Archons x male reader
Candle lights flicker, rain drops onto the ground.
7 souls captured in the heart of darkness.
The candle, extinguished.
Credit to the artist who drew the art in the story cover.
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The morning sun filtered gently through the curtains, casting long, soft beams of light across Y/N’s modest kitchen. The air was still, the only sound being the quiet clink of his spoon against the bowl as he stirred his oatmeal. He ate in silence, as he always did. The solitude was something he had grown used to over the years, an odd comfort in the quietness of his routine. He had always lived alone, and in some ways, he liked it that way.
His home was small but cozy, filled with little tokens of his hobbies. Stacks of books lined the walls, each one dog-eared and well-read. Beside his chair was his basket of yarn and crochet hooks, where half-finished blankets and scarves waited to be completed. Nature, too, called to him, and his love for the outdoors was evident in the potted plants lining his windowsills, their leaves gently swaying in the morning breeze.
As he ate, Y/N’s gaze drifted to the shelf again.
Empty. Always empty.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much, but every time he looked at it, a strange feeling stirred inside him, a mix of longing and unease. It had been like that for as long as he could remember. The shelf stood there, waiting for something—something that never seemed to arrive. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried to fill it. Over the years, he had placed various objects on it—small trinkets, vases, even a picture frame once. But nothing ever seemed to stay. Every time, it felt wrong, like whatever he placed there wasn’t meant to be.
So now it sat empty again, as it had for years, a silent reminder of something he couldn’t quite name.
Y/N sighed softly, taking another spoonful of his breakfast, his thoughts wandering. He didn’t notice the subtle shift outside his window, the faint rustling of leaves as something—or someone—moved just beyond the glass.
Unbeknownst to Y/N, eyes watched him.
They had been watching for days now, perhaps even weeks. Hidden in the shadows, just out of sight, they observed his every move—the way he ate in silence, the way he carefully tended to his plants, the way he lingered in front of that empty shelf as though waiting for it to reveal its purpose. The eyes, cold and calculating, never left him for long.
Y/N finished his breakfast and stood up, clearing his dishes from the table. The small clatter of ceramic filled the room as he rinsed his bowl in the sink, oblivious to the presence just outside his window. He moved with practiced ease, his routine familiar and unhurried. After all, what was there to rush for? Another quiet day awaited him—perhaps a stroll through the nearby woods, a few chapters of a novel, or maybe he’d work on his crocheting.
As he dried his hands on a towel, Y/N’s gaze was pulled back to the shelf once more. The feeling was stronger today, more insistent. His brow furrowed, and he walked over to it, standing just in front of the empty space.
Why did it feel so wrong?
He reached out, almost without thinking, his fingers brushing the smooth wood. The sensation was oddly comforting, yet unsettling at the same time, as if the shelf itself was waiting for something—something only he could give. But what?
