So I’ll admit I was a bit disappointed at how I think the anime left out some of the subtlety with the hair stick. I get that a lot of how we’re able to interpret what Maomao actually feels vs how she comes across is either in her internal monologue or in her actions, things the anime can’t always capture given the limits of time. She’s a character that often has to be interpreted, not taken at face value. In regard to Jinshi’s hair stick the light novel gives the impression that Maomao is more possessive over it than first anticipated. Although she feigns disinterest she won’t give it to Shisui and it’s the only personal possession left to her.
“Someone gave it to me,” she replied. Given to her without much ceremony true enough, still. “What if I asked you to give it to me? Would you do it?” After a moment’s pause, Maomao said carefully, “I’m afraid not.”
The anime, however, chose to go with a more direct approach that did make it seem as if Maomao has little care for the object and is merely keeping it out of fear from reprisal by Jinshi which isn’t how she actually sees the situation. (Spoilers under the cut)
In the novel, her saying that Jinshi will just find a way to bring the stick back to her because of his persistence is just dancing around that she doesn’t actually want to give it away. It’s also a hint at how well Jinshi knows her, unlike others.
But Jinshi was oddly skilled at reading Maomao’s expressions. Partly because they’d now known each other for a fair amount of time, true, but even by that standard he was quite sensitive to slight changes in her face.
There’s also the small matter of the anime having Shisui retrieve the stick from next to the bed vs the novel having had Maomao place it next to her pillow. Yes, these are small details but overall important. Especially when she gives the stick to Shisui in their final moment together. That’s when it becomes clear it has more significance.
This particular hair stick was plain, yet of uncommonly fine make. The one who had given it to her could be especially obstinate, so there was every possibility that just like its original owner, it would somehow manage to find its way back to her.
We realize that Maomao’s appearing fixation on Jinshi’s obstinance and the hair stick could be linked to her subconscious hope that by having it he would come find her, which he did, although entirely unrelated to the object. It’s her way of wishing for something she couldn’t voice out loud, which was to be rescued. She also uses it as a prayer for her friend, saying that like Jinshi had found his way to her, if she gives Shisui the hair stick maybe they’ll see one another again. But with the anime giving the impression the stick is merely an annoyance, I feel that any greater meaning is lost. Unfortunately I get how it can be difficult to get some of this across in the anime but given how much more there is left of season 2 and even deeper nuance coming up between characters, it does worry me a bit if they’re going to start leaving things surface level. Especially because some fans want to see Maomao in a light that casts her as having little attachment to Jinshi and lacking emotion which isn’t true. If the anime always plays up the joke of their dynamic being him as overzealous and her seeming so put off, as that is the outward appearance, then we’ll never get to see the payoff of all the layers underneath.
synopsis : You accidentally summon a demon. He's annoying, endearing, and suddenly leaving. You hate it, hate him. Except, maybe you don't. And maybe that's the worst part.
content : demon!rafayel, fluff, poor references to hell, comedy
now playing : I.F.L.Y - Bazzi
previous episode
Sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, warm and golden as you hummed to yourself, carefully decorating a tiny piece of cake like it was a masterpiece.
Pure bliss.
Until—
“Oh my fucking— Rafayel!” you yelped, nearly flinging the frosting knife across the room.
There he was. Smug. Smirking. Hovering horizontally above your kitchen counter like a cursed screensaver.
“Surprise,” he said, as if he hadn’t just shaved a few years off your life expectancy.
You glared, clutching your chest like an old Victorian woman recovering from scandal. “I have a front door, you know?”
He blinked, deadpan. “I’m a demon.”
You sighed, pointing your spatula at him. “Still rude.”
He shrugged. “Still me.”
His eyes flicked to your hand, then he slowly lowered himself into a standing position, circling the kitchen counter with the hesitant guilt of someone who just broke something expensive.
“Okay, don’t get mad at me,” he said, voice way too careful.
You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”
He lifted a hand, finger pointing delicately. “Uh… that.”
You followed his gaze—down to your hand.
Your hand.
Which was now fully embedded in the cake you had just spent the last two hours decorating with painstaking precision and a frankly concerning amount of emotional investment.
You stared in horror. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Rafayel winced. “Still cute though.”
A second passed. Maybe two.
Then—
“I’m going to fucking. kill. you.” you hissed, eyes narrowing into murder as you turned to Rafayel, who immediately threw his hands up in surrender.
“H-Hey! Aren’t we the best of buds?” he stammered, inching backward.
Your hand slid toward the sink. Fingers curled around the nearest knife. You smiled sweetly—dangerously.
“One.”
His shoulders jumped, wings twitching. “Wait, let’s talk about—”
“Two.”
“Okay but violence isn’t necessary!” he yelped, already halfway to launching himself back into the air.
—•
“Ow~” he whined dramatically, clutching his head like you’d just decapitated him.
“Oh, shut up,” you rolled your eyes, rubbing the spot where your fist had connected. “You can’t feel pain from mortal weapons, dipshit.”
Rafayel pouted, lips jutting out like an offended child. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t sting emotionally.”
You snorted. “Demon logic is so weird. You can’t get hurt by swords or bullets, don’t bleed, don’t age—but you get bruises from a punch?”
He mumbled, sulking. “Your punches are very emotionally charged.”
You scoffed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, beloved,” he sighed, draping himself across your kitchen table like a tragic opera star, “here I remain.”
You finally graduated—thank every cosmic force out there—and moved back into your family home not long after.
A bittersweet return, quiet in all the ways that once made you feel small.
Rafayel, of course, had not gotten his promotion yet. Which meant, tragically, he was still here. Still hovering.
Still dramatically consuming ungodly amounts of strawberry milk tea on your couch like a bored Victorian ghost with access to food delivery apps.
But if you were honest—annoyingly, frustratingly honest—you were grateful.
He was there the first night you came back. When the silence in the house cracked open old memories and the air still smelled faintly like your parents’ perfume.
You cried. A lot.
Ugly, snotty, gut-wrenching tears that made your chest ache.
Rafayel didn’t say much.
Just sat beside you, shoulder against yours, unusually quiet. A small flick of warmth—his hand brushing yours, his presence a strange comfort in a place that felt like a museum of what once was.
And then, in the middle of your breakdown, he said, “Okay, hear me out. What if we painted the living room black and added lava lamps?”
Which is how you ended up redecorating. Not just patching walls and changing curtains—but reshaping the house into something that felt more you.
Less like a shrine to loss, more like a new beginning. Chaotic, weird, and questionably stylish. Very you-coded.
With a hint of demon flair.
Now, as you gently rub the fading bruise on his forehead three months later, it’s safe to say the demon had somehow—unfortunately—wormed his way into your life.
A permanent fixture. Like a stray cat that never left. Chaotic, needy, weirdly comforting.
“Alright, Beelzebub, that’s enough feigning,” you muttered, rinsing your hands at the sink as you cast a dramatic glance toward the tragic remains of your once-beautiful cake slice.
Behind you, Rafayel let out an indignant huff, arms crossed, still floating a few inches off the ground. “I’m offended. I’ve achieved more than Beelzepoop ever did.”
You turned, one brow raised. “You? Achieved more than the actual Prince of Demons?”
He blinked at you with a ‘do-you-even-know-who-you’re-talking-to?’ expression. “Obviously.”
You snorted. “Right. And I’m Aphrodite in a hoodie.”
He scoffed, dramatically wounded. “Double offence. First, rude. Second, Greek mythology isn’t even real.”
“Says the guy named Rafayel who fell out of the Void and into my kitchen.”
Unfazed, he grinned. “You’re more of an Astaroth anyway.”
You blinked. “She’s literally a high-ranking demon of seduction.”
He winked. “Exactly. She’s hot. Fits.”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m adorable,” he corrected, spinning in midair like it proved something.
Unfortunately… you didn’t have the heart to argue.
You made your way to the living room, Rafayel trailing behind like a chatty shadow, going off about how if you were really Astaroth, you’d at least know how to flirt properly.
“Please,” you scoffed, flopping onto the couch with the grace of someone utterly done. “Astaroth rides a dragon. She’s not just some seductress—she’s a badass.”
Rafayel wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, well, she’s also kind of a bitch in real life.”
You blinked. “You know her?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he casually pulled a full strawberry milk tea out of thin air and took a long sip like this was completely normal behavior.
You threw your hands up. “How?? Where are you getting these?!”
He shrugged, all too pleased with himself. “I’m a demon.”
You leaned forward, peering suspiciously behind him like he might be hiding a demonic vending machine in his spine. “Do you have, like, a secret stash somewhere? Is there a boba dimension?”
He ignored you entirely, now launching into a rant. “Everyone hypes up Astaroth, but Lucifer? Total icon. Charisma. Style. Actual management skills. Way cooler.”
You stared at him. “Did you just turn a boba flex into a Lucifer TED Talk?”
He grinned mid-sip. “Yes.”
You slapped both hands over your face with a long, tortured groan. “Please just get your promotion already and get out of my life.”
Rafayel pouted, hovering above the floor like a levitating drama queen, legs crossed and all. “Can’t you just admit you love me already?”
You lowered your hands, stared at him flatly. “No.”
Not even a blink. Just pure, stone-cold deadpan.
He gasped. “Heartless.”
You smirked. “Soulless.”
“Touche.”
—•
“Rafayel.”
“Yes?”
“Please stop hovering above me and let me sleep.”
A pause.
“…But I’m making sure you don’t get nightmares.”
“You are the nightmare.”
“Flattered.”
As much as Rafayel would have loved to keep teasing you—dangling upside down, whispering nonsense just to hear you groan—he let you sleep.
With a quiet sigh, he lowered himself onto his feet, the air stilling around him. He padded over to the chair beside your bed and sat down, elbows resting on his knees, watching.
Your face was soft now, pressed into your pillow, lashes brushing your cheeks, brows no longer drawn tight from stress.
Just peace. Just you.
His eyes softened.
“I lied,” he whispered, so quietly it was barely a breath. “I’m never getting that promotion.”
You didn’t stir.
“Because I don’t want to leave.”
He stood, the shadows folding around him as the edges of the room began to shimmer. The void called—quietly, like a familiar echo.
Before stepping through, he looked back one last time. His gaze lingered on you, curled beneath the blanket with your arm half-hugging your pillow, utterly unaware.
A slow smile tugged at his lips.
“Cute,” he murmured.
And then he was gone.
As Rafayel stepped onto the warm, scorched ground of his domain, the familiar heat curled around his boots like a welcome—and a warning.
He didn’t make it three steps before a demon rushed up to him, breathless and flustered. “Sire! The demons in the western region are acting up again! You can’t just disappear like that—”
Rafayel winced, rubbing his ear with an exaggerated groan. “Fuck, stop yelling. You’re worse than a smoke alarm.”
The demon blinked, wide-eyed. “But—”
“Relax.” Rafayel shot him a look, half-irritated, half-amused. “I was gone for like, what, three days? What, did the entire underworld fall apart without me?”
“…Yes.”
He sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. “Hell really needs to learn how to function without me. I’m starting to feel needed. It’s gross.”
“Well, you are the king…” the demon muttered, almost under his breath.
Rafayel stopped.
Slowly, he turned.
His usual laidback grin was gone—replaced by a sharp, twisted expression as his crimson eyes gleamed with something far less forgiving. The air around him crackled, heat rippling like a warning.
“And?” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Have I raised a bunch of scum who can’t get things done without hand-holding?”
The demon flinched, shrinking slightly under his glare.
Rafayel stepped forward, his voice cold now, all traces of sarcasm stripped clean. “Tell me—was I gone long enough for discipline to rot?”
“N-No, sire.”
“Then act like it.”
And just like that, the fire behind his eyes dimmed, and returned to their original colour, his smirk slowly returning as he stepped back. “Good chat.”
Rafayel skipped away happily, his coat fluttering behind him, humming some off-key tune as he thought about your sleeping face.
The way your lips were slightly parted. The softness in your brow. The rise and fall of your breath.
Utterly peaceful.
Utterly unaware.
Back near the gates of the palace, the demon who had been scolded turned to another, wide-eyed. “Has he forgotten he’s actually the King of Hell?”
The other demon shrugged, deadpan. “Who knows. But best let him be.”
A pause. Then, under his breath, “He’d rip your head off if you said anything.”
They both nodded solemnly as Rafayel twirled joyfully into the distance like the most dangerous fever dream anyone’s ever had.
—•
“Ugh, where is it?” you grumbled, crouching to look under your bed, then climbing onto chairs to peer above the cabinets like some caffeine-fueled treasure hunter.
You’d been tearing the house apart for the past hour, desperate to find one thing—your favorite hoodie.
It was Sunday.
Which meant hoodie, knee-high socks, hot chocolate, and absolutely zero responsibilities. A sacred tradition.
But the hoodie in question? Nowhere. Gone. Vanished like it had sensed you needed comfort and decided to flee out of spite.
You stomped your foot in frustration, letting out a noise of sheer despair.
“Woah, woah, woah— any harder and you’ll punch a hole through the floor,” came a voice from behind you.
You spun around, already bracing for nonsense.
And there he was—Rafayel, stepping out of the void like he owned the place, wearing a tired, lazy smile… and your hoodie.
Your favourite hoodie. Your favourite colour. Slouchy, warm, irreplaceable.
On him.
You stared.
He grinned. “Miss me?”
Your eyes narrowed into a glare sharp enough to kill gods.
“Raf. Five seconds.”
The grin on his face faltered. He tilted his head innocently. “Huh?”
“Five,” you repeated slowly, taking one deliberate step toward him.
Panic flickered in Rafayel’s eyes. He knew that look. He’d seen it right before you threw a toaster at him for ‘accidentally’ eating your cheesecake.
“H-Hey! What did I do this time?!” he yelped, backing up slightly.
“Four.”
He clutched the hoodie tighter around him like it might shield him from divine wrath.
“Okay, okay, wait, let’s talk about this like two emotionally mature beings—”
You didn’t blink.
“Three
“It was just a hoodie,” Rafayel sulked, rubbing his butt as he floated midair with the wounded pride of a dethroned drama queen. His pout was deep. Tragic. Oscar-worthy.
You, on the other hand, were seated triumphantly on the couch, smug and cozy, wrapped in your hoodie like a warrior draped in victory.
The very hoodie you had pried off his smug little body after chasing him down the hall and delivering a perfectly executed flying kick to his ass.
Hot chocolate in hand. Feet propped up. Hoodie reclaimed.
Peace restored.
“I think you bruised my ego,” he muttered.
You took a sip. “Good. Maybe next time you’ll ask before committing hoodie theft.”
He crossed his arms. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re warm-blooded lint with wings.”
“Still cute though,” he grumbled.
You smiled into your mug. He wasn’t wrong.
You took a deep whiff of your chocolatey masterpiece, eyes fluttering closed in bliss, before cracking one open to look at the demon still sulking midair.
“Any luck on that promotion?” you asked casually, lifting the mug to your lips.
The moment the hot liquid touched your mouth, you hissed and pulled back, fanning your scorched lips. “Shit. Too hot.”
Rafayel shrugged, utterly unbothered, leaning back into his crossed arms like he was lounging on an invisible beach chair. “Wouldn’t know. Hell has a weird system. Something about karmic paperwork and sin-to-chaos ratios.”
You snorted. “Or maybe you’re just not as overqualified as you thought you were.”
He gasped, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. “How dare you.”
You smirked. “I dare. Daily.”
“Cruel woman,” he muttered, flipping upside down dramatically.
“Underachieving demon,” you shot back.
“Still adorable,” he mumbled.
You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t deny it.
You set your mug down with a satisfying clink and patted the empty space beside you. “Okay, friendly cuddle time.”
Rafayel scoffed like it was the greatest inconvenience in all the realms—but he still floated down and plopped beside you, limbs sprawling dramatically.
Without hesitation, you climbed over his lap, curling into his chest like you’d done it a thousand times before.
Because, at this point, you basically had. You let out a long, contented sigh. “Ah yes. I have a life-sized heater,” you murmured, poking his chest playfully. “And it’s squishy too.”
He grumbled, arms automatically winding around you like muscle memory. “I can’t believe you’ve reduced me to this level of uselessness.”
You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse you. Being a heater is not useless. Heaters save lives.”
He opened his mouth—probably to make another sarcastic comment—but you cut in, smirking against his sweater.
“You’re my emotional support demon.”
He froze for half a second.
Then exhaled through his nose, a quiet chuckle escaping before he tucked you a little closer.
“Lucky for you,” he muttered, “I’m warm and emotionally damaged.”
You looked up at him, head resting against his chest. “How are demons born, anyway?”
Rafayel paused, lips quirking slightly in thought. “Well… we’re not born, exactly. It’s more complicated than that.”
He reached up, gently tugging your hood over your head like he was tucking you in, and let you snuggle closer, his voice softening like he was about to tell a bedtime story.
“Lower-level demons,” he began, “are usually breathed into existence by Lucifer. They’re formed from whatever’s around—ashes, stone, shadows. Sometimes even stranger stuff. Like a cursed gust of wind. Or basement mold.”
You blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” he muttered. “There’s a demon literally made out of melted wax and self-doubt.”
You laughed, and he smirked, letting the sound of it settle between you like warmth.
“Hell’s weird,” you said.
“Hell’s home,” he corrected, mock-offended. Then, quieter, “But you’re warmer.”
You grinned, eyes alight with curiosity. “Okay, tell me something that’ll blow my mind.”
Rafayel looked down at you, your cheek smushed against his chest, hoodie half covering your face. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—uncertainty, hesitation—but it vanished just as quickly, swallowed by the usual smugness.
“Demons can’t fall in love,” he said quietly.
You jerked back a little to look up at him, brows furrowing. “What? Really?” Horror bloomed across your face. “So there are no demonic romances? No succubi falling for their victims? No tragic love stories in the fiery depths?”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re being sarcastic.”
You gasped, hand over your heart. “No, I’m not! That’s genuinely tragic!”
He blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to actually care.
And for once, you didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. You just looked up at him, genuine and a little sad. “That sucks, ‘yel.”
He glanced away, voice softer than before. “Yeah. It does.”
“But why, though?” you whined, dragging out the syllables like a child denied candy.
Rafayel smirked, leaning his cheek against the top of your head.
“It’s just the way it is. Though…” he drawled, smug creeping back into his voice, “you and I are an exception.”
You scrunched your nose. “Ew.”
He pulled back, lips parting in exaggerated offense. “Hey!”
You shrugged, grinning. “Sorry, I don’t do forbidden interdimensional romances on Sundays.”
He pouted. “So picky for someone who literally climbed into my lap ten minutes ago.”
“You’re warm,” you retorted.
“And devastatingly charming.”
“Mm. Debatable.”
“Rude.”
“Truthful.”
He sighed, cradling you a little closer. “One day you’ll admit you’re madly in love with me.”
“…You do realize I could make that happen, right?”
You groaned into his hoodie. “Go to sleep, demon.”
He chuckled, low and lazy. “It’s Sunday. Do you really want me to sleep when I could be entertaining you? Come on, ask me something. Anything.”
You tapped your chin, pretending to think, though the question had been sitting on your tongue for a while now. “Okay. Will you promise to visit… even after you get promoted?”
For a moment, he went still.
Then, with a half-hearted smirk, he leaned back. “Hmm. Probably not.”
Your heart sank.
“Unless,” he added, casually, “you promise to stop kicking my ass.”
You snorted, trying to keep it light. “Fine. I’ll just summon another demon.”
His eyes flicked to yours, a little too sharp, a little too fast. “Hey.”
You smiled, teasing. “What? Maybe one who doesn’t steal my hoodies.”
But he wasn’t smiling anymore.
“I’ll get jealous,” he said, and though the words were laced with his usual dramatics, his voice had dropped—lower, quieter, like something unsaid was bleeding through.
You froze, the playfulness fading just enough for the air to shift.
“I’m serious,” he added, eyes meeting yours now, too steady for comfort. “I’d hate it.”
You swallowed, caught off guard by the weight in his tone. “Why?”
Rafayel didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking, the warmth of him wrapping around your shoulders like static. The kind of closeness that wasn’t just physical—it pressed against your chest, your breath, your thoughts.
“Because I’m not just any demon,” he said softly, eyes flickering to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “You didn’t summon them. You summoned me.”
And suddenly, the room felt smaller.
Quieter.
Too quiet.
You swallowed, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs and throat.
His words hung in the air—weightless, yet crushing.
You summoned him.
Not them. Not anyone else. Him.
You tried to laugh, tried to pull the teasing tone back into your voice, but it came out thinner than you meant. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“I’m not,” he said, gently—too gently for a demon who once tried to convince you to paint your kitchen black. “I’m just… saying what you won’t.”
Your fingers curled into the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie, your hoodie, yours now—and you stared down at your lap like it might anchor you.
“Rafayel—”
“Do you know what it means,” he cut in, his voice almost a whisper now, “for a demon to not want to go back?”
You looked up.
He wasn’t smirking.
No sarcasm, no smugness. Just ocean eyes too open, too raw.
“It’s not that I hate hell,” he said. “It’s home. Fire, brimstone, endless bureaucracy… all the fun stuff.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“But you,” he continued, “you’re warm in a way I didn’t think I could still feel. You make things quiet, even when you’re yelling at me. You make me stay.”
Your heart pounded against your ribs, painfully loud.
And when you didn’t answer, when you just sat there frozen, unsure of what to do with the sudden tenderness filling the room like smoke, he leaned back.
Just a little.
Just enough to give you space again.
“I know,” he said softly, a rueful smile playing on his lips, “demons can’t fall in love.”
“But I think if we could…”
He trailed off, letting the silence finish the sentence.
You looked at him—really looked at him—and felt something shift. Something dangerous. Something irreversible.
And you weren’t sure if you were ready for it.
But you wanted to be.
“You can’t fall in love,” you said, barely above a whisper. “But… you can feel, right?”
The question sat there between you like something fragile, something sacred.
Rafayel didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, really looked—eyes burning a little softer now, like dying embers that still held heat. His smile faded into something quieter, more honest.
“I can,” he murmured. “Not the way you do. Not the way mortals write songs about. But I feel.”
You nodded slowly, gaze dropping to your hands. “So… what do you feel now?”
He exhaled, and for once, it wasn’t exaggerated or dramatic—it was careful.
“Jealousy,” he admitted, almost embarrassed. “Warmth. Frustration.”
A beat.
“Peace. When you’re around, it’s—quiet.”
You looked up, heart caught between disbelief and something deeper.
“And when I’m not?”
He gave a crooked smile. “Louder. Colder. Boring as hell.”
You laughed, breathless.
He leaned forward again, resting his forehead gently against yours.
“I don’t need to love you to want to stay,” he whispered. “But I think… whatever this is, what I feel when I look at you—it’s the closest I’ve ever been.”
And you let your eyes close, just for a second.
Because even if it wasn’t love—not yet, not exactly—it felt like something just as terrifying.
Because somewhere between the banter, the teasing, and the endless pestering—between flying kicks, hoodie thefts, and boba-fueled late nights—you’d fallen.
Fallen for the demon who hovered too close.
Who made your life unbearably loud, yet somehow quieter.
Who never once asked for a place in your heart, but carved one out anyway.
Even if you didn’t want to admit it.
Even if you told yourself it was just comfort, just company, just friendly cuddle time.
It wasn’t.
Not anymore.
Because when he looked at you like that—tender, hesitant, a little afraid—you knew.
You’d fallen for your emotional support demon.
And hell, maybe he’d fallen too.
Rafayel pulled back just enough to look at you, and for a breath, everything was still—charged, heavy, full of everything neither of you had said.
Then he blinked.
“Wait a second,” he said, squinting at you dramatically. “Are you blushing?”
You immediately recoiled, shoving his face away. “Oh my god, Rafayel—”
“I knew it!” he cackled, twisting away to hover mid-air as you tried to smack him again. “You like me!”
“I literally just said—!”
“Emotionally support demon, huh?” he teased, spinning like an obnoxious orbit around your couch. “More like emotionally devastatingly handsome demon—”
“I take it all back,” you muttered, grabbing a throw pillow and chucking it at him.
He caught it mid-spin, grinning like he’d just won an award. “Too late! You fell. I’m basically your forbidden fantasy.”
You flopped back onto the couch with a groan, covering your face with both hands.
And somewhere above you, between the laughing and the twirling and the smug declarations, Rafayel slowed. Hovered.
He looked down at you—at your half-smile hidden behind your fingers—and said, quieter this time, more to himself than to you.
synopsis : You accidentally summon a demon. He's annoying, endearing, and suddenly leaving. You hate it, hate him. Except, maybe you don't. And maybe that's the worst part.
content : demon!rafayel, fluff, poor references to hell, comedy
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“Y/N.”
“For fuck’s sake, Rafayel, do you not understand what time out means?” you snapped, slamming your pen down like it had personally wronged you. You turned to him, already bracing for the face.
And there it was.
Big eyes. Slight pout. That tragic, kicked-puppy expression that made him look like a freshly scolded Disney sidekick.
“You look like a goldfish,” you deadpanned.
“Hey!” he gasped, hand flying to his chest like you’d just impaled him. “A cute goldfish though?” He double finger-gunned at you, winking.
You blinked. Twice. “You’re so lucky you’re already from hell.”
Rafayel just beamed like you’d complimented him.
“‘Yel,” you groaned, rubbing your temples, “I have three thousand words due by tomorrow, and my prof already hates me because I made a joke about Plato being a drama queen. If I don’t finish this, he’s going to flay me.”
“I still don’t get why you humans do this to yourselves,” Rafayel muttered, kicking his legs from where he was perched upside-down on your desk chair like an overgrown toddler. “You pay to be stressed out. Should’ve just sold your soul like a normal person.”
You gave him a look.
“Oh wait.” He grinned, sharp teeth peeking out. “Too late.”
You considered throwing your textbook at him. Not that it would do anything. He’d just catch it mid-air with a smug smirk and then use it as a coaster for his bubble tea.
Because, yes, your demon—your demon, what the actual hell—had a crippling addiction to boba. Specifically the strawberry milk tea kind. With rainbow pearls. That he insisted on ordering with your credit card.
How did it come to this?
Well. You were trying to write your thesis.
A comparative analysis of ancient summoning rituals and modern occult trends.
Cool, edgy, mildly creepy.
Your professor was thrilled.
You, on the other hand, were downing energy drinks and googling ‘curses that don’t backfire’ at 3AM.
Then you found The Website.
Black background. Red font.
Very ‘do-not-enter-this-site-if-you-value-your-soul’ vibes.
So like anyone with a brain, you clicked it.
You followed the instructions—chalk circle, candles, some vaguely Latin-sounding chants—and when nothing happened, you shrugged and went to bed, convinced you’d wasted twenty bucks on witchy candles and your last shred of dignity.
Then you woke up to glowing eyes staring down at you from your ceiling like some paranormal ceiling cat.
You screamed. Loudly.
Your RA came running, ready to fight a serial killer, only to find you clutching a pillow and pointing at an empty spot on your ceiling like a madwoman.
He backed out of your room slowly, muttering something about, “freshman psychosis” and, “never rooming with a lit major.”
And now?
Now you had Rafayel.
A demon with a temper shorter than your GPA, a weird fixation with glitter, and a total disregard for personal space, deadlines, or the human concept of privacy.
He refused to leave.
Something about your summoning being ‘binding’ and your ‘aura’ being ‘weirdly cozy.’ Whatever the hell that meant.
You sighed and turned back to your laptop, muttering, “Why couldn’t I have summoned, like, a chill ghost? Or a vampire with a tragic past?”
From behind you, Rafayel hummed, “You say tragic past, but I am the reason a small village disappeared off the map in 1437.”
You didn’t even flinch. “Good for you.”
“And yet, here I am. Reduced to being your emotional support demon.”
“Reduced? No one asked you to rearrange my spice rack alphabetically and by Scoville level.”
“Blasphemy tastes better with cayenne.”
You didn’t look up. You didn’t respond.
You simply typed.
And hoped to hell—or heaven, or the void between—that this paper would write itself before you lost your last brain cell.
You felt the faint, ominous creak of your desk chair’s twin moving behind you—the low growl of overworked wheels scratching across old floorboards.
Which meant that Rafayel was on the move.
And sure enough, a second later, he was right beside you, chin practically glued to your shoulder as he peered at your screen like a nosy toddler who had just discovered the concept of YouTube.
“Oh my god,” he whispered in genuine horror. “What is that supposed to be?”
You blinked. “It’s a nineteenth-century etching of a demon.”
“That,” he pointed dramatically, “looks like if a goblin and a melted candle had an unfortunate child.”
“…Well, it is hell,” you muttered under your breath, barely suppressing the eye twitch as he recoiled at the grotesque, horned figure on your laptop like it personally offended his bloodline.
“It’s just—ugh! You humans get it so wrong.” Rafayel flopped back into his chair with a dramatic huff, lacing his fingers behind his head like this was a casual TED Talk and not your descent into academic burnout.
“Lucifer’s not some scary, flaming rage monster. He’s actually pretty chill. Bit moody. Likes jazz. Wears a lot of silk.”
You blinked slowly, fingers hovering over your keyboard. “Wonderful. Shall I cite you as a primary source, then?”
“I mean, I did know him.”
“Of course you did.”
He grinned, cocky and unbothered, like he hadn’t been singlehandedly driving you to the edge of sanity all month.
You slammed your palms onto your desk with the force of a caffeinated raccoon reaching enlightenment.
“Rafayel.”
“Yes?” he said sweetly, as if he hadn’t just derailed your concentration for the fifth time in under ten minutes.
“I am a senior,” you began, voice dangerously calm, “in the final semester of a four-year degree that I am barely surviving. I have not slept in two days. I have eaten nothing but cereal dust and vending machine pretzels. My thesis is currently being held together by three weak metaphors, one questionable source, and the power of denial.”
You took a breath, gaze narrowing.
“So unless you want me to start writing my next section on how modern demons are somehow worse than capitalism—Shut. The fuck. Up.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then he gave you a slow clap.
“I love it when you get feisty,” he said, grinning.
You turned back to your screen.
He was lucky he was immortal.
—•
You threw your hands in the air like a malfunctioning robot powering down for the last time and muttered a tired, deadpan, “Yay.”
The kind of yay that carried the weight of sleep deprivation, caffeine addiction, and a vague desire to start life over as a forest hermit.
When you turned, Rafayel was mid-hover above your bed—legs crossed in an upside-down floating genie pose like some unholy yoga instructor. His head hung just low enough to make direct, smug eye contact with you.
“I’m done.” you declared, the kind of joy only reserved for finishing a thesis or surviving a group project with your sanity intact.
“Finally,” he drawled, tossing his ninety-ninth boba cup into the bottomless trashcan of the void like a three-point shot. The lid landed with a soft clink that echoed like judgment.
You stared at him. “Is that my hoodie you’re wearing?”
He shrugged—midair, still upside down. “It smells like you. Very… stressed and academically overachieving.”
You flopped face-first onto your bed with a groan. “Why are you like this?”
“I’m your emotional support demon,” he chirped. “I’m doing my job.”
“Do your job quieter.”
“That’s not in the contract.”
“There was no contract—”
“You summoned me with ancient Latin and expired lavender candles. I’d call that consent.”
You groaned into your pillow. He was unbearable. Infuriating. Downright catastrophic.
But also… a little fun.
Stupid adorable demon.
“How do I even get rid of you anyway?” you mumbled into the depths of your pillow, the words muffled but laced with the kind of dramatic despair that came after surviving both a thesis and Rafayel.
Silence.
Unusual silence.
Suspicious, even.
You lifted your head just enough to peek over your arm. “…Rafayel?”
No answer.
You sat up fully now, squinting toward your desk—where the demon in question was oddly still, back turned, his usual commentary absent.
That was never a good sign.
You got up, padding quietly across the room like one of those horror movie girls who absolutely should not go toward the ominous figure, but does anyway because narrative choices.
There he was, standing in front of your laptop, staring at the still-open tab with the medieval etching of hell. The fire, the grotesque figures, the tormented souls—all frozen in digital interpretation.
You stopped a few feet behind him. “…You okay?”
His posture didn’t shift. He didn’t crack a joke or throw a boba cup into the void.
Just stared.
And when he finally did speak, it was quieter than you expected.
“They always get it wrong,” he said. “They make it all fire and fury. Screaming. Violence.”
You frowned, uncertain.
He turned slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker in his expression. Not anger. Not smugness.
Something else.
“They forget it’s mostly just… quiet down there.”
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what to.
So you just stood there, behind the demon you summoned on accident, watching as he looked at a world that feared him—and didn’t understand him at all.
He finally turned to look at you, and there was that flicker of a smile again—gentler this time, almost… nostalgic?
“Hell isn’t that bad, you know?” he said, like he was trying to convince you, or maybe just himself. “I had friends down there.”
You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing. “You? Have friends? Shocking.”
He snorted, shaking his head. “Rude. But fair.”
Still, the sarcasm didn’t fully return. His shoulders relaxed a little, and his gaze dropped for a moment like he was remembering something that didn’t belong in this room, in this world.
“Yeah,” he said. “We may not have souls, but we’re not cold-blooded beings who only love torture.”
A pause.
His lips twitched. “Okay. Maybe some of us are. Gormax really enjoyed the whole spine-peeling thing.”
You blinked. “That’s not a real name.”
“Swear on the Void.”
“…You people need hobbies.”
He grinned again, but this time you noticed the faint sadness beneath it. Not enough to take over, but just enough to linger.
You glanced at your laptop, still glowing with the static, flaming misery of a human’s idea of damnation, and then back at him.
“You miss it?”
Rafayel shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s home. In a weird, messed-up, infernal kind of way.”
You nodded slowly.
And maybe—just maybe—you started to understand.
“I mean, I understand. I miss home too. But,” you sighed, dropping back into your chair with a quiet thud. Rafayel hovered beside you again, floating like some dramatic ghost lamp as he waited—surprisingly quiet, for once.
“My parents passed away two years ago,” you said, voice soft, almost careful, like the words had grown sharp with time. “So I’ve been avoiding going home. It just… doesn’t feel like it anymore.”
You didn’t look at him as you spoke. Just clicked through the open tabs, saving your thesis with methodical clicks. Save as draft. Save to cloud. Back up to your USB, just in case the universe decided to smite your hard drive out of spite.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Like a blanket pulled over your shoulders that you didn’t ask for but kind of needed.
Rafayel didn’t say anything right away.
He didn’t make a joke.
Didn’t deflect.
He just hovered beside you, gaze steady, presence uncharacteristically… grounded.
And for once, you didn’t feel like talking was wasted.
You shrugged off the creeping melancholy with a light chuckle, brushing it off like lint from an old sweater. No need to get all soft and sentimental—this was supposed to be your break from the feels, not a therapy session featuring one floating demon roommate.
Turning to Rafayel, you expected another sarcastic quip, or maybe a comment about your overuse of the word “therefore” in your thesis. But instead, he was just… staring at you.
Not in his usual annoying way.
Not the 'I’m about to tease you for eating dry cereal out of a mug again' way.
Just quietly watching you.
“Tell me more,” he said.
You blinked. “Huh?”
He leaned in a little, expression unreadable. “Tell me more about yourself.”
You froze.
Not because you didn’t want to—but because no one ever asked that. Not like that. Not seriously.
Not with that kind of openness in their voice, like he actually wanted to know.
The demon you accidentally summoned from a sketchy website at 3AM, who drinks boba like it’s holy nectar and thinks your hoodie smells like existential dread, was asking you—you—to talk about yourself.
You were stunned.
Then you did the only thing that made sense.
“…Okay,” you said quietly. “But only if you go first.”
He tilted his head, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile—something more honest. “Deal.”
You lay sprawled on your bed, one leg dangling off the side, your pillow tucked under your chin like a sad little emotional support loaf.
Across from you, Rafayel spun slow, lazy circles in the air like some haunted carousel ride. At one point he did a full backflip and declared it, “aesthetically necessary.”
And somehow, between the jokes and the occasional sarcastic remark, the conversation had slipped into something real.
You told him about your past. Your parents. The quiet house you grew up in. How you always wanted a sibling—not just to share toys with, but to not feel alone when the lights turned off and grief crept in.
You told him about the accident, how it felt like the world just stopped, and you were the only one still moving.
And he listened. Actually listened.
In return, he talked about the Void—though you were beginning to think “hell” was more of a branding issue than a literal place.
He described it like a strange bureaucracy: souls sorted, some punished, others recycled, a few left in the waiting room forever because someone misplaced their paperwork.
“Torture chambers are real, yeah,” he said casually, floating upside down with his hair hanging like a purplish waterfall. “But they’re for the actual evil ones. Not the spicy-sin level ones. Just murdery, unforgivable bastards.”
He paused, then smirked. “It’s always funny when a priest walks in. So shocked. Like, sir, you were literally laundering money and judging people for existing.”
You gave a snort-laugh, despite yourself.
Then you sat up, narrowing your eyes. “Okay, but—what is your role in all this? Why are you so free to be here, doing aerial tricks in my room and spending thousands on my credit card like it’s demon Black Friday?”
Rafayel floated to a stop, blinking.
Then he stretched out like a cat mid-yawn. “Technically, I’m a scout.”
“A scout?”
“Yeah. Recruits, human surveillance, some possession clearance checks, the occasional ‘make a deal for your soul’ gig—basic intern stuff.”
You gawked. “You’re telling me you’re a hell intern?”
He smirked. “Unpaid, of course. And overqualified.”
You dropped your head into your hands. “Of course you are.”
He floated a little closer, a glint in his eye. “But I was top of my class in emotional disruption and distraction techniques, thank you very much.”
“Yeah. I figured.”
He smirked, all teeth and knowing glint. “You’ll miss me.”
You blinked.
Then immediately scowled. “Fuck no.”
But the twinge in your chest—the subtle little ache—said otherwise.
Betrayal. By your own heart.
Rude.
Rafayel, of course, noticed. He always did. The bastard was like an emotion-sniffing dog, except instead of alerting people, he just smirked more.
“When I get promoted,” he said, reclining into his imaginary armchair like some otherworldly sitcom character, “I’ll finally be able to go back.”
Back to the Void. To hell.
To wherever demons like him belonged when they weren’t terrorizing emotionally constipated college students and draining their boba budgets.
You went quiet, lips pressed together.
Then, softly—almost like you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the answer—you asked,
“What if I want to see you again?”
He turned his head, cocking a brow. “I thought you wanted me to begone?”
“Well, yeah,” you mumbled, rubbing at your neck like you could hide your embarrassment behind muscle tension. “That was before I thought you were… fun.”
Rafayel blinked. Then blinked again, stunned just long enough for you to feel like maybe—maybe—you’d glitched the demon matrix.
“Fun?” he echoed, the grin creeping back slowly. “You think I’m fun?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
You groaned and rolled back onto your bed, covering your face with your hands.
From above, you heard the soft flick of a boba straw unwrapping. And then—
“You’re fun too, you know,” he said.
You peeked between your fingers.
He was still floating. Still smug. But maybe—just maybe—a little softer.
content: pure fluff, domestic!rafayel x fem!reader, reader and rafayel have twins, fear of thunder.
a/n: i saw someone say that this sounds like a lullaby that hyuna and luka are singing to their kids in a different universe and i lowkey hear luka as rafayel in this one so… this is the result. for somewhat immersive reading, play the song at the asterisk (*)
“i’m home!” you called out as you entered your shared home with arms full of grocery bags. you put the bags on the kitchen table and smiled as rafayel walked towards you.
“welcome back, my love.” rafayel said, smiling widely as his arms wrapped around you, planting a kiss on your cheek.
“where are the kids?” you asked but before he could answer, you had already received it in the form of two pairs of feet padding down the hallway.
“mommy!!” your twins called out, giggling excitedly as they practically pushed their dad aside to hug your legs.
“hi my babies!” you said, giggling as you bent down to hug them tightly.
“come play with us! daddy got too boringgg!!” one of them said before they both grabbed each of your hands, dragging you to their room.
rafayel chuckled and shook his head before working on putting away the groceries.
as the night went on, you and rafayel played with the kids until it was time for bed. as usual, you made sure they did everything necessary before going to bed.
as you were about to go to bed, rain began to fall, hitting their window in small pitter patters. it wasn’t until thunder began to boom that you heard a shriek of your and rafayel’s name.
“mommy!! daddy!!” the cry was followed by their feet running towards your room.
both you and rafayel quickly sat up. “what’s wrong?” you said softly.
“w-we’re scared. can we sleep with you?” one of them said, sniffling and wiping away the small tears that threatened to fall from their eyes.
“of course, come here my loves.” you said, opening your arms.
they both quickly rushed to your bed, climbing up and snuggling in the middle of you and rafayel. as you both hugged them, they were slowly beginning to calm down.
until a big crash of thunder sounded, the twins flinched, gasping and hiding under the covers.
“mommy.. daddy.. i’m scared.” you heard a small whisper.
“it’s okay, my love. we’re here to protect you, always.” you whispered back.
“i can’t sleep.. i’m too scared.” the other twin whispered.
“you know, your mom used to be scared of thunder too.” rafayel said, to which they both gasped at.
“how did you stop being scared?” they asked you.
“i stopped being scared when i met your dad. he used to sing me to sleep when i got scared.” you told them, smiling fondly at the memories of being wrapped tightly in rafayel’s warm embrace.
“he used to hold me, just like this.” your arms wrapped tightly around one of the twins’ while rafayel tightly hugged the other one.
“she used to listen to my heartbeat, like this.” he said, guiding his child’s head to their ear rested flat against his chest. you did the same. “and i used to sing to her.”
“what did you sing?” the twin you were holding asked.
“let’s see if i remember.. it was a song i learned when i was a kid.” he said softly.
*
you began to sing the song you remembered by heart, smiling as rafayel joined with you.
as you sang, you remember being held by rafayel so tightly, his words of affirmation ringing in your head.
nothing will hurt you. i will protect you forever.
you found yourself repeating those words to your children as they slowly drifted to sleep in your arms.
“i think they’re asleep.” rafayel whispered to you.
“i love you rafayel.” you whispered back.
“i love you most, miss bodyguard.” you couldn’t help but smile at the old nickname your husband used to call you.
you listened to the soft breathing of your children before drifting off to sleep.
MC reincarnates into a deity worshipped for her heart. Rafayel is her devout worshipper desperate to prove that his devotion to her goes far beyond everyone else's
aka using LaDs Rafayel as vessel to pour all my Filipino catholic trauma into. I need to romanticize suffering as a treat
gotta start a headcanon that isha is one of the kids from ekkos's tree commune and she knew him. isha left after the tree started dying and her big bro was nowhere to be found, she wants to look for him and that's when she came across jinx.
jinx only realizes this when she saw isha has an hourglass trinket on her. and the kid basically knows her way on the workshop. so it checks out 💁🏽
matter of fact, im writing a timebomb fic about this.
What do you mean they deleted a scene where kid Ekko tries to save kid powder and she “doesn’t need saving”?
What do you mean he checked her pulse before leaving the bridge?
What do you mean they deleted a scene where Ekko and jinx talked about his trip to the other world?
What do you mean!? It’s like you went oh, this makes their lives/love story sadder and we don’t want that but you left it without them together! Like! Just give me all the heartbreaking scenes if you’re going to break my heart anyway!
my favorite part of arcane season 2 was when ekko and jinx got married and raised isha and ruled over zaun together. truly an amazing ending wouldn't change a thing haha
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