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 room was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire and Y/N’s soft humming as he moved about his home. But for the seven pairs of glassy eyes perched on the shelf, the silence was deafening.
The Archons—the once-great demons who had fought against the forces of the world—had been sealed for thousands of years. Their essence, their power, all trapped within these fragile vessels. The porcelain bodies, though inanimate, held their consciousness. They could see, hear, and feel the passage of time—but they could not speak, could not move. It was a prison like no other.
And now, after so many centuries of being passed from one careless hand to another, they found themselves here, in the small, unremarkable home of Y/N.
To Y/N, they were merely broken dolls. But to them, Y/N was something far more.
Through their unblinking eyes, they watched him. They saw every quiet moment, every smile, every sigh. They watched him as he swept the floor, as he cooked his meager meals, as he sat by the fire crocheting blankets in the evening light. He was always so gentle, so patient. The way he handled their fragile bodies made their cold, lifeless hearts ache in a way they hadn’t felt in centuries.
How they wished they could speak to him.
Venti, the spirit of wind and freedom, had always been the most talkative among them. He longed to sing again, to tease and joke with Y/N the way he used to with his comrades. But his voice was silent, trapped within a doll that could do nothing but stare. He watched Y/N smile, watched him laugh at his own quiet jokes, and oh, how he longed to join in that laughter.
Zhongli, ever the stoic and composed, had long since accepted his fate. But even he felt the bitter sting of helplessness as he observed Y/N go about his daily life. Zhongli had always prided himself on his wisdom, on his ability to protect those he cared for. But now, all he could do was watch, unable to lift a finger to help the one person who had shown them kindness in countless years. His golden eyes gleamed with a quiet sorrow every time Y/N reached out to touch him.
Raiden Shogun, the once-powerful and unyielding ruler of eternity, felt the greatest frustration of them all. Trapped in this tiny, immobile form, she could do nothing but wait, her power sealed away. Her longing to protect, to defend, burned inside her, but all she could do was watch Y/N with eyes that could not blink, with hands that could not grasp a sword. Her soul yearned to keep him safe, yet she was powerless.
The Tsaritsa, with her cold, regal beauty, had long since hardened her heart to the pain of isolation. But even she could not help the quiet stirrings of something akin to gratitude when Y/N placed her carefully on the shelf, his touch soft and gentle. He had cleaned her, repaired her broken limbs. For the first time in what felt like eternity, she was treated as something valuable, something cherished. The icy walls she had built around herself began to thaw, little by little.
And Mavuika, always the silent observer, found herself watching Y/N’s every move with a quiet intensity. She had never known what it meant to be cared for. To be loved. But now, as she sat among the others, dressed in the clothes he had painstakingly sewn for them, she realized that this human had given her something she had never expected: hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, they were more than forgotten relics of the past.
