The marriage of Jevin and MrBlack was nothing short of bizarre, even by Sprunki standards.
Nobody saw it coming—a cultist and a monster, hand-in-hand beneath the blood-red moon. Whispers spread like wildfire through the dim alleyways and rustling sewers of their twisted little city. The assassin, the otherworldly creature, MrBlack—that MrBlack—had married Jevin, the quiet collector of forbidden books and summoner of dead languages. To the rest of Sprunki, it made no sense. But to Jevin? It made perfect sense.
Because Jevin understood.
Black never explained the murders. He never had to. The way he moved through shadows, the gurgle of his voice when anger stirred in his chest, the black void of his eyes—they all spoke louder than any confession. He did what he had to, or maybe what he was. But Jevin didn’t run from that.
Because Jevin saw the part no one else did.
People looked at Black and saw a beast. Jevin looked and saw someone trying to belong. Even if Black couldn’t feel in the usual way, even if his idea of "love" came with a sharp edge and the occasional puddle of ichor—he still tried. And trying mattered.
That morning was a quiet one.
Jevin’s small, cluttered living room smelled faintly of burning sage and ink. Rain tapped softly against the windows, and the world outside was a dreary canvas of fog. Jevin sat cross-legged on his couch, a thick leatherbound tome resting open in his lap. Symbols of devotion and madness filled its pages—his favorite kind of reading.
MrBlack lay beside him, tentacles lazily slinking around Jevin’s waist and shoulders, coiling like warm vines. His head was resting lightly against Jevin’s thigh, strange eyes half-lidded in something like peace. The usual tension in his body was gone, replaced with a rare stillness, as if every sin he’d ever committed didn’t exist—just for this moment.
Jevin absentmindedly ran his fingers through the outer layer of Black’s slick hair, eyes never leaving his book.
“I don’t get why they hate you so much,” Jevin said softly, not even meaning to say it out loud. “You're just... you.”
Black stirred a little, one tentacle twitching, then tightening gently around Jevin's chest in response. A quiet acknowledgment. A silent thank you.
“They don’t see what I see,” Jevin went on, voice just above a whisper. “You’re not heartless. You just hurt differently.”
Black didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. He only shifted closer, pressing his cold face against Jevin’s hip.
A long silence followed, broken only by the sound of the rain and the occasional page turn.
Jevin looked down at him, brushing a strand of dark, wet hair from Black’s brow. “You're not alone, y’know. Even if they don’t get you... I do.”
Another tentacle wrapped lightly around his wrist, tender and possessive.
And in that moment—monster and man, killer and cultist—sat quietly in the flickering gloom of their home. Bound not by logic, not by the approval of Sprunki or its strange citizens... but by something more real.
Something unexplainable.
Something like love.