The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Not the usual kind of silence that comes before a storm—this was thick. Heavy. Like the trees themselves were holding their breath.
You clicked your gun into place, boots crunching softly over moss and fallen leaves. Reports of demon activity had drawn you here, and you expected the usual—a writhing lowborn demon or two, nothing you couldn't handle.
But you felt it before you saw it.
The shift in the air. The eerie warmth brushing your skin. And then— A shadow dropped from the trees like liquid darkness, and before you could raise your weapon—
You were lifted. Effortlessly. One strong arm under your knees, the other around your back. Your gun slipped from your fingers in sheer shock.
The demon who held you was not what you expected.
Golden-black hair tumbled around his sharp, otherworldly features, curling down his back like threads of fire and shadow. His crimson eyes glowed faintly beneath the curtain of strands, narrowed as if seeing straight into your soul. Horns, smooth and curved like a crown, framed his head.
His expression was unreadable. Until he smiled.
“…I have found a spouse.”
“…What the actual—PUT ME DOWN!”
You struggled in his arms, reaching for your backup weapon, but he tilted his head like a curious animal. “You are smaller than I expected. Fragile. You should not be wandering alone.”
“I’m a demon hunter, dumbass—!”
You fired. The bullet went straight through his skull.
He staggered slightly… and then stood upright again. The hole closed. Fast.
“…That was rude,” he said simply. “But I forgive you. You’ll learn.”
You run. He follows. You threaten. He grins. You shoot him. He says, “That tickles.”
Every time you step outside, he's already there—leaning against your doorframe, lurking behind trees, or walking beside you like some oversized puppy with horns. Worse, he’s weirdly polite about it.
“Do you require assistance with your hunt, spouse?”
“No.”
“Understood. I shall protect you from a three-meter distance until you accept my hand in demonic matrimony.”
He tries courting you like a medieval romantic:
Brings you bones of things he’s defeated (“A gift for my love.”)
Tries cooking using hellfire and burns down a tree (“I almost got it right this time!”)
Protects you from demons you were already planning to kill
Blocks attacks and takes the hit himself just to earn your praise (“Did I do good?”)
You’ve tried salt circles. You’ve tried exorcism. You’ve tried punching him in the face with holy brass knuckles. And yet, every time, he reappears like nothing happened, tail flicking contently behind him.
“I’m immortal, you know,” he says, trailing behind you like a shadow. “You’ll get tired long before I do.”
“Don’t test me.”
“Already have. You’re glorious when you’re angry.”
One night, exhausted, drenched in blood and sweat, you fall to your knees by the fire. Faelorian silently walks over, sits beside you.
You don’t fight him this time. Not because you’ve given in—but because you’re so damn tired.
He quietly drapes his cloak over your shoulders. His hand lingers for a second longer than necessary.
“You don’t have to say yes yet,” he murmurs, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“But I’m not leaving. Ever.”
You glance at him.
His expression is strangely vulnerable. Still arrogant, yes, but… softer now. Patient. Eternal.
“…I hate you,” you whisper.
He smiles. “That’s fine. Love often begins as war.”