If you can… Record of Ragnarok fluff/crush headcanons? (Specifically the Einherjar)
First ask of 2026! 🎉🎉 Already off to a good start this year!
Lü Bu:
Will watch you like an animal; there's something predatory in his eyes that just gives the common man the shivers.
If you're a warrior, prepare to be "courted" through combat. You must deliver to gain the respect, and mayhaps the adoration, of the flying general; otherwise, he's lost interest. If you're not a warrior, yeesh...this may take a while.
Is Chen Gong the best wingman? No. Honestly, he's kind of pissed that his lord has the eyes for someone else, while he's been giving little to none, but anything for his general, I guess.
Strong silent type, even if you're a warrior, but who doesn't like those quiet times with your partner?
I think Red Hare has a good sense of character; Lü Bu trusts her more than anything. If he's lost or his lieutenant fails him, it's the horse that comes in clutch.
Give him a good month or two and he'll court you, but make sure you can keep up with him.
Physical affection is a complete mystery to him; I'm sorry he gives the wildest expressions—y'all the disgust he gave when Mjolnir was bulging. Please give him, like, a lot of time to learn and understand romance.
Kojiro:
Gosh, is his kindred, youthful spirit contagious?
Will definitely ask for a spar if you're a warrior/experienced in combat; there's no stopping in the pursuit of learning, especially when it comes to battle knowledge. If you're not a warrior, there may be some polite little asks for chats, or sometimes coincidental meet-ups lead to long, random but insightful conversations—the stuff that leads you to ponder before you sleep, or see his face in your daydreams, or his voice in your ears.
I like to think that since he's very inexperienced with romance, he consults with Jack about it. Gets all the advice from him: when to court, how to react, the meanings behind little behavioral ticks.
"...And she had this look in her eyes."
"Sounds like she fancies you."
"And that's a good thing?"
"Indeed, it is."
How can someone be so wise-hearted but also so clueless?
Thanks to Manju Muso, almost every little movement is processed and calculated, but for you, and for this relationship, he's going in blind. While this is new to him, he doesn't want his little special skill to make the whole thing mundane; that wouldn't be fun, not for a guy like him.
Is quite affectionate and is willing to spend days doing nothing with you.
Lazy morning with tiny kisses and loose cuddles. It's strange: dating him is like being married to him for ages; prepare for an old-school, perpetually honeymoon-phase romance.
Also, play with his hair, please. He loves it just feeling your touch, so you can go wild styling it or just run your fingers through it.
Jack:
Not sure if he realizes it, but when he falls, he falls hard. He masks it so well it's poetic. Almost tragic.
Villains aren't supposed to have happy endings, but he isn't a villain. This name was given—no CHOSEN—and he plays the part so well.
It's just your color, that beautiful shade, evokes something passionate, almost provocative. Yes, that feeling long forgotten: love.
Will hesitate a little at first; the course of true love never did run smooth, but he can't just pine forever, Hlökk made that clear.
Courage would come soon enough, and he would spark a conversation, unless you pursued him first.
Will invite you to tea and sweets; nothing's better than talking over teatime, especially with someone you fancy. It's a slow start at first, but at least the ball starts rolling.
He'll ask for your hand whilst his own sticks out, tangling his fingers between yours like vines.
Imagine hiding away in a library—probably Alexandria's—not because you're making love, but because the dissonance of socialization steers you away.
Discussions about art and literature while wandering through what was once ancient ruins, mayhaps a little snogging in the process, but nothing too scandalous.
Kisses your hand when greeting and departing, and always hooking arms when walking.
Raiden:
Is loud and proud. Can you blame him? He's got simple wants and needs, usually because the wants are the needs and vice versa.
He loves his women~, so being courted is mainly hooking up with him, unless you were a key moment in his past life. What really matters is if you're coming back, not just for more, but in the off-season.
There's a difference between lust and devotion, and what he likes is the latter; that passion behind it.
A gentle giant, radiating with joy, but also can be a tease—real flirty.
Will fight harder if you're watching a match.
Will impress you with his strength and prowess.
Will definitely flaunt you like the best trophy he has ever won.
Not a lot, but sometimes, innuendos slip out.
Will treat you like glass.
Always has a hand on your person, so if you don't like physical touch/affection, you gotta coax him.
If you ask, he'll love to teach you/train with you, but he'll get real nervous if you ask to spar; the last thing he wants is you getting severely injured.
Buddha:
How'd you meet again? By chance? Coincidence? At this point, he's the most unpredictable amongst the gods, so who knows how the hell you met.
There's always something about him that makes you wanna slap and kiss. How you can get mad at him but also dream about him. Is it insufferable?
It can be, this toxic cycle you've conjured up just by his smirk alone; however, it's up to you on how to deal with it. (You're coming back either way)
Will tease you a lot, but it has that right amount of sweetness that you can just consume each and every day without getting sick.
Not too big on PDA, but he's a great cuddler. Cuddles galore, usually on the grassy plains far away from the hustle and bustle.
Offer him sweets, and he's listening.
It'll take some time, but if you're patient, he will share a portion of his candy. Not a lot, but it will gradually increase.
Very blunt and straightforward.
Great listener, and more often not—no matter how much you hate to believe it—he gives pretty good advice. He's definitely not one to tell you how you're feeling and how you should act and how to deal with it, but he's not gonna coddle you towards the answer; it ain't that easy, and you're smart enough to figure out, but he will support you if needed.
Play with his hair, especially if you're one to fidget.
Steal his clothes, please; the two of you will have a whole impersonation contest.
Meditates with you; big ol' hands clasping yours, and that fragrance of crusted sugar and lotus petals.
With him, it's about patience and enjoying the good times despite his juvenile behavior to the world.
Almost always gonna be some sugary residue on his lips, so it's the perfect excuse to kiss him.
Qin:
Crushes? There's no use in fawning over someone from behind curtains. If you love someone, show it. Offer yourself to them, so that they're aware of your devotion.
Approaches you straightforwardly and confidently, which could either make or break the relationship.
Qin likes a passionate, resilient woman capable of holding a gentle hand and an iron fist. Someone both grounded and amiable, but not easily faltering.
Sure he's got a lot of concubines, but a little competition never hurt anybody.
Pampers you. Cannot stress this enough, YOU WILL BE TREATED LIKE A QUEEN.
Expect lots of gifts, like A LOT: Ornate garbs/dresses, jewelry, expensive liquor, whole plates of food, accessories, sometimes even furniture and upholstery. Even if you tell him that no amount of gifts can sway your love for him, he'll still deliver, maybe paying a little more attention to any items you're interested in.
He's a cocky bastard, so hold him back before he does—or says—anything stupid.
Very clingy, very dramatic.
Speaks of you like a goddess, and will flaunt your immaculacy to everybody, so that they will know your beauty.
Quite protective of you, even if you can fight. Speaking of which, he'd definitely teach you how to fight.
Quite domestic beneath that hubris; Qin's an empath, we know this, so if you ever feel uncomfortable or overstimulated, he'll shoo everybody out of the room until it's just the two of you. A heart can only hold so much, and a mind can be so active for a time.
You're the only person allowed to take off his blindfold; you're jealous because how can one man hold the entire cosmos in his eyes? He tells you off; this is a curse, not a blessing, but he learned a valuable trait about himself through them.
Nikola:
Something's wrong. There's a flaw in the design. This summation doesn't correlate with the coordinates, and this trajectory is farther than the expected value.
Not to worry, he can fix it. There's nothing wrong with editing your work.
Graphite chips away, fading into the dust whilst chalk seizes his nostrils and his throat turns slightly.
He tries again, his mind firing away, almost boiling the cerebrospinal fluid. It doesn't add up. This result actually seems more preposterous than the last!
Mayhaps, some fresh eyes would help.
You've been canonically accurate in the past, finding the mistakes deep-rooted in his scribbles, even adding your two cents to the blackboard whenever he's in a tizzy.
That keen eye of yours is unparalleled, at least compared to his colleagues.
He remembers what you've demonstrated: that joyous transaction of knowledge transfer throughout the page, your own notes and annotations, your funny little quips.
Every time you offer lunch or dinner or any sort of treat while he trudges on with his work, there's stability. A sense that time has passed.
You wake from a stupor, but he pays no mind to the headiness of his eyes or the compression in his chest.
There's something subtextual in this magnetic pull you have. It's compelling, but repulsive because there's a caustic causation that you bring that irks him. You're a distraction—a variable constantly bobbing and taunting him, unwilling to be solved.
And yet, this whole time, he's been drawing you on the underside of the paper.
Somehow, it is subtextual because through you and his estimated measurements, he adjusted his equations.
The result was accurate, the flaw was gone, and Nikola entered a state of internal entropy.
Einstein's quantum entanglement states where two or more particles become linked, sharing the same fate so that measuring a property of one instantly influences the property of the other, regardless of the distance separating them, acting as if connected by an invisible thread—that "spooky action at a distance," as his colleague called it.
To think, it would affect him; nonetheless, the human mind—something both abstract and tangible. Praise to you was in order; he'll have to remind himself to do so before he can dip his toes into new research.
Leonidas:
Is loud and proud, but unlike Raiden, it's hard for him to slow down.
A real man of action; quiet time is borrowed time.
Also approaches you with the same straightforwardness as an entire military fleet.
Will flaunt his prowess in the most masculine, borderline narcissistic manner ever; every man here in Valhalla is competition, and he wants to present that dominance across these common men: Sparta men are not ones to fuck around.
Will teach you how to fight, even if you're not interested in/a pacifist, it's his way of expressing the capability and independence within you; as much as he loves protecting you from his enemies/these fools, he's not gonna baby you forever. What's wrong with a little self-defense?
Will make sure his men respect you; no one will badmouth his partner, nor will they even attempt to court them.
Will train/exercise with you and DEFINITELY want to spar with you.
If you're a general/experience fighter/a royal of some sort, he'll get giddy; learning from other warlords from different ages gets him going, but be prepared for a bit of hubris, he takes pride in his army and leadership.
Idk about you, but I kinda see him giving gifts, like new clothes/garbs or small pieces of gold jewelry.
Would die for your cooking.
Will let you sleep on his chest.
Would fight harder in your honor.
Not the type to mince words, and he approaches all of his actions with the same blunt, direct intensity.
He wears his heart on his sleeve, but he's not some sensitive wuss.
Okita:
Crushes like the playground bully.
A bit of tsundere; he's gotta a reputation here as History's Most Ruthless Swordsman.
The shinsengumi all act as his wingmen, but not without a bit of teasing; could you imagine one of your strongest members fawning over somebody? Especially a pipsqueak like him. (You can hear the shrill protests of a child in the distance.)
Will pick flowers for you and hide his blush in the folds of his scarf.
You get guard dog privileges, even though the breed is a Chihuahua.
Once he opens up, he can be very playful and quite affectionate, but not really in public; exchanging kisses like secrets behind closed doors, cuddles underneath layers of sheets, playing with the stray kittens who've died and been sent to Valhalla.
Will try to impress you, and will be prone to rousing fights if someone picks on him. You've gotta hold him back before anyone gets sliced.
If you're a swordsman, he will ABSOLUTELY LOVE to spar with you; you've got him like a kid in a candy store.
Will tease you too: pinch your cheeks, play with your hair, poke your face, and will definitely play fight.
You two act like childhood friends.
Can say the most profound shit sometimes, and then blow it off like it's nothing, as if it's just common sense.
Gives gifts, but like unconventional gifts—things that remind him of you.
Sïmo:
He doesn't exactly understand: you've only interacted a few times—barely talked enough to be considered a conversation—and yet that target has never met the burning sensations of his bullets. What IS happening?
He flexes his fingers; it's silent, but it's an unnerving quiet. He can breathe just fine. He can see just fine. He can aim and handle his rifle just fine, so why?
There's a foreboding presence, one that both prey and predator fear.
Sïmo wanders, pondering for a bit: throughout his life, war beseech for a vigor that couldn't accept peace or silence for nourishment.
Monsters—he's turned into the worst version of himself to bring the best of himself for the sake of love.
Fingers cling to a piece of lint stuck to his coat.
Self-awareness; he doesn't take pride in what he has done, and God does he not truly accept the praise from his own people and the reluctant admiration of his enemies.
At the end of the day, someone died.
He knows this feeling; it took him a minute, but he understood what it was: Vulnerability.
He was vulnerable towards you.
He wishes to be vulnerable to you.
Love brings out the worst in people, transforming them into the best versions of themselves.
Sïmo sighs, well, more like exhales; it's a feeling that he never quite considered since this protective behavior feels more twisted than what it is.
He attempts in his quiet, low-key monotonous demeanor; these things take time, and he definitely takes pride in his patience.
Kille is a good judge of character, so if the dog approves, he approves.
Very soft and domestic; expresses himself through acts of service and is willing to teach you shooting and proper gun handling.
Will try to cook for you. Emphasis on try, but if you're a better cook, he'll hunt some game for you.
Expect him to be away for extended periods of time; he can be quite introspective.
Hand-holding is a must.
If you like dogs, that's great, he likes them too. If you're allergic to dogs, there's nothing much he can do. Kille is attached to the hip.
Let's you kiss his scar.
Kintoki:
He truly is the golden boy.
The people love him, looking past the demonized/demigod lineage. You fall for it too, but like, how can you not?
Feels like hope is alive, true goodness can be achieved, more human than any god, more godly than any human.
Kintoki was pretty sociable despite not meeting many people, so when his head just wandered back to the moment you met, he—and the company of Buddha—were surprised.
And when he crushes, he crushes like a schoolboy.
Speaking of the Shaka, he's this guy's wingman, but he does leave him high and dry sometimes.
Another guy who wears his heart on his sleeve.
He's protective, but not suffocating, and loyal to a fault.
Like Buddha, he's also a great listener; if there's anything you want from him, he'll do it, he'll deliver.
Imagine lazy days lying on grassy plains or cooking together in his home, or feeding you sweets.
You'll exchange inside jokes like good ol' friends.
Just a big ol' golden retriever boyfriend, the more humanized version of Heracles.
Nostradamus:
They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Will dress up as you; when you're someone's muse, every raw detail—the external and internal—is forever cherished.
Will prank you, so keep your wits up; courting him—or at least, interacting with him—already entered you into a prank war.
Will idolize you in the most poetic, dramatic, almost cringe-worthy way.
When he falls, he falls madly, swooning like a maiden at the sight of you.
You are the prime target of his teasing, and boy, IS HE ANNOYING.
And yet, he treats you like a queen when you have your period.
Very clingy, somehow more dramatic than QSH.
Smothers you like crazy, and peppers your face in kisses like a madman.
Predicts that he and you will live in holy matrimony forever.
"Il n'y a aucune faute à reprocher; c'était écrit dans les étoiles!"
How beautiful do you think this plain is? Every follicle of grass is that seedy color of grain, drying into dust after a rushing gale. There are a few wildflowers, but everything just seems to smell like barley. Fields of wheat that will never be harvested, but plucked perhaps by some creatures. This is the only place you rise to see; why farm these barren acres of land when you could've been somewhere more lush and vibrant? While it may be a simple sacrifice, it isn't as if your sight is blinded.
Despite what one may think, you're happy with your field.
To the depths your family has dug to gain a sixth of what the nobleman has—only a fourth of what commoners have. Three generations worth of toil and torment—turmoil. For only a few acres of barren land and a ramshackled home cornering the meadow. Every morning now, you wake alone with grain in your nostrils and sawdust on your lips. Dawn likes to pour honey from your field to, at least, beautify your crops. As much as you would like to thank the sun, you could do without the blinding light sometimes. Someday, you plan to grow something. A vegetable garden, perhaps, filled with edible roots coated in the sweet juices of Mother Nature's womb. Your mother would have loved it, adding flowers along the perimeter to charm a few butterflies and bees. Your father would have monopolized, willing to sell your homegrown vegetables to neighboring villages.
Acid burns the back of your throat. Good God, why must they go? They leave you barren, naked, and afraid. You are just a child burning in a silent fire. Why must they go? Sweet princess of the wasteland, how many trials will you face before you find salvation? Nevermore will there be a happy ending, as these final pages have turned to ash. Heave, and bask in the dead grass.
Something crunched. The dead grass splintered into chips. The earth pulsed underneath you. Clefted by stone, or calcium. Multiple hard substances beat the world in rhythm—the drums of coming soldiers. You held your head high over the hay; gravity went off-kilter for a breath's moment. Like a wildflower, wind swept a full head of hair. Deep navy hibiscus; an unusual musk hits your nose. You hobble, trying to stand and marvel at the sight. A man as tall and sturdy as oak wood, glorified with deep carvings along his chest and forearms, but his lower half startled you the most. It was the steel hammers that beat against the solid earth—mere tales from your grandmother exaggerated that phrase. Yet, to this day, you never thought they would come to haunt you.
The grains whispered only one word.
Run.
To the hills and valleys, you thought, would be your new home. Damn these barren fields, damn the land, damn three generations worth of hard labor. You're life was on the line, now. And it was about time to retire from this place.
You ran as much as your legs could handle, burning your calves with acid. Sawdust and grit are inhaled through your nostrils as you bite your lip. Your feet launch you mere inches across the field; the little cottage is nothing more than a grease stain along the tawny sky. The steel hammers kept pounding the earth; your lungs start to compress under the weight. To the hills and valleys, you thought. The village people would keep you safe, even if you spiral into madness. To the hills and valleys, you were so close, yet so far. You commanded—no begged—your legs to push you further away from the coming storm. Prayers be damned, there's nowhere left to kneel. The sky is dead and filled with cobwebs, and all the hope has been eaten out of house and home from your family's gaping mouths. To the hills and valleys, to the hills and valleys, to the hills and val—
It caught your arm. Your wrist croons from his grip. You flailed like a ragdoll, crumpling onto the ground. He snorted...or neighed...before yanking you up and down. You bob and try to break free from his grasp, but he only tightens his grip, causing you to whine in pain. After some examination, he finally spoke.
"I shall make you my bride."
You gasped as you were being pulled away from salvation. So close, yet so far. You could see it, the hills and the valleys and the villages and the holy sunset just beyond the horizon.
Tears welled up in your eyes. You stupid, feeble girl, as if you could outrun a horse.
