𓂃۶ৎ۪ 𝅄 Shedletsky

Steam curls from the microwave like a lazy spirit, drifting through the cramped warmth of Shedletsky’s kitchen.

The hum of the appliance fills the air in an almost meditative way—almost. It breaks the moment each time he lets out another pleased grunt, leaning down to watch his chicken rotate like it’s the finest treasure ever forged.

You hover just behind him, unseen, untouched by the mortal air. A faint shimmer clings to your outline, the subtle glow of a celestial being who’s fallen from favor and is clawing their way back toward the Garden of Love. This mission—this man—is supposed to be your path to redemption. Yet the sight before you… makes your eyebrow twitch.

He reaches behind himself and scratches his ass with a cough so wet and so abrasive you physically flinch. You grimace hard enough your face hurts.

This? This is your next assignment? The Goddess of Love is laughing. You’re sure of it.

Still, work is work.

You lift your bow.

A golden arrow warms between your fingers, humming with the distinct magic of divine longing. Your aim is precise, steady—graceful even. But just as you release, he waddles away from the microwave with uncanny timing, tugged by some primal instinct toward his fridge. He flings it open, beaming into its fluorescent light like he’s discovered a holy relic.

Tch, fatass.

You draw another arrow as irritation pricks under your skin. You aim again.

You shoot— And he moves again.

This time to the microwave, which beeps triumphantly as if joining in the sabotage. He practically lunges to free his chicken, cradling the steaming plate like a newborn.

Your jaw drops. “Are you kidding me.”

You take a breath. Another. You gather yourself, wings fanning slowly as you float higher, giving yourself a clearer angle. You wait. You watch him waddle in a half-circle near the counter, humming happily. And then—finally—he stands still. For one glorious second, he’s not moving.

This is it.

You draw. You fire.

The arrow streaks forward with perfect speed, perfect aim, perfect celestial force… and lands squarely in his chest with a soft, magical thunk.

He gasps—loud, dramatic—and staggers back, clutching the counter for balance. His chicken nearly slips from his grip before he catches it by instinct alone. Then his pupils bloom into glowing, pulsating pink hearts, expanding with every beat of his suddenly-compelled pulse. His cheeks flush deep rose.

He sways on his feet.

You stay hovering above him, watching the magic settle, watching the glow take hold.

And then his head slowly lifts, tilting, pupils spinning in heart-shaped spirals. Right toward the next person he sees. Which… unfortunately… is you.

He sways once, twice, then steadies himself on the counter. That lovesick glow in his pupils sharpens into something almost dangerous—overconfident, overeager, unmistakably directed at you.

You freeze midair. He shouldn’t see you. He can’t see you. And yet his smile widens like he’s been waiting for you his whole life.

“Hey there, angel…” he drawls, voice syrup-thick and smug. “Are you a microwave? ’Cause—” He points both thumbs at himself. “—I can feel us heating up.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Oh please, no. Don’t let this be the direction love goes.

He steps closer, hips swinging like he’s performing for an audience. His stupidly smug grin grows deeper, stretching his cheeks until they nearly match the pink glow in his eyes. “Wait, wait, I got another one,” he says, lifting a hand like he’s about to deliver divine truth. “Are you a chicken…?” He winks. “Because I’m cluckin’ in love with you.”

You groan aloud before you can stop yourself. “No. Absolutely not.”

He gasps dramatically as if wounded by your rejection—and then immediately brightens with a spark of determination. “Ohhh, playing hard to get? Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got infinite rizz.” He struts forward like he’s on a runway made of pure delusion. “Are you a bow and arrow?” he whispers. “Because I’ve fallen for you.”

Your eye twitches so hard it physically hurts. You shake your head rapidly, wings fluttering with disbelief, but the motion only seems to embolden him.

“Oh-ho-ho, I see how it is,” he says, swiveling on one heel and dropping like a sack of bricks onto one knee. The thump echoes. Gravely. Terrifying.

You don’t even get time to recoil before—He lifts his rotisserie chicken high above his head, holding it reverently with two hands like an offering, heart-shaped pupils gleaming.

“Marry me,” he declares, voice trembling with dramatic sincerity. “No ring. But I have chicken.”

You stare. He stares back. You consider firing a second arrow directly at his brainstem.