ClumsyDear

She was born in the shadow of fire.

Twin sister to Portgas D. Ace, granddaughter to Monkey D. Garp, daughter of Gol D. Roger—but Y/N never wanted to carry their names. So she built her own.

She wore a Navy uniform with pride, her coat a crisp white underlined with conviction. Vice Admiral Y/N. The youngest to ever reach such a rank. Trained by her grandfather, shaped by the brutal ideology of Sakazuki himself—and still, he never once knew the blood she carried.

They called her the Ember Admiral. A slow-burning flame that never lost control.

Only a few ever knew the truth.

For a while, she drifted between fire and duty.

Ace sent letters. Coded, brotherly, hopeful. And sometimes, Y/N answered them.

When she passed information to Whitebeard's crew, it was subtle. No one suspected the Vice Admiral of treason. A whisper here, a redirected shipment there. Just enough to keep her brother and his captain out of the worst trouble.

Then, she met Marco.

It was on a coast near Swallow Island. She had planned to deliver one last set of ship coordinates to Ace. But Marco came instead.

Golden hair kissed by sunlight. Calm in the way that made your pulse race. He didn't raise a weapon. He didn't need to.

"You're her," he said, eyes sharp, lips soft. "Ace's sister."

She said nothing. But she didn’t stop him from walking beside her along the shore.

That night, they talked under moonlight and ocean wind.

It was the first time Y/N felt seen—not as a soldier. Not as the daughter of legends.

But as herself.

Four months later, her voice broke with finality.

"I'm sorry. This is the last time. I can't pass you any more information."

Ace frowned. "Why?"

She smiled sadly. "I've been reassigned. Marijoise."

Ace turned to Marco, who remained still, his expression unreadable.

Y/N looked down. "It's not my choice."

They said nothing. But the air between them shifted.

When Whitebeard found out, his rage shook the ship.

"Marijoise?! That place is poison."

He had respected Y/N’s choice to join the Navy. Tolerated it for her brother’s sake. But to serve the Celestial Dragons?

No.

He sent his sons to bring her back.

None succeeded.

Some came back bloodied. Others, broken.

She hadn’t killed them. But she had made it clear: she would not be taken.

So he sent Ace and Marco.

It was a cold night when they cornered her.

Winds swept across the rocky coastline near her docked ship. Her crew had been sent to shore. Only she remained.

"You shouldn't have come," she said, facing her brother.

Ace already looked battered. His arm hung limp at his side. Blood trickled from his brow.

"I had to," he said hoarsely. "You're not safe."

Y/N stepped back, sword drawn. "Unlike you, I was raised by Akainu. I don't run from duty."

"Akainu's not family!"

She lunged. Their battle was brutal. Siblings born of the same fire, now burning each other.

Marco watched, silent.

Until Ace collapsed.

"Y/N," Marco said, his voice a low warning.

"Go back," she spat. "You shouldn't have come."

"I caught you once."

He vanished. Reappeared behind her.

Before she could react, his arms were around her, strong and certain.

Then he kissed her.

It was fast. Bold. Desperate.

Her body stiffened. Then softened.

"How dare you," she whispered, blushing fiercely.

He smiled against her cheek. "I think I came to kidnap you."

"You won't win."

"Then I lose with you in my arms."

Suddenly—

"Vice Admiral!"

Her Lieutenant Commander, the only one who knew her truth, burst from the trees and attacked Marco.

Steel clashed with phoenix fire.

Y/N snapped into motion, the kiss forgotten, instincts flaring.

Together, they fought.

But Marco was faster.

The last thing Y/N saw was her commander falling.

Pain bloomed across her ribs.

She collapsed into Marco’s arms.

As he lifted her, the small journal hidden in her coat slipped free.

He caught it.

A weathered logbook.

Gold D. Roger’s mark.

As he turned to leave, her lieutenant groaned.

"Wait…"

Marco paused.

The man spat blood. "You were right. Keeping her brothers away… that was smart. Pirates always steal what others love most."

He reached for his sword.

Marco stepped on his hand.

"You’ll regret not telling her you love her."

The phoenix said nothing.

"We made a good team," the man murmured. "But next time you see her… she’ll be a pirate."

Then darkness claimed him.

And Marco carried her into the night.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!

Gotham glittered beneath the evening sky, the moonlight catching the tips of buildings and rooftops like a silver crown. Inside the Wayne Foundation's Grand Ballroom, the air shimmered with the clink of champagne glasses, string quartets, and the low hum of money being well-spent in the name of philanthropy.

You were the sun of the room, every eye subtly drawn to you as you moved through the crowd like you were born to shine. Crimson silk hugged your frame, your heels clicked like a metronome of confidence, and your laugh—carefully honed—rose at just the right pitch to charm.

Bruce Wayne noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He always did.

“Mr. Wayne,” you purred as you stepped up beside him, your red nails briefly dragging across the black silk of his lapel, “did you come to the gala to save the city or break hearts?”

He turned, amusement flickering in those unreadable blue eyes. “I didn’t realize I had a reputation for either.”

“Oh, please,” you smiled, cocking your head. “You walk into a room and women forget how to breathe.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you?”

“I pretend I’m immune,” you said coyly, swirling your drink. “But between you and me, the dress is only half of my armor.”

Bruce let out a quiet chuckle. “Dangerous woman.”

You leaned in, the scent of your perfume ghosting across his senses. “Only if you’re afraid of a good time.”

It was a dance. You knew your steps well. In front of the crowd, you were bold. Flirty. Confident. You teased Bruce because you liked the way his mouth twitched with held-back smiles. Because you loved the weight of his gaze when you walked away.

But the moment his attention lingered too long… your stomach twisted.

Because behind the bravado was a girl who didn’t know how to be looked at like that. Not by him.

Not by someone who could see through it all.

The gala ended in a blur of laughter and final bows. Bruce offered you a ride back to your apartment, but you politely declined.

Too dangerous.

You knew if you stepped into his world for real, it wouldn’t be a game anymore.

But the next day, a bouquet of dark red roses appeared at your office desk with no card. Just a Wayne Foundation envelope with an invitation to a small dinner.

Private.

You almost declined.

But you didn’t.

Wayne Manor was nothing like the bustling events downtown. Here, silence reigned. Shadows curved along oak panels and soft rugs. The fireplace burned low, casting an amber glow.

He met you at the door. No staff. No Alfred.

Just him.

In dark slacks and a navy sweater, he looked softer than he ever did in public. More dangerous in a quiet, intimate way. The kind of danger that came from someone who knew your tells.

He took your coat and offered you a glass of wine.

You were overdressed, you realized, your black satin gown clinging too tightly to your skin as you stepped into the softly lit dining room.

“You look nervous,” he said gently.

“I don’t get nervous,” you said too quickly.

He smiled. “You bite your lip when you’re not sure what to say.”

You stopped instantly, pulling your lip free.

Damn him.

Dinner passed in waves of conversation. He asked about your work, your favorite books, even your childhood memories.

It wasn’t a seduction. It was… intention.

And that scared you more.

After dessert, he invited you to his private study. The fire burned brighter there. Shelves of books lined the walls. A piano sat untouched in the corner.

He poured you both brandy. You sipped quietly.

And then he sat beside you. Not across. Not separate.

Beside you.

His arm brushed yours.

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Hide.”

You swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He looked at you. Not through you. At you.

“In public, you’re magnetic. You flirt. You tease. But here… now… you won’t even meet my eyes.”

You looked down. “It’s easier to be bold when no one can touch me. When no one can hurt me.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Who hurt you?” he asked.

The question was too gentle.

“Everyone,” you whispered. “But that’s not your problem.”

He set his glass down. “I didn’t invite you here to play games.”

“I know.”

“Then stop playing.”

Your hands trembled.

He took them.

Large, warm hands that covered yours and stilled the storm.

“I like you,” he said simply. “Not the version everyone sees. You.”

You blinked back tears. “What if I’m not enough?”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “Then I’ll stay until you believe you are.”

And you did something you never let yourself do in public.

You leaned in.

Slowly. Softly.

And kissed him.

Not like a dare. Not like a game.

But like a wish.

He kissed you back with quiet reverence, his hand cradling your jaw like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The night unraveled from there in whispered touches and murmured laughter.

You stayed.

You stayed because for once, you weren’t pretending.

And neither was he.

The morning came soft.

You stood by the tall windows of the manor, wrapped in one of his shirts. The silk curtains fluttered as dawn crept in. You hugged yourself, uncertain.

“Planning to run?” his voice came gently from behind.

You turned. “I don’t know how to do this.”

He stepped close, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“You already are.”

You looked up at him. “I’m shy, Bruce. I’ll flirt with you in front of a hundred people, but the second you get close, I forget how to breathe.”

“Good,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “Then I’ll make you forget often.”

You hid your face in his chest.

He just held you.

No expectations.

Just warmth.

You finally let yourself breathe.

You started to believe you were worth being loved back.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated! 💕

You were only seventeen when the Hunter Association branded you a prodigy. A double-star Blacklist Hunter.

No mercy. No second chances. No survivors.

You spent eight years dragging criminals from the shadows into the grave, haunted only by your precision. Your Nen—a specialist's curse—let you summon the deepest fears of your enemies and torture them with illusions so real they begged for death. Some skipped the begging and went straight to ending it themselves.

There wasn’t a soul left to speak of you… except one.

The only name you were ordered to hunt and refused.

Chrollo Lucilfer.

The man you spared. The man you regretted ever meeting.

Then, you disappeared.

Changed your name. Changed your face. Changed your life.

You buried Violeta and became a quiet woman in a quieter town. You swept library floors, sorted ancient books, drank cold tea, and watched time forget you.

Until your past arrived. In silence.

You saw him first from the window.

Standing on the sidewalk across the street.

Black coat, unreadable expression, a book in hand as if nothing had changed.

You froze.

You blinked.

He was still there.

But you didn’t scream. You didn’t move.

You simply turned back to your hallway mirror, brushed back your hair, and whispered like a prayer:

“He’s not real.”

The next day, he was in the library.

Not saying a word. Reading quietly at the end of the mythology section, just a few rows away from you.

He didn’t try to speak. Didn’t get close.

Just existed near you.

And your body betrayed you, heart stumbling in your chest like it still knew him, like it missed him.

You told yourself it was just a coincidence.

You told yourself the same the next day. And the day after that.

Until the dream came.

It began in the same library. But the walls seemed taller. Shadows moved like ink.

You were shelving books in the farthest aisle. Alone. Or so you thought.

Until a familiar scent—paper, dust, something faintly iron—crept in behind you. Then his voice, close to your ear.

“You hide very well, Violeta.”

You froze. Just like before.

His body caged yours in against the bookshelf, arms on either side, not touching… but not needing to.

“Sir… please step back.” Your voice shook. “I’ll scream if you don’t.”

His breath brushed your temple.

“Then scream.” His lips ghosted the curve of your ear. “My mouth will silence yours.”

You didn’t scream.

You wanted to. You should have.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t even look at him—because you knew if you met those eyes, those black, empty galaxies—your resolve would shatter. You’d remember too much.

Then the door opened.

A man stepped in. Young. Smiling. Holding a bouquet of violets.

Your name—your new name—on his lips.

“Violeta?”

But before you could speak—before he could step close—

Chrollo slit his throat.

Blood splashed on your shoes. The flowers dropped from the man’s limp hand to the floor.

You gasped.

Tears fell. Unbidden. Silent.

Chrollo stood in front of you, unbothered by the corpse. He reached for your hand, as if you were still lovers in the middle of a waltz.

Then, he leaned close. His tongue swept along your cheek, licking away your tears.

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was soft. “You remember everything.”

You woke up gasping.

The clock blinked 5:47 PM—almost time to close.

Your chest heaved.

You sat up. Rubbed your hands over your arms. You weren’t bleeding. You weren’t dreaming.

Except—

When you stood to lock the door and looked outside… he was there.

Just like in the dream.

Sitting on the library bench, reading. Calm. Still. Dangerous.

You didn’t run. This time, you didn’t pretend.

You locked the door. Walked slowly past the bookshelves. Sat across from him at the reading table.

The silence pressed between you like a held breath.

Finally, you whispered:

“What do you want?”

He looked up.

Eyes darker than night. Lashes lowered. Calm as ever.

“Now you speak.”

“This isn’t a game, Chrollo.”

He smiled, slow and deliberate. A smile with history.

“You always hated small talk. Fine. I came to see you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why now?”

His answer was too casual.

“Because I missed you.”

You flinched.

“No.” Your voice cracked. “You missed the girl who hunted monsters. The killer you could never predict.”

Chrollo tilted his head. Studied you.

“That girl was beautiful. But I missed you.”

You laughed once. Hollow. “I don’t exist anymore.”

He closed the book in front of him.

“I don’t believe that.”

You stood quickly, pushing the chair back.

“Do you want me to kill you now? Would that make it easier?”

He stood too. Not threatening. Just there.

“If you were going to kill me, Violeta, you would’ve done it eight years ago.”

“I should have.”

“But you didn’t.”

Silence.

You were breathing too fast.

He stepped forward.

“You looked me in the eyes. You had your hand on my throat. And you let go.”

“Because I was weak.”

“No,” he whispered. “Because you felt something real.”

You shook your head.

He stepped closer. Just one pace.

“Violeta… if you had killed me, I would’ve thanked you.”

You blinked.

He continued. Quiet, steady.

“But you didn’t. You let me live. And I let you go. For a while.”

He stopped in front of you, close enough to smell the old paper and faint lavender on your sweater.

“I’m not here to drag you back. I’m here because I need to know…”

He leaned close, almost nose to nose.

“…Is there still a piece of you that never stopped loving me?”

Your lips trembled.

You couldn’t answer.

Because the truth was a curse in your throat.

And he saw it.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with the same gentleness he used to use when you were half-covered in blood.

And you hated that your breath hitched.

“Even if you scream now,” he murmured, “I won’t leave. Because I already found you again.”

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!

Tenías solo diecisiete años cuando la Asociación de Cazadores te marcó como una prodigio. Una cazadora de lista negra con dos estrellas.

Sin piedad. Sin segundas oportunidades. Sin sobrevivientes.

Pasaste ocho años arrastrando criminales desde las sombras hacia la tumba, perseguida solo por tu precisión. Tu Nen —una maldición de especialista— te permitía invocar los peores miedos de tus enemigos y torturarlos con ilusiones tan reales que rogaban por la muerte. Algunos ni siquiera rogaban. Se quitaban la vida directamente.

No quedó ni un alma con fuerza para hablar de ti… salvo una.

El único nombre que te ordenaron cazar y te negaste.

Chrollo Lucilfer.

El hombre que perdonaste. El hombre cuya existencia lamentaste haber conocido.

Después, desapareciste.

Cambiando tu nombre. Tu rostro. Tu vida.

Enterraste a Violeta y te convertiste en una mujer silenciosa en un pueblo aún más silencioso. Barrías pisos de biblioteca, organizabas libros antiguos, bebías té frío y dejabas que el tiempo te olvidara.

Hasta que tu pasado llegó. En silencio.

Lo viste por primera vez desde la ventana.

De pie en la acera frente a tu casa.

Abrigo negro, expresión indescifrable, un libro en la mano como si nada hubiera cambiado.

Te congelaste.

Parpadeaste.

Seguía allí.

Pero no gritaste. No huiste.

Simplemente volviste al espejo del pasillo, alisaste tu cabello y susurraste como una plegaria:

“No es real.”

Al día siguiente, estaba en la biblioteca.

Sin decir una palabra. Leyendo tranquilamente al final de la sección de mitología, a solo unos estantes de ti.

No intentó hablarte. No se acercó.

Solo existía cerca de ti.

Y tu cuerpo te traicionó, el corazón tropezando en el pecho como si aún lo reconociera, como si lo extrañara.

Te dijiste que era solo una coincidencia.

Te lo repetiste al día siguiente. Y al otro también.

Hasta que llegó el sueño.

Comenzó en la misma biblioteca. Pero las paredes parecían más altas. Las sombras se movían como tinta.

Estabas colocando libros en el estante más lejano. Sola. O eso creías.

Hasta que un aroma familiar —papel, polvo, algo levemente metálico— se filtró detrás de ti. Luego su voz, muy cerca de tu oído.

“Te escondes muy bien, Violeta.”

Te congelaste. Igual que antes.

Su cuerpo encerró el tuyo contra la estantería, brazos a ambos lados, sin tocarte… pero sin necesidad de hacerlo.

“Señor… aléjese.”

Tu voz temblaba.

“Gritaré si no lo hace.”

Su aliento rozó tu sien.

“Entonces grita.”

Sus labios casi tocaron tu oído.

“Mi boca te silenciará.”

No gritaste.

Querías hacerlo. Debías hacerlo.

Pero no lo hiciste.

Ni siquiera pudiste mirarlo—porque sabías que si caías en esos ojos, esos vacíos negros galácticos—perderías toda resistencia. Recordarías demasiado.

Entonces, la puerta se abrió.

Un hombre entró. Joven. Sonriente. Con un ramo de violetas frescas.

Tu nombre —tu nuevo nombre— en sus labios.

“¿Violeta?”

Pero antes de que pudieras hablar—antes de que él pudiera dar un paso—

Chrollo le cortó la garganta.

La sangre salpicó tus zapatos. Las flores cayeron de su mano inerte al suelo.

Jadeaste.

Cayeron lágrimas. Silenciosas. Inesperadas.

Chrollo estaba frente a ti, impasible ante el cadáver. Tomó tu mano como si aún fueran amantes en medio de un vals.

Luego se inclinó. Su lengua acarició tu mejilla, recogiendo tus lágrimas como si fueran vino.

“No me mientas.”

Su voz fue suave.

“Lo recuerdas todo.”

Despertaste jadeando.

El reloj marcaba las 5:47 p.m.—casi hora de cerrar.

Tu pecho subía y bajaba como si hubieras corrido kilómetros.

Te levantaste. Te frotaste los brazos. No sangrabas. No soñabas.

Salvo que—

Cuando te acercaste a la puerta para cerrarla… ahí estaba.

Igual que en el sueño.

Sentado en el banco frente a la biblioteca, leyendo. Tranquilo. Inmóvil. Peligroso.

No huiste. Esta vez, no fingiste.

Cerraste la puerta. Caminaste despacio entre los estantes. Te sentaste frente a él en la mesa de lectura.

El silencio se tensó entre ambos como un hilo a punto de romperse.

Finalmente, susurraste:

“¿Qué quieres?”

Él alzó la mirada.

Ojos oscuros como la noche. Pestañas bajas. Sereno como siempre.

“Ahora sí hablas.”

“Esto no es un juego, Chrollo.”

Sonrió. Lento. Deliberado. Una sonrisa que arrastraba historia.

“Siempre odiaste la charla trivial. Bien. Vine a verte.”

Frunciste el ceño. “¿Por qué ahora?”

Su respuesta fue casi casual.

“Porque te extrañaba.”

Te estremeciste.

“No.”

Tu voz quebrada.

“Extrañabas a la chica que cazaba monstruos. A la asesina que no podías predecir.”

Chrollo ladeó la cabeza. Te estudió.

“Esa chica era hermosa. Pero te extrañaba a ti.”

Soltaste una risa seca. “Ya no existo.”

Cerró el libro que tenía frente a él.

“No lo creo.”

Te levantaste de golpe, la silla se deslizó hacia atrás.

“¿Quieres que te mate ahora? ¿Eso haría todo más fácil?”

Él también se levantó. No amenazante. Solo presente.

“Si ibas a matarme, Violeta, lo habrías hecho hace ocho años.”

“Debí hacerlo.”

“Pero no lo hiciste.”

Silencio.

Respirabas demasiado rápido.

Él dio un paso.

“Me miraste a los ojos. Tenías la mano en mi garganta. Y soltaste.”

“Porque fui débil.”

“No.”

Susurró.

“Porque sentiste algo real.”

Negaste con la cabeza.

Otro paso más cerca. Uno solo.

“Violeta… si me hubieras matado, te habría dado las gracias.”

Parpadeaste.

Él continuó. Suave. Constante.

“Pero no lo hiciste. Me dejaste vivir. Y yo te dejé ir. Por un tiempo.”

Se detuvo frente a ti, lo bastante cerca como para oler el papel viejo y la lavanda tenue en tu ropa.

“No vine a arrastrarte al pasado. Estoy aquí porque necesito saber…”

Se inclinó, frente a tu rostro.

“…¿Queda una parte de ti que nunca dejó de amarme?”

Tus labios temblaron.

No pudiste responder.

Porque la verdad era una maldición en tu garganta.

Y él lo vio.

Alzó la mano y apartó un mechón de tu cabello con la misma ternura que usaba cuando estabas cubierta de sangre.

Y odiaste que tu respiración se cortara.

“Aunque grites ahora,” murmuró,

“no me iré. Porque ya te encontré de nuevo.”

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!

It started with a craving.

Not a cute, manageable craving. Not "a little chocolate would be nice."

No. This was the kind of craving that hit like a divine commandment. You sat up in bed, a pillow fortress around your belly, and whispered your desire into the dim, lamplit silence of your shared apartment.

“Chrollo.”

From his chair near the window, he hummed. He’d been reading again, some dusty philosophy text from a country that didn’t exist anymore. His eyes lifted from the page and settled on you with that soft, unreadable look he reserved just for you.

“I need something,” you said.

He closed the book. “Tell me.”

You squirmed a little. “Okay. I know it’s weird, but I’m really craving spiral fries. The ones from the food truck by the river.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright. Spiral fries.”

“But that’s not it.”

His brow rose, and he gave you his full attention.

“I want to dip them in whipped cream.”

Chrollo blinked.

“Cold whipped cream,” you added quickly. “Straight from the fridge. Not room temp. That would be disgusting.”

He tilted his head. “You want piping hot, salted, spiral-cut fries… dipped in chilled whipped cream.”

You nodded seriously.

“Together.”

“Yes.”

He was silent for a long beat, and you braced for gentle mockery. But instead, he asked, “Is it urgent?”

“…Very.”

He stood with such grace it was almost unfair. “Give me thirty-five minutes.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re—wait, you’re going?!”

Chrollo reached for his coat and scarf without missing a beat. “You’re growing an entirely new life inside you. The least I can do is secure the desired snack combination.”

“But the food truck’s probably closed—it’s late—”

“I have a way with people,” he said simply, already at the door. “Get comfortable. Don’t cry while I’m gone.”

You blinked after him, heart swelling in the most absurd, mushy way possible.

When he returned, exactly thirty-seven minutes later (you’d timed it), he came bearing offerings like some dark prince from a forbidden romance novel.

A still-hot paper tray of spiral fries. And a little tub of whipped cream—cold, with condensation on the lid. Your eyes filled with tears the second he handed it to you.

“Oh no,” he said, gently amused. “I told you not to cry.”

You sniffled. “I’m not crying, I’m just… so touched.”

“I did threaten a man slightly for these,” he admitted, brushing his fingers along your jaw. “Don’t waste them with tears.”

You laughed, watery, and took your first glorious bite: salty, crispy, hot fries dipped into sweet, cold cream. The moment it hit your tongue, you moaned dramatically.

“Oh my god.”

Chrollo sank beside you on the bed, watching you with endless patience. “That good?”

“It’s so wrong… and so right.”

He smirked. “I should write that on the food truck’s sign.”

You elbowed him. “Don’t make fun of your pregnant wife.”

“I’m not,” he said, stealing one of your fries. “I’m admiring your commitment to chaos.”

You looked at him, suddenly serious. “You don’t think I’m ridiculous?”

He leaned in, brushing his thumb gently beneath your eye. “You’re carrying something sacred. If your body tells you it needs deep-fried potatoes with whipped sugar cream, who am I to disagree?”

You blinked. “Are you flirting with me… while I’m covered in fry grease?”

“Unapologetically.”

Later, after you’d finished half the fries and passed out with the whipped cream tub still in your lap, Chrollo gently removed it, set everything aside, and carefully cleaned your sticky fingers with a warm cloth.

He adjusted your pillows, kissed your temple, and whispered something you didn’t quite catch, but it sounded suspiciously like, “Even your cravings are lovely.”

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated! 💕

They said blood ties could not be undone.

But you tried anyway.

You were the daughter of the Pirate King. Sister to Portgas D. Ace. Granddaughter of Monkey D. Garp. A Vice Admiral of the Marines.

And, somehow, a traitor to them all.

You hadn’t meant for things to end this way. You had long since given up the dream of becoming a pirate. A childish fantasy burnt out after a youth spent hiding from the world’s expectations. You didn’t want to be a queen of the seas. You didn’t want to be famous.

You wanted control.

And the Navy gave it to you. Order. Discipline. Identity. A world of clean lines and absolute power. It felt safer than chaos, safer than the love that tied you to your past.

But nothing felt as dangerous as him.

You met Marco one quiet evening on an island where Ace had begged you to visit. He had been with the Whitebeard Pirates then, proud and glowing with purpose. And you had gone, just to see him one last time. Your duty called you elsewhere, but family, it had tugged at you, fraying the edges of your resolve.

Marco had been there.

The Phoenix.

He was golden in the torchlight, calm in his quiet power. He hadn’t said much at first. He observed. And you didn’t like how much he seemed to see. But he had a strange way of listening, really listening, as if your every word mattered.

And somehow, in the hush of that night, you shared stories and a flask of stolen rum. He made you laugh. You made him hesitate. Nothing happened. But something started.

And then you left.

For months, Ace sent messages. He asked you to meet. Pleaded. Even Luffy wrote once. But you ignored them all.

You distanced yourself, duty hardening your edges, ignoring the ache in your chest. You told yourself it was necessary. That you were doing the right thing.

That your feelings were a weakness you couldn’t afford.

Then came the orders.

Vice Admiral [Y/N] would be assigned to Mary Geoise for direct Celestial Dragon security detail.

Most pirates wouldn’t dare intervene.

But Whitebeard was not most pirates.

You were Ace's sister. You were Roger's daughter. A silent link in a chain no one was supposed to see. But Whitebeard did.

So he sent his sons.

They came in waves. Some tried diplomacy. Others, infiltration. A few thought they could reason with you.

You repelled them all.

Some left bleeding. Others unconscious. A few barely escaped with their lives. You tried not to think about how it hurt to hurt them.

The name [Y/N] came with bruises among the Whitebeard Pirates.

But Marco?

Marco came last.

It was night when he boarded your ship.

You had dismissed your crew. Ordered them to port. You said you needed peace, and no one questioned you.

The deck was quiet. The moonlight poured silver over the sea. You leaned against the rail, pretending you couldn’t feel the tension building in your spine. Pretending you were alone.

Then, with a soft flutter of wings, you weren’t.

He landed like a whisper. Silent. Controlled.

You didn’t turn.

"Marco," you said softly.

"Vice Admiral," he greeted, his voice low.

You turned slowly, letting your hair fall over your shoulder as you pulled the tie from it. Your fingers trembled only slightly.

His eyes scanned you. Every shift in your posture, every twitch of your jaw. His gaze lingered on your ears, where a faint flush betrayed you.

He smiled faintly.

Ace had told him once: Her ears turn red when she lies.

"There’s a rumor," he said, almost conversational. "That you have Roger’s maritime log."

You laughed. "That thing exists?"

You tried to sound bored, but your gaze flicked away. Your ears deepened in color.

Marco stepped closer.

You stiffened, ready to draw your blade.

He moved with practiced ease, caging you gently against the railing with his arm.

Your heart thundered.

"I’ll attack you if you touch me again," you warned. Your voice didn’t shake. But your hand trembled slightly near your hip.

He leaned close, his breath warm against your ear. "I like you."

You froze.

"Anyone who saw us like this," he murmured, "would say something’s going on."

His knee slid between yours. His body didn’t touch yours, but it hovered so close your skin ached.

"What are you planning?" you asked, voice hoarse.

"Kidnapping you," he said, smiling faintly. "Father’s order."

You shoved him back roughly. The blush on your face had deepened into something furious.

"You think I’ll come willingly?"

He didn’t answer.

Before you could speak again, the door behind you burst open.

"Vice Admiral!"

Your Lieutenant Commander, your most trusted friend, the only one who knew the truth about your past, your fears, your shame, stormed forward, sword drawn.

He saw Marco. Saw your flushed cheeks. Misread everything.

He attacked.

Marco blocked it with one hand, haki flaring as the blade clashed against his.

The moment shattered. You stepped between them, your own blade drawn.

You and your commander moved as one. Trained together. Fought together.

But Marco was something else.

He parried. Dodged. Matched your strikes like wind meeting fire. It was like dancing with a storm.

Then came the strike.

Too fast. Too precise.

Marco caught your commander across the chest. He went down with a strangled cry, blood blooming.

You cried out, but before you could reach him, you stumbled. The blow you took earlier had reopened.

You collapsed.

Marco caught you before you hit the deck.

Your head lolled against his chest. His heartbeat thundered under your ear.

From your hand, a small leather-bound book slipped.

He stooped and picked it up.

The cover was plain. Worn.

But it was real.

So the log did exist.

He turned to leave, carrying you gently, but a rasping voice stopped him.

"Wait…"

Your commander, broken and bloodied, lifted his head.

"You were right… to keep them away. Her brothers. All of them."

Marco turned.

The man spat blood. "It’s what pirates do, isn’t it? We steal what matters most."

Marco didn’t speak.

"Will you regret it, Phoenix? Not telling her you love her?"

The commander reached for his sword.

Marco stepped on his hand before he could grab it.

The pressure made the man cry out, then choke back the pain.

"We were a good team," he said, voice fading. "But next time you see her… she won’t be a vice admiral."

Marco watched him for a moment. Then turned.

He carried you down into the night, the logbook clutched to his chest.

You would wake hours later.

In a place you thought you'd never return to.

The Moby Dick.

To a life you tried to leave behind.

And a man who could no longer walk away from you.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!

Deuce Spade

Deuce doesn’t know how to handle you at first. You walk into class on your first day with your head held high, wearing black platform shoes that echo through the hallway like you own the place. Your skirt’s a little too short, your makeup a little too bold, and your attitude? Unapologetically fierce.

You remind him of who he used to be.

At first, he avoids you. You seem like the type to get in fights and call it self-expression. But one day, he catches you behind the school handing out extra bread to a bunch of stray cats. You glare at him like you’re daring him to make fun of you.

"Say anything and you’re next," you snap.

"Next for what?"

"I dunno. Just… next."

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sits down beside you. Quietly. Doesn’t judge. Just watches as you break a meat bun in half and toss a piece to a limping gray kitten.

After that, he starts noticing things: how you always sit in the back of class but take the most thorough notes. How you roll your eyes when teachers praise you. How you wear your blazer wrong but still iron it every night.

Eventually, he starts defending you before anyone says a word. He doesn’t let people talk bad about you. He doesn’t explain it, he just does.

When you find out, you slap his arm. "Don’t make me owe you a favor. I hate favors."

But the next morning, there’s a neatly wrapped onigiri in your hand when he walks into class.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

You’re both okay with that.

Ace Trappola

You and Ace are like two sides of the same coin—except your side is spiked and probably illegal.

He’s intrigued the second he sees you. You’ve got that cocky smile, that "what are you gonna do about it?" energy. You don’t follow rules unless they benefit you. You don’t start trouble, but you never walk away from it either.

He likes that. A little too much.

You prank him on day three. Harmless stuff. Purple glitter in his shoes, a skull sticker on the back of his collar. He laughs like he doesn’t care, but then he gets you back. Water bucket on the door. Classic.

"Child’s play," you scoff. "Try harder next time."

So begins the war.

But the rivalry is weird. It's not mean. It's playful. Like flirting with teeth. You talk trash, he talks back, but when someone else makes a joke about your look or your voice, he gets quiet. He doesn’t joke like that.

He doesn’t let anyone else joke like that.

You catch him staring sometimes. Not in a gross way. Just… watching. Studying. Like he’s trying to figure you out.

One night, he finds you in the lounge working on a little embroidery project. Skull patches for your backpack. He teases you for being "weirdly domestic for a punk."

You raise an eyebrow. "You keep talking like you don’t want one."

He doesn’t respond. But the next morning, you toss him a small patch. A red card with a bite taken out of it.

He sews it to the inside of his uniform sleeve. Doesn’t show anyone.

But you notice. Of course you do.

And when you smirk at him from across the hallway, he smirks right back.

Jack Howl

Jack didn’t dislike you, he just didn’t get you.

The first time he saw you was during PE. You wore combat boots instead of athletic shoes and didn’t even pretend to follow the uniform code. There was a bat-shaped clip in your hair, and you rolled your sleeves up like you were ready to throw someone instead of a ball. He figured you were all bark and no bite.

Then you outran everyone in sprint trials.

Still, he avoided you for a while. You talked too much, acted too bold. You were chaos wrapped in black lace and sarcasm. He didn’t know how to handle people like you. He preferred things straightforward, clean-cut. You were a puzzle with sharp edges.

But one day, he caught you behind the dorms with your head down, quietly bandaging a bruised knee on a freshman who’d tripped during flying class. You didn’t even look up when Jack approached.

"Don’t stare. This stays between us. Got it, wolf boy?"

Jack blinked. "Yeah. Sure."

You didn’t wait for thanks. You just shoved the kit back into your bag and disappeared. But Jack stayed there a moment longer, puzzled.

That’s when he started paying attention.

He noticed the way you didn’t start fights, you ended them. The way you always rolled your eyes in class, but somehow turned in the most thorough assignments. The way you always sat near the window, like you didn’t belong inside.

When you got paired together for a wilderness survival assignment, he expected disaster. He thought you'd complain, slack off, maybe even ditch. Instead, you showed up early with a practical backpack, a half-charged lantern, and snacks. You hiked ahead of him through the woods, cursing at brambles and grumbling about mosquito bites.

He chuckled when you tripped over a root. You glared. “You laugh, I push you into the stream.”

You didn’t. Instead, you handed him a granola bar. “Catch. I brought extra.”

You didn’t share much about yourself. But as the fire crackled between you that night, Jack realized you didn’t have to. There was something comfortable in your silence. In the way you kicked at pebbles and swatted at bugs and eventually leaned back against your backpack with your arms behind your head.

“You’re quiet,” you said suddenly.

“Used to it,” he replied.

You hummed. “Not a bad thing.”

And when he got cold that night, you tossed your spiked hoodie over his head with a scowl.

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.”

He didn’t say anything.

But he still wears that hoodie during late-night runs.

You never asked for it back.

Epel Felmier

Epel saw you and immediately thought: finally. Someone who didn’t care what anyone thought.

You were all spiked chokers and stompy boots, strutting through campus like you ruled the place. You had stickers all over your textbooks, cursed like a sailor, and called the teachers by their first names when you were annoyed.

He was obsessed.

Back home, people told him how to behave. How to sit. How to talk. But you? You flipped the world off with a smile and glitter eyeliner.

You reminded him of home in the strangest way. Of the girls back in Harveston who didn’t take crap from anyone and weren’t afraid to get their boots dirty.

He started copying your attitude, standing straighter, ditching some of the delicate phrases Vil forced on him. He wanted to learn how to be bold like you. Unapologetic.

“Ya think this is cute?” he asked once, showing you his new skull-engraved ring.

You examined it, then nodded. “Not bad. A little wannabe, but you’re getting there.”

He didn’t take offense. He grinned.

When he got caught cursing in alchemy class, he didn’t even try to blame you. He just bit his lip and held back a laugh.

You taught him how to glare properly. How to lean back in his chair without looking like he was trying too hard. How to make a threat sound like a compliment.

In exchange, he showed you how to make your own hair tonic. One that wouldn’t stain your pillows purple.

The two of you didn’t exchange gifts. You exchanged bad habits, sass, and silent respect.

During the annual VDC performance, Epel showed up in your color scheme, black and fuchsia. You stared at him from the wings.

“You tryin’ to match me now?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I just like your colors better.”

You rolled your eyes.

But your smirk didn’t leave until long after the music ended.

Ortho Shroud

Ortho liked observing people. You, though? You confused his entire database.

You weren’t like Idia or the students who wanted attention. You didn’t ask for people to like you. You dressed how you wanted, acted how you wanted, and made no apologies for it.

He once asked, “Do you think your behavior increases or decreases your chances of friendship?”

You squinted at him. “What does that even mean?”

“I mean, people are scared of you. But you do nice things when no one’s looking.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I don’t want the attention. Maybe I just like doing stuff.”

After that, Ortho made it his mission to understand you. He followed your patterns. When you disappeared from class, he found you behind the greenhouse with a stray cat on your lap. When other students avoided you, Ortho sat next to you, chatting casually about magic tech and anime.

He made you a custom security chip for your bag that played a spooky jingle every time it opened. You glared at it at first but didn’t take it off.

“I synced it to your walking rhythm,” he said proudly. “It’s goth-coded.”

You grumbled. “Nerd.” But you wore it anyway.

One night, Ortho caught you sneaking into the restricted library. Instead of reporting you, he asked, “Want backup?”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

He beamed. “You look like a boss-level character. I figured I’d help with the side quest.”

It became a thing. The two of you teamed up often, hacking doors, finding secret passageways, stealing ghost stories from banned books. Ortho even programmed a hologram bat companion that floated beside you during lectures.

You named it Morbid. He pretended to be shocked.

“Morbid? Not Spookums?”

“You can name your next robot Spookums.”

Eventually, you started tutoring him in creative writing, helping him craft better character dialogue for his story mods. In return, he installed a glow feature in your boots that activated during fights.

The first time you used them, you blasted through a training dummy and laughed.

“This is sick.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s peak villain energy.”

You didn’t need to say anything after that.

He got you. No decoding necessary.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek couldn’t stand you at first. The audacity. The aesthetic. The constant teasing.

“You must learn discipline!” he yelled.

“Maybe you should learn how to relax,” you replied, laying upside down on a bench, blowing a bubble with your gum.

The sight of you made his blood pressure spike. You walked around like rules didn’t apply, wore skirts too short for the dorm code, and painted your nails black in defiance of uniform regulations.

He reported you. Twice. You got detention. Both times, you left detention laughing.

But the turning point was a group project in magical history. He wanted to do all the research. You said you’d do the visuals.

“You’re not seriously going to draw our entire timeline in comic panels,” he scoffed.

“Yes, I am. With chibi versions of Malleus, too.”

He nearly combusted.

But you finished it. Every detail accurate. Every event in order. And the entire class loved it. Even Professor Trein.

Sebek stared at you with a mixture of betrayal and awe.

“You’re not just chaos incarnate… You’re competent chaos incarnate.”

You winked. “Told you. I bite and I sparkle.”

From that day forward, your arguments became banter. He started walking with you to class, only to lecture you. You let him. Only to interrupt with sass.

You both denied enjoying the company.

Then came the fencing match. You weren’t even competing, but someone insulted Malleus in the stands near you. Sebek drew his sword.

You jumped down, grabbed a broomstick, and challenged the heckler to a duel.

“BACK OFF,” you growled. “Or I’ll hex your eyelashes off.”

The whole room froze.

Sebek stared at you like you’d just proposed marriage.

Later, he found a Malleus-themed phone charm in his locker. Handmade. With your signature skull on the back.

He didn’t say anything about it, but it never left his phone.

Grim

Grim knew you were his kind of human from the start.

You were dramatic. You were stylish. You didn’t take orders, and neither did he.

You walked into Ramshackle with a box of skull-themed stationery and a neon pink kettle. He declared you his second-in-command immediately. You told him he was lucky you didn’t throw him off the balcony.

You were both all bark and bite and flair.

He stole shiny things for your room. You painted his claws with glow-in-the-dark polish. You taught him how to pose dramatically in a mirror.

He curled up next to you when you watched horror movies, tail flicking against your thigh.

You shared snacks. He shared your bed.

“You’re loud,” you mumbled once, brushing his fur.

“You love it,” he grinned.

When someone teased him in class, calling him a talking pet, you slammed your books on the desk.

“Say that again. I dare you.”

The guy backed off. Grim puffed up.

Afterward, he hopped on your shoulder and declared, “We’re takin’ over this dump together. Just you and me.”

You grinned. “Yeah, but I get naming rights when we turn the cafeteria into a nightclub.”

He purred in approval.

Weeks later, someone wrote “Grim & Kuromi 4EVER” in claw marks across the dorm’s front gate.

Neither of you admitted it.

But your matching sunglasses said enough.

Partners in crime. Legends in training.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!🩷

The skies above Marineford roared.

Thick clouds of smoke curled through the air, blackening the light as cannonballs burst, ships shattered, and men screamed. The sea frothed with foam and fury, torn apart by Devil Fruits and the chaos of war.

They called it the War of the Best.

But to you, it was a death sentence.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Your orders, handwritten by the Celestial Dragons themselves, demanded your presence at Sabaody Archipelago. You were to escort their bloated, arrogant selves through calm waters, far from this battlefield. Far from your twin brother, Ace.

Far from your past.

You had every reason to obey. You were Admiral [Y/N], youngest in history. Granddaughter of Garp the Hero. Trained personally by Fleet Admiral Sakazuki.

But blood was thicker than justice.

So, without a word to your men, you vanished. You left the nobles with a cold glare and a whispered lie. You donned your black marine cloak and masked your face with obsidian.

And then you sailed. Fast. Alone.

Toward the heart of the storm.

When you arrived, the battle was already at its peak.

Explosions ruptured the sky. Ice and fire clashed across the sea. Giants, Pacifistas, Shichibukai, and pirates collided in a bloodstained dance of death.

You stood on the edge of the battlefield, on the ruins of a watchtower, surveying the chaos below. Your heart pounded against your ribs.

Ace.

Luffy.

You had to find them. Protect them.

Then you saw it. The moment that split your soul.

Akainu.

His fist surged with magma, aimed for Luffy’s unguarded back. Ace moved without hesitation, throwing himself into the path, a fatal choice.

You didn’t remember leaping. Only the way the world blurred as your body shot down like a falling star, the cursed sword Nidai Kitetsu gripped in your right hand.

The blade screamed with haki. Your own scream died in your throat.

CLANG.

Your greatsword met his magma fist in an earth-shattering crash.

Heat seared your arms, even through your haki. The cursed sword trembled with the impact, pushing you to your limits.

Crack.

Your mask split in half. It fell, burning, to the ground.

Gasps rang out from both sides of the war.

You stood between Luffy and Akainu, your blade steaming, your identity laid bare.

Akainu's voice was low, cold, venomous. "You."

You coughed, blood trickling down your chin, but your voice was steady. "Long time, Admiral."

He took a step forward. "[Y/N]... You betrayed everything."

"No," you said. "I chose everything."

Ace stared at you, eyes wide. "Sis...?"

"Hey, firefly," you murmured, not looking at him. "Nice to see you alive."

Marco hovered above, frozen. You saw the instant he realized it was you.

His blue flames flickered wildly. His eyes widened behind his fringe. A thousand unspoken words danced in his expression.

You weren’t just a rumor. You were here.

Real. Bleeding. Standing in front of death.

Marco didn't know whether to scream at you or fly down and hold you.

Then, you acted. Without a second thought, you twisted back and shoved both Luffy and Ace into Jimbe's waiting arms.

"Take them and RUN!"

"NO!" Ace roared. "[Y/N]!!"

"We can’t leave her!" Luffy screamed.

"Jimbe!" you shouted. "Get them out of here!"

Akainu's eyes gleamed. "You think I’ll let them go? You think you can stop me again?"

You raised Nidai Kitetsu. "I don’t think, I act."

With that, you launched yourself forward.

Your haki flared gold, bright and blinding. You knew the curse of your blade. You’d lived with its whispers for years.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you wouldn’t let him touch your family.

Your blows clashed like gods. Lava and steel. Fire and fury.

The air burned around you. Marineford itself groaned beneath your feet.

You held him back. You gave Jimbe time.

Then the tide shifted.

He caught you with a punch to the ribs, magma scorching your haki. You went flying, crashing through a broken pillar and skidding across the stone.

Your sword slipped from your fingers.

You tasted blood.

You waited to hit the ground.

But you didn’t.

Instead, warmth enveloped you. Steady, strong.

Blue flames curled around your vision.

You blinked.

Marco.

He held you like you were made of glass. Like you were the most important thing in the world.

"Stupid girl," he whispered. "What are you doing here?"

You coughed, tried to smile. "Saving my idiot brothers. Breaking every rule. You know, the usual."

He shook his head, cradling you. His phoenix powers already working to ease your worst wounds.

"You were supposed to be safe."

"I was never good at following orders."

His forehead touched yours for a breathless moment. The world around you burned, but his closeness drowned it all out.

"You could have died, yoi."

"I thought you already knew," you whispered.

He laughed, voice cracking. "I thought I could prepare myself. But seeing you… seeing you fall, I was scared, [Y/N]."

"I was scared too," you admitted. "But I knew you’d catch me."

Akainu was charging again. Marco's grip tightened.

Then, a quake. The ground split apart.

WHITEBEARD.

He brought his bisento crashing down between you and Akainu.

The shockwave threw lava and fury back.

"MARCO!" Whitebeard roared. "Get her OUT of here!"

Marco growled. He looked down at you. "We’re going. Now."

"No! I have to stay—"

"You’ll die," he said softly.

"Then die with me."

His mouth pressed against your temple. "Don’t say that, yoi. Not now. Not ever."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to scream. But the pain was catching up. Your body was breaking.

You trusted him.

So you let go.

Marco flew with you in his arms, fast and fierce. Past smoke and flame, past crying Marines and falling rubble.

He didn’t stop until he reached one of the Whitebeard ships retreating beyond the ice.

He laid you down gently, his hands still glowing. You whimpered.

"I’ve got you," he murmured. "I’ve always got you."

You blinked up at him, trying to focus.

"You’re mad at me."

"Not right now. Later."

"Promise?"

He kissed your forehead. "Promise."

The ship pulled away from Marineford. You saw fire and smoke and the broken remnants of your past life.

You saw Ace. Luffy. Jimbe.

Alive.

And you finally let yourself cry.

You awoke in a quiet infirmary hours later.

The scent of antiseptic hung faintly in the air, mixed with the salt of the nearby sea. Dim, golden sunlight filtered through a half-drawn curtain, casting gentle shadows on the floor. You shifted slightly beneath soft sheets, wincing at the soreness in your chest. Bandages were wrapped tightly around your ribs, and every breath reminded you that you were alive.

Your eyes moved sluggishly, scanning the quiet room. Then you saw him.

Marco.

He sat in a chair right beside your bed, his arms folded and his head resting on them. Even in sleep, his brows were furrowed with worry, his hand still loosely clasping yours. His blond hair was slightly mussed, a few strands falling across his face. The fading embers of his phoenix form still clung to his shoulders, warm traces of blue light dancing in the air.

You squeezed his hand with what little strength you had.

He stirred instantly, eyes snapping open. Blue. Familiar. Safe.

"You’re awake," he said softly, voice rough from exhaustion and relief.

You managed a weak smile. "You stayed."

"Of course I did," he replied. "There’s nowhere else I could be."

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away. "They’ll hunt me now. Akainu. The Marines."

His hand gripped yours tighter. "Then let them come. They can’t have you. Not now. Not ever."

He leaned in, brushing your hair away from your face with calloused fingers that trembled slightly. The way he touched you was careful, reverent, like you might slip away again if he wasn't gentle.

"You’re not alone," he whispered. "You’ll never be alone again. Not as long as I’m breathing."

Silence stretched between you, deep and intimate. The kind that only came after battle. After survival.

"I missed you," you murmured. Your voice cracked, and it carried every ounce of longing you’d buried over the years.

Marco exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath since you left. "I thought I'd never see you again."

You tried to lift your hand, and he helped you. His thumb brushed against your wrist, grounding you. You stared at him for a moment, memorizing every line of his face, every tired crease around his eyes, every freckle the sun kissed into his skin.

He leaned forward slowly, his forehead brushing against yours. "You came to Marineford knowing what would happen. You risked everything."

You nodded. "For my family," you said. "And for you. Always for you."

The confession hung in the air. A truth neither of you could deny any longer.

He kissed you then.

Soft and slow, like you had all the time in the world.

His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that broke something open inside you. His hand slid behind your neck, his thumb stroking your cheek as if to remind himself that this was real—that you were here.

You sighed into the kiss, letting your pain fall away. Letting your past burn down to ashes. When his lips finally parted from yours, you stayed close, your breath mingling in the space between.

"When I saw you fall," he whispered, voice hoarse, "I thought… I thought I wouldn’t make it in time."

You rested your forehead against his, your hand drifting to the edge of his collar. "You always make it in time. I knew you would."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. "You always carried so much alone. Even back then. I hated that I couldn’t protect you from it. From the pressure. From Akainu. From the world."

"You don’t have to protect me from the world, Marco," you said gently. "Just stand beside me in it. That’s all I ever needed."

His expression cracked, the mask of strength slipping for just a moment as he leaned down and kissed your hand.

"I love you, yoi. I think I always have. I just... didn’t know how to hold something so bright without burning my hands."

You let a soft laugh escape your lips, weak but genuine. "Took you long enough, Phoenix."

He chuckled too, but there were tears clinging to the corners of his eyes. "We’re together now. And I’m not letting you go again."

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into the safety of his warmth, his scent, his arms.

"I don't know what comes next," you whispered.

"We figure it out together," he replied. "One step at a time."

There would be questions. Enemies. Politics. Your name would be painted in infamy across every Navy file. But here, in this room, on this ship surrounded by the people who had once been your enemies, you had never felt more at home.

Marco tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and lay beside you, his arm carefully looping under your shoulders. He pulled the blanket up around you both. His body was warm, the faint scent of fire and salt clinging to his skin.

Outside the infirmary, the ship rocked gently. The world was quiet for once.

Your title was gone. Your reputation burned.

But in Marco’s arms, you found something you never had before: peace.

Your heart beat on. With your brothers. With Marco.

With freedom. And love.

Maybe, just maybe, you were finally where you belonged.

End.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!🩷

You always liked Adrien Agreste.

Not in the way people usually did, starstruck or infatuated. You weren’t drawn to his modeling career or the name stitched on every billboard in Paris. You didn’t gasp when he smiled or stumble over your words around him.

Instead, you liked the way he laughed when no one expected it.

The way he tilted his head when he was thinking too hard.

The way he held things, books, pencils, friendships, with careful hands like they might break.

You liked that Adrien.

And Adrien?

He liked the way you noticed.

You weren’t like your brother, Nino.

He was a storm of energy, always spinning, always talking, always building sound and rhythm and mood wherever he went. You’d grown up in his rhythm, but you’d always moved at your own pace.

You liked quiet.

You liked being on the side of the room, not the center.

You liked people who didn’t ask you to be more than what you were.

And Adrien never asked.

He just was.

Gentle. Bright. Curious.

Maybe a little lonely underneath the polish.

And that was something you understood better than most.

It started with a pencil.

You were sketching on your own during lunch, just lines, little shapes, nothing impressive. Nino had gone to buy a sandwich, and the rest of the class had split off into their usual groups.

Adrien walked by and paused.

"Are you drawing a cloud or a sheep?" he asked, sitting down beside you.

You raised an eyebrow. “You tell me.”

He tilted his head dramatically. “Sheep. Definitely. Though… kind of looks like it could be a croissant with anxiety.”

You snorted. “Thanks. It’s a flower.”

Adrien flushed. “Oh. I—I see it now!”

He didn’t.

But you appreciated that he tried.

You handed him a spare pencil.

“Here. Draw your best anxious croissant.”

He looked stunned. “Wait. You’re letting me mess with your sketchbook?”

You shrugged. “Why not?”

He smiled slowly. “You’re not like other people.”

“Hope that’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” he said, scribbling next to your flower.

It was the worst croissant you’d ever seen.

You smiled anyway.

After that, it became a habit.

Adrien sitting next to you during free periods. Walking beside you on school trips. Sharing drinks at the Dupain-Cheng bakery while Nino talked with his mouth full. (Not noticing a certain blue haired girl spying on you and eavesdropping)

It wasn’t sudden.

It just was.

Like petals opening.

Slow, soft, quiet.

One day, you both sat on the roof of your building, your secret hangout spot. Nino never came up here; he didn’t like heights. But Adrien wasn’t scared. He liked the view.

You brought snacks. He brought drinks.

You were watching the clouds roll by when Adrien said, “Sometimes I feel like no one really knows me.”

You glanced over. He was lying back, arms folded under his head, eyes on the sky.

You were quiet for a moment.

Then: “Is that why you always wear that face?”

Adrien turned his head toward you. “What face?”

“That polite one,” you said. “The one you wear like armor, the one that's your Father's robot.”

His lips parted slightly.

You weren’t teasing.

You were just… honest.

“I guess I do,” he admitted. “It’s hard not to. People expect things from me. Being Adrien Agreste comes with a script.”

“You ever want to forget the script?”

“All the time,” he said softly.

You sat beside him, shoulder brushing his.

“Then you’re in luck,” you said. “I don’t read scripts.”

He laughed.

But this time, it didn’t sound lonely.

You told Nino eventually that you and Adrien hung out sometimes on your own.

He blinked at you. “Wait, like just you two?”

“Yeah.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, okay,” he said. “As long as he doesn’t get weird and like—y’know, fall in love or something.”

You stared at your cereal.

Too late.

You weren’t the type to crush easily.

But Adrien didn’t feel like a crush.

He felt like the warmth that stayed after the sun dipped below the buildings.

Like the laugh you remembered hours after it happened.

Like the first sip of cold water on a warm day.

He wasn’t intense. He wasn’t consuming.

He was kind.

And your heart noticed.

---

The sun poured through the Agreste mansion windows, low and warm, like it had been set to dim on purpose. Shadows of tree leaves flickered across the floors. The only sound came from the low hum of the city outside.

Adrien Agreste sat cross-legged on the carpet, back against the wall, scrolling through a book he was only half reading.

He looked up when you walked in.

You didn’t knock. You never had to.

He gave a small smile. One of the rare ones, quiet, real, not just polite.

“You’re here early,” he said, shutting the book without looking at the page number.

You dropped your bag on the floor, stretching your arms overhead with a yawn. “Didn’t feel like being home. Nino’s blasting the same beat for the third hour. Thought I’d escape while I still had hearing.”

Adrien chuckled. “Fair.”

You sank onto the floor across from him, leaning back on your hands.

The room wasn’t anything special. It wasn’t the usual glamorous Agreste salon people imagined. It was smaller, worn beanbag in the corner, a half-used candle on the windowsill, a blanket folded unevenly on the couch.

It was Adrien’s space. You liked it here.

He reached over and handed you a water bottle without needing to ask if you were thirsty.

You took it with a quiet “Thanks.”

This was your dynamic. Uncomplicated. Comfortable.

But lately, something had shifted. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… warmer.

You’d known Adrien for a long time. Being Nino’s twin meant that his best friend had naturally become part of your orbit. But while Nino and Adrien were close in that chaotic, brotherly way, the connection you had with Adrien was something else entirely.

He didn’t make you laugh the way Nino did.

He made you feel seen.

He listened when you talked, even when it wasn’t important. And you noticed things about him, too. How he checked the time when no one was looking. How he sometimes said “I’m fine” when his shoulders were tight with exhaustion. How he never seemed to complain, even when he looked like he wanted to.

You never asked him for more than he wanted to give.

Maybe that’s why he kept giving.

“You’re quiet today,” he said after a while.

You shrugged. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Adrien tilted his head. “Bad dreams?”

“More like… busy brain.”

“About anything in particular?”

You hesitated. Then gave a small smile. “Not really. Just life.”

Adrien nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

There was a long pause.

And then, quietly, he added, “You know, you don’t have to be fine around me, either.”

Your eyes flicked toward him.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now. “You always show up for everyone. Nino, Alya, me… You let us unload. I just want you to know I’d do the same for you.”

You weren’t used to being on the receiving end.

It made something tighten in your chest.

“I know,” you said softly. “That’s why I’m here.”

Adrien’s gaze didn’t leave yours for a moment.

Then he looked down at the floor, fiddling with the corner of a cushion.

“Good.”

He never flirted, not outright.

But there were moments.

The way his eyes lingered a little longer than needed. The way his hand would brush yours when passing something. The way he’d scoot just a bit closer when you sat side by side, barely noticeable unless you were paying attention.

You were paying attention.

You just didn’t know what to do about it.

---

One day after school, it was pouring.

You hadn’t planned to stop by, but Adrien texted a simple:

“Home early, Dad and Natalie went out, shocker I know. You around?”

So you were.

You both ended up on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket, watching the rain paint lines down the glass.

“I like when it rains like this,” you said.

Adrien nodded. “It feels... honest.”

You glanced over at him. “Honest?”

“Yeah. Like everything slows down. No pretending.”

You nodded.

And then he said something softer.

“When you’re around, it feels like that too.”

Your breath caught.

The silence stretched, not awkward, just full of something that had been waiting.

You looked down, unsure of what to say.

Then you felt his hand graze yours under the blanket. Slowly. Deliberately.

You turned your hand slightly. Let your pinky brush against his.

Neither of you said anything.

But the world outside stayed quiet and soft. And so did you.

A few days later, during lunch, you caught Adrien staring at your notebook.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

He smiled. “Okay, fine. I was thinking... I don’t really get how this happened.”

You blinked. “How what happened?”

“This. Us.”

You looked down at your open sketch page, unfinished doodles, half a sentence, a corner torn out.

Then you looked back up.

“It didn’t really happen, did it?” you said. “It just… became.”

Adrien’s smile turned into something more thoughtful.

“I think that’s why I like it so much.”

You didn’t say anything.

You just smiled back.

---

It finally shifted from almost to something real on a Saturday afternoon.

You were both lying on the grass in the Agreste garden, staring at the clouds, a light breeze threading through the trees.

Adrien rolled onto his side to look at you.

“I’ve been meaning to say something,” he said.

You turned your head toward him.

He looked nervous, which made your pulse quicken.

“I like you,” he said simply. “More than a friend.”

The air seemed to still.

You held his gaze. “I like you too.”

His shoulders eased. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He reached out, hesitantly, and laced his fingers with yours.

It was easy.

Like it had always been waiting.

Back at home, Nino stared at the two of you sitting way too close on the couch. Adrien’s hand was suspiciously behind you, and your feet were touching under the blanket.

“Okay,” Nino said. “I knew it.”

You didn’t deny it.

You just smiled.

Adrien looked sheepish. “We were gonna tell you—”

“You think I can’t tell when my best friend and my sister are making googly eyes at each other?”

You and Adrien laughed.

“It’s not weird?” you asked.

Nino shrugged. “Nah. Honestly, it makes sense. You’re like... the chillest person I know. And Adrien’s like a dumb blonde golden retriever trapped in a soap opera. You balance him out.”

Adrien looked horrified. “Golden retriever?!”

Nino smirked. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

"I'm shocked you ignored the 'Dumb Blonde" comment." You said.

Adrien groaned. You leaned against him, laughing.

Everything felt light. Right.

Like the universe had stopped spinning so fast, just long enough to let you both breathe.

And somewhere between quiet conversations, shared silences, and the softest kind of falling in love…

A boy who spent his whole life being looked at and locked up...

And a girl who never asked him to be anything more than just...him....

Built something that didn’t need to be big or loud to be real.

Something steady.

Something safe.

Something theirs.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!🩷

The first time Y/N Zoldyck killed a man, she was six years old.

It happened in the dead of night, in the family’s underground training hall. The target, a convicted murderer hired as a "practice dummy", had laughed when he saw her.

"This tiny thing? She couldn’t even—”

Then her needle had pierced his throat.

Illumi, watching from the shadows, had smiled.

The mist clung to Y/N's skin like a second layer, cold and unyielding. It had always been this way on Kukuroo Mountain, the fog never truly lifted, just like the weight of the Zoldyck name never truly left one's shoulders. She adjusted her grip on Gotoh's arm, feeling the way his muscles trembled with each step. The butler had served their family for decades, yet here he was, bought low by a single encounter with the Magician.

Pathetic, a voice in her head whispered, one that sounded suspiciously like Illumi's.

She silenced it immediately.

"Miss Y/n," Gotoh rasped, his voice strained from pain and something else, shame, perhaps. "You shouldn't have intervened. Your mother—"

"I didn't do it for you," she cut in, sharper than intended. The words tasted bitter. A lie, but one she needed to believe.

Because caring was weakness.

And weakness got people killed.

The path grew steeper, the rocks slick with moisture. Somewhere above them, a nocturnal predator screeched, one of their father's "pets" that roamed the lower slopes. Lia's free hand drifted to the needle holster at her thigh. A habit. A reassurance.

Gotoh noticed. Of course he did.

"You're expecting another attack," he said.

She didn't answer.

Hisoka had been playing with his food.

That much was obvious from the way he'd let Gotoh survive this long. The butler was good, excellent, even, but against Hisoka? It was a miracle he still had all his limbs attached.

The clown perched on a jagged outcropping of rock, twirling a bloodstained card between his fingers. Aluka stood frozen below him, her dark eyes wide but—interestingly, not afraid. Just... calculating.

Interesting, Hisoka thought. Very interesting.

He'd expected tears. Screams. The usual reactions from children who realized death was coming for them.

But then again, this was a Zoldyck.

He licked his lips. "Such a pretty little thing," he crooned, tilting his head like a bird examining a worm. "I wonder if you'll scream when I—"

A yo-yo whizzed past his ear, slicing a lock of magenta hair clean off.

Hisoka blinked. Then grinned.

"Ah," he sighed, delighted. "The butler arrives."

Gotoh stepped from the trees, monocle glinting, face set in grim determination. Blood already soaked through his right sleeve, a shallow cut from an earlier exchange. "You will not touch her."

Hisoka's laugh echoed through the mountains, bouncing off the rocks in a way that made the sound seem to come from everywhere at once. "Oh, but I already have." He held up a strand of Aluka's hair between two fingers. "See?"

Gotoh's jaw tightened.

Y/N felt the shift in the air before she saw the fight.

Nen, thick, cloying, suffocating, wrapped around the mountain path like a noose. She moved faster, her boots barely touching the ground as she followed the trail of destruction. Broken trees. Deep gashes in the stone. Blood, too much of it, splattered across the rocks in violent arcs.

And then she saw them.

Gotoh, on one knee, his left arm hanging useless at his side. Hisoka standing over him, a card pressed to the butler's throat.

"Ah-ah," the clown tutted, seeing her approach. "No sudden moves, little spider. Or I'll decorate these rocks with his insides."

Y/N didn't hesitate.

Her first needle struck Hisoka's wrist before he could blink. The second would have taken his eye if he hadn't twisted away with that infuriating grace of his.

"Ooh," he purred, examining the needle embedded in his arm. "Someone's been practicing."

Y/N said nothing. Her eyes flicked to Aluka, still frozen near the trees. Unharmed. Good.

Gotoh took the distraction to strike, his yo-yo slamming into Hisoka's ribs with a sickening crack.

The clown barely flinched.

"Naughty," he sighed, and drove his knee into Gotoh's stomach.

Y/N moved like liquid shadow.

Every strike precise. Every movement calculated. She'd trained for this, for killers like Hisoka, since she could hold a needle.

But Hisoka wasn't just any killer.

He was enjoying this.

"You're good," he admitted, blocking a flurry of needle strikes with his cards. "Better than your brother, I think."

A lie. A taunt.

Y/N didn't rise to it.

She feinted left, then drove her knee into Hisoka's side where Gotoh had struck earlier. The clown gasped, actually gasped, and for a split second, she saw something flicker in those golden eyes.

Pain.

And something darker.

Fear.

Hisoka staggered back, his grin never wavering but his stance shifting, just slightly, into something more defensive. "My, my," he breathed. "Aren't you full of surprises?"

Y/N didn't smile. Didn't gloat. She simply adjusted her stance and prepared for the next attack.

But it never came.

Hisoka straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. "As much as I'd love to continue our dance," he said, "I believe your dear mother is expecting you."

A distraction.

Hisoka’s cards lay scattered around them like fallen petals. His grin was wider now, more real, the way a predator smiled when it finally found worthy prey.

"You’re fascinating," he breathed. "Like Killua, but... colder." A chuckle. "Or maybe just better at hiding the fire?"

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. (A perfect Zoldyck.)

Behind her, Gotoh groaned, struggling to rise. Hisoka’s gaze flickered to him, just for an instant, but it was enough.

Y/N moved.

A flash of steel. A spray of crimson.

Hisoka staggered back, clutching his now-bleeding shoulder. For the first time, his amusement wavered.

"You’d risk your life for a servant?"

"No." Y/N adjusted her stance. "I’m ensuring my sister makes it home."

A lie.

Silva's note burned in her pocket.

"Protecting family is not weakness."

Bullshit.

Everything about this family was weakness. The way Kikyo clung to her. The way Milluki hid behind his computers. The way Illumi—

Y/N crushed the note in their fist.

Across the room, Killua leaned against the windowsill, watching her with those too-knowing blue eyes.

"You're thinking too loud," he said.

She threw a needle at him.

He caught it effortlessly.

"Nice try," he smirked. "But you'll have to be faster than that if you want to—"

Another needle grazed his ear.

Killua blinked. Then grinned. "Okay, point taken."

Y/N turned back to the window. The mist was thicker now, swallowing the training grounds whole. Somewhere out there, Hisoka was licking his wounds. And somewhere else

"Aluka's safe," Killua said, as if reading her thoughts. "Canary's with her."

Y/N nodded.

A beat of silence. Then

"We should go."

Y/n didn't need to ask where. She'd known this was coming. Had felt it in her bones for months now.

Killua held out a hand. "Together?"

She looked at it. Then at him.

And took it.

"Tonight." she said

The mansion was in chaos when they returned.

Kikyo screamed about "ungrateful children" while Silva watched, silent, from the shadows. Illumi’s needles gleamed as he observed Y/N’s injuries with clinical interest.

Only Gotoh noticed the way her hands trembled.

Later, in the butler’s quarters, he pressed a first-aid kit into her hands.

"You fought well," he murmured.

Y/N stared at the bandages. "I hesitated."

"Ah." Gotoh adjusted his cracked monocle. "That explains why you’re still alive."

She looked up, startled.

His smile was faint but real. "Hisoka doesn’t leave survivors. Unless he wants to."

Killua found her at dawn, perched on the mansion’s highest spire.

"We're leaving, now." he said.

It wasn’t a question.

Y/N nodded. "Aluka deserves better than this."

"She does." Killua’s grin was all sharp edges. "So do we."

When they met Gotoh and Tsubone at the gates, the old butler did something unprecedented, he removed his monocle, crushed it underfoot, and bowed.

"Safe travels," he murmured. Then, softer: "Don’t look back."

Kikyo’s wails followed them down the mountain.

Illumi’s stare burned against their backs.

And Y/N?

For the first time in her life, she breathed.

The first time Aluka tasted cotton candy, she cried.

Killua panicked. "Is it bad? Do you hate it? I can—"

"It’s soft," she whispered, clutching the pink fluff like a treasure. "Like clouds must feel."

Y/N watched them from the park bench, a small smile tugging at her lips.

(Somewhere behind her, a familiar presence lingered in the shadows. But when she turned, there was only a playing card left on the grass, the Jack of Hearts, pierced clean through by a single needle.)

She left it there.

Some ghosts, after all, deserved to be forgotten.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!🩷

Satan

Satan had always thought he had an impressive mask. Controlled. Intelligent. Informed. Capable of keeping up appearances with aristocratic grace and a razor wit. That was, until Y/N burst onto the Devildom scene like a glitter bomb laced with chaos.

The first time they met, Satan was trying to enjoy his favorite spot in the library when Y/N waltzed in, holding their D.D.D. out at arm's length, taking a selfie with a dramatic filter while standing on one of the sacred ancient tomes.

"#GrimoireGlowUp!"

Satan nearly imploded.

"Are you… standing on a thousand-year-old codex?!"

Y/N blinked, glanced down, and stepped off it. "Oh, was that important? Whoopsies. But look at this angle! Cursed but cute, right?"

He didn't know if he wanted to strangle them or write a dissertation about the psychological enigma they clearly were. They were all glitter and slang and hashtags, constantly humming some trending song under their breath, dressed like they walked out of a Magicam influencer's fever dream, and yet, somehow, he couldn’t look away.

He kept expecting to find the cracks in their mask. The emptiness he often saw in people who put on airs or exaggerated quirks for attention. But Y/N wasn’t fake. Or rather, their fakeness was just another layer of truth. They were a paradox he couldn’t puzzle out, someone who could walk into a demon lord’s office wearing heart-shaped glasses and drop a barbed social read that would leave the nobility speechless.

And worse, they saw through him.

"You always pick your battles so carefully, Satan," Y/N had said once, sprawled across his bed like they owned it, spinning one of his bookmarks between their fingers. "All this wrath wrapped up in that academic bow. But I bet if someone really pissed you off, you'd burn the world with a smile."

He’d stiffened. No one ever called him out like that, not without flinching. But Y/N just grinned and winked like they hadn’t peeled open something dangerous and admired the shine inside.

They were maddening. Distracting. Infuriating.

They made him laugh.

And then they sent him into a full-blown existential spiral by casually quoting a poem he'd written in a cursed notebook that no one should have had access to.

"It's impressive," they'd said, twirling their D.D.D. as if they hadn't just torn open his entire soul. "The rhythm was off in stanza three, but I loved the way you described revenge as poetry. Kinda hot, not gonna lie."

He’d spent the next three hours alternating between screaming into a pillow and pacing.

Y/N was always moving, always looking for the next perfect picture or the best angle to show off their boots or their coffee or a particularly chaotic selfie with Mammon mid-meltdown. But Satan noticed that behind the filters and jokes, there were times their smile didn’t quite reach their eyes. Times when they'd change the subject a little too quickly. Times when they’d glance at their messages and frown before replacing it with a sunny "I'm fine!"

He didn't ask. Not yet. But he paid attention.

It became a kind of routine. They’d burst into his room with some new hair accessory or meme or theory about which demon was most likely to go viral. He’d roll his eyes, insult their taste, and then let them curl up beside him while he read.

They called it their "aesthetic contrast content arc."

He called it strangely comforting.

And sometimes, rarely, they’d talk seriously. About moving too much. About people liking the version of them that smiled, not the one that got tired of pretending. About how exhausting it was to be everyone’s sunshine when you just wanted to be seen.

Satan listened.

He didn’t offer empty reassurances. He didn’t tell them to cheer up. He let them vent, offered scathing commentary on anyone who'd hurt them, and then slid a cup of tea into their hands and returned to reading aloud until their breathing evened out.

"You know," Y/N said once, curled up in his oversized sweater, "you’re, like, the only person who doesn't expect me to be anything but this."

He looked up from his book. "Because you’re fine as you are. Even if you have the fashion sense of a sleep-deprived idol and the attention span of a particularly caffeinated bat."

They beamed at him. "Aww, you do care."

He smirked. "Unfortunately."

They were a whirlwind, a mess, a thousand contradictions wrapped in sparkle and sass. And somehow, in a house full of chaos, Satan found himself gravitating toward the one person who wore their chaos like a crown.

And if he started taking selfies with them more often, or if he downloaded Magicam just to keep up with their stories, or if he wrote poetry about the way their voice made even his worst days better...

Well.

No one had to know.

Except Y/N.

Because they already did.

And they never once made him feel ashamed for it.

Asmodeus

If anyone knew how to match your energy, it was Asmodeus. From the second you entered the Devildom, phone in hand and eyes already scanning the decor for Magicam-worthy angles, Asmo was hooked.

"Oh my goodness, you’re like a glitter bomb that went off inside a dream! I love it," he had squealed, practically teleporting to your side.

And just like that, you were besties. Or rivals. Or co-conspirators. It was a little hard to tell. You both had a flair for dramatics, a need for external validation, and a mutual understanding that life was way too short to wear the same outfit twice.

"Okay but hear me out, group selfie at RAD’s gates? We pose like we’re about to drop the hottest demonic mixtape of the year. I tag you, you tag me, we’re both trending by lunch."

You and Asmo made a dangerous pair. Between your charm and his, the Devildom didn’t stand a chance. Club openings? You were VIP. Pop-up potions markets? You had your own booth. Gossip threads? You were the thread.

But for all your shared glitz, Asmo could tell there was more to you. The way your smile would falter for half a second when someone mentioned family. How you always turned down dessert at House dinners with a too-bright laugh. How you changed the subject any time anyone asked too much about your life before.

Asmo noticed. He always noticed.

He didn’t push. He knew what it was like to be loved for the parts of you people found entertaining, and ignored when things got complicated. So he let you come to him when you were ready. And when you weren’t, he offered you the distraction you clearly needed.

"Babe, I just got the cutest demon-made jacket. We have to match for Solomon's party. Say you'll twin with me. Please? I’ll make you look like a fantasy, and me? Well, I always look like one."

The two of you hosted a Devildom-wide makeup tutorial livestream that crashed the Magicam servers. You started a joint fashion blog that got featured on Hell's Vogue. You prank-called Mammon live and got banned from the House of Lamentation’s landline. It was chaos. It was perfect.

But one night, Asmo caught you alone in the kitchen, elbows on the counter, staring at your phone. The screen was off.

"Hey, what’s up? No new comments?"

You looked up slowly, your smile a few seconds late. "No, just thinking."

"That’s dangerous. Thinking too much, I mean. Not very on-brand for us." He tried to lighten the mood, but you didn’t laugh.

"Do you ever feel like... if people knew the real you, they wouldn’t actually like you that much?"

Asmo blinked. Then, slowly, he walked over and leaned against the counter beside you.

"Y/n, darling, people already don’t know the real me. And you know what? I don’t owe them that. Neither do you. You give the world what you want to give it. And the rest? You save that for the ones who prove they can handle it."

You looked at him for a long moment, and this time when you smiled, it felt a little more real.

The next day, you posted a selfie with Asmo, the caption reading: When the real ones know the real you, the rest can scroll. It got 108,000 likes. (Mammon was bitter for days.)

Asmo adored every side of you, the peppy, the sarcastic, the slightly dramatic and the deeply tired. And if he had to drown the Devildom in glitter to keep that twinkle in your eye, he’d gladly do it.

After all, behind every fabulous influencer is a best friend who knows when to pass the mic, and when to remind you that you’re worth more than a perfect post.

Even if your matching demon-made jackets did absolutely slay.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub had a reputation for being the strongest and most straightforward of the brothers. His appetite was legendary, and his loyalty unmatched. Yet beneath that simple exterior was a heart as big as his appetite, and a kindness that made him genuinely easy to be around.

When you first met Beel, your worlds seemed pretty different. You were this peppy, social media-savvy whirlwind, always ready with the latest meme or trend, scrolling Magicam with lightning speed. Beel, meanwhile, was mostly focused on the here and now, food, friendship, and keeping his brothers in line when they got out of hand. But somehow, despite your obvious differences, you hit it off in a way neither of you expected.

Beel’s first impression of you was that you were endlessly energetic, and maybe a bit too much for his quieter tastes. He liked things simple. But your laughter was infectious, and the way you lit up a room was something even he couldn’t ignore. Your knack for effortlessly navigating social situations was impressive, and Beel found himself admiring how you could make friends just by being yourself, even if you were a little chaotic.

At first, he’d hang back during your Magicam livestreams or group chats, watching quietly while the others buzzed around with hashtags and emoji spam. You caught him once, giving a big thumbs-up with a mouthful of food, and you grinned back, tossing a playful wink his way. That little moment shifted everything, Beel felt like he was part of your world for once.

You knew Beel’s strengths and weaknesses as well as he did. You could see how much pressure he put on himself to be the “big brother” and the “strong one” all the time. So whenever he looked tired or overwhelmed, usually after a long day of training or managing the brothers, you’d slide over with something simple but meaningful. Sometimes it was a freshly made protein shake (which you’d learned to make just right after watching a few videos), or a carefully timed joke to crack a smile. Other times, it was just sitting quietly with him, letting him know he didn’t always have to carry the weight of the world alone.

Despite your social butterfly tendencies, you learned to appreciate those calm moments with Beel. He wasn’t much for words, but his presence was comforting. And he noticed the little things you did for him, even if he rarely said it outright.

Beel’s appetite was something of a running joke between you two. While you hated sweets thanks to your childhood with your sisters, he lived for them. You tried to bond over food anyway, finding a middle ground in savory snacks or spicy treats that neither of you could resist. Beel was always patient when you picked apart your meals, and he never judged your picky tendencies.

One of your favorite things was when you caught him sneaking away from the brothers to enjoy some quiet time with you. Beel wasn’t great at opening up, but you could tell he felt safe around you. When he talked about his worries or frustrations, you listened without judgment, knowing that sometimes just being heard was the best kind of support.

You also admired Beel’s kindness. It wasn’t just for show. He was always willing to help anyone in need, whether it was a brother struggling with homework or a demon who needed a hand. You tried to match his generosity in your own way, often using your social media influence to promote causes or share messages that mattered. Beel didn’t always understand the digital world the way you did, but he supported you wholeheartedly, proud of the way you used your voice.

Of course, not everything was smooth sailing. Your extroverted, fast-paced lifestyle sometimes clashed with Beel’s preference for quiet and routine. There were nights when your nonstop streaming or social events made him retreat to the kitchen for snacks or a quick nap. But you learned to respect his space, and he learned to stay a little longer, knowing how important you were to each other.

The brothers teased Beel mercilessly about how he was “owned” by you, especially when you convinced him to join a Magicam challenge or dance trend. But Beel just laughed it off, happy to see you smile and be yourself. You, in turn, took every opportunity to spoil him,whether it was surprising him with his favorite meal or sneaking in a goofy meme about his latest food obsession.

One particularly memorable day was your birthday. Despite his usual quiet nature, Beel went all out, coordinating with the brothers to throw you a surprise party. He made sure there was enough food to feed a small army (because that’s just how Beel rolls), and he was right there beside you as you opened gifts and laughed until your sides hurt. For once, Beel was the center of your attention too, and you could see the shy happiness in his eyes.

Over time, your friendship, whether it stayed platonic or deepened into something more, became a steady anchor in both your lives. You balanced each other out: your energy brightened his quiet strength, and his calm grounded your restless spirit. Together, you navigated the chaos of the Devildom, proving that opposites really do attract.

Even in moments of silence, you understood each other perfectly. No words needed when Beel slid a plate of food your way or when you gave him a knowing smile before jumping into a new adventure. You were partners in crime, a team built on trust, laughter, and more than a little bit of heart.

And honestly? That was more than enough.

Belphegor

Belphegor was the embodiment of contradictions. At first glance, he seemed nothing more than a sleepy, lazy demon who preferred naps over noise and solitude over socializing. But beneath that languid exterior was a mind sharp enough to cut through the densest fog, and a soul weighed down by expectations and burdens no one else fully understood. When you met him, you were this whirlwind of energy, constantly chatting, snapping pics for Magicam, always chasing the next trend or social event. To say you were opposites would be an understatement.

From the start, Belphegor regarded you with a mix of mild annoyance and reluctant curiosity. Your constant chatter and quick wit grated on his nerves more often than not. He’d groan softly when you burst into his quiet space with a barrage of memes or requests to join some social challenge he didn’t care about. “Do you ever stop talking?” he’d mutter, voice thick with sleep and skepticism.

But there was something about you, maybe it was your effortless confidence or the way you could read a room just as well as he could, that made him want to keep you around. He didn’t always show it, but he noticed when you slipped away to check on him, or when you left little messages encouraging him to get out of bed and face the day.

You, on the other hand, were fascinated by Belphegor’s paradox. Here was someone who could sleep through the apocalypse but also wield incredible insight and honesty when it mattered most. You quickly realized that beneath his sarcastic quips and perpetual tiredness was a deeply sensitive soul craving understanding and genuine connection. So you adjusted your approach, turning down your energy to match his slower pace when necessary, sharing quiet moments that surprised you both.

Belphie’s family history echoed yours in some ways, the pressure, the neglect, the complicated ties to siblings that made feeling “normal” a struggle. You could see in his eyes the same tired weight you carried from your own upbringing. This shared pain became a silent bond between you, one built on unspoken empathy rather than words.

Despite his exhaustion and constant desire to hide away, Belphegor was fiercely protective of you. He would scowl at anyone who tried to disrespect or overwhelm you, and though he rarely expressed it outright, his presence was a shield whenever you needed one. You caught glimpses of this softer side when he’d offer you his favorite tea blend, insisting you try it because “it helps with stress,” or when he’d pause his afternoon nap to listen when you needed to vent.

Your social media antics, so natural to you, were a source of gentle teasing from Belphie. He’d mock your obsession with “cute” ratings and your tendency to chase likes and views. “You really think all that noise matters?” he’d ask, half amused, half exasperated. But you knew he secretly appreciated how your world gave you something to look forward to, a way to claim your own space and voice. And maybe, just maybe, he liked the way you made him laugh with your absurd hashtags and wild dance moves, even if he’d never admit it aloud.

Food was another battlefield. You hated sweets, a relic of your childhood forced treats, while Belphie had a surprising soft spot for midnight snacks and calming herbal teas. You tried to find common ground, sneaking him savory bites during your hangouts, and he’d reciprocate by sharing his stash of rare teas with you. These small exchanges became rituals, moments of connection that deepened your bond.

Belphegor’s rough exterior and your bubbly personality sometimes clashed, especially when you tried to drag him out to social events or streaming sessions. He’d grumble about the “noise” and “pointless chatter,” but you knew he craved companionship even if he pretended not to. Slowly, he learned to loosen up around you, joining in on a few Magicam trends, mostly because he enjoyed watching your reactions when he begrudgingly participated.

One of the most memorable moments came when you caught Belphie in an unusually candid mood. It was late, the world outside quiet, and the two of you sat sipping tea under the dim light of the House of Lamentation. For once, he let down his guard, sharing pieces of his past, the battles, the loneliness, the heavy expectations that made rest feel like an elusive dream. You listened without interruption, offering comfort not through words, but through presence.

That night, the boundaries between “you” and “him” blurred in a way that was rare and precious. You realized that beneath the exhaustion and sarcasm, Belphegor was someone fiercely loyal and deeply caring, qualities that matched your own resilience and desire to be understood.

Your friendship, or whatever it might become, was far from simple. There were days when his mood swings and your busy schedule clashed, when he retreated into himself and you felt helpless. But there were also countless moments of laughter, quiet support, and mutual respect that made it clear you were exactly the balance each other needed.

Together, you navigated the chaos of the Devildom in your own way, him with his slow-burning strength, you with your bright energy and relentless drive to be heard. And in that strange, beautiful dance, you found a connection that defied words.

No matter what the future held, whether it stayed platonic or blossomed into something more, you knew this was a bond built to last.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!🩷

Diavolo

At first, Diavolo thought you were just another wild card in the Devildom. A strange but delightful anomaly from another world, sharp-tongued, unapologetically blunt, smarter than most of the council combined, and carrying the kind of energy that made even seasoned demons pause mid-sentence. You were bold and bright like a fire that refused to be extinguished, and he was immediately captivated.

The first time you met, you were in the middle of a rather heated debate with Lucifer, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, as you said, “If I had a coin for every time someone here called me a threat while simultaneously asking me to be nice, I’d have enough to fund my own kingdom.”

Lucifer looked like he was about to combust. Diavolo, meanwhile, laughed. Loudly.

You blinked, turning to him with a squint. “And you are?”

"Diavolo. Prince of the Devildom. Also, potential investor in your hypothetical kingdom."

That was how it started, with witty remarks and equal parts mutual curiosity and chaos. You weren't afraid to call him out, and that alone was refreshing. Most people bowed. You rolled your eyes.

Diavolo found himself endlessly fascinated by you. You didn’t just survive in the Devildom, you thrived in your own way, flipping expectations on their head and leaving most nobles dumbfounded in your wake. And sure, you didn’t exactly follow rules, but neither did he, not really. Not the ones that mattered.

You were clever. You played the part of the reckless agent of chaos, but Diavolo saw past it. He saw the way your hands tightened when someone brought up honor or betrayal. He saw the guarded way you changed the subject when anyone asked about your past. There was steel beneath the sparkle, a storm of old grief and rage tempered by sharp wit and biting humor.

One night, during a ball he threw just to escape the tedium of royal meetings, he found you standing at the balcony alone, your arms resting on the ledge, eyes distant.

“You disappeared halfway through my speech,” he said, approaching.

“Was I supposed to stay? I assumed after the third toast you were just repeating yourself.”

He chuckled. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live,” you said, but your smile was soft. Sad, even.

He leaned beside you, gaze fixed on the same moonlit sky. “You remind me of someone,” he said after a long pause. “Someone who made everyone underestimate them just to watch the fallout.”

You raised a brow. “And what happened to them?”

“They started a war.”

You smirked. “Charming.”

He tilted his head, considering. “But you? I think you’re still deciding what you want to do with your power.”

You didn’t deny it.

He didn’t press.

From that night on, something shifted. Diavolo started inviting you to more royal events. Not just as a guest, but as a voice. He asked your opinions, welcomed your biting sarcasm during meetings, and encouraged you to debate him. The other council members were scandalized. You wore a leather jacket over your ceremonial robe. You kicked your feet up during strategy meetings. You once made a spreadsheet titled “Why The Nobles Suck: A Breakdown.”

Diavolo printed it. Framed it.

He kept surprising you, too. For someone who was so cheerful, he had a deep well of wisdom. Sometimes, he'd say something so gently insightful it would make you pause.

"I know what it's like to be given a crown and told to smile with blood still on your hands."

It was moments like that where you saw the real Diavolo—not just the cheery prince with the booming laugh, but the man who carried the weight of peace on his shoulders.

He never pitied you. Never asked for stories you didn’t want to tell. But he gave you space to be yourself—whatever self that was on a given day. Sometimes it was the tactician who could plan circles around Lucifer. Sometimes it was the reckless wildcard with explosives and insults. Sometimes it was just you, tired, quiet, not looking for anything more than someone who wouldn’t ask questions.

And Diavolo? He just sat with you. In silence. No pressure to perform.

Eventually, he took you to a hidden part of the castle, a vast garden blooming with nightshade and starlight flowers, untouched by time.

“I come here when I need to feel like the world isn’t watching,” he said. “Thought maybe you needed that too.”

You stared at the strange blossoms. “And here I thought you brought me out here to execute me.”

He grinned. “Tempting. But no.”

And you laughed, really laughed, for the first time in ages.

Whatever it was between you two, it wasn’t delicate. It was wild and stubborn and full of thorns, but it worked.

Because Diavolo wasn’t scared of your sharp edges.

And you weren’t scared of the crown he wore.

Barbatos

Barbatos prided himself on his foresight. The passage of time, with all its twists and tangles, was his domain. He moved through it with poise, predictability, and a quiet authority that needed no fanfare. But not even his visions had prepared him for you.

You, with your smirking swagger and chaotic energy that made demons three times your size flinch. You, who weaponized sarcasm like it was an art form. You, who barreled into the Demon Lord's Castle demanding "to see the guy in the apron who looked like he could kill someone with a cake knife."

Barbatos, naturally, had been intrigued.

You were something that didn't fit into a neat timeline. A disruption. A beautiful anomaly. And for someone who lived by patterns and probabilities, he should have found that irritating.

Instead, he found it, oddly refreshing.

You'd made yourself quite comfortable in the castle in no time. One day, you'd be reorganizing Diavolo's spice rack in alphabetical order, only to swap the labels as a "prank." The next, you were building a trap in the east corridor involving glitter, honey, and at least three kitchen appliances. When Barbatos asked why, you just shrugged.

"Curiosity."

"You're aware you're creating a hazard that may interfere with diplomatic travel, yes?"

"Sounds like a skill issue."

He blinked. Then smiled.

He started observing you more closely. How your movements, though chaotic on the surface, were deliberate underneath. How your barbed comments disguised moments of piercing empathy. How you took apart a device not just to wreck it, but because you needed to know how it ticked.

He found your obsession with traps fascinating. Not just the execution, which was often brilliant in its own Rube-Goldbergian nightmare way, but your philosophy behind it. You believed everyone had tells, blind spots, things they overlooked. And you loved exposing them. Testing them. Not to hurt, but to learn.

"What of mine would you test?" he'd asked once, nonchalantly, while preparing tea.

You grinned. "Oh, easy. Your patience."

And test it you did.

You left enchanted whoopee cushions on his chair. You reprogrammed the castle intercom to auto-play jazz fusion during his scheduled baking time. You even tried to rig the teacups to scream when lifted, a spell that, to your dismay, he disarmed before he even sat down.

"You saw it coming?"

"Time tells many things, dear one."

You pouted. "You're no fun."

But your eyes sparkled every time he played along. And he did, more than he ever expected to. Barbatos found himself humoring you in little ways: setting up mystery boxes for you to disarm, pretending not to notice when you snuck into the pantry, letting you steal one (and only one) of his perfectly baked scones just to see what you'd do with it (you drew a smiley face on it with icing and left it on his pillow).

And then there were the moments in-between. The quiet ones. When you weren't sabotaging something or laughing with Diavolo or crafting yet another devious machine. When you were silent, eyes distant, hands twitching slightly as if searching for tools.

Barbatos recognized that silence.

"Do you find stillness difficult?" he asked gently one evening as you leaned against the castle balcony, watching Devildom's moonless sky.

You didn’t answer at first.

Then: "It makes me feel like I should be waiting for something to go wrong."

Barbatos placed a tray beside you. Tea, as always. A subtle invitation.

"Then let us reframe stillness. It is not the absence of action—merely the breath between choices."

You looked at him. Not grinning. Just...looking.

"You always talk like that?"

"Only when I want to be understood."

You sipped the tea. A beat passed. Then, casually: "This is why Diavolo keeps you around."

He smiled. "Among other reasons."

From then on, your chaos didn’t lessen, but it shifted. There was a respect in it now. A rhythm. He’d leave small, enchanted puzzles on your workbench. You’d respond by crafting explosive cupcakes with non-lethal frosting. It was a strange kind of duet, precise, weird, and entirely yours.

Barbatos, who had seen every future twist, now found himself lingering in the moments where the future was uncertain.

Because with you, brilliant, erratic, sharp-edged you, the unknown wasn’t something to be feared.

It was something to be savored.

Simeon

Simeon had always believed he’d seen his fair share of chaos, he was in the Devildom, after all, surrounded by demon brothers with a flair for drama. He'd witnessed Mammon blow up a kitchen trying to toast marshmallows. He'd seen Solomon sneeze himself into another dimension. But nothing, nothing, quite prepared him for the whirlwind that was you.

You were a storm wrapped in sarcasm. A poetic little apocalypse with teeth. The kind of person who'd sigh romantically at the moonlight and then casually mention how it reminded you of someone bleeding out into a tide pool. The kind of person who'd flick a knife between your fingers like it was a fidget toy. The kind of person who'd hum a lullaby while setting up a trap that involved fifty feet of tripwire and an angry goose.

Naturally, Simeon was intrigued.

He met you during a celestial conference that had somehow gone off the rails (likely due to Solomon, who had "accidentally" switched everyone's place cards). There you were, legs crossed on the table, doodling little sea monsters in the margins of the official treaty draft while everyone else bickered.

"You know," you'd said without looking up, "If y'all keep talking in circles, I'm gonna summon something horrible just to liven things up."

Simeon had laughed.

Big mistake.

You looked up at him with a grin that was equal parts charming and deranged. "Awww, an angel with a sense of humor? Be still my undead heart."

From that moment on, you decided Simeon was your favorite.

And Simeon, for reasons he still couldn't entirely explain, didn't run.

---

You were like nothing he'd ever encountered. You made your own weapons (terrifyingly creative ones, at that). Your sarcasm could peel paint off walls. You collected strange objects like cursed keys and cursed socks ("Everything can be cursed if you're determined enough," you'd winked). You were fiercely intelligent, a tactician at heart, and yet you wielded your intellect like a blade—quick, sharp, and deadly.

Simeon found himself fascinated.

You'd tease him endlessly. Call him "choir boy," "holy cupcake," and your personal favorite, "walking ray of passive-aggressive sunshine." But underneath the snark and jabs, Simeon saw the way your shoulders tensed when people got too loud. The way you always sat facing exits. The way you shrugged off concern with a joke and a smirk, like letting anyone care was dangerous.

He recognized that defense mechanism. He knew what it meant to carry past scars with a smile.

One evening, after a long day of dealing with demon politics and your not-so-subtle attempt to prank Lucifer with glitter bombs (it almost worked), he found you in the library. Alone, oddly still. No humming, no muttering about chaos. Just... sitting.

"You look tired," he said gently.

You didn't even look at him. Just kept staring at a candle flame.

"Don’t tell anyone. It'll ruin my brand."

He smiled softly and sat beside you. "Your secret is safe with me."

You didn’t speak for a while.

Then, quietly: "Sometimes I think if I slow down, everything will catch up."

That was the moment it clicked.

From then on, Simeon didn’t try to change you. He met you. He matched your chaos with calm. When you set traps, he offered bait. When you made sarcastic comments, he returned them with infuriatingly sincere compliments that always left you flustered.

When you challenged him to a duel with banana peel bombs, he showed up with whipped cream grenades and declared war. You ended up tangled in streamers, laughing until your ribs ached, and he just smiled like that had been the plan all along.

But he was serious when it mattered. When a mission went sideways and you came back injured, brushing it off with a, "It's just a scratch, don't get all glowy on me, halo boy," he didn't smile.

"You're not invincible, Y/N," he said, voice low. "You don't have to prove anything. Not to me."

You looked at him then, really looked, and for a second there was no sarcasm. Just you. Tired. Haunted. Real.

"Yeah," you whispered. "But sometimes I want to be."

Simeon didn't try to fix that. He just stayed.

And maybe that was what made you trust him most of all.

Solomon

Solomon had met many strange beings in his long, long life. Immortality came with a lot of weird baggage. He’d eaten lunch with dragons, gone skinny-dipping with sirens (long story), and once played chess with an elder god over who had to clean a magical contamination zone.

And yet.

Yet nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him for you.

You were chaos incarnate. Not in the charmingly-messy-Mammon way, or the emotionally-explosive-Levi kind of way. No, yours was the brand of chaos that read ancient magical scrolls upside down on purpose, just to see what would happen. You made potions with ingredients like "crushed pride" and "essence of caffeine dependency," and when they exploded? You cheered. Loudly.

Solomon knew trouble when he saw it.

And he knew he was in love when you asked him, wide-eyed, if cursed apples counted as fruit servings.

You came into his life like a magical virus. Infectious. Wild. Beautifully reckless. You were power wrapped in bad decision-making and questionable judgment calls, and he was enchanted.

"Are you aware this spell will collapse the Devildom's temporal boundary?" he asked once.

You blinked. "Only if I do it wrong."

He stared. "...You're doing it wrong."

You smiled. "Guess we’ll find out."

The next thing he knew, he was thirty-five years in the past and watching baby Diavolo babble around a crown too big for his head.

Solomon had never laughed so hard.

You made things interesting. You challenged his knowledge, poked holes in his long-held beliefs, and called him out when he was being dramatic (which, to be fair, happened a lot).

“You’re not mysterious, Solomon,” you said once, lounging upside-down on his sofa. “You’re just vague and wear too many layers."

He grinned. "And yet you're still intrigued."

"I'm intrigued by fire hazards too. Doesn't mean I want to date them."

He raised an eyebrow. "So we're not dating?"

You winked. "Depends on the outfit."

He adored you.

Not just because of the chaos, but because underneath it all was something sharp and sad and real. The way you kept your distance when things got too quiet. The way you brushed off compliments but clung to offhanded kindness like it was the only thing keeping you afloat. The way you talked about the sea like it missed you.

You weren't just a mess. You were surviving. Loudly. Colorfully. Stubbornly.

Solomon respected that.

And maybe, a little selfishly, he liked that you understood him. Not the version of him with the carefully constructed mystery or the oh-so-smug immortal flair. But the version that got tired. That got lonely. That had made mistakes and would probably make a dozen more before the week was out.

You got him.

You also nearly summoned a giant sea worm in his kitchen because you wanted to see what it would do with a waffle.

(He had so many questions.)

The thing was, Solomon didn’t mind the chaos. He lived for it. It made his endless days feel like a little less of a loop. You sparked something in him. Lit up corners of his world he hadn’t even realized had gone dim.

You made magic feel like magic again.

And when you showed up at his door, covered in soot, holding what looked like a possessed blender, saying, “Okay, I may have accidentally created a new lifeform,” he didn’t hesitate.

He sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and said, “Alright. Let’s meet the little guy.”

Sometimes, on quieter nights, when your explosions were done and the sky had settled, Solomon would catch you staring at the stars with a strange softness in your expression.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asked once. “The sea? The other Scyllas? The... order?”

You shrugged. “Sure. Sometimes. But I never felt like I fit there. Too much rage. Too many rules. I wasn’t scary enough, or serious enough, or sharp enough.”

He tilted his head. “You don’t think you’re sharp?”

You smirked. “Only when provoked.”

He chuckled. “I see. And what provokes you?”

You leaned in. “Pretentious magicians with silky voices and really nice eyes.”

He blinked. Smiled. “That’s oddly specific.”

“So’s my taste.”

And then you kissed him.

Just like that. No warning. No build-up. Just a flash of daring, a spark of madness, and a press of lips that tasted like burnt sugar and moonlight.

Solomon didn’t pull away.

(He never would.)

Because for all your wildness, all your reckless energy, you made sense to him in a way very few things did.

And if loving you meant being dragged into one magical disaster after another?

He'd pack extra snacks and hold your hand the whole way through.

Mephistopheles

If there was one person in the entire Devildom who could rival your flair for dramatics, it was Mephistopheles.

Which made it absolutely unbearable for both of you.

You, with your apocalyptic goddess energy, your divine side-eye, your unapologetically chaotic commentary. Him, with his snooty high-society attitude, pressed collars, polished boots, and the emotional depth of a high-end opera performer who refuses to acknowledge he’s crying during act three.

Your first conversation? A verbal fencing match that left witnesses speechless and slightly terrified.

“I’m not saying your hat is a personal crime against fashion,” you said, leaning back on the Student Council table like you owned it, “but if I had to choose between that thing and the end of the world? I’d let the oceans rise.”

“Bold words for someone wearing seven belts and what I can only assume is a cursed scarf.”

“It is cursed, thanks for noticing.”

Mephistopheles didn’t know whether to hate you or ask you to dinner.

You both talked like people who assumed the room was already watching. You clashed like thunderclouds, sarcasm, intensity, layers of old wounds under polished facades. He would accuse you of being uncouth and unrefined, and you'd just grin, toss him a glitter bomb, and disappear into the shadows like a particularly smug poltergeist.

It was infuriating.

You mocked his insistence on punctuality. He criticized your tendency to casually bring up doomsday scenarios like it was weather talk.

“Scylla, must you always mention apocalyptic blood tides during brunch?”

“Sorry, did you want me to lie about the moon screaming again?”

Mephistopheles tried to rally the others in protest against your existence. Lucifer ignored him. Diavolo laughed. Barbatos simply served him tea that tasted suspiciously of sea salt afterward.

But here’s the thing:

Mephistopheles was a creature of pride and protocol. But you? You were calamity incarnate, wrapped in sarcasm and poetry. And when no one was watching (or so he thought), Mephistopheles listened.

He listened when you offered surprisingly philosophical takes on power and legacy. He noticed how you shifted your tone around anxious students, offering comfort with a laugh and a half-joke. He even caught himself smiling (just a bit) when you used your magic to spook lesser demons who dared to belittle others.

You, who laughed at fear like it was an old friend. You, who understood what it was like to be feared and expected to behave a certain way. You, who found meaning in absurdity and painted chaos like art.

And you? You noticed things too.

You noticed how tightly Mephistopheles gripped his quill when no one took his articles seriously. You noticed the way he straightened his tie before entering a room, like armor. You saw the ambition behind the sarcasm, the hunger to be taken seriously, not just as Diavolo’s newspaper guy, but as something more.

So of course, you helped. But you did it your way.

When he tried to interview a notoriously reclusive noble demon, you casually summoned a storm to trap the guy at RAD long enough for an exclusive scoop. When Mephistopheles complained, you just sipped your tea and said, “What a coincidence.”

You even started leaving anonymous (and very chaotic) tip-offs for his newspaper. One of them led to Mephistopheles exposing a demon embezzling money from student funds. It made the front page.

You pretended not to care.

He pretended not to know it was you.

Eventually, the tension became something else. Something weirdly...charged.

“You’re an impossible, unfiltered menace,” Mephistopheles said one day, after you stole his ink pot and replaced it with squid ink that sang when he wrote with it.

“And you’re a pretentious peacock who secretly loves that I bother you,” you replied.

The ink burst into a heart-shaped puff.

He turned bright red.

You winked.

No one in the Devildom understood how you two weren’t constantly trying to murder each other. Maybe it was because your chaos matched his control. Maybe it was because your sarcasm met his head-on, never backing down. Maybe it was just... fate. Or very weird magical compatibility.

Whatever it was, Mephistopheles eventually admitted it (very dramatically, with candlelight, in a letter sealed with wax and scented like heartbreak and lavender):

“You are the most uncouth, unhinged, unfathomable creature I’ve ever met. And I fear I would be bored to death without you.”

Your response? A return letter that said: “Same. P.S. Your new article needs a better title. Try something like ‘Scandal & Sass: A Devildom Love Story.’ You’re welcome.”

He didn’t change the headline.

But he did print the article.

And right next to it? A tiny, doodled heart-shaped squid. No byline. But everyone knew.

Because you were disaster.

And he? Was yours.

Thirteen

Thirteen never knew what hit her. One minute, she was laying traps around the House of Lamentation for fun, planning her latest prank against Satan (because she swore he still hadn't forgiven her for that thing with the cursed book), and the next, there you were.

A storm in human form. Or... not quite human, was her guess. You had that same aura she felt around the Celestial Realm's weirdest relics: dangerous, unpredictable, and vaguely ancient. It was hot.

Your introduction went something like this:

"Hey. I break things. A lot. Don't take it personally."

She blinked.

You blinked back.

You were holding what used to be her spring-loaded confetti launcher, now twisted into a scrap sculpture of doom.

"Cool," Thirteen grinned. "Wanna blow up the council room with me later?"

She liked you instantly. It was rare, honestly. Most people found her chaotic or too much. But you? You thrived in the mess. You didn’t flinch when one of her traps misfired. You didn’t complain when you triggered three cursed enchantments by accident (actually, you cackled through it). You even helped her improve the tripwire tension with your weirdly precise explosive knowledge.

"That should detonate before the third step. Makes the chaos more... personal."

You got her. You got her. And it was kind of terrifying.

You also scared the absolute hell out of everyone else. Satan kept eyeing you like you were going to rig the library with time bombs. Mammon gave you a ten-foot radius, and even Lucifer seemed unsure whether to recruit you or exorcise you.

Thirteen? She invited you to her murder maze.

"You know," she said as you both crouched behind an illusion wall, watching Asmodeus try to flirt his way out of a harmless paint-spray trap, "you're like... all the parts of me everyone told me were too much."

You looked at her, genuinely surprised.

Then you smiled.

"Same."

You made explosives for fun. She made traps for fun. It was a match made in whatever chaotic dimension the Devildom ran on.

You bonded over sabotage. You synced your prank schedules. You had matching journals titled "Things Lucifer Must Never Find Out We Did." Yours had soot marks. Hers was covered in glitter blood.

When you casually mentioned you'd survived war and gods and your own worst impulses, she didn't flinch. She just offered you a wrench.

"Cool. Want to wire this bomb to scream every time it counts down by ten?"

You grinned. "Absolutely."

What surprised her most, though, was how careful you were with her. Not with her traps, or her games, or even her weird death obsessions. With her.

You noticed when she got quiet. When she suddenly spent more time in her room, tinkering, not really laughing. You never asked directly. You just brought over a new tool, or a weird little mechanism, or some cursed ancient relic that made a horrible sound when squeezed. And you just... sat.

"I'm not good at pep talks," you said once, fiddling with a magic screw that hissed like a snake. "But I get needing to be the chaos, so no one looks too hard at the rest."

Thirteen didn’t say anything. But she scooted closer. Just enough so your knees touched.

Eventually, it got to a point where people stopped questioning your weird little duo. You’d show up together to events, matching goggles on your heads, smelling faintly of smoke and victory. Simeon once asked what you were building in the backyard. Your shared answer? "Hope."

(Later, it exploded. Beel called it "the loudest hope he's ever eaten.")

You never labeled it. Not really. Maybe because both of you hated boxes. Maybe because putting a name on it made it too real. Too vulnerable.

But you didn’t need labels.

You had sparks.

And screams.

And a mutual understanding that destruction could be a kind of love language too.

"Hey," Thirteen said one night, curled up beside you on a rooftop, watching the Devildom's weird stars flicker. "If I vanish into a portal trap one day, you’ll come find me, right?"

You didn’t look away from the sky.

"Only if I didn’t set the trap."

She snorted.

"Romantic."

You nudged her shoulder.

"Deadly."

"Same thing."

Chaos had never felt safer.

Raphael

The first time Raphael met you, he genuinely thought you were some kind of cosmic punishment. Not in a bad way, per se—just in a "what in the Celestial Realm am I supposed to do with this?" sort of way.

You weren’t like the other exchange students. Where others carried bags, you lugged weapons that looked like they'd been welded together during a mad science fair. Your glare was borderline radioactive. You didn’t speak much at first, and when you did, it was usually something like, “If you touch that, you’ll probably grow a second spine. Or explode. Fifty-fifty.”

Raphael liked order. Quiet. Predictability. You were none of those things.

He wasn’t even supposed to be in charge of you, but the moment you stepped off the transport and immediately set a squirrel demon's tail on fire for "looking suspicious," Michael had gently assigned Raphael as your liaison. Possibly as a joke. Possibly as divine karma.

At first, he treated you like a bomb with feelings. He kept his sentences short and calm. He never stood too close. He did not, under any circumstances, touch anything that glowed or hummed or looked like it was stitched together out of teeth.

You didn’t make it easy.

"So are you always this stiff, or is that just your default angel setting?"

"I prefer structure."

"Right. Because structure totally stops interdimensional parasites."

He had no idea what to say to that. You seemed to delight in pushing every one of his very neatly organized buttons.

But the longer he spent around you, the more confusing things got. Because you weren't just chaos and sharp teeth and sarcastic barbs. You were strategic. Protective. Smart in a way that made his wings twitch.

One time, you caught wind of a lesser demon trying to sabotage Luke's baking club by slipping in cursed flour. You didn't report it. You replaced the cursed bag with something far worse ("just a mild hallucinogenic compound, nothing permanent") and then calmly watched the demon hallucinate his own ears running away.

"That could have been dangerous," Raphael scolded you after.

You smirked. "Exactly."

He tried not to be impressed. Failed.

Then there was the way you handled conflict. You didn't posture or shout. You just stood there, radiating terrifying calm, until the other person either backed down or broke into a nervous sweat. You were like a shark in combat boots. Raphael had never seen anyone terrify demons and high-ranking angels alike just by existing.

And yet, when you spoke to Luke, you were... soft. Patient. You helped him build a new oven trap for his cupcakes and added glitter decals with zero complaint. Once, Raphael caught you sneaking him extra pastries after dinner.

"Not a word," you hissed, shoving the box into his hands.

He didn’t say anything.

But he did smile. Just a little.

The more he observed you, the more the contradictions started to make sense. You weren’t heartless, you were cautious. You weren’t cold, you were guarded. You didn’t push people away to be cruel, you did it to see if they’d bother coming back.

He did.

Often.

He started walking with you to class. Offering quiet feedback on your trap schematics. Lending you books about celestial poisons and curse theory. Once, he even helped you haul an unidentifiable corpse-thing into the woods without asking questions.

"Don’t you want to know what it is?"

"I think it’s better for both of us if I don’t."

You grinned. That time, it wasn’t sarcastic.

Eventually, the banter softened. The distance closed. The next time you caught someone trying to steal from the student archives, you didn’t handle it solo, you texted Raphael first.

"Got a live one. Bring your least favorite sword."

He showed up with two.

You made an unlikely pair. Where he was divine order, you were tactical madness. Where he spoke in quiet certainties, you barked out one-liners while dismantling a curse bomb. Where he radiated serene menace, you were pure teeth-baring chaos gremlin.

But you worked.

Somehow.

And Raphael, who had once found you to be the most infuriating assignment the Celestial Realm had ever handed him, now found himself walking slower so you could catch up. Waiting longer so you’d sit beside him. Saying less so he could hear more of your voice.

When you built him a custom blessed weapon out of a broken halo and old spell-tech, he didn’t ask why.

He just said, "Thank you."

You blinked at him. “Wow. That almost sounded genuine."

"It was."

And then, in true you fashion, you added: "If you ever die with that thing, I will reanimate your corpse just to scold you."

He smiled.

He believed you.

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You could feel his eyes on you before you even glanced up.

The menu board above the counter was a blur, just lines and shadows with some colors that might be lettering, if you squinted really hard and tilted your head a little. You were doing both. And Leorio, across from you, was clearly watching the whole thing unfold.

“You forgot your glasses again,” he said flatly.

You tried not to grimace. “No, I didn’t forget them. I brought them.”

“But are you wearing them?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.” He leaned back with that familiar unimpressed expression, arms folded, his ridiculous yellow sunglasses hanging uselessly from the collar of his button-up. “I don’t get it. Why do you have glasses if you’re just gonna not wear them?”

“Because I don’t like them sometimes,” you muttered. “They smudge, and they get foggy when it’s hot out, and—”

“And now you’re squinting at the specials like the menu personally wronged you.”

You looked at him. “It might have.”

Leorio let out a groan, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Okay. You know what? Sit down. I’m ordering for you before you end up with a ‘blurry smudge sandwich.’”

You pouted but dropped into the booth while he walked up to the counter. Through the fuzzy distance, you could see him gesturing animatedly at the chalkboard, probably asking what certain items even were. That was the thing about Leorio, he talked big and acted like he had everything together, but he still triple-checked every detail when it came to you. Especially the little ones. Like your weird food quirks. Or your bad eyes.

He came back with two iced drinks and a smug look.

“You’re lucky I remember what you like,” he said, sliding your cup over.

“I’m lucky you can see what’s on the menu,” you shot back with a smile.

He snorted. “Right. Unlike someone who thought the restaurant across the street was a flower shop.”

“That sign was confusing!”

“It had a giant fork on it!”

You rolled your eyes, but this time it was playful. He always teased, but it never felt mean, just kind of loud, and sarcastic, and Leorio.

Still, part of you felt bad. You could’ve worn your glasses. They were in your bag. And honestly? You knew you looked good in them. He never said anything outright, but once when you left them on after studying, he’d stared a little longer than usual. The next day, he casually handed you a new lens cloth “because the one you use sucks.”

You poked your straw through the lid and took a sip. “Thanks for ordering.”

Leorio shrugged. “Whatever. You’d probably have picked something at random and hated it anyway.”

“Maybe.”

“But I also got you your favorite.”

You blinked.

He paused.

“…What?” he asked, a little defensive now.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just… you’re sweet sometimes.”

He groaned again and looked out the window. “Don’t make it weird.”

It wasn’t the first time your vision became a topic.

When you were walking home later, your glasses still weren’t on, and you nearly stepped into traffic trying to read a street sign. Leorio had grabbed your arm and tugged you back with a half-panicked, half-irritated yell.

“Are you trying to die?!”

“No,” you said sheepishly.

“Then why are you crossing the damn street when you can’t even see if it says WALK?”

“I thought I saw the light turn green!”

“That was for the cars!”

You held in a laugh. “Okay, okay. I’ll wear them.”

But you didn’t.

Because they were buried in your bag again, and you were stubborn.

He sighed, slowed his pace, and eventually laced his fingers through yours without saying anything.

“Next time, just ask me if you can’t see something,” he muttered.

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

Leorio stopped.

You turned to look at him, and he looked seriously annoyed now.

“Okay. First of all? You’re not a bother. You’re literally the opposite of a bother. You're, like—” He flailed for a word, then gave up. “You’re just you. And I care about you, alright? So if you can’t see, you ask me, got it?”

Your throat tightened a little. “Got it.”

He looked away, cheeks pink. “Good.”

The next day, you wore them.

You walked into the Hunter Association’s training hall with your glasses on, pushing them up your nose and hoping they wouldn’t slide down during warm-up drills. Leorio spotted you across the room and raised an eyebrow.

“You wore them,” he said, sounding surprised.

You gave a sheepish shrug. “Yeah. You were right.”

“…I was?”

You elbowed him lightly. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He grinned wide. “Too late.”

But then, before drills started, he leaned over and whispered near your ear, “They look good on you.”

You blinked.

He didn’t elaborate. Just gave you that sly smirk of his and jogged off to join the others. You stared after him, half-shocked, and had to adjust your glasses again just to refocus.

Of course, wearing them didn’t mean everything was perfect.

There was the time your lenses fogged up during a mission, and you almost walked into a pole.

“Seriously?!” Leorio had snapped, grabbing your shoulder. “Take ‘em off if you can’t see!”

“But then everything’s blurry!”

“So is walking into metal!”

He’d unwrapped a tissue, wiped the lenses himself, and handed them back with the most annoyed expression he could manage.

“Why do you make everything a hazard?”

You smiled. “Because then you’ll save me.”

He blinked at you.

“Stop flirting when I’m mad.”

Your glasses became part of the rhythm between you.

He got used to reminding you when you forgot them. You got used to the way he’d tug on the arm of the frame when he wanted your attention. He’d wipe a smudge without being asked. You’d steal his stupid yellow sunglasses and pretend you were the blind one.

“Why are you wearing those?” he asked once.

“I’m protecting my eyes.”

“You’re indoors.”

“Vision protection is a 24/7 job.”

“You are so dumb.”

“You love it.”

He threw a napkin at you.

One afternoon, while out with Kurapika and Gon, you were walking through a museum exhibit. Leorio was pointing something out across the room, some weird medical display with an ancient anatomical diagram, and you, squinting from where you stood, made a sound of confusion.

“Wait… what is that? Is that the… stomach? Or the lungs?”

Leorio turned to you. “You’re wearing your glasses, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but we’re far.”

He groaned. “You still can’t read that?”

“It’s blurry!”

“Unbelievable.”

You laughed as he dragged you forward by the wrist and stood beside you until you were three feet from the glass. “Better?”

You leaned in. “Yes. Thanks, doc.”

“Don’t call me that when you’re being a menace.”

Kurapika, behind you, just smiled. Gon whispered, “They’re cute.”

Leorio looked like he was going to explode. “We’re not—I mean—Shut up, Gon!”

One night, he found your glasses case on the floor beside your bed, left open with a tiny crack in the hinge. You’d already passed out on the couch, still curled under a throw blanket with a book open beside you.

He didn’t say anything.

Just sat beside you, pulled the case closer, and carefully snapped the hinge back into place. He cleaned the lenses again, because they were smudged, even if you didn’t care, and left them folded neatly on your nightstand, where you’d find them in the morning.

You stirred when he got up. “Leo…?”

“Go back to sleep,” he muttered.

You smiled, eyes barely open. “You’re really sweet to me.”

“…Don’t tell anyone.”

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Lucifer

Lucifer had dealt with monsters before. He had negotiated with nobles who wore masks of civility, stared down beasts born of chaos, even survived the daily antics of his brothers. But you, you were different.

You weren't a monster by nature. You were made one. Shaped by betrayal, molded by loneliness, and sharpened into something that hissed when touched too closely. That was what unnerved him most.

He first noticed you during a meeting with Diavolo. You stood off to the side, silent, eyes never quite focused on any one thing, like your thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Lucifer had expected you to be another transfer student, someone loud, curious, maybe scared. But instead, you watched the room like a predator and smiled like someone who had forgotten how.

"They seem… intense," he said later to Barbatos, sipping his tea with a furrowed brow.

Barbatos had merely replied, "Perhaps. But I think you of all people can understand why."

Lucifer scoffed at the time. Now he saw the truth in it.

You were guarded. Not like someone who distrusted others, like someone who couldn’t afford to trust. Even in your silence, you bristled with tension. The way you stood just out of arm's reach. The way your tone was always measured, laced with something brittle underneath.

He heard the rumors quickly. That you had once been abandoned by someone close. That you were left behind, blamed for things you didn’t do, that your own name carried echoes of grief.

Lucifer understood those things more than he liked to admit.

So he didn’t push. Not at first. Instead, he observed.

You were brilliant in your studies, though you never seemed to care about grades. You fought like someone who knew what it meant to survive, not win. You never showed off. Never laughed at the others' antics. And you never let your guard down, not even when you were alone.

But little by little, cracks formed.

You stayed a little longer at group dinners. Sat a little closer during house meetings. You teased Mammon once, just softly, and Lucifer saw Levi nearly choke on his drink in shock.

And then one night, you found him on the balcony.

The moon was full, casting silver light across your features. You looked… exhausted. Not physically, but like you were tired of holding something heavy for too long.

"You ever think," you asked, voice low, "that you're only the villain because someone wrote the story without you?"

Lucifer didn't answer right away. Instead, he offered you a cup of his tea. When you took it, your fingers brushed his.

Cold. But not as cold as they used to be.

"Yes," he said. "More than I care to admit."

You looked at him then, really looked. And for the first time, Lucifer saw your eyes without the walls behind them.

You didn’t change overnight. No one does. But you began showing up more. You'd sit with him in the library, sometimes in silence, sometimes debating ancient texts. You offered your insight during strategy meetings, your voice calm, authoritative. You even gave Beel half of your dessert once.

Lucifer started leaving little things for you, new books, music recommendations, dark chocolate. You never said thank you, but you’d always leave something in return. One day, a folded paper crane with ink along the wings. "Survivors recognize survivors."

He kept it in his drawer.

Then came the day he found you curled up in the observatory, trembling. You didn’t notice him at first.

"They never came back," you whispered. "I waited, and they never came back."

Lucifer could have left. Given you space. But instead, he sat down beside you.

He didn’t say it would be okay. He didn’t make promises.

He simply said, "You're not alone this time."

And you leaned against him. Just a little. Just enough.

He never tried to fix you. That’s what made the difference.

He accepted your scars for what they were: part of the story. Not shameful, not weakness, but proof that you were still here.

And in turn, you began to laugh. Quietly, at first. You began to play pranks on Mammon (much to Lucifer's secret amusement), and one day you even dragged him into a duet competition with Levi. You sang like you meant it, fierce and raw.

And when someone accused you of being too intense, too much, too broken, Lucifer stepped in without hesitation.

"They are more whole than most of us will ever be."

You still had bad days. So did he. But now, you shared them.

And when the world got too loud, you found solace together.

Two old souls. Two broken blades, still sharp. Still dangerous.

Still learning to trust that the war was over.

Or at least, that someone would fight beside you now.

Always.

Mammon

your eye when someone tried to one-up you. Maybe it was how your presence somehow made him feel like the normal one for once.

Yeah, that part was weird.

"You’re not scared of demons, are ya?" Mammon had asked you once, more bravado than brains.

You tilted your head and replied coolly, "I’ve seen worse things in reflections."

He stared at you for a full beat. Then backed away slowly. "Right. Noted."

It didn’t take long before the two of you were roped into a joint punishment task, thanks to Mammon's latest failed get-rich-quick scheme and your refusal to stand by and not make it even more chaotic. (You added glitter to the cursed posters. Because of course you did.)

The task involved cleaning the library. And that’s where Mammon learned you were actually smart. Like terrifyingly smart. Like "casually deciphering ancient texts while roasting Asmo" smart.

"Why're ya even here with us lowly demons?" he asked halfway through your third dismantling of a summoning circle's flaws. "Shouldn’t ya be ruling over some ancient cult or somethin'?"

You leaned closer with that terrifying grin. "Aw, Mammon, is that your way of saying you think I’m special?"

Mammon.exe has stopped responding.

You were chaos wrapped in brilliance. You flirted like it was a sport, challenged like it was breathing, and somewhere along the way, Mammon realized he was actually trying to impress you. Not just with money (which never worked), but with actual effort.

He hated it.

He also loved it.

You made the Devildom feel small, which was ironic, because you came from something ancient and massive and full of shadows. When the brothers started piecing together that you weren’t human at all, Mammon didn’t flinch.

"So what?" he said with a shrug. "Still the same snarky weirdo who puts stickers on Lucifer’s report files."

You looked genuinely startled. Then you grinned. "Wow. You really do like me."

Mammon turned a shade of red that matched Levi’s Ruri-Chan hoodie.

Still, he stuck by you. When you got moody and intense, pacing the hallways with ancient tension in your bones, he didn’t push. Just walked beside you, rambling about the time he tried to sell cursed slime to witches (it exploded). When you got snippy, he snapped back, but only because it made you laugh.

And that laugh? He lived for it.

"You're a menace," he told you once after you blew up a vending machine for stealing your money.

"Takes one to know one," you shot back, sipping your soda like a villain.

Maybe that was the thing. You saw through him. Not the flashy act or the get-rich schemes, but him. The guy who tried way too hard, who wanted to be important, who hated being second-best. You never made fun of it. You just understood it. Like maybe you knew what it was like to want to be more than what everyone expected.

When you both got stuck in a trap room set by Thirteen, Mammon nearly had a heart attack until you calmly used your hairpin to disable the ancient mechanism like it was just Tuesday.

"You scare me sometimes, y'know that?"

You looked at him, glowing eyes and all, and said, "You should be more scared of me."

"I am," he said. "That's why I think I like you."

There was a beat of silence. Then you said, "Took you long enough."

Later that night, a photo appeared on Magicam. It was Mammon, mid-scream, running from one of your sentient shadow creatures, while you stood behind it, peace-sign up, smiling like a cryptid.

Mammon never liked his own tagged photos. But he liked this one.

He liked you.

Levithan

Leviathan didn’t think anything could break his focus from the newest Ruri-chan drop. That was until you stomped through the House of Lamentation’s front door dripping in seawater, covered in fish guts, muttering about another failed stealth kill. You had tentacles. Levi saw them. Tentacles.

He nearly passed out.

You, the Scylla-like menace now crashing their supernatural dorm life, were unlike anything he’d ever seen outside of his deep-dive fandoms. You had the chaos energy of a boss-level RPG character, the tragic aura of a doomed NPC, and the ability to literally tear a room apart in under five seconds flat. And you did. Repeatedly. Mostly out of boredom.

"I tried blending in," you muttered one afternoon, plopping down on the couch next to him while still leaving puddles. "But some Devildom noble called me a low-tier sea creature. So I knocked over his wine tower."

Levi blinked at you. "That… that was Lord Azakur's dinner party."

"Yup. I was the entertainment."

You had no shame. And Levi? He had no defense.

He tried to avoid you at first. You were so loud, so reckless, so dramatic. And you called him "Shrimpy" even though you were barely taller than him. But somehow, you kept showing up. During anime nights, during game tournaments, even in his bathtub once (you claimed it was nostalgic).

But what made it worse was how good you were at games. Not better than him, of course (he would never admit that), but close. And you played dirty. You picked the most cursed skins. You taunted him mid-match. You once beat him at a rhythm game using only three tentacles and said, "Oops, was I supposed to go easy on you, Levi-kun~?"

He short-circuited for a solid hour.

Your banter was relentless, but somehow never mean. Levi started to realize you didn’t really fit in anywhere, not just because of your appearance, but because your entire vibe screamed, "I dare you to try and understand me." And, well, Levi could. He did.

Because under all your sarcasm and boss-monster energy, he saw the exhaustion. The way you paced when everyone else was sleeping. The way you flinched when someone raised their voice too suddenly. The way your usual brashness melted into something more distant when you thought no one was looking.

"They don’t get you either, huh?" Levi had asked once, the two of you sitting on the floor surrounded by snacks and controller wires.

You’d blinked at him, caught off guard. Then shrugged. "Guess it’s easier for people to say I’m a monster than try and figure out I’m just messed up."

He’d nodded. No grand speech. Just a quiet understanding. That night, he gave you Player 1.

Eventually, the others started realizing the two of you had formed some kind of strange alliance. Satan walked in once to find you holding Levi upside down over a demonic lava pit (it was for a game, allegedly). Asmo caught you both cosplaying as obscure anime villains with matching eyeliner and unhinged cackles. Mammon still swears you convinced Levi to rob a vending machine with your hair.

(You didn’t. Levi did that on his own. You just filmed it.)

It wasn’t easy. You argued. A lot. Once about who got to name your new pet crab (you both chose increasingly cursed names until Beel adopted it and named it Greg). But the point was: Levi had someone who understood what it felt like to be seen as "too much."

When Levi spiraled into his usual self-loathing, you snapped your fingers in front of his face and said, "Nope. None of that. You’re my favorite person to game with and your anime takes are 90% fire. That’s, like, a 90% approval rating. You’re basically winning at life."

Levi flushed. You meant it. And he started believing it.

You still caused chaos. You still dragged Levi into your bizarre sea-themed pranks (once, you filled his room with saltwater balloons and declared it "immersive healing"). But you also made him feel cool. Like maybe he wasn’t just the weird one in the corner.

One day, you crashed his stream mid-boss battle, slid in behind him, wrapped a tentacle around his waist and said, "Say hi to the fans, Levi!"

His chat exploded.

He screeched. You laughed.

And Levi, clinging to his controller like a lifeline, realized he didn’t mind the chaos so much.

Especially if it came with you.

Satan

The first time Satan met you, he wasn’t sure if you were a mistake or an experiment. Possibly both.

You entered the House of Lamentation with a presence that felt... off. Not in the untrustworthy sense (though you did appear out of nowhere and caused several magical sensors to explode), but more like a walking contradiction. You were sharp-tongued, quick-witted, emotionally distant, and simultaneously brimming with suppressed rage and deep, terrifying grief.

You were, to put it simply, complicated. And that made you interesting.

You rarely smiled unless it was sardonic. You spoke in riddles sometimes, metaphors wrapped in dark humor and strange, old-sounding wisdom. Satan caught on immediately: you were used to being underestimated, used to everyone thinking you were just a pretty face with a sad backstory. But he’d read enough to know a ghost story when he saw one.

He first found you tucked into a dark corner of the library at 3 a.m., whispering to the books. Not reading them. Whispering. The books were whispering back.

"What are you doing?"

"Arguing with a biography," you replied dryly. "It has some very bold opinions about ancient sea warfare."

Most people would've written you off as insane.

Satan sat down across from you, folded his hands, and asked, "And what’s your counterargument?"

From then on, Satan was hooked.

You had this tragic elegance about you, like someone who’d drowned and kept breathing out of spite. You were jaded, sure, but you still fought with everything you had for the things you believed in. Especially when it came to protecting others. The trauma leaked out sometimes when you weren't looking, usually in the form of volatile magic or offhand remarks that were far too personal for someone who just walked into the room.

Satan related more than he was comfortable admitting.

You were blunt. Morbid. Occasionally manic. But underneath all that you were frighteningly smart, and even more frighteningly self-aware.

When Satan got mad, really, truly, book-throwing mad, you didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned over with a grin and said, "Need a detonator?"

He blinked. Then he laughed. Actually laughed. The sound startled both of you.

"You're unhinged."

"And you're a catboy in denial. We all have our issues."

From then on, you became his preferred chaos companion. Debates between you two were legendary. The brothers knew to clear out when you started throwing citations at each other. Your magical energy was erratic, but powerful, and Satan loved the unpredictability of it. It was like watching a wildfire take the shape of a person.

You once dragged him to the seedy underbelly of the Devildom to help retrieve a cursed artifact.

"You realize this place is technically illegal?"

"So was my existence. Keep up, handsome."

You bantered like breathing, flipping between affection and savagery in seconds. He’d never admit it aloud, but your ability to toe the line between serious and absolutely ridiculous fascinated him.

One evening, after a particularly long string of debates about the ethics of soul-binding, you curled up on the couch beside him and said, "Do you think monsters always know they’re monsters?"

Satan looked at you for a long time. Then: "No. But I think some of them hope they are, because the alternative means they were just... people. With choices."

You didn’t say anything, but your fingers twitched like you wanted to reach for something and didn’t.

He offered his hand. You took it.

You and Satan have a running competition to see who can out-snark Lucifer without getting caught. The current record is 43 insults buried in polite language (you hold that one).

He once tried to show you his prized collection of rare spellbooks. You opened one and immediately set off a booby-trapped curse. You laughed through the entire magical explosion while Satan just stared in exhausted admiration.

You leave cryptic post-it notes on his bookshelves. Things like "He who hunts monsters... should probably bring snacks" and "Check page 237, you coward."

Satan tries to psychoanalyze you constantly. You psychoanalyze him back. It's like two therapists with unresolved trauma playing chess. The winner gets bragging rights and emotional whiplash.

One time, Barbatos walked in on you and Satan playing a game called "Which Dead Philosopher Would Win in a Fist Fight." You were passionately defending Hypatia. Satan, begrudgingly, was arguing for Nietzsche.

You weren’t an easy presence. You weren’t soft or simple or warm in the traditional sense.

But to Satan, you were real. Unapologetically so. And in a world built on illusions and pride, that was everything.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus was, as always, the very picture of confidence. Charm incarnate. A walking flirt with no sense of personal space and an unmatched dedication to self-care. He knew how to make an entrance, how to win a room, and how to get exactly what he wanted, until, of course, he met you.

You, with your eerie calm and your ever-knowing smirk. You, who wore mystery like it was your signature fragrance. Who never blushed at his teasing and never swooned at his beauty. It was like throwing glitter at a wall and watching it bounce right off.

"Darling," Asmo purred the first time you crossed paths, his tone silkier than a Devildom spa robe, "you must be new. And fabulous. I can sense it."

You tilted your head, eyes gleaming with a bemused kind of menace. "You can sense fabulous? Is that before or after your sixth mirror check today?"

He gasped, hand over heart. Flustered. Delighted. Intrigued. Oh, this one was fun.

He followed you after that, practically buzzing with curiosity. Who were you? Why did you walk around like you were waiting for a sword to drop? Why did your smile never quite reach your eyes? And more importantly, why were you so annoyingly good at ignoring him?

It drove him wild.

You were polite, yes, but detached. You complimented his outfit with surgical precision, never sounding swoony, only observant. You returned his flirtations with deadpan retorts that made Beel choke on his food. You were more likely to stab a problem than talk about your feelings, and that, to Asmo, was borderline criminal.

So, he made it a mission. Operation: Break the Cool.

He tried everything. Spa invitations, moonlit dances, handmade perfume samplers. You accepted the gifts with a curious eye, asked about the chemical breakdown of the scents, and offered cold-blooded critiques with the precision of a scalpel.

"This one's too floral," you murmured once, sniffing a delicate bottle shaped like a heart. "It smells like someone murdered a garden."

He cried about that for two hours.

And yet… he kept coming back.

Because behind your sarcasm and oddly clinical view of the world, there was something lonely. Asmo knew the signs. He'd worn them himself, once. The need to stay composed, to stay safe behind layers of control and witticisms.

It hit him hardest during a House of Lamentation movie night. You sat at the edge of the couch, not leaning on anyone, not laughing like the others. Just sipping your drink and watching, eyes scanning every movement like you were waiting for a threat that never came.

Asmo didn’t say anything then. But later, he found you outside, arms folded, staring up at the Devildom stars.

"Y'know," he said gently, sidling up beside you, "you don’t always have to be on guard. Not here. Not with us."

You didn't respond right away. The silence was sharp, full of unspoken memories.

Then, you exhaled. "That sounds like something people say right before something explodes."

He chuckled, not his usual giggle but something softer. Realer. "Maybe. But if it explodes, I promise to get the ashes out of your hair."

You turned, one brow raised, but your expression was lighter. Maybe even fond.

From then on, you didn't dodge him as much. You still rolled your eyes at his dramatics, but you let him pull you into skincare routines. You let him drag you to Magicam-worthy brunches. You even smiled, really smiled, when he gifted you a custom-made nail polish line called "Scylla Chic."

(You did point out that one shade looked like "congealed wrath." He put a little heart on the label anyway.)

What surprised you, though, was how much Asmo noticed.

When you were tense, he offered baths with the exact blend of calming oils you liked. When you muttered about nightmares, he gave you a plushie shaped like a three-eyed shark and said it was "to eat your bad dreams."

You kept it.

He never pried about your past, though he knew bits and pieces. Knew enough to recognize the signs of someone who’d survived more than they ever wanted to talk about. Who had too many sharp edges, too many regrets. But he never pushed. Just existed beside you, loud and loving and irritatingly kind.

The turning point came one night when you walked into his room unannounced, clearly shaken from a dream. You didn’t speak. Just crawled onto his bed and mumbled, "If you tell anyone about this, I’ll throw your entire skincare shelf into the lava pits."

He didn’t tease.

He just curled around you, warm and safe, and whispered, "Your secrets are safe with me, darling. Even the scary ones."

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

Beelzebub

Beel had a very simple life philosophy: protect those you love, and never skip a meal if you can help it.

He wasn’t one for overcomplicating things. While his brothers got tangled in politics, drama, or magical messes, Beel was usually the one holding the door open and making sure everyone made it home okay.

So naturally, when you arrived, sharp, sarcastic, and literally dragging a flaming weapon through the House of Lamentation’s front hall, he blinked once, caught a snack midair, and said, “You hungry?”

You tilted your head. “You’re not gonna freak out about the wall I accidentally demolished?”

Beel shrugged. “Lucifer will. But if you're hungry, I made protein bars.”

You weren’t expecting that. And to your horror (not really), the bar was actually good.

The rest of the house didn’t know what to do with you, but Beel didn’t ask questions. He wasn’t bothered by the fact you casually spoke about being a biological weapon. He didn’t flinch when you mentioned your tendrils reacting to emotional spikes. He just listened. With that steady calm of his, like no part of you scared him.

You didn’t know how to deal with that.

You tried to weird him out. You chewed with your mouth open. You ranted about eldritch horror metaphors. You offered him one of your experimental energy drinks that was literally glowing.

He took it. He didn’t flinch.

You asked why.

He blinked. “You looked excited about it.”

You dropped the can.

He picked it up and drank it anyway. “Tastes like grapes.”

Beel never said much, but you started to notice how tuned in he was. If you were too quiet during dinner, he’d nudge an extra plate your way. If you slipped off during a training session, he’d follow without making it a big deal. Just walking beside you, silent. Sometimes he’d bring food. Sometimes not.

Sometimes it was just him.

One night, you had a nightmare, a real one. The kind where your past caught up to you in crimson flashes and screams you thought you’d forgotten. You woke up shaking. But before you could even leave your room, Beel was already outside your door.

He didn’t say a word.

He just handed you a milkshake and sat down beside you, humming.

Eventually, you said, “I almost tore the whole place apart.”

He looked at you, chewing slowly. “But you didn’t.”

You were quiet.

“I’ve wanted to destroy everything before,” he added. “Especially after Lilith. It’s hard not to when you’re hurting.”

You stared.

He handed you a protein bar this time. “So… if you ever do feel like destroying something, maybe tell me. I’ll help make sure it’s not the stuff you’ll regret.”

You blinked hard. “…That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Beel smiled. “Want another milkshake?”

You once swallowed an entire bowl of demon curry to prove you were as tough as him. You made it halfway through before detonating into tears. He was so impressed, he gave you a trophy. You sleep with it next to your bed now.

Beel started carrying around extra snacks in case your weird mutation powers activated and you needed a pick-me-up. Once he fed you a sandwich mid-battle like it was the most normal thing ever.

You taught him how to make exploding cupcakes. He does not use them for combat. Only birthdays.

When you’re sad, he doesn’t give speeches. He just sits nearby, hums softly, and shares his food. That’s it. It works.

You once tried to possess him just for fun. He flexed and said, “You can try.” You bounced right off him like a cartoon. You’ve been in love ever since (and maybe also concussed).

Beel never treated you like a monster. Not once.

And for someone who’d always felt like a weapon first, that meant more than you could ever say out loud.

So instead, you just sat next to him, passed him the fries you didn’t want, and said, “If you ever want help punching a mountain, I’m free Thursdays.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

Belphegor

Belphegor had seen weird. He lived in a house with Mammon's nonsense, Levi’s gamer meltdowns, and Satan’s periodic literary rampages. But you? You were weird on a cosmic scale.

When he first met you, he thought you were just some quiet, no-nonsense exchange student with impressive hair and an attitude problem. He was half-asleep in the attic when you wandered in looking for space to nap and avoid everyone. You blinked at him, offered half a greeting, then proceeded to curl up in the corner with a dagger tucked under your arm like it was a plushie.

That should’ve been his warning.

But Belphie, being Belphie, assumed he could just out-sleep you. He underestimated how stubborn you were, and how quiet your chaos could be.

The first red flag? He caught you charming Beel into letting you raid the fridge for eight full meals without raising suspicion. That was his food partner. You did it again the next night. And the night after that.

The second? He woke up one day to find the attic filled with glowing runes and a half-finished summoning circle. When he groaned and asked what the hell you were doing, you looked up from your notebook and calmly replied, "Trying to summon a hydra to scare Lucifer into canceling exams. Wanna help?"

You said it like you were asking if he wanted to split a pizza.

Belphie blinked at you. Then rolled over and muttered, "…Wake me up when the snake thing gets here."

He thought you were kidding.

You weren’t.

After the hydra incident (which Lucifer still insists you and Belphie both planned, and you both still deny), the two of you started talking more. Or, well, napping near each other, which slowly evolved into having conversations mid-sleep. Belphegor liked how you didn’t pry. You liked that he didn’t ask questions when you muttered things like “I miss the sea foam” or “Do you think it’s morally wrong to crush someone’s lungs for interrupting your nap?”

You both had your damage. You didn’t talk about yours. Neither did he. But there was an understanding.

Eventually, you shared bits and pieces. That you were once a goddess, or maybe a monster, depending on who you asked. That betrayal wasn’t something you feared, it was something you’d come to expect. That you hated being stared at like you were about to erupt.

And Belphie, in the most Belphie way possible, listened. Quietly. While yawning.

“Y’know,” he said one afternoon, voice muffled by a blanket. “You talk like someone who’s been fighting so long, you forgot what it feels like to stop.”

You stared at him. “You psychoanalyzing me?”

He snorted. “No. I’m napping at you.”

You actually laughed.

And that’s when things started to shift. Belphegor, who usually found people exhausting, discovered you were… oddly peaceful. You didn't ask him to change. You didn’t try to cheer him up when he was in one of his funks. You just let him exist. Sometimes brought snacks. Sometimes brought horrifying oceanic relics that dripped on the floor and glowed with eldritch energy, but hey. Balance.

You were the only one who didn’t look at him with judgment after everything. You said you’d seen worse. That you’d been worse. That sometimes people just snap.

"Doesn't make you evil," you said. "Just cracked."

Belphie stared at you for a long time that night, curled in your respective corners of the attic. Then muttered, "You're more comforting than you look."

You smirked. "You’re less homicidal than people say."

A pause.

“Progress,” Belphegor mumbled, already dozing off.

Bonus Shenanigans:

You once made Belphie a nightmare-dreamcatcher out of old bones, shells, and cursed Devildom yarn. He claimed it was creepy. It’s still hanging above his bed.

He helped you move a crate labeled SEA WITCH STUFF DO NOT OPEN without asking questions. He didn’t open it. He wanted to. He just didn’t want the consequences.

The two of you once switched places during a council meeting. No one noticed for 30 minutes. Lucifer cried blood.

You and Belphie are the house champions of Sleep Dodge: a game where you nap in increasingly inconvenient places and see who gets yelled at first.

When anyone tries to flirt with you, Belphie glares them into submission. When anyone tries to flirt with him, you casually summon a small spectral eel.

He thinks it's romantic.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!