#and i just have so many thoughts i need to scream | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

maeedrg · 1 day ago

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Mine to protect

Feral Gojo X non sorcerer fem reader X Geto Suguru

ᯓ★

Synopsis : in which you are freshly dating since two months your boyfriend, Gojo Satoru. Still new to this sorcery world, you try to understand that your relationship had to be kept a secret for your safety. But Satoru hides you many things, informations that could have made everything different. You keep bumping too into a man called Suguru, and as time passes, things get complicated. You end up having a bounty on your head, and that makes Gojo snaps.

Words count : 12k.

Warnings : tooth rooting fluff, Satoru being silly, angst, gore, dead body, death implied, stalking, slight smut, alcohol consumption, slight canon divergence, hidden inventory mentioned, some satosugu, a bit of Suguru x reader if you squint

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ Autor’s note : it took me so long to write, and was harder than I thought. I hope you guys will enjoy, with all the pain it caused me to create this… ugh.

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February 16, 11 : 26 PM, Gojo Satoru exterminated 7 upper grades curses. 12 : 02 AM, Gojo Satoru killed 4 sorcerers. Sentence : no one. Reason : still unknown.

Gojo pants heavily, each breath long and shattered. Blood is dripping down his skin, staining his hands, face, and clothes. Not his blood, obviously. His eyes lack the usual blue shine they hold, instead dull greyish dirty sky paints his iris. His pupils are dilated, big and creepy, slowly drifting to the side. He throws on the floor the head of one of his opponents. It rolls over, until it stops at the feet of a shaking mess of another sorcerer. The man shivers head to toe, and tries to step back, but he just ends up falling pathetically on the bloody floor.

“Please, please- spare me ! I just wanted the money !” he screams, big fat tears rolling down his bruised cheeks. Satoru snaps his tongue inside his mouth, making a noise of annoyance, before moving one step closer. His aura is so gigantic and imposing, that the sorcerer feels like he could dissolve on the spot.

“Where is she ?”, he asks one time. No need to say it twice, the life of his opponent is on the line.

“I- In- with our boss- please, I swear… !”, now he babbles, snot coming out of his nose and shaking his head multiple times in pure and utter fear.

The white haired sorcerer suddenly grabs the collar of the man before him, smashing him in a loud thud against the wall behind. It crackles the paint and breaks some of his bones, coughing some blood and whimpering like a poor pitiful dog.

“Boss ? I bet it’s the one that did put a damn bounty on her head and asked you to do this, am I right ?” Satoru snarls, the small light of the flickering bulb behind him illuminating the side of his crimson painted face. The sorcerer, unable to talk, too scared and in pain to form a normal sentence, nods quickly. He tries to squirm away, weakly, but Satoru sighs and shakes his head in disapproval.

“Uh-uh, no need to run, I still need you to answer me. Where is your boss ?” he asks firmly, leaving no room for argument. Without any further, the sorcerer pronounces faintly the place and area he asked for. Satoru’s eyes narrow, tightening his fingers around the collar of the man in an iron grip.

“I see… well, I don’t need you anymore,” he ends up sighing, clearly bored now.

“I answered, now please, I beg, spare me ! pl-” SPLASH. A flash of light, it flickers, smoke escapes and then a huge red stain paints the wall. What stays of the body of the sorcerer, more like his calcined legs, falls on the ground brutally.

“Ah, what a mess. How annoying,” mutters Satoru, whipping some of the gruesome mix of red liquid and flesh off his cheek.

12 : 06 AM, Gojo Satoru killed 5 sorcerers.

Calmly, we can hear the sound of steps on the ground. One, two, three. Each one is steady, and a terrifying shine of blue illuminates the darkness of the corridor.

“So it was ***, all along…” whispers Satoru in the eerie quietness, before opening the door in front of him in a brutal motion.

12 : 31 AM, Gojo Satoru found you back. But not alone.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

Dating Gojo Satoru as a non sorcerer wasn’t always that easy. Indeed, after barely two months of dating, exploring the spectrum of romantic relationship together, you both had to keep it a secret. If jujutsu society discovered that The Strongest was dating a non sorcerer girl, it would go sour very quickly. It was for your safety, and you understood that very well. This whole world of curses, gore and morbid routine was better away from you, anyways. And no matter how much you tried to put your mind into it, it was hard to understand everything. Even if Satoru tried to explain to you his line of work, and who he was, he on purpose hid some crucial informations. Informations that could have saved you that day, on february 16. But who could have known ? Neither you, nor him.

But today was a good day. After coming back from his busy day, Satoru made his best to come back to you as quickly as possible. After all, how could he leave you alone at your apartment for too long ? Nah, never.

“Come on, sweetheart. I just wanna play with ya’ ! Don’t tell me you’re afraid to lose ?”, your boyfriend coos, tantalizing. You shake your head, trying to step away, but his arm swings around your waist and forces you to sit down next to him in front of the coffee table.You huff.

“Satoru, I’m not playing arm wrestling if it’s just for you to show off your strength. You’re going to break my wrist !” you retort, firmly. But the way his fingers slide up your skin towards your palm, and intertwine with your hand, and how his puppy eyes are looking at you, it makes you falter for a second.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I know how to control my amazing strength. Be for real, baby. You’re just scared to lose !” He tilts his head to the side, trying to sound challenging to tease you enough to accept.

“You literally are “The Strongest”, or whatever weird wizard shit you are. I, for sure, will lose !” you exclaim, scoffing, frowning your eyebrows. Satoru snickers, a small smile forming on his lips and squeezing your hand in his.

“Sorcerer, baby, not shadow wizard money gang. And I swear, I’ll go easy on ya’. ‘Kay ? Promise !” he insists, kissing your knuckles tenderly at the end of his sentence. You can’t help but explode of laugh at his joke, and his smile grows wider at your face happily giggling.

How cute. It was in those moments that Gojo Satoru loved to bask in the most. Just pure domestic happiness by your side, aside from the jujutsu world. You, and him. No curses, no fighting, nothing. It’s for that he insisted on not showing you the depth of the atrocity of his world. It was better that way, he thought.

“Alright, alright. I’ll play. But only if you allow me an advantage ! That would be only fair…” you calm down and end up accepting, looking into his blue eyes. He seems like he is pondering. Obviously, he wasn't. He just wanted to put some mystery in his answer.

“Greedy girl. Fine, I’ll give you an edge.”

“That would be… ?” you ask, waiting for him to continue.

“No defense on my side. You can use anything to get me to stop and surrender. How does that sound ?” he ends up explaining, raising his eyebrow.

“That would be easy,” you answer confidently. He scoffs, frowns, and lets out a small laugh at your naivety of thinking you could win. He liked that about you.

“Ah, yes. Right. Very easy. Then, what will you get if you do win ? Which you won’t, by the way,” he tsk, playing a bit mindlessly with your hand he was holding.

“You give me a full body massage. If you win, I’ll give you one. Do we have a deal ?” you answer, ignoring his provocative last sentence, deciding to not indulge into his teasing.

“Yes ma’am. We go at the count of three, then. One…” Satoru says as a start, grabbing back your hand and lining it between his own.

“Two,” you continue, “three !” you both end up saying at the same time. You directly put all your strength into your arm even though his hand is much larger and stronger compared to yours. He tightens his grip, not budging at all. This bitch even fake yawns to provoke you. You narrow your eyes, scoffing, and trying to put on more strength. He said he would put no defense on his side, so what could you do ? Tickle him ?

With your other hand, you slide your fingers and tickle his underarm. He shivers and lets out a laugh.

“Oh ? You’re playing nasty here-” he says in between laughs, but then decides to tighten his grip and starts to slowly push down your arm. You realize that making him laugh is no strategy to make him lose. You groan, frowning your eyebrows and directly stop tickling him to concentrate all your strength on one point, but it’s no use. Each second that passes, he makes your arm go down, and down, and down… He even has the nerves to stare at you with his stupid smirk, amused by your whining.

“Adorable.”

“Shut up,” you snap back, serious about winning, your arm almost fully flat on the table now. No, no, no ! You can’t let him win like that !

You decide to then, as a last second idea, lean towards your boyfriend and kiss him swiftly. Surprised, his grip falters. Your kisses were indeed his weakness, and you knew it better than anyone else. Wickedly, you take the opportunity to smash his arm on the other side of the table, finally winning. You directly stop kissing him, a big smile on your face as you jump on your feet and laugh.

“I won ! You damn ass loser !”

Satoru snaps back to reality, and looks at his hand, then back at you. He directly grabs you and makes you fall on the ground, getting on top of you and starts to tickle you restlessly.

“You caught me by surprise ! It doesn’t count !” Satoru exclaims, smiling at the way you squirm and squirm over again, chocking on your own laughs because of the torture your boyfriend is giving you. And oh, oh how pretty you look, with tears at the corner of your half lidded eyes. Satoru just wanted to carve this core memory in his brain, forever. Was it Heaven ? He didn’t need much to feel like ascending to paradise when he was by your side. Nothing, really. Just you.

“You sore loser, I-I won- ahahaha !” you giggle endlessly.

The moment the white haired sorcerer was about to reply, his phone rang. He rolls his eyes, sighing and doing this grumpy expression that always makes you melt. He grabs the phone in his jean pocket, keeping you pinned on the ground with his other hand. As he answers the call, his nose scrunch up, and he groans.

“Really ?... A mission, now ?... I cleared my schedule today on purpose…” he says, playing with your hair while looking annoyed at the voice on the other side of the line. You stay quiet, smile faltering at what you hear.

“Ugh- yeah… Yeah. Alright… Just send me the information… I’ll be on my way… Yeah yeah. Bye,” he hangs up the phone, putting it back in his pocket. He sighs, deeply, a long one. He looks back at you and then takes your face in his hands before kissing your forehead.

“A curse appeared somewhere and is threatening citizens. I’m sorry, I gotta go, sweetheart. I’ll give you your massage when I come back,” he softly explained, in a tone of voice that showed just how tired he was. You lift yourself on your elbows, frown deepening. Clearly, he was the one that deserved this massage.

“I get it, it’s not your fault. I’ll go buy groceries for dinner, then. I’m sure you will be starving, anyways,” you chuckle softly to lighten the mood. He grins at your words, and helps you standing up before putting back on his blindfold.

“You know me so well. Buy cookies too, please. I need my daily sugar intake !” he teases.

“You and your sweet tooth-” you start to answer in a tiny sigh, but get cut off by his lips tenderly and softly pressing against yours.

“See you, I’ll be back in no time,” he finishes. You can’t help but look at him lovingly.

Some minutes later, you were on your way to the grocery store. It wasn’t far away from home, so the walk was quick. Hands grabbing two bags, one full of sweets, for your childlike man, and the other with what you needed to use to cook dinner. But then, you feel like something is passing by you. You frown, a shiver running down your skin, unable to see anything in this half lonely street. It even felt cold, strangely cold. It passes again, and you were sure you indeed felt something. But you have no time to ponder more, when you realize that your bag of groceries, one of them, got cut in two and some of the oranges fell and now are rolling down the street.

“What ? No, no !” you exclaim, crouching down and trying to put it back together, yet one of them escapes your fingers and rolls and rolls… before stopping in front of the foot of someone. A hand grabs it, and you lift your head to look at the person, or your savior.

It’s a man, with jet black long hair, half tied in a bun, striking purple eyes, and a soft expression on his face.

“Is this yours ?” he asks in such a delicate tone of voice that you just nod quietly at first, not answering with your own words. “Here,” he approaches and gives it back to you. You take it, and then smile a bit nervously as he dust his fingers on his jacket.

“Thank you so much. I- uh.. I don’t know what happened, but my bag suddenly got cut in two ? That’s weird, ahah,” you end up explaining, still unsure on how it could have happened. You look down, and groan at the mess. With a broken bag, how could you bring that home ?

“Yeah, that looks like… a mess. Need some help ?” he asks gently, crouching down too and smiling at you. You swallow your saliva, mesmerized against your will by the way he talks.

“Oh, that’s very nice of you. But… With a broken bag, and another full one, I don’t think you could help me that much,” you chuckle a bit awkwardly, bringing back all the products together, trying to think of a way to come back home with this inconvenience.

“I have a bag with me. You could put your groceries inside, that would be easier,” he proposes as he lifts his eyes, staring right back at your soul. You think for a second.

“That would be very nice, actually… Thank’s a lot,” you end up accepting, not wanting to lose too much time outside. You had dinner to cook, after all.

The black haired man takes out a tote bag of his jacket, unfolds it, and then helps you assemble all the scattered groceries inside. You keep thanking him, a bit awkwardly, and once it’s done you slide the bag over your shoulder. You stand back up, and he does the same, towering over you.

“I live right by the corner. I’ll give you the bag back, don’t worry,” you explain as you show with your hands the apartment building at the left of the street, and start to walk. His eyes follow you, before looking at where you were pointing at, hands in his pockets. He smirked at himself, but you couldn’t see it. It only lasted for a second.

“You can keep it, I don’t mind,” he retorts, shaking his head and giving you a reassuring smile. You take a stop and turn around to face him, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s alright, I’ll be quick. It’s only normal, after all. You helped me, so..,” you start to answer, but he cuts you off, “I insist. Keep it.”

You sigh and end up nodding, giving him a small smile, “alright, thank you,” you accept.

“You’re welcome, hum…”

“Y/n,” you say.

“Right. Goodbye then, y/n,” he finishes, insisting on your name, taking out of his pocket one of his hands to wave at you, before turning on his heels and leaving without waiting for an answer. You wave back, saying goodbye, and turn around too to walk back home.

You realize you forgot to ask about his name. Whatever, it’s not like you would see him again. Thankful of his help, you enter your apartment and unpack your groceries. Once everything is where it should be, ready to start cooking, you look at the bag. Curious, you look inside and realize that a name was written with black ink on the tissue. You squint your eyes, half of it erased by the time.

Suguru… Suguru G something, you couldn’t read the last letters.

So, Suguru was his name.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

After dinner, you and Satoru were cleaning the dishes, him complaining about his mission and how boring it was, that they could have asked someone else to do it since it was way too easy for him. Tipicall whining behavior of your boyfriend, after all. You nod, still having a hard time understanding this whole concept of his hollow purple and red and blue… Unable to see cursed energy, it was complicated for you to fathom this type of things. But you still tried to, anyway.

“So, he gave you his bag ? What a gentleman. Should I feel threatened, hmm ?” Jokes Satoru, raising his eyebrows as he mentions back your little adventure in the street earlier. You chuckle softly, drying a plate and putting it down next to the sink.

“You don’t have to worry about that, he was just being helpful. Hey, without his bag, there would have been no dinner tonight ! Only… your bag of sweets,” you retorts, and Satoru nudges you playfully, still washing a glass of water.

“I don’t mind eating cookies for dinner, you know that,” he muses, and you roll your eyes at his antics. Him and his sweet tooth…

“What was his name, by the way ?” he asks, rinsing the glass under the lukewarm water of the sink.

“Uh.. Suguru, I think,” you answer, shrugging, not very sure after all.

The moment you say this, Satoru freezes and tightens his grip on the glass of water before putting it down silently. He suddenly looks tense, and you frown, unsure at why he acted like that.

“Suguru, you say ? Alright,” he ends up humming, keeping his back turned to you and mindlessly whipping the remains of dishes. You can’t see his facial expression anymore, and you get even more suspicious.

“Is there something wrong ?” you question, raising an eyebrow and narrowing your eyes at his reaction.

“Nope, baby,” he suddenly acts back like his cheerful self, giving you a wink when he turns around to face you again. Even though it’s only been 2 months that you were dating Gojo Satoru, you still could sense when he was lying. Even if it was subtil.

“You don’t like the name ‘Suguru’ ?” you ask, stepping closer, laughing a bit nervously. That would be... absurd. Why would he even hate a name ? His smile falters, but quickly gains back its fake silliness.

“Nah, I just knew someone that was named like that,” he explains vaguely on purpose, walking past you towards the living room. Oh, you narrow your eyes even more, twice suspicious now. He clearly wasn’t telling you everything. Satoru was secretive concerning some information about his life as a sorcerer, and about… his past too. Since it’s only been a few short months that you were his girlfriend, you didn’t insist or pressure him to open up to you. Your relationship with him was still young, after all. No need to rush things. You respected his privacy, to a certain extent.

“Someone ? Alright,” you say, not continuing on the topic, sitting next to him as he slides his arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer.

“How about tomorrow we go on a date, yeah ?” he suddenly proposes, changing subjects out of the blue.

“Will it be okay ? Nobody that knows you would see us together, right ?” you question, knowing that your relationship with Satoru had to be kept a secret for your safety.

“Nah, I’ll make sure of that. Don’t worry sweetcheeks,” he muses as he brings your face closer and kisses the hollow of your neck.

You smile at him, teasing him about how he needs to give you a massage since earlier that evening you won the wrestling game. He chuckles, bringing you to the bedroom. But as the night went on, you couldn’t help but notice how his mind looked elsewhere, and how he kept glancing at the grocery bag, and the name “Suguru” written on the tissue…

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

In this cold weather of February, you were walking outside with Satoru. Cold hands, yet they get warmed by his fingers tangling with yours and putting them in his pocket. He gives you a cheeky grin, rosy cheeks and red nose from the freezing wind. You sniff a bit, feeling like you could catch a cold with this temperature.

“How about we go see a movie ? You know, the new horror one that just went out. We saw it yesterday when watching this pastries tv-show,” he wiggles his eyebrows, taunting you. You inhale and exhale loudly, remembering the trailer of this so-called movie that you saw passing by on TV.

“I’m going to shit my pants ! We could watch something else-” you start to retort, shaking your head, but Satoru rolls his eyes and brings you towards the entrance of the theatre.

“But I want you to get all scared and to cling to me like a damsel in distress, saying “oh Satoru my love, protect me ! I’m so scared ! Kyaaaa !” See ?” he exclaims as he suddenly clings to you, using a high pitched voice that could make your ears bleed and you cringe slightly. You repress a laugh, pinching his side under his thick layer of clothes.

“You really wanna bully me, uh ? I’m sure in the end it would be you that would be terrified, more than me,” you scoff and your white haired boyfriend acts exaggeratedly offended, opening the door to let the both of you enter the building.

“Excuse me ? I’m used to seeing horrifying things everyday, it’s not a horror movie that would scare me, period,” he refutes, the coldness of outside leaving you to instead be the warmth of the inside. You then remember back that indeed, in the line of work of your boyfriend, he was used to dealing with terrifying curses every day. Based on what he described you.

“Well, sorry, but not me,” you complain. After a little back and forth with him, you ended up going to buy the tickets of the movie, while Satoru went to obviously buy the snacks, which meant tons, and tons of sugary food.

As you walk back with the tickets in hand, searching for your busy boyfriend at the candy aisle, your eyes catch something in the crowd. Curious, you snap your head to the side, frowning, before perceiving long black hair tied in a half bun, and purple eyes. You part your lips, surprised to see the grocery guy, Suguru, if you remember well, coming out of the bathroom. He gives you a look, and then the moment his stare meets yours, a smirk draws on his lips.

“Y/n ?” he asks, surprised too.

“Fancy to see you here, humm.. Suguru, is that right ? It was written on the tote bag that you gave me yesterday,” you exclaim, smiling back and feeling quite funny from this situation. It could be destiny, at this point. Nah, too cliche.

“Suguru, that’s right. I hope yesterday you could come back home safe with your groceries,” he answers in a soft voice, one that makes you think he must be a really calm and nice guy. Not to add how he helped you yesterday. What a mistake.

“Thanks to you. Are you here to watch a movie ? Or you already did ?” you continue.

“I already finished watching the movie, the new horror one,” he tells you, crossing his arms on his chest and showing you with his chin his ticket in his hand. You barely look at it, not realizing that the ticket was odd, and then back at him.

“No way ! I’m here too, with my boyfriend, to watch it,” you smile answering that, this coincidence being rather unusual. You notice how his eyes narrow slightly at the word ‘boyfriend’, but then he smiles back as if nothing happened.

“Boyfriend ? I see. Then enjoy, y/n. See you maybe next time,” he waves at you, before quickly disappearing in the crowd, and in no time he already left.

The moment you join back Satoru that just finished buying all the snacks, arms full of popcorn, candies, and drinks, you shake your head and walk faster to reach him and help him with everything that he is holding.

“Did you really buy all this ? Is it for the two of us or a whole army ?” you chuckle, and Satoru pouts, plopping a candy in his mouth as he slides his hand in your lower back to make you walk towards the employee that checks your tickets.

“Sweetheart… You know I can eat for ten, don’t be ridiculous,” he rolls his eyes answering that.

“It’s your stomach that is ridiculous, I don’t know how you can keep your abs with all this food” you tease back, both walking towards the theatre room after getting your tickets checked.

“The gods really like me,” he muses.

The moment you sit next to him, putting down the food to get comfortable, Satoru kisses your cheek exaggeratedly to make you embarrassed, like he always does, but then he freezes for a second. He narrows his eyes and lowers his sunglasses, looking at you with so much seriousness that you thought you did something wrong for a second.

“What is that smell on you ?” he asks, not a single hint of a joke in his voice.

“Uh ? Do I smell bad ? I showered and put my usual perfume, though” you retort, sniffing your arm and raising back your head towards him. The scent that was glued to your clothes were the exact same as usual, and confusion takes even more possession of your body.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” he whispers more like to himself, getting closer to you a moment. His face is right on your neck, and you get even more confused. Satoru swore he just smelled the cursed energy of Geto Suguru on your skin, a scent that he didn’t have the chance to smell since… years. But why would there be his cursed energy on you ? If he was there, he would have seen him. Yet, his six eyes didn’t notice anything abnormal in the movie theatre.

“Uh…”

“Nevermind, love. Give me the caramel popcorns, please !” he suddenly changes subject and shows you back his big goofy smile. Quickly, you forget whatever had happened before indulging him, rolling your eyes with a hint of a grin on your lips. A few minutes later, the movie started.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

On this sunday afternoon, sun high in the sky and birds flying above your head, you decided to secretly meet your boyfriend outside of his workplace. The jujutsu high campus. It was to bring him some documents he needed for his paperwork that he forgot at your apartment. To be honest, you had nothing to do and just wanted to see him, even though he could have come and teleported at your place instead. But Satoru was Satoru, and you were you. Two very stubborn people.

Squeezing your bag against your left side, you follow the itinerary he gives you while you are on call with him. Left, right, turn here, go straight until the grey wall, turn there, etc… It felt like a damn maze. But oh, you insisted on meeting at the front red door of the domain, wanting to be able to have a glimpse in real life of where he works, instead of the pics he showed you on snowy nights, talking about his life.

“Baby, I can teleport right where you are, you know ?” Satoru urges you, a pout in his voice.

“Satoru, I can walk. I have nothing else to do, whatever. So wait for me at the rendez-vous place,” you repeat again for the second, third, no, fifth time. You hear a huff coming from the other line of the phone, and you imagine him rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Geez, alright, alright... Well, now, you need to climb the stairs all up to the top, and I’ll be right here,” he continues to explain, looking at where you are from the location you sent him on your phone. The little red spot on the map flickers, showing your position.

“No other sorcerer is around, yeah ?” you ask to be sure. That was risky, after all, coming here. You wouldn’t want anyone to catch you coming, but you still wished to see this place with your own eyes, even if slightly from far away.

“Uh-uh, don’t worry. All clear. I will be able to kiss you senseless without any prying eyes !” he muses happily, as if it was the sweetest treat he could ask for. You snicker at his words.

“Who said I would let you ?” you mock sarcastically.

“Awww, don’t be so mean…” he whines dramatically.

You chuckle and continue to walk. You look up at the sky. There are no more birds, nor the sound of their voices. The forest surrounding the stairs is quiet all of a sudden. That made you look around for a second. Suddenly, a squall of wind makes you shiver head to toe, and you squeeze your jacket tighter against you. It gets stronger, and you feel like you could fall from where you were standing. Your heart brutally stops, before starting to beat dangerously fast all over again. You have a hard time breathing, each inhale being ragged, your whole body tensed and screaming at you to run, and fast. You step back, when squinting your eyes, you see what seems like a shadow some meter away from you. Tall, looming, eerie. It was the first time you saw something like that, and you end up utterly terrified, shaking like a leaf.

“Y/n, are you okay ? You stopped moving…” mumbles Satoru in a sudden more serious voice, looking at your location. Some wind makes his hair move in the air, and he directly narrows his eyes. Something is off. He could sense it, smell it.

“Satoru-...” you manage to whisper, stepping back again, horrified by this shadow slowly becoming clearer to you, looking like a… monster. Were you crazy ? A hallucination ? Or was that… a curse, like your boyfriend described them to you. Why is it scarier than you imagined, worse than the horror movie you saw two weeks ago. Way worse, to be honest. You couldn’t even fathom the fear that was running down your veins.

“Y/n, run as quick as you can, I’m on my way. ” The voice of Satoru snaps you back to reality, and you shiver head to toe as you directly spin around on your heels and dash towards the opposite way. You didn’t even need to make him repeat twice, or to have the time to understand what he asked, no, ordered you to do. Just by the simple word “run”, you were already running.

You breath heavily, racing as fast as you could, and the moment you check behind you to see if that curse was following you and tracking you down, you almost fall when the answer is yes. You let out a scream, the monster smiling in such a feral and unhinged way, opening its mouth wide with big crooked teeth, ready to jump you. Horrible ! You then stumble on a rock, a damn rock that was coincidently on your way, and you scratch your knee as you fall down on the ground, making you bleed. You yelp, closing your eyes, not wanting to see an ugly curse as the last thing before dying. Everything was going way too quick for you to have the time to stand back up.

The moment it’s about to reach your body, you hear an explosion meters away.

“Domain expansion, infinite void,” a cold and unwavering voice echoes in the depth of your being.

A scream of despair, and then… nothing. Just the quietness. A second pass where you slowly bat your lashes, ears ringing and feeling dizzy. The moment your vision is back to normal, you directly are facing your boyfriend scooping you in his arm without waiting any more second. His blindfold is down on his collar, a mad expression on his usual cheerful face.

“Are you okay ?” he asks, six eyes analyzing you up and down with a hint of fear in them.

“I… I guess…” you whisper, still shaken from what happened.

“You’re bleeding, I’ll get you to Shoko,” he announces, turning around and starting to walk, squeezing you against him. You open your eyes wider, remembering that this woman was a friend of Satoru, and a jujutsu sorcerer.

“Will it be okay ?!”

“Don’t worry, I can trust her to not say anything about it. Let’s not lose any more time,” he finishes. And it’s only now that you realize how much your knee is painfully throbbing, all your adrenaline dying down to just let the suffering in your veins. You hiss, biting your lower lip to not scream.

Satoru then teleports, and in the first time of knowing him, you enter the Jujutsu campus. For the best, or for the worst.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

“Here you go, all good now,” exclaims Shoko after finishing to heal you, stepping back and sliding a cigarette in between her lips. Amazed, you look at her. How could that be possible ? Your knee was as new as before, only your jeans were ripped at the mid section. You move your leg a bit, realizing that it’s really not hurting anymore. Indeed, it was like magic.

“Wow, thanks a lot,” you whisper, and she winks at you, saying that she does this type of trick everyday.

“How come a curse attacked me ?” you ask, still scared of what you saw. Satoru is sitting next to you and having his arm wrapped around your shoulders, thumb softly caressing your skin as a way to calm yourself, or maybe it was for himself, you didn’t know.

“It was awfully close to tengen’s barrier, so that is the question. It almost never happens, unless the campus is under attack,” starts to ponder Satoru, sighing and massaging his temples as a way to smooth away his starting headache. It reminded him of what happened years ago, with the star plasma vessel mission, and Toji. The man that he killed with his own hands.

“Yet nothing to signal, campus is safe for now,” adds Shoko, ready to light her cigarette, but Satoru snatches it away, making her glare at him.

“Don’t smoke, I already told you to stop that shit. Even more in front of my girl !” he complains, acting like the scent of the cigarette in his hands could make him throw up. Shoko takes it back and puts it again in its box, sighing.

“You’re a pain in the ass. But anyway, I’ll go tell Yaga that a curse appeared in front of the barrier and got dealt with by you. Don’t worry, I won’t mention the presence of your girlfriend,” she announces before giving you a smile, and then leaves after you thank her again.

Back alone in the infirmary room of the school, it’s quiet. Satoru is lost in thoughts, a guilty expression on his pretty face. He takes a deep breath, and then inhales longly.

“I don’t understand. Was it targeted against you specifically ? That could be a possibility, but how and why, that’s what I’m trying to get here,” he starts to question, frustrated.

“You think someone or something knows our secret ? But we hid it so well so far !” you retort, and Satoru stands up, walking in circles, thinking about the possible answer.

“That would be surprising. As far as I know, I always made sure that no one could discover, aside from Shoko, but that doesn’t count. She met you after the attack. So it’s maybe a coincidence. Let’s hope it is. If not… I’ll have to deal with our problem.”

“You mean… killing someone ?” you whisper, and he stops in his track to look at you in the eyes.

“Yeah. I already killed sorcerers in the past. Obviously, bad ones that went against ethics and the law. Not every person born with cursed energy uses it for the good, you know ? It’s my job to protect people, not only from curses, but including sorcerers too. It would be the same for someone that would target your life,” he affirms, no budging in his voice. You swallow thickly. You already knew what Satoru had to deal with, but as a non sorcerer, a normal human, it still felt weird to hear such things coming out of the voice of someone, even more from your own boyfriend.

“Yeah, I get it…” you sigh. He sighs too, and wraps his arm around you softly, cradling you against his chest and kissing the top of your head affectionately.

“It’s for that it’s better to keep it a secret. For your safety… having a bounty on your head would mean exterminating any menace that would come your way,” he finishes, looking at you, and you stare at the shine in the blue of his iris, showing all the seriousness in the world. After all, since the minute he was born, Gojo Satoru has been chased down with deadly bounties on his head. He knew better than anyone else the feeling of constantly being tracked down. Each.minute.of.his.life.

“I know, now let’s go do something that would occupy my mind. I don’t want to think back about what happened. I’m sure I will have nightmares…” you whisper and groan.

“Let’s go eat mochis downtown !” Satoru jumps back on his feet, all smiling now.

“Ah, but wait, you still have work to do. I literally brought you the documents you needed,” you disagree all of a sudden, yet Satoru still takes your hand to coax you to stand up.

“Screw that, you’re at the top of my to do list,” he shakes his head, insisting. You end up smiling, and follow him.

You didn’t know this day, how he meant his words. ‘Exterminating any menace that would come your way.’

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

You were just finished with your day. Satoru would come to pay you a visit later in the night, since he was busy with missions and only available starting 10 PM. Taking the metro, you try to think of what you could eat for dinner tonight. Ordering food or cooking it ? That would just depend on how exhausted you are, at this point. You hold your ground as the train starts to move again once people are finished to enter the wagon and the door closes. You see a glimpse of someone tall with long black hair in a half tied bun.

Wait. Is that... Suguru ? You frown, and the moment you look at the silhouette better, he disappears. You were sure that for a second he was standing right in front of you. Were you hallucinating ? Yeah, you were tired… Why would you even hallucinate about this guy, anyways ?

As you leave the metro some minutes after, you pass by the small streets towards your apartment. When looking at the window of a store, you swear you saw in the reflection of it the damn grocery guy again ! You squint your eyes, stepping back. Nothing. Only you, and the passersby.

“I’m fucking crazy…” you whisper, shaking your head and continuing your walk.

You look at your phone, and now you find yourself alone in the quietness of the night. Each step echoes in the silence. It’s too silent, you think. The light lamp of the alley illuminates your way. You put back your phone in your pocket when a cold wind caresses your neck, giving you goosebumps. You shiver, from head to toe, as if ice was rubbing against your skin. You snap back your attention, remembering oh so well this feeling. This same feeling that you had not so long ago… And here, standing in front of you, another shadow, a taller, much much taller one, compared to last time. Its eyes were yellow, and weird substance was emanating from its skin as an eerie high pitched voice murmured words that you couldn’t understand or make out.

Your stomach drops on your heels, and you stumble backwards, ready to scream of fear and run away. The moment you open your mouth, your back bumps into someone. You turn around sharply, only to be met with purple eyes.

“Are you okay…? Oh ? Y/n ? Is that you ?” asks the voice, and you can’t help but feel reassured to not be alone anymore. But quickly, still in panic, and afraid for your damn life, you exclaim as you directly step away.

“No, run ! It will attack you, otherwise-”

“What are you talking about ? There is nothing here,” answers Suguru, grabbing your jacket to stop you from running away. Your breath gets caught in your throat, ready to yell at him, but when you spin around you realize that indeed, nothing or noone else was here. The shadow disappeared, and your heart slowly beats at a more normal pace.

“What ? But- I swear I…” you stutter.

“Ah, you must be tired. Maybe you should go back home. Is your boyfriend here to help you ?” he raises his eyebrow when softly answering, letting go of his grip on your clothes. You look at it then back at him again, and you feel reassured.

“No, he arrives later…” you whisper. You felt like what you saw wasn’t just you dreaming, but reality. It was here, in front of you. How could it have disappeared like that ?

“Are you okay ? Want me to call him for you, to ask him to come get you ? What’s his name ?” he questions, eying you down.

Still in panic, you continue to look around frequently. Wanting to make sure that the curse really wasn’t waiting for any moment to come back and get you. Flashbacks of what happened before, how it was running after you, and if Satoru was one second late, how you would be probably six feet underground. You dig your nails in your palm, breathing heavily, unable to calm down.

“I… Uh... his name is Satoru,” you start to answer, and you see how the look of Suguru darkens, but quickly comes back to normal. “I’ll call him myself, it’s alright,” you finish.

“Want me to stay until he arrives ? It wouldn’t feel right to leave you in such a state, alone…” he hums, shaking his head as he crosses his arms over his chest while staring at you.

“If you don’t mind, yeah…” you answer as you lean against the wall, and with a shaky hand you dial the number of your boyfriend in front of the purple eyes of your savior. He quickly answers, and you can hear how he is fighting at the same time some curse, but still decided to pick up the call.

“Yeah baby ? I’m dealing with some shitty low grades at the same time, hope you don’t mind !” he exclaims cheerfully, and in the background you can hear sounds of objects breaking. You put the phone tighter against your cheek, making sure only you could hear him. Well, that’s what you thought.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but can you come, please. I think.. it appeared again. I’m scared to the bones, not gonna lie. That shit is making me feel crazy,” you answer, turning your head as you sniff, biting your lower lip nervously and eyes roaming around, quite everywhere, sometimes landing on the black haired male that stares at you.

“What ? Alright, send me your location, I won’t take long. Are you alone ?” suddenly asks seriously Satoru, more grave now in his tone of voice. At the same time, you send your location as asked.

“No, I’m with, you know, Suguru, the guy that helped me last time. I bumped into him,” you explain, looking at him and he smiles as his eyes meet yours.

Suguru. The moment this name left your mouth, Satoru froze. In one go, he activates his technique, done with fooling around, and hollow purple his opponent. In a ragged breath, he replies :

“I’m on my way, don’t move.”

He hangs up, and you realize that he must have teleported. You face Suguru, and you try to give him a reassuring smile. Well, you should be the one to get reassured in this situation, actually.

“He’s on the way, he will soon be here, don’t worry,” you resume.

“I don’t worry about me, but more for you. Are you feeling better ? Was someone following you ?” he shakes his head answering that, tilting his head to the side.

“Something, yeah, I don’t know ? It’s complicated..” you try to say vaguely. After all, you couldn’t say to someone you barely knew that a curse was probably after you. Barely one year ago, before meeting Satoru, you had no idea about the existence of such things. Suguru narrows his eyes, letting out a hum.

“Looks like you are cursed, y/n,” he simply states, staring back at you. You shiver, and snap back your head at him.

“Cursed ? Ahah, what do you mean ?” you frown, replying with a quivering voice. Shit, you looked even more suspicious. But hey, wait, that was his answer, that was suspicious. Rather than yours.

“Don’t play dumb, y/n. I’m talking about curses,” he steps closer, smiling at you as if it was funny, and that this whole situation was just dumb. Where you dumb ?

“What ? Wait, hold on, you-”

“Looks like your boyfriend Gojo Satoru is back,” he cuts you off.

You directly turn around, snapping back towards the street. Meters away you see indeed the white haired male looking around, and when he spots you he rushes, you do too, and he catches you in his arms. His grip is tight and comforting, keeping you safe in the crook of his chest.

“I’m here, it’s alright. I sense no curses anymore, you’re safe,” he whispers in your ear, gazing around, blindfold off his eyes scanning the area.

“Anymore ? So it was here earlier, I wasn’t crazy ?” you ask with both fear and hope at the same time. A weird mix of feelings, to be honest. A horrifying duality.

“I sense its presence very faintly, as if it vanished,” Satoru continues to whisper, caressing your back to soothe you down, allowing your breathing to slow calmly back.

Talking about vanishing, you lift your eyes, only to realize that the black haired male disappeared, leaving only the two of you alone in this gloomy alley.

“Where is the guy ?” questions your boyfriend, lifting his head off your neck, hand on your cheek.

“Suguru ? He left already, I guess…” you reply, staring at the empty spot, and you sigh. Satoru narrows his eyes, humming, eyes scanning the area again.

“Let’s get you back home, ‘kay ?” he ends up saying, deciding to investigate this on his own. After all, he did sense again the faint smell of Suguru’s cursed energy. Geto Suguru, more exactly. And that couldn’t be a coincidence anymore. The Suguru you met was 99% sure the Suguru he knew. Satoru wasn’t an idiot. But he couldn’t let you know.

“Alright.. Thanks for coming, love,” you smile and he kisses softly your lips as a light peck.

“Anytime,” he answers, before bringing you back home. Satoru wasn’t joking as usual, or teasing you as much as he does. He seemed preoccupied with something, surely about what happened, but it felt odd. The evening goes on, and Satoru stays at your side all night long.

As you cuddle your boyfriend in bed, half asleep and basking in the warmth of his body spooning yours, your eyes snap back open.

Hold on. Suguru said Gojo Satoru earlier. But you only remember giving him his name, and nothing more. How could he know his last name ? Did you imagine things ?

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

A whole month and a half passed. You quickly managed to forget about what happened, thanks to the help of Satoru, and forgot the weird things that Suguru said that night. It was even easier, since you didn’t see him again. In this month of february, you were covered in thick layers of blankets, keeping you warm as you drink hot chocolate in your cup. Satoru comes back from his shower, hair damp and changed into comfortable pajamas. With time, he ended up putting more and more of his personal stuff in your apartment, slowly becoming an important part of your life as your boyfriend.

“Lemme take a sip,” he whines, suddenly sitting next to you on the couch and wrapping his cold arms around you. You shiver head to toe, yet he keeps his hands tightly against your skin.

“You’re freezing cold !” you exclaim, and he nonetheless takes a sip from your cup, smiling and licking his lips as he puts it back down. He squeezes your stomach, kissing your neck.

“Warm me up, then,” he coos, and makes you lie back down on the couch, straddling you as he continues to snuzzle your chest and draping the remaining blankets over the two of you.

“Don’t get too cozy, I’ll have to leave in 20 minutes,” you say, and he huffs, butterfly kissing your throat before biting your cheek smugly.

“Why do you have to go ? Can’t you stay here with your amazing boyfriend ?” he complains, and you squirm but he bites your cheek again, the left one this time. Not too hard, obviously.

“I promised my friend I would come, and hey, stop biting me-” you retort, and it results only in the chuckle of Satoru vibrating against your skin. He kisses it softly, as a way to make himself forgiven.

“I’ll wait here then, like a good househusband,” he muses and pecks your lips. You grin against his mouth, cool fingers caressing his face and looking at him in the eyes.

“You wish you were, uh ?” you tease him.

“Hmm, that would be a nice change from the constant draining work as The Strongest…” he whispers, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand under your shirt, and moving his lips against yours. You let out a breath of pleasure, his tongue licking your lower lip to allow him access. You slightly open your mouth, and start to make out with him in an affectionate and loving way. He lifts himself on his elbow, deepening the kiss to make it considerably more heated. His knee slides and gets in between your thighs, parting them inch by inch and pressing against your core on purpose. You moan slightly, and he smirks as he breathes more heavily, clearly getting turned on at your oh so sweet voice doing such noises.

You graze your nails against his undercut, making him shiver. He massages your breast, thumb caressing your nipple while his knee grinds against you. It hardens, and you arch slightly your back. He smiles even more, using his other hand to grab your hips to press you more against his grinding knee. The pleasure is slowly heating up, but before it gets too ahead of yourselves, you break the kiss.

“Satoru, I need to get ready,” you whisper. He pouts, slowly letting you go, and sighs before leaving you some space, doing a last final peck on your nose.

“Yeah yeah, my beautiful wife is getting taken away from me,” he whines dramatically.

“Okay you dramaqueen,” you roll your eyes, and leave the warmth of the cushion to stand up and go take your bag and put on your coat and shoes. Satoru trails behind you and suddenly gives you his wallet. You raise an eyebrow, surprised.

“Use my card while you are out, and please yourself. In that way, it’s as if I would be with you. I mean, my wallet and money will, actually…” he explains his train of thoughts, and before you can answer he puts it inside your back. You were about to protest, but he started to push you outside towards the main door.

“Satoru that is so sweet, but you didn’t need to-”

“Nuh-uh, I insist. Spoil yourself, but don't drink too much, ‘kay ?” he interrupts you. You smile softly once you are two feet outside, and then bring him in a close hug. He wraps his arms around you too in return, and you go on your toes to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you, ‘toru. I’ll call you when I’m on my way back home, alright ?”

“Go have fun !” he waves goodbye at you as you step back, and you give him one last glance before walking outside.

The evening goes by, and meeting with your friends to drink was upgrading your mood. You did use the card of Satoru, but still made it on purpose to not drink too much alcohol. After all, you wanted to come back home safe. And not like a drunk mess.

In the dim light of the bar, you lay back against the chair, looking at the ceiling after paying your final consumption. While you put back the card into your boyfriend’s wallet, you accidentally make something fall. You catch it on your thighs, and squint your eyes when you realize it’s an old picture of Satoru. He was in the company of who you recognized as Shoko, thanks to the mole and the cigarette in between her lips. But then the person to his other side strangely feels like his looks are familiar. Black hair tied in a bun, purple eyes, and ear piercings… Wait wait wait. Is that… on this pic... grocery guy, aka Suguru, with your boyfriend ? No way, no fucking way.

That’s crazy. No. Are you even sure ? Slightly panicked, all the dots connecting together, you turn around the picture and read what is written in small letters behind “Satoru, Suguru, Ieri, 2006”. You blink, once, twice.

That is Suguru. The Suguru you met multiple times, is the Suguru of the past of Satoru. This so-called “someone” he once knew. A strange feeling takes place in your gut, as if something was wrong, damn wrong. You swallow thickly, and now you understand how and why he had said all these weird things before, his reactions too. But, why… Why didn't Satoru tell you more about him ? All you knew is that they knew each other in the past. Nothing more, nothing else. Gojo was secretive, very secretive about this. It was apparently for the better, but right now, it was for your worst.

Oh oh, you can’t shake off that nagging feeling, starting to be nervous and panicked. Something definitely was wrong in whatever happened this past weeks.

“I’ll go outside to get some fresh air,” you suddenly annonce to your friends, trying to smile to reassure them as they look concerned. You barely put back your coat, keeping in your hand the picture as you step out without waiting for an answer.

You lay against a wall, looking at the people passing by. You take deep breaths, trying to put some order in your mind. As you look up, seconds pass while you stare at the sky, but then, it’s as if everything got even darker than the night. It was like a veil was falling around you. You look back around, and you are now alone in the street. Your breath catches in your throat and you directly decide to go back inside the bar, not liking this at all.

The wind, cold and freezing, caresses your neck. Your heart jumps in your thoracic cage, and you feel sweat rolling down your forehead of nervousness and fear slowly creeping down your back. You decide to walk faster.

“Y/n, where do you think you are going ?” announces a familiar voice behind you.

You directly turn on your heels, and you are met with Suguru, his hair down, and in a different attire that you were used to seeing him. His presentence was far more gloomy, and the monk clothes he was wearing made him look like someone else. More like… the real him. And you knew at this moment that you were in danger. No matter how and why, you were in danger.

“Suguru ?! What is happening here ?” you snap, on edge.

“Satoru didn’t explain it to you ? I casted a veil. It’s only us in here,” he answers as if it was mock evidence, eying you up and down. He suddenly didn’t look as friendly as before. You step back, squeezing the picture in between your fingers.

“What the- are you a sorcerer too, then ? I just saw this picture and... Fuck. What is going on right now ?!” you start to panic, looking around again and again. You felt trapped.

“I guess he didn’t talk much about me. Even though we were best friends. Well, it’s understandable. You are a non sorcerer. It’s not like you would get it, anyways,” he sighs, shaking his head as if he was disappointed.

“No, he didn’t. But that’s... for now it’s not the most important. I want you to tell me why you are here, casting this veil, and what are your real intentions. Because I doubt now that each time we met, it was from pure accidents or coincidences” you deduce, your gut screaming to you that it was right. You weren’t that dumb, after all.

“You’re smarter than I thought, for a non sorcerer,” he chuckles dryly, slowly walking towards you and circling you. You keep your eyes on him, feeling cornered.

“See, the problem here, is that I would have never expected that the grand Gojo Satoru would be dating a normal human. Imagine my surprise ! You just are a weakness, a big weakness for him, at this point,” he explains, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes as he caresses his chin.

“How did you discover that ?!” you exclaim, stepping away, not answering the way he pathetically described you.

“I wasn’t sure at first. Because of my way of life, I always have to keep an eye on Gojo Satoru. One of my curses reported to me that he saw you frequently at his sides when he was being as a civilian outside. I had to see it for myself... That was easy. Well, you were the one that told me yourself that you had a boyfriend, named Satoru. It didn’t take me much, actually.”

Oh, poor you. You didn’t know who Geto Suguru was, aside from the past best friend of your boyfriend. How could you have the clue that he deflected Jujutsu Society years ago to become a wanted criminal, creating a cult, despising non sorcerers to his soul. How could you, really ? Satoru should have told you, and maybe, more likely surely, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into this situation.

“So all along… it was to get an answer… Did you staged all this ? From the very beginning ?!” you almost stutter, utterly shocked and feeling like a mouse getting played by a cat.

“Yeah,” he simply responds casually, as if it wasn’t the most mind blowing thing you heard today. You gasp, eyes wide open.

“What is wrong with you…” you whisper horrified.

“Oh no, the only wrong thing here is you, y/n. Do you really not know who I am aside from your boyfriend's past best friend ? That could have maybe helped you out there,” he sighs and gets closer, menacing.

“You’re a goddamn devil in disguise, that’s what you are,” you add, narrowing your eyes and clenching your hands, angered.

“Close. I’m just doing what I think is right, getting rid of the filthy things that stench this world. You’re part of that, actually. But well, I started to get attached to you, you see ? Funny when I despise you at the same time. Too bad you’re a non sorcerer, and the girlfriend of my now nemesis,” he ends up brutally, face suddenly becoming as cold as ice and then raising his hand up, a black spiral forming on his palm.

In utter fear of what could happen, you quickly try to run away, not wanting to lose any more time, knowing what would occur next would be bad, very bad for you, if you didn’t exit quickly. But the moment you rush towards the end of the veil, a big, more like gigantic bird, as huge as a dinosaur, appears before you and opens his mouth wide. Masked men jump out of it, and suddenly grab you and one yanks you brutally towards them. You try to squirm, like a wild and feral animal, but they drag you with them back towards the bird without much difficulty, threatening you. You just have the time to scream, that it swallows you in its mouth, and then all you see is pitch black before the void.

The curse vanishes, as soon as Suguru Geto does as well. The veil is gone, and the only thing that is left is the old picture of the trio on the cold ground of the lonely street.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

Back to the present. February 16, 11 : 26 PM, Gojo Satoru exterminated 7 upper grades curses.

12 : 06 AM, Gojo Satoru killed 5 sorcerers.

It wasn’t hard to trail back to you, actually. The moment you disappeared, your friends didn’t take long to notice your vanishment. They tried to contact at first people that they were sure would know maybe where you were. Going on your phone and on your emergency calls, they contacted your boyfriend. As soon as he came, being as quick as possible and dread consuming him, he knew. He knew because he saw the picture on the floor, grabbing it in his hand and staring at it in the void. Your vanishment wasn’t something what normal humans would think, and maybe he didn’t like that idea as much, knowing it could be worse, way worse than you just running away.

Following the cursed energy, he arrived in an abandoned building. Bit by bit, like a rat following the smell of cheese, he went to each place and corner where he could slightly feel your presence. Satoru knew it was a trap, but your safety was his top tier priority.

Minutes passed, and everytime he faced an opponent that didn’t give him any proper answer, annoyance took over him. It was maddening, frustrating. Satoru was going crazy at the idea that you could be dead right now, somewhere lifeless, and how it probably was his fault. His eyes were cold, as freezing as ice, having no more patience left anymore.

“Who’s next ?” he asks, each step echoing in the corridor, searching for you, but too for someone else to rip their damn head off if they go on his way.

He senses the presence of another sorcerer, but they run fast, fearful, not wanting to live their last seconds on earth being exterminated by The Strongest in a monstrous way like their other comrades.

“Pathetic,” he whispers, about to go after his new found victim, an unhinged smile forming on his lips, but he stops dead on his track when he senses your presence faintly.

With no other thoughts, he teleports there immediately. He appears suddenly in front of a door, and bangs it open brutally, breathing heavily. Time stops the moment his eyes meet the purple ones of his best friend, his nemesis, his one and only. And then his smile drops, when he sees you unconsciously laid in his arms while he sits lazily on a tatami.

12 : 31 AM, Gojo Satoru found you back. But not alone.

“Satoru ! Long time no see,” exclaims Suguru, smiling at him like he used to in the past.

“Suguru…” whispers the white haired male, standing almost lifeless, body feeling limp.

“You were quicker than I thought. Even if I know you’ve been knowing for weeks now. I’ve enjoyed the chase, right, Satoru ? Yet, we still didn’t reach the end, you and I. And you know that very well,” he hums, his hand softly touching your unconscious face before looking back up at your boyfriend.

“Suguru, don’t involve her into that,” he simply says, voice firm as he wipes some of the blood off his face.

“I never thought you would date a weakling, you, that always said they were a pain to protect. Look where it brought you. It’s a weakness that I can use against you, and I’m doing it,” he states, narrowing his eyes while he taps his fingers against his thigh. Tap, tap, tap.

“I changed, you made me change. You were the first one to say we had to protect the weaker for the best,” answers Satoru, stepping closer and being tense, ready to attack at any second. The dim light from the candles next to the black haired man illuminates your unconscious face. At least you didn’t look hurt, just asleep, as if everything that happened was just a dream, or a living nightmare.

“Well, I changed my mind. I learnt my lesson, and you know that it’s too late to make me think otherwise,” sighs Suguru, replying with a colder tone. Some seconds pass in silence where they just look at each other in a heavy silence.

“... Suguru. Let her go, she has nothing to do with our little game of cat and mouse,” continues Satoru, more calmly, almost pleading.

“Don’t tell me you are that attached ? If I hurt her, kill her, would you finally kill me ?” scoffs Geto.

“Yes.” That was the simple answer of The Strongest, raising his hand and positioning his fingers, ready to activate red or blue any moment now.

“At least we think the same,” ends up answering Suguru vaguely in a quiet voice, looking at the fingers of his once best friend. A moment passes. Then, he puts you down on the floor, and stands up slowly, now facing the white haired male.

“Poor thing. There is no curse more twisted than love… Next time, curse me too a little bit in the end,” adds Suguru, letting out a mocking laugh, staring into the soul of Satoru through his eyes.

Satoru doesn’t answer, not knowing what to answer. He keeps his fingers up, shaking, and then he grabs you with his free hand, using his technique to make you not fall and glued to his palm. He tried to control his breathing, feeling in between numb and overwhelmed. Both in a strange duality.

“You killed an awful amount of my curses and mercenaries. Well, at least I can keep the money of the bounty for myself, since they can’t reclaim it anymore,” he starts to say, raising his eyebrow and then invoking a curse next to him. Satoru’s eyes snap towards it, ready in case it attacks.

“But don’t rest easy, I’ll make you pay back in kind. I like that new student of yours, Yuta Okkotsu…” the black haired male continues, and then a void slowly appears under his feet, created by the curse.

“Leave the kids alone, Suguru,” snaps Satoru, frowning, and stepping menacingly closer. But he had to be careful, having you with him meant he had to be extra cautious.

“Then kill me now.” These single words made the heart of The Strongest sink, and his fingers tighten. He grits his teeth, feeling like he was 18 again, surrounded by a crowd and unable to stop his best friend after finding out he deflected and massacred a whole village.

Satoru couldn’t kill Suguru, not yet.

“Right. Next time, maybe. Goodbye, Satoru. Say hi to y/n too,” finishes his best friend, before vanishing in the void created by the curses. It disappears too, leaving only the two of you alone. The candles slightly waver at this change of atmosphere, and Satoru breathed again. He brings you up in his arms, scooping your asleep self against his chest. He cradles you, burying his face in your hair and inhaling your scent.

“Y/n, I’m sorry. So sorry…”

Gojo Satoru feels a tear rolling down his cheeks, and it’s the first time in a long time that he breaks character and his fake bravado.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

“Satoru, I swear I’m good now. Shoko already checked me up. Well, maybe I would need some therapy, but trust me, I’m not hurt,” you try to reassure your boyfriend, as he sits next to you on the bed, making sure you were okay. His hand slowly caresses your cheek, and you lean on his palm, appreciating his touch.

He had dark circles under his eyes. Satoru didn’t sleep for 56 hours. After what happened, he didn’t close his eyes aside from blinking, making sure you were okay, paranoid and on edge that something else could happen to you. He sighs, staring at your face and rubbing his thumb against your cheek.

“Y/n, it’s for your safety… You know I can’t rest,” he insists, shaking his head and gripping slightly your cheek.

“Satoru, love, you need to sleep. I’m with you, nothing will happen,” you reply, sliding your fingers against his, and interwinning them together, kissing his knuckles.

He looks at you in silence in the quietness of the night.

“I can’t sleep, not after what happened,” he continues, passing his free hand against his face, trying to wipe the tiredness away.

“You need to,” you answer, frowning, clearly concerned. He doesn't answer, looking at the window instead. He looked so drained, almost like the living dead that crawled back from the cemetery. You felt like that if you blew on him, he could break. The Strongest would damn break.

“Satoru, you’re going to drop dead if you continue doing this. You can’t keep up, please, for the love of God, listen to me,” you add, tugging on his hand to make him look at you, a hint of despair in your voice.

“Y/n, it was all my fault, I-” he shakes his head, biting his lower lip.

“Stop saying that !” you snap.

“You don’t get it ! If I didn’t protect my own peace, If I decided to open up more to you in the past and told you about Suguru, and everything that happened, maybe nothing of this would have happened. This is all because of my own fear of vulnerability, of thinking it was better like that, to keep you safe, and keep myself safe from remembering the past. I don’t know anymore. I messed up badly, and I’m not allowed to mess up. I don’t know. I’m so tired from all this. Fuck, I… I can’t even think straight right now,” he exclaims at first, but ends up laughing nervously. He surely was becoming more and more crazy as the hours passed.

Your heart sinks, and you look at him sadly.

“Shhh… come here, come here,” you whisper, and bring him towards you. You wrap your arms around his body and he immediately hugs you back close, squeezing you strongly as if his life depended on it. He shakes, big hands covering your back and keeping you in the crook of his heart. He kisses your lips softly, like an anchor to reality.

“It’s alright. Maybe, if you start to tell me about it, it’ll help you sleep better at night ?” you propose after some seconds. He looks at you in the eyes, not answering at first, debating inside his head.

“Alright…” he ends up saying. He sighs deeply, and then takes a long breath to gather the strength he needed to talk about this, to open up his heart, to expose his vulnerable past and mistakes.

“Suguru and I, back in the days, we both were The Strongest. Nothing could stop us, really. He was my best friend, my one and only, actually. But everything went downhill when we got assigned the star plasma vessel mission…”

Satoru starts to explain, laying back down on the bed against you. While he talks, you look at him and gently caress his back to sooth him down. As the minutes passed, his eyes started to close against his will, and he found himself fast asleep in your arms.

You kiss one last time his head, bringing him closer to share all your warmth, and love.

For once, you’ll be the one to look over him tonight.

You were his to protect. But he was yours to protect too.

And that, no matter what would happen in the future.

THE END

#gojo x reader #geto x reader #gojo satoru #geto suguru #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x you #x reader #gojo smut #gojo fluff #jjk #gojo angst #geto angst #satosugu #satosugu x reader #jjk angst

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happyyyandcrazyyy · 2 days ago

Text

love and tattoos (kaz brekker x reader)

summary: in which jesper has a theory and kaz might be the matching tattoos kind of guy.

it’s two small words, a raven and a crow, a broken lock and a key, and a band around their ring finger.

“He has to be drunk, or high, or something, because there is absolutely no way he’s just seen a band of ink around Kaz’s ring finger.”

warnings: brief panic attack (not detailed), mentions of wounds and blood (not detailed, canon typical), set in the future, kaz has worked on his touch aversion

kaz taglist: @the-tpd-bau @ellievickstar @thestudiouswanderer | soc taglist: @ancientbeing10 (if you want to be added or removed from the taglist just dm me!)

a/n: here i am, once again, because apparently im incapable of stopping myself from writing for kaz brekker. i have so many wips but kaz always calls to me😭😭 this one was so much fun to write, it just flowed, and i hope you enjoy it just as much as i did!!

i. a band of ink around his ring finger, part one.

Jesper must be hallucinating, he has to be. He blinks once, twice, looks down at the drink in his hand, briefly wonders if it’s been laced with some sort of drug powerful enough to have his brain imagining things— because Jesper does not have the imagination to be making this up, he wishes he did —and then looks back up. The ink remains in place. Nope, no way. He shakes his head, presses his eyes shut. He has to be drunk, or high, or something, because there is absolutely no way he’s just seen a band of ink around Kaz’s ring finger.

It’s not the tattoo itself that shocks Jesper. Although, maybe it does freak him out a bit, a band around the ring finger can only mean one thing, and Jesper has never believed Kaz to be the marrying type. (Then again, he never thought him to be the matching tattoos kind of guy, and the last couple of months have had him discovering that Kaz very much could be.) No, what makes Jesper spiral is that he’s seen that exact same tattoo on (Y/N)’s own ring finger.

ii. you break, i mend.

Jesper has seen the tattoo on the inside of (Y/N)’s left wrist more times than he can count.

The word ‘mend’ in all lowercase, the typography delicate and elegant, the font somewhat rounded. Jesper has never asked what it means— because everyone in the Barrel has been branded, either by choice or against their will, and Jesper knows the black ink carries memories, promises and pain, he knows better than to ask —but he thinks it’s fitting for her, both the word and the style. Because (Y/N) is a gentle force, someone who provides emotional care to those close to her, a fixer. She loves proudly and deeply, and Jesper has never met someone in this wretched place that is so unafraid to be kind. He doesn’t know what she does to remain untainted, to keep her soul so pure in spite of their line of work. He envies it, sometimes. But then he’ll hear muted sobs through the thin walls, wake up at the sound of screams caused by nightmares, and he’ll wonder if feeling and caring that much is even worth it.

Jesper doesn’t think much about (Y/N)’s tattoo— it’s pretty and it suits her, and, yeah, he gets the desperate need to ask for a backstory whenever he catches a glimpse of it, but never does. There’s nothing more to it. That is until he spies a word on Kaz’s own wrist.

He only sees the tattoo because Kaz takes his gloves off. That doesn’t happen very often, if at all. But it’s the hottest day of summer they’ve had in Ketterdam in years, and they’ve been out in the sun all day, so Jesper is only mildly surprised when they reach Kaz’s office and he takes the black gloves off. What does take him completely off guard, however, is the inked word on his right wrist, partially hidden by the sleeves of his shirt.

‘BREAK’. In uppercase, with jagged and fragmented lettering. Jesper only catches a glimpse before Kaz twists away and the ink is completely sheltered by his clothes, but he’s almost sure the tattoo has some sort of optical effect, makes it seem like the words have been shattered, all sharp and angular lines.

Kaz is saying something and Inej is responding, and it’s probably important and he definitely should be paying attention, but Jesper’s mind is elsewhere because (Y/N)’s delicate tattoo suddenly comes to mind. The similarities are just right there and now all Jesper can think about is how odd of a coincidence it is that (Y/N) and Kaz have mirror tattoos. Same place, but opposite wrist. A single word, one neat and elegant, the other harsh and precise. Jesper does not believe in coincidences, but it can’t be anything else— because believing it to be something else would mean believing Kaz to be a matching tattoos type of person and Jesper would bet his guns against that —so he simply ponders over the possible coincidence, just for a quick second, before Kaz is directing questions towards him and Jesper is forced to shove the information in the back of his mind.

He ends up forgetting about it. Not forgetting forgetting, more so in the way he forgets his debts until there are collectors knocking on his door. The information is there, stored in some corner of his brain, ready to be brought back into his consciousness with just the right push.

The right push comes a Saturday night, two months after he first notices Kaz’s tattoo.

(Y/N) is out on a job. Jesper doesn’t know any of the details— not the target, nor the entry and exit routes, nothing at all —but he knows something is wrong because Kaz has been pacing for the last half hour.

��She should be back by now,” is all Kaz says when he asks. He doesn’t really need to say more. Jesper feels the way his chest constricts, panic slowly building. (Y/N) is never late.

Just as Jesper feels like he’s about to start pacing himself, the door of the Slat opens. She’s got her hood on, doesn’t look up from the floor when she walks in. There’s a certain drag in her limbs, something that tells Jesper that something is wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Where the fuck were you?” The words aren’t directed towards him, but Jesper cannot help but flinch. Kaz doesn’t get like this often, cold and harsh because he’s worried, so the job must’ve been important, high stakes, the type where survival isn’t assured.

(Y/N) looks up, and it’s only then that Jesper notices the blood. It’s everywhere. It drips down the slope of her nose, it trails down her lips. She walks closer and with the change of light he notices that it’s also embedded in her clothes. The most disturbing thing, however, are her eyes. Glassy, distant, unseeing. She’s shaking. Full body tremors.

By his side, Kaz deflates completely at the sight of her. He’s already moving towards her when she whispers brokenly, “I’m sorry.”

The apology goes ignored, “Where are you hurt?” Kaz asks. He reins his panic well enough, but Jesper can still taste the traces of it, they float around in the air.

(Y/N) doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge Kaz as he comes to stand right in front of her, trying his best to assess for injuries. It’s hard when all there is to see is blood.

“I’m not hurt,” she responds, and it’s like she’s in a trance, capable of responding but not truly present. Jesper furrows his brows, catches the concerned look on Kaz face. Does she not realize she’s covered in blood? She raises her hand to gesture at herself, and it’s only when she does so that Jesper notices the blade. She waves it around. It’s stained red, all the way to the handle. “Blood’s not mine.”

Jesper freezes. Kaz stops dead on his tracks, too.

Kaz looks back at him and understanding passes through them. She snapped. Something made her snap.

It seems like she’s just processing it, too, because a second after she mutters those words the knife falls from her hand and her knees wobble. It’s like Kaz had been expecting the sudden crash, because he’s quick to help her down. He grabs her by the sleeves of her tunic and sits her on the floor, back against the wall.

Her breathing begins to come out hard and labored, she clutches at her chest, hard.

“Look at me,” Kaz instructs, but she’s not here anymore. Jesper cannot help the way fear courses through him at the sight of her faraway eyes and the sound of her disordered breaths. He’s only ever seen (Y/N) like this once before, and even then, it hadn’t been this bad, she’d been responsive to Kaz, and very much able to breathe properly. Right now, not even Kaz’s words are cutting through the haze.

The wheezing becomes louder, more intense. The more she panics, the less she breathes, the more Jesper feels like he, himself, isn’t capable of getting air into his lungs. Kaz keeps talking, but she doesn’t seem to hear him.

“I can’t—” Her lips are slowly losing color.

Jesper is still frozen in place, and he can tell that Kaz is also beginning to panic by the way he grabs her clothed hand and presses it against his own chest.

“Breathe,” he orders. Insistent, firm. Kaz’s words leave no room for argument and (Y/N) reacts accordingly. Like it’s instinct to do as Kaz says, she takes in a deep breath, ragged.

“Good girl.” Kaz’s hand, the one that isn’t on top of (Y/N)’s own, pressed against his chest, hovers over her cheek. He ends up grabbing the end of the hood that still partially covers her face. “One more time.”

She repeats the action, another deep breath, interrupted by a brief coughing fit.

“You’re okay, match my breaths.” She nods weakly and does as best she can, eyes shut. The hand that is on Kaz’s chest has become a fist, rumpling his shirt. She holds onto him like a lifeline.

“I’ll get her water,” he finds himself saying.

Kaz doesn’t turn to look at him, “Bring a wet cloth, too.”

Jesper nods and slips out of the room and into the kitchen. He feels like he’s having an out of body experience, his body working automatically on pouring tap water in a glass, on finding a clean cloth. His mind is miles away.

Saints.

It’s disconcerting to see someone as serene and put together as (Y/N) so rattled and distraught. He feels disoriented, like the world has shifted off his feet. He’s never seen her snap so badly that she ends up spiraling into a panic attack. Jesper doesn’t know much about her past, but Kaz had once mentioned something about a complicated upbringing, about being raised as a weapon not a child. He doesn’t want to begin to imagine what he’d meant.

The soft murmur of words brings him back to reality, grounds him and guides him once again into his body.

“Are you with me?”

No response, but Jesper imagines that she must’ve nodded because he hears the soft sigh of relief that Kaz lets out.

It’s quiet for a little while, Jesper focuses on the sound of water flowing through the cloth in his hands, the feeling of it getting damper.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out soft, filled with emotion and embarrassment.

“None of that.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“I know. It’s okay.”

The silence lingers before being filled by quiet noises. Jesper has heard her sobs through his wall enough times to identify them. His heart tightens painfully.

“It’s okay,” Kaz repeats, softer this time. It’s a tone Jesper has never heard him use with anyone else.

“There were children, Kaz,” Jesper has to strain to make out the words, they’re muffled by something, “little kids. And it just reminded me of… I couldn’t...”

“I know.”

A sniffle, “I’m sorry,” followed by a broken laugh, soft and sad. “I’m a mess.”

Jesper turns off the faucet, twists the cloths to remove any excess of water. He grabs the glass of water with one hand and the cloth with the other and then, just, waits. He knows this conversation is not one he should be present for, he doesn’t want to be present.

It’s a good thing, too, that he doesn’t make his way towards them, because he’s pretty sure he would’ve stumbled and dropped everything at the next words that fall out of Kaz’s mouth.

“If you break, I mend, remember?”

(mend

BREAK)

Jesper places the glass of water on the kitchen counter and blinks once, twice.

Saints be damned.

Kaz might be the matching tattoos type of person.

iii. a raven and a crow

The matching tattoo theory, as Jesper likes to refer to it, remains just that, a theory. Because Jesper has no real way of proving it, not unless he finds the will to ask (Y/N)— which he just can’t do, she’s so open about everything that prodding just feels unfair —or unless he brings his curiosity to Kaz— which might just end up with him losing a finger, and Jesper likes his limbs just as they are, thank you very much. So, for now, it’s merely speculation, something that could be played off as a coincidence. And he thinks it must be a coincidence, right? Matching tattoos are too sentimental for someone like Kaz. (Then again, he has always been different when it comes to (Y/N), so maybe Jesper shouldn’t be that surprised.) And they aren’t matching tattoos, not really, they are more like, well, mirror ones. It’s different. Probably nothing. He might be connecting dots where there’s absolutely nothing to connect.

He can’t help the way he begins to observe more, trying to find anything to sustain or disprove his theory. It’s only natural, he tells himself, Jesper is nothing if not a curious man.

It’s only because he becomes so attuned to them, and whatever that thing is that they have going on, that Jesper notices little things.

“Inej?”

“Good.”

Kaz keeps on making roll call, making sure all of them are there and unharmed.

“Jes?”

“Very much alive,” he grunts in response, letting himself flop into the haystack. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, but at least it’s still beating. He cannot believe a blizzard of all things is what saved their lives.

He looks to his left. Even Inej looks slightly winded. She pats the pocket of her coat, sags in relief immediately after. Jesper does the same, touches his inner pocket, feels the edges of the glass key, and sighs.

The goods are safe.

“Nina?”

“Here.” Her cheeks are rosy. Jesper isn’t sure if it’s because of the dreadful cold or the exertion.

There’s silence after, the room filled by only harsh breaths. Jesper snaps up, looking around frantically, because Kaz is not calling (Y/N)’s name and that can only mean that she’s not there or she’s…

His mind quiets down when he takes in the sight in front of him.

Kaz is not calling (Y/N)’s name because he already has eyes on her. Probably always did.

And that’s when Jesper sees it, a little thing, something that tilts the scales in favor of his theory; the softness in (Y/N)’s face as she listens to Kaz.

(Y/N) is always kind— with battered gang members and hungry street urchins, with the loud customers and even with those who dare gamble against her —but Jesper is just now realizing that there’s a different gentleness when it comes to the way she takes Kaz in. The look in her eyes becomes quieter, more intimate, delicate. She says something, much too quiet for Jesper to hear, and smiles. Kaz shakes his head fondly, responds with a hushed whisper. It’s tender, precious, private. It makes Jesper feel like he’s intruding.

And then something Jesper has never seen before happens. Kaz takes (Y/N)’s chin with his gloved hand, thumb and index fingers holding her. He moves her face around, looking for any visible injury.

There goes another detail in favor of the matching tattoo theory.

Jesper thinks he might’ve just entered some sort of altered reality because what is he even looking at right now. He looks around but Inej and Nina aren’t paying them any mind, too engrossed in their own conversation.

Great, he’s all alone in trying to figure this thing out.

“I’m okay,” he hears (Y/N) reassure.

For the most part, Jesper thinks to himself, because he doesn’t miss the way she’s pressing her hand to her abdomen. Apparently, it hasn’t slipped past Kaz either, because he hums and raises his eyebrows, eyes pointedly trailing down to the wound.

She rolls her eyes at him, even that action looks fond, “It’s not deep.”

Kaz is more tactile with her, Jesper realizes with a start. It’s not a word he would ever use to describe Dirtyhands, but it’s the only one that comes to mind. (And Kaz has gotten better over the years, he has. It’s been gradual, and Jesper has no clue as to how or what he’s done, but he hasn’t missed the way Kaz doesn’t cringe away from the Crows anymore, how he doesn’t pale when someone brushes against him. He doesn’t seek touch, but he doesn’t lose all semblance of control at it either. Still, tactile is farther from what Kaz is, and this? This is huge. This is the greatest display of touch Jesper has ever seen him do.)

“You’ve got it?”

“Yeah, I’ll stitch it.”

His gloved thumb brushes her skin, briefly, before he taps the bottom of her chin gently, in approval, and lets her go.

“I can help you with that,” Nina pipes up.

Jesper turns around, immediately catches the look in the Heartrender’s eyes. Seems like he might not be the only one noticing things.

(Y/N) nods in agreement and Nina follows after her. Jesper decides, after taking only two seconds to ponder on the thought, to trail behind them. He wants to listen in— because he knows Nina won’t be able to keep herself from commenting or questioning and he’s aching to know —but he’s also hoping the Heartrender will take pity on him and heal some of his bruises.

“What do you want?” Nina asks him as they settle on a small corner of the stable. (Y/N) leans against a wooden post as she begins to undress, untucking her shirt.

Jesper simply points at the bruise he can already feel forming on his cheekbone, offering a cheeky smile.

“I’m not a nurse, Fahey.”

“You’re gonna stitch her up!” (Y/N) is watching with amusement and when Jesper points at her she raises one hand in surrender, the other still pressed against her wound.

“Yeah, well,” Nina shrugs, needle and thread in hand, “She’s my favorite.”

(Y/N) chuckles. There’s a broken-down iron chest and she sits on it as well as she can, leaning back so that Nina can work. She winks at him, “Privileges, Jes.”

He pouts.

“Saints,” Nina mutters when she catches a look of him. She’s decided that kneeling by (Y/N) side will be the most comfortable position for her to work. She cleans the wound, pours water over it, and doesn’t turn to him as she says, “If you stop doing that face I’ll see what I can do about the bruise.”

He smirks to himself, “You’ve got it, boss.”

Jesper can’t see it, but he’s sure she rolls her eyes at him.

“Try not to move,” she instructs (Y/N), voice gaining a softer, less teasing edge. The needle pricks the skin.

It’s not a deep wound, (Y/N) had been right about that. It bleeds, but the flow seems to be slowing down. It’s a little bit over her hipbone, but not quite on her abdomen. Judging by the injury, if Jesper had to guess, he would say it was probably caused by a straight back blade.

He had sort of expected Nina to immediately fire away, to start unabashedly questioning, but she doesn’t. She moves her hands in a repetitive motion, closing the skin. Then, she casually comments, “That’s not a crow.”

It’s only then that Jesper notices the ink; just over (Y/N)'s hipbone, only visible because she’d pulled her trousers a bit down to give Nina more skin to maneuver around.

“No, it isn’t,” (Y/N) confirms. She’s got her eyes closed, looks a lot more like she’s sleeping and not like she’s having her skin stitched back together. Either Nina has an amazing ability or she’s somehow managing to dissociate from the pain.

“A raven?”

“Yeah.”

Jesper leans away from the wall to get a better look at it. It’s small, simple, just the silhouette done in thin black lines. He has no idea how Nina managed to identify the bird.

Nina stays quiet for a split second, musing. She keeps her hands steady, thread pulling skin. Apparently, she decides she does not care about decorum— just like Jesper had expected —because she ends up stating, matter-of-factly, “Kaz calls you that.”

Jesper sort of forgets how to breathe. That’s why Nina hadn’t gone on a tangent regarding the touches and the glances, he realizes in that moment. She’d been distracted by something much more interesting.

And she hadn’t identified the bird, she’d just made an informed assumption. Because Kaz does call her that, raven, and sometimes, when he's feeling particularly fond, little raven. He uses it interchangeably with her name and often enough that when Jesper had initially joined the Dregs, all those years back, he’d assumed it to be her name. He’s not quite sure how Nina, who’s been with them for a shorter period of time, managed to make that connection quicker than him.

(Y/N) lets out a breathy laugh, “That he does.”

Instead of further grilling (Y/N) about the tattoo, as Jesper had expected, Nina changes the line of inquiry.

“Why?” She stops sewing and looks up at (Y/N), eyes filled with curiosity.

Oh, she’s insane, Jesper thinks to himself. He sort of wishes he’d have the audacity to ask such direct questions.

(Y/N) doesn’t seem bothered by the prodding, only mildly amused. She chuckles, “You would have to ask him that.”

Not even Nina is insane enough to dare do that. Probably. Nina is sort of a wild card, Jesper can never get a complete read on her.

She proves her sanity by taking the easier route, she whines and pouts, “C’mon. Tell us.”

(Y/N) laughs, louder this time. The reaction is immediate, the wound oozes more blood, and she flinches, moving her hand towards the injury and managing to stop herself millimeters before touching it. It makes Nina get back to stitching.

“You’re bold,” (Y/N) opens her eyes and looks straight at Jesper. There’s something in her eyes, a glimmer that passes quickly, like she knows something that Jesper doesn’t and it amuses her. “Jes would never dare ask.”

“Hey!” He pretends to be offended but isn’t really. She knows him too well.

“You know it’s true.”

He only grumbles in response, hates that she’s right.

Nina is suddenly tense, as if she isn’t quite sure if (Y/N)’s words are meant as a compliment or a reprimand. (Y/N) closes her eyes again, rests her head against the wall and reassures her, “I like that. Your boldness.”

And Nina preens, subtly, but she does. Jesper understands. (Y/N)’s approval somehow comes to mean everything to those around her. She’s like an older sister you’re always trying to impress.

Jesper thinks she won’t be saying anything more, but (Y/N) does.

“Ravens are softer than crows, more playful,” she mumbles quietly. Jesper, who isn’t even far from her, strains to hear, “Gentler, too.” And it’s like she knows exactly where the ink lays on her skin, like she has it memorized, because she manages to avoid Nina and the needle and trace the outline of the tattoo, eyes still closed, “And yet they manage to survive in the same brutal world that crows do.”

The words sink in. Jesper blinks once, twice, shifts on his feet, somewhat uncomfortable. It feels like he’s just gained insight on something much too private, into the feelings and thoughts of Kaz Brekker. Because what she just explained, vaguely and in simple words, has a much deeper meaning, and Jesper doesn’t miss that. It’s how Kaz sees her, an equal. Someone as strong as a crow, as fierce and resourceful and capable, but softer, gentler. That’s (Y/N) to him.

“That’s it?” Nina sounds perpetually unimpressed, but she doesn’t get it. She hasn’t been with the Crows long enough to understand.

(Y/N) smirks, like she knew the words wouldn’t mean much to her, and that tells Jesper something. There’s even more to the meaning of the nickname and she won’t be sharing.

“If you want more you can just ask Kaz.”

Nina huffs and pouts, pulls at the thread a bit harsher than necessary in retaliation. It probably doesn’t even sting, but (Y/N) plays along.

“Ow!?” The smirk remains on her face.

“Sorry,” Nina says, not sounding the least apologetic.

(Y/N) only chuckles, “I really do like your boldness.”

It isn’t until later that night, as Jesper sleeps in the haystack and shivers from the cold, hoping to the Saints that the smell of horse can be removed from his clothes, that realization strikes him. His eyes snap wide open.

The image of a letter R inked in Kaz’s forearm flashes through his mind.

A Raven.

No fucking way.

He has no evidence of it, no evidence that those tattoos might be complementary, but something in his gut tells him they are, and he decides to listen to his instincts.

Great, that’s yet another circumstantial piece of evidence in favor of his theory.

(Jesper doesn’t know, will never know, but he gets it both wrong and right. The letter R that is permanently etched on Kaz’s skin means something else entirely, but he does have the small silhouette of a crow, different from the one on his arm, over his ribs.)

iv. a broken lock and a key

Jesper and (Y/N) stay behind. It’s Jesper’s fault, he’d landed wrong when they jumped off the cliff, too busy on firing his guns to focus on the landing, and the resulting sprained ankle made it hard to keep up with the rest. (Maybe it was sort of Kaz’s fault, too, because who even decides on an exit route that includes free falling off a cliff. Jesper should be used to Kaz’s antics by now, but the man keeps on outdoing himself.)

(Y/N) had quickly offered to match his pace, to keep him company while the rest went ahead.

After a quick discussion Kaz had agreed to it. Jesper hadn’t missed the way they’d said goodbye. Their pinky fingers interlacing with one another.

He might not be completely sure about his matching tattoo theory— denial, really, he’s in denial, and he’s man enough to admit that to himself —but he has absolutely no doubt there is something going on between them. Jesper hasn’t put a name on it yet, he’s not even sure they have, but one would have to be blind to deny it.

Wylan had volunteered too, but Kaz needed him for the next phase of the plan, so he wasn’t really an option. A shame, really, Jesper would’ve enjoyed some alone time with his boyfriend, but he can’t complain, (Y/N) is good company. She doesn’t whine about how slow they’re going, doesn’t mention the fact that, by now, they’re probably two days behind. She keeps the air between them filled with light chatter and that makes it more bearable, makes him feel less of a burden.

On the third day of their journey Jesper wakes up alone. He’s not immediately filled by dread because he’s a light sleeper, he’s sure he would’ve woken up at the sound of any commotion, and he’s even more certain that (Y/N) would’ve had any attacker down on the floor with a gun to their temple before they even had the chance to breathe too close to them.

So, he’s not worried, but there’s something about not having (Y/N) within his line of sight that feels wrong, partly because he’s got no idea where she is, and mainly because Kaz had given him a cautionary glare when they’d ventured ahead, an easily interpreted warning to keep her safe or else.

It’s only when he begins to look around that Jesper notices her knapsack is also missing. He closes his eyes and focuses. Somewhere in the distance he can hear running water. He follows the sound before he can think too much, limping along the way.

Jesper finds her easily. He sort of wishes he hadn’t found her. Because she is showering in the lake and she is completely naked.

“Saints!” It’s a knee-jerk reaction to turn around, eyes screwed shut. “I am so sorry.”

(Y/N) snickers, unbothered, “Relax, Jes. It’s okay.”

And she’s saying that, but Jesper is pretty sure Kaz would gauge his eyes off is he found out he’s just seen her completely nude.

He shakes his head, over and over. Ah, Kaz is going to kill him. He is a dead man walking.

She must be watching him because she lets out a laugh.

“Oh, please.” There’s amusement in her tone, “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” she teases, and Jesper regrets every single thing he’s ever told her about his sexual encounters.

He huffs out a laugh. It’s got nothing to do with that, Jesper isn’t a prude, he’s just trying to process the fact that if Kaz ever finds out he will more than likely lose a finger, or his life. But he can’t say that, that’s a conversation he’s not ready to have, so he settles for, “You’re like my sister, it’s not the same.”

“Fair enough,” she responds. Jesper catches the affection in her voice. He doesn’t think he’s ever told her how she sees her as family and she must’ve known, their bond runs deep, it goes unspoken, but maybe it’s different to hear it out loud.

“It’s my fault anyways, I shouldn’t have left without telling you where I was going,” she disrupts his thoughts. “But you were finally sleeping.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. Obviously it wouldn’t slip past her that in between the pain on his ankle and the cold of the night he’s been having a hard time falling asleep.

“You shouldn’t be standing for long,” she points out, and Jesper agrees. His leg is beginning to ache and if they’re going to travel long today, he must rest as much as he can. But the idea of walking back to camp and leaving her alone doesn’t sit right with him— even if he knows she’s capable of defending herself, she would probably do a better job than him, given his state —so he limps towards a big rock, back still towards her, and sits.

“You’re gonna keep me company?”

Jesper hums in response, “Talk so I know you haven’t suddenly been kidnapped.”

She doesn’t talk, instead she sings. It’s an old Kerch song, Jesper knows because of the mournful feel. It builds up slow and steady, flows with the morning air. She's got a nice voice. Jesper never gets tired of hearing her.

It’s as he listens, slowly being lulled into a peaceful mindset, that the memory of the ink flows through his mind. It’d been the thing his eyes had zeroed in, the black mark on the back of her neck.

Maybe it’s the soothing music, or maybe he’s slowly becoming more daring, but the words slip out of his mouth without thought, “Is it a key?”

(Y/N) stops midway through the bridge of the song.

“What?” she asks, confusion permeating the lone word.

“On the back of your neck,” Jesper clarifies, gesturing to his own neck.

There’s silence, long enough for Jesper to start thinking that maybe this wasn’t the best idea, before the air is filled with laughter. She chuckles as if he's just said the funniest thing.

She’s still giggling when she says, “I can’t believe you caught sight of it.”

He’s confused by her reaction and settles for responding with a teasing, “I’ve got a great vision.”

“That you do,” she replies. "It is a key," she confirms and then the singing starts again, more of a humming this time around, a much brighter song.

And Jesper must be really really losing the filter between his mouth and his brain— he blames the pain and the lack of sleep —because he finds himself asking, “Does Kaz have a lock, by any chance?”

He’s teasing, but not really. It’s a good enough question, not truly invasive. It gives her room to answer as she wishes.

To his surprise, she says, “Yes, he does.”

His head snaps towards her, momentarily forgetting that she’s naked and that Kaz will definitely kill him for seeing her naked twice. To his luck, (Y/N) is already getting dressed, water dripping down her hair and staining her shirt.

“What?”

There’s a sharp glint in her eyes, knowing, almost playful. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, just enough hint of mischief to make Jesper doubt the truthfulness of her words.

“Yeah,” she repeats in mock seriousness, “he’s got a small lock around here,” she points the area around her collarbone, close to where her heart is. “It’s very pretty.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

(Y/N) snickers, “Maybe I am.” She ruffles his hair as she walks past him.

Weeks later Jesper realizes that she had been fucking with him, but not lying. Kaz’s shirt rips during a heist and Jesper catches the briefest glimpse of the image of a broken lock, inked right above his heart.

v. a band of ink around his ring finger, part two.

As if summoned by his thoughts, (Y/N) materializes by his side. She takes a look at his face, follows his line of sight, and snickers.

“Did you finally figure it out?”

He turns to her. Blinks once, twice.

“What?”

She looks highly entertained by the evident confusion on his face.

“I caught you staring at my tattoo sometimes,” Jesper follows the movement of her fingers, watches as she rubs the mend on her wrist absentmindedly. “And then you would get this constipated look on your face.”

Jesper sputters, “I do not look constipated.”

“Only when you’re thinking too hard,” she teases, her smile bright. “So, I figured, well…”

“That I might be losing my mind trying to figure out if Kaz is the matching tattoo kind of person?”

“Yep, something like that,” she takes a sip of her drink. “He is, by the way.” (Y/N)’s not looking at him anymore, her eyes have drifted. He follows her sight and isn’t surprised to find her looking at Kaz. She softens immediately. “All the tattoos were his idea.”

Jesper feels like he’s really entered some other reality. He can’t believe she’s just telling him all this. Does this mean that he could’ve known months ago if he’d just asked?

“And,” he dares ask, because apparently (Y/N) is in a sharing mood, and apparently he's grown bolder. It must be the alcohol. “You’re married?”

He doesn’t miss the way she rubs her thumb against her ring finger, the one that contains the exact same band of ink as Kaz’s.

“Yeah.”

“Actually?”

She pulls her necklace. A wedding band lies there. It’s anything but traditional. Black, probably forged from oxidized steel. Sleek, unadorned and somehow still elegant. There’s something engraved on the inside. Jesper just catches the letter R.

“Got the documents to prove it, too.”

Jesper sighs, astounded, “You never said a thing.”

“We didn’t really keep it a secret, just private.” It sounds like an apology somehow. “It's just, in a place like this," she gestures around, "some things you have to keep to yourself."

Jesper understands.

He shakes his head, still somehow feeling like he’s drugged.

Kaz Brekker, a matching tattoo and marriage type of person. Who would’ve guessed.

“Lovers, huh?”

(Y/N) smiles, before she slips away and makes her way towards Kaz, Jesper hears her whisper.

“‘Lovers’ feels too small a word for what we are.”

174 notes · View notes

hischierhoney · 1 day ago

Text

I Know Places

Jack Hughes x actress!reader // masterlist

title & inspo from I Know Places by Taylor Swift. written for the Eras Tour fic challenge! thank you to @comphy-and-cozy and @wyattjohnston for putting this on!

Summary: When the press catches Jack leaving your apartment, things seem set to crumble. But Jack has different ideas. 4.2k words

Warnings: mentions of press/pressure from the media, some mild angst but it’s fixed by the end!!

It’s past 2am when you stumble your way into your New York City townhouse, eyes bleary and tired, limbs even more so. The lights are off, besides the one in the hallway, and you don’t bother to turn any of them on. You just shuck off your jacket and shoes, shuffle your way down the hallway, up the stairs and straight into your bedroom. There’s one thought in your brain, and it’s bed. Warm, cozy, soft, full of blankets and pillows and a man-

You nearly scream at the sight, the gentle slope of shoulders under your fluffy comforter. You press your hand to your racing heart as it all comes flooding back. You, on a layover between Los Angeles and New York, stuck in an airport for longer than planned, on the phone with your boyfriend Jack Hughes.

Jack, who’d promised to pick you up from the airport until your flight got delayed. Jack, who has morning skate at 7am and needs his sleep. Jack, who, in a moment of sleep deprived, airport lounge tequila induced delirium, you had told about the key you keep in a potted plant, and suggested that he let himself in. Suggested he crawl into your bed and fall asleep. Just in the interest of sleeping next to him, of maybe having a couple moments with him in the morning.

You don’t get much time with him. Not nearly as much as you’d both like, at least. The two of you are too busy, too full of your own obligations, with his job and your job. Star hockey player and America’s sweetheart actress- it’s like a pairing from one of those Hallmark movies, the ones with perfect houses draped in fake snow that look like they’d smell like warm cookies. Except this is real. And he’s here.

He looks peaceful, you think, as you pad across the room to be closer. His cheek is smooshed against the pillow, on his stomach on the bed, laying in a spread eagle position that’s going to leave it difficult for you to find any space. His lips are parted slightly, soft breaths puffing out between them. Jack sleeps like the dead, you’ve found, from the now many times you’ve slept in the same bed. He says he’s trained himself into it, with hockey and all. You’ve witnessed his pregame naps, watched him fall asleep in seconds flat. It’s impressive.

You make your way to the bathroom, doing what little you can muster of your nightly routine. When your eyes start to close on their own accord, you shuffle your way back to the bed, in your pajamas now, and study the scene. How best to handle the boy in your bed, how to fit yourself against his body so that you can finally fall asleep like you’ve been aching to do.

Before you get the chance, there’s the shrill sound of a phone alarm, and Jack sits bolt straight up in bed. You stumble over your own feet, hand over your heart again, breath stolen from your lungs. Jack scrambles for his phone. It’s 2:30 am.

He’s rubbing at his eyes when he scans the room and finds you. Then he mirrors your position, eyes wide, hand over his heart.

“Why th’ fuck are you already here?” He mumbles out.

You choke on a laugh. It’s a hell of a greeting. “What?”

He groans. “Set an alarm. T‘go pick you up.”

You blink at him, half his face illuminated in the pale moonlight that spills in through your window. There’s a soft breeze that ruffles his hair and makes him shiver- he’s left the window open slightly, the way you like to sleep. Goosebumps raise on his bare skin. You tear your eyes away.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, bewildered. “I told you to just go to sleep.”

“Yeah, but. I set an alarm,” he repeats. He digs the heel of his palm into his cheek, his lips pulled into a pout. “For 12:30. So I could pick you up.”

You cock your head. “Well, it’s 2:30, so I think you set the wrong alarm.”

He groans loudly, brows furrowed, and then lets out some string of gibberish. He checks his phone again, then sets it down on the nightstand. You watch with curiosity as he flops back down onto the bed, on his back this time, blankets pooling around his waist. He’s bare from the waist up. Not for the first time, you have the urge to press yourself against every inch of his skin.

He seems so untouchable, here. Like in this room, he’s only yours. It’s a heady feeling, to watch him sigh and pout about missing his chance to pick you up from the airport. It’s private, normal, domestic. So few things in your life fit any of those descriptors. It tugs at your heartstrings.

“C’mere,” he calls out, spreading his arms across the mattress again. “Come cuddle.”

You don’t argue. Sleep tugs at your bones the second your head hits the pillow. He tugs at you until you’re plastered against him, the heat of his sleep warm body spreading over you. When he ducks his head to kiss the crown of yours, you sigh happily.

“How was th’ flight?” He asks, his voice still laden with sleep.

“Fine,” you mumble. You’re not really in the mood to talk about it. “Missed you.”

He laughs lightly, his chest rumbling with it under your head. “Missed you more.”

You feel his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up towards his. You blink through your exhaustion to meet his gaze, and you sigh happily when he kisses you, for real this time. His lips are warm and soft, his little bit of stubble scraping against your skin in an almost hypnotic fashion. This is why you told him about the key. You wanted to come home to him.

The rest of the world melts away, and you’re left with just Jack.

….

You wake up at 11:30 the next morning to an empty, cold bed, a hoodie folded neatly on the end of the bed with the number 86 on the shoulder, and a barrage of notifications on your phone. They’re still rolling in, chiming every so often. Your heart lurches.

There are a billion from your manager- something about being careful and bad look and you didn’t even get in until 2:30 so why was he there- and your stomach sinks even further. When you open twitter, there it is. A grainy, blurry set of photos, of Jack’s shoulder and back as he leaves the townhouse, his overnight bag slung over his shoulder, his white sneakers bright in the blue early morning light. You can’t see his face in any of them, the hood of his jacket pulled up around his head, which is topped with a beanie and sunglasses. He’s almost unidentifiable, but you know the internet. They’ll figure it out.

It’d be easier if you’d never been seen with him in public before, but you have. Months ago, now, at a charity event hosted by a mutual friend. There’s been a photo of you and Jack from that night, chatting away near the bar in the venue, smiles on both your faces. There’d been a barrage of posts and notifications, then, too- eager Devils fans who were excited to see you talking to him, eager fans of your own who had similar feelings, the other way around. And a text from your manager, reminding you of your upcoming movie, of your male costar who you were supposed to maybe-potentially-possibly be in love with. For the press. For the ratings. But Jack had captured your heart that night, with a teasing joke about Hollywood and a soft little grin on his face, and you’d been unable to forget him.

Now you’re here, in your empty bed while Jack is at practice or meetings, or something in between. It’s not the first time. But it feels like it could be the last.

Jack’s a private person. You are, too, when you can be. When you’d first gone out with him after that first night, he’d seemed wary of all the precautions you took to hide from the press. You’d smiled ruefully and told him that if this was going to happen, he’d have to get used to sunglasses indoors and private rooms and stay at home dates. You’d expected it to scare him off. It usually did- you can’t blame any of them, really.

But it’s been months now, and Jack woke up in your bed this morning. So the scaring didn’t really work as planned.

Text me when you wake up.

That’s the text from Jack. No emojis, a period at the end, no life to it. You fight the urge to roll over, press your face into the pillow, and go back to sleep. Try again later. Hope this is a nightmare.

You text him back, something equally as lifeless. He’s probably busy, he probably won’t have time anytime soon, so you’ll have to wait until then to figure this out-

The phone rings. It’s an echo of Jack’s shrill alarm hours ago, except he’s not here to rub at his eyes sleepily and smile at you and make you feel better. Now it’s his contact, the simple “Jack” flashing across your screen. You sigh and swipe to answer.

“Hi,” you say. Your voice cracks on the single syllable, gravelly from stale plane air and travel and disuse.

“Hi,” Jack echoes. His tone is warm. Soft.

You swallow. “I’m-“

“-sorry,” Jack says, talking at the same time as you, saying the exact same words. You blink up at the ceiling above your head.

“What?” You ask, a bit bewildered.

“What?” He repeats. “Why are you sorry?”

You blink again. “Why are you sorry?”

He lets out a huff, one you can almost picture. “I fucked up.”

And this is how it goes. You’d thought of all people, Jack would have the decency to do this in person. To wait until you’re not seconds past waking up. That maybe he’d give you a bit to process before he called it quits, before he says what everyone else has said before him.

It’s too much.

You’d warned him, back when you’d seen him for the 7th time. You’d been laying in his bed, half on top of him, drawing patterns on his bare chest with your pointer finger. He’s asked about labels and how serious this was and if you were seeing anyone else, and told you he wasn’t. All very brave of him, really. You’d been afraid to say anything for weeks.

“Not seeing anyone else,” you’d admitted. “Where would I find the time?”

He’d huffed out a laugh and tucked you close. “Can we maybe keep it that way?”

It should’ve been a red flag. Not on his part, but on yours. You know how this ends, you’ve been down this road before, and you’d known, even then, that this wouldn’t end any differently. Things go smooth until the media catches wind, and then they figure out who he is, and then everyone picks apart every little bit of him until there’s nothing left for you to hold onto. You can’t blame them, all the people you’ve lost to this curse.

You hate the media enough yourself. You can’t imagine subjecting anyone you care about to it.

You’d tried to warn him. About the secrecy that would be required, about how if anyone ever caught wind of it, he’d be subject to the worst scrutiny of his life. He’d tried to insist he understood, that nothing could be worse than his rookie year, that this mattered enough to him to put up with the pressure. But now the pressure is drilling down on the two of you, and he’s crumbling, just like they always do-

“I knew better than to leave out that door,” he says. “There’s always a pap there, you’ve told me about it before,” he says. “I was just. I was in a rush, because I was so comfy this morning, and I forgot, so. I’m sorry.”

You frown. “It’s okay, Jack.”

You’re the one who told him about the key. Who let him stay over, fueled by sleep deprivation and the urge to see him, even just for a little bit. You’ve gone and contributed to your own demise. God, you were going to let him pick you up from the airport. What kind of idiot are you?

“Are you okay?” You ask him.

He scoffs. “They don’t even know it’s me.”

Your gut twists, again. “They will.”

“Mm, maybe my powers of camouflage have worked,” he says. “Maybe I’ve stumped them.”

You don’t bother pointing out that if the press haven’t already figured it out, his fans will. Someone’s bound to point out the grainy Devils logo on his hoodie, the characteristic swoop of his hair. Someone’s bound to have followed him to his car, and they’ve probably already looked up his license plate. They’re probably running it through whatever system they use, and even if Jack is leasing the car he’ll still show as connected to it, and then they’ll dig their claws into him.

“They’re never stumped,” you tell him. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fuck.”

“I know,” he says, voice softer this time. “So. What do we do?”

You pry your eyes open. What do we do? We.

“We?” You choke out.

Jack scoffs. “Yeah, we. I mean. Do we come out and tell everyone, just to take it away from them? Do we lie?”

We. It’s never been a we, before. Not like this. It’s always been flight, never fight. Like everyone before Jack hadn’t thought it was worth it to even try. Had thought you weren’t worth it.

“Jack, you don’t understand,” you tell him. “They’re gonna tear you apart. They’re gonna tear us apart.” Until there’s no us left, you think. “We- we don’t do anything. There’s nothing to do.”

“Not to stop them, no,” he agrees. “But you’ve had this before. How did you and those people handle it? I mean- I can avoid interviews for a while. Nico will take them, he’ll understand. And the All Star break starts soon, so then-“

“They didn’t,” you cut in.

He pauses. “Who didn’t what?”

You sigh, again. “They didn’t handle it, Jack. They broke up with me and left me to handle it and kept going on with their lives. So. Nobody will blame you if you do the same, let alone me. I get it.”

Jack stays quiet for a few moments. The silence hangs between the two of you, heavy and thick. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to say it. Because you always let them do it. No matter how much you’re to blame here, you can’t be the one to end it over this. Not when things were going so well with him.

“I’m coming over,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Just- stay put. Stay there. I’m on my way,” he says. You hear the jingle of his keys.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You tell him.

“Me neither,” he says.

You don’t bother to warn him that there’ll be added media attention, that the place is probably swarming with people with cameras. You don’t think it’ll change his mind- Jack is stubborn when he’s set on something. And it’s a little late, anyways.

He shows up an hour later, probably having had to fight through insane traffic to get there. You’re back in bed, having only gotten up to brush your teeth before retreating to the safety of it. He lets himself in with the key, and you hear him come up the stairs and shuffle over to your bedroom door.

He stands there, haloed by the hallway light. You roll over to look at him, barely able to keep the tears from forming in your eyes. Maybe he’s just waited to do it in person. Maybe he’s trying to let you down easy. It’s never easy. To lose a relationship like this, before you’re ready.

Things were going so well. You think of nights spent in your kitchen, making dinner together, sharing a bottle of wine. You think of all the hockey games you watched from hotel rooms while you’ve been doing press, and the way Jack answered all your questions on the phone afterwards, never letting on how exhausted he really was. You think of breakfast delivered to your door while he was at away games, and the way he spoke so fondly about his family and friends, how they’d all love you and you’d love them. And now, you’ll never get the chance.

Jack, standing in the doorway, sighs.

He makes his way over to sit on the edge of the bed, and he reaches a hand out to rest against your cheek. You sigh in response. Wait for him to open his mouth, for it to hit. You wait, and wait, and-

“The way I see it, we’ve got a few options,” he says. You blink up at him. “We can just go public, take away the hype about it. We could pretend we have no idea what they’re talking about, just ignore it. We could wait for them figure it out and handle it then. Or-“

You sit up slightly, and he pauses. You know the confusion is written on your face. His gaze softens, blue eyes warmer than they’ve ever been.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” he says. “I don’t run when things get tough. Come on, you know me better than that.”

You want to tell him you’d thought that about everyone, only for them to run from it all, run from you, at the drop of a hat. But you don’t, because you can tell from the hard set line of his jaw, from the determined bend in his brow, that he means it. That he’s not going anywhere. At least, not without you.

“I wanna run away from it all,” you tell him. “I want to take you somewhere they can’t find us. I want-“ you cut yourself off with a wry laugh. “I just want you, that’s all.”

A smile creeps across his lips, and he leans forward to press them to your forehead. Warmth spreads over your body, all the way down to your fingertips and toes.

“We can make that happen,” he says. You can feel the smile against your skin. “If that’s what you want. I know a place.”

You let out a laugh, one that’s mixed with tears. But when he lays down in the bed and pulls you close, you’re inclined to believe him.

…..

The “place” Jack knows takes hours of travel to get to. It takes packed bags and ditching responsibilities on both of your parts, and dodging questions from your friends. But as he pulls the car into the driveway, you think it’s worth all the hassle. The house is blanketed in soft, fluffy snow, hanging off the branches of the trees and over the edges of the roof. He opens the garage and pulls in, and when the door closes behind you, you breathe out a sigh of relief.

When he’d suggested his Michigan house as the getaway location, you’d been skeptical. Anywhere that was linked to him would be a risk once they figured out who he was. But he’d told you about the security of the neighborhood, the gate at the entrance, and that they’d never been bothered there before. He’d suggested that the two of you could just stay in the house the whole time, and it wouldn’t matter. The press finding out about Jack is inevitable, at this point. But as you walk into his house, you remind yourself that they can’t touch you here. You’ve left them all chasing their tails in New York City and disappeared.

Besides, the snow is coming down harder now. Even the paparazzi wouldn’t brave the weather.

Jack insists on carrying your bags in, and then he shows you around. The living room is first, decorated with photos of him and his brothers. The house is full of hockey memorabilia, you realize, as he shows you around. But it’s also warm. Personal. Home. There’s a photo of him and his brothers as little kids hanging over a fireplace. It makes you smile, the way you recognize the light in Jack’s eyes, the determination on his face. He hasn’t changed a bit. You’ve been in his apartment in New Jersey, but you know now that this is what he considers his real home.

He takes you up to the bedroom before the rest of the house, so you can get settled. You change into even comfier clothes than your travel ones while Jack heads back downstairs and tells you to meet him when you’re ready.

You call out to him a few minutes later when you pad your way down the stairs, and he calls back from a room you haven’t been in yet. When you walk in, he’s standing at the kitchen counter, setting out a bottle of wine. There are fresh flowers in a vase- Jack had said he’d ordered groceries to be delivered, and he must’ve gotten those, too. It’s a sweet touch.

You walk into the middle of the room and look around, a bit in awe. It faces towards the lake, with a large sitting area connected to the open concept kitchen. The lights are low and warm. Along the back wall, there are floor to ceiling picture windows, giving you the perfect view of the icy lake, the snow covered sloping bank, and the houses that dot the shore all around you. Like a postcard, or a hallmark movie. Jack pads his way across the room to you.

“Oh, wow,” you say, quietly.

He nods, his hands falling to your hips from behind as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Pretty, right?”

You nod. It’s beautiful. Peaceful. Still. Quiet. A billion other words pass through your mind. But most of all, it feels safe. Like the whole world could be chasing after you, but here, it’s just you and Jack and the snow. You could run out into it, fall flat on your face, and there’d be nobody there to see it. Or to care.

“Can we go out in it?” You ask him, carefully. Not wanting to break the calm. “It looks so-“

“Yeah,” he agrees, eagerly. “I think we’ve got a pair of boots that’ll fit you.”

Ten minutes later, you waddle through snowdrifts that cover your calves in boots one size too big. You can’t bring yourself to care about the snow in your socks, or the notifications on your phone, or the fact that by now, they’ve probably figured out who Jack is. Because Jack is standing in front of you, and you know who he is far more than they ever will.

He’s the kind of person who stays.

He lobs a snowball at you. It hits your shoulder and crumbles, and he laughs. Pure, loud, happy. You reach down with your mismatched mittens, stolen from their bin of miscellaneous outdoor gear, and form one of your own. You look at him, lining up your aim. Look at his flushed cheeks, his wide grin, the way the snow sticks to his hair and melts on his nose.

“Come on baby,” he says, taunting, arms spread wide. “Hit me with your best shot.”

You drop the poorly formed snowball at your feet and launch yourself at him instead. He’s laughing again by the time you both hit the ground, the snow cushioning his fall. He laughs more when he rolls you over and pins you under him. There’s snow seeping down the back of your shirt, and it makes you shiver. And then he kisses you, and the cold doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing does, except this.

He’s never kissed you anywhere close to the public, both of you too cautious. So much of your relationship has been hidden away. You’d never had a chance like this in New York- no kissing in the rain, under streetlights, no cheek kisses between glasses of wine at fancy restaurants, no holding hands while you walk down the street. But now you’re out under the cloudy sky, surrounded by peace and quiet, and he’s kissing you. You never want to leave this place.

You shiver, again, and he laughs into the kiss. When he pulls away, his eyes are sparkling. You think yours are too.

“Come on,” he says. “We should get you warm before you catch hypothermia.”

He suggests a shower. You agree eagerly and pull him under the spray with you. The cold melts away, along with the rest of your worries.

Later, you’ll drink wine and make dinner and watch some old movie he’s been insisting you need to see. Later, you'll curl up basically on top of him in bed, surrounded by him, feeling more at peace than you have in months. Tomorrow, he’ll wake up before you do, and come back with coffee from his favorite place in town, and wake you up in bed with it, made just the way you like. And you’ll look at him and thank him. Not just for the coffee, but for bringing you to a place that means so much to him. For letting you in on his little bit of comfort.

You won’t have to say it out loud. He’ll already know.

#jh86 #jack hughes x you #jack hughes fanfic #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes fic #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes imagine #nhl fic #nhl fluff #nhl x reader #nhl oneshot #this is shorter than I’d like #jack Hughes oneshot #and I don’t love the ending tbh #but it’s so fine #honey writes

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storiesfromafan · 3 days ago

Text

He's Not So Bad (18+) - Mattheo x Reader

A/N: I bring you the awaited follow up to He's So Annoying 😊

I hope this ain't too bad. I finished writing it this morning before work. And just finished revising, so forgive me if there is any spelling/grammer mistakes.

Also, today wasn't such a good day at work, would appreciate some love 😅

Warnings: spelling/grammer mistakes, public sex, p in v

Prompt/s: “Can you feel how much I want you?” and “You’re mine"

Tag list: @moorningvoice @legobookstore @revesephemeres

After Potion’s class, you found Mattheo flirting and annoying you more with every shared class for the last few days. And every time you do your best to ignore him or put him in his place, he continued to drag up that night. You began to think he enjoyed remembering it, and like if he mentioned it, you’d jump back into bed with him. And you wanted too. But your better judgement told you no, he just wanted you physically.

Unfortunately this day was the day he’d followed you out of your last class – Divination – and was adamant on giving lost puppy energy. And that was even with people around.

“Honestly, why do you keep chasing me, when there are so many willing females that would gladly be your bed buddy?” You sighed turning down a hallway that looked to be deserted.

Mattheo shrugged. “I like the chase with you. It’s a challenge, love”.

“Don’t called me love!” You shot back, sending him a glare. Which made him smile.

Mattheo thought it was funny how you hadn’t clued on. How he was infatuated with you. His constant presence, annoyance and the nickname – love – were tell-tale signs of his affection for you. Hell, he’d even gotten detention the other day for hexing a Hufflepuff guy who Mattheo overheard planning to ask you out. You were his. And that meant you were off limits.

Mattheo chuckled. “Deny all you like, love, but I know you enjoy it".

Rolling your eyes while you picked up the pace, wanting to put distance between you too, as well as get back to the Ravenclaw house. The only place you could be free of the menace on your heels. If only you know what was about to come.

You felt a hand wrap around your wrist, then being pulled down a dead end of the hallway. Your body being pressed against the wall, hidden behind a statue and pillar. Another hand was pressed against you mouth before you could even make a noise. Before you was Mattheo, the person who had dragged you down here and pressed you against the wall.

Your shock expression turned to that of a glare. Which told him that you weren’t going to scream, probably tell him off, but he could handle that. So with a small, sweet smile on his lips, Mattheo removed his hand. Instantly you let him have it.

“What the hell! What are you thinking!?” You voiced, tone sharp and annoyed.

Mattheo remained quiet, admiring the fire in you. He moved the hand that had been over your mouth, to push back your hair so it was over your shoulder. Before running it along your jaw and down your neck. You shuddered. You told yourself you had to be mad, and not show how his simple actions affected you. Because they did. His touch was electric, the pads of his fingers running slowly over your skin, sending your heart a flutter.

Mattheo of course noticed the shudder, and the slight change in you. He’d been studying for so long, he knew the signs. The hand holding your wrist moved to rest against the wall next to your head, almost completely caging you in. His warm chocolate brown orbs had darkened with the thought of what was to come. So long as you let him, of course. Mattheo wouldn’t do anything you didn’t beg for. And he’d have you beginning.

Leaning in, Mattheo ran his nose along your jaw, taking in the faint smell of your perfume. Which he noted he needed to find out what it was, so he could buy you more, for it was his new favourite scent when mixed with your own smell. You stiffened at his action. You didn’t expect Mattheo to be this forward. Sure, he liked to flirt and bring up that night, maybe even tell you what else he’d like to do to you. But actually do it? This surprised you.

“You smell so good" Mattheo softly groaned before nipping your jaw, making you jump. “Jumpy, love?” He chuckled.

You shot him a dirty look, which he enjoyed oh so much. “N-no" you retorted.

Once more Mattheo chuckled, before kissing your jaw and then nipping once more. Again you jumped, but not as much as the first time. “Hmmm, you are jumpy" he commented teasingly.

You placed your hands against Mattheo's chest and push, hoping he’d get the hint and back up. But no. He only moved closer, your strength nothing for him. Before your hands could be trapped, you moved them to his shoulder. Bad move. It not only allowed Mattheo to press his body completely against yours, against the wall. But also gave him the idea you wanted him. Which you did, but tried to fight the spark between you both.

His lips moved to your neck. Kissing and nipping. You fought the rising moan that so badly wanted to be freed from your lips. No, you couldn’t let Mattheo win. Yet the moment his free hand skimmed up your side, coming to rest under your breast, you wanted to whine, wanting him to touch you there. And you know he wanted to, the way his hand slightly shaked against you, his restraint impressive. But he wouldn’t just do it, not without permission, your submission and begging.

The hands on his shoulders grasped at his white button up shirt, your nails would have dug into his flesh if not for that item of clothing. The memory of how your nails felt on and digging into his flesh flooding both of your memories. Recalling how Mattheo moan and groaned from the scrapping down his back, and the reminder he had for a few days. He wanted your mark on him always. But that would be another time.

Yet you were holding back, and he couldn’t have that. He needed you to give in to him. Mattheo pressed his lower half closer to you, his arousal pressing into your hip.

“Can you feel how much I want you?” He groaned lips having moved to your ear, his hot breath tickling. “So badly I need you, love”.

Your breath caught in your throat from the feel of him and his admission. Which hit straight in the pit of your stomach, adding to your arousal. You pressed your legs together trying to will it away, but the embers were lit. From here it would just grow to an all-consuming fire. Against your better judgement, and senses, you moved a hand to the back of Mattheo's head. You grasped his brown curls, before pulling his head back so you could look at his gorgeous face. Expecting a knowing smirk upon his lips, you would have been surprised by the dark look on his face, if you weren’t lost by desire. Which mirrored in his eyes.

You pulled him in so that your lips collided in a hard, messy kiss. Giving all in. Which Mattheo accepted. The hand resting under your breast moved to cup your mound, that you sighed at. Taking his opportunity, Mattheo slipped his tongue into your mouth, claiming it and your tongue for himself. Feverishly his tongue moved with your own, a frantic dance.

While you lost yourselves in the kiss, Mattheo moved both hands down your sides. Moving over your hips and down your thighs. He moved down and you continued to move with him in the kiss. Mattheo then moved his hands back up your thighs, under your skirt, to the back of your thighs. Before you knew it, he had lifted you, bringing your legs up around his waist. His hands groping your behind, while he pushes you further against the wall. His arousal pressed against your aching core, both clothing separating those intimate places. With a hard, slow grind against your body from Mattheo, you pulled back from the kiss and moaned. Instantly he moved to sloppily kiss your neck.

“W-we shouldn’t b-be doing this h-here" you managed to choke out, as he kept grinding against you.

Mattheo groaned against your neck. “But I need you now, love. I can’t wait" he retorted. “No one will know, as long as you’re quiet".

The way his voice lowered and had this desperate tone to it, it just added to the fire. With those words and tone your last shred of sense left you. Too far gone now to back out. You bucked your core against his arousal, solidifying you heard and understood him. And that pleased Mattheo so much.

One of his hands moved to your clothed sex, fingers finding your bundle of nerves and pressing it over your panties. You groaned softly, before you mewed when he moved those fingers in circles over the nub. You rested your head against the wall, eyes closed while your hand gripped Mattheo’s hair. He moved his head back, drinking in the sight of your face and his hand pleasuring you.

When he abruptly stopped his ministrations, you shot him a dirty look. He chuckled. “Patience, love. It’s just beginning".

He placed a long, chaste kiss to your lips. While his hand moved to his slacks, he pulled down his zipped and managed to free himself. It was a moment of relief for Mattheo, for his hard member had been in torture being confined. Using his hand he pumped himself a few times before feeling the over whelming need to be inside you. So, letting himself go, Mattheo moved his hand to your panties. Pushing the clothing a side, he jostled you up the wall a little move, hand firm on your behind.

Moving himself to your entrance, Mattheo ran the tip along your folds, gathering your slick. When the tip nudged your bundle of nerves, you groaned, feeling a jolt in the pit of your stomach. He did that a few more times, enjoying the noises and how your face looked from his actions.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to be in you" he sighed, lining himself up at your entrance.

You didn’t say anything, or get the chance too. For Mattheo began to push into you. Slowly the tip entered you, followed by inch after inch. He growled at how tight you were around him. But eventually he pushed all the way in, bottoming out, fully inside you. He waited a few minutes, letting you adjust to him and relax.

After a few minutes Mattheo started to pull out till the tip was just inside you, and with a snap of his hips, he pushed back inside. Over and over he did this at a slow pace. Your hands gripped his hair and shoulder, back arching, clothed breasts pushing up against him. You felt so good, like heaven, just like he remembered but better.

There you were, in a dead end of a deserted hall, with Mattheo fucking you up against a wall that was just concealed from sight. You should have protested the public setting, but when he felt so good, and made you feel so good, you couldn’t do anything but take it.

With a harsh snap of his hips, you bit back a loud moan, for he’d reached that spot with in you. And with every second or third thrust, Mattheo was hitting it repeatedly. You buried your face in his shoulder, holding onto him tighter, a small whimper leaving your lips. Knowing how good he was making you feel, Mattheo picked up his pace, chasing your releases.

You felt that coil in your pit tightening with each thrust, your sex tightening around him every time after hitting that spot deep within you. You both were a panting and sweating mess, lost in this moment and the other.

“You're mine" Mattheo groaned, thrust harsher into you. “Tell me you’re mine!”

You moaned against his shoulder, from his thrust and words. Being so sex drunk, your better judgement was out the window. “I-I'm yours" you moaned.

“I can’t hear you" he groaned, gripping your ass with both hands as he thrust deeply and moaning.

You let out a small cry when he did that. “I-I'm yours!”

Hearing you better, Mattheo grinned. Pleased with your answer. Without saying anything else, he focused on getting you both over the edge. He focused on his thrusts, long and hard, and trying to hit that spot over and over. That coil in your pit tightened with every thrust. You found yourself tell him you were close. So he worked harder. Soon his thrusts got sloppy, but he kept at it.

When you finally came, you told him just before that coil in your snapped. You tightened around him, moaning Mattheo's name and riding out your release. With a few more sloppy thrusts, Mattheo finally hit his own release, a groan leaving his throat. He thrusted a few more times as he coats your insides with his release. Mattheo buried himself inside you, body leaning against you as you both tried to catch your breathes.

It was silence, except for your soft panting. Mattheo rest his forehead against your shoulder, while the hand in his locks ran through them. He was savouring this moment. While you wondered what this meant. You were confused by his want for you to say you were his. Was it something to help him get off? Yet you were unsure of voicing that question.

After a while Mattheo pulled back, and he removed himself from you, covering you back up with your panties. He helped lower you to your feet, which were a bit shaky. But once he was sure you were standing, he put himself back in his pants and zipped them back up. It was silent between you both, for you, you were unsure while Mattheo was satisfied and content.

Feeling self-conscious, you picked up your bag and were about to leave. “Um, a-alright" you stuttered. Unsure of what to say after a quickie in the hall.

You had just moved past Mattheo, when he grabbed your wrist. “Where are you running off to love?”

You sighed. “I told you, I’m not your love”.

Not hearing a retort or him releasing your wrist, you turned to see a knowing smirk on Mattheo's face. He moved closer to you, hand moving to lock with yours, as he pulled you closer.

“Oh, but you are love” he said in that overly sweet tone. “You said it yourself, you’re mine”.

Your face flushed. While all words left you. That was the moment you realised you had unknowingly given yourself to Mattheo Riddle. You were his. And he was completely yours. Slowly a smile crossed your lips. You decided to accept your fate. He’s not so bad.

#mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x fem!reader #mattheo x y/n

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zaine-m · 2 days ago

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I like to think that Jayce and Viktor get a happy ending in the other universe too

Jayce feels awful that hextech took a life. Especially seeing powder (who is around the same age he was when him and his mom were saved by hextech) holding her dead sister's body

He says similar things as in the start of the trial but now fully meaning them and never mentions trying to create magic

Vander comes to Jayce's trial and stands up for him, saying he's just a stupid kid with a dream to help people who didn't know what he was doing

"Vi's with her mom now, let Jayce go home to his"

He does still sneak into his lab to attempt suicide but this time Viktor's "am I interrupting?" doesn't do anything, Jayce just turns back around and jumped, not being able to handle the guilt of accidentally taking a life while also realizing his life's work only caused harm

He survives the attempt and wakes up in a hospital bed, paralyzed from the waist down with his mother crying next to him

Viktor comes in a bit later while his mom is out making some food for him

His tone is completely too cold for the situation. Jayce is in complete despair and Viktor refuses to match the mood

He says most of the same stuff about how hextech can change people's lives but Jayce responds "yeah, well so far all it's done is a take the life of an innocent child"

"ehh, she was from the undercity. I grew up there, many children did not live to see adulthood"

"How does that make anything better?"

"Because this has the potential to change that. One explosion? There are toxic fumes and polluted waters slowly killing hundreds of children each year"

"Even if I wanted to I'm banned from the academy and ..." *waves at legs*

"pshh, you think trenchers are supposed to be at the academy and everything I did in my life I did while being disabled"

"Listen, I can't help you"

Viktor leaves Jayce's bracelet by his bed and heads towards the door. Jayce takes one look at it and throw it across the room in anger. "you probably shouldn't throw that", "GET OUT!"

A while later Vander comes to invite Jayce to Vi's memorial at the last drop

Jayce feels so guilty when he first comes into the last drop, everyone is staring at him

He sees Ekko, the kind little kid who had sold him such reasonably prices wares just days before his experiments accidentally killed his friend

Powder just starting going at him when she first sees him, her weak child-who-has-never-punched-before fists do very little damage especially because she's going so fast she doesn't fully pull her hands back

Jayce just lets her at it, crying and apologizing between the blows

Vander comes to pull Powder off of him, "it wasn't his fault, he didn't know how dangerous the materials were" she just looks back and screams at him before going back to her bedroom

Vander takes Jayce on a walk through the undercity to talk,

"Everyone in there knew what I did?"

"huh, no?"

"they were looking at me like I was a monster"

"yeah, that's cause you're dressed like a piltie"

"ohh, ha... I'm so sorry about what happened to Vi"

"It's a shame, but she's with her parents now"

*Jayce looks down, only feeling worse finding out the girl he killed was an orphan*

"You want to know how her parents died?" *they arrive at the bridge* "I thought I could help the undercity, create a better world by fighting for sovereignty. I led us across this bridge and lost so many people in the process, the undercity is still recovering"

"I'm so sorry"

"I was like you, I was young and ambitious and I wanted to help people. But you know what I learned. You don't need to make giant leaps to help the people around you"

On the way back Vander points out all the ways he's helped different people in the undercity, helping them make a business plan, caring for their kids when they were sick, helping them find a community at the last drop

He also points out all the things that could be helped like roofs with holes in them and cliffs that should have railings

"You don't need hextech to help the world, Jayce"

Jayce spends his time between his family's forge doing hammer work and around the undercity working as a handyman, building what he can to help people

Eventually he tracks down Viktor, hoping to find ways to make a more systemic change for things like the dirty water and polluted air

Viktor works on studies surveying the living conditions of those in the undercity and seeing what affects it has on expected lifespan and the likelihood of developing different diseases to present to the council

That along with the more pro-Zaun push that's been happening since Vi's death he gets quite a bit of work done

While he's doing this Jayce does what he can to start implementing changes by making water filters and distributing masks to those in the slump levels

After a few years Jayce petitions to be let back into the academy to help Viktor with his work on a formal level and with outstanding testimonials from many people in the undercity he's let back in

When their work making the undercity safer is done they move onto studying how to treat the various illnesses people in the undercity have suffered from living there

first starting with Viktor's various physical health issues and finding that a lot of his issues come from it never being studied how to use mobility aids and how improper use can put a strain on other parts of your body so he switched to a forearm crutch to help his back

I'm gonna say in this universe Viktor just has severe asthma which they're able to find medicines to treat so he still has issues breathing in a lot of the undercity, he just wears a mask most of the time and keeps his medication with him

Viktor and Jayce end up dating but it happens to slowly that it's hard to realize, they just spend all their time together working on their research and then they get an apartment together because they were both looking for roommates

Jayce stopped looking for people to date after the accident because he was going through a big life change and never got back in the game and Viktor always rejected anyone, saying he was too busy with his studies

Jayce is just physically affectionate in a way where hugging Viktor a lot turns into Viktor sitting on his lap whenever his leg is sore turns into Jayce playing with Viktor's hair when he's bored turns into them cuddling on the couch turns into them cuddling in bed turns into kisses on the forehead when one of them is sick turns into kisses when they're not sick

They're at the last drop one day and Viktor gets up off Jayce's lap to use with washroom and Vander asks Jayce, "so you think you'll propose soon" Jayce almost spits out his food, "what, what do you mean?"

"I mean you've been dating for like what 5 years now. You gotta pop the question sooner or later"

"umm... yeah" wait fuck are we dating, have we been dating for 5 years, what

In bed that night: "Viktor, I... I think I might like you... like romantically. I guess I never thought about it but I was talking to Vander and... and you've been the most important person in my life for the past like 6 years"

"Jayce, I thought we were dating? How are you only realizing this now"

"ohh"

"I called you my partner"

"I thought you meant like research partner"

"we kissed a lot"

"I thought those were like just for comfort... between friends"

*Viktor kisses him passionately but not the most passionately they've kissed before*

"Does that seem like it would be between friends?"

"heh, now that you mention it I guess not"

#arcane #jayce talis #viktor arcane #arcane viktor #jayvik #just scroll to the bottom to read fluff

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dpspcehntr · 14 hours ago

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In the spirit of being premenstrual and irritable, what do you think would be the cause of the LaDS and MCs first serious argument and who would snap first?

For Zayne, I believe it would be MC getting injured and Zayne being fed up with her "reckless" behaviour fighting wanderers. Even though he knows how capable they are, it's borne out of worry.

Xavier is so chill, I can't imagine him being angry even if MC gives him a Pennywise makeover while he snoozes and says nothing as he walks down the street looking like nightmare material. What would set him off, though? MC eats the last hotpot?

Sylus would snap because MC threatened to set him on fire one too many times lol

And Rafayel... The clouds aren't the right shape? MC cuddled her plushies more than she hugged him? The list of possibilities are endless with this dramatic fish boy, but what would make him really angry and not just pouty?

Hello again friend! Arguments with the boys I feel are rare, mostly because all of them seem to communicate well for the most part. Take all of this with a grain of salt as I am not an expert!

Zayne is kind of a no brainer. The first serious argument would be over MC’s reckless behavior during a mission. It would start as a stern “talking” to as MC’s doctor to which MC just blows him off. It would turn into a major fight because MC does’t take how serious the situation could’ve been. I don’t think it reached screaming match but the folks at the hospital do start to worry about the tone of his and MCs voices. Obviously Zayne is going to continue to be concerned for her health so she instead has to do a bit of work to understand where he’s coming from and be nicer when he does lecture her on her health.

Xavier is a tricky one cause I don’t think the thought of an argument is even possible for him. If anything it’s MC who is upset with something and lashes out. It’s because of his easy going nature that makes MC even angrier. Eventually they talk it out but yea an argument between these two will be because he hardly ever expresses his own emotions and goes for soothing and problem solving first.

Sylus would have an argument with MC about not taking the dangers of the N109 zone seriously. It would be something MC sees as not that deep but he would be quite upset at how little she cares about her well-being. Again not a yelling fit but you both don’t speak to each other for a few days after. Eventual apologies occur and then a discussion on how dangerous the N109 zone really is and reaching an agreement where MC can protect herself but not be smothered by Sylus’ need to be in control.

Rafayel early into his relationship with MC would have some small disagreement that he just harbors on for a while. He just kinda disappears for a few days and when he does resurface the issue has only gotten bigger. It would be a very tense and heated conversation for quite a while before both of them come to an understanding. After that, they both bring anything that bothers them to each other right away and hash it out.

Yea this stuff is not my forte but I tried 😭! I love angst but I’m so bad at it. I hope I did this some justice!

My ask box is open! Send me your NSFW head cannons/thoughts/confessions about the LADS main 4! I might even write some of them up!

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imaginespazzi · 1 day ago

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NIVI!! Give us your postgame thoughts on Ole Miss!!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING MY LOVIES! I am thankful for that fact that I found a stream that worked last night and got to watch this game even though that 3rd quarter took years off of my life.

AZZI. FUDD. I don't think I can even begin to explain in words just how proud I am of her. Everyone has been saying that it's only a matter of time before Azzi starts to contribute (not that she didn't contribute in the Oregon State game) but Azzi didn't just contribute last night; was definitely the biggest (not the only of course) reason we won. It was a one-possession game and momentum was without a doubt on Ole Miss's side and Azzi said fuck all of that and gave UConn an 8-pt cushion all by herself. And what won't reflect on the box-score is that her scoring those points did two things: it deflated Ole Miss and it energized UConn. She was just so good offensively and defensively; just an all-around performance and I'm just so incredibly proud. And you know what the best part is? Those 3s ain't even falling yet.

Casual 29 points for the NPOY, no biggie just Paige doing Paige things except you know MY Paige doesn't normally get 5 turnovers...jk jk because honestly she only should have had 3 (still "high" for her standard but also that's what Ole Miss hangs their hat on). That 1st half and that 4th quarter were just things of beauty. That's what you need your leader to do, set the tone and then finish things off. AND SHE FINALLY GOT SOME FTS!!

Sarah looked really good in the first half and then when Ole Miss got going, she looked a little shaken in the second half, emphasis on the little shaken because it was only really in terms of scoring, she was still doing all the little things. I've seen some discourse and I personally don't want Sarah to stop taking 3s because it's not like she takes bad ones and I think they're gonna fall and we need them to fall and they're not gonna fall if she stops taking them.

JANA!! She had some clutch has hell rebounds and some much-needed shots. I thought she had a really good game and a near double-double. She just looked really energized out there and I think she's only going to get better.

Ice had a up and down game. She definitely did a couple of things that frustrated me but also made some solid plays. I would have definitely liked a couple more points and a couple more rebounds but I think the hustle, that's been prevalent the last few games, is still there.

Ash needed more shots which is partially on her but also I feel like she was getting plays ran for AND her teammates weren't doing the best job of finding her. It feels like the aggression, particularly on offense, of the first two games had dwindled a little bit and she's in a bit of a slump. Also two of Paige's 5 turnovers, probably belong to her because girl what was you doing?

We definitely need more point production from KC but I thought she had a very stabilizing presence last night and did a pretty good job running the offense in the 4th.

KK hadn't made me want to scream at her for driving into traffic and getting blocked like clockwork in a couple of games and so of course OF COURSE she had to do it last night. But I do think she matched Ole Miss's energy well and I liked that one drive she had. She needs to look to score like that more.

Which brings me back to that KC-KK discourse, I still think the KK-Paige-Azzi-Sarah-Jana/Ice lineup is our strongest but I also did really like the KC-Paige-Azzi-Sarah-Jana that we used to end the game and was I believe the prominent lineup throughout the 2nd half. So I think my general opinion is that it doesn't matter who starts because ultimately it's gonna be a opponent-driven decision and it's good to have that option.

I love Paige and Azzi and I love that they had good games but I'm ngl, looking at that box score and seeing so many people with only 2 pts did not please me at all.

Blowing leads is becoming a recurring thing and as much as I think it's good character building for this team right now because as Geno says you learn more from overcoming the Ole Miss run than if you had stretched it 30, it is a little concerning that it's a bit of a pattern. And again this is only their 5th game and it was their first true test and also ofc only their 3rd having Azzi so I'm not necessarily super worried, but it is something I'mma keep my eye on.

But overall I'm just really proud of this team. They got punched in the 3rd and they punched back and I'm hoping to see a lot more punching in the upcoming games.

#ask #wcbb #uconn wbb #uconn women’s basketball #uconn huskies #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #ashlynn shade #ice brady #jana el alfy #sarah strong #kk arnold #kaitlyn chen #so glad to be a uconn WBB fan (emphasis on the W because the M are doing something...)

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iwantmochisoup · 1 day ago

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mochi soup's sappy happy crying session

i'm so sorry, please bear with me, but i really need to be super sappy rq. (it's gonna be a long one, so imma add the read more here)

i just recently hit 10k likes and lost my shit over it qwq;; i was overthinking a lot, i wanted to run away, and it kinda hit me because honestly, i don't think i deserve all this ;; like i'm just being silly on here and having fun ;;

but that aside, i have been thinking how to properly say thank you, since words are really hard for me (wow big shocker ikr lmao) but i realized it's thanks giving, despite me not being from america i saw all the love today and i thought maybe i can try, this time, to put it to words. (i'm sorry if i don't make sense at all, and honestly don't mind me honestly, i've always been super scared of talking on here but i need to ramble)

so, idk how to start this, i honestly quit art for good like 4 years ago, won't comment on it but this year i tried to pick it back up. i am so scared of people, especially online but i thought why not, so i made a lil acc on here, i wanna say i'm so lucky to have met you all and seeing people like my art, seriously it's what keeps me going. (that sounds so sappy but for what feels like the first time in my life i am genuinely being myself and i am so happy idk what to do) this is way too long of an intro...

i'm gonna start off my twin of course, it feels fitting hehe ;; so, @saltedbiscuiit you know how shit i am at words, and you know how thankful i am for you, and we talked so much about it already so i'll try to keep this short ;; i am genuinely so happy to have met you, kinda feels like it changed my life back then, it honestly hasn't been that long really, since the art trade back in july, i honestly feel like i found my other half (that's so sappy pls don't cry but i'm being honest) thank you so much for everything, you do so much for me, even if you don't know it and i am honestly so so grateful and happy. thank you so much <3 hehe, salty soup salted mochi

the next one is @cryptid-juzou we just recently met, but i fell in love with your writing, almost instantly!! you're such a great friend, and it's sm fun talking and playing games with you!! and i'm so happy and grateful to have met you!! Really, thank you so much for all you did for me and for accepting the collab! To be working with you on our thing (i won't go into detail, yk big surprise and all) honestly, i'm so so happy and i can't wait to finish it!!

next!! @k-aez !! you've been haunting me in dreams, scolding me and i still think about that raw chicken art you did. okay jokes aside, i'm so happy to have met you and i feel the need to thank you like forever for creating the server and everything you've done. you've been supporting me and pushing me to get out of my ass and kept encouraging me sm. i can't put it into words, but i will be forever grateful for everything!

big big thanks to @ohhcinnybuns, @anticidic and @ediblepandas ya'll have been feeding my brain so many good ideas and enabled some brainrot i will thank you forever for. cinny, you know how much i love your fics and your massive brain in general, i'm so happy i was brave enough back then, and did some art of your ideas, idk if i would even tried to join the server if i didn't see your reblog. rosie, you know how much i love your fics, i'm not about to fangirl in public but i'm truly thankful, you've inspired me so so much, i love with your writing, your kitsunezai au and your scream in phasmo still is the best scream ever! pandas, hehe yk i need to thank you here too! your yapping about dresses and in general talking to you is so much fun! i love your brain sm! thank you so so much for enabling me so much, and please send me more dresses, i love them all!

and, ofc i have to give big thanks the chaos trio too @thatghostinyourbog @spccts & @msshinylemon !! yes, i'm calling you that, that name is fitting, shovel fight if you disagree, losers >:3 i have to thank you three a lot, ya'll are so fun to hang around and play games with, i seriously love what you all do, be it drawing, writing or just the way ya'll yap nonstop! it's sm fun hanging out and i love how we bounce off each other so well and ya'll inspire me so much!! also tysm @nolongerforthetainted for babysitting them!! i really love your writing sm and it's always sm fun yapping with you, and also pls make more coleslaw beds!! i need them! but honestly, thank you so much, i am so happy to have met ya'll and i always look forward to talking and hang out with ya'll!!

WAAAAA THAT IS SO LONG OMG BUT!!! I also need to thank each one of you, all my moots and everyone that just takes their time to look at my art, leave a like, reblog, comment what ever really, i appreciate each and every one of you so so much! thank you all so much, from the bottom of my heart, i can't explain how much it means to me! i also want to give a lil thanks to @noakiie @nevertheblood @altruistic-meme @artsyaudience @konbupie @jellyphink & @lethargyinafishbowl i wanted to tag more but i'm so sorry but i'm too scared, really ;;;

idk how to end this, honestly, i feel like i wrote too much and rambled way too much. i guess i'm just gonna-- *runs*

WITH MUCH LOVE AND A BIG HOP STEP JUMP -mochi soup

#happy sappy crying session ya'll gather around i was crying and sobbing writing this and i am not sorry ya'll started this fr #i think i used up all my words for this year #how did i just shit out 1k words #pls don't mind me #idk how to tag this properly #mochisoup rambles #and i never do this here #it's a one time rare event frfr #*runs and hides*

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cakerybakery · 1 day ago

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Scene idea for that story where God is screwing with Lucifer. Lucifer is the only one to realize God sets up everyone for failure for his own amusement. God revives Adam with the belief that he’s married to Lucifer. His mind is constantly being rewritten to have him believe whatever tortures Lucifer.

Adam was all over him. Lucifer had tried to push Adam away but the look of hurt in his eyes broke Lucifer.

It wouldn’t hurt to let Adam cuddle.

He put a hard stop to the touching. Reminding Adam for the millionth time they weren’t married, it was a trick by god.

Adam’s hands felt good after so many years alone. It got harder and harder to say no. Especially since Adam had trouble understanding his no. His brain seemed to nearly constantly update Adam with new information and override the facts as he knew them.

Lucifer would tell him no and Adam would forget and start again.

Every ‘no’ hurt Adam anew.

Adam was warm. His hands large and firm. His eyes pleadingly sweet, shining innocently. “Lucifer,” dripped from his mouth like honey in his ears, “let’s have a baby.”

Over and over, Adam forgot that Lucifer just told him no.

It was wrong.

Lucifer had to break Adam’s heart over and over because making love to Adam, a man who believed they were in love and married, was wrong.

Adam’s tongue licked up Lucifer’s neck and Lucifer whimpered. That had always been a weak spot for him.

“Lucifer, let’s have a baby.”

His legs shook. “No, Adam. This is a trick. Please remember.”

Then Adam’s eyes welled up with tears. “Why don’t you love me?” Adam’s heart shattered anew and the weight of the broken pieces were added onto the sins of Lucifer’s soul.

Adam brightened, his mind erased once more.

He licked Lucifer’s neck once more. His voice honey sweet, “Lucifer, let’s have a baby.”

Lucifer broke a little more each time. He couldn’t push Adam away but he couldn’t stop him either.

Adam cried and asked why he didn’t love him.

“Please, it’s a trick. The real you has to be in there. Please Adam.”

“Lucifer,”

No, not again. Lucifer couldn’t. Not again.

“Let’s have a baby.”

No, was on his tongue but Lucifer have to force it out.

Again.

“No.”

“Why don’t you love me?”

“Adam please. I do love you. Just not yet.”

He cried.

“Lucifer,”

No, please stop. He couldn’t stand anymore of the crying.

“Let’s have a baby.”

Lucifer’s eye’s were hot.

“No.”

“Why don’t you love me?”

He was going mad. This needed to end.

“Lucifer,”

No more. No more. Lucifer couldn’t hear it anymore.

“Let’s have a baby.”

He swallowed hard. The no was right there but his resolve crumbled. “…okay.”

Lucifer screamed at himself as Adam kissed him. As they stripped. As Lucifer prepared Adam.

Adam was tight, although his memory told Adam they’d had sex countless times, this was his first time with any man.

He insisted on riding Lucifer, and Lucifer had no more resistance in him

As Adam rode him, he looked beautiful in his happiness. Smiling and teasing, asking who Lucifer thought the baby would look like. Lucifer tried to smile, to not ruin this for Adam.

Suddenly Adam froze.

Those sweet eyes turned hard.

“What the fuck?” He looked horrified down as Lucifer. “You sick freak.” Adam start to get off him, only to realize it was far more than just Adam sitting naked atop of Lucifer. “You! - feel so good.” The sweet, memory altered, Adam was back.

Lucifer wanted to throw up. That had been the real Adam. God gave him back for just long enough for Lucifer to feel the full weight of what he’d allowed to happen.

Adam rode him hard. Even if Lucifer wanted to, he couldn’t stop himself from cumming.

Cuddled up beside him, Adam asked if Lucifer thought it had worked.

He was sure it had.

Lucifer was God’s favourite punching bag.

#hazbin hotel adam #adamsapple #hazbin hotel lucifer #adam x lucifer #mpreg

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astra-ryuusei · 2 days ago

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"Awakening the Sleeping Giant"

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flings my creation into the unknown

the brain worms have gotten too powerful and I’m simultaneously dying of skystar disease of so have this 1400-ish-word Fucking Thing™ based on @keferon's mecha AU featuring human!starscream as the the little bastard you can't live with but also can't live without, and skyfire/jetfire as the unfortunate victim of Fate Being a Real Bitch Sometimes and accidentally deciding the outcome of the Space Race

"ulchtar" as a name for human!Starscream was borrowed from starscream's early name (and also Skybound)

also i don’t remember if the corporation that produces mechs in this au was ever properly given a name so i just kinda. gave them a generic one lol

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Ulchtar is a mechanical engineer working on developing spacefaring mecha. He’s climbed through the ranks based on his expertise (and, occasionally by sabotaging other peoples’ work). Nobody really likes working with him; he’s kind of an ass at the best of times. But his experience with these systems makes him a danger if the company ever lets him go. He could sell his knowledge to anyone else in the world, creating new competition in a sector they’ve more-or-less monopolized. This keeps him from being kicked out…up until Mecha-Corp’s first voyage into the stars goes horribly wrong. After the disappearance of Jazz, the fingers are pointed at him, even though—for once in his life—he’s actually not to blame. It’s decided that he’s no longer useful, and he needs to be disposed of.

Ulchtar doesn’t know this, of course. Not until—after being called into a meeting in one of the downstairs labs—the door to go back upstairs locks itself, and he hears the telltale, unholy screeches of alien beasts around him. The beasts he has helped contain for years.

“…shit. Shit shit shit shit shitshitshitshitshit—”

He starts running. Not upstairs, that’s not an option, but maybe there’s another way out of here. He finds that the door upstairs is locked, but not the way down, and that means there’s still a chance, because if there’s anything the higher-ups here right about, it was the fact that Ulchtar knows way too much.

In a last, desperate attempt to survive (or at least go down swinging) Ulchtar decides to unleash his final gambit. He runs down long-forgotten halls, hurls himself downstairs until he reaches the lowest floor of the facility—a floor where nobody goes. It’s down here that he’ll make his stand and wake up an old “friend.”

The few who know it exists call it the “Sleeping Giant.” Corny name, but it made sense, given it's…well, fucking gigantic, maybe even bigger than Vortex. It was found buried in the Arctic in the mid-1950’s—what looked to be an ancient, alien shuttle, lost under the ice for perhaps millions of years. It was all kept hush-hush, but in secret, its discovery had turned the tides of the Space Race…and when it fell into the hands of what would soon become Mecha-Corp, they quickly learned it was much more than a vessel. It was alive.

Some of the earliest mechs? The huge, bulky ones that never ended up getting mass-produced because it wasn’t economical enough? They owed their design to the Giant. They owed their existence to the many times it had been torn apart and put back together to see how it worked, to the many years it had laid on a table inert, unaware of what humanity had done to it. It was their greatest trade secret.

And the Giant owes its currently-intact state to Ulchtar, who’d thought studying it as a whole was more useful than research on individual parts. Which is the only reason he knows, at least in theory, how to power it on. Hell, he’d even done some refurbishments when nobody was looking. He runs across a table far too big for him, pulling out cables and unlocking restraints. He doesn’t have time for final checks, not with a horde of kaiju bearing down on him. He just has to hope, to scream until he makes the stars hear his name—or he dies trying.

"COME ON!" He shouts. "WAKE UP, YOU OVERSIZED SUNOVA--"

At that moment, the stars respond.

-----------------------

He can’t move.

He’s freezing cold.

Is he dead?

How did he get here?

He’s…he was…looking for something, he’s pretty sure. Something very important.

Something so important he’d risk getting trapped under an ice sheet over it.

Who is he? He's not sure.

He wants to go home, but he can’t remember where that’s supposed to be.

Trying to remember hurts too much.

It’s hard to think like this, when he’s so cold and everything hurts and he’s so tired.

He lets himself drift, fluttering in and out of death-dreams that he can barely recall.

Eventually, after he’s lost count of the cycles, something happens. The dim light filtering through the ice gets brighter. Small creatures—the lifeforms of this planet, he thinks—peer down at him, pointing, shouting, but he is too weak to respond.

He has hope, for a brief moment, when he sees the sun again, but those hopes are quickly dashed—once more he’s trapped in walls and ceilings of white and gray. This time, the prison is own body. He’s escaped the glacier, only to find himself paralyzed and comatose. Occasionally he laspses into consciousness just long enough to steal a few kliks of awareness before he falls back into darkness.

At some point, he feels himself revert to ‘bot mode, which is something he'd forgotten he even had until then. He’s vaguely aware that he is being picked apart and put back together by the scavengers, again and again and again. The dull ache of not being whole is the only reason he knows he’s still alive, if this can still be called living.

And then…something changes. Everything goes dark for a very long time. The next time he’s aware of anything, his first realization is that he doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t feel broken. His arms respond when he tries to move.

What?

He sits up, still in something of a daze, taking in the surroundings. It’s a room seemingly sized for mechs, and yet the furniture strewn about is far too small—maybe meant for the scavengers? He has little time to wonder about the whole situation, because he soon hears them—the distant, telltale sounds of Quintessons approaching. He remembers what those are, in a way that’s almost instinctive.

To his right, though, he hears a small screaming noise. A lone organic is shouting something at him almost hysterically, pointing at the entrance before gesturing wildly, and then pointing up at the ceiling. It runs over to a set of controls, pushing at buttons furiously until the ceiling begins to open up. Once again, he sees the sky and feels something like hope.

Then tentacles lash out from behind the entrance, and he remembers this is no time for sentiment. He picks the organic up, deciding to just plop the creature inside his cockpit where’s it’s relatively safe and jump for it. He doesn’t trust the creature, not for a second, but he needs someone to explain what’s going on. Engines flare to life for the first time in millions of years, and he hears horrific screeches as Quintesson flesh is cooked under the heat from his thrusters.

They sail up and up and up until there’s no walls anymore and that feeling of suffocating is gone and it’s warmer than anything he’s felt in millions of cycles and he’s alive.

He lets himself spin a few times in the air. He’s above the clouds and the sun feels like fire on his still-frigid wings but somehow that’s good, it feels right. He wants to just hover here and bask in it forever.

He realizes why the creature is kicking him when gunfire whizzes past his face, followed by a pair of aircraft piloted by the scavengers.

Are the scavengers after him? Or the one he’s holding onto? He’s not really sure, but he also really doesn’t want to find out.

He transforms, looking for any way to shake them off. It becomes a mad, spiraling dance as he tries to avoid getting shot, to mixed results.

He considers the enemy’s design—these aircraft don’t look like they’re meant for spaceflight. Knowing that, he climbs higher and higher, looking to get above these things’ maximum operating altitude. He flinches as a few bullets scratch and tear at him, but doesn’t stop. This eventually pays off, as he sees his pursuers begin to stall out, dropping away behind him.

He hopes his scavenger didn’t get too sick in the cockpit. That’d be a mess to clean up…

…Primus, why am I worrying about that at a time like this? He laughs to himself, though this high up, the air is so thin that it’s barely audible.

He looked down at the planet below—dusk was soon to fall on this side of the world, and he needed to find somewhere to hide.

“…where do I even go from here?”

A knock from the organic, who held up what looked like a tiny datapad with a nervous grin.

Maybe they had an idea?

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part 2

#tf mecha universe #skystar

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kathyrealmstales · 21 hours ago

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The Plushies are here!!

Each design is based off of different types of plushies I have seen/have and the reasonings why.

If you want to know them, there in the "Read more"

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Also, there are PFP versions down there, which you guys can use! All I ask is to please credit me if you do use them.

Here are the Plushie designs in PFP format!

And down here are the reasons why their designs:

Frankie:

His style is those handmade plushies, having a sewn-in nose made by thread and button eyes. I went with this because Frankie was the first character to be made, so his plushie design would show that "first try" type of look. Also, I got a lot of inspiration from the Yooztooz plushie, I will not lie...

Henry:

His style follows the one from the game mainly. There are two reasons why: The first is because it has that printed-on look, which is usually for mass production, which I think fits since he looks like he would try to get his name out there as much as he could. The second reason, though, is because of his bootleg monster plushie I have seen, which is also print-on type, which I love, and its so creepy and derpy at the same time. I love it. It fits him well.

Deputy Duck:

The ducks stype is pretty straight forward. I wanted to keep with the theme of him having that big bulky stomach like his iPad form, but I didn't know how until I remembered I have a pillow pet type dude and realized I could do something similar, where he has a pillow as a body, so kids could use him for naps. I like to think the screen on his stomach could have different types of styles and patterns on it... idk why, just like the idea.

Noob Noobs:

I got really inspired by this form from this post of mine. I talked about how much I love them and how I need a plush there, and poison-perfection in the comments talks about them having a button on them, so I added that to the plushie form. I went for the other type of mass production type for this, this being the "stiff and won't move" ones where they are more meant to be on a shelf than played with. I thought it would fit them since there are so many, and they probably wouldn't go bootleg style like Henry's does. And like the comment said, they have a "push me" button, which if you click, will make them scream.

Lucky:

I mainly added this one for myself. I made the Lucky Contestant's cartoon form a plushie, and so because of that, I wanted to add them too. They are the new form of plushies you see now in stores being sold- you know, the ones with the giant bead eyes that stare into your soul but also somehow hold that old homemade style that Frankie's types of plushies look like. I like the idea of Frankie's being handmade and trendy with people that type of style while Lucky's is trendy with the kids who buy them from stores.

#digital art #findingfrankie #finding frankie #frankie the magician rabbit #henry hotline #deputy duck #lucky contestant #finding frankie fanart #pfp icons #art of plushies

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naanima · 4 hours ago

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I am so fucking feral over Maxiel. URGH. Anyways, a fic written in 40 mins. No beta. BUT I NEEDED TO WRITE IT. THE IMAGES OF DANIEL WITH IT IS, SCREAMING!! POST Max winning his 4th WDC. This will get edited and posted to Ao3 eventually. Around 770 words.

The thing was he didn't even have an excuse for it. He wasn't drunk, he wasn't depressed, and he wasn't even fucking doom scrolling at 2 AM in the morning because he couldn't sleep and his brain was a fucking mess. If it had been any of that he could have had an excuse. He could have kept on ignoring the weird intimacy he shared with Max, all the sharp messy feelings that he had ignored, examined and buried throughout the years.

But he didnt. He had watched Max win his fourth consecutive world championship, watched his emotions overwhelm him, watched the guys hug and fold him into themselves, watched all of it from the comfort of his own home. Watched all of it, and the only things he could feel was pride and so much fucking fondness for his boy. And a soft regret at not being physically there so he could have embraced Max and told him how proud he was of him.

He had watched the close-up of Max's champion helmet, the M, V, and the four stars above it. The design was simple but beautiful, and Daniel was hit with a sudden want, a need. And he couldn't wait anymore. He called his guy Kenny in LA, and was so happy that he could do a home visit that evening. Daniel didn't want to leave the coccon of his home for this one. He had a shower, carefully dried himself off, put on a loose shirt and shorts and waited on his couch till Kenny arrived with his kit.

When Daniel showed him the picture from his phone Kenny had looked at him with a raised brow.

"Man, are you sure?" Kenny looked low level concerned, someone who has seen way too many people regretting their decisions at times of vulnerability or stupidity. Or both.

"Yeah," Daniel said with confidence. This was what he wanted. He knew it with certainty. "And yeah, that's where I want it too."

"It is your funeral." Kenny shrugged and got ready.

Daniel took off his shirt and laid down on his bed. It was the easiest way to do this.

Three hours later Kenny was gone with a judgemental look and aftercare instructions. Daniel had nodded his head to whatever Kenny was saying, and had ran to the bathroom as soon as Kenny was gone.

He stripped naked and looked at the red inflammed skin of his lower back in the mirror. The whole design was about ten centimetres wide, and it sat a bit lower than what most people would have considered the prime tramp stamp location. This was beyond slut territory.

Kenny did an amazing job, the man was an artist. The V cutting between the M were thick lines shaded in molten gold as if hit by the sun, and highlighted by black. The four goldden stars above it were similarity shaded, there was enough space to add more to it beneath them. Because Max wasn't going to just stop there.

His underwear was gonna block off most of the design, just top of the stars showing. So at least he could still go around shirtless.

It was beautiful, and he still wasn't regretting it. And yeah, this probably crossed the line of friends, but if Daniel couldn't fucking admit that they were more than friends now when he had purposely put Max fucking Verstappen's mark practically above his ass crack then he really would be beyond stupid. He could hear Blake's voice in his head saying how he was beyond stupid for marking himself for another man.

Daniel ignored the voice, grabbed his phone and tried to get the perfect picture of the tattoo. It took him several tries, but he finally got the angle that best showed the tattoo. It was fucking beautiful. He thought about cropping out his back and ass, there was no way that people wouldn't know it was him, even if his face was facing away. But fuck it, they had been joking around for almost a decade, and it was best to be as clear as fucking possible.

He sent the picture to Max. No words or messages.

If Max didn't fucking recognise it as Daniel going all in, as a declaration of intent, then Max didn't fucking deserve him or his ass.

#maxiel #maxiel fic #dr3 fic #daniel ricciardo #naan writes #my fic #dr3 tattoo fic

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rainforestakiie · 1 day ago

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one more to go for the Adamsapple Harvest Month ! I am looking forward what you have been cooking for this, since it's a free choice day !

Love all your stories ! Sending Adamsapple vibes 💕💕

aww, thank you so much! your support throughout harvest meant so much for me! i didn't think i would have gotten so many of them done! i tried my very best to make each one different!

AdamsApple Month Harvest!

Free Day~

Part 01 - Part 02

this took me so long to settle on. i had so many different ideas and thoughts. in the end, i tried to do something new and different. i hope you like this! i hope you all like this!

@adamsappleweek

The woman's scream tore through the silence of the night, a harrowing sound that pierced even the suffocating darkness. Above, the midnight sky roiled with thunder, as if the heavens themselves shuddered at her anguish. Inside the sprawling, dimly lit manor, the air was thick with murmurs. Maids in crisp black-and-white uniforms scrambled through the halls, their skirts swishing as their polished boots clattered against the wooden floors. They carried steaming bowls of water, towels, and freshly laundered sheets, their whispers weaving a tapestry of unease as they darted between the master bedroom and the washroom.

In the heart of the chaos, the lady of the house wailed, her cries echoing down the long, shadowy corridors. The flickering gaslights buzzed, their unstable glow casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. When the grandfather clock struck midnight, her screams abruptly ceased, leaving behind a dreadful silence that seeped into every corner of the house.

The servants moved like ghosts, their heads bowed, eyes averted as they passed the master of the house. He stood in the corridor, his face carved from stone, his hands clenched into trembling fists. The whispers rose around him, faint but persistent, carried like a curse through the air.

The young master is a monster, they said. The words slithered from one mouth to another, infecting every ear. The newborn is a freak.

The master clenched his jaw as his advisers urged him to dismiss the servants' gossip, but the words gnawed at him, relentless. Upstairs, his wife lay pale and weak in their grand four-poster bed. Her once-vivid curls were now limp, splayed across her pillow like wilted vines. The maids hovered around her, cleaning her, changing her gown and the blood-stained sheets. She opened her eyes only when her husband entered the room.

"Where is my baby?" she whispered, her voice trembling like the last note of a dying song.

The master said nothing at first. He knelt beside her, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead.

"I’m so sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Her breath hitched, her frail hand clutching at his. Her wide, red-rimmed eyes darted to the empty cradle beside the bed. The absence of her child was a gaping void, a silent accusation. When he tried to soothe her, stroking her hair, she turned away, her body shaking with silent sobs. The master rose, his chest tight, and left the room without another word. Behind him, her grief erupted, a raw sound that reverberated through the house.

Down the corridor, he stormed past servants who scurried out of his way, their whispers like the hiss of snakes. A monster, they said, a freak. Their words followed him to the nursery, where he threw the door open with such force that it banged against the wall.

The baby cried, a thin, fragile wail that pricked the air like needles. An elderly woman, seated beside the cradle, glared at him.

"I just got him to sleep," she snapped.

Ignoring her, the master approached the cradle, staring down at the bundle of blankets that obscured his son.

"This—this cannot be," he muttered, his voice thick with revulsion.

The old woman—his mother—sighed and began to rock the cradle gently. "He's a baby, not a monster. He just needs love, Nathaniel."

A scoff came from the corner. "Love?"

The adviser, a man with sharp features and a colder demeanour, leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. "Love won’t hide what he is. The boy’s existence is a stain on your name, Nathaniel."

"Enough!" Nathaniel barked, his voice cracking through the room like a whip. He turned to the doctor, who stood by the rain-streaked window, twisting his hands nervously.

"How did this happen?" Nathaniel demanded. "You told us nothing was wrong!"

The doctor hesitated, his eyes darting to the floor.

"I—I did inform you," he stammered. "The condition is rare, but it happens. It's not genetic; it can occur in any family. Your son has... Phocomelia."

"Phocomelia?" Nathaniel repeated, the word foreign and bitter on his tongue.

The doctor nodded, explaining haltingly that the condition affected the baby's limbs, leaving them underdeveloped. He spoke of challenges, of a life that would be different but not devoid of meaning.

But Nathaniel’s face grew darker with every word. "This is not what I expected," he said coldly. "This is not my son."

"You haven’t even held him," his mother spat, rising from her chair. "You look at him as though he's some cursed thing, but he is your flesh and blood!"

The adviser sneered. "Flesh and blood? He’ll bring nothing but shame to this family."

"Do not speak of my grandson that way," the old woman snapped, her voice shaking with fury.

Nathaniel leaned over the cradle, peeling back the blankets with trembling hands. The sight of the baby—tiny, fragile, and undeniably different—seemed to drain the colour from his face.

"No," he whispered. "This... This cannot be my child."

"Then give him to me," his mother said, her voice thick with disgust. "If you cannot see him as your son, I will take him."

But Nathaniel ignored her. His hands shook as he picked up the baby, the child’s cries filling the room again. His mother screamed for him to stop as he stormed out, the baby clutched tightly in his arms. He ran through the rain-soaked streets, the icy drops drenching him as his mind raced with dark, unthinkable thoughts.

At the river’s edge, he stopped, staring at the dark, swirling water.

"You were supposed to be perfect," he murmured, his voice cracking. "Not... this."

But he couldn’t do it. Something inside him faltered, and instead, he turned and stumbled to a nearby bus stop. Placing the baby in a small wooden box, he wrapped the blankets around the child one last time. The baby whimpered, his tiny face crumpling, but Nathaniel couldn’t bear to look.

"Forgive me," he whispered, before walking away.

The rain fell harder as a woman, hurrying home, spotted the box. Her sharp intake of breath cut through the storm as she lifted the crying baby, her heart aching at the sight. She looked around the empty street, but no one was there.

Hugging the baby close, she whispered, "You’re safe now. I’ll take care of you."

The rain had soaked the small bundle through by the time the woman found him. Her trembling hands carefully lifted the wooden box, and she gasped softly at the sight of the newborn. The baby's cries were weak but insistent, his tiny face scrunched up against the cold. Pressing him close to her chest, she shielded him from the relentless downpour with her threadbare coat.

As she hurried home to her crumbling flat, her mind raced. Who could abandon such a fragile life? It wasn’t until she reached the safety of her dimly lit apartment and carefully unwrapped the blankets that she understood. Her heart clenched painfully as her eyes travelled over the tiny form: no arms, no legs—just the delicate torso of a child struggling to exist in a world that already seemed against him.

She wept then, not out of horror but out of heartbreak. How could anyone look at this innocent life and see only what he lacked? To her, the child was perfect, as if he had been entrusted to her for a reason.

"Adam," she whispered softly, cradling him close. "I’ll love you. I promise."

Life with Adam was not easy. The woman, whose name was Clara, worked tirelessly to care for him. Her rundown flat, with its peeling wallpaper and drafty windows, was barely a home, but she made it warm with her love. Adam grew, a curious and bright boy, but his care required more than Clara could often afford. Medical bills piled up alongside rent, utilities, and the cost of even the most basic groceries. Clara took on four jobs—cleaning houses, working nights at a diner, mending clothes for neighbours, and even scrubbing floors at the local church. She rarely slept, and exhaustion painted dark circles beneath her eyes, but she never once considered giving Adam up.

Her brother, Marcus, saw things differently. From the moment he laid eyes on Adam, he recoiled.

"You can’t do this, Clara," he told her during one of his visits. He avoided looking at Adam, even as the boy’s laughter echoed from his corner of the room, where he played with his few toys. "You don’t make enough to care for yourself, let alone a child like... that."

Clara’s jaw tightened, and she clenched her fists. "He’s not that, Marcus. He’s my son."

"He’s not your son," Marcus snapped, his voice sharp and unyielding. "And if you don’t face reality, you’re going to ruin yourself—and him."

As Adam grew older, the strain deepened. Clara found herself sacrificing meals to ensure Adam had what he needed. Every passing month brought more heated arguments with Marcus.

"You have to do something, Clara," he insisted, his frustration mounting. "You can’t keep this up. Look at you! You’re wasting away, and Adam—"

"Don’t you dare," she interrupted, her voice trembling but firm. "Don’t you dare say anything about Adam. He’s happy. He’s loved."

"Love doesn’t pay the bills!" Marcus slammed his hand on the table one evening, a newspaper clenched in his other hand.

"Look." He smoothed the page out and jabbed a finger at an advertisement. "He’ll fit in here."

Clara leaned forward, her stomach twisting as she read the bold black letters: Unique Acts Wanted! Join the Grand Circus!

"No." Her voice cracked, and tears blurred her vision. "I’m not giving up Adam. I can’t."

"He’s not yours, Clara," Marcus said harshly, leaning in closer. "He’s not your real son, and this—this circus will take care of him. They’re offering good money, Clara. You can finally breathe. You can get out of this hellhole."

Clara shook her head violently, her tears falling freely now. "I love him. He’s my son, Marcus! How can you even suggest this?"

"Because you’re drowning!" Marcus shouted. "Your bills have tripled, and I can’t keep bailing you out. Do you think I like this? Do you think I want this for you? For him? But you’ve left me no choice."

He slammed the newspaper shut. "The circus has already offered a pretty penny, Clara. They’ll be here in an hour."

The room fell silent. Clara stared at him, her chest heaving as the words sank in.

"You already made the deal," she whispered, her voice hollow. "You sold my son before even asking me."

Marcus didn’t flinch, though guilt flickered across his face. "You couldn’t keep him, Clara. You know that. It’s for the best."

When the circus master arrived, dressed in a shabby brown suit that reeked of damp wool and cheap cigars, Clara couldn’t bear to watch. She locked herself in her tiny bedroom, burying her face in her hands as Adam’s voice, bright and trusting, called out, "Mama? Mama!"

The sound broke her, and she sobbed into her hands, guilt and despair washing over her like a tidal wave. The door creaked open behind her, but she couldn’t look. She couldn’t face the moment when they would take her son from her.

Adam’s cries grew louder as they carried him away, his small voice calling for her one last time. "Mama! Don’t let them take me! Mama!"

The door slammed shut, and the apartment fell silent except for Clara’s muffled sobs. She couldn’t forgive herself—not now, not ever. Outside, the circus master handed Marcus a stack of bills, tipped his hat, and disappeared into the night with Adam.

Adam was only seven years old, and the last thing he saw as they bundled him into the wagon was the faint outline of the flat where his mama had hidden from him, her love buried beneath the weight of her guilt.

Fred saw Adam as nothing more than a grotesque goldmine. From the moment the boy entered the circus, Fred wasted no time in parading him onstage as the "Freak Child." Audiences gasped and whispered behind their hands as Adam was brought out, crawling clumsily across the stage. He would tumble and roll, his tiny, limbless body performing involuntary acts that Fred framed as entertainment. The crowd erupted in laughter, but it was a cruel, hollow sound that echoed like mockery through the circus tent.

Adam didn’t understand why they laughed or what they wanted from him. Fred told him, again and again, that if he worked hard enough, he could earn his way back to his mama. That promise was the tether to which Adam clung, the single thread of hope that kept him going. So, he smiled as best he could, dragged himself across the stage, and endured the taunts of strangers who saw him as nothing more than a curiosity. Fred counted the profits, pocketing thousands as word of Adam spread. People travelled from far and wide to see the "freak show child," and Fred’s pockets grew heavy with gold.

But as Adam grew older, the novelty wore off. The laughter faded, and the crowds thinned. Adam tried to do more, to sew costumes for himself or add flair to his appearances, but it wasn’t enough. Fred, once gloating and indulgent, became cruel. When Adam asked about returning home, Fred sneered and spat venomous words.

"Your mother doesn’t want you," he snarled. "Why do you think she sold you to me?"

The words shattered Adam’s fragile hope, leaving him trembling with disbelief.

"That’s not true," he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. "She loves me. She said so."

"Love?" Fred barked a bitter laugh. "If she loved you, she’d be here. Face it—you’re nothing but a disappointment."

When the audiences dwindled to nothing, Fred’s patience ran out entirely. He began locking Adam away between shows, confining him to trunks or cupboards like a discarded toy. The other performers, jealous of the attention Adam had once received, delighted in his misery. They stuffed insects into his hiding spots, laughing cruelly as Adam screamed and thrashed in fear.

The performers’ cruelty escalated. They told Adam that if he could learn real tricks—balancing on a ball, juggling—Fred would forgive him and send him back to his mama.

"You want to see her, don’t you?" they cooed mockingly.

Desperate, Adam begged them to teach him, clinging to the shred of hope they dangled before him. They agreed, but it was all a cruel prank. They had him perform ridiculous stunts, like spinning aimlessly or pretending to dance, things that only drew eye-rolls from the sparse audiences.

Their taunts grew sharper. "Look at you!" they sneered. "Even Fred doesn’t want you now."

Adam’s spirit crumbled under the weight of their ridicule. He became more isolated, barely able to move, spending his days crawling about like a shadow of the boy he once was.

Then came the prank that changed everything. One night, the performers drugged Adam, carrying him to a mechanic under the pretence of "fixing" him. They told the mechanic to give Adam what he needed to "truly perform." The mechanic, unburdened by ethics, created something monstrous: a spider-like lower body of sharp, mechanical legs and two grotesque, human-like arms grafted to Adam’s torso. When Adam awoke, he screamed, the pain of his transformation overwhelming him. He stared in horror at his new body, unable to comprehend what had been done to him.

When Adam stumbled back to the circus, the performers recoiled in terror. Screams filled the tent as Fred confronted him, his face twisted in rage.

"You can’t stay here," Fred growled. "You’re scaring the customers away."

Rocks flew through the air, one striking Adam’s face and drawing blood. Broken and defeated, Adam fled into the streets, his new legs clattering awkwardly beneath him.

The world was no kinder. Wherever Adam went, people screamed, throwing stones or kicking him when he stumbled. Groups of children tormented him, pushing him into the mud and calling him a monster. Adam learned to avoid the streets altogether, hiding in shadowy alleyways where the world couldn’t see him.

One bitterly cold winter evening, Adam caught sight of her. Clara, his mama, walked down the street bundled in a worn coat, her breath misting in the icy air. Adam’s heart leapt.

"Mama!" he called out, his voice raw with emotion. He shuffled closer, the mechanical limbs hidden beneath his tattered cloak.

Clara turned, her eyes widening as she recognized the voice.

"Adam?" she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. She ran toward him, her arms outstretched. "Oh, Adam! My boy, I’ve missed you so much."

She cupped his face, her hands trembling. "I’m so sorry. I never should have let them take you."

Adam’s heart swelled with joy.

"Mama," he said softly. "You still love me?"

"Of course, I love you," she said, smiling through her tears. "Come home with me. Please."

Overwhelmed with relief, Adam stepped forward, his mechanical legs emerging from the shadows. Clara’s smile froze. Her eyes darted down, taking in the grotesque appendages, and her face twisted in horror. She stumbled back, her hands flying to her mouth.

"Stay away from me!" she screamed, her voice sharp and panicked. "You’re a monster!"

Adam’s chest tightened, his voice trembling. "Mama, it’s still me. I’m still Adam. Please—"

"No!" she cried, backing away. "My brother was right. You’re not my son anymore. You’re a freak!"

Her words stabbed into him like knives, and as she turned and ran, Adam collapsed onto the cold, wet pavement. He watched her retreating form disappear into the night, his green eyes overflowing with tears. For the first time, Adam truly believed the world’s cruellest lie: that he was a monster.

“Mama!” Adam cried out, his voice cracking in desperation as his mechanical limbs scraped against the cobblestones. Rainwater pooled beneath him, chilling his exposed skin as he dragged his new, unwieldy body forward.

“Mama, please! It’s me!”

His heavy, spider-like legs clattered awkwardly, the sharp edges catching on broken bricks and discarded trash. He pushed through the pain, his mind spinning in confusion. Why had she run away? Why had her warm embrace turned to horror? He kept calling, his voice hoarse and shaking.

“Mama, don’t go! Why are you running? What’s wrong with me?”

But she was gone, her footsteps lost in the sound of the night’s cold wind. Adam came to a halt, his body trembling as exhaustion took hold. He panted, the weight of his altered body bearing down on him. For the first time, a terrible thought crept into his mind: Am I… terrifying?

He turned his head slowly, and his breath hitched in his throat. In the cracked and dirt-smeared windows of the alleyway, he caught his reflection—and froze. His pale, gaunt face, streaked with tears, looked back at him. But beneath it, his body was something out of a waking nightmare. The twisted mechanical legs writhed like the limbs of a spider, their movements unnatural and jagged. The human-like mechanical arms dangled stiffly at his sides, their sharp joints clicking with every tiny motion.

Adam’s lips parted, a small, broken sound escaping him before it grew into a guttural scream. His cry echoed down the alleyway, raw and filled with anguish. He stumbled backward, his mechanical limbs tangling and twisting around one another. The reflection seemed to sneer at him, its grotesque form mocking his existence.

“No! No, no, no, no!” Adam screamed, clawing at his face as though he could tear away the monster he’d become.

He backed into a pile of trash bins, the loud clatter startling him, but he couldn’t stop. He fell into the heap, his body writhing as he tried to escape his reflection. His vision blurred, the alley spinning as tears clouded his eyes.

And then, amidst the chaos in his mind, he heard it.

Laughter.

At first, it was faint, like an echo from the farthest corners of the night. Then it grew louder, twisting into cruel murmurs that seemed to fill the alleyway. Adam’s eyes darted around, searching for the source, but there was no one. Yet the voices came closer, surrounding him, suffocating him.

“Look at it,” a voice sneered, sharp and cold.

“Such a hideous thing,” another whispered, mocking and vile.

Among the voices, he swore he heard Clara’s. Her gentle tones, now laced with disgust, hissed through the darkness. “That’s not my son. That’s not my Adam. He’s just a monster.”

“No! No, Mama, it’s not true!” Adam cried, clawing at the ground as if he could pull himself out of the nightmare. But the laughter only grew louder, the whispers more venomous.

The last thing he saw before his body gave out was the faint reflection of the monster in the window, its twisted limbs still moving as if alive on their own. His vision darkened, the noises fading into a distant hum as he collapsed fully into the trash heap. For the first time in a long time, unconsciousness claimed him—a mercy, a reprieve from the endless torment.

Adam awoke to the dim, grey light of early morning. Frost clung to the edges of the alley, and his breath came in shallow, visible puffs. The cold seeped into his skin, aching deep in his bones. He blinked slowly, his vision clearing to reveal the broken remains of the trash bins around him. His body ached, bruises blooming across his torso where his mechanical arms and legs had dug into him during his frantic movements.

He tried to move, but pain shot through him, forcing him to stop and gasp. He lay there for a long moment, the memories of the night before swirling in fragments. Laughter, whispers, the reflection in the window… His heart clenched as he thought of Clara, her scream of horror and the words that had crushed him.

But there was a fog in his mind, a haze that blurred the worst of it. He couldn’t quite piece together what had happened after he’d seen himself. Perhaps it was a blessing. Perhaps it was the only kindness the universe would grant him: the chance not to remember.

As the sun rose higher, Adam slowly pushed himself upright, his mechanical limbs clanking beneath him. The alley was silent now, but the chill in the air matched the emptiness he felt inside. His green eyes, dulled with grief, stared blankly ahead. There was no one waiting for him. No home to return to. No warmth left in the world.

For the first time, Adam realized he was truly, utterly alone and in so much agony that he couldn’t see straight…

~#~

Adam’s blurry vision struggled to adjust as he awoke again, the dim, watery light of early dawn piercing through the cardboard boxes that formed his makeshift shelter. His body ached—burning, twisting pain radiated from where the mechanical spider limbs connected to his small, frail frame. His arms trembled, the muscles raw and overused, while the grinding of his prosthetic appendages sent jolts of agony up his spine. Every movement was a reminder of his existence as a patchwork creature, a monster forced into a form not his own.

As he shifted, the faint, cruel laughter from a distant group echoed through the alleyway. He stifled a whimper and pressed himself further into the shadows, pulling a torn olive shawl closer around his body. The fabric, stained with rust and streaked with dried and fresh blood, clung to him like a second skin, hiding most of the horrors beneath. Yet, no matter how much he tried to cover himself, the grotesque clicking and buzzing of his mechanical limbs always betrayed him.

This time, though, something was different.

A shadow fell across the alleyway, long and unnervingly human, but twisted at the edges as if it didn’t quite belong. Adam’s button-green eyes blinked, staring at the figure emerging from the fog—a man clad entirely in black. His form was lanky, almost skeletal, with an impossibly tall top hat that added to his already looming presence. A feather striped in lime green and maroon jutted jauntily from the hat, swaying as he moved. His cloak, lined with vibrant green accents, swirled like smoke around his legs, which were clad in leather pants tucked into knee-high boots that clicked softly against the wet stones.

Adam squinted through his haze of fear and exhaustion, trying to make sense of the figure’s face, but it was shadowed beneath the brim of the hat. Only a pair of eyes, unnervingly sharp and glowing a vibrant lime green, pierced the darkness, their gaze locked onto him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Well, well, well,” the man said, his voice warm yet unnervingly buoyant, as though every word teetered on the edge of a laugh. His accent was unfamiliar, an odd melody of lilting tones and sharp consonants that Adam couldn’t place.

“What have we here? The infamous spider monster of the alleyway. My, my… the stories didn’t do you justice.”

Adam froze, his limbs locking in place. The man’s gaze swept over him, lingering on his mechanical appendages. He whistled low and slow, crouching slightly to better inspect Adam’s hunched form. “Fascinating. I’ve never seen anything like this before. You’re a marvel, my boy—a true masterpiece of horror and ingenuity.”

Adam flinched, his shoulders hunching as he tried to shrink back further into the darkness. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice cracked, and the words died in his throat.

The man raised a hand, waving dismissively. “Ah, no need to speak! It’s fine, really. Don’t strain yourself. I’ll do the talking.”

His grin widened, teeth flashing unnaturally white in the gloom. “I’ve heard all about you, you know. The monster that lurks in the shadows, kidnaps children, and haunts the nightmares of this miserable little town. Quite the reputation, eh?”

Adam’s eyes widened, and he whined softly, shaking his head in protest. The man chuckled, the sound low and rich, like a cat purring after a cruel joke. “Oh, I know it’s all rubbish. A load of bollocks, isn’t it? People love their scary stories. Makes their mundane lives feel a little less dull.”

He tilted his head, his grin softening, though the glow of his lime-green eyes remained sharp. “But I couldn’t help myself. I had to see the ‘monster’ for myself. Imagine my surprise when I discovered… you.”

Adam stared at him in confusion, his button eyes reflecting the faint light.

The man straightened, clasping his hands together in exaggerated delight. “You’re Adam, aren’t you? The boy from Cowshuff Circus—the little crawler who used to scuttle across the stage for the crowd’s amusement? Oh, yes, I’ve heard the stories. That’s you, isn’t it?”

Adam recoiled slightly, a sharp cough escaping him as the man’s breath—strange and sickly sweet, like overripe fruit—wafted too close. His limbs clattered as he tried to pull away, but the man only laughed again, his voice tinged with childlike glee.

“I want you to join my circus,” the man declared suddenly, throwing his arms wide. “The Hazbin Circus! It’s going to be the most spectacular, shocking, dazzling show the world has ever seen, and you, my dear boy, will be its first star. The first Hazbin! How exciting is that?”

Adam said nothing, his silence more telling than words. He stared at the man with an expression that hovered between disbelief and exhaustion.

The man’s grin faltered slightly, and he crouched again, this time meeting Adam’s gaze on his level. His voice dropped; the cheerful tone replaced by something softer, almost tender.

“What do you want, Adam? Tell me. What is it you truly want?”

Adam blinked slowly; his button eyes glossy with unshed tears. He hesitated, his voice cracking as he finally whispered, “I… I want to go home. I want the pain to stop.”

The man tilted his head thoughtfully, his grin creeping back onto his face. “Ah, yes. The pain. Of course.”

He stood suddenly, clapping his hands together. “We can work something out. You perform for me—just one show, maybe two—and I’ll take away the pain. And as for going home… we’ll see about that. What do you say?”

Adam tilted his head, his mechanical limbs shifting uneasily beneath him.

“You… can make the pain stop?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Absolutely,” the man said, his grin splitting his face in a way that was both comforting and unsettling. “Trust me. Just come to my Hazbin Hotel—well, mansion, really—by dawn. It’s where all the magic happens.”

Before Adam could ask more, the man turned, sweeping his cloak around him as he strode to the alley’s exit.

“I am your new ringmaster, Zestial,” he called over his shoulder, tipping his hat. “It will be my pleasure to assist you.”

The building loomed before Adam like a sleeping giant, its spires piercing the ashen sky. He felt insignificant, an insect scuttling beneath its oppressive shadow. Towering and labyrinthine, the mansion seemed to shift as he stared, its silhouette flickering with an almost predatory stillness. Thousands of glassy windows stared back at him, cold and unblinking. On the left, the panes shimmered with vivid, kaleidoscopic colors, a cascade of stained glass depicting fragmented, unknowable scenes. The right wing was a stark contrast—its tall, arched windows shielded by intricate Victorian iron bars, as though guarding secrets too terrible to escape.

It was a house out of one of his mama’s storybooks, a fairytale palace draped in magic and menace. Six floors stretched upward, each crowned with mismatched tiled roofs, the central section morphing into a towering clock face that ticked solemnly, its hands crawling forward like prisoners of time. Above it, a thin bell tower rose into the mist, its enormous brass bell swinging with each deep, resonant chime that rippled through the gardens like a command. The sound didn’t just fill the air—it seemed to seep into Adam’s bones, vibrating against his mechanical limbs as if urging him closer.

Sprawling gardens encircled the mansion, like sirens beckoning him to explore. The front garden was a sea of ruby-red roses, their petals so vivid they seemed to bleed into the night. They were unnervingly perfect, not a single leaf out of place, their thorns glistening as though freshly sharpened. For a fleeting moment, Adam was captivated. He wanted to see more—the other gardens, the hidden corners of this enchanting, ominous estate—but the sharp tug of his mechanical prosthetics snapped him back to reality. The weight of the monstrous appendages dragged at his thin body, their grinding and clicking a constant reminder of the unnatural pain tethered to his every step.

Exhausted, Adam dragged himself toward the double doors. Each scrape of his spider-like limbs across the pale stone echoed unnaturally in the cold air, the sound a metallic scream that seemed swallowed by the mansion’s silence. His mechanical hands, jittering with every motion, reached for the ornate rose-carved handles. The glass within the doors shimmered faintly, its surface etched with thorny vines and blooming roses that almost seemed to shift under his touch.

He hesitated, staring up at the doors. His shawl, once a deep olive, was now a ragged patchwork of rust and bloodstains, draped over his battered form. Beneath it, layers of filthy, yellowed bandages clung to his limbs, wrapping him like a grotesque gift. They hid the worst of him—the jagged scars, the wounds that never seemed to heal—but they couldn’t hide the spools of white thread embedded in his back, tiny reminders of the puppet-like horror he had become. He didn’t dare look too closely at himself; even the faintest glimpse of his reflection sent a shiver of revulsion through his body.

The pain was always there, a cruel symphony of burning nerves and grinding joints that turned every breath into an effort. His insides churned, twisting as if they were being wrung dry by unseen hands, but Adam had learned to endure. What other choice did he have?

Summoning the last of his strength, he knocked on the rose-carved door. His mechanical hand struck the wood with a dull, rattling thud. Nothing. Silence greeted him, stretching longer than seemed natural. He lifted his hand again, only for the door to groan open on its own, the sound like a sigh from the house itself.

The air inside the mansion was cooler, heavier, as if the building was alive and breathing around him. Unlike the rose-themed exterior, the welcome lounge was a shrine to the moon. Deep purples and shimmering blues dominated the space, painting the room in a twilight haze. The walls were adorned with murals of night skies and crescent moons that seemed to shift when Adam wasn’t looking directly at them. Stars glittered faintly in the painted voids, their soft glow mirrored by the crystal chandeliers that hung precariously from above, dripping with silver and glass like frozen tears.

The floor was obsidian, polished to a mirror-like shine that reflected distorted fragments of Adam’s spider-like limbs as he hesitantly stepped forward. A grand staircase dominated the far side of the room, its banisters carved from ebony and inlaid with glowing lunar motifs that pulsed faintly as he approached. Velvet drapes framed the tall windows, their fabric swaying ever so slightly despite the air being still. It was beautiful, hauntingly so, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air, an invisible weight pressing down on Adam’s shoulders.

His mechanical appendages buzzed and whirred, their noise jarring against the stillness of the room. Each sound seemed louder, sharper here, as though the mansion amplified it to remind him of what he was. Adam froze, unsure if he should move further. The room felt like it was waiting—watching. He didn’t belong here, that much was certain, but Zestial had told him to come.

The man’s words echoed in his mind as he stepped cautiously into the lounge, the faint, unnatural hum of the mansion’s air pressing against his ears. Each step was delicate, his movements slow and deliberate, as though one wrong move might awaken something he couldn’t face. And yet, despite the unease that crawled over his skin, there was a strange pull to the place—a magic he couldn’t ignore, one that whispered promises too tempting to resist.

Adam wobbled further into the dimly lit lounge, the soft hum of his mechanical limbs a steady reminder of the unnatural state of his existence. Each step sent a jolt of pain radiating through his fragile frame, yet the beauty of the place urged him onward. The small corridor widened, its walls narrowing and then blooming into an expansive space that took his breath away.

At the centre of the room stood a round table carved from dark, polished wood, its surface gleaming faintly in the faint moonlight streaming through the high arched windows. On either side of the table, grand spiral staircases wound upward, their twisting forms like frozen whirlpools of dark iron and lacquered oak. The intricate railings above formed a fence of smooth wooden beams, each panel bearing carvings of the moon’s phases. Crescent, full, waning, waxing—their intricate designs seemed to shimmer with a faint glow. Adam imagined how moonlight or sunlight filtering through the upper windows might cast enchanting patterns across the room below, making it a shifting, celestial dance of shadows and light.

As Adam neared the table, the faint scent of flowers reached him, a soft, earthy contrast to the mechanical oil and rust he had grown used to. His green button eyes fell upon a delicate vase resting at the table's centre. It was slender and graceful, made of deep blue glass that caught and refracted the light like trapped starlight. Arranged within it were six flowers, each striking in its solitary beauty: a dahlia with layered, jewel-toned petals; a cheerful, golden sunflower; a marigold that burned like embers; a drooping bluebell, quiet yet captivating; a clematis vine with its elegant, twining stems; and the black bat flower—dark, unsettling, and impossibly alluring.

The flowers seemed placed with intention; their vibrant petals almost glowing against the dim surroundings. Adam stared at them in silent awe, a pang of something he couldn’t name tugging at him. They meant something. He didn’t know how he knew that, but it was certain. The colours, the arrangement—it was no random decoration. It whispered a story he couldn’t yet decipher.

One of his mechanical arms twitched and jerked as he reached out, the movement accompanied by a harsh clinking sound. He stopped abruptly, his eyes catching on a series of faintly scratched words along the base of the vase. Tilting his head, Adam squinted, his green button eyes narrowing as he struggled to read the inscription.

The dahlia is a dancer.

Adam’s gaze lingered on the dahlia’s layered petals, their vibrant colours fanning out like the skirts of a performer mid-twirl. It exuded elegance, artistry, and grace, a flower that could only belong to someone who danced with their soul.

The sunflower, a happy clown.

He traced the sunflower’s cheerful face with his gaze, its bright yellow petals bursting outward like a painted grin. It radiated joy, a beacon of laughter and light, reminding him of the clowns who once brought audiences to tears of mirth.

The bluebell, a sad clown.

Adam’s gaze fell to the drooping bluebell. Its soft, melancholy shape tugged at him, its quiet, understated beauty carrying a sorrowful weight. It spoke of hidden sadness, of smiles that masked pain.

Clematis, an acrobat.

The vine twisted and curved, its structure effortlessly elegant. It climbed and reached as though in defiance of gravity, much like the acrobats who once defied the odds, bending and contorting themselves in graceful displays of agility.

The marigold, a lion tamer.

The fiery marigold stood out, its bold hues suggesting a courage Adam had only ever seen in tamers who dared face the ferocity of beasts. Its brightness felt like a challenge to the dark, a fierce defiance.

Adam’s gaze faltered as he reached the final flower.

The black bat flower, a spider crawler.

His lips trembled as he read the words, biting down hard to silence a whimper. The strange, spidery petals of the black bat flower with its long, filaments resembled something out of a nightmare. Its dark, unsettling beauty spoke of creatures that lurked in shadows, creeping with unnatural grace. It was him. It was what he had become.

He froze, his breath caught in his throat as a heavy silence settled around him. The flowers were no accident. Each was a role, a story. They were meant to be here, just as he was, and yet they felt like a judgment—an accusation. His trembling arm retreated, the mechanical joints clinking loudly as he pulled it back.

He stared at the black bat flower, the shadow of its petals stretching like claws across the polished wood of the table. Something deep inside him stirred, a cold, inescapable truth. He was the monster of this story, the spider crawling at the edge of the stage. And no flower could mask that.

The round table was draped in a ghostly, netted fabric, its edges fraying like cobwebs in the dim light. Arranged upon it in a perfect half-moon arc were six keys, each adorned with a delicate flower charm. They gleamed faintly, like tiny fragments of secrets bound to the unnatural air of the mansion. Adam’s green button eyes zeroed in on the black bat flower key almost instantly. His breath hitched as a deep, hollow ache settled in his chest. He didn’t want it—he knew it was his. It was always meant to be his.

Adam’s mechanical arms jerked as he tried to reach for it, their grinding and clanking loud in the oppressive silence. He froze mid-motion, a sharp grunt escaping his lips as a surge of pain shot through his frail body. His face twisted into a grimace, tears stinging his eyes. His nerves felt like they were on fire, the pain relentless, an unending torment that made his very existence unbearable. He sniffled softly, his chest heaving, the urge to collapse into the darkened corners clawing at him.

“Zestial promised,” Adam thought desperately, clutching at the thin thread of hope. “He promised the pain would stop if I came here. If I performed in his circus... If I did what he wanted.”

Zestial had promised him something else, too—he would send Adam home. But the pain... The pain was still there, alive and writhing under his skin like a thousand needles.

His spider-like prosthetic legs trembled, buckling under him, until at last he crumpled to the cold, hard floor before the table. A strangled wail tore from his throat, echoing in the vast emptiness of the room. He bowed his head, his button eyes squeezed shut against the endless, gnawing agony.

Then something rolled off the table above him. It struck the crown of his head with a hollow thunk and bounced to the ground. Adam flinched and let out a pitiful whimper, his mechanical hand awkwardly rubbing the sore spot. He glanced down and froze.

A bottle.

It was large and heavy, its smooth surface split into stark halves of white and black. Strange, unreadable words spiralled around its surface, but Adam’s focus was immediately drawn to a single detail: a medical sticker plastered on the side. His name was printed there, bold and unmistakable.

Adam.

The sight of it made his blood run cold. His throat tightened as he picked the bottle up, turning it over and over in his hands. It was for him? How could it be for him? His spider-like limbs clinked and wobbled as he forced himself upright, his body trembling with the effort. On the table now, two pieces of paper caught his eye—one crisp and ornate, the other small and yellowed. Adam frowned, his gaze flickering between the bottle and the yellowed scrap of paper before his mechanical hand reached out to grasp it.

The note was short and simple, but the words sent an icy shiver down his spine.

‘Adam,

Take three pills in the morning and in the evening. It will take the pain away. You can take them with or without food or water.

Oh, and another thing Adam. Let’s keep the pills between just the two of us. We wouldn’t want anyone finding out about them.

Signed, Zestial.’

Adam stared at the note, his lips trembling. His hands shook as he folded the paper, sliding it into the hidden recesses of his tattered shawl. With hesitant fingers, he shook the bottle, the sound of rattling pills echoing like tiny bones in a crypt. The lid was stiff, refusing to yield at first, until his prosthetic hand managed to wrench it free. Three pills spilled onto his palm, their yellow colour sickly and unnatural. He brought them closer, sniffing cautiously, but they gave off no scent.

The constant, gnawing pain in his body left him with no room for doubt. What else did he have to lose? Slowly, almost ritualistically, Adam tipped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry. The taste was nothing, the act mechanical. He waited.

Seconds passed. Then minutes.

Nothing.

The pain still raged through him, as relentless as before. His body burned, his joints ached, and his veins felt like they were filled with shards of ice. Adam whimpered, clutching the bottle to his chest as though it might offer him solace. Zestial had said the pills would work. They had to. Maybe by tomorrow, he’d wake up without the pain. Maybe by morning, he would be whole again.

Shoving the bottle into one of the many hidden pockets in his shawl, Adam’s gaze fell back to the black bat flower key. He reached for it with trembling hands, the charm’s delicate petals stark against the crude, jagged edges of his prosthetics. The key itself was strange, its shape irregular and unsettling, as if it had been carved from something ancient and half-forgotten. He chewed his bottom lip nervously, the sharp taste of blood faint on his tongue.

A sudden wave of dizziness crashed over Adam, gripping him with an invisible force. His knees buckled slightly as he staggered sideways, one mechanical hand rising to clutch his head. His spider-like prosthetic legs scraped and skittered against the polished floor, struggling to anchor him upright. The mansion’s lounge twisted and spun around him, a disorienting kaleidoscope of deep purples, blues, and glinting moonlight patterns. He wobbled unsteadily, bumping into the left staircase with a sharp clang.

Adam let out a soft, pained whine, his green button eyes fluttering as he fought to steady his vision. For a moment, it felt as though the world might slip away entirely, dragging him down into an abyss he feared he would not escape. But slowly, the spinning ceased, the edges of his sight sharpened, and the looming sense of vertigo ebbed.

Breathing heavily, Adam sniffed, a flicker of relief breaking through his panic as he glanced around the room. Everything seemed to have returned to normal. Or so it seemed.

That fragile sense of relief shattered in an instant.

The string-like hairs on Adam’s patched and scarred skin prickled with sudden unease. The air in the room turned cold, and an eerie creak cut through the silence. His gaze snapped toward the double rose-themed doors just as they began to groan and shift, their intricate glass panes glowing faintly in the dim light.

They moved.

On their own.

Adam’s breath hitched, and a gasp escaped his lips. His mechanical limbs jerked into motion, dragging his weary frame toward the darkened space beneath the staircase. Desperation clawed at him as he pressed himself into the shadows, his heart hammering like a drumbeat against his ribcage. He huddled there, his stitched shawl brushing the floor, as the doors swung open with deliberate slowness, revealing...

A figure.

Slim and lithe, the figure stepped through the doorway with an air of quiet surprise. They paused, one hand resting on the rose-carved handle, tilting their head as they regarded the peculiar way the doors had opened.

“Huh,” the figure muttered softly, the sound rich and lilting, sending a shiver down Adam’s spine. They tested the handle, wiggling it experimentally. “I wonder what trick this is.”

Adam stared, his button eyes wide and unblinking.

The figure appeared to be a man, though his appearance was far from ordinary. His skin was smooth and pale, almost porcelain-like, with rosy cheeks that seemed to glow faintly under the cold light. His hair—stingy yet soft-looking—was a peculiar combination of pale blonde and coral streaks, slicked back into a ducktail hairstyle with one playful tuft rebelliously sticking out.

But it was his eyes that ensnared Adam. They were unlike anything he had ever seen: light yellow on the outer edges, but fading into a deep, burning red at their centers. The strange, fiery hues radiated an unearthly beauty that made Adam’s chest ache, though he could not say why.

The man’s mouth, however, was something out of a nightmare. His lips were stitched at the corners with white thread, the stitches pulling his mouth into a wide, almost mocking smile. Behind that unsettling grin, Adam caught a glimpse of sharp teeth, glinting like tiny daggers.

His clothing was no less strange—a jumpsuit adorned with chaotic diamonds in bold reds, yellows, blues, and blacks. Around his neck was a grand Elizabethan ruff, as white as freshly fallen snow, and his wrists were framed with frilly cuffs. A leather belt cinched his waist, a small pouch resting on one side. Something about him suggested danger, a trickster’s chaos barely contained beneath the flamboyant attire.

Yet, despite the eeriness of his stitched smile, his eyes held a flicker of something else curiosity, perhaps. Or mischief.

Adam swallowed hard, the noise audibles even to his own ears. He’d seen doll-like figures before, plastered on posters and advertisements. They had grinned from cracked television screens, promising thrills and wonders in the hazy neon glow of carnival lights. But this man—this doll person—was real. And he was here.

And Adam? Adam was nothing special. He wasn’t a doll, wasn’t a marvel of craftsmanship. He was a monster now—stitched together, broken, twisted into something barely human.

The figure’s yellow-red eyes flicked toward the staircase, scanning the shadows with a precision that sent Adam’s heart into his throat. It felt as though those eyes might pierce the darkness, find him cowering like a wounded animal, and drag him into the light.

“I know you’re there,” the man said softly, his voice a silken thread that wove through the air with unnatural ease.

Adam froze, every nerve in his body screaming at him to stay silent, stay hidden. But his mechanical limbs betrayed him, releasing a faint, telltale whir.

The doll man’s lips curled into a sharper smile, his stitches tugging slightly.

“Come now,” he coaxed, his tone a playful melody tinged with something darker. “Hiding doesn’t suit you. And besides—”

He crouched low, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. “I don’t bite.”

He paused, then chuckled, the sound low and disarming. “Well, not unless you ask.”

Adam trembled, his spider limbs clicking nervously against the cold stone floor. He didn’t know whether to run or crawl forward. Every instinct in him screamed for flight, but something in the man’s tone... something in the way he spoke...

It felt as though the man were a part of this place, an extension of its strange, surreal beauty. And for reasons Adam couldn’t explain, a part of him wanted to know what would happen if he stepped into the light.

Adam drew in a shaky breath, the weight of inevitability settling over him like a damp shroud. There was no point in hiding now—the doll man had already spotted him, his strange, burning eyes scanning the shadows with unnerving precision. Resigned, Adam’s gaze fell to his own form, his patched-together frame a grotesque patchwork of scars, wires, and the mechanical limbs that whirred softly at his sides. A swell of dread churned in his chest. Would this man—no, this legend—be repulsed by him? Would he recoil, disgust etched into his too-perfect face?

Steeling himself, Adam’s spider-like limbs clicked against the floor as he began inching forward, his movements halting and unsteady. The mechanical joints released a faint hum with every step, a sound that seemed deafening in the vast, silent lounge. Slowly, he emerged from the shadows, his green button eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to meet the doll man’s gaze.

As he stepped into the light, a dreadful realization sank in, cold and heavy.

This wasn’t just anyone.

It was Lucifer Morningstar.

The name hit Adam like a slap, and for a moment, his legs threatened to give way beneath him. Lucifer Morningstar—star of the Hullabaloo Circus, a name spoken with reverence and awe across the circuit. He was a dazzling performer, famed for his silk-blond hair and infectious charm, a man whose blue button eyes had never betrayed an ounce of sorrow despite the horrors he’d survived. After the disaster that destroyed the Hullabaloo Circus, Lucifer had become a legend, a tragic figure whose sole purpose was to find the one responsible for the devastation of his home.

And now, he was standing here, in the Hazbin Circus.

Adam felt small. Worthless. He was no one, just a broken thing cobbled together by desperation and pain. Compared to Lucifer, he didn’t belong here. And yet, there was no turning back now.

Lucifer’s button eyes widened slightly as Adam stepped fully into view. There was no immediate revulsion on his face, but Adam kept his gaze firmly averted, unwilling to risk meeting the other man’s fiery stare.

“M-my name is Adam,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, strained and trembling with uncertainty. “I’ve heard a lot about you, M-Mister Morningstar, and, um...”

Lucifer tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. He shuffled one foot against the carpet, the faint scrapes an oddly human gesture from someone so otherworldly.

“Oh, Adam,” he murmured, as if tasting the name on his tongue. His voice was melodic, a strange mixture of curiosity and detached amusement. “What... what are you doing here?”

Adam hesitated, forcing himself to glance up at Lucifer’s face. The doll man’s expression wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t warm either. It was as if he was weighing something about Adam, a calculation hidden behind those bright, stitched features.

“Ah, um... I-I’m... flattered?” Adam muttered, fumbling for the words. “The host invited me to... uh...”

He trailed off, his nerves catching up to him. The reality of why he was here pressed down like a lead weight: he had to perform. To survive. To escape this pain that gnawed at him endlessly.

Lucifer arched a brow, his curiosity sharpening. “Honoured to perform, are we?”

Adam nodded quickly, his movements jerky. “Y-yes... that’s right. I was... invited to join the Hazbin Circus.”

His voice faltered, but he pressed on. “Um, this was left f-for us... this play for us. I haven’t had a chance to fully read it yet, but it—it’s on the table. M-maybe we could prepare together? I-I mean...”

Before Adam could finish, Lucifer turned sharply on his heel, striding toward the table with a grace that seemed almost theatrical. He snatched up the parchment and unfurled it, his mismatched button eyes scanning the inked words with an intensity that made Adam’s chest tighten.

“Five children go to the park,” Lucifer read aloud, his voice tinged with an edge of intrigue. “They arrive excited but leave with long faces.”

He lowered the parchment, glancing at Adam with a wry smile. “This is certainly... interesting. But, you see, it’s already quite late.”

Adam nodded automatically, his voice small. “Of course, of course... t-tomorrow, perhaps?”

Lucifer held the parchment out to him, his expression thoughtful. “Adam, this play needs at least five actors. There are only two of us here. We can’t hope to perform it alone.”

Adam’s hands trembled slightly as he took the parchment, his green button eyes skimming the cryptic words. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. “They’ll come. Someone will come. Why don’t we wait until everyone is here?”

Lucifer hummed softly, plucking a matchbox from the table. He struck a match with practiced ease, lighting the candles one by one. As the flickering flames illuminated the space, his gaze fell to the vase of flowers at the table’s centre. He pinched the clematis flower between his fingers, scoffing softly.

“Useless,” he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes before turning his attention back to the room. Picking up a freshly lit candle, he wandered past Adam, his curiosity piqued by the sprawling mansion.

“I plan to explore this place tomorrow,” Lucifer said, his tone lighter, almost playful. “We’ve never lived in such a grand place before, have we?”

“That’s true... M-Mister Morningstar,” Adam stammered, glancing at him nervously.

Lucifer turned back, fixing him with an amused smile.

“It’s Lucifer,” he corrected gently. “You can call me Lucifer.”

He gestured toward the parchment in Adam’s hands. “If you’re not interested in a tour, why not pick a role and practice? The last child... that one would suit you.”

Adam’s gaze dropped to the parchment again, the inked words swimming before his tired eyes. The final role did seem... easier. Less time in the spotlight. Less time for others to laugh at him.

Lucifer bowed slightly, his movements as graceful as a dancer’s. “Good night, Adam. It was nice to meet you.”

Adam’s heart clenched painfully.

“N-nice to meet you too,” he murmured, his voice barely audible as Lucifer turned and ascended the stairs.

Before disappearing from sight, Lucifer glanced back one last time, bowing fully with the flair of a true star.

“Good night, Adam,” he said softly, his voice lingering like the fading notes of a lullaby.

“G-good night, M-Mister Morningstar—uh, I mean... Lucifer,” Adam whispered, watching until the doll man vanished into the shadows above, leaving him alone once more in the cavernous lounge.

Adam waited in the heavy silence, his eyes fixed on the faint golden glow of Lucifer’s candle as it flickered out of sight. Only when the last glimmer disappeared did he let out a trembling breath, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion. Every inch of his patched-together body ached, a dull, gnawing pain that never let him rest. He wanted nothing more than to lie down, to sink into unconsciousness and hope that, by morning, the relentless burn and throb would ease.

But instead, his gaze fell back to the parchment on the table. The script. Their script. Zestial’s instructions were clear—this was the play they were to perform. Adam reread the lines, his mechanical limbs softly humming as he leaned closer. The final child. That role was a mirror of his reality—a figure twisted by their reflection, monstrous and malformed. It was a role meant for someone like him, someone grotesque, someone who belonged in the shadows.

And yet...

Adam’s button eyes lingered on the description of the paired children. Childhood lovers, their bond unbroken even in the face of darkness. Something deep within him ached, an unspoken wish clawing to the surface. He wanted that. Not the ridicule, not the disgust, but the tender devotion those characters shared. It was a foolish hope—he was no romantic lead, no beloved figure worthy of affection.

He whimpered softly, lowering his head in shame. What was he even thinking? Dreams like that weren’t for creatures like him. The final child, the broken one—that was his fate. It always had been.

The sound of a voice startled him, soft and almost hesitant.

“Excuse me? Is anybody here?”

Adam’s whole body jerked, his mechanical legs clumsily skittering as he scrambled away from the table. His limbs caught on the carpet, and he nearly toppled over in his rush to hide. He glanced toward the rose-themed doors just as they closed with an ominous thud, revealing a slender figure standing in the entryway.

A doll.

She was breathtaking, her pale porcelain skin glowing faintly in the dim candlelight. Golden, thread-like hair cascaded down her back, braided neatly to her ankles. Her large button eyes, cross-stitched with fine black thread, glimmered with an eerie depth. Mascara streaked her cheeks like faint tears, and her lips, painted in a soft pink, curved in a delicate expression of surprise. She wore a rich purple-and-pink fur coat, a coral pink leotard with intricate golden details, and satin slippers laced with gold trim. Yet her beauty was marred, her left forearm and right leg torn to reveal cotton stuffing spilling from within.

The moment their eyes met, her button eyes widened in fright. She released a shaky breath and stepped back, her movements halting and uncertain.

Adam froze, panic clawing at his chest. He tried to retreat further, but his mechanical limbs betrayed him, bumping against the table and sending the vase of flowers tumbling to the floor. He let out a broken whine, fumbling desperately to gather them up. His trembling hands and erratic limbs made the task nearly impossible.

To his shock, the doll did not flee.

Instead, she stepped forward, crouching gracefully to help. Her movements were delicate, as though she feared breaking something fragile. She picked up the fallen flowers and gently placed them back into the vase.

“I know you,” she said softly, her voice like a faint melody as she stood. She adjusted the vase carefully before turning her gaze back to Adam. “We met once, at Cowshuff Circus.”

Adam blinked, his green button eyes widening as the memory stirred, faint but familiar. His voice was hesitant, barely audible. “L-Lilith?”

Her expression didn’t soften. There was no smile, no spark of warmth. Instead, she raised a slender hand and pointed at him with a slow, deliberate motion. “You scared me, Adam.”

Her gaze swept over his mechanical body, lingering on the awkward joints and exposed wires. She took a cautious step back.

Turning her attention to the table, her eyes landed on the flower keys arranged neatly across its surface. She picked up the dahlia key and held it delicately.

“Adam,” she said, her voice quiet yet steady, “Were you also invited to perform?”

Adam swallowed hard, nodding quickly.

“Y-yes, I was. The h-host left this play for us to follow...” He held out the parchment with trembling hands.

Lilith—or was it still Lilith?—took the script carefully, holding it near one of the lit candles to read. “They want to ride the roller coaster, but there are only four seats...” she murmured, her stitched brows knitting together. “This is the play the host wants us to perform?”

Adam nodded again, his voice thin and anxious. “Y-yes... I think so. I was just trying to familiarize myself with the parts.”

A faint frown touched her lips. She tapped the edge of the parchment thoughtfully. “Hmm. It reads like a folk rhyme. For it to become a real play, we’ll need to adapt it... carefully.”

Adam’s breath hitched. “O-oh, it’s such an honour, Lilith.”

His mind flickered with fragmented memories from his time at Fred’s Circus—half-forgotten faces, endless ridicule, and the suffocating dark of the storage trunks where he was locked away. But he remembered her. Lilith. She and her partner had once visited Fred’s Circus. He’d never met her partner, but Lilith herself had been dazzling, kind even. When they left without joining, Fred had been in a foul rage, taking his anger out on Adam with brutal kicks and curses.

Lilith’s button eyes darted back to the table. “Has someone not arrived yet?”

Adam followed her gaze, his voice soft. “Um... y-yes. There’s still one more key, but... there are six flowers in the vase. I-I think two people might have arrived before me.”

She tilted her head, muttering something under her breath.

Adam blinked, leaning forward slightly. “Um, d-did you say something, Lilith?”

She shook her head, handing the parchment back to him. “It’s nothing. Just a thought. Let me consider how we can arrange all of this.”

Without another word, she turned and began climbing the staircase.

“G-good night, Lilith,” Adam called weakly.

She paused halfway up, glancing back over her shoulder. Her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Adam, by the way... I am now called Margara, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Adam’s mechanical legs shifted nervously. “Y-yes, Margara... W-what a beautiful name. Just as pretty as Lilith... G-good night.”

Margara nodded once before continuing up the stairs. Adam watched her until she disappeared into the shadowed landing, the faint sound of her steps fading into silence.

And he was alone again.

Adam was alone again. The silence of the lounge pressed in around him, cold and suffocating. Lucifer and Lilith—no, Margara—had been kind to him. At least, kinder than most. They hadn’t hit him. They hadn’t kicked him. But Adam wasn’t naive; he had seen it in their button eyes—the flickers of judgment, the hints of disgust, the undertones of fear. It always lingered, no matter how polite their words were.

He turned his gaze to the table where the final key still lay untouched, its glimmer a quiet reminder that someone else was meant to join them. Adam squirmed uneasily, his mechanical limbs clicking softly as they shifted. His green button eyes flicked to the staircases, looming and grand, and then down to the metal spider-like appendages attached to his frail, patchwork body.

There was no way.

The stairs were impossible for someone like him. His oversized, grotesque anatomy would never fit, let alone allow him to ascend. The thought of struggling halfway up, only to get stuck, made his chest tighten with dread. His buttons glistened as tears welled up, spilling over in hot, silent trails. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at the hulking mass of metal fused to him, its polished, unyielding form so alien, so hideous.

Once, he had been small. Fragile, yes, but whole. Human. Now, he was a monstrous thing, stitched together with wires and screws. A mockery of what he used to be. His body, once his own, had become a cage.

A soft, broken whimper escaped his lips as he sniffled, dragging himself forward. The lounge was vast, its towering shadows swallowing him whole. He scuttled awkwardly, the mechanical legs clinking and scraping against the floor as he moved toward one of the massive doorframes. He peeked through, but it was pitch black beyond—a void.

Of course, he couldn’t see in the dark. His grotesque transformation hadn’t granted him any spider-like abilities. Not that he would have wanted that, anyway.

Adam twisted back, his gaze returning to the staircases. The left one caught his eye, its shadowy alcove revealing another door. Maybe... just maybe.

Dragging himself closer, he leaned his weight against the door, testing it with his shoulder. The wooden frame groaned but gave way, sliding open just enough to reveal a narrow, cramped storage cupboard. The faint smell of dust and old wood met his nose, and the shadows inside seemed less daunting than the abyss beyond the larger doors.

The space was small—just enough to hold a few boxes and scattered odds and ends. It would be tight, suffocating even, but it was better than risking the stairs. Better than being found stuck in the morning, humiliated and helpless.

Adam inhaled deeply, steadying himself, and began squeezing his bulk into the cupboard. The mechanical limbs scraped and folded awkwardly as he maneuverer himself inside. At last, he managed to turn around, lying down as best as he could. He crossed the sharp, mechanical arms over his chest and rested his head atop them, his shiny, tear-streaked green buttons reflecting the faint sliver of moonlight spilling through the small window above.

The moon was beautiful, shimmering like a beacon in the darkness. Adam stared at it, his thoughts drifting to another time, another place. He had grown used to sleeping in tight spaces—dumpsters, alleys, cardboard boxes—but this felt heavier somehow. The weight of the silence, of his monstrous body, pressed down on him like never before.

His throat tightened as he sniffled, a quiet sound that barely broke the stillness. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be this. The thought of home crept into his mind—his real home.

‘Mama... will you still love me?’

His voice trembled in his head as he fought back the sobs rising in his chest. Would she accept him? Would she still see the boy he used to be beneath the layers of metal and despair?

Adam’s eyes grew heavy, the overwhelming exhaustion finally overtaking him. As his mind began to slip into restless dreams, a single tear slid down his porcelain cheek, pooling where it fell. The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was the moonlight, a fleeting comfort in the suffocating dark.

Whining softly, Adam stirred as a sliver of light streamed through the cupboard’s tiny window, landing on his face. His button eyes fluttered open, groggy and disoriented, but it wasn’t just the light that had roused him—it was the voices.

Raised voices.

Nearly arguing.

“See? I told you! Most people might miss this performance, but not our superstar, Lilith! Oh wait—sorry, it’s Margaretha now, isn’t it?” Lucifer’s mocking tone rang through the space, sharp as a blade.

Adam blinked, his curiosity piqued and his heart pounding. What was happening? His head lifted slightly, the dull ache in his mechanical limbs momentarily forgotten as he strained to hear.

“Running off again, Lilith?” Lucifer’s voice rose, dripping with accusation and scorn.

“That’s all over now, Morningstar!” snapped a sharp voice from above—the unmistakable edge of Lilith, though the anger in her tone made her sound almost unrecognizable. “Move on, like the rest of us! Stop clinging to the past!”

Lucifer released a sharp, humourless laugh, bitter and venomous.

“No. It won’t ever end, you shameful liars, deserters—” He paused, his voice a venomous hiss. “Murderers.”

The word struck like a thunderclap, reverberating in the silence that followed.

A door slammed upstairs, rattling the walls. Adam jumped at the sound, his mechanical legs clinking noisily against the wooden floor of the cupboard as he scrambled to steady himself. His breath hitched, his entire body stiffening with fear.

The tension in the air was suffocating. He dared not move, afraid to draw attention to his hiding place. What was Lucifer talking about? Liars, deserters, murderers. The words repeated in his mind, icy tendrils of unease wrapping around his thoughts. He’d always known something terrible had happened at Hullabaloo, but this? Could Margaretha—Lilith—have been part of that same catastrophe?

“Hmph,” Lucifer’s voice broke the silence again, colder now, almost distant. “Same as ever, Joker. Always lurking in the shadows, aren’t you?”

A soft hum came from across the lounge, and a voice Adam didn’t recognize—delicate, feminine—spoke hesitantly. “You... you shouldn’t speak to her like that. She doesn’t deserve it.”

Adam froze, his button eyes widening in curiosity. Who was that?

“Oh?” Lucifer’s tone twisted, laced with mocking incredulity. “And what should I call her then? A charlatan? A deserter? Or perhaps...”

“Don’t.”

The stranger’s voice cut him off, firm but low, trembling with restrained anger. “She’s none of those things. Don’t call her those names!”

Lucifer exhaled sharply, a sigh of frustration. “Joker—or should I say Eve? I understand she’s your friend, but—”

“She’s not just my friend!” Joker—Eve?—interjected fiercely, her voice trembling but resolute. “I wasn’t there, Lucifer! Steve sent me out that day for procurement. You knew that! It was Sentience Day—my presence wasn’t needed there. You can’t put this on me!”

Adam squinted through the crack in the cupboard door, his curiosity overtaking his fear. From the shadows, he could just make out the speaker: a petite female doll standing stiffly, her posture defensive.

She was unlike anyone Adam had seen before. Her pale skin bore scuffs and stitches, her tangled red curls spilling in chaotic waves. A single tear of black mascara streaked her cheek, her grey button eyes glinting faintly with sorrow and defiance. She wore a peculiar ensemble—part mime, part soldier—a black vest over a grey blouse, a red scarf with white polka dots draped loosely around her neck. Her right leg was entirely metal, a clinking prosthetic that glinted as she shifted her weight. A tiny black top hat sat askew on her head, a daisy poking cheerily from its ribbon, a stark contrast to the bitterness in her voice.

Adam’s gaze lingered on her in fascination. Joker? Or was she Eve? Lucifer had called her both, and neither name seemed to fit perfectly.

“None of us were innocent,” Lucifer’s voice softened, tinged with an edge of bitterness. “Not you, not her. Not me. But you can’t expect me to forget what happened. Not after—”

“Enough.” Joker’s voice quavered, but there was a finality to it. “Don’t pretend you’re the only one who lost something, Lucifer. I may not have been there, but do you think that spared me from what came after?”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging thick in the air. Adam’s heart thudded in his chest, confusion swirling with dread. He didn’t understand half of what they were talking about, but the pain in their voices was unmistakable.

Lucifer let out a sharp exhale, and his footsteps echoed as he moved toward the door. “Believe what you want, Joker. But don’t expect me to forgive her—or you. Not yet.”

Squeezing his button eyes shut, Adam braced himself, expecting the familiar burning agony to ignite through his veins as he moved. He stiffened, waiting for the pain—but instead, there was only a dull, throbbing ache. Hesitant, Adam cracked open his eyes, blinking in confusion.

He glanced down at his body, then craned his neck to inspect the mechanical spider limbs that bound him. Tentatively, he moved one of the spindly metal arms, touching its cool surface with his small hand. There was no fiery pain, no stabbing sensation that usually accompanied movement. Instead, just a strange, muted pressure.

A shaky breath escaped him. His mechanical hand flexed, fingers moving smoothly, almost easily. It shouldn’t feel like this, but somehow, it did. Adam blinked rapidly, rummaging through his shawl until his fingers found the familiar bottle of yellow pills.

His breath hitched as he stared at the bottle. These pills—could they really be responsible for this strange relief? Hope flickered, fragile as candlelight. He fumbled with the lid, his hands trembling.

Before he could pry it open, the front doors burst open with a thunderous crash, the icy wind howling through the lounge. Snow swirled inside, glittering in the faint light, the freezing air biting at Adam’s skin.

“Damn, it’s freezing out there,” came a deep, unfamiliar voice.

“Michael?” Lucifer’s gasp was one of pure surprise, his voice lifting in genuine delight. “Good heavens, it’s splendid to see you again!”

Lucifer’s tone was unrecognizable—warm, even joyful. Adam stiffened, his button eyes darting to the edge of his hiding spot as Lucifer’s words took on a buoyancy he had never heard before.

“Lucifer,” the stranger—Michael—replied, his voice softer now, touched with relief. “I’m happy to see you too. Did you receive an invitation as well?”

“Something like that,” Lucifer laughed, brushing snow from Michael’s shoulders. “Is the snow heavy out there?”

Michael nodded, his expression shadowed with concern. “It’s not letting up. We’d best stay here until it eases.”

“That might be... problematic,” Joker’s voice broke through, quiet but weighty. She stood apart, her hands folded tightly in front of her, eyes downcast. “I’ve checked the kitchen. There isn’t much food left.”

Michael turned toward her, his expression softening. “Steve? Wait—no, Eve. I barely recognized you—it’s been so long.”

Joker nodded briefly, her movements stiff and guarded. “It has been a while, Michael.”

Lucifer shifted, throwing a casual arm around Michael’s shoulders, though his gaze flicked uneasily toward Joker. “Don’t fret about supplies. We’ve been reunited, and that’s fortune enough.”

Michael’s face brightened with a smile, but his tone carried hesitation. “And how is everyone?”

Joker’s posture tightened, her shoulders drawing inward.

“It’s nearly lunchtime,” she murmured, retreating a step. “I’ll prepare something in the kitchen. I was always good at cooking.”

“Wait, Eve—” Michael started, reaching toward her. But she was already slipping through the doors leading to the kitchen, vanishing without another word.

Michael turned to Lucifer, confusion clouding his button eyes. “Lucifer, what’s happened? Did I say something wrong? I’ve been gone for so long...”

Lucifer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as though the question weighed heavily on him. “It’s... complicated.”

Adam barely registered their conversation, his focus consumed by the pills in his hand. He wrestled the cap off, spilling three pills into his trembling palm. Without hesitation, he swallowed them, chasing the hope they offered, the promise of dulling the ache.

But as the pills dissolved, his vision began to blur at the edges. A strange haze settled over his mind, muffling everything like a thick, dreamlike fog. He reached into his shawl again, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment—the play he was supposed to study.

“Moon, River, Massacre,” he read aloud, his voice wobbling, a giggle slipping free. “That’s what they called it! The massacre! A lunatic slaughtered everyone!”

His laughter grew louder, uncontrollable. His mechanical legs twitched and jerked as he stumbled out of his hiding place, twirling clumsily into the open.

“Everyone, everyone!” Adam sang, his voice lilting with an eerie, childlike melody. “Oh, did I frighten you, Michael? I was frightened too! Wasn’t it convincing? My performance?”

Michael stared at him, bewildered, his expression flickering between concern and alarm. He glanced at Lucifer, who pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated.

“Adam,” Lucifer said sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. “Enough.”

The command stopped Adam cold. His laughter died in his throat, and his green button eyes widened, glimmering with sudden hurt. He hunched over, his mechanical limbs retracting slightly as though trying to make himself smaller.

“A-alright,” Adam stammered, his voice trembling. “I’ll say no more. I’ll leave now... It’s dreadful, isn’t it? My performance... I’m sorry, Lucifer.”

His spider legs scraped softly against the floor as he backed away, folding in on himself. A laugh threatened to bubble up again, but he bit it down, his vision swimming with glittering pink and blue.

Michael’s jaw tightened as he looked at Lucifer. Without a word, he stepped forward and crouched beside Adam, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Adam,” Michael said softly, his voice steady and warm. “Don’t be frightened. Lucifer is just... unsettled. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

The warmth in his words broke through the fog clouding Adam’s mind. He nodded hesitantly, letting Michael’s touch guide him toward the kitchen. The doors creaked open as Michael led him through, but Adam didn’t look back. He couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever awaited in the kitchen, in Joker’s quiet sadness, held secrets far heavier than the snowstorm raging outside.

Michael lingered by the doorway, casting a long look at Lucifer. "I'm sorry, Luci. I didn’t know..." His voice was quiet, a tender apology weighted with years of distance.

Lucifer offered a faint, wistful smile. "It’s alright, Mike. Truly, I’m fine. You should check on them, though. After all..."

His gaze shifted, his expression softening. "No one here knows how to survive in these conditions like you."

Michael hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Alright.”

He patted Lucifer’s shoulder and turned, following Adam into the kitchen.

Adam was already marvelling at the towering cabinets and polished counters, his mechanical legs clicking softly against the tiled floor as he spun around. His button eyes gleamed, shimmering like wet glass under the warm kitchen light.

Joker was by the counter, her hands moving deftly as she tried to scrape together something edible from their meagre supplies. She glanced at Adam, her red hair a tangle of shadow and fire under the faint light. Her lips pressed into a thin line, wary of the excitable doll bounding toward her.

Michael, however, crouched slightly, his tone soft. "Adam? What do you think of the kitchen?"

Adam beamed, his lips curling into a wide smile as his spider-like limbs clattered behind him. “It’s so big! Bigger than me! And look! Look at all the pots!”

He pointed with one of the mechanical arms, which wobbled unsteadily. “Do you use them all at once? Are they magic pots? Ooh, do they sing songs?!"

Joker blinked, caught off guard by his childish enthusiasm. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Michael chuckled, stepping closer. “Not magic, Adam. Just regular old pots.”

Adam giggled, spinning on one heel, his shawl fluttering slightly. "Pots! Pots everywhere! Ooh, Joker, is that your name? Is it because you make jokes? Can I tell you one? What do you call a spider with no legs? A raisin!"

Michael stifled a laugh, but Joker’s lips twitched.

“That’s... an interesting one,” she murmured, her voice hesitant but not unkind.

Adam tilted his head, his green button eyes wide. "Do you like jokes? I bet you do, you have funny hair! It’s all red and wild, like fire! I like fire... but it hurts sometimes, doesn’t it?”

His voice trailed off into a whisper, and his gaze briefly clouded before brightening again.

Joker blinked, startled by the sudden shift, but Michael placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. She glanced at him, his warm smile encouraging her to relax.

“Adam,” Michael began, crouching to meet him at eye level, “Have you eaten today?”

Adam froze, his mechanical legs stilling as he hummed thoughtfully. “Eaten? Ohhh, that’s a funny word! Eaaaaten! Eee-eee-aten!”

He twirled in a quick circle, his giggles ringing like chimes. "Nope! Don’t think so. Or maybe? Hmm, I don’t remember!”

Michael’s smile faded, concern creeping into his expression. “You don’t remember?”

“Nope!” Adam chirped, stopping mid-spin to gaze up at Michael.

“But I’m not hungry, promise! I’m just... exploring!” His eyes sparkled with childish wonder as they darted around the kitchen.

Joker stepped forward cautiously, a plate of crackers in her hand. “Adam, maybe you could try just a little something?” Her voice was softer now, her walls lowering slightly.

Adam shook his head vigorously, his shawl slipping slightly. “No thank you! Not hungry!”

His tone was cheerful, but there was a nervous edge to his movements.

Michael frowned. “What about water? Have you had any?”

Adam blinked, tilting his head like a curious bird. “Water? Nope! Don’t need it! I have lots of energy! See?”

He darted across the kitchen, his limbs clicking erratically as he bounced from one end to the other.

Joker started to step forward again, but Michael stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. He shook his head silently, his expression one of quiet understanding. Joker hesitated, her lips parting in protest before she relented with a small nod, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“Alright,” Michael said, his voice steady. “But let us know if you need anything, okay?”

Adam nodded enthusiastically, already distracted by the gleaming counters and flickering light fixtures. “Okay, Michael! Bye-bye!”

Before either of them could stop him, Adam clattered out of the kitchen, humming a soft, tuneless melody as he wandered into the hallway.

The hallway was dim, but Adam’s vision blurred and sparkled, the edges of his sight tinged with pink and blue hues. He giggled to himself, his mechanical legs moving erratically as he explored.

His button eyes landed on a series of portraits lining the walls. He gasped, stepping closer. The faces were exquisite, painted with delicate strokes that made them seem almost alive. The colours swirled and shimmered in his drugged haze, each portrait a kaleidoscope of beauty.

“So pretty...” he whispered, reaching out with one of his mechanical arms. But the hand hovered awkwardly, far too large and unwieldy to touch anything without risk of damaging it.

Adam pouted, lowering the arm as his gaze shifted to a cluster of painted handprints further down the wall. Bright reds, blues, and yellows stood out against the pale surface. He placed one of his mechanical hands against the wall, comparing it to the prints.

They were so small, so delicate. His, by contrast, was monstrous—cold, sharp, and grotesque.

“I’m too big,” he murmured, his voice tinged with disappointment.

For a moment, the haze cleared, and sadness flickered in his green button eyes. But then the melody returned to his lips, and he spun away, his humming growing louder as he continued his aimless journey through the strange, endless house.

Adam wandered the corridors of the mansion, his mechanical legs clicking rhythmically against the ornate wooden floor. His vision sparkled, the edges of his sight tinged with candy-coloured hues. Everything felt magical, larger than life. He tilted his head, humming a soft, tuneless melody as he ran a mechanical hand lightly along the walls.

Paintings, vases, mirrors—each thing he passed captured his attention with its strange beauty. But as he turned a corner, his gaze fell on a grand window framing the gardens outside. His button eyes widened, green threads catching the faint light.

“Flowers!” he whispered, almost reverently. “So many flowers!”

He pressed his face close to the glass, his breath fogging it. The gardens sprawled out in a maze of colour, each bed bursting with blooms in pinks, yellows, blues, and reds. The sight tugged at something deep within him—a longing he couldn’t name.

Reaching for the latch and eager to step outside, when a noise from a nearby room pulled Adam’s attention. He turned, curiosity overriding his plans, and shuffled toward the slightly ajar door.

Inside, a figure stood with his back to Adam, the air around him humming faintly with an otherworldly energy. The man turned as Adam entered, revealing a sharp grin filled with rows of emerald-green teeth. His hair fell in messy, ink-black waves, and his piercing eyes seemed to glow faintly.

“Zestial!” Adam cried, his voice bright with excitement. He hurried toward the man, his mechanical limbs clicking erratically.

Zestial’s grin widened as he held out his hands. “Adam, my boy! Come here.”

Adam grabbed Zestial’s hands eagerly, his small, stitched fingers dwarfed by Zestial’s long, clawed ones.

“I’m so happy to see you!” Adam gushed. “You’re here! You’re really here!”

Zestial chuckled, his voice smooth and laced with mischief. “I am indeed. And look at you, all full of energy. How are you feeling? Any pain?”

Shaking his head vigorously, Adam’s green button eyes shining. “Nope! None at all! And it’s all thanks to you! You took it all away!”

Zestial’s grin grew wider, almost predatory. “Good, good. You’ve been taking your pills, haven’t you?”

Adam nodded. “Three in the morning, three in the evening, just like you said!”

Zestial leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Double promise?”

Adam giggled, crossing his heart with a stitched finger. “Cross my heart and hope to die!”

Zestial snorted in amusement, patting Adam’s head. “Careful with those words, little one. Now, tell me—do you like my mansion? Hazbin’s a special place, isn’t it?”

Nodding his head fervently, Adam held tightly to Zestial’s hands as they began to walk down the corridor. The faint glow of pink lights framed their path. “I love it! It’s so big and pretty! But, um...”

He hesitated, glancing up at Zestial. “I’m too big to go up to my room! My legs don’t fit on the stairs. But I found a hidey hole!”

Zestial chuckled, his grip firm yet oddly comforting. “A hidy hole, you say? Well, perhaps I’ll sort out a proper room for you on the ground floor. How does that sound?”

Adam’s face lit up. “Really? Oh, thank you, Zestial! You’re the best!”

Smirking, Zestial steered Adam along the hall. “Now, about the play. Have you picked a part yet?”

Shrugging, Adam’s mechanical legs clicking softly as they moved. “Everyone keeps saying I should be the last child. I don’t know why, but I’m just happy they’re letting me join! I want to do a good job so I can go home!”

Zestial’s grin softened, a shadow of something unreadable passing over his face. “And you will, Adam. Once the performance is done, I’ll make sure you get home to your mother.”

Adam beamed, his excitement bubbling over. “Really? Oh, thank you, Zestial!”

As they walked, Zestial’s tone grew contemplative. “Do you like the others? Lucifer, Lilith, Eve... Michael?”

Adam tilted his head, his voice dropping slightly. “I guess so. Lucifer yelled at me today, though. I think I made him mad...”

Chuckling darkly, Zestial patted Adam’s hand. “Ah, Lucifer. Always the temperamental one. And Lilith... she’s got her own demons to wrestle. But tell me, Adam, are you aware of the fifth member?”

Adam blinked up at him, confusion knitting his button brows. “Fifth member? Who?”

“Steve,” Zestial said, his grin returning. “Though some might say Steve looks an awful lot like Eve—or Joker, as you know her.”

Adam frowned, his mechanical hands twitching slightly. “Joker’s name is Eve, not Steve. Steve’s someone else!”

The grip on Adam’s hand tightened slightly, though Zestial’s tone remained light. “Perhaps. But wouldn’t you like to find out? Call her Steve next time, won’t you?”

Adam pouted, his childish frustration bubbling up. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

Ruffling Adam’s hair, Zestial laughed. “Because it’s more fun this way. You’ll do it, won’t you?”

Adam huffed but nodded reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“That’s my boy.”

As they reached the end of the corridor, Zestial paused, gesturing to a set of glass doors that led outside. “Now, Adam, do you want to see the gardens?”

Adam’s face lit up with uncontainable joy. “Yes, yes! I really do!”

With a dramatic flourish, Zestial pushed the doors open. “Then go on. Explore. There are greenhouses, too, if you’d like.”

Gasping, Adam’s mechanical legs clicking erratically as he darted forward into the sprawling garden. The cold air was crisp against his fabric skin, and the colours of the flowers shimmered in his drugged haze like living rainbows.

“Zestial!” he called, turning back to share his excitement. But the doorway was empty.

“Zestial?” Adam called again, his voice quieter this time. He stepped closer, peering back into the mansion, but there was no sign of the man.

The wind rustled softly through the garden, carrying the faint scent of flowers. Adam hugged himself, his mechanical arms folding inwards as a faint, inexplicable unease settled over him.

“Zestial?” he whispered one last time, but the only answer was the rustling of leaves.

he heavy double doors to the garden creaked open, the sound slicing through the mansion's eerie stillness. Adam peeked out, his glowing eyes scanning the snow-blanketed world beyond. His heart raced with a longing that felt almost painful. He wanted to go outside—no, needed to. The flowers, the bare trees, the animals that might brave the cold—he yearned for the solace they promised. The chill in the air pricked his exposed skin, yet something was wrong. The world beyond the threshold was empty. Hollow.

"Zestial said it was fine for me to go outside," Adam whispered to himself, as if reassuring the nagging doubt in his mind.

The spider-like limbs of his prostheses hummed softly, the mechanical joints releasing faint clicks and buzzes as he stepped forward. One clawed hand gripped the doorframe, steadying him, when suddenly a voice, sharp and alarmed, shattered the quiet.

"Adam!"

He flinched violently, stumbling back as his glowing eyes darted around in panic. His movements were clumsy, spinning twice in search of the voice's source. Finally, he spotted Lucifer descending the winding staircase, his face twisted with urgency.

"Lucifer," Adam mumbled, barely audible over the quiet hum of his prosthetics. He hadn’t even noticed those steps when Zestial had led him to the back of the mansion earlier.

Reaching towards him, Lucifer’s porcelain-like face contorted in a mixture of concern and frustration. His red and gold button eyes, glinting with an otherworldly light, focused intently on Adam.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low and strained.

Adam pouted, his hand gesturing toward the open doors.

“Going outside,” he replied simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Lucifer’s brows furrowed deeply. His voice rose, the tension unmistakable. “What? Are you out of your mind? You can’t go outside, Adam!”

The reprimand stung, and Adam recoiled slightly. The earlier fight from this morning still lingered in his mind, and the hurt bubbled up in his chest. He squared his shoulders defiantly.

“I want to see the gardens!” he yelled back, his voice tinged with a childlike petulance.

Freezing for a moment, Lucifer’s jaw working soundlessly as if wrestling with words that wouldn’t come. His gaze flickered between the open doors and Adam, then hardened. Without another word, he strode to the threshold, slammed the doors shut with a thunderous echo, and stretched upward to lock them with a swift motion.

“You can’t go outside, Adam,” Lucifer snapped, turning back to face him, his frown deep and unyielding. “It’s snowing. Heavily.”

“Why not?!” Adam countered, his voice trembling with frustration.

Lucifer exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair as though searching for patience. “Adam, I don’t know exactly what your prostheses are made of, but they look mechanical to me. If you go out there in that storm, the cold will freeze them. They’ll ice over, and... and you could die. Don’t you understand how dangerous it is for you to be out there?”

Adam’s defiance faltered. He glanced down at his spindly mechanical limbs, their once gleaming surfaces dulled by time. Shame curled in his stomach as he mumbled, “Yes, yes, you’re right.”

Lucifer’s tense posture softened ever so slightly. A breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding escaped him. He crouched down in front of Adam, his sharp gaze scanning his face.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, his tone careful, almost gentle.

Blinking, Adam was taken aback by the question. “What do you mean? I’m fine.”

Frowning, Lucifer clicked his tongue softly. “It’s just… you’re different from last night. The way you’re talking, acting—something feels off.”

Adam snorted dismissively. “I’m fine! Completely fine!”

“Alright, fine. You’re okay,” he muttered. Lucifer straightened, his expression sceptical but resigned. “Can’t blame a guy for being concerned.”

Expression darkened, and Adam muttered bitterly, “Like you care anyway.”

Lucifer froze, his button eyes narrowing. “Of course I care. I wouldn’t have stopped you if I didn’t.”

“You yelled at me,” Adam said, his voice cracking. “You hate me. You find me disgusting, like everyone else.”

Lucifer’s mouth fell open, genuine shock flashing across his face. “Adam…”

His voice softened. “I don’t even know you well enough to hate you. And I certainly don’t find you disgusting.”

“Everyone does,” Adam whispered, his voice barely audible now. His mechanical limbs creaked faintly as he drew them closer to his body.

For a long moment, there was silence between them, thick and heavy. Then Lucifer sat down on the cold floor, directly in front of Adam.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you earlier. That was wrong of me.”

Lips quivering, but he didn’t speak. Adam’s stubborn, childlike demeanour began to crumble as Lucifer continued.

“I don’t hate you, Adam. Nor do I find you disgusting. Your prostheses… sure, they’re surprising, but that doesn’t make you any less than anyone else. You’re you, and that’s enough.”

Adam’s eyes, filled with a flicker of hope, met Lucifer’s.

“Really?” he asked, his voice fragile.

Nodding, the tension easing from Lucifer’s features. “Really.”

The snow outside howled against the windows, a haunting melody that seemed to echo Adam’s turmoil. Yet, in the quiet warmth of Lucifer’s gaze, there was an unexpected promise of something Adam hadn’t felt in a long time—acceptance.

Tilting his head thoughtfully, the tension from their earlier exchange dissipating as he observed Adam’s childlike pout. His mechanical limbs twitched faintly, betraying his nervous energy. Lucifer decided to try a softer approach, one that might coax Adam out of his shell without pressuring him.

"Hey," Lucifer began, his tone light. "Why don’t we play a game? Something fun."

Blinking, Adam’s luminous eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“A… game?” he asked hesitantly.

Lucifer grinned, sitting cross-legged on the floor as if to prove he wasn’t going anywhere. “Yeah. Ever played Twenty Questions?”

Adam tilted his head like a curious bird, the unfamiliar name sparking something in him. “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s easy,” Lucifer explained. “We take turns asking each other questions—any questions we want—and we have to answer honestly. It’s a way to get to know each other better.”

Brow furrowing, Adam’s mechanical limbs twitching faintly as he considered this.

“Nobody’s ever played games with me before,” he admitted softly, his voice tinged with an odd mix of sadness and wonder.

Lucifer’s chest tightened at the confession, but he smiled warmly. “Well, then, I guess it’s about time someone did. I’ll go first. What’s your favourite colour?”

Perking up at the simple question, Adam’s expression brightening. “Oh! I like yellow. It’s warm, like sunlight. What about you?”

Chuckling, Lucifer was pleased by the enthusiasm. “Hmm… I think I like red. It’s bold, like fire.”

Humming thoughtfully, as though committing this information to memory.

“Red suits you. You’re like fire. You’re warm too,” he said matter-of-factly.

Lucifer’s grin softened. “Your turn.”

Twiddling his fingers, Adam’s excitement bubbling over. “What did you do in your circus? Did you juggle? Did you do flips? Did people clap for you?”

Lucifer laughed at the barrage of questions, his button eyes glinting with fondness. “One at a time, Adam. Yes, I juggled. And yeah, people liked what I could do. They used to call me ‘The Cute Juggler,’ if you can believe that.”

Jaw dropping, Adam’s childlike awe shining through. “Cute? You?!”

He tilted his head dramatically, studying Lucifer as though trying to find the "cute" hidden in him.

“Hey!” Lucifer said with mock offense, playfully poking Adam’s arm. “I was pretty popular back in the day, you know.”

Adam giggled—a sweet, airy sound that made Lucifer’s chest ache in an oddly pleasant way. “What do they call you now?”

Hesitating, a shadow of uncertainty crossing Lucifer’s face. “I… don’t know, honestly. Haven’t thought about it.”

Adam’s face lit up with an idea, his tone brimming with pride as he declared, “Acrobat! You’re like an acrobat now, with all those moves you do.”

Lucifer chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Acrobat, huh? You’ve got a talent for naming things, Adam.”

Puffing out his chest proudly, clearly pleased with the compliment. Adam beamed cutely.

“What did you do in your circus?” Lucifer asked, his tone softer now. “What was your performance like?”

Adam’s smile faltered slightly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I was with the Cowshuff Circus,” he muttered.

Eyes brightening up, Lucifer nodded thoughtfully. “That’s right. I remember. The ringmaster was Fred, wasn’t it?”

Adam seemed to shrink in on himself, his shoulders hunching. “That’s right… Fred.”

Leaning forward, and lowering his voice to a gentle whisper. Lucifer spoke. “Did Fred… kick you out of the Cowshuff?”

Adam didn’t answer, his gaze fixed firmly on the tiles beneath him. Lucifer hesitated before trying another approach. “The mechanical spider limbs you have now… were they his idea?”

“I don’t like to perform,” Adam blurted suddenly, his voice cracking with emotion.

Lucifer blinked, taken aback. “You… don’t like to perform? Then why—why did you accept the invitation to join the circus?”

Lowering his head, Adam’s expression heartbreakingly similar to a scolded child. He didn’t answer, and Lucifer bit his lip, uncertain how to proceed.

“I just… I figured you loved it,” Lucifer admitted quietly. “The way you’re acting now… I thought the stage was where you wanted to be.”

Adam’s glowing, pink-and-blue-tinged vision flickered as he stared at the floor. Something was off—Lucifer could feel it in the way Adam’s movements seemed sluggish, his responses disconnected. He tilted his head, trying to meet Adam’s eyes.

“You know,” Lucifer began softly, “I saw you perform once.”

Adam’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You… you did? You saw me?”

Grinning widely, a hint of nostalgia in Lucifer’s expression. “Sure did. I was just a kid at the time, but I remember thinking you were amazing. Cute, even.”

Adam recoiled as though the word had physically struck him.

“I was not cute!” he huffed, his voice rising with indignation.

Lucifer laughed, the sound light and teasing. “Oh, you absolutely were.”

Muttering something unintelligible under his breath, Adam’s cheeks puffing out in a childish pout as he stood abruptly. He wandered past Lucifer, heading back toward the mansion.

“Hey, wait!” Lucifer called, scrambling to his feet. He hurried after Adam, his boots echoing against the cold tile. “Don’t just walk away!”

Adam didn’t respond, his mechanical limbs clicking faintly as he moved. Lucifer caught up to him, falling into step beside him. The unease from earlier returned, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Something wasn’t right with Adam, and Lucifer wasn’t about to let him retreat into solitude without finding out what.

The group entered the living room, the crackling of the fire casting a warm, golden glow across the space. Adam gasped, his mechanical limbs twitching as he hurried toward the fireplace, his glowing green button eyes fixated on the dancing flames. He lowered himself beside it, his spindly hands reaching out as though to touch the warmth without risking the frostbitten cold of his mechanical parts.

Michael stood near the fireplace, smiling warmly. “I thought this would make the room a bit cozier.”

Glancing toward the window where the snowstorm outside howled and roared. Michael sighed. “It seems the storm has only grown fiercer.”

Entering the room, Lucifer’s gaze sweeping briefly to Joker, who stood awkwardly by the wall, before landing on Adam. He exchanged a look with Michael—one of silent understanding—before leaning casually against the fireplace’s stone mantle.

Breaking the quiet, Joker cleared her throat and stepped forward hesitantly. “I’ve… I’ve been practicing my act…Would you like to see it?”

Adam perked up immediately, clapping his mechanical hands together with audible enthusiasm.

“Oh yes! I’d love to see it, Joker!” His excitement was contagious, his button eyes practically glowing as they darted between her and the others.

Smirking, Lucifer crossed his arms. “Sure. Let’s show each other what we’ve got and decide what to put on stage for the play.”

Michael clapped a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, his grin wide. “Brilliant idea! It’ll be good to see how we can work together.”

Adam beamed, fishing a crinkled parchment from the folds of his shawl.

“The play!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait!”

As Joker began to perform, her movements graceful yet tentative, the atmosphere in the room shifted to one of focus and anticipation. Adam and Michael shared a smile, clapping their hands in time with the rhythm of her act. Adam’s expression was alight with joy, his attention locked onto Joker as she twirled and spun.

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he blurted out, “Oh, Steve! You’re so wonderful!”

The room froze. Joker stopped mid-spin, her hands lowering to her sides as she stared at Adam in shock. Lucifer pushed off the mantle, his button eyes narrowing.

“Adam?” he said, his voice low but sharp. “What did you just call her?”

Blinking his bright green eyes wide with confusion. Adam clocked his head, his voice was small, uncertain, as his gaze darted between them. “Steve? Oh no, that’s not right, is it?”

Joker took a shaky step back, her expression wavering between surprise and discomfort. She turned slightly, her eyes catching movement near the door.

“L-Lilith?” she stammered. “It’s me… Joker.”

All eyes turned as Lilith, who had been quietly watching from the doorway, froze. Her large button eyes widened in fear as she stumbled back, tripping over her own feet and landing hard on the floor.

She threw up a trembling hand. “No! Stay back! Don’t come any closer, you… you monsters!”

“Lilith!” Michael exclaimed, rushing to her side. He gently helped her up, his voice calm and steady as he asked, “Are you alright? It’s okay, Lilith. Steve isn’t here. Adam just made a mistake. That’s all.”

Lilith’s breathing slowed, her wide eyes darting to Adam before glancing away.

“Y-yes,” she murmured, her voice distant. “Of course. It’s my fault…”

Shrinking back, Adam’s head bowing as guilt weighed him down. “I-I’m sorry, Lilith…It was just a mistake. I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t do it again.”

Lilith barely looked at him, her hand clutching the edge of her dress tightly.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, though her tone remained detached. She turned to Michael, her voice soft and strained. “I… I’m tired. I missed lunch. Perhaps I’ll eat something in the kitchen and then retire to my room.”

Michael nodded kindly. “Of course, Lilith. You need to take care of yourself. Joker saved some food for you.”

Stepping forward, Joker offered a shy smile. “Yes, that’s right, Lilith. I cooked. There’s a plate waiting for you.”

Lilith managed a faint smile in return. “Thank you, Eve.”

She hesitated. Her gaze flicked back to Adam, her expression softening slightly. “I’m sorry, Adam. I’m just… a bit out of sorts. Let me eat and rest, and we’ll look at the performances later.”

Adam’s face lit up again, his earlier tension dissipating. He clapped his hands together. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Lilith! Thank you, thank you… Oh, um, I mean, Margarethe—”

Lilith shook her head, letting out a faint laugh. “Lilith is fine. I imagine it’s hard to keep track of all the names.”

Adam’s relief was clear as he nodded eagerly. “Thank you, Lilith.”

As the group began to leave the room, Adam’s short but lumpy form lumbered after them, his parchment slipping unnoticed from his shawl to the floor. Lucifer spotted it immediately, scooping it up with a swift motion before Adam could turn back. He glanced at the scrawled writing before slipping it into his pocket. When Adam turned, his head tilted in curiosity, Lucifer offered him a quick smile, one that Adam returned without question.

Lucifer’s fingers brushed the parchment in his pocket as they walked. Whatever Adam was carrying, it wasn’t just a script—it was something more. Something important. Something he needed to understand.

Adam’s mechanical legs clicked softly against the floor as he moved, his steps hesitant yet deliberate. The food he left behind sat untouched, smeared and rearranged to feign an attempt at eating. He couldn’t remember the last time eating felt natural. The spider suit’s unforgiving design made it a chore. Drinking was easier, but even then, his thirst was fleeting, almost non-existent. His button eyes blinked dimly as his vision sharpened, like breaking through a dense fog. Yet, clarity came with a price—pain, dull and creeping, spreading from his lower back into his limbs. The ache was a slow burn, a reminder that evening was drawing near.

And evening meant more pills.

He glanced back toward the others at the table. They were engrossed in conversation, voices rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. They wouldn’t notice if he left, would they? They might assume he was wandering again—like he often did. Adam paused at the thought, his mechanical body stiffening. Why had he acted so irrationally earlier? His lips pressed into a thin line. It had to be the medication. Zestial hadn’t mentioned side effects, but…what else could explain it? Still, it was worth it. All of it was worth it. The pills dulled the agony that had once consumed him. Painlessness was worth any price.

Without a word, Adam turned from the table and headed toward the double doors. He noted the details as he moved—the pristine white tablecloth draped over the table, the ruby red runner cutting through its centre like a streak of blood. Golden candle holders lined the middle, their polished surfaces gleaming in the flickering light. Around the table were eight chairs with cushions, gilded and plush. One chair had been shifted to accommodate him—a gesture that should have made him feel included but only underscored his difference. Adam hadn’t sat in a proper chair since…since before.

As he pushed through the doors, the sound of his limbs creaking faded into the background. He didn’t notice Lucifer’s eyes following him, a flicker of concern crossing the juggler’s face. Lucifer leaned forward in his seat, his body tilting precariously as he tried to keep Adam in his line of sight. But when Adam disappeared through the doors, Lucifer’s balance gave out, and he tumbled unceremoniously to the floor.

Lilith snorted, barely hiding her amusement. “Still the same old Morningstar. Nothing ever changes.”

“Watch it,” Lucifer grumbled, glaring at her as he scrambled back into his seat. He smoothed his shirt with exaggerated nonchalance, ignoring the grin Michael shot him.

Meanwhile, Adam had reached the solitude of an empty hallway. His trembling mechanical hand fished the small bottle of pills from a hidden pocket, the lid clinking softly as he twisted it open. His fingers shook as he tried to tip the pills into his palm, and the bottle slipped. Time seemed to slow as it hit the floor, bouncing once, twice—then spilling its contents in a scattered mess of yellow.

“No,” Adam whispered, his voice tight with panic.

His button eyes filled with unshed tears as a hot, sharp pain flared up his spine, searing through him like molten fire. He clutched his side, his body shuddering as he lowered himself to the floor. His mechanical legs screeched faintly as they struggled to support him.

“No, no, no…”

One by one, he painstakingly picked up the pills, his trembling hands working against him. Each retrieval was an effort, his flushed face contorting with frustration and pain. He missed a single small pill that rolled beneath a nearby cabinet, unnoticed as he finished gathering the rest into the bottle.

With three pills left in his palm, Adam paused. His throat worked against a lump of pain and apprehension. He knew he needed them—needed the relief they promised. He tipped them into his mouth and swallowed them dry, wincing as they scratched his throat on the way down. His trembling subsided slightly, the promise of temporary reprieve easing his mind.

He sat there for a moment, his breathing uneven. A soft sound broke the silence—a shuffle of footsteps. Adam snapped his head up, button eyes wide and wary. From dining room doors, Lucifer emerged, his expression a mix of curiosity and worry.

“Adam?” Lucifer’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “What’s going on?”

Adam’s hands instinctively curled around the bottle, clutching it protectively.

“N-nothing,” he stammered, his voice a shaky echo of his usual childlike tone. “I just…dropped something.”

Lucifer took a cautious step closer, his button eyes narrowing as he studied Adam's hunched form.

“Do you…need help picking up whatever you dropped?” His voice carried a careful balance of concern and nonchalance, as though he didn’t want to spook Adam further.

Adam stiffened, his mechanical limbs clicking faintly as he turned slightly away, shielding himself from Lucifer’s probing gaze. He quickly shoved the small bottle back into his shawl, the fabric bunching awkwardly around the hidden object. His hands trembled, but he forced a weak smile to his lips.

“No, no. I’ve got it,” he said hastily, his voice high-pitched and almost sing-song.

Lucifer tilted his head, his arms crossing loosely over his chest as he leaned against the doorway.

“You sure? You seem…off,” he pressed, though his tone remained gentle. “You’ve been acting strange all day.”

“I said I’m fine,” Adam snapped suddenly, his voice cracking. He winced at his own tone, his button eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to reset himself.

“Sorry,” he muttered, softer this time. “I didn’t mean to… It’s just—I’m fine, Lucifer. Really.”

Lucifer hesitated, watching Adam’s trembling frame with growing unease. He knew Adam wasn’t telling the whole truth, but something about the doll’s fragility stopped him from pushing further. Instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Alright,” he said, his voice light but sceptical. “If you say so.”

Adam offered a quick nod and shuffled awkwardly on his mechanical legs, desperate to escape the weight of Lucifer’s concern.

“I’ll just…go rest for a bit,” he murmured, moving toward the hallway with jerky, uneven steps.

Lucifer stayed rooted in place, his eyes following Adam’s retreating figure. He didn’t believe him—not for a second. Adam’s behaviour wasn’t just strange; it was alarming. The tremors in his movements, the shadows that lingered behind his button eyes, and the way he clutched the shawl like a lifeline all painted a picture Lucifer couldn’t ignore.

As Adam disappeared into the dim corridor, Lucifer let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. His instincts screamed at him to intervene, but he knew better than to corner someone who was clearly unravelling.

“He’s hiding something,” he muttered under his breath, his fingers tapping against his arm in thought. “And it’s not just whatever he dropped.”

He straightened, his jaw tightening with determination. If Adam wouldn’t tell him, Lucifer would have to find out another way. For now, though, he would let the doll have his space—just enough rope to either find his footing or hang himself with his secrets.

With one last glance toward the corridor, Lucifer turned and headed back to the dining room, his mind already churning with plans. Whatever Adam was hiding, it was only a matter of time before the truth spilled out.

Adam darted toward the dim recess beneath the grand staircase, his mechanical legs clicking faintly against the worn floorboards. His little hiding spot—a sanctuary amidst the chaos—waited for him. Just as he crouched to slip inside, a cold realization prickled down his spine.

The script. It was gone.

His spindly fingers clawed at his frayed shawl, searching frantically, but the parchment wasn’t there. He must have dropped it somewhere—somewhere out in the sprawling, ominous corridors. Dread unfurled in his chest, a twisting serpent that coiled tighter with every second. The air around him seemed heavier, pressing in as a familiar haze of pink and blue swam across his vision. The pills—always the pills. Their effects crept in, disorienting him further.

“Oh dear… oh no…” Adam’s voice trembled as he whispered the words to himself, barely audible over the thrum of his own panic. “I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the play script.”

His mechanical hands rose to his button-eyed face in a dramatic gesture, the childlike movements betraying the maelstrom of anxiety within. “They’re going to be so mad at me!” His voice quavered, rising to a high-pitched whine.

The spider-like appendages sprouting from his back buzzed to life, their metallic joints clicking and clanking as Adam spun in a wild, frenetic circle. His button eyes darted left and right, scanning the dim corridor as he muttered feverishly, “It’s here. Somewhere. Somewhere around here! It has to be—must be!”

The empty hall offered no answers, only shadows that seemed to ripple and shift in the flickering lamplight.

From beyond the double doors at the end of the corridor, muffled voices seeped through. Familiar, grounding.

“...When the snow lets up, we should head into the woods,” Michael’s voice rumbled, calm and thoughtful. “Maybe we can find some food.”

Adam froze, his frantic movements halting. He hummed softly to himself, a giggle escaping his lips despite his panic. Michael. Admirable Michael. His voice was like a tether, pulling Adam from the brink of his spiraling fear.

“I’ll help chop firewood,” Joker chimed in, her voice gentle, tinged with warmth.

Adam tilted his head, wondering briefly if Eve truly knew how to wield an axe.

“That’s right,” Michael continued, his tone thoughtful. “Remember, back in the day, you, me, and Luci helped Zestial fix his tent? You were the only one who could figure out that blasted saw.”

At the mention of Zestial, Adam’s green button eyes widened. He glanced around the corridor as if expecting the man to appear from the shadows. Of course, no one came. But... they knew Zestial too?

Michael’s voice carried on, steady and measured. “We’ll need tools first. The trees here are thick—ancient. Joker, do you think you still remember how to use a saw?”

Peering through the ajar doors, Adam’s gaze darted to the group within. They sat around a long, weathered table, bathed in the flickering glow of candles. Michael, poised as ever, leaned forward slightly, his arms crossed in contemplation. Joker’s delicate smile lit her face, her hands resting in her lap.

Lilith, regal and otherworldly, sipped tea from a fine china cup, her movements unhurried and graceful. Adam’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, entranced by the eerie stillness of her doll-like features.

And then there was Lucifer. Slouched in his chair, one arm propped on the table, he gazed into the flickering flames with a distant, almost haunted expression.

“What’s wrong, Luci?” Michael asked gently, turning his attention to his silent companion.

Adam’s curiosity burned. He tilted his head, watching as Lucifer slowly stirred. His fingers brushed his face, as though wiping away an unseen weight, before he leaned back once more. Something about him was different tonight. His usual bravado seemed dulled; his movements sluggish. A shadow flickered across his face—an emotion Adam couldn’t quite name.

Adam pushed the door open just slightly, inching closer. He couldn’t stop himself. His fear of discovery was dwarfed by the magnetic pull of their conversation, the need to understand what lay behind those haunted eyes.

Adam burst into the room, his movements erratic and flustered, a picture of desperation. His voice trembled as he spoke, childlike and pleading. “This is just awful! Has anyone seen the playbill? I... I think I’ve lost it! I must have dropped it somewhere around here. Please, please don’t be mad at me!”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Lilith, seated primly in her chair, turned her porcelain face toward him, her lips curving into a crooked frown. Her lavender-scented aura lingered, soothing yet cold.

“Oh, Adam,” she said, her tone light but faintly tinged with pity. “We wouldn’t be mad at you for that.”

Adam gasped sharply, his head whipping toward her, button-green eyes wide with disbelief. “Really?”

Joker, her hands folded delicately on her lap, gave a soft, hesitant nod. “It’s alright, A-Adam. We’ll help you look for it. Right, Lilith?”

Lilith’s gaze lingered on Adam before she offered a faint nod of agreement.

Across the room, Lucifer lounged on a yellow-cushioned chair, his red and yellow button eyes gleaming like mismatched jewels in the dim light. With deliberate slowness, he leaned back, holding up the missing playbill between his fingers. His expression was unreadable, his gaze laced with an almost playful challenge.

Adam froze mid-spin, his mechanical hands clapping nervously against one another. The childlike exuberance that had fuelled his movements faltered, his body seeming more sluggish now. A flicker of relief crossed his face.

“Oh, thank goodness! You found it!” he exclaimed, rushing toward Lucifer. “Thank you, Luci. Where did you find it? Perhaps we can—oh!”

As Adam reached for the script, Lucifer’s arm darted upward, yanking the parchment away and holding it just out of Adam’s reach. It dangled mockingly, too high for his spindly spider-like prostheses to grasp.

“I just borrowed it,” Lucifer said nonchalantly, tilting his head to meet Adam’s gaze. His voice was soft, but his words carried an edge that felt almost like a dare. “I was going to give it back, Adam. But look at this—it’s... weird.”

Lilith, with an elegant grace, rose from her chair. She glided across the room, her fingers brushing against the edge of the table as she circled it, her movements deliberate and measured. Reaching Lucifer, she plucked the script from his hand, examining it with a furrowed brow.

“What is this?” she murmured, her voice cool and thoughtful. “Another nursery rhyme? I think I’ve heard this before…”

Before she could finish her thought, Lucifer sprang to his feet with a burst of theatrical energy, his sudden movement jarring. His hand snatched the parchment from her grip, and he twirled dramatically, his arms thrown high above his head as though conducting an invisible audience.

“It is a nursery rhyme,” he declared, his voice dripping with sarcasm and mock reverence. “The same kind Steve used to adore.” His lips twisted into a wry smile.

“But this—” he tapped the parchment with a long finger, “—this must be a clue.”

Adam’s confusion deepened, his small frame retreating slightly, his mechanical spider limbs emitting a soft, whirring whine. “A clue?” he echoed, tilting his head. “A clue for what?”

Michael stepped forward then, his presence steady and grounding. He placed a warm, reassuring hand on Adam’s shoulder, sending a fleeting sense of comfort through him. Michael’s gaze shifted to Lucifer, his tone calm but probing.

“What type of clue are we talking about?”

Lucifer swayed slightly, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across his angular features, deepening the tension that seemed to thrum in the room like a barely audible hum.

“Who was it,” Lucifer murmured, his voice low and sinister, “that killed everyone and then ran away?”

Lilith’s porcelain face twisted with frustration, her crimson-painted lips curling into a sharp glare.

“What are you talking about, Lucifer?” she hissed, her voice low and crackling with tension. “You’re not going to dredge up that old spiral of madness again, are you?”

Lucifer’s eyes rolled dramatically, the glow of his mismatched button eyes flashing with irritation. He exhaled a breathy, theatrical huff, spreading his hands wide. “Why are you even here, Lilith? What did the organizer promise you this time? Money? A leading role? Don’t tell me you actually think we’re here for a simple performance?”

Lilith let out a deep, weary sigh, her shoulders sagging as though under the weight of his accusations. “Lucifer, you need to let this go—”

He cut her off with a sharp, sardonic laugh that sent a chill rippling through the room. “Take a good, long look around, Lilith.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper as he gestured toward the room with a flourish. “We were all invited here—every last one of us—to the Hazbin Circus. You don’t find it the least bit suspicious? All the survivors of the Hullabaloo massacre, gathered in one place?”

Lilith’s mouth opened as if to argue, but she hesitated, her jaw snapping shut. Her hands clenched into trembling fists at her sides.

“Adam wasn’t part of the Hullabaloo Circus, Lucifer,” she said through gritted teeth, her tone laced with forced calm.

Lucifer groaned, spinning away from her with a frustrated laugh that felt hollow and strained.

“Fine. You’re right. Adam’s the exception. I have no idea why he’s here. But you? Eve? Michael? Me? That is suspicious, don’t you think?”

Michael stepped forward, his hand outstretched as though attempting to calm a tempest.

“Luci,” he said softly, his voice warm yet firm. “You need to sit down and—”

Lucifer slapped Michael’s hand away with a sharp crack that echoed in the tense air.

“No! I need an answer!” His voice rose, filled with a trembling anger that bordered on hysteria. “The name of the one who destroyed our home! The playbill—”

He jabbed a finger at the crumpled script, “—it says the murderer who killed everyone is among those who ‘got away.’ Someone doesn’t want us to know the truth.”

Lilith’s fists tightened until her nails dug into her palms, her voice slicing through the air like a razor. “You’re mad, Lucifer Morningstar. You’ve always been mad.”

Her heels clicked against the floor as she turned to leave, but Lucifer darted in front of her, his movements unnervingly quick and fluid.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he said, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “Not so fast, darling. Today, we all give our accounts of what really happened on that night.”

Lilith’s lips twitched, her expression flickering between rage and something more fragile.

“I’ve already told the investigators everything I know,” she said coldly, the tremor in her voice betraying her.

Lucifer shrugged, his hands lifting in a mocking gesture of surrender. “Ah, yes. The mysterious ‘man in black’ who slipped into the tent? Is it even possible to craft a leakier lie than that?”

Lilith’s sharp gasp filled the room, her hand rising instinctively to her chest. “So, you suspect me, do you?”

Her voice wavered, teetering on the edge of anger and despair. “Everyone knows I was preparing for the performance that night. I couldn’t possibly be the murderer. I have no reason to lie—not to the investigators, and certainly not to you.”

Lucifer’s grin faded, his expression hardening into something colder. “You hated that place, Lilith.”

“And we all did, Lucifer Morningstar!” Her words lashed out like a whip. “Every single one of us, except you!”

He flinched at her words, but Lilith pressed on, her voice rising with venomous intensity. “And no wonder why. Mister Popular! Zestial’s little golden boy!”

She shoved past him with enough force to send him stumbling a step. Without another word, she stormed from the room, her footsteps echoing like gunshots in the silence.

“Lilith!” Joker called, her voice filled with alarm as she rushed after her.

His mechanical limbs twitching as Adam processed the sharp exchange that had just erupted in the room. The tension crackled in the air like an electric storm, heavy and suffocating. His green button eyes flicked nervously between Lucifer, who still clutched the play script with a triumphant yet manic glint in his mismatched gaze, and the door through which Lilith and Joker had disappeared.

“Luci…” Michael’s voice was soft but firm, his towering presence exuding calm. “That was uncalled for. You’re pushing too hard.”

Lucifer turned to him with a sardonic grin, spreading his arms wide in mock innocence. “Uncalled for? Oh, forgive me, Michael. I didn’t realize seeking the truth about who destroyed everything we had was such a faux pas.”

Sighing heavily, Michael placed a hand on Adam’s shoulder, offering the trembling doll a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re scaring him,” he said pointedly.

Lucifer’s sharp gaze flickered to Adam. His grin faltered for a moment before he sighed, tossing the script onto the table like a discarded toy.

“I’m not trying to scare anyone,” he muttered, running a hand through his unruly hair. “I just want answers.”

“I…I don’t understand,” Adam murmured, his voice quivering. “What does the playbill have to do with…with what happened at Hullabaloo?”

Lucifer turned to him, crouching slightly to meet Adam’s wide, button-eyed stare.

“Everything, Adam,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s a piece of the puzzle. Don’t you see? We were all brought here for a reason, and it’s not just to put on some whimsical circus performance.”

Hands clutching his shawl tightly, Adam’s confusion deepening. “But why me? I wasn’t part of Hullabaloo. I don’t even know what happened there…”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Lucifer his gaze softening as he studied Adam’s earnest expression. “Why you?”

Michael, sensing the brewing storm, stepped between them. “That’s enough for tonight. We’re all tired, and this snowstorm isn’t helping anyone’s mood. Let’s regroup in the morning.”

“And you?” Lucifer asked, turning towards Michael. “What do you make of all this?”

“What? Did I hate that place too?” Michael repeated.

A laugh escaped Lucifer. “No…no, I mean the play. The script.”

“…” Michael shrugged.

Opening his mouth to argue but stopped himself, Lucifer’s gaze lingering on Adam’s trembling form. With a dramatic sigh, he waved a dismissive hand and turned toward the fire.

“Hey, Adam. I apologise for my rudeness earlier.” He spoke softly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you…”

“I-It’s okay.”

Adam lingered for a moment, his mechanical legs hesitating to move. He glanced at the script lying on the table, the mysterious rhyme still echoing in his mind. He didn’t understand what was happening, but the weight of it pressed down on him like a lead blanket.

As Michael gently guided him out of the room, Lucifer stared into the flickering flames, his mind a whirl of suspicion and fragmented memories. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the past was clawing its way back, and that Adam, innocent as he seemed, was somehow at the centre of it all.

Outside, Lilith stormed down the dimly lit corridor, her breath coming in sharp, angry bursts. Joker struggled to keep up, her small frame hurrying to match Lilith’s determined stride.

“Lilith, wait!” Joker called, her voice breathless and pleading. “He didn’t mean it—he’s just…”

“A madman,” Lilith hissed, her fists curling tightly at her sides as if she could crush the very thought of him in her grasp. Her button eyes glinted in the dim light, hard and unyielding. “He’s always been a madman, dragging us into his twisted delusions, and now he’s doing it again.”

Joker hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor as if the wooden boards might provide some answer.

“Maybe…” she said, her voice wavering like a delicate thread ready to snap. “Maybe he’s not entirely wrong. About the invitation, I mean. It’s strange that we’re all here, isn’t it?”

Lilith froze mid-step, spinning to face Joker with a glare sharp enough to cut through steel.

“Don’t you start with this nonsense, too,” she snapped, her tone trembling with both frustration and something deeper—fear. “We left Hullabaloo behind. That place is nothing but ash, and good riddance. Digging up its ghosts will only lead to more pain.”

“It’s just…” Joker faltered, biting her bottom lip as if trying to stop her words from escaping. Her button eyes flickered nervously; their vibrant hues dimmed by unease. “I’m worried…”

Lilith’s expression softened at once, the sharp edges of her anger melting away. She stepped closer, her movements deliberate and gentle, like approaching a frightened animal.

“What’s wrong, Eve?” she asked, her voice tender now, coaxing.

Joker stiffened at the sound of her real name, her breath hitching in her chest. Lilith reached out, her slim fingers curling around Joker’s hand with a reassuring squeeze.

“Tell me,” Lilith urged, her gaze locking with Joker’s. “What’s wrong?”

Joker raised her head slowly, meeting Lilith’s gaze. Her voice came out in a trembling whisper. “It’s just… the play.”

“The script?” Lilith asked, her string-threaded brow arching in curiosity.

Joker nodded, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “The nursery rhyme. It talks about five children… then four children because…”

“Because one wandered off and got eaten by the Big Bad Wolf,” Lilith finished, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You think it means something?”

Joker swallowed, her grip on Lilith’s hand tightening. “I think it means one of us is meant to die,” she said quietly, her voice laced with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. “And… I’m scared it might be you. Out of you and Lucifer, you’ve always been the ones at the centre of everything. It would make sense, but…”

Her voice cracked, and her button eyes shimmered faintly. “I just… I don’t want it to be you.”

Lilith’s heart ached at the vulnerability in Joker’s voice. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and tightened her grip on Joker’s hand.

“Hey,” she murmured, stepping even closer. “Nothing is going to happen to me, Eve. Nothing bad is going to happen to any of us. I won’t let it.”

Joker hesitated, her lips trembling as though she wanted to argue but couldn’t find the strength. Finally, she gave a small nod, though her doubt lingered in the way she glanced at the floor.

“Tell you what,” Lilith said, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Why don’t you sleep in my room tonight? Just like old times.”

Joker blinked, taken aback. “I don’t know…”

“Come on,” Lilith coaxed, a teasing lilt in her voice. “It’ll be fun. Like when we were younger. Remember all those sleepovers we had?”

Joker gave her a flat look, her brow raising slightly. “Before Steve, you mean.”

The mention of the name hit Lilith like a sudden gust of wind, her playful expression faltering. She flinched, her gaze dropping away as guilt clouded her features.

“I’m… sorry, Eve,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Really. I didn’t mean to leave you alone. I never wanted to…”

Joker sighed, her button eyes narrowing with regret. “No, no. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair of me to bring Steve up like that.”

Lilith glanced back up, her eyes shimmering faintly in the low light. She offered a small, hesitant smile. “We’ve both been through a lot. But we’ve got each other now, right?”

Joker hesitated before nodding. “Right.”

As they continued down the dim hallway, their hands still loosely clasped, neither noticed the shadow that had slithered silently from the corner. It lingered in the dark, its unseen eyes burning with a fierce intensity as it watched them. The faintest flicker of movement betrayed its presence before it disappeared, swallowed by the shadows once more.

The dim corridors of the mansion stretched endlessly, the faint glow of flickering lights casting eerie shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Michael walked with measured steps, his warm gaze shifting often to Adam, who shuffled beside him. Adam’s ghostly white skin almost seemed to glow in the dim light, his fragile, bulbous body moving awkwardly under the weight of his limbs. The soft click and scrape of his mechanical appendages echoed faintly, the sharp front blades dragging slightly on the uneven floor.

"Careful now," Michael said gently, his voice as steady and reassuring as the warmth of a hearth on a cold night. He reached out, his hand brushing against Adam’s shoulder to guide him around a splintered edge of a doorframe. “These old halls can be tricky.”

Adam nodded, his button eyes blinking with uncertainty. His spindly back limbs twitched, adjusting his balance with every step.

“I… I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice tremulous, barely louder than the scrape of his own limbs. “I’m slowing you down.”

Michael chuckled softly, the sound light and comforting. “You’re not slowing me down at all. We all need a steady hand sometimes.”

He paused, waiting for Adam to maneuverer past a particularly narrow section of the hall. “Lucifer wasn’t always like this, you know.”

Adam’s movements faltered; his curiosity piqued. He tilted his head, his button eyes glinting in the low light. “He… wasn’t? What was he like?”

Michael smiled wistfully, his gaze momentarily distant as though peering into a brighter time.

“Lucifer,” he began, his voice touched with a tinge of nostalgia, “was the golden boy. The star of the show. And not just because he was eye-catching—though, let’s be honest, he was.”

He chuckled, his tone softening further. “No, it was something more than that. He had this… magnetism about him. An allure you couldn’t quite put into words. He could light up the stage, draw the audience in with just a smile and a wink. He had this way of making everyone feel like they were the most important person in the world, even if just for a moment.”

Adam’s fractured frame leaned forward slightly, his interest palpable. “He sounds… amazing.”

Michael nodded, his expression tinged with both pride and sadness. “He was. And in some ways, he still is. But…”

His voice trailed off, his brows furrowing. “Well, life has a way of wearing people down. Sometimes, what’s left doesn’t look much like what used to be.”

Adam was quiet for a moment, his limbs twitching nervously.

“I… I think I understand that,” he said softly, his voice almost inaudible. “Maybe too much.”

Michael slowed, turning to face Adam fully. His warm brown eyes studied the younger man, his expression softening further. “I’m sorry if Lucifer frightened you earlier,” he said gently. “He’s… not himself, but he means well. I promise.”

Adam hesitated, his button eyes lowering. “Is… Is he alright?”

Michael let out a soft hum, his hand resting lightly on Adam’s shoulder. “Trauma does frightening things to people, Adam. It twists memories, reshapes the way we see the world—and ourselves.”

Adam sniffled quietly, turning his button eyes away.

“I… I get that,” he murmured. His mechanical limbs creaked slightly as he shifted his weight. “Maybe… more than I should.”

Michael tilted his head, his curiosity flickering to life. He hesitated for a moment, his lips parting as if to ask a question, but then he stopped himself. His gaze flickered to the spider-like contraption enveloping Adam’s body, but he bit down on his tongue, forcing the words back.

Noticing the silence, Adam looked up, his button eyes narrowing slightly in confusion.

“Michael?” he asked hesitantly.

Michael blinked, then smiled, ruffling Adam’s wiry hair gently. “Nothing, kiddo. I just remembered—my companion’s waiting for me outside. I should hurry to him.”

He paused, glancing down the dim corridor. “Will you be alright getting to your room from here?”

Adam nodded mutely, though his limbs twitched with a faint tremor. “I… I think so.”

Michael gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Good. Take care, alright?”

He stepped back, his smile lingering as he turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the hall.

Left alone, Adam stood still for a moment, his button eyes reflecting the dim light. The scrape of his limbs echoed as he finally turned toward his room, the soft, distant echoes of Michael’s voice still warm in his mind. But in the deep shadows behind him, something else stirred—a faint rustle, a whisper of movement, watching, waiting.

The mansion’s dim corridors gave way to a hollow silence as Adam crept toward his little hideaway beneath the grand staircase. His limbs, both natural and mechanical, clicked and whirred softly in the quiet, his hulking, fractured form stooping to avoid hitting the low arch. His hidey hole, a cramped nook stuffed with discarded blankets and broken furniture, was all he had managed to claim as his own. It wasn’t much, but it felt safe.

Adam was about to settle in when a peculiar sound broke the silence—a faint, almost imperceptible hum. He froze, his large button-green eyes blinking as he listened intently. The sound came again, distant and ethereal, like the tinkling of glass chimes carried on the wind. It seemed to come from the back of the mansion, toward the door leading to the gardens.

He hesitated, his spindly limbs twitching uncertainly. Lucifer’s furious words echoed in his mind from the first time he had tried to sneak outside.

“Don’t you dare! It’s dangerous out there, Adam! You’ll break yourself—or worse!”

Adam bit his lip, the green buttons of his eyes darting toward the staircase. He should stay. He knew he should stay. Yet something about the sound tugged at him, like an invisible thread drawing him closer. Before he could stop himself, his limbs moved, skittering softly against the floor as he made his way toward the back of the mansion.

The heavy door to the gardens loomed before him, frost curling at the edges of the glass panes. Snow piled high against the doorframe, the faint shimmer of moonlight reflecting off the drifts outside. Adam hesitated, one of his spider-like front appendages tapping nervously at the door. He glanced over his shoulder, his thoughts tangled between fear of upsetting Lucifer and the overwhelming urge to see what lay beyond.

Just as he was about to turn back, his eyes caught movement—a flicker of something outside in the snow. His curiosity sparked like a live wire, and before he could think better of it, he unlatched the door and pushed it open.

The icy air bit at his pale skin as he stepped out into the snow. The storm was quiet at first, snowflakes drifting lazily down to rest on his mechanical limbs. Adam’s button eyes shone with a childlike wonder as he took in the maze of garden gates ahead. Each gate seemed to lead to a hidden world of its own, shrouded in white and mystery. He longed to explore them all, to uncover their secrets.

But as he moved deeper into the snow, the chill began to gnaw at him. His emaciated artificial limbs stiffened, the joints freezing with each step. The spider suit let out faint pings and buzzing sounds, but Adam paid it little mind, too captivated by the allure of the gardens.

Until he couldn’t move.

A jarring creak brought him to a halt. Adam blinked in confusion, his front limbs jerking uselessly as he tried to move forward. The buzzing grew louder, a desperate sound of strain, as his joints locked tight. Panic flickered across his face as he struggled to understand. The freezing snow had begun to bite deeper, seizing his mechanical body in its icy grip.

A worried squeal escaped his lips as he fought against the immobility, his back limbs thrashing. The suit wouldn’t budge. Instead, a new kind of pain crept in, dull at first but growing sharper as his body began to succumb to the cold. Adam shivered violently, his ghostly skin flushing a faint bluish hue. His breath hitched in short gasps, the storm around him suddenly feeling like a living thing, suffocating and relentless.

“Help…” he croaked, his voice barely audible over the rising howl of the wind.

Snowflakes blurred his vision, and he squinted, trying to see through the storm. A dark figure loomed ahead, faint and distant. Relief surged in him.

“P-please…” Adam’s voice cracked as he tried to call out, but the words caught in his throat. The figure grew clearer, but instead of approaching to help, it lunged forward with terrifying speed.

Adam gasped, his body jerking back, but his frozen limbs couldn’t defend him. A sharp blow struck him, sending him sprawling into the snow. The spider suit cracked and splintered under the force, the long legs shattering at the joints. Adam crumpled, his fragile body slumping forward as the snow engulfed him. His vision blurred further as the dark figure walked past him without a second glance, vanishing into the storm.

Time seemed to stretch into an endless haze of cold and pain. Adam’s breathing was shallow, his body trembling uncontrollably. But then, a new presence appeared—a large brown boar, its fur patched and tangled with dry leaves, its button eyes wide with alarm. The creature let out a whine, rushing to Adam’s side and pressing its warm bulk against him.

The boar huddled close, its body shielding Adam from the worst of the storm. The snowstorm raged on, but the boar stayed firm, letting out soft, mournful sounds as it tried to keep the broken boy alive in the unforgiving cold.

The next morning, Lucifer woke with a knot of unease twisting in his stomach. He had expected Lilith to avoid him after their confrontation, but the absence of Adam was far more troubling. Adam hadn't even shown up for breakfast, something that, while not entirely uncommon, now felt ominous.

Lucifer paced the corridors of their shared space, eventually finding himself in the lounge. It was where Adam seemed to spend most of his time, nestled in his peculiar spider-like contraption, with its buzzing servos and faint clanks filling the air like an unsettling metronome. But today, the lounge was eerily silent. Lucifer frowned, the absence of those sounds feeling wrong. Adam never ventured far, and Lucifer couldn’t recall ever seeing him on the upper floors.

He sighed, making his way upstairs. Passing his own room, he stopped in front of the door adjacent to it—the one with Adam’s name etched delicately on a brass plate. Raising his hand, he rapped on the wood, his knuckles echoing softly in the corridor.

“Adam?” he called, voice low, almost hesitant. “It’s me, Lucifer. Uh… I’m coming in, okay?”

No response. Not even the faintest whir of mechanical limbs. Lucifer felt the unease grow heavier in his chest as he twisted the ornate black bat-flower handle and pushed the door open.

The room was small but inviting, its walls painted a warm shade of cream. A double bed was neatly tucked against the far wall, untouched and perfectly made. A simple desk stood beneath a large window, its surface spotless, as if no one had ever sat there to write or think. A modest fireplace directly opposite the door remained unlit, its hearth clean and free of ash. The room was pristine, utterly devoid of life, and cold in a way that wasn’t just temperature.

Lucifer’s eyebrows knit together as he scanned the space.

“No signs of life at all,” he muttered. It was as though Adam had never set foot in this room, let alone lived in it for weeks.

“Lucifer?”

The voice behind him startled him, and he turned sharply to see Michael peeking through the doorway, his expression one of mild confusion. “What are you doing in here? Is Adam with you?”

Lucifer shook his head, stepping aside so Michael could enter. “No, I was looking for him. Come in and—tell me what’s wrong with this picture.”

Michael stepped inside, his button-like eyes flickering around the room. A slight frown tugged at his stitched mouth.

“It’s… too cold,” he said after a moment, his tone soft but heavy with worry. “Too clean. It’s not lived in.”

Nodding grimly, Lucifer crossed his arms. “And Adam… he can’t even get up the staircase, can he?”

Michael’s head tilted, realization dawning. “Oh, no.”

Lucifer groaned, running a hand through his dark hair. “Of course, he can’t. How did I miss that? He’s probably been sleeping somewhere downstairs this whole time.”

“He’s always in the lounge. He must have found somewhere nearby.”

Determined now, they left the untouched room behind and descended the stairs in silence. Their search brought them to the cupboard beneath the staircase, a tiny space that felt more like a grave than a home. As they opened the door, the smell of dampness hit them, and their eyes took in the cramped quarters. Blankets, haphazardly folded, lined the floor, while a few small trinkets and personal items sat forlornly on a makeshift shelf. It was cold. Miserable.

Making a distressed sound, Michael paled. “Why didn’t he tell us he couldn’t go upstairs? We would have found him somewhere better than this.”

Lucifer didn’t answer. His chest ached as his gaze lingered on the sad little nook. He stood abruptly, eyes narrowing.

“Where is he, Michael? He’s not here. I thought he would be, but…”

Michael looked up at him, his worry reflecting back. “I don’t know, Luci. He’s not here.”

Lucifer clenched his fists. A wave of guilt and panic swept over him. The image of Adam, fragile and quiet, burdened with both his mechanical limbs and whatever internal scars he carried, weighed heavily in his mind. Where could he have gone? Why hadn’t they noticed sooner?

“Michael,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but taut with determination. “We need to find him. Now.”

The mansion felt suffocating as Lucifer and Michael tore through it, calling out Adam’s name in every hall and room. Each shadow, each creak of the old wood, sent their hopes rising only to dash them cruelly. The cold silence of the house pressed against their ears, and with every empty corner, Lucifer’s anxiety grew.

When they finally met in the grand foyer, their expressions were mirrors of each other—haunted and worried.

“Seen anything?” Lucifer asked, his voice tight. His eyes darted toward Michael, searching for any sign of hope.

Swallowing thickly, Michael’s button eyes dim with worry. “No sign of him.”

Lucifer bit his bottom lip, teeth catching the soft fabric nervously. “Where could he have gone?” His voice cracked, his hands twitching at his sides.

Michael reached out and patted his shoulder gently. “We’ll find him, Luci. I promise.”

Before Lucifer could respond, an icy gust swept through the foyer, making both of them shudder. The chill wasn’t just cold—it felt unnatural, piercing. They turned their heads in unison, their eyes widening in horror at the sight of the mansion’s back door hanging ajar. Snow and frost crept in through the frame, painting the stone floor in a slick, frigid glaze.

“You don’t think…” Michael’s breath hitched audibly.

Lucifer’s face drained of colour, and he staggered forward, his knees threatening to buckle.

“Adam!” he shouted, his voice raw with desperation as he bolted toward the door.

Michael yelped and sprinted after him, struggling to keep pace. “Lucifer, wait!”

The pair burst into the blinding whiteness outside, snow swallowing their legs nearly to their knees. The storm had subsided, leaving a quiet, oppressive stillness in its wake. The entire estate was blanketed in a thick, unbroken layer of snow, turning the gardens into an alien, desolate expanse.

“Adam!” Lucifer shouted again, cupping his hands around his mouth as he pushed forward. His voice echoed, but no response came.

A sudden high-pitched whine broke the silence, followed by a jerky movement in the snow ahead.

“My companion!”

He dashed toward the source of the noise, Michael’s feet slipping and sliding in the deep snow. The small boar bounded toward him, its legs struggling against the icy terrain.

“Where were you last night?” Michael murmured, dropping to his knees as the boar nudged him frantically.

The boar let out another whine, bouncing in place and pawing at a patch of snow beside it. Michael tilted his head in confusion, then began brushing the snow away with trembling hands. His button eyes widened as his fingers touched something solid.

“Lucifer! Get over here!” Michael’s voice cracked with urgency.

Lucifer stumbled through the snow to his side, falling to his knees and helping Michael dig. Together, they uncovered the still, fragile form of Adam, his thin limbs curled against the cold. The shattered remains of his mechanical spider frame were half-buried beneath him, twisted and broken beyond recognition.

“I-Is he…” Lucifer’s voice faltered as he stared at Adam’s pale face, his lips faintly blue.

Pressing a finger beneath Adam’s nose and Michael exhaled in relief. “He’s alive. Barely.”

His hands trembled as he brushed snow from Adam’s face. “We need to get him inside. Now.”

Michael turned to his boar, patting its head firmly. “Good job, my friend. You found him and took care of him.”

The boar whined again, its expressive eyes darting between Michael and Adam.

It was a monumental effort to haul Adam’s frail body, along with the wreckage of the spider frame, back to the mansion. The snow clung to their legs and sapped their strength, but neither of them stopped. By the time they collapsed onto the mansion’s stone floor, their breaths were ragged, clouds of vapor puffing in the cold air.

Michael stumbled back, leaning against a nearby wall. “It’s too heavy. How in the world does Adam manage to move in that thing?”

Crouching beside Adam, Lucifer’s sharp eyes scanning the battered mechanical frame. The spider-like limbs were cracked and splintered, as though someone had tried to saw them off.

Adam stirred faintly, a weak murmur escaping his lips. “It… hurts,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Chest tightening, Lucifer inched closer, his fingers brushing Adam’s cold, damp hair from his face. “What hurts, Adam? What happened to you?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Shaking his head, Michael kneeled beside them. “He’s delirious. We need to get him somewhere warmer. Fast.”

Lucifer’s gaze lingered on the shattered contraption attached to Adam’s fragile body. His lips curled in frustration.

“This thing…” he growled through clenched teeth. “This thing is no help to him anymore.”

“What are you doing?” Michael’s voice was sharp with alarm as Lucifer reached for the shawl draped over the spider frame.

Hands moved deftly, ignoring Michael’s protests. “I’m taking him out of this,” Lucifer snapped. “It’s hurting him.”

Grabbing his wrist, Michael gasped out helplessly. “Lucifer, stop! We don’t know how it’s connected to him! You could kill him—”

Lucifer froze, his hand hovering above the shawl. He glanced down at Adam’s face, contorted in pain even in unconsciousness.

“He can’t stay in this,” he whispered. “It’s killing him already.”

Hesitating, Michael’s grip slackened. His gaze fell to Adam’s trembling form, his small body visibly struggling against the mechanical frame.

“Fine,” Michael said at last, his voice trembling. “But we need to be careful. If we do this wrong…”

Lucifer nodded grimly. “We’ll be careful.”

His hands moved again; this time slower, more deliberate. “But I’m not letting him suffer like this.”

The room was silent except for the faint clinks and creaks of metal as Lucifer and Michael knelt beside Adam, their breaths tight with focus and worry. Adam lay limp, his ghostly white skin stark against the dark wood floor. The fractures tracing his bulbous body gleamed faintly in the dim light, and his sickly pale green limbs looked even more emaciated than usual, trembling slightly even in unconsciousness. The mechanical spider contraption wrapped around him loomed like a cruel cage, its rusty limbs and bladed appendages adding to the grotesque sight.

Lucifer’s hands hovered over the contraption, unsure where to begin. Michael fidgeted beside him before standing abruptly.

“Wait here—I’ll grab my toolbox.”

He dashed out of the room, returning moments later with a battered red box in hand. He set it down between them, popping it open and pulling out a screwdriver. Handing it to Lucifer, Michael admitted sheepishly, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Lucifer gave a weak, grim smile. “Neither do I.”

He took the screwdriver and rested a hand lightly on Adam’s side, careful not to press too hard. “But we don’t have much choice. Adam’s been suffering because of this blasted thing, and the best thing for him right now is to be free of it.”

Michael nodded, his button eyes wide and anxious. “You’re right. Let’s do this.”

Unscrewing what looked like bolts at the base of the metal frame, Lucifer’s movements slow and precise. Michael watched closely, holding his breath with every turn of the tool. The rusty screws resisted at first, but one by one, they began to come loose.

Just as Lucifer removed one of the larger screws at the back, he gasped sharply, his hand freezing in place.

“What? What’s wrong?” Michael leaned closer, panic flashing in his expression.

“He’s… bleeding. The screws—” Lucifer’s voice wavered. His throat tightened. “They were drilled into him.”

Michael’s button eyes widened in horror. “Oh no. Oh no. Wait! There’s a first aid kit around here—I saw it earlier!”

He scrambled to his feet, rushing to a nearby cabinet and flinging it open. Grabbing the kit, he hurried back and dropped to his knees beside Lucifer. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the latches.

Lucifer, his own hands shaking, carefully parted the fabric of Adam’s shirt, revealing the puncture wounds beneath. Bright red droplets beaded at each spot where the screws had dug into his fragile frame. Michael opened the kit and handed Lucifer gauze and antiseptic, his voice barely a whisper.

“We have to stop the bleeding.”

Together, they worked in tense silence, their hands shaking as they cleaned and dressed the wounds. Adam stirred faintly, a weak whimper escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake.

“Maybe Lilith would know what to do,” Michael suggested, his voice strained.

Lucifer didn’t respond, his focus locked on the contraption. He couldn’t stop now, not when Adam was so close to freedom. Finally, the last piece of metal pressing against Adam’s body was loose. Lucifer set down the screwdriver and gently circled his arms around Adam’s middle.

Kneeling beside him, Michael’s voice was soft but firm. “Ready?”

Nodding, Lucifer button eyes large and filled with both determination and fear. Slowly, he began to pull Adam back. For a heart-stopping moment, he expected resistance, some hidden tether or mechanism that would stop him. But there was nothing. Adam slid free, limp and small in Lucifer’s arms.

Blinking in disbelief, Lucifer’s breath hitching as he stared down at Adam’s frail body. His legs buckled, and he sank back onto the floor, cradling Adam in his lap. The doll-man was far thinner and smaller than Lucifer had realized. His limbs, truncated and malformed, were even more fragile than they appeared within the spider frame.

“He has phocomelia,” Michael mumbled, his voice filled with quiet realization.

Lucifer barely heard him. He drew Adam closer, his thumb brushing tenderly over Adam’s forehead before pressing a soft kiss there. His breath shuddered, and his voice was barely audible as he whispered, “I’m so sorry, Adam.”

Michael placed a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, his tone gentle but firm. “We need to get him upstairs. Clean his wounds properly. Put him to bed so he can rest.”

Wordlessly, Lucifer nodded. His movements slow and deliberate as he rose to his feet, Adam held securely in his arms. His legs wobbled, but he steadied himself, his grip on Adam unwavering. He held Adam bridal style, Adam’s head resting on his shoulder. He spared the frozen contraption one last burning look before Lucifer turned his back to it.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Let’s take him upstairs...”

Lilith and Eve were nestled together in Lilith's bed, their limbs tangled beneath the heavy quilts. The two had stayed up late, whispering and laughing like children sharing secrets. Lilith was the first to wake, her button eyes softening as she watched Eve sleep, a small, peaceful smile on her lips. She reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from Eve’s face when a sudden shout pierced the quiet.

"Joker! Lilith! Where are you guys?!" Lucifer’s voice echoed through the hallways, frantic and sharp.

Eve stirred, whining softly as she blinked up at Lilith through half-lidded eyes.

“What’s going on?” she mumbled.

“I don’t know,” Lilith replied, her voice low but uneasy.

They slipped out of bed and padded into the hallway, the cold of the floor biting at their feet as they followed the sound of muffled voices. The unease in Lilith’s chest deepened when they entered Adam’s room. Her button eyes landed on the bed, and she gasped.

“Is that… Adam?” she whispered.

Standing at the bedside, Lucifer careful tucking another blanket around Adam’s fragile body. Michael hovered nearby, slipping a hot water bottle under the layers of quilts. Lucifer’s expression was grim as he answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

Eve swallowed hard. “What happened? What’s going on?”

Lilith stepped forward hesitantly, her hand rising instinctively to touch Adam’s bandaged shoulder. Before she could, Lucifer’s hand shot out, slapping hers away. She flinched, her button eyes widening as she stared at him in shock.

“I just…” Lucifer stammered, his face flushing. “I just don’t want him to be hurt more than he already is. Sorry.”

Lilith nodded mutely, stepping back. Her button eyes flickered around the room, landing on Adam’s familiar shawl draped over the desk. Something about its presence unsettled her. She moved towards it, her hands trembling as she picked it up. It was icy cold, sending a chill up her arms.

“We don’t know what happened,” Michael explained, his voice quiet but strained. “My companion found him out in the middle of the gardens like this. If they hadn’t kept him warm…”

His voice broke off. “He might have died from hypothermia.”

Lilith tightened her grip on the shawl, her throat tightening. “What was he doing outside? That’s dangerous!”

Head snapping toward her, Lucifer’s glare sharp. “We don’t know. I told him not to go out there. I warned him the snow would damage… that contraption.”

Eve’s voice was barely audible as she murmured, “You took him out of it?”

“Yes,” Lucifer huffed, his expression hardening. “It was useless to him now. Only causing him more pain.”

Michael straightened after adding yet another blanket to the pile. His voice was grave. “His prosthetics… they looked like someone tried to saw them off.”

The words sent a gasp from Eve, her button eyes widening in horror. Lilith barely heard them, her focus drawn to the weight of something in the shawl’s pocket. Sliding a hand inside, her fingers brushed cold glass. She fished out a small bottle, and as she did, a yellow piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

Her gaze flicked between the bottle and the paper. The moment her button eyes landed on the label, she let out a sharp, startled sound.

Lucifer turned to her, his brows knitting together. “What is it?”

Holding the bottle aloft, Lilith’s voice trembling. “These…”

Michael stepped closer, taking the bottle from her hands. He examined it, his face growing grim. “Pain medication?”

“No.” Lilith shook her head violently. “These are strong. They can cause hallucinations, alter moods… they’re banned for a reason.”

Lucifer was at her side in an instant, snatching the bottle and popping the lid off. His jaw tightened as he stared at the small pills inside.

“Who would give these to Adam?” he growled, his voice thick with anger.

Lilith crouched down to retrieve the yellow paper, her hands shaking as she unfolded it. Her face went pale as she read its contents.

Michael noticed her sudden stillness. “Lilith? What’s wrong?”

Wordlessly, she held the paper out. Lucifer took it, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. His button eyes grew so wide they seemed ready to pop off his face.

“This is…” His voice trailed off, a rare tremor lacing his usually confident tone. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he finished, “...This is impossible.”

“…Zestial’s alive?”

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