hvrrican3

[hvrrican3]

Not will ever beat Jinu in 7+1 where he dreamed of marrying reader in the future ✋✋ Perhaps you could write about that, maybe with the other Saja Boys too with different visions of reader, I jsut live subtle soulmate stuff haha 👉👈

Soulmates

Pairings: Saja boys x Female Reader Warning: Fluff, pinning, mutual pinning, mention of death You were their soulmates centuries ago, but the time was never right. Everything changed but now it could work between you... Tags:@bypanana, @heartmew, @healmydesires, @lamogliedizayne, @gremlinartstudio, @chaoticfivesworld,@potato-vagina, @lillycore, @kittycatmuse

BABY

You were asleep in his arms. One hand curled gently over his chest. Your breath warm against his neck. Completely relaxed — the kind of peace people like him weren’t supposed to have.

Baby lay still, staring up at the ceiling of his apartment, heart steady and too full. His arm was wrapped protectively around your waist, his other hand resting against the bare skin of your shoulder. And the whole time, his mind wandered back. To before.

*

He was nobody.

A poor, sickly scholar with ink-stained hands and books he could barely afford to borrow, much less own. His back was always bent over scrolls; his chest wheezed in the winter air. People passed by him in the street without a second glance.

Except you.

A court lady, assigned to the quarters of a royal concubine. Elegant. Untouchable. Always walking behind veiled palanquins, your head bowed, but your eyes... your eyes were awake.

Sometimes, when no one watched, you’d speak. Just small things — borrowed moments in the shadows of the palace garden. He never touched you. He never dared. All he gave you was a simple metal hairpin, twisted by hand from the scrap of a merchant's discarded trinket. It wasn’t beautiful. But it was all he had.

And in those quiet, forbidden smiles… he knew he loved you.

But love wasn’t enough. Not for someone like him. Not in a world where names and ranks built cages taller than walls.

So he made a deal.

Gwi-ma offered him youth. Strength. Power. And he, desperate, took it — sold his soul with nothing but your name carved into his heart.

But by the time his body stopped aching and he finally stood taller, you were already gone.

He never believed in fate again.

*

Until a rainy afternoon in a flea market, in a part of town he never visited, wandering for reasons he couldn’t explain.

The air smelled like old books and incense. He passed crates of buttons and chipped porcelain. Walked past jewelry trays lined with tangled chains.

And then he saw it.

The hairpin. Bent. Plain. The same simple twist of metal he’d shaped with shaking fingers all those centuries ago.

His hand reached out automatically — fingers brushing against yours.

You both paused.

You were standing there, frowning slightly, staring at the pin like it tugged something from your bones. Your face... familiar in a way that made his demon heart ache.

“Sorry,” you said softly, pulling your hand back. “You go first.”

But he didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because he was looking into the eyes of the girl who had died without ever hearing him say he loved her.

And now... you were here. Reborn. Smiling awkwardly, apologizing over a flea market hairpin.

He bought it. Then asked for your name. And then, the universe began again.

*

In the warmth of the present, your fingers twitched in sleep against his chest, and Baby pressed a kiss to your hairline.

You didn’t know. He’d never told you. You thought you were just lucky — just two people who met by chance.

But he knew better. He remembered everything.

And now? Now he was no longer a poor boy scraping through life. He was an idol. He had power. Wealth. Influence. He could spoil you to the edge of reason if he wanted to — and he often did.

But more than anything… he could love you. Fully. Freely. This time.

He looked down at you as you mumbled something in your sleep, then curled closer, instinctively seeking his warmth.

And he smiled, heart quiet.

“Thank you,” he whispered to no one. “To whatever gods sent her back to me.”

Because this time, he wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever again.

MYSTERY

The little brunch café was barely open yet. Sunlight filtered through the soft linen curtains, catching on the pale tile floor and gleaming against a new sign outside that read “Moon & Rice — Brunch, Coffee, Comfort.”

You stood in the middle of it — your café — beaming. Still wearing an oversized sweatshirt and mismatched socks, you turned in a slow, happy circle, arms thrown wide like you were soaking in every inch of the dream you had built.

“I can’t believe it,” you laughed, breathless, practically bouncing toward him. “I really did it.”

Mystery stood just inside the doorway. Still. Silent. Watching you like you were the only thing that mattered in the whole world.

And in his mind — he wasn’t standing in Seoul anymore.

He had been a hunter.

*

Not of monsters. Not of demons. Just of game, and boars, and wild birds — the kind that could feed families and earn him a few silver coins at the village market.

He was good at it. Silent. Precise. Unseen in the trees. His kills were clean. Efficient. Always delivered fresh before the morning heat.

And you? You were the brightest part of the village — the street food vendor whose dumplings and rice cakes could make even the old scholars smile. Your hands moved fast, your laugh rang louder than the bells at the temple gates, and everyone swore your recipes could cure heartbreak.

You bought your meat only from him.

“You bring me the best cuts,” you used to tease, brushing stray flour from your cheek. “How am I supposed to go anywhere else?”

He rarely spoke. Only nodded. Maybe a low hum here and there. But you were patient.

You waited. Smiled. Talked to him like he wasn’t a shadow in the trees. And before he could stop himself… he loved you.

Loved the flour smudges on your face. The way you talked about your dream of opening a restaurant in the capital — a place with lanterns, music, and enough customers to feed ten villages.

He wanted to help. But a hunter was nothing in the city.

So he whispered his name to Gwi-ma, in a moment of terrifying stillness. Take my soul. Just let me help her.

And Gwi-ma did. He gave him influence. Wealth. Power.

But he was too late.

You had tried to leave the village with your dream — and someone killed you for the coins you carried. Your body was found at the edge of the forest, your recipe box crushed underfoot.

Mystery stood alone in the trees that night, covered in blood, too late to save you. And he never forgave himself.

*

The city buzzed outside, but inside the little brunch café tucked into a quiet alley of Itaewon, there was only joy.

Your joy.

You were practically bouncing on the balls of your feet, adjusting the tiny vase on each table, fluttering between customers and the kitchen with a light in your eyes that he hadn’t seen in centuries.

“Did you see the review?” you said, rushing over to him with your phone. “Four stars! Four! And that’s from a food blogger who hates everything.”

Mystery just gave a small, proud smile — the kind that barely tilted his lips, but reached all the way to his golden eyes.

You looked so alive.

Your apron was messy. There was flour on your collarbone. And you still kept looking at him like he was the reason the moon hung in the sky.

He nodded once.

But inside, his chest was breaking open — slowly, quietly.

Because this time… You were alive. This time, you made it. And you had your café.

And though you didn’t remember the woods, or the recipes you once buried in your old home, or the way you used to give a poor hunter the only soft looks he ever knew — he did. He remembered all of it.

And he would never let your dream die again.

He helped you quietly — always behind the scenes. Found you a landlord who offered low rent. Took care of the permits you didn’t know you needed. Paid off your first coffee machine without you even realizing.

Because this time, he had power. And he used it for you.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek without warning, laughing softly. “Thank you. For being here. For always being here.”

He blinked once. Eyes softening.

Then he reached into his coat pocket and placed something in your hand. A tiny wooden recipe box.

“It looked like you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You smiled down at it, not knowing why it made your heart ache just a little.

But he knew. Because he kept it. All these centuries.

A reminder of the girl who wanted to feed the world. And now? Now you could.

And Mystery, the hunter turned demon, stood quietly beside you — the only man who’d ever known the sound of your laugh four centuries deep.

ABBY

The sky over Bukchon Hanok Village was soft and blue, dusted with late afternoon sunlight. The tiled rooftops curved gracefully around winding alleys, and the air carried that still hush of old Seoul — a breath from the past that never fully faded.

You stood in front of a tall mirror inside the hanbok rental shop, turning slowly in your pale peach concubine hanbok, gold embroidery catching the light. The delicate silk sleeves swayed with your movements. You smoothed the skirt down gently, your smile a little shy, a little enchanted.

“I feel like I should be locked away in some gilded palace,” you teased, looking back at him. “Or fanning myself dramatically while someone plays the gayageum.”

Abby didn’t laugh.

He was standing just behind you — tall and still — dressed in a dark blue Jungrowi hanbok, the kind once worn by royal guards. It hugged his frame like it was made for him. The silver embroidery across the chest matched the quiet steel in his eyes.

He stared at you, completely quiet.

Because for a moment — he wasn’t in Bukchon anymore.

He remembered the first time he saw you.

*

You were stepping out of the concubine quarters, a fan half-open in your hand. Your eyes were cast downward — but just before you passed, you looked up. Right at him. A lowly Jungrowi, standing silent with the others near the gates.

And you smiled.

That tiny curve of your lips ruined him.

He saw you often after that — always from a distance. Walking behind other women, laughing softly in shaded courtyards. You moved like something from a poem: graceful, unreachable, quiet on the outside — but your eyes? Your eyes burned with fire.

He knew you didn’t belong to the life you were trapped in. He wasn’t allowed to speak to you. Wasn’t allowed to look too long.

But he did anyway. And you always caught him.

Your eyes met. Again and again. Across gardens. Through gates. A silent war between desire and duty.

And he loved you. More than his title. More than his oath. More than his life.

But love wasn’t enough. So he did the unthinkable.

He whispered his name to Gwi-ma. Promised everything for the power to become someone you could choose.

But the power came too late. Because you were gone. A victim of palace schemes. Forgotten in history. Taken from him before he could become anything.

*

You turned to him slowly, adjusting your hairpiece. “You’re staring,” you said with a soft laugh.

Abby blinked, pulling himself out of the memory.

“You just…” He cleared his throat, jaw tightening. “You look good in that.”

You stepped closer, your skirts rustling like silk whispers. “So do you. Very official. Like you’re about to escort me through the palace gates.”

He gave a low hum, eyes drinking you in. “Maybe I did.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He offered his arm — like a gentleman — and you took it, still smiling, cheeks faintly pink.

You stepped out onto the old hanok street together, the sun glowing gold between the roofs, shadows stretching long. Tourists passed with cameras, but Abby didn’t see them.

All he saw was you.

After four hundred years. After sleepless centuries. After regret and rage and loneliness.

You were here. Your laughter was real. Your warmth pressed against his arm.

You were his — not in stolen glances, not in dreams — but here, beside him.

You didn’t remember the past. But you were living proof that the universe had forgiven him. That fate had bent backward to return you.

And now, he didn’t have to fight for you.

He could love you. Openly. Fully. Walk with you under the same sky you both once watched from two different worlds.

And silently, he vowed: This time… I will protect you. And no one will take you from me again.

ROMANCE

It was raining outside. The kind of soft, steady drizzle that painted the café windows in streaks and made everything feel a little quieter, a little closer. Inside, warm yellow lights glowed against shelves lined with books and little potted plants.

You were sitting across from him, cheeks pink from the cold, turtleneck pulled high, sipping a matcha latte with both hands. Your legs were tucked up in the chair, and your smile was sleepy, content.

Romance couldn’t look away.

You didn’t know. Not really. You didn’t remember the letters. The poems. The way he used to stand just outside the silk shop pretending to inspect shipments — just to catch a glimpse of your smile.

But he did. And now, you were here. His. Finally.

*

He had been a junior official at the Ministry of Rites. A ceremonial role, low in the ranks, but still respected — responsible for overseeing religious and state events.

He met you during a royal shipment check.

Your family was a well-known silk vendor. Wealthy. Powerful. Untouchable. And you? You were the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen — laughing gently with your father, giving orders with quiet grace, your fingers brushing the bolts of silk like they were living things.

At first, you only spoke of business. Shipments. Fabrics. Deliveries for temple rites.

But the conversations… lingered.

You would smile when you saw him. And he began leaving you small poems. Folded in fine paper, slipped under bolts of fabric. Gentle, yearning things — always unsigned, but unmistakably from him.

“If I were silk, I’d beg to be wrapped around your hand.” “A thousand colors of brocade mean nothing beside your smile.”

But your father had ambition. And Romance’s rank was not enough.

So he did the unthinkable.

He whispered his name to Gwi-ma, bartering the one thing he had left — his soul — for power, station.

By the time he returned, decorated in red and black robes of high office, the ink on your wedding contract had already dried.

You were gone. Married to a man nearly twice your age. Higher in rank. Higher in price.

Romance wore his new power like armor. But it meant nothing. Because the only thing he wanted… was never his.

*

You reached across the table, brushing a crumb from his sweater.

He smiled, gently catching your hand and kissing your knuckles — soft and slow.

“You always do that,” you murmured. “Like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

He didn't answer right away. Because you had disappeared once. For four hundred years.

“I just want to remember this,” he said instead. “Every second.”

You smiled at him — sleepy, sweet, and so familiar.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small folded piece of paper.

You raised a brow. “What’s this?”

“A poem,” he said simply. “For you.”

You opened it carefully, lips parting as you read:

“I was silk in another life, tangled in the threads of your fate. Now I’m your lover in this one — and not even the gods will take you from me again.”

When you looked up, your eyes were soft, glassy.

“You’re so dramatic,” you whispered, wiping at your cheek.

“I waited centuries to be,” he said with a quiet, broken smile.

Then you leaned across the table, cupped his cheek, and kissed him.

And for once — Romance didn’t feel like a demon who had bargained away everything for a love that never came.

He felt whole. He felt forgiven. He felt yours.

JINU

The dusty courtyard at the edge of the village bustled with chatter, clinking coins, and the rhythmic beat of wooden sandals on stone.

A young man sat beneath the shade of a ginkgo tree. His clothes were greyed with dust, his sleeves too long for his arms. His fingers, though rough and calloused, plucked the strings of his bipa with a quiet grace — music so beautiful that people slowed down as they passed. But few gave him more than a glance.

Few, except you.

You came every few days, wearing soft silk hanboks in pale colors — creams, lilacs, and sky blue. Your family was wealthy; your posture said as much. But your eyes, when they landed on him, held no pride.

Just warmth. And coins.

You always dropped a few into his jar. But more than that — you talked to him.

“You play like the wind is listening.” “Your music makes even sad mornings feel like spring.” “You have gold in your fingers, even if your sleeves don’t show it.”

You smiled at him in a way no one else did. And he… fell in love.

With the kindness in your voice. The joy you brought with your laughter. The way you always treated him as if he mattered.

At night, he dreamed of you. Not in silks, but beside him — in simpler clothes, in a simple home. His wife. One he could sing for forever.

But dreams couldn’t feed his family. His mother coughed blood into rags. His sister barely ate.

And so, one moonless night, he whispered his name to Gwi-ma, heart torn and desperate.

“Take my soul. But let me give them a life without hunger. And let me become someone worthy of her.”

The power came. He climbed the palace steps, a court musician overnight.

But you were gone. Whispers said your family had moved away. Or married you off. He never knew. He only knew… he had waited too long.

*

The final chord from the concert still echoed in his bones.

Jinu stepped off stage, shirt damp with sweat, chest rising as he tried to catch his breath. His ear monitors still buzzed from the cheers — the roar of fans chanting his name, clapping, screaming.

He should have been exhausted.

But the second he saw you waiting by the wall — all softness and sunshine and excitement — he forgot how to breathe.

“Jinu!”

You ran toward him — arms open — and before he could even pull the sweat towel off his neck, you jumped into his arms.

He caught you easily, laughter cracking in his throat, even as his heart ached at how right it felt to hold you like this.

You buried your face against his neck, breath warm against his skin. “You were amazing.”

“I’m sweaty,” he murmured, half-laughing.

“I don’t care,” you said, pulling back just enough to cup his cheeks. “You were incredible. You always are. I’m so proud of you.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And in your eyes, he saw you again. The girl who once stood beneath a ginkgo tree, silk robes fluttering, telling him his fingers held gold.

And now?

Now you were here — not just watching from the crowd, not just smiling from a distance. You were his. In his arms. Loving him not for his fame, but for the boy who had once sat in the dirt and played music for his family’s survival.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulled you close, and kissed your forehead, voice barely above a whisper.

“You waited for me this time.”

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Just… I’m glad you’re here.”

And as the crew bustled past — yelling, moving, resetting — he held you tighter, grounding himself in your warmth.

Because four hundred years ago, he had traded his soul to become someone worthy of you.

And now?

You loved him back. Not because he had power. Not because the world knew his name.

But because… You still heard the music in his soul.

[hvrrican3]

YESSSSS I'M NOT THE ONLY ONEEEE

We got Idia Shroud in Genshin Impact before Book 7.5

You can tell that it's him because of the dead people

[hvrrican3]

now who's the rapper of NRC

[hvrrican3]

no demon is good enough for my sister!

saja boys x jinu's sister!reader (separate)

note: this prompt was sent via ask o(^o^)o i roughly translated it to english so i apologize of i got your request wrong TT

hell was a cruel, lonely place to be.

it wasn’t the the searing flames that littered across their lands, or the constant screams of souls in despair, or even the endless, crushing weight of torment.

no, it was the emptiness that got you. the kind that wrapped itself around your soul and whispered that you’re all alone. that no one in the surface remembers who you are and you are chained down in the pits of hell with broken memories to live by.

there was no sun in hell. no sky. the only thing that could come close to a sun is gwi-ma, a literal ball of flame, sitting on his throne as he relishes in the suffering of his people.

you forget who you were after a while.

perhaps, your brain hotwired itself in order to cope. maybe, the past was just too painful to be remembered.

that's when jinu found you.

he wasn’t much to look at back then—just another unfortunate thing that got too close to the sun—but he saw you.

you, this little scrap of a soul, barely hanging on, barely even remembering your own name. he didn’t ask why you were there as he knelt, took your hand, and said, “you don’t have to be alone anymore.”

maybe, you reminded him of his sister from his past life and wanted a chance at redemption. to do good now after abandoning his family for power.

no matter the reasons, though, you were grateful. you are jinu's sister now. not by blood, of course, but by choice.

no one in the mortal realm knew jinu had a sister; not even his members who spemt their days in hell with him. to be fair they just never cared enough to look for friends when they were literally suffering down there.

jinu didn’t go out of his way to hide it. it just never came up. in the chaos of their idol schedules, gwi-ma, not dying—the fact that he had someone to protect just didn’t get mentioned.

no secrets were bound to stay secrets. the members found out eventually, and it's taking every fiber in his being not to tear his hair from his scalp.

no demons are good enough for his little sister!

romance.

it started with flowers.

true to his name, romance was a romantic. he kept giving you flowers of various kinds. different shades of color now decorated your room. he would hand them to you with that usual smirk, winking like a walking cliché.

you didn’t expect him to say “i like you,” ome day, when he gives you a bouquet of red roses this time.

you really didn’t expect to like him back as much as you did.

and you definitely didn’t expect jinu to catch the two of you kissing behind the rehearsal room.

“WHAT?!”

you both jumped three feet apart. a hand sheepishly covering your mouth as you avoided eye contact with your brother.

“This is an INSULT to MY HONOR!” jinu shouted, clutching his head like the scandal physically wounded him. in fact, he wants to gouge out his eyes and wipe that shit-eating grin off of his bandmate's lips. “you—you kissed her?! WITH THAT FILTHY LIPS OF YOURS?”

“okay, wow,” romance blinked, trying not to laugh, yet still offended. “excuse you, i brush five times a day. that's atleast four times more than abby.”

“Slshe’s my sister, you filthy no-good casanova demon!”

you tugged at your brother's sleeves, feeling a bit embarassed at his outburst now. romance didn't seem to mind, though, but you do. "jinu, please. we were just—”

instead of listening, the man only pulls you in a protective hug, smooshing your face against his hoodie. “no! no just! you want to court my sister? FINE. but you’re going to do it the right way. with letters. with dowries. with a goat sacrifice, like in the old days—”

“where the hell am i getting a goat!?”

"and then-" he emphasizes, glaring at romance. "and then i'd think about letting you hold her hand."

abby.

dating abby felt like dating a very energetic puppy.

he brought you snacks, took you on chaotic dates, and liked to make you laugh until your stomach hurt. on contrary to popular beliefs (cough his members cough) he was actually a very smart guy with great emotional intelligence.

abby absolutely adored you, following you around like a personal guard dog.

then he kissed you, one day, while in the middle of a grocery store run.

jinu was, somehow, also there. the single yogurt he was holding pops in his hand, fruit-glavored goo dripping down to the floor.

the silence was deafening.

"uh," abby blinks. "clean up in aisle three...?"

jinu doesn't seem to find it funny as he starts to sprint from the other end of the aisle towards where you both were.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!”

abby panicked, flustered judging by the way his cheeks erupted into flames in an instant. “i didn’t mean to—it just—it was spontaneous show of affection!”

“you kissed her in public?! with tongue?!"

“not that much tongue!”

you were garnering attention from other shoppers at this point so you ended up covering your face in embarassment. "guys please, there was no tongue! let's leave!"

“THIS IS AN OUTRAGE.”

when you both got home, jinu was quick to drag abby in another room. maybe they talked? but abby gets throigh the door like a lost little puppy, staring at you with wide, pleading eyes.

jinu only ushers him out before you could speak. "i'll only allow pink holding. i see you putting that dirty lips anywhere near my sister and i'll stitch it close!"

mystery.

it was always subtle with mystery.

a brush of your hand. hanging out more than you usually do with other members. mystery was alot... more normal, so to speak, when it comes to you. he actually–actually, speaks. and smiles.

mystery didn't outright confessed though.

you didn’t even realize you were dating until he justnwhispered “mine” in your ear one day and kissed your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you were flustered.

he wasn’t.

and jinu is on the doorframe, combusting.

“you let mystery–MYSTERY of all people date you?” jinu looks at you in disbelief as he points an accusatory finger at his bandmate. mystery only shrugs in return, not at all offended. “he doesn’t even talk in full sentences! how do you know his intentions?!”

"my intentions are passionate and pure," the said boy replies.

you swooned, clasping your hands together as you smiled. "see? that’s romantic.” jinu wishes he could just strangle that demon boy's neck here and now for brainwashing his little sister.

“THAT IS WHAT ALL SERIAL KILLERS SAY.”

"if it's any consolation, jinu, i’d never harm her. but i would harm for her.”

“see?” you glanced at jinu, smiling wide as if your boyfriend didn't just say the most insane thing ever. "he's romantic!"

“YOU’RE ALL INSANE.”

baby.

baby didn’t mean to fall for you.

he didn’t mean to let it happen. you were a kind soul. the kind of soul he was supposed to destroy, not hold in his arms like it was precious. he didn't think he deserve it, honestly.

and also, he'd rather not date his bandmate's sister. mostly because of how exhaisting it would be to go through all that protective brother thing, but he ended up falling for you anyway, despite his earlier statement.

one night, you fell asleep on his shoulder on the couch.

that's literally it.

then came the moment jinu walked into the living room and saw you curled up next to baby, asleep, his arm wrapped securely around you.

he was absolutely livid.

“you're deadmeat,” jinu muttered while he stalks towards his bandmate with his ryes glarimg through his soul.

“dude—” baby tried to pull away, but arms that were wrapped around hid torso orevented him from doing so. it would've been cute how you wouldn't let go if hr wasn't about to die by the hands of your brother.

“do you even know what it means to be in a relationship?! you can’t just—just snuggle your way into someone’s life!”

“she fell asleep—what was i supposed to do?” baby looked at him in disbelief.

jinu only gripped the back part of the couch as the fabric wrinkled under his sharp nails. "does a pillow not exist?!"

you were woken up abruptly when a pair of arms tugged you back, the air knocking out of your lungs. suddenly, you were not beside baby anymore but in the arms of your older brother who held you in a protective stance. “NO SLEEPING TOGETHER! GET MARRIED FIRST!”

"dude, we were just sleeping. what–"

"negative points for you!"

"WHAT–"

[hvrrican3]

meeting sunbaenim backstage 🤩

[hvrrican3]

Can I request dating hcs with baby Saja?

★Dating Baby Saja★

A/N: "Gugu Gaga" WRITE THAT DOWN❗❗🗣️🗣️ THIS BOY SPITTIN. Tyyy for the request!!

Warnings: nonee

Fluff☁💫

Baby Saja X Reader!!

☆I just know this dude is playful. And like in a "I'll prank you if you don't watch out" way

☆Absolute menace

☆He'll hide your stuff (phone, keys etc) and when you ask he's all like "I dunno, check under the sofa" with the most devilish grin on his face when you can't find shii

☆Besides being a prankster, he's really sweet to you especially. The type to cling on to your side when cuddling

☆Sends you pictures of animals like "That's literally us"

☆He loves when you kiss his cheeks even though he'd never say it out loud

☆Nicknames he'd call you: Gummy bear, sweetie, cutie

☆Don't let that adorable face trick you

☆This man is flirty. But not in your face flirty. He does subtle things. Like staring into your soul until you acknowledge him or simply just smiling knowingly. Teasing you in a way that only catches later

☆He's literally always touching you. Like in a childish way. Poking you playfully. Pulling your cheeks. He thinks you're the cutest person ever

☆LOVES sharing rap verses with you and getting your opinion

☆He's over the moon when you compliment his abilities. He was usually all confident to impress you

☆He likes going out for food. I hc him as a huge foodie y'all. Always eating something 💔 He shares his food with you though. Probably the only person he does that with

☆Or simply buys you food randomly 😭

☆Takes any nickname you give him with pride. Even if it's the dumbest thing on the planet

☆Overall, rlly cheeky but a sweetheart

☆Even when you're dead serious about something, he'll respond with a sarcastic remark or joke

"Baby, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 are my damn keys! "

"Probably half way across the Pacific Ocean"

"I hate you"

☆You never really know if he's playing with you or not. Most of the time he sounds dead serious with the stuff that comes out of his mouth

☆He follows you around like a lost puppy

☆listening to you talk about whatever is bothering you (ready to destroy whatever or whoever that is)

☆Ten outta Ten boyfriend. Goofy asf tho<3

[hvrrican3]

"I'm so proud of you"

I forgot to post here again mb <33

[hvrrican3]

I cried btw

I miss you

---------------------------------------------------

Genre : angsty- ish

Tw : none

Pairing : Ike Eveland x reader

Characters : you and ike

Story : last goodbye

You didn't really remember falling asleep. All you remember was that feeling of heaviness as your head hit the pillow.

You woke up, the soft scent of flowers rushing to your face.

The world around you is covered in golden light, a warm feeling that feels like it's been with you your whole life. You blink, confused, and realize you're in a garden. This wasn't any garden though, atleast not one you know. But it felt strangely familiar, as if it was something taken from an old picture book.

And then you hear it.

A small chuckle.

Your feet moved on its own, as if knowing the place, you walked over to the source of the sound. Two swings hang on a tree branch, slowly swaying. One of them was occupied.

A boy, no older than 10, sat on the swing. Pale hair, round glasses that were clearly too big for him, and a small smile that you'd recognize anytime.

Ike.

You blink. You try to open your mouth, to ask what this was, how he was here, but nothing came out at all.

He just sat on the swing as he stared back at you, a soft smile on his face. He tilted his head and motioned for you to sit on the unoccupied swing.

So you do.

You sit on the swing, the ropes creaking as you slowly let down your weight on the swing. The breeze carried the smell of something sweet, the smell of candy, or perhaps an old memory. You glance at Ike, or atleast, the child version of him. Someone you missed more than words could even describe.

He looked at you with those soft blue eyes, and just wait silently.

So you speak, you didn't even know when to begin.

"I've been tired lately. Not the kind sleep would fix—just heavy, you know?" You look down at your hands, a weird feeling swirling in your body. "Sometimes I catch myself looking at our old messages. As if rereading them would make you reply."

He swung slowly beside you, watching your face with that same expression— one you'd never expect to see from a ten-year-old.

"I had this joke I wanted to tell you," you say, a chuckle escaping your throat. "It was bad, like I can tell you for sure that you'd shake your head at me. But then, I remembered that you weren't–" You stop, feeling a lump blocking your throat from talking.

"Do you want to tell me now?" He asked, a quiet voice.

You laugh a little, surprised. "Okay, uhm... What did the semicolon say to the period?"

"What did it say?"

"I'm not done with you yet."

There was a moment of silence, then Ike wheezes, his small body shook with laughter, his head thrown back and everything.

"That's such an awful joke" he got out between giggles. "You're right! I would have shook my head and sighed at you."

You smile, but it quickly fades. Eyes averting to the floor.

"I've been pretending everything's okay." You admit. "Like if I smile enough or joke enough, the ache won't get to me. But it does, it always does."

Ike doesn't speak for a while.

When you glance at him again, his hands were gripping the swing ropes, and he's looking up at the sky.

Then he looks back at you. "You don't have to pretend when you're with me."

That's when you finally took a good look at him. Really pay attention. The sunlight reflecting in his glasses, how his feet can't even touch the ground, and how he was barely big enough to sit on the swing.

And you whisper the truth. "I miss you."

He turns to you, a soft smile displayed on his face.

"I know"

And then—

You wake up.

The room is quiet, and your chest ached in a tender way. You didn't remember everything. Just flashes, the garden, the sun, and his smile.

---------------------------------------------------

<- MASTERLIST

-> I miss you, ike, thank you and good luck on your future journeys

[hvrrican3]

Here have some art I forgot i need to post here

Just finished listening to scaramouche x listener nsfw

Now I just want to eat a scaramouche

Oh btw that's my lipstick smudge on his lips hehe

[hvrrican3]

Look how cute my husband and our son 💖💖

They have a strong bond

The puppet & dragon reunion is going well

Human mini durin series: 1 | 2 | 3

[hvrrican3]

Vengeance Saga has me acting up

[hvrrican3]

Pati ba naman dito minumulto ako..

Ghost of You

Pairing: Se-mi × Y/N

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction inspired by the song Multo by Cup of Joe. All characters and events are fictional. I do not own the song or its lyrics, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of emotional distress, heartbreak, lingering grief, and depressive thoughts. Reader discretion is advised.

I took a deep breath and shut my eyes.

Maybe I was just tired. Perhaps I was seeing things again. But it hardly felt silent in my room, which was loud with thoughts of her.

Se-mi.

Even now, I could practically hear her voice. Soft. Familiar. It was the kind of voice that once made my heart feel warm… now it just makes my chest feel tight.

We broke up months ago. I told myself I moved on. I even attempted to hide all her photos, her gifts, anything that reminded me of her. I came to fold the memories into little boxes, tuck them away, deep in the mind, like they never happened.

But she always manages to return.

I wasn’t alone in my bed, but it didn’t feel like it. Her shadow remained in every corner of my room, staining the edges of my thoughts. Even there, through all of them, I could still feel her hand brushing mine.

It was as if my heart was haunting me.

I don’t dream of her anymore—not like I used to. But on occasion, in the dead of night, I’ll wake up with tears running down my cheeks. I sit up, heart pounding, as if she said something right before I opened.

I know she’s not actually there, though.

I know this.

Yet it still feels as though she is.

Everywhere I go, I see her. Someone walks past with hair like hers, and I look. I hear someone laugh, it sounds like her, and my stomach twists. It hurts. It aches because she isn’t there, and yet she is—always.

I lit a candle, one time. It was stupid, I know. I thought ghosts might go away, if I brought light into the room. That perhaps the warmth would drive her memory away.

But instead of going to the ocean, all I did was sit there staring at the flame, crying for someone who is gone, but never really left.

Se-mi loved the rain. I used to hate it. But with her, even tempestuous days were somehow soft. Now it rains, and my breath has stopped. The cold weighs everything down. It takes me back to the day she left.

She said she loved me.

Then she told me it was better for us to part ways.

Now I’m stuck with this hollowness that won’t stop calling out for her.

I continue to ask myself—when does this settling end? When will I no longer feel her fingers grazing my cheek when no one’s there? When will she stop telling me she loves me in the silence?

When will I be free?

Because right now it’s like I’m getting buried alive, slowly, inch by inch, day by day—while I’m still breathing.

And I’m so, so tired.

Author's Note: This story is deeply personal and emotionally charged. It’s a quiet exploration of what it feels like to grieve someone who is still alive, and how love can linger long after it ends. I wanted to capture that haunting, hollow feeling—the way memories can cling, and the quiet heaviness of letting go. Thank you for reading, and please take care of your heart.

[hvrrican3]

Betraying the Gods in Three Easy Steps || Malleus Draconia

Step 1: Befriend the Demon King.

Step 2: Fall in love.

Step 3: Quit your hero job.

The first thing you learned upon being chosen as the hero was that the gods were, in fact, morons.

This revelation came to you as you stood in their grand celestial court, bathed in holy light, staring at the pantheon of divine beings who had just bestowed upon you a sword that actively whispered threats into your ear.

"Go forth, O Chosen One," boomed the god of war, his six eyes burning with sacred fire. "You must slay the Demon King who lurks in his cursed lair atop the Black Hills!"

You shifted your weight and cleared your throat. "Okay, so... question. Just a tiny one. What, exactly, has the Demon King done?"

The gods exchanged glances.

"He is evil," the goddess of fate offered.

"Uh-huh. Examples?"

"He... exists," the god of light said, waving a golden hand vaguely.

There was an awkward silence. You rubbed your temples. "Right. But, like, has he pillaged villages? Enslaved kingdoms? Kicked a puppy?"

"He has refused to die despite our many attempts to kill him," the god of judgment said gravely.

You squinted. "So you're mad that he’s alive."

"YES," they all said in unison.

Fantastic. You had been chosen to carry out a divine grudge match.

Still, you weren’t in any position to argue. The gods had given you a bunch of ridiculously overpowered artifacts, including a holy sword, an indestructible shield, and a cloak that supposedly made you invisible but mostly just made you look like a very blurry ghost. They also kind of expected you to die like all the previous heroes, but that was a problem for later.

So here you were, standing at the edge of the Black Hills, staring up at the Demon King’s lair—a suspiciously well-maintained castle that looked less like a fortress of darkness and more like the summer home of someone who enjoyed gardening.

This whole thing reeked of bureaucracy.

With a deep sigh, you tightened your grip on your murderously sentient sword and marched forward, fully prepared to commit deicide if this entire mission turned out to be as dumb as you suspected.

You had braced yourself for a dark, ominous fortress filled with twisted creatures, rivers of lava, and at least one chandelier made of bones. Instead, you walked into what could only be described as a cozy study.

The room was warm, lit by a fireplace that crackled gently in the corner. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged tomes, some of which looked suspiciously like romance novels. A tea set rested on the table, next to an open book. And sitting in an armchair, casually flipping through the pages, was a man.

A very tall, very elegant man with sharp green eyes and black horns curling from his head.

He blinked at you, clearly just as surprised as you were. "Oh," he said. "Hello."

You stared at him. "Uh. Hi?"

There was a long pause. He looked at your very dramatic hero attire, then at the glimmering, divinely blessed sword in your hand, then back at you. "I assume you’re here for a reason?"

You shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, so, the gods sent me to kill the Demon King, but like… lowkey? I don’t know what he looks like."

The man nodded, as if this was a completely reasonable statement. "I see." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Would you like some tea?"

You squinted at him. "I feel like you’re not taking this whole ‘assassination attempt’ thing very seriously."

"Should I?" he asked, pouring tea into a cup with unnerving grace. "You don't seem particularly invested in it yourself."

You couldn't exactly argue with that, so you sat down, placing your god-blessed weapon awkwardly on your lap. The man slid a cup toward you. The tea smelled… nice. Suspiciously nice. You sniffed it. "This isn’t, like, drugged or cursed, is it?"

He looked amused. "Only if you consider chamomile a powerful sedative."

You took a cautious sip. It was delicious.

"So," he said, leaning his chin on his hand. "Tell me about the outside world. It’s been a while since I last left these hills."

You shrugged. "Nothing much. The gods are idiots, as usual."

His lips curled in interest. "Oh?"

You leaned forward conspiratorially. "Okay, so get this. When they summoned me, they gave me this holy sword, right?" You tapped the weapon resting on your lap. "Only problem? It won’t shut up. The gods literally forgot to turn off its voice function, so now it just screams battle cries at all hours of the day. I had to wrap it in three layers of cloth just to get some sleep."

He let out a chuckle, eyes gleaming. "That is… incredible."

"Right? And that’s not even the worst part. The god of wisdom—actual title, by the way—accidentally set fire to their own temple last year because they miscalculated a lightning spell. They blamed it on ‘mystical forces’ but everyone knows they just got their math wrong."

The man—who, now that you were really looking at him, was ridiculously attractive in a dark-and-mysterious way—laughed. It was a rich, deep sound, the kind of laugh that made you feel like you’d just told the best joke in the world.

You grinned, feeling oddly comfortable. "Oh, and don’t even get me started on the god of fate. She got into a brawl with the god of harvest because she made a prophecy that all the wheat fields would burn down, and then the god of harvest was like, ‘You know that’s literally my job, right?’ and cursed her with hay fever. Now she sneezes every time she tries to predict the future."

Your new tea-drinking companion actually had to cover his mouth to stifle his laughter.

You took another sip of tea, feeling very proud of yourself. "Anyway," you said, stretching your arms. "By the way, have you seen the Demon King? Because, like, technically, I’m still supposed to be doing that job."

The man calmly pointed to himself.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You blinked. "I'm sorry. What."

"Malleus Draconia," he said, setting his teacup down with the kind of elegance that made you feel like an unwashed peasant. "And you are?"

You were still reeling from the realization that you had spent the last half hour drinking tea with the exact person you were supposed to kill, so it took you a second to answer. You introduce yourself. "Hero chosen by the gods. Here to, you know…" You made a vague stabbing motion.

Malleus nodded, completely unfazed. "Ah. Yes. That would explain the weaponry." He glanced at your holy sword, which had mercifully remained silent for the past few minutes. "Though, I must say, you don’t seem particularly enthusiastic about your mission."

You sighed and set your cup down. "Yeah, well. I don’t really get why the gods have it out for you. I mean, do you actually do evil stuff? Are you stealing souls? Raising the dead? Kicking puppies?"

Malleus tilted his head, considering. "No, no, and—well, I suppose there was one incident with a puppy, but in my defense, I was trying to return it to its owner, and it misunderstood my intentions."

"That’s a really vague way to say 'I accidentally terrified it.'"

He sipped his tea, saying nothing.

You squinted at him. "So you’re telling me the gods declared a holy crusade against you for… what? Vibes?"

Malleus shrugged. "I assume so. They don’t seem to like my existence very much."

"Wow. Must be nice not giving a shit."

"It is quite freeing," he agreed. "Would you like a tour?"

You blinked. "A tour? Of your evil lair?"

"My home," he corrected, as if you were the unreasonable one. "I assume you have never seen it before."

"You assume correctly." You rubbed your chin. "Eh. What the hell. Show me around, mighty Demon King."

And so, instead of assassinating him, you spent the next hour wandering through the halls of his "evil lair" (read: very fancy castle), learning about his book collection, admiring the admittedly cool-looking stained-glass windows, and getting distracted by a particularly fluffy cat lounging on one of the rugs.

Somewhere along the way, you had fallen into easy conversation, sharing more absurd stories about the gods’ incompetence while Malleus listened with increasing amusement. You barely even noticed how natural it felt, how quickly you forgot the whole "mortal enemies" thing.

It wasn’t until you were about to leave that you remembered why you had come in the first place.

"Ah, right," you said, gripping the hilt of your holy sword. "The whole… uh, slaying thing."

Malleus lifted an eyebrow.

You exhaled and held the sword out to him. "Here. Take this."

He looked at you, then at the sword, then back at you. "You are giving me your divine weapon?"

"Look, man, I don’t know if you can tell, but I am very bad at this job."

Malleus took the sword, examining it with mild curiosity. The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, the weapon, which had remained blissfully quiet all day, suddenly came to life.

"FOUL BEAST! UNHAND ME AT ONCE—"

Malleus flicked his wrist, and the sword immediately went silent.

You gaped at him. "You can do that?!"

He hummed. "It appears so."

You put your hands on your hips. "You know what? Yeah. You can keep it. I don’t want it anymore."

Malleus smiled. "How generous of you."

You waved him off and turned toward the exit. "Anyway, this has been fun and all, but I should probably get going before the gods smite me for treason. I’ll, uh… I’ll get the job done next time."

Malleus watched you with that same unreadable expression, something like quiet amusement playing at the edges of his lips. "Of course. Next time."

You nodded, totally believing yourself, and left.

The gods were getting suspicious.

You could tell by the way they kept summoning you more frequently, their celestial faces lined with divine skepticism, their glowing, omnipotent eyes narrowing just a little more each time you gave your mission report.

So you did what any responsible, chosen-by-the-heavens hero would do: you doubled down on the lies.

“I’m gathering intel on the enemy.”

A few gods murmured in approval, nodding at your strategic foresight.

(The truth? You had spent the last four days sprawled across an absolutely sinful couch in Malleus’s absurdly cozy castle, debating whether a dragon could, theoretically, play the lute. Malleus had very strong opinions about claw dexterity and string tension. You were just trying to figure out how to smuggle the couch home.)

“I need to study his weaknesses.”

More nods. One god even stroked their beard, looking impressed.

(The reality? You were currently studying how many cookies you could consume before he started looking mildly concerned for your well-being. The number was high. Concerningly high. You were probably committing a sin against your own digestive system, but that was Future You’s problem.)

“He’s probably planning something evil, so I need to keep an eye on him.”

Now the gods were practically glowing with approval. One clapped you on the back, nearly knocking you off your feet.

(Meanwhile, in the demon king’s lair, Malleus was sitting in his massive library, sipping tea like a distinguished nobleman who had never even considered jaywalking, much less world domination. At one point, he sighed dramatically and looked out the window, the very picture of a wistful poet pondering the meaning of life. You had watched him do this for ten whole minutes, waiting for a sign of villainy. Nothing. The man was the least demonic demon king you had ever seen.)

The gods, thoroughly convinced that you were hard at work, dismissed you with a vague warning to “stay vigilant” and “not fall for any demonic tricks.”

You barely made it back to the castle before collapsing onto your new favorite couch with a groan. “They think I’m doing such a good job,” you mumbled, stuffing another cookie into your mouth. “I could probably ask for a raise.”

Malleus looked up from his book, amusement dancing in his emerald eyes. “A raise? What exactly would they be paying you for?”

“For my noble heroism,” you said around a mouthful of cookie. “My unwavering dedication. My strategic mind. My—” You gestured vaguely. “—efforts.”

Malleus hummed, setting his book aside. “Ah, yes. Your valiant efforts. Lounging on my furniture. Eating my desserts. Entertaining me with tales of divine incompetence.”

You wagged a finger at him. “You say that like it isn’t an important job.”

He smirked. “Oh, I quite enjoy your company. But I do wonder how long you plan to keep up this charade.”

“As long as I can,” you said without hesitation, grabbing another cookie. “At this point, I think I deserve an award for Best Hero in the Field of Procrastination.”

Malleus chuckled, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you with what was definitely, absolutely, 100% not fondness. Probably. “Indeed.”

Getting Malleus out of his lair was easier than expected. Getting him to wear the disguise, however, was a battle of wills.

“It is absurd,” he said flatly, staring at the comically large hat in your hands.

“Absurdly effective,” you countered.

“It looks like it belongs to a—”

“Fashion icon?”

“A cursed scarecrow,” he finished, unimpressed.

“Okay, rude. But listen, if you walk into town looking like that—” you gestured vaguely at his horns, “—people will either think you're about to declare war or host a very dramatic poetry reading. The hat helps.”

Malleus gave you a long, contemplative look, then, to your eternal delight, sighed and took the hat. It sat atop his head with the solemn dignity of a royal crown, though the sheer size of it made him look like he was about to start selling potions out of a roadside wagon.

“Very well,” he declared. “Let us proceed.”

Thus began the grand adventure of sneaking the Demon King into town.

Turns out, no one even noticed.

Which, to be fair, was kind of expected. This was a town where a man once tried to pay his taxes in live chickens and where the local bard wore sunglasses at night “because it added to his mystique.” Some guy in a huge hat? Not even in the top ten weirdest things people had seen this week.

Still, you felt an odd sense of pride as you dragged Malleus through the bustling streets. The Demon King, who had spent untold centuries isolated in his ominous gothic estate, was now watching a juggler toss flaming batons while a street vendor tried to sell you “cursed amulets” that were clearly just painted rocks.

He was fascinated.

His first stop was the bakery, where he became personally and spiritually invested in the concept of croissants.

“These are quite remarkable,” he murmured, carefully inspecting the flaky layers. “It is as if the very essence of light and air has been woven into dough.”

“You’re making it sound way fancier than it is,” you snorted. “It’s just bread.”

“A divine bread,” he corrected.

“You’re literally a demon.”

“I can still appreciate divinity when I taste it.”

Next, you took him to the bookstore, where he spent an unreasonable amount of time debating which tomes to purchase. At one point, you caught him flipping through something called One Hundred and One Curses to Ensure Your Enemies Remember You Fondly, which felt both deeply specific and incredibly on-brand.

While he was distracted by a book of poetry so dramatic it might as well have been personally written for him, you slipped away for a moment. A nearby flower stall caught your eye, and on impulse, you picked up a delicate bloom, its color strikingly similar to Malleus’s eyes.

You returned just as he was still deep in thought over which book to buy. Without a second thought, you reached up and tucked the flower behind his ear.

Malleus froze.

His expression didn’t change immediately—he just stared at you, his usual unreadable gaze flickering with something… complicated. His fingers hesitantly brushed against the petals, and for a moment, he looked genuinely baffled, as if no one had ever done something like this before.

You grinned at him. “Looks good on you, Your Evilness.”

Malleus exhaled a short, amused huff. “I must admit, I do not often receive accessories from my sworn enemies.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you said, already dragging him towards the next store. “Now come on, I still need to introduce you to the single greatest achievement of human civilization.”

He tilted his head, intrigue sparking in his expression. “Oh?”

“Fried food.”

For the first time in centuries, the Demon King of Darkness, Terror of the Gods, Eternal Wielder of Unholy Power… was genuinely excited.

You were not bringing Malleus more books because you liked him. Obviously. That would be ridiculous. You were simply executing a strategic maneuver—an information-gathering mission, if you will. The more books he had, the more he would talk, and the more he talked, the more you learned.

This was all very professional. A tactical decision. Absolutely nothing to do with the way his eyes lit up whenever you brought him something new or the fact that you may or may not have started associating his lair with peace instead of doom.

So, with arms full of books that were definitely not handpicked to match his interests (including one on celestial phenomena, which was coincidental and not an attempt to make him happy), you strolled into his lair like you owned the place.

And that was when you met him.

Lilia Vanrouge.

You knew the name. You’d heard it whispered in the temples, spoken with the kind of reverence usually reserved for plagues and natural disasters. The Scourge of the Battlefield. The War Demon. The Dark General Who Consumed Kingdoms Whole.

You had also heard it from Malleus, who described him as eccentric, mischievous, and one of the few people he respected.

And the moment you laid eyes on him, you realized once again that the gods were complete and utter morons.

Because standing before you was not a nightmarish harbinger of destruction. No, the man currently floating upside down in the air, cheerfully snacking on something, looked more like an impish uncle who would absolutely teach children how to commit tax fraud for fun.

He looked at you. You looked at him. He grinned. You immediately braced for impact.

“Well, well! So you’re the fabled Chosen Hero,” Lilia chirped, righting himself mid-air and landing gracefully before you. “How fascinating! I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“I—” you began.

“I must say, this is not what I expected!” he continued, completely ignoring you. “From what I’ve heard, heroes usually barge in with righteous fury, divine proclamations, and very little self-preservation! Yet here you are, standing in the Demon King’s domain, casually handing him books.”

You turned to Malleus, who looked completely unbothered, still examining the latest tome you had brought him. “You told him?”

Malleus, without looking up: “He asked.”

You turned back to Lilia. “And you’re not freaking out?”

Lilia tilted his head, amused. “Should I be?”

“I don’t know, I just assumed one of Malleus’s generals would take issue with me being, you know, the divinely ordained slayer of your king?”

Lilia snorted. “Oh, please. Do you have any idea how many so-called ‘heroes’ I’ve seen storm in here? You’re already my favorite.”

“…Thanks?”

“Of course! It’s just so refreshing to see one of you actually using your head for once.” He floated up again, upside down, resting his chin on his hands. “Though I must admit, I was expecting something a little more… impressive.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lilia smirked and gestured to the table where you and Malleus had been previously engaged in very serious discussions. Your stomach dropped. You had left out your papers.

Specifically, the ones where you had been doodling different armor designs and asking Malleus for his fashion advice.

Malleus, the traitor, casually picked one up. “I am partial to this one,” he said, holding up a particularly elaborate sketch. “The embroidery detailing is quite striking.”

Lilia laughed.

You buried your face in your hands as the War Demon, the Living Nightmare of the Battlefield, the Eternal Scourge of Kingdoms—wiped away tears of laughter over the fact that instead of slaying the Demon King, you had apparently made him your personal stylist.

It was, all things considered, not your proudest moment.

It had been months since you first stepped foot into Malleus’s lair, and, well… things had progressed.

Not in the way the gods wanted, obviously. If they had their way, Malleus’s severed head would be mounted on a sacred altar by now. Technically, you were still on your holy mission to vanquish the Demon King. Technically, you were gathering information. Technically, you had every intention of fulfilling your duty.

But, if one were to take a completely unbiased look at your current situation… it might appear that you were just hanging out.

A lot.

Like, a lot, a lot.

Malleus now made your drink exactly the way you liked it—sometimes before you even asked. You didn’t even have to tell him anymore. You’d wander into his lair after a long day of doing absolutely nothing related to demon slaying, and he’d already have your favorite drink ready, at the exact right temperature.

And you? You, the so-called “Divine Champion of Justice,” the god-appointed warrior of destiny? You had, against all logic and reason, started bringing him gifts. It wasn’t even a conscious decision at first. But every time a merchant came through town, you found yourself idly picking up little trinkets or books that looked like they’d interest him.

You told yourself it was just diplomacy. A strategic bribery effort. It had absolutely nothing to do with how much you enjoyed seeing his face light up whenever you presented him with something new.

You weren’t even sure when the shift had happened.

One day, you were the brave hero, standing before the terrifying Demon King with divine orders to smite him. And now? Now, you were practically living in his lair. Casually.

You’d gotten comfortable here, a fact that you refused to acknowledge out loud. Malleus’s lair was peaceful, quiet, and—to your horror—pleasant. The enormous gothic windows, the soft candlelight, the bookshelves stacked high with ancient tomes… It was all just so much nicer than the gods’ temples, which were always cold, sterile, and filled with divine bureaucrats who asked too many questions.

And worse—worse—when you weren’t here, you were usually thinking about what to do for Malleus next.

Should you bring him something from the next merchant caravan? Maybe take him to another festival? He liked those. Maybe introduce him to the weird little bakery in town that sold those oddly-shaped pastries you kept seeing. He might find them amusing.

You were planning surprises for him.

Like a friend.

No. Not just a friend.

A best friend.

You slammed your head onto the nearest table with a thud.

The gods could never find out about this.

You were having an existential crisis. A real one. The kind that made you stare at your reflection in a soup bowl and wonder if you had any meaningful purpose in life beyond being the divine equivalent of a glorified errand runner.

Lilia, of course, noticed. Because he was an agent of chaos and probably fed off emotional turmoil like some sort of tiny, ancient demon bat.

“You seem troubled,” he had said, watching as you slumped dramatically over Malleus’ very fancy dining table, exhaling the world’s most pitiful sigh. “Why don’t you and Malleus spar?”

Your head lifted slightly. “What?”

Lilia smirked, clearly pleased that he had successfully baited you out of your misery. “It’s been months, has it not? If the gods ask, you can tell them you’ve been honing your skills, preparing for the final battle.”

That… actually wasn’t a bad excuse. The gods had been getting nosy again, demanding updates. Maybe you could make this work.

Which was how you ended up here.

Standing in the grand, sprawling courtyard of Malleus’ lair, stretching out your limbs while he calmly removed his cloak, draping it over a bench like he was about to have a casual stroll instead of engaging in combat.

“You sure about this?” you asked, gripping the hilt of your sword.

Malleus tilted his head, looking amused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You smirked. “Just saying, if I win, I demand tribute.”

Malleus chuckled. “And if I win?”

“… Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Lilia was off to the side, grinning like this was the best form of entertainment he’d seen in centuries.

You inhaled deeply, grounding yourself. Okay. This was it. You were going to fight the Demon King, and it was going to be serious. No more cozy tea parties. No more lighthearted book shopping trips. It was time to—

“Would you like me to go easy on you?” Malleus asked.

You scoffed. “Pfft. No. Give me everything you’ve got.”

Malleus hummed, looking almost pleased at your confidence. “Very well.”

And then, without warning, he disappeared from sight.

You barely had time to register the movement before a gust of wind slammed into you at full force, sending you flying backwards like a poorly thrown ragdoll.

You crashed into a bush.

For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the sky, contemplating every choice that had led you to this moment.

Then, groaning, you rolled out of the shrubbery, shaking off the twigs as you picked up your sword. “Okay,” you muttered, adjusting your grip. “That was just a warm-up round.”

Malleus was still standing in the same spot, looking entirely unbothered.

And his hands were behind his back.

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you—” You took a deep breath. “Are you fighting me with your hands behind your back?"

“Of course,” Malleus said pleasantly. “You told me not to go easy on you.”

You could hear Lilia choking on laughter in the background.

You squinted at Malleus, wondering if you should feel honored or insulted.

Fine. You could work with this. You charged again, ducking low, aiming for his legs. A flicker of green magic intercepted you, sending a harmless but powerful shockwave that knocked your weapon out of your hands.

You stared at your empty hands.

Malleus looked mildly impressed. “Good attempt.”

You retrieved your sword. Tried again. And again. And again.

Malleus never used his hands. Never lifted a finger. He just sidestepped your attacks with casual ease, occasionally flicking his magic at you, like you were a mildly annoying housecat trying to pounce on a much larger, much more powerful predator.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped trying to win and just started having fun.

And then, eventually, your energy gave out. You collapsed onto the ground, spread-eagled, arms outstretched, staring up at the sky as you caught your breath.

Malleus stepped closer, looming over you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“I do believe you’re my favorite hero,” he mused.

You groaned and slapped a hand over your face.

The gods were going to kill you if they ever found out about this.

You couldn’t sleep.

Which was fine. Heroes probably weren’t supposed to sleep. Heroes were supposed to lie awake at night, tormented by the burden of their destiny, haunted by the weight of their mission, plagued by—

"What if I let him win?"

You bolted upright so fast you nearly knocked yourself unconscious on your headrest. You slapped a hand over your mouth like you had just spoken a heresy so foul the gods would strike you down immediately.

That was not a normal thought for a hero to have. That was the most absurd, blasphemous, outrageous, morally reprehensible—

"Am I technically dating the Demon King???"

NO. NO NO NO NO NO NO—

Your hands went to your temples. You squeezed your eyes shut. Maybe if you just thought hard enough, you could physically remove this thought from your brain. Or maybe, if you focused, the gods would finally smite you like they had always threatened to do.

You flopped back down onto your mattress, dragging a pillow over your face, as if that would smother the absolute nonsense your mind was generating tonight. But the problem was, now that the thought had entered your brain, it had built a home there. It had a mailbox. It was paying taxes. And now it was decorating with even worse thoughts.

Because now you were remembering the way Malleus had smiled when you let him talk for two whole hours about gargoyles. How his eyes had lit up like you were the first person to ever listen. The way he carefully, deliberately made your tea exactly how you liked it, as if he had memorized it from the very first time. The way he always tilted his head when he listened to you, genuinely fascinated by even the stupidest things you said.

The way he let you exist in his space. Not as an enemy. Not as a hero. But as…

… oh no.

OH NO.

You slapped a hand over your mouth again. Your other hand clenched into the sheets like you were physically trying to hold onto your sanity.

You were NOT—this was NOT—

You rolled over, kicking your legs violently under the covers. Maybe if you shook your entire body hard enough, you could dislodge this thought from existence. Yeet it into the void. Purge it from reality. But all that happened was that you pulled a muscle in your back and now you were lying there, in agony, emotionally and physically, because you were starting to realize something terrible.

You weren’t just fond of Malleus. You didn’t just enjoy his company.

You liked him.

You LIKED him.

YOU LIKED THE DEMON KING.

You sat up again, legs crossed, hands clasped together in front of you. “Dear gods,” you whispered, voice trembling, “please smite me where I sit. I have failed you.”

Nothing happened.

“…Cowards,” you muttered.

You flopped back down, staring at the ceiling in pure despair.

You were going to bed. You were going to sleep, and when you woke up, you would not be in love with the Demon King. You would be normal. You would be reasonable. You would be a good hero.

You closed your eyes.

Five seconds passed.

You opened them again.

Gods help me.

Literally.

You were having the time of your goddamn life.

Malleus' lair—again, as usual. You were halfway draped across his lap, leisurely popping fruit into your mouth while Lilia spun some absolutely deranged tale about the time he tricked a king into believing he was a vengeful forest spirit. Malleus sipped his tea, vaguely amused, and you? You laughed so hard you nearly choked on a grape.

The atmosphere? Immaculate. Life? Good. Everything? Perfection.

And then the door SLAMMED open.

You flinched so hard you nearly tumbled off Malleus’ lap. The tea cups rattled. The room’s easygoing tension evaporated as you stared at the figure in the doorway—some guy, just some guy—storming in with his sword drawn, looking like he was about to say the most dramatic thing you’d ever heard in your life.

“I HAVE COME TO SLAY YOU, DEMON KING—”

He stopped.

Because you—the actual hero—were very much not slaying the Demon King. You were, instead, sprawled across him like a spoiled house cat, eating his fruit and giggling like an idiot.

A horrifically long pause followed as this budget hero—who was not chosen by the gods, by the way—took in the scene.

Scrambling upright, you waved your hands frantically. “This—this is not what it looks like—”

“It is exactly what it looks like,” Lilia corrected, taking a dainty sip of tea. “Please, continue.”

Budget Hero looked insulted. Absolutely offended. “You—you’re supposed to be a hero! You’re supposed to be fighting him, not—” He gestured at you and Malleus with a face of pure betrayal. “—whatever this is!”

Panic surged. “I am fighting him!”

Budget Hero squinted.

You cleared your throat. “It’s just—” A vague gesture at Malleus. “A mental battle.”

Lilia snickered. Malleus lifted a brow, deeply entertained.

Budget Hero wasn’t buying it. His face hardened with righteous fury as he turned his sword back on Malleus. “No matter! If the gods will not choose a proper hero to strike you down, then I shall—”

And that’s when it happened.

Before Malleus could even think about obliterating him, you moved first. Instinctively. Violently. Viscerally.

Budget Hero never saw it coming. His weapon went flying in a single fluid motion, and before he could process it, he was done. Just absolutely demolished.

Silence.

Then:

Lilia. Wheezing. “Oh, that was brutal.”

You stared down at Budget Hero’s crumpled form, still gripping your weapon, stunned.

Because here’s the thing. That wasn’t a calculated attack. It wasn’t self-defense. It wasn’t even to protect Malleus, exactly.

It was pure, unfiltered spite.

Who did this guy think he was? Marching in, sword drawn, acting like he was Malleus’ sworn enemy? That was your job. Your dynamic. The thought of anyone else trying to take that place—trying to take any place in Malleus’ life that wasn’t yours—was so disgusting, so offensive, that your body moved before your brain did.

…Oh no.

Quickly sheathing your weapon, you coughed into your fist. “Welp. That’s enough murder for today! I should get going!”

Malleus blinked at you, unbothered. “You only just arrived.”

Lilia, still recovering from laughter, wiped a tear from his eye. “Stay! We haven’t even finished discussing your new armor—”

“Nope!” You laughed—too forcefully. “Nooope! I just—I have to, uh—cleanse myself. Spiritually. From, um. Today’s events.”

Malleus tilted his head, intrigued. “You’ve killed before, haven’t you?”

You sweat. “Yeah, but this one was just, uh, really emotionally charged. You know how it is.”

Lilia’s grin was so knowing it made you ill. “Do we?”

You needed to leave immediately.

“Anyway, see you later, besties!” Backing toward the door, you threw up a hand. “Malleus, you’re great, Lilia, you’re also great, I’m normal, and definitely not in any sort of crisis! Bye!”

And then you fled. Like a coward.

You had been avoiding him.

Technically speaking, you had only been gone for a week. But considering you usually barged into his lair daily—arms full of books, or pastries, or some weird trinket you thought he’d like—it was an absence that did not go unnoticed.

After all, you had never run before.

Even when you first met him, when you had been sent to kill him, you had walked right up to him and said, "Hey, so the gods told me to kill you, but honestly, I don’t feel like it." And he had smiled, slow and intrigued, and offered you tea. That had been the beginning of everything.

You had stayed. You always stayed.

But yesterday, after that absolute disaster of an encounter with that third-rate hero, after watching yourself cut him down before Malleus could even lift a hand, after realizing with gut-wrenching horror that you had reacted viscerally to the mere idea of someone else claiming that they were destined to fight him, to be his rival, you had fled.

Because what the fuck did that mean?

Because why had your stomach turned in disgust at the thought of someone else standing in your place?

Because you had looked at Malleus, and something inside you had snarled mine, and the weight of that realization had nearly knocked you off your feet.

So you ran.

Cowardly. Embarrassing. You, the so-called chosen hero, the one who had spent months dragging Malleus through town, shoving hats over his horns, feeding him sweet treats, listening to him ramble about gargoyles with the fondest expression on your face—you had panicked and run away like a flustered maiden in a fairytale.

You didn’t even have the excuse of battle wounds. The only wounds were entirely self-inflicted, entirely emotional, and entirely stupid.

So today, after daysof pacing and telling yourself to get it together, you forced yourself to return.

You spent the entire week gaslighting yourself into thinking nothing happened.

That reaction? Not weird. You were just… caught off guard! Maybe a tiny bit possessive. Maybe incredibly deranged about Malleus to the point where you instinctively obliterated someone for even thinking about taking your role as his arch-nemesis—but that was normal. That was just healthy rival dynamics!

So when you walked into Malleus’ lair the next week, it was with the confidence of someone absolutely not having a mental breakdown over their supposed mortal enemy.

“Yo,” you greeted, hands in your pockets, a casual whistle leaving your lips. “What’s up, big guy? Ready for some classic, good old-fashioned, not-at-all suspicious hero vs. villain conflict today?”

No answer.

It was silent. Too silent.

Usually, Lilia was there to greet you with some teasing remark. Usually, Malleus could sense you the moment you entered his territory, and you’d be met with a soft “You’ve returned.” Usually, there was some kind of warmth, a quiet hum of life in these ancient halls.

But today, there was only cold stone.

Your stomach twisted as you searched for him.

You found him by one of the enormous windows, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the sky with an expression you’d never seen before. His shoulders—usually poised with an almost arrogant regality—were slack. His jaw, tight. His eyes, distant.

For the first time since you met him, he looked exhausted.

“…Malleus?”

Your voice came out softer than you expected. Almost hesitant. As if part of you already knew what he was about to say.

He didn’t turn, didn’t shift, didn’t react right away. Just stood there, gazing out at the vast horizon like he was searching for something.

Finally, after a long, slow exhale, he spoke.

“…I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Your breath caught.

You had been gone for a week. You figured skipping a few visits wouldn’t matter much. That you could collect yourself, sort out whatever this was, and return once you weren’t a flustered disaster.

But standing here now, staring at him, it hit you just how much he had felt your absence.

His fingers curled a little tighter behind his back. His voice, barely above a whisper—

“If someone were to kill me,” he murmured, “I think I’d rather it be you than anyone else.”

The breath whooshed out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, you understood.

He wasn’t just speaking in hypotheticals. He wasn’t musing about battle. He wasn’t challenging you, wasn’t provoking you, wasn’t setting the stage for a dramatic clash between hero and demon king.

No.

Malleus had lived centuries watching heroes march to his doorstep, brandishing divine weapons, shouting righteous declarations, vowing to end him. And yet, he had never once fallen. Never once faltered. Never once let a blade even graze his skin.

But yesterday, when you hadn’t returned, he had thought—ah. So this is how it ends.

If he had to be slain, he wanted it to be by your hand.

If he had to see someone for the last time, he had hoped it would be you.

You broke.

Instantaneous. No hesitation. No rational thought. No clever quip or theatrical deflection. No last-minute is this a good idea? self-reflection. Just a sharp inhale, a rapid closing of distance, and then—

You kissed him. Hard.

Not soft, not slow, not gentle. Desperate. Raw. Months of pent-up feelings, of endless late nights spent thinking about him, of hands brushing and shared laughter and quiet understanding and—fuck. You were so gone for him.

Malleus stiffened—but only for a second.

Then he melted into you.

His hands rose—one tangling in your hair, the other curling around your waist, pulling you so close you swore you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. He kissed back just as desperately, just as fiercely, like he’d been waiting just as helplessly as you had.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he stared like he’d never seen you before. Wide-eyed. Lips parted. His grip on you so tight, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

“…I suppose that was your way of saying you refuse?” His voice, unsteady.

A breathless, shaky laugh. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, I refuse.”

His forehead pressed to yours, breath warm against your lips. His hands didn’t loosen their hold.

“…Then don’t ever leave me.”

You closed your eyes. Gripped his shoulders.

Nodded.

“Never.”

The celestial being—divine embodiment of justice and order, an ancient force revered throughout history—descended upon Malleus’ lair in a blinding display of light and holy power.

Wings of pure radiance unfurled. A golden staff crackled with divine energy. A voice, imbued with the might of the cosmos, boomed across the chamber:

“CHOSEN HERO. DEMON KING. IT IS TIME FOR YOUR DESTINED BATTLE.”

You blinked. Looked up from where you were curled against Malleus, sipping tea and reading a book titled 1,001 Architectural Wonders (That Are Not Gargoyles, Please Stop Asking).

Malleus glanced up from the game of chess he was currently losing against Lilia. “Oh?” he said, perfectly unbothered. “Has it truly been that long?”

“Yes, it has been that long!” the celestial being thundered. “You were sent here to vanquish the Demon King, not—” their eye twitched as they took in the scene, “—play house with him.”

You frowned. “Okay, first of all, rude.”

"Rude? RUDE?!" The celestial being practically vibrated with fury. "YOU LIED TO US!"

“I did not lie,” you said, deeply offended. “I gave you very detailed mission updates.”

“‘I’m gathering intel on the enemy’?”

“I was!” you huffed. “Did you know Malleus actually prefers honey in his tea instead of sugar? Crucial information.”

The celestial being sputtered. “You literally wrote, and I quote—” they conjured a glowing scroll and read aloud, “‘I need to study his weaknesses.’”

“Well,” you said, nodding toward Malleus, “he is weak to compliments. Call him ‘awe-inspiring’ and he gets all flustered. It’s very endearing.”

The being looked one breath away from smiting you. “AND ‘HE’S PROBABLY PLANNING SOMETHING EVIL, I NEED TO KEEP AN EYE ON HIM’??”

You pointed at Malleus, who was currently sipping tea with perfect elegance, staring at you like you personally hung the moon in the sky.

“Look at him,” you said dryly. “He’s clearly up to something.”

Malleus delicately set down his teacup. “Indeed,” he mused. “I was just plotting whether to have scones or biscuits with my tea tomorrow.”

The celestial being’s golden aura flickered like a candle in the wind. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KILL HIM!”

Malleus frowned. “That seems excessive for a difference in snack preference.”

The celestial being inhaled sharply, hands trembling. You were pretty sure you just heard them whisper I hate my job.

“Enough!” they roared. “FIGHT! NOW!”

You and Malleus exchanged a long glance.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with all the excitement of two overworked employees being forced into another useless meeting, you both sighed and reached for the nearest decorative swords.

You lifted your sword. Malleus did the same.

And then, with all the enthusiasm of two toddlers being told to pretend-fight for Grandma’s amusement—

—you both half-heartedly tapped your swords together.

clink.

“There,” you said, monotone. “We fought. Can we go back to cuddling now?”

The celestial being screamed.

The celestial being didn’t so much escort you to the heavens as haul you there like a parent dragging a misbehaving child to a disciplinary hearing. You barely had time to adjust to the blinding light before being unceremoniously dropped onto the cold marble floor.

Above you, the gods loomed from their gilded thrones, their divine radiance pulsing with something that was not quite anger—because gods did not feel anger, only divine disappointment, which was so much worse.

The celestial being, standing smugly beside them, crossed their arms. “I told you they weren’t taking this seriously.”

The first god spoke, voice like rolling thunder. “Chosen hero.”

Another voice, this one like a windstorm, joined in. “You were sent to slay the Demon King.”

A third, calm and cold as deep water. “And yet, you have done nothing.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the celestial being snapped their fingers, and suddenly, an image materialized before you. A glowing vision of you, fully reclined across Malleus’ lap, popping fruit into his mouth while he read a book.

You stared.

“…Okay,” you admitted, “this looks bad.”

The celestial being glared. “Because it is bad!”

The gods ignored them, their voices deepening into something more final.

“This war against the Demon King has lasted centuries,” one intoned.

“You were our last hope,” another added. “If you do not complete your duty, there will be no other hero for another hundred years.”

“Without a hero,” the celestial being hissed, “there will be no one to protect the world from his inevitable destruction.”

Their words should have shaken you. You should have felt the weight of them pressing into your spine, the consequences of this moment sinking into your bones.

Instead, you just felt tired.

Tired of this war you never understood. Tired of the gods, who sat safe in their gilded heavens, while they sent hero after hero to their deaths.

Tired of pretending that Malleus was something he wasn’t.

You took a slow breath. Then, you reached up and began unbuckling the divine armor. The metal rang loud as it clattered to the ground, reverberating through the silent chamber. You ripped the sacred amulet from around your neck, tossing it aside like an afterthought. The enchanted boots that carried you here? Gone.

The gods watched, speechless, as you stripped away everything that bound you to them.

Then, you stood taller than you ever had before.

“I quit,” you said simply.

The chamber erupted. The celestial being choked. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” you interrupted, stretching your arms, reveling in the freedom of it. “And I am. You want a hero? Find another poor fool. I’m done.”

The gods stared, as if they truly couldn’t comprehend your audacity.

“There will be no other hero for a century,” one god reminded you. “Do you understand what you are forsaking?”

You grinned. “Yeah. Unnecessary slaying.”

And with that, you turned on your heel and walked away, the celestial doors parting effortlessly before you. The gods did not stop you. Perhaps they couldn’t.

You returned to Malleus’ lair lighter than you had ever felt.

He was waiting for you when you arrived, standing near the entrance, his expression unreadable. His eyes—those impossibly green eyes—watched you carefully, searching for something.

“You’re back,” he said softly.

You stepped closer, meeting his gaze. “Of course.”

Something flickered in his expression—something relieved, something like hope.

You exhaled, the weight of everything lifting off your shoulders. “I’m free now, Malleus. No more gods. No more divine duty. Just… me.”

For the first time, you saw it—true joy in his gaze. He stepped forward, closer, until there was nothing between you.

And then he kissed you.

It was not hesitant. Not questioning. It was certain, like he had always known this moment was inevitable, like he had only been waiting for you to realize it too.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his lips curling into a smile.

“I was hoping you’d choose me,” he murmured.

You smiled back, fingers threading through his.

“I always would have.”

It happened over tea, as most of your most life-altering conversations with Malleus tended to.

You had been lounging on his absurdly comfortable sofa, sipping something floral he had brewed just for you, feeling very much like a person who had absolutely no idea that their entire life was about to be rearranged.

Malleus, ever composed, set down his own cup and regarded you with something almost too fond.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, “about how long we’ve been together.”

You blinked. “How long?”

He hummed, tilting his head. “Since you gave me your sword, of course.”

You continued blinking, because surely, surely you had misheard him.

“…My sword?”

Malleus nodded, utterly serene. “Yes. It was an elegant proposal.”

You made a sound. It wasn’t a word, exactly, but it conveyed your confusion well enough.

Malleus watched you, waiting patiently for what he must have assumed was joyous realization.

You, meanwhile, were still trying to process whatever the hell was happening.

“…Proposal,” you echoed, because maybe if you repeated it, reality would shift into something that made sense.

Malleus offered a rare, knowing smile. “A symbol of devotion. Offering one’s most treasured possession to another—it is an unbreakable vow, a declaration of lifelong commitment. The moment you placed your sword in my hands, you became mine.”

A long pause.

You stared at him. He continued to look pleased.

You, meanwhile, were experiencing an entire existential crisis.

“Hold on,” you said slowly. “So you’re telling me that, in demon culture, giving you my sword meant—”

“A proposal,” Malleus finished, nodding. “It was quite romantic.”

Your brain short-circuited. You thought back to that moment, a year ago, when you had so casually handed him your holy sword, thinking haha, maybe he can make this thing shut up.

In reality, you had apparently gotten engaged like an absolute moron.

You set down your tea with the careful precision of someone trying very, very hard not to spiral. “Malleus,” you said, voice deceptively calm, “why didn’t you tell me?”

He blinked, puzzled. “I thought you knew.”

“Malleus, I’m human.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Ah. I see the problem now.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling deeply. “So, in your mind, we’ve been betrothed this whole time?”

“Yes,” he said, utterly unbothered.

You stared at him. He stared back, composed as ever.

And then you just—laughed. Because of course. Of course you had accidentally proposed to the Demon King like an idiot.

“Well,” you said between snickers, wiping at your eyes. “Since we’re apparently already engaged, wanna just go ahead and get hitched?”

Malleus’ grin was blinding.

“Absolutely.”

Masterlist

[hvrrican3]

TRIVIA: LOVE. (soft yandere! wanderer x female reader)

; written during 2023. you call him kuni, vv self-indulgent i will not lie. minor lore divergence because of the name kunikuzushi.

; There is a longing present in his eyes when it came to you.

WHEN WANDERER met you under the hustle and bustle of Port Ormos, a missing piece of his being was completed like the last component to a crucial puzzle. The memories come rushing back - memories that are you, memories that compromise of you, memories that enjoy life with you - memories that he thought have been locked in the very back of his mind.

Yet that proves to be false, for how else can he know it's you if not for knowing you? He thought he'd moved on, he thought he accepted peace with himself that this time, he'll let you go and allow you to be free - a luxury that he hadn't granted you before, back when he wasn't a mere wanderer.

He thought he contented himself with aimlessly wandering the world of Teyvat.

Yet that also proves to be false, a lie piled on top of another lie, as before he knew it he was fast approaching you.

He had to make sure it truly is you, he had to.

Amidst your pleasant conversation with a kind merchant comes him, the outlier. He taps you on your shoulder, plastering on a kind facade - he asks you for your name.

"It's (Y/N)." You respond, returning his politeness back.

"What's yours?" You ask.

Ah, it truly is you.

It seems no matter what he does, Wanderer will always come back to you in the end. For his soul will always yearn for yours.

Just as it had since the very beginning.

Wanderer chuckles - a boyish charm that brings heat to your face.

"I don't really have a name," He says, relaxed and poised. "But someone always called me Kuni, so I suppose that's what you can call me. As it would be an honor I bestow upon you."

"Okay...?" You trail off, not able to decipher his cryptic words. "Kuni."

He'll never say it out loud, at least not yet, but he truly did miss you.

For as long as he lived, through every version and past of himself that he experienced, there was always one constant.

It's you, always have been.

Kabukimono - Resident of Tatarasuna.

The populated city of Inazuma lies the most prominent influence of the shogun, for her domain is placed at the most lavish point in the city. The shogun's army littered the streets, with soldiers occasionally passing by rowdy children playing tag or perhaps coming across the elderly in need of assistance. The residents of the main city greet the army with respect, with honor.

Life in Inazuma City is easy, almost unfairly so. The residents are under the protection of the Shogun, even despite her recent inactivity in ruling the lands. Outside the Main City of Inazuma, there is still life to be found.

There is Tsurumi Island, where a boy that befriends an almighty being resides. Seirai Island is inhabited by Asase Hibiki and her cat, Neko, along with a small village. And many more.

Tatarasuna is where Kabukimono's home is.

After being woken up from a deep slumber by Niwa, the puppet was introduced to the local residents of Tatarasuna, where Blacksmithing thrived. Most of them had an affinity for swords - sword dancing, sword forging, sword duels.

Even you, a local village girl who's known for sword dancing, specialized in it.

Kabukimono meets you on a particular night when everyone else had gone to sleep with the exception of the two of you. He sees you sharpening your blade, lost in thought. Kabukimono hesitates on approaching you, in fear of resulting in an unpleasant interaction.

After all, Kabukimono is not human - how can he know what humans like to talk about? He is naught but a mere imitation of life. He is a puppet, his joints, and his porcelain face are proof of that.

So he stays hidden in the shadows, watching you with catlike eyes - eager to harness your techniques when it comes to sword dancing. Kabukimono has no courage to talk to you - he can't and he won't.

It stays like that for a couple of weeks, he watches you in the shadows at night with a sense of standstill - the urge to cross it and just speak to you.

It isn't until Niwa introduces you to him one summer day did he cross the boundary.

"This is (Y/N)," Niwa says, smiling brightly. "I thought you needed more friends, Kabukimono. I think (Y/N) is perfect for that! She's adept at sword dancing!"

Kabukimono knows, he's seen you dance at night far more times than anyone else in the village. He's memorized each trademark of your dance, the signature flare that makes it your dance. He knows your mannerisms, and your routine before doing a dance - he knows it like the back of his porcelain hand.

And unlike nighttime, there in clear daylight, Kabukimono sees all your perfection and imperfection that makes up your entire face. He sees all the little details that the moonlight refused to reveal to him.

Here in broad daylight, you are even more beautiful than when he first saw you.

Niwa nudges him subtly, worried about his friend's sudden silence.

"Psst!" He whispers, not wanting his efforts to go down the drain.

Kabukimono's eyes widen, "U-uhm!" He stumbles over his words akin to a newborn baby, "You may call me Kabukimono...!"

You nod, not minding his belated response. "It's nice to meet you, Kabukimono. I hope we can be good friends!"

He nods as well, big doe eyes never leaving the silhouette of your form. "Likewise!"

This was the first time, out of the many, that he met you. His time with you was short, but it was undoubtedly the catalyst for everything that transpired between the two of you in the span of centuries.

Loving you when he was Kabukimono is akin to a first love in late summer and early spring.

Because you are, you're his first and only love.

Kabukimono vividly remembers chasing after you in the rice fields of Tatarasuna, not minding the gentle humming of cicadas and the soft buzz of bees. He remembers the way the wind tickled his hair, blowing past him as he races to catch up to you, he remembers the way you joyously laughed as you continued to outrun him.

Kabukimono remembers the heat of the summer sun, he can still imagine the feel of the blooming flowers that tickled his bare feet, he remembers the tsk coming from blacksmiths and the bemused chuckle of Niwa as he watches the two of you having fun without a care in the world.

Kabukimono remembers the countless nights spent dancing with you, holding your hand, and being surprised at the warmth your skin held - as opposed to his artificial hand that was cold to the touch. He remembers the way you awed at the feel of his skin, the way you traced each inch of his hand up to his forearms.

Kabukimono remembers a treasured conversation shared between the two of you, speaking out your innermost feelings and thoughts with each other. There, you ponder his lifespan and how he'd fare when you die.

"Do you think reincarnation is real?" You question, not really expecting a response from him.

Kabukimono remembers frowning as he looks at the way you seemed so troubled.

"Well if reincarnation were real, then I'd find you."

You frowned, finding his words hard to believe. "But what if I look different then? What if I looked nothing from the way I am now? How would you know it's me?"

Kabukimono remembers laughing out loud, "That's easy!" He retorts, grinning when you stare at him, "Because your eyes would tell."

"I'll know it's you, just because."

For the first time that night, you finally smile. "Okay," You reply, "I trust you, come find me in my next life."

"It's a promise, then."

(The same night, you gift him the name 'Kunikuzushi', and he feels blessed by Celestia itself.)

He remembers it all too well as if forgetting it would result in his ultimate demise.

As a puppet, Kabukimono knew he was not a real human. He can't be human, for he has no beating heart - he doesn't have the sound of gentle thumping that can be heard through your chest. When he presses against his own, he hears nothing but silence. He can't blush the way his friend Niwa can, for he has no blood, and blood can't rush up to his cheeks. He can't bleed the way you do. He can't wound the way you do.

Kabukimono has no human functions, but he feels human. He resonates with humanity far more than the average person, he empathizes and he cares like a human would. He feels love swirling within his nonexistent heart whenever he looks your way, and he thinks that this must be what living means; to love.

Life with you then was easy, he had nothing to worry about other than trivial matters. Life was an enjoyment, every time he opened his eyelids he was off to search for you.

First love is reminiscent of sweet candy and sunsets; Kabukimono thinks you are a dream, for you are everything he's ever wanted. Kabukimono thinks you're like candy because you love him like he's the only one in the entire land of Teyvat. Sunsets remind him of you for he can't imagine anything else other than the countless afternoons he spent with you.

But all good things must come to an end.

When you die while accompanying Niwa, Kabukimono feels his whole world tilt on its axis, and a surge of pain sprouts from his hollow chest; heartbreak. He's suddenly thrusted into a reality where you no longer exist because you're dead. He's forced to live on without you.

Love feels so good, but it also hurts just as much.

As Kabukimono, he feels love for the first time and loses you in the same breath.

But that's fine. Because you and he both promise to meet in your next life - he holds onto that like gospel. 

When Kabukimono leaves Tatarasuna, it's you in the back of his mind.

Kunikuzushi - Caretaker of a Sickly Boy.

A few decades have passed before he met you again. This time, he no longer goes by Kabukimono; he calls himself Kunikuzushi nowadays, a fond reminder of the imprint you left on his identity.

You were the one who gave the name to him, after all.

This time, you are no longer a village girl with an affinity for sword dancing. Instead, you are tied down to life by being the sole caretaker of a sickly boy with no parents. You look a bit different compared to your 'original self - a weary look is permanently etched onto your face, there are stress lines visible all throughout your body, you are deathly frail, and your face has blemishes more than usual - minor differences but ultimately, it's still you.

Kunikuzushi breathlessly laughs, it's still you, even after all these years.

From then forth, he volunteers to help take care of the sickly boy - he'll be the one to scavenge for materials and food because his inhuman physique allows him to. Your frail body can't handle it, clearly.

Kunikuzushi finds that this life with you is harder to navigate due to an unexpected factor - the child. It isn't to say that he's unwelcomed, because that's far from the truth - Kunikuzushi adores the child. But it's clear that his inexperience with handling young children shines through, especially when it comes to taking care of him on the off chance you were unavailable.

You, too, are terribly sick. Some days it has come to a point where you are bedridden. It's like an unknown disease have caught both you and the child - but it's fine, Kunikuzushi still loves you all the same.

Kunikuzushi learns that life is not easy at all, it's nothing compared to the easygoing perception he had back in Tatarasuna, where all he had to worry about was whether or not you would be at the village that day.

This time, he has to mature and learn along the way. Forced to abandon the childlike wonder he once had back in Tatarasuna in favor of adopting a more mature role in life, Kunikuzushi lives day to day as he learns more and more about vulnerability when it comes to being human.

Day by day, he tries his absolute best to keep you and the child alive through only his inexperienced hands - but this proves to be fruitless as with time, you come to deteriorate like the wood rotting the walls of the 'home' you and he called.

In the grand scheme of life, Kunikuzushi is nothing but a speckle of dust, powerless to stop or prevent deaths. Trying to keep you two from dying was akin to sand slipping through his fingers. It's the thought of fighting just for it to amount to nothing in the end.

On your deathbed, the last few remaining hours of your insignificant life, Kunikuzushi blabbers anything and everything that his puppet mind can conjure up; anything to keep you conscious, to keep you awake. He speaks of tales and stories about a life you once had with him, he speaks of it fondly like a wistful dream.

He assures you that he'll find you once more, it was bound to.

Amidst your hazy mind, you find the strength to ask, "...How will you remember that you loved me, Kuni? Don't your feelings fade over time...?" Your voice is hoarse, frail, and weak. So, so unbearably weak, it pains him to hear it.

"Never." He refutes, answering without skipping a beat.

"...Why?" You question once more.

"That's easy," He whispers, his cold fingers moving to gently grasp yours. "I can't help it."

He loves you so. 

Because loving you is like second nature to him, a part of his life that will always happen. An inevitable that has no end - and he has no complaints against it, he wants it all the same. Kunikuzushi knows how to love purely because you loved him so much that he learned how to love, too.

You let out your last breath and Kunikuzushi is now left to live without you once more. Quietly, he buries your cold corpse near the makeshift house. Kabukimono's time with (Y/N) was short, but even more so with Kunikuzushi - it's almost unjust.

A few days later, the sickly child dies too.

And Kunikuzushi is left to re-evaluate the very notion of love. 

Scaramouche - The Balladeer of The Fatui.

Scaramouche is everything that Kunikuzushi and Kabukimono are not, he is the very opposite of their being, he abandoned his previous life after he joined the organization known as the Fatui. The antithesis of what they once were.

Here, his existence means something - he is not the clueless childlike puppet back in Tatarasuna nor is he the powerless caretaker. Here, he is a Harbinger - a bringer of demise, he's a sense of coming foretold.

This time, when he meets you once more, you won't slip away so easily. This time, he'll make things right, the way he previously couldn't do. This time, he'll face death and fate itself just to keep you bound to him - not even your mortality can interfere, he'll find a way.

Except it takes over two centuries for you to reincarnate once more, a time too long for him to idly sit by and wait for you. Scaramouche meets you after an agonizingly long time, in this life, you are a resident of Inazuma City - home of the ruthless Shogun who stores people's vision in the massive stone statue.

For the first time since he met you ages ago, you yield a vision now - a Dendro one, a vision that signifies life and blooming hope. Such a shame, then, he has no plan for you to cultivate that kind of mindset once he grabs a hold of you.

The term 'meet' is much too generous, as he never introduced himself to you - he has no plans to, at this moment. He simply caught sight of you around Tatarasuna, looking for flowers to cultivate back at your house. But even with you meters away from his eyesight, it's unmistaken.

It's you, he's never been wrong about this. Because Scaramouche knows you so well it's almost as if the image of yourself is stuck to him whenever he closes his eyes. For him, it's impossible to mistake you for somebody else for his soul is so attuned with yours that it's no different to a pair of instruments.

Scaramouche knows you better than anybody else, that's simply a fact.

Yet while his soul strongly yearns to see you after all these years, he knows that patience is key. He must content himself with surveying you from afar until all the pieces are put into motion, once it's rolling then he can make his move.

He waits patiently, akin to a spider waiting for their prey to get stuck on the web.

For days, weeks, and a good month or two, Scaramouche keeps tabs on you as if you're Steambird's latest headline. He never skips out on a day when it comes to checking up on you, out of concern or malice, none of his underlings know the underlying reason.

They think he's a tad bit obsessed, but it's far worse when delved into the deep crevices of Scaramouche's mind; he thinks of you day and night, almost incapable of thinking about any other matter. He needs to see you daily, even if afar, or else he'd lose his grip on his sanity.

He has waited for you for centuries, what's a couple more meters to endure?

A few days later, the ship has been tipped - the resistance's army has made its move and the spread of the delusion has greatly impacted them. The traveler confronts him in a fit of rage, Yae Miko saves them by giving Scaramouche the Gnosis, and,

All is well.

He obtained the tool needed for him to break free from his place as a Harbinger. Next stop is Sumeru, with the company of no one else but you. That night, he visits your home as if he's a welcomed guest, clearly having known the interior and the contents of each room, unknown of how many times he's been inside.

Scaramouche creeps into your room like a shadow, quiet and undetected. You're sleeping peacefully, softly clutching your pillow and occasionally mumbling in your sleep - he watches for a few moments and lets adoration bubble up in his hollow chest.

And once more, he is reminded as to why he adores you so.

Nothing else in the world matters except you.

He'll become a god for the sake of you - for your worship, for your love, for your mortality to fade away. He can't bear to see you die one more time, he simply can't.

Everything he'll do is in the name of love, for the sake of the happy ending he deserves.

Scaramouche rips you away from the place you call 'home' and forces you to travel with him to Sumeru, threatening for you to not try any means of escape or call for help. You follow what he says, in fear of other people being involved in the tyrant named 'Scaramouche'.

He claims that he loves you, that all of this is for your sake, he says he's doing it for the two of you, he states that he doesn't mind being the villain in your mind as long as you're alive in the end.

You think this guy is off his rockers, spouting utter nonsense with no correlation whatsoever. How is his birth of godhood beneficial to you in any way?

Yet, the softness of your heart pricks at your very being when you see him purposely harming his puppet body just to accommodate the artificial god the Sumeru Sages are creating for him. Can puppets feel pain? You think so, you'd like to think so.

You liked to think so, so that your concern for him can be justified. It's so that you have a wall to hide behind when he questions why you're hurting in his stead - because surely, piercing large holes on his back just to insert a tube can't be painless, right?

His words play at the back of your mind,

All of this is for you.

And you curse yourself for having such a soft and fragile heart, for letting yourself feel concern over someone like him - yet, despite it all,

"Hey," You call out to him at midnight, "Does it hurt?"

It takes a while for him to respond, his eyes snap open and he instantly looks at you in his peripheral, "Concerned?"

"Perhaps," You admit, slowly climbing the robot he's now permanently tied to lest he ripped himself off it. "I just don't like it when I see people get hurt."

"I'm not a person," He snaps, haughtily crossing his arms. It takes a while before you're able to climb inside, stumbling in as you do so. "I don't care," You frown, guilt overcoming yourself. "You're still getting hurt."

He stays quiet for a few moments, not expecting you to care this much - in hindsight, he should've expected so. It's you, (Y/N), after all. "I'll be fine," Is what he finally says, "So stop worrying your pretty head over it."

"It's hard for me to not care when I see your back get impaled by a tube every day," You retorted, inching closer to him. He allows you. "I'm only human, I don't know anything, but let me see your back."

"Why?" He asks, yet he still turns around.

"I'll see if my Vision can help," You whisper, gently placing your hand at the smooth expanse of his tubed back. He almost shivers at the feeling of your touch alone.

"You really shouldn't concern yourself over matters like this, you'll lose sleep," Scaramouche snippily responds. "I'll heal overtime, I'm a puppet."

"But I want to," A soft green glow emits from the palm of your hands, "Because it's you."

He sputters at that, softly flinching before incoherently cursing you out. Eventually, he quiets down, not before muttering something.

You lean closer, eager to find out what he said, "Hm? Can you repeat that?"

"No." He grumbles. "Please?" You plead. "Pleasee?"

He sighs, giving in all too easily. "I said," He reiterates, "It's been so long since I felt what love from you is like. There, happy? Drill it into your tiny little brain."

You huff out a laugh, opting to stay quiet as you tend to his wounds. When you finish, you remove your hands from his back and bid him goodbye, clearly tired and sleepy from staying up for so long.

"Goodnight," You bid him farewell, exiting his Mecha and trudging back to your room.

Only when you're gone did he whisper out, "Goodnight."

Scaramouche is not one for religion, and he never will be. Scaramouche does not yearn much in his life, just one thing; you.

Celestia above, please let him have this one thing, for he doesn't ask for a lot.

You are the one, after all. Only you. 

Wanderer - One With No Name and No Kin.

The innermost layer of the Irminsul Tree is a once in a lifetime experience, he thinks. Inside the section that pertains to his centuries long life, are various memories and perspectives that he never thought he'd see.

But he came here inside, risked everything and more to make things right.

Dottore killed both you and Niwa, and he must adjust history according to what he sees fit. Even at the cost of his existence, the reality that he, Kabukimono, no longer existing would result in you never meeting him - never loving him, he'll risk it all.

If it means that you will live out your life without dying in such a cruel manner, then he'd do so in a heartbeat.

Because there's nothing more that he values in his life more than your happiness.

He loves you so dearly, so he must let you go - to make the ultimate sacrifice at the cost of you never meeting him. You love him, and he loves you - then and now.

But if you were to ask him, he loves you more.

He looks around the memories of his life, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he was created into the world by his mother. Countless glimpses and flashing memories of you go by, as if tempting him to back out. But his will to make you happy is much stronger, as it's not long before he finds it; the memory he seeks.

The moment of his creation - his birth.

He takes a deep breath, preparing to change history in a few moment's time.

Before entering, he bids you a heartfelt farewell.

Goodbye, (Y/N), I will always love you - even if it's at the cost of you not knowing. 

For the ultimate form of love is to sacrifice. 

V. He who loves you in every life.

Wanderer doesn't know if he should be thankful or not for his attempt at rewriting history. While you may not have met Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, or Scaramouche - in the end, you still met the ultimate mix between his past and present; the Wanderer.

But then again, who is he to defy the strings of fate?

Fingers creep up in front of him from behind, and he resigns to a deep sigh, already knowing who's behind him - he wouldn't have let them get near him if it wasn't you, anyway. "What?"

You giggle, mischievous, clearly in the mood of teasing and annoy him to the edges of Teyvat. "Nothin'", comes your easy reply, "Just wanted to see my soulmate, is that so bad?"

Soulmate, the word suggested by you when he revealed to you the past that you hadn't lived through - the lives you met him in, back when all his previous versions of himself still existed in the world.

At that time, when he finished disclosing from top to bottom, he expected you to laugh at him or perhaps look at him like he was a madman - a most appropriate response considering he had no evidence to back it up. Unexpectedly, you looked at him in complete awe - curious at his past incarnation and your past lives that they lived through together.

"That's amazing!" You remarked back then, "It's like we're fated to meet, no matter what."

He coughed, a little flustered. "I suppose."

You smiled, "It's kinda romantic, no? It's like a..." You trailed off, pondering. "...! A soulmate!"

"What's a damned soulmate? Did you make that up just now?"

Cheekily smiling, you winked at him. "Maybe."

"Well?" He prodded you, "Elaborate on the term 'soulmate'?"

"Soulmate is a... person that knows you better than anyone else, it's like your soul is in tune with theirs and nothing can change that. I think, a soulmate is a greater scale of loving someone, because your love goes way past than what's considered the 'average'. A soulmate is... someone who loves you in every universe, in every life, and will never stop loving you no matter what..." You trailed off, deep in thought. "A soulmate is a best friend and a lover in one, they're someone who wholeheartedly accepts you for what you are and who you are."

You looked at him straight in the eyes, then. "I think that's what a soulmate is."

He stayed silent, processing the words you just spoke out. "...You think of me that way? That I'm your soulmate?"

"Why not? If we weren't meant to be, then we never would've met after you tampered with the Irminsul."

"But-!" He retorted, "We only met because of me-"

"So?" You shrugged. "That's still us meeting again."

You smiled at him back then, filled with mirth and unfounded feelings he could never fathom. "You are my soulmate, after all."

"I..." He was at a loss for words, the things he wanted to say were stuck on his throat.

"I think," You moved to intertwined your fingers with his, "You will never be unloved by me, because you are too well tangled in my soul."

It's impossible to stop loving you, too.

"'Cause you love me, and I love you."

Tears threatened to spill over his porcelain face,

"...I love you too."

To the boy who still found love amidst the great sacrifice he made for his one and only. It's the thought of being loved so much to the point someone would alter time and history just for the idea of you being happier. But what he didn't know was that you were happier with Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, and Scaramouche in your life. No love is perfect, but his love for you was the best there was. 

[hvrrican3]

I FOWKING CRUED ALLAT

GET LOVED, IDIOT

GET LOVED SO HARD YOUR KIDS HOLD HANDS AND POWER-OF-LOVE YOU BACK TO LIFE

sorry guys, this is just my brain now. this is going to be the only thing I think about for the next week at least.

oh and also this

FIVE YEARS IN AND IT'S FINALLY CANON 🎉🎉🎉

WE DID IT

[hvrrican3]

HEYYYYYYY 😭😭😭

papa, pahinga muna, ako na 🦇⚔️🐉

[hvrrican3]

PLEASE LET THIS SCENE HAPPEN

Not Like Him

Happy Book 7 Last Chapter (soon)