coat pocket.

A soft glow emanated from within.

With uncharacteristic hesitation, Lyney reached inside and withdrew—

An identical figurine. A male dancer in a matching harlequin costume, already reaching toward his counterpart.

The moment their fingertips touched, golden light erupted around you both. The male dancer lifted his partner into the air, spinning her in a flawless lift as music—real, tangible music—filled the square. Shoppers stopped to stare as the figurines waltzed on nothing but sunlight.

Lyney's throat worked. "They... only do that for..." His gloved hand found yours, intertwining your fingers as the dancers mirrored the motion. "For their perfect match."

☄️⋅⊛🎩✮♟⚝♠✦♠⚝♟✮🎩⊛⋅☄️

The rooftop garden was silvered with moonlight when Lyney finally kissed you.

One hand cradled your jaw, the other pressed against the small of your back as the twin figurines danced above your joined palms. Their glow illuminated the faint tremor in Lyney's usually steady fingers, the way his breath hitched when you leaned into him.

"I could've just asked you out," he murmured against your lips, his voice rougher than you'd ever heard it. "But where's the magic in that?"

The figurines chose that moment to explode into a shower of sparks—not the flashy pyrotechnics of his stage shows, but something softer. Warmer. Like fireflies made of stardust.

After months of dating, when you lay tangled in the sheets of his too-small dressing room couch (because of course the Great Lyney didn't have a proper bed), the figurines reappeared on the nightstand—now forever intertwined in an endless dance.

Lyney traced idle patterns down your bare spine. "Told you she was trouble," he whispered, pressing the words into your shoulder like a secret.

You turned to kiss him again. The dancers applauded.

☄️⋅⊛🎩✮♟⚝♠✦♠⚝♟✮🎩⊛⋅☄️

The crowd roared as Lyney's newest act reached its climax—the "Dance of the Twin Spirits," featuring two life-sized automatons waltzing midair. Only you noticed the real magic—the way his eyes found yours in the front row, or how the original figurines now resided in a velvet-lined box on your shared nightstand.

Backstage, when he swept you into his arms still smelling of smoke and roses, the ballerina tapped her tiny foot impatiently until Lyney laughed and kissed you again—properly this time, with no magic needed.

(Though the floating champagne flutes were a nice touch.)

[arlucent]

Title: The Archive of Forgotten Loves

(Venti x Fem!Reader)

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Hidden Library

The door wasn’t supposed to be there.

You’d worked as a scribe for the Knights of Favonius for years, yet you’d never noticed the narrow oak door tucked between the theology and history sections. Its handle was shaped like a lyre, the wood carved with windblown patterns that seemed to shift when you looked away.

Curiosity won. You turned the handle—

—and stepped into a cathedral of forgotten stories.

The air hummed with static energy, like the moment before a storm. Towering shelves stretched endlessly, their contents glowing faintly: books bound in leather and silk, scrolls sealed with wax that shimmered like stars, even delicate glass bottles containing what looked like trapped sighs.

At the center stood a pedestal.

On it rested a single book, its cover the pale blue of a dawn sky.

You reached for it—

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you."

A hand caught your wrist.

Venti stood beside you, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something sharper. His fingers were colder than they should’ve been.

"This place," he said quietly, "doesn’t like uninvited guests."

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Living Archive

The book pulsed under your touch when you ignored him and opened it anyway.

Pages flipped on their own, settling on an illustration: a figure with feathered wings, kneeling in a field of crushed cecilias, their hands outstretched to a hooded mortal.

You recognized the wings.

Your gaze snapped to Venti.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Ah. So much for subtlety."

The shelves around you groaned, books rearranging themselves. The air thickened with whispers—voices of the dead, the forgotten, the loved and lost.

"You’re Barbatos," you said.

He flinched.

Not at the name, but at the way you said it—without reverence, without fear. Just quiet realization.

The book in your hands trembled, its pages fanning open to reveal a new line of text:

"He remembers every name. Yours is the one he tries to forget."

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The God’s Confession

Venti shut the book with a snap.

"Enough," he hissed—not at you, but at the archive itself. The walls shuddered in response.

You didn’t back down. "How long have you been hiding this place?"

"Longer than you’ve been alive." His voice was raw. "This archive... it collects what the world abandons. Love letters. Final words. Promises that never made it home."

A beat of silence.

"And you?" you asked. "What does it collect from you?"

His smile was brittle. "Regrets."

The truth unfolded like a map:

- The archive was alive, a sentient thing that fed on memories too painful to keep.

- Venti had been its caretaker for centuries, trading fragments of his past to keep it from starving.

- And now, it wanted you.

"Why me?" you whispered.

He looked away. "Because you listen."

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Transformation

You woke in the archive three days later, ink pooling in your veins.

It started with dreams—flashes of lives you never lived, loves you never knew. Then the whispers: names, pleas, laughter, all tangled in your mind like vines.

Venti found you curled between the shelves, your fingers stained blue.

"It’s begun," he said, voice hollow.

You clutched his sleeve. "Make it stop."

"I can’t." His hand hovered over your cheek. "Not unless you let me erase you from its memory."

You shook your head.

His breath hitched. "Then you’ll become its new keeper."

The change was agony.

Books bled into your skin, their stories etching themselves into your bones. You screamed as the archive rewrote you, turning flesh into parchment, blood into ink.

When it ended, you were something else.

Not quite mortal. Not quite divine.

The Librarian of Lost Loves.

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Divine Ending

Venti visited every day.

Sometimes he brought wine. Sometimes he brought silence. Always, he brought guilt.

"You didn’t have to do this," he murmured one evening, watching you reshelve a sobbing tome.

You paused. "You’ve been alone with this burden for centuries. Why shouldn’t I share it?"

He laughed, but it cracked halfway through. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is." You reached for his hand. "I remember now. All of it. The rebellion. The war. The first keeper—that poet you loved who withered away trying to contain this place."

His fingers tightened around yours.

"You’re not alone anymore," you said softly.

Outside, the wind carried a new song—one of mourning, and of hope.

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Weight of Centuries

Months had passed since your transformation into the Archive’s Keeper. The whispers of forgotten loves no longer frightened you—they lived in your veins now, humming like a second heartbeat.

Venti still visited every evening.

Tonight, he arrived with a bottle of dandelion wine and a strange, restless energy. He perched on the edge of your desk, his boots kicking absently against the wood as he watched you reshelve a particularly weepy volume of unrequited sonnets.

"You’re staring," you said without looking up.

"Am I?" His voice was light, but there was something underneath—a tension that hadn’t been there before.

You turned. Moonlight spilled through the high windows, painting his face in silver and shadow. For once, his usual smile was absent.

"What’s wrong?"

He hesitated. Then, softly: "Do you remember the story of the Wind and the Star?"

You did. It was one of the archive’s oldest tales—a star who fell to earth for love of the wind, only to burn out in its embrace.

Venti’s fingers traced the rim of his wine glass. "I always hated that one."

"Why?"

"Because it’s a lie." He lifted his gaze to yours. "The star didn’t burn out. The wind let her go. He was afraid—afraid that if he held on too tight, he’d smother her light."

The air between you grew heavy.

You set down the book. "Venti—"

"I don’t want to let go." The words tumbled out in a rush, raw and unpolished. "Not this time."

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Real Confession

For a moment, the archive itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then you crossed the space between you, stopping just shy of touching him. "You never had to."

His breath hitched. "You don’t understand. I’ve lived this story before. I know how it ends."

"Then rewrite it."

You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—were alight with something ancient and aching.

"I’m not a star, Venti. I’m not going to burn out." You pressed your palm to his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat. "And I’m not one of your regrets."

He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "When did you get so wise?"

"Since I started reading your terrible love ballads."

That startled a real laugh out of him, bright and startled. Then his hands were framing your face, his forehead resting against yours.

"Say it again," he whispered. "Please."

You smiled. "I love you, you ridiculous god."

His lips found yours in the space between heartbeats, sweet as stolen starlight.

Somewhere in the archive, a new book appeared on the shelves—its pages blank, its spine unmarked, waiting for the story you would write together.

[arlucent]

Let’s talk about the Raiden Shogun—you know, the literal god who could vaporize you with a glance, the ruler of an entire nation, the woman who carries the weight of eternity on her shoulders. And yet, somehow, there’s still people out here who watch her pull a sword from her chest—her heart, the center of her power—and go "haha booba sword."

Like… are you okay? Do you need help? Did you get hit by one too many Electro slimes as a child? Because normal people see a cool, symbolic move and think "Wow, that’s badass." Meanwhile, you’re over here giggling like a teenager who just discovered that women have anatomy.

And let’s be real—this isn’t even a creative misunderstanding. It’s just lazy. You see fabric near a female character’s chest and your brain short-circuits like a Dendro reaction in the rain. "Omg, how does it fit??" Bro, she’s a god. She bends reality. She could store her sword in a pocket dimension made of pure lightning if she wanted to. But sure, yeah, let’s pretend physics is the issue here.

Worst part? You know you’re wrong. Deep down, even you understand that the "boob sword" take is the dumbest possible interpretation. But you keep saying it anyway because you’re allergic to dignity.

So here’s a quick PSA for the special folks in the back:

- It’s not that deep. She’s not hiding it there. Stop it.

- Grow up. Even Paimon is embarrassed for you.

- Touch grass. Preferably somewhere far from Inazuma before the Shogun decides you’re part of the "erosion" she needs to cut down.

Sincerely,

Someone Who’s Begging You to Be Normal

[arlucent]

Ok I'm done with this fandom

[arlucent]

Title:Twenty Years of Waiting

(Polites x fem!Reader)

Note:this is an au where polites makes it home alive

~~♡~~⚔🎀☀✧☀🎀⚔~~♡~~

THE BATTLE FOR HOME

The great hall of Ithaca's palace was thick with the stench of roasted meat, spilled wine, and the arrogance of men who had overstayed their welcome. Polites adjusted the ragged beggar's cloak around his shoulders, his calloused fingers brushing against the hilt of the sword hidden beneath the coarse fabric.

Beside him, Odysseus—his king, his friend—gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Soon, Polites thought. Soon this will be over, and I can go home.

The suitors' laughter grated against his patience. One particularly loud noble—a man named Antinous—flung a chicken bone at Odysseus' feet, grinning as if the act were the height of comedy.

"Here, beggar," Antinous sneered. "A feast for the likes of you."

Odysseus, still in disguise, bowed his head in false humility. "Your generosity knows no bounds, my lord."

Polites clenched his jaw but remained still. He had spent twenty years learning patience. He could endure a few more moments.

Then—

The bowstring sang.

Antinous collapsed, an arrow protruding from his throat.

Chaos erupted.

Polites moved with the quiet precision of a man who had spent too long in war. His blade found its marks—not with the fury of vengeance, but with the sorrowful duty of a man reclaiming what had been stolen.

When the last suitor fell, the hall was eerily silent.

Odysseus exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "It's done."

Polites wiped his sword clean. "Now I can go home."

His king clasped his shoulder. "Give her my regards."

~~♡~~⚔🎀☀✧☀🎀⚔~~♡~~

THE REUNION

The path to your home was overgrown, but Polites remembered every stone, every twist in the road. His heart hammered against his ribs as he pushed open the garden gate—and there you were.

Kneeling among the herbs, your hands stilled the moment you saw him.

For a breathless eternity, neither of you moved.

Then—

"(Y/N)," he whispered, voice breaking.

Your eyes filled with tears. "Polites?"

He opened his arms, and you ran.

The impact nearly knocked him over, but he held you tight, his face buried in your hair as you trembled against him.

"You’re real," you sobbed. "You’re here."

He cupped your face with gentle hands, thumbs brushing away your tears. "I’m sorry it took so long, my love."

You traced the new lines on his face, the scars that hadn’t been there when he left. "You’re home now," you whispered. "That’s all that matters."

A soft voice interrupted. "Mother?"

Polites turned to see a young woman standing in the doorway—*his daughter*. Her eyes, so much like his own, widened in shock.

"(D/N)," you said softly, "this is your father."

She hesitated, fingers twisting in her tunic. "I… I didn’t think you’d ever come back."

Polites’ heart ached. He took a careful step forward, giving her space. "I would have returned sooner if I could have," he said gently. "May I… hug you?"

She nodded, and when he wrapped his arms around her, she melted into the embrace.

~~♡~~⚔🎀☀✧☀🎀⚔~~♡~~

A FATHER’S LOVE

Over the next week, Polites quietly learned everything about his daughter.

Her favorite flowers (the blue ones by the creek). Her habit of humming while she worked. The way she smiled when she thought no one was looking.

And then, one evening as he helped her carry firewood—

"Dad?"

Polites froze.

(D/N) bit her lip. "Is… is that okay to call you?"

Tears welled in his eyes as he pulled her into another hug. "More than okay," he whispered.

~~♡~~⚔🎀☀✧☀🎀⚔~~♡~~

TELEMACHUS & A KIND WARNING

Polites noticed the way Telemachus looked at (D/N)—like she was the dawn after a long night.

One afternoon, he found the prince helping (D/N) gather olives. The boy straightened immediately when he saw Polites.

"Sir," Telemachus greeted respectfully.

Polites smiled warmly. "Walk with me, Telemachus."

As they strolled through the grove, Polites spoke softly. "You care for her."

Telemachus nodded. "With all my heart, sir."

Polites placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then promise me you’ll always treat her with kindness."

The prince met his gaze. "I swear it."

Polites pulled him into a fatherly embrace. "Then you have my blessing."

~~♡~~⚔🎀☀✧☀🎀⚔~~♡~~

ODYSSEUS & OLD FRIENDS

A week after his return, Odysseus visited.

You grinned when you saw him. "Took you long enough to come see me, you old fox."

Odysseus laughed. "I figured you’d need time with him first." He jerked his chin at Polites, who was helping (D/N) in the garden.

You swatted the king’s arm. "You brought him home. That’s all that matters."

Odysseus’ smile softened. "I owed you both that much."

~~♡~~⚔🎀☀✧☀🎀⚔~~♡~~

THE FIRST NIGHT TOGETHER

That night, Polites held you as the firelight danced across the walls.

"You kept everything the same," he murmured, fingers threading through yours.

You turned to face him. "I never stopped believing you’d come back."

He kissed your forehead. "I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

You snuggled closer. "Just stay. That’s all I need."

And as the stars watched over Ithaca, Polites finally slept—safe in the arms of his family.

~~♡~~⚔🎀☀✧☀🎀⚔~~♡~~

THE WEDDING

Years later, under a canopy of stars, (D/N) and Telemachus were married.

Polites walked his daughter down the aisle, his heart swelling with pride. When he placed her hand in Telemachus', he leaned in and whispered, "Remember your promise."

The prince smiled. "Always."

[arlucent]

I really thank u from my heart I was confused when writing it 😭

That's why I thought of it that way but really thanks that u pointed it out so I can avoid this problem if I wrote for furina again and I really apologize that I mischaracterized her

Title:Love, In Theory

(Furina x gn!reader)

Note:the reader is a professional and a famous lawyer in the court of Fontaine. They also bear a vision. All of this happened before the archon quest

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Grand Proposal Problem

The Court of Fontaine had become a revolving door of romantic humiliation.

That morning, a Liyuen shipping magnate had presented Furina with a literal boat carved from solid noctilucous jade ("To sail the seas of love together!"). At noon, a Mondstadt knight attempted to serenade her with a lyre (badly). Now, as the sun dipped below the aquabus lines, a Snezhnayan diplomat was sweating through his fur collar while listing his "extensive holdings" in excruciating detail.

"—and of course, my "maison de campagne russe" has heated floors—"

Furina swirled her goblet of sparkling water, watching the bubbles rise and pop with exaggerated fascination. "How... quaint." She set the cup down with a decisive clink. "But I'm afraid Fontaine's Archon requires a partner who can at least pronounce 'maison' correctly. Next!"

From his vantage point behind a marble column, Neuvillette marked another tally in his ledger. Rejection #23 this month. The pattern never varied:

1. The Old Guard: Aristocrats who thought wealth could substitute for personality

2. The Young Lions: Hotheaded heirs who imagined themselves taming a goddess

3. The Foreign Opportunists: Diplomats treating courtship like a trade negotiation

A Melusine tugged at his sleeve. "Chief Justice? The lawyer has arrived."

Neuvillette's lips thinned. "Send them in."

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

A Rivalry For the Ages

You remembered the first time you'd faced Furina in court.

It had been a simple property dispute—until she swept in, Hydro constructs swirling around her throne-like witness stand. "The defendant," she'd declared, pointing an accusing glove at your client, "is clearly as guilty as a crab in a pearl shop!"

You'd dismantled her argument in six minutes flat.

The second time, she'd brought charts.

By the fifth trial, the newspapers had coined it: "The Hydro Archon vs. Fontaine's Razor: A Clash of Wit and Will."

Now, standing in Neuvillette's office, you stared at the contract like it might bite you. "Let me summarize," you said slowly. "You want me to pretend to romance the woman who last week threatened to revoke my law license because I 'breathed too loudly' during her soliloquy?"

Neuvillette steepled his fingers. "Precisely because of that history. No one would suspect artifice."

The doors burst open. Furina stood framed in the doorway, her Hydro aura crackling. "Explain immediately why this—" She jabbed a gloved finger at you. "—insufferable gavel-spinner is here!"

You smirked. "Miss me, Your Majesty?"

Her eye twitched.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Terms of Engagement

The negotiations lasted three excruciating hours.

Furina insisted on clauses like:

- "No unsolicited eye contact"

- "Absolute must to compliment me when we're in public"

- "If we must hold hands, wear gloves. Two pairs."

You countered with:

- "Hazard pay for every suitor-induced migraine"

- "Right to veto any pastel-colored outfits"

- "Final approval on all pet names"

Neuvillette mediated with the patience of a man who regularly sentenced sea monsters to community service.

"You'll attend the Melusine Founders' Gala tomorrow," he declared, stamping the contract. "Sedene will handle your... coordinated arrival."

The mentioned Melusine perked up from her notetaking. "I've already prepared complementary hydromimetic bouquets!"

Furina looked physically pained.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

Performative Affection (With Spectators)

The gala was a masterclass in psychological warfare.

You arrived precisely five minutes late—enough to make Furina fume, not enough to be truly rude. Your outfit (deep blues instead of her preferred pastels) clashed deliberately with her frilly gown.

"Darling," you drawled, offering your arm.

"Counselor," she gritted out, gripping your elbow like she wanted to snap the bone.

The Melusines adored it.

"Look how they bicker and banter!" Mamere sighed dreamily. "Just like in my romance novels!"

The night devolved into:

- Furina "accidentally" stepping on your foot during the waltz

- You "forgetting" to fetch her preferred canapés (three shrimp, no dill)

- A Snezhnayan diplomat catching you mid-argument about fontaine law code subsection 47-B and mistaking it for foreplay

Neuvillette observed from the punch bowl, silently calculating how much longer he could allow this charade to continue.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

Cracks in the Facade

The cracks appeared like fissures in glacial ice:

1. The Midnight Pastry Heist

You found her in the Palais kitchens at 3 AM, wrist-deep in a mille-feuille. Powdered sugar dusted her nose.

"Section 12 of the Kitchen Code," you intoned. "Unauthorized consumption of—"

A cream-filled pastry hit you square in the chest.

2. The Defense

When Duke Montblanc sneered about your "commoner stench," Furina's Hydro constructs materialized before you could blink.

"Apologize," she sang, twirling her parasol, "or discover how well your toupee floats."

3. The Staring

During trials, you'd catch her watching—not with her usual competitive glare, but with something almost... soft. The moment your eyes met, she'd snap her fan open with a crack.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Duel

Marquis Beaumont was all smarm and no substance when he slapped you with his glove. "A real partner would defend Her Majesty's honor!",he says as if he wasn't the one who just insulted her.

You rolled up your sleeves. "Five minutes. I have a meeting with the Melusine Bar Association."

The fight was brutal:

- His Electro-infused rapier versus your (vision element)-enhanced parries

- The moment he dared aim a stray bolt at Furina's skirts

- Your Vision flaring not to strike, but to shield—erupting a geyser that drenched the entire courtyard

The crowd lost their minds. Furina's hands flew to her mouth.

Later, in a secluded alcove, she grabbed your wrist. "That was... adequate."

You flexed your tingling fingers. "Don't get used to it."

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Unraveling

The contract became impossible after:

1. The Jealousy

That Fontaine socialite who kept "accidentally" brushing Furina's hand? You may have "tripped" and spilled an entire carafe of Fonta on her décolletage.

2. The Late Nights

Shared silences in your office stretched longer. She'd critique your penmanship; you'd mock her posture. The space between you on the sofa grew smaller each time.

3. The Almost

Post-ball, wine-drunk and giddy, Furina leaned in to fix your crooked tie. Your breath hitched. Her pupils dilated. Then—

"Ahem." Neuvillette materialized like a specter. "The contract is fulfilled. Suitors have ceased."

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Breaking Point

The goodbye was painfully formal. Furina offered a stiff nod; you bowed precisely 15 degrees.

Until—

SLAM

Your office door flew open at dawn. Furina stood heaving, hair half-escaped its ribbons. "Why," she demanded, "did you never look at me like you meant it?"

The legal brief you'd been holding fluttered to the floor. "Because I was terrified you'd see that I did."

Silence. Then—

"Idiot," she breathed, and kissed you.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

In Practice

The curtain rose on Fontaine's grandest opera house. Furina, resplendent in her spotlight, extended a hand toward the audience.

"Mon amour," she called, voice dripping with theatrical sweetness, "won't you join me?"

From the crowd, you sighed—but stood. The audience gasped as you ascended the stage.

"This wasn't in the contract," you muttered as she pulled you center stage.

Furina's grin was all wicked triumph. "Consider it... 'judicial discretion'."

The curtain fell on a very real kiss.

Somewhere in the wings, Neuvillette sipped his water. A Melusine tugged his sleeve. "Does this mean we plan a wedding now?"

The Chief Justice closed his eyes. "One crisis at a time."

[arlucent]

Doesn't she use the hydro element before the archon quest

If she is the "hydro archon" I'm sure focalors would've given her the power to use hydro so the people of Fontaine could buy the archon act

Plus I don't think the people of Fontaine would accept an archon which literally can't use the nations element

(pls feel free to correct me if I'm wrong)

Title:Love, In Theory

(Furina x gn!reader)

Note:the reader is a professional and a famous lawyer in the court of Fontaine. They also bear a vision. All of this happened before the archon quest

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Grand Proposal Problem

The Court of Fontaine had become a revolving door of romantic humiliation.

That morning, a Liyuen shipping magnate had presented Furina with a literal boat carved from solid noctilucous jade ("To sail the seas of love together!"). At noon, a Mondstadt knight attempted to serenade her with a lyre (badly). Now, as the sun dipped below the aquabus lines, a Snezhnayan diplomat was sweating through his fur collar while listing his "extensive holdings" in excruciating detail.

"—and of course, my "maison de campagne russe" has heated floors—"

Furina swirled her goblet of sparkling water, watching the bubbles rise and pop with exaggerated fascination. "How... quaint." She set the cup down with a decisive clink. "But I'm afraid Fontaine's Archon requires a partner who can at least pronounce 'maison' correctly. Next!"

From his vantage point behind a marble column, Neuvillette marked another tally in his ledger. Rejection #23 this month. The pattern never varied:

1. The Old Guard: Aristocrats who thought wealth could substitute for personality

2. The Young Lions: Hotheaded heirs who imagined themselves taming a goddess

3. The Foreign Opportunists: Diplomats treating courtship like a trade negotiation

A Melusine tugged at his sleeve. "Chief Justice? The lawyer has arrived."

Neuvillette's lips thinned. "Send them in."

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

A Rivalry For the Ages

You remembered the first time you'd faced Furina in court.

It had been a simple property dispute—until she swept in, Hydro constructs swirling around her throne-like witness stand. "The defendant," she'd declared, pointing an accusing glove at your client, "is clearly as guilty as a crab in a pearl shop!"

You'd dismantled her argument in six minutes flat.

The second time, she'd brought charts.

By the fifth trial, the newspapers had coined it: "The Hydro Archon vs. Fontaine's Razor: A Clash of Wit and Will."

Now, standing in Neuvillette's office, you stared at the contract like it might bite you. "Let me summarize," you said slowly. "You want me to pretend to romance the woman who last week threatened to revoke my law license because I 'breathed too loudly' during her soliloquy?"

Neuvillette steepled his fingers. "Precisely because of that history. No one would suspect artifice."

The doors burst open. Furina stood framed in the doorway, her Hydro aura crackling. "Explain immediately why this—" She jabbed a gloved finger at you. "—insufferable gavel-spinner is here!"

You smirked. "Miss me, Your Majesty?"

Her eye twitched.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Terms of Engagement

The negotiations lasted three excruciating hours.

Furina insisted on clauses like:

- "No unsolicited eye contact"

- "Absolute must to compliment me when we're in public"

- "If we must hold hands, wear gloves. Two pairs."

You countered with:

- "Hazard pay for every suitor-induced migraine"

- "Right to veto any pastel-colored outfits"

- "Final approval on all pet names"

Neuvillette mediated with the patience of a man who regularly sentenced sea monsters to community service.

"You'll attend the Melusine Founders' Gala tomorrow," he declared, stamping the contract. "Sedene will handle your... coordinated arrival."

The mentioned Melusine perked up from her notetaking. "I've already prepared complementary hydromimetic bouquets!"

Furina looked physically pained.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

Performative Affection (With Spectators)

The gala was a masterclass in psychological warfare.

You arrived precisely five minutes late—enough to make Furina fume, not enough to be truly rude. Your outfit (deep blues instead of her preferred pastels) clashed deliberately with her frilly gown.

"Darling," you drawled, offering your arm.

"Counselor," she gritted out, gripping your elbow like she wanted to snap the bone.

The Melusines adored it.

"Look how they bicker and banter!" Mamere sighed dreamily. "Just like in my romance novels!"

The night devolved into:

- Furina "accidentally" stepping on your foot during the waltz

- You "forgetting" to fetch her preferred canapés (three shrimp, no dill)

- A Snezhnayan diplomat catching you mid-argument about fontaine law code subsection 47-B and mistaking it for foreplay

Neuvillette observed from the punch bowl, silently calculating how much longer he could allow this charade to continue.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

Cracks in the Facade

The cracks appeared like fissures in glacial ice:

1. The Midnight Pastry Heist

You found her in the Palais kitchens at 3 AM, wrist-deep in a mille-feuille. Powdered sugar dusted her nose.

"Section 12 of the Kitchen Code," you intoned. "Unauthorized consumption of—"

A cream-filled pastry hit you square in the chest.

2. The Defense

When Duke Montblanc sneered about your "commoner stench," Furina's Hydro constructs materialized before you could blink.

"Apologize," she sang, twirling her parasol, "or discover how well your toupee floats."

3. The Staring

During trials, you'd catch her watching—not with her usual competitive glare, but with something almost... soft. The moment your eyes met, she'd snap her fan open with a crack.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Duel

Marquis Beaumont was all smarm and no substance when he slapped you with his glove. "A real partner would defend Her Majesty's honor!",he says as if he wasn't the one who just insulted her.

You rolled up your sleeves. "Five minutes. I have a meeting with the Melusine Bar Association."

The fight was brutal:

- His Electro-infused rapier versus your (vision element)-enhanced parries

- The moment he dared aim a stray bolt at Furina's skirts

- Your Vision flaring not to strike, but to shield—erupting a geyser that drenched the entire courtyard

The crowd lost their minds. Furina's hands flew to her mouth.

Later, in a secluded alcove, she grabbed your wrist. "That was... adequate."

You flexed your tingling fingers. "Don't get used to it."

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Unraveling

The contract became impossible after:

1. The Jealousy

That Fontaine socialite who kept "accidentally" brushing Furina's hand? You may have "tripped" and spilled an entire carafe of Fonta on her décolletage.

2. The Late Nights

Shared silences in your office stretched longer. She'd critique your penmanship; you'd mock her posture. The space between you on the sofa grew smaller each time.

3. The Almost

Post-ball, wine-drunk and giddy, Furina leaned in to fix your crooked tie. Your breath hitched. Her pupils dilated. Then—

"Ahem." Neuvillette materialized like a specter. "The contract is fulfilled. Suitors have ceased."

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Breaking Point

The goodbye was painfully formal. Furina offered a stiff nod; you bowed precisely 15 degrees.

Until—

SLAM

Your office door flew open at dawn. Furina stood heaving, hair half-escaped its ribbons. "Why," she demanded, "did you never look at me like you meant it?"

The legal brief you'd been holding fluttered to the floor. "Because I was terrified you'd see that I did."

Silence. Then—

"Idiot," she breathed, and kissed you.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

In Practice

The curtain rose on Fontaine's grandest opera house. Furina, resplendent in her spotlight, extended a hand toward the audience.

"Mon amour," she called, voice dripping with theatrical sweetness, "won't you join me?"

From the crowd, you sighed—but stood. The audience gasped as you ascended the stage.

"This wasn't in the contract," you muttered as she pulled you center stage.

Furina's grin was all wicked triumph. "Consider it... 'judicial discretion'."

The curtain fell on a very real kiss.

Somewhere in the wings, Neuvillette sipped his water. A Melusine tugged his sleeve. "Does this mean we plan a wedding now?"

The Chief Justice closed his eyes. "One crisis at a time."

[arlucent]

Title:Love, In Theory

(Furina x gn!reader)

Note:the reader is a professional and a famous lawyer in the court of Fontaine. They also bear a vision. All of this happened before the archon quest

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Grand Proposal Problem

The Court of Fontaine had become a revolving door of romantic humiliation.

That morning, a Liyuen shipping magnate had presented Furina with a literal boat carved from solid noctilucous jade ("To sail the seas of love together!"). At noon, a Mondstadt knight attempted to serenade her with a lyre (badly). Now, as the sun dipped below the aquabus lines, a Snezhnayan diplomat was sweating through his fur collar while listing his "extensive holdings" in excruciating detail.

"—and of course, my "maison de campagne russe" has heated floors—"

Furina swirled her goblet of sparkling water, watching the bubbles rise and pop with exaggerated fascination. "How... quaint." She set the cup down with a decisive clink. "But I'm afraid Fontaine's Archon requires a partner who can at least pronounce 'maison' correctly. Next!"

From his vantage point behind a marble column, Neuvillette marked another tally in his ledger. Rejection #23 this month. The pattern never varied:

1. The Old Guard: Aristocrats who thought wealth could substitute for personality

2. The Young Lions: Hotheaded heirs who imagined themselves taming a goddess

3. The Foreign Opportunists: Diplomats treating courtship like a trade negotiation

A Melusine tugged at his sleeve. "Chief Justice? The lawyer has arrived."

Neuvillette's lips thinned. "Send them in."

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

A Rivalry For the Ages

You remembered the first time you'd faced Furina in court.

It had been a simple property dispute—until she swept in, Hydro constructs swirling around her throne-like witness stand. "The defendant," she'd declared, pointing an accusing glove at your client, "is clearly as guilty as a crab in a pearl shop!"

You'd dismantled her argument in six minutes flat.

The second time, she'd brought charts.

By the fifth trial, the newspapers had coined it: "The Hydro Archon vs. Fontaine's Razor: A Clash of Wit and Will."

Now, standing in Neuvillette's office, you stared at the contract like it might bite you. "Let me summarize," you said slowly. "You want me to pretend to romance the woman who last week threatened to revoke my law license because I 'breathed too loudly' during her soliloquy?"

Neuvillette steepled his fingers. "Precisely because of that history. No one would suspect artifice."

The doors burst open. Furina stood framed in the doorway, her Hydro aura crackling. "Explain immediately why this—" She jabbed a gloved finger at you. "—insufferable gavel-spinner is here!"

You smirked. "Miss me, Your Majesty?"

Her eye twitched.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Terms of Engagement

The negotiations lasted three excruciating hours.

Furina insisted on clauses like:

- "No unsolicited eye contact"

- "Absolute must to compliment me when we're in public"

- "If we must hold hands, wear gloves. Two pairs."

You countered with:

- "Hazard pay for every suitor-induced migraine"

- "Right to veto any pastel-colored outfits"

- "Final approval on all pet names"

Neuvillette mediated with the patience of a man who regularly sentenced sea monsters to community service.

"You'll attend the Melusine Founders' Gala tomorrow," he declared, stamping the contract. "Sedene will handle your... coordinated arrival."

The mentioned Melusine perked up from her notetaking. "I've already prepared complementary hydromimetic bouquets!"

Furina looked physically pained.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

Performative Affection (With Spectators)

The gala was a masterclass in psychological warfare.

You arrived precisely five minutes late—enough to make Furina fume, not enough to be truly rude. Your outfit (deep blues instead of her preferred pastels) clashed deliberately with her frilly gown.

"Darling," you drawled, offering your arm.

"Counselor," she gritted out, gripping your elbow like she wanted to snap the bone.

The Melusines adored it.

"Look how they bicker and banter!" Mamere sighed dreamily. "Just like in my romance novels!"

The night devolved into:

- Furina "accidentally" stepping on your foot during the waltz

- You "forgetting" to fetch her preferred canapés (three shrimp, no dill)

- A Snezhnayan diplomat catching you mid-argument about fontaine law code subsection 47-B and mistaking it for foreplay

Neuvillette observed from the punch bowl, silently calculating how much longer he could allow this charade to continue.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

Cracks in the Facade

The cracks appeared like fissures in glacial ice:

1. The Midnight Pastry Heist

You found her in the Palais kitchens at 3 AM, wrist-deep in a mille-feuille. Powdered sugar dusted her nose.

"Section 12 of the Kitchen Code," you intoned. "Unauthorized consumption of—"

A cream-filled pastry hit you square in the chest.

2. The Defense

When Duke Montblanc sneered about your "commoner stench," Furina's Hydro constructs materialized before you could blink.

"Apologize," she sang, twirling her parasol, "or discover how well your toupee floats."

3. The Staring

During trials, you'd catch her watching—not with her usual competitive glare, but with something almost... soft. The moment your eyes met, she'd snap her fan open with a crack.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Duel

Marquis Beaumont was all smarm and no substance when he slapped you with his glove. "A real partner would defend Her Majesty's honor!",he says as if he wasn't the one who just insulted her.

You rolled up your sleeves. "Five minutes. I have a meeting with the Melusine Bar Association."

The fight was brutal:

- His Electro-infused rapier versus your (vision element)-enhanced parries

- The moment he dared aim a stray bolt at Furina's skirts

- Your Vision flaring not to strike, but to shield—erupting a geyser that drenched the entire courtyard

The crowd lost their minds. Furina's hands flew to her mouth.

Later, in a secluded alcove, she grabbed your wrist. "That was... adequate."

You flexed your tingling fingers. "Don't get used to it."

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Unraveling

The contract became impossible after:

1. The Jealousy

That Fontaine socialite who kept "accidentally" brushing Furina's hand? You may have "tripped" and spilled an entire carafe of Fonta on her décolletage.

2. The Late Nights

Shared silences in your office stretched longer. She'd critique your penmanship; you'd mock her posture. The space between you on the sofa grew smaller each time.

3. The Almost

Post-ball, wine-drunk and giddy, Furina leaned in to fix your crooked tie. Your breath hitched. Her pupils dilated. Then—

"Ahem." Neuvillette materialized like a specter. "The contract is fulfilled. Suitors have ceased."

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

The Breaking Point

The goodbye was painfully formal. Furina offered a stiff nod; you bowed precisely 15 degrees.

Until—

SLAM

Your office door flew open at dawn. Furina stood heaving, hair half-escaped its ribbons. "Why," she demanded, "did you never look at me like you meant it?"

The legal brief you'd been holding fluttered to the floor. "Because I was terrified you'd see that I did."

Silence. Then—

"Idiot," she breathed, and kissed you.

`♔･ﾟ✧ °•∘⛲∘•° ✧ﾟ･♔`

In Practice

The curtain rose on Fontaine's grandest opera house. Furina, resplendent in her spotlight, extended a hand toward the audience.

"Mon amour," she called, voice dripping with theatrical sweetness, "won't you join me?"

From the crowd, you sighed—but stood. The audience gasped as you ascended the stage.

"This wasn't in the contract," you muttered as she pulled you center stage.

Furina's grin was all wicked triumph. "Consider it... 'judicial discretion'."

The curtain fell on a very real kiss.

Somewhere in the wings, Neuvillette sipped his water. A Melusine tugged his sleeve. "Does this mean we plan a wedding now?"

The Chief Justice closed his eyes. "One crisis at a time."

[arlucent]

Let’s be real here—when it comes to Twisted Wonderland’s Overblot designs, most of them are… divergent from their original Disney villain inspirations. Some are abstract, some are just edgy reinterpretations, but only one truly embodies the essence of their source material: "Overblot Riddle".

Riddle’s Design Actually Honors the Queen of Hearts

From the moment you see Overblot Riddle, there’s no question—he is the Queen of Hearts. The bold red and black color scheme, the elaborate heart motifs, the regal yet sinister crown-like ink spikes—everything screams "Off with their heads!" in the best way possible. His outfit isn’t just a random dark recolor; it’s a direct escalation of his dorm uniform, twisted into something that mirrors the Queen’s iconic look. The high collar, the structured silhouette, even the way the ink forms a flowing cape-like effect—it’s all deliberate.

Compare that to the other Overblots:

- Leona’s is just… a lion monster. Where’s the Scar influence? The regal tyranny?

- Azul’s is cool, but it leans more into "eldritch horror" than Ursula’s flamboyant dominance.

- Jamil’s loses all connection to Jafar’s sorcerer aesthetic in favor of a generic snake theme.

Riddle’s design, though? literal perfection. It keeps his character’s strict, rule-obsessed nature while fully embracing the Queen’s theatrical menace.

The Others? More Like Overblot OCs (no offense)

I’m not saying the other Overblots are bad—they’re visually striking! But do they represent their villains as well as Riddle does? No. Most of them feel like alternate forms rather than villain incarnations.

- Overblot Vil should’ve been dripping in poisoned apple motifs, not just… sparkly corruption.

- Overblot Idia barely references Hades beyond blue flames—where’s the underworld god energy?

- Overblot Malleus is majestic, but it’s more “dark fairy” than Maleficent’s calculated wrath.

Riddle’s the only one where, if you showed his Overblot to someone unfamiliar with Twisted Wonderland, they’d go: "Oh, that’s the Queen of Hearts." The others? They’d probably just say "Cool monster design."

Conclusion:

Riddle’s Overblot is the Only One That Understood the Assignment

Maybe it’s because the Queen of Hearts’ aesthetic is already so strong, or maybe the designers just put more care into Riddle’s corruption. Either way, his Overblot remains the only one that truly, unmistakably channels its Disney villain inspiration—while the others took creative liberties that, while interesting, lost the essence of their origins.

So yes, Overblot Riddle is superior. The rest? They’re just shadowy creatures with vague thematic ties.

—A Frustrated Fashion-Forward Fan

[arlucent]

(Chigiri hyoma x FEM!reader)

Authors note:idk why but I felt like I had to make a little thing for my boy.)

Title: "The Way You Touch Me"

The night is quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels empty, but the kind that settles into your bones, warm and heavy, like the weight of his arm draped over your waist. The city hums outside the window—distant car horns, the occasional shout, the rhythmic pulse of life moving on without you. But here, in this room, time doesn’t matter. Here, there’s only the two of you, tangled in sheets that still smell like his cologne and the lingering salt of sweat from earlier, when he’d come home late from training and kissed you before even toeing off his shoes.

You shift, rolling onto your side to face him. His eyes are already open.

Of course they are.

Chigiri Hyoma doesn’t sleep much. Never has. You used to wonder if it was the fear of dreams—of reliving the moment his knee gave out, the sound of his own scream trapped in his ears. But now, after years of sharing a bed, you know the truth: he just hates missing a single second of stillness with you.

His fingers find yours in the dark, threading together like they were made to fit.

"You’re staring," he murmurs.

You are. You trace the sharp line of his jaw with your gaze, the way his bottom lip is slightly chapped from biting it during matches, the faint scar above his eyebrow from a collision last season. You know every part of him. Every flaw. Every mark.

And then your hand slips lower, skating over his chest, down his ribs, until your fingertips brush the raised, jagged line along his left knee.

He doesn’t tense. Not anymore. But his breath hitches—just once—before evening out again.

"You always do that," he says.

You press your palm flat against the scar. "Yeah."

"Why?"

There’s no real curiosity in his voice. He already knows the answer. He just likes hearing you say it.

You lean in, close enough that your lips brush his collarbone when you speak. "Because it’s proof."

"Of what?"

"That you survived."

His hand tightens around yours, pulling it up to his mouth so he can press a kiss to your knuckles. His lips are warm. Familiar. "I had a reason to."

You don’t ask what he means. You already know that, too.

Outside, the world keeps turning. But here, in the dark, it’s just the two of you—breathing the same air, sharing the same heartbeat, tracing the same scars.

And for once, that’s enough.

[arlucent]

Title:The Blade That Never Cuts

(Raiden Ei x Male!Reader)

Authors note:I made this fic because I just got raiden shogun but I decided to make it angst cause it's so hard to build her

✺꙳✧︎⍤⃟🌸≋⃟⚡⃒༺🗡️⃘༻≋⃒💜⃕༚

The first time lightning walked into your forge, it came in the shape of a woman.

You knew immediately who she was—not by the violet glow of her eyes or the way the air hummed around her, but by the way your hammer hesitated mid-strike, as if even steel recognized divinity.

Clang.

You finished your stroke before looking up.

The Raiden Shogun stood framed in the doorway, the sunset bleeding purple behind her. She said nothing.

You wiped sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. "You here to commission something or just admire the view?"

Her gaze didn't waver. "A blade."

You smirked. "You've got thousands."

"Not like this." She stepped closer, her shadow stretching long across the soot-stained floor. "One that will last."

You set down your tools. "Nothing lasts forever."

"Then make it come close."

✺꙳✧︎⍤⃟🌸≋⃟⚡⃒༺🗡️⃘༻≋⃒💜⃕༚

She came back the next day. And the next.

At first, Ei simply watched—silent as the moon, her eyes tracking every movement of your hands. You found yourself explaining each step, as if teaching a particularly attentive apprentice.

"The steel remembers," you said one evening, running a thumb along the spine of a half-finished katana. "Every strike, every fold. It carries them forever."

Ei reached out, gloved fingers hovering just above the metal. "And if it could forget?"

You laughed. "Then it wouldn't be worth forging."

Something flickered in her eyes—not anger, not curiosity. Something softer.

✺꙳✧︎⍤⃟🌸≋⃟⚡⃒༺🗡️⃘༻≋⃒💜⃕༚

Months passed. The sword took shape, and so did something else—something unspoken.

Ei began arriving earlier, staying later. She brought tea that went cold while you debated philosophy over the anvil. She learned to hold a hammer (badly), her nose scrunching in frustration when the metal refused to bend to her will.

"You're tensing," you murmured one afternoon, stepping behind her to adjust her grip. Your chest nearly brushed her back; you felt the hitch in her breath.

"I am not."

"Liar." You guided her hands, ignoring the way your pulse stuttered. "Let the tool do the work."

She exhaled, leaning into the motion. The steel yielded.

Later, when she left, you found a single violet petal on the anvil—left behind like a secret.

✺꙳✧︎⍤⃟🌸≋⃟⚡⃒༺🗡️⃘༻≋⃒💜⃕༚

The fever came on suddenly.

One moment you were explaining the tempering process, the next your knees buckled. Ei caught you before you hit the ground, her arms shockingly strong for how delicate they looked.

"Enough," she ordered, carrying you to the cot in the corner of the forge. "You will rest."

You wanted to argue, but the world swam in and out of focus. Distantly, you felt cool hands on your forehead, the crackle of electro energy in the air.

"Stop," you mumbled, catching her wrist as violet light gathered at her fingertips. "No divine interventions. Remember?"

Ei's face did something complicated. "I could—"

"You can't." You gave her a tired smile. "Some things even archons can't change."

The energy dissipated. For the second time in her eternal existence, Raiden Ei understood true helplessness.

That night, she sat vigil by your cot, clutching your hand like it might disappear if she let go just like how makotos' hand disappeared.

✺꙳✧︎⍤⃟🌸≋⃟⚡⃒༺🗡️⃘༻≋⃒💜⃕༚

Three days later, you woke to the smell of something burning.

Not the good, forge-fire kind of burning. The "oh gods what is that" kind.

You found Ei in your tiny kitchen, scowling at a smoking pot with the intensity she usually reserved for battlefield strategies. Something black and lumpy bubbled menacingly inside.

"Trying to poison me faster than the illness?" you croaked, leaning against the doorway.

Ei startled, nearly dropping her wooden spoon. "You're supposed to be resting."

"So are you." You nodded at the disaster in progress. "What is that?"

"...Nutrition."

You burst into laughter, which turned into coughing. Ei was at your side in an instant, her cooking forgotten.

"Stupid man," she muttered, helping you sit. "Laughing at your archon."

"You're ridiculous," you wheezed, leaning into her. "I love you."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Ei went very still. Then, quietly:

"I know."

(She never did learn to cook.)

✺꙳✧︎⍤⃟🌸≋⃟⚡⃒༺🗡️⃘༻≋⃒💜⃕༚

The sword was nearly done.

You'd named it "Fleeting Glory"—a joke only you both understood.

Ei stood beside you as you polished the final edge, her presence a silent question.

"It's flawed," you admitted, tilting the blade to reveal a nearly invisible ripple in the steel.

She reached out, tracing the imperfection with a fingertip. "You could reforge it."

You smiled. "But then it wouldn't be mine anymore."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Teach me."

You blinked. "What?"

"How to care for it." Her voice was raw. "So it won't fade."

Your chest ached (from the illness or something else, you weren't sure).

And so, with hands steadier than your breath, you showed her—

—how to oil the blade so it wouldn't rust.

—how to store it so the edge stayed true.

—how to wield it so the balance sang.

When you finished, Ei cradled the sword like it was something precious.

"Will it last?" she asked.

You closed your eyes. "Longer than me."

✺꙳✧︎⍤⃟🌸≋⃟⚡⃒༺🗡️⃘༻≋⃒💜⃕༚

(You died on a Tuesday.)

The skies wept.

Ei stood at your graveside, "Fleeting Glory" in her hands. The blade would never dull, never rust, never fade.

Just like her grief.

It wasn't until weeks later, while clearing your forge, that she found them—scraps of paper tucked in unexpected places:

Scratched inside your tool chest:

"They say the forge never cools

but what do they know?

I've seen eternity in violet eyes

and it burns hotter

than any flame."

Written on the back of a blueprint:

"If I could choose my eternity

it would be this:

your hands covered in soot

my name on your lips

and the space between heartbeats

where we pretend

time doesn't exist."

Folded inside your apron pocket:

"Do not mourn the dying embers,

for they loved while they burned.

Do not curse the fleeting years,

for we loved while they turned.

And when eternity stretches before you,

remember—

some fires are meant to be brief,

so their light can be blinding."

She memorized them all.

✺꙳✧︎⍤⃟🌸≋⃟⚡⃒༺🗡️⃘༻≋⃒💜⃕༚

Years later, when the forge had gone cold and the villagers had repurposed your tools, Ei would sometimes sit at your old workbench and run her fingers over the grooves your hands had worn into the wood.

"Fleeting Glory" never left her side.

The shrine maidens whispered that sometimes, on stormy nights, they could hear a woman's voice reciting poetry to the empty air.

But that was surely just the wind.

[arlucent]

GOT THE QUEEN HERSELF 🙏🤭

[arlucent]

Title: "The Finest Instrument in My Arsenal"

(William James Moriarty x FEM!reader)

✧･ﾟ🩸───────⚔⌘───────☕✧･ﾟ

A Reliable Variable

William James Moriarty prided himself on his precision.

Every plan, every variable accounted for—nothing left to chance. And yet, there was you.

You were his information broker, the quiet force behind half his victories. You moved through London’s underbelly like a shadow, gathering secrets with an ease that even Albert envied. But more than that—you were steady.

Unlike the others, you never sought his praise. Never demanded his attention. You simply did your job, flawlessly, and that… intrigued him.

It was a Tuesday evening when he first realized how much he’d come to rely on you.

He was reviewing a particularly complex scheme involving a corrupt parliament member when you slipped into his study, a folder tucked under your arm.

“You’re working late,” you remarked, placing the file on his desk.

William glanced up. “As are you.”

You shrugged. “The Duke of Pembroke’s finances were more interesting than sleep.”

He opened the file—and paused.

Your notes were meticulous. Not just figures, but patterns. Weaknesses. Even a suggestion for how to exploit them.

“This is… thorough,” he said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

You smiled, just a little. “I aim to please.”

And that was the moment William realized:

He liked working with you.

Not just because you were competent. But because when you were in the room, the weight on his shoulders felt… lighter.

✧･ﾟ🩸───────⚔⌘───────☕✧･ﾟ

Shared Silence

Months passed.

You became a constant in his life—a presence as reliable as the sunrise. Some days, you spent hours together in his study, trading information in comfortable silence. Other times, you debated strategy over tea, your sharp mind matching his move for move.

It was… nice.

(William didn’t often think in terms of nice. But there was no other word for it.)

One evening, he found you asleep at his desk, your head pillowed on a stack of reports.

He should have woken you. Should have sent you to bed.

Instead, he draped his coat over your shoulders and let you rest.

✧･ﾟ🩸───────⚔⌘───────☕✧･ﾟ

The Incident with the Tea

Then came the day you brought him tea.

It was a small thing. Insignificant, really. But William was particular about his tea. The temperature, the steep time, the exact ratio of milk to sugar—all carefully measured.

And yet, when you handed him the cup, he didn’t hesitate.

He took a sip.

…

It was perfect.

“How did you—”

You grinned. “I may have used Louis's assistance to know your preferences.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

And then, for the first time in years, William James Moriarty laughed.

✧･ﾟ🩸───────⚔⌘───────☕✧･ﾟ

A Moment of Weakness

The real turning point came on a rainy afternoon.

You were reviewing a case together when a sudden downpour trapped you in the study. The sound of the rain against the windows was soothing, almost hypnotic, and before either of you realized it, hours had slipped away.

At some point, you’d migrated to the sofa, shoulders brushing as you pored over documents.

At some point, he’d stopped reading altogether, content just to listen to you think aloud.

And then—

“William?”

“Hm?”

You hesitated. “You’re staring.”

He was.

And for once, he didn’t have an excuse.

✧･ﾟ🩸───────⚔⌘───────☕✧･ﾟ

The Confession

It took three more weeks for him to say it.

Three weeks of stolen glances, of lingering touches, of tea shared in silence. Three weeks of wanting, quietly, desperately, to tell you the truth.

And then, one evening, he did.

“You’re my favorite,” he admitted, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You blinked. “Your favorite what?”

“Everything.”

✧･ﾟ🩸───────⚔⌘───────☕✧･ﾟ

A New Variable

Life went on.

Plans were made. The corrupt fell. And through it all, you were there—his partner, his equal, his favorite.

(Though he’d never say it where anyone else could hear even though every body already knows)

[arlucent]

Title: "A Marriage of Convenience"

(Kamisato ayato x arranged marriage!reader)

☔ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ☔

The Arrangement

The Kamisato Estate had never felt so suffocating.

You stood in the main hall, hands clasped tightly in front of you, listening as your family and the Kamisato clan finalized the terms of your marriage. It was a political alliance, nothing more—a way to strengthen ties between your clan and the Yashiro Commission. Love had no place in this arrangement.

Across from you, Kamisato Ayato observed the proceedings with an unreadable expression. His sharp violet eyes flickered toward you briefly, assessing, before returning to the elders. He was as composed as ever, his posture relaxed yet exuding quiet authority. You had always respected him—his intelligence, his dedication to his duties—but respect was far from affection.

When the meeting concluded, Ayato approached you, his voice low and measured.

"I trust you understand the nature of this union."

You met his gaze evenly. "I do. This is for the sake of our clans."

A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "Then we are in agreement."

And just like that, your fate was sealed.

☔ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ☔

A Cold Beginning

The wedding was a grand affair, attended by Inazuma’s most influential figures. You wore the finest silks, exchanged vows you didn’t mean, and smiled for the crowd. But behind closed doors, you and Ayato were little more than strangers sharing a home.

He was courteous, never impolite, but distant. His responsibilities as the Yashiro Commissioner kept him occupied, and you threw yourself into your own duties, avoiding unnecessary interactions. The servants whispered about the lack of warmth between you, but neither of you cared to correct them.

Then came the first argument.

It started over something trivial—a disagreement about how to handle a minor clan dispute. But frustration had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks, and soon, sharp words were exchanged.

"You speak as if you alone understand politics," you snapped.

Ayato’s eyes narrowed slightly. "And you speak as though personal feelings should dictate our decisions."

"Perhaps if you considered anything beyond cold logic—"

"Emotions have no place in governance," he interrupted, voice firm.

You clenched your fists. "Then it’s no wonder this marriage feels like a business transaction."

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Ayato’s expression darkened, but he said nothing, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

That night, you ate dinner in silence.

☔ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ☔

Small Shifts

The tension lingered, but something had shifted. Ayato began observing you more—not as a political ally, but as a person. He noticed how you took your tea (with a hint of honey), how you frowned when concentrating, how you treated the servants with kindness rather than indifference.

And you, in turn, saw past his composed facade. The way exhaustion sometimes lined his eyes after long meetings, the rare moments when he let his guard down in private, even the subtle amusement in his tone when Thoma said something particularly foolish.

One evening, after another grueling day, you found him in his study, head resting against his hand as he reviewed documents. Without a word, you set a cup of tea beside him.

He glanced up, surprised.

"You looked like you needed it," you murmured.

For the first time, his smile was genuine, if tired. "Thank you."

It was a small thing. But it was a start.

☔ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ☔

The Turning Point

The real change came during a crisis.

A rival faction attempted to undermine the Kamisato Clan’s authority, spreading vicious rumors that threatened both your reputations. Ayato handled it with his usual precision, but the strain was evident.

One night, you found him on the engawa, staring at the moon.

"You should rest," you said softly.

He didn’t turn. "There’s still much to be done."*

You hesitated, then sat beside him. "You don’t have to carry everything alone."

His fingers tightened around his cup. "It’s my duty."

"And I am your wife," you said firmly. "Not just in name."

Ayato finally looked at you, his gaze searching. Then, slowly, he exhaled. "...I suppose I’ve been unfair to you."

You shook your head. "We’ve both been unfair."

A silence settled between you, but for the first time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

☔ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ☔

Love, in Time

After that night, things changed.

Ayato began seeking your opinion, not out of obligation, but because he valued it. You, in turn, stopped seeing him as just a political figure and more as the man beneath the title—someone who cared deeply, even if he rarely showed it.

There were still arguments, still hardships. But now, you faced them together.

And one evening, as you walked through the estate’s gardens, Ayato’s hand brushed against yours. Then, deliberately, he intertwined his fingers with yours.

You looked at him, startled.

He didn’t meet your eyes, but his grip was firm. "...Is this alright?"

Your heart clenched. Slowly, you squeezed back.

"Yes."

And just like that, the distance between you finally closed.

[arlucent]

No one knows how much I'm waiting for it

[arlucent]

Title: "A Butler's Happily Ever After"

(husband!barbatos x wife!reader)

˙✧˖°☕ ༘ ⋆｡˚

The morning sun filtered through the curtains of their cozy Devildom cottage as MC stretched in bed, only to find Barbatos' side already empty. The scent of freshly brewed tea and something sweet led them to the kitchen, where their demon husband stood in a rare casual outfit - a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, expertly flipping pancakes.

"Since when do you make American breakfast?" MC yawned, wrapping their arms around his waist.

Barbatos didn't miss a beat. "Since someone kept complaining about the devildoms cuisine before coffee." He turned just enough to press a kiss to their forehead. "The blueberries are from the human world. Beelzebub may have noticed a few missing from his stash."

˙✧˖°☕ ༘ ⋆｡˚

The Great Devildom Bake-Off (Featuring Luke's Determination)

Luke's tiny hands gripped the mixing bowl like his life depended on it. "Okay, show me again how you make the frosting swirl perfectly!"

Barbatos adjusted the little angel's grip on the piping bag. "Like this - steady pressure, and don't panic when -"

Too late. Pink frosting exploded everywhere, decorating Luke's face like war paint. MC snorted into their coffee as Barbatos sighed, but there was unmistakable fondness in his eyes as he handed Luke a towel.

"Perhaps we should master cupcakes before attempting a three-tiered cake."

"But Solomon's birthday is tomorrow!" Luke wailed, berry-blue eyes filling with tears.

Barbatos exchanged a look with MC. Without a word, he snapped his fingers. The destroyed kitchen reassembled itself, ingredients refreshed. Luke gasped in awe.

"Cheating!" MC laughed.

"Efficiency," Barbatos corrected, already guiding Luke's hands through the proper motion.

˙✧˖°☕ ༘ ⋆｡˚

Diavolo's "Unwelcome" Surprise Visit

The front door burst open without warning. "Honeymooners! I've come to - why are you both covered in flour?"

MC pointed accusingly at Barbatos. "He tried to teach me how to make croissants."

Barbatos brushed a white streak from MC's cheek. "A disaster. They kneaded the dough like it had personally offended them."

Diavolo plopped onto their couch uninvited. "How domestic. Meanwhile, Lucifer won't even let me in the kitchen after The Incident with the chili powder." He eyed their cozy living space - Barbatos' neatly organized spellbooks beside MC's haphazard human world novels, their shared blanket draped over the armrest. "You two are... disgustingly cute. When's the housewarming party?"

Barbatos opened his mouth to refuse, but MC grinned. "Next week. Bring the brothers."

"You're both terrible," Barbatos muttered, but the way his hand found MC's said otherwise.

˙✧˖°☕ ༘ ⋆｡˚

Stargazing with a Twist

MC shivered on the rooftop balcony. "I still don't get why Devildom nights have to be so cold."

Barbatos snapped his fingers. Suddenly, the stars above shifted into the exact constellations from MC's hometown summer sky. "Better?"

"You're showing off."

"Merely applying my skills practically," he said, but the proud tilt of his chin gave him away. When MC snuggled closer, he conjured a blanket around them both without being asked.

˙✧˖°☕ ༘ ⋆｡˚

The Domesticity They Deserve

Some favorite moments:

- Barbatos pretending not to enjoy MC's terrible human world reality shows, yet always knowing every character's backstory

- The way Barbatos still opened doors for MC after years together, that tiny, secret smile when they pretended to be offended by his old-fashioned manners

- Luke's weekly visits that always ended with flour explosions and Barbatos' reluctant but growing collection of angel-themed kitchen aprons

˙✧˖°☕ ༘ ⋆｡˚

Ordinary Magic

Years later, when humans asked MC what it was like being married to a powerful demon, they'd simply smile.

"He remembers how I like my tea and lets me steal the last cookie. What more could anyone want?"

And if sometimes the cookies magically replenished, or if they never seemed to age quite like other humans... well. Some things were better left unexplained.

Authors note:IGJVHCRHVDYHVcGHCYV HAS ANYONE SEEN THE NEW OBEY ME APP THEY ARE MAKING IM SO EXCITED ABT IT and it's probably the reason why I made this fanfic and I srsly hope that this fandom will come back to life