#Coils of the Serpent Au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

edenesth · 30 days ago

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01. The Captain — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang leader!Hongjoong x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 18.1k

Summary: The Captain of the Black Pirates—respected, feared, and unmatched in strategy—lives by his sharp mind and unshakable resolve. But his carefully constructed world begins to crumble when a grave mistake leads him to torture an innocent suspect nearly to death. Haunted by guilt, his quest for redemption takes an unexpected turn, awakening a part of him he never thought existed: a desire to protect and care for someone.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, blood, scars, mentions of murder and SA, language, contains dark themes in general

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

The dim glow of lantern light flickered across the room as the gang leader held the letter between his fingers, turning it over with a scrutinising gaze. His brow arched slightly, the ivory wax seal bearing the unmistakable insignia of the White Serpents—a gang notorious for their cunning and deception, their pristine image masking venomous intent. Silent but deadly, serpents poised to strike. And Hongjoong knew them well.

"Well?" His voice was calm, almost amused, as he studied the coded message in his hand.

Yunho exhaled sharply with a shake of his head, frustration etched across his face. "She's stubborn. Won't admit to a thing. Twenty-four hours, and still nothing."

The Captain's smirk widened, dark amusement playing in his eyes. "Really? Even with this treacherous letter in her possession?" He tapped the envelope lightly. "Twenty-four hours… that's impressive. No dog has ever lasted that long." His tone was laced with mock intrigue. "Perhaps she's an especially loyal one. How interesting."

He leaned back, nodding toward the heavy iron doors leading to the basement, his voice low and confident. "A tough one to crack, no doubt. But they all crack… eventually." The distant echo of chains rattling and the creak of the doors opening sent a chill through the air. The game had only just begun.

Let's see just how long you can last.

The room was dim, suffocating in its silence, the air thick with tension and the metallic scent of damp stone. Your breath hitched as consciousness clawed its way back, and the cold, unforgiving chill bit at your drenched skin. You blinked through the sting of icy water clinging to your lashes, your trembling gaze rising to meet the source of the voice that shattered the oppressive stillness.

"Congratulations, miss!" The sudden, mocking boom made you flinch, fear coiling tighter around your chest. "You're the first to last a full day in these chambers. How very impressive!"

The man before you was smaller than the one who had been 'questioning' you earlier—a tall, lanky figure whose blows you could still feel—but this one's presence was far more terrifying. Cold authority radiated from him, his smile a twisted mockery of warmth. He stepped closer, his sharp eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "I trust my boys have treated you well."

A shiver tore through you, body wracked with uncontrollable tremors—whether from the bitter cold or the malice in his voice, you couldn't tell. His grin widened, and the false politeness only made it worse. "Fear not, my lady," he purred, his tone soft and deadly. "I'll treat you even better… until you decide to be honest, of course."

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach, despair crashing over you. You tried to shake your head, but your body was too weak and cold to offer feeble resistance. And yet, you knew—this was only the beginning.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you wished for the thousandth—no, the millionth—time that this was all a nightmare. The cold seeped into your bones, but it wasn't just the chill that made you tremble. It was the gnawing fear, the hopelessness that clung to you like a second skin.

How did it come to this?

You replayed the events over and over in your mind, searching for an answer, but all you found was confusion. Just a day or two ago, you had been weaving through the bustling port, arms laden with imported goods for your employer. The crowded streets were alive with noise—merchants shouting, sailors hauling cargo, smugglers slipping through the shadows. You had only wanted to return to work, unaware that fate had already marked you.

Then it happened. A sharp turn into an alley. The sudden grip of rough hands. Black-clothed men cornering you like wolves circling their prey, eyes sharp and merciless. Their accusations—espionage, treachery—made no sense. You tried to explain, voice trembling, but they didn't listen. Not until they tore through your belongings and fished out a letter—one you had never seen before.

The blow came swiftly, a fist to your face, and the world went dark.

Now, here you were. Broken. Bleeding. Trapped in a nightmare you couldn't escape.

"P-please… I d-don't know who the Wh-white Serpents are," you stammered, forcing your swollen eye open to meet the man who seemed to command the room, his presence suffocating. "I s-swear…"

Hongjoong's tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, his irritation barely concealed behind a mask of feigned calm. "You know," he said, his voice laced with a dangerous softness, "I was really hoping you wouldn't say that again." He exhaled in a mock sigh, his patience wearing thin. "Now you've left me no choice."

With deliberate steps, he moved toward the glowing embers at the far side of the room. The fire crackled, and your breath hitched when he wrapped his hand around a hot branding iron, its tip glowing ominously.

No, please...

Panic surged through you, and tears spilt uncontrollably down your cheeks. You didn't even have the strength to sob anymore. You could only watch in frozen terror as he turned back, the iron in his grasp radiating heat and menace.

"Come on," he cooed, voice deceptively gentle. "I'd really hate to ruin such pretty skin. All you have to do is be a good girl—tell me what this blasted letter says. Tell me the name of your boss." His grin was sharp, dangerous, but beneath it, you sensed his patience was threadbare.

The White Serpents. The name alone ignited his fury. Their faces were always hidden, their identities a mystery. Even their leader remained a ghost, a phantom in white. And that infuriated him more than anything—an enemy he couldn't see, couldn't predict.

And now, you were his only lead.

The room seemed to shrink under the weight of his frustration. The dim light flickered over the cold stone walls, shadows dancing like spectres of every soul that had suffered here before you. His grip on the branding iron tightened, the metal searing hot in his hand, glowing with menace. He didn't want to take this step—truly, he didn't. But the memory of how they found you replayed in his mind, solidifying his certainty.

You were guilty. You had to be.

He clenched his jaw, recalling the chaos at the port. The Black Pirates were in the midst of a crucial covert operation, tensions strung taut like a wire. They had been waiting for the White Serpents to make a move, for the elusive spy to slip through their defences. The streets were crowded, the perfect cover for deception.

Then there was you.

A simple girl, or so it seemed, navigating the busy market with unsuspecting ease. Unbeknownst to you, the real spy—the one they had been hunting—moved silently through the crowd. In a calculated move, the informant slipped the coded letter into your bag and vanished into the sea of bodies before anyone could catch him.

Hongjoong's men, sharp-eyed and vigilant, saw the handoff. They reacted swiftly, believing they had caught the elusive spy. You were cornered in the alley, fear etched across your face as you begged for understanding, your confusion only cementing their suspicions. The letter was damning enough. Evidence was evidence, and the Captain trusted his crew's intelligence.

But now, staring at you—broken, trembling, tears staining your bruised cheeks—he felt the edges of his certainty fraying. You persisted in your pleas, clinging to innocence with a desperation that should have crumbled by now. And yet… you hadn't.

"Last chance, woman," he said coldly, his voice like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. The heat from the iron radiated, the threat palpable. "There will be no going back from here. I'm sure you know that."

He meant the words as a warning for you, a final offer before he left mercy behind. But deep down, perhaps they were a warning for himself, too—a foreshadowing he didn't yet grasp.

You shook your head weakly, trembling from exhaustion and terror. Still no confession. Still the same maddening persistence.

Hongjoong raised the branding iron, holding it close to your battered face. His eyes burned with something dangerous, something teetering between anger and frustration.

"Well then," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, the finality in his tone sealing your fate—or so he thought.

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The air in the torture chamber hung heavy with the acrid stench of scorched flesh, mingling with the damp chill of the stone walls. His cold, calculating gaze never wavered as he watched you, unconscious and crumpled on the floor, your body trembling even in unconsciousness. The mark of the Black Pirates seared into your back, raw and angry, a testament to the brutality you'd endured.

"That'll scar for life," one of his men muttered, a mix of awe and amusement in his voice.

Hongjoong let out a low, humourless chuckle, his eyes dark with unrelenting resolve. "For life?" he echoed, tilting his head slightly. "How optimistic. I doubt she'll live long enough to see the next sunrise if she continues to be this stubborn."

His voice was void of emotion, laced with a chilling indifference that sent a shiver through even the most hardened of his men. He didn't enjoy this—not exactly—but he had no patience for weakness. If you wouldn't talk, you were nothing but a liability, and liabilities were dealt with swiftly.

He turned away for a moment, tossing the branding iron back into the fire with a careless flick of his wrist. Embers exploded in every direction, but he paid them no mind. "We've wasted enough time on her," he said, voice cold and final. "If she doesn't confess after this, end it. Finish her."

The room fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire, the finality of his words hanging in the air like a death sentence. One of the guards nodded, his expression stoic. "Of course, boss."

Hongjoong motioned toward the bucket of dirty water beside you, its murky surface rippling with the slightest movement. "Wake her," he commanded, his voice devoid of mercy, anticipating the agony that would soon follow.

The guard lifted the bucket with ease, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he approached. Without hesitation, he tilted it, the filthy water cascading over your battered body. The moment the contaminated water hit your wounds, especially the fresh burn, your body convulsed violently.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and guttural, piercing through the oppressive stillness. It wasn't the kind of scream that came from fear—it was the sound of pure, unfiltered agony.

The Captain didn't flinch. He stood tall, arms crossed, watching with a detached curiosity as you writhed on the floor. "That's better," he muttered, almost to himself. "Now, let's see if you're ready to talk."

He crouched down beside you, his face an unreadable mask. "Final chance," he said softly, almost tenderly, as if mocking your suffering. "Who sent you?" His voice dipped lower, dangerously calm. "Or would you prefer to die in this filth, unloved and forgotten?"

The only response was the ragged sound of your breath, broken sobs wracking your body. His patience was wearing thin, and though he was a man known for his control, he was ready to end this.

A shuddering breath escaped your lips, each gasp searing through your lungs like fire. The icy water clung to your battered body, every drop seeping into your open wounds, amplifying the unbearable pain. Your vision blurred, the dim room spinning into shadows and smoke, but you clung to the fragments of your thoughts, the last remnants of who you were.

This is it, you thought, the realisation settling over you with a strange, hollow calm. This is how it ends.

You didn't know why these monsters had dragged you into their nightmare, why they believed you were a spy. You didn't understand the cruel fate that had brought you here, only that it had. And now, there was no escape. The man before you, with his cold eyes and cruel smirk, had made that clear.

Your body trembled violently, not from the cold but from the acceptance creeping into your heart. Death will be a mercy, you thought. Better this than more agony.

Closing your eyes, you let the numbness wash over you, a strange kind of peace taking root beneath the layers of fear. You thought of your friends—the laughter shared over simple joys. You thought of your family, their faces blurred by memory but still holding warmth. And you thought of your employer, the one person who had seen worth in you when the world turned away. You prayed they would not grieve too long. You prayed they would find solace.

I'll watch over them, you promised silently. From wherever I'm going.

The wet, acrid air filled your lungs, heavy and suffocating. Every second stretched into eternity, and you waited for the final blow, the one that would release you. Your heartbeat slowed, the frantic rhythm giving way to a dull, distant echo.

And then, the room grew deathly quiet.

Hongjoong remained crouched, studying you, his iron grip on control unwavering. He didn't speak immediately, and that was almost worse. The silence pressed down, a suffocating weight, as if the world was holding its breath.

"Still nothing?" His voice was soft now, eerily gentle, like a predator savouring the last moments before the kill.

You didn't respond. Couldn't. There was nothing left to say. You were ready for the end.

And then, with a slow exhale, you heard him murmur almost to himself, "What a shame."

The gang leader let out a long, slow breath, his head shaking slightly, a humourless smile curving his lips. His eyes lingered on your broken form, slumped over, trembling and soaked, but utterly still, as if you had already crossed into death's grasp. Your eyes fluttered shut, the last spark of defiance extinguished. With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet, dusting off his coat with deliberate care, and with a curt nod, gestured toward his men.

"Finish it."

The words were cold and final, slicing through the room like a blade. One of the guards stepped forward, the metallic click of his gun cocking echoing in the dim space, followed by the low scrape of his boot on the wet floor. Hongjoong turned his back on you, jaw tight, waiting for the shot to ring out, waiting for the moment to pass so he could move on from this wasted effort.

But then— footsteps. Quick and urgent, echoing down the stone stairway.

"Wait."

The voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a sudden gust of wind. The room froze, the guard's finger hovering over the trigger as all eyes turned toward the stairs. Yeosang emerged from the shadows, his usual cool composure replaced by something unsettled. His sharp gaze darted toward your barely conscious form before locking onto his captain, his face unreadable, but his unease unmistakable.

Hongjoong's brow lifted in mild curiosity, though his patience was wearing thin. "What is it, Yeo?" he asked, voice clipped as the Phantom strode forward, his expression grave.

Yeosang leaned in close, his voice low but firm as he murmured something into the gang leader's ear, too quiet for the others to hear. Whatever he said, it landed like a blow. Hongjoong's entire posture shifted. His jaw clenched, his fists curling and uncurling at his sides as he processed the whispered words.

The room held its collective breath.

After what felt like an eternity, the Captain straightened, his eyes dark with a new kind of frustration, though there was no mistaking the glimmer of something else—regret? Anger? It was impossible to tell.

His voice, when it came, was sharp and decisive. "Release her."

The room erupted in a flurry of confusion, but no one dared question him. The guard with the gun hesitated for only a second before lowering it, stepping back. Another moved to untie the chains binding your wrists, the cold iron clattering to the floor as your limp body crumpled forward.

Hongjoong's gaze never wavered, his face carved from stone as he watched you collapse. His men obeyed without question, though their confusion was palpable, the tension still thick in the air.

As you slumped to the ground, barely conscious, he let out another breath, slow and controlled, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"Take her to the infirmary," he commanded, voice icy but steady. "And keep her alive."

His men exchanged uncertain glances but quickly moved to obey, lifting your frail body with care as they carried you out. He remained rooted, his eyes lingering on the bloodstained floor, his fists clenched once more as Yeosang watched him silently.

"I hope for your sake," Hongjoong muttered under his breath, "this wasn't a mistake."

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The heavy oak door to his office slammed shut behind him, the echo reverberating through the grand but cold space. Hongjoong paced across the dimly lit room, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls, but offering no warmth. His hand shook slightly as he poured another shot of whiskey, the amber liquid splashing over the rim. He didn't care. He downed it in one swift motion, the burn doing little to drown the bile rising in his throat.

Wrong person.

His brother's words replayed in his mind like a curse, each syllable a dagger to his pride.

"Hyung, we got the wrong person. She's not the spy—the real one escaped. This woman was just... there. A scapegoat."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The whiskey glass slammed down on the desk, the sharp crack of glass against wood making his men just outside the door flinch. But none dared to enter. They knew better.

His fists balled at his sides, trembling with suppressed rage—at Yeosang, at his crew, at himself. The sight of your bloodied form flashed in his mind, the raw agony in your voice as he pressed the searing iron into your skin. He could still hear the echoes of your pleas, the desperate, broken words you had whispered over and over: I'm not who you think I am... please...

He should have known.

How could he have missed it? The way you had looked at him, not with defiance or guilt but with pure, unfiltered fear and confusion. He was Kim Hongjoong, the Captain of the Black fuckin' Pirates—his instincts had never failed him before. Yet this time, he had been blinded by rage, by the need for control, and it had led him to commit an unforgivable mistake.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk, the polished surface groaning under the strain. No amount of wealth or power in this city could erase the image of your battered, broken body lying on the cold floor. The branded mark he had burned into your back would scar, not just on your skin but in his mind, forever.

The Black Pirates were ruthless, yes, but not reckless. Innocents were not meant to be collateral unless there was no other choice. This... this was different. It was unacceptable.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, hollow and laced with self-loathing. "How could this happen?" he muttered to no one, his voice cracking. "I'm the one who doesn't make mistakes."

But this was a mistake. A fatal one, if Yeosang hadn't intervened.

The storm inside him raged on, unrelenting. No amount of whiskey could drown it, no fire could warm the cold knot in his chest. For the first time in years, Kim Hongjoong felt something foreign and unwelcome searing through him.

Regret.

He sank into the leather chair behind his desk, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His hands covered his face, shaking as if he could scrub away the guilt, the shame. But it was branded on him now, just as deeply as the mark he had scorched into your skin.

After what felt like hours, he remained in his office, standing by the window, the golden light of the waning sun casting a sharp contrast against the deep shadows in the room. His gaze pierced through the glass, locking onto the tall, black gates of their mansion—gates that symbolised power, control, and security. Yet today, they felt like bars of a prison. He imagined how those gates must have looked to you, cold and foreboding, as you were dragged inside, far from the life you knew, thrust into a nightmare you hadn't earned.

He clenched his jaw, fists curling at his sides as the weight of his guilt continued to press down on him. One mistake. One mistake. That's all it had taken to bring you here. A mistake from his men, from him, and it had led to your torture. His throat tightened as those cruel memories clawed at him: your ragged pleas, your broken body, and worst of all, his voice—cold, detached, ruthless—demanding answers you didn't have.

Remorse surged through him, an agonising tide that refused to ebb. His own words echoed in his mind, venomous and unforgiving: "Be a good girl and tell us what this blasted letter says." His stomach twisted, the taste of bile bitter on his tongue.

He turned away from the window, squeezing his eyes shut as he clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp as if the pain could drown out the memories. But it only intensified the haunting vision that consumed him: his mother's lifeless eyes, staring into nothingness, wide with fear and betrayal. She had died for nothing—used, discarded, and left to rot by men who saw her as collateral damage. All for debts that weren't hers to pay.

He had been just a boy—useless and powerless—as he watched her lifeblood seep into the dirt, all because of his degenerate father, who had left them behind with nothing but mountains of debt. The loan sharks had spared him, a mistake they didn't live to regret. Hongjoong had spent years rising from the ashes of that helpless child, becoming the monster who hunted monsters, the leader who swore to tear down anyone who preyed on the innocent.

Yet now, here he was, no different from the men who had taken his mother from him.

He slammed a fist onto the desk, the sharp crack splitting the heavy silence. His breathing was ragged, uneven, as his mind spiralled into the past. He had sworn not to harm the innocent.

But he had failed. He had repeated the very sin that had shaped him.

They weren't heroes. The Black Pirates were thieves, smugglers, outlaws. But they lived by one code: never harm those who didn't deserve it. They stole from the corrupt, the greedy, those who exploited the powerless. They were not saviours, but they were not supposed to be butchers either.

And now, because of his blindness, you lay broken and scarred—an innocent woman caught in the crossfire of his rage.

His hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair, staring blankly at the dark wood beneath him. His reflection in the glass across the room looked unfamiliar—haunted, lost, and consumed by a regret that would never fade.

How can I ever make this right?

The oppressive silence in the room was broken by a familiar deep voice, one he always sought when the weight of leadership became too much. "She's stable," Seonghwa said, his tone calm yet sombre.

Hongjoong exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, relief flooding through him like a tide that couldn't quite wash away the guilt. "Stable," he echoed, the word offering little solace.

His brother stepped closer, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound between them. "They've patched her up... but I don't think some of the scars will ever go away." His voice dipped into something quieter, almost apologetic. "Especially not that mark."

The gang leader winced, his fingers tightening into trembling fists. The brand—his brand—seared into her back, a permanent testament to his cruelty. "The mark," he muttered, voice hoarse with regret. "She'll carry it because of me."

Seonghwa leaned against the edge of the desk, folding his arms, watching him with a measured gaze. "Because of us," he corrected, though the words offered no comfort. "But this isn't like you. You don't make mistakes like this."

Hongjoong let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "And yet, I did. I fucked up. She begged, Hwa." His voice cracked, raw and ragged. "She begged, and I didn't listen."

The eldest's face softened, but he didn't look away. "Regret is pointless if it doesn't drive change," he said quietly. "We can't undo what's been done. But maybe... maybe we can still make it right."

Hongjoong looked up, his eyes hollow but desperate. "How?"

Seonghwa met his gaze, steady and unwavering. "By giving her a choice. Her freedom. Protection if she wants it. You can't erase the scars, but you can make sure she's never harmed again."

The Captain's jaw clenched. "And if she wants nothing from us? If she wants nothing to do with the Black Pirates?"

"Then you let her go," Seonghwa replied simply, his voice steady. "With the assurance that she'll never have to fear us again."

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, tension coiling in his shoulders. "I don't deserve forgiveness."

"No," the Gentleman agreed softly, his voice firm but kind. "But it's not about what you deserve. It's about what she does."

The words hung in the air, heavier than any weapon, cutting deeper than any blade.

Hongjoong dragged his hands through his hair, the tremor in them betraying the turmoil within. "Tell them to keep her comfortable," he whispered, voice barely audible. "And... let me know when she wakes up."

Seonghwa inclined his head, moving toward the door but paused before stepping out. "You may never forgive yourself, Joong," he said, his voice softer now, "but that doesn't mean you can't try to do better."

As the door clicked shut behind him, the leader was left alone with the echoes of his guilt—and the faintest, most fragile glimmer of hope.

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The quiet hum of the infirmary filled the air, broken only by the soft rustle of sheets and the faint crackle of the oil lamp on the bedside table. Hongjoong stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes locked on your still form lying on the cot. The sight twisted something deep inside him, the sharp pang of guilt slicing through him once again.

"Hyung?" Jongho's voice pulled him from his reverie, soft but laced with surprise. "Why are you here?" His brows knitted together in confusion as he stepped closer. "Seonghwa hyung said to only inform you when she's awake. She's not—"

The gang leader cut him off with a subtle shake of his head. "I had to see if she's okay... for myself." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "You're dismissed. I'll take over."

Jongho hesitated, his eyes searching his leader's face, filled with concern and something unspoken. "Hyung..."

"I won't..." Hongjoong's voice faltered, his throat tightening. "I won't hurt her any further, Jongho."

The youngest sighed softly, the tension in the room heavy between them. "That's not what I—"

"I know," Hongjoong interrupted, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. "It's fine. Just... go thank the doctor for me."

Jongho lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on the Captain's worn expression. Finally, he gave a respectful bow of his head. "I'll be nearby if you need me."

With that, the Anchor left, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving Hongjoong alone with the stillness once more.

He stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots, and sank into the chair beside the bed. His hands trembled as he clasped them together, resting them on his knees. He could barely bring himself to look at you, the bandages wrapped around your body stark against your pale skin, the ghost of the agony he had inflicted still lingering in the air.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words breaking like fragile glass. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

The apology felt hollow, inadequate, but it was all he had. He sat there, staring at you, hoping that somehow, even in sleep, you might hear him. But the only response was the steady rise and fall of your chest, the rhythmic proof that you were alive.

Alive, but not whole.

He leaned back, his head tipping against the wall, the weight of everything crushing down on him. For the first time in years, Kim Hongjoong—the feared Captain of the Black Pirates—felt utterly powerless.

His eyes, unwilling to linger any longer on the bandages covering your wounded body, drifted downward. There, beneath the cot, something caught his attention. A crumpled, dirt-streaked tote bag sat neglected, its once vibrant fabric marred by careless fingerprints—his men's fingerprints.

He furrowed his brows and leaned forward, retrieving the bag with careful hands as if it might break apart at any moment. The stitching was amateur but charming, the drawings simple yet endearing. Scrawled in bright, cheerful lettering at the centre were the words Marigold Gift Shop.

It looked so out of place here in the dim and sterile infirmary, like a splash of sunlight drowning in shadow.

He set the bag on his lap and gently pried it open. The contents were jumbled, chaotic, but it was clear that everything inside once held meaning. Trinkets, small souvenirs from the port—a handful of seashells, a hand-painted keychain, and a delicate glass charm in the shape of a flower. These were not the belongings of a spy.

He reached deeper and pulled out a tiny notebook, its edges worn from use. His fingers brushed over the cover before flipping it open. The pages were filled with neat, dainty handwriting—simple lists:

Small wooden carvings

Candles (lavender & sea breeze)

Handmade bookmarks

Seashell jewellery

It wasn't just a list of purchases—it was a routine, mundane, innocent.

Hongjoong's throat constricted, and his hands trembled as the realisation struck him anew: you had been working. You had been on an errand for your job at the Marigold Gift Shop when they dragged you into their nightmare.

His vision blurred, his breath catching in his chest.

You had no idea who they were. No idea what danger you had stumbled into. You were just there, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it cost you everything.

Hongjoong squeezed the notebook shut, resting it against his forehead as though it could somehow absolve him of the crushing guilt. People must be looking for you—your friends, your family, your employer. The ones who had sent you on this errand, trusting you would return safely.

And now, what could he give them? A broken, scarred version of the vibrant soul they had lost. How could he face them? How could he return you to them like this?

He sat in silence, the only sound in the room the steady rhythm of your breathing and the occasional drip of water from the infirmary's ceiling. His gaze lingered on the crumpled tote bag resting on his lap, its cheerful colours muted beneath the grime. His fingers traced the fabric absentmindedly before he noticed the bucket of clean water and a spare rag near your cot.

For reasons he didn't fully understand, he stood and reached for the rag, dipping it into the water. The cloth came away damp and cool, and he squeezed out the excess with slow, deliberate movements. It was a strange sight—Kim Hongjoong, feared leader of the Black Pirates, bent over a bag, carefully wiping away the dirt and grime.

He worked in silence, the world narrowing to this singular task. Each stroke of the rag against the fabric felt like an apology he couldn't utter aloud. Slowly, painstakingly, he cleaned the tote, rubbing away the stains until the bright colours began to peek through again. The cheerful drawings and stitched patterns reemerged, fragile yet resilient beneath the care of his steady hands.

Piece by piece, he began to arrange your belongings. The trinkets were cleaned and carefully set back in place—each seashell, the delicate glass flower charm, the hand-painted keychain. He smoothed out the tiny notebook, the pages no longer crumpled but straightened with the same precision he reserved for the most critical of plans.

As he worked, he felt a strange lightness settle over him. He hadn't noticed the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips until it faded, replaced by the weight of reality as his gaze shifted back to you.

The bag, now pristine, sat neatly on the table beside you, a quiet testament to his care—a care no one, not even his brothers, had seen in years.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at you, at the bandages wrapped around your broken body, and the regret clawed at his chest again. His smile had vanished entirely, replaced by the grim determination that only guilt could bring.

How could he make this right? How could he even begin? Would you ever be able to forgive him, or himself, for what he had done?

The questions lingered unanswered in the stillness as he sat back down, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.

He didn't know the answers. All he knew was that he had to try.

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The world swirled in an agonising haze as your consciousness began to claw its way back. Every inch of your body screamed in pain, each bruise, cut, and wound making itself known like fire crawling beneath your skin. It was almost impossible to grasp the full weight of the agony—how could anyone describe the sensation of pain this overwhelming? It was a deep, suffocating thing that made every breath feel like a battle.

You tried to open your eyes, but even that small movement was an assault on your senses. The brightness behind your eyelids was too much, the pressure of it sending a wave of dizziness crashing over you. When you managed to blink, your eyes watered uncontrollably, the effort alone nearly too much to bear. The burn on your back, the curse of that mark—his mark—lingered like a red-hot brand, the pain compounded by the memory of it being tainted with filthy, contaminated water. You couldn't even tell if the pain had dulled or if it was just the agony of everything else making it seem like the worst of it. Even if you didn't die from your injuries, you were certain that infection would claim you before long.

Slowly, with a whimper that barely escaped your cracked lips, you arched your back, instinctively trying to relieve the burning pain from the mark. The movement was weak, your body screaming in protest, but the sensation was a small reprieve. As you forced your eyes open again, blinking over and over to get your bearings, your vision began to sharpen, and the haze of confusion began to recede, bit by bit.

The white ceiling above you was a sharp contrast to the hellish basement you had been trapped in. A sterile smell filled the air, the kind that only came from a medical facility. You were no longer in that filthy, oppressive place. Were you safe now? Had someone rescued you? Was it the authorities? Or perhaps your friends, your family, or your employer had noticed you were missing and raised the alarm? Had they found you in time?

You desperately hoped for any answer that could bring you some sense of peace, but the sight before you shattered that hope in an instant.

Turning your head slightly, you froze. The tears that had started to retreat at the thought of safety now rushed back with full force. There, sitting in a chair beside your bed, was the man who had nearly ended your life.

His face was shadowed in exhaustion, his posture slumped slightly as if he'd nodded off in his seat. His presence hit you like a blow to the chest, a knot of raw fear twisting in your gut. The man who had tortured you, who had burned you, who had broken you was right there. The man who was responsible for every inch of pain you'd endured.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and despite your body's desperate need to remain still, the fear surged within you. You couldn't help but tremble, a silent cry of terror rising in your chest.

But even in your panic, something else stirred—a strange, foreign confusion. He was here. In this room. But he wasn't hurting you. Was he... watching over you? Was this some new kind of torment? A psychological game? The thought made your head spin.

Tears fell down your cheeks as you tried to shift, but your body refused to obey. You were broken in every sense of the word, and now, trapped by your own fear and pain, you couldn't make sense of anything. All you knew was that the man who had caused all of this—the man who had dragged you into this nightmare—was right there, inches away from you.

And you had no idea what it meant.

Your attempts to keep your sobs quiet failed, the soft, broken sounds escaping against your will. Each tremor in your chest seemed to echo in the sterile room, and despite the pain, your body recoiled in fear as you saw him stir. His brow furrowed, eyes fluttering open slowly, the grogginess of sleep fading as he registered the sound—and then, his gaze locked with yours.

Panic surged through you, your breath hitching violently as his dark eyes met your own, wide and trembling, your irises blown out with terror. You wanted to scream, to run, but your body betrayed you, too weak and broken to do anything but sink further into the thin blanket covering you. All you could do was shrink back, the ache in your body drowned out by the overwhelming fear coursing through your veins.

Hongjoong froze, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then, he sat up straighter, slowly, deliberately, as if trying not to startle you further. His jaw clenched, and for a second, the silence stretched unbearably between you. He raised his hands carefully, palms facing you in a universal gesture of peace, his movements measured and cautious, like one might approach a wounded animal.

"Hey," he began softly, his voice low and careful, as though it might shatter you further. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

You didn't believe him. How could you? The fear in your eyes deepened, your body curling instinctively beneath the covers, though every movement brought fresh waves of agony. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking escape, seeking anyone else—but it was only him.

He sighed, a heavy sound filled with something that almost resembled regret. He stayed seated, keeping his hands up, as if showing he was unarmed would make any difference to the scars he had already left on you. "Nobody will hurt you again," he said, and his voice trembled, just barely. "That... that includes me."

You watched him, breath ragged, your body trembling with the effort to stay still. He swallowed hard, the guilt written in every line of his face as he continued, his tone thick with something you couldn't name—shame? Guilt? Desperation? "I know this is all very confusing, and you have no reason to trust me, but we made a mistake. I made a mistake."

He paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed again, struggling with the weight of the words. "You're not who we thought you were. And for that—for everything we... I put you through—I'm sorry."

His apology hung in the air, but it did nothing to ease the terror in your heart. It sounded sincere, but sincerity didn't erase the pain, the scars, the nightmare that still lingered in your mind. It didn't change the fact that this man, who now sat before you looking so remorseful, had been the one to destroy you.

Tears continued to stream down your face, and all you could do was stare at him, disbelieving and broken, the word sorry echoing hollowly in your mind. He had taken everything from you, and now he expected that word to make it right?

The silence stretched between you, fragile and suffocating, as you lay there—shattered, terrified, and unsure of what came next.

As if your body had decided to break the unbearable silence itself, your stomach let out a loud, insistent growl. The sound was jarring in the stillness, so absurdly out of place that it caught both of you off guard. You gasped, clutching the thin blanket tighter to your face, cheeks burning despite the pain radiating through your body. Humiliation and fear clashed within you. Would he be disgusted? Would he regret sparing you? Was this the moment he'd change his mind?

You couldn't help but brace yourself.

But instead of anger or disdain, he simply blinked in surprise before his lips parted, and he mumbled softly, "Oh, right. Stupid me. You must be starving." His voice carried a gentleness that was almost foreign, as if the words were meant more for himself than you.

The wooden chair scraped lightly against the floor as he pushed it back, the sound startling in the quiet room. He stood slowly, the motion casual, almost hesitant. "I'll bring you something to eat," he said, the words so ordinary, so kind, that they felt unreal.

And then, just like that, he walked out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

You lay frozen, staring at the spot where he'd been moments ago, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Your mind spun in confusion, trying to reconcile the man who had tortured you with the one who now spoke softly and promised food. Was this some twisted game? Was he really going to bring you food—or was it laced with poison, a final, cruel trick?

But if he wanted you dead, why not just finish it when he had the chance? Why tend to your wounds, only to kill you later? The questions swirled relentlessly.

You bit your trembling lip, tears pricking the corners of your eyes again. He could have killed you. You had seen it in his eyes that day—the moment he gave the final order. You had accepted it then, surrendering to fate, your body succumbing to the darkness.

Yet here you were. Alive.

Still shaking, you turned your head to the door, trying to comprehend the reality before you. Was this real? Was he truly changing—or was this a prelude to something worse?

The confusion and fear gnawed at you, but beneath it, a glimmer of something unfamiliar lingered.

Hope.

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"Here," he said softly, holding out a spoonful of chicken soup to your lips. The aroma was heavenly—rich and savoury, exactly what your starved body craved after days without food. Your stomach clenched painfully in response, desperate for sustenance. Yet, despite the temptation, you frowned and turned your face away.

He sighed, his hand lowering slightly but not withdrawing entirely. The bowl in his other hand trembled ever so slightly as if he wasn't sure what to do next. Finally, he set it gently on the table beside you, the warm liquid inside rippling quietly.

Eyes trailing after his movements, you caught sight of your bag resting there. It wasn't in the state you remembered—no longer a crumpled, filthy mess. It had been cleaned meticulously, every stitch visible and tidy, the fabric now free from dirt and grime.

His voice interrupted your thoughts, soft and almost hesitant. "Oh yeah, your bag. I... got busy while you were sleeping and cleaned it up."

You clutched the blanket tighter, sceptical. Him? Cleaning your bag? It was absurd.

"Everything inside too," he added, a small smile pulling at his lips. "You have some pretty cool stuff."

Your eyes widened, heart racing. He touched your things? Against your better judgement, you reached out, wanting to verify the state of your belongings, only to let out a sharp cry as pain flared through your body with the movement.

He was beside you instantly, his hands hovering, unsure whether to touch or retreat. His face twisted in something that looked suspiciously like hurt when you recoiled, sinking back into the bed to avoid him.

Clearing his throat, he asked, voice soft, "You want your bag?"

You nodded timidly, watching him closely. His small smile returned, gentle and relieved. "Let me help you," he murmured, pulling his chair closer. He placed the bag on the bed between you both, unzipping it carefully for you to see inside.

For the first time since waking up, your eyes softened. Everything was as he said—clean, neatly arranged. Trembling fingers reached out for the glass flower charm nestled inside, your favourite trinket. But before you could touch it, your stomach betrayed you again with a loud, desperate growl.

Humiliated, you drew your hand back, shrinking into yourself.

He chuckled softly, reaching for the bowl again. "I know you don't trust me, and you shouldn't," he admitted, his tone gentle and sincere, "but I can assure you, this is safe to consume." To prove it, he scooped a generous spoonful and took a bite himself, letting out an exaggerated hum of satisfaction.

You swallowed hard, the sight and smell tormenting you. Still, you hesitated when he held out another spoonful.

"If you won't eat it," he said with a sigh, "then I'll finish the rest." He raised the spoon toward his own mouth as if to follow through.

Before he could, you opened your mouth quickly, and his grin softened. Gently, he fed you, the warm broth sliding down your throat like liquid gold, soothing and comforting. The flavours were simple, yet after days of deprivation, it felt like the most luxurious meal you'd ever had.

He remained calm, every action slow and deliberate, offering care despite your fear and mistrust. His patience was unsettling, yet... somehow, in that moment, the terrifying man you had known felt like a distant memory.

But the pain in your body lingered. And so did the scars.

Hongjoong felt a warmth he couldn't explain swelling in his chest as you finished the final spoonful, the empty bowl resting between you both like a fragile truce. His eyes softened as he watched you, vulnerable yet still defiant, the faintest remnants of tears glistening on your lashes. He reached forward, hand poised to wipe the corner of your lips, but before he could, a sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.

He blinked, and it was as if a mask fell into place. The softness in his gaze vanished, replaced by the cold, commanding demeanour you knew too well. He set the bowl on the table, the clink of ceramic against wood too loud in the heavy silence. Straightening in his seat, shoulders squared, he uttered a firm, "Come in."

You shrank back into the bed instinctively, your body curling as far from him as your injuries would allow. The door creaked open, and another man stepped inside—his brow raising slightly when he noticed you were awake.

"Hyung," he said, his tone both respectful and urgent, "you're needed at the meeting. To discuss our next steps, now that the..." He hesitated, casting a brief glance your way, as if unsure how much to say in your presence. "The actual spy remains at large."

Hongjoong nodded, the authority in his posture unwavering. "I'll be there. Thank you, Jongho." His voice was clipped, businesslike, a stark contrast to the gentle tone he'd used with you only moments before. "Summon the doctor. Have her checked thoroughly and ensure she's comfortable."

The man named Jongho gave a short nod and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, the Captain remained seated, his back straight, tension radiating from him. Then, as if reminded of your presence, he turned to you once more. His expression softened, just for a second, as he offered the faintest smile—fleeting but genuine. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "No one will hurt you again. I won't let them."

Before you could react, the smile vanished, his face hardening once more as he rose to his feet. Without another glance, he strode to the door and exited, the soft thud of his boots fading into the distance.

You lay there, staring at the closed door, heart racing, mind spinning. The man who had nearly destroyed you had just promised your protection. And despite everything, a single, terrifying thought whispered through your mind:

I believe you.

The room felt unnervingly quiet after his departure, the air still heavy with the remnants of his presence. You stayed frozen for a moment, listening to the silence, your pulse still thundering in your ears. Slowly, cautiously, you shifted beneath the blanket, every movement sending fresh waves of pain rippling through your battered body.

But you endured it, your gaze locked on the bag resting beside you. Trembling fingers reached out, brushing against its fabric, now pristine compared to how you last remembered it—torn, dirtied, ruined. Carefully, you pulled it closer, clutching it to your chest like a lifeline, tears welling up as you stroked the surface. Your fingers traced over the familiar stitches and doodles, remnants of happier times, of days spent working, laughing, living.

Were your loved ones searching for you? How frantic must they be, wondering if you were still alive, hoping, praying for your return? The thought broke something inside you, and you wept silently, the tears streaming down your face as you reached inside the bag.

Piece by piece, your belongings greeted you, neatly arranged—your keychain, your tiny souvenirs, even the little trinkets you'd collected on that ill-fated day. None of them bore the grime and cruelty you had last seen, each one painstakingly cleaned, cared for. Despite yourself, a hollow sob escaped your lips, and you hated how much it affected you.

At the very bottom of the bag, your trembling hand closed around the familiar worn edges of your notebook. You pulled it out, your tears falling freely as you held it close, opening the cover with a sniffle. Flipping through the pages, you found the list you had written, the innocent to-do list that had led you into this nightmare. Your thumb traced the ink of your handwriting—dotted with tiny stars and hearts—and you almost smiled through the pain.

But it wasn't your handwriting on the newest page. You froze, blinking through your tears as you stared at the words, scrawled in a neat, unfamiliar script:

I'm sorry. I will make it right again, I promise.

Your breath caught in your throat, a sob escaping that you couldn't suppress. He had written it. The very man who had branded you, broken you. And yet here, in this quiet, fragile moment, his apology was inked into your most personal possession.

It wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

But it was something.

The notebook fell from your hands, landing on your lap as you curled around it, weeping not just from pain, but from the deep, agonising confusion that tangled with it. You didn't know what to feel anymore. Hatred? Grief? Or some terrible, unbidden hope that his words weren't just lies?

As the tears blurred your vision, you whispered brokenly to no one, "Why does it hurt more now?"

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The days stretched into a haze of silence and uncertainty. You hadn't seen him since that moment when he fed you soup and scribbled his apology into your notebook. In his absence, Jongho became a constant presence—a quiet sentinel, always bringing what you needed but never lingering too long. Aside from him, the kind doctor, with her gentle hands and soothing voice, tended to your wounds, her care meticulous and soft. But it was always just Jongho and her. Never the Captain.

At first, you felt like a prisoner, wondering what the end of this strange hospitality would bring. Would they let you go? Was this kindness a façade before some darker fate awaited? But as the days went on, your thoughts turned inward, your hands finding comfort in writing. You filled parchment after parchment with letters—letters to your parents, your best friend, your employer. They were full of reassurances you weren't even sure you believed. I'm alive. I'm safe. I will come back. But the ink soothed you, even if you knew they might never be sent.

Today was no different, except for the soft murmurs between you and the doctor as she changed your dressings. Her hands worked deftly, the cool air brushing against your skin as she peeled away the layers of gauze and replaced them with fresh, clean bandages. You let your mind drift, thinking of the promise he had scrawled in your notebook. He said he'd make it right. But how? Will I get to leave? Will I ever see my old life again? And if I do… will I ever be the same?

The faint creak of the door interrupted your thoughts, and you looked up instinctively, expecting Jongho's usual unhurried entrance. But it wasn't the Anchor.

It was him.

Your breath caught, and you froze, eyes wide as you met the gaze of Kim Hongjoong. He, too, stilled in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps? Regret? His gaze fell to your back, to the horrid brand etched into your skin, and you saw the way he flinched.

He wasn't the only one.

Your body trembled involuntarily, an instinctive recoil from the man who had caused you so much pain. The doctor, blissfully unaware of the tension thickening the air, glanced up with a warm smile. "Oh, you're here! I'm almost done, just give me a minute."

The gang leader nodded stiffly, but he didn't speak. He quickly averted his gaze, turning away as if the sight of you was unbearable. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it should be.

But not for the same reasons as before.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, clutching the edge of the blanket as the doctor finished her work, her hands light on your skin. She hummed softly, her presence a soothing balm to your raw nerves. But your focus remained on him—on the way his shoulders tensed, on the way he refused to meet your eyes again. When he did chance a glance, he caught your gaze, and you saw it clearly: shame.

His lips parted, but no words came. You wanted to demand answers. Why are you here? What do you want from me? But your voice remained trapped in your throat.

The doctor stood, packing up her supplies with a satisfied smile. "There we are," she said brightly, glancing between the two of you. "I'll leave you to rest now." She nodded respectfully to Hongjoong before quietly excusing herself, leaving you alone with him.

The door clicked shut, and the silence between you thickened. You stared at him, your heart pounding, as he stood there, still and unsure. He finally spoke, his voice low and rough, as if it hurt to say the words.

"I didn't mean to... interrupt." He looked down, hands clenched at his sides. "I only came to see how you were."

You didn't know what to say. Under normal circumstances, perhaps a thank you would have been appropriate—but this wasn't normal, and he didn't deserve that. So you kept quiet, your lips pressed into a thin line, your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible, before clearing his throat and moving to sit beside you, just as he had that day with the soup. He settled into the chair with a quiet grace, attempting a small, hesitant smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze flickered to the books, papers, and pens scattered across the nursing table beside your bed.

"I hope Jongho managed to get you everything you asked for," he said gently, his voice low and careful, as if afraid to startle you. You nodded, but kept your eyes downcast, focused on your wringing hands.

His gaze followed yours, landing on the letters you had written—the stack of parchment covered in your careful handwriting. For a moment, you tensed, waiting for the inevitable backlash. Would he order his men to burn them? Would he scold you for daring to think of leaving, for daring to hope?

But instead, his voice was soft. "Would you like me to deliver them?"

You froze, lifting your head slowly, your wide, disbelieving eyes meeting his earnest gaze. He gestured toward the letters with a slight movement of his hand. "The letters," he clarified. "I could send them for you."

Your disbelief must have shown on your face, the way your brow furrowed and your lips parted slightly in shock. He saw it. He felt it. And it cut deeper than he expected. Of course, you still saw him as a monster. Why wouldn't you? He had given you every reason to believe that. If he wanted to change that, he would need to do more—much more.

He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, before looking at you again with an expression that was raw and unguarded. "Look," he began, voice heavy with something that felt dangerously close to regret. "You're not trapped here, in case you're wondering. You're free to leave whenever you want."

You blinked, your heart racing at the words. Could you believe him? Could you trust that freedom was within your reach?

"It's just that…" He trailed off, searching for the right words. "After everything we—I've done to you, the least I can do is help you heal. To nurse you back to health, to give you what you need. I need to make it right. That's all I want. For you to get better, to return to yourself. And if there's anything you need to make that happen… just say the word."

His voice dropped to an almost pleading tone. "So tell me—do you want those letters delivered? Is that it?"

You stared at him, searching his face for any trace of deception, any hint of insincerity. But all you saw was honesty. Whether or not it was real, you didn't know. But the sincerity in his tone, the earnestness in his eyes—it was undeniable.

And you couldn't lie to yourself. The letters were what you wanted. To set your mind and heart at ease. To reassure your loved ones that you were still alive, still here, even if only barely.

So you nodded.

He exhaled slowly, as if relieved, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw a glimmer of something softer in his expression. "Okay," he said simply. "I'll make sure they're delivered."

You struggled, the words stuck in your throat like stubborn stones, not fear this time—but something else. Something unfamiliar and unsettling. You nodded again, the gesture small and hesitant, and to your surprise, he seemed to find it… endearing. His smile softened further, and though you wanted to resent him for it, there was something disarming about the warmth in his expression.

Noticing the way you hesitated, as if wanting to speak but unsure how, he shifted in his chair, intertwining his fingers and leaning forward, careful in his every movement. He stopped just short of your space, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to avoid overwhelming you. His eyes, soft and patient, held yours, and the corners of his lips tugged upward in that same gentle smile—a silent reassurance: I won't hurt you. It's okay.

He seemed aware of how much he was smiling, almost as if surprised by it himself. His eyes glimmered with something that felt out of place in a man like him—genuine kindness. It struck you then, how foreign that smile must have been on his face, as if it had gone unused for too long. You wondered who he had once been, before this life of cruelty hardened him. And you hated that part of you, the part desperate for softness, wanted to know.

"It's alright," he said softly, his voice gentle and warm. "You don't have to be afraid. Just tell me—what do you want?"

The tenderness in his tone felt unreal. This was the same man who had once stood over you, cold and unyielding, ready to snuff out your life. And yet here he was now, speaking to you as if you were fragile, precious even. It was maddening. Confusing. And yet, damn you for being nothing more than a frail human aching for kindness, your guard cracked, just a little.

You didn't know why you asked it, why this question had been sitting in the back of your mind, waiting for its chance to escape. But when you finally spoke, your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, trembling with vulnerability. "Your name."

He blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, silence stretched between you, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer, almost regretful. And then, in that quiet space, he realised the truth: from the very beginning, through everything he had put you through, he had never once told you his name.

He sat back slightly, exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Hongjoong," he said, his voice steady but tender, as if offering you something sacred. "My name is Hongjoong."

Your lips parted, and though you had imagined feeling hatred for this name, it didn't come. Instead, all you felt was the raw ache of everything left unsaid.

"Hongjoong," you repeated, tasting the name on your tongue like a fragile thing, and the way you said it felt like the start of something neither of you could yet name.

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Hongjoong had made it a point to visit you every evening, just before the world outside your room fell silent for the night. At first, you dreaded those moments, unsure of his intentions or what he might say. But as the days turned into weeks, those visits became routine. He would sit beside your bed or across from you at the small table, his demeanour always calm, his tone soft and steady, and slowly, piece by piece, he unravelled the mystery of who he was, what this place meant, and how you had been drawn into their world.

His name, you learned, was more than just a name. He was the leader of this place, a sprawling mansion that served as the heart of a powerful syndicate—a gang, as you quickly realised. The people here, the ones who moved with deadly precision and cold efficiency, were his crew. Not just criminals, but men who had pledged their loyalty to him and each other in the face of a world that sought to destroy them.

You had been caught in the crossfire of a feud between two factions, mistaken for an enemy spy in a moment of chaos. It explained the brutality with which you had been treated, the mistrust that lingered until the truth emerged too late. "You weren't supposed to be hurt," he told you one night, voice thick with regret. "I didn't know who you were. If I had known..." He never finished those sentences, leaving the unsaid to hang in the air like a bitter aftertaste.

And now, the pieces fit. The puzzle you had struggled to solve finally made sense, but with that clarity came an unsettling reality: you were surrounded by criminals. Even if Hongjoong had promised safety, you were in a den of people capable of murder, of violence, of unspeakable acts committed in the name of survival and loyalty. It went against everything you believed in—your sense of morality, the honest life you had led until now.

Yet, despite your fear and discomfort, you knew you had no choice. What had happened could not be undone. The only hope you clung to was for a swift recovery, a chance to leave this world behind and return to the life you had once known.

As your injuries healed, you grew stronger. The sharp, constant pain dulled to a distant ache, and with the doctor's meticulous care, you were soon able to move around. Hongjoong had a proper room prepared for you—one more fitting, spacious, with large windows that let in the light. It was more comfortable than you dared to expect, but you knew better than to interpret it as anything more than a gesture of atonement.

Still, you couldn't deny the strange, unspoken connection that had formed between you and him. You wouldn't call it friendship—you couldn't. He was still the man who had brought you to the brink of death. But there was something. Something fragile, a bond woven through shared guilt and reluctant trust. You found yourself relying on him in ways that shamed you. You hated it, hated how you felt a strange sense of calm when he was near, as if the very person responsible for your suffering was now the anchor keeping you steady.

It was complicated. Confusing. And worst of all, it made you question whether the lines you thought were so clear—between captor and captive, between right and wrong—had begun to blur.

Unbeknownst to you, Hongjoong wrestled with the same confusion—especially about the emotions that had begun to surface lately. He couldn't shake the persistent need to be near you. It gnawed at him like an unrelenting tide, wearing away the walls he had built over the years. He told himself it was duty, responsibility. After all, he was the reason you had nearly lost your life. If he hadn't acted so quickly on false information, none of this would have happened. He reasoned that it was only right to take full responsibility, to ensure your recovery—physically and otherwise.

That logic gave him something to hold on to, but it didn't explain everything. It didn't explain why his eyes instinctively sought you out whenever he walked the halls or the strange calm that washed over him when he saw you safe. It didn't explain the warmth that bloomed in his chest when he heard your voice or glimpsed your rare, hesitant smiles. No, it wasn't just responsibility anymore. It was something deeper, something he wasn't ready to name.

After another gruelling meeting filled with discussions of crisis management and strategies to track down the elusive spy, the Captain's head buzzed with tension. His face remained a mask of cold authority, his steps measured, his shoulders squared. He passed his men without sparing a glance, his thoughts elsewhere. Always on you. The dining hall was empty, your room vacant, and the painting room—where you often sat doodling, lost in thought—was deserted. A strange, unwelcome worry tightened in his chest.

Relief only came when he pushed open the heavy library doors and saw you standing there. You stood in a sunlit aisle, the golden light streaming through the tall windows, bathing you in a soft glow. The light illuminated your features—now mostly healed, the bruises reduced to faint shadows, the cuts mere whispers of what they had been. You were beautiful, he realised, and the realisation ached in a way he hadn't anticipated. He closed the door quietly behind him, the sound muted, careful not to startle you. His steps were slow and deliberate as he approached, his heart inexplicably racing.

You were focused on a pressed flower bookmark tucked between the pages of a book, your head tilted slightly as you admired it, your fingers gently brushing the fragile petals. The scene was simple, ordinary. Yet it stirred something in him, an unspoken truth he wasn't ready to confront.

"Marigold," he said softly, his voice low to not disturb the tranquillity. "That's my favourite flower."

You looked up, startled at first, but your expression softened when you saw him. "Really? It's mine too," you replied, your voice steady, though a hint of curiosity lingered in your tone.

A small smile tugged at his lips, softer than usual, though it carried the weight of everything left unsaid. "It is? Then you should keep it," he said, nodding toward the bookmark, surprising even himself with the offer.

"But—" you began, gesturing toward the marked page.

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "I never had time to finish the book anyway. Can't even remember what it's about. Just take it. It's yours now."

Anything you want, it's yours.

For a moment, the silence between you stretched, fragile yet profound, like a delicate thread holding more than either of you dared admit. Hongjoong didn't know what this feeling was, only that it was growing. And being near you eased a part of him he hadn't realised was broken.

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The evening air was still, and the faint glow of the lamp in your room cast a soft halo beneath the door, a beacon that drew him to check on you one last time before retiring. He knocked gently, expecting the usual soft response or even a brief acknowledgement, but there was only silence. His brows knitted in concern, and he knocked again, the sound a little firmer this time. Still, no answer.

Then he heard it—a muffled yelp.

Panic surged through him. He couldn't wait. "I'm coming in," he called, his voice urgent but not harsh, and without hesitation, he pushed open the door.

The sight that met him stopped him in his tracks. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, your shirt halfway unbuttoned, exposing your shoulder and part of your back. The fresh bandage you had been attempting to wrap around yourself lay unravelled on the floor, a tangle of gauze mocking your efforts. Your face was flushed with embarrassment, and the moment you realised he was there, you scrambled to pull your shirt back up, your movements frantic and clumsy.

He didn't look away, not out of disrespect, but because he couldn't ignore the mark on your back. That cursed brand. Every time he saw it, it felt like a punch to the gut, a cruel reminder of his failure. If he could change one thing in his life, it would be that—undoing the moment that left such a permanent scar on you. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, before finally speaking, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

"Do you need help?"

Your immediate response was a firm shake of your head. "I'm fine," you insisted, though the tremble in your voice betrayed you. He could see it all: the mess of your hair, the exhaustion etched into your face, the slight tremor in your hands. You had been at this for a while, stubbornly trying to do it alone, and it was clear that you were anything but fine.

Hongjoong sighed quietly, stepping closer, each movement deliberate and gentle, as if afraid he might scare you away. "You're not," he said softly, without accusation, without pity, only quiet understanding. He knelt in front of you, eyes level with yours, and held out his hand, palm up, an unspoken offer. "Let me help."

You hesitated, biting your lip, your pride warring with the exhaustion. But eventually, you let out a shaky breath and nodded, your eyes downcast. He reached for the discarded bandage on the floor, his movements slow, deliberate, as if trying not to disturb the fragile air between you.

Carefully, he unbuttoned your shirt just enough to reveal your shoulder, his fingers never straying more than necessary. The moment felt intimate but not in the way that made you feel vulnerable. It was gentle. Respectful. As he wrapped the bandage around you with practised precision, his hands were steady, careful not to brush against your skin more than needed.

"You don't have to do everything alone," he murmured as he fastened the bandage, his voice like a balm. "I know you're strong, but you can let someone help you."

You didn't respond immediately, the warmth of his words sinking in as you sat in silence. Finally, you whispered, "Thank you."

He gave a faint smile, one you didn't see but could hear in the softness of his voice. "Anytime."

You finally turned to face him, your breath catching when you realised just how close he was. His face, so much softer now than the man who had once been your captor, was mere inches away. As if more modest than you, he quickly moved to help button your shirt, his fingers deft but gentle, avoiding your gaze as if giving you privacy in a moment that was anything but private. Your eyes, however, couldn't stop following the sincerity etched into his expression, hating the way it made your heart race. How could your body betray you like this, reacting to someone who had once been so cruel?

You swallowed hard, trying to banish those thoughts, and lowered your gaze. That's when you noticed his wrist peeking from the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. It was the first time you saw them, the scars that twisted from his elbows to his wrists like angry, jagged reminders. Your brows furrowed, curiosity—and something deeper—propelling you forward. Without thinking, your hand reached out and grasped his as he pulled away, holding it gently.

"H-how'd you get these?" your voice trembled, more from the vulnerability in the air than any fear.

Hongjoong stilled. The small smile on his face faded, replaced by a haunting stillness. He pulled his hands back gently, as if realising for the first time he had no right to be near you, no right to touch you. He placed your hands carefully back in your lap, almost reverently, and turned toward the window, the fading sunlight casting shadows across his face.

A humourless chuckle escaped him, low and bitter, as he glanced at the scars on his arms before shifting his gaze to the darkened horizon. "Let me tell you the story of a boy," he began, his voice void of emotion but heavy with pain, "who had everything taken from him. Not that he had much to begin with—only a mother who loved him more than anything." His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly, but you caught it. "Even that wasn't enough for fate."

He didn't look at you, eyes fixed on the darkening sky, as if it held all the answers. "My father was a worthless drunk with a gambling problem. He left us with nothing but debts, and my mother… she worked herself to the bone, trying to keep us afloat. But it was never enough. The loan sharks came one night." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I was too young to understand what they wanted, why they were shouting at her. But I remember… I remember watching them beat her to the ground."

His voice dropped to a whisper, but it cut like a blade. "I watched them strip her, violate her, and when they were done, they slit her throat as if she were nothing." He exhaled shakily, his jaw tightening. "They left me there with her body. Taunted me. If they had known what they created that night… maybe they wouldn't have left me alive."

You sat motionless, your heart aching at the raw truth of his confession. Suddenly, everything made sense—how he had become this way, hardened and cold. You could understand now, even though it hurt to. Perhaps you would have become the same if you had endured such horrors. No one is born evil. We are all blank canvases, shaped by what we experience, by the pain life forces us to endure.

His eyes fell to the scars on his arms, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips. "These," he murmured, flexing his fingers as if feeling the memory burn anew, "are souvenirs from that night." His voice grew colder, distant, as if reliving the moment. "I remember their nails clawing at my arms, desperate to cling to life. But it didn't matter. Those bastards were never going to escape."

Despite the chilling edge in his words, you felt no fear. Instead, you saw the boy hidden beneath the armour, a boy the world had broken too soon. He turned back to you, his eyes no longer cold but filled with a deep, aching regret. "And that's why," he said, voice trembling with emotion, "I wish I could undo what I did to you. I swore I'd never harm the innocent, never become what they were. But I failed." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. Nothing I do will ever make this right."

To his surprise, you reached out, your hand resting gently on his shoulder, offering comfort where he expected none. He turned to you, his eyes glistening with tears he refused to let fall.

"It's okay, Hongjoong," you said softly, your voice unwavering yet gentle. "Everyone makes mistakes."

And then you smiled—a small, genuine smile, brimming with forgiveness. It shattered something within him, but it also healed something far deeper, a part of him he thought was long dead.

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Things had shifted significantly between you since that fateful night when he first bared his soul, revealing the shadows of his dark past. Your understanding unlocked something in him, and in turn, you also began to open up. Little by little, you spoke more, smiled more freely, and allowed yourself to be vulnerable in his presence. Hongjoong, too, had changed. What once were brief visits to check on you became shared meals, quiet conversations, and the gentle ritual of him changing your wound dressings daily. It had become a routine—a comforting rhythm filled with tender moments, lingering touches, deep gazes, and countless almosts.

Almost kisses. Almost confessions. Almost something more.

Just a little longer, he told himself, fighting the constant urge to feel your lips against his. He needed to earn your trust fully before daring to take that step. He knew he didn't deserve you—but the heart wants what it wants.

But of course, just as he allowed himself to believe things were finally settling, reality reminded him otherwise. He should have known better than to think peace could last in his world. You and he had grown closer, but the life he led was never one to offer tranquillity for long. Conflict loomed on the horizon. An important meeting was fast approaching—a meeting arranged long before you had entered his life.

The Black Pirates, an organisation that had always operated with an exclusively male force, had struck a delicate negotiation with the Red Room, a renowned spy training facility specialised in producing elite female operatives. Though both syndicates had thrived independently, they saw mutual benefit in an alliance, especially as the shadowy threat of the White Serpents continued to grow. A treaty was in the works and was supposed to be one of Hongjoong's top priorities.

Yet, things had changed. You were here now, and part of him refused to leave you. The thought of being away, of leaving you vulnerable even for a moment, gnawed at him. So he made a decision: Seonghwa would attend the meeting in his place. The eldest, the Gentleman, was their best negotiator, and if anyone could secure a favourable outcome, it was him.

"It's set then," he said, his tone final. "Seonghwa will represent me for this." He leaned back slightly, eager to conclude the meeting and return to you.

But he should have known better than to expect it would be accepted without protest.

The moment the words left his mouth, Mingi's hand slammed onto the table, the force reverberating through the room. "Really, hyung?" he spat, his voice heavy with frustration. "You're going to send someone else on your behalf for something this important? I was already fed up with this nonsense, but enough is enough!"

The screech of the temperamental member's chair echoed as he shoved it back, rising to his feet, the fire in his eyes blazing. Yunho reached out, gripping his arm in warning, but Mingi shook him off, his glare fixed on their leader.

"No!" he growled, his voice rising. "When will this madness stop?! I'm sick and tired of you being distracted by her. At first, I understood—you felt guilty, like you owed her something. But now? You're letting it go too far! You've been wasting precious time hovering around her, growing soft! And now you're putting our work at risk. When does it end, huh?"

The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with the weight of Mingi's accusation. Hongjoong remained seated, his fingers interlocked on the table. He met the taller man's gaze with a cold, unwavering stare.

"Sit down, Mingi," he said quietly, his voice calm, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

Mingi didn't move, his jaw tight, defiance radiating from him. "Answer me," he demanded. "When does it end?"

The room seemed to hold its breath.

"You think I'm neglecting my responsibility," Hongjoong said, his voice low, even, and far colder than before. He rose slowly, pushing his chair back with a deliberate grace. "You think I'm growing soft. Maybe you're right." His eyes, sharp and cutting, bore into Mingi's. "But everything I do is for this gang's survival. Including ensuring her safety."

Mingi scoffed, disbelief written across his face. "Her? She's not one of us. She's a—"

"Enough," Hongjoong snapped, the steel in his voice cutting through the room like a blade. He stepped closer, towering over Mingi now. "You question my judgement again, and it won't be this quiet." His voice softened, but the danger in it was palpable. "I trust Seonghwa to handle this. And I trust you to remember your place."

For a moment, it seemed as if Mingi might push further, but his best friend, the Enforcer's hand tightened on his arm, a silent plea. He growled in frustration and, after a tense beat, finally sat down, seething but silent.

Seonghwa's calm voice broke the heavy quiet. "I'll handle it, Cap. You've made the right call." He shot a glance at Mingi. "We all want the same thing: to be stronger, united. Let's not lose sight of that."

Hongjoong's shoulders relaxed slightly, though his eyes never left Mingi. "Good," he said, his tone final. "Then it's settled."

As the others filed out, Mingi lingered near the door, shooting one last glare at his leader before leaving without another word. The Captain remained behind, letting out a long breath, the weight of the confrontation pressing on him.

He should have known peace wouldn't last. But as his thoughts turned to you, one question echoed in his mind.

How much more would he have to sacrifice to protect you before it all fell apart?

Fortunately—and unfortunately—you had already found the answer to his unspoken question.

"Hongjoong," you whispered, your voice trembling as it cut through the stillness of the dimly lit library.

The soft glow of the lamps cast gentle shadows over the shelves, wrapping the room in an intimate quiet. Across from you, he sat, his eyes warm and attentive, watching you with that familiar, close-lipped smile—the one that always made your heart stutter. His expression was gentle, full of a quiet tenderness that you both craved and feared.

But tonight, that smile felt like a dagger. It broke something inside you, making what you were about to say hurt even more.

"Yes?" he responded just as softly, his voice a soothing balm you didn't deserve. He leaned forward slightly, the care in his gaze evident, as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as they clutched the delicate bookmark he had given you, your lifeline in this moment of unbearable heaviness. "I'm… I'm all better now," you began, the words sticking in your throat. "I wish to leave. I want to go home."

The change in him was immediate. His smile vanished, and his hand shot across the table, grasping yours before you could pull away. His touch was warm but trembling, desperate. "Wha—where is this coming from?" His voice cracked, panic threading through every word. He hadn't known how long he'd have you by his side, but he never imagined losing you this soon. He wasn't ready. "Was it Mingi? Did he say something to you? I swear to god, if he—"

"No," you interrupted, shaking your head firmly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. "He didn't do anything." You squeezed his hand, trying to draw strength from the contact. "I just… I think it's time. Time for both of us to return to our own lives."

His grip tightened, his eyes wide with disbelief. "No," he whispered, shaking his head as if refusing to believe your words could make them untrue. "You don't have to do this. You don't need to leave yet. The doctor—I'm having her work on something for the mark. You're not healed, not really."

You bit your lip, his raw emotion tearing through your resolve. You wanted to stay—God, how you wanted to stay—but the memory of that argument was too fresh. You had stood outside the meeting room earlier, waiting for him to finish, only to hear Mingi's voice raised in anger, accusing him of neglect, of weakness. And you had heard Hongjoong's silence—heavy, burdened. You couldn't be the reason for his pain. You couldn't be the weakness he couldn't afford.

"I heard it all," you confessed, voice trembling. "The argument. I know how much I'm complicating things for you." Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away. "It's not fair—to you, to them. We're from different worlds, Hongjoong. You and I… we were never going to work." Your voice softened as you finally named what had been unspoken: the feelings between you both.

His face crumpled, the pain etched into every line devastating to witness. "Don't do this," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please… don't."

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. "This is how we make things right," you whispered. "You wanted to fix what you did, to give me a chance at freedom. This is it."

Silence engulfed the room, thick and suffocating. Slowly, he let go of your hand, as if releasing it would break him entirely. His head bowed, shoulders slumping under the weight of your decision.

"Oh…" It was all he could manage, and the raw pain in that single word nearly undid you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The quiet of the library, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating. You had made your choice, and you believed it was the right one.

So why did it hurt so much?

"I'm sorry," you whispered, standing from your chair. You hesitated, wanting to offer some kind of solace, but knowing it would only prolong the pain. "Goodnight, Hongjoong."

With every step you took toward the door, it felt as though pieces of your heart were left behind. And when you reached the threshold, you heard it—his broken, whispered plea.

"Don't go."

But you didn't stop. You couldn't. Because sometimes, love wasn't enough.

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As if running from you could change the inevitable, Hongjoong buried himself in work, pouring over plans and strategies like a man determined to forget. Meetings stretched longer, tasks multiplied, and he worked late into the night, ignoring the hollow ache growing in his chest. But no amount of work could silence the truth—or erase the memory of your soft, breaking voice.

He could only run for so long.

One day, the quiet was broken by Jongho's hesitant knock on his office door. The youngest cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably under the Captain's tired gaze. "What is it?" he sighed, leaning back in his chair, trying to mask the weariness in his voice.

Jongho straightened, his eyes darting to the barely open door behind him. Hongjoong followed his gaze and froze. There, framed by the narrow gap, was the unmistakable outline of your back.

"It's her, hyung," Jongho said softly, his tone more hesitant than usual. "She... she asked the doctor to give her one final check. To make sure she's fully healed." He paused, as if reluctant to continue. "She expressed her desire to leave."

The words struck like a blade, sharp and final. For a long moment, Hongjoong said nothing, his eyes locked on the empty doorway as if he could will you to return. But deep down, he knew there was nowhere left to run.

He had been a fool to believe that anything could make you stay. He put himself in your shoes for a fleeting moment, imagining what it must be like. You had a life beyond these walls—a life waiting for you to return. And even if you chose to stay, how long could he truly keep you safe in his dangerous world? How long before the life he led consumed you, too?

And even if, by some miracle, you stayed—would your loved ones ever accept him? A gang leader with blood on his hands and sins too deep to cleanse?

No. The answer was clear.

As much as it tore him apart, he knew this was the mercy you deserved. He couldn't chain you to his darkness, couldn't selfishly hold on when letting go was the only way to truly love you.

"You're right," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "You have a life of your own. I can't ask you to stay."

The Anchor remained silent, watching his leader with a rare softness in his eyes.

Men like him were never meant to love. Not after all the sins he had committed, all the lives he had taken, all the wrongs he could never make right. He didn't deserve you—not your kindness, your laughter, or the warmth you so effortlessly gave.

No matter how much he wished otherwise.

With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the door, his voice steady but hollow. "Thank you, Jongho. I trust you to make the proper arrangements for her departure."

The youngest hesitated for a moment, but when he met the finality in Hongjoong's eyes, he nodded and left quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence settled over the room again, heavy and oppressive—until the door creaked open once more. The gang leader's head snapped up, irritation flashing in his eyes, but it melted away the instant he saw who it was.

You stood hesitantly in the doorway, peeking in like you weren't sure you belonged there anymore.

He shot up from his seat, his movements hurried. "O-oh, it's you. Come in..." His voice softened, and you offered a small, tentative smile as you stepped inside. He gestured toward the worn leather couch. "Please, have a seat."

But you shook your head. "No, I shouldn't stay long. I just… came to thank you for respecting my decision."

He exhaled, a bitter sound escaping his lips. "Don't thank me for that." His voice was low, laced with frustration, though not at you. "It shouldn't have taken me this long to agree. You were right." His lips curved into a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. The pain there was unmistakable, and it clenched your heart painfully. "This… it has to end eventually. After all, I'm the one who did this to you. I can't possibly expect you to return my feelings—"

"Stop," you whispered, closing your eyes, shaking your head as if to ward off the self-loathing in his voice. Too late. You already had returned those feelings, and hearing him like this shattered you. "No, Hongjoong, don't say that. I just..."

He stilled, his gaze searching yours as you opened your eyes and met him, resisting the desperate urge to reach out and cup his face, to pull him into the comfort you knew he craved. But you couldn't. So instead, you smiled, soft but trembling, and extended a hand toward him.

"I'm feeling a little hungry," you said gently, your voice trembling just enough to betray your emotions. "Want to have dinner together?"

For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if unsure if he had heard correctly. But how could he possibly say no? Besides, this could very well be your last meal together. Everything else could wait—damn it all.

Until the moment you were safely returned home, you were all that mattered to him.

Just until tomorrow.

Jongho had arranged your ride back tomorrow.

Hongjoong couldn't pretend anymore. He knew this would likely be the last time he'd have you like this, in this fragile peace. So, tonight, he let the walls fall. He no longer resisted the urges that had haunted him for weeks. When he reached out to feed you, gently wiping a stray bit of food from the corner of your lips, you didn't flinch. When he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your skin with a tenderness that made his chest ache, you didn't pull away.

And you didn't say a word. You just let him.

By the end of the meal, when he saw the glimmer of hesitation in your eyes—knowing you were preparing to retreat to your room—he acted quickly, grasping your hand before you could leave. His touch was firm but not forceful, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost pleading.

"Would you like to… walk with me?"

You looked at him for a moment, your eyes searching his as if trying to memorise everything about this moment. Then, wordlessly, you nodded. He led you through the grand halls of the mansion, out to the sprawling, maze-like garden, where the soft glow of lanterns illuminated the paths.

Your hands remained entwined the entire time.

The garden was silent except for the rustle of leaves in the breeze. He guided you to the centre, where a marble fountain stood, the gentle sound of water trickling into the basin adding to the quiet serenity. Clearing a spot on the cold concrete, he shrugged off his blazer, laying it down carefully before gesturing for you to sit. You did, settling beside him as the horizon stretched before you, bathed in soft, silver moonlight.

"This is nice," you murmured, breaking the silence, your voice almost lost in the cool night air.

He smiled, his gaze softening. "It is, isn't it?"

For a while, neither of you spoke. The dim lanterns cast a golden glow, wrapping you both in a warmth that felt almost unreal. Slowly, as if afraid you might slip away, he placed his hand over yours once again. This time, your fingers intertwined naturally, effortlessly, as though they had always belonged that way.

No words were necessary. Every touch, every glance, spoke of everything you felt but couldn't say.

Your heart raced as you turned toward him, only to find he was already watching you. His eyes were dark, filled with emotions you didn't dare name. He leaned in, bit by bit, closing the space between you. Your breath hitched, trembling, but you didn't move away.

"Just for tonight," he whispered, his voice rough and raw. "Can we be together? Just for tonight."

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your heart aching with the weight of the unspoken goodbye. You nodded, your voice barely above a breath.

"Please."

And then, there was no more distance between you.

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The morning light streamed softly through the curtains, painting the room in golden hues. Hongjoong stirred awake, the weight of sleep heavier than usual, but a comforting warmth grounded him. Instinctively, he snuggled closer, burying his face into the inviting scent that had become his solace.

It took only a moment for the realisation to hit him. The feminine scent, delicate and intoxicating, filled his senses. His heart skipped a beat as he opened his eyes to find you still in his arms, your back pressed against his chest, your breathing soft and even.

For a long moment, he stayed still, simply taking you in—the way your hair spilt over the pillow, the peaceful rise and fall of your shoulders, the warmth that radiated from you. Leaning closer, he pressed a tender kiss to your bare shoulder, the memory of last night rushing back like a tidal wave.

Kisses. Endless, intoxicating kisses, your lips against his as if you were trying to fill every unspoken word between you. His fingers tangled in your hair, your hands gripping his shirt, neither of you willing to let go. The clumsy, desperate stumbling through those kisses until you landed on the expanse of his king-sized bed—so often feeling too big, too empty for just one.

Articles of clothing had been shed piece by piece, carelessly scattered across the floor. And then… pure, unrestrained bliss. The feel of your skin against his, the soft sighs and whispered names, the way your bodies moved together like they were meant to fit. It was a night he would never forget, and one he knew he could never have again.

He swallowed hard as reality settled in. It was bittersweet, finally knowing what it was like to have you this close, only to face the cruel truth that he would have to let it all go soon. His gaze fell on the mark on your soft skin, the one that started it all, and he sighed deeply.

It was the right thing to do.

He repeated the mantra in his head, clinging to it like a lifeline. You deserved more—someone who could give you the kind of life you were meant to have, one without fear, without shadows. Someone who wasn't him.

But for now, just for this fleeting moment, he allowed himself to be selfish. He tightened his hold on you, his arm curling around your waist as if he could stop time by keeping you close. He etched every detail into his mind: the way your warmth seeped into him, the way your presence calmed his restless heart, the way this morning felt like a fragile dream he never wanted to wake from.

Because soon, it would all be over.

And he would have nothing left but these memories.

His temporary haven shattered with a jarring intrusion. The door to his bedroom flew open, and Jongho rushed in, his expression a mix of concern and urgency. "Hyung, she's not in her room—"

The Anchor's voice faltered mid-sentence as his eyes landed on you, curled up in his leader's embrace. The man sat up quickly, pulling the blanket to cover you to your neck, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. Jongho froze like a deer caught in headlights, his usual composure obliterated by the scene before him.

You stirred at the commotion, blinking yourself awake. It didn't take long to realise what had happened. Your cheeks flushed a deep red as you scrambled to free yourself from the blanket and darted off to the attached bathroom. "Excuse me," you mumbled hastily, your voice barely above a whisper, before closing the door behind you.

Jongho stood awkwardly, visibly cringing under Hongjoong's icy glare. "I didn't mean to—"

"Out," the Captain growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The youngest didn't need to be told twice. With a quick bow, he fled the room, muttering apologies under his breath.

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as the weight of the morning settled on his shoulders. Deciding to give you the privacy you needed, he rose from the bed, grabbed his robe, and slipped it on before leaving the room.

As he stepped into the hall, he was greeted by none other than the Firestarter, leaning casually against the wall with a smirk plastered across his face.

"Had fun, Cap?" Mingi drawled, his voice laced with mockery. "Hope that pussy was worth everything."

Hongjoong's expression darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing into a glare that could rival a storm. "Speak for yourself, Song," he shot back, his voice steady but laced with venom. "Come mock me when you don't need an exiled noblewoman to save your ass time and time again."

Mingi's smirk faltered as Hongjoong took a step closer, his words cutting like daggers. "Don't think I haven't heard about your multiple near-failures. At least I haven't fucked up anything critical. Also," he added, his tone dropping into something bitter and final, "she's leaving today. I hope you're happy."

The weight of Hongjoong's words left Mingi speechless, his cool façade crumbling. His jaw tightened as he struggled to muster a response, but nothing coherent came to mind.

Clearing his throat, he straightened and forced a shrug, attempting to reclaim his composure. "About damn time. Good riddance," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual edge. Without another word, he turned and stalked off, leaving the gang leader standing there, his chest tight and his mind racing.

As much as he loathed the confrontation, he couldn't help but feel a bitter sense of satisfaction. At least now, Mingi might think twice before throwing careless words around. But the victory was hollow, his thoughts quickly returning to you.

With a deep sigh, he leaned against the wall, his fingers tracing the edge of his robe. The hours ahead loomed like a storm on the horizon, and he knew they would be some of the hardest he'd ever faced.

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The air was thick with the weight of unspoken emotions as the black car idled behind you, its engine a soft hum against the gloomy backdrop. The overcast sky seemed to mirror the heaviness in both your hearts, the grey clouds threatening rain at any moment. You stood before Hongjoong, your trusty tote bag slung over your shoulder, dressed simply but beautifully, your hair pulled into a messy yet endearing style. You tried to smile, but it trembled at the edges, betraying the storm within.

Neither of you spoke right away, the silence filled with everything you wanted to say but couldn't. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulling out the glass flower charm—the delicate token you had cherished for so long.

"Give me your hand," you murmured softly.

He stepped closer without hesitation, his hand extended between you. The roughness of his palm contrasted sharply with the fragility of the charm as you placed it gently into his hand. His fingers curled around it instinctively, the same hand that once had only known destruction now cradling something so delicate with utmost care.

"For you," you said, your voice steady but laden with emotion. "It's no marigold, but—"

He cut you off with a bittersweet smile, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. "I'll cherish it," he promised, his voice quiet but resolute, as though the words themselves were a vow.

He didn't let go of your hand, his grip warm and steady. You nodded, returning his smile. "Good. Treat it with care," you said, stepping closer, your proximity making his breath hitch.

The scent of his familiar cologne wrapped around you as you leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. Your lips brushed against his skin as you whispered, "You did it, Joong. You made it all right."

His eyes fluttered closed, savouring the moment, the warmth of your presence etching itself into his memory. But then, as much as he wanted to keep you there, you pulled away gently, slipping out of his grasp.

Your backward steps toward the waiting car felt like a slow unravelling, each step tugging at the threads of his heart. He fought every instinct to run to you, to pull you back into his arms and beg you to stay, but he knew he couldn't.

As you slid into the car and shut the door, he stood rooted to the spot, his chest tight, his fists clenched at his sides. He watched helplessly as the car began to roll forward, taking you further and further from him until you were nothing but a distant blur.

"It's for the best," he whispered to himself, though the words felt hollow. "You did the right thing."

The sound of approaching footsteps broke through his haze of sorrow. Turning, he found one of his men standing hesitantly nearby. "Boss," the man said carefully, "we received an update from Seonghwa. His visit to the Red Room is going to be extended due to... undisclosed circumstances."

And just like that, Hongjoong was thrust back into the chaos of his world. He nodded, his voice cold and detached. "Got it. I'll speak with the others."

He turned and strode back toward the mansion, his steps purposeful despite the turmoil inside him. His men watched him carefully, unsure if the heartbreak would erupt into anger, but he remained composed, his demeanour unreadable.

Once inside, he glanced down at the delicate charm still resting in his palm. It caught the dim light of the hall, glinting faintly like the remnants of a dream. His grip tightened around it, not enough to damage it, but enough to ground himself.

It hurt—god, it hurt—but he found solace in the fact that he had been able to love again, even if only briefly. He didn't know how long it would take for the ache to fade, perhaps it never would, but one thing was certain: he would never forget you.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The dim light of the room cast long shadows across the walls, the flickering of a single desk lamp providing the only illumination. The figure leaned back in his chair, his gloved fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of the table. Before him lay a folder, its contents an intricate web of intel painstakingly gathered. At the very top, clipped securely, was a photograph of the Black Pirates.

The leader's face was circled in white ink—a mark of vulnerability disguised as power.

"Seems we've secured the Captain's weakness right from the start," the figure murmured, a sinister grin spreading across his face. His tone carried a disturbing mixture of amusement and certainty as he flipped the folder shut, the sound of paper against paper breaking the tense silence.

A subordinate stood nearby, his posture stiff, his eyes darting to the file with barely concealed curiosity. "Should we proceed then, sir?" he asked, his voice low but eager.

The figure chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth, and shook his head. "There's no hurry," he replied, his gloved hand resting atop the closed file like a predator savouring its next move. "Time is what we've got. Let them believe they've found their footing. Let them think they're safe."

He pushed the file to the side, leaning forward, his grin widening as his eyes gleamed with cruel intent. "We'll gather them all, one by one. No need to rush—it's always better when the prey doesn't see the trap until it's too late."

The subordinate nodded, though a hint of unease flickered across his features. "Understood, sir."

The figure reached for a glass of whiskey sitting untouched on the desk, swirling the amber liquid as if it contained the answers to every question. "Patience," he said, almost to himself, his voice low and reverent. "Patience wins wars. Let's see how far the mighty gang can go when their carefully constructed world begins to crumble."

He raised the glass in a mock toast, the light catching the golden liquid. "To the Black Pirates. And to the beginning of their end."

The room fell silent again, the only sound the faint creak of the leather chair as the figure leaned back, eyes fixed on the file. Somewhere, far from the machinations of this dark plot, Hongjoong might have felt a shiver down his spine. But for now, he was blissfully unaware, the weight of his loss still fresh, the memory of your departure his only torment.

And so, the game began.

Would you believe it? About 90% of this was drafted in a sleep-deprived state HAHA the first thing I do as soon as I get home from work is write this, so I genuinely hope this met expectations!

Are you or are you not surprised by the lack of a happy ending? If you know me well (especially readers who have been here since TWTHH), you probably saw this coming🤠

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01

@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha

@haven-cove @idfkeddieishot @vic0921 @vnessalau @apriecotte

@bangtannie7 @vtyb23 @khjoongie98 @scuzmunkie @anxiousskylar

@bunny4yungi @zl-world @quailbagutte @astudyoftimeywimeystuff

By Order of the Black Pirates Tag list:

@bethelighthalazia @tsunchani @starboyyoongi @soulphoenix1618 @dimeb29

@naps-over-degree @uniq-tastic @baeksofty @hanoishere @star-my

@skteezcursed @soocore @mountiiny @londonbridges01 @lemon-sage17

@ffenjoyerdazme @frequentlykit @callmeagardengnome @side-angel @byeolttongbye0l

@cotton-candycloudz @foxinnie8 @atinyreads @iwishiwasrichasfuck @sansaurora9904

#edenesth #by order of the black pirates #the captain #ice on my teeth #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #gang au #kim hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #ateez fic

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yanderenightmare · 11 months ago

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TW: implied noncon/dubcon, omegaverse/hybrid au, size difference, predator x prey

gn reader

There’s nothing cuter than an Omega that doesn't know their place...

You’re an amusing little thing. Infinitely inferior and still trying to get away even though he’s stronger and faster and smarter in every way – trying ever so desperately anyway, despite knowing it’s pointless – how it will only end up with you tripping on your own tail and falling right back into his claws.

Silly little mate…

He can hear your heart beating. Desperately trying to supply your aching limbs as you sprint like death is on your heels.

He can hear your feet thump against the forest floor – each step clumsier than the former, turning sloppy and ever slower.

He can hear your breaths. Raw lungs burning, panting shallowly, catching in your throat as you choke on your tears.

Scrambling through the pines like prey – hair unruly and getting caught on the passing branches ripping at your face, picking yourself up each time your feet catch in the thick roots that lay coiled and curled like serpents in the dirt – feeling as if even the forest knows to punish you for being an Omega trying to deny and Alpha his rights.

He can tell your muscles are screaming at you now, begging for a break, pleading with you to take your chances and hide instead – even though you know it won’t do you any good when he can sniff out your scent – that though he can applaud the effort, running was already foolish enough on its own.

He’s barely breaking a sweat – right on your tail. His chuckles bounce off the trunks in mocking echoes – haunting you as you drain for energy second after meager second, knowing there’ll only be a short moment left until you hear the last laugh and feel the white pain of his teeth sinking into the flesh of your neck.

You still find the energy to fight him, even when he has you pinned into the moss bed with the sky-scratching trees looming above you – the stars like onlookers, like an audience – the full moon too, like a god watching its cruel fate take place.

But you refuse to bow, even as he cuffs your wrists inside his almighty fist, pushing them into the mud – keeping you down and beneath him – your pretty face contorted into a snarl, fangs flashed at him with swivel-eyes livid and bleeding with crazed wilderness.

You sure are a funny little mate.

He looks forward to taming you.

BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Hawks, Enji, Aizawa

JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Toji

DS – Doma, Sanemi

HxH – Illumi, Uvogin

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headlinxr · 25 days ago

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𝐜𝐡𝐱𝐬𝐞 ─── 𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐢

( ♱ ) I'LL FOLLOW YOU EVERY FUCKING DAY ⨾

SYNOPSIS ! Ni-Ki knows little to nothing about you, but you mean the world to him. But you don't know this, and you never will because you chose someone else. And Ni-Ki can't live with knowing that.

GENRE. stalker, non idol!, au, obsession, reader has an established relationship, f!reader

WARNINGS. mention of blood, self harm.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Trust that I'll love you in a manner permanent that the skin over my birthmarks would flush in shame.

His room was dark, the light barely dared to enter. Ni-Ki felt trapped. The walls, like silent guardians, seemed to close in more and more, pressing on his chest with an unbearable weight. With each heartbeat, his heart resonated like a war drum, marking a battle rhythm that freed his inner self. He felt enveloped in a mantle of fresh mist, making each breath feel like a failed attempt to free himself from his invisible chains. In his mind, images of you danced like in a ballet, recalling everything about you, and the little he truly knew. With trembling hands, he searched for that object; a small leaf, cold and shiny, that promised him temporary relief. He stared at it, as if it were a mirror. When the steel touched his skin, it was as if the silence broke the mantle that covered him. The sensation was bittersweet, as if each cut were a grain of sand falling from an hourglass, marking the time slipping through his fingers.

Twilight finally seeped through the cracks in the room, tinting the atmosphere with a cold hue that accentuated the chill of the wooden wall against which he leaned. Without a shirt, his skin bristled at the touch of the rough surface, as if each splinter reminded him of the harshness of his life. With an impulsive gesture, he lifted his gaze, and what he found was a mosaic of memories clinging to the wood; thousands of photographs of you.

Each image was a glimpse of your essence: Captivating smiles, looks that bestowed joy, and moments frozen in time. But in each of those snapshots, there was an element that drove him crazy, a piercing reminder of his tireless devotion: Hee Seung. his heart contracted in an act of rebellion, as if a serpent coiled within him began to squeeze with ferocity. Rage erupted within him, igniting his mind with a torrent of distorted thoughts.

─Why... Him?─ He wondered, as his gaze lost itself in the abyss of jealousy that slowly devoured him. The obsession settled in his chest, a parasite that fed on his despair. Your image, an intruder in the world he imagined, became a ghost that haunted him, a constant echo reminding him of his own inability to be the center of his own universe.

The wall, now a canvas of his torments, seemed to mock him. Each photograph was a poisoned dart, a vivid representation of the happiness he longed for and yet slipped through his fingers like sand in an endless desert. The helplessness enveloped him like a dense fog, and his mind spun in circles, trapped in a labyrinth of dark thoughts.

With a deep sigh, a silent scream of frustration, he stepped away from the wall, leaving behind the gallery of broken dreams. He knew that his obsession was a mirage, a distorted reflection of a reality that refused to be his. However, the echo of his desire resonated within him, and although the coldness of the wood reminded him of his loneliness, the image of her continued to burn in his mind, inextinguishable and desperately beautiful. He set the blade aside, and with trembling but determined hands, he tore down one by one the photographs that adorned the walls, images that, at another time, evoked laughter and shared promises. Now, each portrait became a piercing reminder of what once was and what could never be. The fragments of paper fell to the ground like withered leaves, symbolizing the death of a love that had blossomed in the garden of his heart, only to wither before the cruel experience.

In his mind, a storm of emotions was unleashed, a whirlwind of anger and sadness that threatened to consume him completely. He wished, with an almost visceral intensity, to erase from the map of his existence those who had dared to stand between him and his deepest desire. Your life, a beacon that once illuminated his path, had now become a darkness that enveloped him, and in his mind, a revenge was brewing that seemed as seductive as it was lethal.

Remember that sunny day, and the air infused with the fresh scent of spring. Jake said you were his sister, an ethereal figure dancing between laughter and dreams, dazzling in your innocence. Your laughter was a melody that resonated in his chest, and every word you spoke became an enchanting whisper that hymned in his mind. So irrevocably patriotic that it would make the national anthem stutter.

He wanted to trust in the sudden emotion he felt every time he saw you, he would trust that you would place perfectly carved sea crusts in the palms of your hands after searching for them for hours. He felt like a child, his heart racing, but fate was capricious, and you chose the young and handsome boy, finding yourself trapped in those nets that had ensnared thousands of girls like you. That betrayal, subtle as poison, was the stigma that marked his soul.

As the photographs fell, the echo of your laughter transformed into a lament, a symphony of what could have been. The anger turned into a fire that consumed him, fueled by memories that could not be undone. You were more than just a simple girl; you were a symbol of everything he longed for and couldn't have. He longed to be the protagonist of a forbidden story with you, where he imagined touching your soft skin and feeling the heat of your body against his.

With each passing day, Ni-Ki wished to become bolder, trying to let desire guide him down paths he knew were dangerous. Each chance encounter turned into a game of tension-filled glances, where he allowed himself to dream of an accidental brush, a whisper in the ear that would never materialize. In his mind, the line between admiration and harassment blurred, and his obsession became a thousand-headed monster that devoured him from within. The routine had become a sacred ritual. With a fixed gaze, Ni-Ki ventured into the streets you usually roam. His heart beat at a frantic pace, pumping a cocktail of adrenaline and desire. The city transformed into a labyrinth of possibilities, a stage where destiny seemed to whisper his name in his ear.

Ni-Ki tried not to be discouraged; for him, the possession of your heart did not depend on reciprocity, but on the fervor of his devotion. In his mind, you were his, a star in his personal firmament, and even though there were others around you, your essence remained unchanging, destined to join his in some corner of the universe.

Each chance encounter, each smile he managed to catch, was a brick in the construction of his obsession. Ni-Ki became a master of the art of invisibility, a ghost slipping through the crowd, always at the right distance, always at the right moment. His life turned into a dance of shadows and lights, where his only purpose was to be a silent witness to the joy you radiate.

The chase, for him, was not a mere act of following; it was a form of veneration. The mere act of contemplating you, of absorbing your essence, filled him with an almost mystical ecstasy. In his mind, each day was a new chapter in an unfinished novel, a story where the protagonist pursues a love that, though distant, beats with intensity in his chest.

Who would you call if he took you? When your back is against the wall, who would you turn to? He wishes he were the first one you thought of. When you are running down the corridor, it will be him who cuts the path. You will hear the sirens, but they will never hear you.

You splash through the puddles on the road, he hates running in the rain. You turn around, and see that he's coming for you. There's no one there for you, so you mustn't fall. Because you are his to take. Only from him.

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sinful-lanterns · 7 months ago

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Ok, so I saw the Chelsea pearl cum thirst and for obvious reasons my mind went to oviposition, and then I got the best idea ever.

I present to you...

✨Path to Nowhere Monster AU!✨

Reader a regular, everyday citizen somehow finds herself in the middle of many monsters getting infatuated with her then they proceed to try court reader and make her their mate.

I got a good list of what type of monsters I think the sinners would be, I also wanted to keep a variety of monsters so there aren't any doubles.

Cheif - Witch

Nightingale - Cheif's apprentice or familiar

Uni - Frankenstein Monster

Cinnabar - Centaur

Ninety-Nine - Hellhound

Rahu - Werewolf

Oak Casket - Litch or something else undead/ that affiliates with dead things

Hamel - Puppet or Kraken

NOX - Grim Reapper

Bai Yi - Jinn (I looked it up and jinns move super fast and can phase through solid matter.)

Serpent - Naga

Shalom - Fallen Angel

Lamia - Siren

Chealse - Gorgon (She turns people into gems instaed of stone, she can turn things into gems with physical contact too, oh and her hair can shift between human hair and snake hair.)

Cassia - Vampire

Eirene - Dragon

Stargazer - Geinie

Conquelic - Succubus

Garofano - Drider(Half human, half spider)

Deren - Reality Bending Eldritch Horror (I don't have a name for her monster specifically but she'd be some kind of godly horror.)

This is all I have right now, but feel free to use and change whatever you wish!

This is an old thirst but I’ve been saving it for when I was ready to share my thoughts on it 😌

ANYWAYS HHHHHHH. Monster girls are my obsession rn. Rather than an ordinary citizen though, I imagine Reader could be like a curious researcher who likes to document and explore different territories in which monsters inhabit. As she is wandering aimlessly for her research though, she stumbles upon various different monster women (many of which want to claim Reader for themselves) and it leads to interesting scenarios with them and the poor Researcher.

Researcher! Reader who oftentimes finds herself in the coils of a lamia, trapped in the web of a drider/arachne, or stuck in the middle of a vampire orgy while on her expeditions. Multiple times has she been the object of these monsters’ affection, yet all she wants to do is finish her guidebook on monsters and biology 😅

Oh, poor Reader… unfortunately for her, monster girls are attracted to cute oblivious nerds 😭😭

#⛓️ interrogation complete #monster au #I love all these monster ideas too #thank you for the list

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beddybites · 7 months ago

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HIII ❤️ I love your AU ideas! I just wanted to ask ~ how does Kaburamaru handle baby Obanai? Does he get super protective over the baby, even when the other hashira come to take care of him? Does he try to get help from a hashira when Obanai is hungry or thirsty? And when the baby is crying, does he try to calm him down with hugs and cuddles? 🥺 Just the idea of Kaburamaru being super protective and careful and caring towards little Obanai makes my heart bawl 😭 i can imagine the two being inseparable, and if Obanai is separated from Kaburamaru then he's gonna cry his eyes out 😭

hey hi anon!! sorry for the late response ahhh x_x

im so happy to hear you like my silly little au... to answer your question-- you're exactly right!

kaburamaru is extremely protective and helpful with the baby

if obanai is upset he goes to find someone to help. if obanai is hungry he finds someone to feed him

however he also tends to help in ways that may inconvenience the others. if obanai does not want to use his pacifier kaburamaru will hide it somewhere, for instance, under the porch of gyomei's estate

the serpent loves to snuggle up to him. obanai is a bit embarrassed by it but whenever he's in baby mode he just clings onto him. kaburamaru is a huge source of comfort to obanai either way

a lot of the time kaburamaru is able to get obanai to regress INTO baby mode via snuggling up to him and giving him little kisses

the hashira learned not to separate them at risk of an angry and frightened/hurt baby obanai

but kaburamaru is indeed extra careful with him... he tries not to coil around him or open his jaw around him in fear of it either scaring the baby or hurting the baby

it turns out it doesn't do either. the baby loves his serpentine friend

baby mode obanai has a habit of 'blepping' / sticking his tongue out to mimic kabruamaru. it of course makes everyone coo at the two

tengen and mitsuri also collaborated and made him a kaburamaru onesie (seen here) so they can match

it's obanai's favorite outfit

and kaburamaru's

reposting this old gem... ignore how kaburamaru is much smaller than he should be i can never get his scaling right

that baby loves his serpentine friend.... and kaburamaru loves him just as much!!! do not separate them ever

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starrynightmuse · 6 months ago

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Sign of the Times 🏛⏳️ I. Broken Dragonfly Wings

Aemond Targaryen x reader, Library of Alexandria AU

(Title inspired by the Harry Styles song)

Blurb: It's summer in Alexandria, Egypt, and the heat has reached sweltering heights. Children dash toward the banks of the Nile, eager to find relief in the cool waters while ladies fan themselves under the shade of palm trees. Thick mud huts keep families cool under the boiling sun. It would be 1,892 years before the first ice cubes would be invented and nearly two millennia until air conditioning. Even Jesus Christ wouldn’t be born until another 48 years. But you have the teachings of Aristotle and the works of Euclid. You're the first and only female scholar at the Library of Alexandria, the first institute of its kind. All your life has been spent in the pursuit of knowledge — until the arrival of a mysterious young scholar named Aemond.

Series warnings: period typical misogyny, ancient academia, teacher x student relationship (but they're the same age), violence, fire, sexual content (18+), reader is loosely based off of Hypatia of Alexandria, Targaryens x Ptolemies crossover, character deaths, inaccurate history for the sake of storytelling, accusations of witchcraft, debates on fictional religions, Plato, Daemon being a menace.

Word count: 5,380

Series Masterlist

Your heart was racing, terror coiling in your stomach like a serpent, but you refused to let it show as you looked out at the mob of angry faces around you in the pavilion.

“Traitor!”

“Death to the witch!”

“Kill her!”

You knew there was no escaping this. This was the end. Yet, even as fear flooded your chest, you refused to let go of your pride. You held your head up high as Prince Daemon approached you where you kneeled. He looked down at you, his cold eyes gleaming in sick satisfaction.

"I'm giving you one last chance, witch," he said, his voice hard and uncompromising. "Renounce your unholy ways and convert to the Faith of the Seven, and you shall walk away unharmed."

You looked up at him, refusing to back down. You hypocrite, you thought. When you spoke, your voice was steady and firm. "I cannot.”

The prince's expression darkened. He stepped closer to you, his lips close to your ear so that no one would overhear.

“There is nothing left for you. It's over. Save yourself and the crown will grant you mercy,” he hissed.

You spat at his face. "If the right to think is treason, then I embrace it proudly. I refuse to remain supplicant to a crown that fears the power of knowledge and labels it treachery."

Daemon's lips formed into a cruel snarl. He stepped back and turned to the crowd, opening his arms in a dramatic display. "The punishment for witchcraft is death!" his voice boomed. The crowd erupted, snarling and roaring like a pack of lions.

Your heart raced as the people closed in with stones in hand, hungry predators circulating their prey. You took a final deep breath, bracing yourself for the onslaught. The first stone hit you, a dull throb of pain that quickly gave way to sharper, intense sensations as more stones followed. You feel your knees collapsing to the hard floor. In reflex, you cover your head with your arms. You shut your eyes, and the last thing you saw was the memory of a single blue eye.

🏛⏳️

6 months earlier.

There's a buzzing in the air, and not just from the hum of people in the atrium outside. Inside your classroom, a large blue dragonfly lazily flies in circles, your students taking turns swatting at it as it zips by. It’s an epaulet skimmer, or an orthetrum chrysostigma, a common dragonfly found around Egypt. Last month, you helped survey them with a fellow scholar who was putting together an account of all the various insects along the Nile River delta. The research project was commissioned by the Princess Helaena Targaryen herself, whom you've heard was quite fond of natural history.

In the midst of your lecturing, the buzz of the insect feels amplified. In front of you sit nearly fifty pupils, all perched on wooden benches. Most of them are in their teens and early twenties, and all of them were young men with restless energy with wandering minds. While a few showed genuine curiosity, you knew that attendance was merely a formality to half of them, who were only present because their parents were wealthy aristocrats. Yet, you knew it was your duty to broaden their minds and instill some semblance of knowledge into their minds before they go on to graduate and become lords who make decisions that impact hundreds of people.

“Whether you believe in the Seven or the old gods, we accept that the divine has created all that we know,” you say, your voice carrying across the room. “Yet, the mechanisms behind how their creations work are a mystery to us mortals.”

There's a blur of blue near your eye when the dragonfly makes a landing on your nose. You swap it away and continue.

“For example, what are the gears that drive a drought? Elders of the past have said that a drought is punishment from an angry sun god. Holy men today say it is the repercussion of having vexed the Seven. But how, precisely, do these divine beings bring this drought upon us?” You pause, pacing around the room. “Like observing the work of a craftsman, we can observe the handiwork of the gods. We can observe that volcanic eruptions are one tool that the gods use to give us droughts. Likewise, miasma from a plague, which spews vaporous acid into the atmosphere, can cause rising temperatures and dry up rivers. (Modern Fact check: Miasma does NOT cause plagues. They are caused by infectious bacteria and viruses.)

“Every natural disaster has forces, or causes, behind them. Although perhaps only the gods may know the truth of the workings behind these events, philosophers and believers of science have theorized why certain disasters come to be. Take earthquakes, for example. Compared to droughts, it is much harder for us to determine how earthquakes are created. Aristotle, for one, suggested that it is caused by winds in subterranean caves.”

One of your pupils seated on the front row raises his hand. Ebony curls, dark eyes that remind you of beetles, his robes a deep plum that only money can buy.

“Perhaps Aristotle failed to consider that earthquakes could just be Atticus's mother walking to the market,” he says, a cocky grin spreading across his face. His friend gives him a hearty slap on the back, nearly doubling over with laughter.

You offer a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you, Flavius."

Some of your students were more mature than others.

Flavius's jolliness is short-lived, however. The dragonfly suddenly decides to dart into his eye and he lets out a startled shriek. He swats at the insect and tumbles forward off the bench. His friend roars even harder with laughter. Meanwhile, the dragonfly falls onto the floor, its delicate blue wings now broken. A couple students in the back crane their necks in curiosity as Flavius stomps his feet on the insect's body, crushing it mercilessly against the tile floor. Tiny blue limbs smear across the tiles, its wings in pieces like shattered glass. A life snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

Flavius settles back onto the bench, straightening his toga with an air of nonchalance. "Apologies, miss. Please, continue," he says.

You choose to ignore his interruption, redirecting your attention to the rest of the class.

“When we attempt to unravel the mysteries behind the divine's creations, we begin to understand the natural world,” you say, thinking about the dead bug in front of you, its blue wings, the blue of the Nile, all the species of flora and fauna that have survived for eons thanks to its life-giving waters. “This is why we study the discipline of science.”

“Beyond these walls, I have heard many who deem it to be blasphemy,” a voice interjects.

Your gaze shifts to a young man at the rear of the room. You've never seen him before, not in your classroom nor around the Library. If you've seen him, you would know. With his sharp features, nearly white hair cropped close to his head, and a leather eyepatch covering an angry scar on his left eye — his was not a face you would forget.

“What do they call you?” You ask curiously, piercing blue eye meeting yours. He seemed a bit older than the rest of your students — perhaps in his mid-twenties, around the same age as you. You briefly wondered where he was from. His features stood out in a sea of dark haired Alexandrians.

"I am called Aemond, ma'am," his voice remained composed and respectful. "Just Aemond." There was a refinement in his speech that hinted of a privileged upbringing, yet the absence of a surname intrigued you. Perhaps he was an educated slave, adept at tutoring and managing the finances of the master's household — literate slaves were not uncommon in the Roman Empire.

"And what have you heard, Aemond?" you inquire.

"It is said that scientific inquiry is seen as an offense to the Seven," he responds evenly, referring to the gods. "Questioning their creations is considered sacrilegious." Several students nod in agreement around the room.

You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts.

“It is true that outside these walls, the belief that science is sacrilegious is held by many people,” you say slowly. “Perhaps even now, some of you are wrestling with the idea, torn between conventional thinking and what you are learning at this institute. If this is the case, I implore you to consider this —”

You look out at the faces of your pupils. Some are focused and deep in thought, while others are frowning. A lone blue eye is fixed on you.

"—What act of love is greater than seeking to understand the object of your affection? Mathematics, physics, and astronomy are not merely academic pursuits but they are expressions of love. They are avenues through which we seek to comprehend and appreciate the intricate beauty of our world.” You gestured around the room. “I am aware that some of you are followers of the Seven. Some of you are devoted to the old gods. But science does not seek to refute the existence of one God over another, nor does it attempt to debunk the existence of the divine altogether. Science seeks only to understand.” You look in Aemond's direction. He's watching, listening intently. “In attempting to understand the natural world, we may better love the divine and appreciate their creations.”

🏛⏳️

The remainder of the class concluded smoothly, and due to the sweltering heat, you dismissed everyone earlier than usual. Despite the hour not yet reaching midday, the air was thick with humidity, making the classroom feel oppressive. You had no desire to keep your students in the stuffy classroom for longer than necessary.

As the others rush to leave the room, you notice that Aemond was kneeling down and using a handkerchief to clean the dragonfly off the floor.

“Thank you,” you say to him earnestly. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he delicately holds the insect through the thin white cloth. He picks up a broken piece of an iridescent blue wing, the shimmer catching the light.

"It's an epaulet skimmer," you remark softly. But you're not looking at the bug, you're looking at him.

"Orthetrum chrysostigma," Aemond responds, using the scientific name. You regard him with curiosity.

“My sister has a fondness for insects," Aemond explains. "She is extremely gentle with them. She maintains an extensive collection in her room — beetles, caterpillars, dragonflies, and the like. But she only gathers them once they've passed on. Her heart is too big to confine them before they've lived a full life." He gazes at the broken wing in his hand with a hint of sadness. You suspect that he is thinking of more than the fate of the squashed bug.

“Some cultures believe that dragonflies were once dragons who were tricked by a jackal to change shape into insects,” you say, looking at the wing in fascination. “Once they became a dragonfly, they couldn't transform back. As a result, they represented change and illusion.”

You notice that Aemond's gaze is now fixed on you, a blue eye that reminds you of iridescent wings and the shimmering surface of the Nile on sunny days. You think of mirages in the desert, blue lapis lazuli on polished gold rings, the holographic shells of scarab beetles.

“They must've been very grand in their past lives,” he remarks.

There's a short silence as you observe him, unsure of what to make of this strange new addition to your class. As your gaze shifts from his eyepatch to his eye, you notice that he's studying you too. Suddenly, you feel very exposed, as if he was somehow reading your entire life story just by looking at you.

Breaking the tension, you extend your hand. "I realize I haven't properly introduced myself. It's been a pleasure having you in my class," you say, stating your name. He accepts your gesture, clasping your hand in a firm shake.

“You're the daughter of Theon. Your father is the greatest mathematician in all of Alexandria,” Aemond says. “I know who you are.”

“Do you study mathematics?”

“No. History and philosophy,” he replies. “But I've read enough across all the disciplines to know who the greats are.”

“I don't think I've ever seen you around here before,” you note.

"I just started my studies here," he explains. "I arrived last night."

"Where else have you studied?"

“Nowhere else. All my education has been from tutors hired by my family at home.”

"If you don't mind my asking, where do you come from?"

He hesitates. “I've been around,” he says at last.

🏛⏳️

That afternoon, you decided to teach your next class in one of the classrooms overlooking the sea. Arriving early, you unlatch the tall, arched windows, hoping to coax a gentle breath of ocean breeze into the room. As the soft light of the late afternoon filtered through, you arrange your teaching materials as the first of your students trickled in.

The class was on Euclidean geometry. As it happens, this was one of your favorite subjects to teach. You loved to move around the room, using various objects — such as a discus, a sphere, and even a pineapple — to illustrate geometric shapes and their properties. It was more than just memorizing formulas; it was about seeing and understanding the spatial relationships and practical applications of mathematics in the physical world.

Two thousand years from now, Euclidean geometry would be the foundation for computer graphics, radiology, and geographic information systems. Without Euclid, you wouldn't have video games or anime. There would be no x-rays to help doctors treat broken bones. Without Euclid, there would be no Google Maps, nor would you be able to stalk your crush's location on Snapchat.

Abruptly, you are cut off mid-lecture as a series of bold knocks echo off the door. You excuse yourself and open the door cautiously, finding yourself face-to-face with six armored men adorned in gold cloaks. You step out into the atrium.

"What is your business?" you ask, your gaze sharp and guarded.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen wants to speak to Theon of Alexandria. I'm told you're his daughter,” the guard at front says firmly.

“My father is indisposed. Whatever business you have with him, you can discuss with me.”

A sudden laugh rings out across the atrium. Every movement in the hall comes to a standstill as scholars pause their tracks and turn their heads. In front of you, guards quickly part ways for a tall man with long silver hair. His armor clinks as he strides towards you, his eyes mischievous like those of a jackal, reminding you of the ancient depictions of Anubis on temple walls. Adorning his shoulders is the same golden cloak worn by his men.

It was the unmistakable Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother of King Viserys and the consort of the crown princess Rhaenyra. But to the smallfolk, he is known as the merciless commander of the City Watch.

Daemon looks at you like you are the scum on his shoes. “I don't have time for games, girl,” he says mockingly. “Where is your father?”

“Like I've said, he is indisposed,” you repeat, meeting him with a steady gaze.

“I have come a long way from the palace,” he says, offering a false honeyed grin. “You will fetch him for me.”

You give a smile that mirrored his. It was common knowledge that Prince Daemon frequented the company of his mistress in the city more than he did his own wife at the royal palace.

"I speak the truth when I say my father cannot be here right now, and I apologize on his behalf. However, I am willing to assist you,” you assert calmly.

"This does not concern you," Daemon retorts dismissively. "I am here on business concerning your father's governance of this... academic institution."

"I am a professor here and a senior member of the Library of Alexandria," you counter, maintaining your composure. "After my father, you will find no one more knowledgeable about the affairs of this institute than I am."

Daemon scoffs, his tone condescending. "There are matters too serious to discuss with a woman.”

“Then I'm afraid you will have to come back another day, my prince.”

“Where is your father?”

“He is sick. Unless you have a direct order from the king, I would prefer not to disturb him from his much-needed rest."

The unspoken truth hangs heavy in the air — the Library is under the protection of the crown, and Daemon, despite his authority, is not the king. The prince's expression darkens, a sneer painting his features as his knuckles grip around the handle of his sword on his waist. You find yourself locked in a tense staring contest, both unwilling to yield. Moments tick by in silence, each waiting for the other to give in. Then —

“Very well,” he concedes, letting go of his grip on the sword. But you knew from his expression that this was far from over. Daemon casts a disdainful glance around the atrium as if the place offended him before turning and walking away from you. His gold cloaks follow him, their armor clanking all the way to the main doors of the library.

It is only when the last of them exited onto the street that you allow yourself to release the breath you've been holding.

🏛⏳️

“Daemon Targaryen? What was he doing here?” You hear Cregan before you see him.

You're in the far corner of the main reading room, kneeling before a crate with a new shipment of scrolls that came in from Greece. Gently opening the lid, you discover a signed note from the head of the Platonic School of Athens. Ἕν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα. Αὕτη ἡ γνῶσις ἐμοῦ ἐστιν, it reads at the end. One thing I know, that I know nothing. This is the source of my wisdom. It is a quote by Socrates.

Cregan emerges from behind a shelf, his gray eyes wide with exasperation.

“I can't say that I haven't expected this,” you say to him, picking up a scroll and lightly dusting it off. “It is no secret that Daemon puts up with us only because of the pharaoh.”

“Well, yes. But to barge in here and demand for the Professor—” he means your father Theon.

“He's been sending us threats for months.”

Cregan paused. “When did this start?”

“Four moons ago, when King Viserys reinstated him as Lord Commander of the City Watch.”

Daemon had been the commander of the city watch once before, but that had been years ago, and back then he was more interested in dealing with criminals in the worst parts of the city. But after some scandal with the Princess Rhaenyra, Viserys had exiled him to Rome. Now, he was back and had regained both his old post as leader of the city guard and the Princess Rhaenyra, whom he took to wife. However, this time, Daemon was turning his policing to the University of Alexandria, more commonly referred to as simply the Library. Apparently, scholars are the new criminals.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Cregan asked, clearly frustrated.

“I didn't want to burden you with it," you reply honestly. "You've been occupied with your research with Princess Helaena these past four moons.”

Cregan rubs his eyebrows. “What has he been threatening?”

With a sigh, you rise to your feet, making space on the shelf for the new scrolls. Cregan joins you, handing over scrolls from the crate as you arrange them carefully in their designated spots on the shelf.

“He wants to shut down the Library if we don't — and I quote his words — ‘tone down on the science’,” you explain. "He's pushing for censorship, insisting that everything that is taught and published here must be 'safe' for the public. He claims it's about protecting the moral well-being of Alexandrians."

Cregan snorts derisively. "I wonder what his wife thinks of his moral well-being."

"That's an ad hominem attack, Cregan," you chide gently. But you're smiling.

“We're the best scientific research institution in the Mediterranean,” he says. “And, let's face it, we're probably the best in the entire world. We owe it all to King Jaehaerys's proclamation over 50 years ago, protecting our intellectual freedom. Even Daemon Targaryen can't derail something like that.”

“Daemon doesn't like anything he can't control,” you say. “Nor does he like taking no for an answer.”

“He's a cunt,” Cregan muttered angrily. “His word isn't law but he sure does want to act like it. Did you hear he's been trying to ban all Northerners from entering Alexandria? Unless they're slaves, that is. It's utterly absurd. He's a Northerner himself. His entire family hails from the north—well, not the North, but north of the Mediterranean. Valyria is a small city-state in Greece. Still, that's north of us. If he wants only true Alexandrians in the city, maybe he should consider leaving as well." The Targaryens, although originally from Greece, had become the longest-reigning dynasty in Egypt, despite their non-Egyptian origin.

"What does Princess Helaena think?"

"Of Daemon?"

"Of the North."

Cregan blushes slightly. "She's mentioned that we should visit there together someday," he admits. “For research purposes, of course,” he adds quickly.

You grin. Cregan has been your closest friend since childhood, and you swear you've never seen him as happy as he's been the past few months.

"She wants to see the direwolves and the aurora borealis,” says Cregan. “I promised her I'd show her around Winterfell when we go." Winterfell, Cregan's hometown, nestled in a far-off corner of the world where snow and frost dominate most of the year — a large contrast to the sandy dunes of Egypt.

“You like her,” you mused.

“Don't be absurd,” Cregan says, but he's failing miserably in hiding a smile.

There's a rustling among the shelves behind you, and the next thing you know, you're face to face with a single blue eye that reminds you of ocean water and iridescent wings.

"Sorry, I was told that the texts about Plato are in this section?" Aemond asks.

"Oh. Yes. Absolutely," you reply quickly, gesturing around you. "I mean, they're all here. Everything on this wall is Plato. We've just received a new collection of his works from Greece and we just finished cataloging and setting them up. They're on this shelf. Here." Your words stumble out awkwardly, and you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Perfect,” Aemond says, looking at you. Neither of you move. Cregan eyes the two of you with amusement.

“Well, I was just about to head out,” Cregan says cheerfully, sashaying past you. You turn, widening your eyes and mouthing no to him. Cregan simply grins as he disappears behind the bookshelves, leaving you with Aemond.

“You read Plato?” you ask.

Aemond nods. “I am an admirer of his work,” he says. “You were one of my first introductions to him, actually. I read your thesis on him, An Exploration Into the Metaphysics of Plato, when I was sixteen.”

“I can't imagine there would be many copies of that,” you say with amazement. “I wrote it when I was—”

“Sixteen,” Aemond says. You blink. He clears his throat. “I've been a follower of your work,” he adds shyly.

“Oh. I'm flattered.” You’re blushing.

“Is it true that you started studying at The Academy when you were fourteen?” He means the Platonic School of Athens, founded by Plato himself over 300 years ago. Most scholars called it The Academy. It is the first university to ever open in western civilization.

You nod. “I learned mathematics and astronomy here, but my father wanted me to get a hellenistic education on top of it, so he sent me to Greece. I stayed there for four years before returning to Alexandria.”

“I have a brother who studies there,” Aemond shares, leaning against a bookshelf. “My mother, being an Athenian herself, insisted he be sent there. He writes to me sometimes, telling me about the professors he works with. I had considered studying there myself.”

“What made you choose Alexandria over Athens?”

Aemond smiles. “I'm at the center of the world here. It seemed foolish to want to go anywhere else,” he says, his gaze sweeping the library around him. After a pause, he asks, “What made you want to teach?”

“The fear of oblivion,” you reply. "It's the realization that everything we do, everything we learn, and everything we create could be forgotten someday. Teaching, for me, is a way to combat that inevitability. By sharing knowledge, by shaping young minds, I can hope to leave a lasting impact — a legacy that outlives me."

Aemond nods thoughtfully. "So it's about leaving a mark on the world?"

"In a sense, yes," you affirm. "It's about contributing to something greater than myself, ensuring that knowledge endures beyond individual lives and fleeting moments."

He smiles faintly. "That's a noble pursuit."

"It's what drives me," you conclude. As you look at each other, you feel his gaze tracing over your face with a strange emotion. Awe? Admiration? Before you can decipher his thoughts, a scholar approaches the shelf behind you, prompting you to awkwardly step aside.

"I hope you find the resources on Plato you're looking for," you say to Aemond, refocusing on the moment. You pause. "We're hosting a seminar on Plato's metaphysics tomorrow afternoon in the Rose Hall. You should join us."

Aemond smiles. “I’d be honored to.”

🏛⏳️

Daytime in Alexandrian summers can be hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, but when the chill sets in at night, the city transforms into a completely different land. It is under the cloak of darkness that Alexandria truly comes alive.

You’re wrapped in a headscarf, its tail fluttering in the gentle wind from the Mediterranean as you navigate the narrow streets of the night market. Oil lamps and torches cast a soft, flickering glow as shadows danced across buildings decorated with a mix of hieroglyphs and hellenistic art. On the streets, you hear people speaking in both Greek and Egyptian, but also Persian, Moroccan, and other various African and Asiatic dialects. Various aromas filled the air— spices mingled with the savory scents of grilled meats and the sweet notes of baked pastries and delicacies from the far corners of the world. It was the New York City of the ancient world.

Weaving between stalls adorned with colorful fabrics and gleaming trinkets, you spotted one of the gold cloaks from earlier that day. Upon noticing you, he gave you a brief, curt nod before turning his attention sharply towards a group of rowdy children who were blocking the path of a passing wagon.

You make your way to an apothecary stall, securing the medicine your father needs before turning to leave. Suddenly, a hooded figure trips over a wooden crate and crashes into you, causing both of you to tumble to the ground. You fall flat on the cobblestones, his weight on top of you. Your basket with the apothecary vial shatters on the road.

“Ow!” he yelled. You struggle to push him off and get to your feet, then reach down to help him up, steadying him as he sways unsteadily. His hood falls back, revealing a mess of unruly white curls.

Prince Aegon Targaryen. You’ve seen him a few times while going around the city. The eldest son of Queen Alicent, known to frequent the streets of Alexandria often. Aside from Daemon, he was the only royal that most of the smallfolk could recognize by appearance.

"Prince Aegon," you say cautiously, helping him steady himself. "Are you alright?"

He blinks a few times, focusing on you with bleary eyes. "Why, hello," he slurs slightly, attempting a lopsided smile. For a prince, he seemed dirtier than Diogenes and his barrel.

"Let me help you," you insist, guiding him away from the scattered shards of glass. You maneuver him towards a nearby bench, ensuring he sits down safely.

"I’m alright, I’m fine," he murmurs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He groaned and vomited on the ground next to him. You pat him on the back awkwardly as he empties his stomach.

“Did my mother send you?” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“My mother. She sent you, didn’t she? I can’t catch a break these days,” he grumbled. “The woman is a menace. She’s become crazier since my brother got exiled. I can’t even drink in peace now. She’s sending her spies everywhere.”

You frowned. “I’m not a spy, my prince.”

Aegon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits back heavily on the bench. He tilts his head up at you, scrutinizing you, and then he sighs and hungs his head.

“Forgive me,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I’m tired of the games. Tired of the scrutiny. I’m tired of the standards that she sets for me, and I’m tired of her disappointment when I fail to meet them. Can’t she see I don’t want any of this? Can’t she just let me be?”

You hesitate, unsure how to respond to the prince's candidness. He was clearly drunk and you’ve only just met him, and you’ve heard unsettling rumors about him. Stories of his frequenting brothels and fighting rings, of fathering illegitimate children and neglecting them. But in this moment, he seemed far from the crooked prince that people whispered about. He seemed like a child in need of comfort.

“Your mother worries about you,” you say gently. “She only wants what’s best for you.”

He scoffs bitterly. “Does she? Tell me, have you ever had a mother who would rather marry you to your own sibling for political gain than let you live your own life?”

You shake your head slowly. “I cannot say I understand fully, but I know you carry a heavy burden.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be free of it.” Aegon leans back, staring up at the night sky with weary resignation. “My brother was lucky. I’d do anything to exchange places with him.”

You recalled hearing news of Queen Alicent’s second son, who had been condemned to work in the mines of Nubia as punishment for the murder of his nephew. The usual penalty for murder was death, and much worse if the victim was a royal, but since the criminal was a prince himself, it changed a few things. The Nubian mines were typically reserved for lesser crimes in Alexandria.

“The one who was exiled to Nubia?” you asked Aegon.

He chuckles bitterly. “My brother didn’t get sent to Nubia. Mother loves him too much for that.”

You stayed quiet, not knowing what to say. You had a feeling that you weren’t supposed to be hearing this piece of information. Yet, Aegon didn’t seem to expect a reply. He’s looking up at the stars, as if he wished to fly off into the heavens and leave his miseries on the ground.

“Thank you,” Aegon finally said, breaking the quiet that had settled between you. Thank you for listening, thank you for not judging, thank you for watching out for my drunken mess. He rose to his feet, a bit unsteady but more composed than before. He took out a pouch of coins. “This is for… what I broke,” he said, gesturing to the remnants of the vial around you, shards of glass glittering under oil lamps. You thought of the broken dragonfly wings from earlier in the day.

You accepted the pouch gingerly. What he gave you was worth much more than the cost of the medicine, but you didn’t want to offend him so you decided not to mention it.

“Should I call the guards to escort you back to the palace?” you asked.

Aegon blinked, his gaze drifting momentarily. “No, no,” he said, waving dismissively. “They’re my uncle’s people. They don’t like me.”

"Will you manage on your own?" you pressed gently.

Aegon straightened his cloak and mustered a tired smile. "I always do," he said.

With that, the prince turned and started to walk away. You watched as he disappeared into the narrow streets, his figure gradually blending with the shadows.

Chapter II: Coming Soon

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd x you #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond x y/n

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rainforestakiie · 4 months ago

Text

@inubaki i really hope you like this! i worked so hard on it for you! i'm not sure if it's good, but i tried something new with our adorable adam.

i'm not sure what to call this AU? maybe the love of hell?

the wonderful inubaki requested an AU where lucifer and lilith are trying to save the hellborn. they brought a booklet of Hellborns for everyone to look at, and adam is the only one interested.

i hope you don't mind me getting creative with this one too!

i tried something new. i hope it worked!

please enjoy!

The corridors of Heaven stretched before them like endless, glowing veins, each pulse of light casting intricate shadows against the walls. The air shimmered, thick with the weight of eternity, and yet Adam felt it heavy in his chest. His fingers fidgeted with the coarse fabric of his tunic, tugging at the loose threads of his oversized work gloves, the same ones he had worn since... well, since as long as he could remember. They felt more cumbersome than usual, each pull of the fabric a distraction from the churning storm inside him.

Beside him, Sera walked with a quiet grace, her wings folded tightly against her back, the golden feathers barely brushing the ground as she moved. Every so often, her gaze would flick to him, concern softening the usual brightness in her eyes.

“Adam,” she whispered, her voice like the soft hum of the wind through a garden of starlight. “I know you're nervous, anxious even. I can feel it. But there is no need to fear. I swear, neither Michael nor I will let anything happen to you.”

Adam's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes avoiding hers as they focused on the ever-stretching horizon ahead. His heart raced, not from her words, but from the truth he couldn’t voice. He swallowed thickly, trying to untangle the knot in his throat.

“I know you’ll protect me,” he said, his voice strained, barely above a murmur. His hands trembled slightly, and his stomach twisted and coiled, like a serpent tightening around his spine.

“But it doesn’t stop… this.” He made a vague gesture to his chest. “I don’t understand why they want me here, why I need to be here.”

Sera sighed softly, a touch of weariness in the sound. “I don’t know either. I tried, Adam. I tried to make them understand that you have no part in the… relations between Heaven and Hell. But Hell was relentless. They demanded your presence repeatedly.”

Adam’s brow furrowed as he halted for a moment, his gaze dropping to the pristine floor beneath his feet. His troubled expression deepened, shadows darkening his usually gentle face.

“But they already have Eve.” His voice wavered, the words pulling at the fraying edges of his composure. “Surely one of us would be enough. Why me too?”

The silence between them thickened like a fog, the echo of his question lingering in the air. Sera paused, her wings ruffling slightly before she placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch warm, reassuring. Her fingers pressed gently; a promise unspoken.

“This meeting will be quick,” she murmured, her voice a balm against the storm raging within him. “I will make sure it doesn’t drag on longer than necessary.”

Adam nodded, though the motion felt sluggish, weighted. He could feel the inevitability of the situation, feel the invisible chains tightening around him, dragging him forward. There was no escape from this, no turning back. With a resigned sigh, he let go of his resistance, his heart still uneasy, but his feet moving forward once again.

Heaven’s light seemed less bright, more distant. And as the doorway to the meeting chamber loomed ahead, Adam couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever waited inside was far darker than anything he had faced before.

As Adam and Sera drew closer to the grand doors that separated light from darkness, his heart pounded with the weight of it all. The towering gates of polished crystal shimmered with a strange, ethereal glow, but to Adam, they seemed more like the bars of a cage. Beyond those doors lay the meeting place—the heart of the divide between Heaven and Hell, purity and sin, light and shadow.

His pulse quickened, each thud in his chest heavy and unrelenting, a silent question echoing in his mind: Why me?

He couldn't understand it. He doubted he ever would.

From the moment he and Eve had arrived in Heaven, life had been a maelstrom—a constant storm of confusion and chaos. Heaven, a place he had thought would be peaceful, had become a battleground of decisions and endless debates. Hardly any souls had reached Heaven anymore, and the reason was as twisted as it was tragic.

The Apple of Knowledge, the birth of Sin itself, had poisoned humanity so deeply that most souls were lost to the darkness. Hell was teeming with sinners, overwhelming its gates, and Heaven’s high angels had called for a desperate council. Both he and Eve were summoned.

Adam remembered how Eve had seethed with fury, her bitterness a powerful force. She carried resentment like a shroud, heavy and thick, her anger not just toward Lucifer and Lilith, but toward all those who had followed them into the abyss. Despite the distance that had grown between them, Adam and Eve had transformed their bond into something more like siblings—two souls forever tethered to one another. In a Heaven that felt more foreign than familiar, they only had each other to hold onto.

Eve was his best friend, and Adam was Eve’s best friend.

Adam had long since forgiven Eve. Her mistakes had once felt like a fracture between them, but now they were scars, healed but not forgotten. Eve had spent every moment since trying to make things right, as if each action was an attempt to cleanse herself of past regrets. Adam had witnessed it firsthand, and when the Archangels—Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, and Sera—had called them to God’s crystalline throne room, it was Eve who had stepped forward. Her voice had been steady yet laced with the weight of her guilt.

“I will take responsibility for this,” she had declared, her gaze unwavering. “Just me. You only need one of us, right? So, I will take responsibility, not Adam.”

Adam had tried to intervene, to remind her that this was their shared burden. They were both part of the same story, both victims of the same fall. But Eve had refused, shaking her head with a sadness that cut deeper than her words.

“This is on me, Adam. I trusted Lucifer. I trusted Lilith. If I hadn’t… our children might have made it here.” She said softly, holding his hand tightly. “It was my fault we were kicked out of Eden. You’ve spent years afterward breaking your back for me and our children. You’ve taken care of me, made sure I can eat and sleep well.”

She looked him in the eye, her amber-gaze teary. “Please, let me take care of you this time.”

From that day, Eve had dedicated herself to a grim task. She trained with the other angels, sharpening her resolve, and spent endless hours sorting through human souls—deciding who was worthy of Heaven and who would be cast into Hell. She became the sword of judgment, her once gentle hands now hardened by the weight of her duty. Adam had tried to be there for her, but Eve kept him at a distance, sharing only fragments of her pain.

The time they spent together will be happy, she had decided.

Heaven had given Adam a different role. While Eve had the likes of Archangel Michael and Sera, God had created a new guardian for him, another Seraphim named Emily. Together, they took on responsibilities far removed from the harsh dealings between Heaven and Hell. Their tasks revolved around the Winners—those rare souls who had ascended—and the Heavenborns, along with the animals that roamed the clouds. While Eve battled the darkness, Adam’s life was filled with nurturing, guiding, and trying to find peace in his new purpose.

But the guilt gnawed at him, relentless. Every time he saw Eve return from another long day, her face drawn; her wings heavy with fatigue, it twisted inside him. She would always smile when she saw him, always pretended she wasn’t tired, wasn’t angry, wasn’t breaking apart beneath the weight of it all. But Adam could see it. He could feel it. She was drowning in a sea of fury and regret, and there was little he could do to help her.

Recently, Eve had been the one attending the delicate meetings between Heaven and Hell, where the fate of the Sinners was debated. Adam knew little of what happened there.

Emily had done her best to keep him distracted, filling his days with tending to the new arrivals in Heaven or caring for the creatures that frolicked through the clouds. It was a quiet life, but a distant one, far removed from the storm that brewed beneath Heaven’s perfect facade.

Now, as the doors to the meeting chamber loomed before him, Adam felt his stomach tighten. This time, he couldn’t escape. This time, Hell had called for him by name. He didn’t know why, didn’t understand what they wanted from him.

Eve had always been the one to handle these matters.

Besides, Adam had never been close to Lilith or Lucifer. Especially after Lilith had left him for Lucifer. Adam had never been favoured by either of them. He once thought he was close to both of them, he once thought Lucifer and Lilith loved him like he loved them. But that wasn't the case when they left him all alone...

When Eve came along, they both only wanted her…they had never asked for him, until now and to be perfectly honest, Adam had been all to happy to never see either of them again.

Why should they need me? His thoughts spun, a whirlwind of confusion and fear, the answers always out of reach. I don’t know a single thing about the Sinners.

Beside him, Sera’s gaze softened as her hand brushed his shoulder, a brief, fleeting touch to pull him from the storm of his thoughts and ground him in the present moment.

“You’re not alone, Adam,” she whispered, her voice warm like sunlight breaking through mist. “But we must face this.”

Adam swallowed, his throat tight, and looked up at her, his stomach twisting like a serpent coiling in on itself.

“Where… where’s Eve?” His voice trembled, barely more than a breath. “I-I thought she… I thought she’d be waiting for me.”

“She’s here,” Sera replied gently, the hint of a smile touching her lips, though there was a flicker of concern in her eyes.

Adam let out a shaky sigh of relief. For a moment, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest—Eve, his constant, his anchor, was there.

But then, Sera’s tone shifted, becoming cautious.

“Eve is already inside with Michael.” Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. “However, she is being a little… explosive.”

Adam blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. Explosive?

Eve had always been passionate, fiery even, but that word felt… ominous. His gaze wandered back to the towering doors in front of them, and he shivered. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now, as his ears strained, he swore he heard a low, distant thump from within the room. It was faint but powerful, like the heartbeat of something vast and angry.

“Let’s just say…” Sera continued, her words soft and measured, “Eve is not very pleased that they are dragging you into this mess.”

“O-Oh…”

Adam’s hand instinctively reached for his tunic, his fingers picking at the seams nervously. The fabric seemed to grow heavier with each passing second. He wished Emily was there—her presence always had a way of calming him, of making the world seem a little less daunting. But despite her protests, both Michael and Sera had insisted that Emily remain behind.

His heart sank at the thought, and he shifted uneasily. It felt wrong, being here without her, without the one who had become his silent guardian. The room beyond those doors seemed to pulse with tension, a gathering storm of anger, judgment, and something more—something darker, and much more dangerous. And though he knew Eve was waiting inside, her protective rage directed at whatever forces had pulled him into this ordeal, Adam couldn’t shake the feeling that once they stepped through those doors, everything would change.

For better or worse, he didn’t know. But change was coming, and it was coming for him.

And with that, the grand doors began to part, revealing the shadowy divide between Heaven’s light and Hell’s darkness. Adam steeled himself for whatever awaited him on the other side, but deep down, he knew—nothing could have prepared him for the truth he was about to uncover.

Adam’s entire body trembled as the enormous, towering doors began to creak open, the sound reverberating through the vast, shadowy corridor like the growl of some ancient beast. His golden wings quivered, feathers rustling with a desperate, primal urge to flee—to turn around and escape before it was too late. It had been centuries since he had last seen either Lilith or Lucifer, and the mere thought of facing them again set his insides churning. He didn't want to see them. He didn't want to be here.

Sera stepped in front of him, shielding him as the gap between the doors widened, revealing the meeting place. Adam’s knees buckled slightly, his heart pounding so loud in his ears he could barely hear the world around him. His eyes narrowed as he squinted into the dimly lit expanse of the room. It was massive, rivaling the size of God’s throne room—the same room where the Archangels had summoned him and Eve all those years ago.

The room was a masterpiece of contrasts, split perfectly down the middle. One side radiated with an ethereal glow, its soft pillows of pure light glowing in shades of white and serene blue. The other half, however, was cloaked in darkness, its pillars of obsidian towering against the walls like sentinels, the space draped in shadows and rich, blood-red hues. Light and dark, Heaven and Hell, brought together in a strange, unsettling harmony.

In the center of the room was a long, crystalline table that seemed to shimmer in the strange half-light. The table itself was split just like the room, with one half composed of towering blue crystal, its surface adorned with halos that floated gently above the chairs. The other half was carved from red and black crystal, its seats crowned with devil horns that twisted ominously toward the ceiling.

Adam swallowed thickly; his throat dry as his skin prickled with the overwhelming sensation of multiple eyes upon him. He couldn’t bear to look up, his gaze remaining firmly fixed on the floor as he followed Sera into the room. At first, the air was thick with the sounds of angry voices—aggressive arguing, insults flying back and forth between the factions, the echoes of bitter sneers and mocking scoffs bouncing off the walls. But the moment Adam crossed the threshold, the bickering ceased. A thick, unnerving silence blanketed the room, and Adam’s wings shifted uncomfortably, struggling to stay still.

He felt exposed. Vulnerable. And all he wanted to do was hide.

Instinctively, he stepped closer to Sera, seeking some form of protection, no matter how futile it felt. Michael’s gaze swept over them, his expression unreadable as he nodded to Sera, who returned the gesture with a troubled glance, her eyes lingering on the shattered crystal in the centre of the table. Something had already gone wrong.

"A-Adam."

The voice was soft, almost gentle, but it made Adam’s entire body seize with a sharp tremor. He forced himself to glance up, only barely lifting his eyes toward the speaker. There, across the room, sat Lucifer.

The fallen Archangel was nearly unrecognizable. Gone were the divine robes of white, blue, and gold that Adam remembered so vividly from their time together in Eden. Instead, Lucifer now donned something far more twisted, more theatrical. A red-and-white striped vest clung to his form, paired with a white jacket and matching pants tucked into sleek black boots. His once glorious golden hair now shimmered beneath a bizarre top hat, a snake coiled around it like a crown, a ruby-red apple resting in the serpent’s grip, and a faintly glimmering golden crown threaded through the coils.

Adam couldn’t stop staring, even though he wanted to. Lucifer was so different, so alien compared to the being he had once known. His face was no longer the smooth, angelic visage of before; his cheeks were now stained a deep, unnatural blood-red, and his eyes—those eyes that had once been a striking, sapphire blue—were now a disturbing blend of molten gold and ruby, like the embers of a dying fire.

What unsettled Adam the most, though, was when Lucifer stood, revealing long, black claws where his hands should have been.

“Adam—”

“Shut up!” Eve’s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold as steel. The words echoed across the room like the crack of a whip. “Don’t even look at him!”

Lucifer’s expression twisted into a dark sneer, his eyes narrowing as he shot Eve a look so venomous that Adam recoiled. Was this truly the Archangel he had once admired? The being who had sung with the Heavens in glory? He felt bewildered, disoriented. And yet, despite the chaos of emotions raging inside him, Adam found himself easing just a little at the sight of Eve.

She was seated across from Lucifer, on the side of light, where Heaven’s shimmering blue throne towered next to Michael. Eve sat beside the Archangel, her face a mask of cold fury. Her arms were crossed tightly, fingers tapping aggressively against the armrests of her seat. Her red hair, now pulled back into a severe ponytail, gleamed like fire beneath the soft light, and she wore something Adam had never seen before—a uniform, battle-worn yet sharp, and utterly unlike her usual appearance.

The silver armor clung to her form, a strange fusion of elegance and brutality. A thigh-length dress of shining metal, black tights beneath, with long, silver gloves that reached her upper arms. Her boots rose high above her thighs, matching the cuirass that protected her chest, the plackart at her waist. Every piece of her armor—spauldron, vambrace, gorget—was perfectly placed, ready for war.

Adam paused, his feet faltering as his gaze fell on the helmet resting on the table beside her. It was monstrous, with twisting horns that spiraled out on either side, a grotesque contrast to the purity of Heaven’s light.

Does she… wear that?

The thought chilled him. Eve had changed so much since they’d first arrived. The woman in front of him looked nothing like the gentle soul who had once wandered the Garden of Eden at his side.

The air was thick with tension, and Adam felt utterly out of place, an intruder in this grand hall of angels and devils. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to turn and flee, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something far greater than him was unfolding—and he was caught in the middle of it.

“Come now, Eve,” a voice interjected, its tone airy yet laced with an edge of smugness. It carried the chill of winter’s breath, sharp and penetrating. “We’re all friends here.”

“Friends?” Eve’s voice dripped with contempt as she turned her furious gaze toward the speaker. “Is that what you call the people you backstab?”

Adam blinked, feeling a strange mixture of awkwardness and curiosity as he slowly approached Eve, careful to keep his distance from the imposing figures in the room. He tilted his head slightly, trying to focus on Lilith, whose presence seemed more familiar and grounded compared to Lucifer's nightmarish transformation.

Lilith sat on the side of darkness, but she retained a striking, almost ethereal beauty. Her long golden hair cascaded down her back like a flowing waterfall of sunlight, pushed back elegantly from her face, with curls framing her delicate features. Her face, pointed and regal, was accentuated by long, thick eyelashes that Adam remembered from days long past.

A black rose crown adorned her head, its dark petals contrasting sharply with the blood-red horns that emerged from beneath it. Her figure was both delicate and imposing—a small waist paired with a substantial chest, draped in a deep purple and black dress that shimmered with an otherworldly magic. Around her neck, a strand of pure white pearls gleamed softly, catching the light as if it were a fragment of Heaven itself.

Adam found himself frowning slightly as he took in Lilith’s appearance. She was undeniably beautiful, but there was a coldness in her gaze that mirrored the icy sharpness of her voice. Despite her outward grace, there was a stark, unyielding edge to her presence that set Adam on edge.

“Isn’t it charming,” Lilith continued, her voice dripping with false warmth, “How old friends can come together under such… delightful circumstances?”

Adam’s stomach churned. The air in the room seemed to thicken with each passing second, a palpable tension that pressed against him from all sides. He glanced back at Eve, whose anger was barely contained, and then at Lucifer, whose gaze was fixed on him.

He tried to swallow the rising lump in his throat as he took another hesitant step toward Eve. The room felt like a stage, each figure poised in their roles for some grand, unspoken performance, and Adam was caught during it, struggling to understand his place.

Eve's eyes met Adam’s, her fury momentarily softening as she recognized his troubled gaze. For a moment, her expression seemed to convey a silent apology—an acknowledgment of the chaos that had ensnared him in this grim theatre of light and darkness. But the anger was still there, simmering just below the surface, ready to boil over at any moment.

Adam took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He wished desperately for Emily’s comforting presence, but all he had now were his own frazzled thoughts and the looming, unforgiving gaze of those who held the power to determine his fate. He had to face whatever this meeting demanded of him, and he could only hope that the strength he found in his past with Eve would help him navigate the treacherous waters of this new confrontation.

Lilith’s eyes sparkled with malicious amusement as she continued to needle Eve, her voice a cold, serpentine whisper.

“Eve,” she said, her tone dripping with feigned sympathy, “It’s so touching to see you trying so hard. But let’s be honest, you’re nothing more than a replacement. You could never truly fill the shoes of someone as... exceptional as I once was.”

“Replacement?” she snapped, her voice echoing like a thunderclap. “You think you’re so special, don’t you? You’re nothing but the defective prototype. A product used to test and validate design concepts, functionality, and usability. Prototyping helps identify potential issues and make improvements before committing to full-scale production or implementation. This approach is common in fields like engineering, product design, software development, and more.”

“You are nothing but a bootleg version of a real woman. You could never compare to what I’ve become.” Eve added smugly.

Lilith’s lips curved into a cruel smile, her eyes glinting with amusement as if she were watching a child’s tantrum.

“Oh, Eve,” she said mockingly, “How quaint. Your anger is almost endearing. But really, you were never meant to replace me. You’re merely a poor imitation, struggling to keep up with a legacy you can never truly grasp.”

Eve’s face was flushed with rage, her body trembling with the effort to contain her fury. “You think you’re so high and mighty, don’t you? I’ve seen your so-called ‘legacy,’ Lilith. You’re nothing but a pretentious farce, a pale shadow of what true strength and integrity look like. Your power is nothing compared to the strength I’ve earned.”

Lilith’s smile widened, her amusement growing as Eve’s anger boiled over.

“You’re so precious when you’re angry,” she cooed, her voice dripping with condescension. “But don’t you understand? You’ll never truly be anything more than a mere stand-in. I was the original, the genuine article. You’re just a cheap imitation, trying too hard to fill a role you were never meant for.”

Eve’s rage reached a fever pitch, her fists clenching at her sides. “You know what, Lilith? You’re just a failed experiment. You were cast aside for a reason. No amount of posturing can change that.”

Adam winced as he watched the exchange, the hostility between the two women escalating with each cutting remark. He could see the toll it was taking on Eve, her anger spiralling out of control, while Lilith seemed to find the entire situation nothing more than a game.

Then, with a swift, venomous glance, Eve delivered a final, cutting comment. “You’re nasty inside and outside. You were never pure enough for Adam. Look at what happened when an Archangel gave you the time of day, you stained him. I can’t imagine what you would have done to Adam.”

“It’s a good thing your poisonous venom didn’t touch Adam. You don’t deserve his love or friendship. You never did.”

The room fell silent, the words hanging heavy in the air. Lilith’s eyes flashed with a pained, hurt expression, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability beneath her icy exterior. It was clear that Eve had struck a nerve.

Adam’s heart pounded as he saw the reaction. He wanted to intervene, to stop the confrontation before it spiralled further, but his voice came out as a barely audible whisper.

“Eve, please… stop.”

Unfortunately, his soft plea did not go unnoticed. Both Lucifer and Lilith’s eyes turned to Adam, their expressions shifting to one of twisted delight. Lucifer’s lips curled into a smirk, while Lilith’s gaze hardened with a mix of surprise and contempt. She seemed even pleased that Adam had stuck up for her.

Eve’s eyes narrowed at Adam’s intervention; her anger now directed at him. She glared at Lilith still fiercely, her grip tightening around his wrist. Without waiting for a response, she tugged him toward the large, ornate chair next to her, forcing him to sit down beside her.

Adam’s heart raced as he sat next to Eve, feeling the weight of Lilith’s and Lucifer’s gaze upon him. He could sense the shift in the room’s dynamics, the undercurrents of tension and hostility that seemed to press in from all sides.

Eve’s grip on his wrist was unyielding, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. Adam tried to catch her eye, hoping to convey a silent plea for calm, but her focus was locked on Lilith and Lucifer, her rage barely contained.

The room was charged with an electric tension, the air thick with the remnants of the argument. Adam knew that whatever came next would be pivotal, and he could only hope that the storm of emotions would pass quickly, leaving them with some semblance of peace—or at least, a path forward.

Michael cleared his throat with an almost comical sense of formality, his wings fluttering with confusion and agitation. His brows furrowed as he glanced between Eve, who was still seething, and Lilith, who appeared to be reveling in the discord. The celestial presence seemed out of place amid the chaos, like a child witnessing a tempest.

Lucifer, ever observant, caught Michael’s disoriented demeanor with evident glee.

“Oh, Michael,” he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. “Still the same old doll, aren’t you? Always caught in a whirlwind of emotions you barely understand.”

Michael’s face flushed with irritation at the insinuation, but he remained silent, his wings flickering in agitation. The jibe from Lucifer had struck a nerve, and his irritation was palpable.

Sera, sensing the tension threatening to boil over into another confrontation, stepped in with a measured tone.

“Enough of this bickering,” she interjected firmly. “We’re here to address the matter at hand. We have conceded to the demands and brought Adam into this meeting.”

Lucifer and Lilith’s attention shifted sharply to Adam, their gazes piercing through him like a spotlight.

Unable to contain his frustration, Adam made a sassy comment. “I still don’t see why I’m needed here. Hell, and the Sinners have never been my responsibility.”

Lucifer and Lilith exchanged a look, their eyes communicating silently in a way that left everyone else feeling excluded. The moment of telepathic conversation was both irritating and intriguing to those who observed it.

Lucifer turned his attention back to Michael and Sera, his tone laced with a sense of bemused superiority. “Is Adam even aware of what you’ve decided to do?”

Michael frowned; his confusion evident. “Like Adam has mentioned, he doesn’t have any duties with Hell.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed as he scoffed. “Of course, neither of you told him. You knew he would oppose it, so why not keep him in the dark?”

Sera, her anxiety becoming more pronounced, intervened again. “That’s enough, Lucifer. What exactly do you want, and why is it so important for Adam to be here?”

Eve, unable to hold back her bitterness, interjected sharply. “It’s no a secret that you both abandoned Adam in Eden, leaving him alone, breaking your promises. Now, you want to drag him into your little game?”

Lilith’s eyes flashed with anger as she glared at Eve. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Eve. It would do you well to keep your mouth shut.”

Eve’s laugh was bitter, a sharp, mocking sound that cut through the tension. “Oh, the truth hurts, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, while you both left, Adam was made a better companion than either of you ever were.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes, his disdain apparent. “More of a step down, actually.”

Eve’s growl was low and dangerous. Before she could rise from her seat to confront Lucifer, Adam’s hand shot out, grasping her wrist firmly. The gesture was both a plea for calm and an attempt to diffuse the situation.

Lucifer and Lilith’s expressions shifted to one of surprise and displeasure at Adam’s intervention. Eve, however, grinned with a mixture of satisfaction and delight, her anger momentarily forgotten in the face of this new development.

Adam drew a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of past betrayals and heartbreak pressing down on him as he finally turned his gaze toward Lucifer and Lilith. The pain of old wounds resurfaced, bringing with it a rush of memories that he had buried deep within.

In the beginning, there had been just the two of them: Adam and Lucifer. Lucifer had been more than an Archangel to Adam; he had been a guardian, a friend, a constant presence in his life. Their bond had been unbreakable, a companionship so profound that Adam had felt invincible in its embrace. They had shared countless moments, their bond seemingly unshakeable, until Lilith had been introduced to the Garden.

Adam remembered the day Lilith had come into their lives. It had been a confusing but exhilarating change—he now had two friends, two beings who cared for him. They had all been so close, a trio united in the innocence of their existence. Adam, though he lacked understanding of complex concepts like husband and wife or breeding, was simply overjoyed to be in their company. He felt complete, surrounded by the warmth and companionship of his two dearest friends.

But then, one fateful morning, Adam had awakened to an unbearable silence. Lucifer and Lilith were gone. The emptiness that enveloped him was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He had spent countless days and sleepless nights searching for them, his heart aching with a pain he had no words for. They had vanished without a trace, leaving him alone in the Garden, grappling with an anguish that seemed to rend his very soul.

The arrival of Sera from Heaven had marked the beginning of a tumultuous period. Heaven had learned the truth of Lucifer and Lilith's departure—how they had left Eden to be together, abandoning Adam without a word. The revelation had thrown everything into chaos. Adam had been bewildered, struggling to understand why his friends had betrayed him so profoundly.

When Lucifer and Lilith had returned to Eden, their attempts to reconcile only deepened the wound. Adam, unable to bear the sight of them, had fled time and again, overwhelmed by the pain of their betrayal. The Angels, witnessing the turmoil, had intervened, and Lucifer and Lilith were ultimately banished from the Garden. In their absence, Eve was created as Adam’s new companion.

But even then, peace had been elusive. Lucifer and Lilith, defiant and unrepentant, had sneaked back into the Garden, this time targeting Eve. They had tricked her into eating the forbidden apple, setting off a chain of events that would forever alter the course of history. The betrayal had been complete, their actions leaving a scar that Adam would carry with him forever.

Swallowing thickly, Adam’s golden gaze fixed upon the crystalline table, its multifaceted surface reflecting fragments of his troubled thoughts. His heart pounded so fiercely that it seemed to reverberate through his skull, a relentless drumbeat of anxiety and confusion. Slowly, he gathered the courage to look up at his old friends once more.

“What…what do you want?” Adam’s voice trembled, the words escaping his lips with a mixture of fear and frustration. “Why did you ask to see me?”

Lilith’s gaze softened for the first time since Adam had entered the grand hall. Her eyes, once sharp and mocking, now held a glimmer of something akin to regret. It was as if she were struggling to reconcile the figure before her with the person she once knew. She took a tentative step forward, her expression laden with a hint of vulnerability.

“Adam,” she began, her voice carrying a note of earnestness that seemed foreign coming from her. “We’ve honestly been requesting your presence from the very first meeting.”

Adam blinked, taken aback by her admission. “What? Why? I-I don’t know what you expect me to do…but I’m telling you now; I can’t help with anything.”

Lilith’s eyes softened as she stepped forward, her gaze filled with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place in the grand hall. Her voice, usually sharp and commanding, took on a gentler tone. “Adam, it’s not about what you can or cannot do. It’s about addressing what was left unresolved between us. There are things we need to settle, and it goes beyond mere duties.”

Lucifer, leaning back in his throne with a more approachable air than before, looked at Adam with a soft, almost paternal smile. “You see, Adam, it’s not just about asking for your help. It’s about closure and reconciliation, and perhaps a bit of… introspection. We’ve been carrying this weight for too long, and it’s something we want to resolve with you.”

Adam’s confusion deepened, mingling with a growing sense of anger. “Closure? Reconciliation?”

Lilith’s expression grew earnest, her eyes reflecting a mixture of remorse and hope. “We made mistakes, Adam. Terrible ones. But we’ve come to realize that there’s something that needs to be settled. It’s not just about what happened in the past, but what we might be able to do moving forward. We want to make amends.”

Eve, who had been watching with simmering rage, scoffed derisively. “Oh, so now you think a few sweet words will make up for abandoning Adam and all the chaos that followed. Don’t be naïve.”

Lilith’s gaze hardened as she shot a sharp look towards Eve, her patience wearing thin. “Eve, you’re quick to judge from the sidelines. We’re here to address what’s unresolved, not to engage in petty arguments.”

Lucifer, his tone slightly mocking but with a hint of warmth towards Adam, interjected. “Let’s not get too carried away with sentiments and accusations. The fact remains that Adam’s presence was deemed necessary. His role in this situation is far from over.”

Adam’s frustration flared. “My role? I’ve had nothing to do with Hell or its sinners. I’ve tried to move on, to build something new. I don’t see why I should be dragged back into this.”

Lucifer and Lilith exchanged a knowing glance, their silent communication fraught with meaning. It was clear to everyone that there was more to their intentions than met the eye, and their cryptic expressions left the room’s atmosphere thick with unresolved tension.

Sera, sensing the rising storm, stepped forward with a voice that cut through the murmur of discontent. “Enough of this. We need to address the matter at hand. Lucifer, Lilith—what exactly do you want from Adam? What is this about?”

Lucifer’s smirk softened, his eyes shimmering with a mix of sincerity and mischief. “What we seek is to resolve the past and perhaps find a way to move forward. It’s about understanding the full scope of what has transpired and finding a path to healing.”

Lilith, her gaze unwaveringly on Adam, added with a touch of earnestness, “We want to make amends and see if there’s any way to repair the damage that was done. It’s a complex task, but one we believe is necessary.”

Adam’s heart sank as the gravity of their request settled in. “I...I don’t know if that’s even possible.”

Eve, still seething, let out a harsh laugh. “Repairing damage? That’s rich. After everything you two did, Adam deserves more than empty words. He deserves something real.”

The room seemed to close in on Adam as he grappled with the weight of their request. The past's betrayals and the present's uncertainties pressed heavily on him. He clung to Eve’s hand, seeking solace in her presence amidst the unfolding chaos.

Lucifer’s golden eyes darkened, not liking how Adam reached for Eve. However, he sucked up and spoke as calmly and gently as possible. "Tell me, Adam, do you know what Heaven has decided to do about Hell's... overcrowding problem?"

Adam blinked, his brow furrowing. "No. I don’t."

His confusion was clear, and he looked toward Eve and Sera, as if expecting some clarification.

Lilith’s lips curved into a bitter smile. "Of course you don’t. They thought it best to keep you in the dark, too."

Her eyes flicked to Sera, who looked like she wanted to intervene, her wings rustling in nervousness.

Sera’s voice tightened as she stepped forward. "That’s not true—"

But Lilith ignored her, her focus on Adam. "Do you know why Eve is dressed like that?"

Adam’s gaze shifted to Eve, his confusion deepening. He looked at the glinting armour she wore, his eyebrows knitting together as he finally asked, "Why does it look like you’re... going to war?"

Eve flushed, her eyes darting away. She couldn’t find the words, and Lucifer, noticing her discomfort, let out a low snort.

"What’s wrong, Eve? Cat got your tongue?" His tone was mocking but still laced with amusement.

Eve shot him a furious glare, but before she could snap back, Adam held up a hand, turning back to Lucifer. "Explain it to me. What’s going on?"

Lucifer’s expression softened, his voice taking on a more tender tone as he began, “Heaven has—”

“No,” Michael interrupted sharply, stepping forward, his face hard and his wings flickering with agitation. "Lucifer has no right to explain anything to you, Adam. Not anymore."

Lucifer's eyes darkened with annoyance, but there was a touch of a smile lingering at the corners of his lips as he responded.

"Like it or not, Michael, I am and always will be Adam’s guardian angel. That was God’s decision, not yours." The weight of his words hung in the air; a challenge Michael couldn’t easily dispute. "If he wants me to explain anything to him, I have the right to furfill that request."

Michael’s expression soured, but he said nothing more, only a frown creasing his usually stoic face. Adam, feeling the tension between them, grew more confused. He glanced back at Lucifer, waiting for an answer.

Lucifer’s gaze softened even further as he returned his attention to Adam. "Heaven has decided to exterminate the Sinners once a year. A purge, if you will."

Adam’s eyes widened in shock. "What?" His gaze darted to Eve, his voice trembling. "Is that why you're dressed like this?"

Eve looked pained; her face flushed with guilt. "Adam, Hell is growing more dangerous. Lilith was caught planning a rebellion—"

Lilith scoffed; her voice sharp as she cut in. "I was only doing what was necessary to protect my people."

Eve whirled on her, her eyes flashing with anger. "Your people? The Sinners aren’t your people, Lilith. They’re our people—mine and Adam’s. They are our children. You and Lucifer have no right to speak on how we’ve decided to deal with the rotten eggs."

Adam flinched at the term “rotten eggs,” disgust twisting in his stomach.

"How can you say that, Eve?" He shook his head, struggling to process what he was hearing. "I... I don’t see what any of you expect me to do about it."

Lucifer’s gaze never left Adam, his voice gentle but firm. "It’s not about the Sinners, Adam. That’s not why we asked you to be here."

Adam’s eyes flicked back to Lucifer; his curiosity piqued. "Then what is it about?"

Lucifer smiled warmly; the kind of smile that once made Adam feel protected, safe. He extended his hand, and a golden portal opened beside him, from which he retrieved a small booklet. As he stood up, Michael shot him a disapproving look, his wings twitching in frustration.

Lucifer rolled his eyes dramatically. "It’s just paper, Michael. Calm down."

Michael huffed but didn’t stop him, watching warily as Lucifer slid the booklet across the crystal table toward Adam. Adam glanced at the cover, his heart pounding as he reached for it.

"What is this?" Adam asked, his voice shaky as his fingers touched the edge of the booklet.

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed as he sat back down, a mixture of satisfaction and something far more tender in his expression. "The truth, Adam. Something Heaven has been keeping from you... and something you deserve to know."

The paper was colourful. It demanded his attention, sort of colour. He barely was able to look at it before Sera tried to take it away.

“You don’t have to entertain them, Adam.” She stated.

“No, but I want to see.” Adam said, taking hold of the paper before she could it from him. He didn’t see the way Sera and Michael looked one another, how Eve looked concerned and Lucifer and Lilith released soft breathes of relief.

Adam’s fingers curled around the paper, pulling it off the table. His ears became numb as soon another insulting fight broke out between Heaven and Hell. Nobody could ever stay quiet for long, Adam didn’t know who spoke first, but soon insults were bouncing between Eve and Lilith again, Lucifer and Michael, even Sera at times. But Adam kept quietly, reading over the booklet.

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest as he clutched the booklet, tuning out the escalating argument around him. The moment his fingers touched the paper, something deep inside him stirred—a mixture of dread and curiosity. He could hear Eve’s voice in the background, sharp and biting as she snapped at Lilith, and the smug retorts from Lucifer as he goaded Michael. The entire room was filled with clashing words, like weapons being thrown from one side to the other. Yet, it all felt distant, like white noise.

He had to know what was in that booklet.

Eve’s voice cut through the chaos for a brief second. “Adam, you don’t have give them the time of day. Really, you don't.”

Adam’s grip tightened around the paper, his golden eyes fixed on the words. “No, but I want to see.”

He heard her inhale sharply, as if she wanted to say more, but Adam didn’t look up. He missed the shared glance between Sera and Michael, the tension in Eve’s posture, and the way both Lucifer and Lilith seemed to relax the moment he held the booklet in his hands.

The paper felt heavier than it should have, the weight of untold secrets pressing down on him. As his eyes scanned the first few lines, the world around him began to fade even more. His ears grew numb, and the fight around him became a dull roar. He couldn’t pinpoint who had started it—Eve or Lilith, Michael or Lucifer—but it no longer mattered. All that mattered was the truth in his hands.

It was like peeling back a wound that had long since scarred over, only to find fresh pain beneath. The words on the page blurred at first, but as his focus sharpened, so did the meaning. This wasn’t just a collection of information. It was a revelation—a crack in the foundation of everything he thought he understood.

Suddenly, the noise around him broke through, Eve’s voice cutting sharp and harsh through the silence he had built in his mind.

“Don’t you dare act like you care about him now, Lilith! You had your chance, and you threw it away. You both did! He doesn't need either of you when he has me now!”

Eve’s fury was strong, and Adam glanced up just in time to see her glaring daggers at Lilith, her face flushed with anger.

Lilith’s eyes narrowed, but there was an almost amused glint in them. “Oh please, Eve. You’ve always been a replacement. A poor one at that.”

The booklet trembled slightly in Adam’s hands, but he forced himself to keep reading, even as the barbs flew around him. Lucifer’s voice dripped with condescension as he shot at Michael, “Still Heaven’s perfect little soldier, huh? Must be exhausting being so... wooden.”

Michael’s wings flickered in irritation, his jaw clenching as he tried to ignore the provocation. “I’m not engaging with you.”

Sera’s voice, tight with anxiety, tried to interject. “Can we all focus on the matter at hand? This bickering isn’t helping anything.”

Adam’s fingers traced the edges of the booklet, his curiosity slowly overtaking the growing tension in the room. As he flipped through the pages, he was greeted by a riot of colour and life—beautifully and skilfully painted creatures unlike anything he had ever seen. He had always adored nature, his duties in Heaven centred around animals and plants. He loved naming the creatures God had crafted, feeling a deep connection to each one. But what he saw here was unlike anything from Eden or Heaven.

His golden eyes burned with curiosity as they moved over the images: creatures that were a bizarre fusion of familiar and foreign. Some looked like twisted versions of animals he remembered from Eden—others were entirely alien. There were plants that shimmered with ethereal light, their forms strange and intricate. Flowers with petals like flames, animals with wings that shifted colors, beasts with eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. None of this was from the world he knew, and yet... they were breathtaking.

“What… what are these?” Adam’s voice finally broke through the argument happening around him, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

The room quieted for a moment. Eve's scowl softened as she glanced at Adam, though concern lingered in her eyes. Lilith and Lucifer exchanged a quick glance, but it was Lucifer who broke into a wide, relieved smile.

“These,” Lucifer said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “Are the Hellborns.”

Adam blinked, looking up from the booklet, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Hellborns? Like… the Heavenborns?”

Eve opened her mouth, her hand tightening slightly on the armrest. “No, Adam, it’s not—”

“Yes,” Lilith interjected, her voice firm but gentle, cutting Eve off. “They are the same.”

Adam’s gaze flicked between them, confusion deepening. “But… I thought Hell was only for Sinners.”

Lilith’s expression softened as she leaned forward slightly. “That’s what they want you to believe. Hell is a land of the forgotten, Adam. It’s where beings without purpose or hope are thrown. Yes, it is home to the Sinners… but it is also home to the Hellborns. Beings born from the very fabric of the underworld, creatures that no one remembers or cares about. Creatures that didn’t ask to be here.”

Lucifer leaned in, his voice taking on a softer, more intimate tone. “We’ve done everything we can to save them, Adam. To give them a chance to thrive. But…”

He paused, his expression darkening for the briefest moment, “They keep fading away.”

Adam’s heart stirred. There was a tug deep inside him, one he hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity. It was the same pull he had felt when he first woke up in Eden, when God had told him to name every plant and animal in the garden. To give them purpose and meaning. That same feeling was creeping back into his chest, a quiet whisper urging him forward.

Lilith’s words washed over him, her tone both sorrowful and urgent. “We tried everything, Adam. But Hell is a harsh place. They need more than what we can give. They need someone who understands… someone like you.”

Adam’s fingers tightened on the booklet as his gaze travelled across the painted images of these forgotten creatures. He could see the pain in Lilith’s eyes, the desperation in Lucifer’s smile.

But before Adam could speak, Michael interrupted, his patience evidently thinning. “Enough, Lilith. This has nothing to do with Heaven or Adam’s responsibilities. The Hellborns are not our concern. They were never meant to be.”

Lucifer’s eyes darkened, his usual smugness fading as he shot a sharp look across the table. “Oh, don’t be so short-sighted, Michael. You’re not the only one who can decide what’s important here.”

Michael crossed his arms, his wings twitching slightly in irritation. “Adam has no business getting involved in this.”

Lucifer’s smirk returned, but this time it was sharper, his eyes glinting with defiance. He leaned back in his seat, his gaze never leaving Michael’s. “Maybe… but Adam wants to know, doesn’t he?”

He turned his head toward Adam, his expression softening again, and this time it wasn’t an act. His smile was gentle, familiar in a way that tugged at Adam’s heart. “Isn’t that right, Adam?”

Adam hesitated, his eyes darting between Michael’s stern face and Lucifer’s warm gaze. Slowly, his head dipped in a small nod. “I… I want to know more.”

His attention shifted back to the booklet, captivated by the creatures painted there.

“Did… did you paint these?” he asked quietly, glancing up at Lucifer and Lilith.

Lilith smiled softly. “We did.”

Adam stared down at the paintings again, his mind racing.

“They’re… really good,” he admitted, his voice a little hesitant but sincere.

“I’m glad you think so.” Lucifer beamed, a proud and almost childish grin spreading across his face. His eyes sparkled, his usual arrogance fading into something softer, more genuine.

Adam's heart tightened in his chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, he found himself curious—genuinely interested in something beyond the chaos and the anger that had surrounded them for so long. He looked up at Lilith and Lucifer, both of whom were watching him with hopeful eyes, and for a moment, the weight of their past seemed to lift, if only a little.

But the silence didn’t last long.

Eve, her voice laced with unease, leaned forward. “Adam, you don’t owe them anything. They’re just trying to manipulate you—again.”

Adam frowned; the booklet still clutched in his hands. “I’m not being manipulated. I just want to understand.”

Lilith’s smile grew a little wider, but there was something almost sad in her eyes. Lucifer, on the other hand, seemed almost giddy, as if finally—finally—Adam was starting to see things from their perspective.

Adam's fingers traced the delicate lines of the painting—a bird-like creature with brilliant, iridescent feathers and eyes that seemed to follow him from the page. His touch was almost reverent, as if through the art, he could feel the life of the creature beneath his fingertips. His gaze slowly lifted, moving across the room, first to Lilith and Lucifer, then toward Eve, Michael, and finally Sera. He swallowed thickly, his thoughts swimming in the tension that hung thick in the air.

“Why show me this?” he asked quietly, his voice cutting through the silence that had briefly settled after their latest spat.

Lucifer let out a quiet sigh, as if the weight of the question bore heavily on him. He leaned forward, his expression more solemn than before. “Because we know we can’t save the Sinners anymore, Adam. Heaven has already decided. The exterminations will go ahead, no matter what we think or do.”

Adam tilted his head, curiosity burning in his golden eyes. “Then… why? Why call for me at all?”

Lilith and Lucifer exchanged a long, meaningful glance, something passing between them unspoken. Lilith finally leaned in, her voice soft, almost tender. “We want to save the Hellborns from the exterminations, Adam.”

Adam’s brows furrowed, still struggling to understand. “The Hellborns… but why? Why does that matter to you?”

Lilith’s eyes softened, and for a moment, her vulnerability shone through. “Because we wish to have a child someday.”

Adam blinked in surprise. “A child?”

Eve scoffed, her voice dripping with bitterness. “Lilith can’t have children. God never gave her the ability too.”

Lilith’s eyes blazed with anger, but she held her tongue, glaring daggers at Eve. “I’m aware of that.”

Lucifer muttered under his breath, “This is why we didn’t want Eve involved in the meeting.”

Michael, growing impatient, crossed his arms. “I’m growing tired of this game.”

Lucifer’s temper flared as he snapped, “Then leave if you want. No one's forcing you to stay."

Michael’s glare was sharp and unyielding, but Lucifer ignored him, his focus shifting back to Adam. Adam, caught in the middle, chewed his bottom lip, feeling the weight of their gazes pressing on him. His thoughts spun, trying to piece together why he was even here, what they were really asking of him.

“So…” Adam started, his voice quiet but firm, “what does this have to do with me? What do the Hellborns have to do with me?”

Lucifer’s gaze softened, and for a moment, all the arrogance and smugness seemed to vanish. “We want you to come to Hell.”

Eve’s reaction was immediate. Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood, her face a mask of outrage.

“Why would you ever think that would happen?!” she demanded.

Lilith remained calm; her voice steady but pointed as she looked Eve in the eye. “You know full well the power Lucifer and I hold. The Sinners can’t touch the extermination angels, but we can. You know that.”

Sera, her brow furrowed in concern, asked cautiously, “Are you suggesting you’d stand in the way of Heaven’s extermination?”

Lucifer shrugged, his expression unreadable. “We’re not saying we will, just that we could.”

Michael straightened, his body tense, arms crossed tightly. “So, what, are you implying that Heaven should hand Adam over to you to make sure you don’t interfere?”

Lucifer’s gaze flickered with a moment of worry as it landed back on Adam, but his voice was calm. “We’re not asking for Adam to stay with us forever. Just for a few months… maybe a year at most.”

Eve’s voice shook with restrained fury. “Why? Why would you even suggest that?”

Lucifer’s eyes were steady as he explained. “The Hellborns have no purpose. They fade away, forgotten. Adam’s power, his gift, has always been to give purpose. He names God's creations, defines them. The Hellborns are God’s creations too, whether you accept that or not.”

Michael scoffed, shaking his head. “The Hellborns are not our concern.”

Sera, ever the mediator, stepped in again. “If it’s the Hellborns you want to protect, we could arrange for the extermination angels to leave them untouched. Adam doesn’t need to go to Hell for that.”

Lilith shook her head, her frustration clear. “That’s not enough. We wish to have a child someday, and our child will be a Hellborn. Hellborns fade without purpose, and our child would too. We need Adam to give them—give our child—a future.”

Eve shook her head vehemently. “You can’t have children. You can’t carry a child, Lilith.”

Lilith’s gaze narrowed, but she didn’t rise to the bait this time. Michael and Sera, however, exchanged thoughtful glances.

After a tense silence, Michael spoke slowly, weighing his words carefully. “If we were to agree… if we allowed you to ‘borrow’ Adam for a year, even if this plan of yours fails, you’d stay out of the exterminations?”

Lucifer’s expression softened as he nodded. “We would. That’s our promise.”

Eve gasped, her disbelief clear. “Are you seriously considering sending Adam to Hell?”

Sera looked at Eve with pained eyes. She was clearly conflicted, her gaze shifting to Adam, who looked frozen in shock and disbelief, the weight of the conversation bearing down on him.

Michael’s voice was hard as he addressed Lucifer. “If we agree to this, there will be no harm to Adam. You don’t touch him. Not once.”

Lucifer looked insulted; his voice sharp. “You really think so little of us?”

Lilith’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Don’t answer that,” she muttered. “It’s obvious what they think of us.”

She turned to Adam then, her gaze soft and full of something that resembled the warmth they once shared. “We would never hurt you again, Adam. You know that.”

Adam’s mind was a whirlwind of confusion and emotion. His fingers trembled slightly as he looked at the booklet in his hands, the Hellborn creatures staring back at him, pulling at something deep inside his soul. He felt the familiar tug, the pull of purpose. But the weight of everything—the betrayals, the pain, the love, and the loss—clouded his mind. Could he really trust them again? Could he do this for them? For the Hellborns?

He wasn’t sure. But for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t entirely certain he could say no.

"Can... can I think about it? At least?" Adam’s voice, barely above a whisper, pierced through the soft murmur of the hall, instantly quieting the room.

Lilith’s lips curled into a gentle smile, a wave of relief washing over her. He hadn’t dismissed them. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

Adam hesitated, his eyes flickering between them, his voice even softer now.

“And... could I keep this too?” He glanced at the booklet in his hands, almost shy in his request.

Lucifer’s heart swelled with joy, his face lighting up with pure delight. Adam wanted to keep what they had made!

He nodded eagerly, his voice bubbling with excitement. “Yes! Yes! Of course, you can keep it! We’d love for you to keep it!”

Blushing deeply, Adam’s fingers tightened around the delicate pages, feeling the warmth rise all the way to the tips of his ears. He nodded again, his voice barely audible. “Thank you.”

His thoughts whirled. Go to Hell for a full year? With just Lucifer and Lilith? Could he really do that? Be with the two people he loved more than anything, yet who had caused him such pain, leaving his heart shattered? It felt overwhelming... but then there was that familiar tug deep inside him. The pull of his power, his purpose. The need to face those Hellborns, to name them, to grant them the right to exist—even if their home was Hell itself.

“The meeting is adjourned,” Michael announced abruptly, rising from his seat. “We’ll return in a week with our decision.”

Lucifer, still riding the wave of joy from Adam’s request, barely noticed the stern look his brother was giving him. He grinned wide, almost giddy. “Perfect! We’ll see you in a week!”

“Adam,” Lilith’s voice was as soft and tender as a lullaby, echoing with the same sweetness she’d spoken with in Eden. “Thank you for hearing us out.”

Adam blinked in surprise, her words gently wrapping around him. Slowly, he gave a small nod, his voice barely above a breath.

“...No problem...”

~#~

As they left the meeting, Eve fell into step beside Adam, her voice soft but insistent. "Adam... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn’t tell you about the exterminations sooner." Her eyes flickered with regret, though her tone remained firm. "I was trying to protect you, protect Heaven. It's... it's what’s best for everyone."

Adam remained silent, his steps slow and deliberate as he listened. Eve didn’t notice his quietness, too caught up in her own words. She rambled on, her words coming in waves.

“Sinners aren’t like us, Adam. They’ve fallen, they’ve failed. Their punishment is necessary. We can’t let them spoil what we’ve built here. They’re… they’re the bad ones, the rotten eggs among our children.”

Her voice softened as she reached for his hand, but her words were still sharp. “It’s mercy, Adam. True mercy. To let them live in Hell, knowing they could never be like us… it’s cruel. This is kinder.”

Adam’s mind wandered as she spoke. Could it really be mercy? Could it be fair for the damned to suffer in Hell only to be killed again, stripped of even that painful existence? His heart ached with doubt. He didn’t agree—not fully—but he couldn’t find the words to say it. Not now.

Eve squeezed his hand and led him through the familiar path to their shared home, her voice still echoing the same justifications. Their garden awaited them, blooming with all the vibrant life Adam adored. The air was fragrant with the scent of roses, bluebells, sunflowers, and daisies. Each plant was a testament to his love for beauty and growth, their colors bright and warm beneath the soft light of Heaven.

Adam’s gaze lingered on the flowers, but for the first time, his thoughts drifted to something else.

What did the flowers in Hell look like? Did they bloom like these, or were they twisted, dark reflections of the beauty he cherished here?

He turned his eyes to the Heavenborn tiger that lazed in the grass nearby, its golden and white fur shimmering in the glow of their garden. Without a word, Adam slipped away from Eve’s side and moved to the tiger, lowering himself into its soft, warm fur. The creature purred gently as Adam nestled into its embrace, finding a quiet comfort there. His fingers sank into the thick fur as his thoughts drifted once more.

What were Hell’s Hellborns like? Did they glow like this tiger, or were they something else entirely?

Eve, standing with her hands on her hips, watched him with growing frustration. Her voice sharpened as she asked, “Adam, are you seriously considering this? Entertaining Lucifer and Lilith? Going to Hell for a whole year?”

But Adam didn’t respond. His fingers traced the edge of the booklet Lucifer had given him, its weight heavy in his hands. He stared at it, the delicate pages filled with hope and promises of something different, something unknown. Something that tugged at him, even as he lay surrounded by the familiar comfort of his garden.

Eve’s voice grew softer, but it didn’t reach him. He was already lost in thought, torn between the world he knew and the one that waited below.

~#~

Meanwhile, in the depths of Hell, Lucifer and Lilith let out synchronized sighs of relief as they left the meeting. The tension that had gripped them throughout the entire exchange with Heaven finally began to ease.

"That... could have gone better," Lucifer muttered, running a hand through his tousled hair. His usual confident demeanor was tinged with frustration.

Lilith hummed softly in agreement, her arms crossed as she glanced back toward where the meeting had been held. "It would've been better if we could have spoken to Adam alone," she said, her voice carrying the weight of her disappointment.

Lucifer nodded, the corners of his mouth pulling into a tight line. "True, but you know Heaven would never allow that. Not after everything."

They both sighed again, this time in sadness, the unspoken ache shared between them. It had been so long, too long, since they’d seen Adam. And despite the tensions that lingered, it had been good—heartachingly good—to see him again.

"I missed him so much," Lilith admitted quietly, her voice almost breaking. "It was... comforting to see him, to know he’s healthy."

"Yeah... he's doing well. But..." Lucifer gave a small, weak smile but then it faltered as he met her gaze, knowing they both felt the same unspoken concern. "I don’t like how close he is to Eve."

Lilith's lips pressed into a thin line; her displeasure evident. "Neither do I. There's something about her... it feels wrong. I don’t like how she talks, how she looks at him."

Her gaze softened with a hint of sorrow. "But at least Adam still seems... himself. Still sweet, like he was in Eden."

Lucifer’s smile returned, though faintly. "We should be thankful that Eve’s bitterness hasn’t completely rubbed off on him. He hasn’t changed as much as I feared."

He looked off into the distance, a softness in his eyes. "He’s still so innocent, in a way."

Lilith nodded, her own small smile returning. The idea that Adam had held on to pieces of his old self, despite everything, filled her with a fragile sense of relief. "He really is. It’s... it’s nice to see that."

A pause stretched between them, heavy with unspoken regrets, before Lilith finally broke the silence, her voice trembling slightly. "I regret how we left things in Eden."

“I regret it too," he admitted, his tone heavy. Lucifer’s eyes darkened, the familiar weight of guilt pressing down on his shoulders. "But... I wasn’t expecting him to run from us when we came back for him. That hurt more than I can even say."

Lilith’s gaze dropped, pained. "I can never forget the look he gave me," she whispered, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "The fear in his eyes. I hate that he was so scared of me... of us."

Her voice cracked. "He ran away from me, Lucifer. And he cried. I made him cry."

Lucifer stepped closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I know. I hated it too."

His voice was thick with emotion, his usual confident facade breaking. "I never wanted to make him cry. Never. It broke me seeing him like that... but we didn’t have a choice. We had to make sure it was safe for him before we could take him with us."

"I know," she murmured. Lilith nodded slowly, though the pain in her eyes didn’t ease. "If we’d taken him with us back then... he could’ve gotten sick, maybe even died. I just wish I could tell him that. I wish he knew that he was always meant to be with us."

Lucifer’s grip on her shoulder tightened in reassurance. "We’ll be able to tell him someday. He’ll understand. He has to."

Lilith looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. "Do you really think Heaven will let him come to Hell for a year? Do you think they’ll let him be with us?"

"I don’t know," he admitted, his voice low. Lucifer’s expression darkened slightly. "But Michael seemed to take our threat seriously when we mentioned interfering with the extermination."

Lilith frowned at the mention of the exterminations, her distaste clear. "I hate those. The idea of killing the Sinners again and again... it feels so wrong. How can they call it mercy?"

Lucifer nodded grimly. "It’s horrible. And it was clear Adam didn’t like it either."

"That’s the one thing that gives me hope," Lilith said softly, her eyes distant. "Adam still has that empathy. That tenderness. Maybe... maybe that means we have a chance."

Lilith’s brow furrowed as she turned to Lucifer, a hint of worry lingering in her eyes. “Do you really think this plan will work?” she asked quietly, her voice laced with uncertainty.

Lucifer’s expression softened, his smile returning, though it carried the weight of years of effort.

“It has to, Lilith,” he murmured. “We’ve been working on this for so long. Too long to fail now.”

Lilith nodded, though her frustration bubbled to the surface. “You’re right. It’s been so long,” she said, her voice rising with simmering anger.

“Do you know how many centuries we’ve spent just trying to get Heaven to let us see Adam? Just to be in the same room as him? And they still treat us like we’re—like we’re nothing to him.”

Her words came out sharper than she intended, and she clenched her fists, her body tense with the weight of their shared struggle. But before the anger could take root any deeper, Lucifer gently took her hand, squeezing it in quiet reassurance.

“Lilith,” he said softly, his golden eyes steady as they met hers. “It’ll work out. Adam will be ours again.”

For a moment, Lilith’s anger faded, replaced by a soft smile. She let out a long, tired sigh, her shoulders easing as she rested against Lucifer’s.

“If Adam comes to save the Hellborn, that is,” she whispered, her tone quieter, tinged with hope.

A grin slowly spread across Lucifer’s face, his confidence returning. “Of course he will,” he said, almost playfully. “He’s soft. Tender. That’s who he is.” His smile grew warmer as he leaned closer, his voice dipping into a familiar, soothing cadence. “We have to be gentle with him. Tender. Patient. We can’t rush things with Adam—not if we want him to stay.”

Lilith chuckled softly, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “I know, I know.”

“We can’t frighten him. The last thing we want is for him to pull away again.” Her voice softened as she thought of how much had already been lost, of Adam’s fear, his tears. They couldn’t let that happen again.

Lucifer nodded; his expression firm yet gentle. “Exactly. We’ll be patient. Adam will come to Hell, and he’ll give the Hellborn a purpose. And in doing so…”

He smiled, the weight of their plan settling into place. “He’ll save our future child.”

Lilith’s eyes gleamed at the mention of it, the future they had dreamed of for so long.

“Once Adam’s pregnant with our baby,” she said softly, the word ours filling the air like a promise, “He won’t be able to leave Hell, no matter what.”

Lucifer’s gaze softened, but there was a flicker of something possessive in his smile. “One year will never be enough, Lilith. You and I both know that. Once Adam’s with us, there won’t be any going back.”

Lilith’s smile deepened, her heart lightened by the thought.

“No,” she agreed. “There won’t be.”

They loved Adam so much. It was a shame Adam misunderstood their intentions in Eden. But they weren't about to make the same mistake twice.

#hazbin hotel #fanfic #adamsapple #lucifer x adam #guitarduck #fanficiton #au #lilith #lilith x Adam x Lucifer #Threesome?#Eve

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